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"Not so fast." Clark was meeting Bruce's every attempt to get around him with a simple side-step to keep him backed up to the table. "I have a hypothesis. What kind of scientist would I be if I didn't run some tests?"

Bruce glared at the cocky smirk Clark was throwing his way. He was suddenly regretting his earlier refusal to come upstairs for dinner, informing Clark that he was running an experiment and it would be a waste if he didn't run his labs and test out his hypothesis. Of course, Bruce being Bruce, he spoke to Clark like he was 4 years old when he said all of this, and now it was coming back to bite him in the ass.

"One that doesn't get a chunk of kryptonite shoved into a very painful orifice."

"B, I love it when you talk dirty to me."

The indignity of Clark getting the last word was almost worse than the utter humiliation Bruce felt when a shriek left his mouth without his permission. It sounded somewhat like "Clark" and somewhat like a banshee.

"My hypothesis is that Bruce Wayne, The Dark Knight, Terror of Gotham, is secretly a ticklish softy." Clark had to raise his voice to be heard over the strangled laughter pouring out of Bruce, and the clatter of equipment on the table that was being jostled by his violent squirming.

"i'm go-hohoho-ing to fucking ki-hihihihihi-ll you." Bruce was doing his best to growl through what seemed like endless waves of laughter. Clark's arms were wrapped around his middle, one hand squeezing up and down his flank as the fingers on his other hand gently scratched any surface they could reach.

"Test number one: complete." Clark eased up on his tickling, allowing Bruce to catch his breath. It did nothing to slow the wild hammering of his heart, but he wasn't struggling against Clark's loose hold, so he figured it was more out of embarrassment than it was fear or discomfort. "Your sides are ticklish." He informed Bruce, smirking at the growl rumbling in his chest.

"Great. Are we done here?"

"What's the rush? You seemed to want to take your time earlier."

"That was important-"

"So is this. Diana's going to want to know if you have a human side after-all."

Bruce's response was once again cut off as one of Clark's hands migrated to stomach, fingers gently prodding into the muscles there.

"Test number Two: Does the Batman have a ticklish tummy?" Clark laughed in delight when Bruce's ears instantly burned red.

"This. Is. So. Childish." Bruce said through gritted teeth, refusing to let the laughter flow as he struggled against the arm wrapped around his torso and holding him in place.

"Maybe if I introduce a new variable." Clark pretended like he was talking to himself, but it was very much said to mess with Bruce. He yanked Bruce's shirt out of the waistband of his pants, smirking when Bruce cursed lowly and flexed his stomach muscles as Clark's hand made contact with his bare skin. "Yes, this should do." Clark mused, reveling in the muffled laughter already coming from Bruce before he even began moving his fingers.

"You're such a di-hihihihihihi-ck." Bruce laughed, trying a new tactic by burrowing his body backwards into Clark's chest. Naturally, that just made it easier for Clark's fingers to roam across his stomach, making a quick detour into the caverns of his bellybutton and spending some time there when Bruce squeaked.

"Wow." Clark laughed, mercifully giving Bruce a break after a few seconds of that treatment. "I didn't know you could make that noise, B."

"I am going to drown you in a pool of liquified kryptonite." The fact that he was practically boneless as he leaned back against Clark's chest when there was nothing keeping him there took some of the heat out of his words.

"Test number Two: Complete. The Batman does indeed have a ticklish tummy." Clark's laugh was cut short by the elbow jabbing sharply into his gut. "If you wanted to do a third test, you just had to ask. No need to get violent." Clark's arms once again wrapped around Bruce's torso so he couldn't leave, and Bruce was kicking himself for not pulling away when he had the chance.

"Now where to perform a third test." Clark hummed, resting his chin on Bruce's shoulder as he scanned his friend's body. His feet would be the obvious next choice, but he was enjoying having Bruce pulled flush to his chest, and more than that it seemed like Bruce didn't mind the position either. He didn't want to go and spoil it by laying him out on the floor to torment his feet. That just seemed cruel.

"How about I run a test on you, so we can compare data?" Bruce suggested, testing the strength of Clark's deceivingly loose hold. Unsurprinsingly the arms around him did not budge.

"Well now, that seems like wishful thinking." Clark huffed out a laugh, breath tickling over Bruce's neck and sending the taller man lurching away with a gasp. "Oh?" He asked, chest filled with glee as a blush quickly appeared on Bruce's neck and continued onto his cheeks.

"No." This was the first time Bruce sounded serious, which Clark deduced meant it was a well-known spot. "Clark." He already sounded like he was trying to hold his laughter at bay, and Clark had yet to do anything but tighten his arms around Bruce's waist so he couldn't slip away.

"Bruce? Anything you want to tell me before I run my final test?" This was said into the side of Bruce's neck, setting off an immediate bout of squirming and high-pitch sounds that the dark knight could not keep in despite his closed mouth.

"I will give you a million dollars to forget this ever happened."

