nice dick, broski

MASTERLIST / / Wattpad / / TikTok / / Requests Open

[lilxberry]

M A S T E R L I S T

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MARVEL

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DC

EUPHORIA

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LORD OF THE RINGS/THE HOBBIT

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RIVERDALE

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TWD

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THE KARATE KID/COBRA KAI

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13 REASONS WHY

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[jururenu]

Frodo

[lilxberry]

I am back...kind of

I know that there were some people waiting on requests but idfk what's going on with my inbox because it like always empties by itself and it's pissing me off because there's nothing in there but it's also saying I have like 19 or 6 or 13 or on occasion, nothing.

Like wtf do I do bruv

But anyways

I guess requests are definitely open

I am ready to receive. I think I'm mostly just going to work on like occasional DC fics as I hugely focus on LOTR/THE HOBBIT stuff so I would suggest of you did wanna request something, try those fandoms ect 😁

(Really quickly like to add on that the handful of fics and/or requests I were working on ended up disappearing on my too because the app I was using didn't synch to my account properly so when I had to adjust to a new device, poof)

[lilxberry]

UPDATE ON REQUESTS!

Hello!

To the two John Economos requesters, I apologise for taking my sweet bippy with getting these out. The past few weeks have been super shitty in many senses, including with my health so you can imagine that I'm not particularly motivated at the moment.

Also, I'm trying not to be rude and just constantly stare at my screen when spending quality time with others (partner ect.)

So I don't believe I'll be getting anything out before Christmas unfortunately. I've still been trying to write the odd paragraph but because of how ill I am during winter, among other things, it's been a bit tough.

I do promise to try get them out as soon as though, just most likely after Christmas.

And for anyone else wanting to send in some requests, you're more than welcome to do so, just might take a small handful of weeks until you get them.

Currently, I am only writing for the following fandoms/universes:

DC

LOTR/THE HOBBIT

MARVEL/MCU

I would like to thank everyone for their patience and if I don't talk to you before then, Merry Christmas and I hope you all have a wonderful beginning to the new year 😁

[lilxberry]

Colour Me Close — John Economos

Synopsis;

Helping John dye his beard in the quiet of his bathroom. Just you, him, and the faint scent of chemicals.

Warnings: nothing of note I believe

Word Count: 591

Pairing: John Economos x reader

(A/N: just something short and sweet since I've had a couple days off from writing. I worked on this for like the last hour so it's not like mega long or anything, it was just an idea I had and took note of a good few weeks back. I also would just like to note that I'm pretty sure this isn't gendered in any sense but I still won't tag it as gn just in case.)

(A/N 2: I'm still working through requests and stuff, don't worry. At the moment, I only have one, at least I think only one because sometimes it's not made obvious if it's a request or just like a random thought people wanted to share but yeah.)

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The mixture — a thick, creamy consistency — squishes against the side of the small plastic bowl, gloves softly crinkling as you stir and swoosh the dye around and up on to the brush. You're still elated at both the fact you were able to convince him to switch from the drugstore box dyes and allow you to help him touch up his roots.

Facial roots, anyway.

John's been well behaved despite being stuck between your legs as you manhandle his face gently and apply the colouring to his beard, making sure it's evenly and thoroughly coated, foot occasionally brushing his shin just below his knee when you absentmindedly swing it back and forth.

The counter is strong and sturdy under the pressure of your weight, and you subconsciously scoot yourself closer to the edge, closer to John, as your face scrunches further in concentration, hand steady and tackling his edges with as much precision as it can muster. The faucet beside you is leaky, sporadic drips echoing against the ceramic dipping sink that punctuates the calm breathing coming from you both and the faint, distant melodies floating in from the kitchen's radio.

Thankfully, only a small handful of times has the dye dropped from the application brush and splattered against the linoleum flooring or the temporary bib you made him wear, which truthfully was just an old towel tucked down the front of his just as equally old t-shirt. You cringed and breathed out an apology each time you happened to overload the brush just a tad too much.

"We'll just throw the bathmat on top if the bleach doesn't get it off," he had joked softly after the third time.

Your thighs gently squeeze him involuntarily as you tense, narrowly avoiding dabbing his skin rather than his facial hair. It elicits a short huff of a laugh from him, warm and low. The sound draws you back from being stuck inside your own head and the intense focus on the task at hand, eyes briefly flickering up to his.

It can't be helped — the way the corner of your lips tilt upwards and the tension in your shoulders loosen.

"Almost done," you hum. "Promise."

John's careful to not brush his hand against the dye when he nudges his glasses back up his nose, his own smile threatening to jeopardize the precise and deliberate job of your application.

"Take all the time you need. It's still faster than when I used to do it. And less...everywhere else."

You chuckle softly, finally brushing over and through the last small section still left untouched by the chemicals.

"Done." It's announced gently as you drop the application brush back into the small mixing bowl. What follows is the sound of gloves rustling and quietly snapping as you pull each off and discard them in a similar fashion.

He steps back and helps you hop down off the bathroom counter with big, warm, firm hands on both hips. Neither of you allow any more distance to grow between you both even as you gently wipe at his cheeks just where hair meets bare skin, just to be sure.

"Thank you," he whispers so quietly you almost don't catch it. It's soft, sincere, and a smidge vulnerable.

It takes everything in you not to audibly coo and smear his beard dye all over your own skin by capturing his lips with yours, so you simply opt to kiss him twice elsewhere — one on his nose, another on his forehead — both tender and says everything you can't verbalise.

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Just a lil something something

Not much else to it

Anyways

Hope you enjoyed

And as always, constructive criticism is welcomed and appreciated

[lilxberry]

Domestic Disturbance — Bruce Wayne

Synopsis;

In which Mrs. Wayne launches a tactical assault on her husband’s workaholism, armed only with herself, her patience — what’s left of it — and the knowledge that even Batman can’t say no forever. (And Alfred’s keeping score.)

Warnings: pretty suggestive (Brucie's wife is horny dudes). Like 2 uses of bad language if I'm remembering correctly. Alludes to smut, but no actual smut. 'Parents sex lives traumatising their child' trope?? (Sorry Damian)

Word Count: 4.8K (4884)

Pairing: Bruce Wayne x Wife reader

(A/N: not proofread. Just something I worked on between/during requests to give my brain a break from focusing too much on one thing. Plus, I just kinda love Batmom/Bruce's wife stuff.)

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Most people love Saturdays.

You love Saturdays.

Oftentimes your older babies come visit the manor, like Dick and Jason, or you get a good chunk of the day to cuddle up to your younger babies on the couch while watching movies, even if Tim and Damian are technically doing their own things while watching movies with you.

But it's the Saturdays when Bruce is home that are your favourite just because they're so rare — those Saturdays when he's actually out of the office and not exhausted from nights of patrolling.

And usually, you'd be elated to have your husband to yourself. Only, you don't have him to yourself. His attention is solely focused on her — slim, sleek, dark, cool to the touch, and can give him every bit of worldly known knowledge right at the tips of his fingers that he's delicately brushing over her with that practised precision which comes with years of familiarity.

The scowl on your face is deadly, arms crossed over your chest, hip popped, feet planted at the bottom of the staircase. Eyes burn into the back of your husband's head where he's on the couch, it's a miracle that he chose to station himself out of the study, typing away on his DELL laptop. And god, it really does piss you off just how unfair it is. He finally gives himself a day off away from the office, yet he's back-pedelled and decides to waste his time working — attention split between working on stuff for Wayne Enterprises and re-reading open case files that's priority in Batman's roster — rather than do the obviously, infinitely, better choice of spending his time with you. His wife.

And for a man who cares so deeply about justice, he's not being very just, looking so good yet not offering a sliver of attention to anything that isn't on a screen.

His hair is messy — not as neatly styled like when he's out in public having to be put-together, billionaire businessman Bruce Wayne but not as wild and dripping in sweat after a night stuffed under the cowl as Gotham's nightly masked protector Batman.

And his t-shirt, tight but not too tight, like comfortably loose but still taut enough that the hems of the sleeves seem to actually strain a little as his muscles tighten and tense all the way up both arms with each tap at the keys.

And sweatpants! Those damn sweatpants! The ones that sit so nicely on his waist — and do a delightful job at shaping his ass and...well, you know what they shape — it's always a treat when he wears them, doesn't matter if it's for working out or lazing about.

So, everything about this Saturday in particular is very unfair. For you.

Your hormones are running rampant unforgivingly for your husband and he doesn't even care. Or notice for that matter. You're almost tempted to throw an actual tantrum just to get Bruce to look at you and away from that bloody laptop but you'd feel mortified at the thought of acting so childish that even your youngest Damian would be better well-behaved and appear more mature than you.

That idea is quickly thrown out the window, you suppose. But then, you're smirking — it's subtle, a little devilish, and all too proud.

In your mind, you've already begun to pose it as a challenge. And you thrive on challenges.

"Should I make a start upstairs first instead today, ma'am?" Alfred asks all too knowingly as he steps beside you, him fighting to stave off his own amused smirk — he's learnt plenty long ago to make himself scarce when either or both of you are in these particular moods for one another.

You spare the older man a glance. "That'd be great. Thank you, Alfred."

"Of course, ma'am," he starts, already moving on to the first of many steps, a clothes basket filled with neatly ironed and folded items tucked under his arm and against his side. "Good luck."

The steps lightly creak under his weight as he climbs further and further higher — it's when he's half way up that he decides to call back out to you, finally allowing that amusement to show on his face, his voice carrying the faintest hint of a chuckle.

"Do try not to break him too badly."

—

'Approach one: engage.'

God, it's like you're playing a spy on some secret hardcore mission but it only proves your determination in getting what you want.

Your husband.

So, regardless of how silly and utterly ridiculous your inner monologue sounds to yourself, you're stepping into action. Feet padding softly as you close the distance between yourself and Bruce, pace slow, like enclosing in on prey.

"Bruce," you murmur, finally wrapping your arms around his thick, strong neck, one hand laying flat over his chest as the other begins to softly play with his dark hair, nails lightly scratching his scalp as your fingertips rake through among the roots. "It's your day off — you should be relaxing."

He hums absently, his fingers refusing to break their stride as he keeps typing, eyes flashing across the words as he reassesses what he's already written. "Figured I could use today to keep on top of things."

"Well," you drawl, pulling back and trailing your hands over his shoulders instead, beginning to lightly message the muscles that feel a little tense beneath your touch. "I can think of something else you could keep on top of today." It's purred in flirtation, dripping with its suggestive nature as the pressure you're applying is rolled in circular motions.

Bruce turns his head just enough to drop a kiss to your knuckles, eyes never leaving the screen, fingers never pausing their rapid tapping, humming once more but it sounding distracted. But other than that, there's no sign of him giving in any time soon.

With a final squeeze, you pull away completely, suppressing your disappointed and slightly annoyed huff — though you weren't as successful with keeping your eyes from rolling or the tight-lipped, terse smile from stretching your lips thin.

'Approach one: mission failed,' you begrudgingly think to yourself as you turn and walk away, ready to rethink your strategy. 'It's so on, Bruce. You'll crack, one way or another.'

—

It's only around five minutes later by the time you're back, sitting beside him — not too close, yet — smiling as neutrally as you can possibly muster.

There's not a signal shift in him — eyes still zeroed in on his screen, fingers still flexing along letters and numbers that softly click with each hit — his breathing is just as calm and even as ever despite you leaning just that little closer to look at his screen too, oblivious to the sneaky peek you take at him using your peripheral.

He's currently midway through a quarterly report, adding his own input to the ever-growing document. The language used sounds so drab, so boring so...professional. You reckon you'd have been sleeping within three minutes if it had been you having to write and read all that.

'This is what he'd rather be focusing on?' you poke your tongue into your cheek. 'Fine.'

“...the board will need to approve additional funding for phase two before the end of Q4—" you begin aloud — antagonistically slow and over pronounciated like a child during reading time where their teacher told them to stand and continue the next few paragraphs — eyes and mouth following along to every word as their typed. "—projected cost overruns remain within acceptable margins, and—"

"Sweetheart?" Bruce calls out to you softly, his expression still nonchalant but his tone, though dry, carries that amused, fond sigh and subtle smile.

"Yes?" Responding sweetly, you make your eyes all big and innocent looking, blinking up at him slowly.

The sound of typing continues without missing a beat. "What are you up to?" It sounds light, playfully, and a little accusatory.

"Reading," you start like it's obvious because well, technically, it is obvious that you're reading. "I'm just curious as to what's keeping you so busy."

'Busy enough to not be paying attention to me,' you sourly add non-verbally.

"I see," he says in that low tone that drives you insane but gives you nothing else.

You're waiting patiently, for something — anything — suppressing a groan when there's zip. And so, you start back up from where you left off, with that same dragging, droning tone that's so monotone, so flat, that would make a plant choose to willingly wither and die.

"— and implementation of the revised security protocols has reduced manufacturing downtime by approximately twelve percent.”

The hope that blooms in your chest is small but sturdy when you see him pause his typing and blink long and slow, like he's lost his train of thought. Even when he returns back to typing like he'd never froze at all after a beat, you still feel hopeful because the first crack is beginning to show.

Admittedly, this method is proving to actually be working but even you cannot deny that you'd rather be struck down than keep reading something so boring as a quarterly report. So without another word, you slink away, pleased with yourself and elated that you seem to finally be getting somewhere.

—

You've returned once more, cup of tea in one hand and phone in the other, tiny smirk still painting your lips.

Gracefully, you set the cup down on the deep oak coffee table before lowering yourself against the couch once more, sighing contently as you rest back against the cushions. You make a show of unlocking your phone and scrolling through apps as you're stealing more glances of your husband from the corner of your eye — still as stoic and focused as when you left him, completely fixated on the laptop.

You're almost blowing your cover when a snicker bubbles up but you're quick enough to catch it and disguise it as a quick cough.

"Everything alright there?" Bruce asks easily.

"Mhm." It's a little high pitched and came way too quickly as you nod, snapping your eyes back to your own screen.

From your peripheral, you see he hasn't changed outwardly, so you deem it safe to continue with your plan. It killed to not release a big sigh of relief.

You give it a couple more moments before you set everything into motion, just to be sure. Then, you let your phone fall from the loose grasp between your fingers and on to the carpeted floor below.

"Oops." You're acting is terrible but you suppose that's what makes it all the more fun. "Silly me," you quip as you slip off the couch and begin to bend over, behind purposefully directed towards Bruce.

"Hmm, silly you," Bruce parrots. To anyone else, it'd sound patronising. But you know it's that amused, teasing kind you've loved for so long. "Funny how your phone just so happen to lock itself before falling."

Momentarily freezing, you let out and awkward chuckle. "My thumb must've hit the button when it slipped from my hand."

"Well, isn't that lucky."

'That smug bastard.' You can just hear how the corner of his mouth twitches upwards.

Finally you raise back up fully, phone in your hands being twirled in your grasp. Your right eye — which luckily he can't see — twitches once, twice, your mind searching for something else to do quickly.

Then it hits you.

"Actually, since I'm already here," you hum, slowly lowering yourself back down, this time on your knees. "I'm certain I lost an earring the other day but I couldn't spot it. Wouldn't hurt to look again, would it, honey?"

The carpet feels soft against your hands and knees as you arch your back and make a show of searching for this suddenly missing earring that he's just now hearing about — humming softly, ass gently swaying from side to side, head hidden beneath the expensive table.

Your smile is all too wicked when you hear the tapping of the keyboard come to a halt — you're both so attuned to one another you don't even need to look at him to know that his eyes darting over your backside or that his jaw is tensing.

Lingering, you allow the moment, the feeling of success to consume you before pulling back from underneath the coffee table, careful not to bump your head on the way out, and you're almost laughing when the sound of his fingers tapping away again start back up almost comically panicked. By the time you're upright and facing him, his gaze has intensified tenfold at the screen as he Bruce tries to act as unbothered as before.

"Not so lucky after all, it seems. Nowhere to be found." Mock disappointment laces your tone, even if you're anything but deep down.

