Actor Jason Todd and actress Reader are both riding sudden waves of fame when they’re cast as the leads in a big-budget 90s-style romantic comedy. Their chemistry test is so electric the room goes silent. What starts as perfect on-screen magic slowly, inevitably, becomes real.
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Jason Todd had built his career on looking like trouble.
Gritty indie films. Anti-hero roles. The kind of performances that left critics using words like “raw” and “unflinching.” He’d spent years playing men who didn’t get happy endings, and the industry had rewarded him for it. Then a single awards-season run changed everything. Suddenly the same people who once called him “too intense for mainstream” were offering him scripts with soft lighting and sweeping scores.
Your trajectory had been different but just as steep. A breakout supporting role in a quiet drama had turned into back-to-back leads. Magazines liked to call you “the new face of intelligent romance.” You still found the label faintly embarrassing, but the work was good, and the pay meant you could finally stop checking your bank account before ordering takeout.
The project that brought you together was called *When You Least Expect It* — a glossy, big-hearted romantic comedy in the vein of late-90s and early-2000s classics. Think rain-soaked confessions, messy apartments, and a soundtrack that would sell millions. Jason had almost turned it down on principle. You had almost done the same, worried it was too commercial after your recent work.
Then the studio sent over the chemistry-test request.
You met on a bright Tuesday morning on a soundstage that still smelled like fresh paint. Jason was already there when you arrived, sitting in a folding chair with a script in his lap and a paper coffee cup in one hand. He looked different in person — taller, broader, the sharp lines of his face softened by the casual black sweater he wore. The white streak in his hair was less dramatic under the studio lights than it appeared on red carpets.
He stood when you walked in.
“Hey,” he said, voice lower than it sounded in interviews. “I’m Jason.”
“I know,” you answered, smiling despite the nerves. “It’s nice to finally meet you.”
The director, a warm woman named Elaine who’d made two of your favourite smaller films, clapped her hands and gestured to the taped marks on the floor. “We’re keeping this simple. Scene twelve — the bookstore argument that turns into the first almost-kiss. No pressure. Just see how it feels.”
You both nodded.
The first read-through was polite. Competent. Jason’s character was a cynical photographer who’d given up on love; yours was a bookstore owner who still believed in it too much. The dialogue had the classic rhythm of those older rom-coms — sharp, a little breathless, full of things said and unsaid.
Then Elaine asked you to try it once without the scripts in hand.
Something shifted.
Jason stepped closer on the line about rain ruining the photographs. His eyes — greener than they looked on camera — locked onto yours and didn’t look away. When you delivered the soft, stubborn reply that was supposed to catch him off guard, you watched the exact moment his expression cracked into something real and startled. The air between you changed. The next lines came out quieter, more charged. By the time the scene reached the almost-kiss, the entire room had gone still.
Jason’s hand lifted like the stage directions asked, fingers brushing your jaw. He didn’t close the distance. He just looked at you as though the cameras and the crew and the entire industry had disappeared.
Elaine’s voice came out soft. “Cut.”
No one moved for a second.
Then the casting director exhaled a quiet, incredulous laugh. “Well. That’s the movie.”
Jason dropped his hand carefully. The tips of his ears were pink. You felt your own face warm under the lights. The two of you stepped back at the same time, suddenly aware of how close you’d gotten.
Later, in the hallway outside, Jason caught up to you near the exit.
“That was…” He rubbed the back of his neck, searching for a word that wouldn’t sound ridiculous. “Easy. In a way most of these things aren’t.”
“Yeah,” you said. “It was.”
He hesitated, then offered a small, crooked smile. “Guess I’ll see you on set.”
“Guess you will.”
Filming began six weeks later in a converted warehouse on the edge of the city. The production had the warm, slightly chaotic energy of those older rom-coms — fairy lights, practical sets, a soundtrack playing between takes. Jason arrived the first day looking like he’d braced himself for something painful. By lunch he was laughing at something the boom operator had said, sleeves pushed up, the sharp edges of his public persona already softening.
The two of you fell into an easy rhythm.
Jason was quieter than his reputation suggested. Between takes he sat close enough that your shoulders sometimes brushed, reading the next scene in a low voice so the two of you could find the emotional beats together. He remembered how you took your coffee after the first week. You started saving him the corner seat at the monitor because he hated feeling watched from behind. The crew began referring to you as a unit without meaning to — “the leads,” “the pair,” “Jason and—” like your names belonged in the same breath.
The rain scene was scheduled for the third week.
It was the emotional hinge of the film: your characters caught in a downpour after a fight, the confession spilling out under a broken awning. The special-effects rain was cold and relentless. By the third take your hair was plastered to your face and Jason’s sweater was soaked through. Elaine kept calling for another try, chasing something she hadn’t quite seen yet.
On the seventh take Jason stopped performing.
The words came out rough and true. When he reached for your face this time there was no hesitation. The kiss that followed wasn’t in the script. It was soft and a little desperate, rain running down both your faces, his hands careful like he was afraid you might disappear. The cameras kept rolling. Elaine never called cut.
When they finally did, the set was silent except for the artificial rain still falling.
Jason rested his forehead against yours for a single breath before stepping back. His voice was almost too quiet to hear.
“Sorry. That wasn’t—”
“Don’t apologise,” you interrupted.
Something fragile and hopeful opened in his expression.
That night the two of you stayed late to watch the playback. The chemistry on screen was undeniable — warm and crackling and somehow private even under all the lights. Jason sat beside you in the dark editing bay, elbows on his knees, watching the two of you kiss like he was trying to solve a puzzle.
“I’ve done a lot of intense scenes,” he said eventually. “None of them felt like that.”
You looked at him in the blue glow of the monitors. “Me neither.”
He turned his head. For a moment the space between you felt exactly the same as it had under the rain. Then a production assistant knocked on the door to collect the drives, and the moment folded itself away for later.
Later arrived two days afterward.
You found Jason on the empty bookstore set after wrap, sitting on the floor between the shelves with a marked-up script. The practical lights were still on, casting everything in a soft gold. He glanced up when you stepped in, then shifted to make room without being asked.
“I keep replaying the rain scene,” he admitted once you were seated beside him. “Not for the work. Just… the way it felt.”
“I know.”
Jason was quiet for a long time, turning the script over in his hands. When he spoke again the words came out carefully, like he’d practiced them.
“I’m not good at the light things. The easy things. My whole career has been about people who break. But with you it doesn’t feel like performing. It feels like—” He exhaled. “It feels like something I want to keep when the cameras stop.”
The honesty sat warm and terrifying between you.
You reached over and covered his hand with yours. His fingers turned immediately, lacing through yours the same way they had in half a dozen scenes. This time there was no director to call cut.
“I’d like that too,” you said.
Jason looked at your joined hands, then at your face, and the smile that spread across his was small and real and more devastating than any expression he’d ever put on film.
The rest of the shoot unfolded like the second half of one of those classic rom-coms. Stolen coffees between lighting setups. Quiet dinners after late calls where the conversation drifted from character motivation to childhood stories to the ridiculousness of sudden fame. Jason walked you to your car even when the lot was only half a block away. You started wearing his hoodie on cold morning call times and watched him try (and fail) not to look completely gone every time he saw you in it.
The night they wrapped the final scene — a soft, sunrise confession in a park — the crew cheered and someone popped champagne. Jason found you near the monitors, still in costume, and waited until the celebration moved past before speaking.
“Once this is over,” he said, “I’d like to take you on an actual date. No scripts. No marks on the floor. Just you and me.”
You smiled so hard your cheeks hurt. “I’d like that a lot.”
He kissed you then — properly, in front of anyone who happened to look, without rain machines or choreography. Someone whooped in the background. Jason ignored them completely.
Six months later the film premiered to the kind of warm reviews that made studios dream of awards and audiences buy tickets twice. Critics called your chemistry “effortless” and “the reason rom-coms still matter.” Jason hated most of the attention but endured every interview because it meant sitting beside you on the press junket couch, knees pressed together under the table.
You dated the way you had filmed: quietly, intensely, with a lot of soft laughter in between. Jason still carried the edges of the roles that had made him famous, but with you he was careful in the ways that mattered — remembering how you liked your tea, texting when he got home safe, looking at you across premieres like the rest of the room was just noise.
On the evening of the film’s first anniversary, the two of you rewatched it on the couch in the apartment you’d started sharing. Rain tapped against the windows in a soft echo of the famous scene. Jason’s arm was around your shoulders, your legs tangled with his under the blanket. When the almost-kiss appeared on screen he pressed his mouth to your temple and left it there.
“Still feels easy,” he murmured.
You turned your face into his neck and smiled.
“Yeah,” you whispered back. “It does.”
Outside, the city kept moving. Inside, the actor who had spent years playing men who didn’t get to be happy held the woman who’d rewritten the ending with him — no cameras, no script, just the quiet, lasting magic they’d found when they least expected it.
a/n: guys this is me manifesting my future btw.. also, it would mean a lot if people reblog 🙏 inspired by a fic by my darling @llovelygood
FaceTime! featuring Dick Grayson, Jason Todd, Tim Drake
Sum: Just some fluffy FaceTime moments with the batboys.
Warnings: Mild swearing in Jason's, fem! reader. mdni.
