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.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

There's no way he'll be able to get himself off fast enough. Not because he's not turned on enough (he definitely is), but because Matt is just so damn close. And Tim brought him there. Tim's that damn good.

Which, truthfully, is a turn on in and of itself.

Matt whispers, so soft Tim barely catches it. He takes the other's entire length into his mouth one last time before drawing back entirely, replacing his mouth with his free hand, casting his gaze upwards at Matt's face.

"Come for me," he murmurs, using that tone that Matt claims is so unfair.

There it is. That tone. Matt's dick is slick with sweat and spit thanks to Tim, and tims fingers pumping him make him shudder visibly. He's dimly aware ofb stitches in his back blossoming, can taste the blood in the air, but right now he puts one hand on top of tim's head, gripping the other's hair tightly. He comes and he comes hard, hopefully onto Tim's face as his hips buck and he shouts tims name, honestly wondering if it's tim's voice or his actions that did most of the work.

He's that good.

"Christ--" He stops moving his hips, but he's still shaking, and he realizes he's come on Tim's face. The hand on the top of tims head moves to brush the other's cheek, catching some of his semen on his fingers and moving said fingers to tim's mouth.

"Jesus christ, Tim."

Hot come hits his face, and it's exactly what he wants. Watching Matt shaking apart, losing every piece of control he ever possesed. The hand is tight in his hair and Matt yells his name and it's perfect.

This is perfect.

Tim murmurs a wordless approval, still stroking his own hard, leaking cock at a slow, steady pace. Matt's fingers brush his face, wiping up some of the come, and Tim takes them into his mouth, sucking in an almost greedy way. He licks some off his chin as he pulls back, gaze still trained intently on Matt's face.

"Better?"

He's looking at the space where tim is but not actually Tim--his gaze is a little more at Tim's cheek than Tim himself--and he's panting heavily, still, trying to collect himself.

It's incredibly hard.

"Yes," He manages. "I have a boyfriend that gives me the best head I've ever had, of course I'm better."

He loves Tim. He really does. And that's why he'll break the news that his stitches ripped only after he's come.

Tim laughs softly, but if he's being honest, that does something for him. The praise. Even though he knows without being told that this is something he's good at, it's still nice to hear.

His free hand comes up, guiding the hand Matt has on his face to another drop of semen, using the other's fingers to swipe across it and suck it off. A silent but encouraging 'keep doing that.'

Speaking of which--

"Go on, he murmurs, pulling Matt's fingers from his mouth. His grip tightens on his cock, stroking a little bit faster. "Keep tellin' me how good I am."

He was aware of tim's like of praise before of course. He's not sure it's ever come up like this, though. Not that Matt's complaining. He'll always give what he wants.

Calloused hands move over tim's face, and Matt makes a point to keep his face light and soft. It's the same tone he uses when they're rocking together, sweat among the sheets they're between. He smiles, just a little, and continues to smear rivulets of come off his boyfriends' face.

"Just like that," He murmurs. "You're so good."

It's probably a little bit weird. He's a grown man, he shouldn't need this kind of praise. It's certainly not something he's ever asked for from anyone else. But Matt's different, and doesn't seem to mind at all, and so Tim doesn't mind asking for it.

Matt's the exception to so many things, it seems.

Tim hums, pleased, wrist twisting just so. It doesn't take much now. Between Matt's come on his face and sucking it off the other's fingers, and Matt's smooth, soft voice, Tim gets pushed to the edge fast.

"God I'm so close," he says, hardly even whispering, sucking another bit of semen off of Matt's fingers.

"It's okay, baby. You can come for me." The words fly out of Matt's mouth, unafraid and unapologetic. His free hand is smoothing out Tim's hair, murmuring again.

"Good boy," just a small amount of praise, and Matt, still coming down from his climax, puts his fingers into Tim's mouth, even though there's nothing left to clean up.

"You're so good," He manages afterwards. "Just like that..."

That's it, that's exactly what he needs. Matt calling him baby, the praising, the other's fingers in his mouth despite his face having long been wiped clean. Tim's breathing picks up, hitching briefly in his throat just half a second before he comes.

