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[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

[htchnr]

Ride Along (Jet Black)

Kinktober 2024 Day Seven: Cockwarming

𝙒𝙖𝙣𝙩 𝙩𝙤 𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙙 𝙢𝙤𝙧𝙚? ⇒ 𝙈𝙖𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙧𝙡𝙞𝙨𝙩

𝙟𝙤𝙞𝙣 𝙢𝙮 𝙙𝙞𝙨𝙘𝙤𝙧𝙙 𝙨𝙚𝙧𝙫𝙚𝙧?

𝙗𝙪𝙮 𝙢𝙚 𝙖 𝙘𝙤𝙛𝙛𝙚𝙚?

You don’t know which one you like better. Riding with Jet. Or riding Jet.

On the one hand, when he brings you up to the Bebop’s control deck, you get to see and do so much. There are big windows in the front and cameras hooked up to monitors to help you see the sides. The view from this spot is often amazing and just so refreshing, especially for someone like you who is used to spending all of their time with two feet on the ground. 

Most of the controls are on autopilot, letting you and the rest of the crew members soar across the stars without so much as a care in the world. But every once and a while, when you’ve been good and things have been peaceful, Jet will let you take control. He’ll watch as you turn the Bebop in whatever way you want to. He’ll ease you into a trick or two (well, trick is a strong word to use for the few elementary maneuvers the Bebop can manage, but still) and laugh alongside you as you enjoy the feeling of not just being in space but flying through it. 

But on the other hand…

“You alright there, pretty girl?”

…riding Jet is a whole different experience altogether.

“Mhm…” You mumble out quietly, your head lolling to the side of his chest, just up against his shoulder. At the sight of your distracted form cuddling up to his body, Jet lets out a warm chuckle. One that you could almost feel the smile radiating through. “Hmm…”

Right now, the Bebop is traveling through an Astrobelt. All the rocks and space debris were constantly in motion, but it didn’t seem like too much of a challenge for the Bebop to navigate through so long as the ship’s autopilot had been disengaged. So Jet invited you to sit with him to keep him company for a relatively boring part of being a ship captain. And since the two of you were alone up there and he didn’t feel like supervising you through a potentially dangerous mission for an inexperienced pilot, he just got to work himself and sat you down on his lap so you could watch the stars with him. Right after taking your panties off and pulling out his cock, of course.

“Look at you…” Jet murmurs out just under his breath. You could feel the words as they rumbled through his chest. It’s not a foreign feeling to you whatsoever. But even so, you haven’t exactly gotten used to the way he looks and talks about you like you’re the most precious thing in the world. Because sometimes, he says it with such conviction that you really start to believe that you just are the most precious thing in the world. “Taking my cock so well, huh?”

At that, Jet takes his right arm and tapped at your inner thigh, encouraging you to open them up a little wider while his left hand continues steering the ship carefully. You can’t help but let out a tiny gasp crossed with a whine as you comply with his wishes while he leans a bit further back in his seat in order to get more comfortable. But to you, it only makes things worse.

In your mind, Jet’s dick is about as thick as it is long. But it is a really handsome thing. Something that would make just about anyone’s mouth water if they knew it was going to be theirs for a night. And of all the times you’ve seen it, you remember it being an intimidating color with the tip often taking on an angry, reddish-tint as it leaks pre-cum onto your hands, mouth, body, pussy- wherever he’s about to put it. Not to mention, there were a fair amount of veins running along the underside that gave subtle bits of added pleasure when he angled his hips just right. 

But even so, Jet’s dick is about as thick as it is long. And because he’s considerably long, you don’t exactly see that as a good thing. At least, that’s what you think whatever he stuffs it inside you- no matter how many times he has tried to insist that he really isn’t that big, just average compared to his relative size. But he’s not the one who has been sitting on it for the past hour or so. 

No, instead, he gets to enjoy the tight, wet, and warm feeling that your pussy gives his dick while you’re busy trying your hardest to get used to being stuffed full like this for so long. He gets to enjoy the soft and sporadic fluttering of your walls as you struggle to stay still because it feels too good not to start chasing an orgasm you know you won’t be getting for a while. And he gets to enjoy setting the pace and the ability to choose between bouncing your ass on his cock to keep his erection still going strong and letting you cockwarm him for as long as he wants.

His ship. His rules. Captain’s orders. Although, that won’t stop you from complaining. Or feeling self-conscious.

“Jet…” You whine his name softly, your hands reaching forward to cover as much of your lower half as possible while a sudden thought strikes you. “What if someone sees me?”

This position is more than embarrassing. If anyone were to fly too close to the pilot window, they would easily be able to see you and all too exposed body. Your shorts, underwear, and Jet’s belt have all been kicked away in a pile right by Jet’s feet- just out of your reach. At the same time, your shirt has been pushed up to sit right under your chin, all so Jet could have a better view of your body from both where he’s sitting and from your faint reflection in the glass. You don’t know really how well he can actually see your titties and your pussy squeezing around him at the moment. But he’s made plenty of detailed comments all throughout your time with him. Detailed comments about things that should only be for his eyes. But if he’s not careful, that may end up being out of both of your control.

But he doesn’t seem too worried about that.

