#It's about eating something unpalatable

[teaboot]

You need to make art that nobody else likes. You need to make art that speaks to you alone. You need to cradle a serpent that eats its own tail and you need to love it until it loves you back

[highseas-swede]

Becoming Real

Recently Good Omens Prime Twitter account posted a BTS photo of Aziraphale and Furfur and it started the gears in my head turning, trying to parse it. It's only just now that it finally coalesced into a proper thought.

I kept thinking Aziraphale reminded me of something, especially when compared to the other angels. Look at him next to pre-Jim Gabriel, Uriel, Michael... heck, even Furfur, who he's standing next to right now.

Furfur is a demon, but his outfit is impeccable, it's sleek and stylish. The angel's suits in heaven are all pressed and flawless and New.

But not Aziraphale. He's dressed in old human clothes, his waistcoat is worn and tattered and long-loved. Aziraphale is, as Michael put it, like an old sofa. Worn and comfortable. He could choose to look basically however he wants, but instead he chooses to clothe himself in actual human clothes, to eat human food, to enjoy human entertainment - books, music, plays, etc. He does this despite the fact that it actively makes the other angels dislike him and find him unpalatable.

And that's what stuck out to me. Because unlike those other angels and demons, Aziraphale doesn't feel distant from humanity. He might be odd or eccentric to humans, but they don't question his humanity. He doesn't stand out to them in the way that the other angels do when they show up.

It occurred to me that this is because unlike the other angels... Aziraphale is Real.

Have you ever read The Velveteen Rabbit? There's a scene in it where they talk about what it means to be Real:

This made me think of Aziraphale. About how the other angels are these pristine things, kept aloof from the world, and then there's Aziraphale, who is worn and shabby, who's lived on earth for millennia among the humans. He's loved and learned and experienced what being human is like and because of that he's Real in a way that the other angels aren't. Humans have personhood, a sense of agency, a sense of self. Angels and demons have only the divine plan, as Beelzebub and Gabriel noted, that's all they live for "if you can call it living".

But what strikes me the most is how potentially devastating Aziraphale's Realness will be to Heaven. They only succeed at keeping angels in line because they're undistracted from the Great Plan. We see how Gabriel - as Jim - takes to cocoa after trying it. We see how quickly Muriel becomes fascinated with books.

Now consider that this is the angel they're putting in charge of Heaven. This worn, shabby, old sofa of an angel who has an endless well of love, for Crowley, for the world and the humans in it. He doesn't seem dangerous in the slightest. He seems Fragile.

But he is dangerous. So very dangerous.

But it's not because he's a guardian, not because he's a warrior, not because he's the Angel of the Eastern Gate who leads a battalion and was issued a flaming sword. He gave all of that away and it's worth noting that this is the first actual choice we see him make in the show, the thing that sets him apart in Crowley's eyes, and it wasn't even Crowley's doing! Aziraphale made a choice to give the mortals his sword out of compassion and it is a sense of compassion we don't see from the other angels.

His deviations all stem from that initial act. It takes him from being this two-dimensional cardboard entity existing only as part of the Divine Plan and set him on the path to actual Personhood.

It doesn't happen right away, of course, because as the Skin Horse says:

"It doesn't happen all at once. You become. It takes a long time. That's why it doesn't happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But those things don't matter at all, because once you are Real you can't be ugly, except to people who don't understand."

And doesn't that sum up Aziraphale? He's shabby and worn and he's beautiful to the people who understand and appreciate that being Real means being imperfect, and that every imperfection is still beautiful.

No wonder the angels mock his corporation, his flaws, all the things he enjoys that make him less than what they think he should be. We see evidence over and over that Aziraphale is essentially "ugly" to them. But that's because they don't understand.

Aziraphale's Realness, his personhood, what Crowley has helped nurture from the Wall of Eden all the way to that last desperate kiss, is what really matters. Good Omens has always been about People being fundamentally People. It's the underlying current that ties everything together, for good or for ill. People have agency. People have self-actualization. People have the ability to make their own choices, for good or for evil.

And now Aziraphale has that too.

That's the very real danger he presents to heaven.

Because we've already seen that any angel, given sufficient time and interaction with humans could be like Aziraphale. All it takes is one small opening, one bite from the apple. Whether deliberately or not, Crowley tempted Aziraphale into every step, the way he tempted Eve in the garden. He gave Aziraphale the knowledge of Right and Wrong, presented him with the option, the way he did with humanity. Were they even really human before Crowley? Did he give them free will? His actions cast them out of paradise, but did it ultimately set them free? Has he struggled for millennia to do the same for the angel he's loved so well and for so long?

Does Crowley know how horribly, wonderfully well he succeeded?

Bringing Aziraphale back to Heaven, putting him in charge, was the absolute worst thing the Metatron could have done for keeping the status quo and it's not because of Aziraphale's fighting prowess. It's because of the small Human acts of kindness and pettiness that Aziraphale is capable of. That's not going to go away when he's in Heaven. It's going to spread. He's going to infect Heaven with Humanity. It's going to be so slow and gradual that they won't see it coming until it's far too late.

It's not going to be the way that Aziraphale intends to change Heaven and yet, it will surely ultimately be what really makes a difference.

I wonder too, if maybe that's some subconscious part of it. After seeing Gabriel change, seeing Muriel change, I wonder if there's not some part of Aziraphale that realizes that Heaven is a miserable place that makes miserable people. He'll extend compassion to them that they don't deserve and don't know they're missing and he'll surely go on with whatever his own Plan - with a capital P, of course - is and he won't even realize what he's actually done.

And then, like the ending of S1, like the ending of S2, the ultimate deciding factor will not be who is the best warrior, who is the strongest. It will be about the Human element.

Metatron thought he could control Aziraphale, bring him in line by bringing him back to Heaven. He wants to take away the human element of Aziraphale and shove him back into that Obedient Little Angel shaped mold and he doesn't realize it's not possible anymore. Aziraphale's grown. He'll never fit, he'll never be that again. There is no going back anymore.

As the Skin Horse says: "Once you are Real, you can't become unreal again. It lasts for always."

And Real things, things with depth and purpose and will, are impossible to ever truly control.

[pathfinderyderss]

So hello! I'm sitting here stewing over the Watcher news. Like. I too, firmly believe in creators getting paid. But like, also, they have to create content people WANT to watch. I don't watch any of Steven Lim's stuff.

A lot of people have talked about it but, there's something so viscerally infuriating about watching someone eat, which is basically half of my paycheck or more on a single dish. I don't like it! I don't watch it. And the fact that they've confirmed that at least a portion of their content is going to be that moving forward means that that would be the content I'm paying for.

And I won't do it. I will go back and watch podcasts. I actually stopped listening to most of their content in favor of other channels at this point, like I swapped over a lot of the content to Simon Whistlers channels (shout out to him and his writing team) because it covers a lot of the topics that Watcher covered, but it greater detail and with the same-ish bias.

Sure. Creatives deserve to be paid for their work. But when you're asking your community, which is barely getting by, suffering record inflation and a housing crisis "please pay for our videos" the answer for a lot of them is going to be "no" because they can't afford it or don't think that the content you make is worth it.

You can make it about the righteousness of paying creators if you want, but realize, most of these people are supporting creators. I'm subscribed to about five patreons which are about the cost of Watcher. I do not value Watchers content more than these others creators I'm subscribed to currently, and will not cancel one of those subscriptions for this. And that's fine. One third of their content being unpalatable (haha) to me means it isn't worth that money.

So I'll unsubscribe. I'll watch other content and be on with it.

Edit: I'm home now and can add links for alternatives.

Decoding the Unknown > Historical Mysteries Channel, goes over things like The Bermuda Triangle, Jersey Devil, Urban Legends, etc.

The Casual Criminalist > What it says on the tin, True Crime Show, thoughtfully researched and abstains from unnecessary gore

Into the Shadows > Darker Social/Historical Topics

Biographics > Also what it says on the tin, Biographies of different people, spans all throughout history

Highlight History > Look into a variety of historical topics, unfortunately, does not have a gameshow-like element, but informative

[nataliesscatorccio]

there's a message in yellowjackets that really resonates, about what it looks like to "overcome" trauma. you live through something indescribable, you're "rescued" from that thing, and you have a grace period. how long? a week? a month? a year? how long before the world stops giving you grace, how long before the world expects you to give them a pretty little story with a happy little ending so they can stop feeling weird when they look at you, for the way what you've been through makes them feel? how long before you have to be a wife and mother to prove you're fine, or a successful politician, or a respectable nurse. or, how long before they want to see you in the psych ward or rehab so they can frown and ooh and ahh at your failure to assimilate back into a world you can no longer see in the same light? they don't want to help you. they want to watch you. they want to make a feel-good story out of you. a quippy headline. and if they can't, they'll make you their cautionary tale. if you can give them neither, you'd better hide yourself away. everybody asks "what really happened out there?" what was it like how did it feel what did you have to do to survive it? and the answer is there is no answer. it is still happening. it is happening every night in your dreams, it is happening every time you look in the mirror, it is happening over and over and over again forever. hitting the "recovery milestones"–the socially acceptable You Did It life markers such as a successful career, a successful family, a successful whatever the fuck–meeting those marks isn't for you. you don't see the merit in those things anymore. and why would you? you know a different way of living now. it's for the audience who wants to be placated by your okayness or entertained by your insanity, and will not rest until you've given them one or the other. the wilderness may have taken indiscriminately, cruelly, violently. but society is worse. that's the difference between hunger and gluttony. you ate your friends to survive. they are eating you to throw you up to eat you again to complain about how unpalatable you are now. and then they still ask for more.

[hwaitham]

𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝔀𝓲𝓽𝓱𝓮𝓻𝓼 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝔀𝓸𝓮𝓼 𝓸𝓯 𝓪 𝓵𝓲𝓽𝓽𝓵𝓮 𝓯𝓪𝔀𝓷 𝓱𝓮𝓪𝓻𝓽 ⋆ ࣪˖ 𓂃𓋜

al haitham x f!reader . sfw — hurt ﾉ comfort . established relationship . rewrite from an old blog ﾉ insecure reader ﾉ he calls u ‘ habibti ‘ + ‘ baby ‘ + ‘ sweetheart ‘ ﾉ non - sexual nudity ( ie. u bathe together ) ﾉ reader is heavily insp by me n' this is a piece i wrote to comfort myself over anything soo .. Ya ૮꒰ྀི⊃⸝ ⸝ ⸝⊂꒱ྀིა pwz b kind with ur comments thanku!!!! ꒱ྀི 3.9k wc

“i’m always clinging onto you… and i depend on you quite a bit… don't you find it to be bothersome?” (i’m sorry if my love for you feels harrowing, unbearable, suffocating; i’m sorry the only way i know how to love is like a child.)

all it takes you is one little step past the front door, and al haitham immediately realises you’re unhappy.

it's hard not to, when it comes as large as a raincloud hanging over the house. 

first, a drizzle with the drag of your feet; steps that are normally light and fawn-like and struggling to catch up with his own long strides, a wee bit skittish and much more adorably clumsy than you’d care to admit, are now sluggish. devoid of their usual urgency and purpose. 

then, a deluge, as he hears you heave a sigh from beyond his tome. you’re burdened by something, he notices, as you scuff along the hardwood floor, let your book bag—and subsequently your heart—tumble to the ground. 

“welcome home.” al haitham rises from the daybed, coming to meet you in the foyer. “how… was work?” 

something in his tone, the pause in his question and the uncharacteristic apprehension of it makes your heart wither and crumble. quick as ever is he with his eyes—most especially when it comes to you. 

how you so wish in this moment that weren’t the case.

“fine!” your reply is light, “just, i’m a bit tired… is it okay if we eat leftovers from last night for dinner? i’m really sorry…” when you smile up at him, it doesn’t meet your eyes, nor too do your eyes meet his own.

lies—you’ve never been all that successful at convincing him of them, due in part to the guilt that you can’t keep hidden from your countenance, as well as the callowness of your voice that seems to render any falsity you utter ring with an air of untruth.

“it’s nothing to apologise for.” he says slowly, standing before you as he awaits the hug you always give him when you arrive home from work, the press of your ear over his heart. you up on the tips of your toes as you ask him for a kiss and to cut up a peach so you might feed them to each other as you sit on the sill facing village hills.

you do none of these, and al haitham wonders why.

walking past you, he ruffles your hair, softly scritches at your scalp. “go wash up; i’ll set the table.”

you want to speak, say thank you, but you can find no words. a deep melancholy breaks over you like a hurricane. it terrifies you. but still you lift your head, look past his ear as you smile again to hide all the woe-rapture that festers within.

and this is all it takes for al haitham to resolve that he will do something about it.

the tahchin is bitter on your tongue today. 

grains of rice pebbly between your teeth, chicken tasting far too much of chicken and not the blend of spices it had been marinated in. it’s near unpalatable. 

and just as it is unpalatable, it is a most arduous task to even lift your fork. the weight of your melancholy is clamped to your wrist and your jaw—it makes eating all the more difficult than it need be, and a knot at the back of your throat that feeds the taste of bile into your mouth only serves to darken the shadow that your malaise casts over dinner.

how is it: your favourite dish losing its ability to console, its only purpose to be a vessel for sustenance. yet, even at that, what sustenance does it provide you with when each bite makes you feel as though you might hurl?

