Marvel Preferences - dating them (Daredevil characters)ā¤ļø
a/n: happy belated born again season 2 startā” 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 themā” next up is gonna be peaky blinders as per requestā” 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 readingā”
Matt Murdock; Frank Castle; Ben Poindexter; Billy Russo; Foggy Nelson; Ray Nadeem
ā¤ļødating 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 hellās kitchen red with his fists. Itās never simple, and itās never safe. But god help you, itās the most honest thing youāll ever do.
ā¤ļøMatt loves when you push back against the saint heās trying so hard to be. Call him reckless, tell him he doesnāt have to carry the whole damn city on his bruised shoulders, roll your eyes when he starts talking about penance like itās the only language he knows. Something in him lights up when you refuse to let him martyr himself in silence. Heās 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.
ā¤ļødating him means living inside the tension he can never quite resolve. Youāll get the softest version of him at 3 am when he comes home smelling like rain and concrete and someone elseās blood, crawling into bed and pressing his face against your neck just to listen to your heartbeat drowning out the noise of hellās kitchen. Youāll 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 āfor your own goodā and then show up at your door anyway because the thought of you moving on without him feels like another sin he canāt confess.
ā¤ļøheās 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. āYou know i can hear that, right?ā Or he lets you āwinā at board games just so he can hear that triumphant little laugh you make when you think youāve beaten the devil himself. āEnjoy it while it lasts, sweetheart. I'm feeling generous tonight.ā
ā¤ļøbut he's also very competitive about completely silly things. Trivia nights, crossword puzzles, even who can make the other laugh first. Heāll use every advantage he has without shame, then act mock-offended when you call him out on it. āIām blind, not dead,ā heāll say with that wicked little grin. āLet me have this one.ā
ā¤ļøthe man is tactile in a way that feels almost sacred. His fingers learn you the way he learns every alley in hellās kitchen - slow, deliberate, reverent. Heāll trace the line of your jaw while youāre talking about your day, thumb brushing your pulse point like heās checking youāre 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.
ā¤ļødating Matt means never feeling unseen. his blindness never stops him from noticing everything: the way your voice softens when youāre tired, the tiny hitch in your breath when youāre trying not to cry, the exact rhythm of your footsteps when youāre 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.
ā¤ļøwhen you meet Foggy, it's like stepping into the warmest, loudest corner of Mattās carefully guarded world. Foggy sizes you up over cheap thai takeout in the office, all easy grins and rapid-fire questions, but thereās a protective glint in his eye; youāre on probation until you prove you wonāt break his best friendās heart. He calls you āthe miracle who finally got Matt to smile like a normal human,ā teases Matt mercilessly about how whipped he is, and within ten minutes youāre 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: āHeās going to try to push you away. Donāt let him.ā The three of them together feel like family you didnāt know you were missing; these are the people who kept Matt alive before you ever showed up, and loving him means loving them too.
ā¤ļøMatt is a gentleman to his core: opening doors, pulling out chairs, asking ācan i kiss you?ā 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.
ā¤ļøfinding out heās daredevil hits like a freight train at 2 am - the suit in the closet, the blood on his knuckles that isnāt his, the way his voice cracks when he finally stops lying. Youāre furious first, shaking with it, because how many nights did he leave you wondering if he was dead in an alley? That's where youāre trust fractures: you yell, and for a second, he snaps back. Defensive, sharp, like a cornered animal: āI was protecting you.ā 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: āYou deserve someone who can give you a normal life, a safe and stable life, not this.ā 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 donāt 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 youāre the only prayer heās ever believed in.
ā¤ļøaccepting the mask doesnāt 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 āwhere were you?ā and start asking āhow bad is it?ā Some nights he crawls through the window and youāre 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 āthank you for stayingā 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.
ā¤ļøthere are nights when the guilt hits him like a tidal wave, when the weight of every punch thrown, every life heās failed to save, crashes down so hard he can barely breathe. Heāll 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 youāre the only anchor keeping him from drowning in penance. You donāt offer an easy solution; you card your fingers through his hair and remind him heās 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.
ā¤ļøMatt struggles with rest; even when heās home, even when the suit is off and the city is relatively quiet, his body refuses to fully surrender. Youāll 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 youāre 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 doesnāt clock out, even when the man desperately needs to.
ā¤ļøhe falls asleep easiest when youāre 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. Youāll 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.
ā¤ļøbut he doesnāt 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 thatās 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 isnāt a transaction. That he is allowed to take without giving something back in the same breath.
ā¤ļøwhen he finally says the words āi love youā, itās 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 heās handing you something both dangerous and infinitely precious at the same time. āBecause God help meā¦ i do. I love you,ā he whispers, the words rough with emotion. āAnd iām never going to stop.ā Thatās the thing about Matt. Heāll love you like a man who knows exactly how much time he has left, and every touch, every kiss, every moment feels like heās trying to fit a lifetime of love into whatever time the city hasnāt stolen from him yet. And he plans to spend every single second of it making sure you never doubt it.
ā¤ļøthe first time you see him truly break you realize how much heās been holding back. He doesnāt cry easily, but when he does itās devastating: silent, shoulders shaking, the kind of grief thatās been building since he was a little boy. He tries to pull away, to hide it, because heās 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.
ā¤ļøMattās 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. Heāll pause mid-stroke, head tilted, and murmur, āyouāre smiling. What did i miss?ā, like your happiness is the only headline that matters.
ā¤ļøand god, the way he kisses you when heās afraid? It undoes you every single time. Itās not just a kiss - itās a confession. Like heās 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 doesnāt make it home. Thereās 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 heās never going to regret.
ā¤ļøsome mornings Matt wakes up before you and just listens to you breathing. Not because heās worried, but because the sound of you alive and safe and right next to him is the closest thing he has to peace. Heāll 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.
