monicfever

[monicfever]

sucker for pain. 𝜗𝜚 billy russo x ben poindexter.

dex gets into a fight protecting billy. he's bruised, bloodied, shaking with adrenaline, and billy can't stop staring. —- "you like getting hurt for me?" dex doesn't answer, but he doesn’t need to. billy leans in and presses a kiss to the cut on dex’ cheek.

Pain doesn’t always hurt.

Sometimes it slips in disguised as pressure, as heat, as the rawness beneath skin that feels almost like being alive too sharply. There is a perverse satisfaction in it, like biting down on the inside of your cheek just to feel the sting, like pressing a bruise to remind yourself it’s still there. It’s proof of impact, of contact, of survival.

There’s something almost holy in the way it blooms: the slow spread of ache that anchors you, the sharp notes that demand your attention, the throb that lingers like an echo long after the moment has passed. Pain can be a pulse, a rhythm, a low hymn sung through the body. It doesn’t always announce itself with violence. Sometimes it settles, almost intimate, like an old friend brushing cold fingers over your ribs, whispering see, you’re still here.

And isn’t there a strange kind of glory in that? To be reminded that you’re breakable, but not broken. That the body bleeds and shakes and stumbles, yet still holds itself upright. That the marks it carries, red, violet, raw, are not absence, but proof: you were there, you endured, you remain.

Pain doesn’t always hurt.

It lingers now in him like an afterimage, Dex’ body caught somewhere between the sharpness of the moment and the slow ebb of its retreat. His skin hums with it, stinging where knuckles split, aching where ribs met a heavy blow, warmth blooming sticky under his shirt where the blood hasn’t yet dried. He doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t even move, really. He just breathes shallowly against the couch of Billy Russo’s penthouse, chest rising and falling in uneven pulls, like each inhale has to fight its way through the tightness lodged in him.

He should be pacing. He should be restless, prowling like a caged animal the way he always does when adrenaline hasn’t burned out of him yet. But the fight was different this time. He had thrown himself into it without hesitation, every strike, every hit he took, an instinct, not for the paycheck, not even for his own skin, but because the man who’d hired him stood in the crosshairs. The thought of Billy Russo bleeding in his place had felt… unbearable. So now Dex sits with the ache, holding it like a secret in his chest, too wired to be still, too wrung out to move.

The penthouse is all clean lines and glass, a world away from the filth and alleyways Dex is used to bleeding in. Everything gleams, polished within an inch of itself, expensive liquor half-finished in crystal decanters, city lights spilling in through the vast windows and cutting the room into fractured reflections. He doesn’t belong here. Not in his scuffed boots, his bloodied shirt sticking to his skin. He’s a weapon Russo bought a month ago, nothing more. And yet, Billy hadn’t sent him home. Billy had brought him here.

There’s a perversity to it, sitting in the center of all that luxury with split knuckles and a swollen lip, like pain itself doesn’t quite know how to behave in a place this refined. His blood stains the soft cushion where his arm rests, the faintest smear against a surface worth more than anything he owns. It should feel humiliating, degrading, to ruin something so pristine. But instead there’s a strange satisfaction in the mark, proof that he’s bled for the man upstairs. Proof he’s earned his keep.

His mind keeps circling back to the fight. The way the blade had flashed, the arc of the swing, the way he’d stepped into it without thought. Not for glory. Not for thrill. Just for him. Pain is easier when it means something. And for once, Dex isn’t sure if it meant protection. . .or devotion.

And Billy —- Billy hasn’t stopped watching him. Even when he steps out of the room, even when he pretends to pour himself a drink or glance at the skyline, Dex feels it: the weight of those eyes carving him open. It’s almost worse than the bruises, being looked at like that. Like Billy sees not just the blood, not just the split skin, but the want beneath it, the hunger to be useful.

It’s stupid. Dangerous. He knows it. But sitting here in Billy Russo’s penthouse, skin thrumming with pain that doesn’t feel like punishment, Dex lets himself linger in it.

Lets himself believe that bleeding for Billy might be the closest thing to purpose he’s ever had.

Pain is still singing in him, threading through his body like it’s trying to map out where he begins and ends. Dex doesn’t mind. He sits in it, breath catching faintly in his chest, a little hunched but not broken. His fingers twitch against his knee, aching for something to hold, something to grip until the shaking inside him steadies. They burn, but there’s a pull to the pain, like running a tongue over the sharp edge of a tooth. A reminder he’s still here. A reminder he did what he was meant to do.

The couch swallows him in wealth. It smells of cologne, expensive polish, the faint bitterness of liquor in the air. Nothing about this room belongs to him. He’s a sharp object in the middle of something curated to be untouchable. And yet he bleeds all over it without being told to leave. That’s what catches at him. That’s what digs under his ribs, deeper than the bruises do. Billy hadn’t dismissed him, hadn’t said thanks for taking the hit, now get out. No. He’d brought him here. To this place that isn’t for people like Dex.

And Dex feels it, like an itch he can’t scratch, the distance Billy’s put between them, even when it’s only a few feet away. He hears the quiet clink of crystal in the kitchen, the measured pour of liquor into glass. Billy’s voice isn’t in the room, but the shape of him is everywhere: in the expensive taste, in the neatness of it all, in the way every detail seems designed to impress. A man like him doesn’t stumble. He doesn’t bleed. He doesn’t get his hands dirty if someone else will do it for him. And Dex had done it for him tonight.

His jaw tightens at the thought. Not regret. More like—he wants it acknowledged. Wants Billy to look at him, and see more than a hired hand.

He doesn’t know what word to put on it; needed, maybe. Wanted. Something like that. He wants the weight of Billy’s gaze on him again, even if it cuts him open. He wants to be the thing Billy chooses to keep close, not just for a job.

The sound of footsteps pulls him from his own head. Smooth, deliberate, measured - - Billy Russo never rushes anywhere. The man could walk into a burning building and still look like he was arriving fashionably late to a party. Dex feels the tension in his shoulders shift, bracing in a way he can’t help. He doesn’t want to be caught wanting. He doesn’t want to show his hand. But some pathetic part of him still straightens a little, still lifts his chin, like a soldier waiting for inspection.

Billy appears in the doorway with a glass of whiskey in hand, the amber catching the light like fire in cut crystal. His suit jacket is off, white sleeves rolled neatly at the forearms. He looks untouched by the chaos Dex is still carrying on his skin.

Dex swallows. His throat is dry, the words he might offer sticking there. I’m fine. Doesn’t matter. Just doing my job. He almost says it. But Billy’s gaze silences him before he can. Because it isn’t the gaze of a boss checking whether his employee is still useful. It’s heavier. Closer to something Dex can’t name.

Billy doesn’t sit back in the armchair across from him. He doesn’t keep his distance the way Dex half-expected. Instead, with a slow grace, he lowers himself down in front of the couch. Kneeling, the glass still balanced casually in one hand, as though he’s not giving up a single ounce of control even as he meets Dex eye-level.

It knocks the air out of him, in its own way. Billy Russo, crouched in front of a bloodied mess like him. He tells himself not to read into it, not to mistake care for anything more. But the moment stretches, intimate in a way he doesn’t know how to handle. Billy sets the drink down on the glass table, the click of it almost too loud in the quiet. His hands reach for the neat little first-aid kit he must have brought with him, and Dex can’t decide if the anticipation in his chest feels more like dread or relief.

Russo’s fingers move with that practiced elegance that makes everything look deliberate, even unscrewing the metal latch on the first-aid kit. He doesn’t fumble, doesn’t hesitate, and Dex finds himself staring like it’s a performance. Maybe it is. Billy never does anything without an audience, even if it’s only him.

The kit opens with a snap. Bandages, antiseptic, gauze. Clean white things, all lined up like soldiers in perfect rows. Things Dex doesn’t deserve to touch. He feels the sudden sting of shame, sitting on an expensive couch and bleeding into the seams. He should have cleaned up before Billy saw him like this. He should have walked it off, gone home, taped himself up alone like always. But Billy didn’t give him that chance.

“Lift your shirt.”

Smooth, direct, commanding, the kind of voice that doesn’t allow space for refusal. Billy doesn’t bark it like an order, but it works the same way. The kind of tone that says of course you’ll listen, why wouldn’t you? A hypnotic drawl, sharp with condescension, as though Dex is slow for not already knowing what to do.

Dex opens his mouth. He wants to object, to say he’s fine, to say it’s just bruises, that Billy shouldn’t bother. He wants to cling to the last shred of pride he has. But the words shrivel in his throat the second Billy’s gaze flicks up to meet his, as if waiting for a child to catch up. It makes his pulse stumble. His hands move before his brain agrees, tugging the hem of his shirt upward.

The fabric drags across battered skin, sticking to half-dried blood. He flinches, just a little, but Billy doesn’t miss it. His eyes sharpen the way a knife catches the light. He leans in, not rushed, not surprised, just assessing, like Dex is another acquisition he’s about to appraise.

“Jesus.” His voice is soft, that dangerous balance of amusement and disappointment. “You look like you got rolled down a flight of stairs.”

The heat rises at the back of Dex’ neck, shame and pride colliding into something dizzying. He doesn’t know if it’s meant as insult or observation. Probably both. Billy has a way of making every comment cut and soothe at the same time. And Dex, pathetic as it is, basks in it. Because Billy’s looking at him. Because Billy sees the damage and hasn’t turned away.

“Didn’t complain,” Dex mutters, rough, defensive, but softer than he meant. His eyes don’t quite meet Billy’s. They track his hands instead, the way they hover, the way they choose where to start.

Billy lets out a breath that could almost pass for a laugh. “No. You never do.” The words carry a curl of something indulgent, as though Dex is a puzzle he’s been waiting to solve. He uncaps the antiseptic, pours it onto gauze with the same care someone else might pour wine.

Dex braces. He’s good at pain, he’s built for it, but when Billy presses the cloth to his side he sucks in a sharp breath through his teeth. The sound embarrasses him, feels too human.

Billy doesn’t look up. “Hold still.” Smooth, unbothered, like he expected exactly that reaction. His hand is steady against Dex’ ribs, firm enough to anchor him. There’s no gentleness in it, but there’s precision. He’s not wasting movement. Dex almost prefers it that way. If Billy were soft with him, it might undo him entirely.

The antiseptic-soaked gauze moves in strokes, pressing against Dex’ skin until it burns clean. His touch is clinical, detached on the surface, but too close not to feel intimate. The scent of alcohol stings Dex’ nose, mingling with leather and the trace of Billy’s cologne, something expensive, threaded into the air like it owns the room.

Dex stares. He can’t help it. Watches the way Billy’s brow dips, not a frown but a mark of concentration, the sharp lines of his face tilted toward the task like it’s worth his time. That detail alone ties Dex up inside. He’s not used to being worth the attention, his job is to be invisible until he’s useful, then to disappear again. Yet here Billy is, focused on him like a wound on Dex’ ribs deserves the same precision as a boardroom deal. His pulse hammers in his throat, in the bruises on his side, everywhere Billy’s fingers touch. The pressure is grounding, like Billy doesn’t just expect obedience but molds his body into it.

“Messy work,” Billy says finally, eyes flicking over the damage like a critic at a gallery. “Sloppy.”

Dex swallows, the word lodging somewhere in his chest. He should bristle, should defend himself, should say that it hadn’t been sloppy, it had been desperate, a split-second choice to put himself between Billy and the knife aimed at him. But the protest dies before it reaches his mouth. Because Billy’s still here. Billy’s the one holding him together. And Dex, broken fool that he is, feels something dangerously close to satisfaction.

“Didn’t let him touch you,” It’s not an excuse. It’s a confession. The one thing he can claim.

Billy’s hands still for the briefest second, gauze pressed firm against raw skin. His eyes lift to Dex’ face before he goes back to his work with the same infuriating composure. “You think I didn’t notice that?” His tone is edged with disdain, but something beneath it shines through, something Dex wants to believe is acknowledgment. Praise, hidden in a form only Billy knows how to give.

Sloppy. It sticks in Dex’ chest like a splinter. He forces his mouth shut, but the word keeps echoing, gathering weight each time it circles back. He hates how easily it lands, how quickly it rearranges all the effort he put in, the bruises he earned for Billy’s sake, into something cheap. A failure. He sits too still, like a dog who’s just been swatted, trying not to show the flinch but wearing it anyway. Billy’s concentration only makes it worse, the unhurried movements, the way he leans in just close enough to work. It’s composure that feels like distance. Like Billy’s already put him in a category Dex doesn’t want to belong to.

Because Dex doesn’t want to be sloppy. He wants to be useful. He wants to be sharp, clean, perfect, the man Billy can rely on without question. The one who takes the hit so Billy doesn’t have to. Not a burden dripping blood into his boss’s couch, not a mess that needs patching.

His thoughts spiral without his permission. What if Billy doesn’t want someone who breaks skin and bone for him? What if he thinks Dex is reckless, a liability? What if the only reason Billy hasn’t sent him away is convenience? He imagines it too clearly—Billy, cool and dismissive, finding someone better, cleaner, someone who doesn’t bleed all over his perfect life.

Dex swallows, but it catches. He keeps his eyes locked on Billy’s hands, afraid of what he’ll see if he looks up. His breath comes shallow, uneven, betraying him. He wants to beg, though he doesn’t know for what. Forgiveness? Praise? Just the smallest sign that Billy doesn’t mean it, that sloppy doesn’t define him.

And then, because his brain won’t stop chewing at the wound, the thought blooms unbidden: maybe Billy doesn’t mind the mess. Maybe he likes having someone broken at his feet. Maybe that’s all Dex is good for.

The realization makes his chest tighten, heat creeping up his neck. Shame and need twist together until he can’t tell them apart.

Billy smooths the last strip of tape over the gauze, the sharp scent of antiseptic still hanging in the air. His hands leave Dex’ skin, and the sudden absence feels like a drop into cold water. For a moment, Billy just studies him, head tilted slightly, the kind of look that feels like it could flay a man open without ever touching him. Dex realizes too late that he hasn’t been breathing right. He’s caught somewhere between holding his breath and gasping, eyes fixed on nothing, body tense as though he’s waiting for a verdict.

“You good?” The words are deceptively simple, but they snap Dex out of the spiral like a rope yanked taut. Billy’s voice, with that condescending lilt he wears like cologne, anchors him harder than the press of gauze ever could.

Dex blinks, throat tight. He wants to answer, to make it sound steady, but his mouth doesn’t obey right away. His jaw works before he manages a small nod, almost boyish. He hates how transparent it feels, like Billy can see every jagged thought stamped across his face. Billy’s gaze lingers, weighing him, as though he knows exactly how far Dex had fallen inward. Then, casually, as if he’s tossing away nothing more than a comment about the weather, he says:

“Good work today.”

The words land like a strike to the chest. Dex doesn’t move, because if he reacts, if he shows how much it matters, the spell might break. But his body betrays him in quieter ways, his breath stutters, shoulders pulling back ever so slightly, spine straightening as though Billy’s approval has rewired the bones.

It isn’t much. Just three words, smoothed out in that infuriatingly calm voice. But for Dex, it’s everything. It’s proof he isn’t just sloppy, proof he hasn’t ruined it all. The praise digs into him deeper than any insult ever could, rooting itself in a place he doesn’t want to name. It glows in the hollow of his chest, threading through the shame until it feels like he might come apart just holding it in. He wants to freeze the moment, to trap the sound of Billy’s voice, to press it against his skin like a brand. He wants to bask in it, roll it over in his head until it wears smooth. Good work today. As though it wasn’t meaningless. As though he hadn’t just barely scraped by.

And Dex, who lives on scraps, who’s always gnawed himself hollow trying to earn his place, feels full, if only for a breath. He clamps down hard on the reaction, on the way his lips threaten to twitch into a smile, on the rush of heat that claws at the back of his throat.

“Still with me?” Billy murmurs, a needle that threads straight through the haze clouding Dex’s head.

Dex forces a breath in, then out, nodding again, tighter this time. He wants to say something—yeah, always, don’t you get it?—but the words tangle on his tongue. Better to stay silent than to ruin it.

Billy tilts his head, that maddening half-smile curving as if he’s reading Dex like a page already dog-eared. “You look like you’re somewhere else.”

Dex doesn’t answer. He can’t. Because where he’s gone is dangerous, circling the question he doesn’t want to face: what does it take to earn that voice, that look, again? To hear good work not once but always?

Billy lets the silence stretch, and Dex feels it pressing in until finally Billy leans in just a fraction closer. His eyes flick across Dex’ face, lingering where blood still stains faint against skin despite the patchwork of gauze. And in that low, measured tone that always sounds like he’s two steps ahead, Billy asks, “You like getting hurt for me, hm?”

The question hangs. Dex’ breath stalls, his mind blank and feral with the weight of it. He doesn’t move. His throat tightens around the words that want to claw free, but none make it past his lips. Pupils blow wide, hunger and panic tangling in the same breath. The air feels thinner, charged, as if the room itself is waiting on what comes next.

Russo’s lips press against battered skin, firm, claiming, not soft in the way comfort is soft, but in the way ownership is. The sting of torn flesh under the touch makes it sharper, and it lands like a brand. For a heartbeat, nothing else exists. Only that contact, that impossible intimacy dressed up as casual indulgence. The taste of it lingers, even after the mouth withdraws, and the distance Billy leaves feels colder than the kiss itself.

“Thought so,” comes smooth, almost amused. Condescending, but threaded with something Dex aches to believe in, recognition, attention, a kind of twisted reward.

The gauze is taped down with the same precision Billy brings to everything. Each motion is final, like closing a book that Dex isn’t ready to stop reading. Fingers ghost away, and suddenly the absence of touch feels louder than the sting of antiseptic ever was. The kit snaps shut with a clinical click. Billy rises in a smooth unfurl of long lines, expensive fabric catching faint city light as though even the skyline bends to him. For a moment, Dex stays where he is, blinking against the sudden tilt of distance. His chest feels too tight, ribs cinched from the inside, and he swallows around the pressure before it can claw its way out of his throat.

“Where are you—” It slips out before he can stop it. He scrambles, voice catching, softer this time, reaching for something that might pass as casual. “I mean—what’re you… doing?” The excuse falls flat even as he says it. Nothing clever, nothing useful, nothing worthy. Just need dressed up in clumsy syllables, an ache disguised as a question. He doesn’t know what he expected, doesn’t even know what he wants, only that the space between them feels unbearable.

Billy pauses in the low glow of the penthouse, profile sharp as a cut of glass when he glances back. His expression doesn’t change. “Washing my hands,” he says at last, tone almost bored, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. The blond watches him turn, the sound of measured footsteps carrying toward the bathroom, and it feels like being dismissed. He hates the sting of it, hates how small it makes him feel, but worse than that is the way a treacherous part of him waits, listens for the return.

Seconds stretch. Too long. The silence is a weight pressing against his ears, every tick of the clock a reminder that Billy is not in the room. Irrational thoughts worm their way in fast, what if something happens, what if he slips, what if someone somehow got past him tonight after all? The city is wide, the penthouse high, but the thought of Billy alone, even in another room, gnaws at him until his stomach twists.

Pathetic. He knows it. He knows Billy can take care of himself, knows he doesn’t need guarding every second. But logic is a locked door Dex struggles to open sometimes. His pulse climbs with the urge to stand, to follow, to catch sight of Billy to prove nothing’s wrong. His palms press against the couch cushions like he might push himself up, ignoring the dull throb in his side.

The bathroom door opens before he can move. Relief floods sharp and dizzy, stupid in its intensity, like surfacing after being held under. Billy steps back into the room, sleeves pushed back, movements unhurried. Draped over one arm is clothes. Crisp fabric, sleek lines, too fine for Dex’ frame, and he knows instantly they’ll tug at the seams on his shoulders, fall short at the wrists, ride up on his stomach. But they’re Billy’s, and that fact alone makes something in his chest go tight.

He sets them down within reach, and the faint clean scent of them rises, laundered, expensive, tinged with that cool cologne that clings to Billy’s skin. Dex swallows hard. Even before he touches them, he can already imagine it, the way the fabric will feel against him, the way it will smell.

“I don’t—” The protest slips out before he can stop it. His fingers twitch but don’t reach. “You don’t have to—”

Billy’s gaze cuts sharp, leaving no room for argument. He doesn’t even need to raise his voice; the authority is there, his tone so familiar it might as well be stamped on Dex’ skin. “Shut up and change.” - - Not a request. Not a suggestion. The kind of command that makes obedience feel inevitable. Dex’ throat clicks as he swallows. The fight bleeds out of him before it even begins. It’s not just the words, it’s the way Billy delivers them, with that assurance, that composure Dex can never manage to touch. He doesn’t realize he’s already reaching until his hand brushes the fabric, the fine weave against his fingertips. His chest tightens when he pulls his old clothes off and his new ones on. There’s no way he’s wearing these without looking ridiculous, but Billy’s look makes it clear, this isn’t about comfort. This is about what Billy wants.

And Christ, Dex will take anything Billy wants to give him.

“Do you need anything else?” The question comes direct, cutting through the static haze building in Dex’ skull. Billy stands over him, effortless in that way only he can manage.

It’s dangerous, that question. Loaded. It’s not just about water, or meds, or food. Dex knows it isn’t meant that way, not really, but his chest still floods with all the wrong answers. He wants to say you. Wants to say stay here, don’t move, don’t leave again. Wants to ask for something he doesn’t even know how to name, something that burns behind his ribs and claws at his throat.

He shifts on the couch, searching desperately for something smaller, something that won’t sound insane, something that won’t bare his insides raw. His thoughts spiral fast. If he asks for nothing, Billy walks away. If he asks for something real, he risks showing too much. There has to be a middle ground, some excuse, something thin enough to pass as need but thick enough to keep Billy tethered close. His gaze drops to his bandaged side, to the bruises already blooming dark under his skin. That’s it. That’s the crack in the wall he can slip a hand through. “Think…” His voice comes rough, forced casual but not even close to convincing. “Think you might’ve missed a spot. Hurts like hell still.” A half-lie, because it does hurt, but not more than the emptiness gnawing at him every second Billy isn’t touching him. He lifts his chin just enough to meet Billy’s eyes, and lets the corner of his mouth pull tight like he’s half-daring him, half-pleading without ever saying it outright. “Mind checking again?”

Russo quirks a brow, the kind of expression that makes it impossible to tell if he’s about to call him on his bullshit or play along just to see what he’ll do with the rope. “Yeah?” Billy drawls, already sliding fingers under the hem of Dex’ shirt. “Let’s see then.”

Dex swallows hard as the fabric lifts, the sting of motion pulling at his side. He should be looking down, checking for himself, watching the hands that skim along gauze and bruise, but he doesn’t. His gaze stays locked upward, straight onto Billy, like he’ll miss something vital if he looks away even for a heartbeat. The light catches angles in Billy’s face, the crease in his brow as he studies Dex’ ribs, the way his lashes cast shadows when he glances down. Every small detail burns itself into Dex’ vision: the controlled precision of Billy’s movements, the way his mouth flattens when he’s concentrating, the furrow that deepens near his temple. Dex watches like a starving man, like he has to memorize every flicker in case it’s the last he’ll get.

“Bruising’s ugly,” Billy says after a beat, matter-of-fact, his thumb brushing close to the edge of taped gauze. His tone is clinical, as if he’s giving a quarterly report. “But you’re not bleeding through. Looks like I didn’t miss a damn thing.” Dex’ chest tightens at that composure —- steady, unflappable, untouchable.

He hates it, loves it, craves it, wants to crack it open. He wants Billy’s voice to slip, just once, wants it to hold something warm meant only for him.

The shirt falls back into place, Billy smoothing it down with a quick press of his palm, impersonal but still contact, still something Dex’ skin reaches toward even as it’s gone. Billy straightens, brushing invisible dust from his hands like he’s closing the file. “You’re fine. Quit fishing.”

Dex flinches, his pulse hammering traitor-fast. He should let it go, let Billy walk away, wash his hands of him, literally, again. But the emptiness gnaws harder now, roaring in his chest, clawing at his throat. He can’t sit in it. He can’t stand it. His mind scrambles, spinning out excuse after excuse that fall apart before he can speak them. Don’t go yet. I don’t like the quiet. I can’t think straight when you’re not here. I need— No. Too much. Billy would see straight through him.

But maybe if he couches it in need, keeps it tied to injury, it won’t sound insane. He drags in a shaky breath, licks dry lips. “Feels worse when I move,” he mutters, fumbling the words into something half-formed. “Hard to get comfortable like this.” He shifts, not dramatically, but enough to draw attention, rolling his shoulder, setting his jaw against a wince. Then, carefully, he lets his eyes cut up to Billy’s. “it’d help if… I had something steady to lean on.”

Billy’s eyes narrow, suspicion sliding across his face. He leans back a fraction, weight shifting into one hip, the kind of subtle movement that says he’s already dissecting Dex’ words, testing them for weak points. “Something steady.” he repeats, edged with doubt. His gaze flicks toward the couch cushions, the throw blanket folded neat on the armrest, the stack of pillows within reach. He jerks his chin toward them. “I’ll grab you another pillow.”

