#I blame fickle-tiction

[august-anon]

Training Montage

#AugTickletober2024 Days 13 & 14, Win & Lose

My first tickletober fic of the year, and my first time exploring writing with DC characters! I have been. Hyperfixating on the batfamily (which has broadened to a far larger amount of DC characters now and continues to grow, i will never escape DC lol) since like. June. So this has been a long time coming skjdfhdf

Also this fic features FULLY PLATONIC AND NOT WEIRD parent-child tickles so if that's not your thing this is not your fic!

You can blame this fic on that one quick scene in BTAS episodes Robin's Reckoning where Dick and Bruce are fencing and then start goofing off, and also the part with Bruce and Jason in @/fickle-tiction's fic For Old Time's Sake.

Also, disclaimer: i have only consumed so much canon media, very little of it so far being comics and most of it being DCAU, so my current knowledge of a LOT of these characters is very fanon-based, so the characterization will also be very fanon-based

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Fandom: DC - Batfam

Ship(s): NONE/GEN/PLATONIC - under no circumstances is this Batcest

Characters (lee/ler): Switch!Bruce, Dick, Jason, Tim, and Damian

Word Count: 4609 words

Summary: Snippets of Bruce training with his sons over the years.

[ao3 link]

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Dick’s training was progressing exceptionally well. He had always been fast and agile thanks to his acrobatic upbringing, but he was quick to pick up the offensive and defensive maneuvers Bruce was trying to impart. Still, he was so young. Sometimes Bruce couldn’t help but wonder what he was doing, bringing a child into this life.

It became all too apparent in moments like these, where training suddenly switched from work into play with just a few of Dick’s childish giggles. Bruce couldn’t help the grin they brought to his own face, laughing a little himself as Dick dove into the open space between Bruce’s legs to evade a grapple.

“Okay, now you’re gonna get it,” he said.

Dick kept giggling, the laughter melting into a yelp as Bruce grabbed the edge of the training mat and yanked, sending Dick crashing down onto the plush surface. Bruce launched after him, wiggling fingers outstretched like weapons.

“No fair!” Dick shouted, his giggling bubbling up into full laughter as he tried to squirm away from the hands squeezing his sides. “You cheated!”

“Oh, yeah?” 

He tripped his fingers up to Dick’s ribs, laughing along as Dick flopped around like a fish out of water. It was adorable how uncoordinated Dick became when he was tickled, all that acrobatic control flying out the window. 

“Cheating cheater!” Dick screeched, kicking his legs and rolling onto his back to dislodge Bruce. All he accomplished was opening up his stomach for Bruce to target.

“You’ve got to learn to fight dirty, Dick,” Bruce said, trying to adopt the tone he often used to give corrections in training but falling closer to amused than anything. “A mugger on the street isn’t going to fight fair.”

“A mugger isn’t gonna tickle me, B!” He squealed as Bruce’s hands tried to sneak into his armpits, clamping his arms down tight as if it would do anything to keep Bruce out.

“Hmm, you never know.”

“B!”

Bruce’s own fond laughter was cut short as a small foot caught him in the jaw, sending him down to the floor. Dick really was improving, that kick packed way more punch than any ten year old should. That was definitely going to bruise.

“That’s what you get,” Dick said through his giggles. He sat up as they slowly petered out, eyeing Bruce’s prone form. “Uh, B? You good?”

Quick as lightning, Bruce shot a hand out to wrap around a tiny ankle. He shot Dick his best evil grin. “Not bad. But you’re going to regret that.”

Dick’s squeaky, childish laughter echoed throughout the Cave once more. 

_____

Training with Jason was tricky. When he’d first brought Jason to the Manor, they could hardly share a room without Jason bristling. If he made any sudden movements or showed any signs of anger, Jason tensed and shied away as if preparing for a strike, even if he kept up his hissing and spitting and posturing all the while.

It made sparring quite the issue when preparing Jason to take up the Robin mantle. Initially, Bruce thought it might’ve helped if Dick were around more often – Jason always seemed less wary of him, whether it was the fact that they were closer in age or something else, Bruce had no idea – but these days their arguments were explosive and often had Dick not speaking to him for weeks at a time. 

Unfortunately, as it turned out, Dick being present for training only added to the tension. 

“You need to tuck your legs more for that flip.”

“I fucking know–”

“Language, Jason.”

“Yeah, Jason, language.”

“I’ll show you language–”

“Boys!”

The two snapped their mouths shut, glaring at Bruce, and he had to resist the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose and sigh. Maybe Bruce should’ve thought through giving Jason the Robin mantle a little more carefully. Maybe it would’ve minimized the sniping by at least some amount.

“Perhaps we should switch to sparring, for now,” Bruce said. “Who wants to go first?”

Jason’s shoulders tightened almost imperceptibly. Unfortunately, due to Dick focusing more on his phone than training, Bruce was the only one to notice.

Dick scoffed. “Yeah, I don’t think so, you big fat cheater.”

Bruce shot Dick a look, but his eyes were still glued to his phone as he lounged across one of the benches. He forced himself to swallow his frustration. He promised Alfred that he’d try his best not to start a fight today – Alfred wanted a family dinner tonight, and Bruce couldn’t deny that the prospect sounded nice.

Bruce led Jason into a spar, both of them tight with tension. Dick split his attention between furiously texting – probably the Teen Titan’s group chat, if Bruce had to guess – and lazily watching their spar. Eventually they managed to settle into a sort of rhythm despite the tension thrumming through them, at least until Bruce brought attention to an open window in Jason’s defense. Of course, he would never hit his children, sparring or not, but instead of the usual controlled tap he would use on Jason, Bruce forgot himself for a moment and delivered a sneaky pinch to Jason’s side.

The squeal that echoed through the Cave’s training grounds got even Dick’s attention, his phone falling smack onto his nose as he fumbled it in surprise. Everyone froze, eyes wide. Jason blinked in Bruce’s direction for a moment before his cheeks flushed bright red, completely detracting from the scowl he twisted his face into.

“I’m not ticklish,” Jason stated, his voice as close to a growl as a pre-pubescent child could get.

