astraea

You’re so zoned in on your book you barely hear the window snap shut when Dick enters. You do, though. Your eyes fluttering over to him for that brief second tells him you had heard him come in and were electively choosing to ignore his return. 

Your book was just getting to the good bit. The male lead had just confessed his feelings, his desires, buttons were coming undone, lips were locked. Zippers were undone. 

Dick’s first mistake was trying to take the book from you by force. One hand around the spine of the book, slowly threatening to snap it shut as he attempts to inch it out of your grasp.

“I’m reading, Dick,” you hum, eyes still skimming over the words half-mindedly as you tug the book further from his fingertips. His head tips forward with a groan, falling until it’s pressed against your navel above the covers. He’s still half-standing, half-kneeling at the edge of the bed. Ready to snatch your book away and stow it on the dresser where you can’t grab it from the bed. 

He noses his way up your sheet-covered sternum until he’s headbutting the paperback. Another grunt.

“Baby,” he purrs, low and silken. His lips have now replaced his nose in his trail despite the roadblock. You decide to placate him with a hand in his hair, the other spread wide to keep your pages from fluttering shut. Not yet deterred, he crawls further on the bed to attack you from the side this time. Kissing and nipping his way up your shoulder until you have to tilt your neck to look around him to see the pages. 

“I have like ten pages left of this chapter,” you say as you try to shove his forehead out of the way. 

“You know, once upon a time you would’ve jumped me the second I crawled through the window,” he grumbles. “Does the suit do nothing to you now? Are you immune to my charms?”

“The suit is great,” you say. 

“Real convincing.”

“Just go take a shower. I’m sure I’ll be done by the time you get back and you can have me all to yourself,” you say. Shit. You lost your place. Your eyes quickly skim back across the paragraphs to find the last bit you remember actually reading. 

“We both know that you’re going to start the next chapter while I’m in there,” he says. His teeth find purchase just below your ear. “Pay attention to me, baby.”

“I will.” You flip a page. “In eight pages.”

A louder groan as he presses his face further into your neck. 

“They’re like two seconds away from fucking, Dick,” you say.

“We could be like two seconds away from fucking in real life if you would just look at me,” he huffs, though his seduction attempts have settled. If he weren’t still suited up for crime-fighting, you figure he might have fallen asleep where he was. He settles for draping an arm over your waist and fiddling with the shirt you’d stolen from him as his gaze skims over the various erotic phrases in your book. 

“Did he just bite her? Is she bleeding?” he asks. “Is she into that… Scratch that, are you into that?”

“He’s a vampire,” you snort. 

“So you’re definitely into that then,” he says in the absence of your no.

“No- well, I mean… It’s hot in theory,” you hum. 

“You want me to bite you is what I’m hearing,” he says. His hips shift and you can feel the stirring of his dick against your thigh. 

“I feel like you want to bite me, mister,” you laugh.

“I wanna do whatever you want me to do,” he laughs, too, but you can tell he means it all the while. His teeth graze the junction of where your shoulder meets your neck and you know he can feel the shiver it shot down your spine when he grins against your skin. “You do like that. Is that all it takes, sweetheart? A little bit of teeth and you finally give me a reaction.”

Harder, this time, he bites down on your exposed flesh. Not even to harm, or even really to mark, but enough for you to feel. Fingers dance along your naval as he tugs your shirt up just enough to find bare flesh. The pads of his gloved fingers press into your skin and it’s nearly enough to pull you from your book. Nearly. You can’t fight the nagging voice in your head that urges you to keep going. To see if the characters will just finally-

“Oh,” you gasp when Dick nips at your pulse point. Your eyes grow lidded when he begins to suck and your head tilts to give him more room. Finally, when your brain’s gone mushy enough to stop even trying to move your eyes across the inky blob of words, Dick’s hand swiftly comes up to pluck the book from your grasp and snap the book shut. He tosses it towards the edge of the bed, immediately shifting to fill the space above you it had previously been occupying. Knees bracketing your hips, lips moving along your jaw, your cheeks, then finally, your lips.

     Dick’s eyes narrowed slightly, concern tightening in his chest before he even had time to name it. Tim had been down there for hours, maybe longer, time losing meaning in the artificial glow of monitors and fluorescent strips. He couldn’t even remember the last time his brother had stood up for anything other than necessity, let alone left the chair.

    The Cave made everyone look worse than they felt, but Tim didn’t look like someone merely tired. He looked like someone eroding in place. Shadows clung beneath his eyes like bruises that refused to fade. His shoulders slumped forward, posture folding inward as if even occupying space required effort he no longer wanted to spend. His hair, usually at least somewhat controlled, had given up entirely. It lay flattened on one side, as though he had dragged his hands through it so many times it had forgotten what shape it was supposed to be.

    And yet, despite all the movement of his hands, there was something disturbingly still about him. Like the body was operating on leftover instructions while the person inside had stepped back entirely.

    “You’ve been down here since this morning,” Dick tried again, softer this time, like volume alone might keep Tim from retreating further into himself.

     “I know.” His voice scraped out of him, rough in a way that didn’t belong to exhaustion alone. Not the usual vigilante weariness, not the kind that came from broken ribs or sleepless nights on rooftops. This was something else. Something disused. Like his voice had simply stopped being needed and had started forgetting how to function.

     Dick felt something twist unpleasantly in his stomach. But Before he could push further, the silence of the Cave fractured. A sharp buzz cut through the air. Tim’s phone.

     The reaction was immediate, almost violent in its speed. Tim’s head snapped toward the sound with a jolt that looked like it hurt, like his body had moved faster than whatever was left of his awareness could safely allow. For half a second there was something raw on his face - hope, sudden and unguarded, bright enough to be almost painful in how quickly it appeared.

     Then he was reaching. Too fast, too careless. His hand knocked lightly against scattered parts on the table as he fumbled for the device, nearly sending a component rolling off the edge. Dick watched it all in silence as Tim unlocked the screen. Watched the hope collapse before anything was even said.

     Tim stared at the display longer than necessary anyway, as though if he just looked hard enough it might change into something else. Something better. Something that mattered.

Then, carefully, he set it face-down on the table.

    “Spam email,” he said flatly. And immediately returned to the staff like nothing had happened at all.

      Yett Dick didn’t move. Because that expression, that flicker of expectation, the split-second belief that something had finally broken the silence, had become painfully familiar over the past weeks. Every notification, every vibration, every meaningless interruption of electronic noise… Tim reacted to all of it like it might be you.

      And every single time, it wasn’t.

      “You should sleep,” Dick said instead, trying to shift the weight of the moment, trying to find something, anything, that would stick.

       “I’m fine.” The screwdriver slipped slightly in Tim’s grip. Just a fraction. Just enough.

       His hand shook once before he forced it steady again, knuckles whitening as he tightened the same screw he had already adjusted twice before. On the surface it looked like work. Like focus. Like control. But Dick could see the pattern now. Tim wasn’t repairing anything, he was looping. Repeating. Breaking and reassembling the same section over and over again not because it needed fixing, but because stillness had become unbearable.

      “You know,” Dick started carefully, choosing each word like it might detonate, “there’s a place a few blocks from here. New spot. We could-”

      “No.” Still too fast. Still automatic.

     Tim finally leaned back in his chair, dragging both hands over his face with enough force to leave faint red impressions on his skin. For a moment, the exhaustion that surfaced there was unfiltered, unmasked by anything resembling discipline. It wasn’t just tiredness. It was something heavier, deeper, like fatigue had settled into bone and refused to leave.

       His eyes flicked, almost unconsciously, toward the phone again. And again nothing. Still waiting anyway. That was what hit Dick. Not the silence itself, but the way it had rearranged everything around it. The Cave wasn’t quieter because you were gone. It was quieter because Tim no longer filled the space you used to occupy.

      No muttered commentary under his breath when systems lagged. No distracted half-responses while multitasking five different streams of data. No sharp, irritated sarcasm when someone interrupted him at the wrong moment. Those pieces of him hadn’t vanished on their own, they had gone with you, so naturally that no one realized they were missing until the absence became too large to ignore.

      Tim had always been tired. But this wasn’t just tired. This was hollowing.

     “You could call them,” Dick said before he could stop himself.

     Tim froze, not dramatically, not visibly at first glance, but enough. Enough that even the smallest movement in his hands ceased for a fraction of a second too long. Enough that the air around him seemed to tighten.

     Then he resumed working, whispering a small, harsh, “I’m busy.”

     The excuse was almost laughable in its fragility. Because Tim Drake had solved impossible cases while concussed, stitched together disasters while bleeding, calculated outcomes that left entire teams scrambling to keep up with him. He could absolutely make a phone call. But instead, he reached for a tool he was already holding. And missed it.

      Dick watched him glance toward the silent phone again, watched him pretend he hadn’t, watched him rebuild the same thing for the third time like repetition might eventually become resolution.

      And somewhere between one breath and the next, Dick realized this wasn’t something Tim was going to simply “get over.” Whatever had existed between you and Tim hadn’t just faded, it had taken root. Deep enough that its removal left something exposed underneath, something raw and unprepared for absence.

       And now Gotham’s brightest mind was sitting in the dark, pretending that if he just kept his hands moving long enough, the silence wouldn’t win.

     Crime Alley had always felt different after midnight. Not quieter exactly, Gotham was never quiet, but emptier in the way abandoned churches felt empty. Hollow. Like the city itself had finally run out of excuses to keep pretending it could still be saved. Streetlights buzzed overhead with weak yellow light, illuminating puddles stained with oil and old rainwater while somewhere far off a siren screamed through the night before abruptly cutting itself short. Most people avoided the Alley entirely once the clock pushed past two in the morning. The desperate disappeared into their apartments. The dangerous came out to hunt. And vigilantes with any self-preservation left in them usually found somewhere else to patrol after a bad night. Which was exactly why Jason noticed the moment Tim volunteered to go back.

