tickle-bugs

[tickle-bugs]

Forced Retirement

Anon: 22 with bucky + whoever?? i adore your fics btww

Bucky can’t stop thinking about how strong Sam’s gotten lately. Sam happily uses this to his advantage. 22: “What are you dOIHING?” Minor spoilers for Thunderbolts and Captain America: Brave New World

Sam had gotten stronger.

Bucky noticed much about him, in the few quiet moments they had together. He saw the weariness that had settled into his bones. He noted—and kissed—every scar and poorly-healed fracture. He loved how easily Sam still smiled, even with the weight of the world on his shoulders. This apartment was too big, too shiny at times, but Sam was always there to make the edges feel real. He embraced this graver, rougher Sam.

But this most recent change…Bucky couldn’t quite wrap his head around it.

”’Scuse me, baby.” Sam murmured, half-awake, and picked Bucky up by the waist. Sam deposited him on the counter, kissed him, and grabbed a glass from the now-accessible dishwasher.

Bucky lost all command of speech. He watched Sam pour himself some orange juice and drain the glass. It made his own mouth feel dry, suddenly.

”You good?” Sam frowned. His arms flexed as he washed the glass. Bucky tracked the movement.

”Y-Yeah.” Bucky cleared his throat. “Fine.”

”Pink’s a good color on you, Buck.” Sam grinned, gesturing with the glass.

”Shut up.” Bucky scowled, but his face did indeed get warmer.

”Love you too. I’ll see you for dinner, Congressman Barnes.” Sam pressed a quick kiss to the corner of Bucky’s mouth. Bucky pulled him back in by the collar of his shirt and attempted to impress on Sam just how much he loved this new life with him via his mouth.

It took a while. With how tightly Sam held him, he didn’t seem to mind.

…

“Buck. Bucky.”

Bucky jolted awake. He processed Sam’s warm smile and gentle touch quickly enough to avoid drawing the gun hidden in the couch cushions.

“Mmm. Hey.” Bucky stretched, reaching for Sam’s hip. Sam squeezed his hand.

“C’mon, let’s go to bed.”

“Wha? What time is it?” Bucky fumbled for his phone on the coffee table. The screen brightness singed his retinas.

“It’s only 8:30.” Bucky frowned.

“It’s past your bedtime, gramps.”

“Fuck off,” he said without any heat.

“You’re drooling on my throw pillows.” Sam huffed. Bucky’s gaze trailed over him—he was still wearing the bottom half of his Captain America suit. It fit him very well, and Bucky let himself admire this, as he could not be seen fawning over the good Captain in public.

How lovely it was to open his eyes here, the first place that was really starting to feel like his own, and see Sam there. Changes, indeed.

“I’m not coming to bed yet. Did you even—“ Bucky wiggled around so he could see Sam better— “Did you eat?”

“Yea, baby. I’ve been talking to you this whole time. I thought you were ignoring me, but then I heard you snoring.” The corner of Sam’s mouth lifted just slightly, but it still brightened his whole face.

“I don’t snore.” Bucky frowned.

“Like a freight train.” Sam gave Bucky’s chest a fond pat. “At this point, X-Files is watching you. C’mon.”

Sam extended his hand.

“I’m not going.” Bucky sniffed petulantly and settled down into the cushions.

“I’m not asking. We’ve got an early morning with the Secretary tomorrow and I don’t wanna hear you complaining.” Sam wiggled his fingers. Bucky turned up his chin. Sure, this was a stupid hill to die on, but he’d already planted his flag.

“Buck. Give me the remote.”

“Come and get it.” Bucky folded his arms behind his head, dropping the remote beside his pillow.

”Next time I ask you, I’m gonna kick your ass. Give me the remote.” Sam’s voice sent a shiver down his spine. Not unpleasantly.

”You’re gonna kick my ass? You, America’s Sweetheart?” Bucky smirked. He squinted at the TV, trying to suss out how many episodes of X-Files he’d slept through.

Sam lunged. Bucky rolled backwards over the arm of the couch, landing with the remote in hand like one of his favorite knives. He expected Sam to stop. Reevaluate, at least. Instead, Sam swept his legs, caught him, and hefted him bridal-style into his arms.

Bucky’s mouth forgot the shape of all the words he’d learned over the years, even the snarky ones he so badly wanted to launch, leaving him spluttering out nonsense. He’d never been…carried before. Not like this.

He flung his legs up and went to wrap them around Sam’s neck, fully intending to bring him down—even at the cost of another coffee table— but Sam smoothly blocked and flipped him. Bucky laid draped over Sam’s shoulder like a sack of potatoes for several stunned moments. Sam locked his arm across Bucky’s legs, and it may as well have been a steel bar. He started moving them towards the bedroom, whistling all the while.

When did this happen? Sam had always been a good wrestler—good fighter, really—but he never contested Bucky’s strength directly. He moved with Buck, or around him, the wake to his tide.

He tested his legs against Sam’s grip, fully planning to somersault out of this, as he did most things. A strong hand dug into his thigh and all of Bucky’s logical thought fell out of his ears.

“What are you dOIHING?” All the air rushed from Bucky’s chest in a great squeaky torrent. He couldn’t even—god, he couldn’t even pretend to be unbothered, not with Sam tickling the shit out of him.

“Bullshit deterrent. Since you’re so damn determined not to cooperate.” Sam gave his ass a conciliatory pat, then went back to tormenting him. Laughter fell easily from him, what with Sam shaking it out.

So unbelievably stupid. One man had turned over a century of carefully-built reputations and walls. One man who’d apparently found the spot behind Bucky’s knees that made him hiccup—again, so deeply stupid.

“You’re so cute.” Sam murmured, and Bucky probably wasn’t supposed to hear that, but he did. It made his whole chest buzz. He growled.

“I am not—“

“Shut up, giggles.” Sam reached up to pinch at Bucky’s hip and he shrieked.

“S-Sam!” Bucky fisted the back of Sam’s shirt. God, this was all so much. Sam’s presence in his life shook him up like a soda can. Bucky didn’t know what to do now with the fizzing in his chest.

“Going down.” Sam flipped Bucky hard over his shoulder, sending him bouncing down onto the mattress. His laughter flew with him. He tried to launch himself at Sam, but his partner yanked his legs out from under him. Before Bucky could think, Sam had one of his legs in an armlock and was tickling the shit out of his foot.

“I’m gonna kick you! You asshole!” Bucky cackled madly.

“You better not!” Sam threw himself on top of Bucky likely to prevent it—Bucky had accidentally put him through a wall before. They rolled around for a while, all half-huffed laughs and wide smiles, until Sam got his hand under Bucky’s arm and he screamed.

Bucky rolled them and caught Sam in a searing kiss—a transparent distraction, but a functional one. Bucky tangled their legs together and pulled him close. Sam hummed into his mouth, pulling Bucky up towards him. Sam’s hands wandered, eager and grateful to touch every damaged inch of Bucky without pause. This, mercifully, had not changed. Bucky hoped, despite the voice that delicately crooned falsehoods in Russian in the back of his head, that it never would.

Bucky broke the kiss with something between a giggle and a yelp, his hand flying to his ribs. He grabbed Sam with the other. Sam grinned like an imp, pinching fingers arrested in a metal grasp. Bucky could only imagine what he looked like right now. If he was even a quarter as red-faced as he felt, he was going to fling himself into the Potomac.

“You’re so annoying! Cut it out.” Bucky tried to kill his nervous smile. It evaded him.

“Why? Because you’re a congressman?” Sam crawled on top of him.

“No, because you love me.” Bucky pressed Sam’s captive hand to his heart. Sam kissed him sweetly between his brows.

“Nah, sorry, you should’ve gone with the congressman thing.” Sam’s hands shot down to Bucky’s ribs again. He recoiled just in time to avoid a broken nose—he’d learned his lesson from last time, apparently.

“A-Alright! I’ll go to bed, just quit it!” Bucky grit his teeth through a vicious giggle fit in hopes that his dignity would return to him. Sam relented with a final squeeze to his side, then rolled off of him.

“I’m gonna kill you tomorrow.” Bucky groused, pulling Sam closer by the arm. Sam snuggled up behind him as requested. He flung the covers messily over both of them.

“With how you sleep? I’ll be at the White House before you’re even in the shower.” Sam kissed his shoulder.

“I’ll be at the White House before you’re out.” Bucky pinched Sam’s arm. Sam pinched his hip, and the resulting flail was enough to get them both in line.

“Go to sleep, old man.” Bucky could hear Sam’s smirk. He could let it lie. He could go to sleep and make sure they were rested for an incredibly important meeting tomorrow. He could choose peace.

“Damnit, Bucky!” Sam’s cackle shattered the night —and with it, any promise of them getting to work on time.

[tickle-bugs]

Forced Retirement

Anon: 22 with bucky + whoever?? i adore your fics btww

Bucky can’t stop thinking about how strong Sam’s gotten lately. Sam happily uses this to his advantage. 22: “What are you dOIHING?” Minor spoilers for Thunderbolts and Captain America: Brave New World

Sam had gotten stronger.

Bucky noticed much about him, in the few quiet moments they had together. He saw the weariness that had settled into his bones. He noted—and kissed—every scar and poorly-healed fracture. He loved how easily Sam still smiled, even with the weight of the world on his shoulders. This apartment was too big, too shiny at times, but Sam was always there to make the edges feel real. He embraced this graver, rougher Sam.

But this most recent change…Bucky couldn’t quite wrap his head around it.

”’Scuse me, baby.” Sam murmured, half-awake, and picked Bucky up by the waist. Sam deposited him on the counter, kissed him, and grabbed a glass from the now-accessible dishwasher.

Bucky lost all command of speech. He watched Sam pour himself some orange juice and drain the glass. It made his own mouth feel dry, suddenly.

”You good?” Sam frowned. His arms flexed as he washed the glass. Bucky tracked the movement.

”Y-Yeah.” Bucky cleared his throat. “Fine.”

”Pink’s a good color on you, Buck.” Sam grinned, gesturing with the glass.

