Synopsis: Poindexter had been in the prison system for a while, struggling to conceptualize his wrongdoings. Life within an institution, escaping from it, committing heinous acts. He wanted to change for a part of him that grieved the good aspects of himself. Standing on guard with new mentorships, not expecting grace from life. Until he met a woman, who would just give him a glimpse of how much of his life really was rank. It just so happened to be his therapist.
Warnings: Mature content 18+
Extreme Mentions: Harsh language, Gun/weapons, mentions of harm/gore, Use of alcohol/drugs, S*icidal ideation, Depictions of trauma, Eventual smut, Domestic Violence (not Dex), hurt/no comfort, reader kinda crazy.
Doc = generalized name (Didn’t want to use y/n)
A/N: Rapid firing with releasing chapters of this fic! This chapter is more centered to the character's story rather than Dex to give more background. Wanted this to be more slow burn, hehehehe. The writing for Jessica Jones gave me a lot of inspiration for this, enjoy!
Series: Part 1 (6.9k), Part 2 (6.2k), Part 3 coming soon
Home - A week before statement
3:30 am
Rain falls, cold droplets paint upon her skin. Walking home from work it seemed. She’d forgotten to bring her umbrella again, so she humbly reminded herself she needed to make a habit of checking the weather app.
The droplets are cold, making the poor attempt of doing her makeup each morning paint her face with blotches. Mascara cascading down her cheek, hair now ruined from the rain's brutal attack on her physical appearance.
Wet, cold, and uncomfortable tightness of her clothes clouded her.
Her flats hit the concrete, precision with every step towards her sanction. Beginning to realize, maybe she took a wrong turn. Her surroundings are unfamiliar, mindset unclear. How could she have missed the street she’d routinely turn towards her own house?
The sound of a gun hoister grants a shiver down her spine. Feeling the penance of wrongdoing she felt she’d committed.
Putting her hands up. Turning so she could face the threat head on.
His hand holding a gun towards the center of her forehead, no hesitancy in his glare.
“Told you to act right.”
The sudden bang of gun fire rang through her eardrums, causing the sudden rapid fluctuation of her heart beat to spike through the consciousness of her nightmare.
Sporadically sitting up in her bed, gasping for air that just escaped her lungs. Sweat clinging to her body, a twinge of pain from the inside of her palm caused her to wince. Though she’d been dinging her nails on her skin too tight. Tears painted on her cheeks, a sensation grounding her.
Jumping, another bang echoed through the walls of her apartment, causing her to walk towards the window. Walking over, she’d noticed men dressed in black, running towards an open alley to chase an frantic individual.
The task force? She questioned.
Fisk’s new Anti-vigalante task force had ridden the city with soldiers dressed in police attire. Beating up people on the street, nearly killing them.
Crime was infecting her neighborhood as of late, it’s hard to walk alone at night. Even going to Janet’s, she had told herself it would be more of a burden than a luxury, knowing the task force had no patience for any sort of moral obligations. Trapping people, without due process. Made the inside of her skin crawl.
Before she'd gotten the chance to change out of her sweat counted clothing, another loud banging sound echoed through her apartment. Though, it wasn’t the pop of a gunshot.
This time, it came from her front door.
Her apartment wasn't exactly luxury, but it made due. Filled with her own persona written all over its walls, she was definitely not a minimalist. Her cat, Scotty, stirs in his sleep though he’d just been awoken by the loud sound as well.
What an amazing guard cat.
Looking through the peep hole, noticing no one is in the hall waiting for her to answer. Granted she is a woman, living alone, she was not stupid enough to go through an open hallway where someone can just take her. Especially with how late it was.
Heading back to her bedroom, opening her closet doors, grabbing the small handgun stored in a shoe box on the top shelf.
She never had to use this, but thought it’d be smart to carry one for protection.
The licensing process for it, just for it to be in a shoe box.
Scotty would laugh at me. No, not the cat.
Walking towards the front door, she opened it slightly. Noting that no one was standing in the front door, she had put the handgun to the side table to the right of her. Looking down, she noticed a file on her doormat.
Opening the door all the way, reaching down to pick the file up. Quickly shutting the door when retreating back into her apartment. Throwing the file onto the dining room table, unsure she even wants to know what’s inside.
I need a drink, she concluded.
Cracking open a bottle, pouring the contents inside a whiskey glass.
Looks to be some ransom, she catastrophised.
Pulling her dining room chair back, sitting in the seat closest to the ominous looking yellow file. She opened it while sipping the glass. Nearly choked as though it went down the wrong pipe. A sudden spike in adrenaline filled her system.
Photos. Photos of me?
Some of them consisted of photos of her walking home from work. Talking on the phone with clients at her job. Sitting in the booth at Janet’s. Drinking at the bar on her own, guys talking to her at the bar. Photos spanning across years, as though the person had been watching her for years.
Even photos of myself in her apartment. Some of them are of her changing, watching a movie in her living room, then photos of a man in her apartment. A man, all too familiar.
Her breath held a heavy rhythm, panic soon consuming her thoughts.
How? The question repeated in her mind.
While flipping through endless photos, she’d noticed the ones of her mother while she’d been wheeled outside of her nursing home. Another, her father with his new wife, playing outside with their kids. Some documented medical records, ones with a name printed on them she’d wanted to forget about. Consuming her guilt, she quickly flipped through them to forget.
The last one was a photo of security camera footage, hands pushing a woman from the front of a gunman. The drink in her hand soon fell from her grasp, landing onto the floor with a loud shatter.
Tears welted in her eyes, bewilderment apparent in her face, “Shit.”
Suddenly stepping out of the chair, looking for paper towels in her apartment to pick up the shattered glass. On the way to pick up the larger shards, her mind raced with ruminating thoughts.
How’d they know so much about me? My mother’s life, my father, that night.
My deceased ex-husband.
Shards still in hand, looking at the tiny post-it note behind the security camera photo. It had an inscribed message, written in bright red ink.
Frame him or everyone will know.
The Poindexter case had its opening statements earlier this week. It had all eyes from the city of New York, no one wanted to miss it. Dreading her statement to the jury, this only made it harder.
They want me to lie under oath. Sell out, Poindexter.
She would get five years for perjury, if she was lucky. My license is revoked, but she’d be out of a job if this comes out. Arrested for a much more heinous crime. Probably be doomed to try to find any sort of living after.
Act right.
Her fist tightened.
She would be killed for sure. If they put Poindexter away under a corrupt system of justice, he’d never survive that betrayal. Maybe that’s the penance that was deserved, she thought. If he managed to escape in some way. They always do, the system is never just.
The sound of dripping rang in her ears. She'd looked down towards her fist, where blood had been pooling from at a rapid rate. Harsh stinging distracting her dissociative state, causing her hand to shake.
Panically rushing to the bathroom sink, looking for the first aid kit, “Oh, shit!”
Dumbass. She thought when she decided to squeeze the same hand with those shards.
Wincing with each pull of her tweezers, glass dropping in the sink. Each one, granted a small hiss from her mouth. Glass bouncing in the marbleized sink, each coated with blood. One she removed the very last, relief providing comfort.
Grabbing an alcohol wipe, cleaning the open wounds. Tears peppering her eyes, causing her to hunch a bit over the sink from the pain. A shudder of breath, the sting subsiding.
That night, the day this first happened.
She’d tried to forget about it. The absence of feeling cascaded around her body, producing no receptors of pain after bodily trauma. Like a shield, with her soul enveloped within a metal suit of armor.
Looking up in the mirror, she’d seen herself. Not as she was, but younger. Peppered with small cuts, bruises, flushed with dread. Eyes filled with fear, panicked into something else once a man's voice carried through her apartment. One from the past, baritone striking.
She knew it was a flashback, one she’d had many times. Crushing her, haunting her; her mind never wanting her to forget what she’d done.
Now, wiping her hand with alcohol once more. Not a single peep, shout, or cry.
Her body was different, compared to the average person. Maybe some genetic defect, something medical. What other reason could this be other than a simple logical answer.
While she wanted to believe this, it only fueled her anxiety with questions. Closing her medical kit, not bothering to open the bandages. Still going untouched. Cleaning up the glass from her sink, throwing them in the small bin in her bathroom. Walking back into the dining room, revelling at the situation she’d found herself in.
Grabbing the file, with the same hand she’d just cut. The same wounds that had been bleeding just moments ago were starting to look as though she hadn't been cut at all.
Her expression lacked any grievance, as though this was no surprise to her.
Grabbing another glass from her kitchen cupboard, pouring the contents of a bottle into it. Flashes of the past infiltrating her peace, granting sanction like it owned her mind. One she thought she could handle with each sip and each pour.
Walking back to her dining table, flipping the post-it with the red lettering. A number written on the back, one with a name of a district attorney. District attorney Hochberg, one assigned to the prosecution.
Granted a shudder of breath, clenching her jaw. Hand covering her mouth, realizing the weight of her situation. Wanting to coat it with anything, needing it to leave her body. Stress triggering parts of her that she’d left unhealed, broken.
Like a shadow of haunting, lips cascaded her ear. Causing her to sharply exhale.
Finally, justice served, the voice in her ear whispered.
Causing her to yelp, stepping back from the source. Scanning her apartment, fear drawn in her face.
Trying to ground herself, repeating the words he’s not real, he’s not real. He’s dead, he’s not real.
Hands tracing her body from behind her, grabbing her neck with a force so tight it causes her to jut out of panic. Tears welting her eyes, short breaths escaping her closing windpipe.
Sadistic tone in his voice, reeling at the idea that she’d still been scared of him.
People will finally know what kind of monster you really are, doctor. A fucking freak, the voice mocked her.
The insult caused her to fight her way out of the hold, loosening his death grip on her throat. She was panicked, broken sobs escaping her lips. Running to the corner of the room, finding comfort in the corner near the cat bed.
Scotty, rising from the bed. Finding his panicked owner's lap, comforting her building anxiety attack. Post-traumatic stress, professionals call it.
Hands covering her eyes, back laid on the wall by the couch. Reassuring her with ground techniques, ones that tried to distract herself.
He’s wrong. You're not a monster. You help people, you're good. He’s not real. Chanting them like a scripture.
Enough to finally find the courage to uncover her eyes, noticing her seemingly empty apartment. Taking a deep breath, then releasing. Getting up from the floor, placing her cat on the cat bed with a loving pat on his head.
Scotty helping me beyond the grave, he’d probably hate knowing he’d reincarnated into a cat. She joked in hopes to distract herself.
Going back to the dining table, grabbing the post-it. Mind buzzing mildly with a crude voice, wanting her to listen. Parts of her did, causing her to make a decision she’d known to be selfish. She just wanted it to stop, no more voices. No more words, she wanted it gone.
Grabbing her phone, dialing the attorney’s phone number. A sleepy voice answered, anguished with how late in the night it had been. Which he’d soon realize who’d been on the other end, causing him to hold a more serious tone.
She’d decided to take the bait,and didn't want to challenge a conflict that felt impossible to her. Talking about it only made the voice in her haunting her louder, more frequent. Even with him gone.
Looking at the photos, glaring at the set with the medical examiner's paperwork of her late ex-husband as she spoke, “Yes, I’d be turning in my paperwork once drawn over. Due to circumstance, it will take some time. I’ll be sure to scan the paperwork before my testimony next week, counselor.”
Hochburg on the other end, grumbling, “Okay, lady. Did this have to be at three-in-the fucking-morning?”
Line ending in that moment. She’d placed the phone on her table.
Looking over the cause of death, detailing a drug overdose. Reporting just as much of a lie as the actions of the woman grabbing her notes of her client, spreading detestful lies amongst his well deserved progression. Tears welting her eyes from guilt.
It will stop, all of this needs to stop. She assured herself.
Every time she wrote, more she needed to assure her wrongdoing. Pushing her to do the one thing that would feed the voice in her mind with vengeful satisfaction.
–
Following week - The trial
Janet’s - 8:30 am
“Hello, how can I help yo- wow, jumpscare.”
Well, that’s a bit of an understatement.
The bag under her eyes is super apparent, gripping onto any semblance of staying conscious. Staying up the whole night drinking her life away, nearly cried her eyes out. Feeling her assurance of the patronizing voice in her head would leave, it only grew more consistent with each day this past week. She’d thought of unimaginable ways to make it stop, which then settled with drinking her sorrows.
She’d hoped that her efforts to fix her appearance would cover up her shame. Janet saw right through it, already seeing me at my lowest.
“Coffee, please. Whatever is the strongest.”
A concerned gaze hit her face, making her eyebrow contort to the middle of her forehead.
“You okay, babe? You look ill.”
Trying her best to look presentable in court, grasping onto any semblance of sanity. Wore the nicest suit she’d owned, made sure to iron it perfectly. Trying to cover up her eye bags with concealer, beating her face the best she could muster. Finally doing her hair nice, something she’d never done properly since her years of dating.
Scotty would be proud of my independence, she thought.
Scotty was her best friend, met in college. Served in the forces for some time, died a couple years ago. She learned a lot from him, especially with finding herself. Even within the lowest of the lows, he’d been there to pick me back up. Undenying loyalty, heart on his sleeve. Beautiful person, amazing friend.
Miss the bastard, bad. He’d know what to do in situations like this, she thought.
“Peachy. Like I’d won an award for the shittiest night sleep in the world.”
Having already tapped to pay, she’d moved towards the machine. The espresso machine hummed, Janet moving behind the coffee bar to prepare a latte with more shots than milk. She’d looked at her while the espresso leaked out of the portafilter.
Concern still apparent on her face, “Heard about the trial. I’d wanted to celebrate my accuracy by the accurate assumption of your client. Doesn’t feel right to say now.”
Doc let out a pathetic attempt of a laugh. Lifting only a fraction of the corner of her mouth.
