#I blame fickle-tiction

[tickle-bugs]

But You Were Mine

Summary: Still hung up on the fit of Bruce’s body against his, Clark attempts the oldest possible ritual: getting to know his pseudo-sweetheart. Too bad Bruce Wayne is the most unknowable man on Earth. Sequel to Chase the Memory of it Still.

Yet again, blame @fickle-tiction for this. Doing a midnight post and run so I don’t have to look at this in the morning lol. Also warning for mild barely even lukewarm makeouts. Probably tamer than Part 1 lol. 

Also also: the beginning scene with Clark and Lois works best if you imagine that Lois doesn’t know that Bruce is Batman but suspects him, all while thinking Clark doesn’t know that Bruce is Batman. So she’s trying to protect him from being lied to and Clark is like ‘but Lois I love him’

“Clark Joseph Kent, you’re a grade-A idiot.” Lois thwaps the back of his head with a rolled-up newspaper. 

“I know,” Clark groans into the surface of Lois’s desk. She thwaps him again. 

“So, let me get this straight.” She pinches the bridge of her nose. “You somehow conned your way into a fake relationship with Bruce Wayne of all people, and now you have feelings for him?” 

“I’ve always had feelings for him,” He mumbles, suddenly feeling very small in his seat. When he looks up at her, she’s glaring at him. Ah, he’s in trouble. 

“You don’t know him.” She spreads her hands on the surface of her desk, knocking aside a few Daily Planet pens. He picks them up and puts them back. 

“Yes I do.” Clark frowns. 

“He’s an airhead playboy with zero priorities. You deserve someone who’ll be honest—“

“Oh? Like Selina?” 

Lois gets very quiet. Her stare pierces like a fine needle through his throat. A few battered emotions flicker over her face, leaving in their wake a rare and unguarded Lois. Then, quicker than the cat that stole her heart, her face resigns into something sharp and deadly. 

“I’m sorry.” He circles the desk and pulls her into a hug. After a begrudging glare, she tips her head into his chest. They inhale and exhale together—a routine they’ve shared for years. She relaxes into him.

“No, you’re right.” She chuckles. “I fell for a thief. That’s on me.” 

“And I spent the night with the one guy I shouldn’t have. We can’t all be perfect.” Clark elbows her, looking for a smile. Lois’s eyes blow wide and she starts spluttering. 

“You hooked up with him?” She thankfully keeps to a hissing whisper, but he can tell she wants to shout. He contemplates flying around the Earth fast enough to undo the moment, but she’s gripping his shirt tight enough to stop him.

“Well, okay, we kissed a bunch but it didn’t go further—“ 

“Oh god, we’re both hopeless.” She groans into her hands.

“No, not hopeless. We can both have what we want. I’ll call Bruce if, and only if, you call Selina.” He pulls her hands away from her face. She huffs and smiles. 

“This optimism thing is going to bite you in the ass. How do you think you’re gonna maintain a relationship with someone who doesn’t know that you, uh, work two jobs?” She casts a weary glance towards the office door and drops her voice even lower.

“He gets me, Lois.” It’s all he can say. It’s the truth. 

“Alright.” She brushes a thumb over his cheek. “Then get to know him at least. Find out if he’s the kind of guy worth being around.”

“I know he's worth it. That’s not ever in question.” Clark can’t help but smile a little as he thinks of Bruce. “It’s an internal thing. He sees me. I see him. We don’t have to pretend with each other. It’s…just us.”

Her keen eyes scan every inch of his face, even as he trails off.

“You should tell him.” She squeezes his arm. 

“What? No. Absolutely not. I only said that because I know you won’t call her. C’mon, you’re supposed to be the voice of reason here.” He squints at her. She flicks him in the forehead. 

“Okay, well the ‘voice of reason’ thinks you should say something before you lose this…somehow healthy-sounding relationship you have. With Bruce Wayne, of all people,” She mutters that last part, but Clark both hears and ignores it. 

“We’re friends and it’s good. Really good. He trusts me at least a little. I don’t want him to think I have ulterior motives. If I could read him at all, figure out what he wants…but I can’t. I can’t lose him.” 

“This isn’t the healthiest advice, but…start a list. Treat him like a case. What are some things that draw you to him? Things he hides? Things he shows only to you? If it makes you do that dopey giggle thing you do, he’s probably worth it.” She leans against the edge of her desk and crosses her arm. 

“I don’t do a giggle…thing,” he mumbles, but his face is already heating up an incriminating amount. 

“It’s cute. He’ll probably like it.” She tweaks his nose. He swats her hand away, but his spirits are far lighter.  

His phone buzzes and he checks it as discreetly as possible. 

B: Free this afternoon?

Clark smiles. 

C: On my way. :)

“I’ve gotta go.” He stands and shrugs on his suit jacket. 

“Boyfriend awaits?” She wiggles her eyebrows. 

“Bye, Lois.” He rolls his eyes. 

“Tell him I’d love to do an exclusive with him.” She snickers. 

“I’ll tell him that when you call Selina.” He smirks. She gasps her way into laughter, her face blooming pink. Her hand comes up to play with a diamond necklace sitting on her collarbone--a cat-shaped pendant he’s never seen her wear before--and shakes her head fondly. 

“I will after you kiss your playboy. Again.” She raises her eyebrow. Checkmate. 

“Bye, Lois,” He says a little louder. She playfully shoos him from her office. He kisses her cheek.

Clark can only smile when he hears her phone ringing and the faint “Hey, kitty” through the glass. 

….

It’s apt that Gotham is as dark and segmented as its protector, Clark thinks, because he’s never in his life met anyone as fragmented as Bruce Wayne. Everyone in the League is broken in some way, battered by traumas that still threaten to crush them, but Bruce is markedly...different. He covers the cracks in his soul with masks. For every unveiling, six more facades lay below it. 

The reporter in him finds a dark fascination with it. The lost Kryptonian in him finds it…depressing. The human in him is currently bouncing on his heels in the lobby of Wayne Tower until Bruce finally meets him downstairs. 

Bruce glides off of one of the elevators and nods at a few hushed executives who scurry in behind him. He must come off so effortless to them—not a hair out of place, a new suit and coat every day, but Clark can see the exhaustion clouding his eyes. Bruce Wayne is put together. Bruce is tired. 

“You seem eager.” Bruce gives him a practiced small smile as they fall into step. 

“I’m having the slowest of slow days. This was a much needed adventure.” Clark stretches his spine. It gives a loud, much needed crack. He’s just a little too big for his chair at the Planet and it’s starting to take its toll. 

“We’re just walking down the street,” Bruce chuckles. He bumps the doors to the building open and Clark darts out. A light flurry of snow twirls through the air as they start their walk. He catches a snowflake on his tongue before he can think better of it. Bruce’s smile grows a little wider. 

“So? Every trip away from my desk is an adventure. C’mon, I know a spot.” Clark nods to the side and they hang a left, passing under a train overpass. 

“You know a spot in Gotham?” Bruce raises a brow. 

“I get around.” Clark grins. 

………………………………………………………………………………………….

They end up at a patisserie on the East side, a small family-run shop that deserves far more business than it gets. Clark can smell the wonders within from a good mile away.

Months ago, when he was helping Lois write a scathing exposé on Wayne Enterprises, this spot had served him well. Nothing better than a building full of sweets and a decent wifi connection to get you through betraying a good friend. Shredding that article was easily the best decision of Clark’s life, especially since Lois’s pivot towards flaying Lexcorp alive won her an award. 

He buys them both coffee—black for Bruce, vanilla for himself—and sets about the intricate ritual of sweetening his coffee to perfection. This is normalcy. Normalcy is good. 

“This is the only part of Gotham I like.” Clark steals little peeks at Bruce, waiting for him to inevitably make fun of him, but his eyes are elsewhere.

A refrigerated display tower of macarons stands proudly next to the register, boasting all sorts of delicious surprises. The splash of color is welcome among the somewhat dreary day outside. 

“Hm?” Bruce’s gaze struggles to find its way back to Clark. 

“You seem distracted.” Clark pops the stirring straw into his mouth and pulls the remaining coffee out with a little slurp. He pops the lid onto his cup much slower than necessary. The first time you crush a cup of boiling liquid in public tends to change you, after all. He’s grown since then. 

“Heavy work day.” For a man so difficult to read, Bruce has never clearly been more full of shit. He doesn’t even try to look away from the cookie display. 

“Do you…want a macaron?” Clark doesn’t bother trying to stifle his amusement. 

“What? No.” Bruce withdraws slightly. 

“What’s your favorite? My treat.” Clark jerks a thumb towards the display. 

“Money isn’t the problem.” Bruce scoffs, but not unkindly. He leans back in his chair and crosses his arms. Clark tries to ignore the still-fading lovebite on Bruce’s neck that he left. 

“Then what is?” Clark leans forward on his elbows. Surprise flickers across Bruce’s face for the slightest of moments. 

“…I’ve never had one,” Bruce mumbles, shuffling a bit in his seat. Clark beams. 

“First time for everything. C’mon.” Clark vigorously beckons him over to the line. Bruce trails behind with an endearing awkwardness that he’s learned to identify: slow steps, shifty eyes, and silence. 

Clark takes his time to point out his favorite flavors and make a few recommendations, but he feels like he’s stumbling around in the dark. His sweet tooth is only rivaled by Diana’s—even then, their tastes match so closely that he’s a little lost with someone like Bruce. 

Bruce stares deeply at him. Clark’s rambling stutters to a halt. He pulls on his collar a bit. Adjusts his glasses. 

