Hello :D

Clark knew he wanted to be a dad one day. He had since he was young, imagining himself on the farm with ma, pa, his partner and their child.

Then Clark found Kon.

Or, more accurately, he found Subject 13: a toddler in a tube filled with some kind of ominous, glowing green liquid. The curl on his forehead was a funny reflection of Clark’s own, tighter and more of a three than Clark’s S shaped curl, but startlingly similar. His heart had lurched at the sight of him in there, this small boy, contained in a sterile laboratory. He had been alone in the room before Clark arrived.

It was then that Clark had found the paperwork detailing the child’s parentage, as well as the tests they were subjecting him to and how they were sustaining him. The documents had said he was being maintained at the physical and mental age of three, though the date of his fetal stage beginning was marked as just two months prior.

Clark had taken the boy and flown on instinct, appearing at the Batcave with a toddler and his documents, desperate for help. Bruce had, of course, helped.

That had been a full year ago by now, marking today as Kon’s birthday (or hatch day, as Dick had put it). A whole twelve months later and Clark still felt woefully out of his element. Kon was getting on well in nursery and seemed to enjoy living with Clark very much, which Clark was very grateful for, but still he couldn't help but fret constantly.

Bruce had done tests on Kon once he'd been briefed on the situation, and he was able to help Clark learn a lot about the child, including checking his parentage. Part of Clark was terrified that at the slightest error he could risk turning Kon into the next Lex Luthor, though looking at his son’s bright smile and deep dimples did help to quell that fear, however temporarily. The rest of Clark worried about how Kon would continue to develop outside of the lab; whether he'd continue to grow at an accelerated rate, and how much of Clark’s own Kryptonian genetics Kon had inherited and when they'd begin to appear.

He was incredibly fortunate that Ma kept journals for every year of his childhood, where she had tracked his development as well as making note of any of the more alien traits she noticed Clark displayed and when. He found the entry of his powers first appearing recorded at twelve years old, when he'd begun to float inexplicably. Clark remembered the day well, remembered how terrified and confused he was. However, he also remembered how Ma had clung to him, assuring him it would be okay and that she wouldn't leave him, despite how scared she herself must have been. More than anything, Clark fears he'll never be as good a parent to Kon as his folks were, and still are, to him.

It helped to try and focus on what he's sure of and what he can control. That's why he'd decided to fly Kon to the farm to celebrate his birthday with Ma, Pa, Kara and Krypto. He figured that even if Kon didn't remember this day, it was important to remind him of how loved he was now, and how he would never be stuck in that awful, lonely lab again so long as Clark was alive.

“Ready to see grandma and grandpa, kiddo?” Clark asked the boy, smiling down at his chubby little face. Kon grinned back, nodding happily. Talking was still rough–Kon would swing between being hyperverbal and not making a sound on a dime, but Clark couldn't exactly blame him. He still had no real idea of how much of his earlier life Kon had been awake for, no idea how much he remembers.

“Perfect, because look where we are, Conner,” Clark said, trying to ignore those thoughts, however temporarily. He touched down on the farm, placing Kon on the floor when he started squirming and kicking his legs. Clark chuckled; the kid definitely didn't need words to get what he wanted.

Grabbing his son’s hand, Clark walked them to the porch. When Kon reached up at the door, Clark chuckled, lifting him so he could better reach. “Go ahead, Kon, knock nice and loud so grandpa hears.” It was Pa who would answer the door, Clark knew, since Ma was always busy cooking at this time of day.

The door opened and Kon’s little face lit up in delight. He reached his chubby arms out towards Pa, opening and closing his hands in a grabby motion. “Hi, Pa,” Clark greeted, while Pa took Kon from his arms.

“Hiya, son, come on in now. You know Ma’ll scold you for not letting yourselves in,” Pa said. Clark would've replied, but Pa turned his attention back to Kon before he could. “And hello to you too, little one. I heard it's your birthday today, how old are ya now, Conner?”

Kon blinks a few times, then slowly brings his hand up to Pa’s face to show him four fingers. Pa lit up.

“I'll just go say hi to Ma,” Clark said, but Pa was already walking Kon to the living room, telling Kon about how the chickens have been since their last visit. Though the larger animals did still scare Kon a bit, he adored the chickens, even naming one of the newest chicks. He’d called her puddle, for some reason, but he'd looked so proud of himself at that moment that Clark had melted.

“Need any help, ma?” Clark asks in lieu of a ‘hello’.

“That's alright thankyou, Clark, I'm just finishing up Conner’s cake. Has your Pa snatched ‘im up yet?” Clark joined her at the kitchen counter, and sure enough she was decorating a cake. She'd covered it in red frosting (Kon’s favourite colour lately) and was in the midst of adding strawberries, a small pile of multicoloured candles sitting off to the side.

Clark took a strawberry and popped it in his mouth just to see Ma’s exasperated eyeroll. “Yeah, he was telling Kon about the chickens.”

“Ah, good. Puddle’s missed him, I'm sure," Ma said, smiling softly to herself. It warmed Clark’s heart to see how much his parents loved their grandchild. He knew they did, of course, and he never once doubted that they would; the couple who took in an alien baby to raise as their own weren't going to turn away Kon. It was just different to experience that love with them, to feel such devotion to his son and turn to see that same feeling mirrored on his parents’ faces.

Clark hummed in agreement with Ma, then asked, “so, when's Kara set to get here?” He leant against the counter, watched as Ma binned the now empty strawberry basket, before moving on to the candles. There were four, one for each year Kon classed as, though this was technically only his first birthday. At least he's surrounded by family now.

