right where you left me (m.m.)
pairing: matt murdock x reader
summary: snippets of how you once met matt murdock accidentally, and then purposefully on the same day every year.
warnings: smut; oral (m receiving); fingering (f receiving); p in v sex; angst; time jumps; giving november 9th by colleen hover xoxo; unedited <3
note: she’s baaaack! i’ve been barely motivated to get this done for the past month (????) but here it is! finally! it’s based on a request but i cannot for the life of me find it now xoxo and i’m not sure how much i will be writing given the fact that i’ve started uni (first year shit and all that), but i will do my best :) hope you all enjoy!!
It was a fluke that you had even shown up to the bar on the corner of 34th street, the border of Hell’s Kitchen and about as far as Matt would ever venture. You didn’t think he’d show up, knowing he had his own firm to take care of now, a life, a job, a potential partner or whatever it was he called them.
You knew all of this, not because he had told you, but because a month earlier, when you’d been drunk out of your mind on a Monday night, weeping into an empty bottle of wine you’d opened and finished yourself, you’d opened your laptop and typed his name into the search bar, stomach clenching at every bit of information you found.
And you knew – the pesky feeling had scratched at your mind until past midnight – that it had been almost a year and he had most definitely moved on from the almost one-night-stand the two of your shared, while you still felt him lurking in your bones, stuck like molasses on the edge of a spoon.
But it’s Matt Murdock, for crying out loud.
Of course he would be the one you would never get over. How could you let go of the man who sensed your every worry despite only having met an hour prior, sent you swoon worthy upturns of mouths that had you wanting to kiss those cheeky grins right off of his face? The man who stared like he could really, truly, see you?
You’d asked yourself all of that and more in the past thirty minutes, casually swirling the teaspoon in your stale cup of coffee, needing a clear state of mind as the jetlag had your eyes begging to shut. Coffee at a bar was never the right idea but you were desperate, in more ways than one.
There’s no way he remembered, you reasoned internally, doing your best to not stare too intensely out of the glass window you sat by. Everyone, out there on the street, moved with a precision and purpose you’d lacked in the last year. You could feel yourself flailing in the dark, grasping at the ends of things and people and emotions you could never get a firm grip on.
So this, the coffee and the possibility of him, of more, was a last ditch attempt of soothing that phantom ache.
If he showed up, even though you knew he wouldn’t, maybe you’d be able to get back that piece of your heart he took with him when he left the last time. You hadn’t realised it was gone until you were already in the cab, the airport your final destination, where you clutched your chest and felt a newfound emptiness, a lightness you never asked for, that hadn’t been there a day earlier.
One year ago, you met Matt Murdock by accident. You drank and laughed and blushed at everything he threw your way, and said thank you even when you could sense he was about to leave you wounded and alone all over again. You were beyond desperate, for reasons unknown to even you, for another drink, another joke, another hidden caress under the table, so you did what any sane person would in such close proximity to someone so God-like, so Devilish.
“How about this, I’ll meet you back here in a year, and we can pick up where we left off?”
He chuckled into his drink, setting it down then shifting in his seat to face you, and the moment his knee knocked into yours, you knew you were a goner. “And where is it that we’re leaving off, hm?” He had a way of making even the most simplest of situations and sentences charged with an unfathomable tension.
“Well I think, and please, correct me if I’m wrong– but I think you’re about to ask me to your place and maybe, possibly… fuck my brains out?” You said it like a question, leaving enough room to label it as some unnecessarily complex joke if he seemed at all deterred.
Instead, he leaned closer, breath curling against the sensitive shell of your ear while his hand, large and calloused, gripped the bare expanse of your inner thigh. You snapped your legs shut instinctively, trapping his hand in between them, and he only smirked like that was exactly what he wanted: to be between your legs forever.
“I’m not that kind of guy, sweetheart,” he teased breathlessly. Liar.
You shook your head, then remembering yourself, skimmed your nose up the line of his jaw until you were mimicking his position. “I think you’re exactly that kind of guy. And guess what?” you prompted, and he responded with a nick of his teeth against your skin– “I’m that kind of girl, as well.”
Looking back, none of it made sense to you and it probably hadn’t to him either, but in that moment of alcohol-induced lust, it was the sexiest thing you could think of given how dumb and foolish he had left you in such little amount of time.
You left the bar soon after to catch a red-eye back home, to your normal, brutally mundane, everyday life of sleep, work, eat, repeat– no time for handsome strangers with wandering hands and inappropriate promises.
