daredevilkink | Prompt Post #6

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Prompt Post #6

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and the little vignettes continue. no overarching plot to this, really, but i'm amusing myself.

=====

When Matt returned on Monday, still a little shaky on his pins, he nearly tripped over a crack in the pavement that hadn’t been there before. The smell of concrete dust and shattered brick still lay heavy in the air and he sneezed as he let himself into his bakery. How many people had been involved in this fight? He could make out the odd ozone smell that heralded Thor, the rot-and-gun-oil which characterized Deadpool... even the chemical traces of Spider-man’s webbing combined with chocolate and butter and coffee. Apparently Peter had tried to make his chocolate espresso brownies before getting involved in the fight.

Matt didn’t bother to flick on the lights as he stood in the doorway and assessed his surroundings. The floor wasn’t as neatly swept as usual and from what he could discern, not all of the baking sheets had been put away, but the chairs were on the tables and nothing seemed broken, so all in all he counted himself fortunate that Jack’s had mostly escaped the chaos. Peter had even started the bread proofing.

“Good morning.”

One minute there was nobody behind him. The next -- a crackle of something Matt defined as magic, then a smooth if strangely abashed voice, a male presence in leather and armor. Matt refused to jump, instead turning around carefully to face the newcomer.

“Good morning. We unfortunately don’t open until eight.” As this particular customer knew full well.

“I am not interested in purchasing your wares at this moment.” There was a surprise. Matt couldn’t help but raise his brows expectantly, and Loki stiffened but forged on. “I wish to -- apologize, for the trouble I caused you and your establishment two days ago,” he said, clearly uncomfortable being in this position. “My behavior was unbecoming of a prince of Asgard.”

“I think you’re better off tendering your apologies to the owners of the shops your altercation affected more than mine,” Matt pointed out. He felt Loki draw himself up, affronted, dangerous, and added, “But thank you for your consideration. Will you want your usual later?”

There was a brief hesitation, then disturbed air currents indicating Loki had nodded, slow and uncertain. “I’ll have that ready for you if you care to come back in a few hours.” The Aesir had settled on an apple turnover and a walnut blondie as his order of choice some time ago.

Loki drew himself up again, a shift of leather and cloth and armor, obviously preparing to leave. Matt couldn’t help but say, “It’s not all on you anyway. From what I heard, half of New York’s resident superpowered entities joined in.”

“Your establishment is quite popular,” Loki remarked, and now his voice was dry with an amusement that suited him much better than the uneasy wariness. He tilted his head, studying him, then said slowly, “As are you. For a mortal, you are quite intriguing, Matthew Michael Murdock.”

Matt wasn’t sure how to take that. “I’ll see you in a few hours.”

“Yes. I’m sure you shall.”

Loki wasn’t the only person to show up with an apology that day, or to just check up on him. Though there were fewer mundanes -- no doubt cautious after the goings-on a few days ago -- the numbers were made up by a steady flow of superheroes (and Deadpool) trooping in and out of Jack’s Breadline up to closing time. Thor clapped him on the shoulder, nearly sending him to the floor, and declared that he had been much missed. Jessica Jones brought him an actual care package, with tea and crackers and a tiny bottle of bubble bath. Pepper Potts sent him a thoughtful get-well card, inscription printed in Braille; there was also a scribbled note in the corner from Stark offering to pay for any damages incurred as well as insisting upon enlarging the kitchen and eating space and installing a state of the art combination coffee roaster, grinder, and espresso machine. Another note from Ms. Potts said he didn’t have to accept that offer.

While at first Matt appreciated the sentiment, he found himself growing annoyed -- and fatigued -- as the day dragged on. The next person to jokingly propose to him was getting their cupcake privileges revoked for life. Eventually he ducked into the kitchen and refused to come out, even though it left Karen to field all the well-wishers on her lonesome when Peter joined him, looking cowed. “I feel like I’m one bad cookie away from being lynched,” he said, slumping against the back wall.

“You don’t make bad cookies,” Matt told him as he brought together a chocolate-swirled pound cake batter. “I just make really good ones.”

Peter groaned. “Thanks, boss. Nice to know all of Hell’s Kitchen plus the entire New York superhero community think I’m woefully inadequate cookie-baker compared to you. My psyche may never recover.” He paused, considering. “That’s your superpower, right? Baking goods that would make grandma cry?”

