tickleeteases

And it had! It had gone great. So great that Tim had somehow managed to relax into his home self, so when Dick had come around to say hi and do some obligatory messing around, Tim had been more than happy to duck away from his outstretched hand and snap out something like “Hey, I hate it when you tickle me, cut it out!” He’d fully expected Dick to give him That Look™ with one of his eyebrows raised and that smirk that only ever meant trouble, then tackle him to the carpet. 

But Dick had just smiled and pulled back, apologizing, then wandered back upstairs. 

The thing was, Tim couldn’t sleep, which meant that his brain was churning along at a million miles an hour on tracks of questionable integrity. Normally he’d go find Dick, who’d said –and Tim believed him– that Tim could come find him any time. 

Now, though – Tim wasn’t sure. He’d been about to get up when the memory of Dick going “sorry, Baby Bird” and retracting his hand hit, and Tim’s already racing thoughts had plunged over the cliffside into a spiral that he was definitely, totally overthinking. 

“This is dumb, right?” he muttered, staring up at his ceiling. “I’m being dumb.”

The tiny glow-in-the-dark stars stuck up there didn’t offer any response, but that twitchy feeling in his legs was becoming unbearable. Okay, fine. 

Tim’s sigh echoed into his empty room as he heaved himself up and swung his legs to the side of his mattress. The sudden rush of chilly air sent waves of prickles up his arms, so he snatched a random sweatshirt off the clothes pile beside his door, then ventured out into the comforting, warm hallway light. 

He paused for a few seconds that felt like a subjective ten minutes and stared at Dick’s closed door, diagonally across from his own. The five or so feet between him and the doorway might as well have been a mile. Yeah, he’d been kind of an asshole earlier, but Dick wouldn’t – wouldn’t really be mad at him, right? Dick had seemed fine, but then again, he usually did, so…

More of those uncomfortable, anxious feelings twisted together somewhere in the pit of Tim’s stomach as he stood there, frozen in the hall. He hadn’t meant to be rude, he’d just been so caught up in the game with Kon and Bart, in the high of having friends over who were there to see him – on purpose, not just because he was someone’s tag-along little brother. And, sure, he’d had a flare of irrational panic when Dick had started joking around with his friends, like maybe they’d suddenly realize that Dick was way more funny and interesting than Tim could ever be, and then he’d lose this little space that he’d worked hard to carve out for just himself. 

The grown-up rational brain knew that wouldn’t happen. 

Unless – 

No, no. Shut up. 

Tim balled his hands into fists at his side and took a deep breath. Even if Dick didn’t want to spend time with him, Tim could at least apologize for snapping at him earlier. The odds were good that Dick would forgive him. Right? 

Before he could keep overthinking it, Tim crossed the hall in two big strides and knocked twice on his older brother’s door. 

“Come in!” Dick called. 

Well, he didn’t sound mad. He had to know that Tim was the only one around who could show up at this hour, too, so that was a good sign.

Still, that tight, anxious shyness settled in his stomach as Tim shuffled through the doorway, and he fought back the sudden urge to wrap his arms around his middle.  

Dick was lounging sideways on his bed, both his legs propped up on the wall. He flashed Tim a bright, upside-down smile. “Hey, Timmy. What’s up?”

Tim managed to return the smile even though his face felt stiff. “Hi.” He paused for a second to search for the right words. It was like when he’d first met Dick, he felt all clumsy and awkward again. 

The bedframe squeaked when Dick did some combination of a flip and a backwards roll and came up sitting on the edge of his bed. He combed his hair out of his eyes, giving Tim another one of those warm smiles. “Can’t sleep?” 

That, Tim could answer even though his words still felt stuck in his throat. He shook his head. 

Something achingly gentle flickered through Dick’s eyes that made Tim feel a little too perceived. Before he had the chance to fixate on that, though, Dick scooted backwards and patted the mattress in front of him. 

“There’s room for ya in the nest if you want it, Baby Bird.” 

The wave of relief that crashed over Tim nearly made his knees weak. Okay, Dick wasn’t mad at him, wasn’t going to send him away. Acting on pure instinct, he scurried over to the bed and flopped down facefirst into the pillows. 

Dick chuckled, and suddenly a hand was running through Tim’s hair, gently tugging every now and then to send pleasant shivers racing down his spine. Between the dizzying relief that the entirely made-up scenario that Tim’s brain had concocted was, indeed, not real, and the head scritches, Tim went limp against the mattress. He still wasn’t tired, tired, but he sure did feel more relaxed. 

What had he even come in here for, again? Oh, right. 

Tim pushed himself up on his elbows and turned his head so he wasn’t talking directly into the pillows. “I’m sorry ‘bout earlier.” 

The hand in his hair slowed, faltering in its rhythm, and Tim butted his head against it with a displeased sound. Bad hand. Those were his head scritches, thank you very much. 

“Sorry, bud,” Dick said, and his voice sounded strained, like he was trying not to laugh as he resumed carding through Tim’s hair and scratching over his scalp. “I’m just trying to figure out what you’re apologizing for.” 

Was he serious? Tim scowled at him. “For snapping at you while we were gaming.”

“Oh. Tim,” Okay, Dick was definitely holding back laughter, and Tim found himself with the growing feeling that he’d misunderstood the situation. “It’s fine. I wasn’t upset, I just wanted to give you space to be with your friends.” 

Tim smashed his face back into the pillow and wondered if maybe his high IQ came at the cost of utterly nerfed emotional intelligence scores. “Hn.” 

“You sound like B.” 

“Hnn.” 

Dick snorted. Then, softer, he asked, “Have you been twisting yourself up about this, Baby Bird?” 

Tim frowned into the memory foam beneath his face. Not…not really? Not in the sense that Dick probably thought, anyways. It hadn’t even occurred to him to be stressed until he was lying there staring at his ceiling, unable to sleep. 

“I don’t think so,” he muttered after a few moments. He knew he was probably muffled by the pillow, so he rolled over onto his back. Dick’s ceiling also had an array of glow-in-the-dark stars pasted onto it. Some of the patterns were different then Tim’s, but they both had a couple of the more recognizable constellations. Jason did, too. “I got up because I can’t sleep.” 

“Ah.” Blankets rustled as Dick shifted around to wrap his free arm around Tim’s shoulders, warm and solid and safe. Tim leaned into him, and immediately some of the restless feelings that had been gnawing at the back of his mind quieted down. 

“‘M restless,” Tim added. He couldn’t possibly make it clearer, right? Those were practically Dick’s own words, back when he’d scoop Tim up into his arms and tickle his sides and coo about “aw, are you a little restless tonight, Timmy?”  

With an understanding hum, Dick squeezed Tim a little tighter. “Is there anything I can do to help you, or do you just want to sleep?” 

He had to be kidding. As if Dick didn’t take any possible chance to – to tickle his little brothers and, god, just thinking about it was making Tim’s face heat up – and here Tim was, offering himself up on a platter – 

“Huh?” 

Dick winked down at him. “If there’s something you want, Timmy, you just have to ask.” 

Oh, fuck that. Absolutely not. Tim couldn’t – he wouldn’t – oh god, his face was burning now. 

“Dick.” 

“Yeah?” The corners of Dick’s eyes crinkled as he looked at Tim with a teasing, mischievous grin playing at his mouth. That particular look never boded well. “I’m not mad at you, I just wanna respect your boundaries. If you really hate it when I tickle you–”

Tim yelped and promptly tried to bury his face in the pillows again, only for Dick to drag him back with the arm still tucked around his shoulders. 

“Nuh huh, Timmy, don’t burrow away from me. Whatcha after?” 

Maybe this was how Tim would die, spontaneous combustion from sheer, overwhelming embarrassment. Now that his earlier burst of anxiety had dissipated, it was easy to recognize that, no, Dick wasn’t mad at him, he was just teasing, sort of like he’d tease Jason whenever he’d snark at Dick. Tim just didn’t usually give Dick that amount of snappiness or snark, so this was a little new for him. Okay. He was Robin, he could adapt – 

Except adapting meant asking for – for – for tickles, and not just any tickles, but the cozy, spidering scribbles over his stomach that Dick had long-ago christened as Timmy tummy tickles, and the thought of saying any of those words out loud did in fact make Tim want to explode into flames on the spot. 

He groaned and thunked his head into Dick’s shoulders. “Di–ick.” 

“Yeah?” 

Tim didn’t have to look to know that Dick had an entirely guileless expression pasted on to hide the fact that he was an evil, evil person who just wanted Tim to spend the rest of his life as a puddle of embarrassment underneath his covers. 

“Just do it.” Okay, yeah, Tim knew he was whining, he heard the way he sounded, but he couldn’t help it. “C’mon!” 

Dick let out a low, teasing chuckle and pulled Tim against his chest, pressing a kiss to the side of his head. “I need you to be specific, Timmy, I’m not sure what you want.” He patted Tim’s stomach, but didn’t move his hand otherwise.

Supposedly, Slovenia was lovely this time of year. Maybe Tim could just move there – it wouldn’t be too hard to change his name, and he could always dye his hair. His knowledge of Slavic languages was…pedestrian, but he could learn! He was good at learning. That was, like, part of his whole thing. 

But, as tempting as that plan sounded, he was getting twitchy. It was the same kind of wound-up giggly feeling he’d get when one of his brothers had him pinned but, rather than just getting it over with, would just sit there wriggling their fingers half an inch above his skin. That tactic never failed to make Tim’s brain completely short-circuit, and they knew it. 

“Please,” he muttered through gritted teeth, trying to rip the bandaid off. Then, for emphasis, he tapped the back of Dick’s hand that was still resting on torso. “Onmystomach.”

Dick hummed again, considering. “I guess that does narrow it down.” 

Oh, thank god. 

“...But I’m gonna need you to use the technical term.” 

  Tim felt the weight of Dick’s teasing words as his face blazed with all the warmth of a firework. “Dee, you’re just – I’m sorry I snapped at you, I–” he was never ever ever going to snark at Dick ever again, no matter who else was around. Not if this was his payback.

“None of those are the right words, bud.” 

“I hate you,” Tim muttered. “You’re so, so so mean to me and nobody would ever believe it.” Belying his own words, he smashed his face against Dick’s chest since his stupid older brother wouldn’t let him hide in the pillows. 

Dick laughed again, and it resonated through his whole body, vibrating through Tim’s ears in a way that almost, almost made him forget how much Dick was teasing him. “Aw, you’re cranky when you’re flustered.” 

Tim just pushed his face further into Dick’s fleecy pullover. After what was approximately a hundred years, he squeezed his eyes shut and braced himself for the inevitable wave of embarrassment and gritted out, “I want – Ti – Timmytummytickles, there!” 

“Oh!” Dick said with an entirely fake amount of surprise that made Tim want to smack him upside the head. “You should have just said, Baby Bird.” 

All thoughts of wrangling one of his arms free to bat at Dick’s wavy hair flew away when the hand on Tim’s stomach started digging in, fingers wiggling into his belly with a rhythmic precision that had him choking on a sudden wave of giggles. 

“Aww, there’s my Timmy,” Dick cooed, leaning down to nuzzle against the top of Tim’s head. “I thought I had a ticklish, giggly baby brother somewhere in there.” 

“No mohore teheheheasing!” squawked Tim as he let his head fall back against Dick’s shoulder, grinning through his laughter. No matter how old he got, Dick’s particular brand of older-brother teasing would never not burrow under his skin and make him squirm.

“No teasing? Not even about this ticklish tummy right here?” Dick made a line of pokes across Tim’s lower stomach, just above the waistline of his pajama pants, for emphasis. 

Case in point – Tim would’ve sworn his brain started to give off steam like a Looney Tunes character. “Nooo!” 

Dick tsked, his smirk barely concealing the well of affection that showed through in his gaze. “Okay, bud, if you insist.” 

He brought both hands up to make light scribbles over Tim’s stomach with just his nails. It – god, it tickled, all Tim could do was let himself laugh as his mind drowned in the overwhelming tingly prickles. His face rubbed against Dick’s smooth pullover as he tried to hide again, but the quick fluttering of fingertips across his collarbones made him squeak and snap his head back around. 

“Nuh uh, no hiding,” Dick scolded. He used each of his index fingers to tap on the twin giggle spots on either side of Tim’s bellybutton. “Don’t wanna make these tickly-tickle-tickle spots lonely, hm?” 

God, he was really going all-in on the teasing, and Tim couldn’t stop the giggly whine that welled up in the back of his throat. “Dee!” 

Dick was alternating between light tapping over those particularly ticklish places and scribbling his index fingers over them, occasionally pinching at the squishy spots. “That is my name, Tim, great job.”  

Tim tried to channel some of Jason’s blustering defiance by telling Dick to shut the fuck up, but then Dick started using all the fingers of each hand to scribble over his giggle spots and Tim collapsed back into fits of squeaky laughter, shaking his head. 

“It–it tihihic–it tihihickles!” 

Dick hummed. “Yeah, it sounds like it does, Squeakers.” 

The nickname sent a fresh wave of little brother feelings rolling through Tim’s thoughts as he tried to wrangle the peals of giggles under control long enough to say something else – he didn’t know what, but it’d come to him. 

Or maybe it wouldn’t. When he felt Dick’s hands slowly crawling outwards towards his lower ribs, Tim started squirming even more. He was expecting Dick to poke and prod at his ribcage, so when Dick stopped and suddenly vibrated each of his hands into Tim’s upper stomach, he startled and squeaked around a cackle.

“Y’know,” Dick said like he was having an epiphany in the middle of digging wiggling, prodding fingers into Tim’s abdominal muscles. “You don’t actually hate it when I tickle you, do you?” 

That was one of the worst, easiest things he could’ve said and Tim’s wriggling increased as he tried to shield himself from whatever else Dick was about to say. “I – nahahaha!” 

“Aaw. In fact…” 

The tickling fingers suddenly jumped down to the outer parts of his stomach, close to his sides, and dug in with a series of nibbling pinches. 

“These are your favorite tickles, aren’t they, Baby Bird?” 

Actually, maybe that was the worst thing Dick had ever said. Tim could hardly think but he knew he was more scarlet than the fever itself, drowning in his own ticklishness. His hands came up on instinct to try and push Dick’s away, but he’d been so weakened by all his previous laughter that he just latched onto Dick’s wrists and held tightly, not actually pushing against him. 

“You – you’re – tihihickling!” Tim gasped out, slamming his eyes shut when Dick cooed again. 

“Yeah, I am,” Dick replied, his voice a couple notches removed from the one he used to talk to babies and toddlers. “Glad you’ve recognized that, Timmy.” 

The voice made everything tickle more – well, either that, or Dick had magic tickle powers that, hey, for all Tim knew were totally a thing that existed – and Tim gasped, managing to flip onto one of his sides, facing Dick. 

Rather than shielding his stomach from questing, tickling fingers, his new position just meant that one of Dick’s hands went back to niggling around his bellybutton and the other started squeezing up and down his newly-exposed side. Tim collapsed into waves of helpless giggles, hiding his face in Dick’s chest. He could smell traces of the cedar cologne that Dick usually preferred, a scent that Tim had long ago learned to associate with brother, love, hugs. 

“C’mon out, Tim,” Dick teased, the words gently cajoling. “Don’t let the tickles get lonely, or they’re all going to start hanging out here.” His fingers migrated towards the back of Tim’s lower ribs on that side, fluttering over one of his worst tickle spots. 

Tim made a muffled, strangled yell and frantically shook his head, helplessly trying to use his elbow to push Dick’s hands away. 

“Hmmm. Well, maybe there’s another way to get you back out of hiding.” 

Suddenly, Dick was nuzzling a flurry of raspberries and nibbles against Tim’s neck and chin and collarbone while his fingers squeezed and scrabbled across Tim’s stomach. 

“Hey!” Tim shrieked, then promptly snorted with laughter as he tried to cringe away from the raspberries and nibbles. “Do nohohot–Deehehehe!” 

Dick’s only response was a long raspberry right at the crook between his neck and shoulder that made Tim flinch hard enough that he kicked his legs out, heels uselessly drumming against the bedsheets. 

“How’s your restlessness?” Dick asked as Tim’s laughter began to settle down again. 

“It’s– it’s gohohone!” Tim giggled, barely keeping himself from instinctively trying to roll all the way onto his stomach. He didn’t think he could stand it if Dick decided to tease at the kill spots on his lower ribs.  

“Do you think you can sleep now?” 

“IdoIdoIdohoho!” 

Dick gave him one more raspberry paired with a burst of featherlight scribbles over his giggle spots, and Tim melted back against him as his laughter weakened into wheezy, high-pitched giggles. 

“And you’re going to stay here?” Dick checked. 

A burst of warm happy feeling fizzled in Tim’s gut, right where his earlier anxious dread had been. “I will!” 

“And you’re going to remember not to sass me in front of your friends?” 

“Said–said you weren’t mad!” 

Dick laughed, low and fond. “That’s true, Baby Bird, and I’m not. But –” he nudged the side of his head against Tim’s for emphasis. “I gotta uphold my own older brother cred, which means the next time you snap at me in front of Kon and Bart, they’re gonna learn how to tickle those ribs of yours until you’re all hazy and wheezy and tapping out.” 

Just the thought of that sent sympathetic ticklish sparks running up and down Tim’s ribcage, and he let go of Dick’s wrists to wrap his arms around his middle, nodding quickly against Dick’s chest. “Ok, ok!” 

“Good!” And, man, did Dick sound way too chipper for someone who’d just taken his younger brother to pieces in the early hours of the morning. He finally stopped scribbling over Tim’s stomach, instead flattening his palm to rub slow, wide circles to chase away the leftover ticklish feelings – not that it stopped Tim from periodically falling back into fits of giggles, those tickles had somehow sunk into his nerves and made a home for themselves there. After the second or third time it happened, Dick gathered Tim up in a hug and kissed the top of his head. 

“Still giggly, huh?” 

“Yeah,” Tim said, unable to wipe the grin off his face. “Jus’ a little.”

Dick huffed a small, amused laugh. “Adorable.”

Tim didn’t know what to do with that, so he squeezed his eyes shut again. “Hn.” 

Dick adjusted his hold to nestle Tim more firmly against him, and Tim didn’t even put up a token struggle – he wasn’t Jason, he adored getting pressganged into Dick’s so-called octopus hugs. “And, hey. I’m glad you had your friends over today, you should do that again. They think you’re great.” 

Ah. So Dick had clocked some of the underlying reasons between Tim’s earlier words, even if they hadn’t been beyond the bounds of normal brotherly snark. Once again, Tim found himself feeling a tad too perceived, but that came with the territory in a family of detectives, even if the emotional intelligence wasn’t always a ….visible trait, for some of them. 

“Y’think?” he asked Dick’s shoulder. 

“I do,” Dick replied, the affirmation rumbling through his chest and into Tim’s ears. “And so do I.” 

Tim made an acknowledging sound and finally burrowed himself into Dick’s arms, stubbornly ignoring the voice in the back of his mind muttering about burrowing gremlins that sounded suspiciously similar to Jason. When Dick pulled the absurdly thick comforter up over both of them, Tim would have purred if he could. 

“Th’nks,” he murmured instead. 

He felt Dick press another kiss to the top of his head. “Of course. I told you to come find me if you have trouble falling asleep, and I’m glad you did.” 

But then Timmy had showed up on day one, two-thirds of the way asleep in the kitchen, and mumbled something to Jason about a ride to school and extra time to catch up on homework, and Jason had been caught off guard long enough to say yes. It was a week after their little TV-related spat and Jason was biding his time, waiting for the chance to dish out some payback as soon as his leg could stand some actual wrestling. He couldn’t let Tim think he had the upper hand for too long, after all. 

In the meantime, letting him tag along to Jason’s appointment to finish his homework before school didn’t seem like the worst thing in the world. The sleepy, blinking eyes and bedraggled hair didn’t hurt his cause, either. He’d looked like a ruffled little duckling. As Tim dozed off in the passenger seat of the SUV (and yes, Jason was driving himself, he wasn’t a total invalid, no matter what Bruce said), curled up on his side with the sleeves of his sweatshirt pulled over his hands and the hood tightly cinched around his face, Jason privately wondered how Bruce had ever managed to tell Tim no about anything. 

By the time Jason was done working through a series of stretches that had to have been sourced from medieval torture chambers, Jason had realized that he was starving. So, he’d dragged the kid along to breakfast and coffee at the diner across the street. 

Tim hadn’t been verbal until after his second coffee and third pancake, but when he finally remembered how to put words to sound, he kept up a bearable stream of chatter about books he was reading, the computer he was assembling in his rare pockets of free time, and a dozen other topics. Not once did he ask Jason probing medical questions, and Jason appreciated the reprieve. He got enough of that from Bruce, Alfred, and Dick. They were all lucky he wasn’t agile enough yet to throw them out of the room next time they came in asking about muscle recovery and protein intake.

Over the next couple weeks, Jason and Tim settled into a predictable routine. And Tim gradually opened up more – not that they were having any heart to hearts, that was Dick’s territory and his alone – but Tim started to grow more comfortable teasing Jason in public, shooting off snark now and then and calling him vintage. Jason, in turn, found himself ruffling the kid’s hair and giving back just as much sarcasm, snark, and lip as he got. One memorable morning, Tim had rolled his eyes at Jason and muttered something about the wonders of his generation’s music being lost on vintage crime lords, to which Jason rightfully responded by flicking him in the forehead, to which Tim then retaliated by jabbing Jason in the side just hard enough that he flinched. 

Tim’s grin had been devious, at first, then hesitant. 

“Oh, don’t worry, birdie,” Jason had promised as he picked up the carafe to refill Tim’s coffee mug. “We’ll settle the score soon.” 

That just made Tim roll his eyes again, flushing faintly. “Sure, sure, Jason. Whatever you say.” 

“Hey, don’t bite the hand that feeds you, dumbass. Or the one that pours you coffee.” 

“Bite? I would never.” 

  And because Tim was a goddamned liar, a few days later, when Jason found him training in the Cave, the little shit bit him on the forearm. 

Jason jerked back in with a very intimidating sound of surprise that may, to the untrained ear, have sounded like a yelp. “Fuck! What are you, a rat?” 

But he’d made a critical mistake in allowing himself to flinch because Tim was already moving, surging forward through his slackened grip and throwing himself into a dead sprint. 

Jason shouted after him and immediately gave chase. His knee twinged - more tender than uncomfortable - but that didn’t stop him from pursuing the Robin-brat. Sparks of anticipation fizzed in his chest as he leapt forward, his longer legs allowing him to close the distance in seconds. 

Entirely focused on catching up to his speedy little brother, Jason hadn’t noticed where they were headed until Tim loosed a shout that bounced off the cave walls. “BRUCE!” 

A frisson of dread shot down Jason’s spine. Depending on the old man’s mood, Jason could very well end up being the one brought down and tickled within an inch of his sanity depending on how Tim played this. Fuck. 

“Oh, you little shit!” he growled. 

And Tim must have been a goddamn roadrunner in another life, because he suddenly poured on the speed and hurtled towards where Bruce was still glued to his chair in front of the desk. Jason cursed again as his leg twinged. He tried to lengthen his stride and made a last, desperate lunge, reaching for Tim’s sweatshirt. 

Tim’s laughter bounced off the cave walls as he flung himself at B. “You’ve gotta save me,” he gasped out as Jason’s fingers managed to graze the back of his hoodie. 

Bruce, who’d turned around as soon as he’d heard his name shouted, stared at Tim with a mixture of concern and surprise as the slippery little brat crash-landed on his lap. Before Bruce could blink, Tim was already up again, diligently clambering over the back of his chair to squeeze between it and the desk, effectively turning Batman himself into a human shield. 

It would be hard enough taking Bruce with two functional legs so, hoping to press his advantage in the face of Bruce’s confusion, Jason slowed to a stop a few feet away. He pinned Tim with a glare. Tim just gave him a wide, cheeky smile and waved. 

