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After Matt leaves, Karen knows she should go back to her work. There’s research to be done, files to be gathered, cases to be built. That sort of thing isn’t going to get done on its own and god knows Matt has been more distant than ever.
The unconscious body of Benjamin Poindexter in the corner of the room is testament enough to that.
Karen wanted to scream at Matt when she saw him drag Poindexter in, wanted to slap him, if he could only understand that what he’s doing is so fucked up. Still, a part of her seemed to already know that Matt was going to save Poindexter. Instead of shock and anger, there was only dull disappointment that Matt could be so predictable, so weak.
She wasn’t asking him to kill Poindexter — maybe just not save him.
Karen watches the shallow rise and fall of Poindexter’s chest. He looks horribly peaceful like this, even through the crusted blood on his face and the bandage on his abdomen. Karen wants to see his face twisted in hurt, the same kind of hurt she saw on Matt’s face after that night at Josie’s, after Foggy—
Karen shakes her head as if to disrupt the thoughts, and wills herself not to let her mind go there. It’s bad enough she sees it every night when she tries fruitlessly to sleep.
Her pistol feels heavy in her hip holster. Matt couldn’t kill. Perhaps of his own willpower or perhaps from some mysterious force of god, that same force that had saved Poindexter’s life after being pushed from the roof of Josie’s and here again now.
But she could. Karen had killed Wesley and it was frighteningly easy. Her fingers didn’t hesitate. Blam! Blam! Blam! She had kept pulling the trigger even after the clip had emptied, a hollow clicking sound echoing between herself and the corpse of Wesley.
She could do the same to Poindexter, right now, while Matt wasn’t here to stop her in some fucked up notion of saving her from herself.
That’s where Matt was wrong. She was already sullied. And she didn’t need saving, she didn’t need to be protected or kept pure like some twisted version of virginity.
Before Karen realizes it, she’s walking over to Poindexter and kicking the cot roughly. He jostles once in his sleep and she kicks again, aiming for the side so it hurts his bullet wound. This time he jolts awake, attempting to sit up with a choked inhale before stopping short from the pain and restriction of the cuffs. He seems to take a moment to come to his senses, eyebrows scrunched and eyes flitting around the room with his military instincts. Searching for the danger, searching for an escape route, searching for the source of pain.
He eventually struggles to a seated, upright position, his abdomen trembling slightly with pain, hands flexing in the cuffs. His eyes land on Karen and he seems to remember the series of events that landed him in this situation. He smiles slowly, eyes-half lidded. The corners of his mouth curls in that dreadful Cheshire-cat grin that Karen sees every time she closes her eyes.
“Hello, Karen,” Poindexter rasps. His voice is ragged with the drugs and pain.
Karen shivers involuntarily.
“Hello, Benjamin.”
He seems almost confused to hear that name, like he expects her to call him something else, like he doesn’t quite know how to answer to that name anymore. He’s still smiling and Karen wants to smack it off his face.
Anger blinds her in that old familiar way and before she can stop herself, she’s kneeling on the cot over Poindexter and grabbing the back of his neck before he can turn away, forcing his head back to face her. She presses her thumb into the soft flesh where his ear meets his cheek, digging in against his cheekbone painfully. Poindexter drops his gaze, chin jutted stubbornly like he doesn’t want to show how it hurts.
When she presses the gun to his forehead he exhales and pushes back into it, eyes flicking up to her. She hates the way he’s looking at her and shoves the gun even harder at him, watching the way the barrel digs into the thin skin, the flesh turning white there. He grins like it’s bliss, eyelids fluttering.
“You’re sick, you’re fucked in the head,” Karen hisses.
“Yeah,” Poindexter agrees easily.
His arms strain against the cuffs on the cot like he wants this badly, the veins on the tops of his hands standing out starkly.
Karen wonders if she can get him to beg for it. A terrible thrill runs down her spine. She has Poindexter’s life in her hands. Is this how Matt feels when he saves a life? With each death he prevents, he regains some agency. It feels good. There’s power there — real, heady, power. Karen realizes with horror that every time she takes a life, she has regained some agency too. Is she no better than Poindexter?
She readjusts her grip on the gun. Her knuckles are white against the smooth, shiny, black of the weapon.
“Say it,” Karen whispers, staring down the barrel of the gun at Poindexter’s grinning countenance. “Say you want it. Say you want me to do it.”
He shudders and leans into it, nuzzles into the gun, letting it drag across the bridge of his nose and the top of his cheekbone. It rubs against the delicate skin around his eye, pulling there. If she pulled the trigger now, the bullet would shatter his orbital socket and cheekbone. At point blank like this, his face would be ruined to near unidentifiability.