Dex’ stomach knots, too tight, too sour. He can see it, Billy washing his hands of him again, smoothing this over with the neat solution that costs nothing of himself. It makes Dex want to choke. His pulse spikes, ears ringing, and before he can think better of it words are tumbling out.“Pillows don’t help. Already tried that.” He hears himself and knows how it sounds, but he can’t stop. “It’s not—” he stumbles, claws for something passable. “It’s not the same as having something solid. Someone solid.”

Billy’s brow arches higher, skepticism carved clean into his features. He doesn’t move. So Dex pushes harder. “Just— for a little while?” He forces the words out, teeth clenched against the tremor in his throat. The quiet that follows is unbearable. Billy’s eyes fix on him, no smirk, no easy deflection. Just the weight of his stare, cutting through layers Dex thought he’d hidden better. “You’re serious.” Billy says finally. No question in it, he already knows.

Dex holds the gaze in quiet shame, though it scorches.

A long pause. Billy exhales through his nose. He looks away, dragging a hand over his jaw, down the line of his mouth, as if weighing whether to shut this down clean or let it breathe. Hesitation crackles in the air, static crawling over Dex’ skin, every second stretching too thin. Then Billy shakes his head. “You’re a piece of work, you know that? Could’ve just asked for a damn pillow and saved us both the trouble.”

Dex’ throat works, but he doesn’t answer.

Another beat. Billy sighs, the kind that sounds like it costs him something to give. He shifts, sinking down onto the couch beside Dex, movements unhurried but decisive. “Alright,” he mutters, almost to himself. “Just for now. Don’t make me regret it.” Billy barely has time to settle before Dex moves like something breaking free of its leash. He shifts sideways on the couch, dragging himself down with a rough breath that catches in his chest, until he’s stretched along the cushions. Then with a suddenness that makes Billy stiffen, Dex hooks an arm around him and pulls, hauling him in with surprising strength for someone bandaged and half-busted up.

The brunettes hand flies to brace the cushion, ready to shove back, but then Dex is already tucking him against his chest, pressing in close. His body curves around Billy’s, a lock snapping shut. The air leaves Billy in a sharp sound, halfway between disbelief and irritation. “The fuck—” he starts, voice tight, but Dex is already burying his face against the back of his neck, nuzzling in like it’s the only thing keeping him alive. His grip is fierce, forearm slung over Billy’s middle, hand spread against his ribs like he’s bracing himself against a storm. Billy freezes. This is not what he agreed to, not what he pictured. He thought Dex wanted an arm to lean against, something steady like he said. He didn’t expect to be manhandled, folded into Dex’ chest like he’s some kind of anchor. “Jesus,” He tilts his head just enough to glance back. “What the hell is this?”

Dex doesn’t answer right away. His breath shudders, warm against Billy’s skin. His grip only tightens. When he finally speaks, the words are muffled, like he’s trying to smuggle them past the edge of honesty. “Dizzy,” he murmurs. “Sorry. Just—makes it better, like this.” He shifts his head again, nuzzling deeper, and the motion drags a faint groan out of him, equal parts pain and relief. “Can’t stay steady on my own right now.”

Russo goes stock-still at first, every instinct firing like he’s just been caught off guard in an alley. His shoulders are stiff, heart kicking a little too fast against his ribs. He’s had people in his bed, people in his arms, but never like this. Never with him on the receiving end, never with someone clutching him like he’s something precious, something to hang onto. It rattles him, the unfamiliar weight of it, the sheer audacity of being held. He draws in a slow breath, meaning to steady himself, but Dex’ grip doesn’t ease. If anything, it tightens, an arm slung across his middle as if braced against the possibility that Billy might vanish if he let go. Billy can feel the hard line of muscle beneath the tremor, the heat of Dex’ chest pressed close along his back. And then there’s that face buried against him, Dex tucking in at the crook of his neck like he belongs there.

For a few moments Billy resists it. He tells himself he should break it, peel those arms off, set the boundary clear. But then Dex breathes out against his skin, warm, shaky, so human it almost aches, and Billy feels something in him stutter. His muscles begin to slacken, not by choice but by slow erosion, like stone giving way to tide. The rigidity bleeds from his shoulders, from the line of his spine, until he’s leaning back a fraction, not into Dex but not away either.

It unsettles him, how strangely… safe it feels. No one’s ever used him this way, not as a shield, not as a prize, not as a body to warm a bed, but as an anchor. It presses against some old wound he didn’t even know was still open. He huffs a quiet, uncertain breath, like maybe if he exhales hard enough he can shake the thought loose.

Behind him, Dex is a storm all his own. Serotonin sparking like a live wire, chest tight with something giddy. He barely registers the ache of his bandages now; the pain fades to static, drowned out by the sheer, overwhelming relief of holding Billy. His mind seizes on every detail with greedy fixation, the shape of him under his arm, the scent of his cologne softened by clean cotton, the weight of him not leaving. Each second is a small eternity Dex doesn’t want to end.

He buries his nose deeper into Billy’s shoulder, greedily drawing in the warmth, the smell, the fact of him. His heart pounds a manic rhythm, each beat echoing with the desperate thought: mine, mine, mine. It takes everything in him not to whisper it out loud. Billy shifts faintly, and Dex thinks he might be pulling away, but then he realizes, no, Billy’s easing, relaxing against him by degrees. And the rush that hits Dex then is blinding, a high so sharp it makes his throat close. The world shrinks to the circle of his arms, to the solid body pressed back against his chest.

The first surrender is small, barely more than a lean of muscle, a slackening of the spine, but it changes everything. What was once rigid becomes pliant, and the shape of two bodies begins to find a fit. The couch groans in witness, carrying the weight of something neither man has ever allowed himself to want.

There is a kind of silence that doesn’t empty a room but thickens it. This is that silence, where breath is louder than words, where the press of a heartbeat seems to outpace the tick of time itself. Each inhale and exhale folds them further inward, like the world has been pared down to a single narrow thread of existence: warmth against warmth, a body shaping itself into another.

Tension lingers, though, beneath the comfort. Muscles draw tight each time the other yields, as though instinct demands proof, grip hard enough, maybe he’ll stay. Yet every strain, every clutch, is answered by a quiet return of weight, a subtle lean that says without saying: I’m not gone. It is both a mercy and a torment, the kind of closeness that feels like it could end at any moment, and therefore must be clung to with bone-deep ferocity.

What blooms in the stillness is not peace, it’s too raw for that. It is something sharper, stranger. A fragile discovery, half dangerous, half holy: that to be held is not the same as to be trapped, that yielding can be its own kind of strength. And so the moment stretches on, until it becomes clear that what they’ve found here is not rest, not safety, not love, but something rarer.

A flicker of recognition, as though two ghosts had touched in the dark and, for the first time, realized they were not alone.

started 8.28.2025. finished 9.01.2025.

( masterlist. )

©️ monicfever 2025

[monicfever]

screams of joy because your back

Hi hun!! Yes I am getting back into the swing of things, I really appreciate your support. ☺️ I’m currently getting through as many requests as I can, including yours!

[monicfever]

Your Billy russo headcanons (actually all your headcanons, but he's the one I'm currently obsessed with lmao) are so GOOD, HOW DO YOU DO IT!!!! He's so in-character that it's stupid and I am eternally grateful to you for granting us your writing

HAHAHA thank you so much genuinely i appreciate it . 🙏 spent way longer than id care to admit obsessed over these two shows, the characters are all so unique and i love getting to write for them. !!! thank you for the support oomf

ps billy is my favorite so he always gets extra details

[monicfever]

just wanted to say I love your writing so much !! could i request a fic with ben poindexter & a narcoleptic!reader pls !?? maybe she wakes up with sleep paralysis and he has to help her ?? i just don’t see any fics with this but if it isn’t possible it’s okay

thank you in advance xx

hands that keep the night at bay. 𝜗𝜚 bullseye.

r e q u e s t e d ♡

dex helps out his girlfriend during sleep paralysis.

cws ᝰ .ᐟ she/her ,, narcoleptic!reader ,, comfort fic

DARKNESS settled across her like something sentient, not gentle, not cruel, but aware. She could feel it pressing, a weight distributed across the edges of her vision, against the roof of her mouth, pooling behind her ears. Her eyelids quivered beneath it, fluttering in tiny, desperate beats, yet could not lift, could not part, could not escape. The world was trapped inside her, and she was trapped inside it.

Her chest rose and fell in shallow, ragged rhythms, breaths scraping like fine sand against teeth and throat. Every inhale felt too loud, too sharp; every exhale vanished into a hollow that had no bottom. Her fingers twitched, phantom attempts at movement that yielded nothing, as though they were reaching through water thickened by an invisible hand. The sheets under her were familiar, yet alien, stretched across the mattress as if they belonged to a place just outside memory.

Shapes bled along the edges of her vision. Not shadows exactly, but forms that wavered and licked at perception, dissolving when she tried to focus. They were angular, liquid, a geometry she did not understand, like reflections in fractured glass, refracting angles that should not exist. Her mind chased them, desperate for clarity, and found only a hesitation in the air, a pregnant pause vibrating in the chest cavity of the room itself.

Sounds became grotesquely alive. The refrigerator in the next room stretched and flexed, thrumming against her temples. The floorboards beneath the house creaked and sighed in ways that should have been unnoticed, yet each one rang in her skull, as if the house itself was breathing through her. Even the ticking of a distant clock fractured into multiple echoes, overlaid upon one another, a chorus of tiny, impatient heartbeats.

Panic rose in her chest. She wanted to scream, to call, to claw air into sound, but her body betrayed her, locked in a stasis so absolute it felt like her bones themselves had forgotten their purpose. Her mouth moved against nothing, tongue stretching in silent, futile articulation, teeth gnashing against impossibility. Every muscle rebelled with refusal. Every nerve vibrated with helplessness.

Her mind began to fracture under the pressure. Memory and present collided. Familiar objects floated unmoored from expectation: the corner of her nightstand impossibly elongated, the light from the lamp bending around invisible angles, shadows creeping across the walls in subtle, deliberate rotations. She tried to reach, tried to blink herself awake, tried to will motion into a frozen frame, but the world offered only this — a still life of impossibility, mirrored through the lens of her own immobilization.

The air became something tangible, viscous, clinging to her. Breathing felt like moving through syrup. She could sense her own heartbeat, distorted, fractured, as though the pulse had divided into multiple echoes, each one beating slightly out of sync, layering upon itself, expanding into the silence. Panic sharpened into vertigo, vertigo into dizziness, dizziness into the awareness of being completely, irretrievably trapped.

And then the room shifted, slowly, subtly, as if it were aware of her paralysis. Shadows stretched across walls in slow, deliberate arcs. The ceiling seemed to hover higher than it had moments before, the corners dissolving into dark infinity. The familiar smell of her sheets was gone, replaced by something intangible, metallic, tasting of air too thick to inhale. The ordinary became uncanny, the ordinary became a labyrinth that her body could not navigate.

Time fractured. Seconds expanded into minutes. Minutes contracted into fractions of a second. Her mind looped: breath, weight, immobility, shapes, sounds, pressure, panic — each cycle slightly altered, slightly more intense, slightly more alien.

Thoughts splintered into impossibility. Did she exist here, or was this a memory of being somewhere else? The bed beneath her was the same, yet wrong; the air was hers, yet intruding. Something unnameable was lodged between the walls and her senses.

She became acutely aware of herself in impossibly small increments. The tension in her jaw. The faint twitch of a fingertip she could not move. The minute pulse of blood at the temples, the subtle vibration of her own spine through sheets, mattress, and floor. Every detail became exaggerated, amplified to a degree that would have been laughable if her body were not failing her.

There were edges in the darkness now. Something liquid, alive, pressing, coiling in the periphery. Her consciousness reached toward it, willing movement, willing understanding, willing an escape, and the edges recoiled slightly, teasing the possibility of agency she did not possess. She was both observer and prisoner, floating in a body that refused to respond.

Then came the faintest shift: a sound, like the soft tread of footsteps in a hallway that should not exist. She felt it before she heard it, a vibration in the floor, a resonance that threaded through her bones and lodged there. The shapes at the edges of her vision quivered. The darkness flinched. And in the midst of it all, she was still unable to move, still locked inside herself, still aware of every fraction pressing in from every angle.

Her mind searched for a pattern, a reason, a beacon. But there was only the stillness. Only the tension. Only the infinite, patient, unmoving moment in which she hovered between sleep and wakefulness, paralyzed and utterly alive, feeling every whisper of air, every impossible shadow that did not belong.

She did not know if she would ever move again. She did not know if she wanted to. The room was a cathedral of suspended sensation, of impossible perception, of being trapped and hyper-aware at once.

She was every molecule of herself, yet none of herself could act.

And then, the darkness shifted again, as though acknowledging a presence outside its dominion. A warmth brushed the perimeter of her awareness, hesitant, cautious, a human warmth.

Her chest stuttered under the weight of recognition, though no movement followed. She wanted to turn her head, to speak, to reach for the source of this intrusion into her stasis, but her body remained traitorous. A vessel of sensation without command. And yet, there was a pulse now layered upon her own heartbeat, steady, measured, and impossibly grounding.

She became aware of a scent weaving between the aroma of the room and the phantom of her own breath. It was him. Dex. He had been here before. He had always been here when her body betrayed her and the room refused to obey the logic of waking. She could feel his proximity even before the rush of movement reached her ears.

A whisper. Not loud, but sharp enough to slice through the fog in her mind. “Hey… hey, I’m here.” Each syllable was careful, carrying the weight of someone who had seen this before and feared it as much as he did, yet remained unflinching.

Panic twisted inside her because she could not respond. She wanted to speak, to acknowledge him, to release the tension coiling through every nerve ending, but her voice was stolen, her throat a hollow tube. And yet, she felt his hands before she saw them, warmth landing upon her shoulders, steady pressure guiding her awareness back toward the corporeal world.

His touch was a counterpoint to the surreal, liquid shadows pressing at the edges of her vision. Every movement designed to thread her back into motion without breaking the fragile bridge between paralysis and waking. She felt him trace a path along her arms, grounding, anchoring, coaxing her from the impossible edges where darkness and immobility had folded together.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured again, voice taut with concern. The room shifted subtly around him, as if reality itself hesitated, allowing a space in which she could rejoin it.

Her fingers twitched. A flicker. A small, miraculous rebellion against the paralysis. Dex noticed, because he always notices, and his hands adjusted, pressing lighter, holding firmer, guiding her toward the reclamation of movement without urgency. The shapes at the edges of her vision quivered as if startled by her awakening, the shadows retracting slightly.

“Slow,” he said. “We’ll take it slow.” Holding her steady while urging her toward her own recovery, she obeyed, marveling at the alien relief of hesitant motion. One finger, then two, then her hand, trembling as if she had never felt it before.

Air filled her lungs with less resistance, every inch she regained felt like a rediscovery: the shift of sheets under her back, the slight coolness of the mattress against her skin. Dex’ presence wove between her nerves, coaxing each muscle to remember purpose.

She exhaled, finally. Not a full release, but enough. Enough to feel gravity return, to feel herself inhabit her body again.

Dex was on her in an instant. Not frantic in his movements, he fought that urge with teeth bared, but it was in his eyes, in the precision of his breathing, in the way his hands hovered an inch above her skin before landing. One at her shoulder, the other ghosting down her arm, as though she were porcelain cracked in too many places.

“I—-” His voice came out ragged, thinner than he wanted, catching at the edges of his throat. He swallowed, tried again, softer, almost pleading. “I’ve got you. You’re okay. You’re okay.” He repeated it like repetition itself could weld reality back together.

His thumb brushed across the curve of her shoulder in steady, mechanical strokes, counting them out, one, two, three, four, his ritual, his way of clinging to control when panic gnawed at his bones. His other hand found hers, fingers pressing to her palm, urging her to close around him, to prove she was here. “Squeeze. Just— yeah. There you go. Perfect. I’ve got you.” His breath stuttered as though the squeeze alone had given him permission to breathe again.

His panic leaked in strange ways. He smoothed her blanket flat three separate times, adjusted the angle of her pillow as though alignment itself could ward off the paralysis returning. His free hand couldn’t stay still, pressing her hair back from her face, tracing her wrist to feel the beat of her pulse, gripping her arm too tightly and then flinching away as though ashamed. He was everywhere at once, both gentle and desperate, his need to do something spilling out in every restless motion.

He caught himself and pulled in a breath through his nose like he was trying to borrow calm just to give it back to her. His touch gentled, smoothing the hair at her temple in slow strokes, thumb brushing behind her ear the way he knew always grounded her. “Hey, look at me,” he murmured, quiet, coaxing. “You don’t have to talk. Just breathe with me, alright?”

He exaggerated his own inhale, chest rising deep and slow, holding it for three before letting it out steady. His eyes never left her face, waiting for the rhythm to catch, waiting for her to anchor herself on him. “There you go. That’s it,” he whispered, softer than the rustle of the sheets. “That’s my girl. You’re here. You’re safe.”

Her throat felt scraped raw, like speaking might shatter something fragile, but she managed. “What time is it?”

His eyes flicked toward the clock, then back to her instantly, as if afraid to look away too long. “Little past three,” he said, tone careful, made gentle for her ears alone. He smoothed his thumb once more along her temple, then hesitated, breath catching in his chest. “Can I—” he swallowed, his voice softer, almost boyish in its asking, “can I hold you?”

She gave the smallest nod, barely more than a tilt of her head, but it was enough. He shifted carefully, moving as though she were glass, and slid his arms around her, pulling her against him. His chest pressed to her back, his hand splayed over her sternum like he could anchor her heartbeat with his palm alone. He held her as though the act itself could drag her back from the void she’d been lost in. His cheek pressed into her hair, breath warm against her crown. For a long stretch he didn’t speak, just rocked her in tiny motions, back and forth.

His rocking slowed into something gentler, swaying as if they were caught in the rhythm of a lullaby only he could hear. The hand over her sternum traced small, absent-minded circles, like he was memorizing the shape of her even through the fabric. After a moment, he dipped his head, lips brushing her hairline in a lingering press that wasn’t just comfort, but devotion.

Another kiss followed, softer, closer to her temple this time. His lips lingered, then moved again, trailing a faint constellation, her temple, her cheek, the edge of her jaw, like he couldn’t stop himself from mapping her out all over again, just to prove she was here.

When she shifted faintly, turning in his hold, his hand immediately rose to cradle her face, thumb brushing across her cheekbone. His gaze locked on hers with something wild and tender all at once, an ache that softened only when he bent forward and pressed his mouth to hers. The kiss wasn’t urgent, it was desperate in its own way, the kind that I can’t ever lose you.

He pulled back just enough to rest his forehead against hers, his breath uneven. “You’re all I care about,” he confessed, voice ragged but steady with conviction, thumb brushing over her lips like he was still marveling that he could touch her at all.

He kissed her again, slower this time, lingering like he wanted to sink into her until there was no space left between them. Then he tucked her closer against his chest, curling around her, protective and consuming, rocking her as though he’d never let the world touch her again.

Shifting with careful patience, he guided her with the smallest nudges until they were settled again, his body curved along hers, the length of him fitting like he’d been shaped to be her shelter. His arm cinched tight around her waist, palm spread over her ribs like he could hold her steady against the world. Every so often, he pressed his nose into her hair, breathing her in, then dropped another feather-light kiss at her crown.

“Too quiet?” he asked softly after a moment, his voice tucked low and warm. “Want me to put the TV on?” His thumb traced little arcs along her hipbone, grounding himself in the rhythm of her breathing.

She gave the faintest hum, not quite an answer, and he didn’t push. Instead he squeezed her tighter, chest firm against her back, his own breath syncing to hers until the silence between them felt less like emptiness and more like a cocoon.

“You wanna try to sleep again?” he murmured after a beat, lips brushing her ear with the words. She hesitated, then shook her head. “Not yet.”

He nodded against her hair, already adjusting, no trace of disappointment. “Okay. Then I’m up with you.” he said simply, as if it were the most obvious truth in the world. His arm hugged her tighter, tugging her flush against him.

He stayed close, closer than close, his whole body molding to hers until there was no space left between them. His forehead tucked into the curve of her neck, nose brushing along her skin as if he could breathe her in deep enough to steady every frayed nerve inside him. His arm cinched tighter around her middle, the kind of hold that wasn’t possessive so much as necessary, like letting go wasn’t even a possibility his body would allow.

He burrowed in further, pressing his mouth softly against the slope where her shoulder met her throat. The kiss was barely there, more like a whisper of his lips, but it lingered, again, and then again, like he couldn’t stop proving she was real. “You’re warm,” he murmured into her skin, voice muffled. His breath fanned across her neck as he shifted, nuzzling deeper until his cheek was pressed flush to her. Every inhale matched hers, every exhale ghosted over her skin, like he was trying to sync himself into her completely. His leg hooked carefully over hers, pulling her back against his chest so firmly it was almost as if he believed he could keep her from slipping anywhere, back into fear, back into silence, just by holding this tight.

Her fingers curled around the arm he had slung across her, thumb rubbing absently at the skin there like she needed the reassurance of him just as much as he needed her. “You’re holding me so tight,” she whispered, the words small but steady, half teasing, half grateful.

“Good,” he murmured without hesitation, voice low against her neck. “Not letting go.” He shifted just enough to press a kiss into her hair, then another, trailing them like little promises along her crown.

She let out a tiny laugh, the sound a crack of light through the heavy quiet. “You’re like a human weighted blanket.”

He smiled against her skin, lips brushing her nape. “Best damn blanket you’ll ever have.” His grip flexed, as though to prove it.

She turned her head slightly, catching his cheek with her lips in a feather-light kiss. “Thank you,” she whispered, and it wasn’t just for now, it was for all the ways he was steady when she felt like she couldn’t be.

“Don’t thank me,” he said softly, tilting enough to press his mouth to hers, like he was sealing the night with something steady. His hand spread over her ribs, keeping her close through the kiss. When he drew back, he whispered into the space between them,

“There’s nowhere else I’d ever be.”

started 8.23.2025. finished 8.28.2025.

( masterlist. )

©️ monicfever 2025

[monicfever]

❜ — MARVEL MASTERLIST .ᐟ

waving your middle finger to the police

PUNISHER　／　DAREDEVIL　 ͜ ◞

﹅ FRANK CASTLE.

not yours, still yours.

⭑ frank’s bleeding and pretending it’s nothing, until she shows up at his door, all worry and warmth, tending to wounds he’d never let anyone else touch.

frank as your boyfriend.

⭑ headcanons for dating the guy who brings a gun to a romantic dinner

﹅ BILLY RUSSO.

almost professional.

⭑ russo is obsessed with the one thing in his office that won’t fall in line, his razor-sharp, unflinchingly composed assistant.

billy as your boyfriend.

⭑ headcanons for dating the male manipulator final boss

﹅ DAVID LIEBERMAN / MICRO.

sandwich rivalry.

⭑ a sandwich war in the kitchen spirals into laughter, mayo-streaked cheeks, and tomato battle wounds. in the wreckage of bread and laughter, he rediscovers what it feels like to be here, with you.

﹅ MATT MURDOCK.

sound and vision.

⭑ on a quiet rooftop, matt lies beside his girl as she traces constellations with her voice, painting the stars he can’t see.

the weight of watching.

⭑ something bitter coils in his chest, tightening with every glance she gives to someone else.

matt as your boyfriend.

⭑ headcanons for dating the human glow-up of i have unresolved issues

﹅ FOGGY NELSON.

foggy as your boyfriend.

⭑ headcanons for dating the only man who can make a spreadsheet look sexy

﹅ BEN POINDEXTER.

the art of being seen.

⭑ dex orchestrates the perfect accidental coffee shop meet-cute with the girl he’s been watching for months, every glance, every breath, every detail planned. she thinks it’s fate. he knows it is.

mine before you knew it.

⭑ dex has been watching you long before you ever noticed him. when someone flirts with you at a party he decides it’s time to make himself known. you don’t remember inviting him in, but he’s already in your house, and he doesn’t plan on leaving.

orbiting you quietly.

⭑ working side by side, dex moves through every task with devotion, chasing the warmth of your praise like it’s sunlight.

hands that keep the night at bay.

⭑ dex helps out his girlfriend during sleep paralysis.

dex as your boyfriend.

⭑ headcanons for dating the guy whose mood swings could qualify as a natural disaster

dex with a mentally ill partner.

⭑ includes : depression ,, anxiety ,, anger issues ,, bipolar ,, bpd ,, ocd ,, psychopathic ,, did ,, adhd

dex with an autistic partner.

⭑ dex x autistic!reader

dex x attachment issues!reader.

⭑ dex x attachment issues!reader

﹅ HEADCANONS.

you distance yourself, you betray them, holding their face, yandere x yandere, they fall in love, wearing their blood, you’re critically hurt, they’re inured/they’re sick, you have bad cramps, hypersexual!reader.

FANTASTIC FOUR.　 ͜ ◞

﹅ JOHNNY STORM.

johnny as your boyfriend.

⭑ third wheeling with johnny storm and a mirror

SHIPS.　 ͜ ◞

﹅ WORK IN PROGRESS.

the nickname thing.

⭑ ben poindexter x billy russo.

sucker for pain.

⭑ ben poindexter x billy russo.