𑣲. Dick Grayson ᯓᡣ𐭩
"Are you on top of a building?" You ask, leaning closer to the screen as if that will somehow help you see past Dick's face and the glowing stretch of Blüdhaven behind him. He looks unfairly good for someone halfway through patrol - black hair windblown across his forehead and the domino mask hiding those blue eyes.
"Yeah, so, like - hold on." He flips the camera around and immediately starts walking, boots scraping lightly over concrete while the screen swings between buildings.
"You live there," he says, pointing down toward one apartment tower, and then turns toward another. "And there's my place. Wait - " The camera flips back to him, his masked eyes narrowing slightly as he thinks. "Have I seriously never taken you up here before?"
"Must've been one of your other girlfriends," you tease, sinking deeper into your chair as you tug the sleeves of his sweatshirt farther over your hands.
Dick's smile drops so fast you nearly laugh. "My other girlfriends?" He plants one gloved hand against his chest like you've wounded him. "Wow. Okay. That's crazy, actually." You can hear the grin coming back into his voice before you even see it, bright and dazzling. "I have one girlfriend. One. She's mean to me, actually. Borderline abusive. Steals my clothes, teases me, a real mean lady"
"I am NOT mean, Grayson. This has been my hoodie for like ever."
"It says Gotham University. Pretty sure," he drawls out loudly, ever teasingly, "you didn't go there, baby. I would've never missed someone as gorgeous as you."
You laugh before taking a sip of your water, and Dick laughs with you, the sound softening when he drops down onto the ledge of the building. He sits as if gravity has never particularly applied to him, one leg dangling over the side while the other bends beneath him, phone balanced casually against his knee. For a little while, neither of you says much. You answer an email and fix the cuff of his sweatshirt where it's starting to fray. Dick watches the city below, shoulders finally relaxing now that patrol has slowed down. Every so often he looks back at the screen just to make sure you're still there, and when you catch him doing it for the third time, he doesn't even pretend otherwise.
"What?"
"Nothin'." His mouth curves into that softer smile he saves for you, chin resting against his fist. "You look cute. I miss you." There's a pout at the end of that. He's almost hinting to come over afterwards to steal your entire morning.
You roll your eyes and take another sip.
"You can come over later."
"I was already planning on it." He grins before putting in his earbuds. "How about I bring breakfast?"
✩ Jason Todd ᯓ★
Jason Todd has never played Stardew Valley in his life, yet somehow he has become deeply invested in your little playthrough. You've got Discord open on your laptop while your phone sits propped on your desk, giving you an excellent view of him midway through a workout.
Shirtless, broad shoulders and old scars shifting every time he moves, the white streak at the front of his hair damp with sweat and falling into his eyes. "So you gotta greet every chicken every day?" he asks from the floor, forearms planted against his mat while he holds a plank.
"Yes." You continue to clack away, occasionally showing him the coop.
"Sounds needy, like you. You need me to check on you every day"
You glance over and catch him looking at the phone instead of the floor. Specifically watching to see whether you're looking at him. A bead of sweat runs down his chest, and Jason's grin only grows more when your eyes linger half a second too long.
You immediately turn back to your laptop.
Cocky asshole.
"Well, this one's named after you." You circle your character around a fat brown chicken wandering through the grass, and Jason's attention snaps over immediately, squinting at the screen.
"Which one?"
"This one."
He cranes his neck toward the screen without breaking his plank. "Yeah."
You stare at him. "Yeah?"
"Handsome little guy." His timer goes off and Jason drops flat onto the mat with a grunt, cheek pressed to his forearm for a second before rolling onto his back. His chest rises and falls while he reaches blindly for his water bottle, takes a long drink, then wipes his mouth with the back of his wrist. "How long've you had me?"
"The chicken?"
Jason lifts his head and gives you a look. "Careful."
You grin a little, biting your lip before looking away. "Like two in-game years."
"So we're serious."
He pushes himself back up and slings a towel around his neck while you move onto the next creature in your coop. "And this one's Grayson-"
Jason's brow furrows "Why's he blue?"
"Because he's a blue chicken?"
His face suddenly fills half your FaceTime screen, green eyes flicking between you and the game while one hand braces against his hip. "Yeah, but those are the rare ones."
There's a pause, and you slowly turn toward your phone. Jason realizes his mistake approximately one second too late.
"How'd you know those are rare?"
He presses his tongue to the inside of his cheek to break the smile forming on his face before looking down at you.
"Answer my question first."
You immediately start laughing.
"Nah, don't laugh." Jason points accusingly at the laptop. "Why's Dick special?"
"He's just blue!"
"And I'm brown."
"Jason. Wait - I can explain - "
"Regular-ass chicken." He announces loudly. You can hear a small giggle from Steph in the background.
"Damian is the dinosaur! I just pick what makes sense."
That shuts him up for all of two seconds. Then Jason's brows shoot up. "Okay, that's bullshit. I should be the fucking dinosaur, and you know it."
You're laughing hard enough that your character starts running useless circles around the coop. Jason finally cracks too, shaking his head as he grabs his phone and carries you through the manor toward the kitchen.
"Alright, what'd you make Tim?" he asks, pulling open the fridge. You go suspiciously quiet. Jason pauses with one hand still on the door. You cover your mouth.
His eyes narrow. "You made Replacement a rabbit?"
You immediately start laughing again.
"Of course you did." He snorts, digging through the fridge. "Lemme guess. Steph's a duck? Loud as hell too, always yappin'. Yap, yap, yap."
"You can't say things like that!"
"What?" He waves a hand around the kitchen, completely unbothered. "Tell me I'm wrong."
He props your phone against the fruit bowl and starts pulling leftovers from the fridge, still complaining while he works. He's stirring something on the stove while giving you increasingly unsolicited farm advice from YouTube videos he's been watching.
"Have you been Googling this?"
"No. And you tell nobody about this." He takes a bite straight from the pan and points the spoon at you. "Eat your dinner."
A week later, you get a notification from Steam that Jason Todd has purchased Stardew Valley. Two weeks after that, there's a dinosaur wandering around your shared coop named Jason.
The first time you mention it, he threatens to sell the void chicken he named after you.
۶ৎ Tim Drake :꣓
Tim almost always calls you through Discord because Discord is practical. He can share whatever nightmare of a spreadsheet he's working on, you can stream your screen, and neither of you has to hold a phone for four hours straight. FaceTime is different. FaceTime usually happens when you're in bed and Tim is still very much refusing to be.
"Should I mute myself?" he asks, glancing down toward where his phone is propped against a stack of case files beside his laptop. He's hunched over his desk in an old Gotham Knights shirt, dark hair hanging over his eyes until he pushes it back with one hand. The shadows beneath them look almost bruised in the bluish light from his monitors, and there are at least two empty coffee mugs within arm's reach.
You can barely keep your eyes open anymore, cheek mashed into your pillow. "Why?"
"My keyboard." Tim types another line, pauses, then looks back at you. "It's probably loud."
You listen to the rapid click-click-click coming through the speaker. "No."
"Okay."
And that's apparently all he needed.
For another twenty minutes, the two of you barely talk. You watch him through the phone, eyes already half-lidded with sleep while Tim works through case notes, shoulders curling tighter whenever he gets particularly focused. Papers shift. His chair rolls backward. Every few minutes he mutters something under his breath, deletes an entire paragraph, then starts typing again. You're somewhere between awake and asleep when your phone slips sideways against the pillow.
Tim notices immediately. "Hey."
You blink. "What?"
"Can't see you."
You stare at him with a deep sigh and fumble around until the phone is upright again. "There."
"Thanks."
And then he goes straight back to work as though that wasn't deeply pathetic. You watch him for another second. "You got something for watching people?"
"Mhm... mostly for watching you, though."
Your eyes start drifting shut again, and Tim continues typing until he catches you rubbing your face into the pillow. "You tired?"
"No." Your eyes betray you by closing.
"You sure look tired. Want me to come tuck you in?"
"Shut up."
He smiles without looking away from his screen and reaches for one of the coffee mugs. Your eyes open immediately at the scrape of ceramic against his desk.
"Absolutely not."
Tim freezes with the rim halfway to his mouth. "What?"
"Put it down."
"It's coffee."
"It's almost two in the morning. We have a nine a.m. lecture together."
Tim looks from you to the mug, weighs his options, and then very intentionally takes one loud sip.
"Timothy."
"Don't government-name me."
You groan and roll onto your side, propping yourself up with one hand while the other reaches toward the red button. "I'm hanging up."
His head snaps toward the phone. "Nooooo. I'll miss you... stayyyyy."
You start laughing into your pillow because the whine is so dramatic and so completely at odds with the expressionless little detective who's been staring at case files for three hours. "You cannot be serious."
"I like watching you sleep."
"That sounds horrifying."
"It helps me relax."
"I'm sure YouTube has sleeping ASMR, Timothy."
"Not the same."
You reach over and turn off your lamp, leaving your room dark except for the faint glow of your phone. Tim's face is still illuminated by three monitors, one hand resting against his cheek while the other keeps scrolling through reports. "Goodnight. Please actually sleep tonight."
"Mhm."
"Tim."
"I heard you."
"You'll hate yourself tomorrow."
"Not if I see you."
You settle farther under the blanket, looking at him through half-closed eyes. "Goodnight."
