sideblog :)

free palestine | 18 | any pronouns | sideblog | 🇰🇷🇺🇸

[gigglingblue]

hello! i'm blue, or blueberry if you wanna get formal.

i would prefer -17 to dni. no other criteria, i just block liberally

MASTERPOST (NOT WORKING!! IM WORKING ON IT)

asks are always open, just don't be weird. messages are hesitantly open, meaning you may message me! i cannot promise i will respond so don't feel bad if i don't respond.

i go through periods of frequent inactivity but i am still here lol

enjoy your time here!

[bow-of-aros]

that last ask i am obsessed. thinking of as soon as ilya says a word shane is unsure of he starts giggling immediately as an answer since he knows whats coming

This idea gripped me and I had to write a mini ficlet about it:

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Practice Makes Perfect

"Okay, what about помидор?" Ilya asked, smiling down at Shane from his seat on his hips.

Shane couldn't help but scoff, "I know that means tomato. You call me that all the time."

Truthfully, he was grateful for the softball. Shane was still recovering from his last mistranslation.

"Mm, yes," Ilya agreed, "I was just making sure you didn't forget. You need to know when I am teasing you for your adorable blush."

He poked at Shane's cheeks, which were still burning a damning red. Then, he shifted to trail a thoughtful finger along the lingering smile that Shane couldn't seem to scrub off his face no matter how hard he tried.

"Okay, let's do some quick ones." Ilya waited for Shane's nod before he began. "Часы?"

"Clock."

"Подушка."

"Pillow."

"Острый соус"

"Hot sauce."

"Щенок." There was a smirk twitching at the corners of Ilya's lips.

"Puppy," Shane bit out, steadfastly ignoring his brief moment of hesitation.

"Very good!" Ilya ruffled Shane's hair, drawing out some half-hearted grumbling. "Now, what about щекотный?"

Shane went to open his mouth, but realized that he had no idea what the answer was. He cast around in his mind for similar words that he'd been learning and came up completely blank.

The longer his silence drew on, the wider Ilya grinned. Without his permission, nervous giggles started bubbling up as Shane shrunk back into the couch, which seemed to delight Ilya to no end.

"I haven't even done anything!" Ilya said, drawing his knees in tighter around Shane's waist, making sure he had nowhere to run. "Come on, Shane, what does щекотный mean?"

Another moment of hesitation, and Shane could see Ilya's hands start to move out of the corner of his eye. "Wait! Waitwaitwait, Ilya!"

Ilya let out a faux disappointed sigh, "No, it does not mean wait, you know this. And you also know what happens when you get a translation wrong."

"That's not what I meant!" Shane cried out, even despite knowing his fate was already sealed. "Ilya, come on! Nonono hehehey!"

Ilya managed to worm his hand into where Shane had already desperately tried to scrunch his shoulders up to his ears, gleefully wriggling his fingers against Shane's neck. It became a fast favourite since Ilya came up with this little game because of the way Shane's laughter got all squeaky.

This game was horribly unfair, in Shane's personal opinion. Ilya would pick words that he knew Shane didn't know, sometimes multiple times in a row, just to take advantage of the punishment he'd proposed for whenever Shane got something wrong. Shane had agreed because he thought that this was Ilya genuinely trying to help him with his Russian.

He should've known better, and he was going to give Ilya a piece of his mind.

Unfortunately, "Mean!" was all that Shane managed to get out between fits of giggles.

"Mean? I'm just providing you with motivation to improve!" Ilya reached back and spidered his nails across Shane's kneecaps, his laughter briefly joining his husband's at Shane's panicked shriek. "Is only ten seconds, surely it's not that bad."

It had definitely already been longer than ten seconds.

Ilya chose that moment to claw into Shane's ribs, earning a jolt and a strained "Oh fuck you!"

"It can be twenty seconds, if you want," Ilya offered.

Shane shook his head frantically, his laughter refusing to leave any space for actual words.

Thankfully, Ilya decided to have mercy on him and withdrew his hands, watching adoringly as Shane rode out the rest of his giggles and got his breathing back under control.

"I think that is enough for today," Ilya said, getting off of Shane and then expertly manhandling him until they were cuddled up properly on the couch. "We should keep practicing together. I think you are making progress."

And, Shane would've had something snappy to say about that, but Ilya started combing his fingers through his hair, and he found that he didn't have the energy to argue.

Cheater.

"What was the word?" Shane asked after a few moments of silence. At Ilya's questioning hum, he elaborated, "The word I got wrong. What was it?"

Shane couldn't see Ilya's face, but he could feel the shit-eating grin being aimed at him.

"Oh," Ilya said in a tone that was so innocent it circled back to being evil. "It means ticklish."

"Jesus- You are such a fucking asshole!"