“Just after lunch,” Ma said, the final candle set carefully in place. Before she had a chance to ask, Clark swept the cake up and placed it gently in the fridge, wary of ruining Ma’s hard work. “Thank you, dear.” The way her crow’s feet crinkled with her smile, a physical manifestation of a life spent smiling, never failed to tug at Clark’s heart. The love for his Ma and Pa was second only to his love for Kon.

“Of course, Ma. I'm glad Kara can make it back to Earth for today; Kon will be happy to see her and Krypro again,” they left the kitchen for the living room in search of Pa and Kon, and Clark smiled as he listened out for them, being greeted with Kon’s squeaky, sunny giggles.

Upon entering the living room, Clark found Pa sitting in his armchair watching some kind of game show. In his lap was Kon, wiggling and laughing himself silly. Clark wasn't sure why at first, until Pa winked at him and nodded down at his hands, which were wriggling at Kon’s stomach. “Ah, Clark, tell your son I'm tryna watch the telly.”

Ma rolled her eyes, though she was smiling, and took a seat on the sofa. Clark decided to kneel in front of Pa and Kon. “Hey, kiddo, what's got you so giggly, huh?” He asked, despite knowing the answer. Kon squeaked at him, wriggling happily in Pa’s lap with his face covered. That wouldn't do.

Clark gently pried Kon’s hands away from his face, revealing flushed cheeks and a big smile that highlighted his one missing tooth. “Peekaboo,” Clark teased and Kon’s nose scrunched up like a rabbit’s as he reacted with a snort. The sight had Clark momentarily forgetting his own invulnerability, convinced he was having a heart attack. But no, it was of course just his heart leaping with joy at his cute little boy.

“Your boy’s a worm,” Pa teased, eyes still on the TV. Kon whined between giggles which rose in pitch when Pa moved one hand to tickle behind his ear. Kon lifted a shoulder up on instinct, but didn't fight against it aside from that, happy to just laugh his little head off in his grandpa’s hold.

“Maybe he's dancing,” Clark suggested, letting one of Kon’s hands go to swipe his hair out of his face. Kon took the opportunity to clutch onto Clark’s top for support.

“Quit teasin’,” Ma scolded, channel surfing until humming in satisfaction at Bluey. Pa stilled his fingers in response, rubbing tender circles over Kon’s stomach. Clark smiled and stood, joining Ma on the sofa. He watched as Kon noticed what was on the TV and clapped a few times, excited to watch his favourite show. Clark settled into the pillows beneath him, content surrounded by family.

------------------------------------------------------------

After a lunch of Kon’s favourite foods (fried egg, veggie sausages and strawberries) Kara arrived, the sound of Krypto’s nails against the front door alerting everyone that they were here.

Kon instantly perked up at the noise, wiggling out of Ma’s lap to run for the door. Just as he got to it, Kara pushed it open, and Kon was knocked to the floor by an over-excited Krypto.

“Krypto! Be gentle!” Kara scolded, but Kon then fell into delighted laughter, and she sighed with relief.

“Puppy," Kon squeeled gleefully, the worst word he'd said all day. Usually, his first word of the day was the key needed to open the flood gates, and Kon would spend the rest of the day chattering away. Clark always breathed a little easier once that first word was said, settled by the sweet sound of his son’s voice.

The door closed behind Kara with a creak. “Okay, that's enough now, Krypto, let the birthday boy breathe,” Kara said as Krypto started licking Kon’s face. Kon, for his part, sat up at the loss of the dog’s weight. Clark watched as his eyes quickly locked onto the present in Kara’s hands.

“Auntie. Up,” Kon demanded, deploying his grabby hands at Kara. The woman grinned, setting the present down on the side table and picking Kon up. She joined the rest of them in the room, Kon hiked up on her hip for the short journey.

“Now, a little birdie told me it's your birthday today,” Kara grinned, adjusting her grip on Kon to hold him out in front of herself. Clark felt himself smile at the sight of them.

“Yeah!” Kon agreed, nodding his head rapidly. “I'm four! Grandma and grandpa and papa and me watched Bluey!” Kon’s legs swung harmlessly as he spoke, while his hands gesticulated enthusiastically. While they talked, Clark noticed Ma leaving the room, likely to get Kon’s cake; she could never wait until the end of the day, even back when Clark was a kid.

“Well that works out great then, because Krypto’s favourite show is Bluey,” Kara said, sitting on the sofa with Kon sat facing her in her lap.

“Really?” Kon’s eyes were wide as saucepans as he fidgeted with excitement. Clark and Pa chuckled as Kara nodded at him, unpausing the show and turning Kon to face the TV. She wrapped her arms around his tiny waist, pulling him close so his back was against her front. She seemed comforted by having him there, her frame relaxing around him, and Clark hoped nothing bad had happened while she was off-planet.

“Where’s he?” Kon asked, looking around for Krypto. “Puppy!” he called and Krypto quickly came running, just as wrapped around Kon’s little fingers as the rest of them, if not more so.

When Clark had first introduced the two he'd been nervous, especially since Kon was yet to display any signs of invulnerability. He'd been pleasantly surprised, then, when Krypto had sniffed cautiously at Kon’s face before licking at Kon’s cheek. It was the first time Clark had heard Kon laugh and the memory still made Clark melt now.

Krypto settled next to Kara and Kon on the sofa, resting his head on the kid’s knee, just as the lights went out. Kon’s eyes quickly darted to Clark in panic, but he was easily comforted by Clark giving him a reassuring smile; Clark resolutely did not think about how often Kon may have been semi-conscious in the dark before, nobody there to comfort him.

A warm glow entered from the kitchen, Ma’s face illuminated by the four small flames. The room, sans Kon and Krypto, began to sing happy birthday.