Bruce’s eyes seem so warm. Must be the light. 

“If today was my last day to live and you had to give me a macaron, what would you choose?” Bruce leans close. His eyes are on the display, thank god, because Clark doesn’t know that he can handle more of that eye contact right about now. 

“It amazes me that you’re so committed to the dark and brooding thing.” Clark rolls his eyes, and after some thought: “Raspberry.” 

“Hm. Okay.” And that’s that. Bruce orders quickly and walks away with his prize, leaving Clark to scramble after him. They sit back down in their quiet little corner, the naturally-frosted window fogging slightly at their presence. 

Bruce opens his box of macarons clinically, like he’s stripping it for parts. He takes one out and admires the color, gives it a little test squish, sniffs it. Clark watches the process with vested interest until Bruce pulls out another box and slides it towards him. 

“What’s this?” Clark pulls the box close. 

“Strawberry Cheesecake macarons. I saw you eyeing them when we came in.” Bruce pokes the box again, sliding them just a little more forward. 

“I’m not subtle, am I?” Clark pushes his glasses up again. He cracks the box open and pops a cookie in his mouth. His eyelids flutter shut and he does a little dance in his chair. 

“It’s one of your more endearing qualities.” Bruce quirks a small, smug smile. 

“That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.” Clark fake sniffles. The resulting eyeroll is incredibly satisfying. 

Bruce takes a mouse-like nibble of the macaron, catching maybe an atom of cookie and filling between his teeth. He chews thoughtfully. 

“So? Do we have a winner?” Clark rests his chin on his hand. 

“I think so. You have good taste,” Bruce hums, taking another tentative bite of the macaron. A gentle, genuine smile peaks on his lips like a glimpse of the sun through storm clouds. 

“That’s the second nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.” Clark swipes a macaron from Bruce’s box fast enough to send a small breeze fluttering between them. 

“And it will never happen again.” Bruce peeks open one eye as he finishes his macaron. 

Okay, bumping shredding that Wayne Enterprises article down to number two. This, Clark thinks, watching Bruce smile to himself, this is easily top of the list. 

1 ) He likes raspberries. 

It takes later in the week until they have a moment to truly spend a bit of time together. Criminal roundups never leave much personal time, and Clark’s hearing has him near-constantly running to save lives. But, on a quiet Wednesday night, he has a moment. 

He loves visiting Wayne Manor. It’s been a while since he last swung by, but he adores the place. He could spend hours swooning over the architecture alone. It’s a beautiful place to disappear for a while, and he’s been doing that more and more lately. 

He gets buzzed into the gates easy enough with a lie about taking the bus, and then he’s standing in the massive foyer and hanging up his coat by the door. The manor smells of old wood and citrus. Clark draws in a big breath of it. 

He turns and jumps a bit when a flock of people are suddenly staring at him atop the stairs. Bruce’s kids, right. He knows Dick, Tim, and Jason. The others are still a bit fuzzy to him. They all leer from the landing like royalty watching a gladiator in the pit. 

“Hey there.” He waves at the smallest and angriest of the bunch. This is Damien, he’s pretty sure.

“So you’re the new guy.” A blonde—Steph, he remembers her from the Christmas card—leans on the railing with her forearms. 

“I wouldn’t mess with him, Steph. He’s tougher than he looks,” Dick murmurs out of the corner of his mouth, trying his best to be subtle. Clark gives him a friendly wave. He returns it. 

“He looks like he wears a pocket protector. I could take him,” Steph whispers to Dick. Clark tries to rein in his expression so he doesn’t give himself away. 

“I’m not sure we’ve met. I’m Clark. You’re all Bruce’s kids, right? It’s nice to meet you.” He tries to make himself look as friendly as possible. He gets a few waves, but mostly owlish stares. He sees where they get it from. 

“Is your father home?” Clark sticks his hands in his pockets and tries to kill the silence. 

“Bruce! Your boyfriend’s here!” Jason bellows. Clark bites his lip to hide his smile. 

“Clark?” Bruce peeks around the corner, then shuffles quickly down the stairs. 

“Hey. I, uh, had a few minutes. Just came by to see you before I went home.” Clark rubs the back of his neck with a smile, trying to kill the flutter in his chest. 

“Bruce, say something,” Tim hisses, crouching behind the banister as if Clark can’t see him. Bruce startles, glares at him, and then gestures for Clark to follow him. As they pass, all of the kids watch him go, whispering in a building flurry that he doesn’t bother dissecting. He tells himself it’s because they deserve their privacy, but really…he’s nervous. Severely. 

“I hope they didn’t make you uncomfortable. They can be a bit…eager.” Bruce’s smile is warm beneath the lights of the old manor. 

“They’re wonderful. Terrifying, but wonderful.” Clark chuckles and bumps their shoulders together while they walk. 

It’s these precious minutes that define their friendship more than anything. Clark tells Bruce all about his day, about his Lex Luthor exposé making the front page, about everything and nothing at all. He talks and Bruce listens, egging him on with gentle tilts of the head when he shyly falls into silence.

By the time they reach the gardens, it’s Clark’s turn to listen. Bruce tells him about the kids, occasionally stopping whenever he notices one lurking. He asks for his opinion on random scenarios. Clark can’t tell if they’re hypotheticals but he answers as truthfully as he can, chasing the little noises of appreciation that Bruce makes as he talks. 

Not only are Bruce’s masks interchangeable, taking him from Bruce to Batman to Bruce Wayne, they’re also removable. Clark doesn’t know when he was bestowed with the honor of being with Just Bruce, but he’s immensely grateful for it.  

“Good evening, Mr. Kent.” Alfred nods respectfully in his direction. “Master Bruce, you have a call from Mr. Fox. Line three, sir.” 

“Thank you, Alfred.” Bruce squeezes Clark’s shoulder. “You can wait here, if you’d like.” 

“Am I allowed to touch anything?” Clark teases.

“Anything you want.” Bruce winks at him, completely straight-faced, and disappears into the corridors of the manor. Clark’s face grows embarrassingly hot and he reclines against the lip of the fountain. 

He birdwatches as he waits, counting which of Bruce’s kids make normal, completely non-suspicious trips through his personal space. Dick’s the least sneaky of the bunch, but it lends him a genuine quality. He sits and chats with Clark for a few minutes, asking him about work and the like. He asks about his relationship with Bruce and Clark mumbles something non-committal, cheeks warm. 

Bruce, uh, never put out that statement about them breaking up. Clark thinks he might be alright if it never gets published. 

As the hours draw on, he catalogs where the other Robins like to hide. Tim and Damien have an affinity for hiding in the massive hedges surrounding the gardens, while Steph takes to watching from the windows. Cass is the hardest to spot but he catches her on the roof a few times, perched and enjoying the warm dusk breeze. He sees Jason with her once too.

If he’s learned anything from their father, it’s that staring is caring. Probably.

When Alfred fetches him hours later, he arrives at a scene he wants to burn permanently into his memory. 

Bruce is seated at the beautiful. obnoxiously long table in the dining room. He’s got a knee hiked up on the chair, picking idly at the fabric of his pants. On the table, a black kitten rolls around and bats at a toy. It’s sweet and oddly domestic. 

“Hey.” Bruce doesn’t turn. 

“Hi. Who’s this?” Clark holds a hand out to the kitten and it drops its paw on top of his palm, mewing softly. The squeaky, deflating noise that leaves him is not one he’s proud of. It’s so sweet and small. 

“Nyx. She’s a stray. I give her food when I can.” Bruce scratches her head gently. Nyx purrs and lays down on the table, tucking her head into the attention. She’s a precious baby, is what she is. Clark has half a mind to take her home. 

That is, until Bruce sneezes loud enough to send poor Nyx running. She flings herself off the table and into one of the manor’s seemingly endless corridors. 

“Bless you.” Clark chuckles. Bruce pulls a face. 

“Master Bruce.” Alfred hands him a box of tissues. 

“I can hear you laughing, Alfred,” he sniffles, hair a bit ruffled from the sneeze. Clark purposefully averts his eyes. 

“I would never, sir. Goodnight, Mr. Kent.” Alfred bows his head, sharing that mischievous glint in his eye. 

“Goodnight, Alfred.” Clark grins, settling into the oversized chair beside Bruce. 

2 ) He’s got a cat allergy, but he feeds the strays anyway. Bruce = cat person?

“Stop it.” Hearing the Batman voice and knowing it’s mostly because Bruce is annoyed is truly golden. 

“Stop what?” Clark floats leisurely alongside Bruce, arms behind his head. Keeping pace with him isn’t hard--he’s fast for human standards, but not by Clark’s. He’s made it a habit anyways not to zip too far ahead as they’ve grown closer. It kills the banter. 

“Look, all I’m saying is that if Batman started flying, criminals would absolutely take the week off. If I was a criminal and I thought Batman had suddenly gotten superpowers, I’d simply leave Gotham.” Clark flips upside down and hangs in front of Bruce, still drifting backwards in pace with him. 

He can sense Bruce trying not to smile, but when he opens his mouth to tease, karma speaks instead. Clark smacks his head into the side of a building just as Bruce slips through a narrow space between it and its neighbor. Clark flies up over the building and catches up with Bruce again, scowling. 

“I know you’re laughing.” Clark crosses his arms. 

“Me? Never. Just thinking about how great it is to be grounded.” Bruce allows himself the tiniest of smirks, just enough to be infuriating, and it’s Clark’s turn to roll his eyes. 

3 ) He restrains his emotions. Even the good ones. 

