ㅤֹㅤ⊹ㅤ #ㅤFATHER, I HAVE SINNEDㅤ.ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱
☆ PAIRING : Matt Murdock x Fem Reader
☆ HEADCANON : How Would He Be When He's Obsessed?
☆ 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 victim—no, not exactly. You had seen something. Something dangerous, something twisted. And you were scared, but not fragile. Your voice didn’t tremble. Not once. Even when your hands did. And Matt… Matt heard you before anything else.
It’s 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 didn’t call you out. He just sat there, hands folded, pretending he wasn’t losing sleep over what it meant.
And when you came back the next day—he knew your footsteps.
Not because he memorized them (he did), but because they made him breathe differently.
Matt falls in love like it’s a courtroom confession. Like it’s a sermon. Like it’s a sin.
He starts showing up in places he shouldn’t be. You think it’s coincidence. He lets you think that.
When you pass by his office, he’s always free. Always smiling that quiet, tired smile. Always offering you coffee.
Always noticing when you switch perfumes. When you’re sad. When you’re scared.
He never asks why. He waits until you tell him.
But when you leave, the look on his face changes.
It’s not soft anymore. It’s ravenous. Like the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen is pressing against the walls of his skin, desperate to crawl out and see you.
You don’t 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: “Forgive me. But don’t take her from me.”
He wants forgiveness—but not enough to stop.
Not if it means losing you.
He never touches you until you touch him first.
He holds himself back like he’s one breath away from falling apart.
Your fingers graze his arm, and it’s over. He can’t 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 don’t know what it costs him.
You don’t know he sits on rooftops outside your apartment listening to your heartbeat while you sleep.
You don’t know he’s already chosen the exact moment he’ll finally tell you who he really is.
When you finally say, “I think I love you.”
Not because he chains you down.
But because the world becomes worse when you’re 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 that’s how he wins.
But with truths that are shaped, softened, sharpened until you believe he’s 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 he’s the one behind the curtain—behind the blood, the bruises, the justice—
It’s already too late to walk away.
You didn’t 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 “the death trap.” But you curled up, muttered a soft “Wake me in twenty,” and closed your eyes like nothing could hurt you.
You didn’t 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 suddenly—he couldn’t sit. Couldn’t 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 wouldn’t 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 he’ll crack if he lets it slip.
He’s spiraling and you think he’s just tired.
You brush his arm and say, “Go home, Matt. You need sleep.”
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 name—James. A guy from your building. He works in tech. Sweet. Smart. Harmless.
Then that night, he’s in his suit. Standing outside James’s window.
Listening. Cataloguing every sin. Every weakness.
Every reason why he’s not worthy of you.
James stares at his phone too long. He doesn’t 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 Matt’s couch again.
Murmuring, “You deserve better. Someone who really sees you.”
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.
He’s learning your body like scripture.
And when you smile at him, not flinching, not pulling away—
Matt swears he can taste your pulse on his tongue.
He wants to tell you everything.
He rehearses it in his head. Every day.
“I’m Daredevil. I love you. I love you so much it makes me mad.”
Because if he does, you might leave.
Matt would burn Hell’s 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, “This is the only thing that heals me.”
And soon, the Devil wants more.
Not just your laugh, your trust, your presence.
He wants your desperation.
He wants you to say, “Don’t leave. Don’t ever leave me.”
Because then you’ll finally be like him.
So one night, when you’re walking home…
You hear footsteps behind you.
“I think someone’s following me.”
Seconds later, he replies:
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.
You didn’t see the blood on his knuckles.
Didn’t see the smear of red across his cuff.
Didn’t 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 wasn’t 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 night—when you clung to him, breath shaking, eyes wide with relief—Matt couldn’t stop hearing your voice.
“God isn’t listening. But I still pray for you.”
Not in memory. Not in dreams.
He hears it in church pews. In alleyways. In his head.
“I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
He’s 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.
He’s always around. Always close.
You mention it casually one day. “You’re like my guardian angel or something.”
Matt laughs. But it’s hollow.
Because the truth is, he’s 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.
Matt’s always distracted. Jittery.
When he smiles, it’s not at anything in the room. It’s at the thought of you.
He starts cancelling cases just to be available when you call.
“You okay, Matt?” Foggy asks once.
Matt lies. “Yeah. Just tired.”
Of pretending he don't want you.
Of pretending he’s just your friend.
Then your ex comes back into town.
A guy from college. You mention him like it’s nothing.
Matt’s hands curl into fists under the table.
“He was kind of a jerk,” you say. “But we were young. It wasn’t that serious.”