Clark watched as Kon looked around in confusion, clearly feeling a little left out. The insecure frown on his son’s little face in reaction to not knowing what was happening made Clark stutter, about to reach out and hold him-

When a surprised gasp left Kon, so quiet he doubted the humans of the family heard it over the singing. The boy’s eyes were on the cake being slowly carried to him, pupils dilated with wonder. Clark focused on the excited quickening of his heart.

“Make a wish and blow out the candles, sweetheart,” Ma encouraged at the end of the song, kneeling so that Kon was eye level with his cake. His eyes darted from the cake, to Ma, back to the cake again, almost in disbelief at what was happening. Clark’s heart ached to hug his son.

“I don't have a wish,” Kon murmured, looking down in shame. Tears were building at the corners of his eyes, but Clark wasn't sure if they were happy tears or sad ones. Maybe Kon didn't know, either.

Ma adjusted her grip on the cake to be one-handed (likely knowing that Clark or Kara would catch it if she dropped it) and cradled Kon’s face in her free hand, comfortingly swiping the tears from Kon’s cheeks with her thumb. Clark remembers her doing that for him, when he was little and in need of comfort. “That's alright, hun. Why don't you blow out your candles and I'll think of a wish for you?”

Kon nodded, taking in a big huff of air and blowing his four candles out in one fell swoop. Pa and Kara cheered, seemingly snapping Kon out of whatever moment he was having. Clark smiled again when they met eyes, and Kon smiled back, a little wobbly and wet, but genuine.

“Want to know your wish?” Ma asked, chuckling at Kon’s giddy nods. “Ok but you can't tell anyone, if you do it won't come true.”

“But you're telling me? It still come true then?”

“It's your wish, Sweet Pea, it's not mine to keep from you." Ma leaned down to whisper something in Kon’s ear and the boy seemed to double in size at her words, head held high and cheeks pleasantly flushed in that proud little way of his. Clark’s own eyes felt suspiciously wet.

“Right then,” Ma started, standing back up with an arm from Pa. “Let's get some cake cut.” Her and Pa left for the kitchen, a hyper, hungry Krypto trailing after them, leaving just Kara and Kon in the room. Pa switched the light back on on his way.

Clark moved to sit on the floor by Kara’s feet, resting his head carefully against Kon’s little knee. Kara pressed play on the TV.

“So, what wish did Ma give you?” Kara asked, smirking in challenge at the boy perched on her knees. Kon pouted.

“Can't tell!” Kon huffed, crossing his arms and turning his head away from Kara, a pout on his face.

“Not even your favourite auntie?” Kara teased, letting go of Kon with one hand to wiggle her fingers against the ear closest to her. Kon squeeled, giggling happily in her hold.

“Nohoooo,” he whined through his squeaks, wiggling to let out some extra energy, but doing nothing to fight back aside from that. His shoulder turtled up to Kara’s hand, but never made it quite high enough to trap her there.

“How about your dad, huh? Can you tell me your wish, kiddo?” Clark joined in with the teasing, grinning back at Kara’s knowing smirk. Kon squeaked again, giggles rising in pitch when one of Clark’s hands snuck under Kon’s T-shirt to wiggle lightly over his tummy.

“Cahahan’t Gran- gramaha saideeeheehee,” Kon got out between his happy, carefree titters. He curled up against Kara, pulling his legs up to trap Clark’s hand at his tummy, while rubbing the back of his head against Kara’s chest like a cat seeking attention. Kara cuddled him closer while she and Clark chuckled in amusement.

Clark’s hand suddenly jumped to Kon’s knee, skittering over the bone there quickly to make his son gasp. He repeated the action over and over and watched as Kon started shaking his head again, his tiny frame shaking with laughter.

Kara’s tickling hand moved from Kon’s ear to replace where Clark’s had been on his tummy. She leant in to blow a raspberry into the crook of Kon’s neck and the kid shrieked in surprise.

“HEY! Nuh- noho mohore-eehee. Meeheehean," Kon demanded and Kara smiled, rubbing at his shoulders instead of continuing.

Clark, however, just switched tactics, settling his fingers on Kon’s knee in a pinching motion, then miming cracking an egg there. Kon threw his head with shrill laughter, arms hugging around himself.

“Aww, how's it mean, bud?” Clark teased, giving into his sappiest paternal urges and eskimo kissing his sweet boy. “Is it because it tickle tickle tickles?” Kon squealed again, smacking his hands against Clark’s cheeks and holding his face there. Clark could hardly breathe through the swell of affection he felt.

“I think you're right, Clark,” Kara agreed, watching them with a fond look on her face. Clark flushed a little under her scrutiny, though it was nothing compared to the ruddy flush of Kon’s cheeks. “Poor Conner is far too ticklish, isn't that right, Kon?”

“NEEHEEHAHA NO!” Kon laughed, squirming around in embarrassment, while still leaning further into Kara and tugging Clark’s face closer. His adorable son. “WOHON’T TEHEHELL!”

Clark was about to reply when he felt Kon start to move steadily higher. His hands froze in shock. He watched as his son kept giggling and squirming, apparently unaware of the fact he was floating. Oh fudge!

“Ma, quick, get the camera!” Clark called, unable to take his eyes off of Kon. He assumed Kara was in a similar state based on her silence.

“I'm cuttin' the cake, hun!”

“Kon’s floating!” Kara exclaimed and Kon’s eyes shot to her in shock before looking down at himself. He was no longer laughing.

Clark barely registered the clatter and low curse coming from the kitchen, his focus entirely on his son.

He hadn't been sure if Kon would ever develop any kinds of powers, let alone so much earlier than Clark had. It made Clark’s stomach churn with a confused jumble of feelings he was unaware he had on the subject until confronted with the reality of it. Kon, his Kon, was floating.

He was snapped out of the trance by a small, watery voice saying, “Papa?”

