Hiya I'm Crow! (M 24)
Check out the pinned post for all my info
I'm a fanfic writer, an absolute lee, and an overall shitposter
This blog is for Platonic Tkls Only but please keep interactions/follows 18+
Asks are OPEN
DMs are OPEN
I'm 23 (M, he/him) and I'm a Lee living in Australia
Welcome to my weird little corner of the internet, where you can find all the tickle related thoughts/feelings/posts that occupy my brain 24/7.
Recently I've been adding a LOT of irl tkl stories whenever my friends wreck me, and I'm working on tagging all of those with #crow gets got and putting them in some sort of masterpost. So, be patient and eventually you'll have one place to read all about me being a giggly mess at the hands of my favourite people.
If that tickles (hehe) your fancy feel free to stick around!
If you are wanting to hang out for a while (or even just a short visit), please check out my Boundaries Post to keep everyone on the same page ^^.
Main things are:
- this is a blog based around platonic tkls, so let's keep it that way (i.e. nothing sexual please)
- this blog is 18+ following only, as I am an adult and don't want to constantly be worried about censoring what I might post / discuss (minors PLEASE keep yourselves safe online)
If you are interested in my tickle fics, you can check them out on @cantwritethetword. That blog is for all ages cause I literally just post fics there
i need to be cornered and have my sides squeezed until i curl up into a little ball on the floor but it doesn’t help and im still getting tickled silly
It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife.
Jason stares at the screen, desperately willing himself to focus on the movie and find a happy place in it. A happy place far, far away from here, where he could be rewatching his favorite film alone in the comfort of his own apartment. With a blanket and Alfred’s cookies, preferably.
He is not in his own apartment.
Wayne family movie night. Why exactly had he agreed to Wayne family movie night?
A bout of insanity. Jason considers fratricide for the sixth time within the last four hours as popcorn gets tossed across the living room, Titus’ delighted barking louder than the television. It’s made worse by the man of the house tucked awkwardly between him and the sofa end, Dick on his other side, and Jason huddled much more closely to the latter for obvious, unspoken reasons. He’d meant to sit on the floor so Damian could take his proper “blood son” seat next to Bruce, but Titus had refused to leave the armchair and so he’d relocated. Cass and Steph shared the other armchair, Tim and Duke draped on the floor, a bowl of already half-spilt popcorn between them.
Everyone’s talking, simultaneously as caught up in their own conversations as they are chucking popcorn in wide arcs into each other’s mouths. Jason knows it’s fine, the norm when it comes to movie nights, at least the few he’d bothered to come by before this one. It’s less about the movie and more about the tradition, the bonding of a fractured family taking a few hours’ time to reintroduce themselves to each other, finding safety in the cracks. He gets it, really. He even kind of likes it most days, though he’d rather be put back into the grave again than say it out loud.
But it was his turn to pick the film, and they’re finally about two minutes from the first meeting of Darcy and Elizabeth, and he’d really love it if everyone would just shut up for all of five minutes so he can rewatch the scene he had memorized since he was thirteen.
His knee bounces in irritation, just hard enough to shake the couch and subsequently, Dick. His brother shoots him an apologetic look at the noise to which Jason glares hard enough he hopes the sofa bursts into flames. It doesn’t, but it would have been cool.
“I can tell them to be quiet,” Dick says.
“With this family? You’d be better off shipping them to the circus.”
A smile crosses Dick’s face. “They’re even louder than a circus. I’d know.”
“You’re louder than a circus,” Jason rolls his eyes, but he takes the attempt at comfort for what it is, shifting in his seat enough to be pressed closer to Dick. He’s got his feet tucked against Dick’s leg, knee digging into his shoulder, but Dick doesn’t even seem to care. He probably likes it, the way he swings one arm around his legs like a weird half hug for his lower body.
It’s not horrible.
Something unreadable crosses Dick’s face before he squeezes Jason’s knee. It’s probably another attempt at comfort, but his thumb drags a little too quickly in the movement and Jason yelps. The room quiets.
Fuck.
