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

[blindfighter]

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.

Comments

[comfortablyerect]

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."

[blindfighter]

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.

[comfortablyerect]

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."

[blindfighter]

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.

[comfortablyerect]

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.

[blindfighter]

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.

[comfortablyerect]

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.

[blindfighter]

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.

[comfortablyerect]

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.

[blindfighter]

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.

[comfortablyerect]

Tim isn't far behind. It's almost ridiculous, honestly, how much they resemble inexperienced teenagers instead of well-practiced adults. He doesn't mind, though. He likes it, actually. He likes that Matt can so easily make him feel like he's young and unjaded. Or, less jaded, at least.

It's some combination of Matt coming inside him and saying his name like that, and the look on his face when he does that pushes Tim over the edge. He rocks down hard against Matt a few more times, blunt nails digging into the other's shoulders, and Matt's hand moves just right (it always moves just right, Matt always knows just how to get Tim to that point so effortlessly) and Tim's coming, semen splattering across both their stomach's, coating Matt's hand. Tim moans loudly, burying his face in the other's neck as he murmur's Matt's name, his lips passing over the bruises he left there earlier.

[blindfighter]

Matt rocks with him, helping him ride it out, pressing him close and strangely lovingly despite all the roughness. He even hushes the other, murmuring softly and quietly in his ear as both of them begin to calm down.

He waits until he can hear Tim's heartbeat slowing to slip out of him, still breathing heavily, still high on endorphins, and half-smiles at everything happening. It's proof, this moment, that he likes Tim.

Maybe a little too much, because Tim is only going to get burned by Matt's world on fire.

"Are you okay?" He asks, and rubs Tim's arms as he does so.

He's far too in love.

[comfortablyerect]

Tim shudders through it, clinging to Matt and his warmth and his solid body as he all but shakes apart in the other's arms. It's intense, more intense than any sex he's ever had before, so much that he thinks he can feel it all the way in his bones. He can't ever remember having sex with somebody he felt this strongly for. Everything else falls so short in comparison.

Slowly, he starts to come down from it, his heartbeat slowing and his breathing evening out. He becomes aware of Matt's voice murmuring in his ear, that he's still leaning against the other, his face still pressed against Matt's neck. Aware of how much the roughness is now making him ache.

It's not unwelcome, though. It's anything but.

He makes a soft noise when Matt finally pulls out, still just a touch too sensitive. But he sits up, his hands sliding down to rest against Matt's chest. He searches the other's expression for a moment, but all he sees is sightless eyes and that ridiculously endearing half-smile.

"I'm fine," he assures, his voice quiet. "Are you?"

His gaze drops down to the bruising along Matt's rib cage, even if the other can't see him looking.

[instrumentofgod]

Matt's half-smile turns into a full one as he feels the other nestle, just a bit, and his hands move from Tim's arms to Tim's hands on his chest, fingers curling around the others before interlacing with them. A surprisingly tender moment from a surprisingly hot round of sex.

The curry's getting cold. The wine is warmer now. Matt can smell it.

"Can I show you something?" He asks, and it's quiet and tentative and he feels like a little kid again, scared to ask his dad for a dollar for a field trip to the museum because he knows the answer will be complicated.

Everything is complicated when you're Matt Murdock.

[comfortablyerect]

Tim smiles back in response. Matt can't see it but that doesn't matter. It's an automatic thing, a reaction to Matt Murdock having a smile that makes a room just a little bit brighter. He doesn't understand how someone can go from being so unbearably, intensely sexy to soft and gentle and smiling in a matter of moments the way Matt does.

His brow creases at the question. He's not apprehensive or skeptical, only curious. He trusts Matt. He trusts Matt more than he's trusted anybody else outside of his army unit. It's a different sort of trust, though. It's not the same thing as trusting someone with your life.

It's scarier, somehow. Deeper. And he doesn't quite understand it completely, but it's there.

"Yeah," he answers. His fingers tighten a little around Matt's. They're not dating, but for just this moment, it feels like they are. And Tim loves that, even knowing it'll make his heart ache later.

[blindfighter]

"We're going to have to put on pants," Matt explains. "Clothing, at least. If you're up for it." It's only because he's concentrating that he knows Tim is smiling. He can hear the other's muscles shape, notices the air around them. It's the way Matt sees, and he paints a picture of Tim. Gorgeous, beautiful Tim in various shades of red.