“Jason?” Bruce might have seemed confused, but the undercurrents of amusement in his voice made Jason think he had a pretty good idea of what was going on. 

(Tim was playing, that’s what was going on. He was goofing off. Jason wasn’t sure he’d ever seen the kid do that before, and that thought that made something twist in his stomach that immediately got pushed aside for later.) 

So Jason played up his irritation, huffing and crossing his arms. “Timbit’s chickening out of some well-deserved payback for–” No, shit, not for anything. Just payback. There was a slight chance Bruce hadn’t been made aware of the couch incident – 

The grin Tim gave him wasn’t quite shit-eating, but it was in the same zipcode. “Because I tickled him,” he said brightly, plastering on the most angelic smile Jason had ever seen. “Back when he was all drugged up and high and irritating.” 

Oh, Jason was going to make him regret every single syllable. He felt his face heat up, the tips of his ears warming. He did not look at Bruce. “I was high.” 

“It was, like, maybe an oxy five.” 

“It was Percoset,” Bruce interjected in his ‘I know this is going to devolve into an argument’ voice. “And–” he shot Jason a sideways look, the corner of his mouth twitching up. “I already knew about that, Dick sent me pictures of the aftermath.” 

Maybe if Jason stared at the floor long enough it would swallow him whole. But, knowing his luck, he’d probably fall into a pit of bat shit. He felt his face keep heating up even as he gestured at Tim, trying to redirect Bruce’s attention. “‘Kay. So you know, then, that I’ve gotta do this. Kid’s had it coming.” 

Fairness. Proportional retaliation. Batman would surely understand these concepts. 

Bruce made a thoughtful hum and shifted around in his chair. He straightened up, tapping his fingers against his chin as though he wasn’t poised for movement. Jason had to force himself to keep his hands still so he wouldn’t fidget, the last thing he needed was to draw Bruce’s attention . . . back before it all, Bruce hadn’t joined in Dick and Jason’s skirmishes often, but when he did, he was absolutely ruthless. Jason’s skin crawled at just the memory; he didn’t know if he’d survive a second time. 

Tim wasn’t faring much better. Even if he’d been trying to fight it off, a giddy, wobbly grin tugged at his mouth. He’d wrapped his arms around himself, hanging on every word between Jason and Bruce as if he was having the time of his life. “I do not,” the kid sputtered. “Besides, you don’t want to disturb Bruce, right?” 

Since when had Jason ever let that stop him? He voiced that thought as Bruce assured Tim that, no, he wouldn’t be disturbed. 

Tim squirmed where he stood, almost giddy. “Don’t let him.” 

Jason had heard more convincing protests from crooked politicians. 

Then, almost faster than Jason could see, Bruce winked at him. But before Jason could respond or fully process that, Bruce swiveled around to look at Tim, his shoulders slumping as he leaned forward. 

“Let him what, Tim?” Bruce was using his concerned voice, the gentle one that came out when Batman was trying not to spook victims. It seemed to throw Tim’s train of thought off its tracks because – 

“Tickle me,” Tim blurted. Well played, B. 

For his part, Tim immediately realized that he’d been conned, and his face went scarlet. “I– I mean, he’s going to.” 

Hell yeah, I am. Jason took another slow, menacing step forward and flicked his eyebrows up in Bruce’s direction.. “Well, B, he did ask.” 

“That he did,” Bruce agreed, solemn and grave. “To the mats?” 

As Tim squawked out another token protest, Jason pivoted on the heel of his good leg back towards the training area, grinning. “If you can make it, old man.” 

Tim kept up his spluttering all the way over, even when Bruce slung him over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. It would have been more convincing if he hadn’t also been squirming around in nervous, giggly anticipation the entire time, even after Bruce had swung him down to the mat and pinned his arms above his head.

“Bruce–” aw, he was trying so hard not to laugh, “ –I’ll go to the board meeting next month, I’ll do your taxes–”

The image of Tim hunched over pages and pages of spreadsheets, taking Bruce to task for his company’s spending and tax returns, made Jason’s mouth twitch against a grin. He managed to turn it into something of a feral smile which, when he caught Tim’s gaze, made the Baby Bird’s eyes widen. 

“Those are generous offers, lad, but I think I’m all set here,” Bruce replied. His eyes crinkled when he smiled down at Tim, who managed to give him a sheepish-looking grin.

Drawing out the game – letting Tim protest and wriggle around like a worm on a fishhook – had accomplished something very important: Jason knew what he was going to do, how he was going to frame what was still absolutely righteous sibling payback for the unexpected audience. He clapped his hands and rubbed them together like every overblown, exaggerated villain ever, and smirked down at his little brother. 

“Well, Timmy, how long d’ya think it’s been since Bruce tickled you? I think he could use a refresher.” 

Somehow, Tim’s eyes widened even more. He squeaked and frantically shook his head. 

“No?” Jason felt himself smiling wider. “Too bad, kiddie. I’m balancing the scales.” 

In a sudden burst of bravery, Tim craned his head up and smirked right back at him. “You look like a Temu-brand sleep paralysis hallucination.” 

Ah, there was that classic Robin inability to hold back a quip in the face of imminent danger. 

“Yeah, that’s about what I expected.” Jason just plopped himself down on Tim’s legs and laced his fingers together, pushing his hands outwards to stretch them out. He shook his wrists out – Tim’s eyes tracked his fingers the whole time – and shot a quick look of confirmation at Bruce. “Alright, Baby Bird, we’re going to remind Bruce just how to getcha shrieking and cheeping, yeah?” 

“No,” Tim growled, his brow furrowing rather adorably. But something glinted in his pale blue eyes that looked almost like delight. 

“Okay, Jaylad, I’m paying attention,” Bruce said, looking at Jason with the hint of a smile at the corners of his mouth. “Where to start?” 

Ah, he was playing along. Unexpected, but Jason knew better than to look that particular gift horse in the mouth. 

Just to play it up a little more, Jason tapped his fingers to his chin in a blatant imitation of Bruce’s earlier posture, because he couldn’t help taking the occasional potshot at Batman. From the way Bruce rolled his eyes, he seemed to realize he was being mocked. “Well, there are two main ways to tickle him. The first–” 

With no warning, he struck, darting his hands into Tim’s upper ribs and squeezing rapidly. It was one of Tim’s most ticklish spots and that, combined with the element of surprise, had Tim shrieking out a laugh and immediately dissolving into loud, happy cackles. His legs strained under Jason, trying to kick out or knock him off. 

“To teach him a lesson,” Jason explained. Like what happens when he tries to turn the tables and attack me. “Or get information out of him. You gotta go straight for the kill, which is always going to be his upper ribs, especially towards the back.” As he spoke, Jason let his fingers travel around to the backs of Tim’s ribs and wiggle into the soft spaces between them. 

Tim screeched again, his eyes scrunched shut, as he squirmed and jerked and generally tried to do anything to get away from Jason’s hands. “Jaha–Jase!” Peals of laughter cut him off from saying anything else.

Jason realized his face was a little sore from grinning as he stared at his wriggly little brother. “Hush, Timmy, B needs to be able to hear.” 

“Asshole!” 

Oi. “Just for that–” Jason moved to the very top of Tim’s rib cage, crawling up under his arms. That had Tim squealing and frantically shaking his head, which was making his hair stick up in all directions. 

“And what kind of information would you suggest asking for?” Bruce asked. He was putting on a mild tone of voice dangerously similar to Brucie, which made Jason snort.

“Oh, the usual.” Easing up a few degrees, Jason rested his hands on Tim’s sides so the kid could catch his breath. “When he last slept, for how long, how much Zesti he’s had, making him submit entries to that new photography gallery’s contest. When his last meal was.” 

Bruce’s eyebrows briefly flicked up in surprise, but the warmth in his gaze was suddenly much more tangible when he smiled at Jason. “Ah. That’s a very creative solution, Jay, good job.” 

“Thank you.” Jason pulled out his old high school thespian training and sent Bruce the largest grin he could muster, exaggerating for Tim’s benefit and to hide how relieved the genuineness behind the compliment made him feel.  “It’s about time someone around here appreciated my efforts.” 

Flushed from laughing and from being on the receiving end of their teasing,  Tim groaned as they conversed above him. A single pulse of Jason’s fingers against his sides, though, made him clamp his mouth shut on a squeak. 

“The other way to tickle him,” Jason began, leaning forward like he was about to reveal a highly confidential piece of information. When Tim’s blue gaze fastened on his, Jason winked, then looked up at Bruce. “Is to start with this.” 

And he squeezed Tim’s sides once, then immediately scrabbled his fingers all over Tim’s stomach in wide, wandering circles that slowly zeroed in on his belly button. 

Tim flung his head back into the mat and laughed, bright and loud, and the wide, helpless grin on his face made him look, for once, like a kid. He probably couldn’t help the thrashing, but his legs kicked out anyways and he strained against Bruce’s grip on his wrists. “Jay!” 

“It’s a good warm-up,” Jason said, ignoring him. “What you’re going to do next, though…” 

Tim sucked in a gasp when Jason moved closer, skittering the pads of his fingers over the twin spots right underneath his belly button. Any hope of holding back his laughter died when Tim collapsed into a heap of panicked giggles. He pressed his head back further into the mat and scrunched his shoulders up. 

“Jahahas–Jason! Nahahaha!” 

Those giggles really were the cutest damn thing in all of Gotham, but Jason would rather die than admit that in front of Bruce. Who, speaking of which, was staring down at his youngest kid with the sappy gaze of an adoring father. Yeah, yeah, Timmy was fuckin’ adorable when he let himself relax a bit. 

“Dick calls this his giggle spot,” Jason said. “He has another name for it too, right, Timberlina?” 

Blushing furiously, Tim tossed his head from side to side, his nose scrunching up as he snorted. “No! Dohohon’t tehehell hi-heek!-him!” 

“Why ever not, TimTac?” 

“It’s – it’s embarahahasing!”

It was actually adorable, but Jason hadn’t set out to be cruel, so he didn’t push. Apparently only Dick was allowed to tease Tim about that one without the kid exploding into flames.

“I see,” Bruce replied dryly, eyes glinting with amusement. “I’ll pretend I don’t know exactly what Dick means whenever he leaves conversations in search of . . . Timmy Tum–”

“B!” Tim shrieked in utter mortification. 

Bruce gave a low, gentle laugh and also decided not to push. Instead, he reached forward to brush Tim’s floppy bangs out of his eyes. Tim craned his head towards the touch even as Jason switched to rapid scritches that sent a new wave of giggles bubbling out of him. 

“What’s this method for, Jay?” asked Bruce, who ran his fingers through Tim’s hair before readjusting his hold on both of Tim’s arms. It looked like Tim hadn’t even noticed he’d momentarily had a free wrist. Well, that much giggling and snorting had to be distracting. 

“Helps tire him out if he needs to sleep, or if his brain’s moving too fast. Instead of screeching and kicking, he’s all giggly and squishy.” 

“Hey –!” Tim made a valiant effort to glower, but his face didn’t seem to want to cooperate.  

Jason slowed the speed of his tickling – light tickles made Tim’s laughter turn a little hiccupy. “So, this is also useful if he’s being an annoying little bitch.” Makes for excellent revenge, too. “In that case, your best recourse –” 

It was time to move. Jason swiftly adjusted his pose and shoved Tim’s wrinkled shirt a little farther up his stomach. 

Tim’s eyes widened as he realized what was coming and his face scrunched up in a panicked grin even though he was frantically shaking his head. “Jay!” Oh, he was squeaking. “Jay – JayJayJay–” 

Some soft, squishy thing in Jason’s chest melted as he listened to Tim practically cheep out part of his name – Baby Bird, indeed – through the stray snickers that kept that wide, goofy grin on his face. Jason tilted his head enough to catch Tim’s eye, then winked at him. “That’s my name. Don’t wear it out, Timbit.” 

Then he ducked his head to blow a raspberry on one of those hilariously ticklish spots, and Tim shrieked, squirming with enough ferocity that Jason had to shift his weight to avoid being jostled. Damn, the kid was getting strong. 

Jason repeated the action several more times, grinning to himself as his baby brother turned into a squeaky toy. All the hiccupy giggles pouring out of Tim made B chuckle, too, and when Jason looked up to check on Tim, he caught a soft, amused smile from Bruce and rolled his eyes. Obviously it was cute, but B should be looking at Tim like that, not Jason. 

“Jason,” Tim finally gasped out through another giggle fit. “It – it tihihickles!” He raised his head just enough for Jason to see wide, watery blue eyes blinking down at him.

Well, that certainly brought all of Jason’s squishy, older-brother-schmoopiness right back to the surface, soundly banishing any discomfort he’d felt under Bruce’s gaze. 

He smirked up at Tim in an effort to claw back some of his menacing posturing. “Yeah, Baby Bird, that’s the point.” 

Tim’s face flushed even darker as he tugged on his arms again, trying to shrug his shoulders up and twist his head around to hide behind one of his biceps. 

Well, that wouldn’t do. If Tim hadn’t allowed Jason to hide back when he’d attacked him on the couch a couple weeks ago, absolutely unprovoked with no reason whatsoever, then Jason couldn’t just stand by and let Tim try and hide now. 

“Oh, no you don’t,” Jason said, as he pushed up and reached out to lightly flutter his fingers against the exposed side of Tim’s neck. 

Tim’s eyes shot to him but he sealed his lips together and tried to shake Jason’s hand off. But Jason just moved down to the ridge of his collarbone, gently scritching along just underneath Tim’s shirt collar. That got a couple snorts and snickers out of the kid, who abandoned his hiding efforts for the sake of trying to scrunch his shoulders up far enough to protect his neck. 

“See,” Jason said to Bruce, looking up at him. “Dickhead just revels in physical affection, but Timbo’s a burrowing little gremlin and he’ll smash his face into the carpet or couch cushions to hide if given the chance. Don’t let him.” And, since visual learning was important, Jason demonstrated this point by darting back up to scribble at the right side of Tim’s neck, which made Tim yelp and immediately try to bury his face in his arm again. 

“He thinks it will hide him from the teasing.” Jason slid one of his hands down to squeeze at Tim’s side, just to keep the kid on his toes.  

Bruce had that strained look that he got when he was trying not to smile –  it was almost a neutral expression, but the corners of his mouth pulled taut. Eyes sparkling in amusement, he met Jason’s gaze and nodded once, acknowledging the information. 

“I do not!” Tim protested, his flushed cheeks scrunching up even more. He probably would’ve looked offended if he wasn’t trying to wriggle away from the fingers that were prodding at his side. “Youhou – yohohou hide too–”

Rude. Just for that, Jason shot his hands up into Tim’s armpits. 

“–, in your ahaHAHARMS JASON!” 

Jason dug in, furiously scrabbling away as Tim let out a bright, wild belly laugh and tugged at Bruce’s grip on his wrists again. 

“That seems like a good spot,” Bruce said mildly. “Is that the worst?” As if he wasn’t already aware that it was not, in fact, Tim’s worst spot. But he was playing along to give Jason another opening, so Jason smirked up at him, then flicked his gaze back to Tim, who was chewing on his lower lip in giggly anticipation. 

“Not at all. I think his worst spot is here,” Jason replied. He let his hands drift downwards to Tim’s very top ribs. 

 “Heknowsalready!” Tim shrieked, the words running together as he squeezed his eyes shut like that would make a difference. He jerked back and forth in sharp, spasmodic movements, as if trying to somehow move his ribcage away from Jason’s touch. “B – B, come on!” 

Bruce just flashed a fond smile down at him, then turned his attention to Jason. “Where, exactly, Jason? I could have been mistaken, after all.” 

Tim’s wail of betrayal went ignored, even though Jason had to bite back a chuckle at the sheer indignance on the kid’s face. As if Tim had any right

Instead of wriggling his fingers into the spaces between them or poking at each individual rib, Jason used both of his index fingers to drill into matching spots on each side of Tim’s very top ribs. That was enough to launch Tim into open hysterics, the kid screeched until he ran out of breath, then sucked enough air into his lungs just for it to tear right back out in explosive, near-breathless cackles. When those trailed off into wheezes and Tim went limp against the mat, Jason tapered off his targeting of those ribs and switched to scattering pinches down the rest of Tim’s sides, just enough to elicit the occasional squeaky giggle as Tim caught his breath. 

“See, B?” Jason said, shooting another quick look at Bruce. “He cheeps! Just like a tiny little hatchling.”

“I dohoho–eerp! – nahahat!” Tim tried to protest, immediately proving himself wrong in the process when Jason tweaked his lower ribs. He flinched, made a sound like a newborn kitten, and went crimson. 

Bruce chuckled – Jason caught his eye and, after a moment, let himself grin too. 

“It’s very sweet,” Bruce murmured, and Jason could just sense Tim’s overwhelming desire to flip over and bury his face in the mat, probably feeling overloaded with all kinds of oh-my-god-dad’s-embarrassing-me feelings…

Which Jason was happy to make worse – payback, and all that. “See that, Timmy?” he teased, and Tim gave him what passed for a suspicious look. “You’re adorable.” 

Tim just groaned and rolled his eyes, but didn’t quite succeed in hiding a faint, sheepish grin. 

“Okay,” Jason continued, snagging Bruce’s attention again. “Let the record show that this isn’t all of the kid’s ticklish spots, but he’s almost purple and I like having a minion to bully into watching TV with me. So, pay attention, old man, this is the last thing for today’s lesson.” 

Bruce gave him an indulgent look. “Oh, don’t worry, Jay, I’m watching.” A faint smile tugged his lips. “Besides, we can always have multiple sessions.” 

That got another groan from Tim, who had elected to close his eyes again in lieu of being able to burrow into the nearest surface. 

Jason scooted his knees back and leaned forward, picking out a spot on Tim’s very lowest ribs this time, near his side. A final raspberry there made Tim scream out something barely resembling a laugh as he tried to arch away from Jason before collapsing down, breathing hard. “That’s his kill switch,” Jason explained for Bruce’s benefit. “He’ll promise you whatever you want.” 

The muscles in Tim’s face twitched like he was trying to glare again. 

Jason just raised his eyebrows at him. “And, for good measure–” He gave Tim one more raspberry on his stomach, earning one more peal of frantic, bubbly giggles as Tim craned his head back towards Bruce. 

“D-Dahahahad! Dad, sahave mehehee!” Tim gasped. 

The grinding halt of the gears in Bruce’s brain was nearly audible as the man blinked – which, for Batman, was the same as jumping two feet in the air – then looked at Tim with the blindingly mushy affection that always seeped into his face when one of them called him Dad. 

Any other time, Jason would’ve teased him about it, and he wasn’t – he wasn’t going soft, but his heart may have warmed a whole degree at the happy, half-dazed gleam in his baby brother’s eyes when he sent B a pleading look, half delirious with laughter. 

But Jason couldn’t resist putting on his best ESPN commentator voice and saying, “Oh, Timmy’s pulling out the Dad Card. He must be getting desperate to go for that one, B.” He did back off, though, gently patting Tim’s stomach a couple times. Even that made the baby bird twitch, and when Jason heaved himself to his feet despite the twinge of discomfort in his left leg, Tim immediately flung himself onto his front and pillowed his face in his arms. Definitely a burrowing gremlin. 

While Tim caught his breath on the floor, Jason started moving through one of the stretches from his physical therapist. His knee was definitely still swollen, even though he’d nearly regained its full range of motion. And, though he’d almost caught Tim during their earlier game of chase, he was paying the price for the burst of running now. Pit-enhanced physiology or not, torn ligaments were still torn ligaments. 

Tim mumbled something unintelligible that made Bruce chuckle, but Jason tuned out his reply in favor of reaching down to – well, to come so fucking close to touching his toes but not quite making it. Because of the surgery and his healing leg. Not because he normally couldn’t. That would be the kind of secret Jason would take to his grave lest his acrobat older brother find out. Yeah. He straightened up, laced his fingers together, and stretched his arms over his head in a satisfying arc that loosened the tension in his shoulders. 

Tim had finally rolled back onto his side and was blinking blearily up at him. “Mean,” he said, and it sounded like a pout. “Mean, vintage antihero.” 

Jason let out a low laugh. Christ, the kid really was adorable. Fuck.  “Sure, Timbit, whatever makes you feel less like a ticklish little birdie.”

Tim’s face screwed up in a flustered grimace, but it quickly smoothed out into a wide-eyed pleading expression (and Jason would recognize a Dick Grayson Look™ anywhere, the kid had learned well) when he looked up at Bruce again. “Coffee now?” 

Bruce laughed like he rarely did these days and, after kissing his forehead, scooped Tim up as if he weighed no more than a kitten. 

Jason led the way back towards the elevator because he was self-aware enough to know that, with Bruce around, he wasn’t going near the stairs for a damn long while, until his leg was pronounced healed by a panel of PTs. Might as well spare himself the humiliation of being hauled off the bottom stair by his father. 

He glanced over at B and saw that Tim’s head had thunked onto his shoulder as if the kid was about to fall asleep. Quietly, he asked, “Stairs or elevator?” 

“Elevator.” 

And Jason couldn’t stop himself from making a jab. “Old man knees. Right.” 

Bruce’s eye-roll was nearly audible while the elevator doors slid smoothly shut behind them. “Don’t start, Jaylad,” he warned teasingly. “You could be next.” He winked, and suddenly Jason was thirteen years old again, curled into a ball of uncontrollably shrieky giggles on the training mats. 

With horror, Jason felt the tips of his ears warm, undoubtedly turning red. He sputtered out a few mostly-incoherent protests, then finally gave up when the elevator doors opened. Even momentarily-lamed crime lords didn’t fucking scurry, so his exit from the elevator was a…tactical retreat.

Tim convinced Bruce to let him down, whispering a “Thanks, Dad,” through a wide yawn, and promptly almost fell on his face – typical – before Bruce slung a steadying arm around his shoulders. 

“If it only takes tickling you to tears to get a ‘Dad’, I’ll make a point of doing it more often,” Bruce replied, amused.  

That got a mortified whine from Tim, which made Jason chuckle. When he turned back, he saw Tim peering at him through gaps in his fingers, which were currently hiding his face. 

“That’s the spirit, B,” Jason said.  

As Bruce muttered something in agreement, Jason hurried ahead to the kitchen where a fresh pot of coffee greeted him. He retrieved the largest cup in the cabinets for Tim, filled it to the brim, and settled onto one of the countertop stools with a much smaller, more respectable mug. The coffee was a light roast, smooth and nutty and perfectly-brewed. As Bruce and Tim followed behind, Jason distracted Tim with the giant mug and took out his phone to text Dick. 

JT: Timberlina’s called B dad, like, 3 times this morning. good time to ask him for whatever you want. 

Dickwing:  !!!!!

Dickwing: i missed it !!??? 

Dickwing: ☹️☹️😭

JT: get your vintage ass over to the manor, then. 

Dickwing: VINTAGE?

Jason grinned to himself as he shut off his phone and slid it back into his pocket. While he was texting with Dick, Tim had slid into a stool across from him and was happily taking long sips from his steaming vat of coffee. He reddened a little under Jason’s gaze, looking at him almost shyly, then fixed his eyes on his drink. All that attention (and affection) had probably overwhelmed him a little, but he seemed to be doing fine now. 

“You know,” Jason said. “If you think about it, Dick’s really the vintage one.” 

It took a second, but Tim’s eyebrows flew up. “Yeah! I mean, Discowing.” 

“Exactly.” 

“Will he be around today?” 

“Oh, hopefully.” Jason smiled into his mug of coffee as he sipped. “Now that you’re not squeaking up a storm, it’s a little too quiet around here.” 

When Tim threw a balled-up napkin at him, spluttering something incoherent, Jason didn’t even try to duck. 

