After years of lurking on tk tumblr I finally decided to stop being weird and make my own blog. (Though I have to give a lot of credit to all the lovely lovely jayvik tk content for being super compelling) I have no idea what I'm doing, but I'm here anyway!
I draw and write sometimes so I may end up posting some stuff of my own, who knows. In any case I'll likely be keeping things sfw for the most part :)
Things I like:
- Arcane (1/3rd of the way through s2!)
- the Adventure Zone pod
- Anime: FMA:B, AoT, Haikyuu!, Demon Slayer, Vinland Saga, JJK, HxH (almost finished with s5), Death Note, Chainsaw Man, Trigun (both og and the reboot), and probs more that I can't think of right now lol
The gentle kind of tickles where the lee is halfheartedly pushing at the ler’s hands or not at all and they’re just lost in a world of giggles and squeals. So overcome by happiness and love that they blush bright red and curl into a ball while kicking their legs. Not knowing what to do with their hands so they cover their face or lightly grip onto the ler’s hands 💖 And the ler is laughing along with them and in awe at how adorable and pure it all is. Complimenting every little noise and reaction. Saying how cute they are and how much they love them whether it be platonic or romantic. Pure tickles 💖
Project hail mary (tickle fic: Ler!Ryland Grace, Lee!Reader)
🌌 Summary: Grace is a filthy cheater when he's drunk - you're more than willing to match his mischief.
🪐Tags: Ryland Grace & Reader, tickling, fluff. 1.5k words
💫 Prompt: "thinking about rocky seeing you give grace raspberries for the first time and being baffled because he’s seen tickling before but this is new and weird and grace is reacting SO strongly,,, cue rocky asking a million questions to which you say “i don’t know, grace is the scientist here, why don’t you ask him” and grace having to explain the logistics behind it all while in hysterics, rushing to get his words out before you raspberry him again and he can barely talk though laughterrrr i’m on such a lee!grace kick atm i need that man to be wrecked within an inch of his life"
🛰️Author's note: At long last, new fic!! Sorry this one took so long! I'm still not super happy with it but I wanted to give yall something this week! <3.
🌌 Credits: (thank you to @//harringtonsslvt for the post layout inspo! Space dividers by @//strangergraphics)
You and Grace could be incredibly stupid sometimes. In your defence, you'd had several months with only each other to perfect your specific brand of ridiculous.
So it's no surprise to either of you that you're here again, chasing Grace down for sabotaging his way to Mariokart victory. Shoving the other players does not constitute a valid strategy, in your book, and you intend to make that point via a suitably childish retribution.
Though perhaps the fact you're both a little tipsy is clouding your judgement.
"Ok, ok ok-"
Ryland backs against the wall, looking suitably ridiculous. His legs nearly trip over one another, and he can't seem to stop laughing. The screen behind him proudly displays his ill-won place on the leader-board.
He sends you a pleading look - one that begs you to reconsider the course of action he knows you'll take. But you've both done this dance before - he never means it.
Knowing this, and seeing the poorly concealed giddiness in his eyes brings a smile to your face. Ryland knows you've made your choice, and holds his hand out in front of him.
"C'mon, wait, wait wait-"
You laugh, longer than you usually would. It's all so silly. “Nah.”
In a split second, you leap over, and barrel head-first into your target. You attack without mercy: your hands aim ticklish jabs at his sides, his stomach, his ribs. He curls up instantly, careless giggles and useless bargaining immediately filling the room.
"Yes yes yes, get him!" Rocky exclaims.
"Rohock! Have some sympathy!"
"No!" Normally, when there is a dispute, Rocky is quick to point out who started it - but in times like these, it is unclear to all of you. Grace may have started the shoving, but only because you tried to block his view of the screen.
You glance up at Grace, who has backed even further against the wall in his struggling, his shirt dishevelled. He sees the look in your eyes, and starts giggling.
“Hah- okay, okahay, what…whatever it is you’re thinking of doING-” His voice pitches up as you lean closer, grabbing his midriff. He attempts to block you with his hands, but not much effort goes into the gesture.
“Listen, listen, we can talk ABOUT- OH NO-” The rest of his sentence is swallowed by a shriek, because you’ve ignored him, and instead shoved your head under his shirt to plant a raspberry against his stomach. Ryland bats ineffectually at your head, his torso twisting and shaking with high pitched laughter - and then, adorably, he snorts. You withdraw after a moment - partly to catch your breath, and partly so you can watch him giggle himself silly as he recovers.
“Ha- oh fudge-” He mutters, an unabashed grin still lingering on his face.
Rocky chimes up from behind, tapping his foot. “…What was that, question?”
You both pause, glancing down at him. “Huh?”
“The noise.”
“What, this?” You immediately lean in and give your companion another raspberry. The shrieking returns, and he keeps trying to suck his stomach in to get away. It doesn’t work.
“Yes.” Rocky shuffles.
“Care to explain, Dr. Grace?” You grin, poking unpredictably at his sides with one hand and holding him for stability with the other. Ilyukhina's vodka was dangerous.
Grace whines at the suggestion, pushing lightly at your hands.
“Oh, why mehehe?”
“It’s, uhhh- s'your turn to field a Rocky question. I did the last one.”
“Ha- oh jeez, do I have to?” He looks at Rocky pleadingly.
“Yes.”
“Great. So it’s called a raspberry-EEE-”
His sentence devolves into a shrill squeal. Maybe it’s a little mean you interrupted him to give Rocky another demonstration. Oddly, though, it's hard to find a trace of guilt in your heart.
“…Like earth fruit, question?”
You draw back, nodding in Rocky's direction. “Yep.”
Ryland rakes a hand through his hair, and glares. His betrayal is completely staged.
“You’re not -gonna make this easy for me, are you?”
You shrug, intoxicated laughter threatening to drown your words.
“You're the one taking ages to explain.”
“Why called raspberry, question?”
“I dohon't know, bud, you'll have to check the database!” His breath hitches when you start spidering slowly over his ribs. He pouts, and if anything it just motivates you to continue.
“Grace laugh a lot when raspberry.”
“Yea, bud, because it really TICKLES-”
You do it again, because he's not exactly pushing you away. Grace curls inwards, holding onto your shoulders for dear life as he laughs.
"Raspberries work anywhere else, question?"
Ryland just giggles helplessly, his grip on you tightening, making absolutely no moves to stop you. Regardless, you take pity, and ease off a bit.
“Go on.” You nod for him to continue, lightly squeezing his sides. He's barely stopped laughing, clearly just as giggly as you after a couple drinks.
“Yea, thehey do.” He mutters, a note of resignation in his voice.
"Like where, question?"
He pauses.
...There is no universe where you manage to stop Grace from immediately burying his face against your neck. No universe where you push him away before he takes a deep breath. And no universe where he doesn't then declare, with all the smugness in the world:
"Here."
And then you feel it.
Grace's beard really tickles.
You manage to shout a single expletive before you're lost to unfiltered cackling. Your body seizes in its hysterics, trying to writhe out of the way - but every movement only seems to trap him further against your shoulder. There's nowhere to go. Besides, in your half-drunk state, where every touch feels like dozy sunlight on a nice afternoon, you don't particularly want to go anywhere.
You still protest, though.
"GRACE! Plehehease!"
"Sorry," He pauses, chuckles. "Is your neck too ticklish?"
"Shut UP-" Your voice slides higher when his stubble brushes your collarbone, and squeaky giggles wreak havoc on your little remaining coherency.
"You want me to stop talking?"
"YES!"
"Good. Raspberries make it kinda hard to talk, so that works out for both of us." He blows another one to illustrate his point.
"GRACE-" You shout between giggles, infuriated. He ignores you - just nuzzles slightly closer, the buzzing of his beard on your skin sending you into utter hysterics.
"So..." He leans back to look down at your audience. "Any more questions, Rock?"
"Not sure."
"Ok. Well, I'm aiming to repay my four raspberries here, so I've only got two more left. Better think of one fast."
"...You are both very drunk."
"S'not a question, bud."
"...Why do raspberries work on stomach but not sides, question?"
"I meannn," He shrugs. "I never said they didn't."
"Great," You huff, trying to extricate yourself from the odd half-hug Grace has trapped you in.
"It is great, actually." He pulls you closer like it's nothing, and nudges at your shirt.
"You know what's not great? Cheating at Mariokart."
He doesn't say anything - just takes another deep breath. You brace yourself, hoping to contain your reactions a little better.
It doesn't work.
"ahaHA-" Your legs kick out wildly. "RockEE- HELP!"
"What would I do? Am in ball." He's got a point, unfortunately.
Grace finally pauses for breath, and you think he might be about to show mercy.
But then he looks at Rocky, and looks at you, and frowns.
"Hm, I wonder..."
