#tickling fic

[twordcentral]

A Lesson in Stamina

Definitely took a look at this lovely art and had to write a little something inspired by these fucking losers that I love so very much.

pairing: radiostatic (sort of, vincent is certainly thinking about it) lee!vox, ler!alastor word count: 4,726 no real warnings, just a normal amount of hazbin cursing and alastor’s stupid tentacles if those make you uncomfortable

Vox is tired, so very tired. Being an Overlord in Hell is tiring. Being in Hell at all is tiring.

Of course, there’s a certain ‘new smell’ to the whole thing, but even a promotion as it stands can’t shake away the days that he just feels like shit. This place is not for the faint of heart, and all he has is his nose-to-the-grindstone mentality to make it all worse.

There are some comforts, though, and one of those is the rather charming demon in red that he met in the bar the day he arrived in the Pride ring. An Overlord that had set up shop a few decades ago and was, as Vox understood it, one of the more dangerous of the lot he had met so far.

The pinging desire to dethrone had been immediate but only until he met Alastor. Then…

…the closet door had opened, and he was as unsteady as a baby deer chasing after the man as often as he could.

One of the easiest places to do that? Said bar.

The Radio Demon was already there, nursing his whiskey, as Vox walked in. His acknowledgement was the same as it always was, a small nod and a whiff of static casted the flathead’s way. It’s pleasant, and certainly appreciated, especially after a day such as this one.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to show up late.”

“Mm, your punctuality certainly is legendary.”

Alastor never probes. Vox appreciates it and reciprocates as often as he can—there is something to be said that his curiosity can sometimes get him in trouble. However, today, it certainly would have been easier if the Radio Demon bothered to notice that his drinking partner was looking a little worse for wear.

Emotionally, that is.

“Yeah, well…I didn’t really think that one Overlord would actually try and step foot in my little corner so soon, but I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised down here anymore,” he huffs, making a motion to the bartender. She knows his order.

“Agrat?”

“No Calliope.”

The Radio Demon hums to show he heard. And then, in a rare moment of physical contact, he swipes his thumb under Vox’s picturebox head, drawing a startled little motion from the demon and an incredulous look in his direction. “It looks like she put you through the wringer.” It’s said with a teasing tone that the television demon is used to now as he gives said thumb a lick.

Was that Vox’s blood or the other Overlord’s?

It didn’t really matter.

“Yeah, she did. I’m…exhausted, honestly.” Now that he’s been given quiet permission, his shoulders drop and he gives a small sigh. 

Alastor’s eyes remain on his drinking partner, almost far-away as if he’s thinking of something else entirely, before a soft chuckle rumbles through the crackle of his filter. “But you’re sitting here, and she is not. Congratulations, pal, you survived another Overlord attempting to usurp your tiny amount of power—how many has it been now?”

Vox’s is now face-first in the wood of the bar. He holds up three fingers to answer the Radio Demon.

And said demon’s smile widens. “Only three? Oh, dear Vincent, I don’t believe you’ve earned the right to complain.”

The television demon turns his head to look at Alastor, squinting. “Yeah, that's easy for you to say, everyone’s scared of you.”

Everyone but him.

“A fear that was well-earned through hard work and perseverance," he hums, craning his neck so he could meet the television's eye properly. An almost playful move. “Just like you're doing right now.”

Vox feels as though he’s making fun of him and turns his head away with a little huff. “Doesn't really seem that way, but I’ll take your word for it.” There is a light vulnerable answer there that can’t help but sigh through, eyes casted down against the grain. He’s gaining small bits of power, sure, but nothing compared to the Radio Demon. He’ll have to realize that soon, right? And then what?

He doesn't really want to think about that, about how this all changes once his companion believes he’s just a fleeting trend.

Alastor is tilting his head as he regards Vox. He’s thinking, watching, articulating his next move as he watches the little pouting demon practically begging for some sympathy that the demon is not wired to give. However…

“Well then, perhaps it’s time for another lesson on my part, my little protege.”

Vox groans. “Don’t call me that again...”

“I’m serious,” he chuckles, “especially if you feel as though your stamina is lacking in…efficiency. After all the help you’ve shown me running pesky little sinners off of my territory, I have no issue offering my own help in exchange.” 

He’s almost surprised he didn’t ask for a deal to be struck. “Fine, what did you have in—”

There was no finishing that statement.

There’s a small tingle that hit his side, right below his ribcage. It’s enough to make him jump a little but when he snaps his head to the side to inquire what it was that his compatriot had done, he sees what looks like one of Alastor’s tentacle things having slid up from the shadows under their feet to wiggle almost playfully at his side.

Wait. What now? There’s not even any time for Vox to react before another one shoots under his shirt and starts teasing his other side. He shivers, nearly collapsing over the bar as he captures his lower lip between his teeth. “Ah-hah-lastor…?” But as he risks a peek beside him, the Radio Demon’s expression isn't instilling any confidence that it was an accident.

There’s a finger resting on his lips, that perpetual smile slightly sharper than he’s used to: it lacks malice but is filled with a toxic mischief instead.

Somehow, that makes Vox even more worried.

If it’s any consultation, Alastor doesn't seem to be interested in overwhelming him with this. Why would he, that would surely ruin the game he’s playing. Eldritch tendrils that he’s seen rip people limb from limb are nuzzling against his skin curiously, the static that draws between them pleasant for a moment until they brush against a sensitive spot and he can’t help but cover his mouth to avoid yelping.

The bartender’s attention is drawn. “Everything alright?”

“Oh yeah—yeah! Sorry…” He’s not sure why he apologized. “Just…didn’t expect it to be so strong.” Did the guy look a little offended at that? He honestly couldn’t care less.

“Careful now, Vincent,” he spares a half-glare at the Radio Demon, “I’m having fun right now. You don’t want to interrupt me, do you?” He spots a flicker of those dials as his grin stretches with lidded eyes, and it makes him want to sink into the floor. Oh, not like he doesn’t want the attention (that is what he wanted, right?), but the optics of this are…

…

…yeah, he’s not sure how long he’s going to be able to play along without passing away.

“N-no…” he manages, a light blue flush on his screen as he sits up rather sharply, expression turning determined. It’s fine, it was just another way to prove himself to Alastor, he could endure it for that possible elation of said praise alone.

And the other demon’s expression turns just a hint more sinister. “Good boy.” He makes a circle motion with his finger, and any hope that Vox had that his companion was taking it easy on him is immediately thrown out the window. Because, here’s the thing, in all the distraction, he really hadn’t noticed that the two wiggling masses under his shirt hadn’t exactly stopped their exploration. They were being merciful, passing by spots that he knew would incite a different reaction, and instead making themselves entirely comfortable against him.

He was an idiot: they had been searching…

So, on Alastor’s cue, they tuck up under his arms and he nearly jolts again. The wriggling is exactly as he expected it to feel, but even that knowledge doesn’t help him from coughing away the beginnings of a snicker. Nonono—nope, he’s not going to break on the first tug. Instead, in an effort to retain some control over the situation, he reaches for his drink and takes a sip.

Only barely shaking.

And Alastor rewards him with a hum of approval and a wink. “Promising. Let’s see how long you can hold out when I get to those nastier little spots.”

“Ho-how could you possibly…?”

“Finding weaknesses is one of my greatest skills, Vincent. You haven’t forgotten, have you?”

No, of course he hasn’t. 

“To prove my point,” Vox didn’t really need him to do that, “I know that these,” and the tips of his little tools drift down to circle around the gills on either side of the media demon’s ribcage—not touching the delicate flaps, but even a flick considerably close makes him seize up violently, “ah yes, are probably the worst of it for you, am I right?”

Vox is having a hard time here because on one hand, this is humiliating. He’s a goddamn Overlord, and this is ranging on becoming unearned disrespect, especially considering how much admiration he gives the Radio Demon in return.

And yet, there’s something in Alastor’s tone that’s making an entirely different tingle run up his spine. 

He’s going to ignore that one as best he can.

“I-isn’t this a-a…little c-childish?” 

The Radio Demon manages a short laugh, low and cool. “I am shocked at you, Vox. You should know better than to just make an assumption like that.” What the hell was he talking about? “I am certainly not going to be picky about my methods if the results are met.”

Great.

The tentacles are starting to expand out around his torso now, dipping playfully into his navel and swiping slowly against the sensitive skin of his waistline, an action that makes him nearly break the glass in the palm of his hand as he takes a sharp breath in.

“Now, as a reminder, we’re going to use this as an opportunity for you to improve upon your stamina, my dear. No laughing, no whimpering, and certainly no crying.” The Radio Demon’s voice is overlayed with static as he croons out the next part, “Think you can manage?”

No, he’s not sure.

But he's going to do his best anyways, isn't he? Alastor is dangling that carrot over his head, practically teasing him with the idea of his approval.

Shit.

As he sits up, those stupid tentacles have clearly taken that as his consent on the matter and as happy to explore as desired by their owner as he sits and watches Vox squirm for a moment, a delightfully smug smirk on his face that the television head might find nice to look at. You know, if he wasn't the subject of it.

But they’re quick and they’re deadly accurate, already finding a few spots that make him jolt once again—unfortunately, it's the wiggling in his navel that is close to making him whine out, the sweeping motion almost a little too skilled for someone he’s pretty sure never engages in this kind of play often.

Or maybe he wasn't lying before about his methods—tickling was a form of torture, was it not? In some places?

That thought alone made him almost kick his leg against the side of the bar.

Surprisingly, though, Vox is holding out stronger than even he anticipated. The tendrils seem to be throwing everything they can at him—light brushing, wiggling, digging and swirling, even vibrating in some areas. And yeah, it's difficult for him to keep a straight face, but he sure is doing it. He has to, Alastor is assessing him here, and he’s not going to disappoint—

Oh shit, not the hips.

The second two of those wiggling masses slip under his pants and start playing around with the crevice on either side of his waist, he starts to get a little worried. He doesn't make a sound, no, but he can feel his spine curving and his legs pressing up to try and stop their movement, eyes squeezing shut for the first time since this fucking “lesson” started.

A new, third black tendril is suddenly fluttering against the small of his back, an action that makes the media demon straighten up with a sharp intake. “Ah, ah, ah, can’t have you ruining your posture~” 

How painfully unfair.

Vox isn't sure how much more of this he can realistically take, especially when he’s not granted the simplest mercy of being able to curl up like a bug being toyed with under a microscope—that’s essentially what was happening here, right? Those tentacles aren’t leaving him any quarter here, digging into his hips with quick precision.

“M-mmghh…!”

The Radio Demon doesn't respond back, taking a sip of his drink before sparing a moment to enjoy the color of it, rocking the glass back and forth with one finger. His ability to multi-task is almost terrifying, Vox can’t help but wonder how many of the torture sessions-turned-brutal murders were done while he was busy dusting his console or tending to his equipment.

“...A-al…”

“Shh, you can do it, my little picturebox. You don’t want to disappoint me when you’ve been doing such an incredible job so far, do you?”

No, he doesn’t.

The tendrils that are drilling into the hollows of his hips are perhaps the worst offenders of all, the actions making him jittery and snorty as he is forced to sit up. Maybe Alastor did that on purpose, maybe he didn't, but keeping his spine straight was just an invitation for them to dig in deeper. A devious little move on his part.

Fuckfuckfuck.

