eo, i'm angxlictexrs and i welcome you to my blog! i'm just your average tumblr user trying not to succumb to the horrors soooo
HOPE ALL ZIONISTS DIE IN AGONY AND SUCH ! ISRAHELL IS NOT A REAL COUNTRY, ITS PEOPLE ARE FUCKING NUTS AND I HOPE THEIR FOREVER WARS LEAD TO THEIR DOWNFALL 💞
before you decide to stalk/follow/interact:
this is my main blog! and, as you can see, it's a bit of a mess (yet i love her for it).
I QUEUE ! QUEUE IS MY FRIEND which means i'm not always on my blog, so don't be mad if i don't interact
i speak both spanish and english (and a bit of french, sometimes) so be free to interact in whichever language you prefer!
yes, i am a proshipper.
i come by from time to time to reblog or interact with fandom stuff, so don't be surprised if i suddenly reblog a lot and then disappear for months!
btw, i'm a serial reblogger soo if that's something that bothers you, sorry in advance!
but i also mostly queue, so if you see me reblog a bunch of stuff constantly, that doesn't mean i'm actually active.
i sometimes post one or two cringey posts of my own so be prepared for that i guess.
my blog has like a shit ton of fandoms so be my guest, i guess!!
speaking of that..... you can take a look at my tags if you're bored. we may even share some of the same fandoms :]
but also....
i'm open to friends and asks! so if you feel like it, you're free to send me a DM or an ask (anon or not). i'll make sure to answer them as quickly as possible!
don't be afraid to send me your thoughts or anything you wanna share!!
but tumblr is no friend sometimes, and eats or doesn't send me notifications, so please don't be mad if i don't reply!
tho i will ignore/block you if you get creepy!!
D N I : minors (i will post nsft content from time to time), terfs/swerfs, racists, xenophobes and bigoted people in general
anyway....
currently watching: interview with the vampire / sex and the city / peaky blinders / ...
currently reading: balún canán / the song of achilles
currently obssesed with: wuthering heights / mitski / persuasion / battinson, robert pattinson('s filmography) / the batman (2023) / portrait of a lady on fire — portrait de la jeune fille en feu (2019) / succession / pedro pascal / web weaving + parallels / ...
No, you like Romeo Montague because you think he is some dreamy uwu loverboy who’d never hurt a fly. I like Romeo Montague because when Juliet dumps 20-line word vomit on him about how she likes him but she is scared he’s just a fuckboy and how she would totally deny she has feelings for him and play hard to get but he overheard her so she’s not going to, so if he loves her he must swear faithfully but also don’t swear by the moon because she’s such a fickle bitch and actually don’t swear at all or else you’ll totally jinx it...his response is “ah, yes, wife material” and agrees to marry her.
Hi! I love your work!! I hope this is how to request I’ve never done it before but i really love foggy from daredevil i wish there was more writing about him he’s so amazing 😭😭 can you please write x reader and him comforting reader or taking care of sick reader. I just finished exams and midterms I need some good soft romance fics. Hope you’re doing well! 🩷
Anon, thank you for your request! Soft romance is so perfectly suited for Foggy tbh. Congratulations on surviving those midterms! As Foggy would probably advise, take a day to relax if you're able to so that you don't burn out! <3
Pairing: Foggy Nelson x Reader
Summary: You're burnt out, sick, and Foggy Nelson shows up at your apartment with an unreasonable amount of soup.
Warnings / Tags: reader has a cold, fluff, sweet little sickfic, domestic comfort
Word Count: 3.6K
You’d been staring at the same line of text for so long that the words had lost all meaning. The document glowed back at you, a sterile white void broken only by your own typing errors and the occasional sigh from Foggy Nelson.
Nelson, Murdock & Page had gone quiet hours ago, the kind of late night quiet that only came after a case had finally been wrung dry. The printers were off. The phones were silent. Karen had packed up and gone home, promising to bring bagels in the morning if anyone was still alive by then.
But you stayed.
You’d been working on the same thing for weeks, chasing down information from people who never answered their phones, arguing with the police about all the red tape you have to go through to get what you need. It was the kind that started off simple, but mutated into your own personal bureaucratic hell. Now, as you clicked “send” on what was hopefully your last e-mail about this case, the room tilted in a slow, unpleasant wave.
You blinked hard, rubbed at your temples. The letters swam on your screen.
“Hey.”
Foggy’s voice broke through the fog (pun absolutely intended). When you looked up, he was standing in his office doorway, jacket over one arm, his tie loosened.
