#Sensory Haven:

[salisburyautisticcarerealestate]

Salisbury Autistic Care - The Sensory Haven Future Homes for Autistic People

Salisbury Autistic Care: Creating Inclusive Communities for Individuals on the Autism Spectrum is putting its best foot forward by designing homes best suited for autistic individuals. Efforts are made to provide an environment where those on the autism spectrum can thrive and feel at ease.

In this discussion, we'll explore how Salisbury's real estate sector is designing homes with the latest innovations that prioritize the safety concerns of these individuals.

Let's discover together how the latest innovative homes are reshaping the landscape of inclusive living.

Smart Home Technology: Real estate is focusing on installing homes with smart home devices that can be controlled remotely or automated to perform tasks autonomously. It includes devices like voice-activated assistants (like Amazon Alexa or Google Home), smart thermostats, lighting systems, and security cameras that can greatly improve the autonomy and comfort of individuals with autism. These technologies can be programmed to adjust environmental factors according to the individual's preferences, providing a sense of control and reducing sensory overload.

Communication Apps and Devices: Many autistic people face trouble in communication. However, integrating communication apps and devices within the property can facilitate effective communication. It will help them by assisting in conveying their message to their caregivers. These may include augmentative and alternative communication (AAC) apps, picture exchange communication systems (PECS), or specialized devices that support speech output.

Safety and Monitoring Solutions: Autistic individuals are not much aware of their safety in the surrounding environment. As a result, they may unintentionally engage in behaviors that could put their well-being at risk. Technology can play a crucial role in ensuring their safety. GPS tracking devices, door alarms, and wearable sensors can alert caregivers if a resident leaves the property or enters restricted areas, allowing for timely intervention. Additionally, smart locks and security systems can enhance overall safety within the property.

Sensory Regulation Tools: Many individuals with autism are sensitive to sensory stimuli. The real estate must focus on designing calming sensory rooms with soft lighting, comfortable seating, tactile objects, soothing music or sounds, and visual projections. Interactive projections or immersive virtual reality experiences can provide engaging and customizable sensory experiences, allowing individuals with autism to explore different sensory inputs in a controlled and therapeutic environment.

Data Collection and Analysis: Homes installed with smart sensors can help in tracking daily behavior patterns like sleep patterns, activity levels, or emotional states, providing valuable insights about the individual. This information can be used to create personalized care plans and interventions.

Educational and Therapeutic Resources: Integrating educational and therapeutic resources within autism care properties empowers residents to engage in meaningful activities and skill-building exercises that support their development and enhance their quality of life. Smart home technology helps them to have access to educational and therapeutic sessions that promote learning, growth, and self-confidence for individuals with autism.

Conclusion

Through these advancements, Salisbury Autistic Care — Most Desirable Areas to Live in is not only addressing the unique needs and challenges faced by autistic individuals but also trying to create surroundings where they can feel safe and comfortable. By prioritizing safety, communication, sensory comfort, and personalized support, these homes are reshaping the landscape of inclusive living and setting a new standard for the integration of technology and compassion in real estate development.

[nacho475]

“A relaxation room I built in the storage closet at work I put up some LED lights and I like to rest in here and hang out during my break I suffer from hypersensitive hearing and other sensory issues I am also nervous around other people and have bad anxiety that I take medication for, my boss and my coworker know this it’s my favorite room to hang out in with Cloud whenever I get my work done and whenever I’m taking a break. I did the art behind me by the way and I am asleep on the photo.”❤️

[raointean]

@all-of-arda-is-autistic

I didn't use any particular prompt for this one, but it's mostly about nice sensory input and water.

Fun fact! While scientists (to the best of my knowledge) still don't know what CAUSES autism, they generally agree that there's a genetic component. So, if you are autistic, your child has a higher chance of being autistic too!

"Nana, Nana!" Elwing attempted to bat away the tiny things pushing her towards wakefulness, but they persisted. She had been having a wonderful dream about floating on the ocean, blissfully alone.

"Nana!" At last, she awoke enough to recognize the voice of her tiny son… and his frantic tone. She shot up from her cot and immediately had to grab onto its sides so as not to be thrown to the floor. Rain drummed on the wooden roof and the whole house was... swaying? Oh. Sirion must have flooded again. It seemed that her dream had not been entirely fabricated after all.

The water had clearly already risen beyond the two foot allowance the chains that attached her house to the ground gave. Water was welling up through the floorboards. Her cot was still well above the water level, as was Elrond’s cradle, but Elros's pallet was soaked through. That was probably what had woken him, she determined.

Elwing cursed herself for falling asleep. She had known it was going to storm, but Elrond had been so fussy of late. Elrond, it seemed must have sensed the storm and decided to sleep for once, leaving Elwing unable to stay awake.

Still half asleep, she pointed Elros towards the ladder on the wall. "Go. Up." she grunted.

Elros scurried to do as he was told and Elwing rolled out of bed. She winced as her bare feet met the freezing water. Was she going to have to replace the floorboards again? She hoped not.

She made her way to Elrond’s cradle. He was sleeping peacefully and Elwing was loath to wake him, but wake him she must. She lifted him from the cradle and he started fussing immediately but curiously, he stopped after only a few moments. It was likely due to the storm, Elwing reasoned. That child loved rain and waves more than anything in the world.

She held him close as Elros climbed into the rafters, grateful that he was aging so much faster than his brother. She didn't know why they aged so strangely; she and Eärendil had aged at a pace between men and elves. Her children, however, had seemingly picked a race and mimicked them. They were both four years old and Elros was walking, talking, and beginning to learn his letters. Elrond, on the other hand, was still learning to stand.

At last, Elros reached the rafters and began lowering a bucket. It was wide enough for Elrond to lie down in, but tall enough so he could not flip it over or fall out during the night. When it reached the ground, floating on the now ankle-deep water, she placed her son into it. Grabbing the other end of the rope, Elwing pulled it up, up, up, until it swung just below the rafters. Above her, Elrond squealed in delight.

As soon as he was big enough, she needed to introduce that boy to a swing. She smiled to herself as she tied off the rope, envisioning it. Elros would push him, of course, and Elrond would fill the entire town with his giggles. She wondered if he would hold on to the ropes too tightly, or if he would flap his hands as she herself often did when she became excited.

The water began lapping at her nightdress and she shook herself out of her thoughts. Yes, the floorboards would certainly need to be replaced. Elwing sighed and hauled herself up to the rafters where Elros was crouching over the bucket, playing with his brother.

She scooped him up and laid down in the hammock she had hung after the first time it stormed. Elros squirmed in her arms for a while, but the adrenaline began to wear off and he dropped into a deep sleep.

Elwing began to feel more and more tired herself. The rocking of the waves, the rush of the wind, the drum of the rain, the darkness of the house; all wrapped her in a sweet cocoon of peaceful bliss. It didn't take her long to drop off to sleep.

[craigularjoey]

Feeling a fever coming on im so excited this is the best part of being sick

[enby-catgirl]

so hungry… but the doll clothes need organizing…

[slytherinslut0]

Mattheo Riddle. | We Are Done

Info: Mattheo calls things off during a nasty fight where you were only expressing your concern for his safety, putting an end to your months-long complicated fling. When he inevitably gets hurt and finds himself in the hospital wing as a result of his recklessness, you pay him a little visit, eager to get your revenge.

Word count: 5k

Tags: 18+, SMUT, Toxic Behaviours, Sadism, Masochism, Intense Bloodplay, Restraint, Dom!Reader, Sub!Mattheo, Begging, PIV, Sexual Punishment, Praise Kink, Degradation Kink, Humiliation.

A/N: went all the way to the depths of hell for this one☠️

The journey from the bustling opulence of the Great Hall to the clinical confines of the hospital wing unfolded like a protracted soul-search, nearly forty minutes of introspection that could have singlehandedly redefined the word regret.

A seething turmoil churned within, its intensity drawn solely from the arid kindling of memories involving your ex fling, Mattheo Riddle. Despite the passing week of newfound solitude, the inner maelstrom showed no fucking signs of abating.

The recollection of your fleeting intimate moments swarmed you, a ceaseless loop that played out in the theater of your mind--like an unresolved holodrama with seemingly no fucking end.

His imprint stained every fragment of your life; in the solitude of the shower, mental echoes followed the course of water, little rivers reminding you of the ones tracing intricate paths down his sculpted physique. Within the shared space of the common room, the mental tableau featured his fingers engaging in an intimate ballet, leaving the taste of his lips lingering in your mouth as they ever-so-dominantly stifled your lusty sounds.

And somehow, that wasn't even the worst of it. Oh, not even close. It was during the nocturnal realm that the memories unfolded their cruelest chapters.

In the shroud of night, it transcended beyond the mere visual replay of his figure dominating yours, or the sensory exploration of his hands traversing the curves of your body. It wasn't just the recollection of his teeth sinking into your neck that lingered. No, the intricacies of your mind wove a far, far more nuanced tapestry.

Nighttime summoned forth the vivid recollection of the encompassing warmth emanating from his broad chest, the haven discovered within the embrace of his strong arms, and the fragrant allure of his messy hair, intertwining with the visceral memories of each intimate encounter. His burning gaze that had seared into your consciousness was more than a mere look; it was an indelible mark, haunting the very core of your thoughts with the echoes of shared passion.

These were the nocturnal specters that besieged you behind closed lids, engaging in an unwelcome dance as you wrestled with the elusive embrace of sleep. These very memories, like a relentless blacksmith, stoked the inferno within, leaving behind the most acrid, bitter residue on your tongue--a taste of anguish and betrayal.

The haunting question echoed through the corridors of your thoughts: why had he subjected you to this intimate claiming, an emotional prison woven with shared intensity, only to abruptly extinguish it with the cold finality of three, sad little words.

"We are done."

And thus, even after the amount of passing time, all it took was a single sideways glance exchanged between Pansy and Draco during their spirited debate over impending assignments to inspire the catalyst for your abrupt departure. With a forceful clatter, you slammed down your fork and pushed up from the table, commencing a determined march into the unknown.

Their speculative gazes undoubtedly trailed your abrupt exit, but you paid no heed. The entire school was privy to the fact that you and Mattheo were done, seemingly officially this time--terminated by a colossal spat prior to one of his ludicrous nighttime escapades in the forbidden forest. Mattheo's hospitalization, a testament to the recklessness that marked him and his band of fools, left him nursing scratches, cuts, bruises, and a sizable gash on his lower abdomen.

Pansy's calls faded into the periphery as you strode away, your indifference resonating louder than any response could convey. The world around you blurred into inconsequential background noise, drowned out by the burgeoning tangle of spite that commandeered your thoughts. Initially relegated to the forefront, this resentment had now metastasized, occupying every crevice of your headspace.

The recollection of his outburst haunted you, a violent reaction triggered by your attempt to dissuade him from venturing into the forbidden forest. Advising caution, you found yourself confronted with accusations of control and a stifling of his fucking freedom. Hurtful words cascaded from his lips during that argument, culminating before he recklessly endangered himself in the perilous forest. All the moments of vulnerability you shared with him, surrendering yourself without reservation, only to be met with his callousness when you were simply trying to safeguard him.

And as the embers of revenge blazed within, so did the deafening roar for closure. The need to settle the score and the yearning for resolution thrived in the wake of an emotional maelstrom.

‘We are done’ felt insufficient—it couldn't conclude there. You wouldn't fucking allow it.

Approaching the hospital wing doors, a surprising fortitude replaced any expectation of your confidence wilting under the imposing pressure. Strangely, a heightened anger welled within you, as though Mattheo Riddle were the sun, each step forward intensifying the scorching heat enveloping you. With a decisive gesture, you flung the door open, your breath held in suspense as your eyes canvassed the beds. Yet, he remained conspicuously absent, amplifying the frenetic flutter in your heart into an unrestrained whirlwind.

"Miss? May I help you with something?"

You pivoted sharply, eyes ablaze, as if embers sparked from your gaze. "Mr. Riddle. Mattheo. Where is he?"

The nurse swallowed, brows furrowed in confusion, but she cautiously gestured toward the hall, taking a step forward. "We moved him into a private room yesterday. His father requested it. Third door to the left."

Your eyes rolled involuntarily as you turned away,  a silent commentary on the absurdity before you. Suppressing the impulse to scoff required a fucking Herculean effort--of course, his father would demand a private room for him. The bloody entitlement was as predictable as Mattheo's suffocating arrogance.

As your determined march neared its end, you found yourself standing before the designated door, caught in a tumult of fear and fury. Fingers trembled, folding in waves in a futile attempt to expel the excess energy coursing through your veins. This ritual had proved futile throughout the previous week, and it yielded no different results now. A frustrated exhale escaped through your nose as you charged through the doorway, propelled by a relentless surge of emotion.

Mattheo Riddle's vulnerability exceeded all expectations as he lay in his opulent private chamber. Shirtless, his body displayed a cruel artwork of black and blue hues, stretching beyond the healing gash on his abdomen. A chaotic tapestry of scratches adorned his shoulders, arms, neck, and the once flawless canvas of his face, now disrupted by a thin, blistering line over the bridge of his nose. A swallow lodged in your throat as you beheld him, a striking portrait of agony that rendered him almost unrecognizable.

"Why the hell are you here?" He stared at you, expression vacant. "Can't you comprehend simple instructions?"

With a cool, unwavering gaze, you shot back, "And miss the chance to witness your glorious downfall? Not a fucking chance, Riddle."

Mattheo clenched his jaw, exhaling sharply as he adjusted against the sheets. "You're insufferable."

You sneered, advancing with measured steps. "Coming from you, that's a compliment."

Advancing, you scrutinized his form, taking in the mosaic of fresh scars that adorned his skin. Arriving at the bedside, your gaze drifted downward, noting that beneath his waist, he was clad only in boxers. A scant, white sheet was the sole guardian of whatever remained of his dignity.

Mattheo's snarl reverberated in the room. "If you're here to extend your fucking pity, please, spare me."

A sharp retort escaped your lips, your eyes dancing with a hint of amusement. "Oh, I'm not offering pity...though you do present quite the pitiable fucking sight, I'll give you that."

"Then what the fuck do you want?" Mattheo's voice carried an edge, his eyes narrowing with impatience. “I told you, we are done.”

A pregnant pause filled the room as you let his question linger, a mental reel replaying the relentless week of torment he had unleashed upon you. Your gaze lingered on his tousled chocolate curls and once-enticing plush lips, forcing yourself to traverse the memories of months marked by a tumultuous dance between pain and pleasure. The realization hit like a sledgehammer--all those moments, the highs and lows, seemed to have led to an abyss of pure fucking nothingness.

A furrow etched your brow as you looked down at him. "It's unbelievable that I let myself get ensnared into feeling something for you."