    It was nearly four by the time they stumbled into the cave, battered and exhausted from what should have been an easy operation at the Iceberg Lounge. Penguin’s men had turned a simple weapons bust into a disaster the second someone panicked and opened fire too early. Everything after that became the usual Gotham catastrophe. Cheap shots in cramped hallways, collapsing scaffolding, blood on concrete floors, bruises blooming beneath armor before the adrenaline could fully wear off. Dick looked one good shove away from falling asleep standing upright. Damian carried the stiff posture of someone actively replaying every tactical mistake in his head so he could stay angry instead of tired. Bruce had disappeared upstairs with Alfred without so much as removing the cowl completely. Normal. Predictable. The kind of exhaustion they all knew how to survive.

     Tim looked worse than all of them combined. Not dramatic worse. That would’ve been easier to deal with. Easier to justify concern over. Instead it was the kind of exhaustion that slipped quietly beneath the skin until suddenly someone looked less like a person and more like something held upright entirely by momentum. There was dried blood darkening the edge of his jaw beneath the domino mask. One side of his suit hung torn badly enough that every movement exposed the ugly purple bruise spreading across his ribs. His gloves were split across the knuckles from punching through someone’s face shield earlier in the night. Yet despite all of it, despite the way his shoulders dragged downward like gravity had doubled for him specifically, Tim still walked straight toward the Batcomputer the second he entered the cave.

      Jason dropped heavily into one of the chairs with a groan, every rib in his body protesting the movement. “I’m officially declaring tonight terrible.”

     Dick snorted tiredly from somewhere near the med table, already peeling off one glove with half-lidded eyes. Damian muttered something in Arabic under his breath that was probably either an insult or a death threat. Nobody bothered responding. The cave settled into familiar post-patrol silence, the hum of computers, the distant dripping of water through ancient stone, the soft metallic clink of discarded gear hitting tables.

    Then the police scanner crackled- “possible robbery in progress. Corner of Finger and Kane. Suspect armed-” Crime Alley.

     Jason barely processed the location before Tim spoke.

     “I’ll go.”

      Every head turned instantly. Tim was already reaching for his helmet again before anyone answered, fingers moving automatically toward the cracked buckle on his gauntlet like his body had made the decision before his brain could catch up.

     “Seriously?” Dick blinked at him slowly. 

     “It’s five minutes away.”

     “It’s also four in the morning,” Jason cut in.

     Tim shrugged one shoulder while adjusting his gear. The motion looked sluggish, wrong somehow, like every inch of movement required conscious effort instead of instinct. 

     “Then the guy probably assumes nobody’ll respond.” His voice sounded terrible. Thin. Raspy. Worn down at the edges from disuse and exhaustion. Like he hadn’t spoken enough lately to remember how.

     Jason frowned before he could stop himself. Because now that he was actually paying attention, really looking at him instead of glancing past him the way everyone accidentally had for weeks now, none of this felt normal anymore. Tim swayed slightly while reaching for his staff. Not enough that anyone else would necessarily notice. Barely noticeable at all. But Jason noticed because Tim Drake never swayed. Tim moved like sharpened instinct wrapped in caffeine and bad coping mechanisms. This looked different, was different..

     “You can barely stand,” Damian said bluntly.

     “I’m fine.”Complete bullshit.

     Jason’s irritation crawled higher beneath his skin the longer he watched him. Not anger at Tim exactly. Anger at the situation. At the way Tim had somehow become a ghost inside his own life over the last few weeks without anyone fully acknowledging it out loud. Because Tim had always been tired. God, all of them were tired. But there used to be something alive underneath it. Something sharp enough to cut through the exhaustion. Sarcasm. Obsession. Energy. Tim used to argue strategy until sunrise just to prove Bruce wrong. Used to make snide comments during patrol when Jason annoyed him. Used to vibrate with restless intelligence even while running on three hours of sleep.

     Now he just looked empty. Not broken. Not falling apart loudly enough for intervention. Just… hollow. And Jason finally noticed where Tim’s attention kept drifting every few seconds. Phone. Computer screen. Phone again. Waiting.

     The realization hit him slowly enough to make it worse. This wasn’t about the robbery. Tim didn’t care about the robbery. Tim just didn’t want Gotham to get quiet. Because quiet meant thinking. And apparently thinking about you was killing him.

     The scanner crackled again somewhere overhead while Tim straightened too quickly at the sound, almost desperate for the distraction. Jason suddenly remembered every night you used to interrupt patrols with a single text. The way Tim would vanish the second his phone lit up. The way he used to come back afterward less tense somehow. Less exhausted. Not fixed, Tim Drake would probably require divine intervention and several years of therapy to qualify as fixed, but human. Warmer around the edges. Alive enough to laugh occasionally.

     Now Jason was watching that disappear in real time.

     “Drake.” Tim looked over immediately.

   “You look like roadkill.”   Jason gestured vaguely toward him. 

     “Thanks.”

     “No, seriously. You got slammed through a wall like an hour ago.”

     “I’ve had worse.”

     Jason scoffed. “That’s not the point.”

      Tim slid the helmet over his head before answering this time, voice muffled beneath the distorted speaker. “Someone still has to go.”

      The cave went silent for half a second. Because that wasn’t really what he meant. Jason heard it anyway. Someone still has to move. Someone still has to stay busy.

     Someone still has to keep their mind occupied long enough not to think about the person who stopped answering their messages.

     Dick heard it too. Jason could tell by the sudden exhaustion on his face shifting into something softer. Something concerned.

     Tim reached for his bike keys.

      Jason sighed heavily before forcing himself upright again, joints protesting immediately. “Sit down.”

     “I said I’ll handle the robbery.” Tim stopped near the exit. “You don’t have to-”

     “Yeah,” Jason interrupted sharply, “I do, because you look two seconds away from passing out into the Batmobile.”

    Tim opened his mouth automatically, probably preparing some irritated argument out of pure instinct. Then he stopped.

     That unsettled Jason more than anything else had all night. No sarcasm. No defensive remark. No annoyed glare. Just exhaustion. Heavy enough to silence him completely.

     Tim stared down at the floor for a long moment before finally pulling the helmet back off slowly. Sweat had flattened his hair awkwardly against his forehead beneath it. Without the mask fully hiding his expression anymore, the exhaustion underneath became impossible to ignore. His eyes looked dull. Not emotionless exactly. Worse. Overused. Like someone who had spent too many nights staring at a phone screen waiting for a notification that never came.

    “Fine,” he muttered quietly.

    Defeated.

    Tim lowered himself into the nearest chair with slow, careful movements, elbows resting against his knees while both hands dragged down over his face. And suddenly, horribly, he looked young. Not Red Robin. Not the detective everyone relied on to keep functioning when Bruce spiraled too far into obsession. Just a twenty-something kid awake at four in the morning trying not to think too hard about someone he missed.

     The cave felt unbearably silent without you in it.

     Damian liked routines. Precision. Predictability. Patterns that repeated so consistently they became instinct rather than thought. The manor itself breathed through routine: Alfred’s footsteps before dawn, the distant hum of the Batcomputer somewhere beneath the house, Bruce vanishing for hours only to reappear exactly when needed, Dick’s laughter carrying through hallways before patrol. And Tim- insufferable, sleep-deprived, irritating Tim Drake- had always understood routine better than anyone. Wake up at impossible hours. Tea brewed first thing in the morning next to an energy drink. Patrol reports. Training. Casework. Annoy everyone in the cave. Repeat. Tim functioned through ritual like a machine held together by caffeine, stubbornness, and pure refusal to collapse. Which was exactly why Damian noticed when the patterns began to decay.

    At first, the changes were small enough to ignore. Missed breakfasts. Unread reports sitting untouched in the Batcomputer for hours before Tim finally answered them. Half-finished cans abandoned throughout the manor like evidence of some unfinished thought. Patrol schedules changed next. Later shifts. Longer routes. Tim returning to the manor after sunrise with bruises buried beneath his eyes and blood dried into the fabric of his gloves. Even his silences had changed. Before, Tim’s quiet had always been sharp, calculating, full of thoughts moving faster than his mouth could keep up with. Now his silence felt empty in a way Damian found himself noticing more than he cared to admit.

    And now this.

     The training room beneath the manor echoed with the violent rhythm of fists striking flesh. Sweat soaked into the mats beneath them, streaked with faint drops of blood that mostly belonged to Tim. Damian ducked beneath a lazy punch before driving his elbow sharply into Tim’s ribs. The hit landed cleanly enough to force air from his lungs, yet Tim barely reacted. That alone felt wrong. Three weeks ago Tim would have complained instantly. Rolled his eyes. Muttered something sarcastic while resetting his footing. Half their spars usually dissolved into arguments disguised as combat. Now there was only silence. Heavy breathing. The dull sound of gloves against skin.

    Tim came forward again. Slow.

     Damian blocked easily before striking him hard across the jaw. Another hit Tim should have avoided. The impact snapped his head sideways, dark hair falling into exhausted eyes. Damian waited for the inevitable glare. The irritated comment. The smug little “cheap shot.” Nothing came. Tim simply reset his stance mechanically and raised his fists again.

    Something unpleasant twisted in Damian’s chest. Because Tim always talked. The cave felt eerily still without it.

    Damian circled him carefully, watching every sluggish movement. Tim looked exhausted in a way that went beyond bruises or sleepless nights. Physically, yes, his movements dragged with fatigue, reactions delayed by fractions of seconds Damian would normally never catch, but mentally too. His focus flickered strangely. Sharp one second, vacant the next. His eyes kept drifting somewhere distant before snapping back to the present too late. Distracted fighters irritated Damian more than careless ones. Tim Drake had once been one of the most attentive people Damian knew. Now he looked like someone barely tethered to the room around him.

    Tim swung again. Too slow.

    Damian swept his legs out from beneath him, watching irritation crawl beneath his own skin when Tim stumbled clumsily instead of recovering cleanly. Another strike to the shoulder. Another missed counter. Every mistake reminded Damian of another fracture in Tim’s routine. Tim arriving late to training yesterday. Tim forgetting a case file in the cave for the first time in years. Tim staring at his phone during briefing while pretending not to. Tim leaving messages unanswered. Tim no longer disappearing midway through patrol because someone had texted him. Because you had texted.