Oh, this is starting to border on too much to handle. He's pretty sure that line was crossed when this started, but the longer it continues, the more Vox realizes that his inhibitions concerning how embarrassing this was are starting to soften.

Alastor is showing him attention—the Radio Demon is playing around with him with that mischievous little look in his face and he has to fight every fiber of his being that's attempting to blush as his mouth squiggles on his bright face.

He…

…

Maybe he was enjoying it, just a little. Not that he’d let Alastor know that. Not in a million fucking years.

But knowing how scary intuitive the man was, he probably already knew.

Fuck.

“Time to open your eyes, Vincent.”

He hasn’t noticed the lack of the bar’s usual ambiance—how could he, seeing as he was so preoccupied? But as he spares a glance up with eyes practically glitching off his screen, he notices that it’s just the two of them. Not even the bartender can be found amongst the empty spaces. At first, a sudden hint of fear hits his chest that perhaps this had been a long con for Alastor to finally consume him like he does with all his other guests on his radio broadcasts.

Tenderizing his meal before eating it.

However, the tendrils mercifully stop their assault on his body, and give him a chance to release the tension being held in his shoulders as he blurts out a sharp gasp and collapses on the bar, panting. Phantom tingles are hitting every inch that was being touched, which is already making it difficult for him and this new dizzying headache he’s got, but he manages to look back over at Alastor with one eye closed regardless.

Fucking hell…

The Radio Demon is taking the last swig of his drink with a little hum in the back of his throat, standing up slowly with his staff in hand. “Well now, that was very entertaining, pal! I must say, I was quite impressed with your stamina; I never expected you would hold out the entire time!” And he gives a light, almost soft prod to the side of his screen. “Good job.”

“Y-you…why the hell…” Vox is still panting, trying to sit up straight and failing every time with how much his body feels like jello. As the other demon moves behind him, he feels a small pang of something hit his chest and turns his massive head to the side. Was he really just leaving after that? He’s learned pretty quickly that vulnerability is currency down here to the powerful (Alastor included in that category) so he tries to just collect himself as best he can and completely forget what happened to avoid the ache.

He’s not sure he can stop his heart fluttering so fast, so needily…

But then something happens that catches him equally as off-guard as when this entire little test started: Alastor’s devilish tendrils immediately grab his wrists and spin him around until his back is against the bar, tugging his arms up and over his head until they are locked in place.

Ow, his fucking head…

At this point, exasperation can’t help but leak from his mouth as he growls a little bit with squinting eyes, squirming in place. “What the hell are you doing…?” Humiliation? He’s pretty sure he won’t be able to fight against something like that in this state.

But Alastor’s expression is, surprisingly, not daunting. It’s relaxed and, dare he say, comfortable as he regards Vox’s new position, twirling his staff before it carefully drums on the floor and he leans against it. “Oh dear, you didn’t think I was finished with you, did you?”

His static heart stops. “I…what?” He regains a little bit of his usual composure, once again squirming to try and free himself with little-to-no change in the matter. “Al, just…lemme go, alright?”

He’s embarrassed. And this is the last person he’d want to show that in front of, no matter how much closer they had become.

“Oh, but that isn’t what you want, now is it?”

Vox bristles a little. “I-I don’t—ahem, I don’t know what you mean...” Oh fuck, oh fuck.

Alastor tuts before a razor-sharp smile returns to his face as he uses his microphone to tilt the media demon’s ridiculously boxy head up. “No need to be so embarrassed, Vincent, it’s only natural for someone like you.” The hell does that mean…?! “You could have gotten up at any moment and left, I wasn’t keeping you here. You endured such a marathon because you wanted my attention, you wanted to be the center of it.”

He opens his mouth to protest but nothing comes out. Not even a hope and a prayer that he could make up any kind of excuse. 

And so, the Radio Demon continues. “And I’m flattered, truly!” He leans a little closer, voice buzzing with static. “I would be lying if I said that despite all of your weaknesses and folly, there isn’t a part of me that finds you utterly fascinating.”

Vox’s screen instantly glitches again, light blue dusting underneath his eyes as he blinks rapidly. “You…?” Can Alastor feel the elation running up and down his spine? There’s no way he can, right? The first part of the sentence was utterly flushed from the media demon’s brain as he swallows and tries to focus on something else entirely in the room, lest he say something to ruin this entire encounter.

Fortunately (or maybe not) for him, Alastor’s not done. “With all that in mind, I think you deserve a reward for putting on such a good show for me, my dearest Vincent. After all, I’m sure keeping all of those guffaws locked away didn’t leave you feeling satisfied, did it?”

Once again, Vox opens his mouth, actually able to formulate a sentence this time. “S-satisfied?!” He squeaks out as the flush returns. “I really d-don’t think…!” How the hell has this man turned him into this pathetic mess? 

The Radio Demon is strolling over to the other side of the bar now, gracefully hopping up and crossing his legs before he reaches down to almost affectionately give one stroke of the screen, right under his chin. “That’s true, pal, this isn’t entirely selfless. I want to hear exactly what you were doing such an excellent job of hiding from me.”

There are more of those stupid, black tentacles now, slithering underneath his button up and immediately going to work on some of the softer areas they had been tormenting a few moments ago. Vox immediately tightens, trying to tug his arms down to no avail with a sharp intake of breath. His immediate reaction is to hold it hold it just based on pure instinct alone. However, a small cough of a laugh exits his throat and Alastor’s smile sharpens.

“Oh my, don’t hold back on my account, good man! It’s not like anyone can hear you.” “E-exce—heh! Except…you…!”

“But that’s the fun part for you, now isn’t it?” Vox barely manages to shoot him a glare as it’s interrupted by a sudden swipe against his stomach and he yelps. 

Alastor gives a small hum that sounds suspiciously like a chuckle. “Ah yes! I completely forgot that I was saving something very specific for last…~” The tips of the tentacles drift upwards to those light blue gills and Vox has a moment of utter panic enter his system like a rush of freezing chill from his cooling fans.

Nononono—

“Ah-hah! Alastor…nnnhehe…!” He can’t even protest without ruining the small bit of control he has over the sounds coming out of his mouth. “Okayokay, listen…! 

“I’m certainly listening.”

“You can…do whatever the fuck you’re g-gonna do…just not–” He lets out a sudden shriek that he’s sure is going to be mocked relentlessly as those tentacles start digging to that tender skin, legs kicking up until they are-too restrained against the floor. “N-no–FUCK! Hah-Alas–!! Nnnhehehe…!”

“Oh dear, did you think that meant I wouldn't continue?”

“NotthereNOTTHERE–!!”

Those red eyes light up. Not in a kind way—no no—he was enjoying the torment of it all. “Not there, hm? Oh, you should know better than that, Vincent”

Well he’s certainly laughing now, isn't he? He hates how unrestrained it is, how the sound is ripped from his guts and splayed out on his chest for the Radio Demon to hear. His picture box head is starting to glitch and overheat as he feels the tips of those tendrils brush feather-light back and forth across the gills mercilessly, torturously, and almost perfectly to draw out the noises Alastor clearly wants to hear.

“A-Ahahaha-LASTOR!”

“Hmm, I wonder if it’s possible for someone to die from laughing too much. I will admit, it’s not something I’ve seen before! What do you think, shall we test that theory tonight?”

Oh shit, he’s not stopping.

Fuck, he actually might kill him with this…!

“Unless, of course, you'd like to make a deal~”

And there it is. Vox can barely make out the words that the Radio Demon is cooing in his direction, his chortling is a few octaves higher. But he can feel the heat from his companion’s excitement around him, around the static that wafts so naturally for the little television demon.

He once again tries to pull his arms down, a mechanical whine coming from his lips. “N-no–!! No-hahaHAHA! Not…reallySHIT!!”

“Too bad, then. I suppose I’ll have to entertain myself another way until you have a change of heart.”

Red claws are reaching up to take a singular antenna between them, a motion that nearly makes Vox shriek with panic. But it ends in horrific elation as the pads of them draw up and down the thin wire, rolling it slightly back and forth as electricity dances between the two rabbit ears.

The result is instantaneous.

“FUCKFUCKFUCK–!!” If his laughter had been unrestrained before, this was digging from deep inside and throwing it at the wall. Like laughter he had been holding onto for decades, before he had even died, was being forced to the surface. Face flushed and expression of forced delight open and unfiltered for anyone to see.

And if it didn't make the Radio Demon smirk with some pride. In himself, of course. “Ooh, that certainly sounds like it’s too much to take—is this spot lethal? I must admit, I wasn't expecting you to impress me with your stamina any further, but willingly putting yourself through this just for my attention? Perhaps you are more masochistic than I was giving you credit for.”

The picture box is barely able to wheeze through his intermittent silent laughter and Alastor gives a light chuckle that sends shivers down his spine as he watches, those dial eyes glowing slightly. “Do you even know where you are right now?”

“PLEHEHEHEASE…!!”

Red ears twitch. “Trying to beg me? Oh, that’s quite the clever trick. However, in the spirit of good competition, I think I made my demands very clear. If you truly want me to show mercy, let's make a deal.”

Vox can’t take it anymore. He truly can't imagine this going on any longer and not losing his mind in the process.

“OKAYOKAY–PFFHAHAHA! JUSTSTAHAHAHAP!”

And the Radio Demon does immediately stop. The result leaves the television head gasping for breath with residual laughing that ranges from loud guffaws to annoyingly sick little giggles. His entire body feels as though it’s been rubbed raw with sandpaper, little sparks of electricity that mirror that burn he wasn’t used to yet when he first realized he could shock people, and himself. Especially himself.

“S-shit…” Alastor is still holding him strong, and he can only assume it’s to keep him in place until the details are accounted for. Fucking sadist. “S-so…what do you want…”

“Oh? Already ready to speak? Very well: a favor, from you, at any moment of my choosing.” He’s crossing his other leg over now, those lidded eyes locked onto him. 

Oh, that was way too open for his taste. But as he opened his mouth to protest, the tendrils returned to his body, setting up next to his gills—yes—but also around his hipbones and stomach, fluttering lightly, threatening.

“Stipulations are off the table this time, I’m afraid. To the winner go the spoils and you are in far too vulnerable of a position to be making any demands right now, Vincent.” He adjusts his monocle before his hand is hovering over the antenna again, wiggling claws menacingly close.

Vox will file this away for later. Because there is no way he can let the Radio Demon get away with this.

“F-fine…!” And he gives a squirm. “F-fucking fine, just let me go…”

“Good man!” The darkness lets him go all at once, drawing a gasp from the picture box as he slinks down to his knees, his legs failing him. There is a brief moment of loss that he feels from the touch alone, but never would he admit such a thing out loud. He instead pulls himself up by the barstool, scrambling for a second on shaking legs before plopping himself on the cushioned seat.

Just in time to see Alastor watching him with a hand over his mouth, hiding that permanent smile that is looking slightly more impish than it was a few minutes ago.

“Oh s-shut up…” How embarrassing. No, truly, he can’t even imagine anything worse than what the Radio Demon just put him through. “D-did you plan all of this to…”

“To achieve a deal made with you? No, I could have done that by ripping each of those little wires from your back one-by-one.” Incredibly specific. “It was just an entertaining way to pass the time and give you a clearly much-needed lesson in improving your stamina!” He leans in close to him. “Gaining a favor from you was just a bonus.”