It took all of Bruce’s Batman training to fight down his smile. “Of course not. No one said you were.”

Jason crossed his arms over his chest, shuffling his feet. “Good. Because I’m not.”

Dick leaned forward, almost rolling off the bench, a smug smile on his face. Bruce shot him a warning look, and the teasing expression melted into a pout. It seemed as though Bruce wasn’t the only one who got a lecture from Alfred.

“Bruce has always been a dirty cheat,” Dick said instead of whatever taunt he’d cut off. 

Jason turned and blinked at him.

Dick raised his eyebrows. “He’s always been a massive tickle monster.”

“Hey,” Bruce said. “From what I remember, there was a rambunctious little boy who often asked for the tickle monster.”

Dick scowled at him, his own cheeks turning red to match Jason’s. “I did no such thing.” He turned to Jason and shrugged. “He used to do it all the time, he hated pretending to hit me so he always tickled me instead.” His eyes flickered to Bruce for a moment, a smirk growing on his face. “Good thing you’re not ticklish then, huh, Jay?”

“... Right.”

Bruce guided Jason back into the spar. This time, Jason was noticeably looser and more focused. His body still carried some amount of that wary tension, but he was no longer eyeing Bruce like he was a cornered animal. When Jason’s guard slipped again, leaving the same window open, Bruce didn’t hesitate in his attack.

“You need to watch your left,” he instructed, reaching out and squeezing at Jason’s side once more.

Jason let out another loud squeal, making Dick laugh and Bruce fail to shove down another smile. Jason tripped over his own feet as he tried to scramble away and landed on the mat. Bruce followed him down, careful to kneel next to him and leave plenty of openings for Jason to escape if he felt trapped. He wiggled his fingers against Jason’s sides, breaking into a grin at the giggles it produced.

“Bruce!”

Bruce chuckled. “Yes, Jaylad?”

Jason kicked his feet out and curled into a ball as best as he could, but he didn’t roll away from Bruce’s hands or shout at him to stop. Bruce allowed his hands to converge on Jason’s stomach as he uncurled with another kick, earning himself a bout of loud laughter that he’d never heard Jason make before. Jason struggled to thrust a hand out, reaching in Dick’s direction.

“Dick, help me!”

Behind him, Bruce heard the bench shift and the unconscious hums Dick would make when he stretched out his muscles. Then, there was a battle cry and the thudding sound of feet against the training mats.

“I’ll save you, Jay!”

Bruce braced as Dick launched onto his back – DIck definitely wasn’t twelve anymore, and Bruce worried that he’d be feeling that one in the morning – and locked his arms around Bruce’s neck. Jason got a brief reprieve as Bruce flipped Dick over his shoulder, both of them laughing all the while. Dick smacked into the mats next to Jason with a wheeze, and Bruce waited a moment for him to get a breath in before he attacked once more, a set of wiggling fingers for each son.

Dick’s thrashing was chaotic as ever as he cackled, Bruce deciding to be a bit mean and sneak his fingers directly into Dick’s underarm. Jason curled into a giggling little ball once more, jolting as Bruce gently pinched up and down his ribcage.

“B! You asshole!” Dick shrieked.

Bruce laughed. “You brought this on yourself, chum.”

Training with Jason went a lot smoother from then on, and Dick even started coming by more often again – even if it was just to see Jason and avoid Bruce. They never did manage to perfect that double-team attack to get their revenge on Bruce.

_____

Bruce didn’t think he’d ever escape the guilt he felt over how Tim’s training began. He didn’t think he deserved to either, especially when he would find Tim training on his own, working himself to the point of exhaustion or injury in order to achieve perfection. Now that Bruce was in his right mind and would end their joint training sessions at a more reasonable point, Tim would get frustrated with him and slink off to bury himself in cases instead.

When they sparred, there were no taunting remarks, no dirty tactics designed to draw a laugh out of the Batman, no playfulness as they both began to tire out and call an unofficial end to training. Tim took it all so seriously, and it was all Bruce’s fault. He did this to the boy, and now he had to fix it. He couldn’t rely on Dick to fix all the issues his “emotional constipation” caused, no matter how appealing the idea seemed. 

Unfortunately, Bruce was not good with words, and it’s not like Tim would have been likely to listen to them anyways. Fortunately, he has another idea – it’s what made Jason eventually relax in regards to training, at least. Not that Tim was Jason. He was getting better at not making those comparisons anymore.

Though it was a bit hypocritical for him to condemn, Tim had arrived at training that day already noticeably overworked. His moves were sloppy (though sloppy for a Bat was not the same as sloppy for anyone else) and he was clearly frustrated with own mistakes and shortcomings. Tim was good at keeping a lid on his temper, but Bruce could see the tension in his jaw, the furrow in his brow, the tightness in his lips. They had only been training for a fraction of their normal time before Bruce decided to put his plan into motion, unwilling to let Tim drive himself any further into the ground.

Bruce lunged forward, ducking under a sloppy block, and managed to tackle Tim to the mat, taking extra care to protect Tim’s head and neck. Tim grunted as they hit the mat, but immediately set to squirming away instead of tapping out just as Bruce predicted. Instead of grappling him and letting him get in some practice with breaking holds, Bruce levered himself up and immediately set to vibrating his fingers into Tim’s ribs. Tim yelped and and his squirming increased tenfold, his eyes going wide and shocked.

“Bruce! What are you doing?”

Bruce’s lips quirked up. “Your block was sloppy. I’m just showing you where you need to defend.” Bruce let one hand wriggle into his armpit while the other scurried down to his stomach.

“What are you– Why– What is– Bruce!” Tim’s voice went all high-pitched and warbly as he smacked uselessly at Bruce’s hands, clearly unsure how to even defend himself.

Bruce chuckled, even as his heart ached at Tim’s confusion with affection as simple as tickling. “A little laughter never hurt anyone, Tim. No reason why training needs to hurt.”

