rosileeduckie

[rosileeduckie]

if you’re having a bad day, here’s a cute little marching band

[rosileeduckie]

AHHH this one crossed my dash by chance, and I just I NEED it in reach to reread 😍😁 Panda you just always write the best interactions between characters, the relationships feel so warm and comfortable 💕💕💕

Read this if you want to feel like you're getting hugged through your screen 😋💖

Tickled Pink

Panda’s Notes: It never ends. >w< This started out as a dumb story where Hobie actually doesn't know he changes color with his emotions. Now it's a hurt/comfort something or other that I hesitate to call a character study. Probably not. I hope you guys like it. I might adjust the ending; it was not really beta-read. >w<

[Ao3] || [Commissions!] || [Ko-fi]

Hobie Brown doesn’t believe in consistency. Hobie Brown doesn’t believe in labels.

So, if it came to light that there was a…little quirk about him that consistently labelled certain little “moods” he gets into, one could understand how he’d be hesitant to believe it.

Or maybe he’s just in denial.

“The fuck you mean I change colors?” He asked incredulously, his whole body shifting to a sort of greyscale before Miles’ eyes.

“That! You just did it!” Miles’ hands flailed a bit before he gripped his sleeves, and he laughed a bit at the look Hobie gave him. “When you get upset, you turn grey.”

“I can’t be grey already, mate, come off it.” Hobie chuckled, running his fingers along his hairline before returning his hand to the neck of his guitar. “Though, between the Spider thing and you lot on my arse all the time, the stress could be gettin’ me.”

Miles scoffed, offended. “You know that’s not what I meant! And since when do we stress you—” He paused, realization lighting his face as Hobie’s scheme turned to several tones of pink. “You’re messing with me!”

“Oh?” His voice remained steady, but his eyes were distinctly smug. “I felt like that was pretty serious just now. Full sincerity.”

“No, because you always turn pink when you’re being a goof.”

He froze, fingers catching a sour note on his guitar. Miles flinched a little when just his eyes moved to stare at him. That side-eye alone could level mountains.

…But he was still pink.

Miles eyed him warily, crossing his arms. “I know you’re just trying to get in my head.”

Hobie laughed quietly, and his color returned to…normal? Red Spider suit; black vest; and his skin was actually a human color. Yeah, this could be considered normal. “Hate to break it to you, mate; but it’s very easy to get into your head. You get in there so much on your own; you start leaving the door open.”

Miles pouted, but he inched closer to Hobie’s side and rested his head on his shoulder.

Hobie smiled a bit more, plucking a few notes. “Bit of a fuss-bucket, but we like that about you. ‘S cute.” He leaned in turn, letting his head rest on top of Miles’ as he hummed softly.

“Someone has to worry about you and Gwen, especially when you start scheming together. Or not checking in for days; remember the talk we had about that?”

“Gotta unplug sometimes, my guy.” His color shifted again, flipping between grey and another muted palette. “You…you worry about us?”

“Always. You guys both bottle everything up and then act like drinking from it will make it go away.”

Hobie winced, but he couldn’t help another little laugh. “That’s a half decent line, innit? I…You worry about me, huh?” He murmured, his hands going a little tense before he suddenly looked away and cursed under his breath.

Miles glanced at him curiously as he flickered again, between those muted tones and his bright pink. “Are you—”

“Shut up.” Hobie ran his thumb under his eye, a smile stuck on his face as his body settled into the pink palette.

“Hobie!” Miles said just a bit teasingly, hugging the taller boy’s arm and rocking against him. “You’re all pink~ You turn pink when you’re happy, is that it?”

“I don’t turn colors; what are you on about?!” He let himself rock with Miles, reaching to ruffle his hair with his free hand. “An’ I’m not happy; I’m miserable. You’re out here tormenting me.” He carried on dramatically, slipping his arms around Miles and pulling him into his side as he started to lean over. “Makin’ me cry and all. Terrible.”

“Aw, poor thing.” Miles snorted, trying to get his hands between them again. “Maybe I should cheer you up?” He got one hand just under Hobie’s vest, squeezing his side a few times.

“Oi, watch it!” Hobie yelped, giggles starting to slip out as he tried to lean into Miles. “You’re tickling!”

“You’re ticklish?! That’s crazy, man. Unbelievable.” Miles smirked, bringing both hands to scribble up his sides. “That sounds like a cute thing, and you hate being cute.”

“Miles, you—No!” Hobie let out a cackle as Miles grabbed his waist, electricity rushing through his midriff under his touch. Sparks of color flashed across his body, and he tried to shove Miles’ shoulder as his form settled back to pink.

Actually… Now that Miles really thought about it…

“Have you always turned pink when you get tickled?” He asked softly, letting his thumb press circles on Hobie’s hipbone and brushing stray tears off of his face with his free hand.

Hobie slapped lightly at Miles’ face as he giggled. “Stop saying that…” He half whined, lifting the neck of his guitar as he let his head fall onto Miles’ again.

“How do you keep denying it?!” He pulled his hands back, rummaging in his pockets for his cell phone. “Here, c’mere.” He giggled as Hobie slipped his arm around his waist and hooked his chin over his shoulder, and Miles snapped a picture of them without really looking.

“Okay, there, l—What. The. Fuck?!” Miles stared in disbelief at the photo.

Hobie snorted, laughing snidely as his body turned a few neon colors before going pink again. “Oi, that mouth, love.”

“There’s no way—Hobie!” Miles squeaked as Hobie suddenly pressed a flurry of kisses against his neck and cheek, his phone slipping out of his hand as he laughed.

Sure enough, the photo only showed the pair of them: with Hobie’s red Spider Suit, black vest, and dark brown skin.

-------------

Gwen had made the fatal mistake of letting Hobie bring her to a pub in his dimension. She had also made the mistake of letting him drag her to three more after that. They were cuddled up in the hammock Hobie had strung up on one side of his bedroom, rocking slowly as the canal shifted the boat.

“Not really sure why you thought you could beat Karl on that third one, lovey.” Hobie purred, fingers carding through Gwen’s hair as her head rested on his chest. “How many times have you told me you don’t even like whiskey?”

“Not my fault you keep shitty whiskey…” She murmured into his shirt. “’N I needed to shut him up.”

“Forgot the sauce makes you a rude li’l bitch, didn’t I?” Hobie smirked down at her as she set her chin on his chest and tried to glare at him.

“Why are you so okay anyway?” She griped. “You knocked back half a bottle of vodka right at the start.”

“Little lesson for the pub crawl: Ol’ Roy waters down the vodka bottles he serves out. Keeps the good shit for himself. Takes a bribe and a half to get so much as a shot out of him, but you need that buzz to choke down some of the food Mary’ll serve ya. Bet you didn’t even notice how fast we booked when they tried to give you those burger things; they’re awful, and you hadn’t even—Aw, love…”

Gwen’s eyes had fallen closed, and she smiled softly as she snoozed quietly against him. “’M listening… Promise.”

“Sure you are.” He pulled her head to rest against him again, tracing gently along the side of her face. “Kinda important, though, you do need to eat more if you’re gonna drink that much. The healing thing ’ll fix ya quicker, but still. That second place? We hit it just for those chicken strips, okay? The cheap wine was a bonus. And I’m still mad you let Riri take that root beer float from the Winchester, man; you’ve gotta try it.”

“I just try not to eat dairy when I have a stomachache…” She yawned for a moment, stretching her arms and hands like a kitten before loosely clutching at his shirt. “Bad things happen.”

“She said, shortly before getting into a drinking contest with a super soldier and keeling after three shots.”

“Hm? Oh, sorry; I got distracted by your cigarette breath. Run that by me again?”

Hobie barely stifled a laugh, ruffling her hair gently. “Okay. It was only, like, two.”

“Two per pub, more like.”

“Nah, it was not like—” He suddenly paused, thinking back to a few hours prior. “…Shite.”

Gwen chuckled sleepily, trailing off into a quiet snore.

Hobie huffed as he smirked, humming a tune and letting his fingers strum against her spine. He wasn’t entirely sure how long they stayed like that; the rocking of the hammock was good for melting away any semblance of focus. Suddenly, though, a thought jumped out of the remaining haze of alcohol to the front of his mind.

“Oi, Gwendy.” He murmured, dragging his nails more purposefully up and down her back.

She shifted slightly, a smile breaking her face as snickers slipped out. “Mmph… Not funny, Miles…” She grumbled, pushing softly at Hobie’s face.

“Ooh, I’ll try not to be offended at that one, love.” He sneered as she whined. He moved his hand to lightly tickle her ear as it turned bright red. “Remember you told me I could ask you one stupid question a day?”

“Seriously? Now?” She huffed, the pout audible in her voice.

“It’s still today, innit?” He kissed Gwen’s hand when it shoved the side of his face again. “Just the one, I promise.”

“Yeah, yeah…Go on.”

“So, um… Do I, like, change colors?”

Gwen was silent for a second before starting to giggle as she looked up at him. He could tell by her tone that she might still be a little buzzed. “What? Like a chameleon? Hell no!” She asked in disbelief.

“Heh, right?! God, I can’t believe I almost fell for that. Miles tried to get in my head that—”

“You change more like a fever dream.”

And, suddenly, his body flickered between normal and grey. “…What?”

“It’s like… Maybe a strobe light? No. It’s like flashing, but not quick, like…”

“I do not change colors!” He insisted, the greyscale settling in.

“Ack! Volume…”

“Sorry, just—” His palette was quickly muted, and he hugged Gwen close. “I’m pretty sure I would know if I was changing colors all the time, y’know? And you never said anything like that before.”

“I don’t go around questioning how people’s bodies work in other dimensions.” She shrugged, her head falling onto his chest again. “You want me to let you know every time I notice you breathing? I can hear your heartbeat; does that surprise—Oh, that’s really fast, actually.”

