#repurposed wood floor

[laislandia]

Freestanding - Rustic Home Office Study room - mid-sized rustic freestanding desk medium tone wood floor and brown floor study room idea with beige walls and no fireplace

[garciamanuel]

Transitional Kitchen - Great Room Open concept kitchen - large transitional u-shaped medium tone wood floor and brown floor open concept kitchen idea with recessed-panel cabinets, quartzite countertops, metallic backsplash, glass tile backsplash, an island, an undermount sink, dark wood cabinets, white appliances and white countertops

[blackbirdsofrye]

Powder Room Bathroom in Chicago Inspiration for a mid-sized industrial medium tone wood floor and brown floor powder room remodel with medium tone wood cabinets, a two-piece toilet, blue walls and a drop-in sink

[berserkrgangr]

Vinyl - Rustic Exterior Inspiration for a sizable, two-story, rustic brown home with a shingle roof.

[rataccoon]

Family Room - Enclosed Example of a large tuscan enclosed beige floor family room design with white walls and a wall-mounted tv

[zaynsource]

Powder Room - Industrial Powder Room Remodeling ideas for a mid-sized, industrial powder room with medium-toned wood cabinets, a two-piece toilet, blue walls, and a drop-in sink.

[toxicanonymity]

The Spread

PAIR: Thomas Hewitt x f!Reader

WORD COUNT: 3.5k | SERIES | MAIN MASTERLIST

SUMMARY: You hide and don't get slaughtered. Tommy secretly keeps you. He's kinda sweet if you're good.

WARNINGS: I8+ Canon-typical violence (implied) & setting, captivity, dark caretaking, manhandling, sleeper hold, oral f receiving, noncon unsafe piv, finger gagging, dark fluff, tommy has a praise kink, stockholm syndrome vibes. NO human skin mask: leather partial mask shown in photo. He is feral and naive due to his family. No use of Y/N. Divider by gasolinerainbowpuddles.

SIZE KINK - Reader is much smaller than Leatherface, can be carried and maneuvered. He is 6’5”, thicc and STRONG.

You barely escaped the so-called law man, and your friends weren’t so lucky. They got chased right into the lair of a chainsaw-wielding giant.

“C’mon, Tommy,” the Sheriff encouraged the giant, “Just like the slaughterhouse.”

Heavy chains thrashed, and one of your friends groaned.

“Attaboy,” the Sheriff praised.

While they were distracted, you ducked into a nearby woodshed. You didn't dare go far – you had encountered too many hazards on the property to trust your footing, and couldn't risk calling attention. Instead, you sat there in the shed, paralyzed, listening to your friends get butchered. One by one, their squeals turned animalistic until a wet thwack or rev of a motor cut them off.

Finally, there were no more screams.

Huddled in a corner of the woodshed, you tried to keep your wits about you. The shed was about the size of a small dorm room. There were stacks of wood all around–some freshly cut, some rotted–and hay covered the floor.

You were in a tank top and Daisy dukes with cowboy boots that made you feel like an idiot. You had sap on your knees from crawling over the wood. Taking deep breaths did nothing but fill your nose with cedar - it was only a matter of time before you’d meet your fate. You picked splinters out of your hands as you replayed the chase in your mind. You began to feel sure “Tommy” had seen you run into the shed. If that was the case, you didn't know why he let you go. You could only guess he already had his hands full.

“Think we got’em all, son?” The Sheriff asked.

Tommy grunted.

“That’s my boy,” the Sheriff concluded.

-

The door frame would’ve been tall enough for most men, but Tommy had to duck on his way in. He carried an ax. Each step he took shook the entire structure. His breathing was loud, his mouth hanging open below the leather that covered his nose. The partial mask didn't cover his mouth. It was fastened with two straps behind his head nestled in thick, chestnut hair that came down around his shoulders.

Dusk was approaching. Not long after the Sheriff left, heavy footsteps crunched louder and louder toward the woodshed. Your heart pounded harder with each step.

The rickety door busted open with a plume of dust. Tommy’s silhouette consumed almost all the daylight that remained.

He approached you cautiously and paused when he was an arm’s length away. You whimpered, knees held to your chest. He sniffed around like an animal. Then he brushed a stray section of hair out of his eyes, and you saw a glint of uncertainty in his gaze. You tried to compose yourself, wondering if your fear could trigger him.

He knelt down to get a better look at you. He reached for you, and you jumped. He grumbled and held up a massive finger less than an inch from your mouth, telling you to be quiet.

Something possessed you to reach for his hand. He let you move it.

