Charlie Cox, Master Of The Four Elements

Proud Hufflepuff 💕

leia: so what’s han’s type?

chewie: [brown eyes, kind, oblivious, and has a good sense of leadership]

leia: sounds kind of like me. too bad we’re just friends

chewie: [did i mention oblivious?]

leia: yeah, why?

chewie: [okay, just making sure]

My favorite thing is that "Human Disater Matt Murdock" is a super common tag on both tumblr and ao3.org

But seriously:

He has horrible luck with women

Parkour is his main mode of transportation

He probably only sleeps 2 hours a day

He spends all his money buying his canes in bulk from Costco or some shit

He has a severe lack of self-preservation

He has exactly 2 friends who are tired of his shit 97% of the time

He thinks dumpster diving is appropriate when he has open wounds and the dumpster is filled with all of the types of bacteria known to man

He thinks it's a good idea to repeatedly antagonize Wilson Fisk

It's a wonder this man made it through 3 seasons, goddammit Matthew

STARDUST IS THE PERFECT EXAMPLE AND WE NEED MORE OF THAT

Charlie Cox seriously has massive romcom guy vibes and energy IRL and I think it's a borderline crime that this isn't being utilized well because he's mostly doing serious crime drama and action roles. Like I know he's a stellar dramatic actor but look at the material!

The softness! The cuteness! Gentle but hot, and sexy AND adorable. Rom-com casting directors need to see and get with this vision ASAP!

love is a mixtape

author note: HIIII!!! i think like one person follows me on here and they made a really nice comment about a previous fic i had posted literally months ago, so thank u for that!

that fic didn’t end up working out and i deleted it because i wasn’t happy with the way it was written. uni is way too stressful for me at the moment, and i know i’m only setting myself up for failure by forcing myself to write.

this is something i started a couple nights ago. it hasn’t been proofread by anyone other than me so let me know if there are any errors at all. tysm.

summary: you’ve just started to unpack at matt’s apartment, but moving day get’s interesting when you find an old mixtape boxed up with your books.

warnings: tooth-rotting fluff and domesticity, sexual references, swearing, alcohol consumption.

(around) 2.2k words 

-

“Well, well well. Just look at what we have here.” You chide, turning the old CD over in your hands, the cover in two broken pieces and coated in a thin sheen of dust. The penmanship is thick and wonky, uppercase letters written in smudged black sharpie. You read in an exaggerated accent, “Boston Beats” and hear Matt’s groan from over the kitchen counter.

You’re unpacking the second last box of books and records at his apartment when the familiar disc makes an appearance, reflecting rainbows on the walls as you inspect it for scratches. It was a last-minute gift given to you by the boys when you graduated, and just about the best present anyone could manage to afford while drowning in student loans. 

“I remember paying Foggy in pepperoni pizza just to make that for me. It took him a week, and to this day I still don’t know if he took longer just so I would buy him more food or if the Columbia library computers were actually that slow.” Matt recollected, looking fondly towards you, brain flooding with memories of late nights and shoebox dormitories.

If you squinted hard enough, you could imagine his freshly shaven face and black rectangular sunglasses from college. You would proofread each other’s assignments aloud, bursting with pure joy every time Matt or Foggy got a ninety-something score. The mental picture was enough to make your skin buzz.

“It was a very sweet idea.” The admittance is genuine, and you see Matt’s dimple appear briefly before he turns away and drains the rest of his beer. 

“Eh, it’s the thought that counts.” He dismisses it and reaches into the fridge for another two green bottles, carrying them between his fingers and joining you in the living room. 

Your back is pressed up against the coffee table and you’re sitting criss-cross-apple-sauce on the hardwood floor, at the epicentre of a paperback-vinyl-dust-bunny-explosion. You rummage even further into the box looking for the speaker system that you know you packed. 

Once upon a time, you could recite the tracklist in perfect order, having listened to it religiously for the 6 months you were away interning in Boston. It was the soundtrack for heartbreak, new friends, missed buses and the coldest winter in Massachusetts on record, but holding it in your hand now, those memories couldn’t feel any further away.