His expression softens a little, a pout pulling at his mouth before he turns back toward the screen. "Night."
You hang up. Your room stays quiet for approximately twelve seconds before your phone buzzes.
i'm thinking about charlotte brontë spending her last years editing and publishing her sisters' writings and about christopher tolkien dedicating his life to the protection and meticulous reconstruction his father's life's work and about johanna van gogh publishing the letters between vincent and theo that would propel vincent van gogh into fame because she knew how much her husband had loved his brother, and about how so often art isn't just a reflection of the artist's mind and skills but a testament to the fact that they were loved
My sister just quoted this post at me over dinner bc it was discussed in her philosophy class & I can't even smugly inform her of its authorship. Due to the mindhunter yaoi state of my most recent blog history.
You fell through time by accident — and now you're stuck in 1943, watching Bucky Barnes charm every woman in the room but you. So you start to wonder: did the man you left behind ever really want you, or just keep what was convenient? He's about to answer that. He just doesn't know it yet.
◌⃘ Pairing: 1940s!Bucky Barnes x nurse!Reader and present!Bucky Barnes x scientist!reader
◌⃘ Word count: 2.5K
◌⃘ Warnings: angst, because I don't feel well and this is how my brain works when I'm sick.
The small dance hall in Brooklyn smelled of cigarette smoke and cheap perfume, and you had been standing against the back wall for the better part of an hour, watching the man you loved fall in love with everyone but you.
Not that he knew you. That was the cruel logic of it all. To Sergeant James Barnes, you were nobody. Nothing but a nurse he'd been introduced to twice, and forgotten both times. A face in a crowd of pretty faces, but by no means the prettiest.
You had stopped being able to feel your own face somewhere around the third song, no longer pretending to smile.
"You gonna dance, or you gonna be a wallflower all night?"
You turned. One of the girls— Doris, or maybe it it was Lilian, you weren't paying attention— was smiling at you with the social grace that women in this time seemed to possess effortlessly. They belonged in a way you never would. You gave her something that was probably a smile.
"I'm alright watching."
"Watching him, you mean." She followed your gaze to where Bucky stood in his dress uniform, left arm braced against a pillar as he leaned down to murmur something into the ear of a redhead who laughed like he'd hung the moon. "Half the room's watching him. Don't feel bad, sweets. He's real generous with the old charm."
Generous! You laughed to yourself, that was certainly one word for it.
You'd been in 1943 for eleven days. Eleven days since the machine in your lab had done whatever it was that it did. There had been a surge of power, a blinding flash of light and the smell of ozone that still hadn't left your nostrils. You had woken up staring at a strange sky, in an alley between two buildings you didn't recognize.
Eleven days later, you had talked your way into a nursing post with the competence that only came with training from a program that wouldn't exist for another sixty years.
The first time you had seen him, you hadn't been able to move. You almost walked past without a backward glance. The thing that had gotten your attention wasn't how he looked, it was his voice. It hadn't changed. What had changed was how freely he laughed
It was all you could think of as you lay on a narrow rented bed and stared up at the ceiling, thinking: He's here. He's alive and whole and here, and he has no idea who I am.
You'd thought seeing this version of him would be a comfort.
You'd been so stupid.
So there you were, contemplating your existence, a woman out of your own time. And you realized that the thing nobody told you about time travel was that it was mostly waiting.
You had managed to track down a physicist— a nervous, but brilliant scientist who was well ahead of his time and happened to work for Stark Industries and liked to carry out experiments in his basement.
When you'd described the machine, he had gone very pale and very quiet and then become very interested. He offered to help you. He thought it would take weeks. He speculated a great many things, and every one of them required you to stay close to the war effort, close to the base, close— by fate or by accident— to Bucky-freaking-Barnes.
You should have quit, but you needed the money and a place to stay. So you saw him. Constantly. At the mess, in the corridors, at these godforsaken dances the other nurses dragged you to. And every time, the same knife went in.
Because Bucky Barnes flirted with everyone.
You watched him do it like a case study you had a vested interest in. In a way, you did.
He flirted with Lilian and Doris and Elizabeth, with Marian and Margaret and even Sandy. He flirted with the girl who sold cigarettes and the middle-aged woman who ran your boarding house who flushed like a school girl every time he tipped his cap.
He flirted with the same energy that other men breathed— unconsciously, effortlessly and with enthusiasm. With the whole world except you.
With you he was polite. God, the politeness was utterly devastating. Every 'ma'am.' Every 'miss.' Every nod.
Once— and only once— he caught you looking at him for too long across the mess hall and you had noticed a flicker on his face. It wasn't interest, no you knew his expressions well enough, it was something closer to confusion. Almost as though he couldn't quite figure out why this particular nurse kept staring at him like she was drowning.
You'd looked away so fast you'd spilled your coffee.
So here's the thing you could quite wrap your head around. It was the splinter which kept digging it's way deeper. He was still Bucky. Before the fall. Before seventy years of ice and torture. Before his free will had been ripped away. It was still him. The same kind man you loved.
And this man had looked at you and felt nothing.
"You look like you're thinking too hard," Lillian said. "Never a good idea at a dance."
"Sorry." You forced a smile and made yourself relax. "Long shift," you lied with a shrug.
She patted your arm sympathetically and drifted off in the direction of a corporal who had been eyeing her from across the hall. And then you were alone. Again. Listening to Bucky laughing at something across the room, his eyes crinkled and nose scrunched. You had to close your eyes.
In the present, you told yourself, he loves you.
But did he?
This thought was the poison of the past, the reason the past eleven days had hollowed you out and given you reason to doubt. Because you'd met your Bucky broken. You'd met him after— after the Soldier, after the torture, after the long slow work he had done to put himself back together, with therapy and effort and the kind of hard-won stillness that made his rare smiles feel earned. Your Bucky was quiet. He was careful. He loved you the way a man loves the shore after a shipwreck— grateful, fierce, like something he'd been afraid to hope for.
When you thought back, this stillness had always felt like the depth in your relationship. That his quiet devotion was the shape of a man who had survived far too much to be careless with his heart. That when he reached for you in the dark, when he said your name with reverence, when he told you that he loved you, it was the truest thing in him.
Only now you'd seen the before.
Now you'd seen who he was when the world hadn't broken him yet.
And that man— that carefree, radiant, flirtatious man— he wouldn't have looked at you twice. That man had a type, and you were watching him charm her across the dance floor right now, and it most decidedly wasn't you. It was never you.
So what did that make what you had back home?
It was the ugly thought. The one that had been circling your brain in different iterations for the last eleven days.
He's with you because you were there.
Because you'd been kind to him at the worst point of his life.
Because you were willing, and steady, and you'd stayed when staying was hard.
Because a drowning man doesn't check whether the hand pulling him up is the one he'd have chosen.
He grabs what's offered.
You were what was offered. Convenient. Present. Undemanding.
Not chosen. Settled.
You believed it completely, while standing in that dance hall. It sank deep into your bones, like the weight of something you'd always half-known and finally let yourself see.
"You're that nurse."
You startled so badly at his voice that you knocked your purse off the table. Bucky was standing in front of you— right in front of you, close enough that you could smell the pomade and the wool of his uniform. And he was looking at you with that faint, puzzled crease between his brows. He bent down and retrieved your purse without a second thought.
"I— yeah. Sorry. Yes. I'm a nurse."
Brilliant. Very cool. Totally nailed that response. You mentally face palmed yourself.
"You keep looking at me." He said it plainly, without judgement. "All week. At the mess, and now here." He paused, studying your face. "Do I know you? From somewhere? I feel like I oughta, and it's drivin' me half crazy tryna figure it out."
You don't know me yet, was the thought didn't say. You won't know me for another eighty years.
"No," you managed in a flat tone. "You don't know me."
He studied you. And for one horrible, hopeful second you let yourself imagine that something would spark between you. That he would recognize something buried deep inside himself, the one who would one day become the man you loved. That he'd feel it, the way you felt it. The impossible gravity that existed between you.
He didn't. You watched him not feel it. He just gave you a small, courteous, sorry-can't-place-you smile and the last shred of hope shattered in it chest.
"Well," he said. "You alright? You look a little—" he gestured vaguely at all of you, "—pale. Rough night on the ward?"
You laughed dismally. "Something like that."
"You want some air? You look like you want some air."
And there it was. Not attraction. Kindness. The reflexive decency of a good man toward a woman who looked unwell. He'd have offered the same to Doris or Evelyn, to the redhead or the blonde, to anyone really. You knew it, and you took it anyway, because you were weak and you loved him and this was the closest he'd stood to you in eleven days.
Outside, the night was cold and wet and smelled of the harbor. Bucky lit a cigarette, offered you one, seemed unsurprised when you shook your head. For a while neither of you said anything.
"You got somebody?" he asked finally, and your heart lurched dangerously. "Back home, I mean. You got that look. Like half of you is somewhere else."
You laughed and it came out wrecked.
"Yeah," you said. "I've got somebody."
"He treat you right?"
He loves me like a man loves the thing that saved him, you thought. And I don't know anymore if that's the same as loving me for me.
"I don't know," you said honestly. "I used to think so. Now I'm not sure he'd have picked me. If things had been different. If he'd had… options. I think maybe I was just… the one who was there."
Bucky was quiet a moment. When you looked at him he was frowning— not the usual puzzled frown, it was something more thoughtful.