Before he could respond, Bruce’s hands jumped up to flutter around his neck and ears, just to see him scrunch up. And scrunch up Tim did, his shoulders jumping up as high as they could while Tim scrabbled for Bruce’s wrists and shook his head in an attempt to dislodge the fingers. Finally, the dam broke and Tim burst into boyish giggles, finally looking and sounding his age for the first time since he showed up and insisted that Batman needed a Robin.

And Tim had been right, Batman had needed a Robin. But it looked like maybe Tim needed a new family. Bruce made a mental note to look into the Drake’s parenting while keeping Tim in his newfound state of giggles. Hopefully after this they could convince Tim to take a nap. And if not, well, Dick had been dying for a movie night. If anyone could get Tim to take a break, it would be him.

_____

Bruce hadn’t overseen the start of Damian’s Robin training. Instead, that responsibility had fallen to Dick, though he had been wracked with grief and presumed Bruce dead at the time. Now that Bruce was back and prepared to take on the burden of Batman once again, he could see Dick’s teachings in almost every move Damian made, melding carefully with his training from the League of Assassins. But even still, he tackled his training with a single-minded determination that could put Tim or even Bruce himself to shame – that was one thing that had not changed while Bruce was lost in the timestream.

Sometimes, it seemed like one of the only things.

Still, that didn’t mean Bruce was prepared to let Damian overwork himself. He clearly had some hangups from his life in the League, and it didn’t seem as though anyone had worked it through his head that overtraining would only harm him in the long run. Up until now, during their spars, Bruce had used the same gentle taps that he’d used to train all his boys. When the next opening in Damian’s defenses came, Bruce didn’t stop to think about his actions, so used to the years of training with his other sons. He pinched gently at Damian’s exposed ribs, both to bring attention to his weak defense and to start the process of winding training down.

Damian made a startled, choked-off noise and went tense for a brief moment, but he recovered well, swiftly disengaging from Bruce’s attack. He eyed Bruce from the other end of the mat, still balanced on his toes and ready to fight despite the sweat dripping down his brow and the exhaustion Bruce could see pulling at his limbs.

“I expect this sort of behavior from someone as frivolous as Grayson,” Damian said. “But you, Father?”

Bruce allowed the corner of his mouth to tick up. “Who do you think taught it to him?”

“Tt.” Damian sneered. “As I’ve told Grayson numerous times – games such as these have no business on the training mats.” He sniffed. “Plus, I am not a child.”

Bruce stared Damian down, in all his four-and-a-half foot, ten-year-old glory. “Of course not.”

“So we may continue training without any more of this nonsense?”

Bruce allowed a full, broad smirk to cross his face. “If you don’t want to get tickled, don’t get caught.”

Damian’s eyes went wide, and for a moment he truly looked like the young and innocent boy he should have been, but they just as swiftly narrowed in determination as he lowered himself back into a fighting stance. Even as tired as he was, Damian was able to hold his own very well – clearly a skill born of necessity. Hopefully they could convince him to pace himself eventually.

But as skilled as he was, Damian was still just a child. Eventually, he slipped up and Bruce was able to slip under his defenses. A few pokes, prods, and pinches later, Damian was on the ground, red-faced as he tried not to laugh under Bruce’s tickling fingers.

“You know,” Bruce said. “I’m told it’s much better if you just let it out.”

Damian shook his head with a jerk, trying valiantly to escape Bruce’s clutches. Unfortunately for him, Bruce was well-versed in the pinning and tickling of trained child vigilantes. Damian finally broke, kicking out with a childish shriek, when Bruce started pinching the muscles just above his knees. If it were Dick or even Tim, Bruce might’ve started teasing to get into his head and make it tickle that much more. As it was, Bruce thought Damian might bite his head off if he tried. Instead he just grinned wide, chuckling along with Damian’s surprisingly shrill laughter, and kept his cooing about how adorable his son was in his own mind.

Bruce’s attack didn’t last long. He didn’t want to push Damian too far with how exhausted he already was. Not to mention, their relationship was tentative and hesitant enough already, with Damian trying to figure out how he fit with Bruce now after the relationship he had built with Dick. Bruce only kept Damian laughing for a few minutes before releasing him and giving his hair a suitable ruffle, much to Damian’s disdain.

Maybe they’d be able to figure this out after all

_____

It was rare these days for Bruce’s sons to all be in the Manor at the same time. Rarer still for them to have gathered together on the training mats, what with how many fratricide attempts had passed between the four of them. Bruce had been planning on doing some solo exercise before patrol, but now he found himself on edge as he cautiously approached the Cave’s training area.

Bruce set aside the tape he had grabbed for his knuckles, crossing his arms over his chest. “Boys.”

“Hey, B!” Dick chirped, grinning from where he hung upside down on one of the pullup bars. “Getting some training in?”

He raised an eyebrow, scanning over the four of them for injuries. “I was intending to.”

Jason scoffed from where he was stretching out on the training mats. He was in nothing but a t-shirt and sweats, the most dressed down Bruce had seen him since he’d come back to them. He wore his leather jacket like a shield these days, especially on the rare occasions he visited the Manor.

“Don’t let us stop you, old man.”

Bruce hummed, turning his gaze to his two youngest. “Tim. Damian.”

“Hi, Bruce.”

“Father.”

Dick flipped off the pushup bar with a flourish. “Up for a spar, Bruce? It’s been a while.”

Bruce scanned over the four boys again, eyes narrowing. “Did you break something?”

They blinked at him.

Dick frowned. “No– B, what?”

“Did someone crash the Batmobile?”

Tim cocked his head. “No?”

“Did–”

“Jesus Christ, B,” Jason groaned. “Is it so hard to believe we can get along for one hour?”

Bruce didn’t answer. Tim snorted.

“Fair.”

“Tt.”

Bruce looked them over for any hidden injuries one last time before he relented, turning back to Dick. “As long as your brothers don’t mind us taking up the space.”

Bruce’s sons vacated the mats, leaving just him and Dick behind. As usual, Dick was a skilled opponent. They hadn’t had much chance to spar recently, the only chance Bruce had to see him fight being out in the field, and he had certainly improved. He’d been doing this almost as long as Bruce after all, it only made sense that he’d be a formidable opponent. 

