pairings: poly!superbat x fem!reader, superman x reader, batman x reader, superman x batman, parental!reader x batkids, parental!reader x superkids
summary: You were there from the beginning - a Justice League founder, a guardian to Bruce’s and Clark’s children, and the glue holding two chaotic families together. Love grew slowly, quietly, in lingering touches and missed chances, until it was buried beneath years of duty and heartbreak. Now, when the kids are grown and your heart dares to look forward again, Bruce and Clark must face the truth they’ve both been avoiding: they’ve loved you all along. Will you let them, or has it been too long to let two of the world’s finest heroes into your heart?
wc: 6.1k
content: justice league founder!reader, magical!reader, parenting, jason todd death mention, grieving, lois lane dies, angst, misunderstanding, MISUNDERSTANDINGS, good intentions, accidental child acquisition, parental!reader, inaccurate timelines, unreliable narrator, tags to be added
a/n: guess what! it's a part one, for now, because i apparently don't know how to keep an idea short and sweet. what the actual hell, this wasn't supposed to turn out like this. when will it come out? hmm, i don't know, but i am writing it currently! okay, i hope you guys enjoy! like, reblog, comment and follow for more like this!
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part two . part three
You were there from the beginning. Not as shining, iconic, or universally adored as Superman, Batman, or Wonder Woman, but you never minded. Let them be the faces of the League, the gods walking among mortals. Your place had always been steadier, quieter. And with that came something they rarely had: time.
It started with Robin. The first one. Richard Grayson.
The League needed to fly off-world to face whatever galactic tyrant was threatening Earth that week, and Bruce couldn’t exactly bring a thirteen-year-old into deep space. You volunteered without hesitation. “I’ll take him. He’ll be fine with me.”
That was how you ended up driving Richard Grayson—Robin, in all his excitable glory—to school in your little blue car, the radio cranked up and both of you butchering whatever pop song was popular that month. He sang off-key, you exaggerated the harmony, and by the time you dropped him off, he was grinning ear to ear. The karaoke tradition was born that morning, entirely by accident.
Sleepovers followed. At first, because Bruce needed someone to watch the kid when missions ran long, then simply because Dick liked it that way. Alfred would set up the guest room for you without asking, and by dawn, you were in the kitchen, apron tied, teaching Dick how to flip pancakes without dropping the batter all over the stove.
Unlike Bruce, you let music play. Loudly. You sang into a spatula, spun Dick across the tiles, and even coaxed Alfred into joining the chorus when he thought no one was watching. The manor felt alive in those mornings, full of laughter and dancing instead of the usual sharp silence. And one morning, Bruce walked in on it.
You didn’t hear the faint hum of the Batcave’s boomtube as he returned, nor did you notice him shedding the cowl at the cave’s edge before stepping into the hall. What you did notice was the figure leaning against the doorway, arms folded, exhaustion written into the corners of his mouth as he watched. But in his eyes was a spark of joy that didn’t appear often, yet made Bruce look younger every time it did.
He hadn’t expected to see his son doubled over with laughter, flour dusting his hair. Or Alfred, straight-backed and dignified as always, holding a mixing bowl like it was a microphone. Or you, spatula in hand, hips swaying with the beat on the radio like the kitchen was a stage. Upon completing your circle, you looked up to see the man of the hour stoic, just enjoying the scene.
You froze for only a second when you saw him, then grinned. “Don’t just stand there, Bruce. Come on.”
And you danced your way toward him, extending a hand. Dick immediately perked up, cheering: “C’mon, Bruce! Just once!”
Bruce started shaking his head, “No, I’m too tired. Just wanted to see what all the noise was when I came in.”
But you didn’t let him get away with it, and started dancing around him, slowly herding him into the kitchen, into the positive energy there. Excited by the turn of events, Dick eagerly starts teasing Bruce and showing him some sample moves he could “borrow if he didn’t have any”. And wasn’t that embarrassing? He’s Bruce Wayne, of course he knew how to dance.
Even Alfred arched a brow, lips twitching. “Master Wayne. It wouldn’t kill you.”
“Couldn’t possibly deny you, Alfred.” Bruce said smoothly before rolling his sleeves.
“We both know that’s not true at all, Master Wayne.” Alfred calmly replied, pulling Dick to the side with him as Bruce approached you.
You tilted your head with a small smile, and it made him pause slightly to admire you. Even in the morning, with your slight bed head and pajamas that are well-loved, you were a sight to behold. He extended his hand towards you, waiting for you to place your hand in his, before leading you through a waltz. Yes, Bruce Wayne knew how to dance, just not the dancing you or Dick expected this morning. A loud, joyous laugh ripped from you while Bruce led you through a turn, his eyes lighter than you’ve seen from him in a while.
Dick whooped. Alfred allowed himself the smallest chuckle. For one fleeting second, the walls of Wayne Manor held something softer than duty and shadow.
That was the morning the sleepover breakfast ritual began.
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It wasn’t long before the table grew larger.
Conner was one of the first additions. In those early, uncertain days, Lois Lane wasn’t ready to meet the boy who carried half of Clark’s DNA, and Clark himself… he was still learning what it meant to be responsible for someone who looked at him like a father. It was you who stepped forward again, without hesitation.
Conner joined the sleepovers as if it were the most natural thing in the world. A little rough around the edges, unsure of where he fit, but you saw the goodness in him immediately. You paired him with Dick, nudging them into friendship until they found their own rhythm, trading secrets about capes and fathers over late-night snacks in the Manor kitchen.
Sometimes those breakfasts included Bruce, still in the corner pretending he wasn’t watching, and sometimes Clark, who would arrive bleary-eyed from Metropolis with his cape shoved hastily under a jacket. He always looked a little disheveled, tie half-done, hair mussed by wind instead of gel, and once, memorably, with powdered sugar stuck to his sleeve because he’d grabbed donuts in a rush.
You’d laughed so hard you nearly dropped the spatula. “God, you look like a dad who overslept carpool duty.”
Clark froze for a beat, then laughed too, the sound soft and sheepish. “You’re not wrong. I’m still… figuring this whole thing out.” His gaze drifted to Conner at the table, head bent as Dick showed him how to draw a smiley face in pancake batter. Something uncertain flickered in Clark’s expression — guilt, wonder, fear, love, all tangled together.
You nudged him lightly with your elbow as you flipped a pancake. “That’s all anyone’s doing, Clark. Figuring it out as we go.”
His shoulders eased a little at that, the weight lifting if only for a moment. He reached out, ruffling Conner’s hair, and the boy wrinkled his nose but didn’t pull away.
“See?” you teased, sliding another pancake onto the stack. “You’ve already got the embarrassing dad move down. Give it a year, and you’ll be threatening to wear socks with sandals.”
Clark rolled his eyes, chuckling as he pulled up a chair. “Lois would never let me live it down.” Then, quieter, almost to himself: “But… thank you. For doing this. For giving him… something normal.”
You met his gaze across the counter, spatula in hand. “He’s not the only one who needs normal, Clark.”
And for just a second, it wasn’t Clark but Superman who looked at you like you were holding up the sky for him.
For a time, the mornings belonged to all of you: pancakes, off-key singing, two boys finding their place together, Bruce lurking in the corner until you dragged him into the dance, Clark slowly learning what it meant to be more than just a symbol.
And you. Always you, steady at the stove, making sure they were fed and laughing and cared for.
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Not every memory was bright.
Jason came next, loud and brash and secretly the one who craved the sleepovers the most. He swaggered into the Manor like he owned the place, quick to mouth off and quicker to fight for his spot at the table. He claimed he was too cool for karaoke but always stole the microphone halfway through and belted the loudest, voice cracking but proud.
Dick and Conner never let the age gap keep them apart from him. If they were heading out for pizza or training in the yard, Jason was right there with them. They slowed their pace when he tried to keep up, pulled him into their circle with a brotherly arm around his neck, and made sure he knew he belonged. Sometimes it was chaotic, three boys bouncing off the walls, but it was good chaos — the kind the Manor had needed for years.
