#straw writes

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 many PhDs Bruce has to his name, he’ll never understand any member of this family.

Rating/Warnings/Tags:T (post-Avengers (2012); Avengers Tower; Tony’s Sister!Reader; Annoying Younger Sister!Reader; Stark!Reader; Science Bros; mild sexual content)

Challenge: “100 Drabbles of Randomness” by Miseria1 on Lunaescence Archives.

Tag List: @imaginesfire

Tease

When Tony first set out to convince Bruce to move into Stark Tower with him, he had focused especially on the building’s laboratory. He talked endlessly over lunch after they saw Loki and Thor off to Asgard. The list of amenities was quite impressive, featuring a lot of open space, enormous glass walls and windows, and equipment that Bruce had never even heard of before, let alone seen. The scientific facilities were not the only reason that Bruce finally gave in, but he had to admit they had been a large draw. 

Thwap! 

Unfortunately, Tony had failed to mention one other important feature of his building and more specifically the labs: his younger sister, [F Name] Stark.

“Ignore her,” Tony crooned in an undertone, as Bruce picked another wad of newspaper off the tabletop.

“That’s the fifth time today she’s thrown something at my head,” Bruce said, “and it’s not even lunchtime.”

“Could be worse. Could be throwing rocks.”

“Don’t give her any ideas.”

“Hello!” you called from behind them. “Do you mind not talking about me as though I’m not here?”

Tony turned to glare at you. “Do you mind annoying someone else for a little while? Maybe Steve would like some company in the gym.”

“If Dr. Banner finds what I’m doing annoying, maybe he should join Cap in the gym.”

Sighing, Tony turned back to his and Bruce’s latest attempt at a new AI. He checked its progress for all of five seconds, then tossed the tool in his hand onto the counter, spun around, and headed for the exit.

“This step should take another hour to complete. Keep an eye on it for me, would you?” he asked Bruce. “I think [Name] is the only person on the planet that can make me long for a long chat with Steve.”

Tony vanished before Bruce could protest. The likelihood of any protest working was slim, but Bruce would have liked to try. Now he was trapped up here unless you decided to leave him alone, something you hadn’t done once whenever you found him in the lab. He dropped his head into his crossed arms resting on the table and hoped that that morning you wouldn’t find him an entertaining target. 

Thwap! 

“[Name], if you want this floor to remain in one piece, you really need to stop throwing things at me,” he said, voice muffled by his sleeves. 

Thwap! 

“[Name]." 

Thwap! 

"I said stop!” Bruce growled as he twisted on his stool to face you.

His shoulders hunched up around his ears, and the breaths heaving from his chest contained a guttural edge. These symptoms alone should have been enough to frighten you, but no. Your bored expression did not flicker. You sat coolly on your stool at the other end of the room with one of the large pile of paper balls beside you clutched in one hand.

“Really?” you asked. “A couple of paper balls to the noggin makes you angry enough to Hulk out?”

“I’m always angry. All it takes is one little push.”

Bruce rubbed at his eyes with his fists. Already that one flare of anger had faded and left him wanting a nap. You were right about one thing, though: A bit of light prodding to the skull was not worth the full exhaustion of becoming the Hulk. He took several deep breaths to get himself under control—only for another paper to bean him in the head. 

Thwap! 

With a groan, Bruce crumpled the paper in his hand. “Why do you hate me so much, [Name]?”

“Why do you think I hate you?”

“Come on. You’ve had it in for me from the day we met. Any time you find me hanging around with Tony, you do whatever it takes for one of us to get sick of you and go away.”

“How do you mean?" 

Thwap! 

"Like that. Seriously, what do you want me to do? Do you want me to just go back to India and leave you and your brother in peace?”

“Of course not!” The mere suggestion seemed to leave you shocked. “Why would I want that?”

“If just seeing me around upsets you so much—" 

Thwap! Thwap! Thwap! Thwap! 

A cascade of papers hit him one after another. He lifted his hands to shield himself from the blows, but they kept coming until you ran out of ammunition.

"I don’t hate you. God! You already figured out the problem, genius. And you’re supposed to have how many PhDs?”

“Seven,” Bruce answered vaguely. Without the continuous assault on his head, he could perhaps set his mind to figuring out what it was he had already figured out. All he could think of was: “You don’t like it when I spend time with Tony?”

“Ding, ding, ding, ding! Got it in one, Doctor.”

“But my moving to India would solve that problem.”

You had nothing else to toss at him. Apparently, this was reason enough for you get up and walk over to him. A few seconds later, you stood in front Bruce with your hands on your hips. “I don't care about spending time with my brother, all right? It’s not like I just got out of boarding school last week. We see plenty of each other. Which would mean…?”

“You…you want to spend more time with me?” Bruce said, once he realized you expected him to supply an answer. It wasn’t in the least logical, but you nodded. “That doesn’t make any sense! Whenever Tony and I are in here together, you torment me.”

As he blathered on, you just kept on nodding. That Bruce noticed. What he didn’t was the arm extending toward his collar—not until you hooked a finger around it and pulled him toward you until your lips nearly touched.

“That’s because I want to get you alone, Doctor, and out of the lab.”

Bruce gulped. “And why would that be?”

You grinned. “The things I want to do to you aren’t things I want Tony or JARVIS watching.”

“Er…I—That is to say—”

“I’m back! Wouldn’t you know it? Listening to Steve go on and on about the good old days is enough to get me to miss my baby sister,” Tony’s voice came up the stairs leading to the lab door.

Bruce felt himself turn bright red at the thought of him catching you and Bruce in such position, but you’d already released him by the time the thought occurred. Tony saw nothing as he entered the room.

“How about you two? Play nice while I was gone?”

“Um—” Bruce began.

“I ran out of paper balls,” you interrupted. “Don’t worry. I’ve recollected them.”

“Excellent. Then I think it’s about time Bruce and I returned to work. How about you, Bruce?”

Bruce’s eyes followed your sauntering course back to your own lab station. You winked at him as you dropped your projectiles back on its surface. Hastily, he spun back to the waiting holographic screen behind him.

“Yes,” he said. “Let’s.”

“Loving the enthusiasm, Big Guy. Now, I was thinking…”

In all honesty, Bruce didn’t really listen to the rest of Tony’s spiel. He had his mind on other matters—like the possibility of taking you up on that offer to spend time with you outside of the lab. This whole project shouldn’t take too much longer. Then, perhaps, he might convince you to go get a coffee with him. 

Thwack! 

…if only so you might stop throwing things at his head.

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: No matter what you may say to the contrary, Thor does tend to have it coming to him.

Rating/Warnings/Tags:All (Pre-Thor; Asgard; Bratty!Child!Thor; magic!reader; established Loki & Reader friendship)

Challenge: “100 Drabbles of Randomness” by Miseria1 on Lunaescence Archives.

Tag List: @imaginesfire

Notes: And so we begin with my attempt at replacing the ficlets I deleted from this collection! I’m going to try to post one a week, but there’s a lot going on, so I’m not going to beat myself up if I can’t get to it. 

Hypocrisy

Finally! After an entire morning’s worth of needling and squirming and pouting, you found yourself in the open corridors of Asgard’s royal palace. Being a young woman—the only daughter of Odin’s Captain of the Guard at that—meant that you typically didn’t have many options for adventure whenever your father chose to drag you up there for some “society,” and that day’s meeting had been less adventure than most. Now that you were free of his and Odin’s watchful eyes, you intended to find yourself some fun, and you knew just who to look for to find that.

“Loki!”

Or perhaps that person would find you first. The enraged voice you caused you to jump about a foot in the air in fright.

A clatter of footsteps followed this cry. Louder they grew, and louder and louder, until a boy around your own age rounded the distant corner. You recognized him at once by the mischievous grin on his face. He in turn must have recognized you, for he picked up his pace the moment he spotted you.

“Loki?” you asked, but could not question Odin’s youngest son further before he darted behind you.

“Perfect timing as always, [Name],” he said.

“Perfect timing for what?”

“Loki, I am going to kill you!” the same voice from shouted. “And then I’m going to tell Mother!”

A strange noise issued from behind you. Turning, you found Loki stifling his laughter with his own palm. His green eyes twinkled with mirth. Thor continued stomping up the hall and opening (and slamming shut) every door on the way, and that only seemed to amuse Loki all the more.

“What did you do?” you asked. Your tone smacked the smile right off his face.

“Nothing!”

“It doesn’t sound like nothing.”

“All right, nothing important. Nothing Thor should be so worked up over, anyway. It was only a prank.”

“I thought the Allfather told you to stop pulling pranks on your brother,” you said with your hands on your hips.

Loki rolled his eyes. “What does he know? Thor’s got to learn to take a joke.”

“It’s not a joke if your prank is mean.”

“No one got bit this time! What’s the problem?”

“The problem is that you’re being—”

“There you are!”

Thor had found Loki at last. At least, you thought it was Thor. The red-faced boy headed right for you looked familiar, only he had bright blue hair with eyebrows to match. Your attempt at a swift greeting curtsy went ignored. Only Loki could capture Thor’s interest at the moment.

“Turn it back!” Thor shouted.

Loki didn’t flinch. “No.”

“If you don’t, I'll—”

“Make me? How? Get Sif to hold me down so you can punch me?”

Instead of thinking of a better way to finish his threat, Thor—still looking utterly ridiculous with his blue hair—lunged at his brother with a wordless cry of anger. Loki ducking behind you deterred Thor not at all. The two boys, one snarling, the other snickering, circled you. Around and around they went until you grew dizzy enough to shove the nearest person out of the endless whirlwind.

Unfortunately, that person turned out to be Thor. More unfortunately still, your shoving him was enough for you to end up at the wrong end of his wrath yourself.

“You're helping him!” Thor snapped incredulously.

“What?” You shook your head. “No, I—”

“I should have guessed you were in on this, [Name].”

“Wait. I had nothing to—”

“You're always helping him pick on me!”

“I never—”

“If that’s how you want things to be, fine. I’ll tell your dad, too. When he hears about this—”

A sudden peal of laughter from Loki interrupted Thor’s tirade. Disconcerted, Thor paused, but it didn’t take long for him to open his mouth to continue lecturing you. He took a deep breath, then found himself unable to speak over your laughter.

“What?” he demanded, looking between you and Loki as the two of you doubled over gasping for breath. “What are you laughing at? What’s so funny?”

“Maybe—maybe you should check a mirror,” Loki managed to choke out.

Thor’s eyes narrowed, but clearly his suspicions were great enough to convince him to follow Loki’s advice and leave you both unattended. It did not take long for him to find a reflective surface in the lush corridor. He took one look, then gasped. For good reason, too: Above his quivering lips now sat a magnificent mustache the exact same color as the rest of his hair.

“Mother!” Thor bawled before rushing back out of sight once more.

They were too much, his hysterics. Together you and Loki melted into a guffawing puddle right there on the palace floor. Only several minutes later did either of you recover to rise, hiccuping, into a seated position.

Loki shot you a knowing look as you wiped the tears from your eyes. “I thought you said I wasn’t to prank Thor anymore,” he said.

You sat up as straight as you could and said in your most prim of voices, “Thor has to learn to take a joke.”

This very nearly sent the two of you to the floor again. Struggling to contain himself, Loki instead hopped to his feet and offered you a hand to follow suit. You allowed him to pull you up. Each of you shot the other enormous grins at the exact same time. Then you both wordlessly raced up the hall side by side. Thor would be back soon, almost certainly with backup. Until then, there remained plenty of fun for you and your friend to go looking for.

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: He’s dealt with worse problems in his lifetime.

Rating/Warnings:All (This is almost certainly not how sleepwalking works.)

Challenge: “100 Drabbles of Randomness” by Miseria1 on Lunaescence Archives.

Tag List: @imaginesfire

Sleepwalk

When Bruce woke up, he found someone in his bed. This wasn’t an altogether strange occurrence, but he was quite certain he had gone to bed alone four hours ago. Trying not to feel too concerned, he wiggled halfway out of the sheets before peeling those beside him back. He was surprised to find youcurled up in a ball halfway down the mattress.

Bruce frowned. Had he gone to bed alone the night before? Yes, he was sure he had. He’d been up with Tony until one working on some new clean-energy plans and had had no chance to call and see if you had made it home all right after dinner.

“Um, [Name]?” He nudged you softly with his hand.

The tiny ball simply shuddered slightly at his touch.

Bruce tried again. “[Name]?”

Your eyelids fluttered and a small groan worked its way free of your throat as you stretched yourself out of your fetal position.

“Five more minutes,” you mumbled as you flipped over.

Bruce shook your shoulder. “Is there any particular reason you’re asleep in my bed?“

You opened your eyes completely at that. They darted across the unfamiliar walls and ceiling. Then you looked at him, cheeks already much darker than normal.

“Oh, no,” you said.

“Is everything okay?”

“Fine!” You sat up and shuffled your feet across the carpet underneath the bed. “Oh, god. I’m so sorry, Bruce.”

“Are you sure you’re okay?” You certainly weren’t acting like it. “Are you sick?”

“No! No, I’m not. I’m sorry for waking you up.”

“But why are you here?”

You looked at him. Bruce looked back. At last, you took a deep breath and answered:

“I…have a problem.” His eyebrows rose at that, so you continued, “It’s not a big deal. I just…sleepwalk…sometimes. I guess I was thinking about you so much that my legs took me here without me making them.”

“Ah,” Bruce said, as if that explained things.

The color in your cheeks deepened still further as you stood up. "I’m so sorry. I’ll go home now.“

But you didn’t get far before he took your wrist. "Look, you’re already here. I missed you, too. Besides, it’s dangerous to be wandering around at five in the morning in your pajamas. Why don’t you just stay the night–or day, as the case may be?”