Bruce clears his throat. "I'm certain they'll turn up — luck can always change."

You're smirking behind your tea as you settle back on to the couch, back this time snuggled against the armrest, knees curling up towards you.

'Oh, I'm planning on getting lucky alright, baby.'

—

You haven't shifted for a while, staying curled up against the armrest, sipping your tea sporadically and scrolling on your phone. But your knees are starting to get stiff and the half cup of tea you have left is growing colder by the minute. So, your stretch — legs splaying outward towards Bruce.

'Lightbulb!'

Keeping your legs kicked out on the length of the couch, you turn your eyes back to your phone, acting the absentminded scroller.

Bruce doesn't feel it at first but the second then the third nudge seems to somewhat bring him out of his laptop just enough to fully notice the fourth.

The tips of your toes lightly poke at the side of his thigh like clockwork. Then closer to his knee. At his hip. In his side by his ribs. His bicep then his shoulder. It's only when it goes to touch his neck does he tenderly grab your ankle, effectively stopping you whilst still somehow able to type like a breeze with the other.

"Can I help you?" This time he decides to spare you a glance and not hide how amused he's finding it all.

"My feet are cold," you mumble, struggling to not giggle. It's the first thing you could think of.

He hums lowly, bringing your foot down to join the other and holding both in his large hand, using the heat from his palm to warm them up together. And it feels so nice, the warmth that radiates from his hand alone is soothing — it does wonders actually warming up your feet that now you think about, were actually feeling a tad chilly.

You give your toes a little wiggle and begin to lightly hum a random tune as you open up your messages on your phone instead, tapping the already existing chat thread with your husband.

Warming my feet while working and pretending to ignore me all in one? God, that's sexy

Barely 2 seconds pass before his phones vibrating against the coffee table but he doesn't make a move to check it — which makes perfect sense since that same text pops up moments after in the corner of his laptop screen.

You're smirking behind your phone when he pauses his typing and you can see how his eyes quickly scan your words before the message disappears into the notification bar instead.

And the laugh you fight off when Bruce looks up, giving you that infamous yet depthless bat-glare, almost breaks you.

He watches you type again out the corner of his eye when he focuses back towards the screen, the cycle repeating — you trying to hide that you're looking all too pleased, his phone vibrating on the coffee table, the message popping up seconds later on his laptop. He almost starts rolling your eyes at the next message.

Don't scowl. It's hot when you scowl.

—

You swear time has begun to tick by slower with each minute. He's giving you nothing to work with and it's driving you mad.

'Have. Sex. With. Me. Already.'

Grumbling quietly to yourself, you're eyes are falling back on your screen, thumb sluggishly swiping upwards to scroll down your Instagram feed before a notification pops up — Damian posted to his story, apparently.

Completely unsurprising how it's yet another picture of Alfred the cat. You're letting a soft snort escape you before your mind seems to buffer then reboot so quickly you swear your hear the windows start up play.

'Time to take a page out of that adorable bastards book.'

The phone's locked and placed face down on the couch beside you before you can say lickity split.

Your movements are measured and deliberate as you gradually crawl yourself towards Bruce, mimicking Alfred's — the cat — when he stalks towards an unsuspecting robin hopping around the neatly maintained grass. Body low, focus unwavering.

Plush couch seat cushions impress and form around your knees as your hand finally comes to land on his thigh, not to high up, not too low — just placed perfectly enough to make him twitch, to stir up something in him.

Giving credit where credit is due, Bruce, other than the light flexing of his thigh muscle at the contact, doesn't flinch, not even a flicker of lost composure. His thick fingers still cooly gliding along the keys, eyes still laser focused on the blue-light emitting electronic devilish contraption that dares steal his attention away.

So, you lightly paw at his thigh, kneading the muscle beneath your palm followed by smoothly slipping yourself under his arms and on to his lap in the little space available between the toned stomach of your husband and his laptop.

Bruce remains steadfast even as you purposefully stretch your arms up in front of his face, softly moaning, giving your fingers a wiggle to try interrupt his daze.

You almost huff out in disappointment but you remember you can be just as unwavering and determined as he can.

Your hands begin to slip up and down his chest, running along the entire expanse, face moving to push into him just below his sternum, something akin to a purr softly rumbling from your chest and up your throat.

The steady thumping of his heartbeat is calm yet loud enough for your ears to pick up.

Ba-dum. Ba-dum. Ba-dum.

And his scent overwhelms you and makes your mind a little hazy — it's both calming and absolutely rousing. Like it tries to lull you into a peaceful rest but also does nothing but intensify that heat pooling between your thighs.

Everything about your husband has your aunt Mary twitching like a rabbit's nose.

With practiced and precise movements, you slither yourself up to bury your face in his neck next, almost entirely perched sideways in his lap. Your fingers toy with his t-shirts neckline, hooking it with a single digit and pulling, twisting, tracing the stitching.

You're nosing as his pulse point, lips dragging feathery along his skin, sighing against him with that twist of aroused undertone.

One kiss, two, delicate and lazy. A third right below his ear. Fourth and fifth at the shell. You feel the hum gently vibrate against his vocal chords, deep, low, barratone.

"Your fingers are looking a little tired and cramped up," you coo softly, bordering a whisper. "Should take a break."

It's a terrible line — you both know his fingers, hands, wrists don't tire out and strain easily.

"Come lie down," you pause to sweetly gift his skin another peck, "with me," Peck, "in bed." Peck.

"Perhaps in a while, you little menace," he simply offers with a chuckle, his stride remaining unbroken.

Swallowing down an agitated huff, you keep your voice dropped in it's seductive octave. "You don't even have to rest your fingers if you'd rather keep them busy — I know mine are itching to find themselves occupied."

All Bruce can do to keep his composure, which is unbeknownst to you beginning to slowly fracture, is turn to his head and drop a kiss of his own to your forehead in the hopes to placate you.

You couldn't hide the discontented "hmph" as you unceremoniously wriggle your way out using the same path you took to get yourself in such a position in the first place, messily limbo-ing under his arms and very unsexily wiggling left to right to shift yourself enough to finally sit back up.

It's irked you just how well he's held out so far, which must translate a little in the way you stand up, collecting your phone from the couch and half filled cold tea from the coffee table as you do.

Not a single word is said as you make your way out from Bruce's vicinity, just soft irrate grumbling.

'You'll break eventually, Bruce.'

—

The rest of that cold tea was nearly as disappointing as the lack of attention your husband was paying you.

Your eye is subtly twitching as you rest against the kitchen island, it's cold countertop chills your elbows as they sit atop it, head held up between your hands, cheeks smushing together.

And the flickering bulb in the light above you only seems to piss you off further — it must only just be on its way out, Alfred would never leave the lights in the manor in such a state.

Perhaps you should ask Commissioner Gordon what lightbulbs they use for the Bat signal because you swear they never seem to have any issues with the thing. Hell, you once joked with your husband that he should have been Moth Man with how the quickly he's attracted to that light the second it's on and pointing up at the night sky.

...

...

...

"Oh my fucking God," you mutter to yourself, rolling your eyes. "... that's so stupid..."

Your expression was a strange calm, stolid, deadpanned — your resolve burning down to its last smoking ember — like a quiet madness that comes along when exhaustion outweighs any actual sense. Desperation had made its way of making idiocy look like ingenious. It had officially come down to this.

It's practically the last trick you have up your sleeve that might actually work by some sheer dumb luck.

By the time you reach the light switch in the living room, you look lifeless behind the eyes, finger precariously positioning itself ready, your breathing eerily steady and composed.

Off.

On.

Off.

On.

The speed picks up a little the more Bruce ignores how the light above him cuts out and reappears repeatedly.

Perhaps it was a little too stupid trying your own Bat signal — Bruce signal, if you will. But by God, are you only growing more determined.

Though, maybe that determination dwindles faster than you're used to.

Your face pinched tighter with the kind of frustration that comes from running into the same wall over and over as your rapid flicking of the light switch grew more desperate, more frantic, even more rapid, your eyes burning holes into your husband with the intensity of a thousand suns.

With a final flick, the light returns to its stable on status and , letting the silence hang, just long enough for it to get awkward. You're muttering quietly to yourself as you allow your arm to drop back down, hand slapping against your side — exhaling sharply through your nose.

"Unbelievable. If I was an officer of the law with a moustache called Jim, he'd have come running."

Admittedly, you sound childish but you're at your ropes end and with how nothing yet having worked, your failed attempts are slowly building towards the final straw that breaks this camels back.

"Fine," you say as you push away from the wall with exaggerated nonchalance, voice carrying just enough to reach him. "I'm going for a shower."

You peer over your shoulder quickly as you begin to ascend up the steps in a snails pace. "Alone."

A couple steps more and you're adding, louder, hoping that your last hail Mary works, "Unless, you know, Clark’s free. He actually answers calls for help." Step. "Or Barry. He’d probably already be halfway here by now."

Another step.

"Hell, maybe Hal. He never seems to have anything better going o—" you cut yourself short with something between a yelp and squeal the dissolves into this loud fit of laughter as your husband has seemingly quick snuck up behind you, thrown you up, then folded you over his shoulder, arms bracing the back of your thighs as he begins to make fast work of the stairs.

"You win," you hear him gruff out, the small smirk carrying over in his tone. "I started saving and shutting everything off when you were being a nuisance with the lights."

Absolute vindication!

"The Bruce signal worked!" You sound utterly mad with how you cackle out loudly, your body bouncing on his shoulder with each step he climbs — the soft vibration of his chuckle felt through the fabric of your clothes and in your tummy which tickles you.

You're giddy with excitement as you lay mostly limp over Bruce's shoulder, bottom lip caught between your pearly teeth, a smile that can't seem to dim on your face — so excited you don't even realise you actually made it all the way up and halfway down the hall towards your bedroom until Bruce is curtly addressing the younger two of your sons who still live at the manor and have just coincidentally left their rooms right as you're coming to pass by.

"Boys."

"Bruce—" "—Father?" Tim and Damian reply in synchronisation, both having different reactions to seeing the top half of their mother perpendicular to Bruce's back, only she's looking a little turned around — or rather upside down. Tim looks as unbothered and as bored as usual, and Damian, although unfortunately knows just how deep his parents' attraction for each other runs, still looks confused and a tad mortified at the sight, having never been present before to see them act so...young and enthusiastic...

Hearing the two, you use one hand on your husband's waist to push yourself up enough to look at your son's somewhat straightforward, your other hand offering a little wave as you giggle out, "Hi, my babies."

"Mom—" "—Ummi?" God, does Damian sound traumatised.

All they hear as Bruce continues further down the hallway with you is the way his steps sound determined in both weight and pace, and your occasional giggle that bubbles out your chest, which is eventually followed by the door to your bedroom loudly thudding shut.

"Wha—"

"Grab earplugs," Tim tells Damian flatly as he passes his frozen form, eyes returning back to the laptop balanced on one arm, pausing mid-step momentarily when they hear distantly the shower in the bathroom conjoined to their parents' room start up. "And wear noise cancelling headphones over those."

Damian looks wide-eyed, gaze comically darting between his father and mothers shared bedroom door and Tim's back as the distance between them grows when he continues making his way towards the stairs, the kitchen the destination in mind.

His mind was so scrambled and his eyes were solely focusing on the two things, he hadn't even realised Alfred was behind him until his shoulder was being patted once, twice, which made him jump a little — he's beginning to think Alfred has the ability to materialise out of thin air. But in actuality, because the boy was so distracted, he was obviously oblivious to Alfred leaving a room down the hall having just finished dusting in there.

"Best not to dwell, Master Damian," the old gentleman started. "They do love each other terribly."

Damian supposes it was meant to sound comforting but it only seems to further traumatised him. He does not want to be imagining just how terribly his parents are loving each other right now. So, he doesn't respond, only quickly rushes to catch up with Tim who's already now halfway down the stairs and wise enough to have already put in earbuds.

—

Alfred chuckles before a calm sigh escapes him.

'So ends another noble effort to resist Mrs Wayne's campaign for attention,' he narrates to himself internally, glancing up at one of the clocks on the wall. 'Forty-eight minutes — nearly an hour longer than last week's attempt. A valiant effort and perhaps a new record, but doomed from the start, as always.'

The hand, weathered but steady, reclaims the polish and rag that was tucked under his arm against him as he moves on to the next room.

He's plenty practiced with blocking out the carnal sounds that you and Bruce often times find yourselves making, so finds himself with no issues in particular to stop him from up keeping the manors pristine conditions upstairs — though, he knows he won't be entering the shared bedroom of the patriarch and matriarch of the household until well after you re-emerge.

And who knows just how long until that may happen — probably at least a few hours from now.

Though, as he's beginning his next shining endeavour, he does believe it wouldn't hurt to invest in some ear defenders for both himself and Damian, if only to dull the noises that come from you both when in the throes of making love with such passion and intensity.

'The poor boy may need therapy now more than ever.'

_______________

Could be good

Could be shit

I dunno

But anyways

As always, constructive criticism is welcomed and appreciated

And I hope you liked whatever this was

Okay bye

[lilxberry]

Your John Economos work is so good!! I would love to see you write some Headcanons for what he would be like as a boyfriend, how he'd settle into your relationship and affections? Thank you!!! 🥰

Relationship Flow — John Economos

Hi hi! I hope you like it. I'm actually not too overly critical about this one and happy with how it's turned out

[lilxberry]

Relationship Flow — John Economos

Requested by: Annonymous

Your John Economos work is so good!! I would love to see you write some Headcanons for what he would be like as a boyfriend, how he'd settle into your relationship and affections? Thank you!!! 🥰

Hope you enjoy!

HEADCANON

Pairing: John Economos x reader

(A/N: nothing of note to really add, just like majority of hcs I do, I've tried to keep it as gender neutral as possible.)

_______________

• Being with John is easy breezy

• It's comfortable, it's warm, and it's the best thing EVER

• Now, there's one of two ways how you guys had got together

• Either you asked him out or vice versa

• So we'll scratch the surface of both just a smidge, for variety

• If you had asked him out, you definitely made a move way sooner than he would have

• You'd definitely have a higher confidence level than him even if not by much

• Your approach would have been direct, straight to the point

• But if he'd had asked you, it had definitely taken a lot of courage and a lot of build up

• And his approach is way messier and he fumbles and trips over his words

• Regardless, whether it's you or him making the first move, it's what's led to the best relationship either of you have had (especially John since he claims to have never had a relationship before)

• Affection definitely starts off slow

• He's so nervous so he's sweating buckets just trying to find the balls to hold your hand type of slow

• But it does steadily build

• Embraces always feel warm and safe — like wrapping each other in these impenetrable blankets of protection where nothing harmful or negative can worm it's way in

• And kisses

• Ooooh baby

• The kisses are, at least at the beginning, entirely slow, sweet, lingering

• After some time, you definitely have the odd frenzied lip locking messy make outs

• And you love his beard — the way it tickles a little, and if you're holding his face between your hands how it scratches just right against your palms

• Speaking of his beard

• You always help him now with dying it — you claim he doesn't need to, that you love when you see his natural colour come through at the roots

• But he insists it's now more for self-confidence and because it makes him feel good in himself

• And well, you can't really argue against that — purely happy that if this is something that he wants to do for him, then so be it

• So, every few weeks, you're touching up his roots for him in the bathroom, the atmosphere quiet and soft

• But anyways...

