( go to #kruegerspillow for writing content and @futilebeing for personal blogs ! )
JOVIAN !! — twenty one, march ᡣ𐭩, she/her, currently not active, writing, reading, call of duty, sleeping. nsfw, dark & sfw posts ahead. the creator of this tumblr supports dark content and writes for it. FREE 🍉
creators note: wellll... continuing the chapter from last year! i was actually finished but didn't wanna post it cuz.... it was february when i finished it and the fic was kinda.......... christmas-themed but that doesn't matter now. enjoy this (short) chapter!!
warnings: none except not proofread!
pt 1 - pt 2
You almost felt sick after watching the lights in the street flicker every now and then. The chattering of people echoed through the city of Manchester, along with the giggles from children and coughing of the drunkards. You move through the crowd, scrunching up your nose every time you smell something unpleasant. Your mind was still pondering about your lieutenant, which is, again, very unprofessional.
The crowd slowly lost its people as time passed by, and you finally got through it once again. Your legs moved swiftly, desperately wanting to go back home to your cozy apartment. You quietly stomped through the snow-covered track, watching as even more snow covers it up after.
“Mother, do you think Santa is going to put me on the naughty list?”
“Nonsense. You've been a very good kid, and Santa is going to be so proud of you, sweetheart!”
“Really?”
“Of course, now, let’s get hot cocoa together.”
The conversations you’ve passed by stuck into your mind, feeling nostalgia wash over you at this time of the year. The memories provided warmth to your body, your fingers no longer numb from the coldness of the snow. You adjusted your scarf before entering the apartment. The warmth from the nearby fireplace surrounded you, and your body relaxed at the change of temperature.
You walked towards the elevator, greeting the staff with an exhausted smile plastered on your lips. The elevator button lit up as you pressed it, before it eventually darkened as one of the elevator doors opened up for you. You stepped into it, yawning before pressing the fourth floor. The door closed softly before the elevator started ascending. Music took over the silence between you and your own thoughts.
I don't want a lot for Christmas
There is just one thing I need
I don't care about the presents
Underneath the Christmas tree
The song haunted your mind as you patiently waited for the elevator door to open. A small ding was heard as the door opened before you. You left the elevator, walking to your apartment room as you took out your keycard. The scanner successfully scanned your keycard, your apartment door opening for you. You entered the room, taking off your boots and hanging your coat on the coat hanger. You took your phone out of your pocket, walking towards the couch before leaping into it.
Your head rested against the armrest as you opened your phone. Two new messages from an unknown person. Who could that be?
~ Simon: Hi.
~ Simon: You've given me the correct number right?
Simon Riley. Your eyes widened before you nervously typed back, making sure to hit the correct button.
Me: Heyya!
Me: Of course I did.
Me: Have you gotten back home, Ghost?
You paused, looking down at the unread messages before swiftly tapping on his contacts. Pressing against the buttons, you added him as one of your contacts and named him. ‘The Ghost 💀’. You smiled to yourself, seemingly proud of your own antics.
The Ghost 💀: Yes. I have just arrived back home.
The Ghost 💀: How ‘bout you? Are you done with your business in the cafe?
The Ghost 💀: There’s no need for the Ghost thing here, by the way. This is personal.
You sat up on your seat, looking down at his messages before reading them one by one. You sighed to yourself, your tongue sticking out as you continued typing.
Me: Riiight… I forgot about that
Me: That’s good to hear by the way!
Me: I’ve just gotten home. Very exhausted, tired, and weary. You name it
Me: Btw, I already saved your contact. So, I’ll go take a shower now
The Ghost 💀: 👍
Aaaand… you were left with a thumbs up emoji. What did you expect? You thought to yourself. Nonetheless, you placed your phone and got ready for a hot, steamy shower; accompanied by the thoughts that stacked up inside your mind. You hummed to yourself, craving the warm water against your cold skin before entering the bathroom— going through your nightly routine as if nothing was left between the both of you.
creator's note: another series for poindexter :o this one will be a little shorter but eh let's see how this one goes hhhh
summary: you and Dex were colleagues in the FBI—partners who trusted each other with lives. he was precise, efficient, almost mechanical at work, but you’d caught a glimpse of something softer behind his eyes. but those years passed, and now, you have to face what’s left of him.
warnings: angst w/o comfort, graphic violence, brutal combat, blood and injury imagery, near-death implications, loss of consciousness, guilt and self-loathing, unhealthy attachment, not proofread.
word count: 2.7k
The first time you met him, it was an accident. A complete accident.
His fist made contact with your ribs, again, again, and again. You could feel your vision blurring after every punch to the gut, and he didn't even stop. He didn’t go sluggish, and instead, kept moving like a robot designed to kill. To hurt. To be a goddamn weapon.
His gaze was burning through you, eyes locked onto you like a predator, watching every move and every reaction. His other hand fisted your collar, but you managed to get him, your leg swiping his feet off of the ground for a moment. He stumbled, letting go of your collar with a huff, before gaining his stability within a second.
“Fuck,” you murmured underneath your breath, voice gruff under your own mask.
You raised your arms just in time to block his next strike, the shock traveling through bone and muscle like a lightning bolt. He didn’t hesitate—didn’t falter—he just came at you with the same precision, the same unrelenting force.
Who the hell fights like this? you thought, teeth gritted as your boots scraped against the concrete, trying to find footing.
In a blink of an eye, your back hit something hard. Cold air blew past your ears, and only then did you realize—you were at the edge. One wrong step and you were gone.
He pressed forward, chest heaving but his punches stayed precise, measured, like his body ran on some ruthless programming. His glove caught on the fabric of your mask, yanking it slightly sideways. You swore, batting at his wrist, but he moved faster, fist curling in your collar again as his other hand tore at the fabric.
The balaclava gave.
Cold night air met your damp skin, and suddenly his blows… stopped. Just—stopped.
His chest still rose and fell like he’d been running for miles, but his arms froze mid-swing. His eyes latched onto your face. Then, the hostility in his gaze slipped, fractured into something almost human. Something broken.
“… No,” he whispered, and the word cracked down the middle.
His eyes wandered over your face, watching the blood slide down your nose, the sweat dripping down your jaw. He could feel his heart stop beating at the familiar sight before him, his grip on your collar faltering.
You clenched your jaw, feeling your heartrate pick up.
Then, you moved.
Your fist met his jaw with a crack, and he immediately stumbled backwards, hands letting go of your collar. You scrambled back up, legs shaking from the adrenaline and exhaustion. Your knuckles throbbed from the impact, but it was nothing compared to the ringing in your ribs where he’d pummeled you like some kind of animal.
He staggered a few paces, clutching at his jaw like he couldn’t comprehend the pain. Like it was foreign. His eyes—still locked on you—wavered.
“Stay back,” you rasped, voice raw as you held your stance. Your arms trembled, every muscle screaming at you to collapse, but you wouldn’t—not with him watching, not when you knew he could come at you again in a blink.
