#raspberry writes

Ilya’s fingers absent-mindedly curl around the back of Shane’s thigh, nails lightly grazing the sensitive skin there, and Shane’s leg twitches involuntarily—it sends goosebumps over his skin, and he lets out a little gasp against the other’s lips.

Ilya pulls away. “You okay?” he asks.

Shane nods, leaning back in, but Ilya doesn’t kiss him again, not just yet. Instead, the bastard repeats the action, and Shane’s expecting it this time, but the muscles in his leg still tense at the feeling, toes flexing.

“Hollander, are you…” Ilya pauses, like he’s trying to remember the right word. “Ticklish?”

The word rolls of his tongue easily now that he’s found it, and wow, his English really has gotten better over the years, and Shane’s stomach flutters. 

“No,” he replies, and he sees the mischievous glint forming in Ilya’s eyes, the smirk threatening to tug at his mouth, and Shane refuses to give him the satisfaction. He grabs a fistful of Ilya’s curls and brings their lips back together.

He successfully manhandles Ilya flat onto his back, so that Shane is the one on top now, and Ilya’s hands are busy grabbing at Shane’s ass now; a successful distraction, it seems.

Even Shane himself forgets, lost in the feeling of Ilya’s cock inside of him, the blinding pleasure of it all. It’s been so long, too long since he’s had this relief, and he’s not eager to let it go just yet, holding off his orgasm for as long as possible, trying to make the moment last.

After they’ve finished, and Ilya has gone back to his room, Shane’s phone vibrates with a text.

Lily: I will remember how ‘not ticklish’ you are next time.

Shane’s cheeks get hot, and he promptly puts his phone back down, heading off the shower.

It’ll be months before they see each other again.

He’s sure that Ilya will forget by then.

***

Ilya does not forget.

In all the years they’ve known each other, all the times he has touched Shane’s body, he remembers everything. He remembers the way Shane’s throat quivers under his lips, how he can feel Shane’s heartbeat jackhammering through the skin of his chest. He remembers how Shane likes to be touched, the spots to kiss and lick and stroke to make him whimper and moan.

He also remembers the ways Shane doesn’t like to be touched, is very aware of what not to do to make sure he feels comfortable and safe.

When they’re apart, Ilya reminisces on these memories, thinks about new things he can try the next time they see one another, wonders if Shane is touching himself to the memories too.

They’re in Boston this time, and Ilya has been texting Shane dirty things for days now, teasing him in preparation for this night.

Shane shows up right on time, hood pulled up, nervous eyes darting up and down the hotel hallway. Ilya pulls him inside, watches as he folds his clothes in that stupidly endearing way as he undresses, desperate to touch him after months apart. 

Ilya leads him to the bed, pressing quick kisses to his lips, his cheeks, his jaw.

Shane’s kissing back, planting his lips wherever they reach, like the crown of Ilya’s head or his collarbone as he shuffles backwards, letting himself be pushed back against the mattress.

There’s a delicate dance to this, what they have. They don’t talk about what they are, what this means, but it isn’t devoid of tenderness and care, either. It isn’t a quick hook-up, it isn’t hate-fucking, it’s…Well, it’s something that Ilya doesn’t quite have a word for, in either language, and he thinks it might be better left unsaid.

And so, while he knows Shane’s body so well, has been inside him, something about this feels more intimate. He’s heard Shane laugh before, at interviews and parties, a few times with him, when they bumped heads in the middle of changing positions, but it’s not in the nature of their relationship to be…silly.

But he’s just too fucking tempted to see Shane Hollander let loose a little, in a different way than normal.

He brings his hand to the back of Shane’s leg, like last time, and slowly, deliberately scrapes his nails along the skin, ghosting behind his knee, and Shane twitches, bending his knee and trapping Ilya’s fingers there.

Ilya looks up with a smirk, and is delighted to see Shane’s cheeks are flushed.

“Told you I would not forget, Hollander,” he says. “I have excellent memory.”

Shane does his best to glare, but he just ends up looking pouty. Ilya’s startled by how cute he finds it, and to try and ignore that thought process, he squeezes at the muscle of Shane’s thigh.