“Nah, nah, nah, don’t get distracted.” Hobie ruffled her hair again, his colors shifting brighter as she laughed softly. “Does—Does everyone do it? The gang and all?”

“Your gang here? I mean, yeah. I think it’s just your dimension’s thing. Changing colors with how you feel, I think.”

“Oh, you think now? Which is it?” He turned pink, unable to keep the smile off his face as she stretched groggily and let her hands fall onto his face again.

“Hey, you’re all different. I don’t keep track of all of you. I know most of your little patterns though, Cuddlebug.”

Hobie pouted, feeling his face heat up. “Don’t believe much in patterns…”

“Okay, but then how did I know you’d say that?” She cupped his face in her hands, thumbs drawing the smile along his cheekbones. “I can feel you blushing.”

“Pfft, yeah?” Hobie shifted between pinks and neons, taking hold of one of her wrists. “You wanna feel somethin’, eh?” He dragged the flat of his tongue up her palm, his piercing almost catching between her fingers when she shrieked and pulled away.

“Oh, my god, you fucking weirdo!” She accused, scrubbing her hand against his shirt as he laughed at her.

“I thought you’d see it coming, love~ I’m so easy to predict, apparently.” Hobie sneered, his colors still shifting despite lingering on pink.

“That’s not what I said, you big baby!” A few giggles snuck into her voice as she pushed herself up onto her knees, gripping her head for a moment and wincing.

“Easy there, Gwenny; watch your volume.” He taunted, lifting his hands and letting her brace herself against them. It quickly turned into her trying to shove his hands over his head, which he definitely didn’t just let her do without a fight. Definitely.

“You don’t believe in patterns; do you ever not speak bullshit?” She grumbled, letting go of his hands and crossing her arms.

“Gettin’ a little hostile, aren’t we?” He chuckled, crossing his own arms under his head as his colors flickered again. “I mean, here I am having an existential crisis, and you just want to leave me in the dark.”

“Yeah, you look so bothered by it.” She huffed and rested a hand under her chin. “You’re flipping between stuff, but…You light up when you’re happy; you start fading when you’re down; when you get upset, you turn grey. Actually, no, it’s like: You turn into some kind of newspaper collage. Like, literally, there are words on your face right now. I think they change depending on what’s bothering you…”

Hobie touched his face, finding himself distracted. “When do I turn pink?” He murmured, accidentally interrupting her going on about neon or something.

She snickered just a bit before she grinned brightly. “You turn pink when… God, it might be the best one. You turn pink when something makes you super happy. Happy like when cats purr; it’s your tail wag. You also turn pink when you’re planning pranks or goofing off with the band; it’s so great and—Wait. You said that Miles…” She paused suddenly, thinking for a second. “You do turn pink around Miles a lot, don’t you?! Hobie that’s so cute!”

Hobie groaned, letting his arm fall over his face.

“You turn pink when you blush sometimes too~” She poked his cheek, and a smile crept onto his face. “That’s the happy blush~!”

“Shut up…” He whined, a few giggles sneaking into his voice and getting amplified when Gwen’s fingers started crawling up his ribcage. “Gwen…”

“Is that my Gigglebug?” She asked teasingly, starting to scribble her fingers as her hands moved toward his armpits. “Oh, my god; did Miles find out you like getting tickled?! Is that what this is about?”

“Gwen, I do not—!” He started to insist, only to break into loud giggles when her hands shot up. “Gwendy, please!”

“Oh, yeah? Then why are you still pink?” She giggled a bit herself, bracing her knees around his legs as the hammock started to rock.

“I don’t change colors!”

“Okay, you’re just trying to do the contrarian thing. I love the commitment to the bit, but you are literally tickled pink right now.”

He lashed his hands out, hugging her tight and pulling her back down onto him. It didn’t help much; her fingers still found a bit of wiggle room against his upper ribs, but she rolled her eyes and chuckled.

“I hate you.” He murmured, the bright pink still lingering as he nuzzled into her shoulder.

“Hate you too, punk.” She teased, shifting slightly to kiss his mouth. “Ack! Yeah, that was definitely more than two cigarettes, Hobie.”

He snorted, his colors flickering for a moment as the hammock slowly stopped shaking, and Gwen chuckled and rested her head on his collarbone.

And then the hammock fell to the floor, and both of them laughed themselves hoarse.

------------

“What happened?” Miguel had asked worriedly when he first saw the look on Peter’s face. He had rushed Miguel across the facility and down to the infirmary before finally answering:

“There was an, uh, incident down in Equipment Development.” Peter explained a bit warily. “One of the kids got hurt. Kinda figured you’d want to make a proper report, and he’s not exactly being cooperative.”

Miguel had paused at that, realizing that there were very few Spiders in Spider Society that tended to be uncooperative. Definitely only one uncooperative kid. Sure enough, there was a single occupied bed in the infirmary, and Hobie sat as tense as if he were made of stone. His left forearm was wrapped tightly in bandages, his hand barely having the leeway to squeeze the grip strengthener in his hand.

“Hey, hey, Hobie Brown!” Peter called in a playful tone, clapping Hobie’s shoulder. “Lookin’, uh, a little blue there, eh?”

The muted blue shifted instantly to greyscale, and a distinctly not-human sounding hiss filled the air between them.

“Okay, not funny; got it!” Peter said quickly, stepping back and nudging Miguel forward. “Miguel, here, just needs t—”

“Fucking hell; what’d you bring him for, pops?!” He griped, flopping himself over onto his side and cringing as he adjusted his arm. His voice was groggy, still slightly affected by the heavy anesthetic that had been used on him.

Peter sighed softly, and Miguel rolled his eyes. “I brought him because your injury is, well, pretty bad. We need an incident report, y’know?”

“He said you were being obstinate about it.” Miguel chimed in, and Hobie’s color flickered as his head whipped around to glare at both of them. “He has half a point though. Tell me what happened.”

Hobie huffed, settling back to greyscale as he returned his focus to his hand exercise. “Ain’t nothin’ to write about.”

“Literally, the one thing I asked you for.” Miguel pinched the bridge of his nose. “Look, if it were nothing, you wouldn’t be sulking in here.”

Instantly, Hobie put on his smirk, rolling onto his other side and looking at them with a shrug. “So, who’s sulking? I feel great.” His greyscale somehow grew cloudy, those dark blues melting in as if the newsprint had been dropped in paint. Neither Miguel nor Peter commented on it.

“I mean, Miguel definitely knows a thing or two about sulking; I’d tend to agree with him on this.” Peter tried another joke. Hobie chuckled, but he didn’t change.

“I don’t believe in agreements, then.” Hobie shrugged, smiling a bit tauntingly.

Miguel eyed him for a moment. “LYLA, pull up the footage from Equipment Development. And the medic’s record.”

Hobie’s face fell before he could catch it, and he sat up quick enough to make himself dizzy. “Oi, Tink—”

“You got it, boss!” LYLA’s voice was bright before she appeared on Miguel’s shoulder. “It is a little rough though.”

Miguel watched through a small holographic window as Hobie assisted Peni with repairing and recalibrating the blade weapons in her mech’s arms. He’d made some joke, and she laughed and punched his arm. They stepped back a bit—not nearly enough, and definitely not behind the designated safety glass—and she pressed a button on a remote. The saw blade spun, apparently picking up speed even after she pressed the button again. They moved warily, and Hobie’s eyes never leaving the mech as he put one arm in front of Peni, his color shifting to the harsh greyscale. It quickly turned into both arms snatching her off the floor when the saw shrieked and launched off of its gear. Miguel tore his eyes away before the impact, clamping his hand over his wrist before the scream could bury itself in his mind.

“Dios mio, kid…” He murmured, and Peter covered his mouth as he tried to find something to say.

Hobie stayed silent, wincing a little as he stared at his arm.

LYLA hummed sympathetically, petting the side of Miguel’s head. “Medics’ report says that the wound was pretty deep. Hobie’s one of the faster healers, but nerve damage is no joke. They want him on observation and physical therapy for a little while before he goes on another mission.”

“And why exactly did you need me to ‘get a report’, Blue?” Hobie asked gruffly. “Just rip me up and piss off, alright?”

“Excuse me?” Miguel might have stammered a bit.

Hobie’s hand clenched as his body stayed that dark grey, and he groaned irritably. “Just tell me how fucking stupid I am! How the irresponsible rebel let a poor li’l bird get hurt! I know what the others said!”

“Wait, wait; hold on.” Peter said slowly, moving to sit on the edge of the bed. “Who said that about you?”

“Oh, like I keep a fucking catalogue of which Red-Suit Peter Parker is which. Come off it.”

Miguel pulled up the video again. Peni got hurt? And if she had gotten hurt, why didn’t Peter mention it? He braced himself as he let it run this time, and he spotted it: The moment of impact, as Hobie held her tight, the very edge of the blade nicked her forehead. And even then, he only realized it had happened when she kept wiping a dribble of blood away from her eye. She was the one to activate her watch and send out an alert, but a few Spiders had already come running as Hobie screamed.

He looked up, watching Hobie bicker with Peter for a few seconds. “Why do you think I’d call you stupid for this?” He asked, and both of them balked at his tone of voice. His eyes were soft, concerned; and his tone seemed a bit shaky.

Hobie cringed, the look on his face incredulous as his colors flickered. “You’re asking me that after last year, huh? We’re only supposed to save some people sometimes, yeah?”

Miguel sighed. “I haven’t forgotten. But don’t try to put words in my mouth about this. I’m not going to scold you for probably saving your friend’s life.”

Hobie rolled his eyes, biting his lip on some comment, surely.

Peter’s hand returned to Hobie’s shoulder, squeezing firmly. “Hobie, no one—No one—should even have the nerve to tell you that you were wrong here. Lab accidents just happen. Peni is safe; no one’s dead; HQ isn’t on fire; I don’t see any sentient saw-based super villains, and you’re not even missing that hand.”

