cheriies

He made a small, discontented sound, but his eyes stayed closed. You padded to the bathroom, the cool tile under your feet a relief. You filled a glass from the sink, sipping slowly, listening to the quiet drip of the faucet. When you turned to leave, Damian was standing in the doorway, hair even messier, eyes half-open, wearing his sleeping shorts and an old t-shirt.

You nearly jumped. “Damian? What are you doing up?”

He shrugged, stepping closer. “Making sure you don’t hurt yourself." fall in the toilet.”

You stared at him, trying not to laugh. “I’m not going to hurt myself getting water. I’m a grown woman.”

He crossed his arms, looking adorably stubborn even half-asleep. “The floor is slippery at night. And you’re tired. I’m just… being cautious.”

You smiled, setting the glass down and stepping into his space. He immediately wrapped his arms around you, pulling you against his chest like it was the most natural thing in the world. His chin rested on your head, warm and solid.

“You’re clingy when you’re sleepy,” you teased softly, fingers tracing patterns on his back.

“I am not clingy,” he muttered, but his arms tightened around you. “I’m… protective. There’s a difference.”

You laughed quietly, nuzzling into his neck. “Sure. Protective of me falling into the toilet or something at 3am.”

He huffed, but didn’t let go. Instead, he walked you back to the bed, still holding you close, and pulled you down with him. You ended up curled against his chest, his arm draped over your waist, leg tangled with yours. He pressed a soft kiss to your hair, already drifting back to sleep.

“Stay,” he mumbled. “Please.”

You smiled against his skin. “I’m not going anywhere.”

He made a small, contented sound and held you tighter.

The next night, it happened again.

You woke up around 2am, needing the bathroom. The second your feet hit the floor, once again; Damian stirred beside you. This time he didn’t even pretend to be asleep. He sat up, rubbing his eyes, hair sticking up in every direction.

“I’ll come with you,” he said, voice gravelly.

You turned, smiling in the dark. “Damian, I can go to the bathroom by myself. I’ve been doing it for years.”

He frowned, already swinging his legs over the side of the bed. “The hallway is dark. And cold. You might trip.”

You laughed softly, but let him follow you anyway. He walked beside you the whole way, one hand on your lower back like he was ready to catch you if you stumbled. When you reached the bathroom door, he waited outside, leaning against the wall until you came out. Then he took your hand, leading you back to bed without a word.

Once you were both under the covers, he pulled you against his chest again, arms wrapping around you like a shield. His chin rested on your head, breath warm against your hair.

“I'll say it again. you're clingy,” you whispered, smiling.

“I am not,” he muttered, but his hold tightened. “I’m… ensuring your safety. That’s all.”

You kissed his collarbone. “Well I love your version of safety.”

He made a small, pleased sound and fell back asleep almost immediately, holding you like you might vanish if he let go.

It became a pattern.

Every night, no matter how deeply he slept, the second you moved, Damian was awake. If you got up for water, he followed, standing in the doorway like a silent guardian. If you had a nightmare and sat up gasping, he was there instantly, pulling you into his arms, murmuring soft reassurances in Arabic until you calmed down. If you simply rolled over, he’d reach out, hand finding yours under the covers, lacing your fingers together like he needed the connection to stay asleep.

During the day, he was the same reserved, slightly arrogant Damian Wayne the world knew — blunt, focused, keeping everyone at arm’s length. But at night, in the quiet dark of your shared room, he was soft. Clingy. Needy in a way he’d never admit.

One particularly cold night, you woke up shivering. Before you could even reach for the extra blanket, Damian was already moving. He pulled you closer, wrapping his arms and legs around you like a human blanket, his body heat seeping into yours. His face pressed against your neck, breath warm and steady.

“Cold?” he mumbled, half-asleep.

“A little,” you whispered, smiling as you snuggled into him. “You’re warm though.”

He made a small, contented sound, nuzzling closer. “Stay close then. I’ve got you.”

You fell back asleep like that — wrapped up in Damian Wayne, his arms around you, his leg thrown over yours, like he couldn’t bear even an inch of space between you.

In the morning, he’d wake up first, as always. He’d slip out of bed quietly, pretending the clingy boy from the night before had never existed. He’d make coffee, set out your favourite mug, and act like nothing had changed. But you’d catch him watching you with that soft look when he thought you weren’t looking. And when you’d smile at him across the table, he’d blush faintly and look away, ears pink.

