loonylupinn

[loonylupinn]

steve harrington and his hickey covered neck, his smudged car windows, his belt missing a loop in jeans, his lipstick stained shirt, his flushed cheeks and messy hair just rushing out the car to get his girl some water <3

[loonylupinn]

What about Steve with a cry baby reader? Like she cries at everything and May be Steve is telling her about something hard but also not that deep like a fight with his parents or they r discussing exes and she starts crying bc Steve didn’t deserve heartbreak

thank you for your request! —steve tells you about his relationship with his parents and gets the comfort he deserves a few years late. fem!reader. hurt/comfort ♡ 1.7k CW mentioned child neglect

Steve indulges you every now and then with old movies. You're obsessed with those musical movies from the fifties, soft colours, cool cat leading men and blunt heroines. Your very favourite are the ones with love triangles, though Steve hasn't ever thought you'd like to be entangled in one yourself. 

Entangled in him, absolutely. "That is ridiculous," you say softly, sitting entirely in his lap, an arm around his neck and another his waist. "She loves him." 

"She does." When the heroine of Young At Heart realised one of her love interests didn't have a present for the birthday party they were going to attend together, she bought one for him so he wouldn't feel embarrassed —yet she's planning on marrying the other man. "Poor Frank. He looks shocked." 

"I'd be shocked. Lucky me, you've never sprung a sudden engagement on me," you say, your fingers rubbing mindlessly into his side. Your affection is often thoughtless. You care for him like another must-do, in time and rhythm with your breathing. 

"To another girl, you mean?" he asks warmly. 

You fluster and rub your cheek against the collar of his shirt, rolled and worn from an endless day on the couch together. He should go up and shower soon before bed, only you feel right in his lap, in no way light but a weight he's happy to bear.

You're skewed sideways, your legs laying across the rest of the couch, his legs kicked up on the coffee table. He keeps trying to force himself up for a shower and you keep leaning into his front or scratching your nails from his ribs to his hip, convincing him otherwise.

"If we ever… got engaged," you begin unsurely, eyes on the television to avoid his gaze, he's sure, "would we have a nice party like that?"

"When we get engaged we'll do whatever you want. We can have a party, send out ivory invitations with eleven point four Times New Roman font. All the trimmings." 

"Eleven point four." Your eyes soften with your smile. "What do you know about invitations?" 

"My mom had tons of stupid parties. She didn't always send out invitations, but when she did, she'd have them done right. I got to lick the envelopes." 

"Lucky Stevie." 

You shift backwards so your weight is on the couch rather than Steve, your back to the armrest and your thighs over his legs rather than on top of him. He can see your face better in this new position, and it's fitting: the love interest on TV starts spouting about how beautiful the heroine is, how her face is a tribute to the heavens if there ever were one. Smiling as you are, Steve has to agree. 

"What were they like, the parties?" 

Steve bites the tip of his tongue. "Fine," he says eventually. "They were fine. They'd set up buffet tables covered in hors d'oeuvres and everyone would walk around in their cocktail dresses and tailored suits drinking champagne and whiskey." His tone lightens toward the end, a put upon theatric for you to make it sound less snotty. 

"Did you wear a suit?" you ask. 

"Button down, usually."

"Nice! I bet you looked adorable. Do you have any photos?" 

"Honestly, baby?" Steve squeezes your leg. "I was miserable, then. You don't wanna see any photographs. I was never smiling."

"What?" 

"I hated my life. All my mom cared about was making us look like a perfect family, and all my dad cared about was work. I was happier when they started taking months-long business trips to Missouri."

"What do you mean?" you ask, putting your hand against his face. It's smaller than his but still big, still encompassing as you stroke his cheek and scratchy stubble. "You… what?"

He tells you because he knows you love him. It makes a hard thing easier, being loved. "Nothing, just, things were bad. My parents didn't even really like me, you know? They bounced me between little league and swim team and basketball when I was old enough. Track, cross country running, everything. Killer sun tan every summer." 

Any trace of a smile is gone from your face. "They didn't like you? What are you talking about?" 

"I was an annoying kid," he says. "You know how I was when we first met? Imagine that and worse." 

"There was nothing wrong with you when we first met." Your lip trembles. 

"Baby," he says quickly, on an exhale, the word half love and half apology, "don't be upset. I'm sorry, it wasn't as bad as it sounds. I'm making it sound worse than it was." 

Your eyes turn glassy. It's awful, being so close he can see the tears well, collecting in the corners of your eyes. You stroke his cheek tentatively and ignore them. 

"It was fine, sweetheart, really, I had everything. They'd leave me a fucking credit card when they went away, I never had to ask for anything. They gave me a car for my fifteenth birthday… I think they thought it was my sweet sixteen." 

Your face crumples like a wet paper towel. You try to fight it but you're a heavy crier and you always have been. It shocked Steve when you first met, how quickly you can fall into tears, but it doesn't necessarily mean you're extremely upset. He can maybe fix it before you give yourself a headache if he tries. 

"I'm sorry," he says again, dotting a kiss on the meat of your thumb. "I didn't tell you so you'd feel sorry for me." 

"I do feel sorry. I feel so sorry," you say quietly. 

"Don't cry…" Steve shifts into a better sitting position as the first tear trips over your waterline. Your hand falls to his collar. Your fingertips rub his collarbone. "I was lucky, I had everything I needed." 

"You just told me your parents didn't like you, Stevie, I wouldn't call you lucky. That they went away for months– How old were you?" 

He winces. "Fifteen?" 

"You were still a kid." 

"I was old before my time." 

"No, you weren't." You sniffle. "I didn't know about that, Stevie. I didn't know about any of this, I'm so sorry."

"Why are you sorry? I never told you." 

You bring both hands up now, placed gently against his chest, talking to him with a tenderness that makes his body ache, "If you think that it didn't matter, I'm really sorry. Imagining you that young, sitting there thinking they didn't like you? That breaks my heart." You're not overly dramatic despite the tears, but you say it with conviction. "You're not supposed to feel that way." 

Steve laughs quietly. "I know that, dummy. Why're you this upset about this? It was years ago." 

"Because it happened to you," you say, pouting at him sympathetically. "I don't know. I guess I figure how heavy that must be carrying around this whole time, thinking they didn't like you and that it was your fault." 

Steve tries to say something, his mouth dry as sand, but he supposes he had said that, in a way. It is what he thought, what he thinks. If he were better, if he were more interesting, more attractive, more talented, they'd stick around. He pushed himself in every sport they'd let him play hoping he'd see his dad standing in the bleachers one day. 

"You're not annoying," you say, wiping your tears. You square your expression into a steadier set. "You're amazing. If they couldn't see it then and if they refuse to see it now, that isn't something you did, Stevie. Maybe they gave you a car and an Amex card, but what you deserved most was–" Your determination to calm down wanes as your voice turns airy and scratchy, like you're trying not to sob. "You deserved to feel cared about. 'N' I'm sorry you didn't, because I love you more than anything."

Steve pulls you in for a hug. Mostly because you need one, but it doesn't hurt to hide his face from you know. His eyes burn, his heart pounding in his throat and between his ears as his arms climb up the length of your back. He focuses on that, the feeling of his hands and his bare forearms against your soft shirt. His chin goes over your shoulder and he presses the side of his head to yours with more force than he intends. 

"Don't wind yourself up over it," he murmurs. "I know it sucks, I promise I get it, and I love that you're sorry, I love you, but it's not worth crying over. They're not worth it." 

You tuck your arms behind his shoulder. Steve indulges in your smell, the warmth of your closeness. Talking about his parents is like poking at a purple scar. It's healed for the most part, but it's far from invisible. He usually ignores it all. 

"Is it weird that I'm kind of vindicated by your, uh, reaction?" he asks under his breath, as though someone might hear him and call him out for it. "I don't want you to cry, but…" 

"I'm in your corner." You pull him impossibly closer. "I'll always be upset for you. Even if you don't think it matters anymore, that's the kind of stuff that stays with you, you know?" You kiss his hair. Twice. A third time. "Sorry, I know I always make stuff about me, crying 'n' all." 