You paused before turning your head slightly to look at him. Your cheeks were beginning to fade back to their original color. “You sure?”

“Positive.”

Bruce shifted to his side to allow you space to crawl back underneath the blanket. As you snuggled back into the sheet, he chuckled and shifted you so he could tuck you into his chest. Before you fell back to sleep, he planted a kiss behind your ear and whispered:

“And maybe if this is going to be a frequent problem, you should just move in.”

Summary: Sometimes love is like quicksand: You take one wrong step and it sucks you straight in.

Rating/Warnings:All (hate to love; Post-Avengers (2012))

Challenge: “100 Drabbles of Randomness” by Miseria1 on Lunaescence Archives.

Tag List: @imaginesfire

Quicksand

When you first met Dr. Bruce Banner, you’d hated his guts. Physicist work was your work at Stark Industries, and you didn’t appreciate his coming along to usurp your position–not that Tony noticed your obvious disdain when he shoved the other man into your workspace.

“Look, [Name]! I brought you a souvenir: a new partner!” Tony said.

You would have preferred a “My boss saved the world and all I got was this lousy t-shirt” t-shirt. Surely that was apparent in the way your lips curled as you shook Dr. Banner’s hand. Still, Tony just grinned, slapped the two of you on the backs, and left with a jaunty:

“You two kids play nice now!”

Needles to say, you did not play nice. You glowered and sulked and pouted and glared. Dr. Banner didn’t try to stop you. He just did his work in silence and only deigned to speak up when he needed help finding a tool.

Several weeks passed in the same manner before something strange happened, and it was something you never could quite figure out. Things between the two of you just seemed to…shift.

“What do you say we take a break and go get lunch?” Dr. Banner interrupted the quiet to ask.

You looked up from your holo-screen to scowl at him. “Why are you asking me?“

"Because you don’t do anything other than work. You seem lonely.”

Your eyes widened. Dr. Banner gazed at you calmly in return. Then you slammed your palms onto the table and left the room.

It bothered you that he noticed something so easily that you thought you had been hiding so well. You didn’t go back to work after your lunch break that day, but instead spent the rest of the afternoon grouching at home, ranting to your goldfish about how exactly much you hated Dr. Banner.

Time passed. Your rage faded slowly to embarrassment. You realized that you had been taking out your feelings of inadequacy on a man that had been nothing but polite to you.

“About that lunch,” you said the next day.

Dr. Banner looked away from his notes.

“I–I’m sorry I snapped at you. Maybe we could go today?”

He smiled. “I’d like that.

Summary: You can at least repay Hermione by showing her the same kind of grace she’s shown you.

Rating/Warnings/Tags:All (Post-Deathly Hallows; Bulgarian!Reader; Newspaper Columnist!Reader; Married!Reader; Married!Viktor; Ron Weasley/Hermione Granger; Wedding; the Burrow)

Challenge:“115 Words” by BonitaWolfSpirit on Lunaescence Archives.

Tag List: @imaginesfire

Grace

Bright shone the day you arrived in Britain for the long-awaited wedding. One minute you stood in comforting, familiar Sofia; the next, in strange, unfamiliar Ottery St. Catchpole. The long-distance portkey-ing left you too dizzy to walk immediately following your arrival. You’d never have found where you were going had you not been steadied by a firm hand at your elbow.

“Careful,” said Viktor in your shared native Bulgarian. “Are you all right?”

“The only thing I’ve hurt is my pride,” you assured him as you straightened yourself. “I’m still not used to traveling so far magically.”

He smiled. “You should come to more of my games.”

“And miss an opportunity for a great assignment that isn’tyour winning streak? I think not.”

The smile on his face widened as Viktor moved his hand to yours. “Come along. We don’t want to be late.”

To be honest, you would not have minded. You would not have minded missing the entire blasted ceremony. Going was important to Viktor, though, so you allowed him to pull you along beside him. He knew where he was going, at least. 

The wide field in which you had landed seemed to stretch into the horizon in every direction. Soon enough—too soon for your liking—a strange shape reared up against the landscape. As you drew nearer, you realized the shape was a house that had a large tent filled with people set up next to it. 

Sure enough, that tent turned out to be your destination. Viktor led you right to the entrance of it. There stood a young man with a shock of bright blue hair, waiting for guests.

“Friends of the groom or the bride?” asked the boy.

“Bride,” Viktor answered in English. 

The child nodded and made to show you to your seats. Before he could get more than a few steps ahead, however, he got a good look at Viktor and froze in place.

“You’re Viktor Krum!” he gasped.

“That is me, yes.”

One of the things you loved most about Viktor was his modesty. You’d been dating another member of the Bulgarian National Quidditch Team when the two of you had met. His teammate hadn’t so much as known the definition of humility, and you were quite glad now that the relationship hadn’t worked out. 

Then again, he probably wouldn’t have thought it a good idea to drag you to his ex-girlfriend’s wedding.

This boy did not seem not to be thinking of quidditch at all, though. He brightened upon confirmation of his suspicions before he headed off in an entirely different direction. “Auntie wanted to see you when you got here. Follow me!”

“If that is what Herm-Own-Ninny wishes,” Viktor said as he made to do so. His grip on your hand did not allow you to slip away unseen into the pavilion. “There is no need to be nervous,” he added quietly as the pair of you trailed after the child through the home’s cramped kitchen.

“Me? Why should I be nervous?” All you were doing was meeting your husband’s first love, the perfect, demure, brilliant woman who corresponded with him regularly to that very day. “I only worry about what the tabloids back home will say.”

The dark eyes he turned upon you sparkled with amusement. “Do you care what they say about you all of a sudden?”

“Of course not!”

“Neither do I. Don’t worry. You will like Herm-Own-Ninny very much.”

At that very moment, your youthful chaperone stopped at a door on the third-floor landing. He rapped on it before saying loudly, “Auntie! Viktor Krum is here to see you!”

Several seconds later, the door opened. A very pretty woman with bright red hair appeared there to ruffle the top of the boy’s head. “Thanks, Teddy,” she said. “Now get back to your post before Percy finds out you left it.”

“Okay!” Teddy sang, then pushed past you to race back the way had come from.

“Come on in,” said the woman, stepping aside to let you through. 

Inside the room were three other women: one blonde reading a magazine in the corner by the window; a brunette sitting at a large oval mirror; and a second blonde working on the brunette’s hair. Only the last did you recognize: Fleur Weasley, her husband, and her daughter had all come to your own wedding a year ago. The redhead looked enough like Bill that she must have been a relative. Beyond those two, you were lost in a sea of strangers.

When the door closed behind you, the woman at the mirror gasped, stood, and walked over to your husband to embrace him.

“Viktor. I’m so glad you were able to make it.”

“Hermione! You will ruin your makeup,” Fleur scolded. 

Hermione smiled sheepishly and stepped away.

“Not that Ron will notice,” said the redhead. “He’ll be too busy trying not to trip on his own two feet. He, Harry, and Neville got into the Fire Whiskey last night, so Ron’s going to be even clumsier than usual.”

“You look wonderful,” Viktor told the bride, and indeed she did. Though this Hermione did not radiate beauty like Fleur did, she had a quiet grace that you knew instantly Viktor liked. Her simple but flattering wedding robes only added to the effect.

“It’s been too long. I’m ever so sorry I didn’t make it your wedding. It was such a busy time at the Ministry,” Hermione said.

“I understand. Let me introduce you to my wife now: [F Name] Krum.”

“Hello,” you said uncomfortably. Your Bulgarian accent was much thicker than Viktor’s, as you’d had fewer opportunities to practice English than he had. It made you feel dumber than usual hearing it around that lot.

Hermione offered you her hand without remark. “Hermione Granger, soon to be Granger-Weasley,” she said, and the pair of you shook. “I hope you don’t dislike me too much for inviting you. I wanted to invite Viktor, you see, and Ron will feel so much better knowing you came along, too. Besides, I’ve wanted to meet you for ages! Viktor talks about you all the time in his letters.”

“He does?”

Viktor chose that time to turn his attention to the redhead. “So, Ginny, I hear that you and I will be having a rematch soon?”

“He does,” Hermione said before she leaned in closer to add, “and I can see that he wasn’t lying about a single thing he said about you.”

You felt blood rush to your face. That Viktor had been so kind about you in his letters surprised you. He wasn’t really keen on expressing his inner feelings to anyone but his closest friends. “He speaks quite highly of you as well.”

“He is a good sort of man, isn’t he? But enough about him. I’m sure you’ll be hearing about Viktor all night long. He tells me you work at the Bulgarian wizarding paper?”

“I do.”

“Do you keep a portfolio? Would you mind sending me some of your articles?”

“I could, but why would you want them?”

“I think reading the news from a Bulgarian point of view would be fascinating,” she answered, “and I’m told you’re a wonderfulwriter.”

You rolled your eyes, and at last offered Hermione a smile of your own. “What does he know? He only cares about quidditch.”

“Men.” Hermione laughed.

To your great surprise, you spent a very pleasant ten minutes chatting with Hermione, Ginny, Fleur, and the last woman (who turned out to be an oddity by the name of Luna Lovegood). Time seemed to fly by until Viktor took you toward the door so that you could find your seats.

“Goodbye, Herm-Own-Ninny. We will see you at the service,” he said.

A chorus of goodbyes followed you down the stairs. Before you could step outside, however, Viktor pulled you aside.

“What?” you asked him.

“Do you forgive her now?”

“Forgive who?”

“Herm-Own-Ninny. For dating me so long ago.”

You frowned. “It was never a matter of forgiving her. She’s just a little hard to live up to. But you were right. She is very nice.”

“She liked you, too. I could tell.” He pressed a kiss to your temple, then intertwined his fingers with yours as you left the house together. “Do you think there will still be seats in the back?”

With Teddy’s help, you found a couple. It wasn’t long after you got settled that the music started and Hermione appeared. For the first time, you were able to see her with clear eyes. She was beautiful, and blissfully happy with her own love. Hermione Granger-Weasley was no longer your rival. One day, she might even become your friend.

Summary:Severus Snape never asked for a distraction, but the one he receives the first morning of a new term will have to do.

Rating/Warnings/Tags: T (Physical Abuse; Black Eye; Professor!Severus Snape; Mentor!Severus Snape; Slytherin!Reader; Hogwarts Student!Reader; Implied/Referenced Child Abuse; Implied/Referenced Abuse; Implied/Referenced Sexual Abuse; Anxiety; References to Depression; Lily Evans & Severus Snape Friendship)

Requester:Anonymous

Request:  “Please the one where se*ually and physically abused slytherin comes to Snape for help, without the detailed description of the assault plz. She suffers from anxiety and clinical depression. Snape is cold at first and then gets really protective and angry.”

Tag List: @imaginesfire

Notes: Here’s another request from Tumblr, my first Harry Potter one. I’ve never written a platonic relationship between a student and teacher before (or a romantic one, for that matter)—and oddly this is only the first of a handful of these kinds of requests I have on my list now. I hope that I did a decent job.

Please keep in mind while reading this that some of things Severus says may not be the best thing to say in a situation like this. He’s a wizard, and not a trained Healer at that, so I tried to think of what he might say in this situation instead of what he shouldsay.

“Resourceful” Is Not a Dirty Word

Another year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry began just as the ten prior for Potions Master Severus Snape. He ate a meager breakfast as quickly as possible so as to avoid spending any more time than necessary with students outside his house or classroom. He made forced polite conversation with Minerva until she finally handed over that year’s class schedule. And he settled at his desk at the back of the dank, cold dungeon to prepare for his first class in the last bit of peace and quiet he could expect until the Christmas holidays.

True, an undercurrent of anger buzzed throughout his body as he went through his annual routine. A typical year would find him more apathetic than furious before he had to deal with the odious task of teaching. But no matter what Severus did that morning, no matter what path he forced his mind to take, he could not keep his thoughts from turning again and again to the fact that Harry Potter now walked the castle halls. He tried to grit his teeth and bear it by manually writing the instructions for his first class’s assignment on the chalkboard. There was, after all, no reason to take out his temper until the boy himself reared his ugly head, and that would not be for some hours yet. Before that happy time, he had an O.W.L. class of Gryffindors and Slytherins and a gaggle of third-year Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws to endure.

Then he heard the unmistakable sound of someone unlatch the door to the dungeon behind him. They opened said door only as far as they had to to slip inside, after which they pulled the door shut again with great care.

His hackles raised at once. Potter. The thought was ludicrous. Severus knew that as soon as it occurred to him. Potter would likely struggle to find his first class on time, let alone a place as out of the way as the dungeon. Yet Severus could not shake the feeling he’d had since he first set eyes on the boy at the Welcoming Feast the night before: James Potter’s son would not fail to torment him. James would have seen to that.

Severus spun, his black cloak billowing out ominously around him. The threat of taking points from Gryffindor was on the tip of his tongue when he spotted the actual intruder:

“Miss [Last Name],” he said in his softest voice. No one attempted to sneak up on him and got away with it, not even a member of his own house.

Sensing his displeasure, you frozen in the process of sliding into a seat at the very back of the room. Your expression was difficult to read that far away in the dim torchlight surrounding only Severus. He saw no reason to light the entire room up when only he occupied the dungeon. But one thing he could see very clearly: only one eye sparkling in the flickering flames. Vivid purple and green skin swelled the other shut.

“Good morning, Professor Snape,” you murmured.

He did not return your polite greeting. “I do not harbor students after they have been fighting in the halls. You may hide from Filch in your common room or you may turn yourself in to his tender mercies, but I shall not got involved.”

