#[ charlie; musings. ] | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

monicfever · 2 months ago

Note

Hey! I saw your latest hcs and it gave me an idea, so I wanted to ask if you could do something with the reader taking care of injuried DD & punisher characters. Maybe about taking care of when they're sick too?

Your blog is a delight. Here, for you 🌹

taking care of them 𝜗𝜚 daredevil & punisher headcanons ( includes sick & injured hc’s )

r e q u e s t e d ♡

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

⏜︵ MATT MURDOCK. 𐂯

physically injured ;;

he hates being seen like this. bruised, bloody, barely holding himself upright — matt’s first instinct is to hide it. not because he doesn’t trust you, but because it feels wrong to need help. he thinks he should be stronger than this. when you gently take his mask off and get to work cleaning him up, he can’t look at you. not at first. his voice is tight when he says, “you don’t have to do this.” but you’re already doing it, and something in him aches at the quiet intimacy of it. the embarrassment is real. he flinches when you see a particularly bad bruise. he gets stiff when you help him out of his shirt. he mumbles half-hearted protests like, “i’ve had worse.”

he apologizes too much. for the blood. for the bruises. for making you worry. for taking up your time. “sorry,” he mutters, over and over, until you finally stop him with a hand on his cheek and say, “stop apologizing.” and that’s when he finally breaks a little. just breathes out slow, lets his head fall against your shoulder. lets himself be held.

he secretly loves it. once the initial shame wears off, once he realizes you’re not disgusted or overwhelmed, he starts to relax. it kills him how much he likes it. your fingers in his hair. the way you wipe his forehead with a damp cloth. the way your voice goes soft when you talk to him like he’s something precious. it undoes him. every little gesture makes him fall harder.

he listens to your heartbeat. when you’re tending to him, especially if he’s in pain, he focuses on the sound of your heartbeat. smirks a little if it’s beating faster out of worry.

he can’t move much, so you help him change into one of his oldest, softest shirts. he winces, but lets you tug it over his shoulders with quiet, patient movements. “you’re lucky you’re hot when you’re miserable,” you tease, trying to lighten the mood. and he laughs — low and a little breathless — and says, “you’re lucky i’m too beat up to flirt back properly.”

sick ;;

denial is the first symptom. he wakes up coughing, congested, clearly feverish… and insists he’s fine. he’ll drag himself out of bed like he’s perfectly healthy, wobble into the kitchen, knock over a glass with his elbow, and then insist that you not make a big deal out of it. he’s losing the fight against his own body but he’s not going down without being insufferable about it.

he HATES how everything feels. his skin hurts. the sheets are too scratchy. the pillow’s too soft. sounds are too loud but also too quiet. the tea is too hot and also not hot enough. it’s not even that he wants to complain, he’s just miserable and everything is overstimulating. he lies there scowling like a feral cat in a blanket burrito.

his voice is all gravel and rasp. he’s congested as hell and absolutely refuses to blow his nose in front of you. instead he’s all “i’m fine.” in the most pathetic, raspy, sniffly voice ever. it’s so sad and endearing that you have to tease him.“you sound like a dying jazz musician.” he glares, but also kind of melts when you bring him more tea and rub his chest with slow circles of your hand.

he refuses to stay in bed, because “being vertical helps drain congestion” (a lie). so he curls up in a massive, tangled blanket pile on the couch. he looks utterly defeated. he dozes off halfway through trying to listen to the news, and when you tuck another blanket over him, he instinctively turns toward you, half-asleep.

his sense of smell is completely off and he’s MAD about it. he is so personally offended by the betrayal of his own senses. you try to gently feed him something bland so it won’t overwhelm him, and he makes a face like he’s just tasted betrayal. “you gave me this when i’m dying?” but he still eats it. all of it.

he’s clingy in his sleep. when the fever breaks and he’s all sweaty and exhausted, that’s when he finally stops fighting you. he curls around you like a heat-seeking shadow, one arm thrown around your waist, breath shaky but slowing. if you try to get up, even just for a second, his fingers twitch and search for you in the sheets. “stay.” barely a whisper.

he insists on wearing cologne even though he can’t smell it. this is a little ridiculous but it’s so him. he feels gross and unbalanced, so he spritzes on a little cologne out of habit. it’s way too strong. you walk into the room and immediately go, “matt. babe. what did you do.” and he just shrugs miserably. “i didn’t want to smell like sick.” you have to open a window. he’s pouting under the blanket. you kiss his forehead anyway.

you keep feeding him honey and tea and he sighs dramatically like he’s enduring great hardship.

he’s awful at asking for help but melts when you give it anyway. he’ll never ask you to do anything. won’t ask for more water, or a blanket, or your company. but when you offer it, and do it without him asking? he’s so soft about it. he turns his face toward your hand when you brush his hair back. leans into your palm like a tired cat. he won’t say thank you, but you’ll catch the whisper of it, later, when you’re not even sure he’s awake.

you catch him halfway through putting on the suit. he’s pale, disoriented, swaying a little on his feet, and trying to get his gloves on with shaking hands. “matt.” / “i have to—there’s a lead—there’s a guy moving weapons and—” / “you can’t even hold up your own damn head right now.” he mumbles something about “responsibility” and “the city needs—” before you march over, put your hands on his burning chest, and physically push him back onto the bed. he doesn’t fight it. he can’t. he just coughs pathetically and mutters, “you’re so bossy when i’m dying.”

he tries to sneak out and fails miserably. you go into the other room for five minutes and come back to find the window open, the suit missing from the closet, and matt trying to climb out onto the fire escape like a dramatic, feverish bat. “matt. murdock.” he freezes. turns around slowly. hoodie pulled over his mask like an idiot.“…hi.”

you literally grab him by the back of the hoodie and drag him back inside. he coughs halfway through and nearly folds in half. “this is humiliating,” he mumbles. “good. maybe you’ll stay put this time.”

and the second he feels better? he pretends he was never sick. he gets up, showered, dresses in something sharp, and acts like he wasn’t wrapped in three blankets whining about soup 24 hours ago. “you were being dramatic,” you say. “you’re imagining things,” he smirks.