Matt chuckled. “Some would say it’s my ability to run on truly inadequate amounts of sleep.”

“Oh my god, I am never complaining about having to get up early for school again,” Peter said, throwing a hand over his eyes. “Oh my god. Four in the morning. How do you not pass out into the oven every day?”

“I’m used to it.” He tipped the plain half of the batter into a series of prepared loaf pans, following it with the chocolate half and running a spoon through the pans to create the swirls. “Like I said: truly inadequate amounts of sleep.” Matt usually ended up taking a nap between closing down the bakery and going out on patrol or meditating when he couldn’t.

“Ugh.” Peter shook his head before straightening up from his slouch. “I’d better get back out there. Your adoring-public-slash-my-lynch-mob awaits.”

“I’d rather they make reparations to those whose livelihoods they did trash,” Matt muttered as he slid the loaf pans into the oven. Hell’s Kitchen had enough problems without superpowered fights flattening it for ludicrous reasons, even though the reason might be his chocolate sheet cake. Peter stopped at the entrance of the kitchen as if surprised, before exiting without comment.

Matt only emerged from the kitchen near closing when Karen poked her head in and told him Foggy was there. “Hey, Matt!” Foggy greeted him cheerfully. “Good to see you, buddy.”

“Hey,” Matt said, feeling better than he had in hours. Where she was collecting dishes safely across the room, Karen hummed knowingly. Matt decided to ignore that, instead saying, “Can I get you anything or is this a social visit?”

“Column A, Column B. I thought we could talk over a little something.”

There wasn’t much left in the display case after the predations of New York’s superheroic finest. Before Foggy could make a choice from amongst the sadly denuded remains, Matt said, “I think I have some tea cake in the back. It’s ready for the day-old basket but if you want it, it’s yours. Pineapple with berry tea and topped with coconut sugar.”

“You are so bad for my waistline,” Foggy groaned. “Sold. Sold sold sold.”

“Be right back.” Matt fetched the last remaining slices of the tea cake he’d prepared on Friday afternoon and determined them to be in good-enough condition to feed Foggy with a careful sniff before plating them and bringing them out. “Here you go. Let me make sure my pinwheels aren’t burning and I’ll be right with you.”

Foggy was stifling moans of pleasure when Matt slid into the seat across from him at the back table, cinnamon-walnut pinwheels secured. “How’d I miss this?” he wondered through sugar-sticky lips. “You said this was consigned to the day-old basket?”

Matt chuckled. “Most of it sold out really fast Friday but then the last few slices just sat there. And then I was out Saturday and Peter was too busy to push them.”

“Understatement.” Foggy shamelessly licked his fingers before reaching belatedly for a napkin. “I mean, he held out pretty well from what I saw, but people noticed a difference. Your young Padawan needs further training, O Master.”

“I wonder if I should feel gratified or annoyed,” Matt said. “Recipes are recipes. You follow the directions and get a result. Peter’s been working with me long enough that he knows what to do without me. He makes things all the time without my help.”

“It was probably confirmation bias,” Foggy pointed out. “You weren’t there, so people automatically expected the food to be worse and took it out on him.”

“Point. I need to tell Peter that. He’s only half-joking when he says he still fears for his life.”

“Baking. Serious business.” Foggy shook his head and started in on his second slice of tea cake. “Who’d have thought?”

“You’d be surprised,” Matt said dryly. “Ever heard a yuppie denied his cinnamon roll? It’s not pretty.” Foggy snorted, and he continued, “I guess for the sake of my innocent little assistant and my register attendant, I can’t get sick for the foreseeable future.

“How bad was it?” Foggy wanted to know. His voice softened a hair -- unconsciously, Matt thought, but the concern still warmed him. He shrugged, however, playing it off.

“A low grade fever, some other issues. Nothing serious, just enough to keep me bedridden. To the disappointment of my faithful customers.”

Foggy winced. “Yeah, about that. Holy shit. I thought being popular with Captain America and all the others was pretty cool until Saturday happened.”

“You weren’t caught in the crossfire, were you?” Matt asked with a flash of concern. Foggy didn’t seem injured, he couldn’t hear anything--

“Nah, man, I grabbed a brownie and hightailed it out of there before the fireworks really started.”

“Good.” Though from all reports, the safest place in Hell’s Kitchen on Saturday had been inside Jack’s. “Nobody should have to risk their life for a brownie.”