He forced in a breath, like he was trying to keep himself together. His eyes never left you, and they burned into you with an intensity that made your skin crawl—but there was something else hiding behind them. Something almost child-like.
You stayed crouched, body braced, your fists trembling from the strain of keeping them raised. The silence stretched, thick and suffocating, broken only by the echo of dripping water somewhere in the distance.
“Stay back,” you warned again, though your voice cracked on the last word. Your throat felt torn raw from the effort of breathing.
He didn’t lunge. Didn’t move. He simply stared, frozen in place, chest rising up and down. His brows twitched together, and his lips parted as if he wanted to say something, but no sound came. His jaw worked uselessly, grinding against your punch, and his fingers clenched like claws in the air before curling into fists at his sides.
You saw it then—the hesitation. The glitch in his programming.
And it terrified you more than his fists ever could.
You shifted your stance, trying to get your legs to stop shaking, but your knees threatened to buckle. Sweat ran into your eyes, stinging. The edges of your vision blurred, threatening to tunnel, but you forced yourself to focus on him. You couldn’t look away.
He took a step forward.
Your heart slammed into your throat, but it wasn’t the same kind of step he’d taken before—fast, brutal, meant to close the distance and crush you. No. This one was slow. Careful. His boot scraped against the concrete like he wasn’t sure it would hold.
His eyes searched your face, every flicker of expression darting across him like a storm. He looked at your bloody nose. The split skin on your lip. The way your arms trembled as you forced them to stay up. His chest heaved once—hard—and then again.
He took another step. Slow. Measured. His boot scuffed the ground, and you could hear the drag of rubber against concrete. He wasn’t charging anymore. He wasn’t the relentless machine you’d been fighting only moments before. He looked… wrong. Off-balance.
Your fists shook harder. At this point, you couldn’t tell if it was fear or exhaustion—maybe it was both. The blood on your lip tasted metallic, thick against your tongue, and each breath seared down your throat like fire. Still, you kept your arms raised, though they felt as heavy as lead.
He stepped out of the shadows, and the light from the city behind you shone on him.
You gulped.
Because, God, those eyes.
You hadn’t noticed their color in the chaos, too blinded by the fists slamming into you, the blur of pain and panic. But now, you could see it: hazel, fractured with flecks of green and gold, shining faintly beneath the lights. They were… defeated. Frightened, almost. To you, they were familiar. Too familiar.
And they wouldn’t leave you.
You could feel his gaze like shackles, pinning you in place. You thought it would’ve been easier if he’d just kept hitting you, kept being the unrelenting animal you first saw him as. At least it was something that you could understand. But this hesitation, this fracture in the machine—it made your gut twist with something far worse than fear.
His hands twitched again, flexing and curling, like his body didn’t know what to do with itself now that it wasn’t driving into you like a hammer. The muscles in his jaw feathered as he clenched it, hard enough you thought his teeth might shatter. His throat bobbed with a swallow that never quite landed.
You forced yourself to stay steady, or at least mimic steadiness. Your ribs screamed each time you pulled in air, stabbing white-hot pain through your chest, but you wouldn’t drop your arms. You couldn’t afford to. Still, the tremor was visible, crawling through your arms and shoulders, threatening to give you away.
His eyes darted down, watching the way you swayed on your feet. His brows pulled tight.
Finally, he shifted again. Not a strike. Not even a step. Just a slight tilt forward, like he was leaning towards you before his mind had caught up. You tensed instantly, your legs screaming with the effort of staying upright, ready to move—or try to.
But he didn’t follow through. He froze, caught between the impulse to close the distance and the weight of something you couldn’t name that held him back. His breathing hitched, rough and uneven, the sound of a man on the verge of drowning.
“…You,” he rasped, voice low, frayed at the edges.
One word, yet it chilled you worse than all his fists combined. It wasn’t a threat. It wasn’t even anger. It was disbelief. Recognition. Your heart slammed into your ribs, rattling against the bruises blooming there. You didn’t know what he saw when he looked at you, but whatever it was, it was dangerous.
Then, your knees gave up. Well, you gave up on trying to stand.
Your knees buckled, and they hit the ground beneath you with a thud. A small groan left your throat, and you immediately can hear the shuffle of boots from him. Your palm pressed against the concrete, steadying your body as your vision fades in and out.
You felt the same hands that jabbed you earlier gripping your side.
“Don’t...” he managed, but he couldn’t finish his sentence.
You noticed. His grip on your side wasn’t crushing—it was desperate, trembling, like he didn’t know how to hold on without destroying. His gloves scraped against your torn shirt, fingertips digging shallowly, but not in violence. It was restraint. It was someone trying, and failing, to remember what gentleness even felt like.
Your throat burned with the effort of drawing in air. Each inhale was jagged, stuttering past the bruises wrapping around your ribs. You wanted to shove him off, to spit at him, to tell him he had no right to touch you after what he’d just done. But your body wouldn’t obey. You were shaking too hard, collapsing into the pain. All you could manage was a shudder, a twitch of your fingers against the concrete.
You murmured something soft. He leaned instinctively, as if he was silently urging you to repeat.
“Dex,” you called out, softer than you wanted it to be.
But before he could even react, your vision faded completely.
He caught you before your body hit the ground.
It wasn’t graceful, it wasn't performative. His arms jerked around you like he’d never learned how to catch anyone in his life, elbows locked, grip too tight, too unsure. You could feel the tremor running through his muscles, the way his breath sawed in and out of his chest as he dragged you against him. His glove pressed over your ribs—right where he’d bruised them himself—and he flinched from the contact.
“Fuck, FUCK,” he swore through gritted teeth.
He scooped you up in his arms desperately, fighting the tremor in his body and the ache in his muscles. His balaclava moved with every shaky breath he took.
He stood up, and his legs immediately worked, his arms carrying you like you were something far too precious for him to hold.
“Stay. Please stay.”
The apartment was too quiet.
Dex could hear everything—every uneven drag of your breath, every creak of the floorboards beneath his boots as he moved, every thundering heartbeat inside his own chest. The sound of it filled his skull, deafening. He hated it. But then, again, he hated himself more.
Your body was limp in his arms when he kicked the door shut behind him, the sharp bang echoing off the walls like a gunshot. He flinched, tightening his grip around you as if the sound itself might take you away. His jaw clenched so tight his teeth ached. He didn’t look at your face, he couldn’t—not when he already knew the damage he’d done.
He dropped to his knees, dragging you down onto the couch with a clumsy gentleness, laying you flat across the worn cushions. His hands shook as he adjusted you, tugging your arm out from beneath your body so it wouldn’t twist wrong, fumbling with the angle of your head so you could breathe easier. The sight of your chest rising and falling was the only thing keeping him upright, but every rise was shallow, stuttered.
His fingers twitched under the glove, and his eyes looked down at them. He felt his stomach turn at the thought of what those hands had just done to you. He tore the gloves off, flinging the leather aside. His fingers flexed uselessly in the air, trembling, as if they didn’t belong to him anymore.