Shane lets out a strangled sort of noise and shoves at Ilya’s chest. “Rozanov, don’t you dare.”

“Don’t I dare what? This?” he asks, repeating the action a few times in rapid succession, and finally, a little giggle slips out and Shane is smacking at his arm, trying to shove him away.

They’re both naked, and they’ve gone soft now, but they’re both grinning like idiots and Shane looks so adorably flustered. Shane manages to get himself free from Ilya’s grip, tucking both his legs under himself protectively.

“I hate you,” Shane murmurs.

Ilya chuckles. “Can you ever forgive me?” he asks, giving Shane his best wide, pleading eyes. He sidles up next to him, presses a little kiss to his shoulder.

Shane’s pout slips away into a smile, and he leans down to kiss the bridge of Ilya’s nose. Their lips find each other’s once again, and soon, its like nothing ever happened.

They just barely crossed into a forbidden zone, that too-soft territory that they’ve been avoiding. A delicate dance—How far can they delve into couple-like affection before it becomes too much to handle?

It comes in little bursts like this: The tender forehead kisses, the lingering brushes of knuckles, the laughter, the teasing. 

Shane nips the shell of Ilya’s ear and whispers, “Are you ticklish, Rozanov?”

“Russians are not ticklish,” Ilya replies.

By the look on Shane’s face, he knows he doesn’t believe him, so he pins him back against the mattress, ready to take him apart and clear his mind.

They’re sparring. Technically, neither of them need the extra training, but lately, Bruce has found himself looking for excuses to spend time with Clark, but has only mustered up the courage to invite him on work-related outings.

He’s still working on the whole vulnerability thing, and showing how much he really cares for Clark isn’t something that comes naturally to him. He can protect him in a battle, tease him about his country-boy charm, and even accept small amounts of physical affection, but for some reason, the words, Do you want to hang out sometime? feel heavy and foreign on his tongue.

So, sparring. That’s the best he can come up with.

And Clark is letting him win.

Logically, Bruce knows that what Clark is saying is true: If Clark used all his might, Bruce would likely end up severely injured. But he could try a little harder than this.

“I can take more than you’re giving,” he says. “You’re just letting me win.”

Clark has that stupid, charming grin on his face that makes Bruce unsure whether he wants to punch him or kiss him. One of those would probably leave him with broken knuckles, though, and the other would require him to talk about his feelings, so instead, he just glares at him.

Without any verbal reply, Clark rushes forward and tries to grab Bruce, and despite being caught off-guard, he dodges it at the last second.

Clark is still smiling as he charges, and it should feel predatory in some way, but instead it just comes across like a golden retriever who’s excited to play.

Bruce puts up a good fight, but even with Clark using half his strength, he’s no match for Superman’s powers. It should wound his ego a little, but he’s accepted a long time ago that he is only human, and his super-human companions will almost always have a leg up on him.

It’s more offensive to his pride when they go easy on him than when they win fair-and-square.

He’s on his back on the mat, panting as Clark holds him down.

“See? That’s more like it,” Bruce says.

Clark has barely broken a sweat. “I didn’t peg you as the type of guy who likes to lose,” he replies. “But you’re just full of surprises, I guess.”

He accentuates his statement with a soft poke to Bruce’s stomach, and his whole body goes rigid at the unexpected touch. It sort of tickles, which is a revelation he would have rather not made. Yes, logically, Bruce knows that most humans are ticklish, but after being trained to withstand literal torture, he sort of thought that particular reaction would have died out.

Apparently, it didn’t.

Clark grins. “Are you ticklish?” he asks.

“Don’t be stupid,” Bruce replies, and then, taking advantage of Clark’s distraction, flips them over so that he’s on top of Clark instead.

Luckily, he’s gotten good at hiding things like this. It’s all mind over matter; don’t react, don’t allow yourself to feel it. Whether it’s the physical ache in his body after a fight, the dull emotional pain when memories haunt him, or in this case, a ridiculous man attempting to tease him, Bruce can school is expressions, push the feelings down.

At least for a little while.

Even if Clark thinks he’s lying, he drops the subject.