Matt doesn’t 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, “It’s weird, my ex texted me once, then never again.”
Matt hums. “Probably for the best.”
He’s 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.
“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.”
“There’s a woman. I care about her. Too much.”
The priest says nothing. Just listens.
“I think I’d kill for her,” Matt whispers. “I think I already have.”
Not over danger, or stalkers, or work.
You cry because you’re exhausted.
You miss your family. You feel alone in the city.
It’s late. You didn’t think he’d pick up.
But he’s there in minutes.
Not dressed as Daredevil. Just Matt. Just a man with too many sins and not enough grace.
He doesn’t touch you, not yet.
Just sits close. Listens. Murmurs.
You lean your head on his shoulder.
That night, he doesn’t sleep.
Just sits in the dark, hand pressed to the place where your head rested.
Like he’s afraid it’ll fade if he moves.
He says it to the room. To God. To no one.
Because he can’t say it to you.
Not until you love him too.
Not until you realize he’s the only one who never left.
He fights for justice by day, by night—bleeds for it. Believes in it. He’s stood up to Wilson Fisk, the Hand, demons in Hell’s Kitchen and in his own mind. But nothing—nothing—has ever made him question his soul the way you do.
Because it’s no longer just obsession.
Every time you call his name, every time you smile—he feels it.
That creeping black thing in his chest. The one that says: She’s yours. She doesn’t know it yet, but she is.
He punishes himself afterward.
Pushes his workouts too hard. Doesn’t eat. Wraps his hands until the knuckles bleed.
He even breaks down in confession again.
“Father… I need to stop.”
“Her. Me. I’m watching her. Thinking about her all the time. I haven’t done anything, I swear I haven’t, but I want to. I want to be near her so badly it feels like I’m rotting from the inside out.”
He grips the wooden lattice like it’s the only thing keeping him upright.
“I think I’m going to hurt someone again. Just to keep her safe. I think I already have.”
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 don’t care?
What if she lets someone else in while I’m gone?
What if she stops loving me before she even starts?
The next morning, he’s at your door. Disheveled. Red-eyed. Apologizing.
“Sorry,” he rasps. “Work’s been… hell.”
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.
He’s building his own private altar of sin—made 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.
“I know I don’t deserve her.”
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 doesn’t touch you—he never does—but 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.
He almost breaks. Right there. Almost confesses everything.
That he’s the reason your ex vanished.
That he listens to you sleep.
That he has a drawer filled with tiny mementos of you—notes, receipts, photos. One of your gloves you left behind in his office once. He’s never returned it.
“Yeah,” he says with a broken smile. “Just tired. Work stuff.”
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 back…
If you ever kissed him, reached for him, whispered his name in desire—
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 isn’t his. A kiss that doesn’t belong to him.
Or maybe you never even saw him that way.
He’s 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.
He’s shaking—shaking—with the need to go to you.
Not to talk. Not to explain.
Just to make sure you’re still his.
You’re in your apartment when he shows up.
It’s 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 door—and he’s there.
Rain clinging to his hair, breath shallow, eyes red like he hasn’t slept in days.
He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t wait.
He steps inside and closes the door behind him, the click echoing like a gunshot.
You freeze. You’ve never seen him like this.
Unshaven. Undone. Unholy.
“Did you have a good night?” he asks quietly, voice low and flat.
“I heard you laughing,” he says. “With him.”
You back up slightly. “Matt—were you following me?”
His lips twitch. A bitter smile.
“I’ve always been following you.”
You try to speak, but he’s already closing the distance, one hand reaching up—hovering beside your cheek like he’s trying not to touch you. Trying to be good.
His fingers trace your jaw like prayer beads, slow and trembling.
“I tried to stay away,” he whispers. “I tried so hard, sweetheart.”
“But 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 makes—how it changes when you’re turned on, when you’re scared, when you’re happy—and not being allowed to touch it?”
“Matt… I think you need to go.”
His hand drops. But he doesn’t move.
Instead, his voice lowers. Broken. Raw.
“I can smell him on you.”
“I should’ve never let it get this far,” he breathes. “But I’m tired of pretending I’m not in love with you. That I haven’t wanted you every single second I’ve known you. I need you, and I’m done asking.”
Your back hits the wall before you realize you’re moving. His body cages you in, but he doesn’t touch you. Not yet.
“You can scream,” he says, voice deadly calm. “You can slap me. I’ll leave. I’ll never come back. But if you let me touch you now, just once—I won’t stop.”
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.
“Tell me you don’t want this.”
And that’s when his lips crash against yours.
— © luv-lock. Don't copy, use or translate any of my works here or any other websites ☆