He looked around the room. The first aid kit sat on the counter. He’d put it there weeks ago, always kept it stocked and ready, but never once imagined he’d be using it for you. His boots thudded heavily across the floor as he grabbed it.
He dragged himself back to you, and the kit nearly slipped from his hand because of his unsteady grip. He cursed under his breath, a low, guttural sound that scraped his throat. But the frustration did not last long. Not when your life depended on him.
He dropped back down to his knees, eyes assessing your figure. Your shirt was torn, soaked in blood and sweat. His own fists had done that. He felt sick. But still, he reached. He had to.
His fingertips brushed the edge of the fabric, and he froze. They were shaking too much. He couldn’t steady them. He pressed his palm against the couch beside your hip, bracing himself, sucking in a jagged breath.
“Fuck—” His voice cracked. He bit down hard, but it didn’t stop his hand from trembling when he tried again.
The scissors slipped twice before he managed to shear the fabric clean, peeling it back from your battered torso. His gaze locked on the bruises spreading across your ribs—dark, ugly, violent marks already blooming beneath the skin. His stomach churned so hard he thought he might be sick.
He’d put those there.
His breath faltered. He had to stop, bowing forward with his forearm pressed against his forehead, hunched over your body like he was praying. His breath hitched, broken, harsh against the silence of the room. His other hand fisted the couch cushion so tight the fabric tore.
But you were still breathing. That was all that mattered.
He forced himself upright, every movement stiff and deliberate, and tore open the antiseptic. The smell of it burned his nose. His hand shook so violently he spilled half the liquid across his own knuckles before it even touched your skin.
The hiss of pain never came—well, because you were unconscious. For Dex, that silence was worse than any scream.
Dex pressed the gauze down with too much force, then flinched back instantly, terrified of hurting you even more. His breath stuttered. He tried again, lighter this time, careful, but his fingers trembled so badly the dressing slipped. He cursed, low and vicious, slamming his fist against the arm of the couch hard enough to make the whole frame groan.
His eyes burned. He didn’t cry—he couldn’t—but the sting behind them was sharp enough to blind him for a moment.
But he kept at it anyway. His every move was shaky, clumsy, desperate. Every wrap of the bandage was crooked, uneven, with his fingers jerking as if they were fighting him, as if his own body didn’t want to cooperate.
He wrapped the last piece of gauze before leaning back.
His bandages weren’t neat, crooked lines of gauze biting into your skin where he’d pulled too tight and sagging loose where he hadn’t pulled tight enough. It wasn’t good enough. Nothing he did was ever good enough.
Hs balaclava felt even more suffocating than before, and one of his hands reached up and tore it off of his head, tossing it aside. His hair was mussed, eyes glassy and lips dry.
He shut his eyes closed, shoving his hands through his hair, tugging hard enough that his scalp burned, because he couldn’t bear the feeling of them empty. They’d been on you hours ago. Crushing. Breaking. He could still feel the ghost of it.
He forced himself to look at you again.
The lamplight above cast a pale glow across your face, too pale, and his chest constricted so violently it nearly stole his breath. A smear of blood streaked along your jaw, dried now, and Dex wanted to claw his own skin off because he knew—he knew—whose knuckles had left that mark. His throat closed up. He felt like he was choking.
He pressed his palm down gently, the heel of his hand ghosting over the shallow rise and fall of your chest. He wanted to curl himself around you—cage you against him—but he couldn’t trust himself with that kind of closeness. Not anymore.
He swallowed, the guilt gnawing at him. He knew he should call someone. Christ, he should get you real help, someone who knew what the fuck they were doing. But who? Who could he trust with you, like this? Who could see you broken and not trace the marks back to him? His chest tightened until he couldn’t breathe. He didn’t care what they did to him, but letting you go would make you see him for what others thought he really was.
creator's note: i have not been feeling well for the past few days...so i dragged dex into this mess.
warnings: fear of abandonment, very brief mentions of bile/throwing up, sick, vulnerable! dex, dex has a bad fever, not proofread.
word count: 1.9k
His eyes felt heavy, and his cheeks burnt with something far from shame. Dex opened his eyes, gaze immediately darting to the clock above the door.
8:11 AM.
He felt his throat tighten.
Dex immediately sat up, fingers clenching the soft, pristine sheets beneath him. His chest rose and fell with ragged, uneven breaths, every inhale scraping his lungs raw. He searched for you, gaze dragging frantically across the room—empty chair, untouched glass of water, curtains drawn shut but swaying slightly like someone had been there not long ago. His pulse spiked, pounding so hard it felt like it rattled his ribs.
You weren’t there.
The realization hit him like a fist. The air seemed too thin, like the room was shrinking. Sweat gathered at his hairline and slid down the side of his face, sticky against skin already clammy. He pulled the sheets closer to his body, as if they could anchor him, but the fabric only reminded him of how clean, how foreign this space felt without you in it.
His stomach churned, nausea twisting into something sharp and sour. He could taste the bitterness of bile creeping up his throat, forcing him to swallow hard. His hands shook violently as he shoved the sheets aside, planting his feet on the cold floor. The contrast made him shiver, but not enough to steady him.
“—Where are you?” His voice cracked, rasping into the silence like a plea he hadn’t meant to say aloud.
He stood, though his legs felt unsteady, like they didn’t belong to him. Every step toward the door made his chest squeeze tighter, a horrible weight pressing down until it was almost unbearable. He could feel his own heartbeat in his ears, in his fingertips, everywhere, as if his body itself was panicking at the absence.
He checked the bathroom first. Empty. The faint scent of soap lingered, but there was no sound of running water, no shadow behind the door. His throat closed again.
The kitchen next. Still, still, still—every room still. The silence only grew heavier, filling in all the spaces where your voice, your presence should have been.
He gripped the edge of the counter until his knuckles blanched white. His breathing was sharp, stuttering, and his mind was already spiraling—had you left? Had you walked out while he was asleep, without a word, without even a glance back?
His chest burned, a suffocating ache spreading through him. He pressed his palm hard against it, as though he could keep his heart from tearing itself apart.
“Please,” he muttered under his breath, the word falling more like a sob than speech.
The clock ticked faintly in the distance, dragging his attention back, each second mocking him.
8:14 AM.
Three minutes gone, and you still weren’t there.
The room blurred at the edges, his vision stinging, but he blinked harshly, refusing to let tears spill—not yet. He stumbled back into the bedroom, desperate, eyes darting for any sign that he’d missed something, any hint that you’d return.
The sheets still smelled like you. It was the only thing keeping him from breaking apart completely.
Then, a click of the door.
You stepped in the living room, hoodie over your head and one hand shoved into the pocket of your jacket.
“Dex?”
Your voice carried softly through the apartment, casual but with that note of concern that always found him, always knew where to settle. You slipped your shoes off by the door and shook the dampness from your jacket, glancing toward the kitchen before letting your eyes sweep the space.
