Greetings!

“Zagreus.” She unspools her whip. The glowing pink braid coils languidly against the marble floors.

“No witty rejoinder for me this time?” He twirls Stygius idly, leaving trails of simmering heat in the air. The hellfire crackling in the braziers around them is achingly cold. He welcomes the touch of warmth.

“No time, I’m afraid.” She cracks her whip. The end zips right past Zagreus’s cheek before returning to her. A caress.

“Then I’ll make this quick.” He rushes her. Stygius sparks and pops as it collides with the extraplanar fibers of her whip. They trade furious blows, chasing each other across every surface of the chamber. Zagreus manages to flip over a wave of razor-sharp pink magic and gets blindsided by her whip latching onto his wrist. Stygius skids across the floor.

He reaches up with his free hand towards the captive one and she yanks his arm behind his back, winding the whip over his shoulders and around his waist until he’s dizzy. She tucks the handle into the layers and gazes proudly at her work—Zagreus bound, swordless, and confused.

“What now, then? Going to carry me back to Father on foot?” Zagreus spins as carefully as he can to stay facing her, feeling very much like a baby penguin on ice—or at least what he’s heard of them.

Her silence is unnerving. Megaera already has a shark-like aura about her—so do many of the Chthonic gods, if he’s honest—but she’s just…watching him. Sizing him up. His skin prickles where her gaze lands.

“This is hardly a fair fight.” He hops around to face her again. She chuckles at him, the sound bubbling from deep within her chest.

“It’s hardly a fight, Highness.”

“Meg—“

“I heard something intriguing the other day.” She drags her long nail down the length of his throat, then back up, chasing his pulse from its hiding place. He kinda wants her to palm the side of his throat, let him feel the full pressure of her touch, but he knows that he is not here to get what he wants—not this time, at least. He shivers and snickers a little at her touch, tossing his head a bit as if it’d dissuade her.

“A-alright, but what does that have to do with anythihing?” He clears his throat to purge the titters. He’s so frazzled by this change of pace that he can feel the ends of his hair beginning to sizzle. This is her game—always keeping him on his toes for better or for worse.

“Don’t interrupt me.” She tilts his chin up. He goes breathlessly quiet.

“I was walking through the House and mulling over just how much of my time that you insist on wasting. It would be to my benefit if I could properly dissuade you from even attempting to exit Tartarus.” Meg trails her finger along the pauldron of skulls on his shoulder.

“You can’t. You know that.” He furrows his brow. He thought they were past this. Unstoppable force versus immovable object, and all of that.

“That’s the problem. How do I convince the most stubborn, hard-headed, cocky man I’ve ever met to quit attempting the impossible so I can do my job in peace?”

“Tell me how you really feel—“

“Then I spoke with Thanatos.” Meg’s eyes gleam. Zagreus swallows.

“He can be quite forthcoming in the right conditions, y’know. He shared something most interesting.” She gives him a long look up and down and chuckles again. Something about this doesn’t smell right. Than would never give up anything on him—nothing vital, at least. What could he even share? That Zag is awful on the lyre? Everyone in the House and likely surrounding Tartarus already knows—

“So, Zagreus, I’ll ask you one last time. Do you still intend to leave Tartarus?” Meg plays with a piece of the whip coiled around his chest.

“Of course.” He doesn’t hesitate. He knows what he has to do. No matter how oddly nervous she’s making him.

“I was hoping you’d say that.” Meg grins again, that gorgeous unsettling smile that makes the hair on his neck raise.

Meg’s fingers worm beneath the whip, tapping along the bare plane of his chest. Those wicked pink claws are not just for show—he can feel their cruel points triangulating the precise location of his organs.

Disembowelment would certainly be a way to go.

She gives a gentle scratch over his abs and he shivers involuntarily. He bites his lip as the corners twitch up. Goosebumps flare across his skin. She digs her claws in…and Zagreus has the wind punched out of him in the strangest way possible.

She’s…tickling him. On purpose.

