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Butcher’s Bouquet

Chapter 1: Meat-Cute

Summary: You’re the new florist in town, just trying to deliver peonies to the café when you walk into the wrong door—and into the orbit of a towering, grumpy butcher with a voice like gravel and eyes like a thunderstorm. He’s all bloodied apron and blank stares; you’re a pastel mess with a dog named Muffin. It should’ve been a disaster. But something blooms.

Rating: Tiny bit of cussing and grumpy man energy. Nothing spicy (yet), just smoldering stares and tension.

Masterlist

---

The bouquet in your arms is getting heavier by the second. Not because flowers are heavy—peonies, baby’s breath, and a few white roses don’t exactly weigh a ton—but because Muffin, your disaster of a miniature golden retriever, has wrapped your wrist in her leash and is dragging you like she’s on a mission from God.

“No, Muffin—no café yet. We have to go in the side entrance—hey, stop—!”

Your boot hits a patch of slick tile, and suddenly the cozy smell of eucalyptus is replaced by something... metallic. Cold. Sharp. Like smoked meat and steel and—

You freeze.

This is not the café.

This is definitely not the café.

This is—

“...You lost?”

The voice is rough. Not rude. Just... low. Blunt. Like someone who doesn’t talk often, and when he does, it’s mostly to end conversations.

Your gaze travels upward—and upward—until you meet the source of the voice. He’s massive. Like, lumberjack meets apocalypse survivor massive. Wearing a black butcher’s apron stained with something dark (you don’t ask), sleeves rolled up over corded forearms, a short buzz of blond hair, and deep, unreadable eyes under a heavy brow.

“Oh my gosh,” you whisper. “You’re the butcher.”

He stares. “You’re the florist.”

You blink. “You... know that?”

“You smell like a flower shop exploded.”

You glance down at your pale yellow cardigan, now dusted with petal bits and glitter from the bouquet. “...Fair.”

Muffin chooses that exact moment to pee on the floor. Or more specifically, on his boot.

“Oh my god, Muffin!” you screech. “I’m so sorry—she’s usually not this chaotic—she gets excited around—well, not meat—uh, not that I think you’re meat—but—”

He’s staring.

You’re dying.

“I’ll just—go now,” you mumble, cheeks burning. You tug Muffin’s leash. “Sorry about your...everything.”

You pivot, bouquet still in hand, dragging your freshly relieved dog out the door, expecting him to let you vanish forever.

But just before the door swings shut, his voice cuts through like a clean slice.

“You left your frilly weeds.”

You turn.

He’s holding the bouquet you dropped—delicately. Like it might bite him.

You tiptoe back and take it gently, your fingers brushing his.

“They’re peonies,” you say softly. “They mean bashful love.”

He grunts. “Figures.”

You grin, still flustered but a little less embarrassed. “Thank you... Mr. Butcher.”

He doesn’t smile. Not really. But his mouth twitches at the corners.

“Name’s Riley. Simon Riley.”

You blink. “That sounds fake.”

He raises a brow.

You shove the bouquet into your arms like a shield. “I’m Y/N. My shop’s across the square.”

“I know.”

“You do?”

“You leave free flowers on the benches. People talk.”

You blink. “...What do they say?”

“They say you’re sweet.”

“And what do you say?”

He holds your gaze for a long moment.

Then: “I say you’re trouble.”

Your heart flutters stupidly. “Only the fun kind.”

He snorts. “We'll see about that.”

Later that evening, you find a single, rough-stemmed carnation left outside your shop door.

Tied to it is a note in blocky handwriting.

Carnation: pride and admiration.

– R

[htchnr]

how are we doing ladies

[htchnr]

chapters have been updated!

notify list below lol

@ethqnwinters @skully-skeleton-bone0106 @blackbeautyiloveyouso @yallgotkik @womb-complex @plvtozz @bluephoenix0702

okay y'all,, i am gonna be heavilyyy editing the first chapter or two of Storefront Cemetery cause i've noticed some heavy inconsistencies with Hank & R's relationship/friendship 🤡

i wrote the first chapter or two at this point yearsssss ago (lmao whoops) when i didn't have a full vision yet for the series-- so now there's such a clear line in between chapter two and three where the tone shifts so drastically.. 🤡🤡

obviously i'll post and let y'all know when that's all done and ready to read! (cause ew it's kinda embarrassing tbh)

EDIT; chapters 1&2 have been updated!

series/general Hank taglist below>>

@ethqnwinters @skully-skeleton-bone0106 @blackbeautyiloveyouso @yallgotkik @womb-complex @plvtozz @bluephoenix0702

[htchnr]

okay y'all,, i am gonna be heavilyyy editing the first chapter or two of Storefront Cemetery cause i've noticed some heavy inconsistencies with Hank & R's relationship/friendship 🤡

i wrote the first chapter or two at this point yearsssss ago (lmao whoops) when i didn't have a full vision yet for the series-- so now there's such a clear line in between chapter two and three where the tone shifts so drastically.. 🤡🤡

obviously i'll post and let y'all know when that's all done and ready to read! (cause ew it's kinda embarrassing tbh)

EDIT; chapters 1&2 have been updated!

series/general Hank taglist below>>

@ethqnwinters @skully-skeleton-bone0106 @blackbeautyiloveyouso @yallgotkik @womb-complex @plvtozz @bluephoenix0702

[htchnr]

tag along ; benjamin poindexter

creator's note: based on a request!!! yaaaay my requests are open for now.... hopefully i get to finish them all... also, i just realized, this might be the first fluff i wrote for him.. no angst, no desperate sex, just him. like hello????

warnings: repressed golden retriever benjamin poindexter, i dont know SHIT about skincare, not proofread.

word count: 1.4k

You hum softly as the warm water splashes against your skin, fingertips gliding over your cheeks to melt away the remnants of the day. The bathroom light casts a soft glow, and the faint scent of eucalyptus rises from the open jar of cleanser on the counter.

Somewhere behind you, Dex is leaning against the doorframe.

Again.

You catch his reflection in the mirror, tall and silent and very much not trying to hide the way he’s just… watching you.

“Seriously?” you ask, laughing under your breath. “You gonna stand there the whole time?”

He tilts his head slightly, arms crossed over his chest like he’s observing some rare wildlife. "Probably."

You snort, flicking water at him. “I don’t know what fascinates you about this.”

He pauses for a moment, the silence taking over for a few seconds.

“...You,” he says plainly.

And he means it. He always does. There’s not a single unnecessary word in his entire body. If Dex says you, he means you. No flourishes. No exaggeration. Just you.

The corner of your lips twitches upwards for a moment, looking away from him with a small sigh of content. Then, you continue with your routine. You begin your nightly process: toner, serum, eye cream. Dex hasn’t moved. He watches like you’re disarming a bomb, eyes tracking every product, every swipe of your hand.

“Do you want something?” you tease, cracking open a tub of thick moisturizer. “You wanna join in?”

There’s a pause. Then, completely deadpan, he speaks.

“…What do I have to do?”

You blink.

“Wait, seriously?”

He shrugs one shoulder. “If you’re gonna spend twenty minutes every night rubbing mystery creams on your face, I want to know why.”

You grin and beckon him over. “Come here, Poindexter. Let me teach you the sacred ways.”

Fifteen minutes later, Dex is sitting on the closed toilet lid like a damn statue, eyes closed, hands in his lap, with a panda sheet mask draped over his face.

You’re standing in front of him, biting your lip so you don’t laugh out loud.

He looks insane.

Absolutely deranged.

The black patches around the eyes make him look like a confused assassin who got lost on his way to a mission and ended up in Sephora.

“You okay?” you ask, voice high with suppressed laughter.

“…Can’t feel my face.”

“That’s the hyaluronic acid tingling. It’s good for your skin.”

A pause.

“Feels like it’s burning off my skin.”

“It’s supposed to feel like that.”

He peeks one eye open through the mask hole. “I don’t think pandas feel like this.”

You lose it. Hands braced on the sink, shoulders shaking with the force of your laughter, breath hitching as you try—and fail—to hold it back. It starts as a snort, then bubbles into something uncontrollable, your entire body curling forward while you gasp between fits.

Dex stares at you. The mask’s exaggerated panda smile makes the whole thing worse. Or better. You don’t know anymore.

He doesn’t crack a smile. Not once.

But the minute your laughter dies down, he says, “You’re stunning, you know.”

You glance at him, still grinning, cheeks flushed.

“You look ridiculous and you still say that?”

He pauses, “doesn’t matter what’s on your face. Or mine. I’ll still be looking at you.”

Your heart stutters. He doesn’t even realize the effect he has sometimes. The way he says things like that without fanfare. No flowery metaphors. Just brutal honesty, cut clean.

You kneel down in front of him, resting your hands on his knees. He looks down at you through the wide panda eyes of his mask.