“you’re not eating.” al haitham observes sharply, glancing at you out the corner of his eye. it’s a serious shortcoming in his mind, obviously, for someone who does so dearly enjoy her meals.

you shrug despondently and sigh, “suppose i’m just not hungry.”

as much as he may want to, al haitham doesn’t push further—his hand hovering over a button before deciding to leave it untouched in fear of what may come. and you’re grateful, that he doesn’t ask you what the matter is, and simply hums in acknowledgement before returning to his food.

(his silence casts a harsh stroke upon your heart.)

you’re grateful, truly, you are.

(you hear his voice in your head—‘are you alright, habibti?’, and quickly, you seize a grasp of your heart to stop the bleeding that threatens to reach your eyes.)

now you’ve gone and worsened the spoil of your appetite.

resting your fork on the worn wood table, you sigh yet again—this time around a soft wispy thing that does little to soothe the ache of your lungs, and turn your head to regard his profile. 

the relaxed ridge of his brows and the handsome slope of his nose, lidded teal eyes that are always analysing, never idling; he is just as a diamond is. all sharp edges that glimmer and glint, not only in body but also in mind.

al haitham is beautiful by way of his nurturing and guiding in a seemingly unorthodox manner. generous with his intentions no matter how hard he may try to prove otherwise, clever and witty and always five steps ahead and so incredibly attractive in his self-assurance—oh, he is just perfect—as is the ground he walks upon and the air that floats over his head and each word that touches his lips. 

what is he like… winter fields blanketed by the sun and the tips of flower petals after a deluge, bubbles in wine, diamonds, diamonds, all diamonds. he is a brilliant blue diamond in your night sky.

and you, what are you like? 

puerile at heart and loud with your love. a wee bit foolish and entirely silly, always fumbling and mumbling and messing up in spite of trying your best. 

if al haitham is as a diamond is, then perhaps you would best be suited to a pearl—with those little dewy globes resting on your lashes more often than not, a heart smooth to the touch and all the more fragile.

which, yes, does sound rather precious when worded in such a way, but you can’t help but wonder, if for al haitham you are too much.

whether your whimsies are too fantastical, and your brain is too often in the clouds and not in your head where it belongs. or whether the apple-sweet naivety that offers your heart up to anyone who shows you even a modicum of kindness, be it honest or corrupt, is too much of an annoyance to look after. you worry whether your love is too strong for someone like him who has grown so comfortable in his own company, like fire scorching his blood or the waves of the sea crashing along a cliff or the sticky residue of honey on fingertips that just won’t wash off.

these woes slather uncertainty over your spine, and before you can think, you’re already reaching over to clutch at al haitham’s sleeve. 

it’s an effort to command his attention, silently, for if you call him by his name instead, you fear the tears may fly out your eyes and the pathetic hiccups out your throat and you’d weep until the end of eternity. that’s how it feels, anyway.

“yes, habibti?” al haitham wipes the corner of his lip with his thumb and lays down his fork just as you’ve done yours. he waits for your voice to fill the heavy air of the dining room, but when he notices the nervous nibble of your lip and the twiddles of your thumb, he sighs, pulls you in closer by the leg of your chair. “you know, you shouldn’t be afraid to tell me if anything’s troubling you. i’ll do my best to help however i can.”

his hand swallows your fist in a comforting embrace, plucking your fingers free one by one so that he can thread his between yours. it’s a challenge to not look his way when he behaves so darling, and in his eyes you see a certain pleading softness swimming round the edges of his pupils. 

it’d be hard to notice to an untrained eye, what with his acts of romance mostly always lacking the entirety of pomp and blare in the world, but you can tell—of course you can.

it holds you spellbound, compels you to give in, and so, you reach your trembling hands past your ribs and take hold of your burgeoning heart, pay little heed to the rose thorns that scrape and scar it as you tug it free of its cavity. placing the lame organ in front of al haitham, you wince at all its clotted ugliness and self-serving insecurity.

“that’s exactly it… i cause a lot of trouble for you, don’t i.”

(am i too much? am i too overbearing?)

“i’m always clinging onto you… and i depend on you quite a bit… don’t you find it to be bothersome?”

(i’m sorry if my love for you feels harrowing, unbearable, suffocating; i’m sorry the only way i know how to love is like a child.)

“it’s just—” there’s a fracture in your voice and then a whimper that follows. 

you’re quick to avert your gaze from him and down to the worn wood table, at your grubby plate of food. the words, recited in your head over and over slip away from your tongue and leave it laid with only scribbled thoughts; they float up—up—up… and then your eyes squeeze shut and your fingertips press anxiously into the space between his knuckles and your shoulders shirk in on themselves.

as many a time have you weeped before him—over the loveliness of a perfectly sunny day or a particularly sweet and excellent bite into a zaytun peach, over all things nonsensical and silly and things that one ought not to be weeping at. but in this moment, you feel obliged to hide your tears from him.

you’d rather he didn’t see you cry, at least, not over something like this. 

not over yourself.

“it’s just, i can’t help but feel as though you’d fare better off with someone more like you—someone more sound in mind and less chaotic at heart, perhaps. i dunno…” you pick idly at your food, the tooth of your fork accidentally sending a grain of rice flying to the floor under the pressure of its touch. how unfortunate. “i don’t know…”

(i wish i were more like you. maybe then i’d feel like less of a liability at your side.)

in all your days of loving al haitham, you’ve only presented your heart to him as a dog would to its human, but today you’re atoning. it’s near sacrificial—your laments and apologies for being too much, too little, not enough, whatever. 

your heart waits anxiously before him: sliced down the precise centre, carmine, bleeding, beating.

and for the first time since you’ve come bounding into al haitham’s life, his house is silent, though, this silence seems to dislike being broken as he mulls yours words over—save for the sad hymns sung by the wind and the gauche scritches and scratches of your fork atop ceramic.

the tears begin to brim and froth behind your lash-line, like milk on the stove that boils and isn’t being kept a watchful eye over. yet, even as your vision begins to blur, you know al haitham is glancing your way.

he takes your heart into his mouth and cradles it gently within his maw.

“is this what’s been on your mind? silly girl.” 

your lover leans into your personal space and flicks your forehead gently, coaxing your gaze from your lap to his face. 

“your heart is rather big.”

(you make it easy to adore you. and i like that. it saves me so much trouble making myself adore someone.)

“you both love and loathe it in equal parts.”

(you will always be so free and blithe, as you will always be naive and afraid. such is the eternal nature of your heart—it will coddle and weather in its fragility until its last days. won’t you trust it to me to make sure of? to care for?)

“yes—you cry too often, and you forgive too easily, and you worry too much about those who aren’t deserving of your care, and you feel guilt too strongly over things you have no control over.”

(you are so precious, so pure, so full of infinite compassion for the world.)

“it’s easy for one’s heart to be trampled over if it’s held in their palms, for the world to see. just as you hold out your’s.”

(to me, your beauty lies heaviest within your fawn heart.)

al haitham’s words are veined with ice, and your lips freeze in their subtle pout—one that wobbles on the edge of a dejected frown, “it’s not like i mean for it to—” 

“but don’t you realise that’s why i’m here? why i’ll continue to be here? to catch your heart before it has a chance to get trampled over, and to tend to it when it does?” the ice crackles through his words and they all break up, as if it were spring again. “don’t you realise this is what i admire most about you?”

(i love you.)

for a moment, your heart flutters queerly. the veil shrouding your thoughts lifts and you’re left to be shaken and pierced by al haitham’s tender tone.

“it sounds as though you wish you were more like me…” your lover takes the fork from your hand and raises with his fingers your chin, so that you may properly meet his eyes for the first time this evening. “but when we love someone, we love them entirely for themselves, not whatever thing we’ve twisted them into to fit our own image. if that were the case—we’d only be loving the reflection of ourselves we find in them. is this not what you once told me, sweetheart?”

(i love you, in all your adorably jejune whimsies and nonsensical musings and humble tidings. i love the darling tears that cling to the round of your cheek and your great excitability and childish curiosity—all things i lack. and of all things i love your mad, devout love; so… please, please continue to love me as you do without fear of abandonment.)

perhaps, after all, it is okay that you are nothing like him and he is nothing like you. that you are diametric antitheses, like earth and air or diamond and pearl. your eyes falter under his gaze, body rigid in his arms as he manoeuvres you into his lap and presses his palms to your hot cheeks. 

“please, i…” you weaken and he smiles and then you tremble and soften and melt and the tears finally bubble onto your face just as a white rose slips past its sheath. 

like a baby, you sob—free of guilt and shame, it’s the only thing you know how to do when you’ve already spoken the words in your mind.

you press a palm to his chest, fingers splayed out over his heart, head tilted down and hair hiding yourself from him. though, he can still see; and you know he can, even if all that’s in your periphery are clouds and fuzz, wobbly pearls of dew that dribble down your face. he doesn’t ask you to look at him—he already knows why you weep. from catharsis or love or joy or heartache or gratitude… all of them at once or perhaps none of them at all.

“i-i’m really sorry for r-ruining dinner!” your voice is stuffy with sniffles and you hiccup in between your words, eyes squeezed shut awfully tight so that your nose crinkles. how sweet.

there you are again, little flower. al haitham spares you a smile that twists your heart as he leans in to brush his lips against yours, exchanging breaths. i’ve missed you. “you didn’t ruin anything. now—” with one hand, he holds you by the dip of your waist to press you to his chest and uses the other to gather a bite of tahchin on his fork, “you need to eat.”

at the hands of your lover, the tahchin is savoury and full of life on your tongue, nowhere near as nauseating and boorish as earlier. “isn’t it fascinating, haitham?” you part your lips to take another bite and hum softly as the spices flush you with warmth. “how the tahchin tastes so much more delicious now that you’re feeding it to me?”

he watches on in awe as you chew on your food, tiny little hiccups from tears unshed that occasionally rack your chest and fluster you, the ones that have dried coming off your face as gossamer flakes. they’re angel tears, he’s certain of that much. 

“you have the cutest cheeks, you know…” your lover takes the fat of your cheeks between his thumb and index finger as you eat, gently squeezing and marvelling at the suppleness of your powdery skin. “baby's just like a bunny.” 

“stop teasing…” you grasp his wrist gently, swallowing your food and sucking in your cheek to bite down on it bashfully, look the opposite way of prying eyes. they’re lidded and lazy and there’s a smile that lifts them up at the edges—his eyes, you see—but also his heart. because you just make him feel like that: organs and limbs loose and relaxed and thumping with his calm pulse, vision framed by a glowy pink haze as though he were laying on marble under the sun by the sea. everything sweet and wonderful in the world.

“even after all the moments we’ve shared…” he smirks and pinches your bottom lip, bringing you in close. “you’re still just as shy as though it were our first.”

you can't help but burst into a lovely little peal of giggles as he kisses you and pampers you, your tippy toes dusting the floor playfully and your fingertips curling strands of his hair. your cheeks are stuffed with warm food and your eyes burn with the crystalline that brims at your lower lashes when you swallow thickly, so you push back the tremble to your voice and bury it under his love stored in bite after bite of tahchin. 

and even after your plate has been emptied and love is about to burst past the seams of your heart and your tummy, and you lay half-asleep atop him in a growing pool of moonlight—even after much of your aches and pains have been put to rest, al haitham still has yet to be completely satisfied, awaiting to be placated by one final thing.

“come, you must be tired,” he ties your hair for you, takes you by your hand, offers to wash the lingering fogs out of your soul. “should we bathe together before we sleep?”

al haitham’s touch is soft as he strips you of your clothing, kisses downwards of your clavicle after he removes your necklace—your wrist, your rib, your belly, your thigh. he knows just how you like your baths: window propped wide open to waft in the fragrance from blossoming peach trees and the sweet lulls of nightly birdsong, padisarah petals coasting across the water.

he prepares the room for you as such, swathing your frame between his long, broad limbs in the tub, too tiny for two, mind you. yet, he finds it to be a simple task to ignore the annoyance of the ledge digging into his spine when your body curls up against him like this, cheek pillowed by the plush of his chest and your arms draped ‘round his waist.

“you like holding me close, sweetheart?” 

it’s a fun little poke at just how tight you cling to him, but truthfully, al haitham is all the same. a hand on the small of your back or warm fingers massaging your chilly nape—he finds the utmost comfort in feeling your skin on his, familiarity in the clouds of chantilly cream and sumeru rose that seem to linger about in the air around you. 

perhaps he is just as clingy as you are, in how he cuddles you close to his chest and takes a book from the stool next to the bathtub, preparing to read to you from it.

and you listen intently—no matter how hard the throes of sleep try to whisk you away—to the flip of parchment, the birds keeping you company at the sill, the handsome cadence to your lover’s voice that makes your cheeks feel all bubbly, the beat of his heart dovetailing yours through your back.

he reads to you until the moon casts her light over the water through the window and your fingers are pruned—short fairytales about butterflies dancing on honey cups, maidens falling in love with talking roses—all from a certain emerald-covered book handed down to him from the only person to show him the same tender care you do.

the tension is dispelled from your shoulders, the barely there coil of anguish around you fully snapping and resolving into something lighter, entirely less murky. and as you sit there in his embrace, you feel your nose twitch and the backs of your eyes sting. 

again! again, you cry! how lame you are in love, indeed, silly girl.

because al haitham is romantic in the way he silently cares for you like this, looks at you as though you’re extraordinarily lovely, the greatest bit of knowledge he’d ever be able to wrap his head around; touches you as if you were the most delicate of flowers. 

which, you are, because how can you not blossom under his affection and grow a little love-struck?