“P-perfect…” He’s trying to adjust his sweater vest, rubbing the back of his head with a small wince. Why didn't he carry painkillers with him…

“Although,” fuck, what the hell? Vox jumps a little when Alastor’s voice tickles the side of his head, making him whip around to blink at him. “I will say that your laughter was quite the enticing sound. Considering how loud you can be, I was surprised how much I personally enjoyed it.”

“T-thank you…?” 

“Mm, I wouldn't be opposed to hearing it again. Next time.” And he bops his microphone against Vox’s screen gently before making his way towards the door of the empty bar.

Next time.

…

Next time?!

[felixthefelix]

can you pleaseeee write lee! Sung ler! Minho😭😭😭

Lee: Jisung

Ler: Minho

a/n: wrote this instead of attenting my history class >:] I love them sm 💕 (the tapping thing is actually based on true events with me and my girlfriend aksjsjsh it gave me the idea for this premise) enjoy lovelies!! bonus points if you know the title reference

Rhythm of Love

It was no secret that Minho and Jisung shared a bed.

I mean, sure, they both have separate bedrooms, but why sleep alone when you have a perfectly good cuddle buddy right beside you?

Jisung was almost always the little spoon. Everyone knew he preferred princess treatment– and this was no different. He had tried to offer to be the big spoon for the older, but Minho insisted he was happy where he was. The dancer would slide his arm around Jisung’s waist, pulling him in close, and tuck his nose against the younger’s hair. Jisung could sleep peacefully, his body warm with his bandmate surrounding him.

Secretly, Jisung adored the tiny movements the cat would make. Rubbing gentle circles with his thumb, sliding his hand over his arm, and nuzzling against the side of his head. His personal favorite? Jisung liked to call it one with the rhythm.

Most times, Jisung would sleep with a sound machine to make him less antsy. As of late, after growing bored of the same rainstorm playlists, he would play a soft loop of piano instrumentals of their songs. It helped him immensely; not only with sleeping well, but for coming up with ideas to expand upon for the next album. Whenever the pair would snuggle up for the night, quiet notes floating through his speaker, Minho’s fingers would start tapping. Gentle, rhythmic taps along his side as the older’s arm was slung around his waist. It wasn’t enough to have him squirming to get away, but just enough of a ticklish feeling to send a little burst of electricity; leaving him stupidly giddy. Jisung adored it.

“Someone’s excited.” The dancer hummed, watching with amusement as Jisung shifted from foot to foot, trying to connect his phone to his speaker.

“Tired.” Jisung insisted, a soft pout on his face as the phone told him it was unable to pair with his speaker. He did this every night– how was it not able to pair?

“I’m sure…” Minho murmured, seeing the younger practically vibrating with excitement when the speaker finally paired. Right. Tired.

Jisung beamed, victorious, and hit play, crawling into bed and slotting himself under the older’s arm as the first notes started to fill the room. He let out a content sigh, closing his eyes, feeling Minho’s arm slide around his waist, shifting to assume his usual sleeping arrangement. Three…two…

Nothing?

The producer couldn’t help the soft pout that formed on his lips, noticing the absence of tapping against his side. Minho’s hand was there, yes, but uncharacteristically still. He waited, trying to remain patient so he didn’t give his desire away, but each passing second felt agonizing. Jisung huffed softly, giving a small shimmy to try and stir the hand into action. Still nothing. He frowned, peeking one eye open to glimpse at the older’s face, only to find the eyes already staring back at him.

Busted.

“Uh…hi.” Jisung mumbled, feeling his cheeks redden, shifting under the intense gaze. “What’s up?”

“Knew it.” The cat grinned, looking utterly pleased with himself. “You needy little thing.”

“Knew what?” Jisung replied weakly, trying his best to play innocent, fidgeting with his hands.

“You were waiting for me to start tapping on your side, weren’t you?” Minho pressed, leaning closer, a shit eating smirk on his face. “That’s why you were so excited to get the music playing. You want your nightly little tickles, hm?”

“I-I– uhm–” The producer faltered, hoping the dark room hid the burning blaze that was taking place on his cheeks. “I dunno what you’re t-talking about…”

“Oh Jisungie…” Minho cooed softly, reaching up to pinch at the rapper’s cheeks. “You’re so cute, y’know that? All you had to do was ask.”

“Hyung…” Jisung whined, hiding his face behind his hands, flustered butterflies swirling in his stomach. “You’re so– wait…” He peeked at the older through his fingers, gauging his reaction. “You were gonna do it anyway? Why’d you ask me about it?”

“I like seeing you squirm.” The dancer teased lowly, hugging the younger closer to his side. “You know I love teasing you, Jisungie.”

Jisung whined once more, gently swatting at his bandmate’s chest, a shy smile creeping on his face. “You’re so mean to me! Seriously…”

“Quit your complaining, brat.” Minho tsked playfully, tweaking the younger’s side, reveling in the squeak that followed. “You’ll get what you want.” He leaned closer, grinning as he slipped his hand beneath the rapper’s shirt. “What does Sungie want, hm?”

Jisung giggled nervously, his stomach tensing as the older’s hand laid flat across it. “W-well I–” His mouth quickly snapped shut, a giddy smile stretching across his face as the hand began to move, feathering across his stomach.

“Don’t worry; Hyung knows what you want.” Minho hummed, a fond smile on his lips as he watched the younger’s reaction. “Just a little pampering after a long day, yeah? If I remember correctly, your bottom ribs were always your favorite…” He slid his hand downwards, teasingly pinching at the lower set of ribs. Jisung jerked, sweet giggles tumbling from his lips as he curled up against his bandmate, his cheeks rosy.

“Ehehe…i-it has beheheen tiring w-with the nehehew y-year…” Jisung murmured, biting down on his lip as the dopamine flowed through his system.

“I bet.” Minho agreed, nodding solemnly, dancing his hand up the squirming rapper’s ribcage, wiggling his fingers into the soft flesh. “Poor Jisungie has been neglecting his sleep to pull long hours in the studio. I think this little squirrel needs some laughter to properly tire himself out.”

“Yohohou k-know behehest– hyung!” Jisung squeaked, scrunching up as Minho added his second hand, fluttering it under his chin and making his giggles turn high pitched and bubbly.

“I hope you know Hyung loves you, Sungie.” Minho continued on, grinning, leaning down to press a kiss to his forehead, gently tracing his nails across the younger’s sensitive neck. “Very, very, much. And I see how hard you work. I’m so proud of you, Jisungie-ah.”

“Thahahat’s r-really sweheheet, Mihihin hyung.” The producer murmured, hiding his beaming smile in the dancer’s chest. “T-thank yohohou.”

“Always, little squirrel.” Minho assured him, finally pulling his arm out of the younger’s shirt. He resituated his arm in its usual place for their arrangement, his fingers primed to assume the gentle piano playing gesture, tucking his nose against Jisung’s hair. “Get some sleep, yeah? I need you rested up so I can kick your ass in the practice room tomorrow.”

“Yes sir.” Jisung giggled, giving a soft yawn, letting his eyes fall shut once more. “I’ll be sure to…bring your wheelchair for your achy joints, old man.”

“Yah.” Minho snickered, giving his side a playful warning squeeze. “Cheeky brat. Go to sleep before I decide to return to my own room.”

“Hey! Don’t even joke about that, hyung. I’ll cry.”

“I know, Jisungie.”

“Goodnight, hyung.”

“Goodnight, Jisungie.”

[c0metpunk]

The Ticklish Lesson of Mother Nature

(Tickle Fic)

here's a little fic I wrote involving my OC! :) I instantly drew a picture for it as well! You can find the story under the "Keep reading" border~ Hope you enjoy :) (characters are 18+)

The Ticklish Lesson of Mother Nature

by Cometpunk

The forest was alive with the sounds of nature in spring. Birds chirped in the trees, insects buzzed lazily through the air, and a gentle breeze carried the scent of blooming flowers. Among the swaying grass and sun-dappled paths, a small devilish figure wandered with a carefree grin on his face. Angus was enjoying the fresh air after a long journey.

His feet padded lightly over the soft moss as he admired the tall, towering trees that stretched toward the sky. Eventually, he found a particularly large oak with sprawling branches, its bark old and gnarled, as if it had been there since the dawn of time. The sun-warmed roots looked comfortable, inviting even. With a contented sigh, Angus plopped himself down, stretched his arms, and leaned against the rough bark.

"Just a quick rest," he murmured to himself, his crimson tail curling around his leg. His eyelids drooped as the rhythmic sounds of the forest lulled him into slumber.

For a while, all was still.

A sudden rustling stirred Angus from his dreams. A soft, feminine chuckle echoed through the grove. The little guy tried to move, but something held him firmly in place. His eyes blinked open, and to his shock, he was no longer fully clothed. He was stripped down to nothing but his underwear, his tail twitching in confusion.

“What the—?!” Angus gasped, only to realise that his arms were held above his head and trapped inside the tree’s bark, as if the very oak itself had come to life.

“Oh my, my… What a naughty little devil, using my sacred tree as a mere resting spot,” cooed a velvety voice, smooth as the rustling leaves.

Angus gulped. “W-Who said that?”

The air shimmered before him, and from the bark of the tree itself, two enormous, elegant hands emerged. Their fingers were long and graceful, their nails shimmering like polished emeralds. They flexed in the sunlight before slinking towards him like a pair of curious spiders.

Angus’ stomach dropped. He had a bad feeling about this.

“W-Wait! Let’s talk about this!” he stammered, tugging at his restraints. But the tree's hold on him was unyielding.

“Oh, no, little one. You made yourself quite comfortable here,” the voice teased playfully. “It’s only fair that I return the favor.”

The hands moved with eerie grace, their fingers wiggling teasingly in the air as they "walked" towards his vulnerable hairy underarms like mischievous little creatures. Angus could only watch, his eyes wide, his breath caught in his throat.

“No, no, no — p-please!” he yelped, squirming even before they made contact. His lips involuntarily curled into an anticipating big grin, as some giggles bubbled up his throat.

Then, the fingers struck.

Ten soft, nimble fingers wiggled directly into his exposed armpits.

"AHAHAHAHAH! W-WAHAHAIT!" Angus shrieked as the unexpected sensation jolted through his nerves. He thrashed wildly, but the tree held him still, his arms stretched high above his head.

“Kootchie kootchie koo, such a ticklish little devil,” Mother Nature purred with delight. Her fingers danced along his hypersensitive hollows, stroking, scribbling, teasing without mercy.

“N-NOHOHOHHO! STHOHOHOP! Th-This is SOHOH UHUHNFAHAHIR!” Angus cackled, his tail thrashing behind him as he struggled in vain. He was hopelessly ticklish, and the hands knew exactly where to strike.

“Oh, but look at you,” the voice giggled. “So helpless, so adorably sensitive! I simply must continue.”

“NOHOHOH PLEHEHEASE! IHIH’M SOHOHOH SOHOHOHRRY!  I WOHOHOHN’T do it AHAHAHAGAHAHAIN!!” Angus pleaded, his laughter growing wilder by the second. But Mother Nature was relentless, her teasing fingers never slowing, never ceasing.

She skittered her nails along his trembling ribs, wiggled against his heaving sides, and occasionally snuck down to flutter along his stomach. Angus howled with unbridled laughter, his face flushed, his body writhing helplessly under the overwhelming ticklish assault.

Then, in a sing-song voice, she suddenly began to coo:

"He giggles loud in ticklish glee, But tied he stays inside the tree!With every squeak and every plea,I will tickle more — just wait and see!”