⏜︵ FRANK CASTLE. 𐂯

physically injured ;;

he only comes to you when it’s bad. frank doesn’t want to bring blood into your space. he tries not to. but when it’s bad — when he’s staggering, hand pressed to his side, pale and barely standing — he shows up. always at night. always wordless. you open the door and there he is: soaked in rain and blood, eyes glassy.“didn’t know where else to go.”

you already have towels, the first aid kit, a basin of warm water. you were waiting. he insists on handling it himself. tries to brush you off, sit on the edge of your tub and stitch himself up like he always does. but his hands are shaking. he's lost too much blood.

you kneel in front of him, take the needle gently from his fingers. “frank. let me.” he stares at you, jaw locked, eyes dark. vulnerable. and then he nods. just once.

you cut the shirt off his body, soaked with blood and rain, bruises already forming, ribs swelling. he watches your face the whole time, trying to read your reaction, like he’s bracing for you to flinch, to leave. his eyes close and he exhales like he’s been holding it in for days. like you seeing him like this is worse than the pain itself.

he’s so still when you’re working. doesn’t make a sound, doesn’t wince. just clenches his jaw and grips the edge of the counter while you clean and stitch him. but you notice the way he grips the sink so hard his knuckles go white. the way his whole body flinches when your fingers brush too soft across his skin. he’s not afraid of pain. he’s afraid of your kindness.

you whisper to him while you work. not because he needs it, but because you do. little things. “almost done.” “you’re okay.” “i’ve got you.” he doesn’t answer. but his breathing evens out. like your voice is the only thing tethering him to earth.

when it’s over he almost collapses. you bandage him up, ease him back into bed, and suddenly all the fight goes out of him. he’s exhausted. sweating. tries to push himself up, say he should leave, but you put a hand on his chest and gently press him down.“you’re not going anywhere.” his whole body stills, and then relaxes completely.

you sleep in the same bed, hand on his chest. he doesn't really sleep — just drifts in and out. but every time he stirs, your hand is there. grounding him.

he remembers every second of it. even when he’s healed, even when the bruises fade. he remembers the way your brow furrowed. the way you held his wrist when he tried to leave. the way you saw him — hurt, bleeding — and didn’t look away. he doesn’t say it, but it lives in the way he looks at you now. softer. deeper. like you’re something holy.

he would die before letting anyone else take care of him. after that night, there’s only you. he won’t let another soul near his wounds. not curtis. not david. no one. when he’s bleeding, he comes to you. your hands don’t just fix him. they hold him. remind him he’s still human.

sick ;;

he hides it like a wounded animal. you don’t even know he’s sick at first because he’s so damn good at hiding it. goes about his business with bloodshot eyes and a sore throat, coughing into his arm like it’s just dust. but then you catch him sitting on the bathroom floor at 3 a.m., drenched in sweat, breathing shallow, and trying to convince himself he doesn’t have a fever.

you crouch down. touch his forehead. “frank. you’re burning up.” he closes his eyes and leans into your hand without meaning to. “i’m fine.” he rasps. he is not fine.

he tries to disappear for your sake. frank gets weirdly distant when he’s sick. not because he wants space — but because he doesn’t want you to see him like that. he’ll hole up in the garage or the basement or wherever he thinks he won’t be a burden. you find him shivering under a blanket he probably grabbed off the floor. “why are you hiding?” / “don’t wanna get you sick.” but you sit down beside him anyway. wrap your arms around his big, stubborn body. “tough. we’re doing this together.”

he’s the worst patient alive. he will not rest. will not sit down. will not take the medicine unless you physically make him. you hand him a thermometer and he looks at it like you just gave him a live grenade.

“just hold it under your tongue.”

“…that’s bullshit.”

“what, the concept of thermometers?”

he grumbles. takes it anyway. makes the most murderous face while doing it. you laugh, he scowls. he’s your problem now.

soup is sacred. frank doesn’t ask for anything. ever. but when you set a bowl of hot soup in front of him and say, “eat.” he obeys without a word. slow, methodical spoonfuls. quiet. a little pathetic. he won’t meet your eyes but he lets his knee bump yours under the table.

he sleeps hard when he finally gives in. once he lets himself rest, it’s like his body crashes. he sleeps harder than he has in weeks — snoring, twitching, breathing unevenly. he curls toward your side of the bed instinctively. tucks his head into your neck like he doesn’t know he’s doing it. you run your fingers through his sweaty hair and he sighs in his sleep.

he melts when you fuss. he’d die before admitting it, but he loves when you take care of him. fluffing the pillows, tucking the blanket around him, gently brushing your fingers across his forehead. he acts like it annoys him — grumbling, muttering, but he’s leaning into every touch. softening under your hands. falling asleep faster when you hum to him. he never got this before. not after maria. not from anyone, and now he needs it more than he knew.

he gets better and remembers everything. once he’s back on his feet, he doesn’t say much about it. starts being extra gentle. extra present. fixes something in the house you didn’t know was broken. touches you a little more carefully.

⏜︵ FOGGY NELSON. 𐂯

physically injured ;;

he tries to brush it off at first. walks in with his arm cradled against his chest, limping just slightly, face tight with pain, and you know it’s worse than he’s letting on. “what happened?”

“just a little accident in court. tripped on justice.”