And Jason loved routines. Especially the ones that were just between the two of you. Saturday mornings, when the others were busy, you’d drive him to the library. He’d wander the aisles for hours, losing himself between shelves, asking you a million questions about every cover that caught his eye. Afterward, you’d stop by the used bookstore downtown, and you made it a point — every single time — to buy him whichever book he wanted. No conditions, no questions. His eyes would light up, and he’d hold it like treasure all the way home.
Those were your moments. Jason and you, arms full of paperbacks, laughing as you both tried to juggle too many books and cups of coffee. It was a small tradition, but it was yours. And he always, always, hugged you before racing upstairs to show Alfred his newest find.
You adored him. You adored them all.
And then he was gone.
The night Jason died shattered you in ways you didn’t think possible. You held Dick as he sobbed and raged, you held Conner as he tried to process death in a way no one should have had to. You held yourself together just enough to be strong for them. But when the nights stretched too long, when the bed stayed empty, grief turned sharp and ugly inside you.
You became reckless in the field. Violent. Too violent. You went for the kill more than once, your fury a wildfire you couldn’t always leash. The League benched you after one close call — after Martian Manhunter caught the intent in your mind, caught the image of you driving your weapon into Joker’s chest. He told Bruce. He told Clark. And you never forgave him for it.
You and Bruce clashed constantly during those months. He needed someone steady, someone who could share his silence — but you couldn’t sit still in grief the way he could. You wanted blood. You wanted justice that would never come. Sometimes you thought you hated him for being able to pull back when you couldn’t. Sometimes you thought you hated yourself more.
The only thing that anchored you was your weekly visits to Jason’s grave. You’d bring fresh flowers, sweep away the leaves, and read a new poem each week like he was sitting there listening. It was routine, ritual. A way of keeping him close when the world felt so hollow. That’s where he found you.
The night Jason returned to Gotham, older and angrier and wearing scars you didn’t understand yet, he went to his grave first. And there you were, kneeling in the dirt, brushing soil from the headstone with gentle hands. When you turned and saw him standing there, your knees nearly gave out.
“Jay?” Your voice cracked, fragile as glass.
He didn’t let you touch him, not then. He wasn’t ready. He wasn’t sure if he ever could be. But you knew him well enough to see what was left unspoken: he had come back, and he had come to you first.
It was hard after that. He wanted nothing to do with the Manor, especially when he saw Tim wearing his costume, his mantle. He spat venom and pain in every direction, and you caught most of it without flinching. You didn’t push, but you didn’t let go either.
It took time. Months. But eventually, he came back to one of the sleepovers. He hovered in the kitchen doorway, arms folded, pretending he didn’t care about the smell of pancakes or the sound of music drifting from the radio. Dick raised an eyebrow, Conner waved him in, Tim froze, and you… you simply handed him the microphone.
Jason scowled, muttered a curse under his breath — and sang anyway. Loud. Angry. Alive.
You cried quietly into the spatula you pretended was your mic.
And just like that, the tradition lived again.
Through every change, every new child, every heartbreak and return, the tradition lived on. The tradition kept evolving, the kitchen table growing fuller as the years went by.
Tim arrived while Jason was gone, sharp-eyed and shy, carrying the weight of knowing too much and trusting too little. You caught him lingering in doorways, hovering like he wasn’t sure if he belonged, until one morning you pressed a whisk into his hand and told him to beat the eggs. He did it silently, but you caught the ghost of a smile when the radio kicked on and Dick dragged him into an off-key duet. By the end of the week, Tim had stopped lingering and started sitting at the table.
Then came Cass. She didn’t need words to tell you how much the tradition mattered. She just slipped into the kitchen one morning, silent as shadow, stole the spatula from your hand, and twirled in place. You laughed, joining her, and she smiled — bright, unguarded, rare. From then on, she danced every chance she got, the radio her favorite language.
Jon arrived like a storm that broke the world.
Lois had died in childbirth, and Clark unraveled. He was a man who could move mountains, stop aliens, hold the Earth itself in orbit… but he couldn’t save her. For weeks, he drifted, hollow-eyed and guilty, clutching the baby like he was made of glass. He didn’t know how to keep going. It was then that the three of you became something more than teammates.
Bruce opened the Manor without hesitation. You moved into the guest wing, with Clark and Jon in the room next door. Suddenly, the vast, quiet house was alive with the sounds of an infant's cries at 3 a.m., soft lullabies, and little fists pounding against anyone who held him too tightly.
Alfred adapted instantly, setting bottles beside his tea service. It reminded him of days long past of doing the same for a younger Bruce, and it brought him much joy to see Bruce be able to experience some of the same joy.
The three of you found a rhythm so quickly it felt preordained. You took the late-night feedings, humming along with the radio as Jon curled against your chest, soothed more by your heartbeat than anything else. Clark would stumble in a few hours later, bleary-eyed, sheepish, offering to take over. Half the time, he fell asleep in the rocking chair with Jon sprawled across his chest, cape draped over both of them like a blanket.
Bruce claimed he wasn’t good with babies — “I don’t do small talk, let alone small children” — but Jon had other plans. By six months old, Jon would gurgle and reach for him the moment Bruce entered the room. You’d find them in the study sometimes, Bruce working at his desk with Jon in his lap, little hands tugging at his tie while Bruce signed League reports one-handed.
And when Clark’s grief threatened to consume him, it was you and Bruce who steadied him. Bruce gave Clark structure. “Routine,” he said flatly, and forced Clark into it. Early runs at dawn, sparring sessions in the cave, and scheduled check-ins with Alfred. It anchored Clark when he might have otherwise drifted away entirely.
You gave Clark grace. You told him it was okay when he cried. That grief wasn’t weakness. That Lois would have wanted him to keep going, not drown in guilt. You slipped photos into his hands, reminded him of Jon’s smile when he doubted himself, and pressed warm coffee into his palms when words weren’t enough.
Together, the three of you carried each other. And the kids carried you, too.
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Whenever missions took Bruce or Clark away, Dick, Jason, or Tim would step up. You’d walk into the kitchen to find Dick or Conner trying to feed Jon from a bottle while Alfred supervised like a hawk. Jason would read him stories in dramatic voices, turning Goodnight Moon into a Broadway performance. Tim was the calmest of the bunch, cradling Jon against his hoodie while researching League files with one hand. Even Cass — silent, graceful Cass — would sit on the floor, letting Jon tug her hair without complaint.
It wasn’t perfect, but it was seamless. Every revolving door of Wayne Manor only added more hands to hold the baby, more laughter to soften the nights. For a while, you didn’t just survive grief — you lived through it, together.
There were nights Clark would look at you and Bruce, Jon asleep in his arms, and whisper, “I don’t know what I’d do without you both.”
And you believed him. Because back then, you weren’t just teammates. You were family.
Jon was four in the summer Alfred finally bullied you into taking a holiday. “You’ll blink and he’ll be grown,” he’d said, packing enough sandwiches for an army.
So you went. A day at the beach: Bruce chasing Jon down the shoreline, his sleeves rolled up, sand clinging to his calves; you laughing as you splashed after them, scooping Jon into your arms as he shrieked with delight. Clark stood back with a camera, trying to capture everything at once, grinning so wide it softened even the grief that still haunted the corners of his eyes.
By the time the sun dipped low, Jon was worn out, asleep before his head even settled on Bruce’s chest. The three of you stretched out on the blanket, the ocean hissing against the sand, the world held still.
Bruce sat to your right, a steady weight against your shoulder. Clark lay on your left, arm stretched behind you, his fingers brushing yours in the sand. Jon’s tiny fists curled into Bruce’s shirt, anchoring you all together. It was perfect. Too perfect.
You turned your head, found Bruce already watching you, his eyes darker than the dusk around you. He didn’t look away.
Clark’s thumb began tracing soft circles over your knuckles. Slow, deliberate, tender. His gaze shifted from Jon to you, lingering, heat simmering low in his chest.
Your heart raced. The air was heavy, humming with something you’d all been dancing around for years.
Bruce’s hand slid down, brushing against yours from the other side. Two points of contact, two anchors pinning you in place — Clark warm and open, Bruce steady and intense.