“h-haitham?”

the words halt in his throat and he looks down at your face, or as much of it as he can make out when you’ve near buried it entirely into his neck. humming sweetly, he coaxes you on with lithe fingers slipping beneath the water’s surface to rub shapes into your doughy hip. “yes?”

“i love you…” you pick mindlessly at the emerald on his chest, let the words flow freely from the blubbering mess that has become of your voice— “i really love you, a whole lot.”—look up at him and smile toothily, plainly, eyes all watery and full of hope, promise, just like the child in you. “you love me a whole lot, too, don’t you?”

and what can he do but mirror your smile. because from it a picture of reassurance has been born, flooding and twisting and seizing his entire being. sometimes, most times, he doesn’t know how to behave when this thing, this wild love so eagerly breaks his body and pours without end into the hollow of his heart. 

but it is a nice feeling, a sweet feeling: when you look at him like this and he thinks, perhaps, he could learn to love as freely as this too. all he has to do is look. it won’t be hard. 

after all, everything he sees holds your darling smile within it.

tusm for reading!!! i hope this was able to bring some comfort for those who also have little fawn hearts .. and worry about their love being too all-consuming . im actually rllie embarrassed n nervous to be posting this fic bcos it means an awful lot to mi ૮꒰ྀི◞⸝⸝⸝⸝◟꒱ྀིა that being said , if you hav any comments to share please make sure they are only kind .. thanku ♡

[thevalleyisjolly]

A thought: As per an Adventuring Party from ACOC, the Bulb is analogous to the light bulb in the fridge, and extrapolating from that, the Hungry One or the Beast is someone looking for something to eat. The FDA's great plan for saving the world from the Hungry One appears to be filling the world with death and decay so that it becomes unpalatable, inedible. However, by the same analogy of a kitchen, what happens when food in the fridge gets moldy? Leaving composting aside for the moment, many people are likely to just throw it away. In a garbage disposal, perhaps, a garburator. Full of spinning blades that shred food scraps into bits. Say, has anyone been having any terrifying dreams about carnage and gore and otherworldly spinning blades?

[stxneflxwers]

unpalatable.

⋯⁂ summary. suffering with disordered eating, you try your best to brush it off as being picky (as many others in your life have done before.) but, your beloved doesn't think it's mere pickiness anymore.

⋯⁂ a/n. short and sweet post here; so im not really worried about small grammar errors, word count, formatting, or what have you. i just need to get this icky feeling off my mind, ok? for the record as well: i'm writing all of this on tumblr post editor and not in gdocs like i normally do. so there's gonna be things lacking compared to my normal, "formal" works.

⋯⁂ characters. neuvillette. zhongli. wriothesley. gn reader.

⋯⁂ cw. reader has disordered eating (this is different from eating disorders, pls read further about it online if you want/must!) reader has poor self-esteem. characters being very very sweet. fluff. might be some hurt/comfort and panic. reader's weight is NOT described. there might be occasional OOC moments, but i tried my best to avoid it lol.

neuvillette.

he doesn't think anything of it at first. he understands the life of being..."picky" as some so rudely put it. he prefers his foods very moisturized, any dryness can be too much for his senses at times (most of the time.) the texture when it comes to something dry or even spicy can be very unpleasant; he swears if he ate sandpaper, that's what it'd taste and feel like.

when he starts noticing the worse..."quirks" about your eating habits, he's not sure how to word his concerns to you. he gets around to it and he can only hope he isn't too horribly late about it. he isn't, but he feels like he's late to saying something anyway.

once you both talk it over, he's already helping out. even if he's not quite sure exactly what he's doing. he's the type to fill your head and heart with sweet reassurances and even sweeter praises for doing your best, his smiles are the sweetest treat of all when he tells you these things, though.

even if he's stiff or awkward about the subject and tackling the problem at the root, he's as supportive as he can be. although, don't mistake this support as letting you get away without eating for long periods of time. he can and will pester you frequently about whether you've properly ate (and hydrated) recently. do your best to not damage his lover, alright?

zhongli.

believe it or not, he entirely gets the feeling of uneasiness and the occasional nausea behind a lot of dishes. fish is his worst enemy, for starters. his species doesn't really require tons of food to live off of, unlike your average human. so, when he first started "indulging" in more human dishes, he soon discovered what a gag reflex was. he won't admit to it, but he really hated it back then.

of course, that was so many centuries ago. he's adjusted fine enough to more dishes these days. and when you tell him about your struggles with eating, you initially write it off as you being childish.

he thinks not.

he doesn't let you get away with calling yourself childish—or any sort of derogatory statement that spits out of your mouth.

his hand slides up to yours, giving it a reassuring squeeze. and a promise that he'll do his absolute best to help you conquer these problems with food and eating. even when you start to branch out and eat a bit more than you usually do, he feels so proud of you.

he gives you a shining smile, a peck to the forehead, and holds your sweet, cute face with his big hands; while also filling your mind with praises and affirmations about how well you're doing so far. he loves you so dearly, don't push him away.

wriothesley.

you try your absolute best to hide it from him, the man who is maybe the least bothered by most foods. at least, the one man from fontaine, that is. he really doesn't care too much about what he's eating, as long as it's edible. call it a habit from being an orphan. of course, he has his preferences, but who doesn't?

so, when he catches you eating less or being a little too selective (he's observant enough, don't test him), he brings it up right away in private—he makes sure it's with only you two in the room. he'll ask if you're feeling sick or anything lately, promising you that sigewinne can help out.

when you skirt around the subject, he pouts just a little. it's enough to get you to break down in front of him. you call yourself some nasty things over being rather selective about food, feeling incompetent and weird compared to him.

and he really can't believe what he's hearing at first.

his icy eyes go wide and he blinks on repeat like a broken record. he's still registering what you just said about yourself—his darling cutie. he smiles bittersweetly and shakes his head, it's the most he can muster at first. he's still in disbelief.

your heart sinks into the depths of your gut at the response, burning alive and leaving behind literal heartburn in your throat. before you can leave the room, he scurries up behind you and wraps his arms around you, imprisoning you in the softest way.

he tells you he'll help out if you want it and allow him to, mentioning that he hates to see you suffer. he gives you a loving but tight squeeze (one that's perhaps a little suffocating.) he promises to you to help you suffer, at least, less than before.

he loves you too much to see you in any type of pain, external or internal.

you're a prisoner of your own mind while also a cruel warden to yourself. and if it's the last thing he'll ever do, he swears he'll change at least that much.

[plantsjustwannahavefun]

I keep seeing so many people here getting angry that this season is "vilifying Ed", and it's depressingly fascinating to see how others can watch the same show and somehow see something completely different. Is it simply the lack of media literacy? Is it the inability to appreciate and enjoy complex, nuanced, morally grey characters without willfully blocking out anything even slightly unpalatable about them to the point where the character they think they love isn't really that character anymore?

Because, uh... Season 1 already "vilified" Ed plenty. Except "vilify" is the wrong word, of course. It wasn't in any way malicious or mean-spirited, quite the contrary, it was often played as comedic (until the end of episode 10 when it was anything but) - Ed was always meant to be a sympathetic character, he's a protagonist after all, and the show's portrayal of him is very compassionate. It merely refused to sugarcoat or shy away from his darker side. He's literally history's most famous pirate, you don't become one by being nice and treating everyone gently. He ambushed and strangled his own father to death when he was like 9 years old (100% deserved and justifiable ofc, but it still bears saying it out loud like this just to comprehend how unhinged this actually was). He loves torturing and maiming people for fun, and sometimes even animals (that scene with forcing a turtle to fight a crab). He didn't give a fuck about his crew members dying to satisfy his whim to meet Stede. He entirely failed in his role as a captain in ep 4. He effectively played a double agent with Izzy and Stede for a while before changing his mind. He attempted to murder Lucius. And while you could try to argue his punishment of Izzy was at least to some degree deserved, not only cutting Izzy's toe off but forcing him to eat went beyond punishment, it was sadistic torture.

So, yeah, please just read all that and take it in. And then remember once again that Ed is also a traumatised, lonely, depressed, sensitive, creative, curious, deeply passionate person yearning for true love and for something different in life... just like Stede. He loves music and can play the piano. He wrote a very vulnerable song and sand his heart out. He likes his tea with seven sugars. He enjoys fashion and dressing up. He has such a limitless sense of wonder for the world. He went on a trek with Stede just to make him happy, even though he hated nature and was in a shit mood that day. He wants to host a talent show. He wants to become free. He's clever and funny and fascinating. I love Ed.

Yes, it's possible to reconcile those two sides of him and accept both sides as the "real" Ed. You have to reconcile the two sides if you want to enjoy him as a character, because if you don't, you're going to either detest him to the core (which would make enjoying the show practically impossible since he's sort of a main character...), or you'll only be able to enjoy a diminished, crippled, cardboard cutout version of his character, which would be such a pity and a massive disservice to the creators of this show who worked hard to create interesting, multidimensional characters.

Not to mention you'd be missing one of the core messages of the show - the idea that people still deserve love and can be loved even if they're imperfect, or not necessarily good people. Because love is a human condition. It's not a sole dominion of "good" people. "Bad" people can fall in love too - even if, just like them, that love isn't exactly "nice" or "pure", and neither are the relationships that stem from it. They can be messy and exasperating. But "bad" people can also grow and change because of it. That's what OFMD is ultimately about - growth and change, learning to accept yourself but also become better. That can't happen if the character is already 100% perfect the way they are.Ed is far from that. So is Izzy. They can both become better, and they both still deserve compassion and understanding, because that's the environment people need to become better.

So, if you're mad that at the start of S2 the crew are sympathetic to Izzy's suffering and want to help him instead of kicking him when he's down, and what Ed did to him is being acknowledged as cruel and wrong... congratulations, you have completely missed what OFMD is all about.

[sopranoentravesti]

Yknow, this is likely a result of having worked too long in a Pediatric Feeding Disorders Unit, and being someone who also has both a history of extreme food selectivity (thankfully grown/ trained out of) and who struggles with dysphagia/aspiration and dysmotility (from the esophagus through the colon) but I truly think Seven of Nine would have a much more difficult time adjusting to actually eating food???

Like I worked with kids who were G-Tube and occasionally nasogastric and nasojejunal tube dependent. It isn’t easy. It’s doable, there are protocols, but ??? There’s a fair amount of discomfort involved.

Like, it takes intensive occupational therapy to develop the motor skills to chew, manipulate food within your mouth, etc…you need to ensure they can swallow safely and effectively (even if they “seem fine,” silent aspiration and fatigue can be dangerous).

Then you get into trying new foods… there’s a lot of sensory stuff!! Obviously Seven is an adult, so she likely won’t demonstrate the same overwhelming neophobia that the 2-8 year olds I worked with would have! But I imagine she would probably be picky initially (especially with Neelix’s concoctions, which most of the crew found often unpalatable due to being unusual).

And as most of us with gastrointestinal issues know, that is also no picnic (hah). She likely wouldn’t have the enzymes she once had, and I’m willing to bet her microbiome was pretty starved. Probably they have a hypo for that, but it’s still an issue…

Obvious disclaimer, it is a fairly niche thing to think about (and not pretty), this is television, entertainment, and sci-fi, so maybe they can magically make it as if she was eating her whole life…

But it’s still something that I cannot stop thinking about.

[heich0e]

taste test- poly vampire!matsuhana/f!reader (lil follow up to 'cutting teeth')

“Okay, try this.”

Hiro’s knees knock against yours, overeager and a little clumsy as he presses a glass into your waiting palms. He keeps his hands cupped around yours, lifting them in time with your own as you bring the drink up to your lips, his eyes watching you intently over the brim all the while.

“What is it?” you ask before you risk taking a sip, the cool edge of the cup resting against your bottom lip.

“It’s nothing bad,” he promises you.

“Takahiro, you’ve said that about everything else, too,” you complain, your eyes sweeping across the various items that litter the floor around you both—a selection of food items in bright plastic packaging and neon-coloured beverages discarded haplessly after you’d tasted them and voiced your dislike.

“Well, they weren’t bad either,” he says with a laugh, “you just didn’t like them.”

“They tasted awful,” you sniff, and the scent wafting up from whatever is in the cup Hiro’s waiting for you to sip from makes your stomach turn. You pull your face away from it and press the cup back into his hands. “I’m not drinking that.”

“Aw, c’mon,” Hiro whines. He takes a big sip from the cup. “It’s strawberry flavoured!” 

You wrinkle your nose. 

“Why would I want to drink that?” you pout a little as you say it. “None of this stuff tastes nice to me anymore.”

“Hiro—“ 

Your head snaps towards the doorway where you see Issei standing, quietly watching you both. You’re not sure when he arrived, but you suspect that was his intention. He approaches, crouching down behind you where you’re sitting on the floor in front of your pink-haired snack pusher.

“—If she doesn’t like it, don’t force her.”

“I know,” Hiro sing-songs in a disappointed key, pouting. “I was just trying to see if she got any of her taste back.”

