Who's The (Bat)Man?

20 | All Pronouns | Kathrine

[constanteyeburn]

hi

me:))

🏳️‍🌈

He/They/She it’s all good :)

Tryna get back into writing..my style is slowly getting more informal which isn’t inherently bad, it’s just that i preferred my old style.

I read fanfiction and I enjoy books wooo..i don’t read much anymore

FANDOMS that im CRAZY into rn:

Daredevil (Netflix)

Batman like always

The Mandalorian

Lego Batman

Still into just not as fixated on:

…

uhh this post is a work in progress i lost the energy to work on it😭

[tickle-bugs]

Omg I'm so happy you're alive

#7 for superbat 🥺 or superwonderbat if that's more up your alley at this time???

I’m aliveeeeeeeee!!! I’ve missed you and them hehe

Trying out a sillier Bruce in this one because I’ve always meant to and it seemed to work well for this! I love him and Clark so much ugh

The Games We Play

Bruce tries out being lighter-hearted with Clark. He gets more than he bargained for.

Bruce is aware of the reputation he has among the few people who truly know him. A perceived coldness precludes anything he might do, and he’s stilted in any warmth he delivers. But he’s trying. Hard. Especially with Clark. Lightheartedness comes to him as easy as flying—which is to say, it doesn’t and he’s been forced to invent new ways to keep up with the fliers in his life.

Again, he’s trying.

They’re in the game room, which Clark’s delighted to find was not “one of those stuffy ones, with just a pool table and some cards”, and is in fact stocked with games. His children usually stake first claim over this room, but it’s unexpectedly empty tonight. Bruce might’ve read further into that on a different day, but Clark’s beaming at him and there’s nothing beyond that worth focusing on.

“Prepare to be crushed. Jimmy and I have Smash set up in the office.” Clark clicks the Switch into the cradle, and the giant tv lights up. He smooths over a few of the peeling stickers on it and Bruce briefly smiles.

“Then why play here?”

“We use a cracked monitor balanced on some old editions of the Planet. Your TV is so high res I can see new colors in it.” Clark tosses Bruce a dark blue and a grey controller, then takes the red and blue ones for himself. Clark picks Kirby right away. Bruce picks Snake, after some internal deliberation. Maybe he takes a while just to hear Clark whine.

An hour or so later, Bruce wonders if Snake is sore from getting thrashed so hard by that little pink…thing. He doesn’t understand how something so silly-looking is so effective at defeating him. He’d memorized the combos within a minute—Steph had drilled into him to do this rather than ‘button-mashing’—but nothing worked. Every time, Kirby just…ate him.

“Sorry. I think Kirby is Snake’s weakness.” Clark shrugs. Bruce huffs. He doesn’t like to lose, but he was never particularly illusioned that he’d win.

He watches Clark out of the corner of his eye. He looks so at home here, having shed his coat and jacket. Bruce reaches out to fix one of his troublesome curls, coaxing it back into pattern. Clark turns and softly kisses his hand. Bruce’s heart leaps into his throat.

He follows Clark, as he always does, over the precipice of affection.

“I happen to know a weakness of yours.” Bruce tries to make Snake hit a combo for something to do with his hands, but Kirby eats him and spits him out over the edge. Again.

“Yes, kryptonite, very funny. You couldn’t bear to kill me, Bruce. You’d miss me too much.” Clark turns to him with a cheeky smile. The game win screen reflects in his glasses. Perfect.

Bruce summons a bit of his persona, but not too much. This is real. Not a mask. He’s just…borrowing from the playboy.

“Not what I meant.” Bruce’s mouth lifts into a smirk. Clark’s brow furrows adorably as he tries to puzzle it out. Bruce crawls forward with a smirk. Clark immediately leans in to meet him, so eager and wanting.

Bruce waits until their lips nearly meet, then rests his hands in little claws across Clark’s stomach. Clark’s eyes go saucer-wide. Bruce pounces before he can think about fleeing. He’s clumsy with his fingers but it doesn’t seem to matter—Clark’s giggles bubble forth as easily as breathing.

“That—you—I t-thought Batman doesn’t cheat!” Clark twists from side to side, eventually just toppling over onto the couch. Bruce reaches for the controller, but Clark raises his arms. How kind.

“I’m not Batman.” Bruce crawls over him and races his fingers up Clark’s sides. Clark squeals and kicks his legs, his whole face pinching adorably, so of course Bruce does it again. And again. He lets his fingers dance at Clark’s top rib and he’s rewarded with giggles so violent that, for a moment, he’s worried about if he can breathe. Then he remembers that Clark has no need for air, and he continues.

“You literally are—“ Clark’s cut off by his own snort. The very quiet ‘aw’ that slips free from Bruce’s mouth is involuntary and deeply concerning. This man has a dangerous effect on him, what with his skewed glasses and boyish laugh, and it’s starting to wear at him. Change him.

Or maybe…it’s exposing something deep within him.

“There must be some mistake, Clark. I understand that the Planet has its theories, but I’m not Batman.” Bruce blinks innocently. Clark tries to growl, but it rockets back up into giggles. The change in pitch startles a chuckle out of Bruce. It’s so cute and so Clark. His whole chest grows warm with fondness.

Clark’s shirt had ridden up with his squirming, and Bruce didn’t get to be who he is without taking advantage of opportunity. He hasn’t shaved in a bit and he weaponizes that, leaving a long trail of kisses over Clark’s torso.

“Bruce!” Clark shoves at his face and cackles.

Bruce gets more intentional with his kisses, applying more pressure, but his stubble is apparently still too much. Clark curls up around him and clutches his shoulders in a semi-bruising grip. His voice cracks around his laughter. Bruce’s face cracks around his smile. Clark’s infectious. Sue him.

“You really shouldn’t let anyone exploit this weakness. It’s so easy to take you apart,” Bruce hums with a smirk, leaning forward to kiss Clark properly.

Bruce’s whole world inverts.

Instinct drives him to try and defend himself, but there’s no time. In the space of a breath, Clark has flipped them, pinning him against his own couch like they’re twentysomethings wrestling for the last beer.

“I’ll show you easy.” Clark leans down, his eyes flashing behind his skewed glasses. He’s pink and out of breath somehow, which is unfairly charming. So much of him is unfairly charming.

“We can talk about this, Clark. Can’t we?” Bruce brings his hand to the back of Clark’s neck, looking up at him through his lashes. He’s not above using his tricks.

“Oh, I think you’ve talked plenty, don’t you?”

Mistake. Mistake.

Clark’s hands find purchase under Bruce’s arms and he goes ramrod still. He doesn’t move, he hardly breathes. He doesn’t even clench his fists, no matter how much the gentle prodding makes him want to. He tries to appear as relaxed as possible. Bruce raises an unimpressed brow.

“I know you think this will make me stop—“ Clark speaks directly into Bruce’s neck and he makes a strangled sound— “But it’s fun making you break.”

Fuck, is he…telepathic?

Bruce squints up at him, trembling like a leaf. Clark grins like the devil.

Nope. Just an asshole.

Clark scrapes his teeth over Bruce’s neck and he jolts, a startled ‘ha!’ jostling free and sending more laughter tumbling out after, like an overstuffed closet spilling its contents. Once it starts, he can’t stop it.

“I happen to know a weakness of yours,” Clark says in his stupid, mocking approximation of Batman’s voice. Bruce doesn’t have the air to argue. He muffles his laughter into his bicep, desperate to hide. The silliness he can take—it’s well-worth watching Clark getting laughed out of League meetings for suggesting that Batman told a joke. The vulnerability, though, that’s…difficult.