Something occurs to him, though, and his face falls, just slightly. "A--are you?" He doesn't realize he's stuttered, doesn't realize he sounds like a kid, still, and he squeezes the other's hand tightly as a reaction.

"It's not--not far, though. At all."

[comfortablyerect]

Matt Murdock is ridiculously stupidly adorable and Tim has no honest idea what he did to get lucky enough to be sitting in his lap right now. Somehow, even as his expression falls, as he stutters and sounds uncertain, Tim wonders how he's still here. How Matt hasn't moved on to someone who actually deserves all the amazing things that he is.

He lets go of Matt's hands, but it's only so he can reach up and place his palms along Matt's jaw, touching his face in that light way Matt always touches his.

"I'm okay," he assures, and leans forward to kiss the other's mouth gently. "I'm more than up for it. Let's get cleaned up and get dressed and we'll go."

He's sore, sure. A little exhausted, more than bruised-- he can feel them blooming along his hips, on his ass and along his throat, everywhere Matt gripped him. He feels a little raw, but he's not immobile. Matt wants to show him something, and Tim wants to see it.

[blindfighter]

They clean up and get dressed--Matt not in a suit, but a hoodie and sweatpants-- and Matt leans on Tim even though he's not drunk. He normally just grips the other's elbow when he walks but it's different now, he feels. It's different and Matt likes it. Likes leaning just a little closer and letting shoulders touch and bump as he navigates with his stick and they both give little bursts of small talk.

It really isn't far--Hell's Kitchen is a mess, thanks to the Chitauri invasion. It's the old Hell's Kitchen of the 70s, all high crime rate and shitty buildings. It's home. They round the corner to an alleyway, equally shady, and Matt taps his cane in front of him until the old, closed gym's side door is visible. He's automatically digging for the keys.

"I thought I'd show you where I go when I lose," he says. Keeps his voice flat as he opens the door. The lights are off and Matt, once again, forgets to even turn them on. The board is on the side of the building.

It's old and full of memorabillia--a boxing gym of old, it looks, with a ring in the middle and bags and Battlin' Jack Murdock posters everywhere.

Matt sets down his cane.

[comfortablyerect]

Tim wears his jeans, but he snags one of Matt's shirts. It's a little loose, but it's comfortable. And more importantly, it smells like him. He doesn't mind the way Matt leans into him. Unnecessary, Tim knows, because they're both sober. Too sober, as far as Tim's concerned, but that's neither here nor there. Mostly, he likes feeling Matt's warmth through his hoodie, and lies that Matt enjoys being close to him enough to do it even when he doesn't have to.

He's acutely aware of the way his heartbeat gets a little unsteady every time he catches the scent of Matt's shirt. Such an insignificant thing, really, but it has such a large affect. It's worrying, honestly. If Tim were smarter, he'd try to distance himself from Matt Murdock instead of allowing himself to get closer.

But Tim's not smarter, and so he won't. And Matt's eventual departure will hurt, but at least he'll know it's coming. It'll be a wake-up call he obviously needs.

The walk itself is fine, and it does something to work out some of the soreness of Tim's body. He probably looks wrecked, if he cared to look in a mirror. He can feel the bruising on his neck, can feel how his lips are swollen. His hair is probably all mussed, too. But it's not as if they run into anybody on the way there.

And there, apparently, is an old, run down gym. Tim doesn't even recognize it as such until they're inside and he sees the ring and all the equipment. He catches sight of the posters, sees the name Jack Murdock, and figures that can't be a coincidence.

"Always wondered how a blind lawyer got so built," he murmurs, looking away from the board and towards the ring. "You box?"

[blindfighter]

"My dad did," Matt answers, and he sounds proud. He is proud. "He taught me, before--" he lifts his hands to his face, now that he's set the cane down, and gestures vaguely. Offers a boy scout smile and reaches out until his fingers touch one of the punching bags, and he moves around it.

"This was where I was going to go before you were nice enough to have dinner with me," He explains. His hands run down the side of the leather bag and he tilts his head to the side, just so, listening intently.

"Throw a punch," He offers. He's curious.

[comfortablyerect]

Jack Murdock, Tim assumes. Just by the way Matt says that makes it very clear that he loved his dad. That, probably, they were close, and that Jack Murdock was somebody to be admired. Of course, though. That makes sense. Matt had to have an incredible role model to turn out the way he has.