"Well now my curiosity is piqued." Bruce was doing his best to knock Clark's face away using his own head, his body squirming at the feeling of Clark's lips just barely ghosting over the delicate skin of his neck. "How does the whole playboy thing work, if people can't even touch your neck?" This was emphasized by Clark suddenly freeing up one of his hands to drag a single finger down the other side of Bruce's neck. Bruce shouted, nervous laughter bursting out of him for a second before he got it somewhat under control.

"They usually take the money." He was still too proud to admit he didn't let his guard down like this in front of most people, thus they never got a chance to see this side of him. (The rare times someone did tickle him, whether on purpose or by accident, they didn't have the ability to hold him down and make him take it. And, wow, he would be exploring his feelings about this later. Alone.)

Clark purposefully laughed into Bruce's neck, and then laughed some more at the giggles Bruce had no choice but to let out. "You know I have to do this, right?" He was still speaking directly into Bruce's neck, and Bruce's sanity was hanging on by a thread.

"Do wh-hahahaha-what?" Bruce asked, knowing he probably would not like the answer. Or, even worse, he would like it and would have to address those feelings, at least to himself.

"Something tells me no one has ever done this to you before." And if Clark was right then he was in for a real treat. "I'm so happy I could be your first, B."

This whole thing with Clark getting the last word was really starting to grate on Bruce's nerves. He could not dwell on it though, because Clark's lips were suddenly on his neck and he was blowing hard, lips vibrating against his sensitive nerve endings. This was it. After 20+ years of being Batman, Bruce was finally going to die in the line of battle (because this meant war, Clark.)

"StopStopStopStopStopStopStop" Bruce chanted, wild laughter bursting out of him. He was trying to fold in half to escape the endless raspberry, but Clark's arms were stubbornly holding him up. Bruce's eyes were squeezed shut, and he could feel something wet running down his face. He shrieked when he felt fingers dancing along his collarbone on the opposite side of his neck, and it felt like the nervous laughter bubbling out of him would never end. "Cla-hahahaha-rk ple-hehe-please please!"

Clark had paused to draw a breath he didn't need, knowing the anticipation of it would mess with Bruce even more. He stopped when he noticed the tears gathering in the corners of Bruce's eyes, a few having leaked down across his cheeks. "Are you crying?" He asked, arms immediately letting go of their hold on Bruce's torso.

"Shut up." Bruce muttered, no real heat in his words as he wiped at his eyes, staring at the salty liquid on his fingers. He felt his face grow impossibly hotter at the realization that he had in fact been crying, albeit unknowingly.

"Did I go too far?" Clark seemed to shrink in on himself, no part of his body touching Bruce's as the other man quickly gained control over his breathing again. "It was just..so unexpected. I didn't mean to.." He trailed off, suddenly embarrassed at the state he left Bruce in.

Bruce's cheeks were still dusted with pink, there were tears still gathering in the corners of his eyes, the front of his shirt had been unceremoniously yanked out of his pants and left untucked, and his hair had fallen out of it's carefully tousled style. He looked wrecked, for lack of a better term. He also looked confused at the sudden loss of arms around his torso. And why did Clark look like a kicked puppy?

Bruce stared at Clark in silence, taking in the nervous expression on the other man's face. His arms were drawn in close to his sides, back slightly hunched as though he were trying to make himself appear smaller. The uncertainty and guilt were written clearly on his face. It was clear that the "no-touching" signals Bruce usually threw off were causing him to think he overstepped. The embarrassing accidental tears and begging probably didn't help.

"Have you drawn your conclusion?" Bruce asked, voice a bit scratchy due to the unexpected and unusual amount of laughter.

"I--look, I'm sorry. I got carried away, but I can forget this ever happened."

Bruce raised a single eyebrow at that. "It's too late for that." Clark seemed to hunch in on himself even more. Bruce ran a hand through his hair to attempt a quick fix before sticking his hands in his pockets and leaning casually against the workbench. "The money's off the table. You blew it." An easy smile appeared on his face as Clark uncurled himself at the playful tone.

"You're not...mad?"

"Oh, if you ever touch my neck again I will find a way to kill you." Bruce said it so matter-of-fact that Clark couldn't help the surprised laugh that slipped out.

"Noted." Clark would definitely be tickling his neck again, and they both knew it. Bruce all but gave him permission to do so. "Stomach and sides are fine, though?" He teased, taking a step closer with his hand outstretched.

Bruce's muscles tensed up, but he remained leaning against the desk for appearances sake. "Not if you want to keep that hand."

Clark let it drop...for now. "To answer your question; yes. I did reach my conclusion. I have to amend my hypothesis, though." Clark smirked at Bruce's enquiring sound. "You are extremely ticklish." Bruce grunted at that, his trademark scowling making a reappearance. "And a big softy."

"I think you're the first person to ever call me that." Bruce mused, slapping Clark's hand away when he stretched a finger out towards his neck.

"I made you cry from tickling and you forgave me a minute later." Clark was delighted to see a pink dusting gracing Bruce's ears and cheeks again.