You put his palm on your cheek and watched his chest heave in confusion.

He tilted his head and stayed crouched there for a moment, staring at you with his brown eyes softening above the leather.

“Attaboy,” you whispered, repurposing the Sheriff’s words.

Tommy huffed, then abruptly stood. He left the shed, ax slung over his shoulder. He ducked again on his way out.

He didn't return for a while. You finally dared to open the door just enough to look out, but not for long, startled by an older woman’s voice calling, “Tommy!!! Time for supper.” You shrunk back into your corner, afraid you had been spotted.

You sat there frozen, afraid to run.

-

Sometime later, you heard a squeaky wheel approach the shed. The door opened more quietly than it had the first time. The hulking silhouette was backlit by a buzzing floodlight in the yard. The man seemed to be more careful and quiet this time. He had brought a few blankets. One of them was tattered, pale yellow bordering what used to be white, and it had Care Bears on it. He put the blanket over your body, coming all the way up to your neck, and patted your head. Then he took a bundle of newspaper out from under his arm and handed it to you like an offering. It smelled like barbecue.

As he turned to leave, you whispered, “Tommy.”

He dropped his head and looked back.

“Thank you,” you said.

Looking at the wall, Tommy offered a short nod before leaving. Then he locked the door from the outside.

After he left, you opened the newspaper. It was too dark to see, but the contents felt like a charred bone with bits of flesh hanging to it. You weren't hungry anyway.

You wrapped yourself tight in the blanket, and to your discomfort, your heart fluttered at the man’s softness with you. You replayed the day’s harrowing events in your mind’s eye and saw him differently than you had at first. Maybe he was nothing but an attack dog. You began to doubt he would've hurt your friends at all if not for the older, more wicked man in uniform.

Maybe Tommy was as much of a prisoner as you were. You wondered if he could talk. You felt sure he could listen.

After sunrise, you awoke to some commotion and heard a vehicle drive away. After a period of silence, you tried to open the door to the shed, but it was securely locked.

Soon, Tommy came back and unlocked it. He moved swiftly toward you with purpose in each heavy step, crouching slightly. The mass of his body strained his shirt. You'd never seen forearms like his. He could surely snap you like a twig, but something told you he wouldn't. Still, your heart raced when he lunged toward you. He reached over a wood pile and used both massive hands to force you onto your feet. He wrapped you in the blanket, then put you over his shoulder like a potato sack.

He put you into his wheelbarrow, then nestled some firewood around you. He looked around furtively as he did it. Then he covered you with another blanket and wheeled you across the bumpy ground, onto a smoother surface. He rolled a garage door down behind you and left you covered in the wheelbarrow as he rummaged around the garage.

You peeked out from the blanket and saw him placing shackles on a table. Your heart raced. You glanced behind you. The garage door was still lifted by a small margin. Maybe big enough to fit through.

You watched in terror as he brought out a mallet. Finally, your body unfroze.

You lowered yourself out of the wheelbarrow as carefully and quietly as you could and crawled toward the narrow opening. As you began to wriggle under it, your ass hit the door, making a noise far too loud to go unnoticed.

Within a split second, his massive hands were firm around your ankles, pulling you toward him, dragging you roughly across the concrete.

He manhandled you like a doll. He forced you onto your back and shook you, then wrapped a massive hand around your neck. Your life flashed before your eyes, and you kicked him. He grunted and grabbed you roughly by the shirt, then sat back on his knees. He held you with your back against his enormous thigh. Your Daisy dukes did nothing to protect your ass from the cold concrete. You thrashed, and he put the crook of his elbow around your neck, then everything faded.

When you woke up, you were chained to the table, with cold, metal shackles on your wrists and one ankle. You were bottomless, and the air was cool between your legs. Your feet were bare. All you had left was your tank top, which you wore without a bra.

You didn't dare move. A foul dust in the air made you sneeze, then Tommy came into view. He was wearing a butcher’s apron, and the sleeves of his dingy, button-up shirt were rolled up to expose those big, hairy forearms. He held the mallet. His eyes were industrious.

“Please don't hurt me,” you begged.

He laid a heavy hand on your shin, and you flinched. He gently placed your free ankle in a shackle, then nailed it shut.

“Please,” you begged.

He laid a hand on your thigh and looked you in the eyes.

“What are you going to do to me?” You asked.

He huffed and put the mallet away.

You were relieved until he returned with a meat cleaver. You tensed and squirmed. He laid a hand on your stomach and his searing eyes told you to stay still. He slid the cleaver under your tank top, and you held your breath and looked at the ceiling. Your nipples hardened at the feeling of his knuckles between your breasts.