"That's a helluva thing to carry," he said. "You wanna know what I think?"
He looked at you, barely waiting for you to answer before he continued.
"I flirt with every dame in that room. You've seen me, don't pretend you haven't." He gave you a rueful half-smile. "It's easy. Don't cost me a thing. You smile, they smile, everybody has a nice night, nobody gets hurt. It's—" he searched for the right word, "—it's cheap. You understand? It's the cheapest thing I got."
You stared at him.
"You know what's not cheap?" he went on, looking out into the night. "The stuff that costs you something— and that's not the girl you charm across a dance hall. That's the one you'd still want around when there's nothing charming left in you. When you're scared, or sick, or done things you can't take back."
He exhaled smoke. "A fella who's had it easy, he'll flirt with anybody. Don't mean anything. But a fella who's been through the wringer, and he still reaches for one particular person—" he shrugged, "—seems to me that's the only kind that counts. The rest's just… noise."
You couldn't breathe.
He didn't know how deeply what he'd said had resonated with you. He couldn't have. He was just a kind man being kind to a sad woman outside a dance hall, offering the accidental wisdom of someone who'd one day live every word of it. But he'd reached across eighty years and removed the splinter from your heart.
A fella who's been through the wringer, and he still reaches for one particular person.
That was your Bucky. Not a drowning man grabbing for the nearest hand. A man who had been through the absolute worst the world could do. A man who had every reason to be closed and cold and careful with the little warmth he had left. And instead who spent it, deliberately, expensively, on you.
Not because you were convenient. Because when everything cheap had been burned out of him, you were what remained. You were the thing that counted.
The flirtation you'd been grieving wasn't the love you knew. It never had been. It was the noise. And your Bucky had gone silent with everyone else in the world and still turned, in the dark, toward you.
"Thank you," you whispered.
Bucky looked faintly bewildered. "For what? I didn't do anything."
"You'd be surprised," you said, tears slipping down your cheeks before laughing at the way he was hastily patting his pockets for a handkerchief with the flustered gallantry of a man way out of his depth
And for the first time in eleven days the ache in your chest had somewhere to go.
The scientist sent for you nine days later. You had pulled yourself away from the pub, one last glance at the Sergeant before you scurried away under the cover of darkness.
The machine hummed and the basement reeked of ozone. Suddenly your heart was pounding and you were looking back at the strange world you were leaving. At the war that hadn't broken him fully yet. At the still charming boy who would become, through unspeakable years, the quiet man who loved you.
I'm coming home baby, you told him, across the space-time continuum. I finally understand what I'm coming home to.
With that vow, you stepped into the light.
When you opened your eyes it was day and you were back in your lab, surrounded by your things and there— there was already someone crossing the room toward you at a dead run. Someone with a metal arm and a face raw with grief and terror that lasted twenty days. Someone who caught you and held you like the shore holds the shipwreck.
"You're back," Bucky said into your hair, over and over, wrecked and reaching only for you. "You're back, you're back, you're back."
"I'm back," you said. "I know exactly where I am."
how the hell is marvel going to pull off having steve stand IN FRONT OF bucky. the bucky who he left when he went back to the 1940s. "Till the end of the line" bucky. The bucky who steve spent at least 3 movies (conservative estimate) trying to fully get back. The bucky who at the end of the day seemed not to matter bc steve chose to return to a world without his best friend (at least) after finally having gotten him back. and how the hell are they going to convince me that bucky is gonna be okay w this like nothing has happened
Summary: Mycroft Holmes x fe!Reader -> In society's eyes, you would never be the choice for Mycroft. But that didn't mean you weren't still his.
Disclaimer: Slow burn, friends-to-lovers, class divide, fake engagement, undercover couple, yearning, Mycroft loosens reader's corset, hurt/comfort, love confessions.
You had known Mycroft Holmes since you were both seventeen.
You were friendly with each other. At least, as friendly as a maid could get with the son of a caring boss.
Mycroft didn’t take advantage of his status, or his wealth. He never judged you for being a working woman, or your unspoken but clear choices in life. He was kind. And a friend.
It wasn’t until he made his move to London permanent that you realised just how much you missed him. The polite conversations in the hallways, the morning discussions over the newspaper, the late night clean-ups that had both of you confiding your deepest truths in each other.
Over time, things began to change and grow. You rarely saw him, but corresponded just often enough to keep in touch. Then, one day, his brother asked you for help.
Apparently being a maid wasn’t your only skill profile.
Suddenly, you were thrust up into the world of private detectives dealing with: hidden affairs, jilted brides, property theft, kidnapping, and the odd murder.
Which was how you found yourself back in Mycroft’s physical orbit, as well as him being in yours.
“Another case solved?” Mycroft asked you, drawing a corner of his evening paper out of the way.
With a heavy sigh, you slumped onto the sofa across from him. “Next time your brother tells me it’s ‘just a quick one that can solve itself’...remind me to say no.”
Mycroft tried his best to hide his smile. “That bad?”
“He had me running all around London just to find some guy that used to know a guy, that now knows another guy, who knows the first guy who– oh, forget it. I’m making myself dizzy.”
Laying a hand on your head, you closed your eyes for a moment. You heard a little rustling and shuffling before Mycroft spoke.
“Here. Should help with the headache.”
Opening your eyes, you accepted the glass of brandy from him. “Thanks.” Then, you watched as he took his seat once more, with his own glass.
“How did you know about the headaches?” You asked.
“You’re not the only one with the abilities of a detective,” Mycroft said. “Have you been sleeping?”
“Some.”
“And that equates to…”
“Some,” you repeated.
“So, none?”
“‘Some’ is not none.”
“It sounds like none.”
You forced a smile. “I’m sleeping, Mycroft.”
“Well?”
“As well as can be expected,” you mumbled, taking a sip of brandy.
At first it burned your throat. Then you begin to feel the warming effects radiate throughout your body.
“Do you want to stay here tonight? We both know you sleep better when-”
You shook your head. “No. I shouldn’t.”
“It’s not exactly safe to walk home.”
You shrugged. “I’ll be fine.”
“You should stay.”
“Mycroft-”
“You’re staying. It’s decided.” Mycroft laid down his unfinished brandy and stood up. “Besides, Mrs Fox already has your room ready.”
You narrowed your eyes. “How did you know I was coming here?”
“Sherlock arrived this afternoon pleading that I come looking for his body if I don’t see either one of you this evening.”
You hummed. “Glad to know he knows I’m annoyed.”
“No doubt he will ensure your pay packet is doubled by the end of the week.”
You scoffed, just a little. “That will be the day.”
“Monday,” Mycroft told you. “I made him swear it to me. In writing.”
“What a pleasant surprise.” You smiled, “Thank you, Mycroft.”
“I presume you already know your way around. Mrs Fox also left some fresh towels in the bathroom for you.”
“You know, I still don’t know how I feel about not being the one to do all of that work instead.”
Mycroft gave a small shrug. “You’re a Lady Detective. A working woman. Your job is to investigate, is it not?”
Standing halfway up the stairs, you looked to Mycroft with a hint of a smile. “It is. But I’m not too sure about the title of Lady.”
“Any woman is a Lady who is-”
“Respectable and reputable.”
“Respectful.” Mycroft corrected. “And Kind.”
You tilted your head a little as you looked at him, visually weighing up the descriptions he had just given. They were one of the reasons you held a deep affection for Mycroft.
“I think Society might disagree.”
“Maybe,” Mycroft humoured you. “But society has been known to be wrong.”
“Still doesn’t change things, much. But…maybe one day.”
“One day,” Mycroft echoed, his gaze fixed on yours for a beat longer than could be considered casual.
After that, you excused yourself and locked the bathroom door behind you. A bath had already been drawn and was luckily still warm enough to easy your aching muscles.
A few minutes after stepping out of the tub, however, you looked at yourself in the mirror. Your towel covered most of your self, but you took in the parts you could see.
The fading bruises across your collarbones and shoulders, the smaller scars that finally healed on your upper arms, the single scar that ran up the side of your thigh; all of which told their own story that dated back to your first few months working as a detective.
Being a domestic maid was probably more respectable and reputable than being a detective. Though, that still wouldn’t have considered you a lady, or even a gentlewoman worthy of the amount of respect Mycroft gave you.
That was what made him different from the rest.
He was kind. Judged people based on their character, rather than their standing in the world. It was just a shame society hadn’t caught up to the more modern views of Mycroft Holmes.
Perhaps, then you wouldn’t feel so guilty in your secret affections towards him.
But, your scars and bruises served as a clear reminder to you. Mycroft may be kind, and may be different from the rest. But, even when you were a maid, it would be impossible to fathom a world where yourself and Mycroft were even friends. Let alone the chance for something more.
But as a private detective…it was practically inconceivable.
By the time you were waking up, Sherlock already had another case for you.
“It’ll be fine-”
“No- Sherlock. Don’t disturb-”
The muffled voices of the Holmes brothers suddenly became clear as the door to your bedroom opened, and a third voice joined.
“Ah, Mycroft. Don’t be so worried,” James said, his voice happy. “She loves us, secretly.”
“Fine,” Mycroft sighed. “But it’s your funeral.”
“Good morning, Y/n!” Sherlock announced, bounding inside, drawing the curtains open.
