#dds3

but fucking nothing! NOTHING FROM DDBA 1&2

FUCKKKKK THE GODDDDSSSSS

Summary: Matt meets an unlikely friend while being the more pathetic version of Phantom of the opera, hiding below Clinton Church. (DDS3)

Pairing: Matt Murdock x Jamie Calloway (Fem OC)

Warnings: 18+ only, mention of religion, and religious trauma, kinda mentions of somewhat arranged marriage, panic attacks, faith uncertainty, allusions to emotional abuse/indoctrination

Word count: ~3k

Authors note: quick edited there will probably be things I missed. Please let me know if you enjoy!

Other Chapters

Tags: @bunnywritesfanfic @castbound2358 @ace-degenerate-13 @multifandombliss

Reblogs + Feedback appreciated and highly encouraged

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Chapter 1: The runaway.

The church bells didn’t just ring. they vibrated through stone and bone alike. Even down in the cellar, the wedding march bled through the ceiling, bright and relentless. Like it had something to prove.

Matt’s fists drive into the hanging bag harder than necessary. Leather cracking, chains rattling. For a moment, it works—the noise, the rhythm, the impact swallows the music.

Until it doesn’t .

Until he notices the pattern. The way his strikes falls into step with the music. Like his body had already surrendered to the march.

He stops mid-swing.

A sharp breath. Then a low, frustrated groan as he let his forehead rest against the wall, knuckles still clenched.

He couldn't shut it out.

He pants against the wall, only pulling away when silence once again fills the crypt. He rolls his neck and resumes the pummeling.

The silence is the only peace he knows, until he hears a door slam open, and shouting above. Just as quickly, the door slams shut, and there’s clicking heels.

Matt tilts his head, tuning in: a panicked heartbeat, frightened breaths, and uncertain steps as someone runs through the church’s depths. The sounds draw closer. The heels stop, replaced by the softer padding of feet descending the cold stone steps into the crypt.

Unsteady, breathy sobs echo, accompanied by the rustle of heavy fabric, as a stranger enters Matt’s den.

He feels his way around the corner, and he hears her. A bride, a woman, had run from the wedding above, and with a soft thud, lessened by the layers of the dress she was in, fell to her knees in the dim crypt.

He could feel the raw, jagged energy of her cries. The way her breaths hitched and broke. She was unraveling, her chest rising and falling frantically. Each sob that tore from her throat left a sharp echo in the air. Her hands were shaking, tugging at the seams of her dress in a helpless rhythm.

“Oh god,” she gasped, trying to steady herself, her voice breaking. “Oh god—”

He didn’t think, didn’t hesitate. He moved toward her, urgency in every step.

“Get it off,” she managed, her voice barely a whisper through the panic.

His hands, rough and clumsy, slid to the back of her dress. He felt the tight, unforgiving lacing of the corset, his fingers tracing the knots with a practiced urgency, working to undo what bound her,

The fabric was merciless. Fighting it only pushed her further into panic. His fingers could not make sense of the maze of fabric tying her into the fabric prison.

“Brace yourself.” He warns, voice dark. His bound hands grip onto the sides of the corset, fingers brushing her skin, leaving goosebumps behind. He draws a steady breath. In a surge of strength, Matt tears the corset open, the seams ripping violently. He drops them, the back of the dress hanging open.

The woman’s breaths barely deepen, as she falls forward to her hands and knees, her body free from its prison. Matt can hear her blood pumping through her back, to the indents in her skin from the corset.

She breaks into sobs. “What have I done?” Realization dawning on her with twice the panic now. “Oh dear god” her breaths are still coming chopped and uneven.

Matt stands nearby, unsure of how to help further. His hands flex at his sides as if the answer is somewhere in the tension that lingers in his fingertips. Of course, it’s not. The crypt feels smaller now, the walls closing in with every broken breath this strange woman takes. The remaining panic of a choice he wasn’t able to grasp.

“Hey,” Matt speaks, softly. Careful, not wanting to make anything worse. “You’re alright. It’s over. No one will find you down here”

He grimaces at his words. They’re thin and inadequate for the situation.

The woman is still on her hands and knees. One hand holding her up, the other curled against her chest as she tried to ground herself.