He moans loudly around Matt's fingers, unconcerned with things like neighbors and volume control, hips bucking into his hand. He spills his load onto the floor between his knees, also unconcerned with the mess he's currently making, and how sticky his face is, and how this was really supposed to be about Matt getting off, not him, but it looks like they've both won. He'll need a shower after this. They both will, probably.

His legs are shaking as he stands up, not saying anything as he climbs onto the couch. He's careful not to disturb any wounds, but he straddles one of Matt's thighs, leaning down to kiss him slow and deep.

Tim comes and Matt can hear it, can smell it in the air and he can taste the tang from here. It's how good his senses are, and if he hadn't already came, he'd probably be turned on all over again.

He may have enhanced senses, but he still needs a bit for round two.

His eyes close, and his hands find Tim's face, touching it softly to see it properly. He wants to etch this in his mind. They've both won today.

"Remind me to praise you more," He breathes. "That was hot."

Tim kisses Matt as long as he physically can, until he's forced to pull back and breathe. And even then, he stays close, his forehead resting lightly against Matt's. He's aware of the fact that they're both still exposed, clothes still rumpled and not done up, but Tim can't bring himself to care.

Right now, all he cares about is Matt, and how much he loves him, and how fast his heart is beating and how he knows Matt can hear it, and how he can't possibly bring himself to care about that, either.

This is something he never thought he'd be able to have. Maybe it's messy and rocky, maybe they fight, maybe Matt has a white-hot anger that honestly rattles Tim to his bones. Maybe it'll end in the blink of an eye, when one of them gets taken out doing what they believe in most. But that makes him that more determined to hold onto it with everything he's got.

"It was all you," Tim murmurs, kissing Matt on the mouth again before shifting, sitting down on the couch directly beside Matt, with hardly any room between them at all.

"Tim." Matt's voice is sharp all of the sudden, his hands not at his side, nor srou d Tim like they want to be. Instead, they're at his side as he sits up straight.

He keeps his voice calm, and one hand finally does reach out to touch tims thigh, both of them wildly undressed and uncaring. In the background, the TV drones on.

"My stitches are broken. Lower back."

The second Matt says his voice like that, sharp and serious, Tim is on high alert. It's mostly a knee jerk reaction, but he sits up straighter, shoulders tensing, waiting for something to happen. Then Matt speaks again, and Tim blinks.

"What?" He sounds concerned, a little bit bewildered, and somewhat urgent all rolled into one tone. He sits up, tucking himself back in his jeans as he kneels on the couch, but not bothering to zip or button them. Instead, he places a gentle hand on Matt's shoulder and urges him to lean forward carefully, pulling up the back of the other's sweatshirt. The stitches are covered with gauze, but the bandages have blood blooming over them. Definitely ripped.

"Fuck." He drops Matt's shirt, reaching over to snag his phone from the coffee table, already hunting up the good nurse's number. "Claire's gonna kill us. Or you, probably."

Yl Matt laughs. It's childish, but he laughs. The whole situation is absurd, and even if it hurts, it's funny at least. In a strange way.

"I feel like I'm phoning my mother," He confesses. "She doesn't hear how this happens. Deal?"

Honestly. Matt's not sure if he could take it. He probably couldn't. Too embarrassing, even for the world's nerdiest vigilante.

So instead, he kissed Tim, long and hard, and pats the other's cheek.

"You call, I'll clean up our mess."

"I'd be less afraid of phonin' my mother," Tim mutters only looking up when Matt gets closer to kiss him, and Tim returns it happily.

Matt heals. Though not fully before he's going out as the Devil of Hell's Kitchen again. Tim tries to talk him into getting better first, being in tip top shape before continuing his work. But too many people are getting hurt, too many innocent people are suffering, and Matt goes out anyway. And, honestly, Tim can't blame him. He'd do the same thing, if he were in that position. Hell, sometimes he is. But that doesn't mean he doesn't worry. That doesn't mean he frequently finds himself staying up to ungodly hours making sure Matt gets home okay.

It'd be one thing if it were just average crimes, muggings and rapes and assaults. There's not a doubt in Tim's mind that Matt can handle that. But this is major gangs and Wilson Fisk and Tim feels a little bit sick every time Matt goes out.