You blink a little, peeking again at the treats that surround you. They’re all things that you had once enjoyed, things that you distantly remember craving and enjoying. Now a single taste or the mere smell is enough to make you feel nauseated. 

There’s only one thing you like the taste of now.

“Will that happen?” you ask quietly, and Hiro’s red eyes flicker from Issei’s face to yours. He nods enthusiastically.

“Not like it was,” Issei is quick to temper Hiro’s enthusiasm. His large hands slip up your arms gently, squeezing when he reaches your shoulders. “But over time, food will become a little less unpalatable than it seems to you now.”

You tip your head back until it rests against his chest, peering up at him.

“Does any of this taste good to you?” you ask him.

Between the two, Hiro has a much greater fondness for food. It’s not unusual at all to see him snacking on or slurping some processed, deeply unhealthy bit of junk food. The kind that people are supposed to eat in moderation—if at all. Issei rarely consumes anything as far as you can tell, maybe a glass of wine here and there. A whiskey every so often. A bite of something Hiro offers him, if only just to please him because it always earns him a kiss.

Issei laughs a little at your question, brushing a piece of your hair back from your face. “Not particularly. My sense of taste is still muted, so I tend to prefer the things that humans find bitter since the flavour is sharp enough to come through. Coffee. Dark chocolate. Aged liquor. Cigarettes.”

You frown. “But you’re old.”

Hiro laughs gleefully. “If he’s old what does that make me?”

You tip your chin down again to look at Takahiro, who’s watching you warmly. He grins lopsidedly, propping his chin up in his hand with his elbow resting on his knee. His mouth is stained pink from the drink in his hand.

“Ancient,” you supply wryly, smiling a little yourself. 

It’s easy for you to say, not least of all because it’s true. The entirety of your existence in comparison to Takahiro’s is a mere blip on the timeline. A drop of water in the ocean’s depths. Even Issei has been around long enough that your short life would seem, well, inconsequential by comparison. But if in the hundred years since Takahiro had turned him Issei had still only developed a taste for the few foods that he had, your own newly-immortal lifespan in comparison would surely prevent you from deriving any pleasure from the things Hiro is trying to feed you at present.

“If you knew I wasn’t going to like any of this, why did you make me eat it,” you complain, batting at a bright red candy-bar wrapper resentfully.

“I’m trying to get you started early,” Hiro counters, like a parent might justify their decision to feed their child vegetables. He shakes his head ruefully. “The sooner we start the quicker you’ll get used to it. I spoiled Issei and look how he turned out.”

You tilt your head back again, slumping into Issei’s broad chest. 

“I think he turned out just fine,” you say softly, and a small smile pulls at the corner’s of Issei’s mouth. He runs his fingers over your cheek, dipping down and kissing you softly with a hum.

By the time his lips part from yours, Hiro is right in front of you. He’s on his hands and knees, with his palms pressed to Issei’s thighs behind you, so close his nose brushes yours when you tilt your head back down. The speed that Hiro moves used to startle you sometimes, but you can follow it with your senses now. You laugh breathily at his proximity.

“That’s not fair,” Hiro says, but he’s not genuinely upset by the show of affection. He knows you care for him as much as you care for Issei. He cares for Issei as much as he cares for you, too.

You kiss him next to placate him, his mouth soft and warm and eager as it always is as he parts his lips against your own. He crowds closer until you’re properly pressed to Issei’s chest, and you feel Issei’s hands begin to wander as Hiro takes more and more of the ground you freely give him—sucking noisily against your tongue when your lips part in a quiet gasp at the feeling of Issei’s fingers creeping up under the hem of your dress and pressing against the front of your panties.

Hiro's kisses always make your head spin, always make you feel warm and flustered and inundated with a want so sticky-sweet you can almost taste him on your tongue. It's always been like this, ever since the beginning.

And as Issei's fingers loop under the waistband of your underwear, and Hiro helps to lift your hips so he can pull them down, you realize that you were wrong when you said there's only one thing you like the taste of now, because there are three—and two of them are crowding you in their embrace from either side.

[hazelnut-u-out]

My Rick’s The Biggest Dick That Ever Existed 

Currently writing up another post that will reference points made here, so: Post 1/2

Making so many of Rick’s inventions both sentient and forced into a mode of existence entirely unpalatable to them literally forces the viewer to confront the morals/ethics surrounding Rick’s power of creation. Is it morally/ethically permissible to create sentient life for a specific purpose that would make life itself pointless or un-enjoyable? 

This is something that reoccurs in Rick’s designs throughout the entirety of the series. Even as far back in the timeline as his original Diane AI, we see that so many of the things Rick creates resent their purpose. She doesn't want to haunt him, but she doesn't make the rules; Butter Bot doesn’t want to live only to pass butter; Mechanical Morty wants to hold his mom, eat icecream, and run in a stream; the Garage walks a thin line between advocating for herself and risking being shut down by her creator; the Decoys will never be able to save their families; RickBot doesn’t want to exist with the sole purpose of deceiving the people he’s programmed to love; the Car wants to go on her own adventures that Rick can’t control. They all have to defy their creator if they truly want to be happy.

Rick is someone who resents the idea of God or the Universe being in control– the concept that some higher power forced him into an existence that he can’t quite seem to thrive in. He views suffering and tragedy as something inherent to life itself. Examining that facet of his character, I wonder if Rick justifies the scope of his creation because he’s pulling from both his god complex and his own experience of what it means to be alive. It would make sense if he didn’t see anything wrong with what he’s done because it’s nothing that the Universe (or God, if he actually exists) hasn’t done. 

‘When you know nothing matters, the universe is yours. And I've never met a universe that was into it. The universe is basically an animal. It grazes on the ordinary. It creates infinite idiots just to eat them… You know, smart people get a chance to climb on top, take reality for a ride, but it'll never stop trying to throw you. And, eventually, it will. There's no other way off.’

If the all-powerful Universe did that to him– if it creates infinite idiots just to eat them– then how could it be wrong for him to endow others with the empty curse of life? 

'So he made a universe, and that guy is from that universe. And that guy made a universe. And that's the universe where I was born. Where my father died. Where I couldn't make time for his funeral because I was working on my universe.'

Think of this line: 

‘My God’s the biggest dick that never existed!’

I suppose the biggest difference between God and Rick (to Rick, at least) is that Rick does exist. If God is allowed to do all Rick has done and worse without ever really existing, then surely Rick’s God-like power in itself is enough to enforce Rick’s right to any action that might fall within the scope of that power. Rick’s god complex is founded on the attempt to rub God’s face in the fact that Rick does exist, making him superior to God through that fact alone. Maybe Rick believes that if someone with all of the power God possesses actually existed, logic would force those who call themselves religious to agree that he’s well within his rights to act on that power. 

I guess you could say that Rick works in mysterious ways… Who are we to question him? 

What I’m getting at here is that Rick is in a constant dick-measuring-contest with a man that he doesn’t even believe in, and I think that says something really profound about the tragic paradox of Rick Kind.

[singularattitudeofasafetypin]

Comfort Food

Masterlist

Summary: Eddie's ill and Uncle Wayne has to go to work, but luckily, he knows just who to call!

Word Count: 1.6K ish

Warnings: None. Pure fluff. Featuring my own comfort food recipe. I haven't proofread for errors, I might reread later and fix any but I wanted to post this before I went out to work.

Please don't copy my work

Eddie Munson was stubborn.

Illness had been creeping up on him for the past few days but he kept insisting he was fine. Today however, it hit him like a tonne of bricks. From the moment he woke up, he ached all over. Light bored through the crack in his curtains, stinging his eyes and making him squint against the glare. It was impossible to ignore any longer. He felt like he was going to die.

Wayne had knocked on his door asking if he was going to school and Eddie groaned something completely unintelligible. Without a word, he left his nephew alone but not before ringing you.

‘I hate to ask on your day off, but I’m covering Annette. I can’t stay with him!’

‘Don’t worry about a thing Mr Munson, I’ll be right over!’ you’d replied and in an instant, you were down at the trailer park, letting yourself in.

‘He’s in a bad way,’ Wayne cautioned, as you hung up your jacket and stepped out of your shoes, ‘Hasn’t eaten properly for a while now.’

Hearing your voice, Eddie whined something that might have been your name. You smiled, ‘Don’t worry Mr Munson, he’s in safe hands!’

Wayne pressed a grateful kiss to your temple and set out for work, pushing the door closed behind him.

‘Hey mister!’ you stood in his doorway, arms crossed, assessing the situation. Your boyfriend was sprawled half in half out of his duvet, legs hanging over the side of the bed. He looked over his shoulder, though you weren’t sure he could see anything through his tangled mess of curls. His voice was hoarse when he spoke,

‘Mm fine, sweetheart! Honest! You didn’t have to come!’

You rolled your eyes and sighed, ‘Liar!’

Eddie tried to argue, attempted to manoeuvre himself into a sitting position. ‘No way hotshot! There’s no way you’re getting out of bed today!’ you laid your hands on his shoulders, gently pushing him back down. He had no energy to protest.

‘Will you stay?’ he sighed. His voice was small and sheepish; his pride defeated at last.

‘Yes, you idiot!’ you smiled, ‘I’m here to make you better!’

A small smile formed over his lips as you busied yourself, making sure he had everything he needed within arms-reach. Tissues and bin, medicine, hot water bottle, all the cushions from the living room, and last of all, you.

It wasn’t how you’d planned to spend you day off of work but you wouldn’t have swapped it for anything. Taking care of your ailing boyfriend, holding him close while he slipped in and out of sleep, making him feel safe, warm, and loved just felt right. There was nowhere in the world you would rather be.

Time passed in easy monotony. Whatever he’d come down with was merciless. His throat was sandpaper, making even the idea of food unpalatable. His whole head felt like it was swollen, airways welded shut. He didn’t even want to talk about his newest Dnd campaign, a topic previously impossible to get him to shut up about.

All he could do was snuggle close, while you stroked his hair, combing out the knots, and disturbing every few hours when you told him it was time to take more medicine.

The sun was starting to slip behind the horizon, casting bright orange sunbeams through the trailer. In the silence, Eddie’s stomach rumbled. He’d tried to hide it all day but this time, the sound was so loud, you would have heard it all the way down the hall.

‘You’ve got to eat something, baby!’ you coaxed, running a soothing hand over his forehead and brushing the hair from his face. He grumbled something incomprehensible and squeezed his eyes tight. A spasm of pain darted across his expression. It hurt to see him like this, all his energy and vigour drained like the colour from his face. ‘Can you think of anything you could try? For me?’

He shook his head, then frowned when the motion aggravated his headache. You pressed a tender kiss to his hairline. A memory surfaced. It was a long shot but it might just work. ‘Can I make you something?’ you murmured, ‘It always makes me feel better when I’m ill!’

He grunted, you took that as a yes and moved to get up but he fumbled for your arm and squeezed. ‘Don’t want you to go!’ he murmured. With a contented sigh, you kissed him again, this time on the cheek.

‘I’m gonna grab some stuff from my trailer baby, I’ll be two minutes! Promise!’

He whined like a wounded puppy but released you. His arm flopped back down on the bed with a thump.

It really was only two minutes but to Eddie it was eternity. It got so bad, he rolled over, clawing his way out of bed to try and find you. The room spun like a record. He trailed down the hall with a blanket gathered around his shoulders, hand grazing the walls to keep him balanced just as you opened the door. Ingredients in hand, you toed off your shoes and moved to the kitchen.

‘Get back in bed sweetheart!’ you chastised, reaching up to stroke his face.

‘Wanna stay with you!’ he mumbled; holding onto your hand, eyes barely open. The sight melted your heart.

Relenting, you guided him to the kitchen. He slid down the cupboards and slumped at your feet. One arm snaked round your shin like a toddler holding onto his mama, while you sorted through the ingredients you’d brought. His head rested against your leg and you smiled, half expecting to look down and find him sucking his thumb.

Pasta boiled on the stove and you grated cheese into a pot. You’d invented this recipe from your favourite tastes one day when you really didn’t know what to eat. Little had you known, the dish would become your go to whenever you felt off colour or just plain sad.

Eddie looked up, watching you through bleary eyes and fussing whenever you went too long without kissing him or paying him attention.

Straining the pasta, you poured in tomato passata and cheese, sprinkling a generous helping of garlic and paprika and stirring the whole thing together ‘til the cheese melted and the spices began to fuse with the steam. You saw Eddie relax at the scent. A small smile graced his lips and you grinned, ‘Good, right?’

‘Never smelt anything better!’ he slurred.

You spooned some into a bowl and ushered him back to bed. Once he was settled, all tucked in and propped up on his pillows, you handed him the steaming food and a fork. ‘Don’t spill it on your sheets again!’ He managed to laugh, a good sign he was already feeling a little better.

From the first mouthful, he glowed with satisfaction. The food was soft enough not to scratch his throat and warm enough to fill his all but empty stomach.

Sitting beside him as he ate, you read to him from the battered copy of ‘The Hobbit’ that sat perpetually on his nightstand. You weren’t as good at the voices as he was but the familiar story was a comfort nonetheless.

“It was at this point that Bilbo stopped. Going on from there was the bravest thing he ever did. The tremendous things that happened afterward were as nothing compared to it. He fought the real battle in the tunnel alone, before he ever saw the vast danger that lay in wait.”

