名誉ある人

entangled

reed richards x physicist! wife! reader | one-shot | 18+ only, MDNI

summary: Reed Richards thinks best when he's got his dick inside you, and saving the world takes a whole lot of thinking.

tags: cockwarming but make it romantic? and kinda intellectual? very fluffy smut. dirty talk. they figure out a science problem together, so we got some plot. these two are head over heels in love. reed calls you "sweetheart". you call him "darling". his superpowers apply to his dick god help me.

wordcount: 4.1K

main masterlist

Reed Richards is frustrated.

matt murdock x reader / dex poindexter x reader / frank castle x reader

summary: they can only say please when they propose to you.

warnings: swearing. suggestive at times. mention of blood, murder. obsessive behaviors. a bit of blasphemy, i suppose (?)

including: a different and separate scenario for matt, dex and frank.

word count: 3549

original idea:

clarification: english is not my native language, so i apologize in advance for any mistakes.

Dex wasn't a man who lost his temper when he had a plan. He thought through a thousand times how he would propose to you. There was no room for error, not when he was in charge.

It was easy for him to take you on a date outside of Hell's Kitchen; he hardly ever spent any time there anyway, and you'd already accepted that life outside that hellhole was better. There was less risk of the devil trying to ruin Dex's perfectly balanced life.

He took you to an Italian restaurant because the dim lighting, soft music, intimate atmosphere, and immediate service could melt any spirit. Also, because he read several magazines in the wee hours while you slept; they talked about how Mediterranean, Italian, or haute cuisine (fusion) tends to be more romantic, since it allows you to share dishes (like appetizers or pasta), includes aphrodisiac options (like seafood), and is best enjoyed with wine.

One of the magazines said it was a lethal combination. It was nonsense, but according to the percentage shown on the websites, those words seemed to carry some truth.

It wasn't hard for him to excuse himself to the restaurant's terrace with you. He'd used it once to kill some idiot the owner wanted dead. Dex didn't even have to threaten; the owner knew not to anger Bullseye, so he prepared the terrace exactly as Dex had wanted.

It was a bold move. Dex usually wouldn't risk making decisions like this, but you managed to push him out of his usual routine. And taking you to a place he'd used as a sniper's nest gave him a dark feeling inside that only you seemed to understand.

It was exquisite. The artificial lights hung like beautiful additions to the night sky, casting a warm glow. The plants weren't ostentatious, but they did their job, giving a fresh look to that piece of heaven Dex had worked so hard to create for you. Soft music drifted from inside the restaurant, the perfect volume to create a symphony of background music that would envelop your senses, preparing you for his proposition. They had even set the table with two glasses so they could toast after you gave him the long-awaited yes.

When he knelt before you, your eyes lit up, and he couldn't help but smile, almost like an idiot, at the sight. You are beautiful, his guiding star, the finger that directed his actions, the arrow of his compass. Being by your side balanced his world; if he had to kill, he first had to have your approval. Only you saw what was right and wrong in this world, only you could decide who lived and who died; Dex was merely the executioner.

His hands weren't trembling; nerves weren't part of him. This was the final mission that would make you his.

Everything was going perfectly, wasn't it? He just needed to take out the velvet box with the ring inside, say the words he'd rehearsed, and you would be—

Was that champagne?

You didn't like champagne. You didn't see the appeal. You liked wine; on occasions like this, you liked white wine because it made you feel sophisticated. Why champagne? He explicitly said it had to be white wine, an expensive one, the price didn't matter, but white wine, not some stupid, cheap champagne that Dex insisted shouldn't exist at a time like this.

“¿Dex?”

Your voice pulled him from his thoughts. He looked at you, his eyes never leaving yours as his left hand pulled out the box to present it to you.

He had prepared the speech. He had studied it. He had taken care to write it without any grammatical errors and to rehearse it as if it were the most important mission—which it was—but now… now the words seemed to refuse to come.

Dex swallowed hard, opened the box, revealing the beautiful platinum-gold ring with a subtle but lovely sapphire stone. His lips were suddenly dry, and he blurted out the first thing that came to mind, what his instincts screamed inside him, what his newfound nerves compelled him to say: “Please?”

Please? PLEASE?

Dex swallowed again, suddenly feeling like his windpipe was closing up, squeezing his airway shut. It was stupid. He'd screwed up, screwed up like never before. There was no one here to blame but himself and the incredible power he had to shake things up in every direction—

No.

It was the champagne's fault. The champagne was the problem. The waiter who set the table was the problem. The head waiter was to blame because he didn't supervise properly—no. No, no, no. The owner was to blame, the owner Dex had spoken to and made it clear that this was important. He was going to die. They were all going to die.

Dex was going to kill them. He would destroy this restaurant, maybe he would kill some civilians too, to make it clear that mistakes like these couldn't—

“Dex!” you called, breaking the train of his obsessive thoughts once again. “Put the ring on me,” you demanded.

Your smile was still on your face, only your brow had furrowed slightly, almost imperceptibly. No one but Dex, who knew every expression on your face in detail, could have noticed something so minute.

“Yes, yes, of course,” he murmured, nodding as his expert fingers grasped the ring and slipped it onto your finger.

Your smile widened as you raised your hand to admire the jewel that adorned your finger.

“Stand up, now you must kiss me,” you whispered, looking at him expectantly after breaking contact with the jewel that represented the future eternal union.

Dex nodded, nodded several times as he stood up, his body higher than yours.

You didn't give him time to recover, to rehearse what to do next. You grabbed the collar of his shirt and kissed him without hesitation.

His hands found your hips purely out of instinct. The same instinct that led him to follow each of your words, to listen to your orders as if it were the lymphatic line that remained and followed the flow of the blood. It was instinct to be by your side, to follow you, to remain entirely yours.

“It’s… it’s a yes,” Dex said, fixing his gaze on yours.

You laughed.

“Yes, darling, it’s a yes,” you said, kissing his lips once more. “You’re my fiancé now,” you murmured, your tone making him want to kneel before you again.

“I was always yours,” Dex said, with a certainty that only came to him when it came to you. “Only yours,” he whispered, kissing your lips.

This time, Dex took the liberty of silencing your sweet words. In that moment, he only wanted to silence everyone else and have only his lips on yours.

Matt was an intense man when it came to love. He loved with such intensity that it often led him down paths where morality, responsibility, and friendship were at risk. His divine purpose was to protect, and with protection came love; there was no one who didn't yearn for the perfection of protection as much as Matt. It was almost obsessive. Many times, Matt hurt those closest to him under the banner of protection.

Pushing them away was easier than keeping your loved ones by your side, by the side of danger.

At least, that's how it was in the past. Things change with time, and one of them was his way of loving. The intensity was still there; it was part of him to give himself completely to romance, he could hardly help it. But now he was more careful, more thoughtful about the decisions he had to face. He wasn't alone. He was no longer the devil of Hell's Kitchen on his own.

He had Foggy, he had Karen, Jessica… several other people.

But you were the most important. The person who was the center of his world.

Matt wanted to marry you. He had never allowed himself that thought before, but life with you had taught him that God still had plans for him.

Good plans, plans that seemed like the most beautiful blessing He could have given a sinner like Matt.

You were his greatest blessing. Not proposing to you after two years of dating already felt like sacrilege, so clearly, after surviving many storms, Matt was ready to propose.

Matt wanted to make it special. Something intimate between the two of you. He really wanted it to be special.

But God always liked to test him, even in moments when he thought he was in control, even if only for a few instants.

An emergency came up. Matt had to cancel his date with you, and you, as always, understood. That was just who you were; you knew that a part of Matt would always belong to Hell's Kitchen.

For better or worse, he was already prepared. He was wearing his suit because he planned to do a quick patrol of the neighborhood and then come back for you to take you to where he had planned—yes, he was going to pick you up in his suit.

The adrenaline of sneaking out into the night together was palpable between you two. You loved Daredevil's suit; seeing him like that turned you on. You loved the devil as much as the man. And Matt wanted to pamper you, wanted to propose, and then make love to you under the night sky that watched over you. May even God see it.

Sadly, Hell's Kitchen never slept.

Matt desperately wanted to ignore his instincts. He desperately wanted to disregard the voice inside him that told him it was his responsibility.

This time, going out there and saving lives made him feel awful because he didn't feel the usual satisfaction. He didn't feel that rotten, yet satisfying feeling inside him when he beat up thugs. He didn't feel that lightness in his body when he saved lives.

He just wanted to go home to you.

So after a long, tiring night, Matt climbed in through the window. His feet felt heavy as he made his way through the living room. You were awake, sitting on the couch with your laptop resting on your lap.

Matt could feel your heart racing at the sight of him, and he couldn't help but almost melt at the sight of you.

Your sweet scent enveloped him, and his muscles wanted to give out right there, his bones longed to turn to jelly, and his skin prickled instantly. You held such power over him. It shouldn't be possible for one human being to rule with such power over another. It was unfair, but it was the most beautiful injustice Matt had ever witnessed.

He practically crawled toward you and thanked you for moving your laptop without him saying a word.

“Sweetheart…” he whispered. His voice was hoarse from a few cries he’d let out. His body was hard, but his resistance to you was gentle.

Matt removed his Daredevil helmet, which fell carelessly to the floor, and he quickly rested his head in your lap. He inhaled deeply and groaned as the essence of your being filled his entire body.

Matt was hypersensitive when it came to his senses. Generally, he could control and limit unwanted sensations, he could control where to focus his hearing or his sense of smell, but with you, that control was nonexistent. He became a wreck under your mere presence.

“Long night?” you asked.

He almost let out a groan.

“Sorry,” he whispered, almost rubbing his nose against your skin. “I… I had it all planned,” he murmured.

“Sorry? What are you talking about, Matty?” you asked.

Your fingers sank into his hair, gently scratching it, and then you lifted his face to look at him.

His eyes were faintly shining, his lip had a tiny cut, and you could see a little sweat trickling through his hair.

“What were you planning?” you asked gently.

It was unfair. Unfair that you were being so sweet to him even though he let you down today. Today. The day he was going to propose, to you, for good.

Matt exhaled. He almost melted under your touch, and his eyes filled with tears that he refused to let fall. He was frustrated, utterly frustrated.

Even so, one of his hands traveled to the front of his suit where there was a small pocket; he could store something small there: a card, a USB drive with information, or perhaps a ring.

“I…” Matt felt his throat go dry as he presented the ring to you.

He could hear your heart race. Your pheromones soon assaulted his nostrils, and it was a hell of a struggle for Matt to stifle the moan that threatened to escape his throat.

Unfair. Unfair. You were unfair.

Matt was a lawyer; words came so easily to him, even outside of law. He never had trouble charming a woman with his smooth talk, but now… now he was a mess. A nervous wreck.

“Sweetheart…” he said, swallowing hard. “Please…” Matt didn’t even notice that his tone had become rapid, that his breathing was quickening.

The smell of your tears filled the air, the same tears that now filled your eyes and slid down your cheekbones to the end of your face.

“Oh, Matt,” you whispered, taking his hand in both of yours, as if you knew your touch could soothe his entire being. “Yes, yes, oh god, yes!”

You threw yourself into his arms, and Matt hugged you without hesitation. He didn't care how pathetic he'd been. He didn't have the strength to think about anything other than being able to call you his fiancée and, in the not-too-distant future, his wife.

“I love you,” he said, burying his face in your hair. “You’re mine, sweetheart, and you will be for eternity.”

“I love you too, Matty,” you said, breaking the embrace just to kiss him.

This time, Matt let out the moan. He groaned into your mouth and quickly used his tongue to lick your lips while his hands gripped the flesh of your hips.

Matt could feel you melting in his hands. It was easy, perhaps because he had the same power over you as you did over him.

“Put on the ring, my love, I want to make you mine with it on,” he whispered against your mouth.

Matt immediately sensed your scent change. You were aroused by a few simple words.

Confidence returned to him and once the cute gold ring with a subtle ruby stone rested on your finger, Matt slid his hands down to your ass and lifted you up, shamelessly plunging his fingers into the juicy flesh of your cheeks.

At that moment, Matt didn't care about any divine plan. Not even his own plan to propose in an organized and romantic way.

All he cared about was you. All he cared about was that you said yes. All he cared about was that he was going to make love to you all night until you could only sigh his name and no one else's.

The ring had been in his jacket pocket for months. Six months, to be exact. Frank never found the right moment. He always thought tomorrow, tomorrow's the day.

And tomorrow was never the day. Especially not in his life.

Something always happened, he always had to focus his gaze on some son of a bitch who deserved to die. You never had a problem with that. You didn't care that Frank killed because you had the same moral compass as him: some people were better off dead. Simple and concise. Moral bullshit was for wimps like Daredevil, and Frank wasn't like that.

You weren't cruel or heartless; it wasn't like you enjoyed the carnage of killing. The truth is, you were kind, sweet, and understanding, but you were also logical and so intelligent that Frank was sometimes surprised to find himself listening to you talk about politics or strategy.

You were the kind of person who would go into the dark and know where to find the door even when the shadows were pulling you in, trying to force you to stay.

Frank loved you, damn it, he loved you with all his heart.

After losing his family, Frank didn't think he'd ever find the peace of this kind of love again. He didn't feel worthy of it, nor did he believe it was something he had the right to experience. The world was a mess, the streets were dangerous, and monsters were everywhere.

That's why his mission was to put an end to those monsters.

But he fell in love with you. Frank fell madly in love with you, and now he's been carrying a ring in his jacket pocket for months.

It was an impulse when he bought it. It was a simple gold ring, somewhat heavy on the hand, and the band was wider than usual women's rings. Frank could only think that it would look perfect on you, the kindest person—though incredibly tough inside. You could even throw a good punch with that ring on because of its weight.

It was perfect for you, so Frank bought it without thinking twice. Since then, he's carried it in his jacket pocket, and the weight seemed to increase with every step.

A bullet had grazed his arm, enough to leave a wound. It wasn't serious. Shit happened, nothing new.

So now Frank was sitting while you treated the wound, standing between his legs. It wasn't the first time you'd done it, and it wouldn't be the last.

“When I said blood looked sexy on you, I didn’t mean you should let yourself get hurt, you know?” you joked as your fingers secured the medical tape over the gauze.

Frank snorted and rolled his eyes, though a tiny smile crossed his lips.

“If I was tryin' t' impress you...” Frank said, holding your gaze. “Trust me, sweetheart. Hurting myself ain't how I'd do it.”

He noticed your smile at his words and couldn't help but feel that warmth fill him. You stirred things in him that Frank thought were dead, things he believed he wouldn't be worthy of reliving, especially not in this cruel world that bled every day.

“Ugh, this is definitely going in the trash,” you said, grabbing his jacket.

The jacket with the ring.

“Doll… hold up.”

You didn't even pay attention to Frank; you were curious about the light weight in his jacket pocket, so you reached in and… yes, you found the velvet box.

Frank almost held his breath, his eyes unblinking as he stared at you. His whole being was focused on you, on how your breasts rose and fell faster as you realized what he had hidden there.

“Frank?” you whispered, finally taking your eyes off the box to look at him.

Frank stood up from his seat, his hands trembling slightly as they rested on your arms; his thumbs caressed your skin while his dark eyes searched for yours. His touch was gentle, his calloused fingers tracing invisible patterns on the softness of your now trembling body.

“Is this…?” you whispered, looking into his eyes. Yours were filled with tears, tears that Frank hoped were tears of happiness.

Frank simply nodded and was able to say a single word: “Please…”

A whisper.

A prayer. A plea to life, to the second chance he had before him; a plea to you. To his new world, to the treasure that lay beneath his fingers, which he had the delight of enjoying every day.

Guilt had tormented Frank for months. Guilt, the idea of ​​replacing his old life, his old love. But now… now that he had you before him, he could only think that this wasn't wrong. It wasn't wrong to want a life with you, to want to call you his wife and kiss you like Mrs. Castle. It wasn't wrong to accept that this was his new world, that you were his new world. He wasn't betraying anyone; he would only betray the memories of the dead if he let himself die without cause.

You were his in every way except that, and Frank, for the first time in years, felt lighter. You made him feel light in a world that held him in chains. You made him swim to the surface in an ocean of death and damnation. He wanted you as his wife.

“Yes,” you whispered, nodding several times. “A thousand times yes.”

Frank cupped your hands in his, removed the box, and took out the ring. He didn't care that his hands trembled as he slipped the ring onto your finger. He didn't care that tears escaped his eyes.

He kissed you with the fullness of his being, with the passion of someone who had been lost in death for a long time and, instead of wanting to rise again into life, had found a companion who would walk among the dead by his side.

Instead of resting in solitude, he now had someone willing to rest beside him.

“I love you,” Frank told you.

And there were no safer words than those.

notes: when i saw that post, the idea wouldn't leave my head, so i decided to do it with my three favorite men.

it's pretty quick :P but the truth is, i wasn't going to be at peace until I'd written it.

dex's part took me the longest because he's a very complex character and of course reader can't be normal lmao.

if you like it, don't hesitate to tell me or show your support. thanks. <3

pairing : frank castle x innocent f!reader

summary : you're untouched, inexperienced, and completely wrong for a man like Frank Castle. Which is exactly why he can’t stay away from you.

word count : 7.6 k

warnings : buckle up bc this is a long one - smut, minors DNI, 18 +, p in v, unprotected sex (wrap that shi up), popping of one's cherry, mentions of blood, soft but not really!frank, implied age gap, inexperienced reader, praise kink, size kink, canon-typical mentions of violence, explicit language

a/n: yall come up with the shit i wouldn't even think abt (like this here) but im always so glad to write it !!! my requests are open to any and all characters, so keep em comin' - as usual, not proofread !

Husband!Frank x Wife!Reader

Summary: Your new coworker causes problems between you and Frank. You can’t figure out why—you’re nothing special. But when drinks at the bar prove you wrong… the night ends in blood.

masterlist | tag list open. Comment or DM a 💀 to be added, 18+ only, age must be in bio. 

Warnings: slow burn conflict to violent explosion, threats, detailed violence, blood, jealous!Frank, protective!Frank, negative self-image/imposter syndrome/negative self-talk & self-worth, manipulation (not Frank), sexual innuendoes, implied fingering, attempted drugging (not Frank), fuck ton of cussing, power plays, mentioned death of an animal (trust me, you’ll see, it’s not sad). 

W/C: JESUS CHRIST 10k

Requested by anon: here

A/N: I kept Frank as still being semi-active as The Punisher. My personal opinion: Frank would not do the job if married. He loves you too much to put you in unnecessary danger. HOWEVER… it’s hot as fuck so that’s my reasoning. Pics from Pinterest, not mine.Reader is always 18+. Minors do not interact. Tag list is open for 18+. Asks open for Frank.

Frank can smell bullshit the way a shark smells blood: one drop, a quarter mile away. 

Shit’s not close enough to see yet, but it fuckin’ stinks. 

A cool breeze whistles through the crack in the window as the rain patters down, crisp ozone and wet tarmac in Frank’s nose. Night settles in; so consuming it’s comfortable. Maybe it’s the anticipation of waiting for you. His girl, gettin’ off her shift to get in his car, get you back home safe, drive you through that coffee joint for a chai latte and a coffee just to drag it out longer. Windshield’s speckled, raindrops streaking, but he’s still got a clear enough view. Woulda been out there waitin’ for you, but last time he did, you said you loved the rain and the run to the truck. So… he stays put. Gives you whatever simple pleasure he can. 

The seat creaks under Frank as he adjusts, elbow on the console, chin in his hand, eyes fastened to the door you’ll be comin’ out of. Totally casual. Boot totally not taptaptaptaptapping in the footwell. Van off, artillery in the back; the unsavory pieces Frank isn’t scared to show you anymore. 