Janet set the coffee on the “to go” side of the counter. Taking a quick glance at the clock on the wall to her left.
“I can take you to the courthouse. Could just tell the new hire to handle the ship for a few minutes.”
Nearly blurted out, she assured Janet, “No, it’s fine. Already called for a ride.”
Janet held her saddened expression the whole interaction. Hoping she’d get more out of her friend with the solemn look in her features.
Before she could utter another word, Doc already said her thank you and walked out of the door.
–
The trip to the courthouse was relatively straight forward. Crowded people surrounded it, with signs that shouted for Bullseye to rot in the prison he’d soon face.
I’d make sure he’d get put in there. No more sugarcoating it. She thought.
Her life never valued anything specific other than this career, she felt. She pursued a career with the intention to help others. Wanted nothing more to get them out of whatever they struggled with. Thought it would heal the broken shards of her life, maybe learn how to cope with it. She’d thought that hopefully these individuals would heal in a way she never sought for herself.
I’d never forgive myself for this. She expressed.
Maybe this was the penance that I’d deserved. A phrase repeated from another person, yet said to herself within confidence.
Walking into the court, flashes of lights danced around as courthouse security escorted her to the building. Shouting at her for specificities. Curious of her involvement, wanting to learn more about the alleged killer inside. Holding her head down, wanting this to end as soon as possible.
–
Already turned in the necessary analyses of Pointdexter. Publishing any note, evaluation, and inscribed diagnosis. All completely cascaded with false information, wrong diagnosis, corrupt evaluations, and false accusations.
She’d submitted all the paperwork to the district attorney, which had already been seen by the defense. Poindexter will know based on the evaluation that she’d betrayed him. They were both in that same room, he’ll know as soon as he hears it in the courtroom.
The memory of the touch of his fingers on her knuckles, sending a blind feeling down her stomach. Bile nearly bubbling in her throat.
Head hung low, passing through the two tables where the prosecutors and defense attorneys sat. Walking over to the witness stand, waiting for the judge to enter. It was a shock towards everyone that the judge issued a court order for an assessment. Especially not from a well known name.
Doctor Heather Glenn was a well known doctor for this sort of case. She’d been recognized by the mayor for some time now, for whatever reason unknown.
Taking refuge by the judge's stand, it was at this point where she’d thought she could actually do this. Then the prisoner entrance opened and every ounce of apparent confidence she had soon dissipated.
Poindexter stared forward, walking towards the defense attorney table.
He’ll know, you’ll finally feel an ounce of hurt I did sweetheart, the voice in her ear crept.
Sweat glistened on her face, heart thumping in her chest.
Bump boom - Bump boom
The issued judge walked into the room, almost too quiet for her mind to register. The judge walked towards her sanctioned seat. Doc’s mind was too preoccupied with her sheer dread, not even hearing her command to sit after the all rise.
“Miss.”
Bump boom - Bump boom - Bump boom
“Excuse me, miss?”
Her head shot up. Embarrassed.
“Court is in session. You may take your seat.”
Everyone’s eyes bore into her lack of clear unprofessionalism out the bat. Poindexter’s eyes never left her direction, which didn’t go unnoticed.
“Apologies, your honor.”
The judge motioned to speak, “The court calls an expert witness for an assessment of the defense. District Attorney Hocburg, you may speak to your expert witness now.”
As district attorney Hochburg motioned to the front of where she’d sat, his body language immediately exuded authority. Looking at her with a knowing stare, hoping she’d decipher their new code with a conversation held in their eyes.
Why, Poindexter? A question plaguing her mind.
Poindexter had been in places where he wasn’t supposed to be, but never within his volition. What he did to bring such distaste from the unknown man he’d never spoken about, held immense respect despite betrayal.
Wanting to get rid of him, rot in a prison cell for the rest of his life. She’d been assuming he was a loose end that had to be taken care of, in fear of retaliation.
She felt like she was a cog in a much bigger machine. Used, puppeteered into submission.
Her jaw clenched, nail infusing into her nail bed with a swift procession. Trying to hide the amount of blood soon trailing down her finger, hiding her hand under the stand’s wooden infrastructure.
Dex immediately drew to her unprecedented behavior, like she’d been an entirely different person. Someone so clearly vulnerable, like someone pulled the rug right under her. Fear encapsulating her body language, discomfort on her face.
How her face glistened with sweat, the bob of her throat, tight eyebrows pinching ever so slightly to the middle of her face. Any spectator would assume she’d been a nervous inexperienced young woman, intimidated by the court.
No, she wasn’t nervous. She’s scared, he concluded.
Glancing quickly to the side of her peripheral, she’d stolen a glance with Poindexter before speaking to the district attorney. Breath trapped in her throat, desperately trying to clear.
His face held the same semblance of vulnerability from the last meeting, masking some of it to hide from weary eyes of spectators. He knew her better to think she’d been intimidated by others, seeing how she was during the job. Something bothered her, he thought. Causing her to feel unsettled, like a deer caught in headlights.
Something he’d caught the eyes of in others many times. Assumed innocence finally forced into a corner, pleading for mercy.
With the conclusion settling his mind, that vulnerability vanished. Settling for something sinister, one that screamed utter betrayal. He didn’t care whether or not it may have been forced, it was the fact that his fear had been coming true.
He’d been set up.
Noticing the sudden tightness of his jaw, looking into her eyes with a snarl of his top lip. His eyes bored into hers with the intention of getting through to her noggin’. If it wasn’t abundantly clear of what his intentions were, they were now.
She’ll pay for this.
His eyes flickered with murderous intensity she’d never witnessed before. Her blazer soon felt too tight on my neck, like a tight wire wrapped her windpipe. The moment happened so slowly, she thought she’d kept the district attorney hanging with a question upon the evaluation.
When looking to see if Hochburg was still looking at their file for reference, the moment died before she’d even processed. Poindexter faced the judge with a knowing stare, accepting the situation he’d been in.
-
7 years prior…
Walking home after she’d finished a shift, calling Scotty had been an established routine. Living alone in the big city, hoping that she won’t make the wrong turn down a dark alley or be followed by a suspected killer.
It made her feel safe for the time being, keeping my mind off the world’s dangers.
Her feet tired from her heels, nearly making them blister. She knew it wasn’t a good idea to wear these on the first day, but she’d thought it would be a good idea for first impressions.
Talking to Scotty about life, how the first day as an intern for a well established agency. Hopefully it went as well as she thought, but it wasn’t too deep of a concern.
“Yeah, she’d called me back saying shit like “why is your location off?” I’m a grown ass man, why do I need to tell her everything?”
Scotty tends to ask her for relationship advice, besides the point that she’d never been in one. Life preoccupied with expenses, she’d rarely had the luxury of spending time on finding someone to love.
She’d wanted nothing more in the world to feel what it is to be worshipped, like recorded in history. Seems like the world wasn’t kind enough to give her such privileges.
“Well, that’s what relationships are about. Believe it or not, she actually cares about where you are and is worried about your wellbeing, Scotty.”
You hear a scoff on the other end, “Aren’t you supposed to…you know…validate me with all of my feelings, doctor?”
Heels still clicking on the pavement, her home just around the corner. She’d lived with a roommate for a bit now. The roommate had been pretty regimented with her schedule, which Doc thought would be perfect considering she was always out of the apartment. Going to the house, with a roommate that doesn’t bother too much, it’s easy to make a living out of it.
Laughing at his comment, “Not a doctor yet, dumbass. Just interning. Also, I’m your friend so I’m not gonna enable your shitty ass decisions. Call the poor girl back and apologize.”
I could just imagine him rolling his eyes behind the phone, adding a snarky comment, “Whatever you say, doctor. It’s what I pay you for. How was the date the other night, by the way?”
When she’d been in the midst of laughing at his sarcasm, almost answering his question, the scream immediately registered in her head like an electric shock. She'd walked past the alley that was always passed on the way home to her apartment. The location isn’t ideal, rent is cheap. Unfortunately, this type of environment manifests the wrong kind of people.
Scotty heard the scream on his end, asking, “What was that? Is everything good?”
She’d held her gaze down the darkened alley, anticipating whether or not it was just a stray cat in heat. Pausing for a moment, then answering Scotty’s question.
“Hopefully just a cat. So gross when they do that.”
He’d held a disgusted groan, “Eugh- fuckin’ hate those creatures.”
Walking away from the alley, hoped it was just imagination playing with her, “I wouldn’t be that brutal, they can be cute so-”
Another blood curdling scream cut the sentence in a moment. This time, it was abundantly clear that this was no cat. It was a woman’s scream, coming from that same alley she’d just passed.
Scotty picks it up once again, nearly as panicked as she was, “Nah, that ain’t no damn cat. What was that?”
Think, what would be the appropriate decision to do in this situation. Could you call the cops? Would they show up to a noise complaint, especially in the neighborhood I’d lived in? She questioned.
Gotta check this out. Maybe deescalating this situation could save someone, hopefully. She concluded.
Phone hovering her ear, finger pressing the end call button before saying, “Gonna check it out. Call you back.”
Whatever he’d said on the other end died within a moment. Didn’t register.
Heels echoing down the paved alley, its depths darkened from any street light. On the journey down this ominous looking alley, she’d stumbled amongst a pair of shadowed figures, pressed against the wall of one of the surrounding buildings.
Walking closer, she noticed that it was a woman. She looked to be the same age, considering her college sweater. The man on top of her was seen holding her throat, preventing her from screaming. Her shortened breaths echoing the alley, nearly crushing her windpipe.
Doc’s adrenaline spiking, she immediately sprung into action.
Shouting at the mysterious man, “Hey! What the hell is going on!?”
Panicked, he wouldn’t let go of the woman’s throat when turning to face her. He’d looked disheveled, like this was all some sick and twisted game to him. It brought back memories, horrendous memories she’d tried to bury deep down into her system.
His voice ominous, clearly in the wrong state of mind, “None of your concern, sweetheart. Me and this lovely lady are just having some fun. Run along now.”
Blood boiled in her skin, sick of people taking advantage of innocence. She had a new objective, get this man the hell off of this woman.
On her walk towards him, he’d thought she’d walked off to the end of the alley. Walking away like most people would. Not wanting to interfere with the risk of losing something - the one thing they can definitely lose in these situations. Their life.
Nothing left to lose, she ran towards the man with his back turned. Grabbing one of her heels, using it as a weapon to ram to the side of his head. He’d clearly been under the influence of something, since his reflexes weren’t so sharp.
He’d let go of the woman, her desperately gasping for the air that’d she’d been ripped from. The man was groaning, using his hand to check the newly established wound from the heel that was just rammed into his face.
Doc rushed over towards the woman, checking her for any subsequent injuries. It’s hard when the alley is so damn dark.
Speaking softly, she hovered her arms around her, unsure whether or not to help her up,"Hey, you okay? Can you stand?”
Looking over her shoulder, making sure the man isn’t trying to retaliate. He’d been still struggling to stand, so she turned back toward the woman.
The poor girl seemed to have caught her breath, looking up at the woman in front of her, “Yeah, I- I’m okay.”
Reaching a hand out, helping her up. That’s when she’d looked at her attacker, retreating backwards like the body in front of her was hot to touch. She’d nearly forgotten why she'd been so helpless to her attacker's motives.
Confused, Doc started becoming anxious, “What’s wrong? Does anything hurt?”
She’d looked at her, her cries suddenly shaking her voice, “He has a gun!”
Click, click.
Fuck.
Looking back at the man, noticing he was standing now. Arm reached out, pointing it at the poor girl directly. The silhouette of a pistol in hand, the man’s intentions were very clear. He’d wanted to kill her.
With the split millisecond of a reaction time, she’d been pushed out of the reach of the direct gunfire. The loud boom of the gun firing rang within ears of the alley, making whatever wild life in the vicinity run away. The sound of spattered flesh being ripped echoed in the alley, causing the woman to shriek.
Hadn’t yet registered what happened, gaining her balance. The woman who’d pushed her stood still, letting out a pained groan. Hand reaching her shoulder, hunching over from the pain. She needed to take away that gun from this man's hands, even if the agonizing pain she’d faced stunned her into paralysis.
He wasn’t going to hurt any more women, not ever. I’ll be the last, she settled.
Apologizing, expressing her grievances to her past. Her mother, to whom she’d wished to resolve their disputes.
Running towards the man, he was suddenly thrown off guard. He struggled to get the firearm straight, which bought her enough time to grab his hand, pointing the gun straight up. Another loud boom shattered the eardrums of those nearby, the woman now sitting near a nearby garbage bin. Curling into a tight ball to protect herself.
Using the only remaining heel on her left foot, using the base of the heel to ram into one of his feet. He’d shouted in agony, hunching over for a moment. The pain made his grip loosen, for a split second. She took the opportunity, clenched and never let go. Taking the gun from his hand, throwing it towards the woman to put its distance with this man.
The man, beyond furious with the sudden turn of events, his heinous actions disrupted, “God dammit!”
Suddenly, his hands were on a new victim. Panicked, she’d been only prioritizing the safety of others before herself,
“Run! Take it with you and find help!”
The man clearly didn’t like that, his prey running away with his method of slaughter. His eyes so close to the woman in his hands, he’d looked like a beast on a hunt. Mouth nearly foamed, breath reeked of alcohol. His hand now tightly wrapped around her throat, making her attempts of wailing suddenly impossible.
“You bitch! You just had to interfere didn’t you?”
Finding anything to get out of this man’s grasp, it was short-lived. The pressure of his hand on her throat only intensified, making her eyes water. His face closed into my neck, traveling to my ear. His hot breath made me want to run away, desperately needing escape.
“You’ll suffice, now that she’s gone. Will you be good, sweetheart?”
Anger bubbling in her throat, using the last remaining air in my lungs to say, “G-go to hell, asshole.”