Clark pulls his arms over his head as if they were twigs. Bruce bites his lip, but only briefly. Self-control, and all that.

“Once again, I feel like we could be doing something far more fun—“

“Oh, hush. As if you don’t like this.” Clark mercifully doesn't give him room to speak, but it doesn’t stop Bryce’s brain from spinning out. This is what Clark does. He gracelessly smacks Bruce across the face with some deep truth about himself, then moves on as if nothing happened.

Clark’s not…wrong—not fully, anyway. Bruce would much prefer Clark on top of him in a different way, but he doesn’t hate this as much as he should.

Clark tickles at the back of Bruce’s calf like some kind of supervillain and snaps him right out of his mind. Bruce kicks him straight across the jaw with a crack that’s concerning no matter whose body it came from. Clark’s glasses sail across the room, clattering to a stop somewhere out of sight.

Clark’s eyes legitimately flash with menace.

“I didn’t mean that,” Bruce says quickly, putting his hands up.

“Did you just kick me?” Clark growls, and Bruce suddenly feels as though they’ve switched places. Somewhere in all of this, he’d lost track of which way’s up.

“Clark—“ Bruce’s voice dies in his throat when Clark hitches his leg over his shoulder.

“You’re doing this on purpose,” Bruce groans. He resists the urge to hide his face in favor of crossing his arms. Definitely not protectively.

“Yes, I am. I’m very purposefully teaching you some manners, because obviously Alfred’s teachings haven’t stuck.” Clark rolls up his sleeves. One of them is tricky, and Bruce reaches forward to do it himself.

“I don’t think he’d agree with you.” Bruce’s lips tick up in a smile at the comment and nothing else.

“Alfred and I are pals, so I think I carry his best interests at heart.” Clark presses a playful hand to his heart. Bruce snorts lightly.

“Sure.” Clark leans down to kiss him and cut off any further protest.

A chorus of half-screams and gagging sounds erupt from the doorway and Clark bolts upright like a hare. Bruce has the express pleasure of watching the tips of his ears scorch red.

“Oh, uhm. Heya, Dick! Jason!”

Oh. He’s never gonna live this down.

Bruce considers popping up with Clark, but it’s funnier from down here.

Clark waves over the top of the couch, his face redder than his cape. Bruce slides a hand over his mouth to hide his smile. Clark waves like a tacky car dealership decoration for a long, awkward while until the disgusted muttering fades away.

“Bruce, the kind thing to do right now would be to kill me.” Clark slid his hands up over his face in despair. Bruce pats his arm.

“But, Clark—“ Bruce allows himself the tiniest smirk— “I’d miss you too much.”

He fully earns the wrecking that comment brings him, but he can’t quite find it in himself to care.

[august-anon]

Oooooo! I love batfam! I got a prompt! Dick can be a serious tickle monster and what sucks about dick is he can school his reactions best of everyone besides cass and batman so its hard to get him back. Bruce holds all the secrets. I think dick would definitely try to tickle bruce after destroying his siblings and bruce just absolutely turning the tables and destroying him. And being super educational and making it interactive like a training course :p

ahhh thank you for the prompt, i hope you enjoy the fic!!! (also once again this is barely edited so i hope its okay!!!)

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Marked Improvement

Fandom: Batfamily (no specific source material/continuity) (your friendly reminder that the author has read no comics yet and this is fully fanon based sdjkfh)

Ship(s): Gen!!! Platonic!! Familial!! No batcest here

Characters (lee/ler): Lee!Dick & Ler!Bruce

Word Count: 3081 words

Summary: Dick's been on a tickle monster rampage, and he just set his sights on his most difficult victim yet. Unfortunately for him, said victim knows exactly where he's ticklish and how to take him down.

[ao3 link]

____________________

When Jason’s hand shot up to that soft, vulnerable spot just below his lowest rib, Dick realized he greatly miscalculated his recovery time. Whether that was by virtue of Jason growing up or some effect of the Pit, Dick wasn’t sure — but he was sure that he couldn’t afford to let Jason get the upper hand here. 

Unlike their babiest brothers, Jason actually had a vague idea of where Dick was ticklish. Not as well as Dick knew Jason’s tickle spots — things between Dick and Bruce were tense during those years, after all, and the playful attacks had really started to dwindle by the time Jason came around — but he knew enough to be dangerous. Dick needed to play his cards carefully if he didn’t want a swarm of younger siblings out for revenge.

So, after the initial ticklish twitch, Dick forced his muscles to stay relaxed instead of tensing or jolting. He forced his breathing to stay even and swallowed down the ticklish squeak that little spot always tried to force out of him. He couldn’t stop the smile, but Dick was almost always smiling, so it wasn’t hard to turn it into a playful grin at Jason’s expense. And at Jason’s frustrated huff, he twisted that playful grin into something a little more smug.

“What the hell?” Jason muttered under his breath.

“Sorry, Little Wing,” Dick said, “but unlike you, some of us actually did grow out of being ticklish.”

Jason scowled, glaring at that spot on Dick’s side like it was the source of all his life’s problems. “I don’t believe you,” he said. Then, Jason lunged.

Dick couldn’t help but laugh then, diving out of the way of Jason’s hulking figure to avoid being crushed. He narrowly avoided knocking a probably-outrageously-expensive vase off a small, too-old wooden table against the wall. Perhaps the hallway was not the most well thought out place for the attack, but Dick just hadn’t been able to help it when he’d seen Jason sulking through the manor without the usual protection of his trusty leather jacket. 

They only paused in their tussle when someone cleared their throat, glancing up to see Bruce hovering over them, one eyebrow raised and eyes crinkling at the corners despite the lack of an obvious smile. Dressed in sweats and an old, faded Superman t-shirt (Clark had given it to Bruce as a joke when Dick was still a kid — and gotten Dick one to match. Bruce told Clark he’d burned them, despite the fact that Dick forced Bruce into wearing them as matching pajama shirts until he inevitably grew out of his) with a steaming, oversized mug in his hand, it was clear Bruce was on his way to hunker down in front of the Batcomputer for the next several hours.

“Do I even want to know?” Bruce asked, his mouth finally ticking up at one corner to match the crinkles at his eyes.

Jason shoved at Dick’s chest. “Dickhead’s been on a rampage this weekend. Better look out, or you’ll be next.”

Bruce was fully smiling now, his eyes warm and fond in that way that made all of them squirm with discomfort as their chests melted with unaccustomed affection. Dick almost had to look away, feeling uncomfortably vulnerable at Bruce’s show of emotion. Jason did look away, scoffing as he pretended to brush dust off his shirt. As if Alfred would ever allow enough dust to accumulate for that to happen.

“I’ll be on my guard, then. You boys be careful — you know how Alfred feels about you roughhousing in the halls.”

At their annoyed acknowledgements and eye-rolls, Bruce carefully stepped between them and continued down the hall towards the study. Jason’s glare returned in full force.

“I still don’t believe you.”

Dick laughed again, pushing himself to his feet. “Whatever you say, Jay. If you’ll excuse me, you just gave me an excellent idea for my next victim.”

He ruffled Jason’s hair as he darted after Bruce, ignoring the indignant squawk and shout to “go back to Bludhaven, already!” He took the stairs down to the Batcave three at a time, and despite how lightly he landed on his feet at the base of them, he knew Bruce knew he was there. He didn’t bother to conceal himself, skipping right over to Bruce and draping himself across the back of the desk chair.

“Whatcha working on?”

In typical Bruce fashion, he ignored Dick’s question completely, instead asking, “Are you prepared for the day your siblings finally decide to overthrow you?” even as he continued to scroll through suspects’ rap sheets.