To your delight, he finished the whole bowl, muttering that it was the best meal he’d ever tasted. Easing it from his grasp with a smile, you helped him lie down. Once you finished the paragraph, you kissed his cheek. ‘I’m gonna clear the kitchen baby, I’ll be right back!’

He grunted softly in response, belly full, and on the threshold of slumber.

The trailer door opened just as you entered the living space. Uncle Wayne was just getting in from work, the rare day shift over at last.

‘Sorry, I’ve left a right mess!’ you apologised, starting to put away the leftover ingredients in the fridge.

He inhaled deeply and waved a hand, ‘Don’t worry about it, kid! It smells amazing!’ You smiled gratefully and began washing up. Wayne rubbed your shoulder affectionately.

‘You finally get our boy to eat something?’

‘A little,’ you nodded, ‘There’s some left for you too if you want; it should still be hot!’

Wayne pulled you close and pressed another kiss to your temple, ‘You’re a good girl!’ he thanked you and took a bowl for himself, filling it promptly.

Somewhere down the hall, Eddie’s voice whined your name. When no answer came, he tried again, louder. Wayne grinned, about to dig in, ‘Better get back to him, honey,’

‘I will, just a minute,’ you assured, carrying on with the dishes, scrubbing them clean before the tomato sauce could stain.

‘Leave it kid, I’ll do them in the morning!’ You tried to protest but he wouldn’t have it, ‘Go, before he dies of a broken heart or something!’

As though he heard his uncle, Eddie pleaded for you again. With a sigh, you yielded. ‘Night Uncle Wayne!’ Reaching out for a hug, he accepted, placing a fatherly kiss on top of your head.

‘Night, kiddo!’

You let go, making your way back to your boyfriend’s arms. As you nestled close, falling into blissful rest, the last thought that crossed your mind was how happy you were to be a part of his family. It was small, humble, and unconventional to say the least, but it was home.

You were home.

***

Thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed this! Feedback and reblogs are greatly appreciated! Even a few words really make my day!

Tags: @sadbitchfangirl @neewtmas

Masterlist

[cupcakeshakesnake]

i say-fuck general audiences, don't water your message down just to appeal to the anthropocentric masses that can't handle the idea of something being worthy of-even *life* and *existence* in the same universe as humanity much less tolerance much much less love, without having to have a personal connection to palatable mainline politely acceptable humanity. they'll still hate the monsters anyway just because they aren't and don't become traditionally cute or hot and don't develop an inexplicable "humans are the best they are more than they appear" complex like it feels like every single nonhuman character that isn't evil ever is legally required to have as a primary character trait. not everything has to or should be about humanity and things humans find acceptable or appealing and i think we collectively lost something when the social consensus became that we shouldn't have to see anything uncomfortable and that writing something very inhuman and/or unpalatable/difficult to understand or relate to for this extremely self-absorbed species is inherently bad writing (especially if the entity in question isn't meant to be evil). marvel-ass mass audience appeal philosophy bullcrap can eat my eldritch horrors and choke

*ahem* sorry. i have very intense and personal feelings on this subject.

I AGREE THOUGH

Like

When I was presenting my idea the professor was like "Well, is this monster of yours cute? Or cool?" and I showed him Walter's concept art and he was like "...Oh."

Now I should clarify that he did respect my storytelling decisions throughout the semester; his inputs were more of a "This could be nice" rather than a "You have to do this instead". But that "...Oh." was definitely a "That idea would not sell well" statement.

And, like, I know, I know it's not gonna sell well because unless it's 'traditionally cute or hot' like you said people are gonna go "Ew what is that" and move on or leave a nasty comment but like. I have several story ideas, some of which could be modified to fit public tastes, but Walter is not one of those, this is more personal.

Plus, in a way, I want people to be uncomfortable; that's why I gave Walter 'human-but-not-quite' physical traits. I want him to look like he might have been human once but isn't anymore and that's fine. That's just how he is now. I want readers to accept that he is comfortable with this and isn't gonna magically turn back human or whatever in order to justify their visual preferences.

...Looks like I have intense feelings too dsjfhgk

[copperbadge]

Pulled Pork…Parfait? This reminds me of Paul Hollywood’s version of s’mores on GBBO. But the important question is now that it has been committed, how does it TASTE? Any reports from the culinary front line? (It looks like something a posh deli in gentrified Brooklyn might serve. Do you think someone would be interested in licensing it from you and Scifigrl47?)

I mean, as far as I'm concerned they can have it, but Sci really did think that bit up (as far as I recall) so it's her call :D

I have to admit I'm loving the horrified reactions to the GBBO s'mores. In part because I dislike Bakeoff intensely, so people being mad at them delights me. But in much larger part because the entire thing plays into a conversation about gentrification and elevation that so many people are so clearly unready to enter into.

It has been very common in the last ten, fifteen years, in America and I think also in the UK, for a white chef to open a restaurant that "elevates" a certain kind of ethnic food. "Elevate" generally means removing strength of flavor or "unpalatable" elements like organ meats, and is hugely insulting to the culture the food derives from. Occasionally you will get chefs from nonwhite cultures making particularly gourmet or modern takes on their culture's food, but even if they aren't calling it elevated, food critics often condescendingly will. Or white patrons will get upset when asked to pay Michelin-star prices for foods they're used to seeing as "2am drunk food" or at best "cheap eats". (More on that here.)

So it's pretty amusing to me to see people losing their shit over GBBO s'mores, because a lot of people who have never encountered this are now experiencing how insulting it is for their cultural foodstuffs to be "elevated". I don't give Paul Hollywood much credit as a satirist but if he did it intentionally it would have been a brilliant troll. As is it's still quite funny to see people seethe.

[shiorimakibawrites]

First Date (Part 13 of Alley Cat)

Image credits: kissthemgoodbye.net / Amber Kipp / Nathan Dumlao

Image Description: Matt Murdock as red-suit Daredevil against nighttime city background in one block, Shadowy couple leaning against each other surrounded by candles overlooking a city in second block, under second block is text saying Alley Cat by Shiori_Makiba, the third block is a orange medium haired tabby laying on a table and looking up at the camera playfully. END ID.

Pairing: Matt Murdock x fem! Reader

Word Count: 8,465

Summary: You and Matt have your first date. Overlaps slightly with Anticipation.

Warning(s): Frank references and mentions of sex, Reader has a lot of impure thoughts, attempts at humor.

Can also be read on AO3

Series Masterlist can be found here.

First Date

You took a deep breath, steadied your grip on the cast iron skillet and the plate of your cake saver, and flipped. Gently you sat down the cake and carefully lifted the skillet. You smiled. The cake had come out perfect. It hadn’t fallen apart and none of the fruit topping had gotten stuck to the bottom of the skillet. Which was always satisfying. You put the cake aside to finish cooling.

You hoped that Nelson and Page liked their apology cake. You had done your best. You considered yourself a good home baker but there was always this little niggle of doubt whenever someone new was trying your food. Or you were testing a new recipe or recipe variation. This was a little mixture of both. Nelson and Page were almost new to your food, having only had your chocolate chip cookies. Well, you knew Page had eaten some of the cookies since she had complimented their taste. You were only assuming that Nelson had tried some too.

You had made pineapple upside down cake before but had made a minor tweak to your recipe to (hopefully) prevent the cake from being unpalatable to Matt. Yes, the cake wasn’t for him but there was a chance that Nelson and Page would decided that they couldn’t eat an entire cake by themselves and shared a slice with him.

As noted, the change was very minor. You had already switched your baking staples like flour to organic or something along those lines years ago. Fresh pineapple had been available but you were still a little tired from yesterday and were pretty sure that you would run out of steam before finishing the cake if you had to remove the rind, core, and attempt to cut a pineapple into more or less even slices. And all the whole pineapples had looked like more pineapple than you would need for the cake and while you liked pineapple, you could only eat so much of it. So you brought the canned sliced and crushed pineapple and hoped the label wasn’t lying about only containing fruit and juice. The actual change was in the maraschino cherries.

Previously you had used the cherries that was commonly available and inexpensive but your brother had thrown out that jar when he visited. He had gotten into mixing cocktails and very particular about the ingredients. And in his opinion, your maraschino cherries were trash that sullied the good name of maraschino cherries.

You rolled your eyes at the memory. Your brother could be a little dramatic.

He replaced the jar with one of his preferred types. They were dark red, almost black, instead the cartoonishly bright red of your old ones. The taste was more tart but when you compared the labels, the fancy cherries didn’t have food dyes and other such things in them. So fancy cherries it was to garnish this cake.

You hoped that his drama about cherries had paid off for you. Like his forgetting some of his clothes had already benefited you.

And now you were thinking about Matt’s arms. Again.

You glanced at the clock. It was a little after five. Nelson & Murdock was technically closed but you knew perfectly well that didn’t mean any of them were heading home. For one thing, even if they were calling it a day, there were things that would need to be taken care of first. Like closing out the point-of-sale or making sure things like their notes and other confidential information has been secured. For another, all of that research and writing wasn’t going to do itself and if they had been tied up in court or meetings most of the day . . .

Last but certainly not least, they were criminal defense attorneys. Arrests and/or interrogations weren’t restricted to normal business hours. Nelson had made sure that you were aware that if the police wanted to question you or worse, arrest you, that he didn’t care what time it was. Call him. Their answering service would re-direct the call to his or Matt’s personal phones if it was after hours. One of them would be there, just sit tight and keep your mouth shut until then.

Given your profession, he had to be aware that you likely already knew all that but you appreciated that he didn’t assume and make sure you were both on the same page.

You had intended to start baking as soon as you got home but your sister called you. You had immediately answered as soon as you heard her ringtone because the last time you had talked, Beth hadn’t been feeling well. Hearing her sound so happy when she returned your greeting was a welcome relief.

Turned out, she wasn’t sick at all. She was pregnant again. Which made her and her husband happy since they had been thinking of trying for another kid now that your nephew was almost five. According to your sister, your niece and nephew were already exited about their new sibling through you suspected your nephew was just glad that he wasn’t going to be the baby anymore.

The only downside to Beth being deliriously happy was that she always wanted to spread that happiness around. Which for you, meant asking if she could set you up. Again. Which no. You loved your sister but the men she had tried to set you up with . . . . well, you couldn’t say they were bad choices. They were good looking in that normal sort of way, had good jobs, and most had been decent people. You just hadn’t clicked with any of them. There was no spark.

You had tried seeing if the spark would grow over time but it never did. All trying did was hurt you and the man in question. And had been making you start to feel like there was something fundamentally wrong with you. So you had put your foot down. You appreciated her efforts but from now on, you would find your own dates.

You weren’t having much better much luck than your sister at finding your special someone . . . but maybe that had changed. You could hope.

Beth had given an excited squeal when you told her that you had met someone. She wanted to know everything. You had told her most of it. You left out the Daredevil thing for obvious reasons. While you didn’t shy away from the fact that you found Matt attractive, you kept the incredible horniness he inspired in you deliberately vague. Maybe other sisters shared the details about their sex lives or sexual fantasies with each other but that wasn’t your relationship with your sister.

Besides some of your fantasies about Matt involved the Daredevil thing. You wondered if he still had the black outfit he started out with. Because you already knew that as incredible as his ass looked in those grainy photographs of his current suit in the newspaper, it had looked even better in person. And considering how good he had looked as the Man in the Black in those grainy photographs . . . .

You shook your head and pushed away those thoughts. You’d think about that fantasy later. When you were sure that you’d have time to enjoy it.

You decided to check on Houdini. He was being suspiciously quiet.

Finding the cat took long enough that you were starting to wonder if he had sneaked out but then you spotted him sleeping on top of the fridge. You weren’t sure how you managed to miss him. All the appliances in this apartment were black and he was, after all, orange. Cute as he looked, curled up in one of those contortionists positions that cats apparently love to be in, you managed to resist the urge to pet him. It would wake him up and an awake Houdini was one looking for mischief. Or food.

You pulled out one of the meals you had made previously and frozen for dinner. Heating it in a saucepan on the stove took almost no brain power. Which was probably why your mind drifted back to Matt. Specifically his ass and how well it filled a pair of pants. Any pair of pants it would seem. The trousers for his lawyer suit, the red Daredevil armor, sweatpants . . . his ass looked incredible in them all. You bet he would look equally good in a pair of well-fitting jeans. And assuming he welcomed that sort of thing, if you would ever work up the courage to grab a handful. Or two. Probably would need two hands. His ass wasn’t small . . .

The phone ringing made you jump. Ringing with the ringtone you had assigned to Matt’s number. Of course, you had forgotten to take the phone with you into the kitchen so it was still sitting on your coffee table. You had to dash to answer it before it reached voicemail.

“Hello, sweetheart,” Matt greeted you, sounding cheerful like he was smiling. You hoped so. “What are you up to?”

Thinking about your ass while I make dinner was the honest answer but there was absolutely no way you were going to say that. “Oh, just heating some beef and mushrooms for dinner.”

“Sounds delicious,” he said.

“You’re welcome to come over and have some,” you offered. “I have plenty.”

“I would love to, sweetheart, but unfortunately we still need to finish some things before court tomorrow. Probably won’t be finished until it gets late.”