A sudden ricochet of noises bounced around the surrounding buildings walls, metal clanking in a loud clank in front of them. The man’s grip loosened around her neck, feeling like heaven when she’d finally gotten the chance to breathe. Collapsing to the floor while hacking her lungs out, grabbing her throat.
Looking up from her previously blurred vision, she’d noticed that the man was also on the floor. Unresponsive. Looking to her right, she’d noticed another figure in the alley. A large person looked to be wearing a mask with horns on it. Red suit, with batons glued to his sides. It looked like he used one of them to knock that man out.
Served him right, she laughed to herself.
Coughing, trying to catch her breath. Leaning back against the surrounding buildings walls, head rested against it. felt her fingers suddenly difficult to move, having a consistency that was abnormal. Staring down, eyes suddenly widened.
She’d been shot on her left shoulder. Adrenaline vanished, promoting a pained cry from her mouth. Eyes tightening, pain unrelenting.
The masked figure must've noticed the lack of pressure on the wound, he’d started rushing over to her before she had the chance to look for the source of the bullet wound. Hands suddenly applied pressure to her shoulder, assessing the levels of injury. Blood stained her blouse, reaching to the left hands fingertips.
Looking at the man, suddenly getting a better look at him. She’d seen this man before, well the suit. The streets refer to him as ‘The Devil’. Masked vigilante, helping innocents from bad people.
The comfort of his voice echoed the walls, “Pretty brave for you to protect that woman all alone. Glad I’d swept in on time.”
Laughing, sweat suddenly glistening on her forehead, “Is she okay?”
The Devil turned his head to the side, looking like he’d been listening out for something. He’d suddenly stood back, retrieving his hands. Her confusion was apparent, looking at his every movement. The sound of sirens filled her ears, but not before the echoes of rushed footsteps filled the alley.
Looking at the source of the noise, two figures suddenly descended down the alley. One to be holding their phone flashlight, the other seemed to be the same woman that she’d saved. The other man seemed all too familiar, seeing that stupid face so many damn times.
“There! There she is!”
Scotty immediately knelt to her side, assessing the injuries immediately, “Jesus! Oh my god!”
Noticing all the blood coating her body, she’d have yet to see the wound. It was a gruesome sight for sure. The woman beside Scotty holds her mouth with her hands, shaking out ‘sorrys’ and cries.
Scotty started acting before anything, assessing the wound, “You fucking idiot. Why would you do that?”
Letting out a shaky breath, trying to pass as a laugh, “Sorry, sir. Won’t happen again, sir.”
Trying to salute, she’d regretted the movement with a hiss.
It seemed like The Devil left before those two showed up. There was no one else in the alley other than the three of them. Well, other than the unconscious man on the floor.
Scotty started moving her blouse to the side, so she’d thought it would be hilarious to break the emotional tension,
“Jesus Scotty, what would your girlfriend think?”
He didn’t laugh, “Not the time. And she’s not my girlfriend.”
Turning her head to the side, “So you didn’t call her like I’d asked. What kind of friend are you to ignore a friend’s dying wish?”
He’d nearly teared up at the thought, desperately moving to assess the bullet wound. He didn’t have the chance to reply, since he’d been rendered speechless. Using his phone to get a better look, she’d started to become rather irritated.
Commenting, “Yes, I got shot. I’m bleeding out, maybe apply pressure instead of assessing it like an idiot?”
Scotty looked at her eyes, absolutely baffled at the sight, “Your wound…”
Staring at her shoulder, wondering why it didn’t hurt at any point during this examination. Looking for a logical answer, it had to have been adrenaline, preparing for the sudden shock then her immediate death. That’s how it normally should go, right?
Looking to her left, eyes glued to the area a bullet wound should be in my shoulder. What she’d been met with was an absence of a puncture wound, just a hole in her blouse. Nothing to track the source of her blood all over her. To her shock and everyone else’s, she’d been perfectly fine.
Pausing, mouth opened to say something logical. Nothing came out. The only thing repeating in my mind were three words.
What-the-fuck?
__
A/N: Sorry for my inaccuracies of the court, tried my best with some google searches.
you said Jason Todd would be an annoying bf, do you have any specific thoughts on why??
im a long and diehard fan of him, I’ve read the fics, the comics, seen the movies, etc. I KNOW he’d be a difficult piece of shit but I wanna know the almighty Kat’s take on it.
NOT ME GETTING LIKE 20 MESSAGES ASKING FOR JASON THOUGHTS GUYS PLS??? I DON'T EVEN GO HERE, BUT FUCK IT, FINE.
18+ for nsfw. mdni.
JASON TODD AS YOUR BOYFRIEND HDCS—
Loving Jason Todd is not easy. It's a lifestyle adjustment at the bare minimum, and the first thing to understand is that he's not some soft golden retriever boyfriend. Never has been, never will be.
He's not Dick (charming, attentive, performative), he's not Tim (anxious, observant, analytical), he's not Damian (devoted to a fault, awkwardly sincere); he's the one who came back wrong and never fully unlearned the rage or the wrongness of that come back.
He doesn't meet people the way normal men do. No Hinge profile, no striking up conversation at a coffee shop unless he's already aware of you as a potential informant.
The way he ends up in your orbit is one of three things: you crossed paths with one of his cases (you witnessed something, you live above the wrong building, you're the cousin of some dead girl, you work at the diner three doors down from the safehouse, and he noticed you because his job is noticing things, and then he kept noticing you, and that part wasn't the job); or you're tangentially Bat-adjacent (you work at WE, you're an old friend of Babs's, you patched him up once at a free clinic and didn't ask questions), which he hates in theory and seeks out in practice; or you're a complete civilian and he's furious about how attracted to you he is, which is the funniest one (for us) and the most dangerous one for him.
For the first dozen interactions he's rude. Not really cruel or anything. Jason has a deeply skewered and fucked up moral spine despite everything but he has it. He's brusque, he's short with you, he gives you the kind of one-syllable answers that make you check whether you've offended him somehow, and you haven't, he just doesn't waste words on people he hasn't decided require air from him.
But here's the thing: he keeps showing up.
You'll see him at the bar three nights in a row, sitting where he can see the door. You'll mention offhandedly that you can't find a decent mechanic one time and a week later your car runs better than it did when you bought it and the guy at the shop says "yeah some big guy paid in cash, told me not to mention it"; you'll say in passing that the back lock on your apartment door sticks and the next time you come home it's been replaced with something that looks like it could survive a small explosion. He'll never bring any of this up, and if you bring it up, he'll go "don't know what you're talking about" with that infuriating half-smirk and change the subject completely .
This is his love language and it's unbearable, because Jason won't ask you out, he won't say anything, really. He's just slowly making your life safer and more functional and waiting to see if you notice, and every time you do notice, he gets a little more annoyed that you're getting under his skin and keep noticing.
When he finally starts engaging with you, his flirting is mean. Affectionate-mean. He'll roast your taste in music, your coffee order, your shoes, the book you're reading, the way you say a particular word. He calls you stupid pet names that are technically insults: sweetheart, princess, trouble, and the one he reserves for when he wants to see you actually flustered, baby, and he watches you very carefully to see how you respond.
If you bite back his entire face changes. He gets delighted, he'll lean in over the table and go "oh, you've got a mouth on you, huh?" and you can see him tucking this information away in real time. If you go shy he'll keep pushing, gently, until you laugh, because he's testing you, he needs to know you can handle him before he lets himself want you any more than he already does.
You will not have a defining-the-relationship conversation. He will not ask you to be his girlfriend in some sappy way. One day you'll just realise he's been at your apartment four nights in a row, there's a toothbrush in your bathroom that isn't yours, he's eating your leftovers like he pays rent, and when his phone buzzes he angles it away from you with a look that says don't ask.
And if you ask what you are to each other he'll say something like "the hell kind of question is that?", not unkindly, just like the question itself is so ridiculous he can't believe you wasted a breath on it; obviously you're his, he thought you knew, he's been acting like it, hasn't he? Keep up!
He hasn't been acting like it in any way a normal person would recognise, but to him the fact that he hasn't killed anyone over you yet is a love sonnet <3
His texting habits are a horror show: he doesn't text first, ever, until suddenly he texts you twelve times in a row at 2 a.m. (u up. u home? answer the phone. fine. ignore me. fuck. txt back when u see this) he leaves you on read constantly (he's not ignoring you, he read it, he doesn't see why a "got it" was needed), his messages are all lowercase and full of typos because he texts with one hand while doing something else (cleaning a gun, driving, running across a roof), he'll send you a single question mark in response to a long vulnerable message and then forty minutes later show up at your door with takeout and not mention it.
He saves your contact under something stupid like Trouble or Headache or Don't pick up.
He works nights, he gets shot some of those nights, and he'll absolutely disappear for 48 hours with no contact and then reappear in your kitchen at 3 a.m. bleeding from somewhere he won't show you. When you panic he'll go "Jesus, breathe, it's not even that bad" (which is the sentence equivalent of holding a grenade) and he'll not apologise for the disappearing, but he will look slightly ashamed when he realises you actually couldn't sleep.
He doesn't know what to do with the fact that you worry about him; it short-circuits him, people don't worry about Jason, Jason worries, or Jason handles it, and the role reversal, the uncomplicated care, is a wound he can't reach to scratch.
Then comes the obnoxious-about-your-attention phase, which is when he gets very annoying and very hot simultaneously, because Jason is territorial in a way that would be a red flag if he weren't so weirdly principled about it.
He'll not tell you who you can talk to, will not check your phone, he will not get jealous in the openly controlling way that signals abuser. He's not that.
But what he will do is loom (when you're at a bar and a guy is talking to you, Jason who was across the room is now somehow magically standing directly behind you with a hand on the small of your back, not saying anything, just radiating, and the guy will leave, and Jason will not comment);
Scoff (anyone shows interest in you within his sightline, he makes a noise: short, derisive, almost a laugh, like the idea is so absurd it's funny anyone is trying);
Ask too-casual questions ("who was that on the phone?" he says, not looking up from the gun he's cleaning on your coffee table (concern.) and you can hear that the casualness is performed, that he's in fact extremely invested in the answer, and he's furious with himself for caring);
Mark you in stupid little ways (steals your hair tie and wears it on his wrist, leaves his jacket at your place "by accident" four times in a row, bites the side of your neck where it'll show above your collar and is unrepentant when you complain about it).
Now: the slap-on-the-ass-then-prickly move, which is the Jason behaviour pattern that will define the first six months of dating him.
He's physically affectionate in a way that's cocky, performative, almost rude (the hand on your ass when he's walking past you in the kitchen, the fingers around the back of your neck when he's leaning over to grab his beer, the bite (he's a biter, I'm afraid, that man cannot keep his teeth to himself) at your shoulder, your jaw, your ear, the teasing physicality of pulling you back into his lap when you try to get up, holding your wrist when you reach for something, hooking his ankle around yours under the table).
All of this is easy for him, it costs him nothing because he's performing the part of "guy who is comfortable touching his girl" because it's the closest he can get to being affectionate without admitting that he wants to be.
But the second you try to flip it, try to initiate genuine closeness, try to climb into his lap when he didn't put you there, or to cup his face and look at him too long. Even say something soft like I missed you in a voice that means it, Jason goes rigid. Not for long, a second, maybe two, but you'll feel it: the full-body lock, and then he'll deflect with a joke. A kiss that's more aggressive than tender, a hand on your waist that turns you around so you're not facing him anymore.
He can't take it when you mean it. He can give and give in the language of teasing physicality, but tenderness received, sincere tenderness, the kind that means I see you and I'm not going anywhere, that's the language of the family that buried him while he was still dying, that's the language his mother used, that's Bruce's voice in the cave and Bruce's silence in the alley after.
He doesn't trust it, he doesn't know how to be on the receiving end of it without flinching, and this will be one of the hardest things about loving him.
You can't push, he's spent his whole afterlife being pushed, and you have to be willing to let him deflect six times before he takes it on the seventh, and it takes months, sometimes longer, before he can let your hand stay on the side of his face for more than a second without turning into it like he's trying to escape his own want.
The way you eventually crack it is sneakier than confrontation. You do it in transit, in passing, when he's distracted: a kiss to his shoulder while he's at the stove, fingers through the hair at the back of his neck while he's mid-sentence about something else, I love you mumbled into the crook of his arm at a moment when neither of you is looking at the other.
It has to be cheap, it has to be easy to ignore, because if you give it weight he can't hold it. Over months, he learns to take it without flinching, then to lean into it, then (eventually, miraculously) to ask for it (never with words, he will never use words for this, but he'll plant himself within reach of your hands and wait, like a stray cat learning where the food bowl lives).
He's also annoying about your safety in ways that are sometimes touching and sometimes infuriating: he has opinions about every person in your life.
He's run background checks on people you went to college with and isn't sorry, he will text you the route home (not ask, tell) take 5th not the alley tonight, he has bought you (without asking) pepper spray (good), a small folding knife (lowkey concerning), a panic button that is wired to him specifically (worrying that this exists, kinda sweet that he thought of it), and a self-defence class he'll not attend with you because "I'll just correct her form and piss her off".
He gets weirdly quiet when you mention being scared of something (not comforting, quiet, you can see him processing: who, where, when, can I get there in under fifteen if she needs me) and you have to actively redirect him before he goes and breaks someone's hands.
He'll never, ever tell you not to do something dangerous, because Jason understands the impulse to walk into things, but he'll follow you in from a respectful distance where you can't see him. Close enough that if anything happens he's the second person who knows, and this is actually one of the most loving things he does.
He doesn't try to keep you small, he just makes sure that if the world tries to swallow you, it has to go through him first.
The intimacy doesn't really start in bed, it starts in his apartment.