He grabs your leg, pulling it straight. His hand rests on the cuff of your shorts, above your exposed knee, stabilising it.
Your eyes go wide.
"No."
"What, you think it'll work?"
You hesitate. He doesn't bother letting you contemplate further - just leans in, and brings his mouth to the skin behind your knee.
It's awful. It's wonderful. It's so stupid and ridiculous. You smile so wide. You laugh so hard.
This chaos is comfortable to you both, and you know neither of you would change it.
It takes a while for you to notice that Ryland has stopped - you're still laughing when he turns you around to face him.
"Uh oh. Someone's got a case of the giggles."
There's a special kind of withering glare you reserve only for when Ryland really annoys you - but you use it here, just for fun. Just to see him tut and roll his eyes.
"Happy?" You fold your arms.
"Very." He smirks. You shove at him gently.
"Still do not understand why called raspberry." Rocky crawls closer. "On Erid we call it-"
He stops. The quiet that follows tells you all you need to know.
"...Rocky..." You start.
"Nevermind." He chimes, moving to scuttle away.
Grace grins wildly.
"No, no. Continue. What do you call it on Erid?"
The conversation devolves rapidly, and you lean back to watch. The night is still young, it seems. Plenty of time for Rocky to witness some more of the incredible stupidity you are all accustomed to.
I love it when a ler's calm, chill, and collected while a lee is acting hysterical and losing their mind from the tickles. The lee's going through hell as they thrash around and scream-laugh like crazy...while their ler's just chilling, enjoying a relaxing afternoon playing with their cute tickle toy. The contrast is awesome.
I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again I think it’s the best thing ever that a massive chunk of the PHM fandom has taken one look at Ryland Grace and just collectively decided “yeah this guy is the most ticklish man alive and that needs to be abused immediately he needs to smile and laugh and let go and and and”
Like it’s the silliest thing to me!! I’m scrolling through instagram and find a BloodyMary artist and over multiple posts/drawings the slightest touches get him giggling it’s the cutest thing ever!!! And it’s not even that one artist I could name a handful of art pieces that either alludes to or solidifies the headcanon that Grace is ticklish. I’m just in love with the concept. Like what do you mean the number one collective headcanon is that he’s aroace or at least within that spectrum (makes me feel seen as fuck we love some good solid ace rep) and the second most collective headcanon is that he’s deathly ticklish?!?! And likes to be tickled?!?!
Idk man it just makes me very happy scuttles back to my cave
content notes: Tickling (Like this is a tickle fic. Fair warning. If that's not your thing that's okay but it would be very rude to take the time out of your day to tell me so!), Lee!Holland March x Ler! reader (Mostly. A little bit of switchiness), Public tickling (But nobody pays any mind), Alcohol/intoxication, Cursing, Mutual romantic interest, Jealousy (from Holland), Gender neutral reader, Reader is described as smaller than Holland, Reader’s laughter described as pretty.
a/n: Hey so there'd probably be a bartender at this bar but uhhh let's all collectively pretend they've gone on an extended break. They're in the back room taking a nap, okay? ALSO. This is my first fic in years. YEARS. YEARSSS. I've been editing forever and my brain's turned to slime so I've just gotta go "Here! It's good enough!" I'm not even gonna look at it again before I publish. Being so brave about it.
4k words
In all your years as a private investigator, you’d never had a case quite like this most recent one. What began as a typical ‘I think my husband is cheating on me’ case, ended up spiralling into the discovery of some shady secret society bullshit. It was a tough case, and just when you’d been about to drown under the weight of it all, your path crossed with Healy and March, who were working the same case as you. It was a relief to have a team of three heads rather than one, and both parties had information the other hadn’t yet discovered, leading to bright new insights and refueled momentum.
Throughout the case, there had been multiple missteps and turn-arounds and plot-twists and shoot-outs that could have really ended terribly (well, could have ended terribly for the three of you, and did end quite terribly for the guys on the other side of the fight). But you all pulled through, and closed the case earlier this evening.
Now, the three of you are celebrating at some hole-in-the-wall bar that somehow manages to feel quite homey. You’re sitting on the middle barstool between Healy and March. At this hour, there aren’t many other patrons scattered about the small bar: Some guy’s passed out on the table across the room (but he’s fine). A couple have been canoodling in a back booth for who knows how long.
Holland’s been animatedly retelling the story of his standoff with one of the goons he’d encountered and fought off while you and Healy were separated from him. His story wraps up and your shared laughter peters out. A swell of silence takes over the moment.
“Well,” Healy’s gruff voice says from your left, as he taps his empty whiskey glass on the bar. “I’m gonna call it for tonight.”
It’s late. It’s a very reasonable time to leave. You understand. But there’s a sad twist to the smile you give him as you nod. You’ve been through so much together and you’re not sure when you’ll get to see him again.
He rises from his stool, pulling out his wallet. He slips out a few bills and places them on the bartop. Then slips out a business card and hands it to you, holding your gaze. “Call anytime, understand? For anything.”
The gesture, coming from someone else, might leave room for you to wonder if they were making a pass at you. But from Healy it’s clear there’s nothing beyond a platonic sense of care and protection in the offer.
You stand, blinking preemptively to keep your eyes from misting, and wrap your arms in a strong hug around Healy’s shoulders. “Thank you for everything,” you say as you squeeze.
He seems caught off guard for just a moment, then softens, returning the hug. “Our pleasure,” he says, his gruff voice softening in an almost avuncular way.
As you mutually withdraw from the hug, he locks eyes with March, who’s slouched so far sideways over the bar his whole arm from armpit to elbow is flush against it, holding him up. His head’s propped on his hand. Beer bottle hanging limply from the fingers of his second hand.
“‘Night, March,” Healy says, quick and casual.
March lifts his bottle, two fingers raised in some sort of wave-salute hybrid.
“Get home safe, yeah?” Healy says, eyes back on you as he shrugs on his stormy blue leather jacket.
You nod. “‘Course. G’night, Healy,” you say.
And he nods, then heads out.
The interaction had been tender. You’d been through a lot these past few weeks. And it was the kind of goodbye that honoured that.
Holland, though, to your right, has been watching the interaction through squinted eyes.
Was there something going on between Healy and you? You’d all gotten close over the course of the case. Spent a lot of time together. He wouldn’t put it past Healy to be interested. Who wouldn’t be? You’re wonderful. And brave. And stunning. And smart and delightful and funny and fierce and everything else that is good.
Okay, so. Holland’s taken with you. He’d gone from interested to smitten after spending less than a week in your company. And smitten had fermented into pining and then into yearning over the remainder of the case.
He huffed.
Healy was his partner. And if something was going on there… With you… With Healy and you… That… would be a good thing. For Healy. And for you, probably.
Not for March, though. Very very bad for March.
He couldn’t help the bitterness that rose up his throat.
He could be good for you. If you’d let him. If you wanted that.
You could do much better, though. He pouts, peering down the dark neck of his beer bottle.
Healy would be better. Someone in a much safer line of business would be even better.
But God he wanted to be the one to be good for you.
You miss all signs of his rumination as you settle back into your seat. When you turn back to March with a small smile, you find him closed off. He’s swiveled the angle of his stool to face the bar. He’s hunched over slightly as he fiddles with the label of his beer bottle, the sticker wet and flimsy with condensation. A hint of a petulant little sulk hides behind his ‘stache.
He removed his suit jacket on arrival, draped it over the backrest of his seat. Throughout the night his tie’s gotten looser. Sleeves of his white shirt rolled up his forearms. You try not to let your eyes linger on the way the blonde dusting of hair on his arms glitter in the warm light.
You draw in a breath and release it audibly. He says nothing.
“So,” you start, inviting him into conversation. Just a word to acknowledge the changed dynamic of the night. No longer a group outing. Just you and March.
March is prompted out of the bubble of his thoughts by your voice, but only somewhat. He turns his face to you, squints at you, as if trying to figure you out. Finally he points the lip of his bottle toward you, and asks, “Who d’you think would win in a fight? Me or Healy?”
You raise your eyebrows in surprise at the question but play along. “Uh, Healy.”
“Wh–?” his face crunches into a petulant frown. He dismisses the notion with a little pff. “Name one good reason.”
“Well, you’re quite drunk,” you say, grinning.
He’s not that drunk. He’s only had, what, three drinks more than Healy? So, like, five drinks more than you. And he’s off the hard stuff for the night. Switched to beer! But then, he’d arrived at the bar on the buzz he’d been stoking all day. He isn’t incoherent, by any means. He’s lucid. He’s on the looser, swimmy-minded side of lucid. But lucid enough.
He tips the beer bottle again, as if pointing at you, as if it’s a natural extension of his hand. He’s got a lifted look to his features, like he’s just cracked some sort of code. “But if I wasn’t drunk,” he prompts.
“Healy.”