    At first Damian had found your absence relieving. You had been disruptive. Tim softened around you in ways Damian once found nauseating. He left patrol early. Smiled at his phone like an idiot. Became quieter, though not in this terrible way. Softer around the edges. Human in a manner Damian preferred not to examine too closely. Yet now, watching Tim stagger through another failed dodge, Damian realized something he hated entirely.

     That version of Tim had at least looked alive.

    Damian lunged forward again, fist connecting sharply against Tim’s mouth. Blood split across his lip instantly, crimson dripping onto the mat beneath them. Tim hissed through his teeth but kept moving, breathing uneven now. His knuckles had split open nearly twenty minutes ago. His nose had started bleeding shortly after. Still he refused to stop.

    “Again,” Tim muttered.

    Damian frowned. “You failed to dodge.”

    “I know.”

    “Your footing is unstable.”

    “I know.”

    Another punch landed against his ribs hard enough to force him backward. Tim barely defended himself anymore. That was what unsettled Damian most. Losing did not matter. Tim had lost spars before. They all had. But Tim Drake never stopped protecting himself properly. Never stopped adapting. Never let himself become sloppy enough to simply absorb damage without purpose.

    “You are fighting poorly,” Damian snapped.

    Tim wiped blood beneath his nose with the back of his glove. “Then stop holding back.”

    “I am not holding back.”

    That earned a laugh from Tim. A Weak laugh, as if it was barely there. Damian hated the sound immediately.

    Tim’s laughter used to be unbearable. Sharp and smug and loud enough to start arguments from across the cave. This sounded worn down. Exhausted. Like something fraying apart strand by strand.

    Another memory surfaced before Damian could stop it. Three weeks ago, Tim had cut training short the second his phone buzzed. Damian had insulted him relentlessly for abandoning practice midway through sparring. Tim only rolled his eyes while shoving gear hastily into a bag.

    “I have somewhere to be.” He had to go to you. Always you.

     And somehow Damian had preferred that version more than this one standing before him now half-broken and bleeding beneath the cave lights. Because at least then Tim had looked eager to leave. Like the world still held something waiting for him outside patrols and missions and sleepless nights.

     Now he looked like there was nowhere he wanted to be at all.

     Damian struck him across the cheek again. Tim staggered sideways, catching himself too late. For the first time all night, he did not immediately recover. He simply stood there breathing heavily, head lowered while blood dripped steadily from his nose onto the floor beneath him.

      The silence stretched painfully. Then Damian understood. Not fully. Not enough to make sense of the ugly tightening in his chest. But enough.

     “You are waiting for them.”

    Tim froze. The stillness afterward swallowed the entire cave. Slowly, carefully, Tim reached for the phone resting near the edge of the training mat. The screen remained dark. No messages. No missed calls. Nothing. He set it back down with far too much care before finally speaking.

     “Drop it.” It was meant to sound sharp. It didn’t.

     Damian studied him quietly then. The bruises dark beneath sleepless eyes. The split knuckles. The exhaustion woven through every movement. The way he kept throwing himself into pain like maybe it would distract him long enough not to think.

     Pathetic. Human. Damian hated that he understood it.

     “You have become unbearable,” he said finally.

     Tim let out another humorless laugh, quieter this time. “Yeah,” he murmured. “I know.”

     No argument followed. No sarcasm. No defensive remark designed to irritate Damian into a fight. And somehow that unsettled Damian more than anything else had all night. Because Tim Drake always argued. Always. Even exhausted. Even injured. Even furious.

     But standing there now beneath the cave lights, Damian realized something horrifying.

     You had not disrupted Tim’s routines. You had become one of them. And without you, everything else in Tim’s life seemed to be collapsing alongside it.

     Barbara first heard your voice at two thirty-seven in the morning, soft laughter crackling through the cave speakers as she descended the elevator with a tablet tucked beneath her arm. The sound echoed strangely against the metal walls of the Batcave, too warm for a place built from stone and shadows. For one disoriented second she genuinely thought someone else was awake down there, another vigilante lingering after patrol, another exhausted body refusing sleep. Then Tim’s voice drifted through the speakers quietly, rough with fatigue yet softened by something she had not heard from him in weeks.

     “I know, I know. I was late.”

     Barbara slowed immediately.

     The cave sat half-asleep around him, dim overhead lights switched off except for the pale glow surrounding Tim’s workstation. Screens cast blue reflections across the sharp angles of his face while the rest of the cavern disappeared into darkness. He sat hunched in his chair, hood discarded somewhere nearby, exhaustion woven so deeply into his posture that it looked permanent now. His shoulders curved inward like he had spent too many nights trying to make himself smaller beneath the weight pressing against him. The monitor in front of him was dark. No case files. No surveillance footage. No endless spreadsheets tracking Gotham’s newest catastrophe.

     Just an audio file. Your voice spilling through the speakers again, distorted faintly from poor recording quality, yet still warm enough to shift the atmosphere around him.

    “Tim, normal people don’t answer texts three business days later.”

   A pause followed before Tim laughed quietly under his breath. Not current. Not live. Old. Barbara realized it instantly, and something unpleasant twisted sharply in her chest.

     Voice memos. He was listening to old voice memos.

      Tim leaned back slightly in his chair, one hand dragging across his mouth as your laughter filled the silence again. The sound seemed to settle over him carefully, easing the constant tension buried inside his expression for only a moment. Barbara watched his eyes close briefly, watched him breathe a little deeper like hearing your voice allowed his lungs to finally work properly again. It was not happiness exactly. Not relief either. Something softer. More dangerous. Like this was the closest he had come to peace in weeks.

     Then the recording ended. The cave immediately felt colder afterward.

     Tim replayed it.

     Barbara looked away before he could notice her sitting there because suddenly the entire scene felt painfully intimate, like witnessing someone bleed out quietly without realizing another person had entered the room. Guilt settled heavily in her stomach as understanding finally forced itself into place. She had spent weeks pretending this would pass eventually, convincing herself Tim simply needed time, needed distance, needed another case to throw himself into until the ache dulled naturally.

     But Tim was not moving on. He was not even trying to.

    Barbara wheeled forward deliberately this time, making enough noise against the cave floor for him to hear her approach. Tim startled immediately, scrambling to pause the recording so quickly he nearly dropped his phone in the process.

     “Sorry,” he muttered automatically, voice shredded from disuse. Again that rasp. Like he barely spoke anymore unless absolutely necessary.

      Barbara pretended not to notice what he had been listening to. Pretended not to notice the way his hand remained wrapped tightly around the phone afterward, thumb hovering protectively over the screen like someone afraid the memory might disappear if he loosened his grip.

     “Need help with something,” she said instead, lifting the tablet slightly.

     Tim blinked at her for a moment before forcing himself upright. “What is it?”

    “Possible weapons shipments moving through the Tricorner ports. The tracking keeps bouncing.”

     He nodded instantly. Of course he did. Anything to focus on. Anything sharp enough to drown out the thoughts chasing him tonight.

      Barbara watched him roll toward the main computer, exhaustion dripping from every movement. Thin cuts stretched across his knuckles, still healing badly from patrol earlier that week, pale skin split open every time his fingers flexed over the keyboard. Yet despite the exhaustion hollowing out his face, the moment the system loaded something inside him sharpened automatically. His attention narrowed. His posture straightened slightly. Tim Drake still worked with frightening efficiency no matter how badly he was unraveling everywhere else.

     That part of him would probably never break.

      Silence settled between them outside the rapid clacking of keys. Fast. Precise. Mechanical. Barbara pretended to review files on her tablet while watching him carefully instead, studying the quiet deterioration he kept trying so hard to hide from everyone around him.

     His phone rested beside the keyboard. Screen still unlocked. And there you were. A photograph glowed faintly beneath the cave lights, grainy from low brightness yet impossible to ignore. You sat beside Tim somewhere Barbara did not recognize, sunlight pouring across both of you while your head tilted toward him mid-laugh. Your expression looked open and bright enough to soften even the poor quality of the image. Tim was not looking at the camera. Of course he was not. His entire focus rested on you instead, eyes carrying that devastatingly unguarded expression Barbara had never seen directed at anyone else before.

      She had known Tim for years. She knew every version of his face: focused, annoyed, calculating, sarcastic, angry, exhausted. But this one felt entirely different. This one looked vulnerable.

      Like loving you had reached into him and pulled something painfully human out into the open, something he normally kept buried beneath strategy and sarcasm and careful control. Barbara’s throat tightened unexpectedly as she looked away from the picture, only for her gaze to catch on the half-open notebook resting near the edge of the desk.

    At first she assumed patrol notes filled the pages. Then she noticed the crossed-out lines: 

hope youre okay (A thick line carved through it.)

i saw something today that reminded me of you (Crossed out harder.)

i think i messed this up (The words nearly destroyed beneath angry black ink.)

can we talk? (Another line through it.)

      Page after page after page of Drafts. Things he wanted to say to you but never sent.

     Barbara suddenly felt like she had stepped into something far too private because Tim was not dramatic about pain. He never had been. Dick burned loudly. Jason exploded. Bruce buried himself alive in silence until it poisoned everyone around him. But Tim suffered methodically, quietly, organizing his grief into neat little boxes like if he catalogued the damage carefully enough no one would notice it consuming him whole.

     “You haven’t slept again, have you?” Barbara asked softly.

      Tim never looked up from the screen. “Probably.”

     Probably. Not even denial anymore.

     The keyboard continued clacking rapidly beneath his fingers, systems opening and collapsing across the monitors faster than Barbara could fully process. Shipping routes appeared highlighted in red. Fake manifests surfaced within seconds. Three shell companies flagged almost immediately afterward. Ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous. Six minutes passed before Tim leaned back slightly in his chair.

     “Done.”

    Barbara stared at the completed work on the monitor before slowly turning toward him instead. At the exhaustion hollowing out his features. At the untouched coffee beside him gone cold hours ago. At the notebook overflowing with words he could not bring himself to send. At the phone screen still glowing softly with your photograph. And suddenly heartbreak pressed painfully against her ribs because Tim did not look like someone avoiding you anymore. He looked like someone terrified. Someone hanging helplessly between missing you too much and fearing what would happen if he reached out only to discover you no longer wanted him there.