The first time you're allowed in there (and you have to be allowed, because Jason has safehouses you'll never see and he has the apartment, and the apartment is the closest thing he has to a self he doesn't have to hold a weapon against) and the thing that will undo you is how much care lives there: there are books everywhere, dog-eared, some stained, there's good coffee, a record player, spices in the kitchen that mean he actually cooks for himself, and the bed is made.
The bed is made. This is the detail that will catch in your throat. Jason Peter Todd, who came back from the dead, who lives with a body that's been to war, makes his bed every morning (some habit from the manor, or from before the manor, or from somewhere he won't tell you about) the corners are tucked, the pillows are arranged, and he'll be sheepish and dismissive if you notice but he'll not stop doing it.
Now, the first time. It doesn't happen in his apartment, you don't get into his apartment for months. The first time happens at yours, and it happens because the tension has been so unbearable for so long that one of you finally has to break it, and it's going to be him, and the way it happens is going to feel (at the time) like an accident, even though it absolutely is not.
He's been at your place too late, he's been finding excuses to be at your place too late, and on this particular night the excuse is your faucet, sweetheart, you said it was leaking, I can fix it, no I'm not gonna pay some guy to do it when I'm right here, and he does fix it, except then he doesn't leave.
You open a beer for him, and the two of you end up on your couch, and there's a moment (a very specific moment) where you've been laughing about something stupid and the laughter trails off and he's looking at you and you're looking at him and the whole apartment is suddenly quiet, and you can hear the fridge humming, and the click of the clock, and the way his breathing has gone shallow.
He'll break it the way he breaks everything: with a joke, with a deflection ("what," he says, low, rough, daring you, half a smirk on his face) and you're going to call his bluff, because by now you know how he works.
You're going to lean in first, and his whole face is going to do something you've never seen it do before (a flicker of oh, fuck) and then he's going to kiss you back like he has been thinking about it for a year, which is because he has been thinking about it for a year, and the kiss is not soft. It's a hungry thing. The kiss of a man who's been holding himself back from this for so long that the moment he stops holding back, there's no halfway; his hand goes to the back of your skull, immediately, fingers in your hair, and he tilts your head where he wants it, and the small noise he makes against your mouth is the first time you've ever heard him sound undone.
Jason pulls back first, and his hand is on your jaw, his thumb on your bottom lip dragging across it. He's looking at you with an expression that's somewhere between starved and pained, and he says (and you'll remember this forever, "you sure?") and the question is not a polite formality, he needs you to look him in the eye and confirm it, and when you do, when you say "yes," clearly, no hesitation, he's on you in a heartbeat.
The first time is fast, not because he doesn't have control (Jason has frightening control), but because he has too much tension in his body and he genuinely can't moderate it on the first pass.
It's also slightly clumsy in places. He knocks over your lamp (oops), he'll laugh about this later, and you'll be on the floor before you make it to the bedroom. Your shirt doesn't survive (rip). He tears the collar of it dragging it off you, mutters fuck, sorry without sounding sorry in the slightest, and goes back to your throat, and it's intense in a way that doesn't feel like sex so much as like finally, like something that's been building between you for months has finally been allowed to happen.
His hands are everywhere and they're huge. You'd noticed the size of his hands in the abstract before. The way they wrap around a coffee cup, the way they look on the steering wheel.
But the first time you feel one of them spread flat across your stomach, fingertips just barely under the waistband of your jeans, you understand the reach of him in a way you didn't before.
The sheer span, the way one of his palms covers ground. He's careful with his strength even when he's gone. In a sense, he's been careful with it his whole life because he's had to be, and the carefulness shows up as a deliberate slowness even when everything else is fast. Fingers on the inside of your thigh that take their time getting where they're going, a thumb on your hipbone that presses just hard enough to be a question
He's going to be louder than you expected, with his mouth, not his volume.
He runs commentary even the first time, which is partly nerves (Jason gets mouthy when he's anxious, you'll learn this) and partly that he genuinely can't help himself. He'll mutter against your throat ("Fuck, you have no idea how long—") and then cut himself off, because he didn't mean to say that out loud, and instead he'll bite, hard, just under your jaw, like he's trying to put the sentence back in his mouth.
He'll say "look at me, look at me, baby," not as a command but as something closer to a request, and you'll realise later that he needs you to see him for this, that he can't do it with you looking at the ceiling, that some part of him needs proof of recognition.
He'll bury his face in your shoulder when he comes and his hands will go tight on your hips; tight enough to leave marks, you'll find them in the morning, four little crescents low on each side, and the surge you feel at seeing them in the bathroom mirror will be embarrassing to think about.
He will be, for one breath, two, completely undone, and you'll feel the shudder run all the way through him.
And then almost immediately, the second it's over, the shutters come back down. Not fully, but you can feel it, the way he reassembles himself, the joke he reaches for to cover the rawness of what just happened ("so, the faucet's fixed," he'll say, voice rough,) and you'll laugh, and that will be his way of saying don't make this a thing or I will lose my nerve.
He doesn't stay over that first night. He kisses your forehead in your doorway (which is somehow more tender than anything that just happened) and he says, "I'll text you," and you know he won't, and he doesn't.
Three days will pass and you will think, oh, that was it, that was the thing, and on the fourth day he'll show up at your door at midnight with takeout and a look on his face that says I tried to stop thinking about you and it didn't work, and the second wave begins.
The early sex (the first month, maybe two) has a specific flavour to it that's worth naming: it's frequent, very intense, and it has an undercurrent of him trying to prove something, though even he doesn't know what.
He fucks you like he's daring himself to keep doing it, like every time he expects you to be different in the morning, colder, distant, regretful (or maybe he's expecting himself to be those things), and every time he's mildly stunned that you aren't, that he isn't, and he punishes himself for the relief of it by being slightly more of an asshole about everything else for a few hours after.
Physically, in this period, he's exhausting in the best way.
His stamina is genuinely a problem (he's in extraordinary physical condition, he can go for an extremely long time, he has the recovery of a man who jumps off buildings for a living), and you will, at some point in the first month, look at him afterwards while you're trying to remember how to breathe and say something like Jesus Christ, Jason, and he'll grin at you, sweaty, smug, infuriating, and say "problem?", and you will hit him with a pillow.
He'll laugh, fully, not the half-laugh he gives most of the time but something that comes from his actual chest, and you will realise, then, you're going to love him for the rest of your life and it's too late to do anything about it.
He's also a tease from the very beginning. Catastrophically so, but in the early days the teasing has a sharper edge to it. Almost competitive, like he's trying to see how far he can push you before you break. Like he needs the proof that he can take you apart in order to believe that this is real.
He'll get you right to the edge and then slow down deliberately, two fingers stilling exactly where you need them to be moving, his mouth lifting off your skin at the worst possible second, and when you complain (when you swear at him, which he loves, which you'll learn fast he loves) he'll laugh (that low, mean, delighted laugh, mouth right against your ear) and say something like "you got somewhere to be, sweetheart? we got all night", and you'll want to kill him.
He loves it when you try, it's free foreplay, and the rule he has invented entirely for his own amusement is that the more you mouth off the longer he draws it out, and he'll absolutely tell you this to your face ("you wanna keep talking? we can keep going. I got nowhere to be") while you're shaking apart underneath him, and the bastard means it, too.
He's very good with his mouth, and he knows it, and he treats it like a settled fact you don't need to discuss.
The first time he goes down on you, he does it with the same focused, watchful attention he brings to everything else. Eyes up, watching your face, two fingers wrapped around your wrist where it's gripping the sheet because he likes feeling the pulse there, and he will not be hurried, will not be talked out of taking his time, and he will absolutely look up at you afterwards with his mouth still wet and say something insufferable like "yeah, I thought so," and you will want to push him off the bed, and he'll laugh every time you try.
The shit-talking is non-negotiable from day one, he can't keep his damn mouth shut.
He runs commentary the entire time, and the commentary breaks down roughly into three modes that he flips between without warning.
The first is mean (observational, smirking, designed to make you squirm) "oh, that's what does it for you, huh?" breathed against your ear when he's noticed exactly which thing is making you fall apart,
"look at you, fuck, you're a mess for me already and I've barely touched you," "yeah? you gonna ask nice?", "that's it, that's it, sweetheart, you can do better than that, c'mon, let me hear it,"
And the meanness is never actually mean, it's delighted, you can hear the smile in it. He's having the time of his fucking life winding you up and he wants you to know it.
The second mode is filthy, full stop. Jason at midnight with his hand between your thighs is saying things like "fuck, you're so wet, you're soaking through my fucking jeans, baby, you been thinking about this all day or what?"
Running narration of what his hands are doing right now ("that's it, just like that, you feel that? right there?"), running narration of what his hands are about to do ("gonna take my time with you tonight, gonna make you beg for it, you know that, right?"), running narration of what he's planning to do once he's recovered ("give me ten minutes, sweetheart, ten minutes and I'm gonna have you on your knees, gonna fuck your mouth till you cry, you want that?"),
and (most catastrophically) running narration of what he was thinking about doing earlier, when you were just standing in his kitchen in his t-shirt making coffee and didn't know he was watching: "you have any idea what you looked like in my kitchen this morning? in my fucking shirt with nothing under it? I had to leave the room, sweetheart, I had to go take a cold shower like a goddamn teenager, I was gonna fuck you on the counter, I was thinking about it the whole time you were talking to me about your friend, you didn't even notice—"
He likes hearing himself called things, sometimes. Likes the specific small power of Jay, please, Jason, fuck, please please please. And he'll work for it, he'll deliberately drag it out of you, "what do you need, baby, you gotta tell me, I can't read your mind," knowing perfectly well he can, in fact, read your mind, knowing exactly what he's doing.
The third mode is the one he doesn't mean to do, and it slips out anyway, usually when he's lost focus and his guard drops for half a second. Almost devastatingly tender things that he covers within two seconds because he didn't mean to say them out loud, "god, you're so fucking pretty like this," and then, immediately, recovering, "yeah, you like that, huh, you like when I say nice things to you?" with a smirk back in place, like the first half of the sentence didn't happen;
Or "shit, sweetheart, look at you, look at—fuck, c'mere" and then he kisses you hard enough to shut himself up;
Or, the worst one, the one he'll pretend for years he never said, said quietly into the curve of your shoulder when he thought you were too far gone to hear him: "I don't know what to do with you, I don't know what to fucking do with you,", and he panics about it the second he hears himself.
Because I don't know what to do with you is dangerously close to a confession he isn't ready to make, and so he bites your shoulder hard enough to leave a mark and follows it up with "you got such a pretty mouth, you gonna put it to use or what?" before the pause can land.
He calls you everything (sweetheart, baby, princess, good girl, brat), and in the early days these are all you get.
He uses your name only when he's serious, when he's looking at you and he means it, and you will learn to clock the difference: the pet names mean I'm having fun, your name means I love you and I'm not going to say it yet, and you will notice (months in, looking back) that for the first stretch of your relationship, he never said your name in bed, not once.
The night he finally does (really says it, low and ragged, looking at you, fuck, followed by ragged exhale of your name breathed against your temple, is the night you'll know something has changed in him that you don't have words for yet.
Jason, almost as a rule, likes when you talk back. He likes it when you mouth off. The single fastest way to get him to lose his composure is to be a smartass while he's trying to wreck you.
He'll go "oh, you've got jokes," and then he'll prove a point, and the dynamic this creates is one of the most addictive things about being with him: you can spar with him, in bed, all the way through, he will not shatter, will not get hurt feelings, he will meet you every time, and the back-and-forth is genuinely funny in a way that almost nothing else in your life is.
Sex with Jason is, weirdly, often fun, in a way you didn't know it could be. You laugh, sometimes, mid-thing, and he laughs too, his forehead dropped against your shoulder, his whole body shaking with it for a second, and it doesn't break the heat, it deepens it, because it's involuntary, it's unguarded, and he gives it to you anyway.
Jason has a body that has been through something. He has scars he doesn't talk about, he has somewhere in him a permanent tension (a vigilance) that doesn't fully go away, ever.
In bed that tension goes somewhere; he fucks like he's trying to outrun something, and there's a quality to it (especially in the early months) of too much, too hard, too fast, like he's trying to drown out a noise in his head with the sound of you. And it's incredibly hot but it's also, sometimes, a flag.
For the first stretch he refuses to be seen during sex, in a particular way that takes you a while to clock: he prefers positions where he's behind you or above you, where you can't easily reach his face, where his expression is something you have to work to read.
He keeps his shirt on more than you'd expect for the first month or two. A faded grey henley, usually, that he won't take off, even in your bed at 2 a.m., even with his hand down your pants, and you'll learn not to push it.
He avoids long eye contact; and if you reach up to cup his jaw mid-fuck he'll catch your wrist and pin it, gently, smoothly, like he's playing, but he's not playing. It's redirecting, and you'll eventually understand that he can't let you look at him like that yet because if you do, he'll feel it, and feeling it is what he came to bed to not do.
Jason's body is a map of the life he's lived, and you'll learn it in pieces. Slowly, over months, because he doesn't sit you down and explain it. You have to find each one and decide whether to ask.
It's worth saying clearly that his scars aren't pretty. They're the body of a man who's been beaten, shot, burned and stitched up by his own hands more times than is reasonable.
There's the long, ropy line down his left forearm from a knife in Hong Kong (he'll tell you that one, eventually, a clean story he can shrug off); there are the round puckered scars of bullet wounds in his shoulder, his thigh, low on his right side where it nearly took a kidney (these are boring to him, he genuinely thinks they're uninteresting, "occupational hazard, sweetheart"); there's a long pale stripe across his ribs from something he won't name, and a smaller jagged one at the corner of his eyebrow you'd noticed before you ever saw the rest of him.