This being the start of your fifth year at Hogwarts, you ought to have known his feelings on misbehavior quite well. He did not care if Slytherins broke the rules so long as they showed brains enough to not get caught. Coming to him in the hope of help once spotted by another teacher or the caretaker would earn you nothing more than Severus’ ire.

Apparently this was one lesson you had not learned. You remained rooted to the spot rather than rushing away at this suggestion. Curious. After all, he made it a point to know the strengths and weaknesses of the students within his purview, and he had never noted you to be unintelligent. Perhaps a firmer hand was needed.

“I also do not appreciate when students come early to proffer their assistance,” he said. “I have no need for the aid of an unqualified witch. Your time would be better spent in the Hospital Wing, Miss [Last Name], and I expect that you will return from there at the proper time for class.”

Such a dismissal could not be mistaken for anything else. He returned his attention to the inventory list on his desk. Only a few lines in, Severus found himself interrupted once more.

“Oh, no, s-sir. I didn’t m-mean to—” The curl of his lips must have made you think better of stammering. You stopped, took a deep breath, and then went on a mite more calmly: “I didn’t come here to disturb you, sir. Or to help you prepare for class.”

“Then what is it that you do want?” he asked.

“Nothing, sir.”

“You would not have sneaked into my classroom while my back was turned for no reason. Spit it out. You are wasting my time.”

An inhale. An exhale. You looked nervously at the door.

“If you expect me to protect you from whomever you are fleeing from, you are sorely mistaken. You must be the one to finish the duels you choose to enter into.”

“I haven’t been fighting at all, Professor!” you protested.

Something about the pitch of your voice rang true. Things added up. He had never known you to pick fights in the corridors. Of course, the more boorish Gryffindors, such as their contemptible quidditch captain, would not care about that if they cornered you alone outside the Great Hall—but even that Severus doubted. Tensions between quidditch teams never rose so early in the term, and only two of the Gryffindors would dare to enrage Minerva before classes even started. What would they get out of doing so by picking on someone like you anyway?

Severus made his slow, calculated way down the aisle between tables to where you sat, back straight and stiff as a wand. Your bruise only grew uglier the closer he drew. Perhaps you knew this, for you ducked your head the moment he stood beside you.

“Look at me,” he ordered, and you reluctantly did so.

Your [color] eyes swallowed him whole. The entire process took a matter of seconds. He found himself standing next to you outside of the heavy door to the dungeon. True to your word, he could see no one in pursuit—and the ghastly muggle wound remained bright around your eye.

So he would need to go farther back.

He followed your memories backward through the morning, though your skipping breakfast, getting out of bed—Severus carefully skipped over your dressing for the day—sulking throughout the Welcoming Feast, and lurking alone in an empty corner of the Hogwarts Express. The black eye never vanished or faded.

“I see,” he said as he exited your mind.

The statement caused the color to drain from your face. “See what? Sir.”

“If you are not having problems with your housemates, I suggest you return to the Great Hall. Fifth year is difficult from the start. You will need your strength to get through my class today.”

“No, please, sir!”

You made a motion as though to grab his sleeve. Did you realize how lucky you were that he did not curse you on instinct for doing so? Severus doubted it. Narrowing his eyes, he took a small step backward and away from your grasping hands. At least you had the grace to look embarrassed for that disgusting display of desperation.

“Please let me stay here until class starts,” you murmured to your feet. “I’ll be quiet. I promise.”

“And how do you intend to keep such a promise?”

“I’ll read my textbook. You won’t know I’m here. Please, sir. Please.”

Upon the second please, you lifted your eyes to meet his again. The mark on your face reminded him unpleasantly of the face he used to see when he looked in the mirror during his days as a student—and more unpleasantly still of those who made his face look that way.

“Why?” Severus asked at last.

“I just…” Taking a deep breath, you plunged forward in as slow an explanation as he thought you could manage, “I don’t want the other students to gawk at me like they always do. Every time I get back from a holiday, it’s the same. I’m tired of it, sir. I just want them to leave me alone.”

I just want them to leave me alone. Yes, he could recall the same words coming out of his mouth once upon a time, and exactly who he said them to, if not who about. He’d had so many tormentors that even staying at the school for Christmas could not keep him away from all of them. Likely you had discovered that yourself over the past five years. What was it that he’d overheard one of your dormmates saying just last September? Something about the red blemishes [L Name] tried to hide as she pulled her robes on in the morning. At the time, Severus had dismissed the conversation as the cattish gossip so typical of fourth-year girls; now he realized it had been something more.

“How long?” he said in his softest voice.

“Excuse me, sir?” Your single huge eye betrayed your feigned ignorance without any need for him to resort to legilimency this time around.

“How long has someone been hurting you?”

“No one has been…” But you trailed away upon noticing his scowl.

“Do not try to lie to me. We both know you have not been fighting with your fellow students, so where else would you have received such a wound? Let me guess,” he went on over your attempted objection, “someone at home did not appreciate your being sent your acceptance letter.”

Silence. Given how still you kept yourself, Severus expected you were concentrating on not shaking in his presence. He could not see that you so much as breathed.

“Five years, then. At least. That answers my first question. Now on to the next: Who?”

“No one you would know, sir,” you said very quietly.

“A muggle, then.”

“No!”

“Then who? Spit it out, girl! Do you think I care to expose your lineage to your housemates? I have better things to do with my time than facilitate drama for my students.”

Your mouth opened—but only for a moment before your lips clamped shut. Perhaps he should have expected he would have to pull the answer from you millimeter by painful millimeter. He had not wanted to tell Lily, after all, and she mattered to him in a way that Horace Slughorn never could.

“Miss [L Name], I cannot help you unless you talk to me. And if you refuse to talk to me, this begs the question of why you felt it necessary to interrupt my work so early in the day. You have taken up enough of my preparation period. You may not stay unless you begin telling me what I want to know.”

Time passed. With no ticking clock on the wall of his classroom, Severus could not say how long your stare down lasted. He could have entered your mind once more while he waited. Instead, he looked down at you wordlessly. You would leave if you valued your privacy over your pride. It seemed you favored the latter, for in the end you finally replied:

“My father.”

The raw anger he felt at hearing these words must have shown on his face and terrified you far more than any of his threats had that day. You hastily went on:

“He’s not my real father. I don’t know who is. Mum married Edgar while she was pregnant with me, and she left when I was just a kid. It’s just been him and me there ever since.”

“And he does not approve of you or your mother being witches?”

“I think he’s just jealous. He’s a squib, you see. Mum’s family arranged the whole thing before anybody knew, and by then it was too late for her to get out of it. Please don’t tell the other Slytherins, Professor! They think I’m pure-blood. If they knew the truth, between that and my eye and the other bruising, the girls in my dorm would—”

“What other bruising?”

Your face darkened until it reached a shade nearly matching that of your swollen eye. “Things got worse this summer. He—”

Severus held up a hand to staunch the sudden flow of your confession. “I do not need the details.”

“Yes, sir.” Ashamed, frightened, or chastised, you cleared your throat several times before continuing, “Anyway, sir, I just wanted to sit down here in the mornings until my eye fades a bit. Is that all right with you, now that I’ve told you everything?”

Under ordinary circumstances, it would not have been all right with him. He could not risk all the students in Hogwarts starting to believe he would offer them shelter from the harsh realities of life. But as he stared down at you, he thought of his childhood and all the pain and ridicule it had brought him at the hands of James Potter and his merry men. If Horace had offered him respite, would Severus still hate him so? Obviously. The situations were, however, quite different, as Severus doubted Horace had faced a day of adversity in his entire life.

“I will consider your request,” said Severus, “if you also tell me what you plan to do about your situation at home nextsummer.”

“Do?” you echoed.

“Yes, ‘do.’ Do not be dense. It does not become you. No one else is going to ride to your rescue. You will therefore have to rescue yourself.”

“But—But how? I’m not of age! In a few years, maybe I can move out, but until then—”

“That’s not good enough! I have watched you, Miss [L Name], as I watch all Slytherins. You are ambitious, clever, resourceful, determined. That is what makes you a true Slytherin, not whether or not you were raised by a blight upon wizarding society. So what, I ask again, are you going to do about it?”

“I—I don’t know.”

“Think then. Have you contacted anyone at the Ministry? There are people in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement who might be able to offer you assistance.”

“Oh, no, sir!” Tears sprang to your eyes. “I can’t ask anyone for help. I didn’t even want you to find out. What will some random Ministry official think? They’ll laugh at me.”

“Such a viewpoint is narrow-minded and foolish to a startling degree. Asking for help is utilizing resources. Did I just not tell you that doing so made you a Slytherin?”

You gave him a hesitant nod. If he let you go now, you would surely promise to owl the proper authorities and never do so. Your tormentor would have free rein whenever you went home until such a day came that you could bring yourself to leave. Who knew what he could escalate to if allowed that kind of freedom? Severus needed to get you acting now.

“Very well. We will forgo the Ministry for the time being. How will you go about fixing your problem by yourself, then? I am sure that you are fully capable of doing so.”

“No, I’m not! Professor, even if I were as smart as all that, I can’t use magic outside of school. You know that.”

“Except in life-threatening situations, I believe the rule goes. It seems to me that you are more in need of the reminder than I. Be that as it may, you don’t need to use underage magic to brew a potion, now, do you?”

An eager light dawned in your eyes as the suggestion sunk in. He could see your imagination unfurling with a hundred different plots at the very idea. Though he did not necessarily disagree with the sentiment behind these plans, he did feel it was his burden as your head of house to dissuade you from the messier ones.

“You cannot kill him with a potion, much as the man might deserve it. That would attract the authorities, both magic and muggle. But you could use your skill in potions to keep yourself safe for the duration of the summer,” he said.

Safe. You mouthed the word rather than say it allowed, savoring the weight and taste on your tongue. Two of your fingers lifted to gently prod the blackened corner of your eye.

“What potions, sir?” Your tone sounded much more confident than it had all day. “Please tell me. I’ll study them. I’ll know them by heart before I get back on the train.”

“I will do better than give you a list. I will teach you myself.”

Your jaw went slack in a truly deplorable display of shock. Severus chose to be relieved you did not hug him instead of frustrated at your surprise. It was unusual for him to invite students for private lessons, especially for students doing adequate work in his class. A few seconds went by before you were able to control yourself enough to say, “Thank you, sir.”

“It will not be easy,” Severus warned. “I expect you to do exactly as I say exactly when I say.”

He allowed you a pause to accept this condition. You did so with a quiet nod.

“Very well. First of all, you will be here in my classroom an hour before class begins each week, starting next week. Arrive late, and our agreement will come to an end at once.”

“Yes, sir!”

“I also have one other condition.”

The happiness dancing in your eyes faded somewhat. “Yes, sir?” you asked guardedly. As though he would ever put you in the same position as that sorry excuse for your so-called “father.”

“You allow me to escort you to the Hospital Wing this morning. I cannot allow your current appearance to distract the rest of the class, now, can I?”

At first, he could tell that you wanted to argue. Accepting help from him was one thing; showing anything to Poppy would be quite another. Most students at Hogwarts knew she didn’t ask questions about whatever magical maladies plagued them—then again, this was not a magical malady. Perhaps you knew his presence would stave off any attempts on Poppy’s part to get to the bottom of things, because after a moment of mental struggle you said:

“Yes, sir.”

“Very good,” Severus said as he went to the door. He made it all the way there while you remained rooted to the spot. “Come along. Unless you want to run into your dormmates on the way.”

With a start, you stood, grabbed your book bag, and rushed right past him into the hall. Severus stopped only long enough to lock the door behind you both. Then the two of you headed side by side toward the stairway leading to the higher floors of the castle.

A tremendous waste of his time, taking a fully-functioning teenage girl to seek medical attention? Undoubtedly. But staying nearby to make sure you didn’t run off before Poppy finished with you did keep his mind off the imminent arrival of one Harry James Potter. And was it truly a waste of time to help one of his Slytherins get through a nasty childhood like his? As Severus watched Poppy tut over your black eye, he thought not—although no one would ever hear him admit it out loud.

Summary:When you got married, people warned you that you wouldn’t just be marrying your husband, you’d be marrying into his family. Too bad no one ever warned you you’d be marrying into his friendships, too.

Rating/Warnings: All (Post-Captain America: Civil War;Captain America: Civil War Compliant; Hurt!James “Rhodey” Rhodes; Married!James “Rhodey” Rhodes; Vitriolic Best Buds; Mild Swearing; Avengers Compound)

Challenge:“100 Little Drabbles” by Wingu on Lunaescence Archives

Prompt:Break

Tag List: @imaginesfire​

Notes: This is my first go at writing Rhodey outside of his occasional appearances in longer Tony-centric works. It’s long overdue, and I might have gone a little overboard with Tony just because I feel bad that I always focus on his friendship with Bruce instead.

Part of the Package Deal

Gravel crunched beneath your feet as you stepped of your sensibly-sized and -colored rental car onto the Avengers Compound’s sweeping grounds. Several huge buildings rose up around you high enough to block out the sun crawling westward toward the horizon. You pulled your sunglasses off to get a better look at your surroundings. So this was where Jim had been spending so much time for the past year. And how could you blame him? This place blew your modest home in Malibu out of the water.

No, no, no! Pinching the bridge of your nose, you shook your head back and forth until it cleared of the usual Stark razzle-dazzle. You refused to let anything here impress you. Tony thought modern architecture and flashy tech were enough to make up for the fact you never heard about your husband unless he’d been involved in an accident? Well, not anymore.