“You’re still here,” he said, like it wasn’t obvious. “Aren’t you finally done? You can go home, you know.”
“Just wrapping things up,” you said, forcing your tone bright. The kind of chipper that sounded a lot like lying.
He squinted at you, with that lawyerly squint that could pick apart an alibi before you’d even opened your mouth.
“You look like you’ve been beaten with a briefcase,” he said finally. “When’s the last time you slept?”
“I’m fine.”
“Bullshit.”
You huffed a laugh. “Language, Counselor.”
“Don’t deflect.” He walked closer, the floorboards creaking under his shoes. “Seriously. You’re pale. You’ve got this weird glassy eyed thing going on.”
“Maybe I’m just glowing with professional satisfaction,” you muttered, turning back to your screen. But then a small, embarrassing sniffle betrayed you.
Foggy paused. “Ah,” he said, softly triumphant. “There it is.”
“There what is?”
“The sniffle. The ‘I swear I’m fine but I’ve been running on caffeine and spite for three weeks’ sniffle.”
You rolled your eyes. “You’re being dramatic.”
He set his jacket on the back of a chair. “Let me feel your forehead.”
“What? No, you don’t need to–”
But he was already walking around your desk. You leaned back slightly in your chair, heart skipping once when he stopped right in front of you.
From this angle, you had to tilt your chin up to meet his gaze. His eyes were soft behind his glasses, and you suddenly became very aware of how close he was. Close enough to smell the faint trace of his cologne, the soap he used.
His palm came to rest lightly against your forehead. The touch was careful, almost reverent.
You should’ve felt silly, because you were an adult and adults didn’t get forehead fever checks. But the moment stretched out. His thumb brushing lightly near your temple, his eyes narrowing in quiet concern.
It lingered just a second too long. Then he pulled back, clearing his throat and adjusting his glasses like he needed something to do with his hands.
“Yeah,” he said. “That’s a fever.”
“Fantastic.” You slumped in your chair. “I finally finish the case that’s been killing me for three weeks, and now I get to die for real.”
He chuckled. “That’s probably why you’re sick, you know. Stress trashes your immune system. It’s like, scientific.”
“So you’re saying this is all my fault.”
“I’m saying your body’s staging a coup.”
You groaned. “Great. So what am I supposed to do about it, Dr. Nelson?”
He shrugged, grabbing his jacket again. “Simple. You’re going to go home, curl up on your couch, and rest.”
You blinked. “That’s your grand medical advice?”
“Nope,” he said, smiling faintly. “You’re also going to wait forty five minutes.”
“Wait for what?”
“You’ll see.”
“Foggy, please tell me you are aware that I’m not going to feel better in forty five minutes.”
“Oh, I’m aware.” He started toward the door, looking back at you over his shoulder with that maddening little smirk of his, the one that usually preceded either something really thoughtful or really stupid. “Just… wait. Forty five minutes.”
And with that, he left.
You watched the door swing shut behind him, the echo of his voice lingering in the quiet office, and for the first time all week, you felt the smallest flicker of something that wasn’t exhaustion: curiosity. But yes, also, exhaustion.
Whatever he was planning, you had forty five minutes to find out.
By the time you got home, your body had officially called it quits.
The ache behind your eyes had settled into something dull and throbbing. Your throat hurt, your nose was threatening mutiny, and the fever that Foggy had so smugly diagnosed in the office was now making its grand debut.
You kicked off your shoes, changed into sweatpants, and collapsed on the couch with a blanket and a box of tissues. Within minutes, you had fully assumed the position: half buried, half delirious, wrapped in a blanket cocoon.
You weren’t sure how long you’d been lying there, but it definitely felt like more than forty five minutes when you finally heard the knock.
You groaned. “Coming,” you croaked, dragging yourself upright.
When you opened the door, there stood Foggy Nelson, a little flushed from the climb to your third floor walkup, hair damp from weather outside, several grocery bags hooked over each arm.
“Okay,” he said, a little breathless, “go get back on the couch. Reassume whatever sad little sick person position you were in before I interrupted.”
You blinked at him, sniffling, and glanced over at your clock. “You weren’t kidding about the forty five minutes.”
“Nope,” he said cheerfully, already stepping inside. “Now, go on. Couch. Blanket burrito. Stat.”
