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āā PAIRING : Matt Murdock x Fem Reader
āā HEADCANON : How Would He Be When He's Obsessed?
āā NOTES : English is not my first language. Hope you enjoy!
It started with your voice.
You were a witness in one of his pro bono cases. Not a victimāno, not exactly. You had seen something. Something dangerous, something twisted. And you were scared, but not fragile. Your voice didnāt tremble. Not once. Even when your hands did. And Mattā¦ Matt heard you before anything else.
Itās the first thing that gets him. Your voice.
Not because it was seductive, not because it was sweet. But because it was real. It had weight. Color. Soul. It lingers in the room even when you leave.
Then came your heartbeat.
You lied to protect someone else. Not yourself. You thought no one would notice. But Matt did.
It was the tiniest hitch. The faintest tremor in rhythm.
He didnāt call you out. He just sat there, hands folded, pretending he wasnāt losing sleep over what it meant.
And when you came back the next dayāhe knew your footsteps.
Not because he memorized them (he did), but because they made him breathe differently.
Matt falls in love like itās a courtroom confession. Like itās a sermon. Like itās a sin.
He starts showing up in places he shouldnāt be. You think itās coincidence. He lets you think that.
When you pass by his office, heās always free. Always smiling that quiet, tired smile. Always offering you coffee.
Always noticing when you switch perfumes. When youāre sad. When youāre scared.
He never asks why. He waits until you tell him.
But when you leave, the look on his face changes.
Itās not soft anymore. Itās ravenous. Like the Devil of Hellās Kitchen is pressing against the walls of his skin, desperate to crawl out and see you.
You donāt notice how many people disappear.
That guy who scared you in the subway? Gone.
That creep who commented on your shirt outside the deli? In traction.
The ex who kept texting you at 3am? His phone was found shattered near a rooftop.
He prays after. He gets on his knees, bloody, teeth clenched, whispering to God: āForgive me. But donāt take her from me.ā
He wants forgivenessābut not enough to stop.
Not if it means losing you.
He never touches you until you touch him first.
He holds himself back like heās one breath away from falling apart.
Your fingers graze his arm, and itās over. He canāt forget it.
That night he jerks off in the shower, his head hitting the tile, whispering your name like a prayer.
He listens. He protects. He gives you just enough mystery to stay magnetic.
But you donāt know what it costs him.
You donāt know he sits on rooftops outside your apartment listening to your heartbeat while you sleep.
You donāt know heās already chosen the exact moment heāll finally tell you who he really is.
When you finally say, āI think I love you.ā
He wonāt let you leave.
Not because he chains you down.
But because the world becomes worse when youāre not around.
And he makes sure you see that.
Your friends stop answering. Your life gets harder. Everything tilts.
And Matt is always there to catch you.
The only man who never lets you fall.
And maybe thatās how he wins.
But with truths that are shaped, softened, sharpened until you believe heās the only one left.
Matt is not the kind of man who obsesses with wild passion.
He obsesses like a confessional booth.
He becomes your shadow. Your protector. Your lover. Your God.
And when you finally realize heās the one behind the curtainābehind the blood, the bruises, the justiceā
Itās already too late to walk away.
You didnāt mean to fall asleep in his office.
It was late. You were stressed. The case dragged on.
Matt offered you the couch, that same one Foggy calls āthe death trap.ā But you curled up, muttered a soft āWake me in twenty,ā and closed your eyes like nothing could hurt you.
You didnāt see the way Matt just stood there.
Your shoes were off. Your breathing slowed. Your heartbeat settled into that rhythm he knows better than any gospel hymn.
And suddenlyāhe couldnāt sit. Couldnāt leave.
He stood in silence for two hours.
Listening to every little sigh. Counting each time you shifted. Committing the exact way your spine curled under that ugly plaid blanket to memory.
Because if he did, he wouldnāt stop.
You see it in the little things.
His jaw is tighter. His knuckles more bruised. He smiles too hard, talks too gently, like he's afraid heāll crack if he lets it slip.
Heās spiraling and you think heās just tired.
You brush his arm and say, āGo home, Matt. You need sleep.ā
Because sleep? Sleep is where he dreams of you.
Begging. Crying. Bleeding.
It gets worse when you start dating someone.
He tries to be calm. Polite.
You mention a nameāJames. A guy from your building. He works in tech. Sweet. Smart. Harmless.
Says, āGood for you.ā
Then that night, heās in his suit. Standing outside Jamesās window.
Listening. Cataloguing every sin. Every weakness.
Every reason why heās not worthy of you.
James stares at his phone too long. He doesnāt text you back fast enough. He watches porn with other women.
Matt hears it all. Files it away like a legal brief.
But James leaves you three weeks later without a word.
Blocks your number. Moves apartments. Disappears.
You cry on Mattās couch again.
Murmuring, āYou deserve better. Someone who really sees you.ā
And when your heartbeat flutters against his chest,
He starts touching you more.
Fingers brushing your wrist when he hands you coffee.
His knee bumping yours under the table and not moving away.