Hobie huffed softly toward the end, remaining mostly stone-faced despite his color shifting brighter.

“Just know you’re amazing, Spider-Man.” Peter said finally, patting Hobie’s back.

A shock of neon flickered through Hobie’s palette, and he let a soft chuckle slip out.

“Oh, that’s what gets a smile out of you, really?”

Hobie lightly shoved Peter’s arm with his good hand. “Yeah, right, pops. You know you ain’t that funny. Lemme go back to my sulking; I’m so good at it.” He let himself fall onto his back, draping his arm across his face and sighing sadly.

And flecks of pink bloomed across his normal colors. Peter gave a look of exaggerated offense, crossing his arms and looking back at Miguel.

Miguel let out a fraction of a chuckle. “Didn’t think you were the type to doubt yourself this much, Spider-Punk.”

“Sorry, Hook, I like to think I’m multifaceted. Full a’ surprises and all.”

He blinked at the nickname, letting a smirk creep onto his face and resting his hands on his hips. “Well, if you can’t pull yourself up out of this little rut, I suppose we’ll have to help you—” He gave a light tap to Peter’s shoulder and winked as they made eye contact. “—And the method might not be so delicate.

“Pfft… Don’t know what I believe less: You thinking I want your help or you thinking I’d need you to be delica—!” His voice was caught in a yelp as one of Miguel’s hands suddenly squeezed one side of his ribcage. As he started to flail, Peter fired a bit of webbing that stuck his bandaged arm to the wall.

“If you really want some commentary, you should probably keep that arm immobilized for a bit.” Peter taunted, leaning closer to scribble gently at Hobie’s other side.

“Oi, hey!” He griped, giggles starting to slip out of him as his free hand pawed Miguel’s arm. “Fuck off; that’s not funny!” He curled over onto his side, pinning Peter’s hand under his weight. It didn’t stop him scribbling his fingers at all, but Hobie seemed determined not to let him have that hand back.

“It’s a little funny.” Miguel shrugged as he sat on the bed as well. He set his left hand firmly on Hobie’s shoulder, flexing the fingers on his right to get them primed. “You called me Hook earlier, didn’t you? I wonder why.” He said it playfully, as if he didn’t actually know, and he dragged his claws gingerly against the back of Hobie’s t-shirt.

Hobie’s legs kicked out as a shriek escaped him, his laughter jumping quickly to cackles as bright pink tones covered his body.

Peter chuckled as he watched them, squeezing Hobie’s side softly until he got the opportunity to pull free when the kid suddenly writhed. “Must be really funny if you’re laughing this much.” He teased, sneaking a few pokes across his stomach. “Hobie ‘Spider-Punk’ Brown stuck in a giggle fit from the evil backscratcher~!”

“Pops!” He laughed, his free hand making a grab for Peter’s wrist again. Miguel, completely undeterred—and maybe a little shocked by it—pulled Hobie to lie flat on his back, and he let his claws scribble softly all across the kid’s stomach. Hobie covered his face, giggling brightly as he seemed to make an effort to keep still.

“Aw, the lone wolf still kicks for tummy scratches.” Peter smirked, leaning on Miguel’s arm and tickling along Hobie’s ribs. “Definitely something Miguel knows about.”

“You are terrible.” Miguel chuckled, shaking his head and sneaking scribbles toward Hobie’s sides.

“You’re both terrible!” Hobie barked out, twisting a bit harder than he meant to and shouting suddenly. “Ack, shit!” Bright red lightning-like bolts flashed along Hobie’s arm as his body flickered between the pink and newsprint palettes.

Peter flailed to remove the webbing from the injured arm, not that there was anything he could do beside watch Hobie ride out the sting of pain. “I am so sorry…” He stammered, suddenly panicked and rambling while Hobie’s voice came out a bit ragged:

“M’fine, m’fine, mate, really.” He insisted, flexing his fingers as best he could and letting out a sigh as the pink tones started to reappear. His eyes fell on Miguel, and when he smirked, Miguel realized he’d been holding his breath.

“You’re fine?” Miguel asked, pushing himself to stand back up.

“As I can be.” Hobie shrugged, grinning harder to cover the wince. “You two gonna stop bothering the invalids now?” His bright pink was muddied by the muted blue, though it flickered between the two.

Peter sighed and shook his head with a weary smile, patting Hobie’s knee as he got up.

Miguel crossed his arms. “Not just yet. Have you told your little crew about this?”

Realization flashed across Hobie’s face, and grey text etched itself into his skin as he tried to push himself up. “Shit, I need to get home, I—”

Miguel grabbed his shoulder before he could accidentally put his weight on the wrong arm. “We can arrange that. I meant: Have you told Gwen and Miles? Or Pavitr?”

For as tall as he was, Hobie seemed to shrink at the idea alone.

“Hobie…” Peter scolded without scolding him.

Hobie pulled a pillow over the side of his head, groaning in frustration. “Ugh, look, okay? I don’t want them worrying over me. I don’t de—” He bit his tongue and paused, the color draining away from him— “They’re busy and all, and I’ll be fine. I begged the doctor not to say anything to you, but Peni had already run off. Then Pops showed up, so, yeah, maybe I was a bit pissed off.”

Both men glanced at each other. Some parts of Spiderman really are always the same.

“They care about you, you know.” Miguel said softly, and Hobie cringed himself into a smaller form. “They love you.”

His hand clenched tighter on the pillow, and bits of the newsprint highlighted itself in pink while others crossed themselves out or tried to become more prominent.

It was sort of an unspoken rule in Spider Society not to read the words that would flash across Hobie’s body, or at the very least, not to comment or draw attention to them. He rarely got emotional enough for them to be legible anyway, but most Spiders could respect the idea of staying out of someone’s head.

But Hobie doesn’t change colors. So, if Miguel’s hand covered up the words “I don’t deserve them” when he pressed his palm to Hobie’s back, it was a coincidence.

“If you stay here to heal up, they’ll notice you missing.” Miguel caught a glimpse of something and glanced away. “If you try to sneak out before you’re healed up, they’ll notice when you can’t use your hand properly. Tell them.”

“…Fine.”

“Promise you’ll do it.”

His colors darkened a bit. “Promise…”

Miguel pat his shoulder firmly, finally stepping back. “And stay behind the safety glass next time. That’s why it’s there.”

Hobie chuckled softly, letting out a quiet sigh as Miguel and Peter made their way out of the infirmary.

“LYLA, let the medics know that Hobie might need another round of painkillers.” Miguel said once they were definitely out of earshot.

She appeared on his shoulder again, a clipboard in her hands. “Already done, boss!”

“By the way, give me an estimate on the kid’s recovery. What do you think?”

She flipped through papers on the board, kicking her feet casually. “Well, based on previous known injuries, and the medic’s report; adding in physical therapy time: I’d say he’ll be mission-ready by next Friday. Probably the Monday after to be 100% normal. Just estimating; you know he’d probably say otherwise.”

Miguel nodded. “Check in once in a while. If he hasn’t told anyone by Wednesday night, drop them a message first thing Thursday.”

Peter looked at him with a smirk, and Miguel rolled his eyes and chuckled.

---------------

“Hobart Brown!” That was Miles’ voice, and it was weighted by his Puerto Rican accent. He was pissed. His sneakers squeaked against the infirmary floor as he stomped up to Hobie’s bed.

Hobie nearly choked on the sip of water he’d taken, catching the grip strengthener when it slipped out of his hand and flickering through several different color palettes.

“Oi. We don’t pull the government names, you know that!” He had barely set his water bottle down when Miles cornered him against the headboard, eyes sharp with rage.

“Shut your punk ass up!” He barked suddenly, seeming to shock both of them for a second. Hobie rested his left hand on his chest, and he felt his face heating up.

“When the hell were you going to tell us that you got hurt?” He continued, crossing his arms as he glared.

Hobie winced, and dark blues settled in with flickers of pink. “I-I, well…When I stopped being hurt?”

“Hobie!” Miles ran his palms over his face, and absolutely none of the anger had drained from his eyes when he looked back up at him. “How could you do this?”

“I did check-ins; you can’t say I didn’t!”

“Yeah, and you lied to us!”

“I—I did not lie. I just…didn’t…”

“Lying by omission is lying, Hobie! And it’s a shitty thing to do to your partners!” His hands were moving a bit wildly before he clutched at his jacket sleeves for a moment. He sighed heavily and let them fall to his sides. Hesitating just a little, Hobie slowly took Miles’ hands into his own, and Miles stared at the remains of the newest scar on his forearm. Miles squeezed his hands tightly, closing his eyes and taking a breath.

“It’s just… After everything that happened, and out of everyone here…You were the one person I thought would never lie to me! Not about important stuff, at least...” He moved one hand to the side of Hobie’s face, brushing his thumb over the words he pretended not to see. “And you are so important! To me and Gwen and Pavitr and your band and so many people.”

In the midst of his speech, Hobie spotted Gwen creeping in with her hands behind her back, but that last part might have gotten to him a bit. The colors on his body fluctuated again, and he felt himself sinking into the hand cradling his face.

“Did you make him cry yet?” Gwen asked a bit playfully, approaching the bed and lightly nudging Miles with her elbow.

“Gwen…” Miles chided softly as brighter tones started to appear on Hobie’s body.

“He has such a way with words, Gwendy; I don’t know what to say.” Hobie leaned to rest his chin on Miles’ head, rubbing his thumbs across his knuckles.

“Yeah, yeah; I wasn’t done, by the way!” Miles pouted.

“I’m not stopping you; I just thought we should give our maybe still-injured partner his flowers.” As she spoke, she pulled a picture frame and a card from behind her back. Pressed inside of the frame was a bouquet of clearly handmade paper flowers wrapped around the neck of a familiar-looking paper guitar.