Started stinkin’ six weeks ago. Not your bullshit. Jason’s bullshit. Your new clean-cut, savvy-tongued, personal ass-kissing coworker. Started small. Innocent enough. Frank knows better. 

A text on your phone during dinner guy’s first week. Frank raised a brow in question, fork left hovering in front of his mouth. “Sweetheart, that guy botherin’ you?” 

You raised a brow at your screen, then your expression neutralized. You blink across the table at Frank. “Him? Oh, god, no. He’s been a breath of fresh air.” 

…Breath of fresh air. You hear that shit? Christ. 

“New guy at work just has questions. Normal stuff.” 

“Questions can’t wait until work hours?” Frank’d asked, voice smooth through the lurch of instinct in his chest. 

“Eh, he’s… trying,” you reason, “to get up to speed. You know how it goes being new.” 

No. No, he doesn’t.

Then the phone calls. He ain’t even subtle.

You walked in the apartment humming acknowledgment, phone sandwiched between your shoulder and cheek while someone else gabbed. When you did answer, it was respectful. Tasteful, nothin’ out of the ordinary. That amicable professionalism Frank dotes on, hearin’ you talk all smart, talk your shop. You’d chime in, small cues you were home. Polite excuses to get off the call. Didn’t work. 

Frank cornered you against the countertop, hands planted on either side so his barrage of affection was inescapable. Soundless, you laughed, squirming in the cage of him as Frank nipped your neck, kissed your jaw, muttered nothings about gettin’ you a bath ready, askin’ if you taste as good as you smell, pressin’ about your day… so when you didn’t reciprocate… when you—still laughin’, still smilin’—turned away to give attention to the damn phone call… Frank knew exactly who stole your attention, knowin’ damn well you’re home. And it pissed him the fuck off. Not pissed at you. Christ, no. Never you, his sweet angel. Pissed the fuck off at the guy callin’ a married woman—Frank’s girl—after hours, keepin’ you on the phone ‘about work’ until night came around and Frank suggested, in good nature, you needed sleep.

Frank didn’t sleep much that night. When he did? He dreamt about reachin’ through the receiver to crush Jason’s windpipe.

The double-doors unlatching retrieves Frank from his thoughts. Automatic, he sits straight, heart stuttering the second he sees you walking out into the night rain. Wind catches your hair, tugs your jacket, but when you look up through the needles of rain? See him there, the van? Jesus, he’s gone. Delight lifts you up. Puts a skip in your step, literally. You beam. Smile. Wave like you ain’t seen him in weeks even though he kissed you goodbye that same morning. 

Frank rolls the window the rest of the way down. Leans out the side, elbow hooked out, squinting against the weather. Gives a whistle, looow’n slow, goddamn obnoxious as the commoners settle and the city comes to life with rats. 

“Hey, sweetheart,” Frank calls across the lot. “Need a ride, huh?” 

You laugh, keeled a bit, shoes staggering a step. God, that sound fucks with a man’s common sense. “Yeah!” You call back, playing into it. “I need a ride. You got a seat?” 

“Yeah, princess, I got a seat alright. Wanna learn how t’drive this bad boy, huh?” 

“Frank,” you shout back, weak from laughter, “it’s an automatic transmission.” 

“Sweetheart, you’re supposed t’play along, not use that beautiful brain ‘a yours.” 

You dash the rest of the way with a wild grin. 

Frank reaches over and pushes your door open so you can barrel in. 

You do. 

The van rocks as you catapult yourself into Frank, lips crashing into his. Your mouth’s cold on his, sweet from whatever you were drinkin’, soft from the chapstick you can’t survive without. 

Frank knows he won’t make it into Heaven, but god damn you taste like it. 

Breathlessly sweet, you pull back first, an arm hooked around Frank’s neck as best you can in the confined space. You nudge your nose against his, cold to warm, heart tripping as the best part of your day nears. “Chai latte time?” 

“Hell yeah, baby,” Frank rumbles, his hand splayed over the entirety of your lower back. “Chai latte time.” 

“Yes!” And after another quick, planted kiss of appreciation that conjures a groan in his throat, you plop back into your seat. 

But as Frank shifts the van into drive, foot on the brake, he feels your excitement diminish. Craning his head over, he sees you—his girl—a wry smile, a hand on your stomach like you’re full. 

“Well…” you start, “maybe a… decaf for me.” 

Frank gawks. “You feelin’ alright, sweetheart?” Pressing the back of his hand to your forehead. “They workin’ you too much in there, huh?” 

You breathe a dismissive laugh, guiding his hand down. “I’m fine, I’m fine. Promise.” You tip your head against the seat, smile all soft. “I had a chai already. I don’t think I need anymore caffeine before bed.” 

You. Already had a chai. From somewhere in the vicinity. Frank blinks. You hate the chai’s in the vicinity. Frank specifically drives you twenty minutes outside of town to get the chai you like. Every damn night, Monday through Friday, rain or shine. Before he can get the question out, you answer. 

“Jason and I got called out for a meeting on the other side of town. He must’ve remembered I mentioned you and I go there every night after work, that it’s our thing. It was on the way back,” you explain. “He wouldn’t take no for an answer.” 

Frank. sees. double. Knee-jerk reaction, Frank double-stomps the brake, his stun moving the truck. Guy drives a married woman to the place she shares with her husband, buyin’ the same fuckin’ drink he gets her every night? Guy buys the married girl the drink before her husband can—that’s the bullshit. It fuckin’ reeks. 

You shift, sensing the fizzling tension radiating from Frank. “…What?” you ask, quiet, like anything too loud’s illicit. 

Low, a promise to make it known: “He know you’re married?” 

Brows knotted, then lifting up, you waggle your hand at him, ring catching in the distant streetlamp light. “You made it pretty hard to miss, Frank.” You pause, eyes narrowing as you study him; the impossible person you’ve managed to learn, love, and keep. “…Why?” 

“He ain’t actin’ like you’re married.” 

“What?” You sit forward, knees angled towards him. “That’s ridiculous. He’s just a nice guy, trying to make friends. He does these things for everyone.” 

“Work ain’t f’friends.” Frank immediately hates saying it, regrets the low-drip of spite that’s got you tensin’ your shoulders, face twisting in pure confusion. 

“Frank…” your tone to reason. 

Here’s the problem: ya don’t see it. 

Rain pelts the windshield. Heavy, angry spit from the sky. 

He shakes his head, almost… solemn. “Don’t get it, sweetheart, do ya?”

“Get what?” With a red-mottled face, panic bouncing in your veins. “I’m so confused here, Frankie. I don’t- I’m not sure what I’m supposed to be getting.” 

Frank leans an arm on the center console. Waves you in close with his other hand. 

Like the two of you are magnetized, you follow, leaning your chin in his palm, your eyes searching between the both of his for answers. For clarity. 

“Baby…” Frank drops his voice the way he does when he needs understanding without proof. It’s a big ask. Frank knows. Frank knows you trust him, too. And you know—trust—Frank won’t lead you in the wrong direction. 

The rough pad of his thumb slides slow strokes over your cheek, his dark eyes holding yours. “Guy ain’t doin’ this shit for the right reasons,” Frank says. “Ain’t doin’ it ‘cause he’s nice, or-or tryna make friends. Nah. Guy knows exactly what he’s doin’. He’s tryna weasel his way t’ya. Playin’ nice, playin’ dirty, yeah? Guys ain’t nice t’pretty ladies f’the hell of it. He ain’t a good guy.” 

Your lashes falter as you process, mouth circled in disbelief. Wind howls through the seams of the truck, nullifying the silence. “You’re… deducing that from what…? A tea?” 

“Everything. The texts. Calls. Keepin’ you late at work. Buyin’ you shit like that, yeah?” 

“No—” your head glitches a shake, hesitant at first. “No. That’s not it at all, Frank, oh my god. That’s- that’s ridiculous.” 

Thunder roars like distant bombs. Lightning draws a jagged white fissure through the sky. 

Frank grimaces, pressing his mouth into line. “Ain’t ridiculous. It’s right, sweetheart. You need t’stay away from that guy, you hear me? Away, before he does somethin’ I really don’t like. You need me t’talk to him, huh? Give a gentle nudge?” 

“Approach Jason and threaten him over work and tea?” You shake your head, exasperated by being in the middle of such absurdity. Ferocity of your truth—the false belief you’re never enough—in your eyes, you pin Frank’s stare. “You have nothing to worry about. I have nothing to worry about.” 

“Yeah?” His brows lift in a goad. “Why’s that, huh?” 

“Because I’m not spec—”

Your phone cries and vibrates on the dash like a wasp. 

You startle, eyes snapping to the phone. 

Franks clocks it with a vile glare. 

The air constricts; a noose around both your necks. 

The name?

Jason. 

You hesitate, heart in your throat, stomach an empty pit. 

Jaw pulsing, expression empty—the preamble to violence against another man—Frank stares out the windshield with darting eyes. For five long seconds, you don’t see Frank. You see The Punisher. You see what man’s capable of, if pushed too far; if what’s his is threatened. 

Eyes on Frank, you slink your arm out to silence the call. 

Softer, barely a whisper, you say, “Neither of us has anything to worry about, okay? I’m not special—”

“Bullshit.” 

The phone clicks to black. 

“It’s not bullshit, it’s true. You don’t have to blow smoke up my ass like I’m not the most average person you’ve met,” you bubble an incredulous, pained laugh.

“Bull-shit.” Frank argues, twisting to drill his truth—the truth—into you, head-on. “Don’t you ever say that shit ‘bout yourself, sweetheart, you’re the—”

A second time. Your phone buzzes a frenzy, incessant and disruptive, deafening in the space between you and Frank. Goosebumps race up your arms, like an augury to what’s to come. Not now, but later. 

“I- I need to answer that,” you say, voice thin. 

Reluctant, at a loss, Frank throws a nod at it. 

You swipe to answer, phone to your ear with a tight, “Hello?”

Frantic nonsense on the other end. Nothin’ Frank can hear. He can, though, feel your anxiety spike. An innate sense tailored to you, Frank slowly turns his head in your direction. Watches you pale, fear zigzagging your eyes. 

There’s no fight in him when you’re lookin’ like this. Impatient for answers but quiet, Frank leans over the console. One big hand kneads over your thigh, keepin’ you here, with him. Whatever it is—you ain’t alone. Not with Frank around. 

“Oh my god,” your gasp wanes to a halt, eyes round with shock. “Oh-oh my god. Okay! Okay, yes. Yes, l’ll be right there! Just- just give me a few. Okay? Yep. Yes. Bye.” 

Click. 

The phone slides from your ear. You don’t even realize it’s dropping until Frank grabs it. Sets it in your lap. Kneads a little firmer into you. 

“Everything alright, sweetheart?” Dumb question, but he needs to pull you back into focus. 

“Um— uh-ha… no.”

Frank braces, steady inhale through his nose. “Talk t’me.”

“We, uh- Me and- yeah. We have a presentation tomorrow. Like— big presentation, Frank. Like, could be a promotion and a raise big.” 

“Yeah, alright. I remember, baby. What about it?” Kneading, kneading, kneading. Here for you. All of you. Always you. 

Your hands steeple at your mouth to keep the bile gone. “It’s gone. Our system crashed during backup. Frank— it’s all gone.” 

“Fuck, sweetheart—”

You bolt to action, scrambling for your things. “I’ve- I’ve gotta go back in. I’m so sorry. I’m so, so, so sorry, Frank, but I have to. This is one of our highest priority clients I cannot fuck this up. This- this cannot be happening.”

You fly outta the car after smearing a distracted kiss to Frank’s cheek. You don’t hear him ask you to wait. Or call your name. Rain and thunder drown him out; an army of one muted by mother nature and some motherfucker named Jason. 

You sprint for the door, swinging it open and a flood of sallow office light spills out, haloing you. 

Through the rain, the heaviness in your gut, the scorching of your throat, you yell out: “I love you!” 

And the door slams shut behind you, separating you from Frank once again. 

Quiet’s got a way of gettin’ in the skin when business’s left unfinished. 

Left things unfinished with you. 

Frank’s got a few rules. One of the first: fix the fuckin’ problem. 

‘Cause you never know when it’ll be your last chance to. 

Frank’s eyes track the empty parking lot. 

Finds a sedan there. One with plates Frank’s memorized. 

Jason’s.

Bastard never left. 

And now he’s got you for the night.

Frank snags his phone from his pocket. Thumbs a number without looking. Three rings—an answer. 

“Yello?” David answers in a chuckled hum. “Fraaaaank. Long time no talk, big guy. What’s up? How’s it goin’?” 

“Need a favor,” Frank grits. 

Micro scoffs, “Hello to you too… The family’s great, thanks for asking. Kids’re doing good in school, Sarah has totally forgot about that kiss…”

“Jesus Christ, Micro. Need you to check a file f’me.” 

“Dude, it’s dinner time… Sarah made this Mediterranean sala—”

“Salad. Great. Won’t get cold while you check this fuckin’ file f’me.” 

“Okay, so I’m sensing I don’t really have a choice here, did I nail that vibe?”  

“Right on, genius.” 

With a sigh, grumbled huffs, a muffled excuse to Sarah, Frank hears Micro retreating. Laptop opens. Fingers flying over the keyboard. 

“Okay, alright, here weeee go…” Micro says, computer light throwing blue over his face. “Company name?”

Frank gives it. 

“File type?”

“Fuck, I dunno? PowerPoint?” 

“Sheesh, ancient, okay. Who uses PowerPoint these days?” 

“It’s- it’s a goddamn presentation, David. Deleted in the last half hour. Can you find it or not?” 

“Frank. I’m offended you even asked.” A hand over his chest to stop the hurt. 

“Christ.” 

Clack clack clack. 

“Okay… okay… breaking the firewall… okay… system override, easy… Like, concerningly easy, Jesus…” 

Frank bounces a leg. Drums a hand on the wheel. 

“Aaaaaand… here… I think… Found it!” 

Stock-still, back straight, Frank stares at the building, the door you vanished behind. “How was the file deleted?”

“Uhhh… Manually. Frank, what is this? Promise me this isn’t another government database I’m cracking because y’know, I’m home now—”

“Goddamnit, Micro, the username. What the hell is it?” 

“Jason underscore Caldwell. You, uh… you know the guy? Another one of your… targets?”

“Worse,” Frank’s nostrils flare. “Guy’s fuckin’ with my wife.” 

☠︎

That night… 

It’s late. Regrettably late, and that always seems to be when the thoughts trickle in. Slow at first, and you don’t realize you’re drowning until you can’t breathe. 

Tucked away in the privacy of the bathroom, you lean into the mirror. You bat the facet on so the sink disguises your dissection, muffles Frank tossing and turning in bed. Hips bent against the counter, your forehead an inch from the glass so you can magnify and inspect every conceivable flaw. 

Your fingertips shake as they ghost under your eye. Thread-thin lines on the delicate skin only you can see. And then across your cheek, your head angling with the motion, over the dots of pores everyone’s made of, but you never see theirs. Only yours. Your hair could be better. Your nose could be different. You manipulate your skin with your fingers, experimenting to see how you’d look if your eyes were just… like this. Or if your nose was like that… Or if your eyebrows sat here, instead of there. Just… making yourself into a puppet instead of a person. 

You don’t… you don’t understand… 

Who could love this? Who would want this? Why does Frank? Let alone, for someone else to be interested enough to prod at your marriage when there’s plenty of other available women out there. There’s always smarter, prettier, better. 

Frank’s words recite in your head from earlier. 

“Guys ain’t nice t’pretty ladies f’the hell of it.”

“He ain’t a good guy.”

“You need t’stay away from that guy, you hear me? Away.”

You scoff at his certainty, the mere idea flushing your face because it hurts to consider. It fucking hurts to look at yourself and see an imposter instead of this divine concept of you Frank has.

Turning away from the mirror, your eyes squeeze to shut out the thoughts, you smack the lights off. Safety in darkness; comfort in the blindness. Once you have the shower running, you bat off the sink. Constant noise, anything but the grating static of inadequacy. You shrug out of your cardigan. It falls to the ground in a heap; shed skin, but it doesn’t slough off the fraud. 

Everything you’ve built… it’s just luck, right? Your job. Your education. Your friendships…Your marriage. And all luck runs out eventually. What happens when they see you?

The real you. 

What do you do when… it all comes crashing down? When they see you’re just… you? 

A soft knock at the door startles you. Your gasp lodges in your throat against raw flesh. 

“Sweetheart?” Frank asks, voice low and husky from sleep he hasn’t had. 

“Just—” you clear the snag in your voice. “Just a second.” 

You wipe the backs of your hands under your nose, shake the rotting guilt from your face, and pick the mask back up to maintain nonchalance.

A second is what Frank gives. 

With a creak, the door opens. 

Heavy shuffled steps follow, then pause in the doorway when he clocks the total darkness here, and in the bedroom behind him. Still, you can see his towering silhouette, something carved from mythology and given sentience. 

Bare, broad shoulders, the sharp slant of his trapezius. 

“You, uh…” Frank huffs a chuckle, no humor in it. “You good? Seein’ alright in the dark?” 

In your tank and slacks, in the dark where it’s safe, you lean back against the counter, hands grasping the ledge. “I’m… okay.” 

It convinces neither of you. 

“Need some sleep, yeah? Got your clothes in the dryer.” 

Your arms cinch around yourself, holding together the shaking pieces, wondering if this is the night they all break. He’s… so sweet. Frank. Always. Thoughtful in ways you’ve never been loved before. Considerate to the extent that the only fear you live in is when he’ll realize you aren’t worth all this. 

You log every single example of how Frank loves you, nausea souring your stomach because it’s overwhelming and beautiful and unconditional. 

he drives you to and from work, every damn day 

every damn day, your chai tea Except… except today… 

you never go to the grocery store alone 

you never lift a finger unless you ask to do it yourself, or ask to learn the task with him 

holds you while you cry, even cups a tissue under your nose and tells you to “blow” after

has never made you feel unsafe 

loves you unconditionally, indefinitely

warms your clothes in the dryer 

there’s always an electrolyte water in your lunchbox, something you forget, but Frank never does 

You don’t even realize you haven’t said anything until Frank’s hand is on your waist, guiding you into him, asylum from your mind. Out of touch with your body, you shuffle in automatic steps. 

“What’s goin’ on in that head’a yours, huh? C’mere.” Before he can settle you against his chest, you halt. 

“Why?” You finally spurt out, disgust spoiling the one question you haven’t been able to answer after all the years. 

Against the dark, his head cranes, his fingertips curling your tank-top where you’re just out of reach. “Why, what?”

Steam compresses the air, humidity stifling—nowhere to run, nowhere to breathe. Everything you hold back sears your throat, veins in your head swelling with pending implosion. “Why… me?” 

Needing the light to see the repulsion in your voice, Frank flicks on the overhead bulb. 

You recoil as though the light scorches. 

There, in the light, he sees you. All of you. The prey animal darting of your bloodshot eyes. Deep lines of worry trekking through your face. The goddamn sincerity from which your question came, bowing your shoulders in, shrinking your spine. 

Frank narrows his eyes on you, certainty cemented in every bone in his face. “‘Cause there’s only you.” Gritty fact coming out between his teeth, tendons in his neck standing. “Only you. Always you. You and me, sweetheart? We got somethin’ no one else does. We got this, yeah?” Gesturing his finger between you two. “This. Us. You and me.” 

Biting back tears, your skin crawling with your desperation to leave it, you squeak out, “I hate when we fight. Earlier,” you swallow around the lump in your throat. “I hated that.” 

He softens, eyes opening to mirror your vulnerability, looking a helluva lot like the foot of distance between you hurts him. “Hell,” he rasps, “wouldn’t call that a fight. Just me. Lookin’ out f’you. Same shit. Always gonna look out f’you, even if you don’t like hearin’ it.” 