Your palms press lightly to his knees, thumbs brushing slow arcs into the fabric of his sweats. You can feel the tension in his legs—always coiled, always ready—but here, in the soft hum of your bathroom, even that seems to ebb a little. It’s quiet. Peaceful.

He looks almost… harmless like this.

Ridiculous, yes. But harmless.

Your fingers slide up just a little, barely noticeable, and you tilt your head, letting your gaze roam over the cartoon mask warped across his sharp features. His mouth, usually tight with restraint, is obscured by the printed grin of the panda, and it’s just—it’s killing you. You can’t help but giggle again, quieter this time.

“You know,” you murmur, “if anyone saw you like this…”

“They won’t.”

His voice is calm. Certain.

You raise a brow. “Still. I think I should take a picture. Just in case I ever need leverage.”

Dex doesn’t even flinch. “You’d never use it.”

You pause, lips quirking. “Yeah,” you admit. “I wouldn’t.”

There’s a long beat. His eyes haven’t left yours. And even though he’s sitting there with a damn panda face stuck to him, you feel the moment shift—subtle, but real.

“Why do you let me see you like this?” he asks.

Your breath catches, slightly off-guard. “Like what?”

“This,” he says, lifting a hand just a little. “Unarmed. Vulnerable.”

You blink. You weren’t expecting that.

“I don’t know,” you whisper. “Maybe ‘cause you don’t ask me to be anything else.”

The corner of the panda mask lifts slightly as he twitches his mouth underneath, maybe a smile, maybe not. But his eyes—they soften.

You reach up slowly, fingertips grazing the edge of the mask. “Time’s up, by the way,” you murmur. “Want me to take it off for you?”

He nods.

Carefully, you peel it back, revealing his flushed skin beneath, the faint sheen of product catching the light. His expression is unreadable—serious, but not distant. You toss the mask aside, then grab a cotton pad to dab the rest of the serum in, gently pressing it into his cheekbones, his jaw, the bridge of his nose.

He lets you.

Not just tolerates it. Lets you. Fully present, fully still, watching you the entire time like you’ve got the answers to every damn question he’s never known how to ask.

Your hand pauses on his cheek, thumb tracing lightly along the edge of his brow.

“I meant it, by the way,” he says.

You blink up at him. “Meant what?”

“That you’re stunning.”

Your throat tightens. Something in your chest flutters—too quick to catch, too warm to ignore. And he’s looking at you like you hung the moon, like you’re something sacred and steady and rare. Even now. Even with product on your hands and half your hair pinned up in a stupid clip.

“You really know how to ruin a funny moment with sincerity, huh?” you whisper, trying to tease, but it comes out gentler than you meant.

Dex leans in a little, his forehead brushing yours. The scent of the sheet mask lingers faintly between you—clean, floral, absurd.

“Maybe,” he says. “You don’t seem to mind.”

A beat. Another beat.

“Hm,” you replied. “Of course I don’t.”

He grins. For the first time in hours after watching you.

His grin is small, crooked, but it cracks through all the stoicism like a sunbeam splitting cloud. Not performative, not sharp. Just there—real and rare and all yours.

You tilt your head slightly, noses brushing. “You’re not gonna kiss me with hyaluronic acid still on your face, are you?”

Dex exhales a soft huff of a laugh, low in his throat. “Wouldn’t dream of contaminating your sacred skincare rituals.”

You roll your eyes, hands still resting lightly on his face. “You already did. Just by being here.”

He leans in again, slower this time. Purposeful.

“And yet,” he murmurs, breath fanning over your lips, “you let me.”

His lips capture yours.

Not like a man covered in cartoon pandas. Not like someone indulging in something silly.

He kisses you like it’s gravity—like every single moment tonight led to this one, this press of lips soft and unhurried, reverent even. His hands find your waist, grounding you there between his knees, and yours slide naturally up around his shoulders, fingers curling in the cotton of his shirt.

It’s warm.

It’s gentle.

It’s stupidly tender for a man with a killer’s precision and a panda’s face serum.

And when you finally pull away, breath mingling, you stay there—foreheads touching, his thumbs brushing small circles into your hips like muscle memory.

You smile again, eyes half-lidded. “Dex?”

“Mm?”

“You still look ridiculous.”

“Yeah,” he says, voice low and rough and fond. “But I feel good.”

And somehow, that’s the most vulnerable thing he’s said all night.

mini taglist: @blxckwidxxw, @cannibalisticcorpse

kruegerspillow © 2025 ➵ do not feed my work into ai, repost or translate my work. Reblogs are much appreciated ୨ৎ

[htchnr]

Shane my love ❤️

[htchnr]

Never truly free 🕊️

[htchnr]

tracing benjamin poindexter's scars, letting him be vulnerable for the first time in a long, long time.

You found him in the quiet. Always in the quiet.

The apartment was dim, save for the low glow from the kitchen light bleeding across the floor. Rain tapped gently against the windows, nothing torrential—just the kind that hums. The kind that made you forget to speak.

He stood with his back to you at first. Shirtless. Motionless.

The harsh scar that ran the length of his spine gleamed like a burnished line in the low light. You could see where flesh met steel—where skin failed to hide what had been done to him. The surgical precision of it. The violent reason for it.

His arms were loose at his sides. Fingers twitching.

“Ben,” you said gently, not even trying to mask your breath, your care. “You okay?”

His head dipped.

He never answered quickly, and tonight he didn’t at all.

So you walked. Slowly, barefoot, crossing the space between you. He didn’t move. Not when your hand touched his shoulder. Not when your fingers slid down the bare slope of his upper back, hesitating just above the long, vertical scar.

“I didn’t mean to—” you paused, unsure what excuse you were about to give. What reason you’d needed to approach him. Maybe you didn’t need one.

His breath hitched, barely noticeable.

So you traced it.

That long, brutal seam of memory down his back, the one Fisk had given him with promises and metal. You followed the scar with your index finger, slow and reverent, feeling every uneven ridge and stitch. It wasn’t just a scar—it was proof. Of survival. Of control ripped from him and then bolted back into place by force.

He still hadn’t moved.

Your palm flattened gently against his side, just above another scar. A jagged one. You’d seen it before—once, under poor lighting and tense circumstances. But now, he didn’t flinch when you found it again.

“How many times?” you whispered. “Did they cut you open and expect you to keep going?”

He exhaled, and it shook.

Then you kissed it. Softly. The one on his ribs.

Your lips lingered.

Another scar—slightly lower, like a gash from the past that never closed right. You kissed that one too, slower. He twitched.

He still didn’t speak. But his chest… it moved. Uneven, trembling slightly with every breath. You looked up—just barely—and saw his eyes through the reflection in the glass.

Half-lidded.

Pupils wide.

Mouth parted.

He looked like he was drowning. But not the kind of drowning that comes with thrashing. The kind that came when you let yourself sink. When it didn’t hurt anymore, not like it used to. When surrender didn’t feel like losing.

You pressed closer, your body brushing his side, arms wrapping slowly around his waist. Careful not to trap him. Careful never to take—only give. You moved your lips to his spine this time. Lower.

It was warm, despite everything. Human still, in its own way.

His head tilted forward, neck tense. The cords in his arms flexed—but not in preparation for violence.

You kissed again.

And again.

And again.

Small, reverent motions. Mapping every inch of pain with love. Not with pity—he’d never stand for that. No, you kissed him like someone who saw him. The broken parts. The engineered parts. The quiet rage beneath his skin that no longer burned as hot but still never quite left.

When your arms slid higher, one hand resting on the center of his chest from behind, you could feel the beat of his heart. Racing. Loud in the silence.

“I’m still here,” you murmured against the back of his shoulder. “You are too.”

He turned then. Not fast, but deliberate. He faced you, chest heaving now with every inhale like he’d just surfaced from that sea he’d been lost in. His eyes searched yours. Wild, quiet desperation. Like he was waiting to be told this wasn’t real.

You placed your hand right over his heart. “You made it back, Ben.”

A muscle in his jaw clenched. His lips trembled.

He didn’t say a word.

But his hands found yours. One curled around your wrist, grounding himself. The other landed softly on your cheek, fingers feather-light, like he wasn’t sure he had the right to touch you. Like he was afraid you'd vanish.

You didn’t.

You kissed the last scar you could see—a gash across his cheekbone. And you held him, forehead to forehead, until the world slowed.

Until the metal spine wasn’t the only thing keeping him standing.

mini taglist: @blxckwidxxw, @cannibalisticcorpse

kruegerspillow © 2025 ➵ do not feed my work into ai, repost or translate my work. Reblogs are much appreciated ୨ৎ

[htchnr]

collateral damage ; benjamin poindexter

creator's note: once i had a banana accidentally shoved down my throat by my friend. now, i live with that trauma and have to go through constant flashbacks while eating bananas. then, i had this amazing idea pop up in my mind. it reminded me of dex, and, oh well... here goes. this was supposed to be funny but uuuh... its dex

warnings: soft hurt/comfort, accidental injury during sleep, nosebleed, blood, mild medical aftermath, vivid pain descriptions, emotional distress, spiralling, lots of self-blame, veeery vulnerable Dex, swearing, Dex being way too hard on himself, not proofread.

word count: 2k

Dex stirred in his sleep.