The air felt charged. Thick.
“Dex?” you called again, louder this time.
From the bedroom, there was a sound. Not words exactly—more like a low, muffled scrape of movement, the shuffle of unsteady feet against the floorboards. You set the grocery bag down gently, every muscle in your body tuning to the unease prickling at the back of your neck.
When he appeared in the doorway, your chest clenched.
Dex stood there pale and drawn, skin gleaming with a thin sheen of sweat. His shirt clung damply to his chest, hair matted to his forehead, and his eyes—wild, unfocused, red-rimmed like he hadn’t slept in weeks. His hands were trembling, but when he saw you, his shoulders slumped, relief crashing into his features so hard it nearly broke your heart.
“You—” his voice cracked, a rasp dragged over sandpaper, “—where were you?”
“I just ran out. Fifteen minutes, Dex.” You stepped toward him, but he flinched back a half-step, stubborn in the way he always was when panic met vulnerability. “I told you I’d be right back.”
He shook his head, as if denying it, as if the timeline didn’t matter. His throat worked, but whatever words he wanted to form got swallowed by another shallow, ragged breath. He leaned into the doorframe like his legs couldn’t quite bear the weight of him.
You crossed the room before he could retreat further, hands reaching out, firm but gentle, guiding his burning skin beneath your touch. Heat radiated off him in waves—unnatural, suffocating. His cheeks, his forehead, even the hollow of his throat—all fever-hot.
“Dex…” you whispered, fingertips brushing his flushed face. “You’re burning up.”
He recoiled, a rough, disbelieving scoff tearing from his chest. “No. No, I’m fine. Just—” His jaw clenched, his hand twitching at his side like he wanted to push yours away but couldn’t quite bring himself to. “I thought you were gone.”
The words cracked open in the air, and his voice broke on the last syllable.
You exhaled slowly, grounding yourself before you could let the hurt overwhelm you. “I won’t ever leave you like that. You know I wouldn’t.”
He tried to argue, his mouth twisting into something defensive, but then another wave of heat overtook him. His knees buckled, body swaying forward before you caught him, your arms bracing around his trembling frame. He was burning, muscles tense and slick with sweat, his breath shallow against your neck.
“Dex, listen to me,” you murmured, holding him tighter. “You’re running a fever. You need to sit down before you collapse.”
“I’m not—” His words broke, fading into a half-choked cough that left him gasping. His pride wrestled against the obvious, against the undeniable weakness in his body, but the truth was painted on his skin, in the tremor of his hands, the way he leaned heavier and heavier against you.
You coaxed him back toward the bed, step by step, until he finally gave in with a groan, sinking onto the mattress like he’d been fighting gravity itself. His chest heaved, his eyes fluttering shut, but his hand still caught yours, desperate.
You sat beside him, shifting carefully so the mattress didn’t dip too sharply beneath his weight. He clutched your hand like a lifeline, his fingers clammy and shaking, but the pressure in them was desperate, almost frantic. You could feel his pulse through the grip—racing, erratic, uneven—and it made your chest ache.
“Easy,” you murmured, brushing the damp strands of hair from his forehead. The strands clung stubbornly, his skin slick with fever sweat, so you reached for the glass of water on the nightstand. Tilting it to his lips, you steadied his head with your palm. “Sip. Slowly.”
He obeyed, though his throat worked unevenly, a shiver running through him even as the cool water slid down. When you lowered the glass, he sagged against the pillows, exhaustion pulling him under again, but he still refused to let go of your hand. His knuckles were pale where they pressed into yours.
“Don’t—” His voice was hoarse, barely audible, but it cracked open in the quiet like a confession. “Don’t go again. Please.”
You squeezed his hand, leaning down until your forehead rested gently against his temple. He was burning hot, the fever radiating between you like a fire you couldn’t put out, but you held there anyway, grounding him with touch. “I’m not going anywhere. Just breathe with me.”
His chest heaved, uneven, but when you slowed your own breathing—deep inhales, slow exhales—he tried to follow. His breaths rattled, broke, but there was an effort to match your rhythm. His lashes stuck to the corners of his red-rimmed eyes, and you wiped carefully beneath them with the edge of your sleeve, catching the dampness before it could trail down his cheeks.
You pulled the covers up, tucking them snugly around his trembling body. He shifted weakly beneath them, a restless kind of fidget, as though his muscles couldn’t settle. You smoothed your hand over his chest, feeling the frantic rise and fall, the heat pouring from his skin.
“Lie still,” you coaxed, your thumb rubbing gentle circles over his sternum. “Let me take care of you.”
“I can—” His voice faltered, his throat working against the words. His brows pinched together as though the admission pained him more than the fever itself. “I can do it.”
You shook your head softly, pressing a kiss into his damp hair. “Not right now, Dex. Right now, you have to let me take care of you, yeah?”
Something in his face crumbled then. His lips parted, his breath hitched, and his hand tugged yours shakily against his chest. The weight of his palm pressed it there, like he needed proof you were real, anchored to him. His heart thundered beneath, chaotic and fragile. He swallowed, eyes squeezing shut. “…don’t deserve it.”
The words stabbed sharper than the fever could. You whispered firmly, steady in the way he wasn’t, “No, you don’t say that. You deserve this, every second of it. You just need to relax for once.”
His fingers curled tighter around yours, his whole body shuddering with another wave of heat. You reached for the cool cloth you’d left by the bedside, dipping it quickly into the bowl of water you’d set out when you noticed the fever rising last night. Pressing it to his forehead, you watched his tense jaw slacken slightly at the relief, though he made a faint, broken sound in his throat, almost like a sob.
“I know it hurts,” you soothed, adjusting the cloth so it lay flat. “It’ll pass. Just let me take this from you for a while.”
He made no reply, but his breathing grew ragged again, the kind that told you his body was trying to fight through both fever and fear. So you stayed with him, whispering little reassurances, grounding him each time his fingers twitched like he thought you’d slip away. You hummed quietly under your breath, not words, just something steady and soft, something he could cling to in the haze.
Minutes stretched, the ticking of the clock fading beneath the rhythm of his unsteady breaths. He dozed fitfully, drifting in and out, every time jerking awake just enough to check you were still there. And every time, you were—your hand in his, your touch steady, your voice the same anchor.
When he finally sank deeper into the fevered sleep, his grip never loosened. You sat there still, brushing your thumb over the back of his hand, watching the way his face eased little by little, the sharp lines of panic softening into something fragile, human, vulnerable.
You leaned close, murmuring into the heavy warmth between you, “I’ve got you.”
And you meant it, every syllable a promise you’d keep until his fever broke, until his chest rose with something steadier, until the panic in his eyes was only a memory.
creator's note: he is ALWAYS whiny in bed, no matter what hes receiving. and, no, i am not speaking from experience (i totally am).
warnings: explicit sexual content (18+), porn w/o plot, oral sex (male receiving), overstimulation, power dynamics, inexperienced sub! dex, slight begging, praise kink, slight rough handling (hair pulling, tight grip), not proofread.
word count: 1.5k
He’d never admit it, not outright. Not to you, not to anyone. But the second your knees hit the floor in front of him, Dex goes quiet in a way you’ve never seen before—like someone reached inside and flipped a switch.