Dick scoffed, leaning more heavily on the back of Bruce’s chair. “Please, B, they’ll never manage it. Even if they could get along for long enough to plan an attack, they can’t get me back.” 

Bruce hummed and then, shockingly, actually looked away from the evidence spread across the monitors to glance back at Dick, both eyebrows raised. “Because you ‘grew out of it?’”

Dick gave him a smile that was all teeth. “Exactly.”

“Hn.”

Bruce turned back to his screens, leaving Dick still wrapped around the back of his chair. A foolish mistake, really, because with the oh-so-casual way he had oriented himself, his fingers were at the perfect place to target Bruce’s one weak spot — a coveted secret that Alfred had let slip to him when he was 16, but had never managed to get more than a few seconds of use out of before Bruce expertly took him down.

Okay, maybe Bruce’s disbelief with his “grew out of it” excuse was well-warranted. But that was, like, a decade ago! He totally could have grown out of it since then! He hadn’t, but he could have. 

When Dick’s sneaky fingers were only centimeters from Bruce’s neck, Bruce’s hand shot up and captured his in a tight grip. He spun the chair around, giving Dick a flat look.

“Did you think I wouldn’t take Jason’s warning to heart?” 

Dick pouted. “I’d hoped you’d think it was a joke. Or not expect me to try and get you right away, so I could catch you off guard.”

“I see.”

After a brief staring contest, Bruce released Dick’s fingers and Dick let out a defeated sigh. He’d have to regroup and actually plan out his next attempt if he wanted to have any chance of catching Bruce off guard before he headed back to Bludhaven for the week.

“Fine, fine,” Dick said as he turned around. “I’ll leave you to your brooding.”

Only, the second Dick had his back turned, two sets of evil fingers tasered those matching sensitive spots below his lowest rib on either side. 

Bruce’s tasers were lethal - they weren’t the normal sort of ticklish once-and-done poke or jab to make someone jump or squeak or trip over their own two feet. No, this was the one time Bruce shot to kill, poking two fingers into your ticklish spots as he vibrated and wiggled them around for a couple seconds to really make sure that ticklish shock made you weak in the knees. As a little kid, it would send Dick sprawling to the ground in squeals and giggles, already anticipating a more focused tickle attack. Now, as an adult, it still made him shriek and dart forward, twisting away from the fingers even as he stumbled over his own two feet. He whipped around to stare at Bruce. One corner of his mouth was quirked up.

“‘Grew out of it,’ indeed.”

“Bruce—“

Bruce twitched a finger on the keyboard. The Batcomputer’s screensavers flicked on. Dick’s eyes darted toward the Cave’s entrance. 

Elevator would be too slow – he would need to take the stairs again. Three at a time, just like before, and then he would run and hide in the— But no, he couldn’t. There was no universe in which Dick not only outran Batman, but managed to successfully hide from him until he gave up. No, Bruce catching him was an inevitability, but that didn’t mean his lies had to be exposed in front of all of his siblings. He’d rather they not find out at all – he had to keep some kind of leverage on all of them as the eldest.

Bruce stood from his chair, carefully rolling it back into place without looking away from Dick.

Dick’s eyes darted around the Cave. All his siblings were busy – Damian was training Titus, Tim had buried himself in W.E. work upstairs, and Jason (aside from Dick’s own interruption of his plans) was meant to be baking with Alfie all afternoon. No one was expected downstairs until it hit time for patrol. He should be safe from prying eyes down there – but did he really want to be brought down on the cold stone floor next to the Batcomputer?

Bruce took a step forward. Then another.

Dick took off without another thought, letting his body move on autopilot. Bruce’s footsteps picked up behind him almost immediately, giving chase. A giddy, incandescent feeling bubbled up in Dick’s chest. When was the last time he had genuinely just goofed off with his dad? He honestly couldn’t remember. There was always so much going on, the both of them too busy to spare time for these sorts of games, or the tension between them of unspoken hurts and barely-restrained anger was too much to let go of. Could it really have been so many years?

“You’re getting sloppy,” Bruce said, and despite the words, his tone was light. “You should have been able to bury that reaction, surprised or not.”

“Hey, I can too hide it! I fooled Jason!

Dick stumbled into the training area, glancing over his shoulder to see where Bruce was – too close – and almost tripping over the edge of the mats in the process. He supposed it made sense that his body would lead them here. Bruce had tickled him to tears on these mats too many times to count. Not to mention, it was the softest surface he would find in the Batcave, and he wasn’t exactly looking to crack his head open on the stone floor if he was still as much of a squirmer as he was as a kid. Dick hauled himself to the center of the mats and turned around, ready to make his final stand.

“Perhaps we need to go over your training again,” Bruce said, his voice obnoxiously conversational. “Just to make sure the lessons stick this time.”

“I think I’m good,” Dick said, twisting around as Bruce slowly started to circle him. “It was just a fluke.”

“Oh, really?”

“Yup.”

“Then you shouldn’t have any problem not reacting in the future.”

“None at all.”

Bruce lunged at him, hands outstretched towards Dick’s ribcage. Dick couldn’t stop the quiet gasp from escaping his lips, instinctively stumbling back at the evil grin on Bruce’s face. Bruce’s hands stopped not even an inch away from his ribs and he hovered there for a few horrible seconds before backing away and starting his circling once more.

“Is that so?”

Dick didn’t reply, too busy trying to coax his heart out of his throat and watching Bruce’s hands for further threats.

“A marked improvement from your last test certainly, but that’s years outdated at this point.”

Dick wrapped one arm protectively around his body while the other reached out as a feeble defense against Bruce’s next attack. A wobbly smile forced its way onto his face. “B, come on, we don’t have to do this.”

Bruce smirked. “On the contrary – I think we’ll have to repeat this training until you can do it in your sleep.”

Dick didn’t bother trying to run or dodge as Bruce lunged for him again, tackling him down to the training mats. He was already suppressing giggles by the time Bruce was hovering over him, which made even Bruce break character to give a brief chuckle. Still, when Bruce made his first move, Dick decided to play along, attempting to school his expression and relax his muscles as Bruce wiggled fingers into his stomach.

Of course, with all the anticipatory feelings racing through his body, his traitorous muscles still flinched involuntarily under the ticklish touch. It only made Bruce hone in, finding all the hidden, micro tickle-spots that even Dick had forgotten about over the years. 

“You need to learn to relax into the sensation,” Bruce said, adopting a lecturing tone Dick hadn’t heard since he was Robin. “Tensing up or flinching will only give you away.”

“I couldn’t help it,” Dick gritted out, still valiantly trying to suppress his laughter.

Bruce unexpectedly dug into his ribs, having to raise his voice to be heard over Dick’s sudden bark of laughter. “You’ll learn to.” He paused his attack. “Relax your muscles.”

If anything, Dick just tensed up further, his eyes going wide. “No way.” 

Though his face seemed impassive, Dick could see the mischief in Bruce’s eyes, especially in the way they crinkled at the corners. “How will you learn if we don’t practice, chum? We’ll just have to do it over and over until you get it right.”

“Bruce!”

Bruce huffed as though he were put-out. “If that’s too difficult for you, we can start elsewhere.” Then, he looked Dick right in the eyes and very seriously said, “Don’t laugh.”

Of course, that made Dick instantly want to laugh — a problem that only worsened when Bruce latched onto those twin soft spots just beneath his ribs once more. Dick pressed his mouth into a thin line as he held his breath, squeezing his eyes shut.

Bruce clicked his tongue — a habit he seemed to be picking up from Damian – as he stopped his brief attack. “It could use some work, but I suppose it’s a functional resistance – for now.” 

Wow. Thanks, Bruce.

“But can you remain consistent?”

