Robby damn near begging Jack to tell him at least one spot to "even the playing field" nevermind that his ribs are probably the most ticklish place on the plant. And Jack finally gives in because he "feels bad"
"Okay, fine." Jack almost feels bad at how Robby's face lights up. Then he remembers how he found him on the roof again last week and all thoughts of mercy go out the door. "It's a really bad spot though. Promise you'll go easy on me?" He even pulls the face Dana has deemed the "kicked puppy dog eyes".
Robby huffs, but he's quick to agree. "I promise I won't break you." He smirks, lying through his teeth. Jack has been harassing him ("you fucking drama queen") for two weeks. Robby was prepared to make him cry.
"Okay, fine." Jack pretended to look nervous, eyes darting around as he audibly swallowed. "My right foot."
He cackles when Robby tackles him to the couch, pummeling him with a throw pillow.
dennis whittaker i am casting spells on you that are so ticklishâŠ.its the cross i must bear.
oh God he sooooo is. His neck is just begging to be fucked with. Lucky for him, and unlucky for Robby, he's seen Jack goose Robby's side more than once when they thought they were alone so the first time Robby even looks like he's going to try anything Dennis is squeezing his sides like an empty Ketchup bottle. Robby is cackling and offended because he is a grown ass man get off right now.
Jack is way too smug about it when either of them try anything on him. That asshole isn't ticklish at all and he gloats about it.
Jack noticing how self conscious Robby is about his stomach and making it his mission to get him to knock that shit off.
Of course, because I'm me, this leads to the delightful discovery that Robby's stomach and sides are incredibly ticklish. Jack didn't know humans could even turn that shade of red. "Seriously Mikey, we need to study this. I know several medical journals that'd pay top dollar for our research."
Summary: Bruce Wayne is no stranger to flings and one night stands. He is an attentive lover, good at grand gestures, but itâs almost always come from a place of performance. Now, with Clark, he knows how to have sex, how to show him off at partiesâŠBut affection still feels foreign to him. (My lovely mutual @fickle-tiction sent me an idea via DMs and I ran with it. I hope you enjoy it!)
Bruce knows how to be romantic.
Heâs never been in a long-term relationship, obviously. How would he explain the late nights, the myriad of injuries, and why he suddenly disappears whenever the bat-signal is in the sky?
But heâs dated. Well, heâs had flings. Affairs. One night stands.
Bruce knows how to have sex with one or two strings attached, more accurately. He can take a woman on a fancy date to an expensive restaurant, hold the door open for her, pay the tab. He can make sure that the paparazzi snap a photo or two of her on his arm. He can fuck her good and hard before sending her on her way without a phone number for her to reach him at, because he doesnât really do second dates.
He supposes that doesnât really count as romance â itâs more like a carefully constructed transaction: The women get to say they fucked Bruce Wayne, the richest man in Gotham, and tell all their friends how polite he was, how intelligent the conversation was, and how mind-blowing the sex was. And Bruce, in turn, gets the reputation of a player, a womanizer, a man who uses his wealth and status to get the girls and can always get them off.
Itâs all part of his Brucie Wayne persona, the version of him that the tabloids love, the paparazzi drool over, the general public of Gotham hate or revere, depending who you ask.
He exists within these two states: Bruce Wayne, the philanthropic heartthrob, and Batman, an enigmatic vigilante. And the man in betweenâŠWell, heâs not sure he knows who he is without these two extremes.
Thereâs no particular thing about Bruce that he feels screams who he is. His home is finely decorated with expensive, minimalistic things. He drives cars because they are fancy and expensive, not because he necessarily likes them. His clothes are finely tailored, but show no personality. He doesnât remember the last time he sat and listened to an album, watched a movie, or tried something new just for the hell of it.
He doesnât have interests or hobbies, the way that the average person does. He works out, to maintain the strength and stamina that being Batman requires. He pretends like he does all these extreme sports to explain away the injuries and scars; he has technically paraglided and skydived before, just under very different circumstances than one would imagine. It wasnât for the adrenaline rush or a fun vacation activity, it was necessity.
Yesterday, Clark asked him what his favorite color was, and Bruce couldnât give him an answer.
âBlack?â he said after a long stretch of silence. âBut Iâve never thought about it before.â
Clark had stared at him like he had three heads. âI thought everyone had a favorite color.â
Bruce wasnât sure why it made it feel so defensive. âWell, I guess I donât.â
He cares what Clark thinks about him, tries his damndest to treat him with a sort of kindness Bruce usually reserves for the children, and even then, he knows none of them would consider him nice. Sure, he loves them and they know it, but itâs an unspoken thing that lurks in the way he trains them, protects them, worries for them.
But he wants Clark to think heâs nice.Â
All of this to say, Bruce has feelings for Clark Kent that are confusing and frankly annoying, because Bruce has better things to do, i.e. saving the world, than pining for hisâŠfriend? Well, he supposes that he and Clark are friends, and he knows that they should probably stay that way.
Because he doesnât know how to do romance right, and Clark deserves better than this, his inability to express his emotions, his lack of an instinct for physical affection.
Clark is the human equivalent of an excitable Labrador, and Bruceâs energy is more that of a black cat who has been hit by several cars and still refuses to die.
They wonât work, and Bruce accepts that rather quickly, because what he does have a natural instinct for is suppressing his emotions.
***
Clark is going to be the death of Bruce Wayne, one way or another.
Whether itâs a Justice League mission gone wrong, Clark turning on him one day (which feels unlikely, but Bruce has learned to be prepared for anything), or a heart attack caused by those goddamn puppy-dog eyes, Bruce has accepted his fate.
Speaking of puppy-dog eyes, that was all it had taken for Bruce to agree to bring Clark as his plus-one to an event, which otherwise was not allowing the press inside.
So now, heâs standing in a new suit, nursing a glass of champagne, and biting his tongue as some pretty actress fiddles with Clarkâs tie, clearly into him and too drunk to go about it tactfully.
Envy is a more unfamiliar emotion than most for Bruce; he has just about everything a man could want, in terms of wealth, reputation, and tangible objects.
When he was a child, the only thing he ever felt envy towards were the children who had living, loving families. Seeing a father scoop up his daughter at the playground, a mother kiss her sonâs bruised knee while he went about his life used to make pain twist deep in his gut, and he would find himself thinking: Why does that child deserve parents, and I donât?
He had learned early on to bury that feeling, too.
But now, watching Clark stumble over his words as he talks to this woman, Bruce feels absolutely pissed. He walks over before he can think it through, turns on that Brucie Wayne charm, and puts a hand on Clarkâs shoulder.
âDid you want some more champagne, baby?â he asks, offering his glass.
Clark turns from the woman to him and back again, looking bewildered. âWhat?â
The actress has finally stopped touching him. âOh, sorry, I didnât know you wereâŠwith someone,â she says, eyeing Bruce curiously.
He gives her a smile. âI mean, who could resist this face?â he replies, taking Clark by the chin and squishing his cheeks between his thumb and fingers.Â
Bruce can feel the warmth of Clarkâs blush on his fingertips.
Clark offered the actress a smile before she walked away, her plans foiled.
âBaby?â Clark says.
âYou looked uncomfortable. I figured pretending you were taken would be the easiest way to get her to go away,â Bruce replies, like it was the obvious solution, a perfect plan.
Clark blinks at him, clearly still confused, but going along with it like the good sport he is. âYou do know that sheâs gonna take that information straight to the papers, right?â
Well, Bruce hadnât really thought that part through, but whatever. He doesnât care what the papers say; the persona he displays to the public is that of a playboy, anyway. Nothing he does to keep up the thrill-seeking businessman act embarrasses him anymore, and he certainly isnât going to be embarrassed at the idea of being associated romantically with a good-looking, successful person simply because he happens to be a man.
He shrugs. âWell, we might as well give them something good to write about,â he replies, wrapping an arm around Clarkâs waist and pulling him close.
With anyone else, this action would have meant nothing. He could have done it without a second thought, without even needing to be attracted to or interested in the person. But with Clark, the touch makes Bruce feel more conscious of his every move, more cautious than he normally would be.
Clark is one of the few people in this world that Bruce would utter the word friend in reference to, and truly mean it. He understands how a friendship is supposed to work, from an outsiderâs perspective, and heâs pretty sure that fake-dating isnât a normal activity that friends participate in.
There is no rulebook, no manual, no scientific study, and no perfectly scripted act that he can turn to now. Itâs very rare that Bruce ever feels unsure of himself, but in this moment, touching Clark, he feels out of his element.
Two plans emerge before him in his mind: First, he could drop the act now that the woman is gone, stop touching Clark, clear his throat, and continue on with the night. Let the papers try to run the rumor, allow it to settle down and die when no one can prove it, and then heâll be seen with a different woman next week, and he and Clark can forget it ever happened.
The second option is that he can put on his charm, flirt with Clark like it means nothing to him, every move methodicalâfix his glasses right when the camera comes out, adjust one of those curls swooping down onto his forehead as a group whispers, make sure they all see what an attentive partner Bruce Wayne is, and then at the end of the night, he and Clark can pretend it never happened.
Strangely, he finds that he wants to do neither. He wants to keep touching Clark, without the prying eyes and flashing cameras, and he wants to mean it. He doesnât want to flirt with Clark as the version of himself that the general public sees, to be fake with him. But he doesnât know how to make it sincere, to turn off the carefully crafted persona and tell Clark how he feels.
Bruce knows that Clark can hear his heartbeat, but sometimes, he worries that Clark can read his mind. Perhaps itâs just the over-pouring amount of empathy that Clark has that makes Bruce feel that way, but it still surprises him when Clark leans close and murmurs, âWe donât have to stay.â
âYouâre here to get a story,â Bruce replies, arm still wrapped around Clarkâs waist.
He throws his arm over Bruceâs shoulder, squeezing him back in a one-armed hug. âI think anything I write will be overshadowed by our love affair, now,â he teases.
âIâm sorry,â Bruce says, and the words feel so foreign on his tongue, but Clark deserves an apology for this, letting his emotions get in the way of both of their jobs tonight.
Clark chuckles. âFor what? I got to see one of these fancy parties, made some connectionsâŠAnd I got to see you smile, even if it was fake.â
Bruce suddenly feels very warm, and he removes his arm from around Clarkâs middle. âItâs going to look even more scandalous if we leave early, you know.â
Something in his stomach flutters when Clark just grins.