"I wasn't crying." Bruce scoffed. "My eyes were watering from the unexpected sensation of...whatever that was."

"The raspberry?" Clark asked, amusement written clear on his face.

"The--" Bruce stuck his tongue out and blew a raspberry, partly to explain it, but mostly to make Clark laugh.

"Oh, this is the start of something special, B." Clark sighed, clapping Bruce on the shoulder. "I take back my earlier statement." Bruce resisted the urge to shrug Clark's hand off his shoulder. "I have not yet reached a conclusion. This question requires further research."

That got Bruce moving. He stood up straight, hands coming out of his pockets as he put a few feet of space between them. "Alfred will kill us if we're late for dinner."

"Dinner was 2 hours ago." Clark informed a genuinely surprised-looking Bruce. He really did lose all track of time when he was working. "Anyway, my research was incomplete. I can't determine if you're ticklish without testing all available variables."

"I could just tell you." Bruce offered, hastily taking a few steps back when Clark slowly started advancing on him.

"That would be corrupted data. You're biased. I need to run my own experiments." Clark put on a small burst of speed to deposit Bruce onto the couch he and Diana bullied him into putting into the cave.

"What are you--CLark! Leave my shoes alone!" Clark was sitting on Bruce's shins, slowly untying his laces and slipping his shoes off his feet.

"It's for Science, B! Now tell me, on a scale of your sides to your neck, where does this land."

Holiday was finished. The killings had stopped. But the echoes still lingered: the unresolved questions, the mistakes he'd made, the lives that had been lost. He told himself it wasn't an obsession, just due diligence. But the lines between those two things blurred hours ago.

The steady scratch of a pen across paper was broken when his butler entered, soundless as ever until the polite ahem of his presence announced him. He carried a silver tray with a cup of steaming tea, setting it down at Bruce's elbow without invitation.

"Master Bruce," Alfred began, voice clipped but not unkind, "it has not escaped my notice that the clock has turned past one. Again."

Bruce didn't look up. "One more lead. Then I'll stop."

"Yes, I recall you saying that four leads ago." Alfred's hands folded behind his back, posture ramrod straight. He tilted his head, observing the mess of notes, the exhaustion carved into Bruce's features. "And unless my eyes deceive me, even the world's most persistent crime-fighter is not immune to gravity. You appear on the verge of collapsing face-first into your paperwork."

Bruce gave a dry exhale, something halfway between a scoff and a chuckle. "I've been worse."

"Indeed. Which is rather the problem, isn't it?" Alfred lingered a moment, then let his gaze wander deliberately across the room. "You know, I happened across the trick-or-treaters in the city this evening. Gotham's children seem particularly enamored with bats this year. Costumes everywhere; tiny fangs, little paper wings, the works. Quite endearing."

Bruce's pen stilled for the first time. He glanced up, one brow raised. "Is that so?"

"Mm. It reminded me," Alfred continued smoothly, "of another child who once fashioned wings out of bedsheets, demanded to stay up until impossible hours, and insisted he was far too old for bedtimes."

Bruce sighed through his nose, setting the pen down at last. "You never let me win that argument."

"Correct." Alfred's expression softened, the faintest ghost of amusement tugging at his mouth. "And yet, here we are again. Same stubborn boy, only now dressed in Kevlar."

The silence stretched, filled only with the distant rumble of Gotham's storm clouds rolling in. Bruce rubbed his eyes with a thumb and forefinger, but when Alfred gestured toward the untouched teacup, he didn't move.

"Alfred," he said firmly, though his voice lacked real force, "I can't afford to stop. Not yet."

Alfred exhaled, long-suffering but patient. "Very well, sir. I shall attempt persuasion. Though I warn you, I have other means if you remain obstinate."

Bruce didn't answer. He'd already turned back toward his notes.

Alfred remained standing behind Bruce's chair, the tea cooling on the desk beside him. His patience was legendary, but it was not infinite.

"Very well," Alfred said at last. "We'll start with reason, then? Your body has endured no less than three consecutive nights of late patrols followed by obsessive casework. You've eaten... once in the past twenty-four hours, and it was cold soup at that. If you don't sleep, Master Bruce, you will cease to be the world's greatest crime-fighter and become the world's most exhausted invalid."

Bruce didn't look up from the evidence photo he was studying. "I'll manage."

"Mm, I see." Alfred's tone didn't shift, though the edge of sarcasm sharpened beneath it. "Perhaps I should begin drafting a new epitaph: 'Here lies Bruce Wayne, savior of Gotham, slain not by villain but by stubbornness.' Quite inspiring, no?"

A flicker of amusement ghosted across Bruce's lips, but he masked it quickly, burying himself in another file. "Dramatic, even for you."

Alfred leaned forward slightly, his shadow stretching across the desk. "If logic won't sway you, perhaps a reminder of your public persona. Wayne Enterprises cannot be captained by a man with raccoon eyes and a permanent slump. Even billionaires must at least pretend to sleep."

That earned no response either, only the sound of pages flipping.