Clark focused on Kon’s fearful eyes and stood up to be closer to Kon. The fact that that movement had them meet at eye level sent another confused rush of some unnamed something through Clark’s core.

“It's okay, kiddo, you're safe. You're like Papa, see?” Clark floated lightly off the floor and squeezed one of Kon’s tiny hands in his own to comfort him. Kon nodded, letting himself smile a little now that his dad was there to keep him safe. Clark revelled in the fact that his mere presence had that effect on Kon.

A flash went off and Clark turned to see Ma, Pa and Kara stood watching, a camera held in Pa’s hands. Clark felt himself shy away from their attention a little, while his prideful little son preened with a happy chirp.

Clark chuckled and hugged Kon to him, squeezing him tight and stopping him from floating up any higher. “We'll figure this out, kiddo, don't you worry. Papa promises," Clark hummed to Kon.

Kon reached up to cup Clark's ear. “My wish came true,” he whispered. “I'm just like you, Papa.” Clark was hit with a wave of shock, looking to Ma for answers just to see her smiling softly at them. What?

“Let's get some cake, yeah?” Pa suggested, already making his way back to the kitchen.

“Super-birthday boy gets the first piece!” Kara cheered in agreement, grabbing Kon from a frozen Clark’s arms. Kon squealed happily.

The room was quiet for a minute before Clark asked, “you wished for him to be like me?” His voice felt foreign in his own mouth, tone caught between awed and horrified.

“Oh, Clark,” Ma tutted, pulling him into a firm hug, just how he'd always liked (tight enough to feel, soft enough to comfort). “Of course. I wished for him to be as kind and strong and loving as you.”

“Why?” Clark questioned, unable to keep the insecurity from his voice.

“And I’m trying to save you from picking up the same habits.” Bruce switched from vibrating taser pokes to using his thumbs to rub little circles right under Dick’s ribs while the rest of his fingers scrabbled over his stomach and sides. 

Dick tried to fold himself in half, to no avail, and he flailed out to grab Bruce’s wrists but he couldn’t make his hands obey his brain. Too many ticklish signals, they just got in the way. “B, no!” 

“Besides,” Bruce continued, as if Dick wasn’t two more seconds away from melting into a heap of blue and black kevlar on the floor, “Your brothers wanted to know if you were still ticklish.” 

Of course the gremlins were plotting against him. 

“They’re not even here!” Dick wheezed. Okay, not his best repartee, but he was a little distracted at the moment. 

“Right.” Suddenly Bruce’s fingers were sliding up under Dick’s tanktop, his blunt nails scrabbling lines and swirls beneath Dick’s lowest ribs. “They also want to know how to get you all…I think Tim said blushy and squirmy. Naturally, this kind of research question calls for hands-on experimentation.” 

By now, Dick had fully succumbed to the high-pitched, screechy giggles that lighter tickles – or at least, lighter tickles from Bruce – always drew out of him. He slumped against the computer chair, reflexively hugging his arms to his chest, giggling like a much younger version of himself. It was embarrassing as hell. He was a grown adult, he shouldn’t just – just fold like this, but…

But it was fun. 

Boy, did thinking about that make Dick want to scrunch his shoulders up to his ears and take up a new life as a box turtle.  

And anyways, it’s not like he could really go anywhere at the moment, stuck between the chair, Bruce, and the edge of the computer desk. 

“It’s good to hear you laugh,” Bruce said, his voice rumbling against Dick’s ear. Dick cringed helplessly away from the ticklish vibrations of his dad’s voice and tried not to hide at the sheer fondness there. 

“If I–” Dick gasped in a breath “If I break the computer it’s your fault!”  He dissolved back into hiccuping laughter when Bruce responded by squeezing at one of Dick’s knees with firm, sporadic pulses, all the while keeping his other hand wheedling those featherlight patterns on one side of Dick’s ribs. The contrasting methods of attack sent Dick lurching forwards again, silently gasping out breathless laughter. 

Bruce grunted, thoughtful. The tickling paused for a couple seconds and Dick was too busy trying to catch his breath to pay attention to what Bruce did until he found himself scooped up, cradled like a little kid again. 

He yelped. “Hey!” 

“You made a good point,” Bruce said in reply. “Putting a knee through the monitor would be unideal, don’t you think?” 

Dick wriggled around for a second, testing Bruce’s hold on him. With enough effort, he could probably break free, but it was late, and he was pretty tired after patrol, and…and look, getting snatched up and tickled silly wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world. And anyways, he hadn’t gotten that much facetime with Bruce lately.

But he was still Nightwing, and no self-respecting vigilante went down without a fight, no matter how performative. 

“Or you could just not,” he grouched, pulling his knees up like he was going to backflip out of Bruce’s arms. Before he even tucked his chin, Bruce was already heaving him up over his shoulder and starting towards the elevator with an amused huff. 

“Come on!” Dick shouted. He hid his burgeoning grin against his dad’s back. 

Butterflies fluttered around in his stomach as Bruce stayed silent for the entire elevator ride up, silent during the walk through his study, silent until he entered his own bedroom and tossed Dick down across the mattress. The quiet made the anticipation worse, coiling up next to the butterflies and sending preemptive shivers through Dick’s limbs as he tried to squirm out of reach. 

“I’m – I’m twenty!” Dick tried. His fingers drummed against the quilt on Bruce’s bed, seeking out seams to trace without looking. He wasn’t used to being on this side of the equation these days, and for some reason that made him almost giddy in the same way that games of hide-and-seek or tag did when he was younger. Oh, actually, that made sense, because those were playing, and this was – 

Oh god, this was also playing. Bruce was winding him up on purpose, he knew full well that he was making Dick all squirmy and restless and – and Dick really didn’t know how to handle that right now, but he had a sudden rush of empathy for Tim’s ever-present response of burrowing into the nearest surface available. 

