Tags: Tickling Kink, Tickle Torture, High Sensitivity, Power Dynamics, Emotional Breakdown, Dubious Consent, Aftercare, Shark-Gills, Rib Tickling, Vox Is Ticklish.
Summary:
Valentino arrives early for his midnight meeting with Vox, eager to test a long-held hypothesis: what exactly happens when you apply focused, merciless pressure to a Techno-Demon built of tension and static? Val finds Vox's most hidden, most vulnerable spots—the intercostals, the antennae, and the uniquely sensitive shark-gills—and methodically drives the cool, collected Overlord into a state of pure, shrieking, digital hysteria. What follows is a quiet, intimate dance between absolute power and exhausted, grateful submission.
- Missed me, my friend? - Valentino's voice behind Vox sounded gentle, even sickeningly sweet.
Vox turned to face him, looking as self-assured and cocky as always.
- We agreed to meet at midnight. It's only seven.
- And I can't visit my little TV star? - Val approached Vox's screen and ran a finger along its edge, where the chin would be on a face.
Vox leaned in for a kiss. The kiss was lingering, filthy, and wet. Val pulled back with clear pleasure, and then traced the edge of the screen again with his fingers.
- Did you fear tickling when you were alive? - Valentino asked, a hint of insinuation in his voice.
- What? - The "gif" on his face froze. For a second, his static, neutral image appeared. - Feared... Hard to say. I don't recall anyone ever daring to check.
Vox kissed the Moth again, already letting Valentino's saliva-aphrodisiac tempt him. Val wrapped his lower two arms around his waist, while the other pair of hands touched his antennae above the monitor, gently fiddling with them.
- Unpleasant, - Vox lied, to avoid dropping to his knees before him from pleasure.
His voice sounded hoarse from the speakers, and the static ripple on his screen betrayed him completely. Valentino made a sweet little smacking sound, as if sampling the most exquisite dessert.
- You're lying, darling. Your antennae are vibrating like strings, - he whispered right into the microphone, and his lower hands, without letting go of Vox's waist, began a slow, exploratory movement under his jacket. Fingers slipped across the silk of the shirt, tracing the contours of his ribs. - Oh, your ribs are just... Sharp, beautiful. A real ladder for my fingers.
His touch wasn't ticklish, but almost affectionate - gliding along each bone, from the solar plexus to the side. Vox froze, trying to anticipate where the attack would begin. His breathing, which he couldn't feel but which the cooling system modeled, quickened, emitting a slight hum.
- And where would it be the most ticklish here? - Valentino mused, and his upper hands let go of the antennae to gently press Vox's collarbones with his thumbs, holding him in place. - Perhaps... here?
His lower fingers suddenly changed tactics. Instead of gliding, they dug into the intercostal spaces - gently, but with deadly precision. It wasn't a chaotic dash, but a focused, pulsating pressure in the narrowest, most vulnerable gaps between the bones.
Vox flinched as if from an electric shock. A sharp, abrupt sound burst from his speakers - not laughter, but more a stifled "kkh-kkh-ah!", like static interference. His screen froze, flickering with blue noise.
- Ohoho, - Valentino hissed with unconcealed delight. - Hit the spot? Let's do more.
He wiggled his fingers in those sensitive hollows, no longer pressing, but picking, as if playing a flute made of nerves and tensed muscles. Vox's body arched in a silent spasm. He tried to hold back, squeezing the "lips" on the screen into a thin line, but his shoulders twitched, and his fingers convulsively dug into Valentino's jacket sleeves.
And then Valentino found the gills.
His fingers, still dancing on the ribs, slipped slightly lower, to that strange, almost intimate anatomical detail - to a row of sensitive slits on his sides. He touched the edge of the first slit just with the tip of his nail.
Vox wailed.
It was a clean, high sound, a mix of static screech and genuine, defenseless laughter, which he hadn't heard himself since his human life. His whole body trembled.
- N-n-no-ha-ha-t! - he choked out, and the image on his screen distorted in panic and uncontrollable reaction. - V-Val... st...
But the plea was lost in a new burst of laughter as Valentino began to run the pad of his finger along the entire line of the gills, from top to bottom. It was an unbearable, piercing sensation, as if his internal wiring was being yanked out into the light by a tickling torture.
Vox, always perfectly straight and composed, went limp. His knees buckled, and he hung in Valentino's arms, who only pressed him closer, continuing his methodical, merciless, and yet admiring "interrogation with exploration."