Eventually, Bruce went in for a grapple. Dick was shorter than he was, and his build much smaller due to his background in acrobatics. It was good for him to practice escaping the grip of someone larger and stronger than he was. Only, Dick’s returning grapple was much sloppier than Bruce remembered it being. He frowned, easily tackling Dick down to the mats.

Like second nature, Bruce’s fingers immediately tickled near one of the openings Dick had left in his defenses. He got little more than a squeaky yelp out of Dick before he was tackled from behind with a roar. It was a move that Jason and Dick had used often in training to mess with him, back when Jason was Robin. Back then, it wound up with both boys on the mats being tickled to pieces. Unfortunately for Bruce, Jason was now much larger and had the benefits of League training making his steps far quieter. Bruce rolled with the attack with a grunt, trying not to crush Dick under their combined weight, and started grappling with Jason instead.

“Getting rusty with age, old man?”

Bruce scoffed, trying not to smile lest he scare Jason off. He couldn’t help but feel like this was progress between the two of them. “Not likely.”

Jason was almost as large as Bruce now and matched him well in strength too, but in the end, Bruce’s experience won out. Just as he started gaining the upper hand, however, Dick launched on top of the both of them. Then Tim. Then Damian. Somewhere along the way, Jason had managed to slip out from under him, adding himself to the top of the pile. Bruce collapsed down to the training mats, pinned under their collective weight.

“That was kind of a sloppy block, Bruce,” Tim said from where he was perched on one of Bruce’s legs.

“Yeah, B, come on,” Dick said. “A mugger isn’t gonna fight fair, you’re gonna have to do better than that.”

Bruce narrowed his eyes at his children. “Boys–”

Jason clucked his tongue. “And no one to save the big, bad Batman.”

Bruce knew where this was going. He probably should’ve expected it honestly, after all those years of tickling his kids to the ground. It certainly wasn’t the first time any of them had sought revenge either, simply the first time they had decided to work together as a group since Bruce was able to take them down easily on their own (or even in duos, he recalled Jason’s Robin days fondly). He was their father, of course he knew what tickle spots would have them cackling on the mats in seconds, tears in their eyes. 

Unfortunately for them, though, Bruce had trained himself out of such reactions long ago – at least to an extent. He was well-versed in burying the sensation, blocking it out until it went away, and he could hold out for quite some time. Probably more than long enough for them to get bored. There was only one weak spot that he’d never been able to block out, but they would never–

Dick gave an evil grin from where he sat on one of Bruce’s arms, reaching out and fluttering fingers behind one of Bruce’s ears. On his other side, Jason chuckled under his breath and did the same.

–Damn it, they brought Alfred into it.

Bruce let out a strangled, high-pitched noise before clamping his lips shut. He shook his head violently, trying to dislodge the tormenting fingers, but his children were nothing if not tenacious.

“Come on, Bruce,” Dick goaded. “It’s so much better if you just let yourself laugh!”

“Yeah, B,” Tim said, his fingers resting on Bruce’s side, seemingly waiting for a signal. “A little laughter never hurt anyone, right?”

“Boys,” Bruce bit out, swallowing around the snickers trying to burst out of his throat. “Cut it out.”

“If you did not want to get tickled, Father, then you should not have gotten caught.”

He raised such little shits. His own revenge for this would be swift and ruthless. The boys didn’t stand a chance. But first, he had to free himself.

Bruce tried to twist his arms out from under Dick and Jason’s weight, the tickling not having weakened him yet thanks to him holding back his laughter. Jason scoffed and added another hand to his tickling against the side of Bruce’s neck, Dick quickly following suit. And unfortunately, with the fingers behind his ears already driving him insane, Bruce had little brainpower left to block out the sensation on his neck.

Bruce broke.

His laughter came out quick, sporadic, and embarrassingly high-pitched. He tried to jerk his head away from the tickling fingers, but with Dick and Jason on either side of him, it was impossible to escape. Not to mention, apparently his laughter was the signal his youngest were waiting for, as after a few moments they both dug into their own respective spots. Tim’s hands spidered and squiggled and dug in around his side and stomach, while Damian began squeezing the muscles just above his knee, tickling around and behind it. It took all of Bruce’s self control to not kick out and throw him off – Damian was still so small, Bruce didn’t want to accidentally hurt him.

His laughter turned loud and booming as his kids switched around their spots, tickling anywhere they could reach. It echoed throughout the training area and into the Cave proper, the bats screeching in discontent as the noise disturbed their slumber.

“Damn, old man, how did none of us know you were this ticklish?”

“There you go, B! Does that tickle? That’s what you get!”

“Sorry, Bruce, but you do kinda deserve this.”

Unsurprisingly, Damian did not add into the teasing. His tickling was vicious enough to make up for it – he clearly paid far too much attention to tactics whenever Bruce or Dick tickled him to the ground. Bruce was oddly proud.

To Bruce, it felt like years before the tickling finally tapered off, though in reality he knew it hadn’t been more than several minutes. His laughter had gone hoarse, his throat and vocal chords far more used to his fake Brucie laugh than anything this genuine for this long. There was sweat dripping down his face and neck, and his muscles ached – his upper body from trying to free himself from his eldest boys, and his legs from keeping himself tense enough that he wouldn’t kick out and injure his youngest two. And embarrassingly enough, tears had gathered in his eyes, though none had managed to fall free just yet. As his boys climbed off him, Bruce could do little more than lay there and gasp for air, pushing down any residual laughter as he tried to compose himself.

“I see the revenge was a success,” Alfred said from the edge of the training mats. There was a water bottle in his hand, chilled and dripping with condensation. Bruce reached for it gratefully.

“Traitor,” he murmured under his breath.

Alfred heard it anyway, based on the unimpressed eyebrow he raised at Bruce. “If I remember correctly, Master Bruce, Master Dick was not the only little boy who ran around asking to play Tickle Monster.”

Heat flooded Bruce’s face as his children burst into laughter around him. He chugged down the water he had been given to hide the fact that he had no retort for that. Still, there was no mistaking the fond smile on Alfred’s face.

After all, a father always knew what tickle spots would take down his kid in seconds.