     “You can track international weapons shipments in six minutes,” Barbara said quietly. “But you can’t call one person?”

     Silence swallowed the cave immediately afterward, deep and endless beneath the hum of computers surrounding them. Tim stared at the monitor for a long moment without speaking. Barbara watched his expression tighten subtly, watched his fingers curl slightly against the edge of the desk like he needed something physical to ground himself.

      When he finally answered, his voice sounded small. “What if they don’t answer?”

      Barbara’s expression faltered instantly. Because there it was. Not pride, not stubbornness, not avoidance. Just fear. Simple and painfully honest.

      Tim lowered his gaze toward the notebook again before speaking softer this time, barely audible beneath the machinery humming around them.

      “I think that might be worse.”

     Gotham had a way of swallowing people whole. Not all at once. Never dramatically. The city preferred patience. Preferred sinking its teeth into someone slowly until exhaustion became routine and silence became easier than asking for help. Bruce had lived inside that silence for most of his life, had learned to recognize the different ways it manifested in the people he loved long before any of them realized he was watching closely enough to notice.

     Dick became reckless when he was hurting. Brighter smiles, louder laughs, faster movements across rooftops that bordered too closely on self-destruction for Bruce’s comfort. Jason became angry in the way Gotham itself became angry, sharp edged and explosive, fists first and apologies never. Damian became quieter than usual, every emotion locked so tightly behind clenched teeth that the entire manor seemed to tense around him.

     Tim, however, disappeared. Not physically. That would have been easier to confront.

     Tim still arrived for patrol exactly on time. Still solved cases before anyone else had fully pieced together the evidence. Still sat through briefings with that same analytical stare that made people forget he was far too young to carry the responsibilities constantly dropped onto his shoulders. The work itself remained flawless for the most part, every report neatly filed before dawn, every mission completed with near obsessive precision. To anyone standing far enough away, he looked fine.

      But Bruce had never learned how to love his children from a distance. So he noticed the absences anyway.

      The pauses where conversation used to be. The way Tim drifted through the manor like a ghost that remembered how to imitate routine but no longer understood the purpose behind it. The exhaustion hidden beneath coffee cups and computer screens. The subtle delay before responding whenever someone spoke to him, as though his thoughts remained somewhere else entirely and he had to force himself back into the room each time.

      And perhaps worst of all, The cave had become silent again.

      Bruce stood in the entrance late one evening watching the glow of the Batcomputer wash over Tim’s face in pale blue light. The cave itself hummed quietly around him, monitors flickering endlessly against dark stone walls while surveillance footage rolled across multiple screens untouched. Rainwater dripped somewhere deeper within the cavern, the sound echoing through the emptiness between them.

      Tim sat hunched over the main console pretending to work. Pretending being the important part. A case file remained open across three separate monitors, security footage looping repeatedly beside unfinished reports, yet Tim had not typed a single thing in nearly ten minutes. His attention remained elsewhere entirely. Not on the case. Not on the cave. On the phone sitting inches from his hand. Waiting.

       Bruce had noticed that too over the past several weeks. The constant checking. The immediate flashes of hope every single time the screen lit up. The disappointment that followed almost instantly afterward. Tim tried hiding it now, angling the screen away whenever someone entered the room, locking the device too quickly whenever messages appeared.

      He was terrible at hiding heartbreak.

     “You missed dinner.”

     Tim blinked at the sound of Bruce’s voice like he had forgotten other people existed down there with him. His shoulders stiffened briefly before relaxing again, exhaustion settling back into his posture almost immediately.

      “Sorry,” he murmured quietly, voice rough from disuse and too much coffee. “Lost track of time.”

      Another phrase Bruce had begun hearing far too often. Tim losing track of time. Tim forgetting things. Tim, who once scheduled every hour of his life so meticulously that Alfred used to joke he could predict the exact second sunrise would become inconvenient.

     Bruce stepped farther into the cave, boots heavy against the metal flooring as he studied him more carefully beneath the monitor light. The exhaustion had worsened. There was no denying it anymore. Dark circles carved themselves permanently beneath Tim’s eyes now, his frame thinner than before, clothes hanging looser around sharp shoulders from too many sleepless nights spent in front of glowing screens. Even the way he sat had changed somehow. Curled inward. Smaller. 

      But the worst part remained his expression. Not emotionless. Just tired in a way that reached deeper than physical exhaustion. Bruce recognized that look because he had once worn it so long he forgot his own face underneath it.

       Tim’s phone buzzed suddenly against the desk. Immediate reaction. Hope crossed his face before he could stop it. Small. Fragile. Painfully human.

      Bruce watched the exact moment it disappeared again. Tim locked the phone quickly afterward, setting it down harder than intended before dragging a hand across his face. The movement carried frustration beneath it now. Frustration with himself for caring this much. For waiting this much.

     Bruce said nothing because he already understood. The entire family did.

     You had not simply become important to Tim somewhere along the way. You had become stitched into the rhythm of his life so naturally that your absence now echoed through everything else. Every silence in the manor seemed louder because you were no longer filling it. Every patrol lasted longer because Tim no longer rushed through reports to answer your texts afterward. Even his laughter had disappeared quietly enough that Bruce had not realized how accustomed he’d become to hearing it until it stopped altogether.

     Bruce moved closer to the workstation, gaze drifting toward the corner of one monitor. That was when he noticed the photo. Small enough most people would have overlooked it entirely.

You and Tim standing close together somewhere under city lights, your smile bright enough to draw immediate attention despite the dimness of the screen. Yet Tim was not looking at the camera in the picture. His eyes rested entirely on you, expression softer than Bruce could ever remember seeing from him. No walls. No caution. No overthinking hidden behind calculated responses. Just love.

      Simple enough to be terrifying. Something ached unexpectedly in Bruce’s chest at the sight because he could not remember the last time he had seen Tim look at anything with that much openness.

       Tim noticed where his attention had landed and minimized the window immediately. Too late. Bruce had already seen it.

      Silence settled heavily between them afterward, broken only by the distant hum of machinery and rainfall echoing somewhere beyond the cave walls. Tim rubbed tiredly at his eyes before finally speaking again.

      “Was there something you needed?”

      Bruce almost answered automatically. A patrol adjustment. A case update. Something practical. Easier. Instead his gaze lingered on the exhaustion etched into Tim’s face and he heard himself ask quietly,

      “When was the last time you slept?”

      Tim let out a faint breath that might have been amusement once upon a time. “Define slept.” Deflection. Another routine.

      Bruce ignored it.

     “You’ve been making mistakes.”

     That finally got a reaction. Tim stiffened almost instantly in front of the computer, shoulders pulling tight beneath the worn fabric of his suit. “I fixed them.”

     “You shouldn’t be making them in the first place.” 

      The words came out harsher than intended. Bruce regretted them immediately. Because this was not a soldier failing orders. Not Robin standing before Batman awaiting criticism.

     This was his son quietly unraveling in front of him while pretending he was still holding himself together. Tim’s shoulders curled inward slightly at the reprimand, exhaustion suddenly making him look younger than Bruce liked to remember. Too young for this kind of grief. Too young to carry heartbreak like another piece of armor.

      Bruce’s eyes drifted again toward the cold coffee abandoned beside the keyboard. Toward the phone still resting face-up within immediate reach. Waiting. Always waiting.

      And suddenly Bruce understood what the others had been trying to do these past few weeks. Dick constantly inviting Tim out for late-night food runs and patrols that lasted longer than necessary. Jason taking over missions before Tim could volunteer for them himself. Barbara sending him extra tech work just to keep his mind occupied. Even Damian extending training sessions with sharp insults disguised as concern.

      Distractions.

      Every single one of them trying desperately to keep Tim moving long enough not to think about you. But none of it was helping.

      Because every time the manor quieted down, every time patrol ended and the cave emptied and no one remained nearby to occupy his attention, Tim drifted right back to the same place. Back to you.

      Bruce moved beside the desk slowly, leaning one hand against the console as he studied his son more carefully. Tim looked exhausted enough to fall asleep sitting upright. Bruised knuckles rested against the keyboard beside healing cuts scattered across trembling fingers, evidence of patrols growing rougher over recent weeks.

      Yet despite everything, despite how miserable he clearly was, Bruce noticed something else too. Tim still had not called you. Not because he didn’t want to. Because he was afraid.

     Bruce understood that fear more intimately than he cared to admit. The fear of reaching for  something important only to discover it no longer belonged to you. The fear of hearing silence where love used to exist.

      His gaze lowered briefly toward the untouched phone one final time before he made his decision.

      “Go.”

     Tim frowned slightly, clearly pulled from thoughts too far away to process the command immediately. “What?”

      “Go find them.”

     The cave fell completely still. Tim stared at Bruce like he had misheard him entirely.

Bruce rarely involved himself in emotional matters. He had failed too often in that department to pretend otherwise. Practicality had always come easier than comfort. Missions easier than conversations. Still, he continued quietly,

      “You haven’t been here in weeks.”

      Something flickered across Tim’s face then because they both understood Bruce did not mean physically. Tim looked down at his hands for a long moment. At the bruises. The cuts. The exhaustion trembling through his fingers from too many sleepless nights spent trying not to miss someone.

      “I don’t think they want to see me.”

     The admission sounded painfully young coming from him. Not Red Robin. Not the detective. Just Tim.

      Bruce watched grief settle visibly across his son’s face and felt something twist sharply in his chest at the sight. Tim had always been the one who kept moving no matter how badly he was hurt. The one who buried pain beneath productivity until even his family struggled to tell where exhaustion ended and heartbreak began.

      “You won’t know until you try,” Bruce answered softly.

     “What if I already ruined it?” Bruce looked at him carefully then. Really looked.

      At the fear hidden beneath the exhaustion. At the grief Tim kept trying to suffocate beneath case files and patrol routes and endless nights inside the cave. At the way he still checked his phone even now despite expecting disappointment every single time it buzzed.