• Let's just quickly jump back to affection and intimacy

• Forehead kisses, cheek kisses, neck and shoulders — even sweet little kisses on knuckles and finger tips

• Sleeping together — in the literal sense — is one of your favourite shared things

• And you're both not limited in regards to sleep positions

• But some do tend to happen more often than others

• Like light contact back-to-back

• John's used to solitude, even when sharing a space he values a bit of independence but it in no way reflects the level of his care/love/adoration

• It's a quiet intimacy that offers a sense of safety without needing constant closeness

• Then there's the weighted blanket hold

• He tends to sprawl half on his side, half on his stomach, with his arm draped over your waist or chest like a lazy security blanket

• He's a big guy *eyebrow waggle* in many senses so once he's comfortable with you, he definitely leans into physical reassurance

• It's not overly romantic in the normal sense — it's more instinctive and grounding and it mostly happens unconsciously when he's asleep

• It's cozy, protective, and a soft contrast to his rough edges

• Full cuddle mode

• Chest to chest — like protectively curling around each other and embracing

• This type of physical closeness calms him down faster than words ever could

• John is a caretaker at heart — he likes being the barrier between you and the world

• And on rough nights, he might mutter something self-depricating but tightens his hold anyways like comforting himself

• Tangled naps are the best

• It's usually when you're both watching TV or dozing off after a long day — you're both ending up half on top of each other, legs tangled, arms everywhere

• He melts into the softness

• Occasionally, John falls asleep in a chair or recliner while working so you find yourself curling up somewhere nearby like a couch

• So the first thing he sees when he wakes up again is you

• And then it's either him shuffling over and draping a blanket or jacket on you or you dragging him to bed

• Its reflective of his old habits of staying up way too late but now there's someone around to notice and it really makes him feel seen, like someone cares

• And it speaks to the quiet kind of intimacy you share — love shown through small, practical gestures

• Now, everybody is wondering

• Is John the big spoon or the little spoon

• And the answer is both

• Well, at first, he was predominantly big spoon

• But later on, after you guys built up that comfort and progressed in your relationship, it became pretty evenly balanced — once he started to feel truly secure, things leveled out

• He learns to enjoy being the little spoon though he won't admit it outright

• It's a trust thing — letting himself be held means no longer feeling afraid to be seen as soft or needy

• So, when John is the big spoon, he naturally falls into the role of protector

• When he's the big spoon, his arms wrap around you like a quiet promise that he's got you

• He's also a heavy sleeper so once he's relaxed, he tends to hold tight even on his dream

• You've totally teased that you're "Economos-locked" until morning

• Sometimes his hand settles on your stomach or chest when he's the big spoon — not possessively, but to feel your breathing, like reassurance that you're there

• There's warmth and weight to it

• He radiates comfort and stability and you feel safe in his hold

• John's not much of a talker in this position, it's definitely more about quiet presence

• You might get a sleepy murmur now and then, but it's mostly steady breathing and the occasional snore

• Now, John as a little spoon is more built on the vibe of vulnerable, trusting, and surprisingly endearing

• Like earlier stated, it doesn't happen right away — it takes time, a slow build of trust before he lets himself be held

• The first time it happened, he makes jokes about it — something like "Guess I'm the snack-sized spoon tonight," just to break the tension

• But when he actually relaxed into it?

• It's a BIG deal

• Once he's there, you realise how much he needed it — how long it's been since anyone made him feel safe enough to just let go

• His body relaxes differently when he's the little spoon

• Less guarded

• The stiffness in his shoulders disappears and his breathing slows almost immediately

• Occasionally, he'll shift to fit better against you, a subtle reminder that he trusts your space

• Sometimes you'll start one way and wake up the other — John's subconscious doesn't care about roles, only closeness

• If he wakes up being held, he pretends to grumble but you can tell he secretly loves it

• And if you end up tucked against him, he'll quietly pull the blanket higher and drift back off with a small smile

• Now, you guys aren't short of activities you do together

• We'll start with some side-by-side hobbies, whether you do them together or separate but still in each others company

• Like gaming nights

• John definitely gives the vibe of someone who loves video games — moreso the older or co-op titles

• He's the type to get invested in character builds or complain about lag but would also grin when you beat him at like Tekken

• You two definitely played couch co-op games like It Takes Two, A Way Out, and Split Fiction

• Crafting and building sessions go hard

• John also gives off the vibe he does stuff like paint Warhammer figures, even if he doesn't really get to use them

• Or perhaps he's repairing/tinkering with something

• And you could totally just be doing something like crochet, sketching, or even work on a model beside him

• These kind of activities are the kind that work because you don't need to talk constantly — it's about presence, easy companionship, and low-pressure togetherness

• You totally have movie marathons

• Everything from bad 80s action flicks to documentaries he won't admit he enjoys

• And TV show

• So many TV shows

• You both have series you're loyal to, individually and as a duo

• You tease him about how seriously he critiques the CGI

• It's a time filled with shared laughter and shared commentary — it's simple, but for John it's intimacy in it's purest form

• Cooking is also prime quality time

• John is more capable in the kitchen than he lets on and you're just happy enough to have food regardless of who makes it

• On weekends, you love cooking together — testing recipes or making comfort food

• You also have this system that if one person cooks, the other cleans the dishes

• Both of you try to keep pots and pans and dishes to a minimum because you both actually despise washing up in the sink — just the thought of some soggy stray bit of food touching you makes your body cringe

• Now, John's kind of a nerd

• So it was a little surprising when you found out he'd never been to something like comic-con, or a collectors fair, or even a tech expo

• He's always wanted to but he hated the thought of going alone and being stuck in those crowds

• So, you take him, and you don't take no for an answer

• Which honestly, he's thankful for — you really do help him come out of his shell, try new things, and build up his confidence

• His main interests are totally like comic book stuff, obscure action figures, gaming gear, dice sets, vintage posters ect.

• So stuff like comic-con becomes something he looks forward to with you — it's one of the few places where John comes to feel free to nerd out without judgement

• Definitely visit retro game stores and hobby shops

• Like rows of consoles, shelves of used games, a tabletop section tucked in the back

• John is completely in his element here — content and nerdily chatty

• And you either need out too with him or wander off to find your own corner of interest, occasionally calling him over to look at something weird

• You both totally love the old-school vibe so record and vintage media shops are also a common hit with you two

• We're talking vinyls, VHS and DVD collections, movie memorabilia

• His favourite kind of vinyl finds are soundtracks from movies he grew up on

• It's a nostalgic, quiet vibe filled with small discoveries that's exactly John's tempo

• Something a bit more random would be going to flea markets and collectors fairs together

• Table full of oddities, old tools, toys, patches, even more memorabilia

• You tend to browse together, split up for a little, and then reunite to compare finds

• John and you definitely have this little ritual of buying each other one small, weird thing per trip

• Reading together is comfortable

• Whether it's at home, in a bookstore, or a comic store

• He's into his graphic novels, sci-fi paperbacks, and maybe even occasionally crime thrillers

• You'll read alongside one another — explore different sections maybe if you're out of the apartment

• Let's look a little at the type of dates you guys do

• You'll go to stuff like niche movie theatres or outdoor screening — retro or indie theatres playing cult classics, marathons, or cheesy action flicks

• He's the kind of guy that's quoting lines under his breath and rating the explosions out of ten

• You mostly love watching him enjoy it

• But let's just remember this is John Economos you're dating so

• Takeout on the couch kind of date nights are top tier

• It's the most "John Economos" date you can have

• You pick comfort food places — maybe pizza, Chinese, maybe a diner that knows your orders by heart

• At home, you'll eat while watching something dumb and comforting — it could be some stupid mainstream series or like YouTube review channels like Dead Meat because their kill counts are awesome, especially with all the facts that accompany the brief run-through and body tally

• Like this, there's light teasing and definitely a bit of mock arguing over who gets the last fry or duck roll, and eventually one of you dozes off against the other

• Nerd nights totally happen too

• Like, it could be gaming together, building Lego sets

• Whatever your heart's desire

• Hell, even board games or even going out to trivia nights at bars

• John's at his happiest when he gets to be playful — a little competitive, a little goofy, and fully himself

• You guys have definitely enjoyed late-night drives or small getaways

• They're rare and usually very spontaneous

• Like "let's just go" kind of evening

• So every now and then, you'll hop in the car and drive with no destination — music playing, windows cracked, city lights fading

• Sometimes you've ended up at a lookout

• Other times a diner that's still open at 2AM

• John's not big on overt romance, but in those quiet, unexpected moments, it shows up naturally — in the way he looks over and smiles, or reaches out to rest him hand on yours

• Now, it's not exactly "dates" but practically every moment can feel like a date with you two

• Like grocery shopping together that turns into a mini adventure

• Or Saturday morning breakfast funs

• Shared chores with music

• Fixing something around the house together

• John finds joy in the everyday when with you — when it's shared, it becomes something warm and quietly beautiful

• Now, the super super rare but special "dress-up" date

• It's probably you that convinces him to go somewhere a bit nicer — a real dinner, a show, or a concert

• Not because you don't like your usual kind of dates because you absolutely love anything to do with him

• It's just something different

• He'll gripe about wearing "real pants" but he ends up enjoying it because he likes seeing how happy it makes you

• Hell always find a way to bring humour into it though

• It's not his natural element, but it shows his willingness to step out of his comfort zone for someone he loves

• Okay

• So, we've covered how you guys sleep, the type of affection you guys share, dates and usual couple activities

• Let's look at something even more fun

• Pictures!

• Like the type you two take now as a couple

• Early on, John is not big on selfies — he's self-conscious about angles, his hair, his expression

• He'll mutter something like, "I look weird in photos," or joke, "Take a picture with some dog; everyone likes dogs."

• You're the one who starts taking more candid shots

• Him laughing, him concentrating on something like a game, cooking, reacting to something ridiculous on TV

• Over time, he starts leaning into it

• He still makes faces or mock protests but secretly he loves that someone wants to take pictures with him

• Of him

• And it not to completely mock or make fun of him

• He takes some too

• Usually quiet snapshots — you sleeping under a blanket, a coffee mug beside your hand, sunlight hitting your face

• He doesn't post them but he keeps them close

• He's a sentimental guy in private

• They aren't for others, they're keepsakes of feeling safe and wanted

• John definitely has some favourite photos of you guys together

• Like the accidental selfie

• He's mid laugh, you're beside him grinning

• It's not perfect — it's a little blurry — but it's real

• This is definitely his phone's lock screen

• There's also one where you're asleep on his shoulder on the couch after a late-night movie

• He didn't plan to take it — just opened his camera to check something and froze at how peaceful it all looked

• There's one of you guys in front of a booth at a convention

• One of you guys cooking together

• The ones you took of each other looking absolutely ridiculous eating ice cream

• His computer background is something a little more low-key

• It's a picture of a place you guys visited once taken through the car windscreen

• The view was astonishing and it's one of your favourite spontaneous outings

• It's peaceful and something that reminds him of quiet contentment

• He's not one for big displays but when he's at work, whether it's in the office or in the van, a small glance at that background is enough to steady him

• Around the apartment, there's a couple framed pictures on the bookshelf or side table — nothing arranged like a gallery, just sprinkled around naturally

• One's tucked into the corner of his bathroom mirror

• A small print you slipped there one morning

• The fridge is decorated with magnets holding up photo booth strips, movie tickets from your past or up-coming dates, and a grocery list

• There's definitely just a sweet, simple picture of you two on his bedside table

• He doesn't show them off to visitors

• But if someone notices and comments, he'll shrug and mumble something like, "Yeah, good day," while secretly glowing inside

• John doesn't always like seeing himself in photos — old insecurities die hard

• But ones with you soften that edge

• Over time, the photos become quiet reminders that's he's changed, that's he's allowed to be happy, to be loved, to exist without irony

• Some nights, when he's alone, he'll scroll through them and smile to himself — quietly, privately — feeling the warmth that comes from belonging

• Now, let's just quickly look at the 11th Street Kids as a final thing to delve into

• More specifically, your integration into the group as John's partner

• They treat you like a natural extension, like there's teasing but also real inclusion

• You get invited out to movie nights, post-mission hangouts, bars

• You probably ended up being the one who brings snacks or mediates during arguments

• Over time, you'd fit seamlessly — not by being loud, but by matching the teams strange rhythm

• Patience, humour, and a dash of CHAOS

• Theres this unspoken sense that everyone is glad John found someone

• It's rare in their world and they all recognise how much lighter he seems because of it

• But anyways

• Overall, John and you have the kind of relationship that's warm, grounded, and quietly genuine

• It's built less on grand gestures and more on the small, steady ways you show up for each other every day

• You laugh a lot, support each others quirks, and find comfort in simply being together

• You balance each other out — John brings stability and a big heart, while you add lightness and warmth

• Whether you're gaming on the couch, going to conventions, or sharing quiet mornings, there's an ease between you that makes even ordinary moments feel meaningful

• In the end, your relationship isn't flashy or picture-perfect, but it's real

• The kind that grows from trust, laughter, and knowing that, finally, you both found someone who feels like home

_______________

Once again, nothing to really add

I'm quite happy with this and I hope the requester is too

Other than that

As always

Constructive criticism is welcomed and appreciated

And I hope you enjoyed

[lilxberry]

Hi! I saw you were taking requests and if you want to can you write John Economos x Super-powered Reader where John is tryna be subtle about their relationship in the office while the reader doesn’t care who knows (everyone absolutely knows)? Thank you whether you write it or not!

There's No Such Thing As Discretion — John Economos

I'm so sorry if this is bad, this felt a little sloppy on my behalf, like it's even way shorter than my usual but I hope you somewhat like it anyways

[lilxberry]

There's No Such Thing As Discretion — John Economos

Requested by: Annonymous

Hi! I saw you were taking requests and if you want to can you write John Economos x Super-powered Reader where John is tryna be subtle about their relationship in the office while the reader doesn’t care who knows (everyone absolutely knows)? Thank you whether you write it or not!

I altered it a tad so rather than an office setting like in season 2, it's like a slight rewrite of season 1 still during the whole alien butterfly scenario/situation. I hope you don't mind, I just thought it was a little easier plus I was able to actually think of some sort of power reader could have where it would slot in nicely. I also hinted at reader being female without realising it, I hope you don't mind. I don't believe its like majorly obvious or mentioned so much that it bugs out the vibe while reading. Finally, I'm so sorry it's shorter than some, I just really struggled to think of something up for your request for some reason.

Warnings: light brief mentions of violence and injury. I think that's mostly it. For once, there's no use of bad language because I was so focused on trying to write a coherent story

Word Count: 1.5K (1591)

Pairing: John Economos x Metahuman reader/Super powered reader

(A/N: this feels a little sloppy from me, my bad. I think it's because I've had to wrack my brain so much for some reason to make something comprehensible, readable, that somewhat actually makes sense.)

_______________

The first day at Evergreen HQ smells like damp drywall, gun oil, and too much coffee that’s been reheated three times.

You’ve barely dropped your go-bag when John pretends you don’t exist.

It’s almost funny.

Almost.

He’s standing by the monitors, stiff in that checked flannel, trying to act like the two of you haven’t shared a bed, a mortgage, and a very unfortunate IKEA couch for the last two years.

Murn gives the usual rundown — Butterflies, alien parasites, yada-yada Waller doesn’t pay overtime. You nod, eyes flicking to John. He’s focused way too hard on his keyboard.

Murn calls out your name as he turns to you. “Waller says you can feel them.”

You shrug. “Something like that.”

He nods once. “Good. Don’t make me regret having you here.”

Across the table Peacemaker whistles. “What’s her deal? Another one of Waller’s science experiments?”

“Metahuman,” Adebayo offers, reading the file. “Bio-electric sensitivity. Can sense living signatures within a few hundred meters.”

Peacemaker grins. “So basically human Wi-Fi.”

You deadpan, “You wish.”

John doesn’t look up. You catch his jaw tighten; he’s silently praying you don’t call him babe.

You absolutely do.

“John, can you grab me the tablet, babe?”

Every head turns. Harcourt raises a brow. “Babe?”

You flash a sugary smile. “Figure of speech.”

“Uh-huh,” she mutters, unconvinced.

John fumbles the tablet, mutters, “We’re gonna need bigger guns,” and all but trips over the cords to escape the room.

—

Separate motel rooms — John's idea. “For appearances,” he'd said.

You last twenty minutes before sneaking down the hall. John opens the door before you knock.

“I knew you’d come,” he whispers, half-accusation, half-relief, like he hadn't been the one to suggest you look like you sleep in different beds.