Alfred exhaled quietly through his nose, as though bracing himself. "I did warn you, sir. There remains one final measure. An option I vowed I would never again resort to, but desperate times call for desperate means."

That caught Bruce's attention. His head lifted slightly, brow furrowed. "What are you talking about?"

"Ah. You don't remember." Alfred moved with deliberate calm, circling to Bruce's side. "When you were a boy, Master Bruce, and your nights stretched too long into fantasy crusades, there was one tactic that never failed to secure compliance."

Bruce blinked, tired and irritable. "Alfred, I don't-"

He cut off abruptly as Alfred's hands descended, not roughly but with precision, pressing gently into the space between Bruce's ribs and sides. The contact was startling enough that Bruce jerked upright, eyes going wide.

"Alfred," he warned, voice sharp.

"Yes, sir?" Alfred replied evenly, as though they were discussing household chores. His fingers shifted, light and deliberate.

Bruce stiffened. His breath caught. He bit the inside of his cheek, determined not to give an inch. But the sensation wriggled through him, sparking through nerves dulled by exhaustion. He clamped his jaw shut, the corners of his mouth twitching despite his iron discipline.

"S-stohop-" he ground out, his voice low and as commanding as he could muster.

"Ah," Alfred said mildly, continuing the motion with clinical precision. "So you do recall this particular deterrent."

Bruce twisted in his chair, trying to shrug Alfred off without outright flailing. He'd faced killers, monsters, maniacs of all stripes, and yet somehow, this indignity unraveled him faster than any of them. His lips pressed tighter, but the chuckle that burst through betrayed him.

"A-Ahahalfred-!" His warning dissolved into a sharp bark of laughter, cut off as quickly as he fought to rein it in. "Ihi'm- hahaaha! S-seheherious!"

"Yes, of course you are, sir." Alfred's tone didn't budge. His fingers traced across Bruce's ribs, methodical as a surgeon. "You're always serious. That's half the problem."

Bruce squirmed, gripping the armrests of his chair as though he could anchor himself in stoicism. His shoulders hunched, his teeth gritted, but the laughter was building, bubbling past his control. Finally, it spilled out in a helpless wave.

"Al-AhAhahahhahalfrehehehed! S-Stohohohop iihiHihit!" His laughter rang loud, echoing in the cavernous study.

"Regrettably, I cannot comply until you agree to retire for the night," Alfred replied calmly, like someone negotiating a treaty. "Standard procedure."

Bruce twisted again, nearly tipping the chair in his struggle. He caught Alfred's wrist, but even his considerable strength couldn't quite focus through the tremors of laughter shaking his chest.

"Thihihis- hhahahahaha! Thihihis iIhihiHis Rihihihidihihculous!"

"Yes, sir, quite ridiculous. Yet remarkably effective." Alfred's expression barely shifted, save for a faint upward curve at the corner of his mouth. "A shame, really. If Gotham's rogues ever discovered your Achilles' heel was so... domestic, my workload would quadruple."

Bruce's laugh cracked into a wheeze as Alfred found a particularly sensitive spot along his side. He writhed, head dropping forward, dark hair falling into his face as his composure shattered completely.

"AhahaHAHall RihiHiHight! Hahahahhaha! Ahahahall rihihihight!" He gasped between spurts of laughter, chest heaving. "Ihihihi'll- Ihihihi'll gohohohOHo!"

Alfred slowed, then withdrew his hands with the same precise calm he'd begun with. He adjusted his cuffs as though nothing had happened.

"Excellent. Always a pleasure doing business with you, Master Bruce."

Bruce slumped in his chair, breathing hard, face flushed with equal parts exertion and humiliation. He shot Alfred a glare that carried little actual venom.

"You will never speak of this," Bruce muttered.

"My lips are sealed, sir," Alfred said smoothly, though the glint in his eye betrayed his satisfaction. "Now then, up with you. Bed awaits."

Bruce grumbled but rose, straightening his shirt. Alfred collected the untouched tea, balancing the tray effortlessly as he escorted Bruce toward the grand staircase.

As they climbed, Alfred allowed himself one last remark, light as air. "Some things, it seems, never change."

Bruce's only reply was a tired, resigned chuckle.

High above the study, where the shadowed beams met the vaulted ceiling, another pair of eyes had been watching. Selina Kyle lounged on the narrow lip of the window frame, her silhouette cloaked by the storm-dark night. She had slipped into Wayne Manor with the ease of long practice, steps silent, presence invisible, until she had stumbled upon something far more entertaining than she'd expected.

She had come for him, of course. She always did. A part of her enjoyed prowling the halls of his home when he didn't know, leaving faint traces of perfume or a claw mark in the wood just to remind him she could. But tonight? Tonight, she had been gifted with something better.

Her lips curled upward as she watched the scene unfold below: the Dark Knight of Gotham, the immovable Batman, reduced to writhing laughter under the unyielding hands of his butler. She had seen him corner crime bosses, intimidate monsters, walk through fire with grim determination, and now, she'd seen him beg for mercy at the simple touch of Alfred goddamn Pennyworth.