"Your feelings were your own choice," he quipped, his head falling back with an air of indifference, eyes drifting to the ceiling. "Don't blame me for your poor judgment."

Your frown etched deeper lines on your face, the surge of anger unmistakable. "Regardless, you still manipulated me like a fucking puppet."

"Amusing how complaints disappeared when you were screaming for more every damn night," he retorted, lids fluttering with evident irritation. "Your anger's just a cover for the fact that you'll have to find a new playmate now...have fun chasing those highs, princess, but I promise you'll only end up disappointed."

Your jaw dropped in disbelief, gaze narrowing into a potent mix of anger and hurt. "You're a real fucking prick, you know that?"

Mattheo regarded you with eyes that seemed to hold nothing but emptiness. His silent response coaxed your hands to curl into tight fists, and your chin to tremble with the pressure of boiling blood. You hadn't come here for him to treat you like a mere specter, to act as if you were invisible, as if you were nothing--something you knew you had never been. And still weren't.

"Answer me," you hissed, your voice shaking with a blend of frustration and desperation.

He remained silent, his gaze an unyielding anchor in the stormy sea of your emotions. The void in his pupils became increasingly maddening, an inscrutable abyss that left you grappling with the uncertainty of what the fuck he was even thinking right now.

"Answer me, Riddle." Your demand sliced through the air, a fervent plea for any sign of acknowledgment.

But he remained stubbornly mute.

Your chest surged with frustration, the world momentarily blurring in your escalating anger. "Say something, damn it!"

It was only when the sting of his skin met the back of your hand, and red streaks of blood marked your knuckles, that you realized you had slapped him, reopening the scab on his cheek. Yet, that wasn't the shocking part--though it certainly played a role--what truly stunned you was the quiet, wanton moan that escaped Mattheo's lips, his lids fluttering while his body tensed against the bed. In awe, you gulped.

And then, a peculiar, wicked force stirred within, a voracious entity feeding on the months of torment he had subjected you to. Something that hungered for more.

So, succumbing to its dark allure, you withdrew your hand and unleashed another sharp, resounding slap across his cheek. Blood painted his face, and Mattheo groaned, fingers clutching at the sheets as his hips thrust into the air, his arousal blatantly revealed beneath the fabric. Spellbound, you observed as he collapsed back onto the mattress, his eyes fluttering open, holding a gaze that teetered between vulnerability and desperation.

Between the conflicted expression in his eyes and the pulsating bulge between his legs, the sinister impulse within you deepened, intertwining with a more primal sensation. One unmistakably identified as pure, unbridled lust.

"You fucking like that, don't you?" You breathed, your lips twisting into a sadistic grin.

"Are you trying to hurt me, princess?" Mattheo's intense gaze focused on you, alternating between his increasing arousal and your exasperated expressions. "You'll have to put in more fucking effort than that..."

"Hm." You hummed, grin widening. "If you insist."

You locked on to Mattheo's gaze, feeling empowered by the way his normally stoic expression was now clouded with a burning need. With a coy smile, you swung your knee onto the hospital bed, letting your skirt ride up around your hips and exposing your panties. His brown eyes lingered between your legs, and you could feel the heat of his gaze against your skin as you climbed over him, straddling his strong thighs. He tensed as his eager cock twitched beneath you, silently begging for more.

The power dynamic between you had shifted so drastically in this moment. Mattheo Riddle, famed for his cunning and ruthlessness, was now completely at your fucking mercy. It was an intoxicating feeling, knowing that you had the power to make him feel truly vulnerable.

"So weak," you spat, a wicked grin spreading across your face as you dipped your hips just enough to skim the head of his cock. The sight of his full-body convulsion was mesmerizing, and the shaky breath that left his lips told you everything you needed to know.

You could tell he was still in pain, but there was something else there too--desperation.

"Poor boy," you murmured, running your fingers down the curves of your own figure, taking pleasure in the sensation of your own heat as you slipped your hand between your thighs, caressing yourself. "This is what you want, isn't it?"

Mattheo's eyes fluttered closed, his mouth falling open in a low groan. It was clear he was entranced by the sight of you touching yourself, and the way your words dripped with sinful seduction only added to his lust.

"Yes," he gritted out through clenched teeth, his hips bucking up to meet yours. "This is what I want."

"Look at you...so fucking needy..." you clucked your tongue and chuckled, extending out your free hand and running it along the wounded flesh of his chest, digging in with a little more force than you'd intended, judging by the groan that left his lips and the blood that split through the scab. "You're such a pathetic mess, Matty...it's almost too easy to control you like this..."

"Go to hell." His jaw tightened, a vein throbbing in his temple as he recognized the truth in your words. "You don't control fuck all."

"Oh, is that right?" you snarled, leaning forward and pushing your hands into his stomach, pressing down on his wound with added force, now. His face twisted in pain, and he let out a strained grunt. "How about now?"

Your heart was thundering with adrenaline, and while you had undoubtedly expected him to be furious at you for causing him harm, as he met your gaze, you saw something else entirely. There was a desperate need in his eyes, a yearning for more of the pain and pleasure that only you could provide. His lips were parted, his breaths coming in short gasps as he struggled to contain the sensations coursing through him. Despite the pain, there was a sense of longing that tugged at your heartstrings, filling you with a powerful desire for more of this intoxicating mixture.

"More," he whispered, his voice low and husky with need, barely above a breath. "Do it again."

"Oh, I don't fucking think so..." you sneered, your cunt clenching involuntarily at his request. But you were determined to make this man suffer. To humiliate him just as bad as he'd humiliated you, time and time again. "If you want something, you’ll have to ask for it nicely…I want to hear you beg for me."

Mattheo grunted again, bucking his hips, trying to grind back despite the pain of his injuries. Finding that impossible, his hands went to your waist, gliding up and down your thighs as he attempted to move you faster along his member, craning his head forward to get a better view. You scowled and smacked him away.

"I don't recall extending an invitation for your touch," you asserted, a glacial edge to your voice. "Why would I want your hands on me? After everything you've fucking done?"

His fingers balled into fists, exhaling when his head fell back against the pillow. You could feel him aching below you, already entirely fucking anxious to get inside of you. But then, he was still, hungry eyes trained on yours as he waited for your prompt.

"That's better," you purred, and found the next words coming out before you'd even thought them. "Good boy."

Your hips moved sinuously against his, a deliberate motion that left him breathless, his fists tensing against the desire to seize hold of your flesh. The surge of power was intoxicating, a heady blend with the fervor of your overwhelming desire and simmering rage. More than ever, your yearning for him to suffer consumed you. With a wicked grin, you lifted your hand to your lips, sensually running your tongue along the length of your crimson-stained fingers, sucking off the remnants of his blood. The sharp note of copper lit up your palate, sending a delightful shiver through your being.

"Mmm...you taste so good." You met his gaze between the long licks of your digits, his taste coating your mouth. "Wanna try?"

Mattheo remained silent, his gaze tracing the movement of your tongue as he moistened his lower lip. You enveloped one of your fingers with your lips, emitting a soft hum as you sensually cleaned it, gliding it in and out with deliberate slowness. Finally, you withdrew it with a wet pop, eyes rolling in dramatic effect.

Mattheo's jaw constricted, the sinews in his forearms taut from the tension in his fists. "Please..."

But you, unfazed, dipped your fingers back into the trail of blood leaking from his gash, adorning your skin with a bold red hue before returning them to your mouth.

"Mm, not good enough, I’m afraid..." you murmured, eyes twinkling with sadistic satisfaction. "You'll have to do much better than that, big boy..."

A growl echoed in Mattheo's throat while he gripped your thighs, pushing you down onto his swollen cock. His own hips thrust up against you, seeking any friction, any pressure at all from your heat. Frowning, you slapped his hand--and to your amazement, he pulled back, averting his gaze.

"These hands of yours are growing quite fucking insolent," you observed with a sly smile. "It's high time we addressed their rude misbehaviour."

A sinister grin etched across your lips as you shifted, smoothly extracting your wand from its thigh strap. With a deft flick, you summoned restraints, securing Mattheo's wrists to the metal headboard. His lips parted, eyes smouldering with desire, pulsating beneath you as the tightness closed around his wrists. Once finished, another few flicks ensured the door was locked, and the room was cloaked in a silencing charm.

"Much better," you said, tossing your wand aside. The gleam in your eye was almost maniacal as you reveled in the exquisite agony you were causing him, feeling a sense of power and control that you had never experienced before. "How's that feel, hm? Ready to utter those pleas for me, Riddle?"

"You're going to regret this, little witch..."  he spat out through gritted teeth, his gaze locked onto yours. "Nothing you could do to me is worse than the fate that awaits you when I get out of here…your days are fucking numbered."

Involuntarily, you clenched at his threat, a sly smirk playing on your lips as you dipped your fingers back into the pool of blood emanating from his wound--and with a decisive move, you seized his jaw with your free hand, thrusting your bloodied fingers past his teeth before he could voice a protest.

"Now isn't the time for your futile threats, Mattheo," you husked, tilting your head. Your fingers pushed forcefully into his throat, emphasizing your point. "Look how fucking pathetic you are...if only your friends could see you now...big tough guy, bound and gagged by his own bitch…it’s beautiful, really."

Abruptly, you withdrew your fingers, leaning back to assess your handiwork. His wrists were securely bound, a vivid red imprint gracing his skin, while his mouth shimmered with the subtle traces of his own blood. It was a tableau of perfection--humiliating yet exquisitely so. The image of him squirming against the taut restraints, his chest rising and falling with each desperate breath, compelled your hand between your legs. Sliding up your skirt, you explored through the delicate lace of your panties, skimming eagerly over your clit.

"Fuck," you murmured, glimpsing his mouth, “you look perfect like this."

This was retribution, and as you teased yourself while admiring the pathetic sight of him, thoughts buzzed with the torment he'd inflicted--the scalding intensity of his erratic behavior, the icy indifference he wielded, treating you with disdain, unfounded accusations of infidelity, and the frigid distance he maintained. The searing resentment flared as you recollected the havoc he'd wreaked upon your life.

It was months of emotional manipulation. A pattern that was impossible to acclimate to. His cycle of hot and cold, the relentless mistreatment, the baseless accusations, and the moments of aloofness, all preceding his inevitable return, pleading for your affection--this was the culmination of his deeds. More than anything, this was the reckoning he deserved.

"Come on, princess..." he muttered, eyes wide and pleading. "For Godrics sake, please...fucking please..."

A grin creeped across your lips, your heart leaping with excitement. You'd finally fucking broke him.

"There we go, Matty...that wasn't so hard, was it?" You purred, inching backwards along the length of his thighs, reaching out to pull the cover from his waist in an excruciatingly slow fashion, exposing his black briefs. "I love hearing you beg for me...you're being such a good boy..."

Mattheo's response came in the form of an exaggerated huff, and his eyes locked onto yours, silently pleading for your touch to alleviate the burning desire between his legs. Your grin expanded, reveling in the palpable tension.

"You want me to fuck you, Matty? Do you think you fucking deserve that?" You cooed as you caressed his erection through the fabric, glaring at him while he jerked and shook from your touch. It was incredible, watching him trying to thrust into your fist, whimpering, head lolling while you sped your ministrations. "Do you think you fucking deserve me?"

His groan reverberated, his body twitching beneath the firm clasp of your fingers. His lids fluttered, and his head arched back in a nearly imperceptible shake of denial.

"You never fucking deserved me, did you?" Your frustration at his silence echoed in the air as you delivered a sharp crack across his face, prompting a gasp from him. "Fucking answer me, Mattheo!"

"No!" he finally hissed, his knuckles whitening as his entire frame tensed. "Fuck! No! I didn’t…”

"That's right, you didn't…” you laughed, shaking your head. The sinful delight coursing through you at his torment was undeniable. "At least you can finally fucking admit it...a tiny step towards what might pass as progress, I suppose."

As Mattheo huffed, not daring to meet your eyes, you sighed, finally feeling as though some of your anger had dissipated. Not by much, but by enough. Granting him the smallest percentage of mercy, you wrapped your fingers around the waistband of his boxers, freeing his needy, throbbing cock--the length of his smooth heat springing back and slapping against his belly, a low groan leaving the depths of his throat as it did.

You clenched at the sight, the pool of heat in your abdomen expanding throughout your entire body now, your mouth practically watering at the mere vision of him. Just when you thought this whole thing couldn't get anymore perfect. Gods, he was undeniably fucking delicious.

"Tell me what you want, Mattheo..." you said, wrapping your fingers around his cock, slicking the bead of precum around the head, twisting your wrist as you stroked him. "Tell me what you need."

His eyelids pressed together in bliss as he panted, the rhythmic movement of his throat visible with each swallow. In the throes of pleasure, he surrendered himself to the intensity of your touch, the heat enveloping him in a cocoon of sensation.

"You..." was his only reply, head snapping back and forth, thighs tensing, cock twitching. "Please-fuck-"

"You like that?" you purred, biting your lip. "You like when I jerk your cock like this? Hm?"

Mattheo's jaw was slack with desire, his voice laced with breathy need, "yes..."

"Yeah?" You purred, tightening your grip, increasing your pace as you stroked him, leaning down slightly to spit on the tip, slicking your saliva along his shaft. "Who else could make you beg, huh? Who the fuck else can make you this fucking hard?"

"Fuck-" he choked, chest rising and falling in shallow bursts, you could tell he was close. "No one-princess-fucking no one..."

"Mhm...that's fucking right, Riddle..." smiling, you threw your head back, your other hand resuming its motion on your clit, teasing yourself as you continued stroking him. "You know you can't fucking live without this...I don't know why you have to make things so goddamn complicated..."

"Fuck," he hissed, sputtering your name, "please, fuck me, please. I fucking need you."

"Shit...you're just spoiling me now," you mewled, your pussy clenching undoubtedly at his words. "Such a good boy...so eager to please me, hm?"

Mattheo released a long, exasperated sigh as you released him, shifting yourself closer. With a swift motion, you shimmied your panties to the side before you aligned his cock with your dripping core--the moan that escaped your throat was deep and lengthy as you sank onto him, feeling every inch of his hard, aching cock stretching you wide, filling you up with ease. Mattheo's body lifted from the bed in response, a sound somewhere between a sob and a scream escaping his chest as you enveloped him to the hilt. Leaning forward, you placed your palms on his stomach, shifting your weight to the heels of your hands as you began to slide up and down his shaft.

"Fuck," you breathed, lids fluttering. "I missed this cock...shit, you feel so good..."

Mattheo's only response was a string of shameless, guttural moans, his eyes rolling to the back of his head as he surrendered to the potent mix of pleasure and pain. His body writhed beneath yours, his abdominals tightening in response to your movements. You panted heavily, bouncing up and down on his cock, taking pleasure in every inch of him slamming deep into your wet, eager pussy.