There are the ones that don't have stories he wants to tell. The scars on his back that don't match anything ordinary, a clustered constellation of marks across his shoulder blades and lower spine that you won't ask about and that he will not explain, ever. The pattern of which you will eventually stop being able to unsee, and there is, at the back of his neck, just below the hairline, a thin curved scar he touches absently when he's thinking and will never tell you the origin of.
The crowbar is not a single scar, it's a map. A knot of healed, raised tissue along his ribs where one strike landed wrong, a notch missing from the side of one knee, a hairline kink in the bridge of his nose that you can feel when you kiss him, and a small permanent deviation in the way he holds his left wrist that you'll notice when he's gripping a glass. None of which he names for you, and none of which you ask about, because some part of you already knows, and he can tell that you know, and that knowledge is part of why he can let you near it at all.
The rule, for all of it, is you don't flinch.
The first time he lets you really look at him in full light (really look, not the half-dark of your bedroom but the morning sun coming in over the bed) he's watching you like he's waiting for you to recoil, holding too still, and what you do in that moment will determine what he can be with you for the rest of your life.
And the right move is to look, to actually look, not perform unbotheredness, not avoid; trace something, if he'll let you, with one finger, pick the smallest scar, the one at his eyebrow maybe.
Something he doesn't have feelings about, and start there slowly, and don't say anything stupid, don't say anything at all if you can help it, just look at him after like yeah, and?, because that's what he needs: not for it to be invisible, but for it to be uninteresting as a verdict on whether you want him.
After that morning, eventually, he stops keeping the shirt on.
Eventually he stops flinching when you touch the rougher places mid-sex. Eventually (months later, maybe a year) he'll let you press your mouth to the worst of them, deliberately, while you're on top of him. Your lips against the knot of healed tissue along his ribs, and his breath will catch and his hand will close hard around your wrist but he'll not stop you, and that (that, more than the first I love you, more than any of the words) is the moment you'll understand he has decided to stay.
When he's having a bad night (when something happened on patrol, or someone said the wrong name, or it's an anniversary of something he won't tell you about) he'll want you in a way that is almost desperate.
He won't say it, he'll just show up at your door at midnight with a bruise on his jaw and his hands already on you, your back hitting the door before it's fully closed. His mouth at your throat hot and wordless in a way it usually isn't, and the first time you realise he's doing this (that he's using you, sweetly and gently and not in a bad way, as anchor) you'll have to make a choice: you can either let him have it, no questions asked, every time, and let him use sex to skip past the feeling, or you can occasionally slow him down.
Catch his face in your hands, say his name, make him look at you, make him be present in his own body with you, instead of running through it.
He'll hate this but he'll need it, both, equally, and the very first time you do it (the first time you stop him, hand on his jaw, Jay, hey, look at me) he'll go completely still for a beat too long, like a circuit shorting.
His body braced against yours, his breathing ragged, and you'll see an emotion go through his eyes that you don't have a name for, and then he'll press his forehead to yours and exhale, hard, like he didn't know he was holding it, his nose against yours, his whole frame trembling with the effort of not running.
That exhale is one of the most intimate things he'll ever give you, and if you handle it right (don't say anything, don't make it a moment, just stay, just stay) he will, slowly, come back to his body with you in it, and the sex that follows that pause will be different. Slower, quieter, his hands less grabbing and more holding, his mouth against your shoulder more like a kiss than a bite, and afterwards he'll not joke, just lie on top of you with his face hidden and breathe.
That moment is the hinge of your sexual relationship. Before that night and after that night are different countries. Because once he's done it once, once he's let himself be slowed down, there's now a possibility in the room that wasn't there before. From that point forward the sex begins, very slowly, to deepen: still mouthy, still teasing, still possessive as hell, but with windows in it now, moments where he lets the noise drop out and just lets himself be there with you.
Around the three or four month mark you'll notice him starting to do small things differently: he'll keep the lights on instead of always reaching for the switch; he'll let you push him onto his back instead of always being above you; he'll let you take a turn driving the pace, which in the early days he wouldn't, he had to be running it (because if he was running it then he could control how close you got to him), and the first time he just lies there and lets you set the rhythm and watches you, eyes half-lidded, his hands loose at his sides instead of on you, a little stunned at the quiet of it.
Then his hands do come up, slowly, to settle on your thighs, not gripping, not directing, just resting there, his thumbs stroking idle patterns against your skin. You'll realise, then, that this is a gift, because he's not a man who gives up control easily, and what he's doing is showing you that he doesn't need to be the one with his foot on the gas to feel safe in this room with you anymore.
You'll also notice (and this is the one that hits haard) that he stops looking away: in the early months his eyes were always somewhere else (your throat, your mouth, the line of your collarbone, anywhere but your eyes), and one night, somewhere mid thrust, you look up and he's looking at you. Full-on, unblinking, eyes dark, expression open in a way you've literally never seen on his face before.
Jason doesn't break it, and the quality of the sex changes in the next ten seconds because he isn't running anymore, he's just here, and he stays here, and afterwards he doesn't joke. He just lies on top of you with his face in the curve of your neck and breathes for a long time.
That's the night you understand that he is in this, not just with you but in it, and you don't say anything about it because you know better, but you remember it for the rest of your life.
By six months in, he's started giving you the slow nights, the ones where he fucks you like he's trying to savour you. He'll go slow, keep his forehead against yours, say your name, your real name, in a voice he doesn't use anywhere else.
He'll move like he has nowhere else to be and nothing else to do, and his eyes will be on yours the entire time; on these nights his hands are different too, more reverent, less hungry. One cradling the back of your head, the other splayed flat on your back, holding you against him, and he kisses you between every other thrust he does, constantly, like he can't stop coming back to your mouth.
The rhythm itself is different, deep and unhurried, like he's trying to make it last, and you'll feel (for once) that you have his whole attention, not the part of him that's always halfway watching the door.
These nights are still rare, still precious, still earned, but they exist now, they're in the repertoire, and that's a thing that did not exist in month one.
The kissing on those nights is different too, and over time it becomes the way you can tell what kind of night it is going to be.
Jason normally kisses like the kissing is a fight he intends to win. With teeth, with intent, a hand at the back of your skull holding you exactly where he wants you. Deep, hot and a little punishing.
But on these nights he kisses you like he's apologising for something, slow, full and quiet, mouth soft, tongue languid, slipping deep, his hand on your jaw instead of gripping your hair.
He'll come back to your mouth between everything else like a bookmark, like he's checking you're still there, and the first time he kisses you like that you'll feel a shift in your chest, and after enough of those nights you'll learn to read it from the first kiss of the evening: oh, it's that kind of night, and you'll know, and he'll know that you know. Neither of you will say a word about it.
He has a thing (and you'll notice it over time, a thing that gets more pronounced as he gets deeper into his feelings) about your hands.
Jason likes them in his hair (and his hair, you'll discover, is soft, a fact that always weirdly disarms you given the rest of him, and he has a small tell that he likes having it pulled, just slightly, just at the back, and the first time you do it without thinking you get a sound out of him that he has clearly not meant to make).
On the back of his neck where the muscle is always tight, on his face if you've earned it, and he'll bring your hand to his mouth at strange unguarded moments and press his lips to your knuckles like a reflex, and he'll absolutely not acknowledge that he does this.
If you tease him about it he'll get pink at the back of his neck and tell you to shut up.
He also has a thing about your throat. Not in a violent way, in a possessive way. The flat of his hand resting there, his thumb at your pulse, like he's checking you're right there where he needs you, real and solid,a nd his. And he has, devastatingly, a thing about being held.
Actually held, after, with your arms around his ribs and your face in the curve of his throat, and he'll never, ever ask for this, but if you do it he'll not move for a long time.
And as Jason gets deeper into it, the things he wants change: in the early days he wanted you under him, fast, now; later he starts wanting things he doesn't have a way to ask for. Wanting you to stay over even when nothing is going to happen, wanting to be the little spoon (which he can't request and you have to figure out by trial and error, because one night you'll do it almost as a joke, fitting yourself behind him, and he will go extremely still in a way that you'll learn means yes don't make me say it, and then he will reach back and pull your arm tighter around his ribs without a word).
Wanting your hands on him in non-sexual ways during sex (your fingers in his hair, your palm flat on his chest over his heart, the small of his back, the back of his neck, you lips at his jaw, the corner of his mouth), wanting foreplay that's genuinely about touching him, not just escalation.
Wanting, in short, all the things he couldn't bear to want in month one, because back then wanting them meant admitting that he needed them.
In the early days the sex is frequent because the itch is mutual and unscratchable. He wants you, you want him, the chemistry is loud, and the hunger is mostly physical, mostly now, mostly the kind of want that has a clear destination and a satisfied stillness on the other side of it.
He texts you at midnight because he can't stop thinking about your mouth, you go over because you can't stop thinking about his hands, you fuck because the tension is unbearable and the release is the point. Afterwards he leaves or you doze and the want, briefly, quiets. That's month one. That's month two. The math of it is simple: stimulus, response, relief, reset.
But somewhere around the four or five month mark (somewhere after the hinge night, somewhere after the windows started opening) the math stops working.
He'll have you, fuck you properly, completely, and an hour later he'll still want you, more than he wanted you before, in a way that doesn't make sense by the old rules. He'll be lying with his head on your stomach, fully spent, your hand in his hair, and you'll feel him press his mouth against your skin like he's checking, like he's making sure you're still there, and then he'll roll up onto an elbow and look at you and you'll see it in his face.
Not finished, not in a sex way, in some other way, a way he doesn't have language for. And he'll kiss you again, slow this time, and you'll realise the wanting hasn't gone anywhere, it's just changed shape.
What it becomes (and this is the part he couldn't have explained to you on the night you met him, the part he can barely admit to himself even now) is anchoring.
Sex with you stops being an itch he scratches and starts being a place he goes to feel alive. Jason came back from being dead, and most of his life since has been spent at a slight remove from his own body, vigilant, watchful, half a step outside himself in case he needs to move; with you, in your bed, his face pressed against yours, your hands on his back, your breath on his throat, he is (for the duration) in his body, in the moment, here, and he can feel his heart going, and he can feel yours, and the proof that he's still alive is so loud it drowns out everything else.
That quiet, that presence, is something he can't get anywhere else and has stopped trying to find anywhere else.
So the appetite changes shape. He still wants you fast and rough (that mode never goes away, that's just in him) but a lot of the wanting becomes about closeness, about contact. Feeling you pressed against him in real time.
He wants long unhurried hours where neither of you has anywhere to be. He wants the lights on so he can see you. You on top of him with his hands on your hips so he can feel you moving, breathing, being there. He wants to fall asleep with his face against the back of your neck because the rhythm of your breathing is the only lullaby that ever worked. He wants (and this is the one that costs him the most to want) to be held while it's happening.
Your arms around his ribs, your mouth at his temple, your whole body wrapped around him while he moves inside you, and he will never ask for this, but if you do it, if you wrap your legs around his waist and pull him down against you and hold him tight, his whole frame will settle in a way you've never felt from him before, and the sound he makes will be something between a groan and an exhale and a quiet, broken fuck, and you will know.
You'll catch him, sometimes, in the middle of it (eyes closed, forehead against yours, his rhythm slowed almost to nothing, just staying there inside you, breathing, his hand splayed flat on your sternum over your heart) and he'll not be moving toward an end. He'll not be building toward anything. Just be with you, in his body, breathing in time with you, and you will understand that he isn't trying to come, he's trying to stay, he's trying to make the present moment last because in the present moment he is alive and you're alive and the both of you are warm, breathing and the world has not ended yet.
And the tell (the one that gives him away, the one you'll learn to read) is what Jason says at the end. In the early days, after, when he could still pretend, he'd give you the smirk and the joke: "yeah, that'll do, sweetheart," a kiss to your forehead, a stretch, a deflection.
Later, after the wanting changes, he stops saying anything at all for a long minute, and then what comes out (quiet, half-mumbled, into your hair, like he's not sure he means to let you hear it) is some version of "don't move, just—don't move yet," or "stay there, stay right there," or simply "god, I needed that," and he's not talking about the sex, not really, he's talking about you, about the warmth of you, about the proof of you, about the fact that he's here and you're here and for one more night he gets to stay.
He also gets quieter over time in general, which you will find a little shocking. Jason is mouthy, Jason is a shit-talker, Jason will happily narrate the apocalypse if he could.
But as he gets deeper into his feelings there are stretches in bed when he just goes silent, and the silence isn't absence, it's the opposite. It's him being so present he can't quite manage the words.
The first time it happens you'll wonder if something is wrong, and it's not, it's the most right something has ever been. You'll feel his breath ragged against your shoulder, his hand fisted in the sheet next to your head instead of running its mouth, his rhythm slowed almost to nothing.
The first time he comes quietly (without the muttered curse, without the bitten-off line of dirty talk, just a long shuddering exhale against your throat and your name, once, not loud) you'll know that something has migrated in him, that this is the version of him that didn't exist three months ago, and you will stroke the back of his neck and not say a word about it.
The vulnerable conversations happen at 3 a.m., in the dark, when neither of you is looking at the other, because he can't do them face to face. He needs the cover. He'll tell you things in bed, after sex, in the warm aftermath when his guard is down. About Ethiopia, about Sheila, about waking up in the dirt, about the year he can't really remember.
He'll tell it flatly, quietly, and wait for you to react, and don't react big: don't gasp, don't well up, don't reach for him too fast, he's testing whether you can hold it without dropping it. The way to win is to listen, to ask a quiet question, to not try to fix anything, to let him say the thing and then let it just exist in the air without you needing to clean it up or soften it.
If you do that, he'll tell you more, slowly, over months and months. The story of him will arrive in fragments and you will assemble it like a mosaic, and he'll never once say "thank you for listening", but the way he kisses your forehead before he leaves will mean it. You'll eventually realise that the sum total of what he's told you is more than he's ever told another living person, and you'll understand that this is what he has instead of words for love.