With one sharp exhale, you squared your shoulders and snapped your attention to the nearby doors. According to the map you’d printed off the internet, these led into the living quarters for the Avengers. You took one handle and yanked to no avail. Locked. Yes, you decided as you took a step back to look for any obtrusive security cameras, you were definitely in the right place.

“Tony!” You banged on the glass. “Tony, let me in!”

Peering inside revealed nothing but an empty room filled with exercise equipment. You knocked again.

“Tony, I did not fly all the way here from California for you to ignore me!”

“Mr. Stark is currently tied up in other matters. May I have your name, please?”

The cool, Irish-accented voice of a woman seemed to come from nowhere. You jumped about a foot away from the door. A minute or two of pulse-pounding shock later, you realized this must be yet another of Tony’s AIs. What had happened to JARVIS, you wondered. He never had to ask for your name.

“Your [Name], please,” the new AI insisted.

“[F Name] Rhodes,” you answered as you stepped back to the door.

“I have no such name on the approved visitor list for today. Please contact our publicity office to arrange for an appointment at a later date. Goodbye.”

“Hold it!”

No reply came forth. For all the good it would do, you smashed your fist against the door once more. Then you held your breath. Still nothing moved behind the glass. Had Tony’s artificial bouncer really just left you here alone?

“Ma'am, I’m afraid that if you do not vacate the facility premises in the next ten minutes, I will be forced to call in the authorities.”

Apparently not.

“Listen,” you said, still unsure of exactly where to look to get your point across. “You tell Tony that [F Name] Rhodes is here. If he still won’t let me in, I’ll gladly talk to whatever authorities you’re required to summon. If he wants the extra publicity, I don’t mind giving it to him.”

The woman didn’t answer. You wondered again what had become of JARVIS. JARVIS knew you. He would never have left you standing outside, listening for the sound of approaching sirens or Iron Man drones. Heck, he’d probably have opened the door without waiting to get permission from his precious boss.

Movement flashed somewhere in the back of the room a quarter of an inch away from you. A figure made its rapid way in your direction. Soon it was close enough for you to identify: Tony Stark had made an appearance at last. He looked uncharacteristically pale as he unlocked the door and pushed it open to allow you inside.

“Where’s Jim?” you asked after you dumped your purse on a nearby plastic chair—the only flat surface you could fine that wasn’t tile floor.

“Hello to you, too, [Name],” Tony said. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Don’t play dumb with me..”

“You’re a long way from California. It never occurred to you to callfirst?”

“The line was busy.” You folded your arms across your chest and asked again calmly, “Where’s Jim?”

Tony pushed his hair from his forehead with a sigh. You noticed he was having trouble meeting your eyes. “Resting.”

“Restingwhere?”

“Can we not do this right now? Let me show you to a room. We’ve got plenty available. When Rhodey’s ready, we’ll all have dinner together. I might even be able to dig Vision up from wherever he got to. We can talk then.”

Asthough Tony could weasel out of a conversation you wanted to have with him. You’d known him far too long for any of his usual stalling tactics to work.

“Tony, I’ll tell you this one time before I start pulling this place apart with my bare hands: Give me. My husband.”

Your eyes locked with his. A long pause ensued. You could practically see the gears (or suitably high-tech equivalent) turning inside Tony’s skull as he struggled to come with some comeback witty enough to distract you. Too late. Before he could utter another word, you turned on your heel to follow the dim hallway leading from the room.

“Wait!” he called after you.

You stopped and look at him over your shoulder.

“I…I can’t.”

“Why not?” You could barely keep the anger from your voice.

“Because he isn’t ready yet.”

“He isn’t ready for what?”

“Ready for you to see him!”

Gritting your teeth in a silent snarl, you marched right back up to Tony and jabbed a finger into his chest where his arc reactor used to sit. “You have no right to keep me from him.”

“I know.” He took the hand still prodding him, but instead of shoving it away, he wrapped his own hand around yours. “[Name], I promise, as soon as he’s okay, I’ll take you right to him.”

“‘Okay’? ’Okay’? Why is he not okay? Did something else happen to him?”

“No, not exactly.”

“What is he doing here anyway? He should be at the VA!”

“Trust me. This the best place for him. I’ve got one of the best neurosurgeons in the country on speed dial. Admittedly not the best, because he wouldn’t take my calls—but this one is excellent, too, and she’s keeping a good eye on him! I’m doing the best with what I’ve got, all right?”

He probably thought you’d drop the point of your husband being kept at Avengers HQ instead of a medical facility. After all, Tony was the man that built the greatest technical innovation the world had seen in decades while being kept prisoner in a cave with a box of scraps. But this wasn’t the fate of Tony’s reputation or his company at stake here. It was the man you loved’s life.

“Not good enough,” you said.

Tony pulled you back as you attempted a second break for the hall. “[Name], would you listen to me? Rhodey is as physically and emotionally fine as he can be. All I’m asking for is a little more time.”

Something about that request broke the dam inside you. Every horrible feeling you had experienced over the last few days crashed over you—the fear, the anger, the stress, the worry, all of it. Despite your best efforts to keep yourself upright and strong, tears filled your eyes. You ripped your arm free of Tony’s grip so that you could wipe your face dry with your sleeve and level a dry glare at him.

“I have given you time, Tony. It’s been days. I should have heard it from you, not from CNN.”

“I admit, when you put it that way, I could probably have handled the reveal a bit better.”

“How do you think I feel, knowing Jim is out there putting his life on the line for you, only to hear he’s been seriously injured while I’m listening to the news over dinner?”

“Things have just been a little hectic around here since Steve decided to play Dirty Harry, okay? I swear, I was going to call you just as soon as—”

“As soon as what? I am his wife, Tony! I deserve—”

“[Name]?”

Both you and Tony looked toward the hall to see a familiar man creeping up it, his hands pressed against the white wall to help him stand.

“Jim!” you gasped at the exact same time that Tony said, “Rhodey?”

For one shining moment, you remained so stunned to see your husband again that you failed to notice anything different about him. All you could do was stare at him in happy wonder—until he reached the end of the wall and nearly tumbled to the floor without further support. He would have fallen, had Tony not been quick enough to see what was happening and leap to fill the place the wall once had.

“Thanks,” Jim said.

“Don’t mention it. What are you doing out of bed?”

The two of them made their slow, staggering way across the room. You watched with one hand over your mouth. Could this really be the same man that had stood at the end of the aisle at your wedding? He looked the same and sounded the same, but, oh, Jim. Thankfully, you noticed where the men were headed before you gave yourself over to more tears. Your purse was unceremoniously dumped to the floor just as Jim collapsed into it. A few seconds went by as he caught his breath.

“I thought I heard the two of you arguing,” he answered Tony at last.

“We weren't—” But the cutting look you shot Tony prevented him finishing his protest.

“Sure,” Jim said, then he looked at you. “When did you get here?”

“About fifteen minutes ago,” you replied.

“Well, it’s good to see you. I was beginning to wonder when Tony would allow me to have visitors.”

“He didn’t.”

Jim frowned. “What do you mean?”

“I’m only here because I found out what happened on the news. Tony has nothing to do with it.”

“Oh.Oh. I’m sorry, [Name]. I should have called you. Between the media blitz and all the physical therapy, it never even crossed my mind.”

You put your hand gingerly on his shoulder and were relieved that he didn’t collapse under the added weight. “It’s okay, Jim. I don’t blame you for my finding out this way.”

“It isn’t Tony’s fault.”

You snorted, causing Jim’s faint eyebrows to lift.

“It’s not.”

“Jim.” Now your hand moved to cup his cheek. “This happened because you were cleaning up one of Tony’s messes again.”

Admittedly, you didn’t have all the details lined up just yet. One never could trust the news to tell the whole or entire truth about something, but this fiasco smelled strongly of one of Tony’s harebrained world-protection schemes. His role in keeping Jim away from for months at a time was a well-worn subject of argument between you and your husband; bringing it up now when Jim was so weak wasn’t exactly fair. But you couldn’t stand seeing him like this, and the knowledge that Tony had something to do with his injuries again only aggravated you further.

“I swear, you got hurt less often back when you only worked for the Air Force,” you said throatily.

Jim pressed one of his hands over the one you had on his face, then waited to speak until you could control yourself enough to look him in the eye:

“[Name], you know I make my own decisions.”

“And those decisions change if you think Tony’s going to get himself killed,” you grumbled.

“And you know I’m willing to call Tony out when I think he’s being an idiot.”

“Which doesn’t matter when he doesn’t listen.”

“And you knew that when you and I got married, Tony was part of that package deal.”

Another glare in Tony’s direction met with an odd expression on his part. Before it had felt like he couldn’t look straight at you. Now it felt like he’d forgotten you were even there, so focused was he on Jim. Could that be guilt you read on Tony’s face? Surely not. You turned back to your husband with a sharp breath.

“At the time, I didn’t realize the deal would involve so much of you two flying around in metal suits.”

Jim let out a soft, low chuckle. His eyelids slid shut. When he dropped his arm to his side, you reluctantly pulled your hand away from him. Tony knelt beside him to put his hand on the shoulder you had so recently held.

“You had a rough morning. You should be in bed,” he said.

“I’m fine, I’m fine.” Jim tried to wave him off, but Tony stayed put.

“I mean it. You want to backslide? All that progress we made this morning? Gone, because your stubborn ass has to come running whenever I get in a fight.”

“You’re not in any condition to go toe to toe with [Name] right now.”

“When am I ever?”

The two of them grinned at each other in that infuriating way that only a couple of guys making a private joke could. Seeing as you were the butt of that private joke, you did not crack a smile. You allowed them to continue smiling, though, until their little “bromance” moment stretched on a little too long. Both men started when you cleared throat. Maybe they had forgotten you were still standing there with your arms crossed over your chest.

“And what, exactly, about this morning was so rough?” you asked frostily.

The look Jim and Tony exchanged that time was different—more raised eyebrows and frowning—but equally infuriating.

“What aren’t you telling me?” This question you directed at your husband. “I came out all this way to find out what’s been going on, so one of you had better spit it out.”

“Or what?” asked Tony.

“Tony, I think she’s serious,” Jim said.

“So am I. Is not knowing really grounds for a divorce? I’m just weighing our options here.”

With an aggrieved sigh, Jim shoved Tony out of his immediate personal bubble. Tony must not have wanted to keep their shared secret too badly, because he did nothing to prevent Jim from taking a deep breath and saying:

“Tony’s got me doing some…experimental physical therapy.”

Well,that wasn’t a comforting explanation. “So you’re a physical therapist now?” you asked.

“Among other things,” Tony said.

“Look.”

You could not ignore Jim’s soft request. Instead of firing back at Tony as you so badly wanted to, you returned your attention to your husband. He tapped at a glowing blue circle about halfway down his thigh. From that light sprouted a complicated system of pulleys and joints and even more lights that sprawled across Jim’s legs and hips. So eager had you been to see him alive and moving that you hadn’t even noticed this addition to his body.

“Tony made these for me,” he said. “Without them, I wouldn’t be able to walk at all.”

Your mouth opened. Your mouth closed. Again. Again. Again. Still unable to think of any way to express your thoughts on the matter, you raised your head to look at Tony. You were surprised to find his brown eyes shining when they met your gaze.

“We’re still working out the kinks. Rhodey is—” Tony coughed a few times, then went on, “Rhodey is amazing. He’s doing great. Really great. I’m just trying to get the braces up to his speed.”

“We’re both getting there. Together.”

Tony shook his head, unwilling to accept Jim’s encouragement. His eyes and yours were trained on each other like magnets. “You weren’t supposed to show up until he was perfect. That’s why I didn’t call. I wanted to give him back to you good as new.”

“Tony…” Jim began, but once more Tony waved him off.

“I owe you both at least that much.”

Neither you nor Tony seemed able to figure out what to say to each other after that. At least you finally managed to break eye contact. He looked back at Jim, tried to smile, failed, and awkwardly stuck his hands in the front pockets of his pants. You turned your head to blink rapidly at the wall, cleared your throat again, and tried not to cry. After struggling to find words to say to Tony for another minute or so, you gave up and went back to Jim instead.

“You really think this is what you need? Not rehab at an actual hospital?” you asked.

He didn’t miss a beat. “I trust Tony. This is what I want to do.”

Normally, Tony would have taken this compliment and rubbed it in your face until it ground to dust. That day he didn’t react at all. Didn’t blink. Didn’t grin. Didn’t so much as offer a single quip. He seemed to be waiting for you to make the next move. His behavior threw you off, and the more you thought about it, the more you realized just how little Tony was acting like himself at all. The whole catastrophe with Steve—and Jim’s injury—must have really rattled him.

Then it hit you: Jim wasn’t just staying here for his own sake; he could never be that selfish. Tony needed Jim just then just as badly as Jim needed Tony. You couldn’t tear him away.

“Fine,” you said.

“Fine?” Tony echoed.

“What’s fine?” Jim asked.

“You can stay. I won’t drag you off to the nearest VA like I was planning to.”

“You won’t?” A hopeful note crept into Tony’s voice.

“Really?” said Jim.

“Really,” you answered.

They both cheered. If you’d given them the time, you suspected they might have actually embraced. You did not give them the time, however. Tony could change his mind just as quickly as you, so you needed to get things arranged as soon as possible. Neither he nor Jim noticed you taking a step away from them, but they couldn’t fail to hear you say:

“Just let me go get my bags out of the car.”

You made a beeline for the door you’d come through before either of them could register what you said. Such ringing silence could not last. No sooner had you placed your hand on the door handle than did Tony shake off the lingering shock.

“Wait. No one said anything about you staying,” he said as he came after you. “No, no. This is a secure facility! I’m sure we can find you a nice hotel nearby if you really feel you need to—”

“Tony,” said Jim.