No one spoke, but everything was said in the silence. Clark finally broke it, voice low, husky with something that wasn’t grief anymore: “We don’t have to keep pretending… that this isn’t what it feels like.”
Your lips parted. You wanted to say yes. You wanted to tell them both you’d been theirs for years. Bruce’s eyes softened, his hand tightening slightly on yours, a silent agreement that he felt it too.
And then the comms went off.
First Bruce’s, then Clark’s. A League emergency.
The sound shattered the moment like glass. Clark cursed under his breath — rare, raw. Bruce’s jaw clenched, the mask of Batman sliding back over his features. You tried to smile, tried to pretend it didn’t ache, but the weight in your chest was crushing.
They stood, brushing sand from their clothes, already slipping into soldier mode. Clark pressed a kiss to Jon’s forehead, lingering a second too long, and Bruce tucked the boy gently into your arms before straightening to his full height. Neither man looked back as they focused on the mission.
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They came back different. Not obvious. Subtle. They stood closer. Their words overlapped like a practiced duet. When Clark laughed, it was often at something only Bruce had said. When Bruce allowed himself to soften, it was often when Clark was at his side.
It didn’t take long for you to piece it together. Maybe you wouldn’t have been able to if not for all the time spent in each other’s company. You knew them too well and could see the truth hidden within their body language. They had each other.
And if they had each other, why would they ever need you?
The loneliness crept in like a tide. You smiled at them, smiled at Jon, kept the breakfast and sleepovers alive — but you began to pull back. Not because you stopped caring, but because it was the only way to protect your heart. Buried your feelings under duty and routines. They noticed, of course. They misread it, assumed you weren’t interested, and let you slip further from the space you’d once shared.
The next outer space mission, you volunteered. You needed time. Time to heal. Time to grieve what could have been.
When you returned months later, you didn’t go home to Wayne Manor. You went to a small, modest apartment in Metropolis. Modest on the outside, anyway. Magic had its perks — you expanded the space to fit what you needed. A proper kitchen for the kids’ sleepovers, bookshelves for Jason, extra beds tucked away for whichever Robin or Super wandered through on any given night.
Because the kids still needed you. And you would always be there for them.
The first night back, you slipped into the Manor while Bruce and Clark were out at dinner. Alfred knew — of course, he knew — and didn’t stop you. He only gave you that soft, sympathetic look as you moved through the halls, quietly packing the things you’d left behind.
It didn’t take long. Magic made sure of that. Books floated from shelves into boxes, clothes folded themselves, framed photos wrapped in protective charm paper. By the time the boom tube hummed with the men’s return, you were gone, your room empty save for the lingering warmth of what once was.
The Manor was quiet when Bruce and Clark returned that night, their dinner still lingering as small talk in their heads. Jon was already asleep, tucked in by Alfred, who waited for them at the foot of the stairs with a single sentence that froze the blood in their veins:
“She’s gone.”
Clark was the first to move. He stormed down the hall to your room, Bruce close behind. The door opened to stillness, to shelves stripped bare, drawers empty, walls missing the small touches of you that had made them warmer. The air smelled faintly of your magic — lavender and smoke — the last traces of you fading into nothing.
Clark’s voice cracked as he gripped the doorframe. “She came back… and we missed her. We missed her, Bruce.” His fists clenched at his sides, eyes wild with guilt. “We’ve gotta go get her. Right now. We’ll explain. We’ll fix this—”
Bruce’s hand landed heavy on his shoulder, grounding him. “Clark.”
“She thinks we don’t want her. She thinks—”
“I know.” Bruce’s voice was low, even, but softer than Clark expected. He turned toward the empty room, jaw tight, eyes shadowed. “But if she made this choice… we can’t force her back. If we push too hard, we’ll lose her completely.”
Clark’s breath hitched, the weight of it settling like lead in his chest. “But she belongs with us.”
“She belongs in our lives,” Bruce corrected gently. “One way or another. It’s better to have her in some capacity than not at all.”
Clark’s shoulders slumped, the fight draining out of him. He leaned against the doorframe, staring at the space where your books used to be. “That month she was gone… it was hell. I never realized how much I needed her. How much I—” He broke off, voice rough. “She makes everything turn, Bruce. She makes the world make sense.”
Bruce didn’t answer right away. His gaze lingered on the bare shelves, the hollow quiet of the room. For once, the walls of Wayne Manor felt too large, too empty. “I know,” he said finally. “She makes my earth turn, too.”
They stood there in silence, two men who could fight gods but couldn’t fight the absence you’d left behind.
And in your modest Metropolis apartment — stretched wide by magic, humming with laughter from the kids who refused to let go of you — you told yourself you were healing. It was better this way, you told yourself. They needed space to grow together. And you needed to remember how to stand on your own feet again.
Even if a part of you still ached for the life you almost had. The loneliness followed you into your new apartment. Into the quiet nights when Jon asked if you’d still sing him to sleep. Into the mornings when you woke, reaching for a hand that wasn’t there.
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The sleepovers and breakfasts never stopped. They just moved. The kitchen was slighter, the ceilings lower, but the laughter was the same. Pancakes tasted just as sweet when eaten in a cramped apartment. The kids still sang, still fought over who got to flip the next batch. The tradition lived on.
But the trio? The three of you? That had been left at the beach, half-buried in the sand, drowned out by the sound of a League comm.
But you never left the kids. You never could.
Especially when Damian arrived, he wasn’t a result of violence, no matter what the uglier rumors whispered. He was a weapon born in a lab, Bruce’s worst nightmare made flesh — his DNA spliced with Talia’s, an attempt to craft the perfect heir. Damian entered the Manor fierce, arrogant, and prickly with mistrust. A boy engineered for war but given a family instead.
Damian entered the tradition like a cat into water: claws out, hissing, refusing to admit he wanted in. He sneered at the karaoke, insulted the pancakes, folded his arms at the table, and declared he didn’t need any of it.
And yet, you made him a plate anyway, slid it in front of him without comment. You corrected his posture when he chopped vegetables, guided his hands when he learned how to whisk. You told him stories about Jason and Dick, about how Conner used to sulk through sleepovers until he realized the fun in them. You let Jon drag him into the chaos, refusing to give him the luxury of staying on the sidelines.
It took time. Months. But the first time he sang under his breath, soft and unwilling but audible, you pretended not to notice. Jon noticed. Jon whooped, dragged him to the center of the kitchen, and you caught the tiniest flicker of a smile from Damian before he masked it with another scowl.
From then on, he was yours too.
Your relationship with Bruce and Clark shifted in those years, too. The wound of the beach and the space between you never fully healed — but it scabbed.
Bruce was patient, quieter with you. Clark was soft, gentle, careful not to push. They never stopped loving you. If anything, their love only deepened, year after year, as they watched you guide their children with a steadiness neither of them could muster. As they watched you throw birthday parties, show up at recitals, and even parent-teacher meetings when you could.
They never forgot how it had felt on that blanket. How close they’d come to making it real. The warmth of your bodies close together, the heat within each look. The want never left — it lingered in every look, every brush of fingers, every moment you laughed too hard at something one of them said.
At first, you couldn’t bear to stay. After dropping off one of the kids, you’d leave the Manor immediately, unable to linger in halls that echoed with memories of what almost was. Bruce and Clark never stopped you, though the way their eyes followed you to the door was its own kind of ache.
But when Damian arrived, something shifted. He was young, sharp-edged, in desperate need of patience, and you couldn’t just drop him off and walk away. So you stayed. At first, it was only for tea — a cup in Alfred’s study before heading home. Then it was breakfast, Damian stiff-backed in his chair until Jon made him snort orange juice out of his nose.
A year later, you found yourself staying for entire afternoons. Letting Jon drag you out into the garden, while Bruce lingered nearby under the guise of trimming roses. Sitting cross-legged on the floor, helping Damian with homework, while Clark “happened” to return early from Metropolis, setting his jacket neatly on the couch before joining you both.
And little by little, the walls you’d built began to crack.