You groaned from underneath the covers.
“And how is the night owl on this fine Saturday morning?”
“She’s contemplating murder,” you mumbled.
“Oh, don’t be like that! It’s a beautiful day-”
“The sun is dazzling! Wouldn’t you agree, James?”
James nodded. “I would, my friend.”
“It’s blinding, is what it is. Close the curtains.” Throwing the blankets back over your head, you had peace for less than thirty seconds when the covers were pulled down your body quickly.
“Hey!”
“Come on, we can’t waste a day like this.”
Not bothering to open your eyes, you turned onto your back and called out for Mycroft.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ll call the undertakers. I’ll see if they have any open plots.”
“Plot.” You corrected him. “They can be buried together. Spend all eternity yapping about the sun.”
Mycroft smiled. “Very well, then. A plot. Singular.”
Sherlock just smiled, “You don’t seriously mean that.”
Opening your eyes, your vision just about adjusted to the figures in your room.
You explained it to him, slowly. “You had me run circles around London for the last week. It is now the weekend. I have no desire to do anything other than sleep. And you have woken me up at the crack of dawn for, what I’m presuming to be, another case. My answer is no. Good night.”
Drawing the covers back up, you pulled them over your head and prayed you would be left alone to get some more shut eye.
But your prayers went unanswered as Sherlock and James jumped onto the bed beside you.
“It is a case.”
“But it’s not for a few more hours.”
“And you’re gonna like this one.”
“Does it include me digging your graves?” You asked, underneath the covers.
Pulling the top of the covers from your head, James shook his head. “No. But it does include a fancy dinner, a few dances and a chance to ‘live the high life’, so to speak.”
You stared at him. “What on earth for?”
Sherlock brows furrowed. “I thought girls liked getting dressed up for fancy events?”
Rolling over a little, you looked at him. “That’s not why I’m asking. If this is coming from you two, there are usually strings.”
Sherlock and James looked at each other.
“Well, we tried. Might as well tell her, now.” James said.
Sherlock sighed. “We need a distraction to get inside the Manor, where our gracious host is holding his dinner and gala.”
“What kind of distraction?”
“Nothing big,” James said. “Just something that will draw the butler’s attention away from the side door. You know, like…checking somebody’s invite, answering a couple of questions. Nothing major.”
“And you’re asking me…why?”
“Because you're a girl.”
You nodded. “Well spotted. How do you suppose you’re getting an invite?”
Sherlock paused for a moment, looking towards your open bedroom door. “That part is already sorted. But, he needs a date. Which is where you come in.”
In all honesty, you don’t remember agreeing to their plan. But, Sherlock and James were so quick in their explanation, talking as if you had already said yes, that you found yourself going along with their mad plan.
“I don’t know if I can do this.”
“We’ll be fine. Sherlock and James may be mad, but they know what they’re doing.”
You shook your head, struggling to look anywhere else but at the empty seats inside the carriage. “That’s not what I mean.”
Mycroft looked over at you. Despite the fancy gown, and style of your hair, that Mrs Fox had done for you; you didn’t look like you thought you belonged in them.
You were white knuckling the edge of your seat, your breathing was not steady and calm but rather shallow and frantic. Your cheeks seemed flushed, and your entire body seemed to continuously shake despite the fact you were trying to remain still.
“What is it?” Mycroft asked, keeping his voice soft.
“I shouldn’t- I can’t-”
“Hey, hey. Just breathe. Take a breath. What’s going on?”
You shook your head and closed your eyes. “I don’t know if I can do this.”
“This being…”
“Be fancy,” you said. “Act like…like I’m a part of higher society. Mycroft…if we- if I get found out…it’s gonna cause a scandal. And not a small one, either.”
Mycroft seemed unreasonably calm. “Look, as far as anyone is aware, you and I are engaged. I know for a fact Mrs and Mrs Hurst do not care for social scandal when there is none to be had. I was invited here under the pretense that I was to bring my fiance. And, for all intents and purposes, that is you. Nobody can cause a scandal out of that.”
“They can if they find out it’s not true!”
“If,” Mycroft stressed. “Which they won’t because we just have to play the part.”
“For how long?”
“Is being engaged to me really that bad?” Mycroft asked, a smile playfully spreading across his face.
You sighed. “I’m being serious, Mycroft. After tonight, there will be a follow up. Questions. That will need actual answers.”
“So…we have a long engagement and then…call it off. Say we…parted amicably but my work got in the way of wedding planning.”
“Mycroft.”
Mycroft gave you a reassuring smile. “It’s one night. What could go wrong?”
You gave a short and nervous laugh. Sure! What could go wrong?
Hours later, yourself and Mycroft returned in good spirits. Well…Mycroft did.
“I would say that was rather a success, wouldn’t you?”
“Uh-huh. Sure.”
Whilst Mycroft gently drew your shawl away from your arms to hang it by the door, along with his own coat and hat, you made your way into his living room and poured yourself a brandy.
Everything had been okay. For about fifteen minutes. Then came the questions and the stares and even more questions.
Long after James and Sherlock had retrieved whatever they were looking for, yourself and Mycroft still had to finish the night out. Which meant more polite conversations that generally landed you in the “I’ve never seen you at any of our recent functions. How did yourself and Mycroft meet?”
Despite the cover story you had both built for yourself, there were still a few prying eyes that knew something was wrong. Not the cover story, or even the reason for attending.
But you.
Unlike the other ladies, you seemed to be lacking in certain areas of nobility and any other skills, and abilities that would have been taught to you by the well respected ladies at any of the Finishing Schools for young girls.
More than once, Mycroft had to step in and help you. Though, if he minded you couldn’t tell. But you still felt guilty about it anyway.
But the real kicker came during the dancing portion of the evening.
“I don’t know how to do this.” You told Mycroft, quickly.
“It’s okay. Just follow my lead.”
“I’ll screw it up.”
“No, you won’t.” Mycroft whispered, reassuringly. “I’ll keep you safe.”
Anxiety shot throughout your body. First of all, you didn’t like relying on anyone else for your safety. Second of all, having Mycroft be the one to assure you felt deeper than it should have done.
Then the music started.
Joined by at least a dozen couples, Mycroft started dancing you around the floor to the live orchestra.
“Just breathe,” he told you. “With me.”
Settling your breath to match his own – it felt foreign at first. Unnatural against the quick and panicked breaths you’d been taking all night.
But, as the music floated around the room and the rest of the couples, you felt yourself starting to ease under Mycroft’s touch. His palm warmed your back as he pulled you closer, leading you around the floor.
Somewhere between those two things, however, you lost yourself. Only for a moment: but it was still long enough to create such a memory, that the entire thing felt like a dream.
As the music came to a complete close, you were left breathless in Mycroft’s arms as your eyes remained locked on his.
For…for a moment you thought Mycroft saw right through you. Like he could see every feeling you’d been holding at bay, for him. Because his eyes felt like a reflection of your own.
With a mesmerizingly soft gaze, that looked at you with wonder and curiosity and something the Queen’s English didn’t have a word for.
Or, perhaps it did.
But it wasn’t exactly something commonly granted to be held between two people from such vast different backgrounds.
But it was for engaged couples.
Love.
You were thankful for the round of applause that began for the orchestra, as it broke you out of whatever spell had just been conjured. The feeling of Mycroft’s thumb, that was caressing your back absentmindedly, felt like it could burn you.
You were playing an act. The engaged couple. Of course Mycroft would look at you in such a way – it was an act. And, Cordelia Holmes had always had a heart that yearned for the stage. It was only fitting her eldest son took after her in that regard.
Yet, despite the act, it still felt incredibly real.
“Are you sure you’re alright?” Mycroft asked you, still surrounded by an air of delight.
“Uh-huh. Fine. I’m completely fine.”
Mycroft’s brows furrowed as he looked at you, bracing yourself against the sofa, trying to shuffle your corset against your body.
“Are you sure, dear? You’ve been a ball of anxiety practically the whole night.”
You could have cried. Instead, you gave a half-hearted laugh whilst still clawing at the bodice of your dress.
“Is-is it a little stuffy…in here?” You were trying your best to breathe. Just a few more minutes then you could hail a cab home, or James and Sherlock would finally make their dramatic entrance and distract you from everything you were feeling.
“I can open a window?”
You nodded and Mycroft did so. However, turning back to look at you, he saw you beginning to sway a little. Has the night really been that bad?
Somewhere between the muffled sound of Mycroft crossing his living room and opening a window, and trying to count backwards from ten, you suddenly felt an extra pair of hands pulling at your dress.
“What are you doing?”
“Clearly, you can’t breathe,” Mycroft told you. “Nor can you reach around and loosen the threads yourself.”
It’s not the dress, you wanted to tell him. It’s you. Me. Us. I’ve got a crush so bad, it aches inside just to think about you.
“Is that any better?”
You were trying to focus on your breathing, and not the fact Mycroft’s hands were still positioned at your back, pulling the threads loose.
After a moment, you nodded. “Yes. Thank you.”
An edged silence settled over the room. Mycroft hadn’t moved from where he was standing. And you didn’t know if you wanted to run a thousand miles away, or lean back against him and hope he’d willingly catch you.
Suddenly, your breath hitched as you felt a soft graze against your back. Mycroft’s fingers, delicately tracing a scar that lay in a small diagonal curve against your back.