"That's not true," he murmurs, rubbing your back. 

He hates that you're crying, but he's glad, too. Glad all that pain isn't made up. Your reaction is proof he didn't just imagine how much it hurt to always want something he couldn't quite grasp. 

"You didn't deserve that," you say. 

"I know." 

"I love you." 

He knows that too. "I love you. You gotta stop crying, okay? You need your tears for the end of the movie when he crashes his car. How are you gonna bawl your eyes out for Sinatra if you've wasted them all on me?" 

You laugh wetly. "I think I've made a wet patch in your hair." 

Steve relaxes, reassured at the sound of your laugh, precious as spun silver even doused in waterworks. "That's cool. I needed a shower anyway." 

—

thank you for reading!

[loonylupinn]

can I request steeb calming down shy!reader after having a panic attack? maybe she gets overwhelmed with how many people are around and just kinda breaks down?

hi anon! thank you so much for your request!! tw for mentions of panic attacks

You’re grateful Eddie let you ride out your panic attack in the back of his van — even if it did come on right before his show.

You can hear the muffled metal music from where you sit in the back lot of The Hideout. You swear you can feel the ground vibrating from the pounding drums and screeching guitar. Or maybe that’s just you, trembling like a leaf or like a chihuahua that has more anxiety than can fit in its tiny body. 

“It’s okay,” Steve murmurs to you for the hundredth time. His chest is pressed into your shoulder, and his mouth is right next to your ear. He wants to make sure his assurances don’t get lost in the war raging in your head. “You’re good, okay? I promise. You’re aces, babe.”

He sits with you in the open trunk of the van, your legs dangling off the back of it. He’s wrapped one of Eddie’s blankets around your shoulders, too. The handmade quilt smells like cigarette smoke and woody cologne and boyhood. The foreign scent doesn’t ease your panic, but it doesn’t make it worse either. It does, however, quell your full-body shivers.

You lean your weight against the boy beside you as you take in uneven, ragged breaths. 

Steve, strong enough to hold you up in more ways than one, wraps one arm around your shoulder and uses his free one to grasp your clammy hands. He lets you dig crescent-shaped marks into his skin instead of your own.

“I can’t catch my breath,” you rasp, gripping his hands tighter. I feel like I’m dying, is what you really want to say.

“I know, I know. It feels like that, but you’re okay. I promise,” the boy coos to you. His lips press into the crown of your head and linger there. “Try and match my breathing if you can, okay? Yours is going way too fast right now. That’s why you’re panicking.”

His chest rises against your cheek with a deep inhale and stills for a moment. His exhale is warm against your forehead when his chest deflates again.

You try your best to mimic it, breathing in through your nose and out through your mouth in time with him, but yours aren’t as confident as his. Mostly because you’re pretty sure your throat will tighten at any moment, and you’ll stop breathing altogether. 

But the way Steve holds you is warmer than the blanket he’s curled you in. You feel less like you’re inching toward your grave.��

Eventually, you start to focus on the rise and fall of his chest. And the smell of his cologne, musky and sweet. And the freckle on the wrist of the hand he holds you with — you’ve never noticed it before now.

You forget you were ever panicking in the first place.

“There you go,” Steve lilts quietly to you. He smooths a wide hand up and down your arm. You feel his smile curl into your hair. “Told ya. You’re perfect, babe.”

He tries to pull back from you to see more of your face, but you only press further against him when he tries. The wave hasn’t yet passed, he figures, the panic still eats at you and you don’t feel totally safe yet. Like a child with a make-believe boogeyman in their closet, he lets you cuddle into him like a life-sized teddy bear.

“You’re okay?” he murmurs.

You’re not sure yet. You nod anyway. “Yeah,” you answer, quiet and fragile. “I’m okay.”

“What was freaking you out, huh? Was it the music? Was it too loud?”

You shake your head against his shoulder.

“Was it that asshole that bumped into you?” he asks, getting angry about it all over again. 

“Kinda. There was just… a lot going on. Too many people, you know? I wasn’t— I wasn’t prepared,” you sniffle.

Steve sighs against you. A tender hand squeezes your arm. “I know. I’m sorry, babe. I really didn’t expect that many people to show up to a Corroded Coffin show—”

“That’s mean…” you lilt quietly.

He can’t see you, but he can hear the smile in your voice. It makes him smile, too.

“It’s Eddie, babe. I mean, this crowd is totally gonna get to his head.”

“Well, he deserves it. He’s been practicing for ages.”

“Yeah, but he’s gonna be insufferable after this.”

“You always think he’s insufferable.” His heart swells when you giggle.

Steve sighs. “Yeah…”

Your fingers start to toy with his larger ones — a sure sign that you’re coming back down again. They don’t shake as much as they did before. “I think he’s alright.”

“Yeah, because he’s nice to you.”

“Well, maybe if you were nice to him, he’d be nice to you.”

“Me? Nice to Munson?” he scoffs. “That sounds like a terrible idea.”

You pull back from him, smiling softly despite all the reasons you have not to. The remnants of your anxiety still show on your face — glassy eyes, dried tears, panic-bitten mouth. But you beam at him, anyway.

“You’re such a meanie,” you tease, weak but trying to sound strong.

Steve nods with a wide grin. 

“The meanest,” he assures as he holds you closer. He looks so tenderly down at you, features soft despite looking like they’ve been carved out of stone. His honey eyes are made darker by the night, but they twinkle brightly as he gazes at you. “And you’re the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen.”

Your nose scrunches, taking obvious disdain with his compliment. 

“I take it back. You’re not a meanie, you’re a sap.”

Again, he nods. “It’s only ‘cause I love you,” he defends, rubbing the tip of his nose along the bridge of yours. He doesn’t know if you’re ready for a kiss just yet.

“That’s gross,” you murmur, peering at him from beneath your lashes. “…I love you, too.”

“I know, you do… It’s ‘cause of the hair, isn’t it?”

Your bottom lip is pulled slowly between your teeth — not to bite it like you usually do when you’re anxious, but to conceal the smile tugging at your mouth as you nod. Your tired eyes flit up to his intentionally messy hair. You rake a hand through the chocolate strands, mussing it further.

“Yeah. Who cares about having a boyfriend that takes care of you when he’s got good hair?”

“Idiots,” he scoffs. “That’s the kinda people who care about that sort of thing.”

Your hand settles on his scruffy jaw. Your thumb brushes the apple of his cheek. “How does it feel to be shacked up with an idiot then, huh?”

Steve grins down at you. “Like heaven.”

[loonylupinn]

Daddy Issues | Matt Murdock x Reader

Masterlist

Inspired by this song.

Pairing: Matt Murdock x Reader

Summary: There are some scars from our childhoods that just won't heal, like daddy issues will somehow always affect our relationships, especially with men. It's the trauma that makes us afraid. Matt Murdock is a considerate boyfriend and he hardly ever raises his voice, so when he lets his anger out on you, he triggers something in you that you have never told him about.

Warnings: Angst, mentions of child abuse, daddy issues (not the sexy kind), childhood trauma, yelling, crying, small injury (reader cuts her finger), not proofread

A/n: This is entirely self-indulgent. I won't tell you why exactly, but let's just say today was not a good day and I needed to write this to feel better. It helped, for the most part. If you have/had a father who yells a lot and likes to blame you for everything, this is for you. But also basically everyone who's afraid of men yelling at you because you've been traumatized before. This has not been proofread or beta-d. It’s just a silly little comfort fic.

Tags: (people who answered the original idea and I think would enjoy this or asked to be tagged)

@igotanidea @lina-mar @redzie02 @hellskitchens-whore

[not my gif, credits to the owner mentioned under the gif]

In the heat of the moment, some people raise their voices. May it be a fight or a moment of excitement. When we get angry, we often resort to a louder volume and sometimes even verbal abuse. We say things we don’t mean. We wouldn’t be human if that didn’t happen sometimes, although most fights can be resolved by talking civilly. There is no point in screaming when talking like adults is a viable option that won’t hurt anyone. But it hardly ever happens, not when both parties are already worked up to the point of no return.