Roaming the Hall of Justice late at night is a cultivated hobby of Clark’s. The best snacks hide in the dark, after all, and he knows that no one’s gonna come bother him about a missing bag of chips at this hour. He needs time to think and food to think with. 

Clark’s feelings for Bruce could both span and fill an ocean. He doesn’t know when this happened. As far as he can remember, there’s always been this beacon of warmth in his chest guiding him to Bruce. Through every late night and early morning, through hopelessness and joy, Bruce is a constant. It’s too much to put on one person. Too risky. 

The ‘l word’ pops into his head like a dark omen, and he skids to a halt. He glances around, listening for any league members skulking around. All he hears is his own thundering heartbeat. 

Fuck. Fuck. 

He makes his way into the kitchen past a snoring Arthur, pausing to snatch the jumbo bag of cheese puffs from his limp grasp. He slips quietly out into the hall, passing by the lounge, where Bruce and Diana are laughing—

Clark backpedals, nearly tripping over his own feet, but god it’s worth it. Bruce is clutching Diana’s shoulder and giggling, stuck in the loop of overwhelming laughter that follows an unyielding barrage of jokes. 

They’re still suited up, probably fresh off a patrol, and Clark wonders how long they’ve been sitting here. A mountain of chocolates, the fancy ones, cover the surface of the table. Diana delicately sorts through and plucks the ones she wants from the pile as Bruce watches. 

“Diana’s the new team comedian. None of you are funny.” Bruce recovers from his laughter, but the smile stays, and Clark makes an active effort to be normal about it. The delirium of another late night in a row must have gotten to him. That’s the only explanation. 

“Barry will be devastated.” Clark chuckles. He leans in the doorframe and catches a cheese puff in his mouth. 

“He will survive.” The sparkle in Diana’s eye has him wishing he had tuned into their conversation. 

“If I had known y’all were partying in here, I would’ve come to hang out.” Clark crunches on another cheese puff, mostly to distract himself from the way Bruce’s eyes are sparkling. He didn’t know they could do that. 

“There’s no reason you can’t party with us now.” Diana gestures to the seat next to Bruce. 

Aw, what the hell? Eating junk food together couldn’t be much worse than doing it alone. 

4 ) Bruce can laugh--he just has to be caught off-guard. He likes to laugh (?) (who doesn’t?)

“When you said you needed help, I thought you meant with translating.” Clark wanders into the room. The concrete is irritatingly cold on his feet. 

Bruce types away wildly at a computer station with too many monitors. A pair of giant goggles on his head pull his hair out of his face. Clark leans over his shoulder to see what he’s doing, but the code flying across the screen is a nightmare. 

At the opposite end of the room, a mechanical rig sits primed on a set of rails. In the center, a gnarly looking gun barrel stares out into an empty expanse. 

“I’m trying to test new ammunition for the Batmobile, but my target system is down. Can’t reboot it.” Bruce clicks something else and the gun starts calibrating. A pathetic clicking sound picks up as targets struggle to ascend from the floor, twitching lifelessly in their compartments. 

“Do you want help?”

“With coding?” Bruce turns with an expression just shy of condescending.

“God no. I am bulletproof, if you remember.” Clark sticks his hands in the pockets of his sweatpants. 

“Doesn’t help. I need to study the impacts afterwards.” Bruce gestures to a massive chunk of concrete on a stand nearby. Clark hefts it into his arms with a quiet grunt. 

“Just...keep up with the gun. I prefer my walls without bullet holes.” Bruce quickly turns away from him. Clark can hear his heartbeat pounding. He starts to ask, but the gun rig starts warming up and he sacrifices his curiosity. 

“Alright. Whenever you’re ready.” Clark adjusts his stance to prep for the recoil. The machine whirrs and clicks as it loads itself with rounds. Bruce types in a few things on a nearby control panel and pulls the goggles down over his eyes. 

The gun barrel spins and whines as it gains force. Clark hovers a few inches off the ground and tenses. He lines the concrete up with his chest, his eyes just clearing over top of it. 

The machine fires quicker and lower than he anticipates. 

A sharp zing zips up Clark’s side, then another, then another, and he drops the concrete, instead covering his smile while forcing himself to stay still. That’s certainly not his best idea--no block means no cover, which subsequently means getting pelted with another wave of bullets. 

Clark crumples into a flurry of giggles before he can stop himself. He curls up as much as he can—partly to stop any new onslaughts, mostly to hide his reddening face. He’s been shot more than anything and it’s never bothered him. He didn’t know he could be ticklish to touch, let alone to goddamn bullets. 

“Clark! Are you okay?” Bruce leaps over the gun rig and pulls the safety goggles up onto his head. 

“Y-Yes. I’m fine. Your machine…thing packs a punch.” Clark clears his throat to stop the rogue snickers forming a conga line in his throat. 

“I thought you were supposed to be bulletproof.” Bruce huffs, kicking the pieces of shattered brick out of the way. He swipes at Clark’s torso, probably trying to brush away the dust on him. Clark flinches under the touch and coughs over a laugh. 

“I am. It just…felt…weird.” Clark snatches Bruce’s wrist a little too quickly. Bruce’s brow furrows and he leans close, eyes glued to Clark’s stomach with sheer worry. His face resolves into tense understanding. Clark lets his hand go. 

“What? What?” He tries to catch Bruce’s gaze. There shouldn’t be anything wrong. He feels fine. Nothing pierced. Definitely not bleeding—he learned what that feels like and he hates it. But Bruce has an eye for things that Clark could never dream of noticing, and right now he’s staring like Clark already has a foot in the grave. 

“Can’t believe you fell for that.” Bruce smirks. He pulls Clark close—hello—and kneads unhurried fingers into his stomach. 

No one will ever believe him. Bruce Wayne is tickling him and no one will ever believe him. 

“B-Bruce!” Clark strains out of Bruce’s grip as best as he can, trying not to break any useful bones, but his joints keep turning to jelly. His forehead collides with Bruce’s shoulder and he shimmies rather uselessly. 

“This is very entertaining, in case you were wondering.” Bruce hums and starts pinching up Clark’s sides. His warm breath sends goosebumps flaring over his throat. 

“I wasn’t!” It’s more of a squeak than words. Evil fingers manage to squeeze beneath his arms and Clark jumps directly into the air. 

“Did you just fly away?” A genuine laugh floats out of Bruce, warm and a bit scratchy. Clark wishes he could hear more of that instead of his own dorky laughter ringing in his ears. 

“Not on purpose—shut up!” Clark aims a half-hearted kick at Bruce’s shoulder. His face burns hotter than the sun and he hides in his hands. 

Bruce grabs his ankle and tries to reel him in like a lost balloon. Clark almost falls for it until suddenly calloused hands are scritching along the bottom of his foot. He giggle-snorts. Kryptonite through the chest would be a mercy, at this point. 

A hush falls over the room. Clark dares to peek through his fingers. 

“Oh.” Bruce blinks, then the most wicked grin overtakes his face. “Do that again.” 

“You’re the worst!” Clark pulls his leg towards his body and accidentally takes Bruce with it--who doesn’t seem the least bit bothered, by the way. Every time he lowers his leg, Bruce doesn’t let go. 

“I don’t want to drop you!” Clark shrieks as if a bug is crawling on him, rather than a person. 

“Then don’t.” Bruce squeezes his calf and Clark whines his way into a fit of cackles. His body trembles with the effort to not fly directly through the ceiling. The illusion of escape makes it so much worse, especially with Bruce’s fingers worming behind his knee. 

“You coming down or am I gonna have to call the fire department?” Jesus, Bruce has a real talent for smirking out loud. Clark tries to shake him off without throwing him across the room. Bruce digs his fingers into Clark’s thigh like he’s climbing a tree and the resulting yelp has Clark resolving to flee the country. 

“Y-You’re not building a great case as to why I should!” He flinches after a flurry of giggles and slams his head into the ceiling. Plaster and dust rain down on the two of them. Clark tries to cover the crater he left behind with his hands and a bashful smile. 

“Alright, I’m done. I’d like to keep my ceiling in one piece.” Bruce pulls him down to Earth, only letting go when he’s sure that Clark won’t float away again. 

“Ticklish Superman. Who knew?” Bruce scritches beneath Clark’s chin, just like at the gala all those weeks ago, and Clark shoves his chin down with a snort. 

“No one, and I prefer it that way. Keep it quiet.” He can’t muster any severity in his voice and he’s not sure it would help if he could. The thought of Lois finding out--or worse, Diana--starts an inescapable loop of nervous smiles and a light fluttering in his chest. 

“No promises.” Bruce smirks. “I hear Lois wants an exclusive. Maybe I’ll give her a call.”

“Don’t you dare. Bruce—“

He dials her office line, jogging towards the stairs. Clark shrieks and chases after him. 

5 ) He’s mischievous. Deathly so. 

…

After a long while of staring at his pitiful little list, Clark still finds himself restless. He has naught more than a skeleton, clinging scraps of Bruce’s infinite depths. The paper isn’t suited to contain him. He might actually know less than before.

Even as Bruce beats the shit out of him, he can’t think of anything else. 

“Why don’t you let anyone get to know you?” Clark frowns at Bruce across the sparring mats. Bruce runs and leaps onto his shoulders, executing a flawless scissor grip. Clark raises his hand to support his back and Bruce swats him away. 

“What?” Bruce grunts, bringing his elbows down onto Clark’s head. He barely notices. 

“You’re always so stoic. You never let anyone see you happy.” Clark flips Bruce off his shoulders and down onto his back. He puts his hands on his hips and stares down at him. 