He violently sliced upward through the fabric, turning your wifebeater into a vest which burst open, freeing your breasts. He inhaled sharply at the sight and discarded the meat cleaver with a metallic clatter on a nearby shelf.

“Please,” you begged again, then he stuck his fingers in your mouth and peered in. His thick digits tasted like charcoal and salt. Three fingers were enough to stuff the orifice completely. When you stopped whining, he abandoned your mouth.

He cupped a breast, then cupped both of them. He hummed a curious “mm,” Then dragged his thumb down your sternum before stepping away to survey your body.

You felt like a cadaver sliced open for examination. As he slowly stalked around the table, it dawned on you that's what he was doing. He was studying you.

He stopped at a long side of the table – your left side. He brought his face–his leather mask–to your skin, just below your ribs. His hair fell onto your body, and the light brush of it tickled. He paused to loosen the strap at the back of his head. Then he dipped his face to your abdomen again. He turned his head and dragged his cheek, and the leather, over your bare stomach, to your breast. You could hear him desperately sniffing and wondered why he didn't take that thing off.

Lips, hair, and smooth leather dragged across your skin as he wiped his face along your chest. Then his face made its way into your armpit, where a dart of his tongue made you flinch and shiver. His tongue darted out again. He sucked the delicate skin slightly into his mouth before releasing it with a soft grunt.

He paused and pulled away. He pivoted to stand behind your head, then brought his hands to your breasts. Helowered his mouth to your neck and licked you. His hair fell on your nose and smelled like smoke and metal.

He seemed to savor the taste of your skin. He licked longer, harder, the strong slippery muscle of his tongue nudging your jugular. You felt a rush of arousal and shame. He tasted the other side of your neck and hummed in satisfaction. The throbbing between your legs made you wince.

He dragged his tongue down over your chest to lap at your breast. He flattened his tongue to lick your nipple, then began to suckle at it. One thing was clear - this was not for your enjoyment. He was entirely absorbed in what he was doing. He didn't even glance at your face. Whether it was for his pleasure or curiosity, you couldn't be sure. He moaned into your nipple and you knew you must have been gushing onto the table.

After a few seconds, he pulled away from your tit and began to sniff the air. He stalked around the table some more and paused at your shackled feet, staring up between your spread legs. He found the source. His hands dwarfed your thighs as he pushed them further apart. Then he dabbed a thick finger, only grazing your folds as he picked up just a taste of you from the table and brought it to his mouth.

“Mm,” he hummed quietly, staring between your legs. He licked his finger again and his eyes searched the air curiously. Then he grabbed your upper thighs and anchored his thumbs on your outer lips, spreading you open. His heavy gut rested on the table between your feet as he leaned forward. As he lowered his mouth to your cunt, you twitched and felt another rush of shame.

His breath was hot on your cunt, then he dipped his tongue, and you tensed.

He lapped at your entrance, and the physical pleasure made you exhale and relax, while your fear remained. He licked and sucked, and your moan echoed before you could try to cut it short. Your chest was hot with embarrassment, but if he heard the sound, he ignored it.

He fed on your juices like a starved animal. He sucked and slurped, and dug his lips and tongue in, searching for more. The squelching and gurgling sounds were obscene between your legs. He closed his eyes and dug his fingers into your hips as he feasted.

The leather mask nudged your clit and made your hips lift into his mouth. He brought a hand to your lower belly to hold you still. Then his tongue plunged into you. You whispered, “good boy,” and your whole body felt weak with shame.

He paused and glanced up, then repeated the action. It was true, some part of you welcomed this, as afraid as you were. In any case, the heat and pressure building in your gut would have to release at some point.

He fucked you with his tongue, nudging your clit with the smooth leather, and you had to remind yourself to breathe. You'd never been eaten so voraciously. He moaned into your cunt and the tension was too much to hold. You whimpered as you began to pulse and twitch. His tongue paused as you clenched around it. Then he continued. Your back arched as he sucked it all out of you, swallowing every drop he could find. As your climax waned, you took slow, deep breaths.

Finally, he slowed down. He looked flustered for a moment, then his hand disappeared from your thigh. He pulled his face away, and the leather mask was soaked and shiny. Then he took his apron off. When he stood to put the apron aside, the protrusion in his pants made your breath hitch and your asshole flutter.

Your cunt spasmed once around nothing, and your insides churned as though making room for a massive guest.

You couldn't peel your eyes away. He adjusted himself, then palmed the bulge. His shirt had come untucked. The bottom button wasn't fastened, and his midsection strained the other buttons as his whole torso heaved. He eyed the mess between your legs as he palmed himself.