“She’s not an Avenger!”

“Yeah, and neither are we much these days.”

Then Jim tried to get to his feet. It looked more to you like he was having a seizure. His feet scuffed against the floor while his fingers grasped the edge of the chair he sat on. Very slowly and very arduously, he finally managed to stand. You held everything you had inside you very, very still to prevent yourself from running over to him and helping him over to Tony’s side. He got there all on his own several agonizing minutes later. There he clapped Tony on the shoulder and shot him a tired smile.

“Besides, you knew when [Name] and I got married, she’d always be part of the package deal,” he said.

Tony’s lips pursed together at that. They squirmed for a long time. At last, without bothering to so much as look in your direction, he said, “Fine. She can stay.”

“Thanks, Tony.”

“But you have to say in the wing where we house the orphaned SHIELD agents!” Tony’s call followed you out of the compound and back onto the lot where your rental car sat waiting.

“Tony—” Jim began in a warning tone.

The door shutting behind you prevented you from hearing the quarrel that surely followed. Those two were always like that, especially when it came to you. As you hefted your two suitcases from the car’s trunk, though, you found you didn’t care. You didn’t care about having to listen to Jim and Tony argue until they were blue in the faces or drunk. You didn’t care about the fights you and Tony would get into when he inevitably got bored and started picking on you. You didn’t even care that it looked as though you and your husband would not be returning to your home in California soon or ever at all.

No, all you felt in that moment was grateful. Tony Stark might have put a lot of stock into the work of his own hands, modern architecture, and flashy tech—but he put more stock into his friendship with you and with Jim.

Summary:Natasha tends gets her way, if not always in the way that she expects.

Rating/Warnings: All (song lyrics as dialogue; Song Challenge; Post-Avengers (2012); SHIELD Agent!Reader; Avenger!Reade; Some Crack; Pre-Iron Man 3; Avengers Tower; absent!Thor)

Requester:@flintt

Request:  “Can I […] ask for a Bruce Banner fanfic? I was also wondering if y/n could just be a shield agent doing a singing challenge with co-workers and end up doing Banner (I like to think it’s overwhembled /the Ryan Mack Remix/) and he’s all smitten and in love. Pretty much fluff. Thanks. […] y/n is a really good singer and suggests them and their co-workers play a game, which y/n will summarize the avengers personality/love life/ whatever with a song.”

Tag List: @imaginesfire​

Notes: Credit is given for the music within the work. Also, I must give a shout-out to my best friend IRL for coming up with the ending to this one shot back when I first mentioned what I was working on to her.

Silent No More

Silence had a funny way of turning the most mundane of tasks into an arduous affair. It could do so in more than one way, too. You could endure the thin, anxious silence waiting for the signal to begin acting out a mission. You could handle the heavy, poignant silence at the other end of a phone line when you called a family to inform them a fellow agent had died in the line of duty. But by far the hardest silence to sit through was standing alone in an elevator with your boss while he studiously typed out messages to someone else all the way down.

When the silver doors finally slid open to reveal Avengers Towers common area, you sucked in an enormous breath. Unstifled air at last! But you could not enjoy it for long. Director Fury stepped out onto the tile alongside you with his black coat billowing at his ankles. You struggled to match his long strides as you both headed in the direction of the second lift at the other end of the wide room. Whatever he and Maria were talking about must have been important; he still hadn’t said a single word since you left the interview. Had you screwed things up? Should you bring the question up yourself, or wait for him to start the lecture?

“[Name]!”

A familiar voice forced you to turn before either you or Director Fury reached the elevator to the main lobby. There at the kitchen table sat your close friend, Natasha Romanoff, and fellow SHIELD agent Clint Barton. Behind them in the kitchen itself stood another familiar figure: Bruce Banner, who seemed determined to pretend no one else was anywhere nearby.

Natasha caught your eye and waved you over. You shot Director Fury a questioning look. He was still, for all intents and purposes, your boss, as well as your ride home for the evening. Without even looking up from his communicator, he nodded.

“So, how did it go?” she asked upon your approach.

“Fine,” you answered.

“Meaning?”

“Meaning I got the job.”

She and Clint clapped enthusiastically. Maybe it was lingering anxiety from being trapped in a room for an hour while Director Fury, Steve Rogers, and Tony Stark shot questions at you, but their celebratory gesture only made your face grow warm. Then Natasha made things worse by kicking the chair across from her out from under the table and pointing imperiously at the empty seat.

“Sit,” she said.

So used to following her orders were you that you sat without a second thought. From that angle, you had a good view of Bruce’s wide shoulders straining a little against the fabric of his purple shirt. The scent of hot milk and spices rose from whatever he had on the stove; you wondered if he was making tea.

Natasha cleared her throat. Starting, you returned your attention to her—but that didn’t convince her it had always been there. Her green eyes slid knowingly in Bruce’s direction and back to your face. Her smile grew as she pushed an upside-down baseball cap across the table to you. It rustled strangely as it moved, and the reason soon became clear: A number of folded paper slips sat inside.

“Welcome to the team,” she said. “I hope you didn’t think this would get you out of our little game.”

Horrified, you gazed down at the hat. All of the papers inside seemed to writhe around like venomous snakes. Though Clint had not spoken a single word since your arrival, you could see him smirking over the lip of his coffee mug. You knew exactly what he found so amusing, too: The vague warmth against the back of your head told you that Director Fury had followed you to the table—and he was probably still busy talking to Maria. That wouldn’t mean he wasn’t keeping track of your conversation, though; the World Security Council did not pay him to be unobservant.

Did Natasha, your so-called “friend,” have any sympathy for your plight? Of course she didn’t. She just jostled that hat by its brim and reminded you, “This whole thing was youridea.”

“I know,” you moaned.

“So what’s the hold up?”

“That was before.”

“Before what?”

You couldn’t help stealing another glance at the back of Bruce’s dark curly head. Was he listening in? How could he not? Nothing else was going on in the common area, and making tea didn’t cause a lot of noise.

“Before I joined the Avengers,” you answered in an undertone.

“Oh, but I have to play? I’ve been an Avenger from the beginning.”

“Then let’s call the whole thing off. I’ll just see you guys tomorrow, shall—”

As you stood to beat a hasty retreat, Clint grabbed your elbow and pulled you back into your chair. “Nice try, [Name].”

“You aren’t chickening out of this now,” said Natasha. “Not after I’ve already completed one round.”

“What? Who did you get?” you demanded.

Clint raised the hand that gripped you into the air.

“That’s not fair. How did you draw your best friend right off the bat? Did she even really sing to you?” you asked Clint.

“Of course she did. Why would I lie about a thing like that?” he asked you in return.

“Because, as previously stated, you’re her best friend.”

“I am shocked and appalled you think I’m capable of such outright dishonesty with such meager motivation.”

“Prove it then. What song did she sing to you?”

Clint opened his mouth, but Natasha put a hand on his shoulder. He grinned, drained the last of whatever was in his cup, and set it down on the table with an exaggerated smack of his lips.

“Sorry, [Name].” He didn’t sound it. “My lips are sealed. Natasha swore me to secrecy, and you know how thatgoes.”

You sure did, and knowing made you all the more suspicious. Clint and Natasha often acted as a unit. What she wanted, she usually got. If she needed help from her partner in crime, you hadn’t come across a situation yet where he refused to help her. Huffing, you threw yourself back against your chair and crossed your arms over your chest.

“I don’t believe either of you.”

These words bothered Natasha not at all. With a flourish, she pulled her cell phone out, shaking it a little so that its glassy screen caught the lights above your heads. “That’s okay. I’ve got video proof. Oh, I don’t think so,” she added when you made a futile grab for the phone. “You can see the recording after you wrap up yourassignment.”

Unconvinced, you looked again at Clint. He might have been willing to do just about anything for Natasha, but lying was not one of those things. Not in circumstances where no one’s life was in danger, at least.

“Itwas a pretty spectacular show,” he said.

You threw your hands into the air. “Ugh! Fine! Give me the hat.”

She held it out again. You plunged your hand into the waiting pool of slips before you could change your mind. Maybe you’d get lucky. Maybe you’d pick some guy assigned to Helicarrier duty for the next three months. Maybe you'd—

“Oh, that’s perfect!” Natasha said.

The paper unfolded read “Bruce Banner.”

“Yourigged this.” You leveled your deadliest glare at her, the one that occasionally caused hardened terrorists to drop their weapons without firing at your team. “I don’t know how you rigged this, but this is all your doing.”

“Don’t be a spoil sport, [Name]. Director, why don’t you go ahead and draw your assignment now?”

She thrust the hat up toward your heretofore wordless boss. When you twisted in your seat, you saw him stop rattling away on his communicator just long enough to look from the hat to Natasha’s face.

“Don’t make me fire you, Agent Romanoff,” he said.

“That’s all right.” She cheerfully sat the hat down at her elbow. “I’ll use that sleight of hand [Name] has accused me of to make sure no one gets to Tony’s slip before you.”

“Hey. What are you guys up to?” asked a new voice.

All four of you slowly moved your heads to see Bruce standing nearby. He had one hand in his pocket; the other held a steaming mug.

“Nothing,” Natasha said with a radiant smile.

“Nothing you’d be interested in,” Clint added.

“Nothing you need to be involved in, Dr. Banner,” said Director Fury. “With the only person capable of wrestling the Hulk into submission still in Asgard, I’d prefer you to keep your stress levels at a minimum.”

A brief pause followed this suggestion. Bruce licked his lips. You watched a faint line on his forehead deepen for a moment. Then the line vanished to be replaced by a thin smile.

“Okay,” he said. “I’ll just go see if Tony wants any help in the lab today. Congratulations on making the team, [Name]. Or maybe I should offer you my condolences?”

With that, he took his tea and shuffled off to the elevator you and Director Fury had vacated. Only after he disappeared behind the metal doors did the rest of your group relax.

“That was close,” said Clint.

“Very,” Fury agreed.

The rapid key tapping resumed. Natasha got up from the table to do something in the kitchen. Clint slurped at the nothing that remained in his cup. You, on the other hand, stared wordlessly at the paper clenched between your hands. Keeping Bruce in the dark was part of the game. He couldn’t know what was going on until you revealed it all to him. Had it been your imagination that he looked hurt over being told to stay out of it? Director Fury, at least, sounded awfully sincere about wanting Bruce to avoid all stress.

******

The first steps you took into your new home later that week hardly gave you the opportunity to get a good look at your surroundings. All you could tell was that they were big. As far a cry from D.C. as Manhattan was to begin with, your floor on Avengers Tower could not have been more different than the studio apartment you’d left behind.

Figures filled and moved throughout the area, providing even more distraction. As you and Natasha strode through the lobby of your home, arms laden with moving boxes, a platoon of Iron Man suits kept busy moving, adjusting, unpacking, disposing. And at the center of all this stood Tony Stark himself.

“How much more you got left, [Name]?” he asked as you neared his station in the living room. “Not that these guys need lunch, but I sure could use a break.”

“Why don’t you come downstairs and take a look yourself? We’d get it done faster if one of us wasn’t hanging out up here doing nothing,” Natasha said.

Tony looked affronted. “Nothing? Nothing? If I leave my post, who’s going to supervise this lot? You guys don’t have the control chip installed.”

“They could alsohelp unload the truck.”

“Nope. Sorry. No can do. These boys need to be kept on the D.L. until I’ve got all the kinks worked out.”

“Kinks?” you asked. “What kinks?”

“Nothing you need to worry about. All I’m saying is, I bring them outside just in time for the delivery kid to show up, and bam! One YouTube video later, the whole world knows what I'm—Hey! Mk. XXIV! Don’t you dare drop that! Don’t you—What did I justsay?”

A tremendous crashing sound caused the floor to shake.

“No kinks to worry about?” Natasha asked.

“Hold that thought,” Tony said as he stepped around you both and headed back the way you’d come. “Do you want to join DUM-E in the basement? So help me God, I’ll put you on mopping duty if that’s what you’re after!”

“Please tell me that wasn’t my grandmother’s china cabinet,” you said.

Natasha looked over her shoulder at the mess for you. “Doesn’t look like it. Looks like it might have been the coffee table Tony already put up here.”

“Thank God. I don’t have enough furniture to fill this place up as it is.”

“Lucky for you it comes pre-furnished.” Something behind you made a horrible, sharp squealing noise. Tony’s frustrated shouting resumed. “So long as Tony gets his Iron Legion under control.”

“Maybe we should take my dinnerware to a safer location.”

“Good idea.”

The sounds of groaning and crunching faded as you and Natasha slipped into your floor’s private kitchen. None of the drones had come that far back yet. In your hands you carried the first box of cookware. You slid it onto the waiting bar counter, tore it open, and began to pull out drinking glasses before any Iron Legion members could come in and break these as well.

“So,” Natasha said, setting down her own box next to yours. You liked her tone not at all.

“So what?”

“How’s the Song Challenge coming along? Have you picked something for Bruce yet?”

Of course that would be what was on her mind. Ever since she’d read the name on the slip you drew, Natasha had inundated you with texts, voicemails, and video calls about your plan. She seemed to think this was your big chance to show Bruce how you felt about him instead of what it really was: Your big chance to embarrass him and yourself in front of all his coworkers, irrevocably ruining any kind thoughts he had toward you.

“I don’t know if you missed the memo, Nat,” you had to stand on your tiptoes to reach the shelf you wanted, “but I’ve been a little busy this week packing my entire life into numerous boxes.”

“Exactly my point. Plenty of time for you to think. I’ve already wrapped up assignment number two.”