Selina pressed a hand over her mouth to stifle her own laugh, shoulders shaking silently. The sound of Bruce's laughter carried up to her perch, sharp and unguarded, and it was all she could do not to purr aloud at the sheer absurdity of it. "So that's your weakness, Bats," she thought gleefully. "Not kryptonite. Not some chemical cocktail. Tickling."

The possibilities unfurled in her mind like a cat stretching luxuriously in a sunbeam. She could already imagine Bruce's face if she so much as brushed her fingers along his ribs. The mighty Batman, undone by something so utterly human~.

When Alfred finally led Bruce upstairs, Selina lingered only a moment longer, savoring the emptiness of the study. Then, with the grace of the thief she was, she slipped down from her perch and padded noiselessly toward the open window.

The storm outside had grown heavy, rain hissing against the stone walls, but she paid it no mind. She leapt out into the night with the ease of a cat, landing lightly on the slick ground below. A grin stretched across her face, the thrill of discovery buzzing through her veins.

"Oh, Bruce," she murmured to herself as she vanished back into the dark. "You have no idea what you've just handed me."

And with that, she melted into the storm, already plotting how best to use her newfound knowledge.

The storm had been raging for days, turning Gotham into a smear of black streets and silver rain. By the time Batman pulled the Batmobile into the manor's underground hangar, his cape clung heavy with water, his cowl dripping trails onto the stone floor. He stripped the gloves off with practiced precision, jaw tight, eyes shadowed. The night had been long, too long, and though he had put another gang back in their place, he carried exhaustion around his shoulders like a second cape.

Thunder rolled as he made his way upstairs. He was already bracing himself for Alfred's inevitable lecture when he reached his bedroom door and pushed it open. Instead of Alfred, however, a different figure greeted him.

Selina Kyle was stretched across his bed as though she'd always lived there, wrapped loosely in one of his shirts, the storm casting silver light across her legs. She looked entirely at home, one hand idly tracing circles on the comforter, the other propping up her head. Her smile was equal parts warmth and mischief.

"Well," she purred. "Look what the storm dragged in~. You're soaked, darling."

Bruce sighed, tugging his cape free and letting it fall over a chair. "Selina."

"You sound surprised." She tilted her head, eyes gleaming. "Don't tell me you weren't expecting me. I practically live here more than you do."

He didn't bother arguing. His chestplate came next, the clasps clicking free with familiar weight. "It's late. You should be home."

"This is home." She sat up, curling her legs beneath her. "At least, when you're not brooding all night on rooftops. Honestly, Bruce, you look like you've been through a washing machine. You're gonna burn yourself out one of these nights."

"I'll manage."

"Where've I heard that before..." Selina mumbled to herself under her breath.

Bruce unbuckled his utility belt and set it down carefully, then reached for the cowl. His hair was damp and unruly beneath it, his face drawn with fatigue.

Selina's smile softened for a heartbeat. She reached out, catching his wrist before he could turn away. "You don't have to manage everything alone, you know."

His eyes flicked to hers. The weight of their unspoken history hung in the air for a moment, trust and betrayal, affection and defiance all tangled together. Finally, he sat on the edge of the bed, boots heavy on the carpet.

The silence lingered, filled only by the storm pounding at the windows. Then Selina leaned in, gently massaging Bruce's tired shoulders, humming a little at the feeling of him relaxing under her hands. Her grin curled slyly once more. "So," she said lightly, almost offhand, "are you ticklish?"

Bruce froze, halfway through untying one boot. He turned his head toward her, expression flat, voice cool. "No."

Selina's smirk widened. "That was quick."

"Because it's true." He tugged the boot free, focusing on the task with soldier-like intensity. "I'm not ticklish."

"Mhm~." Selina shifted closer, her voice velvet-soft. "You said that with such confidence, anyone else might believe you. I might have even believed you." She let her eyes narrow, her tone a purr. "But me? I know you're bluffing~."

Bruce straightened, leveling her with the same stoic glare he used on mob bosses and mad clowns. "Selina."

"Bruce." She leaned in until her lips nearly brushed his ear, his breath warm against his skin. "If you're really not ticklish, you won't mind if I test it~."

For a heartbeat, the Bat and the Cat stared at one another, the storm hammering at the glass behind them. His jaw tightened, every line of his body radiating control. But Selina saw the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth, the tiniest crack in the mask he wore even here.

Her smirk turned feral. She was going to enjoy this.

Bruce had only a second to brace himself. One moment, Selina was smirking beside him, the next, she launched forward with the fluidity of a predator, all claws and grace.

"Selina-!"

Her laugh was rich, triumphant, as she tackled him back onto the mattress. He rolled with the motion, instinct taking over, and for a breathless beat, they scuffled. Bruce caught her around the waist and flipped her beneath him, Selina twisting like a ribbon, legs hooking around him before he could fully pin her. He grunted, muscles straining, but her flexibility outpaced his brute strength. In seconds, she had wound herself around him like ivy, snug and smug, leaving him too tangled to shove her off.