With each movement, you drove Mattheo wild with desire, listening to his moans grow louder and more intense with each passing moment.

Having control was entirely different--you were able to drag him into you, squeeze him tight with your walls while you slowed your pace, slam down onto him and make him howl. You watched him struggle below you, realizing he was trapped at his peak--and you were happy about it. This. This was close to what he deserved.

"I fucking hate you," you growled, the depth of your emotion evident in every word. "You embedded yourself into every part of my life and now you want to just fucking end things? Just go back to being fucking strangers? Over nothing?" Your voice cracked, the words flowing from your lips without restraint as you continued to ride him, hips moving in an untamed rhythm. "Why do you always fucking do this to me? Fuck-why?..."

Between his deep groans, his shuddering gasps as his wrists fighting their resistance, he managed to shake his head, his noises only growing louder the harder your rode him.

"I...I'm..." the words were forced through barred teeth, his eyes pleading for mercy. "I'm fucking sorry."

"Are you mine, Mattheo?" Your voice was strained with exertion, sweat growing on your forehead. "Were you ever fucking mine? Or was it all just a big game to you?"

"No,” he stammered, almost wincing. "No!"

Unable to resist the intense sensations coursing through you any longer, you brought your fingers back to your clit, setting a frenzied pace as you massaged the stiff nub with the pads of your fingers. You could feel Mattheo pulsing inside you, could feel his overly urgent need to cum, but right now, all that mattered was your own pleasure. As you worked yourself toward climax, your breaths grew ragged, soft moans escaping your lips as your body responded to your own touch. The pressure inside of you was building with each passing moment, urgent and insistent, and you knew that you wouldn't be able to hold off for much longer.

"Say it," you panted, eyes rolling and body trembling as you slammed down on him again and again. "Tell me who you fucking belong to."

"Fuck-fuck..." he grunted, teeth bared, eyes squeezed shut in concentration. "Please, princess...you keep squeezing me like that and I'm going to fucking cum-"

"If you want to cum, you'll fucking say it, Mattheo-" you practically moaned, entire body quivering with excitement. "Fuck-say it..."

A string of whimpers slipped past Mattheo's lips, his fists balled so tight it looked almost painful. "Fuck--you! I'm yours, fuck..."

Every word leaving you was a curse, and between every word was a strangled moan, resonating through your throat as you worked your clit fasting, fucking yourself on his cock harder.

"Gods, Matty, I'm going to cum," you moaned. "I'm going to cum on this thick fucking cock-fuck..."

Without being able to hold off any longer, you shattered, your hips jerking and twitching in an erratic rhythm, free hand digging into the flesh of his chest as you clenched and pulsed around him, forcing another onslaught of pleasured whimpers to leave his throat before he too reached his high--the tight heat of your orgasm sending him over the edge, twitching and thrashing beneath you as you continued riding him through your collective highs, not beginning to slow until the aftershocks began to rumble through you.

And after you stalled, you allowed yourself a moment to regain composure before you wearily eased yourself off him, releasing a prolonged breath--with a cautious movement, you reached over and gathered a sampling of your intertwined cum on the pads of your fingers, briskly bringing them up to his lips.

"Taste what I did to you," you murmured with a smirk, relishing in his groan against your flesh. Methodically, you glided your fingers against his bottom teeth, leisurely pulling them from his mouth. "Tastes good, doesn't it?"

His breaths lingered in the air, an unspoken acknowledgment of his silence, his eyes seemingly unable to leave your form. With deliberate movements, you leaned over, deftly undoing the restraints that bound him. As you meticulously adjusted your appearance back to its usual state, a mask of calm control, your gaze shifted towards the door, a calculated glance.

"May your recovery be swift, Riddle," you uttered with a tone that held a hint of farewell. "Until next time."

[therhythmafterthesummer]

feeling a bit nuts rn

[endykelopaedia]

ya know now that i think about it an autism diagnosis would do a great job at explaining my simultaneous hatred of and obsession with pilled fabric.

[curatedbyondrea]

The Art of Rest: 7 Invitations to Recharge Your Feminine Energy

Ah, rest. The very word evokes a sense of tranquility, a sigh of relief as we sink into a haven of rejuvenation. But in our busy lives, rest can often feel like a luxury we can't afford. Yet, true well-being hinges on this precious practice.

Just like a beautiful flower needs a variety of nurturing elements to bloom, we as women require different kinds of rest to flourish. Let's explore seven invitations to cultivate a deeper sense of rest and radiate your feminine energy from the inside out.

1. The Invitation to Physical Ease: Imagine yourself nestled in cozy blankets, the soft weight of sleep gently cradling your body. Physical rest is the foundation, allowing our muscles to mend and our energy to replenish. Grant yourself the gift of sufficient sleep, gentle stretches, or a warm bath – acts of kindness your body will surely thank you for.

2. The Invitation to Quiet Your Mind: Our thoughts can sometimes feel like a relentless current, pulling us in a million directions. Mental rest is about creating a sanctuary within. Curl up with a calming book, step outside for a mindful walk, or simply allow your breath to be your anchor. As your mind quiets, a sense of peace will naturally wash over you.

3. The Invitation to Sensory Solace: Dim the bright lights, put down the phone, and allow yourself to truly listen to the world around you. Sensory rest is a gentle retreat from the constant stimulation of modern life. Create a calming ambiance with soft music, or step outside and feel the earth beneath your bare feet. Let your senses savor the present moment.

4. The Invitation to Unleash Creativity: Sometimes, the most creative ideas spark when we allow ourselves to simply be. Creative rest isn't about forcing inspiration, but rather letting it flow freely. Engage in activities that bring you joy, like dancing to your favorite music, or simply daydreaming with a cup of tea.

5. The Invitation to Nurture Your Emotions: Just like delicate flowers, our emotions need tending to. Emotional rest is about creating a safe space to process your feelings, whether through journaling, spending time with a trusted friend, or simply allowing yourself to cry. By acknowledging your emotions, you create space for inner peace to blossom.

6. The Invitation to Embrace Solitude: While connection is vital, social rest allows us to fully recharge. Take an afternoon for yourself, curl up with a good book, or simply enjoy the quiet company of your own thoughts. In this solitude, you'll discover a renewed capacity for connection when you return to social spaces.

7. The Invitation to Connect with Something Bigger: Spiritual rest allows us to connect with something that transcends the everyday. This might involve spending time in nature, practicing a form of meditation, or simply reflecting on your values and purpose. By nurturing this connection, you'll find a deeper sense of peace and grounding.

By embracing these invitations to rest, you'll discover a wellspring of renewed energy, a blossoming of creativity, and a radiant inner glow that exemplifies the true essence of feminine energy. Remember, dear friend, rest is not a sign of weakness; it's the foundation for a life overflowing with grace and strength.

[loganhowlettshousewife]

logan howlett x autistic!reader

series masterlist - my masterlist

logan understands you better than anyone else. his senses are enhanced from his mutation, every noise hitting him at a higher intensity than it does anyone else, every scent reaching his olfactory receptors no matter how faint. it doesn’t often bother him, it’s something he’s had to deal with his whole life, but there are certainly times when the world around him can become overwhelming in its intensity.

and so he understands you, when things get to be too much for you. he understands, though not in the same way, how it feels when there are too many separate sounds hitting your ear drums, when certain textures make your skin crawl, when the bright fluorescent lights that most places use make you want to collapse to the ground and cry. he doesn’t blame you for being overwhelmed, doesn’t judge you or treat you as if you’re lesser for it.

it’s impossible to truly understand the feelings of autistic overstimulation without being autistic, but logan’s understanding of it comes as close as possible, and you’re forever grateful for his silent support.

you often wonder how you ended up so lucky, to have someone who understands you the way he does, who never complains when he has to cut a date short for reasons that wouldn’t affect anyone else, who removes you from situations he knows will be difficult for you to deal with.

he’s become a safe haven for you. you don’t need to mask when you’re alone with logan. he told you once that he can tell when you’re masking, that there are hints in your scent that betray your true emotions, and every time you find yourself slipping into that persona he pulls you out of it with a gruff “stop that”.

he helps you take off the clothes that feel scratchy against your skin, redressing you in fabrics that he knows will soothe the angry corners of your mind, the ones that scream in a loud cacophony that even you can’t understand, crying out for relief from something. he turns off the lights in the room, sits with you in the dark, doesn’t speak unless you request his voice. he lays down on top of you - a newer development, since he used to vehemently refuse, worried he’d crush you under the weight of his adamantium skeleton - letting the pressure of his body against yours ground you to the present.

and he’ll never utter the words out loud, never speak them into existence under any circumstance, but it helps him too.

it’s been a long time since he’s been allowed to exist in silence like this, and he realises that he likes it when the world isn’t a jarring mess of noises and sights and scents around him. it’s nice to be able to focus on a single feeling rather than continuously compartmentalise the myriad of sensory information being thrown at him. you’ve helped him realise that it’s okay to take time for himself when his brain starts to feel fuzzy and raw and wrong, when the world becomes too much to handle.

he’s not good at being vulnerable, not good at being gentle. he’s rough and gruff and violent, a man born of blood and loss. but the more time he spends with you, the more he realises that perhaps his temper isn’t an inherent facet of his personality the way he’d always assumed, but rather a response to how uncomfortable he always feels, a response to the overstimulation constantly brimming inside him, an outlet for the buzzing under his skin.

he has words now for things he never understood before, concepts floating around in his brain. you’ve changed his life, taught him new things about himself at the old age of 200, when he thought he was surely stuck in his ways, broken beyond repair, an unfortunate mistake.

he’s far from perfect, knows it as surely as he knows his own name. but this, taking care of you, making sure no one bothers you while you come down, overstimulation going from a twenty to a ten to a five, until you can breath again without feeling like your chest is collapsing on itself? this is something he can do.

this, he will always do.

diversity december taglist: @raeinyourdreams @meetmypointlessaddiction @chubbyhedgehog @yxtkiwiyxt @isepod @dis-plus-fanfic-reblog-writes

autistic!reader taglist: @thegothempress

[laswells-ashtray]

The fun thing about taking a childcare course in college is that now I'm going to tell you the 141's key features of attachment when they were children/toddlers and you can't stop me.

If you've seen any of my Price-posting then you know I think his parental situation consisted of a dead mother and a drunk father who was heavy handed with a belt, this stands.

John's key feature of attachment when he was just a little toddler was safe haven, returning to dad when he was upset even if the man had drunk himself into unconsciousness. But the lack of conscious interaction did nothing to soothe his distress or anxieties, so in the long run, it resulted in an ignorance towards the man's actions. John couldn't tell you if he entered or left a room because he became so apathetic to his presence and he became reliant on himself for comfort and protection that in his adult years it's why trying to explain his discomfort or anxieties to someone else makes his skin crawl. It's also why he so often acts as a base of security for the other men, spending years self-soothing leads him to try and soothe others the way he never was.

Kyle was without a doubt proximity maintenance, didn't matter if it was Mum or Dad. He wouldn't need to be clinging to them but if his Mum was in the living room and then moved to the kitchen then he carry his blocks through to the kitchen table so he could play while she was near. If Dad was out in the garden fixing up his older brother's bike then Kyle had his toy cars and was playing with them on the steps just a few feet away.

He didn't need their attention at every second but he needed the comfort of knowing they were nearby. He has a great relationship with both of his parents, on the worst of days he'll go home and sit in the kitchen while his mother cooks and they'll talk. She doesn't want his help because God, if he isn't fucking useless with anything other than a pot noodle but she'll let him sit there for as long as he needs and they'll just chat about whatever.

Simon's was secure base. If little toddler Simon Riley was exploring a new environment then he needed Mum somewhere in the general vicinity so he could return back to her every 10 minutes or so to stop the experience from becoming overwhelming.

Only, we all know what his childhood was like. And my perception of it is that his mother's mind was elsewhere, her priority was ensuring Simon didn't do anything to anger his father. So, it resulted in almost a disinterest, the less she cares about what the little one is babbling on about then the less likely he is to get enthusiastic and subsequently loud, which would upset his dad. And the lack of interest or comfort she provided led to Simon approaching new environments with an uncharacteristic disinterest for a child of his age, he wouldn't explore or participate in any of the same sensory seeking activities as other children his age. He'd just sit there on his own and glance around with a blank look. In later years he'd struggle to form good relationships with people because of his perceived disinterest, he'd never be enthusiastic about anything. Eventually, he'd learn how to express himself in a way that doesn't make him embarrassed but also can't be mistaken as a lack of care.

Johnny is without a doubt separation distress. Take him away from his Mammy and see what fucking happens. If Mrs MacTavish is cooking then he's standing by her side and holding on to the edge of her cardigan. And when she realises she's three seconds away from tripping over him then he's sitting on the counter and her cardigan is draped over his shoulders as he babbles away at her.

He has a good relationship with his dad too, mind you. His dad never took it personally but Mr MacTavish knows that when Johnny Boy comes home after being away for months, he's heading straight to his Mum to give her a hug. He keeps one of her old scarves at the bottom of his bag and switches it out whenever he goes home not because he can't live without it but he sleeps a little easier knowing that it's there. If there's anyone in his life whose opinion he cares about it's Mum, if he's going to get a new tattoo then he'll ask her opinion on it first and if she has suggestions then you bet your arse that he's adjusting it accordingly. He can go months without talking to her but no force on earth can stop him from being a Mammy's boy.

[farfromstrange]

Sub!matt idea. Sensory deprivation.

It can be common as a way of control, heighten the experiance or even to help calm and sooth to blindfold your partner and make them rely on other senses. But for Matt he already has this to the extreme which can be distracting able to hear three blocks away when all he wants to focus on is you his world in this moment.

After a day of honestly tiring input he just asks for you to take over he somtimes does that wanting someone else to control him for a while and he trusts you. And trusts you enough to fuck you with his hearing either gone or reduced only able to feel, smell and taste you which is more then enough. Esspecially when you focus on the touch lavishing his body with sensory your hands never off him roaming, soothing holding. Your lips almost always on him kissing, sucking biting anything to elicit the sweet groans of him. He keeps a hand on your chest or throat not controlling but to be able to sense your rumbling groans and soft sighs feel the uptick in your heart rate as he focuses on you and only you

I am SO sorry that this took so long! And when I finally started writing it, I got carried away, so it took me two whole days to finish. But I wanted it to be good enough after I left you hanging.

On that note, your smutty thoughts make me feral!! Not gonna lie, I sat in my lecture the other day and I couldn't stop thinking about this, which is why this turned out to be over 4k words. On this page, we celebrate sub!Matt and all that comes with him!