You didn’t even argue. Your body was too tired, and honestly, you didn’t have the energy to pretend you weren’t secretly happy to see him. So you shuffled back to the couch, wrapped yourself up again, and watched as he set the grocery bags down on the kitchen table like a man about to perform a very important operation.
One by one, he started unpacking them.
“Soup,” he announced, placing down the first container. Then another. And another. By the fifth one, you started counting under your breath.
“You bought six soups?”
He glanced over, sheepish. “I mean, yeah. Maybe seven. I lost count between delis.”
You couldn’t help but laugh, though it came out weak and a little wheezy.
He was arranging them like he was building a soup pyramid. “I didn’t know which one you’d like, and I didn’t want to get it wrong, so I got a few. You know. Just in case.”
“Foggy, this is–”
“Hold that thought.” He pulled out a small paper bag next, setting it beside the soups. “Medications. I don’t know if you’re allergic to anything, so I kind of grabbed everything in the cold and flu aisle. There’s DayQuil, NyQuil, Tylenol, ibuprofen, cough drops, that weird honey lemon tea that claims to ‘soothe your soul.’”
You blinked at him. “You raided a pharmacy.”
“Technically a bodega,” he said, as if that made it better. “Also,” He reached into one of the remaining bags and pulled out a pair of socks. They were ridiculously fluffy. Bright yellow. The kind of thing you’d buy for someone who desperately needed comfort and maybe a little joy. “These looked cozy.”
Your heart twisted so sharply it almost hurt.
“And,” he said, producing one final bag with a triumphant grin, “a double feature.” He held up two DVD cases: The Sandlot and The Little Rascals. “Comfort classics. I brought them from my place because, you know, Netflix can’t be trusted to have taste.”
You just stared at him.
The table behind him looked like a care package had thrown up all over it. Soup containers, boxes of medicine, a pair of fuzzy socks sitting like a crown jewel among them. And Foggy stood there, looking suddenly unsure, rubbing the back of his neck like maybe he was second guessing the whole thing.
“I might’ve… overdone it,” he said. “It’s just, I didn’t know what kind of soup you liked, and I didn’t want to get it wrong, and I figured, worst case, there’s soup for the next few days for lunch. And, uh, the meds, better safe than sorry, right? And the socks… I mean, who doesn’t love socks?”
He trailed off.
You could feel something swelling in your chest. Not something from the fever, not the exhaustion, but something else entirely.
“Foggy,” you started softly, “this is–”
“Don’t say I didn’t have to,” he interrupted again, stepping closer, his voice gentle but firm. “Because yeah, you could take care of yourself. You always do. But that’s kind of the problem.”
You blinked.
He gestured vaguely toward the pile of soup. “You’re sick because you’ve been burning yourself out. It only makes sense that you shouldn’t have to keep burning yourself out by taking care of a sick person. Even if that sick person is you.”
You opened your mouth, but he raised a finger, smiling faintly. “Shush. Doctor’s orders.”
That got another laugh out of you, hoarse and warm.
He smiled wider, and for a second, standing in your little kitchen with his tie crooked and his cheeks pink from the cold, Foggy Nelson looked like exactly what you needed tonight.
You hadn’t realized how long it had been since someone took care of you, until Foggy Nelson was standing in your kitchen narrating the impromptu soup lineup like he was hosting The Great British Broth-Off.
“Alright, contestant number one,” he said, holding up the first container. “Matzo ball. Classic, dependable. Then we’ve got chicken noodle, which has cured more colds than modern medicine. I feel like it's the obvious front runner, but also maybe too predictable? We’ve got minestrone, which feels like the wild card, and tomato basil. Bold, confident, possibly too confident. And then we have the mystery soup, whose contents are… honestly, a little terrifying.”
You smiled faintly from your cocoon on the couch, voice scratchy but amused. “And what about that one?” You pointed to the last container.
“Potato,” he said. “Comfort food incarnate. The warm hug of soups.”
“That one,” you said immediately.
“Excellent choice.” He grinned and headed for your kitchen, rolling up his sleeves like this was about to be a serious operation.
You watched him move, methodical but relaxed, humming quietly to himself as he searched for bowls and spoons. The scent of warm potato soup soon filled your small apartment, buttery and rich and impossibly comforting.
When he came back, he had two steaming bowls balanced in his hands.
“I got you the bigger one,” he said. “Perks of being the patient.”
You accepted it with a weak laugh and a murmured, “Thank you.”
He sat beside you, careful to give you space but still close enough that the couch cushion dipped slightly under his weight. For a few minutes, the only sounds were spoons clinking and the soft hum of the radiator. The soup was exactly what you hadn’t known you needed. Thick, savory, grounding.