“No, I never let anyone see me vulnerable. There’s a difference.” Bruce wraps his legs around Clark’s and takes him down, quickly rolling atop him. Within a second, Bruce unleashes a flurry of blows that, if Clark could feel more than dull impacts, he probably would fear.  

“You’re allowed to be vulnerable in front of your friends, Bruce. That’s what makes them friends, not coworkers.” Clark catches his fists and holds them. 

“I’ll pass along your suggestion. Are you going to fight back or should I go get Diana?” Bruce raises an eyebrow, breathing hard. Clark flips them both and pins Bruce down. 

“I just think—stop wiggling—we should bond more, y’know? Know thy enemy, and all that.” Clark keeps pressing down until Bruce sighs and goes still in his grip. He knows he’s defeated. Smart man. 

“That tends to apply to actual enemies, not coworkers.” Bruce sighs. 

“Well, we’re more than that, aren’t we?” Clark presses, searching Bruce’s eyes. Bruce nods, looking all for the world like he might bolt from the room. 

“Sooo, what’s your favorite color?” When Bruce is silent, Clark rolls his eyes and sits back. “Mine is yellow. Your turn.”

“…lavender.” Bruce eyes him warily. Clark helps him to his feet and they start the cycle again. The minute they stop fighting each other’s rhythm, they find a flawless sync. 

“Nice! Okay, uh…favorite food?” Clark ducks under Bruce’s left hook and shoves him back. 

“Alfred’s chicken noodle.” Bruce kicks Clark across the face and he lets himself go down. He brushes some of the dust off. 

“That sounds nice.” He grins up at Bruce from the mat. The light haloes behind his head so beautifully. 

“Yeah.” Bruce clears his throat. “And you…?” He pulls Clark to his feet and resets his stance. 

“Can’t go wrong with a slice of fresh apple pie.” Clark sweeps forward with a wink. 

Bruce shakes his head and snickers, then punches Clark hard enough in the ribs to crack his own knuckles. 

…

Two sharp knocks on the doorframe announce Bruce before his voice does. Clark looks up from the dull light of his laptop. 

“Got a second?” Bruce leans in the doorframe, cloaked in slight shadow. He’s dressed comfortably, surprisingly, in a soft t-shirt and sweatpants that hug him well. It makes Clark wanna pull him close. 

“Always, yeah.” Clark sets his computer aside and sits up. Bruce leans against the edge of his desk and fishes something out of his pocket. 

“Found some intel. I could use a fresh set of eyes on it.” The moon casts loving light across his eyes and jaw.

“Of course.” Clark sits up more. 

“Found this nearby. I was hoping you could decipher it.” Bruce hands over a scrap of folded paper. Clark furrows his brow as he takes it, gingerly opening it up. He casts a curious glance at Bruce before he starts to read.

It’s his notes. His notes on Bruce. Shit.

He looks up slowly, horrified. Bruce smirks in full force, oozing mischief that Clark now knows is very much in character. 

“Normally, I’m not a fan of being watched. Try to avoid it as much as I can.” 

“You’re a hard man to read.” Clark clears his throat and folds the paper down to hide its contents further. 

“Yet it seems you’ve cracked the code,” Bruce hums. Clark catches the faint glimmer of that old playboy spark. Bruce’s lips tilt into a devilish smirk. 

“So, I’m right then? It’s important…for the record.” Clark scoots up against the headboard in an attempt to look casual. Bruce sits at the foot of the bed. Voluntarily. Clark stops breathing.

“I would say that parts are accurate.”

“Parts?” He clears his throat. Bruce snatches the paper from his grip. He starts murmuring as he skims the list. 

“Let’s see…I like raspberries but I’m allergic.”

“You’re what?” The color drains from Clark’s face. Bruce shrugs.

“What else? Oh—I’m a dog person. I have a soft spot for cats.”

“Huh.” 

“I am physically capable of laughter.” Bruce rolls his eyes.

“Proved that one already.” Clark smiles. Bruce scowls, then turns back to the paper. Clark remembers, in a terrible flash, the looping doodles of ‘Clark Kent-Wayne’ at the bottom of the page and chokes out a strangled scream. 

He disintegrates the paper with a precise blast of heat vision. He feels a little bad for scorching the wall, but not that bad. The evidence is gone. Plausible deniability. 

“Seriously?” He brushes the ash off his hands. 

“I gotta keep my secrets.” Clark shrugs, but his face is incandescent with heat. 

“What about that paper was so bad that it made Superman blush?” Bruce smirks. 

“There is nothing on God’s green earth that you could do to make me tell you.” Clark grins from atop the high ground. 

Bruce plucks his glasses off of his nose and sets them aside, careful not to touch the lenses. It’s a tender gesture for what is essentially a costume, but something in his heart flutters at the delicate care. 

“Are you sure?” He leans close—close enough for Clark to catch a whiff of cologne and the intoxicating sparkle in his eye, close enough for Clark to lean in on instinct, and close enough for Bruce to wrap his hands around Clark’s waist like he’d been wishing he would since that stupid gala. Clark’s lips part. 

“Okay, there might be a couple thi—“ Clark cuts himself off with a squeal, slamming his head into the headboard—the resulting crack speaks to a later promise of duct tape. As Bruce shoves his hands under his arms, Clark’s laughter bowls him over quicker than he can apologize. 

“You are such a kid!” He throws his head back and cackles, curling into the tightest possible ball that his hulking form could take. Bruce leans over him. 

“You have no grounds to call me that. You’re giggling.” Bruce raises an eyebrow, 

“Because you’re t-tickling—” Clark regretfully finishes his sentence with a snort. Bruce lights up and chases the sound, relentlessly working his fingers into the grooves of his ribs. Clark hits his head again--there goes the rest of the headboard. And part of the wall.

Between the buzz of being touched by Bruce and being unused to this kind of touch, Clark melts into a haphazard pile of Superman with embarrassing speed. Bruce manages to work his fingers up further, right into his top rib, and he punches a hole directly into the nightstand, sending the lamp toppling over. Bruce relents then, passively assessing the damage while Clark drags in a deep breath. 

“You really think it’s a good idea to tickle someone who could throw you into the sun?” Clark huffs, wobbling on a smile. Bruce smirks. 

“Never said it was a good idea. Just an alluring one.” 

“You find me alluring? Scandalous, Mr. Wayne.” Clark offers a teasing grin. Bruce’s brow crinkles with concern. He goes from fiddling with Clark’s waist to fiddling with his hands. 

Bruce gets tactile when he’s stressed. Or when something’s on his mind.

“Penny for your thoughts?” Clark asks softly. He scoots just a bit closer. 

“The day after the gala, I had Vicki write up a piece about you and I splitting. Like I promised. It was never published.” 

“I noticed,” Clark says carefully, tracking every detail of Bruce’s face. 

“I asked her not to.” 

“Why?”

“I knew if the article went live, you would stop with the affection and the dates. I know it was only for appearances, but…I really enjoyed it. I wasn’t ready to let it go. I…care about you.” Bruce looks up at him, worry entrenched in the dips of his face. It slips to something resigned and neutral, a blank mask. 

Clark smiles like a lunatic, covering his mouth to hide it. He contains the desperate urge to take a lap around the manor. Months, years, of pining bloom into sweet possibility within him. The weight of guilt sloughs off his shoulders. Bruce likes him. 

“Y’know, for the smartest man in Gotham, you miss quite a lot.” Clark leans in and waits. Bruce’s eyes flick to Clark’s lips, and in a Batman-esque flash of motion, he swoops down and kisses him. Their bodies slot together almost magnetically. Clark flips them over and bears back down, swallowing Bruce’s gasp of surprise in his mouth. 

In an insane way, kissing Bruce is like coming home. 

He flings his arms around Clark’s neck, pulling him impossibly closer. Clark immediately, greedily, lets his lips travel along Bruce’s pulse point. He chases the memory of the gala, littering desperate bruises along the cologne-tinged skin. His hand lingers at the base of his throat, brushing reverent fingers as he marks every inch available to him. 

Bruce yelps into a giggle, breaking them apart. Clark blinks, processing, then grins with unbridled power. 

“This feels…counter-productive.” Bruce swallows, bobbing Clark’s hand. His skin is hot and red to the touch. 

“Nice try. You already enabled me—that was your first mistake.” Clark tickles him everywhere he can reach, dodging elbows and headbutts. Bruce cackles from his core, stumbling through a few high-pitched syllables of protest as he twists. He works so hard to force his voice back into its usual octave that it cracks. Clark snickers. 

“I am going to kill you,” Bruce growls, reaching back to return the favor. Clark slams his arm down on the mattress, caressing the back of his hand with immovable fingertips. 

“Then this is a wonderful last night on Earth.” Clark nibbles on his earlobe. Bruce’s giggly scream and the ensuing threats on his life are music to Clark’s ears.

[superbattrash]

I FINISHED A THINGGGGG ~ if you like hurt/comfort and Clark feels, this might be for you :3 Feel free to blame @fickle-tiction for this entire thing, teehee.

Summary: Bruce gets hit by a spell that opens up all his past scars from the tiniest paper cut to the claw marks on his side. Every bullet wound, every stitched up scar ribs open and he thinks he might be dying. What's even worse is the look on Clark's face when he tries to cauterize every wound, apologizing over and over again as he does so.