©️ monicfever 2025

[monicfever]

johnny storm as your boyfriend. 𝜗𝜚 hc’s

cw ᝰ .ᐟ sfw ,, gn reader unless i slipped up somewhere ,, fluff ,, johnny being a spoiled shit

JOHNNY AS YOUR BOYFRIEND . . . is addicted to being in your space. he can’t sit on a different couch cushion, let alone a different chair. he sprawls across you, tangles legs, leans his head on your shoulder, and pouts if you try to move away even for a second.

he’s spoiled enough that he doesn’t understand why you’d ever want to do something “normal.” like, why take the subway when he has cars? why go to a diner when he can take you to a five-star rooftop? but, if you insist, he’ll do it. and he’ll pout the entire time.

the king of unnecessary PDA. hand on your hip when you’re in public, kissing your cheek mid-conversation, draping his arm around you while waiting in line. he needs everyone to know you’re his favorite person.

loves watching himself on tv but insists you watch with him. every time the news runs footage of the fantastic four, he’ll nudge you like, “look, look, that’s me! damn, i look good in that shot.” if the camera lingers on reed or ben too long, he’ll mutter under his breath about how they’re “hogging screen time.” he’ll rewind just to watch himself again and then grin, “don’t you feel proud? dating a star?”

has this habit of buying way too many gifts. snacks, hoodies two sizes too big so you “have to” share them, keychains, random shiny objects that remind him of you.

way too competitive with domestic stuff. who makes better pancakes? who folds laundry faster? who wins at Mario Kart? he’ll throw a fit when he loses, demand a rematch, and then kiss you mid-game to distract you when he’s losing again.

he’s obsessed with teaching you dumb little skills. how to skateboard, how to shuffle a deck of cards, how to make the perfect s’more. he acts like he’s an expert at everything, and even if he’s not, he loves the excuse to hold your hands while helping you.

hogs the mirror. every single time you’re getting ready together, johnny somehow ends up taking the most space, fixing his hair, admiring himself from different angles. if you’re running late he’ll absolutely blame it on you, even though he spent twenty minutes perfecting his smirk.

has a habit of texting you constantly when you’re apart. dumb memes, dramatic selfies, “do you miss me yet?” messages, or “thinking about your face rn.” he gets restless if too much time passes without hearing from you.

ridiculously overprotective in tiny ways. he’ll walk on the outside of the sidewalk, hold your hand crossing the street, insist you drink water, and hover when you’re tired. he plays it off like a joke, but he can’t help watching out for you.

he’s so proud to show you off. introduces you to everyone, tells stories about you, brags about the smallest things you do. he beams when people tease him about being whipped, because yeah, he is. johnny storm, once a hotshot, now a lover boy.

adores cooking with you, even though he’s not good at it. he makes a mess, burns toast, drops ingredients, but insists it’s gourmet. he loves feeding you little bites, flour fights, and eating the food you make.

dates with him are ridiculous. johnny doesn’t believe in “just grabbing dinner.” if he takes you out, it’s in one of his flashy cars, to a rooftop restaurant with a skyline view, where he orders two bottles of champagne and loudly tells the waiter, “don’t worry, I got it.” if you ever suggest something lowkey like takeout and a movie, he’ll pout and call you boring. but secretly those nights end up being his favorite.

he loves spoiling you. he doesn’t slip you gifts discreetly, he makes a show out of it. he’ll show up at your door with a shopping bag and say, “guess who deserves this?” then watch your reaction like a cat bringing home prey. he’s obsessed with the way your face lights up, and he’ll brag later to his friends: “yeah, I bought them that. because I’m the best boyfriend alive.”

lives for matching couple outfits. will drag you into a store and insist you try on sunglasses, leather jackets, sneakers, whatever he’s buying, you’re getting one too. he wants the two of you to look like the hottest power couple walking down the street, and if people stare? even better.

he’s obsessed with social media couple culture. he’s the type to post a million stories of your dates, tag you constantly, and write captions like “hottest couple alive 🔥🔥🔥.” if you don’t tag him back? oh, he’ll absolutely text you complaining.

has a dramatic streak about affection. when he kisses you, it’s not casual, it’s showy. a dip in the middle of the kitchen. grabbing your face with both hands like he’s in a romcom. kissing your knuckles before he hands you your coffee. he thrives on theatrics, and yeah, he wants people to notice.

always needs reassurance. despite the ego, johnny spirals if he thinks you’re mad at him. he’ll pace around, crack jokes, poke at you until you smile again. then he’ll flop across you with a sigh like, thank god, I thought you hated me.

shopping sprees are his love language. he will drag you through designer stores, pile your arms with clothes, and say “don’t look at the price tag, babe, I said don’t look.”

he’s terrible at being subtle. if he wants attention he’ll straight up climb into your lap during movie night, even if there are people over. if you ignore him while texting, he’ll lean over and start narrating what you’re typing in an exaggerated voice until you give him your attention.

acts like a king about mornings. if you wake him up early, he’ll whine and be grumpy, demanding “five more minutes” for three hours. but if you’re still asleep he’ll take a million photos of you, kiss your face until you stir, and dramatically whisper, “sleeping beauty.”

when you’re sick johnny is a disaster caretaker. he buys the wrong medicine, burns soup, and calls sue for help every two minutes. but he won’t leave your side. he’ll lie in bed with you, whine about how tragic you look, kiss your forehead every ten seconds, and tell you dramatically, “if you die, I’m going with you.”

johnny is petty about chores. if he does laundry, he’ll parade around saying, “did you SEE what I did? do I get a medal?” if he vacuums, he’ll text you a selfie with the vacuum like he just discovered fire.

treats nightlife like a stage and you as his co-headliner. before going out, he does a full “pre-game production”: lights low, his custom playlist blasting (yes, it starts with songs that have “fire” in the title), two glasses chilling, and an outfit approval runway where he literally spins you, fixes a cuff, then snaps a pic for the lookbook.

knows almost every doorman by name and tips like a menace. when you arrive, it’s never a line, it’s a hug from the bouncer, a “we saved your corner,” and johnny throwing an arm around you, saying “make sure my girl gets her drink first.” he thrives on that grand-entrance energy and makes sure you’re the reason heads turn.

he is obnoxiously good on a dance floor and uses it to flirt with you. he’ll back you into the center, hands on your hips, hyping you up like a choreographer. if a circle forms, he’ll wink, spin you, then bow to the crowd like you just performed at madison square garden.

constantly commissions custom stuff just to show you off. varsity jacket with your initials stitched next to his, a chain with a tiny flame charm and your birthstone, a phone case with some inside joke in gold.

he curates your glam drawer at his place like a Sephora satellite. duplicates of your skincare, the exact shade of lip you wear, hair ties in a crystal bowl, a silk bonnet because he asked a stylist what you’d want.

unashamedly an attention whore about couple photos. he scouts the light, tilts your chin, fixes his hair, then takes fifty shots rapid-fire. later, he’ll airdrop a curated album titled “us looking hot, vol. 9.”

he runs warm. winter dates mean he’s your personal radiator, his hands slip into your coat pockets to cup your fingers, he fogs your scarf with his breath on purpose, at home, he warms the bed before you climb in.

adores being your hype man in rooms that matter. charity galas, brand dinners, red-carpet chaos, he introduces you with your achievements first. “this is [name], they’re the reason i even get places on time.” it’s braggy, but about you. then he steals a canapé and feeds it to you mid-conversation.

johnny is “let’s fly somewhere for the weekend” impulsive, and learning to ask first. he’ll show you a flight confirmation to miami with a boyish grin, see your raised brow, immediately switch to, “or we stay, and i’ll bring miami to our living room.” he buys sand-colored candles and a bluetooth speaker.

he’s rich, so generosity is part of his flirting. he’ll pick up the tab for your friends without blinking, send a bottle to the table across the room because their birthday vibe was “a little sad,” and tip the coat-check enough that they slip your ticket to the top.

absolutely hijack a dj booth to get a shout-out for you on your birthday. confetti cannon? probably. cake with sparklers? definitely. he’ll feed you a forkful like you’re being knighted while the room screams.

reckless with himself, never with you. if an adrenaline idea crosses his mind he runs it by you first. if you hesitate, he scales it down or scraps it completely.

genuinely doesn’t understand the concept of “toning it down.” if you say “don’t make a scene,” he hears “make a bigger scene.”

he’s so spoiled but in that way where he’s constantly trying to rope you into it too. he doesn’t just want to enjoy fast cars and fancy rooftop bars on his own, he wants you in the passenger seat with your hair flying in the wind, in the VIP booth sipping champagne while he brags loudly.

he’s obsessed with racing, cars, bikes, anything fast. sometimes he takes you out late at night, just the two of you, weaving through empty city streets with music blasting.

you’ll never get used to the fact that he leaves little flaming messages in the sky for you. sometimes they’re cocky (“HOTTEST COUPLE ALIVE”), sometimes they’re sweet (“ FOREVER”), sometimes they’re just stupid doodles of a heart with flames around it.

he’s genuinely addicted to group hangouts with peter parker. johnny thrives on the banter. he drags you to double hangouts just so he can rile peter up and then kiss you obnoxiously in front of him. you often find yourself mediating between johnny’s cocky showboating and peter’s exasperated eye-rolls.

takes forever getting ready to go anywhere, and it’s infuriating. he’ll be in front of the mirror trying on shirts, ruffling his hair just so, spritzing expensive cologne, and then call out: “you almost done babe? we’re gonna be late.” —- he is absolutely projecting.

he can’t stand being ignored. if you’re distracted, on your phone, reading, whatever, he starts whining dramatically until you pay attention to him.

his spoiled side really shines when it comes to vacations. he refuses to do normal trips, if you’re going somewhere, it’s going to be first-class flights, ocean-view hotel rooms, and every activity booked to the max. his spoiled habits show at home too: he never does the dishes, he orders delivery constantly, and he treats the couch like his throne. but if you so much as sigh while cleaning up, he’s instantly over your shoulder, offering to hire someone.

addicted to being the center of your attention. if you laugh too hard at someone else’s joke, he’ll immediately one-up with a louder, crazier story. if you smile at your phone too long, he’s leaning over your shoulder, pouting, “who’s funnier than me?”

has a habit of revving his car obnoxiously loud outside your place when he picks you up. he wants everyone in a three-block radius to know you’re leaving with him.

he loves to party with you, but he’s clingy drunk. the minute the drinks hit, he’s wrapped around you, head on your shoulder, whispering nonsense in your ear while still somehow trying to be the loudest guy in the room.

uses his fire to show off in the dumbest ways, lighting candles from across the room, toasting marshmallows in your living room, writing “kiss me” in the sky.

not great at comfort in the traditional sense. if you come to him upset, he’ll immediately crack a joke, do a bad impression, or say something sarcastic. he doesn’t know how to sit in silence and listen, so instead he’ll distract you with wild antics, dragging you out for milkshakes, pulling you into a race through the city, or showing up with some ridiculous over-the-top gift.

when you do get him into “normal” life stuff, he sticks out like a sore thumb. at a laundromat, he complains loudly about the smell of detergent. at a dive bar, he’s making dramatic faces at the cheap beer. at a baseball game, he buys out half the concession stand just so he doesn’t have to stand in line twice.

bad with responsibility. he forgets plans, loses track of time, oversleeps. if you call him out he’ll charm his way back in, all puppy eyes and, “C’mon, you can’t stay mad at me, I’m adorable.”

has zero patience for things like budgeting, chores, or waiting in line. he’ll whine, “why are we standing here like peasants?” and then usually bribe his way into skipping. if you tell him no, he’ll pout dramatically, then lean against you like dead weight until you give in.

when he is sweet it’s almost accidental. like he’ll buy something ridiculous, and when you ask why, he shrugs, “dunno, just thought you’d look good with it.” or he’ll casually say something cocky like, “course I’m showing you off, you’re the hottest thing in New York,” without realizing how soft it actually comes off.

throws tantrums when he doesn’t get his way. not full screaming matches, more sulky, dramatic meltdowns. he’ll flop face-down on the couch, groaning into the pillow, muffled you don’t love me anymore just because you said no to going out at 2am for tacos.

so bad with jealousy. if he sees someone flirting with you his first instinct is to mock them to their face.

spoiled enough that he expects you to hype him up constantly. if you don’t tell him how hot he looks before a party, he’ll stand in front of you until you do. if you don’t clap at one of his stunts, he’ll call you out: “babe. applause. where is it?”

sometimes wakes up in the middle of the night and lights tiny flames just to check if you’re awake.

he’ll do a big stunt, lighting up, flying a loop in the sky, making fire-shapes, and then land right in front of you, smug as hell, and hold out his arms like he’s waiting for roses and a standing ovation. “yeah, i know. best boyfriend ever.”

if you’re cheering for someone else, even just at a sports game, he’ll pout and demand you cheer louder for him later.

he’ll crash whatever you’re doing just to hang out. studying? suddenly he’s lying across your notes. grocery shopping? he’s pushing the cart like it’s a race car. showering? he’s knocking on the door just to check in.

gets jealous of literally everything that takes your attention away from him. if you’re on your phone for too long, he’ll flop next to you and groan until you acknowledge him. he’ll nudge your shoulder, tug at your sleeve, even peek over your screen. it’s not that he thinks you’re ignoring him on purpose, it’s that he can’t process not being the center of your world. he wants you to drop everything for him.

takes credit for things he definitely didn’t do. if you cook dinner, he’ll sit at the table, swirling his fork like he’s on a cooking show, and say, “yep. i trained them. world-class chef now, thanks to me.”

johnny treats you like you’re part of his brand. not in a shallow way, but in that if i look good, you’ve gotta look good too mentality. he’ll drag you shopping with him, insisting on buying you clothes that match his vibe, because he wants people to see you two together and know you’re his. he loves coordinating outfits for big events.

literally signs things for you. posters, magazines, receipts, whatever. you’ll be looking through your bag and suddenly find “to my #1 fan, with love, johnny storm 🔥” scribbled across a random napkin. he thinks it’s hilarious and that you’re lucky to be dating someone who’s a celebrity.

he’ll buy merch of himself, t-shirts, action figures, posters, and gift them to you. he’ll hold out a shirt with his face on it and he actually gets pouty if you don’t wear it. he’ll try to convince you that sleeping under a blanket with his flaming silhouette on it is “peak romance.”

when you’re mad at him, he is terrible at apologies. he tries jokes first. if that doesn’t work, he escalates to grand gestures, skywriting SORRY BABE with flames or showing up at your door with ridiculous gifts. it’s not that he doesn’t mean it, it’s just that subtlety isn’t in his DNA.

insists on driving everywhere, not because you can’t, but because he loves showing off his cars. blasting music, windows down, revving the engine a little too loudly. he glances at you constantly to make sure you’re impressed.

his idea of “helping you shop” is carrying one bag and then getting distracted in the mirror section, fixing his hair while you haul the rest. if he sees merch of himself he’ll buy them “ironically” and then wear them around the house.

makes you take pictures of him constantly. at restaurants, in his car, when he gets a new jacket, when his hair looks good.

hates being bored, so he’s constantly pulling you into something. fireworks on a weeknight, a midnight swim, sneaking into a rooftop for the view. if you’re ever like, “johnny, can we just stay in?” he’ll groan, flop dramatically onto the couch, “fine, but only if i get to pick the movie.”

obsessed with the fast & furious franchise. he quotes it constantly, takes it way too seriously, and gets genuinely offended if you say something like “they should’ve stopped after the third one.” he’ll stand there with his jaw dropped like you just insulted his family.

he insists on marathon-watching the series with you every few months. he narrates every scene like you’ve never seen it before: “watch this—watch this part—this is cinema.” you’re not allowed to look away, because he’ll pause it until you’re paying attention.

he drags you to every new car show in the city, but the way he talks about them makes it sound like he’s showing you fine art. “look at the curves. look at that paint job. tell me you don’t feel something.”

you can’t watch any movie that has cars in it without him breaking down the realism. “that shift makes no sense. see, i could actually pull that off.” he’ll pause and rewind to prove his point until you’re ready to throw the remote.

obsessed with his reflection. will stop to fix his hair in every mirror, window, or shiny car door you pass.

when you’re watching movies together he cannot stay quiet. talks through every fight scene, critiques the CGI fire (always with a smug, “mine looks better”), and bets on who’s going to die first. if he’s wrong, he’ll argue about it anyway.

leaves small, random challenges for you. “race me to the mailbox,” “first one to find the remote wins,” “guess which coffee I’m drinking.” even mundane errands turn into playful competitions.

he’s obsessed with “firsts” — first time trying a new dessert, first sunset you watch together in a month, first time nailing a trick perfectly.

rearranges your furniture when you’re not looking. he thinks he can “improve the feng shui” or “make it more cinematic for instagram shots.” when you walk in and notice, he’s perched on the couch like a king, arms crossed, smirking, “see? perfect. trust me, babe.”

insists on picking out your outfits if you ask for help, and if you don’t like what he chose, he dramatically gasps,, and makes you try it anyway. he genuinely believes he has impeccable taste, and you let him, mostly because he throws a sulky tantrum otherwise.

hovers over your shoulder when you’re reading or watching something serious, making small commentary, asking questions, etc.

constantly tests your reflexes for fun. he’ll flick a tiny flame near your hand or feet, then grin like a mischievous cat to see if you flinch. when you do, he laughs and says, “gotcha!” like it’s the most satisfying victory.

started 8.28.2025. finished 8.28.2025.

( masterlist. )

©️ monicfever 2025

[monicfever]

foggy nelson as your boyfriend. 𝜗𝜚 hc’s

r e q u e s t e d ♡

cw ᝰ .ᐟ sfw ,, gn reader unless i slipped up somewhere ,, fluff ,, sunshine lollipops and rainbows

FOGGY AS YOUR BOYFRIEND… is steady. reliable. the kind of love that doesn’t just flare hot, but holds. he’s obsessed in the everyday way. the did you eat? way. the text me when you get home way. the always saves you the last bite without you asking way.

way too into trivia nights at bars. he’ll drag you there, bribe you with mozzarella sticks, and then get so competitive about it. doesn’t matter if the category is “18th century french painters” or “kardashian drama,” he’s slamming the buzzer with too much confidence. if you get something right he high-fives you like you just won the superbowl.

he’s a talker. loves filling silences with stories, weird trivia, half-remembered jokes. sometimes you’ll be doing something mundane, washing dishes, walking to the subway, and he’ll be telling you about some ridiculous client or what matt did in court that day.

terrible liar. when he tries to fib his whole face gives him away, eyes darting, mouth twitching, voice pitching up. it’s endearing. he’ll deny he ate the last cookie with chocolate on his lip. he’ll try to act casual about planning something for your birthday and it’s laughably obvious.

the type who calls you just to tell you something completely dumb, like “did you know if you hold in a sneeze your eyeball can pop out? don’t test it though, because then i’d have to explain to your family why you’re suddenly one-eyed.”

loves couple-y routines. sunday mornings are his favorite, coffee brewing, newspapers sprawled, him in sweats making too many pancakes because he always forgets “just enough for two” is not twelve. he acts scandalized when you don’t eat three stacks.

constantly forgets where he put his keys, his phone, his briefcase. blames “the universe conspiring against him.”

he lives for inside jokes. the stupider the better. one offhand joke about a client becomes a three-month-long bit he resurrects every chance he gets, just to watch you roll your eyes.

he sings in the shower. loudly. not well. usually 80s ballads, sometimes theme songs from tv shows you’ve been watching.

the type to text you from the other room with a bad meme instead of just calling your name.

if you’re stressed he’ll drag you out for a walk, holding your hand the whole time, pointing out random things (“look at that dog. that dog’s seen some things.”) until you’re smiling again.

his ringtone for you is embarrassing. like some cheesy love song or a ridiculous inside joke.

makes the worst puns imaginable, then looks so proud of himself. if you groan, he just says, “what? you love me.”

eats half the groceries before they make it into the fridge. you’ll walk in with bags, set them on the counter, and by the time you turn around he’s already ripped open a bag of chips.

leaves jackets everywhere. on the couch, on the back of chairs, over the banister. you’ll hang them up, then two days later there’s a new pile. swears he’ll get better. doesn’t.

will always try your food, no matter what it is. even if it looks suspicious. even if he doesn’t like it. “i’m just making sure it’s safe. you never know.”

has this habit of narrating your day like he’s a sports announcer. “and here they come, ladies and gentlemen, attempting the treacherous journey from couch to fridge… will they make it without tripping over the cat?!”

he will prank you, but they’re small stupid ones. like moving something slightly out of place just to see if you notice. then acting innocent when you accuse him.

laughs at his own jokes harder than you do. he’ll deliver a line, wait, and when you don’t react immediately, he’s already wheezing at himself. it’s contagious.

bad habit of talking with his mouth full when he’s excited. you’ll have to remind him to swallow. he’ll nod, swallow, then immediately start doing it again

the type to text you little updates throughout the day. not big paragraphs, just “guy on the train looks like danny devito” or “remind me to tell you what karen said” or “saw your favorite chips, bought them.”

worries about being enough. sometimes it slips out when he’s tired or tipsy, little self-deprecating jokes, comparing himself to “people with cooler jobs, or taller cheekbones.” he laughs, but his eyes flicker to yours, waiting for reassurance.

he gets fussy when you’re sick. comes home with three different types of soup “just in case.” sets up a ridiculous fort of tissues, tea, and medicine. hovers, apologizing for hovering, and hovers anyway.

arguments with him don’t last. he hates conflict. his voice gets tight, his face pinched, but he can’t stand the silence after. so he’ll circle back fast. knock gently on the bedroom door. “hey. can we talk? i don’t like this.”

has a running list of date ideas on his phone, ranging from rooftop movie to ‘ice skating even though i’m terrible and will die.’ half of them never happen, but the list is his way of proving he’s always thinking about what to do with you.

insists on trying every dumb couple’s trend, matching halloween costumes, joint spotify playlists, even couple’s yoga. he’s bad at it, but he’s the type who takes the pictures anyway and laughs about how awful you both look.

every winter he buys you ridiculous socks, bright patterns, cartoon characters, fuzzy textures.

has a knack for remembering the stupidest details. like the way you once mentioned you liked the blue gatorade when you were sick? now he stocks it in his fridge. you casually said you liked a dumb commercial jingle? he hums it to make you laugh when you’re upset.

pulls you into stupid adventures on a random tuesday night, like deciding you have to drive across the city for the “best pie in the tri-state area.”

he can’t sit through horror movies. he covers his eyes and then peeks through his fingers, but he insists on watching them with you.

doodles on post-its during the day, little stick figures of you, hearts, stupid jokes. you find them in your bag, your jacket pocket, slipped into your notebook.

foggy has this weird habit of naming inanimate objects. the couch is “larry.” the coffee machine is “old reliable.” your favorite pillow? “queen elizabeth the second.” he gets defensive if you don’t call them by their names.

amazing at theme parties. you’ll say, “hey, wanna do a 70s disco vibe for halloween?” and suddenly he’s got the wig, the bell bottoms, and is blasting abba while doing finger guns in the mirror.

whenever you say something sweet to him he acts like he’s dying. full clutch-the-chest, stagger-backward “oh god, i’m felled!” theatrics. then immediately, with no shame, “say it again.”

writes reminders on his hand all the time. stuff like buy milk or pick up dry cleaning. but then you’ll see one that just says your name with a heart, and when you tease him about it he says it helps him get through court.

will always stop to buy you flowers from the guy selling them on the street corner. it doesn’t matter if it’s a big anniversary or a random tuesday, if he sees someone selling flowers, you’re getting them. sometimes it’s a big bouquet, sometimes it’s just a single daisy he hands you with a sheepish grin. “don’t say i never spoil you.”

once bought a polaroid camera and went nuts. now you have a shoebox full of badly lit photos of you making dumb faces, eating takeout, or falling asleep on the couch. he insists they’re all art.

absolutely the boyfriend who gets roped into weird hobbies with you. if you decide you want to try pottery, he’s there, sleeves rolled up, making something that looks more like a lopsided ashtray than a bowl. but he’s so proud of it, he’ll put it on the coffee table like it belongs in a museum.

has a terrible poker face. if he plans something for you — a surprise date, a small gift, anything — you can tell instantly because he’ll look guilty as hell, fidgeting like a kid hiding candy in his pockets.

he loves going to random open houses. not because he’s in the market, but because he likes pretending you two are a couple looking for a dream home.

he has favorite pens and will actually get annoyed if one goes missing.

always, always tries to win you a stuffed animal at carnivals. he’s terrible at the games, but he refuses to give up until he gets one. once blew twenty bucks on a rigged basketball hoop just to hand you a sad little pink bear and say, “worth it.”

he’s got “the chair” in your place — the one he throws his bag, jacket, tie, and shoes near. it’s his unofficial dumping ground.

he has a comfort show that he forces you to watch with him when he’s stressed, something dumb like the office or parks and rec. but he knows all the lines, and quotes them at inappropriate times just to make you laugh.

the guy who’ll pull over just because you said “oh, that looks cool” about a random diner, mural, or flea market. his whole thing is: if you’re interested, it’s worth stopping for.

makes up traditions for you two on the fly. “okay, from now on, every time it rains, we have to make popcorn and watch a terrible movie. that’s our thing now. “

when you two walk anywhere together he insists on holding your hand. not in a subtle way either. he’ll swing your arms back and forth like you’re two kids, grinning at you like it’s the best part of his day.