He deflates with a little grunt. “Could at least pretend to think about it,” he mumbles, and takes a dejected swig of his beer.
“Mm, sorry. You’re right,” you say, playing along. “Let me think.” You lean back in the bar stool, eyes closed, like you’re really mulling it over. “And if… oh, but if… mm… aaand, carry the one…” You open your eyes. “Still Healy.”
Despite himself, he scoffs his way into a laugh and you follow.
“Okay, what about…” His tongue darts out to wet his lip, then swivels his stool to face you more directly, leans back, arm draped languidly along the bar, chest unsubtly puffed. “A fight between me and your boyfriend. Who’d win then?” he asks, shrugging one shoulder, trying and failing at nonchalance.
Oh. Your heart flutters.
You hold his gaze and assure him, “Don’t have a boyfriend.”
“Mm.” He nods in a slow, serious way, brows pinched in concentration as he considers this. “What about Healy or your boyfriend?”
You blink at the question and sputter out a chuckle. “... Still don’t have a boyfriend.”
You see the moment his mind properly processes this, the inner machinations of his mind projected clearly through his features.
“Oh,” he huffs out with a breathy laugh at his blunder and flushes, tries and fails to bury the blush as he sweeps a hand over his face. But his demeanor changes, no longer puffed-up but light and lifted and open. He’s got the dusting of a grin on his lips as he crooks the elbow of the arm on the bar and leans his head back onto his hand.
When his eyes find you again, there’s something simmering behind them.
“What about you and me then?” his tone tips flirtatious.
Your heart flips. Finally.
The case is over, and he’s finally making a move.
“You and me?” you ask with a smile, eyes wide and glittering with interest.
“Yeah,” he affirms with a nod. Your lips just manage to part around a pleased response, when he follows up with, “Who’d win that fight?”
Oh…. The air punches out of your chest.
He’s not asking you out. He’s still doing his little bit.
But he’s looking at you. He’s flirting. Progress is progress, you suppose.
“Me,” you reply, brushing your disappointment aside and relenting into a grin.
His eyes do a quick sweep of your frame. The look isn’t suggestive in nature. He’s taking stock. Pointing out your stature compared to his. “Really?”
“Oh yeah,” you say, nodding. “For sure.”
He makes a baffled, amused face. He’s no martial artist, by any means, but he can hold his own. And you can too. It’s necessary for the job, and you’re both good at what you do. It should be a relatively even match. His confusion’s clear on his face.
“You wouldn’t hurt me,” you add, to explain your reasoning, letting the tone of the moment turn tender.
Holland flushes warm pink. “Ah.” He doesn’t argue. Saves himself from his own bashfulness with another swig of beer.
“What about another kind of fight, then?” he suggests, voice playful and definitely flirty now. He leans in closer by a fraction. “Who’d win in a battle of wits?” He waggles his eyebrows.
“Me.”
He barks out another baffled grunt of defeat at your immediate confident reply, jerking his entire form in a dramatic show of dismay. The movement has his seat swivelling beneath him, sending partway around in a circle, and he makes these twisting thrusts of his hips and knees to manoeuvre the seat back in place to face you.
You’ve always been one to turn giggly after a few drinks, and tonight, it seems, is no different. His reaction, followed by the awkward hip swivels, tips you into such a spell of laughter, you completely miss the way he lights up at the sound.
And Holland March is nothing if not a dog with a bone.
He’s been single-mindedly focused on this thing he’s been doing, trying to find any angle, any chain of events, any possible world where he comes out victorious over others, in your eyes. But then you laugh, and he preens and immediately flings that old goal into the dumpster in the back of his mind.
New goal: More pretty laughter, please.
“Whattabout a pillow fight?” he asks, having landed back in place. He leans his head on his hand again, the gesture warm as he watches you.
“Me,” you reply through your slightly waning giggles.
“Fuck,” he mutters. “Snakes and ladders?”
You sputter into a fresh bout of laughter at the suggestion. Snakes and ladders is a game of chance. But still, you point to yourself.
“Dammit!” he shrieks, his voice high and piercing.
You startle at the sound and cast a quick glance around the bar. With wide eyes, you shush him as well as you can while you’re being swept away in the fresh rapids of your laughter, but he’s undeterred.
“Dominoes?”
You point to yourself.
“Hopscotch?”
You wheeze at the mental image and point to yourself.
“Tiddlywinks?”
Your laughter goes silent. You fold at the waist and drop your forehead against the bar, cushioned by the back of your hand. You bang a closed fist against the bar once before pointing toward yourself again.
Holland’s gone warm all over. Must be blushing to high heavens. Eyes have maybe been replaced with thumping cartoon hearts. But he can’t find it within him to care.
“Tickle fight?”
You’re not thinking. It’s not a conscious decision you make. You’ve gone so giggle-drunk your wrist pivots of its own volition. Your finger points toward him.
His eyes widen with surprise and delight, brows elevating near into his hairline. Because this is not only an absolutely adorable turn of events, but also quite a promising lead. You mean he can get you giggling and he doesn’t even need to be funny or clever to earn it? The goal-oriented part of his brain starts chiming like a slot machine that’s hit the jackpot.
Your brain catches up with your hand a moment too late. A soft gasp interrupts your laughter and you sit up a bit. Your eyes go wide at your own hand, and you sharply close the traitorous finger into the rest of your fist, as if a statement you could retract.
Holland sputters out a laugh. “Ah, I’ve got a chance there, do I?” he teases, reaching out to poke at your ribs, exposed by your leaning forward against the bar.
You squeak at the touch and shake your head. “I didn’t mean that!” you insist, though a helpless reinvigoration of giggles are already sweeping you away, and your whole torso’s jolting sideways with every prod of his finger. Your elbow tucks in protectively but Holland works around it.
“No?” Holland chuckles. Lands another few pokes. “I’unno. Seems like you might be really sensitive. Told on yourself pretty good there, didn’t you?”
“Fuck off,” you say through snickers, batting at his hand. Your face has flushed hot and your abdomen’s beginning to ache from the exertion of sustained laughter. “‘S not fair. I’m already laughing! Ow.” You pout, an overdramatic bid for mercy.
“Mm,” Holland hums, the tone of it disbelieving. But he relents, withdrawing his hand. “Fair eno—AUGH!” He spasms at a fizzy burst of sensation between his ribs.
You both freeze at his response, even as you’re still fighting to recover from your giggle attack. Your hand stills in place where it had darted out to prod at him. Mischievous glee spreads slow across your face.
His widened eyes meet your eager ones. The nervous anticipation fizzling within him is shoddingly masked by an attempt at a warning glare.
“Think about what you’re doing,” he cautions, his pointer finger raised in a show of sternness, but it trembles.
“I am,” you assure him, voice laced in innocence. “‘M thinkin’ this’ll be really fun.”
You waste no time digging back in, and your touch sends Holland’s already thready composure crumbling.
Where Holland’s approach had been a step above timid, just a few pokes, yours is unbridled.
Your clawed fingers have latched into the intercostal spaces of his ribcage and squeeze away with lethal precision.
He fights it for half a moment, tensing and stammering out a fitful stream of shit’s and fuck’s before biology takes over. He dissolves with a wheeze into reluctant laughter, his body curling around the site of your attack.
You’ve never seen him this way. His face all flushed and scrunched with merriment is, perhaps, the most adorable sight of your life. You can’t help melting a little, and chuckling along with him.
“Oh no. Seems like you might be really ticklish,” you parrot his own words back to him.
He shakes his head and eeks out a wheezy Shuddup, cheeks blooming rose red.
You turn your ear toward him. “Hm? What was that?”
As soon as he starts trying to form the words again, you dart your hand to his leg, squeezing just above the knee. A shrill yelp replaces any attempt at a response. He folds over, bumbling hands trying to reach for yours, blocked by the bar.
“Oh, nothing?” you say, uber-casual. “Strange. Thought you had something to say.”
“God, shit,” he squeaks, one weakened hand finally finding yours, trying and failing to pry at your fingers.
“No, you’re right. That was cruel of me. This any better?” you ask, shifting your hand higher to squeeze at his mid-thigh.
He snorts, squawking through his laughter. His legs shift and kick aimlessly under your hand. The toe of his shoe bashes against the lower wall of the bar and, though Holland carries on unharmed, the bang reverberates through the space.
“Shhh. Jeez, would you behave?” you tease, but don’t let up. You glance around the bar but nobody’s paying you any mind. The canoodling couple has left (or snuck into the bathroom). The passed-out guy’s snoring on the table. “People are trying to have a quiet evening here.”
He whines at your words but doesn’t retort. Just lets himself laugh as he reaches clumsily under the bar, across his lap, for your hand with his free one—the one not concerned with keeping the beer bottle dangling between his fingers from getting smashed or spilled in the fray.
