matt spellman

i write male reader inserts mostly focused on

marvel

dc

horror

kpop

fantasy

emotionally complicated men

requests are open unless stated otherwise

this blog contains

queer themes

angst

intimacy

horror elements

emotional dependecy

since evil dead burn it's on the corner i decided to create my scenario of an evil dead movie!

the deadite english teacher would genuinely be one of the most terrifying things in the evil dead universe because he never stops acting like a teacher

even after the possession he still speaks softly, still fixes students uniforms automatically, still reminds them to drink water, still smiles warmly before saying the most horrific things imaginable

he was the favorite teacher in school before everything happened

the type that stayed after class to help struggling students, remembered everyone’s names, recommended books to lonely kids, secretly paid for school supplies when parents couldn’t afford them

which makes the possession so much crueler because the students keep trying to believe he’s still in there

at first nothing feels wrong enough

he just starts acting… slightly off

too calm during emergencies

appearing in places without making noise

finishing students sentences before they speak

smiling a second too long

his eyes occasionally looking red under fluorescent lights

students begin finding strange comments written on essays in ancient languages

“OPENING YOURSELF TO KNOWLEDGE MEANS OPENING YOURSELF TO OTHER THINGS TOO.”

the school being catholic makes everything worse because the necronomicon was hidden there decades ago after a priest realized some texts were never meant to be translated

and of course the sweet harmless english teacher with a masters degree in dead languages is the exact kind of person capable of reading the incantations correctly

his last human act is locking himself inside the library trying to protect the students

which means the demon learns immediately that kindness is his greatest weakness

deadite teacher using school language while brutally murdering people is so evil dead coded

“attendance is VERY important tonight.”

“phones away please. the screams are distracting.”

“if you survive until sunrise, extra credit.”

“let’s have a class about how a demon can screw you children.”

all said with the warmest smile imaginable

and the worst part is that sometimes his real personality still slips through for a second

his expression softens after hurting someone

his voice cracks

he hesitates before attacking students he cared about

but then the smile comes back wider than before

fandom: The Hunger Games pairing: Haymitch Abernathy x male reader word count: ~3.3k

disclaimer: i still haven’t read Sunrise on the Reaping yet so this is based mostly on the original trilogy/movie version of haymitch + the way i personally interpret him 😭 also yes i already have more parts written for this fic but whether i post them or not depends on the engagement because i’m shy and need validation unfortunately ✋😭

part i — on the train to the capitol, you still pretend you don't love each other sometimes.

The train to the Capitol always smells the same.

Expensive alcohol. Polished metal. Too sweet a perfume.

And fear.

So much fear.

You learn this early on.

You also learn that Haymitch Abernathy hates the first thirty minutes of the journey more than anything else in the world.

Because that's when the silence still exists.

Before the sponsors.

Before the fake smiles.

Before the need to turn children into a spectacle.

It's when there's too much space left to remember.

Then he drinks.

Always.

You've been married to him for twenty years when Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark first enter that train car.

And they immediately understand two things: Haymitch is a disaster; and you clearly live trying to prevent him from dying of himself.

Your husband is practically sprawled on the train seat, a glass of whiskey in his hand, completely uninterested in the existence of reality.

You sigh.

Same old story.

— Please excuse my husband's behavior.

His voice comes out calm as he takes the glass from his hand.

Haymitch immediately grumbles:

— Betrayal.

— You've already had enough to drink for a five-minute conversation.

— I strongly disagree.

Katniss Everdeen stares at you both as if she were watching a dangerous natural phenomenon.

Then she looks directly at you and asks:

— So you're the brave one who took his last name?

Silence.

Haymitch chokes on a dry laugh.

You rest your elbow on the back of the seat.

— Honestly? Back then I thought he'd die before the marriage lasted long enough to become a bureaucratic problem.

— It could still happen — Haymitch murmurs.

You look at him immediately.

— Don't start.

Something changes too quickly on his face when you say that.

Small.

Instinctive.

Because Haymitch Abernathy is many things: bitter; an alcoholic; self-destructive; brutally intelligent.

But after twenty years…

you also know all the parts of him that only exist in front of you.

And one of them is the silent fear that appears whenever you speak as if you could disappear.