talks through movies. “okay, no way that car actually exploded like that,” or, “you’d look better in that outfit.”

gets super into holiday decorations. halloween? cobwebs, fake gravestones, pumpkin lights. christmas? the tackiest inflatable santa on the block. he loves going all out.

weirdly good at finding free stuff. free museum day? he’s already got the passes. food truck festival? he’s dragging you there. sometimes it’s like dating a walking groupon.

the type to hum while doing chores. not just normal humming, he’ll make up nonsense lyrics about what he’s doing. “folding socks, saving the day, foggy nelson: laundry man.” you catch him and he’ll keep going louder.

he’ll start calling shared house objects “ours.” our coffee mug, our couch, our blanket. even if you bought it before meeting him.

has a soft spot for cheesy reality tv. if you walk in on him watching it, he’ll pretend it’s just background noise. ten minutes later he’s yelling at contestants.

buys kitchen gadgets he absolutely doesn’t need, mini waffle makers, weird avocado slicers, a “smart” toaster. he insists each one is life-changing. has this habit of talking to appliances when they don’t work. if the toaster burns something you’ll hear, “real cute buddy. you had one job.” it’s not even for your amusement, he just does it.

keeps random projects around the house: half-built lego sets, a jigsaw puzzle taking up the coffee table, a broken chair he swore he’d fix. they linger for weeks until one night at 2am he suddenly finishes them.

whenever he finds loose change in the apartment he tosses it in a big jar. one day he insists on cashing it all in and taking you out on a “penny-funded” date.

he always takes the trash out dramatically, like it’s a heroic quest. “don’t wait up for me. if i’m not back in ten minutes, avenge me.”

calls you for the smallest errands like it’s a life-or-death decision. at cvs: “they’ve got like… twelve kinds of toothpaste. what’s the difference between advanced whitening and advanced enamel whitening?!” if you don’t pick up you’ll come home to find him holding two options, looking betrayed that you left him unsupervised.

sometimes he cooks with way too much confidence, improvising wildly, and it either turns out amazing or borderline inedible. he still acts proud either way.

knocks into furniture when he’s half-asleep. you’ve heard more “ow—shit” at 3am than you can count.

foggy takes forever to get ready for bed because he always remembers “one more thing.” you’ll be under the covers and he’s still wandering around muttering about tomorrow’s schedule.

always leaves the bathroom door cracked open when he brushes his teeth so he can keep talking to you, foamy mouth and all.

when you’re cooking he sneaks bites off the cutting board like a kid. it’s worse if you tell him don’t touch. then he definitely touches.

he’ll fall asleep sitting up, arms crossed, like an old man in a waiting room. you find him like that on the couch all the time.

has this weirdly specific way of folding laundry that isn’t really “folding” so much as rolling. when you ask why, he shrugs and says, “saves space. marie kondo, but lazier.” the thing is, it doesn’t actually save space. it just makes your drawers look like burrito bins. you tease him about it, but if you try to refold his stuff, he’ll come behind you like, “nah, nah, nah, let me burrito it.”

every time you two grocery shop together foggy insists on getting one “mystery item.” sometimes it’s fun (a new candy bar, a weird soda flavor), sometimes it’s insane (pickled quail eggs, vegan shrimp, a jar labeled only in polish). he’ll hype it up in the cart like it’s a grand reveal: “ladies and gentlemen, tonight we dine… suspiciously.” half the time it goes uneaten. the other half, he tries to convince you he “kinda likes it” while looking vaguely ill.

ridiculously proud when he gets something “adult” right, like fixing a leaky sink with duct tape, or remembering to pay a bill early. he’ll strut around like, “look at me, mister responsible,” and you don’t have the heart to tell him that duct tape isn’t plumbing.

foggy gets really excited about the dumbest little discoveries, like realizing the couch cushions have removable covers. he’ll gasp and hold them up like he’s discovered buried treasure.

his ultimate romantic gesture is renting two scooters or bikes when you’re out together, even though he’s terrible at it. he’ll wobble along beside you, grinning like a kid, almost running into lampposts, but proud as hell.

buys seasonal pajamas. halloween ones with pumpkins, christmas ones with candy canes, valentine’s day ones with hearts.

narrates your pet’s thoughts (if you have one together, or if it’s just yours). if the cat’s staring at him, foggy will do a little voice like, “father, you have not filled my bowl to the appropriate level.”

loves introducing you to people. not in a braggy way, but in this proud, glowing way, like he can’t believe he gets to call you his. every time he says “this is my partner,” you can hear the smile in his voice. half the time he’ll end up telling a story about you before you even get a word in. (“did you know they once—”) you have to elbow him sometimes to get him to stop overhyping you.

he’s a lowkey gossip. he’ll come home from the office or a night out and immediately spill the tea. except he’s terrible at telling stories in order, so you’ll get, “so karen said— wait, no, first matt— no, okay, so there was this guy— anyway, karen was like, what the hell, and matt was all lawyer-y about it, but the point is, i got us free cannolis.”

takes horrible selfies but insists on sending them to you anyway. he’ll be half-blinking, or the angle is so bad it looks like he has three chins, and he’ll caption it with something cocky like, “your hot boyfriend, reporting for duty.” he refuses to retake them, because he thinks the bad ones are iconic.

he’s big on “theme nights.” you’ll come home and he’s like, “tonight? italian night.” suddenly he’s got pasta boiling, frank sinatra playing, and he’s trying to do an accent so bad it makes you cry-laugh. another week it’s “movie marathon night” and he insists on a lineup of three movies with snacks coordinated to the theme.

foggy is overly proud of you. you could accomplish the tiniest thing, like fixing a leaky faucet or getting a coupon deal, and he’s bragging about it to anyone who will listen.

cannot sit still when he’s excited about something with you. if you’re planning a trip, he’s pacing the room, rattling off ideas, googling restaurants, and then doubling back because he forgot what he was saying mid-sentence. he’s basically a golden retriever in human form, bouncing between ten ideas at once just because he’s hyped to share it with you.

has this way of turning every “boring” errand into an adventure. grocery shopping with foggy means pushing you around in the cart until an employee yells at him, sneaking random junk food into the basket, and trying to convince you to buy the weirdest cereal on the shelf. by the time you’re done you’re laughing like idiots.

cannot resist dancing with you in random places. kitchen? he grabs your hand, spins you. waiting for the subway? he pulls you close, humming. you’re embarrassed at first, but foggy’s grin is so wide, so unapologetically happy, that you just melt into it.

has a streak of stubborn protectiveness when it comes to your feelings. if someone hurts you he doesn’t always show his anger in public, but later you’ll hear him ranting in the kitchen to himself. “can you believe that? unbelievable. who even says that? i should’ve—” and he’s pacing, muttering like he’s rehearsing a courtroom takedown

loves kissing you just because. the small, buttery soft kisses that feel like a habit he can’t shake. brushing hair out of your face? kiss. pouring you a glass of water? kiss. walking past you in the hallway? kiss.

he’s all about little rituals. brushing teeth together, brushing hair together, reading in bed while your legs touch, swapping clothes for comfort. he thrives on these tiny moments, and if one is disrupted he’ll frown until it’s back in place.

he has an irrational fear of you leaving the apartment without your keys, even for five minutes. he’ll follow you to the door, checking your bag, your pockets, and your coat, muttering, “you’re not leaving without the essentials, right?”

obsessed with matching little things without you knowing. socks, mugs, even your pens on your desk, somehow they’ll all subtly match his color palette.

constantly giving you little “tickets” or coupons for fun stuff: a back massage, a movie pick, control of the TV remote, or even a “free argument win.” he keeps them in a jar and will randomly pull one out just to redeem it, sometimes dramatically waving it like it’s legal paperwork.

gets giddy when you playfully tease him. a sarcastic comment or a little mockery sends him into a fit of laughter, sometimes spilling coffee or dropping utensils. he’ll grab your hands and squeeze them, eyes sparkling, “you’re mean and perfect.”

insists on mini celebrations for the tiniest wins. cooked your first meal together without burning it? foggy whips out imaginary confetti and declares it a national holiday. got through a stressful workday? he’ll do a victory dance in the kitchen and insist you join him.

has a habit of announcing random compliments out loud when you’re not expecting it. you’ll be making breakfast and hear him go, “wow, you make scrambling eggs look like an art form.” he grins at your rolled eyes, proud of himself, and sometimes adds a bow, like a true dramatic gentleman.

loves to play guessing games with you. “Guess what I’m thinking?” or “what happens if we do this?”

has a ridiculous number of nicknames for you, all context-specific. “bean,” “schnookums,” “legal eagle,” “counselor,” “babe,” and he switches between them depending on the moment.

ridiculously into mini holidays. national ice cream day? he’ll be up at 8 a.m. googling the best local shops, dragging you to taste-test multiple flavors, and taking pictures like it’s a culinary expedition.

has random you need this moments. sees you looking tired? he magically appears with a cup of tea, a blanket, and a small snack. didn’t even ask, just materialized like a domestic wizard.

he constantly looks for ways to make your day easier. carrying groceries, opening doors, preparing meals, remembering deadlines, he loves being helpful and playful about it.

started 8.24.2025. finished 8.27.2025.

( masterlist. )

©️ monicfever 2025

[monicfever]

oh my gawwwdd im so happy uoure back ive missed my fave dd & punisher writer so baf😭😭😭🤏🤏🤏

AWW thank you twin you guys are far too sweet 😭😭🙏 i will carry this fandom to my grave i love it here and im happy to provide

[monicfever]

hi! i have really bad period cramps and was wondering if you’d write daredevil characters x reader who gets painful cramps? if your not comfortable with that it’s okay <3

your writing is so beautiful and i hope life is treating you well!!

reader w/ cramps 𝜗𝜚 daredevil & punisher hc’s

r e q u e s t e d ♡

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

⏜︵ MATT MURDOCK. 𐂯

He knows. Before you even tell him. The change in your body temperature, the subtle shift in your heartbeat, the way your breathing carries strain, he picks up on all of it. He doesn’t announce it, but he files it away.

He becomes hyper-attentive without making a big scene. Suddenly you’ve got water on the nightstand, your heating pad plugged in, and painkillers already slid across the counter toward you. He does it all casually, like it’s no big deal.

Matt is surprisingly prepared. He keeps a stock of pads/tampons in the bathroom cabinet “just in case,” neatly tucked away where guests won’t notice. It’s not a big announcement, it’s just done. He’d rather you never have to panic at 2am about not having what you need.

He’s good with touch, he can tell exactly where the tension knots in your abdomen and lower back. He’ll rub slow, grounding circles into your hips, press the heel of his hand just where you need counterpressure, rest his palm warm and steady over your stomach.

If you’re curled up in bed miserable he sits behind you and lets you lean back against his chest. He wraps his arms around you like a brace, letting his body heat sink into yours. You can feel his heartbeat against your back coaxing you to relax.

He absolutely scolds you if you try to tough it out and pretend you’re fine. “Sit down. Rest. Let me take care of you.” His voice gets that stern softness that makes it hard to argue.

If pain keeps you up at night he’ll stay awake with you. Sitting in the dark, whispering stories, reciting jokes half under his breath, humming little tunes. Anything to distract you from the ache until you drift off.

He’ll run errands for you without complaint. Pharmacy run? Done. Chocolate at midnight? He’s already on his way. A specific brand of tea you like? He memorized the smell of the box.

If you’re too exhausted to move he insists on making food for you, something simple but warm, like soup or oatmeal. He hovers awkwardly if you don’t eat, trying not to push but clearly worried.

He notices everything. The subtle shift in your breathing when a cramp hits harder, the faint wince in your posture. His hand is immediately there, grounding you, rubbing your thigh or lower back.

He doesn’t care if it’s “gross.” If you bleed through sheets, he strips the bed himself. “It’s just fabric. It washes. Don’t apologize.” His tone is final, no room for shame.

On bad days when you can’t get comfortable, he builds you a ridiculous fortress of pillows and blankets on the couch. He props you up until your body finally finds a position that hurts less.

If you’re irritable he absorbs it without complaint. You snap at him, he just tilts his head with that small, patient smile.

If you don’t want to be touched he respects it instantly. He’ll sit nearby, reading aloud from a case file or scripture, keeping his voice low and steady like background music. You get comfort without pressure. If you do want to be touched, he’s all in. He’ll press deep, steady massages into your calves and thighs, knead out knots in your lower back, even rub slow circles over your stomach if that helps.

He’s weirdly good at distracting you. He’ll tell dumb little lawyer jokes, rant about Foggy’s latest antics, or start a mock debate just to get you riled up enough to forget the pain for a second.

He insists on tracking your cycle mentally. Not in a creepy way, just so he can be ready. He notices the hormonal shifts, the subtle changes in your scent, the tension building days beforehand. He quietly prepares, stocking the cabinet, making sure the heating pad cord isn’t tangled, rearranging his schedule if he can.

And if you joke bitterly about your body betraying you, Matt doesn’t let it slide. He tilts your chin toward him. “You’re strong. Don’t talk about yourself like that.”

⏜︵ FRANK CASTLE. 𐂯

Frank notices immediately. He doesn’t need to be told, he sees the way you move slower, the way you curl an arm over your stomach, the sharp inhale when a cramp hits. He’s not the type to call it out, but his whole demeanor shifts, watching you out of the corner of his eye.

He doesn’t talk about it, doesn’t make it awkward. He just starts adjusting things for you. Pulls the blanket over you without comment, slides a glass of water within reach, sets painkillers on the table.

He’s extremely matter-of-fact about it. No squeamishness, no awkward jokes. If you bleed through sheets or clothes, he doesn’t even blink. Tosses them in the wash like he’s dealt with worse (because, well, he has). He’d sooner eat glass than let you feel embarrassed.

Frank’s old military brain kicks in. He runs through solutions like he’s troubleshooting gear: painkillers, heating pad, hot shower, food. He’s not chatty while he does it, he just wants you stable.

He keeps supplies in the house because you need them. Doesn’t matter if it’s pads, tampons, chocolate, or tea, he’ll make damn sure they’re stocked. He won’t even tell you when he buys them, just tucks them away like it’s another weapon in the arsenal.

He’s good at pressure and grounding touch. When you’re curled up with cramps he’ll place his hand flat over your stomach or your lower back, applying just enough weight to ease the ache.

He’s warm like a furnace, so he becomes your personal heating pad. He’ll pull you onto his chest, wrap his arms around you, and let his body heat do the work. You end up tucked under his chin, blanketed in warmth and steady heartbeats.

If you try to get up and do things while you’re clearly hurting he shuts it down immediately. “Sit your ass down. I got it.” His voice leaves no room for arguing. He’ll take over the chores, the cooking, the errands. You’re not lifting a finger.

He’s not great at verbal comfort, but his actions speak. If you’re in bed hurting, he’ll quietly cook you a meal. He doesn’t ask what you want, he just makes something hearty and warm and puts it in front of you. If you don’t eat, he doesn’t push, just sets it aside for later.

He’s not above running out at 1am if you need something. If you mumble that you want ice cream, he’s already grabbing his jacket. He comes back with way more than you asked for, half the store in his arms.

He doesn’t hover or smother. He gives you space if you need it, but he’ll always be within earshot.

He’ll build you the most absurdly fortified blanket nest on the couch or bed. Layers of blankets, pillows arranged just right, heating pad tucked in. He stands back and looks at it like he just built a defensive perimeter. “There. Comfortable.”

When you’re irritable, he takes it in stride. You snap at him, he just raises a brow. “Yeah? You done?” He won’t hold it against you.

He doesn’t call it “taking care of you.” To him, this isn’t special treatment. It’s just what you do when you love someone. You’re in pain, so he shoulders the load. Simple as that.

He might be gruff, quiet, a little awkward, but every move he makes says the same thing: You hurt. I’ve got you.

⏜︵ FOGGY NELSON. 𐂯

At first, he’s not subtle about it. The moment he realizes how bad it hits you he blurts out something like: “Oh my God, you look like you’re dying—wait, I didn’t mean it like that!” He panics for half a second, then switches into full caretaker mode.

Foggy is a researcher at heart. He’ll Google every possible thing that helps with cramps: teas, heating pads, vitamins, stretches. Half of it’s from questionable blogs, but he’s trying. He makes mental notes for next time.

He stocks the apartment like he’s prepping for a natural disaster. Heating pad? Check. Ibuprofen? Double check. Snacks, chocolate, ginger tea, a ridiculous variety of comfort foods? You open the fridge and it’s like a convenience store.

He’s the kind of boyfriend who buys pads/tampons without flinching. He’ll even text you from the drugstore: “Okay, there are like fifty different boxes. Wings? No wings? Extra long? What’s the protocol here? Help.”

He talks through it while cooking for you, too. “You need iron, right? Is that a thing? I’m making you a burger. Burgers solve everything. And if that’s not medically true, don’t tell me. Let me have this.”

He gives surprisingly good massages. He’s not delicate about it, he digs into knots in your back and thighs with solid pressure. He cracks dumb jokes while doing it because he doesn’t want you to feel self-conscious. “Nelson & Murdock: Attorneys at Law AND licensed massage therapists. Full service.”

He insists you don’t lift a finger when you’re hurting. If you so much as reach for a glass of water, he’s up in a flash: “I’ve got it.” He’ll bring you everything like a golden retriever who learned how to use DoorDash.

He’s very good at distractions. He’ll throw on a movie marathon (probably something ridiculous like Legally Blonde or Lord of the Rings) and provide constant commentary. He doesn’t even care if you talk through it, he’ll pause, rewind, and recap without a complaint.

He teases gently when you’re grouchy. Not to mock you, but to keep things light. “Okay, wow, that glare could kill a man. Luckily, I’m un-killable… right? Babe?”

If you need space he respects it, but he’ll hover in the next room just in case. He’s bad at pretending he’s not worried though, you’ll catch him peeking in with snacks every half hour. If you do want company he becomes the best cuddle pillow imaginable. He’ll pull you onto his chest, wrap his arms tight, and let you bury your face against him while he rubs your back. He’s warm, solid, and smells like laundry detergent.

He cracks jokes about the “injustice” of periods. “You’re telling me half the population just suffers through this every month? That’s criminal. I should file a lawsuit against biology itself.” He says it like he’s half-serious.

If you bleed through the sheets he doesn’t even blink. He’ll strip the bed, toss everything in the wash, and say something dumb like, “Good thing I got the fancy detergent, huh?” so you don’t feel embarrassed.

He will 100% order food if nothing in the kitchen appeals to you. Pizza, dumplings, ice cream — whatever you want, it’s on the way. “Comfort food is a medical necessity. Doctor Nelson prescribes it.”

He remembers your preferences. If you once offhandedly mentioned that hot showers help, he’ll make sure the bathroom’s prepped with clean towels and candles. If you said a certain tea makes you feel better, it’s suddenly always stocked.

He’s terrible at “just resting” himself, but when you’re in pain, he’ll gladly drop work, skip the gym, ignore emails. He’ll make an entire weekend out of lying on the couch with you, watching trash TV and passing you snacks.

He loves making you laugh when you’re miserable. He’ll do voices, impressions, even break into bad karaoke if it gets you to smile. “What, you’re too weak to stop me. You’re trapped. It’s just me and Journey for the next three hours.”

He’s not embarrassed by any of it. If you’re curled up with cramps, messy bun, old sweatshirt, heating pad strapped around you, he thinks you’re still beautiful. He’ll kiss your temple and say it like it’s the most obvious truth in the world.

He doesn’t let you apologize. Not for the pain, not for the mood swings, not for needing care. Every time you start, he shuts it down with a firm but gentle, “You’ve got nothing to be sorry for.”

⏜︵ KAREN PAGE. 𐂯

Karen always has a stash ready, pads, tampons, painkillers, heating patches, not just for herself but because she knows how awful it is to be caught unprepared. She probably has a little basket in the bathroom with everything you could possibly need.

She’s thoughtful about the little things, like keeping a heating pad plugged in and folded at the end of the bed, or slipping Midol into her bag before heading out with you “just in case.”

When cramps hit hard Karen moves into caretaker mode instantly. She’ll bring you water without asking, dig out your favorite blanket, and crawl in beside you with this soft determination to make sure you’re not alone in it.

She’s clingy in the sweetest way when she’s helping, resting her chin on your shoulder while she rubs slow circles on your stomach, or spooning you from behind to keep the heating pad in place.

Karen is all about distraction. She’ll put on a comfort show or movie (something she knows you can quote by heart) and crack little jokes to draw your attention away from the pain. Sometimes she’ll start telling you wild stories from her early days in New York, knowing it’ll make you laugh.

She notices your moods immediately. If you’re irritable, she doesn’t take it personally. She just softens her voice and makes herself useful without hovering too much.

Karen’s solution to everything is “I’ll make it cozy.” She lights candles, tidies the room, puts a mug of tea in your hand, and settles in beside you like she’s building a cocoon where you can rest safely.

She’s tactile by nature, brushing your hair back, kissing your temple, rubbing your arm while you talk. Karen is surprisingly patient with this. Even though she can be impulsive and messy in other parts of life, when you’re hurting she slows down and softens. She doesn’t rush you or try to fix things beyond what you actually want.

She has a habit of checking on you too often: “Do you need more tea? Another pillow? Should I warm up the pad again?” And when you insist you’re fine, she just curls up next to you, content to stay until you drift off.

Karen knows when to talk and when to stay quiet. She’ll chat with you when you need company, or just hold you in silence when that’s better. She has an instinct for it, maybe from all the times she’s comforted others before.

If you fall asleep she becomes extra careful, turning down the volume on the TV, moving slowly so she doesn’t wake you, brushing her thumb over your hand while she watches over you.

Will absolutely go down the “holistic remedy” path at least once. She’ll show up with ginger tea, essential oils, or a heating patch she swears she read was “life-changing” in some forum. Even if it doesn’t work, her enthusiasm is sweet.

She adores the excuse to take care of you. Karen likes being needed, not in a codependent way, but because she loves fiercely and wants to be your safe place. If it means holding your hair up while you lean over the sink or running to CVS at midnight, she’ll do it without hesitation.

The type to apologize even though it’s not her fault. “I’m sorry you feel like this, honey.” You have to remind her it’s not something she caused.

⏜︵ ELEKTRA. 𐂯

“You look like death. What’s wrong with you?” When you admit it’s cramps, she nods and files it away. She’s not squeamish, but she’s also not overly gentle about it.

If you get grouchy she will snap back. Elektra’s not one to put up with attitude without giving it back. But the difference is that even if she rolls her eyes or makes a cutting remark, she’s still right there, not walking away. Her way of showing care is staying, even when the mood turns sour.

She doesn’t run to the store for snacks like Karen, she already knows what you crave and will bring it home without asking. If you complain about wanting chocolate, she’ll smirk and toss a bar onto your lap: “Already ahead of you.”

Elektra’s patience is selective. If you’re whining too much, she might groan and say, “You’re worse than a knife wound.” But five minutes later she’s lying next to you, hand lazily tracing circles on your hip.

She has zero problem with blood talk, obviously. She’ll even tease you about it, but in a way that only Elektra could make darkly funny instead of cruel. Something like: “Darling, you’d never last in one of my fights if this takes you down.”

Comfort from Elektra is backhanded but real. If you’re doubled over she’ll tell you to stop being dramatic while simultaneously getting you a heating pad, setting it exactly where you need it, and muttering about how pathetic you look.

She’s not touchy-feely in the sweet sense, but she’s tactile in the grounding sense. If you’re restless with pain, she’ll pin you with her body weight until you stop fidgeting. If you glare at her, she smirks: “See? You’re calmer already.”

Elektra doesn’t do “nurse mode,” but she does do distraction. She’ll tell you wild stories from her past, or bait you into an argument just to keep your mind occupied. Sometimes her way of pulling you out of the pain spiral is giving you something sharper to focus on: her.

If you snap at her she won’t sulk. She’ll either laugh in your face or fire back something equally cutting. But later, when you’ve quieted, she’ll nudge against you in bed like a cat who forgives on her own terms.

She hates seeing you vulnerable, even if she won’t say it. Sometimes she’ll sit there watching you with this unreadable expression, like she’s trying to memorize how to fight your pain for you but can’t.

Elektra is the type to force water into your hand. If you resist, she’ll arch a brow and say, “You want me to pour it down your throat?” You drink it just to shut her up, but she smiles faintly like she’s won.

When the pain finally passes she pretends she wasn’t worried at all. She’ll make a sarcastic comment like, “Congratulations, you survived. I should get you a medal.” But the next time your cycle comes around she’s already stocked up and ready without saying a word about it.

If you actually cry that’s when her façade cracks. If tears slip out she goes still. Her sarcasm dies, and she just watches you, this heavy look in her eyes like she doesn’t know how to fix it but desperately wants to. She’ll touch your hair and mutter, “You’ll be fine. You’re stronger than this.” It sounds like tough love, but the tenderness is there, buried under her pride.