His knee pulls inwards, flushing before he even meets the sudden mischievous twinkle in Dick’s eye. Some part of him, twelve and completely caught unawares, wants to curl up in a ball and hide. The other, nineteen and ruling the East side of Gotham, thinks about strategic retreat and desperately does not try to remember all the times running led to him being caught and curled up anyway. He inches backwards, aware of the press of decorative throw pillows at his side and the sudden attention of everyone in a room, a sheep caught before a pack of wolves.
“Little wing,” Dick coos. His hand follows Jason’s leg, sliding down to his ankle. It’s probably meant to be a comforting weight if not for how Dick’s grin widens to flash teeth. “I didn’t know you were still—”
“I’m not.” He must run or hide. There are a hundred rooms in this manor, but he’s up against Bats. There’s a hundred more miles on the manor grounds, but he’s up against the Bats. Jason squirms further back against the sofa, scooting awkwardly upwards when he hits a hard surface. It takes a minute to realize the hard surface is Bruce, and that by the time he realizes it he’s already halfway on his dad’s lap, leaning into a warm chest. While everyone else’s gaze has turned predatory, calculating, the weight of Bruce’s stare on his head doesn’t ring as dangerously as the others. He risks a glance backwards.
Bruce smiles down at him. It’s a perfect dad smile, small and fond, and Jason’s mind races because it’s the exact same smile Bruce used to have when ruffling his hair on ice cream trips on rooftops overseeing Gotham. It is also, unfortunately, the same smile Bruce had after driving him to mirthful tears in “post-patrol injury checks” that he’s nearly certain were just an excuse to torment him. He’s never really known how to respond when Bruce directs the full force of that smile on him.
Evidently, he still doesn’t.
Run or hide. Sheep or wolf.
“B,” Jason says. His voice tremors the slightest bit. “B, tell him I’m not.”
Bruce’s hands steady him, one on his shoulder, the other bracing his thigh. The one on his shoulder squeezes, comforting. Jason swallows.
“Jaylad,” Bruce starts. His smile doesn’t waver. Sheep, his mind begs. Sheep, hide, sheep! “Tell him you’re not what?”
A wolf in sheep’s clothing. Fucking hell.
Jason’s already throwing himself to the side before Bruce finishes the question, but the arm on his shoulder tugs him back too easily. He yelps, entirely unrelated to the squeeze of Bruce’s hand, and then Dick’s hands are pushing him down, trying to straddle his thighs.
“Fuck off!” Jason shouts, squirming enough to free his right hand. He throws a punch to Dick’s face and misses by a meter when Bruce’s hand jumps up to dig into his armpit. The noise that escapes him is embarrassing and he shoves a little desperately at Bruce’s hands when his voice grows high and squeaky with every tweak of fingers on squishy, sensitive flesh. “Wait, wait, Dickhead, don’t!”
“Don’t what?” Dick asks, and he’s not even trying to hide the sappiness of his smile anymore. Jason gets a faceful of the whole smiley Grayson experience, all soft and big brotherly, and he’d maybe appreciate it more if it didn’t also come with Dick lightly drumming his fingers over his stomach. One gets too close to his navel and Jason flinches, feeling his mouth grow into a grin against his permission.
“Go on, Jay,” Bruce says. He’s got Jason pinned easily, one arm tucked under his knee and the other caught in his hand slowly being moved into the same trap. He swallows as Bruce leans over, coaxing. “Answer your brother.”
He’d rather die, thanks.
Jason bites his lip, looking back at Dick but meets Steph’s eyes instead. Everyone’s eyes are on him, the movie completely forgotten though it drones on, enraptured instead by this new, humiliating entertainment. His face burns when his eyes slide over Cass’ knowing eyes, Tim’s scheming one, flashing back to just two hours ago when he’d pinned Tim down over a stupid argument on the mats and left his little brother in ticklish tears. He’d only made it this far with his secret safe because no one even bothered to assume the one guy tall and heavy enough to challenge Batman could possibly be ticklish. He’d managed to artfully escape Dick every time he was in the mood, sacrificing Duke or Damian or one of the other little bats instead to so-called big brotherly duties. Bruce didn’t even try, too awkward about pushing boundaries and then bulldozing through them anyway, leaving them in a cycle that was accommodated with more screaming matches than light-hearted play fights.