“I don’t know, Matt,” Foggy said complacently. “Yours are to die for. I mean it.”

In spite of his unease at the thought that such a thing could have actually happened, a small smile touched his lips. “Thanks.”

Out of all the Avengers likely to drop by Jack’s, Tony Stark was actually nearer the bottom of the list. Which Matt figured was a good thing because while his presence was good for business, Matt always found his visits a little wearying, mostly because of the circus that inevitably developed around the man. Which he encouraged, of course, soaking in the attention like sunshine.

This, then, was not your usual Tony Stark visit. Matt drew to a stop when he realized there was someone slumped against the front door of Jack’s. The scent of expensive patent leather shoes and the wool of a nice suit warred with the fog of alcohol, telling him that this wasn’t just a wino taking shelter on his front stoop from the elements. The weakened lung capacity and constant low-key hum from the man’s chest confirmed who he was.

“We don’t open until eight,” Matt said quietly, and Tony Stark sputtered into, if not full consciousness, at least an increased awareness of his surroundings. How he hadn’t been rolled already by an opportunistic passer-by Matt didn’t know.

“I know, I know, but I really wanted one of your custard tarts,” Stark said blearily, trying to straighten up. He ended up deciding he preferred leaning against the doorframe instead. “Maybe a zeppole if you’ve got ‘em.”

He didn’t, but that could be remedied. Deep-frying was not one of Matt’s favorite things to do but he could manage. “Sure. Want some coffee in the meantime?”

“Please,” Stark said. “I will buy all the coffee on the premises if you will make me a cup.”

Matt roasted and ground and brewed a cup of the Blue Mountain he had stashed away for emergencies. Stark nearly fell nose-first into it in his eagerness to inhale the steam and Matt left him to it, switching the display case light on as an afterthought, while he fetched the necessary ingredients for zeppole. Today would be a doughnut day, he decided. It’d been awhile since he’d served up his lavender-berry rings.

By the time he slid a plate of piping-hot zeppole tossed with cinnamon-sugar in front of Stark, the man had recovered enough for decent human interaction and was peering around the darkened interior of the bakery. “I’m seeing cake display,” he said. “Cannolis. Enough cookies to put the Girl Scouts out of business.” The shifts in air current indicated that Stark was gesturing with his coffee cup. “You could do catering.”

“I’m fine with how things are,” Matt said. Stark picked up one of the zeppole and yelped when it proved to be too hot to handle. “Careful, those are fresh.”

“Some things are worth burning your tongue off for.”

Was that a proposition? Matt thought he could hear a pseudo-leer in his voice before Stark proceeded to just that, alternating sucked-in breaths to cool his mouth and noises of appreciation. Then again it could be a habitual behavior. Certainly the press over Stark’s bedroom exploits had died down once he’d made the nature of his relationship with Ms. Potts clear.

Whatever, it didn’t bother or concern him. Matt retreated to the office, where he updated the Twitter account Peter insisted he’d needed:

@jacksbreadline Jack’s Breadline, Hell’s Kitchen NY
Doughnut day! Come for a French Toast doughnut or a lavender-berry ring, stay for the zeppole and beignets!

At least doughnuts cooked quickly, but that also meant he needed to pay constant attention to them instead of working on preparing something else. He’d started the cinnamon roll dough rising before moving onto the frying portion for the zeppole, so that was taken care of, and making the base for the cut bars was second nature by now. He liked to prepare the fillings for his bars the night before to let the flavors mingle, so it was only a matter of spreading them on and popping the pans into the oven. The triple-chip cookie dough had spent its requisite time in the fridge, and all that needed was to be scooped out and baked. That could be done later.

About an hour had passed before Matt thought to check on his early-morning guest again, only to find him gone and the plate placed by the register. It was atop a stack of bills, far more than the zeppole were worth even if they were all ones. Somehow Matt doubted they were all ones. With a sigh, he set them in the lower register drawer for Karen to sort later.

Given how his life was going nowadays, it wasn’t much to Matt’s surprise that this first pre-opening encounter began a series of early morning visits with Stark at varying levels of sobriety. Most of the time Matt poured him into a seat and brought him something from the day-old basket and a cup of black coffee. Sometimes, however, Stark rolled up his sleeves and insisted on something to do. “I’m avoiding Pepper, let me help you set up shop,” he’d say. “I work for coffee and cookies. And tiramisu, if you have any.”