His back pressed against your chest, legs tucked in like some kind of animal huddling for warmth. One of your arms wrapped around your waist, while Dex had his head resting on your other arm.

You nuzzled your face closer to Dex's shoulder, eyes fluttered shut as your breaths came in a slow, steady pace. The warm air tickled his pale skin, and his body shifted away from the contact.

But you were asleep. And the both of you sure as hell had no idea what was happening.

You exhaled, before taking an even deeper breath. Dex murmured something in his sleep, barely coherent. His arms shifted, body twisting before—smack.

His elbow came in contact with your nose. Hard. Quick. Painful.

You swore you saw white the moment you opened your eyes, feeling the trickle of warm liquid down your nose. Your eyes shot open, mouth gaping as your brain tried to process everything. You rolled to your back, looking up at the ceiling, feeling the sting on your nose and the taste of metal.

And Dex?

He was still asleep, one arm draped over his face while the other stretched freely. His breath hitched for a moment, but it slowed down a second later. Like he hadn't just elbow-striked you in his sleep.

You didn’t know what to do at first—just lay there, blinking at the ceiling, one hand instinctively cupping over your face. The pain was sharp and hot and un-fucking-believable. You tilted your head slightly and winced when the blood ran faster down to your lip.

"Christ," you hissed under your breath, trying to sit up. The mattress creaked quietly beneath you. Dex didn't stir. Of course he didn't.

You pressed your hand harder to your nose, blindly fumbling toward the edge of the bed and stumbling out of it with the grace of a wounded deer. Your legs wobbled beneath you and your head spun just a bit too dramatically for your liking. The floor was cold under your feet as you padded out the bedroom, one hand on your nose and the other reaching for the wall.

The bathroom door clicked quietly behind you as you shut it. The overhead light was almost too bright, stabbing into your retinas as you squinted into the mirror. Your reflection looked… yeah. Exactly like someone who had been elbowed in the face at 7 a.m.

"Cool," you muttered to yourself, grabbing some tissue and trying to clean up as best you could. Blood stained your upper lip and the edge of your shirt, a vivid swipe of red that made you groan. You wet a towel, gently dabbing under your nose, but the sting made your eyes water. And when you pressed a little harder, you hissed again and leaned back, clutching the sink edge.

The silence of the apartment was loud. You could hear the hum of the fridge from the hallway. Could feel the absence of him through the door like a ghost just beyond it.

You walked out of the bathroom quietly.

You grabbed the icepack from the tiny freezer compartment and pressed it to your face, sniffling quietly. No crying. Just pain, and adrenaline, and… mostly just the kind of disbelief that made you want to laugh but couldn’t because you don't want to break your nose for the second time.

7:14 a.m.

His alarm rung.

Dex woke up precisely at 7:14, not a second later or a second earlier. His eyes fluttered open as he looked up at the ceiling, chest heaving up and down quietly. His arm shifted on the sheets, hands trying to reach out to you.

But it was cold.

Your side was cold. Specifically yours.

His brows furrowed.

The sheet was still bunched up where your body should've been, your scent still lingering faintly in the pillow next to his—but your warmth was gone. Dex blinked, slowly at first, then all at once—his head jerked to the side like he expected to see you curled up with your arm around his waist again, mumbling something soft and sleepy and half-incoherent.

But you weren't there.

His whole body froze.

Dex sat up. Not sluggish like he usually would've after a night of actual rest, not yawning or stretching like someone at ease—but sharp. Mechanical. Like his body was moving before his thoughts could even catch up. He looked to the edge of the bed, then to the open door.

No footsteps. No shuffling. No sound of running water. Nothing.

He rubbed his face with both hands and let out a breath that caught in his throat. Something was off. Something was wrong. His muscles tensed. Fingers twitched. His whole routine was built around that alarm, that precision, that assurance that when he opened his eyes at 7:14, the world would be in place. You would be next to him.

You weren't next to him.

The back of his throat went dry.

"Sweetheart?" His voice cracked as he said it, hoarse from sleep. He cleared it and tried again. "Hello?"

No answer.

Dex swung his legs over the bed and stood up so fast the mattress audibly creaked under the shift in weight. He grabbed the edge of the doorway like he needed it to steady himself. His eyes scanned the apartment. Living room, empty. Kitchen, untouched. Shoes still by the door. Your bag still there.

"Where—"

Then it hit him.

The faint sound of something soft. Fabric shifting. A sniffle.

Dex's head snapped toward the bathroom door. Closed. Light on underneath. His heart slammed into his ribs.

He moved before he could think. Crossed the room, bare feet on cold tile. His hand reached for the knob slowly, like he didn't want to know what was behind the door.

But he twisted it anyway. Hoping that this was some kind of joke.

Instead, the door jolted into you—solid thunk against your back.

You yelped softly and jerked forward.

Dex's heart sank. "Shit, fuck—I didn’t know you were—"

The door eased open an inch. Dex peeked through the gap.

And what he saw made his stomach plummet.

You were standing there with an icepack pressed under your nose, face puffy and flushed, shirt stained with a smudge of red that made his vision tilt. Your eyes were watery—not crying, not even close, but the kind of look someone has when they've been sitting in pain long enough that their body's just started making tears without their permission.

Dex's mouth parted slowly. His eyes dragged down to the blood-streaked towel on the sink. To the crumpled tissue in the bin. To the way you were holding the icepack with both hands like it was the only thing keeping you upright.

"…What the fuck happened?"

You looked at him, quiet. Eyes soft, expression unreadable. You didn't even get a chance to answer. You sat back down on the floor, back against the wall this time.

Dex's stomach twisted.

"No—wait—wait—" His hand lifted slowly like he didn't know what to do with it. "Did I—" He pointed at himself. "Did I do that?"

A beat passed. Or two.

The silence was enough for him. It was an answer.

He took a step back, not to run away from you, never. But to run away from himself. From what he had done. His back pressed against the wall.

He couldn't look away from you, not really, but he sure as hell couldn't look at you either. Not without feeling that split-second replay in his head: the twisting motion, the sharp angle of his elbow, the imagined impact of it slamming into your face mid-sleep. The same arm you used to hold him, the same breath you warmed his shoulder with—he hit you. He fucking hit you.

Dex's jaw clenched so hard his teeth hurt. One hand curled into the hem of his shirt, tugging it like he needed something to ground himself.

"I—I didn’t know," he mumbled, voice quieter now. Broken. Like it had been scraped against concrete. "I didn't even feel it. I didn’t—fuck."

Your eyes softened, brows twitching upward like you didn't want him to spiral—but also like the pain in your nose was begging for you not to move it too much. You shifted the ice pack a little lower and inhaled sharply through your mouth. Your voice, when it came, was gentle. Almost too gentle.

"Dex… it's okay. You didn't mean to."

Dex flinched like you'd just slapped him. "It's not—how the fuck is this okay?"

He pushed himself off of the wall, running a hand through his hair like he wanted to rip it out. His fingers kept clenching and unclenching at his sides, like his body wanted to throw itself into something but didn't have permission. And that—that made it worse. Because he didn't even remember doing it. Didn't know what was happening while it was happening. Didn't know you were hurt.

"I could've—" he choked out, stepping a little closer, "—I could’ve broken your nose. I could’ve hit your eye, or your temple, or your—fuck—"

"Dex."

He stopped talking immediately. Just stared at you. Eyes wide, rimmed red from the edges of panic. The veins in his neck stood out. His shoulders looked like they were trying to fold in on themselves.

"I'm not mad at you," you said softly. Carefully. "You were asleep."

His lips parted like he was going to argue, but nothing came out. He shook his head, fast. "Doesn't fucking matter," he muttered. "I still did it."

You blinked slowly. Then held out one hand. Not the one with the icepack. The other. The hand you usually used to pull him down beside you in bed. The one that always cupped his cheek when he got too quiet for too long.

Dex stared at it. Then at you. Then back again.

It took him a second.

But he moved.

One step. Two. His knees hit the edge of the bathmat and he lowered himself down, kneeling in front of you like he needed to be closer to the pain to apologize for it. His hand ghosted over your knee, not touching—just trembling inches above it.

His voice cracked again.

"I'm sorry."

"I know. It's alright, really. You didn't mean to."

"But I did." His hand lifted and fell back to his lap. "I always swore I wouldn’t—I can't—"

You leaned forward, slow, cautious, and nudged his knuckles with your fingertips.

Dex startled like he thought he didn't deserve it.

You laced your fingers through his slowly, letting your icepack rest in your lap. His hand was cold, stiff with guilt, but he didn't pull away.

