#fic trade

Summary: Sometimes it takes the chaos to hear the silence again.

Fic Trade Prompt: "Silent Snow”

Rating/Warnings/Tags: All (Christmas; Post-Curse!Yuki Sohma; Not Sohma!Reader; past!Yuki/Machi; not Anti-Machi; Ayame/Mine; Kakeru/Komaki; Hatori/Mayuko; Kakeru & Yuki; Ayame & Yuki)

Tag List: @imaginesfire​

Notes: This is obviously meant to be post-series, but I didn’t really take into account his “brawler” personality that developed toward the end there. Also: I love Machi, and any negative comments about her will be met with my face going >:( 

For the Moment

It was the night before Christmas and all through the flat, two creatures were stirring–especially the rat. When Yuki disappeared shortly after picking you up from work, you expected him to be in the bath, trying to warm up after so much time spent out in the snow. You found him, however, in the living room, hanging up stockings. Behind him stood the twinkling Christmas tree, already ornamented; next to him sat a stack of (badly) wrapped presents.

“Busy while I was out?” you asked after you had taken all of this in.

“I just thought it would be a nice surprise for when you got home.” Yuki sat back to admire his handwork on the stockings. “I picked up the cake as well.”

“Huh. Sounds like there’s not much more for me to do.” 

With that, you collapsed gratefully onto the couch. Even after having lived with Yuki for the past four months and finding that his family was more than willing to pay all the rent, you still couldn’t bring yourself to quit your cruddy retail job. It would have to do until you graduated–though the holiday rush was causing you to rethink this plan. You couldn’t ever remember being so tired before.

As your eyes drifted shut, Yuki hummed in agreement. The cushion next to you shifted, and then you felt Yuki’s hands gently shifting you so that you were leaning against him. 

“Still upset that we didn’t go visit my family for Christmas?” he asked you.

You could hardly believe that he was bringing up your stupid almost-fight. Did you appear at all as though you were in the mood to berate him at that moment? Maintaining consciousness was difficult enough. 

“You just don’t want me to meet that ex-girlfriend of yours you have all those pictures of,” you said.

To your surprise, Yuki chuckled. Though he certainly wasn’t as quiet as he’d been when you’d met him in your first business course two years back, the fact that he thought something funny enough to laugh like that had you opening your eyes.

“Tohru was never anything more than a friend,” Yuki said with such a sweet smile that you wished you hadn’t brought up the matter to begin with. “I merely thought it would be nice to make our own Christmas traditions.”

He had such a weird way of saying nice things when you least expected them. Staring at him probably only made your embarrassment more evident; you had to cover by snorting and settling back onto his chest. 

“I hope you’re okay with our Christmas traditions involving me falling asleep on top of you,” you said.

The gentle fingers in your hair were answer enough. “I don’t mind. The quiet is nice.”

Perhaps if Yuki hadn’t said that, the scene that followed would never have happened. Almost before he had finished voicing the sentiment, someone began to pound on the door. He disentangled his hands from your hair.

“I wonder who that could be,” he said as he got to his feet. “I told Kakeru not to come.”

Woe be unto Kakeru had he chosen to go against Yuki’s expressed wishes of being left alone on Christmas. It didn’t seem like Komaki would allow Kakeru to go over Yuki’s head, but you were well enough acquainted with the couple to know that she wasn’t always able to restrain him. You were so confident that whoever it was at the door would be expelled, in fact, that your only response was to roll over and try to go back to sleep.

“What’s this? Is [Name] such a child at heart that she goes to sleep early on Christmas Eve to expedite the arrival of Santa Claus?” 

That voice. You knew that voice. Your eyes popped open, and you flipped over to see, to your horror, Yuki’s older brother standing in the living room. 

“But Yuki!” Ayame cried. “You did not tell me how whimsical your girlfriend was!”

“Ayame, what are you doing here?” Yuki demanded, rounding the corner with Mine in tow. He looked much more upset than he would have had the visitors actually turned out to be Kakeru and Komaki–and with good reason. “I told you not come!”

“Iknow that, Yuki, but I also know what a lonely Christmas it would have been for you and [Name] if you’d really had to spend it alone.”

“Let me guess.” Already Yuki looked as tired as you felt, and his brother hadn’t even been there for ten minutes. “Everyone else in the family had plans that didn’t involve you.”

A very long pause followed this statement. Then, Ayame beamed. “Don’t be silly, Yuki! I will have you know that there are only three men in the entire world that would go to such lengths to spend Christmas with their brothers–I, of course, being first among them.”

Yuki only frowned.

“We tried to visit Hatori and Mayu’s,” Mine whispered, holding a finger up to her lips, “but Hatori slammed the door shut on us.”

“Did he,” Yuki stated. 

Ignoring this, Ayame threw himself on the couch next to you. You opened your mouth to tell him to get the hell away, but he interrupted you by slapping his palms several times against his legs.

“Come, come! It was a rather long trip, you know. It would be polite in this situation for the woman of the house to offer refreshment to her guests.”

“Ayame…” Yuki began in a sigh. Too bad for him that he had missed his chance to smooth things over.

“Hey,” you said. 

Ayame didn’t react. 

“Hey, you. You with the stupid hair. I don’t cook.”

He ignored your jab at his hair and, blinking, said, “Still? I would have thought Yuki would have tamed you in the months it has been since our last meeting.”

“I. Don’t. Cook.”

“Well, why don’t you at least try?”

“Ayame,” Yuki said, more sternly.

“What? Is this another situation like Tohru’s? Do you expect me to take [Name] out for a meal as well?”

“I don’t think that’s a very good idea,” you said shortly.

“Whyever not? After all, I have decided to forgive you for taking the place of Machi as Yuki’s beloved in his heart.”

“Gee, thanks,” you said through your teeth. You’d never met Machi, but given the constant asides you got about not matching up to her when Yuki’s brother was around, you were seriously starting to dislike the girl. 

Yuki must have sensed this, because he rapidly attempted to change the subject: “So how is work at the store?” he asked Mine. “Are you busier than normal?”

“Yes, of course!” She lifted a large piece of fabric you had assumed to be her coat. “I brought some projects along so we don’t get behind during vacation.”

Yuki appeared very relieved. “So that’s not something to forcibly change [Name] into?”

“What?” you asked, but no one heard.

“Don’t be silly,” Mine sang. “[Name] isn’t as cute as Tohru or Machi! Dressing her up would be a waste.”

Quite abruptly, you got your feet. The other three in the room fell silent. You didn’t bother to answer their unasked questions as you began to traipse toward the door–at least not until Ayame decided to speak up:

“Good heavens. Could it be you’re going to get food since you are so adverse to the idea of preparing it?”

“I just need a breath of fresh air,” you snapped, threw the door open, and shut it behind you before he could say anything to make you angrier. 

Outside, you could no longer hear his voice. All was silent and dark. Everyone else in the apartment complex, it seemed, was inside, enjoying their loved ones or a nap. Lucky them. Once Ayame decided to stay, he normally didn’t leave until Hatori came looking for him. For once, you could actually look forward to your hectic work schedule, as it would get you out of the house more often.

You felt bad, knowing that you had left Yuki inside to deal with his relatives on his own. He said that his relationship with his brother had only improved in the past few years, but they still clashed frequently enough. Still, Yuki was not the one constantly being compared to women he had never met or being told that he wasn’t good enough for his significant other–an idea you heard fairly often anyway, considering that most people at the school thought Yuki far too rich and beautiful to date someone like you.