You leave his leg alone and take advantage of his exposed underarm, prodding into the hollow. His arm slams down to his side, punctuated by a surprised bark of laughter. And thank god these barstools have backrests or Holland would’ve ended up on the floor, with the way he throws himself backward in a fruitless attempt to evade your touch.
You let yourself admire the way his hair bounces in the bar’s low light, his head thrown back, crow’s feet crinkling as he’s wracked with desperate, defiant cackles. His free hand finally finds its bumbling way across his chest to your forearm, but doesn’t wrench at you or push you away. Just grabs onto you as if for an anchor, grip strong but not too tight. His palm is warm.
“Uh oh, bad there?” you tease with a helpless, besotted grin. He’s too far gone to respond, poor thing.
You let up a little, opting for light fluttery fingertips and nails where you’ve been deep-tissue wriggling.
He sucks in a quick breath and curses, but it’s a paltry show of distress. With his shoulder jerked upward, ear angled down protectively, he disintegrates into giggles so bubbly you want to bottle them. You wonder, for one too-hopeful second, if he might curl so far to the side his head comes to rest on your shoulder, but he remains relatively upright.
When his curled-in stance proves to be ineffective protection, his head tips back again, and he slips down in his seat, revealing features that are undeniably mirthful. He looks so free and boyish a fresh wave of affection crashes over you. Your hand freezes in place.
He blinks his eyes open through the lingering giggles and the glimmer in the blue of them is far too reminiscent of the way a sun glitters on a lake.
He’s had his eyes scrunched shut all this time, giving you the luxury of getting away with doing absolutely nothing to rein in the blatant adoration on your face. But eyes-open means he can see you now, and some alarm goes off in your mind: Shit, too vulnerable. Abort abort abort.
Your face flushes hot, and you slip your hand from the crease of his armpit, dropping it to your lap. You run your palms along your thighs as you turn back to the bar, clearing your throat, trying to regain some semblance of composure.
You manage a glance back at him, and any notion that you’d been caught ogling him are quelled. He’s completely occupied with recuperating. Melted back in his seat, one arm crossed lazily over his middle, the other thrown over his eyes. His grin seems like it may be permanently stained across his face.
You have to remind yourself, quite pointedly, not to watch the way his chest fills and falls as he heaves his way back to even breath. You bury your compounding blush by taking a sip of your long forgotten drink.
“Y’okay over there?” you quip gently, grinning.
His shoulders shake with the remnants of breathy snickers. He doesn’t look over, but gives you the finger.
You snort. “It wasn’t that bad.”
He sputters, squinted eyes peeking out from under the crook of his elbow to fix you with an affronted look.
“Oh, it wasn’t?” he quips with a wavering, slightly hoarse voice. I’m sorry, were you the one being tickled within an inch of your life?
You roll your eyes and fix him with a dismissive look of your own in return. “Please, it was, like, two seconds.”
He scoffs, shakes his head, running a palm over his face. He sits up a little, righting himself in his seat, still grinning stupidly and failing to suppress it.
“It was an eternity, actually,” he insists, all sass. He’s back to tipping the pointed end of his beer bottle at you, punctuating his point. It’s a wonder he managed not to drop the thing through the entire ordeal.
“Mm, was it? Oh, wow,” you mutter through a grin, and take another sip of your drink.
His brow scrunches. He leans to get a look at you. “What? What’s ‘wow’ mean?”
You shrug. “Nothing. Just can’t believe you were tickled for a whole eternity and it never once occurred to you to, like…” You flick your eyes to the row of empty stools to his right “... move.”
His eyes widen and his head whips to the side.
Oh. Okay, yeah, he totally, very easily could’ve shifted over, out of your reach. Fuck.
His face flushes red.
He spins back to you, defiant and overly gesticulative. “Well forgive me for not being of sound mind, okay? Maybe I was a little too busy to formulate an escape plan while you were, fuckin’…” he trails off, lifting his elbow and plucking his fingers in the air between his arm and side.
You hold his gaze, brows raised, for a moment, to see if he’ll finish his sentence. And he does not. You chuckle into the lip of your drink. “Hm. Right. Fair enough.”
“Yeah. Yeah, fair enough,” Holland mutters, playing at indignance, swiping a hand through his mussed hair. He brings the beer bottle back to his lips, chin tipped back as he downs the last of it.
You allow yourself a long, slow sip, and swallow, before glancing back his way. “Didn’t occur to you to say ‘stop’, either?”
He sputters into his drink, reddening. Glares at you.
“You had fun,” you declare, holding his gaze, admittedly smug.
He swallows. Scoffs. “You had fun,” he deflects, snarky.
“I did,” you agree, shameless and beaming.
He rolls his eyes, slumps back into his seat. Goes even pinker.
You chuckle softly and sit back in your seat, attention back on your drink, letting the moment cool to a simmer.
After a moment, you glance over—just to check in, just to make sure he’s not combusting under the force of his embarrassment—and find him shaking his head, toying with the now-empty bottle where it rests on the bar, failing to hide the aching fondness on his face. His attention turns, eyes catching yours, and you exchange a twin set of bashful grins.
Another best passes.
You swallow the last of your drink and set the empty glass back on the bar. “So, guess I was wrong before,” you admit.
He looks at you, confused.
“Tickle fight,” you clarify. “Turns out I’d win that one, too.”
His shrill cry slices through the still air of the bar—“God dammit!”—and you tumble into laughter again.
content notes: Tickling (Like this is a tickle fic. Fair warning. If that's not your thing that's okay but it would be very rude to take the time out of your day to tell me so!), Lee!Holland March x Ler! reader (Mostly. A little bit of switchiness), Public tickling (But nobody pays any mind), Alcohol/intoxication, Cursing, Mutual romantic interest, Jealousy (from Holland), Gender neutral reader, Reader is described as smaller than Holland, Reader’s laughter described as pretty.
a/n: Hey so there'd probably be a bartender at this bar but uhhh let's all collectively pretend they've gone on an extended break. They're in the back room taking a nap, okay? ALSO. This is my first fic in years. YEARS. YEARSSS. I've been editing forever and my brain's turned to slime so I've just gotta go "Here! It's good enough!" I'm not even gonna look at it again before I publish. Being so brave about it.
4k words
In all your years as a private investigator, you’d never had a case quite like this most recent one. What began as a typical ‘I think my husband is cheating on me’ case, ended up spiralling into the discovery of some shady secret society bullshit. It was a tough case, and just when you’d been about to drown under the weight of it all, your path crossed with Healy and March, who were working the same case as you. It was a relief to have a team of three heads rather than one, and both parties had information the other hadn’t yet discovered, leading to bright new insights and refueled momentum.
Throughout the case, there had been multiple missteps and turn-arounds and plot-twists and shoot-outs that could have really ended terribly (well, could have ended terribly for the three of you, and did end quite terribly for the guys on the other side of the fight). But you all pulled through, and closed the case earlier this evening.
Now, the three of you are celebrating at some hole-in-the-wall bar that somehow manages to feel quite homey. You’re sitting on the middle barstool between Healy and March. At this hour, there aren’t many other patrons scattered about the small bar: Some guy’s passed out on the table across the room (but he’s fine). A couple have been canoodling in a back booth for who knows how long.
Holland’s been animatedly retelling the story of his standoff with one of the goons he’d encountered and fought off while you and Healy were separated from him. His story wraps up and your shared laughter peters out. A swell of silence takes over the moment.
“Well,” Healy’s gruff voice says from your left, as he taps his empty whiskey glass on the bar. “I’m gonna call it for tonight.”
It’s late. It’s a very reasonable time to leave. You understand. But there’s a sad twist to the smile you give him as you nod. You’ve been through so much together and you’re not sure when you’ll get to see him again.
He rises from his stool, pulling out his wallet. He slips out a few bills and places them on the bartop. Then slips out a business card and hands it to you, holding your gaze. “Call anytime, understand? For anything.”
The gesture, coming from someone else, might leave room for you to wonder if they were making a pass at you. But from Healy it’s clear there’s nothing beyond a platonic sense of care and protection in the offer.
You stand, blinking preemptively to keep your eyes from misting, and wrap your arms in a strong hug around Healy’s shoulders. “Thank you for everything,” you say as you squeeze.
He seems caught off guard for just a moment, then softens, returning the hug. “Our pleasure,” he says, his gruff voice softening in an almost avuncular way.
As you mutually withdraw from the hug, he locks eyes with March, who’s slouched so far sideways over the bar his whole arm from armpit to elbow is flush against it, holding him up. His head’s propped on his hand. Beer bottle hanging limply from the fingers of his second hand.
“‘Night, March,” Healy says, quick and casual.
March lifts his bottle, two fingers raised in some sort of wave-salute hybrid.
“Get home safe, yeah?” Healy says, eyes back on you as he shrugs on his stormy blue leather jacket.