At first Matt wasn’t sure how to deal with Stark’s presence in his space. It’d been difficult enough to adjust to Peter, and he’d hired him only on Karen’s insistence. But Stark seemed to respect another man’s working area, though occasionally there were worrying mutters about improving things. Matt usually had him washing dishes as the option least likely to end with his walk-in turned into a homicidal piece of A.I.

Occasionally he wondered if he should, maybe, report this to Pepper Potts or someone at Stark Industries whose official job it was to wrangle the company namesake. But Stark was harmless enough -- comparatively -- and he usually left before the morning crowds hit except for the one time when he ran into Steve Rogers on his way out the door and they had a bit of a thing on the front stoop that involved a lot of disappointed looks and snippy remarks and drew most of Matt’s patrons into being their audience and also attracted a news crew. Karen, with more courage than he’d given her credit for, eventually shooed them away, possibly with an actual broom. Matt wasn’t sure.

Basically Matt and Foggy annoying everyone around them with how sickeningly sweet they are. Adorable pets names and cuddling are mandatory.

I want this fill, and also a badge that says '+++ for cunnilingus'.

aw Tony. Matt's such a sweetie (ha!) in this.

- Prompter Anon

Matt guiltily feeling Foggy's face

"What? Stick's not a mother figure. Stick isn't a woman, she's just... Stick"
"The fuck does that even mean, Murdock?"

Unless Maria/the Maria clone..kills herself just to spite Castle. Because he won't kill Matt for her ~~because he fell in love with Matt just like Matt fell in love with him~~

I'm imagining the dance between Frank and Matt after Maria comes back, Matt is flaring with jealousy and hurt, everyone else is telling him this is good maybe Frank can give it all up now and Matt slowly loses his mind as Frank pulls away from him to focus on his wife. He's not jealous, he is not, he just knows that the dead do not! Come! Back! Something is wrong! Why is no one listening to him! Fine, he'll prove this isn't Maria. That'll show them.

Meanwhile poor Frank, he's not stupid and he knows something isn't right, he'd have to know. But he can't leave, not even to fix the mess he made with Matt, who insists on pretending he isn't hurt. That would be one in the eye for The Punisher, the man who thought he shed all attachments. He cares about what Matt thinks about him. ~~He'd care if Matt moved on.~~

One day surprise! Layla's out of town and Foggy has full Stink custody for a week! He immediately brings the fiend to N&M, where Karen is delighted until he yawns his foul-smelling yWn right in her face, then jumps on Matt's desk and starts squishing his Braille papers.
Matt's protests are most token until Stink puts the entire length of his tongue in Matt's ear canal and wiggles the tip (aka the mind-tickler)

Same anon again. So, I might've already started writing this. Since this is the complete opposite of what OP wanted, want to write an actual prompt I can post this as a fill to? Unless OP is okay with an anti-fill? Or with a very creative interpretation of it?

No, wait. This is so different from what OP wanted it doesn't even work as an anti-fill. Sorry, OP :c

Foggy trying to be positive and reflecting on how threatening his scar's gonna look.No one's going to mess with him now.

Instead of Stick, Matt was trained by a world-class retired/rogue spy who trained Matt in all the ways of espionage. They stay with Matt for longer than Stick did, and ends up becoming the closest thing Matt has to a parental figure. So when this person is killed by a group of rival spies, Matt knows that he has to bring that group down by any means necessary--short of killing, because Matt has still never been able to wrap his mind around that. He vows to tear the inside out. Soon enough, he finds his in--the leader's lonely son, Foggy.

Tl;dr: Spy!Matt seduces Born-into-a-Mob-Family!Foggy for revenge.

OP here! I have been reading all the comments on this post and loving every single one of them, but haven't been able to comment because the only place I am not logged in and can anon post is my desktop and I have been reading on my phone.

It is now Friday night & I am on my desktop and you have my support 100% :-D

I just can't express enough of my love for this :D

ugh yes. But foggy knew they might need it, and told himself he'd only give it to Matt in an emergency - and Matt sitting there, naked and sobbing and almost saying Foggy's name (starting, then stopping because he shouldnt, and then starting again) definitely feels like an emergency. Maybe when foggy gets close enough, Matt tries to hug him - or, at least, cling to him, grabbing hold of Foggy's waist. And the doctor tuts and foggy carefully disentangles himself and tells Matt no, not now, you need to be good now. And then he gives him the toy to hold instead, and tells Matt to breathe properly, in and out.