You started laughing at their jokes again — Clark’s terrible puns that had Jon in stitches, Bruce’s dry one-liners that made Jason wheeze. You let Clark’s hand brush your shoulder when he leaned over you, and you didn’t flinch when Bruce’s palm steadied you by the elbow. Once, Clark smoothed an errant curl from your cheek, thumb lingering a moment longer than it should have. Once, Bruce’s hand brushed yours over a coffee mug, and you didn’t pull away, but gifted him a smile.
It wasn’t everything. But it was something. And that something was enough to remind you how dangerous hope could be.
Bruce and Clark noticed. They talked about it — often, quietly, usually on the Watchtower between missions.
“Now might be the time,” Clark murmured once, watching you from across the hangar as you comforted Cass after a brutal debrief. “She’s letting us in again.”
Bruce only hummed, low, but didn’t disagree. “We go slow. She has to trust this isn’t temporary. We can’t let her down again.”
They began to plan — nothing elaborate, nothing rushed. Just… chances. Dinners, quiet moments, gentle confessions, waiting for the right time.
So, of course, when they thought they had a handle on things, everything gets flipped around.
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The knock at your apartment door was insistent, a chorus of voices arguing outside.
You pulled it open to find them all there: Dick at the front with a bright grin, Jason juggling takeout bags, Tim holding a stack of board games, Cass tucked in quietly behind them, Conner hovering like he’d been dragged along, Jon beaming, and Damian scowling like someone owed him money.
“Surprise!” Dick announced, holding up soda bottles like a prize. “Sleepover night!”
You blinked, stunned — then laughed, ushering them in one by one, kissing Jon’s temple, hugging Cass tight, ruffling Tim’s hair, letting Jason nearly knock you over with a bear hug. “All of you? At once? My poor neighbors.”
Jason smirked. “Please, you love it.” The kids were scattered around your apartment, settling in for the night. Some were setting up the living room, while others were organizing the food. Looking around, it made your heart happy and full to have all the kids here with you. It’s been months since you’ve been able to hang out with them outside of League business.
You understood, they were young, growing into the heroes they want to be, and having fun while being young. But the loneliness crept back again, the same that lingered after Bruce and Clark. You decided it was time to put your big girl panties on and date outside the hero world, just in case you had better luck. And it’s been going great, a little over a month since you started seeing Jackson, and tonight was another hopefully successful date. Now, to break the news to your overprotective kids.
“I do, and of course you’re always welcome,” you admitted, smiling. “But… kids, I actually have plans tonight.”
That stopped them in their tracks. Like deer in headlights, they all turn their heads to look at you. Jon’s brows furrowed. “Plans? Like… with people?”
“Like… with a date? You’re dressed nicer than usual.” Dick guessed, eyes narrowing.
You hesitated — and that was all the confirmation they needed.
“A date?!” Jon blurted, jaw dropping. “You can date?!”
Jason smacked him upside the head. “Of course she can date, idiot.”
Tim groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. “How are you surprised by this?”
Conner crossed his arms, suspicious. “Who is he? Do we know him?”
Cass said nothing, just watched you with sharp eyes and a knowing smile.
You chuckled, shaking your head as you slipped into your bedroom to keep getting ready. “I don’t owe you an interrogation, detectives. When it's time, I'll introduce you all.”
That didn’t stop them from trailing after you, peppering you with questions while you pulled on earrings and fixed your lipstick.
Jason leaned against the doorframe. “Is he taller than me?”
“Yes.”
“Does he make more money than Bruce?”
“No one makes more money than Bruce.”
Jon frowned. “Does he have powers?”
“That’s none of your business, sweetheart.”
Tim sighed. “Where did you meet him?”
“Out,” you said vaguely, slipping your feet into heels. “Now — black jacket or red?”
They all paused. “Black,” Dick and Cass said at the same time.
“Red,” Jason argued immediately.
“Black is more mysterious,” Tim muttered.
“Red shows power,” Damian countered.
You laughed, trying on both, twirling for them like it was a runway show. They shouted over one another until finally you picked the black, smoothing it over your dress as you moved toward the door.
That was when Jason spotted the small overnight bag tucked beside it.
His eyes went wide. “Wait a damn minute— is that an overnight bag?”
Chaos.
“You’re staying the night at his?!” Conner shouted, horrified.
“You cannot be serious,” Damian hissed.
Dick threw his hands up. “We’ve lost her!”
Jon looked like you’d just told him Santa wasn’t real, which is slightly alarming since you had the conversation with him last year when Damian told him so. Maybe you’ll have to have the conversation with him again. Maybe have Clark take him to the North Pole to show him how he’s not there.
You raised your hands, firm but gentle. “Enough. I love you all, you know that. But I am an adult, and I am allowed to have my own life.”
“But—” Jon started.
“No buts. I’ll be back in the morning, and we’ll have pancakes together. Just like always.”
They quieted at that, grumbling but placated. Jason muttered something under his breath about “being replaced by some guy,” but you kissed his cheek and handed Cass the spare key.
“Be good,” you warned as you grabbed your bag. “Don’t burn the place down.”
They chorused their goodbyes as you slipped out, waving. But the second the door shut, they bolted to the window, watching you climb into a sleek car none of them recognized.
The silence was heavy until Damian sniffed disdainfully. “Disrespectful. What kind of gentleman doesn’t open his date’s door?”
That earned a round of muttered agreements as they slumped back inside, half-heartedly unpacking food and setting up Mario Kart on the TV.
Normally, sleepover Mario Kart was a blood sport. Tonight, the game sputtered — no one yelling, no one throwing controllers, everyone oddly subdued.
Finally, Tim broke. “So we’re just… not gonna acknowledge that we all thought she’d end up with Dad and Clark anyway?”
The silence cracked like glass.
Jason threw his controller. “Thank you! Exactly!”
Conner groaned. “Oh my god, finally someone said it.”
Jon looked around frantically. “Wait— wait— is that allowed?”
Dick buried his face in his hands. “Unbelievable. We’re having this conversation now?”
Voices rose, overlapping, chaos spiraling again until Cass quietly stood, walked to the bookshelf, and pulled down the glittery, bedazzled tube that you had made years ago. She held up the Sparkle Talking Stick.
It was needed when you had so many... passionate loved ones in your life. So, for a bit more order and maybe 1% less chaos than normal, you created the Sparkle Talking Stick that each kid signed as an agreement to listen when someone held it.
Immediately, everyone shut up.
Cass placed it on the table. Jason reached for it first, glaring at the others. “She’s obviously happier when she’s with them. She should just say it.”
Conner took the stick next. “Then why the hell is she sneaking out on overnight dates with randos?”
Dick grabbed it after. “Because maybe she thinks they don’t want her anymore! And whose fault is that?”
The Sparkle Stick made its way around, each kid venting in turn, until Damian finally snatched it, glowering. “Enough. The conclusion is obvious: Father and Kent are cowards. Their attempts at wooing are laughable. If they had done their jobs properly, she wouldn’t be entertaining other men.”
He pulled out his phone without hesitation. “Father,” Damian said crisply when Bruce answered. “Due to your and Kent’s lukewarm efforts, she is now pursuing other men. Do with this information what you will. Goodbye.”
He hung up before anyone could stop him.
The kids stared at one another for a couple of minutes.
Jason leaned back, smirking. “Well. Guess we’ll see what they do about it.”
Or: The one where they misunderstand what the positive test is for.
Includes: Dick Grayson, Jason Todd, Wally West, Bruce Wayne, Clark Kent and John Constantine
Warnings: Reader is implied to be able to get pregnant, however I'm all for them being dumb enough to think they've managed even if it's not possible so you decide lol <3 Beside that, no real warnings, mostly fluffy and humorous.
Morph's thoughts: Hii everyone, this is my first dc comics fic AND first text!au fic ever :) I'm still trying to find everyone's "texting voices" and doing a bit of a trial and error with the formating of the screen shots, so if you have any feedback it's more than welcome!!
Please can an I ask for A3 + B4 for Enola!Sherlock Holmes? Thank you!
Summary: Enola has had a hunch of her brother having a crush on his assistant, and she just might be right.