Hobie found himself staring, the breath stolen from his lungs as he took one corner of the frame in his hand. Gwen didn’t let go, and he was glad for it, because he felt like his hands would have been weak even without the injury.

“Miles made them for you last week—”

“Don’t tell him that!” Miles groaned, blushing as he tried to glare at her. He gestured to Hobie’s face and color with one hand while the other rested its palm on his own face. “See, he’s not going to listen now!”

Hobie had slipped his arm around Miles, pulling him in for a hug and kissing his wrist instead of trying to get him to move it. He had shifted almost completely to a bright pink, bits of text occasionally visible on him before shifting back to blurry lines.

Gwen snickered and sat on the bed, hugging Hobie’s arm. “You seemed pretty off in that first call. Guess we know why now, but he wanted to make you something to cheer you up.”

“I can admit it’s working.” Hobie nodded, smiling at Miles again. “It’s beautiful, love. You never stop amazin’, do ya?”

“Do not compliment me when I’m mad at you.” Miles huffed, his face softening as he looked up.

Hobie set the frame on the table beside the bed, holding the stand out with his pinkie and flexing his hand as he pulled it back. “’S the best time to compliment you though, innit? You care so much; feel so much; I admire that about you.”

Gwen nodded. “Plus, your accent slips out when you’re mad. It’s the cutest thing.”

“He sounds like his mom.”

Gwen slapped Hobie’s arm, barely stifling a snort. “Stop right now. You know his parents already don’t like me. Plus, don’t say that after I saw you blushing when he yelled at you.”

“I like a li’l double meaning, I’m afraid. And Man’s got a bark on him. Makes me weak.”

Miles looked between them, groaning. “Of course you would roll up like this. You two are practically the same.”

They glanced at each other; Hobie’s colors flickered darker, so Gwen was the one who said: “Sounds like you’ve got yourself a type.”

Miles glared at them, but the tiniest hint of a shy smile pulled his lips.

Hobie chuckled softly and shook his head. “Ey, come on, don’t lump her in with my bad decisions. If she had listened to me, she wouldn’t have told you about her broken arm from that Rhino mission.”

“Oh, yeah, I forgot you were the one who said that first. Do you do this a lot?” She murmured, and suddenly both of them were eying Hobie with an edge of…judgment? Felt like judgment. Hobie cringed, looking away for a moment.

“I…” No, no, no. He’d jumped from the church wagon a long time ago; no need to start an impromptu confessional.

They love you.

Shit.

“Look, we’re Spiders, okay? We heal fast. I heal faster. When I get hurt, it’s nothing. Maybe I have to sit out for a while, but the crew can handle most work and shows.” The words were just falling out of him without much control, and he found himself squeezing Gwen’s sleeve when one of her hands traced lines on his arm. “My crew—My friends—I feel like they, uh… How the fuck…? T-There’s plenty of them. They go out, knock some heads and chill with each other. You two… You have whole cities to go home to; you’re flying solo when you’re on patrol. And I don’t want to be the one… distracting you?”

Somehow, stopping felt worse than the rambling. They were still staring at him, but their eyes were soft; both of them took hold of one of his hands.

“You wanna translate?” Miles asked, running the pads of his fingers along some older scars before pulling his hand up to kiss his knuckles.

Gwen shook her head, smiling. “Just means he loves us~” She said almost teasingly, lacing her fingers with his and hugging his arm again. “Loves us so much he thinks he’s not good enough.”

“Did I not just get through telling him how important he is to us?” Miles asked in disbelief. “Honestly, this guy.”

“Feelings are dumb like that.” Gwen shrugged, huddling closer to Hobie’s side. “That’s why I can’t stand them.”

“Tell me about it…” Hobie murmured, resting his head on top of hers. “I do care about you birds, though. Can’t really hide from that. Where’s Pavi, by the way?”

“He’s gonna call before he drops in; said he was making your favorite thing from his dimension, and he didn’t want to interrupt us.” Miles finally walked around the bed to properly cuddle up to Hobie’s other side.

“He also told us it was supposed to be a surprise,” Gwen giggled as Miles leered over at her, “but I think Miles was already raging.”

Hobie chuckled, grinning softly as he looked down at his hands. He flexed the fingers on his left hand; they felt a bit stiff, but they moved just fine. Well, fine enough for now; he needed to get his hands on his guitar.

“What are we thinking?” Gwen pressed a kiss just below Hobie’s shoulder.

“Oh, you can’t tell?” Hobie teased, his palette settling on the bright pink tones. “I thought you said I change colors.”

“Do you seriously still think we’re making that up?” Miles laughed lightly.

“Maybe~ What color do you see?”

“You’re pink, as usual, you dork.”

“Cool, so you probably know what I’m going to do next.” He slipped his arms around both of them, hugging them tight as he let his fingers scribble against their stomachs. “Or not? How were you both too slow?” He laughed, speaking over them as they fell into loud giggles and complaints.

And, okay, maybe he could admit that he would call this moment “pink”.

#tickling #spiderverse tickle #tickle fiction #not mine #hexalianrebel blackfeathers #pardon me while i reread this a thousand times

[rosileeduckie]

Bask in the brilliance with me 🥰 All the goofy goody goodness ❤️❤️

British Taxi

Panda's Notes: It's done!! The third of what was only three ideas I had for Across the Spider-Verse! ...I have at least three more ideas now. >w< I had so much fun with this one, so I hope you guys like it too. [Ao3] || [Commissions] || [Ko-fi]

“’Sup, losers?” Hobie threw up a peace sign to the small group sitting at a table in the HQ cafeteria. “Aye, Mayday.”

The trio, plus Mayday, kind of just…stared. Mayday laughed, and the others were struggling not to smile.

“Okay, what are you two doing?” Gwen finally spoke up, motioning curiously at this little arrangement. Only at the mention of there being two of them did Miles start snickering. He slightly adjusted his hold on Hobie’s legs, pacing in a small circle and looking particularly proud of himself. Hobie had one arm hooked around his shoulders, his chin occasionally resting on his head.

“Don’t really understand the question, Gwenny.” Hobie shrugged, draping his free arm lazily over Miles’ shoulder. “Ain’t doin’ much.”

“Miles, what are you doing?” She tried again, barely managing to stifle her giggles.

Miles shrugged, chuckling a bit himself. “I dunno; it was his idea.” The others around the table nodded, and Hobie stuck his tongue out at them. “He’s not even heavy; his legs are just really long.”

“Not my fault you’re still a munchkin.” He poked the side of Miles’ head, smirking as he huffed.

“Well, it’s not my fault you look like a palm tree.”

“Oi—”

Miles spun casually, and the others giggled. “Gotta be honest; I feel like I could have picked him up before the spider strength. Like, have you guys even seen this guy eat anything? I have literally never seen him eat food.”

“Alright, you’re takin’ the Mick, I’m out.” Hobie shook his head and leaned back. He pressed his palms to the floor, heaving Miles up off the ground with his legs with hardly any effort.

“H-Hobie!” Miles yelped, flailing for a moment before sticking his hands to Hobie’s boots and pushing himself up. The table laughed and applauded softly at their double handstand, and Hobie chuckled, reaching to adjust his guitar before turning to face them.

“You two are something else.” Peter chuckled, watching Gwen crouch on the floor to get a picture of them.

“Always.” Hobie smirked, pulling a face as the camera flashed and smirking when Gwen socked his arm. “Oi, shorty, you want to switch?”

“What? And have you perched on my legs? Not likely.” Miles called.

Hobie snorted, starting to shift as if he were going to throw him off. “Nah, bruv, I’ll carry you. Go for a walkabout and all.”

Miles’ eyes had lit up, but he quickly acted as if they hadn’t. “Seriously?” He struggled for balance before pushing himself away as Hobie rolled out from under him.

“Never serious, mate.” He said with a sneer, hopping to his feet and starting to walk. “But I’ll still do it.”

“Uh, Miles, maybe you should—”

Miles turned to see Gwen shoving at Pavitr’s face, and she motioned him to follow after Hobie with a bright grin.

Hobie had glanced back with a noticeable smirk, schooling his expression as Miles turned to him again. Pavitr bat Gwen’s hand away once they were definitely out of earshot.

“Why didn’t you let me warn him?” He asked, smiling bemusedly.

She just shrugged, already snickering to herself. “Nobody warned me!”

------------------

Hobie had walked Miles to one of the nearby basic training rooms: not as big as, say, the rooms for swinging practice, or even the hallways just outside. But it was quiet, and Hobie took a deep breath before stretching a bit.

“So, you’re really going to do this, huh?” Miles asked with a skeptical grin. “You’re not too cool to carry me around?”

“I do what I want, mate; that’s what makes me cool.” Hobie joked, shoving lightly at Miles’ face. “’Less you don’t want to all of a sudden. Ain’t one or the other for me.”

He smirked as Miles swatted his arm away, watching him fidget around with his sleeves and hood for a second. He brought his own hands up, finding the buckle on his guitar strap to loosen it. He didn’t move much or comment as Miles approached him, holding his guitar slightly to one side while the teen crawled up onto his back.

“You sure we’re okay like this?” Miles referred mostly to Hobie’s guitar, grabbing ahold of it himself after hooking his legs around Hobie’s waist.

“S’alright, bruv.” He murmured as he tightened the strap and glanced back just in case. “Besides, you won’t catch me dead without my axe on me.” Finally, he lowered his arms, slipping them under Miles’ knees when he relaxed and pacing in a small circle. “Good?”

Miles chuckled and nodded. “I’m fine.”

“Alright, then, let’s see about that little tour, yeah?”

As he turned to walk toward the door, he suddenly pitched to one side; his knee bending dramatically as he took the step.

“Hobie!” Miles yelped and wrapped his arms around Hobie’s shoulders, surprised giggles catching his voice before he could stop them.