A chair scraped against the wood-panelled floors next to you, the sound irritating enough to paint a scowl across your face that you planned to aim at whatever idiot–
Oh. “Huh, funny bumping into you. Mind if I sit?”
It took all of five minutes for the two of you to drag the other into the bathroom, thanking whatever God there was up there, looking down at the two of you pawing at each other, for the single stall.
“That’s it sweetheart, open up for me,” Matt cooed, tugging your chin down as he painted his cock across your lips, hissing abruptly when your tongue skimmed out to lick at his weeping slit. He couldn’t stop his hips from bucking up, forcing the entire head into your awaiting mouth, all hot and wet and exactly as he’d imagined it. Fucking heaven.
Matt gathered your hair, pulling it into a makeshift ponytail as he thrust shallowly into you, mouth hung open in awe or shock, you weren’t entirely sure. But it was perfect, he was perfect, panting and gasping and entirely ruffled from your hands with his pants shucked down and his shirt half buttoned.
You looked up through bleary eyes, the tears stinging them shut but you persisted, not wanting to miss a moment of him in all his annoying beauty, looking entirely like some sort of fallen angel with the halo of yellowed light around him from the flickering bulbs in the bathroom.
“You’re doing so well, sweethe–fuck!” You swallowed around him, your nails dug into his bare thighs, whining around his length and pulling at the short hairs in admonishment but he retaliated with a sharp tug on your hair, halting your movements as he guided you to stand up, the hard length of him jabbing into your hips as he pressed his mouth roughly to yours.
“Be good for me now, I’ve waited an entire year for this and don’t need you acting like a brat.”It was deliciously mean and exactly how you wanted it, so all you could do was nod with pleading eyes, whining your acceptance and submission.
His tongue flicked out across your puffed lips, swollen and pink, and he moaned at the taste of him on your tongue. You almost lost it right then and there, unable to cope with the pretty sounds he was making as they scraped at your insides, as heat filled your belly.
He was how you remembered, as attentive and giving as he had been a year earlier.
When he slid in next to you, face already pulled up in a sardonic smirk and hand sliding up your thigh– surprising enough that you admittedly choked a little on your coffee, you’d eventually found yourself whispering, begging, for something hard, Matt, something hard and fast and a little mean.
You don’t know where it came from, and from the conflicted look on his face, neither did he. He wasn’t a naturally cruel person, had that kind of warm, gooey smile that lit up the whole damn universe, but something flickered in his expression and he was, soon enough, gripping your wrist tight enough to bruise, urging you quietly in your ear to find the bathroom because he needed you now.
Maybe later, when you tried to rationalise your actions, your thoughts, your feelings, you’d deduce it was because you needed to taint his perfection, even a little bit. If there was even a slight chance he could fuck himself out of your system and you’d no longer depend on him as whatever emotional crutch or midday fantasy he’d become, maybe you’d make it the rest of your life without needing.
“Please, please, Matt. Want you inside of me,” you whimpered into his probing mouth, fingers tugging at his short strands of hair, hot breath gasping like the air was running out of the room and he was your only source of oxygen.
“I dunno, baby, think you deserve it?” he taunted, that same look, the one that screamed desire and power and I fucking own you aimed at you had you nodding dumbly at him, eyes wide and desperate, and he forced himself to look away, spinning your around and pushing you into the marble counter of the sink.
“I want you to watch yourself fall apart,” he whispered, voice deadly, grip strong and unmoving. And you wondered if it was the Devil himself currently pushing down your trousers, hooking your panties to the side, sliding a finger through your slick folds once, twice, before ramming in with little to no warning.
“Oh–” you all but shouted, agape and knuckles turning white as you were forcibly shoved forward. His hand, calloused and scraped but somehow soft and delicate at the same time, held onto your shoulder, while the other travelled up your front, groping and searching and taking, until it rested against your throat.
You were pulled back against him, could feel his muscles shifting through the thin material of his shirt as he pistoned his hips up into you, pulling you down with his hold on you as he dealt you promises in your ear.
It was hard to hear, words getting lost between pants and groans and the ringing that had begun since he showed up, but you savoured every piece, every sound, anyway.
“Fuck– fucking, fuck. You’re tight.” Matt shoved a hand down your front, plucking at your clit with an easy expertise that had your thighs quivering. You wondered if this was what he wanted to do a year ago when you’d trapped his hand in the same position, and with the way he seemed to throb inside you, somehow going faster and harder and deeper, you think it’s an appropriate assumption for your rather inappropriate position.