***

Bruce isn’t used to being snuck up on.

He’s very in-tune with his senses, and can sense a person coming from rooms away. Years of training in the art of stealth have left him hyper-aware of every sound, every shift of the air.

That is, when they aren’t flying.

Clark has developed this absolutely obnoxious habit of hovering just above the ground, moving so carefully that Bruce can’t detect him as easily as he would a normal, walking person.

He seems to get a great sense of amusement out of taking Bruce off-guard, which should piss him off, but he finds it oddly endearing. He can’t remember the last time someone kept him on his toes like this, or attempted to mess around with him in a genuinely innocent way.

He is standing at the kitchen counter, running on very little sleep, internally cursing himself for his commitment to this double-life and all the trouble it brings. He scans the newspaper for any information of impending doom: Arkham breakouts, supervillain shenanigans…

Then, someone grabs his sides from behind, and he gasps, spinning on his heel, ready to attack whoever is breaking into his house—

Clark Kent is standing behind him, glasses askew on his nose, an expression of amusement slowly melting into one of worry.

“God, you’re such an asshole,” Bruce breathes, leaning back against the counter.

“Are you hurt?” Clark asks, furrowing his brows.

Bruce blinks at him. “No, just having a mild heart attack.”

“When I grabbed you, it seemed like I hurt you,” he says. “I swear, if you’re trying to hide another broken rib from Alfred, I’m tattling on you.”

“My ribs are fine, Clark.”

Clark, to Bruce’s bewilderment, grabs the hem of his t-shirt and lifts it up, searching for signs of bruising. He presses his hand into his ribs, palpating for an injury that doesn’t exist.

And for the second time in one month, Clark Kent is tickling Bruce Wayne, and his brain shuts down, forcing his body to go rigid in an attempt to block it out.

“Clark, I’m fine—“

“You can’t be fighting when you’re injured, Bruce, you’re going to make it so much worse—“

He presses his fingers into the spot between his two uppermost ribs and Bruce flinches, hard, and in an attempt to cover his ass, he blurts out, “Ow, okay, fine, you’re right! I’ll be more careful, just stop groping me.”

Clark pulls away immediately, a kicked-puppy look on his face. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“It’s fine, you didn’t know,” he replies, clapping him on the shoulder.

He looks so sad that Bruce almost feels bad for lying to him.

Key word being almost.

***

Bruce can’t remember the last time a person made him feel this way.

His face feels hot, and he’s mortified to realize this means he’s blushing, like some teenage Superman fangirl, and he can’t get the words he wants to say to form in his mouth and leave his lips.

Clark, who was just holding his hand, suddenly drops it. “I’m sorry, Bruce, that was totally inappropriate. If you don’t feel the same way, I completely understand.”

No, wait, that’s not what he’s trying to say at all!

The man he’s had feelings for for the past few months has just confessed to him, and Bruce’s emotional ineptitude has left him entirely speechless, and he’s fucking blowing this.

So, he does the only thing he can think to do, and grabs Clark’s hand again, pulling him in for a kiss.

Clark lets out a surprised little hum before kissing him back, wrapping his arms around his waist.

He tastes like coffee, and Bruce idly wonders if he’s in some drug-induced dream that he’ll inevitably wake up from any minute now, trapped in some psycho scientist’s lair, a lab-rat for a toxin that makes you imagine your greatest fantasy so that you’ll never want to wake up from it.

Sure, he’s a pessimist, sue him.

But when he pulls away from the kiss and opens his eyes, Clark is still there, real and sturdy and so fucking handsome, grinning like a fool.

Bruce smiles too, a real, genuine smile that he can’t seem to fight off of his face.

God, Clark has made him soft.

If it can’t get any more embarrassing, Clark picks him up without warning, and Bruce lets out an unbecoming noise that can only be described as a squeak.

He’s safely deposited onto the nearest hard surface, a table in the Batcave that is miraculously clear of miscellaneous shit, and Clark cages him in there, kissing him again.

Bruce kisses him back, hard, feeling a sense of urgency he has never felt with a partner before, this insatiable desire to be closer to him, to devour him and be devoured in turn.