“Meg, wahahait!” It comes out far shriller than he intends. Zagreus’s head collides with her shoulder and he hops in place, trying not to lose his accursed balance.

“I’ll pass.” Her apathy somehow makes it worse. Her nails skim his torso and call sparks in their wake, literal jumping embers just barely visible beneath his skin. She coos at him.

“Tickling is cheating!” It’s all he can think to say. He can hear himself giggling and it’s only making him more jumpy. Her fingers catch this awful little spot near his hip and Zagreus throws his head back.

“Oh, so your rampant, unhinged escape attempts have rules now?” She chuckles at him and presses her fingers into her apparently new favorite spot. His arms flex and strain against the whip, but he’s well and truly stuck.

There’s a plushness to his hips and waist, leftover from a lifetime of libations from the gods themselves. Meg starts pinching and poking there with deadly persistence. He hiccups his way into a giggle fit and wiggles uselessly in her arms.

He starting to regret accepting a message from Zeus to get here, because the latent lightning beneath his skin is making all of this worse somehow. His only comfort is knowing his mighty relatives can’t actually see him. Hopefully. Probably.

“Can’t we act like adults? Please?” His grin takes on a nervous wobble when her nails touch down yet again upon his skin.

“You first.” Her eyes glint wickedly in the firelight. With a flourish he can’t quite track, his arm gets yanked above and behind his head, leaving the right side of his torso completely exposed, collarbone to waist. Uh oh.

Zag can only imagine what he must look like. Maybe somewhat like Dusa, utterly flushed and frantic. Gods above, he’s giggling into the shoulder of a Fury. If Hades could see him, he’d filet him and send him through the Styx on principle.

Her fingers skitter under his arm ever-so-gently, like a spider in a web. Zagreus cackles.

“Hm. Seems promising. What do you think?” She presses her thumbs into the divots of his ribs.

He glares and belly-laughs in response—that’s definitely cheating. She only knows about that spot from Thanatos, which isn’t fair. He’s not quite sure about the logistics around killing Death himself, but he’s certainly going to try it the next time that they meet.

Meg tries pressing her thumb where his chest meets his ribs, just beside his pec, and he chokes sharply on an inhale.

“Megaera. Meg.” Zagreus fixes her with the most composed, imploring look he can manage. “I’m sorry, alright?”

“Right. Just to be clear, you’re not sorry when I’m touching you here?” She starts tickling his stomach again and he folds faster than one of Charon’s expended wells. It just…it tickles, okay, and her nails are dismantling every functioning neuron he has.

“No, I am! I ahaham!” He shrieks. He’s used to dirty tricks, but even then, he gets to fight back. It’s not fair, being at her mercy. Their whole thing relies on the push and pull, not the…squeal and writhe. Which he’s doing in spades.

It’s also not fair the way that his knees betray him, because he falls to the ground much faster than he would like. It gets him away from Meg’s hands for a second and he gratefully gulps in air, but then he sees her eyeing his feet—

Oh, absolutely not.

“No! Nohoho, waitwaitwait—Meg, truly. Please. I’m sorry.” He holds up his hands in the best surrendering gesture that he can manage. She smirks and drags a finger up the sole closest to her. The lack of oxygen has dimmed the hellfire a bit, letting her poke at him lightly with only a mild hiss of pain.

Zagreus squeals at an earth-shaking pitch and tries to roll away, but Meg grabs a coil of the whip and stops him.

“That bad, hm?” She kneels over him, blotting out the braziers burning in the chamber.

“Alright, you’ve had your fun. Let me up?” Zagreus shimmies against the ground. Meg leans close, close enough for him to smell the thick scent of ambrosia on her breath.

So she did drink it. Point to Zag.

“If I untie you, are you going to surrender?” She raises an unimpressed eyebrow.

“No, but I will go easy on you.” He grins.

“Gods, you’re insufferable.” She kneels beside him. The coils of the whip loosen around him and he starts to sit up, but then he’s yanked into the air by his ankle and right into her grasp.