“I want it, Karen,” Poindexter says. The barrel of the gun has left an indentation of a circle within a circle on his forehead and it looks like a target. A bullseye. She could aim there and he would be dead before his back hit the cot. “Please.”
She’s almost surprised at how easy it is for him. There’s no hesitation. His voice is low and steady and he begs for it so nicely that Karen feels nearly reluctant to do it if only for the fact that it would be giving him what he wants.
Poindexter has clearly been enjoying himself in a self-deprecating way, but it’s still a shock to Karen when he tips his head back slightly to rub the cold metal of the gun against his mouth and kisses it right against the opening of the barrel. There’s a flush on the tops of his cheekbones and his eyes are heavy-lidded and all of the sudden it’s terribly obvious that he’s been getting off on this the entire time.
Rage burns hot in Karen’s belly and without thinking, she draws the gun back and strikes him hard across the cheek with the barrel. How dare he find pleasure in this. How dare he use her for his own sick needs. This is for her benefit only, not his.
Poindexter’s head snaps to the side with the force of the hit and a red mark blooms on his cheek. Dazed for a second, his head hangs, eyes unfocused.
Karen grabs his short-cropped hair again, yanking him forward to face her again. He smiles and there’s blood on his teeth and gums. The blow must have split the inside of his cheek against his teeth.
“Thank you, Karen,” he breathes.
“Shut the fuck up” Karen hisses and before she can stop herself, she shoves the gun against his mouth if only to stop that terrible, gruesome smile. He opens his mouth obediently, letting the sight and slide on top of the barrel knock against his front teeth.
His eyes flutter closed again and the way he bobs his head over the barrel of the gun is obscene. The metal is slick with his saliva.
“What a fucking freak,” Karen says with a disbelieving laugh. “Is this what gets your rocks off? Or are you just imagining it’s Matt?”
The words come out of her before she can stop herself, venomous and hateful and bitter. Even worse, it feels good to say it. All of this pent up anger and months of her and Matt not talking, not saying what actually needs to be said. She feels like she’s been putting on a face for ages now and it’s a relief to let some of that ugliness and hurt show.
Poindexter moans around the gun and she watches his throat work as he swallows the spit that pools as the gun presses against his soft palate.
“Is that it? You want Matt’s attention that fucking bad? Or do you just want him to hurt you, make you feel something for once? Jesus Christ, you’re a whore.”
Poindexter nods stupidly and Karen isn’t sure if it’s in agreement about Matt or him being a whore. Maybe both.
She wonders what Matt would do if he were here. Matt is too self-flagellating, too good, to taunt Poindexter like this. He’d feel guilty. He’d run away from this, like he’s been doing for years now.
Still, Karen imagines Matt sliding his cock down Poindexter’s throat instead of the gun. Would Poindexter moan and thank him still? Probably. That’s what this is all about, isn’t it? Poindexter’s one good deed. His self-destructive, all-consuming need to prove he can be useful.
Matt would shush him and wipe the tears and saliva off of Poindexter’s face and let Poindexter use him for salvation because if anything, Matt was determined to be the sacrificial lamb. Save the killers and damn himself.
Karen squeezes her eyes shut and pretends the gun in her hands is Matt’s cock, bullying into Poindexter’s mouth, rubbing against the inside of his cheek and against his tongue and teeth. In her mind, she can hear the low grunts and moans that Matt makes when she’s on top of him, and she can almost imagine that this is for him rather than Poindexter.
When she pulls the gun out and slaps it against his face, she imagines that the wet streak of saliva left behind is Matt’s precum. Poindexter is drooling blood-streaked spit down his chin and the red mark on his cheek is purpling. It’s hard to tell which marks on his face are from the night before and which she’s inflicted on him now.
“I should put you down like the dog you are,” Karen says, disgusted by his filth and shamelessness.
“Yes,” Poindexter pants. “Yes.”
It’s only now that Karen notices he’s been rocking his hips minutely, shifting beneath her as much as the cuffs will allow him. He’s hard, she realizes now, the front of his cargo pants straining.
With her knees on either side of his thighs, he can’t move much, can’t spread his legs and rub against the seam of his pants. The hard plastic shell of his knee pads dig into her legs where he strains against her.
The sight of his desperation makes Karen feel even more hateful and she lifts a knee to press it hard against the soft flesh of his thigh, letting her weight bear down against him, her kneecap digging into sensitive nerves and tendons.
Poindexter grunts and jerks underneath her, the muscles of his bicep and chest twitching in pain.
“C’mon, please, please,” Poindexter gasps. “More, I need—“
“This isn’t about what you need. It’s about what you deserve.”
Karen steadies herself with a hand on Poindexter’s bare shoulder and then brings her knee over to jam it against his groin, too hard to be pleasurable.