[bow-of-aros]

Too Cute

Summary: Ilya comes home from walking Anya out in the cold to see his husband snuggled up on their couch. If he doesn't tell Shane how cute he looks in the next five seconds, he might actually die.

When Ilya pulls the door to their home open, the wall of warmth that slams into him is a welcome change from the cold winter air. He quickly ushers Anya inside, closing the door behind him so that he doesn’t have to hear Shane complaining about wasting precious heat, as if they weren’t both millionaires who could afford to spend a little extra on their energy bill.

Anya tugs on her leash with a whine, and Ilya shrugs off his coat, reaching for a towel they keep hanging by the front door. “Just a minute, sweet girl,” he says, dutifully cleaning off the snow that’s clumped into her fur. “Your dad will kill me if you get dirty water everywhere.”

A few moments later, Ilya deems her sufficiently clean and unclips her leash, watching fondly as she scampers in the direction of the kitchen where he knows Shane has refilled her water.

Speaking of… “Shane?” Ilya calls out, making sure his boots are lined up properly on top of the heater. “Where are you, любимый?”

“Living room,” is the faintly distracted response he gets, and Ilya starts making his way there, hoping to warm up with his husband. Ottawa winters are brutal, but someone has to take out Anya for her evening walk, and Ilya had very graciously volunteered when Shane had looked longingly at the book on Russian hockey history he’d started reading that morning. 

In all honesty, he was excited to hear what Shane thought of it all. Hockey in Russia has always been different than hockey in North America, and Ilya has no doubt that Shane has at least something to say on “comparative effectiveness,” or whatever it was that he’d said when purchasing the book.

Then, Ilya stepped into the living room, and all thoughts about books and hockey and words in general promptly fled his mind as he took in his husband.

Shane was curled up in the corner of the couch, wearing one of Ilya’s old Boston hoodies that was a little too big on him (it was a little too big on Ilya too, which he may or may not have done on purpose—not that he’d ever admit any of those things). One of the drawstrings was being held between his lips, and Ilya knew that every so often Shane would lightly chew on it when he wasn’t paying attention. Shane claimed it was his favourite because it was the perfect texture, worn and soft in a way that Shane liked to rub his cheek against.

Ilya thought it was his favorite because it reminded Shane of him, which his husband refused to confirm or deny.

There was a lightly weighted blanket draped over his legs, one of the few Ilya could actually stand because he knew that it would never compare to the comfort and relief that washed over Shane when it was Ilya draped over him instead.

Looking back up, Ilya’s heart squeezed in his chest as he took in the way Shane’s glasses had slid halfway down his nose. He took half a step forward, intent on readjusting them himself, when Shane scrunched his face up in the way he did when he was trying to push his glasses back up without using his hands, even though it almost never worked. 

That’s what did Ilya in. Watching the way his eyes squinted and his nose wrinkled, making then freckles on his cheeks dance around like perfect little fireflies in the night, it killed him.

Ilya let out a noise that could nearly be described as wounded, but just had Shane looking over with raised eyebrows and an amused grin tugging at his lips. 

“Can I help you with something?” Shane asked, not even bothering to close his book as Ilya stumbled over, clutching at his heart in a way that would have been concerning were it not for the lovestruck smile on his face.

Ilya was fairly certain that his “heart eyes” were making an appearance, but he didn’t care. Shane deserved all of the heart eyes.

“You are killing me, Shane,” he whined, flopping on top of his legs with a dramatic groan. “Your cuteness has killed me. I am dead.”

Shane, accepting that he probably wasn’t going to get back to reading any time soon, tucked a bookmark in-between the pages and set the book off to the side.

Looking at him from this angle, Ilya could now see Shane’s freckles up close—watched as they twitched in Shane’s valiant effort to not give in to the silliness and smile at his husband. And yet he could feel the slight shift underneath him as Shane rubbed his feet together, always a dead giveaway that Shane was feeling comfortable and a little giddy.

Fucking adorable.

“I am not cute,” Shane said, and Ilya had to remind himself that, no, Shane could not in fact read his mind, that he was just responding to the last thing that Ilya had actually said out loud.

Responding incorrectly, might he add.

“Oh, but you are,” Ilya all but purred, crawling up so that he could rest his chin on Shane’s chest. “I come inside from cruel, Canadian winter to see my perfect husband all snuggled up in my sweater, under a blanket, looking warm and cozy, wearing his stupid sexy glasses with his hair all fluffy.”

Part way through his little speech, an idea occurred to Ilya. One that he had to time this perfectly, or else it wouldn’t work.

It was a good thing that he knew his husband better than anyone else.

The moment Ilya mentioned his hair, Shane reached up with a frown in an attempt to flatten it, and that’s when he struck. With his arms out of the way, Ilya shoved his still-cold hands up Shane’s (his) sweater, pressing them against Shane’s warm torso with an evil grin.