“Gotcha,” she smirks. She raises her hand to his foot again and panic takes over—he kicks her in the shoulder with his free foot, using the momentum to flip out of her grasp. In a flash, he dashes to Stygius and kicks the sword up into his hand.

“At least give me the dignity of a death by your hand?” He holds the blade up between them, but it feels more like he’s hiding behind it.

“Don’t say I never did anything nice for you.” Meg shakes her head, but the fond smile on her face doesn’t melt.

…

“My prince.” Hypnos gives an exaggerated bow. Zagreus shakes out the blood of the Styx in a way that would make Cerberus proud.

“What’s got you so…animated?” Zagreus tilts his head.

“Who, me? Nothing, nothing—say, is there a comedy club in Tartarus that I don’t know about?” Hypnos chews on the end of his quill and looks up with wide, innocent eyes.

“…not that I recall. It’d certainly lighten the mood.” Zag works out a knot in his shoulder. Even reformed, he swears his lungs and limbs still ache.

“Right, right. It’s just interesting because—“ Hypnos leans forward, his unassuming grin suddenly predatory— “It says here that you died of laughter.”

Zagreus’s skin burns. He opens and closes his jaw a little, eyes darting around. Hypnos gives a warbling laugh. He yelps when his scroll disintegrates in a rush of hellfire.

“Jeez. Tough crowd.” Hypnos reaches forward and flutters his fingers under Zagreus’s jaw. He giggles, startled, and smacks his hand away. Hypnos laughs again and watches him flee the throne room.

He doesn’t think he’s ever been more grateful that Hades isn’t here.

“How’d you do it?” Bruce swivels so he can look at his partner. Clark smiles, his eyes distant with the memory, and shyly rubs the back of his neck.

“When Pa was teaching me how to shave, I hit my skin wrong with the blade. The whole thing crumpled and the blade flew out. Nearly took a little off his top, if you catch my drift.”

Bruce is so amused by how Clark that all is that he resorts to biting the inside of his cheek to stop a smile from surfacing. Clark turns him back around in the chair with a playful huff.

Bruce closes his eyes and allows himself to be cared for, which requires a constant and active suppression of all of his instincts. Clark’s touch is gentle, yet sure, and it sends a soothing buzz through his nervous system. He tips Bruce’s head to and fro, murmuring sweet praise in that slight drawl of his.

One cannot blame Bruce, then, for becoming careless.

Clark disarms him. Early in their relationship, Bruce fought it. If Clark stayed over, Bruce simply didn’t sleep. He didn’t set foot in Clark’s apartment for the first four months, and when he finally did, he did not mention that he had already cased the place while Clark was out. It was the perfect plan at the time.

Somewhere along the line, somewhere among all the home-cooked meals and movie nights, Bruce had forgotten to keep resisting. Faster than he thought possible, he’s found comfort in Clark. Real comfort. Enough to allow him to hold a knife to Bruce’s neck and have only the most fleeting thought of murder. Enough to dull his senses to the gentle buzz gliding on his sensitive scalp, with no thought of what it may portend.

“Okay, I’m gonna touch up the sides a bit but…you, sir, are looking spiffy.” Clark tilts Bruce’s chin up. It sends a bolt of lightning through his core.

“Spiffy?” Bruce smiles just the tiniest bit. Clark playfully swats his shoulder.

“The spiffiest. Now stay still.” Clark positions Bruce’s head, then goes in with the razor. As soon as the buzzing thing touches down near his ear, Bruce loses hold of all of his carefully honed instincts. His shoulders fly up to his ears so fast that the razor catches his shirt sleeve. He slaps the thing out of Clark’s hand.

“What happened?”

“I’m fine.” Bruce coughs to avoid any other sound.

“You’re red. Did I nick you?” Clark leans in, his whole face scrunching as he searches for injuries. Bruce turns his face away and starts to get up, hoping to play it off, but Clark gently sits him back down with the strength of a hydraulic press. He can’t escape this.