Clark runs his hands up Bruce’s thighs and squeezes them, and Bruce is horrified when he lets out this breathy laugh against his lips, so caught up in it all that he hadn’t even had a chance to steel himself.

At first, he thinks that Clark doesn’t notice, because he just keeps kissing him.

Then, the next time Bruce needs to come up for air, Clark leans in and whispers, “You’re definitely ticklish.”

Bruce doesn’t even argue this time. “Shut up,” he says, and kisses him again.

They’re too caught up in other activities for Clark to bother testing it out, anyway.

***

 Bruce shivers.

“What’s wrong?” Clark asks, a teasing lilt in his voice.

“You know what’s wrong, asshole,” Bruce hisses.

Clark nuzzles his face into the side of Bruce’s neck, pressing featherlight kisses there, and Bruce sucks in a sharp intake of air, squeezing his eyes shut.

“I really don’t,” Clark replies, his breath hot against Bruce’s skin. “Care to enlighten me?”

If it were any easier to kill Superman, Bruce would have probably done it by now.

He has never felt this sort of embarrassment before, this push-and-pull of Shut up, keeping talking. Stop, but don’t you dare stop. I sort of hate you right now, but I love you.

Clark has a tight grip on him, not enough to hurt, but enough that Bruce certainly isn’t going anywhere either. In that regard, he’s not afraid to use his strength against him.

But he’s being too gentle again, now with a deliberate motive in mind. The soft, barely-there way that his lips, his nose, his fucking breath brush against Bruce’s neck is making him want to crawl out of his skin, because it tickles like hell and he has no idea how to deal with it.

If he really wanted to, he could handle it. He could take a few deep breaths, center himself, try to ignore the feeling and fake his way through.

Why would he ever want to ignore Clark’s touch, even when it’s borderline torturous?

He’ll never admit it, but it’s sort of fun, the way Clark breaks down his walls. Even Alfred has remarked that Bruce seems lighter these days. He smiles more, takes better care of himself. He really has made him soft, but he’s beginning to come to terms with the idea that it might not be such a bad thing.

Clark runs his fingers along the shell of Bruce’s ear, and he whimpers.

“Use your words,” Clark teases.

Bruce breaks. “It fucking tickles, you asshole,” he says, all in one quick breath, before dissolving into laughter he had tried so hard to hold in.

“Oh, why didn’t you just say so? I’ll stop, if it’s bothering you so much.”

And he does stop, and Bruce is trying to catch his breath, and he’s sort of…disappointed that he stopped. But again, he won’t admit it, not even to Clark, because he’s still working on the whole communication thing, and he still feels this odd twist of shame in his gut at the idea of voicing what he wants.

Perhaps the instinct will come to him soon, a skill he can learn like meditation or piano or designing gear. Mind over matter: Tough it out, say the embarrassing thing, even if his voice shakes.

Just not tonight. He’s too tired to have the emotional bandwidth.

So, instead, he says, “Thank God,” and pushes Clark’s smug face away from his neck.

“Well, I do feel pain, but it’s just not as intense as I assume it is for you. But I can still feel other things, like hot and cold, and…” he trails off, and Bruce swears his cheeks go a little bit pink before he continues, “and pleasure. But things like bullets kind of just feel like being poked really hard, and being electrocuted sort of tickles.”

Bruce can’t help the way a smile tugs at his lips when he hears that. “So, you can survive getting shot in the head, but you’re still ticklish? That seems like an oversight.”

Clark laughs. “I mean, it’s not a threat to one’s well-being to be ticklish.”

Judging by the way Damian had been screaming his head off the other evening because of Dick and Jason’s wiggling fingers, Bruce sort of doubts that, but he doesn’t argue.

Clark is always surprising him. Not just with his powers, but how he stays so normal despite it all. He’s so full of hope, and integrity, and joy. And yet, for some reason, he seems to like Bruce, who oftentimes feels like he is the antithesis of those things—Yes, he does what he does for the greater good, but it comes at such a cost. While he gives Gotham hope, he struggles to find it himself.