Oh, fuck.

Before Dick could even cry out his feeble, half-baked protests, Bruce’s hands were back on that evil spot, squeezing and wriggling and massaging. Between the uncommonly playful atmosphere and Bruce’s knowledge on the perfect ways to tickle Dick to tears, it was only a handful of seconds before Dick was struggling to keep his laughter contained. He tried to bring his hands up to his mouth, to put up some half-hearted attempt at keeping up this guise of training, but Bruce snatched them up out of the air and pinned them under his knees before he even made it halfway there.

“Now that would be cheating. We can’t skew the data.”

Dick lost to his reactions, letting out a nearly painful snort before giving into his laughter. “Bruce, you asshole!”

Bruce let out one of his infuriating hums. “Not as bad as the last data set, but you can do better. Get control of yourself, we’ll try again.”

Dick sucked in a deep breath, trying to get himself back under control and back into character. Except, there was one glaring problem with this: Bruce wouldn’t stop tickling.

In fact, he didn’t seem inclined to stop any time soon. While one hand remained at the soft spots just below his ribs, the other started climbing up his ribcage, trying to worm up under his arm. With his wrists pinned, the best Dick could do was try to press his elbow to his side, failing to provide himself with any real protection. As Bruce’s fingers inched higher, Dick couldn’t help the way his laughter turned giggly and squeaky.

“Come on , Dick. We can’t proceed with the training until you stop laughing.”

“I can’t!” Dick said.

Bruce’s other hand joined the first, crawling up his ribs towards his armpit. Dick snorted and giggled, kicking his legs out behind Bruce to try and propel himself away from the fingers. When that didn’t work, he tried to toss his torso around to throw off Bruce’s hands. 

“It’s just a little tickling, chum.”

Bruce was such an asshole. Just for that, Dick jolted his leg up, jamming his knee into Bruce’s back. Bruce grunted at the impact, but was barely swayed. Still his tickling fingers paused, and Dick managed to suck in non-giggly breath to try and regain control.

“That’s right,” Bruce said. “I almost forgot.”

Dick’s eyes went wide. “Wait – Dad, no!”

Bruce’s evil grin returned full-force. “It’s for your training.”

And then Bruce reached behind him and latched his fingers onto the muscles just above Dick’s knee, squeezing rapidly. Dick tossed his head back against the mat and cackled, trying and failing to kick his legs out of Bruce’s grip. He heard Bruce laughing along above him, and Dick couldn’t help the embarrassed flush spreading across his face. It wasn’t because of his own ticklishness or Bruce’s teasing, but because of just much fun Dick was having. He was an adult, not a little kid – his dad tickling the snot out of him shouldn’t make him so happy. But – this wasn’t Batman and Nightwing, and it wasn’t Brucie Wayne and his wayward ward. It was just Bruce and Dick goofing off, nothing else hanging over their heads, for once able to exist in this moment together. And Bruce was having fun too.

And Bruce almost never had fun.

Of course the fondness immediately dissipated when Bruce’s fingers started pinching their upward and routing back down, traveling between his knees and mid-thigh. Dick shouted wordlessly through his laughter, finally wrenching one arm out from under Bruce’s knee and using it to tug at Bruce’s shirt uselessly. He flopped against the training mats like a fish out of water, completely losing control of his body’s responses. By the time Bruce finally slowed his fingers, Dick’s eyes were watery with unshed tears and his abs ached from his laughter.

“Hn,” Bruce rumbled, hauling himself off of Dick to sit next to him on the mats. “I expect you to perform better, next time.”

Dick choked on his next breath, shooting Bruce a wide-eyed look. “Next time?!”

Bruce’s eyes crinkled at the corners. “Practice makes perfect, chum. You need to keep up your training.”

“Oh, screw you.”

Bruce laughed and ruffled his hair, at which Dick hummed and couldn’t help but go boneless against the mats. Then Bruce stood and brushed off his shirt as he left the training area, Dick hearing the clack of the Batcomputer’s keyboard just a few minutes later. He closed his eyes and caught his breath. The training mats were pretty comfortable. Surely no one would mind if he took a nap, here.

[tickle-bugs]

Journalistic Entrapment

Clark lets something slip. Lois can’t let it go.

Saw Superman and wrote this in a fugue state. Might be bad. Don’t care. Have fun. They’re very shmoopy in this one!! Spoiler-free too!

In hindsight, Clark can see how he did this to himself. Lois tells him often that he’s too trusting, but he never would have applied that to her.

They were at Lois’s as they often were, and a bottle of wine led to talking, then to more. He’d lifted her up on the counter, rattling the cabinet doors as she kissed him senseless. He’d been staring at her mouth all night—she had a new lipstick shade and it was driving him nuts. Now, she was kindly painting him with it.

She hooked her legs around his hips and drew him closer, kissing down his jaw. His whole being crackled and sparked at her touch, the response to her call, and he leaned into it. She tipped her face into his throat, brushing her lips teasingly over his pulse. His heart lurched to answer her, but his body…

A giggle bubbled out of Clark and he twitched away. They stared at each other for a long moment, blinking at each other. Lois raised an eyebrow, and when it was clear she wouldn’t speak, he chuckled nervously.

“Off the record—“ he grinned shyly, shifting his hands on her hips— “I’m a little ticklish. Sorry.”

“Off the record, huh?” Lois’s eyes sparkled in the dim light. She latched back onto his neck like a vampire. He shivered and snickered quietly. It wasn’t…unpleasant.

“Yeah. Can’t let the tabloids hear thahahat.” He leaned away from her wicked teeth.

“No, of course not.” Lois pressed her mouth more intently into his skin, but he should have taken her smile as the warning that it was.

…

“You are blowing this way out of proportion.” Clark shakes his head. He coolly and calmly reaches for the mugs in her cabinets.

“What? That Superman is deathly ticklish?” Lois reaches out to pinch his side. He catches her wrist before she even gets close. She tries to get him with the other hand and he captures that too.

“Deathly is a bit dramatic—“

”Then stop fighting back and let me find out for myself.” Lois leans forward conspiratorially. Clark knows that he’s too far gone for her when his first thought isn’t to flee.

“It’s really…I’m…Lois, it cannot possibly be this entertaining to you,” He chuckles, flabbergasted. She narrows her eyes like a predator. She tries her wrists in his grasp, but quickly gives up.

“So you agree? You’re wildly ticklish and it’s adorable?” Lois’s evil smile shows off the gap in her teeth. Clark tries not to get distracted by it.

“I didn’t say that.” He lifts her up onto the counter by the arm and she lets him, like a ragdoll. He boxes her in, both her hands still easily caught in his. On habit, he rubs circles into her wrists with his thumb.

“I did. It’s cute. You have a nice laugh.” Her eyes rove over his face and she may as well have heat vision, the way he pinkens beneath her gaze.

“Thank you—“ Lois perks up at the almost admission and Clark points sternly at her— “But I’m not. You just…surprised me.”

“You can hear your mother’s heartbeat several states over, but I...surprised you?” Okay, yeah, he hears how that sounds. He has to get ahead of this, though. If Lois tells Jimmy, he will never know peace again.

“Yes. Like this.” He squeezes her sides a few times and she tries to climb up the wall. Lois’s laugh is a beautiful, brash thing, hardly ever quiet and always a little raspy. She shoves at his shoulders—it’s like a fly trying to push bedrock—and a snort slips out. Clark grins wider than he thinks he ever has.

Gosh, he loves her. The immediacy and strength of his fondness is overwhelming, surging in his chest like one of his powered breaths. He lets her go, brushing her hair from either side of her face. Her whole face crinkles beneath the weight of her smile.