Now, the heat was nice and all, Ilya always struggled to warm his hands back up after going outside, but the noise that Shane made was infinitely better. It was somewhere between a squeak and a squeal, and Ilya watched with satisfaction as Shane slammed his arms back down, only to press Ilya’s hand firmer into his sides.

“Jesus Christ!” Shane finally got out, a little breathless from the shock. “Did you not wear gloves? How the fuck are your hands so cold?!”

Ilya pointedly ignored those questions, because there was something much more important that he had to investigate. “What was that noise?”

Shane immediately flicked his eyes away when Ilya tried to meet his gaze, red already starting to burn at the tips of his ears. 

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he said in a way that only confirmed that he knew exactly what Ilya was talking about.

“Well, in that case, I must hear it again.” Ilya said this very gravely, as though it was a great burden he had selflessly chosen to bear. “Because it might be the cutest noise I have ever heard. Like little mouse.” Shane met his eyes when Ilya’s fingers twitched, excitement making his eyes sparkle even if his grin was all nerves and anticipation. “Do it again.”

“What? No way—Ilya!” Ilya took advantage of Shane’s half-hearted protest to move his hands higher, curling his fingers into Shane’s ribs in search of that noise.

The giggles came easy, Shane rarely bothered to fight them anymore. He just threw his head back and laughed as Ilya explored under his sweater, batting ineffectually at his hands if he lingered in one spot for too long.

Every so often, Ilya would get another squeak, and each time he felt like he was going to explode with how much he adored this perfect, trusting, adorable man. How could a grown man even be this cute? It was very unfair, in Ilya’s professional opinion.

“OhmyGod, Ilya—plehehease!” Shane cracked when Ilya wormed his hands underneath him, poking and tracing around Shane’s lower back. His hands had long-since warmed, but Shane was too sensitive for it to matter much. “Please! I can’t—”

He broke off into giggles, eyes squeezed shut and smile near-blinding. Ilya had to fight off the sudden urge to unhinge his jaw and eat him whole, or maybe squeeze him tight until he popped.

Instead, he hummed contemplatively. “I think you can, мышка. But, since I am very nice, I will make you a deal.” Ilya’s fingers slowed, and Shane cracked open his eyes to look warily down at his husband.

“What kind of deal?”

“Is simple,” Ilya tap tap tapped his fingers, grinning when Shane visibly stifled a laugh. “You admit that you are cute, and I will have mercy on you. Sound fair?”

A choked noise escaped Shane’s lips, although whether it was at the proposition or at the way Ilya’s fingers had picked back up their gentle trailing was up for debate. The conflict visibly played out across Shane’s face. Did he give in and let Ilya win?

Or did he submit himself to more of this before be gave in and let Ilya win?

Really, Ilya won either way. In an effort to help his husband decide, he lightened his touch even further and skimmed his nails up Shane’s spine in a way that would have him curled up into a ball were it not for the 200 pound menace laying on top of him.

This earned Ilya one last adorable squeak before Shane’s hands flew to his shoulders, slapping him frantically. “Okay! Okahay I’m cute! Ilya please!”

Rather than removing his hands from their comfortable spot, Ilya simply flattened his palms against Shane’s back, smoothing away the last of the sensation. 

“Yes,” Ilya said happily, “you are.”

Shane let out a long breath, fingers coming up to play with Ilya’s hair in a way that made his eyes droop. 

“Hey, no sleeping yet,” Shane said, willfully ignoring the fact that he was the one actively causing said sleepiness. The nerve of some people, honestly. “You owe me a kiss after putting me through all that.”

Well, Ilya supposed that he could make an exception for one hockey-playing, freckles-having husband of his. 

He used his knees to shift himself up, Ilya took a moment to just look at Shane—the rumpled hair, the lingering grin, the pink that still glowed high on his cheeks—and marvel at how lucky he is to have him for himself.

Then, before Shane could get too impatient, Ilya carefully slotted their lips together, falling into the easy rhythm of kissing Shane. It didn’t get heated like it so often did, it simply remained slow, soft, loving. Taking the time to savour each other and revel in the fact that they had made it. That they were here, together.

Ilya pulled back, resting his forehead against Shane’s nose. “Красивый,” he whispered reverently into Shane’s throat before reclaiming his spot on his chest.

They both shifted around for a moment, settling into each other, before Shane asked, “Did you just call me cute again?”

“Mm, no,” Ilya murmured, nudging his face into Shane’s chest until he got the message and started playing with his hair again. “I called you beautiful.”

Shane’s fingers stilled for a moment before resuming their steady motion. “Oh,” he breathed, and Ilya could hear the smile in his voice. The way he still sometimes got bashful when Ilya complimented him, after all these years.

“Well,” Shane said, pressing a kiss into Ilya’s curls, “I think you’re beautiful too.”

A joke sat on the tip of Ilya’s tongue—an I know or an Of course you do, it’s me. 