Yeah, Matt probably would have been waiting for a hand in his hair or the back of his neck, encouraging to rest his head against Foggy's thigh (even kneeling isn't really that standard for them - foggy lets Matt sit on chairs etc regularly enough). But foggy doesn't feel like give Matt what he wants/expects at that point, and he just watches as Matt tries to adjust himself and get used to the fact that he's being properly punished, and as he starts picking at his clothes, hardly knowing which direction to face. The only help foggy gives him is eventually to say 'lower your head matty', because matt's eyes are darting all over the place and his head is swinging from side to side as he follows every little noise, and being forced to face downwards will keep him still/a little calmer.

Foggy would immediately pull the shirt over matt's head, and it hangs off him, but Matt just plays with the loose material and bunches it up around his mouth/nose when he gets into bed, smelling it and feeling it...foggy finds it fucking heartbreaking, honestly, and when they're in bed he pulls Matt as close as he can, so Matt has the real thing wrapped around him.

Ahhhh +1

Foggy is killed by a baddie,one year later on the anniversary of his death,he is bought back to life to hunt down and kill those who wronged him.

author!anon: i suppose working in what amounts to retail/customer service with food has taught him some people-coping tolerance. X3

Amazing. Yes. I need this.

Fate has got it all planned: One day, Franklin "Foggy" Nelson will be the one to kill Matthew Murdock. Or the other way around, fate isn't sure yet. (The whole ordeal has been beautifully arranged, but the universe is no clockwork - there's always an element of surprise to everything.)

What fate didn't expect was that both of them would become best friends.

Do what you will with this - make it a dark and gloomy tragedy or let the day be saved by The Power of Friendship! Or whatever, really.

I'd really like to see Matt looking after Foggy when he goes into shock for some reason.

the first part of this finishes the last bit of part 3; the third part repeats a section first posted in part 2 because i felt it fit better here. WIPs, amirite? smooth section transitions are still not a thing. and the barest glimmer of a plot appears! if it's painfully obvious i know nothing about the villain in question save for what i've read in one issue of hawkeye, i'm sorry.

=====

Karen, with more courage than he’d given her credit for, eventually shooed them away, possibly with an actual broom. Matt wasn’t sure.

And that wasn’t the only way Stark affected his life. Generally Matt could tell when he was about to go on an all-night bender in his lab. The Avengers occasionally put in an order for an assortment of things, the size of which led Matt to assume they were sharing the box of goodies, but Stark tended toward crisp and light, fruit or custard fillings, with the occasional side venture into something flavored with coffee, and he’d load up for bear. Someone from the Tower would come by to pick up his order -- never another Avenger, just a regular intern for SI who Matt always plied with an extra cookie or two -- and then soon enough he’d hear stories about SI’s latest technological breakthrough or outlandish-but-strangely-obtainable proposal. Not that all of SI’s developments came directly from Stark’s personal lab, but there was a definite correlation between Matt sending out a box of raspberry puff pastry straws and half a dozen apple-cinnamon cream puffs and Stark Industries releasing another press statement down the line.

It was, to be sure, an odd relationship. If it even qualified as a relationship. But he eventually received a thank-you note from Ms. Potts about putting up with Tony’s occasional intrusions and he sent her a selection cupcakes of by means of saying no problem.

Matt came around to a -- ha -- blinding headache and the sensation of pavement against his cheek. For a moment the world reeled around him: how had -- what--

--had he really just been knocked out by a run of the mill mugger? Embarrassment and shame flushed his entire body. Oh dear god.

Biting back a noise of sheer self-disgust, Matt lay still and focused, expecting his pockets to have been turned inside-out. But -- no? There were no foreign smells on his clothes save for what he was rolling around on. He and his belongings appeared to be unmolested. Though not alone: overhead, two voices were talking in strident tones. Pushing past the pain with the ease of long repetition, he focused. There was something odd about the fear that permeated one voice -- they’d just coshed a supposedly helpless blind man in a back alley, why would either of them be afraid?

“Shit, man, you know who this is?” one of his attackers was saying. He sounded genuinely terrified. “This is the guy who runs Jack’s Breadline! You know, the place with the pignoli cookies you like?”

There was a moment of horrified silence. Then the man who liked pignoli cookies whispered, in a way that suggested abject denial of an imminent horrible future, “No.”