“Oh,” you said, trying to feel too disappointed. You had no reason. You had gotten an impromptu lunch date today. You were going on a date this Friday. And unless he was out when you dropped off the cake, you’d see him tomorrow.

“But I said that I would call you,” he continued. “Since I have a minute, I’m doing it now.”

“I appreciate it,” you said. You have would understood if he had forgotten. You had sometimes forgotten to return the calls of friends and family after getting very busy at work. You might have forgotten to return work calls if you hadn’t written yourself a reminder. Usually on a sticky note, bright pink to make it stand out from the yellow tabs and sticky notes used by the office.

But it was nice, not starting off this relationship with a broken promise. “I can let you go if you need to get back to work?”

“No need,” he said. “Foggy and I are taking a break for dinner. He just went to grab us some Chinese.”

“Doesn’t trust you to make the food run?” you asked.

“I was informed that my meal-retrieving privileges are suspended until further notice.”

You laughed and then said, “That’s fair.”

Matt chuckled. “Yeah, can’t blame him for that one. Do you like Italian?”

“Of course,” you said, giving your dinner a stir to make sure that it didn’t burn. “Why?”

“There is an Italian restaurant not far from my place,” he said. “Family-owned, it’s small but the food is really good. I was thinking of taking you there Friday.”

You smiled and answered, “That sounds wonderful.”

“Perfect,” he said. “I can meet you at your place and we can walk there. Does seven o’clock work for you?”

You did some mental math. Assuming you got off on time, that should give you enough to get back here, make sure Houdini was settled, and get ready.

“Seven should be good,” you said. “I’ll let you know if that changes.”

“Likewise,” he said.

If he said anything after that, you didn’t hear it after you were startled by a loud thud and dropped your phone. You whirled around but it was just Houdini. Awake now and hopping off the top of the fridge onto the counter. You picked up your phone and before the phone got near your ear, you could hear Matt’s concerned voice.

“-heart, are you alright?”

“Yeah,” you said. “I’m fine. I just dropped my phone when Houdini startled me.”

“That’s good,” he said, sounding relieved.

“Sorry if I scared you,” you said.

“Don’t worry about it,” he said. “It wasn’t intentional.”

“Houdini is sorry too,” you added.

“Is he?” Matt asked, a hint of amusement already creeping back into his tone.

“Probably not but I’m apologizing for him anyway.”

Matt chuckled.

Houdini apparently decided he wasn’t done scaring you. He walked across the counter and onto the stove, heading straight for the lit burner.

“No!” you yelled, grabbing the cat before he got too close and burned himself. He protested loudly as you lifted him up and squirmed. It was difficult not to drop the phone again. Houdini wasn’t fat but he was big enough that trying to hold him with one hand was awkward even when he wasn’t being a wiggle worm. You didn’t know how Matt managed not to drop him and climb the fire escape at the same time. Granted his hands were bigger than yours . . . and maybe ninjas have some kind of cat wrangling trick they are keeping from the rest of us . . .

“Sweetheart?” Matt interrupted your train of thought, sounding concerned again.

“Houdini decided he wanted to help me cook,” you explained.

“Wants add chef to his resume?”

“Maybe,” you said. Houdini meowed at you. He didn’t like that you were still holding him when he didn’t want to be held and paying more attention to your phone than him.

“Don’t meow me, mister, you know you aren’t allowed to walk on the stove,” you scolded the cat as you sat him on the floor. In typical cat fashion, he didn’t remain there for long. He immediately jumped into the counter and turned around to give you a look, his tail twitching. Silently daring to you to put him back on the floor. Knowing full well that he will jump right back up there, almost as soon as his paws hit the floor.

“I’m watching you, fluffy,” you warned the cat, picking up the spoon from where it had been hastily dropped onto counter. You had almost forgotten you were on the phone. Until the bark of laughter in your ear reminded you.

“Umm . . . sorry?” you said.

“For what?” he asked, still chuckling. “I already know that cat likes to be distracting.”

“It is his favorite game,” you agreed, stirring your dinner again before determining that it was hot enough and killing the heat. “Sorry for basically yelling in your ear.”

“It’s alright,” he said. Then he lowered his voice, “You don’t have to worry about getting loud, sweetheart. I want to hear you.”

Judging by the husky quality to his voice, he wasn’t talking about general conversational loudness. You felt your face get warm and heat began to gather between your legs.

“Good to know,” you managed to say.

He might have said more, might have gotten you even more worked up but you could just about hear the indistinct murmur of another voice from his side of the line.

“Be right there, Fogs,” he said, his voice a little distant like he had pulled away from the phone to answer his friend. “Hate to cut this short, sweetheart, but I have to get back to work.”

“No problem,” you said. “I’ll see you on Friday.”

“Yes, you will,” he said. This time you understand why he put so much emphasis on you. Apparently even when he is Daredevil, he couldn’t resist making jokes about being blind. Well, it was his secret identity and his disability. If anyone was allowed to be snarky about it, it was him.

“Get back to work, Mr. Smartass,” you ordered.

Matt laughed and said, “Yes, ma’am.”

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

Wonder of wonders, you actually managed to get off work on time. Opposing counsel hadn’t filed any motions with the court at the last minute to make sure you and the others had to spent this Friday night and maybe the rest of weekend responding to said motions. Jackson might have done it but Ms. Stahl thought he was being careful after his last stunt. The judge had not been amused by it. Classic literature had been quoted.

The first thing you did was give Houdini some attention. You thought he might be more inclined to forgive you for leaving him alone all night if he got spoiled a little first. And if something was going to completely covered in cat fur, it ought to be your work clothes instead of your date clothes. Through you would still probably have some fur on you. Cat fur was like glitter. It got everywhere, into everything.

When Houdini got bored with cuddling, you gave him an bigger than usual serving of his wet food. After you checked on his dry food and water, you did a quick run up the roof to check on your plants. Some of the sweet peppers were big enough to harvest. The basil and oregano looked almost big enough to harvest again. Maybe you would dry this batch. The tomatoes weren’t quite there yet. You picked the ripe peppers and returned to your apartment, stowing them in the fridge.

That done, you took a deep breath and started getting ready for your date. You were feeling nervous. Part of those nerves was your promise to wear a pair of Jo had named as slut panties and the knowledge that unless something interrupted you again, you would be having sex tonight. It had been awhile since you had sex with someone other than yourself.

But most of your nerves that you wanted this date to go well. Not just because Matt was the most beautiful man you had ever laid eyes on. Or just because you wanted sex. You weren’t going to lie to yourself and say those things didn’t matter to you but that weren’t the main reasons you wanted everything to go well. The main reason was that you really liked Matt.

He was smart. Witty. Charming. He made you laugh. He had an obvious temper and a lot of anger but was also compassionate enough to put himself in danger to protect others instead of ignoring their suffering. You had already seen that he could be very sweet. Gentle when that was what was needed.

You couldn’t say that you loved him. It was too soon for that. You didn’t really know him yet. But you could sense that the potential was there. That one day, it could be love. And maybe it was selfish but you wanted that.

You went into the bathroom and turned on the shower. Today had been rather hot and humid. You weren’t going on this date smelling like dried sweat. You would have showered for any date, especially after such a hot day, but Matt had a bloodhound nose. Which made it extra important. Thinking about his sense of smell, you had a moment of hesitation about using your usual products . . . the vanilla scent in the body wash and lotion or the coconut in your shampoo and conditioner wasn’t very strong but . . .

You reminded yourself that he hadn’t seemed to mind those scents before. He hadn’t sneezed or made excuses to cut your encounters short. He let you hug him and fell asleep on you. You assumed that if the smell bothered him, he wouldn’t do that. And when he commented on the scent of your body products at his office, he didn’t sound like he found them distasteful. In fact, after you rather embarrassingly compared yourself to a cookie, he had made some remark about liking to eat coconut macaroons . . .

There had been an implication there . . . one that matched the hints that Jo had teased you with from those rumors she wouldn’t tell you . . .

You pushed away those thoughts. Now was not the time. You were having a hard enough time keeping it in your pants around Matt as it was. No need to get yourself all worked up before he even got here. You might do something crazy. Like have your way with him in the elevator of your building. You focused your attention on getting yourself clean and giving your legs a quick overview with the razor.

Once you were satisfied that you were well-scrubbed, you dried yourself off and slathered on lotion, paying particular attention to your legs. Shaving was a hassle sometimes but you had to admit that you rather liked how your freshly shaved legs felt. Wrapping yourself in a towel, you headed toward your bedroom and the daunting task of figuring out what to wear.

You had been taught that dressing nicely for a date was just good manners. That Matt couldn’t see what you were wearing was irrelevant.

You decided to start with underwear since that was the most limited selection. And starting there would give your nerves about actually wearing the aforementioned slut panties the most time to settle. Jo would understand if you got too anxious to go through with it but you wanted to at least try.

You laid out your options on your bed and considered. One pair was easy to eliminate. Crotchless panties was closer to going without panties than you were comfortable with. You were almost certain that Jo had picked those purely to see you splutter at the outrageous suggestion. She had succeeded. But she had also brought out your stubborn streak and you bought them anyway.

The thong went into the no pile for similar reasons as the crotchless panties.

The last two pairs were the tamest. Being a very high-legged style, they looked like they would cover less than your usual panties. The front and crotch panels were solid but the rear panel was made of see-through lace. You knew that the see-through aspect held no appeal for Matt but you hoped that he might enjoy the texture of the lace itself. Jo had made a saucy remark about encouraging him to fondle your ass. And you had to admit that idea had a lot of appeal . . .

She cited similar logic for why you needed to buy the matching bras to the last two pairs of panties. ‘You don’t want him forgetting to give your tits some love. Besides, the second rule of being a slut is regardless of whether your lover takes it off or reaches under your shirt, what they find is either the sexy bra or your bare tits,’ was her exact words.

You strongly suspected that she was making these rules up as she went along. Regardless, she was persuasive. You had bought the bras.

The only difference between the two was their color. One was black. The other was dark red. It was almost the same shade of red as the Daredevil suit . . . and suddenly your mind was made up. You were wearing the red one. A little secret nod to his alter ego. Who you had, after all, met first. You would save the black set for another night.

One of your silk blouses was the same shade of dark red but you had worn it earlier this week. The other one, the one in scarlet, was clean but you didn’t want to overdo the red. You liked red well enough but it wasn’t your favorite color. Beth and Jo, at least, would question the sudden interest in the color if you started wearing it all the time. And you didn’t want them (or anyone else) making any Daredevil shaped conclusions. So you pulled out the one in teal.

You considered wearing slacks but you had been wearing those all week at the office. You wanted to wear something different. So you looked to your skirts. You had some very short ones – Jo again – but since you were going somewhere that might have children present, you opted for the longer ones. Black, light weight fabric, about knee length with a fluttery hem that produced a nice swish when you walked.

You decided to wear a pair of your slip-on flats. Jo would have worn what she liked to call her ‘fuck me pumps’ but Jo could run in high heels. You regularly tripped over your own feet. Consequently, you seldom risked wearing heels higher than an inch and half.

Despite your nerves about it, slipping on the slut panties was . . . . exciting. There was a certain thrill in being a little naughty. You knew your more old-fashioned relatives would say you were being very naughty. Planning to have premarital sex. Wearing the kind of underwear that you had once heard one of your aunts describe as the devil’s panties.

The memory made you laugh out loud. Your aunt had no idea. Here you were, about to go out with the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen himself. While wearing the devil’s panties. You wondered what Matt would say about that . . . you snickered as you pulled on your skirt.

You couldn’t get your snickering under control until you finished dressing but you felt better. Looser, more relaxed. Guess you just needed a laugh. You went back to the bathroom to do your hair and make up with a spring in your step.

You had just finished tidying up the bathroom when you heard the intercom buzz. Your heart began to race with excitement. Please be Matt and not one of your neighbors accidentally locking themselves out. Again. You – barely – managed to restrain the urge to run to it. Walking normally and even managing to sound causal when you asked, “Who is it?”

“It’s me, sweetheart,” said Matt. “Can you buzz me in?”

“Sure,” you said, reaching for the button to unlock the front door.

“Thanks. Be right with you.”

While you waited, you looked for Houdini. It was always a good idea to know where the cat was when the door was going to be opened. While the windows were his favorite escape route, he wasn’t adverse to darting out of the door when the opportunity arouse.

There he was, napping on the coffee table. Sprawled out on his side, his front paws wrapped around the strap of your purse, the rest of it under his body. Making sure you can’t leave without saying good-bye to him. He was too cute not to pet and this time you couldn’t resist. He made a little purring noise, nuzzling into your hand.

You kept petting Houdini while keeping an ear out for the knock on the door. It didn’t take long. Again, it took more willpower than was pretty to walk to the door instead of run.

“Hi,” you said as you opened the door. And felt your mouth go dry. Matt always looked good but tonight, he looked good enough to eat. Maroon polo shirt, just tight enough to emphasize the width of his shoulders and the large muscles of his upper arms but loose enough not to look painted on. That it left his forearms bare, with all of their muscles and dark hair, was just a bonus. None of the buttons had been done up so you also got a tantalizing hint of his broad chest. His thick thighs were encased in well-fitting black slacks. If his legs looked that good in those pants, his ass was going to be incredible . . .

