I'm A Puddle - Blog Posts

holding their face 𝜗𝜚 daredevil & punisher hcs

characters used ᝰ .ᐟ matt murdock / frank castle / foggy nelson / karen page / elektra / ben poindexter / billy russo / dinah madani / micro

⏜︵ MATT MURDOCK. 𐂯

your hands are gentle, like he’s made of something fragile — not bone and blood, but myth and ruin. his skin is warm beneath your palms, scraped and bruised in places he won’t talk about.

he flinches when you first touch him — not from pain, but from surprise. from the quiet ache of being held like this. you whisper his name and he doesn't pull away.

the city hums outside — always too loud, too much — but here, in this moment, it's quiet. the kind of quiet matt never gets. your thumb brushes under his eye, and his lashes flutter shut. he doesn’t open them.

your fingers slide into his curls, damp with sweat and rain. you hold him like you’re anchoring him, like you’re keeping him tethered to something good. his breathing slows. he leans into your touch like he’s starved for it.

“i’m right here.” you remind him. and for once — for just a second — matt believes you.

⏜︵ FRANK CASTLE. 𐂯

tonight, he’s tired. his eyes are downcast, jaw tight, like he’s bracing for a blow that doesn’t come.

your hands are slow, steady. one at his cheek, the other at his jaw — rough stubble under your fingers, skin too warm for how cold he always pretends to be.

he blinks once. like he doesn’t know what to do with it. “you don’t have to…” he starts. but you already are. your thumb brushes across the scar on his cheek — the one he never talks about.

he doesn't pull away, but he doesn’t lean in, either. just lets it happen. like he’s trying to figure out how this feels. he’s quiet. so quiet you can hear the weight in his breathing. the way he exhales like he’s holding a war behind his ribs.

“frank.” you whisper, and that’s the part that undoes him. not the touch — the way you say his name like it’s something worth holding. his eyes close. not because he’s calm, but because he’s overwhelmed.

your hands are shaking slightly. he notices. of course he notices. “you okay?” he murmurs. you press your forehead to his. “always.” he leans into you. it’s not surrender. it’s trust. for a man like frank castle, trust is the rarest kind of softness.

your fingers slip into his hair, and he doesn’t move. he just breathes. and in that moment — bruised, broken, holding more pain than most people can comprehend — he feels safe. with you.

only with you.

⏜︵ FOGGY NELSON. 𐂯

foggy talks a lot when he’s nervous — jokes, rambles, deflects. but when your hands find his face, everything goes quiet.

he looks at you like you just hit pause on the chaos in his head. his brows lift, his eyes soften, and he gives you that crooked little smile — the one that always means thank you, I needed this.

“hey,” he says, voice low, gentle. “what’s that look for?” but he knows. your thumbs brush the apples of his cheeks, warm under your hands, a little flushed because he still gets flustered when you touch him like this.

he leans in instantly. instinctively. like he’s meant to be there. you’re not just cradling his face — you’re grounding him. reminding him he doesn’t have to carry everything alone. “you’re doing too much again.” you whisper.

he sighs — busted. “someone’s gotta keep things together.” he murmurs.

you shake your head and rest your forehead against his. “someone’s gotta take care of you, too.” he melts. full-on puddles into your hands. his shoulders drop, and the tension he didn’t even realize he was holding slips away.

he reaches up, hands on your wrists, holding you like you’re the only real thing in the world.“you always know what to say.” he tells you. you don’t. not always. but you see him. and that’s enough.

sometimes he makes a joke — something like, “you’re not gonna smoosh my face, right?” but it’s a deflection. because the truth is, when you hold his face like that, foggy feels safe. loved.

and no matter how loud the world gets, your hands always bring him back to himself.