"You... fight dirty," he muttered, breath rough.

"It's my best quality," she purred. Then her hands darted to his ribs.

The effect was instant. Bruce's body jerked, his breath catching sharply in his throat as Selina's fingers pressed and danced along his sides. He clamped his jaw, muscles locking with soldier's discipline, but the cracks showed almost immediately. His shoulders hunched, his chest shuddered.

"Ohhh, there it is~!" Selina cooed, her grin wicked. "I knew my eyes weren't deceiving me!"

"Selihina- d-dohohon't-!" His voice wavered dangerously.

"Don't what? Don't find out your little secret~?" She teased, pressing harder, scrabbling playfully along his ribs until he squirmed in earnest. "How could you hide this from me? I'm honestly shocked I haven't discovered it sooner, Bats~!"

The first laugh broke out of him like a crack in armor, low and unwilling. He bit it back immediately, but Selina only laughed.

"Oh, this is golden~!" Her hands slid lower, spidering over his stomach. Bruce twisted, muscles rippling under her touch, but she held fast, every movement precise and relentless. His composure unraveled further, breath hitching into ragged bursts, laughter spilling out despite his every effort.

"Selihihina! Stohohohp ihiht-!"

"Hmm, no~," she said sweetly, brushing her nails along his sides. "This is far too much fun~!"

She shifted her weight, straddling his hips now, free to torment without worry of him dislodging her. Bruce writhed beneath her, trying to buck her off, but every twist of his body only gave her more opportunities. She dragged her fingers up his ribs again, delighting in the way he jolted, then tested his lower sides. His laughter cracked higher, more frantic, when she brushed a sensitive spot near his hip.

"Ohhh, interesting~!" She leaned close, lips grazing his ear as her fingers pressed there again. "So that's another good one~. You're just full of surprises, aren't you~?"

"Sehehehelihihinahahahaa!! SeheheliihIhiNaa EnohohOhoUgh!"

She grinned, ignoring his plea, her hair falling into his face as she wormed her hands higher, sliding along his ribs, then down again to his stomach. Every pass made him jolt, every poke or squeeze drew another helpless burst of laughter. She was merciless; playful, yes, but without Alfred's restraint.

"You know," she teased over the sound of his laughter, "all that brooding, all those shadows, and underneath, you're just a man with the cutest weakness I've ever seen. Gotham's Dark Knight, helpless to a little tickle-tickle-tickling~!"

Bruce twisted again, his chest heaving, his laugh rough and helpless now. "SeehEHehLiHihNa, IhIhIhI sWhehehEHAR!!"

"You swear you'll... what? Arrest me~?" She gave his side another squeeze, making him yelp. "Good luck writing up that report, darling~! You'll have to tell Gordon about how you let yourself get captured, Giggles~!"

Despite his protests and struggles, there was no malice in the exchange. Selina's eyes sparkled with genuine delight, her laughter mingling with his, and Bruce's defenses crumbled until he was laughing openly, fully, the weight of Gotham gone from his shoulders in that moment.

And for her, that was the real victory. Not that she could tease him endlessly with this discovery (which she will), but that she had pulled the Bat out from behind the cowl and found Bruce, the man, alive, vulnerable, human, and laughing beneath her claws.

She slowed finally, letting her fingers linger lightly against his sides, tracing lazy circles. "There now~," she purred, smirking down at him. "Doesn't that feel better than brooding~?"

Bruce lay breathless, glaring up at her through his disheveled hair, his cheeks flushed and chest still shaking with the aftershocks of laughter. "Y-youhuhu're insuhuhufferable."

"Mm~. And you love it." She bent down and kissed his cheek, victorious.

The bedroom door creaked open, and in stepped Alfred, balanced as ever with a silver tray and steaming coffee. His gaze flicked over the tangle of limbs on the bed without so much as an arched brow.

"Well," he said evenly, "how nice to see Master Bruce in such... spirited company. Must have been a funny story you recounted, yes?"

"Sure." Selina looked up with a smile. "Evening, Alfred."

"Ms. Kyle," he returned smoothly, setting the tray down. Then, with a glint of deliberate innocence: "If memory serves, sir's back was always his greatest weakness."

Bruce's eyes widened in horror as Alfred exited, perfectly composed.

Selina's grin sharpened, wicked delight flashing across her face. "His back, hm~?" she echoed, voice dripping with glee. "Thanks, Alfred~!"

"S-Selina, don't-" Bruce warned, already twisting, but too late. She shifted her weight, sliding nimble fingers across the muscles of his back. The reaction was instant as Bruce's deep, uncontrollable laughter burst free, muffled by the storm rattling the manor's windows.

"Gotcha~," Selina purred, digging in mercilessly as Bruce writhed beneath her, caught between helplessness and amusement.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It had definitely already been longer than ten seconds.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cheater.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fucking adorable.

