blindfighter | There was a time when I was good, but there are witches in the woods.

There was a time when I was good, but there are witches in the woods.

It's around 630 when Matt stops pretending to be asleep.

Though that's a lie, just a tad--Matt has slept. On and off, on his silk sheets and curled up naked with another man in what feels like forever. It's nice, and for a few hours it lasts. It really and truly lasts, and Matt can hear the steady beating of Tim's heart. He can hear every creak as his bones adjust, can still smell scotch and bourbon as he exhales in his sleep. It's not the kind that's overwhelming, it's natural and in a way comforting.

But it's still another person and Matt Murdock is used to being alone. He's used to not getting close.

He's used to one night stands and relationships that barely last a month, if that. He's used to Foggy clapping him on the shoulder and telling him there'll be more.

He's used to going to their place. This is the first time he's brought someone home.

Someone here.

He's brought people over, but not for a one night stand. This is a different circumstance in many ways--mostly that they're going to see each other again. They're going to pass each other in the courtrooms even if they're not going to actively see each other although, if Matt's being honest, he does want to. It had been one of the best lays in a while.

And that's how, at exactly 6:40 in the morning, Matt Murdock decides he can't get used to it just yet. So instead, he gets to work. Turns the alarm off to let Tim sleep in, gets half-dressed (socks, slacks and a dress shirt, the first few buttons undone and the collar a little rumpled), and is in the kitchen. He gets to work.

If this is a one-night stand with special circumstances, he may as well make breakfast. That includes half a grapefruit for each of them, fresh fruit, and Matt himself is in the middle of cooking up some of the bacon and eggs. Simple and scrambled, but if there's one thing Matt can do better than most thanks to his olfactory senses being heightened, it's cook.

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The glasses come off and Matt can't help the smile that spreads across his face. He can bury it, though, by pressing his face into Tim's neck and kissing at the sensitive skin, moving over old and fading bruises he can feel are there.

Of course they're not exclusive, but Matt doesn't want to start any potential drama. Not rock the boat--he wants Tim on his back on his couch with the smell of coconut curry and pinot noir. He wants Tim.

There's a hitch, though--Tim moves his hands up Matt's shirt, a place dangerously near a broken rib courtesy of the Russians, and he flinches. Just until the other puts a hand near his ass and he lets out a very small, breathy half-moan.

Fuck it, he thinks, he wants to give all of himself to Tim so that maybe he'll give back. It's something Matt can hope for, and he sits up, shifts his weight, and slowly begins unbuttoning his own shirt.

He's cut, of course, thanks to his rigorous training regime and running around Hell's Kitchen, and there's a few blossoming bruises, some older than the others, the largest one being where his rib is broken. He doesn't say anything, doesn't comment--he'll have an excuse ready if Tim asks, but for now, he's letting his shirt fall next to the couch and already going for Tim's pants.

Tim's head tilts back and he groans low in his throat at the feeling of Matt's mouth on his neck. It took him awhile to learn that Matt knew when he had bruises, on his throat or otherwise, even if he can't see them. Maybe he can feel their warmth, feel the heat of the blood pooling beneath skin. He never thought Matt's other senses were that heightened, but sometimes, like when Matt's fingers find the blossoming bruises above his collarbone, he thinks otherwise.

Matt's never taken his shirt off during sex, and Tim's never questioned it. Honestly, he's never thought much of it, because their sexual encounters are usually desperate and frantic and in some sort of half-dressed state anyway.

But things are slow now, and he still doesn't think much of Matt unbuttoning his shirt. He's too occupied with the other's belt, getting it undone and pulling it through the loops. He only looks up once Matt's abandoned his shirt, and when he does, the first thing he notices is abs.

He already knew Matt was ripped. He could feel the muscles through his shirt when they were close, whether it was fucking or leaning against each other when they were too drunk to stand upright. But there's a difference between feeling and seeing. Especially since he couldn't ever feel the god-awful bruises that litter Matt's abdomen.

"Wait--" Of course he has questions. Who wouldn't have questions about their blind lawyer not!boyfriend looking like he lost a bad fist fight? He puts a hand on Matt's shoulder, pushes him back just a little so he can get a better look at the bruising. It's not all fresh, he realizes. Some are recent, but some are old and fading like the marks on Tim's throat. Though, he reckons Matt didn't get these from fucking someone else.