⏜︵ BEN POINDEXTER. 𐂯

Immediate hyper-awareness. The way you curl up, the subtle hitch in your breathing, the extra groan when you shift on the couch, he’s reading it all. His chest tightens immediately, and he hovers closer than usual, asking softly but rapidly, “Are you okay? Are you hurting? Should I get you something?” He can’t help himself; your pain triggers his hyper-focus.

He panics if routines are disrupted. Dex has a mental checklist: heating pad, medication, water, blanket, snacks, distraction. If he can’t find one of these things immediately, he gets frantic. He might mutter under his breath: “Where is it? Why isn’t it here? I put it right here…” and then scramble to improvise a solution, often apologizing profusely for taking a “wrong step.”

Over-prepared, but obsessive. If he’s learned your cycle Dex is already ready. Heating pads tucked in multiple spots, medication dosed and lined up, water glasses prepped, snacks organized by texture and sweetness level. He’s obsessive about making sure everything is exactly how you like it.

Needs constant reassurance. He hovers and repeats things like, “Do you want me to sit closer? Do you want me to touch your stomach? Are you sure you’re okay?” He’ll ask the same question multiple times because he worries about missing a sign of pain.

Physical care is intense. Dex will sit behind you on the couch, curling around your body to press a warm hand or heating pad against your stomach or lower back. He won’t let you flinch away, he’ll softly grab your hands or arms to steady you, “I’ve got you. You can lean on me.”

Obsessive environmental control. Dex notices if lights are too harsh, sounds too loud, blankets too scratchy, or the air too dry. He’ll adjust everything constantly, sometimes muttering to himself about temperature, pillow position, or blanket folds until he’s satisfied that the environment is optimal for your comfort.

Food is a hyper-focus. Dex will obsess over exactly what you can tolerate, soft foods, bland foods, foods that won’t trigger nausea or cramps. If you refuse something he panics slightly, muttering, “It’s okay, it’s okay, we’ll find something else…please eat…” He might hand-feed you a bite of something safe just to make sure you get nutrients.

Emotional clinginess. Dex can’t help himself from holding onto you. He will want to spoon, hand-hold, or have your leg draped across him. He can become almost frantic if you push him away, softly pleading, “Don’t move…please let me help…” rooted in a desire to soothe your pain physically and emotionally.

Medication vigilance. Dex keeps track like a drill sergeant. He times painkillers, double-checks dosages, keeps a mental log. You are not skipping your medicine.

If you allow it he might start little routines: adjusting your blanket repeatedly, rubbing circles on your back, tapping a soft rhythm on your arm. These are calming for him as much as for you.

Hyper-aware of discomfort. He notices every micro-flinch, every wince, every tensing of muscles. Dex will stop at nothing to adjust your position, readjust blankets, reposition pillows, even shift his own body if it’s pressing uncomfortably against you. If you even twitch away he panics a little and reassesses the whole setup.

Emotional regulation is fragile. Dex can spiral if he feels helpless. If your pain spikes or you cry, he may panic briefly, muttering apologies like he caused it. “I’m sorry…sorry…why can’t I make it better? I should be able to fix this…” It takes gentle grounding from you to get him to calm down.

Protective instincts. Dex can be possessive during these times. If anyone texts or calls unexpectedly, he may shoot them a glare while holding you. Not aggressive in a dangerous way, but defensive: “You’re with me right now. Let me do this.”

Hyper-attuned to your comfort quirks. Dex remembers exactly how you like your blanket tucked, how your pillow must be propped, what side of the couch you prefer. Even a tiny shift in temperature or blanket placement will send him into anxious readjusting. “No, no, lean this way, no, your arm’s too high…like this.”

If you suddenly groan or clutch your stomach harder than usual he’ll freeze for a second and then immediately hover. “Are you okay? Do I need to call—no, no, you’ll be fine, I just—are you okay?” He’s always teetering between calm and micro-spirals.

Watching you like a hawk. Dex can’t stop himself from visually tracking your every movement. If you shift, he flinches; if you make a small sound of discomfort, he jumps slightly and mutters, “Don’t…don’t do that.”

Dex will pile blankets and pillows in a protective fortress around you, making sure you’re cocooned just right. Sometimes he steps back and mutters to himself, “Better…better…no, you need one more pillow…”

Fussy about noises. If the TV is too loud or the house creaks, he’ll hiss or mutter: “Shhh…shhh…don’t hurt your head…don’t move…” Has a focus on keeping the environment “quiet enough”.

Long-term ritualization. Dex will start to quietly track your cycles if you allow it, preemptively preparing snacks, heating pads, and comfort setups before the day hits. It’s almost like a tactical plan, preventing your suffering before it starts.

⏜︵ BILLY RUSSO. 𐂯

You don’t get up with him one morning, no coffee made, no shuffle of footsteps, just you cocooned in bed. He assumes you’re just sleeping in. It’s only when he comes back from the shower and you’re still in the exact same position, curled into yourself, that he narrows his eyes.

He doesn’t ask right away. Billy is the type to observe first, put the pieces together. He sits on the edge of the bed, towel around his neck, dripping water onto the sheets, and studies you. His tone when he finally speaks is smooth but edged with knowing: “What’s wrong with you, huh? You never stay in bed when I’m up. Don’t tell me you suddenly got lazy on me.”

When you brush him off with a muttered “I’m fine”, he snorts, leans down to kiss your temple,, “Yeah, and I’m the Pope. Try again, sweetheart.”

Once it clicks — cramps, pain, something physical — he gets almost smug about noticing. “Knew something was off. You’re not that good an actress.” There’s affection in it, the way he likes being right because it means he knows you that well. He doesn’t nag you to get out of bed. That’s not Billy’s way. Instead, he makes bed the command center: brings water, Advil, a heating pad he digs out of the closet. If you’re stubborn, if you mutter “don’t baby me”, he grins, rests his hand on your thigh, and says, “Oh, I’m gonna baby you.”

He’ll slide back under the covers still damp from his shower just to be pressed against you. He’s warm, “See? Better than a heating pad.”

Billy can’t resist teasing. If you snap at him, roll your eyes, or get grouchy, he just smirks. “You’re hot when you’ve got an attitude. Remind me to piss you off more often.” He takes your irritation as a sign of life, and instead of flinching, he indulges it.

He also spoils you in ways that feel seamless, not overbearing. He’ll call out for takeout before you think to ask, leaning in the doorway with his phone in hand, “So what’s it gonna be? Thai or that overpriced pizza you like? Don’t say nothing, we both know you’ll eat the second it shows up.”

Orders same-day delivery of ridiculously expensive dark chocolate, casually tossing the bag on the bed like it’s no big deal.

Billy is sarcastic, but he never makes you the joke. It’s always the situation, or himself. “Look at me — CEO of a private military company, reduced to hot water bottle duty. If the guys could see me now…” He says it with a grin while tucking the blanket tighter around you.

If you stubbornly try to get up, he blocks you. Steps in your path, arms crossed, towering. “Uh-uh. You’re not moving unless it’s to the bathroom. You think I’m gonna watch you stagger around like Bambi on ice? No, baby. Back to bed.”

Your bad mood doesn’t scare him. If you snap, “You’re hovering too much,” he just grins wider, voice dropping: “Get used to it. I like hovering over you.” He enjoys the push and pull, the little fights that mean you’re comfortable enough to bare your edges.

And when it’s really bad, when you’re quiet instead of snappy, face pinched from the pain, Billy’s bravado drops. He gets gentle, tucks in beside you without a word, holds you with a solid arm around your waist. No teasing then, just his heartbeat against your back, grounding you until sleep pulls you under.

Later, when you wake up, he’s still there, scrolling through his phone with his free hand, thumb tracing idle circles over your hip. “There she is. My favorite patient. You survive?” His smile is soft, smug, and entirely for you.

He has zero shame in talking about it. He’ll say it with the same voice he uses when talking about quarterly profits. You’ll groan and tell him to shut up, but he just smirks: “What? I’m just saying, it’s impressive how much of an asshole you can be when you’re in pain. Kinda makes me proud.”

Has a knack for making everything about him while still centering you. If you’re in sweats and look miserable, he’ll kiss your cheek and murmur: “Lucky me, though. I get to have the most gorgeous wreck of a human in my bed. Don’t let it go to your head.”

Will absolutely take pictures of you if you fall asleep looking soft, curled up under his arm with messy hair. Not for mocking, not to post, just for himself. But he’ll act like he’s teasing when you catch him: “What? You look good like this. Don’t get shy now.”

If you insist you’re fine and try to go out anyway, he doesn’t forbid you, just makes himself part of the plan. “Great, we’re going then. I’ll drive.” You roll your eyes, but the way he keeps one hand on your thigh the entire ride makes it impossible to argue.

⏜︵ DINAH MADANI. 𐂯

She’s not oblivious, but she’s trained to read danger before personal discomfort, so if you wake up in pain and stay in bed it takes her a minute to put work-mode away. Once she clocks it though she doesn’t miss a thing. Her gaze sharpens, and suddenly she’s there: leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, voice soft but firm. “How bad is it?”

If you downplay it she mirrors your tone, but you can feel her studying you like she would a suspect. “Mhm. Sure. That’s why you can’t get out of bed.” It’s not cold; it’s her way of pushing back against your deflection.

Dinah gets grouchy if you get grouchy with her. She’s not the type to absorb your irritation without response, she pushes back. If you snap, “Leave me alone,” she’ll fire back, “Don’t tell me what to do in my own damn apartment.” It can spark, but the edge dies quickly; she never holds it.

She has a soldier’s practicality: first move is always assessment. “Heat or ice? Medication or food first?” She runs through the options like she’s triaging, and if you don’t answer, she decides for you.

Dinah makes you tea instead of coffee when you’re hurting. Doesn’t explain it, doesn’t ask if you want it. Just sets it down beside you with a brusque, “Drink.” And if you roll your eyes, she quirks a brow. “You’re welcome.”

She doesn’t coddle. That’s not her way. She’ll sit on the edge of the bed, half-turned toward you, scrolling through her phone for work emails, but her free hand will be resting lightly on your leg the whole time.

When you’re visibly uncomfortable Dinah’s sarcasm softens. Usually her humor has bite, but when you’re hurting, she teases you gently: “You look like you lost a fight with my mom’s rug.” Just enough to get a smirk out of you.

Dinah has a hard time slowing down herself, so if you force her to, she actually thanks you in her own way. She’ll lie down beside you, arm tucked under her head, sigh like she hasn’t done it in months. “Don’t think I’ve stopped moving since Kabul. You might be good for me, y’know.”

If you won’t eat she gets sharper. “No, you don’t get to starve yourself because you’re uncomfortable. Not happening.” And she’ll put food down in front of you like it’s non-negotiable. When you do finally eat, she hides her satisfaction, but you can feel it.

Dinah’s the type to argue with doctors if she thinks you’re not being listened to. She’s seen enough bullshit reports and dismissive men in suits, she won’t let anyone brush off your pain.

If you’re restless in bed she adjusts with you. If you toss and turn, she shifts without complaint, letting you settle against her shoulder or chest. She’ll murmur without opening her eyes: “Better?”

Dinah can’t stand feeling helpless, so she finds ways to take control, setting alarms for your meds, rearranging the pillows, pulling the curtains to block the light.

Dinah doesn’t like being shut out. If you try to hide how bad it is she calls you on it.

Sometimes she takes her stress out on you without meaning to, snapping short when she’s juggling work calls and your needs. But she always circles back later, sits on the bed with her shoulders heavy.

When she’s home late she checks on you first thing. Jacket still on, shoes still by the door, she’s at your bedside, brushing her fingers against your arm to wake you gently if you’ve fallen asleep.

When the pain finally eases she teases you again. “Glad you’re back. You were starting to get really annoying.” But there’s relief in her smile, and when you roll your eyes at her, she kisses your temple.

⏜︵ MUSE. 𐂯

He doesn’t comfort. He immortalizes. Your pain becomes sketches on napkins, scrawls across the walls of his studio, abstract spirals in red and black.

He will ask with eerie tenderness if he can use your blood. “Yours would stain differently. Deeper. Personal.” He says it like it’s romantic.

His version of caretaking is terrifyingly pragmatic. He will feed you, yes, but he’ll also tilt his head while watching you eat, fascinated by the movement of your jaw, the way the food disappears.

If you cry he doesn’t hand you a tissue, he dips his thumb into your tears, drags the wetness across his canvas, and whispers: “Perfect. Don’t stop.”

He doesn’t tuck you in. He paints you while you sleep, capturing the curve of your body in the sheets, the way your chest rises and falls. You wake to dozens of sketches scattered across the floor.

When you’re too weak to move, he hovers, not worried, but awed. “Fragile things break prettiest. Don’t you think?”

He has no patience for doctors. He sees them as thieves trying to dull the “realness” of what you’re feeling. “They’ll scrub you clean. I like you raw.”

i was really struggling for this one ngl mb yall

⏜︵ JAMES WESLEY. 𐂯

He has an eye trained for weakness in others, but when it comes to you it isn’t cruelty, it’s vigilance. A shift in how you walk, a falter in your breath, he’s already adjusting the evening. Canceling meetings, rearranging schedules with a flick of his phone.

He doesn’t ask if you’re alright. He informs you: “You’re not well.” And when you protest, he meets you with that immovable calm.

Wesley doesn’t waste words. He sits on the edge of the bed, jacket still buttoned, cuffs immaculate, and sets down your medication like a contract. “One now. Another in four hours.”

His way of care is efficiency. He will have your prescriptions refilled before you notice they’re low, food delivered without being asked, and fresh sheets put on the bed because he knows pain makes rest difficult. He makes pain management almost luxurious. A glass of water with ice exactly how you like it. Soft, expensive blankets. The room cooled or warmed just enough.

He does not hover, but he never leaves. He sits in a nearby chair, working through calls and paperwork with that measured voice, but his eyes flick to you every few minutes.

If you snap at him his patience is infuriating. He doesn’t raise his voice, doesn’t snap back, just tilts his head slightly, studies you like he’s watching a child throw a tantrum, and says, “Are you finished?” Then, softer: “Good. Drink this.”

If you apologize for being difficult he doesn’t scold. Instead he studies you, voice even: “If you think your suffering inconveniences me, you don’t understand me at all.”

He does not abide neglect. If a doctor dismisses you, Wesley’s voice hardens to steel. He won’t shout. He won’t threaten. He’ll simply say, “I don’t believe you’ve grasped the seriousness of this matter.” And the doctor, somehow, always grasps it after that.

When you can’t sleep he reads to you. His voice is low, even, hypnotic. You drift off to the rhythm of numbers and facts, comforted by the steadiness of him.

He notices the smallest signs of improvement before you do. A deeper breath, less tension in your shoulders. He doesn’t comment, but there’s a subtle satisfaction in his eyes when he sees it.

If you try to keep working while in pain he’ll take your laptop out of your hands without warning. “No.” That’s all he says. And you don’t get it back until you’re resting properly.

Wesley doesn’t joke much, but with you, the dryness sharpens to humor. If you groan about being pathetic, he’ll murmur: “I’ve dealt with worse liabilities.” Delivered so smoothly you don’t realize it’s affection until he smirks.

When your frustration boils over, when you curse or throw something in anger at your pain, he doesn’t flinch. He simply waits, then approaches, picking up whatever you discarded. “Feel better?”

Wesley hates losing control, of himself, of situations, of you being in pain. His voice grows colder when he’s worried, precise and clipped, because it’s the only way he knows how to hold himself steady.

When you thank him, h doesn’t brush it off, he inclines his head slightly, lips twitching at the corner. “Of course.” Like loyalty was always inevitable.

And when you finally recover, Wesley recalibrates everything back to normal. Meetings return, work resumes, the world spins again. But his watchful eye never lessens.

started 8.24.2025. finished 8.26.2025.

( masterlist. )

©️ monicfever 2025

[monicfever]

guh your writing is so good,,,,, i’ve been rewatching the punisher and found you in my scrolling and i’m thrilled :)) not an ounce of mischaracterization here finally some good food. can i suggest some micro content eight whole years after he stopped gracing our screens? i miss that little weirdo So much

sandwhich rivalry. 𝜗𝜚 david lieberman .

A chaotic sandwich war in the kitchen spirals into laughter, mayo-streaked cheeks, and tomato battle wounds. In the wreckage of bread and laughter, he rediscovers what it feels like to be here — with you.

—- SFW !

There was a peculiar kind of quiet that comes only after noise, the sort that hums in the aftermath of a house finally settling down for the day. It wasn’t silence, not really. The refrigerator clicked alive every few minutes, the old pipes groaned with water moving somewhere unseen, and the faint chorus of the city outside bled through the thin window glass. Life continued. Yet inside the kitchen, it felt almost suspended, like the air itself was holding its breath.

David had been learning to live again. That was the unspoken truth of the day, and perhaps every day since he had come back, not from death exactly, though it might as well have been. People didn’t vanish from the lives of those they loved and simply return without consequence. It was resurrection in the smallest, most human sense: the tentative re-entry into the world, into laughter, into bread crumbs scattered across the counter. He moved through it all with a kind of clumsy grace, as if he was a guest in a house that used to be his own.

The kitchen was bright in the lazy way of late afternoon. Sunlight spilled over countertops, caught on dust motes drifting like slow golden confetti, and outlined the uneven stacks of plates in a glow that made them look almost celebratory. The air smelled faintly of toasted bread, warm and grounding, the kind of smell that reminded you how ordinary miracles could be. There was something philosophical in it, if you cared to look: that life could fracture so violently, and still, somehow, it returned to this, two people in a kitchen, considering the architecture of a sandwich like it was something worthy of debate.

And perhaps it was.

Because when the world had been torn apart, the small arguments mattered more than anyone could admit. The architecture of a sandwich was laughably trivial and yet, in that moment, it was also sacred, a place where voices could rise without breaking anything fragile, where disagreement didn’t risk loss, only laughter. The kitchen bore witness to it like a chapel: sunlight streaming across the cutting board, shadows pooling in the corners, the whole scene painted in soft gold.

David stood at the counter like it was a stage, sleeves rolled, hair slightly disheveled from running his hands through it one too many times, his expression caught somewhere between intense seriousness and obvious amusement. He wielded a butter knife like a conductor’s baton, gesturing with it as he made his case.

“Mustard goes first,” he declared, stabbing the air for emphasis. “First. Non-negotiable. You spread it directly on the bread so it can, you know, fuse with the structure. It’s chemistry.” He nodded to himself as if he’d won, as though the universe itself backed his logic.

You leaned against the opposite counter, arms folded, eyebrows raised, the picture of stubborn opposition. “That’s ridiculous.” The word lingered in the warm kitchen air, daring him. “You don’t put mustard first. You put mayo first. It acts as a barrier. It’s protective.”

David dropped his head back down, giving you the kind of squint usually reserved for people claiming the earth was flat. Then, deliberately, he reached for the slice of bread already waiting on the cutting board, perfectly aligned, mustard spread edge-to-edge in an even golden coat that would have made a chef weep.

He lifted it like proof. “You see this? Structural integrity. This baby could survive a hurricane.” He tapped the bread lightly with his finger, as though knocking on a wall to prove it solid. “They’ve got… load-bearing condiments. They’re architectural feats. If the Romans had me back then? Forget the aqueducts. We’d be talking mustard-ducts.”

You rolled your eyes, pushing off the counter just enough to peek at his work. And damn it, you hated that he was right. The bread wasn’t soggy, the mustard wasn’t bleeding through, everything about it looked… professional, annoyingly so.

“Okay,” you admitted reluctantly, “it looks… decent.”

“Decent?” David clutched at his chest in mock injury. “You wound me. This is a sandwich you bring home to meet your parents.”

You snorted. “Your ego’s showing.”

He smirked, leaning just enough across the counter to meet your eyes. “Admit it—you’re secretly impressed by my sandwich craftsmanship.”

“Craftsmanship?” You arched a brow. “It’s bread and mustard.”

“Bread, mustard, and genius,” he corrected, wagging the knife at you. Then, with the gravitas of a priest at communion, he layered cheese and tomato with surgical precision, like he was defusing a bomb. Every movement was meticulous. “See, it’s not just what you put on the sandwich, it’s how. Geometry. Balance. Distribution. You don’t just slap it together. You build it.”

You shook your head, lips twitching despite yourself. “You’re ridiculous.”

David’s eyes narrowed, though not with real irritation, there was too much of a gleam behind them, that restless, boyish energy that always seemed to come alive when he was right about something. Or at least when he thought he was. He leaned back slightly, sandwich still open-faced on the board, and waggled his eyebrows like some smug professor waiting for the class to admit defeat.

“Ridiculous,” he echoed, drawing out the syllables as if tasting them. “You say that now, but when you’re standing in awe at the perfect, structurally sound sandwich, who’s going to look ridiculous? Not me.”

You crossed the kitchen slowly until you stood just across from him. Sunlight stretched over the counter between you both, gilding the edges of bread crusts, scattering against the knife like it was a relic. His whole performance had the energy of someone presenting the Rosetta Stone, and you couldn’t help it, your hand twitched, the thought slipping in uninvited and mischievous.

One small nudge, one little sabotage, and his whole empire would topple.

So you reached out, quick as lightning, and pressed your finger right into the center of his carefully balanced tomato slices, pushing them sideways just enough to ruin the symmetry.

The gasp he made was theatrical, drawn straight from the chest of a man betrayed. He jerked the board away, cradling the sandwich like it was a wounded bird. “What did you just—” His voice cracked halfway, climbing into disbelief. “Did you just—sabotage?”

You were laughing now, spilling out warm and unstoppable, the kind that filled the kitchen and bent the golden air around it. “It was begging for it,” you teased. “All that geometry, that balance looked too fragile to me.”

David looked personally offended, but the corners of his mouth twitched. “Fragile? This sandwich could survive the apocalypse. You, on the other hand—” he set the board down firmly, pointing the knife at you with mock menace “—are about to witness the rematch of the century.”

A challenge.

And suddenly the kitchen wasn’t just a kitchen. It was an arena. The refrigerator’s hum became a drumbeat, the traffic outside a restless crowd. Sunlight itself seemed to tilt, spotlighting the battlefield: bread, condiments, and pride.

“Fine,” you said, reaching for your own slices of bread, slapping them down with an air of defiance. “Let’s see if your little engineering degree holds up against actual artistry.”

“Oh, artistry,” David repeated, voice rich with sarcasm as he pulled open the fridge with a dramatic flourish. “Yes, Picasso, please show me how mayonnaise on white bread qualifies as modern art.”

The next few minutes were a symphony of clattering jars, crinkling bags, and overlapping voices, your own sharp comebacks against his rambling lectures about proper layering technique. You slathered mayo thick across the bread with defiant strokes, while he glanced over like a horrified schoolteacher.

“You’re flooding the foundation,” he sputtered, gesturing helplessly with his half-built sandwich. “That’s mayo overload.”

“It’s called flavor,” you shot back. “Not that you’d understand, Mr. Geometry.”

Somewhere in the chaos, David’s sandwich looked less like the architectural marvel he had promised and more like the Leaning Tower of Condiments. He was working too fast, trying to outpace you, and a slice of lettuce slipped rebelliously sideways. His muttered curse only fueled your grin.

And as you placed your final slice of bread on top, sealing in your deliberately imperfect but gloriously overstuffed creation, you couldn’t resist reaching across the counter—again—to poke at his. Just enough to send his precarious lettuce sliding out altogether.

David’s eyes went wide. His hands lifted in slow-motion horror. “You’re a monster,” he whispered.

His whisper of horror hung in the kitchen like the dramatic climax of a stage play, and then, like any true dramatist, he snapped back with a vengeance. Before you could even defend yourself his hand shot out across the counter with the speed of a man who had survived government manhunts, and with one deliberate flick of his finger, he pressed down on the crown of your carefully placed bread.

The overstuffed insides squelched outward with a sigh, tomato sliding free and skittering onto the cutting board like a runaway wheel. Mayo oozed from the sides in thick white streaks. Your masterpiece collapsed into chaos. You froze, staring down at the crime scene. David leaned back with the slow, satisfied smile of a man who had just pulled off the perfect heist. “Now we’re even.”

“Even?” Your voice rose incredulously. “That was sabotage.”

“Sabotage?” He gestured to the remains of his own lettuce disaster. “That was justice.” He reached for your sandwich remains, plucking a slice of meat from the corner with maddening casualness, like a thief strolling out of a bank. “And frankly—” he took a bite mid-sentence, chewing smugly, “—it’s delicious.”

You swatted at him, but he ducked back just in time, laughing through a mouthful. “David!”

“What?” He pointed the half-eaten slice at you like a professor scolding a student, but his grin gave him away, edges softened by something warm in his eyes.

You groaned, grabbing fresh bread. “Fine. Round two. And this time, no interference.”

“Interference?” David feigned innocence, licking a stray bit of mayo from his finger. “I’d never. I’m a man of integrity.”

“Integrity, my ass.”

The rebuild began, more aggressive this time. Each swipe of the knife, each stack of lettuce was a declaration of war. David mirrored you, muttering to himself like a general drawing up battle plans, occasionally humming with exaggerated seriousness as he weighed the “engineering merits” of pickle placement.

The counter became a battlefield again: bread crusts scattered like rubble, mustard smears, lettuce casualties sliding to the floor. Somewhere in the middle of it all he deliberately nudged your elbow just as you reached for the knife. The blade skidded, mayo smeared across your knuckle. You glared at him. He grinned, utterly unrepentant.