Katniss notices.

Of course she notices.

She's observant in that annoying way.

Peeta notices too.

He just reacts differently.

More gently.

More sadly.

— So you two really are married — Peeta comments.

Haymitch snorts.

— Unfortunately, legalized by the government and all.

You smile slightly.

— He cried at the wedding.

— LIE.

— You literally sobbed when they put the ring on.

Haymitch points an accusing finger at you.

— This is narrative manipulation.

Katniss watches all this completely perplexed.

Because nothing in front of her makes sense.

This man— this drunken, negligent, impossible mentor — looks at you like someone looks at the last living thing after a fire.

Even trying to hide it.

Especially trying to hide it.

_____________________________ //_________________________________

Later that night, after Katniss and Peeta finally go to sleep, you find Haymitch alone in the main carriage.

Another open bottle.

Of course.

You approach slowly.

He doesn't even look when you sit next to him.

He just murmurs:

— They're going to die.

Your chest tightens immediately. Because that's the worst part of the Games: Haymitch always loves the tributes too soon.

Even when he tries not to.

You take the bottle from his hand without resistance this time.

— Let's try drinking a little less, at least for the first few days?

Silence.

Haymitch rubs his face wearily.

Older. More exhausted. More human in the quiet moments.

— Y/N…

The way he says your name always sounds tired and passionate at the same time.

You hate how much it still affects you after twenty years.

— Hm?

He stares at the ground.

— I don't know how to do this sober.

The honesty almost destroys you.

Because Haymitch rarely admits weakness aloud.

So you hold his hand.

Just like that.

His rough fingers immediately squeeze yours back.

Instinct.

Habit. Home.

— You're not alone in this.

Haymitch lets out a weak laugh.

No humor.

— The worst decision of your life was marrying me.

You move your body a little closer to his.

— We've been at this for twenty years, Haymitch.

Pause.

Lowering your voice:

— I don't think you'll be able to get rid of me now.

Silence.

And then — very small — Haymitch rests his forehead against your shoulder.

The gesture is so intimate that it still hurts sometimes.

Because no one else sees it.

No one else sees the man behind the survivor.

You run your fingers slowly through his hair.

And Haymitch practically melts.

Too exhausted to hide it.

— You should have chosen someone better, he murmurs against you.

The phrase comes out muffled.

Old.

Memorized from being repeated so many times.

You answer as you always answer:

— But I chose you.

Silence.

The train continues moving through the night.

Haymitch closes his eyes slowly.

And you notice the exact moment he relaxes for the first time since the Games began.

Just a little.

Just because it's you.

_____________________________//_________________________________

Later, when you finally go to sleep, Haymitch follows you to your room without saying anything. Also routine.

The Capitol may have taken almost everything from him.

But not this.

Never this.

You change slowly while he sits on the edge of the bed, silently watching.

Heavy gaze. Tired. Needy in a way he would never admit to being fully awake.

— Stop looking at me like that.

— What?

You sigh.

— As if I were going to disappear.

Haymitch immediately looks away.

You got it.

Your heart clenches.

You slowly approach until you stop in front of him.

Then you gently cup your husband's face.

Haymitch automatically closes his eyes at your touch.

Twenty years.

And he still reacts like someone starving for kindness.

— Hey.

He opens his eyes slowly.

You kiss his forehead first.

Then his mouth.

Slow. Familiar. No rush.

Haymitch immediately holds your waist.

Firmly.

As if he needed to confirm that you were really there.

When you finally lie down, he pulls you against his chest without even thinking.

Another habit.

Another addiction.

Haymitch hasn't slept properly without smelling your scent for years.

And you honestly think you don't know how to sleep anymore without hearing his heart beating against the back of your neck.

Even broken.

Even tired.

Even sinking sometimes — He's still your husband.

And in the darkness of the train going to the Capitol, while the rest of Panem sleeps without knowing the names of the children who will die that year, Haymitch holds you like someone holding the only thing the Capitol never managed to take from him.

part ii — haymitch abernathy loves you like hungry people love bread

Living in Victor's Village never felt like victory.

Too big. Too quiet. Too full of ghosts.

But it became home.

Mostly because you two insisted on it.