“What? Who did you get for that one?”

More importantly, when did she find the time? Apocalypse-level threats to Earth did not arise every single day, but surely the Avengers kept themselves busy. Why else hire on a seventh member?

Someone from over by the doorway cleared their throat. At first they appeared to be a tower of cardboard boxes on two thick legs. Then the someone stepped into the room and carefully dropped the boxes onto the empty kitchen table. Steve looked a little embarrassed, and it didn’t take long for you to figure out why.

“Speak of the Devil,” Natasha said with a grin.

You glared at her. “Seriously? Steve? You got Steve, and you’ve already sung to him.”

“I’ll have everyone else taken care of, too, at the rate you’re going. Don’t spend long on your break, Steve. And don’t tell her anything.”

With this final warning ringing in the air, she slid around Steve and out into the hall. You tore open the box containing your cutlery. What else could you do? Having worked occasionally with the Avengers as a SHIELD agent didn’t mean you had any clue how to act alone around Captain America.

“If it helps,” he said into the awkward silence, “she isn’t lying.”

“I don’t suppose you’ve got any proof of that.”

Steve shook his head. “You heard her. I don’t want to wake up tomorrow and find out my social security number doesn’t exist anymore. I can’t imagine you want that either.”

“I guess not,” you admitted grudgingly. Steve, at least, could probably get his identity back. Seeing as you didn’t so much as have a code name yet, Natasha could wreak much more havoc on your life if she chose to do so.

“But [Name].”

You looked at him.

“I always tell the truth.”

It would have been impossible to disbelieve him anyway when he furrowed his brows and filled his blue eyes with sincerity like that. Even if hugely muscled, all-American soldiers weren’t your type, Steve looked so handsome and earnest just then that you couldn’t even muster up an eye roll. All you could do was say:

“Right.”

Natashahad told him to not be take much time talking to you; she wouldn’t wait long before she came back to double-check he wasn’t spilling the beans about her song routine. You expected him to leave once you turned your back to fill an open drawer with silverware. Instead, when you went to retrieve a handful of spoons, you found him a few feet away loading plates into a cabinet.

“So, you’re having trouble coming up with something for Dr. Banner?” he asked.

“Er…yeah.” So surprised were you that Steve could speak to you like a normal human being that it took a second or two of staring before you remembered you were supposed to be unpacking. “I know he’ll probably hate the attention either way, but I want to pick something he’ll like—or at least something that won’t embarrass him too badly.”

“Want some help?”

“No thanks. I’ll think of something. I’m not sure that anything from the 1930s would be appropriate for Bruce.”

Steve did not deny listening exclusively to music from his own time period unless Tony forced him to do otherwise. “Well, if you change your mind?”

“I’ll let you know.”

“You’ll think of something good. I think it will be good for Dr. Banner to get a little positive attention.”

“No pressure, right?”

“I didn’t say that to pressure you. For what it’s worth—”

Cardboard scraping against cardboard cut through whatever he intended to say. Speak of the Devil was right! Behind the new boxes stood Bruce of all people. His dark eyes moved between your and Steve’s faces. He, Bruce, seemed to realize he had walked in the middle of something, because he licked his lips and forced a smile, an expression of his you were rapidly growing accustom to.

“Sorry,” he said. “I only managed to carry a couple of boxes up.”

“Every little bit helps,” Steve assured him, but Bruce continued to fidget with his hands.

“The Hulk could probably get the whole truck up here in one go, but—”

“He’d wind up smashing everything to pieces. Better not risk it.”

Color crept into Bruce’s cheeks. “That’s what I was getting at.”

Poor Bruce. He looked so uncomfortable. If only you could say something to crack the sudden tension that filled the kitchen. But what could you say? You got only as far as opening your mouth when he turned, shoulders hunched, to leave the room.

“I’d best get back down there and grab a few more things,” he said. “Can’t have puny Banner failing to pull his own weight, right?”

“Dr. Banner,” Steve began, but Bruce did not pause in his retreat. “Dr. Banner!”

“Bruce? What’s up?” you heard Tony ask from the other room. If Bruce gave him an answer, you didn’t hear it.

Steve let out a sharp sigh.

“I should go apologize. That was out of line. Natasha’s probably looking for me anyway. You good in here alone?”

You nodded as you tore into one of the boxes Bruce brought up. The only current threat nearby was to your material possessions, not to your physical well-being. Nothing more needed to be said after Steve ducked out. If you’d tried to speak, you’d probably have told Captain America that he ought to apologize, and you couldn’t say that to your new boss. Actually, Bruce probably deserved an apology from you as well, assuming he’d heard any part of your conversation with Steve. Maybe you should head down to the lobby, too…

Crash! Bang! Screech!

“Are you kidding me?” Tony cried.

On second thought, your things might be safer if you stayed right where you were.

******

Tonydid eventually get his drones to do the jobs he wanted them to do. Unpacking your things became significantly easier after that. In fact, he even got them to put several items of furniture that they had broken back together. Your bookshelves almost looked as good as new—not that you had time to look for obvious cracks when Steve assigned you to training with different team members every day of the remaining week. With so few actual missions on the schedule, it was no wonder Natasha could spend all that time shuttling back and forth between Avengers Tower and SHIELD HQ for the Song Challenge! Meanwhile, the rest of the team kept you so busy you hardly had five minutes to yourself to think of anything for your onechallenge.

Friday afternoon provided you the first free hour of time since you’d settled in. Showered and aching, you headed down to the common floor with the hope of overhearing something about Natasha’s efforts. The hope was slim; she had everyone terrified into silence. You stepped into the room to find her, Clint, and Steve crowded around Tony on the sofa. Tony was holding up his cell phone, and from its speakers blared music and the unmistakable sound of Natasha’s singing voice.

The very second the lift doors closed behind you, all four of them looked up. Tony turn off his phone and slipped into his pocket right away. You scowled as you stalked over to collapse on the armchair near them.

“Don’t let me stop you from having a good time,” you said.

“You’re not,” said Tony.

“You’re giving Natasha an excuse to snap our necks,” said Clint.

The woman in question gave Clint a playful smack on the back of his head. He smiled at her.

“Get a room,” you muttered, sliding further into your chair.

“Aw, what’s the matter? Still having trouble with your Song Challenge?” Natasha hopped up from her seat only to come perch on one of your chair arms. The withering look you sent her again had no effect on her.

“Mine is going fine, thank you for asking.”

“Hey, there’s no shame in admitting defeat,” Clint said.

“You don’t know Bruce as well as we do,” Tony put in. “Maybe you should call it quits and see if Romanoff will give you someone else. Someone…simpler?”

“You’re the simplest person around here to understand,” Steve said.

“I only keep things simple for you Cap. We all realize your primitive mind can’t grasp our modern-day nuances.”

“If this is a simpleness competition, I think [Name] wins,” said Clint. “She can’t even think of one song and dance routine to perform for Bruce, and Natasha’s already finished four.”

“Makes you wonder if she’s cut out for the Avengers,” Natasha agreed.

“Oh, shut up.” You knew you sounded sour, but did she have to rub it in? “Anyway, Barton, I don’t know where you get off nagging me. Your deadline is up tomorrow.”

He flicked his hand dismissively. “I took care of Maria on Tuesday.”

This news caused you to bury your face in your hands in frustration. “Is everyone going to beat me to the punch? This whole thing was myidea!”

“Not to put too fine a point on it, but your work on this is not going to reflect well upon you in your next employee review,” Tony said, then added when you lifted your face to glower at him, “We’re teasing you, [Name]. You’re one of us now. You’d better get used to it.”

A quiet whoosh announced yet another addition to the group. Out of the elevator slouched Bruce. He took one look at you all gathered there without him, most everyone smiling, and then quickly looked away. You noticed that Tony’s eyes followed Bruce’s circuitous route around the sitting room into the kitchen just as yours did. There Bruce opened the refrigerator and stuck his head inside it without so much as greeting anyone sitting there a few feet away.

When you looked again at Tony, he smirked. That you found odd—or did, until he called:

“Hey, Bruce. Why don’t you quit hiding in the fridge over there and join us?”

He pulled his head free only far enough that he could see you all. “Huh?”

“There’s room on the couch.” Tony waved Bruce over. “Or [Name]’s other chair arm is free. You could get to know her, since you’ve been avoiding all your training exercises with her.”

That explained why you still hadn’t had gone any rounds with Bruce in the gym upstairs. Why would he avoid you? You tried to surreptitiously give him a good once-over, as though you could glean why he had such an aversion to spending time with you specifically with just a glance. He caught your eye as you did and hastily twisted around so he could hold out his hands, fingers spread wide in front of him.

“That’s okay. You guys look cozy. I’ll just make some tea and be on my way,” he said.

“You could make tea on your own floor if you wanted to be antisocial. Come on. Sit.”

“Ireally don’t think that’s at all advisable.”

“Sit! Sit! Sit!” Clint started to chant.

“Sit! Sit! Sit!” Natasha joined in.

It didn’t take long for Tony to take up the words himself. Only you and Steve remained silent, and the latter not for long as you watched Bruce try and fail several time to interrupt their chorus, Steve lifted his own hands to his shoulders. His glare succeed in shutting every single one of them, even Tony.

“There’s no need to heckle Dr. Banner,” Steve said. “If he doesn’t want to be around us, he doesn’t have to be.”

“I didn’t say I didn’t want to be around you guys,” Bruce mumbled.

“You don’t have to explain yourself to us. Trust me, I know how stressful talking to Tony for any length of time can be.”

“Hey! I resemble that remark,” said Tony.

Steve shot him another withering look, then returned his attention to Bruce. “If you ever feel like we get to be too much, leave the room. No one will think any less of you. It’s safer for all of us if you don’t have the temptation to turn.”

“Cap,” Tony began, but his warning tone went nowhere. Bruce broke in by snapping the refrigerator shut behind.

“Yeah, I think I get the gist,” he said.

After that, Bruce tried to make back to the lift. He didn’t notice you standing so abruptly that you nearly knocked Natasha off her perch. He didn’t see you running to intercept him. But he did see you once you stood blocking his path, and he immediately came to a halt.

“[Name]?” he asked, brown eyes wide.

You could feel everyone else’s wide eyes riveted on you as well. Part of you thought things might go smoother for your integration into the team if you did nothing more than apologize to Bruce for making him uncomfortable and sit back down. If you did that, however, you’d never hear the end of it. Tony probably would bring your failure to complete your own challenge up on your employee review just for kicks. Besides, you got the feeling that if you let Bruce vanish on you now, you’d never get another opportunity to show him what you’d thought up.

“Are you all right?” Bruce prompted you, after a good half a minute passed without you saying anything.

To answer his question, you took a deep breath. He looked as though he was going to ask again, so you cut him off by starting to sing:

“I get overwhelmed so easily. My anxiety creeps inside of me, makes it so hard to breathe.”

No, your voice was too quiet. Could the man in front of you hear you? All he was doing was frowning at you still. You continued on with the song, growing a little louder with each line until you reached the first verse at full volume:

“But these doubts are haunting me. Oh, why’s it always right before I fall asleep that—”

“JAR?” Tony said. “Play Overwhelmed by Ryan Mack through the speakers. And rip out the voice track!”

“Of course, sir.”

You dove into the chorus as the music swelled around you. Bruce’s frown slowly faded away. Now he looked incredulous. Probably he could not believe he’d entered a universe in which his new coworker would just belt out a song to him in front of all his friends and other coworkers. Would you let that deter you? Not now. In fact, the musical accompaniment gave you the courage to dance along. Your moves were nothing compared to what you figured Natasha’s were, but at least you weren’t just standing there doing nothing anymore.

“I get over…well, well, well, would you look at that? Another person telling me to just ‘relax.’ ‘Calm down and take it easy. Everything will be okay.’ Yeah, sure.”

The astonishment on Bruce’s face twisted into an enormous grin, and he didn’t stop smiling for the rest of your song. All the while, the rest of the Avengers clapped along to the beat piping in from the ceiling.

“I get overwhelmed!”

A brief pause followed this conclusion. Then the group in the living room burst into applause. You couldn’t have cared less about their reaction either way. The only person’s you did care about was Bruce’s. He still hadn’t stopped smiling.

“Isthis what Natasha’s been doing all week that everyone’s being so secretive about?” he asked.

“Yes,” you said, then hastened to explain, “It was my idea. We’re all supposed to draw someone’s name out of a hat and pick a song to sing to them that summarizes them.”

“And you just had to go and draw my name.”

“No! I wanted you. Natasha probably made sure I did. I—I think you’re really sweet, Bruce. I realize this might not be the best way to tell you that, though.”

“No, it was. I loved it.”

You gaped at him. “You did?”

“Yeah. It was perfect. Maybe after training sometime, you and I could—”

All the lights on the floor went out.

“Very funny, Tony,” Bruce said.

“It’s not me,” Tony replied. “JARVIS? Lights, please!”

JARVIS did not respond. The only light came now from the button glowing beside the lift down to the tower’s lower floors. Bruce took your hands in his, presumably to shove you behind him if it came down to a fight. You held your breath until the elevator doors slid open to reveal a shadowed figure that stepped out onto the floor.

“Hey, buddy. Bad call breaking into this place,” Clint said.

A spotlight cut through the darkness. You could not make out who the person was at this distance, only that their clothing sparkled. Ominous music began to fill the room.

“You think you came up with piping in your own background music?” Tony said. “Come back when you’ve got something more original.”