He will also, occasionally, ask about you (quietly, in roundabout ways, in the dark) and the rule there is the inverse: he wants the real answer, not the cleaned-up one, because he can smell a lie at fifty paces and the fastest way to lose his trust is to give him the version of yourself you give to people you don't know yet.
Jason doesn't want to be one of those people, even though he hasn't earned the right to ask not to be, and what he's doing when he asks you a question at 3 a.m. is asking let me in to the room I haven't earned yet, and the answer is supposed to be yes, but the yes has to come in the same coin he's paying in: quiet, unfussy, no big deal, while neither of you is looking at the other.
He doesn't say he loves you for a long time.
The first time will be by accident, muttered into your hair when he thinks you're asleep, and you have to pretend you didn't hear it because if he knows you heard it he'll panic and undo it.
The second time will be in a fight, yelling, angry: "Because I fucking love you, you idiot, that's why!" and then a horrible silence, then him walking out, then him coming back four hours later with takeout and not bringing it up.
By the time he can say it sober, calmly, looking at you, it will have been a year, maybe more. When he does it will undo you, because he will say it like it's been on his tongue the whole time and he's just finally letting it through, and his voice will be a little rough, and he'll not break eye contact, and the way he says your name after will be the kindest sound he has ever made.
And the first time he says it in bed (which is later, much later, because for him these are different rooms) the first time he says it mid-fuck, breathed against your throat, ragged and ungoverned, I love you, fuck, I love you, you'll know that the wall has come down all the way.
That this is the version of him no one has ever gotten to see, and what you do in the next thirty seconds will become the foundation of the rest of your life with him, and what you do is: you don't make it weird, you don't make him repeat it, you don't perform astonishment, you just say it back, simple and sure, and you let him hear it, and you let him have it, and you let him know that the room he just opened a door into is one he is allowed to live in.
Aftercare, which he would rather die than call aftercare but which he does, every time: he gets you water (always water, the man is on a mission), he cleans you up (his hands are surprisingly gentle for someone who breaks ribs for a living, there's a particular thing he does where he runs a warm cloth over your stomach, your thighs, with the same focused patience he uses for cleaning a wound, and you'll never quite get used to how careful his hands can be when he wants them to be).
He'll check casually like it's nothing whether anything hurts, and if it does he'll be quiet about it but he'll be careful with you for the rest of the night; he'll get you food if it's that kind of hour, he'll let you wear his shirt.
He likes you in his shirt, and he doesn't have the language for why, but there's a softness in his face the first time he sees you in one of his too-big henleys that you will think about for years, and if you fall asleep on him Jason will not move. He'll lie there dead-still for hours even if his arm goes numb, because he doesn't want to wake you, and this is the most romantic thing he's capable of and he does it constantly.
The aftercare also evolves: in the early days it was efficient, almost practical (water, check-in, joke, distance), and over time it becomes longer, more lingering.
He stays in the bed instead of getting up, he traces shapes on your back with one finger while you doze, he'll talk to you about nothing, real nothing, the stupid shit. What he ate that day, something a kid said in a bodega, the dog he wants you both to maybe think about getting (a sentence which makes him visibly regret saying it the second it's out of his mouth), and these post-sex small-talk hours become, by month eight or nine, one of the most important parts of your relationship.
Because this is when he's most himself, the least armoured, and also the funniest, and you'll find yourself looking forward to them in a way that has nothing to do with the sex and everything to do with the man underneath the noise.
On the nights when he needs aftercare (and there are nights) he won't ask, but you'll be able to tell: he'll be quieter than usual, his hands will linger longer than usual, he won't joke as fast as he normally does, and the way to handle it is the same way you handle his trauma stories: don't make it a thing, don't ask if he's okay (he'll lie), just stay close, bring him water, run your fingers through his hair while he's lying with his head on your stomach pretending to be asleep.
When he eventually says something (usually a half-sentence, half-mumbled, bad day, or just don't go yet) you say okay and you don't go, and that's how he learns, slowly, that there's somewhere on this earth where he's allowed to need things, and that the somewhere is you.
Jason doesn't sleep well. This is the single most important thing to know about being in his bed.
He doesn't fall asleep easily, and when he does he doesn't stay under, he's a light sleeper because if he wasn't he'd be dead again. He has nightmares all the time (about the warehouse, about the crowbar, about his mother, about the Pit, about Bruce's face, always the face), he wakes up with his hand already moving toward where his gun isn't.
Early on this means he doesn't sleep over: he'll fuck you and leave, or he'll wait until you're under and slip out the window, and he'll feed you a line about "shit to do" and you both know it isn't true.
When he finally starts staying (and it'll take time, and you'll want to mark the date) there are rules nobody told you about that you'll learn by trial and error: he sleeps on the side closest to the door, always, don't argue.
He keeps something within reach (a knife under the mattress, a gun in the drawer), he won't apologise, you'll get used to it or you won't.
Don't wake him by touching him. Say his name first, say it twice, thrice. He has exactly once grabbed your wrist hard enough to bruise it because you reached for him at the wrong moment, and the look on his face when he registered what he'd done was the closest you've ever seen him come to regret. He didn't sleep over again for two weeks after that, and the thing that finally fixed it was you showing up at his apartment with your wrist healed and saying nothing about it, just climbing into his bed like nothing had happened, because he needed to learn that you weren't going to keep score, and you needed him to learn it on his own.
He runs hot (stupid hot) he's a furnace and he steals all the blankets and he doesn't care, and if he stays the whole night you'll wake up tangled around him.
Because he's a clinger when he's actually under, he'd just rather die than admit this, and you can feel his face against the back of your neck and his arm heavy across your waist and his breathing slow and steady, and it's the only time you ever see him truly soft, and it's gone by the time he wakes up.
The morning after the first time he stays the whole night, he'll be weird about it. Quiet, gruff, making coffee with his back to you. You'll think you did something wrong, but you didn't; he's just rattled, because he slept, actually slept, and he didn't wake up swinging, and somewhere in the part of his brain that doesn't talk to the rest of him there's now knowledge that says safe here, and he doesn't know what to do with that, so he is, as always, an asshole about it for a few hours until he settles.
The big picture, the actual truth of dating Jason Todd is this: he will never be easy.
He'll never be the boyfriend who texts back in under ten minutes, who shows up on time, who tells you he loves you in the morning over coffee. He's been broken and reassembled and broken again, and the seams show. He's dangerous and grey in a way that means sometimes you'll not love what he does. He kills people (he has rules about it, but he does), he keeps things from you, he disappears, he's occasionally an asshole.
But he's also the man who, when you're sick, will sit on the edge of your bed for six hours and not check his phone once. He's the man who memorises your coffee order the first time and never gets it wrong.
He's the man who, when you tell him about a thing that happened to you when you were younger (a thing you've never told anyone, a thing that still wakes you up sometimes) will sit with you in the dark and not say anything at all. Because he understands that some things can't be fixed and he won't insult you by pretending they can.
He'll just stay, all night, without moving, and he is, against everything that was done to him, a person who chose to love you, knowing what love costs, knowing what it does when it goes wrong, knowing how it ends sometimes in a warehouse in Ethiopia with a crowbar and no one coming, and he chose anyway, and he keeps choosing, and that is not nothing—that is, for Jason Peter Todd, everything.
He is the worst and you will love him forever, godspeed.
you can’t seem to let your boyfriend leave for “work”
warnings?: kissing, licking, flirting dude idk, ddba dex, mask kink? promise of tying up dex when he comes back, doe cutie patootie spoiled reader lowk.
“baby i gotta go” said dex, his voice came out raspy and muffled through the material of his mask.
you can hear the smile as he speaks, and you smile against his lips. “couple more minutes” you whispered.
your lips parted and felt around for his own beneath his mask. his warm breathe was still able to pass through and blew across your lips.
again and again till your heart was content, you kissed him on his lips. your soft gaze made contact with the lethal stare of his dark hazel eyes through the opening of his mask.
in real time you watched as his gaze softened looking at your content expression.
his gloved hands came up to massage at your hips. the smooth silk beneath his fingers felt like a second home.
why did you have to wear such pretty things when he had to be away from you.
you left multiple wet kisses on his lips, leaving a dark wet patch where his lips would’ve been.
you liked the roughness against your lips and tongue, it left a burn that felt good.
dex was putty beneath you, he let you have him however you wished.
did he want to remove his mask and kiss you for real? yes of fucking course. but he would wait for you to initiate that.
he felt your soft hands knead in his muscled chest, as you got deeper into the kisses.
shamelessly you grinded against his thigh as you practicaly made out with him.
out of no where, you ripped dex’s mask off.
you met with his messy hair and lazy smirk. he rubbed his hand over your jaw and let you lean on him, connecting lips again.
this time dex tried to take more control as he moved your face so your lips fit his perfectly.
he dwelled his tongue into your mouth, massaging yours.
your eyebrows furrowed in pleasure as you cried out a moan. he smiled against your lips, and you felt his teeth against your lips.
“dex please” you cried against his chin.
dex let out a deep guttural moan at your begging.
“oh baby i w- wish i could but i- cant” he tried to blurt out as you grazed your teeth across his cheeks and chin.
defeated, you rested your head against the side of his neck. he tapped your thigh, a signal to slide off his lap. you pouted next to him on the couch, all that kissing had you a wet mess in your pretty panties.
dex could almost smell the arousal off of you, “how about…when i come back, we can do that thing you like.” he smiled running his hands through your hair.
your eyes lit up at his suggestion, “i get to tie you up!” you grinned.
he nodded, putting his mask back on. “what ever my baby wants.”
next evening he woke up with rope burns around his wrists.
⋆ 𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒 ; You decide to treat Bullseye to breakfast.
⋆ tags/warnings. Benjamin Poindexter x female!reader. SLOW BURN!!! Not sure how many chapters this will be yet (but likely a LOT)! LOTS OF PLOT SET-UP!! AGE GAP ROMANCE! LOTS OF EVENTUAL ANGST, FLUFF, AND SMUT! Reader's powers are weird. Warnings for mild body horror. Reader is an ex-avenger, originally an experiment by HYDRA, and naturally has intense trauma (and regenerative/healing powers through her blood! think deadpool just quieter and more depressing). Set during/after the AVTF manhunt for Matt and Dex. Writing this kind of artistically and as character studies for everyone. Dex and reader are doomed soulmates, she becomes his northern star. Basically two characters who do NOT want to be saved consistently being saved by each other...until they learn to live for each other. Eventual smut in later chapters. More about reader is revealed as the story goes on. I'm taking canon out back and beating it with a stick until it stops twitching. You can find this fic on Ao3 as well @/cupid360!
⋆ tag list. @xreader1989 @tvdumarvelhpsimp @xjyuto @gojoswhkre @not-the-teen-witch @cpuffz @memeorydotcom @kkkkisworld @astrozonaut @itsneversirius @urm0msoldcar @andi-o-geyser @vvitchesh3x @starlitflora @mewmew222 @redpool @njutul @skollinghunter @triciawritesstuff @noble-17 @spderless @cricketmeow @ancientbeing10 @sprinkles260 @lillycore @eternallovers65 @cicikinby @montagoves @yyiikes @benspoindexter @that1weirdweebgirl @she-elfworld @celleryxo @mistalli @badbishsblog @bitch-spaghetti-o (let me know if you'd like to be added 💛)
⋆ chapter directory. previous chapter / next chapter
♫ “I'm a winner, I'm a sinner / Do you want my autograph?” Breakfast In America by Supertramp
Poindexter is practically whistling in the corner of your bed. Almost like a cartoon character, you'd never guess this man would've been responsible for the murder of Vanessa Marianna Fisk. But, you suppose, stranger things have happened. Like super soldiers and aliens and the very blood in your veins.
He's twiddling his thumbs. You're grateful the man has seemingly given up on trying to rip the restraints around his wrists in half. You're positive that one more tug to the thin, cheap material that is your HomeGoods bedsheets would've resulted in the man freeing himself.
Every so often, you swipe a look at him over your shoulder. He looks pretty...content. Bored, even. Picking at his nails as he studies your room.
You put on a brave face and decide to focus on the task at hand- which at the moment, is frying an egg and buttering some toast. Probably should've asked him how he takes his eggs, lest he decides he's too good for sunny-side up and launches a frying pan at your head. You cringe at the thought. Ouch.
The sunlight is coming through the blinds, highlighting all of the dried and sticky blood to your clothing and his skin. Whole apartment looks like a murder scene, but hey, you guess it could be worse. At least there isn't an actual body.
Looking back over your shoulder, you catch him already looking back, expression unreadable. You quickly turn back around to this cursed egg that is taking much, much longer to cook than normal.
"That for me?" His voice cuts in without warning. You wince while you nod, turning your back to him so he can't see the pallor of your face. He knows who you are. You turn the spatula anxiously in your hand.
"...Your pan is too hot."
What.
"What?" You almost scoff, offended. You can cook a damn egg. You...you think. At least. The more you actually do think though, you realize there wasn't much room for eggs between H.Y.D.R.A torture chambers and saving the goddamn world. You feel your eye twitch, and his must twitch too, because his voice tightens at your disorganized approach to frying.
"The butter’s browning too fast." He tilts his head. "Egg'll crisp on the bottom before the yolk sets."
Oh, go fuck yourself. You don't say that though, because he's probably right, and your first ever hostage is giving you culinary tips.
"Is...are you joking?" You say, shaking your head, but he doesn't seem to take the social que to quiet down.
"I'm helping." He nods, smiling. The words are spoken more to himself, like he's proud. Leaning back, a crooked and pleased grin on his face. He rests and lounges into the bloodied sheet like a smug cat. "I’ve been told I should try to be more personable."
"Who told you that?"
"My therapist."
"Something tells me that didn't work out."