The kind of quiet that isn’t peace. It’s heavy, taut, vibrating under his skin.
He’s sitting on the edge of your bed, hands gripping his own knees so tightly his knuckles blanch, jaw working like he’s chewing over words that won’t come. And you—well, you’re looking up at him with that calm, steady gaze that always undoes him, hands sliding up the insides of his thighs slow, deliberate, until you feel the twitch of muscle under your fingertips.
“Relax,” you murmur, soft but firm, like it’s not a request.
His breath stutters. He tries. God, he tries, but his body is a live wire. It’s the kind of thing you can feel more than see, a trembling tension wound through every muscle, like he’s not sure whether to shove you away or pull you closer.
And when you tug at the waistband of his sweatpants, when you free him from the thin cotton and watch his cock bounce against the flat of his stomach, flushed and leaking, his brain just…short-circuits.
“F-fuck,” he breathes, voice cracking on the word.
Your mouth curves in a slow, cruel smile as you glance up at him, eyes sharp and steady. “Language, Dex.”
The way his throat works around a swallow, the desperate bob of his Adam’s apple—you’ve got him, and you know it.
You take your time about it, stroking him once, twice, just to feel the weight and heat of him in your hand. He’s hard already, so painfully hard it makes your own chest ache to look at him. You can feel him twitch against your palm, his hips jerking like he’s fighting himself.
You lean in and lick a slow stripe up the underside of his cock, from the base to the leaking head. Dex chokes on a sound—something high, strangled, completely unguarded. His head tips back, eyes screwing shut, a sharp line between his brows like the pleasure hurts.
You hum against him, low and pleased, and his hands finally leave his knees, hovering awkwardly in the air like he doesn’t know what to do with them.
“Touch me,” you say, soft but cutting through the haze he’s in.
His hands land in your hair almost instantly, tentative but needy, and when you take him into your mouth—slow, letting him feel the wet heat of you, the careful drag of your tongue along the underside—Dex makes a sound that’s almost broken.
It’s not words. It’s never words with him, not when you’ve got him like this. Just noises—sharp, ragged, punched out of him.
“Ah—God—f-fuck,” he gasps, hips jerking up before he catches himself, knuckles white where they’re tangled in your hair. “Mmh—”
You take him deeper, swallowing around him, and the noise that tears out of him is pure desperation. It’s almost pathetic, the way he’s trying so hard to hold still, to be good, but his thighs are shaking under your hands, muscles jumping every time you hollow your cheeks and suck.
You pull back just enough to breathe, slick spit connecting your lips to the flushed, wet head of his cock, and he makes this helpless sound, high and keening, like you’ve just killed him.
“Look at me,” you tell him, and his eyes snap open immediately—wide, glassy, blown-black pupils swallowing up blue.
“Fuck—please,” he chokes out, voice wrecked, but you don’t let him finish. You take him back down, slower this time, drawing it out until he’s trembling so hard you can feel it in the way his hands tighten in your hair, like he’s begging for mercy he can’t put into words.
Every little twitch, every broken noise, every sharp gasp is yours to take, and you savor it—slow drags of your tongue, the wet glide of your lips, the obscene slurp when you pull back just enough to breathe again.
You hum around him, the vibration making him jolt. Dex sobs. It’s quiet, choked, but it’s there, raw and desperate, spilling out of him in a way he doesn’t even notice because he’s too far gone.
His thighs are trembling now, every muscle strung tight like a bowstring, and you know—God, you know—he’s close. The erratic twitch of his hips gives him away, the frantic edge to his breathing, the way his grip in your hair has gone from tentative to bruising.
“Please,” he rasps, voice breaking. “Oh God, please—don’t—don’t stop—”
You don’t.
You take him deeper, swallow around him, and when he falls apart, it’s with a wrecked, strangled cry, hips jerking despite himself, every line of him locked tight for a split second before he’s spilling down your throat.
It’s messy—God, it’s so messy. He’s shaking, gasping, muttering half-words that don’t make sense, like his brain’s completely fried.
You keep going, slow and lazy now, letting him feel every aftershock, every twitch of oversensitivity that makes him whimper and twist but never actually push you away.
“Too much,” he finally manages, voice barely there, high and pleading, but you don’t let up, not entirely. Just enough to make him sob again, sharp and raw, until his head tips forward and his forehead rests against your shoulder, shaking.
His weight folds over you slowly, like gravity finally got its hooks in him. His breath is ragged and hot where it ghosts over your neck, his forehead damp against your skin. You can feel his hands still tangled in your hair, trembling, unsure whether to hold on or let go.
“Shhh,” you murmur, easing back just enough to let him breathe but keeping your hand on him, a lazy, loose grip that makes his hips twitch helplessly. “Easy, Dex. You’re alright.”
A broken little sound spills out of him—half a sob, half a plea—and you almost smile. He doesn’t even realize how much he’s giving away right now, how wide open he is in this moment. His usual sharp edges, his barbed wire and teeth, are just…gone. What’s left is trembling and raw and achingly soft.
“You—” His voice cracks, barely audible against your shoulder. “I can’t—fuck, I can’t—”
“You can,” you interrupt, calm and steady, and you tighten your fist around him just a fraction, slow and measured. “You will.”
His body jerks like the words hit something deep, his thighs clenching under your hands. He makes another of those wrecked noises, strangled in his throat, and you can feel him trying—trying—to hold still, to be good for you.
But he’s already oversensitive, the sharp edge of his first orgasm bleeding into something deeper, sharper. His hips twitch despite himself, tiny, involuntary movements that give away just how close to unraveling he still is.
“Please,” he whispers, hoarse and quiet, almost like he doesn’t want you to hear it. “I can’t—s’too much—”
You tilt your head just enough to catch his glassy, ruined stare, pupils blown wide and rimmed red. “You can take it,” you say softly, not unkind but firm enough to leave no room for argument. “You’re gonna take it for me.”
The breath he drags in is sharp and shaky, like it hurts. And then—God—his hips roll, desperate and mindless, into your hand.
“That’s it,” you murmur, coaxing, your thumb stroking lazily over the slick, sensitive head. “Just like that, Dex. Be good for me.”
He’s not making words anymore—just broken, high-pitched sounds, whimpers and sharp gasps that tear out of his chest without his permission. His hands tighten in your hair again, his forehead still pressed to your shoulder like if he looks at you, if he really sees what you’re doing to him, he’ll shatter completely.
And maybe he will.
Because when you twist your wrist just right, dragging your fist down slow and tight, his whole body jerks like a live wire. His breath stutters, sharp and desperate, and then he’s spilling again, a second orgasm ripped out of him so fast and hard it’s almost painful.