“You see how that could be surprising? I was distracted.” He rests his arms on either side of her thighs.

“Yeah, I guess so.” She tips his chin up with her finger, reeling him in with a pull greater than his own. He smiles into it, happy to be coaxed and led by her.

“Mmm, thank you—“ He says between kisses, hardly leaving room for his breath to make the words— “for understanding.”

He leans in, fully capturing her lips with his own. He gravitates towards her with his whole being, the moon lit by her sun, and she pulls him in without hesitation. Her hands slide down his back—

Her hands slip under his shirt, her nails skittering like spiders. Clark shrieks and twists away, but she follows him out of the kitchen with deadly accuracy. He backs up against the arm of the couch and goes fully over. She’s on top of him in seconds, drawn to the plane of his stomach as if it’s where her hands belong. It starts him giggling (embarrassing) and hiccuping (worse), leaving him to disintegrate and pray Perry remembers him fondly.

“You are so cute. How are you real? You’re damn near indestructible but this gets you?” She leans down to pepper featherlight kisses over his neck, laughing all the while. Clark makes a noise so high-pitched that for a moment he worries that Krypto might come crashing through the wall.

“Lois!” He crunches in on himself. His laughter is so far out of the realm of control that he doesn’t even try. She zeroes in on the evil little spot that connects his pecs to his ribs, working it like a button designed specifically for her amusement. His legs jerk up towards his chest, flinging her further forward onto him.

“I’m stuck, Clark. You’ll have to lift your arms for me.” Lois shrugs innocently. Clark narrows his eyes at her. She pouts and flutters her lashes.

Clark slowly, achingly, lifts his arms, a nervous smile twitching over his lips. She pats his sides praisingly and leans down towards him—a kiss would be ample reward for the torment and he’s happy to accept.

“How many times do I have to say that you’re too trusting before you believe me?” Lois shoves her hands under his arms, right into the open target, and Clark jumps five feet into the air. Quite literally, in fact.

“Did you just fly away from me? Holy shit!” Lois cackles. Clark’s face burns bright red.

“It’s not that funny.” He crosses his arms, but hovering at eye level next to her ceiling-mounted planter doesn’t help his image.

“You’re right. What’s funny is you thinking that I can’t get you up there.” Lois pulls out one of those extendable duster things from the broom closet and slides a clean, fluffy pad onto it. He furrows his brow.

“I’m not a spider, Lois,” Clark huffs, but he can’t wrap his head around her game here. She climbs up on the couch, stretches up onto her tiptoes, and swats at him with the duster. He bats it away easily, but she’s persistent, and soon he finds himself drifting into a corner.

She pushes some kind of button on the handle and the thing extends several feet, rocketing the fluffy end right into the crook of his neck. He makes a noise somewhere between a boiling tea kettle and a guitar being smashed, a nonsensical collision of panic and mirth that completely overrides all his good sense. He drops a foot or two before catching himself.

She clumsily attacks now that he’s closer. He fights with everything he has not to snap her duster—money is tight and she just bought it. It still smells new. Lois cackles like some sort of supervillain as she darts back and forth across the couch. If Clark could speak for laughing, he’d ask her how long she’d been planning this. When it comes to Lois’s plans, it’s truly anyone’s guess.

Taking advantage of the distraction, Lois leaps up and grabs his ankle. That’s all the warning he has before there are nails beneath his toes. Clark shrieks and tries to lift his leg, but he lifts her with it and she doesn’t stop.

“A-Alright! Let me breheathe!” He laughs wildly, legs trembling with the effort not to kick.

“You don’t need to breathe.”

“Yeah, but I’d like to!” His voice cracks and Lois finally, blessedly, relents her attack. He lifts her up into his arms and lowers them back to Earth on wobbly legs.

“Gosh, would you stop it?” He laughs and grabs her hands again. He sees her mouth ‘gosh’, ever-teasing, and he magnanimously chooses to ignore it. His mind and nerves are buzzing too much to provoke her again, besides.

“I will personally let this go, but I am telling Jimmy. He has a right to know this…crucial intel. Ethically.” The mock severity of her tone sends a zing of fear through him. Jimmy, who does not know his secret, and whom Clark therefore cannot fly away from. Jimmy, who expects Clark to be as strong as one of his favorite wrestlers at most.

“Nope. You’re not.” He throws her over his shoulder and locks in on her hips, pulling the raspy, bright laughter from her that he’s fallen so helplessly in love with. He tosses her on her bed and crawls after her, tickling mercilessly until she makes a compelling argument for different activities with her mouth.

When he wakes up squealing the next morning—Lois’s hands are ice cold and on his stomach—he better understands the magnitude of mistake that he’s made, but he can’t bring himself to care. He’d happily trade a new and silly weakness for the strength of her love. His dignity is worth pennies beside her smile.

He does rethink this, of course, when Lois casually drops her findings in the break room and Jimmy pounces on him like a feral cat. He catches her eye through mirthful tears and new smudges on his crooked glasses, but his perspective doesn’t shift.

Love. What a lucky mistake to make.

[frownyalfred]

thinking about Bruce Wayne managing to compartmentalize his own insane crush/deep friendship/whatever with Clark so thoroughly that the only indications of it are visible to the Batfamily, and even then, only things they know to look for. Like:

Renaming all the primary comms channels to Kryptonian numbers (weird, but whatever. it’s probably more secure if civilians overhear)

Giving Clark full guest access to the Cave 24/7 (even Leslie has delegated access only during certain times)

Requests involving Superman from the JL always get fast-tracked through his desk for approval

Full spectrum UV light room in the Cave “for experimental purposes”

Heart rate is +5 BPM above average when he’s speaking with Clark (Barbara has his vitals read out when he’s on patrol and can see the spike in realtime)

[fickle-tiction]

The Scientific Method

“Don’t tell me you’re ticklish?!” “Well now, that seems like wishful thinking.” "No way, are you crying/begging?"

"Clark!" Bruce barked, his body jerking away without his consent and sending his hips crashing into the workbench in front of him. Everything in him was screaming at him to try to sink through the floor, even as he turned to face Clark with a glare that has sent plenty of men running. He kept his blush at bay through sheer stubbornness. He would not help Clark by embarrassing himself any further.

"Bruce." Clark breathed, a Cheshire cat grin slowly stretching over his face. His hand was still hovering midair, where moments ago he bad reached out a hand to steady Bruce as he prepared to slip by him. He was utterly caught off guard by the gasp and flinch combo that it caused. "Don't tell me you're ticklish..?!" He said slowly, as new pathways formed in his brain, mapping out all the possibilities this discovery just opened up.

"Okay, I won't." Bruce huffed, making sure to knock shoulders with Clark as he stalked past him. Well. That had been the plan, anyway. Unsurprisingly, he was stopped by the solid wall of muscle that was Clark Kent's chest.

"Not so fast." Clark was meeting Bruce's every attempt to get around him with a simple side-step to keep him backed up to the table. "I have a hypothesis. What kind of scientist would I be if I didn't run some tests?"

Bruce glared at the cocky smirk Clark was throwing his way. He was suddenly regretting his earlier refusal to come upstairs for dinner, informing Clark that he was running an experiment and it would be a waste if he didn't run his labs and test out his hypothesis. Of course, Bruce being Bruce, he spoke to Clark like he was 4 years old when he said all of this, and now it was coming back to bite him in the ass.

"One that doesn't get a chunk of kryptonite shoved into a very painful orifice."

"B, I love it when you talk dirty to me."

The indignity of Clark getting the last word was almost worse than the utter humiliation Bruce felt when a shriek left his mouth without his permission. It sounded somewhat like "Clark" and somewhat like a banshee.