“foggy.”

he’s scared. not of the pain, but of you worrying. of you seeing him as fragile. he doesn’t want to sit still. you try to help him onto the couch and he’s all, “no no, i can get it, really.” but then he winces when he moves his shoulder and you’re done. “sit. down. now.” he finally listens. you’re so gentle with him it makes him feel like his ribs might crack for a different reason.

you touch him so carefully it makes his throat close. your fingers ghost over the bruises on his ribs, you help him out of his bloodied dress shirt, you hold his wrist steady while you check for swelling. he keeps his eyes on you, not the injury — like your face is the only thing keeping him grounded. “you’re not mad?” he whispers. you look up, confused. “mad? foggy—i’m just glad you’re here.” and he swallows hard. “okay. good.”

he’s way too polite about his pain. you’re patching up a nasty scrape and he keeps saying, “you don’t have to do this,” and “i can take it,” and “it’s not that bad.” but then you hit a spot that clearly hurts and his breath stutter.

he tries to keep it light until he can’t. he’s making little jokes like, “guess i’ll have a cool scar to show off at parties,” or “now you have to carry all the groceries.” but then he sees the look on your face while you’re bandaging his side, the worry. and he just goes quiet. “…i really scared you?” you nod. he kisses your knuckles. “i’m okay now. ‘cause of you.”

he falls asleep with your hand over his bandages. you’re sitting on the couch, curled close to him, your hand warm and steady over the clean gauze across his ribs. he keeps blinking slow, like he’s trying not to miss it. but eventually, his breathing evens out. and he sleeps. his fingers twitch for yours in his sleep, like his body’s still reaching for you even when his mind is at rest.

he doesn’t want to take the pain meds unless you say it’s okay. he’s weirdly shy about it, like taking them means he’s weak. you explain it’s to help him heal. he nods and lets you hand them to him. “only ‘cause you’re the boss,” he murmurs with a smile. (he always listens to you when it really matters.)

sick ;;

he insists he’s fine. always. stubbed his toe? “i’m good.” fever of 102? “i’ve had worse.” coughing like an old man? “just a little post-nasal vibe.”

he’s got that i-don’t-want-to-be-a-burden complex, and he tries to downplay everything because he doesn’t want to stress you out. but you can see how pale he is. you can hear the rasp in his voice. and eventually, you’re like, “foggy. babe. sit your ass down.” he listens. cutely.

he laughs through the discomfort. he’s got a headache, his nose is red, and he’s bundled up on the couch like a human tissue — but he still tries to crack jokes between coughs. “on a scale of one to dying, i’m probably a strong... five and a half.” you kiss his forehead, make him tea, and he looks at you like you’re his entire world.

he gets so clingy when he’s not feeling good. like yes, he’ll act like it’s “no big deal”, but the second you sit down next to him, he’s got his head in your lap, arms around your waist, refusing to let you go.

he’s a dramatic little baby when he’s really sick. you catch him texting matt things like “tell my story” and “delete my browser history.” you walk in and he looks up with teary eyes like, “babe. promise me… if i don’t make it… you’ll water the fern.” / “foggy. you have a cold.” he just sniffles and holds out his hand like he’s saying goodbye forever. you’re trying not to laugh, he knows it. he still wants you to kiss his forehead and call him brave.

he LOVES when you take care of him. loves it. it’s written all over his face. when you run your fingers through his hair, when you put a cool cloth on his forehead, when you make him soup or tuck him in, he melts. gets all soft and quiet. looks at you like you’re a miracle. “how did i get you?” he mumbles. you tell him he earned it. he grins, all pink-nosed and sleepy.

he’s the best sick-day partner ever. once he leans into it, foggy becomes the king of cozy. he sets up movies, gets the couch just right, grabs a stack of blankets, and lets you curl up next to him. he’ll hold your hand under the blankets, share snacks, fall asleep halfway through the movie with his head on your shoulder.

he keeps trying to help around the house anyway. you catch him trying to load the dishwasher while half-sweating and wheezing. he lets you drag him back to the couch. pouts. lets you put a blanket over him, smiles like he’s never been more in love.

he sends you sick selfies. if you have to leave the house, he sends dramatic pictures of himself in bed with captions like: “pray for me.”“death comes for us all.” “miss u. bring soup.”

you send him back a photo of the soup and he sends you 15 heart emojis in return.

he never forgets how good you were to him. when he’s better he’s constantly returning the favour. he brings you your favourite drink, tucks you in when you’re tired, checks your forehead for no reason and says, “just making sure you’re not dying like i was.”

⏜︵ KAREN PAGE. 𐂯

physically injured ;;

she tries to walk it off. she’s bleeding, limping, hands shaking — but she insists she’s fine. “it’s not as bad as it looks.” you look at her shirt, dark and blooming with red. “karen. sit down.”she hesitates, but something in your voice makes her stop fighting. she sits, breath hitching, finally lets the pain show.

you kneel in front of her, and she can’t meet your eyes. not because she doesn’t trust you—but because this hurts. not just the wound, but being seen. you’re so careful, so gentle.

she apologizes. for bleeding, for needing help, for everything. “i should’ve been more careful.”she bites back tears, flinches when you clean the wound.

your touch is light, steady. your voice soft. you talk her through every step. and the whole time, she’s blinking fast. overwhelmed. “why are you so gentle with me?” she whispers. you press gauze to her side. “because you deserve it.” she laughs, a little broken. “that’s new.”

she trusts you with the pain. once the bandages are on and the worst is over, she leans into you. lets you hold her. doesn’t talk, just breathes. you feel her body start to relax. her guard drop, inch by inch.

she lets herself cry when she knows you won’t leave. the tears come slow, almost reluctant. you don’t ask questions, don’t push. just hold her tighter. and when she says “thank you” through a cracked voice, you kiss her hair and say, “always.”

you help her out of her ruined clothes, and it’s not about shame. you’re careful, slow. not clinical — tender. she shivers when you help her into clean clothes. not from cold, but from the realization that she’s being cared for. like someone thinks she’s worth saving.

she starts to smile again as she heals. they’re small, shy smiles at first. but you catch them. when you hand her coffee just the way she likes it. when you refill her meds before she has to ask. when you hold her close, careful of her bruises.

she looks at you like she’s finally allowed to hope again.

sick ;;

she tries to power through it. karen doesn’t like being sick. she’s not used to being vulnerable, so when she starts to feel under the weather, she pushes through it. you notice the sniffles, the way her voice cracks when she talks, but she’s still at work, still going full-speed, pretending she’s fine. “i’m just a little off today,” she’ll say, brushing it off.