“Yeah, mate?” He pushed himself sharply to stand up straight, bouncing his passenger slightly before leaning the opposite way for another sideways step.

“What are you doing?!” Miles tried to ask, his voice jumping up when Hobie stumbled backwards as if he was falling.

He stopped instantly, probably just sticking his feet down, and glanced sideways to hear him better. “Hm? Nothin here. What do you think I’m doing?” Miles could hear the smirk on his face as Hobie casually shuffled back and forth, and he tried not to laugh again as he rolled his eyes.

“You’re not walking straight.” He said as shortly as possible, holding on a bit tighter as Hobie spun on one foot for a few seconds.

“Heh.” Hobie snickered, glancing down before moving backwards again. “Haven’t done anything straight in my life, brother.”

Miles laughed this time, giving Hobie a light smack on his shoulder. “That’s a terrible way to come out to someone.”

“Yeah? What would you know about it?”

Miles almost hesitated, but he leaned and whispered into Hobie’s ear.

“No shit?” He laughed lightly, spinning around again before continuing his backwards slide. “You are aces, my guy. One of a kind.”

Miles grinned softly, his gaze trailing down to the floor. “Wait, you can moonwalk?!”

“Oh, is it hard?” Hobie scoffed teasingly. “What do ya think, eh? We good to walkabout?”

“I am barely trusting you to walk right now.” Miles admitted, and Hobie proved his point by walking sideways again. “You’re being weird!” He laughed.

Hobie stopped abruptly, jostling his passenger. “Wanna be in on a little secret, mate?” He turned his head, not quite enough for Miles to see his face, though.

Miles couldn’t help being wary, and he shifted his legs to keep hold of Hobie’s waist. “If you have one to tell me.”

Hobie chuckled, shaking his head. “See, thing is: I cannot fucking stand backseat drivers.” He sighed, maintaining a tone as if he were serious. “So, if you want to start harpin’ on, I just might do something drastic.”

He didn’t give Miles a chance to ask questions, shifting his hands under both of his knees and hooking his fingers in as best he could. He smirked at the sudden cackles that shot past his ears, and Miles shoved at his shoulder and leaned back against Hobie’s guitar, barely getting any leeway from the guitar strap.

“Hobie!” He cried through his laughter. “Asshole, cut it out!” He tried to kick and flailed against his back.

“You gonna shut your South back there? Let me drive in peace?” Hobie gripped his knees tight when Miles tried to lift his legs out, pressing his thumbs against the sides of his kneecaps.

“Okay, okay, I get it!” Miles squealed, gripping Hobie’s vest as he stopped.

“Good. Let’s roll.” Hobie lurched forward a bit suddenly, chuckling as Miles squeaked. “Want me to run? Make up lost time?”

“Absolutely not.”

“You wanna?”

“No.”

“I’m hearing yes.”

“Don’t you—” Miles yelped as he ran for maybe three steps.

Hobie laughed tauntingly, letting Miles give him light punches on his shoulders. “Alright, alright. For real.” The door opened automatically as they approached, and Hobie strode confidently into the hallway traffic.

------------------

“So, mate, what was all that rubbish about me being easy to carry, eh?” Hobie spoke after a minute of wandering. Only a few of the Peters that they passed by even noticed Miles attached to him, let alone commented. Miles mostly hid his face against the back of his neck, sneaking little waves at anyone who managed to notice him. “Like you aren’t acting a proper rucksack?”

“Can you maybe speak less British?” Miles asked playfully, stifling a squeak when Hobie tickled his legs again.

He snorted, moving a little faster and jostling Miles more aggressively as if he were a backpack. “Oh, you’re fuckin’ hilarious aren’t ya?”

Miles gripped onto Hobie’s vest again, trying to steady himself and muffling giggles against his shoulder. “Kidding! I was kidding; stop…” He whispered through snickers. Hobie flinched a little as Miles’ breath passed his neck, and he turned his head slightly when Miles went quiet.

“You try anything, and I’ll end you.” He said, unable to keep up a stern façade with his voice. He did sneak a warning little scratch under one of his knees again though, just in case. He snickered along with Miles’ giggles, hooking his arms around his legs to slip his hands into his pockets.

“Spider-Punk.” Both of them looked forward to find Miguel approaching, and Hobie kept walking as the man spoke. “Have you seen Morales?”

“Not lately.” Hobie said curtly, speeding up just a little bit.

Miguel sighed, his eyes on some projection from his watch. “Well, when you do see him, tell him I—” He had turned to call after him, heaving a sigh when he realized. “Really?”

“What?” Hobie turned to face him, walking backwards a few steps with Miles snickering nervously. “Ain’t seen him; what of it?” He struggled to keep the grin off his face, shrugging casually and turning back to continue.

“Miles!” Miguel called, already sounding irritated as he started to follow them.

“Hobie, run.” Miles whispered, his nervous giggles turning mischievous.

“Hm? What~? You wanna run now, mate?”

“C’mon, Hobie, please?” He glanced back to see Miguel glaring at them.

“I dunno; seems like he really wants to talk to you.” Hobie actually started to slow his pace.

“Hobie!”

Hobie’s Spider Sense had started tingling as soon as Miguel got all pissy, and the second he reached for Miles’ shoulder, Hobie broke into a sprint. Most of the other Spider People’s senses warned them in time, but he had no problem shouldering past whoever he had to. Miles laughed brightly, hooking his arms across Hobie’s neck and squeezing his legs tight around his waist.

“Hobart Brown!” Miguel shouted after them, and they heard footsteps gaining on them.

“Oh, shit.” Hobie laughed a bit himself. “You need to hold on, mate.” He shifted mid-step, springing up and throwing them both over the guardrail. He hooked one arm tight around Miles’ leg as they started to freefall, taking a necessary second to flip Miguel off with his free hand before firing his web-shooter at the underside of the catwalk they had just abandoned. He pulled them up to stick underneath it, and he quickly crawled to the nearest wall. He pulled them both back up the open tower with another shot of web, sticking himself as best he could into a corner between two of the crisscrossing walkways.

They hunkered down and caught their breath, watching Miguel from essentially three stories away. His gaze whipped back and forth over both sides of the catwalk, seemingly expecting them to just pop out from the middle, and Hobie’s hands might have clenched against the wall. Miles was clinging tightly onto his back, but he was shaking like a leaf and barely keeping it together.

“Stop laughing.” Hobie whispered through half-gritted teeth, lightly punching back at his passenger’s side. “Shut the fuck up, right now.” He had to sound demanding, because he was definitely going to start laughing if Miles didn’t stop.

“I’m sorry!” Miles whispered back, a snort slipping out of him.

Finally, Miguel heaved a tired sigh and kept walking, and Hobie visibly relaxed as he went into one of the enclosed corridors.

And finally, they laughed. They still tried to keep quiet about it, but the tension drained away as Hobie climbed over onto the nearest walkway.

“Oh my God, we’re in so much trouble…” Miles whined as laughter faded out of his voice.

“Heh, hell yeah.” Hobie chuckled. “Might want to ditch the watches before Blue gets on our ass. If it helps at all, I still haven’t seen ya.”

“Pfft. For some reason, I don’t think he’s going to buy tha—”

“What~? Miles, where are you~?” Hobie called to no one in particular, hardly even bothering to raise his voice.

“Wait, what?!” Miles giggled in disbelief. “What are you—?” He squeaked as Hobie turned suddenly.

“Ah, shit, I’ve lost track of him.” He twisted the other way, letting go of Miles’ legs without warning and resting his hands on his hips. “I’ll be damned; what do I tell the others?”

“Hobie?” Miles flinched as he almost slipped.

Hobie sighed a bit dramatically, shrugging. “Nothing for it but to tell them, I guess.”

------------------

Back in the cafeteria, both Peter and Pavitr had been absolutely battering Gwen with teasing little questions almost since Miles and Hobie had left.

“So, you were lying when you said Hobie’s never gone all tickle monster on you, huh?” Pavitr sang playfully, poking quickly up her side and giggling as she bat him away. “Ooh, I knew I should have told him you said that.”

“My threat still stands on what will happen if you do.” She said back, only to flinch nearly into his lap as Peter’s finger zipped up her spine.

“Pavi, you should know Spider-People start out as terrible liars.” He grinned, and Mayday made the sweetest noise as she pat Gwen’s arm.

Gwen whined as a faint blush crept across her cheeks, shaking her head and laughing softly with them.

“Oi! Fellas.” Hobie suddenly appeared, jogging up to the table and resting his hands on an empty chair. “Mayday. Ah, look, wildest thing: I might have lost our boy Miles.”

The trio, plus Mayday, kind of just…stared. Mayday laughed, and the others were struggling not to smile. Again.

“Oh, no, how could you?” Gwen, once again, made herself break the silence.

“I know; I know; kinda shite of me, but, see, I ran into Old Blue in the hall, and he asked about Miles. I turn ‘round and realize—” He turned, just to illustrate.

Miles reached out to them with one hand. “Help me…” He giggled, trying to whisper as he tightened his legs around Hobie’s waist.

“—realize I ain’t seen him since some minutes ago when we left here.” Hobie turned to face them again, except he spun around the long way before crossing his arms. “Started thinking about sending a search party. But he’s probably ‘right, y’know?”

“Oh, yeah, Miles is a big kid; he’ll be okay.” Peter nodded, reaching with his leg to nudge the chair Hobie had been leaning on. “You want to sit down, maybe?”

“Nah, pops, I’m good.” He shrugged, maintaining a completely straight face as he looked over at Pavitr struggling to contain himself.

“Okay, okay wait, so—” Pavitr called with a flail of his hands. “You haven’t seen him at all?”

“Not a peek.”

“Then what are you carrying?”

Hobie glanced over his shoulder as best he could. Miles poked his nose. He didn’t even smile. “’S my guitar, Pav, you know I always have it.”