For you, there has not been a fight or discussion in your life that hasn’t resulted in a screaming match. Your parents often yelled at each other. You grew up like this, the voices of your fighting parents constantly in the back of your head until the day they divorced. And even after that, you figure you started hallucinating their fights whenever the world went quiet around you so you would have some noise in the back of your head.

Your father was the one who screamed the most. He yelled and scolded you whenever you didn’t act according to his standards or made even the smallest of mistakes, didn’t do something or just used the wrong tone with him, something that often didn’t sit right with him.

He always resorted to screaming. The context never really mattered, he just got louder, harsher and he used words that would confuse every kid and make their tiny brains overflow with the guilt they caused. And when you cried, he only waved it off because “there is no reason to cry, I’m just stating the facts”.

It traumatized you in a way many children who grew up in such families understand, and he made you believe that every man in your life has a reason to yell at you, to use you, to abuse you and constantly ask you for things even though you can’t possibly match up to all of their expectations.

You always expect to be yelled at by the men in your life. Even the smallest hint of the disappointment in someone’s voice makes you anxious and more often than not, you start to cry. It’s your defense mechanism. You’re fragile and you get scared easily. A switch gets flicked and you’re suddenly standing in the same house you grew up in, letting your father rain hell down on you because you were too scared to fight back.

The constant screaming made you scared of men, and it made you more careful with what you say or do around others. You tread carefully. You try to please and not to screw up too much, too scared of the consequences and possible negative reactions. In school, you used to do the same, always wanting to please the teachers and when they raised their voices, you often excused yourself and were left shaking and crying in the bathroom. 

Matt Murdock has always been a man with a heavy internal conflict, and that conflict resulted in anger issues and his ever-present catholic guilt. When you met him, he came across as attractive yet dominant, and that scared you a little until you talked for the first time in the middle of a cozy coffee shop and he showed how soft of a man he actually is. He keeps himself locked away and that might make him seem unapproachable, but he isn’t. He’s the kindest man you have ever met, and his heart is set right. Out of all the lovers you’ve had, he is truly the best and most considerate when it comes to your relationship.

He treats you like you’re the universe to him and when you fight, it’s more often bickering than it is an exchange of vulgarities and screams. He takes his anger out on punching bags, not you, and when he hurts someone, it’s often criminals who deserve his wrath. His life is complicated, but it’s easier with you in it. He feels alive, he’s told you, and he wouldn’t trade that for the world, so he always makes sure you’re taken care of and happy before he looks after himself.

There is, of course, the issue with his enhanced senses. He’s blind but his senses are enhanced to an extent that most blind people don’t have. You found out about that early on in your relationship, but there’s never been a doubt in your mind about the love you feel for him, so it was no hard choice to stay.

Though dating the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen comes with its collection of issues. More often than not you have to stitch him up or search him in dark alleys and trash cans because he keeps getting in trouble, and the worry often eats you alive. Still, you comfort him when he’s had a bad day, always, and you make him the spotlight of your life every time. In your mind, taking care of him comes first.

But Matt always gives back. It’s his Catholicism, you’re sure of that. He can’t take help. He has to be the one doing the work and moving mountains. He is God’s disciple and he feels responsible for his city and the people living in it. His blindness feels like a gift given to him by God to conquer all possible battles, and while you don’t really believe in God, you have accepted that part of him with open arms and more often than not join him in his faith because life with him is surely not the easiest.

When Matt Murdock feels overwhelmed, he tries not to show it. He’d rather lock himself away than burden you. He’d rather struggle on his own than put the people he loves in danger or hurt them with his personal struggles and the pain that consumes him.

Matt is patient and he doesn’t care if you screw up, even though you apologize profusely most of the time. He’s patient because we’re all human. We all screw up. That is the principle that he lives by and he makes you feel like you can be more of yourself around him. So after a year, there are no more reservations and you feel a lot more comfortable in your skin.

Until this day, he had never let his anger out on you, and he had never opened his mouth to yell at you in any way. Until that day.

He’s different when he comes home. He finds himself at his wit's end, and he has been ever since that godforsaken murder trial started. When he comes home, you don’t think much of his distance toward you, the denial of a proper kiss, and his grunts as he lowers himself on the couch instead of asking you about your day. You don’t think much until it all goes wrong, and you’re not even sure at what point it does or what you did to deserve this, but there has to be a reason because the man you’re seeing right now is not the Matt you usually get to see.

We all have bad days sometimes, others more often, but this seems deeper than just a bad day at the courthouse. This is not the face of an exhausted man after a long work day that just needs some kisses and maybe a blowjob, or to have sex with his girlfriend in all his dominant glory with aftercare to put the cherry on top. This is not Matt Murdock, this is the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen that comes through the front door, tosses his cane into a corner, and then just falls on the couch like a wet sack of potatoes, his fists clenched as if he is ready to explode any second.

You’ve been taught to tread carefully, so you do. You approach him only slowly because you are worried, you always are. Perhaps it’s the line of questioning that has him exploding in no time.

“You okay?” you ask.

He props his feet up on the living room table and huffs. “Fine,” he says.

“You don’t look fine. Did something happen?”

You’ve brought him a glass of water, which he takes with a curt nod. Something is bothering him, but he won’t talk to you.

“Bad day at work?”

“It doesn’t matter now. I’m fine. I just want to forget that today ever happened.”

“You want some coffee?” you decide to ask instead.

“No,” he says.

His leg starts to bounce. It only does when he is agitated or overstimulated and is trying to deal with the world around him. 

“Do you want me to run you a bath?”

He sighs. “No.”

“We still have leftovers, maybe I could warm them up.”

His tone is harsher this time, “No!”

You blink, a little taken aback by the force in his voice and involuntarily, you start to shake.

“I just want to be alone,” he adds, softer this time. “Can you… you know what, I’m just gonna get changed.”

And like that, he is gone. He disappears into the bedroom and you’re left flabbergasted. You want to ask what’s wrong, but you’re scared. You’ve never been scared of him before. It’s not him, it’s his reaction, and so you retreat into the kitchen. 

Eventually, he comes out again, though he is still missing a shirt. “Have you seen my Columbia sweater?” he asks, the lights of the billboard reflecting off his marble skin. 

“It’s in the washer,” you tell him.

“Why?”

“Because it’s dirty. Matt, what is going on?” You place your mug down and look at him, eyes soft and full of concern.

He only rolls his. “I just want my sweater.” Grabbing the used shirt from the chair at the dinner table, he slips it on. It’s not the fabric he wanted and he tenses up, hating the new sensation already.

“Are you sure this is about your sweater? You’ve been on me ever since you got in.”

“Yes, because you keep asking useless questions.”

“Useless?” You scoff. “So my interest and worry for you are useless?” 

If there is one thing you have gotten good at it has to be defending yourself.

He brushes past you to get a beer from the fridge. “I told you, I’m fine.” He is good at brushing you off because he doesn’t like to admit when he feels weaker than usual.

“You don’t look fine.”

“Oh, my God, then stop fucking looking!”

“Okay, what the hell is your problem?”

He scoffs. “You don’t get it.”

“What don’t I get?”

“Everything.”

“Enlighten me then.”

“It’s not…” his chuckle is bitter. “Well, I guess it doesn’t matter. You’re gonna keep seeing problems where there are none, so talking to you makes no sense anyway.”

What did he just say? You are so confused and suddenly very angry that you forget you are holding a glass. You smash it down on the counter, and, as expected, it shatters into a million pieces. Most of them fall to the floor and right at his bare feet. His eyes darken.

Oh.

Now you are scared, and not in a way that resembles sexy foreplay. You are scared because he is turning into a stranger right before your eyes. Suddenly, all you can see is not your loving boyfriend Matt Murdock, you see the anger of both your father and your stepfather in his eyes and hear it in his voice and it instantly tells you, 'this is all your fault'.

“I’m sorry,” you mumble. “I didn’t see…”

“One night,” he says. He moves out of the kitchen, trying not to step into the glass.