Angus let out a squeaky giggle at the rhyme, blushing deeply. “NOHOHO HAHAHA DOHOHN’T SAHAHAHY THAHAHAT!”

Mother Nature gasped in mock surprise. “Oh? Does my little devil not like being called ticklish?” Her fingers "walked" up his ribs again, wiggling ever so close to his defenseless hollows.

Angus’ eyes widened as he saw them creeping towards his underarms. "NOHOHOHOH NOHOOHHT THEHEHEHERE!!" he squealed, shaking his head furiously.

“Such a ticklish boy,” she cooed, letting her fingers trail ever so lightly against the edges of his hollows, sending shivers down his spine. "You blush so sweetly… it's simply irresistible."

Her nails hovered for a moment before she struck once more, her fingers wiggling mercilessly into his soft underarms.

"AHAHAHAHAHAHA! PLEHEHEHEHEASE! IHIHIHI CAHAHAHAN’T!" Ang screeched, kicking his legs as his laughter reached new heights. His cheeks burned bright red, his whole body quivering under her playful assault.

Mother Nature simply chuckled. "Oh, my poor little devil, so hopelessly, helplessly ticklish!" she teased, continuing to caress and tickle his armpits, her long nails gliding and swirling as she hummed softly. "Such a giggly, squirmy thing you are."

Just when Angus thought it couldn’t get worse, he felt something new — warm, feathery kisses pressed against his sensitized underarms. His laughter shot to an entirely new pitch.

"NAHAHAHAHAT THAHAHAHAT!" he wailed, his voice cracking into a helpless squeak.

Mother Nature’s invisible lips giggled against his skin. "Mmm, such soft little hollows," she purred, planting playful, ticklish kisses against the sensitive flesh. "I could just smother them in kisses all day long. Kitchy, kitchy koo koo, my little devil."

"NOHOHOHO MOHOHOHORE! PLEHEHEHEASE!"

Angus shrieked and bucked wildly, completely at her mercy. His mind was reduced to nothing but frantic, ticklish sensations, trapped in Mother Nature’s endless, loving torment of physical and verbal teases.

At long last, after what felt like hours of squirmy, helpless laughter, the tickling slowed. Mother Nature’s graceful fingers gave one final, feather-light wiggle in Angus’ sensitive hollows, drawing a last high-pitched giggle from the flushed, teary-eyed little devil.

“Eeehehehehe… o-oh no more… plehehease… I-I can’t take it…” he gasped, utterly spent. His cheeks were scarlet, his breath came in soft pants, and his whole body trembled from the relentless ticklish torment.

The hands slowly retracted, and the living bark that held him in place began to loosen. With a deep, creaking sigh, the great tree released Angus from its grasp. As he returned safely to the ground, he slumped forward with a groan, too weak to stand at first, still giggling softly under his breath.

Then came the voice again — warm, rich, and playful as a spring breeze.

“Mmm… such a delight you were, my ticklish little devil,” Mother Nature cooed, her voice echoing from the leaves and flowers around him. “You laughed so sweetly… You really shouldn’t be so irresistibly ticklish, you know.

And I’ll be waiting,” she added with a sultry smile in her tone, “watching for when my favourite little devil gets just a bit too cozy in my woods again…”

As he finally sat up and looked around, the great tree before him seemed still again, innocent, ancient, unmoving. But the flowers nearby swayed as if in gentle laughter. The moss beneath him felt suspiciously soft and ticklish. He gulped.

“And next time…” her voice whispered teasingly, as if she was right behind him, “I might not stop so soon.”

Angus squeaked and scrambled to his feet, stumbling back with a nervous laugh. “N-Noted! Message received!”

Her final words floated through the breeze like a lullaby and a warning all at once:

“So run along now, little ticklish sprite, But know I’m watching, day and night. In every leaf and breeze I hide, Next time you giggle, I’ll be by your side.”

With that, the woods fell silent — peaceful again. But as Angus tiptoed away, every branch, every petal, every whisper of wind felt like it might spring to life at any second. After all… she was everywhere. And she couldn’t wait to get him again.

[ccthelee]

prompt: agatha x rio x reader fight about something really petty and agatha and rio team up on the reader maybe? could be 6 and 15 :)

fundamentals

thank you for the req! i'm not taking requests based on that specific prompt list anymore for future reference but i did my best to reference the dialogue here, hope u like it!!

pairing: agatha x rio x reader (agatha all along) wc: 2.7k content & warnings: nsfw, tickle fic, ler!agatha, ler!rio, lee!reader, foot tickling, rib tickling, breast tickling, stomach tickling, pet names (mi amor, my love, sweetheart, little witch, sweet girl, darling), slight degradation

The fire crackled in the hearth, making shadows dance across the walls of the living room. The scent of old paper, dried herbs, and the faint, perpetual ozone of magic hung in the air. Sunken into the worn velvet of the couch, you and your witches were a single, breathing entity of relaxation and warmth. Far be it for either Agatha or Rio to allow the other any real peace for too long, though.

Agatha rested with back against the armrest, legs stretched out before her onto the ottoman. Her brow was furrowed in concentration, her fingers tracing the intricate, faded illustrations in the massive grimoire open on her lap. You were curled into her side, a contented sigh escaping you lips as you nuzzled against Agatha’s ribs, your own fingers idly playing with the hem of Agatha’s sweater. Your eyes, however, were fixed on Rio, who lay with her head in your lap, her dark hair splayed across your bare legs.

Rio’s gaze was sharp, critical, focused on the book in Agatha’s hands. "You know," she began, her voice a low, melodic rumble that vibrated through ticklishly across your thighs, "the foundational principles in that thing have been academically deconstructed for at least two centuries."

Agatha tensed, and you nearly swatted Rio upside the head for disturbing the peace.

"It's a thousand years old, Rio. I'd be more concerned if its theories hadn't been deconstructed by now. It's a historical document. The prose alone is worth the study." She turned a page with a soft, crinkling sound, the movement deliberate and calm.

Now, you wanted to swat Agatha upside the head. She was antagonizing Rio right back in return, and she knew it.

"But you're not just studying the prose, are you?" Rio pressed, shifting to prop herself up on an elbow. The movement made your breath hitch slightly, her hair dusting across your knees. "I saw you taking notes on the binding ritual in chapter seven."

"I'm considering the structure," Agatha countered, her voice still level, though a thread of steel had entered it. "The intent behind the old language. There's a raw power in that kind of certainty, a clarity that modern interpretations have muddied with… empathy." She said the last word as if it were a mildly distasteful spice.

"Empathy isn't mud," Rio shot back, sitting up fully now, forcing you to adjust your position with a sigh. "It's lubrication. It makes the whole process smoother, safer, and far more potent. You're trying to split a log with a rock when there's a perfectly good axe right there." She gestured vaguely toward a lower shelf where a book with a vibrant, green cover sat.

Agatha followed her gaze and laughed once, a sharp cruel sound.

"It's fluff. It's magic diluted for mass consumption, all touchy-feely nonsense that prioritizes the comfort of the caster over the efficacy of the craft," Agatha argued.

A giggle bubbled up in your throat, and you pressed your face into Agatha's sweater to stifle it, shoulders shaking silently. To anyone else, it would sound like an academic debate rapidly souring into a genuine argument. But you could see the subtle way Agatha's thumb was now pressing hard into the margin of the old book, a telltale sign of her rising irritation and excitement. The way Rio's chin was jutting out, a defiant gleam in her dark eyes that spoke less of anger and more of a challenge being issued.

"You're so obsessed with the 'raw power' of the old ways you forget they called it the 'Bloody Age' for a reason," Rio teased. "I should know."

Agatha closed the grimoire with a definitive thump that sent a little cloud of dust motes swirling in the firelight. "Some prefer to ask politely and hope the universe is in a generous mood. I prefer to command."

"Oh, you prefer to command, do you?" Rio was on her knees now on the couch, facing Agatha.

Agatha’s eyes narrowed. "I don't need to feel anything. I am stating a fact. Empathy-based mind-bending is inferior."

"Inferior?" Rio laughed, devoid of humor.

Agatha placed the heavy book on the floor beside the couch, the action slow and deliberate. "Your reliance on modern, sanitized magic has made you soft, Rio."

"Soft?" Rio echoed, her eyes flashing. She leaned in, bracing her hands on the couch on either side of your waist, invading your space but keeping her eyes on Agatha. The scent of her - sage, amber, and petrichor - washed over you. "You think I'm soft?"

You shivered, pressing yourself closer to Agatha's side, eyes darting between both of your wives' faces.

Agatha didn't retreat an inch. She met Rio's challenging stare with one of her own, a slow, predatory smile finally gracing her features. "I think you talk a very good game about synergy and cooperation. But when the moment comes, I've always found you respond best to a firm hand."

There was a 50-50 chance of this ending with a fight as opposed to a fuck; and while you knew both of your wives tended to view the former as as potent form of foreplay, you'd had enough complaints from the neighbors about the noise and property damage the two of them often caused.

Trying to gently ease the argument, you squirm to catch Agatha's eye.

"Your gentleness is it’s own kind of power, my love. A really, really potent one. I appreciate it. A lot.” You inject a little breathiness into your tone as you speak, wriggling a little closer to make your point, and try to draw her thoughts elsewhere.

“Oh, my sweet girl,” Agatha purred, her voice dropping to a velvet-wrapped murmur that seemed to vibrate directly in your brain. “You ‘appreciate it’? Is that what you call it?” She shifted, just slightly, turning her body more fully toward you, one arm draping over the back of the couch, effectively caging you in. “I remember something quite different. I remember how you beg when I’m gentle. How you squirm and plead and those pretty tears well up in your eyes. You find it absolutely torturous, don’t you, darling?”

You knew exactly what Agatha was referring to, and the mere mention of it sent a phantom sensation skittering across your skin, making you briefly wonder if you were imagining it or if she was hammering her point home with a little magic. You tried to shrink back, but were already sunk deep into the plush leather, Agatha on one side and the solid presence of Rio on the other.

Rio let out a low, throaty chuckle, the sound rich with amusement and understanding. “Ah,” she said, the earlier irritation gone, replaced by pure, undiluted glee. They were in on it together now. Your heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird. Flight was impossible. You were pinned, a butterfly under two very attentive, very dangerous collectors.

If you couldn't flee, you would fawn. You would offer a different kind of distraction, one you knew they could rarely resist.

“Is that what you want?” you murmured, voice dropping to a husky whisper. You let one hand drift from Agatha’s sweater, fingers trailing a feather-light path up her waist, rucking the soft fabric up higher. “To hear me beg?”

Your eyes flicked to Rio, including her in the invitation. “Both of you? Because I can think of other things I could be begging for.”

Rio’s chuckle deepened into a rich, knowing laugh. “Oh, look at this, mi amor. Our little witch is trying to seduce her way out of trouble.” Her dark eyes glittered with pure delight as she watched you.

A slow, wicked smile played on Agatha's lips. “I noticed,” she purred, her voice like dark honey. “It’s a lovely attempt. Truly. But it’s also terribly transparent.” She leaned in closer, her breath ghosting across your cheek. “You see, my love, I have a very distinct memory of the last time we had you properly at our mercy like this. You were giggling and begging us to stop, and then… you weren’t. So, you’ll have to forgive me if I don’t believe you’re entirely serious about wriggling out of this."