she fights the idea of being taken care of. when you take her back to your place, she still fights it. doesn’t want to sit down, doesn’t want to admit she needs rest. “i can make soup myself.” she says hoarsely, trying to get up. you stop her, gently pressing her back down on the couch. “nope. not today, miss page.”

you speak softly, your hand on her forehead to check for fever. she sighs, defeated, but there’s a tenderness in her eyes.

she gets embarrassed by how much you’re doing for her. when you start taking care of the little things, getting her fluids, covering her with blankets, making sure she’s comfortable, she’s so embarrassed.

you sit beside her, brushing her hair out of her face, and it makes her melt. she’s not sure how to handle the fact that you’re taking care of her with no strings attached.

she’s exhausted, physically and emotionally. she tries to fight it, but eventually, her head drops against your shoulder as you sit together. you run your fingers through her hair and she relaxes into you. she’s too proud to ask for help, so you give it anyway.

when her fever spikes, you realize she’s not going to ask for help. you take the medicine into your hands and gently coax her to take it, even though she doesn’t feel like it. she protests, but you firmly place the glass in her hand.

you sit next to her, feeling her body shiver a little, and you pull her close to give her warmth. she doesn’t argue this time. she lets you hold her.

she leans into you when you feed her soup. you make her soup and feed her spoonful by spoonful, even though she’s still stubborn. “i can feed myself.” you smile softly, holding the spoon in front of her mouth anyway. “you need to eat. and i want to take care of you.”eventually, she just closes her eyes and lets you feed her, your presence grounding her in a way she never knew she needed.

her soft, grateful smiles when you check on her. whenever you leave her side to get something, a blanket, water, medicine, she looks up at you like she can’t believe someone’s really taking care of her. you come back to her on the couch, and her smile is small, but it hits your heart in a way she doesn’t realize.

eventually, she just lets go. she falls asleep with her head resting on your chest, her body warm but still fragile. you notice her sleeping more soundly now, the fever subsiding, the stress of the world easing off her shoulders.

she asks you to stay the night — just for her peace of mind. when she starts feeling a little better, you get ready to leave, but she looks at you with a bit of hesitation. “can you stay… just for a little longer?” it’s a small request, but it means everything to her. you stay the night, just sitting with her as she falls asleep in your arms. without question, you’re not going anywhere.

⏜︵ ELEKTRA. 𐂯

physically injured ;;

she won’t admit it’s as bad as it is. elektra is always in control. when you find her, she tries to hide it — she’s good at that. “it’s nothing,” she’ll say, holding her side, a smirk on her lips. you know better. “don’t even try it,” you reply, guiding her to sit down. “you’re hurt, and you’re letting me help you.” she glares at you, but the intensity of her gaze softens just a little. “you’re annoying.”

she’ll be teasing — but also secretly appreciative of how careful you are. while you’re cleaning up a deep cut on her arm, she’s smirking. “you know, if you were trying to get my attention, there are easier ways.” you roll your eyes but keep your hands steady. “i’m just trying to keep you from bleeding out.” she raises an eyebrow. “oh, so you do care?” you shoot her a glare, and she laughs, but there’s something in her eyes — that softness she doesn’t let out often. “fine, fine.” she says, leaning back, her shoulders relaxed for once.

she’s so used to taking care of herself, it takes a while to let you in. she insists she’s fine, standing up too fast, wincing only a little when she moves. but you can see the subtle signs of pain she’s trying to hide. but when you start to clean up her cuts and bruises, she lets you. quietly, though, her usual fire replaced with something more vulnerable.

“you’re bossy.” she mumbles, but there’s no fight behind it.

when she’s wounded, she’s more open than usual. as you tend to her injuries, she’ll talk a little more than usual. there’s a vulnerability underneath the teasing. she hates being weak. she’s always the one in control.

even with a bullet wound in her side, she’s attempting to reach for her weapons. “i don’t need you babysitting me.”

she loves being spoiled. when you’re tucking her into bed, you get her a glass of water. she just looks at you, half-amused, half-embarrassed.

won’t let you leave her side. even though she pretends she doesn’t want anyone around, she makes sure you’re nearby. “i’m fine,” she insists, but when you start to walk away, she grabs your wrist, just enough to stop you. “where are you going?” she asks, voice just a little more vulnerable than usual. “just to grab a drink.” she’s quiet for a moment, but then says, “bring it back here.” — it’s not a request.

when she’s finally feeling a little better, she’s adorably grumpy about it. she’s been resting all day, and she’s finally feeling less woozy. when she tries to sit up, she huffs and rubs her eyes.“i’m bored.”

when you sit next to her, she leans into you, not as much in pain anymore but in need — for once, she’s letting herself rest with someone she trusts.

sick ;;

she insists on toughing it out. she’s always been the type to push through pain and discomfort, and sickness is no different. so when you try to give her a glass of water or make her rest, she brushes you off with a dismissive wave.

she’s stubborn about medication. when you get her some cold medicine, she eyes the bottle suspiciously. there’s a moment of silence as she glares at the bottle, considering refusing just to be difficult. but when she sneezes hard and immediately winces, you know you’ve won. reluctantly, she takes it. “this better work.”

she’ll tease you about being overprotective. even though she loves the attention (she’s just not used to admitting it), she can’t help but poke fun at you when you’re hovering a little too much.

she’ll start asking for extra things just to see you scramble. elektra can be very subtle about her need for care. one minute, she’s insisting she’s fine, the next, she’s letting you do little things for her.

she’ll nap, but only if you’re close. after a while, the fever starts to make her drowsy. her eyes flutter as you sit beside her, and she lets herself lean against you without saying anything. “you’re not going to leave, are you?” she mutters, too tired to hide her vulnerability. you let her sleep, keeping her hydrated, and check in on her every now and then.

she’s too proud to ask for help, but you catch her needing it anyway. when she wakes up with a dry throat, she tries to reach for the water, but her hands are shaky. you notice right away, grabbing the glass and gently bringing it to her lips.“don’t make that face,” she says when she notices the concerned look on your face. “you’re not as tough as you think.” she scowls, but doesn’t pull away from the water. “i don’t need to be babied.”

she will eventually fall asleep for hours. after more fluids, some rest, and probably a dozen more grumbled complaints, elektra finally gives in to sleep. she curls up on the couch, wrapped in the blanket you brought her, and you sit by her side, quietly watching over her.