It’s cute, the way that Clark is looking at him now, a few curls escaping his hair gel and hanging over his forehead, the way his glasses sit slightly askew on his nose, and how easily the vulnerability comes to him, how he admits something that certainly classifies as a weakness so willingly to Bruce, without a second thought, because he trusts him and…Well, Bruce thinks that Clark enjoys his company, or at least, he hopes so, which is never really something he’s cared about before.

Bruce isn’t good being vulnerable. He has spent all these years learning to close himself off, how to be the strongest, the fastest, the smartest version of himself that he can be, and devoted his time and energy to the betterment of Gotham.

He does feel—grief, for his parents, reverence and adoration for Alfred, love for the kids he has raised, biologically his or not, and he knows that there is still hope inside of him; he wouldn’t be Batman if there wasn’t some sort of hope within him that people were mostly good.

But letting other people in on those feelings is where the struggle comes. He pushes people away, even when he loves them, and he retreats inside himself when that hope is challenged. It’s not a healthy habit, but something he has done out of necessity.

Alfred seems to think that Clark will be a good influence on him.

At first, Bruce scoffs at the idea. But sitting here with him, looking at the gleaming smile across his face, pondering how someone who could easily snap him in two could look so…sweet, Bruce wonders if Alfred has a point.

The subject changes, and Bruce finds himself looser than usual. Talking to Clark is easy, and he’s actually pretty funny, although Bruce doesn’t like to admit it, but the few chuckles that Clark gets out of him are proof enough.

They’re sitting across from each other when Clark puts his hand on top of Bruce’s, not bothering to question how his knuckles got so bruised, and Bruce’s brain momentarily stops working.

He feels suddenly warm, but he doesn’t yank his hand away like his instincts tell him to. He leaves it there, and Clark doesn’t move either. It’s an unspoken gesture, and by the time they finish talking, Bruce realizes they’ve been touching for almost an hour.

How he felt about that situation would have to wait, because he could see the Bat-Signal in the sky, and he had better things to do than sit around and think about how Clark Kent’s lips might taste against his.

Not that that’s what he would be thinking about.

***

Bruce is sitting at the Batcomputer, eyes glued to the screen.

He’s been researching for several hours now, bleeding into the early morning hours. Alfred has tried to coax him to bed twice, but Bruce had just shrugged him off and kept at it.

He feels the air shift as someone enters, and he turns, irritated, expecting to see Alfred with a cup of chamomile tea, or one of the kids, whom he would have to reprimand for being up so late, only to be reprimanded in turn for his hypocrisy.

Instead, he sees Clark, who has graciously not flown into the room, because Bruce told him multiple times how much he hates being snuck up on, and he actually listened and stopped doing it, which is just stupidly polite, like everything Clark does.

“Did Alfred put you up to this?” Bruce asks, skipping a greeting.

There are dark circles under his eyes, and he’s starting to get a headache from looking at the screen for so long. His shoulders ache from the hunched position he’s been in for the past few hours, and he’s sure his breath smells strongly of black coffee.

Clark leans against the desk right beside him, looking down at him with a worried expression. “I could hear your heartbeat, and I knew you were awake. And, judging by how fast it is, you’ve indulged in way too much caffeine to remain awake.”

He sounds like he’s scolding him, which in turn makes Bruce glare at him like a petulant child. He’s Batman, goddammit, he’s doing important work.

“I’m working,” he replies. He doesn’t elaborate. He doesn’t have to: This is his house, his case, his sleep schedule he’s destroying.

“You look exhausted,” Clark says, and he does really sound worried, in a way that almost makes Bruce feel guilty, except he’s too busy being annoyed to acknowledge it. “You’ve been up late all week.”

“What, are you spying on me or something?”

Clark shrugs. “It’s just habit. I check on Ma and Pa, on Lois…On you. Perks of being a superhero, I always know when you guys are safe.”

It’s so ridiculously endearing.

Bruce is still trying to reconcile with how much he likes Clark, how easy it is to trust and adore him. It makes Bruce feel years younger, like a child who can’t stand to be in the same room as their crush without their cheeks heating. It makes him want to retreat into himself, to metaphorically tug Clark’s pigtails on the playground, to tell him to fuck off and take his country boy charm to some other sad vigilante’s lair and play house with them instead.