"I trust you," you said softly. "I know you. And I know that if you were awake, you would not've done that."

His throat bobbed. His jaw twitched.

"And I know," you continued, "that you're gonna be more torn up about this than I'll ever be. So… please don't start punishing yourself for something your body did in its sleep."

His head dipped. Brown strands fell over his brow, shielding his expression.

You brushed them back for him.

Dex let out a breath he'd been holding since the moment he saw blood on your shirt. It shook on the way out, but he didn't cry. Didn't speak.

He just pressed his forehead against your knee.

You stroked your fingers through his hair. Again. Again. And again. Like it might anchor him.

"I'll get better at sleeping on my side," he whispered eventually, almost too quiet to hear.

You smiled—watery, half-pained. "Or I'll get better at dodging elbows."

That drew a sound out of him. Not quite a laugh, but something close. He turned his head slightly and pressed a kiss to the side of your leg.

"I'm sorry," he murmured again. "God, I'm so sorry."

"I know."

"I'l make it up to you."

"You don't have to—"

"I will."

You didn't argue. Just leaned down a little more and rested your cheek against the top of his head. Dex wrapped his arms around your waist gently, carefully, like he was afraid of even brushing the bruise on your face.

And for a while, you both stayed there, tangled in a hush of flickering bathroom light and the quiet whirr of the city just beyond your walls. He held you like an apology. You held him like he didn't need to say it twice.

And maybe later, he'd call in to cancel his whole day. Or cook you something with trembling hands. Or hold an icepack against your cheek.

But right now?

He just stayed. Right there on the floor. With you. Where he'd make it right. Where he vowed to make it right.

mini taglist: @blxckwidxxw, @cannibalisticcorpse

kruegerspillow © 2025 ➵ do not feed my work into ai, repost or translate my work. Reblogs are much appreciated ୨ৎ

[htchnr]

slammer

pairing: benjamin poindexter x reader

summary: in the middle of summer, you find dex's old box of pogs. : ) (fluff, gn!reader)

a/n: inspired by the prop notes from kid dex's therapy sessions (here!!) that mentioned he had great aim with the slammers and pogs which i found so cute 🥺 these are advanced reparations for the absolute hell i'm bout to put him through in the next fic : )

You weren’t even looking for them on purpose. It’s the other fan you were trying to find: the city’s caught in one of those off-peak cold snaps in the middle of summer, where the air can’t commit to heat or chill, stuck in a muggy, bone-deep limbo that leaves sweat and goosebumps living side by side. So you’re crouched in Dex’s bedroom, cursing under your breath, one arm elbow-deep beneath the bedframe with your fingertips skating over dust and loose receipts—when they land on something decidedly not a fan.

It rattles when you pull it out. A brown shoebox, beat to hell, corners taped and retaped into submission with black sharpie on the lid.

B. POINDEXTER / 199X-199X

A prickle rolls up your spine as you frown down at the thing. Guilt, curiosity, excitement—all swimming in the same warm, unsure current. Dex has let you in; he’s been more open with you lately, even generous—tiny pieces of his life given freely like coins pressed into your palm. You’ve been lucky to see what you’ve seen. And still—it only makes you greedier. The more he gives, the more you want. Want to turn him over in your hands, hold every year he’s tried to bury in your mouth and learn the taste of it. But it takes time. You know that.

On the other hand, you also know he doesn’t have to know.

You open the lid–

–and you can’t help but giggle.

Inside are pogs. Real, actual, unapologetic pogs: stacks and dozens of glossy cardboard discs packed edge to edge, their designs faded into a sunwashed pastel of 90’s absurdity—off-brand cartoon mascots, fireball fonts, metallic foils curling at the corners. There’s a pile of slammers too, metal and plastic, one of them shaped like a skull. You stare breathlessly, awash in a nostalgia so strong that you don’t even hear Dex behind you until he clears his throat.

“What are you doing?”

You jolt, then look over your shoulder. “These are yours?” 

His gaze cuts to the lid, then back to you. His throat works like he wants to swallow the question whole.

“Where’d you get that?”

“Bed,” you say, like the world’s most innocent thief, flipping a slammer between your fingers. “Man, I used to suck at these. You must’ve been crazy good, huh?”

Dex walks past you and reaches up, opening the closet and pulling down the fan—the one you’d been looking for—in two seconds flat.

“It was a phase.”

“Bullshit,” you say, your hands now sorting through the rest of the stacks. “You have, like, a thousand.”

“Okay, I was pretty good,” he finally admits, almost too quiet to hear. You can tell he’s trying not to smile, to puff up too much. For all intents and purposes, he’s failing. It’s already seeping through, so you just throw him the bone—besides, you’re already plotting something.

“Oh, I bet you were. You probably trained.”

“I did.”

You laugh, barked and disbelieving. “You trained for pogs?”

Dex shrugs. “Didn’t have much to do. You could win other kids’ stacks, I wanted all of ‘em.”

“Oh my God.” You’re grinning so hard you’re scared your face might crack. “Dex, I have an idea.”

Later that afternoon—windows open, someone two floors up smoking something acrid and sweet—you stand across him on the living room floor with a pile of mismatched pogs between you. There’s the Business Section of today’s paper underneath as the playing surface. Dex has sorted the pogs by sheen, weight, center-balance like he’s tuning an instrument. You just picked yours based on which ones have funny cats and dogs on them.

“You sure about that slammer?” he says, brows raised.

You glance down at your gaudy glitter-pink disk. It has a cartoon cat on it that reminds you vaguely of Dex, which was why you chose it in the first place.

“It speaks to me.”

Dex suppresses a sigh. “You’re gonna lose everything.”

“You’re the one who’s emotionally invested,” you say smugly. “Unfortunately for you, I’m the cool, collected underdog, and you’re–”

“Oh, you won’t be for long.”

You blink, thrown by the gleam in his eye. His mouth is pulled into something dangerously close to cocky in a way you like. It’s the first time you’ve seen him like this—light, boyish, kind of wicked with no trace of self-consciousness—and he looks ten years younger, like someone you would've thrown rocks at just to get his attention in middle school.

He takes his time stacking the pogs, five tall, shiny sides up, as if the whole thing is ceremonial. His fingers are steady and precise.

“You go first,” you offer.

He shrugs offhandedly, and so he does go first—with a flick of his wrist that’s so fast, so fluid, so obscene that the tower of pogs explodes like a paper city hit with artillery, discs skittering in every direction. He scoops his winnings with fast, neat fingers, already reassembling the stack with inhuman speed before you’ve even processed what just happened. 

“Dex!”

He glances up innocently. “Hm?”

“...What the hell was that?”

He shrugs. “S’all in the wrist.”

“You’re sick.” You shake your finger at him. “You’re a sick man.”

“It’s your idea. Besides, you picked the sparkle one.”

“You knew it was bad and you let me choose it!”

“There are no bad slammers,” Dex says with finality. He’s fucking smirking. “Just bad technique.”

Needless to say, you lose three rounds in a row.

Dex never misses. He adjusts between turns like he’s recalibrating for crosswind. You realize, horrified, that he’s calculating and measuring angles. He’s playing pogs like he’d play ballistics—and with that, you know you’re done for. Who uses geometry at a damn kids’ game?

By round four, he’s up 9 to 2.

“Stack ‘em again,” he says, “I’ll give you a handicap.”

You shoot him a glare, but your hands are already reaching. Outside, the city smells like heat and burned meat and tires; inside, Dex appraises the tower of decades-old collectibles like he’s holding court in his private kingdom, knees starting to ache and not caring in the slightest.

You throw again. You miss the stack entirely. The slammer glances off the base like a dead frog.

He’s never grinned so wide.

“This is bullshit!”

“You’re not flattening your wrist enough,” he says evenly, voice dropping as you reach across him to snatch your slammer back. “And you’re leaning too much. You gotta watch your shoulder.”

“Aww,” you say, mock-wounded. “You’re coaching me.”

He doesn’t flinch. “You’ll like it better when you win.”

You hope the flush in your cheeks can pass for heat from the muggy air, and not the sudden gentleness in his voice.

Neither of you speaks after that. You circle the stack in silence, studying it like it might give up secrets, pressing an auspicious kiss to your slammer. And then—crack—it hits clean: two discs flipping into the air with a satisfying snap, and Dex’s eyebrows visibly twitch.

“Oh?” you say. “Is someone coming for your throne?”

He’s already restacking. “Try it again.”

He lets you win the fourth round. You know he does: he fakes a poor angle and doesn’t even scoop up all the pogs he could’ve taken. Because you’re a self-preserving schmuck, you pretend not to notice. He pretends to lose with dignity. You both know the dance. 

The noon unspools as such. The fan humming, the wind warm and tired through the screen, the faint hum of distant traffic and city static. Someone lights another cigarette down the block. You lie flat on the hardwood, pogs scattered like bones between you. No one’s playing anymore.