[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.

[nhasablogg]

I’m back?

As my blog title suggests, I’m here for the nostalgia; tucking my tail between my legs and returning after what I assume was a dramatic exit that some might’ve found unnecessary, but I know I needed. And I grew during the two years I was away. I grew so much I know I don’t want to use this blog like I used nhasablog, but I miss it. I miss checking in, I miss talking to people, I miss writing. Even though I’m not writing much these days, this is me grasping for something that used to be the better part of my life back when I wasn’t okay.

I deleted nhasablog because it was turning into a toxic place for me, partly due to my own behavior, but also partly due to people’s expectations and demands and occasionally rude messages. But I’m not here to blame anyone anymore. I’ve put it behind me and know I’m ready to make a tentative return, even if I only end up existing rather than creating. I don’t know. Why would I revive this place after years if I’m not planning on using it like I used to? I’m honestly not sure. I just know I woke up today with the need to return, which is a need I’ve felt plenty of times. I finally think I’m able to put enough distance between this and my own life if things don’t feel good without constantly checking it. That’s one of the reasons I deleted rather than just left - I knew I wouldn’t be able to just leave. I knew I would be checking for messages and whatnot, which wasn’t good for me. Always put your own needs first.

To people who have no idea who I am: hi! I’m N. I used to be a tickle fic writer, but I deleted my blog. This post probably doesn’t need to be this long, but I was known for never keeping things short hah. But yeah, nice to meet you!

Obviously this blog is called nhasablogg rather than nhasablog because that username isn’t available despite me not finding any blog with that url? But maybe this is good. A fresh start. No matter whatever I end up doing on here.

This does feel weird because I am aware I’m talking into a void, but if anyone who knew me sees this - hello! This is a sideblog, just like nhasablog used to be, so I can’t follow people, but I’m lurking as always.

To the people I might’ve been rude to all those years ago - I’m truly sorry. I wasn’t my best version back then, but I’m learning. I’m sorry I took it out on you.

To the people who were rude to me - I forgive you. I realize you never asked for that, but you don’t forgive people because they asked.

I feel like I should tag people?? But it feels strange?? But I’ll do it anyway so:

@ticklishraspberries @wordstrings @sour--strawberries / @lemonsandstrawberries @calmturquoise @fickle-tiction god who else I feel like I’ve forgotten everything

[anasticklefics]

Tickle Cheating

Fandom: Star Trek

Characters: Jim Kirk, Leonard McCoy

Summary: Jim tickles Bones. It’s what he DOES. So how does one react when you see someone else tickle your usual victim? Like a mess if you’re Jim Kirk apparently!

A/N: I blame @fickle-tiction (are you HAPPY?). Also I don’t know how hospitals work don’t yell at me. Might rewrite this idea with lee!Jim because he has my heart.

Also does this whole fic and my author’s note have a general chaotic air about it or am I going crazy haha?

Words: 3 124

The first time Jim noticed it was when he dropped by the hospital to deliver Bones’ lunch that he’d left at the kitchen counter of their shared dorm room. Entering a space that was oddly both chaotic and completely still at the same time, the general air so suffocating that it was no wonder Bones was exhausted each time he returned from a shift. Jim grinned at the receptionist, unsure of where the med students where and if he was even allowed past a certain point and if so, “would you or someone give this to Leonard McCoy?”

But the woman, hair framing her heart shaped, incredibly kind face, met his grin with a smile and told him he could go right in.

“If someone stops you or you can’t find him, simply ask if someone can leave the box in the kitchen.”

Her words sounded scripted in a way that told him this probably happened more often than not, and he thanked her and left. Up three stories with the elevator to the floor she’d directed him toward, footsteps echoing around the empty corridors, until he eventually found a more chaotic environment in the form of the emergency room.

How many times had he been here just that semester?

“Kirk!” someone Jim recognized from the Academy called out, glancing up from a clipboard. “What have you done now?”

Jim rolled his eyes. “It’s been months since… whatever. Do you know where Bones is? McCoy. Whatever you call him.”

“I tend to call him Leo.”

“That’s weird. Do you know where he is? He left his lunch.”

The guy, unnamed for now and the rest of eternity, pointed his thumb in the direction of yet another corridor. “Third door to the right.”

“Should I just go in?”

“They don’t have any patients in there right now.”

So Jim went, wondering if he was breaking any rules but feeling extremely ready to get out of there.

He saw it then. The small room - do they perform surgeries in there? - with a bed and a table and four windows and five people, all on top of each other with Bones in the middle. All talking, simultaneously grave and cracking jokes. Familiar, whether they wanted to or not. A job where you couldn’t be timid of bodily contact; eating and sleeping almost in each other’s laps. Jim looked at Bones, saw how easily he moved with elbows in his guts and people breathing down his neck.

He also saw his face light up when he caught sight of Jim.

“I brought your lunch,” he said meekly, holding it up, and if Bones was the type to profess his undying love for his friends, Jim was sure he would be going down on one knee right now.

“I’m only gonna say this once,” he said later, having entered their dorm as Jim had been nearly falling asleep over his homework. “You bringing me food literally saved my day and I will grant you one wish as a reward.”

And Jim, exhausted, lonely and closer to the verge of tears than he would’ve liked, demanded cuddles.

In their years of living together Jim had never asked for cuddles. He always wanted to, but whatever physical affection he had a tendency to hand out to his friends like a way too common gift, he always stopped before they could get mad, and therefore always stopped before he felt satisfied.

“I just want a good fucking cuddle,” he was saying now, his tone too desperate for it to sound like a joke. Bones, bless him, didn’t comment on it.

“Let me take a shower and change,” he only said. “Trust me, you don’t want whatever my clothes have.”

Jim nodded, suddenly feeling too vulnerable, too exposed, so he ducked his head back down, eyes on his books. Listening to every sound Bones was making, thinking he was being both too quick and too slow, and when he finally returned Jim was fully aware of it, but pretending to be too engrossed in his work to notice.

“You wanna cuddle now or later?” Bones asked, so casual about it that Jim knew he’d never manage to get a single thing done for the rest of the night.