You know that by the way he lets out another warm, deep, rumbling chuckle and swats away your hands half-heartedly. Instantly, you draw your hands back to your chest as you watch his right hand reach between your thighs. A second later, there’s a roughly padded finger lightly pulling back the hood of your clit, another one pressing against it directly. Instantly, you start to squirm and squeal. All the shifting you do causes the cock buried inside of you to shift alongside you, allowing it to press and prod at some particular sensitive spots that only get you to squirm even more. And in the process, you can’t help but throw your legs open even farther, while your hands reach out to grip the seat. The way he plays with your body- the way he delivers tiny jolts of pleasure throughout your body has you stretching yourself out in an attempt to both run away and chase the feeling he’s giving you. It gives him ample opportunity to thrust into you a few times at new, experimental angles, giving both of you some more to moan about. But it also does another thing too. The very thing he intended for it to do all along.

It exposes your nearly naked body and all of its lewd and lustful movements to the window at the front of the Bebop even more than it was before.

“You worry too much.” He laughs at you, voice taking on a bit of a rougher tone as he struggles not to abandon all focus and resolve in favor of just fucking you over the console. You know he has a good amount of self-control. At least, compared to other people on this ship. But even he has limits. And you rather not find out what exactly those limits look like while trying to navigate through an Astrobelt. “Just sit back and relax with me, alright?”

Truthfully, you don’t know if it’s possible for you to feel relaxed again while in this position. You’re too afraid of the thought of someone showing up and seeing you sitting pretty on someone’s cock like a common whore. But, he is the captain of this ship. And by extension, that does make him your captain. And you ought to listen to your captain when things get a little rocky. And even when they don’t. Because how else are you going to have smooth sailing? And when has he ever steered you wrong? Both while riding with him…

“I got it all under control, so don’t you worry about a thing.”

…riding him.

[htchnr]

Jet Black/Black Woman Reader - "Rookie Season" - Chapter 1 - Summer 🌶

Summary: During his evening neighborhood rounds, you take some time to pester the rookie officer. Your playful banter soon turns into graveyard shift visits and morning shift farewells.

A series of seasonal Jet Black/Black Woman Reader drabbles.

Tags: Eventual Romance, Neighbors, Flirting, Strangers to Friends to Lovers, Drabble Collection, Party, Summer, Hot Weather, Young Cop Jet Black AU

Warnings: Mature

Author's Notes: Y/N - Your name.

Chapter 2 | Read it on AO3 here!

He started. "You wouldn't happen to know where that water balloon came from, would you?" You smiled. "What water balloon?" Jet raised his brow, turning and pointing to the wet stain across his ass. "That, water balloon." "No, but I wish I did." You sipped coyly from your bottle of water, and Jet gave you a distrusting squint.

The weather was hot this afternoon. 98° Fahrenheit with a side of humidity, to be exact. Jet didn't mind this kind of weather, in fact, he preferred to patrol his rounds on foot than in his cruiser on days like this. There was bound to be more people out, someone to talk to.

He could hear the beginnings of a hydrant party, just up the street. As he approached, the joyful shouts of playing kids became clearer and clearer. They played aimlessly in the water, paying him no mind as he smiled his way past.

Suddenly, a water balloon made a wet smack against the back of Jet's uniform and he was met with a sea of youthful giggles.

He turned around, examining all of the mischievous smiles for the culprit, but all of the kids looked clean of all water balloons. By chance, he looked over his shoulder to spy you sitting in the front yard, a bright two piece on, and a pair of large sunglasses that shaded your triumphant eyes.

Jet stood up straight, resting his hands on his belt as he approached your yard, unlatching the metal gate, and fixing his way up the path, staring you down.

"Staying cool out there, officer?"

Jet smirked, offering you the benefit of the doubt. "Trying." He started. "You wouldn't happen to know where that water balloon came from, would you?"

You smiled. "What water balloon?"

Jet raised his brow, turning and pointing to the wet stain across his ass.

"That, water balloon."

"No, but I wish I did." You sipped coyly from your bottle of water, and Jet gave you a distrusting squint.

"Can I help you with anything else?" Your question came off a bit more salacious than you might've meant.

Jet tipped his head to the side, noticing a cooler under your feet and a bucket of water balloons tucked slyly behind it.

"Ma'am. Now I'm no spoil sport, so I won't close it, but keep in mind these hydrants are for fires and real emergencies."

Completely oblivious, your eyes trailed down his form, resting just below the belt cocked at his hips.

"Mhm." You replied robotically.

"Ah. You must be Miss Y/N." Jet approached, reaching his hand out. He should've recognized those unique sunglasses and mischievous smile from the conversations in the locker rooms.

The other patrolling officers didn't much care for your attitude and found you a bit rude, but it wouldn't be much of locker room talk if they hadn't described your banging body that only made appearances on hot days like this one.

"Nice to meet you, rookie." You paused, glancing over his name plate as you shook his hand. "I mean, Officer Black."

"I'll get out of your hair now, but in the future, give me a heads up before you throw a water balloon. At least make it a fair fight."

"Mhm." You replied robotically as Jet turned and left your yard.

Jet wasn't sure how to feel about being on your good side.

Read the fic on AO3! | Read more of my fics on Tumblr | Patreon | Website

[htchnr]

Jet Black/Black Woman Reader - "Rookie Season" - Chapter 2 - Autumn

A series of seasonal Jet Black/Black Woman Reader drabbles.

Summary: It wasn't long before Jet started working the graveyard shift. He saw it coming, being a rookie and all, he was bound to get the shit end of the stick for a few years before another lower rank personnel joined the unit.