Dex has his arm raised, examining the slammer balanced between his knuckles. A natural extension of his own body. He looks criminally pleased with himself, entirely at home in his own skin.

“You ever cheat?” you ask, flicking a bent pog at his chest. Your hands are sticky from soda, sticker gunk, the glue of summer.

He doesn’t look over. “Never.”

“Never ever?” 

“No point. If I lost, it meant I needed to get better.”

“Huh.” You’d always been of the opinion that cheating on games was half the fun, so you’re quiet for a second, considering it. “I guess that’s very you.”

Eventually, he turns his head. The sun is gentle on him, the yellow rays painting and mixing with his hair like fire, and his face is glowing where it meets the lines of his cheeks and the illuminated hazel of his eyes. 

“Just didn’t wanna disappoint anyone,” he says.

You don’t answer, reaching across the mess of pogs to press your fingers against the back of his hand. He lets you; he doesn’t pull away. He never does anymore.

“...Best of fifteen again?” you murmur, against the warm skin of his neck.

Dex sighs.

“Haven’t you had enough of me beating you?”

“Not even close.” You pull back to look at him, smiling like an idiot. Full and bright with it. He’d been beaming like a little kid right then, so how could you not be, too?

You could lose forever and still walk away full.

You press your elbow to his, shoulder to shoulder.

“Line ‘em up, then.”

[htchnr]

pulse ; benjamin poindexter

creator’s note: idk another random fluffy scene with him!! the fixation on him is lowk crazy.

warnings: fluff, vulnerable Dex, not proofread.

word count: 2.1k

It wasn't likely that Dex would be… relaxed. But that didn't make it impossible, did it?

You sat on the couch, fingers tapping against the armrest restlessly. Your mind had been running since the second you first opened your eyes—as if it was trying to find something to do. Something to calm you down—even though nothing in particular was bothering you.

And Dex? He noticed.

He noticed everything.

The shift in your breathing. The way your knee bounced, barely perceptible but enough for him to clock it in his periphery. The twitch in your fingers when you tried to still them against the cushion.

He was in the kitchen, half-distracted with rinsing out a mug—but his eyes kept flicking back to you. Watching. Tracking.

“…Something on your mind?” he asked eventually, voice low and careful, like he didn’t want to spook you.

You paused, eyes flicking from the screen to him.

“Uh, no,” you replied. “Just… fidgety today.”

Dex didn't reply. Well, he didn't know how to. Your eyes trailed back to the screen, fingers still tapping—but softer now. As if you'd gone self-aware from his question.

Dex hated that.

Not the tapping—not the restlessness. He could live with that. He had, for years.

What made something tighten in his chest was the way you shrank back from yourself. The moment you caught his attention, the way your movements turned apologetic. As if being noticed made them wrong.

He wiped his hands on a towel, and folded it neatly before placing it on the counter. He walked over—not slow, not fast. Just steady. Like a decision already made.

You didn’t look up when he got close. Your eyes stayed glued to the screen, even though he could tell you weren’t really watching.

“Did I make it worse?” he asked. Quiet. A little rough.

You blinked. “What?”

Dex didn’t move to sit—he crouched in front of you instead, settling on his heels. Just low enough that you had to glance down at him, that your eyes finally met his.

“I asked if I made it worse. You got quiet.”

You frowned, confused. “I didn’t mean to. I just—”

You cut yourself off. He noticed that, too.

“Rough day, Dex,” you continued.

That stung. Not because it was wrong. But because Dex didn’t get to prevent you from whatever it was that made your day rough.

You studied him. The slope of his shoulders, the furrow between his brows. The way his hands curled at his sides like he didn’t know what to do with them. Like he wanted to reach for you—but didn’t trust that he should.

So, he just shifted closer.

He sat on the floor with his back pressed against the couch. He tilted his head slightly, so that his cheek pressed against the warmth of your thigh.

He didn’t say anything.

Didn’t ask if it was okay. Didn’t ask for permission.

But he moved slow—so slow—and his breath caught just slightly before he made contact. Like he was giving you a thousand chances to pull away.

You didn’t.

You stayed still, fingers quiet now against the armrest, and watched as he settled against you like he was letting himself rest for the first time all day.

His cheek was rough with stubble, the soft heat of his skin bleeding through the fabric of your sweats. His shoulders lowered—not in defeat, not quite—but like the tension in them had finally decided to loosen.

Your hand hovered for a second. Just above him. Just above the place where his hair met the nape of his neck.

You didn’t have to touch him. Didn’t need to.

But you wanted to.

So you did.

Your fingers slipped into his hair, tentative at first, until he let out a breath that sounded like it had been locked in his chest for hours.

He didn’t lean into you. Didn’t make a sound. But the weight of his head got heavier, just slightly, as he let it rest more fully against you. Like the act of being near you was something he was trying not to need too much, and failing miserably at.

You kept stroking his hair in slow, steady lines, your fingers brushing down the back of his neck—barely there, just enough to ground you both.

“I don’t know what to do with myself today,” you murmured.

Dex shifted. Not away—just enough to tilt his head, enough for his voice to reach you clearly.

“I'm sorry,” he said, quiet. “That sounds hard.”

You blinked. Sometimes, you forgot how difficult it is for him to deal with these situations.

He swore he could feel you contemplate behind him.

“You don’t always have to solve it,” he tried again. “Some days are just…”

He trailed off, like he couldn’t find the right word.

“Loud,” you offered.

Dex nodded once, the movement faint against your leg.

“Loud,” he echoed. “Yeah.”

There was a pause. The kind that would’ve been uncomfortable a year ago. Not now. Not with him.

“Is this helping?” he asked suddenly.

You looked down at him again. At the way his lashes dipped, the way his hand rested loosely on your calf now—barely there, but undeniably his.

“Yeah,” you said. “You are.”

He didn’t respond with words. Just let out a small sound, something between a sigh and a hum, and turned his face a little more toward your thigh.

You weren’t sure how long you stayed like that—his weight warm against your leg, your fingers tracing through his hair, your thoughts still there but… quieter.

Not gone.

But manageable.

Dex shifted again—not away, never away—but just enough to press a little closer. His arm slid across the floor, slow and deliberate, until his fingers lightly brushed your ankle.

Not gripping. Not holding. Just there.

And maybe it was stupid. Maybe it didn’t mean anything to anyone else. But to him? That tiny gesture was monumental. That was Dex saying don’t go without speaking a single word.

You could feel his breath, warm against your leg. Could feel the soft drag of his stubble through the fabric every time he exhaled.

It grounded you.

Not because he was trying to be your anchor.

But because he was, just by being close.

You rested your other hand on the armrest again, fingers no longer twitching, just settled. Your brain wasn’t calm—God, it never really was—but it wasn’t clawing at you now. Wasn’t begging for something to latch onto.

Dex gave it something. You gave it something.

“I don’t like seeing you like this,” he said after a moment.

You looked down again. He wasn’t staring at you, but his brow was furrowed, jaw tight like he hated even admitting it.

“I know,” you paused for a moment. “But it's a part of life, Dex. It's full of… ups and downs. It won't always be steady.”

He didn't reply.

“Think of it… as a heartbeat,” you added. “A straight line means that their heart had stopped beating, right? But when the monitor beeps—a sign of life, the line goes up and down. That's how it is.”

He shifted again, head tilting back to look at you with those eyes of his. Soft—a bit glassy—even.

You didn't flinch under his gaze. Didn’t shy away from the way he was looking at you—like your words had peeled something open inside him. Like you’d just said something he hadn’t realized he needed to hear.

“Heartbeat,” he echoed.

You nodded. “Yeah. I know the dips don’t feel good. But they mean I’m still going. That I haven’t stopped.”

His throat bobbed with a swallow. You watched the movement, then met his eyes again. Something in them had shifted—not entirely softened, but quieter now.

Grounded, in that Dex sort of way. That steady, stubborn way he had of caring too much without knowing where to put it.

He turned again, resting the side of his face fully against your leg. The contact felt more deliberate this time. More certain. Like he’d decided he didn’t have to ask permission anymore. Not for this.

Your hand moved from his hair to the side of his face, thumb brushing lightly beneath his eye. His lashes fluttered—barely. A twitch more than anything else. But his fingers, still resting at your ankle, tightened just slightly.

“Still going,” he murmured. Like he was repeating it for himself. Like he needed to remember.

You nodded again, even though he wasn’t looking. “Still going.”

A silence fell between you. But it wasn’t the jagged kind, not sharp or stretched thin with what’s-wrong tension. It was thick instead. Heavy with understanding. With something shared and not said aloud.

Dex breathed in. Deep. Then again. You could feel each exhale through the fabric of your sweats. Like you were his grounding point now. Like he needed your presence as much as you needed his.