Thank you so much for your request, and I hope I could do it justice <3

Sensory Deprivation | Matt Murdock x afab!Reader

Masterlist

Pairing: Matt Murdock x afab!Reader

Summary: The world tends to get a bit loud, but thankfully, you're there to help Matt focus.

Warnings: SMUT (18+ MINORS DNI), sub!Matt, use of "good boy", oral m!receiving, swallowing, use of earplugs (sensory deprivation), Matt's catholic guilt, slight blasphemy, (almost) coming untouched, mention & use of safe word/action

Word Count: 4.4k

A/n: I'm so horny for this man, I can't function. Also, even though I did proofread this, I'm not sure if I missed any mistakes. My brain doesn't function as well as it used to. I'm sorry in advance.

More than anyone in this world, Matt believes he has to function, always, and without exceptions. He believes that he has to be useful, always doing something and never resting. His heightened senses make it impossible for him to turn his back on even the most minuscule cases of injustice, and he still beats himself up time and time again because he can’t be everywhere at once. He hears everything, smells everything, and feels the despair in the air, but in the end, he can’t take on the weight of the world all by himself. 

Ever since he met you, you have become his reprieve. You’re the haven he returns home to when everything gets just a little too much. When his senses are flooded and his heart is heavy. He crawls to you when he’s wounded, and he would crawl to you if he only had a few more minutes to live. You’re the first person he thinks of when he wakes up, and the last person he thinks of when he goes to sleep at night, preferably holding you in his arms to make sure that you won’t slip away from him. In you, he has found someone who would never judge him for who he is. Someone who will always stand by his side proudly, and someone who will hold him when he’s at his weakest. And he has been hanging off the edge of his breaking point for quite some time, holding on for dear life.

You can tell Matt must have had an awful day from the second the key turns in the lock to your shared apartment. His feet drag over the wooden floorboards as he makes his way inside. You look up from your book. 

Matt takes a deep breath, dropping his bag by the door. His shoulders are tense. He folds his cane, places it aside, and removes the red glasses you’ve grown to love—but you don’t nearly love them as much as his beautiful brown eyes, the green specks so distinctive, you could recognize them anywhere.

“Rough day?” you ask. 

He opens the first button of his dress shirt with shaky fingers. “Yeah. I don’t wanna talk about it,” he says. 

He hasn’t said hi to you like he usually would. Tonight seems to be one of those nights again. You know Matt well enough to pick up on the subtle clues in his behavior. He’s overwhelmed, possibly even anxious, and the weight he always carries on his shoulders is threatening to crush him. He’s walking a very thin tightrope, and he’s about to fall off. 

You place your book on the coffee table and straighten up. He rounds the couch you’re sitting on, his unfocused eyes searching for you. Your heartbeat resonates in his ears. Your breathing is regular. You’re calm. You’re his rock. You won’t let him drown, no matter how strong the current is that is dragging him down. 

Raising your eyebrows, you look up at him when he stops right in front of you. “No hello kiss?” you dare to ask. It’s a soft question, a little teasing, but he knows you mean well. 

Matt shakes his head. As soon as he breathes you in, he’s done for. His brain cells fry on the electric chair of his mind. His heart starts beating up to his throat. You’re so close yet so far away. You smell incredible; you must have showered after work, and then you sat down with your favorite tea and read your favorite book while waiting for him so you could have dinner together. You’re so considerate, you even used his scentless soap so all he would be able to smell is your natural scent. You consume him. The city moves into the background, and the bricks are about to fall off his shoulders. He’s close to collapsing, falling on his knees and begging you to take control to just make him forget, but he isn’t quite there yet.

A car honks in the distance. The night is calling for him. His hand clenches into a fist at his side while the other rests flat against his thigh. 

You slowly rise from your position. “Matthew,” you breathe his name like a siren. “What do you need?”

He sniffs. His fingers twitch. He has to go out, but he can’t. You envelop him in a bubble, and it makes him feel like he isn’t alone. Like he isn’t trapped. Like he can finally let go after holding on for so long. 

“Talk to me,” you say. 

His tongue darts out to wet his bottom lip. “There was so much noise,” Matt whispers back. “I couldn’t… I couldn’t focus. I’m trying to stay in control, but I can’t focus, and—” He breaks off into a shaky sigh. 

You chase his eyes; they’re glossed over. You reach out to tilt his chin in your direction. His eyes flutter closed. A stray tear slips down his cheek. It’s a tear stemming from months of exhaustion, physical pain, and emotional turmoil. He tried to push through, but he’s arrived at a point of no return. He’s breaking, and you’re the only one capable of catching him. 

After another deep breath, Matt’s eyes open again. “You’re here,” his voice is still barely above a whisper, but the smile that starts to grow on his lips speaks the language of relief. 

“I’m always here,” you answer. 

“You keep me sane.”

“I know.”

“I’m sorry I’ve been distant.”

“I also know that, but it doesn’t matter. I know how hard it is for you. If you need to be distant for a while and then blow off some steam, I’m okay with it.”

He shudders when your fingers brush his cheek. The faint bruise underneath his eye has turned green. You trace the injury with gentle fingertips. 

“What did I do to deserve you?” he says. 

You smile back at him, knowing he can feel it, and you guide him toward your face. “You exist,” you tell him. “That’s enough for you to deserve me.”

His nose brushes against yours, but before his lips can meet yours, he stops. He inhales your scent. He feels your pulse under his fingers from where he’s wrapped them around your wrist. Your skin feels so soft against his. He’s no longer on fire. The world is no longer on fire. He can let go. He wants to know that it’s okay to let go, but the voice in his head is telling him to stop. The crossroads he finds himself at won’t let him leave in the direction he wants to go. 

You can feel his inner turmoil. He’s holding back. He always does so. You’ve been together for what feels like forever, and he still doesn’t know how to ask for what he wants. What he needs. What he deserves. You told him to be primal when he needs to be. You told him to admit when you need to take over. He never does it out of his own free will. He waits until you force him into submission. 

Tonight should be the night he finally tells you. Matt needs to learn that his needs matter just as much as yours. His catholicism can go to hell for all you care. 

“I need—” He swallows. “I-I need t—”

“Go ahead,” you urge him. 

“Ugh,” the sound resembles a broken growl. And then, the barriers finally break. “I need you to take over,” he begs. “I need you to help me breathe again, sweetheart. Please. I need you.”

God, he sounds so wrecked. 

“You want me to take control?” you ask to clarify. 

He nods. “Yes.”

“Okay. Good boy. I can do that.”

Matt’s lips part in a weak whimper in response to your praise. Calling him a ‘good boy’ always has the same welcome effect. You don’t even have to look down to know that his cock is slowly swelling in his slacks. 

All the blood has rushed from his head and his beautiful rosy, stubbly cheeks to his groin. It doesn’t take much to turn him on, especially not in his current state—especially not if it’s you.

Hearing him admit that he needs you like this makes you feel a myriad of emotions. You want to take care of him, you want to love him, and you want to give him a moment of peace amongst the constant chaos, but there is also something so arousingly erotic about the way he begs for you to take control that makes your thighs clench. 

Often enough, he is the one taking care of you. Matt is a giver, not a taker. He always puts you first, but on some days, he just can’t bear it anymore. And you couldn’t possibly ask him to take charge in bed in his current state. It would break him. He’s a vulnerable man, whether he likes to admit it or not, and he can be as fragile as an ancient vase. You have to handle him with care on those days, which is all you intend to do as you guide him to your shared bedroom. 

You gently urge him to sit down on the bed. “Do you trust me?” you ask. 

His unfocused eyes flick from one side to the other. “Always,” he breathes out. 

“Good. Lie back for me. I’m going to take such good care of you, I promise.”

He would never doubt that. 

You climb into his lap, and finally, you kiss him. His lips part slightly in a desperate groan. Before he can slide his tongue into your mouth though, you pull away. His grabby hands are already resting on your hips, wandering, and wandering, and…

“Nuh-uh,” you tell him, taking hold of his calloused fingers and placing them on your upper thighs. “Patience, baby.”

“Please,” Matt begs. You love it when he begs. He’s completely putty in your hands. You could tell him to get on his knees and pray, and he would, no matter how blasphemous it may be. 

He’s holding onto you for dear life. You place his hand against the left side of your chest, allowing him to feel your heartbeat. He isn’t leaving you cold. He never does. Alone the sight of him is enough to make your thighs clench with need, but straddling him, you can’t get the friction you need. 

You reach for the nightstand to your right, opening the drawer. You know exactly what he needs. “Turn your head for me,” you murmur. 

Matt follows your instructions without questioning them. Finally finding what you were looking for, you retrieve the earplugs from the bedside drawer. This isn’t the first time you have used them on him, or he has used them on you. The specific brand renders you almost entirely deaf and renders Matt’s enhanced hearing almost to an entirely normal level.

You gently put the first plug into his left ear, then the other into his right. Before you push it in though, you ask, “Do you remember our safeword?” 

He nods. “Red,” he says. 

“Good boy. And when you can’t speak?”

“Tap your wrist three times.” His lips curl up into a weak smile. “Usually, I’m the one asking you that.” 

“Not tonight, you aren’t. May I put this in now?” You tap the earplug.

He nods again. It’s all the confirmation you need before inserting it, reducing his hearing completely. He lets out a sigh of relief. He closes his eyes, and you know he’s trying not to cry. 

“Are you sure you’re up for this?” you ask, cradling his cheek. His stubble scratches your fingertips, but it’s a welcome pain. 

He can still hear what you’re saying, feel the vibrations in your chest from where his hand is resting, and he smells you so much clearer now that he no longer has to listen to the city screaming at him in the background. Your arousal gets stuck to the tiny hairs in his nose, and he inhales sharply. Every nerve in his body is on fire. 

Matt moans. His tongue darts out, tasting the air. For a moment, he forgets that you just asked for his consent. Everything is so much more intense, yet it isn’t nearly enough. 

“Matthew,” you nudge him. “Talk to me.”

“Yes,” he whispers. At least he thinks he’s whispering. 

You smile, seemingly satisfied with his answer, and then you lean down to kiss him again. This time, you let him push his tongue into your mouth, tasting you, feeling you, and consuming all of you. He wants every ounce of you ingrained in his mind forever. 

His hands slide under your shirt, feeling the warmth of your skin. His focus is on you entirely. You help him take the pesky piece of fabric off, followed by his own. He’s suddenly so hot. 

Your teeth clash when you kiss. His cock is hard as a rock, pressing against his lower abdomen. You can feel it between your thighs. It must be painful for him. 

His kisses trail from your mouth, down your neck. He tastes the salt on your skin. Your pulse jumps as he drags his tongue over the vein. It’s a primal need. He needs to mark you. He needs to taste you, all of you, and make you his for all the world to see. An animalistic growl escapes his lips. His teeth dig into your skin. He nibbles just enough to make you moan, your chest vibrating underneath his hand. Matt doesn’t even hesitate to grab a handful of your breast, tugging at your sensitive nipple until it’s stiff enough to rival his aching cock. 

You throw your head back, your jaw slack, and he uses the newfound space to kiss down to your collarbone. You’re going to be purple and bruised tomorrow, but you don’t care. 

With a demanding grip on his hair that pulls at his scalp and causes him to groan against your shoulder, you push his head toward your chest. He isn’t in control, you are, and you know how much he loves to please you. 

Like a man starving, he sucks your nipple into his mouth. No, it’s not just your nipple. He takes as much as he can into his mouth, his teeth grazing the sensitive nub only momentarily before he moves on to the rest of your silky skin. 

You moan. You have to let him know that you’re enjoying yourself. He feels the sound deep within your chest from where his hand is resting, and the way your breast moves slightly when you moan. Matt only becomes more eager when he feels and smells what he’s doing to you. 

The scent of you is addicting. Your arousal smells slightly sour, sometimes slightly metallic, but most of all, it is you. And when he tastes your essence on the tip of his tongue without even licking at your slick folds because you are simply that wet, it makes him feral with this insanely primal need to have you. 

He wants to spread you out before him and taste you until you’re coming all over his face. Though today, he is too weak to keep you restrained to the mattress. Matt takes what he can get, what you are willing to give him, and he does so eagerly, like the good boy that he wants to be for you. 

With the world silenced, he can focus on you. The way your heart is hammering against your ribcage, right against his palm. The way your chest heaves with every labored breath you take as he sucks and sucks at your breast until your nipple is beyond swollen. He can feel how smooth your skin is, smell the remnants of your body lotion that he sometimes steals so he can smell you everywhere he goes, and the slight sheen of sweat that has started to cover your body from head to toe. And he can smell your arousal so thick in the air, his cock jumps at the mere thought of sinking into your tight walls—of being completely consumed by you, body and soul. He doesn’t need to hear right now, all he needs to do is feel you. 

You know about his desperate urge to please. You know that, even while you’re in charge, he wants nothing more than to make you feel good. Matt is anything but selfish. But his selflessness doesn’t have a place in this bedroom tonight. 

As crazy as his mouth on your breasts is driving you into an oblivion of pure ecstasy, your walls clenching around nothing, you find it in yourself to pull him away. 

With his eyes hooded, he looks so delicious. His cock is still straining against his lower abdomen in his underwear. When you pull him away, his expression reads offense. You can’t help but snicker. 

“Did you think I’d let you make this about me?” you say just loud enough for the sound to reach through the earplugs. 

He exhales. “I was praying,” he says. 

Praying. He is too far gone to realize. There are sides to Matt Murdock you love more than others, and when he becomes blasphemous, it does things to you. This good catholic boy turns into mush when you just touch him, and then you are his God. You’re who he wants to worship, and he would pray to you, worship at the altar of your body, and drink your essence like holy water if it meant being all over you and inside of you. And you take your position very seriously. 

He trusts you. That is not a small feat. He trusts you with his body and soul, and he trusts you with the most vulnerable parts of him, be it in bed or merely a hug after a bad day. You know what he needs, and he trusts you to take care of him. He wouldn’t let just anyone do what you do to him.

“What were you praying for?” you ask him. 

“You,” he whispers. 

“You can have me, but first… focus.”

He told you he was losing focus because the world was far too late, so with the noise reduced, you will help him focus on something other than the world out there. 

“Feel that?” You kiss his mouth, and from there, you move down to his stubbly jaw. “Focus on that. Focus on me.”

Matt sucks in another sharp breath. While one hand still rests on your chest, the other comes to rest around your neck, feeling your pulse, feeling you, and his eyes flutter closed at the feeling of your luscious lips all over him. 

Your kisses trail down his neck. You pay close attention to the sensitive spot behind his ear. He moans. His hips buck upward. He’s so painfully hard, his cock has already started leaking pre-cum into his boxers. 