⏜︵ BEN POINDEXTER. 𐂯

physically injured ;;

dex isn’t used to being physically vulnerable. the pain doesn’t even register at first, it’s the vulnerability he hates, the way he feels exposed when you take charge. but as you clean the blood off his face, bandage his new scars, there’s a strange peace that settles over him. he can’t help but let you. maybe it’s the way you move so gently, like you’re not just patching him up but stitching back something in him that he thought he could never let anyone see. when your hands are on him, he doesn’t resist, even though he’s never allowed anyone this close. it’s almost like he’s afraid to let go, but at the same time, he’s not sure he ever wants to.

each time you touch him, a little piece of his pride slips away. dex is proud — more proud than most people would realize — and he’s spent years convincing himself that he doesn’t need really anyone.

but when his injuries leave him vulnerable, helpless in a way he can’t control, he realizes just how much he’s been starving for this. for someone who isn’t afraid to see him in pieces. the slow pressure of your hands as you adjust his position, carefully lifting him so he doesn’t hurt himself more, makes him feel both exposed and cared for at the same time. he can’t help but melt into the sensation. he’s craving this softness.

the air between you two becomes charged, every touch heavier than normal. when you press a bandage into a gash on his side, there’s a tension that settles. he’s not used to someone being this close — being this gentle — so the simplest things feel intimate. when you meet his eyes, you see something in them he’s never shown before: trust, raw and unguarded. it’s not just the physical pain he’s dealing with, but the emotional weight of letting someone care for him in this way. and even though it’s not spoken, the way he looks at you is almost desperate, a silent plea for more of the care you’re offering.

you notice how he relaxes a little more each time you’re near him, how his body leans into yours as you help him sit up. when you press a cloth to his forehead, he doesn’t pull away. he doesn’t want to. there’s a hunger for your touch. he tries to be stoic, to maintain control, but his body betrays him. he stays still longer than necessary, savoring the way you care for him with obedience.

when you step out of the room for a moment, just to grab something or to check on the door, dex lets out a deep breath, as if the absence of your presence has left him feeling exposed again. it’s not that he doesn’t trust you, but your touch has anchored him in ways he didn’t realize he needed. when you return, he looks at you like he’s been waiting for your return.

throughout it all, dex is watching you.

it’s not just the physical care, it’s the emotional depth of it. he’s used to people using him, taking what they need from him. you’re not like them. when you care for him, it feels different. there’s no agenda. it’s just pure, simple care. the longer you stay, the more that glimmer of appreciation shows in his eyes.

by the end of it, dex isn’t just letting you take care of him — he’s accepting it. he’s letting go of the need to be strong, letting himself lean into the care you’re offering him.

sick ;;

dex is stubborn and doesn’t like being seen as vulnerable, but when he’s sick, it’s hard to hide it. at first, he’ll try to act like nothing’s wrong, but there’s a slight quiver to his voice and a flushed look on his face that makes it clear he’s not okay. you insist he rests, but he resists, trying to get up, even though it’s obvious he’s barely holding it together. “i’m fine.” he insists, though he winces when he tries to sit up. you place a hand gently on his shoulder, guiding him back down. “let me help, okay?” there’s a moment of hesitation, but then, he sinks into the bed with a soft sigh. “fine. but just for a bit.”

starts to enjoy the attention. at first, he’s awkward about the idea of being taken care of. he’s not used to this kind of attention, especially when he’s vulnerable. when you bring him tea or medicine, he takes it from you with a quiet thanks. when you press a cold cloth to his forehead, he sighs, closing his eyes for a moment. “i never get sick,” he mutters. “this is... embarrassing.” you just chuckle softly. “you don’t have to be embarrassed.” he grumbles, but when you adjust the blankets around him, he allows you to do it without protest, a small, content smile tugging at his lips.

gets way too comfortable with being spoiled. as the day goes on, dex stops protesting so much and starts relaxing into the care you’re giving him. he’ll lean into you when you’re sitting next to him, subtly seeking out your attention. he’s clearly not used to letting his guard down like this, but now that you’re there, it’s as if he doesn’t want to let go of the feeling of being cared for. you end up sitting close to him, rubbing his back or holding his hand, and he lets it happen without a single complaint. he might be too eager for your attention at this point.

he’ll keep asking for just one more thing. “can you bring me more water? my throat’s killing me.” / “can you adjust the blankets? i think i’m cold.” / “hey... i think i need more tea.”

each time, you just smile and do whatever he asks. it’s obvious he’s soaking it all in, and when you return with whatever he’s asked for, he looks almost smug. he’s enjoying being doted on.

“hey, stay close.”

he’ll let you do whatever it takes to make him feel better. you go out of your way to make sure he’s comfortable — adjusting pillows, offering him favorite snacks, ensuring the temperature is just right — and he doesn’t fight you on it. in fact, he starts to let you do even more, seeking you out for small comforts.

“can you grab my jacket? i’m cold.”

milks the attention longer than he should. even though he’s starting to feel better, dex still leans into the sick act, enjoying the extra care and affection you're giving him. he’s obviously pushing the limits, pretending to be more miserable than he really is, just so he can keep you close for a little longer.

he’ll use the smallest excuse to keep you close. he’s not even sick anymore, but he finds ways to need you. “i think i need more water... can you get it?” he asks, and even though he could get up himself, he doesn't. when you return with the water, he makes sure to sit up a little, just enough to let his body brush against yours.“thanks,” he says, taking the glass from you but not letting go of your hand. “you’re still sick, huh?” you tease, noticing his play for more attention. “mhm.” he hums, pulling you back to sit beside him.

starts to get more demanding, subtly asking for your attention and touch in ways that are almost too obvious. “i think i need another blanket. i’m cold.” you don’t question it, just draping the blanket over him, but as you do, he shifts his position, cuddling against you with his face pressed against your chest. “you okay?” you ask, but there’s a hint of a smirk on your lips. “yeah. just... it’s more comfortable this way.” he mutters, but there’s a faint blush creeping up his neck.

at this point, it’s clear dex is milking the whole situation for all the affection he can get. “can you give me more tea?” — you get up to make him another cup, but when you return, he’s acting like he can barely keep his eyes open, his body practically sprawling out on the couch as if he needs help sitting up.