⏜︵ KAREN PAGE. 𐂯

karen carries herself like she’s fine — chin up, shoulders set, voice even. but your hands find her face, and the cracks she’s hidden so carefully start to show.

her breath catches. just a little. not because she’s scared — because she’s not used to being held like she’s something worth protecting.

you don’t say anything at first. just look at her. just see her. her eyes search yours like she’s trying to believe it’s real — that someone would choose her, softness and scars alike. your palms are warm against her cheeks, and you feel the way her jaw clenches. a reflex. a habit.

she blinks fast, like she’s trying to keep from unraveling. “hey,” you murmur. “you’re okay.” her lips press together, but they tremble at the corners. she nods — barely.

you brush your thumbs along her cheekbones, and she leans in, hesitant at first, then all at once. she closes her eyes. lets herself sink into the quiet. with you, she doesn’t have to be strong every second. she doesn’t have to fight. not right now.

you kiss her forehead, soft and slow. and when she whispers, “thank you.” it’s not just for this moment — it’s for every time you remind her that softness doesn’t make her weak.

sometimes she makes a dry little joke — “you’re not checking for bruises, right?” but it’s just her way of hiding how much it means.

for the first time in a long time, she lets herself feel safe.

⏜︵ ELEKTRA. 𐂯

she doesn’t stumble through the door — she never stumbles — but you can see the tension in the set of her shoulders, the way her jaw is locked like she’s biting back the whole night.

blood on her knuckles, maybe. maybe not hers. she doesn’t say. she doesn’t need to.

you reach for her face without a word — slowly, like you’re approaching something wild. your hands are warm. hers stay at her sides at first. she doesn’t pull away, but her body goes still — not tense. just… waiting.

no one touches her like this. not without motive. not without want. but you don’t ask anything of her in this moment — you just see her, and she doesn’t know what to do with that.

her eyes flick up to yours, unreadable — but there’s something breaking at the edges. not fear. never that. just disbelief that someone could hold her like she’s not a weapon.

like she’s allowed to be held.

she exhales, barely — a breath you wouldn’t catch if you weren’t paying attention. her jaw tightens, her lashes flutter, like she’s trying to hold herself together. your thumbs brush across her cheekbones, and for a second, her eyes close.

“hey.” you greet. her lips part like she wants to argue, to make a joke, to keep the distance safe. but she doesn’t. not this time. she leans into your touch, just slightly — then all at once.

you kiss her temple, slow and careful — not because she needs saving, but because she deserves softness. she doesn’t say thank you — not out loud. instead: “you’re not checking for battle scars, are you?” — voice low, almost amused.

but her hands find yours, fingers wrapping around your wrists like she’s anchoring herself. with you, she doesn’t have to perform strength. doesn’t have to be on guard. doesn’t have to be anything but herself.

and when she finally lets herself breathe, when she allows the silence to settle between you — it’s the closest she’s come to peace in a long, long time.

⏜︵ BEN POINDEXTER. 𐂯

he’s always in control, always trying to maintain a perfect façade. but you can see it — the cracks in the mask, the hollow look in his eyes after another brutal day, another moment where he failed to hold it together.

he doesn’t say anything — he never does when he’s breaking. just... stiff, distant, like he’s suffocating but doesn’t know how to ask for air.

you reach for him slowly, your hands finding his face — his skin cold to the touch, almost unnervingly so. he doesn’t pull away, but his whole body goes rigid — like he’s forgotten what it feels like to be touched without fear of it turning into something dark.

his eyes flick to yours, almost cold, but there’s something deeper hidden under that guard. a hint of confusion. of vulnerability. he doesn’t understand why you’d touch him like this, why you’d want to.

you don’t say anything — you just hold him. your thumbs run across the sharp lines of his cheekbones, grounding him in a way he’s not used to.

“you’re okay,” you murmur, your voice just loud enough for him to hear. his mouth twitches — the corners of it pulling up just enough to make it clear he’s trying to force a smirk, but it never quite reaches his eyes.

“i don’t need comforting,” he mutters, but it’s a weak defense, a habit he’s clinging to more than an actual belief. you don’t respond to his words. instead, you press your forehead against his, slow and deliberate.

he doesn’t push you away, but his breath catches — a shallow thing, like he’s been holding it in too long. in that moment he doesn’t know whether to be ashamed or relieved that someone could want him like this — raw, unmasked, vulnerable in a way that feels dangerous to him.

he tenses, like the idea itself is a threat — but his fingers twitch just barely, as if fighting the urge to touch you back. “you... don’t know who i am,” he argues,, but there’s something in his voice — something close to needy.