      And for perhaps the first time in a very long while, Bruce answered honestly instead of strategically.

      “Then fix it.” Tim laughed quietly at that. Not amused. Just tired enough that hope itself sounded painful.

      “I don’t know how.”

      Bruce thought again of the photograph hidden on Tim’s monitor. The way his son looked at you like you were something precious enough to lose. Important enough to break him afterward.

      Then Bruce reached over and closed the untouched case file Tim had been pretending to read for the past hour.

      “Start by leaving the cave.”

     Tim stared at the darkened monitor for a long moment after that. The silence stretched long enough Bruce wondered if he would retreat back into routine again, bury himself beneath another report, another mission, another excuse not to confront the thing hurting him most.

      Instead, slowly, Tim reached for his keys instead of the keyboard. Bruce said nothing as he stood. Did not stop him when he headed toward the exit. Only watched as something shifted within the exhaustion weighing down his posture. Something sharper now. Brighter. Urgency. Hope. Fear. And maybe, finally-

     Enough determination to run back toward the person he should have chosen sooner.

      Tim had faced armed mercenaries with steadier hands than this. Men with rifles trained on his chest, blades flashing beneath alleyway lights, bombs counting down in abandoned warehouses somewhere beneath Gotham’s rotting streets. He had stood bloodied and half-conscious in front of enemies that wanted him dead and still managed to keep his breathing even. Gotham had carved survival instincts into his bones years ago. Fear was supposed to come later for people like him. After the mission. After the adrenaline wore off. After the bruises settled beneath skin already stained purple and yellow from older fights.

     Yet somehow your apartment door reduced him to this.

     The hallway stood silent around him, dim overhead lighting buzzing faintly as rain tapped somewhere against the apartment windows farther down the building. Nothing about this should have felt dangerous. No hidden threat waiting in the shadows. No gunfire. No masks. No blood. Just one door standing between him and the conversation he had spent weeks avoiding.

     And still his body refused to move.

     His hand lifted once toward the wood, fingers twitching like he meant to knock, before falling uselessly back to his side. Again a second later. Worse this time. Hesitation curling ugly in his stomach.

      Coward.

     The thought hit sharper than he expected. Tim swallowed hard, lowering his gaze to the stained carpet beneath his shoes as exhaustion dragged heavily at the back of his skull. He had rehearsed this entire walk over. Every possible version of how this could go. What he would say first. How he would apologize. Which truths he could survive speaking aloud and which ones needed to stay buried somewhere deep inside him where even Bruce couldn’t dig them back out.

      Now his mind sat horrifyingly empty. Because Barbara had been right. What if you didn’t answer?

      The silence of the past few weeks suddenly felt deafening again. Every unanswered text. Every missed call he never finished making. Tim had spent night after night staring at your contact until the screen dimmed in his hands. Some part of him had convinced itself that staying away was safer. Easier. Better for you. Gotham destroyed everything eventually and Tim had never learned how to exist around people without becoming another form of collateral damage.

But another part of him, the weaker, uglier, far more human part, had missed you so badly it physically hurt.

     And somehow that terrified him more than any rooftop fight ever had.

     His phone weighed heavily in his pocket. Silent. Unforgiving. Tim pressed his tongue briefly against the inside of his cheek before finally forcing himself forward. The motion stiff. Mechanical. Like walking into a gunfight he already knew he would lose.

     Three knocks echoed softly through the apartment. Too late to run now.

      Almost immediately he heard movement from inside. Quiet footsteps crossing the floor. The sound alone made something tight pull painfully in his chest. Tim suddenly became hyperaware of himself in the worst possible ways. The bruises still hidden beneath his jacket sleeves. The healing cut near his collarbone stretching uncomfortably every time he breathed. The exhaustion hanging off him so heavily he felt hollowed out by it. He couldn’t remember the last time he had actually slept without waking up reaching for weapons that weren’t there.

     Then the lock clicked. The door opened. And there you were.

     For one terrible second Tim forgot every sentence he had prepared.

     You looked tired too. Comfortable clothes hanging loosely against your frame, hair slightly messy like you had been trying to relax before he ruined your evening by showing up unannounced. Surprise flickered openly across your face the second you recognized him standing there beneath the dim hallway light. Not anger. Not resentment. Just surprise.

Somehow that made this harder.

      Neither of you spoke at first.

      Tim could only stare, caught somewhere between relief and disbelief because you were real and here and looking at him instead of turning him away. Weeks suddenly felt much longer standing in front of you now. Long enough for him to notice every tiny thing he had missed. The familiar softness in your expression. The warmth spilling from your apartment into the cold hallway. The way your eyes searched his face quietly, almost carefully, like you were trying to figure out how much of him Gotham had managed to wear away this time.

      Then you smiled. Small. Gentle. Tired around the edges maybe, but real. And something inside Tim cracked open so suddenly it nearly hurt.

     “Hi,” you said softly. The word wrapped around him warmer than the apartment ever could.

      Tim stared for half a second too long before forcing himself to answer. “Hi.”

     God. His voice sounded wrecked. Rough from disuse and exhaustion and too many nights spent speaking only through comms or not speaking at all. He watched your expression shift almost immediately at the sound of it. Concern slipping quietly into your features. Maybe sadness too.

     You noticed. Of course you noticed. But even then, you still stepped backward first, opening the door wider without hesitation.

     “You should come inside.”

     Relief hit him so fast it nearly made his knees give out beneath him.

     Tim nodded once because trusting himself with more words right now felt impossible. As he stepped past you into the warmth of your apartment, the door clicking softly shut behind him, something devastating settled quietly inside his chest.

when it came to you, he regarded you as though you had placed every star up in the sky for him.

he noticed the way you mindlessly played with your nails when you were too caught up in something, or the way you pulled several facial expressions in the mirror when styling your hair for the day. he noticed the way you stacked your outfit for the next day ― always bottoms, undergarments, top, and socks.

he especially noticed and deeply adored the way you allowed yourself to be soft around him.

you were walking the streets of gotham after a morning at the farmer's market. your hands were stuffed into the pockets of your (really jason's) hoodie that gloomy morning, hood covering your head, yet leaving enough for onlookers to see the peeved expression pulling at your features.

you weren't an angry person, just not one to be messed with. without jason there, you needed some way to make sure that no one would test you. you moved with intent: get in, get out, go home.

unbeknownst to you, he had gone to your favorite coffee shop, grabbing you two breakfast so you could sit out by a park for a bit. and, yes, of course he has your order memorized!

nonetheless, in a crowd of millions, he wouldn't miss you. stepping out of the shop, he spotted you like clockwork. he observed you from afar, though, watching as you continued to stroll with this weird, vexed expression.

it felt new to him. he hadn't seen you so guarded in forever.

when you first met is an obvious exception ― both of you needed to learn, to feel the other, before fully letting your guards down.

he wasn't looking for anyone when you met, but you were absolutely breathtaking. dick said that he'd be a complete moron if he let you walk out of that coffee shop without at least getting your name. but jason, being jason, he memorized your schedule instead ― pocketing the times you popped in for your morning coffee and for your lunch break.

as the days passed, you were very wary of him sitting in the corner, knee deep in a copy of the count of monte cristo. you showed up on your day off with a fully annotated copy of your own, plopping into the seat right next to his.

he would take sips of his drink, using it as an opportunity to look at you. you didn’t look up from your book once, only speaking when you felt his eyes on you.

“you’ve been stalking me,” you spoke with a hint of interest.

“stalking is a bit harsh,” he tuts. “i’d rather say that i’ve been observing you.”

his breath gets caught in his throat when you did finally look at him, somehow even more beautiful up close.

“well,” your voice carries a teasing lilt. “find anything you like?”

he laughs, more so to himself because he can’t believe that he’s really talking to you.

“uh, yeah,” he scratches the back of his head. “a lot, actually.”

some years in, and life with you was like a breath of fresh air.

you inched closer to him without knowing it, humming along quietly to the music resonating through your earbuds. it wasn't until a white streak of hair glimmered in the distance that you really honed in, eyebrows furrowing. in a matter of milliseconds, your eyes softened, a sweet smile tugging at each corner of your mouth.

it felt like his heart was doing backflips as you approached him, your smile beaming brighter than any ray of sunshine ever could.

"what're you doing here, stranger?"

you stood on your tiptoes before he could process it, pressing a mushy kiss to his cheek.

and just like that, he was a goner.

quietly noting the way you now walked around with a subtle grin, the way your eyes lit up even as you carried on the most mundane conversations, and the way your body physically relaxed.

your shoulders were no longer up to your ears, nor were you walking like you were on a mission. you took your time, fell into paced steps with him. still, though, you held his hand with such a grip that made it seem as though you were scared to let go, scared to lose him.

but it was deeper than that. a small gesture to say 'thank you', to let him know how safe he made your world feel.

you also practiced the art of noticing, very quietly.

you noticed the way he double checked, triple checked, quadruple checked every lock in your apartment before getting ready for bed. he even made sure to install extra secure locks on all of the windows, insisting that "you never know what could happen."

you notice the way he polishes his guns meticulously. one wipe down isn't enough, neither are two. he checks the parts at the end of every week. it doesn't matter if he's just dying to crawl into bed and sleep; he makes sure that he looks over each firearm multiple times.

he locks them up safely afterwards, too ― at least the ones that he uses out on the field. they aren't saved from his nightly lockup ritual. he never forgets to check the gun that he keeps primly on your nightstand, making sure it's fully loaded because again, "you never know what could happen."

and yes, it is quite unsettling to fall asleep with a gun just a few meters from your head. but he always caps the trigger off with a safety lock, never uttering a word when he noticed your inability to fall asleep one night.

you notice the way he jerks in his sleep and the tiny pleas and whimpers that rip from his chest. his nightmares have calmed down since he started living with you, but when he is haunted by the suffering that the joker inflicted on him, and when he relives his moments in the lazarus pit, it shakes him up. it wreaks havoc.

you don't have to wake him up. all you do is scoop that six-foot, two-hundred-twenty-five-pound man into your arms, and hold him tight. hug him to your chest. cling to him like it's the last time you'll ever get to hold him.

eventually he stirs in his sleep, breathing in your scent, and the world settles around him. suddenly, his dreams are replaced by images of you, memories that the two of you have created with each other.

in that little world, it's only the two of you. you're not in gotham. he hasn't been forced to hell and back, he hasn't died and come back to life. he doesn't have to fight to protect you in that world, but in this world, his arms keep you in place, afraid that you'll slip away.

when he twitches softly, the ghost of a laugh puffing past his lips, then you'll know that it's over, that no one's hurting your sweet boy anymore.

the art of noticing is arguably one of the most intimate expressions of your love.

yes, you can whisper 'i love you' in a thousand different languages, but nothing compares to the way he notices every wordless shift in your energy, or the way you notice every small gesture that conveys the depth of his love for you when he can't say it.

and isn't that love in its simplest form?

a/n: i wrote this in one sitting. my back is now hurting but CAN I GET A HELLLLLL YEAHHHH???? i absolutely live for tooth-rotting fluff w jason. k. goodnight <3

Your knees wanted to give out at the sight of him trying to grin. Even now, even in so much pain, he tried to reassure you. So you helped him, laying him on the couch and rummaging through the cabinet for supplies. A sharp, chemical smell wafted through the apartment. You didn’t flinch. Nor did your hands tremble when you stitched his wounds.