⏜︵ BILLY RUSSO. 𐂯

physically injured ;;

he’s stubborn about it, of course. billy won’t let you see how much pain he’s in. at first, he’ll insist he’s fine, but there’s an underlying tension in his jaw, a small wince when he moves, betraying him. he’s never liked being weak, but with you, he might let his guard down just a little.

despite being injured, he still tries to take care of you in small ways, like reaching out to brush a strand of hair from your face or trying to make you laugh with a smirk even though he’s clearly in pain. it’s his way of showing that, even when he’s vulnerable, he’s still your protector. he just struggles with the idea of being dependent on anyone.

there’s a quiet intensity in the way he lets you care for him. he watches you with a mix of appreciation and reluctance, his pride tugging at him. you can tell it bothers him to have someone else take control, but the trust he places in you during these moments is something you’ve earned over time. it’s not easy for him to let go, but with each soft word you say or gentle touch you offer, he begins to settle. when he finally relaxes enough to close his eyes, there’s this peaceful, almost childlike quality to him that you don’t often see.

billy’s mind is always moving, always on alert, so even in his injured state his gaze doesn’t lose its sharpness. he’s still watching you, still trying to read every shift in your expression, even though he knows you’re just there to help.

his patience wears thin quickly. he’s snappy, his usual calm demeanor replaced with frustration. every little thing seems to set him off. maybe it’s because he’s not used to being in a position where he can’t control the situation. if you try to help him sit up, he might groan and mutter, “I can do it myself.” but his tone is sharp, as if he’s trying to hold on to whatever dignity he has left.

but then, just when you think he’s about to snap again, he’ll flash you that smirk. it’s crooked and a little cocky, like he’s amused by his own stubbornness. “didn’t think I’d let you do all the work, did you?” he’ll tease, the words dripping with his usual charm, even though you know he’s still hurting.

sometimes, he tries to play it off like it’s nothing. you’ll catch him pretending to stretch out a sore limb or walk a few steps as if he's not barely able to stand. his chest will puff up a little, that familiar arrogance creeping back in despite the pain. “im fine. just a couple of cuts. didn’t even faze me.” - but you can see the way he’s fighting to keep his composure. you can tell he’s testing his limits, trying to prove something to himself more than anyone else.

still, there’s a subtle charm in the way he interacts with you when he’s like this. even though he’s being difficult, there’s an undeniable magnetism to the way he looks at you — half-mischievous, half-vulnerable. it’s that same cocky confidence that makes him so irresistible, even when he’s at his weakest. “gonna take care of me? maybe I’ll let you.” he’ll say with a grin, like he’s giving you some kind of privilege.

his ego doesn’t disappear entirely, though. he still likes to make light of his injuries, tossing out sarcastic remarks to mask the discomfort. “im gonna need a massage after this. what do you think? I’d let you take care of me… if I was feeling generous.” he’ll tease, but you can tell by the way he looks at you — half playful, half serious — that he’s grateful. even if he won’t say it out loud, he trusts you to be there for him in a way he doesn’t trust anyone else.

when it’s time for him to sleep, you’ll notice the way his posture softens just a little. even when he’s trying to be cocky, there’s a shift in his demeanor. he’ll sigh, a little more worn out than he lets on, and that sharp edge will disappear for just a moment. his voice might be quieter, softer. “..you’re staying, right?” he’ll ask, his hand reaching for yours.

sick ;;

when billy’s sick, it’s a whole new level of dramatic. he hates being vulnerable, and every sniffle or cough feels like the end of the world to him. he’s the type to grumble and complain, his usual confidence replaced with whiny annoyance. “im not staying in bed. im fine.” he’ll huff, trying to sit up despite the way his body betrays him. “just give me some water and I’ll power through it. no need to coddle me.”

but, of course, he does need to be coddled, and he knows it. despite his protest, he leans into your care like a cat begging for attention. as soon as you bring him some tea or medicine, he’s dramatically sighing, “i swear, ive never been this sick in my life. you’re lucky you’re here.” there’s a strange mixture of annoyance and self-pity in his voice, like he can’t decide if he’s mad at you for babying him or if he’s secretly enjoying the pampering.

billy’s needy, it’s almost adorable how much he craves your attention when he’s unwell. he’ll drag himself under the blankets, looking absolutely pitiful, just to make sure you’re still close by. “I need another blanket.” he’ll demand, his voice hoarse, and when you pull one up to his chest, “no, higher — it has to cover my shoulders. do I look like I’m made of strength right now?”

when you try to leave the room for a moment, he becomes ridiculously clingy. “where do you think you're going?” he’ll say, voice dripping with that faux-dramatic tone, as though he’s just barely hanging on. he’ll pull at your hand like he’s holding onto a lifeline, only to give you a smirk when you roll your eyes at him. "come on. I know I’m a handful, but you like it."

he's annoyingly charming about it, though. in between his exaggerated complaints, he’ll throw in little winks or cheeky comments, like, “you’re really good at this. could get used to it, honestly.”

he’s like a child when he’s sick. billy will “accidentally” spill something on the couch or knock over his water, then give you the most innocent, pleading look. “whoops, guess I’m just too weak to do anything by myself,” he’ll say, batting his eyelashes. It’s all a game to him, and you’re just the one caught in the middle of his adorable (but infuriating) antics.