The sound he makes this time isn’t sharp or ragged. It’s quiet. Shaken. Like something broke loose inside him and he doesn’t know how to put it back together.
You ease him through it, gentle but unrelenting, stroking him until the last tremor fades and he’s slumped completely against you, boneless and wrecked. His breath hitches in little aftershocks, and when you finally let go, his cock soft and spent against his thigh, his hands slip free of your hair like he doesn’t even have the strength to hold on anymore.
For a long moment, there’s nothing but the sound of his breathing—uneven, shaky, the quiet, stunned silence of someone who’s never been undone like that before.
Then, softly, so soft you almost miss it, he murmurs, “…fuck.”
A laugh hums in your chest, quiet and fond, and you press a kiss to the side of his temple. “Language,” you murmur again, teasing, and the sound he makes in response is somewhere between a groan and a whimper.
“You—” His voice is rough, frayed. “… I don’t—”
“I know,” you soothe, a hand sliding up to tangle in his hair, gentle now, grounding. “I know, baby. You’re okay.”
His throat bobs as he gulped.
Because God help him, he’ll always be (more than) okay around you.
dex sits in a fluorescent ward, hands trembling, medicated into near-nothing. the crayons break under his grip, but the circles keep coming, compulsive, inevitable, dangerous even when he can’t move.
read on ao3
words: 1k
content warnings: psychiatric ward, heavy medication, sedation, restraints, compulsive behavior, hand tremors, motor impairment, sensory discomfort, psychological distress, patient surveillance, dehumanization, ableism, body frustration, mild self-harm (cracking crayons), obsessive/compulsive actions, hallucination-like perception under meds
the fluorescent lights hummed above him, washing the ward in a pale, sickly glow. benjamin poindexter sat at a metal table, his posture slouched forward under the weight of restraints and medication alike. his hands, free only for the purpose of “occupational therapy,” twitched and lagged behind his own intent. a nurse set down a sheet of paper and a small box of crayons. the box was faded, most of the colors worn down to nubs. he blinked at them, slow, delayed again, his pupils swimming in the fog of chemicals. quetiapine. lexapro. fluoxetine. sertraline. ibuprofen. amphetamines. the cocktail made his blood thick, his movements sluggish, but his heart jittery, a cruel overlap of downers and stimulants that left him half-ghost, half-wire.
when he reached for the stub of a crayon, his fingers closed two seconds too late, knocking it onto the floor. he blinked slowly, sweat running down the back of his neck, as though the effort of simply moving his hand had drained him.
he reached for a crayon. white-knuckled sweat dampened the paper before he even touched it. he tried to draw a line, but the wax dragged unevenly, smudging. his handwriting, once meticulous and sharp as a sniper’s aim, was now clumsy, nearly illegible. his grip was too tight, his fingers refusing to ease up, and the wax splintered with a soft crack that echoed louder in the silence than it should have. he blinked at the broken stub in his palm, not with anger, but with the blank, heavy-lidded stare of someone only half-present. the staff shifted uncomfortably. one guard muttered under his breath, “kid can’t even hold a crayon”, but no one laughed. the sound of wax breaking in those hands carried a different weight. the crayon wobbled across the paper, leaving uneven lines.
to the other patients, he was different. not just because of the restraints, or the way guards hovered closer whenever he was out of his room. they whispered when he passed, muttering about the fbi guy, the killer, the one who dressed like daredevil. to them, he was a warning, what happens when the system breaks you down and spits you out. some stared with fear, others with pity, a few with fascination.
the staff, though. they saw something else. to them he was sedated compliance. their notes reflected it. affect flattened, no acute risk today, maintains docility under current dosage. impulse control still compromised. latent aggression surfaces through minor tasks. they never noticed how his jaw clenched every time his hand lagged behind his thought. how he stared at the crayons as though they were foreign objects, not tools. how the sweat slick on his palms wasn’t just from meds, but the body’s revolt at being caged inside itself.
hours dragged. dex’s head lolled, eyes blinking too slow, then too fast, struggling to keep rhythm. he dropped the crayon. when he bent to pick it up, his hand didn’t close at first. the motion delayed, jerky, like an old machine powering back on. he forced his fingers tighter until the crayon snapped in half. wax dust smeared across the table, bright red against white paper.
on the page, faint concentric circles began to form. shaky, imperfect, but unmistakable. targets. he didn’t plan them. they emerged from the faltering drag of his hand, over and over again, circles crowding the paper. the nurse noted it down mechanically, though her jaw tightened. repetitive patterns. compulsive imagery. it was easier to label than to acknowledge the unease crawling up her neck.
one orderly muttered under his breath, “he doesn’t even know what he’s doing.”
another corrected him softly, “he always knows.”
the longer they watched, the clearer it became that even stripped of fluency, stripped of speed, stripped of the weapon in his own body, something remained. he struggled to hold the crayon properly, but the shapes were inevitable. concentric, uneven, compulsive. the restraints might hold his arms to his chest, the pills might slow his reflexes, but his hand still sought out the only thing it knew. the geometry of violence.
around him, the ward went on. other patients muttered, shuffled, rocked in their chairs. yet eyes slid toward dex again and again. some recognized him, the man who had worn another man’s skin and turned the city upside down. they looked at him now and saw a hollowed-out version, dulled and sweating under layers of chemicals. to some, it was satisfying. the infamous fake daredevil, reduced to this. to others, it was frightening in a different way. the more diminished he appeared, the more dangerous the thought became of what might lurk underneath, waiting for the right crack in the dam. to the rest of the ward, he was unsettling. other patients avoided his table. some swore he was dangerous even like this, that his stare cut too deep. a few thought he was harmless now, pathetic even, proof that the system could tame anyone. but the silence that followed him down the hallway told a different story. they might have seen a ghost, but ghosts had a way of lingering, of reminding the living what could not be undone.
dex’s hand trembled again, a jerky movement that smeared the wax across the page. he set the broken stub down, fingers twitching as though his body still wanted to clench, to throw, to aim. but the lag stole even that from him. he sat there with his damp hands curled into loose fists, staring through the page as though the targets he had drawn might align themselves in the real world.
the staff exchanged looks but said nothing. they never said much around him. they treated him like something unstable, fragile only in the sense that touching it might make it explode. in whispered hallways, they spoke about the cocktail they kept him on, how it gutted him, how it turned a weapon into a ghost. some said it was justice. others weren’t so sure.
in the harsh light, dex’s hands trembled as he lifted another crayon. he missed the paper entirely, dragging blue wax across the table’s steel surface. the nurse watching shifted uncomfortably. the shape was wrong, unfinished, but the pattern was still there. a circle, again. always a circle.
through it all, dex didn’t speak. he never asked for more crayons, never asked for anything. he sat sweating under the lights, sluggish and heavy, with pages full of circles stacked before him like a dossier only he could read.
creator's note: i just LOVE the thought of dex being even more whinier when hes delirious... like... woah. i agree. wow. i....
warnings: sadomasochistic themes, toxic relationship/codependency, self-destructive behaviors, mentions of violence and injuries, strong language, rough patching up, not proofread.
word count: 2.4k
Dex sat on your countertop after a job gone sideways, lip split, knuckles already bruised. There’s dried blood on his temple from when someone clocked him with the butt of a rifle.