ā¤ļøhe shows love through small gestures because grand ones feel too much like tempting fate. Youāll 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 didnāt 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 youāre not looking. It's almost shy - like heās afraid that if he says āi did this for youā 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.
ā¤ļøhe 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. Itās equal parts comforting and unnerving, how deeply he perceives you. Sometimes you swear heās listening to your soul.
ā¤ļøMatt 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 hellās 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.
ā¤ļøbut 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 doesnāt want to pass on that legacy of blood and early graves; heād rather deny himself the dream entirely than risk making a child feel the way he did the night his father never came home.
ā¤ļøhe 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 heās 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 heās 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. āYou shouldnāt have to do this,ā heāll whisper, forehead pressed against yours, voice cracking with guilt and exhaustion. His hands, still bruised and trembling, come up to cradle your face like youāre the only holy thing left in his life. You always reply the same: āNeither should you.ā
ā¤ļøMattās 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. Heāll track your heartbeat across the room, always positions himself between you and the door, always listening for threats no one else can hear. Youāll tease him about it, call him dramatic, and heāll give you that crooked half-smile and say, ācan you blame me? Iāve already lost too much to this city.ā
ā¤ļøloving 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 doesnāt 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 heāll carry that cost in fresh bruises and sleepless nights. You donāt get to fix the devil, and you donāt 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 youāre the only thing in this godforsaken world that makes the fight feel worth it.
ā¤ļøit's choosing the storm every single day; itās 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.
ā¤ļøhe wonāt promise you an easy life. He canāt. 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 youāll have every fractured, devoted, complicated piece of Matt Murdock. And for as long as he can keep you safe, that will be enough.
š¤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 elseās blood, gruff and guarded, and somehow you become the only thing in this rotten city that makes him hesitate before pulling the trigger.
š¤he will push you away at first. Hard. Tells you straight to your face that heās 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. Heāll 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 canāt stop orbiting the only light left in his war-torn world, no matter how much he hates himself for putting this burden on you.
š¤Frank is protective to the point of obsession. He checks your locks, your routes home, the people you talk to. Not because he doesnāt trust you, but because the world has already taken everything good from him once, and heāll burn it all down before he lets it happen again.
š¤heās not a man of flowery words. When Frank says āi got you,ā he means it with every bullet left in his chamber. Heāll 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. āBreathe out when you squeeze,ā he murmurs against your ear, chest warm against your back. āDonāt flinch from the recoil. You face it head-on.ā
š¤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 heās using that week, where he lets you patch him up without his usual gruff protests. Youāll be wiping blood from a split lip or stitching a gash across his ribs and heāll just watch you with those tired, haunted eyes, like he still canāt 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 doesnāt say āthank youā - but he doesnāt need to. The way his shoulders finally relax under your hands says everything words never could.
š¤Frank likes when you wear his clothes. But he wonāt 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 heāll 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 - itās just Frank clinging to the one person who makes the endless war feel survivable.
š¤he looks at you sometimes with this haunted kind of awe, like heās 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. Heāll trace your lips with his thumb after kissing you and murmur, āyou smile like the world hasnāt tried to kill you yet. I donāt know how to keep it that way.ā
š¤one minute heās all walls and warnings, the next heās got you pinned against the wall after a close call, kissing you like the world is about to burn down before sunrise. Itās not soft; itās 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: āNeeded that.ā
š¤heās got a dark, dry humor that slips out when you least expect it, usually after heās just come back from doing something violent, blood still under his nails. Heāll deadpan something like āwell, at least the bastard wonāt be bothering you anymoreā while youāre 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: heās human, too.
š¤Frank Castle doesnāt do āhappily ever after.ā He does āiāll kill anyone who tries to take you from me.ā He does āstay with me until the morning.ā He does āyouāre the only damn thing in this world that still feels worth fighting for.ā
š¤thereās something almost jarring about the contrast between how the world sees Frank and how he treats you. To everyone else, heās 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? heās a gentleman. Not polished or practiced - itās not about charm - itās justā¦ built into him. He walks on the outside of the sidewalk without thinking, opens doors like itās second nature, keeps a steady hand at your lower back guiding you through crowds. He notices when youāre cold before you say anything and wordlessly shrugs off his jacket, draping it over your shoulders with a quiet ācāmere.ā Itās not softness, not really - itās restraint. Respect. The kind that comes from a man whoās seen exactly what the world can do to people and decided that he will never be that kind of danger to you.
š¤and when itās 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 youāre made of the most fragile glass. His thumbs brush over your cheekbones with a reverence he probably didn't even realize heās capable of, and he kisses you like heās afraid youāll 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 youāve 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 doesnāt sleep right away; he lies awake in the dark, listening to every creak in the building, every distant siren, every sound that doesnāt belong - ready to become the Punisher at a momentās 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.
š¤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 heās already set on fire. Some nights heāll hold you too tightly, face buried in your neck, and youāll 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. āYou should run,ā heāll whisper once, so quietly you almost miss it. But when you donāt and instead stay and hold him tighter, something in him both breaks and heals at the same time.
š¤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; heāll complain under his breath about āmothering,ā 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.
š¤his past is a minefield you learn to navigate carefully. He doesnāt bring up Maria and the kids often, but when he does itās like watching a man bleed from an old wound that never closed, and frankly, never will. Youāll 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 canāt. But sometimes the guilt in his eyes says heās terrified heās dooming you to the same fate.
š¤and that's why dating the Punisher means learning to live with the ghosts that never leave him. Heāll wake up gasping at 3 am, reaching across the bed for a wife and children who arenāt there anymore, sweat-slicked and shaking with memories that still cut like fresh shrapnel. You learn the rhythm of it: donāt 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.