But he also really likes having Clark around, too much to push him away. So, he just sighs, rubbing his temples. “Okay, I haven’t been sleeping much. Gordon gave me a good lead on some of Falcone’s men, and I want them behind bars as quickly as possible. What they’ve done…”

Suddenly, Clark’s hand is on his shoulder. “I understand. But you’re no use to Gordon, or Gotham if you’re too tired to throw a punch.”

Bruce exhales, some semblance of a laugh. “Do you even need to sleep?”

“Technically, no,” Clark replies. “I like to, though. It feels good to turn your brain off for a few hours. To relax.”

He squeezes Bruce’s shoulder when he says it, and it feels really good after how tense he’s been, and he melts into the touch before he can think to stop himself.

“Oh, your back must be killing you,” Clark says. “Can I…?”

Bruce should tell him no. It feels weak, accepting this, allowing himself to be taken care of this way. He also really wants to say yes, because Clark will almost certainly beam at him when he does, and that will feel even better than the release of the tension in his back…

He shrugs. “If you insist,” he mutters, because that’s just standoffish enough for him to feel comfortable in the request.

And Clark smiles, just like Bruce knew he would, so eager to help, and steps behind Bruce’s chair, cupping both his shoulders in his big hands, and presses his thumbs into Bruce’s shoulder blades.

He actually has to bite back the pleasured noise that tries to escape him, sinking lower into the chair. He’s carrying years of pain in all his muscles and joints, and he’s gotten good at ignoring the dull ache, but now he’s cursing himself for being too prideful to accept some help before this, because this feels fucking amazing.

It’s a bit of a struggle to keep quiet and still, which he knows he doesn’t have to do, but maintaining that bit of dignity during the massage is the only reason Bruce is still letting it go on.

That is, until Clark reaches up to try and rub his neck, and Bruce noticeably stiffens, and Clark, of course, has to question it. “Is this still okay?” he asks. “If I’m being too rough, let me know.”

No, he’s actually being too gentle, and the soft brush of his fingers against Bruce’s neck makes goosebumps spread over his arms. It tickles, and Bruce is just about to say that he feels much better, thanks, but he opens his mouth just as Clark’s knuckles bump against the back of his ear, and he lets out a sharp intake of breath that makes the Kryptonian pause.

“Are you…?”

“Don’t finish that question,” Bruce replies, trying to sound gruff and intimidating, but it comes out more like a plea than a demand.

He can feel Clark’s grin. “All that training, and you’re still ticklish? Seems like an oversight,” he echoes Bruce’s words from earlier that week, sounding way to pleased with himself.

“I’m starting to feel pretty tired,” Bruce says, trying to turn on that Brucie Wayne charm, but it isn’t very convincing. Clark’s hands are still touching him, and the nervous system he has carefully trained to be number than the average human’s now feels hyper-aware of every little movement.

Clark knows it, too, and Bruce can’t believe he ever thought this man was sweet, because right now, he’s being positively sadistic. “Really? Your heart is pounding right now. Probably from all the coffee,” he teases. “Maybe you need some more help getting your energy out.”

He barely twitches his fingers against the delicate skin of Bruce’s neck, and he quivers.

Bargaining isn’t working, violence won’t solve anything against the literal Superman, and Bruce refuses to plead with him. Running would be an option, but Clark would catch him. He is, for the first time in a long time, stumped on how to get himself out of a tricky situation. It’s not a predicament he’s found himself in since he was a child.

“I hate you,” is the only thing he can think to say.

Clark laughs. “You love me,” he replies before sticking his hands under Bruce’s arms, catching him off guard, which causes him to let out a startled shout before dissolving into laughter.

He barely recognizes the sound coming from his own mouth; it’s been at least a decade since he laughed this hard, if not longer, and he’s shocked to hear how…happy it sounds.

He splutters out a few swear words before not-so-gracefully tumbling out of his chair, and Clark follows him to the floor with a gleeful look on his face.

“Clark, cut it out—”

“If I do, will you go to sleep?”