He wants to ask. He's concerned. But Matt didn't pry when Tim didn't want to pursue the potential alcoholism line of questioning, and it's pretty clear Matt doesn't want to discuss this, otherwise they would have already. Matt didn't push about Tim's abuse of liquor, so Tim won't pry about Matt's Fight Club status.

Not yet, anyway.

Instead, what he ends up doing is pushing Matt away further, back against the back of the couch, and straddling his lap carefully. This way, Matt doesn't have to exert as much energy, and Tim can do most of the work. His hands find the other's shoulders and he rocks his hips down slowly, cock already hard through his pants, gaze locked on Matt's face.

It's not that Tim never takes control--they switch, and nicely, Matt thinks--but this is a different kind and for the first time in a while Matt feels like he's vulnerable, his red tinted shades off and his shirt off and someone else guiding him, someone else moving on top of him.

Hands curl across his own shoulders and Matt gives a very slight wince, but it's just from the way Tim settles and it's gone almost immediately once Tim grinds against him. It's hard to focus on much of anything other than his own dick getting hard.

Amazing, how fast Tim can turn him on. All it takes is a few kisses and he's good to go.

His gaze is unfocused but not uninterested, staring blankly at the ceiling while he exhales sharply and his hands move. They start at Tim's chest and slowly move their way up, touching, feeling, stopping only to press his thumbnail gently over Tim's nipple. His hands stop only when they're in Tim's hair, pulling him as close as Tim will allow, and he pleased smile flits across his face for a brief moment.

"Let me touch your face," he asks, thumbs hovering over his jaw.

This isn't how they normally are. Normally, it's fast and rough and desperate, no matter who's on top. Teeth and fingers leave bruises on each other's bodies, hands gripping hair and loud moans wringing from throats as they beg for more. Normally, by now, they'd already be fucking. They'd already be so close to coming.

But this is different. They're sober, tasting of wine. Matt's shirtless and without his glasses and Tim can see the bruises along his rib cage, and he's careful to avoid jostling them. He wonders, suddenly, how many times Matt held him down and fucked him hard when his bones had to be aching.

This time, it's slow. It's slow and they're vulnerable and Tim can feel his heart thumping hard in his chest, not from arousal, but just from Matt's gentle touch. He's sure the other can feel it, and for once he doesn't care.

He doesn't reply out loud, but he puts his hands over Matt's, pressing them closer to his own face, a very definite yes. He never feels more exposed and raw than when Matt's fingers are tracing his face. He feels like this way, Matt can see him better than anybody else has ever been to. He doesn't have the hands of a lawyer, but a fighter, and that slight roughness to his palms makes a little more sense in relation to the bruising.

He's tired, if he's being honest. He's tired and worn out and no longer wound up from being angry. Now he's left with that feeling of numbness when he looses and it can't be worked out in the gym, now it's Tim that's comforting him.

Matt can't slow down, he's never slowed down, and Tim being somewhat gentle with him is the encouragement he finally needs.

He takes his time, and his hands roam around Tim's face. He's touching the other's cheek bones, feather-light, and he rolls his hips up as he does so, gaze still bland and looking at the ceiling. He can see Tim like this better, and even as they're fucking around, even though Matt's hips rise and fall, he speaks and feels like he sounds like a child.

"You have the best jawline I have ever encountered."

Earlier today, he was concerned with the tightness in Matt's jaw, the white-knuckled grip on his cane, the controlled quiet of his voice. All those things he used to see in his daddy, just a land mine waiting to be stepped on. And Tim kept waiting to misstep, to move the wrong way, say the wrong thing. A reaction and anticipation set even deeper in him than all the military training he's received.

The rage that ebbs and flows. He saw it in Matt. But it's gone now.

Now, Tim can relax. He can focus on Matt's fingers on his face, feather-light, and the way his hips roll upwards, fiction against Tim's dick that makes his lips part, a groan low in his throat.

"Could say the same thing about your ass," he murmurs, gaze glued to Matt's face.

It's a shame, really, that he can't reach Matt's ass in this position. But that's fine, because his hands drop down and he gets Matt's pants undone, slipping a hand in to curl around his cock and stroke slowly.