“You left the TV on ‘Ancient Aliens,’” you whisper back. “I could hear the bullshit through the wall.”

He smirks. “That why you’re here?”

You brush past him, toe off your boots. “That and the fact that your bed’s better.”

It’s not. It just smells like him — soap, aftershave, too many long nights at a keyboard. He watches you crawl under the covers like you’re a ghost he doesn’t deserve.

“Tomorrow,” he murmurs, sliding in beside you, “maybe don’t call me babe in front of Peacemaker?”

“Sure,” you mumble into the pillow. “I’ll use sweetcheeks instead.”

He groans into his hands. “You’re gonna get me killed.”

You smile against his shoulder. “You love it.”

He doesn’t answer, but the way his arm wraps around you says enough.

—

You and Harcourt clear a safe house while Economos and Peacemaker rig surveillance outside. Your power hums low in your veins, a constant vibration behind the ribs — the city’s pulse, hundreds of lives overlapping.

“Anything?” Harcourt asks.

You close your eyes, filter the noise, and find it: a heartbeat too slow, too steady. “There,” you point. “Basement. Not human.”

By the time the thing’s dead, there’s gore everywhere and Peacemaker’s yelling something about his “perfect kill ratio.” You’re wiping blood off your cheek when John appears, pale and wide-eyed.

“You good?” he asks, voice tight.

“Peachy.”

He reaches for you before catching himself, hand jerking back like you’re radioactive. The look on your face must kill him, because he lowers his voice. “We said low-key.”

“You said low-key," you say pointedly. "Plus, you think Harcourt’s gonna care if you hold my hand after a firefight?”

“Yes,” he hisses. “Yes, I do.”

You snort. “Jesus, John. You’re acting like Waller’s gonna send us to couple’s counseling.”

Adebayo overhears on her way past. “Honestly? She might.”

You laugh. John groans.

Low-key, your ass.

—

A week in, Adebayo corners you in the hallway while John’s running data. “So,” she starts, casual. “You and Economos.”

You blink, innocent. “What about us?”

She grins. “You twitch every time someone mentions his name. And he looks at you like you’re about to explode.”

You raise an eyebrow. “That’s just his default expression.”

She laughs. “Girl, I’m married. I know that look.”

You sigh, defeated. “We’ve been together a while. He just doesn’t want Waller using it against us.”

“Smart,” she admits. “But, uh, subtlety? Not exactly your strong suit.”

You grin. “Good.”

—

Murn’s mid-lecture about operational discipline when you feel a sharp spike in your chest — John’s anxiety, a heartbeat pattern you know better than your own. You glance over; he’s staring at the table, jaw tight.

You slide a note across — You okay?

He scribbles back — Stop. People will see.

They already do.

Peacemaker’s watching the entire exchange, chewing a protein bar like it’s the most entertaining thing in the world.

“Jesus Christ, just make out already,” he blurts.

Murn doesn’t even pause. “If you two are done passing love letters, maybe focus on the alien threat?”

John turns scarlet. You bite your lip to keep from laughing.

Adebayo leans over, stage-whispers, “Told you.”

—

It’s a warehouse on the outskirts — too quiet, too clean. You can feel five distinct bio-signatures moving inside, four human, one that's just...off. The Butterfly’s pattern hums in your head like radio static.

“Five targets,” you tell them. “Fourth one’s infected.”

Murn signals go. Peacemaker kicks the door in because of course he does.

Gunfire. Screams. Then — chaos.

The Butterfly host goes down swinging, slamming you into a wall hard enough to make your vision flash. John shouts your name through the comms, voice cracking.

You’re fine. Bruised, dizzy, but fine.

You shove the thing off and drive a knife under its jaw. It collapses in a wet heap, twitching until the light dies behind its eyes.

The quiet afterward is worse than the fight — all the other heartbeats around you hammering, alive, human.

You barely notice John until he’s right there, grabbing your face, scanning for blood.

“Jesus—” his heart somehow thumps louder than your own as he quickly calls your name worriedly.

“I’m fine,” you insist. “Couple bruises.”

He doesn’t let go. “Don’t—don’t say fine when you almost—” He cuts himself off, remembering the comms, the eyes on you both.

Too late.

Everyone’s watching.

Peacemaker lowers his gun, smirks. “Aww, that’s adorable. Daddy Tech’s got a girlfriend.”

Harcourt snorts — having had suspicions back during their time during Task Force X in Corto Maltese and practically having confirmation handed to her on a silver platter the first day you all began working together against the butterflies.

Adebayo crosses her arms, grin smug. “Told y’all.”

John freezes, hand still cupping your cheek. You could pull away, play it off like John's done the entire time being part of this group, but you don’t. You just look at him — tired, covered in alien guts, and beautiful in the most ridiculous way.

'Screw it.'

He leans in and kisses you. Quick, messy, unashamed — tired of trying to play down your connection and stupid of him to try in the first place.

Peacemaker whoops. Vigilante claps like he’s watching fireworks. Harcourt mutters, “About damn time,” and keeps reloading.

When he pulls back, you're whispering, small grin pulling at your lips, “Guess the secret’s out.”

“With how you handled it, it was out way before now,” John says, smiling — his glasses slip when his fuzzy cheeks push up.

—

The teasing doesn’t stop for days.

Peacemaker starts referring to you as “Mrs. Economos.” Harcourt pretends to gag every time you sit too close. Adebayo, bless her, keeps nudging John like she’s proud of him for having a life. And that's not to mention all the times previous they've made quiet jokes neither of you tended to hear — Chris and Adrian's by far the dirtiest.

At first he grumbles. Then, slowly, he stops caring. He lets you sit on the arm of his chair during debriefs, lets your hand rest on his shoulder while he types.

Once, during an all-nighter, he even pulls you into his lap and keeps working around you. Nobody says a word. They’ve all adjusted.

You watch him, fingers tapping a lazy rhythm against his chest, feeling that steady heartbeat you could find anywhere. He glances up. “What?”

“Nothing.” You smile. “Just like hearing you.”

He shakes his head, a half-laugh rumbling in his throat. “You’re gonna ruin my rep.”

“Pretty sure Peacemaker already did that.”

He grins despite himself. “Yeah. Guess I’m stuck with you then.”

You kiss his temple and scratch at the beard hair on his chin lovingly. “Guess you are.”

—

Later, after another mission, you sit outside the motel, just watching the sky and listening to the night. The world hums — crickets, neon signs, the low thunder of heartbeats in the rooms around you. John steps out, sits beside you, silent for a while.

“You ever wish you could turn it off?” he asks quietly.

“Sometimes,” you admit. “Then I’d miss yours.”

He blushes, shakes his head. “That’s disgustingly sweet.”

“What? Too much for even your sweet tooth to handle?"

He leans back, eyes on the stars but you see him grin out the corner of your eye — not the kind with hard edges when someone's amused, it's that peaceful, soft type.

And you can feel it then — that slow, solid rhythm beneath all the noise. Constant. Familiar.

For once, it’s enough.

_______________

Welp

It's not my best work

But I'm happy enough with it I guess

I'm sorry this is a little shorter than my usual one-shots

But anyways

As always, constructive criticism is welcomed and appreciated

And I hope you found your reading experience enjoyable

[bezza-illustration]

Brain went mmmm Dick in slutty little crop tops

It's literally so bad in quality but it's one of those whatcha call it? WIP? I dunno. All I know is that it took like 40 minutes, not even that

Anyways

The way it's taken over my brain that I had to do a little doodle.

Like, I'm actually already in the middle of writing something about Dick and his crop top obsession on my writing blog so 🤷🏻‍♀️ ( @lilxberry )

[lilxberry]

Enjoy this WIP? that I posted to my barely used art account on here 🙂👍🏻

[lilxberry]

Parents' Evening — Damian Wayne

Synopsis;

There are many things Gotham’s vigilantes can handle — rooftop chases, crime lords, near-apocalypses — but nothing tests their patience quite like parents’ evening.

Between Damian’s thinly veiled contempt for his science teacher, Alfred composure, and one very proud (and very tired) Batmom, it’s shaping up to be the most eventful night of the semester.

Warnings: Nothing really springs to mind and it's not really proofread so the worst is probably that it's a little messy. It's mostly platonic, fluffy, and domestic in a sense.

Word Count: 6K (6089)

Pairing: Damian Wayne x Batmom!Reader + Alfred Pennyworth — briefly Bruce Wayne x Wife!Reader

(A/N: for the sake of the story, Jason attended Gotham academy. Canonically, it's moreso insinuated that Jason remained mostly in public school — when he did attend — often being suspended/expelled from GA during his time involved with Bruce.)

(A/N 2: for those curious about their requests, I'm still working on them, don't worry. I'm doing quick edits for one and another I'm close to finishing before editing so, don't worry, I'm still working through your requests, I just like to occasionally break it up with different stories so I'm not swamping my head with the same characters constantly which usually results in your requests looking messy.)

_______________

For teachers, it was the final endurance trial of the semester — a marathon of polite smiles, lukewarm coffee, and careful phrasing like “spirited learner” and “unique approach to teamwork.” For most parents, it was a chance to beam proudly, compare grades, and pretend their child’s behavioral notes were “just a phase.” For students, it was dread. A long night of sitting two rows away, trying not to make eye contact as their academic sins were laid bare in a lecture disguised as informative discussions.

Parents’ evening meant different things to different people.

For Damian Wayne, however, it was none of those things.

Parents’ evening was a logistical inconvenience — an outdated ritual of forced social niceties that could’ve been summarized in an email. He had already assessed his performance, corrected his teachers’ errors, and determined that their opinions were, statistically speaking, of minimal consequence. Still, you insisted that parents evening was all part of being a "normal child". Alfred had agreed. Which meant it was happening, whether Damian liked it or not.

And so, on a crisp Gotham evening, while Bruce Wayne found himself halfway across the city at a shareholders’ meeting that he couldn't get out of, having already postponed it a multitude of times, you and Alfred — the human, not to be confused with Alfred, the cat — stepped through the shining glass doors of Gotham Academy — ready to discuss the education of a boy who could out-debate his teachers, out-run his coach, and very likely out-fence his instructor.

You'd already talked with Damian — well, more like strongly suggested, that he remains quiet and calm. Of course, it's with the strongest delusion that surely they have no notes on how your little robin acts in nothing but an exemplary manner, but because you live within reality, you're certain Damian has argued with staff enough times that at least one teacher must have resigned by now.

And so, you made your way down the polished hallway, the rhythmic click of Alfred’s shoes echoed softly against the marble. Damian walked half a step ahead, hands clasped behind his back like a young diplomat on a state visit, his expression the picture of stoic endurance.

You smiled faintly, leaning toward him. “You know,” you murmured, “if tonight goes well — I'm certain your father and I can agree that you more than deserve a reward."

That earned you a skeptical glance. “A reward,” he repeated flatly, as if the concept itself were beneath him.

“Mhm.” You kept your tone light, amused. “A treat, especially if you behave tonight. You pick.”

Damian’s eyes narrowed in thought — the faintest hint of curiosity flickering beneath his composed exterior. “Anything?”

You gave a small shrug. “Within reason.”

Beside you, Alfred’s voice carried, dry as ever. “I should remind Master Damian that purchasing an equestrian training facility or a private island does not fall within the established definition of ‘reason.’”

A quiet huff of laughter escaped you. “You heard the man. So behave yourself, and maybe we’ll stop by that bakery you like on the way home.”

Damian said nothing, but the corner of his mouth betrayed him — just barely — before he straightened his shoulders again. “Very well. I shall endeavor not to disgrace the family name.”

“Good,” you said, smiling to yourself as you approached the first classroom door — Mrs Hargreaves, English department.

You exchanged a quick look with Alfred — an unspoken pact of mutual patience — before you both stepped inside.

—

"Mrs Wayne," Mrs Hargreaves greeted as you entered with Damian and Alfred in tow, her hands perched atop her wooden desk. "It's wonderful to see you again. And hello to you, Mr Pennyworth. I hope you are fairing well."

It's not unusual that most staff know you by now, having already done this dance with each of your other boys and their teachers. Year after year when they were enrolled, there you were, right beside Dick, then Jason, and Tim, listening to all sorts of feedback — praise, thinly veiled exhaustion, concern, slight judgements on attitudes and approaches to schoolwork.

Pleasantries are returned as the three of you take your seats opposite, the darkened oak desk sat between your miniature gaggle and her.

The outside evening light filters through tall, arched windows dressed in heavy emerald curtains, illuminating rows of dark oak desks. The scent of old paper lingers here — the ghosts of novels read and essays graded. The walls are lined with framed literary quotes and shelves sagging under the weight of well-worn classics. A small reading nook sits in one corner, complete with a threadbare leather armchair and a brass lamp that hums faintly when lit. There’s something quietly romantic about this room, as if stories themselves live in the dust motes that drift through the air. It's almost a shame it's wasted on adolescents that'd rather be anywhere but school learning how to properly structure letters and the foundations of classic gothic fiction.

"Damian is quite the examplary literate student," Hargreaves begins. "His understanding and his comprehension of how to discuss works we cover during class in depth is sublime." Before Alfred and yourself can grow all too proud, and Damian all too smug, Mrs Hargreaves continues. "Although, perhaps young Damian here becomes a teeny bit too passionate, too...overzealous...during class discussions."

"Tt," Damian quietly scoffs accompanied with a diminutive roll of his eyes. But he spots the way you subtly roll your shoulders back and posture your head a little higher — though not in a smug, uppity display.

A magazine, the type that gossip about and idolise "celebrities" with the occasional one or two scandalous pictures and updates, once compared your smile to the sun in an article — nothing but bright, radiant, and emitting such warmth it could melt ice caps — a line you’d rolled your eyes at when you first read it, though even Bruce had conceded — in his own gruff way — that they might’ve been right. Gotham’s never had much sunlight, after all, but somehow, you’d managed to bring your own.

And that same smile was always present when talking or thinking about your family — Bruce, Alfred, your sons — even if sometimes, like now, it can appear a bit more, well, perhaps the best way to describe such would be wary.

"Well, our Damian," you begin, your tone patient and laced with fond amusement, "has always had a very sharp mind. When he’s interested in something, he doesn’t do it halfway — he dives right in, dissects it, debates it, sometimes to death if you let him."

You glance at Damian, whose posture stiffens just slightly under your calm gaze. "That passion can come off a little intense, I know," you continue, turning back to Mrs. Hargreaves, "but I think it’s less about wanting to be right and more about wanting to understand. He’s... wired that way. He likes answers that make sense — and if they don’t, he’ll pick at them until they do."

"And, well," you add, smiling that sun-warm smile of yours, "there are worse things for a young boy to be than enthusiastic about literature, don’t you think?"

Alfred, ever composed, gives a quick nod beside you and you catch the faintest twitch of his lips — amusement, pride, and approval all in one.

"While I agree your son's enthusiasm is admirable, perhaps he could reign in some of that enthusiasm so the class can make it through a full lesson without an added lecture detailing the supposed failures of well renowned authors. And my own teachings." She sounded a bit disgruntled at that final note and you could only internally cringe because of course, your Damian would be arguing with teachers and outright debating their personal approaches to teaching before the whole class.

And you can only prepare yourself to hear similar comments from the rest of the staff you're lined up to see this evening.

Alfred, always the picture of composure and charmed elegance, refolds his hands resting against his knee. "I am certain that Mr and Mrs Wayne will encourage Master Damian to perhaps participate during class with restraint — a more active listener than an active lecturer."

You swear you spot a tiny twitch at her left eye, her body screaming composed yet her smile not quite reaching her eyes; a little strained, forced. "Well, I'll be sure to keep my hopes and expectations at a reasonable level."

Damian, sandwiched between Alfred and yourself, sniggers which results in a quick and discreet nudge from you, your knee knocking his. Though, you did a job well done restraining yourself from mirroring your son.