"You say that like it was a chore." He follows Matt idly to the punching bag. There's a small smile on his face, in his voice, pleased that Matt chose to share this with him. "I like havin' dinner with you."

It's a stark bit of honesty, but it feels like the sort of night for that. He makes a face at the offer. It's not that he doesn't know how to throw a punch, but he's probably out of practice. And military training taught him how to fight in a much different way than how boxers are taught.

"I don't box," he murmurs, but it sounds more like a disclaimer than anything else. Because a second later, he throws a punch. There's something that's clearly combatic about it, a lot of muscle memory despite being a little out of shape for it. "Guess it's good for workin' out frustrations. And your biceps."

[blindfighter]

Matt's head is still tilted to the side as he listens. Automatically hones in. Tim's out of fighting shape but his stance is decent, and his aim works. He's got force but it's disciplined, though not in the same manner as Matt is.

It's not bad.

"Sounds good," He offers, and then can't help the light smile as he holds it.

"I just thought--I never really bring people here," He confesses, and his hands are running over the leather of the bag again. "It must be weird, having sex and then being dragged out to an old gym, but..."

But it means a lot to him. Matt can't find himself finishing that sentence, so he trails off and starts with a new topic.

"What was your dad like?"

[comfortablyerect]

He never really brings people here.

Tim ducks his head, even though Matt can't see it, because he's smiling. He should not enjoy that so much. He shouldn't let himself feel special because Matt Murdock brought him to an old gym, but he does. It's a part of Matt that, apparently, not everybody else gets to see. Not the soft-spoken blind man or the confident, capable lawyer, but the boxer.

"It's not," he assures, then pauses. "I mean-- It's good. I like it."

He likes Matt. So much. Too much.

But that question brings all the love-lilted feelings to a screeching halt, and Tim feels his heart stutter unevenly in his chest for a moment. Matt Murdock probably had a wonderful role model for a father. Tim did not.

He lets out a breath, doesn't let his unease show in his voice at all. He shrugs.

"Taught me how to shoot a gun, skin a deer, how to drive. What kind of bourbon was worth drinkin'." The only sort of example his father set for him was what not to do. Whatever his dad did, he needed to do the opposite. He semi-succeeded, in the end. "Is this how you got all those bruises? From boxin'?"

The sooner he can direct the conversation away from himself and his father, the better.

[blindfighter]

Yes. Tim's father taught him all of that--all of those charmingly southern things. Jack Murdock taught Matt to stand up for what's right, and how to stitch up wounds, how to use your brain and not your brawn.

His dad would hate what he's doing, he thinks. Skulking around in a mask. But it's what's right. He's reminded, suddenly, to go to confession. It's what he would have wanted.

There's something else, though, and Matt lets go of the bag and throws a half-hearted punch at it, more just for his hand to have something to do as he moves around the bag to where he knows Tim is. A hand goes out to where Tim's arm is, approximately, because he can feel the other's not telling the truth.

Omitting things is lying, according to your heartrate and perspiration. You're still thinking about it.

"My knuckles, yes. The rest is just being clumsy--Tim," and Matt's voice is soft, assuring. "Did you know your voice rises a half-pitch when you're anxious about something?"

[comfortablyerect]

Tim likes having Matt close like this. He likes Matt reaching out to him, seeking him with an outstretched hand. His fingers take Matt's wrist, sliding up to curl around his hand, thumb brushing lightly over bruised muscles.

What he doesn't like is that he's pretty sure Matt's not being entirely honest. Those aren't the kind of bruises you get from running into door knobs and bumping into walls. Those are the kinds of bruises you get from being hit. He's seen them, on himself, on his mother. He can practically hear Sadie's voice in his head explaining to doctors that she's just so clumsy, and she fell, that's all.

Matt is good at navigating, despite his lack of sight. Tim can't remember ever seeing him be clumsy.

However, Matt's doing exactly what Tim's trying to do. He's deflecting, pointing the conversation away from himself by asking questions. He's better at it, probably. He's a lawyer. It doesn't matter how soft and how kind and how careful Matt's voice is, Tim will never stop feeling like a cornered animal when the conversation goes in this direction.

"I'm not anxious," he says, and he can taste the lie on the back of his teeth. "And you're not clumsy."