”Shut up.” Bucky scowled, but his face did indeed get warmer.

”Love you too. I’ll see you for dinner, Congressman Barnes.” Sam pressed a quick kiss to the corner of Bucky’s mouth. Bucky pulled him back in by the collar of his shirt and attempted to impress on Sam just how much he loved this new life with him via his mouth.

It took a while. With how tightly Sam held him, he didn’t seem to mind.

…

“Buck. Bucky.”

Bucky jolted awake. He processed Sam’s warm smile and gentle touch quickly enough to avoid drawing the gun hidden in the couch cushions.

“Mmm. Hey.” Bucky stretched, reaching for Sam’s hip. Sam squeezed his hand.

“C’mon, let’s go to bed.”

“Wha? What time is it?” Bucky fumbled for his phone on the coffee table. The screen brightness singed his retinas.

“It’s only 8:30.” Bucky frowned.

“It’s past your bedtime, gramps.”

“Fuck off,” he said without any heat.

“You’re drooling on my throw pillows.” Sam huffed. Bucky’s gaze trailed over him—he was still wearing the bottom half of his Captain America suit. It fit him very well, and Bucky let himself admire this, as he could not be seen fawning over the good Captain in public.

How lovely it was to open his eyes here, the first place that was really starting to feel like his own, and see Sam there. Changes, indeed.

“I’m not coming to bed yet. Did you even—“ Bucky wiggled around so he could see Sam better— “Did you eat?”

“Yea, baby. I’ve been talking to you this whole time. I thought you were ignoring me, but then I heard you snoring.” The corner of Sam’s mouth lifted just slightly, but it still brightened his whole face.

“I don’t snore.” Bucky frowned.

“Like a freight train.” Sam gave Bucky’s chest a fond pat. “At this point, X-Files is watching you. C’mon.”

Sam extended his hand.

“I’m not going.” Bucky sniffed petulantly and settled down into the cushions.

“I’m not asking. We’ve got an early morning with the Secretary tomorrow and I don’t wanna hear you complaining.” Sam wiggled his fingers. Bucky turned up his chin. Sure, this was a stupid hill to die on, but he’d already planted his flag.

“Buck. Give me the remote.”

“Come and get it.” Bucky folded his arms behind his head, dropping the remote beside his pillow.

”Next time I ask you, I’m gonna kick your ass. Give me the remote.” Sam’s voice sent a shiver down his spine. Not unpleasantly.

”You’re gonna kick my ass? You, America’s Sweetheart?” Bucky smirked. He squinted at the TV, trying to suss out how many episodes of X-Files he’d slept through.

Sam lunged. Bucky rolled backwards over the arm of the couch, landing with the remote in hand like one of his favorite knives. He expected Sam to stop. Reevaluate, at least. Instead, Sam swept his legs, caught him, and hefted him bridal-style into his arms.

Bucky’s mouth forgot the shape of all the words he’d learned over the years, even the snarky ones he so badly wanted to launch, leaving him spluttering out nonsense. He’d never been…carried before. Not like this.

He flung his legs up and went to wrap them around Sam’s neck, fully intending to bring him down—even at the cost of another coffee table— but Sam smoothly blocked and flipped him. Bucky laid draped over Sam’s shoulder like a sack of potatoes for several stunned moments. Sam locked his arm across Bucky’s legs, and it may as well have been a steel bar. He started moving them towards the bedroom, whistling all the while.

When did this happen? Sam had always been a good wrestler—good fighter, really—but he never contested Bucky’s strength directly. He moved with Buck, or around him, the wake to his tide.

He tested his legs against Sam’s grip, fully planning to somersault out of this, as he did most things. A strong hand dug into his thigh and all of Bucky’s logical thought fell out of his ears.

“What are you dOIHING?” All the air rushed from Bucky’s chest in a great squeaky torrent. He couldn’t even—god, he couldn’t even pretend to be unbothered, not with Sam tickling the shit out of him.

“Bullshit deterrent. Since you’re so damn determined not to cooperate.” Sam gave his ass a conciliatory pat, then went back to tormenting him. Laughter fell easily from him, what with Sam shaking it out.

So unbelievably stupid. One man had turned over a century of carefully-built reputations and walls. One man who’d apparently found the spot behind Bucky’s knees that made him hiccup—again, so deeply stupid.

“You’re so cute.” Sam murmured, and Bucky probably wasn’t supposed to hear that, but he did. It made his whole chest buzz. He growled.

“I am not—“

“Shut up, giggles.” Sam reached up to pinch at Bucky’s hip and he shrieked.

“S-Sam!” Bucky fisted the back of Sam’s shirt. God, this was all so much. Sam’s presence in his life shook him up like a soda can. Bucky didn’t know what to do now with the fizzing in his chest.

“Going down.” Sam flipped Bucky hard over his shoulder, sending him bouncing down onto the mattress. His laughter flew with him. He tried to launch himself at Sam, but his partner yanked his legs out from under him. Before Bucky could think, Sam had one of his legs in an armlock and was tickling the shit out of his foot.

“I’m gonna kick you! You asshole!” Bucky cackled madly.

“You better not!” Sam threw himself on top of Bucky likely to prevent it—Bucky had accidentally put him through a wall before. They rolled around for a while, all half-huffed laughs and wide smiles, until Sam got his hand under Bucky’s arm and he screamed.

Bucky rolled them and caught Sam in a searing kiss—a transparent distraction, but a functional one. Bucky tangled their legs together and pulled him close. Sam hummed into his mouth, pulling Bucky up towards him. Sam’s hands wandered, eager and grateful to touch every damaged inch of Bucky without pause. This, mercifully, had not changed. Bucky hoped, despite the voice that delicately crooned falsehoods in Russian in the back of his head, that it never would.

Bucky broke the kiss with something between a giggle and a yelp, his hand flying to his ribs. He grabbed Sam with the other. Sam grinned like an imp, pinching fingers arrested in a metal grasp. Bucky could only imagine what he looked like right now. If he was even a quarter as red-faced as he felt, he was going to fling himself into the Potomac.

“You’re so annoying! Cut it out.” Bucky tried to kill his nervous smile. It evaded him.

“Why? Because you’re a congressman?” Sam crawled on top of him.

“No, because you love me.” Bucky pressed Sam’s captive hand to his heart. Sam kissed him sweetly between his brows.

“Nah, sorry, you should’ve gone with the congressman thing.” Sam’s hands shot down to Bucky’s ribs again. He recoiled just in time to avoid a broken nose—he’d learned his lesson from last time, apparently.

“A-Alright! I’ll go to bed, just quit it!” Bucky grit his teeth through a vicious giggle fit in hopes that his dignity would return to him. Sam relented with a final squeeze to his side, then rolled off of him.

“I’m gonna kill you tomorrow.” Bucky groused, pulling Sam closer by the arm. Sam snuggled up behind him as requested. He flung the covers messily over both of them.

“With how you sleep? I’ll be at the White House before you’re even in the shower.” Sam kissed his shoulder.

“I’ll be at the White House before you’re out.” Bucky pinched Sam’s arm. Sam pinched his hip, and the resulting flail was enough to get them both in line.

“Go to sleep, old man.” Bucky could hear Sam’s smirk. He could let it lie. He could go to sleep and make sure they were rested for an incredibly important meeting tomorrow. He could choose peace.

“Damnit, Bucky!” Sam’s cackle shattered the night —and with it, any promise of them getting to work on time.

[tickle-bugs]

Manicured

Clark loses a bet. Lois hits the jackpot.

“I can’t even begin to list all the reasons this is a terrible idea.” Clark pinches the bridge of his nose. Lois smacks the nail polish bottle against her hands to loosen up the purple color inside.

“A bet’s a bet, Clark. Give me your hands.” Lois holds her own out expectantly. He leans forward and sighs.

“You know I can’t do that.”

“You can, actually. It’s very simple. You just extend your arms.” She tries to pull on his arms. He rolls his eyes.

“Haha. You really think Jimmy won’t recognize—“ Clark spins the nail polish bottle so he can read the label— “desert plum on Superman’s fingers and mine? Or more specifically that it’s your favorite shade?”

“Alright, fine. But I get to do your toes.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“You wear boots! No one will even see it.” Lois doesn’t do puppydog eyes—it’s not her personality—but she does do that infuriating head tilt that makes any idea of hers seem reasonable.

“I’ll play you some Crabjoys while I do it. Will that sweeten the pot?” She raises her eyebrow expectantly, as if she already knows the answer. Because she does. He’ll do anything for her, unfortunately.

“…fine.” Clark crosses his arms, but he can’t help the smile that blossoms in response to hers.

….

Clark bops along to the Crabjoy’s mightiest hits, occasionally breaking out in air drums or air guitar when the melody really gets to him. Their music fills him with hope, every time. It reminds him of racing cars down long dirt roads and disappearing into the corn before anyone could get a good look.

“You’re such a dork.” Lois shakes her head fondly.

“It’s good music!” Clark throws his hands up.

“In your dreams, Smallville. They play this at the grocery store. That’s an automatic demerit.” She sticks her tongue out a little as she works.

She wipes a little excess off the edge of Clark’s toe and he flinches a little. The bottle of nail polish tilts onto his foot. Cursing softly, Lois catches the bottle and starts wiping it off of his sole.

Regretfully, Clark squeaks.

“What was that?” Her head snaps up.

“Nothing,” he says, far too quickly, and he can tell by the razor glint in her eye that he has mere seconds to find an out. He racks his brain for something, anything—

“Oh my god. Are you ticklish, Clark?”

Too late.

He opens and closes his mouth a few times. She grins wickedly.

“Alright, well—Lois—“

She scribbles experimentally at his sole and Clark yelps. He slides down on the couch and buries his face in his hands.

“Don’t do that.” She chides, as if she isn’t the cause. “Stop hiding. I like your smile.”

“Gosh, you are so…” He peeks between his fingers. She’s beautiful, is what she is.