Bruce can hear the clicking of cameras as they not-so-subtly sneak out of the event, fingers interlocked. The minute theyâre outside, he drops Clarkâs hand, and he thinks he imagines the disappointed look on Clarkâs face.
***
Bruce is trying to not think too hard about what this means.
Clark isâŠWell, heâs Clark, heâs fucking Superman, and heâs beautiful. Donât get him wrong, Clarkâs a nerd, with bizarre music taste and too-big suits and crooked glasses, but his curls fall so perfectly in his face when heâs not smothering them in gel, and heâs grinning at Bruce so innocently, as if he didnât just have his cock inside of him.
This is one of the few times in his life that Bruce feels that sex meant more to him than putting on a performance, adding a notch to his bedpost, with the added benefit of a little stress relief.
Sex is easy for him, while intimacy is not, and yet everything about the way Clark had touched him, how heâs looking at him now feels so intimate. Bruce has never allowed someone to have such power over him like that, and itâs the first time heâs ever felt that vulnerability made something better.
But now, Clark is seemingly trying to cuddle with him, and that is too much for Bruce to handle for one night, so he gets out of the bed and gets redressed.
But when he turns around and sees the look in Clarkâs eyes, that kicked-puppy little pout, he sighs and crawls back into the bed, laying flat on his back, with a few inches of distance between them.
âWhy do you do that?â Clark asks.
âWhat do you mean?â
âWhen weâre in publicâŠIn front of the cameras, youâre so touchy. Even when weâre around the League, youâll touch meâŠA hand on my shoulder, at least. But when weâre alone, you never reach out first.â
Physically intimacy, heâs good at, in the form of rough, passionate kisses and wandering, steady hands. Even with the unfamiliarity of doing it with a man, Bruce had known his way around their earlier endeavors.
This is the part heâs awful at. Talking about his feelings is not something heâs ever really done, never had much of a reason to, and now heâs scared heâs going to fuck this up.
But heâs going to try to explain himself anyway, because Clark is the only person who has ever made him feel this light hopefulness in his chest, has made unable to swallow the instinct to smile. He figures that thatâs as close to romantic as heâs ever gotten.
âWhen weâre in public, Iâm always pretending to be someone Iâm not,â he replies simply. âEither Iâm playing up Bruce Wayneâs âwhirlwind romanceâ for the press, or Iâm showing that Batman is a supportive teammate and friend. Iâm never myself when there are other people around.â
âSo, do youâŠnot like it when I touch you?â Clark asks.
Such simple words feel ridiculously awkward coming out of his mouth. âI do,â he replies. âItâs justâŠNot in my instinct to do it back. Or first. I donât know how to act likeâŠyour boyfriend. Iâm not good at this.â
Clark tentatively scoots over on the bed, their shoulders brushing. âThatâs okay. Weâll figure it out. Together.â
Together is also a word that rarely leaves Bruceâs mouth, but he echoes it back anyway, before capturing Clarkâs lips in a kiss.
***
Bruce trails his fingers lazily over Clarkâs back, almost absent-mindedly.
Heâs surprised when Clark flinches away with a soft gasp. His fingers freeze in mid-air, eyeing the other man with curiosity and concern.
âAre you okay?â
Clark gives him a sheepish smile. âYeah, just ticklish.â
âOh.â
Bruce pulls his hand away then, awkwardly folding them across his stomach. Of course, when he tries to be sweet, he finds a way to mess it up.
Scooting closer, Clark says, âYou donât have to stop; it still felt nice.â
Then, upon seeing the apprehensive look on Bruceâs face, he backpedals. âUnless you donât want to, itâs fineââ
Thereâs a fond smile threatening to tug at the corners of Bruceâs mouth, and instead of fighting it back, he allows it to spread. âI can keep going.â
Clarkâs face looks pink in the dim light of the room, and Bruce returns his fingers, tentatively, to his back, still unsure of himself and unfamiliar with the tenderness of it all.
He hears the contended sigh of the man beside him, feels Clark practically melt under the touch, like a cat being pet. Itâs sort of adorable, a word which had never really been in Bruceâs vocabulary before.
A rare feeling overtakes him: Mischief.
Clark is such an open book, and Bruce finds it incredibly endearing. Heâs working on his ability to be open, too, but honesty comes as easy to Clark as breathing.
If Clark so willingly provided the information that heâs ticklish, then it wouldnât be so bad if Bruce were to explore it, would it?
He lightens his touch, and Clark twitches slightly. He brings his fingers closer to Clarkâs side, and hears a little huff of air, like heâs holding back a laugh.
Bruce pulls him closer, a newfound confidence in his actions surging through him. He presses his face into the side of Clarkâs neck, brings all ten of his fingers to Clarkâs sides, and strokes them slowly, softly.
The touch is so gentle, and yet Clark barks out a laugh immediately.
âBruce!â he says.
âYes?â Bruce replies, feigning innocence.
âIt tickles.â
âI know. Do you want me to stop?â
Clarkâs answer only comes in the form of giggling, and so Bruce doesnât stop.
He keeps his touch gentle, exploratory. He traces his blunt nails all over Clarkâs sides, his ribs, his stomach. He presses a few firm kisses into the crook of Clarkâs neck, which also seem to cause bubbly laughter.
Bruce doesnât even realize how hard heâs smiling until he finally lets Clark breathe, which he knows he technically doesnât need to do, but still.
He gets the urge to pull away then, to stop touching him, maybe even apologize. But before he can do any of those things, Clark wraps his arms around him and hugs him close.
âThat was mean,â he murmurs, but his body language speaks to the contrary.
Bruce lets himself relax into Clarkâs hold, feels the heat radiating off of his blushing face, the way his chest rises and falls a little more rapidly than usual. âYou could have easily stopped me,â he replies softly. âIf it was really that mean.â
Clark tweaks his side, and Bruce flinches.
Their eyes meet.
âDonât,â Bruce says, his voice barely a whisper.
Clark hesitates. âActually?â
His instincts are telling him to say yes, actually, donât you dare. If he sets the boundary, Clark will listen. But those instincts are the same ones that told him not to pursue this happiness, to stop touching Clark at that party, to shut himself off from other people and the world.
Heâs trying to ignore those instincts more now. To stop putting on an act all the time.
The word feels awkward, heavy in his mouth, but Bruce says, âNo.â
And Clark grins, and pounces.
It turns out that the laugh Bruce usually gave at parties, pretending to find some unfunny joke hilarious, sounds nothing like the real thing, the breathy giggling that escapes him when Clarkâs hands latch onto his hips and squeeze them.
Before Clark came into his life, romance was just an act that served one of his alter egos well. But Clark has brought out the man between his personas, the Bruce that resides between playboy and vigilante.
And for a first time in a long time, this happiness is not an act.
I just saw your tags on that video and if you write that fic I will absolutely lose my shit omg
listen I can write fics but titles aren't my thing be nice yall đ
Unlicensed
Summary: Bruce doesn't put his trust in a lot of people, especially when it comes to his body. When Clark offers to help him with a pulled muscle, he reluctantly takes the offer but Bruce's unlicensed chiropracting season soon becomes unexpectedly giggly.
It had become a regular thing for Clark and Bruce to do some missions together, even more so once they were officially dating, but still keeping it private.
It didn't take extremely long for Bruce to pick up on Clark's mannerisms (he did that way before they started dating though). He liked to think he still kept to himself, any quirks he had being remotely minute.
There was a soft knock on the door to Bruce's office. It was extremely late - or early, depending on how you look at it - so it likely wasn't one of the kids awake. Most of his robin's kept to their own confines whenever it was this late.
"Come in," Bruce says, voice a bit gruff from not being used in hours.
Clark walks into the office, coffee and pastry in hand. He wore a smile that reminded Bruce of the sun, though he'd never say something that sappy out loud.
"You don't have to keep bringing me coffee, y'know." Bruce says but he gratefully takes the drink and pastry from Clark. "I know you aren't a night person."
"I don't mind, really I don't technically need sleep." Clark shrugs before kissing Bruce's forehead.
Bruce hums as he sips the coffee Clark brought him. On a regular day, he always had plain black coffee but he did enjoy the sweetness that came with the coffees that Clark would bring him.
"What are you working on?" Clark asks as he sits down on the empty space of Bruce's desk, glancing down at his computer.
"Paperwork and bills for Wayne Enterprise." Bruce says. "It's mundane, but I like to do it myself instead of hiring someone else." He says and Clark nods in response.
Bruce reaches back to the computer, using his left arm to type and keeping his right tucked by his side. He could see Clark watching with narrowed eyes.
"Did you hurt your arm?" He asks and Bruce holds back a sigh. He had been on patrol the night before and taken a fall off a roof, due to the concrete being slick from rain. In an attempt to not smack the ground below, he shot off a grappling hook but with it catching him sharply, he had strained his shoulder. Of course he didn't voice this to Damian, who was with him at the time, or Alfred when he got back to the cave, or Clark now.
"It's fine." He replies with a half shrug, his shoulder too sore to do a full one.
"You're right handed, why are you typing with your left?" Clark asks, knowing he had Bruce cornered, and Bruce shoots him a glare. "You're not fooling anyone, I can see that it's got a knot in it."
Bruce sighs and replies with a grumble. "Fine. I just pulled it while out on patrol with Damian yesterday."
"Just pulled it?" Clark asks skeptically. "Why haven't you gone to, like, a chiropractor or masseuse?" He asks.
Bruce hesitates for a moment. He was working on being more open with Clark anyway and it's not like he would make fun of Bruce for his reasoning.
"I... I had a bad experience with one the first time I tried to go to one." Bruce mutters. "I don't really trust people with my body anyway."
Clark nods with a hum before hopping off the desk. "I could try and help with it." He offers. "I pull muscles from over straining them all the time. Lois has showed me a few ways to work out the knots though."
Bruce glances at Clark as he thinks. If there were anyone he would trust with this it would be Clark.
"I mean, I'm not licensed or anything." Clark jokes. "But my x-ray vision helps me with seeing muscles kind of, so it make it easier for me to massage out the knot."
Bruce nods as Clark rants. He hesitates before sighing.
"Just be.. gentle." Bruce says reluctantly and he quickly has to hold back a smile when Clark grins excitedly.
"I will, I promise." Clark says as he walks over. "I'm the best unlicensed chiropractor you've ever been to."
"The only one I've ever been to." Bruce replies and Clark laughs. They move over to the couch in Bruce's office, deciding it would be easier and more comfortable than Bruce's spinning office chair.