He seemed to be considering the possibility of stuffing your cunt with whatever monstrosity hid in his pants. He could take anything he wanted, but he didn't look proud of it. This didn't feel like something he did every day.

You decided not to fight back. You told yourself it was for survival, but you also twitched at the thought of him wrecking you. You looked at his crotch, then down between your legs, still gushing at the sight of him barely contained by his pants. The way his whole body wanted to bust out of his clothes made you weak in the knees. He was so solid and strong. You looked again from his crotch to your own, as though your eyes were instructing where to put it in defiance of your better judgment.

He grumbled as he picked up a hammer and approached you, making your heart nearly stop.

He pried the nails out of the shackles, and you cursed yourself for the way your heart fell. Your disappointment was quickly replaced by relief. A man this size, with these capabilities – he could have done serious damage to your body.

“Thank you,” you whispered. You laid on the table patiently looking at the ceiling as he went down to your feet and unshackled your ankles.

Then he grabbed you by the thighs and yanked you toward the end of the table, making you yelp. Your naked crotch came to rest flush against the bulge in his pants, making you ache with arousal. Your thighs trembled in fear.

You looked down toward him and he forced your chin upward, making you look at the ceiling. You pinched your eyes shut. You were at war with your body’s desire. He might kill you. He might actually split you in two. The dying squeals of your friends echoed in your mind. But his hardness swelled against you, and oh, fuck.

His hips backed up and you twitched at the loss of his warm package against you.

With your eyes still pinched shut, you heard his clothes jostling, then he spread your lips apart while he notched his tip against you. It was too big. He held your thighs again and pulled you toward him with a forward thrust and a grunt.

Being impaled with his cock felt like being split open. The girth burned as it stretched you, and you whimpered as your body tried to accommodate him. He stayed inside, and he sighed. You'd never felt so stuffed. He leaned forward, and the contact with your clit provided some relief as your body spread itself more. But still, your heart raced at the prospect of him moving. You prayed he would be gentle.

When you didn't stop whimpering, he stuck his fat, smokey fingers in your mouth again. He placed his other hand on your chest to hold you still, with the crook of his thumb close to your throat. You gagged on his fingers and he removed them. He wiped your saliva onto your nipple before kneading your breast.

Thankfully, you were wet and getting wetter. He held you down and slammed into you. The fullness pushed your thoughts out of the way along with your guts. You kept your eyes shut as he speared into you again.

His breathing and grunting seemed to echo through the room with every snap of his hips. His unholy girth twitched against your walls. He grabbed onto your hips and brutally pounded you. He used you like a sleeve until his moans were drawn out and his breath became ragged. He pulled you back hard and leaned forward, the weight of him resting on your lower abdomen. Your cunt fluttered in anticipation of his climax, but he paused. Your hips lifted, seeking friction for your front.

He pulsed once, making your chest flutter with pleasure, but then he swiftly slid out. He left you twitching for more as he finished coming outside. His cum painted your folds and inner thigh, and he grumbled and turned around. You lowered your chin to look just in time for him to release onto the wheelbarrow and floor. Then he stood there with his broad back heaving as he looked around.

You closed your eyes again and opened them when you felt fabric on your inner thigh. He was wiping you off with the bottom of his shirt. His face and neck were blotched pink, and he had fixed his pants. He was looking at you, chest still heaving when his ears perked up at the distant sound of tires on gravel.

He quicky put your shorts back on and gathered you off the table, nestling you in the wheelbarrow once more. He swaddled you in the old blanket, now wet with his cum, and opened the garage before quickly wheeling you back to the shed.

He placed you in the corner where you had been, just in time for the truck to park. As he turned to leave the shed, you said “Tommy. Can you bring me some water?”

He hesitated then gave a short nod before locking the shed again behind him.

He came back later with a jar of water and a metal bucket. You were shivering in the corner when he came in. He set the bucket down next to you, then placed his hand on the crown of your head and gently moved his fingers as he looked around. Then he abruptly began to unbutton his shirt. He pulled you up from the corner to put the shirt on you. His chest was hairy and broad, and his entire torso was thick, just massive.

“Good Tommy,” you said as he finished putting the shirt on you.

He paused and left it unbuttoned. His eyes were big. He held you by the sides, looking you up and down in the oversized shirt and Daisy dukes. Then he put you back where you were and locked the shed behind him.

The shirt was filthy, cumstained, and reeked of sweat, but it didn’t smell as bad as it should've. It didn't make you sick like it should've. When he left, you wrapped it tight around yourself, then looked in the bucket. There were apples.