You don’t notice the way his jaw tightens at that. It’s quick, gone almost as soon as it appears, but something in the air shifts anyway. Subtly. Like a wire pulled just a little too taut.
The egg sizzles and you decide to begrudingly lower the heat.
"…There," he murmurs, watching the pan like it personally concerns him. "Better." Like suddenly everything wrong in the world has been corrected. He closes his eyes in pure satisfaction at the click click click of the burner knobs.
"Right. Cool. Awesome." You mumble under your breath. "You're lucky I'm even feeding you."
"That remains to be seen."
You pause.
"…You think I’d poison you?"
"I think," he says carefully, eyes flicking over the spatula in your hand, the pan, the distance between you, "you and Murdock are still deciding what you're going to do with me."
You clear your throat. "You don't really seem that...worried at the prospect of dying, Mr. Poindexter."
Mr. Poindexter? What is he, a teacher? He's a criminal. You should be calling him...an...an asshole! Yeah. You got this, Angel! WWDD. What would Daredevil do?
Leave you alone with a mass murder, apparently.
He cracks an eye open at the title, but makes no move to comment. But you see his lip curl with confusion at the polite, formal treatment.
"Go ahead. Doesn't matter what happens to me now. It's just an equation." He seems entirely more aloof and unconcerned at the idea of death-by-egg than he is at having it be cooked incorrectly.
The egg hisses in the pan as you slide it onto toast, more force than necessary. You turn off the heat and grab the plate, but you don’t move closer right away.
You step toward the bed.
“Okay, A-asshole!” you say again, stuttering, and momentarily curse yourself. Did your voice just crack? "Here’s your equation!"
You throw the plate down at his feet, and it slides pretty pathetically on the edge of the bed.
Oh yeah. That's badass. Total aura farm. In your defense, you were never in The Avengers for your offence skills. Steve would've never let you get ten feet in the radius of an actual fight. Your particular skillset was much more beneficial off battlefield.
His eyebrows knit together as he looks from the plate back to you. Clearing your throat at his clearly bewildered and confused expression, you take the plate and re-place it in your lap.
He waits expectantly for his restraints to be undone, to which you look at him like he's gone crazy.
Then he looks at you like you've gone crazy as you cut a piece, stabbing it with your fork and holding it out to him.
"…You’re not untying me," he says.
You blink. "Why would I do that?"
A pause. His eyes flick down to the plate in your lap, then back up to your face.
"So I can eat."
You stare at him for a second, then gesture vaguely with the fork. "You are eating."
“That’s not-” He stops himself, jaw tightening slightly. "That’s not the point."
You tilt your head. "What?" You scoop another bite of egg, unsure what to do, holding it up absently. "You were bleeding out in my bed and now you're worried about table manners?”
"I’m not worried about manners."
"Then what are you worried about?"
His gaze drops to the fork. Again.
Then the plate. Again.
Then the small trail of crumbs already scattering across your sheets like evidence at a crime scene. His fingers twitch once against the blanket, as if he wants to brush them away but knows moving too much will just make it worse.
"Crumbs," he said flatly. "Grease. You’ve got dried blood under us and you’re dropping food particles directly onto the sheets. Do you have any idea how unsanitary that is? Bacteria doesn’t care how convenient it is for you. They’ll set up shop in a heartbeat." His voice stays even, but the tension in his shoulders is obvious. "I don’t eat in beds. Ever."
"Oh, I'm sorry, princess. Here comes the airplane." You scoff, shoving the bite near his face. He let's out a sound akin to a growl, a huff of air, before deciding to let up take the bite. Success!
You slide the bite in. Then another. His teeth close around the fork with a borderline surgical precision, never touching the metal more than necessary. He chews methodically. Says nothing.
After he swallows, he exhales through his nose, breathing heavy. "This is ridiculous. I can feed myself if you untie one hand."
"And risk you putting a fork through my carotid? No thanks." You scoop more eggs, voice softening despite yourself. He lets out a scoff, lips twitching into something amused.
"You’re an Avenger," he said quietly. "You could've left me to die. Most people would have."
"Was an Avenger." You correct. "And I’m not most people." You lift the fork once more, waiting for a moment, letting him come to you. He does- leaning forward just enough, eyes never leaving your face.
"Still," he said, voice low and even, the way he spoke when he was putting pieces together in his head. "You could be out there. Could have the kind of life people like you are supposed to want." His bound hands shifted slightly against the cuffs, the movement small but restless. "And instead you're here. Playing nurse. Doing favors for Matt Murdock."
You don't miss the accusatory tone. The false righteousness in his own words. You pause, letting the silence settle. Then it kicks in.
"Wait- hey, are you profiling me right now?"
"You could be anywhere. Doing anything. Instead you’ve got a blind vigilante dumping half-dead bodies on your doorstep and you just…let him."
With another forkful of eggs, you deliberately leave a few more crumbs to tumble onto the sheet near his hip. His eyes track the falling pieces with visible irritation.
"Open," you say softly.
He stares at the fork for a beat longer than necessary, then leans forward just enough to take the bite. His lips brush the tines. When he pulls back, a tiny, glossy fragment of butter clings to the corner of his mouth. Without thinking, you reach up and wipe it away with your thumb.
You feel him go rigid. You pull back like you've been stung.
But he doesn't jerk away. He just watches you, breathing steady but shallower, like he's calculating the exact risk of every millimeter between you. Studying every plane of your face. Eyes zeroing in on the corner of your own lips before turning away.
"...You’re still making a goddamn mess," he says. The words came out rougher than before. Quieter.
"Yeah?" You finally pull back, if only to take pity and spare him from the germs. "You’ll survive some crumbs, Poindexter. Survived worse last night."
He refuses to look at you now, but you note the throb of the vein in his throat and forehead, fists wrapped around the restraints once more.
You watch him swallow again, this time with no real bite to go down.
Benjamin Poindexter's boots scraped against the cracked sidewalk of Hell's Kitchen, the night air thick with the metallic tang of impending rain and distant garbage rot. His breath came steady, controlled, the way it had been drilled into him during those endless prison therapy sessions—reflection, they called it. Bullshit. Reflection meant staring at the same four walls while your mind replayed the faces you'd failed to erase. And yours, the one that got away, had burrowed deepest. Years ago, he'd lined up the shot, Fisk's orders clear as a bullseye: end you quick, collateral in the war. But then Daredevil had blurred in, red horns cutting the dark, and you'd slipped through his fingers like smoke.
Now, free from Rikers after that guard's throat met his shank—quick twist, arterial spray hot on his knuckles—he'd come straight here. Your apartment building loomed ahead, fire escape rusted just like he remembered from the surveillance photos Fisk's goons had shoved under his nose. His fingers flexed around the pistol tucked in his waistband, the grip worn smooth from practice. Obsession wasn't a weakness; it was focus. You'd haunted him through every cold shower, every mandated journal entry where he'd scrawled your name in the margins until the pages tore. His north star. Salvation or damnation—he didn't care which, as long as he could touch the flame.
He scaled the fire escape in seconds, silent as a shadow, muscle memory from too many rooftops. Your window was cracked open, curtains fluttering like an invitation. The scent hit him first—your shampoo, faint coconut laced with sweat from whatever mundane day you'd had. He slipped inside, boots silent on the worn hardwood, heart pounding not from exertion but from the raw hunger twisting his gut. There you were, back to him, rummaging in the kitchenette, oblivious. Jeans hugging your ass, tank top riding up to show a strip of skin. His cock twitched, half-hard already, the years of pent-up fixation flooding back.
One hand clamped over your mouth, the other pinning your wrist to the counter before you could scream. Your body jerked against his, warm and alive, the scent of your fear-sweat blooming sharp in his nostrils. "Shh," he murmured, lips brushing your ear, voice low and ragged. "Don't fight it. I've been waiting too fucking long." You bucked, elbow jabbing back, but he twisted, slamming your hips into the edge of the sink. Pain flared in your side, but so did something darker, heat pooling low as recognition dawned in your wide eyes—those eyes from the photos, the ones he'd jerked off to in his cell, imagining them watering for him.
"Bullseye," you gasped when he eased his hand just enough, voice muffled against his palm. Panic laced it, but so did a tremor that wasn't all terror. He spun you, shoving you back against the fridge, the magnets clattering to the floor. His free hand yanked the pistol free, pressing the cold barrel under your chin, tilting your head up. The metal bit into your skin, unforgiving, and your breath hitched, thighs pressing together instinctively. "You were supposed to die," he growled, green eyes boring into yours, pupils blown wide with mania. "Daredevil fucked that up. But I'm fixing it now. Or maybe... I won't." His hips rolled forward, grinding his hardening cock against your belly through his jeans, the friction sending a jolt up his spine. Rough denim scraped denim, heat building fast.
You whimpered, hands fisting his shirt, torn between shoving him off and pulling him closer. "You're insane," you whispered, but your voice cracked on a moan when he dragged the barrel down your throat, pressing just hard enough to leave a red line. The fear made you wet—god, you could feel it soaking your panties, the pervy thrill of it twisting with the dread. He noticed, smirking as he shoved a thigh between your legs, forcing you to grind against it. "Insane for you," he rasped, free hand ripping your tank top down, exposing your tits to the cool air. Nipples pebbled instantly, and he groaned, leaning in to suck one into his mouth hard, teeth grazing the peak while the pistol stayed firm at your jugular.
Violence simmered under his desperation—he wanted to choke the life from you, feel your pulse stutter under his fingers, but fuck, the way you arched into him made him falter. His tongue swirled, tasting salt and skin, while his cock throbbed against your hip. You clawed at his back, nails digging crescents through his shirt, a sob bubbling up as tears pricked your eyes. "Please... Dex..." His name on your lips snapped something. He dropped the gun to the counter with a clatter, both hands wrapping your throat instead, squeezing just enough to make your vision spot. "Say it again," he demanded, thrusting his hips in a brutal rhythm, dry humping you like a man possessed. Your pussy clenched on nothing, clit aching from the pressure of his thigh, tears spilling hot down your cheeks.
He released your throat to yank your jeans open, fingers plunging into your soaked folds without preamble. Two digits curled deep, stroking that spongy spot while his thumb ground your clit. "Such a good little slut," he praised, voice wrecked, even as degradation dripped in. "Crying for the man who came to kill you. Perverted, aren't you?" You nodded frantically, hips bucking into his hand, the wet schlick of your arousal filling the kitchen. He edged you mercilessly—pulling back every time your thighs quivered, breath hitching on the brink. "Not yet. Beg for it." Tears streamed freely now, your hands fumbling with his fly, freeing his cock. Thick, veined, leaking precum that smeared hot against your palm as you stroked him rough.
"Fuck, yes—milk me like that," he groaned, head thumping back against the fridge while you pumped his shaft, thumb circling the slit. His fingers dove back in, three now, stretching your pussy obscenely, the burn mixing with pleasure. He choked you again, lighter this time, thumb pressing your pulse as he sucked bruises into your neck. Your orgasm built slow, torturous, until he finally growled, "Cum for me, you desperate whore," and pinched your clit. You shattered, walls fluttering around his fingers, gush of slick coating his hand, the scent musky and intoxicating.
He didn't let you catch your breath. Shoving your jeans down your thighs, he spun you again, bending you over the counter. His cock nudged your entrance, bare and scorching. "Gonna fill this pussy," he muttered, praising now—"So tight, perfect for me"—as he sank in inch by inch. The stretch burned, your walls gripping him like a vice, and you cried out, more tears falling. He bottomed out, balls slapping your clit, and held still—cockwarming you deep while his hands roamed, one tangling in your hair, the other rubbing soothing circles on your hip. "Feel that? You're mine now. No more running."
He fucked you then, slow at first, grinding deep, the counter digging into your belly with each thrust. Skin slapped skin, wet and filthy, his grunts mixing with your sobs. "Cry more," he urged, pervy edge sharpening as he wiped a tear with his thumb, sucking it clean. "Tastes like heaven." You reached back, nails raking his thigh, urging him harder. He obliged, pounding relentless, cock dragging your g-spot until you clenched again. "Good girl—take it all." His rhythm faltered, hips stuttering as he chased his peak. Hot spurts flooded you, cock pulsing deep, and he collapsed over your back, breath ragged against your neck.
For a moment, silence. His arms wrapped around you, surprisingly gentle, lips pressing soft to your shoulder. "Not gonna kill you," he whispered, voice raw with something like fluff amid the wreckage. "You're my star. Stay." You shivered, still impaled, the warmth of him inside you a fucked-up anchor.
Summary: You were always there to heal Daredevil when needed. But when Matt calls this time, not for himself but for Benjamin Poindexter, you know there will be grave consequences.
Warnings + Tags: T E N S I O N, explicit language, use of Y/N, discussions of grief and death/murder, debates about morality, Dex being Dex, mentions of stalking, spoilers from Daredevil: Born Again (in regards to a certain someone's death), based on episode 2x06 of Born Again, oh did I mention lots of tension and yearning?
A/N: This is my first ever fanfic. I've been reading fics for so damn long (and I mean a bloody long time) but I've never had the courage to actually write one but here we are!! I started writing this immediately after the teaser for this week's episode came out, the power of shirtless and bloody Benjamin Poindexter. A HUGEEE thanks to @deakyjoe for being the best pookie around, reading my drafts, supporting my ideas, and sending me edits (go read her fics!!!) <3
Word Count: 2.6k (and I'm tempted to make this a series)
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When Matt called for aid, you always came running. But this time, it was a step too far.
You had arrived at their hideout, formerly Frank's hideout, as you usually did with all sorts of medical necessities (which was more frequently than you liked, what with Matt constantly being wounded). You should've guessed that something was different this time when Matt had rung however. His voice had had a particular sharpness, an edge you weren't quite used to. A mixture of pure exhaustion, frustration and something much deeper, much darker.