Mrs. Hargreaves clears her throat, visibly deciding to steer back toward safer ground. “That said,” she continues, flipping through a folder on her desk, “Damian’s written work is consistently exceptional. His essays demonstrate an advanced grasp of both language and analysis. His recent piece on Frankenstein was... quite frankly, university level. The way he unpacked the moral implications of creation and responsibility—” she pauses, glancing up with reluctant admiration “—was nothing short of brilliant.”

You can’t help the little surge of pride that rises in your chest at that. Beside you, Alfred’s expression softens, just enough to betray his own quiet satisfaction.

Mrs. Hargreaves continues, her voice a touch lighter now. “His command of vocabulary is remarkable for someone his age, and his structuring — immaculate. Every argument, every quotation, perfectly supported. It’s a pleasure to read and mark his work.”

Damian, of course, looks entirely unsurprised by the praise.

“Even,” she adds after a small, pointed pause, “when he writes responses to my feedback on the margins of his graded essays and returns them to me. Corrected.”

There’s a heartbeat of silence. Then Alfred gives a polite, knowing cough.

You fold your hands neatly in your lap, your tone gentle but amused. “Well... at least you can be certain he’s...regarding...your feedback with much thought.”

Mrs. Hargreaves’ mouth twitches into something halfway between a smile and a grimace. “Yes. Vigorously.”

That earns the faintest huff of laughter from you, and even Alfred allows himself a quiet exhale that’s almost a chuckle.

“Well, Mrs. Hargreaves,” you say, rising from your seat, “thank you for your time. We’ll make sure Damian channels that enthusiasm a little more... constructively.”

“Please do,” she says, though there’s a note of reluctant fondness in her tone now. “He truly is a remarkable student.”

As you step back into the hall, you catch Damian’s eye and give him a look that lands somewhere between I’m proud of you and we’ll talk about those margin notes later.

“Come along,” Alfred murmurs, straightening his jacket. “One class down, several more to go.”

You sigh, the smile returning to your lips as you glance at the list in your hand. “Right. Where to next, my curriculum critic?" You ask teasingly at your son.

"Preferably home," he mutters, though he's quick to straighten up when he catches your raised eyebrow and slightly pursed lips. He finally relents with a sigh. "Mathematics with Mr Graves."

—

The conversations with Mr. Graves, followed by Ms. Patel — Damian’s history teacher — went as smoothly as you could’ve hoped. Naturally, they shared similar grievances about his *spirited* participation in class, but there was still plenty of praise to sing about your boy.

And it came as no surprise that Ms. Morin had no negatives at all to share about Damian in her art class. Well, perhaps Alfred and you had been a little surprised — but pleasantly so, you suppose.

But the evening wasn’t over just yet.

Because now, you found yourselves seated opposite Mr. Rivera in the science lab — Antony Rivera, fellow Gotham Academy alumnus who, like yourself, attended through a scholarship rather than family wealth or parental influence over the school board. He’d been two years above you back then, but all the scholarship students tended to stick together — study groups, shared bus rides, late nights swapping notes before exams.

He’s equal parts brilliant and scatterbrained — passionate about his subject to a fault and still approaches science like a kid in a candy store. He believes curiosity should never be punished, and mistakes are simply part of discovery.

His enthusiasm and genuine care for students make him one of the most beloved teachers at the Academy — though, if you asked around, a few colleagues might quietly describe him as *exhausting.* He’s charismatic without trying, the kind of man who remembers every student’s name, every parent’s face, and still occasionally calls you by your old school nickname — which, admittedly, is a tad inappropriate now.

Mr. Antony Rivera is the kind of teacher students adore yet live in mild fear of during experiments, the kind mothers fawn over and fathers quietly despise — because somehow, every interaction leaves their wives smiling a little too brightly.

Tall and lean, with that easy, natural sort of charm that comes from confidence rather than vanity, Rivera carries himself like someone who’s never quite lost his boyish spark. His dark hair has just begun to silver at the temples — in a way that, frustratingly, only seems to make the mothers swoon more — and there are almost always faint smudges of chalk or graphite on his hands or shirt sleeves from the day’s lessons.

And no man despises him more than Bruce Wayne. Because while other women may flirt harmlessly with the charming science teacher, Antony Rivera’s eyes have only ever followed one woman — the one he’s harbored a quiet, stubborn crush on since their own school days.

If anything, time had only made Rivera’s fondness deepen — mellowed it, perhaps, but never erased it. What had once been a harmless teenage crush had aged into something wistful, lingering just beneath his easy smile. To him, you weren’t just “Mrs. Wayne,” and by god, that name paired with yours tasted ever so slightly bitter on his tongue. You were the girl who used to beat him at chemistry quizzes and share your lunch when he’d forgotten his own.

So every time your paths crossed — at school fundraisers, science fairs, or nights like this — he’d light up with that same boyish grin, his voice dipping just a touch warmer when he spoke to you. You, of course, never cared to notice. You’d always seen Antony Rivera as what he was: a kind, passionate teacher and an old friend from a long time ago.

Everyone else, however, noticed *everything.*

Other mothers exchanged not-so-subtle looks, their envy disguised as politeness; their husbands pretended not to be elated that, with his attention on you, their wives had little chance of actually ending up in his bed. Alfred, ever the gentleman, carried himself with immaculate civility, though his gaze often lingered on Rivera for a beat longer than courtesy required — as if quietly deciding whether to remind Bruce about this particular man’s existence later.

And then there was Damian.

Damian had clocked the man’s interest the *moment* it existed. He’d noticed the way Rivera’s eyes softened when you entered a room, the way he laughed a little too easily at your remarks, and how he’d once adjusted his lab coat when greeting you — like that somehow made him more presentable.

He remembered when he first brought it up to his brothers after Bruce and you had been called in earlier that day for… oh, who even remembers for what. Dick had already left by the time Rivera got there, but Jason and Tim… they’d suffered plenty having to watch the man drool over you. And Bruce — well, Bruce’s jaw had clenched so tightly it was a miracle the man could still speak afterward.

“Should’a seen Bruce’s face when they first had to meet him at one of my parent evenings,” Jason had started, the vivid memory still enough to make him snicker. “Mr. R definitely got lucky walkin’ away without a broken jaw.”

Tim nodded, equally amused. “I don’t even *have* him anymore, and he still somehow ends up catching Mom for a chat when she’s supposed to be there for one of *my* things.”

From that day onward, Damian’s feelings toward his science teacher could only be described as… homicidally protective.

He scowled through every class, answered every question with surgical precision, and corrected Rivera’s equations before the man could finish writing them. Once, he even “accidentally” overheated a Bunsen burner while Rivera stood too close — a mishap Alfred had quietly described as “strategic.”

Regardless, to you, Antony Rivera was harmless — a familiar face from the past, nothing more. To Damian, however, he was a walking threat to domestic stability.

Which entirely explained why, in this moment, he was sitting stiffly between his mother and the closest thing he had to an actual affectionate grandfather — scowling so deeply at the man across the table that even Alfred had started to side-eye him in mild concern.

Antony — Mr Rivera — had welcomed you all in with a smile, even if he did gulp slightly at the way his student glowered at him as if his demise was being internally plotted in the young boys head. And he'd nervously adjusted his tie when you all took your seats, loosening the professional noose. Hell, Damian had sworn he swung open his door all too eager to be in the presence of his ummi.

You offer a polite smile, one that could thaw Gotham’s winter chill. Alfred is sat as calm and composed as ever.

“Mr. Rivera,” you return the warm welcome with an acknowledgement, voice pleasant. “It’s been a while. You look well.”

“I could say the same,” he replies, grin softening just a touch too much and his voice dropping a tad as he says your name — first name, not Mrs Wayne. “You haven’t changed a bit since—” He stops himself mid-sentence, catching sight of Damian’s narrowing eyes and Alfred’s subtle lift of an eyebrow. “—since the last fundraiser, I mean. You look… radiant.”

You blink, amused but polite. “That’s very kind of you.”

Damian clears his throat pointedly. “Perhaps, Mr. Rivera, we might focus on my *academic* performance rather than my mother’s aesthetic condition.”

“Right!” Rivera laughs, rubbing the back of his neck. “Of course, yes. Damian. Let’s talk about Damian.”

He flips through a few pages on his tablet, still smiling as though he hasn’t just been caught mid-flirt. “Now, I’ll start by saying Damian is one of the brightest students I’ve had in years. His grasp of chemical theory, molecular composition, and biological processes is outstanding — honestly, graduate-level at points. He doesn’t just memorize; he *understands*.”

You nod, pride softening your expression. “That’s wonderful to hear. He’s always been quite curious.”

“Curious is one word for it,” Rivera says with a short laugh. “Determined might be another. Though…” He hesitates, glancing down at his notes. “He can be a bit, ah — *assertive* in the lab.”

Alfred hums lightly. “Assertive?”

Rivera chuckles, a little sheepish. “Let’s just say, he’s… very sure of himself. Once, he corrected my formula mid-lesson — in front of thirty other students. He was right, of course, but…”

“I was *saving* the class from embarrassment,” Damian interjects flatly.

“Of course you were,” Rivera says good-naturedly. “And, ah, there was that one time with the miniscule, teensy tiny chemical spill—”

“That was a *miscalculation*,” Damian cuts in again, eyes flicking up sharply. “Entirely circumstantial.”

“I see,” Alfred murmurs, clearly suppressing a smile. “A most tactical miscalculation, then.”

You press your lips together, fighting the same urge. “Well, I’m sure no harm was done?”

Rivera waves it off with an easy grin. “No, no! Just a bit of excitement. Nothing I couldn’t handle. Besides, it’s good to see a student so… *proactive* in this field.”

At that, Alfred’s brow arches ever so slightly. “Proactive, indeed.”

Rivera clears his throat, shifting the topic quickly. “Overall, Damian’s work is exemplary. He leads by example, challenges his peers, and isn’t afraid to ask difficult questions. He’s got a brilliant scientific mind — one I’d encourage to keep exploring, perhaps even pursue higher-level courses next term.”

You smile warmly, genuine and full of pride. “Thank you, Antony. That means a lot.”

Damian’s jaw tightens at the use of his first name. His hand twitches near yours under the table — a silent claim of territory.

Alfred coughs into his fist, just loud enough to break the silence. “Well, Mr. Rivera, I daresay Gotham Academy is fortunate to have such… devoted faculty.”

Rivera beams, oblivious to the double meaning. “Thank you, Mr Pennyworth. I do my best.”

“I’m sure you do,” Alfred replies dryly, standing with practiced grace.

You follow, shaking Rivera’s hand once more. “We appreciate all you’ve done for Damian. Really.”

“Anytime,” Rivera says, his smile lingering a beat too long. “Always happy to help.”

As you turn to leave, Damian mutters under his breath, incomprehensible to you, “He’s insufferable.”

“Now, now,” Alfred chides softly. “No need for such hostility.”

“He stared at her for *five minutes* straight,” Damian hisses as you offered your final goodbyes to Rivera before walking to catch up with the two. “Father should have let me bring a sword.”

Alfred gives a patient sigh. “Master Bruce did insist on civility this evening.”

“Yes,” Damian replies through gritted teeth, “and it is *rapidly* deteriorating.”

—

Damian's mood seemed a little sour by the time you three finished chatting with Mrs bloom next — music teacher and drama club supervisor. She mentioned how Damian plays piano beautifully but lacks the emotion and heart, and how she's been desperately trying to get him to join any production they try to put on, but he refuses, the most he willingly participates in is the stage fighting with fists or props.

Which usually ended with someone suffering an injury at his hand.

But Damian seemed to have grown a little lighter by the time you three reached Coach Reilly's office — probably because of the distance it puts between you and Antony.

The itself office is functional, but lived-in — the kind of place that smells faintly of liniment and gym mats. A clipboard wall, trophies, and a shelf of old footballs give it personality. There’s a whistle somewhere on the desk, half-buried under paperwork. And the window looks out onto the field, where the students would run drills rain or shine. You can imagine you'd hear the echo of sneakers squeaking on gym floors through the connecting door to the locker rooms. It’s equal parts chaos and discipline, held together by sheer routine.

And at the epicenter of it all sits Coach Reilly. He's your classic stereotypical PE teacher — broad shoulders, perpetually sun-tanned face, and a voice that could probably carry across Gotham Harbor without a megaphone. His salt-and-pepper hair is cropped short, his polo shirt tucked neatly into track pants that have seen one too many semesters, and there’s a stopwatch always hanging around his neck like a badge of office.

But unlike the stereotypical barking type, Reilly’s got an easy humor about him — the kind that makes even the laziest students try a little harder. He’s firm, fair, and utterly immune to excuses, though there’s warmth behind his gruff exterior. He believes in effort over talent, teamwork over ego, and that getting muddy or bruised builds more character than a dozen classroom lectures ever could.

He’s an older faculty member — not old enough to have taught yourself, but old enough to remember teaching both Dick and Jason — which, frankly, explains the small twitch at the corner of his eye when he first spots your surname on any roster. The man’s seen things.

Still, he’s always been fond of your family — if a little wary of the chaos that tends to follow your sons like a curse. And to his credit, he treats Damian, and Tim, no differently.

So, when you step into his office, he greets you with a wide grin and a booming, “Mrs Wayne! Mr Pennyworth! And the man of the hour himself — Damian!” before gesturing toward the chairs across his desk.

"Hello, Coach Reilly," you offer warmly, Alfred mirroring.

Coach Reilly leans back in his chair, that ever-present grin softening into something a little more genuine. “I’ve gotta say, Mrs Wayne, Mr Pennyworth — this one’s a natural. Fastest sprint time in his year, sharpest reflexes I’ve seen in a long while. Kid’s got discipline, focus, drive — the kind that can’t be taught.”

You can practically feel Damian straighten beside you, posture snapping into proud attention at the sound of such high praise.

Reilly continues, resting his elbows on the desk. “Now, don’t get me wrong — he’s competitive as hell, and not exactly what I’d call a *team player* just yet, but he’s got leadership in him. You can’t fake that. Reminds me of another one of your boys I used to teach.”

Your lips quirk, sensing where this is going.

Reilly chuckles, shaking his head with the kind of nostalgia that only long-time teachers carry. “Your Dick was a picture of athleticism back in the day. That kid could run circles around half the upperclassmen — charm the socks off the other half, too.”

You blink, caught off guard — and before you can even attempt to school your expression, Damian lets out the softest huff of a laugh through his nose. A smirk ghosts over his lips, subtle but unmistakable.

Alfred’s brow arches ever so slightly, and you catch his eye — both of you clearly fighting the same losing battle not to grin.

Reilly, blissfully unaware, presses on. “Jason wasn’t too bad either — raw power, that one. Bit of a temper, but you could always count on him to give a hundred and ten percent. And Tim — well, we'll get to him in a couple days for his own parents evening, aye. You’ve got yourself quite the line-up, Mrs Wayne.”

You smile softly. “They do keep me on my toes.”

“I’ll bet,” Reilly says with a laugh, tapping his clipboard. “And this one—” he nods toward Damian, “—might just outdo them all someday. Though I’ll admit, I’ve had to *gently* remind him that friendly competition doesn’t usually involve actual combat maneuvers.”

Damian’s eyes narrow slightly. “If the objective is victory, then one should be prepared to win through all means available.”

Reilly barks a laugh, the sound booming in the small office. “See what I mean?” he says to you, grinning. “Confidence for days. Kid’s gonna run Gotham one day — on or off the field.”

You can’t help but return the grin, warmth blooming in your chest. “Let’s hope he channels that energy into something slightly less… bruising.”

Reilly chuckles, standing as he offers his hand across the desk. “He’s a good kid, Mrs Wayne. One of the best I’ve got. You should be proud.”

“Oh,” you reply with an easy, radiant smile, glancing at Damian with unmistakable fondness, “we are.”

As all three of you make to leave the office after shaking hands and bidding farewells, coach Reilly suddenly calls out to you like he's just now remembered something oh so important.

You've paused as Coach rounds the desk, small crisp envelope in hand, Damian's first and last name nearly scribed along the front. "Ms Zhang asked me to hand out her personal reviews of all students partaking in her fencing classes."