“Stop. Let me see.” Clark brushes his thumb over the shell of Bruce’s ear, and despite himself, Bruce releases exactly the kind of strangled, high-pitched sound that he loathes.

Bruce watches the gears in Clark’s brain turn for an agonizing thirty seconds. Clark’s smile breaks over his face like the dawn.

“Bruce. Are you ticklish?”

“Of course not.” Bruce scoffs, throwing another shovel of loose dirt over his already open grave. Clark brackets Bruce in with his arms and leans in close.

“I’m going to ask you exactly one more time, but this time I’m going to remind you that I can hear your heartbeat.” Clark’s amused smile gets a mischievous edge to it. He's got dimples. It’s unfairly distracting.

“Clark. I was trained by the League of Assassins. I am not ticklish.” Bruce keeps his voice and breathing even, his expression perfectly walks the line between firm and amused—all of the elements are in place. He beats polygraphs as easy as breathing. His partner is just a hot one, in essence.

“Liar,” Clark hums, grazing his teeth over Bruce’s ear. Bruce crumples like wet paper. He goes as sideways as the chair allows and tries to twist his way to the floor, but Clark’s stupid mouth meets him everywhere he turns.

“This is the best day of my life.” Clark laughs delightedly at Bruce’s suffering. Bruce growls at him, but it rockets up to raspy laughter when Clark worms a hand under his arm. He slips down out of the chair again and Clark catches him, has him pinned on the couch before he can blink. The bastard waits, though—he waits until Bruce can process his lack of escape routes to pounce again.

It’s unfair how happy Clark looks while taking him apart. He smiles and laughs like Bruce’s hands are on him—an idea to test another time, in more strategically favorable circumstances.

Bruce shoves Clark’s face away as hard as he can and gets a flurry of pokes to the stomach for his trouble. Clark moves down to his waist, cataloguing, eating up all the valuable intel Bruce is handing over for free. Bruce tries to curl up. Clark squeezes his side until he changes his mind.

“Stop wiggling! I wanna see how bad it is. I’ve never heard you laugh like this before.” Clark laughs, sneaking a hand up to Bruce’s ear again. Bruce wiggles like his life depends on it. His skilled maneuvers allow him to hide his head, but Clark drops his pinching hands to Bruce’s hips and he folds like a lawn chair.

“So what part of your League training was this?” Clark pauses before he hits Bruce’s thighs, thank god. Bruce greedily sucks in air.

“I’m going to lace your food with kryptonite.” Bruce hisses in a rush. His face is definitely burning red, he can feel it. Clark’s eyebrows raise. Bruce pales.

Clark, the colossal idiot, leans down and blows a raspberry against Bruce’s throat. He squeals, which is not a sound he’s ever made before….or if he has, it’s been too many years to feel real.

“I’d like to see you try, Wheezy—did you just snort?” Clark talks directly into Bruce’s neck. Bruce giggles like his archnemesis and frantically shakes his head ‘no’. There’s no reason that should tickle so badly.

“I guess we’ll see about that.” Clark palms the back of Bruce’s neck and he realizes very quickly that while he can move, he wouldn’t be moving very far. As soon as those fingers start wiggling, Bruce’s control flees the scene. He giggles effortlessly at a pitch that he’s been trying to fake for nearly his whole life.

It’s awful.

It’s…kind of fun.

He doesn’t let loose often, and when he does, it usually involves bruises. This is…a lot, and it’s definitely embarrassing, but he could get free if he really wanted. At least he has plausible deniability of Clark holding him down. Makes it easier to trick his brain into a softer shape.

Clark’s mouth has its grand reunion with Bruce’s ear and stays there until a battalion of snorts marches free from Bruce’s lungs, thoroughly murdering his image in the process. Clark gathers up the tail end of his laughter in a kiss. Bruce smiles into it. He can’t help it. Clark’s rubbing circles into his side with his thumbs.

“Why are you like this?” Bruce grumbles, his ears still suspiciously warm. Clark adjusts his glasses, but leaves them more crooked than they were.