“Yes. We’re fucked. We’re fucked. Fucking Captain America is one of his regulars!” He swallowed, a rattling noise in a suddenly-dry throat. “We are so fucked.”

If Matt’s head weren’t pounding like a conga line on steroids, he would have found the situation hilarious. Apparently his baking afforded him more protection than his armor ever did. Criminals weren’t afraid to hurt Daredevil, but the repercussions for laying a finger on Matt Murdock, baker to superhumans...

“Calm down, calm down,” Cookie-man said. He seemed to be trying to assuage both his companion and himself. “He’s blind and we caught him by surprise. There’s no way he can identify us.”

“You think that’d stop the Avengers?” the first voice demanded. “Oh shit, I don’t wanna die!”

If they were smart, they would have left already. Not that it would stop Daredevil from tracking them, but they couldn’t know that. Matt pointedly let out a pained sound, stirred.

“Oh god, he’s awake.” There was a scuffling noise before someone dropped to their knees beside him. “Can we escort you home, sir?” Cookie-man’s fright bled out of every pore even as he attempted to be respectful. Matt choked down laughter. “Shit, we didn’t hit you too hard, did we?”

“I’m -- ah -- I’m fine.” He bit back the groan and carefully sat up, assisted by rough but worried hands. This probably qualified as one of the strangest situations he’d ever been in.

“Please don’t sic Captain America on us, sir,” one of them pleaded.

“Or the Hulk,” the other added. “We’re sorry, we are so sorry.”

It was like they thought he had them on speed-dial. “You just tried to roll a blind man,” Matt pointed out, not a little acerbic. “What makes you think you don’t deserve Captain America on your ass? Or Daredevil?” He paused meaningfully. “If you’re lucky, Daredevil won’t find you tonight. He likes my raspberry muffins.”

“Oh shit,” Cookie-man breathed. And then Matt was alone in the alley as the two gave up any pretense of helping him and fled. Matt dragged himself to his feet, winced as he ran cautious fingers over the goose-egg developing on his skull. The soreness on his cheek meant a visible abrasion as well. If those two were lucky, his regulars wouldn’t storm the city looking for them tomorrow after they got a glimpse of his face.

Somehow, Matt wasn’t counting on it.

There were only a few permanent items on the rotating list that comprised Matt’s offerings from day to day. Cinnamon rolls were one, as were the chocolate espresso brownies. Blueberry buttermilk muffins were a mainstay -- couldn’t argue with the classics -- as was coffee cake and an assortment of danishes and croissants. Otherwise, Matt played around. The display case was always stuffed near to overflowing with his experiments: glazed fruit tarts, rows of fresh cookies and colorful macarons, pastries dotted with nuts and chocolate or filled with flavored creams and drizzled with lines of thick sugar icing. Three different kinds of cut bars took up half a shelf daily, chocolate and hazelnut rich beside bright lemon and lime or strawberry-cinnamon or peach and ginger. Brownies dusted with mint sugar nudged shoulders with caramel walnut blondies.

Pies fought for space atop the display case. Today one golden French coconut pie and one orange creamsicle pie, topped with a good three inches of toasted meringue, were set proudly there on cake stands. On the counter itself were any cakes Matt baked as the whim struck him. He didn’t have much call to practice his cake-baking skills, though he made a mean champagne lemon chiffon, light as air and delicately flavored. And his Death by Chocolate was always in demand.

People asked him how he’d learned how to make so many different things, or more perspicaciously, where he’d been trained. To which Matt always smiled disarmingly, said something pithy about helping out a lot in the kitchen when he was younger. Foggy was the first person in a long time to learn the additional detail that it was the kitchen of a Catholic orphanage.

It wasn’t just kneading bread dough that Matt liked, as he’d said to Foggy. The focus it took to properly measure out ingredients, to mix them just enough and not overmuch, to make sure the flour was clear of bug parts or the cinnamon wasn’t ten months old, it had helped to push the world away, made it less immediate. The fact that he got to eat the results of his efforts was a bonus. The fact that they didn’t always taste good drove him to improve.

He was so angry, after Stick left. Everybody left. His mom, his dad, Stick -- but he had his hands, and he could create things, and the things he created made people around him happy with him, less likely to forget him. His senses could be used for something tangible and immediate, not just the unknown purpose toward which Stick drove him. Baking settled him in his skin.