Jet had grown to love chatting it up with the neighborhood crowd. Stopping in at cookouts on his days off, helping clear the sidewalks for the older folks. Save for a few night owls, the neighborhood was fairly quiet at night and the streets of the city found themselves calling his name more often than you were.

That was until one night, you did.

Tags: Eventual Romance, Neighbors, Flirting, Strangers to Friends to Lovers, Drabble Collection, Young Cop Jet Black AU

Warnings: Mature

Author's Notes: Y/N - Your name.

Chapter 1 | Read it on AO3 here!

"Thanks again for the ride, Officer Black." "It's no problem. In the meantime, if you find yourself on the street in this cold weather, I'm more than happy to give you a lift. I just hope you know this isn't a taxi service." "I would never pay for this kind of service." You both laughed.

Jet listened to nondescript chatter on his police radio as he dragged quietly on his cigarette. He barely heard your voice over the gusts that whistled through the drafty windows.

"Officer Black!" A voice called out. Jet glanced at his driver's side mirror to see you huddled on the sidewalk, a string of grocery bags on each arm and nothing but a jacket, a skirt, and a pair of sneakers.

He pulled his cruiser around, hopping out to grab some bags from your hands.

"Miss Y/N." He started. "What're you doing carrying groceries in this cold?"

"My car stalled up the road, so I called a tow truck. I figured I could make it the rest of the way on foot, then I saw you."

"Here, you can throw your bags in the back."

He silenced his radio, squishing out his cigarette against the dashboard.

"Didn't take you for the kind of man that smokes."

He shrugged shyly. "Nasty habit I picked up from the job."

"I see they have you working the rookie hours."

"Sure am. Can't complain too much though, the overnight shift is quieter. Plus, the Fall weather has been keeping plenty of would be criminals inside." He chuckled. "Well... except for you."

"Guess I picked the wrong night to dress like the summertime, huh?"

He laughed quietly, trying to ignore it, yet ever aware of your rather underdressed state. Your thin windbreaker did little to hide the deep, revealing collar of your top, (not that you were trying to hide it). He didn't peg you as the skirt type, you looked more like a leather pants with a zipper up the leg kind of gal.

"Woof, I'll save that thought for another more convenient time." Jet thought to himself.

"How's the car?" He blurted, eager to discuss another subject.

"Tow service told me I might need some new spark plugs."

"Spark plugs? That's not too bad. Auto mechanic could have you in and out in 2 or 3 hours, easy."

You scoffed, "Oh, so you know a little bit about cars, huh?"

"Well I am pretty handy, if I do say so myself. I actually fix up old cars in my free time."

"You'll like my old piece of junk then." You laughed.

He pulled up to your house like he'd been there a dozen times.

He helped you carry your bags to your home, waiting patiently as you unlocked your front door.

"Thanks again for the ride, Officer Black."

"It's no problem. In the meantime, if you find yourself on the street in this cold weather, I'm more than happy to give you a lift. I just hope you know this isn't a taxi service."

"I would never pay for this kind of service." You both laughed.

You took the bags from his hands, pausing expectantly for a moment. "Why don't you come in for some warm tea really quick?"

The inside of your home looked much better than the windy outside right now, the warmth that radiated from it wasn't lost on him.

"I appreciate the offer but I'm on duty. That wouldn't be appropriate, Miss Y/N." He started. "But hey, maybe I'll stop by on my next day off and take you up on that offer. It'll give me a chance to check out that clunker of yours."

"Maybe then." You chuckled. "Have a safe night, Officer Black."

Jet didn't pull off till the door shut and your lights turned off.

He thought about that night for some time before he bumped into you again.

Read the fic on AO3! | Read more of my fics on Tumblr | Patreon

[htchnr]

“You Steal It, You Feed It” (Frank Castle x fem!Reader)

SUMMARY — Frank decided to retire in an inconspicuous apartment somewhere in Brooklyn. Well, as much as a man like him even could. Normally, he minded his business at all times. Except tonight.

Tonight, he actually was busy. Had business. But no, there you were, crouched on the fire escape at asshat o’clock in the goddamn morning, right in his way—with a duffel bag, bolt cutters, and a look on your face like you were about to commit a felony no matter what.

AUTHOR’S NOTE — Please excuse any mistakes. English isn't my first language. Good god, making Frank Castle soft but grumpy is a challenge. I hope I pulled it off. But anyway, I wanted him to have a good time for once. Even if it's against his will.

WORD COUNT — 5,310

Masterlist

Right away, Frank knew you were gonna be a problem.

He clocked you a few months ago, as soon as he moved in. Top floor, lived alone, walked fast. Like someone used to watching her back. Smart. 

But then—hoodie always up, headphones always in. Damn fucking stupid.

You weren’t the kind of delusional neighbor who baked cookies. Nah, unfortunately you were a whole lotta worse.

So far Frank had seen you do pilates on the roof at three a.m. (nevermind why he needed the roof at that hour, that was irrelevant).

Once, you spray-painted over a swastika in the stairwell and when he walked in on your little Joan Mitchell moment, you just looked him straight in the eye, without saying a word, and continued painting. 

Just last week, you carried what he was pretty sure was a dirt-caked shovel through the lobby and the smile on your face suggested you had killed and buried your nemesis out the back.

Probably. He wouldn’t put it past you.

In all these instances, Frank didn’t ask. Frank didn’t care. He could only imagine whatever else you got up to all these times he didn’t run into you.