“What? Fun?” Clark hums, more focused on Bruce’s mouth than his usual sass. He leans in, glasses holding on by a thread, and Bruce leans back a bit to pull the glasses off his face. Clark leans back in before they’re all the way free.

“Dodging the question, Mr. Wayne?” Clark raises a brow.

Bruce kisses him to avoid confirming it. All of this…stuff…is still a big frantic bundle in his chest, shaking at the idea of more. He’s gotten better with it, but sometimes he looks at Clark and it gets so much, all the things he wants to try.

“Are you gonna let me finish your haircut?” Clark smirks into their next kiss, and the next one, until Bruce squishes his face in his hand.

“Don’t even think about it.” Bruce growls. Something about Clark’s smile suggests that he is, in fact, thinking about it.

“How’d you do it?” Bruce swivels so he can look at his partner. Clark smiles, his eyes distant with the memory, and shyly rubs the back of his neck.

“When Pa was teaching me how to shave, I hit my skin wrong with the blade. The whole thing crumpled and the blade flew out. Nearly took a little off his top, if you catch my drift.”

Bruce is so amused by how Clark that all is that he resorts to biting the inside of his cheek to stop a smile from surfacing. Clark turns him back around in the chair with a playful huff.

Bruce closes his eyes and allows himself to be cared for, which requires a constant and active suppression of all of his instincts. Clark’s touch is gentle, yet sure, and it sends a soothing buzz through his nervous system. He tips Bruce’s head to and fro, murmuring sweet praise in that slight drawl of his.

One cannot blame Bruce, then, for becoming careless.

Clark disarms him. Early in their relationship, Bruce fought it. If Clark stayed over, Bruce simply didn’t sleep. He didn’t set foot in Clark’s apartment for the first four months, and when he finally did, he did not mention that he had already cased the place while Clark was out. It was the perfect plan at the time.

Somewhere along the line, somewhere among all the home-cooked meals and movie nights, Bruce had forgotten to keep resisting. Faster than he thought possible, he’s found comfort in Clark. Real comfort. Enough to allow him to hold a knife to Bruce’s neck and have only the most fleeting thought of murder. Enough to dull his senses to the gentle buzz gliding on his sensitive scalp, with no thought of what it may portend.

“Okay, I’m gonna touch up the sides a bit but…you, sir, are looking spiffy.” Clark tilts Bruce’s chin up. It sends a bolt of lightning through his core.

“Spiffy?” Bruce smiles just the tiniest bit. Clark playfully swats his shoulder.

“The spiffiest. Now stay still.” Clark positions Bruce’s head, then goes in with the razor. As soon as the buzzing thing touches down near his ear, Bruce loses hold of all of his carefully honed instincts. His shoulders fly up to his ears so fast that the razor catches his shirt sleeve. He slaps the thing out of Clark’s hand.

“What happened?”

“I’m fine.” Bruce coughs to avoid any other sound.

“You’re red. Did I nick you?” Clark leans in, his whole face scrunching as he searches for injuries. Bruce turns his face away and starts to get up, hoping to play it off, but Clark gently sits him back down with the strength of a hydraulic press. He can’t escape this.

“Stop. Let me see.” Clark brushes his thumb over the shell of Bruce’s ear, and despite himself, Bruce releases exactly the kind of strangled, high-pitched sound that he loathes.

Bruce watches the gears in Clark’s brain turn for an agonizing thirty seconds. Clark’s smile breaks over his face like the dawn.

“Bruce. Are you ticklish?”

“Of course not.” Bruce scoffs, throwing another shovel of loose dirt over his already open grave. Clark brackets Bruce in with his arms and leans in close.

“I’m going to ask you exactly one more time, but this time I’m going to remind you that I can hear your heartbeat.” Clark’s amused smile gets a mischievous edge to it. He's got dimples. It’s unfairly distracting.

“Clark. I was trained by the League of Assassins. I am not ticklish.” Bruce keeps his voice and breathing even, his expression perfectly walks the line between firm and amused—all of the elements are in place. He beats polygraphs as easy as breathing. His partner is just a hot one, in essence.