"You're really tight in the back of your shoulder to your neck." Clark murmurs as he presses into the muscle. Bruce grunts at the soreness, wincing as Clark gently feels the knot.
"I'm gonna start here," Clark says, feeling the muscle on Bruce's neck. He tilts Bruce's neck to the other shoulder before gently pressing his thumb into the tight muscle, massaging at the knot there. The sensation wasn't exactly painful but still sore and Bruce grunts at the feeling. To credit Clark, he was being gentle and Bruce could feel the knot loosening with his touch.
Clark shifts his touch and Bruce automatically stiffens. Now it wasn't just a sore feeling but his massaging sent tingles through his neck, butterflies fluttering in his stomach.
He grips the couch below him to hold back a grin, doing his best to not squirm. This didn't go unnoticed by Clark.
"I'm sorry, am I being rough?" He asks, pulling his hand back and giving Bruce a reprieve from the ticklish sensation in his neck.
"No, it's fine." Bruce says. "I'm just, uh.. sensitive. Kinda." He mutters. "You can keep going."
Clark hesitates before digging his thumb into the knot which almost has Bruce squeaking from the tickle it sends down his spine.
"Does this tickle?" Clark asks when he feels Bruce's shoulders start to shake with held back laughter.
"A little." Bruce mumbles after a moment of hesitation.
"Oh my gosh," Clark grins and Bruce scowls. "You're too cute."
"No, I'm not-" He starts to protest before Clark blows a stream of cold air at his neck while massaging and he scrunches up with a squeak.
"This is too good." Clark chuckles as he moves down to rubbing at his shoulder, the muscle by his ribs. Bruce finally gives in with a grin, holding his stomach as he laughs.
"Does it hurt or just tickle?" Clark asks while working out the knot.
"B-both!" Bruce laughs, trying to keep his squirming minute. He breathes a sigh when Clark pulls his hand back. "It feels sore but also ticklish." He mutters and Clark grins.
Bruce watches as Clark walks around to stand in front of him. Clark lifts up Bruce's arm before digging his thumb into the muscle of his pec. Bruce can see it coming a mile away but still folds like a lawn chair.
"This muscle is tight, we need to loosen it." Clark says with a grin, mischief written all over his face as Bruce laughs.
"No we do-hohoho-don't!" Bruce laughs, trying to use his other arm to cover up his armpit. He tries to stand up but Clark quickly lays him down onto the couch, pinning his arm above his head before going to town on his armpit.
"I can't let you leave still feeling sore," Clark teases, grinning down at Bruce. "What kind of chiropractor would I be? Letting a patient leave untreated."
"Cla-ahaha-rk!" Bruce laughs, tipping his head back against the couch as snickers pour from his mouth. His laugh is scratchy but still bright as Clark continues to torment his underarm, digging into the muscle with a practiced ease. "You're nohot even massaging!"
"I'm a professional, you wouldn't understand my methods." Clark replies simply.
Clark continued, not even sticking to Bruce's armpit but also straying down towards his ribs. His large hands wrap around Bruce's ribs as he squeezes the bones, even going do far to dig his fingers into the back of Bruce's ribs just to watch Bruce arch his back away from his touch.
Bruce can feel his face burning with a blush that has to be as red as a tomato. He closes his eyes against the offending sensations, kicking his feet against the couch he was pinned to.
Not being able to stop Clark was a blessing and a curse. On one hand, being completely out of control of the situation wasn't so bad, but being tickled within an inch of his life was definitely not his favorite use of Clark's strength.
Although he did have to admit that this was fun. Tickling wasn't extremely common for him, both growing up and in his adulthood, but it was fun. He'd never say it outloud, but the sensation wasn't unpleasant and letting loose was something he should probably be doing more often.
"Okay, ohoho-okay!" Bruce laughs after Clark had gone back to digging into his armpit. "I'm not sore!"
"Hmm, are you sure?" Clark teases but he does slow down his actions. "As long as my patient is fully satisfied." He says as he releases Bruce's arm.
"I-I'm leaving you a bad review." Bruce says as he catches his breath.
"Do you feel sore?" Clark asks as he sits down beside Bruce's head. After a moment of moving his shoulder and arm he actually was surprised to find it feeling a lot better than before, even with Clark's method of loosening the knot.
"Whatever." He mutters when Clark grins. "Thanks." He adds after a pause.
"You're welcome." Clark says after pressing a kiss to Bruce's forehead and then lips, which Bruce happily reciprocates.
"Y'know," Clark grins, pulling back mid-kiss which has Bruce huffing (and totally not pouting). "If you wanted me to tickle you, you could'a just asked." He teases.
Bruce can feel his face burning as he smacks Clark with a pillow. "You're dead." He growls before launching his own counter attack, Clark laughing before he even touches him.
Okay but Clark realizing Bruce is holding his arm funny. And Bruce grudgingly admitting he thinks he pulled a muscle. And Clark offering to help him out because wow he can SEE the knot with his xray vision (is this how pulled muscles work? Idk I'm not a doctor I'm just a simple fic writer that doesn't write) and then proceeding to do this?? Anyone?? Does anyone wanna write this? Please? For a sad old lady? (I am neither sad or old. Just manipulative.)
#7 for superbat đ„ș or superwonderbat if that's more up your alley at this time???
Iâm aliveeeeeeeee!!! Iâve missed you and them hehe
Trying out a sillier Bruce in this one because Iâve 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 heâs stilted in any warmth he delivers. But heâs trying. Hard. Especially with Clark. Lightheartedness comes to him as easy as flyingâwhich is to say, it doesnât and heâs been forced to invent new ways to keep up with the fliers in his life.
Again, heâs trying.
Theyâre in the game room, which Clarkâs delighted to find was not âone of those stuffy ones, with just a pool table and some cardsâ, and is in fact stocked with games. His children usually stake first claim over this room, but itâs unexpectedly empty tonight. Bruce mightâve read further into that on a different day, but Clarkâs beaming at him and thereâs nothing beyond that worth focusing on.
âPrepare to be crushed. Jimmy and I have Smash set up in the office.â 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.
âThen why play here?â
âWe 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.â 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 pinkâŠthing. He doesnât understand how something so silly-looking is so effective at defeating him. Heâd memorized the combos within a minuteâSteph had drilled into him to do this rather than âbutton-mashingââbut nothing worked. Every time, Kirby justâŠate him.
âSorry. I think Kirby is Snakeâs weakness.â Clark shrugs. Bruce huffs. He doesnât like to lose, but he was never particularly illusioned that heâd 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. Bruceâs heart leaps into his throat.
He follows Clark, as he always does, over the precipice of affection.
âI happen to know a weakness of yours.â 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.
âYes, kryptonite, very funny. You couldnât bear to kill me, Bruce. Youâd miss me too much.â 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. Heâs justâŠborrowing from the playboy.
âNot what I meant.â Bruceâs mouth lifts into a smirk. Clarkâs 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 Clarkâs stomach. Clarkâs eyes go saucer-wide. Bruce pounces before he can think about fleeing. Heâs clumsy with his fingers but it doesnât seem to matterâClarkâs giggles bubble forth as easily as breathing.
âThatâyouâI t-thought Batman doesnât cheat!â 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.
âIâm not Batman.â Bruce crawls over him and races his fingers up Clarkâs 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 Clarkâs top rib and heâs rewarded with giggles so violent that, for a moment, heâs worried about if he can breathe. Then he remembers that Clark has no need for air, and he continues.
âYou literally areââ Clarkâs cut off by his own snort. The very quiet âawâ that slips free from Bruceâs mouth is involuntary and deeply concerning. This man has a dangerous effect on him, what with his skewed glasses and boyish laugh, and itâs starting to wear at him. Change him.
Or maybeâŠitâs exposing something deep within him.
âThere must be some mistake, Clark. I understand that the Planet has its theories, but Iâm not Batman.â Bruce blinks innocently. Clark tries to growl, but it rockets back up into giggles. The change in pitch startles a chuckle out of Bruce. Itâs so cute and so Clark. His whole chest grows warm with fondness.
Clarkâs shirt had ridden up with his squirming, and Bruce didnât get to be who he is without taking advantage of opportunity. He hasnât shaved in a bit and he weaponizes that, leaving a long trail of kisses over Clarkâs torso.
âBruce!â 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. Bruceâs face cracks around his smile. Clarkâs infectious. Sue him.
âYou really shouldnât let anyone exploit this weakness. Itâs so easy to take you apart,â Bruce hums with a smirk, leaning forward to kiss Clark properly.
Bruceâs whole world inverts.
Instinct drives him to try and defend himself, but thereâs no time. In the space of a breath, Clark has flipped them, pinning him against his own couch like theyâre twentysomethings wrestling for the last beer.
âIâll show you easy.â Clark leans down, his eyes flashing behind his skewed glasses. Heâs pink and out of breath somehow, which is unfairly charming. So much of him is unfairly charming.
âWe can talk about this, Clark. Canât we?â Bruce brings his hand to the back of Clarkâs neck, looking up at him through his lashes. Heâs not above using his tricks.
âOh, I think youâve talked plenty, donât you?â
Mistake. Mistake.
Clarkâs hands find purchase under Bruceâs arms and he goes ramrod still. He doesnât move, he hardly breathes. He doesnât 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.
âI know you think this will make me stopââ Clark speaks directly into Bruceâs neck and he makes a strangled soundâ âBut itâs fun making you break.â
Fuck, is heâŠtelepathic?
Bruce squints up at him, trembling like a leaf. Clark grins like the devil.
Nope. Just an asshole.
Clark scrapes his teeth over Bruceâs neck and he jolts, a startled âha!â jostling free and sending more laughter tumbling out after, like an overstuffed closet spilling its contents. Once it starts, he canât stop it.
âI happen to know a weakness of yours,â Clark says in his stupid, mocking approximation of Batmanâs voice. Bruce doesnât have the air to argue. He muffles his laughter into his bicep, desperate to hide. The silliness he can takeâitâs well-worth watching Clark getting laughed out of League meetings for suggesting that Batman told a joke. The vulnerability, though, thatâsâŠdifficult.
Clark pulls his arms over his head as if they were twigs. Bruce bites his lip, but only briefly. Self-control, and all that.
âOnce again, I feel like we could be doing something far more funââ
âOh, hush. As if you donât like this.â Clark mercifully doesn't give him room to speak, but it doesnât stop Bryceâs 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.