But at night, he’d reach for you again. Every single time.

Because no matter how much he denied it during the day, Damian Wayne was the clingiest sleepy boyfriend in the world. And you wouldn’t have him any other way.

Pink, blue, black…

You huffed as you rummaged through the same drawer for the third time, hoping what you were looking for would magically appear between the mess of cotton, polyester, and lace.

The bedroom was a complete mess; drawers drawn open, half-empty because you’d carelessly thrown their contents out trying to find the piece, some bras landed on the floor, some shirts on your velvet vanity stool, and there was a pile of skirts and dresses forming atop of the bed.

Your eyes scanned the room again, trying to catch even the slightest glimpse of the intense, scarlet red you were desperately trying to find.

Your reflection stared back at you from the mirror—hair styled to perfection, black dress hugging your figure, and your lips painted a deep red color that was supposed to match the lingerie you’re wearing under the dress.

You had the bra, the only thing missing were the panties.

It was a special night, your two-year anniversary with your boyfriend, and Jason—who always makes it clear he’s not a fan of lavish and over-the-top dates—had surprised you with a reservation at this fancy steakhouse in downtown Gotham with a rooftop lounge that overlooks the city and has live jazz music playing the whole night.

You wanted to surprise him back, wearing the delicate, red, lacy lingerie set you know is his favorite, so that at the end of the night—in the backseat of the car, on the couch in the living room, or wherever he decided he wanted to take you—, you could feel his breath hitch and watch him lick his lips as he undressed you.

Besides, as stupid as it sounds, that set holds some type of sentimental value.

You bought it over a year ago, it’s a high-end designer piece that caught your eye the moment you stepped into that luxurious, ridiculously expensive boutique. It cost you an arm and a leg—you remember contemplating if it really was worth going broke for as the saleswoman talked about the quality of the materials.

You decided to buy it before you could think too much about it, swiping your card through the terminal and almost wincing when you saw the money deducted from your bank account.

It was more for Jason than for you anyway, and that’s what convinced you. It was a few days until his birthday, and you wanted to wear it as one of the many gifts you planned on giving him.

That night, straddling his lap as he laid on the couch, you saw his pupils dilate, watched him suck in a deep breath and pull his bottom lip between his teeth as he took off your dress. You decided that it had been completely worth the money.

It’s also the only set that’s made it through more than three wears—since Jason seems to have a kink for ripping fabric off of you, but apparently he’s decided he likes this one so much that he can be a little more careful with it. He almost always asks you to keep it on as he fucks you.

You really didn’t want to—it was supposed to be a surprise—but after checking the clock and seeing it was almost time to leave the apartment, you stepped out of the bedroom and into the living room to ask the only other person who could have any idea where your panties were.

“Jason, have you seen—”

Well…

There was your answer.

Jason sat on the couch, legs spread as they always are—no matter how much you scold him for his manspreading—, wearing a burgundy dress shirt that had you impatient thinking about the moment when you finally get to unbutton it.

His gaze was focused on the book perched on his lap, and in the gutter of said book—between thin, black ink-stained pages—were your panties, their red color bright against the yellowed paper.

You simply sighed, it was your fault honestly.

You started it a few months ago, Jason had taken a night off patrol and vigilante duty, and Cass had kindly offered to cover for him—watching over Crime Alley and the other places he usually took care of so he could spend time with you.

It was almost 2:00 a.m., your cheek was pressed against his bicep—because there’s nothing you love more than resting your head on your boyfriend’s muscles—, your legs shifted beneath the sheets to tangle with his, the soft cotton felt cool against your flushed skin.

Jason’s left hand was busy playing with your hair, twirling the strands around his scarred fingers while his right held the book he was reading.

He’d made you orgasm more times than you could count in a single night and you were convinced that you were completely satisfied.

Until you teared your eyes away from the ceiling to look at him, and he looked so cute and hot and sexy with his drugstore glasses perched on his crooked nose, and his brows had that furrow of concentration, and his thick lashes fluttered as he read through whatever greek tragedy he was so focused on, and his pretty lips formed the cutest pout you’ve ever seen on someone.

The sight made you feel that familiar heat between your legs—the one that appears whenever you see Jason doing practically anything.