Haymitch's house should be a complete disaster.

And honestly?

It is, in many ways.

Empty bottles appear in absurd places. The curtains never match. There's a whole drawer full of broken things that "maybe can still be fixed."

But there are also: herbs drying near the kitchen window; books piled near the sofa; blankets scattered around the house; and you.

You, mostly.

Katniss notices this immediately when she visits you for the first time after the Games.

She enters cautiously.

Like someone expecting to find emotional wreckage.

What she finds is… strange.

The house smells of freshly baked bread.

A kettle is boiling.

And Haymitch, incredibly, seems domesticated.

Not completely.

But enough to be unsettling.

She stands in the doorway looking around.

— This place is so you.

You look up from the kitchen counter.

— Was that a compliment or psychological concern?

— Clearly you choose things here.

She notices a blanket thrown on the sofa.

Then the vases near the window.

Then Haymitch.

Your mentor is sprawled in a chair, watching you cut fruit with that silent attention he tries to hide from people.

Katniss notices this too quickly.

Of course she notices.

— He would have turned this house into an alcoholic den without you, wouldn't he?

Haymitch answers before you:

— There's still time.

You point the knife at him.

— Don't test my patience today.

And that— that makes Katniss stop completely.

Because Haymitch obeys.

Grumbling.

But he obeys.

As if his chaos naturally orbited you.

Peeta notices it too, later.

Of course he notices.

Peeta sees love in small things in that irritatingly beautiful way.

He watches Haymitch automatically grab the right cup for you without asking.

He watches you pushing food onto his plate when he forgets to eat.

He watches the two of you sharing silence without any discomfort.

Like people who have learned to survive in each other.

It's strange to watch.

Beautiful too.

_______________________________//_______________________________

That night, Katniss ends up staying longer than she planned.

The rain gets worse. The whole of District 12 seems quieter when it rains.

You're in the kitchen making pie while Haymitch pretends he's not hovering around you like a grumpy dog.

— You're following me.

— Liar.

— You've literally been leaning against the refrigerator watching me for fifteen minutes.

Haymitch crosses his arms.

— Maybe I like the view.

Katniss almost chokes on the other side of the table.

You don't waste a second:

— Wow. The alcohol's run out and now he's turned romantic.

— Tragic for my committee.

Peeta is clearly trying not to smile.

Failing miserably.

Then Haymitch does something worse.

He approaches you slowly from behind. Tired. Silent.

And rests his chin on your shoulder. Sure.

Like someone who's been doing this without realizing it for years.

Katniss freezes.

Because it doesn't feel like a romantic scene.

It feels like a habit.

Old intimacy. Survived.

Haymitch closes his eyes for a second.

You immediately feel the weight of the entire day on him.

An exhaustion. Oh, the fear. The silent guilt that never completely goes away.

Then you ask softly:

— Headache?

He murmurs a “hm” against your shoulder.

You continue to fumble with the pie dough with one hand while the other automatically goes to his hair.

Slowly. Gentle.

Haymitch practically melted in front of you.

Peeta immediately looks away.

Katniss seems emotionally disturbed.

— That's bizarre to watch.

You laugh softly.

— Which part?

— Everything.

Haymitch opens one eye to face her.

— Did you come here to eat pie or to judge my marriage?

— Both.

— Fair enough.

Silence.

But comfortable.

Warm.

And perhaps that's what scares Katniss the most: you seem normal sometimes.

Not winners. Not survivors. Not people broken by the Capitol.

So… married.

________________________________//______________________________

Later, after Katniss and Peeta leave, you find Haymitch sitting alone on the porch.

No drinks this time.

Just staring into the darkness.

You sit beside him without saying anything.

He immediately pulls your hand onto his lap.

Another habit.

— She notices too much, Haymitch murmurs.

— Katniss?

— Hm.

Pause.

— She looks at me like she's trying to understand why you stayed.

Your chest tightens instantly.

Because Haymitch still does this sometimes.

Still looks at you as if your staying were a statistical accident.

You intertwine your fingers with his.

— Want to know the answer?

He lets out a weak laugh.

— Are you going to say something annoyingly honest now?

— Probably.

Haymitch sighs dramatically.

— Go ahead then, husband.