Meanwhile, Bruce methodically toed off his shoes one at a time, then unbuttoned his cuffs to slowly roll up his sleeves. As he finished, he glanced up at Dick and flashed him a smile – a real smile, with enough affection to soften the lines of his face. 

Dick felt his entire face heat up as he tried to scowl. “Are you gonna let me get back to my work, or…?” 

Bruce laughed, then, and came over to sit next to him. He swept his gaze over Dick’s form, bedraggled outfit and all, then tsked once. “No suits upstairs.” 

“You hauled me –” Dick protested, then shut up real quick when Bruce reached over to tug the rest of the Nightwing suit off from where it had pooled around Dick’s ankles. 

“I did. But clearly, if you’re itching to get back downstairs, that wasn’t enough of a deterrent.” 

Dick recognized that tone and fought the instinctive urge to wrap his arms around himself again. “Bruce.” 

“Dickie.” 

They stared at each other, neither breaking eye contact for several long seconds. 

Bruce broke the tension first and lunged. Dick shouted in startled delight, already laughing as his dad pinned him to the bed and squeezed at his knees. 

That – that shouldn’t tickle as much as it did, it was unfair, but Dick pounded his fists into the quilt as he laughed, cackles that even he thought sounded more happy than panicked. There wasn’t much time to dwell on that, though, because Bruce abruptly switched up tactics. Instead of squeezing, he sent one hand down to scrabble behind Dick’s right knee, and used his other hand to latch on to the muscles right above the kneecap on the same side, vibrating his thumb and index finger into the wildly ticklish points there. All that evil tickle monster energy concentrated on one side, on one of his legs, made Dick screech like he was being murdered. He wasn’t even sure if he was laughing anymore, but he flailed out with his three free limbs. 

“B!” he cried. “It’s too–it’s too bahahad!”  

“Hmm,” Bruce rumbled. “Would switching help?” 

“No!” 

The instant Dick felt his right knee being free, he flipped onto his stomach and tried to army-crawl further up the bed, only for an iron hand to grab him by the calf and drag him backwards. Oh no. Oh, no, no, no! Rolling over was a tactical error. 

“Thanks for the suggestion,” Bruce said, and Dick could just hear the smirk in his voice. He shifted, sitting so he was pinning Dick down by his ankles, which gave him two hands to squeeze, scrabble, and pinch at Dick’s calves. “You did always have the best laughter, honey.” 

Dick rocked back and forth but he was stuck, it was hard enough to move his arms without having much leverage, let alone get his legs free. Between being stuck and Bruce’s genuine, horrifying teasing, Dick wanted to melt into the blankets forever and ever. 

“I do nahahat!” he shouted through the embarrassingly high-pitched laughter that was bubbling up from his lungs. “Behehe, plehehase! Not that not thahat!” 

“Not what, chum?” Bruce asked, his voice a low murmur. He scribbled across Dick’s calves, then drummed his fingers against the delicate area behind Dick’s knees. “Is here better?” 

Dick screeched, and it was his last coherent action as Bruce started scribbling his nails right there in slow, swirling patterns. All the zings of ticklish energy had nowhere to go because he was stuck, immobile from the waist down. He punched at the mattress, wound his hands into the blankets, but that was it. His eyes stung from the force of his laughter. 

“Dad,” he wheezed. “Dad, it’s–” Another rush of laughter drowned out any other words he could’ve said.

“It’s what?” Bruce asked, amused. “It’s ticklish?” 

“Y-y-yeah!” 

“Are you sure?” 

“I ahahaham!” 

“And you’re sure you’ve always been this ticklish?” 

“It’s–” Dick let out a screechy cackle when Bruce darted his hands up a couple inches to squeeze at the backs of his thighs. “It’s wohohorse when ‘s’you!”

“Hnh.” 

The dreadful tickles stopped and Dick sucked in a breath, barely aware of feeling Bruce get up and release his legs. After a couple breaths, Dick tried to pull his thoughts back together. He shoved down the faint disappointment that tried to sneak in. There was work to be done, and surely Bruce only had so much time to waste.

A large, warm hand rested between his shoulders. 

“Breathe, Dickie,” said Bruce with unmistakable fondness. 

“You’re – you’re evil,” Dick muttered, but he leaned into the touch. Might as well appreciate it while he could. Plus, his crashing dopamine and endorphin high was quickly turning into sleepiness. 

“Yes,” Bruce agreed. The mattress dipped as he sat down closer to the piles of pillows at the headboard, and suddenly two hands hooked under Dick’s arms and hauled him upwards. He let out a small, startled sound, and immediately felt his face redden. His dad’s arms tightened around him in the kind of hug that always felt like being wrapped up in Batman's cape during a cold winter night. 

Screw it. The last couple weeks were full of demoralizing case setbacks and long hours, and perhaps Bruce was – was right (ew), and Dick was a little run down. Maybe. All in all, he could indulge his more clingy instincts for a few minutes. 

He shifted around, not to break Bruce’s hold, but because doing so meant that the counter pressure from his own limbs maximized the feeling of held, safe, love. 

“Hm…” Bruce said at last. “I think you’ve still got the squirmy part down, but I’m not sure about the blushy.” 

Well, now Dick was wide awake again and that definitely wasn’t hope sparking in his chest. “What the hell are you on about?” 

“Tim’s request.” 

As if that explained anything. 

Wait. 

Dick’s mind raced furiously back through the last thirty or so minutes, and fuck. “Hey, you don’t have to – you accomplished your goal, I’m not working, I’ll go to bed–” 

“And it’s good to make sure you’re tired enough to really get some rest,” said Bruce, like the absolute bastard that he was. “Plus, I’m still collecting data for your brother.” 