Heās learning your body like scripture.
And when you smile at him, not flinching, not pulling awayā
Matt swears he can taste your pulse on his tongue.
He wants to tell you everything.
He rehearses it in his head. Every day.
āIām Daredevil. I love you. I love you so much it makes me mad.ā
Because if he does, you might leave.
Matt would burn Hellās Kitchen to ash if it meant keeping you.
So instead, he bleeds behind closed doors.
You see the bruises. The busted lip.
You ask if he needs help.
He just leans into your palm when you cradle his face and whispers, āThis is the only thing that heals me.ā
And soon, the Devil wants more.
Not just your laugh, your trust, your presence.
He wants your desperation.
He wants you to say, āDonāt leave. Donāt ever leave me.ā
Because then youāll finally be like him.
So one night, when youāre walking homeā¦
You hear footsteps behind you.
āI think someoneās following me.ā
Seconds later, he replies:
āIām already here.ā
The man following you disappeared.
One second you were gripping your phone like a lifeline. The next, there was silence. Heavy. Drenched in something wrong.
You looked around. Nothing but shadows and city breath.
Like heād been waiting.
You didnāt see the blood on his knuckles.
Didnāt see the smear of red across his cuff.
Didnāt hear the way his heart slammed against his ribs when you looked at him and whispered:
You touched him like he was your savior, not your stalker.
Like he wasnāt the reason you were scared in the first place.
He held you tight. Too tight.
Buried his face in your hair and inhaled you like communion.
After that nightāwhen you clung to him, breath shaking, eyes wide with reliefāMatt couldnāt stop hearing your voice.
āGod isnāt listening. But I still pray for you.ā
Not in memory. Not in dreams.
He hears it in church pews. In alleyways. In his head.
āI donāt know what Iād do without you.ā
Heās still praying, still going to Sunday Mass, but not because he wants redemption.
He just wants permission.
To protect you, even if it means doing something unforgivable.
That man who was following you?
He was a creep, yeah. But not a killer.
Not dangerous enough for what Matt did to him.
He told himself it was justice.
You start noticing him more.
Heās always around. Always close.
You mention it casually one day. āYouāre like my guardian angel or something.ā
Matt laughs. But itās hollow.
Because the truth is, heās listening to you sleep at night.
Your apartment's four blocks from his, but sound travels if you know how to catch it.
Your heartbeat is different when you dream. Softer.
He memorized it after the first week.
Foggy starts noticing changes.
Mattās always distracted. Jittery.
When he smiles, itās not at anything in the room. Itās at the thought of you.
He starts cancelling cases just to be available when you call.
āYou okay, Matt?ā Foggy asks once.
Matt lies. āYeah. Just tired.ā
Of pretending he don't want you.
Of pretending heās just your friend.
Then your ex comes back into town.
A guy from college. You mention him like itās nothing.
Mattās hands curl into fists under the table.
āHe was kind of a jerk,ā you say. āBut we were young. It wasnāt that serious.ā
Matt doesnāt hear any of that.
Someone else touched you.
That night, Daredevil finds him.
Talks to him. Follows him.
And then he hurts him. Not enough to kill.
But enough to make sure he never looks your way again.
You just tell Matt one day, āItās weird, my ex texted me once, then never again.ā
Matt hums. āProbably for the best.ā
Heās already taken care of it.
But the guilt is starting to eat him.
He kneels in church longer now.
Rosary clutched so hard his knuckles go white.
āForgive me, Father, for I have sinned.ā
āThereās a woman. I care about her. Too much.ā
The priest says nothing. Just listens.
āI think Iād kill for her,ā Matt whispers. āI think I already have.ā
Not over danger, or stalkers, or work.
You cry because youāre exhausted.
You miss your family. You feel alone in the city.
Itās late. You didnāt think heād pick up.
But heās there in minutes.
Not dressed as Daredevil. Just Matt. Just a man with too many sins and not enough grace.
He doesnāt touch you, not yet.
Just sits close. Listens. Murmurs.
āYouāre not alone.ā
āIāll always be here.ā
You lean your head on his shoulder.
That night, he doesnāt sleep.
Just sits in the dark, hand pressed to the place where your head rested.
Like heās afraid itāll fade if he moves.
He says it to the room. To God. To no one.
Because he canāt say it to you.
Not until you love him too.
Not until you realize heās the only one who never left.
He fights for justice by day, by nightābleeds for it. Believes in it. Heās stood up to Wilson Fisk, the Hand, demons in Hellās Kitchen and in his own mind. But nothingānothingāhas ever made him question his soul the way you do.
Because itās no longer just obsession.
Itās something crueler.
Every time you call his name, every time you smileāhe feels it.
That creeping black thing in his chest. The one that says: Sheās yours. She doesnāt know it yet, but she is.
He punishes himself afterward.
Pushes his workouts too hard. Doesnāt eat. Wraps his hands until the knuckles bleed.
He even breaks down in confession again.