“When did this happen?”
You swallowed. “A while ago.”
“A job with my brother?”
You shook your head. “One of my own.”
Mycroft didn’t move. Neither did his hand.
“What happened?”
“Nothing too theatrical,” you said. “Just a fight in a dark alley. It’s not my only one.”
“I’ve never seen you-”
“Because I keep them covered up.” You said. “They’re not exactly nice, Mycroft. No lady worth her standing should even have them. We’re meant to be delicate creatures, are we not?”
Mycroft swallowed, laying his palm flat against your scar.
“I think they’re beautiful.”
Again, your breath hitched – just a little – as you felt Mycroft step a little closer to you.
“They tell your story,” he said, quietly. “And I believe it’s a story worth telling. You’re a very beautiful, and very interesting, woman, Y/n. You shouldn’t let the loud opinions of others keep you in hiding.”
Finally able to see his face, you leaned into Mycroft’s gentle touch, as he leaned a little closer.
“You looked stunning, tonight.” Mycroft’s hand began to warm your lower back. “No doubt you’ll be the talk of the evening.”
“Probably for the wrong reasons.”
Mycroft shook his head. “Never.”
Something in the air began to shift as Mycroft held your gaze. The touch of him against your back was beginning to tingle against your skin. His breathing, and yours, was slowly getting deeper with each intake of air.
His lips found yours in a delicate, feather-light, kiss. Almost barely there, but completely and definitely registered.
For a brief look, Mycroft pulled away to let his gaze search yours. A small part of him expected to find shock, disgust…any emotion that let him know he had done the wrong thing.
But, though he found a little shock…there was no hint of disgust or regret across your face. Even more so when you leaned back into him.
The second kiss was not feather-light. Although still a little delicate, it was a far cry from gentle.
Mycroft’s hand came flush against your back, pulling you closer to him. Your own hands flew to his face, whilst his other hand anchored you on the spot – not that you were planning to run away.
Somewhere in the distance, you heard a horse whiffle outside, followed by distinct voices.
“Wait- wait. Mycroft-”
Mycroft hummed, forcing himself to slow down and let you talk. “Is everything alright-”
You didn’t have time to explain because the voices outside got louder.
“Sherlock and James. It’s Sherlock and James.”
Outside, they were loudly whispering about where Mycroft would hide a spare key before they noticed the open window.
“He must still be awake,” James said.
“Won’t be a moment, brother, dear!”
“What-”
“Are there spare clothes upstairs?”
Mycroft nodded. “Mrs Fox laid some out, I expect.”
“Good.”
Making a break for it, you got to the door just before Mycroft pulled you back. “We need to talk about this-”
You turned around and kissed him, quickly. “And we will. But not right now. Keep them busy.”
Running as fast as your feet could carry you, you headed upstairs and towards the spare bedroom. You quietly praised Mrs Fox for having your casual dress laid out on your bed.
Meanwhile, downstairs, Mycroft was trying to kick his head back into gear before his Private Detective brother spotted what was wrong with him.
“So, how was the big night?” James asked you, when you eventually entered the living room.
Himself and Sherlock had already made themselves at home. You tried your best to avoid Mycroft’s gaze as you usually would, in order to try and not raise any suspicion.
“It was fine.”
“We caught the end of the dance,” Sherlock said, slowly pacing towards you.
“You two do make a rather handsome couple,” James added, a grin on his face.
“We should have you two paired together more often,” Sherlock smiled. “Don’t you think, James?”
“I don’t see why not,” James said, his gaze fixed on you as he casually placed his interlocked hands behind his head.
You glared at James. Though you wouldn’t mind being paired up with Mycroft…it wouldn’t exactly be easy. Hell, one evening together and you ended up in a panic attack and kissed him.
Rather, he kissed you, first.
And he kissed back, the second time.
Either way, James had always made certain comments around you when it came to Mycroft. No doubt he knew about your feelings for Sherlock’s older brother, though he never asked you outright.
But he knew.
And he knew what he was doing by agreeing with Sherlock.
“It’s certainly a thought,” Mycroft interjected. “Enough about our night. Did you get what you needed?”
The boys caught you and Mycroft up on their case, but as the conversation began to bleed further into the evening, you excused yourself for bed.
“How can you possibly be tired after a night like this?!” Sherlock exclaimed, his energy revamped as he was retelling his story to his brother.
“Because two arseholes decided to wake me up at the crack of dawn. Don’t get into trouble. Good night.”
You lay in bed all of twenty minutes before you heard the familiar rustlings of footsteps heading from the bathroom, across the landings, back down the stairs and towards the front door.
Though your mind wanted to replay everything that had happened that evening, your exhaustion took over. But that didn’t stop it from flashing across your mind the second you woke up.
The dress. The dream. The kiss-
The kiss.
You and Mycroft still needed to talk about that. What it meant. If it meant something.
Rising from bed, you reached the top step of the staircase before you were stopped by Mrs Fox.
“I’ve run you a bath, lovie. Extra towels are on the side. Mr Holmes said not to disturb you.”
“Mycroft’s out?”
Mrs Fox nodded. “Left early. A newspaper boy came knocking on the door with a note from Sherlock.”
“Is he in trouble?”
Mrs Fox sighed, starting to descend the stairs. “Who knows with that boy. But, no. I don’t believe so. Mr Holmes said he’d be back before lunch time. Call out if you need anything. Oh!”
Mrs Fox turned back towards you. “And there’s a new day dress hanging on the door for you. My cousin’s girl has just got married and was given more dresses as part of her wedding gift. So, she’s cleared out her closet. You’re the same size and they’re not old dresses – the rest, I can put in your wardrobe.”
“Thank you, Mrs Fox. Would she like something for them?”
Mrs Fox chuckled. “That girl’s got more money than she knows what to do with. And, they’re a gift, lovie. Keep them, and your money. God only knows you were in need of some new dresses.”
“Mrs Fox!”
“Well, you know I’m right.”
You chuckled, watching her walk away. “Thank you! For the bath, and the dresses!”
“Think nothing of it, lovie!”
Entering the bathroom, you found a steaming bath waiting for you and a simple, but fashionable, cotton dress hanging on the back of the bathroom door.
By the time you had finished, and was downstairs with Mrs Fox helping prepare for lunch, Mycroft returned with Sherlock and James.
“Oh, my!”
Turning at the sound of Mrs Fox’s shocked voice, you nearly dropped the kettle you were holding.
“My God!” Placing the filled kettle down with a heavy thud, you rushed over to the three men. “What the hell happened?!”
“Might we have some cold meat for Sherlock’s eye, Mrs Fox?” Mycroft asked, his voice soft.
“Of course, Mr Holmes. Right away.”
“Come and sit,” you said, leading Mycroft to sit down, as James pulled out a chair for Sherlock to sit. “How long has it been bleeding?”
“Since we left Saint Paul’s,” Mycroft said. “Though, it’s not so bad.”
“Not so bad?! Mycroft, you’ve been bleeding from the Cathedral! That’s easily an hour’s walk from here. What the hell happened?”
“What didn’t happen?” James asked.
And so, the story was relayed to you. How Sherlock had gotten himself, and James, into a little trouble since leaving Mycroft’s Baker Street home the previous night.
“All I did was politely explain that the gentleman was wrong-”
“And look where it landed us.”
James continued to explain, whilst Mrs Fox followed your instructions to fill two bowls with hot water and to find some extra wash cloths and bandages.
Whilst Mycroft had a split lip, a bleeding nose, and a small cut at the side of his head; Sherlock had a black eye, a few nicks and cuts across his arms that were practically caked in mud. And, although James seemingly got away lightly, with a black eye that was already healing quicker than Sherlock’s, his knuckles were cut and scraped til they were bleeding.
“You really need to learn how to fight.”
“I was trying James, but there were too many of them.”
“Too many, my arse. Sometimes I wonder if you two were even brothers.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” Sherlock asked.
“It means…brothers fight! Hell, I had a sister and she would fight with me worse than our own brother!”
Sherlock turned his nose away. “Well, our mother taught us that fighting was never the answer.”
“Bullshit. Mycroft?”
He looked up. “We had our moments, but I’m afraid it’s true. Our fights tended to be of the more…vocal ones.”
“That explains a lot.”
Sighing, you gently pushed Mycroft’s head up a little further. “I think it’s stopped bleeding. But your cuts need cleaning.”
“I’ll be alright. Tend to those two, first. I have to go and change my shirt.”
Mycroft excused himself in order to go and get dressed into clothes that didn’t have dramatic splits in them. Meanwhile, you and James held Sherlock still whilst you cleaned his cuts before tending to James’ hands.
Each time he hissed in pain, you apologised. Mrs Fox sent Sherlock to bed in order to rest, and she kept her eye on him before James followed suit.
“How are you feeling?” You asked Mycroft, once he returned.
“Alright, all things considered.”
“Take a seat. I still want to clean that cut.”
Mycroft sat down without protest, and opened up his legs a little more to let you stand closer.
For a while, you were both quiet. You used a clean, but warm, cloth to wipe away any dried blood or muck from Mycroft’s wounds.
“Your dress is new.”
“Mrs Fox gave them to me. One of her family members just got married, so she cleaned out her wardrobe.”
“It’s nice. It suits you.”