You nod. “‘Course. G’night, Healy,” you say.
And he nods, then heads out.
The interaction had been tender. You’d been through a lot these past few weeks. And it was the kind of goodbye that honoured that.
Holland, though, to your right, has been watching the interaction through squinted eyes.
Was there something going on between Healy and you? You’d all gotten close over the course of the case. Spent a lot of time together. He wouldn’t put it past Healy to be interested. Who wouldn’t be? You’re wonderful. And brave. And stunning. And smart and delightful and funny and fierce and everything else that is good.
Okay, so. Holland’s taken with you. He’d gone from interested to smitten after spending less than a week in your company. And smitten had fermented into pining and then into yearning over the remainder of the case.
He huffed.
Healy was his partner. And if something was going on there… With you… With Healy and you… That… would be a good thing. For Healy. And for you, probably.
Not for March, though. Very very bad for March.
He couldn’t help the bitterness that rose up his throat.
He could be good for you. If you’d let him. If you wanted that.
You could do much better, though. He pouts, peering down the dark neck of his beer bottle.
Healy would be better. Someone in a much safer line of business would be even better.
But God he wanted to be the one to be good for you.
You miss all signs of his rumination as you settle back into your seat. When you turn back to March with a small smile, you find him closed off. He’s swiveled the angle of his stool to face the bar. He’s hunched over slightly as he fiddles with the label of his beer bottle, the sticker wet and flimsy with condensation. A hint of a petulant little sulk hides behind his ‘stache.
He removed his suit jacket on arrival, draped it over the backrest of his seat. Throughout the night his tie’s gotten looser. Sleeves of his white shirt rolled up his forearms. You try not to let your eyes linger on the way the blonde dusting of hair on his arms glitter in the warm light.
You draw in a breath and release it audibly. He says nothing.
“So,” you start, inviting him into conversation. Just a word to acknowledge the changed dynamic of the night. No longer a group outing. Just you and March.
March is prompted out of the bubble of his thoughts by your voice, but only somewhat. He turns his face to you, squints at you, as if trying to figure you out. Finally he points the lip of his bottle toward you, and asks, “Who d’you think would win in a fight? Me or Healy?”
You raise your eyebrows in surprise at the question but play along. “Uh, Healy.”
“Wh–?” his face crunches into a petulant frown. He dismisses the notion with a little pff. “Name one good reason.”
“Well, you’re quite drunk,” you say, grinning.
He’s not that drunk. He’s only had, what, three drinks more than Healy? So, like, five drinks more than you. And he’s off the hard stuff for the night. Switched to beer! But then, he’d arrived at the bar on the buzz he’d been stoking all day. He isn’t incoherent, by any means. He’s lucid. He’s on the looser, swimmy-minded side of lucid. But lucid enough.
He tips the beer bottle again, as if pointing at you, as if it’s a natural extension of his hand. He’s got a lifted look to his features, like he’s just cracked some sort of code. “But if I wasn’t drunk,” he prompts.
“Healy.”
He deflates with a little grunt. “Could at least pretend to think about it,” he mumbles, and takes a dejected swig of his beer.
“Mm, sorry. You’re right,” you say, playing along. “Let me think.” You lean back in the bar stool, eyes closed, like you’re really mulling it over. “And if… oh, but if… mm… aaand, carry the one…” You open your eyes. “Still Healy.”
Despite himself, he scoffs his way into a laugh and you follow.
“Okay, what about…” His tongue darts out to wet his lip, then swivels his stool to face you more directly, leans back, arm draped languidly along the bar, chest unsubtly puffed. “A fight between me and your boyfriend. Who’d win then?” he asks, shrugging one shoulder, trying and failing at nonchalance.
Oh. Your heart flutters.
You hold his gaze and assure him, “Don’t have a boyfriend.”
“Mm.” He nods in a slow, serious way, brows pinched in concentration as he considers this. “What about Healy or your boyfriend?”
You blink at the question and sputter out a chuckle. “... Still don’t have a boyfriend.”
You see the moment his mind properly processes this, the inner machinations of his mind projected clearly through his features.
“Oh,” he huffs out with a breathy laugh at his blunder and flushes, tries and fails to bury the blush as he sweeps a hand over his face. But his demeanor changes, no longer puffed-up but light and lifted and open. He’s got the dusting of a grin on his lips as he crooks the elbow of the arm on the bar and leans his head back onto his hand.
When his eyes find you again, there’s something simmering behind them.
“What about you and me then?” his tone tips flirtatious.
Your heart flips. Finally.
The case is over, and he’s finally making a move.
“You and me?” you ask with a smile, eyes wide and glittering with interest.
“Yeah,” he affirms with a nod. Your lips just manage to part around a pleased response, when he follows up with, “Who’d win that fight?”
Oh…. The air punches out of your chest.
He’s not asking you out. He’s still doing his little bit.
But he’s looking at you. He’s flirting. Progress is progress, you suppose.
“Me,” you reply, brushing your disappointment aside and relenting into a grin.
His eyes do a quick sweep of your frame. The look isn’t suggestive in nature. He’s taking stock. Pointing out your stature compared to his. “Really?”
“Oh yeah,” you say, nodding. “For sure.”
He makes a baffled, amused face. He’s no martial artist, by any means, but he can hold his own. And you can too. It’s necessary for the job, and you’re both good at what you do. It should be a relatively even match. His confusion’s clear on his face.
“You wouldn’t hurt me,” you add, to explain your reasoning, letting the tone of the moment turn tender.
Holland flushes warm pink. “Ah.” He doesn’t argue. Saves himself from his own bashfulness with another swig of beer.
“What about another kind of fight, then?” he suggests, voice playful and definitely flirty now. He leans in closer by a fraction. “Who’d win in a battle of wits?” He waggles his eyebrows.
“Me.”
He barks out another baffled grunt of defeat at your immediate confident reply, jerking his entire form in a dramatic show of dismay. The movement has his seat swivelling beneath him, sending partway around in a circle, and he makes these twisting thrusts of his hips and knees to manoeuvre the seat back in place to face you.
You’ve always been one to turn giggly after a few drinks, and tonight, it seems, is no different. His reaction, followed by the awkward hip swivels, tips you into such a spell of laughter, you completely miss the way he lights up at the sound.
And Holland March is nothing if not a dog with a bone.
He’s been single-mindedly focused on this thing he’s been doing, trying to find any angle, any chain of events, any possible world where he comes out victorious over others, in your eyes. But then you laugh, and he preens and immediately flings that old goal into the dumpster in the back of his mind.
New goal: More pretty laughter, please.
“Whattabout a pillow fight?” he asks, having landed back in place. He leans his head on his hand again, the gesture warm as he watches you.
“Me,” you reply through your slightly waning giggles.
“Fuck,” he mutters. “Snakes and ladders?”
You sputter into a fresh bout of laughter at the suggestion. Snakes and ladders is a game of chance. But still, you point to yourself.
“Dammit!” he shrieks, his voice high and piercing.
You startle at the sound and cast a quick glance around the bar. With wide eyes, you shush him as well as you can while you’re being swept away in the fresh rapids of your laughter, but he’s undeterred.
“Dominoes?”
You point to yourself.
“Hopscotch?”
You wheeze at the mental image and point to yourself.
“Tiddlywinks?”
Your laughter goes silent. You fold at the waist and drop your forehead against the bar, cushioned by the back of your hand. You bang a closed fist against the bar once before pointing toward yourself again.
Holland’s gone warm all over. Must be blushing to high heavens. Eyes have maybe been replaced with thumping cartoon hearts. But he can’t find it within him to care.
“Tickle fight?”
You’re not thinking. It’s not a conscious decision you make. You’ve gone so giggle-drunk your wrist pivots of its own volition. Your finger points toward him.
His eyes widen with surprise and delight, brows elevating near into his hairline. Because this is not only an absolutely adorable turn of events, but also quite a promising lead. You mean he can get you giggling and he doesn’t even need to be funny or clever to earn it? The goal-oriented part of his brain starts chiming like a slot machine that’s hit the jackpot.
Your brain catches up with your hand a moment too late. A soft gasp interrupts your laughter and you sit up a bit. Your eyes go wide at your own hand, and you sharply close the traitorous finger into the rest of your fist, as if a statement you could retract.
Holland sputters out a laugh. “Ah, I’ve got a chance there, do I?” he teases, reaching out to poke at your ribs, exposed by your leaning forward against the bar.
You squeak at the touch and shake your head. “I didn’t mean that!” you insist, though a helpless reinvigoration of giggles are already sweeping you away, and your whole torso’s jolting sideways with every prod of his finger. Your elbow tucks in protectively but Holland works around it.
“No?” Holland chuckles. Lands another few pokes. “I’unno. Seems like you might be really sensitive. Told on yourself pretty good there, didn’t you?”