“Now,” he said, standing abruptly enough to nearly knock his chair down.

Bones grabbed it, his face a mix of amusement and concern. “Right then. The couch? Movie night?”

“Sure.”

“Want to pick the movie?”

“You go ahead.”

“Okay.”

Jim tried to shake the sudden awkwardness out of his limbs as he followed his friend into the living room area of their tiny dorm, realizing this was probably a bad idea. They hadn’t even touched yet and he was acting like a total fool.

“We don’t have to do this,” he blurted out, causing Bones to stop in his tracks. ���I don’t know why I asked for it. I’m over it. I was just tired. We really don’t have to.”

“Jim.” Reaching out to grab Jim’s arms, Bones gave his flesh a squeeze. “Breathe. It’s fine that you asked for it and we don’t have to do it if you’ve changed your mind, but if I really didn’t want to myself I would’ve said so.”

Jim deflated. “Promise?”

“Jesus, you must be exhausted. Yes, promise.”

“It’s just that-” Jim wasn’t sure why he was trying to explain when Bones hadn’t asked for an explanation in the first place. “-I saw you at the hospital and you seemed so okay with being physically close to people and I feel like I might die if nobody holds me for, like, half an hour-”

“Jim.”

“-and I know it’s part of your job so I don’t want to overstep-”

“Please shut up for a sec.”

Jim did, but only because Bones had said please.

“I don’t necessarily enjoy having my personal space so violated,” he continued. “But of course I don’t mind you doing it. You’re my-”

“I know,” Jim said when Bones trailed off. They had no words to describe what they were. “So I shouldn’t be jealous?”

“Absolutely not, but mostly because you act like an idiot when you want something you think you can’t have.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You act like a petulant child.”

“Oho, is that so?”

Bones ruffled his hair. “Go back to being timid. It was cuter.”

So maybe Jim didn’t pay attention to anything that happened in the movie and fell asleep in Bones’ arms ten minutes later, Bones’ fingers squeezing at various places on his body to get him to “relax for fuck’s sake”. Maybe he couldn’t picture himself falling asleep in an empty bed again for weeks. Maybe Bones was really fucking good at cuddling.

Waking up sweaty with Bones’ knee pressed to the small of his back later was a whole other thing. “Hhng. Get off.”

“You’re nearly on top of me.”

“Feels like I was hit by a truck.”

“You snore like a goddamn-”

Jim somehow managed to roll over and press his face into Bones’ neck. “Shh. Too loud.”

A spasm went through Bones’ body, convincing Jim he was trying to throw him off the couch and making him resort to clinging onto his torso for dear life. “N-no.”

“What was that?”

Bones was, miraculously, laughing.

Jim tried to crane his neck to get a glimpse of his face, but he only succeeded in pressing the top of his head beneath Bones’ chin. “Okay, what is happening right now?”

Bones said something incoherent, his words slurred with sleep and higher in pitch with laughter. His hands were clawing at Jim’s back, unable to get a good grip of his shirt and therefore only managing to lightly tickle him, which was kinda nice actually.

Wait.

“Oh, this is tickling you,” Jim said, laughing into Bones’ skin as if this was a group activity. “Hey, I didn’t even know you were ticklish.”

“I’m not,” came the strangled denial.

“Hmm, I think you are. Otherwise this wouldn’t bother you.” He spidered his fingers up Bones’ side, noticing the squirming getting a notch more desperate the closer he came to his friend’s ribs. He paused just beneath them. “I’ll make you a deal. If you don’t react to this I’ll believe you’re not ticklish. Okay?”

“Jim, you fucking-”

Jim jabbed him in the ribs and nearly lost his hearing from the shriek that left Bones’ mouth.

“Ah, so you’re ridiculously ticklish, then?”

Bones cursed and managed to slip his arm out from beneath him, placing it against Jim’s chest, but not pushing him off.

“And you don’t mind this? I see.”

“I’m gonna kill you, James Tiberius-”

“Don’t you middle name me, Leo.”

Years passed. They graduated. Jim somehow became a captain and got a ship. Bones for some reason decided to work on said ship, bestowing Jim with his constantly shifting moods for the next five years. Not that he complained. Was literally doing the exact opposite. And, all the while their lives changed and kept changing, Jim kept tickling him nearly daily.

“Don’t fucking tickle me in front of others,” had been Bones’ one demand disguised as a request.

So Jim didn’t, but kept it behind closed doors as they always had. The image of Bones being physically close to others always prompting him to demand cuddles, now that he wasn’t ashamed of this dire need anymore. And, more often than not, he would slip his hands beneath Bones’ shirt and make him laugh uncontrollably for a few minutes. He wasn’t sure how it had become a part of their routine, but he felt that if he didn’t get these intimate yet playful moments as often as he could he would shrivel up and die.

“You’re a drama queen,” Bones had said more than once when Jim had complained about them not having gotten any alone time.

“You literally beg me to stop when I’m barely even touching you,” Jim countered each time. “Don’t call me a drama queen when you’re just as bad.”

Bones would only wave a hand at him, having gotten out of the habit of blushing over his sensitivity years ago.

Something else that had become more common than they probably realized was how often Jim brought him food into medbay. Sometimes it was breakfast, snacks, his forgotten lunch or dinner. Other times it was just a drink, just as an excuse to stop by. Sometimes he came empty handed.

That day Bones truly had forgotten to eat, his empty seat painfully loud in the cafeteria. Jim knew his habits more than anyone and knew he wouldn’t eat unless food was visibly presented before him, and so he filled a tupperware with everything he knew Bones liked and skipped through the corridors, suddenly feeling like he was back at the Academy again.

Bones wasn’t alone, but he rarely was. The crowded hospital rooms had been replaced with him and Chapel dancing around each other, sometimes with more than one crew member present; arms and legs and chests and heads laid out for Bones’ magical fingers to heal, or so they hoped. Jim had lied there more times than he could count, so he was highly familiar with the nooks of this part of the ship.

Bones was standing on a stool, which made Jim stop in his tracks before he announced his presence, greeting dying on his lips and being replaced with a grin. Whatever Bones was trying to reach, it seemed to be just out of reach and he was grumbling as he kept stretching.