Normally, the mighty Batman would never submit to easily, but this is fucking embarrassing, and Clark has started zeroing in on a spot on his ribs that makes him want to scream, so he starts nodding, keeping his lips clamped shut to keep his surprisingly high-pitched laughter at bay.

Clark leans down and puts his face right up to Bruce’s ear, which doesn’t feel any less ticklish than the hands on his ribs, and whispers, “If you don’t, I’ll know, and I’ll fly right back here and tickle you twice as bad.”

Bruce’s face turns a shade of red that shouldn’t even be biologically possible, but Clark finally stops, and he sucks in a breath. He does feel much more tired now, and relatively humiliated.

He fall asleep the moment his head hits the pillow, and the last thing he thinks before he’s dead to the world is the smug way Clark had said, You love me, and how true that statement really seemed.

***

“Wait, Bruce, I—”

“We can’t have Superman going into battle sore, now can we?” Bruce asks, surprising even himself with how sickly sweet his voice sounds. He gets a kick out of this, now, teasing Clark back.

He’s rubbing circles into Clark’s lower back, deliberately straying too close to his sides, and he’s pretty impressed with how still Clark manages to stay, just the occasional twitch, but never letting his legs kick or arms swing, knowing the chances of him hurting Bruce would be too high.

“This is supposed to be relaxing, you know,” Bruce says.

“It’s not!” Clark replies, hugging a pillow tightly to his chest. “You’re doing it on purpose!”

Bruce feigns innocence. “Doing what on purpose?”

Clark answers through a new fit of giggles and Bruce squeezes his sides. “Tickling me!”

“It’s not a threat to one’s well-being to be ticklish,” Bruce says. “I mean, you don’t even need to breathe. I can do this for as long as I want.”

He watches the way Clark turns an adorable shade of pink, and takes note of how he doesn’t really argue. He’d only been kidding, but if Clark isn’t going to protest…

It still feels unfamiliar to him, to be like this. He’s gone from stoic and isolated to play-fighting with his boyfriend as a grown-ass man, and he could justify the rare occasions he would act silly with the kids, because they needed to see the cracks in his armor to trust him, and he really does care about them, but Clark has brought out a new side of him that he thought had died with his parents in that alley.

He pushes his hands underneath Clark’s shirt and scratches lightly at his stomach, and the pillow he’d been holding goes flying across the room.

“You’re being mean!”

“And yet, you love me,” Bruce replies.

“I do, but that doesn’t mean you’re not mean,” Clark giggles.

Bruce pauses. The words feel foreign on his tongue, but he says it anyway: “Love you, too.”

Clark leans up to press their lips together, and Bruce kisses him back, before launching another attack on his belly, wincing at the sheer volume of the resulting shriek.

Despite being superhuman, Clark embraces humanity; he eats and sleeps even though he technically doesn’t have to, because he likes it. He can cry, blush, laugh, and he keeps himself still when Bruce tickles him because while he could easily throw him off, he doesn’t want to.

And while Bruce is only human, he’s spent so long trying to deny his nature, training himself to function on less sleep, to endure more pain, to push his feelings deep down and ignore them. This sort of vulnerability, this humanity isn’t normal for him, but he’s starting to find that he likes it more than he thought he would.

He’s starting to feel alive again. He isn’t playing a character, whether it be the invincible symbol of hope that is Batman, or the charming billionaire Bruce Wayne—With Clark, he is just Bruce, and there is no role to play or intense responsibility to shoulder. Living like this feels so much lighter.

Shane remembered the words Ilya had whispered to him at the table: Your family is here, your boyfriend is here. He was so glad that Ilya felt comfortable talking about these things, telling Shane all the wonderful memories he had of Irina, who sounded like a beautiful person.

 “That’s sweet,” Shane said with a small smile.

“I liked your parents. A lot,” Ilya murmured. “They were very kind.”

He couldn’t help but chuckle at that. “Even with my mom grilling you?”

“She cares about you. I understand why she did it,” Ilya said. “But I was surprised…They did not seem to know how to handle you being upset.”