Your bitter musings were interrupted by the door nearby opening. You spun quickly on the spot, preparing to run if it was either Mine or Ayame. The worry was needless; Yuki stepped out and closed the door behind him.

“You forgot your coat,” he said as he offered it to you. “And your shoes.”

“Oh,” you said. “Sorry.”

Unsure of what to say in the way of an apology for your recent tantrum, you simply took the coat and shrugged it on. 

Yuki continued to look upset. “You’re not going to leave, are you?”

“To go get food for that guy? Fat chance.”

Yuki blinked. “No, I meant–Ayame didn’t put you off of me forever?”

It was your turn to blink. “What? No! I just–I need a warning whenever Ayame is going to come around so I can mentally prepare.”

“I don’t think I can promise that.”

“I know.” 

You sighed wistfully and stared off into the distance. The apartment complex had transformed into a wonderland of sorts, dark with squares of light shining from each room and snow falling quietly down all around you.

“[Name], I’m sorry. Ayame means well. He just doesn’t know how to express it. And I don’t think you’re worth less than Tohru or Machi. They’re both very good people, but I’m not dating them. I’m dating you.”

You nodded. Suddenly your throat felt tight and your eyes felt as though they were burning. God, if you cried and Ayame walked in on it, you would have to punch him to save face.

“I’m sorry,” Yuki said again, “for ruining your Christmas.”

“Eh?” 

You looked wildly up and around at Yuki. His eyes were focused quite firmly on the ground beneath his feet. To get his attention, you grabbed his hand with one of yours. 

“Christmas isn’t ruined. In fact, I bet this is the best Christmas I’ve ever had, even if Ayame does decide to stay half a month,” you said.

“But he’s so loud.”

“It’s quiet out here.” 

Still looking at you, Yuki cocked his head. For the moment, all was silent but for the gentle hissing of the snow as it melted against the hall floor. Even that slowly dissipated as the flakes began to pile up against one another. Yuki smiled.

“That’s true. And it’s definitely not quiet inside.” He squeezed your hand before adding, “I know getting food for them is a hassle, but I bet there’s no one else out for a walk right now. Want to pick something up so we can stay outside a little longer?”

You squeezed his hand in reply. “I’d like that.”

“I’ll go get your shoes.” 

Before ducking back inside, Yuki pressed a quick kiss to your cheek. It did not take long for him to return, likely because he had refused to explain your disappearance or need for shoes to his guests. You pulled your boots on equally fast, then allowed him to hold your hand again as the two of you set off. The snow that continued to fall was perfectly silent.

Summary: No matter how cold winter gets, it cannot freeze the warmth of rebirth.

Ratings/Tags:T (Post-Future Arc; Ten Years Later Universe; Foul Language; Death; Mourning; Loss of Family; Reunion; Childhood Friends; Love Epiphany; Blizzard Conditions; Christmas; Civilian!Reader; TakeSushi; Tsuyoshi Yamamoto & Takeshi Yamamoto; Squalo Superbi & Takeshi Yamamoto; Hana Kurokawa/Ryohei Sasagawa; Heavy Exposition)

Fic Trade Prompt:  “The weather outside is frightful, but the fire is so delightful.”

Notes: "However, after Tsuna defeated Byakuran, they were told that the future changed and all disasters caused by Byakuran and the Millefiore would be undone.”

1) I forgot about that detail until after I’d already written eight pages of this.

2) That’s a stupid-ass decision, and I’ve elected to ignore it.

Tag List: @imaginesfire​

Something Old and Something New

Byakuran was gone. No trace of the world’s former dictator remained, and so vanished the threat to the Vongola across the world. Winter started a new era for Tsuna’s family in particular, one of safety and warmth and comfort. After months of fear, the holiday season was a welcome change. Takeshi Yamamoto was free at last: free to return to his baseball career, free to return to his loved ones, free to go home. He chose the latter. There was too much for him to do to attempt either of the first.

He awoke one December morning in the bedroom of his childhood. Everything was just as he remembered it, save for all the dust and a handful of cobwebs dangling from the ceiling. Underneath it all, the old trophies glistened on the shelves and photographs of times gone by hung in their frames on the walls. Even to the last, Takeshi’s old man had tried to keep things at home perfect.

Groaning, Takeshi placed his feet on the frigid hard floor and pressed his palms into his eyes. Who was he kidding? His room was not just the way he’d left it because his dad liked things neat. His room was just the way he’d left it because his pop had hoped against hope that Takeshi would come home. In the end, it hadn’t mattered that Takeshi had. He’d still come home too late.

He looked neither at the clock nor at his phone. First things first, he would pick up the newspaper. Takeshi pocketed his cell, stood with a frown, and pushed open the door that led to the hallway. 

The rest of the house looked less lived-in even than his bedroom. Dust laid on the wood floor so thickly that it muffled his footsteps, leaving an obvious trail of prints in his wake. Most of all, it was cold. The closer he grew to the restaurant, the more the temperature dropped, until he could see his breath fogging before his eyes. Maybe he should have stopped to put on a robe.

As had become his habit since taking up residence in his dad’s place, Takeshi closed his eyes to pick through the empty seats and tables. He knew the route well enough by then that he didn’t trip. A few seconds later, he stood in front of the opened restaurant door—and found a blizzard blazing outside. 

Ice flew so fast through the air that he could barely make out the shape of the building across the street, and what he could make out was only because he knew it so well. If that morning’s newspaper had come, already it was buried underneath several feet of snow. He closed the door with a sigh. 

Wind continued to scream against it. The quiet tapping of flakes accompanied the sound. There would be no leaving the house that day. At last the task he had dreaded could no longer be avoided. When he turned, he saw the boxes, files, and paperwork stacked throughout TakeSushi’s once bustling sitting room. Takeshi had come to put everything in order before he sold the place. There was no putting it off any further.

Still, he tried. Takeshi took a long, hot shower. He shaved—his chin still looked strange to him, though the scar had been there nearly a year—and dressed warmly, started a fire in the front room’s fireplace, and ate a very slow breakfast of oatmeal. Hardly an hour of his time had gone before he sat down at the first table to begin.

Tsuyoshi Yamamoto had not left many details regarding what to do with his lifetime’s worth of belongings. Such a daunting task had got an offer of help even from Hayato of all people, but Takeshi had declined. He wanted to say goodbye to his old man on his own—or maybe he was disinclined to accept Vongola help when it was because of the Vongola that his father’s death had  occurred. 

Hopefully the former. It wouldn’t do for him to become so bitter after they all had come through so far.

Much of what remained was left to the family’s only child, of course. He sorted through container after container, removing things the will indicated were for people like Tsuna and Hayato, for favorite customers, and even for Tsuna’s father, whom Tsuyoshi had grown a close friendship with in the last three years or so. These would be easy to get to their new owners—Tsuna could be trusted to distribute his family’s gifts properly—but others, not so much.

Takeshi idly sifted through a box of his pop’s old school things while he listened to the phone on the other end of the line ring and ring. The noise seemed far too loud in the chilly quiet. Not even those with cars could risk getting out in this weather, leaving the neighborhood unnaturally still.

“VOI! You know who the hell you called. Leave a message. Or don’t. I don’t give a shit!”

“Squalo,” Takeshi’s voice came out of his throat unusually flat, “it’s Takeshi. Dad—well, you know. He’s left you a few things. Mostly Shigure Soen stuff. Give me a call back. I need to know how to send it to you.”

His head hanging, he hung up. He knew very well that Squalo wouldn’t call him back—not until Takeshi called another ten times and annoyed him into a rage, at any rate. There was still so much to do, so many things to give away. Maybe he wasn’t as ready to sell the place as he had once believed.