š¤there are nights where his grief is so heavy it fills the entire room. He wonāt cry. He wonāt 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 couldnāt save - especially the three that mattered most - crushing him flat. You canāt 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.
š¤sometimes, he holds you like heās already grieving the day heāll have to let go. His hands are always a little too tight, his kisses a little too desperate, his silence a little too heavy. Heās not just afraid of losing you, heās waiting for it. Every good night feels like it could be the last, so he loves you like a man running out of time.
š¤arguments with him are rare but brutal when they do happen. Frank doesnāt 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 isnāt 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 youāre 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.
š¤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. Heāll trace the spot where his wedding ring used to sit and get this faraway look, like heās 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 thatās left, and that the old Frank doesnāt deserve to come back, not even for you.
š¤Frank will never promise you a normal life, because he canāt. 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 āstay safe.ā But he always comes back. Always. Even when heās bleeding and half-dead, he crawls through your window because the only place the war in his head gets quiet is next to you.
š¤heās territorial, boy is he territorial. If someone looks at you wrong, if someone raises their voice, the temperature in the room drops. Frank doesnāt usually make scenes - heās smarter than that - but the look in his eyes says everything words never could. āYouāre mine to protect,ā heāll murmur, voice low and rough. Itās not a sweet declaration, itās a vow carved into bone. And god help the fool who ever tries to test it - Frank doesnāt do warnings twice.
š¤sometimes, being with him can feel very lonely, even when heās 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 itās the only skin that still fits. Youāll go days where the only affection you get is a hand on your lower back or a quiet āyou eat today?ā It hurts. But then heāll do something small - like replace the dead batteries in your smoke detector at 4 am - and you remember heās loving you the only way he knows how.
š¤the most terrifying thing about loving Frank isnāt the violence or the danger, itās how calmly he talks about his own death. Like itās inevitable, like itās almost a comfort. āWhen iām gone,ā heāll say casually while cleaning a gun, āyou take the money in the safe and you run. Donāt look back.ā He means it. And the worst part is the quiet acceptance in his eyes; heās 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.
š¤when the guilt eats him alive - and it does, in waves that can knock the breath out of even the Punisher - he wonāt ask for comfort. But heāll let you give it if you push gently enough. Heāll 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 heās chewing on all the sins he canāt confess. In those moments heās not the skull-wearing vigilante the streets fear. Heās just Frank Castle, a father and husband who lost everything, trying desperately not to lose the last good thing fate decided to give him. āI donāt deserve this,ā he'll rasp against your skin, voice wrecked. āDonāt deserve you.ā You just thread your fingers through his hair and hold him tighter, because you know words wonāt fix whatās broken inside him. All you can do is remind him, again and again, that thereās still a man beneath the skull, and that man is allowed to come home to someone who loves him even when heās covered in someone elseās blood.
š¤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 goodā¦and he stays. Every time, he stays.
š¤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 donāt, not with him. Never with him. Because when youāre with Frank, thereās 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 thatās anything but.
š¤he worries constantly that one day youāll wake up and realize heās 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.
š¤Frank makes decisions for you without asking -and sometimes without you liking it at all. Like flat-out telling you that youāre not going somewhere alone ābecause itās not safe.ā When you push back, he doesnāt yell, he just looks at you with those dead, exhausted eyes and says in that low, gravelly voice: āiām not asking, sweetheart.ā 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: itās not about power, itās terror. Pure, bone-deep terror of losing the last good thing he has left in this rotten world; heās already buried a wife and two kids. The thought of burying you too - because he didnāt see the threat coming, because he wasnāt careful enough - is enough to make him shake. So he protects whatās 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 heās too much. Heād rather have you mad and breathing than gentle and gone.
š¤thereās 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 doesnāt yell, he plans. And in those moments you understand why people fear the Punisher - because Frank doesnāt 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 youāve seen flashes of it, and it reminds you that loving him means loving someone who is intimately familiar with hell.
š¤loving Frank means accepting that the skull on his chest isnāt just body armor or a symbol - itās a warning carved into every choice heās 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 doesnāt deserve to be loved in return. But when those haunted eyes find yours across the room and he says your name like itās the only prayer he has leftā¦ every scar, every nightmare, every drop of blood suddenly feels worth it.
š¤he wonāt ever be soft in public. But behind closed doors? Heās yours. Completely. The man who once thought his heart died on the day his family didā¦ somehow found space for you in the wreckage. Heāll protect you with every weapon he has, every skill the marines drilled into him, and every broken piece of himself he's got left.
š¤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 youāre 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.
š¤itās not easy. Itās never going to be easy. The fear, the waiting, the bloodstains you find on his clothes in the laundry - these things donāt 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 streetsā¦ 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, heās going to keep choosing you - every single time, in every single war - because heās going to make sure you never regret choosing the storm.
ā¤ļøāš©¹dating 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 doesnāt ease into relationships, he calculates them. From the first moment he decides youāre worth noticing, you become the fixed point his entire world orbits around, whether you asked for it or not.
ā¤ļøāš©¹Dex 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, youāll become just another person who proved heās unlovable at his core.
ā¤ļøāš©¹he doesnāt mean to stare at you the way he does. Itās not really calculation - itās more quieter, almostā¦ soft. Like heās trying to understand how you exist the way you do, so warm and unpredictable and alive in ways heās never managed to be. His fingers will brush your wrist absentmindedly, tracking your pulse, and thereās a moment where his expression shifts; it becomes less sharp, less controlled. āYouāre steady,ā 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 heās about to come apart at the seams. It makes him feel before he can analyze, and itās terrifyingly new.
ā¤ļøāš©¹Dex 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 youāre 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 youāre with, whether your routine has shifted even slightly. He calls it ākeeping you safe.ā You learn itās how he keeps himself stable.