The agreement to movie night, to put on Jason’s favorite film, apparently meant more than he realized.
“Don’t touch me.” He tries to snap, failing when Dick ghosts over his hip and he chokes on his words. “Dickface, don’t you dare. Don’t you—!”
His teeth click as Bruce’s hands move again, pinching along his ribs as Dick’s rises to tease his waist. There’s mercy in their movements in that it’s not his worst spots, yet not at all because it’s a warning that they intend to draw this torment out.
“Aw, Jay,” Dick teases, almost fond, before digging his fingers in a little harder to be the rotten menace Jason always insisted he was, Nightwing’s golden reputation be damned. He chokes like a dying fish. “What’s wrong? You’re not watching the movie anymore?”
“No one’s w-watching.” The stutter is too obvious and he can tell from the way matching fondness seeps into Bruce’s expression that he’s smiling, even as heat continues to crawl up his cheeks. “You’re both distrahahacting me!”
Steph’s whisper is too loud. “Oh my god, he giggles.”
Death. Death for himself and every single person in this room, sans Titus.
A litany of curses swim in his head when Bruce manages to wrangle both his hands and Dick dives for his exposed armpits like a heathen. Jason clenches his jaw shut for all of three seconds before breaking into giddy laughter, twisting to either side in a pitiful attempt to escape Dick’s evil fingers.
“I can’t believe this. Chat, is this real?” Tim’s voice floats over, vaguely awed, vaguely vindictive. Jason would’ve liked to snap at him if it weren’t for Dick, the bastard, dancing his hands back down to his ribs and then back up again around his shoulders. He settles for flipping him off with a trapped hand.
“Fuhahahack off!”
“Wow, real rude for someone so ticklish.”
It’s somehow worse hearing Tim call him that, of all people. Fifteen minutes ago, he would’ve pulled Tim to the floor midway through his sentence and made a spectacle of his little brother. Hell—he could’ve easily pulled Steph and Dick in to help him at minimum. Of course, fifteen minutes ago he wasn’t screeching with laughter in front of his entire family.
“Oh chat, you have no idea how real this is. Jason used to shriek so loudly,” Dick teases, tossing his head back with a wink. From the barely disguised wide-eyed awe on everyone’s faces, it’s evident that of all routes they expected movie night to go that this didn’t make it to any of their contingencies. It would be hilarious if literally anyone else was in Jason’s position. “It looks like he still does, don’t you, little wing?”
Jason’s jaws snap, trying in vain to bite Dick’s hands off, even as Dick only huffs when he scratches alongside Jason’s upper back to obliterate the last of his reputation. He jolts at the sudden attack on (one of many of) his weak spot, voice jumping an octave when he shrieks just like Dick predicted.
“D-Dihihick! Dick, wahahahait!”
“Aw, Jay, of course.” Dick croons sweetly and if that doesn’t set alarm bells off in Jason’s head nothing would. He squirms back on instinct even though all it does is make Dick’s fingers dig in harder to his back, swerving fruitlessly to burrow himself in Bruce’s hold. “I’ll wait… for you tell me where you want me to tickle you next.”
“What?”
“Ooh, evil.”
“Shuhuhut up in thehehee peanut gallery!”
He’s going to have to kill someone for this. He’s got to be as red as his helmet by now; he was always obvious as a kid, giggly and red-faced from maybe two minutes of Dick’s big-brotherly nonsense, and the reality of him being in the same position now years later made something in him flutter obnoxiously. It doesn’t help that Bruce is not so subtly looming over, eyes soft in that gushy dad way, and all Jason wants to do is bury his face into the folds of his sweater to avoid shrinking under the warmth of that gaze.
“Don’t be mean to your siblings,” Bruce says. He shifts Jason’s weakened wrists to one grip, his now freed hand crawling down teasingly as it flutters around Jason’s ears and neck to make him giggle uncontrollably. Between Bruce’s slow, almost gentle tease and Dick’s pinpoint accurate clawing against his shoulders, he’s got basically no defenses. At best, Jason manages to kick out his feet, jostling absolutely no one into giving him mercy.