Clarkâs notâŠwrongânot fully, anyway. Bruce would much prefer Clark on top of him in a different way, but he doesnât hate this as much as he should.
Clark tickles at the back of Bruceâs calf like some kind of supervillain and snaps him right out of his mind. Bruce kicks him straight across the jaw with a crack thatâs concerning no matter whose body it came from. Clarkâs glasses sail across the room, clattering to a stop somewhere out of sight.
Clarkâs eyes legitimately flash with menace.
âI didnât mean that,â Bruce says quickly, putting his hands up.
âDid you just kick me?â Clark growls, and Bruce suddenly feels as though theyâve switched places. Somewhere in all of this, heâd lost track of which wayâs up.
âClarkââ Bruceâs voice dies in his throat when Clark hitches his leg over his shoulder.
âYouâre doing this on purpose,â Bruce groans. He resists the urge to hide his face in favor of crossing his arms. Definitely not protectively.
âYes, I am. Iâm very purposefully teaching you some manners, because obviously Alfredâs teachings havenât stuck.â Clark rolls up his sleeves. One of them is tricky, and Bruce reaches forward to do it himself.
âI donât think heâd agree with you.â Bruceâs lips tick up in a smile at the comment and nothing else.
âAlfred and I are pals, so I think I carry his best interests at heart.â Clark presses a playful hand to his heart. Bruce snorts lightly.
âSure.â 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.
âOh, uhm. Heya, Dick! Jason!â
Oh. Heâs never gonna live this down.
Bruce considers popping up with Clark, but itâs 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.
âBruce, the kind thing to do right now would be to kill me.â Clark slid his hands up over his face in despair. Bruce pats his arm.
âBut, Clarkââ Bruce allows himself the tiniest smirkâ âIâd miss you too much.â
He fully earns the wrecking that comment brings him, but he canât quite find it in himself to care.
Short little continuation to my last tickletober fic (This one is also not being posted on the correct day lololol who cares about timelines or playing the game the right way)
~~~
Bruce was sprawled on his back, one arm draped over his eyes, chest heaving, wearing nothing but a pair of hastily pulled on boxer briefs. Clark was laying next to him in the same state, one hand splayed over his stomach as he smiled up at the ceiling.
"That was.." Clark trailed off, trying to gather the words to express himself.
"Yeah." Bruce sighed, moving his arm to reveal the satisfied smile on his face. Clark wouldn't say his heart melted at the sight of the soft smile on Bruce's face, but only because he valued his life too much to say it out loud where Bruce could hear it.
"There was one thing I wanted to ask about." Clark rolled over so he was laying on his side, using one hand to prop his head up. Bruce made an inquisitive hum before stetching not unlike a cat, various joints popping and casuing him to groan in appreciaiton.
"Earlier," Bruce turned his head lazily to look at Clark. "When you said you were a little ticklish-" Bruce was scrambling off the bed before Clark had a chance to finish his sentence.
Clark took off after him with an excited laugh, chasing him around the bed like a cat with a mouse. Bruce was on one side of the bed, eyes darting around the room as though he had any chance of escape. Clark was on the other side, a predatory grin on his face. "Give it up, B. This is happening."
"It is not." Despite his best efforts, Bruce was grinning as he took a few steps side-to-side, tracking Clark's reactions to his movements. He feinted left before running to the right. "HA!--NO!" Clark caught him around the middle, hoisting him over his head with ease before body slamming him onto the bed.
"Clark!" Bruce wheeze-laughed, the air forcefully vacating his lungs at the impact. "Come on. Can't we talk about this?" He asked, a nervous smile already sneaking it's way onto his face as Clark hovered over him on his knees, caging Bruce's thighs in so he had the illusion of being able to escape without any means of actually doing it.
"Of course we can, B." Bruce looked up, naive and hopeful. His smile fell when he saw the sinister look Clark was giving him. "Let's talk about where your worst spot is."
Bruce tried to slip away, but Clark brought his weight down to pin him in place, grabbing his arms and pinning them above his head before he could even blink. "Fuck me." Bruce muttered, a nervous swooping feeling settling into his stomach when he tried to pull his arms down and found that they didn't budge an inch.
"Been there. Done that." Clark smirked at the death glare Bruce was now shooting him. "Now I'm onto this."
Bruce pressed his lips together, stubbornly refusing to say anything.
Clark shifted his grip so he was only using one hand to pin both of Bruce's wrists to the bed. "C'mon B. You can save yourself a lot ofâŠexploration." His right hand was now free to trail delicately down Bruce's outstretched arm; the muscles tensing more and more the closer Clark got to his armpit.
"How should-" Bruce stopped to suck in a quick breath when Clark wiggled a single finger into his defenseless armpit. "-I know?"
That gave Clark pause. He tilted his head to the side like the golden retriever Bruce always claimed he was. "How don't you know?"
Bruce would have shrugged if he could, but he had to settle for awkwardly twitching his shoulder instead. "What's yours?"
"Oh no you don't." Clark laughed. "You're not getting to me that easily. Besides,-" Without warning his danced his fingers along the side of Bruce's neck, causing an immediate chain reaction of giggles to spill out of the normally stoic man. "-I'm not the one with the adorably ticklish neck." He only stopped when Bruce nearly succeeded in biting his fingers.
"Hngh." Bruce grunted, doing his best to tamp down the smile still stretched across his face. "So not your neck. Got it. I bet it's somewhere obvious; Like your armpits."
Clark shouldn't be surprised that Bruce managed to guess right on the first try, but he'd be damned if he was going to admit it. "I don't appreciate-" He squeezed Bruce's side and smirked at the full body jolt it caused. "-you trying to turn this on me."
"I don't appreciate you holding me down and torturing me." Bruce's teasing tone and soft smile contradicted the words, even as he sucked in a gasp of air when Clark acted like he was going to go for his stomach, stopping just before he made contact.
"I would hardly call this torture" Clark dragged the tips of his fingers down Bruce's protruding ribs, smirking when Bruce leaned as far to his right as he could to try to escape the teasing touches. "It's more like one of those getting to know you games." Clark switched sides, gently scratching at Bruce's ribs on the right side and causing him to jolt back towards the left.
"Can you st--stop." Bruce huffed, gasping and sucking his stomach in when Clark danced his fingers along the ridges of his abs. "Just ha-hold on a sss--second."
"Was that a stutter?" Clark laughs, momentarily pausing to let Bruce catch his breath and try to regain control of himself.
Bruces lips are pressed tight, residual laughter bubbling in his throat until he finally manages to smother it out.
"Well?" Clark prompts, gently pinching just below Bruce's ribs and making him twitch with a cut off curse.
"âŠI didn't think you'd actually stop." Bruce admits, a sheepish smile playing around the corner of his mouth. "I don't have anything prepared."
Clark snorts, shakes his head, and then drags his fingers down either side of Bruce's ribs, heedless of the arms that came shooting down to clamp tightly to his sides. "You are such a dork." He groaned, gently scratching at either side of Bruce's stomach and grinning in triumph when a shocked bark of laughter erupted from him. "And no one will ever believe me."
"OhMyGod Clark!" Bruce laughed, hands gripping Clark's wrists for dear life. "Do not--" He choked on an inhale, head thrown back as Clark rhythmically squeezed his sides. "Fuck offffff!" He gasped, desperately trying to smother his laughter before any more could escape again.
"That's no way to speak to your loving boyfriend" Clark used one hand to raise Bruce's left arm and slam it back against the bed so he could tickle at his armpit unimpeded.
"'M'gonna---going t-to--kill you." Bruce threatened, his free hand cupped over his armpit to keep Clark's fingers out.
"Mmhhmm." Naturally, Clark took the opportunity to explore somewhere new and danced quick fingers across Bruce's taut stomach. Bruce cackled, and Clark quickly released his arm so he wouldn't hurt himself with the force he was yanking on it. He wrapped both arms around himself, trying to cover as much of his stomach as possible.
"Bruce, do you not know what 'a little' means?" Clark teased, wiggling his fingers into any exposed space he could reach. Bruce jumped and squirmed every time Clark's fingers managed to make contact with his stomach or sides, laughter bubbling out from behind tight lips as he tried in vein to shimmy out from under Clark's weight.
"Just wait until Diana hears about this." Clark only said it to get a reaction out of Bruce, and he was not disappointed.
Bruce's eyes momentarily widened, until Clark managed to produce another bout of surprised laughter when he gently tickled around his collarbones. "Cl-ha-ark Jo--Joseph Ke-ha-KENT!" Bruce growled through his laughter, his normally lethal hands now uselessly batting at Clark's chest as he reflexively brought his chin down and shoulders up to protect himself. "Don't---you--dare."
"Something wrong?" Clark was the perfect picture of innocence .... if you ignored the fact that he was once again pinning Bruce's wrists to the bed on either side of his head.
Something about this whole situation had Bruce feeling uncharacteristically childish. "Oh, bite me." Bruce muttered, despite the grin still on his face.
Clark's smile sharpened into a smirk. "Now there's an idea." Bruce went still beneath him, eyes going wide as he realized what Clark was planning.
"No."
"It's fitting. That's how all of this started."
Bruce did not whimper at the memory of Clark's teeth grazing along the thin skin of his neck. "Clark, no."
"Bruce, yes." That was all the warning he got before Clark was leaning down and gently nibbling on the side of Bruce's neck, laughing along with Bruce when he tried to force Clark's face away with his own head. "Is this your worst spot?" He mumbled into the side of Bruce's neck, his words drowned out by the bubbly giggles Bruce was failing to hold in, despite trying his best.
"I--I plead the fi-hihi-fifth."
Clark dragged his lips down Bruce's neck, over his collarbones, taking the time to suck a mark into them just to hear the resulting whine. He nipped at one of Bruce's pecs as he gave him a chance to catch his breath and let his laughter die down. "Hmmm. Definitely not here."
"Cl-Clark." Bruce gasped, body jolting as he felt Clark making his way to his ribcage.
"What about here?" Clark asked, his mouth never leaving Bruce's skin despite him reflexively trying to twitch away.
"N-no." Bruce answered, snickering and twitching when Clark mouthed along his ribs, dropping kisses onto them at random.
"Hmmmmm." Clark hummed directly into Bruce's bones, resulting in a shocked laugh and frantic bout of shimmying. Clark chose to stay there a little longer, until Bruce started squirming in earnest, laughter falling freely from his lips.