- There he is, my fearsome Voxie, - the moth whispered with affection, kissing the edge of his monitor, which was hot from overload, - Lie down on the table.
Vox pressed closer to Valentino. The sweet, intoxicating aphrodisiac washed over him again. His systems, already overloaded with laughter, were losing ground, replacing panic with a vague, viscous desire.
- Lie down on the table, - Val whispered, as pink smoke tendrils wrapped around Vox's arms, gently but inexorably pulling them away from his silky chest. The smoke was weightless, yet unbreakable - it wrapped around his wrists, fingers, fixing them not with force, but with temptation, forcing Vox's muscles to relax and submit.
There was nothing to resist with. Vox allowed himself to be led two steps back, until his lower back hit the cold, mirror-polished black table. Valentino tipped him back, and Vox lay down, his head hitting the table with a dull, metallic thud. His monitor stared at the ceiling, on the screen - chaotic, bright flashes...
Valentino stood over him, blocking the neon lights, and watched Vox's chest plate rise and fall. The smoky restraints fixed his arms at his sides. He was open, defenseless, and incredibly beautiful in this loss of control.
- Completely different, - Valentino whispered, running a palm down from his throat to his solar plexus. - Without the jacket, without that... cold mask. I'll drive you into hysterics.
And he began. It wasn't a game, but a methodical invasion.
First - reconnaissance. The fingertips of his lower right and left hands touched the ribs simultaneously, just below the chest plate. Lightly, almost airily. Vox flinched, a sharp pixel line jumping across his screen.
- Sensitive, - Valentino noted to himself, and his fingers came alive.
They didn't just tickle. They explored. Gliding along each intercostal space, from the hard edge of the ribcage to the soft side, finding the narrowest, deepest hollows, and there, in the most vulnerable flesh, beginning fast, vibrating movements, as if trying to drill a hole in him with laughter. Vox snorted - a short, sharp sound, like static. His body twitched.
- No, no, don't twitch, - Valentino hissed sweetly, and his upper hands descended on Vox to pin his shoulders to the table, while the lower ones continued their work.
He found a rhythm. The fingers of his right hand tapped a disjointed, insane drumbeat on the ribs, and the fingers of his left - began slow, zigzagging runs on the same ribs, but from the opposite side. Two independent, contradictory patterns of tickling. The effect was instantaneous.
The first real laughter burst from Vox's speakers. Sharp, metallic, but unmistakably recognizable.
- Heh-heh-kha!
His screen flashed, trying to display a smirk, but only chaotic bursts resulted.
- Oh, there it is, - Valentino rejoiced. - The little voice. Louder.
He shifted the attack. The right hand slipped from the ribs and dug into his armpit, which was exposed by the shifted sleeve. Not just tickling, but gathering the fingers into a pinch and quickly-quickly nipping the delicate skin on the inside of the shoulder. The left hand, meanwhile, dropped lower, to the shark gills.
The touch to the gills was different. Valentino didn't scratch them. He pressed his whole palm to the side and began to shake it very slightly, creating a vibration that penetrated inside the slits, tickling them from within. It was a strange, piercing sensation, as if his insides were trying to escape through laughter.
Vox's laughter changed. From sharp and abrupt, it became long, squealing, on a high note.
- Ai-ai-ai-ai-ai-ha-ha-ha-staaaap!
He threw his head back, the monitor hitting the table. His body writhed, but the pinned shoulders and smoky restraints on his wrists left little room. His legs thrashed in the air, beating a crazy rhythm against the empty space.
- Louder, my dear, louder! - Valentino egged him on, and his fingers in the armpit accelerated, turning into a blurred, unbearably ticklish spot. And the left hand at the gills switched from shaking to movement - he began to trace his index finger along the entire line of the gill slits, slowly, centimeter by centimeter, from the very top to the bottom.
It was too much. Vox's laughter broke into hysterics. He laughed so hard it seemed his speakers would burst. The sound was hoarse, wheezing, interrupted by gasps for breath that he couldn't get enough of.
- HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-WHA-WHA-WHASTOOOP! I CA-A-AN'T-HA-HA-HA!
Nothing resembling a face remained on his screen - only a frantic kaleidoscope of colored stripes, circles, flashes, synchronized with the body's convulsions. There were no tears, but bright, emergency yellow pixels appeared at the edges of the monitor - a sign of systemic overload.