____________________________

August's Thoughts:

HEY. HEY. HEY HYACINTH

CAN I SELL YOU MY SOUL FOR MORE FICS FOREVER??????

omg, Jason's fear that HE might be the one tickled the crap out of when Tim alerts Bruce??? LOVE, he wouldnt not deserve it either dfkjhf (as much as he also deserved his revenge on Tim, he also Always deserves tickles himself -- they all do, especially from their DAD) and then Jason getting emotional over Tim playing 😭😭😭😭JUST KILL ME NOW GOD 😭😭😭😭😭

the fact that Tim thought that, while he was hopeless, he was hiding his giddiness at least a little better than this in his POV is so adorable and funny sdfkjdfh Jason's like, i see right through you, look how excited this kid is for tickles sdkjfhf this is so CUTE i cant stand it. and omg, the way i thought Bruce held Tim's wrists with two hands for a second when fixing his hair BUT TIM JUST FULLY HAD A FREE HAND AT THE TIME AND DID NOTHING TO FIGHT OR ESCAPE FKJHDJFKHSDF he's too cute omg

the sheer fondness and love and familial adoration oozing from Jason and Bruce is making me crazy, it's so sweet and so cute and i cant stand it but also its everything i need 😭😭🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺I LOVE THEM

also once again the tickling and teasing is absolutely diabolical (as always for you, even if it's just a different POV of what we've already read, its making me insane) and youre PURE evil sdkjfdsfh

AND THE TEXTING DICK sdjfhsjdkfh good planning on their part to go after bruce when he's all schmoopy from tim for sure. and OF COURSE the vintage tease has to be passed around!!! middle child rights!!!! but ohhhh Dick is gonna get him for that one...... i wonder if that's the third fic with Dick that's been hinted at 👀theyre all so cuuuuuuuute 😭😭

this kinda makes me want a POV of the first fic to see how flustered and shy and giggly Jason's brain was all high and melty and having fun with baby brotherrrr -- BUT ALSO THIS IS NOT ME ASKING OR TELLING YOU TO DO SO, PLEASE WRITE WHATEVER YOU LIKE AND FEEL INSPIRED FOR sdjfhjdsf im just Obsessed with your fics Entirely

Instead of bursting into the library, he paused at the threshold to lay eyes on his quarry, who predictably was sitting sideways in one of the armchairs with a sketchpad and a blanket. 

Tim knocked once on the doorframe to announce his presence. “Hey, Dami.”

“Drake.” Damian’s dark eyes flicked over to him in greeting. “What do you need?” 

“Hey,” Tim said, but he kept his tone light as he made his way over to plop down on the floor in front of Damian’s chair. “What makes you think I’m gonna ask you for something? Can’t I just chat with my favorite little brother?” 

Damian just gave him a flat stare. P“Your only…younger brother.” He emphasized younger, as opposed to little, and Tim bit down on the inside of his cheek to keep from grinning. 

“True, true. I do have a proposition, though – hey, don’t roll your eyes at me, brat – but you can say no.” 

With a put-upon sigh, Damian flipped his sketchpad shut and turned fully to face Tim, one hand propping up his head. “What?” 

“Help me tickle Jason,” Tim said bluntly. He willed his face not to redden on the word tickle, and was probably only partially successful. “He’s gonna come after me today for the whole thing with Dick last night. I think between you and me, we can take him down.” 

Damian’s eyebrows practically tried to crawl into his hairline, and Tim allowed himself a quiet smile of satisfaction; Damian was ever so rarely rendered speechless. But he’d figured that the straightforward suggestion would be the easiest way to enlist the demon brat to his cause. Give Damian some clear parameters and an objective deliverable, and the kid was hell on wheels – in the field, and the few times they’d played team-based games. 

“Tt. Has your mind finally snapped?” 

“Oh, come on, Dames,” Tim wheedled. He knew that since Damian was still facing him, talking to him, he was at least intrigued. “Don’t you want some good-old-fashioned payback? Jason’s been on a roll lately – I know he’s gotten you a bunch.” 

A sullen flush appeared on Damian’s cheeks as he glowered. “He’s gotten you, too, Drake, we can all hear you.” 

“Which is exactly why we should team up! Little brothers have to stick together, y’know? It’s a rule.” 

“Please. If it’s anything like Richard’s so-called rules–”

“Hey, if he gets to make things up, we get to make things up,” Tim interrupted, holding up a hand. “And the first rule of being a little brother in this household is that you have to band together against the older brothers.” What Tim didn’t say was that, with the big brothering streak Jason had been on over the last several months, there was a chance that he’d let them win. But that couldn’t be counted on, and Damian would have no interest in being patronized. 

Damian pursed his lips, frowning, as he mulled over the suggestion. A few minutes ticked by, but Tim didn’t rush him. The whole concept of playfighting, which included tickling, was still new for his little brother.  

“I think,” Damian said at last. “That this is an asinine idea that we will live to regret.”

Hearing the we will, Tim sat forward. “But you’ll help me?” 

Damian nodded once, then his eyes flickered to the package sticking out of Tim’s pocket. “What is that?” 

“Oh, this?” Tim yanked out the charcoal pencils and tossed them over to him. “General.” 

“All four–”

“All four grades, yes.” 

After turning the packet over in his hands to examine the quality of the instruments, Damian glanced back at Tim with – well, if not exactly a smile, the hint of one. “Bribes, Drake? Surely your negotiating skills are better than that, unless you spend your time at the company like Father’s…other persona. Not that it would be a stretch, of course.”

Tim just rolled his eyes and grinned. “They’re yours either way, brat. Noticed yours were getting worn down.” He picked up the cans of Zesti, dangling them from two of his fingers. “I also have a caffeinated offering.” 

The reproach in Damian’s eyes was eerily similar to Alfred’s more withering looks, but he kept looking over at the soda even as he tried to stare Tim down. 

“It’s disgusting, artificial syrup with no flavor profile–”

“Yeah, and you want one.” 

“...if you’re insisting, as part of this…” Damian waved one of his hands in a gesture that absolutely wasn’t cute and Tim couldn’t say that or he’d get skewered. “Brother pact.”

“Great!” Tim yanked a can free and tossed it at Damian’s head, fully expecting him to catch it. “Our pact is sealed, then.” 

He waited until Damian had the chance to actually open his Zesti and drink some, then opened his notebook. 

“So, I’ve been taking notes on what Dick usually does when he’s got Jason pinned…” 

━━━━━━━━━━

It was a beautiful midafternoon and Jason headed towards the library with mischief in mind. Well, it wasn’t really mischief, it was correct and required revenge – balancing the scales, evening the playing field, whatever. He knew that Tim was in there, probably trying to hide from him. Too bad, kid. Jason couldn’t just let Tim tickle him like that, even if Dickwing had started it, with no retribution. 

And, come on, it’s not like the Baby Bird minded. He still melted into a mess of squeaky giggles and uselessly thrashing limbs every time Jason so much as poked him in the stomach. Tim was an incredibly competent fighter; he’d get away, or put up more of a struggle, if he really wanted to. He was still damn adorable, though, and Jason was beginning to realize that Tim would always, always hold a particular kind of baby brother trump card, especially when he bothered to unclench a bit and relax. Same for Damian.

Luckily, Jason was about to enforce some mandatory relaxation time. 

He found Tim in the library sprawled out on the beanbag – on Jason’s beanbag – looking at something on his phone. 

Jason took a heavy, threatening step into the library. 

Immediately, Tim’s eyes flicked over to him and widened almost comically in panic. “Jason!” 

“Hey, birdie,” Jason said, and he couldn’t resist letting out a bit of evil grin. “It’s time we had a talk.” 

Halfway through his sentence, Tim was already scrambling to his feet even though his ankle caught in beanbag fabric and he almost went sprawling forward onto his face. “Uh – I actually have somewhere to be! Like, anywhere. Right now.” As he shuffled a few inches forwards, his foot caught again and actually tripped him this time. 

“Oh – shit!” 

When Tim went plummeting towards the floor, arms flailing out in a miserably uncoordinated attempt to break his fall, Jason darted forwards and fell to his knees, barely managing to get his shoulder under Tim’s stomach to break his fall. Tim’s breath flew out of his lungs in a whoosh and he stayed there for a second, trying to catch his breath. 

“Christ, kid,” Jason grunted. “Can’t have you surviving the horrors of Gotham and beyond only to buy it on the goddamn hardwood floor.”

Tim snorted weakly. “I’m almost offended that you thought I couldn’t catch myself–NOW!” 

As Jason flinched away from the sudden volume, a dense weight slammed into his back and knocked him off balance while two arms wound around his neck in a facsimile of a chokehold. He went careening onto his side – fucking ouch – beneath the weight of one, no, two little brothers. Fuckshitsonofabitch. 

And he should have fucking known, because obviously Tim wouldn’t have had a fall that bad off of a beanbag, of all things, and also because if nothing else, Tim could be a tricksy little brat when he put his big ol’ brain to it. Honestly, Jason was kind of surprised this hadn’t happened earlier. 

“Hey, Damian,” he gritted out. 

“Todd,” Damian replied, tone clipped as he knelt on one of Jason’s arms, pulling the other back to join it. 

Jason had fallen on his side, knees bent in one direction, and Tim had gone for efficiency rather than elegance and chose to sit on his legs, right up above his knees. Damian, meanwhile, had grappled Jason’s wrists as they were falling, and was tugging them behind his torso. It was a bit of a strain, but nothing painful. 

The problem, though, was that Jason had absolutely no damn leverage. And his little brothers knew it.

“Hi!” Tim said brightly, smacking his hands together with a clap.

The rug itched against Jason’s face as he turned his head back just enough to be able to see Tim’s toothy grin. He wasn’t sneering or smirking – he genuinely looked pleased, it was his ‘successfully implemented an experiment and it worked’ smile, and…shit, Jason was going to have to pretend to be annoyed, wasn’t he? With all that had been going on lately, the kid needed a win. 

Damian did too, probably. 

Great. 

“Hey there, brat,” Jason said. His neck twinged, so he let his head thunk back to the carpet. “What’s new in Timbitland?” 

“Funny you should ask,” replied Tim, and suddenly someone’s slender fingers were nibbling little pinches into Jason’s exposed side. 

Yeah, he’d known this was coming, but that didn’t stop a strangled snicker from shoving out past his teeth before he clamped his mouth shut. 

“See,” Tim continued. “I figured you were gonna try and come after me today, so I enlisted Damian here to help me.” His ticklish pinches trailed back down Jason’s side, getting worryingly close to his hip. “It’s the perfect chance to try out my observations – see, I have notes. I’ve been paying attention to what Dick and B usually do to you…for self-defense purposes, of course.” 

Hm. Maybe sending Tim sprawling and kicking Damian off was actually a good idea – but no, no, that would probably injure them, and Jason wanted to avoid that. 

Of course the nerd had notes. He’d probably made a fuckin’ spreadsheet. 

“I’ll end you,” Jason said, yanking on his arms just to make Damian struggle a bit more to hold him down. “Both of you, Dames.” 

Damian, who’d been quiet up to that point, just tsked. “You would try, perhaps.”

God, Jason’s little brothers were growing up to be brats. 

“Aww,” said Tim. “It’s cute that you’re trying not to laugh.” 

“I–hey!” Jason yelped when Tim skittered over his lower ribs. He jerked, instinctively trying to curl his legs and arms in to protect his vulnerable torso. 

“So, Damian.” That was Tim’s briefing voice. “According to my extensive research, we all pretty much agree that Jason’s worst spot is his hips. Does that match what you’ve observed?” 

After a second, Damian grunted in the affirmative. 

“Pay attention, this is important for you to know. It’s your first lesson on Crimelord Anatomy. So, Dad usually does this–” 

Suddenly Jason’s mind blanked for a second when Tim abruptly squeezed his hip a few times in rapid succession. His whole body spasmed, trying to curl up again, as an absolutely mortifying shriek escaped his lungs. “Ti–HIM!” 

Ever committed to being an annoying little shit, Tim just laughed, and it sounded delighted. “Obviously, it works. Makes him all shrieky, like, right away.” The whole time he talked he kept squeezing and digging his thumb into Jason’s hipbone, and Jason cackled as ticklish shudders made him flinch and jerk.

“This seems effective,” Damian said in an impeccably neutral tone that was somehow worse than if he’d just teased Jason straight-out. 

“It totally is. But Dick usually doesn’t go for the squeezing and stuff, though – he just…here, hold on.” 

The accursed squeezing finally stopped and Jason gasped, sucking down fresh air in big gulps while he could. Suddenly someone – Tim, still –pushed up his shirt, and then – oh, fuck oh fuck oh fuck, then there were ten goddamned shitting fingers scribbling featherlight over his hip, and over the softer skin right above it, and Jason was actually going to die right there in the library. He couldn’t describe why this was so much worse, not being able to see who was tickling him and enduring the light skitters that somehow made his brain collapse into goo. There might not even be a word for how hard he was laughing, one side of his head pressed into the carpet as he twisted his shoulders, tried to drag his knees up to his chest, anything to make Tim’s fingers stop. 

“T-Tihihimmy,” he finally gasped. “Shi–shihit, cut it ouhohaha–out!” 

Tim didn’t take his hands away, but he stilled his fingers even though Jason’s skin was still crawling and he kept laughing into the rug. 

“Notice a difference?” Tim asked Damian. 

“Quite.”

“Okay, so that’s his hip. Well, hips, but you know what I mean. Going for his kill spot right away might seem strange, but it’s like...you gotta tenderize meat, yeah? Similar thing. Because he won’t giggle unless he’s already tired and out of it.” 

Jason felt his ears burn and hated that this was getting to him – his little brother, his easily flustered and often squeaky giggle brat, shouldn’t ever be able to get the upper hand on teasing. At least Damian wasn’t also joining in. 

“Crimelord Anatomy lesson number two, Dames,” Tim said, and Jason groaned. “His stomach.” 

Oh, Christ.

“He’s generally ticklish there.” One of Tim’s hands dug into Jason’s upper abs, wriggling into the muscles. “Light laughter, and such.”

“Fuhuhuck you!” Jason managed through his snickers, and he definitely didn’t snort. 

“But…” The tickling hand started making a swooping path down near Jason’s navel. He instinctively tried to suck in his stomach, and his legs twitched again. “He has a giggle spot here, too, it’s right under his belly button–” Tim wiggled a single finger into that soft spot, and indeed, Jason couldn’t stop the hiccupy giggles from pouring out of him. His cheeks burned, and he turned to smash his face into the carpet so his little brothers wouldn’t see him grinning like a snot-nosed toddler. 

Damian shifted his grip on Jason’s wrists, moving to pin them down under his knees instead. The change barely registered until a second hand joined Tim on that wretched spot and Jason wheezed into the floor, shuddering as his instincts desperately tried to pillbug. 

“Aww,” Tim cooed. “Isn’t it cute?” 

“It is…endearing,” said Damian after several seconds, and he sounded grumpy about it but he kept tickling, letting his fingers wander around Jason’s stomach. “In a childish manner, of course.”

“That’s the whole point,” Tim chirped. Chirped. “So, anatomy lesson two-point-five is that you have to pin his legs to tickle him here and make him all giggly and loopy, because this Gotham-native crimelord will attempt to disguise himself as a pillbug to throw off potential attackers.” 

Jason was maybe going to kill Tim for that one. When he tried to say as much, all that came out were more of those stupid fucking giggles, and he gave up. All he could do was laugh and accept the fact that any and all intimidation credit he’d built up was dissolving right before his eyes. 

“Alright, we’re nearing the end of the allotted time slot for today’s class.” Tim clapped his hands together again. “But there’s one more foundational piece of knowledge for you.” 

“Do share, Drake.” 

“This is, what, lesson three? Okay, so. This crimelord might not be representative of the species, but he’s like…squishier than putty for back tickles. He can’t function. It’s kind of hilarious.” Tim continued on with the cadence of someone giving a pitch to a room full of business executives, like he was attending a board meeting at Wayne Enterprises. 

“There’s here, on his lower back–” Tim shoved his hand under Jason’s shirt to run his nails over the small of his back, which was enough to have Jason spasming again as he shrieked into the floor and squeezed his eyes shut. “It’s like the nuclear launch codes for driving him crazy. That, plus – here, if you could just–”

And suddenly Damian’s slightly clumsier fingers were prodding at Jason’s hip. 

“S–shuhut up!” Jason screeched, trying to roll onto his front. “Dames, dohohon’t you dahahahhare!” 

“See?” Now Tim did sound a little smug. “RIP Jason’s brain cells. Anyways, so there’s that, but his spine is also good. And his shoulders. And basically everywhere. Kind of like playing chords on a piano.” He leaned forward, shifting in his spot on Jason’s legs to tickle over both of Jason’s shoulderblades while Damian kept tormenting his hip, now using both his hands – one to squeeze at the bone, the other to spider gently over the skin right above it, and Jason lost his everloving fucking mind and screamed. 

The laughter that erupted from the very bottom of his being echoed around the library, maybe even rattled the windows, he couldn’t think, he couldn’t even breathe, and his nerves sparked and stretched taut with ticklish input that overloaded his brain. He stopped trying to thrash away and just melted there into a heap of shrieking cackles beneath his clever, devious little brothers. They weren’t supposed to know how to get him this good, it wasn’t fair. In fact, it should be illegal. Jason was going to call the army, or the police, or the Justice League –

“Holy fucking hotdog.” 

Well, speaking of the police. 

Of course. Of course, his older brother was going to appear now, when Jason was being tickled into an incoherent mess by their younger brothers. Why should he get to retain any dignity?

“Dick!” Tim said, and he blessedly, mercifully stopped torturing Jason’s shoulders. Damian seemed to take that as his cue, too, and lightened up his own tickling, but kept his palms flat on Jason’s hip. It helped stamp out the leftover phantom tickles. 

“Is that – is that Jason?” Heavy footsteps came closer, but Jason didn’t have the energy to crane his head up to see his older brother.

“Surely your powers of deduction haven’t entirely eluded you, Richard,” Damian said, and holy shit, the kid was actually teasing Dick. 

Tim rolled off of Jason’s legs and landed on his back in Jason’s line of sight, hands folded over his stomach as he gave Dick a beatific grin. “We really got him.” 

Legs freed, Jason immediately curled up into a ball. Or, as close as he could get, with his arms still stuck under Damian. 

“I’m proud of you, Baby Bird,” Dick replied. He crouched near Jason’s head, ruffled Tim’s hair, then nudged his elbow into Jason’s shoulder to jostle him a little. “I’ve never heard you shriek that loudly, Jay, I thought one of the kids was hurt.” 

At ‘kids’, Damian clicked his tongue as he slid off of Jason’s wrists and hands, but he didn’t protest. Maybe he was finally learning that responding with ‘not a child’ didn’t help his case. 

Since Jason still didn’t have the capacity to use his words, he just grunted and closed his eyes again. 

“He got all blushy and giggly, too,” Tim said with a grin in his voice. “Just like when you get him.” 

Dick laughed. “You’re learning well, Timmy. You too, Dames. Hey, what’s that?” 

Something rustled, maybe the turning of a page. “Drake has been collecting evidence on Todd for several weeks, now, in preparation for this.” 

“Never change, Baby Bird. ‘Anatomy of a Crimelord’? …oh, this is good. Mind if I take a picture?” 

Jason’s eyes flew open and he scowled up at Dick, who was giving him a shit-eating grin. “Absolutely not, Dickface.”

In answer, Dick, who was holding Tim’s bullet journal, lightly thwacked it against Jason’s forehead. “I might not need it, you know. I’ve already got my own inventory for each of you.” 

Tim sputtered something, and Jason couldn’t hold back his own grin. It was sweet how quickly a little teasing could turn Tim back into that squishy little giggle brat, when he wasn’t being a ruthless menace to Jason’s sanity. 

“So, what prompted this? Damian, how’d Tim drag you into this?” As he voiced the question, Dick let himself fall sideways into a half-sitting, half-lounging position, propped up on one elbow while he reached out to smooth Jason’s hair out of his face. 

“Well, I knew Jason was going to come after me,” Tim said. “And of course Damian helped me, it’s part of the rules.” 

Smiling indulgently at him, Dick asked, “What rules?” 

“Little brothers have to stick together. It’s a pact.” 

The corners of Dick’s eyes crinkled with the hint of one of his mushier expressions, but he somehow held most of it back, probably to avoid embarrassing Damian. 

Speaking of the other brat that comprised Jason’s package deal of little bothers, Damian smoothly pushed himself up and stepped over Jason to settle crosslegged between Dick and Tim. 

And maybe it was a snowy day in hell, because Tim shuffled over to rest his head on Damian’s knee, and Damian, after a second’s consideration, rested his hand on top of Tim’s head. 

In a flash, Dick whipped out his phone to take a picture of the moment. 

Send it to me? Jason mouthed. His older brother winked and nodded as he pocketed his phone again. 

“You know,” Dick said. “There’s the other side of that little brother pact, guys.” 

Damian raised his eyebrows. “Surely there aren’t yet more of Father’s offspring to contend with.”

Jason snorted. He was pretty sure he knew where Dick was going. “Not that, demon brat, don’t worry.” 

“Maybe it’s more like the other side of the equation. Little brothers have to stick together, but so do big brothers.” 

Tim’s face visibly locked in a neutral expression as he stared into the middle distance, suddenly not willing to look at Jason or Dick. Damian, for his part, went entirely still. 

Now this, Jason could get behind. He shot Dick an exaggerated grin. “Whaddya think, Dickwing? How should we do it?”  

“Hmmm…” Dick did a very obvious sweep of both Tim and Damian, a mischievous grin playing over his face. “Maybe one of these movie nights, we stick Dami between us on the couch and each snag one of his knees. I bet we could get some really cute snorts and yelps out of him underneath all that sweet laughing.” 

A half-strangled noise came from Damian as he, in a rare display of surprise, just stared back at Dick with wide eyes. 

Jason smirked at him, then glanced back at Dick. “What about the Baby Bird?”

Tim scowled at him, squinting, but a faint pink flush was already coloring his face. His hands fidgeted where they were clasped over his stomach. 

“Good question,” Dick mused, but his eyes twinkled as he assessed Tim. “I feel like, between the two of us, his ribs do get counted pretty frequently.” 

Jason hummed in agreement. “Maybe we should try something new. Branch out, even.” 

“What about raspberries on his ribs? We could each take a side.” Dick winked at Tim, who squeaked and crossed his arms over his chest. “That leaves hands free to tickle his tummy, too.” 

It wasn’t often that Jason got to see Tim turn redder than a fire hydrant in less than a tenth of a second, but that did it. Tim flipped over to hide his face in his hands, still propped up on Damian’s leg. 

After watching them squirm for a few more seconds, Dick let out a long sigh and reached out to ruffle Damian’s hair. “Not today, though, obviously.” 

“Sure,” Jason agreed. “Not today.” 

Soon, though. And this time he wouldn’t be taken off guard again. 

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

“This is awkward.” Shane looked around his room, a faux-apologetic grimace plastered on his face. “This room isn’t available to the guests.”

Ilya took a step forward, hands clasped behind his back, face inches away from Shane’s own. His expression was serious, but Shane could see the way his lips twitched up at the corners, the way his eyes crinkled slightly in mirth.

“Mmm. Disappointing.”

His voice sounded deeper than usual, and Shane had to avert his eyes for a moment. “I’m sorry sir,” a small thrill sparked through him at the word sir and, judging from Ilya’s expression, it had affected him too, “we’d really like to accommodate you, but—”

Before Shane could finish his sentence, Ilya was shoving him onto the bed and clambering on top of him.

“Sir, I’m just a bellboy!” Shane couldn’t help but laugh, even as his wrists were pinned next to his head and Ilya situated himself on his waist. “You can’t treat the staff like this!”