“I don’t like hearing it because it’s not true. Plain and simple. I don’t get why you think Jason’s after me.” You bubble an unconvinced laugh, slapping a hand over your mouth to stop it. “I don’t even understand why you’re with me. You could do so much better, Frank.”

A loaded silence perforates the air, bleeding out something ugly, something broken from Frank. Tension ratchets up his shoulders, and self-control shoves them down. A dry, empty swallow tugs his adam’s apple. 

The anticipation is anger. 

The reality is worse. 

It’s heartbreak. 

The water’s gone cold. Steam dries up, leaving an empty chill in its wake. Just the patter of the water, amplifying the chasmic space separating you from him. 

“…The hell did you just say?” Frank croaks out, his brows jutting up. “Better? Than you? There ain’t no better. There ain’t anyone else. There’s nothin’—I’m nothin’—without you, goddamn it. You?” One shake goes through the finger he points at you. “You fuckin’ saved me, sweetheart.” 

It’s heartbreak. 

It’s grief. 

It’s thanks. 

Your eyes crawl from the tip of his finger, up the corded veins in his forearm, and flick a fleeting glance to his eyes. God, does it ruin you. The anguish in his stare, so pure you wonder if what you said is form a torture for Frank. 

Goosebumps cover your arms, and you drag your cold, clammy palms over the skin to intimate comfort, but there’s no sensation. It only feels like you’re rubbing filth onto yourself, grabbed straight out of the oxygen you used for those words. 

“That’s not true,” you try to argue, but the words hold no faith. Small. You feel small. And like the rotten parts of you are being seen. And seeing those parts… that means leaving, doesn’t it? It’ll mean Frank’s had enough. He’ll realize what you are, what you’ve always been. 

“Yeah?” Frank grates his hand over his mouth like he needs to get rid of the urge to vomit, his eyes jittering with loss. “It’s my damn truth.” 

And just like you expect— Frank leaves. 

You stuff your fist in your mouth to keep a sob from punching out, and swing for the shower handle to cut the fucking noise out. 

And with the shower severed, there is… nothing. Grotesque proof you’ve always been right. You’re nothing special. And someday? Frank will leave. Frank is leaving. 

Before the silence makes a home in yours, a new noise takes its place. One that startles you, something wooden clattering together rooms away. Almost sounds like… the kitchen table…? 

Answering your question, proving you wrong, Frank reappears. Shirtless, grumbling curses, knocking one of the kitchen chairs through the doorway of the bathroom. 

“Frank! What’re you doing!?” 

Dropping the chair down in front of the mirror is his response. Knuckles tented white over the back of the chair, Frank stands angled partially towards you. He jerks his head, summoning you. Shallow breath contracts the muscles in his chest, the ridges of his abdomen. Everything about him screams bridled rage, but he says nothing. 

“Sit,” he says, voice cracked low. 

Your eyes slide from Frank… to the chair… back to Frank… “You want me to—?”

“Sit. Yeah.” 

“Wh—?”

With the curt wave of his hand, Frank ends the follow up question. 

Okay. No more questions. No more excuses. On the balls of your feet, you move in soundlessly until you perch in the chair, drawing your legs up to cross on the seat with you. You don’t look at the mirror. You can’t. Clearing your throat, your chin on your shoulder to be near Frank without looking, your whisper comes strained, tight. “What am I doing in our kitchen chair in the bathroom at two in the morning, Frank?” 

“Somethin’ I shoulda done a long time ago.” 

Frank towers from behind, heat pouring off his body and into your back. His hands cover your shoulders, his focus on the mirror, your reluctant reflection in it. Beautiful, he thinks, my perfect girl. If only you could see it. He moves a hand to cup your chin. Moves it ‘til you’re head’s straight, ‘til you’ve got no other choice but the face the person in the mirror. 

Your bottom lip wobbles. Your eyes strain sideways with your refusal to see. 

“Look,” Frank whispers, bending just enough to keep his voice a private rumble, just for you. “Look at yourself f’me, angel… C’mon.” 

It’s harder than you think. Looking yourself in the eye. Accepting the imperfections, who you are, who you are not. Because he asked, because your jaw quivers under his affection… you look. You see. You see yourself. Exhausted, disheveled from the day, half-dressed, fully embarrassed. His thumb skims your cheek, then skates down the curve of your neck to plant back on your shoulder. 

“There she is…” Frank’s rough cheer, a twitch at his mouth like he might smile. Frank doesn’t smile much, but the corners of his eyes crinkle. 

Eyes, after all, are the window to the soul. 

“There’s my girl.” 

A quick, unfiltered laugh barks out of you. This is ridiculous. You press the back of your hand to your mouth, shielding the dark flush over your face. Nerves bounce your leg. “I’m here,” you shake your head. “Now what?” 

“Now, sweetheart, we’re gonna get those thoughts outta your head and keep ‘em gone.” An unsettling solemnity takes his face, his instruction inarguable. “You’re gonna sit here, with me, ‘til you say fifteen nice things ‘bout yourself, yeah? You and me both. No bullshittin’ me. No half-assed answers, you got me?” 

“Frank, I—”

“Uh-uh. Ain’t playin’, sweetheart. We’ll sit here all damn night if we got to.” 

Panic catches your breath, but you stay. You flick your eyes to his, looking for any chance to escape, but the lift of his brows says he’s read your mind and it’s not an option. 

“Ain’t playin’,” he reiterates, setting his shoulders back to lead. “Alright. ‘M first.” Frank draws in a slow, composing breath through his nose, head cocking. “You gotta lotta faith in people. Trust ‘em ‘cause you’re always seein’ the good.” 

Your eyes narrow, face warm. “…You usually say that’s poor survival instinct.”

“Don’t mean it ain’t special,” he shrugs a shoulder. “You won’t let the world break ya. That’s special.” 

Lips rolled in, a new perspective warm in your stomach, you look down at the interlace of your fingers as you toy with your thumbs. You nod; a thanks without words. 

“Your turn,” Frank squeezes your shoulder. 

“I…”

“In the mirror, sweetheart. Eyes on you.” 

You try again. Staring back at yourself, you expand with a steeling inhale. “I… like… my neck length…?”

“…Your neck length.” 

“Yup. Your turn?” 

“Nice try, sweetheart. Try again.” 

Your shoulders deflate, but Frank’s right there to give a little shake of encouragement. “Okay. I like……… how I show up for the people I love.” 

Frank perks, slightly, approving of the sincerity. “Atta girl…” He lifts a hand from your shoulder, big fingers instead weaving through the ends of your hair. He quiets again, expression smoothing with the gravity of confession. “You’re a saint, yeah, I think you are. Got such a big heart you need’a find room in it f’yourself.” 

The honesty—the real truth—puts you in pensive thought. Teeth grazing your bottom lip, you nod. You understand. You see it, too. Arms linking around your knees, you smoosh Frank’s hand against your cheek and shoulder to keep him. 

“Only one you,” Frank says as he leans down, planting his lips against the top of your head, breathing you in so his world keeps turning. “That’s what makes you so goddamn special. Makes an ass like me so goddamn lucky.” 

Throat constricting, tears full but balanced in your eyes, you push out the words, “I love you, Frank,” and the man you love smiles. 

“Love you more, sweet girl. Ain’t off the hook yet, though. Fourteen more, c’mon.”

And as you conjure up fourteen more things you can say you like about yourself, your posture straightens. Laughter returns, shared between the two of you. Tears well in your eyes but don’t fall. The first one was the hardest. The rest you find with Frank’s help while he threads his fingers through your hair, or drags the back of his knuckles over your cheek, or brushes his thumb over your bottom lip. 

You’re talkin’. Laughin’. Finally cuttin’ yourself some slack. Seein’ you like this—soft, unguarded—reminds Frank what he first fell in love with when he met you. 

Your heart. 

Your goddamn heart. Got so much you’re full of it. 

Frank understands what needs to be done. He’ll do it. Without a doubt. 

He’ll put the fear of god into the motherfucker that preys on your doubts, your heart, under the guise of kindness. Usin’ his wife’s goddamn sweetness to manipulate her. Slowly. Carefully. Like he’s got all the time in the world. 

Time’s fuckin’ up. 

☠︎

3 days later…

Shark to blood, Frank stalks the maze of halls to your office. Black on black, ballcap cinched down, he cuts through the normality of business casual and overhead lights like plague. 

In reality? 

He’s the fuckin’ omen. 

Fist vising a fresh bouquet of flowers, the cellophane crinkles. A stalk snaps. Boots thunder down the corridors he memorized first structurally, by blueprint, then physically, during his first visit years ago. Your colleagues flatten against walls, find convenient exits, avert their eyes—anything to be small in the presence of The Punisher. They don’t know it’s him… but they feel it, the conquest for blood, the irrefutability of his violent nature. 

Frank did his homework weeks ago. Soon as the bastard got hired, Frank had a full background check, credit scores, past addresses, and medical history. Poor bastard’s got scoliosis—no wonder he employs sick tactics on a sweet girl like you. Guy’s got no damn spine. Frank’ll reshape it, alright. 

The hall empties out by the time Frank approaches your office. He slows, head craning to see you through the open door as you work. Sunlight from the new picture windows soaks you ‘til you glow gold. You mutter to yourself, movin’ here, movin’ there, unpacking trinkets from a box to arrange just how you like it in your new office. 

Promotion paid off. You earned every bit of it. ‘Specially when your breath of fresh air wiped your fuckin’ work. Frank’s not told you that. Won’t let you carry that hurt when he can handle it. 

Without a sound, Frank leans a shoulder against the doorway. Flowers hang at his side. Temporarily? He forgets the real reason he came. It’s you. ‘Course it’s you. But it ain’t this. Flowers.

He came for Jason. 

Frank’s the kinda guy who mistakes warm and fuzzy for heartburn. He gets alotta heartburn around you. 

Turns into a full blown coronary as he watches you dip both hands into the box, takin’ somethin’ in those gentle fingers like it’s priceless. You lift it out, and Christ, he’s done for. 

Front and center on your desk, you nestle a framed photo between your monitors. The picture?

You and him. Years ago. Halloween. Hours after Frank got back, beaten only a quarter of the way dead this time. You sat between his legs on the front steps of your apartment, handin’ out candy to kids. Frank gave you relentless hell for your costume, a damn scarecrow. 

When a kid asked Frank, “What’re you dressed as, mister?”

And Frank said, “An asshole,” without blinking, he’ll never forget the way you laughed. 

You, stupidly adorable makeshift scarecrow costume. Paint on your nose, cheeks. Cheeks puffed in the biggest smile known to man. 

Him, busted mouth crooking what it could of a smile he forgot how to make. Reminds himself of the goal he’s not yet shared: get away from the life. Retire. No more busted lips in pictures. No more bruises to come home and concern you with. No more holidays spent dressin’ his wounds. 

Masking the aspirating blast of love tightening his voice, recalibrating to the mission instead of reminiscing, Frank speaks. “Workin’ hard, sweetheart? Or hardly workin’?”

Hearing Frank’s voice—familiar rumbly gravel—sparks through every nerve in your system to liven you. You spin on a heel, face breaking into a wide smile, big smile. You’re dashing to him before you realize, drawn naturally. 

“Frank? Oh my god, hi,” your arms already winding around him waist, pressing your face against his chest to feel the steady thud, thud, thud of his heart. Your safe place. Your home. “What— I wasn’t expecting you,” with a breathy laugh. “What’re you doing here?” 

“Congratulatin’ my girl, yeah?” He binds his arms around you. Gives a loving nudge of his stubbled chin on your forehead to ease you back, get access, and find your mouth with his. 

Lifted on your tiptoes, your weight braced by Frank’s forearm banded across your lower back, you tip your head to get a better taste. Lips slotted deeper—easy to blame your excitement on the surprise—you hum a sound Frank laps off your mouth. 

You want seconds. You consider seconds, delight teetering to greedy, so you compromise with two pecks and pull back to look him in the eye. Hands on his biceps for support, head tilted back so your lashes fan your eyebrow, you beam up at him. 

“Damn,” Frank blinks, halfway disoriented. “I get that every time I bring flowers?”

“Stop by more often and you’ll find out.”

“Yeah? Gonna let me in, give me a tour?” 

“Maybe more than a tour, if you’re lucky.”

“Luck’s drawn to me like flies on shit.”

You snort. “…Right.”

Separating a fraction, Frank offers the flowers to you in the space between his chest. Your eyes fall to them, face softening. Gentle with appreciation, over the bundle of white lilies, you press another kiss to his lips. “Thank you,” you murmur against him. “These are beautiful. For being a hard ass, you’re kinda romantic, Frank.“ 

“Romantic, huh?” Frank watches the shape of your body as you go to tend to the flowers. “Can’t let you get used t’that.”

“Too late.” You flash a small smile in his direction, acknowledging what you both know: Frank’s not romantic in the big ways, but he loves you so much weaker men would’ve gone stupid. 

While you cut the stems over the wastebasket, Frank performs a simple recon of the room. Finds evidence of his target. A blazer thrown over the back of a chair. A half-drank coffee. Sloppy handwriting over an abandoned notepad. 

“Your friend here?” Frank asks, anything but innocent. 

Snip. Snip. You glance at him with a raised brow. “Stephanie?” 

“Nah.” Frank points at the notebook. “Him.” 

Sn…ip… Skepticism setting in, your nose scrunches. “…Jason?” 

“Yeah. Him. He around?”

“Does it matter?” 

“Figured I should meet the guy spendin’ forty hours a week up my wife’s ass.”

You shoot a glare, lacking any real depth. “…He’s gone for the day.”

“And left his shit in here like this?” Frank wants to say he’s an inconsiderate slob. Frank refrains from pointin’ out the guy’s makin’ himself at home in your space. 

“It’s three things,” you quirk a brow. “Not a big deal.”

“He gonna be back tomorrow?” 

“We have a meeting at nine a.m. sharp, so I’m gonna hope so.”

“Good,” Frank concludes, satisfied. That works, too. 

Stalks trimmed, you arrange the lilies in a vase, fingers hanging on the glass rim when you’re finished. “Forget about him,” you shake your head. “You’re here, visiting me, it’s just the two of us, and you definitely made my day. I couldn’t be happier right now, Frank.” 

“Yeah?” Something rare and short-lived flashes in his eyes; the look where he’s still trying to believe this—you—are his. “Guess I did my job.” With the heel of his boot, he knocks the door shut. Prowls the rest of the way to you, his hands at home on your hips to draw you right up against him. 

Your arms snake around his neck, melting into the solidity of Frank. By the bill, you ease his hat off, seeing him in the full, natural light of the windows behind you. Hat in your hands, his head bent, you reach up and kiss the crook of his nose. And again, on the bridge. And again, on the tip. And falling lower, to his mouth. 

There’s no tentative introduction. Not when your arms buckle around him and jerk him closer. Not when his mouth opens, inseparable from you, to taste the seam of your lips. You hiccup something dangerously close to a moan, stifled by the palm that cups your jaw, the big fingers that press into either side of your cheeks to lightly mush your lips. 

“‘Bout to start somethin’ we won’t be able to walk away from,” Frank goads on your mouth, voice reduced to hot husk and need. 

Upper lip twitching, your teeth clink against his. “Can’t get my outfit dirty. I’ve got a presentation in twenty.” 

“All’s I need’s ten.” 

“…To finish?” 

“You.” Boot hooked around the chair leg, Frank yanks it over. Drops down into it, knees spread wide. Looking up at you, his stare inevitable and dark, Frank pats his thigh. “Sit. Wanna show you how good the city can look from up here.” 

You forget everything—especially the presentation in twenty—while you overlook the city in your new office, on your husband’s lap, his hand between your legs and the other over your mouth, his boots hooking your ankles open.

You forget about the flowers on display in your desk. Frank communicates through the flowers he buys. You should’ve known. Should’ve read into it more. But you didn’t. 

A harbinger in the form of velvet petals and the color of purity, specifically picked by Frank: the lilies. 

The funeral flower. 

☠︎

That night…

Wasn’t anything unusual when you texted Frank that afternoon with a change of plans: 

Going out for drinks after work! Stephanie’s driving me there. Pick me up after? Come a little early to help stage my escape and we can go somewhere else to have a few together. Xoxoxo 

Frank replied:

I’ll be there, sweetheart. Count on it. 

So he was. 

Bar stinks. Smells like fuckin’ shit. Not actual shit. Bullshit—worst kind. Full moon’s got people squirrelly. Has Frank on edge. 

Tucked on the other side of the room, corner high top, Frank monitors you from afar. Won’t interrupt your time out. Doesn’t like people much, anyway. Sipping his beer, bottle small in his grasp, Frank clocks the faces he knows from your work, watches every interaction. Even if he hasn’t met ‘em, he’s done his homework. Has faces to names, street addresses, registered vehicles. Five coworkers with you, and a sixth, unattended drink beside you. 

Who could that be? 

The rock in Frank’s gut says he knows. Says it’s divine intervention, givin’ him an opportunity. A gift. Wonders if Red’d see it that way, too. 

Fuck, sweetheart, you glow under the shitty neon lights and grimy haze of smoke. Too damn pretty for a place like this. Kinda place where if you go out back? You’ll get gutted while a handful of bikers smoke and it’s your own fault for havin’ the balls. 

Feeling Frank’s stare, you look through the crowd, finding him at his usual post. You lift your glass. Frank lifts his. A salutation from a distance, a promise for more time together later in a cheers, a sip, and a smile. 

You go back to your friends. 

Frank resumes guard, ensuring your safety, so you can focus on enjoying yourself. 

Turning back to the bar, the animated chatter of tipsy talking, inebriated laughter, you feel… good. Happy. Elbows on the sticky counter, the vodka soda in both hands, you smile. Content now, knowing later promises the best kind of fun, but it’s just you, Frank, and the entire night. 

You don’t have long to indulge in the thoughts. Jason sidles back up beside you, his shoulder pressing against yours in the congested room. He smells like aftershave, smells good, honestly, not in a hungry way, just respectable. He smells like he tried. 

“Everything go okay at your doctor’s appointment?” you ask, nudging at the reason he left the office early today. 

“Doctor’s appointment?” Jason fires back before he realizes. “Oh, right. Yeah, definitely. Doctor’s appointment went good, went well… Just… routine.” 

You hum, nod along, but as you look at his profile—conversational attention—you notice the clean clipper passes through his hair. And then at his jaw, the skin faintly red, leftover friction of a razor blade. So he… went to the doctor… got a haircut… shaved… and then you notice his clothes… Dark dress jeans, a fitted quarter-zip. Jason’s not a bad looking guy, but he’s definitely not your type either. Too clean, too concerned with gaining, obtaining instead of sharing or supporting. Talks a little too much about crap he can convince you knows a lot about, even if he knows nothing. Helps him at work, and he knows it. 

“I hope I’m not prying here, surely you won’t mind me asking…” Jason says, not asking permission, taking it anyway. He faces you completely, elbow on the bar. He looks down, thumbing the rim of his old fashioned, pensive as an act. “Is your husband… good to you?” 

Almost swallowing your straw, you spit it out in a stuttered cough, brows over your head. “What?” 

“You seem really… tense all the time. You said yourself, he’s intense.” 

You bubble a genuine, incredulous laugh. “My husband’s not the problem. He’s intense, sure, but that’s not a downfall.” 

“It is if you’re distracted and uneasy.” 

“I’m— what?” you belt out, face screwed. It’s the first you’re hearing about being distracted, uneasy, or tense. “I’m at work. We have deadlines, high stakes, high pressure. Home isn’t the problem.” 

Jason draws a clicking breath between his teeth, as if he knew you’d say that, and you’re still wrong. Kind, compassionate, even, he looks at you with enough sympathy to drown you. 