"My hypothesis is that Bruce Wayne, The Dark Knight, Terror of Gotham, is secretly a ticklish softy." Clark had to raise his voice to be heard over the strangled laughter pouring out of Bruce, and the clatter of equipment on the table that was being jostled by his violent squirming.

"i'm go-hohoho-ing to fucking ki-hihihihihi-ll you." Bruce was doing his best to growl through what seemed like endless waves of laughter. Clark's arms were wrapped around his middle, one hand squeezing up and down his flank as the fingers on his other hand gently scratched any surface they could reach.

"Test number one: complete." Clark eased up on his tickling, allowing Bruce to catch his breath. It did nothing to slow the wild hammering of his heart, but he wasn't struggling against Clark's loose hold, so he figured it was more out of embarrassment than it was fear or discomfort. "Your sides are ticklish." He informed Bruce, smirking at the growl rumbling in his chest.

"Great. Are we done here?"

"What's the rush? You seemed to want to take your time earlier."

"That was important-"

"So is this. Diana's going to want to know if you have a human side after-all."

Bruce's response was once again cut off as one of Clark's hands migrated to stomach, fingers gently prodding into the muscles there.

"Test number Two: Does the Batman have a ticklish tummy?" Clark laughed in delight when Bruce's ears instantly burned red.

"This. Is. So. Childish." Bruce said through gritted teeth, refusing to let the laughter flow as he struggled against the arm wrapped around his torso and holding him in place.

"Maybe if I introduce a new variable." Clark pretended like he was talking to himself, but it was very much said to mess with Bruce. He yanked Bruce's shirt out of the waistband of his pants, smirking when Bruce cursed lowly and flexed his stomach muscles as Clark's hand made contact with his bare skin. "Yes, this should do." Clark mused, reveling in the muffled laughter already coming from Bruce before he even began moving his fingers.

"You're such a di-hihihihihihi-ck." Bruce laughed, trying a new tactic by burrowing his body backwards into Clark's chest. Naturally, that just made it easier for Clark's fingers to roam across his stomach, making a quick detour into the caverns of his bellybutton and spending some time there when Bruce squeaked.

"Wow." Clark laughed, mercifully giving Bruce a break after a few seconds of that treatment. "I didn't know you could make that noise, B."

"I am going to drown you in a pool of liquified kryptonite." The fact that he was practically boneless as he leaned back against Clark's chest when there was nothing keeping him there took some of the heat out of his words.

"Test number Two: Complete. The Batman does indeed have a ticklish tummy." Clark's laugh was cut short by the elbow jabbing sharply into his gut. "If you wanted to do a third test, you just had to ask. No need to get violent." Clark's arms once again wrapped around Bruce's torso so he couldn't leave, and Bruce was kicking himself for not pulling away when he had the chance.

"Now where to perform a third test." Clark hummed, resting his chin on Bruce's shoulder as he scanned his friend's body. His feet would be the obvious next choice, but he was enjoying having Bruce pulled flush to his chest, and more than that it seemed like Bruce didn't mind the position either. He didn't want to go and spoil it by laying him out on the floor to torment his feet. That just seemed cruel.

"How about I run a test on you, so we can compare data?" Bruce suggested, testing the strength of Clark's deceivingly loose hold. Unsurprinsingly the arms around him did not budge.

"Well now, that seems like wishful thinking." Clark huffed out a laugh, breath tickling over Bruce's neck and sending the taller man lurching away with a gasp. "Oh?" He asked, chest filled with glee as a blush quickly appeared on Bruce's neck and continued onto his cheeks.

"No." This was the first time Bruce sounded serious, which Clark deduced meant it was a well-known spot. "Clark." He already sounded like he was trying to hold his laughter at bay, and Clark had yet to do anything but tighten his arms around Bruce's waist so he couldn't slip away.

"Bruce? Anything you want to tell me before I run my final test?" This was said into the side of Bruce's neck, setting off an immediate bout of squirming and high-pitch sounds that the dark knight could not keep in despite his closed mouth.

"I will give you a million dollars to forget this ever happened."

"Well now my curiosity is piqued." Bruce was doing his best to knock Clark's face away using his own head, his body squirming at the feeling of Clark's lips just barely ghosting over the delicate skin of his neck. "How does the whole playboy thing work, if people can't even touch your neck?" This was emphasized by Clark suddenly freeing up one of his hands to drag a single finger down the other side of Bruce's neck. Bruce shouted, nervous laughter bursting out of him for a second before he got it somewhat under control.

"They usually take the money." He was still too proud to admit he didn't let his guard down like this in front of most people, thus they never got a chance to see this side of him. (The rare times someone did tickle him, whether on purpose or by accident, they didn't have the ability to hold him down and make him take it. And, wow, he would be exploring his feelings about this later. Alone.)

Clark purposefully laughed into Bruce's neck, and then laughed some more at the giggles Bruce had no choice but to let out. "You know I have to do this, right?" He was still speaking directly into Bruce's neck, and Bruce's sanity was hanging on by a thread.

"Do wh-hahahaha-what?" Bruce asked, knowing he probably would not like the answer. Or, even worse, he would like it and would have to address those feelings, at least to himself.

"Something tells me no one has ever done this to you before." And if Clark was right then he was in for a real treat. "I'm so happy I could be your first, B."

This whole thing with Clark getting the last word was really starting to grate on Bruce's nerves. He could not dwell on it though, because Clark's lips were suddenly on his neck and he was blowing hard, lips vibrating against his sensitive nerve endings. This was it. After 20+ years of being Batman, Bruce was finally going to die in the line of battle (because this meant war, Clark.)

"StopStopStopStopStopStopStop" Bruce chanted, wild laughter bursting out of him. He was trying to fold in half to escape the endless raspberry, but Clark's arms were stubbornly holding him up. Bruce's eyes were squeezed shut, and he could feel something wet running down his face. He shrieked when he felt fingers dancing along his collarbone on the opposite side of his neck, and it felt like the nervous laughter bubbling out of him would never end. "Cla-hahahaha-rk ple-hehe-please please!"

Clark had paused to draw a breath he didn't need, knowing the anticipation of it would mess with Bruce even more. He stopped when he noticed the tears gathering in the corners of Bruce's eyes, a few having leaked down across his cheeks. "Are you crying?" He asked, arms immediately letting go of their hold on Bruce's torso.

"Shut up." Bruce muttered, no real heat in his words as he wiped at his eyes, staring at the salty liquid on his fingers. He felt his face grow impossibly hotter at the realization that he had in fact been crying, albeit unknowingly.

"Did I go too far?" Clark seemed to shrink in on himself, no part of his body touching Bruce's as the other man quickly gained control over his breathing again. "It was just..so unexpected. I didn't mean to.." He trailed off, suddenly embarrassed at the state he left Bruce in.

Bruce's cheeks were still dusted with pink, there were tears still gathering in the corners of his eyes, the front of his shirt had been unceremoniously yanked out of his pants and left untucked, and his hair had fallen out of it's carefully tousled style. He looked wrecked, for lack of a better term. He also looked confused at the sudden loss of arms around his torso. And why did Clark look like a kicked puppy?

Bruce stared at Clark in silence, taking in the nervous expression on the other man's face. His arms were drawn in close to his sides, back slightly hunched as though he were trying to make himself appear smaller. The uncertainty and guilt were written clearly on his face. It was clear that the "no-touching" signals Bruce usually threw off were causing him to think he overstepped. The embarrassing accidental tears and begging probably didn't help.

"Have you drawn your conclusion?" Bruce asked, voice a bit scratchy due to the unexpected and unusual amount of laughter.