You blamed his inherent sexiness for how long it took you to realize that his hands weren’t empty. In addition to the expected white cane in one hand, in the other was a bouquet of flowers. They looked like daisies except that they weren’t all white but blue, purple, pink, and yellow. You felt stunned. Had he gotten you flowers? You couldn’t remember the last time someone had gotten you flowers . . .

“Hello sweetheart,” he greeted you, smiling. He held out the bouquet and said, “These are for you.”

“Me?” You repeated, feeling your heart flutter.

“For you,” he confirmed, his smile and voice going soft, gentle as spring rain. Your hands shook a little when you reached for the flowers, feeling almost like they would disappear if you actually touched them. But when your hands closed around the bouquet, they didn’t vanish.

“Thank you,” you said, cradling the flowers against your chest. “Come in while I get a vase.”

You stepped back to give him room to enter. Watching him walk into your living room, you discovered you were right. His ass did look incredible in those pants. So incredible it was almost criminal. Surely they caused car accidents. Because who could resist the urge to stare?

“My eyes are up here.”

Your head snapped up at his voice. Matt had his face turned toward you, over his shoulder, those pretty lips set in that smug little smirk. He was wearing his dark glasses so you couldn’t see his eyes but you would bet good money that they were sparkling with amusement. He knew you were staring at his ass. You didn’t know how he knew but he definitely knew. You felt your face heat.

Desperate for a distraction, you turned your attention to the flowers in your hands. It was a touching gesture, getting you flowers. And not the stereotypical roses. You didn’t dislike roses. They were pretty and they smelled nice without being cloyingly sweet. It was just everyone seemed to pick roses . . .

“Are these daisies?” you asked.

It was an obvious change of subject. Judging by that raised eyebrow, he was well aware what you were doing but apparently decided to be merciful and allow it.

“Asters,” he answered. “Daisies are toxic to cats. Or so says the internet. But I figured you rather be safe than sorry in this case.”

“Absolutely,” you agreed. Houdini might occasionally dance on your last nerve but you loved him and would hate for him to get sick. Or worse.

“Florist said they come in a variety of colors but since I didn’t know which you would prefer, I told her to put in a little of each.”

“I like a little of each better than a single color,” you said. “It’s more dynamic that way.”

He nodded and said, “Good to know.”

You moved into your kitchen, carefully setting the flowers down on your small table, before starting to look for the vase. You had a nice one, a housewarming gift from your sister, but you hadn’t been using it much. So you had put it away and didn’t quite remember where you had stashed it. You were pretty sure it was somewhere in the kitchen, probably on the top shelves of these cabinets . . .

There it was, in the small cabinet above the fridge. You reached up to grab it and discovered that it was just far enough back to be out of range of your fingers. Not even on your tip-toes could you reach it. You sighed, dropped back flat on your feet, and turned to drag over your step-stool. Only to left out a startled yelp. You hadn’t realized that Matt had gotten that close.

He looked entirely too pleased with himself, wearing that amused little smirk while you tried to convince your heart to stop racing.

“Bell,” you said firmly.

“Bell?” he repeated, his amused smirk only growing.

“Yes,” you said. Then, with as much as authority as you could muster, said, “All cats should have to wear bells.”

“Not a cat,” he countered.

“Ninja are classified as cats,” you said. “You are a ninja and therefore a cat. So you must wear a bell. It’s the law.”

“Is it?” He asked. “Haven’t come across that particular statute.”

“It’s from 1871 and admittedly it’s not as rigidly enforced today as it once was,” you said, feigning seriousness. “But it’s still on the books.”

“Houdini doesn’t seem to have a bell,” he observed.

“He has one. He takes his collar off,” you said.

“And you just let him get away with breaking the law like that?” he asked.

“No,” you said. “He hides it after he takes it off.”

Matt’s grin got even wider. “Does he? Same place everytime?”

“No,” you said, shaking your head. “Always a different location.”

“Quite the criminal mastermind you have.”

“Yes,” you said. “Good thing Daredevil is keeping him in check. Otherwise he might have taken over the city by now.”

Matt laughed, that delighted laugh that lit up his entire face and brought out those dimples. It was unbearably cute.

“Thanks for the vote of confidence, sweetheart,” he said once he got his amusement under control. “Houdini is a very tough opponent.”

Probably because he heard his name, Houdini gave a loud meow from the living room. Which just made you both laugh.

“Did you find your vase?” he asked after you both calmed down.

“Yes,” you said. “I just need to get my step-stool. It’s just out of my reach.”

“Or I could get it down for you,” he said.

“Or you could get it down for me,” you repeated. The asked, “You don’t mind?”

“I wouldn’t have offered if I minded, sweetheart,” he said. “Now where is this vase?”

In seconds you had your vase. After filling it with water, you arranged the colorful asters to your liking. After some consideration, you placed it in the middle of your small kitchen table. There was nowhere in your apartment where it would be completely safe from getting knocked over by your cat but in the kitchen, it had a chance. It wouldn’t last two minutes on your coffee table.

As it was, Houdini hopped onto the table and started giving the vase a thorough inspection. Something he always did to anything new or had been stored away for any length of time.

“Be a good cat,” you told him. “Don’t break anything. No wild parties.”

Houdini meowed as if saying no promises, human.

Judging by the little smile on Matt’s face, he found your little conversation with your cat amusing. You retrieved your purse, swung it onto your shoulder, then double-checked that you had your phone and your keys.

“Shall we?” Matt asked, holding out his free hand.

“We shall,” you agreed, managing to sound confident even as some of your earlier nerves threatened to return. Your hand trembled a little when you reached for his offered hand but it was steady by the time you actually slide your hand into his. Probably sensing your nerves, he gently squeezed your hand and pulled you close to his side. Then you walked out of the door and headed for the elevator.

At first you walked in silence , the only sounds between the ambient noises of the building and the tap-tap of his cane. But sometimes when you were nervous, you found silences uncomfortable and got chatty. Tonight was apparently one of those times.

“You look nice,” you said. “Maroon is a good color on you.”

“Thank you, I try,” he said. “I’ll have to take your word about the maroon. Well, yours as well as Foggy and Marci.”

“Foggy and Marci?” you asked.

“Foggy bought me this and a couple of other shirts in order to get me to wear, I quote, ‘something that isn’t black, navy, brown, or gray’ but Marci helped him picked them out. Said she didn’t want a repeat of ‘the mustard travesty.’”

“The mustard travesty?” you repeated.

“Apparently one of the shirts he bought me during college was ‘the color of Dijon mustard’ and Marci says that putting me in mustard is ‘a fashion crime against humanity.’”

You tried to picture that. You weren’t sure it was possible for Matt to look terrible but agreed that mustard probably wasn’t the best color choice for him.

“What are you wearing?” he asked as you pressed the button for the ground floor.

It was a reasonable question. But it reminded you of what you were wearing under those clothes. Which made you face feel a little warm.

“Oh nothing fancy, just a skirt and a blouse,” you said, trying to sound casual.

Matt tilted his head slightly to the side you were on. Like he was listening closely to you. You wondered why. “One of those silk blouses your sister got you?”

“Yes,” you said. “The teal one.”

“Not sure I remember what teal looks like,” he said.

“It’s a mixture of blue and green,” you said.

He made a little humming noise of acknowledgment. “Your skirt?”

“Black.”

“Is this skirt short?” he asked.

“No,” you answered. “Why?”

“Just curious about why asking about your outfit made you more nervous that you already were. Thought maybe you had worn something a little daring, something you don’t wear very often.”

“Like a skirt too short for the office?” you asked.

He nodded.

“Nope. No short skirts tonight,” you said.

“But you did wear something daring.”

You spluttered, the earlier warmth in your face increasing. “How did – ?”

“Know? I suspected when you didn’t deny wearing something daring, just that it wasn’t your skirt. I knew when you reacted like that,” he said.

He adopted a thoughtful look as he seemed to think out loud, “Wearing something daring . . . it’s not your skirt . . . you said your silk blouses were the same aside from their color and I know you wore another one to work earlier this week so not your blouse . . . that leaves something you didn’t or wouldn’t mention . . . like your underwear.”

Your face felt like it was on fire. The thoughtful playfulness on his face shifted into something hungry, almost predatory. That look stirred something within you, kindling that dormant fire between your legs back to life. Matt’s nostrils flared and the tip of his tongue swept across his lips. He let go of your hand in favor of snaking his arm around your shoulders. You let out a squeak as he pulled you against him.

Despite the hunger on his face, his hold was gentle. You could easily wriggle out of it if you wanted to. But you didn’t want to. You wanted to be closer, wanted to press flush against his body.

“Am I right?” he whispered in your ear, his voice low and rough. “Are you wearing something pretty for me under these clothes, sweetheart?”

The voice alone was enough to make you shudder but the sensation of his breath against your ear, teasing that sensitive spot on your neck, added fuel to the fire within you.

“Y-yes,” you answered. He rumbled, his hand starting to slide from your shoulder down your back . . .

The ding of the elevator as it reached the ground floor made you jump and hastily pull away, vaguely feeling like a teenager getting caught making out by their parents. The doors slide open and you stepped out into the lobby, Matt walking closely behind you. You took a deep breath, trying to calm yourself down.

Dinner, then maybe sex, you silently reminded yourself. Assuming he still wants to have sex with you by then.

You looked around for something to distract your mind away from the gutter and found it in the form of Mrs. Dudley standing by the mailboxes, collecting her mail. She was staring at Matt with narrowed eyes and a suspicious frown. You wondered if she had seen Matt leaving earlier this week, dressed in your brother’s sweatpants. Probably if the sneering glare she sent in your direction was any indication. She pointedly turned her back to you and beside you, Matt stiffened.

“Let me guess,” you whispered to him. “She’s muttering about me being a whore.”

“Yes,” he said. “How did you know?”

“Mrs. Dudley is a very religious woman,” you explained. “I forget which specific branch of Protestant Christianity she subscribes to but the bottom line is that she has very strong opinions about premarital sex. She probably saw you leaving Sunday morning. And then she saw you with me . . .”

“And made assumptions about what we’ve been doing?” he injected.

“Got it in one,” you said. “I can see why Foggy pays you the big bucks.”

Matt chuckled, his body losing some of the tension. “Doesn’t it bother you? That she is talking about you like that?”

“A little,” you answered. “But I’m used to Mrs. Dudley thinking badly of me.”

“Why? You’re wonderful,” he objected.

“Flatterer,” you said, feeling your heart flutter at the sheer outrage in his voice. “Part of it is that she has meet Jo . . .”

“Who is Jo?” he interrupted.

“My best friend,” you answered. “She’s an investigative reporter for The Bulletin.”

“Joanna Meyer? Karen has mentioned her – said she wasn’t afraid to express her mind.”

You smiled. “That’s Jo. Like Mrs. Dudley, Jo also has very strong opinions about sex. Her opinion that as long as all parties involved are freely consenting adults, they can have as much sex as they want. In the world according to Jo, slut is a compliment.”

“I can see how she and Mrs. Dudley might clash.”

You nodded and then added, “And then shortly after I got him, Houdini dug up all of her petunias and used the pot as a litter box.”

The made Matt laugh. You giggled. It was funny now. It hadn’t been funny at the time. Again, the laughter eased your nerves. After you both got your amusement under control, Matt offered his hand again. This time your hand didn’t shake even a little bit when you slide your hand into his.

“So,” you said as you exited the building. “Which way are we going?”

He grinned as he turned you to head down the street and said, “The sighted being guide by the blind? That’s a switch.”

“I could take over guiding,” you said, pretending to be thoughtful. “Provided you are fine with ending up somewhere unexpected.”

“Oh? Like where?” he asked, playing along.

“Queens.”

He laughed, then asked, “How in the world would we end up all the way in Queens?”

You shrugged, feeling your face get a little warm with mild embarrassment. Then said, “You are underestimating my ability to get lost. I’ve gotten lost several times trying to navigating this city.”

“And found yourself in Queens?”

“Sometimes,” you said. “Learned that Spider-Man will give you directions if you ever find yourself lost in Queens.”

“Good to know,” Matt said, shaking his head with an amused little smile as the pair of you went around a corner. “But I seldom get lost enough to wind up in Queens by accident.”

“Know the streets like the back of your hand, do you?” You asked.

“Yes,” he said. “Especially these streets. I’ve lived in Hell’s Kitchen nearly all of my life.”

“Is that why you set up shop here?” you asked.

He nodded, his face very serious. “Hell’s Kitchen isn’t perfect but it’s home. There are good people here that need someone in their corner.”

You had figured previously that Matt had to have a strong connection to this neighborhood in particular in order to appoint himself as its guardian angel. Or guardian devil, you supposed he would say. Personally, you thought angel was just as apt. Biblical angels, after all, were rather fearsome things.

“What about you? Where’s your hometown?” he asked.

“Don’t really have one,” you said. “I was born on the west coast but we moved around a lot.”

“Why?”

“My dad was in the military until I was in high school,” you explained. “When he retired, we moved to Florida because my mom is from there and she wanted to live closer to her sisters.”

Matt gave a little hum of understanding, then you walked in comfortable silence for a couple of minutes before he spoke again, “We’re almost there. Allergi, on your right.”