Thank you for reading and engaging! Love you guys 🖤 please consider commenting even if this is old. It helps to know what you liked.

If you want more, good news - I have more thots! Feel free to send yours, too.

[seabreezebazaar]

Farmhouse Sunroom - Large

[cathtatedaily]

Library in Milwaukee

[nicolecupcake]

Rustic Wine Cellar

[headowardo]

Enclosed (New York)

[scottsmiles]

Wine Cellar - Rustic Wine Cellar

[revolverthemes]

Eclectic Living Room

[rebelfell]

Who, me? Done with them? Where the fuck did you hear that? 18+ MDNI 2.4K

older!fem!Harrington!reader x eddie

cw: none except for actual, despicable, disgusting, nauseating fluff to make up for all some of the angst 💋

continued from here, index here

When Eddie comes to your house that night, he looks around it with wide, entranced eyes.

He only saw it when it was bare bones—plain white paint and dusty floors scattered with boxes. Now it was bursting with color and personality, shelves lined with your books, walls adorned with art and posters. A little calendar in your kitchen scribbled with various activities and reminders. Dishes from your breakfast still in the sink. Plants in just about every window, some of them with small tchotchkes hidden in the pots—figurines you’d picked up at yard sales or found randomly.

Your couch is velvet, a deep green that makes your throw pillows seem even brighter. There’s a thick knit blanket strewn across the chaise end of it and an intimidatingly long book lying out on your coffee table. It’s much nicer than the one he broke—a piece of wood shaped into an octagon with a dark gold grain polished to perfection.

In the right light, he can still see the faint white line of his scar across the center of his palm.

He finds your record player and starts flipping through your albums he only saw a small portion of that summer, most of them stashed away in the garage with the rest of your stuff. 

And while he was looking at your stuff, you just looked at him.

It was impossible to believe he was actually standing in front of you. Like a dream come to life, a vision in a hunter green dress shirt tucked into black slacks. He had the sleeves rolled up to his elbows and he’d only buttoned the shirt half-way to show off the white tank underneath, the tattoos over his collarbone peeking out from underneath the skinny straps.

You watch him as he moves on to your mantle, looking over a little altar of all things you. 

Seashells from a trip you took to Marco Island years ago. Vintage crystal candy dishes with lids repurposed into candles. A bowl of matchbooks from different clubs and restaurants. Pictures of you and your friends with your faces squished together in mis-matched frames.

And down at the very end, a copy of your book. 

Eddie picks it up and turns it over in his hands, running his fingers over the cover and the spine where your name is embossed.

“You can have that, if you want,” you tell him. “I’d love for you to read it.”

He smiles and places the book back down, eyes twinkling. “I already have,” he says.

Your brow wrinkles instantly and you’re about to ask him how that was even possible, but Eddie is already offering an explanation. Apparently, right around the time he was starting his company, Viv brought him out to do a consultation…and just so happened to leave a copy of it laying out.

You shake your head and chuckle softly, recalling a Christmas in Hawkins that you found Corroded Coffin’s self-released album in your stocking.

Eddie turns toward you and his eyes land on the staircase that leads up to your bedroom.

He feels that old impulse—that ancient craving in him that laid dormant for so many years, now urging his hands to reach out and grab you and bend you backwards until your spine is folded in half he’s kissing you so hard. Your own smile spreads across your face when he looks back to you, but there’s a tightness to it. Almost like you’re wondering what he’s going to do.

Like you’re imagining the same things he is.

He doesn’t do them, though. Because he doesn’t want it to be like that this time. He has so many other things he wants to do first.

All the things he never got to before.

A slow exhale leaves your chest, a breath you didn’t realize you were holding, and he glances at the clock hanging over your fireplace, tilting his head at you in a question,

“You wanna go see a movie?”

It’s no Starcourt Mall, but the discount theater you take him to is only a ten minute walk from your house. You go there some evenings after dinner without even checking what is playing. They never have new releases, just stuff that’s a few months old by the time they get it, nearly ready to come out on video. And sometimes they show the really old black and white ones.

Eddie buys two tickets for the next show and holds the door open for you to walk inside. You pause in the lobby, letting the smell of popcorn imbue your senses, looking around at the scant number of other people milling about. He lets the tips of his fingers trail down the inside of your arm and wrist to lace his hand with yours, giving it a squeeze as he nods at concessions.

“You like Red Vines?” he asks with a smile.