“I left him,” she breathes, voice raw. “Right there at the altar… I just… ran. I can’t believe I did that” she’s barely controlling her breath.

“Easy, easy…” his voice is hushed. Gentle enough to guide her thoughts from the edge of her panic.

“Slow it down,” he tells her. “Just breathe first. Nothing else matters” he finds himself demonstrating, in through the nose, out through the mouth.

She takes deeper, longer breaths. Matt can hear her heart beat slowing to a regular rhythm.

“I thought I could do it.” Her voice trembles "What they wanted— What I was supposed to want.”

Matt tilts his head. Listening to her words and everything that lays beneath.

He lets them sit in the silence of the crypt, for a moment. A pipe dripping in some far corner, her breaths better, but still uncertain.

“You made it out” he speaks, voice low, tensed. “That’s enough for now.”

“I did it..” something changes in her voice. Light. Airy, not good. “I’m free.” She breathes, the air almost stolen from her lungs by the remnants of her panic.

She goes limp before she can finish. Matt catches her without a sound. One arm beneath her legs, the other against her back, holding her close enough to feel the heat of her panic. He stands, shoulders braced, and carries her through the shadows of the crypt, dress rustling against him.

He finally sets her down on the rickety bed in the corner, that he’s called home for a couple months now.

For a moment, there’s nothing.

Matt sits beside her, the damp cloth resting against her forehead, his hand lingering a second longer than it needs to. The air is cold enough to bite. It helps. Keeps him present.

Then, whispers emerge.

Followed by footsteps descending the stairs.

His head lifts slightly.

Two sets.

One measured. Controlled. Each step was placed with purpose—but heavier than it usually was. Deliberate.

A warning.

The other is uneven. Fractured. Breath catching between steps. A heart that can’t decide if it’s angry… or afraid.

“Father Lantom,” his voice is low.

The father steps out of the shadow of the stairs into the dim light of the crypt.

“Matthew.”

he pauses. “We’re looking for a runaway bride. Have you heard anything?”

“Down here?” he murmurs. “Father, I assure you… this is no place for a bride.”

Behind Lantom, the second man shifts, agitated. Shoes scrape against stone. His pulse hammers- too fast, too loud. Not worry.

Expectation.

Ownership.

Matt’s jaw tightens.

“I’ve heard nothing,” he says.

Both he and father Lantom know it’s not the truth. But they also know that this.. interrupted union doesn’t seem to be one that should occur.

Father Lantom is quiet for a moment. “If anything comes up please let me know.”

Matt’s jaw twitches. And he can’t help himself.

“Maybe you should ask why she ran,” Matt says. “Not where she went.”

“She fears God's plan, and Father Lantom will set her right.” The third voice speaks.

Matt kills the mock laughter before it can leave him. “God’s plan. Right.” His head tilts “let me tell you about go-”

“Matthew,” Father Lantom’s voice is both a warning, and a plea for mercy.

Matt’s jaw twitches as he holds back the words he wants to say

“If I hear anything I will let you know.” He says. Voice low and calm, yet bristling with tension.

“Thank you.” Lantom says and turns to the man behind him, whose presence made Matt’s skin crawl. The man had Agitated Matt to his core with a single sentence.

“Sir, let us go ask the nuns. They were in the garden. Perhaps one of them saw Miss Calloway leave.” The priest redirects, and Matt stands, almost on guard until he hears the footsteps recede out of the belly of the church.

When he is certain they are not returning for the moment, he returns to the corner the bed is tucked into. He sets some spare clothes out on a chair by the bed. A baggy tshirt, and a pair of sweats, Simple. Practical. She’ll want to change when she wakes, swap the half-torn dress for something whole.

He sinks into the chair at the foot of the bed and pulls the Bible toward him. A low murmur slips past his lips. His fingers trace the raised dots, moving with practiced certainty. Eyes closed, lips part over the passages, desperate for a voice he can’t hear.

A few pages later, Matt tilts his head.

There she is.

The shift in the strangers heart beat. She suddenly sits up, her gasp cutting through the air sharp as a knife. He hears the dress rustle as she ensures she’s covered

“It’s alright,” Matt says. “You’re safe here.” His hands paused on the braille beneath his fingers. He closes his eyes, not for himself, but to let her feel less exposed. “There are clothes on the chair.”