“Nohoho,” Dick whined, a few giggles invading the word as Bruce slid his hands up to Dick’s ribs. “B!” 

“C’mon, Dickie,” Bruce murmured, and all the laughing earlier must’ve given Dick a headrush or something because it sounded like his dad was cooing, which couldn't be….Bruce wouldn’t. Not with Dick. Not with his oldest kid who'd long since grown out of being cute or sweet or anything like that.

Apparently, though, Bruce would. “Tickle tickle tickle.” 

The familiar cadence sent Dick’s skin crawling with anticipation and he buried his face in Bruce’s chest to hide his giddy smile. He snorted out a startled laugh when Bruce started clawing at the soft spot just under his lowest ribs with soft scritching motions. 

“Hey,” Dick protested. He tried to twist his hips to the side but Bruce just dug in a little harder, and the ensuing jolt made Dick’s limbs feel like jelly. 

“Careful,” Bruce chided. “You wouldn’t want to get away.” 

Those stupid, wheedling fingers kept Dick in fits of wheezing laughter, even as he shook his head and snuggled closer because he couldn’t let his dad see how much he was blushing, that would just get him more teasing. 

Bruce walked the fingers of his left hand around towards Dick’s stomach, and Dick flinched. That wasn’t one of his worse spots, but somehow Bruce made everything tickle more by sheer force of existing. “I think you’ve been overdue for some tickles for a while.”  

…And by saying things like that, which had Dick groaning and dragging his hands up to clamp over his ears. 

Bruce’s whole chest rumbled as he chuckled. “Whoa there, Robin, don’t disappear on me.” 

Something warm and sparkly exploded near Dick’s heart that was similar to how he felt when Tim or Jason did something particularly cute, or sweet, or thoughtful. That was an old line from back when Dick was much, much smaller, and had a much more marked tendency to excitedly skitter on ahead of Batman during patrol. There were a few times Bruce had joked about getting one of those backpack leashes for under Robin’s cape. Thankfully, though, he’d usually just yanked Dick back by the scruff of his uniform. Sometimes, if it was a slow night, Dick would run ahead on purpose, chasing the favorable odds of being swept up into Batman’s cape for tickles. 

Dick shook his head and tried to clamp his arms down to his sides when Bruce started poking and squeezing his ribs. By now his laughter was starting to sound hiccupy, and he fruitlessly shoved at Bruce’s shoulder. 

“What’s that?” Bruce murmured. “Are you back? Are you looking for more tickles?” 

“Bruce!” Dick wheezed. God, his dad’s teasing was the worst. 

Another rumbling hum, this time with an unmistakable tinge of amusement. “I’m going to assume that’s a ‘yes’.” 

Then, before Dick had the chance to try and pull some thoughts together, Bruce nuzzled into the crook of his neck and shoulder to start a barrage of raspberries and nibbles. The stubble on his face scraped along every single ticklish inch of skin there. 

Dick lost it. He squeaked, sounding more like Tim than himself, and tumbled into uncontrollable snickers and cackles. He crumpled forward, hunching his shoulders up to no avail as shivers raced down his spine. Each ticklish nudge from Bruce’s scruff scattered any coherent thoughts far and wide. 

What made it worse was that the whole time, Bruce hadn’t stopped tickling at Dick’s ribs and sides. He paired nibbling little pinches with flurries of raspberries, coordinating his attack to keep Dick in fits of giggly screeches even though he’d given up on trying to escape. All Dick could do was accept his fate and let himself slump further into the half-hug, half-trap, as Bruce tickled him silly. 

Just when Dick had started to get used to his current state of laughing and wriggling and not going anywhere, Bruce’s hands shot up under his arms. Even if Dick had wanted to jolt upwards and lurch away, his arms and legs had the structural integrity of overcooked linguine. He was soundly trapped and – and fuck, shit, Bruce hadn’t let up on the raspberries either and Dick’s stomach muscles twisted from how hard he laughed. 

“Be–BeeheeEEHK, it - it - ‘s th’worst!” he finally stuttered out. Talking was hard, what with the gales of screechy snickers that kept bubbling up out of his lungs. Getting that much out felt like a victory.

“Yes?” Bruce said, muffled, then he returned to making those stupid om-nom-nom noises like he was having a damn snack or something. It shouldn’t have sent Dick up the wall, but at this point he was already so wound up that doing anything other than laughing helplessly was basically impossible. 

“Dad!” Dick yelped. He slammed his forehead against Bruce’s shoulder. He knew he sounded ridiculous from all the giggles and snorts and snickers that he couldn’t hold back but he couldn't help it. “Da-Dahahad! Plehease, Dadda!”  

He blushed down to his neck when Bruce made a noise that was all fondness and love and pulled back. The sudden rush of cold air against his neck made Dick shudder and instinctively lean after him, but then he felt Bruce drop a kiss on top of his hair, and the restless urge settled. 

“Dadda?” Bruce murmured. “I haven't heard that in….what, twelve years?” 

Talking around the residual laughter seemed like too much effort, so instead Dick twisted to hide his flaming face against Bruce’s arm. He just knew Bruce had that melty look on his face that always made Dick feel shy no matter how old he got. 

“Don’t tease me about it,” he mumbled. 

In response, Bruce squeezed him in another warm, tight hug. “I would never, Dickie.” 

Dick hummed, too tired for words.

“Rest all you want, honey,” Bruce said, rubbing one of his warm hands up and down Dick’s arm. “You’ve been working too hard, lately.” 

Dick knew that Bruce wasn’t even trying, but he was so over-sensitized to any possible tickles that he shuddered through a quiet laugh. “You–you’re still tihihickling me!” 