“The polish has to dry, Clark. Don’t mess it up.” Lois starts tickling his foot in earnest and Clark muffles a squeal into his hands. She has nails and it’s evil, it’s so evil, and his foot is vibrating with the effort not to move.

She’s a menace, is what she is. He loves her, but golly, she might kill him.

He keels over on the couch and squeezes the life out of a throw pillow, but he leaves his foot there. The polish has to dry. She worked so hard on it. This is fine. He’s Superman. He can handle it.

He gigglesnorts. Lois gasps. He groans.

“Your ankles? Really?” Lois looks like a kid on Christmas morning. Clark doesn’t have air to defend himself, so he just shakes his head.

Lois goes back to his sole and he jumps. The coffee table releases a concerning creak under his foot. Worried about it, he tries to reel in his foot, but Lois starts poking under his toes, what is wrong with her?

“Okayokayokay—“ He says in one giggly rush of breath, desperately gripping her shoulders— “Genuinely, I might kick you.”

Lois gasps, mock offended. Clark rolls his eyes.

“How dare you—“

“Lois—“

“Superman threatening a member of the press? In her own home?” Lois clutches her imaginary pearls. She tries to poke him and he grabs her hands.

“All I’m saying is I don’t want to hurt you. If you tickle me there there is a high chance of that.” He implores her to understand with his eyes.

“So I can tickle you somewhere else and you’ll keep it together?” Lois raises her brow.

“That is not what I said.” Clark feels his face burn hotter than his own lasers.

“That’s exactly what you said.” Lois grins. Clark chews the inside of his cheek for a moment, thinking about it. He can’t hurt her. He can’t. But if she really has to behave like a little goblin…

“Alright, I guess…if you don’t touch my legs I think we’ll be fine.” Clark pinches the bridge of his nose again, more to hide his face than anything.

“My god, you’re so fucking cute. You didn’t actually have to tell me.” Lois blinks at him, the mischievous edge melting from her expression.

“You asked!” He laughs, half out of disbelief. It’s always this game with them. She tells him that he’s too open, too trusting, as if she didn’t hold his heart in her hands from the very first moment they met.

“Okay, well, if you’re offering, I’m taking you up on that.” She climbs on top of him on the couch. He throws his hands up between them in surrender.

“I wouldn’t say I’m offering—“ She shoves her fingers under his shirt and he cuts himself off with a bark of laughter. Her hands are way colder than he expects. He makes a mental note to start sneaking more iron-rich foods into their dinners.

Laughter spills freely from his mouth, no matter how much he fights to stop it. Stem it, at least. There’s no hope for him though, not when the thrill of her touch keeps what meager walls he possesses at bay. He peeks at her and catches a glimpse of a searing smile. His heart soars right into his throat and sticks. She’s so clearly having fun. Tormenting him, sure, but gosh….that smile.

Clark rolls over on his stomach and presses his burning face to the cushions. Seeing her look at him like that…he feels too big for his bones, like a gangly teenager all over again.

“This isn’t very effective, Clark.” She shoves her hands under his arms, seeking his ribs, and he nearly flips them both off the couch.

“T-Thank you for the feedback!” He shrieks. She laughs softly. She has no concept of how close he is to shattering her knuckles with his biceps. He can’t, so he won’t, but he could, so she really has to stop.

He rolls partially over and grabs her wrist. She finds a seam of muscle at his side and then he’s boneless, squinting at her through teary eyes.

“Alright, alright. Don’t die on me.” Lois skates her nails over his back. Goosebumps chase her fingers across his skin. He melts beneath her touch as if snow was the only thing holding him together.

“That’s nice.” He hums, shimmying back towards her. He pillows his head on his arms. She traces the taut lines of his muscles across his back and he shivers.

“I’m glad you think so, because—“ she leans down to whisper in his ear— “you smudged the polish.”

[tickle-bugs]

I need to update my master list and clean up my tags, so for the influx of people here because I am bullying Clark Kent (hiiiiiiiiiiiiiii <3), using #clark kent is gonna be your best bet for now!! Sorry my house is a mess I move out every year 😭

[tickle-bugs]

I would absolutely read the heck out of a million Clark fics. Just so you know. I totally respect and understand the time constraints of an adult life, but just - I would read the one million Clark fics at least 2 million times.

HEY GUESS WHAT

[tickle-bugs]

Manicured

Clark loses a bet. Lois hits the jackpot.

“I can’t even begin to list all the reasons this is a terrible idea.” Clark pinches the bridge of his nose. Lois smacks the nail polish bottle against her hands to loosen up the purple color inside.

“A bet’s a bet, Clark. Give me your hands.” Lois holds her own out expectantly. He leans forward and sighs.

“You know I can’t do that.”

“You can, actually. It’s very simple. You just extend your arms.” She tries to pull on his arms. He rolls his eyes.

“Haha. You really think Jimmy won’t recognize—“ Clark spins the nail polish bottle so he can read the label— “desert plum on Superman’s fingers and mine? Or more specifically that it’s your favorite shade?”

“Alright, fine. But I get to do your toes.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“You wear boots! No one will even see it.” Lois doesn’t do puppydog eyes—it’s not her personality—but she does do that infuriating head tilt that makes any idea of hers seem reasonable.

“I’ll play you some Crabjoys while I do it. Will that sweeten the pot?” She raises her eyebrow expectantly, as if she already knows the answer. Because she does. He’ll do anything for her, unfortunately.

“…fine.” Clark crosses his arms, but he can’t help the smile that blossoms in response to hers.

….

Clark bops along to the Crabjoy’s mightiest hits, occasionally breaking out in air drums or air guitar when the melody really gets to him. Their music fills him with hope, every time. It reminds him of racing cars down long dirt roads and disappearing into the corn before anyone could get a good look.

“You’re such a dork.” Lois shakes her head fondly.

“It’s good music!” Clark throws his hands up.

“In your dreams, Smallville. They play this at the grocery store. That’s an automatic demerit.” She sticks her tongue out a little as she works.

She wipes a little excess off the edge of Clark’s toe and he flinches a little. The bottle of nail polish tilts onto his foot. Cursing softly, Lois catches the bottle and starts wiping it off of his sole.

Regretfully, Clark squeaks.

“What was that?” Her head snaps up.

“Nothing,” he says, far too quickly, and he can tell by the razor glint in her eye that he has mere seconds to find an out. He racks his brain for something, anything—

“Oh my god. Are you ticklish, Clark?”

Too late.

He opens and closes his mouth a few times. She grins wickedly.

“Alright, well—Lois—“

She scribbles experimentally at his sole and Clark yelps. He slides down on the couch and buries his face in his hands.

“Don’t do that.” She chides, as if she isn’t the cause. “Stop hiding. I like your smile.”

“Gosh, you are so…” He peeks between his fingers. She’s beautiful, is what she is.

“The polish has to dry, Clark. Don’t mess it up.” Lois starts tickling his foot in earnest and Clark muffles a squeal into his hands. She has nails and it’s evil, it’s so evil, and his foot is vibrating with the effort not to move.

She’s a menace, is what she is. He loves her, but golly, she might kill him.

He keels over on the couch and squeezes the life out of a throw pillow, but he leaves his foot there. The polish has to dry. She worked so hard on it. This is fine. He’s Superman. He can handle it.

He gigglesnorts. Lois gasps. He groans.

“Your ankles? Really?” Lois looks like a kid on Christmas morning. Clark doesn’t have air to defend himself, so he just shakes his head.

Lois goes back to his sole and he jumps. The coffee table releases a concerning creak under his foot. Worried about it, he tries to reel in his foot, but Lois starts poking under his toes, what is wrong with her?

“Okayokayokay—“ He says in one giggly rush of breath, desperately gripping her shoulders— “Genuinely, I might kick you.”

Lois gasps, mock offended. Clark rolls his eyes.

“How dare you—“

“Lois—“

“Superman threatening a member of the press? In her own home?” Lois clutches her imaginary pearls. She tries to poke him and he grabs her hands.

“All I’m saying is I don’t want to hurt you. If you tickle me there there is a high chance of that.” He implores her to understand with his eyes.

“So I can tickle you somewhere else and you’ll keep it together?” Lois raises her brow.

“That is not what I said.” Clark feels his face burn hotter than his own lasers.

“That’s exactly what you said.” Lois grins. Clark chews the inside of his cheek for a moment, thinking about it. He can’t hurt her. He can’t. But if she really has to behave like a little goblin…

“Alright, I guess…if you don’t touch my legs I think we’ll be fine.” Clark pinches the bridge of his nose again, more to hide his face than anything.

“My god, you’re so fucking cute. You didn’t actually have to tell me.” Lois blinks at him, the mischievous edge melting from her expression.

“You asked!” He laughs, half out of disbelief. It’s always this game with them. She tells him that he’s too open, too trusting, as if she didn’t hold his heart in her hands from the very first moment they met.

“Okay, well, if you’re offering, I’m taking you up on that.” She climbs on top of him on the couch. He throws his hands up between them in surrender.

“I wouldn’t say I’m offering—“ She shoves her fingers under his shirt and he cuts himself off with a bark of laughter. Her hands are way colder than he expects. He makes a mental note to start sneaking more iron-rich foods into their dinners.

Laughter spills freely from his mouth, no matter how much he fights to stop it. Stem it, at least. There’s no hope for him though, not when the thrill of her touch keeps what meager walls he possesses at bay. He peeks at her and catches a glimpse of a searing smile. His heart soars right into his throat and sticks. She’s so clearly having fun. Tormenting him, sure, but gosh….that smile.

Clark rolls over on his stomach and presses his burning face to the cushions. Seeing her look at him like that…he feels too big for his bones, like a gangly teenager all over again.

“This isn’t very effective, Clark.” She shoves her hands under his arms, seeking his ribs, and he nearly flips them both off the couch.

“T-Thank you for the feedback!” He shrieks. She laughs softly. She has no concept of how close he is to shattering her knuckles with his biceps. He can’t, so he won’t, but he could, so she really has to stop.

He rolls partially over and grabs her wrist. She finds a seam of muscle at his side and then he’s boneless, squinting at her through teary eyes.