“She’s not serious at all,” Rio agreed, her tone conspiratorial as she addressed Agatha, though her eyes never left yours.

"Don't be mean!" You protested, squirming.

“Mean?” Agatha feigned thoughtfulness, tapping a finger against her chin. “We’re not mean, darling. We’re thorough. Now, where should we begin?"

Rio’s eyes lit up. “Oh, I have an idea. She loved it so much last time, remember?"

You immediately laugh out loud, a nervous sound startled out of you at the memory. In a single, fluid motion, Rio shifted down the couch, her strong hands closing around your ankles. With effortless strength, she drew your legs straight, pulling her into a semi-reclining position and settling your bare feet squarely in her lap. You let out a little squeak, her toes curling instinctively.

“Ah, ah, none of that,” Rio chided softly, her voice a low, intimate murmur. One hand held your ankle firmly, a gentle but unbreakable anchor, while the fingers of her other hand began a slow exploration. She teased your arch and circled your heel.

“Look at this,” Rio addressed Agatha, her tone clinical and teasing all at once. Her thumb pressed gently into the ball of your foot, and you jerked with a sharp, breathy gasp, toes splaying slightly involuntarily. she let her fingertips drift to the base of your pinky toe, barely making contact.

You bucked, a full-body shudder wracking your frame. A stream of helpless, airy giggles escaped you immediately.

“R-Rio, stop!”

“But I’ve barely started,” Rio cooed, her fingers dancing a feather-light pattern over the tops of your toes. Your feet twitched and flinched, trying to escape the maddening sensation. She focused at the tops of your toes, chuckling darkly when you shrieked, a sound of pure, unadulterated ticklish agony, back arching off the couch cushions.

“Ah! No! Not there! Please, not there!”

"[Y/N], be still," Agatha's voice cut through your breathless giggles, not loud, but layered with demanding energy, and it sent a fresh, involuntary shiver down your spine, momentarily overriding the ticklish sensations. Agatha watched the struggle on your face. "That's better," she purred. Then, her eyes flicked to Rio. "Don't forget the spot just under the ball of her foot."

Rio shifted her grip, holding your ankle more firmly, and used the thumb of her other hand to find the exact, specific patch of soft, sensitive skin just below the pads of your toes.

A strangled sound, half-gasp, half-moan, tore from your throat. The giggles died instantly, replaced by a sharp, panting breath. This wasn't just tickling. Your hips gave a tiny, involuntary jerk against the leather couch.

"R-Rio…" you whimpered, no longer a request for mercy, but a desperate, raw sound of want.

The feeling was unbearable, a torturous pleasure that coiled tight in your belly, making her clench and throb with emptiness. Your skin felt suddenly too hot, too tight over your bones. You were suddenly aware of how wet you were.

And then, Rio stopped.

The absence of the sensation was a shock, a physical pain. Your eyes flew open, wide and dazed. A pathetic, broken whine escaped your lips.

"No… please… don't stop…" you begged, voice ragged and thin.

It was in that moment of vulnerable, desperate need, all of your senses screaming and your body hyper-aware, that Agatha struck.

With the silent grace of a panther, Agatha moved. She didn't go for the feet. She leaned over you, her hands finding their way to familiar sensitive muscle, her fingers splaying across the soft flesh over your ribs.

You screamed.

It was a full-throated, helpless shriek of laughter, pure and unadulterated. The shift from intense, building arousal to sudden, shocking ticklish torment was too much for your overloaded system. You bucked and writhed, trying to escape, but Agatha's fingers were like ten tiny, wicked vipers, dancing and digging between your ticklish ribs.

"Ah! Ahaha! Agatha! No! Stohohop!" you howled, tears streaming down your face now, the earlier seductive ploy a distant, laughable memory. Agatha’s assault was ruthless, her fingers tracing the delicate undersides of your breasts, skimming the sides where the skin was impossibly sensitive, before spidering up to dance lightly around your nipples through the fabric of your dress.

Agatha watched your desperate, writhing form with a look of profound, wicked satisfaction. The tears of mirth staining your cheeks, your chest heaving with ragged, laughing breaths.

"Gods, you're pathetic," Agatha purred, the words a caress and an insult all at once. Her eyes tracked the frantic rise and fall of your stomach. "But we haven't even gotten to the main event yet, have we?"

Her fingers, which had been tormenting your ribs and breasts, began a slow, deliberate descent. They traced the delicate line of your sternum, down over the quivering plane of your abdomen.

Your breath hitched, the laughter dying in her throat, replaced by a new, sharper and more serious note of pure panic. "No… no, sweetheart, not there, please."

Both of your wives were well-aware that the mere suggestion of a touch there could send you into preemptive giggles. The reality was devastating.

Agatha's fingertips made contact, not digging, not scratching, but simply resting there, a hair's breadth from applying pressure.

It was enough.

You shrieked, a sound of pure, unadulterated sensory overload. It was a spasm of pure desperation, so powerful that it actually succeeded in dislodging you from the tangle of limbs and the sunken couch cushions.

You half-rolled, half-fell onto the floor with a soft thud, landing in a heap of trembling limbs and disheveled dress, gasping for air on the thick rug.

Silence descended, broken only by your panting breaths and the crackle of the fire. You lay there, dazed, the phantom sensations of their touches still dancing across her skin like static. Had they stopped? Was it over? A fragile, foolish hope bloomed in her chest.

You looked up, her vision blurry with unshed tears. Agatha and Rio were both looking down at her from the couch, their expressions utterly amused and endeared. There was no anger at your escape, only a calm, shared assessment.

Agatha turned her head slowly towards Rio, a thoughtful glint in her eye. "You know," she began, her voice conversational, as if they were picking up their debate about the grimoire, "this presents an interesting practical application for our earlier… disagreement."

Rio’s lips curved into a slow, understanding smile. "Oh?"

"The matter of bindings," Agatha continued, her gaze drifting back to your prone form. "The old way versus the new. You argued for synergy and cooperation. I argued for command and control." She leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. "Our lovely, squirmy test subject has provided us with the perfect opportunity for a side-by-side comparison. We can each try our hand at our preferred method. See which one holds her more… effectively."

The fragile hope in your chest shattered, replaced by a fresh, thrilling wave of dread. It wasn't over. It was just moving to a new, more deliberate stage.

"Interesting proposal," Rio said, her voice warm with anticipation. She stood first, extending a hand down to you. It wasn't a threat, but an invitation, and that made it all the more terrifying.

Agatha rose with her, a pillar of calm authority. "Come along, darling. The laboratory awaits."

Trembling on legs feeling like water, you placed her hand in Rio's and allowed yourself to be pulled to your feet. You were flanked immediately, Agatha taking her other arm. There was no violence in their grip, only absolute certainty. They guided you out of the cozy, fire-lit living room and into the dimmer, cooler hallway that led to the bedroom.

Each step felt heavy. The plush carpet muffled your footsteps, amplifying the sound of your own frantic heartbeat in her ears. The threat was a palpable thing, hanging in the air between them, a promise of your ticklish doom that awaited. The idea was terrifying but much more pressingly, it was thrilling. You tightened your grip on both of your wives and sped up your steps, nearly pulling them along impatiently.

[hotwritergf]

“Wait! Wait! I didn’t have enough time to prepare!”

You beg him to stop and squeal at the first touch. Giggles falling from your lips before you even realise you’re doing it. You thrash your chest into Spencer’s, writhing under his fingers.

He chuckles in response, holding your wrists together and above your head with one hand. Squeezing up and down your exposed side with the other, his touch is firm but playful, taking extra special care in not pressing too hard onto your ribs. His smile beams a spotlight down on you as he watches you wriggle around, almost dancing to escape the sensation.

“You can’t prepare to not be ticklish! It’s a natural bodily reaction. Did you know there’s actually two types of tickling? There’s knismesis which is essentially the lighter touch, like a bug landing on you and the reaction being the itchy feeling you just have to scratch but it doesn’t make you laugh. And there’s also this, what’s happening to you right now. It’s called gargalesis, it’s a harder form of touch which causes that pretty laughter that I can hear right now, and that quite frankly, glass shattering squeal noise when I get too close to your underarm.”

Spencer exclaims. He chuckles at the same squeal he was talking about escaping your lips as his fingers spider-walk from your hipbone all the way up to your armpit, swirling a single finger around in gentle circles in the hollow of your arm.

You manage to knock your wrists out of his grip, pulling your arms down and wrapping them around yourself in a self-hug to protect your sensitive spots. Still letting out residual giggles from the brutal onslaught.

“Wow. You are super ticklish.”

He speaks with a smirk, swiping the hair that has managed to wrap itself into your mouth from your squirming away from your tongue and behind your ear. Spencer’s hands find the small of your back and his open palm rubs against your spine softly.

“You are the absolute worst Spencer Reid.”

You babble, unable to wipe the smile off of your flushed face. He smiles back down at you, pressing his chin to the top of your head shyly. Holding you in an awkward hug he sways you in his hold from side to side, rocking you gently. Your heartbeat slows and syncs in time with his, your fingers interlocking before he speaks.

“The worst at giving you a thorough, hands on education on bodily reactions that I think you should be grateful for.”

You loved this nerd.

[gingerlee-holds]

OKAY SO MY LIST KEEPS GETTING PUSHED BACK THANK YOU FOR STANDING BY- AFTER THIS, HDG THEN SCP THEN ALL THE REQUESTS I SWEAR- okay this is a slime rancher fic i couldnt resist making this after i saw this amazing art by amazing artist Michaella Brown (tw suggestive!!), with Beatrix! (i dont think theyre on tumblr so i cant tag unfortunately-) i am not interested in slime rancher lore or story, i just like the setting a lot, so i made my own OCs for this and dabbled in a spot of light yuri because i am just a girl leave me alone- I HOPE YOU ENJOY AND THANK YOU AS ALWAYS TO MY BETA READER @princessofthisworldsfuture!! i'd never be able to post any of these silly fics if it weren't for her giving me the confidence to!! also im sorry for titles im not good with titles lol

First Encounters of the Slimy Kind

Words: exactly 3.2k waow! no just kidding its 3,192 Pairing: Lee!Penny Warnings: intense tickles? but most of my fics have those lol

The morning sun draped Far, Far Range in golden tones as Penny hummed and bounced between corrals, her boots tramping up little puffs of dust. The ranch resounded with noise: Boom Slimes boomed, Puddle Slimes gurgled, Quantum Slimes were being a pain in the ass, and there was the familiar, occasional plop! of a Plort landing in the collector. All was as it should be. Penny loved mornings like these, when the promise in the golden dawn seemed tangible, as if the day itself was giddy to surprise her. She was Juniper’s right-hand girl, after all, and she wanted to prove nobody kept a ranch running smoother.

She checked the feeders, making sure each one was brimming with food. The auto-feeders whirred softly, doing their job, but Penny liked to show the Slimes extra affection. "There we go, you lil munchkins," she cooed, tossing an extra Carrot to a particularly eager Pink Slime. "No one's going hungry on my watch!"

As she turned toward the farmhouse, something drew her eye: a new corral, tucked near the corner of the house. That... was odd. She didn't remember seeing it yesterday. A Solar Shield draped over the top cast the inside in a soft, subtle light, and the slight melody of a music box drifted out, tinkling like so many bells. Curious, Penny tiptoed closer.