ā¤ļøāš©¹and 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. Donāt change your routine without telling him. Donāt get too close to certain people. Donāt make him wonder where you are or who youāre 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 thatās 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: youāre no longer the person he loves. Youāve become a problem that needs solving, a variable that has slipped out of alignment. And Dex is very, very good at correcting variables. He doesnāt yell, he doesnāt 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.
ā¤ļøāš©¹he hates when you cry. Not because it annoys him, but because he doesnāt 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 heās 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 heās calculated calms you fastest. He doesnāt say āitās okay.ā He just holds you until the tears stop, whispering your name because itās the only thing keeping him from unraveling too.
ā¤ļøāš©¹he has a habit of watching you sleep. Not in a sweet, romantic way - at least not entirely. Heāll lie perfectly still beside you in the dark, eyes open, studying the rise and fall of your chest as if itās 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.
ā¤ļøāš©¹he 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: āIs this okay? Am i doing this right?ā 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 heās never allowed himself to feel before. In those moments, the lethal human weapon disappears, and all thatās left is Ben, desperately soaking up every drop of approval like itās the only validation thatās ever truly mattered.
ā¤ļøāš©¹thereās a softness in him that only exists when he thinks youāre not paying attention. When youāre half-asleep, when your guard is down, when thereās nothing for him to measure or correct. Heāll adjust the blanket around, brush his knuckles lightly against your cheek like heās touching something fragile, something he doesnāt fully trust himself not to break. And for a second, his expression is almostā¦ tender. As if he doesnāt understand why youāre here, but heās afraid to question it in case you might disappear tomorrow.
ā¤ļøāš©¹he likes being physically close to you more than he lets on; small, constant points of contact that keep him anchored. Sometimes heāll 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 youāre palm, it proves heās still human.
ā¤ļøāš©¹he doesnāt feel jealousy the way other people do. Itās not loud or possessive or emotional - itāsā¦ corrective. If someone gets too close to you, he doesnāt pick a fight, he removes the variable. And when you ask him about it, he just looks at you, confused more than defensive. āThey were a risk,ā he explains, like that should be enough. Like your safety is the only metric that matters. So when something ājust happensā to someone who made you uncomfortable - a man who wouldnāt 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 heās checking if the outcome matched what you needed. āThey wonāt bother you again,ā he says simply. And something in your stomach twists, because you donāt know if that was reassuranceā¦ or a statement of fact.
ā¤ļøāš©¹you're the only one who calls him Ben. Everyone else uses Poindexter, or Dex, or Bullseye when the mask is fully on. Itās clinical, distant, a label that keeps the monster neatly contained and the man at armās length. But you? You say āBenā like itās 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 youāre 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 doesnāt say anything at first - he just looks at you with those piercing eyes, searching, calculating, trying to decide if this is safe or if itās another variable that could destroy everything.
ā¤ļøāš©¹he 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 heās been holding his breath since childhood.
ā¤ļøāš©¹it becomes your weapon against the darkness. After a bad night when his eyes go flat, youāll crawl into his lap, frame his face with both hands, and whisper āBenā¦ look at me.ā And he does. Every single time. His gaze locks onto yours with that terrifying focus, but thereās something softer underneath now - something almost grateful. Heāll press his forehead to yours, hands settling carefully on your waist afraid of gripping too tight and shattering the moment. āSay it again,ā heāll murmur, voice rough at the edges in a way he rarely allows. So you do. You say āBenā 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. Heās not Poindexter the agent, not Bullseye the weapon. Heās just your Ben. And the calm that washes over him is the closest thing to peace heās ever known.
ā¤ļøāš©¹heās scarily good at reading you. One slight shift in your posture and he knows your mood before you do. āYour pulse jumped,ā heāll say softly, fingers brushing your wrist. Itās unnervingā¦ until you realize he uses that same precision to anticipate what you need: bringing your favorite takeout before you mention youāre hungry, adjusting the lights because he noticed the flicker bothers your eyes. He sees you with a clarity most people never manage.
ā¤ļøāš©¹Dex finds comfort in your heartbeat more than anything else. Not just when youāre close, but in moments where everything feels like itās slipping: when the noise in his head gets too loud, when the urge to lose control creeps in. Heāll 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.
ā¤ļøāš©¹his 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, heāll quietly reach out and correct it, fingers working out of instinct. Then he offers you that small, tight smile that doesnāt quite reach his eyes: āEverything has its place,ā he says softly, almost like a confession. Heās still trying to figure out exactly where you fit in his orbit; and whether loving you will finally break the perfect lines heās built his entire life around.
ā¤ļøāš©¹he 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, heāll repeat it. If you pull away when his grip tightens too much, he adjusts. Itās not manipulation in the way most people mean it - itās optimization. You are the one variable heās desperate to get right.
ā¤ļøāš©¹but 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. āYouāve been different,ā heāll say quietly, not accusing, just stating it like an observation that needs correcting. Like a deviation in pattern.
ā¤ļøāš©¹there 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, heāll 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 itās 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, heās finally too tired to pretend heās unbreakable.
ā¤ļøāš©¹Dex keeps every single thing youāve 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 ābe safe, love youā in your rushed handwriting. To him, theyāre not just objects; theyāre 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 heās 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.
ā¤ļøāš©¹he doesnāt 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 couldnāt 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 didnāt get to prepare for.
ā¤ļøāš©¹his loyalty is absolute once youāre locked in as his north star, but it comes with rules he expects the universe to obey. Heāll 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 doesnāt include him tests every limit of his control. He doesnāt rage outwardly; he simply becomes quieter, more watchful, until you gently remind him that love isnāt 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.