You smiled, a little. “Thank you.”
“Did you sleep well?”
You nodded. “I did. You know I did.”
“I know you always sleep better when you’re here.”
“Must be the bed,” you half-joked. “Your bed is less creaky than mine. I turn over in mine, it’s like listening to the train tracks squeak underneath me.”
Mycroft chuckled a little, letting a small silence settle over the room before he finally asked you what you knew he was leading up to.
“Are you ready to talk about last night?”
You swallowed, and shifted on your feet for a moment. “I suppose we must.”
Mycroft leaned into your touch for a brief moment. “I wanted to apologise. I can’t deny I wanted it to happen, because I did. But, you were in a vulnerable position and I’m worried, or rather, it would appear that I took advantage. I just don’t want-”
“Mycroft.”
“-To assume it would mean something to you because it did to me. Or because of everything that happened previously in our evening. If you wish to forget it, I completely understand-”
“Mycroft.”
“-Because, of course, we’re friends. We’re friends, first and foremost. And I wouldn’t want to jeopardise that–”
Unsure of how else to get his attention, you kissed him.
For a brief moment of time, Mycroft’s hands hovered beside your legs before he suddenly kissed you back and pulled you closer to him. The split in his lip was beginning to burn, just a little. But he didn’t mind it.
Not when you were kissing him.
Pulling back from the kiss, you caught your breath. “I don’t regret it. You didn’t take advantage of me. We both kissed each other. We share an equal responsibility. But, as much…”
You took a breath, your thumb carefully tracing his bottom lip. “As much as either of us…would want it to happen, again. It can’t.”
“What?”
You shook your head. “This can’t happen, again.”
“If you’re worried about Mrs Fox, or even Sherlock-”
“It’s not that. It’s what happens after. Because this can get complicated quickly.”
“Y/n-”
“You work in Government, Mycroft.” You said, the words tumbling out of you as though you had rehearsed them a thousand times before. “And, though I may not be a maid any more, that was my birth right. I’m not the choice you make, Mycroft.”
“And what is the choice I am meant to make, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“You pick a woman of standing. A Lady-”
“You are a Lady-”
“A real Lady, Mycroft. One that attended Finishing School. One that can make friends with other Government wives and keep a house running to the same standing. You make-”
“A choice of my own.” Mycroft said. “And that is you. You are my choice.”
“Mycroft-”
“Please? Please, just listen to me?” Mycroft asked you. “Y/n…you are my friend. A true friend. Someone I can rely on, and talk to, and trust. But you are also someone that I can laugh with. You are someone I can share my darkest secrets with. You are the same friend that I have been in love with, and cared for, all these years. In society’s eyes, you may not be the choice, as you say. But you are mine. You are my choice, Y/n. What that choice leads to is up to you; whether we have the long engagement we spoke of, or if we live in sin for the rest of our days. It doesn’t matter to me, because it’s you. My choice is always going to be you.”
Frankly, you didn’t know what to do with yourself. Mycroft, without you asking him to, laid his heart out for you. You had known him long enough to know when he was lying.
Random bee behavior fact for those who wish to read, just because I feel like it and because it’s late and I’m stalling on sleeping:
Bumblebees look like passive, cuddly, and docile creatures; and they generally are- but they won’t hesitate to defend themselves if they feel their warnings aren’t being seen!
I.e. below, when a bumblebee feels threatened they will raise one or more of their legs into the air, signaling to whatever or whomever may be bothering them as a message essentiality saying: “hey, back off, too close!”
If their defensive posture goes unnoticed or ignored, they may be pushed into defending themselves by stinging (which is an all around sucky experience for not only you, but also for the bee. (Note that bumblebees do not die after stinging, but it is still stressful for them.) If you ever find yourself getting close to a bumblebee while taking pictures, trying to move them, or just admiring them, remember this posture! If they do this, it is simply asking you to take a step back because it feels it is being threatened! You might get stung.
Now you can understand and use this knowledge to your advantage if you ever come across one in the future. (Of course, because it’s very hard not to anthropomorphize animals, I do admit that they look cute when doing it. Just remember to respect their space!)
Jason Todd, who fell first and harder. Before you two were even together, he used to watch you. Not in a creepy way, but more so like he was studying you, picking up on your little habits and micro expressions. He was enamored by you from the very beginning. Whenever you would speak, he would find himself smiling despite himself. Honestly, he wouldn’t even realize it until someone- usually one of his annoying brothers- pointed out that he looked like a kid on Christmas morning. Anything you had ever said in front of him, Jason remembers. You two could be a year into dating and he would randomly drop a fact about you that you brought up on only your second date and had never mentioned since. He remembers everything when it comes to you and only you. He’s constantly reaching for things you need before you even ask for them, somehow so attuned to you and your every want or need. In all honesty, from the day Jason met you he had fallen for you, and he had been falling more and more every single day since.
of waiting to be consumed by you
ridiculously attractive things they do
including | dick grayson, jason todd, tim drake, damian wayne & roy harper
playing | the first taste- fiona apple
dick grayson- constantly shirtless
Somehow, he always finds an opportunity to take his shirt off whenever possible. He doesn’t do it to stroke his ego by showing his muscles and tan skin (well, maybe he wants to show off a little), but he just overheats way too easily, hence, removing the easiest thing he can get off his body.
It is definitely not uncommon to arrive at your apartment and find him just in sweatpants making dinner, or lounging around, or fixing his gear, or hanging out with his family. Matter of fact, everyone’s used to it already, so no one really bats an eye when Dick’s hands start to go towards the hem of his t-shirt.
He even has learnt tricks and some fancy ways to twirl his body around to make it sillier for those beside him, so at least they get a show of it. His favourite is a one-handed trick that left you completely flustered because he had one hand splayed on your waist while he pulled you to his chest, and with the other, he just took his shirt off with such ease that it almost made you stutter.
jason todd- casual dominance
He takes the lead everywhere he goes with such natural confidence that you just can’t help but ogle at him. There’s a fine line between being a gentleman and what he is, because the first one he considers basic common sense, but the latter is just how he has always been.
I’m talking about covering corners when you near one in the off chance you can get hurt, one hand always on your body when you’re outside, he doesn’t care if he’s holding your hand, you’re holding his arm or he places his in the small of your back. Replaces things for you before they run out, always assertive and direct with you in every context, he doesn’t play with you, ever.
Something he subconsciously started doing was speaking up in your place whenever you gave him “the look”, when everything is too much at the same time and you just want to go home but still have things to do. Ordering at a restaurant but you don’t really feel like talking? Consider it done. At a bookstore but you can’t find what you’re looking for? He’s asking the workers before you can finish your sentence. Jason often thinks he’s not the most incredible person ever, but he’ll always make sure to accommodate you to feel safe everywhere.
tim drake- pays attention
Tim stares A LOT, but not in a creep way, but rather in a “I’m trying to figure you out without you having to tell me” and he always guesses right. A slight change in your routine cannot go unnoticed if he’s nearby, and if he deems the situation appropriate, he’ll ask you about it, making sure everything’s okay.
“You have moved three times in 30 minutes since you sat down on the couch, is it that the cushions are too hard or that nasty fall on the staircases from Wednesday kicking your ass?” kinda observation. Very smooth with it too, since he doesn’t really bring things up until you find on your kitchen counter that one brand of tea you mentioned offhandedly months ago that your mom used to make you as a kid, and now you’re full-on sobbing because ??? how did he remember and where did he find them??
He likes paying attention to you, he finds comfort in being the one to know you best and learning what makes you be you. Long and deep conversations with each other is something you both cherish, but also knowing your body language, how you think and your passions makes him feel completely connected to you.
damian wayne- protective, not possessive
There’s something in the way Damian’s brain works that makes him want to protect intensely everything he loves, those being most of the time his family, the few material things the takes care of, and you. He doesn’t think of you as his or anyone’s for that matter, but that you and him belong together, and he isn’t shy when showing it.
This tendency of his is mostly shown because he cares, he cares so much that his family was confused at first because he’s usually grumpy and avoidant, but now, Damian clings to you the moments he’s with you. He often displays this as latching onto you and asking about you frequently, just enough to tread on the line between annoying and overbearing like “possessive insecure guys, which I’m clearly not” and protective and caring, always falling into the last category.
He likes when you go to him, doesn’t matter what for. A problem, a rant, a cuddle, or just his simple presence, he’s there for everything, holding onto them, protecting whatever you need him for.
roy harper- matches your freak
Roy’s up to do anything, he doesn’t really care if it’s embarrassing or loud, you tell him if he wants to do something and he’s up at 6 am the next day ready for it. You once confided in him that you felt a bit worried at times for being “too much” or “too weird” and even if he never thought of you like that, he spends every day proving that even if you feel that way, he’ll be by your side doing the same thing.
Tik tok trends, cringy dance moves in the kitchen, drunk confessions, not only he matches your freak, but he also corresponds it. Oh, you’re worried you talked a bit loud at the restaurant because you got too excited telling him the new game you’re playing? He’s screeching at the top of his lungs the next second because he thought he saw a bug, whoopsies.
It may feel incredibly silly to bystanders, but him being comfortable enough with you and himself to act that way is just to incredibly attractive that you even worry about yourself for finding that so hot. Meanwhile, Roy’s by your side with a Minecraft t-shirt waiting for you to come out of your thoughts to beat the ender dragon together.