“Do you need a hand there?” Chapel asked, her tone playful while Bones let out an unprofessional curse.

“Can I borrow some heels?” he muttered, and she laughed, all familiarity due to working together in such close proximity for years. It wasn’t elbows in guts or naps in laps, but Jim recognized it from his crew on the Bridge. It was impossible to not grow close.

“It might help if I make you jump,” she continued.

“How the hell will you do that?”

Jim was almost proud of the fact that he didn’t let out any sound as he watched her reach out and poke at Bones’ ribs, just at the spot that could make him scream with laughter. It was a coincidence, it had to be a coincidence, how the hell could she know.

Bones didn’t squeal, but he didn’t pretend as if nothing was happening as he had learnt to do back in school, partly because back then people never meant to tickle you if they tried to get past you quickly and had to grab your waist. Chapel did indeed mean to make him squirm.

Jim watched his arms shoot down, swatting at her with a laugh so relaxed this really truly couldn’t have been the first time she tickled him. It really truly couldn’t.

Other people tickled Bones. Bones let other people tickle him.

He started backing away, lunch box forgotten when he literally bumped into Uhura who was coming from the opposite direction. The tupperware flew out of his hands as he let out a gasp in surprise, the food littering the floor only a second later. Things were a bit chaotic after that, but maybe because everything was overpowered by his frantically beating heart, that really had no business freaking out but there they were.

“I’m so sorry!” he heard Uhura say over his own incoherent babbling, the two of them crouching down to clean up the mess while Chapel and Bones kept repeating that “it’s fine, we have a broom, please get off the floor” that Uhura eventually listened to while Jim had to be pulled upright by Bones who was laughing, only to start frowning when he realized just how truly stressed out Jim was by the whole situation.

It wasn’t even about the food, but.

“I’ll go get you some more before they close the cafeteria,” he said, heart in his throat, threatening to spill out among the food on the ground, and who knew what that treacherous heart would reveal. “Really, it’s fine,” he said, leaving them be and rushing to the first restroom he could find, finally allowing himself to calm the fuck down and breathe.

What a stupid thing to get upset by, but.

He heard someone enter the room, causing him to press his body against the stall like a coward, but Bones’ voice rang clear anyway. “Jim?”

He didn’t reply.

“Come on, I know you’re in here.”

“I’m peeing.”

“Right, well, I’ll wait until you’ve finished.”

“Okay, I’m not peeing.”

“I know.” A beat, and, “Come out. Please.”

It was always the please that got him.

“Before you ask,” Jim said, exiting the stall. “I was gonna go get your food just after this stop.”

Bones rolled his eyes. “I don’t care about the food. I mean I do, and it was really nice that you brought me some, but it’s a slow day and I’ll be fine.”

“Oh.”

“I wanted to see what was up with you.”

“With me?”

“You seem… I don’t know. Freaked out? Like something is wrong?”

“I see.”

“Jim.”

He shook his head, ran a hand through his hair, looked anywhere but on Bones. “I don’t know. The whole situation sort of shook me and now I feel weird.”

“You spilling the food?”

“No. Jesus, no. Just-” He waved his hand in Bones’ general direction. “You being tickled by someone else. It was weird being an onlooker.”

“You’re acting like a disaster because of that?”

“Look, you know I’ve acted worse about tamer things.”

“You’re so stupid.”

Jim snorted, finally meeting his friend’s eye. “I’d love to have this conversation-”

“Stop lying.”

“-but I have to head back. Got a ship to run and all.”

Bones rolled his eyes. “Fine, but I’m bringing this up tonight.”

Jim patted his shoulder as he passed. “I’m counting on it.”

It didn’t mean that he was looking forward to it, however.

“Ugh, just get it over with,” he groaned when Bones entered his quarters, looking rather alert, pointing to a calm rest of the day.

“Don’t sound so excited about it,” Bones deadpanned. “We’re gonna talk about my sensitive spots, after all.”

“I love your sensitive spots.”

“Focus.”

“I just thought it was something only I did to you, that’s all.”

“You got jealous?”

“Maybe a little?”

Bones relented. “You’re being-”

“Ridiculous, I know.”

“And kind of endearing, but I’ll only say that once.”

“You say many things once. Doesn’t mean I’ll forget them.”

“Oho, you’re kind of asking for it yourself, you know.”

Jim threw up his hands. “Tickle me, then. This whole day’s weird and backwards anyway.”

“You know I would never take your job.”

“Chapel did.”

“Oh, come on. As if you’ve never tickled anyone else before.”

Jim huffed, crossing his arms. “I never said my reaction was logical.”

“You gonna tickle me or not?”

“Are you asking me to?”

Bones did flush then, so rare nowadays. So wonderful. “Shut up. Just shut up.”

Jim barked out a laugh, already approaching him. “Stay still.”

“You know damn well I won’t.”

“I do, but it’s fun watching you struggle.”

“You sadist- wahait!”

Jim cornered him and pushed him down onto the couch, fingers already working over his hips, a spot he was certain no one else knew of. A spot that could make Bones scream so loud Jim had to stop out of fear of accidentally killing him.

Usually he was gentle, starting slow to make him giggle, but Bones had technically tickle cheated on him and that just wouldn’t do. Pinning him beneath his thighs, Jim dug into the sensitive spots, Bones’ clothes doing nothing to help him whatsoever.

Oh, how he laughed. Not a quick little inconvenienced laugh as he squirmed away, but a proper, desperate belly laugh. This was theirs and only theirs. Jim the only one Bones trusted to know this intimately. He was grabbing at Jim’s wrists now, but despite his strength he wasn’t pushing Jim away. Merely steadying himself.

Whatever they were and whatever they had, it always had and always would include this.

“I should tie you up and torture you,” Jim teased, even though he’d never immobilized him during this and only tickled him for a couple of minutes at a time, but Bones had once become a stuttering mess when Jim had threatened this and he did love a flustered Bones, after all.