"Mmmmmmmmaaaaybe-" He hummed into Bruce's side, relishing in the frenzied wriggling he was causing. "Here?" His lips landed on Bruce's stomach, where he began nibbling on abs in earnest. Bruce didn't stand a chance, quickly giving in to his laughter, body jolting each time Clark tried a new spot.
"Yes!" He yelped, sucking his stomach in as far as it would go, yet still unable to escape the onslaught of teeth and lips. "Yes! Th-haha-that's it! Cl-haha-Clark!!"
"Are you sure?" Clark asked, in-between teasing along the ridges of Bruce's abs with his tongue. "You said you didn't know."
"I--didn't." Bruce laughed, banging his head back against the mattress as though that would make it tickle less. "But -ahaha- now I do. Cl-hah-Clark ple-hehehe-please!"
"Mmmm Okay." Clark hummed. "I just want to try one. More. Thing." Bruce never could have prepared himself for the feeling of a tongue wiggling into his belly button. Thankfully Clark released his arms before diving in. Bruce buried his hands in Clark's hair and yanked, head thrown back as deep belly laughter poured out of him.
Clark backed off after a few seconds, grinning ear to ear at the sight below him. Bruce's face was flushed a healthy shade of pink, he was smiling so wide it accentuated the crow's feet around his eyes, and he looked incredibly relaxed despite the residual frantic laughter. Clark pushed himself up to his knees to get off, and Bruce took the opportunity to roll onto his stomach, face buried in the mattress and arms clamped to his sides as he calmed down.
"Did I break you?" Clark teased, settling next to Bruce and rubbing soothing circles into his back as his breathing evened back out.
Bruce turned his head to the side to level a glare at Clark. The effect was ruined by the smile still stuck on his features. "You're so lucky you're hot." Bruce huffed. "I would never have allowed that otherwise."
"Allowed it?" Clark asked, eyebrow cocked arrogantly. "Is that what you want to call it?"
Bruce flipped him the bird as his head dropped back down to the mattress. Clark couldn't help but laugh at the uncharacteristic display of childishness.
After another minute of Clark rubbing circles onto his back Bruce finally sat up. "Okay." He sighed, hands hovering over his knees. Clark tilted his head in question, and Bruce smirked. "Your turn." Even Clark's super senses couldn't prepared him for Bruce launching himself at him, immediately burying his hands into Clark's armpits and clawing at him. The Man Of Steel never stood a chance.
@ticklishraspberries: the concept of clark using something that vibrates/buzzes on bruceâs ears and bruceâs brain jjst. Short-circuiting. sorry this came to me in an ancient prophecy and i had to share.
Guess what the prophecy has been FULFILLED!! Idk if razors really feel like this I have hair like Rapunzel and Iâve never cut it lol. But walk with me!!
Summary: Bruce lets Clark cut his hair. He gets far more than he bargained for.
âŠâŠ.
âHowâd you learn to do this?â Bruce tilts his head forward and focuses on his breathing. The buzz of the electric razor is grating on his nerves, but Clarkâs warm, firm hand on his scalp is helping.
âVery carefully.â Bruce catches Clark sticking his tongue out a little in the mirror as he cleans up the back of Bruceâs neck. âI got a lot of practice when I was younger.â
âDid you want to be a barber?â Bruce huffs lightly. Somehow, he could picture a tinier Clark excitedly waving around a barberâs cape.
âNot quite. I almost killed my dad, actuallyââ At Bruceâs expression, Clark quickly throws his hands up and yelpsâ âIt was an accident!â
âClark, I know. I donât think you could hurt a fly on purpose. Even if it begged you.â Bruce catches his eye in the mirror.
âAlright, wise guy.â Clark rolls his eyes, but heâs smiling. Bruceâs heart swells.
âHowâd you do it?â Bruce swivels so he can look at his partner. Clark smiles, his eyes distant with the memory, and shyly rubs the back of his neck.
âWhen Pa was teaching me how to shave, I hit my skin wrong with the blade. The whole thing crumpled and the blade flew out. Nearly took a little off his top, if you catch my drift.â
Bruce is so amused by how Clark that all is that he resorts to biting the inside of his cheek to stop a smile from surfacing. Clark turns him back around in the chair with a playful huff.
Bruce closes his eyes and allows himself to be cared for, which requires a constant and active suppression of all of his instincts. Clarkâs touch is gentle, yet sure, and it sends a soothing buzz through his nervous system. He tips Bruceâs head to and fro, murmuring sweet praise in that slight drawl of his.
One cannot blame Bruce, then, for becoming careless.
Clark disarms him. Early in their relationship, Bruce fought it. If Clark stayed over, Bruce simply didnât sleep. He didnât set foot in Clarkâs apartment for the first four months, and when he finally did, he did not mention that he had already cased the place while Clark was out. It was the perfect plan at the time.
Somewhere along the line, somewhere among all the home-cooked meals and movie nights, Bruce had forgotten to keep resisting. Faster than he thought possible, heâs found comfort in Clark. Real comfort. Enough to allow him to hold a knife to Bruceâs neck and have only the most fleeting thought of murder. Enough to dull his senses to the gentle buzz gliding on his sensitive scalp, with no thought of what it may portend.
âOkay, Iâm gonna touch up the sides a bit butâŠyou, sir, are looking spiffy.â Clark tilts Bruceâs chin up. It sends a bolt of lightning through his core.
âSpiffy?â Bruce smiles just the tiniest bit. Clark playfully swats his shoulder.
âThe spiffiest. Now stay still.â Clark positions Bruceâs head, then goes in with the razor. As soon as the buzzing thing touches down near his ear, Bruce loses hold of all of his carefully honed instincts. His shoulders fly up to his ears so fast that the razor catches his shirt sleeve. He slaps the thing out of Clarkâs hand.
âWhat happened?â
âIâm fine.â Bruce coughs to avoid any other sound.
âYouâre red. Did I nick you?â Clark leans in, his whole face scrunching as he searches for injuries. Bruce turns his face away and starts to get up, hoping to play it off, but Clark gently sits him back down with the strength of a hydraulic press. He canât escape this.
âStop. Let me see.â Clark brushes his thumb over the shell of Bruceâs ear, and despite himself, Bruce releases exactly the kind of strangled, high-pitched sound that he loathes.
Bruce watches the gears in Clarkâs brain turn for an agonizing thirty seconds. Clarkâs smile breaks over his face like the dawn.
âBruce. Are you ticklish?â
âOf course not.â Bruce scoffs, throwing another shovel of loose dirt over his already open grave. Clark brackets Bruce in with his arms and leans in close.
âIâm going to ask you exactly one more time, but this time Iâm going to remind you that I can hear your heartbeat.â Clarkâs amused smile gets a mischievous edge to it. He's got dimples. Itâs unfairly distracting.
âClark. I was trained by the League of Assassins. I am not ticklish.â Bruce keeps his voice and breathing even, his expression perfectly walks the line between firm and amusedâall of the elements are in place. He beats polygraphs as easy as breathing. His partner is just a hot one, in essence.
âLiar,â Clark hums, grazing his teeth over Bruceâs ear. Bruce crumples like wet paper. He goes as sideways as the chair allows and tries to twist his way to the floor, but Clarkâs stupid mouth meets him everywhere he turns.
âThis is the best day of my life.â Clark laughs delightedly at Bruceâs suffering. Bruce growls at him, but it rockets up to raspy laughter when Clark worms a hand under his arm. He slips down out of the chair again and Clark catches him, has him pinned on the couch before he can blink. The bastard waits, thoughâhe waits until Bruce can process his lack of escape routes to pounce again.
Itâs unfair how happy Clark looks while taking him apart. He smiles and laughs like Bruceâs hands are on himâan idea to test another time, in more strategically favorable circumstances.
Bruce shoves Clarkâs face away as hard as he can and gets a flurry of pokes to the stomach for his trouble. Clark moves down to his waist, cataloguing, eating up all the valuable intel Bruce is handing over for free. Bruce tries to curl up. Clark squeezes his side until he changes his mind.
âStop wiggling! I wanna see how bad it is. Iâve never heard you laugh like this before.â Clark laughs, sneaking a hand up to Bruceâs ear again. Bruce wiggles like his life depends on it. His skilled maneuvers allow him to hide his head, but Clark drops his pinching hands to Bruceâs hips and he folds like a lawn chair.
âSo what part of your League training was this?â Clark pauses before he hits Bruceâs thighs, thank god. Bruce greedily sucks in air.
âIâm going to lace your food with kryptonite.â Bruce hisses in a rush. His face is definitely burning red, he can feel it. Clarkâs eyebrows raise. Bruce pales.
Clark, the colossal idiot, leans down and blows a raspberry against Bruceâs throat. He squeals, which is not a sound heâs ever made beforeâŠ.or if he has, itâs been too many years to feel real.
âIâd like to see you try, Wheezyâdid you just snort?â Clark talks directly into Bruceâs neck. Bruce giggles like his archnemesis and frantically shakes his head ânoâ. Thereâs no reason that should tickle so badly.
âI guess weâll see about that.â Clark palms the back of Bruceâs neck and he realizes very quickly that while he can move, he wouldnât be moving very far. As soon as those fingers start wiggling, Bruceâs control flees the scene. He giggles effortlessly at a pitch that heâs been trying to fake for nearly his whole life.
Itâs awful.
ItâsâŠkind of fun.
He doesnât let loose often, and when he does, it usually involves bruises. This isâŠa lot, and itâs definitely embarrassing, but he could get free if he really wanted. At least he has plausible deniability of Clark holding him down. Makes it easier to trick his brain into a softer shape.
Clarkâs mouth has its grand reunion with Bruceâs ear and stays there until a battalion of snorts marches free from Bruceâs lungs, thoroughly murdering his image in the process. Clark gathers up the tail end of his laughter in a kiss. Bruce smiles into it. He canât help it. Clarkâs rubbing circles into his side with his thumbs.
âWhy are you like this?â Bruce grumbles, his ears still suspiciously warm. Clark adjusts his glasses, but leaves them more crooked than they were.
âWhat? Fun?â Clark hums, more focused on Bruceâs mouth than his usual sass. He leans in, glasses holding on by a thread, and Bruce leans back a bit to pull the glasses off his face. Clark leans back in before theyâre all the way free.
âDodging the question, Mr. Wayne?â Clark raises a brow.
Bruce kisses him to avoid confirming it. All of thisâŠstuffâŠis still a big frantic bundle in his chest, shaking at the idea of more. Heâs gotten better with it, but sometimes he looks at Clark and it gets so much, all the things he wants to try.