Ilya leaned in close enough that their noses brushed, pushing Shane back down with a smirk when he tried to sit up. “Oh, I think I know how the staff likes to be treated after all these years, hm?”

And, God, it was fun. Shane was pretty sure that nobody would ever describe him as the playful type, but here he was. It was just so easy with Ilya. It was easy to bring him into this part of his life, to tease him and laugh unguardedly when Ilya wrestled him to the bed.

Not like Shane was putting up much of a fight, but still.

Finally, finally, Ilya captured his lips in a kiss, and Shane could feel the way they were both still smiling into it. Forget the cottage, this is what coming home felt like, honey-smooth on his tongue and making him feel so warm he was sure that sunlight was ready to burst through the cracks in his heart at any moment.

Ilya moved to his neck, prompting Shane to tilt his head to the side to give him more room. A shudder worked its way up his spine as Ilya sucked on a sensitive patch of skin right under his jaw, pulling away with a pleased grin and adoring eyes before leaning back down to scatter quick, soft kisses across his neck.

Maybe if Shane hadn’t already lowered his guard so much, he wouldn’t have started laughing so quickly. As it was, he couldn’t stop the frantic, high-pitched giggles from tumbling out of his mouth.

“Ilya! Ilya wahait—” He pulled half-heartedly at his wrists which predictably did absolutely nothing.

Still, Ilya pulled back just enough so that Shane could get a full view of the shit-eating grin on his face and the dangerous glint in his eyes.

Oh God, he was so fucked.

“Hollander,” he basically purred, “why did you not tell me that you were, ah, щекотливый? Sensitive? No—what is the word?”

For a second, Shane thought that Ilya was just messing with him—and maybe that was part of it, but he could also see Ilya casting around in his head for the right translation. Shane didn’t exactly want to be giving Ilya this kind of ammunition, but he wasn’t going to be a dick and let the missing word eat at him.

Through gritted teeth, Shane managed to ground out, “…Ticklish?”

The way Ilya’s face lit up when the word clicked into place was almost worth the combination of embarrassment, dread, and something he refused to give a name to swirling in his stomach.

“Yes! Ticklish!” He leaned in close again, glee sharpening into something a little more intense, his breath ghosting over Shane’s lips, “Why did you never tell me you were ticklish, Hollander? We could’ve been having so much fun.”

The something he refused to name grew, and Shane said perhaps the one thing that would only serve to make things worse for him.

“Uh… I’m not?”

Ilya laughed a low, rumbling chuckle that Shane could feel in his bones. “No? Are you sure? Then why were you laughing so much?”

As Shane floundered for words, Ilya just watched him, infinitely amused and perfectly content to watch Shane dig himself deeper into his grave.

“You just surprised me!” The moment where Ilya realized Shane knew exactly what he was doing was equally mesmerizing and terrifying. The gleam in his eyes was no less delighted, but his grin widened into something predatory.

His eyes raked over Shane's body, and he couldn't shake the feeling that he was being hunted. The thought sent a giddy thrill rushing through him, which was definitely something he and Ilya were going to be examining later.

Thoroughly.

Shane was brought back to himself by a sharp squeeze to his side and he yelped, shooting out his now free hand to wrap around Ilya’s wrist and shove it away.

If Shane had thought that Ilya looked mischievous before, now the expression on his face was downright devious. “Did I surprise you that time as well? Is that why you screamed?”

“What- I- What are you even-” Shane sputtered, his words tripping over themselves before he finally settled on, “I did not scream!”

“Hm, yes, right.” Ilya leaned in close, lips brushing against Shane’s ear in a way that made him shiver, his breath sending goosebumps racing down Shane’s spine. “Would you like to?”

Before Shane could even begin to process the question, Ilya attached his lips to the crook of Shane’s neck and blew. The vibrations lit up Shane’s nerves and he couldn’t suppress the shriek that escaped him as he threw his head back, presumably to try and escape, but only serving to give Ilya more surface to torment.

Ilya gleefully alternated between pressing sloppy kisses and devastating raspberries to Shane’s neck, drinking up Shane’s laughter like he’d never tasted anything sweeter.

“Il- Ilyahaha! You’re so fucking grohohoss!” Ilya didn’t say anything, but Shane could feel his chuckle buzzing against his skin in a way that should not be as ticklish as it was. “Ohmygod get off! You asshole!”

At that, Ilya pulled back, although he notably did not get off of Shane quite yet, his wide grin on full display. “I am not asshole here! First, you lie to me, and then you call me the liar by saying you do not scream! And then I think, maybe I did surprise him, so I will make sure that he is not surprised so we can get to the bottom of this, because I am a good guy like that, and then you scream again! Right in my poor ear!” Ilya shook his head incredulously, like he couldn’t believe that Shane had had the audacity to react so outrageously. “And you call me the asshole? It is disrespectful, truly.”

“You’re ridiculous,” said Shane.

But he was grinning, and so was Ilya, and their attempt at kissing quickly dissolved into gently pressing their foreheads together, basking in the glow of being happy and together. In all of their rivalry, they’d so rarely had the opportunity to be playful, and there was something so freeing in finally being allowed this simple joy.

“Maybe I am ridiculous,” Ilya shrugged. “But I never heard you say stop. If you think about it, it is out of my hands.”

As he was talking, Shane could feel Ilya crawling his fingers up his ribcage, and he didn’t bother trying to smother the giggles that tumbled out of him. Instead, he did his best to ignore his red face and let Ilya think that he’d won as he prepared his retaliation.

It wasn’t easy, Ilya’s hands were always distracting in their own right, and Shane had to fight against every instinct that was telling him to glue his arms to his sides in self-preservation. But he gathered up his strength and, before Ilya could register the shift, deftly flipped them over so that Shane was perched on top of Ilya’s hips.

Shane made sure that he had Ilya’s hands firmly pinned under his knees, because he knew that if he lost the advantage now, Ilya would make him regret even attempting to turn the tables.

“Look at you. Is new view for me, you are not usually on top. Well, unless you are riding me, of course.” Ilya’s tone was teasing, but Shane could detect a spark of anticipation that sharpened his consonants.

Good. Let him know what was coming.

After the residual laughter made its way out of his system, Shane laid his palm flat against Ilya’s stomach, his thumb rubbing back and forth. “Yeah, yeah. And what about you, huh? Are Russians ticklish? Or, uh…” What was the word he’d used? “Shchekotlivyy?”

He was pretty sure that he butchered it, a thought that was only further confirmed by the grimace Ilya bit back a second too late. But Shane could see the way the tips of Ilya’s ears flushed pink and knew that the attempt at Russian had the effect he’d been hoping for.

Maybe, maybe, he could understand why Ilya seemed to love teasing him so much.

Below him, Ilya rolled his eyes and said, “Of course not. Russians do not have any sort of weakness, I have already told you this. It is how I obliterate you on the ice.” Shane snorted, shaking his head, and Ilya tacked on, “How about I make you a deal, hm?”

“What kind of deal?” Shane had a feeling that he knew where this was going, but he wanted to see how Ilya was going to try to worm his way out of this.

Not that he wanted to. They both knew that Ilya could’ve escaped since the moment Shane flipped them over.

Ilya, somehow looking perfectly at ease despite his current position, said, “You let me go, and I will spend the rest of the day fucking you in every single room in this cottage. After I finish having my fun, of course.”

“Of course,” Shane said, the most nonchalant anyone has ever been. “And what if I don’t want to let you go?”

Ilya had obviously been hoping that Shane would ask that question, because he leaned up as far as he could and purred, “Well then, when I get out, and I will get out, I will tickle you until you cry.”

The way he said it was so casual, like he was commenting on the weather instead of threatening his revenge. Like he wasn’t planning on pinning Shane down and taking him apart until he apologized or begged for mercy. Or probably both. Shane felt dizzy.

Shane could feel Ilya’s breath hitch under his fingers as he slipped his hand under his shirt. “Well, it sounds like you’re going to be ‘having your fun’ either way, so I think that I should make the most of it. What do you say?”

Slowly, Shane skimmed his fingers back and forth across Ilya’s stomach. It was fun to watch him grit his teeth against the laughter that so clearly wanted to escape him so he could say, “I say that you will be very sorry after this”

“Actually, I don’t think I will,” Shane replied. “And, anyway, I haven’t heard you say stop, so, if you think about it, it’s out of my hands.”

The look on Ilya’s face as his own words were thrown back at him was priceless, a combination of disbelief and pride, and Shane willed himself to burn the image into his memory.

But that was enough stalling. While Ilya was still deciding whether to be offended or horny (and the answer was clearly both), Shane dug his fingers into Ilya’s sides before traipsing upwards to worm them under his arms.

The full body jolt was almost as wonderful as the helpless grin that stretched across Ilya’s face. With his eyes scrunched shut and his curls splayed out on Shane’s pillow like a halo, Shane couldn’t help but think that Ilya had to be an angel. It was the only explanation for the way his breath whooshed out of him at the sight.

“Hollander, I will make you regret this—Hey! Shahane! Wait, дерьмо—” Ilya dissolved into cackles, bright and boyish and possibly the most beautiful sound that Shane’s ever heard in his life. He was hurling what Shane was fairly certain were Russian expletives at him, but there was a distinct lack of venom in his voice, so Shane wasn't overly concerned. He'd take whatever punishment Ilya deemed fit to dole out as his so-called revenge, knowing it would be worth it.

And this? Bringing Ilya to the cottage, seeing his smile and knowing that, for the next two weeks, they’re allowed to just be?

With a roll of his eyes, Shane turned off the phone, deciding that this was a conversation much better finished in person. Preferably with him mopping the ice with Ilya and his team.

The sounds of his teammates hyping each other up reached his ears and Shane allowed himself a small, private smile as he stepped onto the ice. Catching a glimpse of movement, he locked eyes with Ilya across the rink, and all thoughts of what might happen after the game faded from his mind.

Ilya sent a smirk his way and Shane steadily held his gaze, the tension only broken when Hayden skated up to him and bonked their helmets together, talking about how they’d be winning this game, no sweat.

And anyway, the win would taste even sweeter after the game, when he was faced with whatever Ilya had planned for him.

A few laps around the rink later, a sharp whistle sounded through the air, and Shane’s team gathered around him.

It was time to play some hockey.

They won 3-1.

Of course, Ilya had scored Boston’s one and only goal and the first of the game, which Shane couldn’t help but be a little proud of. Shane himself wasn’t much of a gloater, but he’d managed to score two out of Montreal’s three goals, which was something he planned on subtly holding over Ilya’s head for tonight.

But Shane had a feeling that Ilya enjoyed seeing him a little cocky. He also had a feeling that Ilya enjoyed knocking him down a couple of pegs.

On an unrelated note, Shane had made it up to Ilya’s hotel room, and he gave three sharp knocks to the door. It took Ilya five seconds to turn the knob and let him in, even though Shane knew he could’ve done it in three.

Asshole.

“Hollander,” Ilya said in greeting, eyes glittering dangerously in a way that was already threatening to make Shane go weak at the knees.

He refused to show it though. Not yet, at least. “Rozanov,” Shane replied, letting his lips just barely curl up at the corners.

Clearly, it didn't go unnoticed, because Ilya shot him a glare. “Yes, congratulations, Hollander. You won the game.”

Shane did his best to shrug modestly in a way that conveyed that he was not feeling modest at all, “You played well. Your goal was impressive.”

“Of course it was,” Ilya sniffed, “I am the one who scored it.”

Silence stretched on for a bit before they both cracked, grins softening as they came together for a kiss. It started off unusually tender for a post-game hookup, when fire was usually still raging in their veins, and Shane let himself sink into it for a moment until he felt Ilya trying to push for more.

He pulled back just enough for their lips to brush together, chuckling at Ilya’s groan of protest.

“Didn’t you say that you had a proposition for me?”

It was like those words flipped a switch in Ilya, and his grin widened treacherously as he said, “You are going to regret reminding me, but yes, I did say that.”

The threat spread like wildfire, a steady heat burning through Shane’s body.

Ilya leaned in closer. “Do you want to know what it is?”

“Yeah,” The word was barely a breath, so Shane cleared his throat and tried again, “Yes. I want to know.”

“Good. Here is my proposition: I will suck your dick.” Ilya started approaching Shane, a predator stalking its prey. Instinctively, a thrill working its way through his veins and straight down to his dick, Shane took a step back for each step forward. “As I do this, I will also tickle you. Your only job is to stay standing and stay silent. That is your reward for winning.”

Shane’s back hit the wall, and he hoped that his face wasn’t as red as it felt, even though he knew that it definitely was. “That doesn’t feel like much of a reward. That feels more like a punishment for beating you.”

“Does it matter?” Ilya clearly didn’t feel much sympathy, and didn’t buy Shane’s reluctance in the slightest, “You will like it.”

The darkness of the room clearly wasn’t doing him any favours as Ilya trailed a couple of fingers across his cheekbones. He grinned like Shane was a prize he’d won, like the heat radiating off of him was further proof of his victory.

“I—” Shane wasn’t sure what he’d planned on saying, probably some weak denial of wanting this so bad he was already half hard, but the words dried up in his mouth as Ilya dropped to his knees. Clearly, he was done with waiting.

But he didn’t touch Shane, not yet. Instead, he just looked up expectantly, patient in a way that betrayed his teasing words. He would only start when Shane gave him the okay.

“Fuck,” Shane breathed. With clumsy, eager fingers, he undid his jeans, watching as Ilya tugged them along with his briefs down to his knees. “Do it.”

That was all the permission Ilya needed, and he took Shane halfway into his mouth without another word.

It took an embarrassing amount of focus to not come right then and there. Sometimes, Shane still felt like a teenager around Ilya; finally being touched for the first time in a way that felt good and then being so surprised and horny that he didn’t even end up lasting a whole minute.

There were moments where that was part of the game, where Ilya pushed him over the edge as fast as he could, and then kept pushing just to see how much Shane Hollander could take before he cracked. Before tears started spilling down his cheeks and Ilya’s eyes glazed over at the sight.

But not today.

Ilya took him in a little further, pulling a groan deep from Shane’s gut. He scrabbled his hands against the wall, searching for something to hold onto as Ilya slowly pulled off, dragging the flat of his tongue roughly against the underside of his dick until his flushed lips were just wrapped around Shane's head.

A sharp exhale punched out of Shane when Ilya tongued his slit, swirling his tongue teasingly around the crown and lapping up the beads of precum that were leaking out. Then, without warning, he took Shane back in, hollowing out his cheeks and giving a muffled laugh at the helpless moan Shane let out.

His mind was fuzzy, overwhelmed with sensation and unwilling to form coherent thoughts. Which is probably exactly what Ilya had intended to do so that Shane would forget the other half of his so-called reward.

Blunt nails lightly trailed down Shane’s thighs and he, although he would deny it later, let out a very high-pitched squeal as he whited out out for a few seconds.

Ilya had learned that Shane was ticklish just a few months ago which, given how long they'd know each other, Shane found impressive. He’d been wrestling Shane to the bed when his hand slipped and squeezed at his side rather than his hip, higher than Shane had been expecting it. Apparently, the sound Shane made had been panicked enough that Ilya had immediately withdrawn and demanded what he’d done and if Shane was okay.

Thus prompted a red-faced, more flustered than he'd ever been in his life Shane to stammer through explaining that no, he’s fine, he’s just a bit sensitive is all. Maybe it was the way Shane’s voice climbed in pitch in sync with Ilya’s widening grin, or the way his eyes seemed to be glued to Ilya’s hands, but Ilya had declared that they must explore this immediately.

Moments later, Ilya also learned that Shane liked it when Ilya tickled him. A lot.

Shane had never known peace since.

“Ilya—” Shane choked on what sounded like a combination of a giggle and a moan, which Ilya really enjoyed, because his eyes glittered and he very briefly drew back for a breath before doing something complicated with his tongue that nearly had Shane coming right there.

Easing up a little further, Ilya allowed his teeth to gently scrape along the sensitive skin, the threat making Shane try to instinctively scramble back and groan desperately when he was reminded that there was nowhere to go. And then he just sat there, letting Shane’s barely-restrained twisting and jerking from Ilya dancing his fingers down his thighs and behind his knees do the work for him.

The fact that Shane was still even upright was a miracle. His legs were trembling with effort and every time he tangled his fingers in Ilya’s hair or leaned down to brace himself on his shoulders, Ilya dug in even more viciously.

Whether it was a warning or a punishment didn’t matter as much as the fact that it worked. Shane’s grip would inevitably loosen and he was back to valiantly fighting to keep his knees from buckling and sending him crashing down.

“Ilya- Ilya, I'm close,” Shane gasped out, the roiling heat tightening in his gut.

Instead of finishing him off like Shane thought he would, Ilya pulled off of him so fast it left his head spinning.

And then licked a solid stripe up the inside of his thigh.

A shocked laugh tore out of Shane alongside a “Ilya, that’s fucking gross!”

Ilya didn’t seem to care all that much, gleefully ignoring Shane’s dick in favour of running his mouth up and down trembling thighs, drawing out embarrassing giggles and the occasional yelp whenever he decided to lightly bite into the sensitive skin.

“Oh my God.” Shane ground out, heaving for breath and growing more desperate by the second, Ilya- Please.”

Of course, Ilya ignored him and said, “I love your legs, Hollander. Especially your thighs. I love it when they’re wrapped tight around me, keeping my cock inside you. I love how strong they are on the ice.” He looked up at Shane, smirking at how red his face was. “I love how they make you second fastest skater in the league.”

“Oh, fuck you!” Shane said, but he was smiling. Having Ilya here, on his knees, heaping praise on him, was making him dizzy. “I swear to God, Rozanov, if you don’t get your mouth back on my dick I’ll— Hey!”

He was cut off by a sharp squeeze to his knees, and Ilya leaned in like he was sharing a secret. “I especially love that I’m allowed to touch them like this, and see how crazy it makes you.”

Before he could say anything in response, Ilya took Shane’s dick all the way in at once in a way that definitely felt like he was being smug about it. He started bobbing his head with a single-minded determination, swallowing around Shane in a way that had him choking out curses.

It wasn’t long after Ilya’s hands returned to kneading the muscle of Shane’s thighs that he was frantically tapping Ilya’s head in a warning that was never heeded.

The orgasm tore through him as Ilya diligently swallowed his cum, and Shane’s legs finally went numb. He could feel himself starting to slide down the wall before Ilya was there, scooping him up and carrying him over to the bed before Shane could protest.

Ilya held Shane against his chest, safe and secure and so incredibly gentle even though Shane could feel his still hard dick pressed against his ass as he caught his breath. Lips pressed behind his ear and lingered there, breathing him in until Shane turned and caught them with his own.

Pulling apart just barely, Shane asked, “Need any help with that?”

“Hm, you broke the rules,” Ilya said. “Did not stay standing or stay quiet. Very bad.”

That wasn’t exactly a response to what Shane had said, but he had a feeling that Ilya was building up to something. “Oh yeah? And what’s my punishment?”

Ilya flipped him over effortlessly, pinning Shane down with his body weight while his finger skimmed teasingly across his hole.

“I think,” he said lowly, “that I will edge you until you cry those pretty little tears of yours. Until you are begging me to let you come a second time. And then, maybe, if I decide you beg sweetly enough, I will let you come. Does that sound like a fair punishment?”

What Shane wanted to say was no, absolutely the fuck not, you asshole. He wanted to whine and complain that he didn’t deserve that, that he’d die after what Ilya had already put him though.

Instead, what his traitorous mouth said was, “God, yes. Fuck- please, Ilya.” Because he was a glutton for punishment, apparently.

Craning his neck, Shane met Ilya’s eyes and saw them filled with adoration and something akin to awe. After a moment that sharp, mischievous look returned, and Ilya dragged the flat of his tongue across Shane’s ass, briefly sinking his teeth into the muscle possessively before leaning in close.

“As you wish,” were the words that fell from his lips, thick as molasses and just as darkly sweet. A threat and a promise.

Stepping back, Ilya watched as Shane undressed, lust melding with something akin to exasperated fondness when Shane carefully folded each article of clothing and set them off to the side.

He left his socks on, of course. The idea of anything touching his feet was disturbing enough to make any potential embarrassment worth it, but Ilya never commented on it.

Only when Shane was lying back on the bed did Ilya follow suit. Shane unashamedly traced the lines of his muscles with his eyes as Ilya pulled off his shirt. Almost as though he felt Shane’s gaze on him, Ilya took his time, always willing to put on a bit of a show, both in and out of the bedroom.

Finally, Ilya stood at the foot of the bed, naked, eyes languidly trailing over Shane’s body in a way that made him feel oddly vulnerable. Only most of his blood rushed to his face; the rest of it travelling somewhere else entirely.

That seemed to spur Ilya into motion, climbing on top of Shane with all the predatorial grace of a mountain cat. He settled atop Shane’s hips and leaned down, skimming his fingertips along Shane’s cheekbones, along the bridge of his nose, tracing the slope of his jaw.

Growing impatient, Shane reached out to grasp Ilya’s shoulders with the intent of pulling him down.

Faster than he could blink, his wrists were wrapped in Ilya’s callused hands, pressed back down to the mattress as Ilya gave him a scornful look.

“You do not get to touch,” he said, “Right now, only I get to touch, and your hands will stay where they are.” Ilya let go of Shane’s wrists, patting them with a sense of finality. “Then, if I think you have been good, then you can touch. If you touch before I give you permission, there will be consequences. Do you understand?”

Shane tangled his fingers into the sheets and gave a jerky nod, only to gasp when Ilya grabbed hold of his jaw with a nearly painful grip.

“I said, do you understand?” Beneath his intimidating stare, Shane caught a glimmer of amusement, and the corners of his lips were just barely twitching up in the ghost of a grin.

Ilya was having fun with this.

Suddenly, Shane’s words found him again and he managed to say, “Yes. Yes, I understand.”

“Good.” Ilya patted his cheek approvingly, “I am going to touch you now.”

It was the little things like that, things that Ilya might not even fully realize that he was doing, that warmed Shane to his core. The clear instructions, stating his next move and, within that statement, giving Shane the opportunity to protest if he wasn’t comfortable.

Fingers touched down on his shoulders, pulling Shane from his thoughts.

“You are thinking too loudly,” said Ilya. “Try to relax.”

Whatever Shane had been expecting, it wasn’t this. He’d been ready for rough, possessive touches, ones that had him struggling to keep his hands to himself as he writhed and pleaded for more.

This was different. Ilya skimmed his palms across Shane’s shoulders, lightening his touch to skim his fingers down his chest in such a gentle way that it felt like a caress. He traced the lines of his body, the scars and freckles that littered his skin, with a curious touch.

And it was relaxing. Shane could feel his muscles loosen, noticed how his mind quieted as all that mattered was Ilya’s fingers on him, committing the ridges and slopes of his chest to memory. The attention was overwhelming in the most wonderful way, setting his nerves alight with every brush.

Then me moved lower, ghosting over Shane’s ribs, and suddenly his nerves were alight in an entirely different way.

“My, my. We are certainly sensitive, aren’t we, Hollander?” Ilya asked when shivers began to travel through Shane’s body.

He pressed his lips together, willing his hands to stay at his sides so he wouldn’t give himself away.

But Ilya lingered, tracing up and down Shane’s ribs and it really fucking tickled. His chest trembled with the effort to restrain his laughter, but Shane couldn’t help the smile that was slowly forcing its way across his face.

Looking at Ilya, Shane saw a mixture of confusion, amusement, and a slow, dawning realization overtake his features. He crawled his fingers down to Shane’s sides and across his stomach, and the dam that Shane had so tenuously built came crashing down in moments.

“Roz—Rozanov! Don’t you dahare! Shihihit—” Laughter spilled out of his lips, Ilya tracing the lines of his stomach with more purpose now that he knew what effect it was having.