[superbattrash]

SuperBat: I’m Fime

No, it’s not a typo. Bruce really is ‘fime’. He’s just a little feverish and may have fallen asleep on the floor. Good thing Clark is there to pick him up (metaphorically anyways. Stubborn Bat) 

For @fickle-tiction, because you’re working so hard and you deserve something nice - if you don’t like it, just sue me pls *wink wink* <3

Clark found Bruce in the cave, which wasn’t anything new despite the Kryptonian (along with every family of the bat family) having tried to convince Bruce to take at least one night a week off. What did worry Clark though – the sole reason he’d flown to Gotham in the first place, even if Alfred hadn’t called him – was the fact that Bruce’s heartbeat was slightly irregular, and he seemed to be having trouble breathing. To anyone else it would simply look like Bruce was breathing like a normal human being for once instead of his usual ninja-style of getting air into his lungs, but to Clark it was like an alarm had started blaring. Bruce never let anyone hear him in distress and that included Clark, so if the Bat let him hear his rasping breaths something must be really wrong.

Clark entered the cave and quickly found Bruce – on the floor next to his usual chair in front of the computer. He had one arm on the seat, like he’d tried pulling himself up but given up halfway.

“Bruce?” Clark asked carefully.

“What?” And only then did Clark realize that Bruce had been asleep. On the floor. He’d startled awake at Clark’s voice and the ‘what’ had been more grunt than word.

“What are you doing?” Slowly, like he was approaching a wounded animal, Clark settled his feet on the floor and walked closer.

“Working,” came Bruce’s hoarse voice. He still hadn’t looked up at Clark, not for the lack of effort. It seemed his chin was too heavy for him to lift off his chest.

Clark crouched down and tilted his head to look into Bruce’s eyes. His face was flushed, and his eyes were glassy. A mild fever at the very least.

“On the floor?”

“What’s it to you?” Ah, defensive. He was feeling really bad then.

“You don’t look too good, B,” Clark said gently. He reached out to grab Bruce’s arm but was swapped away. Bruce’s hits could never really hurt him but usually he could at least feel them. This one felt mostly like a weak kitten batting at his hand.

“Yea, well, you’re not – you’re also – I dom’t like you either,” Bruce mumbled as he shuffled away from Clark’s hands.

“You – you ‘dom’t’?” Clark pressed his lips together to keep from laughing. It seemed Bruce had a stuffy nose as well.

“Shut up.” There was no bite to Bruce’s words and even if there had been, his red cheeks and wet eyes didn’t really make an intimidating image.

“Let’s get you up and into bed,” Clark said softly, finally grabbing hold of Bruce’s arms. There was a bit of a struggle, but it didn’t take long before Bruce was back on his (very wobbly) legs. As soon as Clark let go he started tilting to one side and so despite Bruce’s protests, Clark kept a tight grip on his arm.

“I can take care of myself, I’m not dying,” Bruce said. Whined, more like. The fact that the only reason Bruce would allow himself to be helped was if he was dying was a discussion for another day, Clark decided as he wound his arm around Bruce’s waist. He pointedly ignored how Bruce’s entire torso tightened with the touch.

“You clearly can’t, look at where you’re sitting,” Clark couldn’t help but comment.

Bruce turned his head to glare at him before turning his eyes downwards, where his feet were moving very slowly across the floor.

“Alfred can help,” he muttered even as he kept walking with Clark’s help.

“I gave Alfred the day off.”

“You did what?” Bruce whipped his head around again, an angry frown on his face. Or it would’ve looked angry, might’ve even had Clark let go, if it wasn’t for the sweat gathering at his temples and the way he squinted against the lights. It didn’t really help that Bruce was sniffling every other minute to clear his nostrils either.

“He had tickets to a show, and he explicitly told me you wouldn’t let him help,” Clark shrugged before hoisting more of Bruce’s weight onto himself. He started walking towards the stairs again.

“I –“

“Are you calling Alfred a liar, Bruce?” Clark raised his eyebrows in a clear challenge.  

And of course, Bruce would never call Alfred a liar (not even if the man would never find out. Bruce wasn’t scared of him but there was something all-knowing in the Englishman’s eyes, he couldn’t risk it), but he might be inclined to call him a traitor. Just this once.

Instead of answering vocally Bruce sneered silently. He did, however, allow Clark to drag his feverish body mostly by himself up the stairs and into his bedroom. Clark dumped him on the bed and went to the washroom to grab tissues.

When he returned, Bruce was swaying silently from side to side, trying his very best not to fall back into the bed, even though he’d never wanted anything more in his life. His headache had been building for days and he couldn’t think properly with a stuffed nose and sore throat. But he was Batman, damn it, he didn’t have time to be sick.

Clark reached out with something white in his hand and Bruce reared back with a frown. A tissue. Clark wanted to blow his nose. Oh hell no.

“I’m not a child,” Bruce snapped as he ripped the tissue from Clark’s hand. The Kryptonian crossed his arms over his chest as Bruce blew his nose. He very patiently held the trashcan out towards him. He then waited for Bruce to throw the tissue out before speaking.

“Stop acting like one then,” he said as he put the trashcan next to the bed.

Bruce muttered something under his breath and Clark rolled his eyes. It was a testament to how out of it Bruce was, that he’d forgotten Clark would be able to hear his mutter of ‘give me the kryptonite and we’ll see who the baby is’. It was also one of the weakest threats Clark had ever heard from the Dark Knight, so instead of responding he merely grabbed the hem of Bruce’s shirt and pulled it over his head.

“Let’s get you out of these clothes –“

“I’m fime,” Bruce interrupted as he swatted weakly at Clark’s hands.

“Yea sure,” Clark sighed deeply. “No matter how ‘fime’ you are, you’ve got a fever. You need to rest.”

“Just gimme the— the thingy— the nose thingy—” Bruce struggled for words as he pointed towards the nightstand where the nose spray was located. A few sprays and he’d be good as new. He couldn’t let Tim patrol alone.

“Bruce, Christ, you are in no position to bark orders,” Clark said as he pushed Bruce back against the covers. “Now lie down and let me take care of you.”

And huh. That wasn’t typically how their arguments went. Usually Clark’s tone was “please do as I say or I will cry”, not “do as I’ll say, or I’ll make you cry”. And, okay, that wasn’t too bad. If only Bruce could get enough air into his lungs to suggest a better use of Clark’s mouth. Maybe later. After a nap.

Not because Clark said so, but because Bruce decided on his own that a nap was a good idea. Obviously.

[superbattrash]

SuperBat: I’d rather you broke my ribs again

Hi, my name’s Misha and my brain responds well to being poked with a stick. In this case the stick is @fickle-tiction. Thanks for being my fav stick, this one’s for you, my dear. It got a little out of hand, sorry. ENJOY THO

Oh and this was of course inspired by fickle’s post here. 

Rated rrrrrrrauwr for (0.2 mentions of) sexiness and also tickles. ur welcome  

As far as first times went... it hadn't been half bad. It hadn’t been bad at all, actually, but Bruce wasn’t about to tell Clark that. The Kryptonian was already looking far too pleased with himself. He had good reason to, obviously. What with Bruce panting like a dog, rolled onto his side with his limps spread all over the bedsheets. He couldn’t find it in himself to give a damn though, he was spent.

Bruce fancied himself quite the passionate lover, but it wasn’t every day that you had Superman in your bed. He told himself it wasn’t that different from his other endeavors but even if he ignored the constant warmth (”They’re not butterflies, Alfred, I am not a child.”) in his body when Clark was near, he couldn’t deny that being with Clark was incredible.

There were just no limits to him, which Bruce usually found slightly annoying (okay, so a lot annoying, sue him for being the only actual human on the team, jealousy’s a human emotion). He’d admit that it was quite the feast in bed though – not out loud, of course, he wasn’t about to give Clark the satisfaction.

Speaking of Clark… The Kryptonian had finally finished cleaning them both off (“Just let me do this for you, B, it’s no big deal.” The stupid grin on his face said otherwise though) and settled behind Bruce in the large bed.

Bruce shuffled back discreetly. It’s not like he wanted to cuddle, but the bed was soft, and Clark was warm and – finally, strong arms wound around him. He made sure to grunt in displeasure, just to make a point. Clark shouldn’t expect this every time they’d had sex. Because oh boy, they were going to have a lot of sex if Bruce had any say. And Batman usually had a say in everything.

Clark snuggled closer, pillowing his head on his own arm while the other settled on Bruce’s hip. He then let his fingers trail lightly over Bruce’s side, around to the sensitive skin of his stomach. He enjoyed the feeling of Bruce’s skin, soft and warm and close.

Bruce sucked in a quick breath as the fingertips grazed just below his bellybutton, his stomach jumping slightly under Clark’s hand. A hand, which very quickly stopped moving.

“Are you okay?” Clark asked, worry clear in his voice, as he moved far enough away to look Bruce over. He didn’t need to move to inspect Bruce’s body, they both knew that, but the human habits ran deep in the corn-fed farm boy.

“I’m fine,” Bruce said, trying not to pout at losing Clark’s heat on his back.

“Where are you hurt?”

Bruce rolled his eyes. You forget to mention a minor injury one time (”Your ribs are broken, Bruce, how is this minor?!”) and suddenly his words weren’t enough of a reassurance. It had been an accident too; Clark hadn’t meant to shove Bruce out of the way as hard as he did.

“I’m fine,” he repeated as he turned around to face Clark, cursing his wobbly limps. “Just a bit ticklish, that’s all.” He hoped the slight annoyance on his face was enough to convince the invulnerable man lying next to him.

“Oh?” Was all Clark said in response.