Just as he was in real danger of falling into despair, something hit the front door in rapid succession. Takeshi didn’t jump, but his focus sharpened. Only more ice, he thought. It was really coming down out there.

Then the noise came again. Longer. Harder. 

Someone was outside.

The danger from the Millefiore’s leader might have passed, but Takeshi was not so foolish as to believe its members completely fine with Byakuran’s defeat. Stupidly, he had left his sword in the bedroom. Hayato would call him an idiot later, and he would deserve it.

Again, the visitor, whoever they were, knocked, and this time around they didn’t let up. Lucky for him that Squalo’s box sat so close by. He gripped one of the long objects inside and slipped it noiselessly into the air. It was only a training sword, but that didn’t matter. Anything could be turned into a deadly weapon in Takeshi’s hands.

Once he had crept to the door, he tried to peek out the window to get a better feel for what sort of threat he might be facing. He could see nothing through the blowing snow.

“I’m sorry,” he called, “but we’re closed. Permanently. You’ll have to find somewhere else to get lunch from.”

The knocking only hesitated for a second before it started up again.

“Fine,” Takeshi breathed, and threw the door open with all the force he could muster. 

Startled by the ensuing bang of door against wall, the person outside stopped their racket. 

He lowered his stick in surprise. “[Name]?”

Indeed his childhood friend stood there, knee deep in snow. Your face was dark behind the scarf wrapped around your neck. Frozen snot glistened on your upper lip. Most of your head and clothing was utterly indistinguishable through the ice plastered to your front. Clearly, you had walked into the wind the entire way there. Your violent shivering did nothing to distract from your scowl.

“Merry Christmas, asshole,” you snarled as you stalked past him into the building. 

So taken aback by your sudden appearance was Takeshi that he did nothing to prevent you from barreling right inside. He stepped back to allow you the space, then shut the door, all the while staring at you as though he’d seen a ghost. Only after a few seconds passed did he remember to set down Squalo’s training sword.

“[Name], what are you doing here?” he asked.

You didn’t answer his question. For a moment, you said nothing at all while you tore off the sodden hat that obscured your [color] locks. 

“When did you get back to Japan?” you asked him without looking in his direction.

He caught the real meaning of your question easily enough and felt color rising up the back of his cold neck. The warmth was welcome. The obviousness of his shame less so. 

“Who told you?” Takeshi wanted to know.

You narrowed your [color] eyes at him. “Bianchi.”

“Oh.”

That added up. Though Takeshi had been back in the country for some time now, he hadn’t got around to seeing you. He had known that he’d left you just when things between you were settling in. How could he reappear just to tell you that it was too dangerous for you to be seen with him? 

Though he had always intended to track you down eventually, he just didn’t know how to start. There had been all those messes: his younger self replacing him for several months; his father getting killed. It was Bianchi who he had planned to ask how best to approach you once he had the time. As usual, she was several steps ahead of him.

“Oh?” you repeated. “Is that all you can say for yourself? Oh?”

“I didn’t mean for you to find out through someone else.”

“Then how did you mean for me to find out? Were you ever going to tell me?”

“Yes, but—”

“All I know is, Tsuna told me I had to go into hiding. When I finally got the all clear, everyone I knew was dead or missing, and you want to pretend that didn’t happen and that I don’t exist!”

“I don’t want to pretend you don’t exist,” he protested.

‘Then why didn’t you come see me? Why didn’t you send me some sort of message?”

“I’ve been busy, [Name].” A flurry of desperation warred inside him against the deadened emptiness he felt over all those deaths you mentioned. “We had to put everything back together. And,” he swallowed, “and my old man died.”

Your eyes locked onto his. Seconds went by. Takeshi expected you to look around at the memories surrounding you, to realize that a man you both cared about was gone. 

Maybe you already knew, because you didn’t do any of that. What you did do was clap your hands to your face and let out a muffled shriek. When you resurfaced, your scowl had returned.

“I am too cold and sad to yell at you right now. I’ll come back when it’s warmer, but mark my words, Takeshi Yamamoto, you are on my shit list.”

Shit list? He’d never been on your shit list before. Almost everyone you knew had been at one point, but not Takeshi. That, however, was hardly his greatest concern. 

“Come back?” He blinked, and then you were passing him toward the door. Unthinkingly, he grabbed your arm. “You can’t go back out there.”

His touching you had the immediate effect of causing you to stiffen and try to wrench yourself free. “Let me go!”

“It’s too cold.”

“I don’t care!”

Takeshi didn’t let go. The longer he waited, the less you struggled—although you never once lost the prominent frown. Was this really the same girl he’d got his first kiss from when he was sixteen? Yes, he mused, you’d always been like this. He’d missed it terribly. He just hadn’t noticed until now.

“Stay until the storm blows over,” he said imploringly. “You shouldn’t have walked in it to begin with. You’ll catch cold.”

“Bet you’d have liked it if I hadn’t shown up.”

“Actually, I’m glad you came by. I’m going through Pop’s stuff, and I’m sure he left you a few things. They’ll be around here somewhere. Maybe you can help me look for it?”

“Trapped or not, I’m not helping you with anything. I’m mad at you, remember?”

His shoulders slumped. Takeshi had really screwed up if your years of childhood together, of scrapes and bruises and t-ball games in the summer heat, meant so little now. But the more he looked at the familiar shape of you and smelled your comforting scent—the same perfume as always underneath the stench of wind and wet—the less he wanted to let you leave.

“Let me make you some tea at least,” he asid.

You lifted your head to regard him down the bridge of your nose. Then you ripped your arm out of his grip and said, “Fine. Least you could do.”

“Great.” He managed a small, relieved grin. “I’ll go get it. Make yourself at home.”

After waiting to see you settled into the booth closest to the fireplace, he ducked into the back of the kitchen. He found what he was looking for almost immediately. Tsuyoshi always liked you. It was he that had suggested Takeshi ask you to his first formal mafia ball, even if telling you the reason for the ball was not permitted. As such, he was not surprised at all to find a cabinet stocked with the tea that had long been your favorite.

He returned to the front sitting room ten minutes later with a mug and a kettle full of steaming hot tea.

“I’m back!” he said, smiling. “I made your favorite.”

To Takeshi’s surprise, you no longer sat at any of the tables. He found you instead hastily surfacing from one his father’s boxes. You acted as though nothing had happened.

“Don’t think you can soften me up, Takeshi,” you said.

“I don’t. I think I can warm you up, though.”

You eyed him suspiciously as you took the cup he offered you in one hand and the kettle in the other. After pouring yourself a cup, you left the kettle on the nearest flat surface—in this case, one of the boxes Takeshi hadn’t got to yet.

“What were you looking at?” he asked, watching you take a sip.

“Nothing.”

“Did you really walk all the way here just to yell at me?”

“You deserve it.”

“Yeah. I do.” His easy smile seemed to unnerve you, so he tried a different tactic: “I’m impressed you survived. I can’t imagine anyone getting out in that.”

“What about Ryohei?”

“Hana would have kept him inside on a day like today.”

You snorted in a way that gave Takeshi heart, but you said nothing further. He waited for something to happen, but nothing did. Eventually, you walked back to your table by the fire and sat down to trace shapes into the fogged window glass.

He got up and went back to work. His phone sat next to the most recently opened box. In all the commotion of your arrival, he hadn’t noticed Squalo had sent him a text message:

“You call me ONE MORE TIME on this phone, brat, and I SWEAR TO GOD I’m dumping it and getting a new one.”