You had immediately spotted him, lying on the make-shift bed, unconscious and covered in blood. Benjamin bloody Poindexter.
"Oh no- Oh, absolutely not. No way." You exclaimed, shaking your head whilst trying to move past Matt towards the door.
"Please Y/N," Matt said, in a quiet and low voice, blocking the doorway. "Help him."
You could tell that he was already on thin ice with Karen. She was stood in the corner, arms crossed, and a hard stare on her face, intensely focused on Poindexter and full of quiet rage. The tension in here was suffocating.
"There is no way I'm helping him." You harshly whispered. "Foggy is not here, and why is that? Huh, Matt? Because of that man. Not to mention all of the others, whose blood is on his hands. Some even killed in the name of Daredevil!"
He let out a shaky sigh.
"We cannot be like them. Like him." A pause. "Foggy would've shown mercy."
"Goddammit", you scoffed. He knew just how to get to you. What buttons to push to make you cave. I'm not sure Foggy would've shown mercy to his own murderer though, Matt, you couldn't help but think.
"Fine. I will do what I can, for you, for Karen, for Foggy. I'm not saying that I can save him, and maybe that'll be for a reason, maybe that's the grand design. But I will do what I can."
You were surprised at how relieved Matt had looked when you said that. This decision to save Poindexter had clearly been twisting him inside and out, consuming every shred of his morality.
So now you found yourself at a distance from Benjamin Poindexter, on your own. Matt and Karen had had to reluctantly leave you. The reason being, you assumed, was connected to why Matt and Poindexter had ended up in such a bloodied state to begin with. Matt had removed Poindexter's tactical gear and shirt for you. And Karen had made sure to handcuff Dex before leaving, assuring you that everything would be okay but informing you privately where her gun was just in case it wasn't.
You set up your instruments and equipment ready for use, laying everything neatly upon the nearest table. Turning to Poindexter, you shifted closer to survey his injuries. He was still out cold. Luckily for you. What do you even say in these circumstances? He had some nasty gashes on his face, however the most concerning one was the rather large bullet wound in his abdomen. On his rather chiseled torso.
You start by cleaning around the area gently, partly because, of course, you had a duty of care as a certified nurse, but also because you'd rather avoid waking him and getting entangled in any discussions, or God forbid, worse. You'd much prefer to do the work, and leave. Get away from here, get away from him, as quickly as possible.
After removing pieces of shrapnel left from the bullet, your mind begins to race as you stitch the wound. If I'm to save him, then he will surely kill again, right? And those lives lost, they'll be because of me. He could decide to kill Karen, or Matt. Familiarity hasn't stopped him before. Saving him doesn't mean that he'd save us. What if this isn't mercy, but something awful instead, with much greater consequences-
Your thoughts are interrupted when you begin to feel uneasy. Someone's watching you. You lift your eyes from your work to find Poindexter awake, just about, with a half-lidded gaze and a smirk placed upon his bruised and beaten lips.
Shit.
"Hello Y/N."
Of course he knew your name. You'd heard of Poindexter, you knew the tales. You knew he was an ex-FBI agent, a once puppet of Wilson Fisk's and now known as the 'vigilante' Bullseye. But you'd never come face to face with him. You're a complete stranger to him. Or you should be. But Poindexter knows all about those he's supposed to. If you were close with Daredevil, you were close with Bullseye.
"Hello Benjamin." You muster, in the most monotonous way you could.
Breaking his stare, you turn back to finish stitching his wound. You could still feel his eyes on you, examining every move you make. He watches every pierce of the needle, how your brows furrow with concentration, how your hands brush against his chest every now and then. The smirk never leaves his lips.
That is until a particular jolt of pain sparks through him. He grimaces at the feeling, sharply intaking a breath through gritted teeth.
"Oh I'm sorry, did I hurt you?" The sarcasm drips from your voice, and Dex makes a mental note of the small but wicked smile that ghosts your lips as you meet his eyes again.
Now that the stitches were made, you move away from Dex to retrieve the sterile dressings. You hadn't quite realised just how close you had been to him, how intimate this all was, until you stepped away. You let out a breath you didn't even realise you were holding.
Dex, however, takes this opportunity to examine you fully. He knew a great deal about you already. Where you lived, where you worked, your shift schedule, that you tended to visit your local cinema late on Thursdays when you had the evening off, that you liked extra marshmallows when you got a hot chocolate from the café five blocks from your apartment, that you had no relatives nearby, and no partner. He knew that you've been close with Karen since childhood. That Karen, Matt and Foggy were your family. Over the years of watching you, he had found himself growing quite fond of you. You were steady, routine, you had a kindness about you and a tendency to make those you care about laugh at the smallest of things. He remembers the first time he saw you really laugh. He had been sent by Fisk to survey Daredevil's whereabouts, and had observed the heart-to-heart that Matt was having with the three of you. You had said something, a small quip, that broke the tension in the room, and everyone had burst out laughing. Dex had even caught himself letting out a laugh-like huff at the sight. You were something real, something honest. But amongst your kindness, there was a fierceness about you - as he had recently experienced first-hand. He knew more about you than you knew yourself, he thought, but he had never been this close to you.
Anxiety stirred in your chest as you returned to sit by Poindexter. Carefully placing the gauze on his cleaned wound, your fingers gently can't help but smooth over his skin. You catch him shiver slightly at your touch.
"If you keep this clean, and don't get an infection in this, or do anything stupid, then it should heal." You say as you turn to look at his still-bloody face.
"Thank you." He says horsely, and sincerely, but that ridiculous smirk is still present on his lips and he won't stop looking at you intensely. Like he's not just looking at your face, but trying to read your mind, or your soul.
"Don't thank me yet." You huff, "Better sort out your face as well."
He was still bleeding slightly from a prominent gash that ran from his right eyebrow down to his cheekbone, and had several cuts across his nose and chin. As you got up to rinse a clean towel and get a fresh jug of water, you heard the clinking of the handcuffs against the metal frame of the bed. If he gets out... What happens next? He'll immediately kill me, I'm certain.
You look over your shoulder to see Poindexter trying to sit up for you, rattling the handcuffs in frustration and clearly in great pain as he lets out a low moan. Your face betrays you as your cheeks heat a little at the sound. Goddammit, pull yourself together. You were about to be face to face with Benjamin Poindexter. How in the Hell did I get here? When I get my hands on Matt, I swear to God.
You place the jug and towel on the nearby table and pull up your chair closer to Poindexter. As you lift your head towards him, you're suddenly all too aware of the short distance between you. His eyes are exploring your face, seeming to examine every detail in curiosity. And you can't help but do the same.
He looks a little older now from the last time you had seen him. It had been on the TV, when they'd reported his sentence after being convicted for Foggy's death. His face was littered with small scars, but the most noticeable was the large slash across his left cheekbone, a testimony of Matt's grief from that dreadful day.
You had not been there, that day, when Poindexter murdered Foggy. You had been called out of town on an emergency, and therefore couldn't make the celebrations at Josie's, much to your dismay. But you wish you had have been there. You could've done something. You could've saved him. You blamed yourself every day for not being there.
Your jaw clenches at those thoughts as you stare at Poindexter. For someone who's done such evil, he had such pathetic big brown eyes. His usual cold glare when he was Bullseye was nowhere to be found, and now here in front of you, he looked almost pitiful. His eyes instead were full of intrigue as his searched yours.
Trying to ignore his gaze, you reached up with the edge of the towel to clean the worst-looking wound on his face, near his eyebrow. He hisses at the contact. How the mighty have fallen, you think. One moment you're one of the most feared 'vigilantes' (or in his case, mass murderers) in New York, and the next you're chained to a make-shift bed in some dingy underground office.
"Why are you helping me?" Poindexter's gravelly voice cuts through your thoughts.
"I'm not doing it for you." You respond, attempting to sound as disinterested as possible in the hopes that he stays quiet.
Obviously it doesn't work.
"You could've let me die."
"I wish I had done." Another snap of fierceness, he smiles at that.
"It would make sense to kill me. Vanessa Fisk offered me my freedom for the price of your friend," You tense at his mention of Foggy, uncertain where he was going with this and what he was trying to do. "Now you could kill me for the sake of your friend."
"I am not Vanessa Fisk, and I am certainly not you."
No you were not, you were good. Kind. Compassionate. His perception of you continues to be proven right. But his mentioning of Foggy is slowly pushing you towards anger, and you've been doing so well when he deserves so little. Your jaw remains tight as you clean the top of his right cheekbone. You've got the ghost of a scowl on your face from his words, and he hates that.
Dex was so relieved when he discovered that you would not be in the vicinity on the night that he had planned to murder Foggy. He would've hated for you to have witnessed it. He would've hated to have potentially made you a witness. God knows what the Fisks might have made him do. Out of New York that night, you were safe. You were protected.
"I'm glad you weren't there that night."
You freeze, your hand dropping from his face. He instantly misses the warmth radiating from you. Your face turns cold and your heart races.
"What did you just say?"
"That night, when I killed your friend, I'm glad that you weren't there."
Rage overcomes you instantaneously. You move so fast, you don't even realise what you're doing. You lunge forward, sitting practically on his thigh, as you grab his dark blonde hair viciously, pulling at it so hard that the grip turns his head upwards to look at you. He groans at the feeling, his heavy-lidded gaze catches the fury in your eyes.
"Don't you dare." You threaten, your voice low. The fist in his hair tightens. His breathing is ragged, and his face is so close to yours, that you can feel his breath hitting your lips. You're so blinded by anger that you miss how his eyes flicker between your eyes and your mouth.
"I could've saved him. From you." You growl, "But by some cruel fucking twist of fate, he's gone and you're sitting here!"
Memories of Foggy flash through your mind. Your lips begin to tremble. A dark urge to right this wrong yourself stirs within you. Karen had told you where her gun was, as a precaution. She wouldn't blame you if you did this, in fact, she'd probably encourage it. But Matt... he'd be furious. He'd never see you the same way again. You're not sure you could bear to lose anyone else. Vengeance isn't Justice, you'd once overheard him say. He was right, you supposed, but Vengeance felt an awful lot like Justice. If I did this, he wouldn't hurt anyone else. He wouldn't hurt me.
Your thoughts break when you feel him shift underneath you, and suddenly you become all too aware of where you are, that you're straddling his thighs. The hand in his hair loosens its grip, but you don't remove it. He's watching you with such softness, it catches you off guard.
Tears begin to fill your eyes. It's all too much. The grief, the anger, his stupid face looking at you like that.
"I'm sorry." His voice comes out husky. Though what he's apologising for you're not certain. Sorry I said that awful thing, sorry I shot your friend, sorry I masqueraded as Daredevil and killed all those innocent people. You weren't quite sure.
"Fuck you." You whisper, the words laced with pain.
He begins to lean closer to you. For a moment, you think that he might kiss you and for some strange reason, you don't move away. He gently presses his forehead to yours, his eyes falling close. You gasp softly at the touch, and unconsciously, your eyes close too. His hands, though still handcuffed, come to rest gently on the side of your thighs, holding you steady, and his body radiates a warmth. It was oddly comforting. His nose brushes against your own.
You stay like this for you don't know how long.
Distant footsteps, however, cause you to jump, breaking away from Dex. One hand involuntarily comes to rest on Dex's chest whilst the other lets go of his hair, now gently cupping the back of his head. He hums at that, savouring the feeling of your hands on him as you turn to listen intensely to the footfall. You recognise them almost immediately. It's Karen and Matt.
Shit.
You meet Dex's eyes a final time, a beat passing between you both, before pulling yourself away and across the room towards the door. Your cheeks are burning, your hands shaking slightly. And you still get the sense he's watching you.
Thoughts are racing around your head as you try to process what just occurred between you. Only one thought has clarity, that whatever this was, you were certain that it was not the end.
How do you think dex would feel with a super affectionate reader I'm talking someone who constantly wants to hug kiss or just to hold his hand, do you think he'd be annoyed by that? Since their affection is so random
Annoyed?!? Oh my god anon, absolutely not. Awkward? Yes. Fidgety? Yes. Entire body tensed up like he's about to explode every time you touch him? Yes. But he eventually settles in.
It's funny to think about Dex almost being like an injured rescue cat experiencing affection from it's owner for the first time- although Dex is less scared of the affection and more just...unsure what to do with it at first.
You touch him briefly and out of the blue and he just goes rigid. His face ends up being frozen in place- completely blanking and at a loss for words. Every. Damn. Time.
But, he relaxes into it pretty quickly once he realizes just how damn good it feels. How much it grounds him to the present. How you help filter out all the noise and buzzing in his head. Just with a touch. Those lips of his will twitch into a soft, crooked, and genuine smile.
Though, I believe once he eventually settles in, he can become smug about it.
We all know how hesitant he was working for Fisk- but once he settled in, he settled. I don't know if anyone remembers how he was in DD season 3 when he basically went out of his way to tell Vanessa he was the new James Wesley. He didn't even have to do allat, but it was a reassertion of his spot in Fisk's world. That he was the bigger, better, replacement and upgrade.
I think this kind of mentality also applies to this. He very quickly learns and understands his spot in the hierarchy of your affection and claims it in an almost puffed up, haughty, proud way.
Like yeah. That's his girlfriend. Touching him. She's not yours. You don't have what he has. Fucking loser. (This is literally his smug cat mentality surfacing once he gets used to it.)
If this is DDBA Dex, I can imagine him really showing it off. He can be kind of an asshole about it. Maybe even brag about you to Matt while he's all bloodied up and fighting, holding it over Matt's head through a pained, crazed smile that he still managed to find someone so perfect before Matt did. Him! If only to twist the knife in Matt's moral, karmic code. Him. You belong to him. Even with all his flaws.
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dailybridgerton
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