Bruce should’ve known from the tone of Clark’s voice that something was up. He should’ve noticed the shit-eating grin growing on Clark’s face, but he wasn’t in his sharpest state of mind, alright? He’d just had his mind (amongst other things) blown; he needed an extra 0.3 seconds to recognize Clark’s smile as a mischievous one. To be fair Bruce wasn’t used to anyone looking at him like that, like he was some amusing puzzle. At galas and events, sure, with other partners in bed, absolutely, but those looks had always been mixed with lust, with a hint of wanting something from him. Clark’s eyes weren’t burning with the need to make him submit or take something from him - though Bruce wouldn’t have minded either if he was completely honest - it was just… an almost childlike excitement.

“Ticklish you say?”

“Yes,” Bruce said, finally catching on to Clark’s tone of voice. He instinctively tried to move away from the Man of Steel, but it was too late.

Being ticklish for Bruce meant... nothing, really. It meant sharp intakes of breath every seventh year or so when someone accidentally touched him too lightly in certain spots. It happened so rarely he hadn’t even thought up a contingency plan - which was the dumbest decision he’d ever made, if you asked him now.

Because Clark was relentless.

And those big, stupid hands of his could get in everywhere.

They were at his sides, in his armpits, being squished between his shoulder and cheek as he tried to hide his neck. Bruce couldn’t remember the last time he’d giggled, let alone squealed like this out loud. Clark found places he was ticklish Bruce hadn’t even known about. Who the hell’s ticklish in the palm of their hand?! The big brute even went as far as to pinch the thin skin on the inside of Bruce’s thighs and wasn’t that an experience he never wanted to relive?

“When was the last time anyone tickled you?” Clark teased as he pinned Bruce down with the weight of his body.

“N-never!” Bruce forced out through gritted teeth. He wasn’t going to allow Clark to humiliate him like this, but he could feel his cheeks reddening from holding back his laughter and there were actual tears in his eyes.

“Aw, I’m your first? That’s very romantic, B.”

“I will ki-hi-hi-hi-hi, I will kill you!” He spat, trying and failing to roll out from underneath the large body currently pushing him into the mattress. He’d enjoyed that particular feeling much more earlier in the evening. But then again, Clark hadn’t been shoving his hands in Bruce’s armpits back then.

“Yea, sure, you’re real intimidating right now,” Clark rolled his eyes fondly as he wiggled his fingers. “So scary, I’m nearly shaking. Oh wait, that’s you.”

“Shut u-hu-hu-hup!” Bruce laughed.

“Why don’t you make me?” Clark countered.

It’s not like Bruce didn’t try. But what can you really do against a 200-something pound mountain of an alien sitting on top of you? He didn’t stand a chance.

Somewhere between Clark grabbing at the back of his knees – and wouldn’t it be glorious if only Bruce’s knee would actually break his damn nose and not shatter his own kneecap? – and attacking a spot at the nape of his neck Bruce was suddenly enveloped in a memory he’d long since forgotten. Clark wasn’t the first one to tickle him relentlessly. His mom was.

Sudden warmth spread through him as echoes of his own childish laughter rung out through the mansion sounded in his mind. The memory had Bruce forget to cover and Clark took the opportunity to wiggle his fingers over his stomach again.

“Cl- Cla-ahahaha-ark! Stop!”

“Ask nicely,” Clark said in a singsong voice.

“I can’t -” Bruce erupted in another fit of giggles, effectively cutting off his words. “-breathe!” He wasn’t being dramatic (okay, maybe a little), he really did have a hard time catching his breath, but Clark didn’t seem too worried.

“You’ll power through it,” the Kryptonian teased.

“Ple-he-he-he-he-hease,” Bruce finally got out.

Despite his earlier almost-promise to stop, it was only when fat tears started rolling down Bruce’s heated cheeks that Clark let up in his torture.

Gasping for air Bruce shoved the other man off him – silently grateful that Clark actually moved – and threw himself on the other side of the bed, trying to get enough air into his lungs to stop panting.

“You’re very pretty when you laugh,” Clark commented with a smile. Bruce wanted to punch him. He didn’t want to risk breaking his hand (again) though.

“I hate you,” he said instead.

“No, you don’t.”

“I do,” he insisted even as the corner of his mouth struggled to turn up stubbornly. Damn. He couldn’t even keep his glare in place when Clark was looking at him like he hung the moon. 

“You don’t. You enjoy my company. And my tickles.” As if to prove his point Clark grabbed his ankle and held his hand threateningly over Bruce’s foot.

“I’d rather you broke my ribs again.”

“Drama queen.” Bruce grunted in reply and Clark continued: “You know that was an accident.”

“This wasn’t.”

“No, this was fun.”

“I will end you,” Bruce muttered as he pulled his ankle out of Clark’s grip.

“Come on then, scaredy-bat.”

Round two didn’t actually end up involving kryptonite or more tickling but it did leave quite a mess for them to clean up. It didn’t worry Bruce though; they had all the time in the world. There’s no need to rush when your boyfriend has superspeed.  And if he held Clark extra close that night while fond memories of his parents filled his dreams, well, no one had to know. 

(Not about the tickling either, Bruce would literally kill Clark if he told anyone)

(Clark didn’t know how Diana suddenly knew about Bruce’s secret spot, he really didn’t) 

[superbattrash]

Me @ me: you gotta do the last read through of your short story. there are deadlines, other people and a legit publisher to consider

The devil on my shoulder, sounding suspiciously like @fickle-tiction: but have you considered the thought of not doing the actual important work and instead spend the day typing superbat nonsense?

[superbattrash]

It's Bruce Wayne's birthday??? Oh wow. If only there was someone with a superbat trash blog that could honor that in some way. That sure would be neat

you????? This???? I’m????

This!!!! This is a personal attack?! I will not be bullied!!!!!! How daaaaaaaare you 😱😱😱

..now if you’ll excuse me, I have some superbat trash to write seeing as it is Bruce Wayne’s birthday and you jUST POKED MY BRAIN AGAIN, YOU CHEATING BRAIN-POKER

[superbattrash]

Me: if you’re sick, stay in bed and sleep

My brain: superbat

Me: fine you can read fics if you wanna but then sleep

My brain: 👉🏼👈🏼🥺

Me:

My brain: 🥺🥺🥺

Me: jeSUS. OK, fine. Go write superbat in the living room. BUT WE’RE NOT PUTTING ON PANTS

[tickle-bugs]

Justice League Headcanons

So...yeah. Blame @fickle-tiction and @fanficsandfluff but I can’t get JL out of my head. I know next to nothing in terms of canon and I only enjoy a handful of DC movies, so this is the beginning of what I am calling the BEU (Bug Extended Universe). 

Essentially, in the words of Nick Fury, ‘I recognize your canon, but seeing as it’s a stupid-ass canon, I have elected to ignore it :)’. A mish-mash of everything I’ve learned about DC through osmosis and my own personal vibe checks :)

This is absurdly long so everything is under the cut:

Clark Kent

- Superman? NO, Superdork. 

- He’s extremely clumsy. If he wasn’t as fast as a speeding bullet he’d get his ass handed to him ten times over. He has two left feet. 

- He has a sweet tooth like no one’s business. Lois once found him perched on the kitchen counter at 3 am eating the donuts she brought home from work. 

- Super playful and affectionate! King of bear hugs! Country boy I love youuuuuuu

- Curses like a sailor. Do you really think Clark ‘Smallville, Kansas’ Kent is wholesome? He stubbed his toe once and yelled FUCK so loud that the windows vibrated. Everyone who isn’t in the league thinks he’s a boyscout but the league knows the truth. 

- Forgets about his powers a lot. He has been known to run through walls/take doors off their hinges when he’s excited. 

- Goblin. He loves messing with Bruce and roping Barry into his schemes. 

- Clark being ticklish is actually smth that can be so personal? His laugh is so loud and he always goes ‘sorry’ and tries to be quieter but it does NOT work. He has flight instincts more than fight instincts so he often starts unconsciously floating away when he’s tickled it’s so cute. He giggles a lot and he’s not particularly embarrassed by it.

- Do NOT get me started on ler Clark I could write a dissertation. He is SO playful and teasy but also sweet? He definitely is the type to laugh along with his lee. He definitely allows any sort of retaliation/fighting back like,,, if you manage to crawl away it’s because he let you, and if he wants too, he can be very mean and immovable.

- Bruce and Barry are his favorite targets. He doesn’t go after Diana because, frankly, he doesn’t have a death wish. He loves to cause problems on purpose by squeezing Arthur’s side and then blaming it on Barry. (Hal Jordan isn’t in the DCEU Justice League but I wish he was...they’d be partners in crime <3)

Bruce Wayne

- Okay let’s clarify some things: he’s not actually an asshole. He can be abrasive and snarky but he’s more towards the sarcastic gruff side vs straight-up mean.

- A lot of people think he’s genuinely an asshole/disconnected rich guy because he has a terrible habit of zoning out/interrupting people? Bruce actually just has intense ADHD that he refuses to get diagnosed, no matter how much Alfred pushes him. He doesn’t care what people think about him and he’s mostly learned how to manage it, so he leaves it alone.

- That being said, his friendship with Barry has me :’) Yes, he thinks Barry’s a pest (affectionate), but they share a few science-related hyperfixations (robotics, chemical engineering, etc). They can frequently be found holed up in the Batcave with a week’s worth of food and caffeine, and they’re just....tinkering. Watching them at work is amazing because as much as they annoy each other, they respect each other :)

- He’s 100% a cat person. He doesn’t have a problem with dogs, he just prefers cats. He feeds the strays that hang out around the Manor all the time...

-...which Alfred begs him not to do, because Bruce is severely allergic. He thinks he can power through the allergies until one of the stray cats does the face-headbump thing and he’s incapacitated emotionally and physically for the rest of the day. 