“Alright, alright. Don’t die on me.” Lois skates her nails over his back. Goosebumps chase her fingers across his skin. He melts beneath her touch as if snow was the only thing holding him together.

“That’s nice.” He hums, shimmying back towards her. He pillows his head on his arms. She traces the taut lines of his muscles across his back and he shivers.

“I’m glad you think so, because—“ she leans down to whisper in his ear— “you smudged the polish.”

[tickle-bugs]

I have such Superman zoomies and it’s killing meeee 😭 I wanna write a million billion Clark fics but I don’t have TIME

[tickle-bugs]

I will not be doing tickletober this year on account of. I forgor

[tickle-bugs]

the new gelphie fic was so good!!! elphaba locking away the fact that glindas ticklish for a reason she’s unsure of, but once they’re friends she could use it to her advantage hehe

oh thank you!!!! I’m really glad you liked it <333 yeah Glinda’s in troubleeeeeee Elphie would so use this all the time. It’s so easy! There’s no consequences!

until Glinda gets her back

[tickle-bugs]

LOVED the new gelphie fic, thank you for writing!!! Saw that you were disappointed more people hadn't seen it (and rightfully so, it's so good!!), and wanted to suggest maybe adding "wicked tickling" and/or "gelphie tickling" to the tags? I search those often and don't always see your stuff because it isn't always in the tags!

(No need to post this or reply to it, just wanted to get this suggestion to you!)

oh hi thank you!! I’m so glad you liked it 🥺 <333

Would you believe that in all my years doing this (five? Six?) it hasn’t occurred to me to do this? Would you believe it??? Because I, dear anon, can’t.

Thank you for the suggestion I definitely will think about it!!!!

[tickle-bugs]

I got a million requests for Gelphie with #25 from the list I was using so going to delete those to clear up my inbox <3 if you think you requested that, you can read the fic here!

[tickle-bugs]

Can you please write something for gelphie with lee!glinda?

Posted! Find it here.

[tickle-bugs]

Elphaba x Glinda #25

So I’m an IDIOT and didn’t actually include the prompt phrase which was: “You are gonna regret that.” I had it in there but I think I Ship of Theseus’d this fic so much that I accidentally got rid of it 😭 this has the vibes though I promise!!

Countermeasures

Glinda is used to getting everything she wants, but she’s not quite prepared to get exactly what she deserves. Elphaba is happy to help. What is This Feeling era where Glinda messes with Elphaba’s stuff and Elphaba wrecks her.

Elphaba was going to kill Glinda. This was not a new thought, nor a particularly startling one, but it was nonetheless one Elphaba held close with deep conviction. Every time she heard a new rumor about herself, every time Glinda shot her a coy look in public, that feeling in her gut would flare and churn. She could temper it, mostly, but this…

“Ah, the dragon returns to her roost.” Glinda looked up from where she’d been reading on her stomach, kicking her feet in the air. Her mocking laughter tinkled like broken glass.

Pink.

Everything was pink.

Glinda had, in the span of four hours, replaced everything in Elphaba’s room with a pink copy. No….on closer inspection, she’d somehow turned everything pink. Her books, her pillows—

Elphaba thought of that little green bottle beneath her pillow, and fury clawed up her throat. She darted to her bed, flipped her pillow, and—

It was fine. Untouched. But still…

“You.” Elphaba clenched her fists. Loose items around the room rattled and started to float.

“You seemed just overflowing with greeditude, having me as your roommate. I only wished to give you a taste of what you coveted.” Glinda smiled and fluttered her lashes. She sat up lazily.

“Fix this. Now.”

“Well, there’s a teensy problem with that. I don’t know how. If only I knew someone who could teach me.” Glinda shrugged, demurely crossing one leg over the other.

Oh, that was her game. Elphaba narrowed her eyes.

“Why in Oz would I help you? Has that silver spoon of yours finally poisoned your brain?”

“Why, Elphaba, wouldn’t you take pity on a poor girl—in the figurative sense, of course, I’d never put myself and ‘poor’ in conversation otherwise—who wishes to learn?” Glinda pressed an insincere hand to her heart.

“No, I wouldn’t. Fix this,” Elphaba snarled.

“Alright! So testy.” Glinda stood and brushed herself off. She reached down into the front of her shirt and pulled her training wand from her cleavage. Elphaba wanted to snap at her for the recklessness, but for some reason, her tongue was tied.

Glinda twirled her wand about the room, humming under her breath. She punctuated her nonsense tune with a flick of her wrist. An explosion rocked the room, light searing into Elphaba’s eyes. She flinched and hid in her arms. It took a solid minute for the light to die, if not more, and Elphaba dared not peek until the room seemed dark. Her heart sank once she did.

Glitter. All over everything.

“Oops.” Glinda giggled evilly. “I mean, I did tell you that I didn’t know how to fix it. You all but asked for this.”

A furious scream tore from Elphaba’s throat and she launched herself at her roommate. They both flew onto Glinda’s bed, bouncing higher than they had any right to on what was supposed to be a dorm mattress. Knowing Glinda, she’d probably replaced it, and that only made Elphaba angrier.

“You are so dead!”

“Ah ah, Elphaba! You can’t hurt me, remember? They’ll expel you!” The words tumbled out of Glinda’s mouth as Elphaba’s hands closed around her throat.

“Let them.” But Elphaba’s bravado failed her. An inquisition awaited her around every corner. Even if Glinda didn’t stoke the flames, they’d consume her all the same. No, she’d have to do something subtle. She’d have to stoop to Glinda’s level. Elphaba took in every detail of Glinda’s smug face with a calculating glare.

It brought thoughts of Nessa Rose to Elphaba’s mind—memories of her puberty prickly phase, when her father’s poison about Elphaba had taken root in her little brain. Nessa was so testy then, so concerned with her image, and Elphaba, still yearning for the silly times of their youth, would do anything to break that mask. A well-timed silly face, an awful joke, a pinch to her side here and there—

Oh, well there’s an idea.

Elphaba grinned down at Glinda. It was kind of stupid, but if it worked….she might actually know peace.

“What is your face doing? Stop it. It’s horrifying.” Glinda leaned away from her. Elphaba cracked her knuckles.

“Did you not hear me? If you lay a finger on me, Madam Morrible will have your head.” Glinda smirked.

“I’m not going to lay a finger on you—“ Elphaba’s grin stretched into something feral— “I’m going to lay five.”

Elphaba scribbled curiously at Glinda’s stomach and a single frivolous giggle bubbled out. Glinda blinked up at Elphaba. Elphaba grinned down at Glinda like a shark.

She’d never seen Glinda sweat before. Fascinating.

“Now, Elphie—can I call you Elphie? We can surely discuss this as civil, upstanding thinkers of the modern Ozian age—“

Elphaba latched onto Glinda’s waist. The rest of her meaningless drivel was lost to squeals.

“I didn’t know a person could be this ticklish,” Elphaba mused, taking the ruffles of Glinda’s shirt as a guide for her hands. It worked pretty well—her ribs sent her laughter a whole octave higher. Elphaba lingered there, using her claws—as Glinda had mockingly called them—to pluck each bout of laughter from Glinda’s shivering lungs.

Elphaba let her hands rove upwards, wary of the bubbling fizzy feeling in her stomach at seeing Glinda’s smile. She had a gap in her teeth. Somehow, that small imperfection occupied her full attention.

Glinda’s shriek at Elphaba’s hands under her arms snapped her out of her reverie. Glinda drummed her heels desperately on the mattress and tossed her head from side to side, making a frizzy mess of her curls. Elphaba tracked her every movement, searching for signs of greater weakness, but one observation screamed for her attention.

Glinda wasn’t fighting back. She was writhing, sure, and oh, was she laughing, but she hadn’t pushed Elphaba away once.

“Do you like this?” Elphaba mused, only half-sure she wanted Glinda to answer. Glinda looked at her with such a raw and vulnerable sense of alarm that Elphaba had to avert her gaze. She’d glimpsed something real there, something neither of them were prepared to examine.

Elphaba took that tidbit and locked it away in her mind. Whether it was for safekeeping or ignoring, she couldn’t say.

Glinda curled up like a little pillbug, hiccups sneaking their way into her laughter. She looked so sweet like this, pink-cheeked and smiling, and that made Elphaba smile too. But only slightly. If only she weren’t evil incarnate. Perhaps they could have smiled like this together.

Elphaba clawed at Glinda’s hips to outrun the thought. Glinda squealed so loudly that the balcony door rattled. Her voice got stuck at that fever pitch, garbling anything she tried to say into an endearing jumble. A snort tumbled out of her, then another, and Elphaba chuckled.

”I didn’t know you could make sounds like that.”

Glinda growled at her like a little dog. Elphaba truly, genuinely laughed. She didn’t stop, though. She zeroed in on that spot, chasing every hiccup and squeal with a predator’s precision. Glinda came apart at the seams.

“A-Alright! I’ve learned my lesson, plehehease!” Glinda desperately gripped Elphaba’s arms. She relented, and Glinda immediately flung herself onto her back.

“You are an utter ruffian! A horrendible scoundrel, really!” Glinda swatted her over and over, but there was no venom to it.

Somewhere between storming into the room and pinning Glinda down, Elphaba’d lost the thread of her righteous anger. It had softened into something suspiciously like…fun. That would not do. If she were to be so wicked in the public eye, she should maintain it in the private.

“If you mess with my stuff again—“ Elphaba grabbed Glinda’s chin— “I won’t stop until you cry.”

Glinda smirked. Elphaba recoiled a little.

“I’d expect nothing less.”

“What?” Elphaba blinked.

“We’re rivals, dearest Elphaba. Fortunately for you, I have already dreamed up my riposte.” Glinda booped Elphaba’s nose, brushed off her skirts, and traipsed over to her mirror. It was a treat to watch her wince at the state of hair, but Elphaba still felt as if she was falling from a great height, with no hope of the earth beneath her. She didn’t know what to do with Glinda sometimes.