Each scar, each indentation on his skin that reminds you of all the good he does at the expense of his health, you kiss. You trace your tongue over the healed wounds, feeling the warmth of his skin seep into yours. He’s so sensitive. 

His fingers involuntarily clench around your neck, but you don’t mind. He’s not choking you, he’s simply trying to hold on. You have established a safe word for a reason, after all. He can get carried away the same way you can get carried away.

You wouldn’t dare push him too far though. Not tonight. Not when he’s already this wrecked underneath you. You purposefully leave his nipples out of the equation and move further down his body. His abs tense under your tender touch. You can’t help but smile. 

And him? Matt feels like he’s floating. He can feel every kiss against his heated skin, your fingertips tracing his scars after you’ve so sensually pressed your mouth against them, and he can feel your every breath as you move downward. Every kiss leaves a series of shivers in its wake. He’s hot, yet he’s cold. He needs more, but at the same time, you are already close to driving him into overstimulation. 

His balls tighten. He can’t believe that the feeling of you is enough to make him want to explode. He knows that if you touch his cock now, he might as well come right then and there. It’s so much more intense like this when he doesn’t get distracted by the world outside. You are his world, and you are all he focuses on. 

You move further down until you reach his boxers. His arm is no longer long enough to keep his hand around your neck, so he moves it into your hair. It’s a silent warning, you suppose because he is close. You only kissed him, and he’s already so close to coming undone. You don’t blame him. He’s been so tense lately. 

You press a kiss to his hip bone before murmuring against his milky skin, “It’s okay.”

Matt whimpers. Your words make their way into his bloodstream. 

You pull his boxers down. The cold air hits his aching tip and the way his back arches makes you almost feel bad. You spit into your hand, but you make sure your palm is warm enough before you reach for his girth. 

The moment you touch him, he’s done for. “Sweetheart, I can’t–” he chokes out, but you shush him by placing your lips against his tip. 

You lick at the salty pre-cum. It tastes like him. You can’t deny that you missed this while he was so distant from you. This is as much for you as it is for him, that is something you can’t deny either. You’re a little selfish tonight. Just a little. 

His words of protest get swallowed by a needy moan, and his fist tightens in your hair. He’s not going to last long. 

Matt is not one to come early. The guilt swallows him faster than you can swallow his cum, which is why he always holds himself back. Tonight though, you won’t let him torture himself for your pleasure. You hate it when he does it. 

“Ugh!” the moan comes from the depths of his chest. “Fucking–God!”

You take him into your throat as far as you can without gagging, and what you can’t take, you wrap your hand around. He’s so thick, and he’s so incredibly big—you can feel the tears forming in your eyes. But God, he is so beautiful with his head thrown back, brown eyes squeezed shut, and that little drop of sweat dripping down his temple. It’s lewd, it’s erotic, and it makes your thighs clench. 

All of his reservations vanish when you take him all in. Your throat is tight, but you’re enthusiastic. Your tongue traces the vein on the underside of his cock, moving back up to the overly sensitive head. Your hands cup his balls. Every time you go down on him, Matt swears he can feel heaven reaching its hand out to him.

He grips your hair a little tighter, his other hand tangling in the sheets. He’s so close. He twitches, painfully so. And when he comes, he instinctively pulls your head upward so you won’t choke. His hot cum spurts down your throat, and you have no choice but to swallow. 

You surprise both yourself and him when you fight against his hand and force yourself down far enough so that your nose brushes the base of his cock, and you gag. 

Your throat is so tight and hot that it drags his orgasm on for eternity. He can hear his blood rushing in his ears. His heart is racing out of his chest as if it has somewhere to be. The fire ripples through him, the inferno turning into a dangerous explosion that tears his nerves apart, putting them back together just to tear them apart again. He feels as though the skin is falling off his very fragile bones, and his muscles collapse in on themselves. 

Matt can’t breathe. When he finally manages to untangle his hands from your hair, he lies there. The blood in his ears is obnoxious. He can’t hear. He can’t see. And suddenly, he can’t even feel anymore. He doesn’t exist. Reality slips away into a moment in time. Now, he’s dying. It feels like he is dying. 

You pull off his cock, catching your breath. His cum trickles down the corner of your mouth. You wipe it away. Pressing a kiss to his hip bone, you look up through your lashes. At first, he looks blissed out, but his expression quickly changes. 

He can’t talk. You take his hand. “Matt,” you coax him. 

Not even his chest is lifting in time to accommodate his heavy breathing. His body is shaking as every ounce of stress falls off his shoulders, and his nerves fall victim to the inferno that is still wreaking havoc inside of him.

He taps your wrist three times. 

“Okay,” you murmur. You quickly climb back up his body. 

“Out,” he manages to tell you, weakly pointing to the earplugs. 

“Okay, baby. I’ve got you. Just breathe.”

You pull the earplugs out as fast as you can. Matt’s arms wrap around you, searching for a lifeline, and he pulls you against him.

“Shhh.” You cradle his head in the crook of your neck. 

You hold him like this for a while. You hold him against you tightly, gently, as if he is the most fragile thing you have ever held. 

Eventually, his breathing returns to normal. His heart starts to slow down. His fingertips no longer dig into your back as desperately as they have before. He’s just content now. 

You press your lips to the crown of his head. “You okay?” you dare to ask. 

Matt takes a moment before he nods. He leans back slightly. “Thank you,” he breathes. 

“For what?”

His lips curl into a tired yet satisfied smile. “For helping me focus.”

You smile back at him. “My pleasure,” you say, and you lean down to capture his lips in a loving kiss. 

“I love you,” he murmurs into the kiss.

“And I love you, Matthew Michael Murdock.”

“Oh, you love me that much, huh?”

You giggle, “Shut up!” before you pull him in for another kiss. 

For now, he needs to catch his breath and pick up the pieces you shattered by giving him this orgasm, but you know that once he does, it is going to be a long night for you. And you won’t be able to find it in yourself to complain. Not that you want to, anyway.

Matt Murdock Smut Tag List: @acharliecoxedfan @gpenguin666 @linamarr @mcugeekposts @itwasthereaminuteago @mattkinsella @norestfortheshelbywicked @yarrystyleeza @littlenerdyravenclaw @etanordoesbullsh1t @thychuvaluswife @harleycao @schneeflocky @imjustcal @pipsqueakkitten @merlinbtch @sya-skies @amberritonicole @ravenclaw617

[wonderlanddreamer]

Eddie Munson x Reader

Summary - The high you get from drugs is nothing compared to the high you get from Eddie Munson.

Warnings - 18+ Only. Drug use. Explicit Sexual Content. Intense Sensory Experiences. Consensual Intimacy Under Influence. MDNI.

Word Count - 3246

The flickering neon lights of Eddie’s makeshift sanctuary in the trailer park cast a kaleidoscope of colours across the room, blending seamlessly with the thin, curling wisps of smoke emanating from the joint loosely held between his fingers. The air was thick with the scent of marijuana, creating a hazy veil that softened the edges of reality. 

The room itself was a dimly lit haven, a cocoon of muted hues and muffled sounds that provided a perfect escape from the relentless, harsh realities of Hawkins. On the walls, vibrant posters of iconic metal bands like Metallica, Iron Maiden, and Judas Priest proudly displayed their rebellious spirit, their edges curling slightly from the humidity and time. Each poster told a story of defiance, passion, and a love for music that transcended the mundane.

Scattered across the room, an eclectic mix of knick-knacks cluttered the shelves, each item seemingly random yet holding a personal significance to Eddie. A worn-out Dungeons & Dragons manual lay open on the table, its pages marked with notes and sketches from countless campaigns. A collection of vintage vinyl records stacked haphazardly in one corner, their covers worn but their contents treasured, added to the room's nostalgic charm.

The centrepiece of Eddie's sanctuary was an old, beat-up leather couch, its cushions sunken in from years of use but still providing a comforting embrace. A faded tapestry hung behind it, depicting a fantastical scene of dragons and wizards, adding to the room's chaotic yet magical ambiance. String lights, intertwined with the neon signs, draped across the ceiling, casting a gentle, almost dreamlike glow over the space.

This sanctuary, though chaotic in appearance, was a testament to Eddie's spirit—a blend of rebellion, creativity, and a longing for something beyond the mundane. Here, amidst the haze and the flickering lights, he could lose himself in his thoughts, music, and dreams, finding solace in the chaos he had come to call home.

"Here," Eddie said, passing the joint to you with a devilish grin, his eyes glinting with a mix of mischief and challenge. The neon lights cast a shifting glow across his face, accentuating the wild, untamed mane of hair that framed his features. He looked every bit the troublemaker everyone warned you about, but there was something undeniably magnetic about him—a whirlwind of rebellious energy that drew you in like a moth to a flame.

You hesitated for a moment, your gaze locking onto his. Those mischievous eyes seemed to see right through you, past the façade you wore for the world. Eddie Munson was trouble, that much was clear, but tonight, trouble felt like exactly what you needed. The weight of reality had been pressing down on you, and the promise of escape, even if just for a few hours, was too tempting to resist.

"Why not," you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper as you took the joint from his hand. The moment it touched your lips, you felt a rush of anticipation. Inhaling deeply, the smoke filled your lungs, spreading a warmth through your chest that was both foreign and exhilarating. You exhaled slowly, watching the wisps of smoke curl and dance in the air before dissipating.

The sensation was immediate, a buzzing in your head that made the world around you soften and blur. The sharp edges of reality dulled, replaced by a comforting haze that seemed to wrap you in a gentle embrace. You sank deeper into the worn-out couch, the fabric rough and frayed under your fingertips, a stark contrast to the softness enveloping your mind.

Eddie chuckled, the sound rich and comforting in the otherwise silent night. It was a laugh that spoke of shared secrets and unspoken understanding. "See? Not so bad, right?" he said, his voice tinged with a playful yet reassuring tone.

"Yeah," you agreed, the words slipping out slower and more languid than you intended. Your mind felt as though it was floating, untethered and free. "Not so bad."

Eddie leaned back, his own head resting against the couch, eyes half-closed in contentment. The room was a symphony of muted colours and sounds, a perfect backdrop for this moment of shared escape. The flickering neon lights continued their dance, casting shifting shadows that seemed to move in time with the music softly playing from an old cassette player in the corner.

Minutes, or maybe hours—time seemed to lose its grip—passed in a blissful blur. The haze of smoke and the gentle hum of a barely audible heavy metal track playing in the background created an ethereal atmosphere, where reality and fantasy intermingled seamlessly, the sense of euphoria lingered, wrapping itself around the two of you like a comforting blanket.

But soon, the effects of the weed hit you harder than you had anticipated. What had started as a gentle buzz of euphoria quickly morphed into an overwhelming sensation that gripped you with surprising intensity. The room, once a comforting cocoon of dim colours and soft sounds, began to distort and spin, as if the very walls were closing in on you.

The neon lights, previously a source of ambient charm, now seemed to take on a life of their own. They pulsed rhythmically, synchronising with the frantic beat of your heart. Each flash of colour felt like a jolt to your senses, amplifying the dizziness that was steadily washing over you. You couldn't latch onto a single coherent idea, each one slipping through your mental grasp like sand through fingers. The warmth that had spread through your chest turned into a heavy weight, pressing down and making it difficult to breathe.

"Eddie," you whispered, your voice trembling and tinged with panic. "I don't feel so good."

Without a moment's hesitation, Eddie was at your side, his carefree demeanour evaporating and replaced by genuine concern. His mischievous grin was gone, replaced by a furrowed brow and earnest eyes. "Hey, hey, it's okay," he said softly, his voice a soothing contrast to the cacophony in your head. "Just breathe."

His presence was grounding, a lifeline in the midst of your spiralling thoughts. Eddie gently placed his hands on your shoulders, guiding you to lie down on the couch. His touch was reassuring, each movement deliberate and careful, as if he were handling something fragile. You focused on the rough calluses on his fingers, a testament to countless hours spent mastering the guitar. The familiarity of it offered a small but significant anchor.

"You're gonna be fine," Eddie assured, his voice steady and calm. "Just close your eyes and breathe with me, okay?"

You did as he said, focusing on the rhythm of his breath. Slowly, the panic subsided, replaced by a comforting warmth that spread from where his hand rested on your arm. You could feel the steady rise and fall of his chest next to you, grounding you in the moment.

"Thank you," you mumbled, your voice still shaky but filled with genuine gratitude. A warm wave of thankfulness washed over you, momentarily easing the remnants of your discomfort. "You're really sweet, you know that?"

Eddie chuckled softly, a sound that seemed to vibrate through the air, making it feel a bit lighter. His eyes, warm and sincere, locked with yours, creating a moment of unspoken understanding. "Don't let that get around," he said with a teasing glint in his eyes, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. "I have a reputation to maintain."

A comfortable silence settled between you, the air thick with unspoken words. Your mind, still hazy, drifted to thoughts of Eddie—the way his eyes sparkled when he laughed, the way he always seemed to know how to make you feel better. You noticed the small scar above his eyebrow, a remnant of a long-forgotten skateboard accident, and the way his smile lines deepened when he was genuinely happy.

Before you knew it, you were leaning in, your lips brushing against his in a tentative kiss. Eddie froze for a moment, surprise flickering in his eyes before he responded, his kiss gentle and slow. His lips were soft, a stark contrast to the rough exterior he often displayed.

"Are you sure about this?" he asked, his voice husky as he pulled back slightly, his forehead resting against yours. His breath was warm against your skin, mingling with the lingering scent of smoke.

You nodded, your heart pounding in your chest. "Yes. I've never been more sure of anything."

With that, the last of the barriers between you crumbled. He took your hand and ledEddie's kisses became more insistent, his hands roving over your body with a mix of urgency and tenderness. 

He guided you to his bed, the sheets rumpled and smelling faintly of his cologne. As you lay back, Eddie's fingers traced intricate, delicate patterns on your skin, each touch sending electrifying shivers down your spine. His hands moved with a slow, deliberate grace, as if he were committing every inch of you to memory. His touch felt electrifying, each caress sending waves of exaggerated pleasure through your heightened senses.

He took his time, his fingertips brushing gently along your arms, then down to your sides, and finally across your back. Time seemed to stretch and warp, each moment lingering as if you were moving in slow motion. The reverence in his touch was palpable, each caress imbued with a depth of feeling that words could scarcely capture. It was as though he was discovering you anew, with an unspoken vow to cherish every moment, every sensation.

“You’re incredible,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion and awe. The words hung in the air, heavy with sincerity. His breath was warm against your ear, sending another wave of shivers cascading through you. “I’ve wanted this for so long.”