Poindexter doubles over in pain, his breath coming out in a punched-out wheeze. She can hear the blood and saliva rattle in his breath.
Like this, Poindexter is half curled against Karen’s body, her knee shoved against his crotch, his chest leaning against her thigh and hip, his forehead dropped against her belly. For some reason, she lets him, even though his touch should repulse her. She still holds the gun in one hand, the other digging sharp fingernails into Poindexter’s shoulder.
“Come on, this is what you want, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, fuck—oh, fuck,” Poindexter humps against her in shallow movements, as much as the crushing pain of her knee against his cock will allow. His raspy moans are half-muffled by his face pressed against Karen’s stomach, his breath hot and damp through her shirt.
Karen doesn’t even realize her cunt is throbbing until she’s pushing Poindexter’s head down so his face is buried against her groin. It should horrify her, but she can’t find it in her to feel anything other than hot anger-turned-arousal. Maybe the wires got crossed somewhere along the way and Karen finds she doesn’t care anymore. She just wants to grind against his face until he shuts the fuck up, relieve some of this burning pressure inside her.
Poindexter doesn’t hesitate to mouth against the layers of fabric between them, obedient as ever. His arms strain against the handcuffs like he wants to grab onto her or maybe shove her away. The metal of the cuffs are digging into the delicate skin of his wrists and Karen can see the red lines it leaves there. If he doesn’t stop pulling against them, they’ll bleed and bruise. More marks that would be reminders of this perversion they both suffer from.
Karen grabs his hair and yanks his head back. Poindexter’s mouth is wet and reddened from rubbing against the fabric of her pants. She pushes the gun against his forehead again, this time pressing forward until he leans back.
“On your back,” Karen orders and he goes easily.
When she leans away and swings her legs back onto the floor, he hisses at the release of pressure against his cock. The muscles of his abdomen tremble. There are streaks of sweat and tears against his temple and cheeks, leaving behind lines in the patches of blood on his face. The crushing pressure of her knee against his cock and balls must have been excruciating to leave him such a mess. Even gunshot wounds and taking a beating from Matt or Fisk hadn’t left Poindexter so unraveled.
Karen smiles. This was what Poindexter needed. This was right. She pulls down the zipper of her pants, shimmying them down over her hips and thighs. Poindexter watches greedily, eyes on her pale skin. She drops her panties too and listens to the way he inhales sharply.
“God, you’re so fucking pathetic,” Karen laughs and straddles him again, this time with her knees on either side of his head. She presses the gun to his head once more, dripping cunt over his bloody and bruised mouth.
When he presses his tongue against her, it’s suddenly very obvious that he’s never performed cunnilingus before. His movements are awkward and unpracticed and desperate, his pathological need to prove himself useful apparent even in sex.
It now seems ridiculous that Karen hadn’t even considered this before. A socially inept psychopath who thought stalking women was the best way to make a meaningful connection wasn’t exactly the type to have extensive sexual experiences. Karen wonders if he’s even had sex before.
Still, his mouth is hot and wet against her and he manages to find her clit, sucking on it with that same awful mouth that she had shoved her gun into. It’s exactly what Karen needs and she grinds against him, uses him for her own pleasure.
Karen digs the heel of her food into the bandage on his side, just under his left pectoral, and he writhes beneath her, moaning against her cunt. With his hands still cuffed to the cot, there’s nowhere for him to move. He jerks against Karen, nose pressed against the dark blond hair of her pussy. He must be nearly suffocating underneath her but he keeps his face buried there without complaint.
When she feels his tongue inside her, she can’t help the choked-off gasp that comes out of her.
It’s just on the frustrating side of good and Karen needs more than his sloppy enthusiasm if she’s gonna come.
“You wanna be good, don’t you? Wanna be useful to me?” Karen drags the gun over the scar on his forehead, lifts herself slightly on her knees so her cunt is just out of reach for him.
“Uh-huh,” Poindexter says like he’s drunk off the taste of her pussy. He’s grinning like it’s the best goddamned day of his life and licks the wetness off his lips.
“Stay down,” Karen orders and shifts back, trailing the gun with her as she goes, down over his chest, dipping into his navel, rubbing over the bulge in his pants. He’s watching her as she does it and his mouth drops open with a heavy exhale when the gun presses against his crotch.
“Do you wish this were Matt instead?” Karen asks.
Poindexter doesn’t answer. She watches the heavy rise and fall of his chest. Thinks about Matt fucking Poindexter nice and slow, the way that makes you feel guilty for how good it is.
“Would you let Matt fuck you?”
This time, Poindexter nods slowly, watching Karen with dark eyes.
“What, you think he can fuck the bad out of you?” Karen laughs sharply. “He’s not that godly.”
“Matt’s not here,” Poindexter rasps. “Only you.”