You peppered kisses on his naked, glistening chest—still covered with a thin layer of sweat—, your fingers tracing down the lines of his abs and his prominent V-line until they reached the hem of the sheet—the only thing covering his lower body.

Jason breathed out your name, his heartbeat sped up under the touch of your lips, and he tried telling you about how he was in a really interesting part of the book, attempting to convince you to wait—but he didn’t make any real effort to stop you.

You looked up at him through your lashes, tongue darting out to trace one of the scars on his chest. You told him you couldn’t wait—and that it was his fault for making you so horny.

Picking up the pair of baby pink panties he’d tossed somewhere on the floor when he slipped them off of you, you took the book from his hand and placed the lacy garment on the page he was reading before closing it and handing it back to him. Your eyes never left his as you did so, and you had to bite your lip to hold back your giggles.

Jason’s eyes were wide as he took the book from you, his expression completely dumbfounded, and you swear that’s the most adorable he’s ever looked.

For you, Jason’s a weak, weak man. He could never deny you anything—trust, he’s tried.

And after that, you didn’t need to do anything else to convince him. He simply placed the book back on the nightstand beside the bed and rolled his eyes.

“You’re insane,” he scoffed, “and insatiable.”

You didn’t bother trying to defend yourself, it was true after all. You simply smiled in victory as your hand slid under the sheets.

Since that night, you never saw that pair of panties again—a shame, truly, it was a beautiful pink—and a few more disappeared from your underwear drawer to be found in the bookshelves.

“Jason,” you sighed. “I’ve been looking for those panties for like an hour!”

Jason looked up from his book—a dystopian novel you forgot the name of—, smirking when he caught sight of you with your arms crossed, wearing the dress he’d bought you specifically for your anniversary date.

“You look nice,” he whistled, looking you up and down shamelessly.

“Can you please give me my panties back?” You walked up to him and extended your hand out, expecting him to return your underwear.

“No,” he almost laughed, “I need my bookmarks.”

That made you roll your eyes, and before you could process it, Jason wrapped his hand around your wrist and pulled you into him so you were sitting on his lap.

“Besides,” he whispered into your ear, his voice carrying that teasing, smug tone you would never admit turns you on, “why do you need panties?”

“You know what would be a nice anniversary gift?” He continued, fingers teasing the skin of your thighs through the glossy fabric of your dress. “You not wearing anything under that dress.”

short n sexy mini fic for my baby jason todd while i work on my beach date with dick grayson one-shot 🤭

sorry if this was kinda ass, the idea was better in my head, still hope you enjoyed!!

thanks for reading!! likes, comments, follows, and reblogs are always appreciated!!

please do not copy, translate, repost, or feed my work to ai (especially this!!)

images from pinterest

He helped you up and led you away from the crowd. Sirens blared in the distance. You choked on a laugh. Ironic how quickly the police moved when the victim was a rich, white man.

Concern furrowing Tim’s brow as he hugged you close. His cologne—floral and citrus—almost burned. Your senses felt sharper, every noise and smell pushing you that much closer to the edge.

He led you out of the conference hall, down the corridor, and into one of the private bathrooms at the end of the stretch. The lights flickered on as you stepped inside. It was barely large enough for the two of you. Tim grabbed some paper towel from the dispenser and shoved them at you.

“You’re bleeding.”

You glanced at your reflection in the mirror. Small beads of blood welled from the cuts on your cheeks. Only then did you feel the sting. He shook out his hair, a few shards of glass plinking off the tile at his feet.

Silence followed as you dabbed the cuts. More blood replaced what you cleaned. Realizing its futility, you tossed the towels and stared at the empty sink. Your pulse slowed, the incessant buzz from the lights felt less offensive, and the shock faded until you could finally think.

How the hell did you explain this to Selby?

Yeah, sorry the target died like that. What was I doing at the time? Well, I was a little distracted by this rich boy’s ass. Tim Drake. Do you know him?

God, no. You’d rather die than admit that.

Never mind that you’d spent most of the programming picturing all the ways you could bring Tim to his knees. Something told you that he’d look very good there. Given how direct he’d been earlier that evening, he may not mind it either. Maybe that wine had done too good of a job.

You shook your head.

Focus.

What could have happened didn’t matter. Tim would have to wait.

Except it was hard to forget him when he was so close. Squeezed into the far corner of the bathroom with his shoulders hunched. His eyes darted back and forth, unblinking. Likely replaying the events that just transpired. As you did the same, something stuck out to you.