The figure said nothing as it drew closer and closer to the Avengers. Multicolored lights swarmed suddenly across everyone’s faces. Whoever it was struck a pose only a few feet from the couch, and it hit you: It was Director Fury, wearing the same outfit he normally did but with glitter covering his trench coat and eye patch. He launched into his own song:

“Make his fight on the hill in the early day, constant chill deep inside.”

“What the hell?” you heard several of those gathered say. Their confusion did not prevent Director Fury from dancing his way right up to a stunned Tony Stark.

“For whom the bell tolls, time marches on. Sing it!”

Slack jawed, Tony did not blink at all between that moment and the end of Director Fury’s performance. No, it was more than that: Tony didn’t move. No one did. By the time the last notes of Metallica’s For Whom the Bell Tolls faded into nothingness and all the lights flicked back on, your hands had grown warm and moist inside of Bruce’s. Everyone one sat staring like that for what felt ages before Tony made a sudden grab for his phone.

Director Fury snatched Tony’s arm and held it in place. “No one will ever believe you.”

Without uttering another word, Director Fury turned, twinkling, to stride back to the elevator doors through which he’d come. You all remained too stunned to speak for several minutes after he vanished behind them.

“Well,” Natasha said at last, “I think we can all agree on who won [Name]’s Song Challenge.”

A murmur of assent rose from the group.

One by one, each member of the team seem to thaw. Bruce squeezed your hands before releasing you at last. Sure, you might have lost out on the overall win, but you’d won his heart. That was something that even Director Fury wouldn’t be stealing away from you any time soon.

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.

Summary: For nine years, you raised the little sister your parents would never see grow. For nine years, you put blood and sweat and tears—sometimes your own, sometimes that of others—into your gruesome work. For nine years, you promised your little family a better life. Then, on the eve of happily ever after, all that is snatched away in the name of revenge. There’s only one group of people capable of rescuing your sister from those who murdered your parents. The thing is, they might not be so willing to help once they discover who (or what) you are…or maybe, just maybe, they might love you in spite of it.

Ratings/Warnings: T (sexual references, mild foul language, canon divergence Post-Avengers (2012), violence, slow burn, France depicted by a non-French writer, no Laura Barton)

Pairings:Clint Barton/Female!Reader; Natasha Romanoff/Bruce Banner; Tony Stark/Pepper Potts

Tag List: @imaginesfire​

Master List

Chapter 2: Thanks for the Warning

Your father told you once many years ago that one day you would return to New York City. You’d been seven at the time, eager and excited to be somewhere so starkly different from your home in Arizona—and to see your father at work. All the glitter, all the lights, so many people! You couldn’t wait to come back with your parents someday soon, someday when it was safe, someday when there wasn’t a job to do.

As you watched the dark shapes of the many skyscrapers covered in squares of brilliant whites and blues slide past your taxi window, you couldn’t muster up the enthusiasm of your childhood. Your father probably hadn’t imagined that everything would be different the next time you saw the city, except for the city itself. No family, no safety, only work to look forward to. You wouldn’t even be in the country long enough to enjoy the sights if all went according to plan.

“So, how long are you in town for?” the cabbie asked. The brown eyes set underneath his thick, dark eyebrows flashed at you in the rearview mirror. You appreciated his breaking into your thoughts; answering him prevented you from dwelling on what could not be changed.

“I leave first thing tomorrow.” You slipped easily back into the American Midwestern accent you’d adopted since arriving in the city. “I’ve got business to take care of out of the country.”

“And you only got in this evening?”

“I had a layover. Why waste it?”

“That’s some turnaround just to see Central Park!”

“I couldn’t resist looking at the ice-skating rink. My dad took me there once when I was a little girl.”

“Oh, yeah? Where’s he now?”

“Dead. Like the rest of my family.”

Your driver made a strange spluttering sound. Lucky for him, a spot along 5th Avenue opened up, allowing him to pull in without inflicting any further awkward conversations upon either of you. You hopped out, paid him his fare—plus a tip—and then headed for the information kiosk ahead on Terrace while he waited for someone new to flag him down.

Early March after sunset was not as popular time for the Central Park skating rink as earlier months might have been. It could not be helped. You had left Paris as soon and as surreptitiously as you could without attracting suspicion. A few slow laps around the ice were enough for you to find a crowd of young adults to follow back out of the park. Their chattered faded when you parted from them to turn right on 5th, but by then you could gauge your speed by walking with the other pedestrians. No one gave the woman carrying a pair of ice skates and a heavy backpack a second look.

And there was your destination in front of you, lit up like a beacon piercing the glowing sky above. Avengers Tower shone brighter than all the buildings around it; you could not have missed it if you tried. Nothing major must have been going on that night either. More people than you’d seen in Central Park spilled across the tower’s steps. Many of those people were in costume; enough weren’t that you blended in with the numerous fans and protesters as you climbed up to the glass doors.

You expected the empty lobby at nine o'clock in the evening. Nothing stirred the shadows less than an inch from your nose. Not a light blinked. Tony Stark would have the best security system in the world installed, though, probably one he’d built himself. That you could count on. One wrong move, and all your careful work just to get this far would come crashing down around your ears.

“I wouldn’t stand there too long if I were you.”

Turning at the sound of a male voice, you found only one person close enough to speak to you. A few feet away stood a man painted head-to-toe in metallic gold and red. He rotated his entire body to meet your eyes, and it hit you: He was a street performer decked out to match his location.

“I mean it.” His fingers mechanically motioned you closer. “Too many fans attempting to breach the lobby after hours lately. They’ve updated their security. I saw a girl get blasted down to the sidewalk last night. Unless you’re looking for that sort of thrill…”

You quickly stepped away from the danger zone and over to your new friend. An upturned hat filled with coins and dollar bills sat at the base of the pedestal he stood atop. Well, preventing you from getting caught before you got started had to be worth something.

“Thanks for the warning,” you said, and pulled out a dollar from your wallet to drop in the hat.

Through the throng of Iron Mans, Black Widows, Thors, and Captain Americas you traipsed. Occasionally, you stopped to take a selfie with one that stood at a strategic point along your path. The photos, however, told you nothing other than that Tony Stark didn’t keep a security guard stationed in his building’s lobby at night. And why would he? They had a Hulk, and you wouldn’t doubt the team would utilize that the second they caught wind of anyone trying to force their way through the front doors.

Fortunately, you’d only ever planned to use the front door as a last resort.

******

Nine o'clock. The stage was set. All the lamps in Tony’s living quarters were dimmed. Most of the glasses next to each person’s seat were drained of liquor. A mound of cash sat in the center of the table. Only two players remained. Tony and Steve eyed one another warily. No one else moved. Everyone held their breaths, waiting for the big reveal.

“Four of a kind,” Steve announced as he slapped four aces and a ten of spades on the table.

Whatever Tony had, he didn’t bother saying. He scattered his cards across the table and dropped his head into his arms with a theatrical groan. Even from this angle, Clint could tell Tony’s hand hadn’t had a hope of beating Steve’s. Natasha and Bruce cheered.

“That’s the third time tonight, Rogers.” Tony lifted his head high enough to glare at the man across from him. “You’re cheating. There’s no other explanation for it!”

“If he is, you haven’t managed to prove it yet,” Natasha said.

“That’s because you’re all aiding and abetting him. You want me to lose.”

“Hey,I was rooting for you,” Bruce put in.

Tony glowered at him, too. “You’re sleeping with the enemy now, Big Guy. I can’t trust you. Who knows what she can convince you to do once she’s got you between the sheets?”

As if to prove Tony’s point for him, Natasha entwined her fingers with the hand Bruce had resting on the table, then leaned in and kissed him on the cheek. Bruce turned pink but shot her a shy smile. Clint rolled his eyes away from this nauseating sight.

“See?” Tony said. “She probably told you to drop out as soon as you could to make sure I’d be trapped in a game alone with Le Chiffre here!”

“That’s putting an awful lot of stock in Bruce’s poker skill that I haven’t seen yet,” Clint remarked.

“This coming from the first guy to fold.”

“It’s not my fault you guys play for such high stakes. Some of us aren’t made of money, you know? I’m practically homeless.”

“Please. You live rent free in the most exclusive place in town. I think you can afford to put a little something in the pot.”

“Says the billionaire,” Clint grumbled. What little money he earned from a paycheck severely cut by superheroics he preferred to keep to himself, not that Tony cared. But Clint supposed he wouldn’t care much if he raked in the kind of cash Tony had for his entire life.

“Anyway, that’s not the point!” Leaping to his feet, Tony pointed dramatically at Steve. “My point is, how did someone whose entire shtick is embodying truth, justice, and the American way get so good at poker?”

Steve eyes flitted around the table, perhaps looking for an out. No one offered him one. “When I couldn’t keep a job, I had to find some way to help Bucky pay the rent. I’ve had a lot of practice playing people a lot tougher than you.”

“So you admit it! You arecheating.”

“Well, if you’re so sure, I can think of one way for you to prove it.”

“What’s that?”

Steve smiled. “Play another round. And this time, pay real close attention.”

The same tension as before filled the room. Bruce and Natasha’s gaze remained riveted on Tony. Clint idly wondered if he could slip away unseen while everyone waited for Tony to make a decision. Then, before Clint could push out his chair and make a run for it, Tony sat back down.

“Deal me in,” he said.

“I’m game,” Natasha agreed.

“I can go one more,” said Bruce.

“Sir?” JARVIS’s voice cut smoothly though the renewed trash talk. He didn’t wait for anyone to acknowledge him before continuing, “My sensors indicate someone is attempting to scale the building.”

That brought an end to the dealing at once.

“What?”

“Again?”

“Now?”

“I guess this puts an end to our game,” Steve said ruefully. “I was going to go for Tony’s Spyder next.”

“In your dreams, Rogers. I’ve got your number. I was just about to win everything back.”

“If you’re so sure about that, why not wager the car?”

“This hardly addresses the problem at hand, boys,” Natasha interrupted. “The game can go on, but first we need to decide who has to go retrieve the intruder, preferably before they find anything to put up on eBay.”

“It’s probably just another one of Tony’s ex-girlfriend,” said Bruce.

“So that’s me out of the running,” Tony said.

“Why does that make it not your job?” Steve asked.

“Because if I go, who knows what she’ll do? I break her heart, she grabs the nearest potted plant and breaks my face.”

“A real tragedy.”

“Maybe a plant to the face would improve your looks, Rogers, but some of us don’t need an adjustment.”

“I’ll go.”

Natasha and Bruce exchanged a look. Tony and Steve went as far as pausing in their bickering to stare at the man now standing next to his chair.

“Clint? You sure?” Bruce asked.

Clint had already made it to the door. He waved Bruce’s concern away. “This game’s too rich for my blood anyway. You guys go ahead.”

“Hey, better you than me, Legolas,” said Tony.

“You might not feel that way here in a few minutes,” Steve said.

“Mark my words, Rogers, in a few minutes, you’re gonna be the one wishing he went on peel-the-fangirl-off -the-wall duty.”

“That’s right. Keep your eyes on each other. No one consider how badly I might like a new car,” Natasha said.

As the argument over who would win this round of Texas Hold'em resumed, Clint moved rapidly away from Tony’s sitting room. The floor containing the more common areas, such as the bar and Bruce’s laboratory, was only a few floors away. Clint shoved the door to the stairwell open with his shoulder and dashed up the stairs, relieved to be away from the rest of the group. Hanging around Bruce and Natasha was sickening enough; throw in Steve and Tony’s near-inability to pay attention to anyone but each other (especially whenever Pepper flew back to Malibu for work), and Clint felt like the fifth wheel on a very ungainly bicycle.

He made a beeline for the weapons cache the second he reached the correct floor. From there, he pulled out the waiting bow and a quiver of trick arrows—then grabbed a few real arrows just in case. There’d been an influx in attempts to break in to the various Avengers’ living quarters since Tony displayed the whole place in a Home and Gardens magazine, but they couldn’t assume every intruder would be someone relatively harmless and in search of nothing more than celebrity underwear to sell for a quick buck.

“Which way are they coming up, JARVIS?” Clint asked the ceiling, once he was prepared.

JARVIS answered promptly: “The unidentified climber is making their way up the northeast side of the building. Their current whereabouts are near floor 83.”

“How about that? A new record.”

Whoever they were, they didn’t have far to go. Clint picked up the pace. As he reached the building’s back wall of windows, he snapped his bow into shape and nocked one of the trick arrows. Hopefully he wouldn’t have to fire anything more dangerous than a rope should the stranger slip upon seeing him.

“I have unlocked the panel directly in front of you,” JARVIS announced.

“Thanks, pal.”

Wind blasted into the room the moment Clint pushed the window open it. Nearby objects rattled and papers skittered across the floor. No noise issued from outside except for the faint and steady honking from the traffic one fatal drop below. He stuck his body out only enough to aim his bow and arrow downward.

“You know, we’ve got an awfully nice public lobby about 85 floors from your current position. Maybe you could try visiting that sometime, preferably during daylight hours. Someone there might even agree to sign something for you, provided it’s legally purchased.”

Silence. Clint slowly lowered his bow and squinted into the darkness below. The alley, though not as well-lit as the front of the tower, caught enough of the blue glow from the giant “A” for him to confirm his immediate suspicion: No one clung there to respond to his quip. He waited there for another half a minute, though, as if expecting someone to poke their head out from a lower level once they thought he’d left.

“JARVIS?” he said as he ducked back inside. “You sure they were on the northeast side of the building?”

“Yes, sir,” the AI replied.

“Do you sense anyone there anymore? ‘Cause I didn’t see anybody just now, and we both know my sight’s about the only thing I contribute around here.”

“I sense no one actively touching the building outside at all. How odd. It’s as though they simply vanished.”