"I--look, I'm sorry. I got carried away, but I can forget this ever happened."

Bruce raised a single eyebrow at that. "It's too late for that." Clark seemed to hunch in on himself even more. Bruce ran a hand through his hair to attempt a quick fix before sticking his hands in his pockets and leaning casually against the workbench. "The money's off the table. You blew it." An easy smile appeared on his face as Clark uncurled himself at the playful tone.

"You're not...mad?"

"Oh, if you ever touch my neck again I will find a way to kill you." Bruce said it so matter-of-fact that Clark couldn't help the surprised laugh that slipped out.

"Noted." Clark would definitely be tickling his neck again, and they both knew it. Bruce all but gave him permission to do so. "Stomach and sides are fine, though?" He teased, taking a step closer with his hand outstretched.

Bruce's muscles tensed up, but he remained leaning against the desk for appearances sake. "Not if you want to keep that hand."

Clark let it drop...for now. "To answer your question; yes. I did reach my conclusion. I have to amend my hypothesis, though." Clark smirked at Bruce's enquiring sound. "You are extremely ticklish." Bruce grunted at that, his trademark scowling making a reappearance. "And a big softy."

"I think you're the first person to ever call me that." Bruce mused, slapping Clark's hand away when he stretched a finger out towards his neck.

"I made you cry from tickling and you forgave me a minute later." Clark was delighted to see a pink dusting gracing Bruce's ears and cheeks again.

"I wasn't crying." Bruce scoffed. "My eyes were watering from the unexpected sensation of...whatever that was."

"The raspberry?" Clark asked, amusement written clear on his face.

"The--" Bruce stuck his tongue out and blew a raspberry, partly to explain it, but mostly to make Clark laugh.

"Oh, this is the start of something special, B." Clark sighed, clapping Bruce on the shoulder. "I take back my earlier statement." Bruce resisted the urge to shrug Clark's hand off his shoulder. "I have not yet reached a conclusion. This question requires further research."

That got Bruce moving. He stood up straight, hands coming out of his pockets as he put a few feet of space between them. "Alfred will kill us if we're late for dinner."

"Dinner was 2 hours ago." Clark informed a genuinely surprised-looking Bruce. He really did lose all track of time when he was working. "Anyway, my research was incomplete. I can't determine if you're ticklish without testing all available variables."

"I could just tell you." Bruce offered, hastily taking a few steps back when Clark slowly started advancing on him.

"That would be corrupted data. You're biased. I need to run my own experiments." Clark put on a small burst of speed to deposit Bruce onto the couch he and Diana bullied him into putting into the cave.

"What are you--CLark! Leave my shoes alone!" Clark was sitting on Bruce's shins, slowly untying his laces and slipping his shoes off his feet.

"It's for Science, B! Now tell me, on a scale of your sides to your neck, where does this land."

Bruce's cursing and muffled laughter echoed off the walls of the cave.

[nsomniacsdream]

"They're going to bury you three feet deep, because you've only ever been half a man" sounds like a raw ass line from Shakespeare or something buts actually from me yelling at my cat for stealing my sandwich while I was getting a drink.

[alexaloraetheris]

Bro got posessed by the spirit of a king who'd been betrayed by his eunuch advisor.

[gaybananabread]

For the TT prompts, how about Lee!Miguel and any ler for day 5 or Ler!Peter B. with any lee for day 24?

TickleTober Day 5 - Boo!

~I can’t believe I haven’t written anything for Lyla yet! Really wanted to do the “lee mood spook” trope with Miggy; our AI gal was the perfect candidate! Got back into writing after a particularly bad slump with this one, so hopefully it’s okay. Thank you for requesting; have a happy spooky season!~

Lee: Miguel O’Hara

Ler: Lyla

Summary: Miguel is having one of his famous “I’m not in a lee mood” lee moods. After spooking him and catching on, Lyla decides to give her boss/bestie a hand…or eight.

Warnings: none! This is a tickle fic, so if you don’t like that, scroll away!!

Miguel was a closed-off man, to say the least. Few ever knew what was going on in his head, and those who did only knew what he wanted to reveal, which was never much.

Most of the time, that was how Miguel liked it; in a place where everyone had the same base traumas and sad backstories, it was nice to keep some air of mysterious individuality. Other times, he wished people could tell when he needed things… Not that he’d ever tell them, of course. He could handle himself, with or without support.

It was when a very specific problem arose that he started to second-guess himself.

The irritable Spider-Man had woken up feeling oddly giddy, a fluttery feeling in his chest. He craved a certain, very embarrassing touch. While he wished one of the other spiders would help him, there was no way in hell he was gonna tell anyone about his predicament.

That’s how he ended up in his office, door locked, scrolling through the fluffier side of the internet to try and deal with his mood in the most indirect way possible. The teasing audios, blurbs, and sketches were sort-of helping, allowing him to let out a giggle or two and relieve a bit of the giddy pressure in his chest.

He was fully absorbed into a short tease, squirming a bit as he read each word. The man imagined everything mentioned happening to him: the squeezes, the nibbles, the stupid teases, the affection in it all… He didn’t even think to check and see what Lyla was up to.

Turns out, she was up to terrorizing him.

“BOO!”

Letting out a sound he wasn’t proud of, Miguel jumped, immediately closing his floating screens. He did his best to glare at the holographic woman, but the blush on his cheeks dampened the effect. Lyla noticed almost immediately.

“Wait, are you blushing? Aww, Miggs, no need to be embarrassed! Everyone gets spooked sometimes.” She teased him, zipping over to float above his shoulder.

Thanks to Miguel’s need to overachieve with tech, Lyla had the capability to “touch” things when she wanted to; he’d spent months developing that part of her base code. So, when she playfully poked his ear, he felt every bit of the slightly sparky contact.

“Grk- LYLA! W-what have I told you about disturbing me when the door is locked?!” Miguel tried to scold her, sounding like a disgruntled father. She just rolled her eyes, a small scoff leaving her tiny mouth.

“Oh, c’mon. I made sure you weren’t doing anything important! The website you were on wasn’t naughty or marked as admin, just-” Lyla paused, her digital brows furrowing at the URL specifics. “Tumblr? Why were you on Tumblr?”

“I was…checking some potential members’ digital footprints,” he lied, struggling to stay still and stoic. Her attention made him squirmy, but he couldn’t busy his hands with the screens; if he tried, the very teasy post he was viewing would be on full display for the digital menace.

“Since when are we stalking new members?” She rolled her eyes, obviously not believing the man. Floating up high above his head, she checked his screen specifics.

“It can't be that- oh.” Lyla paused when she read the post, her digital eyes widening for a moment. It was…very specific, to say the least.

Miguel pinched his temples and groaned at her realization. How could he have been so careless as to forget Lyla could just check his browser whenever she felt like it?

“Are you in a…lee mood?” Lyla tried the words out, trying to understand what was going on with her boss. It wasn't the first time someone in the Society had the liking for those things, but it was the first she'd heard of it from him.

“Cállate, Lyla.” He was being a bit nasty, but Miguel was embarrassed, ashamed, and flustered all at once. How could she just ask that so casually?! It felt like an attack, though he knew it wasn't.

The sentient AI was at a crossroads then. She could have backed off, surrendered, and left Miguel to be a moody little shit-fuck. Or. She could deal with his mood head-on and get him to quit being such a jerk. It was an obvious choice.

“Shut up? Really, Miguel? To think I was trying to be nice to you.” Rolling her eyes in mock anger, she jabbed his side. Sure enough, he growled, swiping a claw at her; it went right through her, of course.

“Lyla, I swear, if you even-”

Before he could finish his empty threat, Lyla attacked. The three-inch tangible hologram zapped behind his head, fluttering all ten of her fingers against the back of his neck.