His hand moved—slow, uncertain—up the curve of your calf, and rested just beneath your knee. The warmth of his palm spread through the fabric, anchoring you with nothing more than the shape of it. He wasn’t grabbing. Wasn’t holding on. Just… being there. Being present in the only way Dex knew how.

And God, you could feel it.

The effort it took for him to stay like this. To allow softness. To not fold in on himself and shut the door like he’d done so many times before.

You shifted, only slightly, your knee bumping his shoulder in a way that made him glance up. You caught his eyes again. That strange, vulnerable mix of intensity and hesitation that was so uniquely him—like he was always on the edge of something sharp and choosing not to fall.

You reached down and pressed a kiss on his temple.

He froze.

Not completely. Not in fear or panic. But in that way Dex always did when you touched him with meaning. When the contact wasn’t rough or teasing or perfunctory—but gentle. Loving. Intentional.

You felt the breath stutter in his chest. The tiniest tremble in his shoulders, like your kiss had knocked something loose. And for a second, he didn’t move.

Then, slowly, he leaned into it.

Not desperately. Not all at once. But in increments. His body curling slightly toward your leg. His fingers brushing further up your calf like they wanted to chase the heat of your skin. Like he wanted to be held without asking.

Your lips stayed pressed to his temple for a beat longer, long enough for him to feel the fullness of it. Then you pulled back, just enough to look down at him again.

His eyes were open now, tilted slightly toward you, but unfocused—lost somewhere between relief and disbelief. Like he didn’t quite know what to do with being wanted. Not needed out of necessity, but wanted—because you chose him. Because you saw him, in all his impossible, wounded mess, and still touched him like he was worthy of it.

You cupped the side of his face. Let your thumb sweep across the sharp angle of his jaw, over the place where stubble scraped skin.

“You don’t have to say anything,” you murmured.

He didn’t.

But his hand moved again. Slid behind your knee, not to pull, but to hold. To anchor himself in the moment, in you. His head tilted into your touch, his temple now resting against your hand like it was the only thing keeping him grounded.

“I don’t want to mess this up,” he said quietly. “I hope I’m not messing it up.”

You didn’t flinch. You didn’t reassure him with lies or soft promises you couldn’t keep. You just breathed.

“You’re not,” you assured. “I’m not going anywhere.”

His fingers twitched where they held you, and that glassy look came back to his eyes. Not teary. Not fragile.

Just open.

For once, the armor was down.

He looked like a man still waiting to be hurt. Still waiting to be left. But he was here anyway. Letting you touch him. Letting himself be held in the quiet.

“I’m scared,” he said.

Your chest ached. Not because it surprised you—but because it didn’t. Because of course he was scared. Because he’d learned long ago that people leave. That even good things can snap out of your hands before you realize they’re gone.

“I am too,” you whispered. “But we’re still here.”

Dex let out a long breath. This one didn’t stutter.

It settled.

He pressed his forehead gently into your thigh, breath warming the fabric again, and stayed like that. Not because he didn’t want to move. But because—for once—he didn’t need to.

You rubbed slow circles against his back. Felt the slow, rising-falling rhythm of his chest against your leg. Steady. Human. Alive.

Heartbeat.

mini taglist: @blxckwidxxw, @cannibalisticcorpse

kruegerspillow © 2025 ➵ do not feed my work into ai, repost or translate my work. Reblogs are much appreciated ୨ৎ

[htchnr]

i loveee ur dex vs memes story and i think dex's typing style is so millenially cute ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

thank u i also think dex's texting style would be very cutee <3 more hcs on this with bf!benjamin poindexter in mind haha yayyyayyy

i think messages go usually like this:

he writes a full message

re-reads it four times

deletes it, rewrites it shorter

deletes it again

ends up sending just: “Ok”

if he's trying to be warm or funny, he tests out different ways to type it:

See you soon :) See you soon. see you soon See you soon :—)

but what he ends up sending is:

See you soon

then he thinks on it for the next ten seconds or until he has something else to do.

other stuff under the cut:

never uses emojis intentionally

once copied one from ur message to try it and accidentally sent 👁️

panicked & sent "Sorry" afterwards and refused to explain (he doesnt delete/edit it. he doesnt know how to)

types like this:

Heading home now Let me know if you want anything Still need to pick up the prescription Did you eat

sends photos of mundane things with no caption: your cat, his breakfast, the weird shadow on the wall he thought looked like a gun (this one scared you so he apologized)

texts you from the pharmacy stuff like:

Which cough syrup? You liked the blue one? [note: he knows this. he just wants the confirmation] Not the mint one. you gagged photo.jpg

you reply with: “❤️ ur my wife”

he doesnt reply for 8 mins then just sends:

ok

he definitely drafts some of his texts in his Notes app if they “matter” (this has a loose definition for him it could literally be anything). he types them out, reads them silently, then out loud, rewrites, deletes, rewrites again, copies them into your chat, reads it again, and still stares at the screen for 2 mins before hitting send. u have no idea how many versions of:

Do you want dumplings Or should i get something else? You said your stomach hurt. i can make soup I'll be home in 30

have lived and died in his Notes app.

u also have no idea how many versions of you look good in that shirt / you look nice / you should wear it again sometime / unless that's too forward / sorry have been abandoned for him to text you only:

Blue shirt's nice on you

you reply:

??? perv love u

he puts his phone face down. he is fully red.

meanwhile, you text him stuff like this:

dex dex i just saw a dog wiht a backpack wearing goggles i need to lie down

he responds:

Haha Ok Are you lying down now

and you also send him shit like:

THIS FUCKING STOVE WHY IS THE HEAT VIBRATING DEX WHY IS IT WET

he responds:

Is it the front right burner again the gasket's loose Use the other one until I fix it

he doesn't like texting first unless it's necessary (or really he just prefers if you text him first). and every time you text "miss you" he replies with:

Me too On my way soon Sorry running late

(never "i miss you too," or even just "i miss you" back, always "me too," like he's afraid you'll take it back if he says it wrong)

once, you asked him why he took so long to text back. he said, calm as ever, "i didn't want to say the wrong thing."

you said, "literally just say the thing."

he nodded. "okay."

that night you got a message:

The thing

and a follow up:

:—)

[htchnr]

Still Standing

content warnings: body image issues; negative self-image; post-injury recovery; mentions of scars and surgery; trauma-related emotional distress; emotional vulnerability; emotional comfort; references to an accident; mild PTSD implications; mild nudity (non-sexual)

Friday nights at Josie’s were supposed to be a release. A place where the weight of the week could be shaken off, where exhaustion could be softened by laughter, drinks, and familiar faces. You laughed with Karen and Gabriela, clinked bottles, sang karaoke with Matt—his off-key warble so bad it looped around into charming. And Frank—Frank had sat beside you in your usual shadowy corner booth, a quiet wall of presence and warmth. He never talked much when you were out, just let his hand rest on your thigh or the back of your neck, anchoring you without needing to say a word.

But the ease you felt in the bar was gone now, dissolved like cheap lipstick wiped clean. You stood in the bedroom in silence, the lights low, your breath shallow. The bathroom behind you still hummed with the steam of Frank’s shower, the mirror half-fogged. You tried not to look—but your eyes betrayed you. The outline of your body, blurred and damp, stared back from the glass. You hadn’t meant to notice, but you did. Your waist. Your thighs. The softness of your stomach. None of it looked the way it had six months ago.

You left the bathroom without a word, shutting the door softly behind you and moving toward the dresser like it might offer a distraction. Your fingers searched until they found it—one of Frank’s black long-sleeve shirts. The same one you used to steal during those first few weeks when you were still dancing around what you meant to each other. It had always swallowed you whole. Now, as you tugged it on, it hugged your arms. The hem barely grazed your hips.

Your hand trembled slightly as you tugged the hem down. You turned sideways and stared—watched yourself shift, measured the distance between who you’d been and who stood here now. A scar peeked out from your collarbone—healed, but angry and raised. Another one laced across your right knee, the site of a reconstructive surgery you hadn’t wanted but had been necessary after the failed raid in an abandoned Brooklyn warehouse six months ago.

You could still hear the crack of steel giving way. You could still remember everyone shouting for you on the comms, but Frank’s voice was most clear—he was panicked, then terrifyingly silent. You’d been buried under wreckage for thirteen minutes before he pulled you out with his own bleeding hands.

You’d been out of commission ever since. You were forced to work from a computer for six months. Six months. Six months of rehabilitating your right side that had been crushed. Six months of watching your team go out on calls without you. Six months of feeling like you were failing yourself, your body, your job, your team, your community…

Six months of watching your strength fade while your body fought just to heal. Six months of telling yourself it was fine—that it was temporary. But seeing it—really seeing it—cracked something open. Tears rose, sudden and sharp. You wondered how so much had changed without you noticing. Your eyes noticed the tremor in your right hand, trailed down over the exposed scar on your right knee, and noticed the scar from your shoulder surgery peaking out of the shirt collar. 