Except tonight. Tonight, he actually was busy. Had business. But no, there you were, crouched on the fire escape at asshat o’clock in the goddamn morning, right in his way—with a duffel bag, bolt cutters, and a look on your face like you were about to commit a felony no matter what.

He stayed in the shadows on the landing, watching you quietly. Holding a bag of gear much more illegal than whatever the hell you were doing to the window belonging to the neighbor from 3E.

Now, any other day of the week, Frank wouldn’t have any problem with you robbing the bastard blind. He wouldn’t have held the window open while you did it, but he would turn a blind eye.

Except the bastard living in 3E was mean. With the whole catalog of mean bastards he was used to dealing with, Frank felt himself something of an expert on the subject. The worst part, though, was how he treated that dog. Frank hadn’t liked it. But didn’t get involved. Promised himself this time around he would actually lay low.

Being witness to a woman getting her face eaten off by an angry pitbull, though, that was a whole other deal. 

Just as he took a step down on the creaky metal stairs, the mutt inside the apartment started whining—which was surprising. Normally, it wouldn’t stop barking, hackles raised like it was about to murder everyone it saw. 

But this?

“Don’t worry, baby. I’m not leaving you with the bad man,” he heard you cooing at the dog, then a strong smell of dog treats hit him.

Frank huffed. Unbelievable.

You were here for the damn dog.

He took another step.

“You got a plan for after that window opens?” he asked.

You nearly jumped out of your skin, which… Fair. He was big, rough, and way too close behind you. But then again, you should have been more careful. 

You whipped around, the bolt cutters slipping from your grip with a loud clang against the fire escape. Your eyes were on him and even in the dark he could imagine how hard your heart must have been hammering. Yeah, well. There he was. 

The dog inside let out a soft, eager whine, paws scratching at the glass. Frank frowned. Okay. That kind of behavior… No type of dog treats would get a hardened, beat up mutt whining like that for a complete stranger.

“You know that dog?” he asked, voice rough with lack of sleep.

“Uh…”

Smooth.

Frank didn’t move. Just tilted his head slightly, waiting for you to dig your own grave.

“Yeah. I mean—yeah, I got a plan,” you said. Way too quickly. “Shush!” That one was at the dog. Then, defensively, “I don’t know that dog.”

Frank exhaled through his nose, slow. Like he was counting to ten in his head. Mostly trying not to laugh. “You’re gonna get bit.”

Yeah, that one got you going. You lifted your chin, all defiant. “I know dogs.”

“Yeah, that one knows you, too.” Frank’s mouth twitched—not a smile, but something close to it. “He knows you’re dinner.”

Inside, the pitbull let out a low, eager whrrf, pressing its muzzle against the glass. Frank’s eyes narrowed, sharp, assessing.

You hesitated and that was the first smart thing from you all night. But then… You wouldn’t budge. He could practically see the gears turning in your head. Probably calculating whether he’d just let you get back to it.

“Okay then. You said your piece.”

Then, just like that, you went back to it. 

Christ alive.

The metal lock groaned, but didn’t budge. “Dog has broken ribs. Kicks. Burns. You live here, you see this—” Your voice cracked, just for half a second. “And you do nothing. So the least you can do is don’t get in my way.”

Frank’s jaw tightened. That dark, simmering thing in his chest came back up to the surface—the one that hated men who hurt things smaller than them. But his voice stayed flat. 

“So, you're what? Dognapping vigilante now?”

“Yeah. I got a costume and everythin’. Wanna see?” You didn’t back down. Oh no. You got jokes now.

Frank exhaled sharply through his nose—almost a laugh, but not quite. The kind of sound a man makes when he realizes he’s dealing with a very stubborn woman.

“Cute.” He stepped forward, boots heavy on the metal. The dog inside perked up, ears twitching at the sound. He could see it now—didn’t look so murderous at all. Like you charmed it or something. 

“You got a leash in that bag? Or you plannin’ on carrying a seventy-pound pitbull down six flights in your arms?”

“I do pilates.” 

That got him. Almost. His mouth twitched again, just for a second. Then he was back.

“Pilates,” he repeated, deadpan. 

Yeah, okay. He knew that. Not that he had seen much.

“Yep. Core strength,” you chirped.

“Core strength.”

“What are you, my voicemail? Yes!” 

His jaw tightened. You were absolutely not scared of him. Or that damn pitbull. What the hell was wrong with you?

“So. What kinda nightly escapades you got goin’ for you?” You jerked your chin toward his duffel. The one full of things you absolutely did not need to know about.

Frank’s eyes flickered to it—just once. 

Then—

“Move.” He walked up to the window and picked up the bolt cutters, gripped the metal bars of the window with one hand, and—

Snap.

The lock gave way like it was nothing. The dog scrambled back, startled, growling at the strange big man.

“It’s okay, baby!” You pushed past Frank and as soon as the damn mutt saw you, it bolted right out that window. You barely caught it and Frank barely caught you.

When you looked back at him, still holding onto that dog for your dear life, your eyes were so full of fear that for a moment he got worried he hurt you instead of saving you. He stepped away like you were contagious.

“Thank you,” you said, suddenly all quiet.

“Yeah.” His grip on your arm loosened, but didn’t let go just yet—like he was making sure you weren’t about to topple over with the dog in your arms. Well, you weren’t actually holding it, just the front part, but still.