“Accident,” he said, far too quickly.

“Accident, huh?”

Before he could dodge, you swiped the mayo back across his forearm in one bold streak. He stared down at the white smear, jaw dropping. “You—” He laughed, sudden and helpless. “Oh, you’re dead.” David lunged with the reckless glee of someone who had absolutely surrendered to war. He scooped up a rogue piece of lettuce and slapped it against your wrist like it was a green flag signaling combat.

You yelped, swatting at him with your mayo-coated hand. It left a pale streak across the shoulder of his shirt.

“Unbelievable,” David gasped, staring at the mess like he couldn’t believe the betrayal. “This is a vintage shirt.”

“It’s Target.”

Already reaching for a slice of bread, he slapped it onto your arm where it stuck for an absurd half-second before sliding down to the floor. “Sandwich armor. You’ll need it.”

You laughed so hard your stomach hurt, but you refused to yield. With the ferocity of a gladiator, you snatched up a tomato slice and flung it at his chest. It landed with a perfect splat, leaving a wet red mark dead center like a cartoon bullet wound.

David staggered back, clutching the tomato to his shirt. “I’ve been hit,” he groaned, dropping to one knee, milking the moment with Oscar-worthy tragedy. “Tell my kids… I fought bravely.” His grin broke through the theatrics as he rose, sweeping up two slices of bread like pistols, one in each hand. “But mark my words, I will have revenge.”

You shrieked when he advanced, sandwich halves held at the ready. “David—don’t—”

Too late. He lunged, pressing both slices against your cheeks with alarming accuracy, smushing them just enough to leave mustard stripes and crumbs clinging to your skin. He drew back, triumphant. “There. You’re officially a sandwich. My greatest creation yet.”

You stood frozen, cheeks sticky, dignity in shreds. Then slowly, you reached across the counter, grabbed the jar of mayo, and dipped three fingers straight into it. David’s eyes widened. “Don’t you dare—”

You smeared it across his jaw like war paint.

He broke, laughter erupting sharp and loud, doubling over with his hands braced on the counter. “God, you’re impossible,” he wheezed, streaked with mayo, tomato, crumbs, both of you wrecks in the golden afternoon light.

The kitchen looked like a battlefield, but it was absurdly beautiful: the kind of scene no one would believe if you described it later. Two grown people reduced to laughter and sandwich shrapnel, waging war over nothing and everything at once.

David wiped at his cheek with the back of his hand, eyes bright with that dangerous warmth that always lived just under his sarcasm. “Alright,” he said, voice hoarse but amused, “truce. Before we end up inventing a new kind of cuisine nobody wants to eat.”

You tilted your head smirking. “On one condition.”

“Name it.”

“You admit my sandwich was better.”

His laughter broke open again, filling the kitchen like sunlight. “Not a chance.”

Your smirk lingered, daring him, but David only shook his head, still laughing. Before you could jab back with another retort his hands slid suddenly around your waist. With one smooth motion he lifted you off the floor and set you onto the counter, right amid the wreckage of crumbs and fallen lettuce.

You gasped, surprised, but the moment you landed your knees parted instinctively, and he stepped in close. His palms settled firmly on your thighs, thumbs brushing slow arcs against the fabric like he couldn’t help himself. For a heartbeat he just looked at you like he was memorizing you, like this was proof that he was really here, alive, with his hands full of something he thought he’d never have again. And then he leaned in.

The kiss started tentative, soft pressure against your lips that melted almost immediately into something fuller. You felt the warmth of him everywhere, the steady weight of his hands anchoring your thighs, the heat of his chest pressing between your knees, the faint scratch of stubble catching against your skin when he tilted his head.

You kissed him back with all the chaos of the afternoon poured into it, messy, eager, unguarded. The mayo streaks and mustard smudges no longer mattered; the world shrank to the press of his mouth and the way he sighed against you, like kissing you hurt in the best possible way.

When he pulled back for air, his forehead rested against yours, his smile smaller now but truer. “God,” he whispered, voice rough with something he couldn’t joke away, “I forgot what this feels like.”

Your hands slid up his shoulders, fingers curling into his shirt, pulling him closer. “Feels like you’re back,” you murmured.

He let out a breath that trembled just enough to betray him. His thumb rubbed absently against your skin, grounding himself in the proof of you. And then he kissed you again, hungrier this time, like he’d decided he was allowed to want this, allowed to hold onto it, even if the rest of the world had once convinced him he shouldn’t.

The kitchen was wrecked, the sandwiches destroyed, but none of it mattered. For the first time in far too long, David Lieberman wasn’t a ghost in hiding or a man running from shadows. He was just here, with you, laughing and kissing in the mess you’d made together.

Alive in every sense of the word.

started 8.26.2025. finished 8.26.2025.

( masterlist. )

©️ monicfever 2025

[monicfever]

I love the way you write Billy Russo. He's such a slimey, charming guy I'm obsessed with him. I'd love literally anything about him specifically. Idc if it's dating h/c, him being a FREAK. literally everything you write is golden. 🤠

billy russo as your boyfriend. 𝜗𝜚 hc’s

r e q u e s t e d ♡

cw ᝰ .ᐟ obsessive tendencies ,, dark themes ,, gn reader unless i slipped up somewhere ,, manipulation ,, this man is a manipulative two faced lying narcissist btw but he’s hot so

BILLY RUSSO AS YOUR BOYFRIEND . . . is charm weaponized. he's all smiles and touches, but it doesn’t take long to realize the way he loves is more like possession.

he doesn’t fall in love, he decides to. and when he decides it’s you it’s over for everyone else. suddenly your favourite coffee shop is under his name, your apartment has upgraded locks, and your favourite author’s next book is mysteriously dedicated to you. he doesn’t do flowers. he buys the florist.

he's arrogant, but only because he can be. people bend for him, beg for approval, you challenge him. make him work. he lives for it. you’ll argue over dinner and he’ll grin like you just kissed him. “god, i love that mouth,” he’ll mutter, leaning back with a glass of red, eyes gleaming like he’s already won.

manipulates people around you under the guise of protecting you. your annoying coworker? suddenly demoted. your nosy landlord? mysteriously cooperative. you never asked him to interfere, but things just… work out when billy’s in the picture.

weirdly domestic in the most unsettling way. folds your laundry. pays your bills. syncs your calendars. not because he wants control, because he wants to make himself indispensable. because the more of your life he’s part of, the less of it you’ll live without him.

he lives for being babied. pretends to hate it. grumbles when you kiss his forehead or tuck him in or stroke his hair. “i’m not a kid,” he mutters, but he leans into it. sighs when your fingers scratch his scalp. melts when you call him “baby.” once, you kissed the tip of his nose and he literally shut down for fifteen seconds.

says shit like “you’re obsessed with me.” while he’s lying in your lap, arms around your waist, blinking up at you like you’re his entire oxygen supply.

he’s terrifying when he’s hurt. not loud, not dramatic. just quiet, withdrawn, calculating. he’ll disappear behind expensive suits and silence, and you’ll feel it, that chill in the air. when you ask what’s wrong he’ll just smirk. “nothing, sweetheart. just thinking.” and you’ll know he’s burning.

doesn’t ask you to stay. he makes it impossible to leave. he weaves himself into every part of your life, your routines, your friends, your tastes. gifts you a new phone and transfers your data himself. his contact is the first one in favourites.

he never says i love you casually, he says it like a threat. like the world would burn before he let anything happen to you. and when you say it back, his eyes go dark, not soft. hungry. like he’s already thinking of what he'll do to keep you.

he’s frustratingly charming. so good at talking circles around you that sometimes you forget you’re mad until later, when you’re alone, staring at the ceiling like did he really just win that argument with a wink and a quote from shakespeare? yes. yes he did.

gets under your skin in the worst and best ways. makes you furious and flustered in the same breath. calls you trouble with a smirk that means mine. teases you until you threaten to leave, and then he goes quiet, dead serious. grabs your wrist and pulls you back. “you don’t leave.”

he’s good at apologies (especially ones he doesn’t really mean) — dangerously good. shows up with your favourite alcohol. kisses you before he speaks. takes the blame even when you know he’s lying. “you’re right. i fucked up. let me make it up to you, yeah?” and he always does. too well. too easily. like he planned the fight just to win you back.

“accidentally” meets your friends and instantly becomes their favorite. he knows how to code-switch — turns up the charm, plays the polished CEO. they call him dreamy, protective, so sweet. you know better. you know that smile’s hiding teeth.

he makes you feel like royalty. like you were made to sit on his lap while he makes business calls, one hand stroking your thigh under the table.

gives you options but always tilts them. “you can stay here tonight or go home, baby. either’s fine.” then he taps your toothbrush on the counter and says, “it’s already here.” he’s always crafting the illusion of choice, you just always end up where he wants you.

he never begs, not out loud. but it’s in the way he touches you, the way his eyes linger too long, the way he always pulls you closer in his sleep, like he’s scared you’ll vanish. like maybe — just maybe — the great billy russo still doesn’t believe he deserves to keep you.

dresses you in his shirts without asking. not in the cute, teasing way, in the "you should wear this, it'll look good on you" way. fixes your collar. buttons you up himself. adjusts the cuff like he’s tailoring you into his world.

knows too much about you, not because you tell him, because he finds out. he’s nosy, but he makes it sexy. digs through your drawers under the guise of “looking for a charger.” scrolls through your playlists and says things like, “funny… didn’t know you were in your feelings last tuesday at 11:47 p.m.” like he didn’t go through your spotify history.

he reads your texts over your shoulder with zero shame. you’ll catch him and he won’t even flinch, just raise a brow.

never gets tired of touching you. he’ll rest a hand on your thigh while you talk, brush your hair behind your ear mid-conversation, run his thumb over the inside of your wrist without realizing.

he’s the worst when you’re being quiet about something. he’ll just stare at you, watch you fidget, and then lean in. “you gonna tell me what’s on your mind or do i have to find out myself?” and you know he will.

maddeningly possessive, but he makes it look good. he’s not clingy, he’s strategic. gets your schedule before you do. books your appointments. calls your boss when you’re “sick.” makes your life easier so he can stay wrapped around it.

loves arguments. not because he likes fighting, because it means you care. gets this wild little smile when you snap at him. “there you are,” he’ll say, low and amused. pulls you close by the jaw, “don’t stop. i like it when you get mean.”

the kind of man who puts your name in places you wouldn’t expect, security clearances, penthouse access codes, the deed to something expensive and unreasonable. not to trap you, to tie you to him.

gets jealous in subtle ways. switches seats to sit between you and someone who talks too much. changes topics with a smile that feels more like a blade. gives your hand a squeeze that means you’re not going anywhere.

he’s indulgent, excessively so. you say you like a snack one time and your kitchen’s stocked with it for the next six months. mention a dream vacation and he’s already bought the resort.

he owns your wardrobe. not literally (though, he could), but emotionally. sees you in something new and gets that look. slow drag of the eyes, the once-over that makes your skin hot. “you wore that for me?” and when you say no just to mess with him he smiles. “you will now.”

shamelessly dramatic about your absence. you leave for a weekend trip and he texts you like you’re at war. “this bed is too cold without you.” “my coffee tastes like shit.” “i miss you. everything’s too quiet.” and when you do come back he doesn’t let you out of his sight for hours. “you were gone forever.” he’ll grumble into your neck.

billy as your boyfriend who never lets anything slide. not a single shift in tone. not a change in posture. you could blink weird and he’s already narrowing his eyes, asking, “what’s wrong?” and when you say nothing, that crooked little smile appears. dangerous. amused. “baby, i can tell when you’re lying. want to try that again?”

the kind of man who will pick a fight just to be close to you. you roll your eyes one too many times, and suddenly he's crowding your space, hands on either side of your face, voice velvet and venom. “got something to say, sweetheart?”

he does not believe in personal space. ever. you’re brushing your teeth? he’s behind you. folding laundry? he’s got a hand on your hip. grocery shopping? he’s pressing a kiss to your neck in the cereal aisle. he’s attached.

he has plans. backups for the backups. exit strategies, emergency contacts, secured locations. if anything ever tried to take you from him he’d end it. no hesitation. no forgiveness.

dangerously good at pretending everything is fine in front of others; calm, collected, polite. but the second the door shuts? the second he’s alone with you? the mask drops. “don’t you ever do that again.”

he buys property in your name. doesn’t even mention it. you find out when you get a key with a ribbon on it and a soft, smug “thought you might need a place to clear your head. it's yours.” like it’s not the most insane flex of devotion you’ve ever seen.

acts like he’s doing you a favor by showing up at your place three nights in a row uninvited. “what, you didn’t think i’d let you sleep alone again, did you?” he says like he’s so above it, but his eyes scan the room for signs of anyone else. his voice dips. “you missed me, right?”

fish-hooks compliments out of you with fake indifference. puts on a new shirt and goes, “does this look stupid?” even though he knows he looks good, just wants to hear you say it. wants to hear you want him. when you give in he does that smug little smirk like he won.

he needs constant reassurance but will die before asking for it directly. instead he says things like, “you’ll still be here when i get back, right?” or “i’m not that easy to get rid of — unless you’re thinking about it.” and then pretends like he was joking. but his hand’s gripping yours a little tighter, just in case.

spoils you rotten, not just with gifts or dinners. he spoils you with attention. looks at you like the world’s most fascinating book. listens when you ramble. encourages every idea. “you’re brilliant,” he says like it’s a fact, not a compliment. “they don’t deserve to hear you talk the way i do.”

books you hotel rooms just because he’s “tired of the view.” says it like it’s nothing, but everything about the suite is curated: champagne you like, dim lighting, silk robes, no neighbors. he wants you dependent on his taste, wants you to associate luxury with him.

gets possessive about things that aren’t even threats. someone compliments your outfit? he pulls you in closer. someone’s just a little too friendly? he starts bringing you to work events with a hand on your thigh. later, in private: “you don’t need their approval. you’ve got mine.”

lies easily. subtly. about little things, sometimes just to see if you notice. says he doesn’t do it to you, but he absolutely withholds things if he thinks it’ll protect you. or protect him.

leaves bruises on your hips and then helps you pick an outfit that hides them. “c’mere, let me see — yeah, that one works.”

talks about your future in strategic ways. never full-on let’s get married, more like: “this place is too small for both of us.” or “you’d look good in that house by the water.” or “you wanna have breakfast here every day, don’t you?”

he hates when you’re mad at him. acts like he’s above it, pacing the room, huffing, talking shit under his breath, but he keeps glancing at you. keeps checking if you’re looking at him.

if you’re upset he doesn’t know how to comfort gently. he sits too still, jaw clenched, eyes on you like he’s studying a blueprint, but he brings you water. kneels in front of you, wipes under your eyes with his thumb and says, “tell me what happened.” and he means it. he wants names.

whenever you talk about leaving, just a passing comment, even joking, his whole body tenses. smile too calm, voice too smooth. “don’t say things like that,” while brushing a knuckle over your jaw. “you wouldn’t make it very far without me.”

if you get distant he doesn’t ask questions, he just shows up uninvited. at your door with dinner, or waiting outside your job.

says things like “you’re not like them” and “i know you better than they do” just to isolate you, little by little. he wraps you in warmth, gifts, protection, so much comfort that it starts to look like love.

billy’s stubborn in the way he loves. if you ask for space, he’ll grumble and sulk like a child, but he respects it.

he knows when you’re lying before you say a word. his eyes sharpen, his posture shifts, and there’s this electric tension between you. sometimes he calls you out. sometimes he lets it slide, waiting for the moment you come clean.

uses your past against you without ever making it obvious. “i remember when you didn’t trust anyone,” he says if you try to pull away. “don’t go back to being that version of you.”

pretends he doesn’t get jealous. but his mood shifts when someone else makes you laugh. he goes quiet. gets thoughtful. next day, you find out that person got reassigned. relocated. fired.

gets annoyed when you mention an ex, even offhand. “why are you thinking about them?” he says, light voice, but sharp eyes. later that night he kisses your throat too rough, hand firm on your waist like he’s trying to erase every trace of anyone who ever touched you before him.

picks out your clothes sometimes. not in a way that feels controlling, not at first. he just lays something out on the bed: your favorite sweater, the jeans that fit best. “wear this,” he says, and kisses the top of your head. “you’ll look good in it.” you start to realize he only ever picks things he bought you.

when he wants something he doesn’t ask twice. “come with me.” and somehow you always say yes, even if your gut tells you to pause. he’s just so… convincing. (hypnotized 🌀🌀)

keeps your favorite mug in his kitchen. your favorite tea in the cabinet. but if anyone else uses it, even one of his friends, he gets cold. short-tempered.

billy doesn’t ask you to stay home, he just makes being with him so soft, so easy, that the idea of going out feels ridiculous. he orders your favorite takeout before you mention being hungry. sets up a movie night without needing to ask what you’re in the mood for. you blink and it’s 10 p.m. and you haven’t moved from his chest all day.

he likes to feed you. cut a bite off his plate and press it to your lips without warning. he smiles when you chew. always asks if you’ve eaten, but you know it’s more than concern, he wants to keep you healthy, yes, but mostly? he likes seeing you depend on him.

calls you “baby” in public, always. never your name. his version of affection isn’t subtle, it’s a brand. a label. he wants everyone to know you’re his.

“when we move,” “when we have a place upstate,” “when you’re done with work, we’ll—” never “if.” billy makes promises in the form of expectations.

you do errands together. you didn’t plan to, you just mentioned needing to stop by the store and suddenly he was there, keys in hand. billy makes everything feel easy, makes people step aside for you in line, holds your basket without asking, kisses your temple while you compare cereal boxes.

spoils you with food. expensive restaurants, candlelit tables, your chair already pulled out before you sit. he orders for you sometimes. when you go somewhere casual he still tips outrageously. people remember him. they always do.

he doesn’t handle rejection well. if you pull away — even for a second — he gets quiet. not sulking, just... still. watching you. trying to figure out what changed. and then he makes it up to you. extravagant, overwhelming, suffocating with sweetness. flowers. gifts.

buys two tickets to every event whether you want to go or not. gallery openings. galas. private parties. and when you say you don’t have anything to wear, a new outfit appears on the bed. your size. your style. your favorite color. he doesn’t pressure, he just plans, and you always end up going.

loves your routines. encourages them. holds your hand through your rituals like they’re sacred. if something helps you, makes you feel stable, calm, grounded, billy will build your whole world around it. not because he’s kind, because he wants to be the one who gives you that safety, and because if he knows your patterns, no one else can use them against you.

you mention a random thing you want, a book, a pastry, a candle that smells like firewood, and it appears within the week. no fanfare. no receipt. just sitting on your counter or nightstand like it grew there. you look at him and he just lifts a brow like, “what? you said you liked it.”

never lets you walk behind him in public. even in crowded rooms, even on stairs, you’re always beside him, or slightly ahead. his hand never leaves your back. you think it’s gentlemanly. it is. it’s also tactical. he keeps you where he can see you.

billy never has to raise his voice to get his way. he just says things that make you question your memory. your judgment. your gut. “you really think that’s what happened?” or “i think you’re just tired, baby. let’s talk about it tomorrow.” or “that’s not what i said, you’re just taking it wrong.” he’s so calm about it that you start believing him. of course he’s right. he always is.

he buys you things to replace things. clothes he likes better. perfume he thinks suits you more. a new phone, just because. he wants you wrapped in the version of you he’s curated, the perfect thing that only he gets to touch. it never feels like pressure. it feels like spoiling. like care. until you try to wear the old jacket or talk to the old friend, and he just says, “you don’t need that anymore.”

he’s good at making you feel like the problem when you try to set boundaries. not cruel, not aggressive, just disappointed. like, “i thought you trusted me.” or “i don’t get why you’re being like this.”

he asks you questions that sound innocent but aren’t: “you liked him?” / “funny guy, huh?” / “what was so interesting about her story?” and then says, “i’m not mad. just wondering.” but you can feel it. the jealousy hanging off his voice.

when he’s feeling possessive he gets clingy. insists on driving you everywhere. walks you to work. makes sure he’s the one you go home to, and if you're late his texts start piling up. not angry, not demanding, just checking in… over and over. "where are you, baby?" / "you okay?" / "call me." each one a little colder.

takes you out to restaurants that don’t even have menus. quiet ones tucked away on upper floors with low lighting and wine lists longer than your arm. he’s friends with the staff, knows the chef by name, orders for you with ease. “you’ll love this,” he tells you, and you do. he watches your reactions carefully after each bite, like it’s a test he’s passing.

gets competitive with little things. card games. mini golf. anything you can bet on. “winner picks the movie.” “loser does the dishes.”

leaves little things behind so you’ll think of him. his watch on your nightstand. cologne on your scarf. a message scribbled on a napkin in your kitchen.

his love is warm. indulgent. suffocating. he never stops making you feel adored. wanted. protected. but you realize, slowly, that there’s no part of your life he hasn’t touched. no decision he hasn’t influenced. no room in your head that doesn’t echo with his voice.

started 6.20.2025. finished 7.27.2025.

( masterlist. )

©️ monicfever 2025

[monicfever]

maybe autistic reader hcs,,,, preferably dex :p

ben poindexter x autistic!reader. 𝜗𝜚 hc’s

r e q u e s t e d ♡

cw ᝰ .ᐟ obsessive tendencies ,, sfw ,, gn reader unless i slipped up somewhere ,, headcanons ,, autistic!reader

DEX WITH AN AUTISTIC PARTNER . . . watches you more than he breathes. not in a way that’s suffocating, to you, at least. he watches because you make sense. you’re one of the only things in his life that ever did. the way you line up your silverware. the way you hum when you concentrate. the way your face changes when the light is too bright or the world is too loud. he memorizes it all. he doesn’t forget.

he learns your sensory triggers without needing to ask. dimmer switches installed in his apartment before your third visit. noise-canceling headphones bought in two colors, black for him, your favorite for you. his voice drops when you flinch, like instinct. “you okay, baby?” soft, low, just for you. like he’s the only one allowed to touch your edges.

he doesn’t get overwhelmed when you stim. in fact he loves it. watches your fingers flick, your legs bounce, your breath catch, and it soothes something deep in him. he starts giving you little things without explanation. a keychain with a satisfying click. a velvet ribbon. a smooth stone. he leaves them on your desk like offerings.

his obsessive brain finds comfort in your routine. he likes knowing what you’ll do, where you’ll be, what you’ll eat. he likes patterns. you’re his favorite one. and if you ever let him be part of your routine you might as well have married him.

he’s insanely protective. if someone mocks your infodump, if they make a joke that lands too close, if they say that word that always makes you freeze? dex’ entire body goes still. his jaw tics. his knuckles crack. later, they’ll find their tires slashed. or worse. you’ll never know it was him.

you don’t always want to be touched, and he learns that too. never questions it. never makes it about himself. he sits nearby instead. close, but not too close. legs crossed, arms folded, eyes always on you.

he masks sometimes, years of it. it’s survival. but when he’s with you he lets go. his voice shifts. his shoulders drop. he rocks a little when he’s anxious, and you never say anything, so he keeps doing it. he stops hiding the cracks.

he mirrors you so hard it’s ridiculous. if you flap your hands, so does he. if you wear your headphones a certain way, he copies it. if you start drinking peppermint tea, suddenly he’s obsessed. he doesn’t always realize he’s doing it. “you’re just smart,” he says when you point it out. “i figure you must know what’s good.”

he makes scripts with you. not because he needs them, but because you do, and that means he does now too. he’ll sit beside you on the couch, mapping out what to say at the grocery store or the party you’re both dreading. “do you want me to do the talking?” he asks. “i don’t mind. i like people less than you do anyway.”

when you infodump he listens like it’s gospel, even if he doesn’t get it. even if it’s about bugs or trains or colors or something you’ve told him a hundred times. “tell me again,” he says, eyes locked on yours. “you sound good when you talk about stuff you like.”

he’s not scared of meltdowns. he handles them with military precision, lights off, blanket up, voice low, body near. if you lash out he doesn’t flinch. if you cry he lets you. if you go silent he waits. he’s patient in ways no one ever was for him. because it’s you, and you’re worth waiting for.

he doesn’t always understand what you’re feeling. he’s not great with empathy. but he tries. god, does he try. because if it’s you, he wants to get it right.

you teach him what you need and he learns fast. you don’t like being touched unexpectedly, so he starts asking every time. “can i hug you?” “can i sit here?” “can i play with your hair?” it doesn’t matter how long you’ve been together. he always asks. it makes you feel safe. he likes that.

he doesn’t care if you stim in public. not even a little. he’d stand behind you like a bodyguard. if anyone stares, he stares back harder. once, someone laughed under their breath and he turned to them with that dead look in his eye. “you think that’s funny?” he said, monotone. they stopped laughing immediately.

he’s so good with food. if textures are hard, he notices. if you only eat three things, he never makes it weird. he stocks your favorite cereal. memorizes your coffee order. cuts the tags out of your clothes before you even ask. you don’t have to explain. he just gets it.

if you go nonverbal he adapts instantly. pulls out his phone so you can type. writes “yes” and “no” on his hands. talks slower. waits longer. he always has a pen in his pocket just in case.