“I think for you, work’s a break. I’m just looking out for you, definitely not trying to be the bad guy here, you know I’d never do that,” Jason raises his hands to claim innocence. “What I’m trying to say is… you deserve someone… nice.”

“Like you?” you prompt, heart thrumming with Frank’s accusation from days ago. 

Jason shrugs, biting back a smirk since you said it. “Something for you to think about. I mean, look at all the time we spend together. Calls, staying later than we have to in the office… I know you, I see you in those quiet moments.” 

Bewildered by the audacity, brain turning the words over multiple times as you put together a rebuttal. “You call me, Jason. You- you have questions, need help on a sheet… I answer and stay because I’m supposed to. It’s called being a good coworker, not attraction.” 

“But you answer. Every time. And you never tell me you have to go. You stay on the line, stay in the office… with me. What’s that say about you? Your marriage?” Jason gauges your reaction. Pushes harder. “What’s the say about us?” 

Jaw hanging, your mind races to the last long call you had with Jason. That night Frank cornered you at the counter, kissing and biting your neck, your jaw, trying to coax your attention to home, to him. You told Jason you were home. You vocalized polite deflections that hinted the conversation needed to end. But… this is where being polite got you, stuck with the ideas of yourself you continuously reject, watching them come to fruition. You resist the urge to yell for Frank. You know, desperately, Frank can make the problems go away, remove you from this equation, but Frank can’t fight all of your battles for you. 

“You,” you say, cocking a hip out, your jaw jutted. “You need to learn your place. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m gonna go to the bathroom, and when I come back? This never happened, and it will never happen again. Are we clear?” 

Giving him no time to respond—the only answer is yes—you storm off. Shoulder through the crowd, and close yourself in the bathroom to cool down. 

Frank watched the whole thing. Waited for you to give the signal. The: Frank, I need you over here signal. You never did. You wanted to handle it on your own. Alright. Frank respects that. Admires it. But seein’ you walk off like that? Shit. No stayin’ out of it now. 

No stayin’ out of it when…

At the bar, Jason rummages in his pocket, hands trembling with urgency. Pulls out a baggie, small, coke-sized. No coke in it. Just five peach, oblong tablets.

Violent inspiration for Frank. 

Jason digs a finger in the baggie. Scoops out two pills. Drops a third on the floor with a hissed curse, fumbling for it. 

Sockets yank loose in Frank’s head, vision going red. Tendons cable through his neck, breath ragged and shallow; an animal without a leash. Frank chains himself with a fist around his beer bottle, squeezing tighter. 

If that pill goes into your fuckin’ drink… 

Tighter. 

Frank shoulda taken this sick fuck out in his own home, do it on his turf, repaint the sonnuva bitch’s apartment with his brains. 

Tighter. The glass creaks. Whines. The bottle quakes. 

Ghosts in his palms, clear as day, Frank jolts as he feels old bones and old corpses break in his fingers. Hundreds—thousands—dismantled by the hands he uses to love you. 

The noises start. You know the ones. The guttural reeving of a man-made machine; an element of pure fucking consequence. 

Tighter. To demolish. 

The bottle explodes. Glass bursts. Beer flies. 

Jason drops two tablets into your drink. Through the swarm of people, Frank sees the drugs contaminate, spreading poison without your fuckin’ consent. 

Instinct and action converge—then explode. 

Before Jason can lower his hand, Frank tears through the masses. Not a man. A weapon. Retribution. Vengeance. Divine wrath.

The fuckin’ judge, jury, and executioner. 

Punishment. 

Pain reaching him before realization does, Jason screams. Bloodcurdling agony scratches out the music, the clamor, all fuckin’ sound. Brain catching up to the excruciating pain, the cause of it, Jason stares at the snare of his wrist. What’s left of it. Snapped back, hand hanging off the wrist, bone spearing under the skin in fractured protrusions.  

If not for the pain, it’s the sound that puts the fear of god in Jason. 

It’s Frank. 

In the span of two seconds, Frank bounces Jason’s head on the counter with a wet crack of skull, heel of his hand pinning him in place. The glass—your glass—absorbing the drug magnifies Jason’s skittering eyes, his stammering breath painting the countertop. 

“Puttin’ shit in a girl’s drink, huh?” Frank spits, smashing Jason’s head until it purples. 

Everyone gives Frank a wide berth. Whispers of The Punisher start to circulate, always do on this side of town.  

“I didn’t-! I-I-I—” Jason sputters, spittle and fear flying. 

“You DID!” Frank roars, slam, slam, slamming Jason’s head for a three count, blood sprinkling the wood. “You think I’m stupid, hm? Talkin’ to me like I’m fuckin’ stupid? You think I look stupid?” 

“No- no! No! God, no!” Anything to get off the hook. 

“Then don’t fuck with me like I’m fuckin’ stupid. Now,” Frank cages Jason in from behind, a massive hand squeezing between his cheeks to pry open his mouth. “Drink it. You were gonna feed this shit to my wife. You drink it.” 

Frank lifts the glass as Jason pounds the counter with his good hand, smearing his face in a desperate bid for escape. 

As the narcotized drink teeters the rim of the glass, ready to spill over into Jason’s pleading, incessant mouth, a voice—concerned, still sweet—cuts through the thick of it. 

Your voice. 

“F-Frank?” Legs jellied from shock, you shuffle forward, the herd parting for you. “What’s going on…?” 

Frank looks over his shoulder. Right to you. Jesus, his heart almost gives out. You. His wife. Precious, delicate, so fuckin’ good the scum of the earth tries to eat ya. Frank won’t let that happen. “Hey, sweetheart, no problem. Havin’ a civil conversation with hotshot here about human decency. Caught your breath’a fresh air spikin’ your drink, s’all.” 

A green-tinge floods your face. “Oh—? Oh… my god…” The ground beneath you swirls. A hand on your stomach to keep the vomit in, other hand curling into a fist, you grit your question through your teeth. “Why?” 

Jason huffs, all panted breath and nowhere to run. “Because,” he hisses, grunting when Frank pinches the back of his neck like scruff. “Because you’re special.” 

☠︎

Jason’s thrown into the brick wall of the back alley with a heavy slap of limp meat.

“Tell me what the fuck that was!” Frank yells, words clawed from his throat. 

Intimidation tactic, galvanic rage with nothing to do but bleed, Frank slugs his fist into the wall by Jason’s face, letting him cower and piss and beg while he feels the fury sailing an intentional centimeter off mark. 

“Fuckin’ tell me. Tell me. Tell me.” 

Bam. Bam. Bam. 

In harmony with the strike of his fist. 

The drizzle of piss on the ground’s the fucker’s first answer. 

“It- it wasn’t—” choked on his own terror, Jason tries to crawl up the wall. “It wasn’t bad! I swear! It- it wasn’t roofies or anything, just- just something to help her relax. It was just Xan—”

And with a shark to blood… there comes the frenzy. 

“You don’t decide what my wife fuckin’ needs! She’s a strong woman—“ wham, an uppercut straight into Jason’s solar plexus. “She’s fuckin’ strong. Goddamn right she’s special.” 

Blood gurgling from his mouth, Jason groans, tries to double-over. 

Tries. 

“Stand the fuck up. Ain’t finished with you,” Frank clocks him back, velocity of his punch leaving Jason damn-near crucified on the wall. “Take it like a fuckin’ man since that’s what you wanna be. Controllin’ women like that. Fuck.” 

Weak men are what’s wrong with the world.  

“She’s the only good thing I fuckin’ got. You fuckin’ hear me? Huh?” 

No reply. Just the sputtering cries of a grown man in crisis. Music to Frank’s ears. 

“I said—” Frank latches onto both of Jason’s ears. Rips. Blood gushes out as the seams start to separate. “YOU FUCKIN’ HEAR ME?” 

The shrieking says he’s heard. And felt. 

Leaves ‘em connected even if he shouldn’t. 

Frank thinks about you. His girl. Your grin over that chai latte. Your laugh in his ear late at night while you narrate a documentary on fuckin’ whales. Halloween night those years ago, same picture on your desk now. Slow dancin’ in the kitchen to your terrible music, half asleep, tucked into him like he’s safety instead of a biblical reckoning. 

And this motherfucker was gonna do only god knows what to you. 

Frank snaps back when Jason hacks up blood. 

“You stay away from her,” Frank’s fists ball in Jason’s collar, nose to nose, teeth bared as verbalized venom poisons the air. “Look me in the eye and tell me you fuckin’ hear me. Say it. Fuckin’ say it. Say: I hear you, Frank. I get you, Frank. Say: sorry I’m a stupid cunt, Frank. Say: I deserve everythin’ comin’ my way.” 

Jason recites every word, verbatim, through chattering teeth. Calls himself  a stupid cunt. Says he hears Frank, gets Frank, deserves this. 

“Are- are you gonna kill me?” Sprawled pliant on the wall, shirt catching the rough brick, reduced to a stuck hog instead of a man. 

“Yeah,” Frank says simply. “Yeah. ‘M gonna need to do that.”

And Frank unloads. 

☠︎

1 Week Later…

Sun’s hot on Frank’s back, even at seven in the morning. Sweat funnels down his back, soaking his tee. Been up before the sun digging the shit for a proper burial. Size twelve shoebox duct taped shut and off to the side. 

Grunting, Frank stakes the shovel back in the ground, adding to the mounds of fresh dirt on either side of his boots. Hole in the ground sized for a dismembered man in a garbage bag. 

Shovel leaned against his side, Frank wipes the back of his hand over his forehead. Sweat smears dirt. Looks up at the sky. Blue as can be. Bright as hell. Looks a lot like forgiveness. Or deception. Frank can’t tell these days. 

Readjusting the handle in his blistered palms, spade ready to pierce the dirt, the back door creaks open. Gets his attention. 

Frank straightens in sections of his vertebrae, squinting against the halo of sunlight around… you. 

You walk out, barefoot in the grass, sleep-soft in your pajamas yet. And you bring coffee. An angel. His angel. 

Frank lets go of a breath he didn’t know he held. “I’ll be up soon, yeah?” he calls. Doesn’t stop you. “Dirty work out here you don’t need t’see, sweetheart.” 

You ignore the advice, shuffling your way right to him on an invisible track. When you reach him, you pass a mug of coffee. 

Dirt-lined fingers clasp it by the rim, taking a generous sip through the billow of steam. “Mm,” he hums, angling from the pit in the ground and towards you instead, eyes sliding down the satin set blessing your curves. “What’re you doin’ out here, huh?” 

“Bringing you coffee. Enjoying the sun,” you sip from your own cup, eyes locked on him. 

“Ain’t complainin’.”

“You didn’t have to do this, you know,” you murmur, curling into Frank’s side. 

The hole in front of you two. But it doesn’t bother you. Maybe it should, but… it doesn’t. Not how you thought it might. 

Frank leans down. Presses a kiss to the top of your head. Drapes an arm over your shoulders lightly, afraid of dirtying you, too. “Yeah,” Frank agrees. “Didn’t have to.” He shrugs. “Wanted to.”

“Kinda looks big enough for a body in a garbage bag,” you tilt your head, lips pursed in thought. “You know, if you chopped him up.” 

Frank raises a brow. “Screwy thoughts for a pretty little thing like you so early,” but he stamps two kisses your temple like he approves. 

You hum, chin inclining for more affection. “To be fair… Twinkles was a really fat cat. It’s nice of you to do this for Ms. Jenkins.”

“The lady’s, what? A hundred? Ain’t gonna make her dig the damn hole for her own cat.” 

You laugh, quiet and soft for the morning. Warms Frank right up.

Pretending your top needs adjusting, Frank smooths the fabric at your shoulder, fingertips dragging down your arm, landing at the small of your back. Light touch. Featherlight. Keeps you clean. “You alright, sweetheart?” Quieter, with the weight of last week. 

Your chest inflates with a slow, steady breath. Coffee in one hand, other splaying over Frank’s stomach, you think. Then nod. “Yeah, I’m… okay. A little fucked up over it all, but I’m okay. I’m good.” 

“Alright. Good. We good?”

“We’re good. More than good.”

“S’long as we’re good.” 

“I got an update, by the way…”

Frank tucks his chin, looking down at you in the closeness. “Yeah?” 

“Yeah… got the email this morning. Jason’s been relocated to another building. So he must be out of the hospital.”

“Hm,” Frank hides the satisfaction with indifference. “Good.”

“…to another state.”

“Even better.” 

“Hey,” you shift. “I’ve been meaning to say a few things… Like I’m sorry. And thank you.”

“Ah,” Frank shakes his head. “Don’t owe me nothin’.” 

“I owe you an apology for not believing you.” You slide in front of him, reaching up to span your hand over his stubbled cheek. “You warned me. You were right. I didn’t listen. I… couldn’t see what you saw. About the situation, about… me.” 

Frank leans into your touch, brows knitting before they relax. “Always lookin’ out f’you. Don’t need to apologize for believin’ someone’s good.”

“I need to be more aware.” 

“Nah,” Frank turns his head in. Kisses your palm. “You stay sweet. You leave the cynicism t’me. What you need t’do, though, sweetheart?” Frank drops the shovel. Wipes his mouth on his shoulder. “Believe in yourself. Ain’t nothin’ in here that’ll change how people see you,” Frank says, tapping his finger against your sternum. “This’s good. Special. You. Can’t go all your life with doubt. It’ll rein you in. Keep you there. Won’t let you go far.” 

You drop your forehead to his chest, his sweat placating the old wounds. “I know…” 

“We’ll work on it.” 

It’s a promise. A plan. 

“Thank you,” you say, looking up at him through your lashes. “I never said thank you. Thank you for… looking out for me. Being patient. Doing everything in your power to keep the world from hurting me. Even when I’m the one hurting myself with my doubts. Especially then.”

Frank tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. Dips in, his nose nudging yours. “Nothin’s gonna take you from me, yeah? Bubble wrap you if I got to. I got you, baby.” 

Hand sliding to his neck, you draw him down. Kiss him. Slow and easy, intimate in the understanding of what this man, your husband, will do for you. The extent he’ll go to. 

Drawing back, he nips your bottom lip. Replaces your mouth with a drink. Not the same warmth, but it’ll do. For now.  

Arm around his waist, nestled back into his side, you stand with the question that’s burned you most. Until you can’t. “…Why’d you stop?” 

Frank turns his head to you. You look up at him. You see each other in the light of a new day. A quiet day. “You wouldn’t want that, yeah? Pretty girl. Everything I do’s f’you.” 

“Frank?”

“Yeah?”

“I love you.” 

“Love you too, sweetheart.” 

“Frank?”

“Yeah?”

“We should probably finish burying Twinkles. I think Ms. Jenkins is watching from her window.” 

“Eh. Let her. Wanna give her a show?” 

“Mmm, probably not. It’d probably be her last.” 

“Helluva way to go.”

Frank takes a breath of fresh air. 

Shit doesn’t stink anymore. 

Just the damn cat. 

*****************************************************************

content is mine, always without the use of AI. do not share or repost on any other site without consent of the author (hi, me). characters are not mine.

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a/n: happy belated born again season 2 start♡ i really tried not to do this in too much detail because i want to do a full length version for pretty much all of them... these are some of the most complex characters marvel has to offer and i loooove writing for them! hope you enjoy reading as much as i enjoyed writing for them♡ next up is gonna be peaky blinders as per request♡ also: i'm so behind on requests, very sorry if you send in a one a while ago, it just takes longer to write them than my own ideas... but you can check the writing status on my blog under "currently writing..." anyway, enough yapping, enjoy reading♡

Matt Murdock; Frank Castle; Ben Poindexter; Billy Russo; Foggy Nelson; Ray Nadeem

Matt Murdock

❤️dating Matt Murdock is like choosing to love both the saint and the sinner at once - the man who whispers prayers in the dark and the devil who paints hell’s kitchen red with his fists. It’s never simple, and it’s never safe. But god help you, it’s the most honest thing you’ll ever do.

❤️Matt loves when you push back against the saint he’s trying so hard to be. Call him reckless, tell him he doesn’t have to carry the whole damn city on his bruised shoulders, roll your eyes when he starts talking about penance like it’s the only language he knows. Something in him lights up when you refuse to let him martyr himself in silence. He’s spent years surrounded by people who either worship the devil or fear him; being seen as Matt - flawed, stubborn, occasionally self-righteous Matt - does something dangerous to his carefully built control.

❤️dating him means living inside the tension he can never quite resolve. You’ll get the softest version of him at 3 am when he comes home smelling like rain and concrete and someone else’s blood, crawling into bed and pressing his face against your neck just to listen to your heartbeat drowning out the noise of hell’s kitchen. You’ll also get the nights he disappears completely, leaving nothing but a half-finished cup of coffee and the crushing weight of wondering whether tonight is the night the devil finally loses. He will lie to you. He will hate himself for it. He will try to push you away “for your own good” and then show up at your door anyway because the thought of you moving on without him feels like another sin he can’t confess.

❤️he’s surprisingly playful when he lets himself be. He teases you about the way your heart skips when he takes his shirt off after patrol, head tilting slightly, a knowing half-smile tugging at his mouth. “You know i can hear that, right?” Or he lets you “win” at board games just so he can hear that triumphant little laugh you make when you think you’ve beaten the devil himself. “Enjoy it while it lasts, sweetheart. I'm feeling generous tonight.”

❤️but he's also very competitive about completely silly things. Trivia nights, crossword puzzles, even who can make the other laugh first. He’ll use every advantage he has without shame, then act mock-offended when you call him out on it. “I’m blind, not dead,” he’ll say with that wicked little grin. “Let me have this one.”

❤️the man is tactile in a way that feels almost sacred. His fingers learn you the way he learns every alley in hell’s kitchen - slow, deliberate, reverent. He’ll trace the line of your jaw while you’re talking about your day, thumb brushing your pulse point like he’s checking you’re still real. Sometimes he just holds your face in both hands and breathes you in, eyes closed, trying to commit the scent of your shampoo and the warmth of your skin to memory.

❤️dating Matt means never feeling unseen. his blindness never stops him from noticing everything: the way your voice softens when you’re tired, the tiny hitch in your breath when you’re trying not to cry, the exact rhythm of your footsteps when you’re happy. He sees you more completely than anyone with perfect vision ever could, and the wonder in his voice when he tells you so will ruin you for anyone else.

❤️when you meet Foggy, it's like stepping into the warmest, loudest corner of Matt’s carefully guarded world. Foggy sizes you up over cheap thai takeout in the office, all easy grins and rapid-fire questions, but there’s a protective glint in his eye; you’re on probation until you prove you won’t break his best friend’s heart. He calls you “the miracle who finally got Matt to smile like a normal human,” teases Matt mercilessly about how whipped he is, and within ten minutes you’re laughing so hard your sides hurt. Karen shows up later, quieter, her hug a little tighter because she gets it - the weight of loving someone who carries the entire city on his back. She watches the way Matt leans into you, the way his whole body relaxes when you speak, and her eyes go soft. She pulls you aside after dinner, voice soft but firm: “He’s going to try to push you away. Don’t let him.” The three of them together feel like family you didn’t know you were missing; these are the people who kept Matt alive before you ever showed up, and loving him means loving them too.

❤️Matt is a gentleman to his core: opening doors, pulling out chairs, asking “can i kiss you?” even after months together. But once the door closes? That control frays. He kisses like a man starved for absolution, hands mapping every inch of you as if memorizing scripture only he can read.