He’s right. Matt’s not here to save her from herself. She knows it’s wrong, knows it’s a bad idea. Still, Karen tosses the gun on the floor next to where her pants and underwear lay.
She doesn’t want to hear him speak anymore, so she grabs his belt, yanking the nylon through the buckle. His cock feels burning hot when she pulls it out, flushed angry red. It looks painfully hard. Poindexter hisses and his hips twitch when she touches him.
Karen hates how good he feels when she sinks down onto him. He’s big enough to hit all the right places, the burning stretch somehow soothing that itch of frustration in her.
Poindexter groans and throws his head back against the cot, staring up at the ceiling. His chest and neck are flushed. The vein that runs over his bicep stands out as his arms flex against the cuffs.
“Karen,” he says.
“Shut up,” she hisses, hands scrambling for purchase on his hips, his flank, the side of the cot. Her thighs tremble as she lowers herself down. “Shut up, don’t say my name.”
She can feel the way his cock twitches inside her when she digs her thumb into his side, right below the bullet wound. It’s so easy to rile him up.
When she rides him, she pays no mind to his needs, rocking against him like he’s nothing more than a dildo she’s using. One hand grinds her palm against her clit, the other balancing herself on his side, fingers pressing hair against his bruises in the way that makes him moan and thrust against her.
Like this, she’s not entirely convinced that he isn’t actually a virgin. His hips jerk arrhythmically, like he can’t quite control himself and he’s already slick with sweat and panting hard. Even so, she’s humiliatingly wet and desperately aroused, despite the somewhat shitty sex and the violence and the fact that it’s fucking Poindexter. She doesn’t want to think too hard about it and bounces on his cock until all she can think about is chasing her own pleasure.
It feels good to use him like this, to watch him writhe and beg beneath her. His fat cock nudges up against her G-spot every time he fills her up and her mouth falls open. Her thighs are burning but she can’t stop. The sound of their fucking is crude and wet and loud against the concrete walls of the small room.
“C’mon, is that the best you can do?” she says breathlessly, goading him on. “C’mon, Dex. Fuck me like you mean it. Prove you want it.”
He moans when she says his name and she thinks he might come right then and there. Instead, he manages to get a knee up, one foot planted flat on the cot. The leverage allows him to actually thrust, meeting her movements, finally fucking into her for real. She grinds into it, allowing her thighs to rest for a minute, letting him do the work. His hands curl against the edge of the cot, fingers twitching like he wants to grab onto her.
“Karen, please,” Poindexter pants and Karen knows he’s not going to last long.
She’s right on the edge, too, and she wants to come before he does.
Karen thinks about Poindexter’s tongue on her, thinks about how she could lean down and taste herself on his bruised mouth, lick the blood from his teeth—
Squeezing her eyes shut, Karen comes hard. She rubs her clit through the orgasm, shuddering as the euphoric high crests and crashes like a wave.
She shivers on the comedown. It feels like it takes minutes for her to regain her senses. Poindexter is still hard and throbbing inside her, his entire body taut with tension like he’s trying desperately not to come.
Karen gets off of him, the stickiness between her thighs uncomfortable. His cock is shiny-slick and bobs against his belly. She could leave him like this if she wanted to. She didn’t owe him anything and he didn’t deserve it either.
“Karen,” Poindexter pleads like he could sense her thoughts. “Hit me. Please. I want you to.”
She knows just as well as he does that the request is just as much for his benefit as it is for her. And the bastard knows she won’t deny him, knows she wants to do it.
She backhands him across the jaw, hard enough that her hand hurts afterwards.
“Again,” he says. His cock drools precum onto his belly.
She strikes him again, this time on the other side, right over the scar on his cheek.
“Hng,” Poindexter grunts. The strike seems to take the air out of him and he gasps for breath, spitting a string of bloody saliva onto the cot.
“Just know,” Karen says quietly. “No matter how much you’re getting off on this, I’m still enjoying it more.”
Karen hits him one more time, even harder than before, and he finally comes without so much as a hand on his cock. His hips jerk pathetically and Karen hopes the orgasm is frustratingly unsatisfying. He doesn’t deserve anything better.
Silvery streaks of cum cover his belly and chest. Like this, he looks used. His chest heaves as he catches his breath, cheeks red from being hit, hair damp with sweat and plastered to his forehead, blood and drool dripping down his chin and throat. His wrists have begun to bleed from the cuffs.
Karen stands, picking up her clothes and gun from the floor. Her hand burns from hitting Poindexter. His eyes follow her and he frowns when she begins to walk away, like he expects a damp towel and a glass of water. Like he expected things to change.
“Don’t worry, Dex,” Karen says sweet and cruel all at once. “Matt should be back any minute now. He can give you what you want.”