His admission was like a key turning in a lock, opening a door to a shared vulnerability that neither of you had dared to breach before. You felt a rush of warmth, a mixture of relief and joy that settled in your chest.

“Me too,” you confessed, your voice barely above a whisper, trembling with the weight of your own emotions. Your fingers found their way to his hair, tangling in the soft, unruly strands. The sensation of his hair slipping through your fingers was a tangible connection that anchored you in the moment. “I just didn’t know how to tell you.”

Though the drugs had you floating, it was Eddie who truly had you soaring. You lay beneath him on his bed, his weight pressing you into the mattress as he clasped your hands above your head. His kisses were tender, his lips trailing down your body and brushing against your skin as he eagerly cast your clothes aside. Your body responded instinctively, arching into his touch, begging for more. You found yourself hyper-focused on the small details, like the texture of his skin the way his breath felt against your neck.

You could hardly think straight, the world around you a blur of colours and sensations. But Eddie, oh Eddie, he was the one clear thing in your mind. Your breath hitched as his lips worked their magic, leaving a trail of fire in their wake. Your fingers intertwined with his, holding on like he was your lifeline. "Eddie..." you whispered, voice trembling with need. Every touch, every kiss, sent shivers down your spine, making your body respond to him instinctively. 

Eddie's eyes met yours, a mix of desire and tenderness reflecting in them. "I've got you," he murmured, his voice a husky promise against your skin. His kisses grew more urgent, yet still so gentle, as if he was savouring every moment, every inch of you. Your breaths came quicker, your body aching for his touch, for the connection that seemed to electrify the air between you.

You felt his hands slide down your sides, taking their time, memorising every curve. The intensity of his gaze made you feel seen, wanted, in a way you had never felt before. Eddie’s hands moved with a careful, deliberate tenderness as he began to remove your clothes. His fingers traced the outline of your collarbone before gently slipping under the fabric of your shirt, lifting it over your head. His eyes never left yours, filled with a mix of desire and deep affection, as he continued to undress you, each piece of clothing falling away to reveal the vulnerability and trust that existed between you.

With practised ease, Eddie then began to remove his own clothes, his eyes locked onto yours, never breaking the connection. He peeled away his shirt, revealing the contours of his chest, and kicked off his jeans with a casual flick. In those brief moments, the space between you seemed to buzz with anticipation of what was to come.

"Eddie, please..." you gasped, your voice barely a whisper as the world narrowed down to just the two of you. He paused, just for a moment, to look into your eyes, his own filled with a mixture of love and raw need. "I need you," you confessed, feeling vulnerable but safe under his gaze.

Eddie's smile was soft, yet filled with a promise. "I'm right here," he reassured, his lips capturing yours once more, sealing the promise with a kiss that left you breathless. His body moved against yours, the world outside disappearing as you surrendered to the intoxicating sensation of his touch.

Eddie's skin pressed against yours as he positioned himself, his tip teasing your entrance. He took the joint from his bedside table and rested it between his lips, taking a long drag before he took it from his mouth and offered it to you, which you accepted eagerly. After you took a drag, he placed the joint in the ashtray beside his bed and let his body sink down on top of yours.

As Eddie's weight settled back on top of you, you exhaled, the smoke curling around his face. Your eyes locked, the connection between you deepening, unspoken words and promises passing in the silence. "Eddie," you whispered, your voice breathless but certain, your heart pounding in sync with his.

A smirk played on his lips, his eyes dark with desire as he positioned himself once more, his tip teasing your entrance, heightening the anticipation. "You’re mine," he murmured, his voice a low growl that sent shivers down your spine. His hands found yours again, fingers intertwining around yours as he pinned your hands above your head.

Eddie's eyes searched yours for any sign of hesitation. Finding none, he entered you with a slow, deliberate thrust, his breath hitching as he felt you envelop him. The initial sensation was a mix of tenderness and intensity, your bodies adjusting to one another in a perfect, intimate dance.

Each subsequent thrust was measured and deep, a rhythm that spoke of both passion and control. Eddie's movements were fluid yet powerful, each one sending waves of pleasure coursing through your body. His hips rolled with a practised grace, driving deeper and harder with every motion.

The room seemed to fade away, leaving only the two of you in this shared moment of ecstasy. Your breaths synchronised, mingling in the air between you, each thrust drawing a soft moan from your lips. Eddie's pace quickened, the intensity building as he pushed you both closer to the edge.

"Oh fuck," you gasped, your voice a mix of plea and gratitude, every touch, one that transcended the physical and touched the very core of your being.

As the pleasure built to an almost unbearable peak, your body trembled beneath Eddie's, every nerve ending alight with anticipation. His hands tightened around yours with possessive urgency, his breath hot and ragged against your lips. Each thrust brought you closer to the edge, the connection between you deepening with every movement.

"Eddie,I’m gonna…" you gasped, your voice filled with desperate need. He responded with a deep, primal groan, his pace quickening ever so slightly, the intensity of the moment swelling around you. You could feel the tension coiling within you, ready to snap, and you knew he was right there with you.

Eddie's rhythm became more urgent, his thrusts faster and deeper, driving you both towards an inevitable, explosive release. The air between you crackled with electricity, every nerve in your body attuned to the mounting pleasure. His breaths came in ragged gasps, mingling with your own, the sounds of your shared ecstasy filling the room.

Your body convulsed, waves of pleasure crashing over you, every muscle tightening and then releasing in an overwhelming rush. Eddie continued to move, drawing out every last bit of your orgasm, his own release following closely behind. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his breath hot and heavy against your skin as he found his own peak, a guttural groan escaping his lips.

For a few moments, the world was a blur of sensation, the two of you lost in the aftermath of your shared pleasure. Slowly, as your breathing steadied and your heart began to calm, Eddie loosened his grip on your hands, his fingers gently tracing patterns on your skin.

He pulled back just enough to look into your eyes, a soft smile playing on his lips. "You okay?" he asked, his voice tender and full of concern. You nodded, a contented smile spreading across your face.

"More than okay," you replied, your voice a soft murmur. Eddie's smile widened, and he leaned in to press a gentle kiss to your forehead.

"Good," he said, his voice a soothing balm in the quiet room. He settled beside you, pulling you into his arms, the warmth and comfort of his embrace a perfect end to the intensity of your shared moment. 

As the moments slipped by, you found yourselves wrapped in each other, the intensity of your earlier passion giving way to a serene, comforting intimacy. Eddie's fingers lazily trailed through your hair, his touch soothing and familiar.

"I'm really glad you're here," he murmured, his voice a soft rumble against your ear. "I mean, I’m always glad when you’re here, but tonight... It feels different. Better."

You smiled, your heart swelling with warmth. "It does," you agreed, your voice barely above a whisper. 

Eddie's lips brushed against your forehead in a tender kiss, his breath warm against your skin. "I guess we both needed a little push," he said with a chuckle, reaching across her to grab the discarded, half smoked joint from the ash tray beside his bed. He rested it between his lips, sparking it to life with a steady inhale.

You shifted closer to him, your head resting on his chest. You could hear the steady beat of his heart, a comforting reminder of the connection you shared. "I always feel safe with you, Eddie," you admitted, your fingers tracing the contours of his chest. "Even when everything else feels out of control."

Eddie's arms tightened around you, his grip possessive yet gentle. "You're safe with me," he promised, his voice filled with sincerity. "Always."

The room was bathed in the soft glow of dawn, the first light of morning filtering through the curtains. The gentle illumination revealed the familiar outlines of Eddie's room—the cluttered desk strewn with scattered notebooks and D&D figurines, the posters of Iron Maiden and Metallica that adorned the walls, and the guitar propped up in the corner. Each detail was a vivid reflection of Eddie himself: chaotic, passionate, and full of life.

[naomeii]

Whdbfisjdbfkekdk

Morax coming from a battle to the nest he built for his mate where fox adeptus!reader and little Xiao are. Just family fluff :)

Prob tomorrow I'll ask some angst-

Familial Bliss.

(a/n : IM SO SORRY FOR SUCH LATE RESPONSE I WAS BUSY WITH MY EXAMS AND PRACTICALS! ;-;;;)

—Pairings: Morax x Adeptus!Reader

Content: Pure family fluff

The air was thick with the scent of victory and the earthy tang of blood as Morax, descended upon the nest he had meticulously built for his mate. The grandiose structure, crafted from sturdy branches and adorned with delicate flowers, stood as a testament to the dedication to his family. His steps were deliberate, heavy with the weight of the battles he had fought, yet there was a softness to his gaze as he approached the entrance.

As he pushed aside the woven vines that served as a makeshift door, the warm glow of the interior revealed a scene of domestic tranquility. Y/n, clad in elegant robes that mirrored the colours of autumn leaves, sat by the hearth, engrossed in a book of ancient tales. Beside her, little Xiao, their child, played with a set of carefully carved wooden figures.

The rustle of Morax's robes caught their attention, and both turned to greet him with smiles that mirrored the flickering flames in the hearth. Y/n set aside her book, and Xiao abandoned his toys to rush into Morax's outstretched arms.

"Papa! You're back!" Xiao exclaimed, his voice a blend of excitement and relief. Morax chuckled, a deep sound that resonated through the nest.

"Yes, my little one. I've returned," Morax replied, lifting Xiao into his arms effortlessly. He pressed a gentle kiss to the top of Xiao's head before turning his attention to his mate.

Y/n approached, grace personified in every step. "Welcome home, my love," she said, her eyes reflecting both concern and relief. "Are you hurt?"

Morax shook his head, a small smile playing on his lips. "I am unscathed, thanks to the protection of the Geo. But I have missed you both dearly."

With a tender embrace, Morax reunited with his family. Xiao, snug in his father's arms, nuzzled against Morax's neck, while Y/n revelled in the familiar warmth of their shared embrace. The scent of the flowers that adorned the nest mingled with the earthy aroma of Morax's presence, creating a sensory haven that spoke of love and safety.

The family settled by the hearth, Morax recounting tales of the battles he had faced, while Y/n and Xiao listened with rapt attention. The flames danced in response to their shared laughter, casting a golden glow upon the scene of familial bliss.

[slytherinslut0]

MATTHEO RIDDLE- Beg For Me

Chapter Twenty Four-Info:you and Mattheo have been butting heads for months, since you were assigned as his tutor, and one day during a session full of tense bickering, he has enough.

Tags: 18+, Dirty Talk, ANGST ANGST ANGST, Kissing, Childhood Trauma, Slight!GunPlay(very slight), More Angst, Sadism, Slight Emotional Manipulation.

Find the rest of the chapters HERE.

Your fingers glided gently across the pages of your open book, tracing the lines of text as if seeking to absorb the knowledge directly into your skin. The ambient hush of the library enveloped you, punctuated only by the soft rustle of pages turning and the occasional murmur of voices in the distance. It was a haven of tranquility, a sanctuary where you could finally turn your thoughts off and allow yourself to get lost within the words of the text.

In this cocoon of silence, you immersed yourself, your eyes traversing the lines on the page with a voracious hunger for understanding. The atmosphere was thick with the scent of old parchment and the subtle aroma of polished wood, creating a sensory symphony that enhanced your focus. But amidst this serenity, an abrupt disruption shattered your concentration. The creak of a chair being pulled out and the faint sound of footsteps approached, heralding an unexpected presence.

Startled, your eyes lifted from the text to find Mattheo seated across from you--his dark, penetrating gaze drilled into yours, his eyes narrowed with a glaring suspicion as he analyzed your features, slowly and cautiously--not daring to speak. The sudden intrusion in such a public setting caught you off guard; a mix of surprise and unease filling your lungs as you blinked, glancing around the room to ensure no attention had been drawn.

It had been two days since the events in the bathroom, two whole days where the conversations were as bland as a piece of raw fucking chicken, and yet, here he was. Without warning. You had no fucking clue what he was doing here, but the look in his eyes told you it wasn't for any particularly pleasant reason.

"When were you planning on informing me about your little friend's new companion, hm?" His voice sliced through the air like a blade, his eyes narrowing with sadism. "I mean...I just happened to stumble upon her leaving my brother's dorm, and I'd highly fucking doubt she was there for a casual browse through his book collection, wouldn't you agree?"

Your eyes widened in shock, nerves flooding through you like an icy tide, freezing your words in your throat. You had been meaning to tell him, but since the two of you had hardly been speaking, it seemingly slipped your mind.

You glanced around the room, as if searching for an escape from the intensity of his gaze, before finally managing to whisper, "Are you fucking serious right now? Why is that any bloody concern of yours?"

"I just find it utterly fascinating," he sneered, his voice dripping with dangerous intent as he leaned over the table, scuffing his chair toward you. "...the intricate web of secrets you weave, Raven...not very Ravenclaw of you, now is it?"

"How is that a secret?" you hissed, your voice laced with both irritation and trepidation. "And why would I care about Emily getting with Tom? I never had any feelings for-"

"Not talking about that," he interrupted, his tone sharp as he cut through your words. "I'm talking about everything, in a far more broad context...all of the willing little lies and deceit...all the ways you've used me, just as much, if not more, than I've used you...you even managed to outwit Tom, which is one hell of an impressive accomplishment all on its own, I'll give you that."

The oxygen in the room vanished, leaving you nearly gasping for breath. "I...outwit Tom?"

"Well, it was only thanks to his blaring review that you landed this mentorship, was it fucking not?..." he scanned your features, his brows pinching in focus. "Every calculated step you've taken, every deceptive move you've made, all orchestrated to extract what you wanted for your bloody career...it truly makes a man wonder..."

His words struck like a cold breeze, sending a chill down your spine as you struggled to process the weight of his insinuations--you were beyond startled by the pace of this conversation, each syllable from his lips landing like a punch to the gut, rendering your mouth mute.

"I..." his words had you reeling, your voice catching in your throat, your confidence shattered by his unsettling revelation. "What the hell are you implying, Mattheo?"

Your throat tightened as you struggled to maintain composure. Swallowing hard, you tried to play it off, squinting at him in an attempt to mask your anxiety. But his penetrating gaze saw through your facades, leaving you defenseless against his piercing scrutiny. Mattheo's movements were deliberate, each shift in his chair calculated to exude an air of intimidation and control. His eyes, sharp and predatory, followed your every reaction as if he were studying his prey before a calculated strike.

"I did some digging on you last night...on your background...what your parents do...since, you know, you clearly had no interest in telling me yourself..." a sinister smile played on his lips, his eyes gleaming with a sadistic satisfaction. His voice lowered to a barely audible murmur, laced with a sense of superiority. "After the night at the lake, after that little spat we had...I just...I just couldn't shake the feeling that there was more to you than met the eye...and boy was I ever fucking right.”