âAre you gonna let me finish your haircut?â Clark smirks into their next kiss, and the next one, until Bruce squishes his face in his hand.
âDonât even think about it.â Bruce growls. Something about Clarkâs smile suggests that he is, in fact, thinking about it.
Something about the flutter in Bruceâs chest suggests that he maybe wouldnât hate it.
Summary: Bruce still feels weird about vulnerability, while Clark feels completely secure in it. As they navigate their changing dynamic, they try to take care of one another, with varying degrees of success. (Based on a message from the lovely @tickle-bugs â I hope you all enjoy!!)
âTo be alive is to be vulnerableâ â Madeleine LâEngle
Clark rolls his shoulders back, bending his head from side to side with a low groan, and Bruce hears the resulting crack that comes with the action and turns to face him, curious.
âYou can crack your neck?â
Clark smiles. âOf course I can. I was hunched over my desk all morning, so itâs been killing me.â
âI didnât think your muscles could even get sore,â Bruce says. He still doesnât quiteâŠget how Clarkâs body works. Heâs so powerful, almost invincible, but at times like this, he feels so strangely human.
Clark replies, âI do still feel things, yâknow, justâŠdifferently, I guess.â
Bruce raises an eyebrow, waiting for him to elaborate.
âWell, I do feel pain, but itâs just not as intense as I assume it is for you. But I can still feel other things, like hot and cold, andâŠâ he trails off, and Bruce swears his cheeks go a little bit pink before he continues, âand pleasure. But things like bullets kind of just feel like being poked really hard, and being electrocuted sort of tickles.â
Bruce canât help the way a smile tugs at his lips when he hears that. âSo, you can survive getting shot in the head, but youâre still ticklish? That seems like an oversight.â
Clark laughs. âI mean, itâs not a threat to oneâs well-being to be ticklish.â
Judging by the way Damian had been screaming his head off the other evening because of Dick and Jasonâs wiggling fingers, Bruce sort of doubts that, but he doesnât argue.
Clark is always surprising him. Not just with his powers, but how he stays so normal despite it all. Heâs so full of hope, and integrity, and joy. And yet, for some reason, he seems to like Bruce, who oftentimes feels like he is the antithesis of those thingsâYes, he does what he does for the greater good, but it comes at such a cost. While he gives Gotham hope, he struggles to find it himself.
Itâs cute, the way that Clark is looking at him now, a few curls escaping his hair gel and hanging over his forehead, the way his glasses sit slightly askew on his nose, and how easily the vulnerability comes to him, how he admits something that certainly classifies as a weakness so willingly to Bruce, without a second thought, because he trusts him andâŠWell, Bruce thinks that Clark enjoys his company, or at least, he hopes so, which is never really something heâs cared about before.
Bruce isnât good being vulnerable. He has spent all these years learning to close himself off, how to be the strongest, the fastest, the smartest version of himself that he can be, and devoted his time and energy to the betterment of Gotham.
He does feelâgrief, for his parents, reverence and adoration for Alfred, love for the kids he has raised, biologically his or not, and he knows that there is still hope inside of him; he wouldnât be Batman if there wasnât some sort of hope within him that people were mostly good.
But letting other people in on those feelings is where the struggle comes. He pushes people away, even when he loves them, and he retreats inside himself when that hope is challenged. Itâs not a healthy habit, but something he has done out of necessity.
Alfred seems to think that Clark will be a good influence on him.
At first, Bruce scoffs at the idea. But sitting here with him, looking at the gleaming smile across his face, pondering how someone who could easily snap him in two could look soâŠsweet, Bruce wonders if Alfred has a point.
The subject changes, and Bruce finds himself looser than usual. Talking to Clark is easy, and heâs actually pretty funny, although Bruce doesnât like to admit it, but the few chuckles that Clark gets out of him are proof enough.
Theyâre sitting across from each other when Clark puts his hand on top of Bruceâs, not bothering to question how his knuckles got so bruised, and Bruceâs brain momentarily stops working.
He feels suddenly warm, but he doesnât yank his hand away like his instincts tell him to. He leaves it there, and Clark doesnât move either. Itâs an unspoken gesture, and by the time they finish talking, Bruce realizes theyâve been touching for almost an hour.
How he felt about that situation would have to wait, because he could see the Bat-Signal in the sky, and he had better things to do than sit around and think about how Clark Kentâs lips might taste against his.
Not that thatâs what he would be thinking about.
***
Bruce is sitting at the Batcomputer, eyes glued to the screen.
Heâs been researching for several hours now, bleeding into the early morning hours. Alfred has tried to coax him to bed twice, but Bruce had just shrugged him off and kept at it.
He feels the air shift as someone enters, and he turns, irritated, expecting to see Alfred with a cup of chamomile tea, or one of the kids, whom he would have to reprimand for being up so late, only to be reprimanded in turn for his hypocrisy.
Instead, he sees Clark, who has graciously not flown into the room, because Bruce told him multiple times how much he hates being snuck up on, and he actually listened and stopped doing it, which is just stupidly polite, like everything Clark does.
âDid Alfred put you up to this?â Bruce asks, skipping a greeting.
There are dark circles under his eyes, and heâs starting to get a headache from looking at the screen for so long. His shoulders ache from the hunched position heâs been in for the past few hours, and heâs sure his breath smells strongly of black coffee.
Clark leans against the desk right beside him, looking down at him with a worried expression. âI could hear your heartbeat, and I knew you were awake. And, judging by how fast it is, youâve indulged in way too much caffeine to remain awake.â
He sounds like heâs scolding him, which in turn makes Bruce glare at him like a petulant child. Heâs Batman, goddammit, heâs doing important work.
âIâm working,â he replies. He doesnât elaborate. He doesnât have to: This is his house, his case, his sleep schedule heâs destroying.
âYou look exhausted,â Clark says, and he does really sound worried, in a way that almost makes Bruce feel guilty, except heâs too busy being annoyed to acknowledge it. âYouâve been up late all week.â
âWhat, are you spying on me or something?â
Clark shrugs. âItâs just habit. I check on Ma and Pa, on LoisâŠOn you. Perks of being a superhero, I always know when you guys are safe.â
Itâs so ridiculously endearing.
Bruce is still trying to reconcile with how much he likes Clark, how easy it is to trust and adore him. It makes Bruce feel years younger, like a child who canât stand to be in the same room as their crush without their cheeks heating. It makes him want to retreat into himself, to metaphorically tug Clarkâs pigtails on the playground, to tell him to fuck off and take his country boy charm to some other sad vigilanteâs lair and play house with them instead.
But he also really likes having Clark around, too much to push him away. So, he just sighs, rubbing his temples. âOkay, I havenât been sleeping much. Gordon gave me a good lead on some of Falconeâs men, and I want them behind bars as quickly as possible. What theyâve doneâŠâ
Suddenly, Clarkâs hand is on his shoulder. âI understand. But youâre no use to Gordon, or Gotham if youâre too tired to throw a punch.â
Bruce exhales, some semblance of a laugh. âDo you even need to sleep?â
âTechnically, no,â Clark replies. âI like to, though. It feels good to turn your brain off for a few hours. To relax.â
He squeezes Bruceâs shoulder when he says it, and it feels really good after how tense heâs been, and he melts into the touch before he can think to stop himself.
âOh, your back must be killing you,â Clark says. âCan IâŠ?â
Bruce should tell him no. It feels weak, accepting this, allowing himself to be taken care of this way. He also really wants to say yes, because Clark will almost certainly beam at him when he does, and that will feel even better than the release of the tension in his backâŠ
He shrugs. âIf you insist,â he mutters, because thatâs just standoffish enough for him to feel comfortable in the request.
And Clark smiles, just like Bruce knew he would, so eager to help, and steps behind Bruceâs chair, cupping both his shoulders in his big hands, and presses his thumbs into Bruceâs shoulder blades.
He actually has to bite back the pleasured noise that tries to escape him, sinking lower into the chair. Heâs carrying years of pain in all his muscles and joints, and heâs gotten good at ignoring the dull ache, but now heâs cursing himself for being too prideful to accept some help before this, because this feels fucking amazing.
Itâs a bit of a struggle to keep quiet and still, which he knows he doesnât have to do, but maintaining that bit of dignity during the massage is the only reason Bruce is still letting it go on.
That is, until Clark reaches up to try and rub his neck, and Bruce noticeably stiffens, and Clark, of course, has to question it. âIs this still okay?â he asks. âIf Iâm being too rough, let me know.â
No, heâs actually being too gentle, and the soft brush of his fingers against Bruceâs neck makes goosebumps spread over his arms. It tickles, and Bruce is just about to say that he feels much better, thanks, but he opens his mouth just as Clarkâs knuckles bump against the back of his ear, and he lets out a sharp intake of breath that makes the Kryptonian pause.
âAre youâŠ?â
âDonât finish that question,â Bruce replies, trying to sound gruff and intimidating, but it comes out more like a plea than a demand.
He can feel Clarkâs grin. âAll that training, and youâre still ticklish? Seems like an oversight,â he echoes Bruceâs words from earlier that week, sounding way to pleased with himself.
âIâm starting to feel pretty tired,â Bruce says, trying to turn on that Brucie Wayne charm, but it isnât very convincing. Clarkâs hands are still touching him, and the nervous system he has carefully trained to be number than the average humanâs now feels hyper-aware of every little movement.
Clark knows it, too, and Bruce canât believe he ever thought this man was sweet, because right now, heâs being positively sadistic. âReally? Your heart is pounding right now. Probably from all the coffee,â he teases. âMaybe you need some more help getting your energy out.â
He barely twitches his fingers against the delicate skin of Bruceâs neck, and he quivers.
Bargaining isnât working, violence wonât solve anything against the literal Superman, and Bruce refuses to plead with him. Running would be an option, but Clark would catch him. He is, for the first time in a long time, stumped on how to get himself out of a tricky situation. Itâs not a predicament heâs found himself in since he was a child.
âI hate you,â is the only thing he can think to say.
Clark laughs. âYou love me,â he replies before sticking his hands under Bruceâs arms, catching him off guard, which causes him to let out a startled shout before dissolving into laughter.
He barely recognizes the sound coming from his own mouth; itâs been at least a decade since he laughed this hard, if not longer, and heâs shocked to hear howâŠhappy it sounds.
He splutters out a few swear words before not-so-gracefully tumbling out of his chair, and Clark follows him to the floor with a gleeful look on his face.