You follow him with wide eyes. “What’s that?” 

“One night,” he repeats his earlier statement. “That’s all I wanted. One fucking night where people don’t prod or- or want things from me. And what do you do? You keep talking and talking, and you don’t even care that I simply don’t want to talk.”

“Matt, that is not fair. I just wanted to-“ the tears start to prick in your eyes. “I’m sorry.”

“Jesus Christ.” And that’s where your strength stops and you retreat into your shell – the next words out of his mouth come so loud, you could have sworn they echoed off the brick walls and shot straight into your eardrums. “For once in your life, stop fucking apologizing!” 

His hand lifts, mostly to underline his words, and with the bottle in his hand he is suddenly so close, your eyes squeeze shut at the gush of wind. You flinch, your entire body caving in on itself. It’s not even intentional, you can’t help it. You’ve been conditioned to expect the worst when someone raises their hand, and Matt has never done it before. 

He realizes what it looks like the second your heart jumps and your blood rushes loudly in his ear. He can smell your sweat, the tears, and the fear that surrounds you. It’s your pheromones that change and something lingers in the air that makes him stop and think, what did I just do? 

He has been so in his head and the city has been loud for hours, he lost most of his patience at the courthouse, and then you’re there all caring and lovely and he can’t help but tell himself he doesn’t deserve it. He doesn’t deserve you. He just wants quiet and to be alone while at the same time, all he wants is you, but it’s too much. It’s all too much.

And now, as you flinch away from him and his booming voice, he snaps back to reality and realizes he made a mistake. He’s never experienced you like this before, and it scares him. 

“Did you just…” he begins, his voice soft and barely above a whisper.

He hears you fall to your knees, the taste of salt thick in the air and your breath shakes with every intake. You bite your lip and you collect the shards, trying to clean up your mess as if he would hate you if you didn’t. You whisper a silent, “Sorry.” And then he hears it. You’re sobbing, you try not to but you are, and it is his fault.

“Did you think I was gonna hit you?” he asks, dreading the answer.

You sniffle, not answering.

You flinched, he heard it, and not because you were surprised. You are scared, he knows. 

He slowly approaches the kitchen. “Sweetheart, talk to me.”

“I just gotta clean this up,” you whimper and you brush the glass together with shaky hands. The tears are running down your cheeks in thick streams and your teeth have gnawed your bottom lip bloody, your throat dry with the denied sobs.

“I just gotta clean this up and then I can make you dinner or something. I don’t… I can fix this. I’ll fix this. I’m sorry.”

It’s your fault, you tell yourself. You pushed him. You deserve this. He worked hard the entire day and you annoyed him. He has every right to do this. In your head, at least. It makes all sense in your head while in reality, Matt has never been more shocked to read your body language than he is now.

He slowly kneels in front of you. “Answer me this,” he says, “did you flinch because you thought I was gonna hit you or because I yelled?”

You shrug, unable to look at him. One of the shards slides across your finger and you hiss, the smallest cut forming and causing blood to pool out of your skin. Still, you don’t stop. You need to clean this up before he gets even angrier at you. In your state, you don’t realize his voice has softened and he no longer stares at you with those blacked-out eyes. He looks sympathetic, almost, but most of all the guilt has spread throughout his features and his heart. He is aching to touch you, but you are scared and shaking and he doesn’t want to hurt you any further than he already has.

He had been so ignorant that he didn’t see the signs before.

“Why are you crying?” he asks again.

You wipe your cheeks. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to push you. It’s my fault,” you say. “I’ll clean this up, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have…”

“Hey.”

“No, I gotta-”

“Stop.” His hand is on your arm then. “You cut yourself.”

“I’m sorry,” it’s a mantra you’ve taught yourself to say in the hopes you could somehow fix this before it’s too late.

But it’s not too late. When you finally look up, he’s smiling softly, and his thumb is stroking over your skin in circles. 

“I’m sorry,” it’s his turn to say it. “I didn’t mean to yell at you. None of this is your fault. I was so caught up in my own shit, I… God, I would never hit you. I just- I didn’t think when I raised my hand. I didn’t think what it might look like to you. And I didn’t think when I yelled because I… in my head, I wasn’t thinking.”

Your facade cracks even more to the point you are seethrough and your defenses have fallen completely. You’re a snotty mess, shaking violently in his grasp. 

“I’m trying, I swear I’m trying to be better. Just don’t be angry with me,” your voice is bordering on helpless little sobs, your lips turned downward and God, you are shaking so badly, you haven’t done so since the last fight with your father when you were a teenager. 

Matt’s face softens even more, but there is a pain in there too. He takes a paper towel to wrap around your injured finger and he holds your hand, not sure if he is allowed to touch anywhere else, but he wants you to know he is here and he is going nowhere. He is neither mad nor is he going to break up with you. You try to tell yourself that, but it’s hard with the demon in your head whispering all those awful things into your ear, reminding you that everything bad that happens can only be your fault and that there is no use for you but to destroy and disappoint. But you don’t want to disappoint, you want him to be proud of you. You want him to hold you and tell you everything is alright. But you’re scared and you feel so stupidly guilty for something you can’t even put a finger on. Your bleeding finger.

“Angry with you?” he says. “No.” Matt chuckles, but it’s broken and almost whiny as he does so. “I’m not angry at you, bug. Of course not. I was just angry with the world. I was angry at everything else, but not you. I’m not angry at you. I couldn’t possibly be. I’m sorry, it wasn’t fair of me to take it out on you. I realize that now. And the glass…” he forces you away from the chaos gently, helping you stand up without hurting yourself further. “It’s just glass,” he tells you. “I’ll clean it up. There’s nothing bad about breaking something.”

“But the mess,” you say. 

“Fuck the mess. The whole apartment’s a mess.”

“I’m so sorry! I can clean it. I can clean up, I promise. I just… I’m so sorry, Matt.”

“Stop apologizing, baby, please. The mess doesn’t matter. The apartment doesn’t matter, and the glass does not fucking matter. None of this is your fault. You didn’t do anything but try to help. I had no right to yell at you. And my hand… I would never hit you. Never.” He squeezes your hand. “I love you.”

You hiccup, whimpering when he pulls you away from the glass on the floor and pulls you into his arms. His chin rests on the crown of your head and you mold into him, the tears taking on new speed and wetting through his shirt. He strokes your back, not sure what else to do, and his lips find your temple. “God, I’m so sorry,” he whispers. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I’m sorry. You didn’t deserve that, none of that.”

You cling tighter to him. 

He keeps asking himself the same question over and over again. “Who hurt you?” he asks. It’s a valid question. A fear like that doesn’t just stem from nothing. Something happened in the past to have traumatized you this badly. 

Your breathing eventually slows down, as do your tears, and you look up at him through swollen eyes. His white shirt is wet now, but he doesn’t care, he only hugs you back to his chest. “My father used to yell at me whenever I did something wrong,” you tell him, your voice muffled through his chest, but he understands every word. 

His grip tightens. “Did he hit you?”

“Sometimes, but… I remember that one time I forgot to clean up after myself and he just… he…” The lack of oxygen makes you shudder and you hiccup again, nails digging into his back. “I’m sorry, he just… yelled at me. Sometimes, he’d slap me, but only sometimes. He’d threaten most of the time, but he didn’t do it often. And I mean, I was a hard kid to raise, I-“

“No, don’t blame yourself,” he is quick to cut you off. “You were a kid.”

You shudder again. “Well, I… you know, he blamed me for the smallest of things, so I got used to apologizing and trying to please everyone, but I can’t always do that. I try to fix things, but it doesn’t always work. He used to yell at me every damn time and I just… I get scared. I don’t like it when people raise their voices. It makes me feel so guilty and now I even broke a glass. That’s my fault. I shouldn’t have… you had a bad day, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to cry like this. I swear I’m not a baby.”

You move away to rub your eyes. He grabs your face, smoothing the pads of his thumbs over your wet cheeks. The heat has pooled under the skin in an upset blush. 