at one point, he’ll try to be tough again and downplay how miserable he feels, but you can see right through it. “you know i’ve been through way worse than this?” he’ll ask, trying to sit up straight but clearly wincing with every movement. “this is nothing... but I could really use some tea right about now.”

even when he’s sick, he can’t resist being the center of attention. he’ll joke around, flashing a sly grin as you tend to him. his eyes always betray him, glinting with the knowledge that he’s getting exactly what he wants: you, all to himself, for as long as he’s in this state.

as the day goes on, his mood might swing. he’ll go from snappy to needy to playful in the blink of an eye. "im freezing," he’ll complain dramatically, shivering under the covers, only for a second later to insist, “actually, im burning up. open a window, will you?” he’s impossible to please, but the more he shifts between being unbearably needy and adorably cocky, the more endearing it becomes.

when you finally sit down next to him, offering your hand or a little support, he’ll grab your wrist with a feigned groan, dragging you closer. “you don’t have to sit so far away, you know. im dying over here.” he’ll say with a teasing smirk, clearly enjoying the fact that you’re stuck by his side. as much as he pretends to be miserable, there’s a glint of satisfaction in his eyes, because, in the end, he does like being taken care of by you.

⏜︵ DINAH MADANI. 𐂯

physically injured ;;

dinah’s always been tough, and used to doing things on her own, so when she’s injured, she’ll fight you at first. she’ll try to stand up by herself, even though every movement makes her wince. “i’m alright,” she’ll insist, her voice rough but still holding onto that controlled edge, like she’s trying to convince herself as much as you. she won’t want to admit she needs help, but there’s a quiet vulnerability in the way she looks at you when she realizes she can’t do it alone.

she won’t let you coddle her, but there’s something in the way she lets you take care of her that says she trusts you in a way she doesn’t with anyone else. when you help her sit down on the couch, she’ll let out a long breath and briefly close her eyes. “this isn’t exactly how i wanted to spend the day.” she’ll say, trying to make light of the situation with a small, wry smile. but it’s obvious how much she’s holding back, how much she doesn’t want to seem weak.

dinah’s pride doesn’t let her rest easily. when you offer to help her get something to drink, she’ll reach for the cup herself, her fingers shaking slightly. “i can handle it.” she’ll say, but you can see the fatigue in her eyes.

she might get snappy when she’s frustrated, snapping, “i don’t need to be treated like i’m fragile.” but you can tell it’s just a defense mechanism. deep down, she’s relieved when you reassure her and show her that it’s okay to be vulnerable. when you gently adjust the blankets around her or brush her hair back, she’ll close her eyes, momentarily losing that sharp edge, allowing herself to lean into the moment.

dinah still holds on to that stubborn strength, but she’ll let you pamper her in small ways. she’ll accept your help without fully acknowledging it, maybe with a soft sigh as you help her sit or when you pass her a glass of water. “thanks.” she’ll mutter, voice barely above a whisper, and it’s not much, but it’s enough for you to know she’s grateful, even if she doesn’t always show it.

sick ;;

she won’t let you baby her, but when you bring her a cup of tea or some medicine, there’s a soft sigh of relief in her that she tries to hide. “i’m not some damsel in distress.” she’ll joke, but there’s a faint smile that follows, one that’s only for you. she’ll roll her eyes.

when you sit next to her, she’ll complain about how much she hates being stuck in bed, how useless she feels. “this isn’t me,” she’ll say, voice hoarse. “i don’t do sick.” but even as she says it, she’ll lean closer to you.

there will be moments where she’ll get a little snappy, her patience wearing thin. “stop hovering.” she’ll say, but the words aren’t harsh, they’re just her way of pushing back against the discomfort. she’s not used to being on the receiving end of attention, and it takes her a moment to adjust. still, there’s a quiet relief when you respect her space, but you know when to step back in with something she needs; whether it’s a blanket, another drink, or just a simple reassurance.

you’ll find her leaning on you more than usual. when you bring her some soup or medicine, she’ll try to sit up on her own, but she can’t help but let herself rest against your side. “you’re not getting paid for this, are you?” she’ll dryly joke.

when she does finally settle down to sleep, she’s still a little restless, tossing and turning. she’ll reach out for you in the dark, hand brushing your arm, just to feel your presence close by. she won’t admit it, but she finds comfort in knowing you’re there, watching over her.

the next day, when she’s starting to feel a little better, she’ll try to get back to her usual self—fighting the weakness in her body. “i’ll be fine,” she’ll say, but there’s still a lingering tiredness in her voice, something that tells you she’s still not fully healed.

she’ll try to hide it, but you’ll catch her leaning on the wall or taking a breath before standing up straight again. and in those moments, you just know: she’s still the same strong, independent woman.

⏜︵ JAMES WESLEY. 𐂯

physically injured ;;

he’ll be reluctant to let you help. wesley’s always been the one who’s in control, running things behind the scenes, so when he's injured, he’s at odds with himself. he’ll try to mask it, pushing through like he always does, even when every movement sends a jolt of discomfort through him.

he won’t ask for anything, but he’ll appreciate when you step in. if you gently help him sit up, or offer him a glass of water, he’ll hesitate for a moment, but then take it without a word. there’s a silent gratitude behind his eyes, even if he tries to downplay it.

wesley’s not great at being taken care of. he’s used to being the one who takes care of everyone else, but when he’s hurt, he’s almost embarrassed by how dependent he feels. if you try to help him stand, he’ll grumble, “i don’t need a nurse.” but there’s a subtle shift in his posture, a small, almost imperceptible relaxation when he leans against you.

when you try to get him to lie down and rest, he’ll fight it. “i can’t just lie here.” he’ll insist, voice a little strained, his usual calm lost to frustration. he doesn’t like being in a position where he has no control, where he’s forced to rely on someone. but when you gently guide him back onto the bed, the tension in his shoulders will slowly melt away. you’ll notice how his usually sharp eyes soften a little, the cool exterior cracking just enough for you to see how tired and worn down he really is.