Takeshi answered, “Come on, Squalo. Some of this stuff is valuable. I’m not asking you to come all the way here to pick it up.”

Only a second after he sent that message, he thought better of it, picked his cell up again, and added, “It’d be good to see you though. You spent all your time with little me. We didn’t get to visit.”

No response. As he put the phone away, he caught you looking at him from across the room. You looked away at once. Takeshi moved on to the next container.

Time seemed to blur while he worked. Nothing existed except himself, his old man’s things, the sound of gale-force winds blasting against the walls, and the constant, nagging suggestion that he needed to do more while he had you there. He had no idea how long he’d gone without stopping—three boxes, maybe four—when he suddenly found a different mug of tea shoved in his face.

“Huh?”

He looked up. You towered above him, still looking upset.

“You should have some tea, too,” you said. “It’s freezing in here.”

Was it? He’d hardly noticed. A glance at the fireplace showed him that the fire he’d started that morning was now hardly more than glowing embers. 

Takeshi twisted a grin in your direction. “Are you worried about me?” Because if you were, things might not be as dire as he’d suspected.

“Of course I’m worried about you. What?” you added defensively. “I can be pissed off at you and worried. It’s reallycold.”

He laughed, making his way over to stoke the flames back to life. “That’s a lot of things to feel at once.”

“Not all of us have the emotional range of a teaspoon. Now drink your damn tea.”

Takeshi did. It thawed his insides enough to give him the courage to ask, “Remember when we’d have tea parties as kids? We’d dress up in costumes and pretend our stuffed animals were alive. Beg our parents for biscuits and say it was for them.”

“Remember when Gokudera found a photo of the time you wore one of my dresses to a tea party?”

“It’s the happiest I’ve ever seen him.”

Perhaps his soft, nostalgic smile was too much. You turned away from it and from him once again. Takeshi looked out the window. Unfortunately, the storm continued. He knew you’d rather not be stuck inside with him after he’d avoided you for so long. Keeping you here wasn’t exactly fair.

“Hey!” he heard your cry.

He rushed toward you, worried that you’d found something to make you angrier. You’d been digging around in one of the boxes he hadn’t touched yet, and there was no telling what his father had collected over the years. As soon as he got there, Takeshi saw the cause for your exclamation.

You held in your hands a framed picture, this one of you and him from middle school. He couldn’t remember why it was taken. Both of you wore your sports uniforms and beamed from inside one of TakeSushi’s many booths. A pile of empty plates nearly up to Takeshi’s head sat on the table. The way his younger self was looking at you in the photo made the present Takeshi realize he’d been in love with you long before he’d known he was in love with you.

“I didn’t realize you still had this,” you said softly, one hand stroking the glass front of the frame.

“I didn’t either,” he said. “Dad kept a lot of stuff I didn’t know about.”

“You think this is my box?”

“Maybe. If not, it should be close by. Why? Do you really want it?”

Your brusque demeanor immediately returned. “I want to get out of here as soon as possible. If I’ve got it packed when the snow stops, then I can leave without further ado.”

He understood by the wetness in your eyes that you were lying, but Takeshi decided to play along. If you didn’t want comfort, then he wouldn’t force any on you. He backed away and returned to his own assignment with only a quiet, 

“Suit yourself,” he said.

He had another message: “If it’s valuable, it should belong to the Prince.” A crowned smiley face punctuated the text. 

Takeshi wondered if Tsuna’s dad could get Squalo his things. It was going to take a long time to get them there himself if Squalo was in such a mood that he’d give his phone to Bel just to get rid of Takeshi’s messages.

More time passed. Ice smacked with increasing intensity against the windows. The sun set, plunging the room into darkness save for the crackling fire. Takeshi could hardly see, but still he kept going. He was afraid that if he stopped, he would never be able to start again. 

Memories crowded around him: artifacts from his father’s study of Shigure Soen; secret family recipes that Takeshi already knew by heart; album after album after album filled with pictures of him as a baby, toddling around a beautiful woman he couldn’t remember who must have been his mother.

A soft sobbing and sniffling slowly penetrated his clouded mind. In his defense, he thought at first the sounds were his own. Tears streamed down his cheeks, obscuring his vision further even than the lack of sunlight. But no. That wasn’t his crying that he heard. He looked up from the album. 

“[Name]?”

No reply but an increase in sobs. His vision took a few seconds to adjust to the blackness of the restaurant. Once it did, he worked out that the quivering shape by the dying flames was you.

“[Name]?” he said again.

“What?”

The word came out so soft and thick that he could hardly hear it, let alone understand it. Carefully, Takeshi picked his way to your side. This time, you didn’t glare at him or try to move father away. He crouched beside you, the better to see your tear-filled eyes.

“You okay?” he asked.

He knew you well enough to know that you wanted to shoo him off, to pretend that everything really was fine. He also knew you well enough to know you were more bothered by Tsuyoshi’s death than you pretended to be. After a minute or so of inner struggle, you shook your head and said in a watery voice:

“He wrote me a letter.”

“Who did?”

“Your—your dad.” That took Takeshi by surprise, but not as much as what you said next. “He said he hoped—hoped someday to call me his d-daughter.” With that, you dissolved fully into tears. 

His hand found your shoulder and squeezed. Heartened by you not shaking him off, he said, “Hey. It’s okay. He always said stuff like that.”

You shook your head a second time, shoving the crumpled, slightly moist paper into his hand.

“Are you sure?” he asked.

Still crying into your knees, you nodded. 

Takeshi shifted closer to the fire to read while keeping as near to you as you would allow. The sight of his pop’s handwriting shocked him like a punch to the gut, but if you thought he should read the letter, then he would read the letter. Anything to quiet your crying.

Dear [Name],

Before I begin, I must say that I hope you can forgive an old man’s meddling in affairs that are not his business. This letter should have been sent a long, long time ago. I suppose I thought I would talk to you in person about these matters, but you haven’t been by. Not since Takeshi left. I’m not surprised. Still, I feel that I should say all this while I still can.

Takeshi leaving is what I wanted to meddle in, actually. He loves you, even if he can’t tell you everything. The boy’s got secrets even from me. The ones I know about, I cannot share with you without his permission. That’s the way things are. But secret or not, he loves you. He always has.

I know it hurts that he left. It hurts me, too. I worry about him every day. I know he loves his old man, though. That’s what gets me through. Maybe knowing that Takeshi loves you will help you get through his absence, too.

I miss you at the shop. You’ve been around and underfoot since Takeshi could walk. Things aren’t the same without you two getting in the way. I understand why you haven’t come to see me—but I hope that you’ll be able to forgive him. I hope you will be underfoot again when he comes home. I hope he finally gets himself together and asks you to marry him. He’s only been talking about it since you both were five.

He’s dense. You know I adore the boy, but, again, that’s the way things are. It might be up to you. Either way, it’s this old man’s wish that he will one day call you his daughter.

You are welcome here any time. Takeshi doesn’t have to be there. You’re old enough now that we can crack open the sake and eat fatty tuna, on the house. Maybe we can talk about how much we want him to come back. The invitation is always open.

Best wishes,

Tsuyoshi Yamamoto

Takeshi’s eyes slid shut as they came to end of the letter. So his dad had known. Nothing much ever escaped him. If only Takeshi had got himself together in time. If only his old man had got his dying wish.

“He never sent it,” you croaked, breaking into Takeshi’s mournful thoughts and sounding even more miserable than he felt.