Prompt: A3. “Be quiet, they’ll hear us!” + B4. “I might be having feelings for you, I’ve had them for a while.” “Yeah right.” “I’m serious.” (I modified B4 a little to fit better)
SECRETS AND CONFESSIONS
Ever since you became Sherlock Holmes’s assistant, there had been a certain spark between you two. But you knew Sherlock, he had nearly advertised how he’s not one to have romantic relationships — that his work would make his partners be in danger anyway.
So you decided not to confront him. Ignore the smiles, the graze of your hands, the looks you thought he gave you. You tried to convince yourself the smiles and looks were an illusion, maybe a trick of light. Or then your hopeless romantic heart just imagined him softening up in a way you dreamed him to think about you.
But what you didn’t know, was that Enola had noticed the spark between you too. And she had embraced her nosy Holmes nature and kept a look out for you, peeking through the crack of the door, listening through the wall, sometimes even tricking you in a situation where you’d be close.
She had decided his brother needed a little love in his life, and she’d do everything she could to make that happen. Which was how Enola and Tewkesbury found themselves crouched behind the half-open door to the drawing room, trying to peer inside without being too obvious.
You were arranging the files, while Sherlock stood across from you, inspecting the papers you were yet to organise. You had both been quiet for a long while, which made Enola smirk.
"Something's about to happen," Enola whispered.
Tewkesbury leaned closer to her. "How can you possibly know that—"
"Be quiet, they'll hear us!"
Sherlock had turned to look out of the window by the time Enola turned her eyes back to him, his hands clasped behind his back as he watched some birds flying past the window with grass and pieces of cloth in their beaks — a nest was being built nearby.
"There's something I've been meaning to tell you," he then said.
You glanced up at him. "If it's about the files about Mr. Bradshaw, I heard there’s been a shift in the investigation, I’ve already reorganised them so you can continue from where you left it."
"It isn't about the files." He turned, walking over to you. He seemed to struggle with his words for a second, but then, “I… I believe I have feelings for you.”
You blinked, your eyes widening slightly. “…What?”
He nodded. “I’ve had them for a while.”
You stared at him a moment longer, before scoffing. “Very funny, Mr. Holmes.”
He sighed. “I’m not trying to be funny. I’m very serious about my feelings.”
“Mr. Holmes—”
He interrupted you. "I'm aware of what I said. Or what I've implied, over the years. I'm aware it probably reads as contradiction."
You swallowed. “You said romantic relationships would be a danger to whoever you’d care about.”
He nodded, looking at your hands for a moment before carefully taking them to his. “They still are. I haven’t worked that part out yet.”
Enola was grinning now. “I knew it,” she whispered to Tewkesbury.
Sherlock sighed, turning his face towards the door slightly. "Enola. I know you're there."
A beat of silence, before two pairs of brisk steps scrambled away from the door. You grinned, looking down for a moment.
“Now, where were we?” Sherlock asked, smiling softly at you.
You laughed. “I believe you were announcing your love for me, Mr. Holmes.”
His smile widened into a grin, something you had never before seen him do — and that was when you truly knew your relationship would turn into a beautiful one.
---
Tags: ask to be added to this character's taglist!
Requests for Enola Holmes are open until 8th of July 2026. If you wish to request, please read my rules first. Requests are NOT open for any other fandoms, only Enola Holmes.
There had been a period in Sherlock Holmes’s life , one he would later deny with impressive vehemence—when he was insufferably bored.
A great detective’s mind required challenge, resistance, friction. Yet sometimes a case was dull beyond redemption. Too mundane. Too obvious. Something any man with half a brain could unravel.
Or so he thought.
The case itself was laughably simple: an old dowager’s absurdly expensive necklace ‘allegedly’ purchased from some obscure European royal family had gone missing. Sherlock solved it in under ten minutes. He strode into the house, surveyed the scene, and immediately singled out the maid.
The signs were all there. Shifty eyes. Nervous hands. An inability to remain still. Add to that the letter of resignation she had handed to the head maid several days prior. No woman of her station would abandon such a comfortable post without a safety net unless she had secured one. Dubious origins aside the necklace was definitely worth a pretty penny.
A search of her belongings yielded the necklace almost immediately.
The maid collapsed into tears, sobbing and pleading, insisting it was not hers. The dowager, scandalized and humiliated, barely listened. Sherlock, satisfied, took his leave the moment the accusation was formalized.
When the dowager insisted he attend her gathering that evening as thanks, Sherlock nearly refused until Mycroft insisted he be present. Given that the case had bored him senseless anyway, he relented.
The gathering was, predictably, mind-numbing.
Mycroft had quite literally threatened him—thinly veiled, of course—should Sherlock embarrass him in front of guests whose opinions carried political weight. So Sherlock behaved. He drank minimally, spoke less, and endured.
Until he noticed you.
You were seated in a corner with your friends, laughter slipping past your lips—unrestrained, genuine. At first glance, he dismissed you as yet another debutante. Beautiful, yes. Exceptionally so. But young, sheltered, unlikely to offer conversation of substance.
Then his name reached your lips.
His attention sharpened instantly.
“I can’t believe that moronic man thought Loretta would steal,” you said with a frustrated huff. “If I hadn’t convinced Aunt Agatha of her innocence, she’d probably be jailed—or worse.”
One of your friends tilted her head. “But wasn’t the necklace found with her belongings?”
You scoffed. “Which was obviously planted. Even if Loretta wished to steal, she wouldn’t leave something that valuable sitting right on top of her clothes. Honestly, they call him the greatest detective of all time, yet he can’t consider something so basic.”
Sherlock frowned.
It was true—the necklace had been found with alarming ease. Almost as though it had been meant to be discovered.
He cleared his throat.
You turned, and for a brief, unsettling moment, Sherlock forgot how to breathe.
Up close, you were devastating. Not merely beautiful, but there was something about those commanding eyes sharp with intelligence, posture rigid with confidence. He coughed, attempting to recover some dignity.
Mycroft’s rules echoed in his mind. Do not linger. Do not isolate. If you must speak—ask her to dance.
“Would you like to dance, miss?”
You stared. So did your friend.
“And who,” you asked coolly, “might you be?”
The challenge in your gaze was unmistakable. You knew he had been listening. You were daring him to admit it.
“Well,” he said lightly, “on some nights I am a moron. On others, the greatest detective of our age. Tonight, I suppose I am whatever you believe me to be.”
“So you are Mr Holmes,” you said flatly.
The indifference caught him off guard.
“Yes—though my brother also answers to that, which complicates matters. You may call me Sherlock.”
“I think Mr Holmes will suffice. I can tell the difference quite easily.”
You turned away.
Interesting.
“Out of curiosity,” he said, matching your cool tone, “is it your nature to slander good men while defending thieves?”
“Loretta is not a thief,” you snapped. “You slandered her. Men like you—arrogant, certain, careless—are precisely why women suffer in this ridiculous society.”
Your anger was… intoxicating.
“I’ve never considered myself arrogant,” he replied evenly. “And perhaps I wish to know you. Hence the dance.”
Whispers had begun. Reluctantly, you took his hand.
“You’re stiff,” he murmured as they moved. “Loosen up, or people will think I’m holding you hostage.”
“I don’t dance with people I dislike so perhaps you are holding me hostage.”
“Yet here you are.”
“You have strong opinions about strangers.”
“And you,” he countered, “have strong opinions about me and about this case quite clearly”
“The necklace could have been planted,” you insisted.
“Even if you consider that as a possibility , she resigned,” he replied. “She planned to flee.”
“If you’d bothered to look deeper, you’d know her father is ill. She was returning home to care for him. She’s all he has.”
Sherlock hesitated.
“You’re close to her.”
“She took care of me when I lived with my aunt,” you said quietly. “She’s family.”
He studied your face , your sincerity, your resolve.
“Well then,” he said slowly, “if you’re so certain of her innocence… perhaps you know who truly took it.”
You looked away distant for a second.
“My aunt’s eldest son,” you said. “Gamblers’ debts. He knew suspicion would never fall on him. And he knew you would move too quickly to question a maid
”You didn’t hear it from me , I won’t be seen as the woman who brought her family shame , I’ve simply given you a hint. I’m sure a man of your status can find the evidence he needs“
Sherlock stopped dancing for just a second , you accidently stepped on his foot due to the suddenness of it.