At Bruce’s questioning grunt, Dick finally dragged his face upwards to squint at him. The sheer sappy affection in his dad’s smile made him regret that decision almost immediately, but he powered through long enough to see the hint of a smirk playing around Bruce’s mouth.

“Am I?” Bruce asked. He lightly pinched Dick’s bicep, which was cheating because it’s not like Dick asked to be giggle-ticklish there, but now he was giggling again and trying to worm back into his hiding spot. 

“Yehehes!” 

“I’ll be sure to inform your brothers of this,” Bruce said. “They’ll be delighted to know that their older brother is still very, very ticklish. And squirmy. And blushy.” Bruce pressed another kiss to his hair. "And despite all that, you're still my baby."

speedpaint (featuring conveniently placed pngs)(i hate drawing feet pls)

“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.”

Bart liked hugs. Talking to him, you’d think he liked just about everything, but he especially liked hugs. In theory, his friends didn’t mind. After running some trials, he’d found that some definitely minded less than others.

Kon undeniably was just the best, it wasn’t even close. He was all big and warm, it didn’t matter how fast Bart ran at him because of his Kryptonian durability, and he didn’t get uncomfortable when Bart didn’t wanna let go. Kon would let him hang on as long as he wanted, the speedster was very pleasantly surprised at this patience he was shown.

With this having fully registered in Bart’s mind, they’d fallen into a rhythm as of late. Admittedly, this was the first time he’d run across the country and scoured the rural outskirts of Metropolis to find his hug buddy. He was dying of boredom.

It was autumn, dreary and nearing the end of the season. Kon was the only sign of life in the gray, derelict cornfield where he was sparring with nobody, probably talking to himself. He hit the ground fast when Bart barreled into him from behind at, like, mach bazillion.

“Owh— oh god, fuhuhuck…“ He rasped, rolling over onto his back and holding his stomach like it would knock the wind back into him. The first thing he saw was Bart beaming down at him.

“An angel?” Kon gasped dumbly.

Bart laughed and threw himself down across his teammate. They made a wonky plus sign. It seemed innocent enough, but knocked about half of the wind Kon regained right out. His next choked sound was exaggerated purposefully.

“Did you call or anything, Imp?” He carefully began. Bart wasn’t unwanted here, but he was unexpected.

“Nuh-uh.” You could hear him smiling.

“So… you just ran all the way here to say hi?” Kon continued.

“Uh-huh! It’s no big deal for me, y’know.” That was a fair point. It probably took Bart less than three minutes, and that’s with the delay of trying to track his friend down. He wasn’t the most careful with his civilian identity, Tim would have an aneurism, but who was going to catch him anyway? He moved faster than almost all of the population could perceive.

“Alright, well… hi.” Kon sat himself up, stretching. He was bulletproof, he didn’t really get sore, but it made him look all cool and casual.

Bart grinned. “Hi.”

He stared for a moment before parting his arms expectantly. Kon huffed a laugh.

“There it is. That’s why you came here.” He simply snagged Bart up on his way to his feet. They began to chatter.

“I’ve just been thinking… why are you so small?”

“I prefer vertically challenged.” Bart quipped.

“You’re horizontally challenged too. You’re spatially challenged.” Kon rebuked.

“You’re talkin’ like you’re mad at me!” Bart scoffed. It wasn’t his fault! He’s known it for years, he won’t be getting much bigger.

“I’m not! It’s just… kinda funny, I don’t know.”

Kon pulled back for a demonstration, taking Bart’s wrist. “Like, look at this thing.”

His hand flopped back and forth when Kon shook it about. “It’s adorable.”

Bart didn’t know how to respond. For his own peace of mind, he had to stop getting all ruffled at short jokes a long time ago. He never didn’t have something to say for long at all, though. He made a hand puppet. It turned away and dipped its head.

A smirk was slowly crossing his friend’s face. “What are you doing?”

“It’s shy.” The speedster informed him.

Kon couldn’t help breaking out into a grin. He released Bart’s wrist. “…You’re so stupid.”

“If I don’t get un-bored I’m going to do something stupid.” Bart moaned, crossing his arms.

Kon refused to be held liable for that. The kind of stupid Bart’s mind could conjure was otherworldly. “I’ll give you a three second headstart. I’m it.”

It was sweet, how he lit up. Nobody ever wanted to play tag with a speedster, but of course they wanted to play tag with you.

He didn’t need to be told twice, and with Bart already almost out of view, Kon counted down from one instead before starting his pursuit.

The cornfield was perfect for a game of chase, all wide open space and flat ground. Flying, Kon could get within about five feet of Bart. It wasn’t his strongest skill, he wasn’t as elegant as Clark or Kara. Flying was practical, at least when he wasn’t this close to the ground. He was going to snag one wrong twig and eat shit.

That might not be the worst idea.

Hearing what could only be described as major damage over his shoulder, Bart skidded to a stop. He caught the tail end of it: Kon’s hideous fall. It looked like it hurt, but that wasn’t how he was supposed to work.

He wasn’t laughing, cursing, he wasn’t responsive. “Uh…” And he may have twitched like a crushed bug just then.

Bart, so pure of heart, wasn’t going to come to the conclusion that he was being tricked on his own. A little shameful, but Kon had no real bad intentions. He knew better than to rough up anyone who he had over four weight classes on.

The ginger crouched down, arms settling loosely around his legs. “You okay?”

“Mmmnnghhh…”

He frowned, glancing up towards the distant house. “Should I go get someone…?”

Kon’s pathetic groaning morphed into a battle cry as he sprung up, grabbing at Bart who tumbled over with an indignant, but giddy yell.

“You’re such a cheater!” His voice was shrill.

“Cut me some slack, I would’ve never caught you.” Kon huffed, an affectionate smile growing on his face. “Besides, I know another game.”

