desi love languages: [cutting up fresh fruit] [oiling someone's hair] [buying methai as a gift] [making chai] [helping someone with their saree] [eating leftovers so that others can eat fresh food] [putting mehndi on someone's hand] [buying a whole carton of fruit after someone mentioned they liked it] [making pakorein when it rains] [watching cricket matches together] [holding the dholki in place while someone else plays it] [pinning jasmine buds in someone's hair]
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reading the fae au has my daddy issues REELING-
i dunno do i want to be held and comforted by one of them or fucked dumb😭🙏
could you maybe do some like paternal/father figurey stuff with any fae boy you want… cant prove the stereotype daddy issues right guys please im more than wanting old me to make me worse…
As previously stated I asked my friend for help writing the original fae!Price post. Gave me the main pointers on how it all worked.
Do you want more actual dad stuff with Ghost and baby? Or is this just wanting older men to be nice to you?
I'm just gonna have Price run some aftercare on his Witch.
You're still a little floaty, still fuzzy at the edges from having your own magic turned against you. You hear Price opening a window to let the smoke out, and you feel sort of cold without him holding onto you. Your whole body aches like you just finished working an overly complicated spell. You turn your head to rub your cheek against the couch, the worn fabric just rough enough against your skin to start to ground you back in your body.
You've done this enough times. Grounding. You stretch your fingers out and- oh, hm. Your hands are still tied behind your back. That explains the ache in your shoulders. Right. Right, you remember. You were bad at following orders, so Price had to- Why does that thought make your heart hurt a little. A small noise escapes you, somewhere between upset and need.
Price is by you in an instant, crouching to be sure he can look in your eyes as he slips his hand under your cheek to hold your face. "You're alright sweetheart," He tells you softly, "we're done, you did good."
You roll your shoulders wordlessly, your throat hurts, he nods and pushes up to reach over you and untie your wrists. You sag with a sigh feeling the pressure around your wrists disappear. Price reappears, looking over your face, checking for signs of distress. The gentle touches are so far flung from the bruising grip he'd had on you not long ago.
"You ok to sit up?" He asks, and you nod, "Good girl, up we go." Price helps you ease into sitting, his hand pressing between your shoulders to take some of the weight from the movement. Your head spins a little, and you make another upset noise at the pain of it. "I know, sugar, I know." His arm slides under your knees, the other wrapping around your shoulders.
You haven't been lifted in years, but your brain is a little sluggish in processing the soft grunt from Price before you're no longer on the couch. You rest your head against his shoulder, ground yourself a little in his scent. Or you try to, but the lingering tobacco and morning glory give you another shot of the brain fuzzies.
You drift for a while, settled at some point on the edge of your tub. The rush of water and smell of sachet herbs doing little to pull you back to earth until you are actually submerged. Magic sloughs off of you as you sink under the warm water. You hold your breath and stare up at Price through the refraction.
When you pull yourself back up to oxygen you feel like you're in your body again. At least magically. Price's hands catch your shoulders before you can tip forward back into the water. "Easy sweetheart," He tells you, his hands are rough and calloused, another feeling to ground with. You take a deep breath, trying to pull yourself from the non-magical portion of this. The soft dreamy space you'd settled in, the need to please him with little care to your own needs. "Not in a rush," Price presses your shoulders back against the end of the tub, "Just breathe, I'm not going anywhere," You close your eyes, rest your cotton stuffed head against the edge of the tub, "You did so good, I'm so proud of you."
You don't really know why he's telling you that, but it helps. Makes your ribs unwind a little. He pulls one of your hands from the water and digs his fingers into your palm, dragging and rubbing the ache from your hand before moving up to your wrist. Price pulls the pain out of your limbs as easily as he pulled the thoughts from your head, whispering soft sweet things to you until you're starting to doze.
"All mine," He murmurs, pressing his lips against the pulse in your wrist. You hum assent. All his.
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What is this belief that Matt Murdock can't cook?
You're telling me the man who can sense the temperature of water just by radiant heat, who can determine the exact firmness of some cooking noodles from across the room, who can take a bite of an omelette and likely tell you where it was bought and how long it was cooked based on texture alone, the man who can detect the most perfectly ripe fruits and veggies by touch AND smell, the man who can sense exactly what and how many seasonings were used in a recipe he tastes and therefore replicate that seasoning blend, the man who can tell you exactly when your pie in the oven has achieved peak golden brown flakiness because he knows what perfect crust smells like... can't cook?
Horseshit.
Horseshit.
SHIRE HORSE HORSESHIT.
You want this man in your kitchen, even when his methods are unconventional.
He tends to pick ugly vegetables others skip over because he can't see color or shape but he knows they're ripe and flavorful.
He can't reliably flip pancakes or quesadillas on his bad days because he's tired and his radar senses are worn out and he's still blind afterall, but he can always make amazing soup instead because he can toss it all into a pot and rely on smell.
His cabinets have unusual ingredients until you realize it's because he can identify all the 'secret' ingredients chefs use to make their food taste amazing.
His plating methods are a mess but no one ever cares because in those rare times Matt can afford to cook for someone else, his food tastes too good to complain.
His cookies are mangled shapes, they look like mutated goats with 5 legs if he ever tries to do anything but round balls, but who gives a shit, you come to God when you taste them.
This man does not use a timer. He is a timer, and if you're willing to trust him when he says, 'it doesn't smell done, give it another 2 minutes' even when it looks done, you'll be rewarded with orgasmic level food.
MATT. CAN. COOK.
Thank you for coming to my Ted Talk.
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