“I—I’m—thehehey’re the ones beheheing meahahahen to me!”
There’s a chorus of chuckles at him around the room and Jason burrows himself against Bruce’s sweater instinctively. The coo that follows is definitely Dick and Bruce’s hand pauses just long enough to brush out the sweaty hair from his face, forcing Jason to blink up through blurry eyes.
Bruce is still smiling at him. For absolutely no reason at all, Jason’s heart flips.
“Well, kiddo? What are you feeling?”
“Yeah, Jay,” Dick interrupts, “where’d you want us to tickle you again?”
Fuck, they’re so evil. Forget Batman and Nightwing, allies of the Justice League—as far as Jason’s aware, they should’ve been thrown in with the Legion of Doom since he was twelve.
His skin crawls with anticipation as Jason squeezes his eyes shut to avoid catching anyone’s gazes in the room. “Just get it over with already!”
“I thought you wanted us to wait?” Dick mock gasps, drumming his fingers back around to his sides. Jason bucks against him, trying and failing to remove him, and Dick barks out a laugh. “You gotta make up your mind buddy, or I’ll just have to stay here forever. Unless that’s what you wanted?”
Yeah, no thanks. Between feeling his mind melt away via giggles or shrieking laughter, it didn’t feel like he had a choice either way. The thought of calling for help passed as quickly as it came; knowing these people, the only “help” he’d be getting would be more hands on him.
“I cahahan’t—you—youhuhEHE B NAHAHA!”
Jason jolts with a scream as Bruce scribbles his fingers downwards suddenly, darting between his spine and the small of his back. It’s like every single nerve along his spine has been suddenly jumpstarted into being so stupidly fucking ticklish; the sensation is made worse at the unbidden memory of his dad doing almost this exact move in this very couch years ago. He can’t possibly get any redder than he already is and yet Jason swears on his life that his face burns even brighter as he shakes his head. “JUST DO IT!”
Dick hums. “Do what?”
“I FUCKING HAHATEHEE YOU!”
“And I love you.” Dick smooches his cheek despite his glare. It’s not very effective through watery tears and he knows it from Dick’s peachy smile as he retreats, scotting further back on Jason’s legs for better leverage. Bruce stills, placing his hand on Jason’s waist. “But that doesn’t help clarify what you want me to do…?”
God, they’re really going to do this. Just sit here and torment him in front of Gotham’s best so-called heroes when all he did was sign up for some peaceful, torment-free movie night bonding.
Jason takes in hasty gulps of air while he still can. He’s certain he looks ridiculous, red-faced with wet eyes and a childish grin stretched across his face, but he doesn’t try to flee even though no one’s holding onto him anymore. His self-preservation instincts must have been successfully tickled out of him because all he really wants to do, all he does, is roll his head back to peer up at Bruce with his best puppy eyes. “Dad, please.”
Instead of answering with words, four hands make their way to his hips. It’s absolutely evil, and awful, and he’s certain his mind blanks for a moment before shrill, shrieking laughter leaves him breathless. Jason jolts to life as he thrashes, freed hands pushing frantically at the fingers determined to destroy him, and he manages to tuck his head down and make a semi-curled defensive position that really doesn’t hide him at all. Dick laughs overhead, one hand crawling from his hip to scribble over his exposed back, and Jason whines through his laughter at the dual sensations.
He can’t even remember the last time he’d been ticked like this. When he was a kid, for sure, but when? Usually it was just the one or the other, and if it was both Bruce never let Dick torment him for too long before scooping up both his kids, one on each hand, and heading off either to the cave or to bed. He’d never paid much attention to the specifics, not when he was busy laughing his head off, and even now he struggles to note whose hand is where considering he’s a little busy trying to melt into a puddle.
“N-Nahaha moooreehHEHE!”
“What’s that? More?”
Maybe if he curled up tight enough, he could find a mini pocket dimension to hide in. As-is, Jason settles for batting at the hands still tormenting him. He can hardly think, mind a haze of tingling sensation, and he hardly even notices how Dick moves from straddling his thighs to lying on his side allowing Jason to settle into his side, completely curled up. When he was younger, they used to tease him and call him—
“Is that my favorite pillbug? I think it is!”