❤️finding out he’s daredevil hits like a freight train at 2 am - the suit in the closet, the blood on his knuckles that isn’t his, the way his voice cracks when he finally stops lying. You’re furious first, shaking with it, because how many nights did he leave you wondering if he was dead in an alley? That's where you’re trust fractures: you yell, and for a second, he snaps back. Defensive, sharp, like a cornered animal: “I was protecting you.” Like that makes it better. Like that makes the lying holy somehow. And then it hits him, the weight of it, the way your voice breaks. That's when he flinches because he knows every word is a punch he deserves. He tries to end it right there: “You deserve someone who can give you a normal life, a safe and stable life, not this.” But you see the terror underneath, the way his hands tremble when he reaches for you anyway. It takes weeks of raw conversations, of him baring every scar and every sin, before the anger settles into something steadier. You don’t forgive the lies overnight - you choose to trust the man who comes home to you anyway, who lets you stitch the devil back together and still kisses you like you’re the only prayer he’s ever believed in.

❤️accepting the mask doesn’t mean it gets easier though; it just means you learn the shape of the fear. You keep a first-aid kit under the sink now. You stop asking “where were you?” and start asking “how bad is it?” Some nights he crawls through the window and you’re already waiting with clean towels and bandages. The trust you rebuild is harder-won than anything else in your life, forged in blood and half-truths and the way he whispers “thank you for staying” against your skin while you clean of the dry blood. You never fully stop worrying, but you stop waiting for the other shoe to drop.

❤️there are nights when the guilt hits him like a tidal wave, when the weight of every punch thrown, every life he’s failed to save, crashes down so hard he can barely breathe. He’ll come to you then, not as the vigilante, just as Matt, raw and unraveling. He drops to his knees in front of the couch, forehead pressed to your thigh, fingers curled into the fabric of your clothes like you’re the only anchor keeping him from drowning in penance. You don’t offer an easy solution; you card your fingers through his hair and remind him he’s allowed to be more than the sum of his sins. Loving him means sitting with that darkness and still choosing to pull him back into the light every single time.

❤️Matt struggles with rest; even when he’s home, even when the suit is off and the city is relatively quiet, his body refuses to fully surrender. You’ll wake in the middle of the night to find him sitting up in bed, head tilted slightly, listening to a silence that feels dangerous to him. His hand will rest on your waist - not for affection, but as an anchor, a reminder that you’re still breathing, still safe. Sleep, when it finally claims him, is always shallow at first, his breathing never quite evening out, like some part of him is still patrolling the rooftops even in his mind. The devil doesn’t clock out, even when the man desperately needs to.

❤️he falls asleep easiest when you’re reading aloud to him - anything, really. Court briefs, cheap paperbacks, even the newspaper. The steady cadence of your voice soothes the constant roar in his head. You’ll look over and find him completely gone, lashes dark against pale skin, one hand still loosely curled around your wrist like even in sleep he needs to feel you.

❤️but he doesn’t know how to accept comfort without trying to repay it. When you pull him into your arms after a brutal night, when you hold him while the weight of everything presses down on his shoulders, his first instinct is always to eventually pull away and do something in return: make you tea, fix the broken drawer that’s been bothering you, go out and make the streets safer so you never have to worry. He treats emotional vulnerability like a debt that must be balanced. It takes months of your patient, unwavering love before he learns that he can simply be held. That your comfort isn’t a transaction. That he is allowed to take without giving something back in the same breath.

❤️when he finally says the words “i love you”, it’s raw and cracked-open and honest in a way that almost hurts to hear. His forehead is pressed to yours, breath warm against your lips, his voice shaking just a little like the confession is being torn out of his chest. He holds your face gently between his hands, thumbs brushing your cheeks, as if he’s handing you something both dangerous and infinitely precious at the same time. “Because God help me… i do. I love you,” he whispers, the words rough with emotion. “And i’m never going to stop.” That’s the thing about Matt. He’ll love you like a man who knows exactly how much time he has left, and every touch, every kiss, every moment feels like he’s trying to fit a lifetime of love into whatever time the city hasn’t stolen from him yet. And he plans to spend every single second of it making sure you never doubt it.

❤️the first time you see him truly break you realize how much he’s been holding back. He doesn’t cry easily, but when he does it’s devastating: silent, shoulders shaking, the kind of grief that’s been building since he was a little boy. He tries to pull away, to hide it, because he’s convinced his pain is a burden no one should have to carry. But you refuse to let him. You wrap around him instead, letting him bury his face in your neck while the city keeps roaring outside the window. In that moment he lets himself be held, lets himself be small, let's himself be a man who needs comfort from time to time.

❤️Matt’s surprisingly domestic; mornings where he makes coffee and you read the headlines aloud while he shaves, the scrape of the razor a strangely intimate soundtrack. He’ll pause mid-stroke, head tilted, and murmur, “you’re smiling. What did i miss?”, like your happiness is the only headline that matters.

❤️and god, the way he kisses you when he’s afraid? It undoes you every single time. It’s not just a kiss - it’s a confession. Like he’s trying to memorize the exact shape of your mouth, the taste of your lips, the hitch in your breath in case tonight is the night he doesn’t make it home. There’s nothing hurried about it, yet you can feel the desperation bleeding through; the way his breath shakes, the way his fingers press a little too hard against your skin. It's slow, desperate, reverent. Like penance and prayer all at once. Like love is the only sin he’s never going to regret.

❤️some mornings Matt wakes up before you and just listens to you breathing. Not because he’s worried, but because the sound of you alive and safe and right next to him is the closest thing he has to peace. He’ll stay perfectly still, one hand resting lightly over your heart, letting the steady rhythm drown out the constant roar of the city for a little while longer.

❤️he shows love through small gestures because grand ones feel too much like tempting fate. You’ll wake up to find the coffee already brewed exactly how you like it, your favorite sweater folded neatly on the chair because he smelled the rain coming hours ago and didn’t want you to be cold. He restocks the first-aid kit without being asked, leaves painkillers and a glass of water on the nightstand when he hears your breathing change with an oncoming headache, or slips an umbrella into your bag when you’re not looking. It's almost shy - like he’s afraid that if he says “i did this for you” out loud, the universe will take it away. But every little thing whispers the same truth: while the city demands his fists and his blood, he saves the softest, most careful parts of himself for you.

❤️he knows the exact moment your mood shifts before you even speak; the slight quickening of your pulse, the way your scent sharpens with stress or softens with contentment. It’s equal parts comforting and unnerving, how deeply he perceives you. Sometimes you swear he’s listening to your soul.

❤️Matt sometimes wonders what kind of father he would be, and the question haunts him like an unconfessed sin. He never says it out loud though; the words feel too dangerous, too hopeful for a man like him. But you catch the glimpses anyway: the way his voice unconsciously softens when a child laughs near you on the street, and the instinctive shift of his body to stand protectively between them and the danger waiting on the streets of hell’s kitchen. He wants it - god, he wants it - but every time the thought surfaces, the fear crashes in right behind it: how could he ever bring an innocent life into the violence that follows him like a shadow? How could he hold a child and promise to protect them when he already fears to fail the woman he loves every single night? So the dream stays locked away, unspoken, buried beneath layers of guilt and blood.

❤️but maybe what scares him the most is the fear that he would become exactly like his father. A good man. A fighter. Someone who loved fiercely and still left his child alone in a cruel world with nothing but bruises, memories and pain. Matt doesn’t want to pass on that legacy of blood and early graves; he’d rather deny himself the dream entirely than risk making a child feel the way he did the night his father never came home.

❤️he feels extremely guilty when you have to see him all bruised and bleeding after a brutal night, but you stitch him up with hands steadier than his own have ever been. The shame sits heavy in his chest as he sits on the edge of the couch, head bowed like a penitent waiting for judgment. He hates that he brings the violence home to you. Hates the way your fingers tremble just slightly when you press gauze against a fresh cut or carefully stitch a wound that should never have touched your gentle hands. Every flinch you make, every quiet inhale when you see how badly he’s hurt cuts him deeper than any blade ever could. But god help him, he still craves it. He craves the way you touch him with such careful tenderness, like he’s something worth saving. Craves the soft hush of your voice and the warmth of your skin against his when the world has been nothing but cold concrete and pain. In those moments, he actually feels like a human being. “You shouldn’t have to do this,” he’ll whisper, forehead pressed against yours, voice cracking with guilt and exhaustion. His hands, still bruised and trembling, come up to cradle your face like you’re the only holy thing left in his life. You always reply the same: “Neither should you.”

❤️Matt’s fiercely protective in ways that sometimes feel suffocating, but it comes from a place of bone-deep terror at the thought of losing anyone else he loves. He’ll track your heartbeat across the room, always positions himself between you and the door, always listening for threats no one else can hear. You’ll tease him about it, call him dramatic, and he’ll give you that crooked half-smile and say, “can you blame me? I’ve already lost too much to this city.”

❤️loving Matt means accepting that you will never be his only priority. There will be nights where you ask him to "please stay", and he hesitates. You hear it in his breathing, the war between you and the city playing out right in front of you. He kisses your forehead as an apology he doesn’t have time to say and disappears out the window, leaving you alone with the knowledge that the city will always pull at him - the guilt of not doing enough will always whisper louder than you can shout. He will choose you when it matters most, but the choosing will cost him something every single time, and he’ll carry that cost in fresh bruises and sleepless nights. You don’t get to fix the devil, and you don’t get the version of him that finally hangs up the suit. What you get is the man who keeps coming back anyway - bloodied, exhausted, and still looking at you like you’re the only thing in this godforsaken world that makes the fight feel worth it.

❤️it's choosing the storm every single day; it’s messy and painful and beautiful in ways that leave bruises on your soul. But when he comes back to you, suit torn, knuckles split, heart still somehow beating in time with yours, you remember why you stay. Because no one else in this city loves as fiercely, as brokenly, or as completely as he does.

❤️he won’t promise you an easy life. He can’t. But if you can stand in the middle of all that conflict - lawyer and vigilante, sinner and saint, the man who wants to be good and the one who knows exactly how good the suit feels - and still choose him? Then you’ll have every fractured, devoted, complicated piece of Matt Murdock. And for as long as he can keep you safe, that will be enough.

Frank Castle

🤎dating Frank Castle is like falling in love with a loaded gun: beautiful, deadly, and always one breath away from going off. He stumbles into your life covered in someone else’s blood, gruff and guarded, and somehow you become the only thing in this rotten city that makes him hesitate before pulling the trigger.

🤎he will push you away at first. Hard. Tells you straight to your face that he’s poison, that everyone who gets close to him ends up in the ground, that you deserve happiness and stability instead of a walking tombstone with a skull on his chest. His eyes are dark with every ghost he carries, jaw clenched so tight it looks painful. He’ll disappear for days, leaving nothing but the faint scent of gun oil on your sheets and the echo of his warning ringing in your ears. But he always circles back. Always. Like some part of him can’t stop orbiting the only light left in his war-torn world, no matter how much he hates himself for putting this burden on you.

🤎Frank is protective to the point of obsession. He checks your locks, your routes home, the people you talk to. Not because he doesn’t trust you, but because the world has already taken everything good from him once, and he’ll burn it all down before he lets it happen again.

🤎he’s not a man of flowery words. When Frank says “i got you,” he means it with every bullet left in his chamber. He’ll teach you how to shoot, how to fight, how to spot danger before it spots you - because the idea of you being helpless keeps him up at night. His hands are rough and scarred when he guides yours on the grip, voice low and patient in a way the Punisher almost never allows himself to be. “Breathe out when you squeeze,” he murmurs against your ear, chest warm against your back. “Don’t flinch from the recoil. You face it head-on.”

🤎there are moments when the armor slips completely, when the weight of the skull vest feels too heavy, even for him. Late nights in whatever dingy safehouse he’s using that week, where he lets you patch him up without his usual gruff protests. You’ll be wiping blood from a split lip or stitching a gash across his ribs and he’ll just watch you with those tired, haunted eyes, like he still can’t believe someone would choose to stay and tend to the monster instead of running. Afterward he rests his forehead against yours, calloused thumb brushing your cheek, just breathing you in for a moment. He doesn’t say “thank you” - but he doesn’t need to. The way his shoulders finally relax under your hands says everything words never could.

🤎Frank likes when you wear his clothes. But he won’t admit how much it settles the feral feeling in his chest to see you swallowed up in fabric that belongs to him, sleeves too long, hem hitting mid-thigh. Sometimes he’ll pull you into his lap without warning, arms locking around your waist like steel bands, face buried in the crook of your neck just breathing steady while the city screams outside. In those moments the Punisher goes quiet - it’s just Frank clinging to the one person who makes the endless war feel survivable.

🤎he looks at you sometimes with this haunted kind of awe, like he’s watching something beautiful blooming on top of a grave. You are the only living thing in his world of corpses, and some part of him is terrified that his mere existence is poisoning you. He’ll trace your lips with his thumb after kissing you and murmur, “you smile like the world hasn’t tried to kill you yet. I don’t know how to keep it that way.”

🤎one minute he’s all walls and warnings, the next he’s got you pinned against the wall after a close call, kissing you like the world is about to burn down before sunrise. It’s not soft; it’s desperate, almost violent in its need. His big hand grips your jaw, the other braced beside your head, body pressed hard against yours as if he can shield you from the entire city. When he finally pulls back just enough to breathe, forehead resting heavy against yours, his voice comes out low and ragged: “Needed that.”

🤎he’s got a dark, dry humor that slips out when you least expect it, usually after he’s just come back from doing something violent, blood still under his nails. He’ll deadpan something like “well, at least the bastard won’t be bothering you anymore” while you’re stitching him up, and the corner of his mouth twitches when you laugh despite yourself. The laugh is short-lived, but it reminds you both: he’s human, too.

🤎Frank Castle doesn’t do “happily ever after.” He does “i’ll kill anyone who tries to take you from me.” He does “stay with me until the morning.” He does “you’re the only damn thing in this world that still feels worth fighting for.”

🤎there’s something almost jarring about the contrast between how the world sees Frank and how he treats you. To everyone else, he’s rough edges and low warnings, a man people cross the street to avoid, voice like gravel and eyes that promise violence if pushed. But with you? he’s a gentleman. Not polished or practiced - it’s not about charm - it’s just… built into him. He walks on the outside of the sidewalk without thinking, opens doors like it’s second nature, keeps a steady hand at your lower back guiding you through crowds. He notices when you’re cold before you say anything and wordlessly shrugs off his jacket, draping it over your shoulders with a quiet “c’mere.” It’s not softness, not really - it’s restraint. Respect. The kind that comes from a man who’s seen exactly what the world can do to people and decided that he will never be that kind of danger to you.

🤎and when it’s just the two of you? He's so gentle it almost hurts. Those big, calloused hands - hands that have ended dozens of lives, hands that know the weight of a trigger better than they know tenderness - cradle your face like you’re made of the most fragile glass. His thumbs brush over your cheekbones with a reverence he probably didn't even realize he’s capable of, and he kisses you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he presses too hard; slow and deep and careful, memorizing the taste of you in case tomorrow steals you away. In bed, he always waits until you’ve fallen asleep first. You feel his arm settle heavy across your waist, anchoring you to him, his breathing steady against the back of your neck. Even then he doesn’t sleep right away; he lies awake in the dark, listening to every creak in the building, every distant siren, every sound that doesn’t belong - ready to become the Punisher at a moment’s notice if it means keeping you safe. The same man who paints the streets red becomes the quiet shield wrapped around you, guarding your dreams while his own nightmares wait patiently for him to close his eyes.

🤎he carries a kind of shame about wanting you. He sees it as weakness; this selfish, aching need to keep one good thing in a life he’s already set on fire. Some nights he’ll hold you too tightly, face buried in your neck, and you’ll feel him struggling with it: the man who thinks he should be alone forever versus the man who is terrified of going back to that loneliness. “You should run,” he’ll whisper once, so quietly you almost miss it. But when you don’t and instead stay and hold him tighter, something in him both breaks and heals at the same time.

🤎Frank secretly loves when you fuss over him, even if he grumbles the whole time. You forcing him to eat a real meal instead of canned food and black coffee, or making him sit still while you clean a fresh cut; he’ll complain under his breath about “mothering,” but his eyes go soft and the tension in his shoulders eases. It reminds him of what it felt like to be cared for before the world turned him into a weapon.

🤎his past is a minefield you learn to navigate carefully. He doesn’t bring up Maria and the kids often, but when he does it’s like watching a man bleed from an old wound that never closed, and frankly, never will. You’ll catch him staring at a faded photo he keeps hidden in his wallet, thumb brushing over their faces with a gentleness that makes your chest ache. He never compares you to her. He can’t. But sometimes the guilt in his eyes says he’s terrified he’s dooming you to the same fate.

🤎and that's why dating the Punisher means learning to live with the ghosts that never leave him. He’ll wake up gasping at 3 am, reaching across the bed for a wife and children who aren’t there anymore, sweat-slicked and shaking with memories that still cut like fresh shrapnel. You learn the rhythm of it: don’t ask questions right away. Just press close, let him hold you too tight, let his heartbeat thunder against your ribs until the nightmare loosens its grip. Those are the nights you become the only living person he trusts with that sacred, bleeding wound. You hold him through it, and in return he gives you the fractured pieces of a heart he thought was long dead.

🤎there are nights where his grief is so heavy it fills the entire room. He won’t cry. He won’t talk about it. He just sits on the fire escape with a bottle and stares at nothing, radiating pain so sharp you can almost taste it, the weight of every life he couldn’t save - especially the three that mattered most - crushing him flat. You can’t fix it. You can sit with him, you can try to hold him, but nothing reaches him in those moments. All you can do is wait for the storm to pass, knowing that no matter how much you love him, you will never be able to fix what broke inside him the day his family died. And that powerlessness is its own special kind of heartbreak.

🤎sometimes, he holds you like he’s already grieving the day he’ll have to let go. His hands are always a little too tight, his kisses a little too desperate, his silence a little too heavy. He’s not just afraid of losing you, he’s waiting for it. Every good night feels like it could be the last, so he loves you like a man running out of time.

🤎arguments with him are rare but brutal when they do happen. Frank doesn’t yell or throw things - he goes cold and deathly quiet instead, the temperature in the room dropping the second his walls slam back up. His voice becomes low, flat, almost detached as he tells you to get out, to save yourself, to find someone who isn’t already half-dead inside. The words cut deep because you can see how much he believes them. He stands there vibrating with self-loathing, fists clenched at his sides, eyes dark and haunted, waiting for you to finally realize what a mistake you made by choosing him. But he never actually leaves; he just stays rooted to the spot, raging at himself for dragging you into his cursed life, until you step into his space without hesitation. When you wrap your arms around his rigid frame and press your face against his chest, you feel the exact moment the fight starts draining out of him. His breathing slowly evens out against your hair, his hands eventually coming up to grip the back of your shirt like you’re the only thing keeping him from falling apart completely. In those moments you realize how much stronger his fear of losing you is than his need to push you away.

🤎he is haunted by the man he used to be: the father, the husband, the marine who believed in something bigger than revenge. Some nights that version of him surfaces like a ghost. He’ll trace the spot where his wedding ring used to sit and get this faraway look, like he’s mourning not just his family, but the man who died with them. He never says it out loud, but you feel it: part of him believes the Punisher is all that’s left, and that the old Frank doesn’t deserve to come back, not even for you.

🤎Frank will never promise you a normal life, because he can’t. There will be nights he doesn't come home until dawn, smelling like smoke and copper. There will be times he disappears for days tracking some monster, leaving nothing but a burner phone and a terse “stay safe.” But he always comes back. Always. Even when he’s bleeding and half-dead, he crawls through your window because the only place the war in his head gets quiet is next to you.

🤎he’s territorial, boy is he territorial. If someone looks at you wrong, if someone raises their voice, the temperature in the room drops. Frank doesn’t usually make scenes - he’s smarter than that - but the look in his eyes says everything words never could. “You’re mine to protect,” he’ll murmur, voice low and rough. It’s not a sweet declaration, it’s a vow carved into bone. And god help the fool who ever tries to test it - Frank doesn’t do warnings twice.