It’s a good thing the movie isn’t anything of note, because it’s near impossible to concentrate with Eddie sitting next to you. You plop down in a pair of seats towards the back in the center of the row, you with the candy and a drink while Eddie holds the popcorn—only $3 for a giant ass tub, how do they even make a profit? he asks excitedly, his eyes so wide that it makes you giggle.

Then he asks you to hold it for him while he digs in his pocket for his glasses.

”Don’t laugh,” he warns, tipping his head down and squinting at you playfully over the frames. 

Yeeeeah, laughing is not gonna be the issue. If the slightly scruffy beard wasn’t enough to send you into overdrive, the wire-rimmed glasses he perches on his nose sure as shit were.

The fourth or fifth time you catch yourself staring, at him, he catches you too. He fights back a smile while lightly brushing his fingers over his chin and cheeks, then leans over the armrest to whisper to you, even though there’s no one in the theater sitting close enough for you to bother them.

“Did I get it?” he asks, brows raising.

“Huh?” You blink rapidly, coming out of your daze.

“You’re staring at me so hard, I thought I must have something on my face.”

His lips curl upwards in that familiar cocky smirk of his and you roll your eyes, plucking a piece of popcorn from the bucket to throw at him. Already laughing, anticipating the move, his mouth opens wide and his jaw snaps closed as he catches it easily, still grinning as he chomps. It earns him the prize that is your laughter—the sound of it warming his chest from the inside out.

You hold hands the whole walk back to your house, only letting go once when he moves his to the small of your back and guides you in front of him so you don’t walk through a puddle.

And far too soon, you’re standing at your door. And he’s swallowing hard, throat bobbing as he shifts closer until the tips of his shoes bump with yours. And your heart is pounding, rattling all your organs as he looks up at you through his lashes.

“So, I should…go?”

His voice goes up at the end, making ita question.

“I guess so?” You shrug, chewing on your lip as you glance at your door. He nods.

“Good night, sweetheart,” he whispers, the short stubble on his jaw rubbing your cheek as he drops a too-brief kiss on the side of your face, lingering there to add, “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

You take a deep inhale of his scent. It’s lighter one than the woodsy cologne he used to wear. More mellow and earthy, like sage and sea salt.

Heaven.

The two of you step apart and he stays on the porch, waiting until you’ve unlocked the door and safely slipped back inside the house before he dares turn to leave. You place your keys in their spot on the hook by your door. Same as you always do. You step out of your shoes and slide them under the little bench where the rest of them reside. Same as you always do.

And then suddenly, you stop. Because what the fuck do you think you’re doing letting him leave?

You yank open the front door to find him standing there holding the screen door, his chest heaving from running back up the walkway and steps.

For a moment you just stare at one another, all your memories rushing back at once. A haze of summer heat, sunscreen and chlorine. Fresh grass clippings and perennials in bloom, messy sheets and sticky skin on sticky skin. Moonlight reflecting on the lake, thunder booming and pouring rain. Burnished eyes in a darkened hallway, a whisper of please, please, please…

And like tectonic plates colliding, you crash.

His shirt barely makes it past the threshold, your fingers tugging apart the buttons to push it off his shoulders. He helps to pull it the rest of the way off and tosses it aside before his hands find your waist, guiding you backward towards the stairs, the both of you giggling in between feverish kisses as you try and climb them without separating your lips.

You stumble through the bedroom door, him clumsily kicking off his shoes while you slap at the light switch on the wall. The red scarf draped over the lamp on your bedside table casts a haze over the soft and warm glow of the bulb, making everything it touches a radiant scarlet.

He wraps his arms around you in a tight squeeze before his hands slide down to palm your ass, lifting the skirt of your dress with his grasp. Lips vibrating with the moan you release, you put your hands on his shoulders and guide him downward to sit on the end of your bed.

His knees spread and he pulls you in to stand between them, black eyes shining up at you.

“You’re so beautiful…” 

He whispers it, half to himself, his kisses being peppered along your collarbones as he tugs down the top of your dress. The air hits your breasts as they come spilling out of the bodice and his hands cup them gently as you come forward to straddle his lap. The breathy, stuttering groan he lets out as he feels your weight sink down on top of him instantly zings between your legs.

He mouths at your breasts, kissing over the top curves, burying his face in the middle of them. It makes you sigh, dreamily, as your fingers weave into his hair and you scrape your nails across his scalp until it makes him shiver under you.

He falls backward, bringing you with him as he’s engulfed in the softness of your unmade sheets. You place your hands at his pecks, ready to tear through his flimsy undershirt to feel the warmth of his bare skin on yours. Your hips buck, almost violently, starting a rough and needy grind on his cock, whimpering with each drag of your core against the growing bulge in his slacks.