God. He buries his face into his hands, consciousness emerging warily as his shrieks peter off into hiccupping giggles when the hands still on him slow to a gentle drumming. It’s one set of hands instead of two now, and he blinks tears out of his eyes when a hand ruffles his hair, nudging into it instinctively. He can hear cooing on the other side of the room.
“Think he’s had enough, chum.”
“Aw, but he’s so cute like this!”
“Am not.” Jason manages a feeble defense. He feels exhausted, like he ran a marathon and fought killer croc one-handed at the same time. Bruce’s hand, steady as it sorts out the tangles in his hair, is unfairly soothing as the last of his laughter leaves him.
“Yes, you are.” Jason blinks as Cass emerges from the sofa’s side, cold water pressed against his face. Jason blinks his eyes (when did he close them?) up at her, shooting Dick a warning glare before taking it and draining half the refreshing glass. She steadies it with one hand, taking it away with a self-satisfied smile. “Very cute.”
He’d flip her off if it were anyone else. Her smile grows wider, and he lets her get away with her own ruffle of his hair. He must look like more of a mess than he imagined because she only seems to get happier with the action.
“How very childish,” Damian scoffs, like he hasn’t been staring the entire time, just as enraptured as the rest of the flock. “I can only wonder how Todd manages to become more pathetic by day.”
“Didn’t Dick get you literally yesterday.”
“Cease and desist your existence, Drake.”
Tim throws his hands up in resignation as Duke giggles, high-fiving Damian in gleeful recognition of their unofficial gaslight-gatekeep-girlboss-Tim agenda. Steph, always brilliant and unafraid to cross boundaries, waltzes up to where Jason’s still sprawled against Bruce’s shoulder to poke him in the cheek. “Still alive, dead robin? Or do we have to bury you and wait six to twelve months again?”
“Shut up, dead robin.” He groans, awareness of the room coming back to him steadily as he manages to pick himself warily up from the comfort of Bruce’s sweater. Now that he’s no longer being tormented or made the spectacle of their night entertainment, nothing’s stopping him from leaving. Jason could just pack up, declare them all menaces, and waltz out the front door.
He sits himself upwards properly where Dick’s soft smile meets him, nudging his shoulder playfully. If he focuses, he can pinpoint a memory of five years ago, the first-time hearing what he’d yet to know would become his favorite film through a billionaire’s sound system. Back before he’d become comfortable enough to ask Bruce to replay it, and then again, and then pulling Dick with him to the living room and begging him to stay just the night. He’d even convinced Alfred to join them, and the night had been filled with Greer Garson’s Elizabeth and the lazy snoring of the people he’d come to love.
He wants to hear it again.
Jason resigns himself to being swaddled between the two for the rest of the night. Through lazy eyes, he sighs and sinks back into Bruce’s arms. “Rewind until the ball. And everyone—pay attention this time.”
“Sir yes sir!” Steph chirps before retreating to her perch with Cass. They rearrange themselves, rewinding back to the peace of the night before Jason became their personal entertainment, chatter softer than before but just as intimate. Comfortable. Someone presses play, and the opening music fills the room. Someone is still talking over it. He finds he doesn’t mind as much as before. Funny, how that works.
His eyes flutter despite themselves, tired and content and warm. The hand that’s been carding through his hair pauses to nudge his cheek. “Go to sleep, Jaylad.”
“They haven’t danced yet.”
Bruce’s lip touches his forehead. Unfair. “We can watch it again next week.”
They can. They did, before. They could bring the whole extended batfamily here, Kate and Luke and Batcow, and introduce them to the glory that is proper adaptations. He thinks he says something in response, blurry and meek. Whatever it is, Bruce’s body rumbles with fond laughter, and the last thing he remembers before sleep claims him is Bruce saying something vaguely like home.