The pitbull didn’t care. It licked your face, tail thumping hard against the fire escape. You laughed and closed your mouth, but that didn’t deter it one bit. That scarred thing, with jaws bigger than your head, was completely head over heels for you.

“Gonna name it?”

You blinked. “What?”

“Dogs need names.” Frank’s voice was gruff, but there was something underneath it, something almost... amused. Or maybe just resigned.

You looked down at the dog, then back up at him. “You got a suggestion?”

“No.” Frank’s mouth twitched. “But you gotta get that leash. Dog like him… People will judge.”

“Oh, I know.” You laughed. Then, slowly, you unzipped your criminal duffel to reveal—yep. A leash. A proper harness. A roll of gauze. And, Jesus Christ, more treats.

Frank stared. “You planned this.”

“What are you, a dog lawyer?” You grinned. Again. “Told you I had a plan.”

“Dog lawyer. Jesus.” He shook his head. “Plan’s still stupid.”

“Stupid gets the job done sometimes,” you shot back, fastening the harness around the dog’s broad chest with practiced ease.

Okay. You weren’t lying. You did know dogs.

The pitbull—now your pitbull, apparently—leaned into your touch, tail wagging hard enough to shake that whole fire escape.

Frank watched, arms crossed. “Gonna be a problem when he notices his dog’s gone.” His eyes flickered towards the bathroom window.

You snorted, standing up straight. “Dude’s not gonna do shit. I mean,” you hesitated, then attached the leash to the harness. “He might. But I won’t be here to see it.”

You sighed and then looked at Frank, that same easy smile. “Listen. Thank you. I’d be a splatter of jam way down over there if it weren’t for you.”

Frank just grunted. Not a “thank you guy”, clearly. But he didn’t walk away either, just watched as you adjusted the leash, fingers checking the buckles like you’d done it a hundred times before. But what the hell did he know, maybe you did. Seems he was learning a lot tonight and it was only four a.m.

The dog leaned against your leg, panting, happy. Frank’s gaze dropped to it. “Gonna take it where?”

You shrugged, scratching behind the dog’s ears. “Got a… Rough idea.” A pause.

Frank’s jaw flexed. He didn’t say anything. But he reached down—slow, deliberate—and let the dog sniff his knuckles. The pitbull stepped back and you grabbed that leash tighter. But then it gave Frank a tentative sniff anyway.

“Hey, do you know how to drive?” You asked and Frank regretted asking any follow-up questions. Serves him right.

“No,” he lied immediately.

“Really?” You made a face. “You don’t look like the kinda guy who takes the subway.”

His eyes narrowed, sharp. “What, you think I can’t take the subway?”

“Oh. No, I mean… I mean, you can do whatever, I guess.” 

Frank sighed, praying for patience. “Where do you wanna go?”

Your face brightened like a switch flipped. But you didn’t say anything either, which was… worrying.

Christ, he was tired. Why did he even leave the house?

He scrubbed a hand over his jaw. “Lemme guess. You’re gonna walk a stolen pitbull with a rapsheet across Brooklyn at four in the goddamn morning.”

Your smile didn’t falter. “It’s only like four boroughs.”

Frank stared.

You didn’t blink. That damn little smirk.

“You got five seconds to tell me this place ain’t in Staten Island,” Frank finally muttered.

“Wouldn't do that to you,” you said, all innocence, like you didn’t get on his nerves on purpose. “It’s in Queens.”

“Uh-huh.”

“God’s honest. If you hate it halfway, I’ll get out and we’ve officially never met.” But then you leaned in. Grinning still. “Frank Castle.”

His head snapped toward you. Eyes angry, an ugly grimace on his face. “Who told you that name?”

But damn it all… You didn’t even flinch. 

“I grew up with angry men in my house,” you said casually, scratching the dog behind the ear. “You’re gonna have to try better than that.”

Frank exhaled long through his nose. Didn’t say anything. Calculated real careful.

His voice dropped lower, rougher. “You don’t know what you’re playing at.”

“Relax, I don’t give a shit,” you paused. “If I did, wouldn’t I have ratted you out months ago?”

That… That actually made sense. But he still wouldn’t trust you as far he could throw—

No, scratch that. He could probably bench press you with one hand if he wanted.

“Well, if you have to know,” you sauntered over to him, even though he very much didn’t have to know shit. “You get mail and you let it overflow in the box sometimes. And then, you got a damn feisty mugshot. Or five. And a rapsheet the length of my grandma’s garden hose.”

A heavy pause fell between you.

“The fuck do you want then?” There was a hard set to his mouth, as if swallowing back a whole lotta anger.

“A ride to Queens. Please.”

His eyes narrowed, sharp.

“Truck's down the block.” Then he turned around and started walking.

You hesitated—just for a second—before trotting after him, dog in tow. “My, my, so he doesn’t take the subway.”

“Shut up.”

“Yeah.” But you were grinning. Like you’d won something.

You walked up to his car. Frank didn’t look at you. Just muttered, “Get in. And you—” He pointed at the dog. Then he forgot what he wanted to say in the first place. So he just started the car.

Frank felt twenty years older just by putting himself through it all.

He put the car into gear, stubbornly silent. Except:

“Fuckin’ Queens…”

You didn’t say anything, just cooed at the damn dog. The car passed something like ten blocks and you still didn’t say a word. Frank was getting unsettled. He should be relieved, some people couldn’t sit two minutes without yapping. But this was weird. 