Valentino was mesmerized. He watched this always collected, cold techno-demon fall apart from simple touches. He leaned closer, his lips almost touching the hot screen.
- More, - he whispered. - Give me everything. All your laughter.
And he resorted to the cruelest, most effective methods. His fingers found the lowest, most floating rib and pinched it. Simultaneously, the thumb of the other hand plunged into the deepest gill slit and wiggled there.
Vox howled. His laughter reached its peak, turning into a continuous, ceaseless, choking roar. His body thrashed in genuine hysterics, convulsions caused solely by tickling. The sound was deafening, unmodulated, a pure manifestation of panic and the inability to stop.
- A-A-A-A-A-A-A-HA-HA-HA-A-A-A!
He no longer asked to stop. He just laughed, crying this digital, insane laughter, completely at Valentino's mercy.
And only when the yellow pixels at the edge of the screen began to merge into a solid circle of alarm, Valentino took pity.
He removed all his hands at once.
Silence fell, broken only by the hoarse, interrupted hum of Vox's cooling systems and a faint, hissing sound from his speakers - the after-laughter. His body went limp, utterly and completely. On the screen, slowly, as if with effort, a simple static image appeared - two straight white lines, a symbol of closed eyes, and below - a curved, trembling dash, like a helpless smile.
Valentino breathed heavily, watching this. Not from exhaustion, but from the surging feeling - sharp, sweet, almost painful possession. He slowly, almost tenderly, ran a finger across the hot screen, collecting the static charge from it, feeling a light, tickling crackle on his fingertips.
- Hysteria, - he quietly stated, and his voice held the deepest, intoxicating satisfaction. - Absolute.
Vox didn't answer. He just weakly, almost imperceptibly, tilted his screen towards the touch, like a cat seeking affection. This tiny gesture was more eloquent than any words. Capitulation. Trust. Invitation.
Valentino leaned down and pressed his lips to the still-warm surface of the monitor. The kiss was slow, lingering, devoid of the previous rough passion. It was a seal. Confirmation. Vox responded with a barely audible hum, and his trembling smile on the screen became slightly steadier.
When Valentino pulled away, his upper arms were still gently holding Vox's wrists, and the lower ones... the lower ones rested on his sides again. But now it wasn't an invasion, but a return. Not torture, but a continuation. His fingertips touched the exposed intercostals, which had been through the hell of tickling, and began to move. Completely differently.
He tickled him again. But now - gently. Barely perceptible. These were not sharp pokes or vibrating attacks, but light, airy runs of his fingertips along each rib, as if he were erasing the traces of the former cruelty, leaving in their place a thin, ticklish ripple. It was like stroking ruffled fur, soothing it.
Vox flinched - a reflex, an echo of the nightmare just experienced. But soon his body, still tense and painfully sensitive, began to slowly relax under this new, almost caressing touch. Not laughter, but a long, deep, hissing sigh escaped his speakers. On the screen, the trembling smile softened, turning into an expression of languid, exhausted bliss.
They both wanted this. Vox - for his sensitivity, pushed to the limit, to finally find a pleasant, not agonizing, application. For the sharp needles of laughter to be replaced by warm waves. Valentino - to prolong this moment of complete power, but to color it with tenderness, to cement his victory not with fear, but with a strange, perverse gratitude.
His fingers glided across his sides, across his stomach, lightly touching the lower ribs, and each time Vox shuddered from a particularly ticklish touch, Valentino muffled it with a quiet whisper: "Shhh... it's alright...". He kissed him again - the corner of the screen, the place where a cheek would be, the microphone on his neck. And Vox responded, his hands, finally freed from the smoky restraints, slowly wrapped around Valentino's neck, pulling him closer.
It wasn't a fight. It was a dance on the ashes of hysteria. Tickling became their language - quiet, understood only by the two of them. Valentino asked: "Still sensitive here?", and Vox replied with a stifled chuckle when the fingers found a particularly tender spot. They both wanted this - this intimacy, built on the absolute vulnerability of one and the careful, yet complete power of the other. And in this quiet, ticklish agony after the storm, there was something more intimate than anything that had been between them before.
I'm doing edits/rewrites on my fic from 2019 that includes Mikoyan/Malenkov, so here are the precious Mikoyan/Malenkov gifs I made at that time. Not to mention "Off you go, kitten." Also
yes it took forever but only because my ps crashed and broke the file and I had to basically start over and I couldn't stand to look at it. But hey the song I used is cool as is the rest of my super cool hoffstrahm playlist, you should check it out.