“He probably never got the chance,” Takeshi said. “I’m sure it’s not because of anything you did.”

“I should have come to see him.”

“It’s not your fault he died. Or that you didn’t get the letter. Or that neither of us gave him what he really wanted.” 

For a long time, he watched the fire, until his eyes grew sightless and all that he could think of was how much life he had still left to live without his father’s guidance. Then it hit him: there was still time left to give Tsuyoshi what he’d always wanted. 

“We still could do that last one, though,” Takeshi mused aloud.

You paused in rubbing the tears from your cheeks to shoot him a sharp sort of look. “What?”

“There’s still time to fulfill his dream,” he said slowly. He slid onto the ground to kneel in front of you. “[Name], will you—”

Every speck of color drained from your face as you lurched into a standing position. “You better not be about to propose to me, Takeshi, or I swear I’ll—I’ll…I don’t know what I’ll do, but neither of us will like it!”

Takeshi hesitated before he let out an embarrassed chuckle. “No. I haven’t got a ring, do I? Besides, you’re mad at me.”

“Damn right I am.”

He awkwardly stood up and went to sit again next to the fireplace. “What I was going to say was…would you stay the night with me?” At the look on your face, he quickly added, “not like that! I just…” scratching his cheek in characteristic thought, he peered up at you, “I miss my best friend. Maybe you don’t love me anymore. That’s okay. But you still love Dad, right?”

For a moment, you were quiet. Then: “Yeah. He was a good man.”

“Right. And by the sound of this, it’d break his heart to know we won’t even talk to each other anymore. So stay the night. Help me go through his stuff. Let’s see if there’s anything left of…us.”

A longer moment passed. Takeshi’s heart pounded. What he would do if you refused, he didn’t know. He could not keep you there against your will.

His worry was for naught. You sat next to him, embarrassment evident even in the low firelight, and said, “One night.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I miss my best friend, too.”

Takeshi beamed.

“Don’t let it go to your head,” you said, and tipped your cheek onto his shoulder.

“You know,” he said, “maybe we a don’t have to sell the place. We could keep it. Reopen the shop.”

“I don’t know how we’re gonna do that. You’re always busy with whatever Tsuna’s up to, and I’m not exactly housewife material. We don’t even know if we’re going to wind up together like that. You’d have to run the place all alone.“

“True. Guess I don’t have all the answers.”

You settled your chin onto his shoulder to regard him wordlessly. A second later, you had kissed him softly on the lips. “You don’t have to. Now shut up so I can keep being angry with you.”

It took all his strength not to grin. “Yes, ma’am.”

A smile almost graced your lips as you turned away. You did not, however, leave his side. 

Warm by the fire, Takeshi listened to the blizzard blowing outside where it could not touch him. For the time being, he felt like nothing could. He was grateful for the fire, grateful for your company, and most of all grateful for his pop looking out for him even from beyond the grave. Something new stirred inside him—something he wished his father could see. But it was because of Tsuyoshi that Takeshi could feel it himself:

No matter how cold life got, there was always hope, always warmth to be found. No matter how lonely Takeshi felt, he would always have you.

Summary:They say the older you get, the more you regret those things you never did.

Fic Trade Prompt: "Who am I to stand in your way?“

Rating/Warnings/Tag: T (Implied Physical Abuse; Implied Abusive Marriage; Original TYL! Canon; Mild Language; Smoking!Gokudera; Sun Flame!Reader; Abusive!Xanxus; TYL!Xanxus/Reader; Tsuna/Kyoko; Lussuria & Reader; Tsuna & Gokudera; Childhood!Gokudera/Reader)

Tangled Strings

Hayato Gokudera never had been good with people. He didn’t like most people. Try as he might, that friendly, doting, foppish aspect of the business didn’t fit him. Now that he was well into his twenties, he seemed unlikely to ever change. Meetings were punishments, parties torture, and weddings? Weddings were the worst of all. All those people wheedling and gallivanting for hours on end typically had him itching to leave, but tonight he felt as though he were burning from the inside out.

It was in such a state that Hayato’s companions—the two that had joined him there—found him in one of the Vongola Mansion’s halls. He stood alone, fidgeting, mussing his hair, muttering to himself. His presence had not been required, and he knew it. Tsuna had even halfheartedly ordered him to stay in Japan. But even in one of the rare cases that his right hand man disobeyed him, Tsuna did not choose to remind Hayato that he had told him so. No, instead pity welled his warm brown eyes—pity that Hayato did not want to see.

“I think it would be all right for us to leave now.” Tsuna’s voice echoed in the emptiness. 

So did Hayato’s reply of, “Huh.”

“I should be getting back to Kyoko. Did you want to…?”

Being treated gently, as though he were a child, only stoked the flames inside Hayato’s stomach. He turned toward the nearest painting and resisted the urge to hold himself as he’d used to whenever he’d seen his sister’s face. Bianchi had tried to keep Hayato away as well when she’d heard his plans. Probably had mentioned her concerns to Tsuna, too. God, how pathetic Hayato must have looked to his boss in that moment.

“Go on, Tenth,” he said. “I’m not ready to leave just yet.”

“Gokudera…”

Hayato spun back to him with a grin. “It’s a party, right? Haven’t had a good excuse for one of those in a while. Don’t make Kyoko worry. I’ll catch up with you later.”

Despite the force of Hayato’s smile, Tsuna did not appear convinced. He opened his mouth as though to argue his point, but just as he did, Ryohei got off the phone with his wife and blundered with typical delicacy into someone else’s conversation. Without so much as an observation that he might be interrupting, he clapped a meaty hand to Hayato’s shoulder before leaning in. His breath reeked of the wine the reception had provided that day.

“What an EXTREMELY great ceremony, right?” he said much too loudly. “Good to see [Name] again, though. She looks happy to the EXTREME!”

At once, Hayato’s forced smile vanished as he stepped out of Ryohei’s grip. “Don’t talk to me when you’re drunk, Turf Top,” he snapped. 

Ryohei’s genial manner vanished, too. “Hey! Who you calling Turf Top, Octopus Head?”

“Ryohei.” 

The name came out of Tsuna’s mouth sternly enough to shut Ryohei up. He stepped away from Hayato, though not without a dirty look in his direction. While this went on, Tsuna took Ryohei by the elbow and led him toward the entrance hall. Tsuna’s eyes met Hayato’s a second time with less pity than before. 

“I’ll send the car to pick you up in an hour, okay?” he said.

It was not a suggestion. His message was clear: Hayato needed to get his affairs in order sooner rather than later. He had decided to be here; he had decided to stay. Tsuna had offered him every out available. Now Hayato was on his own and representing the burgeoning Japanese Vongola branch by himself. 

Wordlessly, Hayato gave him a single nod, then watched until the other two stumbled out of sight around a distant corner. Only after they vanished did he shift his attention back to the ballroom down the hall.

A square of bright light fell across the dimmer hallway that he strode through. All the sound in the building issued from that open door. Laughter, the clanking of forks against plates, and music all clattered painfully against his tired ears. The toes of his dress shoes had barely touched the carpet outside this chamber when more noises joined those: a stream of curses; several shattering glasses; screams; and a single high, girlish protest.

He froze where he stood. Going back inside was an option…

…But on second thought, he needed a cigarette.

Under cover of the brawl now underway in what had once been a wedding reception, Hayato went back the way he’d come from. If he remembered this house right—and he ought to; he had spent more than enough time here in his youth—there was a backdoor to the gardens in one of the studies. 