“Don’t apologize,” he says. “It’s okay to cry. If I’d known, baby, I…” Matt can only shake his head in disbelief.

He loves you more than anything and to see you hurting because of something another man did to you, a man who is supposed to protect you, makes him feel all kinds of things, but none of them positive. 

But his anger doesn’t matter. This is about you. He has to take care of you now, not himself, and definitely not your father. It’s just you on his mind.

You choke on nothing. “He told me I have no reason to cry because he’s just stating facts.”

Matt clicks his tongue. “No, don’t ever think that again. You have every right to cry when you feel the need to.”

“It makes me weak,” you say.

“Your father’s wrong. You’re the strongest person I know,” he says. “And the fact that he yelled at you and blamed you for things that were out of your control… no one has the right to treat you like that, not even your parents, and he should have never even thought about raising his hand against you. That’s abuse. I can’t believe- fuck! Do you understand that it wasn’t your fault? That he had no right to do that?”

“Yes, but… it happened. Maybe I deserved some of those slaps. I mean you… I- I don’t know. It happened, we can’t change it. And who knows, maybe he was right.”

“Stop it! That’s not true and you know it.”

“I know, but-“

“No buts, sweetheart. I would never raise my hand against you, I promise. I’m not like your father. No one should be like him. You deserve so much better.”

“I know you wouldn’t,” you sniffle, “it was just instinct.”

“Shh,” Matt kisses you gently, “I know. It’s like me dodging punches in a fight. It’s a defense mechanism. Your father, I… you’ve never said anything. I would’ve never suspected this.”

“‘Cause I didn’t think it was important. This never happened before. You never yelled before.”

“Oh, sweetie, I’m sorry. You should have told me,” he says. “It’s important to me. The last thing I wanted was to hurt you. I want you to feel comfortable around me, not scared.”

You nod. “And I am, really, it’s just… I thought I did something wrong.”

His smile is soft when he leans in to kiss you again, tasting the tears on your lips. “You didn’t. I let my anger out on you for no reason. You didn’t deserve that. It won’t happen again, I promise,” and he dives right back in. 

You wrap your arms around his neck, relaxing in his arms as his lips move against yours with sweet precision, making you feel lightheaded. He scared you, that much is true, but it was neither you nor his fault and you realize that now, safe in his arms as he proves his devotion to you with a single breath into your mouth. With his gentle touch around your waist he promises never to hurt you, never to let his anger out on you again, and he promises that he will drive himself to hell personally if he ever scares you like that again because he couldn’t forgive himself if anything happened to you because of him. He couldn’t live with himself if he broke your heart or triggered the trauma you brought into the relationship from your broken childhood, and he promises that he will never leave you, never put you second and always hold you when times get hard because people screw up, bad things happen, and you might be at fault sometimes, but so is he and there is no reason to be put down for being human. He wants to teach you that, he wants to help you heal yourself, and you have never felt more in love than at that moment, losing yourself in his lips, eyes and arms.

He breaks the kiss, moving on to your forehead. “If there is anything else I need to know,” he breathes hotly against your already heated skin, and the exhaustion slowly starts to seep into your bones as the shakes and tension subside from your bones, “please tell me before I make another mistake that might trigger you.”

You take in a deep breath, shaking your head. “There is not much else. My childhood wasn’t the best, but that’s okay,” you say. 

He brushes his knuckles over your cheekbone. “Bad enough. Promise you’ll tell me if something else might come up?” He resembles a puppy as he tries to meet your eyes, but he fails miserably.

So you promise him, “Okay.”

“Can you forgive me for yelling?”

Your tears have finally come to a halt. “Yes,” you say. 

“Thank you.”

Your eyes fall on the mess on the kitchen floor again and you go to grab the broom. Matt’s arm around your frame stop you and he gently pushes you out of the kitchen. “Let me clean it up,” he says. “Put a bandaid on your finger and then go lie down. I’ll deal with it.”

“No, I broke it. Please, Matt, let me do this.”

“Not everything is your fault, sweetheart. Besides, you already cut yourself once and with how you’re shaking, the next time you accidentally cut yourself I’m sure you’re gonna cause more damage.”

“But I-”

“Go to bed,” he insists, “I’ll be there in a second and then we’ll cuddle so you know I’m serious when I say that I love you more than life itself.”

The weight and guilt fall off your heart. “I love you,” you tell him. “More than life itself, too.”

It’s not a lie. If there is anything or anyone you love, it’s him, and you’ve never been this in love with anyone before. It’s sickening to the point it hurts, but the pain is sweet and it’s all worth it because with Matt, you can be yourself. 

The past matters just a little less with someone who loves you right by your side, and he would never give up on you like everyone else did before him. 

[loonylupinn]

Pre-Christmas Gifts | Remus Lupin

𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆: remus lupin x gn! reader

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆(𝐒): none

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: remus went way over budget on your christmas gift, but it’s the thought that counts.

𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐌𝐏𝐓(𝐒): “that’s far too expensive!” “it’s alright.”

𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓: 1.4k

There was a chilling breeze in the air. A slight wind that nipped at noses and cheeks, causing any exposed beings to shove their faces beneath layers upon layers of fluffy, warm clothing as they pushed through the flurry of sparkling white snow.

Observing the winter wonderland that had become of the world outside your ice-frosted window, you sighed gratefully into the mug of hot cocoa you’d swiped from the kitchens, thankful that you were indoors under a pile of cozy throw blankets instead of outdoors getting pelted by charmed snowballs on the Hogwarts grounds.

Keep reading

[loonylupinn]

[loonylupinn]

Hi! For the random prompt event, may I please request Matt Murdock calming you down after a nightmare? Thank you!

pairing ➵ matt murdock x reader

summary ➵ you have a tendency of nightmares due to one reason or another in your life. one night, when spending the evening with matt, you have a nightmare. matt, your loving boyfriend, is straight to the rescue to help ground you.

warnings ➵ pet name here is used as a gender-neutral time - angel. deals with nightmares, but nothing too heavy. standard religious mention given it is matt - not mainly focused and no religious imagery, just briefly mentioned.

words ➵ 1,569

author's note ➵ thank you for your patience! here are links for others to the random prompt event, and the random prompt event masterlist

You recognize your childhood home; standing out on the curb and feeling small at the front of a place that now holds an eerie air to it. Something about it feels wrong, but you can’t place it. The sun is peeking out over the top of the roof, casting you into a dark shadow that adds a gloom to a place that once felt so secure and protected. 

The rising bubble of anxiety in your stomach wells more and more. Deep in your gut, you can feel it. How everything feels uncomfortably silent - not so much as a passing car or a bird in the air. When your eyes lift to squint at the sky to search for clouds, you see it. The slowly sliding disk that is overtaking the sun. The star sustaining life to your planet slowly dying as it’s devoured by the endless abyss, sending the world into a quickly spreading darkness. It spills over the land and while someone else could argue it’s a solar eclipse, there is a more sinister energy to it. Evil.

You can’t breathe. Your body feels like lead when you turn to race away before you can be swallowed into the dark – despite your best efforts you can’t outrun it. You can see yourself running. Moving as fast as you can, feel your heart hammering in your chest and your lungs aching for air. You’re running for your life, but it’s not enough, it’s gaining on you–

You jump up in a cold sweat; sucking in a shrill gasp with a tremor through your body. Fingers white-knuckling the sheets as you jerk upward – confused and startled, you’re immediately brought back to reality by the familiar voice calling out to you. “Angel? It’s me, shh... Yeah, it’s me, Angel,” your boyfriend’s voice – Matt’s voice. “Shh, it was just a bad dream… I’ve got you, sweetheart..” His voice is rough from sleep, but having sobered himself of his exhaustion enough to sound warm and inviting. Composed and fluid. Making himself into something stable and firm for you to lean on in that moment.