He can hear her breaths level out. Her eyes are on him. Taking him in.

“Who… who are you?” She asks, voice shaking in uncertainty.

“I’m a Good Samaritan”

“And… does this Good Samaritan have a name?”

Matt hesitates, head tilting again, surveying her. “Matthew.” His voice is low. He slides his bookmark into place and the bible snaps closed, a short echo lingering in the air.

“Matthew.” She mumbles. Her voice is threaded with worry. “They’ll..come looking,”

“They already did.” Matt stands, the scrape of his chair harsh on the floor. “I told them you weren’t here. They’ve gone, checking the rest of the church.”

“But they’ll come back.”

“Father Lantom, yeah. The other one? He won’t.” He leans in slightly, his senses sharp as he listens for the third man’s rhythm.“He’s gone. Probably out on the streets now, looking for you.”

A soft, trembling sigh escapes her.

“your name?” His voice is direct, low, attempting to sound apathetic.

She hesitates, taking in the surroundings.

“Jamie. Jamie Calloway.” She lets her name linger in the air for a moment before clearing her throat.

“There’s a shower in the laundry room.” Matt vaguely motions toward a sliding door, voice low. “Help yourself.”

“Thanks,” she gathers the sweats he left behind and pads to the shower. Turning back. “And thank you for not handing me over— I..cant go back—not to that.” she admits before vanishing into the shower room.

Matt tilts his head. The click of the door. The hiss of water, sudden and sharp in the quiet. He doesn’t move. Listens.

A slow breath. A pause. Nothing else. Then he turns, senses alert, air shifting around him, waiting for the next sign, the next hint of movement.

It comes shortly later. He recognizes Father Lantom’s steps returning. This time alone. Matt meets him in the centre of the crypt.

“Matthew.” His voice is calm. His robe shifts as he folds his hands together. “She is safe?”

Matt’s jaw twitched. He hated that the father just…knows things. “For now.” He says. Listening past the father to ensure he is alone.

“Her family is looking for her. Her fiancé will not remain quiet for long. This will escalate.” Father Lantom warns.

Matt’s expression hardens. “Let it.”

Father Lantom’s body shifts. He straightens his back “you say that as if you welcome escalation”

“I am not afraid of it.”

“I very much know that, Matthew. That is what concerns me.”

Matt’s body tenses in agitation. He hated how the priest could read him as well as he reads others. He elects to ignore his words of concern.

“Something is wrong with her fiance. I could hear it when you were both down here. It wasn’t love. It was Possession. Control dressed up as devotion. I will not surrender someone to a life of suffering under the twisted words of god.”

Father Lantom is.. silent. Stunned for a moment in the truth Matt speaks. “Matthew I believe that Go—”

“If you’re going to spew that God’s plan line to me again I wouldn’t bother.”

“No, Matthew.” Father Lantom corrects “I was going to say, God put you in her path to deliver her from that life of suffering.”

Matt grunts and turns his head slightly, catching the sound of the shower turning off. “She’ll be out here in a moment.” He brushes past the words Lantom says, not wanting to acknowledge them, or the bristling effect they have on him.

Father Lantom nods. “I would..like to speak with her. If that’s alright?”

Matt lets out a dry laugh. “You’ll have to ask her that.”

The door creaks open and Jamie leaves the bathroom, auburn hair loosely braided, some shorter strands around her face. The sweats Matt provided hang off her frame.

Breath stills in her throat as she sees Matt standing with the priest. Scared, like a deer caught in the headlights. Her eyes dart to every escape plan, every shadow marks a way out. Every doorway, a path to freedom.

She’s frozen like prey cornered.

“No, no it’s alright.” Matt’s voice cuts through her cloud of worry. calm, strong.

“It’s only Father Lantom”

“I’m not going back.” Jamie says, voice almost steady, but still cracks under the weight of the day.

“Nor would I expect you to.” Father Lantom says, voice the pinnacle of calm understanding.

Jamie pauses, shoulders relaxing. She wasn’t expecting that response. There was no rehearsed guilt, no familiar script. Not the same words her family had pressed into her, over and over, like they were the only truth she was allowed to carry.