The evening light coming through the tall windows colored their rehearsal room a golden-pink hue. Alexander, tired from endless takes, was sprawled out on the leather sofa with his arm resting on his head. His gaze, usually lively and sparkling, had faded, reflecting the fatigue of endless filming and the creative uncertainty that haunted him.
Leonid, sitting next to him, watched him quietly. His thin fingers nervously fumbled over his leather bracelet and his lips were slightly compressed. He wished he could say something, comfort him, but the words wouldn't come out. Just being near him, feeling his warmth, his sadness, was the only thing he could do right now.
- You are very talented, Lyonya," Alexander said, as if awakening from his thoughts. - You need to believe in yourself more.
Leonid raised his eyes to him, full of tenderness and sadness.
- Do you think-? - he whispered.
Alexander remained silent, his gaze drifting back to the window.
- What kind of chess piece would you be, Lyonya?" he asked suddenly.
Leonid was silent for a long time, as if immersed in himself.
- A broken one that you threw away for lack of use," he whispered at last.
These words, full of longing and despair, pierced Alexander to the bone. He rose, walked over to Leonid, and embraced him tenderly.
- Don't say that, Lyonya. You-
But his words sounded unconvincing. In his eyes, as in Leonid's words, there was a hopeless sadness. Leonid, as always, was impeccable - fine facial features, impeccable style. But in his eyes now there was only emptiness, as if he had already resigned himself to this sad inevitability.
Alexander, unable to hold back his feelings, pulled Leonid to him and kissed him tenderly. The kiss was short, almost tender, but it contained all of Alexander's hopeless sadness, all of his unspoken words.
- I have to go, Lyonya, -
Alexander said, pulling away. He saw the tears in Leonid's eyes, but he could not comfort him. He could not change anything, - Goodbye.
And left, leaving Leonid in an empty rehearsal room, among the remnants of their unspoken words and unrealized desires.
Peirings and Characters: Ler/Lee!Fiddleford McGucket / Lee/Ler!Stanford Pines – Fiddautor
Disclamer: this is a fanfic about tickling, so anyone who isn't interested in that kind of thing, skip it.
Abstract: Fiddleford decides to explore the vulnerabilities of his colleague, Stanford and it leads to something more.
For Fiddleford, tickling had always been of purely scientific interest: He was curious to know why light, playful touches on the skin caused laughter. Tickling is maddeningly similar to pain. You want to squirm and scream for mercy, just as you do in painful agony, but why do some people, far from being sadistic, enjoy tickling? In his notes, he constantly speculated about tickling, coming up with the craziest ideas: "To begin with, there are two kinds of tickling. The first, nysmesis, or "moving itch," is an unpleasant sensation of slight movement on the skin, reminiscent of a crawling insect. The insect wants to be swept away and the skin scratched. The second type, gargalesis, is caused by a stronger, intermittent pressure on the skin in certain areas. This is the tickle that causes the laughter. However, gargalesis is not always pleasant, much depends on the situation: who exactly is tickling, for how long, how hard...".
McGuckett had never told anyone about his interest in tickling: it would have been strange to do so, even with Ford.
"Hey, Ford, and I study tickling!!!"
It would probably have led to ridicule and teasing. And he didn't really want to tickle or be tickled. Just a theory. Never practice.
His interest in the subject grew: he was already looking at Ford, trying to guess if he was ticklish. Now the diary entries turned into something else.
Where before there had been something about the hypothalamus and the fact that laughter from tickling was not the same as laughter from a good joke, now there were - unexpectedly - entries about tickles, ticklers, and switches.
The day was like any other. Ford worked at his desk with all kinds of papers, unable to distract himself. McGucket, on the other hand, stood behind someone else's back, looking at the strong and confident body....
Fiddleford wanted to touch him more and more. No, not to pet him, not to hold him, not to rub him. Tickle him.
He wanted to tickle Ford, and he seemed to want to tickle him more and more every minute.
- Ford, - McGucket began, touching the other man's back with his hand.
Pines turned his head and smiled slightly.
- Yes, what is it?
- I need you for experience. Right away," Fiddleford answered, fidgeting slightly.
- Has my theorist gone into practice? - Ford teased and nodded, "I'm at your disposal. What would you like to investigate?
McGucket dropped his hand uncertainly to his friend's side.
- A tickle.