Miguel squeaked, jerking his shoulders upwards to try and protect his neck. Lyla pursued the sound, using her digital body to her advantage to avoid his claws while still tickling him.

“L-Lyla! Gehet away from me, now!” He tried to growl at his assistant, but the underlying giggles took away the venom in the sound. The giddy feeling in his chest swelled, a blush settling on his cheeks.

“You don’t really want that, do you, Migs?” Lyla teased, moving to scribble along the backs of Miguel’s ribs. Arching his back, he swiped at her, a strangled laugh catching in his throat. It was taking everything he had not to laugh or giggle, but her insistent, unstoppable scribbling was driving him crazy.

“Yes I dohoho!” He cursed the giggles that slipped out, hugging his ribs in an attempt to hide from her evil fingers. While he did want to be tickled, he preferred not to give her any more teasing ammo against him; Lyla was evil enough as it was.

While she was enjoying his attempts at stoicism, Lyla was after a more audible response. She could only reach so far with her small hands… Unless she got more, that is.

Backing off for just a second, the AI made a few copies of herself. She hadn’t used the feature since Miles’s grand escape, since it took quite a bit of focus to maintain. That just seemed like the perfect time to abuse her power.

The man’s eyes widened, filling with subtle excitement before narrowing dangerously. “Lyla, I swear, if you so much as think about touching me-”

Forty little wiggling fingers cut off Miguel's empty threat, a strangled squeal warbling in his throat. Staggering, he gripped the edge of his desk console hard enough to leave claw marks, unable to repress his reactions any longer.

“L-LYHYLAHAHAHA!”

There were ten fingers on the backs of his ribs, ten on his neck, ten on each hip, and ten alternating between his two ears. He did his best to try and grab her little projections, but she was purposefully sticking to his blind spots.

Miguel was in contradictory hell. On one hand, the fluttery feeling was being acknowledged, swelling in his chest quite pleasantly as she tickled him.

On the other hand, it was so fucking embarrassing; he was at his weakest when he was being tickled, much less in the workplace. Where anyone could walk in on them. It made him nervous in the most giddy way.

“What’s wrong, boss? Ticklish?” Okay, maybe she was pushing her luck, but c’mon! Miguel was such a hardass; it was nice to see him laugh so freely, especially when he was enjoying himself.

“SHUHUHAHAT UHUHAHAP!” Miguel pretty much lost it, stumbling back to lean against his desk as he laughed. It was hard to focus on anything but the tickles; he wasn’t sure he wanted to try anyway.

While Lyla would’ve been willing to carry on the silly moment, a motion sensor alerted her of an incoming spider: Hobie Brown. He probably would’ve just found the scene amusing, but she didn’t want to push Miguel’s boundaries.

At a moment’s notice, two of the copies glitched out of the air. Her main form went to greet the punk while the other hung back to rub each side of Miguel’s neck soothingly; it was the closest she could give to a calming back rub.

Miguel clamped a hand over his mouth, muffling the leftover giggles that streamed out of his mouth. He was about to ask why she stopped when he heard the door to his office slide open. A warm glow of appreciation swelled in his chest when he heard Lyla help and politely redirect the teen elsewhere. Lyla truly was a good friend, if a touch evil.

Once Hobie was gone, Lyla focused her efforts fully back on Miguel. “You okay, boss? Need me to request anything from the cafeteria?”

“I’m fine…” He grumbled the words into his palm, trying to hide his affection for her. The lack of annoyance in his tone told her everything she needed to know. The tickles helped, whether he would tell her that or not.

“Good. And hey, if you ever need a good giggle again, I’ll always be here~” She teased him, dragging one digitally manicured nail up the back of his neck. The squeak her action received was worth his glare.

“If you don’t stop talking, you’re gonna be filing new medical records all weekend.” Miguel’s growl was hardly up to par with its usual menace, giving him away. He couldn’t help it; having that lee mood dealt with, while quick and embarrassing, put him in a good mood.

“Sure, sure. I’m gonna go scan in the latest mission reports; see ya later, Miggs!” With a knowing smirk, she blipped from the room, leaving him alone with his thoughts.

That was…fuck. He felt lighter, a small smile tugging at his lips; in the privacy of his office, he let it come. While there was no way in hell he’d ever live it down, he was glad to have someone to help. Even if that someone was an evil little sass queen.

He closed the inciting Tumblr page and got back to work. The thought of later giggles and teasing conversations kept a small, manageably happy grin on his face for the rest of the day. Maybe some secrets were worth sharing.

[frownyalfred]

“The House of El” / “The House of Wayne” so fucking cool. cannot get over the parallels actually.

[frownyalfred]

“Son of Sun” / “Knight of Night” give whoever came up with these a RAISE

[frownyalfred]

I’m sure there was a part of Alfred that was worried Bruce wouldn’t immediately take to fatherhood/guardianship when he brought home Dick. But then one morning, when Bruce is still painfully young and trying to work raising a kid into establishing a vigilante, Alfred enters the kitchen to see Bruce and Dick leaning over the table together doing the crossword.

Bruce chides Dick quietly, “You’re going to fall. Sit back down in the chair.”

And it’s said just the same way Thomas had said it, once upon a time — the tired exasperation of a father trying his best not to hover, but still worrying. Casually braced against the table, in such a way that he could reach out and catch Dick if he fell.

That’s when Alfred knew things would work out. A crossword, a shared pen, an exhausted Bruce fresh off of patrol still trying to make Sunday mornings fun for a kid who desperately needs them.

[willgrahamscock]

horrible news: you have to practice to level up your skills because it's unrealistic to think you'll be good at everything first try

[willgrahamscock]

this applies to unlearning things like shame and creating better coping mechanisms and forming new habits

[is-this-fascism]

[gffa]

I'M GONNA GO PUNT MYSELF INTO THE SUN, because Bruce doesn't just want his parents back for himself, but he wishes they were back so that they could meet their grandson, that they would get to meet this kid Bruce is so proud of, he loves this kid so much uggghhh I can't handle it

[superman-the-secret-third-thing]

The claim that "Superman is too strong to have any meaningful conflict" is a ridiculous statement and makes the assumption that all conflict is rooted in violence.

Superman has conflicts around philosophy, societal issues, loneliness, balancing work and personal life, human empathy, rescue and yes, he does fight things. Things that are as strong as him. Just because he can move fast and punch good doesn't mean he can't have anxiety.

(This story isn't related to this post, but the art is from Superman Lost #2)

[nefarious-616-necromancer]

[endyfwend]

Just found a Batman quote, and it sounds like an “incorrect quotes” sorta thing. It’s not. Batman, THE Batman, has actually said “Ya basic”

… I’m crying

[versasfanficwastedump]

Dad Things that I am positive Bruce Wayne does:

watches random Facebook videos at top volume in the living room with no headphones

asks “Who?” after any of his kids mention a friend’s name. bonus points if that friend has been around for like ten years.

“I was talking to Wally and—“ “Who’s that.”

falls asleep watching tv but complains that he was “just resting his eyes” when someone changes the channel

“B, I’m hungry” “Hi, hungry” (classic)

asks “has your car always made that noise?” when riding in his child’s car. also frequently asks if they’ve gotten an oil change recently

calls kids by the wrong name

“Dami-Tim-Ace-JASON”

whines that he doesn’t want a cat in the house but is obsessed with Alfred the Cat and often found taking naps with her on his chest

can parallel park like a mf

tells the same stories over and over, each rendition slightly more exaggerated than the last

[hilsonologist]

me and the bad bitch i pulled by being a sweetie pie cutie patootie