- He severely restrains his emotions but like...catch him on a good day or in a good mood and he’ll smile and laugh, especially in friendly company. He just generally believes in maintaining a poker face so no one can read him. 

- Not to be disrespectful but...thighs. I am Looking. 

- Bruce has a wonderful laugh. He’s not much of a giggler tbh but he has this open, clear, slightly scratchy kinda laugh (his voice is permanently hoarse from the Batman Voice). It’s so lovely. He has a habit of covering his mouth bc he’s embarrassed of his smile but if he finds something very funny he’ll laugh openly. 

- Thee Batman is ticklish and he...doesn’t hate it? Like of course he protests ten ways from Sunday but he more minds the ‘guys stop you’re ruining my dark and brooding facade’ bit. He hates being teased though and he will throw hands. 

- Circling back to the emotions thing, he’s very good at controlling his reactions, which means he has thoroughly convinced everyone he’s not ticklish. Except Clark, stupidly perceptive Clark, because he can hear Bruce’s heartbeat and see the way he clenches his jaw to avoid smiling. 

Diana Prince

- WIFEY!!!!! 

- Diana is hilarious okay? She’s just...so fucking funny. Her jokes never miss. You wouldn’t think she’s the quippy type, but she is, and she’s damn good at it. In a distant alternate universe, Peter Parker senses a rival. 

- Loves fresh fruit, but especially strawberries? She makes frequent trips to the local farmer’s market. 

- She also has a raging sweet tooth. She and Clark work together to steal sweets and buy snacks. 

- Will not back down from a challenge, ever. It’s kinda a problem.

- She has such a sweet laugh :’) It’s so bouncy and melodic and she scrunches her nose. She WILL snort and it’s the cutest thing ever. Yes she’s ticklish, but no one gets more than five seconds of laughter out of her before she turns the tables. 

- World’s meanest ler. Not only is she frequently on the prowl, she is near-ruthless, especially if she’s been baited. Once she sets her sights on someone, she won’t rest until she’s heard their laugh. 

- Diana is very mischievous and loves hearing her friends laugh. It’s impossible to be in her vicinity for more than five minutes without at LEAST a few pokes. She is not above just,,, random tickles either. 

- Nails. That is all. 

Arthur Curry

- Why are his tiddies always out? Someone please explain.

- The most targeted for pranks ever. Diana especially. Something about him just attracts goblinism. 

- He’s coming for Clark’s bear hugger crown. He picks people up so often that they’re just used to it now. 

- Playfighting and roughhousing is his love language. He absolutely loves wrestling with anyone who’ll humor him. He and Diana frequently tussle because they’re both good sports about it (Bruce is a little bit of a sore loser. Just a smidge). 

- Thinks he can get away with anything, which is decidedly not true. He just nopes his way out of the room and everyone’s like D:< get back here and atone for your sins!!! But Arthur’s already in the Pacific Ocean. 

- I like to think he’s ticklish, just not super ticklish y’know? He probably has a couple hidden spots that make him lose it though. Like he’ll definitely laugh and fall over, but he can and will fight back. Oh boy, will he fight back. 

- Batman: No fear.

Diana and Arthur sneaking up behind him:

Batman: One fear. 

- Y’know that picture of Jason Momoa sneaking up behind Henry Cavill on the red carpet? That is extremely relevant. Arthur loves to sneak up behind people and just...take them down. 

- Thinks Barry is annoying (affectionate) and the two of them are constantly chasing each other around. Barry is fast but Arthur’s strong (and wayy less ticklish than Barry)

- Physical affection!! He always has his arms around someone’s shoulders or something. He’s just a touchy kind of guy :)

Barry Allen

- Speedy boy! ADHD king! Sometimes his thoughts are also at superspeed, which means he talks way too fast and no one can understand him? But Bruce speaks fluent Barry and he translates often (though not without a labored sigh beforehand). 

- Physically affectionate but casual about it? He likes to play with people’s hands while he’s talking, bump shoulders with whoever he’s next to, etc. He doesn’t really realize he does it either. It’s not uncommon for him to be talking to Clark or Diana and they just...unconsciously give him their hand before he reaches for it.

- Okay so y’know how Bruce feeds the strays? Who do you think lets them in the first place? Barry has tried to adopt every stray he comes across, and when Alfred inevitably says no, Barry runs them to the shelter himself :’)

- Gifting is his love language!!! If he sees anything that remotely reminds him of his friends, he brings it to them. 

- He likes to hang out with Victor because he’s quiet, but doesn’t mind when Barry rambles, which he tends to do quite often. Barry will catch himself rambling and trail off, but Victor will encourage him to keep going, because he’s listening. 

- Thee Pillsbury Doughboy. Just these high-pitched, bouncy, frantic giggles that only get worse and eventually morph into cackles. He hiccups a lot too :’)

- Okay so he’s not a flailer but he’s super squirmy. Barry will cling onto his ler’s arms just to hold onto something. He kicks his legs too (he does this when he’s not being tickled either, if he laughs and he’s sitting somewhere he kicks). He also just constantly tries to crawl away. If he isn’t pinned down he will drag himself to safety. He also has a habit of curling up :’)

- Absolutely invented the speed-tickle. He actually doesn’t often use his powers (unless he’s chasing down Clark, because Clark isn’t above breaking the sound barrier to escape). He’s just got incredible hand-eye coordination and precision. His hands will be absolutely everywhere and he is so teasy about it. 

- Tries not to start fights he can’t finish, but he always gets roped into Clark’s mischief and gets targeted with revenge tickles. 

- He has tickled Clark once. It was incredible, amazing, showstopping, spectacular. Literally his crowning achievement. Did Clark absolutely destroy him afterwards? Yes, but it was so worth it. 

Victor Stone

- Quiet and stoic, but he’s always preferred listening and interjecting with a joke or two. 

- Closest with Barry and Diana, but he’s making an effort to bond with everyone.

- Unfortunately not ticklish :( I like to think soft touches on his face will make him smile and lean away, but it’s not going to get a laugh from him.

- Doesn’t often get involved in tickly shenanigans, but when he does, he surprises everyone with how much fun he has. A different, warmer side of him comes out when he’s among his friends.

- He’s a hugger! Definitely awkward about it, but he loves hugs and just...holding his friends. 

- He collects hoodies. He can’t really feel them when he’s wearing them, but he likes them and the idea of it. Barry seems to slip him a new hoodie every week. Victor has no idea where he gets them from but he’s not complaining. 

- He is an enabler. He will look at Bruce like :| “no, I don’t know where Barry and Clark are, nor do I no what they’re planning” But they’re literally right behind Bruce, about to squeeze his sides. 

- That being said, he won’t do that with Diana. If she asks where they are, he’ll subtly nod his head in their direction. Even in jest, he will never lie to her. Which makes him Thee person to avoid when Diana’s on her mischievous streaks.

[tickle-bugs]

Change of Pace (1/3)

Part one of what shall be known as the pining Jim trilogy. @fickle-tiction I hope you enjoy this because I had so much fun writing it. Thanks for the help, lovely.

Anon asked: Hi! Love your work. Do you also write Star Trek fics? TOS or AOS? And if so, would you care to write some ticklish!Bones? I just love this adorable grump being made to laugh. 🥰

Summary:  Bones takes Jim with him to Georgia and inadvertently gives Jim a few more reasons to love him. Part two here.

Jim was distraught.

He didn’t like to think of himself as desperate or needy (though anyone who knew him would disagree), but he was so overwhelmed by despair that appearances had long since gone out the window. 

Bones was leaving. Granted, it was just for a few days, but the thought of it made Jim’s heart sink to his toes. He wasn’t built for solitude and no matter how much he pretended to be tough, he needed company like a man needed air. Bones was his company.

“So, you’re actually going?” Jim cringed at the way his voice cracked. He leaned against Bones’s door frame, trying to play it cool. 

“You’re surprised I’m taking you up on your offer?” Bones raised an eyebrow as he clicked his suitcase shut. He had put on a nice navy button-down and some slacks, which was far too distracting. 

“No, no,” Jim trailed off, letting a dismissive hand punctuate his sentence. Bones paused, sitting on the bed and fixing Jim with that fond look of amusement that made his insides flutter.

“Jim, if you don’t want me to go, then say so.” Oh, how badly he wanted to speak up. 

“What? Why wouldn’t I want you to go?” Jim resented the way his voice jumped two whole octaves.

“You tell me. You’re the one pouting like a damn kicked puppy.” Bones looked far too smug, and all Jim could do to defend himself was petulantly cross his arms.

“I’m not pouting. This is my captain face.” Jim tried to morph his expression into one of stern heroism, but he only ended up pouting more. He truly couldn’t help it. 

The Enterprise had been on its way to a planet not far from the Terran system, so Jim allowed for a quick unofficial shore leave. Plenty of the crew stayed aboard, what with Earth not being their home. Jim suspected that they were hiding from Starfleet, who would likely pester all of them with administrative duties on what should be a break. Jim didn’t blame them. Technically, he was hiding too.

Bones heard about the leave and lit up like a kid on Christmas. He found Jim in seconds and asked to go home with that mile-wide grin reserved only for private moments, like when Jim was pinching his knees. Jim sent him away with a grunt and a nod, pretending to be absorbed in random maps so he wouldn’t have to see the way that Bones’s eyes crinkled in delight. 

But now, with Bones standing in front of him, he couldn’t run from the fact that he’d be without his best friend for nearly a week. Shit.