🤎sometimes, being with him can feel very lonely, even when he’s right there. Frank is a man of few words on a good day, and on bad ones he shuts down completely, retreating into the Punisher like it’s the only skin that still fits. You’ll go days where the only affection you get is a hand on your lower back or a quiet “you eat today?” It hurts. But then he’ll do something small - like replace the dead batteries in your smoke detector at 4 am - and you remember he’s loving you the only way he knows how.

🤎the most terrifying thing about loving Frank isn’t the violence or the danger, it’s how calmly he talks about his own death. Like it’s inevitable, like it’s almost a comfort. “When i’m gone,” he’ll say casually while cleaning a gun, “you take the money in the safe and you run. Don’t look back.” He means it. And the worst part is the quiet acceptance in his eyes; he’s already planned his exit, already decided you deserve better than watching him bleed out one final time. You constantly have to fight against the part of him that wants to make you a widow before you ever become his wife.

🤎when the guilt eats him alive - and it does, in waves that can knock the breath out of even the Punisher - he won’t ask for comfort. But he’ll let you give it if you push gently enough. He’ll let you pull his head down to your chest, let you run your fingers through his hair while he stares at nothing, jaw working like he’s chewing on all the sins he can’t confess. In those moments he’s not the skull-wearing vigilante the streets fear. He’s just Frank Castle, a father and husband who lost everything, trying desperately not to lose the last good thing fate decided to give him. “I don’t deserve this,” he'll rasp against your skin, voice wrecked. “Don’t deserve you.” You just thread your fingers through his hair and hold him tighter, because you know words won’t fix what’s broken inside him. All you can do is remind him, again and again, that there’s still a man beneath the skull, and that man is allowed to come home to someone who loves him even when he’s covered in someone else’s blood.

🤎he hates how much danger he brings into your life. Really hates it. There are mornings he wakes up before you, watching you sleeping peacefully and safe, and something in his chest twists so hard it feels like a wound reopening. He almost leaves right then, gets as far as the door sometimes, hand on the handle, thinking: leave now and she lives longer. But then you shift in your sleep, mumbling his name like it still belongs to something good…and he stays. Every time, he stays.

🤎but that's the thing that surprises you most: you should feel unsafe with someone like him. Everything about his life screams danger: the weapons, the enemies, the violence that follows him like a shadow that never quite disappears. But you don’t, not with him. Never with him. Because when you’re with Frank, there’s this unshakable certainty settling deep in your bones: nothing is going to touch you unless it goes through him first. And it never will; you see it in the way he positions himself without thinking, the way his attention sharpens the second something feels off, the way his hand finds yours just a little tighter when the world gets unpredictable. He lives in chaos, breathes it, survives it - but with you, he becomes something solid. Immovable. The safest place in a city that’s anything but.

🤎he worries constantly that one day you’ll wake up and realize he’s not worth the body count he drags behind him. That fear lives in every careful touch, every loaded look, every time he hesitates before pulling you into his arms. But he never stops reaching for you anyway. Because even the Punisher is selfish enough to want this one good thing for himself.

🤎Frank makes decisions for you without asking -and sometimes without you liking it at all. Like flat-out telling you that you’re not going somewhere alone “because it’s not safe.” When you push back, he doesn’t yell, he just looks at you with those dead, exhausted eyes and says in that low, gravelly voice: “i’m not asking, sweetheart.” It stings. It feels overbearing. It makes you feel like a civilian in his personal war zone. But you see the truth underneath the control: it’s not about power, it’s terror. Pure, bone-deep terror of losing the last good thing he has left in this rotten world; he’s already buried a wife and two kids. The thought of burying you too - because he didn’t see the threat coming, because he wasn’t careful enough - is enough to make him shake. So he protects what’s his the only way he knows how: completely, ruthlessly, and without apology. Even if it means making you angry. Even if it means you look at him like he’s too much. He’d rather have you mad and breathing than gentle and gone.

🤎there’s a cold rage that lives in him, sharper and more dangerous than simple anger. When it rises, his voice gets quieter, his movements more precise, and his eyes go dead in a way that scares even you sometimes. He doesn’t yell, he plans. And in those moments you understand why people fear the Punisher - because Frank doesn’t just want to hurt the people who deserve it. Some dark part of him wants to erase them, slowly and thoroughly, like they never existed. He tries to keep that part locked away from you, but you’ve seen flashes of it, and it reminds you that loving him means loving someone who is intimately familiar with hell.

🤎loving Frank means accepting that the skull on his chest isn’t just body armor or a symbol - it’s a warning carved into every choice he’s made since that day in the park. It means sleepless nights wondering if tonight is the night the war finally claims him for good. It means learning how to stitch knife wounds by flashlight and how to load spare magazines when your hands are shaking. It means loving a man who still believes, deep down, that he doesn’t deserve to be loved in return. But when those haunted eyes find yours across the room and he says your name like it’s the only prayer he has left… every scar, every nightmare, every drop of blood suddenly feels worth it.

🤎he won’t ever be soft in public. But behind closed doors? He’s yours. Completely. The man who once thought his heart died on the day his family did… somehow found space for you in the wreckage. He’ll protect you with every weapon he has, every skill the marines drilled into him, and every broken piece of himself he's got left.

🤎he will never be the white-picket-fence kind of boyfriend. But he will be the one who stands between you and every monster this city can throw at you. He will be the last voice you hear before sleep and the first touch that grounds you when the nightmares come for you too. Because once he decides you’re his, that decision is written in blood and unbreakable. And somehow, in the middle of all that darkness, he makes you feel safer than anyone else ever could.

🤎it’s not easy. It’s never going to be easy. The fear, the waiting, the bloodstains you find on his clothes in the laundry - these things don’t vanish just because he loves you. But some nights, when he comes home long after midnight and pulls you against his chest without a single word, heart still racing from whatever violence he left behind in the streets… you feel it. The quiet, bone-deep certainty that this broken, beautiful man would burn the whole world down before he let anyone hurt you. And if you can love the Punisher - the blood on his hands, the war in his soul, the man who wakes up reaching for ghosts - you get something rare and fierce in return: a devotion so absolute it could level cities. And for as long as Frank Castle draws breath, he’s going to keep choosing you - every single time, in every single war - because he’s going to make sure you never regret choosing the storm.

Ben Poindexter

❤️‍🩹dating Ben Poindexter feels like standing at the exact center of a target - perfectly still, perfectly seen, and one wrong breath away from everything shattering. He doesn’t ease into relationships, he calculates them. From the first moment he decides you’re worth noticing, you become the fixed point his entire world orbits around, whether you asked for it or not.

❤️‍🩹Dex never learned what love is supposed to feel like. His parents gave him anger instead of affection, and when they where gone, the system that raised him offered structure instead of warmth. So when he falls for you, he treats it like a mission briefing he has to master from scratch. His effort is almost heartbreaking; this lethal man desperate to get it right for once, terrified that if he fails, you’ll become just another person who proved he’s unlovable at his core.

❤️‍🩹he doesn’t mean to stare at you the way he does. It’s not really calculation - it’s more quieter, almost… soft. Like he’s trying to understand how you exist the way you do, so warm and unpredictable and alive in ways he’s never managed to be. His fingers will brush your wrist absentmindedly, tracking your pulse, and there’s a moment where his expression shifts; it becomes less sharp, less controlled. “You’re steady,” he murmurs, almost to himself. Like it amazes him. Like it comforts him. Like somehow, being close to you makes him feel a little less like he’s about to come apart at the seams. It makes him feel before he can analyze, and it’s terrifyingly new.

❤️‍🩹Dex is obsessively attentive. He remembers the exact way you take your coffee, the song that was playing the night you met, the tiny hitch in your laugh when you’re nervous. He texts at the perfect times - not too much, never too little - just enough to make you feel like the only person in his carefully ordered universe. But underneath the attentiveness is the constant monitoring: where you are, who you’re with, whether your routine has shifted even slightly. He calls it “keeping you safe.” You learn it’s how he keeps himself stable.

❤️‍🩹and the cracks are always there, lurking just beneath the surface of his perfect control. He has rules for you that he never quite voices outright, but you learn them anyway. Don’t change your routine without telling him. Don’t get too close to certain people. Don’t make him wonder where you are or who you’re with. At first they feel like caring, like protection. But when you push back, even gently, the air in the room shifts in a way that’s almost imperceptible to anyone else. His voice stays perfectly calm, dangerously even, but his eyes go flat and distant, like a sniper switching targets. In that moment you feel the terrifying change: you’re no longer the person he loves. You’ve become a problem that needs solving, a variable that has slipped out of alignment. And Dex is very, very good at correcting variables. He doesn’t yell, he doesn’t threaten. He simply watches you with that chilling precision, calculating exactly what it will take to bring order back to his world - and to you.

❤️‍🩹he hates when you cry. Not because it annoys him, but because he doesn’t know the correct script for it. He freezes for a split second, then moves with careful efficiency: tissues, water, a blanket pulled around your shoulders, and his hands hover like he’s afraid of doing it wrong. Eventually he gives up on perfection and simply pulls you into his chest, one arm locked around you while the other strokes your hair in the exact rhythm he’s calculated calms you fastest. He doesn’t say “it’s okay.” He just holds you until the tears stop, whispering your name because it’s the only thing keeping him from unraveling too.

❤️‍🩹he has a habit of watching you sleep. Not in a sweet, romantic way - at least not entirely. He’ll lie perfectly still beside you in the dark, eyes open, studying the rise and fall of your chest as if it’s the only reliable constant left in his world. Your breathing becomes another rhythm he memorizes, another anchor. Some nights he reaches out and rests two fingers lightly against the pulse on your neck, feeling it beat steady and real beneath his touch. It calms the static in his head better than anything ever did.

❤️‍🩹he learns the spots that make you shiver and exploits them with terrifying accuracy, the same precision he uses when lining up a perfect throw. Every sensitive place on your body is catalogued, memorized, and revisited with clinical dedication: a brush of his fingers here, the slow drag of his mouth there, always watching, always watching your reactions like you're the most important target he's ever had. Yet even in those heated moments, there's always that underlying question in his eyes, a flicker of uncertainty that only you get to see: “Is this okay? Am i doing this right?” He needs confirmation like oxygen, and praise goes straight to his head like the strongest drug he's ever encountered. Tell him he makes you feel safe, tell him his hands feel good, tell him he's perfect exactly like this - and he'll replay those words for days. You'll catch him standing a little taller, his posture straightening with a quiet, almost boyish pride he’s never allowed himself to feel before. In those moments, the lethal human weapon disappears, and all that’s left is Ben, desperately soaking up every drop of approval like it’s the only validation that’s ever truly mattered.

❤️‍🩹there’s a softness in him that only exists when he thinks you’re not paying attention. When you’re half-asleep, when your guard is down, when there’s nothing for him to measure or correct. He’ll adjust the blanket around, brush his knuckles lightly against your cheek like he’s touching something fragile, something he doesn’t fully trust himself not to break. And for a second, his expression is almost… tender. As if he doesn’t understand why you’re here, but he’s afraid to question it in case you might disappear tomorrow.

❤️‍🩹he likes being physically close to you more than he lets on; small, constant points of contact that keep him anchored. Sometimes he’ll guide your hand to him without thinking, placing it over his chest, right above his heartbeat, and keep it there. Because if you can feel his heart beating beneath you’re palm, it proves he’s still human.

❤️‍🩹he doesn’t feel jealousy the way other people do. It’s not loud or possessive or emotional - it’s… corrective. If someone gets too close to you, he doesn’t pick a fight, he removes the variable. And when you ask him about it, he just looks at you, confused more than defensive. “They were a risk,” he explains, like that should be enough. Like your safety is the only metric that matters. So when something “just happens” to someone who made you uncomfortable - a man who wouldn’t take the hint, a coworker who got too handsy, a stranger who followed you a little too far - you feel the pattern before you can prove it. He watches you a little more closely afterward, head tilting slightly when you mention it, like he’s checking if the outcome matched what you needed. “They won’t bother you again,” he says simply. And something in your stomach twists, because you don’t know if that was reassurance… or a statement of fact.

❤️‍🩹you're the only one who calls him Ben. Everyone else uses Poindexter, or Dex, or Bullseye when the mask is fully on. It’s clinical, distant, a label that keeps the monster neatly contained and the man at arm’s length. But you? You say “Ben” like it’s the softest thing in the world, like it belongs only to the version of him that still tries to be human. The first time it slips out, maybe while you’re handing him coffee or brushing a stray hair from his forehead, he freezes mid-motion, that perfect posture going rigid for half a second. Then something in his shoulders eases, and the constant tension in his jaw unclenches just enough for you to notice. He doesn’t say anything at first - he just looks at you with those piercing eyes, searching, calculating, trying to decide if this is safe or if it’s another variable that could destroy everything.

❤️‍🩹he never explains why it hits him the way it does. Maybe it's because no one else has ever bothered to see past the weapon to the boy who was never given a real chance. But when you call him Ben, the Bullseye inside him quiets, if only for a little while. The monster lowers its bow. The man exhales like he’s been holding his breath since childhood.

❤️‍🩹it becomes your weapon against the darkness. After a bad night when his eyes go flat, you’ll crawl into his lap, frame his face with both hands, and whisper “Ben… look at me.” And he does. Every single time. His gaze locks onto yours with that terrifying focus, but there’s something softer underneath now - something almost grateful. He’ll press his forehead to yours, hands settling carefully on your waist afraid of gripping too tight and shattering the moment. “Say it again,” he’ll murmur, voice rough at the edges in a way he rarely allows. So you do. You say “Ben” like a prayer, like a promise, like the only name that still belongs to the part of him that wants to be good. And for those few precious minutes, the voices inside his head stop. The need for perfect order recedes. He’s not Poindexter the agent, not Bullseye the weapon. He’s just your Ben. And the calm that washes over him is the closest thing to peace he’s ever known.

❤️‍🩹he’s scarily good at reading you. One slight shift in your posture and he knows your mood before you do. “Your pulse jumped,” he’ll say softly, fingers brushing your wrist. It’s unnerving… until you realize he uses that same precision to anticipate what you need: bringing your favorite takeout before you mention you’re hungry, adjusting the lights because he noticed the flicker bothers your eyes. He sees you with a clarity most people never manage.

❤️‍🩹Dex finds comfort in your heartbeat more than anything else. Not just when you’re close, but in moments where everything feels like it’s slipping: when the noise in his head gets too loud, when the urge to lose control creeps in. He’ll pull you closer, hand flattening against your chest, counting silently. It grounds him in a way nothing else can; you become less of a person in those moments and more of an anchor point - the one steady rhythm he can trust not to betray him.

❤️‍🩹his apartment is immaculate, every object placed with military precision, because any hint of disorder feels like the first crack in the fragile structure holding him together. Chaos in his environment is chaos in his mind - and Dex cannot afford to fall apart. When you first step inside that pristine space, he watches you with an intensity that borders on worship and fear at the same time. He tracks every movement you make, memorizing how you exist in his space. If your shoulder brushes a picture frame even slightly out of alignment, he’ll quietly reach out and correct it, fingers working out of instinct. Then he offers you that small, tight smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes: “Everything has its place,” he says softly, almost like a confession. He’s still trying to figure out exactly where you fit in his orbit; and whether loving you will finally break the perfect lines he’s built his entire life around.

❤️‍🩹he studies your reactions the way he studies trajectories. Every smile, every sigh, every shift in tone gets catalogued and filed away. Loving you becomes something he tries to perfect. If you laugh more when he says something a certain way, he’ll repeat it. If you pull away when his grip tightens too much, he adjusts. It’s not manipulation in the way most people mean it - it’s optimization. You are the one variable he’s desperate to get right.

❤️‍🩹but love, to Dex, is still something that can be lost. And loss, in his world, is unacceptable. So when he senses distance - real or imagined - something in him sharpens. His questions get more precise. His gaze lingers longer than it should. “You’ve been different,” he’ll say quietly, not accusing, just stating it like an observation that needs correcting. Like a deviation in pattern.

❤️‍🩹there are rare, precious moments when the Bullseye mask slips completely and you see just how exhausted he is from the unrelenting pressure of maintaining perfect control every waking second. After a particularly long and brutal day, he’ll come home quieter than usual, tension radiating from every line of his body. Without a word, he seeks you out, leans his forehead heavily against your shoulder, and simply stays there. No explanations. No demands. Just the heavy, trembling silence of a man who has spent his entire life aiming, calculating, and performing precision in a world that feels like it’s always one breath away from chaos. In those moments you can feel the crushing weight he carries: the exhaustion of being Benjamin Poindexter, of never allowing himself a single mistake, of constantly keeping the monster locked behind perfect posture and colder eyes. He lets you see it only because he trusts you not to use it against him - and because, with you, he’s finally too tired to pretend he’s unbreakable.

❤️‍🩹Dex keeps every single thing you’ve ever given him, no matter how small or seemingly insignificant. A crumpled receipt from your first date with your handwriting on the back, a cheap hair tie you left on his bathroom counter, a silly sticky note you stuck to his fridge that just said “be safe, love you” in your rushed handwriting. To him, they’re not just objects; they’re tangible proof that you exist, that you thought of him, that you chose to leave pieces of yourself in his life. He stores them all in a locked drawer like sacred relics, hidden away from the rest of his meticulously ordered world. On the nights when the static in his head grows too loud and the voices start whispering that he’s broken beyond repair, he opens that drawer, sits on the floor, and runs his fingers over each tiny memento with aching care. Each one becomes a lifeline, a quiet reminder that someone in this world looked at him and decided he was worth leaving something behind for.

❤️‍🩹he doesn’t do well with spontaneity. Everything in his world runs on patterns and predictability, so when you do something impulsive like dragging him out somewhere unplanned or surprising him with something he couldn’t anticipate, it throws him off balance completely. You can feel it, the way his body goes still for a second, brain scrambling to recalibrate. But if it makes you happy, he tries to adapt, working overtime to map out a situation he didn’t get to prepare for.

❤️‍🩹his loyalty is absolute once you’re locked in as his north star, but it comes with rules he expects the universe to obey. He’ll take a bullet for you without hesitation - has calculated the angles in his head a hundred times - yet he struggles with compromises. Sharing you with friends, with work, with any part of your life that doesn’t include him tests every limit of his control. He doesn’t rage outwardly; he simply becomes quieter, more watchful, until you gently remind him that love isn’t a sniper nest. The way he tries to loosen his grip, even when it physically pains him, shows how badly he wants to be what you need. He tries, he really does.

❤️‍🩹he’ll never admit how terrified he is of abandonment. Losing Eileen left a hole that hasn't been filled. Julie was supposed to fix it, then Fisk offered purpose. Now there’s you. If you pull away, even a little, he feels the old rage bubbling up inside him. He hates that part of himself.

❤️‍🩹the closest Dex ever comes to begging is when he senses you pulling away. If you ever try to leave - really leave - you’ll see something far more terrifying than anger. Confusion. Like the world has stopped making sense. He doesn’t raise his voice, he just corners you gently, eyes flat but voice cracking at the very edge: “You said you weren’t going anywhere. Tell me again. Say it.” When you hesitate, he adds, softer, almost lost, “i need the words. Everything else is falling out of alignment without them.” His voice stays calm, but there’s something unraveling underneath it, something that doesn’t know how to exist without you as its center point. And for the first time, you realize: you’re not just someone he loves. You’re the thing holding the entire system together.

❤️‍🩹dating Dex means learning the warning signs: the way his jaw tightens when something disrupts his routine. The sudden silence when you mention a new friend. The way he starts cleaning his already spotless apartment at 3 am because his mind won’t quiet. You become hyper-aware of your own behavior, walking the line between keeping him stable and losing pieces of yourself in the process.