She'll stop tkling him for, like, ten seconds because she needs to type something, and this absolute puppy of a man will actually POUT at the loss of attention, he's such a brat(/silly)
It's okay guys she enjoys it too, it's just physically unfeasible to tell 🥹
Anyway, nonchalant ler!Stratt my beloved, also it's 3am so I'm prolly gonna- 😴😴😴😴
Do different things with each hand, one gently soothes them while the other tickles them silly.
One hand strokes their hair while the other tickles their tummy.
One hand rubs comforting circles on their shoulder or chest while the other spiders in an armpit.
One hand strokes their face while the other swirls a finger in their bellybutton.
One hand squeezes their hand as the other rakes up and down a foot.
One hand cuddles them into you while the other scribbles their hips.
You whisper gentle reassurances in their ear as you wrap both arms around them to tickle their ribs.
One part of you holds them steady while the other takes them apart. They'll just melt into you, completely surrendering to the tickles and the gentle touch that makes them feel so safe. Completely wreck them, the more gently the better 😘
when they’re tickling you and being silly about it and making silly noises and teasing you and you’re giggling from the tickles but also them being silly goofy and and and
A/N: 2Kish words. This is a romantic Timkon fic (pre-relationship). If that's not your thing I totally get it, I'd skip this one lmao. Also, this ones unedited aside from italicizing parts because I wanted to get it out while it's atleast still Tim's bday in America (I think)
Summary: Kon has no idea what he's getting himself into agreeing to help Tim practice for his dance class...
Switch!Kon / Switch!Tim (mostly lee!Kon n ler!Tim)
“I still don't get why we're doing this,” Kon groans, correcting his posture for at least the millionth time in the last minute (and no, he's not just being dramatic, Tim). Tim looks infuriatingly comfortable like this, all broad shoulders and strong legs with his head held high in confidence. Asshole.
“That's because you don't listen," Tim says, punctuating the statement with an eyeroll and a pinch to Kon’s side as he tries to slouch again. Kon's careful not to react. “I have an assignment for my ballroom class and my partner is out sick. My test is tomorrow and I need more practice for a good grade.”
“Still don't see why I have to help you,” Kon grumbles, focusing on his steps as Tim starts counting again. The thing is, Kon wouldn't usually mind helping Tim out, even with something as frustrating as rich boy ballroom dancing. Lately, however, he's been feeling… off around Tim. Like there's something burning in his cheeks and fluttering in his stomach. It's annoying, to say the least. And so, Kon has been trying to keep his distance until this sudden Tim allergy thing goes away.
Tim clearly has no such problems.
“Well, Cass offered to help but she’s more of a solo dancer. Plus, she kept getting frustrated trying to dumb down the steps,” Tim huffs out a laugh at his own words and gently squeezes Kon’s hand just once. Kon feels his cheeks begin to burn and prays Tim doesn't notice.
“Bruce offered too but I'm not being the kid who has to bring his dad to dance class,” Tim says, grimacing at the idea. The way his nose scrunches in disgust while he dips Kon like it’s second nature has Kon’s throat tightening. It really is like an allergic reaction. Oh God, Kon can't even use an EpiPen. Would Tim have a kryptonite-needled EpiPen?
“Still,” Kon protests, knowing it's half-hearted at best but feeling too off-balance to offer anything better. Tim gives him a funny look that makes him want to squirm out of his friend’s grip, but he doesn't comment beyond that.
“I'm gonna spin you in a minute,” Tim says and the hand against Kon’s hip squeezes so minutely Kon isn't sure whether or not he's imagining things. It's still enough to make his stomach swoop. “Don't step on my feet this time.”
“No promises,” Kon grins back. Or he hopes he grins—it feels a bit too weak against his flushed cheeks. He's given approximately 0.3 seconds to watch Tim’s mouth pull into a smirk before he's being spun under Tim’s arm. Kon has to duck down a little to fit and Tim raises onto his tiptoes to help, which is weirdly endearing.
“Aaand another dip,” Tim warns him before doing it this time. It does nothing to help with how light-headed Kon’s starting to feel, but it's the thought that counts, he supposes. While dipped, however, Tim decides to adjust his hold on Kon’s waist, squeezing once his hands are repositioned. Unfortunately, Kon can't quite hide his reaction.