Something happens.

It's not the casual note to his voice, not the way he murmurs, and while the words are nice that's not what it is, either. Something in the tone, something in the way Tim pitched his voice. Innocuous but it sends shivers down Matt's spine and his whole body tenses.

He can't help himself. Tim strokes his cock and Matt lets go of the other's face, hand going lightning quick to the other's wrist to temporarily stop him, lips parted slightly. When he speaks, his voice is strangely gravelly.

"Say that again," He requests, and still curled around Tim's wrist. "That exact same way."

Suddenly, Matt's fingers are around Tim's wrist, stopping him, and Tim goes still. The grip isn't tight, not off-putting. Just confusing. For a moment, he think Matt just wants to be more in control, and it's not like Tim would complain about that. That, generally, is something he welcomes completely.

But then Matt speaks, and Tim's brows arch mildly.

"Fishin' for compliments, Murdock?"

He doesn't wait for an answer before complying, though. He drops his voice, and repeats what he said in the same exact tone, same murmur, same volume.

"Could say the same thing about your ass."

This time, he's watching Matt's expression more closely.

He doesn't have time to watch for very long. Matt bites down on his own lip, dragging teeth over it, his chest rising and falling with a little more energy than he has before.

Something in that tone just plain drives Matt wild, and he's not even sure what it is. His senses, maybe, but it hasn't happened before. None of this has, really, and he sits up to the best of his ability, ignoring his broken ribs, and lets go of that hand on Tim's wrist to grab at Tim's hair, roughly pulling him closer for a hungry kiss.

His hips move without him realizing it, right into the palm of Tim's hand.

Whatever it is about the way he talks does something, and it's something very favorable. He's not sure if it's his tone or the inflection or the way he murmurs. He doubts it's the words themselves, because this isn't the first time he's talked about Matt's ass. Either way, he makes note to explore it more later, test the waters.

Because whatever it is has Matt pulling his hair, yanking him forward and it leaves Tim moaning into the kiss, returning it eagerly. His fingers curl a little tighter around Matt's cock, stroking in the same slow way despite the hastiness of the kiss.

He's still very aware of the bruises on Matt's body, the tenderness of it. But he trusts that Matt knows his own limitations, knows how much he can take.

The thing is, he trusts Matt a lot, in many ways. He probably shouldn't be trusting the lawyer he's been sleeping with for a month and a half who has mysterious bruises all over his body, but that's exactly what he's doing.

That moan causes Matt to moan as well, though it also has something to do with the hand on his cock and how Tim is stroking it. It's driving Matt crazy, too, and he doesn't shy away from biting at the other's lips, rough and heavy and this time, it's not fueled by anger. This time it's just lust, and Matt manages to sit up enough so that Tim is still in his lap. His hands move to Tim's waist and he pulls the other roughly, closer onto him, and finally breaks away the kiss only to bite at the other's jaw, stubble pressing against skin.

"Yeah," he murmurs, distant and seemingly to himself as deft, swift hands are moving down Tim's body and into his jeans, dipping down the other's backside and grabbing Tim's ass with enough force to bruise.

It's not slow and tender anymore, but that's okay. That's more than okay. Because Matt's hard and hot in his hand, mouth rough and biting against his own, that hand tight in his hair. Because this is how he likes it, as much as he liked the other's gentle fingers on his chest, and Matt knows it.

Matt always knows just what to do. Just how to make every single touch feel so much more intense than it should be. Tim has never had better sex in his entire life. But somehow, that's not the only reason he keeps coming back for more.

His head tilts back, Matt's teeth and stubble scraping along his jawline, and before Tim can stop it, a soft, needy whimper escapes his throat. The more Matt touches him the more his grip loosens on his self-control. And each time they're like this, it seems to happen quicker and quicker. And Tim can't get enough of it.

"Fuck," he groans, twisting his wrist just so as Matt leaves finger-shaped bruises on his ass, stroking just a little bit faster now.

Tim's whimper is what makes Matt move one hand up from Tim's ass to trail up his body and to his neck. He doesn't squeeze to cut off oxygen but he holds Tim there, fingertips pressing into bruises that weren't made by him before doing the same to the ones that were, and his mouth is back on Tim's, rough and hard as he physically presses the small of Tim's back to push him even closer.