Neither of them found a way into the air, the moment was too sweet to be ruined with a quip. Instead, he nestled into his husband-turned-pillow and said, “Я тебя люблю.”

Sleep took him gently, but thankfully not before he heard Shane’s “Я тоже тебя люблю” in return.

[gigglingblue]

is. is anyone else thinking about the new hard launch. hello

[gigglepuppy-keke]

I want to bully my friends by sitting on their ankles and just scribbling away at their feet as I hear them loosing their mind from how much it tickles ☺️ then I want to straddle their waist and squish at their sides and gently dig into their ribs as I make my way up and pin up their arms and just trace/poke & gently rake my nails into the armpits as they laugh and laugh so hard because they can't take it but they also love that they can't handle it so they make no effort to stop me and then after I finished my bullying I'll tell you how good you were and give you snuggles and maybe tease you about how much of a baby you were being because there is no way it tickled that much

[gigglingblue]

sleeping in the cold

fandom: Baldur's Gate 3

pairing: Tav (male, uses he/him)/Shadowheart

word count: 548

happy holidays @thebardnemo !! i'm writing your gift this year! i hope you enjoy this and i wish you the nicest most lovely new year ever! i havent written for BG3 in awhile, but nonetheless i hope you like it <3 (additionally, so sorry for the wait!)

Tav's feet were numb from the sheer cold of the windy night. Hells, his entire body was numb at this point. Normally, his thick boots and gear were able to keep him warm enough, but after the rainstorm today... Well, his boots weren't wearable anymore and his while his clothing was mostly dry, they still felt cold to the touch.

The warmth from the campfire wasn't enough to keep him warm tonight. The air seemed to bite harder than the night before; he could still feel the dampness of his pants from the pouring rain. He teeth clinked together as the night only got colder.

Through the sound of the wind, Tav heard Shadowheart approach behind him. She laid next to him, and he melted into her as her body heat sent a shock-wave through his cold body. Shadowheart huffed a laugh and yawned, "Cold?"

Tav scoffed but still pushed himself into Shadowheart to try and steal more of her body heat, "Only a bit." He replied sarcastically through almost chattering teeth. He added, "How are you so fucking warm?"

She snorted in respons3, "Magic, probably." He could hear her smile through her words. She wrapped her arm around his stomach and rubbed her palm in circles, "Would you like me to keep warm too?"

Tav melted into the tickly sensation. Goosebumps riddled his arms and back. For the first time since laying down, he shivered from something other than the cold, "Please do."

Tav could feel himself drifting to sleep; Shadowheart was warm, her nails mindlessly tickling his stomach was heavenly, and he could the wind blow the smell of smoke towards him.

There was one issue, though.

Shadowheart shifted her weight and focused her nails on Tav's sides. The tickling still felt wonderful, but the higher up his sides she went, the less Tav could hold back an outward reaction. Each time he grew used to the sensation she would move somewhere until Tav couldn't hold it back anymore. He snorted against his shoulder in an attempt to cover up the sound.

"Are you okay, Tav?" Her words sounded sincere, but Tav knew enough about her to know that she was grinning as she asked her question.

"I'm fihine."

Shadowheart hummed in affirmation, but didn't acknowledge the snort. She simply spidered her nails more intentionally.

As unbearable as it felt, he couldn't deny that he was starting to warm up... He would even goes as far to say that he was having fun with Shadowheart, even if it was a bit flustering.

"Cohohohme ohohn!" Tav giggled at a higher pitch as Shadowheart squeezed his sides. The sensation was unbearable, but he couldn't bear to push her away. Rather than trying to escape her hands, he curled into himself.

Shadowheart laughed with him before slowing her tickling to firm rubbing to rid Tav of the ticklish sensation. She kissed the back of his ear and held back a snort when Tav flinched away with a giggle, "Sleep, Tav..."

Tav turned to face Shadowheart, "You first."

She rolled her eyes and fluttered her fingers against his neck. Tav yelled out an apology through his titters before cuddling in closer, "Sleep well."

The night got colder, but Shadowheart was enough to keep him warm until the sun rose.

[ticklish-n-stuff]

Intervention

A/N: Hi @gigglingblue ! It is I, your @squealing-santa this year! I haven’t written anything Batman related in a while, so I really hope you enjoy what I cooked up for you ^^. Merry Christmas, have a lovely rest of your year and enjoy<3

Summary: Selina stops by Wayne manor to spend some time with her favorite grumpy bat during the holidays, except he’s overworking himself at the batcave. Selina will get him to relax one way or another.

Word count: 647

____________________________________

Selina slid into Wayne manor, escaping from the harsh cold that clouded the city. She couldn’t help but let out a content sigh as the warmth of the manor seeped into her skin, the sounds of the bat kids arguing and goofing around in the distance making her feel right at home. Of course, she came to see her favorite grumpy bat. It was the holidays, after all. Surely Bruce could spare some time to do anything else that isn’t working.

…

In all the years that Selina has known Bruce, she’d say that she knows him pretty well, so she wasn’t surprised when she saw the stoic man all hunched over the bat computer. The clacking sound of the keyboard being the only thing that resonated in the cave. Catwoman made her way swiftly over to him. She glanced over his shoulder, peeking at what he was working on. “Seriously, Bruce? Can’t you put the Joker search to rest for a moment? He hasn’t done anything in a while.”

“Yet” Bruce intervened, all typing coming to a halt. “I know he’s planning something, I’m just not sure what… but I must be ready for any and all possibilities.”

A small frown formed on Selina’s lips. She gently rested her hand on Bruce’s shoulder. “I understand how worried you are, but you can’t let the worry consume you, Bruce. It’s not healthy.”

She heard a tired sigh fall from the taller man and started to rub his shoulders with both hands, watching as the dark knight involuntarily relaxed under his touch. “I know that, I just… I can’t let it go.”

“Then let me help.” Suddenly, a teasing smirk stretched its way across Catwoman’s face. “And I know just how to do so~”

Bruce didn’t even get a moment to react when Selina pressed her thumbs into the sensitive sides of his neck. He managed to bite back a startled yelp, coming out more like a grunt. His torso went rigid, a bit too rigid. She had him right where she wanted him. “You know I won’t stop until I get what I want, Bruce~” she whispered teasingly against the shell of his ear, watching how the skin glowed red and goosebumps rose. Her cat-like nails traced over the sensitive skin of his neck, going up to his ears.

For someone who goes by Batman, he sure acts like a disgruntled cat when tickled, Selina thought. Watching as her lover scrunched up his neck as a pathetic means to protect himself. His lips twisted into a begrudging smile, stubbornly preventing himself from letting out a single sound. That wasn’t going to cut it.

Once she got him all worked up, her hands darted down to squeeze at the unprotected skin of his sides, and that’s when the dam broke. “N-No! Cut it oHOHout!” Batman howled, cheeks flushed bright red in embarrassment as the rare sounds of joy got forced out of his throat.

He squirmed and blindly swatted from his position, any sense of coordination having gone right out the window. To think that someone so skilled in fighting could lose all sense of preservation from just a bit of tickling is quite comedic. You could consider it part of his charm. Once his laughter grew wheezy, Selina pulled her hands back. She watched as Bruce slumped down in his chair, panting as if he just did the most intense workout of his life, and a genuine smile remained plastered on his lips.

Catwoman couldn’t help but smile in return as she reached her hand out to him “C’mon, I’m sure the others would love to spend some time with you.”

Bruce accepted, intertwining his fingers with hers. He gave her hand a firm squeeze, as a silent thanks for pulling him out of his spiral. Joker could wait, there were more important things to focus on.

____________________________________

[gigglingblue]

AHHH !!! this is so lovely, thank you so much !!

[soyoudonthavetobebrave]

dan’s adorable laugh throughout gamingmas

[squealing-santa]

FANDOM REGISTRATION IS NOW OPEN!!

Click HERE if you are a MINOR

Click HERE if you are an ADULT

[ticklishraspberries]

Not Just An Act (Bruce/Clark)

Summary: Bruce Wayne is no stranger to flings and one night stands. He is an attentive lover, good at grand gestures, but it’s almost always come from a place of performance. Now, with Clark, he knows how to have sex, how to show him off at parties…But 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.

He’s 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 he’s dated. Well, he’s 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 doesn’t really do second dates.

He supposes that doesn’t really count as romance — it’s 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.

It’s 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 between…Well, he’s not sure he knows who he is without these two extremes.

There’s 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 doesn’t 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 doesn’t 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 wasn’t for the adrenaline rush or a fun vacation activity, it was necessity.

Yesterday, Clark asked him what his favorite color was, and Bruce couldn’t give him an answer.

“Black?” he said after a long stretch of silence. “But I’ve never thought about it before.”

Clark had stared at him like he had three heads. “I thought everyone had a favorite color.”

Bruce wasn’t sure why it made it feel so defensive. “Well, I guess I don’t.”

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 it’s an unspoken thing that lurks in the way he trains them, protects them, worries for them.

But he wants Clark to think he’s nice. 

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 his…friend? Well, he supposes that he and Clark are friends, and he knows that they should probably stay that way.

Because he doesn’t 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 Bruce’s energy is more that of a black cat who has been hit by several cars and still refuses to die.

They won’t 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 it’s 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, he’s standing in a new suit, nursing a glass of champagne, and biting his tongue as some pretty actress fiddles with Clark’s 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 son’s 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 don’t?

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 Clark’s shoulder.

“Did you want some more champagne, baby?” he asks, offering his glass.

Clark turns from the woman to him and back again, looking bewildered. “What?”

The actress has finally stopped touching him. “Oh, sorry, I didn’t know you were…with someone,” she says, eyeing Bruce curiously.

He gives her a smile. “I mean, who could resist this face?” he replies, taking Clark by the chin and squishing his cheeks between his thumb and fingers. 

Bruce can feel the warmth of Clark’s blush on his fingertips.

Clark offered the actress a smile before she walked away, her plans foiled.

“Baby?” Clark says.

“You looked uncomfortable. I figured pretending you were taken would be the easiest way to get her to go away,” 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. “You do know that she’s gonna take that information straight to the papers, right?”

Well, Bruce hadn’t really thought that part through, but whatever. He doesn’t 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 isn’t 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. “Well, we might as well give them something good to write about,” he replies, wrapping an arm around Clark’s 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 outsider’s perspective, and he’s pretty sure that fake-dating isn’t 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. It’s 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 he’ll 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 methodical—fix 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 doesn’t want to flirt with Clark as the version of himself that the general public sees, to be fake with him. But he doesn’t 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 it’s 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, “We don’t have to stay.”

“You’re here to get a story,” Bruce replies, arm still wrapped around Clark’s waist.

He throws his arm over Bruce’s shoulder, squeezing him back in a one-armed hug. “I think anything I write will be overshadowed by our love affair, now,” he teases.

“I’m sorry,” 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. “For what? I got to see one of these fancy parties, made some connections…And I got to see you smile, even if it was fake.”

Bruce suddenly feels very warm, and he removes his arm from around Clark’s middle. “It’s going to look even more scandalous if we leave early, you know.”

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 they’re outside, he drops Clark’s hand, and he thinks he imagines the disappointed look on Clark’s face.

***

Bruce is trying to not think too hard about what this means.

Clark is…Well, he’s Clark, he’s fucking Superman, and he’s beautiful. Don’t get him wrong, Clark’s a nerd, with bizarre music taste and too-big suits and crooked glasses, but his curls fall so perfectly in his face when he’s not smothering them in gel, and he’s grinning at Bruce so innocently, as if he didn’t 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 he’s looking at him now feels so intimate. Bruce has never allowed someone to have such power over him like that, and it’s the first time he’s 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 Clark’s 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.

“Why do you do that?” Clark asks.

“What do you mean?”

“When we’re in public…In front of the cameras, you’re so touchy. Even when we’re around the League, you’ll touch me…A hand on my shoulder, at least. But when we’re alone, you never reach out first.”

Physically intimacy, he’s 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 he’s awful at. Talking about his feelings is not something he’s ever really done, never had much of a reason to, and now he’s scared he’s going to fuck this up.

But he’s 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 that’s as close to romantic as he’s ever gotten.

“When we’re in public, I’m always pretending to be someone I’m not,” he replies simply. “Either I’m playing up Bruce Wayne’s ‘whirlwind romance’ for the press, or I’m showing that Batman is a supportive teammate and friend. I’m never myself when there are other people around.”

“So, do you…not like it when I touch you?” Clark asks.

Such simple words feel ridiculously awkward coming out of his mouth. “I do,” he replies. “It’s just…Not in my instinct to do it back. Or first. I don’t know how to act like…your boyfriend. I’m not good at this.”

Clark tentatively scoots over on the bed, their shoulders brushing. “That’s okay. We’ll figure it out. Together.”

Together is also a word that rarely leaves Bruce’s mouth, but he echoes it back anyway, before capturing Clark’s lips in a kiss.

***

Bruce trails his fingers lazily over Clark’s back, almost absent-mindedly.

He’s surprised when Clark flinches away with a soft gasp. His fingers freeze in mid-air, eyeing the other man with curiosity and concern.

“Are you okay?”

Clark gives him a sheepish smile. “Yeah, just ticklish.”

“Oh.”

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, “You don’t have to stop; it still felt nice.”

Then, upon seeing the apprehensive look on Bruce’s face, he backpedals. “Unless you don’t want to, it’s fine—“

There’s a fond smile threatening to tug at the corners of Bruce’s mouth, and instead of fighting it back, he allows it to spread. “I can keep going.”

Clark’s 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. It’s sort of adorable, a word which had never really been in Bruce’s vocabulary before.

A rare feeling overtakes him: Mischief.

Clark is such an open book, and Bruce finds it incredibly endearing. He’s 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 he’s ticklish, then it wouldn’t 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 Clark’s side, and hears a little huff of air, like he’s 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 Clark’s neck, brings all ten of his fingers to Clark’s sides, and strokes them slowly, softly.

The touch is so gentle, and yet Clark barks out a laugh immediately.

“Bruce!” he says.

“Yes?” Bruce replies, feigning innocence.

“It tickles.”

“I know. Do you want me to stop?”

Clark’s answer only comes in the form of giggling, and so Bruce doesn’t stop.

He keeps his touch gentle, exploratory. He traces his blunt nails all over Clark’s sides, his ribs, his stomach. He presses a few firm kisses into the crook of Clark’s neck, which also seem to cause bubbly laughter.

Bruce doesn’t even realize how hard he’s smiling until he finally lets Clark breathe, which he knows he technically doesn’t 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.

“That was mean,” he murmurs, but his body language speaks to the contrary.

Bruce lets himself relax into Clark’s hold, feels the heat radiating off of his blushing face, the way his chest rises and falls a little more rapidly than usual. “You could have easily stopped me,” he replies softly. “If it was really that mean.”

Clark tweaks his side, and Bruce flinches.

Their eyes meet.

“Don’t,” Bruce says, his voice barely a whisper.

Clark hesitates. “Actually?”

His instincts are telling him to say yes, actually, don’t 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.

He’s 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, “No.”

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 Clark’s 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.

[happyandticklish]

Tickletober Day Thirty - Melt

Notes: This is directly inspired by a TikTok post I saw where Levi had freckles, and I have been obsessing over the concept ever since. These little cuties deserve to have their place in tickletober ❤️

Summary: Erwin discovers that Levi has freckles.

It was in moments like these that Levi allowed his mind to drift to the possibility that maybe this could be his. The world was silent around them in these early hours. Realistically, they should both be asleep. Wake-up call was in an hour, after all, and they couldn’t afford to let the recruits know they were slacking—it set a bad precedent. But Erwin was warm and sleepy and smiling at him like Levi was the final piece of a jigsaw puzzle he had been constructing all his life. Smiles like that made Levi think that Erwin wanted—needed—this just as much as he did.

“We should go to bed,” Levi whispered. He had a sheet half-pulled over them both, their clothes discarded at the end of the bed. They had been there for a while now as neither one of the two wanted to end the thrill that nakedness brought, the vulnerability that came with exposing yourself to another.

Erwin would comment on that sometimes. You seem so human like this, he would murmur, and Levi would scoff, as if Levi wasn’t always human, as if Erwin wasn’t made of steel, even now. Levi merely had walls, but Erwin had the frightening ability to share his whole life with someone and still feel a million miles away.

Erwin shook his head. He traced a finger softly down the line of his jaw. Levi closed his eyes. “To be roused in an hour? I’d rather spend my time more… productively.”

Levi snorted. “I think we just spent the last two hours ‘productively’. Even humanity’s strongest soldier needs his rest, Erwin.” Nevertheless, he hummed pleasantly under Erwin’s touch, making no moves to get away.

“Clean your mind, Ackerman. I simply meant admiring you.”

Heat crept up Levi’s neck unbidden. It was strange how things that Erwin said so casually could have this level of impact on the captain.

Erwin’s touch traveled down his neck and over his shoulders, creating loops and spirals that made Levi shiver. Years ago, he never would have considered letting himself get close enough to anyone for them to do that. He hated how much he enjoyed the vulnerability as he knew it would never be able to last. When Erwin’s fingers descended down his arm, his breath hitched slightly in his throat.

“Did you know,” Erwin said, so quietly that only Levi, inches away from him, could have heard. “That you have a faint scattering of freckles over both of your arms.”

His gaze was so intense that Levi found himself transfixed by it. He nodded slowly, his breathing shallow. “It happens in the sun. It must be the warmer weather.”

“Mm.” Erwin grinned. “Then for my sake, I hope the weather stays this way for as long as possible. I don’t want to miss a moment of this phenomenon.”

Levi’s voice was weak when he spoke. “It’s just freckles, Erwin. Nothing you haven’t seen before. Nothing you won’t see again.”

“No,” Erwin murmured, and Levi thought he almost detected a hint of sadness in his voice. “I suppose not.”

They stayed like that for several moments more, Erwin gently tracing the skin on his arm, the birds quietly chirping outside their window. It would have been a much more peaceful moment if Levi hadn’t quickly realized another fact about himself that the years had caused him to forget. He was ticklish. Very ticklish. Ticklish in places no human had any right to be ticklish. In this case, on his arms. And all of Erwin’s tracing was stirring up these forgotten nerves and sending goosebumps racing over Levi’s skin.

He didn’t necessarily mind the tickling on its own. It was kind of nice, actually, his stomach fluttering pleasantly in reaction. It was only that it was becoming increasingly difficult not to react to it. If he could allow himself to squirm a little or let out the giggles building in his throat, he would have enjoyed it a lot more. The idea of doing so in front of Erwin was mortifying, however, so he dampened the joy he might have experienced with the effort of concentrating on keeping entirely and utterly still. It didn’t help that Erwin wasn’t stopping either, and possibly didn’t plan to for the rest of this hour they had left together.

He focused on a spot on the wall opposite them, squinting intently. Look at the wall, admire the wood—oh god, don’t move down—it’s a very nice shade of brown, possibly a chestnut—why are my elbows so sensitive—look at the wall, look at the wall, look at the wall!

His plan might have gone off without a hitch, but unfortunately for him, Erwin was incredibly perceptive when it came to himself. When his touch strayed too close to his armpit, Levi twitched. It was a tiny, miniscule movement, but it was enough for Erwin to take notice of. Experimentally, he traced the spot again and the same twitch occurred. In between them, Levi’s fists had tightened in the sheets. Erwin grinned.

“Levi?”

No response.

“I can’t help but notice that you seem awfully tense.”

“Hm.”

“I was formulating a theory on it, but I wanted to run it by you in case I’ve gotten it wrong.”

Levi squeezed his eyes shut, the wall not enough. He needed total and utter darkness to concentrate. He couldn’t let anything distract him.

“The theory,” Erwin continued, despite the other’s silence. “Is that you’re ticklish. Furthermore, that I am tickling you.”

Levi hadn’t thought it was possible to blush this much until this moment. Erwin was gently teasing against the crook of his arm with just one finger. It was unbearable. It was delightful. Levi was going to break if he didn’t cut it out. He grunted, resolving to burrow his face into the pillow instead.

“Levi?” The smugness in Erwin’s voice could be heard miles away. “Am I correct?”

Levi muttered something that might have been “fuck off,” but it came out in the form of a muffled giggle that wasn’t super distinguishable.

“Was that a yes?”

Levi lifted his face to glare at him. “It was a—” He broke off when he felt Erwin’s other fingers settle in closer to that spot near his armpit—waiting for his next words. He swallowed, looking away. “Yes. A bit.”

Erwin’s brows rose and Levi hated how his heart thudded at the teasy expression. “Ah,” Erwin said, somehow managing to convey an entire paragraph of understanding into that one noise. The essence of it was: gotcha. “I see. I thought that might be the case.”

Levi squeezed his eyes shut and waited. He waited for the inevitable teasing, the frenzied attack, the uncontrollable laughter, the embarrassment he would never live down. But it didn’t come. In fact, Erwin didn’t tease him or even speak at all after that. He just went back to his light tracing, albeit a bit ticklier than it had been before. Levi giggled, unable to help it, and the teasing still didn’t come. Nor did it when he squirmed, or when he let out a noise that was definitely a snort.

Erwin could have taunted him into oblivion if he wanted to. In other circumstances, Levi might have even been fine with that. But no. Instead, he allowed Levi this moment of quiet humanity. The fact sat in the air between them: Levi was ticklish. And Erwin let it sit without being judged or commented on so that Levi could lay there and enjoy the tickling as much as he wanted.

Something clenched painfully in Levi’s chest, a burst of emotion he couldn’t quite identify. He didn’t try; that was for another day. Instead, he buried his face in Erwin’s chest as the other traced horribly ticklish shapes all over his arms.

And Levi melted.

[beesnotticklish]

watching a scary movie with your ler but you can barely pay attention because they keep tracing up your sides and back while you're laying on them

[spiderplanter-deactivated202604]

I like the intimacy aspect of tickling. The way you can get super vulnerable in a safe way with someone is what draws me to it almost as much as the laughter. I absolutely love the sound of laughter, and being able to produce it in such an adorable way hold the biggest place in my heart.

[katatosqueals]

Day 3: Don't laugh!

I obviously wouldnt laugh in this scenario btw, but Ik YOU would

[smilespiders]

DAY 18

what!?! a human sona?!?! anyways indidnt caption this one because it felt weird to write day 18 on it. but the day is curse and i 1. have the curse of hyperfixation and 2. like inflicting chars ters with the curse. you understand i dont need to explain

[redtickledpink]

One of my fav tword things is a fancy or composed character getting Got and the moments of realization at the beginning where they’re still sorta keeping their high-class composure. Like sudden bursts of giggles with an “oh dear” or a “goodness” thrown in as they’re trying to figure out what’s going on. And then eventually they hit That Spot™️ and any chance of professionalism is completely lost.

And also, seeing a person in a fancy suit or dress getting mercilessly tickled is something I find INCREDIBLY attractive. Something about the contrast between the act they’re putting on and it getting absolutely shattered when someone (or something) figures out where they’re most sensitive.

[thatonetickleblog]

Y’know whats one of my favourite interactions between two people?

When someone makes another absolutely break down laughing, whether it be by a well executed joke or a dumb action they did. Their pure joy of being the cause of someone laughing that hard.

Then, instead of simply letting the other calm down, they continue to instigate & provoke them. Repeat the joke, saying something even funnier, knowing full well they’ll cause that same response of uncontrollable laughter alllll over again.

That is just— too cute to me. It’s so playful and sweet, being so charmed by another’s laughter that can’t help yourself from pushing their buttons. <3

[potatohater]

MY FAV TROPE FOREVA