“Fuck off,” you say through snickers, batting at his hand. Your face has flushed hot and your abdomen’s beginning to ache from the exertion of sustained laughter. “‘S not fair. I’m already laughing! Ow.” You pout, an overdramatic bid for mercy.
“Mm,” Holland hums, the tone of it disbelieving. But he relents, withdrawing his hand. “Fair eno—AUGH!” He spasms at a fizzy burst of sensation between his ribs.
You both freeze at his response, even as you’re still fighting to recover from your giggle attack. Your hand stills in place where it had darted out to prod at him. Mischievous glee spreads slow across your face.
His widened eyes meet your eager ones. The nervous anticipation fizzling within him is shoddingly masked by an attempt at a warning glare.
“Think about what you’re doing,” he cautions, his pointer finger raised in a show of sternness, but it trembles.
“I am,” you assure him, voice laced in innocence. “‘M thinkin’ this’ll be really fun.”
You waste no time digging back in, and your touch sends Holland’s already thready composure crumbling.
Where Holland’s approach had been a step above timid, just a few pokes, yours is unbridled.
Your clawed fingers have latched into the intercostal spaces of his ribcage and squeeze away with lethal precision.
He fights it for half a moment, tensing and stammering out a fitful stream of shit’s and fuck’s before biology takes over. He dissolves with a wheeze into reluctant laughter, his body curling around the site of your attack.
You’ve never seen him this way. His face all flushed and scrunched with merriment is, perhaps, the most adorable sight of your life. You can’t help melting a little, and chuckling along with him.
“Oh no. Seems like you might be really ticklish,” you parrot his own words back to him.
He shakes his head and eeks out a wheezy Shuddup, cheeks blooming rose red.
You turn your ear toward him. “Hm? What was that?”
As soon as he starts trying to form the words again, you dart your hand to his leg, squeezing just above the knee. A shrill yelp replaces any attempt at a response. He folds over, bumbling hands trying to reach for yours, blocked by the bar.
“Oh, nothing?” you say, uber-casual. “Strange. Thought you had something to say.”
“God, shit,” he squeaks, one weakened hand finally finding yours, trying and failing to pry at your fingers.
“No, you’re right. That was cruel of me. This any better?” you ask, shifting your hand higher to squeeze at his mid-thigh.
He snorts, squawking through his laughter. His legs shift and kick aimlessly under your hand. The toe of his shoe bashes against the lower wall of the bar and, though Holland carries on unharmed, the bang reverberates through the space.
“Shhh. Jeez, would you behave?” you tease, but don’t let up. You glance around the bar but nobody’s paying you any mind. The canoodling couple has left (or snuck into the bathroom). The passed-out guy’s snoring on the table. “People are trying to have a quiet evening here.”
He whines at your words but doesn’t retort. Just lets himself laugh as he reaches clumsily under the bar, across his lap, for your hand with his free one—the one not concerned with keeping the beer bottle dangling between his fingers from getting smashed or spilled in the fray.
You leave his leg alone and take advantage of his exposed underarm, prodding into the hollow. His arm slams down to his side, punctuated by a surprised bark of laughter. And thank god these barstools have backrests or Holland would’ve ended up on the floor, with the way he throws himself backward in a fruitless attempt to evade your touch.
You let yourself admire the way his hair bounces in the bar’s low light, his head thrown back, crow’s feet crinkling as he’s wracked with desperate, defiant cackles. His free hand finally finds its bumbling way across his chest to your forearm, but doesn’t wrench at you or push you away. Just grabs onto you as if for an anchor, grip strong but not too tight. His palm is warm.
“Uh oh, bad there?” you tease with a helpless, besotted grin. He’s too far gone to respond, poor thing.
You let up a little, opting for light fluttery fingertips and nails where you’ve been deep-tissue wriggling.
He sucks in a quick breath and curses, but it’s a paltry show of distress. With his shoulder jerked upward, ear angled down protectively, he disintegrates into giggles so bubbly you want to bottle them. You wonder, for one too-hopeful second, if he might curl so far to the side his head comes to rest on your shoulder, but he remains relatively upright.
When his curled-in stance proves to be ineffective protection, his head tips back again, and he slips down in his seat, revealing features that are undeniably mirthful. He looks so free and boyish a fresh wave of affection crashes over you. Your hand freezes in place.
He blinks his eyes open through the lingering giggles and the glimmer in the blue of them is far too reminiscent of the way a sun glitters on a lake.
He’s had his eyes scrunched shut all this time, giving you the luxury of getting away with doing absolutely nothing to rein in the blatant adoration on your face. But eyes-open means he can see you now, and some alarm goes off in your mind: Shit, too vulnerable. Abort abort abort.
Your face flushes hot, and you slip your hand from the crease of his armpit, dropping it to your lap. You run your palms along your thighs as you turn back to the bar, clearing your throat, trying to regain some semblance of composure.
You manage a glance back at him, and any notion that you’d been caught ogling him are quelled. He’s completely occupied with recuperating. Melted back in his seat, one arm crossed lazily over his middle, the other thrown over his eyes. His grin seems like it may be permanently stained across his face.
You have to remind yourself, quite pointedly, not to watch the way his chest fills and falls as he heaves his way back to even breath. You bury your compounding blush by taking a sip of your long forgotten drink.
“Y’okay over there?” you quip gently, grinning.
His shoulders shake with the remnants of breathy snickers. He doesn’t look over, but gives you the finger.
You snort. “It wasn’t that bad.”
He sputters, squinted eyes peeking out from under the crook of his elbow to fix you with an affronted look.
“Oh, it wasn’t?” he quips with a wavering, slightly hoarse voice. I’m sorry, were you the one being tickled within an inch of your life?
You roll your eyes and fix him with a dismissive look of your own in return. “Please, it was, like, two seconds.”
He scoffs, shakes his head, running a palm over his face. He sits up a little, righting himself in his seat, still grinning stupidly and failing to suppress it.
“It was an eternity, actually,” he insists, all sass. He’s back to tipping the pointed end of his beer bottle at you, punctuating his point. It’s a wonder he managed not to drop the thing through the entire ordeal.
“Mm, was it? Oh, wow,” you mutter through a grin, and take another sip of your drink.
His brow scrunches. He leans to get a look at you. “What? What’s ‘wow’ mean?”
You shrug. “Nothing. Just can’t believe you were tickled for a whole eternity and it never once occurred to you to, like…” You flick your eyes to the row of empty stools to his right “... move.”
His eyes widen and his head whips to the side.
Oh. Okay, yeah, he totally, very easily could’ve shifted over, out of your reach. Fuck.
His face flushes red.
He spins back to you, defiant and overly gesticulative. “Well forgive me for not being of sound mind, okay? Maybe I was a little too busy to formulate an escape plan while you were, fuckin’…” he trails off, lifting his elbow and plucking his fingers in the air between his arm and side.
You hold his gaze, brows raised, for a moment, to see if he’ll finish his sentence. And he does not. You chuckle into the lip of your drink. “Hm. Right. Fair enough.”
“Yeah. Yeah, fair enough,” Holland mutters, playing at indignance, swiping a hand through his mussed hair. He brings the beer bottle back to his lips, chin tipped back as he downs the last of it.
You allow yourself a long, slow sip, and swallow, before glancing back his way. “Didn’t occur to you to say ‘stop’, either?”
He sputters into his drink, reddening. Glares at you.
“You had fun,” you declare, holding his gaze, admittedly smug.
He swallows. Scoffs. “You had fun,” he deflects, snarky.
“I did,” you agree, shameless and beaming.
He rolls his eyes, slumps back into his seat. Goes even pinker.
You chuckle softly and sit back in your seat, attention back on your drink, letting the moment cool to a simmer.
After a moment, you glance over—just to check in, just to make sure he’s not combusting under the force of his embarrassment—and find him shaking his head, toying with the now-empty bottle where it rests on the bar, failing to hide the aching fondness on his face. His attention turns, eyes catching yours, and you exchange a twin set of bashful grins.
Another best passes.
You swallow the last of your drink and set the empty glass back on the bar. “So, guess I was wrong before,” you admit.
He looks at you, confused.
“Tickle fight,” you clarify. “Turns out I’d win that one, too.”
His shrill cry slices through the still air of the bar—“God dammit!”—and you tumble into laughter again.
pairing: ryland grace x reader (intended as platonic)
summary: you didn't even do anything this time. honestly.
warnings: no use of y/n, gn reader, lee!reader, ler!grace, grace is a fiend and a menace, reader is just having a day
word count: 1.4k
authors note: sorry. actually no im not, yall asked for this one. <3 title: aqua regia by sleep token
///
You blinked hard, trying to clear your vision.
The taumoeba samples remained unmoving in their petri dishes. You could only hope that they were doing what they were supposed to be doing. Growing. Adapting. Whatever.