But he always comes home. Some nights are better than others. Some nights, Matt catches up enough that it makes a difference. Others, Fisk is too many steps ahead and Matt walks around with that carefully hidden, white-hot rage that shows in his knuckles and his jaw. Tim does what he can to ease it. To make things better. But there's only so much he can do, and most nights, that's patching up Matt when he finally makes it home (calling Claire for anything too serious for him to handle) and then curling up next to him and falling asleep.

Tim quits the task force. He continues staying on, just to keep an ear out for things. Give Matt a heads up when something's going down. But ultimately, he can't. He can't bring himself to stay. Besides, all Matt has to do is stand in the squad room for any length of time and listen to find out what's going on. He doesn't need Tim for that.

It's a long, hard, process, and things get terse between Tim and Matt more than once. Not because there's secrets (though both of them still find it hard to share, sometimes, and Matt won't talk about Fisk, and Tim won't talk about work, or his nightmares, or any number of things), but because things of rough. Because Matt comes home with a new bruise or cut every night, and Tim's scrubbing blood from between his fingernails after bandaging Matt's wounds, and they're both worried about each other. But they make it work, with kisses and quiet 'I love you's, and the very, very rare evening off where they curl up on the couch and, eventually, fall asleep wrapped around each other.

But eventually, Matt does it. Not without a few losses, which are each mourned as they come, but Matt takes down Wilson Fisk, turns the man over to Tim personally. There's a few near misses, in which Fisk escapes police custody, and the one person they have that can tell the truth almost gets assassinated. But Matt does it, not without getting roughed up himself, and this part, at least, is finally over. And when Matt finally gets home that night, so late that it's almost morning, Tim doesn't even let him get undressed — he pulls Matt's mask off, and stands in the living room doing nothing but kissing him for what feels like a full thirty minutes, unwilling to let go or stop or even go any further. He just wants to taste Matt's mouth and thank a God he doesn't believe in that his boyfriend is safe and sound.

It all wraps up in the nick of time, too. Because not three days later, Sadie gives Tim a call to chat, to check up on him, and find out what he plans on doing for Thanksgiving. The answer, obviously, is take a trip to Kentucky, because he hasn't been back since he moved away. But then Sadie asks, "What about that boyfriend of yours? Do I get to meet 'im?"

And the answer to that is, "I dunno. I'll talk to him."

That night, Tim gets home a little late, between a little bit of paperwork to finish up and stopping by the liquor store to refresh their bourbon and scotch supply. Matt's already home when Tim gets there (he hasn't moved in, but he also hasn't been back to his apartment for any length of time in the past month, either), and he does what he always does upon seeing his boyfriend after a long day:

He smiles, sets down whatever he's holding on the counter, and pulls Matt's attention away from what he's doing to kiss him. His way of saying hello without saying anything at all.

He's happy. He's happy and he's tired but he's done it, both law and vigilante side. He's a fucking machine and he has Tim to thank, really, tim, with late nights not saying anything at all. Tim, with his beautiful voice and the nights they spend fucking or making love or sometimes just plain sleeping.

He gets black out curtains. Today, he's got them freshly set up in the bedroom, because Tim has all but moved here and he loves every minute of it.

Tim is there when Matt takes down Fisk. Tim is there whenever Matt needs him and Matt is there for every nightmare and every bad day.

He hears Tim come in, and smiles at the sound. Tim puts down bottles--alcohol, scotch and bourbon--and he smiles.

"How was--" But Tim answers him with a kiss before he can get a word in. Matt smiles into the kiss, and pulls back only to touch Tim's jaw.

"Hi. Something good happen? You're smiling more than usual."

Tim hums, low and pleased, closing his eyes for just a brief second at the feeling of Matt's hand on his jaw.

"Just happy I get to come home each night to such a great piece of ass," he says, romantic as ever, and steps closer to drop his hands and grope Matt's ass through his slack. This is what he wants. Exactly this, every day, maybe even for the rest of his life. At one time, he hated everything about New York. Now he doesn't know if he'll be able to live anywhere else.

He leans forward again, kissing Matt on the mouth, then along his jaw, and down his throat, nuzzling the side of the other's neck in an affectionate way.

"Got to talk to my ma today, too. That was nice." He pulls back a bit, though his fingers are still curled around Matt's ass, and he examines the other's face idly. "You got plans for Thanksgivin'?"