“I prohibit you from playing that CD.” Matt is glaring all-knowingly, having fully anticipated your antics. You gasp in mock horror.

“Matt, I don’t think you understand. This is comedy gold that I am holding in my hands.” You plead jokingly. “It’s honestly cute that you think I won’t be playing this on repeat for the next week.” A piece of plastic flies off into the bedroom when you shake the case a little too enthusiastically, and you stand up to put it in the bin before someone (definitely you) steps on it.

“If you truly love me you will never let that mixtape see the light of day ever again.” 

“Don’t you dare use our relationship as an ultimatum Matthew Murdock!”

“What was that? Did you mean an ‘alltomato’?” He quips, referencing your linguistic blunder from just a few months ago, a mistake he often teases you about. 

“Stop making fun of meeeeee.” You protest, covering your head with your arms in embarrassment. “I will not stand for this behaviour. You forget that I have all the power here!” He is reminded once again of the corner you’ve backed him into, eyes rolling up to the roof as he nods his head in understanding. You bend over to pick up the small plastic shard, eyeing it between pointed fingers.

While investigating the jagged edges, your vision refocuses on the unmade bed before you, silk sheets drooping limply over Matt’s side of the mattress (damn blanket hog). It’s not your best plan of attack, and you certainly don’t expect it to work, but a proposal formulates nonetheless. Matt Murdock may be a man of honour, but he is also just that, a man.

“Oh, Matty. I have a suggestion.” You drop the plastic on the bedside table to quite possibly injure yourself on later. The floorboards begin to creek slightly under the weight of your careful footsteps. 

Sneaking up from behind, you tousle his messy hair and slide your hands down the length of both of his arms. Your chin rests on the back of the couch now, lips poised by the side of his head.

“If you give this here ‘Boston Beats’ a chance, I’ll wear the valentines set to bed tonight.” You whisper teasingly, adjusting the hem of his t-shirt, playing ever-so-slightly with the band of his sweatpants. He inhales sharply and catches your wrist with deadly dexterity. 

If dressing up all in silk isn’t reward enough for the ensuing hilarity, you don’t know whether to be surprised or disappointed, for a number of reasons. 

His ‘tch’ing is enough to make you second guess yourself, but within seconds he points an apathetic finger at the last remaining box of clutter from the old apartment. 

“At the very bottom, underneath the wooden jewellery case.” He sinks into the couch. “That’s where you’ll find your CD player.” 

You pinch his cheek lovingly and saunter back towards your pile of junk, wearing the widest smile you can manage.

-

You were seconds away from placing the disc in the tray when Matt interrupted.

“I think I need to set some ground rules first.”

“Always with the lawyer talk.” You hang your head dejectedly but await his demands.

“Number one, we will listen to three songs.” 

“What do you take me for?! A dunce? Five songs. At the least.” He launches a couch cushion over the coffee table. It bounces off your shoulder and knocks awry the classics section of the bookshelf, the area you spent the last thirty minutes organising. Knowing it was only a warning toss, you laugh but quickly cover it up with a gasp.

“Four?” He innocently offers. God, he may as well be pouting his lips and twirling his hair.

“Deal.” 

“Number two, it stays in the trunk- with my suit!- until I decide what to do with it.”  

“It can’t be thrown out! It’s a relic, Matthew. Imagine what Foggy would say if you got rid of his hours of hard work!”

“I’m not going to throw it out,” He reasons, shrugging his shoulders in earnest. “I just don’t  remember what’s on it and I’d rather not be made of fun every day for the rest of my life because twenty-something-year-old-me decided that Lovefool was the epitome of romance.”

“Oh, made fun of? You mean like you do to me?” 

“Exactly!” He grins.