“Did you think I’d be so easily discowed? Don’t tell me you think so little of me. I couldn’t stand it.” Glinda worked at her hair with all kinds of mousses and creams, sprays and oils, until the room smelled like a flower garden.

“I suppose I thought that you’d be…afraid.” Elphaba plodded over. Glinda caught her eye in the mirror.

“Elphie, what kind of enemy would I be to you if I fled at your slightest prodding?”

“A ticklish one.” Elphaba tazed her sides. Glinda yelped and spun around, desperately fumbling for Elphaba’s hands. The flush on her cheeks was….

Nope. Don’t think about that.

“My point, you toad, is that you cannot get rid of me. Try as you might, I plan on being your lifelong adversary, not a fair-weather foe.” Glinda haughtily raised her chin. Something in Elphaba’s chest fluttered at the thought.

“Good.”

“Great.”

Elphaba drifted back over to her side of the room, scowling as she picked through the frilly fallout. She sat at her newly-pink desk and pulled out some newly-pink stationary, sighing all the while.

Glinda had the nerve to titter at her.

“Shut up. This is your fault.” Elphaba pulled out her quill and winced at it—it looked as if she’d torn it off a flamingo. Her ink pot was the last straw.

Her beautiful velvet-black fresh ink was now made of silver glitter. Elphaba groaned, resting her forehead on her desk.

“Oh, don’t look so despondiary. I think pink is rather fetching on you.” Glinda smirked across the room. Elphaba stood quickly, and that pretty face lost its smugness and color in a flash.

“Oh come on, Elphie, you don’t have to—“

“Clearly, I do. Let’s see if this—“ Elphaba shook the quill at her and she squeaked— “has any special properties, now that you’ve ruined it.”

“I don’t think so!” Glinda backed up through her mountains of trunks and clothing racks.

“Don’t sell yourself short, Glinda. You made all kinds of wonders possible today!”

Glinda’s shrieks rattled their windows through the rest of the afternoon.

[tickle-bugs]

Elphaba x Glinda #25

So I’m an IDIOT and didn’t actually include the prompt phrase which was: “You are gonna regret that.” I had it in there but I think I Ship of Theseus’d this fic so much that I accidentally got rid of it 😭 this has the vibes though I promise!!

Countermeasures

Glinda is used to getting everything she wants, but she’s not quite prepared to get exactly what she deserves. Elphaba is happy to help. What is This Feeling era where Glinda messes with Elphaba’s stuff and Elphaba wrecks her.

Elphaba was going to kill Glinda. This was not a new thought, nor a particularly startling one, but it was nonetheless one Elphaba held close with deep conviction. Every time she heard a new rumor about herself, every time Glinda shot her a coy look in public, that feeling in her gut would flare and churn. She could temper it, mostly, but this…

“Ah, the dragon returns to her roost.” Glinda looked up from where she’d been reading on her stomach, kicking her feet in the air. Her mocking laughter tinkled like broken glass.

Pink.

Everything was pink.

Glinda had, in the span of four hours, replaced everything in Elphaba’s room with a pink copy. No….on closer inspection, she’d somehow turned everything pink. Her books, her pillows—

Elphaba thought of that little green bottle beneath her pillow, and fury clawed up her throat. She darted to her bed, flipped her pillow, and—

It was fine. Untouched. But still…

“You.” Elphaba clenched her fists. Loose items around the room rattled and started to float.

“You seemed just overflowing with greeditude, having me as your roommate. I only wished to give you a taste of what you coveted.” Glinda smiled and fluttered her lashes. She sat up lazily.

“Fix this. Now.”

“Well, there’s a teensy problem with that. I don’t know how. If only I knew someone who could teach me.” Glinda shrugged, demurely crossing one leg over the other.

Oh, that was her game. Elphaba narrowed her eyes.

“Why in Oz would I help you? Has that silver spoon of yours finally poisoned your brain?”

“Why, Elphaba, wouldn’t you take pity on a poor girl—in the figurative sense, of course, I’d never put myself and ‘poor’ in conversation otherwise—who wishes to learn?” Glinda pressed an insincere hand to her heart.

“No, I wouldn’t. Fix this,” Elphaba snarled.

“Alright! So testy.” Glinda stood and brushed herself off. She reached down into the front of her shirt and pulled her training wand from her cleavage. Elphaba wanted to snap at her for the recklessness, but for some reason, her tongue was tied.

Glinda twirled her wand about the room, humming under her breath. She punctuated her nonsense tune with a flick of her wrist. An explosion rocked the room, light searing into Elphaba’s eyes. She flinched and hid in her arms. It took a solid minute for the light to die, if not more, and Elphaba dared not peek until the room seemed dark. Her heart sank once she did.

Glitter. All over everything.

“Oops.” Glinda giggled evilly. “I mean, I did tell you that I didn’t know how to fix it. You all but asked for this.”

A furious scream tore from Elphaba’s throat and she launched herself at her roommate. They both flew onto Glinda’s bed, bouncing higher than they had any right to on what was supposed to be a dorm mattress. Knowing Glinda, she’d probably replaced it, and that only made Elphaba angrier.

“You are so dead!”

“Ah ah, Elphaba! You can’t hurt me, remember? They’ll expel you!” The words tumbled out of Glinda’s mouth as Elphaba’s hands closed around her throat.

“Let them.” But Elphaba’s bravado failed her. An inquisition awaited her around every corner. Even if Glinda didn’t stoke the flames, they’d consume her all the same. No, she’d have to do something subtle. She’d have to stoop to Glinda’s level. Elphaba took in every detail of Glinda’s smug face with a calculating glare.

It brought thoughts of Nessa Rose to Elphaba’s mind—memories of her puberty prickly phase, when her father’s poison about Elphaba had taken root in her little brain. Nessa was so testy then, so concerned with her image, and Elphaba, still yearning for the silly times of their youth, would do anything to break that mask. A well-timed silly face, an awful joke, a pinch to her side here and there—

Oh, well there’s an idea.

Elphaba grinned down at Glinda. It was kind of stupid, but if it worked….she might actually know peace.

“What is your face doing? Stop it. It’s horrifying.” Glinda leaned away from her. Elphaba cracked her knuckles.

“Did you not hear me? If you lay a finger on me, Madam Morrible will have your head.” Glinda smirked.

“I’m not going to lay a finger on you—“ Elphaba’s grin stretched into something feral— “I’m going to lay five.”

Elphaba scribbled curiously at Glinda’s stomach and a single frivolous giggle bubbled out. Glinda blinked up at Elphaba. Elphaba grinned down at Glinda like a shark.

She’d never seen Glinda sweat before. Fascinating.

“Now, Elphie—can I call you Elphie? We can surely discuss this as civil, upstanding thinkers of the modern Ozian age—“

Elphaba latched onto Glinda’s waist. The rest of her meaningless drivel was lost to squeals.

“I didn’t know a person could be this ticklish,” Elphaba mused, taking the ruffles of Glinda’s shirt as a guide for her hands. It worked pretty well—her ribs sent her laughter a whole octave higher. Elphaba lingered there, using her claws—as Glinda had mockingly called them—to pluck each bout of laughter from Glinda’s shivering lungs.

Elphaba let her hands rove upwards, wary of the bubbling fizzy feeling in her stomach at seeing Glinda’s smile. She had a gap in her teeth. Somehow, that small imperfection occupied her full attention.

Glinda’s shriek at Elphaba’s hands under her arms snapped her out of her reverie. Glinda drummed her heels desperately on the mattress and tossed her head from side to side, making a frizzy mess of her curls. Elphaba tracked her every movement, searching for signs of greater weakness, but one observation screamed for her attention.

Glinda wasn’t fighting back. She was writhing, sure, and oh, was she laughing, but she hadn’t pushed Elphaba away once.

“Do you like this?” Elphaba mused, only half-sure she wanted Glinda to answer. Glinda looked at her with such a raw and vulnerable sense of alarm that Elphaba had to avert her gaze. She’d glimpsed something real there, something neither of them were prepared to examine.

Elphaba took that tidbit and locked it away in her mind. Whether it was for safekeeping or ignoring, she couldn’t say.

Glinda curled up like a little pillbug, hiccups sneaking their way into her laughter. She looked so sweet like this, pink-cheeked and smiling, and that made Elphaba smile too. But only slightly. If only she weren’t evil incarnate. Perhaps they could have smiled like this together.

Elphaba clawed at Glinda’s hips to outrun the thought. Glinda squealed so loudly that the balcony door rattled. Her voice got stuck at that fever pitch, garbling anything she tried to say into an endearing jumble. A snort tumbled out of her, then another, and Elphaba chuckled.

”I didn’t know you could make sounds like that.”

Glinda growled at her like a little dog. Elphaba truly, genuinely laughed. She didn’t stop, though. She zeroed in on that spot, chasing every hiccup and squeal with a predator’s precision. Glinda came apart at the seams.

“A-Alright! I’ve learned my lesson, plehehease!” Glinda desperately gripped Elphaba’s arms. She relented, and Glinda immediately flung herself onto her back.

“You are an utter ruffian! A horrendible scoundrel, really!” Glinda swatted her over and over, but there was no venom to it.

Somewhere between storming into the room and pinning Glinda down, Elphaba’d lost the thread of her righteous anger. It had softened into something suspiciously like…fun. That would not do. If she were to be so wicked in the public eye, she should maintain it in the private.

“If you mess with my stuff again—“ Elphaba grabbed Glinda’s chin— “I won’t stop until you cry.”

Glinda smirked. Elphaba recoiled a little.

“I’d expect nothing less.”

“What?” Elphaba blinked.

“We’re rivals, dearest Elphaba. Fortunately for you, I have already dreamed up my riposte.” Glinda booped Elphaba’s nose, brushed off her skirts, and traipsed over to her mirror. It was a treat to watch her wince at the state of hair, but Elphaba still felt as if she was falling from a great height, with no hope of the earth beneath her. She didn’t know what to do with Glinda sometimes.

