fear of god [Matt Murdock x F!Reader]

Writing / Not-writing

There's a cold breeze travelling down the street, brushing past your cheeks and leaving a chill. It's pretty quiet out here for a Sunday, though many people are inside the church. A few people pass you by.

"Y/N."

You look up, "Father."

"It was good to see you partake in mass once again," he gives you a gentle smile. The morning sun burns your eyes and you rise to your feet, returning his smile bashfully. You remember being young and new to the city, half on the cusp of faith before taking a step back. You'd only attended mass for a few months but you spoke to him often. That seems like a lifetime ago. You hadn't stepped foot in a church for years now.

"Yeah, it's been a while," you acknowledge, "but I saw some familiar faces in there."

He nods proudly, "Locals. Here every Sunday."

It must be nice to be devoted to something like that - something other than work. Something you care so much about that you're willing to wake up early, get dressed in your best clothing, and sit in a room filled with pious people. All you have is work and your novel, and you can't even think of a single thing to write.

"Well, thank you for finding me... I had to take a call," you lie through your teeth, to a priest you've known since you were young - and you don't even feel bad about it, which makes you feel bad. It's a cycle.

"That's more than alright," he responds kindly, "what may I help you with?"

Pulling your notebook out, you click your pen and he provides you with a quizzical look. "Does the name Richard Deacon mean anything to you? He may have attended here."

Father Lantom lets out a hum, his eyebrows furrowing for a moment, "Not quite, no. I don't recognise the name so he mustn't have been a regular. What's this about?"

"He's tall, very lean - his hair is very dark, almost black. His eyes are blue. Have you noticed anyone fitting that description around here recently?"

"Uh, I don't believe so," he mutters, features filled with concern, "who is he?"

"I can't tell you much," you admit with a shrug, "I'm just doing some digging. Have there been a lot of new additions at mass recently?"

He hums quietly, his lips pouting a little, "Yes, I thought it odd. But then again, the new year rolls around and people get a bit... sentimental, I guess; always showing up for one or two masses before they turn back to old habits."

You nod, "Old habits?"

"Sin."

You shut your notebook. He doesn't know anything. "So, no odd characters hanging around? No notable confessions?"

A look crosses his face at the mention of confessional. There's something he isn't telling you about it. It makes you itch.

"You know I can't speak to you about Confessionals," he states simply, "And I don't judge the people who come into my church, no matter how long it's been. If you want to get to know the people attending my church, come to mass."

He gives you a tight smile but there's a hint of a joke in there. And then, he wishes you a good day and heads towards the church. The sun is beating down now, somehow hotter than it was before. When you look towards the door, you see Father Paul disappear, hidden behind the large, wooden doors.

It wouldn't be such a bad idea, in theory. But you can't be seen hanging around so often - not if the person you're looking for is truly attending mass every Sunday.

Here's the thing: there's a string of murders happening across Hell's Kitchen, which is nothing new. This city's utterly infiltrated with crime, terrible people, and even more terrible cops. These days, it seems like nothing gets solved. When the first body was found, no one cared. You had tried to pitch a story to the Bulletin, to no avail.

Not every crime can be published, Mitchell had told you, we'd run out of paper.

When the third body was found, just a week later, you fought once more. It had to be the same person doing the killings, you were sure of it. It took you everything to get the information that you have now; police reports, photographs of the crime scenes, the empty suspect list.

Still, nothing. It seemed as though you were shouting and no one, not even God, could hear it.

The killings stopped. For a while. There was a suspect put into custody. Richard Deacon. It was quiet after that. And so, you let it go. You continued living your life - which means working, writing, not-writing - and you let it go.

Until last week.

It was early, nearly 7 am. Cold, too. You were even wearing a white, knitted scarf under your jacket. Coffee in hand, you were headed to the office. In your head, you were practising a pitch for Mitchell. It was a piece about Delmar's Deli & Grill, in defence of Delmar owning a cat that he keeps inside his store. Some New York newbie tourist-type filed a complaint about it and it got a lot of traction. There could've been something to write about there: small businesses, family tradition, multiculturalism in New York. But it really was a pointless piece, in hindsight. Even then, you were struggling to write.

It was usually quiet in the red light district, especially in the morning. Well, except for the few Monday morning clubbers lingering around, praying to sober up quick. You still remember the blaring alarms, the shouting, the screeching of tires coming to a halt. You remember the adrenaline, the fear pulsing through you when you saw two people, crouched on the ground, crying and screaming beside their friend. It was then that another victim was found.

She was still alive, for a little. Her friends were holding her hand, telling her to hold on, that the ambulance was coming. You tried to help. You wrapped your scarf around her neck, tightly, so the blood would stop. But it was pretty useless, you knew it even then but you tried either way. She closed her eyes and went limp, surrounded by her own blood. The ambulance came, took her away. The police took her friends statements, then yours, then half of them left while the others took photographs for their files. And then you turned around, mind utterly empty and you went straight to work, hands shaking and red. It couldn't have been Deacon, he was in custody.

You knew for certain that the killer was back. Same victim profile. Same style. Sure, the timeline is uncommon, but you're sure of their motive and their target. Something was happening. Something is happening. And you're not going to let it go on, not if you have anything to say about it. You got to work. You had written an entire three-page article about it, the families of the victims - though there was only a few willing to speak to you. You wrote about the crime statistics too. You added other similar cases from previous years. You wrote about the suspect in custody, how he must be working with someone. You slammed the police on their inaction, and criticised how Deacon would most likely be released due to lack of evidence and another murder.

It was almost published.
It needed to be published.
The victims were all sex workers.
Filippa Rey. Davit Hume. Judd Darley. And that day, her name was Isabella Martín. Though, none of them went by the names on their birth certificates. Sunny. Jack. Havi. And Bells.

It needed to be published, their stories need to be told. Light needed to be shed. You were almost bursting with frustration and sadness and anger at the entire world. But that day, the Punisher was locked away. And it was the only thing anyone cared about.