Pavitr laughed in disbelief, looking over at Gwen. She just shrugged with a grin.

“Well, Hobie,” She decided to try. “Did you get some new, uh, accessories since we saw you last?”

“Don’t really see how that’s relevant, mate.” He rested his chin on one hand, a smile threatening his lips as Miles giggled into his shoulder.

“Is that a no?” She hopped out of her chair and approached them, and Hobie put his hands up innocently. “Then this is…” She reached out and poked Miles’ side, grinning as he pawed at her hand and tried to keep quiet. That only lasted the three seconds it took for her to decide to scribble all five fingers against his shirt.

“Gwen!” He laughed, one hand gripping tighter at Hobie’s vest as he reached to push her shoulder. “Hobie, come on!”

“Strangest thing, innit, but I do keep hearing his dumb little voice.” Hobie noted as he started to smirk. “Somewhere back here, like.” He reached back with one hand, his fingers scribbling under Miles’ chin and pulling out a barely stifled squeal. “I swear I’m going mental or someth—” His voice caught on a snort as Miles suddenly tickled along his exposed side, and he grabbed at the offending wrist with a sharp glare.

“Hobie, I think Miles might be attached to you.” Gwen declared, snickering into her hand. “Not positive though.”

“What, this?” He gestured purposefully with the arm he was holding, ignoring Miles’ halfhearted pulling and his little giggles. “Nah, nah, nah; this can’t be Miles, and I know it can’t be Miles because I specifically told Miles that I would end him if he tried some shit with me.”

“You told him that when you didn’t see him?” Gwen asked with a smirk, only to flinch when Hobie glared at her next.

“Wouldn’t you like to know, Gwendy?” Hobie crowded close to her, shoving Miles’ hand into her face. “Tell you like I told him, though: you start something with me; I will end you.”

Hobie smirked as he stared her down. Miles poked her nose. She laughed.

“I can’t with you two!” She barely managed to say, and Hobie chuckled as he let go of Miles’ wrist and pulled her against his side.

“Aw, there she is.” He teased, sneaking squeezes on her side. “Love to see that smile, yeah?”

She gave him a playful push, sitting down in the chair Hobie had been standing over.

“Now, what was that you said about a little spider crawling on me?” He asked slowly, his smirk turning devious as his hands moved to squeeze and scribble at Miles’ sides as best he could.

Miles laughed brightly, pulling one of his own arms back to try and grab at Hobie’s wrists or cover his sides.

“Hobie, be nice.” Peter chuckled.

“Hm, wait, let me see—” Hobie’s hands hooked under his knees again, tickling along the backs of them and hoisting him back up when he started to slip.

Miles kicked his feet, his hands pressing on Hobie’s back as he leaned against the guitar strap. “Hobie, enough!” He giggled loudly, unable to squirm out of his hold.

Hobie’s hands went still, returning to nothing but holding him up. “Miles?! My guy, folks have been looking for you, y’know?” He teased, grinning when Miles groaned and leaned on his shoulder.

“Can I get down now?”

“I don’t know, mate, can you?” Hobie hooked another empty chair with his foot, dragging it closer to his side as he lifted his hands away.

“If you spin around again, I’m going to strangle you.” Miles landed one foot on the chair, sighing heavily as he finally sank down and flopped his head onto his arms.

“Damn, ya try to have a little fun around here.” Hobie pat Miles’ shoulders and ruffled his hair. “Right, then; rest up. Anyone else after a ride?”

“Oh, I will, definitely!” Pavitr jumped to his feet, eyes bright as anything. Gwen just chuckled and let her hand fall back to her lap.

Hobie snorted, nudging her with his elbow before cracking his knuckles. “Aw, don’t fret. I’ll tucker him out real quick for ya, Gwendy.”

#tickling #spiderverse tickle #hexalianrebel blackfeathers #not mine #tickle fiction

[rosileeduckie]

Everyone get excited for the amazing fic and join me in the jealousy of not having a tickle club in real life 😋🥰 Panda we should totally start one based on your epic ideas 😁💟

 (Tickle) Fight Club

Panda's Notes: Hello, hi, yes, I have been slightly obsessing over this AU for the past few months, and I finally finished...a part. >w< Buckle in, kids, this is a lot longer than I first thought it would be. You can once again thank the lovely @rosileeduckie for facilitating my nonsense.

...What? No, I totally don't have recent commitments that have an encroaching deadline. What are you talking about?!

[Ao3] || [Commissions] || [Ko-fi]

Warning: ~10K words about Miles brutalizing some folks. Enjoy. >w<

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Miles had a terrible habit of getting drawn in by Ganke’s nonsense.

“Hey, that character looks sick; you make that?” turned into binging episodes of an anime every night through junior year. He wasn’t complaining, but somewhere between the third movie and the 700th episode, it was a miracle his grades hadn’t completely tanked.

“Dude, nice shirt! Do those, like, spell something, or…?” became an entirely different binge through half of senior year. And Miles maybe fudged the truth a bit with one of his art teachers when he submitted a project that was only loosely inspired. Again, not complaining!

“Oh, nice mash-up, man; I loved that song when I was a kid, but I don’t know where it’s from.” You’ll never guess what happened after that. Those games were fire, though, and at least this time, he could move at his own pace, even if Ganke was nagging him over text every few days while he was away at college to geek out.

When Freshman year ended—finally, thank the gods—and Miles returned to New York, he was met at the train station by Ganke and immediately dragged to the apartment he was sharing with—

“You moved in with my brother?!” He asked in disbelief. “Wait, I didn’t even know he left home!”

“Well, technically… Your parents don’t entirely know yet—”

“What?!”

“—And he hasn’t actually moved out. I did. We just split rent here. Both of us have jobs and projects going pretty well, and he kinda just tells them he’s hanging out at my place, which is technically still true; they just don’t know my parents aren’t here—”

“Hold up, wait—” Miles flailed a bit to interrupt Ganke’s rambling. “Gross; is this like ya’ll’s love nest or something?”

Ganke’s arms dropped to his sides, a bright blush coloring his pouting face as he glared at Miles. Miles just snickered and crossed his arms tauntingly. “I’m not hearing a no, Mr. Lee~”

“Y’know, when he tossed out the idea of letting you borrow his room while he’s at school—just, like, use it as an extra little art room or whatever—I thought ‘wow, just like when we were roommates at Visions; how funny!’. But now, I’m gonna tell him you’re banned.”

“Pfft, what?!” Miles giggled, following Ganke toward the back of the apartment.

“Yep, calling him right now…” Ganke pulled his phone out of his pocket all dramatically, pretending to scroll through it.

“Ooh, I bet you have him saved under something dorky~” Miles had lunged forward, hands squeezing playfully at Ganke’s sides as he made obviously fake efforts to peek at his phone. He had a sort of squawking-type laugh whenever he was caught off guard, and Miles loved it. Even when they first met back in high school, Miles had made a habit of sneaking up and prodding him. They liked to get into little fights, usually ending in Miles wrestling Ganke into an easy pin while sneaking scribbles up his sides.

This is important information, because today, and today alone, Ganke suddenly wrenched his arm out from under his own weight, hooking Miles by the arm and rolling both of them into a reversed position. He sat heavily on Miles’ waist, his hands quickly moving to try and worm fingers into his armpits. Miles’ legs kicked as he hugged his arms tight to his sides, and his voice was tangled in nervous squeaks and giggles.

“Someone’s awfully squeaky for starting a fight with the one who knows your weak spots.” Ganke sneered, pressing lightly along the edges of Miles’ ribs to try and slip through his defenses.

“W-When did you get good at wrestling?” He asked through clenched teeth, trying to twist to one side.

“Hm, probably around the time you started sucking at it.” Ganke taunted, raising his hands slightly and wiggling his fingers.

“I do not!” Miles argued with a laugh, his leg kicking out when a few fingers traced along his neck. There was a jarring thump, and despite Miles apparently not feeling pain all of a sudden, both of them were concerned when a few things fell off of the dresser he’d kicked.

“Goddamn, you have been here for ten minutes, and you’re destroying the place!” Ganke teased, pushing himself up off of his poor guest.

“That was not my fault, and you know it.” Miles giggled as he sat up, picking up the picture frame that had fallen beside him. He glanced at it as he stood up, curiosity taking over his face as he realized something.

“Hey, wait a second; I’ve never seen you wear this!” He noted with a laugh as he got to his feet. Ganke peeked over his shoulder, and a chuckle slipped out as he remembered the photo. He was in some costume, mostly purple and some bright green. Looked like a cut-off t-shirt under a biker jacket. There was a paw print drawn on his stomach and whiskers drawn on his cheeks, and he was grinning like a champion as he held up what looked like a gold medal. If it was the same medal dangling from a hook next to the mirror, it was definitely plastic.

“Haven’t worn it in a while either.” Ganke shrugged, taking the frame and setting it just so under where the medal hung. “I should probably bring it home and wash it, actually.” He reached up and pulled the medal off the hook, smiling fondly as he ran his thumb over the feathers embossed in the plastic. He smirked slightly as he caught Miles staring at it in that all-too-familiar way.

“You wanna know how I got it~?” He asked almost tauntingly, and he laughed as Miles slapped his arm and pouted.

He seemed to be physically struggling with himself, crossing his arms as he kicked childishly at the carpet. “…Yeah.” He admitted, smiling in defeat.

-----------

“Okay, so, final checklist: the safe word is Blackout.” Ganke explained as he led Miles down the hall from the changing room. “It’s the real deal though; we basically shut the whole thing down. Very different from tapping out. Do not confuse the two. What’s the safe word?”

“Blackout.” Miles said firmly, wrapping the last loop of tape around his hand and cracking his knuckles softly.

“Nice.”