ā¤ļøāš©¹heāll 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 thereās you. If you pull away, even a little, he feels the old rage bubbling up inside him. He hates that part of himself.
ā¤ļøāš©¹the closest Dex ever comes to begging is when he senses you pulling away. If you ever try to leave - really leave - youāll see something far more terrifying than anger. Confusion. Like the world has stopped making sense. He doesnāt raise his voice, he just corners you gently, eyes flat but voice cracking at the very edge: āYou said you werenāt going anywhere. Tell me again. Say it.ā When you hesitate, he adds, softer, almost lost, āi need the words. Everything else is falling out of alignment without them.ā His voice stays calm, but thereās something unraveling underneath it, something that doesnāt know how to exist without you as its center point. And for the first time, you realize: youāre not just someone he loves. Youāre the thing holding the entire system together.
ā¤ļøāš©¹dating 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 wonāt quiet. You become hyper-aware of your own behavior, walking the line between keeping him stable and losing pieces of yourself in the process.
ā¤ļøāš©¹his guilt is complicated. Dex doesnāt 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. Heāll 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.
ā¤ļøāš©¹there are nights when the mask cracks. When the rituals arenāt enough and the old urges crawl back in. Heāll 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 wonāt let you touch him right away because heās 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 youāre the only thing anchoring him to the man he wants to be instead of the one he fears he is.
ā¤ļøāš©¹he doesnāt know how to say āi love youā the way people are supposed to - it doesnāt 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, heāll say it like a conclusion he finally reached after running every possible outcome: āIām better with you.ā A pause. āI think that means i love you.ā Itās the most honest he's ever been.
ā¤ļøāš©¹loving Dex means accepting that youāve become his new routine, his new structure, his new reason to hold the darkness at armās 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 donāt get to move freely.
ā¤ļøāš©¹and yetā¦ 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 itās 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 heās afraid you might vanish. And in the soft glow of the city lights filtering through the window, you realize how desperately heās trying. How much he aches to be good for you. How terrifyingly fragile this version of Ben truly is.
ā¤ļøāš©¹dating Ben Poindexter is choosing the knifeās edge every single day. Itās 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.
ā¤ļøāš„dating Billy Russo feels like falling in love with a loaded gun wrapped in silk. Heās all sharp smiles and smoother words, the kind of beautiful that makes you forget how easily beauty can cut.
ā¤ļøāš„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 doesnāt feel fake. Because with youā¦ it isnāt. Youāre one of the rare things he doesnāt want to manipulate - even if manipulation is the language he speaks best.
ā¤ļøāš„he needs to feel like heās your best choice. Not just a choice - the best one, the one no one else could ever come close to. Itās 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: āYou happy with me, baby?ā 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.
ā¤ļøāš„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 youāre alone; you learn to crave the second one. Itās 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 youāre doing something no one else ever could: you make him truly happy.
ā¤ļøāš„he calls you ābaby,ā āsweetheart,ā ābeautifulā - but the way he says your name in that low, velvet voice when itās just the two of you? Thatās the one that ruins you. Slow and deliberate, like heās tasting every letter. Heāll say it right before he kisses you senseless, right after heās made you fall apart, or in the middle of the night when he thinks youāre asleep.
ā¤ļøāš„arguments with Billy are dangerous because heās 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 youāre standing on unstable ground, like the rules changed when you werenāt 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. Heāll 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 heās more than what his past offers, genuinely terrifies Billy Russo more than any enemy ever could.
ā¤ļøāš„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. Heāll 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.
ā¤ļøāš„heās a mirror before heās a man. Billy reflects what you respond to; if you like soft, he softens. If you like confidence, he sharpens into it. Itās not even fully conscious at this point, itās instinct. Survival. He learned early that being loved meant being whatever someone needed, so he started to adapt to seek love. The dangerous part isā¦ after a while, you stop being able to tell where the performance ends and where Billy actually begins. And maybe he canāt either.
ā¤ļøāš„the first time you see him truly break, itās not during an argument or after a deal gone wrong. Itās 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 youāve struck him. āI donāt know how to do this,ā he admits, voice raw in a way youāve never heard before. āI donāt 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.ā For once thereās 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 youāre not leaving. Even then, you feel how hard heās fighting not to pull you closer and never let go.
ā¤ļøāš„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. Itās not control - at least not entirely. Itās 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 didnāt get to spoil anyone worth a damn before you.ā
ā¤ļøāš„slow mornings are sacred to him, even if heāll 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, ādonāt move yet.ā The city can wait. The empire can wait. For once, he just wants to exist in the warmth of you.
ā¤ļøāš„some mornings he wakes up before you and just lies there, propped up on one elbow, studying your sleeping face like itās 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 heās trying to memorize every tiny detail before the world tries to steal you away. If you stir and catch him, heāll flash that signature crooked smile and murmur something teasing like ācaught me staring again, huh?ā But youāve already seen the truth flickering in his eyes: itās love, raw and desperate, tangled with deep-seated terror. Because to him, anything this good, this pure, has always been temporary. And heās 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.
ā¤ļøāš„heās 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 doesnāt know what to do with kindness that doesnāt 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 whoās spent years making sure he never needs anyone. It undoes him every single time.
ā¤ļøāš„Billy doesnāt talk about his past the way someone healing would. He talks about it like itās 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. Thatās when you realize the past isnāt behind him; itās under the mask he puts on every single day.
ā¤ļøāš„some nights, the weight of everything heās 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 doesnāt speak at first; he just pulls you into his lap on the couch, arms locked around you like youāre 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 youāre still here. That you see him. That youāre 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.
ā¤ļøāš„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 doesnāt 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 doesnāt lash out without reason - heās 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 outā¦ god help you, you better wish itās not directed at you. Because when Billy unleashes that carefully contained rage, itās devastating. Not loud or messy, but cutting, personal, and absolute. In those moments youāre 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.