“Let’s hope it’s some hocus-pocus like that. The alternatives are a hell of a lot worse.”

Maybe it was his many years as a SHIELD operative. Maybe it was his time as Loki’s unwilling puppet. Whatever the reason, Clint didn’t let go of his bow or remove his arrow from the string. His eyes scanned every window he passed on his way back to the rest of the group. This time, he took the elevator, ears straining every second for the sound of shattering glass or an uninvited passenger coming along for the ride. Nothing like that happened, and he returned to the room without incident.

“That was quick,” Tony remarked at Clint’s appearance. “You holding out some latent teleportation powers on us, Barton?”

“Do you need help restraining them?” Steve asked, eyeing Clint’s still-readied weapon.

Clint shook his head. “There was nobody there.”

“Were you doing any experiments with JARVIS earlier?” Bruce asked Tony.

“No.” Tony sat his cards facedown on the table and sat up a little straighter. “JARVIS? Is there something going on with your programming?”

“Not that I can tell, sir. One minute, my security systems detected a human biosignal moving up the northeast side of the tower. The next, they did not,” JARVIS replied.

“Run a self diagnostic.”

“I’ve already begun. Nothing seems amiss. I can find no signs of a break-in either.”

Bruce tossed his hand to the table without further discussion. “I’ll go to the ground floor and see if I can find anyone. I wasn’t going to last much longer anyway.”

“Might want to grab a spatula on the way out!” Tony called as Bruce disappeared into the hall.

“Very funny,” Steve said stonily.

“You know, I imagine Pepper’s going to say the exact same thing when I tell her she has to file a claim with our insurance. Same tone and everything. Amazing.”

“That really shouldn’t be our primary concern right now.”

“What should be?” Natasha asked with a cheeky smile. “You really have a one track mind if you’re still focused on the game.”

“I—”

“I am detecting multiple human biosignals now, sir.”

“Outside?” Clint asked, already headed back the way he’d come from.

“No. Inside the building. One is in the bar. One is Miss Potts’ private office. I have third reading in the lobby, a fourth in Captain Roger’s bedroom, and another in the records room.”

Natasha, Steve, and Tony joined Clint on their feet. Everyone gazed expectantly at Steve for orders. He looked at each of them in turn as he rattled them off:

“Tony, you check Pepper’s office. I’ll get the one in my quarters. JARVIS, tell Dr. Banner to check the lobby since he’s the closest.”

“I’ll hit the records room,” Clint volunteered.

“Oh, sure, the one that’s probably a false alarm?” Tony smirked. “No one’s getting anything out of there with JARVIS on the job. Why don’t you join Natasha at the bar? At least I’ve got some unprotected valuables there.”

“Hey, might as well send the least capable person to the least likely spot, right?” Clint said.

Natasha took off like a shot in the direction of the stairs without waiting to see what the outcome of Clint and Tony’s spat would be. Steve, Tony, and Clint all followed. The former two stopped at the door to the stairs through which she had disappeared.

“Remind me why you’re on the payroll again, Barton?” Tony asked.

“Someone’s got to be the pretty one.”

Clint sped off for the lift again. The records room was quite a bit further down than either Steve or Tony’s destination, and the stairwell would be too crowded for Clint to maneuver if they ran into trouble there. Bruce must have already made it all the way down to the first floor, because the elevator arrived quickly and with no one inside.

This second trip took longer than Clint would have liked. He returned his trick arrow to his quiver and replaced it with a real one. As confident as Tony seemed in JARVIS’s ability to throw off a hacker, Clint himself didn’t feel so sure. If someone had gotten into the tower that night, they’d already managed to fool a supposedly foolproof AI once. The last thing he needed would be to find himself with his pants down and an actual supervillain ready to jump him the moment the lift doors opened.

But the floor that housed all the Avengers’ records—paper and electronic files both—seemed empty when he stepped out into it. He saw and heard nothing out of the ordinary, yet something prevented him from turning right back around and joining Natasha at the bar. Clint held his breath, listening hard for any unusual noises. The thought of asking JARVIS to check if he still registered an unknown human nearby occurred to Clint before he realized that would let any intruder know someone was on to them.

Down the hall he crept, silent as could be. His breath burned in his lungs. Just a few feet more. The door to the records room hung open. He could see the first few inches of tile floor. The moment he reached the opening, Clint pressed his back against the wall and pulled his bow string taught. Then he carefully inched his head closer and closer to the doorframe until he could peer around it.

At once he could tell just how wrong Tony had been, not just about JARVIS, but about everything else that night, too. There in the records room, surrounded by open boxes and neatly stacked manila folders, crouched a woman with [color] hair—and the moment Clint spotted her was the same moment she spotted him as well.

Summary: Maybe this is your fault. All you had to do was flip a coin.

Rating/Warnings:All (Dumb!Thor; Avengers Friendship; Avengers & reader friendship)

Challenge: “100 Drabbles of Randomness” by Miseria1 on Lunaescence Archives.

Tag List: @imaginesfire

Last Chance

It had taken hours (although it felt more like days), constant reiteration of the rules, and so many practice rounds it would make a normal person’s head spin. But after all this time and effort, you knew Thor could do it.

“Ready?” you asked as you held out your fist.

Though he didn’t look as confident as usual, he reached out his own. “Ready.“

"Rock-Paper-Scissors-Lizard-Spock,” you chanted. At the end, you triumphantly thrust out a lizard.

Thor, however, continued to leave his fist in the air as he stared at your hand.

“Uh. Thor? You gonna stick with that rock there?”

“That depends,” he said slowly. “What does rock do?”

The rest of the group around you groaned. Even Natasha fell back onto the couch with her head in her hands.

“Really?” Bruce mumbled. “Really?”

“I am sorry,” Thor said, and had the grace to look sheepish. “I do not understand this strange Midgardian custom of choosing things.”

Steve heaved a sigh.

“Okay, you know what?” Tony got to his feet. “We’re done. You and Blondie here should have settled this hours ago. We’re just going to watch–”

“No one wants to watch another documentary about you, Stark,” Steve said into his hands.

The rest of the group made noises of agreement. Tony, apparently thinking that this was somehow your fault, glowered at you and gestured at Thor.

“By all means, spend the rest of our lives trying to teach an immortal dog new tricks.”

You glowered at him in response. Thor had to wave his free hand in front of your eye to bring your focus back to him.

“[Name]?”

This time, it was you that sighed. “Scissor cuts paper; paper covers rock; rock crushes lizard; lizard poisons Spock; Spock smashes scissors; scissors decapitate lizard; lizard eats paper; paper disproves Spock; Spock vaporizes rock, and rock crushes scissors.” You made a cutting motion with two fingers in the air. “Got it?”

He beamed. “I understand completely. Thank you, [Name].”

“No problem.” You sat up straight once more. “Let’s just get this over with before I have to listen to another eight hours about the Stark Expo. Ready?”

“Hey, I’m just saying,” Tony called. “This is your last chance. You guys don’t decide this round, we’re doing whatI want to do. My tower, my rules.”

“Ready?” you asked again without even showing any sign that you had heard him. Thor nodded.

“I am prepared!”

“Rock-Paper-Scissors-Lizard-Spock!”

You held up Spock. Thor continued to hold up rock. The only difference this round was that he looked delighted.

“I win!” he cried joyously.

“What?” You looked from your hand to his. “No, you don’t. Spock vaporizes rock.”

"But Spock is an alien not of Asgard.“

You nodded.

"And a rock is of Midgard.”

"Um…so?“

"The only things that can defeat those of Midgard are those of Asgard! Thus, the victory is mine.”

You stared. And stared. And stared some more. Finally, without taking his eyes off the still-blank television screen, Bruce spoke up:

“He still doesn’t get it.”

Looks like you’d all get to spend your night learning about Stark Industries again after all.

Summary: Of all the ways he’s changed, losing his love for you was the last thing you expected.

Rating/Warnings:All (Post-Avengers (2012))

Challenge: “100 Drabbles of Randomness” by Miseria1 on Lunaescence Archives.

Tag List: @imaginesfire

Don’t Deny It

Loki had always been a bit different–a bit more magic than muscle, a bit more tricky than truthful, a bit more bitter than sweet. But for all your years in his company, you never imagined you’d have to see his face through the wall of a prison cell.

“So they decided to send you to break me. I should have known,” Loki breathed, his grin as fragile as glass.

You weren’t sure how long he had known you were there. Perhaps the entire time, as silent as you had been trying to remain. As his green eyes caught the little light that filtered into his cell, you stepped forward.

“Break you?” you asked. “Why would they ask me to break you?”

“Oh, I think you know.”

You shook your head, your fingers fluttering out to brush against the surface of his cell wall. “What happened to you?”

“What happened to me? What happened to me? What happened to you?”

“Getting Thor exiled,” you said without answering him. “Trying to kill him and our friends. Destroying the Frost Giants. Murdering hundreds of innocent Midgardians.” You lifted your gaze to meet his. “You’ve changed.”

That got his ire. Loki strode forward. “I have not changed!” His shout was so loud that you stumbled backward. Though he couldn’t get himself any closer to you, Loki clenched his hands into fists and grimaced down at you. “I have simply learned what I truly am!”

“A Frost Giant?” you said calmly, getting to your feet and gathering your skirts around you along with your wits. “Thor told me. Loki, you cannot believe–”

“They told you!“ He barked out a wild laugh. “Of course they did! You’re Thor’s little lapdog now, aren’t you?”

“Loki, you are speaking madness. I would never–”

“Don’t deny it! You helped them. You helped them all. And you would send me back to exile as soon as you could to be rid of me. Just like my damned family!”

“What are you saying? Thor loves you! He–He adores you. And Odin–”

“All of it was lies, wasn’t it, [Name]?” His voice dropped to regular volume and his smile returned to something close to normal as he stepped backward and away from you. “The truth comes out. Everything we shared, it was all a lie so you could watch me, spy on me for my family.”

“What?” Hurt colored your tone.“ No. Loki–Loki, I–”

“Don’t say it.” He held up a hand. “I don’t want to hear that you love me. Not anymore. You lied to me, just like everyone else.”

You pressed a hand to your heart and moved forward again. “Loki–”

He whirled around. “Get out of my sight! I never want to see you again!”

A shaky breath escaped your lips, but:

“If that is what you wish, your Highness.”

All he did was watch you as you bowed and left the room.

Summary: How these guys saved the world when they can’t handle the simplest of tasks is beyond you.

Rating/Warnings:T (reference to alcohol/a drinking contest; not Agents of SHIELD compliant; not MCU compliant; set post-Avengers (2012))

Challenge: “100 Drabbles of Randomness” by Miseria1 on Lunaescence Archives.

Tag List: @imaginesfire

I Don’t Want to Know

Today was just not your day, not your day at all. Despite your having been there for nearly three hours, Avengers Tower was a complete mess.

The banner you had so painstakingly painted the night before? Ripped slightly and hanging from only one part of the ceiling; the other part of the ceiling had nothing but a huge dent from Thor’s hammer. Apparently Thor hadn’t stopped there with his decorating, either.

Natasha and Tony? Nowhere to be seen. But there was a large amount of alcohol missing, and they’d been talking about a drinking contest for weeks. You’d seen them briefly earlier, Tony practically asleep and Natasha complaining of a headache.

The cake? Currently nothing but a smeared blast across the remains of one wall. The rest of the kitchen area had all the other telltale signs of a Hulk attack.

Clint? Still unconscious. One of his explosive arrows could be found near where Bruce had been carefully icing said cake that morning. The rest of his arrows were littered across the cabinets, walls, ceiling, and counters.

And poor Steve? He was still trying to understand the situation.

All you had wanted was a surprise party set up. That wasn’t such a big request, was it? They all liked Phil. You’d thought they would want to help celebrate his getting out of the hospital. Instead, all that was left was wreckage and some unsalvageable dessert.

The aggravation wasn’t even worth it. When Phil arrived when your note had directed him to, all he did was take one look around at the carnage and shake his head.

You opened your mouth to explain, but Phil held up a hand.

“I don’t even want to know,” he said.

Summary: For nine years, you raised the little sister your parents would never see grow. For nine years, you put blood and sweat and tears—sometimes your own, sometimes that of others—into your gruesome work. For nine years, you promised your little family a better life. Then, on the eve of happily ever after, all that is snatched away in the name of revenge. There’s only one group of people capable of rescuing your sister from those who murdered your parents. The thing is, they might not be so willing to help once they discover who (or what) you are…or maybe, just maybe, they might love you in spite of it.

Ratings/Warnings: T (sexual references, mild foul language, canon divergence Post-Avengers (2012), violence, slow burn, France depicted by a non-French writer, no Laura Barton)

Pairings:Clint Barton/Female!Reader; Natasha Romanoff/Bruce Banner; Tony Stark/Pepper Potts

Posting Status: In-Progress

Notes:Now that I am feeling better, I want to write again (especially since I didn’t get any requests). Honestly, though? My old stories are…old. I’m not abandoning them. It’s just that I really wanted to write something new that reflects where I am as a writer now. This plot bunny has been gnawing at my brain since I wrote the “Factory” one shot for my “One Small Step” collection. Clint Barton isn’t the most popular Avenger, I realize, but I hope someone out there will enjoy this story. I thought about swapping Clint out for Steve or Bucky. That’s just not the story I wanted to tell.

One more Important note: I’m not French. I’ve never been to France. The only person I know who speaks French is my friend from Canada. I’ve done a lot of research for this, but that doesn’t mean I’ve got it all right. Please shoot me a note if you find any discrepancies that need addressed! I will be happy to correct them.

Chapter 1: A Beautiful Job

Chapter 2: Thanks for the Warning