Halfway through your bowl, a shiver rippled through you. You didn’t even realize how visible it was until you felt his eyes on you.
“Cold?”
“Ugh” you started, teeth chattering a little, “Fever chills. I hate this part.”
He frowned, setting down his bowl immediately. “Hang on.”
Before you could protest, he stood and crossed the room, grabbing the extra blanket draped over the back of the couch. When he came back, he didn’t just hand it to you. He unfolded it carefully and wrapped it around your shoulders, tucking it gently under your chin like it was the most natural thing in the world to do.
You blinked up at him, heart squeezing.
“Better?” he asked softly.
You nodded. “Yeah. Thanks.”
“Good,” he said, sitting back down. “Because I’m not above making you wear both socks and the blanket as a cape if it’ll help.”
That made you laugh, or at least, the tired, raspy version of a laugh that your voice could manage.
You both finished your soups in companionable quiet, and when you handed him your empty bowl, he took it without a word and carried it to the sink.
A few minutes later, he was crouched in front of your TV stand, sorting through the stack of DVDs he’d brought like a man on a mission.
“Alright,” he said, holding up the cases. “You get your pick: The Sandlot or The Little Rascals. Both cinematic masterpieces, both guaranteed to reduce any adult human to nostalgic mush.”
You smiled weakly. “The Sandlot. It’s been forever.”
“Excellent choice,” he said again, sliding the disc into the player with ceremonial gravitas.
While the opening credits started to roll, you turned your attention to the pharmaceutical haul he’d left on the coffee table. There she was: NyQuil. Old reliable.
You picked it up, poured the syrupy green liquid into the tiny plastic cup, and tossed it back like a shot. “Cheers,” you said, wincing at the taste.
“You’re so brave,” he said, in a mock solemn tone.
You set the bottle down, shuffled back to the couch, and sank into the cushions again. This time, Foggy joined you.
He didn’t crowd you, he just sat near enough that you could feel his warmth radiating through the space between you, the kind of warmth that felt steadier than any blanket.
On the screen, the familiar chaos of The Sandlot began to play. On your couch, the fever started to loosen its grip, the medicine already softening the edges of the ache in your body.
And for the first time in days, or more realistically weeks, you let yourself rest.
The Sandlot had always been a comfort movie for you. The warm summer colors, kids with scraped knees and boundless confidence, the sound of laughter echoing from old baseball fields. But somewhere around the scene where Smalls meets Benny, the edges of the world started to blur.
The NyQuil hit fast.
Your eyelids felt heavy, your body melting deeper into the couch. The fever had dulled to a slow throb, replaced by a strange kind of weightless calm, like floating just under the surface of sleep.
Beside you, Foggy was still watching the movie, his expression relaxed, the flickering light of the TV casting soft shadows across his face. You’d never really looked at him like this. Not in the quiet, not without the buffer of work or sarcasm or caffeine.
He looked gentle. Not just kind, but gentle in that rare way that makes you feel like someone could hold your heart in their hands and not drop it.
You shifted, the blanket slipping a little off your shoulder. Before you could reach for it, he noticed.
“Hey,” he murmured, his voice low, careful not to break the calm. “You’re losing your cape, woman.”
He reached out, tugging the blanket back into place and smoothing it over you, his knuckles grazing your collarbone in the process. The touch was nothing, casual, fleeting, but it set off a quiet flutter under your ribs.
“Thanks,” you whispered, voice rough with sleep.
He smiled. “Anytime.”
For a few minutes, you just watched him instead of the movie. The soft focus of your fever and the haze from the Nyquil made everything feel dreamlike. The flicker of the TV, the hum of the radiator, the faint sound of traffic below your window.
And Foggy.
The man who bought six soups because he didn’t want to pick wrong. Who climbed three flights of stairs with his arms full of groceries and nostalgia movies. Who was now sitting next to you like it was the most natural thing in the world, his presence filled every inch of the small apartment.
You felt yourself tilt toward him before you realized you were moving. It wasn’t intentional, your body just knew where it wanted to go. Your head found the curve of his shoulder, and the warmth of him was instant and grounding.
He froze for a moment, caught between surprise and… something else. Then he let out a soft breath and shifted slightly, just enough to make it easier for you to rest there.
His arm came up, slow and hesitant, resting lightly along the back of the couch. Not quite around you, but close enough that you could feel the ghost of contact against your back.