Letting his words sink in, he leaned back in his chair, that sickening grin still plastered across his face. As the realization of his words settled like a heavy stone in your chest, you grew increasingly uncomfortable, acutely aware of the other students nearby. Their presence, though not directly involved, added a layer of unease to the situation.

Leaning across the table, you whispered urgently, "Do you have to do this here?" The words escaped your lips in a hushed plea, your voice strained with the need for privacy and a shred of dignity. "Like at least-"

Mattheo's response was chillingly calm, his grin widening with malicious delight.

"Oh, princess, come on," he purred, his tone a twisted mockery of sweetness. "Why continue to hide the truth? Let them hear what kind of person you really are..."

Your anger surged, the intensity of your emotions making your fingers grip the book tightly as you leaned in closer to him.

"You're a despicable asshole, you know that?" you spat out, your voice edged with pure disdain. "What's your bloody angle here?"

"Never claimed otherwise, did I?" His tone was flat, devoid of any remorse; meeting your words with an infuriating calmness. "Unlike you, I don't pretend to be something I'm not."

Your eyes rolled so forcefully it felt like you were glimpsing the inside of your skull, a groan of frustration clawing at your throat. Of course, he chose this moment--a place where you had to hold back your torrent of emotions, where you couldn't unleash the full force of your anger upon him. He knew exactly what he was bloody doing here, and it was fucking infuriating.

"Enough with the games, Riddle," you snapped, the words escaping through clenched teeth, your patience stretched to its limit. "Stop being a bloody arse and spit it out already."

"Your family history," he said, leaning in so close that your eyes locked in a battle of wills, each glance a dagger threatening to pierce the other's resolve. "It isn't as pristine as one might think...in fact, I'd almost be inclined to say it's the complete fucking opposite."

Your entire body tensed, coiling like a tightly wound spring. There was a pause as you studied his face, trying to decipher exactly what he knew before responding.

"Careful, Mattheo," you retorted, your voice laced with a sharp edge. "Just because you've unearthed a few skeletons doesn't mean you've cleared the whole closet."

"Honestly, Raven, I'm just curious," his grin stretched wider, the atmosphere around him growing denser with an almost palpable tension. "How did you manage to play the part for so long? You certainly had me fooled...even managed to trick the sorting hat into believing your little fucking charade...it's quite impressive, truthfully..."

A knot tightened in the pit of your stomach, every nerve inside you screaming in turmoil. "I...I don't know what you're talking about-"

"Don't even bother," Mattheo's words cut through your feeble denial, and he tilted his head, his intensity thickening the air around you. "I see right fucking through you, now, princess...that innocent act won't work on me anymore..."

His eyes, like burning coals, seared into your skin as if trying to uncover hidden truths. The room seemed to close in around you, amplifying the weight of his accusation.

"Generation after generation of Pureblood fucking Slytherins..." he continued, his voice low and laced with feign exasperation. "And yet, here you are...apparently as Ravenclaw as they come...you've managed to make yourself so damn-near invisible that no one even fucking noticed..."

Your breath hitched, caught in the vice grip of his merciless scrutiny. The truth of his words hung heavily in the air, a damning revelation that sent a shiver down your spine. Your carefully constructed facade, your shield against the world, was crumbling, and Mattheo had managed to find the cracks, leaving you exposed and vulnerable in his piercing gaze.

"I'll admit, I feel rather idiotic for not piecing it together sooner..." he sneered, his tone cutting through the tension like a knife, hands curling into fists atop of the desk. "I guess I was too entranced by your starry-eyed facade to see the cunning Slytherin hiding beneath, even though it was right in front of my face this whole time...your biting sarcasm, your unrelenting ambition, and your overly-eager knack for deceit--classic fucking Slytherin traits, aren't they, Raven?"

Your entire being blazed with a searing heat, a tempest of conflicting emotions threatening to consume you. The urge to throttle him until he fell silent warred with a fierce desire to pull him close and lose yourself in a breathless kiss. How infuriating it was to witness his sharp wit, a talent he wielded effortlessly, yet one he seemed unwilling to apply to his fucking studies.

At your silence, he huffed, glimpsing your lips again. "Not even the stars can change the essence of who you are, princess." He whispered, a hint of mockery in his tone. "Maybe it's about time you were honest with yourself."

Your anger surged like a tidal wave, crashing against the shores of your restraint. In that charged moment, you leaned in closer, as close as you possibly could, your body practically vibrating with intensity. How dare he sit there, smug and superior, acting like he had unraveled the very fabric of your being just because he had dug up a few skeletons from your family's closet?

Sure, your parents weren't paragons of virtue, but their actions don't define you--and that was the very the essence of all this. Every choice you've made, every hardship you've endured, has been a deliberate effort to distance yourself from their toxic legacy. His derisive remarks only fueled the fire, and you practically hurled the words at him, your voice laden with disdain.

"You don't know a single fucking thing about me," you seethed, "all you fucking know is what the inside of my body feels like...don't you dare sit there and act like you've got me all figured out."

Your steps were purposeful as you pushed up and away from the table, leaving him sitting there, his words lingering in the air like a bitter aftertaste. You moved back into the library, the familiar scent of old books surrounding you like a protective barrier, but you knew it wouldn't shield you from the storm that was Mattheo bloody Riddle for long. No, that would be far too fucking easy.

And nothing about your situation with that boy was easy.

As you put your book back on the shelf, you felt his presence behind you, a suffocating weight pressing down on your shoulders as you reluctantly spun back around to face him.

"Why'd you do it, huh?" Mattheo's voice cut through the air like a razor, his narrowed eyes fixed on you as he backed you up against the shelf, his presence overwhelming. "Are you truly that ashamed of who you fucking are?"

"Mattheo," you spat, your fists clenching at your sides, the frustration boiling inside you. "Please, don't push it...if I wanted to tell you about that, I would have..."

"Yeah, you're ashamed," he sneered, dismissing your words with a cynical laugh, confirming his original point. "You're ashamed of where you come from...fuck, I always knew we were alike, but I never knew it'd be this much-"

"What the fuck is this? Some type of elaborate power-play move? Some type of big intimidation act to get me to tell you about my life?..." you snapped, your voice trembling with a mix of anger and pain. "If you wanted to know, why didn't you just ask me? Instead of fucking me every chance you got why didn't you try having a real conversation with me? Try actually opening up to me for once?"

"Even if I did..." he said, dropping his tone into a low whisper. "Would you have told me? You said it yourself that you don't fucking trust me..."

"What do you want to know, Riddle? Huh? You want me to tell you how I grew up in a mansion full of emptiness? How my parents were never around and I was left with my cold, reserved grandmother, who cared more about her fucking butler than me?...or maybe you want to know about how I was raised in a world of expectations, forced to be perfect in every way imaginable, while my parents only bothered to acknowledge my existence when it served their social ambitions..."

You paused, frowning at him, your features a near scowl. "You're sure quick to call me a rich little princess...and sure, maybe you're right, maybe I had all the material things one could ever desire...but it was never enough, could never be enough. Something was always missing, like a void inside me that nothing would ever fucking fill."

Your eyes burned with unshed tears as you continued, the weight of your past bearing down on you. "When my grandmother got sick, it was the only time she actually fucking spoke to me. She told me to be different, to break free from the mold that had plagued my family for decades. I was there with her in her final moments, the first and only fucking time she ever said she loved me. And where were my parents? Absent, as always. They didn't even show up until days after her death, showering me with gifts, as if their mere presence could make up for years of neglect..."

In an unrelenting torrent, words cascaded from your lips, each syllable carrying the burden of years' worth of pent-up emotions. Mattheo's unwavering gaze never strayed, his chest rising and falling in shallow bursts, absorbing every uttered syllable as though he never anticipated such revelations.

"Sure, maybe I was handed whatever I wanted on a silver fucking platter--but I was always alone, and truthfully, that's how I fucking preferred it. I never believed in destiny, Mattheo...the stars never whispered my name, my future...I had to shape my own path, I had to become something of my own...once my grandma passed, I was left with the butler. My parents didn't care about what I did as long as my grades were to their standards. They had no idea I wasn't in Slytherin until my third fucking year..."

You paused, your eyes catching Mattheo's parted lips, a reflection of sheer astonishment. Despite fighting to maintain composure, your voice softened with each breath, your heart pounding in your throat.

"I had to grab my own fate with two hungry hands, pulling and pushing and molding my life into something I could be fucking proud of...and then you came along, with your smart mouth and your fucking effortless charm...and you just...you forced your way right into my bloody heart, tore down my walls like you fucking belonged there." The bitterness in your voice hung in the air, the pain of your past etched into every word, your chest heaving with emotion as Mattheo stood in front of you, speechless. "Yes, I've made mistakes, but they belong entirely to me...and thats precisely what sets us apart, you went through some shit and let it possess you...I chose to fight back."

Trembling fingers betrayed the turmoil within, your entire body quivering in the aftermath of the verbal storm you'd just unleashed upon Mattheo. Only when the deafening silence enveloped you did the weight of your words become palpable.

Unable to endure the silence any longer, you broke eye contact, running a trembling hand through your hair. "I'm so sorry...I didn't mean to trauma dump on you like that, I just-"

"No," he declared, "don't you dare apologize to me...I should be the one apologizing to you."

Mattheo's interruption sliced through the charged air, his voice emerging rasped and strained, as though he had withheld words for years. Swallowing, you met his intense gaze, attempting to decipher the kaleidoscope of emotions swirling within his eyes.

"Don't pity me, Mattheo...I'm well past needing that," you whispered, your figure leaning subtly against the bookshelf, a tangible weariness emanating from your being. "Everything you've ever said was right...two sides of the same coin, the masks, the fact that we're each haunted by our own ghosts. You've always been fucking right. The only misstep was when you claimed you'd be my ruin."

Mattheo arched an eyebrow, bridging the distance between you with a measured step. "And why is that?"

"Because, little did you know, I was already in ruins," you murmured, reaching out to loop your fingers around his belt, pulling him closer. "If anything, you've been my bloody salvation...you did something I wasn't sure I was capable of anymore--you made me feel."

A tangible tension hung in the air as Mattheo's hands gripped your hips with a silent urgency, a fervent plea for your presence.

"As if you're going to fucking say that," he countered, his grip conveying unspoken desires. "As if that's not precisely what you did to me."

"Yeah?" you smirked, your voice a sultry whisper. "And what do I make you feel?"

"Everything, Raven," he cooed, lips grazing sensually over your jawline. "Hate, desire, anger, lust...among other things."

Your breath hitched, suspended in the charged exchange. "Among other--"

Before you could finish, Mattheo cut you off, his lips crashing onto yours in a searing kiss, a palpable surge of desire that eclipsed the need for spoken words. He pressed you against the bookshelf, the wooden solidity of the shelves meeting your back. His hands, with a journey of their own, glided up your sides, their warmth leaving a trail of anticipation. They found their destination on your face, gently cupping it with a possessiveness that made your heart flutter, and you sighed into his mouth, letting your hands rest at his sides.

"Everything about you is so fucking addictive..." Mattheo's confession hung in the air, a declaration punctuated by the heat of his lips tracing a fervent path along your jaw. His hand, a serpentine caress, slithered down your arm, leaving a tingling trail of warmth in its wake. "You are both hellfire and holy water...soft yet strong...and every bloody time I touch you I feel a little less war-torn, like your chaos balances out mine...I just...I have no idea what peace feels like Raven, but I have to imagine it feels a lot like you..."

"Mm...fuck, I've missed you..." a soft sigh escaped your lips as his kisses descended, exploring the landscape of your neck. Your fingers instinctively tightened their grip on his shirt. "Whatever happened to that break you said you wanted..."

"Fuck the break," he growled, desire lacing his voice. His hand ventured boldly behind your head, the other finding a home on your hip, possessive and hungry. "I want you so fucking bad...I want to fuck you right here...right against this fucking shelf...cover your filthy little mouth so no one can hear you fucking moaning for me..."

"Shit..." you mewled, gasping slightly as his hand slid around to grip your ass. "Maybe...if two people can't seem to stay the fuck away from eachother, they aren't meant to be apart, hm?"

"Maybe you're right..." Mattheo purred, nipping at your earlobe as he pressed you back against the shelf. "I've always been a strong man, Raven...but you break me without effort...you are my weakness, the chink in my fucking armour..."

"Your undoing?" you murmured, your fingers tracing over his belt.

He hummed. "Precisely."

"When are you going to open up to me, Mattheo?" You whispered, your voice a fragile murmur as though you were afraid of the answer, slipping your fingers under his belt now, gliding along its path. "Tell me all the bad things you've done...tell me what made you into the weapon you are...you don't need to be afraid...I saw your darkness from the very beginning and I'm still fucking here, aren't I?..."

"Why?" His grip tightened, breath hitching. "Why didn't you run?"

Your lids fluttered, slowly losing yourself in the warmth of his breath against your neck. His scent enveloped you; a familiar, soothing balm to the ache he'd caused with his recent request for a break. The answer formed easily in your heart, though voicing it required vulnerability, more than you'd ever expected to give.

"Because...it was a reflection of mine."

Mattheo's only response was a deep growl that rumbled through the charged space, a primal sound that resonated with desire. Without hesitation, he pulled you back into a hungry kiss, his body pulsating with pent-up energy seeking release. The intensity of the kiss mirrored the raw hunger between you, a magnetic force that defied all notions of any further separation.

As your fingers continued their exploration along his belt, tracing the contours with a teasing caress, you encountered an unexpected sensation--cold, unyielding metal tucked between the leather and his abdomen, its texture rough, and harsh. A chill ran down your spine as confusion slowly crept over you, your eyes fluttering open in slow, tentative blinks, fingers seemingly frozen in place.

Mattheo, lost in the heat of the moment, seemed oblivious to your sudden unease. The kiss deepened, his hunger transferring into the fervency of the embrace. But your focus had shifted, and your trembling fingers tentatively confirmed the nature of the cold object--something metallic, something that should not be there. You gently pulled away from the kiss, your eyes wide with realization, fixated on the metal object now halfway exposed. Dread tightened your chest as your brows pinched, flicking back up to meet his eyes.

"Mattheo," you whispered, the name carrying a weight of urgency, "what is this?"

Mattheo's swallow echoed in the charged silence, his gaze dropping to your hand, his chest still heaving from the passionate kiss. His eyes widened as the weight of your question settled in, a realization dawning on him, as if he had momentarily forgotten about the object concealed within his belt.

"Raven, I-"

He began, but you interrupted, yanking your hand back. "No-what the fuck-"

"Stop," Mattheo commanded, his tone abruptly taking on a harsh edge. With deliberate movements, he pulled up his shirt slightly, revealing more of the mysterious object nestled between his belt. The revelation hung in the air, and Mattheo, eyes now serious, asked a question that carried the weight of the moment: "Do you trust me, Raven?"