The word still does something inside you. Even after twenty years.

You move your chair closer to his.

— I stayed because when everyone started treating you like a symbol… for me you were still a person.

Silence.

Haymitch is completely still.

You continue softly:

— And because you never asked me to save you.

Pause.

— Just to stay.

His breath falters slightly.

Small.

But you notice.

You always notice.

Haymitch looks ahead as he speaks:

— I never knew what to do with someone who truly loves me.

That hurts. Deeply.

You gently cup his face, forcing him to look at you.

— Then stop trying to deserve it.

Silence.

His eyes become immediately vulnerable in that rare way.

Dangerous.

Haymitch covers your hand with his.

Squeezes tightly.

— Y/N…

Your voice falters slightly.

You bring your forehead close to his.

— Hm?

He closes his eyes.

Tired. Honest. Completely yours.

— I never did anything to deserve you.

Your heart breaks into small, silent pieces.

Because he truly believes that.

You kiss him slowly.

Without haste.

As an answer.

When you pull away just enough to speak, your voice comes out low:

— Good thing love doesn't work like that.

Haymitch looks at you like someone dying of thirst.

And maybe he's spent half his life exactly like that.

Hungry for something kind enough to stay.

Then he pulls you onto his lap without warning.

You laugh immediately.

— Haymitch, we're adults.

— Unfortunately.

— You're forty years old.

— And I can still carry my husband, thank you.

You wrap your arms around his neck as he buries his face in your chest.

Silence.

The wind slowly moves the trees of the Victorious Village.

And in that moment— on that old porch, in that imperfect house, in that forgotten district—

you don't look like survivors of the Capitol.

A deep cut and short study on Yelena Belova (MCU)

Yelena Belova, from the Marvel Cinematic Universe, was introduced originally in Black Widow (2020) as the adopted sister of Natasha Romanoff, and even as a possible “substitute” of the mantle of Black Widow in the franchise. The character here has a big conflict between belonging, a kind of jealousy toward the life she was never allowed to have, and the need of a family.

After Black Widow we see her in two other projects, Hawkeye and Thunderbolts* (where she becomes the central protagonist). It is through Black Widow and Hawkeye that we see the culmination of her main emotional conflict: a broken woman. In the movie from 2025 she is dealing with a clear depression (and a hinted alcoholism) that she clearly tries to hide, as she says “There’s something wrong with me. An emptiness. I thought it started when my sister died, but now it seems something bigger. Just… a Void”.

Here she tries to masquerade all of this with work, trying to maintain the image of someone who has everything under control, trying to just make herself busy so she doesn’t get to think about all her feelings. And let’s be honest: how many of us haven’t done that? How many of us haven’t just tried to “shove it down”? 

Throughout the movie we see a traumatic past, even more than we already had learned. A young girl who believed in a family that was never real, who had her childhood stolen and was completely weaponized.

Honestly, Thunderbolts* or New Avengers, call it whatever. It was the first Marvel movie (excluding shows—WandaVision, I still love you) that made me think: shit, maybe I am a little too much like this character. Yes, I was not raised to be an assassin but how many times have I tried to hide my emotions over medication, work, hobbies, and I never talked about them.

How many times have I felt… the Void?

Yelena Belova is the perfect construction of a female character in a franchise where her predecessor, played by Scarlett Johansson, was often written first through visual appeal and only later through emotional complexity. It is refreshing to see a woman whose emotional life exists beyond being in love with a man. Honestly, it would be almost impossible for someone with her life not to struggle with mental health. 

One of her lines in the movie that breaks me so much, and it was because, yeah… I felt and sometimes feel that way too.

“Daddy, I’m so alone. I have nothing left. All I do is sit, look at my phone and think about all the terrible things I've done, then I go to work, drink, come home alone, sit and think about all the terrible things I've done repeatedly!”

But she learned a precious lesson in the movie. We don’t need to be alone, she grows into a leader, the leader of the Avengers (who could see that in Marvel 2010?) and into a woman that still has her pains, but knows that she has a support group, that she is allowed to have friends, and that she doesn’t need to shove it all down.

Yelena Belova is not compelling because she is strong, but because she keeps trying to survive while feeling fundamentally hollow inside. She is not a symbol of perfection, but of endurance. 