âClark, cut it outââ
âIf I do, will you go to sleep?â
Normally, the mighty Batman would never submit to easily, but this is fucking embarrassing, and Clark has started zeroing in on a spot on his ribs that makes him want to scream, so he starts nodding, keeping his lips clamped shut to keep his surprisingly high-pitched laughter at bay.
Clark leans down and puts his face right up to Bruceâs ear, which doesnât feel any less ticklish than the hands on his ribs, and whispers, âIf you donât, Iâll know, and Iâll fly right back here and tickle you twice as bad.â
Bruceâs face turns a shade of red that shouldnât even be biologically possible, but Clark finally stops, and he sucks in a breath. He does feel much more tired now, and relatively humiliated.
He fall asleep the moment his head hits the pillow, and the last thing he thinks before heâs dead to the world is the smug way Clark had said, You love me, and how true that statement really seemed.
***
âWait, Bruce, Iââ
âWe canât have Superman going into battle sore, now can we?â Bruce asks, surprising even himself with how sickly sweet his voice sounds. He gets a kick out of this, now, teasing Clark back.
Heâs rubbing circles into Clarkâs lower back, deliberately straying too close to his sides, and heâs pretty impressed with how still Clark manages to stay, just the occasional twitch, but never letting his legs kick or arms swing, knowing the chances of him hurting Bruce would be too high.
âThis is supposed to be relaxing, you know,â Bruce says.
âItâs not!â Clark replies, hugging a pillow tightly to his chest. âYouâre doing it on purpose!â
Bruce feigns innocence. âDoing what on purpose?â
Clark answers through a new fit of giggles and Bruce squeezes his sides. âTickling me!â
âItâs not a threat to oneâs well-being to be ticklish,â Bruce says. âI mean, you donât even need to breathe. I can do this for as long as I want.â
He watches the way Clark turns an adorable shade of pink, and takes note of how he doesnât really argue. Heâd only been kidding, but if Clark isnât going to protestâŠ
It still feels unfamiliar to him, to be like this. Heâs gone from stoic and isolated to play-fighting with his boyfriend as a grown-ass man, and he could justify the rare occasions he would act silly with the kids, because they needed to see the cracks in his armor to trust him, and he really does care about them, but Clark has brought out a new side of him that he thought had died with his parents in that alley.
He pushes his hands underneath Clarkâs shirt and scratches lightly at his stomach, and the pillow heâd been holding goes flying across the room.
âYouâre being mean!â
âAnd yet, you love me,â Bruce replies.
âI do, but that doesnât mean youâre not mean,â Clark giggles.
Bruce pauses. The words feel foreign on his tongue, but he says it anyway: âLove you, too.â
Clark leans up to press their lips together, and Bruce kisses him back, before launching another attack on his belly, wincing at the sheer volume of the resulting shriek.
Despite being superhuman, Clark embraces humanity; he eats and sleeps even though he technically doesnât have to, because he likes it. He can cry, blush, laugh, and he keeps himself still when Bruce tickles him because while he could easily throw him off, he doesnât want to.
And while Bruce is only human, heâs spent so long trying to deny his nature, training himself to function on less sleep, to endure more pain, to push his feelings deep down and ignore them. This sort of vulnerability, this humanity isnât normal for him, but heâs starting to find that he likes it more than he thought he would.
Heâs starting to feel alive again. He isnât playing a character, whether it be the invincible symbol of hope that is Batman, or the charming billionaire Bruce WayneâWith Clark, he is just Bruce, and there is no role to play or intense responsibility to shoulder. Living like this feels so much lighter.
As usual, Alfred was right, but Bruce isnât going to tell him that.
Summary: Three times that Clark accidentally tickles Bruce, and the first time he does it for real. (Um, hi, so...I have Superbat brainrot right now, and even though I haven't posted in months, take this. I hope you enjoy it!)
For someone with super-strength, Clark is so gentle.
Itâs a good thing, technically. If he were using the full extent of his strength, Bruce is sure he would have snapped him in half with a too-enthusiastic hug by now.
The Kryptonian seems to tip-toe his way through life; he does everything with this air of grace, of softness. Whether itâs to keep his powers a secret when heâs just Clark Kent, journalist from Kentucky, or simply to avoid smashing every mug he gets his hand on, Bruce isnât sure.
But it drives him crazy.
âIâm not made of glass, you know,â he says.
Clark gives him an infuriating smile. âI know that. But I still donât want to hurt you.â
Bruce scowls. âIf we were fighting for real, you wouldnât hold back.â
âAnd if I wasnât holding back, I could easily crush your ribs,â Clark replies. âOr snap your spine in half. I donât think either of us wants that to happen.â
Theyâre sparring. Technically, neither of them need the extra training, but lately, Bruce has found himself looking for excuses to spend time with Clark, but has only mustered up the courage to invite him on work-related outings.
Heâs still working on the whole vulnerability thing, and showing how much he really cares for Clark isnât something that comes naturally to him. He can protect him in a battle, tease him about his country-boy charm, and even accept small amounts of physical affection, but for some reason, the words, Do you want to hang out sometime? feel heavy and foreign on his tongue.
So, sparring. Thatâs the best he can come up with.
And Clark is letting him win.
Logically, Bruce knows that what Clark is saying is true: If Clark used all his might, Bruce would likely end up severely injured. But he could try a little harder than this.
âI can take more than youâre giving,â he says. âYouâre just letting me win.â
Clark has that stupid, charming grin on his face that makes Bruce unsure whether he wants to punch him or kiss him. One of those would probably leave him with broken knuckles, though, and the other would require him to talk about his feelings, so instead, he just glares at him.
Without any verbal reply, Clark rushes forward and tries to grab Bruce, and despite being caught off-guard, dodges it at the last second.
Clark is still smiling as he charges, and it should feel predatory in some way, but instead it just comes across like a golden retriever whoâs excited to play.
Bruce puts up a good fight, but even with Clark using half his strength, heâs no match for Supermanâs powers. It should wound his ego a little, but heâs accepted a long time ago that he is only human, and his super-human companions will almost always have a leg up on him.
Itâs more offensive to his pride when they go easy on him than when they win fair-and-square.
Heâs on his back on the mat, panting as Clark holds him down.
âSee? Thatâs more like it,â Bruce says.
Clark has barely broken a sweat. âI didnât peg you as the type of guy who likes to lose,â he replies. âBut youâre just full of surprises, I guess.â
He accentuates his statement with a soft poke to Bruceâs stomach, and his whole body goes rigid at the unexpected touch. It sort of tickles, which is a revelation he would have rather not made. Yes, logically, Bruce knows that most humans are ticklish, but after being trained to withstand literal torture, he sort of thought that particular reaction would have died out.
Apparently, it didnât.
Clark grins. âAre you ticklish?â he asks.
âDonât be stupid,â Bruce replies, and then, taking advantage of Clarkâs distraction, flips them over so that heâs on top of Clark instead.
Luckily, heâs gotten good at hiding things like this. Itâs all mind over matter; donât react, donât allow yourself to feel it. Whether itâs the physical ache in his body after a fight, the dull emotional pain when memories haunt him, or in this case, a ridiculous man attempting to tease him, Bruce can school is expressions, push the feelings down.
At least for a little while.
Even if Clark thinks heâs lying, he drops the subject.
***
Bruce isnât used to being snuck up on.
Heâs very in-tune with his senses, and can sense a person coming from rooms away. Years of training in the art of stealth have left him hyper-aware of every sound, every shift of the air.
That is, when they arenât flying.
Clark has developed this absolutely obnoxious habit of hovering just above the ground, moving so carefully that Bruce canât detect him as easily as he would a normal, walking person.
He seems to get a great sense of amusement out of taking Bruce off-guard, which should piss him off, but he finds it oddly endearing. He canât remember the last time someone kept him on his toes like this, or attempted to mess around with him in a genuinely innocent way.
He is standing at the kitchen counter, running on very little sleep, internally cursing himself for his commitment to this double-life and all the trouble it brings. He scans the newspaper for any information of impending doom: Arkham breakouts, supervillain shenanigansâŠ
Then, someone grabs his sides from behind, and he gasps, spinning on his heel, ready to attack whoever is breaking into his houseâ
Clark Kent is standing behind him, glasses askew on his nose, an expression of amusement slowly melting into one of worry.
âGod, youâre such an asshole,â Bruce breathes, leaning back against the counter.
âAre you hurt?â Clark asks, furrowing his brows.
Bruce blinks at him. âNo, just having a mild heart attack.â
âWhen I grabbed you, it seemed like I hurt you,â he says. âI swear, if youâre trying to hide another broken rib from Alfred, Iâm tattling on you.â
âMy ribs are fine, Clark.â
Clark, to Bruceâs bewilderment, grabs the hem of his t-shirt and lifts it up, searching for signs of bruising. He presses his hand into his ribs, palpating for an injury that doesnât exist.
And for the second time in one month, Clark Kent is tickling Bruce Wayne, and his brain shuts down, forcing his body to go rigid in an attempt to block it out.
âClark, Iâm fineââ
âYou canât be fighting when youâre injured, Bruce, youâre going to make it so much worseââ
He presses his fingers into the spot between his two uppermost ribs and Bruce flinches, hard, and in an attempt to cover his ass, he blurts out, âOw, okay, fine, youâre right! Iâll be more careful, just stop groping me.â
Clark pulls away immediately, a kicked-puppy look on his face. âIâm sorry, I didnât mean to hurt you.â
âItâs fine, you didnât know,â he replies, clapping him on the shoulder.
He looks so sad that Bruce almost feels bad for lying to him.
Key word being almost.
***
Bruce canât remember the last time a person made him feel this way.
His face feels hot, and heâs mortified to realize this means heâs blushing, like some teenage Superman fangirl, and he canât get the words he wants to say to form in his mouth and leave his lips.
Clark, who was just holding his hand, suddenly drops it. âIâm sorry, Bruce, that was totally inappropriate. If you donât feel the same way, I completely understand.â
No, wait, thatâs not what heâs trying to say at all!
The man heâs had feelings for for the past few months has just confessed to him, and Bruceâs emotional ineptitude has left him entirely speechless, and heâs fucking blowing this.
So, he does the only thing he can think to do, and grabs Clarkâs hand again, pulling him in for a kiss.
Clark lets out a surprised little hum before kissing him back, wrapping his arms around his waist.