Ah, Ms Zhang — internationally renowned fencing champion, Olympic medalist, and the school’s not-so-secret bragging right. Gotham Academy loved nothing more than to casually mention her name during donor galas, a living testament to their “commitment to excellence.”

You take the envelope from Coach Reilly with a polite smile. “Thank you, Coach. I’ll be sure to read it once we’re home.”

—

God, you were exhausted by the time you'd finished the last of the rounds with Mr. Sloane, Mrs. Cole, and Headmaster Thornwell — you're certain Damian scares the ever-living hell out of Thornwell, but suppose he can't really complain considering the generous donations your husband and yourself give to the academy.

So the second you'd walked through the manor’s front doors, you were quick to kick off your shoes and sigh, rolling your ankles out as Alfred hung up his coat and Damian made a direct line for the kitchen — the little paper bag from the bakery already in hand.

The sound of familiar footsteps descending the grand staircase drew your gaze upward. Bruce appeared halfway down, his tie loosened, jacket not long obviously discarded, and that quiet, weary look he always carried after an evening spent with people who smiled too much and said too little.

But that softened the second his eyes landed on you.

“Welcome home,” he murmured as he reached the bottom step.

Before you could even reply, he was already there — one arm slipping around your waist, the other resting against your back as he leaned in to kiss you. It wasn’t hurried or showy, just soft and certain — the kind that said I missed you far more clearly than words ever could.

“Shareholders’ meeting?” you asked against his chest, voice still drowsy from the long evening.

He huffed a quiet laugh. “As thrilling as ever. I think one man spent twenty minutes debating the price of light bulbs.”

You chuckled softly. “And here I was thinking you might’ve had the more interesting night.”

He tilted his head, smirking faintly. “I doubt it. How was parents’ evening? I’m sorry I couldn’t make it this time.”

You waved a hand dismissively. “Mostly positive feedback, actually. A few… spirited remarks about enthusiasm and debate habits, but no detentions or formal complaints this time.”

Bruce arched a brow, amused. “Mostly positive?”

“Mhm.” You gestured toward the kitchen, where Damian sat perched on one of the stools, methodically eating a chocolate pastry with the precision of a surgeon. “Evidence right there. I promised him something sweet if he behaved himself and the feedback leaned more praise than concern. He earned it.”

Bruce followed your gaze, a smile tugging at his lips as he watched his youngest chew with careful dignity, pretending he wasn’t enjoying it as much as he was.

“He looks content,” Bruce murmured.

“He should be. He worked hard.” You nudged him lightly. “And before you ask — yes, we survived the Rivera encounter.”

That earned an unmistakable groan. “Him again.”

Alfred, passing through with his usual composure, interjected mildly, “Master Damian handled himself admirably, sir. If murderous glaring counts as restraint.”

You laughed quietly, pressing your face briefly into Bruce’s shoulder. “He behaved. I promise. Though, I can’t say the same for his internal monologue.”

Bruce huffed out a laugh, his hand gently rubbing your back. “I’ll take your word for it.”

For a few long moments, the house was quiet — the kind of quiet that felt safe, earned, like the world outside could wait until morning. Then, you're leaning back slightly to look up at your husband, eyes looking a little drowsy. "Patrol tonight?"

"Mmh," he hums confirmatively, dropping a kiss to your forehead. "Should head out soon."

"Have you eaten?" When he doesn't answer, your eyebrow is quirking up unimpressed. "You and Dami aren't going anywhere until you eat something actually substantial and let it settle for at least half an hour."

Bruce's chest rumbles from the deep, quiet chuckle that shakes his shoulders softly but he doesn't dare argue. He knows you could easily put your foot down about Damian not patrolling at all tonight because of school the following day so he supposes he should relent before he ends up defying that good old saying altogether — happy wife, happy life.

—

The manor was now silent, the kind of silence that only came after midnight — when even Gotham seemed to hold its breath for a while. The grandfather clock in the hall ticked steadily, soft against the hum of the kitchen lights.

You moved about quietly, half out of habit, half out of muscle memory. One mug for you, one for Alfred — his always with the faintest splash of milk, yours strong enough to wake the dead. The kettle whistled low and sharp, and you poured, the steam curling lazily through the air.

On the counter beside you sat the crisp envelope Coach Reilly had handed over hours ago — Ms. Zhang’s fencing report. You’d meant to read it earlier, but one thing had blurred into the next. So, with your tea warming your hands, you finally slit it open.

To whom it may concern regarding Damian Wayne,

It is with professional regard and genuine respect that I provide this update on Mr. Wayne’s participation and progress in Fencing this term.

From the beginning, Damian has demonstrated a remarkable grasp of both the technical and philosophical aspects of the discipline. His understanding of tempo, distance, and intent is exceptional for his age, and his reflexes and composure under pressure suggest a level of training far beyond that of a typical student. While his natural competitiveness can at times eclipse his sportsmanship, he has shown increasing discipline in balancing precision with restraint — a skill I consider equally valuable as any physical ability.

In paired exercises and tournament-style bouts, Damian has consistently outperformed his peers. His footwork is efficient, his bladework precise, and his strategic thinking is of the highest standard. He possesses an instinct for reading his opponent that cannot be taught, only refined. I have observed him applying classical principles of fencing with almost uncanny instinct — his parries are measured, his ripostes exact, and his timing nearly flawless.

Given his progress and clear aptitude, I strongly recommend that Damian consider participating in regional or national level competitions. The experience would challenge him in an environment that matches his capability and provide the opportunity to engage with opponents of comparable skill and discipline. I have no doubt that he would distinguish himself with honor.

In my years of instruction, it is rare to encounter a student who approaches fencing not merely as a sport, but as an art form and code of conduct. Damian Wayne does both, with exceptional focus and an intensity that commands respect.

Please do not hesitate to contact me should you wish to discuss potential next steps for his competitive involvement.

Respectfully,

Ms. Lin Zhang

Independent Fencing Instructor

Gotham Academy

By the time you folded it back into its envelope, you were smiling faintly — proud, unsurprised, and maybe a little amused at how earnestly your son approached everything like a matter of life and death.

Balancing both mugs, you padded softly through the hall, down the lift, and into the cool hum of the Batcave. Alfred looked up from his workstation the second he heard you.

“Tea delivery,” you murmured, setting his cup down beside him.

“Ah,” Alfred said, his face easing into one of those rare, fond smiles. “You’re a saint, ma’am.”

“I’ve been called worse,” you said lightly, placing the fencing letter on Bruce’s desk nearby. A small sticky note sat on the front in your handwriting:

'Don’t let Damian read this unless you want to deal with an inflated ego. Love you.'

You took one last look around the cave — the quiet monitors glowing, the faint sound of static from comms, the city skyline reflected in a dozen black screens. Somewhere out there, Bruce and Damian were doing what they did best, and somehow, that thought no longer filled you completely with worry — you're confident that your boys will come home alive and well, lest you kill them yourself.

“Be safe, boys,” you whispered under your breath, before turning back towards the stairs.

By the time you reached your room, your tea had cooled, but you didn’t mind. You set it on the nightstand, slipped beneath the covers, and let exhaustion finally pull you under.

And just before sleep claimed you, one stray thought drifted across your mind — half dread, half amusement.

Tim’s parents’ evening on Thursday.

You groaned softly into your pillow.

Maybe you weren’t ready to do this all over again.

_______________

Nothing to really add down here

This is just sort of an idea I had in my head before I disappeared for like 4 years

But anyways

I hope you've enjoyed

And as always, constructive criticism is welcomed and appreciated

[lilxberry]

Peacemaker requests you say?? Chris truly needs more love from the fans of his own damn show and I'm in the mood for a lil drama so could you do a short story or head cannons on Chris and reader being friends with benefits and accidentally getting pregnant before Chris goes to jail the first time? So reader couldn't get ahold of him and maybe thought he dipped when he realized she was pregnant? Sort of an odd request so if you'd like to skip it for a more fun one id understand 😅

4 Years, 8 Months — Christopher 'Peacemaker' Smith

Sorry if it's majorly bad, I struggled just a tad but I think I somewhat made something that's kinda readable. But I hope you can find it somewhat enjoyable

Anyways

LOVE YOU BYEEE

[lilxberry]

4 Years, 8 Months — Christopher 'Peacemaker' Smith

Requested by: Annonymous

Peacemaker requests you say?? Chris truly needs more love from the fans of his own damn show and I'm in the mood for a lil drama so could you do a short story or head cannons on Chris and reader being friends with benefits and accidentally getting pregnant before Chris goes to jail the first time? So reader couldn't get ahold of him and maybe thought he dipped when he realized she was pregnant? Sort of an odd request so if you'd like to skip it for a more fun one id understand 😅

Sorry if this is bad and definitely different to how you were imagining. I feel like I was struggling for ages to just write it right? I dunno. Anyways, I am thinking that at some point, I will do a second part where it really focuses on Chris interacting with the kid so.

Warnings: Brief mention of child birth (no actual full description). Smut implied. Suggestive. Language. Honestly, I can't really think back to what I've written so I'm failing at thinking of others things that might need a warning though I'm pretty sure I've covered everything. This is NOT proofread so it might suck and there may be mistakes. I'm sorry I'm not perfect, man!

Word Count: 7.3k (7373)

Pairing: Chris(topher) Smith x female reader

(A/N: there wasn't really any specification to what they wanted the child to be so I did just decide on a random gender and name. Obviously you can disregard and imagine them how you want but I did mention their gender and name a bit. Also, sorry if bits seem to get a little messy and difficult to understand because I struggled to write it out kinda, so, my bad.)

(A/N 2: as the title suggests, the time between their last encounter to their most recent is about 4 years and 8 months. I also made reader around the 3 and half months mark when finding out which, after a lot of research and double checking, is definitely plausible because, I mean, c'mon, there's people out there that don't know they're pregnant until a literal child is exiting their bodies soooo.)

_______________

"Y'know," Chris starts, watching from his bed as you're fighting to pull your jeans back on, jumping once, twice, huffing. "I think you've put on a bit of weight."

Your face is pure annoyance as you finally succeed in pulling the denim up — not even bothering with the zip or button. "Oh, gee. Fucking thanks, Chris." Your voice is dripping in mirth and sarcasm. "And I reckon your dick's shrinking."

His posture is casual against the headboard, relaxed in just his goddamned tighty whiteys. He's the picture definition of spread wide as he watches you. "Woah, woah! Okay, one, my dick has gotten bigger if anything, it's a fucking monster. And B, I'm only saying that because your tits look bigger."

Scoffing, you're sitting at the edge of the bed, mattress sinking beneath you as the t-shirt in your hold gets more creased the more you're wrestling to turn it right side out again. "You either use numbers or letters. You don't mix the two."

"Sounds like someone's got a short temper tonight." It's like an ambush how soon you feel him behind you, warmth hitting your back, hands gently moving your hair to the side, lips attaching to your neck and just behind your ear — you must be too pissed or too distracted to have not felt or heard him move atop the bed.

"Sounds like a village is short of an idiot," you quip back, slipping your arms through the fabric finally.

Chris' chuckling as you move away slightly to slip your top back over your head and down your torso. "I'd say you were on the rag if it weren't for the fact I know you're all clean down there."

"God, you're fucking disgusting sometimes."

Shoes that got discarded in the fumble to undress earlier are luckily close enough to grab and pull on one by one, laces sluggishly done back up in two little bows.

Before you're able to stand back up, he's wrapping his arm around your middle, pulling you back down — your back softly knocking against him with a gentle thud — and landing his mouth against yours. It's hot, slow, and you're almost melting against him with how his lips are capturing yours over and over and how his tongue prodes out, Chris practically trying to coax you to climb back over him.

Almost.

You're quick to nip at his bottom lip and pull away, only a tad less peeved than moments ago. Smirking triumphantly, you're finally able to stand up and grab your jacket, slipping it on with practiced ease.

"You sure you don't wanna stay a little longer?" He sounds so cocky, so teasing, when he asks. It's so suggestive.

"Nah, you're alright. Dealing with you is tiring and i have a shift in the morning." You're playful — teasing — as you begin to slowly begin to back away through the doorway. "Night, Chris — call y'soon."

He's smirking as he settles back against the headboard, arms folding behind his head, muscles flexing as he follows your form with his gaze. "Not if I call you first, big tits." There's a chuckle rumbling deep in his chest as he hears your exasperated, half-hearted groan and sees your eyes rolling back. "Night."

You're familiar with the layout of his trailer as you easily traverse your way out, casually offering Eagly a "bye" as you pass the couch and out the door — pulling it shut with a click behind you.

The cold air is crisp and hits you instantly once outside, even if it wasn't exactly the warmest inside. You're practically running to your car and scrambling in the driver's seat to beat the speed in which the chill tries to settle in your bones.

The radio crackles to life when the engine switches on and your soon pulling away and leisurely driving back in the direction of your own place — an apartment so small you wouldn't even be able to swing a cat 'round in there.

—

Chris hadn't called you first. That he was wrong of.

The last time you had seen him, that comment he made about you putting on weight and your boobs appearing bigger — well, it put the idea in your head. And the idea didn't seem all that far fetched when you really looked at yourself, the changes you hadn't really noticed or paid all that much attention to. The extra little pudge on your belly, the seemingly sudden constant acid reflux, how your bras felt tighter and smaller and more uncomfortable than usual.

So, Thursday, you took a test, and then another, and another because surely, the results had to have been wrong. And when you were still doubtful, you booked an appointment the same day. It was like static buzzing in your brain and ringing through your ears when the nurse told you the exact same results as the home kits did.

You were well and truly knocked up. Pregnant.

She was quick to offer congratulations and already moving to arrange a scan whilst you were still there all whilst you were moving in autopilot, only mumbling or offering quick, short answers.

The nurse was kind enough to stay with you when the sonographer was waving and pressing that wand into your tummy after you asked. Her presence was comforting and God, her poor bloody hand mustve been killing with how tightly you were holding it during the whole ordeal.

3 and a half months. You were estimated to be 3 and a half months along in your pregnancy — bordering on your second trimester. The sonographer asked if you wanted to know the gender but you were still wrapping your head around the fact that you were nearly 4. Months. Pregnant. And you hadn't a single clue.

The gender was the last thing you were concerning yourself with when you started to bombard them both with questions.

“How could I be pregnant for months and not even know?”

“I haven’t thrown up once. Don’t most people get morning sickness?”

“Is it normal not to show much at this stage?”

“Why do I just look bloated instead of… you know, actually pregnant?”

“I thought my period was just weird lately — how could that happen if I was already pregnant?”

"Oh fuck. I've been drinking coffee and stuff. Is that bad?"

They both chuckled — not mockingly, more soft and calming and a little amused because you're not the first to ask all these questions with such intensity.

The nurse gave a small, reassuring smile. “You’d be surprised how common that is. Not everyone gets the classic signs — some people breeze right through the first few months without any sickness at all.”

The sonographer nodded, eyes on the screen. “Every body handles pregnancy differently. Hormones hit everyone in their own way. And at this stage, the baby’s still really small — about the size of a lemon — so it’s normal you don’t have a full bump yet. You’ll probably start to show more over the next few weeks.”

The nurse glanced back at you. “That bleeding you thought was your period? Happens all the time. It’s usually light implantation bleeding or early pregnancy spotting — it can definitely throw people off.”

"And as for the coffee," the sonographer gave a quiet laugh. “Don’t worry. A few cups of coffee aren’t going to hurt your baby. Now that you know, just try to keep caffeine moderate — but you haven’t done anything wrong.”

The nurse’s voice softened. “You didn’t do anything wrong at all. You’re here now, and that’s what matters.”

You're still in a bubble of disbelief, shock, and absolute panic if you were being honest with yourself but you willed yourself to nod softly along to their words. "So...what should I be doing now?"