Before the fight had time to really get going, he was outside in the fresh air. He filled his lungs with the heady smell of flowers, dug his box of cigarettes and his lighter out of his pocket, and lit up. His head cleared as soon as the stick touched his lips.

God, what was he doing here?

He should have listened to Tsuna. That was his job, after all. Tsuna had known what all of this would do to him. The Vongola’s right hand man refusing to make an appearance at such a high profile event surely would have set them back years in terms of alliances, and yet Tsuna had been willing to make that sacrifice for Hayato’s sake. Leave it to Hayato to throw that all back in his best friend’s face. 

As he released a long stream of smoke from his mouth and stepped onto the garden path, he remembered his own assurances that he’d be fine: “No, Tenth! I’ll go. This is important to you, so it’s important to me. We can’t afford to pass this up.” 

Bullshit. Tsuna would have come; Ryohei would have come; no one wanted Hayato here. Now he was stuck there until the driver returned—not that lingering around his failures was out of the ordinary for him. The trick was to avoid them for the rest of the night.

As soon as Hayato thought it, he should have known that doing so would be impossible. A figure stood at the edge of the garden pond, just outside the glow of the lanterns that lit the path. He didn’t need less ambiance to recognize you—and you him. Just as he was about to turn tail, you looked in his direction, then looked swiftly away. 

Hayato looked behind him to see nothing between himself and the door back inside. It would be easier on both of you if he just walked away.

He grit his teeth. No. Why had he insisted on letting Tsuna and Ryohei leave without him if he wasn’t going to do anything? Hayato had been called many things by the family here in Italy, not all of them unfounded, but a coward? No one ever dared to call him that.

“Hey,” he said as he stepped into the space next to you. 

You could have walked away then. That would have been acceptable. Expected, even. Instead, you answered him. “Hello.”

Neither of you looked at the other. Each stared across the still surface of the water out into the inky night of the mansion’s grounds. Only crickets made themselves known out here. No sign of the raucous gathering inside came through. It was just Hayato, you, and the hundreds of things he never said. Things such as, “I didn’t get a chance to congratulate you earlier.”

“That’s all right. I didn’t think you would.”

“Didn’t think I would come either.”

“No.”

“You still sent an invitation.”

“We sent Tsuna an invitation,” you said. “It was the polite thing to do.”

Hayato snorted as he tossed his cigarette onto the pond shore and ground the embers out with his heel. “Something tells me your husband doesn’t really believe in those sorts of formalities.”

You didn’t argue. For the second time, you looked at him and looked away again, as though filling your eyes with his visage physically pained you. Seeing you didn’t really make him feel better either. 

“I suppose I should thank you for bothering to come,” you said stiffly.

“The Tenth had to come, so I had to come.”

“I should have figured that was the only way I’d ever get to see you again.”

Twenty years from then, a hundred, a thousand, Hayato would never be able to explain what came over him in that moment. He had every intention of leaving you there in the garden, but he happened to look at you, really look at you, and happened to catch a whiff of the same perfume you’d worn since your youth, and he just couldn’t walk away. 

His hand reached out without his telling it to and brushed against your upper arm. Your muscles there were still those of an experienced fighter, whether or not they were hidden underneath the frilliest wedding getup that Hayato had ever laid eyes on, including Haru’s.

“That’s not the only way,” he said quietly.

You leveled a glare at him and forcefully removed yourself from his grip. It was the first time that he had seen you from the front all day. His first thought, ridiculously, was that he had never imagined you could look so beautiful in a dress like that. Not that he’d imagined you in a wedding dress all that often. Maybe once or twice. He’d imagined you without a dress on at all a lot more often than that. Now there you stood before him, tall and proud, the wife of a powerful man that was not him, and wearing…

…wearing the unmistakable purple marks of a hand across the side of your neck. They had been carefully slathered with makeup, but the long day had seen much of that rubbed off along the collar of your grown. From a distance, no doubt the job was convincing enough. Hayato, however, had sharp eyes, far too sharp to be blind to the bruises when they were so close.

“What are you looking at?” you asked, your tone defiant. 

His eyes locked onto your face in an effort to keep himself grounded. “Who did it?” 

“Who did what?”

“You know exactly what.”

You lifted your chin. It only threw the shadows into higher relief. Already they were fading yellow at the edges, but to be so dark now meant the wounds were fresh. Must have only been made that morning.

“Why do you care?” you said. 

So angry was he that all he could do was answer with an indistinguishable choking noise. 

“They’ll be gone in the morning,” you went on. “Don’t worry your pretty little head about it.”

Only by holding himself very, very still did Hayato resist grabbing you by the shoulders. You were a grown woman; he was a grown man. Both of you were long past the ages where you could rough each other up—and now you didn’t need further roughing. 

“Is that why he settled for you?” Settled’ was the wrong word. He knew it as soon as it was out of his mouth. But on he pressed, feeling himself tremble subtly from head to foot. If he did not keep going, worse would come out, worse that Tsuna’s family could not afford. “You’ve got sun flames, so you’ll fix yourself right up eventually? So he’s finally found himself a toy that won’t stay broken?”

Bianchi would have stuffed a whole mound of poisonous food in his mouth had she been there to hear him. She need not have worried, though. You could handle yourself.

“Unlikesome people, he picked me. Unlike some people, he cares—”

“Don’t you dare say that I don’t care. I’ve never—I’d never—”

“No word for two years. I’m supposed to believe you give a damn now?” Your voice was hard and sharp-edged. As you turned your face back toward the water, he caught the unmistakable sight of tears sparkling in your eyes. “I told Tsuna not to bring you along. I told him that I didn’t want to see your face.”

Whatever appetizers Hayato had managed to swallow during the reception curdled inside him. He stared at you as though he were seeing you for the first time. Maybe he was. The [Name] he’d known growing up—before Japan, before Tsuna, before the Ring Wars, before it all—would not have sat back and let a man like Xanxus put his hand on her. 

“What happened to you?” he murmured.

Another mistake. You looked at him again and the tears were gone. “You happened, Hayato.”

“What? This isn’t myfault.”

“You left. It was me, or it was Tsuna, and you picked Tsuna, just like I always knew you would.”

He ran his fingers through his hair. The fight was as familiar as the color flooding your cheeks. Why have it again? Again and again, night after night, he thought about the night he’d left you in Italy. There was a time you’d tried to make it work, but there were loyalties neither of you could give up. If he could choose again, would he have chosen differently? Who could say? All the same:

“You didn’t have to marry an asshole like Xanxus.”

You straightened your back as tall as it would go. “I’m Varia, Hayato. I’ve always been. His father wanted it. My family is gone. I didn’t have any other options.”

“You had me.”

“Did I?” you asked. 

Hayato stopped playing with his hair. “You’ve always had me. I loved you.”

The past tense was brushed off as easily as the tree leaf rustling against your shoulder. “You didn’t exactly make that clear, did you?”

“It wasn’t exactly a mystery! Jesus, figure it out!" 

Had all that kissing and fooling around, all those semi-secret meetings in foreign countries, really meant so little? Maybe he’d never said all this, but he’d alluded to it a hell of a lot. Apparently that was notenough, because you took all this with a completely passive expression.

“So now you’re saying all of this is my fault,” you said.

“It sure as hell isn’t mine! [Name], anybody would be better than that guy. If Tsuna knew what he was doing to you—”

“He doesn’t,” you interrupted, “and he isn’t going to find out.”

“You think I’m not going to tell him about this?”

You considered Hayato for a long time. Too long. His anger turned cold in the time it took you to speak again. 