He tastes like coffee, and Bruce idly wonders if heâs in some drug-induced dream that heâll inevitably wake up from any minute now, trapped in some psycho scientistâs lair, a lab-rat for a toxin that makes you imagine your greatest fantasy so that youâll never want to wake up from it.
Sure, heâs a pessimist, sue him.
But when he pulls away from the kiss and opens his eyes, Clark is still there, real and sturdy and so fucking handsome, grinning like a fool.
Bruce smiles too, a real, genuine smile that he canât seem to fight off of his face.
God, Clark has made him soft.
If it canât get any more embarrassing, Clark picks him up without warning, and Bruce lets out an unbecoming noise that can only be described as a squeak.
Heâs safely deposited onto the nearest hard surface, a table in the Batcave that is miraculously clear of miscellaneous shit, and Clark cages him in there, kissing him again.
Bruce kisses him back, hard, feeling a sense of urgency he has never felt with a partner before, this insatiable desire to be closer to him, to devour him and be devoured in turn.
Clark runs his hands up Bruceâs thighs and squeezes them, and Bruce is horrified when he lets out this breathy laugh against his lips, so caught up in it all that he hadnât even had a chance to steel himself.
At first, he thinks that Clark doesnât notice, because he just keeps kissing him.
Then, the next time Bruce needs to come up for air, Clark leans in and whispers, âYouâre definitely ticklish.â
Bruce doesnât even argue this time. âShut up,â he says, and kisses him again.
Theyâre too caught up in other activities for Clark to bother testing it out, anyway.
***
 Bruce shivers.
âWhatâs wrong?â Clark asks, a teasing lilt in his voice.
âYou know whatâs wrong, asshole,â Bruce hisses.
Clark nuzzles his face into the side of Bruceâs neck, pressing featherlight kisses there, and Bruce sucks in a sharp intake of air, squeezing his eyes shut.
âI really donât,â Clark replies, his breath hot against Bruceâs skin. âCare to enlighten me?â
If it were any easier to kill Superman, Bruce would have probably done it by now.
He has never felt this sort of embarrassment before, this push-and-pull of Shut up, keeping talking. Stop, but donât you dare stop. I sort of hate you right now, but I love you.
Clark has a tight grip on him, not enough to hurt, but enough that Bruce certainly isnât going anywhere either. In that regard, heâs not afraid to use his strength against him.
But heâs being too gentle again, now with a deliberate motive in mind. The soft, barely-there way that his lips, his nose, his fucking breath brush against Bruceâs neck is making him want to crawl out of his skin, because it tickles like hell and he has no idea how to deal with it.
If he really wanted to, he could handle it. He could take a few deep breaths, center himself, try to ignore the feeling and fake his way through.
Why would he ever want to ignore Clarkâs touch, even when itâs borderline torturous?
Heâll never admit it, but itâs sort of fun, the way Clark breaks down his walls. Even Alfred has remarked that Bruce seems lighter these days. He smiles more, takes better care of himself. He really has made him soft, but heâs beginning to come to terms with the idea that it might not be such a bad thing.
Clark runs his fingers along the shell of Bruceâs ear, and he whimpers.
âUse your words,â Clark teases.
Bruce breaks. âIt fucking tickles, you asshole,â he says, all in one quick breath, before dissolving into laughter he had tried so hard to hold in.
âOh, why didnât you just say so? Iâll stop, if itâs bothering you so much.â
And he does stop, and Bruce is trying to catch his breath, and heâs sort ofâŠdisappointed that he stopped. But again, he wonât admit it, not even to Clark, because heâs still working on the whole communication thing, and he still feels this odd twist of shame in his gut at the idea of voicing what he wants.
Perhaps the instinct will come to him soon, a skill he can learn like meditation or piano or designing gear. Mind over matter: Tough it out, say the embarrassing thing, even if his voice shakes.
Just not tonight. Heâs too tired to have the emotional bandwidth.
So, instead, he says, âThank God,â and pushes Clarkâs smug face away from his neck.
Maybe, eventually, Clark will see through that lie too.
âI canât even begin to list all the reasons this is a terrible idea.â Clark pinches the bridge of his nose. Lois smacks the nail polish bottle against her hands to loosen up the purple color inside.
âA betâs a bet, Clark. Give me your hands.â Lois holds her own out expectantly. He leans forward and sighs.
âYou know I canât do that.â
âYou can, actually. Itâs very simple. You just extend your arms.â She tries to pull on his arms. He rolls his eyes.
âHaha. You really think Jimmy wonât recognizeââ Clark spins the nail polish bottle so he can read the labelâ âdesert plum on Supermanâs fingers and mine? Or more specifically that itâs your favorite shade?â
âAlright, fine. But I get to do your toes.â
âYou canât be serious.â
âYou wear boots! No one will even see it.â Lois doesnât do puppydog eyesâitâs not her personalityâbut she does do that infuriating head tilt that makes any idea of hers seem reasonable.
âIâll play you some Crabjoys while I do it. Will that sweeten the pot?â She raises her eyebrow expectantly, as if she already knows the answer. Because she does. Heâll do anything for her, unfortunately.
ââŠfine.â Clark crosses his arms, but he canât help the smile that blossoms in response to hers.
âŠ.
Clark bops along to the Crabjoyâs mightiest hits, occasionally breaking out in air drums or air guitar when the melody really gets to him. Their music fills him with hope, every time. It reminds him of racing cars down long dirt roads and disappearing into the corn before anyone could get a good look.
âYouâre such a dork.â Lois shakes her head fondly.
âItâs good music!â Clark throws his hands up.
âIn your dreams, Smallville. They play this at the grocery store. Thatâs an automatic demerit.â She sticks her tongue out a little as she works.
She wipes a little excess off the edge of Clarkâs toe and he flinches a little. The bottle of nail polish tilts onto his foot. Cursing softly, Lois catches the bottle and starts wiping it off of his sole.
Regretfully, Clark squeaks.
âWhat was that?â Her head snaps up.
âNothing,â he says, far too quickly, and he can tell by the razor glint in her eye that he has mere seconds to find an out. He racks his brain for something, anythingâ
âOh my god. Are you ticklish, Clark?â
Too late.
He opens and closes his mouth a few times. She grins wickedly.
âAlright, wellâLoisââ
She scribbles experimentally at his sole and Clark yelps. He slides down on the couch and buries his face in his hands.
âDonât do that.â She chides, as if she isnât the cause. âStop hiding. I like your smile.â
âGosh, you are soâŠâ He peeks between his fingers. Sheâs beautiful, is what she is.
âThe polish has to dry, Clark. Donât mess it up.â Lois starts tickling his foot in earnest and Clark muffles a squeal into his hands. She has nails and itâs evil, itâs so evil, and his foot is vibrating with the effort not to move.
Sheâs a menace, is what she is. He loves her, but golly, she might kill him.
He keels over on the couch and squeezes the life out of a throw pillow, but he leaves his foot there. The polish has to dry. She worked so hard on it. This is fine. Heâs Superman. He can handle it.
He gigglesnorts. Lois gasps. He groans.
âYour ankles? Really?â Lois looks like a kid on Christmas morning. Clark doesnât have air to defend himself, so he just shakes his head.
Lois goes back to his sole and he jumps. The coffee table releases a concerning creak under his foot. Worried about it, he tries to reel in his foot, but Lois starts poking under his toes, what is wrong with her?
âOkayokayokayââ He says in one giggly rush of breath, desperately gripping her shouldersâ âGenuinely, I might kick you.â
Lois gasps, mock offended. Clark rolls his eyes.
âHow dare youââ
âLoisââ
âSuperman threatening a member of the press? In her own home?â Lois clutches her imaginary pearls. She tries to poke him and he grabs her hands.
âAll Iâm saying is I donât want to hurt you. If you tickle me there there is a high chance of that.â He implores her to understand with his eyes.
âSo I can tickle you somewhere else and youâll keep it together?â Lois raises her brow.
âThat is not what I said.â Clark feels his face burn hotter than his own lasers.
âThatâs exactly what you said.â Lois grins. Clark chews the inside of his cheek for a moment, thinking about it. He canât hurt her. He canât. But if she really has to behave like a little goblinâŠ
âAlright, I guessâŠif you donât touch my legs I think weâll be fine.â Clark pinches the bridge of his nose again, more to hide his face than anything.
âMy god, youâre so fucking cute. You didnât actually have to tell me.â Lois blinks at him, the mischievous edge melting from her expression.
âYou asked!â He laughs, half out of disbelief. Itâs always this game with them. She tells him that heâs too open, too trusting, as if she didnât hold his heart in her hands from the very first moment they met.
âOkay, well, if youâre offering, Iâm taking you up on that.â She climbs on top of him on the couch. He throws his hands up between them in surrender.
âI wouldnât say Iâm offeringââ She shoves her fingers under his shirt and he cuts himself off with a bark of laughter. Her hands are way colder than he expects. He makes a mental note to start sneaking more iron-rich foods into their dinners.
Laughter spills freely from his mouth, no matter how much he fights to stop it. Stem it, at least. Thereâs no hope for him though, not when the thrill of her touch keeps what meager walls he possesses at bay. He peeks at her and catches a glimpse of a searing smile. His heart soars right into his throat and sticks. Sheâs so clearly having fun. Tormenting him, sure, but goshâŠ.that smile.
Clark rolls over on his stomach and presses his burning face to the cushions. Seeing her look at him like thatâŠhe feels too big for his bones, like a gangly teenager all over again.
âThis isnât very effective, Clark.â She shoves her hands under his arms, seeking his ribs, and he nearly flips them both off the couch.
âT-Thank you for the feedback!â He shrieks. She laughs softly. She has no concept of how close he is to shattering her knuckles with his biceps. He canât, so he wonât, but he could, so she really has to stop.
He rolls partially over and grabs her wrist. She finds a seam of muscle at his side and then heâs boneless, squinting at her through teary eyes.
âAlright, alright. Donât die on me.â Lois skates her nails over his back. Goosebumps chase her fingers across his skin. He melts beneath her touch as if snow was the only thing holding him together.
âThatâs nice.â He hums, shimmying back towards her. He pillows his head on his arms. She traces the taut lines of his muscles across his back and he shivers.
âIâm glad you think so, becauseââ she leans down to whisper in his earâ âyou smudged the polish.â
Every time someone comments on my old fic, i feel like I'm an old actor getting paid residuals. Appreciate you, old-fic-commenters. Key source of emotional income, tbh.
theartofmadeline
snowghoul
baratheonpilled
pixelskylines