“What is this, Hollander? Certainly more than sensitive. Are you, ah…” Ilya trailed off for a moment, searching for the word, “ticklish! Are you ticklish, Hollander?”

Smug glee dripped from his voice, his movements growing more certain with each passing second.

“Nohohoho! I’m not ti—fuck, I’m just nohohot!” Shane couldn’t bring himself to actually say the word, breath catching in his throat. And then he made a terrible mistake by doing the one thing he’d been told not to do.

Shane reached up and grabbed Ilya’s forearms, trying to push him away.

Immediately, Ilya froze, staring down at him with a look that made icy cold fear slide down his spine while a strange heat burned in his stomach.

“Hollander, I thought that I had made myself very clear,” he said, deliberately removing his hands only to take hold of Shane’s wrists once more. “I said no touching. I also said that if you touched before I gave you permission, that there would be consequences. Do you remember?”

Out of a rare sense of self-preservation, Shane didn’t fight it when Ilya pinned his hands under his knees, offering a shaky nod in response.

“Yeah. Yes, I remember.”

Ilya leaned closer, a dangerous grin sharpening his face. “And yet you touched anyway. You are a very brave man, Shane Hollander, I must admit. I only hope that some of your spark will remain after you have faced your punishment.”

“What’s, uh—” Shane cleared his throat, mouth suddenly very dry, “what’s my punishment?”

His question was ignored, or perhaps answered, by one of Ilya’s own:

“Tell me, where else are you ticklish?”

Fingers returned to Shane’s torso, but this time more precise. Finding the spots that made him flinch just a little harder and zeroing on them like a bloodhound. Ilya seemed to be a natural at breaking past Shane’s meagre defenses and seeing through any front he tried to put up to hide when Ilya discovered a particularly devastating method.

Laughter came easier this time, but it was also softer now that he knew what was coming. Ilya seemed to enjoy having Shane giggling and twitching under his fingers, but quickly grew bored and went in search of something bigger.

Spidering his nails over Shane’s hips earned him a snort, his giggling pitching up into something slightly more frantic, but Ilya still wasn’t satisfied. Nonetheless, he remained there for a moment, enjoying how Shane’s snorts grew more and more frequent the longer he drew nonsensical shapes and patterns into the bone. He seemed particularly pleased when he figured out that the occasional squeeze would earn him a squeaky yelp.

“Ridiculous,” he muttered in a tone of voice that undoubtedly meant adorable, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe his own eyes.

Meanwhile, Shane was pretty sure that he was actively dying. It’s been years since he’d been tickled, and in that time he’d convinced himself that being ticklish was for kids. And on top of that, he’d convinced himself that it wouldn’t affect him anymore even if someone did try it which, up until now, nobody ever had.

He was so wrong. The sensation on bare skin was driving him insane, and Shane was suddenly wishing that he’d kept at least one layer on as some sort of barrier between himself and Ilya’s electric touch.

What’s more, is that Shane should hate it. He didn’t open himself up to touch, but he tolerated it for the sake of the people who care about him. Something like this, something so intimate and so totally out of his control, should have him scrambling to get away.

But this was Ilya, and the rules had never quite applied to him. So Shane squirmed, and he kicked, but he never really tried to get away.

At least, not until Ilya reached behind himself and dragged his nails down his thighs.

“FUCK!” Shane’s heels started scrabbling against the bed in earnest, never getting enough leverage to try and buck Ilya off his hips. “Go awahahahay! Rozanov—Not thehere!”

Ilya didn’t respond. Instead, he levelled Shane with an unimpressed stare, reaching back even further to scribble his blunt nails across Shane’s kneecaps, drawing another shout out of him.

It was slightly more bearable, but only in the way that Shane could get in a bit more air between fits of laughter. And also because the way Ilya was leaning backwards really accentuated his sharp lines and elegant strength in a way that Shane couldn’t help but appreciate despite the situation he found himself in. Once he felt like he could, he tossed out a half-hearted plea for mercy, “Ohmygod—wahahahahait! You’re so mehehean! Just—let me go!”

For a moment, Ilya removed his hands, letting Shane catch his breath.

He told himself that the pit in his stomach was relief; not disappointment.

“Perhaps I would consider stopping,” Ilya said, his intense gaze pinning him in place more effectively than his body ever could, “if you agreed to let me score a goal on you in our next game. Does that sound fair to you, Hollander?”

When Shane opened his mouth to answer, Ilya’s hands shot back down to his thighs, giving the muscle there sharp, precise squeezes that had him barking out increasingly desperate laughter.

“Oho fuck you, Rozanohov!” He managed to spit out. “Leave me alohohohone!”

Ilya’s fingers managed to worm their way to Shane’s inner thighs despite his best efforts, dancing across the skin before digging into the muscle, and Shane threw his head back, mind fuzzy and eyes suspiciously wet.

The tears clearly didn’t go unnoticed, because Shane could hear the grin in Ilya’s voice as he said, “I would never do such a thing. Especially not when you like it so much.”

Those last words had been whispered close to his ear, Ilya’s lips brushing against the skin in a way that was so distracting that Shane almost didn’t register his words. “What?! No—I dohohohon’t—Shitshitshit Ilya!”

“There is no need to pretend, Shane.” Ilya bared his teeth and rolled his hips, making Shane’s laughter catch on something much more guttural. “You forget that I am literally on your dick. You cannot lie to me about this.”

At a loss for words, Shane could feel the red heat of embarrassment creeping up his cheeks and he turned his head to the side in an attempt to hide his face in the pillows.

Ilya seemed to notice as well, since he tacked on, “I do not mind it, to be clear. In fact, I enjoy having you in my control in this way. At my mercy.” Shane’s laughter picked up at that, and, curse Ilya’s perceptiveness because he caught on to that too.

“I could just keep you here forever,” he carried on. “Your laugh has such a wonderful sound, especially combined with your other noises.”

A thumb brushed lightly over Shane’s nipple and a keening noise was ripped out of his throat before he could stop it.

“Wonderful example, Hollander!” Ilya praised teasingly, and Shane had a feeling that he would be clapping if his hands weren’t otherwise occupied. “See? There is nothing to be embarrassed about. Well, except for how ticklish you are, but I think it is fitting. It wouldn’t be nearly as fun if you did not enjoy it as well. Which you do.”

Once he got out of this, he was going to kill Ilya.

If he got out of this.

Fuck.

“Plehehease! Just shut up!” With that terrifying thought, Shane fell further into hysteria, letting the sensations wash over him.

“Me? Shut up?” Ilya seemed offended at the very notion, picking up on his attack in retaliation. “You do not know me very well if you are asking me to stop teasing. And I do not think that you are in a position to make any demands at the moment.”

He zeroed in on a spot that made Shane’s laughter pitch into silence, happily carrying on. “And begging? You must be above that, Hollander. Imagine if Canada knew that their precious hockey star could be reduced to begging by just a little tickling. It is pathetic, truly.”

With the way Ilya kept speaking to him and how he kept touching him, making Shane squirm against him and pushing him closer and closer to the edge, Shane was abruptly struck with the realization that he wouldn’t last much longer.

Shane tried to squeak out a warning, but Ilya’s eyes only lit up in his evilly delighted way as he stayed exactly where he was.

The hot coil within Shane snapped and he collapsed back against the bed with a sound that was somewhere between a choked giggle and a moan. Torturous fingers finally withdrew, only to be replaced with firm hands smoothing over his hyper-sensitive skin, helping Shane come down from whatever high he’d just been subjected to.

After a moment of catching his breath, his eyes met Ilya’s once more. “Holy shit.”

“Holy shit,” Ilya echoed.

Another beat of silence, and then Ilya tentatively asked, “Was that okay? Did you enjoy yourself?”

An incredulous laugh tore out of Shane, his cooling face suddenly flushed once more.

“Did I—? Yes, you asshole. I think it’s pretty clear that I fucking enjoyed myself.”

A proud grin settled on Ilya’s lips, and he leaned down to kiss Shane soundly. “Good,” he muttered against his lips. “Because I would like to have a repeat of this as often as possible, if that is okay with you.”

Then quieter, “You are beautiful when you laugh.”

The words wound around Shane’s heart, making themselves a warm home next to all of the soft things Ilya says just for him.

“Thank you,” Shane murmurs. “But I think that I should probably return the favour. Take care of you.”

For the first time today, Ilya actually seemed a little flustered. “Ah, there is no need for that,” he said, glancing down between them.

Shane followed his gaze and saw that the sheets were more of a mess than they should’ve been, and that Ilya was soft as well.

Which meant…

“Did you—”

“Yes,” Ilya quickly cut him off. “You kept moving. It was to be expected.”

A tinge of embarrassment shone though Ilya’s typically indifferent demeanour, so Shane pulled him down next to him, pressing into his side.

“I’m flattered that you think I’m that hot,” he teased, silently cheering when Ilya relaxed against him.

“Don’t let it get to your head,” Ilya muttered into his hair, sounding half-asleep already. “So, what do you say, should we make this a regular occurrance?”

Count on Ilya to always manage to turn things around on Shane. “Sure, but I want a turn next time.”

Ilya snorted at that, “Good luck trying anything when I know how easily you crumble. I am not afraid to use your newfound weakness against you.”

A finger wiggled against Shane’s side and he batted it away with a sleepy giggle. Ilya was probably right, but that wouldn’t keep Shane from trying. It would probably only encourage him to try more often, if he was being perfectly honest.

But that, along with cleaning his sheets, was a fight for another day. So for now, Shane just settled more comfortably against Ilya and said, “Goodnight, Rozanov.”

“Mmph. Goodnight, Hollander.”

Ilya. The way he remembers saying it, how easily it lined up with his own name said aloud. Only he now knows it might’ve been the first time Ilya said his first name, but it hadn’t been Shane’s. It doesn’t occur to him to think that maybe Ilya heard him that time and remembered it, and that it made it easier to choke out Shane’s name first as he fucked him on the couch. He’s too busy freaking out over everything and trying to get himself to enjoy sleeping with a woman. Rose is gorgeous and funny and so fucking kind it makes him want to cry. And she knows, he will soon find out, that she’s not doing it for him. Maybe it happens when he allows himself to picture Ilya rather than her. Maybe when memories of him start infiltrating other parts of his life. Maybe she would realize eventually anyway. She’s clever enough.

He leans against the counter and tries not to think of that morning. That is how it starts, with him trying to redirect his thoughts but still being so stuck on Ilya that they find him anyway, in a memory he thought he’d forgotten. It’s late in that memory, but they finished getting each other off a while ago. It’s the earlier days, before Shane has allowed Ilya to fuck him. His first night not leaving immediately, though he will leave soon. He remembers that. That he walks through the hotel corridor with the feeling of hands on him still lingering.

Whatever Shane had said, because Ilya had reached out in playful exasperation, had left them tussling on the bed, with Ilya winning because Shane’s not used to those things. And besides, it makes him feel strangely aroused to be manhandled like that. Ilya will notice, and maybe that is why he stops and doesn’t ever mention the saying of his name. Shane remembers it now. How he waddles out of the hotel room still kind of hard, because Ilya refuses to do anything about it.

“Haven’t I already satisfied you?” he says in that stupid fucking way he knows drives Shane crazy. “Why so greedy, Hollander?”

In retrospect, maybe using his surname was a way for him to reestablish the boundaries they never spoke about. Shane doesn’t see that then, because he doesn’t realize he’s crossed them.

“Ilya,” he remembers choking out. “S-stop.”

And to his credit, he had. He’d not even teased him about it when he so easily could’ve.

*

Several months later, Ilya brings it up.

“I remember that,” he says as Shane slaps his hand away.

“You do?” He tries to will his blush away, but it only grows when Ilya grins.

“Yes. I found it cute.”

“Oh, shut up, you fucking asshole.” But he says it fondly, as he finds he’s been doing for the past few years.

“Come on. Don’t you agree that it’s cute?” He spiders his fingers down Shane’s chest, laughing when he tenses. “I can make you do anything with just a touch.”

“Oh, so you’re a sadist.”

“Only for you. I like seeing you squirm. And do as I say.” He pauses at Shane’s lower ribs. “And I like it when you giggle.”

“I don’t giggle.”

“Oh, you giggle very much but very rarely.”

“That makes no sense- ah, please don’t.”

“I remember you being ticklish,” he says as he curls his fingers over Shane’s ribs. “And I remember you liking it.”

“That’s a lie- Ilya, oh my god!” The laughter comes out easily, in a way it didn’t use to before, but now Ilya is laughing too. He hadn’t last time. It had been so quick, tucked between Shane rolling over and Ilya pinning him to the mattress. Lost between flying limbs and exclamations. Easy to miss had you not been paying attention.

Evidently Ilya had.

“I’m barely touching you,” he says, sitting up more properly so that he can maneuver Shane’s flailing hands. Shane can’t help it. It’s second nature to fight him off, to try to escape the sensation. It doesn’t come as a surprise when Ilya straddles him, having moved so quickly he hadn’t stood a chance. The sound that comes out of him does surprise him though. Something high pitched and panicked. Something he can’t control.

Ilya has his hands on his hips, as he’s done many times, but his thumbs are drilling into the bone in a way that makes him buck them, calling out his name over and over. Later, when Shane thinks back on this, he wonders if his doing that is what eventually made Ilya become tender with him. Things change, once someone’s had a mouthful of your name. Much more than having a cock in your mouth, they find out.

Shane grabs his wrists, but they merely work as handles as Ilya doesn’t move a single inch. Whatever evil thing he’s doing with his hands sends shocks though his body and it’s clear that Shane isn’t used to this, isn’t used to losing control in this way, and coupled with the laughter that surrounds his pleas it really isn’t a surprise that he becomes hard. Not when tickling is nothing but touching and toying and controlling. It will take him a long time to realize that it’s more, but this is what he tells himself when Ilya tuts at his dick, all the while continuing to pull him apart.

“Ilya, please, mercy, fuck-”

“Oh, but I haven’t tried your thighs yet.”

From the amount of times Shane’s had them wrapped around him, one would think he wouldn’t have been able to keep his sensitivity a secret, but he had and Ilya rips that secret out of his hands with a simple squeeze to his flesh that has him howling. It’s that type of laughter when something kind of hurts and kind of tickles at the same time, and Shane feels his whole body jerk with each squeeze. Ilya managed to slip out of his grip easily, and now he finds he can’t seem to grab him again, and so he tries to twist, he kicks, he and his hardening dick beneath Ilya Rozanov and his fucking muscles. He’s all sweat now. Both of them are. The sheets are more of a mess than usual. Good thing he’s not the one sleeping there tonight, only he’s not sure if that’s true anymore.

“You are going crazy,” Ilya says with a laugh, almost sounding impressed. “Does it tickle that badly?”

“I will kill you, Rozanov.”

“Oh, no, Hollander. I don’t think you will. Who’s gonna take care of that if not me?”

Shane slaps his hand away. “Don’t point at my dick. You’re offending it.”

“Hah! He thinks he’s funny, but he’s the one giggling.”

“For the last time, I don’t giggl- ah!”

“I even have evidence and yet you still deny.” Ilya leans forward suddenly, face first really, and knocks them both down onto the bed again, Ilya laying flat over Shane with his face pressed into the curve of his neck, and Shane nearly thinks it’s over until he starts nuzzling him with a little too much vigor.

“Ilya.”

“I always suspected your neck is ticklish.”

“Oh my god, I’m gonna die.”

“So dramatic.”

“I’m gonna die tickled and horny.”

“Mm, I can help you if you ask nicely. But I will keep tickling you.”

“Fucking sadist.”

“It’s cute that you think I don’t see that you like it.” He pulls away suddenly, leaving Shane’s body cold and lonely during the seconds it takes him to move downward. He does it slower than usual, with an expression Shane can’t read but that makes him blush anyway, and when he leans down again to take him into his mouth, he does so while curling his fingers over Shane’s waist.

“Ah, oh fuck, Ilya-” Shane grips the comforter tightly and leans his head back, his whole body on edge as Ilya does what he does best. The tickling isn’t constant, but frequent enough that Shane moans and laughs in tandem. It’s the sound that Ilya makes that has him coming. Something low and content, almost fond, which he does in response to whatever abomination of a noise Shane lets out. He’s not really sure what his body’s doing at that point, other than the fact that he’s dug his heels into the mattress and grabbed a hold of one of Ilya’s wrists again without stopping him. The tickling pauses briefly as he finishes in Ilya’s mouth, and then it returns, gentle and slow and way too much for him now.

“Don’t,” he says and finally pushes him off. “I can’t bear it.”

Ilya hums, that smile back on his face as he leans down and presses a kiss to his lower belly.

“I think we need to tie you up next time,” he mumbles into the skin and Shane gulps not out of fear and they both know it. “I want to see you lose control when I tickle you after you’ve come without you being able to stop me.”

Shane exhales loudly. “We can’t do that in a hotel room.”

Merlin and Arthur would die for each other.

There was no question about it. And they had come pretty close to it on multiple occasions. Whether it be facing trolls, witches, wildren, or mortal humans, both would take a sword to the heart for the other if the need arose.

If no danger was in sight, however, they would gladly throw each other under (the medieval equivalent of) the bus.

The pair had been out hunting, and a rather unsuccessful hunt at that. Arthur was in piss-poor form, which meant Merlin took every opportunity to run his mouth (and annoy the king further). They were making their way back to the castle, Arthur leading the way and Merlin trotting along behind.

"-do you remember when you missed that deer that was riiight in front of you?" Merlin asked, his face would suggest innocence but his tone proved he was trying to piss Arthur off.

"Shut up Merlin." Arthur replied flatly.

"And what about that time you were aiming for that huge bird?" Merlin continued. "But it flew off before you even had the chance to line up your bow?"

Arthur glared directly forwards, to no-one in particular. "Shut up, Merlin."

The men turned their horses off the beaten path and onto a lesser known shortcut through the thick forest back to Camelot.

Partially to clear the path, and partially to vent his frustration, Arthur swung his sword in front of him to clear some of the vines blocking their way. Perhaps the thickness of the foliage would deter Merlin from any more snide comments, and make him focus more on directing his horse through the areas too thick for Arthur to break.

Surprise surprise, Merlin continued as before. "And the rabbit- oh the knights are never going to let you forget that you lost a sword fight to an unarmed bunny-".

"Shut up Merlin!" Arthur groaned, wiping his face with his hands to try and wipe Merlin's voice from his brain.

"But we haven't even got to the-"

Merlin's taunt was interrupted by a sudden quiet, one that Arthur whispered silent praise to. "Have you finally taken my advice?"

When his servant didn't reply, Arthur slowed his horse. The now unnerving silence made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end, and at the faint rustle of vegetation Arthur whipped his head round and drew his sword - prepared to leap from his horse and engage with whatever potential threat may have overpowered his friend.

But the moment his eyes caught sight of what made the rustle, Arthur burst into laughter.

Merlin hung a few metres behind his dismounted horse, completely tangled in the green ropes. The tautness of the plant rendered him almost immobile, a fact that was well demonstrated by his fruitless wriggling.

"Now," Arthur said with a grin, his previous sour mood turned completely upside down. "What was that you were saying about the knights not letting us forget things? Because I think they'd love to hear about this."

Merlin's glare shot daggers in Arthur's direction. "Hah hah." He said sarcastically. "Now help me down you ass."

Climbing off his horse, Arthur threw his sword into the dirt and sat on a nearby fallen tree. His grin eating more shit than a dung beetle.

Merlin scoffed. "Really? You're just going to sit there."

Arthur shrugged. "I've worked hard enough on this hunt, I think I deserve to have a bit of entertainment."

Merlin rolled his eyes and writhed further, pulling at the greenery with all his might before giving up and letting his body go limp.

"You're really not going to get me out of this?" He asked sincerely, a hint of annoyance still hiding at the back of his throat.

"You're a big boy Merlin." Arthur grinned cockily, stifling a chuckle. "You can do it."

With another roll of his eyes, Merlin continued to wrestle against the vines. But it seemed no matter which way he pulled, somehow he kept tightening the bounds that kept him suspended a few metres above the floor. He couldn't even use his magic with Arthur watching him this closely.

"You know Merlin, I think if you'd just relax you would have been free by now." Arthur continued.

Merlin made a few disgruntled noises before continuing to wriggle in the plants.

After a few minutes, Arthur stretched his arms dramatically. "I could take a nap by the time you've finished."

"Do it then." Merlin muttered under his breath. "Lazy ass."

Ignoring Merlin's comment, Arthur folded his arms behind his head and closed his eyes.

The warlock scoffed, before taking his opportunity to mutter a quick spell and free himself from the godforsaken foliage.

Unfortunately, he freed himself a little too eagerly, and left his body weight with nothing to support it. He toppled from the web of vines directly into a substantially deep patch of mud underneath him.

Arthur cackled at the sight, clapping his hands once before standing up and mounting his horse again. "Come on then."

Merlin grunted, dragging his feet through the ankle-deep sludge to where his horse was patiently waiting.

"I feel sorry for your saddle." Arthur grinned behind him. "Having all that dirt smeared over it."

Merlin shot him a glare. "And I feel sorry for yours, having your arse squashing it."

Rolling his eyes, Arthur quipped back a retort. "At least I'm not the one who has to clean it."

"I doubt you'd know where to start."

Early the next morning, before even the sun was up, Merlin snuck into the royal chambers. Not an unfamiliar process by this point, though usually it had far less exciting intent. This was not about cleaning, or polishing, or even returning stolen goods.

This was about revenge.

Focusing his attention on the sleeping king, Merlin swiped his eyes to the drapes of the bed at the top two corners, chanting an incantation. The fabric wound and tied itself around Arthur's wrists - perfectly balanced between holding firm without cutting off his blood flow. Then came the bedsheets themselves, winding around the bottom bedposts and around Arthur's legs with a similar spell.

Smirking to himself, Merlin slinked away to the furthest point of the room. Giving himself a mindless task of busywork to wait for Arthur to waken.

After what felt like hours, there was movement. At first, the sounds of a half-sleeping grunt and a rough attempt at turning himself over came from Arthur's bed. Then, a slightly bewildered collection of mumbles and tugs to the material. Before finally,

"WHAT THE-?" Arthur bellowed, thrashing in the binds. "MERLIN!"

Deciding to take this moment to make himself known, Merlin popped his head from around the corner. "Morning sunshine."

"Merlin." Arthur breathed an exasperated sigh of relief, before continuing his brash tone. "Get me out of here!"

Merlin smirked at his friend. "Oh but I've got a long day of work ahead, I feel I deserve some entertainment."

Arthur glared at him. "Merlin. Get. Me. Out."

Just to rub the situation in, Merlin sat on the lower half of the bed (where Arthur couldn't reach) with his legs crossed, letting his chin fall on his hands - eager to watch the show.

Realising his manservant was going to be absolutely no help, Arthur began thrashing again, tugging at the drapes of his bedframe with little success.

"You know," Merlin suggested. "If you'd just relax, maybe you'd get out."

"I can't relax!" Arthur cried indignantly. "I am stuck, and hungry - I haven't even had breakfast! I'm wasting away-"

"Oh you're fine." Merlin laughed, poking Arthur's exposed side.

Arthur shrieked and recoiled (as best as the bedding would allow), internally cursing his decision to sleep without a shirt on. He locked eyes with his manservant, watching the cogs tick momentarily in Merlin's brain.

"Oh~?" Merlin grinned. "What's this?"

"Merlin I swear to you..." Arthur threatened, trying his best to keep his composure. "I will throw you in the stocks if you come any closer."

Merlin shrugged. "You've done worse." And crawled closer.

"I'll have you executed!" Arthur's voice was beginning to break with nerves.

Merlin laughed briefly. "You wouldn't survive without me."

Pulling himself together, Arthur called upon his most serious, kingly, threatening tone. "I'll ban you from the tavern!"