“Did you think I’d be so easily discowed? Don’t tell me you think so little of me. I couldn’t stand it.” Glinda worked at her hair with all kinds of mousses and creams, sprays and oils, until the room smelled like a flower garden.

“I suppose I thought that you’d be…afraid.” Elphaba plodded over. Glinda caught her eye in the mirror.

“Elphie, what kind of enemy would I be to you if I fled at your slightest prodding?”

“A ticklish one.” Elphaba tazed her sides. Glinda yelped and spun around, desperately fumbling for Elphaba’s hands. The flush on her cheeks was….

Nope. Don’t think about that.

“My point, you toad, is that you cannot get rid of me. Try as you might, I plan on being your lifelong adversary, not a fair-weather foe.” Glinda haughtily raised her chin. Something in Elphaba’s chest fluttered at the thought.

“Good.”

“Great.”

Elphaba drifted back over to her side of the room, scowling as she picked through the frilly fallout. She sat at her newly-pink desk and pulled out some newly-pink stationary, sighing all the while.

Glinda had the nerve to titter at her.

“Shut up. This is your fault.” Elphaba pulled out her quill and winced at it—it looked as if she’d torn it off a flamingo. Her ink pot was the last straw.

Her beautiful velvet-black fresh ink was now made of silver glitter. Elphaba groaned, resting her forehead on her desk.

“Oh, don’t look so despondiary. I think pink is rather fetching on you.” Glinda smirked across the room. Elphaba stood quickly, and that pretty face lost its smugness and color in a flash.

“Oh come on, Elphie, you don’t have to—“

“Clearly, I do. Let’s see if this—“ Elphaba shook the quill at her and she squeaked— “has any special properties, now that you’ve ruined it.”

“I don’t think so!” Glinda backed up through her mountains of trunks and clothing racks.

“Don’t sell yourself short, Glinda. You made all kinds of wonders possible today!”

Glinda’s shrieks rattled their windows through the rest of the afternoon.

[tickle-bugs]

Elphaba x Glinda #25

So I’m an IDIOT and didn’t actually include the prompt phrase which was: “You are gonna regret that.” I had it in there but I think I Ship of Theseus’d this fic so much that I accidentally got rid of it 😭 this has the vibes though I promise!!

Countermeasures

Glinda is used to getting everything she wants, but she’s not quite prepared to get exactly what she deserves. Elphaba is happy to help. What is This Feeling era where Glinda messes with Elphaba’s stuff and Elphaba wrecks her.

Elphaba was going to kill Glinda. This was not a new thought, nor a particularly startling one, but it was nonetheless one Elphaba held close with deep conviction. Every time she heard a new rumor about herself, every time Glinda shot her a coy look in public, that feeling in her gut would flare and churn. She could temper it, mostly, but this…

“Ah, the dragon returns to her roost.” Glinda looked up from where she’d been reading on her stomach, kicking her feet in the air. Her mocking laughter tinkled like broken glass.

Pink.

Everything was pink.

Glinda had, in the span of four hours, replaced everything in Elphaba’s room with a pink copy. No….on closer inspection, she’d somehow turned everything pink. Her books, her pillows—

Elphaba thought of that little green bottle beneath her pillow, and fury clawed up her throat. She darted to her bed, flipped her pillow, and—

It was fine. Untouched. But still…

“You.” Elphaba clenched her fists. Loose items around the room rattled and started to float.

“You seemed just overflowing with greeditude, having me as your roommate. I only wished to give you a taste of what you coveted.” Glinda smiled and fluttered her lashes. She sat up lazily.

“Fix this. Now.”

“Well, there’s a teensy problem with that. I don’t know how. If only I knew someone who could teach me.” Glinda shrugged, demurely crossing one leg over the other.

Oh, that was her game. Elphaba narrowed her eyes.

“Why in Oz would I help you? Has that silver spoon of yours finally poisoned your brain?”

“Why, Elphaba, wouldn’t you take pity on a poor girl—in the figurative sense, of course, I’d never put myself and ‘poor’ in conversation otherwise—who wishes to learn?” Glinda pressed an insincere hand to her heart.

“No, I wouldn’t. Fix this,” Elphaba snarled.

“Alright! So testy.” Glinda stood and brushed herself off. She reached down into the front of her shirt and pulled her training wand from her cleavage. Elphaba wanted to snap at her for the recklessness, but for some reason, her tongue was tied.

Glinda twirled her wand about the room, humming under her breath. She punctuated her nonsense tune with a flick of her wrist. An explosion rocked the room, light searing into Elphaba’s eyes. She flinched and hid in her arms. It took a solid minute for the light to die, if not more, and Elphaba dared not peek until the room seemed dark. Her heart sank once she did.

Glitter. All over everything.

“Oops.” Glinda giggled evilly. “I mean, I did tell you that I didn’t know how to fix it. You all but asked for this.”

A furious scream tore from Elphaba’s throat and she launched herself at her roommate. They both flew onto Glinda’s bed, bouncing higher than they had any right to on what was supposed to be a dorm mattress. Knowing Glinda, she’d probably replaced it, and that only made Elphaba angrier.

“You are so dead!”

“Ah ah, Elphaba! You can’t hurt me, remember? They’ll expel you!” The words tumbled out of Glinda’s mouth as Elphaba’s hands closed around her throat.

“Let them.” But Elphaba’s bravado failed her. An inquisition awaited her around every corner. Even if Glinda didn’t stoke the flames, they’d consume her all the same. No, she’d have to do something subtle. She’d have to stoop to Glinda’s level. Elphaba took in every detail of Glinda’s smug face with a calculating glare.

It brought thoughts of Nessa Rose to Elphaba’s mind—memories of her puberty prickly phase, when her father’s poison about Elphaba had taken root in her little brain. Nessa was so testy then, so concerned with her image, and Elphaba, still yearning for the silly times of their youth, would do anything to break that mask. A well-timed silly face, an awful joke, a pinch to her side here and there—

Oh, well there’s an idea.

Elphaba grinned down at Glinda. It was kind of stupid, but if it worked….she might actually know peace.

“What is your face doing? Stop it. It’s horrifying.” Glinda leaned away from her. Elphaba cracked her knuckles.

“Did you not hear me? If you lay a finger on me, Madam Morrible will have your head.” Glinda smirked.

“I’m not going to lay a finger on you—“ Elphaba’s grin stretched into something feral— “I’m going to lay five.”

Elphaba scribbled curiously at Glinda’s stomach and a single frivolous giggle bubbled out. Glinda blinked up at Elphaba. Elphaba grinned down at Glinda like a shark.

She’d never seen Glinda sweat before. Fascinating.

“Now, Elphie—can I call you Elphie? We can surely discuss this as civil, upstanding thinkers of the modern Ozian age—“

Elphaba latched onto Glinda’s waist. The rest of her meaningless drivel was lost to squeals.

“I didn’t know a person could be this ticklish,” Elphaba mused, taking the ruffles of Glinda’s shirt as a guide for her hands. It worked pretty well—her ribs sent her laughter a whole octave higher. Elphaba lingered there, using her claws—as Glinda had mockingly called them—to pluck each bout of laughter from Glinda’s shivering lungs.

Elphaba let her hands rove upwards, wary of the bubbling fizzy feeling in her stomach at seeing Glinda’s smile. She had a gap in her teeth. Somehow, that small imperfection occupied her full attention.

Glinda’s shriek at Elphaba’s hands under her arms snapped her out of her reverie. Glinda drummed her heels desperately on the mattress and tossed her head from side to side, making a frizzy mess of her curls. Elphaba tracked her every movement, searching for signs of greater weakness, but one observation screamed for her attention.

Glinda wasn’t fighting back. She was writhing, sure, and oh, was she laughing, but she hadn’t pushed Elphaba away once.

“Do you like this?” Elphaba mused, only half-sure she wanted Glinda to answer. Glinda looked at her with such a raw and vulnerable sense of alarm that Elphaba had to avert her gaze. She’d glimpsed something real there, something neither of them were prepared to examine.

Elphaba took that tidbit and locked it away in her mind. Whether it was for safekeeping or ignoring, she couldn’t say.

Glinda curled up like a little pillbug, hiccups sneaking their way into her laughter. She looked so sweet like this, pink-cheeked and smiling, and that made Elphaba smile too. But only slightly. If only she weren’t evil incarnate. Perhaps they could have smiled like this together.

Elphaba clawed at Glinda’s hips to outrun the thought. Glinda squealed so loudly that the balcony door rattled. Her voice got stuck at that fever pitch, garbling anything she tried to say into an endearing jumble. A snort tumbled out of her, then another, and Elphaba chuckled.

”I didn’t know you could make sounds like that.”

Glinda growled at her like a little dog. Elphaba truly, genuinely laughed. She didn’t stop, though. She zeroed in on that spot, chasing every hiccup and squeal with a predator’s precision. Glinda came apart at the seams.

“A-Alright! I’ve learned my lesson, plehehease!” Glinda desperately gripped Elphaba’s arms. She relented, and Glinda immediately flung herself onto her back.

“You are an utter ruffian! A horrendible scoundrel, really!” Glinda swatted her over and over, but there was no venom to it.

Somewhere between storming into the room and pinning Glinda down, Elphaba’d lost the thread of her righteous anger. It had softened into something suspiciously like…fun. That would not do. If she were to be so wicked in the public eye, she should maintain it in the private.

“If you mess with my stuff again—“ Elphaba grabbed Glinda’s chin— “I won’t stop until you cry.”

Glinda smirked. Elphaba recoiled a little.

“I’d expect nothing less.”

“What?” Elphaba blinked.

“We’re rivals, dearest Elphaba. Fortunately for you, I have already dreamed up my riposte.” Glinda booped Elphaba’s nose, brushed off her skirts, and traipsed over to her mirror. It was a treat to watch her wince at the state of hair, but Elphaba still felt as if she was falling from a great height, with no hope of the earth beneath her. She didn’t know what to do with Glinda sometimes.