Once you finished, you tucked him into bed and gazed at him, checking for the rise and fall of his chest. It was then that you noticed a chain around his neck, his wedding ring looped through it. This foolish man. He should know better than to carry something so precious out there.

Instead of scolding him like you wanted to, you curled up against him, fingers carding through his hair. You didn’t dare think about what would’ve happened if you hadn’t been home. And when morning came, he would surely try to calm you.

No, you couldn’t let it go this time. You would not let him distract you with his kisses. He needed to be reminded of just how dangerous this world was.

———

When the clock struck eight the next morning, you flung the curtains open. Sunlight poured in relentlessly, making Dick groan. He threw an arm over his eyes, his beautiful features twisting in discomfort from the movement.

“Sweetheart, the absolute love of my life, could you perhaps not agonize your very amazing husband today?” His voice was low and rough with sleep.

You hummed, bustling around the room for the medication you’d prepared for him. All night, your mind had whirled with ideas of how to make sure he was properly trained. He fought to save. That was the problem. You needed him to fight to survive.

You appeared beside the bed with the pills and a bottle of water. Looking at his injuries, you steeled your resolve. “Take these,” you demanded.

He shifted, opening one eye. Slowly, he sat up, the sheets pooling around his waist. The sun painted his skin in soft gold. He looked at you with half-lidded eyes and fondness.

You held out the pills and water.

He rolled his eyes and took them, letting his fingers linger against yours. When he went to swallow them without the water, you cleared your throat loudly.

He paused, eyeing you.

“Isn’t there something you need to do before taking them?” you asked.

He tilted his head. “Oh yeah,” he said with a grin, and gestured for you to come closer. You leaned in, brows furrowed. what—

He kissed your cheek. “Thank you for taking care of me, sweetheart,” he murmured, like the idiot he was. Then he swallowed the pills, and you closed your eyes in disappointment.

“This is worse than I thought,” you said gravely. “You took the poison.”

“Huh?”

“Poison, Dick. That was poison,” you explained calmly.

There was a beat of silence.

“When did my sweet wife get a sense of humor?” he chuckled, eyes crinkling in that careless way that irritated you. Most people wouldn’t describe you as sweet. Dick, though, had always been a little weird.

“Dick,” you said flatly.

He faltered slightly, scanning your face. “Hang on… have I been neglecting you? Because if this is a cry for help, I can clear my schedule.”

Heat flooded your cheeks. “What?!”

“Honey, you don’t have to go to these lengths,” he said softly, reaching for your hand. “You can have whatever you want. I’m yours, remember?”

You grumbled. How was he making you flustered with a few words? The fact that his wife had poisoned him was somehow the least of his concerns. If your dosage was right, he had about thirty minutes before he started throwing up.

You grimaced.

Dick, naturally, took that as confirmation of marital failure. “Baby—”

You shot him a look and reached into your pocket, pulling out the antidote. “Take it.”

He stared at it. “Is that poison?”

“Oh, now you hesitate?” you said sharply. It seemed that with you, he lost all sense of self-preservation.

He closed his mouth and obediently took the antidote. Embarrassment crept across your cheeks. This wasn’t for attention. You just didn’t need him to know the real reason for your worry, poorly disguised as a murder attempt.

Admitting that would only make things worse.

———

Later that evening, you forced Dick to rest, his soft snores coming from the bedroom while you begrudgingly facetimed two very annoying redheads for help.

“This is serious,” you cut through their bickering.

Roy stopped mid argument. “That’s never a good sentence coming from you.”

Wally leaned into the frame, squinting. “Is he actually dying or is this just you being weird again?”

“Neither,” you said flatly. “This is training.”

Roy’s brows furrowed. “Training for what?”

You hesitated, then decided it didn’t matter what they thought. “So he doesn’t get himself killed.”

There was silence.

Then, Wally slowly spoke. “So let me get this straight. To make sure he doesn’t die, you’re gonna try to kill him?”

Roy snorted, which turned into wheezing. “He probably thinks this is foreplay.”

You glared. “What terrible taste he would have to consider this foreplay,” you said. “There is not nearly enough blood.”

Wally closed his eyes. “Yeah, okay. We’ll help— but only so you don’t accidentally kill him.”

“Hell yeah,” Roy grinned.

You sighed. The things you did for love.

masterlist

The entire family had been there when Bruce had gotten the call. Some soft sweet voice on the phone with a stutter echoing in the Batcave about how she might be his child and apologizing profusely for the awkward call.

Everyone had frozen when looking at Bruce. Bodies tense and expecting this to blow up into a whole spectacle. Each person looking at the other for someone's reaction. But, the most anticipated reaction was Bruce's.

"Who's your mother?" He had asked in an almost gentle voice. Suspicious, but there was no way he was going to show that.

"It's, um... You probably don't remember her... But, she did a show for Versace..." The voice had stumbled to explain before finally sharing a name. And, that made Bruce nod before replying.

"I remember her. Beautiful woman with long legs." He had commented, something that a rich playboy would say about some random model from forever ago.

To be fair, Bruce did treat the models he spent the night with respectfully. But, it was still difficult to make an emotional connection with someone so focused on their appearance for their career.

The conversation after that still held everyone's attention. Sharp ears all trying to detect any inconsistences in the story.

You hadn't really felt the need to ask your mother about Bruce until recently. You had a fairly normal childhood, though your mother was on her second marriage while still a minor model.

You had graduated high school last year and weren't necessarily interested in college due to student loans, but you weren't asking for Bruce to cover anything either. You only called because you wanted to confirm things due to being a bit uncertain about your future at the moment.

Which lead to Bruce offering to send you a private DNA test. Making the entire cave sigh in relief when you stuttered out that you were more than willing to do it.

It had lead to bets being placed though.

Dick and Jason betting you were actually Bruce's biological child and karma was finally catching up to him for his playboy persona. Barbara and Stephanie bet that you weren't Bruce's kid at all, but that he'd probably swoop in to adopt you anyway. Duke refused to bet. And, Cassandra remained silent on the matter while observing Damian. Making a different kind of bet to herself.

Everyone could tell the youngest of the bunch was a nervous wreck on the matter despite his skill at hiding it.

Only Cassandra could tell that both Damian and Bruce were perhaps excited. Even if you were grown, you sounded so soft and sweet. Mild mannered and polite.

But, no one Tim was allowed to do any research on you until those results came in. No sense in getting attached or over analyzing things when they had a City to protect and you lived in another.

It did, however, only take two days for the results to come in. And, then a full day for Bruce to process it.

Positive.

After that, the green light went off. Driver’s licenses, passport, social security. All of it checked. Medical records. School records and pictures. Even a very pictures your mother posted of you online. (She didn’t post many. Which was surprisingly wholesome in a way for a woman with a flourishing social media presence.)

A sweet face that looked nearly identical to your mother’s with a smidgen of Bruce’s more angular features. Not very assassin-y looking, Stephanie joked.

Bruce himself called to fly his daughter out to Gotham home. Talking to her on the phone and wanting to enjoy this one bit of normalcy.

Of course, you offered to just drive out. A round trip sounded nice in your aimlessness and you didn’t want to hassle your newfound family. (You were nervous. It was clear to tell by the way your breath hitched on the phone.)

Another three days of anticipation and Barbara tracking your phone as you drove to Gotham. And, then your modest car pulls up along the driveway to the manor.

Bruce carefully coordinates the family on the steps. They weren’t missing this. Everyone was far too nosy. Even Damian, though he wouldn’t dare admit it. He had a right to see his blood-sister. (That comment made Jason laugh, Dick and Tim groaned.)

Bruce also felt that pool of anxiety in his gut. Though he wouldn’t dare show it. Years of life having made him better apply to manage hiding such things.

The carefree playboy persona was on, mixed with some genuine fatherly excitement as he jogged to open your car door for you. His heart melting a bit at how hopeful and shy you looked.

“Already getting the princess treatment.” Jason muttered loud enough for everyone to hear. Only to sputter as you stepped out of the car.

“Oh, my queer ass was not ready for this.” Stephanie’s eyes lighting up like sparklers.

“I completely skipped over her height on her driver’s license…” Barbara had covered her mouth in surprise, while also elbowing Dick to shut his. Tim and Duke were too busy laughing at a disappointed and pouting Damian. Clearly genetics didn’t favor him as much as his new sibling.

Cassandra was already by the car before anyone could stop her. A tiny smile on her lips while her head was tilted all the way back to study your face. “Yes.”

Bruce blinked. Then blinked again. Because he could now tell his daughter had his mother’s nose before looking up to met her eyes.

It was quite humbling to see that Bruce Wayne’s little girl had two solid inches on him.