Merlin rolled his eyes, before clambering behind his friend - reveling in the freedom he had to really draw out the anticipation.

"Guahards!" Arthur shrieked, a bark of laughter breaking up his command as he twisted as far away from Merlin as he could. "Help!"

"Oh they can't hear you." Merlin grinned, noting the way Arthur almost seemed to relax at that statement. Perhaps the king needed this more than he did.

Either way, Arthur was royally screwed.

Merlin's spindly fingers began climbing up Arthur's sides, making the king jolt and yelp with every touch. Even when all he could see was Arthur's reddening ears, Merlin knew Arthur's face was scrunched as tightly as possible - avoiding even the smallest semblance of a smile.

Surprisingly, as Merlin's hands climbed higher, Arthur's breathing relaxed. The tension in his muscles remained, not allowing himself the risk of letting out so much as a snicker, but clearly his ribs and armpits weren't where Merlin should be focusing.

Following the cues of his victim friend, Merlin let his hands drag down over the curves of Arthur's love handles. Instantly, the king's breathing hitched - bingo.

Continuing the previously-built anticipation, Merlin slowly scraped his blunt fingernails against Arthur's skin, pulling his digits from splayed out to centered on the king's sides. Arthur was practically vibrating at this point with the pure effort of keeping his reactions at bay. Desperately gripping at the tough-guy facade with a pained grimace on his face, he pulled at the drapes his limbs were caught in at violent, random intervals.

"You're allowed to smile, you know." Merlin teased right in his friend's ear, adding a little more pressure to transition into light poking.

Arthur yelped in reaction, before grunting - as if to remind Merlin that Arthur was the King of Camelot, far too tough for something as childish as being ticklish.

Unfortunately, he had a little shit of a man-servant. And someone who knew exactly what to do to get him to crack a smile.

"Huh, maybe His Majesty the King isn't ticklish after all..." Merlin proclaimed, watching Arthur's cheek twitch into a stifled (but amused) grin, before clawing his hands against Arthur's sides.

Arthur's body seized, pulling against the fabric holding him in place so tightly Merlin thought the bedframe might snap, before slumping into Merlin's tickly grasp.

And the sweetest, most childish giggles Merlin had ever heard bubbled out of Arthur's mouth.

"Meh-meh-meherlihin!" Arthur gasped between bouts of soft laughter. "Wahahait!"

"Oh?" Merlin raised an eyebrow (not that Arthur could see). "Are you ticklish, Arthur?"

Arthur ducked his head to his shoulder. "Shuhuhut up Meherlin!"

It was at this moment, Merlin realised that while Arthur was occasionally pulling on the binds, it didn't seem intentional. Arthur only seemed to really pull with one hand, and not even to protect himself.

It seemed he was only focused on covering his (now bright red) face... Interesting.

"What's the matter?" Merlin beamed, peeking his head around next to Arthur's. "It can't tickle that badly."

"Meherlin!" Arthur's eyes widened with a flustered laugh, before flicking his head in the other direction. "Shuhuht uhuhup!"

Merlin laughed. "You're one to talk about shutting up Mr Giggles."

Arthur's cheeks burned even brighter - the poor guy looked more flustered than Merlin had ever seen him before. At this point Merlin was having more fun teasing the king than actually tickling him.

Though by this point, Arthur was almost getting used to the clawing at his love handles, so Merlin decided to swap techniques and start squeezing at Arthur's hip bones.

Turns out, Arthur has the perfect layering of fat and muscle for Merlin to drill his fingers all the way into the king's hips without pain - just a hell of a lot of tickling.

Arthur screeched, and though his breathing became more frantic and his struggling became more erratic, the bubbly giggles from before sounded just as carefree (just a little less gentle).

"Meher- nohohoho- meherlin wahahait!" Arthur cackled, his face in a permanent beam.

"Well isn't this just adorable." Merlin teased, pitter-pattering his fingers over Arthur's stomach before returning to the king's hips. "You know, I don't think I've ever seen you this happy."

"Shuhuhut uhup meheherlin!"

Merlin grinned at his friend, finally deciding to show mercy. Poor Arthur was nearing exhaustion, and he still had a full day of training with the knights ahead of him.

With a swift, inconspicuous mutter, Merlin loosened the drapes holding Arthur hostage. It took the king a few moments to finally realised he could free himself, and he escaped with a little less hurry than Merlin expected.

But even after Arthur's breathing returned to normal, and the flush had almost faded from his face, Arthur still had a massive grin splitting his cheeks and his arms folded over his eyes.

Merlin stood off the bed and let his friend lie there for a few moments, waiting for the usual threat or sarcastic quip that followed their usual banter sessions.

"Will that be all, my lord?" Merlin grinned, moving towards the door (and hoping to provoke some sign of life out of the guy.)

But the thing with Bucky is that he doesn’t want help. He doesn’t want to talk about it, and he sure as hell doesn’t want to be seen as a victim or a burden.

So, you're standing there, fists clenched around the worn-out edge of your training gloves, eyes locked on Steve, the only one who might have any insight. You're working through your own sparring drills, but your thoughts keep flickering back to Bucky. His absence from this moment. You can’t get him out of your head.

Steve is sweat-slicked and a little breathless, but still as composed as ever. You throw a quick jab. He easily dodges.

"Hey," you say, standing down, shoulders dropping. "What’s going on with Bucky? Why isn't he here?"

He drops his guard. "He’s been through a lot," Steve says, like that wasn’t the understatement of the century.

You roll your eyes, shaking your head, but Steve keeps going, voice quieter, more measured. "He’s... isolating."

"Yeah, I’ve noticed." You pick at the tape around your hands and then pull your firsts back to fighting stance. Steve is ready for you. You throw a hard punch at him this time, the impact sharp against his arm, but your mind is elsewhere. "Is there anything I can do?"

Steve steps back, wiping his brow with the back of his hand, and looks at you like he's searching for something. You don’t know what, but you can feel the weight of it, the way his gaze lingers. "Just… be yourself. Just show up, treat him like you normally would." He tilts his head to the side, a wry smile pulling into his cheek. "Push his buttons. Y'know, like you usually do."

You let out a humourless laugh, wiping some sweat off your forehead. "I didn't want to push him. Antagonising a super soldier doesn’t seem like the best way to go about it."

He cracks a grin, one of those rare smiles you’ve seen from him, and his eyes soften. "That’s the point. He’s tired of being that guy. The super soldier. He needs to feel normal again. Don't pull back - you won't push him away. He’ll come around."

You stare at him for a second, trying to decide if he’s being serious. He’s got that look in his eyes, the one that says he knows exactly what he’s talking about. But you’re still skeptical.

"If you say so," you mutter, tying your gloves tight.

Steve chuckles, patting you on the shoulder. "Good. Now run drill twenty-two."

.

.

The next morning, you walk into the kitchen expecting the usual chaos of breakfast prep and clinking plates. But it's quiet today. Too quiet. You see Steve and Bucky sitting at the table. Steve’s holding a mug of coffee, but Bucky… Bucky’s got a book in his hands. It’s a small thing, but the fact that he’s holding it, actually reading, is a rare moment of peace.

You pause, leaning against the doorframe, studying them for a second. It’s not often you get to see the two of them like this. Calm, together, in a room bathed in morning light.

Bucky’s got that unreadable expression. He’s focused on his book, but you can tell it’s more out of habit than actual engagement. His eyes keep flickering to the edges of the pages. His mind is elsewhere.

And then, an idea comes to you.

You walk in like you own the place - a quiet confidence that comes from knowing exactly how to mess with someone. You grab the coffee pot, pouring yourself a cup, but you don’t take your eyes off Bucky.

"Hey, Bucky," you call out, cocking an eyebrow, "you want some more coffee with your smut?"

Bucky’s brow furrows, and he looks up from his book, confused. "Smut?" he asks, the word foreign on his tongue. Steve glances up, and they both just look at you, genuinely clueless.

You take a casual sip of your coffee, leaning against the counter like you’ve got all the time in the world. "You know, smut," you say with a smirk. "Spice."

He blinks. "Spice?" He looks back at his book, flipping the page like he’s searching for something.

You chuckle. "Yeah, sex scenes. In books. The dirty stuff."

Bucky’s face flushes a deep red, his eyes darting back to the pages, and his lips start to part as if he’s about to protest.

"No need to lie," you say, giving him a mock look of doubt. "I’ve read it. No judgment."

Bucky’s face looks like he might combust. "There’s nothing like that in here," he says quickly, eyes shifting between you and Steve like he’s about to combust, but Steve’s choking on his coffee, trying not to laugh.

You bite the inside of lip, trying to hide your grin. "Are you sure? Because I swear I saw you flick to the page where it gets real spicy."

He looks between you and Steve, horror creeping into his features. "You’re… you’re joking," he says, half in disbelief.

You smirk, lifting your coffee to your lips. "It’s nothing to be ashamed of, Buck. It's popular. Hell, you’re probably the only one who’s hiding it."

Steve’s snorting into his coffee, clearly enjoying this, and Bucky’s still looking between the two of you like he’s caught in some bizarre fever dream.

You take another sip of your coffee, pretending to be nonchalant, even though you’re holding back a laugh. "Not gonna lie, I’ve read far worse than what's in that book you're holding."

His face flushes deeper, and his gaze snaps between you and Steve, who’s barely holding in a snicker behind his coffee mug. There’s a moment where Bucky just doesn’t know what to say, his lips parting like he’s about to spill something out, but the words don’t come.

And then, like a switch, the realisation hits him.

You watch as the corner of his mouth twitches in that small, tight smile you’ve seen before, the one that doesn’t come around often. But this time, there’s something more in it. A shift. You’ve broken through just a little, and now the teasing, the banter - it feels different. The air between you is charged, in a way you can’t quite put into words. It’s the first time in weeks you’ve seen any kind of genuine expression on Bucky’s face.

"You’re messing with me," he says, voice dropping to something lower, darker. The challenge in his tone makes your heart race just a little faster.

You lean back against the counter, your coffee cup held loosely in one hand, your expression deliberately neutral. "I’d never mess with you, Bucky," you say, a sly grin tugging at the corners of your mouth. "I’m smarter than that. Just trying to start a book club."

He doesn’t respond right away, just watches you with those penetrating steel-blue eyes, and you feel something twist in your chest. He points a finger at you, glaring with a mix of annoyance and amusement. "Tell Steve you’re joking."

There’s a tension in the air now, something that wasn’t there before. Something unspoken. Maybe it’s the way he’s looking at you, or maybe it’s the fact that for the first time in a long while, you’re really looking at him.

Steve’s chuckle breaks the moment, and you glance at him, a little relieved for the distraction. But Bucky doesn’t look away. His gaze doesn’t soften, but it’s sharper now - focused, intent. There’s an edge to his stare that makes your pulse quicken, and you can’t decide whether it’s because of the game you’re playing or something else entirely.

"You’re ridiculous," he mutters, his voice warmer than before, though still carrying that familiar edge.

Your breath hitches for a moment, and you can’t tell if it’s the sudden softness of his voice or the way his proximity makes everything seem a little bit… closer than it should be. But you stand your ground, meeting his eyes head-on.

But then, Steve clears his throat loudly, and just like that, the moment snaps back into place. The tension fades, but it doesn’t disappear. Not entirely.

Bucky looks at Steve, then back to you, and finally sighs in defeat. You smile to yourself, trying to hold in the satisfaction as Bucky gives you a glare with an undeniably playful edge. "I’ll let you off the hook. For now."

But as Bucky grabs his book again, his fingers brushing over the pages, you can feel it - the warmth that's simmering. It’s fragile, but it’s real. And for the first time in days, Bucky looks like he’s in the moment, not lost in the past.

He's here.

.

.

You’re mid-sentence, arguing that the protagonist’s internal conflict didn’t pay off, when the quiet creak of the library door pulls both your and Loki’s attention.

Bucky steps inside, the dim lamp light cutting across his face. His jaw’s tight, but his eyes gleam with something unreadable. He’s got the book in hand - the book - and you already know what he’s going to say before the words even leave his mouth.

He lifts the novel slightly, dark gaze flicking from Loki to you. "No smoot."

Your mouth twitches. "You mean smut, Buck."

Loki, of course, is the first to speak. He closes his own book with deliberate flair, settling into the leather wingback like a king on a throne. “What's this?”

Bucky's eyes don't leave you. "Not a single sex scene in here. Not even a kiss."

You exhale slowly, fighting to keep your expression neutral. "Must’ve been reading the wrong edition," you murmur, reaching for your tea.

Loki gives you a look that could be called gleeful if it weren’t laced with such dry malice. "Please, darling," he drawls. "If you’re going to gaslight the poor man, at least try to make it subtle."

Bucky watches you, head tilted slightly, his brow raised in amusement. "So you were joking," he says slowly. "Trying to get a rise outta me."

You lift your brows. "Trying?"

You don’t mean to sound breathless, but you kind of are. Because Bucky isn’t just amused - he’s focused. The kind of focus he gets when he’s squaring up with someone. His weight shifted just forward enough, like he’s waiting for something.

Loki, however, is thriving on the mischief. He conjures another book from thin air, holding it aloft between his fingertips, the cover glinting with gold leaf and something entirely indecent on the front.

"If you're is truly disappointed by the lack of literary debauchery," Loki says to Bucky, tone smooth and unbothered, "you might prefer this. Popular on Midgard, I hear. Something about dukes and corsets."

You cough into your tea, trying to keep it together. "Shit. Not sure I'd take Loki's suggestion for this stuff, Buck."

Loki's glare swings to you. "And why not?"

Bucky huffs a laugh, but it’s short-lived. His attention’s on you, too, gaze narrowing. "You should be careful who you're messing with."

Before you can respond, Loki cuts in, his voice sly and dangerous with the air of someone about to set the room on fire.

"If you’re struggling with her mouth, Barnes..."

You snap your head toward him. "Don’t."

Loki’s smile turns slow and wicked. "Oh? He doesn't know?"

"Know what?" Bucky asks, now looking to Loki.

"Loki," you growl, the warning sharp now.

But he ignores it entirely, already too far gone. He gestures lazily toward you, his tone almost sing-song. "She’s incredibly ticklish, Barnes. Mouthy little thing until you find the right spot. Then it’s all helpless laughter and desperate apologies."

Your heart lurches. "Loki-"

But the trickster’s already leaned back, positively smug. "Writhing, squealing," he continues, voice full of mock nostalgia. "It's delightful, really. Highly effective. I suggest you try it."

Bucky’s attention snaps to you. Sharp. Curious. Dangerous.

And then he moves.

Not fast - not overt. But his steps are steady, and your breath hitches the second he crosses into your space. You sink deeper into your armchair, instinct or gravity, you can't say which.

Bucky follows, slow and calculated, until he’s bracing one hand against the back of your chair, the other resting casually on the armrest, caging you in with practiced ease.

His head dips just slightly as he leans over you.

Your spine locks up. Your pulse is a drum.

You force yourself to tilt your chin up, meet his gaze. But it’s not easy - not with the way he’s looking at you, not entirely amused anymore. This is something else - playful, yes, but edged with something sharp. Something primal.

You don’t dare move.

His voice is low when it hits you. "You ticklish, sweetheart?"

Your skin lights up like static.

You don’t flinch. You can’t. He’s too close. Close enough to see the tendons in his neck, the glint of his dog tags, and the faint smirk pulling at his stubbled mouth.

You swallow, hard. "Bucky, I-"

"One more word about smut," he murmurs, "and I’ll make you regret it."

Your lips twitch.

Because this - this - is good. Bucky, letting loose. Teasing. You could almost cry from the relief of seeing him like this. Not haunted. Not withdrawn. Just a guy giving you hell.

"Understood?" he adds, voice low and rough.

You nod, trying to keep your grin in check. "Cross my heart."

He studies you a second longer. And then, without another word, he straightens and walks away - calm, controlled, leaving the scent of coffee and leather and adrenaline in his wake.

You exhale once he’s gone, sagging into the chair like your bones gave out.

And then, of course, Loki.

The bastard crosses one leg over the other, examining you with a look that says he’s just found his favourite soap opera and you’re the main character.

"Well," he says, smiling like a serpent. "That was electric."

"Don’t," you say quickly, pointing at him.

He raises a brow. "I’m merely observing. Stark’s infrared sensors probably picked up the heat signature."

"You’re such a dick," you mutter, crossing your arms tightly across your chest as you glare at him. You can't keep the edge from your voice. "Seriously, telling Bucky to tickle me? What the hell?"

Loki’s eyes flick up from the book in his hands, his lips twitching like he’s trying to hold back an insufferable grin. He doesn’t even flinch under your stare, too amused by your annoyance. Of course he is.

"Oh no," he says with exaggerated sympathy, looking up just enough to give you that devilish grin of his. "The handsome super soldier might pin you down and place his hands all over you. How ever will you survive?"

You glare harder and pick up your tea. "Whatever. You're still wrong about Hotchins in the third act."

Loki takes the cue and picks up your argument from where it left off as you try, and fail, to suppress the flutter of heat low in your belly.

.

.

It's the very next morning that you walk into the living room with the sort of easy confidence that comes from a good night’s sleep, a hot shower, and no immediate need to duck for cover... and you walk straight into a trap.

Steve and Banner are seated across opposite couches, coffee mugs in hand, data pads in the other, discussing something in quiet tones. Loki lounges like a bored cat - how he manages to drape himself across furniture like it was carved for him, you’ll never know. And Bucky...

Bucky’s seated on the end of another couch, boots planted on the ground, body relaxed but alert in that way of his. His eyes are lowered, reading. The book’s balanced in one hand, and the moment you see the cover, your steps slow.

Because you’ve read that one.

And that one is definitely not PG.

A laugh huffs out of you before you can stop it. "Oh my god. That book?"

Bucky doesn’t look up. But he goes very, very still.

You continue across the room, grin widening, genuinely excited. "How far are you? Wait - don’t answer that. Let me guess. Chapter fourteen?"

Steve chuckles into his mug, glancing over. "We know you were just messing with him the first time."

"I was, the other day," you say, hands up. "That book was clean. But this one..." You giggle, but you're actually kind of excited to discuss it with him- uh, the plot, that is.

But Bucky closes it slowly and tosses it down onto the table like it just insulted him.

He stands.

And something shifts.

It’s subtle. Just the tension in his shoulders, the way his head tips slightly to the side. But your stomach drops all the same.

Because you remember. His voice in your ear.

"One more word about smut, and I’ll make you regret it."

You laugh - nervously, this time. Hands up. "Hey now, hold on. This isn’t a repeat offence. I'm genuinely curious."

"Sure," Banner chuckles from the couch, not looking up from his data pad. "Totally sounds like curiosity. Not at all like a joke at his expense."

"Okay, wow, betrayal from all sides," you mutter, taking a small step back as Bucky starts toward you. "I’m just saying, I didn’t expect you to be reading that book of all books, I-"

He says nothing. Just takes another step.

Measured. Intentional.

You keep backing up. "Seriously, Bucky, I’m innocent this time. Genuinely. I wasn’t teasing you, I swear. I was-"

"Don’t run. Don't make me chase you," he says, voice low. "Just come here and take it."

Your heart spikes so hard it echoes in your ears. "Okay, see - that right there? That’s terrifying."

He takes another step. You bolt.

You turn, trying to whip around the couch-

-and slam full-speed into Loki’s chest.

Your breath leaves your lungs in a hard puff, and before you can untangle yourself, his fingers coil around your wrists. He ensnares you with far too much grace, and far too little resistance.

Then you glance over Loki’s shoulder. See the version of him still seated casually, still sipping tea.

Until it shimmers, and vanishes.

"Oh you son of a-" you gasp, already squirming. "You set me up - this was a trap!"

Loki chuckles, low and serpentine, in a voice only you can hear. "Who, me? Would I truly give Barnes a book I knew would provoke some commentary from you?"

Your stomach drops, you look up at him, breathless and flushed. "No..."

You tug at your arms, but Loki just tuts and holds you in place.

"C’mon," you try, turning to Bucky. "Truce. I didn’t mean anything this time. Just honest commentary."

Bucky smirks as he reaches you, the look in his eye somewhere between wicked and indulgent. "You always talk this much when you’re nervous?"

"I’m not nervous," you lie. "I’m smart. There’s a difference."

The two of them exchange a look, one that sends heat down your spine and makes your hands twitch in Loki’s grip.

"Let’s get her seated," Loki says lightly, dragging you toward an empty couch. "I’d hate for her knees to give out from anticipation."

"Oh fuck," you groan.

They ease you down - not rough, but not exactly gentle either. Before you can sit properly, Bucky swings a leg over your hips and settles, his weight pinning you in place.

"Steve? Bruce!?" You wriggle against your captors to no avail, shooting a desperate look to the bystanders. But they merely toast their mugs, a sign you're on your own. Your heart stutters as you turn back to Bucky and Loki.

You buck a little, instinctive panic fluttering in your stomach. "Guys- wait. Hang on-"

"Reasoning window closed," Bucky says calmly, adjusting his position. "You were warned."

Loki chuckles and pins your wrists above your head. "I believe Barnes has earned this one."

Bucky looks down at you, one eyebrow raised, the picture of mock deliberation. “Well? Where should I start, Loki?”

"Bucky, please-"

Loki smiles. "I’d hate to deny you the delight of discovery."

And then-

Bucky presses his fingers to your stomach.

You jerk violently and screech, the sound raw and high-pitched before devolving into a helpless laugh that rips from your chest like it’s been waiting days to break free.

"Fuck! No- Bucky!"

"Wow. You are so ticklish," he says, incredulous, like he’s just uncovered a national secret. He presses again, harder, and you twist, laughing uncontrollably as he digs into your sides.

Your muscles spasm. Your feet kick the cushions. Loki’s grip on your wrists is annoyingly effective.

"Wait, WAIT! I’m sorry!" you gasp, voice cracking from laughter. "I-I take it back! I take everything back!"

"Too late," Bucky says, smirking now, barely breathless himself from the effort.

Your laughter pitches higher as he shifts lower, targeting your hips, and your brain starts short-circuiting from the overload.

And through it all, even as your cheeks burn and your lungs scream, the warm, sharp heat of it stays with you-

He's laughing with you. Not at you.

He’s open. Present.

Alive.

So you brace to take your medicine.

Bucky's fingers scuttle lightly along your sides, dipping just beneath the hem of your shirt where skin meets air and nerves light up like a damn Christmas tree.

You lose it.

Your laugh is immediate - loud, cracked, breathless - and your entire body lurches like it’s trying to escape its own skin. You twist, squirm, kick, all of it completely fucking useless under the weight of a super soldier and the iron grip of a literal god.

"No- fuuuck, Bucky! I swear- I’m gonna-"

"Going to what?" he challenges, voice calm, maddeningly measured as he drags his fingers up your ribs, slow and deliberate. "Be more careful with your commentary next time?"

You shriek through another peal of laughter, your legs flailing against the couch cushions. "I was genuinely curious!"

Steve snorts from the other side of the room. "Sure you were."

Banner still doesn't even look up from his tablet. "This is what happens when you antagonise assassins with trauma and downtime."

You try to scream something back but all that comes out is a garbled, breathless sob-laugh as Bucky zeroes in on that brutal little spot just beneath your ribs, one hand holding you down by the hip while the other dances back and forth across it in merciless zigzags.

It’s not fair - he’s too strong, too steady, too fucking good at this.

"Buck, I swear-" you gasp between giggles, "-you’re gonna kill me!"

“You’ll live,” Bucky says dryly. But there’s a twitch at the corner of his mouth, that rare ghost of a grin that’s less threat and more reward. Like he’s enjoying this more than he’s letting on.

You glare up at Loki, who's still got your wrists pinned above your head, effortlessly casual.

"You traitorous bastard," you wheeze. "Let me go and fight me like a god."

