Matt Murdock Shorts

No Sweeter Innocence Than Our Gentle Sin

Obligatory Hozier lyric title for my male reader, bi Matt with religious trauma story

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"Forgive me, Father," Matt takes a deep breath, inhales the familiar scent of prayer candles and wood. He listens to Father Lantom breathing on the other side of the confessional, trying to give him the space he needs to continue. Lantom knows better than anyone that more often than not, information must be pried from Matt. But that's not it this time. Matt hears his priest take a breath, about to prompt him, so Matt starts over before Lantom can say anything. "Forgive me, Father, for I have..." He can't finish that sentence. He came here to confess, but for once, he can't find it in himself to be guilty. He knows what the bible says about homosexuality. He's heard it time and again, the wrongness of it reiterated by every person he talked to about the bible. But it didn't feel like a sin. It didn't feel wrong. Not with you. He sits there, his words, his breathing, the rasps of cloth on cloth as both he and Lantom shift, bouncing off the wood of the confessional. The hard bench beneath him reminds him that he's not supposed to be comfortable right now. This stall was crafted to make one feel alone with their sins and God, but right now, Matt can only think about last night.

—0—

Matt knew that it was weak, inviting you over to his place, only the two of you and his liquor cabinet. Even if that doesn't extend much past the bottle of bottom-shelf whiskey he keeps around. Still, when he offers you a glass, you accept with a grin. It has nothing to do with the alcohol. Matt can tell as he hands it over— your hand lingering too long on his— you haven't taken your eyes off him. Your heart beats faster than normal— it always does around him, but right now, it's all he can hear, rabbit fast, your skin heating and breathing becoming heavier. To anyone else, you'd be keeping your cool remarkably well, but to Matt— to him, your body is beckoning him closer. He can't help but heed its call. He takes your elbow in a parody of how he'll sometimes have you lead him in a place he isn't used to, but there's no question that he's the one leading you right now as you go to the sofa. Somewhere, his mind supplies that line about crafting intricate rituals with other men as an excuse to touch their skin. Sure, you've kissed on a few occasions, lips primed with alcohol, but most of the time, you're friends. So far, Matt has had too many hang-ups for your relationship to progress past that. But each time you're together, and each time he shares a kiss with you, he feels his grip on his faith slipping. But he can't bring himself to care that God's no longer guiding him if you're the greener pasture he's straying to. If loving men doesn't send Matt to Hell, loving you more than God will.

You talk. Words are exchanged, warm laughs fill the apartment, and Matt has no idea what's said. As soon as words leave his lips, your scent hits his nose and reminds him that all he wants to do is bury his face in your neck, planting soft kisses along your pulse point until he forgets anything but the taste of your skin.

"Matt?"

Shit. Matt lifts his brows, trying too late to act like he was paying attention to your story. "Hmm?"

Your laugh is fond, almost an afterthought. It's clear Matt was lost in thought and you hope you have a pretty good idea of what those thoughts were about. You don't care much to finish your story— it was more to fill the silence anyway. There are more pressing topics to cover right now. "So, what's your plan, Matt?"

"What do you mean?" He's good at acting innocent, letting that grin cover his face as he feigns ignorance. He's used to people believing that face.

Good thing you know better. "I mean," you set your now empty glass on the coffee table, calm despite what you're about to say "did you bring me here to romance me, or do I have to do everything around here?"