And now? He won’t shut up.
“Didn’t think you had it in you,” he says, voice rough but grinning like he isn’t held together by stubbornness and adrenaline. “You’re slipping, sweetheart.”
He’s baiting you. He always baits you.
You tell yourself not to bite. You’ve been down this road with him too many times—Dex pushing until something snaps, until the two of you burn each other down to the foundations. He wants it. Needs it. Like he can’t breathe unless things hurt.
But tonight, he’s relentless.
“You didn’t need to do all that back there, Dex,” you huffed.
“But I did.”
Your hands curl at your sides. You can feel the heat of him across the room, the tension between you like an electric fence waiting to be touched.
“You gonna just stand there and glare? Or you gonna make yourself useful? Patch me up. Or…” he tips his head, grin widening through bloody teeth, “…hit me. Whichever’s faster.”
He sees it—the twitch of your jaw, the way your shoulders set—and his eyes light up like you’ve given him oxygen.
“There it is,” he murmurs, soft and goading all at once. “Knew you had that look in you. Bet you’re dying to put me through a wall.”
He’s right.
You don’t remember moving. One second he’s smirking, the next you’ve got him by the collar, slamming him back so hard into the kitchen doorframe that the wood rattles. His head hits with a dull thunk and he just—laughs.
“Yeah,” he breathes, almost a gasp, eyes half-lidded with something too dark to be amusement. “There you go. Hit me again.”
You do. A fist to his gut, sharp enough to knock the air out of him. His laugh tears off into a cough, but he’s still grinning, still looking at you like you’re giving him exactly what he came for.
“Harder,” he rasps, barely above a whisper. “C’mon. Don’t baby me.”
Every word is like a match to kindling. He wants the pain, but worse, he wants you in it with him. Wants you raw, ugly, angry. Wants you cracked open so he doesn’t have to be the only one.
So you give it to him. You slam him again, fist in his shirt, until the drywall behind him cracks under the impact. He groans—sharp, desperate—but his hand comes up, grabbing your wrist, pulling you in closer even as his knees buckle.
And there it is—that split-second where the fight drains out of him, where the smirk slips just enough to show the shaking underneath.
He’s panting now, chest heaving, forehead pressed to yours like he needs the contact to stay upright. There’s blood on his teeth when he smiles again, softer this time, like he can’t decide if he wants to laugh or break apart.
“You done being an asshole?” you grunted.
“No,” he whispers. But it’s different now—wrecked, quiet, like he spent everything he had in those few wild seconds.
You feel him tremble when you let him go. He doesn’t step away. Just leans against the doorframe like if you walk off, he’ll slide to the floor. His eyes are glassy, lip still bleeding, but the fire’s gone.
For a long, taut second, the kitchen is quiet except for the sharp cadence of his breathing and the low hum of your own pulse roaring in your ears. He’s still there—pinned to the splintered frame like a man strung up on the edge of something dangerous—but the edge has shifted. The fight that burned so hot in his veins a minute ago is guttering out, leaving nothing but the ragged tremor of him holding himself together.
Blood beads fresh at his split lip when his tongue darts out to wet it, trembling just enough to betray him. His hands—one still knotted in your sleeve, the other braced against the cracked drywall—are shaking, but he doesn’t let go. Like if he keeps that tether, you won’t drift away. Like he needs you close to breathe.
“Don’t… walk away.”
Something ugly twists low in your chest. Because you could. You’ve done it before. Left him bleeding and shaking and desperate because some nights the fire burns too hot and you know if you stay, neither of you will come back whole. But tonight—tonight there’s something in the way his voice cracks that roots you to the floor.
So you don’t. You let him lean, let him breathe, even as his blood smears against your collarbone and the drywall creaks ominously where his weight has shifted. You don’t move when his knees finally give and he sinks down, dragging you with him until the both of you are on the cold tile, his head dropping against your shoulder like it’s the only safe place left in the world.
For a while, there’s nothing but the sound of him coming apart in silence—ragged breaths that shake too hard to be steady, the wet hitch of someone swallowing down more than he can carry. His knuckles are raw and split when they fist in your shirt, but you don’t pry them loose. You let him have that anchor, let him curl into it until the tremor in his body evens out to something slower, almost fragile.
When he finally tilts his head back, there’s no grin left. Just glassy eyes rimmed red and a smear of dried blood painting his temple. Vulnerable. Open in a way Dex never lets himself be, except here, like this, when the storm has wrung him out so thoroughly he doesn’t have the strength to hold himself together.
“Hurts,” he mutters, almost like a confession, and you don’t know if he means the bruises or the jagged thing eating him alive from the inside.
You don’t answer right away. There’s nothing to say—not to that, not when you can feel the tremor in his frame and the way his breath shudders against your neck. Words would be cheap here. They’d shatter the fragile thing hanging between you, this raw, ugly quiet where he isn’t wearing a single mask.
“You wanted it to.”
You shift just enough to get an arm around his shoulders, steadying him without making it obvious you’re steadying him. He leans harder, lets himself go limp against you, and for a moment the weight of him feels heavier than it should—like you’re holding all the pieces he won’t admit are broken.
His blood smears sticky against your skin. The copper tang of it clings to the air between you, sharp and metallic, grounding. You should get up, clean him up, make sure nothing’s cracked or bleeding worse than it looks. But you don’t. Not yet. Because you know what happens when you pull away too soon.
You feel the slow, jerky drag of his breath finally starting to even out. He’s not shaking so badly anymore, though his knuckles are still white where they’ve got your shirt bunched tight in his grip. Like if he lets go, the ground will open up beneath him. Like you’re the only thing holding him steady.
The silence stretches, taut and heavy, until you almost forget how loud it had been in here ten minutes ago—his baiting, your anger, the sharp snap of drywall giving way under your hands. Now there’s just this, the quiet hum of the fridge, the soft rasp of his breath, and the quiet, ugly truth of how much he needs you.
You clear your throat. “You’re bleeding on my floor.”
It’s quiet, almost an afterthought, but it breaks something in him. His shoulders hitch once, sharp and uncontrolled, and then he huffs out a laugh that doesn’t sound anything like amusement. Too soft, too wrecked. Like he wants to say something but doesn’t have the air left in his lungs to do it.
When you finally shift to move, his grip tightens, frantic for just a second before it eases. You don’t call him on it.
You murmur, “Easy.”
You guide him until his back hits the cabinet and his weight’s off you, but you stay close. Close enough that when his eyes finally crack open—glassy and rimmed in red—he doesn’t have to search for you.
“Stay,” he manages, voice shredded to pieces.