Miles was wearing a slightly loose t-shirt—kindly loaned by Ganke—and some old basketball shorts. Ganke had been pretty coy about what all this was supposed to be. He seemed to struggle with what to tell Miles without giving the whole thing away. He eventually settled on saying it was somewhere between wrestling and improv club. And, coincidentally, there was an “open tournament” coming up. It was one of the ways they invited new members; the “hands-on” way, so to speak.

“Let me see your nails…” Ganke murmured, taking each of Miles’ hands for a moment as they walked. “Okay, so, we have a little side room you’ll be waiting in. You’ll know the signal when you hear it. You’re still cool with the audience, right? It’s just the theater dorks from the other side of the building; twenty people, max.”

“I’m fine with a little crowd.” Miles chuckled, shifting closer to elbow him gently. “You still haven’t told me what’s going to happen though.”

Ganke laughed lightly and shrugged. “What’s to know? You either pin your opponent for ten seconds or you tap out if you can’t handle it. Nothing else at all~”

“You are awful.”

They chuckled with each other for a moment before quick footsteps suddenly approached from behind them. Two people jogged past them with hoods up, laughing casually as they waved at Ganke and kept running.

“Hey, you guys are late!” Ganke scolded playfully as they disappeared through a door.

“Oh, we’re late?” Miles almost flinched at the sound of a third, heavily accented voice, and someone purposefully shouldered past him. More like elbowed past him, really, which Miles realized when he turned to see a man at least a head taller than him sauntering by. “Shouldn’t you be in the booth then, mate?” His hair was done up in thick locs, and those were tied back behind his head. The man’s dark eyes fell on Miles like a weight, but he smirked as he lifted a hand from his pocket and lightly tapped Miles’ shoulder with the back of it. “Ey, you brought a new fish. Looks like he won’t last a minute.”

Miles scoffed silently, managing to contain his offended face as the man sneered and stepped away. “What’s his problem?” He asked Ganke, trying not to smile.

Ganke shrugged and snickered. “We wonder that every day, man.”

“He thinks he’s the final boss or something?” Miles asked just a bit louder than necessary, a grin pulling his lips as the man stopped and looked pointedly back at them.

Ganke looked between them for a moment, grinning a bit himself as he moved to block them. “Okay, I see where this is going. Save it for the ring, you nerds!” He teased, pressing his palm to Miles’ chest and shooing the other man away. “On ya bike, then!”

The tall man snorted, throwing his hands up as he turned and went through the door the others had used. Ganke smirked as he nudged Miles to a different door.

“You go in through here. There’s an exit on the other side. Like I said: you’ll know the signal when you hear it.” He instructed, giving his shoulder a squeeze. “Good luck! You know I’m rooting for you—Oh! Real quick, uh…” He pulled his hand back with an apologetic wince after grabbing Miles’ arm. “Since this is just a trial thing, we usually don’t use challengers’ real names. Privacy; just in case. You, uh, got a name in mind?”

“Geez, put me on the spot, why don’t you?” Miles wrung his hands a bit, looking away as he itched the side of his head. “I…I kinda like New Fish…” He admitted a bit hesitantly.

Ganke snorted, almost giggling. “Seriously?”

“Shut up…”

“Hey, I’m not judging~ Much.” He taunted, shoving Miles playfully before starting to pull the door closed. “What’s your safeword?”

“Blackout.” Miles spoke with an audible pout as Ganke still smirked at him.

“This is going to be great.” He snickered, motioning to Miles with one hand. “No shoes in the ring, man. See you out there.”

Miles rolled his eyes, pulling his sneakers off as he sat on a bench to wait for this supposedly obvious signal.

-------------

There was always something about the ring. Okay, look, it’s not actually a real fighting ring or anything, but just—Here, try to imagine:

There’s the timbre of the crowd: the rhythm of applause and little echoes of folks calling out their favorite cheers. When Ganke jogged into the room and the cheers redoubled, he couldn’t stop himself from basking with a grin before continuing his rush to the “Commentators’ Booth”. Frankly, they owed the theater club a lot for being such good sports; it almost felt like it was grander than eighteen chairs situated around a large square arrangement of blue gym mats.

“Little late, aren’t we, Mr. Lee~?” The young lady in the chair beside him taunted as Ganke slid into the booth. “I almost wanted to start without you.”

“Very funny, Margo.” He chuckled, leaning under their table to fiddle with the volume knob on the boombox their microphones were plugged into. “I wouldn’t miss tonight for the world; not with this turnout either!”

The audience cheered in response. They knew their roles well for not being around in a while.

“Ooh, I do love a good crowd.” Margo readjusted the cat ears clipped into her braids. “More importantly, though, we finally have a challenger again. Feels like it’s been forever.”

“Hasn’t it been, though?” Ganke sighed dramatically, resting the back of his hand on his forehead. “Reminds me of our time in the ring; those were the days.”

“Ganke, that was only, like, four months ago.”

He leaned back in his chair, draping his whole arm across his face as he pulled his microphone closer with the other hand. “An eternity in my heart, Margie.”

Margo rolled her eyes and snuck a poke at his exposed side. “Anyway, I hear this one’s a friend of yours. Any details you can sneak us?”

Ganke snickered and bat her hand away. “Nah, you’re not getting anything out of me that easily. Just know I’m betting on him. Honestly, I can’t believe he didn’t join sooner.”

“Only thing I can’t believe is that he actually let himself be called New Fish.” Margo murmured intentionally into the microphone, earning chuckles from the crowd. She blinked as her watch buzzed against her wrist. “Ooh, the gang is getting restless. Make noise; make noise!” She hit the table with open palms, signaling the audience to clap and stomp while she stood from her chair. “Yeah, get hype! And let’s welcome our newest challenger!”

Right on cue, the “challengers’” locker room door opened, and the audience cheered as Miles walked out into the small gym. He seemed just a bit nervous, but he smiled as he walked, fidgeting with his hands while he approached the mat.

“Ooh, you didn’t tell me he was cute!” Margo giggled as she sat back down. “Looks a bit familiar though, doesn’t he~?” She’d placed her hand slightly over the microphone, sneering at Ganke as she elbowed his side.

“You shut up.” He shot back, looking away as he blushed. “Absolutely irrelevant. Although, actually, I don’t really know why he never came until now.”

“Did you tell him what we’re all about?” She glanced between him and their guest waving shyly at some audience members.

Ganke leaned back in the chair, unable to keep the mischief out of his grin. “Oh…I told him enough.”

She laughed softly, giving him a little kick under the table. “Terrible.”

He smirked, letting his chair’s legs thump on the floor as he hopped to his feet. “Alright, Fish!” He called, motioning Miles over to the so-called ring. “Let’s get you in the tank, because we’re bringing out your first opponent!”

------------------

The second locker room door was pushed open, and the small crowd cheered excitedly. Miles watched warily as one of the robed figures they’d passed in the hallway casually walked out. Halfway to the mat, they finally lifted their hood off, revealing a young man just about Miles’ height with light brown skin, the brightest, most joyful eyes, and some amazing shiny hair that he started to tie under a gold headband after handing his robe over to Ganke.

He was dressed almost identically to Miles in terms of shirt and shorts style—which he was quick to point out as he stepped onto the mat—but he had several different spider shapes tattooed—or maybe just drawn—up and down his arms in glittery gold ink.

“If I had known we were going to dress the same, I’d have asked Claw to give you a color to match, machhalee.” He spoke with an Indian accent, and he took a few steps slowly to hint Miles to do the same. His eyes seemed to light up as Miles matched his circular movement, but he schooled his expression and casually set his hands behind his back. “Sooo, New Fish, since you’re new, Fish, we’ll be using our names too. They call me Sona here. Well, they call me a lot of things, but Sona’s the one I picked out.”

Miles chuckled softly, resting his hands in his pockets as they circled each other. “Sounds nice. Kinda like it means something when you say it like that.”

“Oh, it does.” Sona grinned playfully. “If you survive, I’ll tell you what it means.”

“Survive?” Miles brought a hand on his chest, letting his face act shocked. “Oh, it’s a death match, eh? I see you.”

Sona paused, giggling as he started to walk again. “He didn’t tell you, did he?”

Miles shrugged with a grin. “Well, I’ve known…Claw?” He glanced over at Ganke, who nodded smugly. “I’ve known him a while. ‘No Spoilers’ is one of his Nerd Laws.”

“Hey!” Ganke called as the audience chuckled. “Pretty sure I didn’t drag you out here to insult me!”

Sona snickered. “Ah, I don’t really know how I feel about them hiding stuff from challengers, buuut, I admit I like a little surprise. So, I guess I’ll give you a hint.” He stopped, and Miles grew wary as he closed a bit of distance with slow steps. “…Tickle fight!” He laughed as he lunged.

Miles flinched, nervous excitement shooting through him at the call before he really processed what had just been said. He planted his feet firmly, catching Sona’s hands in his own and holding him back. “W-Wait; what?!” He asked in disbelief.

“Ooh, subtlety be damned; let’s go!” Ganke called as the audience cheered them on.

“Shine bright, Golden Boy!” The girl beside him—Margo, he was pretty sure—laughed, picking up her microphone.

“You’ve got some reflexes on you, huh?” Sona teased, curling his fingers where they were caught between Miles’.

“Were you actually serious?” He felt like he’d been blindsided, and, well, he had been. “It’s a tickle fight?!”

“Well~ We try not to be too serious around here.” Sona giggled. “But I wasn’t kidding.” He leaned suddenly to one side, and Miles stumbled as he yanked his hands back and shoved them against Miles’ sides. Sona followed him as he fell to the mat, kneeling beside Miles and scribbling across his stomach.

“Little early in the game to be floundering, isn’t it, Fish?” Sona teased, grabbing at Miles’ wrist as he giggled loudly. The audience groaned around sparse snickers, and Sona nearly giggled too.

