Mind Over Matter (Bruce/Clark)
Summary: Three times that Clark accidentally tickles Bruce, and the first time he does it for real. (Um, hi, so...I have Superbat brainrot right now, and even though I haven't posted in months, take this. I hope you enjoy it!)
For someone with super-strength, Clark is so gentle.
It’s a good thing, technically. If he were using the full extent of his strength, Bruce is sure he would have snapped him in half with a too-enthusiastic hug by now.
The Kryptonian seems to tip-toe his way through life; he does everything with this air of grace, of softness. Whether it’s to keep his powers a secret when he’s just Clark Kent, journalist from Kansas, or simply to avoid smashing every mug he gets his hand on, Bruce isn’t sure.
But it drives him crazy.
“I’m not made of glass, you know,” he says.
Clark gives him an infuriating smile. “I know that. But I still don’t want to hurt you.”
Bruce scowls. “If we were fighting for real, you wouldn’t hold back.”
“And if I wasn’t holding back, I could easily crush your ribs,” Clark replies. “Or snap your spine in half. I don’t think either of us wants that to happen.”
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.
Maybe, eventually, Clark will see through that lie too.