“Hang on, wait—wait, wait, wait—”

Eddie gasps for air, panting heavily as he sits up, supporting you with his hands on your back. Your body stills, the grind ceasing instantly. Your hands at his chest, fingers still curved like claws.

“Are you okay?” you whisper. “Do you—do you not want to…”

Eddie shakes his head instantly, lips pressing to your forehead as he tries to catch his breath.

“No, I wanna do this, I do,” he breathes, “you have no idea how much, but…”

And those eyes. Those big, wet, round eyes of his scan your face as he dredges up the nerve to say the thought that’s been in his head for years.

Never knowing if he’d actually get to say it.

You swear you can feel how his heart races as you smooth your hands over his chest and draw them up to cup his neck. He reaches up to hold your face in his hands, and finally he says it.

“I don’t have it in me to get over you again.”

The words steal every speck of air in the room. You can’t even inhale because every atom in your body is frozen in place. You swear even the blood in your veins stops pumping for that moment.

And then you feel it. The rush of warmth in your extremities, tingling with realization.

You don’t want just one night with him. You don’t want just a few weeks of fun. You want to see him in every season—bundled up against the cold, his cheeks pink and snowflakes clinging to his bangs; wrapped in a flannel, raking umber colored leaves into a pile and then jumping into them; throwing his head back to catch raindrops on his tongue during an April shower, splashing in puddles.

You’ve been so distracted all night by how different he is now that you haven’t even thought about how much you’ve changed. Back then, you were so worried about what people would think—your coworkers, your boss, your family. Some people in a town you didn’t even live in.

You let all the bullshit win, you let it rob you of what could have been. Not again.

“I need to know…” He swallowed hard. “If you still want what I want.”

And you know you do. You know it down to your marrow, on a cellular level. But there’s a part of you that still wants to hear him say it.

“What do you want, Eddie?” you whisper, the words leading and heady.

“You.” He says it like it’s easy. Like it’s obvious. “I’ve only ever wanted you.”

You nod back at him, licking your lips to stop their trembling. “I’ve only ever wanted you.”

There’s a kind of peace to the moment that passes between you, a long exhale after a deep breath, a pause at the peak of a mountain where you look around breathless and winded at the majesty of the view. Your eyes scan over all the features of his face, all the details you’ve spent years trying to recall properly that are now before you in startling clarity. The faint dusting of light freckles across his nose, the natural texture of his skin, the fullness of his plush lips that are rosy red from your energetic kissing, his dense lashes that frame those twin black holes in his face.

Staring back at you like you’re the one who holds all the secrets of the universe.

“Then I…I think we should wait,” he says, smiling even though it seems as if it’s physically painful for him to say it. “I want—I have to do this right.”

You press your lips to his, your fingers curled loosely in the hairs at the nape of his neck. Not gripping—not clutching, not scared of losing him.

Just holding. 

He kisses you back and you giggle, feeling exactly how much his body wants to betray what he just said. You keep your face close as your smiles touch, noses bumping as you whisper,

“Do you want some ice cream?”

prev┃next

okay, okay, okay, now I’m really done. Or am I? Again, this is all y’all’s fault ‘cos you go and say nice things and that makes me think about them more and then THIS HAPPENS!

This song also has to shoulder some of the blame…

[bloodbruise]

@croptopjames happy birthday to the one and only jfp <3

jegulus | 933 words | trans reg & themes of gender identity and transition

Regulus felt his cheeks heat up as he snapped out of his daze and met James' eyes. He was wearing a knowing look, "Oh, I'm definitely keeping this," James declared, his smirk widening. "Especially if it gets this kind of reaction from you every time."

Regulus’ room was a disaster. James had finally coaxed him into sorting through his old clothes, only managing after he bribed him with promises of kisses and takeout afterwards. The closet had all but exploded, leaving piles of clothes scattered all across the room. With ‘yes’s,’ and ‘no’s,’ and ‘maybes’ occupying every available flat surface, Regulus was sure he hadn't seen the darkened wood of his floor in hours. 

Sat on his bed, he watched as James dug through his dresser for another shirt. He let out a thoughtful hum as he grabbed two, throwing one over his shoulder and holding up the other: an awful plum-colored blouse. His mother had bought it for him—form-fitting, smothered in ruffles, and, in her words, “the perfect blouse for a sophisticated young woman.” 

Regulus thought it was the ugliest fucking shirt he had ever seen.

“Ugh,” Regulus wrinkled his nose in distaste. “Absolutely not, that thing is a monstrosity.” 