Shane shrugged, playing with the hem of Ilya’s shirt. “I don’t really get like that around them often. I used to all the time when I was a kid, but I guess I got better at suppressing it as I got older. Hockey is…It’s safe. I know I’m good at it, and it doesn’t stress me out, even when our team’s losing or I didn’t play my best, because I know all the factors that go into a game. But when it comes to personal stuff, emotions…I’ve never been good with things like that.”

Ilya pressed a kiss to his temple. “I think I understand what you mean.”

Shane remembered what an anxious child he had been: How before hockey, he had been desperately searching for structure, rigidity. Even at that age, he would only eat certain foods, he craved the predictable schedule of school, and struggled to fit in with his peers. He molded himself into a perfect student, a perfect athlete, a perfect son.

Of course, his parents had seen through the cracks on several occasions and had tried their best to comfort him through it.

“You know, when I was a kid, my mom used to have to sleep in my bed a lot, because I could never shut my brain off at night. I’d just toss and turn, thinking about homework, or hockey drills, or other stupid stuff.”

“How would she get you to relax?” Ilya asked.

“She’d hold me. Like this,” Shane said, snuggling closer into Ilya’s side, relishing in the warmth of his skin. “Sometimes she read to me. But I always liked it when she tickled my back. It always made me fall asleep super quickly.”

Ilya raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

Shane hummed in affirmation.

“Is this something you would like me to do for you? To relax you?”

Shane’s cheeks flushed. “I mean, if you wanted to. If you didn’t mind.”

“You know I enjoy touching you, no matter the context,” Ilya replied, smirking.

He brought his hand to the middle of Shane’s back, fingertips grazing the fabric of his shirt, and Shane shut his eyes, ready to sink into bliss.

Instead, Ilya began quickly spidering his fingers over the backs of his ribs, and Shane would never admit it, but the noise that left his mouth could only be described as a shriek.

Over the years, they had both discovered a few ticklish spots on one another, but it had always felt too cutesy, too romantic to explore it further. It wasn’t until the first day they arrived at the cottage that Ilya had pinned him back against the mattress, claiming he had been wanting to do this for ages, and tickled his belly until he’d begged for him to stop and touch him elsewhere instead, the friction of all their squirming making him achingly hard in his shorts.

Ilya’s hands were so quick, still cuddling him close enough that he couldn’t wriggle away. His back wasn’t even especially ticklish, but Ilya had caught him so off guard, and the touches strayed too close to his neck, his ribs, all the other sensitive places, keeping him twitchy and on edge.

“Ilya!” he cried, giggling. “Wait, wait—”

“Is this not what you just asked me to do?” Ilya replied.

At first, Shane thought he was teasing, but when the tickling hands ceased and Ilya looked down at him in confusion, Shane realized his mistake: Ilya’s English had gotten so good over the years, it still surprised him when they had those little miscommunications.

Breathing heavily, he said. “Not that kind of tickle. I should have explained it better. Give me your arm.”

Ilya seemed a little wary, but did so anyway.

Shane began trailing his fingers up and down Ilya’s arm softly, gentle strokes instead of the scribbling motions Ilya had been using.

“Not the kind of tickle that makes you laugh, but like…It’s more like being pet, I guess. Like this.”

Ilya let out a soft noise, the muscles in his arm relaxing as Shane continued. “Oh. That makes more sense. I thought you meant, like, tickle you until you were exhausted.”

Shane didn’t hate the sound of that, either, and blushed a little at the thought. That could be a conversation for a different time, though.

Unable to help himself, he did sneak a little tickle to Ilya’s side, making him flinch and let out a startled noise akin to a laugh.

“You call me the asshole, but you are no better,” Ilya said, pulling Shane into a crushing hug, squeezing him tight.

Shane laughed again, shaking his head fondly. “And you’re ridiculous,” he said, leaning down to kiss his lips.

Later that night, Ilya fucked him slowly, softly, before the two of them settled down to sleep. And as Shane laid there, facing away from him, Ilya reached out and repeated those gentle strokes on the freckled skin of Shane’s back, murmuring something about connecting the dots.

The comment made him smile, and he wanted to call Ilya a dork for the comparison, but he was already half-asleep, melting beneath his careful touch.

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.