“Just for you,” you promised, nodding and words tumbling out, tripping over each other until you weren't sure what was real and what wasn’t. “I haven’t– I haven’t been with anyone, not since we almost– we–”
The moment crashed down on you moments later as you realised what you’d admitted. It was pathetic, you were pathetic, and you felt him still almost instantaneously. The change in pace had you clawing back at him, urging him to continue and forget because your mind was scrambled and you were so close.
“Matt, please. You stopped– Why’d you–” you begged around a sob, your voice hoarse and unrecognisable to even your own ears.
But he was pulling out, tightening his pants around his waist and then helping to pull yours up as well. Next thing you knew, you were being turned around, still flushed and pliant and throbbing with a need only he could fulfil.
He brushed your hair back, damp with sweat, as his hands cupped your face, the air shifting from borderline animalistic to something softer, sweeter, a side of him you hadn’t encountered yet between the first time and now when he’d been all cocky grins and charming words.
His thumb traced the ridges of your face, like he was trying to remember the impression of you through his touch, slowly putting together a portrait in his mind with every glide of rough skin. Then, he leaned down, kissed you all sweet that you wondered if you’d imagined the man from earlier.
It was silent for a beat, then another, and when he finally spoke your stomach dropped. “You waited for me? The whole year you never–”
“It wasn’t– I didn’t–” you stammered, seizing up as every defensive thought and argument you could think of fought to be heard. “I didn’t wait,” you said eventually, exasperated and embarrassed. You turned to look away, ears burning. “Not for you, it wasn’t a choice. I was just– I’ve been busy and well, I’m busy right now. In fact, I’m here for work and– stop! Stop that!”
He was laughing. Whether it was because of your lame arguments or the way you never really finished a sentence– you weren’t sure but likely both.
“What– why are you laughing?” you asked pointedly, shoving him back until he fell against the opposite wall, the space between you like a no man’s land you didn’t dare enter, not until you knew what was up.
“You’re just cute, that’s all,” he reasoned, that same stupid smile on his face that had you wanting to get on your knees all over again, even if the floor was grimy and the lighting in the restroom so terribly unflattering you were sure you couldn’t look anything that resembled attractive in it.
Matt, on the other hand, looked stunning. It annoyed you that you noticed that, still believed it even after his sudden change in mood.
“That’s not– I’m not–” you retaliated.
“You're not– what? Cute?” he stalked forward, palm on either side of your hips as his lips puckered up in front of you and you instinctively leaned forward to kiss him.
It took you admittedly long to process what you’d done because a second later, you pulled back, brows knitted together as you stared up at him, convinced it was a curse or a drug or something because why?
There was something about him, magnetic, an innate yearning you couldn’t let go of.
“I think you’re fucking adorable, sweetheart,” he continued, smirking like he’d seen the emotions flicker across your face. “And you know, even if you didn’t wait for me, I waited for you.”
The two of you made another promise: next year, same time, same place.
You smiled to yourself as you left for the airport again, no longer worried you were a psychotic fool a little too addicted to a man she didn’t really know. Because he felt safe and comforting and like a home you never knew you wanted nor needed until you’d stumbled inside, and you think, maybe, possibly, he felt the same way.
He kissed you goodbye, said he’d take you somewhere nicer next year and maybe you’d get to finish what you started– again.
And surprisingly enough, you were fine with it, with waiting and double-taking every time you crossed a brunette in sunglasses on the street.
You’d make it work as long as you ended up in his arms a year later.
He showed up, but you wished he hadn’t.
You never thought you’d see the Matt Murdock stumbling and incoherent, hair sticking up in opposite directions, and reeking of alcohol so strong you’re surprised he hasn’t blacked out yet.
Not to mention the indistinguishable stench of someone’s perfume, the bruises climbing down the column of his neck and disappearing into his partially unbuttoned shirt.
Yeah, you really wished he’d stayed home.
“Sweetheart, baby, love– where are you going!” he called behind you, tripping over invisible cracks in the pavement and suddenly, you wondered if he was even blind because you followed you with a confidence, albeit, a drunken, slurring confidence, that you hadn’t expected.
So you stopped, worried he’d walk right into traffic, and he slammed into you, large palms circling your waist as you steadied him by his shoulders. It was cold, unbelievably so, and his breaths puffed like cigarette smoke in your face.