“You know,” he said, eyes alight, “this evening has become significantly more interesting.”
“And Loretta?”
“I will personally see her cleared if what you just told me is true.”
You relaxed a bit as he led you into a slow waltz.
“Thank you… Sherlock.”
“Just out of curiosity , how did you figure it out?”
“My aunt , quite a lovely woman but a bit on the cheap side. She never gave my cousin an allowance yet six months ago he started wearing the most expensive clothes and frequenting gambling dens. At the same time a lot of the artifacts my aunt has collected and adorned her home with started disappearing.”
“She never noticed?”
“She is old and there is not much that interests her currently other than finding a suitable match for me and well my cousin of course”
“I see , how did you know he was frequenting gambling dens?”
“People talk , You just have to listen”
“Surely high society does not gossip so openly?” He said with a raised eyebrow.
“You’d be surprised how much people are willing to say when they do not think anyone of significance is listening. Sometimes the pride of a man is what makes him blind” You say with a cocky smile.
“I suppose it will not be appropriate for me to ask for a third dance?” He said cheekily
“Not unless you wish to marry me , no” You said with a smile.
“What if I were contemplating it?” He said and for once you couldn’t tell if the man was joking or utterly serious.
“I think my aunt might have a heart attack if I marry anything less than a baron but perhaps a detective might make the cut”
“I think she rather prefers my brother” Sherlock joked
“Well perhaps ask your brother if he is interested in her , they might make a fine match with the way they like meddling in society” Sherlock laughed at that.
“Have a goodnight , Mr Holmes” You say as you walk away at the end of the dance.
Sherlock walks away that day in a surprisingly good mood which is quite alarming for Mycroft. His brother making it through an event without grumbling about the uselessness of high society and it’s overly formal etiquette was almost unheard of and today not only was he not complaining , He was actually smiling. By god what had they mixed in that wine.
Over the next few months it became a bit clearer to Mycroft. His brother suddenly eager to attend social events. Always starting and ending the events by dancing with the same young girl from the dowager’s family. The way he laughed with her. He’d thought it over. Thought it disastrous to condemn some girl to life with the oddity that was his brother but the girl was a spitfire if the dowager was to be believed. An oddity in her own right. Well if they were well suited for each other then who was he to interfere? She was from a good family and if she could tame that brat of a brother he had. He’d happily welcome her.
Everything else aside. This was certainly an interesting piece of leverage against his brother.
Author's Note - Hey dudes , this is my first fanfic in a while. I hope you like it. I write for several fandoms if you're interested then my asks are open. Going through a severe case of writer's block so any and all requests are welcome. The fandoms I write for are available in the pinned post on my profile.
Summary: You can't quite understand Mycroft's newfound hostility toward you.
Warnings: Mycroft being a misogynistic prick.
Word count: 1,941
Author's note: I fear this is more about Mycroft than Sherlock... but, oh well. Also, props to anyone who can find the slight hunger games reference
Masterlist
When Sherlock suggested courtship, you hesitated. You weren’t sure why—you absolutely adored him and had thought of being courted by him before—but something didn’t sit right. You accepted despite that, assuring yourself it was silly nervousness. The feeling disappeared during those first few weeks of courting.
That is, until Sherlock and you were invited out by Mycroft. At the restaurant, things were cordial so long as Mycroft was engaged by the various patrons he intentionally associated himself with for their social connections.
Then the entrée arrived, and things became tense.
“I don’t expect you to understand the nuances of politics,” Mycroft said to you, dabbing politely at his mouth and mustache, “as anyone in your standing ought to be more concerned about the household. However, I do believe even your opinion is valid on the subject of these upstart ‘women’s rights’ proponents.”
You stared at him, unsure you had heard correctly. He had never insulted you before—and never so directly. Sherlock exchanged a glance with you as you fought to find words. “I suppose that women deserve some say, given that they make up half the population. Their needs matter, too.”
“What would you ever need outside a home?” Mycroft snorted and sipped from his champagne flute.
“Mycroft,” Sherlock warned.
You placed a hand on Sherlock’s sleeve. “Perhaps I should return home.”
“Indeed,” Mycroft mumbled into his glass. “It is your domain.”
You fought hot tears as you rode in the hansom back to your family home. You had known the Holmes brothers for years, and not once had Mycroft ever been hostile or oppositional to you. He had sometimes chafed against your ideas, but sparring over ideologies was different than direct ad hominem attacks.
“Mycroft was inebriated,” Sherlock explained as he walked you to the door.
You knew that wasn’t true. If anything, Mycroft had barely been tipsy. You appreciated Sherlock’s effort, however, and rewarded him with a soft kiss on his lips before entering your family home and crying quietly in your bedroom.
You convinced yourself that Mycroft perhaps had been feeling poorly or combative due to problems in his political life, but all hope of that was dashed when you saw him again and he flung a few choice snide remarks in your direction. Appalled to be treated so unusually by someone you had once considered a friend, you withdrew into yourself, distancing yourself from him.
That seemed only to incentivize him to attack you more savagely each time he saw you.
“Enola will be there,” Sherlock assured you as he helped you into your coat.
“That’s good,” you mumbled. Anxiety coursed through you at being in Mycroft’s presence once again. Dinner was being held at his home, and only family, including you, were expected. Without the safety of a public outing — one where a public spectacle would tarnish Mycroft’s reputation — you were sure to be subjugated to even more ridicule than usual.
You refused to ask Sherlock to keep his brother in check. The last thing you wanted was to cause unnecessary strife between the brothers.
So you straightened your shoulders and proceeded to the dinner in faux high spirits.
Seeing Enola did brighten your evening at first, at least. She was full of brilliant energy that dazzled you whenever you saw her. For someone so young, she was vibrant and overwhelmingly intelligent. You expected nothing less from a Holmes, though she did seem the smartest of the three.
She eased the tension between you and Holmes brothers merely by virtue of being herself. The conversation momentarily turned somber when she brought it to the subject of their absent mother, a topic that easily engaged Mycroft’s displeasure, but it wasn’t long before Mycroft turned his sights on you.
“Perhaps you have some illustrious insights into our mother’s fickle nature,” he began.
“I couldn’t say,” you answered.
“No? Surely you two are similar birds of a feather.”
A frown tugged at your mouth. “In what way?”
“You being a female of the species…with your fickle natures. You chose at your own whims and with complete disregard for any other’s consequence.”
Before you could answer, Enola leaned forward, her young face furrowing. “Excuse me?”
“I wasn’t talking to you.”
“No? But I’m a ‘female of the species’.”
“Hardly,” he scoffed, and he swept a sharp glance over her, tutting at her less-than-ladylike appearance.
“You can’t talk to her that way!” you scold Mycroft, despite yourself.
“I can talk to her in any way I deem fit! I am the man of this house.”
“Mycroft,” Sherlock snapped.
“I’m sorry, can the lady’s fragile constitution not withstand truth?” Mycroft looked at you pointedly.
The muscle in your jaw jumped as you clenched your teeth, your hand tight around your fork. You couldn’t tell if you were going to scream at him or burst into tears, your whole body vibrating with emotion.
“What is your problem?” Enola cried.
“I am merely highlighting the problems inherent in the women of this era—”
Enola slammed her knife into the table, making the glassware rattle. Mycroft stared at her in horror.
“That is imported!”
You pushed yourself away from the table with a mumbled excuse. Hastening from the room, you stopped in the entryway to the house, trembling.
Sherlock’s distinctive tread approached you. Steeling yourself, you tried to put on at the very least a neutral, unaffected expression.
“I apologise for his behaviour,” he said.
Shaking your head, you stared down at the lush carpet runner lining the length of the hallway. “I don’t understand. Why is he so… changed?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Have you asked him?” the question slipped out before you could stop it. “No, don’t do that. I don’t want to cause any more harm.”
“Harm? You’ve done nothing.” his hand moves to rest against your cheek, thumb rubbing against your cheekbone as if to sooth you.
“Clearly I’ve done something.” finally you look up at him, the tiredness evident in your eyes.