The sonographer allows her colleague to take the lead as she starts wiping down your stomach of the jelly and the machine's wand. "Well, we'll book you a follow up appointment for a check in and send you home with leaflets and helpful websites so you can have the resources to do your own research. In the meantime, you can think and make decisions on how you would like to go forward." She's smiling and helping you sit up as you're rolling your top back over your belly. "Do you have any support? Anyone who could aid you? Baby's father?"

Well, that's the next thing you had to deal with, you reminded yourself.

Telling Chris.

You decided against telling him that same day, having to still somewhat digest the news yourself. So you concluded that you'd call him Friday, tomorrow, instead — ask him to meet up, chat about things.

That night, you hadn't really slept a wink — hand on belly, mind completely reeling and unraveling all in one. All you can think is you're unprepared by about 3 years. Apartment? Way too small and that damp that always seems to come back regardless how often the building manager "handles" it and reassured that it wouldn't came back. Job? Definitely not enough pay to financially provide for a baby, too. Baby stuff? None bought, absolutely no idea what you'd exactly need or how stuff works, and God help you if you have to try assemble everything with a massive bump in the way.

You were thankful by the time morning rolled around and could finally get to doing something about the whole thing.

—

The first call went to voicemail — and so did the second, the third, and the next five after that. It didn’t worry you at first. It’s Chris. The guy’s flakey. Nothing unusual. You figured he’d call back when he could.

But then he didn’t, and irritation started to settle in where patience used to be.

You tried again the next morning — Saturday — because surely he’d finally remember he owned a damn phone. But nothing. Again. By that point, your frustration had started to twist into something heavier, something closer to concern.

Tires crunched against gravel as you pulled up, the sound echoing in the quiet. Your eyes lingered on the trailer through the windshield. Then the gravel shifted beneath your feet, each step bringing you closer.

Your knuckles rapped lightly against the door, and again when there's nothing but silence. "Chris?" You called out, knocking again before moving to try peer in through the windows.

'He has to be in there,' you'd thought to yourself. 'His fuck ugly car's here.'

You tried him on the phone one more time as you knocked, reaching his voicemail again by the time you reached your own car. "Chris. I swear. Just...fucking call me back, yeah? It's important."

You’d told yourself not to worry. That he was probably busy. Hungover. Doing some dumb shit with his dad. Something stupid, sure — but not *this*.

Still, the longer your phone stayed silent, the harder it was to convince yourself of that.

You called again later that night, thumb hovering over the screen before pressing it. Once. Twice. Three times. Each one went straight to voicemail, the same pre-recorded message you could practically recite word for word by now.

By Sunday, it became routine — two, maybe three calls a day. Once in the morning, again at lunch, one more before bed. Each time, you told yourself you’d stop after this one. That you weren’t *that* person. But the quiet on the other end gnawed at you.

You even tried to text him.

"Seriously, where the hell are you?"

"Just call me. Please."

"Hell, even a text would be great."

"It’s important."

Nothing. No read receipts, no calls back. Just that endless void of silence that made you want to throw your phone against a wall.

By Monday night, the annoyance had burned out. What was left was something colder. Emptier.

You sat on your couch — if you could even call it that, considering it dipped so bad in the middle you basically sat at a slant — with your hands pressed against your stomach. Not that it was really showing yet, but still. The weight of everything was starting to hit.

And by Tuesday morning, you’d come to your conclusion.

Chris was gone.

You told yourself he must’ve figured it out somehow. That maybe when he’d made that dumb comment about you “putting on weight,” something must’ve clicked for him later. Maybe he’d panicked. Maybe he just didn’t want the responsibility. Hell, you'd only been trying to contact him to let him know and ask if he even wanted any part of it anyways, not like you were going to force him.

But it hurt — God, it hurt — but you weren’t about to let it swallow you whole.

If he’d decided to disappear, then fine. You’d handle it. You’d handle everything.

You’d make sure this baby was okay, that you were okay. You didn’t need him. You couldn’t. Not anymore.

So you stopped calling. Stopped checking your phone every time it buzzed. Stopped letting hope take up space in your chest.

And for the first time in days, you slept. Not well, not deeply — but enough. Enough to start convincing yourself you were going to be fine.

—

Your apartment had never felt smaller.

The walls always seemed to close in the longer you sat on that ratty couch, surrounded by baby magazines, the leaflets the nurse gave you at that first appointment, and your cracked phone screen full of search tabs — “budget-friendly cribs,” “affordable apartments near daycare,” “how to raise a baby alone.”

Your savings account balance was a number you couldn’t look at without your stomach twisting, but you cracked into it anyway. You told yourself it was an investment — in you, in this.

The woman showing you the apartment was nice enough. Talkative. Didn’t even blink when you asked if the second bedroom could fit a crib and a rocking chair. It wasn’t fancy, but it was clean, big enough to breathe in, and the windows didn’t leak when it rained. That was good enough.

By the time you signed the papers, you’d already pictured where the crib would go. Right by the window — so the baby could wake up to sunlight.

Though you knew, you'd have her sleeping in the crib placed right next to your own bed instead.

—

The gel was cold again, but you didn’t mind this time. You’d actually been looking forward to this for weeks now that the idea was settling nicely in your head.

“Alright,” the sonographer said softly, turning the monitor toward you. “Let’s take a look.”

The moment the image flickered onto the screen, everything else fell away — the hum of the machine, the quiet chatter in the hallway, even the soft click of the sonographer’s keyboard.

There they were.

Little hands. A small face. A heartbeat flickering fast and strong like it had somewhere to be.

Your breath caught in your throat, your eyes flickering across every inch of the screen.

“Hey there, you,” you whispered, barely a sound. Your hand moved instinctively to your stomach, thumb brushing small circles. “You’re really in there, huh?'

The sonographer smiled faintly, probably used to people melting like this on her table. But you didn’t care. Because for the first time since all of this started, you felt okay.

You weren’t so scared anymore.

—

The class the nurse suggested taking was louder than you’d expected — laughter, chatter, soft music playing over the instructor’s voice as she demonstrated how to breathe through contractions. Couples everywhere.

Everyone had a someone. Hands held, arms around shoulders, shared smiles over round bellies.

You sat alone on your mat, hands resting over your bump. The instructor — cheerful, oblivious — glanced your way and smiled.

“And will Dad be joining us today?”

You hesitated, then smiled back, that practiced little curve of your mouth you used when anyone mentioned a partner or baby's dad. “No, just me,” you said, keeping your tone light. “We’re a package deal.”

A few women glanced your way. You could feel it. The polite kind of pity or that snarling judgement with upturned noses that made your skin itch.

But when you looked down at your belly, saw the small roll of movement under your shirt, you smiled for real this time. “Don’t worry, kid,” you murmured quietly enough for only you and your baby to hear, rubbing your hand gently over the bump. “Mommy's fuckin' got this."

—

You hadn’t realized baby furniture required a degree.

Standing in the middle of the aisle, surrounded by cribs, bassinets, carriers, car seats — each more expensive than the last — you felt your head spin.

You rested a hand on your belly, letting out a breath that was half-laugh, half-groan. “You better appreciate this, kid,” you muttered. “Your mom’s gonna need to sell a kidney for this crap.”

A kick pressed against your palm. You laughed softly, shaking your head. “Alright, alright. No kidneys. I’ll figure something out. Maybe an arm and leg instead."

—

The new place smelled like paint and cleaning solution, but it was yours.

You sat cross-legged on the floor amid boxes and furniture half-assembled, breathing heavy from the effort of it all. The crib leaned crooked against the wall, still missing a few screws, but you’d get to it. Eventually.

It was quiet — the kind of quiet that used to feel heavy. But now it felt full. Full of something new. Something alive.

You pressed your hand to your belly again. “We’re really doing it, huh?”

A small flutter answered you. You smiled.

“Yeah,” you whispered. “We’re doing it.”

—

The world had gone blurry around the edges. Voices muffled. Everything hot, bright, and aching. But then—

A cry.

A sound you didn’t know you’d been waiting for until it filled the room and cracked something open in your chest.

You were exhausted — drenched in sweat, hair sticking to your forehead — but when they placed her in your arms, the whole world just… stopped.

Tiny. Perfect.

“Hi,” you whispered, voice hoarse and breaking all at once. “Lila.”

The name just slipped out — instinctive, natural, like it had been there waiting for her all along.

“Hi, baby girl,” you murmured again, brushing your thumb over her cheek as her tiny hand curled around your finger.

And every morsel of fear you've felt in every fibre of your being dispelled, at least for a few moments.

—

Four years in prison. Three days in Corto Maltese. Five months in a hospital bed. One month chasing alien butterflies across small-town America.

And now, two months of quiet. The kind of quiet that was supposed to feel like peace — only it didn’t.

Chris still wasn’t sure what peace was supposed to sound like. All he knew was that it was too damn quiet without the noise — without the missions, the gunfire, the chaos that used to drown out his thoughts.

He's now in his dad's house — his house — since the whole shooting his Nazi father Augie in the head with a Nazi fucking pistol thing. He's made sure to keep it cleaned up since — or at least as “clean” as Chris Smith could manage. Eagly had a new perch by the window. The sink wasn’t overflowing. There was even real food in the fridge that wasn’t beer or jerky. On the surface, it looked like he was doing alright.

But under all that? He was still trying to glue himself back together.

Some days, he went out — walked the woods, listened to Adrian ramble on over the phone, grabbed a beer with Adebayo. He was getting better at not flinching when people got too close. He still had nightmares, still woke up with his heart hammering like it was trying to escape, but he was learning how to breathe through them.

It wasn’t just the years that changed him — though there were lines around his eyes now that hadn’t been there before, the kind you didn’t get from laughter.

Back then, before prison, before everything went to hell, he’d been all noise and swagger. Big muscles, bigger ego. He used to fill every room he walked into with that cocky grin — the kind that said *he* knew exactly how good he looked and that everyone else did too. Feelings were things to dodge, or joke about, or bury under sex and sarcasm.

But now? The edges were still there, just dulled — like someone had taken sandpaper to all the sharp, loud parts of him and left something quieter underneath.

He still stood tall, still looked like the kind of guy who could bench press a car if he felt like it, but there was something steadier about the way he carried himself now. More present. More aware.

He didn’t fill the silence anymore — he let it hang. He didn’t need to prove himself every five seconds or hide behind that smirk.

So when he smiled now, it wasn’t cocky. It was smaller, real — the kind that started slow, a little hesitant, like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to.

The kind of smile and self-growth he wanted to show you.

When he first got back — out of the hospital — he tried to get in touch, partly because he hadn't got laid in about 4 and a half years and you'd been the one constant he could at least rely on in that area. After he'd gone to Augie's to pick up Eagly and his car, he switched his phone on to see the log of missed calls and the texts and the few voicemails you'd left within that first week of him being arrested. And the one time you tried calling a few months later. He'd tried calling you, but found himself feeling a mixture of disappointment and something else he couldn't really describe when it was obvious your number had been disconnected, and had been for a long time from what he could guess.

Though, he couldn't spend too long looking for another way to get a hold of you after that. The whole alien butterfly situation having got in the way — even if that's how he met the people he built relationships with that were the bigger parts in his personal growth.

Once everything had settled, he was all too quick to kick up the search again. He’d tried everything — going to your apartment, checking social media. Even drove by your old workplace once, half-hoping, half-dreading you'd walk out the door. But you never did.

A neighbour in your old building told him you left years ago — something about needing more space. Your social media accounts have either been deleted or made so private not even your profile picture could be recognised as belonging to you. An old colleague of yours, after he grew the balls to actually walk inside, said you'd taken time off then quit not long after whilst you were still 'out of office'.

He told himself you'd moved on and that your life naturally changed in the time he hadn't been present. That maybe you'd found someone else, maybe you were happy, maybe it was better this way. But every time he caught himself thinking that, it felt like a lie lodged under his ribs.

Then, one random afternoon — one of those rare sunny days that made Evergreen feel less like a bad memory — he saw you.

At first, he thought his brain was screwing with him again. It happened sometimes — flashes of your face in a crowd, a laugh that sounded just like yours. But this time, it wasn’t a trick. You were really there.

Same walk. Same way your hair caught the light, regardless of how much it may or may not have changed since he last saw you.

“Holy shit,” he muttered, the air catching in his throat.

Absolutely shell shocked was the best way to describe how he felt — how he looked.

His feet moved before his brain could catch up, heart thudding in his chest like a goddamn drum. “Hey! Hey—!” he called out, your name carried by the wind, grinning as you turned.

You looked stunned. Maybe even a little pale. But you didn’t run, didn’t turn away.

He took a step toward you—

And that’s when a blur of motion darted out from behind you.

A little girl — all bright eyes and laughter — crashed straight into your legs, giggling as she wrapped tiny arms around her mother’s thighs. Your legs.

Chris froze.

The sound of his own heartbeat roared in his ears as he looked from the woman he hadn’t seen in nearly five years… to the little girl clutching at her hand.

—

“—Mommy?”

Lila calling you and tugging at your wrist gently was what snapped you out of your frozen disbelief, making you tear your gaze away and down toward your sweet girl.

You blinked once. Twice. Then a smile stretched across your lips — if only to keep your daughter from worrying. “Yeah, baby?”

Lila’s small hand pointed in the direction you’d been staring moments ago, her brow scrunching in curiosity. “Who’s that big guy? The one staring at us?”

Your stomach dropped. Of course she’d notice.

You followed her finger, and sure enough, Chris still stood there — frozen mid-step near the path, like his brain short-circuited the second he saw you. You weren’t sure whether you wanted to laugh, run, or throw up.

“Oh, uh—” You cleared your throat, mentally scrambling. “He’s just... someone Mommy used to know.”

Lila tilted her head up at you, eyes round and far too perceptive for four years old. “Did you used to be friends?”

A humourless little puff of air left your nose — half a laugh, half a sigh. “Something like that, peanut.”

She seemed satisfied enough with that vague answer, shifting her weight from foot to foot before tugging lightly on your sleeve again. “Can I have my juice, please?”

“Yeah, of course.” You crouched, fishing around in the bag that suddenly felt way too small for how huge this moment was. The pink bottle looked almost ridiculous when you finally pulled it free — like something from another universe compared to the storm of nerves twisting in your gut.

Lila accepted it with both hands, her cheeks puffing out as she took a big, satisfied sip. “Thank you, Mommy.”

You brushed a thumb gently across her cheek, heart squeezing in your chest. “Go on, sweetheart. You can keep playing for a bit, okay? Stay where I can see you.”

She nodded, already scampering back toward the slide, juice bottle in tow, her little laugh floating through the air like nothing in the world was out of place.

You stayed kneeling a second longer than you needed to — partly to steady your breathing, partly because you could still feel his gaze on you.

Finally, you straightened, smoothing a hand down your jacket. Then you exhaled, low and steady, before deciding to close the distance yourself.

If he was frozen, fine. You weren’t.

Your boots crunched against autumn leaves as you started walking toward him — each step feeling heavier, louder than it had any right to be. And as you drew closer, you could see the disbelief still painted across his face.

He looked older. Not in a bad way — just... different. Grounded. Like the world had finally caught up to him and he’d stopped running from it.

And you had no idea what the hell you were going to say.

For a few seconds, neither of you said anything. The space between you was thick — like even sound didn’t want to get caught in the middle of whatever this was.

Chris just…stared.

He didn’t mean to — couldn’t help it, really — but something in his chest twisted so hard it almost hurt.

You were real. Standing there. Right in front of him.

Four years, eight months. That’s how long it had been since he’d last seen your face — and somehow, time hadn’t dulled a damn thing. If anything, it sharpened everything about you. You looked different and exactly the same all at once — older, surer, but still you.

And then there was that little girl — the one who’d been tugging your sleeve, who had your eyes and your smile and a tiny dimple that looked suspiciously like his. The second he’d seen her, something lit up in his chest. Something light yet crushing, warm yet cold.

He didn’t have words for it. Hell, he wasn’t even sure he deserved to feel it.

But standing there, watching you kneel beside that little girl — your little girl — it was like every breath he took was a punch to the lungs. Heaven and hell, all wrapped up in one look.