He glanced at you with that dog from time to time, amazed there still wasn’t any blood. That damn thing could probably take out a man’s jugular in two seconds flat, but right now it was panting and letting you kiss it on the forehead.

Frank studied you—really studied you—and decided he had to update his initial assessments. He remembered the way you didn’t even flinch when he loomed, how relaxed your shoulders were for someone standing within the choking distance of the Punisher. That sharp little edge in your voice, like you didn’t care one bit if you made him snap. Fuck. 

You weren’t just some ditsy girl, but if not then what the hell were you?

The silence stretched, heavy. It seemed retirement dulled his instincts.

“You’re not scared.” He didn’t phrase it like a question.

You glanced up, surprised. “Of what? You?”

“Me. The dog. Commitin’ felony theft at four in the morning.”

“I’ve done worse.”

Frank’s eyes cut to you. “Bullshit.”

But see, you didn’t deny. Or elaborate. Usually, people argued when challenged. You just leaned your head against the window, watching the city blur past.

The quiet settled again. Not tense this time, just... different.

Frank exhaled through his nose. “You gonna be a problem?”

“Not if you don’t blab on me.”

Frank didn’t smile. But he still drove you to goddamn Queens.

“Where to now?” he grumbled, looking around the area like this was a war zone and he expected trouble any second. 

You gave him a more specific address. It was a quiet street, mostly with old houses and backyards in a varying state of messy.

“There.” You pointed to one such house and Frank just made the turn, then parked the car and killed the engine.

The house might’ve been pretty once, but now the paint was peeling and the front lawn looked like it hadn’t been mowed for who knows how long. The light was on in one of the rooms upstairs, so he decided this wouldn’t be another break in on your part. Maybe.

“Thank you,” you said, gathering your things. And that damn dog. 

Frank didn’t say anything, just nodded and watched you leave. But then—

“Whose house is that?” he asked sharply.

“What?” You paused by the door and he could see it in your face that you didn’t want to answer.

“Ain’t a trick question.”

You weighed your options, he noticed, only to land on the one he didn’t expect:

“Would you like to come in, Frank?”

His fingers flexed against the steering wheel. That wasn’t an answer. That was a dodge. A curved one. He was almost impressed.

The dog whined, unsure and impatient. You spoke to it, again in that soft cooing voice that started to get on his nerves. He didn’t know why.

Frank should’ve said no right away. Should’ve put the truck in reverse and got the hell out of there. But something about the way you didn’t rush him made him hesitate.

“Who lives here?”

“Me.” You shrugged. But he didn’t miss the way you hesitated.

Frank’s eyebrows lifted.

“Sometimes,” you amended.

He should leave. He knew he should leave.

“Five minutes,” he grunted.

He followed you through the squeaky garden gate—rusty. Might’ve been painted white once. Now… It slowly crumbled away like the rest of this place.

You walked up on the porch and he almost expected you to take out a set of lockpicks—but you had the keys. Made him feel marginally better. 

The door opened with an even bigger squeak than the gate. Frank noticed you wince, as if you tried to stay quiet for the sake of whoever lived there. He frowned. Did not ask. 

“Shoes off,” you told him, quietly. “She doesn’t like shoes in the house.”

“She?”

“My grandmother.”

Frank stopped dead in the doorway, shoulders squaring like he’d just been called to attention. The dog trotted past him, nails clicking on the hardwood, but Frank was bolted to the floor, eyes scanning the dim hallway like he was assessing a combat zone.

A voice called something from deeper inside the house, but he couldn’t make out the words. He noticed the dog’s ears perked up. Then your expression softened in a way Frank hadn’t seen yet.

Frank toed off his boots without a word, lining them neatly by the door. His gaze flickered over the black-and-white photos in the hallway—each one telling a story he wasn’t privy to. The woman in them had a sharpness to her smile, a defiance in her posture. Nothing soft about her. Not even close.

Some showed her with friends, then some at protests. And again, one pictured her smiling in front of that crumbling house, back when it wasn't crumbling, sitting on the porch flanked by two giant German Shepherds. 

Frank couldn’t help a smile. A small one.

A voice cut through the quiet from deeper in the house—raspy, but full of life. “That you, darlin’, or do I need to grab the bat?”

You grinned, nudging Frank forward. “It’s me! And I brought a… guest.”

Frank tensed slightly as footsteps approached. Then she rounded the corner—white hair cropped short, wearing a wrinkled flannel and slippers that had seen better decades. But her eyes? Sharp as the day those protest photos were taken.

She took one look at Frank, then at the dog. “Huh. You didn’t tell me he’d be this big.”

Frank opened his mouth—then closed it when you cut in:

“He just looks like that, but he’s a sweetheart. I’ll train him well, don’t worry.”

Frank exhaled. The damn dog.

“Well,” your grandmother scoffed. “You better.”

Then the old woman sized him up like she was deciding whether to throw him out or pour him a drink. Finally, she smirked. “Marine.”

Frank’s spine straightened almost imperceptibly. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Yeah, yeah. Call me Dot, everybody does.” She waved a hand. “Well, come on in, if you must. This house’s a piece of work, but the kitchen’s still standing. Coffee?” Then she eyed the pitbull. “And you—better not piss on my rug. I don’t like it, but I’m too lazy to change it. So watch yourself.”

You shot Frank a look—but only half-amused, since you weren’t suicidal. “You wanted to know,” you reminded him.

Yes, he did. Frank exhaled sharply. This was a mistake.