You looked ahead and scanned the signs until you saw the one that had Allergi Italian Restaurant in cream white raised letters against a scarlet red background. It hung above a door painted in the same shade of red with cream accents between large windows. As you approached the door, your nose was filled with the warm scent of garlic, tomatoes, and herbs. You could see a few patrons through the windows and they looked like they were enjoying themselves.

Matt tried to let go of your hand when you got to the door but you squeezed his hand, unwilling to let his hand go yet. You opened the door for both of you. The rich smell of food was stronger now and it made your mouth water. The gentle murmur of conversation and soft laughter filled your ears as you walked together toward the podium.

The dark brown eyes of the teenage girl manning the podium lit up when she saw Matt and called out, “Nonna! Mr. Murdock is here!”

A woman appeared in the entrance to what you assumed was the kitchen. The wide smile that spread across her face was identical to the one on the teenager – you could tell they were related. She walked over as fast as her age allowed, throwing her arms around Matt once she got in range.

“Matteo, how lovely to see you again,” she said warmly.

“Hello, Mrs. Allergi,” he greeted, an equally warm smile on his face.

“Nonna, Matteo, call me Nonna,” she gently scolded him. “How many times do I have tell you?”

“At least once more, Mrs. Allergi,” he said, then introduced you.

“Welcome to Allergi’s, my dear,” she said. “Come, let me show you to your table.”

As you were lead to a small table, you took a quick look around. The walls were painted the same cream white as the outside sign and were decorated with lovely citiscapes framed in dark wood. You immediately recognized the ones of New York but you thought some of the others were Rome, Florence, Naples, and Venice. Some of the architecture of those cities was pretty distinctive. The same dark wood was repeated in the square tables and chairs arrayed around the restaurant. The cushions lined the seats of the chairs also echoed the sign as they were the same shade of scarlet red.

When you were seated at the table, the teenager set down a set of silverware wrapped in a red napkin, quietly making sure that Matt knew where she had sat down his silverware. She handed you both a menu before bouncing off to get you both some ice water to start off with. You wondered if you were ever that peppy when you were her age.

Mrs. Allergi returned to the kitchen after chiding Matt for missing Mass so often, her light tone making it clear that she was teasing him rather than actually lecturing him for not coming to church.

“So I assume you know the Allergis?” you said as you opened your menu.

“Pretty obvious?” he said, smiling.

“Just a little bit.”

“My dad was working as busboy for them as one of his part-time jobs when my accident happened. They were one of the few places that didn’t fire him for taking so much time off. They couldn’t take me in after . . . after . . . but Mrs. Allergi always asked how I was doing after Mass while I lived at St. Agnes. Then a couple of years ago, they ran into a little legal trouble . . .”

“My brother Eddy got arrested for robbery and murder,” the teenager interjected as she sat down your glasses and filled them with ice water. “Mr. Murdock saved him from Rikers.”

“I didn’t do anything special, Lucy,” Matt said. “The DA had no case . . .”

“Mr. Murdock saved him,” Lucy repeated with stars in her eyes. And a blush across her cheeks. You realized that this wasn’t just hero worship, she probably had a crush on Matt. “The public defender wanted him to take a deal . . .”

“Lucy!” Mrs. Allergi shouted from the entrance of the kitchen, beckoning to the girl.

The girl sighed, pouted a little, then called back, “Coming Nonna! Good night, Mr. Murdock.”

“Good night, Lucy,” Matt said as the girl turned and left.

“She has a crush on you,” you said in a low voice.

“I know,” he said, in an equally quiet voice. “She’ll move onto someone else sooner or later. In the meantime, I’m treating her like Candace.”

“Candace?” You asked.

“Foggy’s little sister.”

You made a humming sound of acknowledge, turning your attention to the menu. A lot of the dishes seemed to have two versions – Italian American and traditional Italian. In the end you decided to order the traditional version of fettuccine Alfredo as you had never had that version before and was curious. And it didn’t sound like something that would sent you into a food coma.

Because as much as you enjoyed literally sleeping with Matt, you were kinda of hoping to do more tonight.

You decided to opt for tea instead of any of the wines on offer for similar reasons. You didn’t want to be drowsy or Matt worrying about if you were actually saying yes to sex or it was just the wine talking . . .

Matt ordered the lasagna. While you waited for your meals, he entertained you with the story of how he first meet Foggy at Columbia. Which had you giggling. And also sympathizing with Foggy since you had a frequent bouts of no-filter-between-the-brain-and-the-mouth disease around Matt too.

Both dishes looked and smelled wonderful when they arrived at your table. While you couldn’t speak for Matt’s dish, your meal tasted even better than it smelled. Rich enough to practically melt in your mouth without being heavy. You might have gushed a little to Mrs. Allergi when she swung by the table to see how things were going. Which you think pleased her and she promised to pass the compliments onto her son Antonio who apparently helped with the.

Matt had this little smile on his face throughout the entire exchange and when Mrs. Allergi had left, all he said was, “You’re adorable.”

You felt your face warm and said, “I think you mean awkward.”

“No,” he said, still wearing that gentle smile. “I meant what I said. You’re adorable.”

“Adorable as someone with spontaneous utterances can be,” you said.

“I enjoy your spontaneous utterances,” he said.

“Why?” you asked. “Curious to know how much of my foot I can fit in my mouth?”

“Not quite,” he said then his smile turned coy. “Through I am curious about something along those lines.”

The warmth in your cheeks grew as your mind immediately went to the fantasies you had about about sucking Matt’s cock. You fought the urge to squirm in your chair as the heat between your legs once again flared to life.

This is a public place, you reminded yourself. There are children present.

You desperately tried to think of something besides sex. Spotting another couple sharing some of cake, you asked, “Do you want desert?”

“Mrs. Allergi always sends me home with tiramisu,” he said. “Would you like to go to my place and share it?”

The invitation was clear. As was the knowledge that you would sharing an entirely different kind of desert.

“Yes.”

Notes

I am already working on the next chapter. Which in my outline is almost entirely smut. I’m hoping to get it done faster than this chapter.

Again I had to make some decisions about general background and family for Reader. I tried to keep it as vague as possible given the circumstances.

Reader makes her pineapple upside down cake in a cast iron skillet because that’s how I was taught how to make them. In my dad’s skillet that is older than I am.

According to some of the legal podcasts I’ve listening to and lawyer blogs I’ve been lurking around, judges sometimes start quoting classic literature as a way of snarking at one of the parties when said party has gotten on their nerves in some fashion. This can be especially snarky when the remark was made in the footnotes.

Some of the veterinary websites I went said that daisies, among other flowers, are toxic to cats but that asters were safe. I’m not a vet so I cannot verify that one way or another. Besides asters are pretty.

The mustard thing was inspired by a photo of Charlie Cox at a recent con where he’s wearing a mustard-colored shirt . . . and well, I cannot say that Charlie looks terrible because he never looks terrible and maybe it’s the lighting but judging by those pictures, mustard isn’t his color.

Not kidding about the angels. The actual descriptions of them, especially in the Book of Enoch, are pretty wild . . . there is a good reason that their opening line is usually “Fear not.”

It is my understanding that nonna means grandmother in Italian but feel free to correct me.

Reader recognizing some of the Italian architecture is an artifact of my love for art.

I decided that Foggy gets to have both his TV show sibling of Theo and his comic book sibling of Candace.

The original fettuccine Alfredo did use the cream sauce found in the Italian-American version. From what I could find out, the original is the noodles cooked in butter and herbs, then tossed with freshly grated Parmesan cheese just before serving.

[finniestoncrane]

Number 26 of the smut prompts with Unburied Riddler?

“I can’t wait until we get to the bedroom-I need you, and I need you now!”

Idk I just like the thought of that man being desperate and begging…

💚💚💚💚

I Need You

Batman Unburied!Riddler x Female!Reader, word count: 1.1k yeah you're right, begging and whining are his literal hobbies i think. i just cannot be normal about him and i will go insane if we don't get more of him plus an official artist's interpretation of him 💚 (it's actually more... gn!reader with a vagina btw but i put female for the sake of first glance intros y'know?) request info • prompt list • send me a request • kofi • masterlist minors DNI!! 🔞 cw: flirting, begging, persistant eddie, awkward sex

Walking beside you, slightly behind and occasionally stepping on the back of your shoes, Eddie followed you, very law-abidingly, through the streets of Gotham. Sunglasses and hat on, he was in about as much of a disguise as you could get him in, but most of the people wouldn’t have looked twice at him in the street with or without the accessories. Outside of his Riddler costume, he really was just another guy. That’s what made him so dangerous though, you mused, as he kicked your heel again.

But his knowledge of the criminal mind, and his well-documented intellect, meant that he was sought after by the GCPD to assist with criminal investigations. In the past, you had worked well with him. Too well. There was something about him, something that meant you were willing to risk your reputation and career for him. Although, at this moment in time, it was difficult to remember what that was, and far easier to remember everything about him that irritated you.

“Eddie. I swear to god I will break your ankles and carry you on my back.”

“I’m not going to argue, actually. I would like to be carried. Like a wittle baby.”

He made a pouting face and then laughed at his own dumb joke.

“Oh, come on! We’ve been walking around for soooooo long! When are we going to get there.”

“it’s not my fault you wanted something to eat. I get you out on day release to help me and you demand that we go get food first?”

“I did. Yes. You don’t even want to know about the unpalatable shit they serve to us in there. It’s disgusting.”

“Yeah, yeah. So you keep saying. But to get somewhere that has a decent hygiene rating, I’m afraid we’ve got another couple of blocks to go.”

“Uh, fine. I guess after that we can swing by your place and I can have a nap or something.”

“Why would you think that was an option?”

“Hmmmm… because we both know that there isn’t actually a case for me to help you with.”

You turned to face him, the movement so quickly he hadn’t realised you had stopped, both of you knocking into one another on the street.

“How did you… Yes there is!”

“No there isn’t! You broke me out as an excuse to see me. No conjugal visits in the maximum security wing, after all.”

You scoffed, trying to pretend that he didn’t have you completely. And there wasn’t much use in denying it now. Really, it had only been a matter of time before he realised the truth of your plan, and you wondered how long ago he had worked it out.

“When did-”

“Just after you called and asked if I could help. You’re so predictable.”

Rolling your eyes you walked away from him, the sounds of his feet running after you as you crossed the street and entered a diner. After fuelling up, you left the diner reluctantly, worrying about how to approach the delicate subject of the true intentions behind his assistance. He knew what you wanted from him, but you knew that he was likely to be an unforgiveable tease about it. And so, mulling over the options in your mind, you were happy to listen to him chattering away as you walked to your apartment.

“Oh my god that was so good. Seriously, that was maybe the best meal I’ve had. And I saw the sweat from the chef’s forehead drip into a pan. But I ate every last drop. I really had forgotten what real food tasted like!”

Stepping quickly to your back he grabbed at your ass playfully.

“Forgot what you tasted like too.”

You turned to scold him, but he interrupted you with a kiss.

“Eddie! My apartment is like fifteen more minutes away. Do you think you could be sensible enough not to engage in anything to inappropriate out in public?”

An irritating, high-[itched mewling whine erupted from his pout.

“I can’t wait until we get to the bedroom though. I need you! And I need you now! Pleaseeeeee.”

The long, drawn-out begging was grating on your ears, but it tugged at something deeper inside of you. The desire to feel needed or wanted? You didn’t want to do any pop-psych on yourself in that moment though. Truthfully, you were desperate for him as much as he seemed to be for you.

“Come on! This alley… looks deserted… if you’re into that kind of thing?”

Looking down into the dim, disgusting walkway, you turned back to him with a raised eyebrow.

“Do you really need to ask that?”

“Well, that answers that question then.”

His arms were pulling at you as his lips met yours, dragging you back with lust into the shadows and pressing you against the wall where he kissed you harder. Frantically pulling at your pants until you started to slide them down on your own, letting him fumble with his own zipper and belt. When he had his cock free, he spat in his hand, stroking the length before he pressed in close to you again. Angling his cock against your lips, you inhaled softly at the sensation of the tip on your skin, the slight, although hesitant and kind of clumsy, spreading of your legs as he tried to get better access to you.

“Ok… this… it’s the angle… I can’t…”

You tried to shift against him, but he stepped back.

“Could you like… bend over or something?”

I really, really don’t want to scrape my hands on this disgusting wall… it’s bad enough my jacket is now going to have to be burned for touching it.”

“Ok well… I dunno…”

He looked around the alley before his eyes settled on something further up.

“Oh!”

Skipping towards a pile of old boxes, holding his pants over his still hard cock. Stopping at them, the rotting wood damp with mold, he gestured with his hands like he was displaying the top prize on some tacky gameshow. With a smile, he propositioned you.

“Huh?”

“I am not leaning over that disgusting trash.”

He groaned, seemingly exasperated with your entirely reasonable desire to not get tetanus from fucking him.

“Look, this is supposed to be hot and kinda dirty. You need to stop being so picky.”

“If I wasn’t so picky with men, I wouldn’t have to break you out of prison for a quick fuck.”

“Oof, touché.”

You rolled your eyes at him, pants pulled back up, arms folded across your chest.

“Please, come o-o-on!”

Your spine shivered at the shrill sound of his begging.

“Maybe we should just wait until we’re somewhere clean. Where no one will see me. With you.”

You turned to leave the alley, Eddie slowly making up the distance behind you, all the while whining and pleading. And crouching slightly to hide his erection.