“You owe me,” you said in a shaking voice. “I’m not your responsibility. You wanted Tsuna. Who was I to stand in your way?”

Distantly, he heard the door back inside click open behind him. 

“[Name]?” sang a familiar voice. Hayato closed his eyes. Lussuria was coming. “[Name], are you out here? Your honey bun is looking for you!”

“I have to go,” you said.

“Wait,” said Hayato.

“I can’t.”

Before you could run, before you could shout, before you could tell him off some more, he closed the gap between you and held you in his arms. He kept his grip loose in case you did walk away, but instead you melted. You rested your head against his shoulder where you had always fit right in. He felt the wetness of tears seep into his jacket.

“It doesn’t have to be this way,” he whispered urgently. Already he could hear Lussuria searching for you deeper in the grounds. “Come with me. Tsuna has the plane. We could be in Japan before he even realized you were gone.”

“Don’t be stupid, Hayato,” you said with a watery sniff. “He’ll kill me if I do something like that.”

“Tsuna can protect you.”

“And I can’t protect myself? No, I can’t ask Tsuna for that. He’s worked too hard to get the Varia on his side.”

“He wouldn’t want his allies to do something like this.”

You shuddered against him, sniffled once more, then pushed away from his chest. “Tsuna needs this alliance. With the Millefiore, he needs everyone he can get. You need everyone you can get.”

Balling his hands into fists did not entirely distract Hayato from wanting to pull you back against him. The coldness inside him seemed to seep outward, numbing his skin and draining the flowers of color. “I don’t need to get people like this.”

“Silly. When are you going to learn the mafia isn’t the place to have moral qualms?” 

Before he could retort, you had pressed a single kiss to his cheek. That he did not get to respond to either, because your next act was to shove him in the nearest bush. 

Just in time. Lussuria spotted the movement and appeared in a flash. 

“There you are,” he said as you finished wiping your face. “Didn’t you hear me calling?”

“No, sorry. I was thinking. Did you need me?”

“Honey, I think it’s you that needs me! Xanxus wants to call it a night, but you need a makeup refresh before you go anywhere near him. Ready to go back inside?”

“Sure, Luss. Let’s go.”

The sound of voices—Lussuria’s joyful and yours subdued—faded back up the path until at last they disappeared into the waiting house. It was a long time before the car Tsuna promised arrived. Hayato was alone until then and for a long time after. 

He’d never been good with people, and all he could think was you were one person that he never could be good with ever again.

Summary:  He’s going to have a lot of conflicting feelings about this later, but for now, Matt will take what you’re willing to give him.

Rating/Warnings/Tags:T (sexual references; former nun!reader; reader knows Daredevil’s secret identity; inaccurate Catholicism)

Tag List: @imaginesfire​

Fic Trade Prompt: "Sometimes the ‘Devil of Hell’s Kitchen’ just needed a shoulder to lean on.“

Notes: I only ever saw the first season of Daredevil. Also, I mostly chose to write this particular fic trade response because I wanted an excuse to write something that, for me, was a shoutout to His Dark Materials, a book series I’m enormously fond of. 

I don’t actually know anything about Catholicism, however, and as a Christian myself, I realize His Dark Materials is not exactly a reliable source for learning about the topic of religion. If you are Catholic and something in here is incorrect, I implore you to inform me so that I can fix the problem. If it’s so horrendously awful that a mere edit won’t work, I’m even willing to rewrite it. 

In more specific-to-the-fic information, this is one of my few fic trade responses where I tried my hardest to stay within the word count restrictions. Alas, I still went over…and trying so hard means that this really isn’t near as sensory-overload-descriptive as I would want something from Matt’s perspective to be.

A Matter of Sanity

Matt woke up that morning to a barrage of sensory assault: warm sunlight splayed across his skin; humidity from the bathroom down the hall dampened the short hairs on his face; the smell of strange perfume sticking to the semi-cooled sheets beside him and his familiar shampoo drifting through the air. Toast had been made–and nearly burned–in the kitchen sometime that morning. He could hear the medicine cabinet closing, then bare feet padding toward him. Through all these floating, fuzzy feelings sliced his injuries from the night before: cuts, bruises, blisters, maybe a sprained wrist.

“Morning, Mattie.” 

Andthere was the reason he had not meditated after the fight, the reason his wounds felt as fresh as though he’d got them minutes before. 

Said reason lighted on the edge of his bed and slipped soft fingers into his sleep-mussed hair. “Did you sleep well last night?”

In answer, Matt let out an incomprehensible moan. As far as he could remember, not much sleeping had taken place in the apartment the night before. Still, he wasn’t one to quibble over what he’d been doing instead. Seconds later, he sat up, forcing you to stop playing with his hair so that he could wrap his arms around your waist and put his cheek against your moist, bare shoulder. 

“Are you sure you’ve never done that before?” he mumbled. 

You laughed, a sound that always caused a pleasant unfurling sensation to spread through Matt’s stomach. “Sorry. A girl has to have some secrets, even from her all-knowing, all-seeing blind lawyer friend.”

“Is that what we are? Friends?” Matt chuckled himself and tightened his grip as he pressed a kiss to your skin. “You are the worst nun I have ever met.”

Another laugh, then you gently patted his cheek with your shower-warmed hand. “Well, maybe that’s why I decided not to be one anymore. What do you want for lunch?”

The weight on his mattress vanished at the same time your body did. 

“Lunch? What time is it?” 

Frowning, Matt turned in the direction he heard you moving–toward where you had left the majority of your clothes the night before. Whether he had pulled them off or you had, he couldn’t quite remember. Then a more important question popped out of his mouth:

“Did you say you quit being a nun?”

You only bothered to answer his first two questions: “It’s nearly eleven o’ clock. Figured if you wanted to go somewhere, we’d better head that way, and frankly, Matt, there’s nothing in this apartment but beer.”

“Eleven? It’s Thursday. I can’t go to lunch. I’m already late for work–what was that about stopping nun-ing?”

“I called in for you. Foggy whined about you skipping over a woman as usual, but–”

“[Name],” said Matt. “The thing about your job?”

You heaved a dramatic sigh. “I quit, okay? I was going to tell you when I came over last night, but after all that, I kind of figured I didn’t have to anymore.”

“Some clarification might have been nice.” Matt hadn’t felt an overabundance of guilt at sleeping with you. It took two to tango, after all, and you’d been just as willing as he had. Now some dread began to creep in. “Why’d you quit?”

A huff sounded from behind the fabric of the shirt over your face. “I met a tall, dark, handsome stranger beating the tar out of a Russian slave trader in an alley, and he made me rethink my life choices.”

“That’s a cliché.”

“So’s a blind ninja fighting slave traders in New York.”

“Not exactly.” Pressing his lips together, Matt slid out of his silk sheets. He knew his shirt was not far away, but he hadn’t started pulling it on yet when he went on, “I didn’t mean to have you quit.”

“Matt!” you groaned.

“You can’t come with me. I didn’t mean to make you to feel useless.”

“I’m a grown woman, and I make my own choices. Youdidn’tmake me feel or do anything–and I know I can’t go with you to punch Russians. I just wanted to do a little good for Hell’s Kitchen.”

“Youwere doing good for Hell’s Kitchen. With the Church.”

“Have to disagree with you there. And I’m not going back. You can’t make me. I want to experience the world. I want to helpyou.”

“I already said, you are not–“

“Iknow,” you interrupted. “There’s more to do than break people’s bodies, you know.”

Matt stared at you, or stared roughly in the direction he knew you continued to pull on various articles of clothing. Another sigh issued from there.