When did things change this much? you wondered to yourself. You didn't hear the water stop or the bathroom door open.

“Hey. You hear me?” Frank’s voice came low, rough from steam and quiet concern.

You startled, turned toward him too fast. The tears gave you away instantly. Frank stood with just a towel wrapped around his hips, steam curling from his damp hair, a slight crease forming between his brows. His expression shifted, worry etched into the lines of his face immediately. He crossed the room in three steps, barefoot, his shirt damp against his skin, eyes locked on yours.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, voice softening as he came to stand in front of you.

You shook your head and mumbled, “It’s nothing … it’s stupid…”

Frank wasn’t buying it—of course he wasn’t—he knew you too well. He had known you since day one of basic training. You stood shoulder-to-shoulder for the first time when the squad list was read for the first time. Castle, then yours. In the moment, all you shared was a simple nod: professional, curious, the kind of silent agreement you didn’t forget. And from that first muddy, punishing drill onward, you’d fallen into rhythm.

It was a partnership with no learning curve. You didn’t need to tell him where to go. He didn’t need to ask what you were thinking. Your bodies moved like a two-man unit wired from the inside out. You back his blind spots in hand-to-hand. He’d pivot instinctively when You shifted. You’d pass live-fire exercises with eerie synchronicity—trading mags mid-sprint, anticipating cover like you shared one brain.

Your squad didn’t understand it. Some whispered, some scoffed. A few tried to wedge themselves between you during drills … but no one could recreate it. The rhythm was all yours; earned in sweat and bruises and broken-down bones. And then, in time, respect followed. Frank never talked much back then either, but you always knew what he meant. When you stitched each other up. When you sat on rooftops post-mission sharing silence and cigarettes. When you caught him watching you with an intensity that made you forget how to breathe.

His family had seen it too—before the world went sideways. Maria had once told you, wine glass in hand, “He’s never opened up to anyone the way he does with you.” You shrugged, a faint smile on your face as you whispered, “That’s just how he is...” And you hadn’t just been there for Frank. You loved his kids like they were your own. From dance recitals to soccer games to sleepover duty, you were part of their lives before you ever admitted what Frank meant to you out loud.

And when his world burned to ash, you didn’t hesitate. You walked into that grief with him. No questions. No escape hatch. Just him. Always him. Now, here he was, standing in front of you, and you couldn’t even bring yourself to meet his eyes.

“It’s stupid,” you repeated, voice cracking.

“Try me, baby,” Frank assured you, his hands settled on your arms. Calloused fingers drag up and down your arms, a steady rhythm that grounds you.

You hesitated. Then, in one quick breath: “I’ve gained weight.”

“Okay…” He blinked almost like the words hadn’t truly reached his ears.

“This shirt—” you gestured towards your frame— “it used to hang off me … but now it fits like it was made for me not you. And I didn’t even see it happening until tonight…”

Your voice faltered, then faded, and the tears came without restraint. He cupped your face in both hands, his thumbs gently brushing away the streaks on your cheeks. Your shoulders dropped as the tension melted from your body, and you leaned into his touch, letting yourself soften completely against him.

Your throat tightened, but you found the words anyway—barely above a whisper.

“I feel like I let myself go,” you breathed.

Frank was quiet for a moment. His hands settled on your waist with deliberate gentleness. He didn’t flinch, didn’t look away. In fact, his eyes never left yours.

“You didn’t let anything go, baby girl,” he replied, voice even, grounding. “You got hurt and you healed. That’s what your body was doing all this time—keeping you alive … helping you come back from something that should’ve taken you out.”

You started to scoff, but he caught it before it could leave your throat. A quiet tsk left him, and your gaze snapped up to meet his gaze, your eyes wide, caught in the way he looked at you—like you were still whole.

“You think I give a damn about a number on a scale?” Frank asked. “Do you think any part of this”—his hand tugged lightly at the shirt you wore—“matters more than the fact that you’re still here?”

You blinked, tears slipping free again. His thumbs stroked slow circles on your hips, soothing, certain.

“You think I don’t see you?” he murmured. “I see everything—every damn inch of you—and not one part of you disappoints me.”

You broke then, a soft sob curling in your chest as you leaned into him, arms winding around his torso like the earth might fall out from under you without him. His chin rested on your head, hands steady at your back. He let you cry and held you like he always did—like nothing else in the world could get to you here.

“You don’t feel like yourself right now,” he said softly, “and that’s okay. We’ll get you back. Whatever that takes. Whatever you need. I’m not going anywhere, baby girl.”

You sniffled, nodding against his chest. Frank pulled back just enough to tilt your chin up. His expression was softer than anyone else ever saw it.

“And for the record…” He smirked faintly. “I was hoping you’d wear this shirt tonight.”

You let out a teary laugh, shaking your head. He leaned in, forehead pressing gently against yours.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmured. “Always.”

And in that moment, the fear eased—not gone but quiet, muted. Held in the arms of a man who had stood beside you in war, in grief, and now—in this. You weren't where you wanted to be, but you weren't alone. And with Frank Castle beside you, you never would be.

[htchnr]

i loveee ur dex vs memes story and i think dex's typing style is so millenially cute ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

thank u i also think dex's texting style would be very cutee <3 more hcs on this with bf!benjamin poindexter in mind haha yayyyayyy

i think messages go usually like this:

he writes a full message

re-reads it four times

deletes it, rewrites it shorter

deletes it again

ends up sending just: “Ok”

if he's trying to be warm or funny, he tests out different ways to type it:

See you soon :) See you soon. see you soon See you soon :—)

but what he ends up sending is:

See you soon

then he thinks on it for the next ten seconds or until he has something else to do.

other stuff under the cut:

never uses emojis intentionally

once copied one from ur message to try it and accidentally sent 👁️

panicked & sent "Sorry" afterwards and refused to explain (he doesnt delete/edit it. he doesnt know how to)

types like this:

Heading home now Let me know if you want anything Still need to pick up the prescription Did you eat

sends photos of mundane things with no caption: your cat, his breakfast, the weird shadow on the wall he thought looked like a gun (this one scared you so he apologized)

texts you from the pharmacy stuff like:

Which cough syrup? You liked the blue one? [note: he knows this. he just wants the confirmation] Not the mint one. you gagged photo.jpg

you reply with: “❤️ ur my wife”

he doesnt reply for 8 mins then just sends:

ok

he definitely drafts some of his texts in his Notes app if they “matter” (this has a loose definition for him it could literally be anything). he types them out, reads them silently, then out loud, rewrites, deletes, rewrites again, copies them into your chat, reads it again, and still stares at the screen for 2 mins before hitting send. u have no idea how many versions of:

Do you want dumplings Or should i get something else? You said your stomach hurt. i can make soup I'll be home in 30

have lived and died in his Notes app.

u also have no idea how many versions of you look good in that shirt / you look nice / you should wear it again sometime / unless that's too forward / sorry have been abandoned for him to text you only:

Blue shirt's nice on you

you reply:

??? perv love u

he puts his phone face down. he is fully red.

meanwhile, you text him stuff like this:

dex dex i just saw a dog wiht a backpack wearing goggles i need to lie down

he responds:

Haha Ok Are you lying down now

and you also send him shit like:

THIS FUCKING STOVE WHY IS THE HEAT VIBRATING DEX WHY IS IT WET

he responds:

Is it the front right burner again the gasket's loose Use the other one until I fix it

he doesn't like texting first unless it's necessary (or really he just prefers if you text him first). and every time you text "miss you" he replies with:

Me too On my way soon Sorry running late

(never "i miss you too," or even just "i miss you" back, always "me too," like he's afraid you'll take it back if he says it wrong)

once, you asked him why he took so long to text back. he said, calm as ever, "i didn't want to say the wrong thing."

you said, "literally just say the thing."

he nodded. "okay."

that night you got a message:

The thing

and a follow up:

:—)

[htchnr]

yall ever read a fic so bad you block the author

[htchnr]

[htchnr]

꩜ cold and catatonic 𑣲 KURGAN.

𖦹 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭. 𖦹 𝐛𝐮𝐲 𝐦𝐞 𝐚 𝐤𝐨-𝐟𝐢!

「 ꜜsummary,, a sorted word vomit with my thoughts on Kurgan with a goth girl.. they got a little crazy.. lmao. author notes at the end. 」

「 ꜜcontent,, Kurgan's oral fixation ⭑ piercings ⭑ marking kink ⭑ voyeurism ⭑ possessive!Kurgan ⭑ brief piv sex ⭑ Kurgan's obsession with you riding him ⭑ ripping clothes ⭑ cum marking ⭑ oral sex (m receiving) ⭑ Kurgan draws (he told me so!) ⭑ lewd & nude drawings ⭑ riding ⭑ shibari ⭑ doggy style ⭑ biting & scratching ⭑ taking lewd pictures (consented). ꜜwc,, 2,2k. 」

© 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓 𝐇𝐓𝐂𝐇𝐍𝐑. 𝐝𝐨 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐜𝐨𝐩𝐲, 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐬𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐦𝐲 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐦, 𝐨𝐫 𝐚𝐧𝐲 𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫!