You finally stopped a few feet from him, posture cautious, voice careful when you spoke.

“Chris.”

He blinked, almost like he had to physically pull himself back to reality. “Hey,” he said, voice rough — a single syllable that carried too much weight.

It took him a second to realize his hands were shoved deep in his pockets, shoulders squared in that old defensive way. “You, uh… look good.”

You gave a small, guarded smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “Yeah. So do you.”

The air sat heavy between you again. You were holding yourself together — too steady, too polite — and he could see the flicker of something in your gaze that made his stomach drop.

Fear. Worry.

And under it all — relief.

You were glad he was alive. He could see that much. But there was something else, too — a silent calculation behind your eyes, the kind that said he knows.

You didn’t have to say it. The look you gave him said enough.

He’d seen her.

And now, he knew, even if you still firmly believe that he'd already known those years ago.

Chris’s mouth opened, then closed again. He glanced past you, to where the little girl had gone running back toward the swings — her tiny laugh carrying faintly through the park air. It hit him right in the sternum.

“Cute kid,” he said finally, voice softer than he meant it to be. “She yours?”

You nodded once, arms crossing — a subtle wall between you and him. “Yeah. She’s mine.”

He nodded, too, more to himself than anything, jaw tightening slightly. “What’s her name?”

“Lila.”

The name rolled off his tongue before he even realized he’d repeated it under his breath, like he was trying it out. Lila. His chest felt strange — too tight, too warm.

“She’s beautiful,” he said after a beat, voice a little rough. “How old is she?”

There was a flicker — just a fraction of a second — where something shifted in his face. The faintest twitch of realization as the math started slotting into place. Four years. Maybe a little over.

Your shoulders tensed, the tiniest movement, but he caught it anyway.

“Chris,” you said, tone a quiet warning, but he was already looking at you with that stunned, searching expression — the kind that used to be masked by jokes and smirks.

“She’s…?” he started, but couldn’t quite say it — couldn’t force the words out. His voice cracked halfway through the question anyway, the implication hanging thick in the space between you.

You exhaled sharply through your nose, a dry, humorless laugh slipping out. “Yes, Chris. She’s yours.”

The words came out like a blade — quick and clean, but shaking a little at the handle.

“Though I highly doubt that you didn’t already know that.”

He blinked, thrown off. “What? No, I—”

“Don’t,” you cut in, voice low but trembling with something between anger and hurt. “You knew. You had to have known when you said what you said. You made those comments about me looking like I’d put on weight, about my—” you gestured vaguely at your chest, shaking your head. “And then you disappeared. I called, Chris. I tried. So many times. You never called back. Not once.”

His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard, words dying on his tongue.

You huffed out a breath, rubbing at your temple as if you could push the frustration back down where it belonged. “So don’t stand there acting like you didn’t know.”

And before he could say another word, Lila’s laughter broke through the tension again — her small, carefree voice calling out across the park. The sound hit both of you like a jolt back to reality.

Chris looked like you'd slapped him. Not angry — just stunned. Off-balance. Like the world tilted under him for a second and he couldn’t find his footing. His mouth opened again, but this time something steadier — something real — settled behind his eyes.

“I… I didn’t know,” he said, quietly at first, then stronger. “I swear to God, I didn’t know.”

You crossed your arms a little tighter, jaw ticking. “Chris—”

“No, listen.” He scrubbed a hand through his hair, voice shaky in a way you’d never really heard before. “You know I wasn’t exactly… observant back then. Like, at all. Or smart. Or emotionally aware. Or—honestly—aware of anything except sex, guns, and whatever dumb shit my dad drilled into my head.”

You didn’t smile. You didn’t soften. But you didn’t interrupt either.

He sighed, shoulders dropping. “I didn’t know. And if I had, I wouldn’t have just… disappeared. There’s a reason I wasn’t there. There’s a reason you couldn’t reach me.” He hesitated, eyes flicking to where Lila was climbing the steps to the slide again. “It’s a long story. A really long story. But if you’re actually… if you’re actually willing to listen, I’ll tell you everything. Every single fucking thing that happened to me from that night to right now.” His voice dropped, rougher now. “I didn’t know you were calling. I didn’t know you needed me.”

Your heart thudded once — hard — because you could hear the sincerity in his voice. The way it wavered. The way the old cocky edge wasn’t there anymore.

But hurt had a long memory. And yours was still fresh, even four years later.

You swallowed, jaw tightening, eyes drifting to your daughter — her little legs pumping, her laugh too bright for the ache twisting inside your chest.

Irritation still simmering hot under your ribs — but tangled up now with confusion, with reluctant curiosity, with something that felt dangerously like hope. Finally, you met his gaze again, guarded but open enough to let a sliver of possibility through.

“Fine,” you muttered. “I’ll listen.”

Chris exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for months, relief washing over his face so nakedly that it almost made your chest hurt.

“Seriously?" Chris’s shoulders sagged — relief so huge it almost buckled him. His voice cracked slightly, and he cleared his throat. “I— fuck, thank you. Really. I mean it. You have no idea—”

“Not here,” you cut in sharply before he could get swept up in the moment.

He snapped his mouth shut.

“Not here,” you repeated, softer but firm. “And not now.”

You reached into your bag, pulling out the little notepad you kept for grocery lists and emergency reminders, tearing off a small sheet. Hands steady — or steady enough — you wrote down your new address, folding it once before you held it between two fingers, and extended your hand. “Here.”

He took the paper like it might crumble if he breathed too hard, staring at it as though it was something sacred, like you’d handed him the keys to the universe, eyes flicking up in disbelief.

“You show up at eight,” you said, voice steady. “Lila will be asleep by then.”

His eyes flicked from the paper to you, something bright and fragile in his expression. “I’ll be there. I promise.”

You nodded once, slipping your hands back into your pockets as a breeze ruffled Lila’s curls in the distance.

“I know you will,” you said quietly — though you weren’t entirely sure if it was trust or habit that made you say it. Maybe both.

And with that, you turned back toward your daughter — leaving Chris standing there with a truth he never expected, a second chance he never thought he’d get, and a folded scrap of paper he held like it was the most important thing anyone had ever given him.

—

When Chris finally knocked, you almost didn’t answer.

It wasn’t that you’d changed your mind — you’d just convinced yourself he wasn’t coming. You’d given him a time, watched the minutes crawl by, felt the familiar sting of disappointment tighten your chest. Then came the knock.

When you opened the door, you found him standing there — hands shoved awkwardly in the pockets of his jacket, fingers obviously just been brushed through his hair in an effort to fix it from the constant changing wind, expression a mix of sheepish and nervous.

“I’m… kinda shocked you even showed up,” you murmured, keeping your voice quiet out of habit. “You’re fifteen minutes late.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, eyes flicking up to yours. “Yeah. I, uh, got here early actually.”

Your brow furrowed. “Early?”

“Like… forty-five minutes early.” He offered a nervous grin. “Just didn’t wanna risk waking her up and pissing you off, y’know? Figured I’d wait outside until I was kinda sure she'd be asleep.”

That pulled a small, reluctant huff of laughter out of you.

You stepped aside, gesturing for him to come in. He did so cautiously, like he was afraid to scuff the floor or breathe too loud. The apartment was small but warm — the kind of cozy that came from lived-in comfort. Definitely bigger than your place, at least.

For a moment, you both stood there in the soft light of the living room, the hum of the refrigerator in the background, the silence thick but not hostile.

“So,” you said finally, arms folding loosely. “You said you’d explain.”

And he did.

Quietly, almost haltingly at first, then with growing honesty — like he’d been waiting years to get the words out. He told you about the arrest, about Belle Reve, about the squad and Corto Maltese, about the hospital, and then Project Butterfly — every insane, impossible, heartbreaking piece of it. You could tell he was choosing his words carefully, trimming the sharp edges, but the truth still came through. Hell, he even recounted all the times he could think of where he nearly died, some definitely sounding worse than others.

By the time he finished, the skepticism in your eyes had softened into something else entirely. You leaned back against the arm of the couch, exhaling slowly.

“Well,” you said at last, voice low. “That’s…one hell of a story.”

“Yeah.” He gave a weak laugh. “Wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t believe a word of it.”

“I do,” you said, surprising him — and maybe yourself a little too. “It sounds too insane not to be true.”

A quiet settled between you then. Not the tense kind, but the kind that follows an emotional downpour — thick, raw, and oddly peaceful.

After a moment, you spoke again. “If you hadn’t been arrested… if I’d actually told you I was pregnant back then — would you have stayed?”

He didn’t even hesitate. “Yeah. I would’ve.”

You blinked, not expecting him to answer so fast.

“I mean, look, I was an arrogant asshole,” he continued, honest but gentle. “All talk, all confidence, no idea what the hell I was doing. But I still would’ve tried. Probably would’ve screwed up a lot, sure — I didn’t exactly have a great example growing up — but I would’ve been there. For her. For you, too, probably.”

He paused, glancing around the room, voice softening. “But I’m not that guy anymore. Or at least, I’m trying real hard not to be. The people I’ve met since… they’ve helped me change. Helped me be better. Like…actually better.”

His face broke into a small, genuine smile as he listed them. “Adebayo, Harcourt, Economos, Adrian—"

You blinked. “Adrian? As in your buddy Gut’s younger brother?”

He chuckled. “Yeah. That Adrian.”

“Jesus,” you muttered, shaking your head. “I thought you didn't even really talk to Gut all that much, definitely didn't expect you to be hanging out with his brother."

“Me neither,” he grinned. “But, turns out, he’s kinda one of my best friend now. Don’t tell him I said that, though — he’ll never shut the hell up about it.”

The smile lingered between you, easy and unguarded for the first time in years.

Then his tone softened again. “When I got home, I looked for you. I swear I did. But you’d moved. Changed your number. No socials, you left your job. It’s like you vanished. And I didn’t know how to find you.”

You looked down, the ache of those missing years heavy in your chest.

“I still wanted you in my life,” he said quietly. “Even if I didn’t know why or exactly how to fucking word it. And now that I do…now that I know about Lila…” He swallowed hard. “I wanna be part of her life. Of both your lives. However you’ll let me. I want you to be part of mine too — this…family I’ve built. They mean the world to me, and I want you and Lila to be part of that world too.”

Your throat felt tight. You looked at him for a long moment — really looked at him — and saw that the cocky man you once knew wasn’t standing in front of you anymore. He’d been replaced by someone steadier, softer. Someone real.

Finally, you nodded. “Okay,” you said softly. “You can be part of her life. But we do this my way. The pace I set. For Lila’s sake.”

His relief was instant and unfiltered. “Yeah. Of course. However you want. However slow you need. I’ll do whatever it takes.”

You smiled faintly. “Good.”

He looked like he wanted to say more — maybe something about wanting you too, not just Lila — but he didn’t push it. He didn’t need to.

After a moment, you added, “I’ll introduce you properly soon. Here. Where she’s comfortable. I just need time to tell her about you first, so she can process it.”

He nodded quickly. “That’s perfect. Really. Thank you.”

And for the first time that night, the heaviness between you lifted. The silence wasn’t painful anymore. It was calm. Hopeful.

Holding your hand out, Chris clicked instantly, pulling his phone from his pocket and slipping it into your hand unlocked. You were quick adding yourself as a new contact, hitting save, and handing it back over to him like the whole thing was practiced.

You stood, walking him to the door, and before he could step out, you added with a raised brow, “Oh, and Chris?”

“Yeah?”

“Lila doesn’t find out where you’ve actually been for the past five years. Not until she’s at least twenty.”

He grinned, scratching at the back of his neck. “Deal. Though, uh, you might wanna make it twenty-five just to be safe.”

You rolled your eyes, smiling despite yourself. “Goodnight, Chris.”

He hesitated for half a second, then smiled back — the kind that reached his eyes this time. “Goodnight.”

As the door clicked shut behind him, you leaned against it, exhaling softly.

It wasn’t forgiveness. Not yet. But it was a start.

_______________

I'm so sorry it's bad aaaahhhh

Like, what is this steaming pile of sh—

Anyways

As always, constructive criticism is welcomed and appreciated

And either way, I hope you were able to find some enjoyment while reading

[writers-bane]

[lilxberry]

economos edging fic when queen 😖 ur my fav economos author stg 💗

Edging — John Economos *

I'm so sorry if this is bad and not what you were expecting at all, especially considering it's more of a ficlet/lengthy drabble rather than a full on one shot or even a headcanon

[lilxberry]

Edging — John Economos *

Requested by: Anonymous

economos edging fic when queen 😖 ur my fav economos author stg 💗

This is just a little old ficlet/lengthy drabble, sorry if you were expecting like some full on fic but I didn't want to keep you waiting and I just honestly can't think of any ideas on how I could give this a good story that's actually readable

FICLET / LENGTHY DRABBLE

Pairing: John Economos x reader

Warnings: SMUT-ish. Edging. Orgasm denial. Hand-job. Doesn't have a conclusive end (my bad).

(A/N: I made reader a tad mean, my bad. Like wtf I would NEVER treat our sweet boy like this.)

(A/N 2: like most things that aren't specified/formatted differently to my one shots/multi chapter fics, this is as gender neutral as I could write, possibly some errors, my bad. Not proofread.)

_______________

You knelt between John's spread thighs, your eyes locked on his throbbing cock as it strained upward, already slick from the slow, deliberate strokes you've been teasing him with for what felt like hours. The air in the van felt stifling, heavy with the scent of arousal — everything was quiet and bathed in the blue light hues from the monitors except for his breaths coming in ragged gasps, hands grasping the arms of the chair, knuckles turning white to keep from grabbing at you desperately.

Fingers wrapped loosely around the base of his shaft, your grip firm but not tight enough to push John over. Palms slide upward in a languid pump, thumb circling the swollen head to smear the pearly bead that welled there.

"Look at you," you murmured, voice low, dripping with mock sympathy. "So close already, aren't you? Pulsing in my hand like you can't take another second."

John groaned, hips bucking involuntarily, but you pressed your free hand against his thigh, holding him down and giving his cock a warning squeeze with a subtle smirk. "No moving," you commanded softly, squeezing once more, just enough to make his cock twitch. Releasing the pressure at the tip, you watch it bob free, veins standing out in desperate relief. "You don't get to thrust into my palm yet. Not until I say."

Your hand returned, lighter this time, fingers tracing the underside from balls to tip in feather-light drags that made John's toes curl. He whimpered, a low, needy sound, and you leaned in closer, breath ghosting over his skin. "That's it — feel how your cock begs for more? God, it's desperate, you're desperate, so red and hard. But if you cum now, I'll stop everything."

John's chest heaved, his eyes pleading behind his glasses which have fogged slightly and slid askew from it's proper place as you began a slow rhythm again—up and down, twisting gently at the crown to heighten the friction without mercy. You watched his face contort, the way his body tensed, knowing he was teetering on that exquisite brink, ready to crash out on that wave you've forced him to surf on. Just as his balls drew up tight, ready to spill, you're pulling away completely, hands hovering but not touching, letting the denied orgasm fade into frustrated throbs.

"Please," John rasped, voice breaking. You smiled wickedly, one finger idly circling his inner thigh, close but never quite there. "Begging already? Tell me how bad you want it—how my hands own this cock, making it swell and leak without letting you explode." You waited, drawing out the words, before finally gripping him again, resuming the torturous strokes with renewed slowness.

The cycle repeated, your palms gliding over heated flesh, verbal barbs weaving through the air like silk restraints. "Imagine how it'll feel when I finally let you — hot cum shooting everywhere because I allowed it. But not yet. Hold it for me." John's world narrowed to the slick slide of skin on skin, the endless build and retreat, every denied peak etching deeper into his submission.

_______________

My bad if this is absolutely awful

I've never written anything in regards to edging before so this is like new and different for me technically

And once again, I'm sorry it's not a full blown one shot or at least a headcanon

Anyways

As always, constructive criticism is welcomed and appreciated