AN: Kinda wrote this a week ago trying to get back into the swing of things. 🫣 God, where did my momentum go? Feel like I gotta re-learn everything.

tuesdays were always training days.

every tuesday of the week, campers would flock towards the training ground, celestial bronze weapons in hand, picking fights with straw dummies in bronze armor. oftentimes, campers who grew bored of the non-moving, stationary strawmen flocked together and decided to use themselves as their own training dummies. this became a new, innovative method of melee fight teaching, and has carried on to the present day. 

this demigod versus demigod training brawls always happen on tuesdays.

it was an unspoken tradition, written in the minds of these orange-clad campers like it was law. tuesdays were always training days. for the rest of camp, it was a day to hone and develop new skills, to have a better chance at defending themselves against monsters that were prevalent outsidecamp half blood’s borders. it was because of this reasoning that the campers got far too carried away with their training. 

for the apollo cabin, it’s the worst day of the week. 

with the influx of injured campers—all with injuries ranging from pin-sized papercuts to almost amputations—the infirmary was almost always full. more often than not, training days meant that the apollo cabin had to be spread thinner to accommodate the number of people who needed medical attention. 

the apollo cabin holds a mild dislike for tuesdays. you do, especially. 

you often regretted saying yes. after leaving camp half blood years ago, you thought it’d be a nice few years in the mortal world—pursuing your education and bettering your skills away from the world of deadly prophecies and gods and goddesses. it would have been a nice break, until chiron reached out to you privately, asking for a small favor. 

according to him, before you left and for a while after, the tuesdays system was never this bad. apollo could manage it enough; they didn’t need to spread themselves out so thin to treat injured campers.

the system worsened after chiron asked percy jackson to train the campers in swordfighting. this led to a staggering increase in injured demigods. 

you thought it was a false cause—post hoc ergo propter hoc, or whatever. but, after you said yes to chiron’s plea to come back to camp and help apollo manage injuries, you saw with your own eyes that chiron wasn't just incorrectly assuming that because one event followed another, the first event caused the second.

you saw how the poor campers were tripping over themselves and nearly getting mauled because of their efforts in swordfighting. and—upon asking a patient with a finger that almost fell off—it wasn’t because of his methods of teaching. no, it was because the kids wanted to be like him so bad, they went to extremes just to get better, to be like their hero, percy jackson.

the apollo cabin held a mild dislike for tuesdays. you? you loathed them. 

this tuesday, however, is an exception. 

“jackson…” you pause. you have to chastise yourself. healers aren’t supposed to sound this horrified upon seeing their patients, no matter how battered, bloody, or bruised they are. they aren’t supposed to sound horrified at all. you try to mask it with a cough. “what…happened to you?”

threre’s a gash. no, not even that—to call it a gash would be an insult to the mere magnitude of it. it was an ugly, jagged line, the origin at the dead center of his chest. it curls around his pectorals, and you can see it end on a point between his armpit and his bicep. from a blunt weapon, most likely. blood is splattered on his chest like a bad watercolor painting, but thankfully, the wound isn’t gushing out any blood at all.

he’s led to the bed—thank you, you tell his companion—and when he’s sat down, the muscles of his abdomen flex ever so noticeably.

my gods, was his body always this defined? 

a traitorous, unserious voice in your head points that fact out, and heat immediately rushes to your cheeks.

he straightens at your gaze. 

“you should see the other guy,” he tells you, snapping you out of your thoughts. 

your eyebrows furrow, your mouth curls into a wince just thinking of all the healing you’ll have to do to this poor other camper. “i hope i don't get to see the other guy at all.” 

you glance at the pitcher of lukewarm water used to clean wounds. 

percy is the son of poseidon. the pitcher would be an easy way to heal him—you wouldn’t need to spend so much cleaning his large wound and sewing it up. you probably wouldn’t even need to consume the entire pitcher to make the wound disappear.

it’s convenient, the voice in your head says, but it comes at the cost of you not seeing or touching percy’s muscles.

it’s a moral and ethical dilemma.  

you shake your head and turn to the cabinet above you. from there, you pull out sterile gloves, cotton balls, antiseptic, a needle and thread, and some nectar. in the end, the traitorous voice prevails.

after you put the gloves on, you tell him, “i’ll start by cleaning your wound.” you douse the cotton ball in antiseptic. “your wound’s quite big, it might sting.”

he purses his lips and nods, as if steeling himself.

you circle the edges of his wound with antiseptic. once clean, you take a nectar-doused cotton ball and dab it gently against the open wound.

his stomach flexes at the contact. his arms brace against the bed frame, and you can almost see the same arms wrapped around you, same bare torso pressed against your bare back—

“did a kid beat you up this much?” you ask to rid yourself of those thoughts. and oh, how you prayed he couldn’t hear the small tremors in your voice. 

his head snaps around, and he throws a small glare at you. “i’ll have you know, i wasn’t beaten up by a kid.”

“i don’t know who you’re fooling,” you say. “the nymphs, satyrs, and chiron are the only things in camp older than us.”

percy shuts his mouth after, giving you the perfect opportunity to sew the wound closed.

you trace a line around the wound's perimeter.

“i’ll sew around here,” you say. at the look on percy’s face, you reassure him: “there’ll be nectar in the thread, don’t worry. it won’t hurt.”

after you’d sewn the wound closed, you dab over it with nectar for good measure.

“alright, that’s all you’ll need from me.” you hand him a spare camp shirt that—you assume—is his size. “the wound’s all closed up, and i made sure the thread’s fortified enough that the wound won’t open with strenuous activity. you can continue training; just don’t let any kids cut you up that bad, yeah?”

you turn your back to him. you dispose of the antiseptic and nectar cotton balls you used to clean his wound, wrap the needle in tissue and throw it, shelve the bottle of nectar and antiseptic, then tidy up your area. 

when you turn back, percy jackson is still sitting on the infirmary bed. 

he didn’t even put the shirt on. 

“why aren’t you leaving—?”

“you want me,” he says, blunt as the blade that slashed through his—defined, toned, muscled—chest. 

“what?”

shit. 

your heart is beating rapidly in your chest, loud enough that you can hear it roaring in your ears.

“i do not,” you state, crossing your arms over your chest in an attempt to lower your heart rate. it doesn't slow. 

“do too,” he replies. “weren't you checking me out a while ago?”

this was new. 

“i was assessing you. what’s gotten into you?”

“was it the blood, doc?” he smirks. he didn’t even answer your question. “you're into that?” 

you hate how much he sounds like he’s mocking you. 

and you hate how much he's right. 

“no. i’m not. i treat a lot of bloody demigods. every day of the week. there's no way i get aroused by blood.”

i’m into how the blood looks on you, the traitorous (and truthful) voice in your head says. 

then, you huff. “you lost a lot of blood back there,” you say. “you're delirious, jackson. delusional, even.” 

“y’sure, doc?” and you can see the shadow of a smile that stretches across his face when he says, “why don't we test that theory out, huh?”

suddenly, your lower back meets the wooden table. in one long stride, percy had crossed the distance between the two of you. 

there’s a soft smack as his hands land on the table, just right beside you, caging you in between his arms. he leans in enough that the low timbre of his voice reverberates through your bones and stirs the butterflies lying low. 

“you're soaked, pretty girl.”  

fuck. of course the son of the water god would know that. 

and, from the look on his face, the same son of the water god knew that you’d never be able to deny it. 

percy was hot—objectively, truthfully speaking. you knew this. especially now that you’ve seen his fine, god-esque figure accentuated by the sheen of blood. you doubt it was even the blood. it was just him. 

you won't deny, too, what you’ve been feeling—the warmth in your entire body and the unmistakable dampness in your panties—the moment he entered the infirmary. 

was it so wrong to give in to what you want, just this once? 

when you look back up at him, his sea green eyes are boring into your very soul. 

“have you made up your mind yet, doc?” he asks. 

and fuck it, you have. 

you lean in first, smashing your lips against his. 

and, to your surprise, percy kisses you back with as much vigor—if not more. 

the two of you waste no time in being careful. percy shoves his tongue in your mouth, you run your hands to his hair, tugging at the strands that get caught between your fingers.

you only register hands on you, then the loss of ground, before you’re lifted onto the wooden table. 

he leans in, his kisses sloppy, desperate, and downright greedy as he sucks on your bottom lip. 

he leaves your lips tingling for more as he kisses down, down, down, right at your carotid. he licks that very point, then hollows his cheeks and sucks. 

you let out a sound. it teeters embarrassingly on the edge of a yelp and a drawn-out groan.

immediately, your hand flies to your mouth.  

“don't do that, pretty girl,” he says, peeling your hands away from your mouth. he intertwines them, then presses another kiss there, mumbling against the soft skin: “wanna hear everything.”    

“but they'll hear us, jackson,” you whisper. 

the both of you are silent for a moment, until:

“wanna come over to mine?” he asks. “cabin’s soundproof. no one’s gonna hear a thing.”

the moments to cabin three pass in the blink of an eye. 

when you cross the threshold of the seasalt-scented cabin, none of you linger.  

with a sudden bout of newfound confidence, you pull him in by the hand, the kiss open-mouthed, wet—leagues away from your initial composure at the infirmary. there’s none now; you think you’ve lost it all. 

percy leads you to the bed. he makes himself comfortable, and the hand entwined with yours pulls you onto his lap. 

his one hand is everywhere. it cradles your face and deepens the kiss, it squeezes and grips at your waist, and, the next moment, latches on to it like a vice and pulls you impossibly closer to him.

your limbs are wrapped perfectly around him. one hand clings to his shoulders, locking him in place and feeling every oscillating wave of his muscles at every small movement. the other hand stays locked in his. 

your pussy’s weeping, downright throbbing at the taste of his tongue in your mouth. you couldn't help but think about how it’d feel inside of you—

ankles lock right behind him, trying to bring yourself even closer and closer to where you needed him most. your drenched panties catch on to the tent at the front of his shorts, and you have to hold back a sob. 

you think, in this moment, you’ve finally made up your mind. 