“You saved me.”

He forced himself to look at you. The storm still raged in his eyes. Blood wept from a small cut across the bridge of his nose. He didn’t seem to notice.

“Why did you save me?”

He didn’t answer.

Anger simmered in your blood, but you forced yourself to breathe. This wasn’t Tim’s fault either. “Of the three of us, you chose me. Why would you do that? You could have saved Mullen.”

That seemed to shake him. “Mullen?”

“Mullen,” you insisted. “Why didn’t you save him instead?”

His brow pitched. Not with concern. Not with confusion. Hurt. Pure and unbridled. Like he’d been asking himself the same question. He looked away from you and said softly, “I don’t know.”

It bordered on a confession, but that didn’t satisfy you. He saved you. It was a fact, and no amount of prodding would change the past. The only thing to do was move forward. You spun away to glare at your reflection.

But how did you move forward?

“I really hope he doesn’t die,” you said.

You could still see Tim through the mirror, looming over your shoulder like a ghost who decided you were their target. He blinked slowly, as if finally waking up from whatever stupor had taken hold. “He was shot in the neck. The chances of surviving that are—”

“Not great. Between 10-35% depending on where he was hit.”

He stared at your reflection. “Right...”

“You sound surprised that I know that.”

“I just...” Tim paused, considering his words. “Why do you know that?”

“Is that the secret you really want from me?”

A flicker of irritation tightened his mouth. “Are we doing this now? A man was shot.”

“And you’re acting weird about it. Well, weird for you.”

“I think I’m allowed to act weird about it.”

Fuck it.

This assignment was already dead in the water anyway. You spun to face him once more. “Well, I don’t like it. So, allow me to take your mind off of the situation. Do you know why I came to Gotham?”

“Work?”

“You’re half right.”

Tim pinched the bridge of his nose, hissed upon finally discovering the cut, and wiped away the excess blood with his thumb. He glared down at it as if it personally offended him as he said, “Can we skip to the part where you tell me whatever it is you’re trying to tell me.”

“I’m a PI, Drake.”

That seemed to catch his attention. “Excuse me?”

“A private investigator. I was hired to track Mullen. I won’t go into the details, but let’s just say this assignment has been the bane of my existence.”

His initial surprise quickly faded. “You were undercover.”

“I thought it was my best chance to get close to Mullen. Spoiler, RAP makes it impossible to get close to any C-Suite Executive. Non-profit has all the committees with sub-committees. I was drowning in work, and I couldn’t get him alone.” You crossed your arms. “And then I had to deal with you.”

“Me?”

“Yes. You. How was I supposed to focus on my assignment when you were always there? Lurking, watching. You’re always—”

Always watching.

No.

Impossible.

Tim wasn’t...

“You’re always watching,” you said slowly.

Tim stared back at you with his usual intensity, glacial blue glinting like silver in the light.

“You saved me.”

You stepped toward him, hands outstretched. He didn’t shy away from you. “Of the three of us, you chose me.” You knew exactly why he saved you. He told you he would. A tremble betrayed your apprehension as you pressed his bangs away from his face.

You lowered your gaze, knowing the illusion would break the moment you saw his face.

Wasn’t it better to know and pretend you didn’t?

“Are you going to look or not?”

Finally, you forced yourself to look.

It was still Tim. The same intense stare with a straight nose with a slight upward lift at the end. A few pimples dotted the bridge of his brow, now exposed with his hair pushed back. You’d seen this face before—hidden behind a sculpted mask.

Tim Drake was Redwing.

You waited for the blow of this revelation to hit, but it never did. Your hands fell back as you stepped away. “I see.”

“I’ll be honest.” He shook out his hair, bangs settling once more. “I was expecting a little more of a reaction.”

“That the annoying prick that’s been tailing me for the last few months is the masked vigilante tasked with my protection? Yeah, I probably should be more shocked.”

What did this information change?

Not much.

Everything.

Instead of answers, it left you with more questions. What led a spoiled prick like him to don a cape and mask to fight crime? Who was the real Tim, the public persona, or the mask, a secret third option that you hadn’t been made privy to? Did he feel personally responsible for fucking up the whole subway system after his fight with Killer Croc?

So many questions, and not nearly enough time.

“But I just watched a man get shot through the throat.” You threw up your hands in defeat. “I think I'm tapped in the shocked department.”