Father Lantom takes a step, one hand out as an offering. “You get to choose your path, now. You are not bound by what they have taught you. God's plan is what is right in your heart.”

“You don’t have to figure it all out… not tonight,” Matt inserts, voice low, edged with something raw, almost broken.

“But you do have to face it—the truth inside you. What you want. What you believe… not what they told you, not what anyone else wants you to be. You are the voice of truth.”

Jamie watches him closely. Each word coming out of Matt’s mouth feels like a shadow, an empty echo. He’s hollow, broken at the seams, carrying the city’s weight and it’s crushing him alive. The words aren’t his. They’re just for her.

A flicker of peace fills her chest, but nerves are stronger. “I-I don’t know what I want…” her voice is raw. Honest. Afraid, yet hopeful.

Father Lantom nods, his hand brushing lightly against her shoulder, retreating the moment she flinches. “Forgive me,” he says quietly, bowing his head a quick moment.

Matt’s head tilted, hearing the flinch. Her heartbeat stuttered, her breath caught, and in that instant, a low, searing fury ignited in his veins.

Lantom’s gaze lingered on her, patient, worried. He spared a glance towards Matthew.. “Clarity comes with time, Miss Calloway. You’ve already taken the first step… by finding your voice.”

Jamie looks between the two man. “I don’t even know where to start.”

Matt turns slightly so he’s facing her a little more.

“I’ve got a place… I’m not—” He stops, swallows it down. “I can’t stay there.”

A beat, heavier this time.

“But you can. It’s… better than going back.”

Jamie’s brow furrows. “I don’t wish to impose-“

“You wouldn’t be”

She hesitates. “Only if you’re sure.”

“I’m sure.” His voice is steady, short.

“10th and 47th. Penthouse corner. Entry code is 1021. key’s above the door frame.”

Jamie stands speechless. Who was this man? So beaten down. So broken. And yet he gives to the world from his empty cup.

Father Lantom is the first to break the silence. “I shall call you a cab, Miss Calloway.” He nods, and walks in his slow, measured place back to the stairs of the crypt.

Jamie nods and turns back to Matt. She takes a step closer to him. Hesitating a moment before hugging him. Her head slotting against his neck with ease.

“Thank you.” She says. Her breath was hot on his neck.

Matt feels a tug inside him, a comfort he doesn’t believe he deserves. He scrunches his nose, pushing it away. Still, he hugs her back, slow, careful, almost penitent. His hand lingers, a brief, quiet confession: even he needs this.

“I only did what anyone with a good conscience would.”

He gives her a polite squeeze and she pulls away. She pauses. A kiss to his cheek, warmth blooming from where her lips touched.

“You did much more than that, Matthew. You gave me a second chance at life. Something most everyone deserves, but few get.” She gives him a last squeeze to the shoulder.

Matt can feel her gaze on him. Her heart was steady now. For the first time since they’d met.

“You’re right. So few of us get second chances. Don’t fumble yours.”

Jamie pauses, glancing back to see Father Lantom now waiting to escort her to her cab.

“You’re worthy of a second chance too, Matt. Everyone is worthy. You just have to decide to take it…. Like I did.” She nods her head, turning and taking a few steps.

Matt stiffens, jaw tight, breath shallow. Her words settle on him like a weight he can’t shake. Worthy… he wonders if he even knows the meaning of the word anymore.

Before Jamie gets too far, his hand slides around her wrist. Firm, yet too soft for a man so down on his luck.

“If they bother you,” Matt changes the subject entirely. “You let me know.” His voice leaves no room for debate. “I’ll ensure it doesn’t happen again” Jamie gets a feeling that this man is not lying.

“I…”

“You let me know.” His voice is dark. Stern. Not towards her, but the situation.

“I’ll let you know,” she concedes.

“Be well, Matthew” her feet pad towards Father Lantom.

Matthew listens to their footsteps receding into the main church, while he sits on one of the holds of the crypt.

Praying to god he wouldn’t hear her voice again.

wilson fisk’s wedding and penthouse from daredevil season three

Inktober 2019 day 24 #dizzy

Another day, another season, another hallway fight. My favourite. #SaveDaredevil !!