Inside, a handful of Slimes moved sluggishly, their bright yellow bodies shimmering like liquid sunshine. They had the same bright shade as Quantum Slimes, but their texture was different: thicker, almost gooey, like Honey Slimes. Long, delicate antennae sprouted from their heads, the tips almost fluffy-looking, twitching as though searching for something. Every few moments, their bodies rippled with tiny pulses, as if they were picking up vibrations in the air. They didn’t seem to fight or even bump each other away. They crowded together, eager for attention. Penny placed her hands against the corral wall, and the Slimes immediately flocked toward her, their antennae wiggling.

"Like a bunch of Phosphor Slimes, but with no wings," Penny mumbled to herself. "Well, hello there, cuties," she spoke quietly. "You're new, huh?"

She noticed that there wasn't an auto-feeder set up. That was really strange... Juniper usually had everything prepared! She bit her lip and looked around. Juniper was nowhere in sight, probably off tinkering with something in the barn or searching the Glass Desert again. The Slimes pressed against the barrier, their motions slow and almost sad. They looked so hungry. Penny's heart squeezed. She couldn't just leave them like that! If she handled this, maybe Juniper would finally see just how reliable she could be, maybe even trust her with more responsibility around the ranch. With a firm nod, she chose to take matters into her own hands.

"Okay, okay, let's see what you like," she voiced softly, rushing to the nearest feeder. She grabbed a Pogofruit and held it up to the barrier. The Slimes didn't react. Not even a trace of interest. Penny frowned and tried a Heart Beet next. Still nothing. They simply stared at her with those big, pleading eyes.

Hmm. “Picky eaters.”

Penny bit her lip, then snapped her fingers. "Maybe you're carnivores!" She darted to the coop and gently scooped up a clucking Hen Hen. The chicken squawked in protest as Penny stroked its feathers. "Shhh, it's okay, little one. You're just helping out, that's all."

She gently tossed the Hen Hen into the corral. The chicken flapped its wings, clucking indignantly, and the Slimes surrounded it. Penny watched, fascinated, as their pseudopodia stretched out, poking and prodding at the bird. The Hen Hen squawked again, but the Slimes didn't seem to want to eat it. They just... poked it. Like they were testing it. After a moment, they retreated, their antennae sagging.

Penny sighed and reached in to rescue the confused chicken. “Alright, you’re free to go. Consider this your lucky day.” She set the Hen Hen down outside the Corral, and it scurried off with an offended cluck.

The Slimes turned their attention back to Penny, their antennae perking up. They stared at her with big, sad eyes, pressing their bodies against the barrier like they were begging for something else. “Oh, don’t look at me like that.” She cocked her head. “Well... what do you eat, you weird little things?”

Penny hesitated, glancing over her shoulder toward the main house, somewhat tempted to run and fetch Juniper for help. But the idea of leaving the Slimes hungry and waiting, or worse, giving up before even trying, made her bristle. Maybe Juniper would say she wasn't ready after all. No way. She squared her shoulders and made a decision. Before she could talk herself out of it, Penny stepped through the barrier and into the corral. The Slimes lunged.

Penny yelped as they wasted no time, their pseudopodia latching onto her, wiggling and squirming against her belly, her sides, her thighs. Their antennae tickled her neck and ears, and suddenly laughter welled up and spilled out of her like fizzy soda, high and gasping and unstoppable. “OhOHohOH!! OHHohoh, nOHohoHo!! S-sStoHohoOHOp ihIhit!! ThahaHAHt’s- oHOhOHoH mYhyhy gOhOhosh, youhUHU GuhUHUYS!!”

She collapsed onto her knees, giggling uncontrollably as the Slimes swarmed her. They were everywhere! Their touch was light and insistent, like a hundred tiny fingers fluttering across her skin with adept dexterity. Penny kicked her legs, trying to escape, but it only made them more determined. Through her cackling, she could make out the plop! plop! of Plorts forming. Where on Far, Far Range could that be coming from??

“MEehEHEHRCyHyHyY!!! MehEHheRCYY, IhIHi SwehehHEHAR!! Ihihi SwHEhehEar, IhIhIhI’ll Geeheheht youhu AnYHYhYTHIhIhING!! AnYHyHYTHIIhihING YouhhUu WahHAhaHAHnT!! J-JuHuHUst- ahHEeEHEEHEEK-!! JUHuHuSt StoHohohOP!!!”

She tried to bat them away, but it seemed like trying to fight off a tide of jelly. Their touches were light, but they were everywhere, and- oh no- her underarms!!

“N-NoHohOO NoHoHOT THehEHehEREE!!” She collapsed onto her back, laughing hysterically.

“MEheHERCY, YOuHuhu lIhIHiTTle MOhOhONSTERS!!! TOhOhOHOys!! D-DehEHhELiCahAHaciES!! A-AHAha WHoHoHOle buUhuHUFFet!!” She continued squealing out promises and pleas for mercy, but the Slimes didn’t stop. If anything, they seemed more encouraged by her laughter.

Tears began stinging in her eyes as she laughed, her voice echoing across the ranch. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d laughed this hard! The Slimes seemed to feed off it, their movements growing more enthusiastic, their antennae wriggling with delight. She curled into a ball, trying and failing to protect her tickle spots, her cheeks reddened.

Penny finally managed to squeal out, “JuHUHUNIpER!! JUHuHUNIihIPERHhrR, HheHHEELP!!”

And looking up, she saw that Juniper was already there, her tall frame throwing a shade over Penny’s giggling, squirming form. The ranch owner didn’t say a word. She rarely did. She just sat down, lips forming into a pleased smile, and watched. For a moment, Juniper felt her chest tighten with a strange amalgam of pride and fondness at the chaos Penny was in. She pretended to be unaffected, as always. But inside, she found it almost unbearably endearing how Penny dove into every job with so much heart, even if it meant getting into trouble like this. Juniper told herself to stay cool, to keep that smile calm and minimal, but she couldn’t help the warmth rising below the surface as she watched Penny laugh.

Penny’s face burned even hotter. “J-JUHuHUniPER, PLehEHeASE!!” she wheezed, but the Slimes redoubled their efforts, one of them finding that dastardly sensitive spot just below her sides. Penny shrieked, her body jerking with laughter. “IhIhIHI CahaHHAHN’t TAHahHAKE iHiHIT!!!”

The Slimes showed no signs of stopping.

-

Penny collapsed against the steps of the farmhouse porch, her skin flushed and her breath still hitching from laughter. Juniper sat next to her, close enough that Penny could feel the heat emanating off her. The flustered ranch-hand tried to smooth down her wild, tickle-mussed hair, but her fingers quivered too much.

“S-Sohoho,” Penny finally managed, “W-whahaht ahahare thohose things?”

Juniper reached into her breast pocket and pulled out a small, well-used notebook: her own pocket copy of the Slimepedia. She skimmed the pages before holding it out to Penny. The sketch inside was unmistakable: round, yellow bodies, long antennae, and a label in Juniper’s neat handwriting saying, “Tickle Slimes.”

Penny’s eyes widened. “T-Tihickle Slimes??”

Juniper nodded. “New breed,” she said, simply. “Found ‘em in a cave in Indigo Quarry.” Juniper’s lips shivered with the memory. “I’d gone down to hunt for Gold Plorts and ended up trapped by a cave-in. Everything was pitch black except for these glowing yellow blobs, all huddled together in the deepest part of the cave.” She smiled wider, glancing at Penny. “When I tried to call for help, they came right up and started poking and wiggling at me. Took me a full hour to realize they weren’t dangerous, just curious. But every time I laughed, they shone brighter and seemed happier. That’s how I figured it out. They don’t eat fruit or meat or anything like that,” she drawled, tapping the notebook. “They feed on laughter.”

Penny blinked. “L-laughter...”

“Mhm.” Juniper’s voice was soft and amused. “Their slime makes skin more sensitive, like baby oil. And they can shape themselves to... well, you experienced it.”

Penny’s face burned. She could still feel the ghost of their wiggly pseudopodia on her ribs, her neck, the way their antennae had brushed behind her ears. She squirmed, pressing her knees together. “S-so they just... tickle people?”

Juniper nodded and leaned back against the porch steps. “Seems like it.”

Penny groaned and buried her face in her hands. “A-and you put them in a corral? Without warning me!”

Juniper chuckled, low and warm. “Figured you’d find out eventually. Always so thorough in your work.”

Penny looked through her fingers. Juniper was still smiling, her dark eyes wrinkling at the corners. Penny’s stomach did a small flip. She quickly looked away, her heart beating fast.

-

The next morning, Penny stood in front of the fridge, staring at the chore list. The usual tasks were there, feeding the Hen Hens, collecting the Plorts, checking the auto-feeders... but at the very bottom, in pink pen, was a new addition:

“Feed the Tickle Slimes.”

Penny’s face went up in flames. She could feel her ears turning red. The corral was right outside, right there! And Juniper had written that! On purpose!

She spent the morning rushing through her chores, her mind whirling. Every time she passed the Tickle Slime corral, she could hear the slight music box melody, and her skin shivered. She loved being tickled, but she hated admitting it. Did Juniper know? Is that why she’d written it down??

By the time she finished everything else, Penny was a mess of nerves. She waited at the corral, her fingers twisting in the hem of her shirt. Maybe if she waited long enough, Juniper would wander by and handle it herself. Or she could just run back inside, pretend she hadn't seen the chore note at all, but Juniper would definitely notice. Besides, she didn't want to look unreliable, not now. She realized with a start that the music box had stopped playing. The Slimes inside were sluggish, their antennae sagging again, but instead of looking sad, they looked very grumpy.

Penny gulped nervously. “O-okay. Okay, you can do this. It’s just... just tickling. No big deal.”

She took in a deep breath, then stepped through the barrier.

The Slimes pounced.

Penny shrieked as their pseudopodia latched onto her, wiggling and squirming against every ticklish spot they could find. Without the music box to placate them, they were inexorable, their movements rough and desperate. Penny laughed so much that her stomach ached, until tears flowed down her face, until she was gasping for air.

“N-NOHOHOHO, W-WhahaHHAIT!! T-TOOoHOO mUHuHUCH!! T-TOOOHOHOO MUHUHUCHH!!” She kicked her legs, but the Slimes only clung tighter, their antennae flicking against the backs of her knees. Penny shrieked, her cackles turning gasping and high-pitched.

Just as she thought she couldn’t take anymore, Juniper’s voice cut through the din: “I’ll turn the music box back on.”

Penny twisted her head to see Juniper standing beside the corral, her arms crossed. Her countenance was unreadable, but her eyes were soft.

“...if you answer my questions honestly,” Juniper added.

Penny nodded her head frantically, still giggling.

“Do you like your job here?”

Penny didn’t even hesitate. “YHEhEhes!! OHOhOF CouHuHRSE IhIHI DoHoHO!!”

Juniper’s lips quirked. “Do you like being tickled?”

Penny’s face burned. She opened her mouth to lie, but Juniper just arched an eyebrow, waiting.

Penny groaned through her cackles. “F-FIHiHINE-!! Y-YehEHEHS, IHIHI LIHiHIKE IhIhiT!! HahAHAHPPY??”

Juniper’s smile grew. “One more question.”

Penny’s heart pounded in her chest.

“Do you love me? Romantically?