You didn't actually need to watch the samples. There wasn't much to do with them other than to monitor their environment every few hours. But you didn't want to leave just yet. Too much rested on the success of these little buggers.
You pressed the heels of your hands into your eyes, rubbing the dry, burning feeling away. Your elbows thudded faintly against the desk when you rested your weight on them.
"Hey, can you come here for a sec?" Ryland called from somewehere to your left.
You turned your head, squishing your cheek against your palms. "Whh-?"
"Get over here." He sounded like he was laughing.
When you peeled your eyes open, he was straightening on his stool and tucking a pen behind his ear.
"What is it?" You mumbled, unwilling to move any more than absolutely necessary.
"Come on, lazybones."
You puffed your cheeks out, exhaling sharply in a raspberry. "Yeah, fine."
Ryland extended an arm towards you as you approached, and looped it around your lower back when you were within reach. He pulled you in, placing you to stand between his legs and leaning you back against the desk behind you.
"This is cozy." You raised an eyebrow.
Ryland just smiled, and raised his free hand, wiggling his fingers in the air.
You felt your heart stutter. "Whoa - hey. What's going on?"
"Nothing's going on." Ryland raised his eyebrows in mock confusion, corners of his mouth drooping. "Why would anything be going on?" He shot his hand out towards your abdomen, pulling back at the last second before he made contact.
You flinched hard, your own hands coming up in front of you protectively.
"Wait!" You yelped.
"Wait for what?" Ryland was smiling openly now. "I'm not doing anything."
"You are!"
"What am I doing?" He lunged again, angling to a slightly different spot, grinning wide when you squeaked, and flinched again.
"You know what you're-" Another lunge towards you, another flinch, and you slapped at the top of his hand. "- stop it!"
"'Stop it'!" Ryland mimicked with a chuckle, waving his hand this way and that slowly while wiggling his fingers again.
"That's not what I sound like!" You huffed, and tried swatting at him again. "And don't do that."
"Still don't know what it is that I'm supposedly doing here." Ryland looked at you over his glasses and, mercifully, dropped his hand. It rested on top of his thigh, fingers curled loosely and completely relaxed. The arm around your lower back, however, tightened when he felt you shift.
"Ryland," you used your thumb and forefinger to squeeze at your temples. "I'm tired, and I'm supposed to be watching the samples, because we have no idea what we're doing, and if this goes to shit we've got nothing."
"Tired?" Ryland said, and something in his voice made you lower your hand to look at him.
He released his hold on you, but braced his knees tighter on either side of you instead. Then he brought his palms together and rubbed them rapidly a few times, like he was trying to warm up.
"Clear!" He called out, and before you could voice your confusion, he tasered both hands into your ribs. "Bzzt!"
You yelped, bending hard at the waist and nearly knocking your head into Ryland's.
"What the hell?!" You demanded, laughter bubbling in your chest. You squashed it down. "What are you doing?"
"I'm resusitating you." Ryland said, rubbing his palms together again.
"No, no, no-" You gripped at his wrists, adrenaline spiking.
"Clear!"
"Do not- Ack!" You doubled over - again - choking on air and a yelp.
"Bzzt!" Ryland said, tasering your ribs. Then again. And again. "Bzzt! Bzzt!"
"Noho!" You gave in to giggling, jerking wildly with each squeeze to your ribs.
"'Noho'!" Ryland pitched his voice up into a silly whine, switching to scribbling his fingers up and down over your ribcage. "'Noho'!"
"What did I doho?" You asked, ducking your head towards his shoulder. Shivers crawled up your spine from the ticklish fluttering at your ribs.
"What did you do?" Ryland repeated, as if confused. "Nothing at all."
Your mind spun. "Then why-?"
You felt him shrug. "I thought it would be fun."
"Fun for who?" You demanded, attempting to twist away from his hold. Ryland wrapped his legs around the back of your thighs, hooking his ankles together.
The movement brought you even closr to him, and you braced your hands on his shoulders to keep your balance from being jostled.
"Well, for both of us, I'd hope." His arms slinked around to your back, scritching his nails around your shoulder blades. Your back and torso arched in an attempt to get away. "Gosh, you're such a wiggle worm."
"Mngh." You grunted concisely, grinding your teeth shut. Giggles still escaped you, though, and you tried not to focus on your rapidly heating face.
"What does that mean?" Ryland asked, grinning, then snickered when you hid your face from him by pressing your cheek to the top of his head.
His hands switched to pinch at your uppermost ribs quickly.
"Hm? What's that?" He teased when you broke into full laughter. "Use your words."
"My wohords -!" You said between gasps for air. "- are sahaying you're being mehean!"
"Mean?" Ryland feigned offense, then wiggled his fingers into your underarms. "You're not actually doing anything to stop me, though."
"I am!" Your hands gripped tight at his tshirt.
"Yeah?"
"Yes!"
"Clinging and giggling isn't exactly gonna help you."
At his words, you suddenly became aware of how tightly you were holding onto him. To try and prove him wrong - who were you kidding - you pushed yourself off of his shoulders. You pulled at his arms, still laughing, and a moment of surprise registered in your fuzzy mind when he let you.
It was short lived, though, because in the next moment Ryland wrapped one around around your upper back and locked you in against his shoulder. You felt him shift his legs to get a better grip.
Then his free hand tucked itself under the hem of your tshirt, thumb slipping just under the waistband of your trousers and lodging under your hip bone.
"Ryland." You said, arms scrambling to try and push off of him.
"Yes?"His thumb stayed unmoving, but firmly planted under your hip bone.
"If you do this I will never forgive you."
There was a pause, and Ryland seemed to actually be thinking over your words. Your heart hammered in your chest.
"Nah." He said finally, voice light. "You will."
"Grace-" Too late. The thumb dug in, and kept at it; wiggling, rubbing, circling.
Laughter burst out of you so sharply that you lost breath for a second, body simultaneously pressing closer to Ryland's and trying to twist away from his hand.
When your lungs remembered their function and you were able to gulp in a breath, it was so sudden that you snorted lightly.
Ryland burst into giggles, hand faltering in it's movements.
"Don't." You groaned.
"Oh jeeze." Ryland's voice pitched up from his giggling. "I've never heard you make that noise before."
You pushed up from his hold with more intent this time. Ryland let you, his arm sliding away from you, lingering down your back. No longer poised for attack.
"And you never will again." You said to him firmly, trying to mimic his best teacher-voice.
"Hmm." Ryland calmed down enough to stop giggling. "We'll see about that."
"No." You objected. "There is no 'see'. This never happens again."
"Mm-hmm."
"Sleep with one eye open." You pointed your finger at him, reaching your other hand behind you to unhook Ryland's legs from around you. "My revenge will be swift."
He dropped his legs at your insistent pushing. "I expect no less."
He was still grinning.
Huffing through your nose, you turned away to head back to your samples.
"I swear to god, you need to be taken down a peg." You muttered just loud enough for him to hear. You slid back onto your stool. "Or three."
"I look forward to it."
Your hands faltered over the taumoeba samples. Glancing out of the corner of your eye, you saw Ryland reaching behind his ear for his pen, eyes trained on the papers in front of him.
I just love the idea that rocky when tickling grace always teases him about how "grace most ticklish human" and it makes grace stupidly flustered cuz how is that space rock so on point with his teases when he never met another human? and rocky feels all smug and proud cuz he has that one tease that always just makes grace fold UNTIL they finally reach erid and it turns out that rocky is also one of the most ticklish eridians out there
summary: first part of potentially a series 👀 in which rocky and grace argue over which of them is more of an evil deadly monster. they're both space orks.
note: i need all the fics about the differences in their evolution stat. i love the hunting trope (ambush vs persistence) so much, i think it's such a fun idea.
I'm really confused.
The Hail Mary is not a big ship. It took me less than 20 minutes to explore every room after I first woke up - and that's with having forgotten to walk after not moving a muscle in over four years. Just 20 minutes.
I've been looking for Rocky for over two hours now.
"Rocky?" I call out into the dormitory that I've already checked three times.
I frown with my hands on my hips.
We both have our days when we really need our own space. For the most part, we'll usually respect it and leave the other be as well as we can, but in living quarters this small and with a roommate who can hear through walls, me-time is always more of a we-time. Surprisingly, it hasn't been too bad. We both know what the alternative is like, and I think that's given us enough perspective to not just be tolerant of each other's constant presence, but straight up clingy for it. Even this late in the game. So I'm beginning to feel small-to-medium amounts of disturbed. I might not be able to see through walls, but I've never had trouble finding him before-
"What the-!"
I snap my head around, eyes bouncing from spot to spot. I feel the hairs of my neck stand and the flesh of my arm pimple with goosebumps.