- What do you-
But it was too late: Fiddleford had already begun tickling Pines's side. Subconsciously at first, immediately remembering all his clever words. "Charioteer," "scraping," "fingering," and "poking." All those tickling terms meant something. And there was more to learn today. He was tickled with pokes, poking his sides from both sides. Ford endured. A smile played on his lips, but his lips were chewed with excitement. If McGucket was just exploring, Ford didn't want to be tickled.
- Isn't that ticklish! - Outraged Fiddleford at last.
Ford bit his lip harder and fidgeted in his chair. "Obviously ticklish." - McGucket made up his mind. 'Doesn't poking tickle? Or would it be better to use "charioteer"? Fiddleford ran his fingernails along the side of his companion, and Pines burst into tears.
- Stop it, stop it, you little bastard, - Ford shouted, - just stop it and no one will get hurt AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA....
McGuckett liked it a lot. And it's not even clear why. He liked the laughter, he liked dominating Ford, and in the end he forgot that he was tickling for the sake of science.
He was having fun. A lot of fun. Fiddleford pounced on Ford and pinned him to the chair.
- Is this another experiment?
Pines whispered softly and was instantly punished for his question. McGuckett's fingers found his lower ribs and began to run over them playfully. Ford squirmed and laughed out loud. The laugh was guttural and hoarse.
Ford closed his eyes so he couldn't look him in the eye, but that didn't stop Fiddleford from enjoying himself. He moved his fingers to his upper ribs, tickled the sensitive skin there, and then began to tickle Ford's lower ribs again. Ford seemed to whimper.
- Stop, Fiddleford, I'm going to kill you! AHAHAHAHAHAHA, you little bastard....
They'd never been close enough to tickle... But Pines had always wanted that kind of closeness.
- Why are you blushing? - asked McGucket.
- What do you think?
Ford didn't know why he was blushing. It felt like embarrassment, excitement, and terrible shame all at once. Fiddleford shrugged and ran his fingernails up to the other man's armpits.
It's hard to describe how Ford whimpered, laughed loudly, and seemed to wake up the whole village.
- Why are you blushing? AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH....
Pines asked mockingly, twitching and trying to bend over. Fiddleford caught himself thinking that he was blushing because he literally liked Ford.
In retaliation, Fiddleford began to tickle even harder, scratching at the man's armpits. Ford screamed and began to beg for mercy.
- I'll do anything you want.... AHAHAHAHAHAHAH, really!!! All the AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH of the world!!!
- Will you describe the sensations for my research?
Ford nodded and the inspired scientist paused.
- Describe.
- Describe it to your senses, - Pines said with an uncharacteristic playfulness.
- What?
Before McGuckett knew it, Ford had him on the ground. Brutally. No way out of this.
- You're going to use the scrubber method to tickle...?
- I haven't studied it like you have.
Ford joked, running all six fingers over his friend's stomach as deftly as he could.
- You have the advantage! That's not fair!!!
- Small price to pay for my suffering.
Fiddleford laughed loudly, wriggling on the ground and squealing from the tickling.
Ford is tickled by McGuckett, tickles his belly and makes him squirm and whimper. Fiddleford tried to remember every sensation so he could describe it later. Okay, it felt good rather than painful, but impossible. He wanted to laugh, squeal and twitch at the same time. It was impossible to restrain himself. All the feelings merged into one.
Ford tickled man's chest, scratched his ribs. McGuckett had a full-on tantrum. Fiddleford was writhing on the floor, pounding on him with both hands, begging him to stop.
- Fordy, please stop!
The frayed nervous system could not take the strain, and the laughter turned to sobs.
Sobbing with laughter, but tears rolling from his eyes, Fiddleford literally continued to squeal. Ford stopped, not wanting to torture.
- I'm sorry...?
- You stopped at the most interesting part.
- Shall I start again? - Ford raised his eyebrows.
- NO!!!
McGuckett shrieked. Pines hummed and kissed him lightly on the face. The kiss landed on his cheek and Fiddleford blushed.
Ford smiled, looked at the his face, and then stroked his cheek with a fingertip.
- If you need me for any more experiments, you can let me know.
He chuckled softly.
Fiddleford stared at the man as if hypnotized. Carefully he caught Ford's hand and smiled at the corner of his lips.
- I just won't let you go.
- I'm afraid you won't, - he replied sarcastically, nuzzling his lips against his.
Who would have thought that tickling would affect them so much? But in the end, there was too much of it in their relationship.
jacobvanloon
2087
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turnnoffyourmind
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