The panic of being nearly engulfed by the ebony black blocking out the sun still feels like a very real threat. Your heart drumming in your ears and leaving you short of breath like the bumps in the car that take you unexpectedly and your stomach swoops. Matt notices the crossroads you’re at between fight or flight, and tries to coax you before your body can react too harshly. “Breathe with me, angel.” His voice even, thick like honey as lips coast the shell of your ear. Normally it’d give you chills, but right then it feels comforting to be surrounded by someone else.  Matt is sat up with you, tight against your side and arm wrapped around you. The other comes to lay his hand flat on your sternum. You feel the warmth of his palm; the weight of it feels grounding in an odd sense. A comforting pressure.

You practice deep breaths with Matt – in through the nose, out past chapped lips. Your throat feels tight, a bottle of water is absolutely in your future. Matt doesn’t ask - he knows you’ll talk about it when you’re ready. And given the way he’d heard your heart pounding in your chest like it was about to burst free of its cage goes to show it was an intense dream. That’s not even counting the light rustling he’d started to feel and what had initially stirred him. Could hear every struggling, quivering breath. The near silent whimpers that pulled from you. Matt is more than relieved that moment has passed; pressing an encouraging kiss to your temple.

“There you go, that’s right.. I’ve got you.” Rubbing his hand sympathetically up and down your arm from where it rests on your shoulder farthest from him. You gravitate to Matt naturally, leaning your weight into him to feel small and protected. Matt would protect you from anything; Maybe even God himself. 

Tucking away, you hide against the crook of Matt’s neck. Still deliberately trying to focus on your breathing and quell the deep unease from within. His hand on your arm lifts, letting knuckles softly brush the slope of your jaw. “You’re tight, sweetheart… Can you unclench your jaw for me? Yeah, just like that, perfect…” Going out of his way to assure that you’re not holding anything unnecessarily tight.

So intune with your body, it’s one of those things that always made Matt so considerate and gentle to you. His attentiveness, to the way he goes out of his way to listen for any discomfort or unease.

By the time he’s done with you, you’re jelly in his lap. Soft sniffles from tears you hadn’t even realized you’d almost shed. You were lucky enough they only watered; no need to suffer the embarrassment of crying over a nightmare that wasn’t even all that scary looking back on it. It was just the energy it emitted. How sick it felt; an imminent doom. It was scary. After a moment of calm quiet and deep breaths, Matt speaks up. “Do you want to try laying back down, angel…? Or are we staying up?” We. Matt really was with you for better or for worse, even in little insignificant moments like these.

You swallow hard around the lump, searching for your voice: “I… I don’t want to go back to sleep. Not yet…” You don’t mean to sound so quiet or rough; Matt picks up on it and his lips can’t help but to curl into a soft smile. “Sounds like you need a drink anyways… How about we make some tea? I think we still have a box in the cabinet.”

You’re out in the living room with Matt. Both of you on the couch, Matt is more towards the corner seat so he can prop his elbow up on the arm. You, on the other hand, are pressed right against his side. The plaid throw blanket from the back of the couch draped over your lap - your legs are tucked up to keep your body closed up. Leaned right against Matt, where he has an arm stretched around you. In both your hands you nurse mugs of warm tea. 

Fidgeting quietly with the tea bag – steeping it to make sure it’s thoroughly flavored.

“I didn’t believe Karen when she said these teas would change our lives,” Matt jests softly with an airy chuckle, lifting to take a languid sip from his mug.

“I still think it was a sweet gift; she knows you have a hard time sleeping,” You reply quietly - the corners of your lips curling into a delighted smile all the same as you watch the liquid in your cup.

“Seems I’m not the only one, though.”

That sours your mood briefly - eyes lifting to look at Matt’s dead eyes that stare at nothing. 

The lights from across the road bleed in and dance across his skin, but even in the dark you make out the dusting of freckles. His dark ginger hair is a mess from bed head and having no one else to look presentable for. No reason to comb it out with his fingers.

“Yeah, I’m sorry… I didn’t mean to wake you up.” Cheek squished against Matt’s shoulder as you peer up at him.

“Don’t worry about that; I don’t ever want you to struggle alone. I’d rather lose a little sleep if it means I get to make you feel better…”

The words melt your heart. You can feel the genuineness dripping from the statement. Matt never makes you feel like a burden for your struggles; supportive and caring the whole while even if he’s not the best at doing it for himself. Who knew the Devil of Hell’s kitchen was such a sweet lover?

“...Thank you for staying up with me, then, in that case.” You amend - you’ve been trying to incorporate more positive connotations anyways, and apologizing all the time isn’t good. Thanking Matt is a better alternative.

“Always. It’s more time I get to spend with you, anyways. I wouldn’t give that up for anything…”

Matt’s fingers brush back through your hair so he can press his lips to your forehead. Tangle fingers into your hair after just to rub and massage at your scalp with his fingers. You slump against his side and the quiet evening doesn’t feel so miserable anymore with your boyfriend there.

Chit chat ensues for about a half hour. Matt tells you about the couple he can hear a few apartments over and the stray kitten they found outside and are excited to take in. You smile as you go back and forth. Both voices hushed; the calm you need to unwind again and not stay the night awake and in fear. Matt makes it easy to not be so afraid of the dark…

You both go to sleep not long after. Sleepy time tea managed to lull you back into a state of relaxation, and when Matt felt you dozing, he carefully took your empty mug from your hands. Sitting it on the coffee table, he’d then move to gingerly pick you up bridal style and carry you back to bed. Matt spoons you, crowded against your back and arms wrapped around your waist. Nosing into your hair and always there to protect you from the things that go bump in the night - even if they’re inside your own head.

[loonylupinn]

re-watching daredevil is not enough, i need Daredevil to fuck me

[loonylupinn]

Do white people really blush that much or do yall just have a point to prove in your fanfics because this seems excessive.

[loonylupinn]

Matt Murdock, your medical alert bf: *hands you a juice box bc he knows your blood sugar is low*

[loonylupinn]

No but in all seriousness, memes aside, much love to all my friends in the UK right now. I know shit's about to be chaotic and nationalistic and shitty, and I hope the media circus ends as quickly as possible.

[loonylupinn]

dealer!remus with a high reader who’s asking if it’s okay before touching him at all costs. even if she’s just holding his hand or leaning on his shoulder. & she’s looking up at him with the glossiest, dazed eyes asking it it’s okay :,)

eeek there’s something about dealer!remus that makes me feels so warm and safe and comforted :’))) sobbbb thx for sending this in !!

he can practically hear you thinking. it's loud in your head, he can tell.

his head is leaning back against the backrest of the sofa, the room is dark and cool, and there's quiet music playing from his laptop. your eyes are burning holes into the side of his face. you get a little intense when you’re high.

"can feel you staring, dove." his lips curl at the wounded sound you make. always so worried about being a bother, his girl.

when all he gets in response is your breathing getting louder he cracks an eye open, and what he finds is a very thoughtful looking girl, bottom lip on the way to being nibbled raw as you study him with hazy, glazed over eyes.

he sniffs, "y'alright?"

you nod, eyes fluttering to his and then your head ducks, chin to your chest in a shy display he's much too familiar with.

remus eyes the distance between him and where you seat. you’re on your knees, facing him, and your fingers wiggle restlessly atop your knees. “you’re very far away.”

you let out a quiet, frustrated huff, head tilting to the side in the most adorable frown he’s ever seen in his whole entire life it cracks him down the middle. okay, maybe remus is a little high too... “i wasn’t sure.”

his lip twitches again. “sure about what?”

your eyes narrow in your best attempt at a glare, but the weed make it so it comes across as a pouty squint. your finger twitches toward him. “you know.”

he lets the smile through this time, eyes still lidded and arm heavy as he raises it to make room for you. “c’mere”

it’s a messy show that you put on, shaky knees and weak arms scrambling across the space between one end of the couch and the other. when you settle on his lap, the weight on your chest slides down and down until it’s nestled warm and snug in your belly. you let out a content sigh into his sweatshirt, it’s old and it smells like smoke, but it’s him him him.

remus wraps a lanky arm around you, hand sliding under your jumper and to the waistband of your leggings. it stays there. his other hand moves to your hair, stubby nails scratching gently at your scalp. when he speaks, his breath tickles the top of your head. “don’t need to ask, y’know.”

it’s almost like watching a cat get comfortable. one second you’re wound up tight and unsure, and the next, once he extends the invitation and you don’t feel like a nuisance, your hand is moving up his chest and past his shoulders until it’s resting at his nape, fingers tugging gently at the roots. almost like you’re making sure he’s actually there and you’re not dreaming.