There's nothing there. Nobody there. No Rocky there. Rocky is the only person who could be on the ship. Heh.
"Okay, buddy. If you're trying to mess with me because of what I said, I'm sorry! It's not gonna work!" I call out, trying my best to keep my voice from betraying the unease I feel in my gut. I feel like I'm being watched.
Before his sudden disappearance, Rocky and I had a bit of a discussion over who, in our scenario, would be the horrific monster alien that poses an extinction threat to the other's species, and who would be the chum. We've tallied up the points so far and learned the terrifying histories of each other's evolution and special adaptations. It got more and more heated as we tied in counter with each other over and over. I'd win the balancing on one foot contest, he'd win the 'has five legs and has no need for stupid balance' contest. So on and so forth.
After a few hours of this, my blood was up. I (cockily) suggested performing a live demonstration of a perfect monster for him when we touch down on Erid. I may have said something about getting the entire Eridian race under my squishy and opposable thumb. Starting with Rocky's mother.
So now Rocky's missing. For the first hour, I worried I took it a step too far. Maybe your mom jokes are a line you just don't cross in Eridian culture, and I offended him so badly he took his new EVA suit out through the airlock because of how much space he needed from me. But now, I'm pretty sure he's messing with me. Because I've felt him watching me for a while. I just don't know where from.
It's really quiet on the ship. I've never known Rocky to be light-footed, and it's starting to get unbearable not being able to hear him. I'm about to ask Mary to start singing for me when-
All of the lights suddenly turn off, with Mary's voice piercing through the silent darkness. "Automatic lighting disabled."
Mm no. I hate this. "Uh, no no no. Lights back on, please?"
"Automatic lighting disabled. Manual override required." Her voice is so much louder in the dark.
"Manual-" I huff. "How am I supposed to manually override if I can't see anything?"
"The manual override is located in control-"
"Yes, Mary, I know." My voice wobbles in steadily growing terror. I slowly feel my way across the dormitory before I stop suddenly in the doorway - the long, black corridor in front of me.
Rocky is in the control room. That's how he did all this fudgery with the lights. My heart picks up speed, and my nerves assure me that something (Rocky! Rocky is the only other person on this ship!) will attack if I go up there. Gulp.
I back up a bit from the doorway, turning over my options in my head - which is working in significant overtime. I feel sweaty looking down the corridor, but I refuse to take my eyes off it.
Rocky is currently in the control room, but he switched the lights off like this on purpose. He knows how useless I am in the dark. And he can see through walls, so he knows exactly where I am right now and there would be no purpose in hiding. He's probably on his way to me right now, and I'm defenseless. Unless he's already at the end of the corridor just staring at me.
I squint down the corridor. Do I see his figure at the end of it? Well, whatever I'm seeing, it looks nothing like him. Too big, too still, too wrong.
My thoughts are starting to drift into stupid territory and my mind is playing tricks on me. I try to shake it off, wiping my sweaty palms on my pants and taking deep breaths. I know he's trying to scare me, so it's stupid that it's actually working. Rocky is my best friend. He's not a monster. He'd never really hurt me-
I hear the rapid sound of footsteps charging towards me from the end of the corridor. I scream, scrambling backwards as fast as I can. It's not fast enough. A shrieking invisible thing tackles me and I brace for-
A pillow softens the blow to my head from the ground. Once all my scream putters out, I wheeze from where Rocky is squeezing me tightly.
"Wh-whhhyy.." I gasp pathetically.
"Grace get too cocky. Needed to teach a lesson," Rocky's cheery, friendly voice chirps. It does good for soothing the terror bells still ringing through my head and body. So does the squeezing. "You were sooo scared. Did not know heart can get that fast!" he sings in joy.
"Ugh, whatever! I wasn't that scared," I grunt, trying to wriggle my arms free from the death hug. I can't help the small smile that forms in my relief. "I was more afraid that you were actually mad at me."
He titters at me. "You're lying. You're scared even now. Your body-nerve-system still think I will eat you," he shimmies his carapace onto my stomach, and I grunt and tense at the nuzzling. "Maybe will. Show who is the better monster."
"Ew!" I start to laugh stupidly - the energy built up from all the terror needing to be released somehow. "No, please! At least kill me first. Or start your process over there. Away from me."
My body-nerve-system has taken over and is wiggling uncontrollably, trying to avoid his consistent nuzzling. "Pf- stop it!" I snort.
"Why, question? Thought Grace not scared." He wiggles more emphatically.
"Ah- I'm not!" My knees knock against Rocky's back as my body tries and fails to curl in, my stomach feeling more sensitive the more he moves. "I'm worried your biology is going to take over and unload on accident, thinking it's dinner time. Okay- Rhhoc- hehehe- quuuit it!" I whine, embarrassed about not being able to hold back my giggling. He's doing this on purpose.
He trills a noise of offense. "You are disgusting. That could never happen. Eridians too dignified. Ripping apart prey must always come first." He moves my arms away from my body just enough to tickle my sides and, despite expecting it, I explode.
"AGH- No! hAhahaha!!" I can never really talk when he does this. What I'm trying to say is, no! hey! get off! but unfortunately all I can manage to get out is convulsive giggling. My arms snap in over and over to protect my sides, but they're blocked by his rock hands. I only succeed in bruising myself a little.
"Don't laugh," he says while laughing himself. "encourages hungry-feeling!"
Ugh. I never win this challenge. I hold my breath, clench everything, and put every ounce of willpower I have to try and contain my giggles. Surprisingly - still squirming and with my eyes squeezed shut - I almost manage it! Until Rocky moves further up into my ribs. I whimper and fall back into hysterics.
I try to flop around to deter his hands (too many hands!!! too many hands!!) but my torso can't move at all under his FAT body. My legs are free to kick in and out as much as they want at least, but it doesn't do anything to stop him either. I can't stop it.
I continue to strain, but my head falls back in resignation as I laugh. I regret it immediately. The position turns a desperate intake of breath into the loudest snort ever. Rocky stops then, but I hardly feel relief from it - he only stopped because he's laughing at me so hard that now he can barely breathe.
"G-gett offff..." I gasp through giggles. His laughter is making him shake over my stomach again, and I'm so hypersensitive that I can't stand it. I squirm to no avail.
"♫♪what♫noise♪♫♪~~!!" He dissolves back into his amusement without finishing his sentence. I burst out into full belly laughter again despite the heat in my cheeks. His giggles are so contagious. And his vibrations are still tickling me down to the bones. I think I might die. Atleast I'm taking Rocky down with me.
Mercifully, Rocky climbs off me after a minute. His legs are weakening from laughter and he doesn't want to crush me for real. I curl up the second I'm able to in a way-too-late reaction to preserve my vital organs from tickle torture.
"I see now," he giggles. "Sensitivity is good defense. You become so funny, nothing can eat you. Predators too busy laughing."
"Please be quiet," I groan. I take a steadying breath. "Alright, I admit it. You're scarier out of the two of us. You ticked all the boxes that scare humans the most. Silence, darkness, surprise attacks. You'd definitely be able to take over humanity before I can take over Erid. Your mom would destroy me."
"No," he sighs through his vents, and I frown in confusion. Rocky's not one to reject a win. "Grace scary too. Stealth is part of Eridian nature. Know how to stay silent. Not detectable," he shudders. "You detect anyway. Almost catch me many times with crazy light detectors. Scary."
I smile incredulously. Fascinating! "So, all that just for us to tie again?"
"Grace winning for now, actually. We move ticklish from weakness to strength," I gape at him, but he cuts me off. "Serious about good defense. Funny, funny, funny."
"What- that's not- it's.." I stutter helplessly. "You're ticklish too! You know what, I'm hunting you next time."
"Grace not stealthy. Cannot ever surprise Rocky."
"Humans don't hunt our prey like that anyway. We just keep following them until they get too tired to keep running," I lean in as Rocky shies away. "We get them in their sleep, you know. When they're the most vulnerable. You might hear me coming, but you won't be able to stop me."
"♫♪!" he shakes his carapace like he's snapping himself out of it, then rushes me to start poking my sides and stomach.
"He-hey!!!" I giggle and push at him.
"Grace not trick me," he trills, but I swear I detect notes of relief when he hears me laugh again. "Can not scare me. Grace is best friend. You are not monster."
i feel like the backs of the legs are a pretty underrated tickle area. there’s so much to exploit there… well, i know it’s definitely a death spot for me >/////<
being tickled is so flustering for so many reasons but the part that gets me the most is someone wanting to tickle me?? the thought of someone actively wanting to make me laugh, wanting to coax it out of me with gentle, deliberate touches. the thought that someone wants to see the effect that their teasing has on me, that they want me to be flustered because they like seeing me that way. the concept of wanting to be so playful with me and also wanting to see me in such a flustered, silly state because they like it is. yeah.