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

Responding incorrectly, might he add.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What kind of deal?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes,” Ilya said happily, “you are.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There’s no particular thing about Bruce that he feels screams who he is. His home is finely decorated with expensive, minimalistic things. He drives cars because they are fancy and expensive, not because he necessarily likes them. His clothes are finely tailored, but show no personality. He doesn’t remember the last time he sat and listened to an album, watched a movie, or tried something new just for the hell of it.

He doesn’t have interests or hobbies, the way that the average person does. He works out, to maintain the strength and stamina that being Batman requires. He pretends like he does all these extreme sports to explain away the injuries and scars; he has technically paraglided and skydived before, just under very different circumstances than one would imagine. It wasn’t for the adrenaline rush or a fun vacation activity, it was necessity.

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

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

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

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

He cares what Clark thinks about him, tries his damndest to treat him with a sort of kindness Bruce usually reserves for the children, and even then, he knows none of them would consider him nice. Sure, he loves them and they know it, but it’s an unspoken thing that lurks in the way he trains them, protects them, worries for them.

But he wants Clark to think he’s nice. 

All of this to say, Bruce has feelings for Clark Kent that are confusing and frankly annoying, because Bruce has better things to do, i.e. saving the world, than pining for his…friend? Well, he supposes that he and Clark are friends, and he knows that they should probably stay that way.

Because he doesn’t know how to do romance right, and Clark deserves better than this, his inability to express his emotions, his lack of an instinct for physical affection.

Clark is the human equivalent of an excitable Labrador, and Bruce’s energy is more that of a black cat who has been hit by several cars and still refuses to die.

They won’t work, and Bruce accepts that rather quickly, because what he does have a natural instinct for is suppressing his emotions.

***

Clark is going to be the death of Bruce Wayne, one way or another.

Whether it’s a Justice League mission gone wrong, Clark turning on him one day (which feels unlikely, but Bruce has learned to be prepared for anything), or a heart attack caused by those goddamn puppy-dog eyes, Bruce has accepted his fate.

Speaking of puppy-dog eyes, that was all it had taken for Bruce to agree to bring Clark as his plus-one to an event, which otherwise was not allowing the press inside.

So now, he’s standing in a new suit, nursing a glass of champagne, and biting his tongue as some pretty actress fiddles with Clark’s tie, clearly into him and too drunk to go about it tactfully.

Envy is a more unfamiliar emotion than most for Bruce; he has just about everything a man could want, in terms of wealth, reputation, and tangible objects.

When he was a child, the only thing he ever felt envy towards were the children who had living, loving families. Seeing a father scoop up his daughter at the playground, a mother kiss her son’s bruised knee while he went about his life used to make pain twist deep in his gut, and he would find himself thinking: Why does that child deserve parents, and I don’t?

He had learned early on to bury that feeling, too.

But now, watching Clark stumble over his words as he talks to this woman, Bruce feels absolutely pissed. He walks over before he can think it through, turns on that Brucie Wayne charm, and puts a hand on Clark’s shoulder.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Baby?” Clark says.

“You looked uncomfortable. I figured pretending you were taken would be the easiest way to get her to go away,” Bruce replies, like it was the obvious solution, a perfect plan.

Clark blinks at him, clearly still confused, but going along with it like the good sport he is. “You do know that she’s gonna take that information straight to the papers, right?”

Well, Bruce hadn’t really thought that part through, but whatever. He doesn’t care what the papers say; the persona he displays to the public is that of a playboy, anyway. Nothing he does to keep up the thrill-seeking businessman act embarrasses him anymore, and he certainly isn’t going to be embarrassed at the idea of being associated romantically with a good-looking, successful person simply because he happens to be a man.

He shrugs. “Well, we might as well give them something good to write about,” he replies, wrapping an arm around Clark’s waist and pulling him close.

With anyone else, this action would have meant nothing. He could have done it without a second thought, without even needing to be attracted to or interested in the person. But with Clark, the touch makes Bruce feel more conscious of his every move, more cautious than he normally would be.

Clark is one of the few people in this world that Bruce would utter the word friend in reference to, and truly mean it. He understands how a friendship is supposed to work, from an outsider’s perspective, and he’s pretty sure that fake-dating isn’t a normal activity that friends participate in.

There is no rulebook, no manual, no scientific study, and no perfectly scripted act that he can turn to now. It’s very rare that Bruce ever feels unsure of himself, but in this moment, touching Clark, he feels out of his element.

Two plans emerge before him in his mind: First, he could drop the act now that the woman is gone, stop touching Clark, clear his throat, and continue on with the night. Let the papers try to run the rumor, allow it to settle down and die when no one can prove it, and then he’ll be seen with a different woman next week, and he and Clark can forget it ever happened.

The second option is that he can put on his charm, flirt with Clark like it means nothing to him, every move methodical—fix his glasses right when the camera comes out, adjust one of those curls swooping down onto his forehead as a group whispers, make sure they all see what an attentive partner Bruce Wayne is, and then at the end of the night, he and Clark can pretend it never happened.