✦◟ doing his eyeliner.

"could you sit still? i'm gonna make you go blind if you don't.." you huff, one hand firmly squishing his face in an attempt to keep him still, the other trying not to poke his eye out with your eyeliner pencil.

he snorts beneath you, his big hands on your hips as he pulls them impossibly close. "it's taking too long." he rumbles.

you roll your eyes, the grip on his cheeks tightening. "it's taking 'too long' because you can't keep your hands to yourself, nor can you sit still." you sigh, still focused on his eyes.

he chuckles, a movement that jolts the both of you. you let out an exasperated sigh. "you should hurry up, it's not my fault-" his words are paused with the press of your index and middle fingers between his lips. he blinks, looking up at you with a look that wants to be threatening, but is mainly just surprised.

you tilt your head in a challenging way, "you gonna shut up now and let me finish this?" there's no verbal response from Kurgan, only the nip of his teeth at your knuckles and the swirl of his tongue. you'll take that as a yes.

to return to the earlier point-- about him not keeping his hands to himself-- you're really not much better. subtly adjusting your hips so you can press down against his aching hard on more pleasurably, or ever so slightly rocking your hips.

it's hard not to rush things, when you know exactly what awaits when you're done.

✦◟ obsessing over your tattoos.

you had meant to show him what new tattoo you had gotten, but you had honestly forgotten with the busy month you had. all he knew was that it went up a big chunk of your stomach, and he was itching to see it.

finally, a month and a half later, he finds out what it is. a loud 'rip!' sounds through the room as the fabric of your tight shirt gives way, his strong hands tearing the fabric in half.

you clench around him, his fat cock twitching against your walls at the action. "goddamnit- what have i said about my fucking clothes-?" you whine. you move to drop your head against his shoulder, but his big hands push you back. his pace slows, keeping you firmly seated in his lap.

you open your eyes, looking down to see why he's stopped. your eyes follow his to the tattoo trailing up the side your stomach and waist, stopping just below your breast. you had actually forgotten that he didn't know what it was of.

his eyes are glued to the now-healed tattoo, a string of safety pins 'poking' through the skin in various shapes and sizes. his obsession with safety pins had lead you to get it as a surprise.

it's safe to say, by the end of the night there was more than enough of his cum dripping down the tattoo-- his own sick way of claiming you even further.

✦◟ tattoos & piercings. (on him).

if you tell him something would look good on him, you can absolutely count on him showing up with it the next day.

you showed him an idea you had for a tattoo you'd think look great on him? the second he leaves the apartment he's getting it done. he'll come home with one of those shit eating grins that makes you say, 'oh god, what did you do now?' only to then show you the tattoo with the proudest grin.

getting things done that you suggest is his idea of you marking him, and he's superrr into that.

one day, you'd muse aloud that you think he'd look good with an eyebrow piercing-- you'd have to hold him down to stop him from piercing it himself with a safety pin or sewing needle.

same goes for a tongue piercing, you'd have to fight him (almost physically) to get him to get it professionally done. "can't you just do it then?" he'd ask, safety pin in hand. no, Kurgan.

he would definitely make you pierce his lobes though, and given the much lower risks you'd give in. but, just know that the second you pierce that first lobe piercing-- he's making you finish his whole ears.

you'd manage to squeeze in 3 on each lobe, leaving space to potentially stretch the bottom one on each side. though, you'd make him get the industrials done professionally. he'd pout and whine about it, (while he does like the piercings, he really just wanted you in his lap yet again).

but once everything is pierced and healed, he lets you take full reign of what jewellery to put in. (once again, in his eyes it's you marking him in some kind of way-- and there's no way he'd ever stop that).

✦◟ personalised jewellery.

if you're into more odd things jewellery wise-- he's all over it. you give him a necklace that has some of your blood in a pretty vial? he absolutely malfunctions. he will wear either until it breaks or he until dies-- which y'know,, he's immortal and all that.

more on the blood vial necklace-- he would absolutely want you to have one with his blood in it. he'd be absolutely insufferable until it's made and you're wearing it. an even then, his eyes will always drift to the little vial against your chest with his blood in it.

if you were to ever in a way get your skull scanned and turned into one of those chunky skull rings-- and explicitly tell him it's your skull? he'd only fall impossibly more in love with you. i feel like with Kurgan 'love' might be too soft to call it-- more like 'heavy obsession/infatuation'.

i also feel in some weird, sick sixth sense kind of way he'd almost know it's your skull specifically. like he's spent so much time feeling you and observing you that it'd feel familiar looking to him in some weird way.

he'd also absolutely 1000% fuck you with his fingers with the ring on-- his eyes glued to the way your slick drips and smear across the ring-- your skull. also would absolutely make you clean it off with your lips and tongue afterwards.

✦◟ piercings. (on you).

the second he finds out about your tongue piercing, is the start of him finding any and all reasons to be in your mouth. whether that be with you sucking him off, his fingers between your lips or his tongue swirling around yours.

he'd blink in surprise at first, as a small metal ball and bar touches his tongue. pulling away from the kiss, he'd grab your chin as pushes your lips open. with a low grumble he'd say, 'stick it out'.

it's your turn to blink in surprise, before you realise what he's talking about. you stick out your tongue, the back of the bar hitting his thumb that's resting on your lower lip. his eyes would light up like a kid on christmas once he sees the piercing.

on a side note-- if you had a split tongue? the second he finds out, is the last second of peace you have. he'll be even worse than with a tongue piercing..

✦◟ sketching.

you don't really see him sketch that often, you only notice the growing pile of sketches as they suddenly appear around his nightstand.

most of them are of you nude, each tattoo drawn with care. sometimes covered in bite marks he's left, sometimes he captures the look of your skin covered in his cum eerily well.

though, quite a few are of your face. usually contorted in pleasure, but the few that aren't are hung up on the large closet. a few of you smiling, that time you got your brow pierced and he couldn't stop looking at it or drawing it.

he does actually have a few full body drawings of you that aren't nude-- mainly sketches of his favorite outfits of yours, or one or two of you half asleep with the sheets draped over your figure.

he doesn't draw much else since he's met you. in his eyes, you're the muse he'll ever need.

✦◟ possessive habits.

Kurgan would most definitely fight whoever looks at you weird. though, usually it'd be more of a bizarre kind of growl or bark that would leave him. in the end, drawing the negative attention away from you and pulling it towards him.

if anyone flirted with you or harassed you? it's definitely getting physical. with his height and build he has the upper hand over most people, towering over them with either a fist around their throat or cheeks-- or his hands gripping their clothes as he slams and lifts them up against anything.

you'd have to really pull at him, reassuring him it's not worth it. on a bad day, it's damn near impossible to do. he'd be looking for any reason anyone could give him to fight them.

✦◟ his lap.

his favorite way to have you in every sense of the word, is definitely in his lap. he's not the biggest fan of cuddling, unless you're in his lap.

want to do his makeup? the only way you're reaching him is in his lap. changing any piercing jewellery? only in his lap. he's got an endless list of excuses as to why his lap is the best place for you to be.

same goes for sleeping-- either on top of him, or him as the big spoon with most of his weight on top of you. it depends per night how territorial he feels.

his favorite position of his to have you in-- his lap as you ride him. preferably with your arms tied back with intricate Shibari knots, the rope digging into your plush skin.

a close second would definitely be doggy-- same thing with Shibari. using the rope for support to pull you back into him as he slams into you, over and over and over.

✦◟ excess thoughts.

100000% has a marking kink. one of his favorite pastimes is to cover you with his cum, bite marks, hickeys, scratches and bruises. he lovesss to draw the aftermath.

on that same note, he has a whole drawer full of polaroid pictures of you. most of them are lewd-- of your face when you cum, your bruise covered skin, your tattoos covered with his cum.

has a major thing for embarrassing or teasing you in public. licking your hand (or really any part of you he can reach), sneaking his hand down your top, pulling at your fishnets to make them snap against your skin or even tear-- the list could go on and on.

also loves fucking you in public/semi public spaces. his favorites are definitely you riding him in his car, fucking you against a wall in a semi secluded alley, a close contender is also definitely railing the living daylights out of you in club or bar bathrooms.

if you've got a higher situated apartment with a balcony (or a window overlooking the street), you can guarantee that he's fucking you on the balcony or with your bare figure pressed against the window.

「 authors note,, this was so fun to write y'all- i might've gone a little overboard.. either way this was a blast and i hope y'all liked it! ꜜtaglist,, @corviluna . 」

𑣲 join the taglist ٠࣪⭑꩜.ᐟ