A shocked squeak escapes him as he flinches back from Tim’s grip, falling to the floor. His cheeks flush pink and he can feel his ears burn. Great, brilliant, good. Tim’s looming over him, face lighting up in realisation and reminding Kon of a cat about to eat a mouse. Or, more fittingly, a bird about to catch a worm. Fuuuuuck.
“Ok, Rob, wait-”
“Are you ticklish, Kon-El?” Tim’s crooked grin is downright evil and Kon forgets to play it cool, hands flying to hide his face. A weight settles itself in his lap and his stomach feels all funny and swirly at the realisation that he's stuck; once Tim has an idea in his head, it's nigh impossible to prevent him from seeing it through.
“All this time acting so big and tough, when all it took to get you like this-” Kon peaks through his fingers to see Tim gesturing vaguely at all of him. Asshole. “-was one little pinch to your sides. Cute.”
Tim gives him no time to process that comment before his hands are delivering quick, sporadic pinches up and down Kon’s sides. It's like his sides are buzzing, the funny swirling feeling in his stomach seeming to spread from where Tim’s fingers are tickling him down his whole waist.
“NononononoNONOHO,” Kon squeals, trying to curl in on himself and grabbing Tim’s wrists as tight as possible without hurting Tim. It's just play after all, no matter how ridiculous and vulnerable it makes Kon feel– not to mention how red his face is and how hard his heart seems to be beating in his chest. Maybe he'll actually succumb to the Tim allergy and is currently dying. There's worse ways to go, he supposes.
“C’mon, there's no way just this tickles that bad, Kon,” Tim tuts in his disappointed leader voice, because he's stupid and terrible and Kon cannot believe he's dying because of this idiot. “What abouuttt here!”
Evil, tickly hands worm their way up, up, up until they're lodged firmly under Kon’s arms, scritching at the hollows. Kon howls, kicking his feet out since it's all he can do without hurting Tim. His arms fly to his face, forearms covering his flush and attempting to muffle his laughter.
“ROHOHOHOB,” Kon laughs, unable to do much else. Looking through his arms hits him with the sight of Tim smiling devilishly down at him, tongue stuck out in concentration as he destroys Kon’s ego. He looks ridiculous, yet Kon’s stomach seems to fill with very insistent butterflies. That's probably also an allergy thing. Maybe.
“I should do this all the time,” Tim muses, one hand digging in while the other keeps up the light scratches. Kon snorts rather unattractively, and Tim’s answering bark of laughter makes him hope the ground will swallow him whole. “See? You're much more tolerable like this, Conner. No answering back or snarking, just laughing and snorting, apparently.”
Kon goes to protest, wheezing out something like, “shuhut uhup,” when Tim’s hands move to his neck. One hand flutters lightly around the side of his neck, while the other traces round his ear. The lightness of the touch is unbearable, making Kon’s senses feel alight with ticklish little sparks. His body wants so badly to bring his shoulders up in self-protection, but Kon determinedly keeps them down, lest he crush Tim’s hands.
“Wait, wai-hehehe-t,” Kon’s a puddle of squeaky laughter at this point. If his face gets any hotter it might actually explode.
“Tickle, tickle,” Tim teases. “Look how squirmy you are! If you brought that energy to dancing we would've been finished ages ago!”
“Mehehean,” Kon giggles (giggles! This is the most embarrassing moment of Kon’s life, and no, he still isn't being dramatic). He tries to hide but only really achieves flopping his upper half from side to side desperately. Tim laughs at him again because he's the worst. Bart’s always been his best friend, anyway, Tim’s just some asshole who makes his throat close up and knees go weak. It's rude.
“Okay, I think you've suffered enough,” Tim says. Kon waits as Tim’s hands still, but they stay lingering teasingly at Kon’s neck. The ghost of the former tingles mixed with the anticipation of more is horrid and Kon considers just crushing Tim’s hands at this point. Alas, Superboy is a good guy, so he just squeals helplessly instead. Ugh.
“Tihim, qui- quihit- qui-”
“I'm trying, Kon, honest,” Tim smiles. He's clearly lying, since his hands are still on Kon’s neck, now twitching tauntingly, but the mixture of embarrassment and warm, buzzing feelings under his skin are making talking back hard. That's probably why Tim’s doing it. “You have to let go.”