Loki raises a brow. "And risk being thrashed by a ticklish mortal writhing like a fish on a dock? I think not."

Bucky hits a weak spot and you squeal, lashing out at Loki - “You glittery frostbitten motherfucker!”

"Language," Steve calls from behind his coffee cup.

Loki smiles cold and bright. "I wasn't planning to get my hands dirty, but seeing as you insist on dragging me into this..."

He moves your wrists to one hand and slides the other down your arm. You suck air through the giggles, eyes going wide, and shake your head.

"W-w-wait! No! I'm sorry! I didn't- SHIHIT!"

His fingers glide with awful precision into the hollow of your underarm, just a featherlight stroke to start.

You scream.

Your body convulses violently, torn between twisting away from Bucky’s maddening fingers at your lower ribs and Loki’s devastating scrapes along your underarms.

"No - oh my god - fuck, Loki, don’t-!"

"Oh, we’re well past don’t," Loki says smoothly, fingers trailing in tight little circles, never fully lifting, just skating and brushing and tormenting.

It’s like they coordinated this. The way Bucky’s hand shifts lower again, teasing at the crease of your hipbone with just the pads of his fingers - sweeping side to side, unpredictable and effective. The way Loki keeps his strokes light, fluttering, like he's writing a damn poem on your skin in ancient runes.

Your stomach jerks every time Bucky’s touch flirts with your waistband, and the pressure of him straddling your hips pins you in place no matter how hard you buck.

You try to thrown him off, but he just shifts his knees, anchoring you harder. The muscle under his jaw twitches with restrained laughter. He’s trying to look serious. He’s failing.

You gasp, flailing weakly. "I’m gonna die-"

"Can’t die from tickling," Banner says absently. "Elevated heart rate, maybe. Definitely some stress on the diaphragm. Oh, and laughter-induced fatigue is a thing, too."

"I hate science!"

"Noted," Steve says, grinning now. "We’ll put it in your file."

"She might pass out, though," Banner observes mildly, finally looking up.

"She’ll be fine," Steve says, sipping his coffee. "She needs the cardio."

You’re laughing so hard your voice is almost gone, hiccuping now, tears sliding sideways down your cheeks. "I- I swear- I’ll kill you both-"

"Already tried," Loki murmurs, deadpan, still tracing maddening circles under your arm. "Failed spectacularly, if I recall."

"Yeah," Bucky adds with a tilt of his head, "You’re not in much of a position to be making threats."

His fingers walk back up your ribs again, slowly, rhythmically, like he’s feeling each one - tracing the outlines like he's mapping you.

It’s unbearable.

It’s warm and raw and intimate in a way you didn’t expect, in a way that’s short-circuiting your brain and turning your limbs to jelly. It’s playful - but layered under that is a weight you can feel: that he's choosing this. Choosing you. Not mocking. Not hurting. Just being, here, with you, present and real and alive.

And that’s when Bucky leans in, face close to yours, his voice low and rough with amusement. "You bring up smut again," he says, "and next time I’m starting at your feet."

You wheeze. You actually wheeze.

Then he shifts his position just slightly. The movement is barely noticeable - just a subtle shift of weight, a lean forward - but it frees his right hand, which now dips lower.

You feel it coming before it lands. The anticipation alone has you screeching.

"No! No no no- not there-!"

But he does. His hand slips past your waistband, just far enough to press into the soft spot at your lower belly, fingers drumming lightly before grabbing at the hypersensitive nerves beneath.

You go feral.

Your scream dissolves into breathless, chaotic laughter, your entire body spasming under the onslaught. You thrash, but you’re caged by both of them - Bucky pressing you down, Loki above holding your arms in place like a steel-boned statue. You can’t breathe. Can’t think.

You’re just nerves and heat and helpless, writhing laughter.

Steve watches it all unfold, biting back a grin. "You know, this is probably against several peace treaties."

"Oh, absolutely," Banner replies. "But it’s compelling television."

You’d kill them too, if you could.

"Alright-okay-I’m dying," you gasp, choking on laughter, trying to twist away as Bucky’s fingers keep tormenting that same damn spot. "Mercy! Please, fuck - I mean it, I can’t-!"

"You sure?" Bucky cocks a brow. "Sounds like there’s still plenty left in you."

Your eyes close as you try to suck in enough air to speak. You kick the couch cushions blindly, and Loki’s fingers resume teasing your ribs, climbing up toward your armpit again, and your breath fractures.

"OH MY GOD- OKAY! I’M SORRY - FUCK - UNCLE, TRUCE, WHATEVER YOU WANT! I'M SERIOUS!"

Bucky finally stops. Slowly. His fingers ease off, dragging lightly across your stomach once more before retreating, and you melt into the cushions, panting, your body shivering from residual laughter.

Loki releases your wrists and stands, dusting his hands like he’s just completed a satisfying day’s work. “I’d say we’ve done a public service.”

You gasp like you’ve surfaced from underwater, cheeks on fire. You blink up at the ceiling and rasp, "I’m gonna have nightmares about fingers."

"Splendid," Loki says pleasantly.

"I hate you both," you croak.

Steve chuckles. "She’s lying."

Banner taps his tablet. "Endorphins through the roof. She’ll forgive you in five."

"Three," Steve corrects.

You let out a muffled groan, pressing your hands over your face. "I hate this entire team."

You don’t even realise when Bucky shifts - just feel the weight lift off your hips, the heat of him pulling away, the absence of torment like stepping out of a rainstorm.

Then his hand slips under your elbow and he’s tugging you upright, gentle but firm. Your limbs are jelly. Your lungs barely work. Your chest heaving with the aftershocks of too much laughter and too many nerves frayed to the edge.

You try to sit straight, but your body betrays you and you fall - helplessly, gracelessly - against his side where he sits.

Bucky lets out a low, amused huff as you slump against him like a puppet with its strings cut.

You mumble into the shoulder of his t-shirt. "I think I saw the light. Pretty sure it told me to go back to bed."

Steve snorts. "Not a chance."

You peel your face from Bucky’s shoulder just far enough to shoot a bleary glare toward the couch across from you.

Steve’s grinning around a mouthful of coffee. "It’s training time. Get your caffeine, get your gear, let’s go."

You groan and swiped a hand down your face. "I’ve already done my cardio."

Loki smirks faintly, straightening the cuffs of his shirt. "You’re welcome."

Bucky chuckles low, then pushes off the couch, offering you a hand. "C’mon. I’m game for some sparring."

You blink up at him. It takes a second to register what he’s said.

He hasn’t trained with the team in weeks. Not since things got dark again, and he started retreating into the corners of the compound like a ghost in the walls.

But now... he’s standing here, hand out, relaxed in a way you haven’t seen in too long. A flicker of light back in his eyes. Not all the way there. But present. Here.

You slide your hand into his, let him pull you to your feet, your legs still wobbly as hell.

As he turns toward the kitchen, you look past him - catching Steve’s eye across the room.

You don’t say a word. You don’t have to.

Steve gives a small nod.

You let out a slow breath and follow Bucky, faintly buzzed, breathless, nerves still crackling from the aftermath.

But warm.

An involuntary smile etches into your lips, eyes stinging as you blink back tears of relief.

You got the sense that he'd figured out the softest spots of you - mentally and otherwise - long ago. That he'd... catalogued them. That he took great delight in silently holding the knowledge of where to press. And how. He could get under your skin like no one else could. Burrowing deeper with heated looks at unpredictable moments, then ebbing back with pure professionalism at others.

It kept you humble when it came to facing him on the mats.

Usually.

Today... you didn't know what it was. Maybe the thrill of landing solid hits on two super soldiers and a Norse god. Maybe you got cocky.

Maybe the curl falling loose from the hair knotted low at his nape was just too distracting.

But you tried a move too risky, and he slipped past your guard. You caught his brow raising brow as he evaded your fist. The micro-second comment in the gesture went something like:

You really thought that would work?

Yes. It would've worked against a lesser fighter. The fact that you thought it might work against him... well, that was paramount to insult. Not something he'd let slide. Not when you made clear, time and time again, to all of these super-people: going easy on you wouldn't help be better.

So they didn't go easy - but that didn't mean they'd meet your mistake with a punch that could shatter your sternum. Usually, you'd just get pushed off balance, or pinned to the mat, or locked in some uncomfortable position until you could explain what you'd done wrong. Which was fine. It all helped.

Today, however, it seemed Loki wanted to teach you an extra little lesson.

His palm swept up, thumb hooking into the soft space under your arm. You slammed your bicep down on reflex, wincing, trapping his thumb as his fingers wrapped around and pressed into the sensitive muscle under your scapula.

His fingers didn't stop at pressing. A choked gasp was forced from your mouth, your body jolting before your mind realising that his fingers were wiggling, you were squirming, he was tickling you.

Your knees buckled, eyes wild and flying to his calculated stare.

He watch you as you slowly sunk lower, his head cocked, his smirk spreading when the first startled, hapless giggle bubbled over your lips.

Get away get away get away- every single base animal instinct flooded into flight. You pushed back on your heels, dislodging his hand from under your arm as your backside hit the floor. You were spluttering, panting, giggling - fucking giggling, of all things - and you felt yourself moving to scoot back, eyes fixed on the god standing above you.

He didn't press his advantage. He didn't have to. He just stood over you, that same brow arched, blue eyes glinting with something cold and curious and satisfied. "Well," he murmured. "That's new."

You clenched your jaw, regaining composure, forcing yourself back up to stand. "Dick," you grumbled, straightening your clothes as warmth crept up your neck.

"Fascinating, really," his smirk grew, eyes scanning over you. "Have you always been so-"

"Shut it," you warned, glare cutting to him.

"Oh no," he gave a single shake of his head. "You're not getting out of this one."

Not after what you just tried to pull, was the unspoken subtext.

Shit. You should've known better than to try such a cheap trick on a god with an ego the size of the fucking continental United States.

Loki locked his fingers behind his back, started pacing around you, appraising. “Battle-hardened Avenger felled by a few seconds of tickling…" He swung his gaze to the others. More specifically, Steve. "You didn't think to train this out of her?"

Steve had straightened, fists gripping the ends of the towel slung around his neck, eyebrows raised. "Train?"

Bucky tilted his head, watching you like a hawk. "Huh."

"Oh, come on," you started, rolling your eyes, hands on your hips, trying to brush it off. "This is not something that requires training."

“You squealed,” Bucky said, grin now forming.

“I did not.”

"You crumbled," Steve grimaced with a playful edge behind it.

“Like wet paper,” Loki added. "It was rather... adorable, actually."

"This could be a problem," Thor hummed in thought. "Could it not? If your enemies learn of this."

Your head snapped to him. Then your eyes back to the others.

Shit.

Shit, shit, shit.

The team had been without mission for almost two weeks; the boys were bored. And you'd just handed them some free entertainment.

You took a measured breath through your nose, and assured Thor: "They won’t."

"But if they did..." Steve started, slowly.

You turned. He was looking at you - not mocking, not smug. Just… calculating. Thoughtful.

You frowned. "Then what?"

"They’d have leverage," Bucky said.

"I wear full body armour."

"Armour can be compromised."

You could feel the shift happening.

The slow, creeping change in the air.

Loki was already grinning again, full teeth. "Pressure point training, perhaps?"

You scoffed. "Absolutely not."

Thor crossed his arms, ducking his head as if weighing the option. "It may be wise."

You crossed your own, arguing, "There's no proven method of desensitisation; you can't train someone out of being ticklish, Loki's just stirring mischief."

But Steve was quiet, eyes shifting to Bucky. Bucky’s arms were crossed too now, mouth twitching, his eyes finding Steve's.

You clocked the exits.

Three of them. One closest, but Thor stood near. The second was by Steve, and Loki, in his pacing, had subtly moved to block the third.

Fucking shit.

"Let’s just say," Bucky started, shrugging one shoulder, "we’re in the field. You’re caught. Someone finds a sweet spot-"

"-and they want to know where some files are hidden," Steve adds.

Loki hums in agreement, faux-consideration painted across him. "Security codes... contingency plans..."

You shifted from one foot to the other, hackles raising. "This is not a realistic scenario. On what planet would I ever be tickled for information?"

"Several," Thor nodded thoughtfully, looking to Loki. "At least four in this universe alone."

"Hmm, yes," Loki confirmed. "And I do believe in some factions on Sakaar."

You rubbed your temples. "This is not happening," you said. Mostly to yourself.

"There’s no harm in proving you’d withstand it," Steve said, voice calm. It almost sounded reasonable.

Your eyes flicked to him. You scoffed again. "Don't use your Captain America voice on me like you actually-"

He met your gaze evenly. And you stopped talking.

Because suddenly... you knew.

He wasn’t joking.

He was serious.

Not cruel. Not cold. Just… decisive. Like an older brother about to teach you a hard lesson for your own good.

You felt the breath stick in your chest.

"Steve. C'mon."

He straightened up, slow.

Bucky’s grin widened.

Thor stretched his arms with a lazy flex.

Loki turned toward you, smirking.

Your stomach dropped clean through the floor. Bucky took a step forward and you flinched, body readying to bolt.

"Hey," Bucky said, lifting his hands like he was trying to ease the tension. "You don’t have to prove anything."

You glared. "That’s exactly what this is."

"No," he corrected, smile just shy of cruel. "This is about making sure you don’t give up state secrets just to make it stop."

Your face burned. "I would never-"

"Good," Loki cut in, eyes glittering. "You're confident. You'll have no issue proving it, then."

You blinked. "What?"

Steve’s voice was low. Final. "We should put it to the test."

And just like that, the temperature in the room dropped. Your heart slammed into your ribs.

You were boxed in. Outnumbered. Outplayed.

"Steve. You’re not seriously suggesting simulating an interrogation where I'm..." you winced at the mere thought - betraying your nerves.

He shrugged in that infuriatingly calm, Captain America way. “Look, I trust you. But you always say training should cover every angle. This is just... one of them.” He tried not to smile.

You hated how much they were enjoying this. Bucky wasn’t even hiding his grin. Thor was scratching his beard thoughtfully, nodding like this was all so fucking reasonable.

Your jaw hung slack, you glared at Steve. "You're seriously gonna make me do this?"

Steve's head went to the side in thought. "No. It's your choice."

Loki didn’t even pretend. His smirk stayed plastered across his face like he had been waiting its whole life for this moment. "Of course, we'd never force you to prove it..." Loki raised his hands in surrender. "Not if it would be too much for you."

Okay. Now your pride was involved.

Loki continued. "If you're afraid... you just can say so."

He knew exactly how to bait you. It was so obvious.

But it still fucking worked. And that was on you.

You sucked your teeth, arms still crossed, jaw tense, looking between the varying degrees of smug in your teammates.

And a thought passed over you. About Steve. His leadership, his honour, and the way you trusted him so intrinsically with your life you knew he'd never let something like this go too far. So your eyes met his.

“Well?” He asked, calm and expectant.

You let out a tense breath through your nose.

"I'll follow your orders, Cap," you said, dropping your arms, squaring your shoulders. "What'll it be?"

.

.

This was one of those freeze-frame record-scratch moments where the narrator says 'Yep - that’s me. You're probably wondering how I ended up in this position.'

You flexed your fingers before gripping the edge of the armrest. The cuffs were snug but not uncomfortable. The chair itself - fetched by Bucky while the terms of the test were set - wasn't too bad, either. Cushioned seat and back, padded cuffs securing the wrists to the armrests and ankles to the front legs. It wouldn't hold any of the men around you, but you didn't have lightening or serum in your veins.

One small test proved no give, no rattling, was enough for that little molten thread of helplessness to start curling down your spine. All part of the mind games.

Trying to relax into the chair, your eyes landed on Loki, who was approaching you with all the slow, deliberate lethality of a black panther.

Of course, he was the one chosen to... do this.

His hand reached out and tested one cuff. "You seem tense."

"Bite me."

He chuckled, beginning to circle the chair slowly, trying to get in your head. Trying to build tension. It was working.

"The objective is simple. Don't give up the code word." His eyes flicked to Steve and Bucky. "Have you decided on what that word will be?"

Bucky nodded once, calling out, "cucumber."

You groaned. "That is the stupidest-"

"Exactly," Steve said. "You won't say it by accident. You try to hold out. You say it - that's surrender."

You felt Loki's fingers rest against the back of the chair. "Do you understand the rules, agent?"

You sniffed, jaw tight. "Don’t say the fucking vegetable."

"You ready?" Steve crossed his arms, failing to hide his amused smile.

No one in this room was under the impression that this was anything other than an exercise in the folly of boredom and pride. But here you were, about to hit play on that that freeze-frame record-scratch moment, and you wondered why the hell you ever agreed to this.

You did have an out - whenever you wanted it, you could say the word - but that steady fire inside you was stoked. White hot. You'd be damned if Loki snuffed it.

You'd be damned if he won.

"Ready," you confirmed.

He began.

Loki's touch was feather-light at first. Deceptively gentle. Fingers trailing over your sides like whispers.

They wanted a show? You'd give them a show. You'd show them exactly what you'd do if this was an enemy situation.

You flinched. "What the fuck are you doing?" Your head swung around, wearing a mask of confusion, fear, and pure innocence.

Loki's eyes narrowed. Ah. He seemed to say. This is how you want to play.

His voice was ice. Frostbitten. Severe. "What's the code word, Agent?"

"Wha-" you jerked again, eyes darting down to see his fingers at your sides, pressing a little firmer. Seeking. "I don't- what are you doing?"

He didn’t fumble or poke randomly. No, he searched.

"I'm under strict orders to not leave a mark, Agent," Loki's cold voice sounded vaguely distracted. "You have a code word I need..."

Then he found a spot. Just under the lower edge of your ribs, to the side. Your breath caught. Muscles locked. He paused.

"And I think I've just found a way to get it from you."

He wasn't clumsy. Not even a little.

"What code word? What are you even talking about? What-"

You stopped, looked down, watched as his middle finger and ring finger readied. You felt his other palm flatten against the opposite side of your waist in preparation to keep you in place.

You opened your mouth to say something, but then his fingers moved.

Sensation exploded like a switch had been flipped. Your hips jolted in the chair, a strangled sound caught in your throat as he pressed into that cluster of nerves with terrifying precision. Not a scratch or a dig - no, he hooked and circled slowly, keeping a maddening pressure on just the right spot. You were squirming violently in seconds, laughter ripping out of you against your will.

"Shit- Loki, fuck-" you broke your character, gasping between fits of laughter, voice hoarse and breaking. You tried twisting away, but there was nowhere to go. Nowhere to hide.

"Code word," he demanded.

You scrambled to collect your thoughts. Okay - okay - you could work with this. Fortify your mind. Let your body react. You tried to get a grip. Tried to find his rhythm and tell your brain it was no grave threat.

But half a minute later and he hadn't eased off. And it was only tickling more with every passing second.

"Please!" You gasped out, shaking your head. "I don't know what you're-"

He doubled - the palm against your other side began mirroring the same pattern with eerie symmetry. Pinpoint accuracy into that soft spot. Every movement surgical. Like he’d done this a thousand times.

Somewhere in the haze you sense him leaning down, felt his breath hot against your ear. "I know you have what I'm looking for."

"I don't!" you squealed, head hitting back against his shoulder as you twisted helplessly, laughing so hard your stomach hurt. "Fuck- please stop!"

"I can't stop this. Only you can. Say the word," he said softly.

You whimpered through breathless giggles as you tried to collect yourself enough to respond. "I don't- fuck- I don't know what you're talking about."

"I don't believe you."

His pointer finger joined the fray and your body convulsed with laughter, tears forming in the corners of your eyes. He hadn’t even moved from that godforsaken spot on your ribs. And he hadn’t lost rhythm once.

"Fuck!" You thrashed, as much as the chair would let you. "I- this is- this is inhumane!"

A low hum by your other ear. The other devil on the other shoulder. "You're in control, Agent. You can make this stop any time."

He didn’t move fast. He didn’t need to. It was the control that was killing you. The way he’d learned your body in seconds. That single spot already made your arms jerk, your breath hitch, your laughter take on a desperate edge.

"Make no mistake," he murmured. "I'm going to win. You really think this is the worst it can be? Give me the word. Now."

"I don't have the fucking word!" you shrieked between wheezes, before falling into a new spout of laughter. You gave a sound that might’ve been a laugh or a sob, it was hard to tell. Loki’s wicked hands hadn't stopped.

"She's doin' good," Bucky observed, tilting his head. "Holding out. The denial is still convincing."

"Stubborn," Thor nodded with a proud smile. "Like a goat."

"She’s trembling," Loki noted, sounding pleased. You were - your thighs tensed, stomach quaking with every new ripple of sensation.

Without warning, he shot his hands downward.

You practically launched out of the chair when he reached the top of your hip, just above your belt line. Another pressure point. The nerves there sent shocks across your pelvis, up your spine. It was like your body didn’t belong to you anymore.

"No- no, no, no-!" you laughed, voice wild now, cracked from overuse.

"You’re strong," Loki said quietly, voice still near your ear, breath warm on your neck. "But not unbreakable. I’m going to find where you crack."

You turned your face away, blinking tears of mirth from your lashes. "I’m going to kill you when this is over."

"I look forward to it," he said, moving inward to the sliver of skin on your lower stomach, scratching with feather-light precision.

You jolted again, high-pitched laughter tearing out of your lungs, knees bucking instinctively as he zeroed in.

Cucumber. It was on the tip of your fucking tongue. So you bit down on it. Sealed your lips as best you could.

Loki leaned in. "What's this? Trying to keep quiet now?"

You swallowed it. Shook your head.

A particularly cruel and precise tickle along the dips of your hips pulled a shrieking laugh from the loud place in your throat, wrists pulling against the cuffs.

He chuckled, knowing he was closer to winning.

So he went back to your ribs.

Your laughter returned in full, broken and helpless, your face hot with fury and embarrassment.

But still, you didn’t say cucumber.

You'd be damned to let him win after all of this.

Loki’s voice dropped, barely audible now. "You’re going to lose," he whispered, "So be a good girl, and surrender. Just say the word."

Your mouth opened. Then closed. You shook your head violently.

Your pride was still stronger, even as your breath was now ragged, chest rising and falling as you jerked against the cuffs, muscles locked and twitching from the relentless tickling, even as your laughter had taken on a half-wheezing, half-growling edge.

Loki hadn’t let up for a second, his hands maddeningly precise, but then...

He stopped. Pulled his hands away.

You gulped air. Relished in the reprieve. Wondering if-

"Don't think for a second I'm done with you," his voice curled around the base of your neck. "Tell me the code word."

You panted, head lolling. It had only been a few minutes, you knew that, but it had felt like a fucking lifetime. Shit.

"You're not listening," you let defeat permeate your tone. "You got the wrong person. I don't... I don't have what you want." You gave a weak tug at the cuffs, acting the part.

"Oh, you're very good," Loki praised in a dark chuckle.

You felt him grip the back of your chair. And you knew what he was planning.

"Wait-"

He pulled. The chair tipped backward as he lowered it slowly, until the rear legs landed on the floor and you were laying on your back, head against the mat.

You thrashed instantly. "Wait. Wait- fuck," you winced.

He moved with a maddening slowness, shooting an amused glance to the chuckling onlookers.

"Don't you fucking dare."

But he stopped in front of where your ankles were cuffed, your boots perfectly level with where his hands naturally rested at his sides.

"Uh oh," Bucky laughed outright. You shot him a pissed off yet wary glance.

Steve laughed. "You can say the word," he reminded you, but there was a teasing note behind it.

That smugness nudged you to get back in the zone. To prove them all wrong. Make them all pay.

Loki tugged. The first boot came off with a soft pull. And then the second. The cold air hit your socked feet like a ominous wind, curling in the atmosphere like dread.