“When I got here last night to give you the news, you were bleeding and shaking from head to foot. There’s nothing to eat here but booze and bread. You can take care of yourself, but you’re not very good at looking afteryourself.”

He had never really thought about it that way. His work as Daredevil was vital; eating, less so. Matt already healed faster than most when he wasn’t busy deflowering ex-nuns, and what didn’t heal after that, he could plow through just fine. On the other hand…

“Are you inviting yourself to move in?” he asked.

There was an obvious smile in your voice when you answered, “Well, you are the reason I’m presently homeless and unemployed. If you hadn’t seduced me away from a life of worship and piety, I’d still be doing my holy work, Matt Murdock.”

“And you’re absolutely sure you’re done with being a nun.”

“I think what we did last night pretty much sealed the deal.”

“And there’d be more of that.”

“I’m leaning toward yes.”

“And you really want to live here. With me. With the giant blazing billboard right outside the window.”

He got a pillow to the face for his trouble, or would have, had he not caught it before it smacked him in the nose. 

“Does it sound like I can afford to be picky about where I’m staying? I’m sure  about all of the above. I can always move out once I find something else, if you decide you hate having me here.”

Your tone turned just a little uncertain at the end of that sentence. Matt stood and stepped carefully (in case of more pillows) over the smooth floor toward you. 

“I won’t hate having you here,” he said. “Now that you mention it, it might be nice having someone here when I get home bleeding at two in the morning. To fuss over me and put me in place. When can you start?”

“Immediately.” You shoved something soft-ish into his chest. Pants, he realized as felt the hard button. “Now get dressed. It’s getting toward noon now and all that sex makes a girl hungry.”

“Right,” Matt said, and quickly started to pull on the pants.

Definitely the putting him in his place part, then. But maybe you were right. Maybe sometimes, the “Devil of Hell’s Kitchen” just needed a shoulder to lean on. He’d have to see, but he was leaning toward yes, too.

Summary:Because the Herbology professor stole his date.

Rating/Warnings: T (sexual references; Herbology Professor!Neville; Charms Professor!Reader; set during Next Generation timeline)

Fic Trade Prompt: Why Didn’t the Skeleton Go to the Dance?

Tag List: @imaginesfire

Why Didn’t the Skeleton Go to the Dance?

After the fiasco that was the Triwizard Tournament, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry pretty much put the kibosh on anything related to the competition. This included balls for a good number of years–at least until the students’ cry for chaperoned romance became so loud that even Headmistress Professor McGonagall threw up her hands in surrender. Since that time, the school held one ball a year, each on the same day: Halloween.

It came as no surprise to anyone that Professor Longbottom tried his best to stay away from such festivities. A near-run-in with a troll on Halloween of his first year left him a little nervous about the day, even as a full-grown man nearly as famous as Harry Potter. That didn’t stop Professor McGonagall from trying to convince him to chaperone every year, but Neville preferred to spend the evening looking after his mandrakes.

When he wandered back into the castle that Halloween night, however, the ball was still in full swing. An unexpected frost had killed much of his stock, leaving Neville with very little to do outside of fit the rest of the mandrakes with scarves. The music was sure to continue for several hours, rendering an early bedtime moot. He lingered in the hallway, listening to sounds of revelry drifting from the great hall. At least the ball had food, and there was nothing to be afraid of except a few students getting a little too intimate with their dates.

Or so Neville thought until he heard some very strange banging coming from a nearby classroom. He nearly leapt out of his skin, then paused, waiting for the sound to come again. When it did, the bumps accompanied a cry of “No! Not like that. Oh, come on! It’s nearly over!”

He stepped closer and then closer still. Almost without thinking, Neville lifted his hand toward the room’s door’s handle.  Before he could work up the nerve to open the door, someone burst out of it–or maybe twosomeones. The first careened straight into his chest before he could get a good look at things.

“Oh!” you said as you pushed yourself off of him. “Longbottom!”

“Um…[L Name],” Neville answered with a frown.

One of your hands had encircled his arm so that you could steady yourself. Your other hand was preoccupied by the skeleton standing behind you wearing a set of dress robes. Once you righted yourself, your eyes followed Neville’s gaze as you brushed the hair from your face.

“Where are my manners?” you said, and tugged on the skeleton’s arm. The laugh that followed sounded distinctly uncomfortable. “This is Roger. Roger, this is Professor Longbottom.”

“Hello…Roger,” Neville said with a small wave.

Roger turned his head away as though he were disgusted by Neville’s appearance.

You elbowed Roger in the rib cage. “Roger! Be nice!”

By then, Neville was frowning at you. Your hair was in disarray, though you’d clearly tried to do it up nicely to go along with your dress. Your ditzy demeanor was nothing new, however; Neville often wondered how in the world you had convinced Professor McGonagall of all people to give you the Charms position. That did not stop him from being curious, though, especially as Roger began to drag you down the hall toward the ball.

“What were you doing in there with a skeleton?” Neville asked as you managed to get Roger to stop. He sincerely hoped it wasn’t what he often caught the sixth years at in vacant classrooms after dark.

At first, he thought that would be quite the feat, considering Roger’s missing several important fleshy bits, but then you turned a light shade of pink. A second later, you looked back at Roger, who quickly shook his head. You released his bony fingers and took a step toward Neville.

“You can’t tell anyone okay?”

“Uh…” was all Neville said in response.

He really, reallydidn’t want to know about your kinks. You both planned to stay at Hogwarts for quite a while still, and it would make talking to you in the teachers’ lounge difficult. Clearly, you had no idea where Neville’s thought were headed, though, because you continued in a pleading whisper:

“I just really wanted to go to the dance.”

“I…see,” said Neville, though he apparently did not.

“Please don’t tell Professor Pendragon!” you squeaked. “I was going to put Roger back as soon as the ball was over, and I was going to take the charm off of him, too!”

Slowly, Neville nodded. Then it occurred to him that feigning understanding would get him nowhere.

“Okay, I have no idea what’s going on here. Are you saying you charmed the Alchemy professor’s skeleton so you could take him on a date?” he asked.

“I didn’twantto,” you said in a rush. “But…no one asked me, and I…really wanted to go. If I danced by myself, I’d look like an idiot.”

Before you even finished your explanation, Neville was chuckling. Your last words trailed away into a tear-filled stare as you watched.

“It’s not funny! You don’t know how it is, being a single woman in a castle full of children and elderly teachers. I’m never going to get married, never!”

“You could date Professor Pendragon,” Neville offered, and got only a shove for his suggestion. “All right, all right. I won’t tell him. But it would probably be better if you went ahead and put Roger back. Won’t Pendragon notice when he sees you two dancing?”

Maybe you hadn’t thought of that, because you paled instantly at Neville’s words. Still, the look you threw Roger was one of great remorse. His only response was to tap his feet against the floor. You turned back to Neville.

“But…”

He reached out and placed a hand on your shoulder. “I’ll go with you. That way both of us have an excuse to be there.”

“You will?”

Neville nodded. If Roger had eyes, the look he shot Neville as you lifted your wand definitely would have been a glare. Unfortunately, the skeleton had no time to prevent his second demise. With a flick of your wand, all life disappeared from his bones, and you caught the collapsing structure easily in your arms. A moment later, Roger disappeared.

“Well, what are we waiting for?” you exclaimed, and took Neville’s hand. “I’ve never had a date with someone living before!”

Somehow, Neville thought to himself as you yanked him after you into the great hall, he wasn’t surprised.