That whimper is one of the sexiest noises Matt has ever heard in his entire life.

It's the neck. Always, for Tim, it's the neck. Matt's other hand drifts down to between the clefts, nimbly touching the other's hole.

He shouldn't do this. He should stop, but he's making damn sure Tim can hear him even though his voice is even and smooth.

"Say it again."

It's always the neck. Something that Matt picked up on very quickly that first night, and has been exploiting wonderfully ever since. It seems like each time he leaves Matt's place, he's covered in more bruises than he was the last time. And they're bruises that he presses on with his own fingers just to feel the pleasure wave through his body.

And whenever another guy touches those bruises, all Tim can think about is Matt, and his teeth and lips and tongue along his throat.

Or his fingers, like now, pressing just so into the bruises, and Tim groans again, head tilted back, pressing closer as Matt's hand presses against his back. Another barely-there whimper as Matt's finger teases his hole, and he feels raw and vulnerable and exposed, but safe. Safe beneath Matt's touch, with his voice commanding low and smooth.

"Fuck," he breathes, but this time it's with that same inflection and tone and volume he used earlier, whatever it was that got Matt so worked up so quickly, and he presses his ass back against Matt's hand.

Matt growls in response--he doesn't realize he's doing it, because all he can smell is sweat and arousal and all he can hear is Tim breathing heavily and all he can feel is Tim, Tim using that tone that makes Matt feel woozy for some reason and so very, very turned on.

His dick is hard and already has precome on it, Matt eager, especially with Tim's voice. He hushes him with a kiss, rough and frayed around the edges, and pushes his finger in to stretch Tim out. He knows exactly how much Tim can take and how much he loves and Matt's proud of his ability to drive Tim wild.

Heightened senses are a very, very good thing during sex.

God, that's hot. Tim doesn't think he's ever heard anything sexier than Matt Murdock growling, low and primal, and it goes straight to his cock. He rocks his hips hard, for the friction and to move back against Matt's finger, already impatient for more.

Matt's mouth is hard against his, all rough and desperate and needy. Tim's never felt so needy before. He groans into the kiss, and though his hand has slowed down some, he's still stroking Matt's dick, still dragging calloused fingers over the sensitive spots. He's still conscious of the bruises on the other's body, but he drags his hand up from Matt's shoulder, tangling it into his hair.

He breaks the kiss, tilts his head to kiss along Matt's jaw, let the stubble scrape pleasantly against his throat. His mouth reaches Matt's ear, and he murmurs quietly, "I want you to fuck me so bad. Right now. Just fuck me now."

Tims words are what gets Matt, truthfully. Tim is thoughtful enough to lean him back, to be the one to do most of this. Matt would thank him if he'd be in his right mind, but Tim puts a hand in his hair and its all over.

He moans, low and needy in his throat, as he drives his hips upwards and adds another finger into Tim. It's barely there before Matt puts a third in, and he's momentarily distracted by the fact that he's fairly certain Tim's going to leave a hickey or two on his own.

"You want it?" He asks, even though it's a redundant question. His voice is still low, still rocky, and he brings his free hand to spit. It's better than nothing, and it's not like they haven't done this before.

Tim's eager. Eager and desperate and needy, and he presses back against Matt's fingers, moaning against the other's throat. He drags his teeth lightly along Matt's jaw, enjoying the scrape of stubble against his lips and the feeling of Matt's pulse against his cheek when his mouth moves down to the other's neck.

He bites the skin above Matt's collarbone, sucking marks in a place that can easily be hidden by the collar of his shirt the next day. They're not drunk this time, and that means Tim can be conscious of all those things he usually forgets about. Except for, apparently, a condom, because that ship sailed a long time ago, thanks to them being too drunk and too horny to slow down.

He trusts Matt, though. But it hardly occurs to him that this means Matt probably trusts him, too.

"God, yes," he groans, his mouth still against Matt's throat. "I want you."

Matt moans in response, because of Tim's hand and Tim's voice and everything about him. At the very least these bruises are of love, not from fighting, and Matt already cherishes them like he does most of the touches Tim gives him: silently, and with reverence.