he has bpd. you’re autistic. some days, the communication gets tangled. you don’t always understand what he feels, and he doesn’t always understand how you think. but you both try.

he doesn’t take you to crowded places. he knows it overloads you. dates are quiet: a rooftop, a library, a nearly-empty diner with a booth in the back.

he’s not great at words, but he shows you everything. he’ll put your favorite movie on without asking. hand you your headphones when you start to look overwhelmed. rub your back in slow, predictable circles when you start to rock.

he gets fixated. his thoughts loop. his emotions spiral. but so do yours. you understand each other in a way no one else ever could. the way he gets angry when something shifts too fast. the way you panic when your routine breaks. the way you both hold onto each other when the world won’t stop spinning.

you both get overstimulated, but in different ways. if you have to leave a situation, he leaves with you. no questions. no hesitation. “we’re done here,” he says, grabbing your hand. it feels good. to be protected like that.

when he spirals you keep things structured. lists. steps. reminders. he never knew how much he needed that. you never thought someone like him would listen to you. and yet he does.

you hum when you're comfortable. and he starts doing it too. like he's tuning himself to you.

he knows your food habits down to the bite. if your safe meal changes he notices the second you push it away. "not today?" he asks. not judging. not pressing. just adapting. he’s already pulling something else out of the fridge.

he lets you pace around him. circle the room. monologue about cats or timelines or texture inconsistencies. he sits still and listens, occasionally nodding, sometimes asking questions he already knows the answer to just to keep you going. he likes how happy you sound when you talk about what you love. you’re never more alive than when you’re in your own world. he wants to be let in.

when people are cruel to you he doesn’t let it slide. ever. you’re rambling about something, a little too fast, too loud, hands moving, until someone makes a face. rolls their eyes. interrupts with a laugh. or worse, says something like “you’re kind of weird, huh?” and dex just stops moving. completely. his body stills. his mouth sets. eyes locked on the offender with that terrifying kind of calm. “what did you say?” flat. emotionless. lethal. he doesn’t yell. doesn’t make a scene. but the way he stands, shoulders square, chin tilted, fingers flexing like he’s debating breaking their nose or just caving in their throat, it makes most people shut up real fast.

he walks you out, hand gentle on the small of your back. “you don’t need to hear that shit,” he mutters. his other hand twitches. you know he’s thinking about how easy it’d be to follow them home. he never asks if it hurt your feelings, he just knows. if anyone ever mocks the way you stim, the way you speak, the way your voice changes when you’re excited, he’ll go so quiet it’s dangerous. “you have ten seconds to leave,” he’ll say. “before i do something i won’t regret.”

he keeps every note you’ve ever written him. the sticky reminders, the typed-out “can’t talk today” messages, the little scraps of paper you use when your words go away. they’re folded neatly in a box under his bed. labeled. dated. categorized. he reads them on the nights you’re not there. especially the ones where you wrote his name first.

he doesn’t like surprises but he loves when you do something new. you try a new stim toy. he watches, fascinated. you change your scent. he buries his face in your shirt and won’t stop sniffing you for hours. “you smell different,” he says softly. “i like it.”

he always knows when you’ve had a bad social interaction. you don’t even need to say it. your eyes get distant. your sleeves get tugged. you go quiet. and dex just slides his arm around your waist and says, “you did fine. fuck the rest of them.”

he makes schedules for you when you’re too fogged to do it yourself. on whiteboards. on napkins. on the back of his hand.

you sometimes script your conversations with him. he recognizes it instantly. never calls you out for it. plays his part like he’s rehearsed. like he’s proud to be included in your little world of preparation.

sometimes you touch his face just to feel the difference. his skin is colder than yours. his expression rarely changes. but when you brush your thumb over his cheekbone, his eyelids flutter just a little. like it short-circuits something in him.

he doesn’t compliment you traditionally. “the only person i can stand.” he’ll say “your brain works better than mine.” he’ll say “i’d kill anyone who makes you uncomfortable.”

if you pace, he matches your steps. if you rock, he mirrors you. if you pick at your fingers, he offers his hand so you can do it to him instead. he’s not always gentle, but he’s always attuned.

you don’t always make eye contact so he learns to read everything else, your posture, your hands, the way your head tilts when you’re overwhelmed.

he doesn’t let people talk over you. if someone interrupts you he stares them down until they shut up. if they mock the way you speak, he steps forward: “say that again. i fucking dare you.” if you flinch he pulls you behind him, and deals with it.

he never says “calm down.” instead, he says, “i’m here.” “take your time.” “you’re safe.” he learned early that logic doesn’t work when your system is flooded, so he gives you his presence instead.

he doesn’t always understand your reactions, but he doesn’t invalidate them. if you cry over something he finds small he sits with you anyway. if you need to leave a room he leaves with you. no questions. just loyalty.

he likes when you label your feelings. “i’m overstimulated.” “i’m anxious.” “i feel like a burden.” it makes him feel like he can do something. he can’t fix emotions, but he can fix problems. and when you give him language, you give him the tools.

he’s obsessive — always has been — but you’re the only person that ever made it feel like devotion, not pathology. he wakes up thinking about you. he goes to sleep worrying about your safety. and in between he makes sure the world doesn't touch you unless it goes through him first.

started 7.20.2025. finished 7.24.2025.

( masterlist. )

©️ monicfever 2025

[monicfever]

I love you.

That's all.

[monicfever]

hello!! stumbled on your blog while I was surfing through the daredevil tag and wanted to thank you for its existence

it's already difficult to find pieces about characters like elektra, dinah and dex, and ones where they are written so good like here? hard, really hard. you get them yk? I read the things thinking "yeah!! they would do/say it"

plus I was thirsty for some dd and punisher content. this blog was really a find! I just wanted to show my gratitute for it! good work here!!

this was the absolute best compliment to get 😄!!! it’s one thing to be told you’re a good writer, anyone can say that, but it’s a whole other thing to actually be told you’re accurate and understand the character because i really try to put myself in the characters shoes when im writing so it’s an enjoyable and compelling read.

on another note im sorry i dipped for like a month yall 😭 i hope i didn’t leave yall too neglected and that like this community didn’t die fast

[monicfever]

hii, hope you are well! can u write how you imagine that would be the perfect date with dd and the punisher characters?

the perfect date 𝜗𝜚 daredevil & punisher hc’s

r e q u e s t e d ♡

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

⏜︵ MATT MURDOCK. 𐂯

1. THE QUIET RESTAURANT HE KNOWS BETTER THAN ANYONE. Matt takes you to a tiny, tucked-away spot in Hell’s Kitchen, family-owned, never flashy, not even listed online. He knows the owner personally, probably helped him out with legal trouble years ago. The lighting is low, almost entirely candlelit. Perfect for ambiance. But also perfect for him. You notice he’s relaxed here in a way he rarely is, shoulders down, voice softer. He asks the waiter for your order before you even open your mouth, because you’d told him earlier what you were craving, and of course he remembered.

2. THE ROOFTOP ESCAPE. After dinner, he takes you somewhere higher. It’s not a date with Matt unless it involves a fire escape or some wildly unsafe climb. But when you reach the top, it’s worth it. He’s laid out a blanket, brought your favorite drink in a thermos. There’s no plan. Just the city breathing around you, the air thick with the scent of summer and concrete, and Matt sitting close, knees touching. “I don’t need a view,” he says, turning his head toward you, “but I like hearing your heartbeat when you’re happy.” It’s quiet. Comfortable. And you know he’s listening to everything.

3. THE CHURCH AFTER HOURS. He brings you to the church, not during mass, but late. After hours. It’s dim, echoing, ancient-feeling. There’s something reverent about the way he walks between the pews, his fingertips brushing the wood like he’s grounding himself. He shows you a stained glass panel that used to terrify him as a child, and tells you why. Then he confesses, not sins, just thoughts. Fears. The mess in his head. Being with him is never easy, but here in this half-lit sanctuary, he lets you into the places he usually keeps locked. He touches your hand at the altar, not quite ready to kiss you, but the moment is full of tension and tenderness. Holy in its own way.

4. JAZZ AND WHISKEY AND A LOW CONVERSATION. A late-night bar with live jazz, Josie’s, probably, all soft brass and rasping vocals. He takes you there when he’s tired, emotionally bruised, but still trying. You’re tucked into a booth, close enough for your knees to bump. He listens more than he speaks, but when he does speak, it’s honest and low. He tells you what the music feels like to him, how the trumpet curls around his ribs like smoke. When he drinks, he does it slow, cheap whiskey, because he never liked the expensive stuff. Every date with Matt feels like he’s trying not to fall too hard, and failing anyway.

5. DOMESTIC. A perfect date might not even leave the apartment. He insists on cooking, something simple but good. Pasta with garlic and anchovies, that kind of thing. The whole apartment smells like warmth and oil and spice. He moves fluidly through the kitchen, confident, sleeves rolled, listening to the sizzle in the pan, occasionally bumping into the table and muttering under his breath. Afterward, you eat on the couch, knees up, and he leans into you while some old black-and-white movie plays in the background. He doesn’t really watch it. He listens to you breathing, to the sound of the city through the open window. He says, almost absently, “This feels...normal,” like that’s the most radical thing in the world.

6. HE’S NOT SUPPOSED TO BE OUT. You find out halfway through that he’s injured. He’s trying to hide it, holding your hand a little too tightly, biting his lip when he moves too fast. You call him on it. He sighs, almost laughs, and admits it: yes, he shouldn’t be out, yes, he probably shouldn’t have scaled that wall to get to your place, but “it was worth it.” You help him home instead, and the date becomes you fussing over him on the couch while he finally lets himself relax under your hands. You sit next to him and he leans against you, just enough weight to show trust.

7. THE RAIN DATE. One of his favorites. Not planned at all. You’re walking together when it starts to pour, sheets of rain, drenching and cold. He doesn’t rush. He lives in the weather, lets it fall over him like it’s cleansing. You start to complain but he just laughs, his head tipped back, his face open and joyful in a way you almost never see. You stop under a ledge to dry off, but he pulls you back into it, into the rain, hands on your waist, grinning. And then he kisses you and it’s perfect.

8. THE NIGHT YOU STAY UP TALKING. Not every perfect date ends in kisses or tangled sheets. Some just end with Matt sitting on the floor next to your couch, talking. About cases, about God, about pain and justice and what it means to keep going. He says things in the dark he’d never say in daylight. You see the depth of him, how much he cares, how much he doubts. He reaches up at some point to brush your fingers with his, not asking for anything. Just... there. And when you finally fall asleep beside him, he stays awake a little longer, listening to the quiet. Just to memorize the sound of peace.

⏜︵ FRANK CASTLE. 𐂯

1. THE DINER DATE. He takes you to a diner. Not because it’s romantic, because it’s safe. A place he’s scoped out a hundred times, where he knows the exits, the blind spots, which waitress has a kind smile and which one has a knife in her boot. The booths are cracked vinyl, the lights hum fluorescent and ugly. But Frank’s more relaxed here than anywhere else. He orders black coffee and fries, nothing more. He watches you eat, eyes soft in the corners. He doesn’t talk much. His comfort is in the silence, in the way he pushes the ketchup bottle toward you before you even ask, or reaches out to wipe something off your cheek with his thumb like it’s the most natural thing in the world. No music, no drama. Just the two of you in a space where, for once, no one is dying.

2. THE RANGE DATE. This is his idea of bonding. A dusty shooting range on the edge of nowhere, half-abandoned, no one around for miles. He shows you how to hold the rifle, steady your breathing, find your rhythm. He’s patient, quieter than usual, all focus and heat behind the eyes. When he touches your hands to adjust your grip it’s careful, measured, almost reverent. He watches you line up the shot, then looks at you like you’re the most dangerous and beautiful thing he’s ever seen. Afterward, you sit on the tailgate of his truck drinking lukewarm beer, sun going down, the smell of gunpowder still clinging to your clothes. He doesn’t say much, but he looks at you like you’re his, and that’s enough.

3. THE RAIN CHECK DATE. You make plans. Something simple. He agrees, says “Yeah, okay,” in that gravel voice like maybe he means it. But the day comes and he doesn’t show. Not a call, not a text. Nothing. You’re half-worried, half-pissed. Then, hours later, he’s at your door, soaked to the bone, knuckles split, blood on his shirt. “Had to take care of something,” is all he offers. But his eyes are hollow with guilt, like he knows he let you down. You don’t yell. You just nod, pull him inside, sit him down. Patch him up. The date becomes quiet care, hands in gauze and steam from a kettle, the weight of his head finally sinking onto your shoulder. “Next time,” he says, voice hoarse. “I’ll be there.” And you believe him.

4. THE NIGHT DRIVE. He picks you up without telling you where you’re going. No destination, no plan. Just asphalt and the sound of the engine under his hand. His fingers tap the wheel to some beat in his head, and he drives like he needs it, like speed is the only thing that drowns out the noise. You lean back, windows down, night air biting. He doesn’t speak for a long time, but when he does, it’s low and rough: stories about Texas highways, Afghan nights, the way New York smells different in the summer when it’s about to rain. You end up at a lookout with no name, stars half-swallowed by clouds. He lets you fall asleep in the passenger seat while he keeps watch — always.

5. THE NOT-A-DATE. He tells you outright: “This ain’t a date.” Says it like a warning, like a wall he’s trying to build in midair. You nod. You go anyway. It’s a walk through the woods outside the city, boots crunching on dirt, his eyes scanning the trees like ghosts might emerge. He keeps his distance, except when he doesn’t, reaching out to help you over a fallen log, pressing a hand to your lower back to guide you. You talk about nothing: birds, weather, how quiet it is. And when you pause to look at the sky bleeding pink over the horizon, you catch him staring, not at the sunset, at you. He doesn’t kiss you. But it’s there. In the silence. In the ache. In the way he almost says your name and stops himself.

6. THE GARAGE DATE. It smells like oil, metal, old leather. He’s fixing something, his bike, a truck, some piece of equipment you don’t recognize. You sit on a crate, watching him work. His hands are calloused and sure, black with grease, veins standing out under his skin. You hand him tools, sip a beer, maybe mess with the radio until he mutters, “Not that station.” It’s domestic in the weirdest, most Frank Castle way, like he’s letting you into the parts of his life he doesn’t even think about. He tells you what he’s doing, why that part’s important, what’ll happen if you fuck it up. And when he’s done, he wipes his hands on a rag and says, without looking at you, “You hungry?”

7. THE STAY-IN DATE. He doesn’t want to go out. Not because he’s tired, because he knows someone’s watching. He’s got that look in his eye, the one that says danger is close, too close. So you stay in. The lights stay off. He closes every curtain, double-checks every lock. Then, and only then, does he sit down beside you. You end up on the floor, backs against the wall, eating whatever leftovers you could scrape together. He keeps a gun within reach. His arm stays around you, loose but firm. His eyes scan the windows even when you’re laughing. But when you fall asleep against his chest, his head tips down and rests on yours. You don’t see it, but he smiles, just barely.

⏜︵ FOGGY NELSON. 𐂯

1. THE COFFEE SHOP DATE. It’s raining outside, but not the dramatic cinematic kind, just a constant drizzle that fogs up the windows and makes the world feel small. He picks the shop because he likes the smell of it, because they make the best mochas, because the barista knows his name and asks about Matt. You sit across from each other in mismatched chairs, hands wrapped around hot mugs. Foggy’s talking — rambling, really — about a client, about a podcast he half-listened to, about the squirrel that keeps breaking into his fire escape garden. He makes you laugh in that way that bubbles out of your chest without warning. Halfway through, he reaches over and absentmindedly wipes a coffee smudge off your lip with his thumb, then freezes like oh god was that too much. It wasn’t. It was perfect.

2. THE HOMEMADE DISASTER DATE. Foggy insists on cooking. “It’s foolproof,” he says. It is not. There’s smoke, two emergency trips to the corner store, a moment where you have to Google if shrimp can explode in a microwave. But you’ve never laughed harder. He’s wearing an apron that says Kiss the Cook like a joke, except he kind of means it. When things go fully off the rails he gives up and orders Thai food. You eat it on the couch in your pajamas, surrounded by a kitchen crime scene, and he looks at you like you just walked into his life with sunshine in your pockets. “I like this,” he says. “Even the... uh, fire hazard part.” He means it. Every bit.

3. THE BACKYARD MOVIE DATE. He borrows a projector from a guy at work, drags a sheet up in his tiny backyard, and strings fairy lights with a level of effort that screams please let this work. He sets out snacks, the good kind, not movie theater garbage, but actual baked goods and your favorite drink and popcorn that’s still warm. You lie side by side on an old blanket, watching some classic he swears is a “cultural necessity.” He knows every line. Quotes them under his breath. Occasionally glances at you when he thinks you won’t notice. And when the credits roll, he doesn’t make a move, just looks at you like you’re the whole screen.

4. THE "MEET ME AFTER WORK" DATE. It starts with a text: Meet me after work? I need to see your face before I melt into legal goo. You show up outside the office and he’s already waiting with two coffees and that warm, worn-out smile that says you made it better just by showing up. He’s in his work clothes but the tie’s loosened, the sleeves are rolled, and there’s ink on his fingers from signing too many forms. He doesn’t have a big plan, just wants to walk with you, shoulders brushing, talking about nothing and everything. He keeps slipping into your space, bumping your arm with his just to feel you there.

5. THE DRUNK BAR TRIVIA DATE. Foggy’s not a heavy drinker, but he is a competitive little shit. He signs you two up for bar trivia at the local pub and it’s chaos from the start. He shouts out the answers before you're allowed to, argues with the host over music round rulings, and buys a round of drinks for the table that beats you because “they earned it... somehow.” He’s flushed and laughing, louder than usual, his arm slung around your shoulder as he tells you “We would’ve won if they hadn’t mispronounced Dostoyevsky.” You take a cab home with him leaning into your side, murmuring things like “you’re the best part of my team, you know that?” over and over.

6. THE SICK DAY DATE. You’re sick. It sucks. Foggy shows up anyway. With soup. And cold medicine. And three flavors of cough drops because he didn’t know which you’d want. He stays even when you tell him he doesn’t have to, curls up beside you on the couch, watching terrible daytime TV with surprising enthusiasm. He presses the back of his hand to your forehead, murmurs “you’re burning up, sweetheart.” like he’s in a bad romance novel. He insists on fluffing your pillows. Makes you drink water. Tucks a blanket tighter around you every fifteen minutes. He kisses your temple only once, careful not to catch your flu, and says, “Don’t worry. I’ve survived Matt’s cooking. I’ll survive this.”

7. THE “I MISSED YOU” DATE. Maybe it’s been a bad week. Maybe you’ve both been pulled in too many directions. But when you finally see each other again, he holds on longer than usual. Doesn’t want to talk about the stress or the noise, just wants this. You. Him. Close. It’s a late dinner in a quiet corner of the city, somewhere low-lit and cozy. He can’t stop looking at you. He keeps reaching out, brushing your hand, your wrist, your knee under the table, like he’s checking if you’re real. “Sorry I’ve been MIA,” he says softly, voice scratchy.

⏜︵ KAREN PAGE. 𐂯

1. THE NEWSSTAND DATE. Karen loves a good ritual. Saturday morning, she meets you at the corner newsstand, coffee in hand, hair still a little messy from sleep. You browse the papers, discuss headlines, argue playfully about op-eds. She’s fired up before she even finishes her latte, gesturing with her hands, quoting sources. You don’t always agree and she loves that. She likes that you push back, that you listen. She links her arm through yours as you walk, talking about truth and justice and what people deserve to know. With Karen, conversation is intimacy.

2. THE LATE-NIGHT OFFICE DATE. She’s working late. Again. The newsroom’s empty except for the hum of machines and her voice, low over the phone. You show up with takeout and a tired smile. She lights up the moment she sees you, pulls you into a hug that says thank God you're here. You eat at her desk under flickering fluorescent lights while she vents about deadlines, ethics, and corrupt officials. She’s tired, but she still glows when she talks about the story. And you listen. That’s all she really wants, someone who sees the fire and doesn’t try to put it out.

3. THE SMALL TOWN ESCAPE DATE. You rent a car and get the hell out of the city. She picks the town, somewhere two hours north with a diner and a bookstore and a general store that sells homemade honey. She’s in jeans and sunglasses, one foot on the dashboard, singing along to old music on the radio. She smiles more when you’re not surrounded by tall buildings and ghosts. You stay at a bed and breakfast with a clawfoot tub and peeling wallpaper, and she says it feels like something out of a novel. At night, you share a milkshake in a booth lit by neon, and she says “I could stay here forever.” You know she doesn’t mean it. But she wants to.

4. THE MOVIE NIGHT DATE. Karen loves movies. Not just the good ones, all of them. Bad horror, dusty noirs, rom-coms from the '90s. She wants you to watch everything with her. You lie on the couch with her feet in your lap while she narrates trivia over the credits. Sometimes she laughs too hard. Sometimes she cries too easily. And when the movie ends, she doesn’t rush to turn the lights on. She likes the silence. The stillness. And then the moment passes, and she’s back to arguing about the plot holes.

5. THE SPAGHETTI NIGHT DATE. It’s her night to cook. You show up to a kitchen covered in flour and a playlist from 2003. She says she learned the recipe from her grandmother, but she’s guessing half the measurements. You help her stir the sauce, bumping hips, singing badly. She dances with you in the kitchen, socked feet sliding across tile. The food turns out decent but she insists it’s amazing, and you let her win. After dinner, she’s barefoot on the fire escape, wine glass in hand, talking about her childhood.

6. THE GRAVEYARD DATE. It sounds strange. It is strange. But it’s Karen’s idea. She says she likes places where people remember. You bring flowers, not for anyone you knew, just to leave. She walks with you between headstones, reading names out loud, making up stories about who they were. She tells you about people she’s lost. You don’t interrupt. You just listen. And when she takes your hand in hers, it’s with a quiet sort of gravity, like she’s saying thank you for not looking away.

7. THE GALLERY DATE. She says she doesn’t know much about art. She lies. She leads you through the museum with a soft sort of reverence, stopping at every piece that makes her feel something. She likes the sad ones. The ones that look like bruises and prayers. She says art is just a different kind of journalism, truth you feel instead of read. She stands in front of one painting longer than the others. Doesn’t speak. And you don’t press.

8. THE UNDERCOVER DATE. She pulls you into something half-legal, definitely risky. Says she needs a distraction at a charity gala where someone’s hiding something. She wears red — of course she does — and walks into the room like she owns it. She gives you a fake name to use, just for fun. You dance once, bodies close, her fingers tight around yours. Then she disappears into the crowd, chasing a lead. When it’s over, you walk home under streetlights, hearts racing, laughing like kids. She looks at you and says, “That was fun. We should break the law together more often.”

9. THE “I NEED TO GET OUT OF MY HEAD” DATE. She calls you late. Her voice sounds frayed. “I can’t sleep. Can you come over?” You do. No questions. She’s already at the door when you arrive, hair pulled back, sweater sleeves pushed up. You take a walk, nowhere in particular, just enough movement to keep the thoughts from swallowing her. She talks about guilt like it’s a second skin. You don’t try to fix it. Just walk beside her until she stops shaking. Back at her place, she lets you stay. You fall asleep with her back pressed to your chest, her breathing finally even.

⏜︵ ELEKTRA. 𐂯

1. THE ROOFTOP TRAINING DATE. She takes you to the rooftop of some forgotten building. No pleasantries, just raw, hard training. She teaches you how to throw a punch, how to fall without breaking, how to move silently. Every movement is precise and brutal, but her eyes never leave yours. When you mess up, she corrects you sharply but with care, like a fire testing steel. Afterwards, you’re both breathing heavy, sweat dripping, and she leans in close enough for you to feel the heat of her breath. “You’re stronger than you think.”

2. THE NIGHT MARKET DATE. The city’s neon blurs around you as Elektra drags you through crowded alleyways, the pulse of the night alive beneath your feet. She knows where to find the best street food, the sharpest knives, the most elusive vendors. You try new flavors, some spicy enough to make your mouth burn, others sweet and sticky. She moves with ease through the crowd, protective and alert, occasionally slipping into a shadow when trouble brews. You catch glimpses of the woman beneath the assassin, alive, curious, fiercely loyal. She brushes a stray lock of hair from your face and smiles, just for a second.

3. THE UNDERGROUND FIGHT CLUB DATE. This is dangerous, even for her. But she wants you to see the world she inhabits, the raw, brutal edges beneath the surface. The air is thick with sweat and tension, the crowd roaring as fists fly. She watches you watch, analyzing every flinch, every tight breath. When the fight ends, she pulls you close, blood on her knuckles and a wild fire in her eyes. “Not bad.”

4. THE MIDNIGHT SWIM DATE. You meet at the edge of a dark river, the moon casting silver across the water. Elektra strips down without hesitation, stepping into the cold like it’s nothing. You follow, shivering, but she’s steady. She swims with powerful strokes, pulling you into the water with a laugh that’s more rare than you thought. Floating on your backs, she points out constellations, voice soft in the night air. There’s no fight, no tension, just the two of you.