Penny’s brain malfunctioned. Suddenly, she could hear her own heartbeat thumping in her ears, each thump rising over the sounds of her frantic laughter. Her cheeks reddened, her breath froze, and for a split second, it seemed that the world whirled with the syrupy-sweet fragrance of Slime Plorts filling up her nose. She opened her mouth, closed it, and opened it again. “WHahA- N-NOHOHO, IhIHI- ahHHAHAA!!!”

The Slimes chose that moment to discover her feet.

Penny shrieked, her legs kicking wildly as their pseudopodia wriggled into her socks. “Y-YEHEHEHEHES!!! Y-YEHehEHES, OKahHAHAY!! I-IHIhI HAHAVE, LihIhIKE, A MAHAHahASSIVE CRuHUHUSH OhoHn YOuHuU!! AhahAHARe yOuHUHu HahHAHAPPY nOHOHOW?!”

Juniper softened. She reached out and turned the music box back on. The Slimes immediately calmed, their movements growing gentle as the melody spread through the corral. Penny collapsed onto her back, panting and laughing weakly.

Juniper stepped into the corral and scooped Penny into her arms like it was nothing. Penny yelped, but Juniper just held her close, her strength making Penny feel small and safe.

As Juniper carried her back toward the farmhouse, Penny buried her face in Juniper’s shoulder, her cheeks still burning. Juniper stopped just outside the door. Then... she kissed her.

Penny’s heart flew. The ranch, the Slimes, the tickling, none of it mattered. Not when Juniper was holding her like this. Not when Juniper was finally kissing her.

-

A week later, Penny rose to the faint radiance of dawn shining through her bedroom window. She stretched, her fingers sweeping against the cloth of her pajamas, before sitting up with a grin. The ranch was quiet, the early air cool and sweet, but she could already hear the faraway sounds of the Slimes stirring in their corrals.

She slipped out of bed and walked over to her dresser, pulling out the outfit Juniper had planned for her to be her new uniform: a snug, lavender crop top, her favorite pair of denim short shorts, and a pair of loose, fuzzy socks that came up to her knees. She wiggled her toes into the socks, the soft fabric making her giggle a little bit. It was silly, maybe, but she wanted to be comfortable. And if the socks happened to make her feet extra sensitive to tickles... well, that was just a bonus.

Penny caught her image in the mirror and paused. Her cheeks were already pink, her eyes shining bright in anticipation. She took a long breath, rubbing her hands over her outfit. It wasn’t like she was nervous. Not really. It was just... her new routine. A special routine.

She came out of the farmhouse, the morning breeze brushing against her skin. The ranch teemed with the usual sounds: Rock Slimes tumbling over each other, Fire Slimes popping, Quantum Slimes being a fucking pain in the ass, and the occasional cluck! of a Hen Hen. But Penny’s attention was drawn, as always, to the corral near the farmhouse: the Tickle Slimes.

The music box played its mellow tune, the notes floating on the breeze. Penny bit her lip as she came closer, her heart drumming. The Slimes inside had already noticed her. They pressed against the force-field walls, their bright yellow bodies bouncing in excitement. Their antennae flickered eagerly, hungrily, their pseudopodia wiggling in anticipation.

Penny’s stomach fluttered. She could still remember the way Juniper had kissed her after that first confession, the way her strong arms had carried Penny back to the house like she weighed nothing. She could remember the way Juniper had smiled at her over breakfast the next morning, her dark eyes tender and knowing.

And she could remember the way the Tickle Slimes had made her laugh until she cried.

She drew in a deep breath, her fingers clenching into fists by her sides. “Okay, you little monsters,” she said quietly, moving closer to the corral. “Let’s g-get this over with.”

The Slimes bounced harder, their excitement tangible. Penny’s blush deepened. She was definitely not thinking about how much she loved this. She was definitely not thinking about how her skin already tingled in anticipation, or how her stomach was tied in knots of giddy nervousness. She paused briefly at the edge, biting her lip, then muttered to herself, "Okay, uhm, three minutes. That’s it. In and out, just a quick feed, then I'm out, okay?" The promise made her feel braver, like she had some kind of control, even as her heart quivered with something dangerously close to eager delight. Balancing on tiptoe, she gave herself one last nod, a little rule to hold onto before giving in.

She passed through the barrier.

The Slimes lunged.

Penny’s laughter exploded out of her before she could even take another breath. Their pseudopodia latched onto her sides, her belly, her thighs, wiggling and squirming against all her ticklish spots, all the spots they knew she loved. Their antennae flicked against her neck, behind her ears, and Penny broke into giggles, her body squirming as she tried to escape.

“N-NohOHOHhoHO, WWahahHAHIT!! T-ToohohO SeHhehENsiIHIhiTIVE!!” She silently cursed herself for making it so easy for them. A crop top???? Was Juniper trying to kill her???

But the Slimes were tireless, their movements eager and playful. Penny’s laughter filled the corral, high and squeaky and breathless, her eyes squeezing shut. She kicked her legs, her fuzzy socks making her feet even more sensitive as the Slimes wrapped around her ankles, their pseudopodia wiggling against the soft fabric.

Penny shrieked, her hands grabbing at the Slimes, but there was nothing for her to grab onto; every time she reached to pull one away from a particularly devilish spot, her hand merely grabbed jelly, finding no grip. They only ever took her attempts to pull them off as encouragement. They climbed up her arms, nuzzling her face and their antennae wiggling into her ears, and Penny laughed and laughed.

She collapsed onto her back, her body shaking and convulsing with laughter, her cheeks reddened, and her hair in a wild mess. The Slimes swarmed her, their touch light and insistent, their happy gurgles echoing in her ears.

Penny surrendered to it, her laughter pealing out across the ranch, bright and joyful and alive.

And somewhere in the distance, she could’ve sworn she heard Juniper whistling a tune, warm and fond, as the music box played on. The morning sun flowed over the ranch in golden tones, bathing the farms and the corrals in promise. All things felt as they should be in the gentle dawn.

[toweroftickles]

Reimagined Tickling #6

Winx Club/K-Pop Demon Hunters

A fic for the literal final minute of 2025!

A lot of times when I see a tickling scene in a movie or TV show, I imagine how fun it would be to see other characters in those same situations. You know, like "Oh I wanna see X character get tickled like that." So I thought I'd try writing a few drabbles where I'll take a famous tickle scene and reinterpret it with new characters in new settings.

For this one, I'm using the scene from Winx Club where a pixie tickles Darcy into helplessness...

And doing a variation on that with...

…Huntrix!! (Specifically Mira.)

Mira’s fingers strummed the yew pole of her gokdo. Alone, silent. Focused. The intense and earthy scent of pine prickled her nostrils. Lots of memories were in this place.

The lush evergreen getaways of Bijarim Forest…in addition to being a terrible climate for black leather armor…held great spiritual significance to the Hunters, and to the generations of shamans before them. During the band’s formation, Celine sometimes took them to the forest shrines to pray and hone their weapon skills. But this time, the trio of devil-slaying dynamos weren’t visiting for a history lesson, nor a concert. Rumors had been flooding in from all over Jeju Island that local women’s husbands were mysteriously disappearing, supposedly seduced by evil forest spirits with magical delicacies (probably ramyeon, or maybe delicious sandwich platters) and stolen away to hell. To everyone else, it was nonsense…pure, checkout-line-at-the-drugstore tabloid garbage. But to the Hunters, it could only mean one thing…

…no, not magicians. (Or LSD.) It meant the ureongi gaksi demons were back.

These tiny female sprites lived inside discarded snail shells, fashioned into homes which all nestled together like the Smurf village of Junji Ito’s dreams, where they cooked up all manner of alluring and fragrant dishes to lure lonely men’s souls to the underworld. The way to a guy’s heart was through his stomach, after all.

And now, at least a dozen of them were hopping around in parabolic arcs on the forest floor, to escape from the giant Huntress lady who menaced them.

“Grrrrr; I don’t talk, but I…Gah! …I bite, full of venom, uh…ur…spittin’ facts, you know that’s how it’s done done DONE!!” Mira rapped aggressively as she swung her pike like a baseball bat. These damn things were so tiny. The Honmoon rippled with each successive strike, and bands of light swallowed the Lilliputian women as soon as they were felled. “If I knew we were doing pest control I would’ve brought a freaking bug zapper!”

Her blade took two dozen more victims that day. In a shower of pink sparks and splintered bark, bride after bride was sent back to the demon realm. It wasn’t long before the only sound left was the rustling of the canopy above, and as far as Mira could tell, she was alone.

“Heh. Last one,” she smirked…until one final sprite leapt from the tree and landed right on the bridge of her nose.

Oh, of course.

Incensed, she reached up to flick the tiny creature away, but it made a surprise move and scurried quickly into her wristband. She tried to snatch it, but it slid through her fingers and right down her arm. This humanoid gnat had pins and needles instead of limbs, and it made Mira’s skin crawl.

“Hey, that itches,” she snarled and scratched at her forearm. Before she could catch the little bug, it slipped even deeper into her costume, down her ribcage ladder and along her side, until it reached a particularly soft spot on her waistline…and suddenly, it began to scratch.

“W-hait, now it tickles! Heh! Now it tickles!”

The back of Mira’s neck buzzed. She frantically started grabbing and smacking her suit, but it was no use…the diminutive maiden was too fast. “Huheh! Hey, would you stohop it…Get off me!!”

The leather had betrayed her. Her skintight bodysuit clung to her like melted glue. Her belly trembled at the demon’s touch, and she crashed helpless to her knees in the dirt. With each new tingly pinch and poke, more hot gushes of laughter rolled up through her stomach and out her throat…she almost felt sick. She couldn’t stop.

Mira didn’t know what this gaksi was thinking, but she hazarded a wild guess:

“Let’s see you sing now.”

———

Enormous black boots, too big for the feet inside them, clomped over a decorative bridge. A small manmade brook, perfect for tourist-trappy Instagram photos, bubbled beneath. It was quiet…tooooo quiet. (Dun-dun-duuuuuuuun) Readying her shinkal, Zoey struck a dramatic ninja pose. Laser-focused. She was totally ON it.

“Allll-right…come on out, you mean little boogers,” the youngest huntress growled. “Where are you hiding?”

To Zoey’s surprise, she actually received a reply, but not at all the one she expected. It sounded like a young woman calling out to her, somewhere off in the distance, strained and hoarse and…laughing?

“Huh Ha-Heh Ha-Ha Ha-Heh…Gnk! Nn-Heh-Heh Huh-Huh!!”

Her bedazzled ears perked up. The chuckling voice that she heard was husky, rough, and wheezy, as if it were being forcibly squeezed out…not very loud, but sharp, and it carried far even through the thick, humid air. It sounded just like…

“…Mira?! No way! She found them already?!” Zoey immediately turned in the direction of the sound and thundered through the trees. All she had to do was follow the giggles, and in no time at all, she reached an isolated clearing, a short distance off from one of the less-trod walkways.

And there on the ground, in a patch of dull-green paperplant only broken up by rivers of raspberry hair, was Mira—rolling around, arching her spine, kicking and slapping the earth and clawing at her leather-clad limbs like a rabid animal. Did she take a bath in poison ivy?

“Huhuh......HUH-Hehn! .....Hn! Z-ho.….Zoey, save me, Huh-Huh Heh-Heh HEHH-Hn!”

Zoey gasped. Without so much as a moment’s hesitation, she pirouetted into the air and hurled one of her blades forward…straight toward Mira’s stomach.