“i know you,” you reply, brushing your thumb across his bottom lip, letting the silence stretch for a beat. he doesn’t say thank you. but when he looks at you this time, when he lets you hold him like this, he believes he could be more than the mess he’s convinced himself to be.

⏜︵ BILLY RUSSO. 𐂯

it's quiet, the kind of day where words don't feel necessary — just the hum of the room, the weight of his body next to yours. he’s leaning into you, but there's still that tension in his posture, like he’s holding back a part of himself.

you don’t say anything — you reach up slowly, hand finding the line of his jaw. his skin is warm, you can feel the way his muscles tighten at your touch, but he doesn’t pull away. he doesn’t need to be told anything — you’re not trying to fix anything.

your thumb brushes across the curve of his cheekbone. he looks at you, eyes dark but not distant — something in him softens when you touch him like this, for a second, he doesn’t have to be the guy who’s been through too much. he just lets you hold him

“you’re pretty.” you praise. he exhales, like he’s been holding his breath for too long, and his head tilts slightly into your touch.

he doesn’t pull away. doesn’t need to. not right now, at least.

⏜︵ DINAH MADANI. 𐂯

she doesn’t fall apart. not ever.

she comes home late, tension still riding her shoulders, eyes sharp but tired. kicks off her boots, shrugs off the day like it’s something she can peel away — but it still lingers in the set of her mouth, the way her fingers twitch like they’re still reaching for a gun.

you’re both on the couch, legs tangled. it’s quiet. a movie’s playing, something you’ve both stopped pretending to pay attention to. her head is resting near your shoulder, and you feel the weight of her — present but somewhere else, too.

you don’t say anything. just shift, turn toward her, and gently cradle her face in your hands.

she blinks, once — like she wasn’t expecting it. but she doesn’t move. your fingers trace along the edge of her jaw, slow and careful, like you’re handling something you don’t want to break.

she holds your gaze — guarded at first, like she’s trying to read what this means. then it softens. just a little. enough. her lips press together, for a second, you can tell she’s thinking too hard — about control, about vulnerability, about being seen.

she closes her eyes. leans in, just slightly, and you let her, no pressure, no words. you keep holding her like that, fingertips brushing behind her ear, thumb tracing the edge of her cheek; like she’s allowed to rest. like she’s allowed to be soft.

just for a while.

⏜︵ MICRO / DAVID. 𐂯

it’s late. he’s hunched over his desk, screen glow painting shadows under his eyes. there’s a half-empty mug by his hand, something playing softly on the speakers — white noise he probably hasn’t noticed in hours.

he doesn’t hear you come in. his mind’s still spinning, still running loops — old memories, what-ifs, the kind of guilt that lingers even when you tell him it doesn’t have to.

you walk up behind him, say his name softly, he finally looks up; gives you a tired smile — the kind that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, like he’s trying to convince you he’s fine so you won’t worry.

you don’t say anything. you just kneel down beside his chair and gently take his face in your hands his breath catches. tenderness always seems to catch him off guard, like he still doesn’t believe he’s allowed to have it.

your thumbs brush along the edges of his jaw, where the scruff’s gone a little longer than usual. he leans into it without meaning to, eyes fluttering shut like the weight of the day finally gets permission to settle.

he murmurs something — maybe your name, maybe just a sigh — and lets you hold him there, like that’s all he needs right now.

he whispers, “i’m okay,” like he’s trying to believe it, and maybe, with you there, he can. he opens his eyes after a second, looks at you like you’re something steady in a world that won’t stop shifting. he doesn’t say thank you — he just reaches up and covers your hand with his, fingers curling over yours like he doesn’t want you to let go

and you don’t.

★ a / n : mid tier effort tbh might take this down at some point

started 4.23.2025. finished 4.24.2025.

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©️ monicfever 2025

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