5. THE SECRET LIBRARY DATE. She leads you to a hidden library, one filled with ancient texts and dusty scrolls. Elektra isn’t usually one for quiet moments, but here she’s different, patient, almost tender. She pulls books from the shelves, reading aloud passages that resonate with her, stories of warriors, love, betrayal. You sit close, her hand finding yours between the pages, fingers intertwining. She doesn’t say much, but the silence hums with meaning. You realize this is her sanctuary and she’s sharing it with you.

6. THE FIRE ESCAPE ESCAPADE DATE. Spontaneous and reckless, she drags you onto a fire escape under the cover of night. You climb higher than you thought possible, hearts pounding, not just from the climb but from the thrill. At the top the city sprawls beneath you, a chaotic tapestry of lights and sounds. She pulls you close, the danger sharpening every sense.

7. THE RAIN-DRAPED ALLEY DATE. Caught in a sudden downpour, Elektra doesn’t run for cover. Instead she pulls you into a narrow alley, the rain dripping from her hair and skin. She laughs, dark, wild, free, and kisses you hard, rain mixing with the sharpness of the moment. The city blurs around you, thunder rolling distant and low. She’s alive here, unrestrained, the storm matching the tempest inside her.

8. THE KITCHEN DATE. It’s rare. She cooks. Simple things, strong coffee, thick toast, something spicy. The kitchen smells like smoke and pepper. She’s silent mostly, but the way she looks at you while you eat says more than words could.

9. THE ABANDONED WAREHOUSE DATE. She takes you somewhere no one goes. Broken windows, cracked floors, shadows that cling to the walls. It’s eerie, but she moves with purpose, like this place holds secrets only she can read. You talk in whispers, stories unfolding between the dust and decay. When she brushes your hair from your face, it’s a moment of fragile tenderness amid the ruin.

⏜︵ BEN POINDEXTER. 𐂯

1. THE EXACTLY-7:30 DINER DATE. Dex picks you up at 7:15. Not 7:20. Not 7:10. 7:15. He’s already anxious if you’re even slightly late, not because he’s mad, but because he’s wired like a bomb. He takes you to a quiet corner booth in the same old diner he’s been going to since before you met him. Same seat, same waitress, same patty melt and root beer. He’s trying to give you something “normal,” something safe. He’s deeply attentive, a little too still, always watching your face for approval. He doesn’t talk much unless you ask questions, and then he gets so excited to tell you about work or a podcast he’s listening to. He pays in exact change.

2. THE BOWLING DATE (ON A TUESDAY, WHEN IT’S QUIET). He suggests bowling like it’s a joke — “You ever seen me throw a strike?” But it’s not a joke. It’s controlled chaos. He takes you to a run-down alley on a weeknight when it’s mostly empty, just the sound of pins crashing and neon buzzing. He’s ridiculously good (of course), and sometimes people watch. He hates that. He relaxes more when it’s just the two of you. He lets you win once, but only once. He shows you how to line up your throw with intense focus, hands on your waist or shoulders, breath close to your ear. His eyes soften when you laugh. He doesn’t say much but he doesn’t want the night to end.

3. THE BASEBALL GAME DATE. Not a Yankees game. He’s not taking you into that chaos. It’s a minor league game an hour outside the city. Cheap seats, bad nachos, kids running up and down the bleachers. He brings you there because it reminds him of the only time he ever felt okay as a kid. He’s quieter here, calm in a way that makes you want to protect him. He doesn’t hold your hand until the seventh inning, and when he does, he doesn’t let go. He drives you home after and doesn’t kiss you. Just looks at you like he wants to, but doesn’t trust himself.

4. THE ICE SKATING DATE. Indoor rink. Early morning. Practically empty. He tells you he’s bad at it but he’s lying, he’s precise and graceful in a way that feels almost too perfect. He doesn’t go fast. Doesn’t show off. He circles back around you over and over, eyes locked on yours, smiling in that too-wide, too-sharp way. When you slip, he catches you before you hit the ground. He doesn’t let go of your hand for the rest of the session. Later, in the parking lot, he gives you his jacket even though he’s shaking from the cold.

5. THE MOVIE THEATER DATE (ONE THEATER, ONE SCREEN, BACK ROW). He doesn’t like crowds. He doesn’t like noise he can’t control. So he finds a weird little one-screen theater, maybe in Brooklyn, maybe Queens, that plays old films. No big blockbusters. Something quiet. Maybe The Conversation or Zodiac or Double Indemnity. He buys your ticket in advance. You sit in the very back row, far from anyone else. He doesn’t watch the movie as much as he watches you watching it. Afterward, he talks about the sound design and cinematography like he’s been rehearsing it in his head for days.

6. THE “STAY INSIDE AND PLAN EVERYTHING” DATE. You don’t go anywhere. That’s the point. You stay at his place — which is clean, sparse, sterile — and he’s made an itinerary. Literal bullet points. He’s scheduled food, movies, maybe board games. Every part of it screams “please don’t leave me for the chaos in my head.” He’s thought about what snacks you’d like, what blanket to have on hand, what movie you once said you liked in passing. You tease him gently, and he grins, but his hands still shake when you touch them. He’s not doing it for control. He’s doing it because he wants to do it right.

7. THE LATE-NIGHT WALK DATE (WHEN THE CITY IS QUIET ENOUGH). He doesn’t sleep. Not really. So when he texts you at 1:14 AM — “You up?” — and you say yes, he shows up fifteen minutes later with two cups of vending machine coffee. You walk through the quieter parts of the city: the waterfront, the cemetery, the industrial neighborhoods where even the rats are asleep. He opens up more when the world is quiet, tells you things he shouldn’t, things you didn’t want to know, and then goes quiet like he’s ashamed. He sits next to you on a loading dock and says, “I don’t know why you’re still here.” but he doesn’t ask you to leave.

8. THE MUSEUM DATE (OFF-HOURS, PRIVATE TOUR). He somehow arranges a private tour at a museum — maybe he knows a guy, or maybe he just made it happen in a way you don’t want to ask about. It’s late. The lights are low. The whole building is yours. He shows you exhibits he already knows by heart. There’s something reverent about the way he moves through the space, like he’s in a church. He doesn’t touch anything. Doesn’t speak loudly. Just watches you take it all in, like you’re the art.

9. THE GUN RANGE DATE. He asks if you’ve ever shot a gun. You say no. He says, “Wanna try?” The gun range is quiet. Clinical. Controlled. He’s respectful. Painfully careful. He teaches you how to hold the weapon, how to breathe, how to listen. He corrects your stance without touching you unless you say it’s okay. You can tell it matters to him that you feel safe, that he doesn’t scare you. He doesn’t smile much during this date. But afterward, he says, “You were amazing.” And he means it.

10. THE “I DON’T WANT TO SCARE YOU” DATE. There’s no real plan. He just shows up at your door with his hat in his hands, eyes flicking nervously from your face to the floor. “We could just... hang out? If that’s okay?” You watch a show. You eat something simple. He talks a little too fast, like he’s rehearsing what a person should say. And every so often, he stops mid-sentence, panicked, like he’s afraid he’s ruining it. But you tell him he’s not. You tell him it’s enough. You touch his shoulder and he flinches, not from fear, but from how gentle it is. You stay up with him until morning. He lets you.

⏜︵ BILLY RUSSO. 𐂯

1. THE HIGH-END BAR DATE. Billy doesn’t take you to just any place for drinks, it’s a rooftop lounge, sleek and dimly lit, tucked into some hotel only people with business cards know about. He dresses sharp. You do too. He orders for you but asks first, always, and tips like a man with something to prove. Everyone notices him. He notices you. And when you talk, he actually listens. He smiles a lot, but it never quite reaches his eyes until you surprise him, a joke, a memory, something real. That’s when the mask slips, just a little.

2. THE HOTEL ROOM ROOM SERVICE DATE. He books a fancy room. For the view, he says. For the privacy, he means. He’s wearing a robe. You’re wearing his T-shirt. Room service comes in silver trays, overpriced wine in a cooler, everything tailored to your taste because he asked, weeks ago, subtly. You eat in bed. Watch something trashy. He teases you for it but he’s into it too. And when things slow down, when your head’s on his chest, and the city glows through the window, he goes quiet. He doesn’t fall asleep. He stays still, like he doesn’t want to miss this.

3. THE ART GALLERY DATE. Billy doesn’t pretend to be deep, not anymore, but he wants to be around things that are. He takes you to a small gallery opening in some converted warehouse space. Wine in paper cups, artists in black, but he’s oddly comfortable here. He stands behind you while you look at the pieces, hands in his pockets, watching you more than the art. He asks what you see in them. What you feel. When you turn the question back on him, he shrugs, grins — “I see you liking it. That’s enough for me.”

4. THE EARLY MORNING COFFEE DATE. Surprisingly domestic. He’s half-asleep, hoodie and joggers, stubble rough. He meets you at that one corner café with bad music and perfect lattes. You sit outside. He reads the paper. You talk about nonsense. He’s quiet here, less performative, like the armor’s not all the way up yet. When he laughs, it’s real. When he reaches for your hand, it’s not a move. It’s instinct. People pass and glance, and he lets them. He likes being seen with you.

5. THE PRIVATE CLUB DATE. This is when he’s showing off — not for you, but for himself. Some exclusive spot where the host knows his name. He wears cologne sharp enough to sting. He orders the steak rare and the wine expensive. You get the sense this is what he thinks he has to do to keep you. But somewhere between the dessert and the whiskey, he leans in and says something too honest, about his mother, or nightmares, or how quiet it gets at 3 AM. He’ll brush it off right after. But you won’t forget it.

6. THE GYM DATE. You don’t mean to call it a date. But he invites you to train with him — private gym, empty, padded floor. He teaches you to hit pads, how to breathe through a punch, how to move your feet. He’s intense, hyper-focused, eyes tracking everything. You land one solid hit on him and he grins, breathless. “Damn, alright.” he says, and you’ve never seen him look prouder. Afterward, you sit on the mat drinking water, sweat-slick and flushed, and he watches you like he’s never seen you before. Like you could break him if you wanted.

7. THE “I FUCKED UP” DATE. He shows up at your door late. Doesn’t say much. Just looks at you with that tight jaw, that I-ruined-something stare. You let him in. He doesn’t talk for a while. When he does, it’s careful. Too careful. “I don’t want to lie to you.” And he doesn’t. But he doesn’t tell you everything either. He takes you somewhere quiet, a dark little bar or a 24-hour diner, and he tries. Not to impress you. Just to be real.

8. THE CHINATOWN NOODLE SHOP DATE. One of his comfort spots. Loud, cramped, cash only, fluorescent lights and the best dumplings in the city. You sit side by side in a narrow booth, brushing knees under the table. He orders for both of you, fast and fluent. This is a rare look at him relaxed, mouth full, sleeves rolled up, joking about the old lady at the next table who yelled at him once. He eats like he grew up hungry. He glances at you between bites like he’s checking if you still like him. You do. And he knows it.

9. THE “JUST STAY WITH ME” DATE. There’s no plan. Just his penthouse, expensive, sterile, too clean. You bring over takeout. He makes a show of complaining about the movie you picked, but halfway through, his arm’s around you, his chin on your shoulder. His voice is low. His touch is soft. And when the movie ends and the room goes dark, he doesn’t reach for anything else. He just stays there, pressed against you like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded. “You don’t have to go.” he says, like he expects you to. You stay. He sleeps for once. Really sleeps.

⏜︵ DINAH MADANI. 𐂯

1. THE AFTER-WORK BAR DATE (WITH HER GUN STILL ON HER). You meet her at some hole-in-the-wall place, dim lighting, real whiskey, no music loud enough to drown out thinking. She’s already seated when you arrive, sipping something straight, jacket still on. Her shoulder holster is visible for half a second when she shrugs it off. This isn’t romance. It’s decompression. She vents about the bullshit at work, about the way people don’t listen, and you listen. That’s the date. Just you, her, the world pulled down to one booth.

2. THE "JUST GET IN" DRIVE DATE. She texts you: “Come outside.” You do, and she’s already in the car, engine running, hair up, something old playing through the speakers, maybe Fleetwood Mac, maybe Nirvana. She doesn’t say where you’re going. You drive over the bridge, lights cutting across her face, city fading behind you. Eventually you stop at some nothing-town gas station, sit on the hood, drink bottled tea, and talk. Not about work. Not about trauma. Just about old music, books, and what the stars looked like in Kandahar. She tells you something small, something true. She doesn’t want to go home yet. Neither do you.

3. THE MIDDLE-OF-THE-DAY MUSEUM DATE. She takes her lunch break late. Asks if you’re free. You meet at a museum, nothing flashy, maybe the Tenement Museum or the New-York Historical Society. She walks slowly, eyes scanning everything. She reads the plaques. She likes context. She leans in close to tell you things she remembers from her old studies, quotes, statistics, political history. She's sharp, not performative, and when she catches you looking at her instead of the exhibit, she says, “What?” but she’s smiling.

4. THE PERSIAN CAFE DATE. There’s a place she goes that no one at work knows about. Persian food, warm spices, real bread, people who know her order. She takes you there on a Sunday evening when she finally breathes again. She teaches you how to pronounce things right, tells you about her mother’s cooking. She doesn’t talk about Iran often, but here, in the soft light and scent of saffron, she lets herself remember. She eats slowly, laughs quietly, watches you like she’s trying to decide if she can trust how easy this feels.

5. THE “YOU'RE COMING TO THE GYM” DATE. You didn’t plan it. She texts “I’m already here. You coming?” It’s a gritty, old-school boxing gym where everyone knows her name. She wraps your hands. Shows you footwork. She doesn’t go easy on you. She likes that you keep up. The trainer says she’s never brought someone in before. Afterward, you both sit on the bench, dripping sweat, silent for a while.

6. THE TARGET RANGE DATE. She doesn’t ask. She just hands you ear protection and says, “Let’s go.” She keeps it professional at first, posture perfect, grouping tight. But when she sees your hands shake a little, she steps behind you, presses her hand to your back, and says “You’re alright. Just breathe.” That’s the real date: her teaching you calm, control, how to stand steady in the noise. Later, she lets you drive. Keeps her hand on your knee the whole way home.

7. THE “I NEED TO BE OUT OF THE CITY” DATE. She’s not in a good place. She doesn’t say that. She just picks you up and drives north. Into the woods. A lake. A state park. She parks the car and says “Walk with me.” She doesn't talk much until you’re a few miles in, the silence softening her shoulders. She finally exhales. Tells you about the nightmares, the guilt, the job she hates and won’t quit. She throws rocks into the water, jaw tight. You don’t try to fix it. That’s why she brought you. You just walk back beside her, and this time, she takes your hand.

8. THE LAUNDRY NIGHT DATE. Late night. You meet at the 24-hour laundromat near her apartment. She hands you a basket without comment. It’s quiet. Fluorescent. Smells like detergent. You fold shirts while she vents about her idiot boss and the paperwork she wants to set on fire. She lets her hair down, finally, and throws a sock at your face. It's the calmest you’ve ever seen her. At the vending machine, she buys you a bag of M&Ms. Says, “Thanks for being here,” in a voice that makes you forget the night is ordinary.

9. THE FILES-AND-WINE NIGHT DATE. She’s working late. You bring wine. She doesn’t stop working. Not at first. But she lets you read over the files with her, explain what she's tracking. She trusts you enough to let you in, into the mess, the obsession, the dangerous details. At some point she kicks her shoes off and leans back against you on the couch, wine glass in one hand, red ink on her other. “This isn’t exactly romantic.” she mutters. But she doesn’t stop leaning on you. She lets herself fall asleep there. That’s the part she won’t admit means everything.

⏜︵ MUSE. 𐂯

1. THE STOLEN GALLERY NIGHT. He blindfolds you. That’s part of it. Says he wants your “first impression” to be pure. When he takes it off you’re standing in an abandoned building, paint and blood and canvas smeared across the walls like a murder scene curated for aesthetic. It’s quiet. He calls it his “private exhibit.” You don’t recognize the medium. You don’t ask. He waits, head tilted, to see what emotion crosses your face first. Fear? Disgust? Awe? That’s the whole date. He doesn’t touch you. Doesn’t speak much. Just watches you walk through what he made, and decides whether or not he likes how you respond.

2. THE DINNER HE COOKS HIMSELF (BADLY). He shows up at your place. Somehow knows where you live. He says, “Don’t worry, it’s not poisoned. That’d be boring.” He cooks you something and it’s almost childish in its sincerity. Overcooked steak. Under-seasoned vegetables. But he tries. He watches you eat like it’s an experiment. He doesn’t sit. He crouches in a chair like a predator too restless to settle.

3. THE “DO YOU WANT TO SEE IT?” DATE. It’s raining. You’re in his car, some beat-up, anonymous thing with no radio. He drives for hours. Never says where. Finally, you stop in front of a warehouse by the docks. Inside: a tarp. A body under it. Not fresh, but not old either. His voice is soft. Childlike. “I wanted you to see it before the world does. Before I finish it.” He waits for your reaction like a child showing a drawing to a parent. Not for forgiveness. Not for horror. Just… approval. Or not. Either way, you leave different than you came in.

4. THE ROOFTOP SURVEILLANCE DATE. He brings you to a rooftop. There’s no blanket, no wine, no pretense. Just binoculars, police scanners, and an angle on Hell’s Kitchen that sees everything. “This is where I study them,” he says. “Before I decide what they are.” You sit in silence for over an hour. No touching. No conversation. Just him pointing out people. Murmuring what he thinks they are: “That one cheats on his wife. That one embezzles. That one kicks her dog.” You don’t know how he knows. You don’t ask. When you leave, he looks disappointed. “You didn’t ask for anyone’s name.”

5. THE ABANDONED CHURCH DATE. He thinks he’s funny when he calls it “romantic.” The pews are broken. Candles half-melted. A blood-streaked mural covers the altar wall made from oil paint and something thicker. He says he likes the stillness in places like this. “God doesn’t live here anymore. But I do.” He asks you if you ever lied to a priest. If you ever really confessed. He doesn’t touch you, but he invades space without needing to. He stands so close you feel his breath, but never his hands. It’s not intimacy. It’s invasion disguised as worship.

6. THE “MAKE SOMETHING WITH ME” DATE. He lays out supplies in front of you: paints, scrap wood, photographs, razors. “Let’s make something together.” he says, far too gently. You think it’s art. At first. But there are instructions. Rules. Things you can’t do. Things you have to do. He wants your hands dirty. Wants to see how far you’ll go. You don’t know if it’s a real piece or a test.

7. THE QUIET NIGHT IN (WITH THE TV STATIC). You’re in his place. Sparse. Windowless. You sit together on the couch. The TV is on, but it’s static. He says it helps him think. He asks you strange questions: “What’s your earliest memory of cruelty?” “Do you ever feel beautiful when you’re bleeding?” “Would you save a stranger if no one ever knew?” You’re not sure if it’s a conversation or an interrogation. But you answer. Because you want him to see you as something worth keeping.

8. THE “LOOK AT ME” DATE. No movement. No sound. Just the two of you sitting in a locked room, no phones, no distractions. He tells you to look at him. For one hour. Just look. “It’s a study,” he says. “Not of me. Of you.” Your eyes burn. You flinch. You try to speak, he raises one finger. No. When the hour ends, he finally exhales. Says, softly, “People always show you what they are if you look long enough.” You don’t know what he saw in you. But he smiles on the way out.

9. THE HOSPITAL DATE. Not your hospital. Not his. Just a hospital. He takes you to the trauma wing, says he wants to show you where the world bleeds. You sit in the waiting room together, silently watching people come and go, broken arms, crying children, gurneys and blood-slicked sheets. He points at people and says, “Art. Art. Not art. Waste.” You don’t speak. You don’t stop him. He watches your reactions more than he watches the people. You realize you’re the exhibit. You always were.

⏜︵ JAMES WESLEY. 𐂯

1. THE RESERVATION-NOBODY-ELSE-COULD-GET DATE. It’s not a loud place. It’s not on TikTok. There are no influencers here. Just real food, flawless lighting, and waiters who already know your name when you walk in. Wesley opens every door for you. He orders something elegant, but not flashy. He watches you across the table, totally present. When he touches your hand, it’s deliberate, thumb brushing your knuckles, grounding you both in that moment. He never talks too much, but he always listens. And if anyone bothers you? He doesn’t make a scene. He makes a call. You never see that person again.

2. THE OPERA DATE (YES, REALLY). He has box seats. Of course he does. He doesn’t go often, but when he does, it’s always for someone else. He brings you because he wants you to experience it, the elegance, the gravitas, the control of a story told through discipline and volume. You dress up. He looks devastating in a dark suit. During the performance, he barely moves. He knows every cue. Afterward you talk about it in low tones over a neat drink, and when you say something insightful about the second aria, he smiles with quiet pride. He doesn’t say “I love you.” He says “That’s why I brought you.”

3. THE LATE-NIGHT WALK WITH A DRIVER 30 FEET BACK. He doesn’t like chaos. But he likes walking with you. Only after dark, only when the city’s quiet and his security team has already cleared the area. There’s a black car idling half a block back. He pretends not to notice it, because this is his version of vulnerability. He walks close to you, always on the side facing the street, always watching the windows above. Once in a while, he’ll pause and say something completely sincere, like “You have an extraordinary way of noticing things.” You don’t know what he means by that. But it matters.

4. THE “I CLEARED MY SCHEDULE FOR THIS” DATE. It’s 3:00 PM on a weekday. He never takes time off. Ever. But today, he sends a car to pick you up and meet him at an art gallery, small, quiet, completely empty. He booked it out. Just for you. You walk the space alone. He doesn’t pretend to know art. He just watches you respond to it. You talk. You teach him things. He smiles more than usual, eyes sharp, body calm. And when you get to the final piece, he says, “I knew you’d like this one.” Because he already walked the entire exhibit yesterday to make sure.

5. THE WESLEY-COOKS DINNER DATE. Yes. He can cook. He’s not flashy about it. Just careful. Exact. Everything timed perfectly, risotto stirred like a ritual, steak seared with the same focus he uses to arrange hits. The kitchen is spotless. He hands you a glass of wine while you sit at the counter and watch him work. Dinner is candlelit not because he’s trying to be romantic but because he knows soft lighting makes you feel safer. Afterward he cleans up while you’re still finishing dessert. There’s jazz playing.

6. THE LIBRARY DATE. He tells you to meet him in a library. Not a big one — a private, old, dusty place with windows that catch the light just right. You sit across from each other at a long table, reading separate things, occasionally sharing lines that make you smile. He reads slowly. He likes holding the spine of a book in his hands, something about the weight of it, the control. He likes watching your face when you get to a good part. He doesn’t interrupt.

7. THE CLASSIC MOVIE THEATER DATE. He finds a theater that plays black-and-white films, original reels, organ music before the opening credits. You get popcorn in a red-and-white striped bag. The seats creak when you sit down. He’s watched this film a hundred times, probably. But he watches you watching it. When you whisper something about the scene — a little detail, a line of dialogue — he turns to you, and says, “Exactly.” He walks you home after. Doesn’t try anything. Just walks beside you in the cold, hands in his pockets, the streetlight throwing his shadow long behind him.

8. THE “EVERYTHING IS ALREADY HANDLED” DATE. You mention offhand that you’ve been stressed lately. Too much on your plate. Too many little things slipping. You don’t even ask for help. But the next weekend, he picks you up and drives you to a small house outside the city, someone’s guest home, fully stocked, fridge filled, phone off. You ask how he arranged it. He just says, “I thought you’d like some silence.” You spend the day reading, walking the grounds, sitting near the fireplace. It’s the kind of calm that feels orchestrated. Because it was. Because he saw what you needed before you knew you needed it.

9. THE CLEANED-UP-DISASTER DATE. You’re having a bad night. You call him. That’s the entire date. He shows up at your door in under fifteen minutes. Says nothing at first, just lets you talk. Or cry. Or sit in silence. Then he asks if you’ve eaten. You haven’t. So he orders something simple. No questions, no judgments. You fall asleep on the couch. When you wake up, the food’s been put away, the lights are off, and he’s still there. Reading quietly in a chair near the window. He doesn’t sleep. Not when you might need him.

10. THE “NO ONE KNOWS ABOUT THIS” DATE. It’s a bar with no sign. No windows. The owner recognizes him and waves you both in. There’s jazz playing on vinyl. Maybe five people inside, tops. He takes you to the corner booth. No one watches you here. He’s different tonight. Looser. Warmer. He lets his fingers linger on yours when he sets his drink down. He tells you stories that never make it into case files. Things about his childhood. About loyalty. About what people really are when you take the masks off. He never talks this way to anyone else. You know that. And he knows you’ll never tell.

started 5.20.2025. finished 7.15.2025.

( masterlist. )

©️ monicfever 2025

[monicfever]

miss miss miss miss you

i miss yall more. 🫶 it’s been a minute, my bad. do yall still rock with daredevil / punisher fics ⁉️

[monicfever]

i love your writing sm 😭 especially your dex hcs, i dont know what it is but the way you write hcs flows so nicely and the way you explore all the little details makes it feel so cozy and comforting hahah i hope you feel better soon!! vitamin c, water, and rest!!! <3

THANK YOU !!!!!!! this for real made me super happy , i love this compliment so much and im glad it’s comforting for you to read :)) thank you for taking the time to say that !!!