“sorry,” you mutter into his chest, and the words startle a knowing, breathy laugh out of him.

he sighs, gathering you up closer and tighter till any normal person would start squirming. you don’t though, you like it like this. face in your neck, he nips at the skin, shaking his head and peppering the spot with kisses until you melt even further into him. “you’re silly.”

it’s hard to tell where he stops and where you begin, a mountain of limbs, sated smiles, and the weathered blanket you dragged along with you. it’s the best you have ever felt in your whole entire life. okay…maybe you’re both quite high. you giggle, it’s a relieved sigh. “i know.”

[loonylupinn]

The feminine urge to just

[loonylupinn]

𝟖:𝟑𝟒𝐏𝐌 [[ 𝐌𝐀𝐓𝐓 𝐌𝐔𝐑𝐃𝐎𝐂𝐊 ]]

18+ MDNI —matt's girl is a spitfire, but she's also a sensitive little thing that can easily get her feelings hurt. good thing matt always knows how to make it all better

The first thing Matt notices when he walks through the door is the sweet smell wafting from the kitchen. It’s an observation that makes him nervous, because he knows you, and he knows you only ever bake when you’re upset.

Shrugging off his coat, he lines up his dress shoes against the wall—just how you like it—and then heads down the hall and into the minefield.

A normal person would think you’re fine, there’s classical music playing and it smells like shortbread. But Matt knows classical music is always a bad sign, and he also notices you’re whipping the batter a little harder than usual, and he can smell the open bottle of wine you have set out on the counter. “Hi, sweetheart.”

The whipping stops, but just as fast it starts again. “Hello, Matthew.”

Shit.

Matt shuffles up behind you, propping the bag of take out he brought in with him on the counter before dropping a kiss to the top of your head. “How was your day, honey? Smells delicious.”

“It was fine.”

He sighs, biting back a smile because even when you’re being a brat, he can’t help but want to kiss you silly. “Are we fighting?”

The whipping stops again, and he hears you let out a breath, a quiet scoff, and he already knows your shoulders are tense from the way you shift in front of him. “I don’t know, are we?”

It’s him that sighs this time, turning you around so now you’re stuck between his arms, leaning back against the counter with your arms crossed defensively over your chest. “Alright. Talk to me, baby.”

Your lips purse, and you can feel your eye twitching as you stare daggers at his chest. 

His hand moves to tap an index finger on your forehead. “Can’t read your mind, sweetheart.”

“If you loved me enough you would.”

He lets out a laugh at that, and you can’t help but bite back a smile. You know you’re being ridiculous, but it’s his fault for making you so codependent! … At least that’s what you keep telling yourself.

“You didn’t call today.”

Matt frowns at that. He doesn’t remember you guys making any plans, but he hates the thought of you thinking he forgot about you.

“Did we make plans, honey? I’m sorry, I must’ve forgot—”

“We didn’t,” you huff, a little embarrassed now. He can hear your toe digging into your other foot nervously, and he knows you're avoiding looking at his face. “Not really I guess… You just… You always call. At lunch.”

When it finally dawns on him, he feels like the biggest asshole in the world. He knows it’s not really his fault, and he also knows you don’t really fault him for it. But you’re a fragile thing. Tough as nails, a little spitfire always ready to talk smack, but you’re sensitive—as he’s come to learn. It took work to get you to open up, to admit to needing him just as much as he needs you. A lot of unlearning toxic shit people in your past convinced you of. But he’s won every battle, beat every challenge. So in this moment, as he listens to your staggered breathing and the clear pout in your words, he can’t help but feel bad for hurting your feelings… but he also feels like the luckiest guy in the world for being the one you miss.

“It’s stupid, I’m sorry. I’m just being—”

“Hey.” There’s a thumb pressed to your lips that makes the words catch in your throat. “Your feelings are never stupid. I’m sorry I made you sad, angel. I didn’t mean to, but I’m still sorry it happened.”

You pout against his thumb, eyes glazing over the tiniest bit when he rubs it gently over your lower lip. “Jus’ missed you, I guess.”

He smiles that stupid smile of his that always makes you dizzy. “You guess?” He knocks his forehead against yours, but not before brushing his lips against the tip of your nose. “Sounds like you can’t live without me.”

You huff and push grumpily at his chest, ignoring the way his laugh makes your stomach flutter while he pulls you in with a smug smirk. “You’re an asshole.”

He hums, dipping down to kiss gently at your pouty lips. “Can’t live without you either, guess we’re both needy.”

You gasp, “I am not needy—hmph”

This time the kiss is hot, and wet, and it makes your toes curl in your cute patterned socks. Matt has always excelled at this, you think, rendering you speechless when usually you can’t seem to shut up.

When he pulls away, you’re breathing hard and you can tell he’s amused. “You are though,” he comments, brushing a stray lock of hair out of your face. “My needy girl. So sweet though, can’t get enough.”

He knows he has you right where he wants you when you can’t come up with a witty remark. Every last trace of coherent thought washed away the second his lips are on you. 

“Are you gonna let me eat you out?” His hands are firm on your ass. “Eat your pretty pussy? To apologize?” Before you can even try to answer he’s already lifting you up on the countertop, running his hands up your warm thighs and bringing the hem of your pencil skirt up with him. “Gimme your hands, hold this for me.”

Doing just as he says, you sit there, legs spread and back against the cupboard doors, fingers clutching obediently at the fabric of your skirt while the man you love drops to his knees and noses at your clothed cunt. He curses into the fabric, tonguing at the wet spot between your thighs. 

“Already so wet. This all for me, sweetheart?” He groans and nips at the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. “You know I like you nice and messy. Always such a good girl, so eager to please.”

The words rip a needy mewl out of you, back arching against the cupboard willing him to touch you. He smiles knowingly against your skin, pressing a chaste skin to the crease of your thigh before moving to stand. Your eyes, which had fluttered close at the feeling of his face so close to your pussy, are half lidded as you stare up at him with a pained expression. “Wh—I’m sorry, please.”

He shushes you with a mocking tilt to his voice, cooing down at you and kissing at your heated cheeks. “I've got you, sweetheart. You know I do, jus’ gotta get you out of these.”

Long skilled fingers slide under the hem of your underwear. “Lift your hips for me, baby.” And then he’s sliding them down and tucking them away in his back pocket. “Watch your head.” 

With that, he pushes your thighs up and towards your chest, pushing you back to rest on your elbows—narrowly missing the edge of the cupboard—while he bends at the waist to bury his face in your folds. He licks, sucks, and nips just how you like it. Humming and groaning against your slick cunt, making the vibrations send you closer and closer to orgasm. Your thighs shake around his head, one hand gripping tight at his hair as your hips grind needily against his face, whimpering when the tip of his nose bumps your sensitive clit. 

It’s not long before he has you creaming on his face, the orgasm leaving you spent and overly sensitive, making you twitch as he takes his time licking you clean. When he stands, he’s already reaching for you by the time you let out the first whine, making grabby hands at him like you always do after he leaves you brainless. 

Matt loves you like this. All pretenses gone, no need to act tough when he melts your smart little brain into mush with his tongue. He wraps his arms tight around you, rocking you slightly as he waits for your breath to even out, gentle kisses being pressed to your hairline. “Such a pretty girl. Love you like this, you know? Sweetest thing, and you’re all mine.”

His words lull you into a sleepy state, making you dig your nose into his pecs, eyes closed and needy hands gripping tight at the back of his shirt. “Love you, Matty.”

“I love you more, baby.” Big hands rub up and down your back, his smile hidden in your hair. “I take it I’m forgiven then?”

You hum, tightening your hold on him. “Ask me again when I’m coherent.”