ā¤ļøāš„he gets jealous very easily - not loudly, and never in public. He has an image to maintain after all. But later, when youāre alone, heāll back you against the wall, eyes dark. āYou smiled at him too long, sweetheart. Made me think maybe you forgot who you belong to.ā The words are soft, almost sweet, but the grip on your hips is anything but. He needs to hear you say youāre his, needs it like air to survive.
ā¤ļøāš„Billy never says āi need you.ā That would be too vulnerable. Instead he says things like āstay with me tonightā or ācancel your plans. I want you here.ā But you learn to hear the real meaning underneath: he needs you the way a man whoās been drowning needs air - desperately, selfishly, and with the constant terror that one day youāll realize you donāt need him back the same way.
ā¤ļøāš„āyouāre the only thing in my life that isnāt fucked up,ā he tells you once, voice low and raw at 3 am, city lights painting silver across his face. āDonāt let me ruin that. Donāt let me ruin us.ā
ā¤ļøāš„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 heās afraid the reflection might betray him too. Heāll lie for you, kill for you, die for you - but god help you both if you ever betray him. Because Billyās love is forever. And so is his hatred.
ā¤ļøāš„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 doesnāt know the difference anymore.
ā¤ļøāš„the scariest part of loving him isnāt 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. Heās built this entire relationship with the deliberate precision of someone whoās terrified of being left - making you need him as badly as he needs you, weaving himself into every part of your world until itās hard to remember what it felt like before him. And the worst part isā¦ it works. It works so well. Because when he whispers your name like itās the only thing keeping him human in a world that tried to tear him apart, you realize youāre already too far gone. Youāre not just dating Billy Russo. Youāre 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.
ā¤ļøāš„loving Billy means understanding that his fear doesnāt sound like fear. It sounds like certainty. It looks like confidence. It feels like control. He wonāt tell you heās scared youāll leave - heāll just make himself impossible to walk away from. Heāll 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 heās 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 feelsā¦ that part doesnāt want to question it.
ā¤ļøāš„and thatās 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 itās a love shaped by everything heās been through, everything heās 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, itās finally something that wonāt be taken away from him.
šdating Foggy Nelson is like stumbling into the only lit window on a dark hellās kitchen street - warm, golden, and full of laughter while the rest of the city bleeds and burns. Heās the heartbeat you didnāt know you needed in a world that keeps trying to break yours.
šFoggy 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 youāre overwhelmed, the exact tone your voice takes when somethingās wrong but youāre pretending itās 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.
šhe's the boyfriend who makes you laugh even when the world feels like itās ending. Heāll crack a dumb joke while youāre stress-crying, then pull you into his arms and murmur, āhey, at least we have each other and extremely overpriced takeout. Priorities, babe.ā
šthere are moments where loving Foggy feels almostā¦ too easy, and thatās what scares you. Because youāve seen what love looks like in this city when itās tangled up with violence and sacrifice and secrets that bleed into everything. Youāve 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 thereās Foggy, standing right in front of you, offering something steady, something soft, something that doesnāt ask you to suffer for it - and part of you doesnāt know what to do with that. One night, when the city feels particularly heavy, you ask him, āwhat if something happens? What if this gets taken away?ā And Foggy just looks at you for a second, really looks at you, before reaching for your hand and squeezing it gently. āThen weāll deal with it,ā he says simply. No grand speech, no promises he canāt keep, just quiet certainty. āBut right now? Youāre here. Iām here. Thatās enough.ā
šhe makes space for you without making it feel like a sacrifice. You donāt feel like youāre being fit into his life - you feel like youāre being welcomed into it. Thereās room for your emotions, your chaos, your bad moods, your dreams. He doesnāt need you to be perfect or easy to love. He just needs you to be you.
šhe has a habit of hyping you up in the most ridiculous, over-the-top ways. If youāre nervous about something, heāll give you a full pep talk like heās your lawyer and youāre about to win the case of the century. āYouāre not just smart, youāre brilliant. Youāre not just cute, youāre devastating. Go out there and remind the world why iām the luckiest man alive.ā He does it with such genuine enthusiasm that you canāt help but laugh and believe him.
šarguments with Foggy donāt feel like war - they feel like something youāre 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. āOkay, wait, that came out bad. Thatās not what i meant.ā He corrects, he adjusts, he tries again. Loving him means never having to wonder if heās on your side - even when youāre fighting, he is.
šheās 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 isnāt 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 heās 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 youāve ever known.
šheās 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. Heās a human golden retriever who somehow also looks really good in a suit.
šhe gives the best hugs in the world. Theyāre 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 heās 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 youāre 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.
šFoggy 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 āthree months since you bravely tried my terrible meatloaf and still chose to stay with me.ā He turns every single one into something warm and joyful, never over-the-top, but deeply thoughtful. Sometimes itās breakfast in bed with slightly burnt toast and a handmade card covered in terrible doodles. Sometimes itās 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 heās keeping track of all of it.
šhis love is the kind that grows deeper the longer you stay. It doesnāt 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 youāre the most fascinating person heās 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 theyāre the funniest things heās 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.
šhe celebrates your wins like theyāre his own. Big or small, it doesnāt matter; heās your loudest supporter every single time. You accomplish something? Heās already telling people about it. Youāre proud of something? Heās ten times prouder. Being loved by a man with a heart as big as his means having someone who genuinely believes youāre incredible - and makes sure you never forget it.
šFoggy fights for people. That's who he is. And when youāre his, that includes you in a way thatās 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. Heāll stand in a room full of people twice as powerful and argue your side like itās the most important case heās ever taken on. Because to him? You bet your ass it is.