Strangers walked around you, avoiding whatever was going on between you and your– whatever he was, like a plague.
“I’m going home Matt, I have a flight to catch,” you answered calmly, words a little short, a little terse, and even in his state, Matt noticed as he nuzzled into your neck. You couldn’t help but shiver, missing his touch and mouth and presence over the past year.
Sometimes, you wondered what would happen if you got on a flight and knocked on his door. You didn’t know where he lived, had never made it that far into his realm or world, but Google was worryingly useful these days and you didn’t think he’d turn you away.
But then someone drops a stack of papers on your desk– “Need these edited and sent back tonight, thanks!”, and you're reminded why you never bothered getting his number or address or an actual date.
Sometimes your life barely has space for you let alone a whole other person.
“But I just got here. Please. Wanted to take you out, then take you home…” he trailed off, now sponging kisses into the little bit of exposed skin above the turtleneck you had on. And your eyes fluttered shut because, well, why wouldn’t they, and you let yourself enjoy it, him, for a moment longer before the wind picked up and carried with it that same fucking perfume you’d smelled earlier.
You pushed him back and he pouted like a kicked puppy. “Matt, please, don’t make this harder than it needs to be,” you insisted, holding his hands in yours, between the two of you, so they couldn’t get closer to your skin, to where you really wanted them, because then you’d forget about where he’d been and why he’d been late and let him have his way with you.
You might have been touch starved for the past year but that didn’t mean you didn’t have any self-respect. Or at least, you hoped it didn’t.
“Hard? I can show you exactly what’s hard,” he mused and you scoffed at the line that probably would have had you giggling into his side had the night gone different.
“Fuck– grow up, Matt!” Your voice was getting louder, angrier, the exhaustion seeping in as your gloved finger pressed into a particularly prominent bruise on his neck. “You were with someone else, you prick!” It was like the drink drained right out of him as he stood straighter, sobering up almost instantly as if realising what he’d done. “I waited for two hours and you were messing around with some other girl or guy and–”
“I’m sorry, I–”
“No. You don’t get to be sorry,” you jabbed the bruise harder and he hissed, finally stepping back. “And– well– I don’t even get to be mad because we’re not dating either. We meet once a year and we apparently don’t even fuck but you’ll sure as hell go do it with someone else it seems–” He frowned but you kept going, needing to get it off your chest before you imploded.
You sighed, hiding your shaking hands inside your coat pocket, hoping anyone passing by blamed the chilled wind for your tears and not the man in front of you. “I’m an idiot, Matt. I’m fucking stupid.”
“You’re not– I swear, Christ– you’re not,” he surged forward, wiping your tears and your brows jumped. “It’s me– I’m– this past year– it hasn’t been good, none of it has been good, and I thought you’d see it in me. I’m not a good person, sweetheart, not for someone like you.”
Your chest ached. You felt something splinter, crack, break apart until you were melting into his arms, anything to get away from the pain of it all. You’d blame the blistering cold for it later, how you curled into his warmth and comforted his broken words in any way you could.
This time, when you left, you didn’t say anything about next year.
He could smell it on you. Someone new, different– male.
He didn’t say anything, knew he couldn’t because you’d definitely look at him like he was insane and really, he was starting to feel it because all he’d thought about was you, you, you, and here you were, new hair, new look, fucking beautiful, and someone else’s.
“I didn’t think you’d come,” he said over the rim of his glass. Water, just water.
“I didn’t think I would either,” you answered, and your mouth quirked like you were proud of your answer and the detachment in your voice.
Matt was proud of you too, despite it all. Something about the way in which you seemed to move about with ease, your heartbeat unwavering, no sign of the mess he’d left last time.
“So how’ve you been?” he asked finally, unsure of what to say. Because what could he even say? Sorry for fucking us up? Sorry for being an absolute prick of a human being and breaking your heart, but hey, I’m still reeling from it and it’s been a year but maybe my suffering will make it all alright?
You hesitated. He heard the hitch in your throat, how you tried to clear it and chugged down half your mug of coffee. It was burnt and bitter but you downed it like it was something exotic and worth the five bucks you paid.
Then, you lifted your hand, placed it on the table– the rustle of your shirtsleeve hinted at your movement– and you reached over with your other hand, held onto his wrist loosely, almost disinterested, and laid it on top of your hand.
He froze. He froze and he almost begged you to take it off, the words dying on his tongue but the ghost of them desperate to haunt the air around the two of you.