You could tell him you weren’t going anywhere. That you’ve been here before, that you’ll probably be here again, patching him up and pretending this isn’t the closest thing to intimacy either of you will ever let yourselves have. But the words stick. Instead, you grab the rag from the sink, wet it, and crouch in front of him. Quiet, efficient, careful.
He flinches when the cloth brushes his split lip, but doesn’t pull away. Just watches you with that glassy, too-open stare, the fight burned out of him. You clean the blood from his temple next, gentle where the skin’s split, and he goes still like he’s afraid to breathe wrong and ruin the moment.
The rag is warm by the time you wring it out, water pinking faintly from the blood you’ve already cleaned away. Dex hasn’t moved. Not really. He’s still slouched against the cabinet, knees drawn up like he’s trying to make himself smaller, knuckles white where they’re half-clenched on the hem of his shirt. His eyes track you, though—sharp in that dull, stormy way that says he’s running on fumes but still wired enough to flinch if you move too fast.
“Hold still,” you murmur, soft but leaving no room for argument, and press the rag to the edge of his temple again.
He hisses, jerks a little under your hand, but doesn’t pull away. Not all the way. His jaw tightens, breath going sharp through his nose as the sting sinks in.
“Christ,” he mutters, voice frayed and ragged, “you trying to kill me with that shit?”
You don’t answer. Just tip his chin a little higher, force him to meet your gaze while you swab at the crusted blood along his hairline. There’s a twitch at the corner of his mouth—part grimace, part something else entirely—and then he exhales slow, shallow, like letting himself settle into the sting.
“You’ve had worse,” you say, low, not unkind.
“Doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt,” he grinds out, but there’s no heat to it. Just that bone-deep weariness creeping through the cracks now that the adrenaline’s burned off.
The antiseptic comes next. You don’t warn him. You never do. The sharp, chemical bite of it blooms between you as you dab the gauze along the split in his lip, and that’s when he really reacts—back tensing, breath stuttering like the pain ripped a noise out of him he can’t quite swallow.
“Fuck,” Dex hisses, voice breaking, and his fingers scrabble for purchase until they find your thigh. Not a grab, not really—just enough pressure to keep himself tethered, to keep from floating off into that jagged edge he’s been balancing on all night.
“Stay still,” you remind him, quieter this time. You’re careful, precise, but not gentle. He doesn’t want gentle. Not from you.
His eyes flutter shut as you finish with the antiseptic, breath coming in shallow pulls, lashes damp where sweat’s gathered at his temples. And then—so quiet you almost miss it—
“…Don’t stop.”
It’s not a plea, not exactly, but it’s close enough to scrape something raw in your chest.
You don’t. You move on, hands steady as you clean his knuckles next. The skin there is a mess—split and raw from where he put it through someone’s jaw, bruised deep where the bone met something harder than flesh. He watches you the whole time, silent except for the sharp, shaky exhales when you catch a sore spot. Every time your fingers brush the inside of his wrist, his hand twitches like he wants to grab you and doesn’t know how.
When you hit him with the antiseptic again, that’s when the sound slips out—soft, hoarse, almost broken.
“Shit—ah—”
“Breathe,” you tell him. It’s not a request.
His head tips back against the cabinet with a dull thud, throat working as he drags in shaky breaths. He’s not trying to hide the tremor in his frame anymore; he couldn’t if he wanted to. Every scrape of gauze, every sting of antiseptic strips another layer off until he’s just… there. Unraveled and open in the quiet of your kitchen.
By the time you’re wrapping his hands, he’s leaning into you without realizing it, his knee brushing yours, his shoulder slumping toward the heat of your body. You don’t move away. You don’t even look at him when he whispers, rough and low, “You’re mad at me.”
“Yeah,” you say simply, binding the last knuckle. “I am.”
There’s a long pause. He swallows, breath shuddering, but doesn’t argue. Doesn’t bait you again. Just sits there, bleeding and quiet, like he’s waiting for you to decide what comes next.
When you’re done, you press the edge of the tape flat against his wrist and finally, finally let yourself meet his gaze. The storm in his eyes is muted now, glassy and blue and so fucking tired it hurts to look at him.
“I could’ve walked away,” you tell him.
“You didn’t.” His voice is barely a whisper. And then, softer, “You didn’t.”
Something in your chest twists sharp, ugly, and you hate that it still hits you like that—hate that even after all of this, he still knows how to cut you open with his words.
You stand before you can think better of it, rag in hand, and for one sharp second his hand shoots out, fingers curling in the fabric of your shirt like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.
“Don’t—” His voice cracks. “Just—don’t.”
You stop. Not because you should. Not because you owe him this. But because he’s looking up at you like you’re the last thing holding him to the ground, and some part of you is too far gone to deny him that.
So you stay. Crouched in the wreckage of your kitchen, blood drying sticky on your hands, with Dex shaking quietly against your thigh.
And when his head finally tips forward, forehead brushing the edge of your knee like an unspoken apology, you let your hand settle at the nape of his neck. Solid. Grounding. Steady in a way neither of you really are. You know he’s not asleep—Dex doesn’t sleep, not really—but it’s the closest thing to peace you’ve seen on his face in months.
Hello everyone, today will do another update on Indonesia, but it wont be like my other uodates bcause I am tired, angry, and scared with all the news around us that just keeps worsening.
[29/8/2025]
A while ago, the government dropped a news that the people of the parliament will receive a large sum of money support from the country, around 100 million rupiahs or roughly around 6000$, PER MONTH. While the people here are struggling to eat, teachers and lecturers, especially those teaching in rural parts of Indonesia ARE NOT PAID. Even if they are, they're barely reaching the minimum wage. All while the people of the parliament get paid a large sum of money for doing nothing and corrupting the country. These people are dancing and singing in the parliament house while people literally outside their places live crammed, barely making 180$ a month. And for Jakarta? That barely covers necessities.
A few days yesterday, angry citizens started moving. At first they swarmed and broke into the parliament house. Then a massive protest was held in front of the parliament house (mostly by college students). The people are mad. The police started spraying tear gas and high pressure water towards the crowd (classic move). Eventually, ojol drivers started joining the protest (think: uber, uber eats drivers that use cars and motorcycles). One person got killed by getting ran over by the police. ONE PERSON GOT KILLED BY GETTING RAN OVER BY THE POLICE, A 21 YEAR OLD OJOL DRIVER, PROBABLY A BREADWINNER IN HIS FAMILY. And a lot more victims of brutality and violence and missing people. It doesnt stop there as well, Karet station are getting shot with tear gas, where non protesters are trying to get on with life.
Please spread this, read this, our news canal are silent, there are no news canal in our country broadcasting this. I've seen an Australian news canal broadcasting these news but not ours. I'm scared for the lives of the people, I'm scared for my own, and I genuinely don't know what to do to help the people in ways that won't put my parents' life in possible danger. And as I always say, please educate yourself more about this matter. There are a lot of overwhelming news around, I can't gather them all alone in one post. Thankyou.