“Did you think I’d be so easily discowed? Don’t tell me you think so little of me. I couldn’t stand it.” Glinda worked at her hair with all kinds of mousses and creams, sprays and oils, until the room smelled like a flower garden.

“I suppose I thought that you’d be…afraid.” Elphaba plodded over. Glinda caught her eye in the mirror.

“Elphie, what kind of enemy would I be to you if I fled at your slightest prodding?”

“A ticklish one.” Elphaba tazed her sides. Glinda yelped and spun around, desperately fumbling for Elphaba’s hands. The flush on her cheeks was….

Nope. Don’t think about that.

“My point, you toad, is that you cannot get rid of me. Try as you might, I plan on being your lifelong adversary, not a fair-weather foe.” Glinda haughtily raised her chin. Something in Elphaba’s chest fluttered at the thought.

“Good.”

“Great.”

Elphaba drifted back over to her side of the room, scowling as she picked through the frilly fallout. She sat at her newly-pink desk and pulled out some newly-pink stationary, sighing all the while.

Glinda had the nerve to titter at her.

“Shut up. This is your fault.” Elphaba pulled out her quill and winced at it—it looked as if she’d torn it off a flamingo. Her ink pot was the last straw.

Her beautiful velvet-black fresh ink was now made of silver glitter. Elphaba groaned, resting her forehead on her desk.

“Oh, don’t look so despondiary. I think pink is rather fetching on you.” Glinda smirked across the room. Elphaba stood quickly, and that pretty face lost its smugness and color in a flash.

“Oh come on, Elphie, you don’t have to—“

“Clearly, I do. Let’s see if this—“ Elphaba shook the quill at her and she squeaked— “has any special properties, now that you’ve ruined it.”

“I don’t think so!” Glinda backed up through her mountains of trunks and clothing racks.

“Don’t sell yourself short, Glinda. You made all kinds of wonders possible today!”

Glinda’s shrieks rattled their windows through the rest of the afternoon.

[tickle-bugs]

Journalistic Entrapment

Clark lets something slip. Lois can’t let it go.

Saw Superman and wrote this in a fugue state. Might be bad. Don’t care. Have fun. They’re very shmoopy in this one!! Spoiler-free too!

In hindsight, Clark can see how he did this to himself. Lois tells him often that he’s too trusting, but he never would have applied that to her.

They were at Lois’s as they often were, and a bottle of wine led to talking, then to more. He’d lifted her up on the counter, rattling the cabinet doors as she kissed him senseless. He’d been staring at her mouth all night—she had a new lipstick shade and it was driving him nuts. Now, she was kindly painting him with it.

She hooked her legs around his hips and drew him closer, kissing down his jaw. His whole being crackled and sparked at her touch, the response to her call, and he leaned into it. She tipped her face into his throat, brushing her lips teasingly over his pulse. His heart lurched to answer her, but his body…

A giggle bubbled out of Clark and he twitched away. They stared at each other for a long moment, blinking at each other. Lois raised an eyebrow, and when it was clear she wouldn’t speak, he chuckled nervously.

“Off the record—“ he grinned shyly, shifting his hands on her hips— “I’m a little ticklish. Sorry.”

“Off the record, huh?” Lois’s eyes sparkled in the dim light. She latched back onto his neck like a vampire. He shivered and snickered quietly. It wasn’t…unpleasant.

“Yeah. Can’t let the tabloids hear thahahat.” He leaned away from her wicked teeth.

“No, of course not.” Lois pressed her mouth more intently into his skin, but he should have taken her smile as the warning that it was.

…

“You are blowing this way out of proportion.” Clark shakes his head. He coolly and calmly reaches for the mugs in her cabinets.

“What? That Superman is deathly ticklish?” Lois reaches out to pinch his side. He catches her wrist before she even gets close. She tries to get him with the other hand and he captures that too.

“Deathly is a bit dramatic—“

”Then stop fighting back and let me find out for myself.” Lois leans forward conspiratorially. Clark knows that he’s too far gone for her when his first thought isn’t to flee.

“It’s really…I’m…Lois, it cannot possibly be this entertaining to you,” He chuckles, flabbergasted. She narrows her eyes like a predator. She tries her wrists in his grasp, but quickly gives up.

“So you agree? You’re wildly ticklish and it’s adorable?” Lois’s evil smile shows off the gap in her teeth. Clark tries not to get distracted by it.

“I didn’t say that.” He lifts her up onto the counter by the arm and she lets him, like a ragdoll. He boxes her in, both her hands still easily caught in his. On habit, he rubs circles into her wrists with his thumb.

“I did. It’s cute. You have a nice laugh.” Her eyes rove over his face and she may as well have heat vision, the way he pinkens beneath her gaze.

“Thank you—“ Lois perks up at the almost admission and Clark points sternly at her— “But I’m not. You just…surprised me.”

“You can hear your mother’s heartbeat several states over, but I...surprised you?” Okay, yeah, he hears how that sounds. He has to get ahead of this, though. If Lois tells Jimmy, he will never know peace again.

“Yes. Like this.” He squeezes her sides a few times and she tries to climb up the wall. Lois’s laugh is a beautiful, brash thing, hardly ever quiet and always a little raspy. She shoves at his shoulders—it’s like a fly trying to push bedrock—and a snort slips out. Clark grins wider than he thinks he ever has.

Gosh, he loves her. The immediacy and strength of his fondness is overwhelming, surging in his chest like one of his powered breaths. He lets her go, brushing her hair from either side of her face. Her whole face crinkles beneath the weight of her smile.

“You see how that could be surprising? I was distracted.” He rests his arms on either side of her thighs.

“Yeah, I guess so.” She tips his chin up with her finger, reeling him in with a pull greater than his own. He smiles into it, happy to be coaxed and led by her.

“Mmm, thank you—“ He says between kisses, hardly leaving room for his breath to make the words— “for understanding.”

He leans in, fully capturing her lips with his own. He gravitates towards her with his whole being, the moon lit by her sun, and she pulls him in without hesitation. Her hands slide down his back—

Her hands slip under his shirt, her nails skittering like spiders. Clark shrieks and twists away, but she follows him out of the kitchen with deadly accuracy. He backs up against the arm of the couch and goes fully over. She’s on top of him in seconds, drawn to the plane of his stomach as if it’s where her hands belong. It starts him giggling (embarrassing) and hiccuping (worse), leaving him to disintegrate and pray Perry remembers him fondly.

“You are so cute. How are you real? You’re damn near indestructible but this gets you?” She leans down to pepper featherlight kisses over his neck, laughing all the while. Clark makes a noise so high-pitched that for a moment he worries that Krypto might come crashing through the wall.

“Lois!” He crunches in on himself. His laughter is so far out of the realm of control that he doesn’t even try. She zeroes in on the evil little spot that connects his pecs to his ribs, working it like a button designed specifically for her amusement. His legs jerk up towards his chest, flinging her further forward onto him.

“I’m stuck, Clark. You’ll have to lift your arms for me.” Lois shrugs innocently. Clark narrows his eyes at her. She pouts and flutters her lashes.

Clark slowly, achingly, lifts his arms, a nervous smile twitching over his lips. She pats his sides praisingly and leans down towards him—a kiss would be ample reward for the torment and he’s happy to accept.

“How many times do I have to say that you’re too trusting before you believe me?” Lois shoves her hands under his arms, right into the open target, and Clark jumps five feet into the air. Quite literally, in fact.

“Did you just fly away from me? Holy shit!” Lois cackles. Clark’s face burns bright red.

“It’s not that funny.” He crosses his arms, but hovering at eye level next to her ceiling-mounted planter doesn’t help his image.

“You’re right. What’s funny is you thinking that I can’t get you up there.” Lois pulls out one of those extendable duster things from the broom closet and slides a clean, fluffy pad onto it. He furrows his brow.

“I’m not a spider, Lois,” Clark huffs, but he can’t wrap his head around her game here. She climbs up on the couch, stretches up onto her tiptoes, and swats at him with the duster. He bats it away easily, but she’s persistent, and soon he finds himself drifting into a corner.

She pushes some kind of button on the handle and the thing extends several feet, rocketing the fluffy end right into the crook of his neck. He makes a noise somewhere between a boiling tea kettle and a guitar being smashed, a nonsensical collision of panic and mirth that completely overrides all his good sense. He drops a foot or two before catching himself.

She clumsily attacks now that he’s closer. He fights with everything he has not to snap her duster—money is tight and she just bought it. It still smells new. Lois cackles like some sort of supervillain as she darts back and forth across the couch. If Clark could speak for laughing, he’d ask her how long she’d been planning this. When it comes to Lois’s plans, it’s truly anyone’s guess.

Taking advantage of the distraction, Lois leaps up and grabs his ankle. That’s all the warning he has before there are nails beneath his toes. Clark shrieks and tries to lift his leg, but he lifts her with it and she doesn’t stop.

“A-Alright! Let me breheathe!” He laughs wildly, legs trembling with the effort not to kick.

“You don’t need to breathe.”

“Yeah, but I’d like to!” His voice cracks and Lois finally, blessedly, relents her attack. He lifts her up into his arms and lowers them back to Earth on wobbly legs.

“Gosh, would you stop it?” He laughs and grabs her hands again. He sees her mouth ‘gosh’, ever-teasing, and he magnanimously chooses to ignore it. His mind and nerves are buzzing too much to provoke her again, besides.

“I will personally let this go, but I am telling Jimmy. He has a right to know this…crucial intel. Ethically.” The mock severity of her tone sends a zing of fear through him. Jimmy, who does not know his secret, and whom Clark therefore cannot fly away from. Jimmy, who expects Clark to be as strong as one of his favorite wrestlers at most.

“Nope. You’re not.” He throws her over his shoulder and locks in on her hips, pulling the raspy, bright laughter from her that he’s fallen so helplessly in love with. He tosses her on her bed and crawls after her, tickling mercilessly until she makes a compelling argument for different activities with her mouth.