Tim snorted, sliding to the ground. “We’re both a mess, aren’t we?”

You joined him on the ground. His shoulder pressed against yours in a way that was almost comforting. Tim Drake had never cared for the concept of personal space, but right now, you didn’t mind. “There’s something in the water out here, I swear. I’m normally a lot more put together than this.”

He shrugged. “Probably all the fear toxin in the bay.”

You stared at him.

He stared back.

Was that a joke?

Knowing Gotham, probably not.

You groaned. “This city is fucked.”

Tim rested his head against the tiles and sighed. “You’re telling me.”

“What happens now?”

With Mullen off the field, there was no reason to stay. Except there was a killer on the loose. They knew your face, and something told you that leaving during an active murder investigation wasn’t an option. You were stuck, and he seemed to recognize that too.

“Stay with me,” Tim said as if it were the obvious solution. Your chest tightened. “I can keep an eye on you while I—”

“No.”

“No?”

You slid away from him. “You may have decided that I need protection, but I don’t. I can handle this on my own. Just focus on your case, so I can—”

“You were shot at tonight.”

You scoffed. “Mullen was shot at. I just happened to be there.”

“And what if the next one is for you? I meant it when I said we would keep an eye on you. Now that you know, it would be smarter to stick with me,” he insisted. “That way, I don’t have to scramble for lame excuses to be around you.”

Was that all this was to him?

An excuse to keep tabs on you.

It made sense, but it didn’t hurt any less to have his disinterest in you confirmed. It answered one question though. Tim Drake was a mask, much like Redwing, and you’d allowed yourself to believe you were peeling back the layers toward something real.

Clearly not.

You could relate. Your work with RAP was a means to an end for your assignment, so were you in his.

Oh well.

No hard feelings, you supposed.

“I’m still alive, so you're managing just fine the way things are.” You stood and returned to your solace near the sink. The bathroom seemed a lot more cramped. “No need to change things for my sake.”

Before he could respond, and how you would have loved to hear him talk his way out of this, his phone buzzed. He tried to ignore it, but three more messages followed the first text. A growl ripped from his throat as he pulled it from his pocket and scanned the messages.

“I need to get back out there.” He hesitated. “They need Redwing.”

“Naturally.”

His expression pinched, a momentary crack in the facade. “I want to talk about this,” Tim insisted. All traces of the Drake you knew vanished as Redwing slipped into place. It was uncanny how quickly he shifted between the two—even without the mask. “I’ll come back and we can discuss our options. Just...” Another pinch as Tim Drake took hold. It passed, and it was Redwing once more. “Just sit tight while I handle the GPD. Please.”

He didn’t wait for a response, as if he expected you to just listen. Clearly, he didn’t know you at all. There was nothing to discuss. You weren’t a damsel in distress. Tim may not believe that, but you’d made it this far without him.

You pressed your ear to the door and waited until his footsteps faded. When you were certain he was gone, you yanked open the door and darted down the hall toward the lobby.

You were no one’s burden, and you certainly wouldn’t wait around for a hero to save the day.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Finally found a rhythm after months of little to no progress, so I thought I'd celebrate by posting ANOTHER chapter for you folks.

I love a midpoint identity reveal. What can I say?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Tag List

Tim’s almost no better; soft and ragged gasps and little groans tumbling past his own lips as his cock fucks into you. But he’s got enough sense to try and hold the noises back, dreading even the thought of Damian or, god forbid, Bruce hearing any of this. But god, he hates the thin walls of the manor whenever he has you like this. He wants to hear you beg and cry and whine, but he can’t here. Not where anyone else can hear you.

A particularly deep thrust that he uses his grip on your hips to yank you back into punches a shuddering moan from your lips that no doubt can be heard beyond his closed bedroom door. 

“Shh, baby,” Tim breathes, leaning down until his lips brush along the curve of your ear. “Gotta keep quiet, remember? Don't wanna wake anyone up.”

“T-trying,” You gasp out, fists clenching his bedsheets as his tongue drags along your ear, slow and torturous. Then his hips snap forward again and you whine, thighs shaking a little as your pussy clenches around his cock. “Fuck…!”