⠀ ⠀⠀ — fem!reader, fluff + suggestive on jasons, batboys + clark, established relationships
bruce wayne — 5/10
it really depends on the day for him. the whole world knows youre his so why fuss over someone who doesnt know their place? hes the one who lays in your arms at the end of day. but some days he can get really sulky, and i mean really sulky. hes gonna act all dismissive about it at first, then leave subtle hints about a guy who lingered too long at the gala and then full on sulk in your arms. those are the three stages.
stage three might be your favorite because bruce lays on top of you, massaging your hip with soft strokes of his thumb while asking if you still loved him, wanted to be with him and if you liked his features. your man might be a billionaire but inside he is just a guy who loves his wife very much and never wants to be apart from her.
dick grayson — 8/10
now this one is a doozy. hes a very territorial type of guy... not in a toxic way god no! he loves his girlfriend so much so it physically pains him to see a guy trying to talk to you. he immediately acts up upon it, snaking an arm around your waist or shoulders and up fronting talking to the guy. zero shame in being jealous.
and obviously he would be begging for your attention afterwards, just to ease down his nerves, not like youre going anywhere but he wants to feel grounded with his girl!
jason todd — 6/10
the dude is scarred, we all know this, so i dont think he would overly be jealous but more protective. he knows you love him so dearly, so why be jealous of weak men who try to hit on you? a nice threat gets them going on their way.. normally.
when a guy is really being persistent with you, at a party for example, he would be nasty with you, full on animalistic. grabbing you by the ass and pulling you into a make out until the guy gets the idea to leave. and if you confront him about being jealous? he will just huff and say its no big deal, yeah right!
tim drake — 1/10
he has bigger things to worry about. most of the times you want him to get a little jealous because of how chill he is! of course he will always protect you from guys wanting your number but why be jealous of some guy who will never reach the level of intimacy that he has with you? youre his girlfriend, the love of your life!! he wont be jealous over a guy who doesnt even have youre number.
sometimes, he will have his weaker moments. where he doesnt feel certain of himself but you are always there to comfort him and reassure him that he is, and youre gonna love him either way.
damian wayne — 10/10
he is a bit of a mess. when it comes to jealousy, hes not really… vocal about it. the scars from his past made him feel heavily unwanted and used, so if another guy hit on you per say, he would feel heartbroken. the problem would be he wouldnt tell you! damian thinks being cold and distant would help himself and you — spoiler alert: it doesnt.
it takes a lot of talking with him for him to open up and be more vocal of his insecurities. hes not perfect and is getting better with telling his feelings to you every single day! at the end tho he knows you love him so much — putting up with shit and all reminds him how everything in the end will be to his liking.
clark kent — 3/10
by popularity, people think hes a big puppy who gets jealous when his owner is playing with another dog but truth be told — he isnt! he knows how amazing his wife is and he doesnt blame who would want to try a shot. most people know about the marriage anyways, so why he should bother? he knows you can take care of yourself and if you needed, he would be there in an instant.
tho there are times where it gets to him if a guy is being really persistent on you. hes a soft boy after all and would make small comments if he himself needed to do anything better. it all ends tho with you kissing his sweet face saying there is nothing to worry about — and he believes it with all his heart.
⟢ 𝗆𝗒 𝗇𝗈𝗍𝖾𝗌: this is rushed im sorry im trying to post daily but its taking a toll on me!! i might start posting once every two or three days idk… thank u guys so much tho for all the support!!! im incredibly happy will all ur nice comments u guys are so freaking cute <3
i miss you 2012 avengers. i miss you the avengers tower. i miss you irondad and spiderson. i miss you meme lord shuri and peter. i miss you loki lingering in the tower for no other reason than that he's the main love interest. i miss you poptart-eating thor. i miss you grumpy bucky barnes. i miss you old man, chronically offline steve rogers. i miss you clint in the vents. i miss you girls night with wanda and natasha. i miss you resurrected, shamelessly flirty pietro. i miss you clueless, socially inept vision. i miss you the rare bruce banner feature. i miss you sassy sam wilson. i miss you cheeky reader who always called fury by his first name. i miss you super nanny phil coulson. i miss you christmas avengers blurbs in the middle of the fanfiction written by an autistic 14 year old. i miss you 😔😔😔
Seeing how much further I have to go can feel daunting and scary. I'm so far from my goals! But what's life if there isn't a journey? Along the way, we'll learn and reach new accomplishments, we might even sidetrack or change paths. We can't just look at the end when there's so much to see before we get there.
{summary} He thinks he’s slipping. You think he’s hotter. Obviously, you’re right.
{content} bruce wayne x reader, established relationship, fluff, soft intimacy, domestic moment, body image insecurity
You weren’t even supposed to be in the bedroom yet.
You were looking for your phone.
Instead, you stop dead in the doorway.
Bruce is standing in front of the mirror, shirtless, hair still slightly damp like he just got out of the shower. One hand is braced on the dresser, the other… hovering over his stomach, pressing lightly, then pulling away like he doesn’t like what he feels.
His expression?
Critical. Focused. Annoyed.
“…Great,” he mutters.
You raise a brow, leaning against the frame. “Wow. Who pissed you off this time?”
He doesn’t turn around immediately.
“…Me,” he says flatly.
That gets your attention.
You step inside, slower now. “That sounds dramatic. Should I be concerned?”
Now he glances at you through the mirror.
“Probably not,” he says. “Unless you’ve developed strong opinions about poor discipline.”
You snort. “Oh, I have plenty of those. Just not about you.”
He gestures vaguely at himself, like the answer should be obvious.
“This,” he says.
You look.
And look a little longer than necessary, just to make a point.
“…Yeah,” you say.
His jaw tightens. “Yeah.”
You hum, walking closer, circling slightly so you’re not just another reflection behind him.
“Yeah,” you repeat, “you look good.”
He exhales sharply through his nose. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t do that thing where you pretend—”
You reach out and poke his side.
He stops mid-sentence.
“First of all,” you say, completely ignoring his complaint, “rude. Second—what ‘thing’?”
“That,” he gestures again, more annoyed now, “where you act like there’s no difference.”
You tilt your head, considering him.
“There is a difference.”
He nods once, like finally, finally—
“Yeah,” you continue, “you’re hotter.”
Silence.
He turns his head, actually looking at you now.
“…You’re unbelievable.”
“I’ve been told.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
You step right into his space now, no hesitation, your hand sliding lightly across his stomach—not critical, not analyzing, just there.
His breath catches, subtle but there.
“You feel nice,” you say casually.
“…Nice,” he repeats, like the word personally offended him.
“Mhm.” You nod. “Very. Ten out of ten. Would absolutely ignore responsibilities to touch again.”
He lets out a quiet, disbelieving huff. “That’s not helping.”
“It is,” you argue. “You just don’t like the method.”
He shakes his head, stepping back half a pace—until his back nearly hits the dresser.
“I’ve lost definition,” he says. “I’m slower. I should’ve noticed sooner.”
There it is.
You soften—but only a little.
Instead of arguing, you step closer again, closing that half-step distance like it never existed.
“Bruce.”
He doesn’t answer.
Your hand slides up his chest, steady, grounding.
“You know what I see?”
He gives you a look. “Apparently something fictional.”
You roll your eyes and—without warning—lean in and press a kiss to his collarbone.
He freezes.
Another one, just above it.
“I see someone who hasn’t slept properly in weeks,” you murmur.
A kiss to his shoulder.
“Someone who’s been carrying half the city on his back.”
Your fingers curl lightly against his side.
“And someone who still looks—unfairly—good doing it.”
He exhales, slower this time.
You pull back just enough to meet his eyes.
“You’re allowed to change,” you say. “You’re not a statue.”
“That’s not the point.”
“Then what is?”
He hesitates.
And that hesitation says everything.
You sigh softly, but there’s no frustration in it—just understanding.
“C’mere.”
You don’t wait for permission. You take his hand and guide it—gently—back to his own stomach where he was just criticizing himself.
He tenses at first.
“Feel that?” you ask.
“I know what it feels like.”
“Yeah,” you say, your hand covering his, pressing it there just a little more firmly, “but you’re feeling it like it’s a problem.”
You shift closer, your other arm sliding around his waist.
“I’m feeling it like it’s you.”
He goes quiet.
Your thumb brushes lightly over his knuckles.
“And I like you,” you add, softer now.
He watches you for a second—really watches you this time, like he’s trying to decide if he believes you.
“…You’re biased,” he says.
You grin. “Hopelessly.”
That finally cracks something.
A small smile. Barely there, but real.
You take advantage of it immediately, leaning up to press a quick kiss to his lips—light, teasing.
“Also,” you add, not moving far, “for the record?”
He hums faintly.
“You’re hot.”
He shakes his head, but there’s no heat in it anymore.
“…You’re ridiculous.”
“And yet,” you say, backing him lightly against the dresser now, hands still on him, “you’re smiling.”
He pauses.
Realizes.
And—yeah.
He is.
You soften again, just a little, your forehead brushing his.
“Stop picking fights with yourself,” you murmur. “You’re on my team.”
His hand comes up then, settling at your waist, grounding himself there.
“…Stay?” he asks quietly.
You huff a small laugh. “Wasn’t planning on leaving.”