“i want you,” you murmur. “so bad.”

percy lets out a small, mirthful chuckle. “can feel you getting wetter over me, doc. ‘s like a damn waterpark.” 

before you can retort, percy’s hands grip your hips—not rough, not tight, but as if asking for permission—and only slightly lift. your fingers hook under the garter of your waistband and, with his help, you shimmy out of your shorts. 

percy doesn't have to try, and yet, every move of his arm is showing off and flexing his biceps for you to ogle at.

and, as the next piece of fabric comes down, he lets out a guttural groan. both of you watch—percy, transfixed—as a few stringy wads of your slick stick to the front of your panties.

oh, you really were so wet. 

percy continues to stare, a small smile stretching across his face and into a smirk. 

“don't–don't get cocky about it.” your legs inch closer together in an attempt to block out the pure intensity of his stare, when—

“dont.”

his middle and ring finger swipe a long, languid stripe up your pussy lips, pooling your slick onto his digits. 

your mouth drops into a little “oh!” as he starts to sink his middle finger into your pussy. and as if in a daze, he’s letting the second of his long fingers in. 

“jackson—you… fuck!” you're trying not to wail, to keep your voice low so other campers can't hear you—but, fuck, do percy’s fingers feel good. 

percy’s brows furrow and crease in the middle just as he watches your cunt swallow up his fingers. he moves them slowly, just a small wriggle side to side, before he feels the slight resistance—“fuck,” he whispers against your neck (he’s never felt so parched). “so tight around me, pretty girl,” 

you whine when he pulls his fingers out. sheeny slick coats them, a line of it keeping you two connected still. 

you miss the feel of percy in you for a few seconds, before he’s pushing his fingers back in, out, in. they were so vicious, so greedy, taking up all the space and swabbing at you. in, then out, then in.

“don't stop, please.”

“why would i?” he murmurs. his eyes aren't on you at all, but down, down, down.

he scissoring your entrance wide open with his roving fingertips to the point where you can feel his fingerprints against your soft insides. you shiver at the way he sinks them in again with a sluurp. 

percy leans in a bit more, pressing a kiss to your carotid, then clavicle. 

in that same moment, his wrist has found a newfound angle, one that somehow pushes his two fingers deeper in. hitting nearly the back of your pussy, pushing back and forth against your gooey walls. 

when you feel it, your eyes widen. 

he smiles. “found it.”

he hooks at your most sensitive gummy bundle of nerves. curves his fingers just right. 

your loose limbs start shaking at percy’s relentless back and forth with your g-spot– “jackson—think ‘m gonna—”

lewd squelches and your mewls of his name ring in the heady room as he speeds up his ministrations. A ruthless pace that has tears stinging your eyes, hitting that spot over and over and—

white-hot pleasure between your eyes. tension curling your toes. 

“cum f’me, pretty girl,” he rasps out. he squeezes in a third finger inside your tight cunt—

and you're seeing stars. 

he’s fucking you through your high, each thump of his fingertips against your g-spot and each glide of his long fingertips easing you down. 

again, and again, and again.  

right as the high bates, you feel an emptiness when percy’s fingers have pulled out of your weeping hole.  

you pull him in by the shoulders, kissing him just to get a taste of his lips and tongue. 

“give me more, jackson,” you mumble against his lips. 

“what?”

“you know what i mean,” you tell him. your hands snake to his belt loops, pawing at them in delirious desperation. “want more of you.”

percy groans. 

his feet land on the ground beside the bed. metal clinks against the floor. clothes ruffle as they're being discarded. 

“been wanting this for so long, pretty girl–” he lugs his boxers down, along with his bottoms, “felt like i was dying.”

his cock springs free and slaps against his abdomen. he was big—so mouthwateringly big; flushed your favorite shade of pink at his leaking tip, pulsing veins glistening in the dim light—every part of him was so unfairly pretty.

and, well, you just couldn't resist a taste. 

beding down in one fluid motion, you press a kiss to his weeping tip, drag your tongue all the way down the vein under his shaft, and his hand immediately flies to your hair.

“shit— hah- you don't have to—”

“shut up, jackson.”

and with that, you’re shoving as much of his throbbing erection down your throat. there’s a slightly salty taste on your tongue as you swipe at the droplets of precum pooling on his tip.

“shit, oh—yes, yes, yes–.” percy lets out a guttural moan. Fingers thread through your hair as he uses it as leverage to fuck himself slowly, deeper and deeper into your heavenly mouth, his hips stuttering and jerking with pleasure.

it was dizzying, the way he was pulsing in your throat, his scent filling your senses. beginning to move up and down in hasty, desperate bobs of your head. pulling such lewd gasps and moans from his lips.

his dick twitches in your mouth and your cunt clenches. you brace yourself, ready for his orgasm, when he stops.

and just pulls his cock out.

there’s a loud, lewd pop! that accompanies it that makes his dick twitch and your pussy ache. you’re about to retort, mouth opening to ask him why— but he beats you to it.

“don’t wanna cum yet,” he tells you. he grabs his cock, tugging it ever so slightly, when he says, “lean back for me, pretty girl.”

and that you don’t argue with.

your legs are spread in front of him, and the look on his sea-green eyes is so carnal, so hungry that you motion to close yourself up. he places your legs above his shoulders, eyes stil trained on your soaked core. 

he drags his reddened tip right through your swollen folds, catching maddeningly on your clit, teasingly pooling your slick on his leaking head. too slow.

you wiggle your hips just so that the tip just slides inside your hole. 

he curses above you, and you feel small spurts of precum lining your walls.

with newfound vigor, percy pushes his hips forward, groaning out your name. 

you could almost sob at the stretch as he presses in inch by inch. 

his cock was long enough that it kissed your cervix, and that the mushroom tip hooked just right against your g-spot. it didn't lack girth, too—it was thick enough that you could feel the veins pressing against your walls. 

deliciously painful, borderline addicting, and something you didn’t know you’d been craving until today.

and it’s almost like percy felt the same, cock hot and throbbing agonizingly inside of you, almost like his second heartbeat. 

he buries himself to the hilt and stays. he bows his body down until his damp forehead meets yours. 

“greedy girl,” he says. “so tight. gripping—hah–gripping me like a damn vice.”

he pulls himself out fully, just ‘til his tip is kissing your sloppy hole. you whine at the loss of contact, only for him to ram his cock all the way back inside your warmth. 

skin on skin, skin on skin. he starts fucking into you, the sheer tightness of your pussy sucking him in so greedily, like she never wanted him to part. 

“yes, yes—oh—just like that,” you moan out. 

“all–all of it‘s ngh—yours, my girl. yours,” percy says, his baritone voice now raspier above the sloppy squelches that immediately start pouring out of your pussy. 

slick gushes out of your cunt with every in and out, dripping down his length and pooling around his balls. they sting against your ass with every thrust in. 

“percy—fuck,”

and you feel percy freeze. the loss of movement makes you cry out. 

“why—?”

“say it again.”

“what? noo, just come on and fuck me—”

he thrusts once, then stills. “c’mon, my girl, please? lemme hear it one more time.”

oh. 

“mmfh—ah—okay, okay.” and one more thrust, harder this time. “oh—! percy, percy, percy! fuuck—”

he keeps the pace constant, rough, kissing your cervix with every in and out of his cock. 

“that’s so right, baby.” he presses a wet, open-mouthed kiss to the juncture where your neck meets your shoulders. “sounds—hah—sounds nice, right? better than jus’ jackson?” 

you lean away from the bed, hand gripping onto percy’s shoulder for support as you grab his face and kiss him. 

he continues thrusting his cock in and out of your poor walls, a sheeny white ring of fluid gathering around his base. 

you feel him so deep, he’s pushing your eyes to roll allll the way to the back of your head with the crown of his fat tip. 

it was intoxicating, inebriating—from the feeling of his cock throbbing inside you, fucking into you, his lips kissing ever surface he can reach, his teeth biting and marking what’s his. 

“m’ so close, percy,” you sob. 

percy’s large hand trails down where your bodies meet to draw frenzied circles on your puffy clit. “cum with me—please, baby.”

“inside,” you gasp out. “want you inside.”

and this orgasm seems to be stronger than last time, lightning hot pleasure zapping through your body faster. sobs escape your mouth. your back arches so much you fear for your spine. your body flinches every time he brushes against your clit. 

percy’s high comes right alongside yours, and he’s shooting thick, hot, strings of cum, painting your walls white with a low groan of your name. you feel it dripping out of your cunt and into the sheets under you before it's being fucked back in. 

when your highs bate, you flop unceremoniously on percy’s bed.

he lets out a small chuckle, before kissing your forehead. “i’ll be right back, okay?” 

you watch as his figure retreats to his closet and comes back with an armful of clothes. 

the towel in his hands is warm as he cleans going down, passing your stomach, before finally wiping down your inner thighs. he slips his boxers on you, then a shirt. 

when he finishes, he collapses right beside you. he pulls you closer, settling you right over his heart, draping an arm over your back. 

for a moment, both of you just stare. 

“you were amazing, percy,” you say. “i… i liked it. a lot. i'm glad it was you.”

percy presses a soft, chaste kiss to your lips. “i've liked you for so long. still can't believe i managed to kiss you, let alone…”

you let out a small laugh and snuggle closer. 

tuesdays were the worst days of the week, you think.

but maybe, just maybe—you brush a stray lock of percy’s hair behind his ears—tuesdays had a little bit of merit to them.  

( .  .  . )

“told you you wanted me”

you grumble against his chest. “shut up.”

he only presses you closer to him. “i don’t know who you’re fooling, baby. i saw you skip that pitcher of water entirely.”

your eyes widen and snap up to meet his. then, feigned nonchalance. “i didn’t need it.”

“i’d have healed faster with it.” then, he grins down at you, canines and eye crinkles and all. “it’s okay, baby, i’d do the same so i could get in the pants of my hot, muscular, super handsome—”

you smush a pillow over his face.

“you wanted me first,” you protest. “you probably asked a bunch of kids to cut you up so you had an excuse to come see me.”

percy’s lack of retort—and movement—makes you sit up.

“oh my gods.”

“listen—”

“there is no way.”

he groans, burying his face deep into your hair. "you're never gonna let me live this down, are you?"

you only grin in reply, canines and eye crinkles and all. "never."