James barked out a laugh, amused at the disgust evident on Regulus' face, before flinging the shirt into the rapidly growing ‘no’ pile. He grabbed at the one resting on his shoulder.

“And this one?” 

It was worn, fabric soft from years of wear. The dark green and gray had dulled, now just muted shadows of their original hues. The words printed on the front, cracked and creased, read ‘Hogwarts Women's Rowing’. It had been his favorite shirt for a long time. His parents had always been on him to join something– a club, a team, an honor society. If he was honest, he only chose rowing because it kept him out of the house the longest.

And he's so grateful he did, because it brought him Pandora. He suffered through early morning rows and long race days, soreness in his body and blisters on his hands. But every discomfort was worth it for the times he and Pandora would steal an extra hour to lie in the sun by the Great Lake, laughing until their bellies felt as sore as their arms. Worth it for the times Evan would cram them into his shitty jeep and drive them to their races so they didn't have to take the bus. Worth it, most of all, for giving him the first people with whom he could be honest—really, truly honest.

"I don't want to get rid of it," Regulus admitted, a hint of reluctance in his voice. "It was my favorite, but—I’m not ready to wear anything that might make people mistake me for a woman. Not for a while, at least.”

James nodded. He turned the shirt around, head tilting slightly as he considered it. “How about I hold onto it for you? That way it's not gone, just... repurposed.” He looked up at Regulus with a wicked grin. “I bet I could pull it off.”

Regulus couldn’t help but scoff as James began to pull on the shirt. “I’d like to see you try," he challenged, amusement evident in his voice. 

But as James stretched out his arms and did a little spin, Regulus wasn't laughing. Instead, he felt his heart swoop. A familiar mixture of fondness and arousal swirled in his gut at the sight of James. Glasses knocked a little lopsided from pulling the shirt on, pajama pants hanging low on his hips and socked feet– it was a picture that made Regulus go warm with affection. But, it was the shirt that really kept his attention. Visibly too small, the letters strained as they stretched across the width of his chest. The hem of it hitting right below his navel, exposing his hip bones and the trail of hair leading down from his belly button. Regulus felt all the breath leave his chest. “C'mere,” he said softly.

James shuffled over to him. “Good?” He asked, a hint of uncertainty in his tone.

Regulus shook his head, he was in awe of James. “Better than good. It suits you much better than it ever did me,” he mumbled, voice low and distracted. Reaching out to place his hands on James' waist, he absentmindedly dragged his thumbs back and forth over his hipbones, eyes stuck to the sliver of skin peeking out from beneath the shirt. 

“My eyes are up here, love,” James gently teased, his voice laced with amusement. 

Regulus felt his cheeks heat up as he snapped out of his daze and met James' eyes. He was wearing a knowing look, "Oh, I'm definitely keeping this," James declared, his smirk widening. "Especially if it gets this kind of reaction from you every time."

“I lied,” Regulus deadpanned, “you actually look ridiculous.” But his face was betraying him, unable to fight the smile spreading across it. 

James hummed in response, the smugness in his tone unmistakable. He was clearly enjoying every moment of this.

"Oh, shut up," Regulus groaned playfully, his hands gripping the exposed skin at his waist to pull him down. James yelped in surprise before their lips were meeting in a kiss filled more with laughter than anything else. But then James was deepening it, and Regulus let himself be kissed breathless. After a moment, he gently pulled back, hand tenderly stroking through James’ hair.

"Thank you," he whispered, his hand tracing a path down James' neck, over his shoulder, and along the length of his arm until their fingers intertwined. "For being here, for—everything. Everything that you do for me."

James responded with a gentle squeeze of their hands, his eyes meeting Regulus’. "Always, love." His voice was soft but firm in promise. And there it was again, his heart swooping in his chest as James pressed a kiss to his temple. "Always."

[piccolos-bigtoe]

Random stress induced doodles... The rendered painting thing is how I do my usual personal work, lowkey messed up,,, shows my sick and twisted mind... but instead of digital it's on paper w/oil pastel lol. By personal work I mean serious work that isn't school work, my TF2 stuff is personal but more self so indulgent. I need to like,,, vacuum my brain out thru my ears and stop thinking about TF2, like actually, like seriously.

Today, after ten years of loyal service, the walmart shelf in my closet finally broke, and so all my clothes are sitting on the ground rn because I had to take it out and urgh, I hate my clothes touching the floor. ICK!!! I'm gonna try and at least see if I can repurpose the wood before I decide to toss it. Okay, I'm gonna go read my book and then pass out now..