❤️‍🩹his guilt is complicated. Dex doesn’t feel remorse the way most people do; he can justify almost anything if it keeps his world ordered. But with you, that slowly starts to change. He’ll come home after a bad night, knuckles split or suit rumpled, and for a second you see the exhaustion in his eyes: the boy who never learned right from wrong, trying desperately to be good for the one person who makes him want to try.

❤️‍🩹there are nights when the mask cracks. When the rituals aren’t enough and the old urges crawl back in. He’ll sit perfectly still on the edge of the bed, hands clenched so tight his knuckles go white, breathing measured, counting every inhale. In those moments he won’t let you touch him right away because he’s terrified one wrong move from you will set him off. But if you stay calm, if you become the steady voice he so desperately needs, he slowly leans into you like you’re the only thing anchoring him to the man he wants to be instead of the one he fears he is.

❤️‍🩹he doesn’t know how to say “i love you” the way people are supposed to - it doesn’t come out naturally for him. Instead, it shows up in the way he builds you into his life with absolute certainty. The way he memorizes everything about you. The way he adjusts himself, over and over again, to fit what you need. And one night, he’ll say it like a conclusion he finally reached after running every possible outcome: “I’m better with you.” A pause. “I think that means i love you.” It’s the most honest he's ever been.

❤️‍🩹loving Dex means accepting that you’ve become his new routine, his new structure, his new reason to hold the darkness at arm’s length. He will protect you with terrifying efficiency. He will watch over you with unrelenting focus. But that same intensity that draws you in can suffocate; you become the center of his target, and targets don’t get to move freely.

❤️‍🩹and yet… some nights, when the control slip away completely, he falls asleep with his head on your chest, ear pressed right over your heart trying to memorize its rhythm. He listens to every beat as if it’s the only steady thing left in his chaotic world, the only sound capable of keeping him human. In those rare, quiet moments you see him - really see him. The fractured man beneath the perfect aim. The boy who was never taught how to love without breaking things. The one who wants, more than anything, to finally hit the bullseye of being loved without destroying everything he touches. His breathing eventually evens out against you, one hand loosely curled into your shirt like even in sleep he’s afraid you might vanish. And in the soft glow of the city lights filtering through the window, you realize how desperately he’s trying. How much he aches to be good for you. How terrifyingly fragile this version of Ben truly is.

❤️‍🩹dating Ben Poindexter is choosing the knife’s edge every single day. It’s beautiful in its precision, devastating in its intensity, and utterly exhausting in its fragility. But when he looks at you with those cold eyes softening just for a second, you understand why people keep standing still for sharpshooters. Because being the center of his world feels like being the only real thing in it.

Billy Russo

❤️‍🔥dating Billy Russo feels like falling in love with a loaded gun wrapped in silk. He’s all sharp smiles and smoother words, the kind of beautiful that makes you forget how easily beauty can cut.

❤️‍🔥Billy is charm before anything else. Effortless, practiced, disarming. He knows exactly how to hold eye contact just a second too long, how to let his voice drop when he says your name, how to make you laugh at just the right moment - and how to make you feel like the most interesting person in the room. But the unsettling part? It doesn’t feel fake. Because with you… it isn’t. You’re one of the rare things he doesn’t want to manipulate - even if manipulation is the language he speaks best.

❤️‍🔥he needs to feel like he’s your best choice. Not just a choice - the best one, the one no one else could ever come close to. It’s a quiet, gnawing hunger that lives under all that charm and bravado. He watches your reactions with careful attention whenever he does something for you: the way your eyes light up when he brings you flowers, or the way you lean into his touch so comfortably. If someone else makes you laugh a little too hard or holds your attention a second too long, his jaw tightens almost imperceptibly, that dangerously beautiful smile never faltering even as something darker flickers behind his eyes. He never outright begs for reassurance - that would be too vulnerable - but he expertly pulls it out from you in a hundred subtle ways: a lingering look, a slow drag of his fingers down your spine, or a deceptively casual question murmured against your skin in the dark: “You happy with me, baby?” It sounds casual, almost playful, but you can hear the real weight behind it. The fear that one day you might wake up and realize you could do better than a beautiful, broken man with blood on his ledger and ghosts in his bed.

❤️‍🔥Billy has two completely different smiles: the polished, boardroom one he wears like armor in front of clients and investors, and the smaller, crooked, real one he only gives you when you’re alone; you learn to crave the second one. It’s rarer, softer, and it makes the scars on his face look less like damage and more like history. When you manage to pull that smile out of him, his eyes actually warm for a moment, because you’re doing something no one else ever could: you make him truly happy.

❤️‍🔥he calls you “baby,” “sweetheart,” “beautiful” - but the way he says your name in that low, velvet voice when it’s just the two of you? That’s the one that ruins you. Slow and deliberate, like he’s tasting every letter. He’ll say it right before he kisses you senseless, right after he’s made you fall apart, or in the middle of the night when he thinks you’re asleep.

❤️‍🔥arguments with Billy are dangerous because he’s terrifyingly good at them. He knows you better than you want to admit; knows exactly which buttons to press, which old insecurities to soothe or weaponize, which soft spots will make you fold and which will make you fight. He rarely raises his voice; instead he goes calm, almost frighteningly cold, that polished charm sharpening into something razor-edged and precise. The mask slips just enough to remind you that the man smiling at you could destroy you with words if he really wanted to. It leaves you feeling like you’re standing on unstable ground, like the rules changed when you weren’t looking. But when you push back hard and refuse to let him charm, manipulate, or talk his way out of it, something deep inside him cracks. The polished exterior fractures, and for a moment you see the scared, abandoned boy beneath the handsome killer. He’ll storm out, disappear for hours, sometimes even longer, then comes back with apologies wrapped in expensive gifts and that desperate, hungry edge in his eyes that he can never quite hide. Because the thought of you actually walking away, of losing the one person who makes him feel like he’s more than what his past offers, genuinely terrifies Billy Russo more than any enemy ever could.

❤️‍🔥he spoils you rotten. Designer clothes, expensive dinners, weekends away in places that smell like money and sin. But his favorite thing to give you is himself - the real Billy, scars and all, trusting you with the version of him nobody else gets to see. He’ll let you trace his scars with gentle fingers and watch your eyes waiting for disgust that never comes. When you kiss him instead, something in him shatters and rebuilds in the same breath.

❤️‍🔥he’s a mirror before he’s a man. Billy reflects what you respond to; if you like soft, he softens. If you like confidence, he sharpens into it. It’s not even fully conscious at this point, it’s instinct. Survival. He learned early that being loved meant being whatever someone needed, so he started to adapt to seek love. The dangerous part is… after a while, you stop being able to tell where the performance ends and where Billy actually begins. And maybe he can’t either.

❤️‍🔥the first time you see him truly break, it’s not during an argument or after a deal gone wrong. It’s in the quiet of the night when his mind gets too loud. You wake up to find him standing at the windows of his penthouse, staring out at the city lights with his back to you, shoulders rigid. When you say his name he flinches as if you’ve struck him. “I don’t know how to do this,” he admits, voice raw in a way you’ve never heard before. “I don’t know how to love someone without turning them into a target. Without waiting for the day you look at me and see exactly what i am.” For once there’s no charm, no calculated smile, no armor. Just Billy - the boy who was thrown away, the soldier who learned love was conditional, the man who built an empire so no one could ever abandon him again. You have to cross the room and take his face in your hands before he believes you when you tell him you’re not leaving. Even then, you feel how hard he’s fighting not to pull you closer and never let go.

❤️‍🔥Billy is a gentleman through and through: he opens every door for you, walks on the outside of the sidewalk, and insists on paying for everything. It’s not control - at least not entirely. It’s the little boy who grew up with nothing trying to prove he can give you the world. When you tease him about it he just smirks and says, "let me spoil you, baby. God knows i didn’t get to spoil anyone worth a damn before you.”

❤️‍🔥slow mornings are sacred to him, even if he’ll never admit it out loud. He stays in bed longer than necessary, arm heavy across your waist, voice gravel-rough with sleep as he murmurs against your shoulder, “don’t move yet.” The city can wait. The empire can wait. For once, he just wants to exist in the warmth of you.

❤️‍🔥some mornings he wakes up before you and just lies there, propped up on one elbow, studying your sleeping face like it’s the only thing in this rotten, blood-soaked city worth committing to memory. The early light catches the scars on his own face, making him look both heartbreakingly beautiful and painfully, achingly human. He watches the steady rise and fall of your chest, the way your lashes rest against your cheeks, the soft parting of your lips, as if he’s trying to memorize every tiny detail before the world tries to steal you away. If you stir and catch him, he’ll flash that signature crooked smile and murmur something teasing like “caught me staring again, huh?” But you’ve already seen the truth flickering in his eyes: it’s love, raw and desperate, tangled with deep-seated terror. Because to him, anything this good, this pure, has always been temporary. And he’s willing to burn down the entire city, manipulate, scheme, or kill to make sure you stay right there lying beside him, where he can keep you safe and map out your feautures for as long as the morning sun lets him.

❤️‍🔥he’s not used to being taken care of. So when you patch up a cut on his knuckles, or bring him coffee exactly how he likes it, or brush your fingers through his hair to calm him - he goes completely still. Like he doesn’t know what to do with kindness that doesn’t come with an agenda. You can almost see the war inside him: the abandoned boy who never learned how to receive love clashing violently with the man who’s spent years making sure he never needs anyone. It undoes him every single time.

❤️‍🔥Billy doesn’t talk about his past the way someone healing would. He talks about it like it’s a story that happened to someone else. Detached. Controlled. But sometimes, it slips - a flicker in his expression, a pause too long. You piece it together slowly; the neglect, the anger, the loneliness. That’s when you realize the past isn’t behind him; it’s under the mask he puts on every single day.

❤️‍🔥some nights, the weight of everything he’s done - and everything he still does - crashes down on him like a tidal wave. He comes back to the penthouse long after midnight, still wearing the polished suit that hides the blood on his knuckles, and you can just see it in his eyes. He doesn’t speak at first; he just pulls you into his lap on the couch, arms locked around you like you’re the only solid thing left in his universe, face buried against your neck as he breathes you in. In those moments the charming, untouchable Billy Russo disappears. You feel him trembling just slightly, feel the way his fingers press into your back a little too hard, and all you can do is hold him tighter and whisper that you’re still here. That you see him. That you’re not going anywhere. He never says thank you, but the way he falls asleep still holding on to you says everything he could never put into words.

❤️‍🔥there are moments where you see how much anger lives under his skin, simmering just beneath that perfect, charming surface. It shows in the way his grip tightens on your waist, how his smile stays fixed but doesn’t quite reach his eyes when someone pushes him too far, the slight clench of his jaw, or the way his shoulders tense like a coiled spring. Billy doesn’t lash out without reason - he’s too controlled, too calculated for that. He lets the anger build in silence, lets it sharpen into something cold and precise. But when he finally does let it out… god help you, you better wish it’s not directed at you. Because when Billy unleashes that carefully contained rage, it’s devastating. Not loud or messy, but cutting, personal, and absolute. In those moments you’re reminded that beneath the expensive suits and charming smiles lives a man who survived hell and learned how to become it. And no matter how much he loves you, a small part of you will always wonder what would happen if you were ever the one to truly set that anger free.

❤️‍🔥he gets jealous very easily - not loudly, and never in public. He has an image to maintain after all. But later, when you’re alone, he’ll back you against the wall, eyes dark. “You smiled at him too long, sweetheart. Made me think maybe you forgot who you belong to.” The words are soft, almost sweet, but the grip on your hips is anything but. He needs to hear you say you’re his, needs it like air to survive.

❤️‍🔥Billy never says “i need you.” That would be too vulnerable. Instead he says things like “stay with me tonight” or “cancel your plans. I want you here.” But you learn to hear the real meaning underneath: he needs you the way a man who’s been drowning needs air - desperately, selfishly, and with the constant terror that one day you’ll realize you don’t need him back the same way.

❤️‍🔥“you’re the only thing in my life that isn’t fucked up,” he tells you once, voice low and raw at 3 am, city lights painting silver across his face. “Don’t let me ruin that. Don’t let me ruin us.”

❤️‍🔥dating Billy means loving both the man and the monster inside him. The charming, flirtatious king who would burn the city down for you, and the deeply scarred, rage-filled boy who still checks every mirror like he’s afraid the reflection might betray him too. He’ll lie for you, kill for you, die for you - but god help you both if you ever betray him. Because Billy’s love is forever. And so is his hatred.

❤️‍🔥it means living in that space between sincerity and performance, between the man he is and the man he wants to be. It means knowing some parts of him are real, some are constructed, and some are so tangled together even he doesn’t know the difference anymore.

❤️‍🔥the scariest part of loving him isn’t the violence, or the secrets, or even the carefully hidden rage that sometimes flashes across his face. The scariest part is how deeply you start to understand him. How you begin to see the scared little boy beneath the monster and start excusing the red flags because of it. How his love slowly starts to feel like home, even when it holds you a little too tightly, even when it rearranges your entire life to fit inside his. He’s built this entire relationship with the deliberate precision of someone who’s terrified of being left - making you need him as badly as he needs you, weaving himself into every part of your world until it’s hard to remember what it felt like before him. And the worst part is… it works. It works so well. Because when he whispers your name like it’s the only thing keeping him human in a world that tried to tear him apart, you realize you’re already too far gone. You’re not just dating Billy Russo. You’re caught in his orbit, pulled in by gravity you never saw coming. And the most dangerous truth of all is that some part of you never wants to break free.

❤️‍🔥loving Billy means understanding that his fear doesn’t sound like fear. It sounds like certainty. It looks like confidence. It feels like control. He won’t tell you he’s scared you’ll leave - he’ll just make himself impossible to walk away from. He’ll give you every reason to stay, layer by layer, until your life feels fuller with him in it than it ever did without him. And maybe part of you knows what he’s doing. Maybe part of you sees the intention behind it. But the rest of you? The part that feels how warm his hand is in yours, how steady his presence becomes, how real it all feels… that part doesn’t want to question it.

❤️‍🔥and that’s where Billy lives - in that space between sincerity and strategy, between love and survival. Because he does love you. In the only way he knows how. Fully, intensely, with a focus that never wavers. But it’s a love shaped by everything he’s been through, everything he’s had to become to survive. A love that holds on a little too tightly. A love that builds instead of trusts. A love that needs to believe that this time, it’s finally something that won’t be taken away from him.

Foggy Nelson

💜dating Foggy Nelson is like stumbling into the only lit window on a dark hell’s kitchen street - warm, golden, and full of laughter while the rest of the city bleeds and burns. He’s the heartbeat you didn’t know you needed in a world that keeps trying to break yours.

💜Foggy builds a relationship the same way he builds a case - carefully, thoroughly, with attention to every detail that matters. He learns you piece by piece, not in a way that feels invasive, but in a way that feels intentional. The way you like your coffee, the shows you rewatch when you’re overwhelmed, the exact tone your voice takes when something’s wrong but you’re pretending it’s not. And once he knows those things, he uses them; not to control you, not to shape you, but to support you. To love you better. To make sure you never feel overlooked.

💜he's the boyfriend who makes you laugh even when the world feels like it’s ending. He’ll crack a dumb joke while you’re stress-crying, then pull you into his arms and murmur, “hey, at least we have each other and extremely overpriced takeout. Priorities, babe.”

💜there are moments where loving Foggy feels almost… too easy, and that’s what scares you. Because you’ve seen what love looks like in this city when it’s tangled up with violence and sacrifice and secrets that bleed into everything. You’ve seen what it does to people like Matt, how it twists into something painful and complicated and constantly on the edge of breaking. And then there’s Foggy, standing right in front of you, offering something steady, something soft, something that doesn’t ask you to suffer for it - and part of you doesn’t know what to do with that. One night, when the city feels particularly heavy, you ask him, “what if something happens? What if this gets taken away?” And Foggy just looks at you for a second, really looks at you, before reaching for your hand and squeezing it gently. “Then we’ll deal with it,” he says simply. No grand speech, no promises he can’t keep, just quiet certainty. “But right now? You’re here. I’m here. That’s enough.”

💜he makes space for you without making it feel like a sacrifice. You don’t feel like you’re being fit into his life - you feel like you’re being welcomed into it. There’s room for your emotions, your chaos, your bad moods, your dreams. He doesn’t need you to be perfect or easy to love. He just needs you to be you.

💜he has a habit of hyping you up in the most ridiculous, over-the-top ways. If you’re nervous about something, he’ll give you a full pep talk like he’s your lawyer and you’re about to win the case of the century. “You’re not just smart, you’re brilliant. You’re not just cute, you’re devastating. Go out there and remind the world why i’m the luckiest man alive.” He does it with such genuine enthusiasm that you can’t help but laugh and believe him.

💜arguments with Foggy don’t feel like war - they feel like something you’re both trying to solve. He gets frustrated, sure, and he can get loud, especially when emotions run high. But he never aims to hurt you. Even in the middle of it, you can see the care underneath, the way he pulls himself back mid-sentence because he realizes something he said might land wrong. “Okay, wait, that came out bad. That’s not what i meant.” He corrects, he adjusts, he tries again. Loving him means never having to wonder if he’s on your side - even when you’re fighting, he is.

💜he’s not afraid of commitment - he leans into it. Where other people hesitate, second-guess, pull back, Foggy steps forward. He wants the shared space, the routines, the life that builds over time. He wants inside jokes and grocery lists and arguing over what to watch on a tuesday night. Grocery shopping becomes an hour of arguing over snacks and sneaking things into the cart when the other isn’t looking. Laundry turns into him dramatically complaining about mismatched socks while you sit on the floor laughing. Even the boring parts of life feel lighter with him because he’s constantly finding small ways to make existence a little less exhausting and a lot more fun. And when you realize how genuine that is, how much he means it, it becomes one of the safest feelings you’ve ever known.

💜he’s ridiculously affectionate. A hand on your lower back when you walk together, fingers laced under the table during movie nights, forehead kisses when he passes you in the kitchen. He’s a human golden retriever who somehow also looks really good in a suit.

💜he gives the best hugs in the world. They’re full-body, warm, slightly-too-long embraces that make you feel completely wrapped up in safety and pure affection. He hugs like he means it with every inch of himself: arms tight around you, one hand gently rubbing your back, chin resting on your head or shoulder like he could stay there forever if you let him. It feels like he’s trying to transfer some of his own endless optimism and steadiness straight into your bones. When he finally pulls back, he never lets go right away. He keeps his hands on your arms for a few extra seconds, looking at you with that bright, adoring smile, because you’re genuinely his favorite sight in the entire world. In those moments, you feel utterly cherished, as if nothing bad could reach you while Foggy Nelson has you in his arms.

💜Foggy remembers every anniversary; not just the big ones, but all the little milestones that most people would forget. He celebrates the anniversary of your first date, the day you officially moved in together, even silly ones like “three months since you bravely tried my terrible meatloaf and still chose to stay with me.” He turns every single one into something warm and joyful, never over-the-top, but deeply thoughtful. Sometimes it’s breakfast in bed with slightly burnt toast and a handmade card covered in terrible doodles. Sometimes it’s him taking the day off work just to spend it with you, or surprising you with tickets to that concert you mentioned months ago. Each celebration feels like a quiet vow: a reminder that every chapter of your story matters to him, and he’s keeping track of all of it.

💜his love is the kind that grows deeper the longer you stay. It doesn’t burn hot and fast only to flicker out; it settles in, roots down, and becomes part of the foundation of your life. Months turn into years and he still looks at you like you’re the most fascinating person he’s ever met. He still gets a little shy when he introduces you as his girlfriend (and later, if you let him dream that far, as his wife). He still brings you flowers for no reason and still laughs at your jokes like they’re the funniest things he’s ever heard. With Foggy, you never have to worry about becoming background noise or taken for granted. He chooses you every single day, like loving you is his favorite part in a life full of difficult cases.