“He’s jealous of you and Sherlock,” Enola called from down the hallway.
You stilled. Jealousy? Why hadn’t that occurred to you?
The pieces clicked into place. Of course he was jealous. Mycroft had been the one you were closer to as children, always together, running about in the gardens and spending endless days in the kitchens together. He may not have possessed his younger brother’s nerve to court you — not yet, at least — but he had to have been planning on it, surely. That much you gleaned from a quick catalog of your memories leading up to Sherlock’s overtures. Now that he was no longer a viable candidate, overshadowed yet again by his younger brother, he was lashing out.
You pressed a hand to your mouth. “Sherlock…”
“It isn’t your concern nor your fault,” he answered immediately. “Mycroft will have to adjust, or I will resolve the issue.”
“I don’t want to be the source of—”
“He is acting like a child,” Sherlock looked at you pointedly, holding your chin in his soft grip, “and therefore he is deserving of punishment.”
Enola snorted down the hall.
“But Sherlock…”
“He insulted you. Greater men require less to defend a lady’s honor.”
Passing a hand delicately over your face, you sighed. “This isn’t what I wanted.”
“What’s a little enmity between siblings? Enola and Mycroft already don’t get along.”
“That’s right,” Enola agreed.
“Another sibling shouldn’t be too catastrophic to him.”
“Alright,” you whispered. “But- may I speak with him first?”
“Absolutely.” Sherlock answers reluctantly.
Slowly you re-enter the dining room, careful not to disturb the quiet that has now blanketed the room, emphasised with the soft crackle of burning logs in the fireplace. Mycroft still sits in his chair — the head of the table, the head of the household — yet his body is slumped, the weight of his own thoughts crushing him beneath them. He hasn't heard your steps nor seen your shadow approaching from behind him.
“Would you have done it?” At the sound of your voice Mycroft’s body goes taught and straight, as if a string has just been pulled from his head, like a marionette. He doesn’t turn.
“Done what?” he snaps back.
“If Sherlock hadn’t done so first, would you have asked that we courted each other?”
His head turns at that.
“Yes.”
With that one simple word you are reminded of the hesitation you first felt when Sherlock asked you, all those months ago — of the weary feeling. It was for Mycroft. You two had always been the close ones, your entire childhoods were spent together. Sherlock was always the ‘odd-one-out’ for lack of a better word, while you and Mycroft spent your days in the park, he was hauled up in his room pouring over old cases of newspaper clippings. You had no idea when one was traded for the other, when Mycroft became Sherlock — maybe when Mycroft began spending more time at the library than in the park or when Sherlock realised the importance of things other than solving a case.
“Then-” it seems awful even to ask it, but you do, “Then why didn't you?”
“Because-” he now stands, “because I never stood a chance!”
“A chance against what?” you ask incredulously, “There was never anything in your way!”
“Your father-”
“My father? That is absolutely ridiculous, my father has loved you since you were in diapers — if anything, it is Sherlock he has something against!”
“There were other men who-”
“How dare you insinuate that of me?” Now it was becoming clear, Mycroft never had any intention of admitting he was late purely of his own fault, “That I entertain the minds of every man I meet? I never even had a caller before Sherlock!”
“If you'd have just waited…” he whispers.
“Waited?” you blood boils at the audacity, and you stride up to him, “How many more days…? How many more months…? How many more years? Were twenty two not enough for you?” your voice softens, taking pity on the solemn face he now wears, “He asked me properly, there were no other prospects.”
The words seem to anger him as his face shifts, and he finally looks at you, “No, he’s my brother, the entitled bastard gets everything, why should he get you?”
“Because for once I was finally being looked at. Because he didn't demand that I make a fool out of myself for his attention. Because I finally had a chance to silence the voices calling me a future spinstress, and for once I decided to be selfish. Because for once I was finally being seen and I liked who he saw. Because I love him!” you all but shout it at him, surprising even yourself at the confession. The tension in the room settles in the silence and when it seems Mycroft has nothing left to say, you turn to leave.
“What about- me?”
Your feet stop beneath you, “No.” a whisper, as he takes slow steps towards you. His body is warm against your back as he leans in, reaching a hand up to stroke your cheek, you recoil away from the touch
“No, you're- you're being mean—”
“I love you.”
“That’s not fair.”
“Would you have waited, had you known I was there waiting for you?”
Your confidence overtakes you, “Would you have spared me from the demeaning insults you deem necessary to pellet me with? Or would I have had to find out later, when I had no escape, just what kind of man your emotions mold you into?”
The room grows silent without any rebuttal from Mycroft, unable to configure a pitying response. Slowly you nod, taking the absence of an answer as confirmation.
Can I ask how does tfc cast handle an mc that hides their regression(poorly)
Sweetheart I apologize if this is bad, I don't want it waiting overnight but I've answered like 6-8 asks tonight (not complaining I love it!) but it's currently 2:15 am. That being said if you don't like PLEASE request it again and I will indeed redo it for you.
Pierrot:
He knows. He knows you're a little, you just have that vibe to you. However he waits for you to tell him you're a little and with that comes the fact he knows when you're regressing.
He'll see you standing there staring at a carnival game prize and grab it for you as well as handing you a small snack and pulling your hand away from your face.
Constantly checking in with you when he sees you giving small tells, shifting your weight from foot to foot too much or your eyes just drifting around wherever light moves.
Harlequin:
He teases you about it. If you get mad or upset your fine, if he can see you just stare blankly at him or whatever you chose to react, he knows. He adores you yes, but he loves making jokes.
He'll slowly start making you regress further, tying your shoe, patting your head when he walks past you, stuff that will make it easier to tell you aren't as much of an adult as you say you are.
In the end he gets Pierrot to regress and shows you it's okay to be little without hiding it. I mean look, Pierrot has a pacifier and he's sitting in front of the whole troupe, you'll be alright.
Jester:
He knew you were little the second he caught your eye, the way you looked away from him immediately, a dead giveaway.
He catches you trying to chew on things you shouldn't, getting emotional over silly things that may not affect you while big, he just knows.
All his experience has him carrying you through the circus while you cry. He doesn't mind, it's helping you be more little in public, you can't hide anything from mommy.
Ticket Taker:
He'll lure you into his tent, let the mirrors draw the regression out of you. Expose the deepest secrets of your headspace to him so he can convince you that hiding is useless.
You start getting distracted and he'll jingle something in your face, keys, maybe his cane? He's getting your attention whether you like it or not and that means he can use very big words that convince you to regress further without you knowing.
Just listen and he'll let you play behind his stage and keep yourself entertained.
Doctor:
Of course he clocked your tiny self as a little, you just don't stop moving, but when you stared getting little you slowed down, you sobbed at the sight of his needle he was using for a prop.
He notices every time your eyes start to drift, you start to chew on a sleeve or get too distracted. He brings you back while letting you keep regressing.
Eventually he starts sedating you and giving you time to sit with the others while you're little, letting you get used to people seeing you so you'll stop hiding. It just does more harm than good here in this Circus.
AHHHH I FINISHED IT- IM GOING NI-NI I LOVE YOU ALL!!! I GOT MY PACI AND IPPY CUP NI-NI!!!
hi katy!! hope you are doing amazing 🫶🫶 may i request like hobie and R are not something oficial with their friends, specially with yuri being R's friend!! in a situation like a party? or a friends night out somewhere and then hobie and R are nowhere to be seen but nobody really thinks something is going on lol; so then probably yuri and the rest of the band where going outside to smoke and chat, but while they are going R and Hobie are just making out in some corner like two teenagers 😭 then everybody shocked specially Yuri watching both of her bestfriends just casually there kissing; and then you can continue with any end you want😛 anyways i love your art happy 3 years💕💕
GAHHHHH THIS WAS SUCH A SCRUMPTIOUS PROMPT WONDODMDOSK I hope you like it!!!
Pairing: Hobie Brown x fem! Reader/ Spider-Punk x fem! Reader
Word count: 1.7k
Tags: No use of Y/N, no specific physical description of the reader except for clothing, established relationship, cw food mentions, cw suggestive, cw drinking mention, fluff!