And if he occasionally punched down bread dough with a little too much enthusiasm, well, the bread didn’t mind.

Matt sniffed the contents of the open sack of flour, brows knitting. “Uh oh,” Peter said from where he stood across from him. “I know that look. Not good?”

“Not so much,” Matt said, thoroughly displeased. “We’re sending it back.”

“All of it?”

“All of it.” Opening this first sack was for show; he didn’t have to check the rest of them to know that the flour was tainted with some sort of chemical additive. Not the usual bleaching agents or other dough improvers found in factory-use flour, but something else. Matt frowned, running the powder through his fingers. The additive felt crystalline to his touch, rough and ragged in a way that the grains of flour lacked and wholly unfamiliar. He chanced a quick lick of his finger and then spat it out into the sink. Oh no. No matter what the crap was, Matt was not going to suffer this flour in his kitchen.

Why would Joe Beleskey add anything to his product? To cover up sub-par wheat? An unlucky contamination at the mill? But why would an organic flour mill have any sort of chemicals on the premises in the first place? Maybe it wasn’t his fault, maybe he’d been taken in by his own supplier, but either way Matt had to send it back. Dammit. With barely any suitable flour, their week was fucked.

Peter had long since become accustomed to Matt’s excruciating standards regarding his ingredients and he didn’t ask why Matt was rejecting what to him was probably perfectly acceptable flour, but he had another concern in mind: “Uh, boss. Not arguing with you but we’re a bakery.” He sounded uncertain, echoing Matt’s own thoughts. “What’re we going to make without flour?”

Carefully washing his hands, Matt quickly rifled through his repertoire of items, trying to remember what he could bake without wheat flour. Their usual flourless chocolate cake was going to be a lifesaver, as were macarons and anything else based on ground almonds. Meringues dipped in chocolate? Maybe macaroons topped with toasted almonds. Flourless peanut butter cookies, flavored mousses. Polenta cake.

“We’ll manage,” he said aloud. “It’ll be a good chance to test some new items. Here--” He groped for the pad of paper that hung from the walk-in door and began scribbling down possibilities with the attached pen. “No special orders this week, we don’t even have enough regular flour to fill Mrs. Johnson’s cookie box for church.”

“Maybe we can declare it gluten-free week,” Peter said, still sounding dubious but gamely trying to spin this. “Though we’re totally going to be accused of selling out.”

“That’s a good idea,” Matt said, thoughtful. “We don’t carry as many gluten-free items as I’d like in general, so this would be an opportunity to see which ones are popular.” He could imagine Peter’s grin at Matt’s approval, heard the pleased chuff of breath. Sometimes he forgot how young his assistant still was, Spider-man or not. “You want to handle the press?”

“Oh yeah. All over it, boss.” Peter dealt with the social media side of things out of both necessity and preference. JAWS hated Facebook with the fire of a thousand suns, and Matt would rather spend his time baking than updating his status for all of their account’s so-called friends. Peter jokingly called his posts press releases, said it was good practice for his journalism class.

“I’ll get you a list of items soon so you can start advertising,” Matt told him. “In the meantime, get Karen to call up Joe Beleskey and ask him what went wrong with this batch. He’s usually dependable so I’m hoping this is a fluke instead of the start of a trend.” It wasn’t many mills that would grind flour to Matt’s specifications and he and Beleskey had had a good working relationship for years. He’d hate to give that up.

“Will do.” Peter went to find Karen and Matt considered his list.

@jacksbreadline Jack’s Breadline, Hell’s Kitchen NY
It’s gluten-free week at Jack’s! Try our flourless chocolate cake and peanut butter cookies. Trust us, you won’t miss the flour. #glutenfree

Gluten-free week was surprisingly successful, save for a few die-hards who really couldn’t live without their morning cranberry-orange muffin. Matt assured them that the muffins would be once again available next week, as soon as they sorted out things with their supplier. Beleskey had no idea his product had been contaminated, but used to Matt occasionally rejecting a batch for one reason or another, was willing to test samples and get back to him. In the meantime Matt turned out tray after tray of macarons, grain-free chocolate chip cookies, amaretti and biscotti, honey-almond squares, and flourless orange cake. Peter had his hands full with gluten-free chocolate cake the entire week.

On Sunday morning, Beleskey called to tell Matt that he couldn’t find any contaminants in that particular batch of flour, causing Matt to frown as he hung up. Either their tests weren’t calibrated for whatever additive it was that had found its way into the shipment, or the shipment had been contaminated between the mill and the bakery. Neither option was pleasing.