When he wakes up squealing the next morning—Lois’s hands are ice cold and on his stomach—he better understands the magnitude of mistake that he’s made, but he can’t bring himself to care. He’d happily trade a new and silly weakness for the strength of her love. His dignity is worth pennies beside her smile.

He does rethink this, of course, when Lois casually drops her findings in the break room and Jimmy pounces on him like a feral cat. He catches her eye through mirthful tears and new smudges on his crooked glasses, but his perspective doesn’t shift.

Love. What a lucky mistake to make.

[tickle-bugs]

Omg I'm so happy you're alive

#7 for superbat 🥺 or superwonderbat if that's more up your alley at this time???

I’m aliveeeeeeeee!!! I’ve missed you and them hehe

Trying out a sillier Bruce in this one because I’ve always meant to and it seemed to work well for this! I love him and Clark so much ugh

The Games We Play

Bruce tries out being lighter-hearted with Clark. He gets more than he bargained for.

Bruce is aware of the reputation he has among the few people who truly know him. A perceived coldness precludes anything he might do, and he’s stilted in any warmth he delivers. But he’s trying. Hard. Especially with Clark. Lightheartedness comes to him as easy as flying—which is to say, it doesn’t and he’s been forced to invent new ways to keep up with the fliers in his life.

Again, he’s trying.

They’re in the game room, which Clark’s delighted to find was not “one of those stuffy ones, with just a pool table and some cards”, and is in fact stocked with games. His children usually stake first claim over this room, but it’s unexpectedly empty tonight. Bruce might’ve read further into that on a different day, but Clark’s beaming at him and there’s nothing beyond that worth focusing on.

“Prepare to be crushed. Jimmy and I have Smash set up in the office.” Clark clicks the Switch into the cradle, and the giant tv lights up. He smooths over a few of the peeling stickers on it and Bruce briefly smiles.

“Then why play here?”

“We use a cracked monitor balanced on some old editions of the Planet. Your TV is so high res I can see new colors in it.” Clark tosses Bruce a dark blue and a grey controller, then takes the red and blue ones for himself. Clark picks Kirby right away. Bruce picks Snake, after some internal deliberation. Maybe he takes a while just to hear Clark whine.

An hour or so later, Bruce wonders if Snake is sore from getting thrashed so hard by that little pink…thing. He doesn’t understand how something so silly-looking is so effective at defeating him. He’d memorized the combos within a minute—Steph had drilled into him to do this rather than ‘button-mashing’—but nothing worked. Every time, Kirby just…ate him.

“Sorry. I think Kirby is Snake’s weakness.” Clark shrugs. Bruce huffs. He doesn’t like to lose, but he was never particularly illusioned that he’d win.

He watches Clark out of the corner of his eye. He looks so at home here, having shed his coat and jacket. Bruce reaches out to fix one of his troublesome curls, coaxing it back into pattern. Clark turns and softly kisses his hand. Bruce’s heart leaps into his throat.

He follows Clark, as he always does, over the precipice of affection.

“I happen to know a weakness of yours.” Bruce tries to make Snake hit a combo for something to do with his hands, but Kirby eats him and spits him out over the edge. Again.

“Yes, kryptonite, very funny. You couldn’t bear to kill me, Bruce. You’d miss me too much.” Clark turns to him with a cheeky smile. The game win screen reflects in his glasses. Perfect.

Bruce summons a bit of his persona, but not too much. This is real. Not a mask. He’s just…borrowing from the playboy.

“Not what I meant.” Bruce’s mouth lifts into a smirk. Clark’s brow furrows adorably as he tries to puzzle it out. Bruce crawls forward with a smirk. Clark immediately leans in to meet him, so eager and wanting.

Bruce waits until their lips nearly meet, then rests his hands in little claws across Clark’s stomach. Clark’s eyes go saucer-wide. Bruce pounces before he can think about fleeing. He’s clumsy with his fingers but it doesn’t seem to matter—Clark’s giggles bubble forth as easily as breathing.

“That—you—I t-thought Batman doesn’t cheat!” Clark twists from side to side, eventually just toppling over onto the couch. Bruce reaches for the controller, but Clark raises his arms. How kind.

“I’m not Batman.” Bruce crawls over him and races his fingers up Clark’s sides. Clark squeals and kicks his legs, his whole face pinching adorably, so of course Bruce does it again. And again. He lets his fingers dance at Clark’s top rib and he’s rewarded with giggles so violent that, for a moment, he’s worried about if he can breathe. Then he remembers that Clark has no need for air, and he continues.

“You literally are—“ Clark’s cut off by his own snort. The very quiet ‘aw’ that slips free from Bruce’s mouth is involuntary and deeply concerning. This man has a dangerous effect on him, what with his skewed glasses and boyish laugh, and it’s starting to wear at him. Change him.

Or maybe…it’s exposing something deep within him.

“There must be some mistake, Clark. I understand that the Planet has its theories, but I’m not Batman.” Bruce blinks innocently. Clark tries to growl, but it rockets back up into giggles. The change in pitch startles a chuckle out of Bruce. It’s so cute and so Clark. His whole chest grows warm with fondness.

Clark’s shirt had ridden up with his squirming, and Bruce didn’t get to be who he is without taking advantage of opportunity. He hasn’t shaved in a bit and he weaponizes that, leaving a long trail of kisses over Clark’s torso.

“Bruce!” Clark shoves at his face and cackles.

Bruce gets more intentional with his kisses, applying more pressure, but his stubble is apparently still too much. Clark curls up around him and clutches his shoulders in a semi-bruising grip. His voice cracks around his laughter. Bruce’s face cracks around his smile. Clark’s infectious. Sue him.

“You really shouldn’t let anyone exploit this weakness. It’s so easy to take you apart,” Bruce hums with a smirk, leaning forward to kiss Clark properly.

Bruce’s whole world inverts.

Instinct drives him to try and defend himself, but there’s no time. In the space of a breath, Clark has flipped them, pinning him against his own couch like they’re twentysomethings wrestling for the last beer.

“I’ll show you easy.” Clark leans down, his eyes flashing behind his skewed glasses. He’s pink and out of breath somehow, which is unfairly charming. So much of him is unfairly charming.

“We can talk about this, Clark. Can’t we?” Bruce brings his hand to the back of Clark’s neck, looking up at him through his lashes. He’s not above using his tricks.

“Oh, I think you’ve talked plenty, don’t you?”

Mistake. Mistake.

Clark’s hands find purchase under Bruce’s arms and he goes ramrod still. He doesn’t move, he hardly breathes. He doesn’t even clench his fists, no matter how much the gentle prodding makes him want to. He tries to appear as relaxed as possible. Bruce raises an unimpressed brow.

“I know you think this will make me stop—“ Clark speaks directly into Bruce’s neck and he makes a strangled sound— “But it’s fun making you break.”

Fuck, is he…telepathic?

Bruce squints up at him, trembling like a leaf. Clark grins like the devil.

Nope. Just an asshole.

Clark scrapes his teeth over Bruce’s neck and he jolts, a startled ‘ha!’ jostling free and sending more laughter tumbling out after, like an overstuffed closet spilling its contents. Once it starts, he can’t stop it.

“I happen to know a weakness of yours,” Clark says in his stupid, mocking approximation of Batman’s voice. Bruce doesn’t have the air to argue. He muffles his laughter into his bicep, desperate to hide. The silliness he can take—it’s well-worth watching Clark getting laughed out of League meetings for suggesting that Batman told a joke. The vulnerability, though, that’s…difficult.

Clark pulls his arms over his head as if they were twigs. Bruce bites his lip, but only briefly. Self-control, and all that.

“Once again, I feel like we could be doing something far more fun—“

“Oh, hush. As if you don’t like this.” Clark mercifully doesn't give him room to speak, but it doesn’t stop Bryce’s brain from spinning out. This is what Clark does. He gracelessly smacks Bruce across the face with some deep truth about himself, then moves on as if nothing happened.

Clark’s not…wrong—not fully, anyway. Bruce would much prefer Clark on top of him in a different way, but he doesn’t hate this as much as he should.

Clark tickles at the back of Bruce’s calf like some kind of supervillain and snaps him right out of his mind. Bruce kicks him straight across the jaw with a crack that’s concerning no matter whose body it came from. Clark’s glasses sail across the room, clattering to a stop somewhere out of sight.

Clark’s eyes legitimately flash with menace.

“I didn’t mean that,” Bruce says quickly, putting his hands up.

“Did you just kick me?” Clark growls, and Bruce suddenly feels as though they’ve switched places. Somewhere in all of this, he’d lost track of which way’s up.

“Clark—“ Bruce’s voice dies in his throat when Clark hitches his leg over his shoulder.

“You’re doing this on purpose,” Bruce groans. He resists the urge to hide his face in favor of crossing his arms. Definitely not protectively.

“Yes, I am. I’m very purposefully teaching you some manners, because obviously Alfred’s teachings haven’t stuck.” Clark rolls up his sleeves. One of them is tricky, and Bruce reaches forward to do it himself.

“I don’t think he’d agree with you.” Bruce’s lips tick up in a smile at the comment and nothing else.

“Alfred and I are pals, so I think I carry his best interests at heart.” Clark presses a playful hand to his heart. Bruce snorts lightly.

“Sure.” Clark leans down to kiss him and cut off any further protest.

A chorus of half-screams and gagging sounds erupt from the doorway and Clark bolts upright like a hare. Bruce has the express pleasure of watching the tips of his ears scorch red.

“Oh, uhm. Heya, Dick! Jason!”

Oh. He’s never gonna live this down.

Bruce considers popping up with Clark, but it’s funnier from down here.

Clark waves over the top of the couch, his face redder than his cape. Bruce slides a hand over his mouth to hide his smile. Clark waves like a tacky car dealership decoration for a long, awkward while until the disgusted muttering fades away.

“Bruce, the kind thing to do right now would be to kill me.” Clark slid his hands up over his face in despair. Bruce pats his arm.

“But, Clark—“ Bruce allows himself the tiniest smirk— “I’d miss you too much.”

He fully earns the wrecking that comment brings him, but he can’t quite find it in himself to care.