He was laughing too hard to stutter, but the way he was shaking his head told Jim all he needed to know. His words had left a mark and whatever he did now, wherever he touched, would be more ticklish than usual.

He got to work.

[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. 

[anasticklefics]

All Nerves

Fandom: Star Wars

Characters: Poe/Finn/Rey

Summary: As they settle on a planet that Poe doesn’t trust for a few nights, Finn and Rey know exactly how to get him to stop being so on edge.

A/N: Prompted by @fickle-tiction. I hope you enjoy it!

Words: 1 124

Leia had the most unexpected and impressive contacts, Poe noted as he landed the Millenium Falcon on a planet so rich, so vividly painted in greens and reds and blues that he almost felt like he was hallucinating.

“You’re sure they know we’re coming?” he asked her, quietly and unprofessionally, but he was always tired nowadays and sometimes forgot himself. Couldn’t always distinguish when they were members of the Resistance and when they were just Poe and Leia.

But Leia didn’t reprimand him. “They do.”

“And they know our numbers?” More than the average group you brought with you when asking for lodging, but so much less than the amount of people a rebellion was rumored to contain.

“More or less.”

“Right. Is this a good place to leave the ship or-”

Leia tilted her head at him, lips quirking upward. “You seem nervous.”

“I’m all nerves, didn’t you know?”

“It’s fine, Poe. I didn’t force them to host us.”

“I never said you did.” It was just that last time they tried to lay low on a planet where the natives supposedly were okay with them staying they got lowkey betrayed. Can’t blame Poe for being distrustful. “How many days are we staying again?”

“Is he always like this?” Finn asked from behind them.

Leia rolled her eyes, but it was all fondness. All motherly warmth he sometimes found himself needing so desperately it physically hurt. “Always. You better get used to it.”

Poe didn’t reply. Didn’t protest or come up with excuses, but simply listened to Finn laugh. It made him feel a little better, at least. A little.

“You’re tense,” Rey mumbled as they started walking toward the palace they were supposed to stay at, the King that Leia had known for years and his people visible from afar, waiting for them with literally open arms. Poe quickened his pace. Didn’t want them to start pondering over possibly betraying them for keeping them waiting.

“I am,” he replied, not mentioning how badly his jaw hurt from constantly gritting his teeth, or how stiff his back and shoulders always felt. This wasn’t a pity party. “But hey, maybe a regular bed will help.”

Rey’s smile was small, understanding, absolutely stunning, and Poe knew she saw right through him. “Hopefully.”

“General Organa!” the King - Terso something - exclaimed when they were within earshot, and Leia passed them all with inhuman speed to reach the King for a hug. Just how close were they again? “We welcome you and the Resistance to our home. I trust you have had a pleasant journey?”

“Just almost got killed a couple times,” Poe didn’t say.

“It went very smoothly,” Leia did say.

“Ah, but you must be hungry! Come. Let us eat before we do anything else.”

So maybe Poe had just been hangry this entire time. He slumped in his chair, comfortable and big enough for his hips that never got narrower despite how little he was eating recently. His bowl was empty for the second time that night, but even though the soup was delicious he couldn’t bring himself to get up and take a third portion. It would be bad manners and make him sick anyway.

“Are you content?” he asked Finn and Rey, both sitting to his right with Finn closest to him.

He sighed happily. “Very. I’m so ready for bed now.”

“We can’t just leave,” Rey said.

His sigh was long suffering this time. “I know, but a guy can dream.”

“Did they ever say anything about sleeping arrangements?” Jess asked on Poe’s other side. “Do we all get our own rooms or? Not to be spoiled, but if I got just one night alone where I could spread out I would happily kill off the rest of the First Order myself.”

Poe found himself laughing for the first time all evening. “Let’s make sure that happens then.”

Finn leaned closer, his voice low. “You think we can- I mean, the three of us-”

“Probably,” Poe said, nodding. “Best case, the three of us share and Jess can sleep alone.” It sounded mean, but was actually heaven for all four involved. They hadn’t actually ever made it explicitly clear that they were a thing, him, Finn and Rey, but it was probably obvious. Something they didn’t need to disclose with words.

Or so he assumed. So he hoped.

In the end, they let them all handle it by themselves. There were plenty of rooms, and Jess made it clear she was going to have one to herself. Poe, Finn and Rey all piled into one bed, slightly crowded, but good enough for them. More than good enough, as the mattress was heavenly and the room warm and cozy.

“Never wake me up again,” he said as he settled down between them, his body heavy and mind content.

Finn snorted. “You’ll be begging for breakfast tomorrow morning.”

“And if you were good partners you would bring me some.”

Rey poked his belly. “In your dreams, Dameron.”

“I will have many of those tonight,” he said, absentmindedly rubbing at his midriff.

Mostly, he was looking forward to being with them, in their arms, their hands and lips right there, without feeling like anyone judged them. Without being disturbed. The actual dream.

Of course they decided he couldn’t rest yet. Of course they did. Poe yelped when Rey’s hand returned to his skin, fingers wiggling this time, and he was giggling already, already finding it unbearable, and already loving every second of it.

Knowing bastards.

“Wait!” he cried when Finn joined, the two of them tickling his upper body so softly, so softly, and Poe nearly broke and started breaking away. Nearly.

“Is this how you tickle people?” Rey asked. “I mean, he doesn’t seem to be wanting to escape. Poe, is this right?”

Oh no. They were being cruel.

“I think people usually do want to get away,” Finn added. “What’s going on here?”

Oh, they were being really cruel.

He tried to roll over, which seemed impossible in the tiny space. “Guys, please!”

“Please what?” Rey’s smile was positively evil. “Keep going? Because I don’t think you want us to stop.”

“You seem to be needing this anyway, with how grumpy you’ve been recently.” Finn moved upward, his fingers unbearable against Poe’s neck. “Is this good? Is this how you tickle a ticklish neck?”

Rey joined, her fingers on Poe’s ear. “Are people usually ticklish on their ears?”

“Not sure.”

Poe was dying.

It was a sweet death.

And, as he lied there dying with Finn and Rey laughing along with him, he thought that at least they had this, even if he didn’t fully trust the king. At least they had this.