It seems like I never finish tickle fics, so here's just some excerpts of a disgustingly cutesy little ficlet I started writing about Greary getting lovingly ganged up on 🙈
“A nightmare! Oh, woe, I’ve found myself trapped in a nightmare where my chums are trying to kill me!” Greary moaned, covering his eyes with his hands. Risio snorted.
“Trying to— sheesh,” he grumbled, but through a toothy smile. “As much as I’d love to take credit for freaking you out this much, I’m startin’ to think you’re doing it to yourself.”
“All we want to do is tickle-tickle-tickle your cute little tummy-tummy,” Mirt cooed, spidering his claws in the air tauntingly.
“I seem to recall you liking being tickled there, Greary,” Peet rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Is my memory incorrect, Greary? Hmm? No need to be shy…”
Greary was miserable and giddy and euphoric all at once, flustered out of his mind and also warm and fuzzy and brimming with affection. He squirmed on the sofa, letting a pitiful whimper rise into his throat.
“Ohhhh, curse you! Curse all of you! Awful, cruel, despicable—”
“Hey now, is that any way to talk about your best friends?” Risio feigned hurt, booping the end of Greary’s pointy nose. “You’re gonna hurt my feelings talkin’ like that, y’know.”
“Awww, he’s just nervous,” Mirt giggled. “Right, Greary? Poor little thing is just a bundle of nerves, needs Mirt’s careful fingers to untangle him.”
“Oh, stop! Or just do it already, for goodness sake!” Greary whined, peeking through his fingers.
___
“Gently, gently now!” Peet insisted. “We don’t want to overwhelm him. Gentle, soft little swirls…”
“Yeah, yeah, gentle. Looks like he’s gonna combust anyways…”
“You know how sensitive Greary’s cute little belly is, Risio. Aww, he must be so embarrassed... All eyes on him, you know how much he hates that...”
Greary just wheezed, only able to force out a feeble squawk every once in a while, face flushing magenta and tears streaming down his temples. True to their word, his friends were not tickling him roughly; five gentle hands lazily traced one or two fingers around his bared belly, barely applying pressure, feather soft.
No, it wasn’t really the tickling itself that had Greary beside himself with hilarity, though it was remarkably ticklish in spite of their gentleness— what had him in stitches was the teasing, the affection, the embarrassment, the attention.
“I cahahaha— I can’t, no more! I’m toohoohoo ticklish, I’ll— I’ll perish!” He squeaked, kicking his heels into the sofa in desperation. He squeezed Peet’s hands, pulling them closer to his face bashfully.
Peet chuckled, used his one free hand to cup Greary’s cheek.
“Goodness! Dying again, are we? Poor Greary.”
“Not very good at dyin’ if you ask me! Dead stuff shouldn’t squirm around this much…”
“Dead things are not quite this ticklish, I reckon…”