“Huheh! No…noho wait Zoey! Waihait!”

SsssSHING!

……………….

Am I dead? Mira froze and looked down.

The knife had stopped micrometers short of her skin. It pierced the surface of her costume, stuck like a dart into a slight bulge of leather just above her belt, right where the gaksi was tickling her. Bullseye. A puff of heliotropic smoke ruptured from the small slit in Mira’s costume, echoed by a high-pitched wail, and in an instant the demon imp writhed and thrashed and was gone.

Whew. Mira’s head returned to earth. Last one.

“Mira! How could you let them ambush you like that?!” Rumi gasped, bursting suddenly out of the thicket. She’d arrived just in time to see everything but not actually be of use.

“She was tickling me; I couldn’t help it,” Mira muttered quickly…maybe if she got the words out as fast as possible, she reasoned, she wouldn’t have to dwell on the embarrassing truth for too long. Rumi, judging by the uncomfortable grimace on her face, empathized. But not everyone was so understanding.

“Ugh! You are such a big fat liar!” Zoey’s cheeks puffed up. Her lips shrank into an adorable heart-shaped pucker. She looked shocked, if not downright scandalized.

“Wha….huh? What are you talking about?” moaned Mira, still annoyed, still on her back, and still out of breath.

Pouting, the maknae raised her fingers up to form air quotes, swayed her hips sarcastically, and dropped her voice several octaves…she played the perfect Mini-Mira. “All that stuff about ‘Ohh, I’m not ticklish at all;’ ‘That’s not gonna work on meee;’ ‘Nuh-uh, tickle fights are sooo lame’…you were totally just avoiding me!”

“Oh come on, Zoey, I…”

Mira didn’t get to finish her excuse. In one swift movement, Zoey squatted and bent down over like a vulture, thrust both hands forward, and dragged her extra-long fingernails in shivering scrapes through the valleys of mesh fabric beneath Mira’s armpits.

“AAARGHH; that’s so shaharp!” Mira groaned, wiggling in the dirt. Her arms pulled in tight, bent upward like a squirrel’s. It didn’t sound like she was laughing that hard, but Zoey could see her sister’s stiff neck muscles reddening and throbbing from the strain. “Huheh, Huh-Huh Huh-Huh! *hyuck* Stooooooop...”

“Gotcha-gotcha-gotcha!”

Thankfully, Zoey’s angry little scritches only lasted a moment or two before her evil side was sated, and the eldest Hunter finally got the break she deserved. After a few more deep breaths, the exhausted Mira stretched out a hand to her bandmates. They owed her a lift up.

“Huhhh….Urgh….you……agh….you suck, Zoey.”

Gently, the girls hoisted Mira to her feet, draping her arms over their shoulders for support (while Zoey struggled against the temptation to grab her by the pits again). But they didn’t have time to recuperate. Never lose focus, not for a second. They still had work to do.

“You know what the weirdest thing is, though…” Zoey chimed in… “I am really craving some kind of ureongi kimbap right now.”

Womp, womp. The others gagged miserably.

“Ew, Zoey…” whined Rumi. Her stomach gurgled.

“I am literally never eating snails for the rest of my life.”

That was enough of that. As soon as Mira’s lungs were strong again, the trio harmonized a quick low note, and the resulting tremor in the Honmoon darted across the forest floor in a flash of fluorescent blue, before settling around a nearby bush. Built-in sonar.

Aha…there was the demons’ hiding spot.

The hunt was back on.

**********************************

Post by @el7art · 2 images

💬 67  🔁 3421  ❤️ 17973 · Huntr/x as the Trix Additionally:

⬆️ As soon as I saw this amazing Hun/Trix fanart, I knew what I had to do. I’m a little out of practice, so it’s not great.

Fun fact about writing this: There are no cultural equivalent to fairies in Korea, so I started looking for a folk tale to use for inspiration and wound up finding the story of the ureongi gaksi (snail bride). Then of course I needed a fitting temperate setting to place this in and decided on Bijarim Forest…apropos of nothing, something about it just stood out to me during my research, as if plucked from thin air and placed in my lap. After this, while checking to make sure I had all the right terminology for everything, I learned that Zoey’s throwing knives are called shinkal, and they were inspired by a ritual tool that belongs to priests from a specific sect of Korean shamanism (Musok)…on southern Jeju Island. That place actually is important to the lore of KPDH. So all these story elements coalesced together totally by coincidence. For a silly, inconsequential, and not-particularly-eloquent tickle fic, written by a dumb white guy who knows jack shit about Korea, I thought that was really cool.

[ticklishraspberries]

Stubborn (Achilles/Patroclus)

Summary: Achilles has always been stubborn and prideful. Patroclus sees an opportunity to make the best of the Greeks give in, and takes it happily. (I just re-read this book the other day and was struck with the urge to write a fic for it. I know I haven't written in a while, and I haven't written for this fandom in years, so please be gentle, lmfao. I hope you enjoy!!)

Achilles is stubborn.

Patroclus knows this, has always known this, because he has never known Achilles to be anything but stubborn. For a child with such a weight on his shoulders, a prophecy on his head, the blood of the gods running through his veins — well, who can blame him?

If Achilles sets his mind to something, he will do it. Whether that be mastering the use of a spear, juggling figs, playing the lyre, or breaking through all of Patroclus’s walls, Achilles will do it, can do it.

It’s normally a positive trait, that determination. But in a young boy, it can get annoying quite fast. And Patroclus never usually finds Achilles annoying: He’s in awe of him, smitten by him, happily attached to his hip. But Patroclus is only human, after all, and there is only so much teasing one boy can take before he has to seek some sort of revenge.

Achilles has known that Patroclus is ticklish for years, one of the early discoveries that had brought them closer together. However, in all that time, Patroclus has never gotten the upper hand on Achilles, which is just entirely unfair.

“I’m not ticklish,” Achilles had said. It was a sunny afternoon on the grounds of his father’s palace. “I never have been, even when I was small.”

Patroclus bites back the urge to argue that he is still quite small. “Everyone says they aren’t ticklish, to stop others from trying.”

“You didn’t lie,” Achilles replied with a smirk.

Patroclus felt his face flush. “I knew you would try anyway. Lying would have done me no good.”

“I guess that’s true. Well, you don’t have to bother trying. I’ll just get you back twice as bad.”

What should have been a threat had not deterred him in the slightest, though, and Patroclus had tears of mirth streaked down his face within minutes.

It didn’t stop him from trying again, but Achilles was always one step ahead. He always saw it coming, and always grabbed at the offending hands before they even made contact, and smirked before pinning Patroclus to the grass or the mattress and tickling him half to tears for daring to try and tickle the best of the Greeks.

However, here, in Chiron’s cave, the morning is quiet and still. The centaur is off fetching something to fix a meal, and Achilles is asleep beside Patroclus, unclothed and lying in a particularly vulnerable position, one arm tucked beneath his head of golden hair. Patroclus isn’t sure what compels him to do it then, to ruin the peaceful moment, or why tickling Achilles is even at the forefront of his mind: They’re older now, and this is surely something childish, but the chance to startle a laugh from the other boy has never felt stronger.

Patroclus cuddles close to his side, stroking the hair from his face. Achilles barely stirs, only gives a pleasant hum in his sleep. It’s probably cruel to pull him from such a peaceful slumber, but he doesn’t care. How many mornings had Achilles jumped onto his bed at sunrise, pushing bony knees into his sides and shaking his shoulders, pressing their faces close and loudly announcing the break of a new day?

Maybe Achilles deserves a morning of ruined rest, too.

Patroclus doesn’t quite know where to start. In the past, he’s always tried the obvious places: Stomach, sides, feet. Achilles has never reacted in the expected ways, never cracking a smile or squirming away. Perhaps there’s another spot he can try?

His hand still lingers by Achilles’ face, and he brings it slowly towards his collarbone, his touch featherlight as it traces the curve there before moving up to stroke the side of his neck.

He’s surprised when Achilles twitches in his sleep, his brow furrowing and his shoulder shrugging upwards. This only encourages him further, bringing his other hand to Achilles’ ribs and repeating the same motion.

Achilles makes a noise somewhere between a giggle and a groan as he seems to slowly awaken, his arms lazily moving to push at Patroclus. He rolls over onto his side and tugs the sheet, trying to cover his body, but Patroclus pushes it away and scoots closer, throwing an arm over his waist and pulling his back flush against his own chest.

“I thought you said you weren’t ticklish,” he mutters in Achilles’ ear, making sure his lips brush against the shell of it.

Achilles shivers. “No one but you has ever really tried.”

“So, you admit it then? You are ticklish?” Patroclus asks, grinning. He’s tickling his belly with both hands now, hugging him around his middle so he can’t squirm away. Even with all his strength and stamina, Achilles is still tired and caught off guard, and his body is weak to resist as the soft laughter comes in waves.

Still, he says, “I don’t admit anything.” The sentence carries much less weight when it’s said between laughs, though.

Patroclus shouldn’t be surprised by this. Like he’s said, Achilles is stubborn. For someone who says he hates to lie, he omits the truth and dances around topics like this, to uphold both his integrity and his dignity. It’s quite endearing to watch, honestly.

Patroclus chuckles. “Of course you don’t,” he says.

In an obvious attempt to distract him from the tickling, Achilles flips over and presses their lips together, and Patroclus can’t help but kiss back. However, he’s not going to give in so easily.

He runs his fingers along Achilles’ lower back, up his spine, over his shoulder blades, the touch light and teasing, and he feels goosebumps rising over the skin. While soft touches like this usually tickle Patroclus, he knows Achilles will find them soothing, even sensual. Luring him into a false sense of security will help him regain that element of surprise.

It’s funny, how strategically Patroclus is thinking about something so obsolete. He plans like a war general whose enemy is the ego of his lover, and his attack is to send a fleet of tickling fingers to his weakest spots.

As they kiss, Patroclus grabs onto Achilles’ sides and squeezes them roughly, and a startled laugh falls from the half-god’s lips, his body shrinking away.

“Admit that you’re ticklish,” Patroclus says in a voice so unlike his usual tone, deeper and more commanding. There’s still plenty of mischief dancing behind it, though.

“Never,” Achilles grits out.

“Then I’ll never stop,” he replies. He figures there are worse things to fill his days with. Touching Achilles, hearing his laughter. It would be a quite fulfilling existence if you asked him.

He explores bits of sensitive flesh, but no spot seems to get a greater reaction than the crease where his thighs meet the sacred place between his legs. Pressing the pads of his fingers there actually makes Achilles whimper, and the sound is dizzying.

“Okay, okay,” he finally pants. “I’m ticklish!”

Patroclus stops instantly, rewarding Achilles for his good behavior. He presses a kiss to his sweaty temple, pushes back that golden hair once again.

“That’s what I thought.”

Breathless but smiling helplessly, Achilles nudges him in the ribs with his elbow. It’s rare to see him admit defeat, but it’s a beautiful sight. His flushed skin, his laughter lines.

Stubborn is an accurate way to describe Achilles, yes, but Patroclus will always mention his beauty first. Heroes are usually remembered for their fatal flaw, but Patroclus will always know him for the good things: The golden hair that cascades down his back like a waterfall. His determination, his resilience, his kindness. His laughter. The fact that even with godly blood in his veins, Achilles is just a boy, who juggles figs and is ticklish.

This, and this, and this. The good, the beautiful things.