Frank stayed put for a long moment, then gave in with a quiet grunt, trailing after you both. The kitchen smelled like old wood, cigarettes and strong coffee. Dot was already pouring three mugs without asking.

“So,” she said, sliding one toward Frank. “You the reason my granddaughter’s out stealing dogs again?”

Again? Frank’s fingers tightened around the mug. “No, ma’am.”

Dot snorted. “Liar.” Then she took a sip, watching him over the rim. “But fine.”

Frank didn’t know what the hell to say to that.

You, meanwhile, looked way too smug for his liking. But then again… The entire scene was absurd—the Punisher, sitting stiffly at your grandma’s chipped Formica table, while she interrogated him like a teenager who stayed out past curfew.

Dot took another sip, then pointed at Frank with her mug. “You. You seem like good people. Big as you are.” 

She lit a cigarette, then looked at Frank’s knuckles very pointedly, like she knew exactly what these hands had done.

She gestured to you. “She is trouble.”

Frank’s mouth twitched. “Yes, ma’am.”

Dot narrowed her eyes. “Oh, stop ‘yes ma’am’ me. I know your type. All quiet until you’re not.” She leaned back. “We read the news in this house. And not the conservative bollocks they serve on tv.”

Frank didn’t blink. “Understood.”

“I don’t think you do.”

That glint in her eye… Wary. But there was something else there. Something like respect. 

Maybe his eyesight was going.

Frank took another sip.

“You could’ve asked if he wanted sugar,” you said all of a sudden.

“Does he now?” Dot smirked. “Men like him don’t.”

Frank didn’t argue.

The clock in the living room chimed six and Frank politely got to leave. After the strangest coffee of his life, he was somehow feeling both worse and better about the whole thing. It seemed that particular aura ran in the family.

“Hey! Thank you. Again,” you said, still lingering in the doorway.

Frank paused on the porch, then turned back to you, his voice low. “You’re gonna be careful with that dog?”

You grinned. “Promise. He’s not my first dog, Frank. He’ll be taken care of.”

“Not what I asked.” He studied you for a long moment—your stubborn stance, the way you still didn’t flinch under his stare. Then he nodded once. “Alright.”

He walked back to his truck, boots heavy on the cracked sidewalk, telling himself he’d have to avoid this house forever.

“See ya!” you shouted after him and actually waved as if any of this was normal.

Dot’s voice carried from inside, sharp and amused:

“Close the damn door, it’s fucking freezing!”

Your laugh carried after Frank, before the door clicked shut behind you.

He told himself he would stay away. Which was exactly why he pulled up to the house, the truck bed loaded with tools. He got out of the car, steps heavy, telling himself it was just a favor. Just making sure the porch wouldn’t collapse under the old lady’s feet.

He got in through the gate, then stopped. You were sprawled across an ancient, rusted-out patio chair—sunglasses on, tank top riding up to show more than enough skin. Something about it made his hands tighten on the metal toolbox.

The dog lounged at your feet—still scarred, still the same beast. But it looked so much better. It spotted Frank and Frank stopped because he wasn’t about to argue with a seventy-pound pit fight champion. But then its tail started thumping so hard that you noticed and sat up.

“Oh. Hi.” 

You smiled at him. What the hell. Like you hadn’t been worried at all. Like he wasn’t the kind of man who haunted people’s nightmares.

Frank stepped closer, boots crunching on the gravel. “House needs work.” 

You stretched, catlike. “Yeah, well. Grandma says it’s got ‘character’.”

Frank glanced at the sagging porch. “The character’s rotting.”

The dog approached him then, sniffing at his boots with keen interest. Frank looked down, then scratched it behind its ears.

“He got a name yet?” 

You smirked in that way of yours he already knew spelled trouble. 

“What?” he grumbled. 

“Our last dog was called Rick,” you said. “I kinda find it funny when dogs have human names. Or cats. Cats are even funnier with human names. There’s a red tomcat around here, he’s called Carl. Walks like he owns the entire neighborhood.”

He caught your drift and squinted. “Yeah, ‘Frank’ is taken.”

“Obviously.” You rolled your eyes. “He doesn’t look like a Frank.”

Frank looked at the dog, who was still happily trotting between him and the porch. “What he look like then?”

You squinted at the dog, tapping your chin like this was some grand deliberation. “Well, let’s see… He’s got that rugged charm. A little scuffed up, but loyal. Probably likes long walks and holding grudges…”

Frank shot you a look.

You hummed thoughtfully. “Dunno. He’ll tell me when he’s ready.”

Christ.

The dog approached him again and Frank leaned down to pet it. “He looks better.”

“He does, doesn’t he?” You grinned, tremendously smug.

But Frank was willing to give you this win. You deserved it.

“That gutter’s comin’ down.” Frank straightened up, wiping his hands on his jeans. 

You got serious, for once, then just nodded. “Yeah.”

“What’s this?” Dot’s voice carried from behind the screen door. Then she went out on the porch, cigarette in hand. “Ah.”

Frank’s jaw clenched. “Ma’am.”

Dot looked at you, then at Frank, then at the toolbox. 

“I got no money to pay for your work,” she said upfront. “Not the kind I imagine you’re worth.”

“That’s okay, ma’am.”

“No, it is not.” She snuffed the cigarette out in the old orange ashtray with the word “SANREMO” on it in big blue letters. 

“Not many men around in the family,” you translated.

“No useful ones,” Dot clarified. 