Honestly hoping the Russo Brothers don’t completely ruin the character in “Avengers: Doomsday”, but future aside. To quote the incredible Raye with an excerpt of her song, that fits perfectly with the character. 

Fandom: Marvel

Pairing: Matt Murdock x Male Reader

Word count: 2.100

Y/N Murdock and his brother couldn’t be more different.

While one was more contained, protective, and carried guilt like it was part of his skeleton, the other was intense, sarcastic, and far too observant for his own good.

Y/N had always been good at noticing things.

Noticing people.

Noticing silences.

Noticing the way adults lied to children thinking they were too young to understand grief.

As the younger Murdock, being orphaned young and raised in the strange aftermath of violence, it became clear very early how much weight Matt carried.

Their father’s death.

Hell’s Kitchen.

Bills.

Fear.

Loneliness.

And Y/N.

Matt had always tried to protect him from everything—the violence of the city, the grief of losing their father, the cruelty of growing up too fast, and sometimes even from himself.

The problem was, Y/N never wanted to be protected.

He was trained by Stick too. He knew how to fight, how to patch wounds, how to survive.

He didn’t want distance.

He wanted trust.

He wanted to be chosen.

Even as adults, somehow, they still lived together.

Partly because New York was expensive.

Mostly because Matt worried too much and Y/N let him.

Matt went to law school, became a lawyer, and collected guilt like other people collected books.

Y/N became an English teacher, which meant he spent most of his days dealing with dramatic teenagers and badly hidden lies.

Honestly, it prepared him perfectly for living with Matt.

Because Matt disappeared at night.

Came home bruised.

Lied terribly.

Avoided certain subjects.

And Y/N noticed patterns.

He always did.

Foggy and Karen texting him at midnight asking if Matt was home.

The strange bruises.

The hidden box.

The blood that definitely did not come from “walking into a pole.”

Y/N knew.

Matt just didn’t know he knew.

And maybe that was the problem.

Because this wasn’t new.

This didn’t start with Daredevil.

It started years ago.

With Matt saying everything was fine after Dad died.

With Matt saying he’d handle it.

With Matt deciding what Y/N should or shouldn’t carry.

With Matt always choosing protection over honesty.

Even as a kid, Y/N remembered it.

Matt walking him to school with split knuckles and pretending nothing happened.

Matt skipping meals so Y/N could eat.

Matt lying with love in his mouth and blood on his hands.

And Y/N hated it.

Because love shouldn’t feel like being left outside the door.

It was a rainy night.

The apartment was quiet except for the sound of rain against the windows and the scratching of a red pen across exams.

Y/N sat at his desk, coffee growing cold beside him, correcting essays written by sixteen-year-olds who apparently believed commas were a government conspiracy.

Then—

A loud bang from the living room.

Immediate silence.

Y/N frowned, grabbed the nearest weapon available—a pair of scissors—and walked toward the sound.

And there he was.

Matt.

Half collapsed near the couch.

Dressed in red leather.

Bleeding.

Badly.

For a moment, Y/N just stared.

Not shocked.

Just tired.

Matt looked up slightly.

“…Hi.”

Y/N blinked once.

“Matt.

What happened?”

“Nothing, I just—got hit by a car or something.”

A beat.

Y/N stared at the suit.

“And you were coming back from a costume party?”

Matt sighed.

“I’ll call an ambulance”.

Y/N turned to grab his phone, but Matt stood up too fast and grabbed his wrist.

“No.

Please.

You know how to do stitches.

We both do.”

That wasn’t a lie.

They had both stitched their father more than once.

Some childhood memories were like that.

A few minutes later, Matt sat shirtless in a chair while Y/N cleaned the wound on his torso with the kind of silence that usually meant danger.

“And this happened in a car accident?”

“Yes.”

“And the first instinct of a blind man after being hit by a car was to walk home because hospitals are just too mainstream?”

Matt winced.

“I just knew you could handle it. No need to waste our health insurance.”

Y/N let out a slow breath.

“Yeah.

That’s a good way to put it.”

Matt could hear it immediately.

Something was wrong.

Not physically.

Something underneath.

