fear of god [Matt Murdock x F!Reader]

March 7th.

It all feels like an optical illusion. It's the only way I can explain it - in my head or in words. From one side, it's bright light. It's him, all smiles, crinkles on the corners of his eyes, the black tie he wears, his red glasses. It's an image of golden yellow, joyous and comfortably familiar. And then it's like I look away for a second, just one singular second, and the picture changes. It's red. And dark. It's nighttime. Rooftops. Streetlights. A mask where his pretty eyes should be. Red knuckles. Horns. Bandages. Violence and guns.

I'm scared that it's one of those illusions where, once you see the antithesis image, you can never see the original ever again.

It's been a few days. I've just been writing. A lot. Work and leisure, hand in hand. I'll write one article, send it to the sub-editor, read it in the paper. And then I'll write one line of my novel. I've been working from home. It's quiet and lonely, and sometimes when I hear my apartment making noises, my first thought is 'he's here'. As if my brain has forgotten about the rats living in the walls, or the birds nest in the gutter outside my kitchen window. And I have to shut myself up and go back to my laptop to write more. Or put music on. I can barely listen to a single song.

My neck is stiff. It's 10:47pm and the New York Bulletin doesn't pay overtime, so I'm not sure why I've been writing all day. I think I may be throwing myself into work, but then again, it distracts me from throwing myself into his arms.