šhe's funny on purpose, but heās even funnier when heās not trying. Heāll roast Matt (and himself) mercilessly, but the second youāre the slightest bit self-conscious, he turns into the sweetest hype man alive. āAre you kidding me? Youāre the most incredible person in this entire city. Mattās out there doing flips in spandex and youāre still my favorite superhero.ā He means every word.
šhe 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 doesnāt make you feel small or afraid or like youāre constantly waiting for something to go wrong. But that doesnāt mean he doesnāt 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 doesnāt come out as control - it comes out as quiet check-ins, soft ātext me when you get home, okay?ā and lingering hugs that last a second longer than usual. With him, you realize that strength doesnāt always look like fighting. Sometimes it looks like choosing gentleness in a world that rewards hardness.
šFoggy loves feeding you. Itās his love language. He shows up at your place with bags of your favorite thai food when youāve 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. āYou canāt save the world on an empty stomach,ā heāll say, even though heās the one who usually forgets to eat when heās buried in case files.
šhe's the king of comfort. Bad day? Heās already in sweats making grilled cheese. Anxious? Heāll let you ramble for hours while he plays with your hair. Sick? He turns into nurse mood complete with terrible jokes and unlimited cuddles.
šheās also the undisputed king of āweāll figure it out.ā If life throws curveballs, Foggyās 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 youāre 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 heās facing them with you. With Foggy by your side, you never have to carry anything alone. He makes sure of it, every single time.
šhe struggles sometimes with feeling like heās ājust Foggy.ā Especially when heās 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 doesnāt feel like enough to him. Youāll catch it in the quieter moments, the way he hesitates before speaking, the way he downplays his own accomplishments. āI mean, itās not exactly saving the city or anything,ā heāll shrug, and you can hear the doubt underneath. But then you look at him like heās the one holding everything together. Because to you, he is. Heās 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, ājust Foggyā has always been more than enough. Heās everything.
šhe doesnāt love halfway. Once heās in, heās in. Youāre not a temporary part of his life, youāre his person. Thereās no question of āwhat are we?ā because with him, the answer is always clear: youāre his, and heās yours, and thatās something he takes seriously.
šdating Foggy Nelson means being loved in a way that doesnāt make you brace for impact. Thereās 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 thatās 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, youāre so used to love feeling like something you have to earn, or fight for, or survive. But Foggy? He justā¦ gives it. Freely. Consistently. Like loving you is the easiest decision heās ever made.
šhe doesnāt 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 youāll be safe. It doesnāt 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.
šand thatās 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. Itās the kind of love that stays standing when everything else falls apart. And in a city like that? That kind of love is everything.
šdating 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.
šit means loving a man who is constantly trying to earn the life he already has. He doesnāt take you for granted, not for a second. Thereās 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 heās running on nothing but stress and guilt. Youāll catch him watching you sometimes, almost pensive, like heās memorizing something heās afraid he wonāt get to keep. And when you ask what heās thinking, he just shakes his head with a small smile. āNothing. Justā¦ got lucky, i guess.ā But it doesnāt feel like luck to him. It feels like something he has to fight to deserve.
šhe 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 doesnāt have to perform for, the only place where Agent Nadeem can disappear and Ray can just exist.
šyou 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 āsorry, got held upā and the faint smell of precinct coffee still clinging to his clothes. Youāll 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 doesnāt 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 āiāll make it up to youā 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.
šbut he always calls you late at night when he canāt come home, voice low and tired but still warm. āJust wanted to hear your voice before i head out again,ā heāll 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.
šhe doesnāt say āi love youā casually or often. When he does say it, itās weighted, almost solemn, like a vow. Usually it comes after a close call at work, or when heās watching you do something completely ordinary like laughing at your phone, making coffee, or just existing in his space. āGod, i love you,ā heāll murmur, voice rough, as if the feeling caught him off guard and he couldnāt keep it inside anymore.
šRay 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; thereās always something heās trying to fix, something heās trying to protect, someone he feels heās letting down.
šbeing with him means discovering how good it feels to be with a man who is genuinely competent in every sense of the word. Heās the type who walks into a crisis and immediately sees the clearest path through it: whether itās a blown fuse in your apartment at midnight, a difficult conversation youāve been avoiding, or some shady stranger who wonāt 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. Thereās something incredibly sexy about that; the way he assesses a situation, makes a decision, and executes it so smoothly that youāre left feeling safer and more taken care of than you ever realized you needed. He doesnāt do it to prove anything. He does it because thatās simply who he is - a man who shows up fully and knows how to protect what matters to him.
šhis love language is presence. Not grand gestures, not dramatic declarations, just being there. Sitting with you after a long day, even if heās exhausted. Showing up when he said he would, even if itās late and he looks like heās been through hell. Answering your calls, checking in, making space for you in a life that already demands so much from him. Itās not flashy, but itās solid. Reliable. The kind of love that doesnāt disappear when things get hard.
šheās 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 heās insecure or unsure of you, but because he wants you to know, always, that you have a choice with him. Thereās that tiny pause where he looks deeply into your eyes, silently checking in, giving you the space to say yes or pull away. Itās 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. Itās never performative though, itās simply how he was raised.
šwhen heās relaxed and truly happy, he becomes incredibly affectionate. Heāll 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.
šhe doesnāt see love as something separate from commitment - itās built into it. If heās with you, heās with you. Thereās no ambiguity, no half-in-half-out, no wondering where you stand. Youāre part of his life, and that's why being loved by him feels incredibly secure. Like youāve found someone who understands that real commitment isnāt loud or flashy, itās just steady, unshakable presence.