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3rd anniversary celebration
The party has gotten too rowdy for you. You’re overstimulated, starving when you’ve only had crisps for dinner, and you’re so tipsy that you stare at the pool water before you like it owes you money. The colour changing lights underneath the water mesmerize you, from blue, green, purple and red, it goes on and off as your feet move along the surface, soles skimming over the shallow water as you hear the muffled thrumming of music from the house.
Hobie spots you outside in the backyard after he’s been looking for you for the past twenty minutes. At first he had his eyes on you the whole night, waiting for Yuri and the rest of the band to leave you two alone so he could hold your hand behind their backs. But the moment he took his eyes off you to talk to a friend, he glanced back only to find you nowhere to be seen.
Hobie doesn’t like hiding his relationship with you from his mates, he’d rather scream to the whole world that you’re his and he’s yours but alas, Yuri will beat his ass for dating her best mate since kindergarten. When she specifically told everyone that you’re off limits, in her words, “she deserves a decent lad that will make her happy and not a bunch of punk rockers that will break her heart.” To that he agreed to, you deserve to be happy, but not the latter, he would never break your heart. He has fallen too hard for you to even think of doing that to you.
It’s not like you obeyed Yuri’s words either, you liked Hobie back wholeheartedly, embraced the prospect of dating him. From the first lingering touch alone through every hangout, to the stolen glances across the room, you took all the signs and went with it by asking him out yourself. Your reason? If Yuri ever found out, or the day finally comes when you have to tell her all about the two of you, she can’t blame him, not fully anyway when you’re the one who made the first move.
It was a ballsy move, and honestly? It made him fancy you even more. And now, six months into dating, countless date nights where you two had to go across town just to have dinner or walk around the park, and a lot of kisses— Hobie is fully committed to you, and you’re committed to him.
He doesn’t have the guts just yet to tell Yuri that the lacy underwear she found in his houseboat was yours, or that the extra toothbrush in your flat right beside your own wasn’t an old toothbrush that you use to clean the toilet but it’s his. Yuri has become hyper vigilant ever since she saw a sock underneath your couch that was clearly not yours. She thinks you’re hiding a new man from her, and she really wants to meet him to be the judge of his character. But she doesn’t know that she already met the guy and is in the same band as hers.
Yuri’s been pestering you about it, whilst Ned and James want to hear about the mystery girl Hobie’s been having around the houseboat. One time they went to his place to write some songs together whilst you two were snogging on his bed and you had to hide inside his bedroom for three hours. Your bladder was about to burst when they finally left. You couldn’t just leave through the windows either when you’ll fall into the canal and then they’d definitely know what’s up when they see you swimming around in the dirty river in your underwear.
Hobie’s about to come outside to see you when Yuri calls his name from the makeshift bar on the kitchen island.
“Oi, flat arse!” She yells above the noise of the party as she holds up a plate of biscuits and half a sandwich cut into a triangle. “Have you seen our girl?”
“No,” he shakes his head, shuffling over to the glass door to hide you. “Why?”
“Can you find her for me? She said she’s starving and this is the only edible food in this place.”
“Sure.” Taking the plate, Hobie has an intense urge to go out and sprint towards the nearest shop to get you something more filling.
“Oi, fuckwad! Order us a pizza or something! Use your parents’ card!” Yuri screams for James.
James, who’s rudely interrupted by Yuri as he was about to kiss a blonde, glares right at her. “You fucking order it!” The card flew over the crowd when he tossed it.
Hobie catches a glimpse of Yuri fighting with a bloke when he caught it before her.
“It’s not yours, you cu—!”
The glass door is shut right behind him, muffling the ruckus inside.
You’re a sight to behold beside the pool. The rainbow lights illuminate your features, as your half lidded eyes catch the light. Your dress is hitched up, pooled around you beautifully, framing you as you smile wistfully at the water as your feet kick gently in it.
You feel him before you hear the thumping of his boots. “You better not push me in, Hobie.” Tilting your head over to him, your cheek presses against your shoulder as you smile sweetly up at him.
“Wouldn’t dream of it, lovie. I could get you wet without needin’ to push you into a pool.”
“Oh, you’re so charming.” Chuckling, the sound of your laugh is a balm to his soul. “What do you have there?”
“Half a sandwich and biscuits Yuri got for you.”
“Oh, thank fuck.” Your hands reach up over to him as the plate is handed over to you. “Please don’t be peanut butter and jelly—” you take a peek inside the sandwich. “Yes.”
“What is it?” Hobie sits beside you, folding his leg as he folds the hem of his trousers before taking off his boots.
“It’s mayo and pepperoni.” Taking a big bite, you offer it to him. “You want some?”
He makes a face, taking a sugar coated biscuit instead. “‘m good, love.”
Shrugging, you inhale the rest of the sandwich. “It wasn’t the best but Yuri did her best.”
“If I’d have known you were hungry I would’ve run to the shop and gotten you somethin’.”
“And what would you have gotten me?” Your eyes sparkle as you flutter your lashes and take a biscuit from the plate sitting in between you.
“Anythin’ you want. Anythin’ under fifteen quid that is.”
Hobie always loved the way your grin spreads across your face, lightening up his whole world.
“A whole fifteen, oh you spoil me, baby.” It takes you two big bites of the biscuit before gently pushing the plate away to scooch over to him closer. Hobie’s arm immediately wraps around you, tugging you to his side as he rests his chin atop your head. “I want to get out of here and make out with you in the houseboat.”
“Why wait?” His fingers squeeze at your side, tickling you slightly as he breathes you in, a combination of your sweet perfume and the pool chlorine wafting from the water. Hobie was only half joking, until you gaze at him with those familiar soft eyes that spell out ‘bedroom’ for him.
“You are insufferable.” With a giggle, you splash him with water with your foot.
Hobie laughs with you, trousers damp but it was worth it to see the playful smile on your lips that he keeps gazing at.
“But you’re right.” You shrug, that look he knows as your, ‘fuck it,’ expression as he watches you lift your leg out of the water and over his lap. One second you were beside him, the next you’re straddling his lap, shuffling to find a more comfortable position as your heels tap at the small of his back. “There, much better.”
Fuck, you’re going to kill him someday.
“Bloody hell, lovie.” Hobie’s breathless from that alone. His hands move to hold at your waist as you wiggle teasingly that has his breathing going shallow and his skin aflame. His lips are immediately on yours, kissing fervently, feeling how you smile through the kiss before completely melting under his touch. “You’re,” his tongue flicks in between your parted lips as you let out a breath. “Goin’,” your hips buckle, and his grip tightens around you, fingers digging into your skin as your dress pools around the two of you. “To kill me.”
“Only if I can come with you.” Giggling, your palm finds his hair, tugging him away, making him tilt his head back as you kiss the hinge of his jaw, feeling how he shivers under your touch.
Hobie’s rough palms glide along your back, panting, eyes half lidded and staring up at the starry sky that melts in his vision from your warm kisses. “Yeah, like…” his words flicker out of his mind when you nibble at his throat. “Romeo and Juliet— fuck me.”
“Trying to, Hobie.” Chuckling over his skin, feeling how he trembles underneath you just from a few kisses, well more than a few kisses. Still, he’s completely undone, chasing your lips, chasing the warm sensation as his fingers grip at your nape.
It’s his turn as he pulls your head back gently, granting him access to your neck as he wets his lips before digging in.
“Hobie, d’you have cash for—” Yuri stops in her tracks, coins dropping from her hand as she stares dumbfoundly at the scene before her.
“Yuri, what’s taking so long— holy fucking shit.” James guffaws, a hand slapping at his mouth immediately as Yuri grabs him. “Yuri, come on…” his voice is muffled and warbled by her hands gripping onto his pouted lips.
“Have you two seen— oh…” Ned almost stumbles into the two, eyes wide at how Hobie’s nibbling at your neck and how you’re smiling happily through the kiss. “Oh! We should, uh, go, lads…”
Ned tries to grab Yuri by her arm, knowing that she’s silently seething in place. But it seems that her anger is something else as she stomps over to the smooching pair, who are too entranced by each other to notice the stares.
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