Strangely, he finds that he wants to do neither. He wants to keep touching Clark, without the prying eyes and flashing cameras, and he wants to mean it. He doesn’t want to flirt with Clark as the version of himself that the general public sees, to be fake with him. But he doesn’t know how to make it sincere, to turn off the carefully crafted persona and tell Clark how he feels.

Bruce knows that Clark can hear his heartbeat, but sometimes, he worries that Clark can read his mind. Perhaps it’s just the over-pouring amount of empathy that Clark has that makes Bruce feel that way, but it still surprises him when Clark leans close and murmurs, “We don’t have to stay.”

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

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

“I’m sorry,” Bruce says, and the words feel so foreign on his tongue, but Clark deserves an apology for this, letting his emotions get in the way of both of their jobs tonight.

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

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

Something in his stomach flutters when Clark just grins.

Bruce can hear the clicking of cameras as they not-so-subtly sneak out of the event, fingers interlocked. The minute they’re outside, he drops Clark’s hand, and he thinks he imagines the disappointed look on Clark’s face.

***

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

Clark is…Well, he’s Clark, he’s fucking Superman, and he’s beautiful. Don’t get him wrong, Clark’s a nerd, with bizarre music taste and too-big suits and crooked glasses, but his curls fall so perfectly in his face when he’s not smothering them in gel, and he’s grinning at Bruce so innocently, as if he didn’t just have his cock inside of him.

This is one of the few times in his life that Bruce feels that sex meant more to him than putting on a performance, adding a notch to his bedpost, with the added benefit of a little stress relief.

Sex is easy for him, while intimacy is not, and yet everything about the way Clark had touched him, how he’s looking at him now feels so intimate. Bruce has never allowed someone to have such power over him like that, and it’s the first time he’s ever felt that vulnerability made something better.

But now, Clark is seemingly trying to cuddle with him, and that is too much for Bruce to handle for one night, so he gets out of the bed and gets redressed.

But when he turns around and sees the look in Clark’s eyes, that kicked-puppy little pout, he sighs and crawls back into the bed, laying flat on his back, with a few inches of distance between them.

“Why do you do that?” Clark asks.

“What do you mean?”

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

Physically intimacy, he’s good at, in the form of rough, passionate kisses and wandering, steady hands. Even with the unfamiliarity of doing it with a man, Bruce had known his way around their earlier endeavors.

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

But he’s going to try to explain himself anyway, because Clark is the only person who has ever made him feel this light hopefulness in his chest, has made unable to swallow the instinct to smile. He figures that that’s as close to romantic as he’s ever gotten.

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

“Are you okay?”

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

“Oh.”

Bruce pulls his hand away then, awkwardly folding them across his stomach. Of course, when he tries to be sweet, he finds a way to mess it up.

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

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

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

Clark’s face looks pink in the dim light of the room, and Bruce returns his fingers, tentatively, to his back, still unsure of himself and unfamiliar with the tenderness of it all.

He hears the contended sigh of the man beside him, feels Clark practically melt under the touch, like a cat being pet. It’s sort of adorable, a word which had never really been in Bruce’s vocabulary before.

A rare feeling overtakes him: Mischief.

Clark is such an open book, and Bruce finds it incredibly endearing. He’s working on his ability to be open, too, but honesty comes as easy to Clark as breathing.

If Clark so willingly provided the information that he’s ticklish, then it wouldn’t be so bad if Bruce were to explore it, would it?

He lightens his touch, and Clark twitches slightly. He brings his fingers closer to Clark’s side, and hears a little huff of air, like he’s holding back a laugh.

Bruce pulls him closer, a newfound confidence in his actions surging through him. He presses his face into the side of Clark’s neck, brings all ten of his fingers to Clark’s sides, and strokes them slowly, softly.

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

“Bruce!” he says.

“Yes?” Bruce replies, feigning innocence.

“It tickles.”

“I know. Do you want me to stop?”

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

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

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

He gets the urge to pull away then, to stop touching him, maybe even apologize. But before he can do any of those things, Clark wraps his arms around him and hugs him close.

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

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

Clark tweaks his side, and Bruce flinches.

Their eyes meet.

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

Clark hesitates. “Actually?”

His instincts are telling him to say yes, actually, don’t you dare. If he sets the boundary, Clark will listen. But those instincts are the same ones that told him not to pursue this happiness, to stop touching Clark at that party, to shut himself off from other people and the world.

He’s trying to ignore those instincts more now. To stop putting on an act all the time.

The word feels awkward, heavy in his mouth, but Bruce says, “No.”

And Clark grins, and pounces.

It turns out that the laugh Bruce usually gave at parties, pretending to find some unfunny joke hilarious, sounds nothing like the real thing, the breathy giggling that escapes him when Clark’s hands latch onto his hips and squeeze them.

Before Clark came into his life, romance was just an act that served one of his alter egos well. But Clark has brought out the man between his personas, the Bruce that resides between playboy and vigilante.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Levi?”

No response.

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

“Hm.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Was that a yes?”

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

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

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

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

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