[loonylupinn]

HAPPY SLEEPOVER!! If you’ve still got a marvel slot available, may I request some fluffiness for Matt Murdock with the prompt: “Do you want me to carry you?”

ohohohohohohhhhhhoooooo kay is in a fluffy mood let’s GO thank you bby 💕

🔥friday night fever!🔥

Matt Murdock is a lullaby all his own. It didn’t take you long to figure out that the best place to fall asleep isn’t your own bed anymore, but his arms, no matter where you are. Tucked under his shoulder on the subway, sprawled on your bed with your head on his chest, curled up on his couch. The steady beat of his heart is the sound of dreamland now, the gentle thump-thump the only thing that can lull you to sleep with ease.

Couple that with the scent of him, warm and musky, invading your senses. It comes stronger when he adjusts himself beneath you, slotting a leg between your knees or pulling you higher up his body so your head can fit into the crook of his neck. The scent lingers on your clothes even when you’re not with him, and you’re sure to steal a t-shirt or sweater from his apartment each time you leave, returning them only after you’ve slept in them multiple nights and the smell has faded almost completely. He notices — of course he does — and it’s a rare occasion that he doesn’t show up at your apartment on the weekend without a few extra layers, ‘forgetting’ one or two when he leaves the next morning.

Then there’s the feel of him. And not just the ridges of muscle and the softness in those strong hands. His body is a marvel all it’s own, and you’ve dozed off tracing his scars more than once, thumb caught in the dip along his hip or side or chest. No, it’s more than that. It’s the…aura he carries with him, that all-encompassing feeling of being safe, of knowing that no matter what happens, he’ll protect you.

Even before you know what he does in the dark, it feels like that. The first time you fall asleep in front of him is your second date, and you blame it on that feeling, the security and comfort you feel around Matt Murdock. He laughs and brushes off your mumbled apologies. “You held onto me pretty tight. I didn’t have the heart to wake you.”

He kissed your cheek when he heard the rush of blood to your face, the flush that heated your skin.

But nothing compares to Matt’s voice.

The first time you met, you already knew it was your favourite sound. That occasionally low rasp, the way it climbed with passion when he wanted to prove a point, the soft whispers when he roused you in the morning. The way it felt growled against your skin, sending shivers down your spine. He’s articulate without being condescending, and you could listen to him talk forever.

In the early days of your relationship, you spend hours on the phone with him, talking about anything and everything, refusing to be the one who hangs up first, just so you can hear his soft goodnight, sweetheart one more time. You beg him to send you voice notes throughout the day, saving the best ones to listen to before bed when you can’t have him at your side.

Tonight, you’re tired. Bone-tired, the weight of the week behind you too much to bear. It’s Friday, you know you should be out at the bar, cavorting the night away before work starts again Monday, but you can’t find it in you, opting for a bottle of wine and a good book for each of you, cuddled up on Matt’s couch, the leather warm beneath you, your legs covered by a soft blanket. Matt’s braille copy of Stardust is balanced on the arm as he moves his fingers over the pages.

Your glass of wine is long empty, and you lie on your side, your head in his lap, his free hand carding through your hair as he reads aloud. “The silver chain was now nothing but smoke and vapour. For a heartbeat it hung on the air, then a sharp gust of wind and rain blew it out into nothing at all.”

He keeps reading, you’re sure, but your eyes have been closed a while now, there’s the gentle drag of his nails against your scalp, combined with the sound of his voice, the headiness lingering from the wine, and the warmth of his body. You’re a goner. 

“Mmm,” you groan happily, interrupting his reading and you can hear the smile in his voice as he continues. Your brain shuts off, no longer interested in the story, much more intrigued by the idea of sleep and Matt and cuddles and warmth.

“Sweetheart?” he calls, his voice a little too loud. Some time has passed, you know, because when you open your eyes, the sky outside the living room window is pitch-black (save for the too-bright billboard of course) and the candle you’d been burning has been reduced to nothing, the wick giving off smoke instead of flame. “Honey, let’s go to bed.”

“Nuh-huh,” you groan, trying to burrow deeper into his lap, turning onto your side so your face is pressed to his stomach. “Don’t wanna move.”

“Do you want me to carry you?” he asks, and you make a questioning noise, starting to move, but before you can, he’s pulling you gently upright and into his lap. You wrap yourself around him, pushing your face into his neck as he stands, both hands under your ass and holding you aloft in his arms. Your legs automatically wind around his waist, ankles locking together, and he kisses your temple as he starts to walk through the apartment towards the bedroom. Forehead against his throat, you lift your jaw, returning his kiss, pressing yours against his pulse.

He sets you gently on the bed, your eyes slipping completely shut once more as he pulls the sheets back and tucks you under them. You feel him slide in beside you, and you gravitate towards him automatically, your head finding it’s rightful place on his chest, one leg hooked around his knee.

“Goodnight, sweetheart,” he hums, mouth against the crown of your head.

If he says anything else, you don’t hear it, falling deeply into dreamland, lulled to sleep by the lullaby that is Matt Murdock.

—————

I have a taglist! if you’d like to be tagged in future works, please fill out this form!💕

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[loonylupinn]

imagine remus teaching you how to kiss 😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫

okay okay okay this is so hot

remus was your first boyfriend. it was glaringly obvious with thr way you shied away from his touches or got embarrassed at his flirty words.

remus never held that against you though. there was something he loved about being your supposed first anything.

'supposed' only because he wanted to take things at your pace.

he had taken you to an old theatre to watch a reshowing of breakfast at tiffany's, content to watch you watch the movie.

you sigh dreamily when holly finds cat just before the kiss, leaning into remus unconsciously.

remus watches curiously, then he realises, this is the kiss in the rain that immortalised all others.

"we should do that." he says softly and your head whips to him.

"star in a movie?" you ask coyly and remus laughs.

"i think we'd be too good for the silver screen honestly," he says seriously, combing back a couple loose strands of your hair. "we should kiss in the rain."

you bite your lip shyly, leaning even further into remus to whisper, "i haven't kissed anyone."

remus doesn't miss a beat as he cups your jaw and says, "doesn't matter. you've got the best lips for it."

he's such a flirt, but you love it. "you have to teach me." you mumble even softer than the first confession.

remus just nods, his eyes flicking from yours to your lips. his heart hammers in his chest as he watches your pupils dilate and go almost black.

your breaths come out harsh and deep, eyes flickering all over remus' face as he leans in. "m'gonna kiss you bun."

you nod slowly as he pulls you closer. his lips just press against yours for a couple seconds before he's parting his lips and licking across the seam of your lips.

his tongue explores your mouth slowly, his hand guiding you easily through the kiss. he pulls away nipping at your bottom lip, and smiles when you gasp in breaths of air.

"good?" his nose brushes yours and he wants to lean in for another kiss so bad.

"better than theirs." you confirm and remus laughs softly. "was your theory correct? do i have the best lips for it?"

he kisses you again.

[loonylupinn]

FF: Soft!dom Remus legit just praising you sm as he fucks you. Omg. I can’t. I have such a praise kink when it comes to Remmy<3

Btw you have a fucking TALENT with writing. Like someone needs to nominate you for a Nobel piece prize or SOMETHING

freaky fridays

ajsjsksksj you're the fucking sweetest ily ily ily

softdom!remus knows exactly how to get you do to what he wants. he knows what words will leave you soft and pliant, with glossy eyes and not a single thought behind them. he doesn't need to be mean, or even raise his voice. he simply goes "where's my good girl? she wouldn't act like this" or "let me know when my good girl is ready to come back". and when you do, because you always do, he showers you with all the praise you deserve and more, his love for you pouring out of him in overwhelming amounts.

"there she is, missed my sweet girl" "you're so good, dove, always so good. c'mere, bunny, let me make you feel good" and he coos down at your weepy face as he pulls orgasm after orgasm out of you until your mind is blank and you can only babble on as you look up at him with stars in your eyes. "you can take some more can't you, darling?" your clumsy nod is all he needs before he smiles sweetly and presses a wet kiss to your trembling lips "good girl"