The summer breeze is swept up from the street and in through the window, fresh air and soft amber light engulfing the room. Five years ago, making this move would’ve plagued your thoughts and given you debilitating anxiety, keeping you awake for nights on end just to contemplate the logistics of it all. Today, you managed ten boxes and zero meltdowns in one day. Just to be around someone as resilient as Matt; someone who isn’t discouraged by stupid setbacks and instead offers simple solutions to each of the silly issues you encounter - makes it enjoyable to complete even the most tedious tasks. 

It’s easy to see why the most famous tragedies are all built around love. You can’t believe you went so long without it, without him.

“Okay! I agree, with all your stupid conditions. Can we begin now?” He almost seems sad to see the banter and flirtatious disses disappear, having half-expected your light-hearted arguments never to end. He smiles nevertheless and nods for you to press play. 

“Deep breaths Matthew.”

He stands up just as the dreamy guitars of Friday I’m In Love kick in and your mouth widens into a teasing smile. You think he might get all dramatic on you again but he just shakes his head and looks down into his lap. What would he say if he could see you stumbling around the living room with all the grace of a baby giraffe?

“Isn’t this just wonderful!?” You sigh in adoration, swaying back and forth with your dance partner.

“I hate you so much right now.” Matt begrudgingly chuckles and slips his arms through yours, which are pressed sassily into your hips.

“You love me.” 

“Unfortunately.” 

You let nothing but the music come between the two of you. Toe to toe and chest to chin. Your heart is sent into overdrive when he presses a light kiss onto the crown of your head. To this day, Matt still severely underestimates the effect he has on you. The slightest touch makes you dizzy with infatuation.

“You know I had multiple copies of this CD? One for the car, one for my Discman and this one right here. It stayed at home. All the time. I slept with it under my pillow.” You were playing now with the crucifix Maggie gave him, tracing the ridges of the cross over the fabric of his shirt.

“You’re lying.”

“You of all people know that’s not true.” Tapping the left side of his chest.

The next song started. Please, Please, Please, Let Me Get What I Want.

“Why so many?”

“Because I was scared I’d lose it. Scared of losing you.” It hurt to reminisce, knowing that only a couple months after you had left, you and Matt called it quits, stopped calling at the end of the workday and communicated through Foggy; only when necessary.

“That was around the time I put on the mask.” The music suddenly felt far sadder than it should. “I was so angry that I let you go. I should have followed you to Boston- made sure that stupid things like distance didn’t get in the way. We could have been different.” “You’re a New Yorker through and through Matt. Hell’s Kitchen is your forever home.” You pushed a little further into his chest. Skin-to-skin contact doesn’t cut it in the intimacy of the moment.

“I would’ve followed you.” He insisted again.

“I know. I know you would’ve.”

The song ends suddenly, and in the silence, Matt grunts out “God, I was a miserable fuck back then. Is there anything above 80 beats per minute on this thing?”

He’s spoken too soon. The funky bassline of Deee-Lite’s Groove Is in the Heart ensues. 

You and Matt just about double over in ugly, stomach-clutching laughter, the mood from moments before sliced clean out of the air. The both of you catch your breath just in time to sing along,

I couldn’t ask for another!

“Why did you want us to listen to this?”

“Because you and Foggy made it!” 

“Foggy should be charged as an accessory to murder. My eardrums being the victim.”

“Oh shut up.” You swat him away and take a sip of your beer, warm now from the heat of the apartment. “If you ask me, this is the most romantic thing ever made.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah I don’t get all the fuss about poetry and paintings and wine. Give me a ‘Boston Beats’ mixtape any day and I’ll get my priorities straight.”

“You always know what to say to make a guy swoon.”

“I try.” You smirk and he kisses you on the lips for the first time that night. “Only one more song left now, are you ready to make it count?”

“I’m ready for this to be over. Not trying to be rude, but I actually have a meeting at 8pm just through those doors over there.” He made a loose gesture to the bed.

“I’m sure she won’t mind if you’re a couple minutes late.” 

“I certainly will.” For a minute he’s silent. He contemplates the move, trying to assess through your touch if now is the moment. 

The disc skips slightly.