“You’re not trying at all,” Tim gives a breathless laugh, though that whine of yours has him glancing towards his bedroom door anyway. He’s sure Damian can’t hear from his room down the hall. He’s sure Bruce is still down in the cave, far enough away to not hear the way he fucks every cry and moan out of you. But god, he still worries. If not for his sake than your own, because you’d be mortified later if you knew anyone in his family heard you like this.

One of his hands leaves your hip, reaching up to press over your mouth and fuck, he likes this too much. So do you, if the way your pussy flutters around his cock is anything to go by. He smiles a bit as he starts to fuck you harder, faster, and every noise that’s muffled against his hand sends sparks of hot, perverse pleasure down his spine. “There we go, baby. Can’t be loud now, can you?”

You’re not sure if it’s his hand over your mouth or the wicked pleasure lacing his tone that makes you almost dizzy with arousal, but you don’t care right now. It’s too good; his cock stretching you out and fucking into you like you’re nothing but a pretty little toy for him to play with. The thought of being heard is both mortifying and arousing all at once and you can hear how wet you are every time he slams back into you, can feel the heat of pleasure coiling low in your belly. The way his cock drags in and out of you, relentless in his pursuit of pleasure, is intoxicating and every sound you make is muffled against the warm skin of his hand. You want to moan his name, over and over, but all that comes out is more muffled cries that make him groan softly behind you. 

“Wish I could hear you,” Tim pants softly, his other hand gripping your hip tightly. He gives a slow roll of his hips just to watch you tremble before snapping his hips forward again, sharp and quick. When another sob of pleasure of yours goes muffled against your hand, a soft whine of his own hisses through his teeth, “Love hearing you get all needy and filthy. Bet you’d beg me to fill you up if I moved my hand from your mouth, wouldn’t even care about being heard in the moment. You’d just wanna feel me fuck you until you can’t stand anymore.”

You give a quick and jerky nod, feeling drool smearing against his palm and along your lips beneath his hand. He’s right. Fuck, he’s right. If he moved his hand you’d beg and cry until he fucked you stupid. Until the whole manor heard you, embarrassment be damned. Tim lets out a shaky moan as he feels you nod and the hand on your hip moves, finding your clit and rubbing tight, fast little circles that match the thrusts of his hips that have your entire body jolting. 

“Fucking hell, baby,” Tim breathes, breathless. You know that tone, you’ve heard it so often. He’s probably got his lower lip caught between his teeth, fighting off his orgasm until you hit yours first. His fingers on your clit don’t let up, leaving you shaking and almost sobbing against his palm. “Don’t wanna let anyone else hear you like that.” He gasps out, sharp snaps of his hips punctuating his every next word. “That’s. All. For. Me.”

You’re coming not even a moment later. Your pussy clenches around his cock, dragging a broken moan from his lips, and your entire body shakes from the pleasure. It’s white hot, your shuddering moan still muffled against his lips as he fucks you through it, fingers never letting up on your clit. There’s no doubt that if he wasn’t covering your mouth, you’d be heard nearly all the way downstairs at this rate. And fuck, it makes Tim’s own pleasure boil over. When he spills inside of you, it’s with his own shattered little sound that he muffles against your shoulder, and only then does he move his hands away from your clit and mouth. As you thought, a smear of drool cools against your lips when the bedroom air hits it, but you don’t care. Not when he’s pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses along your bare shoulder as his other hand gently strokes along your side while your body still thrums with pleasure.

“You’re ridiculous,” Tim murmurs, but his tone is filled with something like awe and pure affection all at once. “One of these days someone’s gonna hear us.”

You shift just enough to look at him over your shoulder, smiling a little to yourself as you catch your breath, “Probably.” Your hips move; a small, easy little roll while he’s still buried inside of you and it makes his breath hitch softly. You bite your lip a bit, doing it again and then chuckling softly when both his hands snap to your hips, stilling you.

He shoots you a warning look, though it’s not nearly as effective with his cheeks flushed with pleasure and his cock still twitching inside of you. “You’re a menace. A loud one.”

You shrug a little bit, “I am. Will you fuck me again?”

Tim laughs and shakes his head a bit in disbelief, though there’s no way to hide that fond smile tugging at his lips. “Fine. But we’re getting a gag or something for when we’re here. I’m almost surprised Bruce can’t hear you down in the cave with the way you get.”

Tempting. You note that in the back of your mind. There’s no time to dwell on it when he gives a slow roll of his hips. And this time, you’ll probably try harder to stay quiet. Probably.