“Liar,” Clark hums, grazing his teeth over Bruce’s ear. Bruce crumples like wet paper. He goes as sideways as the chair allows and tries to twist his way to the floor, but Clark’s stupid mouth meets him everywhere he turns.

“This is the best day of my life.” Clark laughs delightedly at Bruce’s suffering. Bruce growls at him, but it rockets up to raspy laughter when Clark worms a hand under his arm. He slips down out of the chair again and Clark catches him, has him pinned on the couch before he can blink. The bastard waits, though—he waits until Bruce can process his lack of escape routes to pounce again.

It’s unfair how happy Clark looks while taking him apart. He smiles and laughs like Bruce’s hands are on him—an idea to test another time, in more strategically favorable circumstances.

Bruce shoves Clark’s face away as hard as he can and gets a flurry of pokes to the stomach for his trouble. Clark moves down to his waist, cataloguing, eating up all the valuable intel Bruce is handing over for free. Bruce tries to curl up. Clark squeezes his side until he changes his mind.

“Stop wiggling! I wanna see how bad it is. I’ve never heard you laugh like this before.” Clark laughs, sneaking a hand up to Bruce’s ear again. Bruce wiggles like his life depends on it. His skilled maneuvers allow him to hide his head, but Clark drops his pinching hands to Bruce’s hips and he folds like a lawn chair.

“So what part of your League training was this?” Clark pauses before he hits Bruce’s thighs, thank god. Bruce greedily sucks in air.

“I’m going to lace your food with kryptonite.” Bruce hisses in a rush. His face is definitely burning red, he can feel it. Clark’s eyebrows raise. Bruce pales.

Clark, the colossal idiot, leans down and blows a raspberry against Bruce’s throat. He squeals, which is not a sound he’s ever made before….or if he has, it’s been too many years to feel real.

“I’d like to see you try, Wheezy—did you just snort?” Clark talks directly into Bruce’s neck. Bruce giggles like his archnemesis and frantically shakes his head ‘no’. There’s no reason that should tickle so badly.

“I guess we’ll see about that.” Clark palms the back of Bruce’s neck and he realizes very quickly that while he can move, he wouldn’t be moving very far. As soon as those fingers start wiggling, Bruce’s control flees the scene. He giggles effortlessly at a pitch that he’s been trying to fake for nearly his whole life.

It’s awful.

It’s…kind of fun.

He doesn’t let loose often, and when he does, it usually involves bruises. This is…a lot, and it’s definitely embarrassing, but he could get free if he really wanted. At least he has plausible deniability of Clark holding him down. Makes it easier to trick his brain into a softer shape.

Clark’s mouth has its grand reunion with Bruce’s ear and stays there until a battalion of snorts marches free from Bruce’s lungs, thoroughly murdering his image in the process. Clark gathers up the tail end of his laughter in a kiss. Bruce smiles into it. He can’t help it. Clark’s rubbing circles into his side with his thumbs.

“Why are you like this?” Bruce grumbles, his ears still suspiciously warm. Clark adjusts his glasses, but leaves them more crooked than they were.

“What? Fun?” Clark hums, more focused on Bruce’s mouth than his usual sass. He leans in, glasses holding on by a thread, and Bruce leans back a bit to pull the glasses off his face. Clark leans back in before they’re all the way free.

“Dodging the question, Mr. Wayne?” Clark raises a brow.

Bruce kisses him to avoid confirming it. All of this…stuff…is still a big frantic bundle in his chest, shaking at the idea of more. He’s gotten better with it, but sometimes he looks at Clark and it gets so much, all the things he wants to try.

“Are you gonna let me finish your haircut?” Clark smirks into their next kiss, and the next one, until Bruce squishes his face in his hand.

“Don’t even think about it.” Bruce growls. Something about Clark’s smile suggests that he is, in fact, thinking about it.

“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.

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, 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.