There's a large box of electronic books that Matt has had plugged into a braille reader, but that's since long forgotten on the couch now thay Tim is home and grabbing his ass. Tim has the nicest hands in Hells kitchen, he thinks, and he's fairly certain Tim's said the same thing about his ass.

Funny, the only other person to say anything like that was Elektra.

"Good," He says, and pushes past the strange feeling in his gut. It returns the moment Tim asks about plans.

"Are you going to invite her up here?"

"No."

There's more, but for the time being, Tim's too distracted with kissing Matt's neck, feeling the faint stubble against his cheek. He tips his head a little bit further, nipping lightly at the skin where it can be easily covered. It pretty much goes without saying that he's always in the mood. Even in the middle of a semi-serious conversation.

Who would blame him, though? His boyfriend's gorgeous, and has the best ass in all of Hell's Kitchen, if not in all of New York.

"I was gonna invite you down there."

This is nice. Matt thinks of the keys he had made up for Tim earlier today, and the blackout curtains, and the fact that he's debating a bigger TV if his budget can afford it.

He fucking loves Tim Gutterson, and has for a while. It's his voice, his smell, but mostly it's that at the end of the day, he can rely on Tim to do what's right.

This, though. Matt stiffens, a warning in his voice.

"Tim, no. I'm not leaving Hells Kitchen alone."

Tim sighs. He can't say he wasn't expecting this. This, he thinks, will probably be a sticking point in the future, too. Matt thinking he's the only person who can take care of Hell's Kitchen. Like the police force isn't getting cleaned up of corruption, like Wilson Fisk isn't in prison. Like he's Hell's Kitchen's personal lord and savior.

It's going to get old quick. And this is just the tip of the iceberg.

He pulls back properly, his hands coming up to rest against the sides of Matt's neck, thumbs brushing gently against his jaw. Now, he gets to try to reason with the most stubborn person he's ever met, and just hope it doesn't evolve into an argument.

"You need a break, Matt," he says, his voice quiet and even. "We both do. It's only gonna be for a few days, anyway. 'Sides, if Mama doesn't meet you soon, she's gonna think I'm makin' you up."

"I have you," He says softly. Tim's much more tactile with Matt than he is anyone else and he appreciates it. He brings his hands up to touch the others' wrists, a smile flickering across his face.

He doesn't want an argument. Not now.

"I'm flattered, Tim, but I'm no use to anyone in Kentucky. We both know that." He can't exactly wear a suit and hunt in the streets of Lexington.

It would be easy, though. So, so easy to just leave for a few days...

"I'm not a vacation," Tim says dryly, but his lips twitch in a soft smile. They do have each other. Taking a break could easily just be staying in for a few days, spending an entire weekend in bed, sleeping and fucking and cuddling up next to each other, drinking bourbon and scotch and ordering takeout. That would be more than enough for them.

But it's not the same as leaving town. It's not roadtripping to Kentucky, and sharing his childhood home with his boyfriend. It's not introducing the two most important people in his world to each other. He needs this. They both do.

"Look," he reasons. "Fisk is in prison. The police force is gettin' cleaned up. Crime's slowed down because none of the gangs know what they're doin' from here. If there was ever a time to take a break, it's right now."

No. It's something he wants to say immediately. He wants to outright tell Tim that the moment he leaves is the moment bad things happen. It's ridiculous. It's preposterous.

Instead, he takes a deeo, deep breath.

"Let me think about it." It's still a no.

Before Tim can protest--because they both know that 'let me think about it' is code for 'I just don't want to fight right now,' he takes the other's waist and holds him steady.

"I got something for you."

Tim opens his mouth, rearing and ready to protest. He knows what 'let me think about it' means. It means this conversation won't be revisited. It means it certainly won't be revisited without a fight. It means Matt's going to say no without ever really considering it at all.

He doesn't want to fight either, but he's ready to. It's a stupid thing to fight about, all things considered. But he's opening his mouth to push harder when Matt beats him to it. Those hands steal around his waist, and Matt's speaking, changing the subject. Tim's not ready to. He wants to stay on topic.

His eyes narrow a little, even though Matt can't see it. "You're just tryin' to distract me."

That doesn't mean that it's not working. His curiosity is getting the better of him.

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject