[iamawolfstarsimp]

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✨️Welcome to my little blog thing✨️

( I'm going to be editing my account, but the title was previously SoftTickles>>>>)

You can call me Soft but I don't particularly care what you call me

side blog is @iamalsoawolfstarsimp

rules and stuff under the cut

FANDOMS:

Harry Potter (mostly marauders)

Supernatural (I haven't finished it yet as a warning)

Marvel

DC (I'm not a super big fan so bare with me)

Heartstopper

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If you're a dick then please don't interact with me

(Qualifications for being a dick: sexist, racist, homophobic, transphobic, pedophiles, rude people, generally just shitty people)

Reminder that I am a minor (but old enough to have had the sex talk and have a period) so porn blogs/bots kindly don't interact with me

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This is a (mostly, besides some curse words) sfw tickle blog

asks/prompts/requests are open, I'd love to have them! (don't be shy to interact with me, I don't bite. I am a decently shy person tho so if i act akward that's why)

Scroll to find my fics!! (haven't figured out how to make a masterpost or the link thing ppl do yet but all of my fics will have the tag 'my writing')

the farther you scroll the worse it gets (kidding)

So yeah enjoy

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[iamawolfstarsimp]

Yall I want to write a batfam fic with baby Damian and like different moments of babian with different family members so any headcanons or scenarios would be amazing please and thank you

[iamawolfstarsimp]

Domestic Living

"Now where could that little birdie be?"

Clark growled around the area of the large living room, loving called the den, as he searched for Dick. The rug was plush under his socked feet as he grinned to himself, letting the anticipation build. Bruce sat in his arm chair with a book in his lap and tea on the coffee table.

Could Clark see little feet poking out from the spot behind the far curtain? Absolutely, the man has x-rax vision regardless. But right now he wasn't Superman or even reporter Clark Kent, he was just Clark; Dick's dad's boyfriend and hopefully a father figure to the small boy.

And anyhow, what was the fun in getting caught immediately?

"Is he behind...here?!" Clark yelled so Dick could hear as he quickly looked behind the bookshelf in the corner. Barely muffled giggles could be heard behind the curtain as Clark slowly got closer.

"You might never find him." Bruce comments with a small smile on his face. As much as he liked to pretend, Bruce loved the soft moments of play where Dick was truly allowed to be a kid.

"You're right." Clark pretends to sigh. "But I have to, this monster is getting hungry." He says with a playful growl and Bruce eyerolls at Clark's silliness.

"Now could he maybe...be behind..." Clark paused and chuckled softly as Dick laughed behind the curtain at the suspense. "Here!!" Clark yells as he finally swiped open the curtains snd snatched Dick into his arms before the boy had a chance to run.

Dick laughed as he was suddenly picked up and carried to the couch by Bruce. Clark tossed the young boy half hazardously onto the couch and quickly followed suit, tackling the boy gently and holding him in his arms.

"Clark, no!" Dick laughed as Clark pulled him close.

"Oh, no chum, Clark isn't here." Clark grins down at Dick, who is beaming so hard back at him his cheeks must hurt. "Only the tickle monster!" He growls before diving his head into Dick's neck, making playful nomming noises and nuzzling into the sensitive skin of Dick's neck to make him laugh.

Dick squeals and throw his head back, immediately thrown into a giggle fit at Clark's actions. "Nohoho!"

"Oh, yes." Clark says into Dick's neck before blowing a raspberry, sending Dick into loud cackles.

Clark digs his fingers gently into Dick's sides to tickle to, wiggling persistently at the spots he knew were sensitive. He crawls one of his hands around to Dick's belly while his other sneaks up to his armpit, all while still nuzzling whatever stubble he had against Dick's neck.

Dick shrieks below Clark, his face bright red as he cackles and kicks his feet against the couch. Dick was rather good at escaping by squirming from grips but was effectively trapped while Clark held him.

Bruce chuckles as he stands up from his spot and watches the two as he walks back. "D-Dahahad!" Dick laughs. "Save mehehe!!"

Clark loosens his hold to let Dick squirm out and run towards Bruce, still giggling as he hides behind the older man's legs.

"You want me to save you from the mean tickle monster?" Bruce hums, pushing Dick's now messy hair out of his face.

Clark growls playfully as he stands up from the couch. "The tickle monster doesn't exclude any victims." He grins. "You might be next."

Bruce gasps as he plays along. "Oh, no!" He says dramatically. "Run, Dick! Save yourself!"

Dick giggles as he streaks out of the room and down the hall, making his way to his next hiding spot in the manner. Clark catches Bruce in a hug as soon as Dick runs out, smiling down at his boyfriend.

"You caught me." Bruce murmurs, a fond look in his eyes that was reserved for Clark alone.

"Now what to do with you?" Clark hums thoughtfully.

"I can think of a few things." Bruce says quietly as he leans up and catches Clark in a gentle kiss that Clark happily reciprocates.

While kissing, Clark sneaks a hand down and squeezes Bruce's hip, rubbing a thumb into the ticklish pressure points. Bruce pulls back with a laugh as he shoves at Clark's hand, grinning despite himself even as he tries to glare.

"You're done."

"Really?" Clark grins. "I was just getting started."

[tricks-tickles]

Under Pressure

ao3 is down so fine i’ll do it myself

heated rivalry has been consuming me mind body and soul so i had to exorcise it into this fic (dint work) (still there)

word count: 1236

pairing: Ler!Ilya/Lee!Shane

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Shane was not having a good day. There wasn’t a good reason for it, or so he told himself, just a build up of little irks that led him to stand in the hotel elevator, drumming his fingertips against his leg incessantly. He hadn’t even pressed the floor number yet, and was just standing in the elevator like a weirdo.

It started in the morning. Waking up in slightly scratchy hotel sheets, he decided to go for an early run before the game that afternoon. His mom had called, and her usual reminders felt more like nagging. It left him walking back to the hotel, going ‘Yes, Mom, I remembered that. Yeah, I won’t forget. Yes, you know I have actually played the Raiders before?’ Then she got upset with him for being short with her. Shane knew she loved him. He loved her. Still, he was 24 years old and wished she would remember that sometimes.

When he got back to the hotel, Ilya still hadn’t responded to his text from yesterday, which was fine, really, then Shane realised he had actually forgotten his protein powder that he had just insisted he remembered. Which was. Fine. He would just use Hayden’s, only it wasn’t the whey blend that he liked, and so he only drank half his smoothie.

So then Shane was hungry before the game. And the seam of his socks was sitting directly beneath his toes, which he only realised when he was laced up, meaning he had to take his skates and both pairs of socks off to fix them.

And then they lost. Honestly, the loss wasn’t even that high on the list of upsets. He had played a lot of games, and lost a lot too. At least Ilya was there, and sent his room number right before they were going to play, along with a series of increasingly ridiculous emojis.

Now he was in the elevator. Fidgeting. He was always excited to see Ilya, maybe too much, but there was a stiff ball of tension wound in his chest, and he wasn’t sure great sex was going to unwind it all the way. Not that Ilya wouldn’t try.

And try he did, as soon as Shane actually made his way to his room, he was pulled inside. Ilya pressed him against the door, kissing him long and slow, moving to his neck.

“Missed you.” He muttered against Shane’s neck, making him shiver.

“I-ah, missed you too.” He said, pretty sure Ilya was just joking anyway. His hands roamed from Ilya’s waist, up his back, tightening as Ilya gripped his thighs, lifting him easily. As Ilya picked him up, and Shane felt his arms tightly around him, he felt something deep within him relax, just a bit. Then he was dumped on the bed, with Ilya looming over him.

“You are tense.” He said, squeezing Shane’s arms. Shane leaned forward to take his t-shirt off, regretting the way he had to throw it to the side.

Ilya pressed a kiss to his sternum, then to his stomach, “Let me make you feel good.”

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Recently, when they had finished, Ilya would lie next to him, one arm wrapped around his waist. Sometimes they’d even talk, a little, before parting again.

Ilya pressed a sleepy kiss against his shoulder, “You are still tense.”

Shane shrugged, “Just not a good day.” He said softly, “Don’t worry, it wasn’t your performance.”

Ilya grinned, his teeth grazing Shane’s neck, “Was not worried about that.”

They were quiet for another moment, as Shane debated whether or not to say something else.

“Anything I can do?” Ilya asked. Shane was sure he meant something like slide his hand down Shane’s boxers and go for round two, but…

“Um. Could you- I mean.”

Ilya hummed encouragingly.

“It felt good when you picked me up.” Shane said at last, his cheeks reddening slightly.

“You want me to pick you up?” Ilya asked.

“No, no, I don’t think so…” Shane thought about it, remembering what usually made him feel better. Piling his pillows and blankets on him had worked when he was a stressed-out teen.

“Could you,” He took a breath, “Lie on top of me?”

He could feel Ilya’s raised eyebrow without looking.

“I will crush you,” Ilya said, “Like a bug.”

“Fuck off, no you won’t.” Shane responded quickly, giving Ilya a shove, “Just, lie on top of me. The pressure helps.”

Ilya hummed, “Your funeral.” He said, shifting around to lie on top of Shane, flopping down like an oversized labrador.

“Oof, not like this, asshole.” Shane grumbled, “Like, wrap your arms around me and squeeze.”

“So demanding,” Ilya said, obligingly.

His strong arms went around Shane, all the way till his fingertips touched Shane’s sides. He squeezed, gentle, and Shane felt that ball of stress start to unwind.

Shane let out a content sigh, his arms squished against his chest.

“Feels good?” Ilya asked. Shane nodded, pressing his head into Ilya’s neck.

They lay like that for a few minutes, until Shane finally felt the last bit of discomfort leave him.

“Okay,” He said, “I’m good.”

“Okay, but what if I don’t want to move now?” Ilya teased, “Is pretty comfortable.”

“Asshole,” Shane said, wiggling, “Get off.”

“Mmh. No.” Ilya said, squeezing Shane tighter. His fingers curled into Shane’s sides, making him jerk and twitch.

“S-stop!” He choked out, not expecting the electric tingles that came off of Ilya’s fingers.

“Ahh, I forgot. Mighty Shane Hollander is very ticklish.” Ilya breathed the words into Shane’s neck, making his shoulders scrunch up. Over the years they had accidentally tickled each other a couple of times, but this was the first time there was intention.

“Rozanov, stop! I-I’m serious.”

Ilya stopped wiggling his fingers into Shane’s sides, “Too ticklish for a hug, so sad.” He pouted, pulling back.

Shane felt the loss sweep through him, as he thought helplessly, not yet, just another minute, please- and so he said, with false bravado,

“I’m not that ticklish, fuck off.” He looked away, his cheeks definitely pink now.

Ilya grinned, his fingers diving back into Shane’s ribs.

“No?” He asked, “Then you will not laugh if I do this?”

Shane did laugh, immediately, his back arching as Ilya’s fingers wormed their way higher, into his armpits.

“Seems very ticklish to me,” Ilya said, grabbing Shane’s flailing hands with his own. He leaned down, nosing into Shane’s neck.

“Rohozanohov!” Shane giggled, kicking his legs weakly.

“Hollander,” he teased. Ilya sat up, straddling Shane’s thighs as he still giggled weakly. If Shane’s eyes were open, he would have seen the look of pained awe as Ilya stared down at him. Snapping out of it, Ilya gave Shane’s hips a small pinch, making him buck.

“Very, very ticklish.” He said sternly.

“Whatever, so are you.” Shane shot back.

Ilya reeled in mock offense, “Not true. Russians do not have this.”

“Oh yeah, I’m sure.” Shane said.

The moment was over. They detangled, and Shane put his (sadly wrinkled) clothes back on while Ilya watched from the bed.

“See you…” Shane trailed off, thinking of their next game.

“Later.” Ilya finished.

Shane nodded, “Later.”

“Goodnight, Rozanov.” He added.

Ilya nodded, “Goodnight, Hollander.” He said.

Shane turned and made for the door. As he glanced back, Ilya looked almost sad.

It was probably nothing.

He slipped out, shutting the door behind him with a click.

[blitzzeri]

silly little playfight part 2 commission :p gigglesss i love grace belly 😋😋😋

[iamawolfstarsimp]

Playing Dumb

A/N: i had to get this out of my head before it killed me, it's my first mighty nein fic so be nice yall and to the anon that sent in that fic request, I promise I'm writing I'm just slow 😭

Summary: While staying in an inn, Caleb and Molly get some well needed alone time but they run into some sensitive issues caused by Caleb's grown out beard. (Slight warnings for NSFW, but just talking and touching)

The only sound that was emitting from the small closed off room of the inn the Nein were staying in were quiet moans and heavy breathing. Even then, Molly considered whether Caleb might have cast a cloak of silence over them to keep their activities private. It had been weeks since he and Caleb had been able to be alone for more than 15 minutes, both the exhaustion and the constant action keeping them occupied.

Molly groaned sensually into Caleb's mouth before pulling back, smiling as Caleb tries to chase him with his mouth. "My my, Mister Widogast." Molly grins toothily as Caleb's hands start to wander, already tracing down Molly's open back shirt. "Who taught you how to kiss that that?"

"You did." Caleb replies, deadpan as ever, which pulls a chuckle out of Molly. He quickly occupies Molly's mouth with his own, cutting him off before he can make a joke. His hands slide around Molly's shirt and under the front of it, enjoying as the muscles jump below his fingers at the unexpected touch.

Molly closes his eyes and lets himself get lost in the feeling, the pure pleasure of having Caleb in his mouth and his hands warm against his skin. He happily climbs into Caleb's lap when tugged to, his legs straddling the other man's as they continue to kiss.

Caleb at first had been a little awkward to try and romance, the poor wizard too socially unaware to really take to flirting. After a little bit of teaching however, he'd warmed right up to it and been surprisingly talented in the bedroom.

Caleb gently moved and lowered Molly onto the bed, laying on his back, still kissing as he rearranged them. Molly wrapped his tail around Caleb's thigh, gently squeezing the man atop of him.

Caleb moved his kisses from Molly's mouth to across his jaw and down to his chest. "I must say," Molly murmurs through soft pants. "You've gotten quite skilled at pleasing me."

"Have I?" Caleb rasps as he kisses gently on Molly's soft, purple skin.

Molly hums his approval, leaning into Caleb's wandering hands that were quickly getting impatient. "Very much so." He groans out when Caleb's hands find his rear and squeeze deep into the flesh.

Caleb smiles as he moves his kisses up to Molly's neck, burying his face in the space. "Let's try and keep it that way." He speaks into the skin.

Molly's jerks at the sensation, a soft yelp pealing from his mouth and Caleb pulls back, taking a moment to admire Molly's purple flush before questions rise to the surface. "You okay?" He asks, a small smile held back.

"Just fine." Molly waves him off. "Continue, please."

Caleb narrows his eyes at the tiefling below him. "Was that a good noise? I can go somewhere else."

"No, no. Keep going." Molly shakes his head quickly. "You just surprised me, that's all. It was more sensitive than I remembered."

Caleb nods and leans down to continue his sucking on Molly's neck. He can feel Molly tense under him, his muscles tightening below the hands that hold his ass (which, wow, that didn't make Caleb any less turned on), preparing before he can even touch down on his skin.

Caleb ignores it and continues, kissing the thin skin between Molly's shoulder and neck. He gently nibbles the spot after sucking it dark purple, soothing it with his tongue. His brows knit together as he feels Molly squirm below him, his breathing uneven yet his noises are cut off.

Caleb pulls back and sees a helpless grin spread on Molly's face, his lip caught between his teeth as he looks up at Caleb with a deep purple blush spread across his cheeks that makes his light freckles pop. He looked beautiful. Caleb thought in the back of his mind that he wished he could keep Molly looking like this forever.

Caleb smiles as he realizes exactly what kind of sensitivity he was dealing with. He quickly makes a decision and slides a hand up from Molly's waist to his hair and up to one of his horns.

"Can you hold still, please?" Caleb asks, gripping his horn gently and pulling Molly's head to the side to open up more space on Molly's neck.

He can see Molly swallow nervously and nod. "O-Of course."

Molly bites back another surprised yelp as Caleb's lips touch down on his neck, sliding up to kiss under his ear. The problem wasn't his lips (heaven's forbid it would ever be that) but the scruff of a beard Caleb had.

Molly was almost sure that Caleb knew he was ticklish, he wasn't blind to the pokes Jester would send his way in retaliation for his own pranks or the chuckles that would slip out when Caleb would be too gentle about touching him when they were alone. But despite that, Caleb had never tickled him on purpose before.

Molly let out a choked off giggle, barely holding back a whine as Caleb's beard scraps his skin, ticklish beyond what Molly thought possible. "Something wrong?" Caleb hums.

"N-No." Molly murmurs, a grin spread on his face. "Just, maybe move to another spot?"

"Why? I like it here." Caleb replies, leaning back in to rub his cheek on Molly's neck before kissing the spot.

"That's n-nahaha-not what you said earlier."

"Mmm, I changed my mind." Caleb hums into his skin.

Molly almost jumps out of his skin at the sensation, quiet chuckles making their way past his lips. He finds himself mostly unable to move due to still being held in place by Caleb holding one of his horns, which inconveniently was also turning him on. Great, Caleb was going to kill him with kisses and he'd die tickled and horny (which, in hindsight, wasn't the worst way you could die).

Caleb's free hand travels up to Molly's chest and gently traces with just his fingertips all the way down to Molly's belly, teasing the happy trail he had.

Molly downright full body squirms, his tail now flicking nervously as giggles make their way out of his lips, unable to hold back now that Caleb was using his hands.

"Cahaleb!" Molly laughs fully.

"Hmm?" Caleb murmurs into Molly's skin, behind his ear.

"Y-you're tihihickling me!"

"Oh? Am I?" Caleb asks, nuzzling into the space behind his ear, sending Molly into beautiful boisterous laughter.

"You a -ahaha!- asshole!" Molly growls through his giggles. "You were doing it on purpose!"

"Doing what?" Caleb teases and Molly can hear his smug grin.

Before Molly can reply Caleb's hand jumps to life again, gently wiggling into the flesh of his lower stomach and causing Molly to try and jackknife but with little success with Caleb laying on top of him.

"N-Nohoho!" Molly cackles, unable to even squirm to protect himself.

"What's wrong, Schatz?" Caleb murmurs and Molly can hear his grin. "I'm giving you all that attention you wanted. I'm even touching you up and you're laughing at me."

Caleb squeezes roughly at Molly's hips, pretending to be trying to pull his belt lower to follow his hands downward but really exposing more skin to circle his thumbs into.

Molly's tail lashes wildly, smacking Caleb in the leg a few times, as he tosses his head back in loud, unbridled laughter, his flush spreading all the way down his neck as his feet kick against the bed.

"I'm just trying to make you feel good." Caleb responds above the sound of Molly's mirth. "Since when has groping become so funny, hm?"

"You're not-" Molly begins before being cut off by his own laughter as Caleb dives back down into his neck, adding fake eating sounds along with his beard rubs. "I haha-hate yohou!"

"Hatred, all just because I wanted to kiss my own boyfriend." Caleb sighs dramatically which only makes Molly laugh more.

Fingers trickle their way up into Molly's ribs, slotting between the spaces on the bones and digging in with precise accuracy that has tears glistening in Molly's eyes.

Caleb laughs along with the purple tiefling below him as he keeps one hand on Molly's ribs and moves the other from his horns to his ear, gently tickling around the thin skin there.

"Okahahay!" Molly laughs, his limbs starting to go limp in Caleb's grip as his body loses energy, too tired to even shake his head to rid of the fingers at his ear. "Cahahaleb!"

Cakeb grins as he slows down his movement until he altogether stops. He rubs firmly at Molly's sides to help him come down from his tickle high.

"You alright?" Caleb asks softly, anxiety written on his face.

Molly nods as he pants, purple flush still on his face. "Yeah." He smiles. "It was fun."

Caleb's shoulders drop as he relaxes and smiles back. "Ja?"

"Yes." Molly grins widely and leans up to kiss Caleb. "We have to try that again sometime."

Caleb grins back and eagerly kisses him, following lower. "Oh yeah?"

Molly hums his agreement. "But, I must say," he says, tone filled with enough mischief that it sends a shiver down Caleb's spine. "I would love to see our places reversed, hm, Widogast?"

Caleb grins nervously back as his eyes flick down to the hands that were inching towards his sides. Perhaps Molly had been left with more energy than he thought.

[iamawolfstarsimp]

Would anybody like a Might Nein tickle fic

[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.

[iamawolfstarsimp]

STILL NOT REPLY TO ME I SEE

I am replying to u 😒

[star-froggie]

dear readers

it is with a heavy heart that i announce a hiatus

because @iamawolfstarsimp doesn't love me anymore

[iamawolfstarsimp]

this is lies and slander

[hyacinthanon]

Dad Time, pt. 4

a/n: this one goes out to the Damian anons in my inbox from a couple months ago :)

summary: Damian learns that he should read the metaphorical fine print before making agreements with Bruce.

lee!Damian Wayne // ler!Bruce Wayne

(Brief lee!Tim Cameo because he demanded his way in at the end)

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Aging was proving to be deeply…unpleasant. 

It brought a myriad of aches and twinges that seemed random, but always managed to coalesce around Bruce’s lower vertebrae at the end of every day. His trusty cocktail of Advil, arnica, and half a dose of Aleve only went so far in convincing the tight muscles to unclench. 

His back twinged again as Bruce lifted his foot up onto the bench to unlace his boots. None of the ongoing cases had yielded anything immediately relevant, so the rest of the evening – or morning, rather – was allocated for sleep. And, perhaps, a steaming-hot bath.

It was mid-unlace that Bruce heard the telltale signs of an argument starting up amongst his sons from out near the Batcomputer. Since none of them were close enough to see, he didn’t bother to hide his wince as he tugged his boots off and reached for a comfortable pair of indoor loafers. His children were all well past toddlerhood, but the way they tended to snipe at each other during longer nights would seem to indicate otherwise. 

An angry shout echoed through the cave. It sounded like Damian. 

“Leave off him,” Tim snapped out. “He’s just finishing up.” 

Someone snorted, managing to sound like an eyeroll in verbal form. Jason. “Yeah, ‘cause you’d know about self-restraint.”

“More than you.” Tim’s voice had gone deadly quiet, still, loaded with layers of implications. 

Well, as much as Bruce would just love to sit through what promised to be a blistering argument between his children, someone had to be the voice of reason. With Nightwing off terrorizing the criminals of Bludhaven, it wasn’t going to be Dick. 

Bruce straightened, pressed a hand to his lower back and bit back a curse at the discomfort before making his way back into the main area. 

Damian was sitting at the Batcomputer’s lit screen, clearly trying to type even as Jason, still armored except for the helmet, kept trying to snatch his wrists. Tim, meanwhile, had managed to wedge himself between Jason and Damian’s chair, and from the looks of things was about to give Jason a nerve strike in the temple. 

Bruce cleared his throat. In the cavernous space, the sound echoed. 

He may as well have fired off a pistol with how immediately his children froze, all turning looks with varying degrees of guilt on him. Damian shook himself out of it quickly and went back to typing. 

“It’s been a long night,” Bruce said after several seconds had passed. “Upstairs. Now.” 

The growl in the last word spurred Tim into action; he ducked under Jason’s arm and hastily shucked off his gloves and suit, flinging them in the vague direction of the locker room. Then, in his Underarmour compression gear, he gave Bruce an apologetic nod and hurried towards the stairs. 

Jason eventually followed. Neither of them said anything to Bruce – and hopefully wouldn’t to each other, at least until tomorrow. 

Damian, left on his own, kept typing, but his shoulders hunched up to his ears. 

Bruce waited until the older two were safely out of the cave before speaking. When he did, he kept his voice soft. “Damian.” 

No response, except for the continued clacking of the keyboard. 

Instead of saying his name again, Bruce moved closer to see what it was that had Damian so intent on ignoring him. Surprisingly, it was just a report of Robin’s activities that evening. A routine step in debriefing, but not an urgent one. 

Bruce gently touched one of Damian’s tense shoulders. His son stiffened, then relaxed under his hand. 

“Thank you for your diligence,” he murmured. “I appreciate that you’re willing to get this done right away, but it’s more important to me that you get rest.”

Damian shot him an inscrutable look over his shoulder. “I am not a child, Father. Do not coddle me.” 

Ah, this again. Lately, Damian had been chafing at any insinuation – perceived, or otherwise – that his age entitled him to different treatment than his older brothers. 

“It’s not coddling, honey. It’s part of my job to make sure all of you is taken care of, and that means making sure you’re getting enough sleep.” 

Damian gave the spacebar a particularly hard thwack. “You let Timothy stay up.” 

An old, familiar guilt twisted through Bruce’s ribcage. He squeezed Damian’s shoulder once. “I failed Tim, Damian. In his early days. It wasn’t a healthy situation, and I don’t want that for you – none of us do. If I could keep him locked out of the Cave after midnight now, I’d do it in a heartbeat. These days, he doesn’t pull all-nighters down here for me, he does it in spite of me.” 

A muscle ticked in Damian’s jaw, but his typing slowed. 

“I’ll make you a deal,” Bruce continued, rubbing his thumb into a stubborn knot near the base of Damian’s neck. “Come upstairs and get ready for bed. If, after forty-five minutes, you’re still awake, you can come back down and finish the report.” 

Damian thought over that for a few seconds, his brow furrowing. “Fine.”

As he pushed the chair back and reluctantly stood, Bruce kept his hand right between Damian’s shoulder blades to steer him towards the stairs, just in case his youngest had any ideas of slipping away. Damian’s feet dragged on each step and he stifled a yawn more than once – yeah, he was certainly tired. 

“Come see me when you’ve changed,” Bruce said, bending down to kiss Damian’s hair even though it made his back twinge. 

Damian silently nodded, then shuffled off towards his room. 

Once he was sure Damian had indeed gone to find sleeping clothes rather than slipping into one of his brothers’ rooms, Bruce flicked on a low light in his own bedroom and hastily changed into sweatpants and a t-shirt. He efficiently went through the normal evening ablutions, and was pulling back his bedding when the telltale prickle at the back of his neck told him that Damian had arrived. 

Sure enough, Damian was standing in the doorway, wearing an oversized long sleeve t-shirt that had once belonged to Tim and a pair of dark plaid pajama pants. His feet were bare, but that hadn’t stopped him from moving undetected down the hall. These days, Damian probably wasn’t trying to walk silently on purpose - it was just how he’d been taught to move through the world, quiet and unobservable. 

But, since Bruce wasn’t running a cult of assassins, he wanted Damian to take up space in his home and his life, to catch a creaky floorboard now and then or race down the stairs with his brothers. It was why he’d instructed his youngest to come find him after he’d changed out of Robin’s uniform. 

“Come sit,” Bruce said, swinging his legs up onto the mattress and patting the space next to him. He leaned back against the headboard as Damian slipped into the room and joined him. 

Damian settled beside him, still holding himself up with stiff, formal posture. He went easily enough, though, when Bruce slung an arm around his shoulders and pulled him down against his side. 

“See the clock?” Bruce pointed towards the nightstand. “Forty-five minutes from now, if you’re still awake, we can go back downstairs.” 

The sheets rustled as Damian bent his legs sideways to lean further into Bruce. His deep, searching eyes roamed over Bruce’s expression for a few seconds, then he nodded once.  

After a few quiet moments, any lingering stiffness bled out of Damian’s posture until he was practically melting into Bruce’s t-shirt. Bruce had begun absentmindedly tracing soft patterns up and down Damian’s arm, partially hoping it would relax Damian enough that he’d give in to the sleep that he clearly needed. 

“Is there a reason you need to finish this report tonight?” Bruce asked eventually. 

Damian made a small, displeased noise and stared at his hands, ruthlessly picking at a hangnail. He didn’t say anything, but Bruce had his own suspicions about some of the thoughts that were preoccupying his youngest kid. 

“I don’t need to you be Tim,” he said, still drawing circles up and down Damian’s bicep. “Or Jason, or Dick. Every Robin is different.” 

“Then why do I have different rules?” The question whipped out of Damian and he immediately pressed his lips together like he hadn’t meant it to escape. “Do you not trust me?” 

That question, where his voice wavered ever-so-slightly, made Bruce’s heart ache. While Damian’s start as Robin had been…tumultuous, unideal, he’d worked hard to learn the ‘new rules’, so to speak, of the world he’d been dropped into. Part of that had been working to show Dick and Bruce that he could be trusted with the mission; a bigger part, whether Damian realized or not, was learning how to be a son to a father he’d never known, and a younger brother. It certainly hadn’t been a smooth process, and there were still friction points that burned hot and bright. But Damian had been trying. 

“Oh, Dami.” Bruce combed through Damian’s hair, breaking some of the leftover gel cast with his fingers. “Of course I trust you. That has nothing to do with wanting you upstairs and asleep instead of writing a report.”

Instead of replying, Damian tapped his fingers together. The same furrow from earlier reappeared in his brow. 

“Robin isn’t just a tool,” Bruce said. “He’s a person, too. And you’re not just my sidekick or partner, honey, you’re also my son. Of course there are things I want you to do, like write reports. But none of that is as important as you, taking care of yourself. Sometimes, in the past, I failed to…to make that explicit, to your brothers. It’s important to me to avoid that same mistake with you.”

He let Damian chew on that for a couple minutes. Then, he gently added, “I trust you with my life, Damian. And you can trust me with yours, too – including life outside the mantle.”

Damian’s hands stilled as he contemplated that. 

“I suppose,” he said at last, and his voice sounded thicker than normal. “That I’ll live with that.” 

It was a very Damian response, and Bruce couldn’t help but smile. He kept running his fingers through Damian’s hair, making sure to give him some of the head scritches that always seemed to relax all of his kids like a universal reset. 

“You are cheating,” Damian muttered.

Bruce tried for innocence. “Oh? How so?”

Damian turned a disapproving scowl on him, but it lacked heat. “You are trying to make me tired.”

“And is it succeeding?” 

Damian’s mouth ticked up in a smile and he shook his head, blinking, like he was steeling himself. 

“Oh, well.” Bruce let out a heavy sigh, exaggerated for Damian’s benefit, and ruffled his hair a little more vigorously. “I tried.” 

“Your tactics are probably outdated.” From the glint in Damian’s eye, it looked like he was teasing – or trying to, at least. It was a good effort.

“Perhaps,” Bruce allowed. “Maybe you’d prefer help staying awake, instead.” 

Damian was too inexperienced with the world of playful affection to see the trap coming, so he didn’t dodge in time when Bruce slid the hand in his hair down to his chin and fluttered his fingers against the delicate skin there. 

Damian fought back his laughter like he did everything, with quiet precision and determination. Rather than squirming or thrashing around, he only squeezed his eyes shut and jerked his chin just enough to dodge Bruce's fingers where they fluttered around his jawline. It was a common tactic for hand-to-hand combat; make only necessary movements to save energy. 

Of course, normal close-quarters brawls didn't involve tiny grins and wrinkled noses, both of which made Damian look, dare Bruce even think it, adorable.

“F-father!” Damian ground out when Bruce scrabbled down the side of his neck. “Ce-ceas-cease!”

“Cease?” Bruce repeated back to him, grinning. “I'm helping you stay awake.”

Damian peeled his eyes open enough to glower at him - he looked so much like a disgruntled cat that Bruce had to chuckle, which just made Damian try harder. 

But even though Damian could go blow for blow with the garden statues when it came to throwing up a stony, stoic facade, Bruce was still his father. Of course he knew how to get his own kid to crack. 

“Damian,” he murmured, lilting the syllables in a soft, near-cooing voice. He had to grin when Damian immediately slammed his eyes shut again and tried to scrunch his shoulders all the way up to his ears. “You must be in there somewhere, honey, hm?” 

Bruce punctuated the teasing question by using one of his index fingers to scrabble over the shell of Damian’s ear before tracing a zig-zagging pattern around to his nape. A shudder wracked through Damian’s hunched shoulders as his hands flew up to bat Bruce’s away. He was biting his lip against the wide, ticklish smile that was desperately trying to burst free.

“Father!” 

“Come on.” Bruce added his other pointer finger, using both to make swirling paths across the back of Damian’s neck that managed to avoid the smaller flailing hands. Damian’s shoulders shook with the effort of putting his whole body into hiding the breathless, relentless giggles that always appeared when anyone tickled around that spot. 

But he was close to breaking, he just needed one more little push…

Without warning, Bruce darted his hand down to Damian’s armpit – now exposed as he clamped his hands around the back of his neck to try and shield himself – and dug in. 

Startled, Damian squawked before bursting out into rolling, stuttering laughter. He tried to clamp his elbow back down to his ribs and folded sideways in the process, tilting over to sprawl across Bruce’s legs. 

“There’s the little bat,” Bruce said in that same soft tone, and Damian made sure to slap him on the knee for it between gulps of laughter. “It seems like he’s a teeny bit ticklish, deep –” he wiggled his fingers a little harder under Damian’s arm. “Deep down in there.” 

“N-nohoho!” Damian growled – or, tried to. Growls weren’t supposed to be so giggly. “Stop ta–tahahlking!” He kicked and squirmed, trying to get his knees underneath him, laughing all the while.

“Oh, I can’t do that,” Bruce replied. “It’s my fatherly duty to inform you how sweet you are when you–”

“Shuhut UP!” 

Bruce laughed. He stopped tickling long enough to use both hands to flip Damian onto his back despite his youngest’s sputtering protests. Red-faced, Damian made a good effort at a glare, but his mouth wobbled when Bruce hovered his hands over Damian’s stomach, not quite making contact but wriggling his fingers just close enough to graze his t-shirt. 

“You have…” Bruce glanced at the clock on his nightstand, then back to where Damian was trying not to look like he was fidgeting. “Twenty-three more minutes to stay awake, honey.”

“I can do it,” Damian said quickly, that familiar stubborn wrinkle forming in his brow. “I am perfectly capable of – of – waihait!” 

Bruce had grabbed Damian’s hands with one of his own and started using his free hand to scrabble over Damian’s belly. It wasn’t his most ticklish spot but it got some bubbly laughter and snorts nonetheless.  

And Bruce was tired, but he wasn’t stupid, especially not four kids deep into parenthood. It was evident that Damian wasn’t fighting as hard as he could to escape. Sure, Damian had some ways to go before he’d be able to put up a real challenge to Bruce, especially in this kind of grapple, so it wasn’t like Bruce had been expecting Damian to actually break free. Between training Damian and seeing him brawl with his brothers, though, Bruce had plenty of examples for what it looked like when Damian was really trying to get away from someone heavier and bulkier. 

“Unhand mehehe!” Damian snickered, wriggling under Bruce’s hand like a puppy excited for a belly rub. Obviously Bruce had to oblige him and dug into the center of his stomach, vibrating his fingers as he did. Damian shrieked out another stuttering laugh, giggles spilling out in rolling waves.

“No,” Bruce replied simply, allowing his amusement to show through in a small grin when Damian let out a strangled protest and succumbed to helpless titters. His nose wrinkled even further as he did.

Bruce scrabbled his fingers down over Damian’s sides just to hear him squawk, then reached for one of his knees. Immediately Damian shouted out something that was lost in loud, shrieking laughter when Bruce’s fingers closed around his kneecap. 

Damian was a grade-A kicker, and all of his brothers had learned to steer clear of his legs by now unless he was soundly pinned. While Dick tended to flail around and Jason was more likely to thrash like some kind of spastic crab – then there was Tim, who just lost track of all his limbs and usually ended up in a heap – Damian kicked enough that he’d managed to land a bruising hit on Bruce’s jaw a few weeks ago. The others hadn’t done that…so far.  

But Damian’s leg flew out in a powerful spasm when Bruce squeezed his knee, vibrating the tips of his fingers into either side. 

“Fa-ahahath-er!” he squealed. It was precious. 

“Yes, little one?” Bruce hummed. 

Somehow Damian flushed even darker as he threw his head back, so submerged in ticklish laughter that he couldn’t scrape together a verbal response. His hands balled into the bedding and Bruce’s sweats. Every time he inhaled he made a quiet snorting sound, and Bruce had to physically hold himself back from cooing. 

Bruce used his free hand to worm two fingers into one of the soft spots of leftover baby fat on Damian’s sides, and Damian tried to jackknife back into a sitting position, cackling. A rogue elbow slammed against Bruce’s fingers – ow – but his wince evidently gave Damian the strength to corral his laughter just enough to shoot Bruce a smug look. It warmed Bruce’s heart, but not enough to stop him from seizing one of Damian’s ankles in an iron grip and preparing to retaliate. 

Damian’s smirk melted into panic. His hands flailed out and he tried to flip onto his stomach, but he only made it halfway because Bruce, in a move as good as any kill shot, started skittering his nails in featherlight swirls across the underside of Damian’s knee. Stuck lying partly on his side, Damian wheezed out a single “Nonono–” before high-pitched giggles bubbled over in frantic peals that left him rocking back and forth, pounding his fists against the bedding. 

“That’s the sound I’ve been waiting for,” Bruce said, trying to convey all the warmth that curled inside his chest with his tone. 

“Ple-pleheahease, Baba!” Damian gasped. He looked up at Bruce with watery eyes and a wide, childlike smile full of glee, though he’d never admit it. 

Pretending that the Baba didn’t make his heart squeeze, Bruce winked at him. “Yes, Dami?” 

When Damian went to say something, Bruce switched to rapid skitters back and forth across the delicate spot, still using only his nails. Damian shrieked, more of those giggles tumbling out of his mouth instead of words. 

“Sorry, son, I couldn’t get that.”  

“Dohohon’t!” 

If it were any of his other sons, Bruce would’ve employed the age-old ‘don’t what, honey?’ that, when deployed with the right kind of paternal concern, threw off the kid in question enough that they’d inevitably blink, too tickled-out to think it through, and say ‘tickle me.’ And, well, there would only be one correct thing to do after that. 

But Damian was losing steam quickly, and this wasn’t the time to push his limits. Not when he was clearly overtired and in desperate need of some rest. 

With a squeeze to the captive ankle, Bruce released Damian’s leg and smoothed his hair out of his face again as leftover ticklish feelings kept him in quiet paroxysms of snickers. Damian wrapped his arms around his chest, hugging himself, and tucked his chin down to ride out the residual laughter.

Bruce pushed the blankets back to make room, then slid his arm under Damian’s shoulders and drew him up to nestle against his side, even as he still shivered from occasional ghost tickles.

“Hush, habibi, you’re alright,” Bruce murmured, flattening his palm against Damian’s shoulder and rubbing in smooth, grounding circles. He knew that a less tired Damian would probably resent what he’d perceive as babying, but right now, Damian just groaned into Bruce’s shoulder and didn’t move. 

Once the sporadic shudders stopped, Damian turned his head towards Bruce just enough to reveal one eye. His brow was tilted downwards like he was trying to give Bruce his best Dark Look™. 

“The deal still holds,” Damian muttered, even with drowsiness thickening his voice. 

Bruce glanced at the clock. Nine minutes until the agreed-upon time. Then he turned his attention back towards his youngest kid, who for all his efforts looked more like a grumpy kitten than anything else. 

“Alright, Damian. If you can stay awake for nine more minutes, I’ll let you go back down to the cave.”

Damian’s nod against his shoulder was jerky. 

Maybe it was an underhanded trick, but Bruce started combing his fingers through Damian’s mussed hair in slow, rhythmic movements. He made sure to swirl his nails over his son’s scalp in the same swooping patterns from earlier.

As the moments ticked by, Damian scooted down to rest his head on Bruce’s thigh. Yawning, he fumbled for the sheet and dragged it up to his chin. Then he blinked sleepily up at Bruce.

“Cheat.” He made no effort to rouse himself.

Affection bloomed in Bruce’s chest as he leaned down to kiss the top of his head. “Get some rest, honey. You deserve it.” 

It was a testament to how exhausted Damian was that he simply nuzzled further against Bruce with a long, heavy sigh that left him entirely limp.

“Love you, baby,” Bruce whispered. Every time one of his kids fell asleep on him, it felt like being asked to guard the most precious, fragile jewel in the world. 

Well on his way to knocking out, Damian curled his fist into Bruce’s t-shirt and held tight. “Baba.”

When enough time had passed for Bruce to know that Damian was well and truly asleep, he shifted around to grab his phone from his front pocket. He fired off a short text to inform the others that Damian was sleeping, and was not allowed in the Cave for the next two days. A split second after sending that, he amended the prohibition to include Tim, too. Otherwise, he knew that Tim would just smuggle Damian in anyways. Now that his two youngest sons weren’t at each other’s throats all the time, they’d formed quite the formidable duo, especially when it came to circumventing certain rules like curfew. Bruce had meant what he’d told Damian down in the cave, that he’d lock Tim out too if there was a way to actually do it that Tim wouldn’t find a way around. Tim did indeed have his nighttime work sessions in spite of Bruce’s best efforts, these days. 

As Bruce had predicted, Tim himself appeared in the doorway less than thirty seconds later with the look of someone about to launch into a seventy-three-slide persuasive powerpoint. When he saw Damian, though, his face softened. 

Bruce waved him in, patting the spot beside him on the bed. 

Tim padded over and carefully climbed up, scooting up to sit against the headboard with his knees drawn up to his chest. “Hi.” 

“Hey, sweetheart.” 

Tim’s gaze swept over Damian, assessing. “He’s really tired, huh?”

“He is.” Bruce reached out to push an escaped strand of hair back behind Tim’s ear. “You’re quite alike, you know.” 

Like it usually did in moments of quiet praise, Tim’s face reddened as he tried for an eyeroll even while leaning into Bruce’s touch. He tucked his chin down against his knees. “He's a good little brother.”

Bruce gently nudged him. “I'm sure he's learned from the best.” 

To his delight, Tim’s blush immediately deepened to scarlet and he tried to bury his whole face in his knees. “Thanks.” 

There were a variety of reasons for Tim to be awake this hour, but hopefully he just hadn’t gone to sleep yet. Bruce rubbed his back even as he kept trying to hide. 

“You’re welcome to sleep here, if you want.”

Tim emerged from his burrow long enough to glance at him. “....Maybe I will.” 

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

By the time Bruce started to wake up later that morning, his body was still suffused with the heaviness of sleep, so it took longer than normal for the muffled noises nearby to resolve into actual words. After a couple seconds’ lag, he recognized the noises as voices – Damian and Tim, both of whom had ended up in his room the previous night. 

“–That is an asinine opinion, Drake, and you should eat glass and die.”

“We are literally talking about jam flavors.”

“I don’t care.”

“Y’know, you look like a mangy squirrel right now.”

Yeah, Bruce didn’t have it in him to deal with this first thing in the morning. Luckily, there was a tried-and-true method for getting his sons to quiet down rather quickly. 

Without opening his eyes, he freed his arms and, slinging one around each of his sons, dragged them down on top of him. 

“Sssh,” he muttered, then promptly made that command impossible to follow by wiggling his fingers into whatever tickle spots he could reach. He was rewarded with twin noises of dismayed surprise and a veritable symphony of ticklish squeaks and sputters. And, alright, half asleep or not, the racket was sweet enough to give him cavities. 

“B!” Tim wheezed from his left side, clumsily scrabbling at Bruce’s hand on his stomach. “Sorry – ohohohoshit, – ticklesticklestickles–!” 

Evidently he hadn’t been awake that long either if his brain was already crashing into tickle mode after just a few squeezes.

“Baba,” Damian hissed into Bruce’s chest. “We will be quiet! St-stohohohoppit!” 

“Promise!” added Tim, and the word came dangerously close to being a squeak. 

Satisfied, Bruce stopped tickling. He patted Damian on the back and ruffled Tim’s hair as his youngest boys settled down again. Neither of them moved off of him. Something warm and gooey pooled behind his breastbone as he leaned back into the pillows, ready to let the heavy currents of sleep drag him back under.

[iamawolfstarsimp]

I'm very obsessed with Puppy Love! So cute!

Ahh!! Thank you ☺️

[iamawolfstarsimp]

Don’t mind me fangirling as a re-read all you fics today 🫶 but I’m literally obsessed with all your heated rivalry fics. Like the way you write Shane & Ilya but also your writing in general is just amazing.

Oh my gosh you're so sweet!! 🥰😭🥺

[iamawolfstarsimp]

Hi, hello, yes, not that you need it, but you have my blessing to write my silly little idea (please please please please please) <33

@bow-of-aros

Your blessing is rewarded with a short drabble 😌

Puppy Love

"Who's my good puppy? Hm?"

Shane whined at Ilya's words, slapping away the hand that came near his neck. "Quit."

"Why are you blocking my affection?" Ilya said as he rolled over on the bed to lay more across Shane.

"You know why." Shane replies with a held back smile, biting his lip as he eyes Ilya's hand.

"I really don't." Ilya says as he reaches over with the hand out of Shane's sight, scritching under Shane's chin. A wide grin spread on Ilya's face as Shane burst into quiet giggles.

"Y-Yes, you dohoho!" Shane laughs, scrunching up and weakly batting at Ilya's hand.

"Oh, but you are smiling." Ilya said as he scribbles around his chin to under Shane's jaw. "You must like it if you're smiling."

"I'm smiling because you're tihihickling me, asshole." Shane bites back but his laughter and smile ruin any feigned anger.

"Mmm, same thing." Ilya teased as his other hand quickly joined the fray, fluttering gently against Shane's ear and side of his neck, pulling a surprised squeak from Shane.

"Oh? Maybe you aren't my puppy." Ilya says with a fond smile as Shane tries to crush his fingers against his shoulder. "That sounded more like a mouse to me."

"Shut up!" Shane giggled, which he would deny to his last breath.

"Fine, if that's what you want." Ilya shrugged before diving his head down into Shane's neck, pressing messy but ticklish kisses to his lovers neck that had Shane lost in his own mirth.

"Nohoho!" Shane throws his body away from Ilya but he quickly wraps his free arm around Shane to keep him still, wiggling fingers into his ribs as a warning.

"What? I am being quiet." Ilya murmured against the skin of Shane's neck, licking a stripe up Shane's neck to under his jaw before nibbling the spot.

Shane whined through laughter, feeling very trapped but in a good way. Sure it tickled but having Ilya all over him, play fighting, and kissing wasn't so bad. He still fought against the feeling but that was mostly institutional.

Ilya pulled him from these thoughts with a raspberry into the crook of Shane's neck, shaking his head to rub his stubble against Shane's skin.

"Asshole!" Shane shrieked.

"I could make this much worse for you." Ilya says with warning in his tone.

"Please don't." Shane laughs as he tries to roll away from Ilya but is quickly reeled back yet again.

"So you're begging?" Ilya grins. "Say 'please'."

Shane grits his teeth through his laughter and shakes his head. He tries to fight Ilya's hands but it's a losing battle as Ilya finds the spot between his neck and shoulder that makes Shane cackle.

"Okahahay! Please, Ilya!" Shane yells through his mirth.

"Good puppy." Ilya smiles smugly and moves his hands from the crease of his shoulder and neck to under his chin, pulling sweet giggles out of Shane like taffy.

"I h-hehehey!-hate you." Shane giggles, closing his eyes as he leaned his head back, letting Ilya do what he wanted.

"I love you too." Ilya grinned.

[bow-of-aros]

When Ilya feels like being a little mean, he'll scratch under Shane's chin and call him his "Good little puppy." Shane will scrunch up his shoulders to try and defend himself and gets all whiny because he's sensitive there, Ilya. Ilya's just fighting to hold onto his smug cool-as-a-cucumber facade while he's being sucker punched with the biggest wave of cuteness aggression he's ever felt in his life.

[iamawolfstarsimp]

Love how you write Ilya and Shane. They're so adorbs!

Ahhh thank you!! 🥹

[iamawolfstarsimp]

I get so excited every time you post a new HR fic!

Ahh thank you!! 💕