šRayās sense of duty doesnāt stop at his job, it bleeds into how he loves you. He doesnāt just want to make you happy, he feels responsible for your happiness. If youāre upset, he takes it personally. If something goes wrong in your life, he immediately starts thinking of what he couldāve done differently to prevent it. He doesnāt always say it out loud, but you can see it in the way his posture shifts, the way his voice softens when he asks, āare you okay?ā like the answer might change something fundamental inside him. Loving Ray means gently reminding him that he doesnāt have to carry everything; that heās allowed to just be with you, not constantly fix things for you.
šhe avoids conflict longer than he should. Not because he doesnāt 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.
šthereās 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, heās softer, warmer, more open. He smiles more easily, laughs more freely, lets himself relax in ways he doesnāt anywhere else. But sometimes the job seeps in anyway; youāll 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 youāre out together. And on nights when things get particularly heavy, he comes home carrying it with him, even if he tries not to. Heāll sit beside you, quieter than usual, hands clasped together, holding in the weight of the day. And when you gently ask whatās wrong, thereās 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, itās never easy. But itās always honest.
šRay can be emotionally unavailable when the weight of a case settles on him. Not cold, exactly, but distant. Heāll sit right beside you on the couch but feel miles away, and when you push him to talk about whatās 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 youāre only allowed to see the polished, put-together version of him and not the exhausted, conflicted man underneath. Sometimes itās like loving someone through glass: he can see you, he can hear you, but thereās something in the way he canāt quite move past.
šthat's because he isnāt used to lean on people emotionally - heās 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 mistakesā¦ it changes something in him. The first time he truly opens up, it all just bursts out of him like a dam collapsing - itās messy, halting, full of pauses and second-guessing. āI donāt know how much longer i can keep doing this,ā he admits, voice low, eyes not quite meeting yours. And when you donāt pull away - when you stay, when you listen, when you donāt see him as less for it - you can almost see the shift. Like a man whoās been holding his breath for years finally exhaling.
šRayās the type of man who apologizes even when he doesnāt need to. Sometimes, heāll pull you close and say quietly, āi know iām not always easy to be with. Thank you for being patient with me.ā 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.
šhe carries himself with a quiet, grounded confidence that feels incredibly attractive. He doesnāt need to dominate a conversation or show off; he simply knows who he is, knows what heās 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. Thereās no constant need for validation, just assurance that says heās exactly where he wants to be - and heās not going anywhere.
šhe has the warmest, steadiest hands. When he holds yours, it feels like an anchor; heāll intertwine your fingers and run his thumb over your knuckles without even realizing heās doing it, like touching you grounds him as much as it comforts you.
šin private, Ray is intensely focused and deeply sensual in a way that might surprise people who only know the buttoned-up fbi agent. He doesnāt 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. Thereās 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.
šhe 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. āDonāt know what iād do without you,ā heāll murmur, voice rough with honesty he rarely lets himself show. Itās one of the few times you see the vulnerable heart behind the responsible exterior.
šhe'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 couldāve done better. And when those mistakes are bigger, when they actually matter, it hits him hard. He doesnāt deflect, doesnāt make excuses; he owns it, fully, even when it hurts. But the downside of that honesty is that he doesnāt always know how to forgive himself. In those moments you need to be there for him, reminding him that being a good man doesnāt mean being a perfect one.
šRayās incredibly protective of your peace. If the world has been too loud or cruel to you that day, he becomes a quiet sanctuary. Heāll draw you a bath, order your favorite food, or simply hold you on the couch in silence if thatās what you need; sometimes he just creates space for you to fall apart safely in his arms. āYou donāt have to be strong right now. Iāve got you.ā And he means it with his whole heart.
šhe 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 heās already practicing for forever. Every time he holds you, every gentle kiss pressed to your temple, every quiet āiām homeā whispered against your hair carries the silent hope that youāre 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.
šhe believes in doing the right thing, even when it costs him. And that belief doesnāt 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 heās made would eventually ruin your lifeā¦ he would step back. He would let you go. Not because he doesnāt love you, but because he loves you too much to be selfish with your safety. It would tear him apart, and youād 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 isnāt about holding on at all costs. Itās 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 youāre still safe than keep you and watch the world punish you for loving him.
šheās 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 youāre excited about something. Heāll catch you doing the most ordinary thing - stirring coffee, reading a book with your legs tucked under you, humming while folding laundry - and heāll just stop for a moment, watching you with that soft, wondering look in his eyes. Then, almost under his breath, heāll murmur, āgod, youāre beautiful,ā like he canāt 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 heās ever been allowed to love.
šRayās the kind of man who doesnāt just love you for who you are in your best moments, but for who you are when things are messy and uncertain. He doesnāt need you to have everything figured out. He doesnāt expect perfection. If anything, he understands better than most others that people are complicated, that life doesnāt go according to plan. And instead of pulling away from that, he leans in. He stays. He chooses you each and every day.
šloving him means understanding that he wonāt always get it right. Heāll make mistakes. Heāll take on too much. Heāll try to fix things that arenāt his to fix. But he will always try, always come back, always own up, always do whatever he can to make things right.
šit'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 heās stretched too thin, even when heās exhausted down to his bones, he holds onto you like youāre 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.
šthere 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 thereās a life waiting for him outside of the job, outside of everything he carries. And when you look up and catch his eyes, heāll smile a little, tired and soft. āHey,ā he says, like the whole world just got a little quieter.
šwith him, you learn that love isnāt about intensity that burns fast and bright - itās about endurance. Itās 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 doesnāt love halfway, and he doesnāt 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.
šdating Ray Nadeem isnāt about intensity or chaos or being consumed. Itās about choosing someone who chooses to be good, over and over again, even when it would be easier not to. Itās about loving a man who carries the weight of the city on his shouldersā¦ and still makes room for you in his arms.
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