there are moments when his usual cocky confidence slips, and you catch glimpses of a side of him that’s much more vulnerable. if you’re cleaning a wound or adjusting his bandages, he’ll flinch, and his hand might instinctively reach for yours.

despite his frustration with needing help, wesley will occasionally make sly remarks or try to lighten the mood. “maybe you should consider a career change.” — it’s his way of admitting that he likes the attention, even if he’s too proud to admit how much he’s relying on you. his words are playful, but there’s a sincerity to them that tells you he’s appreciating everything you’re doing, even if he won’t come out and say it directly.

when he finally falls asleep, his body still tense but exhausted, you’ll notice that he seems to have let go of some of the usual control he clings to. his breathing will even out, and for a moment, he’ll look completely at ease, vulnerable in a way he’s rarely allowed himself to be. and while he might not say it, you know that he trusts you more than anyone to be there when he’s at his most fragile.

sick ;;

he’ll try to push through, pacing around, pretending he doesn’t need rest. “just need some air.” he’ll say, as if standing up too fast won’t make him dizzy. but you know better. you know he’s trying to fight it, but it’s clear he’s not okay.

when you hand him some medicine or a cup of water, he’ll take it, but with that same snarky attitude. the way he grips the glass a little too tightly, though, betrays him. he wants the care, but he can’t quite admit it. instead, he’ll make some snide remark about how you're being too nice to him.

at some point, you’ll have to convince him to rest. “i’m not staying in bed all day.” he’ll say, trying to push the blankets off, but he’s sweating, pale, and his energy is practically gone. you’ll have to practically beg him to lie down. “wesley, you’re not fine,” you’ll insist gently, and his usual resistance will crumble. with a huff, he’ll let you tuck him in but not without a bit of sass. “this better not become a habit.”

the moments when he lets you in are subtle. at first, he’ll just let you bring him food or water, never making a fuss about it. but then, when you help him sit up, maybe prop him up with a pillow, he’ll lean into your touch just a little longer than necessary. he won’t say anything about it, but his body will relax in a way it normally doesn’t.

despite being sick, he still can’t help himself from trying to act cool. “there are worse things to experience.” he might act like it’s no big deal, and he might do a good job at it too if it weren’t for his sickly appearance.

there will be moments where he gets frustrated with himself. “i hate this,” he’ll mutter, his usual control slipping. “i don’t like being stuck in bed.” you’ll see the frustration in his eyes, the way he clenches his jaw, and you’ll know he’s not just mad about being sick — he’s mad about not being able to do things on his own.

as he finally drifts off, you’ll notice how much more at ease he is. his breathing will even out, and there’s a small, almost imperceptible smile on his lips. he won’t say thank you, but the way he lets you stay by his side, trusting you enough to let himself fall asleep while you watch over him, is his way of showing it.

⏜︵ MUSE. 𐂯

physically injured ;;

will try to be stoic about his injury. whether it's a gunshot wound or a deep gash, he’ll do everything he can to hide the extent of it. won’t show it outwardly, but you can see the tension in his jaw, the way his usually composed demeanor cracks ever so slightly.

you’ll probably have to push him to sit down, or at least let you tend to the injury. he won’t like it, but there’s a moment when you’re looking at him, softly urging him to let you care for him, that his usual defenses lower. “i can handle it,” he’ll say, but there’s no denying the exhaustion in his eyes, the way he’s fighting to maintain his composure. he’ll reluctantly let you clean the wound or patch him up, but he’ll make sure to cover his vulnerability with sharp, dismissive comments:

muse doesn’t like to be treated with tenderness. it feels too vulnerable to him, too human. he’d rather brush it off or power through it. but the moment you press the cool cloth to his forehead, or you gently hold his hand while helping him sit up, he’ll pause. he might not say anything, but there’s a flicker in his eyes — he’s letting you in, even if it’s uncomfortable for him.

when you try to get him to rest he’ll be stubborn, leaning against walls or trying to push himself up when he clearly needs to be lying down. he’ll snap, irritated that he can’t be his usual self. he might even close his eyes for a moment, allowing himself that tiny indulgence, though he won’t admit to being grateful.

by the time he starts to feel better, muse will try to get back to his feet, never wanting to admit how much he needed the rest. “i didn’t need you to do all that.”

sick ;;

he won’t admit that anything’s wrong. he’ll try to keep going, like nothing’s changed. you’ll see the way his usual composure starts to crack though, the way he rubs at his temples or coughs quietly when he thinks you’re not looking. it’s clear he’s already pushing himself too hard.

when you offer to help, he’ll brush you off. he hates the idea of being taken care of. there’s a certain bitterness in his voice when he denies it, like he’s offended by the very idea of being weak. “i don’t need tea.” he’ll mutter, but you’ll catch him eyeing the mug you brought him anyway. he’ll take it, but only after a little push, and when he does, there’s a reluctant satisfaction in the way he closes his eyes for a second, letting the warmth soothe him.

muse isn’t one to sit still for long, but when he’s sick, he’s forced to. you’ll catch him trying to get up, pace around, or even work despite his feverish state. you’ll have to insist that he rest, leading him to the couch or back to bed, and he’ll make a show of it. “this is ridiculous,” he’ll say, but his eyes are bloodshot, his energy drained. he knows he’s not going anywhere, but he’s too proud to admit it.

muse gets easily frustrated when he’s sick, especially with the way it renders him useless. he can’t help but feel annoyed by how dependent he is on you, and when you suggest something like taking medicine or drinking water, he’ll roll his eyes and try to avoid it. eventually he’ll give in, albeit begrudgingly.

in the quieter moments, when he’s too tired to fight or argue, he’ll finally let you be the one to care for him. maybe it’s when you adjust his blankets, or when you bring him something warm and place it next to him. “i’m not weak.” he’ll insist, though his voice is quieter, weaker than before. he’s trying to remind you that this is temporary, that he’ll get back to his usual self soon.

★ a / n : bwuhhh thank u for the rose .. flowers for you lovely anon 💐. hope this was to your standard !

started 4.27.2025. finished 4.28.2025.

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