You winced again. You weren't prepared. You weren't prepared. Feet were always protected, armoured, out of reach. You can't remember the last time someone touched your feet, much less-

"I've seen that look before," Bucky clicked his tongue. You shot him a nervous glance. His eyes met yours but he spoke to the others: "That's the look of someone who knows they're in trouble."

You weren’t wearing thick standard-issue tactical socks. No, of course not. You’d thrown on some stupid breathable pair. They were thin - too thin.

You shot an indiscernible look to the Captain.

He shrugged. Giving you that gleam in his eye that said: You can make this stop any time you want. All it'll cost you is pride.

You licked your drying lips, turning back to Loki. His hands hadn't touched you yet. Still, he was studying your reactions.

You kicked, knees jolting, but your ankles didn't move. He smirked.

"You've gone quiet," he said, cool and detached. "Is that fear?"

"Fury," you seethed. "Pure. Fucking. F-fffrrmm-!"

You bit off the noise as his fingers barely stroked across the arch of your right foot. It was a featherlight graze, and it'd already sent pressure prickling behind your eyes. You swallowed a whimper, sealing your lips, squeezing your eyes shut.

He hummed. "Interesting."

Then he began in earnest.

His fingertips pressed into your arches with a kind of maddening detachment. Methodical. Exploring. Not scratching or scribbling like some fumbling kid; no, he pressed, kneaded lightly, then circled. You shrieked. His thumbs dragged slowly under the balls of your feet. Your entire body bucked against the restraints.

"NO!"

Laughter then burst out of you, unfiltered and broken. It was worse than your ribs - infinitely worse. You weren’t used to touch here, weren’t braced for it. It was raw, vulnerable. Your laughter turned desperate in seconds.

"NO! LOKI! PLEASE NOT THERE!"

But that wasn't the code word. So his hands didn’t stop. If anything, they moved slower. More precise. He was watching your face the entire time - his eyes locked onto every flicker of reaction, every twitch of your mouth or squint of your eyes.

"PLEASE! PLEASE - ANYWHERE ELSE!"

"Well, shit," Bucky snorted. "That worked way too fast."

"What’s the code word?" Loki asked, voice low and flat.

"Fuck YOU-AHH! NO- SHIT!"

His fingers slid to your toes, tracing beneath them with deliberate purpose. You howled with laughter, head flinging back, toes curling as if that could protect you. The nerves in your feet were shot. You couldn’t even pretend composure anymore. He’d hit a level of sensitivity that was obscene.

"Code word," Loki said again, unblinking.

You shook your head, thrashing wildly.

"Don’t know it!" you yelled, tears streaking down your cheeks from the force of it. "I swear - I don’t know it!"

"Oh?" Loki tilted his head. "I think you're lying to me, Agent. Do you know what happens to liars?" His thumbs returned to the spot right beneath your toes and began that horrible circular pressure again.

You screamed - an actual, ragged scream laced with helpless mirth. Your back arched, every muscle straining against the cuffs. Your following laughter was high and unrelenting, like bursting open a dam and letting everything flood out.

"PLEASE!" you cried, playing it up now, blending real helplessness with theatrics. "I don’t know anything! I swear! I’m just a grunt. I’m just a - I’m not fucking built for this!"

The bystanders erupted in laughter.

"Good use of the helpless act," Steve noted, chuckling. "Classic withholding tactic."

Loki paused his movement, fingers still poised. "Code word. Now."

"Lemme go. Please," you begged, shaking your head and bracing as his fingers resumed. Your laughter trembling as your whole body quaked with it. "I don't know what you want!"

Loki’s face didn’t change. Cool, unaffected. His fingers danced under your toes, targeting the very edge of skin at the base where nerves lit up like a live wire.

"You’re lying."

"No I'm not!"

"You are. And I’m going to get the truth out of you."

He found another pocket just under your toes and lingered.

Your laughter cracked apart. Your lungs burned.

"This is going to get much, much worse for you, Agent," Loki's cold voice dropped a weight in your stomach.

"I’ll- I’ll kill you I SWEAR-" you gasped, words broken by high-pitched giggles.

"Threats, now?" Loki's brow lifted. "How quaint."

Bucky whistled low. "You gotta hand it to her. She hasn't cracked."

"I like this training," Thor declared.

Loki ignored the audience, dragging his blunt nails along the length of your arches. Back and forth, up and down. Face calm and unbothered as you went silent, laughter trapped in your upper chest, body tensing and twitching as the energy built and built and... he... he wasn't stopping. Gods, he wasn't moving from that godforsaken spot.

It tickled so fucking much.

There were no words for it. It shouldn't be possible for such a simple action to trap the breath in your chest, to send buzzes of energy through your whole body, it tickled so. fucking. much.

But the worst part? You knew this was building. Priming you for some grande finale. Readying to decimate your willpower.

"Can she breathe?" Steve's voice floated across the edge of your clouded attention.

It must've been almost fifteen seconds since you last made a sound.

Back and forth. Up and down.

Pressure building and building and...

"Hey." Bucky's wary voice was in the mix.

"Wait for it..." Loki hushed them. Your eyes were shut but you could feel his gaze on you.

Back. Forth. Up. Down.

"Loki," Thor's stern voice came. "She's mortal."

"I know, almost there..." Loki cooed.

It was coming. Cucumber. You could feel it coming. Feel the scream coiling in your chest. Almost there...

And then-

The doors hissed open.

"FRIDAY alerted me to a potential HR violation in progress," came Tony’s dry voice as he entered the room

The moment froze like a frame in a cartoon. You, a wreck, cuffed to a tipped chair, flat on your back. Boots off. Loki with stilled hands at your feet. The rest of them standing around like this was some clinical procedure and not your personal nightmare.

Tony looked around. Blinked.

"Well," he said, "this is… deeply unsettling."

The trapped laughter whooshed out of you as air flooded your lungs in deep and gratifying breaths. Loki had paused. Assessing the atmosphere. And for that, you thanked every god in this universe and beyond. You had been so close to surrender.

"She agreed to it," Steve said, unbothered.

"She volunteered," Bucky added, nudging Thor, who nodded solemnly.

"Oh, yes. She may stop the trial at any moment," Thor assured. "She need only speak the sacred word."

Tony blinked again. "And the sacred word is...?"

"Cucumber," they all said in unison.

You wanted to die.

Tony stared at them, then at you - now breathless, sweat-slick, and still twitching from residual sensation. He sighed. "Y'alright, giggles?"

You attempted to speak. But it came out as several coughs, so you just gave a weak thumbs-up.

"Okay, okay," he said, waving a hand. "As much as I’d love to see where this is going - and I mean that purely as an academic curiosity - we cannot shackle an Avenger to a chair and administer tickle torture in our down time. It’s literally in the handbook. Somewhere. It must be."

Loki had the audacity to look disappointed.

But he sighed, then reach down with maddening ease, lifting your chair upright with one smooth motion - like it weighed nothing. You slumped against it, head tilted back still gasping for breath, socked feet twitching, toes curling, body still shaking with aftershocks of laughter, a thin sheen of sweat glowing your skin.

"I hate you," you croaked at Loki.

"How tragically untrue," he chuckled.

Then the cuffs popped open with a click.

You didn’t hesitate.

The second your hands were free, shaky legs be damned, you launched yourself at Steve.

"Rogers!"

He didn’t even flinch. Just accepted his fate.

Your weight hit him square in the chest, and he let himself fall back onto the mat with a loud whump, arms catching you automatically.

"You star-spangled shithead!" you growled, rising to straddle his waist and grab his collar, jolting some sense into him. "You sanctioned that shit!?"

“I did,” Steve said evenly.

"You let Loki-... you- I'm gonna- ugh!" You grabbed a fistful of his hair and mussed it like a feral cat, gritting your teeth and growling.

"Alright, alright!" He laughed, trying to block you. "I deserved that!"

"You’re damn right you do - fucking cucumber - I’m gonna shove one straight down your- hey!"

Bucky's hands wrapped around your waist and casually hauled you off Steve like a disobedient dog. "Alright. Down, girl." You kicked the air on the way up.

"Let me at 'em. I'm not done!"

"Oh, you’re done," Bucky set you on your feet while Steve still lay disheveled on the mat.

"I’m gonna get all of you," you vowed as you straightened your clothes. "You’re all complicit."

Tony raised a finger. "Um, I actually-"

"Obviously not you, Tony!"

"Hey. You could've said the word at any time," Bucky smirked, shrugging, pulling Steve to his feet by the metal hand he offered.

You glared murder at all of them. Until your eyes landed on Loki.

He hadn’t moved.

That’s when you saw it.

The glint behind the calm. A flicker of something low and heated, still burning from the intensity of before.

Your stomach turned when you realised; you never surrendered... so he never won.

He looked at you, head tilted, mouth curved ever-so-slightly at the corner. Not smug. No. This wasn’t arrogance.

It was unfinished business.

You glared, pointing a shaky finger. "There will be retribution."

He inclined his head slightly, eyes never leaving yours. "I’ll be waiting."

You turned slowly to the rest of them, accusing finger sweeping.

"You’re all going down for this."

Bucky raised his hands. "Worth it."

Thor clapped a hand on your back that nearly knocked you over. "You lasted valiantly, dear friend."

You ignored him. "FRIDAY," you barked, steadying yourself. "Mark these bastards for revenge."

"Noted," she replied helpfully.

Tony rubbed his eyes, muttering, "You people have too much time on your hands. I should start charging rent."

But rest of them laughed at your threat. As if they weren't the slightest bit afraid.

You clenched your fists.

And then you smiled.

Sharp. Dangerous.

"You’re all gonna wish I’d said cucumber."

.

.

PART TWO (your revenge) coming soon

.

Jesper had to hand it to Wylan, he’d gotten much more confident recently, and convincing Kaz to let him stay at the Slat had been a ballsy move. This increase in confidence should really have been Jesper’s first clue that his rein of one-sided teasing was coming to an end.

The others had only been gone an hour or so, but Jesper’s fingers were already starting to itch. It wasn’t fair that they were getting to gamble and he’d been grounded like a child. He was bored and needed a distraction, and the merchling sitting in the corner of his room was always a fun one.

“One of your buttons is undone, are you trying to seduce me?” Jesper lied with a smirk, flicking Wylan’s nose when he looked down to check.

Wylan rolled his eyes in an attempt to draw attention away from his pink cheeks. He chose not to respond, not wanting to give the Zemeni boy the satisfaction of hearing the inevitable nerves in his voice.

Jesper grinned to himself and moved to sit on the arm of Wylan’s chair. “Aww, come on, Wy. What’s a man got to do around here to get some attention from the cutie in the corner?” he teased softly into Wylan’s ear while his fingers grazed his bicep.

That nearly got him, but Wylan couldn’t help but laugh at that, much to the Fabrikator’s chagrin. “Man?” he snorted. “If you’d just referred to yourself as the boy that you are, you probably would have gotten the reaction you wanted from me, but alas, your big ego got in the way.” he winked.

The older boy scoffed indignantly. “I do not have a big ego! I’m more of a man than you are!”

Wylan snickered. “Well you sound like a whiny toddler right now.”

“I do not!” he huffed, sounding significantly like a whiny toddler. He stood up and crossed his arms, so he could pout at the younger, but dropped them quickly as he realised he was proving his point. Wylan smirked and Jesper felt some heat raising in his cheeks.

This back and forth should have been his second clue that their dynamic was changing.

Jesper rolled his shoulders back and straightened up. “You’re walking a risky line, Merchling.” he told him with as much confidence as he could muster while forcing himself to hold eye contact with Wylan and his smug grin.

“And yet you’re the one who seems nervous. I don’t think it’s me that should be worried, Jes. I think you’ve been playing too many risky games recently, and now you’re worried they’re going to come back and… bite you!” Wylan launched himself out of the chair towards Jesper, but stopped just short of actually touching him. He doubled over laughing at the surprised shriek that left the Zemeni’s mouth.

Jesper shot him a glare. “Stop laughing at me!” he complained, but there was no real annoyance in his voice, he knew they were just playing.

The younger boy calmed his laughter and grinned cheekily at his friend. “But that noise was so cute!”

Jesper blushed properly now. “It was not.”

“It definitely was.” he teased, pinching Jesper’s cheeks and cooing. “Awww, are you blushing? Your cheeks are so hot!”

Jesper pushed his hands away, but Wylan grabbed his wrists to keep him close. Jesper’s breath hitched the tiniest bit at that, and he looked into Wylan’s eyes, feeling his usually cocky demeanour falter.

“Problem?”

“You’re stealing my role.”

The merchant chuckled. “Maybe if you’d teased me less, I wouldn’t have been able to learn all your tricks so quickly.”

“Maybe if you let go of my wrists before I have to force you, I’ll let you feel the touch of my nimble fingers running through your hair, while I whisper sweet nothings in your ear.” He shot back, a last ditch attempt at regaining the upper hand.

“I don’t think you really want me to let you go.” Wylan smirked.

That was when Jesper finally realised his days of getting the younger boy to blush whenever he wanted with no repercussions were over. He should have known Wylan would learn quickly. He should have known that one day all the teasy, flirtatious comments he’d thrown at Wylan would come back and bite him in the ass. He’d given the younger all the tools he needed to knock Jesper down a few pegs, and he’d done it of his own volition.

Wylan could see the realisation written all over Jesper’s face and it only boosted his confidence. “Uh oh, is the little gunslinger in over his head?” he winked, slowly walking Jesper backwards until his back was against the wall. “Can he dish it out but not take it?”

Said gunslinger was doing his best to keep it together, but he’d taught Wylan well, and he suspected some of Nina’s charm and confidence may also have rubbed off on him too. He pulled lightly on his wrists, trying to get them out of Wylan’s grip, but the younger had gotten stronger during his time with the Dregs, which caught him a little by surprise. Jesper was sure if he really wanted to, he could still overpower Wylan, but… he wasn’t sure yet if he really wanted to.

Wylan smirked smugly when he felt the tug of Jesper’s wrists. “What’s wrong? Can’t escape? Honestly Jes, I’m a little offended that you underestimated me.” he teased.

The older boy rolled his eyes, but his expression quickly turned back to a flustered one when Wylan pulled his arms over his head and pinned them with one of his against the wall. He wanted to fight back, to prove that he wasn’t this easy to overpower, but maybe he was. Maybe all it took for him to melt was for Wylan to play him at his own game.

Wylan leaned in and chuckled lowly in his ear. “I’m going to take you apart.”

Jesper was done for. All the feelings towards his merchling that he’d been pushing down came bubbling up, showing themselves in the form of a hitching breath and a deep blush to rival the shade of Wylan’s hair. He gazed deeply into Wylan’s eyes and parted his lips slightly as the younger leaned in towards them. He closed his eyes, ready to finally get to admit his feelings without using teasing as a coverup. He was ready to be vulnerable.

And vulnerable is what he suddenly realised he was as he felt fingers spidering into his belly and laughter being forced from his unsuspecting mouth. “Wha-mehEHEherchling!” he gasped out through his laughter. He opened his eyes and was met by Wylan’s cheeky grin.

The Merchant snickered at the shock on the others face as he tickled his belly lightly. “You thought you were going to get what you wanted that easily, hmm? After the amount of teasing you’ve put me through? Oho no, Jes. I told you I was going to take you apart, and I meant it.”

If Jesper could have blushed darker, he would have. Wylan must have had some pointers from Nina, there was no way he’d gotten this good so fast on his own. He would be having some words with the fellow Grisha.

“I’m gohohohoing to kill yohohohou!” Jesper laughed, not sounding particularly threatening. He could feel himself sliding down the wall in an attempt to escape the tickling, but Wylan followed him down easily.

“Oh I’m so scared.” The younger snickered sarcastically. He moved his fingers up and tried Jesper’s armpits, grinning at the increase in laughter.

All the Dregs knew Jesper was ticklish. None had found out on purpose, and none had really taken things further than the occasional scribble to his sides. But he wasn’t very good at hiding his happiness or excitement, so Wylan had noticed how he lit up on the rare occasions he received a well placed poke or squeeze for a sassy comment or joke.

“I know you like this, Jes.” Wylan smiled fondly, as he slipped a hand up the pinned boy’s shirt and scratched maddeningly at his ribs.

“I do NOHOHOT! NohoHOHOT THEHERE! MEHEHERCHLIHIHING!”

The Merchant smirked a smirk, that looked far too evil for his face, at the reaction he received. “Bad spot? I think I might stay here until you admit that you’re enjoying this.”

Jesper had slid all the way down the wall at this point and was laughing loudly. “I DOHOHO NOHOHOT!”

Wylan let go of his wrists and used both hands to tickle his bare ribs now. Jesper’s arms were too worn out to do much more than grab weakly at his hands. He threw his head back in laughter, practically lying on the floor.

“FIHIHINE! I LIHIHIKE IT! NohoHOHOW STOHOHOP!” he demanded, but the smile on his face said otherwise.

Wylan smirked and stopped. “I know you do.” he winked, before placing a quick peck on the still giggling Zemeni’s cheek and drilling right back in.

The blush that had been beginning to fade from Jesper’s face immediately reappeared before he was thrown back into fits of laughter. “YOHOU ARE DEHEHEAD, YOHOHOU TEHEHEASE!”

Wylan laughed along with him now. “Me? A tease? I’ll take that as a compliment coming from you!” he beamed cheekily. He decided to give his ribs a break and skittered his fingers down his body to his legs. He squeezed up and down his thighs and found a wonderful little spot above Jesper’s knees that made him squeal adorably.

After a few more minutes of the treatment, the usually cocky, older boy’s laughter had gone silent and Wylan finally stopped for real. “Did… did I overdo it?” he asked, suddenly sounding much more like his usual, more reserved self.

Jesper was panting hard, but still had a big grin on his face. He shook his head, but playfully shoved the red haired boy. “Yohou will live to rehehegret this though…” he threatened, residual giggles still escaping his lips.

Wylan chuckled, relaxing again. “Mhm, I’m sure.” he teased. “Just so you know, I’m telling everyone about that spot on your knee that makes you squeal like an adorable little girl.”

Jesper flushed. “You will not.” he glared.

The redhead just shot him a wink. He stood up from where he’d been crouching over Jesper and held a hand out to help him up.

Jesper took it and pulled himself up. He used the momentum to push Wylan backwards onto the bed, earning a whine of protest from him, but it was quickly silenced as Jesper pushed their lips together, kissing him deeply.

Now it was Wylan’s turn to blush as he kissed him back passionately. After a couple of minutes Jesper pulled away and smiled down at the younger boy. “I should have been cruel to you and teased you the way you teased me… but I couldn’t resist your kissable face.”

Wylan chuckled fondly and blushed darker. “Your face isn’t so bad either.” he smiled back. “Plus I don’t think you should have been cruel, because me teasing you was just revenge for all the times you’ve teased me,” he rambled. “So as far as I’m concerned, we’re even now. Also, I think that now that we are both on the same lev- hey, what are you dohoho- JeheHEHES! Nohohoho! I’m sohohohorry!” He burst into bright giggles as Jesper shut him up with a dose of rib tickles.

As Steph was talking, Ruth was doing her level best to crawl across Peter’s lap and put her ear up to his phone despite his attempts to elbow her away.

“Lemme hear!” Ruth hissed.

Peter just stuck his tongue out and redoubled his efforts.

“Uh, no, not really!” His phone jostled as Richie tried to wedge it out from under his ear and Peter had to snatch it back, “Why do you ask?”

“Are you doing alright over there, Pete?” Steph’s voice was tinged with amusement as though she could see the human pretzel that Ruth and Richie were dragging him into.

“Yeah! Everything’s fine!” Peter swatted Richie’s prying hands while attempting to use his feet to keep Ruth away, “What were you gonna ask?”

He could hear something rustle as Steph picked her phone up, turning it off of speaker mode and holding it up to her ear.

He could also hear the overlapping “Come onnnnnnn,” and “We just wanna say hi!” from his friends as Richie tried once again to worm his fingers around Peter’s phone.

“Ah!” And wriggling right against his neck.

Silence echoed as Ruth and Richie exchanged evil looks.

Aw fuck.

“—if you three would want to hang out at my place?” Peter had missed the first half of that sentence due to the now-sporadic squeezes at his knees and more purposeful scratching at his neck, but he was sure that he could make an educated guess.

“I, uh, I don’t know if they can mAKE ihit.”

He’d nearly gotten through the whole sentence without cracking, but then Ruth had started spidering her fingers in the soft spot behind his knees which she knew was unfair, and a small squeak had broken through.

Peter did his best to seal his lips shut as Steph said, “Aw, are you sure? My dad will be out and I can order all of us pizza.”

“Mhm!”

You see, Peter would feel bad about lying to Steph on a regular day. But, considering that his friends had decided to be conniving assholes today, he figured that she would forgive him just this once.

“Are you sure that you’re alright? You sound kinda…nervous.”

Steph sounded genuinely concerned, so Peter kicked Ruth back into the couch and threw an elbow into Richie’s gut so that he could scramble to his feet, trying to subtly catch his breath.

“Yeah, sorry!” They were both already up and after him, so Peter had to dodge grabbing hands as he said, “It’s just that I think Ruth and Richie are too busy being annoying little brats to hang out tomorrow night!”

Twin gasps echoed through the room as both Ruth and Richie’s jaws dropped in indignation.

“How dare you—”

“Spankoffski get your lying ass over here!”

Peter dove out of the way just in time to hear Steph’s “Ohhhhhhhh,” of realization before she broke out into laughter.

“You really had me worried for a second there, Pete!” Richie caught him around the waist and started the not-so-difficult process of wrestling him to the ground, “Maybe you can come over and they can join when they learn to behave!”

It seemed like Ruth heard that last part as she let out an affronted “HEY!”

“Yeah, I think that would be bEST—Wait! Richie nononono shihihihit!”

Ruth managed to pry his phone out of his hands as Richie went straight for the kill, drawing out frantic cackles with ruthless clawing at his ribs.

“Hey, Steph!” Ruth said cheerfully as a sudden jump to Peter’s upper ribs startled a shriek out of him before falling back into hysterics.

“This is for playing the same overpowered character in Smash Bros! SMASH ATTACK!” Richie cried as he vibrated a hand into his victim’s stomach, prompting him to curl up in hopeless defense.

Meanwhile, Ruth was still talking to Steph, “Oh, we would love to come over to hang out! But,” she added, cutting Peter a sly glance, “we don’t want to intrude if Peter doesn’t want us there!”

She stood there for a moment, nodding to whatever Steph was saying, “Of course! Here, you can ask him yourself!”

And then she hit a button on his phone and Steph’s voice rang out, “Hey Pete! So, I was just talking to Ruth and I wanted to double-check if you were totally sure about them not being able to make it tomorrow night.”

“Steheheheph! Hehehehelp!” Was all he could get out in between fits of laughter.

His friends broke out into giggles as Steph said, “I can’t do much for you right now, but if you bring Ruth and Richie over I could help you out with some well-earned revenge! How does that sound?”

Peter could feel Richie’s fingers falter at the threat and see the faint blush rising on Ruth’s face through the tears that had begun to form in his eyes.

“Okay! Deal! They can come!” He took advantage of Richie’s moment of hesitation to get out his response and quickly rolled away, popping up to snatch his phone back out of Ruth’s hands.

“See you tomorrow! Love you! Bye!” And he hung up the phone to the sound of Steph’s laughter before whirling around to his so-called friends.

Peter flung one choice finger out at Ruth, “Fuck you!”

And then the other at Richie, “Fuck you more!”

They just grinned at him as he slumped back down on the couch and reached for his controller, “I think I deserve to kick your asses for a bit now.”

The groans that they let out were undermined by the way they both picked up their own remotes before sitting on either side of him. Richie leaned against Peter while Ruth dropped her head on his shoulder, and the warmth seeped through to his very core.

Well, Peter thought as Richie hit play, there are definitely worse ways to spend an evening than with my two best friends.