Frank’s grip tightened slightly on the toolbox handle. “Don’t need payment.”

Dot’s eyes—sharp as ever—narrowed. “Everyone needs something.”

Frank met her gaze and stayed quiet. Hadn’t asked himself what he needed in a long time.

Then Dot huffed out a laugh, shaking her head. “Stubborn one, ain’tcha?” She waved a hand toward the roof. “Fine.”

Frank opened his mouth to argue—

“You like lasagna?” you cut in.

Frank exhaled. “Yeah.”

His eyes flickered to Dot, who just laughed and lit another cigarette. 

“Oh, she doesn’t cook,” you explained quickly, already getting up. Then, just like that, you went back inside. Apparently to cook.

For him.

Frank rolled his shoulders, nodded once, and headed for the ladder. The strangest deal he made in a while…

The gutter was worse than he’d thought—rusted through in places, barely hanging on. He set to work. At least this was something to do. At least this was something honest to do.

After an hour or more, the screen door creaked open, and you stepped out with two glasses in hand. You held one out to him. “Here.”

Frank paused, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his forearm before stepping down and taking it. “Thanks.”

He looked at it before drinking, just for a moment, until you noticed and smiled. “Just lemonade. Why would I poison a man who offered to help me? Twice.”

You stood there a moment, sipping your own. “So. You do this often?”

Frank took a tentative sip. “Fix gutters?”

“Well, fix gutters for strange old ladies, among other things.”

“No.”

You smirked. “Don’t get me wrong. We are grateful. Just wish we could repay you, is all. Dot doesn’t like having debt.”

Frank didn’t answer. He handed you a glass with a nod, then went back to work.

The sun warmed the back of his neck, but it was slightly less unbearable now. Frank worked, feeling less and less like a ghost that haunted his own halls. Somewhere below, Dot hummed along to an old record. 

In the end, he wasn’t as rusty as he thought. He managed to get that gutter to a very decent shape.

“So, what’s the diagnosis?” Dot asked Frank as soon as he entered the house.

He glanced around the kitchen as he washed his hands. It was cluttered but clean, dishes stacked haphazardly in the drying rack. “Gutter's fixed, ma’am. Porch joists are solid, but the railing’s soft in spots. Needs replacing before someone leans on it wrong.”

Dot took a drag of her cigarette, nodding. “Figured as much.” She blew smoke toward the ceiling fan. “Roof?”

Frank hesitated. “Seen worse.”

Dot snorted. “Not an answer.”

You kept checking the oven and the lasagna inside it, but also shot your grandmother a look. She didn’t give a damn about any looks, though.

Frank exhaled. “South side’s got wear. Won’t leak yet, but it will.”

Dot squinted at him. “You know your way around a house.”

“Had one,” Frank said, voice rough. Then, before the silence got too heavy, he jerked his chin toward the stove. “Smells good.”

You beamed  at him and he regretted opening his mouth at all.

“Hope it tastes okay,” you said, then put on oven mitts. 

Frank watched as you pulled the lasagna from the oven—golden cheese bubbling, steam rising in a fragrant cloud. Your nose wrinkled as you blew a stray curl from your forehead, the oven light casting a warm glow across your face.

Dot put out her cigarette, exhaling slowly. “Kid’s trouble, but she’s a decent cook. Won’t kill you, at least.”

Frank’s mouth twitched despite himself. “High praise.”

You rolled your eyes, setting the dish on a trivet with a thunk. “That’s it. That's the last lasagna you’re getting out of me.”

But you didn’t mean it. At least Frank hoped not—because the lasagna tasted like something he hadn’t let himself miss in years.

Evidently, stepping foot in that house had been a tactical mistake.

He took another slow bite, then set his fork down carefully. He noticed you were watching him and suddenly he didn’t know what to do with himself.

“If it’s bad, you can tell me,” you offered.

“It’s good.”

Dot snorted. “Don’t let it go to her head.”

Frank exhaled, long and slow. Tactical mistake or not, he took another bite. He thought he should’ve left right then. Should’ve thanked you both, walked out, and never looked back.

But then, nobody ordered him to come here either. With the flimsy excuse of home repairs.

And you, you were looking at him like he was welcome here. Frank wasn’t welcome in places, not for a very long time.

But, somehow, the evening bled into night, the kitchen warm with laughter and the last dregs of red wine in Dot’s glass. Frank had lost track of how long it had been since he sat at a table like this. At least two hundred years or so.

“Alright, kids. I’m turnin’ in,” Dot announced, but she paused on her way out, squeezing Frank’s shoulder. Firm. Friendly. “You’re good company, Frank.”

Then she was gone, leaving the two of you in the quiet hum of the kitchen.

You stood, gathering plates. Frank moved to help, then suddenly you were close—too close, the space between you charged with… something. Or maybe he was wrong.

“Listen,” he rumbled, a warning.

You didn’t listen, just rose on your tiptoes and pressed your lips to his.

Frank stilled. For a heartbeat, he was just himself—untouchable. Stiff.

Then he broke.

His hands cradled your face, pulling you deeper into the kiss, rough and desperate and alive. The dishes clattered and went forgotten in the sink.

When he finally pulled back, forehead resting against yours, his breath was ragged. He didn’t know what to do. What to say.

But then the damn dog whined and tried to wedge itself between you and the way you laughed… It was the best damn sound Frank has heard in forever.

Thank fuck for your dognapping tendencies.