💜he celebrates your wins like they’re his own. Big or small, it doesn’t matter; he’s your loudest supporter every single time. You accomplish something? He’s already telling people about it. You’re proud of something? He’s ten times prouder. Being loved by a man with a heart as big as his means having someone who genuinely believes you’re incredible - and makes sure you never forget it.

💜Foggy fights for people. That's who he is. And when you’re his, that includes you in a way that’s fierce and unwavering. Not with fists or violence, but with everything else he's got: his voice, his time, his energy, his refusal to let you be dismissed or overlooked. He’ll stand in a room full of people twice as powerful and argue your side like it’s the most important case he’s ever taken on. Because to him? You bet your ass it is.

💜he's funny on purpose, but he’s even funnier when he’s not trying. He’ll roast Matt (and himself) mercilessly, but the second you’re the slightest bit self-conscious, he turns into the sweetest hype man alive. “Are you kidding me? You’re the most incredible person in this entire city. Matt’s out there doing flips in spandex and you’re still my favorite superhero.” He means every word.

💜he sees the way other people love in his life, and it shapes how he chooses to love you. And he makes a choice, over and over again, to be different. To be safe. Not boring, not passive - safe. The kind of safe that doesn’t make you feel small or afraid or like you’re constantly waiting for something to go wrong. But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t feel things deeply; if anything, Foggy feels everything too much. He just filters it through care instead of chaos. So when he gets scared of losing you, it doesn’t come out as control - it comes out as quiet check-ins, soft “text me when you get home, okay?” and lingering hugs that last a second longer than usual. With him, you realize that strength doesn’t always look like fighting. Sometimes it looks like choosing gentleness in a world that rewards hardness.

💜Foggy loves feeding you. It’s his love language. He shows up at your place with bags of your favorite thai food when you’ve had a long day, or wakes up early on weekends to make pancakes with that ridiculous smiley-face whipped cream he knows makes you laugh. “You can’t save the world on an empty stomach,” he’ll say, even though he’s the one who usually forgets to eat when he’s buried in case files.

💜he's the king of comfort. Bad day? He’s already in sweats making grilled cheese. Anxious? He’ll let you ramble for hours while he plays with your hair. Sick? He turns into nurse mood complete with terrible jokes and unlimited cuddles.

💜he’s also the undisputed king of “we’ll figure it out.” If life throws curveballs, Foggy’s already brainstorming solutions with you at 2am over cold pizza, hair messy, listening intently, asking thoughtful questions, and looking at you the entire time like you’re the smartest, most capable person in the room. He never makes you feel like a burden or like your problems are too much; your problems become our problems. He attacks them with that same stubborn, optimistic energy he brings to every impossible case in court: refusing to give up, finding silver linings where no one else can see them, and somehow making even the scariest situations feel manageable just because he’s facing them with you. With Foggy by your side, you never have to carry anything alone. He makes sure of it, every single time.

💜he struggles sometimes with feeling like he’s “just Foggy.” Especially when he’s surrounded by people who seem larger than life: vigilantes, soldiers, men who fight their battles with fists and blood. Next to them, he feels ordinary, small. Foggy fights his battles with words, with stubbornness, with heart. And some days, that doesn’t feel like enough to him. You’ll catch it in the quieter moments, the way he hesitates before speaking, the way he downplays his own accomplishments. “I mean, it’s not exactly saving the city or anything,” he’ll shrug, and you can hear the doubt underneath. But then you look at him like he’s the one holding everything together. Because to you, he is. He’s the steady ground, the voice of reason, the glue that keeps people from falling apart when everyone else leaves chaos behind. And when you tell him that, when you look at him with genuine awe and love, something in him steadies. His shoulders relax, that warm smile returns, and for a little while the doubt quiets. Because maybe, just maybe, being the one who stays matters more than he gives himself credit for. In your eyes, “just Foggy” has always been more than enough. He’s everything.

💜he doesn’t love halfway. Once he’s in, he’s in. You’re not a temporary part of his life, you’re his person. There’s no question of “what are we?” because with him, the answer is always clear: you’re his, and he’s yours, and that’s something he takes seriously.

💜dating Foggy Nelson means being loved in a way that doesn’t make you brace for impact. There’s no waiting for the other shoe to drop, no dread that something is hiding under the softness. What you see with him is what you get: warmth, loyalty, a heart that’s maybe a little too big for his own good. And at first, that almost throws you off. Because in a city like hell's kitchen, you’re so used to love feeling like something you have to earn, or fight for, or survive. But Foggy? He just… gives it. Freely. Consistently. Like loving you is the easiest decision he’s ever made.

💜he doesn’t love you like a storm, or a war, or something that threatens to consume you whole. He loves you like a home. Like something steady and warm and always there when you need it. Like something you can come back to, no matter how hard the world gets, and know you’ll be safe. It doesn’t have to feel like walking a tightrope or bracing for the fall; it can be steady. It can be soft. It can be someone making you grilled cheese at midnight while you sit on the kitchen counter talking about everything and nothing at all.

💜and that’s the thing about loving Foggy Nelson: it might not feel explosive or dangerous or all-consuming in the way some loves do. But it lasts. It holds. It grows. It’s the kind of love that stays standing when everything else falls apart. And in a city like that? That kind of love is everything.

Ray Nadeem

💕dating Ray Nadeem is like loving the last honest man in a city built on lies. He carries himself like someone who knows exactly how much the world costs, and he still chooses to pay his share without complaint.

💕it means loving a man who is constantly trying to earn the life he already has. He doesn’t take you for granted, not for a second. There’s always this underlying feeling with him that everything good in his life is on borrowed time, that one wrong move could take it all away. And because of that, he loves carefully. Intentionally. He checks in, he shows up, he listens, he tries - always tries - even on the days where he’s running on nothing but stress and guilt. You’ll catch him watching you sometimes, almost pensive, like he’s memorizing something he’s afraid he won’t get to keep. And when you ask what he’s thinking, he just shakes his head with a small smile. “Nothing. Just… got lucky, i guess.” But it doesn’t feel like luck to him. It feels like something he has to fight to deserve.

💕he struggles with letting you all the way in at first. Years of compartmentalizing for the job have made him excellent at locking pieces of himself away. But once the walls start coming down, they come down completely. You become the only person he doesn’t have to perform for, the only place where Agent Nadeem can disappear and Ray can just exist.

💕you kind of have to accept that his job will almost always come first, whether he wants it to or not. He comes home late most nights, sometimes well after midnight, with nothing but a tired “sorry, got held up” and the faint smell of precinct coffee still clinging to his clothes. You’ll fall asleep waiting for him more times than you can count, the dinner you made going cold on the table. He hates it too, but it pulls at him like gravity. The frustration and guilt is etched into his face every time he slips into bed beside your sleeping form, careful not to wake you, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead like an apology he doesn’t know how to fully voice. There are weeks where you feel more like a roommate he loves than a partner he actually gets to spend time with, and no amount of “i’ll make it up to you” quite fills the empty side of the bed. It's always sincere, but it starts to feel thin against the constant ache of missing him. But he tries; he reaches for your hand in the dark when he finally makes it home, whispers how much he misses you against your skin, and fights every single day to be the kind of man who can give you more than just the exhausted leftovers of his time.

💕but he always calls you late at night when he can’t come home, voice low and tired but still warm. “Just wanted to hear your voice before i head out again,” he’ll say, and you can picture him leaning against a cold wall, tie loosened, thumb rubbing the bridge of his nose. Those calls become your ritual: proof that even when the job has him, he still reaches for you first.

💕he doesn’t say “i love you” casually or often. When he does say it, it’s weighted, almost solemn, like a vow. Usually it comes after a close call at work, or when he’s watching you do something completely ordinary like laughing at your phone, making coffee, or just existing in his space. “God, i love you,” he’ll murmur, voice rough, as if the feeling caught him off guard and he couldn’t keep it inside anymore.

💕Ray carries responsibility in his bones, and it shapes everything: how he loves, how he worries, how he moves through the world. His mind is never completely at rest; there’s always something he’s trying to fix, something he’s trying to protect, someone he feels he’s letting down.

💕being with him means discovering how good it feels to be with a man who is genuinely competent in every sense of the word. He’s the type who walks into a crisis and immediately sees the clearest path through it: whether it’s a blown fuse in your apartment at midnight, a difficult conversation you’ve been avoiding, or some shady stranger who won’t leave you alone on the street. He handles it all with the same calm, focused energy, never raising his voice, never making a show of it. There’s something incredibly sexy about that; the way he assesses a situation, makes a decision, and executes it so smoothly that you’re left feeling safer and more taken care of than you ever realized you needed. He doesn’t do it to prove anything. He does it because that’s simply who he is - a man who shows up fully and knows how to protect what matters to him.

💕his love language is presence. Not grand gestures, not dramatic declarations, just being there. Sitting with you after a long day, even if he’s exhausted. Showing up when he said he would, even if it’s late and he looks like he’s been through hell. Answering your calls, checking in, making space for you in a life that already demands so much from him. It’s not flashy, but it’s solid. Reliable. The kind of love that doesn’t disappear when things get hard.

💕he’s a gentleman: Opens doors, pulls out chairs, gives you his jacket the moment he feels you shiver, or walks you to your door even when he can only stay for a few stolen minutes. Even months into the relationship, he still asks before deepening a kiss. Not because he’s insecure or unsure of you, but because he wants you to know, always, that you have a choice with him. There’s that tiny pause where he looks deeply into your eyes, silently checking in, giving you the space to say yes or pull away. It’s a quiet promise woven into every touch: that no matter how tired or heavy his world gets, you will always be safe with him. You will always be respected. You will always be given the dignity of choosing him back. It’s never performative though, it’s simply how he was raised.

💕when he’s relaxed and truly happy, he becomes incredibly affectionate. He’ll pull you into his lap on the couch for no reason, tuck you against his chest, and rest his chin on top of your head while you watch something mindless on tv, big, warm arms wrapped around you; he feels like he could stay there forever. In those moments the weight of the world finally slips off his shoulders and he lets himself just be with you.

💕he doesn’t see love as something separate from commitment - it’s built into it. If he’s with you, he’s with you. There’s no ambiguity, no half-in-half-out, no wondering where you stand. You’re part of his life, and that's why being loved by him feels incredibly secure. Like you’ve found someone who understands that real commitment isn’t loud or flashy, it’s just steady, unshakable presence.

💕Ray’s sense of duty doesn’t stop at his job, it bleeds into how he loves you. He doesn’t just want to make you happy, he feels responsible for your happiness. If you’re upset, he takes it personally. If something goes wrong in your life, he immediately starts thinking of what he could’ve done differently to prevent it. He doesn’t always say it out loud, but you can see it in the way his posture shifts, the way his voice softens when he asks, “are you okay?” like the answer might change something fundamental inside him. Loving Ray means gently reminding him that he doesn’t have to carry everything; that he’s allowed to just be with you, not constantly fix things for you.

💕he avoids conflict longer than he should. Not because he doesn’t care, but because he cares too much about saying the wrong thing. Small issues sit between you, unspoken, building quietly under the surface until they come out heavier than they needed to be.

💕there’s a very thin line in his life between who he is at work and who he is with you - and you can feel how hard he tries to keep that line intact. With you, he’s softer, warmer, more open. He smiles more easily, laughs more freely, lets himself relax in ways he doesn’t anywhere else. But sometimes the job seeps in anyway; you’ll catch it in the way he goes quiet mid-conversation, like his mind just got pulled somewhere else. Or the way his eyes scan a room automatically when you’re out together. And on nights when things get particularly heavy, he comes home carrying it with him, even if he tries not to. He’ll sit beside you, quieter than usual, hands clasped together, holding in the weight of the day. And when you gently ask what’s wrong, there’s that hesitation; that moment where he has to decide whether to protect you from it or trust you enough to let you see it. When he chooses the latter, it’s never easy. But it’s always honest.

💕Ray can be emotionally unavailable when the weight of a case settles on him. Not cold, exactly, but distant. He’ll sit right beside you on the couch but feel miles away, and when you push him to talk about what’s bothering him, he tends to shut down further at first because years of keeping secrets has made opening up feel unnatural. It can leave you feeling shut out, like you’re only allowed to see the polished, put-together version of him and not the exhausted, conflicted man underneath. Sometimes it’s like loving someone through glass: he can see you, he can hear you, but there’s something in the way he can’t quite move past.

💕that's because he isn’t used to lean on people emotionally - he’s used to being the one who holds everything together. So when you start becoming that safe place for him, when he realizes he can come to you with his doubts, his fears, his mistakes… it changes something in him. The first time he truly opens up, it all just bursts out of him like a dam collapsing - it’s messy, halting, full of pauses and second-guessing. “I don’t know how much longer i can keep doing this,” he admits, voice low, eyes not quite meeting yours. And when you don’t pull away - when you stay, when you listen, when you don’t see him as less for it - you can almost see the shift. Like a man who’s been holding his breath for years finally exhaling.

💕Ray’s the type of man who apologizes even when he doesn’t need to. Sometimes, he’ll pull you close and say quietly, “i know i’m not always easy to be with. Thank you for being patient with me.” The sincerity in his voice makes it clear: he never wants you to feel like an afterthought, even when everyone else demands so much of him.

💕he carries himself with a quiet, grounded confidence that feels incredibly attractive. He doesn’t need to dominate a conversation or show off; he simply knows who he is, knows what he’s capable of, and that certainty shows in the way he walks into a room with you, hand resting lightly on your lower back, proud to be the man at your side. There’s no constant need for validation, just assurance that says he’s exactly where he wants to be - and he’s not going anywhere.

💕he has the warmest, steadiest hands. When he holds yours, it feels like an anchor; he’ll intertwine your fingers and run his thumb over your knuckles without even realizing he’s doing it, like touching you grounds him as much as it comforts you.

💕in private, Ray is intensely focused and deeply sensual in a way that might surprise people who only know the buttoned-up fbi agent. He doesn’t rush; his hands are sure and patient as they learn every inch of you, and his kisses start slow and deliberate before building into something hungry and consuming. He pays attention to the sounds you make or the way your breath catches. There’s a quiet intensity to him when the lights are low and the rest of the world disappears; he wants you fully present with him, and he gives that same presence right back. It feels like being completely wanted, completely known, and completely safe all at once.

💕he sometimes gets shy about how much he needs you. This competent, steady man who holds everything together for everyone else will occasionally go quiet and just rest his forehead against yours, eyes closed, breathing you in. “Don’t know what i’d do without you,” he’ll murmur, voice rough with honesty he rarely lets himself show. It’s one of the few times you see the vulnerable heart behind the responsible exterior.

💕he's the kind of person who replays conversations in his head hours later, wondering if he said the wrong thing, if he missed something important, if he could’ve done better. And when those mistakes are bigger, when they actually matter, it hits him hard. He doesn’t deflect, doesn’t make excuses; he owns it, fully, even when it hurts. But the downside of that honesty is that he doesn’t always know how to forgive himself. In those moments you need to be there for him, reminding him that being a good man doesn’t mean being a perfect one.

💕Ray’s incredibly protective of your peace. If the world has been too loud or cruel to you that day, he becomes a quiet sanctuary. He’ll draw you a bath, order your favorite food, or simply hold you on the couch in silence if that’s what you need; sometimes he just creates space for you to fall apart safely in his arms. “You don’t have to be strong right now. I’ve got you.” And he means it with his whole heart.

💕he wants to marry you one day; he wants the ring, the vows, the quiet promise of building a real life - a home that feels safe, and a future he can look forward to. You can feel that longing in how carefully he loves you, like he’s already practicing for forever. Every time he holds you, every gentle kiss pressed to your temple, every quiet “i’m home” whispered against your hair carries the silent hope that you’re the one he gets to come home to for the rest of his life. And when he finally asks, you already know exactly what it will be like: thoughtful, unhurried, and full of all the love this good, tired man has been carrying quietly in his heart for so long. The kind of proposal that comes from a man who has seen too much darkness and still chooses to believe in something lasting and beautiful with you.

💕he believes in doing the right thing, even when it costs him. And that belief doesn’t stop when it comes to you. If Ray ever truly believed that being with him was putting you in real danger, if he became convinced that his job, his choices, or the enemies he’s made would eventually ruin your life… he would step back. He would let you go. Not because he doesn’t love you, but because he loves you too much to be selfish with your safety. It would tear him apart, and you’d see it in every hesitation, every lingering look, every moment he almost reaches for you and stops himself. His jaw would tighten, his eyes would grow heavy with grief, but he would still do it. Because to Ray, love isn’t about holding on at all costs. It’s about protecting what matters most, even if that means protecting you from himself. Even if it means breaking his own heart in the process. He would rather lose you while you’re still safe than keep you and watch the world punish you for loving him.

💕he’s the type of man who falls more deeply in love with the everyday version of you. He adores the you with messy morning hair and sleepy eyes, the you who sings off-key in the shower, the you who talks a mile a minute and gestures wildly when you’re excited about something. He’ll catch you doing the most ordinary thing - stirring coffee, reading a book with your legs tucked under you, humming while folding laundry - and he’ll just stop for a moment, watching you with that soft, wondering look in his eyes. Then, almost under his breath, he’ll murmur, “god, you’re beautiful,” like he can’t quite believe he gets to witness every piece of you. In a life full of masks and duty and carefully controlled appearances, your unfiltered self feels like the most precious thing he’s ever been allowed to love.

💕Ray’s the kind of man who doesn’t just love you for who you are in your best moments, but for who you are when things are messy and uncertain. He doesn’t need you to have everything figured out. He doesn’t expect perfection. If anything, he understands better than most others that people are complicated, that life doesn’t go according to plan. And instead of pulling away from that, he leans in. He stays. He chooses you each and every day.

💕loving him means understanding that he won’t always get it right. He’ll make mistakes. He’ll take on too much. He’ll try to fix things that aren’t his to fix. But he will always try, always come back, always own up, always do whatever he can to make things right.

💕it's accepting that your relationship will never exist in a vacuum. There will always be something pressing in on it: the job, the danger, the weight he carries home with him even when he tries not to. But somehow, even with all of that, what you build together still feels real. Still feels steady. Because he never treats your love like something secondary or temporary. Even when he’s stretched too thin, even when he’s exhausted down to his bones, he holds onto you like you’re something constant in a life that rarely is. You can see the exhaustion in his eyes when he comes home, the way he tries to leave the badge and the guilt at the door so he can just be your Ray for a few hours.

💕there are moments when he comes home and just stands there for a second, taking you in before he says anything. Like he needs to remind himself this is real. That there’s a life waiting for him outside of the job, outside of everything he carries. And when you look up and catch his eyes, he’ll smile a little, tired and soft. “Hey,” he says, like the whole world just got a little quieter.

💕with him, you learn that love isn’t about intensity that burns fast and bright - it’s about endurance. It’s about the quiet, stubborn choice to stay, again and again, even when things are complicated, even when it would be easier to pull away. Ray doesn’t love halfway, and he doesn’t leave when things get difficult. He stays, works through it, carries what he can, and trusts you enough to carry the rest with him. And over time, that kind of love settles into something deeper than passion - something that feels unshakable.

💕dating Ray Nadeem isn’t about intensity or chaos or being consumed. It’s about choosing someone who chooses to be good, over and over again, even when it would be easier not to. It’s about loving a man who carries the weight of the city on his shoulders… and still makes room for you in his arms.

Your feedback and criticism is greatly appreciated; feel free to leave a comment, it means mor than you know♡