You play along, give him a look through hooded eyes that you hope can will him to bridge the gap, maybe even transcend the boundaries of sight. 

Outside, the sun is sinking further into the Manhattan skyline. The music isn’t the only thing you can hear anymore. There is also laughter outside and the click-clack of high heels on the pavement.

Your breathing is so shallow that you think you might implode, body aching for his touch now that he is selfish enough to be so far away from you.

The movements are so quick that all you can do is follow his lead. You step backwards, him over the pillow from earlier. You navigate the sofa and legs of the coffee table all while staring up at him, surroundings darkening as you make it through the sliding door entrance to your room.

The only thing you can hear is your heart thumping; blood rushing wildly - as you tug Matt’s sweatpants down.

AHHH THE CUTEST EVERR!!!

finals season means petting zoo on campus!! 🐤

help i can’t stop thinking about having a really small wedding (borderline elopement) with matt, with foggy and karen as witnesses, and afterwards just getting drinks at josies and matt is just sitting with his arm around you all smiley 🥺

this is literally so fucking cute i'm gonna yell thank you so much for this request bestie here we go

-

If Foggy could add up all of the smiles he's seen on Matt's face from all of the years, see them play out on the big screen before him. It still wouldn't come close to the full-length feature film that was Matt's joy since he met you. The endless cycles of laughter so loud it crinkled the corners of his eyes, smiles that cracked open his face for so long his cheeks ached with the effort.

Nothing even approached outshining Matt's love for you, the way he bloomed under your care, opening up and flourishing. The years since you'd met him of shared moments and kisses, of breakfasts and dinners and all-nighters. It had all turned Matt's life upside down and sideways, given him hope and euphoria.

When Matt had proposed he'd cried, you'd cried, Foggy and Karen had cried finding out the news. The glowing radiance of family among the four of you bond so deeply engraved in you all, that when you'd asked Foggy and Karen to be witnesses they'd cried again.

A small delicate wedding, just you and Matt dressed up in front of Father Lantom in an empty church that couldn't have felt less hollow. The only decorations the gentle illumination from a couple strings of lights and the candles that burned day and night. Softly spoken words of endearment, of adoration shared under unhurried breaths and fumbled hands.

"'Till I die and then," Matt whispered reverently, his fingers tangled together with yours between you. Tears fell past your eyes, trailing down your cheeks and hanging off the line of your jaw. Matt reached to brush them from your skin, thumb lingering across your lips where you could press a kiss.

"'Till I die and then." You could watch the way his face lights up, the same way it does whenever you tell him you love him, for years. And now you have the chance, with the words 'you may now kiss' ringing in your ears and the way your now-husband pulled you to him with a huffed laugh to follow those directions just so.

A beautiful procession ending the familiarity of sticky floors and counter-tops, shitty beer and great company. You and Matt are seemingly curled around each other in a booth, he hasn't been able to take his hands off you since the whole thing started and despite the public place this is no different. Warm hand on your knee, his chin resting on your shoulder in reach to press kisses into the skin of your neck every few minutes, just a small stretch away from being able to land them on your face.

"To the Murdocks!" Foggy announces, not a single soul but their little corner hears or even seems to care. But your little corner, your little family of four clinks glasses and cheers into the night the beginnings of probably their best celebration yet.

The ones that left us never really leave us

Sirius Black (PoA)

fanart of fanfic manacled by @senlinyuwrites

i came across this fanfic when browsing angst works on ao3... and i regret nothing. i know nothing about harry potter or dramione, but wow this fic just hit the right spot for me. enemies who find solace in each other 😭👌 im so weak for intense dark intimate fic

isolation

Matt Murdock x Reader

Summary: Based on 2.2 when Matt becomes deaf after a gun fires close to his head. You are there to try to comfort Matt as he is unable to see or hear. Hurt/comfort. 

Warnings: Injuries, blood, mentions of guns, Catholicism

A/N: I haven’t posted a fic in like 2 years, but Matt is bringing me out of hibernation. 

Keep reading