āFatherā¦ I need to stop.ā
āHer. Me. Iām watching her. Thinking about her all the time. I havenāt done anything, I swear I havenāt, but I want to. I want to be near her so badly it feels like Iām rotting from the inside out.ā
He grips the wooden lattice like itās the only thing keeping him upright.
āI think Iām going to hurt someone again. Just to keep her safe. I think I already have.ā
He tries to avoid you after that.
Thinks distance will save you.
He stops answering texts. Ignores calls. Cancels plans.
But every time your name pops up on his phone, his stomach clenches. His heart races.
And then the panic sets in.
What if she thinks I donāt care?
What if she lets someone else in while Iām gone?
What if she stops loving me before she even starts?
The next morning, heās at your door. Disheveled. Red-eyed. Apologizing.
āSorry,ā he rasps. āWorkās beenā¦ hell.ā
You smile. You forgive him, easily. Too easily.
You always let him back in.
And he hates himself for it.
He lies awake at night with the image of your smile in his mind and the weight of your future on his shoulders.
Heās building his own private altar of sināmade of memories.
The way your voice lingers in his ears long after you hang up.
The shape of your silhouette in your apartment window.
The soft gasp you make when you laugh too hard.
He wants to keep you in a world only he can touch.
Not the kind God would approve of.
So he drags himself back to the church. Again. Again.
He sits under the crucifix and whispers to Christ like a madman.
āI know itās wrong.ā
āI know I donāt deserve her.ā
āBut I canāt stop.ā
And in that silence, he almost believes the cross is watching him back. Judging him.
You start noticing something's off.
He's quieter. Distant, but clingier. He doesnāt touch youāhe never doesābut he hovers. Shadows you. Shows up everywhere. It's like you can feel his presence before you even hear him.
One night, you finally ask.
āMattā¦ are you okay?ā
He almost breaks. Right there. Almost confesses everything.
That heās the reason your ex vanished.
That he listens to you sleep.
That he has a drawer filled with tiny mementos of youānotes, receipts, photos. One of your gloves you left behind in his office once. Heās never returned it.
āYeah,ā he says with a broken smile. āJust tired. Work stuff.ā
And when he gets home, he lets himself fall apart.
Tears. Real ones. The quiet, angry kind.
The kind that come when guilt meets longing and turns into despair.
He drops to his knees in front of the cross above his bed and sobs.
Not because he touched you.
He wants to hold you, trap you, chain you to his side, body and soul.
Because if you ever did love him backā¦
If you ever kissed him, reached for him, whispered his name in desireā
Not even if it meant damnation.
He hears your laughter from across the street. The rustle of your coat as you walk beside some man. A heartbeat that isnāt his. A kiss that doesnāt belong to him.
Or maybe you never even saw him that way.
Heās trembling by the time you go inside. Hands clenched. Teeth grinding. The red of his suit still on under his coat, like some twisted second skin. His fists still smell like blood.
Heās shakingāshakingāwith the need to go to you.
Not to talk. Not to explain.
Just to make sure youāre still his.
Youāre in your apartment when he shows up.
Itās late. Past midnight. You're brushing your teeth in a hoodie and nothing else, padding barefoot through your quiet space, when you hear the knock.
You open the doorāand heās there.
Rain clinging to his hair, breath shallow, eyes red like he hasnāt slept in days.
He doesnāt speak. Doesnāt wait.
He steps inside and closes the door behind him, the click echoing like a gunshot.
You freeze. Youāve never seen him like this.
Unshaven. Undone. Unholy.
āDid you have a good night?ā he asks quietly, voice low and flat.
āI heard you laughing,ā he says. āWith him.ā
You back up slightly. āMattāwere you following me?ā
His lips twitch. A bitter smile.
āIāve always been following you.ā
You try to speak, but heās already closing the distance, one hand reaching upāhovering beside your cheek like heās trying not to touch you. Trying to be good.
His fingers trace your jaw like prayer beads, slow and trembling.
āI tried to stay away,ā he whispers. āI tried so hard, sweetheart.ā
āBut I hear you. All the time. Your voice, your breath, your heartbeat. I dream about it. Do you know how hard that is for me? Do you know what it's like, knowing every sound your body makesāhow it changes when youāre turned on, when youāre scared, when youāre happyāand not being allowed to touch it?ā
āMattā¦ I think you need to go.ā
His hand drops. But he doesnāt move.
Instead, his voice lowers. Broken. Raw.
āI can smell him on you.ā
āI shouldāve never let it get this far,ā he breathes. āBut Iām tired of pretending Iām not in love with you. That I havenāt wanted you every single second Iāve known you. I need you, and Iām done asking.ā
Your back hits the wall before you realize youāre moving. His body cages you in, but he doesnāt touch you. Not yet.
āYou can scream,ā he says, voice deadly calm. āYou can slap me. Iāll leave. Iāll never come back. But if you let me touch you now, just onceāI wonāt stop.ā
His face hovers inches from yours. So close you can feel the warmth of his breath, the tension in his body like a wire pulled tight.
āTell me you donāt want this.ā
And thatās when his lips crash against yours.
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