What a load of crap, Kon’s hands have been stationed at either side of his face for however long, no where near Tim’s own for fear of breaking every bone in them. “I- I'm, nahaha-”
Tim chuckles, clarifying, “your TTK, clone boy. You're holding my hands here.” he pointedly flutters his fingers against Kon’s neck and ear, launching Kon into another fit of squeaky giggles and furious blushing.
It takes a while–and a few more flutters of Tim’s fingers that he swears were accidental, the liar–but Kon eventually gathers himself enough to let go of Tim’s hands, curling up on his side to hide his face (and all the ticklish spots Tim was rudely targeting) when Tim moves to sit next to him.
“You're very sweet like this,” Tim says, rubbing Kon’s back comfortingly. Kon doesn't even fight the heat in his ears at this point, just focuses on repressing the shivers at the accidental light tickles. A few muffled huffs off laughter slip through, but Tim doesn't seem to notice, thank frick.
“Shut up,” Kon mumbles after a while, once the leftover tickley feelings have subsided. Jeez, Tim could be brutal. Still, Kon was pretty sure most people didn't feel as light and cared for as him after being tickled silly, but it was hard to care right now.
“Careful, Conner, I can go for a round two,” Tim scribbles at his shoulder blade, startling a choked laugh out of him. “Can you?”
You know what? He's had enough of Tim’s big head, he's Superboy dammit, he can take revenge easily.
Kon focuses his TTK, reaching across the floor and up until he can feel Tim’s ribs in his head, almost like the memory of feeling something. He reaches out with the power, imagining scribbling fingers against Tim’s skin. Sure enough, he hears shocked cackles burst from Tim behind him.
He also hears Tim slamming various limbs against the floor, but he's too content to move to look. Imagining his friend smiling and wiggling in such a silly, carefree way is enough to make Kon smile mushily, throat feeling a little dry again.
“KOHOHOHON,” Tim cries out, banging against the dance floor.
“Yeah? What's up, Rob?” Plausible deniability, that's what Tim’s always telling him he needs to practice at. What a perfect time to practice!
“STOHOHAHAHAHP,” Tim laughs. Kon imagines he's turning red and can't help how his smile turns into a satisfied grin. Justice. “TIHIHIHICKLES.”
“I'm not– doing that,” Kon says, cursing himself for the stumble. He focuses his TTK on pinching at Tim’s highest ribs to distract him. Tim’s laughter goes up about thirty decibels.
Kon sits up then, moving to look down at Tim. The sight before him has him losing focus. Tim’s layed flat on the ground, arms and legs spasming between swinging around aimlessly and curling around his ribs in a desperate attempt to protect himself. As Kon’s TTK falls away in his distraction, Tim’s insane cackles calm into laughter, highlighting the pretty red of his cheeks.
Oh, Kon realises with a start, Tim is so pretty. When did that happen? Is that what all those weird feelings have been?
“Truce,” Tim gasps out, smiling charmingly at Kon, all earnest and flustered and handsome and–
Before he knows what he's doing, Kon’s lips are on Tim’s, arms bracketing his head. The kiss is more of a shy peck than anything, as Kon immediately backs up when he realizes what he's doing, red hot embarrassment rushing through his veins. Shoot, shoot, shoot.
He doesn't have long to freak out, luckily, as it’s not long before Tim’s sitting up, shooting a lazy smile at him. “Why'd you stop?” He asks. Between one second and the next, they're kissing again–properly this time. Kon’s not sure who moved first, but he does know that the Tim allergy symptoms reach a peak, heart pounding while he flushes and his throat tightens. It's a terrifying high that Kon wants to chase forever.
“The dancing-” Kon gasps out when Tim stops to breathe.
“Later,” Tim dismisses, waving a hand in the air like the endearing nerd he is. “There's more important things to attend to right now.”
And, well, who's Kon to argue when Tim’s kissing him again, stealing the words from both his mouth and his brain. Yeah, Kon never really cared about the dancing to begin with, this seemed like a much better use of their time.