“You comfortable?” he asked quietly.
“Mhm.”
He smiled, a small exhale of a laugh. “Good.”
The movie kept playing, but neither of you were really watching anymore. The silence that settled between you wasn’t awkward, but warm, and full of unsaid things.
He glanced down at you once or twice, watching the way your eyes fluttered shut and your breathing evened out. You looked peaceful. Exhausted, flushed from the fever, but peaceful in a way he hadn’t seen you in weeks.
Foggy let himself lean back into the couch, the faint weight of your head against his shoulder anchoring him there.
It struck him then, that caring for someone like this, really caring, wasn’t the same as offering help at the office or showing up for a friend. It was quieter, deeper. Something that settled into the bones.
He’d always known he cared about you. But sitting there in the soft glow of the TV, your breath warm against his sleeve, he realized this was something else entirely.
You shifted in your sleep, your forehead brushing against his neck, and he closed his eyes, just for a second, to steady the rush that came with it.
When the credits rolled, Foggy didn’t move.
You were asleep on his shoulder, and for now, that felt like exactly where you both were supposed to be.
When you woke up, your first thought was that your neck didn’t hurt nearly as much as it should have after sleeping on the couch.
Your second thought was that something smelled amazing.
Blinking through the haze of sleep and lingering fever, you lifted your head. The blanket was pulled up around you neatly, tucked in with far more care than you remembered managing the night before.
You pushed yourself up and glanced around the room. Morning light streamed through the blinds, soft and golden. The TV was off. The coffee table had been tidied, the soup containers stacked, the medications lined up like a tiny pharmacy storefront.
And there, in your kitchen, wearing the same wrinkled shirt as last night and humming under his breath, was Foggy Nelson, making coffee.
“Oh my god, it’s alive,” he said without turning around. “I was gonna make pancakes, but then I realized you have absolutely nothing that resembles food in your kitchen except seasonings, milk, and now… soup.”
You croaked out a laugh, voice still scratchy. “That sounds about right.”
He turned, holding up a mug. “Coffee or tea?”
“Tea, please.”
He nodded solemnly. “One tea for the invalid.”
You grinned weakly, wrapping the blanket tighter around yourself as he brought you the mug. His tie was still askew, hair a little wild. He looked like he’d gotten even less sleep than you had, but there was an easy smile on his face all the same.
“You stayed,” you said softly.
He shrugged, sitting down beside you again. “Didn’t seem right to leave you alone while you were delirious and potentially about to dissolve into a puddle of NyQuil.”
“Oh, don’t be dramatic!”
He raised an eyebrow. “You were mumbling the lyrics to Beez In The Trap in your sleep, my dude.”
You groaned, burying your face in the blanket. “Oh my god.”
“Yeah. I didn’t even record it. You’re welcome”
You peeked up at him, smiling despite yourself. “Guess I owe you one.”
“Nah,” he said, leaning back with a little shrug. “Just glad you’re feeling better.”
And you were. Still congested and achy, but lighter somehow. Like the weight that had been pressing on your chest for weeks had finally eased up.
He checked his watch and sighed. “I should head back to the office. Matt’s gonna start thinking I ran off to join the Peace Corps.”
You followed him to the door, still wrapped in the blanket like a robe.
“Thank you again,” you said, voice soft. “It was… really good having you here. I’ve got it from here, I promise. You’ve got me set up really well.”
He nodded, giving you that warm little half smile that always managed to disarm you. “Okay.”
He reached for the doorknob, then hesitated, just for a beat.
“But,” he added, glancing back at you, “let me know when you’re feeling better. You know. Less snotty.”
You blinked, caught off guard. “Uh… sure. But what for?”
The corner of his mouth quirked upward, a flicker of shyness in his eyes.
“Because I think I want to kiss you.”
The words hung there, soft and sure, settling into the air between you.
You stared at him, your heart doing something traitorous in your chest, another flutter that had nothing to do with being sick.
“Okay,” you said, smiling despite the heat in your cheeks. “Deal. When I’m less snotty.”
“Good,” he said, grinning now, that easy, dimpled grin that could melt steel.
He opened the door, pausing just long enough to add, “Rest up, okay? Doctor’s orders.”
And then he was gone, the faint echo of his laughter trailing down the hallway.
You closed the door, leaned your forehead against it, and smiled to yourself.
Because you were pretty sure that when you did feel better, you were absolutely going to let Foggy Nelson kiss you.