“Engaged,” you cleared your throat again, like you were uncomfortable and he hated it. “I’m engaged.”
It took him a moment to realise you weren’t saying more, and it took another moment for him to realise that you didn’t owe him anything else.
I’m not a good person.
“That’s– that’s incredible, congrats!” The slight inflection of his voice, something that probably should’ve conveyed genuine excitement and an eagerness to know more– he cringed at how it sounded– like complete bullshit.
“Thanks Matt,” you answered, voice barely above a whisper. “We work together and, honestly, he’s a real sweetheart so it was just– I dunno, easy? I guess that’s the right word, yeah. It’s easy being with him.”
Matt smiled wryly, stole his hand away and tucked it neatly on his lap. “Sounds like a charmer,” and he prayed you didn’t hear the sarcasm in his voice.
“Yeah, he is,” you agreed, entirely too loved-up to notice what was happening right before your eyes.
“So, does he know where you are right now?” he asked, suddenly curious. Like you’d said a year earlier, you weren’t dating, and any possibility of that becoming a reality had drained away the moment he’d shown up to the bar, drunk off of his mind and dishevelled from someone else’s hands.
But you’d done things, said things– things that might have been meaningful enough that when it all ended, like it had a block away from where you both were sitting, it still hurt.
So he needed to know if you’d told your fiance anything, if you still cared enough to hide it, hide him. Because if you did, maybe he’d hold out hope for once in his life.
The heat rushed to your face and you craned your neck away, twirling the lone ring around your finger. “Not exactly,” you relented. “I told him it’s a business trip, this yearly conference– and that’s not a lie because the conference was yesterday, I just– I guess I didn’t want to tell him about this.”
“Why?” he asked, whispering like a secret.
“You know why Matt,” was all you gave him.
You didn’t show up the year after, or the year after that. Matt sat in your booth alone, all night, until he had to show up at the office and explain to Foggy why he looked like he hadn’t slept.
“No, Foggy, it’s not that, I’m fine,” he’d insist when Foggy refused to accept any of his excuses. Like you hadn’t said anything to your fiance two years ago, he hadn’t told Foggy anything either.
Not because he was embarrassed or ashamed, but because he knew for a fact that Foggy would kick him in the ass for letting you get away.
But that was a month ago and Matt had been walking around like more of a zombie than ever. Mugs strewn across his desk, possibly growing mould but he was afraid to find out. Papers scattered, transcripts of interviews he doesn’t remember conducting on papers he doesn’t recall signing.
Matt Murdock was a mess and the only cure was probably off making babies with some other guy.
The twang of the bell hooked onto the front door alerted him to someone knew.
“Karen, we don’t have time for walk-ins right now!” he called, head in his hand as he was slumped over his desk.
He was met with silence and he rolled his eyes at no one. With a huffed grumble, he stood from behind his desk and swung the office door open.
His walking stick clattered to the floor when he realised it wasn’t Karen.
“Any exceptions to that rule?” you asked, timid and shy but entirely real. You were there, in front of him, mere feet away, and you were definitely not Karen.
“I don’t know if my answer to that question is entirely appropriate for a married woman,” he replied slowly, even though he knew there was no ring on your finger.
“--married, I know,” and now it was your turn to roll your eyes.
“Then why’d you say that?” you countered, taking a step closer, and he parroted your movements, heart hammering in a way it hadn’t in too long.
“Instinct. I wanted to make sure. Maybe you lost the ring, or someone stole it, that’d explain why you’re here, at least,” he reasoned. Another step.
“So you can’t think of any other reason for why I’m here?” You were a breath away, his strides admittedly, desperately, longer so he’d reach you sooner.
“I can think of a few but I’d like you to tell me yourself.” His voice was low, afraid if he spoke any louder he’d scare you away, feel you evaporate out of his touch as he raised his hands to your face and yours came up easily to cover them, like you wanted to hold him to you and never let go.
“This guy he– well, he said he wasn’t a good person and, honestly, I’m a sucker for a lost cause–” Matt huffed out a laugh. “So I thought I'd give him another chance.”
His head dipped, lips brushing against yours effortlessly. When he spoke, his breath licked across your mouth, a promise of what's to come, and you nudged your nose against his, hurrying him along.
“Where’ve you been, sweetheart?” he wondered aloud with the kind of reverence he reserved for confessions and church and a nameless priest.
“Right where you left me.” And you pressed forward, cementing yourself to him.
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