Matt did the only thing he could think of: he gave a sample he’d kept to Bruce Banner when he came around for a slice of pecan-maple pie and asked to have it tested, citing suspicions that his supplier was doctoring his product. Surprised but appropriately concerned, Banner agreed, and then all Matt could do was wait.

And then the week after, this one yielding a perfectly normal flour shipment, things were clarified.

If Matt could admit it, it honestly felt weird to be held in so much regard based on the quality of his chocolate-chip muffins as opposed to anything more personal, like his character or his convictions. But sometimes, such as right now, it might come in handy. People had to be looking for him, right? People who could do something effective about his situation? Which was currently bound to a chair in an echoing warehouse near the Hudson, listening to a woman lay out a request.

“It’s simple, Mr. Murdock,” the woman said, businesslike. Her voice sounded odd, muffled and echoing at the same time. Matt figured she was likely wearing a mask, a metal one. “All you need to do is add this powder to all of your wares for a week. Nothing easier. It’s heat-stable, tasteless, and odorless so it won’t even affect the quality of your baking.”

Surreptitiously Matt tested his bonds again. Nothing doing -- the zip ties were nearly cutting off his circulation and there was nothing sharp in his vicinity he could use to saw through them. “Somehow I don’t think that should be my main concern,” he said, sitting back in the chair he was bound to. “And if I refuse?”

“I really don’t wish to get anyone else involved,” the woman sighed. “It’s a waste of time, money, and resources. But soon your employees might find it necessary to quit working for you and go on... disability. And I understand Mr. Parker lives with his elderly aunt?”

He couldn’t help but grit his teeth at the threat to Karen and Peter. And Peter’s Aunt May; Matt had met her a few times and found himself delighted with his assistant’s guardian. And the woman’s voice had briefly slipped from its brisk tones to something more -- eager. Anticipatory. Unstable.

Dammit. “And if I were to agree, I suppose it’s not so simple as my agreeing to do your bidding and you letting me go.”

“Of course not, Mr. Murdock. We won’t insult you by taking you for a fool -- please extend us the same courtesy.”

Heels clacked across concrete toward him. The woman held something up in her hand: metal and glass and plastic, liquid trapped in a narrow cylinder -- a hypodermic. Shit, shit, goddammit, no--

“You will not touch him.”

Bonus angst points if this is how Foggy found out Matt was Daredevil.

*gaaaasp* *flails*

Erm... >.> can I unanon, is that allowed here, or can I like link to my edress or lj/dw/tumblr or something? Because if I can cheerlead you on this, I would consider it an honour. A selfish, selfish honour. (Also? You may not want me on your team as I am a huge Matt/Frank nerd, so please feel free to tell me no, ok?)

If I have to abide by rules and stay anon, that's cool too, and I can go create a prompt for what you're writing?

YAAAS!

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Page 143 of 184

Prompt Post #6

FILL: (3/?) (Matt the Baker/Superhero Magnet)

Matt/Foggy, sickeningly sweethearts

Re: Matt/Always a girl!Foggy

Re: FILL: (3/?) (Matt the Baker/Superhero Magnet)

Re: Gen or Foggy/Any-Glasgow Smile

Re: Fem!Stick

Re: Matt/Frank Castle, Maria Castle/Frank Castle: Maria's not dead

Re: FILL: Gen: Foggy gets a cat

Re: Frank Castle talks Matt out of murder

Re: Frank Castle talks Matt out of murder

Re: Gen or Foggy/Any-Glasgow Smile

Spy!Matt AU

Re: Frank Castle talks Matt out of murder

Re: FILL: (3/?) (Matt the Baker/Superhero Magnet)

Re: matt/foggy(/any), medical examination, humiliation

Re: Spy!Matt AU

Foggy:The Crow AU (sorta)

Re: FILL: (3/?) (Matt the Baker/Superhero Magnet)

Re: Matt can detect seizures; gen or Matt/Foggy

Matt (& or /) Foggy - Matt and Foggy are literally destined to kill each other

Matt/Foggy, shock

FILL: (4/?) (Matt the Baker/Superhero Magnet)

Re: Matt dies. Foggy takes his place as Daredevil

Re: Frank Castle talks Matt out of murder

Re: Frank Castle talks Matt out of murder