Tim wants him, and Matt pretends it's only him, and he shifts his weight and tilts his head for better access as he removes his fingers and gently bats Tim's hand away so he can stroke himself and get ready to guide his dick into Tim's ass.

He's never wanted to fuck the guy more than he does now.

Tim's hands relocate to Matt's shoulder again, his grip loose and gentle, thumbs brushing lightly along Matt's collarbones and the blossoming bruises he just left above them. They're pretty, he thinks, against the other's pale skin. And if he's being honest, the ones along his rib cage and chest and stomach are, too. No less concerning, of course, but there's something about blood and cuts and bruises that appeal to him the way artwork in a gallery should.

It's morbid, probably. An inclination towards roughness and injury left over from a childhood of abuse and a decade of war. But they make Matt look like a survivor, and Tim likes that.

He shifts his weight up, repositioning himself to make sure Matt has to exert the least amount of energy possible, pulling his head back to watch Matt's face, his unfocused gaze. And his heart aches in his chest because he wants this — Matt, his gorgeous face, the dinner dates and the wine and the intense, mind-blowing sex — forever, while knowing that it will all end too soon.

Matt's abs clench as his lips part once he pushes in, unable to do much of anything except moan low and loud. Probably a bit louder than he should, but it doesn't matter--he's inside of Tim, and with one hand on Tim's hip and one hand on Tim's dick, and he grunts as he shifts his hips to bury himself even further, feeling the tightness and warmth that threatens to send him over the edge far too soon.

He says Tim's name, too. Doesn't realize it, not as he's blinking slowly and languidly despite his heart beating rapidly in his chest.

He can hear it, Tim's own heart. Smell the sweat and arousal and all over the room. He can taste the sex in the air, too, as he rolls his hips up and twists his fingers around Tim's dick in a way that he knows makes Tim's cock twitch.

Tim's breath catches in his throat just briefly before he's moaning. He wants to put his face in Matt's neck just to stifle it, but he refrains. Matt's parted lips and sightless eyes are too much to look away from, even for a second. So he moans, loud and unbidden, and doesn't even dare to close his eyes.

His fingers press into his shoulders, a little harder than he means for them to. Matt's cock slides into his ass, filling him completely in the best way possible. Vaguely, he thinks nothing has ever felt so right, with Matt so close that they can feel each other's heartbeats, watching Matt's lips move as he says Tim's name. It makes his heart skip unevenly, and he finally ducks his head to kiss the other's mouth.

One hand stays on Matt's shoulder, but the other slides into his hair again as Tim rocks himself up, groaning against Matt's mouth as fingers curl around his cock.

They're both silenced by the kiss, and Matt is full and wild and unable to stop himself from being a little too rough, from holding onto Tim a little too hard and purposely bruising him. He tastes blood in his mouth, too, from how aggressively he's biting at the other's lips, but Tim's not giving him any signals to slow down so he doesn't. He can't.

Those Murdock boys, they have the devil in them.

This is almost too intense, too good, and he knows he's going to come sooner than he wants to. He twists his wrist up, thumb gliding over the underside of Tim's shaft before he starts moving quicker with both the handjob and his thrusts.

There's nothing about this that Tim doesn't absolutely fucking love. The desperate intensity, the hand expertly stroking his cock just right, Matt's bruising grip against his skin, the rough way he's being kissed, hard enough to make his lips bleed and leave his mouth tasting sharply of copper. The way he can still hear Matt saying his name in his head.

It's perfect. It's more than perfect. It'll leave him pleasantly sore, with bruises on his throat and his hips and his ass, his lips swollen and raw. It's everything he wants, and it's Matt.

He's rocking his hips hard in time with Matt's thrusts, fingers pressing harder into the other's shoulders. It's too perfect, maybe. He can already feel that heat pooling in his stomach, can already feel himself getting close.

It doesn't last long. Matt finds he almost can't last as long as he wants because there's something about Tim that is sex, and always has Matt raw and wanting and too eager to please, too eager to sink his claws into the other.

He thrusts into him a few more times, and that's all he can take--he comes and he shudders, crying out Tim's name without even realizing it as his toes curl and he lets the pleasure roll his entire body. He shudders and, panting, feels for Tim's cock, keeping the rhythm with his hand and still moving his hips for as long as it takes for the other to come as well.

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