“Are you okay?”

“Yes. Just stitching my stupid brother.”

A lie.

“You’re lying.”

“I already told you to stop using your weird demon hearing on my heartbeat or whatever.”

“Sorry.”

“Yeah, you should be.”

That last stitch hurt more than necessary.

Matt hissed.

“Wow. Do I deserve this?”

He tried to joke.

Silence.

Weird.

Awkward.

Heavy.

Then—

“Do I deserve this, Matt?”

The tone made Matt sit straighter.

Serious.

No sarcasm.

Which was always worse.

“Come on, Y/N… yes, I was at a costume party, okay? I know you hate when I drink and walk home alone, sorry.”

Y/N stood up.

Started pacing slowly across the room.

That was too much already.

“You have known me since I was born.”

“Yes… and the point is?”

Matt already knew the point.

“Foggy and Karen are my friends too. They text me at night asking where you are like I wouldn’t notice they could just text you. You’re not exactly the average blind man, so no excuse involving ‘I got hit’ really works on me.”

He turned.

“I’m the one who cleans this apartment, Matt. Do you seriously think I never noticed your secret box?”

“Y/N—”

“I didn’t finish.”

His voice was sharp now.

Controlled.

Which somehow made it worse.

“I am not mad because you are Daredevil”.

A beat.

“I am mad because you would rather bleed alone than let your brother stay.”

Silence again.

This time tension lived in it.

Matt sat there, hands resting on his knees like a man waiting for a sentence he already knew was coming.

Rain kept hitting the windows, soft but constant, like the city itself was listening.

Y/N crossed his arms.

Uncrossed them.

He hated looking nervous.

He hated even more that Matt could probably hear it anyway.

“I was trying to protect you.”

There it was.

The same answer.

Always the same answer.

Y/N let out a dry laugh.

“Protect me? From what? From knowing? From worrying? Because congratulations, you failed miserably.”

“It was never supposed to be your burden.”

“No. You decided that for me.”

His voice got sharper.

Not louder.

Just sharper.

“You decided I was too fragile, too young, too something. You made that choice years ago and never stopped making it.”

Matt stood up slowly, like approaching a wounded animal.

“That’s not fair.”

“No? Then tell me what is fair about this.”

For a second, Y/N looked younger.

Less like the sarcastic adult with perfect comebacks and more like the kid standing at funerals pretending he was old enough to understand grief.

“You let strangers stand next to you in the worst parts of your life. Foggy. Karen. God—even Stick knew things before I did.”

“Don’t bring Stick into this.”

“Why not?”

Y/N’s eyes were burning now.

“He trained both of us. He taught me how to fight. You taught me how to wait.”

That hit.

Hard.

Matt’s jaw tightened.

Y/N noticed.

Of course he did.

“Stick looked at me and saw someone worth preparing. You look at me and all you see is someone to keep outside the door.”

“That’s not true.”

“Then why does it feel true?”

His voice cracked.

Just once.

But enough.

And that was the real wound.

Not the suit.

Not the blood.

Not even the lies.

It was that awful, childish feeling of standing outside someone’s life, knocking, while they swore they loved you from the other side of the door.

Y/N looked away first.

“This didn’t start with Daredevil.”

Matt stayed quiet.

“It started when Dad died and you decided I only got half the truth. It started every time you came home with bruises and said you were fine. It started every time you made yourself my shield and forgot I never asked for one.”

Matt said nothing.

Because what could he say?

Sorry felt too small.

“Every time you come home hurt, every time you disappear, every time Foggy looks at me like he knows something I don’t—do you know what that feels like?”

Silence.

“It feels like I’m losing you in pieces. And the worst part is you made sure I had to do it politely. Quietly. Like a good little brother who should just be grateful you came home at all.”

Matt swallowed.

He couldn’t lose him.

Not for Fisk.

Not for the mafia.

Not for Hell’s Kitchen.

Not for anyone.

“I didn’t want you to be like me.”

His voice was quieter now.

“I didn’t want to become the kind of example that put you in danger.”

Y/N laughed once. Sharp.

“Do you think I want to cosplay and become a vigilante?”

Matt almost smiled.

“I don’t. I just want to know what the hell my brother is doing, what I should expect, and if maybe—at some point—I get to help.”