“Jim,” Bones said, moving close enough that Jim could smell his cologne, “Tell me what’s wrong.”

“It’s not that I don’t want you to go. I don’t want to be alone,” Jim murmured, feeling impossibly small. He knew he wasn’t alone on the Enterprise, but Bones understood. He always understood.

“Come with me.”

“Really?”

“You have twenty minutes to pack or I’m leaving your ass here. Don’t forget your toothbrush.” 

Jim sprinted for the door and tripped on his way out, nearly slamming his face into the floor, but he was up and running again before Bones could say a word. 

                                                     -.-.-.-.-.-.-

“Welcome to Casa de McCoy. Behave, please.”

“Why? Or you’ll kick my ass?” Jim grinned, cheeky as always. Bones simply smirked.

“No, my mother will.” And with that he opened the door, inviting Jim inside.

The house was lovely. It was vintage, styled after cozy family dwellings in the 21st century. A plush couch sat in front of a fireplace and holoscreen displaying the weather. The smell of fruit and warm bread wafted from somewhere, filling the room with a sense of home rarely felt.

“Lenny, is that you?” Called a warm voice from the back of the house somewhere. 

“Yes, ma! Be there in a sec,” Bones yelled, his accent coming in a little thicker. 

“I’ll take the bags. Take your shoes off and leave your jacket there. She’s very, uh, particular about tradition.” Bones smiled in that bashful way one does when trying to explain for someone they’re fond of. Jim obliged, watching Bones’s back as he disappeared upstairs. He didn’t move until Bones came back downstairs, sighed, and forcibly escorted an effectively shell-shocked Jim into the kitchen.

Bones had been in Jim’s life for years, but Jim had never been this intimately acquainted with his personal life. Now it was here, the history of Bones was in the walls, the floor, the rug, and Jim could do nothing but stare. It was like meeting him all over again.

“Ma, this is Jim. Jim, this is–“ 

“Joan McCoy. I’ve heard a lot about you.” She stuck her hand out to shake and Jim took it gingerly, wincing at the strength of her grip. Joan McCoy was a fierce and gorgeous individual who didn’t seem to agree with the word ‘age’. If Jim met her on the street, he never would’ve guessed that she was a mother, let alone the mother of his best friend.

After analyzing her face for a moment, he retracted that latter statement, because anyone with working eyes could see that Bones and his mother were identical, down to the crinkles in their eyes and the dimples in their cheeks. 

“Nothing too bad, I hope.” 

“All good things, I’m afraid. Grumpy here wouldn’t spill a single juicy secret.” She winked and Jim felt a weight lift off of his shoulders. She liked him. The legendary Joan McCoy was fond of him, and somehow that made everything okay. 

“Not one? I may have underestimated your loyalty, Bones.” Jim elbowed Bones in the arm.

“Keep it up and you’ll be sleeping on the couch.”

“Be nice,” Joan chided, goosing Bones’s side, “Jim is our guest. If anyone will be sleeping on the couch, it’s you, Lenny.”

Jim wanted to chime in, but he was far too focused on the way that Bones jumped when Joan poked him. There was a fleeting smile, those dimples, and then he seemed almost embarrassed, which was not an emotion that Jim associated with Bones-

Oh.

It took everything in his power to restrain the devious smile that threatened to rise to his lips and it took even more to stop staring at Bones’s sides. 

“Daddy!” A neon pink whirlwind sprinted into the kitchen and leapt at Bones with impressive force.

“Hey Peanut! Jesus, you’re getting big,” Bones scooped the child up and kissed her forehead, beaming with pride only a doting parent could hold. She was small, maybe six or seven, with a head of curly brown hair that seemed to fill the whole room. She was wearing a version of the Starfleet Uniform, complete with a plastic badge, but in pink. Jim couldn’t help but smile at that.

“Joanna, do you remember when I told you about Uncle Jim?”

“The really cool space captain?” Bones chuckled.

“Mhm. Look,” He said softly, tilting his head towards Jim. When Joanna saw him, she gasped so loudly that Jim flinched.

“It’s you!”

“Uh, hi.” Jim waved awkwardly, heavily unsure of how to greet a child. Joanna wriggled out of her father’s arms and ran to Jim, clutching his pant leg. He swore there were literal stars in her hazel eyes as she gazed up at him in awe.

“Tell me everything. I wanna know about all your adventures, and the aliens you’ve fought, and the aliens you’ve made friends with, and-”

“How about,” Joan said, patting her granddaughter on the head, “we eat dinner, and you pester Uncle Jim later. He’ll be staying with us for a little while.” 

“Okay! But you owe me a story, mister!” Joanna struck a sassy pose before darting upstairs, gone as quickly as she came.

“I hope you’re hungry, boys. I haven’t made a large meal in a while and I may have gone a bit overboard.”

“You know I’ll eat anything you make, Ma.”

“Don’t worry, Mrs. McCoy. I can eat.”

“Please, call me Joan.”

And so they ate, and they talked, and they laughed, and Jim learned. He learned that the house had been in the family for nearly three generations and that they kept making minor upgrades to keep the design ‘relevant’ and keep the housing commission off their backs. He learned that Joanna was named after Joan because Bones wanted to raise her as strongly as Joan had raised him. He learned that, as a child, Bones had wanted to be a veterinarian, but his father had forcibly steered him towards traditional medicine.

Later, when they both retired to the guest room, Jim was still reeling over how much of Bones’s private world he’d gotten to witness. 

“Jim, go to sleep,” Bones grumbled, long-since snuggled into his pillow. They were sharing a bed because Jim couldn’t sleep alone since his near-death experience with Khan, and Bones secretly didn’t mind having someone to hold. It was their normal, which truly didn’t help the way Jim’s heart leapt into his throat every time the two of them were together.

“Hey Bones? Thank you.”

“For?” Bones rolled over to face Jim with lidded eyes, who nearly audibly gasped at the way Bones’s hair had been ruffled by the pillow. A couple strands fell on his forehead, free from their usual gel, and Jim’s fingers ached to brush them away. 

“Letting me tag along. Your life is…” He trailed off, knowing Bones would understand.

“Sure. They would’ve mistaken you for a lost child on the Enterprise with how much you were pouting, so I figured I could do Child Services a favor.” Bones cracked open one eye with a smirk.

“Oh, is that so?” Jim’s eyes trailed to Bones’s waist, which was perfectly blanket-free and accessible. Bingo.

“Mhm,” Bones sighed, his eyes fluttering shut. His breathing began to even out as he settled down again. That’s when Jim struck. 

“Jim, what–“ That was all Bones could say before Jim was squeezing his sides like there was no tomorrow. Bones dissolved into loud laughter, flipping over onto his back in a poor attempt to escape. Jim pounced, pinning Bones to the mattress with his weight and his fingers, which had migrated to Bones’s stomach.

“Stop it, you ahahass!” Bones lightly shoved at Jim’s chest, too uncoordinated from sleep to properly defend himself. Jim took the raised arms as an invitation and spidered under Bones’s arms, beaming as the doctor’s laugh morphed into hysterical giggles. He drank in the sound and wished he could hear it forever. 

Now this was familiar. The playfulness served as a safe island where Jim could forget his hopeless attraction and discomfort in favor of teasing. Granted, it was usually Jim underneath Bones, but Jim knew a good opportunity when he saw one and by god this was it. 

“Take it back and I’ll stop,” Jim sing-songed, relishing in the sweetness of Bones’s genuine smile. 

“Nehehever!” Bones managed to say in between giggles and twitches. Jim chuckled, his fingers migrating down to Bones’s hips, which were infinitely more sensitive. Bones shrieked and his laugh stuck at that pitch, squeaky and intercut with wheezes.

“Sweet spot, huh?” Jim mused, but Bones couldn’t speak for laughing. His head was thrown back into the pillow and his legs were desperately pushing into the mattress in an attempt to escape. Bones’s arms, which were still free, were flailing rather uselessly. He’d reached a new height of belly-laughter that echoed in the room, beautiful and unfiltered. Jim slowed down, not wanting the fun to end just yet.

“James Tiberius Kirk, your life ends today–“ Bones pointed a threatening finger at Jim which was severely undercut by his mile-wide grin. Jim slapped Bones’s hand away. 

“Don’t start with me, Leonard. Are you ready to apologize?” 

“You’re a bastard. I’m never fixing you up again.” Bones threw an arm over his face as he remembered how to breathe. 

“Hey, respect your Captain!” Jim staccato poked at Bones’s stomach, dodging more flailing hands and pulling forth more sweet giggles. 

“Okay, Captain Bastard.” Bones said tiredly, smirking as he peeked out from under his arm. Jim gasped indignantly.

“I liked you better when you were laughing.” Jim scooted down to sit on Bones’s calves, dragging the blanket with him. He wiggled his fingers on, around, and under Bones’s knees, making sure to reach up and squeeze his thighs every once in a while. He only stopped because Bones was turning a concerning shade of red and his laugh was nearly silent. 

“You’re a damn pest,” Bones muttered in a gravelly tone that made Jim’s heart rate spike. That really wasn’t fair. 

“I’m your pest.” Jim beamed and Bones sighed, reaching up to ruffle Jim’s hair. He then shoved Jim off of him and back onto the bed, making sure to sneak in a few quick pokes to Jim’s ribs.

“Yes you are. Now, can I get some fucking sleep?”

“Goodnight, Bones.” Jim burrowed into his pillow with a hidden smile.

“Goodnight, Jim.” Bones threw an arm over Jim’s shoulders, gently tracing patterns until they both succumbed to sleep.