Your eyes squinted as a realization crashed over you, the rhythm of your heart shifting into a turbulent drumbeat within your chest. There was absolutely no denying it--that sleek, ominous silhouette spoke volumes. That was a fucking gun.

Frozen in a surreal disbelief, your ability to think, blink, or move was momentarily hijacked. Mattheo's hand surged upward with a suddenness that matched the shock in your eyes, seizing your jaw with a commanding force. His fingers, both firm and urgent, redirected your gaze, forcing you back to the depth of his eyes, which were now darker than the midnight sky.

"Answer me," he demanded, the intensity of his words amplified by the gravity of the situation. "Do you fucking trust me?"

The weight of the question echoed in the charged air. Your mind spun, grappling with the incredulity of the scene unfolding before you. Firearms had been a distant memory, relegated to hunting trips with a Muggle friend back in middle school. Yet, the stark reality of Mattheo possessing a fucking handgun in the heart of Hogwarts shattered any remnants of normalcy, the shockwaves reverberating through your very core.

"I-I-" you stammered.

Mattheo jostled your head in his grip, pulling you closer. "Yes or no question, Raven."

Blinking, you found yourself caught in a tempest of conflicting emotions. The tendrils of trust warred with the unsettling presence of the gun, a contradiction that defied all reason. In the throbbing silence, Mattheo's growl of frustration pierced the air. Relinquishing his grip on your jaw, he seized your wrist, directing it back toward the ominous weapon.

"Take it out," he commanded, his eyes fixed on yours. "Right now, Raven. Take it."

A whimper escaped you, your fingers trembling as they tentatively wrapped around the cold metal. With visible reluctance, you extended it out, pointing the gun down at the floor. Mattheo's grip on your wrist persisted, unyielding, anchoring you in the unsettling reality of the moment.

"I'll ask you one more fucking time," he whispered harshly, the words slicing through the charged air like a razor. His breath, warm against your face, carried an unsettling contrast to the gravity of his demand. "Do you trust me?"

Another desperate whimper slipped past your lips, the nodding of your head an almost frantic plea. "Yes! Please, I trust you. Just take it back-"

Mattheo's reply erupted as a snarl, a guttural growl that echoed with a feral intensity. His features, twisted by a crazed possession, accentuated the mad determination in his eyes as he tightened his grip on your wrist. With an unhinged sense of purpose, he directed it upward, the cold barrel now pressing menacingly against his own temple.

"Pull it," he said stoically, the eerie calmness chilling against the tension. "Pull the trigger."

Your jaw dropped, the brimming tears reflecting the disbelief that swirled in your eyes. "No! What the fu-"

"Do it," he repeated, the calmness persisting. "Go on, baby, pull it."

Sickened and paralyzed by the surreal horror of the moment, you hesitated, the sheer shock of what Mattheo was asking you to do anchoring you in a moment of profound disbelief. Your mind swarmed with recollections of the crazy things you'd done for him before, but this--this was unlike anything you had ever fucking imagined. The weight of the gun in your hand, the gravity of the situation, left your brain reeling as the stark realization of the moment seized hold of your senses.

His frustration, palpable and charged, manifested in another growl. With a menacing determination, he shifted his hand to envelop yours, forcing your finger down, the pressure on the trigger unrelenting.

You heard the click, you felt the click--and yet, nothing happened.

"Fuck..." you choked out, a turbulent blend of relief and confusion seizing your senses in a tumultuous embrace. "What the fuck..."

He blinked, his dark eyes tracing over your lips as he clicked it again. And again. The ensuing silence, pregnant with the surreal gravity of the situation, echoed through the seemingly empty library. Each breath you exhaled became a struggle, the air tinged with the weight of the inexplicable moment, your senses teetering on the edge of unconsciousness.

Then, like a tidal wave crashing over you, the realization struck with breathtaking force. "It's enchanted..."

"About fucking time you caught on." Mattheo nodded, his acknowledgement cutting through the charged air with terse confirmation. He released the hold on your hand, pulling the gun away and casually slipping it back under his belt. "This gun only serves one purpose Raven, and it's never to kill, only to protect..."

Your heart leapt. "Protect what?"

"Doesn't matter," he said, a gentle hand reaching up to brush a strand of hair away from your eyes. “You can trust me, Raven…you can always fucking trust me…”

You exhaled, a long, exasperated breath. “I know, Mattheo…”

“Good girl,” he cooed, a smirk playing on his lips as he stoically reached into his back pocket, as if on a quest for something. "Has Nott popped the question yet?"

Your cheeks flushed. "Yes.."

"Good," he replied, his other hand securing your wrist before he withdrew his busy one, placing a handful of Galleons in your outstretched palm. "Go treat yourself to a dress. Something red, something tight."

As he withdrew his hand, he leaned in, placing a hot, wet kiss on your cheek, smirking from ear to ear as he said. "I've got something I have to do tonight, so I can't stay...but I look forward to respectfully ripping off whichever lovely dress you decide on."

"Respectfully?" you quipped, a playful glint in your eyes. "I'll make sure to pick a dress that demands nothing less than the most dignified removal, then."

"Oh, Raven...I can promise you it'll be the furthest thing from dignified." He snickered, wetting his lips as he took a few steps back, slowly beginning to make his retreat. "See you then."

As he spun around, making his exit, your mind followed suit, a whirlwind of emotions from this entire encounter. Only Mattheo Riddle could master the art of rendering you utterly anxious, furious, emotional, aroused, terrified, and, finally, relieved--all within the span of under an hour. You'd never encountered a man who expertly navigated every one of your buttons and boundaries like he did, yet you couldn't deny the potent influence he held over you.

You couldn't deny that as soon as he left, an insatiable longing for his presence consumed you, an undeniable yearning for his return.

—————————

Chapter 25->

[musicforastylesrestaurant]

Daddy’s New Hair Style.

my masterlist || ask me anything <3

my blurb masterlist is here!

authors note - i actually really like harrys buzz cut era, it makes him look more macho in my opinion 🤷‍♀️

word count - 1.7k

in which, your fiancé returns home one afternoon, shocking both you and your son milo when he appears to be sporting a new hair cut, neither of you seemed to be prepared for.

In the cozy embrace of your London home, you find yourself nestled on the sofa, a soft blanket enveloping you and your precious two-year-old son, Milo.

The room is dimly lit, creating a tranquil ambiance as you cradle him in your arms.

Milo, having fallen asleep while breastfeeding, (his afternoon snack.) radiates an innocent calmness, his tiny breaths rhythmic and soothing.

The gentle hum of a TV show provides a subtle soundtrack to this tender moment. The muted glow from the screen casts a warm illumination on the living room, creating a serene atmosphere.

The characters on the show move through their scripted lives, but your attention is divided between the unfolding drama and the cherubic face of your slumbering child.

A cup of tea, steam curling upwards, rests precariously on the arm of the couch, a momentary escape forgotten in the bliss of maternal connection.

The aroma wafts through the air, adding another layer of comfort to the scene. The liquid within holds the promise of warmth and solace, a silent companion in the quietude of this shared repose.

His tousled hair (much like his fathers.) and cherubic features evoke a sense of wonder and fragility, a reminder of the preciousness of these fleeting moments.

The air is filled with a hushed lullaby, a fusion of Milo's delicate breaths, the ambient sounds of the TV, and the distant chirping of birds outside the window.

The subtle creak of the front door signals your fiancés arrival, and although your back is turned, you instantly recognize the familiar sound.

The atmosphere in the room shifts with anticipation as his footsteps echo through the entrance hall, a symphony of his return. The television's hushed murmur fades into the background, overshadowed by the promise of his presence.

"M’home!" Harry's voice, warm and resonant, fills the air with an infectious energy. Even before laying eyes on him, you can sense the genuine joy in his greeting, a sentiment that bridges the physical gap between you.

As he steps further into the living room, the scent of the outside world clings to him – a mixture of the crisp outdoors and the subtle musk of his cologne. It's a scent that has become synonymous with comfort and familiarity, a sensory reminder of the life you share.

The sound of his keys finding their place on the table, a routine symphony that accompanies his homecoming, adds to the rhythmic cadence of the moment. The soft thud of his jacket being hung up, a tactile cue that he is settling in, marks the transition from the outside world to the intimate haven you've created together.

The shuffle of his footsteps pauses briefly, creating a suspended moment where time seems to hold its breath. In the pregnant silence, you can almost hear the smile in his voice as he calls out again,

"Where's m’favorite people?" The endearment, spoken with a familiarity that comes from shared history, melts away any residual tension in the room.

As you turn to face Harry, a reflexive smile plays on your lips, ready to greet him after the day apart.

However, your expression freezes, and your eyes widen in surprise as they fall upon his head. The shock sets in when you realise that the familiar cascade of curls that once adorned his head has been replaced by a sleek buzz cut.

Your mouth hangs open in astonishment, a reaction born from the unexpected transformation.

Your gaze remains fixed on his shorn head, and a kaleidoscope of emotions dances in your eyes – surprise, confusion, and a touch of nostalgia for the familiar texture of his hair.

Harry, oblivious to your internal turmoil, wears a grin that carries a hint of mischief. His eyes twinkle with the satisfaction of a well-kept secret, and he revels in the delayed reaction playing out on your face.

The silence between you becomes palpable, echoing with the unspoken question of whether you'll recover from the unexpected twist.

Harry settles onto the sofa beside you, a tender smile gracing his face as he observes his slumbering son cradled in your arms. The rhythmic motion of his hand, gently rubbing up and down the little one's back, is a silent lullaby that adds to the serenity of the moment.

The room is hushed, filled only with the soft sounds of your child's breathing and the muffled ambiance from the TV in the background.

As you glance at Harry, your eyes inadvertently catch a glimpse of his newly shorn hair. The sight triggers a wave of emotions within you, and the words that could express your thoughts seem to elude you. Uncertain of how to navigate this uncharted territory, a lump forms in your throat, and an overwhelming surge of emotion finds release through tears.

"M’love, s’wrong?" he inquires gently, his voice a soothing balm.

You glance up at him, your shoulders shrugging in a gesture of uncertainty.

"I just... I miss your curls," you admit, your voice catching slightly as you try to articulate the complex mix of emotions swirling within.

A sympathetic understanding softens Harry's eyes as he takes in your words.

"M’didn't think it would hit y’this hard. S’just hair," he says with a wistful smile, attempting to downplay the significance of the change.

You nod, a half-hearted smile forming on your lips.

"I know, it's just... it's going to take some getting used to," you confess, the vulnerability of the moment hanging in the air.

Without another word, Harry wraps an arm around your shoulders, pulling you into a comforting embrace. His touch is a silent reassurance that transcends words.

"Change can be a bit overwhelming, huh?" he muses, his lips brushing against the top of your head in a gentle kiss.

You nod again, finding solace in the warmth of his embrace.

"Yeah, it's just that your curls were... a part of you. It's like I need to recalibrate my mental image," you explain, your words a hesitant attempt to convey the intricacies of your feelings.

Harry chuckles softly, his hand rubbing soothing circles on your back.

"Fair enough. M’guess I should ‘ave warned y’about t’big reveal," he admits, a playful glint in his eyes.

A light chuckle escapes your lips, and you nuzzle into his shoulder.

"Maybe just a heads-up next time," you suggest, the tension dissipating as humour finds its way into the conversation.

He nods, his hand now gently playing with your hair.

"Got it. And hey, it's still me, curls or no curls," he reassures, his voice a comforting anchor in the midst of change.

Milo, roused by the comforting familiarity of his father's voice, stirs on your lap. His sleepy eyes flutter open, and with a drowsy curiosity, he turns his gaze towards the source of that familiar sound.

Upon seeing Harry, a small, delighted smile graces Milo's face. The connection between father and son transcends words, and with newfound energy, the two-year-old wriggles on your lap. With determination that only a toddler possesses, he begins to crawl off your lap towards his father.

"Ey’ there, little champ," Harry greets, his voice a melodic blend of warmth and affection. He extends his arms, ready to receive Milo into his embrace. The room is now filled with the joyous energy of a family reuniting.

As Milo reaches Harry's waiting arms, the father-son reunion is marked by laughter and the soft patter of little feet against the living room floor.

Harry scoops Milo up, lifting him into the air with playful ease. The room is filled with the infectious laughter of a child delighted by the simple joy of being in his father's arms.

With a gleeful determination, he lifts his small hands, fingers outstretched, ready to engage in his usual ritual of playing with the curls at the back of his father's neck.

However, as his tiny fingers reach the intended destination, there's an unexpected void. Confusion clouds Milo's face, and a puzzled expression replaces the usual delight.

His fingers flitter through the air, searching for the familiar texture that has always greeted him during these tender moments.

When realisation strikes, a small whine escapes Milo's lips, a sound that echoes both disappointment and surprise. The absence of the once-present curls disrupts his routine, and with a spontaneous burst of emotion, he throws his head back, as if in protest against this unforeseen change.

Harry, caught off guard by Milo's reaction, looks down at his son with a mix of amusement and understanding.

He chuckles softly, his hands adjusting to accommodate Milo's newfound exploration.

"No more curls, buddy. Daddy's got a new look," he explains, trying to soothe Milo's evident dismay.

Yet, Milo remains unconvinced, his little face contorted in a blend of confusion and protest. His fingers continue to explore the unfamiliar terrain, perhaps hoping that the missing curls will magically reappear. The room is filled with the comical symphony of a toddler expressing discontent with the capricious nature of change.

His little face scrunches up in contemplation, and then, with the sincerity only a child can muster, he begins to babble excitedly about his own hair.

"Daddy, hair go bye-bye!" Milo exclaims, his words a delightful blend of toddler language and exuberance.

His tiny fingers point to his head, emphasising the absence of what was once there.

Harry, caught off guard by Milo's animated commentary on his own hair, joins in the toddler's excitement.

"S’right, buddy! Daddy got a new haircut. No more curls," he explains, his laughter mirroring the infectious joy radiating from Milo.

As Milo continues his animated monologue, his eyes shift towards you, seeking acknowledgment and perhaps wanting to share his newfound discovery.

With an enthusiastic gesture, he points at his head again and then looks at you as if to say, "See, Mommy?"

You respond with a warm smile, playing along with the adorable sincerity of the moment.

"Daddy looks great, doesn't he?" you chime in, your words laced with affection.

Just as you said those words, a thought immediately popped into your head and you snapped your gaze so it was locked onto your lovers.

“H?”

He hummed from where he was playing with his sons dummy, playfully taking it in and out of his little ones mouth making him laugh hysterically.

When he looked at you for a brief second, you eyebrows were raised.

“Your curls better be back before the wedding.”