Thunder echoed through the apartment.

Lightning illuminated both of them for half a second.

Y/N took a breath.

“All I want is for you to stop treating me like the little one. Like the one who doesn’t need the whole truth. Like the one who needs to be protected.”

His voice softened.

“I am an adult now, Matt.”

“And I am your brother.”

“You are the only person in this world that matters the most to me—”

His throat tightened.

—but don’t you dare think I am less.”

Matt stood there, still, as if moving too fast would break the moment beyond repair.

For once, Matt Murdock had no clever argument.

No polished excuse.

Just the truth.

Raw.

Ugly.

Necessary.

He stepped closer.

I know.

His voice was rough.

“And that’s exactly why I’m terrified.”

Y/N said nothing.

“Because you are not less. You never were. That’s the problem.”

Another step.

“You are the person I care about most. Which means every time I go out there, every time I come back bleeding, every time someone learns my name—the first thing I think about is not me.”

“It’s you.”

Y/N’s arms were still crossed, but less like armor now.

More like someone trying not to shake.

Matt continued.

“I know what this city does to people. I know what happens when the people I fight decide they want revenge. I know because I have seen it. I have lived it. And every single time I thought about telling you, all I could hear was every possible way it could end with you hurt because of me.”

His voice broke.

Barely.

“I can survive being hated by you.”

A pause.

“I couldn’t survive losing you.”

Silence.

Not the angry kind from before.

Something softer.

More dangerous.

Because it reached places anger never could.

Y/N looked at him.

Really looked.

Not Daredevil.

Not the devil of Hell’s Kitchen.

Just Matt.

His brother.

Tired.

Guilty.

Human.

Y/N wiped under his eyes quickly.

“Idiot.”

Matt blinked.

“…That’s your emotional conclusion?”

Y/N rolled his eyes.

“Yes. Because apparently I have to be the emotionally intelligent one in this family.”

A small laugh escaped Matt.

Real.

Relieved.

Rare.

Y/N shook his head.

“I’m still mad at you.”

“I know.”

“Like, deeply. Poetically. Shakespearean levels of mad.”

“That sounds fair.”

“And if you die in some rooftop fight with dramatic Catholic guilt playing in the background, I will kill you myself.”

Matt smiled.

Soft.

Tired.

Noted.

Another silence.

Then, quieter—

“I never knew how to be your brother without feeling like I had to be your shield.”

Y/N swallowed.

“Then stop trying to be my martyr and start being my brother.”

That settled between them like truth.

Matt nodded once.

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Okay.”

“Suspiciously easy.”

“Don’t push it.”

Y/N let out something between a laugh and a sigh.

He was exhausted.

By the fight.

By the fear.

By loving someone this much.

By being loved like that in return.

He stepped forward first.

Matt barely had time to react before Y/N pulled him into a hug—tight, annoyed, forgiving only in the way family could be.

Matt held him just as tightly.

No performance.

No masks.

No lies.

Just two brothers in a tiny apartment, rain against the windows, and years of silence finally breaking.

After a moment, Y/N muttered against his shoulder—

“Also, for the record, your secret box was terribly hidden.”

Matt groaned.

“Please tell me you didn’t touch the billy clubs.”

“I absolutely touched the billy clubs.”

“Of course you did.”

They stayed like that a little longer anyway.

And for the first time in a long time, Y/N didn’t feel like he was standing outside the door.

A bunch of decisions made by other people?

A lonely 25 year man?

A gentle human that believes in kindness

And also a soul that believes that no good deed goes unpunished.

I hate that holidays at the end of the year. It's always a trigger to depressive episodes. To remember that I am far away from my family, my friends.

To remember that is a time that I can't hide how I feel lonely behind digging into work, hyper-focusing on giving perfect classes.

When I look back at this year I see how much I have evolved? I made my first trip all by myself, got courage to ask for what I deserve, but all I see is the downsides.

I don't hope 2026 will be a better year, this whole Idea of " a new year" is just an Idea that I can't buy probably since I was 17.

I wish everyone a happy 2026. And for me? I wish what I wish every year... the end.

I had no choice in the matter. Why would I? It's only the death of me.