Though Bart was eyeing him with a bit more caution now, his eyes were still curious.

“You probably know this one, I do it with Tim all the time.” That didn’t bode well.

He explained the rules fast, knowing it would take Bart’s brain some time to catch up. “So you just lay there, I’m gonna tickle you. If you get away, you win and I stop.”

“Make sense?”

Kon was squinted at for a few seconds. Processing data…

A belated squeal tore from Bart’s throat, his arms wrapping around his middle. He did know this game, he’d probably played along with the winning side, teasing and prodding at their high strung team leader. Tim could hardly stand just one person, it was brutal.

Maybe it was a blessing that Bart didn’t get any more time to dwell on that, Kon pinching and scribbling at any opening that his curling, flailing limbs couldn’t protect.

If nothing else, Tim wasn’t a meta-human. If the speedster decided he really wanted out, he had that luxury. His friend wasn’t a mind reader, but if Kon thought he really wasn’t in the mood, they wouldn’t have gotten this far anyway.

His hands were buzzing where they’d latched onto Kon’s wrists. Bart was surprised at the sound of startled laughter that wasn’t his own.

Kon pulled back, a little shy. “Thahat feels funny…”

“I’m gonna have to get creative with you.” He huffed. “I’ve been meaning to test this out anyway. I’m… just a little sorry, in advance. This is probably gonna be awful for you.”

Bart wasn’t sure why Kon was getting so focused. Squaring his shoulders and shutting his eyes.

Something was starting to prickle on his test subject’s lower tummy. A small chill ran through him. That prickling was quick to pick up into something that Bart knew only Kon was horrible enough to come up with: Tactile telekinesis phantom tickling.

He nearly jumped out of his skin, immediately hysterical. His back arched up off of the ground, Bart was probably going to stretch out his hoodie with how violently he was pawing at the fabric, fruitlessly trying to rub the feeling away.

“Is it working??” He would have been more annoyed if Kon didn’t sound so genuinely excited about it.

“WHAT DO YOU THINK??” Bart snapped through his cackles, his hand clenching into a fist and pounding against what Superboy shaped thing the found first, which happened to be his thigh.

His wrist was quickly seized. Not because Kon was hurt, but because Bart would undeniably end up hurting himself at this rate. Kon had some thick skin.

It was easier to make the feeling fizzle out than it was to get going. Bart fell limp, stomach rising and falling as he collected himself. He was all blissed out, giggling and staring up at the sky. Every so often, he would think he felt something. His squeaking and writhing would momentarily start over again before he came to his senses.

They sat like that for a while. Kon couldn’t help thinking how fun Bart was to watch, his grin never leaving his face.

“I’ve gotta try one more thing.” He spoke casually, but wasn’t as sneaky, nor clever as he could be.

Bart’s breathless laughter picked up again. “No you dohon’t…” He didn’t mean a word of it, Kon knew him well enough to see that.

If anyone was going to be willing to let him run these ridiculous tests, it was Bart. Of anyone Kon had ever met, he tried the least hard to even pretend he didn’t like tickling. He always wanted to be close and touchy and all over you, you could joke that you were going to rub his belly like a little puppy and Bart would probably roll over.

“I do, though! You still haven’t technically won the game you know, all you’ve gotta do is get away. Why’re you just sitting there taking it?” Kon probed.

Bart just smiled at him. “I forgot.”

How someone hadn’t gone and eaten this little shrimp right up yet was beyond him.

“Well, now you know. Are you ready? One, two…”

The poor speedster got maybe three steps through a stumble, and about two through his mad dash before crumpling to the ground. “NONONONONO— Not thehehere!”

“I’ve gotta test the places I can’t normally reach.” Kon spoke with feigned earnestness like that was the real reason why he’d concentrated the phantom tickles at Bart’s feet, and the real reason was obvious. Without control of them, he wasn’t going anywhere.

“You’re so mean!” He cried out. He laid on his front, legs kicking so fast that they were essentially an intangible blur.

He hadn’t gone far, but Kon stood to kneel down next to Bart, as close as he could without being in the danger zone. He smiled, chewing on his lip and failing to hold back a snort.

“You’re gonna put a hole in the ground, Thumper.” He cooed, eyeing the cloud of dust Bart was rapidly kicking up.

The nickname brought a cheerier cadence to his giggles, and he rolled over to meet Kon’s eyes. His lashes were starting to look a little wet, and the cold weather in combination with his racing heart had Bart’s cheeks and nose a deep shade of pink.

“O… Okay, okay— you’ve gotta stop…” He breathed out. His legs were growing tired.

Kon obliged. He’d given him a pretty serious workout.

Bart was experiencing some symptoms he’d never seen before. Anyone would need a little time to come down from all of that, but it seemed that no matter how long they sat there, Bart couldn’t shake all the giggles and jitters.

“I… are you alright? How do you feel?” Kon was realy hoping he hadn’t cast some kind of permanent tickle spell.

“Tingly…” Bart managed, wiping his sleeve over his eyes.

“I’m fine, don’t worry, don’t cry.” He put on a sweet smile. What would have been an affectionate pat on the cheek, if Bart was normal, was instead Kon’s face being mindlessly groped and nudged.

“Thank you, thank you, I feel so much bette—“ He sputtered, leaning away. “Get out of my mouth, you little shit! Jesus…”

Bart was giving him a lopsided grin.

“You’re being weird again, so I’m gonna assume you’re fine.”

“Mm.” The ginger nodded, stretching tall as he sat up. He glanced up, uncharacteristically sheepish. “Thanks for keeping me busy.”

Internally, Kon rolled his eyes. He would have sat around bored in a cornfield all day too if not for this. Bart had nothing to feel awkward about.

Raising an eyebrow, “Aren’t you thirsty?” was all he said.