Miles let out a harder laugh of his own, trying to pull his hand back. “Oho, he’s got jokes, huh? I—Hey!” He squeaked and twisted as Sona’s hand moved to squeeze up and down his flank.

“You what?” Sona smirked a bit as Miles’ free hand caught his wrist, letting his fingers scratch insistently at his hipbone as he squirmed. “You’re ticklish? You still seem a little shellshocked.” Sona walked his hand up Miles’ side, clawing quickly into his ribcage.

Miles tried to glare up at his opponent, but he couldn't fight the grin on his face. Sona was goofy and gentle; he didn’t seem to weigh much—Miles tested with weak pulls on his wrist. Oh, this was definitely going to be fun. In a quick, fluid motion, he let go of Sona’s hand and grabbed ahold of his shirt, pushing off the mat with one foot as he pulled Sona down. The audience cheered excitedly when Miles managed to roll them over, and he boxed his knees firmly against Sona’s shins.

Sona’s eyes were lit up with panic, and his cheeks ran a bit red as he laughed nervously. “Hi…” He giggled, holding his hands close to his chest.

Miles smirked, resting his hands on Sona’s wrists. “Hey.” He pulled the other man up suddenly, wrapping him in a hug and squeezing tight to pin his arms against his ribs.

“Oh, my God.” Ganke snorted, holding the mic away from his face for a moment. “I know this one.”

His cohost sat up straighter, leaning to nudge him with her shoulder. “Yeah? You want to clue us in?”

He started to say something when Sona let out a loud squeak and writhed.

“Aw, seriously?” Miles chuckled just a bit overdramatically, drawing one finger slowly back down Sona’s spine. “You totally seem like the type to have Angel Wings. Hm, maybe…” He shifted both of his hands, scribbling his nails across his shoulder blades and grinning as Sona giggled brightly and seemed to try more not to move.

“Ohh, I see now~” Miles teased right in Sona’s ear, smiling brighter at the way his giggles escalated. “That’s almost a shame.”

“N-No talking!” He whined halfheartedly, just barely managing to twist his hands enough to scribble at Miles’ waist. This quickly backfired when Miles’ flinch made him squeeze Sona closer.

“But if I don’t talk…” Miles nearly bit his tongue as he stifled a squeak. “How am I going to count these ribs of yours?” He pressed circles against the highest bone on his ribcage, sneaking his hand to that spot right under his armpit.

Sona let out a loud laugh, wrenching his arms out of Miles’ hold—almost as if he wasn’t holding him at all, actually—and shoving against Miles’ shoulders. The effort wound up pushing Sona’s back against the mat, and Miles was happy to reward him with all ten fingers digging into his ribs without a hint of mercy. This time, he didn’t even bother to grab at Miles’ hands, his arms wrapping loosely around himself as he laughed loudly.

Miles chuckled and shook his head, kneading along his lowest ribs and smirking when he squealed. “Shine bright, Golden Boy~!” He taunted, grinning brightly at the incredulous noise he heard Margo make behind him.

Sona blushed and put one arm over his face, the other flailing light slaps on Miles’ shoulder.

“That’s a tap!” Ganke called excitedly, standing up as the crowd applauded. “Sona is out!”

Miles blinked, letting his fingers go still as he glanced around the room. They were cheering for him—for both of them, really. Sona smiled up at him as he giggled and caught his breath.

“Don’t clap too hard now,” Margo snarked a bit teasingly while Miles was pulling his opponent to his feet. “Literally everyone beats Sona.”

Ganke scoffed, clearly in disbelief. “Oh, yeah?! Where was that energy when he had you on the mat last week?”

They took their time with their playful argument, and Miles took the opportunity to shake Sona’s hand, which he returned excitedly.

“You were amazing.” He said in a near whisper, his eyes bright as giggles still lined his voice.

“Yeah?” Miles said coolly, leaning a bit closer to him. “Well, next time, I want a real fight.”

Sona visibly prickled, his face running a bit redder before he just…smirked. His eyes had gone from playful to almost devious. “Oh, I don’t know if you’re ready for all that, Fish.”

It gave Miles a bit of pause. He might have just been hooked. Sona grinned again, bright as the sun, and caught Miles in a hug before taking his walk of shame. He grabbed his robe off of Ganke’s chair as he passed it and slung it across his shoulders, speeding up to a jog as he went back through the locker room door he’d originally come from. Miles stood just a bit awkwardly alone on the mat, a slight smirk pulling his lips as he fidgeted with his hands.

“Someone looks proud of himself~” Miles shot a slight glare at Margo, and she sneered back tauntingly. “Hey, keep that attitude, tough guy. Ladies and gentlemen, put your hands together; because we’re giving up the Ghost!”

The audience was suddenly loud and talkative; Miles could hear playful teases and jabs—particularly some coos about Ghost being adorable—under the clapping as the door opened again. Sure enough, it was the second character he remembered passing in the hallway. Pale-skinned hands came up to pull the hood back and…Miles was definitely not going to survive today unscathed.

“Ghost” was a blonde with bright blue eyes and one side of her head shaved down, and when she grinned over at Miles, he caught the piercing on her eyebrow. He gave an internal pout as he remembered his studs were with his jacket. She seemed to whisper something to Margo before letting the robe drop from her shoulders and handing it off. She was wearing a cropped t-shirt, cut just above her stomach, a loose long-sleeved jacket that stopped under her chest, and, frankly, Miles was pretty sure those were just pajama pants. Something that quickly caught his eye was the spider drawn on one side of her stomach in blue and pink. He couldn’t help but grin as she stepped onto the mat, stepping back slightly as she took a mark and rested her hands in her pants pockets.

“Eyes are up here, thanks.” She teased with a little wave; he could tell she couldn’t resist.

Miles almost laughed too, resting his hand slightly over his mouth as he tore his gaze from her little tattoo. “I’ll have you know I’m actually terrible at eye contact.”

She snickered, shaking her head as they started to circle each other, and Miles already knew he had to hear her laugh.

“Ooh, she’s hooked him.” Miles had a feeling he and Margo would get along.

“That quick? No way.” Ganke snickered.

“That’s Ghost; she’s a cutie!” Margo laughed. “It’s why everyone loves her.”

Miles pouted as he felt his face heat up, and Ghost chuckled, twirling casually as they continued to walk.

“Don’t worry, Li’l Fish,” She called playfully. “You learn to ignore the peanut gallery.”

“Excuse the hell outta you?” Ganke said firmly, causing Ghost to freeze, and Margo and the audience “Ooh~”-ed teasingly.

Ghost cringed and blushed, covering her face with both hands as she giggled.

Miles had kept walking, and he let his shoulder nudge against hers as he spoke. “So…how’s that ignoring thing workin’ out for you?”

She gave him a playful shove as the audience snickered, putting the distance between them again and smirking. “You hush.”

Miles smirked back, resting his hands on his hips. “So, why Ghost? You don’t seem so scary.”

“You think that now, sure.” She fished under her sleeve and pulled a hair tie off of her wrist, pulling her hair up into a ponytail before putting one hand back in her pocket. “But I’m told I can be haunting.” She wiggled her fingers teasingly, showing off brightly painted nails, and Miles chuckled.

“Okay, okay; you’re cute. Is that what you want to hear?”

She nearly froze up again, hints of red filling her cheeks as she smiled shyly. “Am not.”

“You so are, though. And besides, between the two of us, I’m not the one with their weak spot all exposed.”

She eyed him warily, giggles lining her voice. “You’re asking for it, huh?”

“Why don’t you come over and give it to me, then?” Miles was glad his back was to the crowd by now, but he found himself smirking as they shouted playfully. Margo and Ganke watched him with shocked smiles, and she pawed at his shoulder.

“Where were you hiding this guy?! Definitely my new favorite.” She laughed.

Ghost, similarly, had laughed in disbelief, and Miles almost sneered as he shrugged.

 “Hey, if she giggles herself half to death before I even get my hands on her, do I still win?” He snickered as Ghost looked absolutely offended.

“I’m gonna say yes!” Ganke said quickly, grinning as Ghost glared at him.

“You guys can’t just change the rules!”

Ganke looked to Margo. “I think we can.”

Margo nodded with a shrug. “I think we should.”

He smirked back at Ghost. “Just for you. Since we love you so much.”

As they spoke, Miles had inched forward, lifting one hand to aim a poke at her very exposed stomach.

And she sidestepped him easily, her hand clutching tightly on his wrist. She grinned toothily as he looked up at her, and she yanked him off balance as she swept his legs with one foot. Well, this felt familiar. He managed to keep his chin from hitting the mat, and he felt Ghost’s hand press on his back as she leaned over him. He glanced up at her, but as he made eye contact, she smirked and pushed herself away.

He felt her weight settle on his thighs, and before he could try to twist, he burst into loud laughter as her nails snuck under his shirt to scribble against his lower back. He pulled his hands in close to his chest to keep himself from flailing before reaching to grab at one of her wrists. She seemed perfectly fine to let him, and her other hand was quick to zip up his spine and pinch gingerly at the back of his neck. Miles would definitely deny the shriek he let out, but he laughed and tried to push himself over. Ghost chuckled, twisting her wrist to get ahold of his while she stood up again. She pulled him quickly onto his back, straddling his waist this time as she slipped her wrist suddenly out of his hand by pulling it back through her sleeve. She snatched his wrist with her free hand when he tried for her stomach again, and she grinned nervously as he sneered up at her.

“I’m so gonna get you~” He taunted, laughing lightly as her face went red again.

There was a hint of a stalemate, with Miles trying to read her eyes while she watched his face. All of a sudden, her sleeve was yanked out of his grip, and her hand was shooting to scribble her nails against his neck. Instantly, he cracked, laughing loudly and flailing to grab ahold of her wrists. Even when she let go of his wrist to get both hands against his neck, he couldn’t help but focus on trying to block her, and, dammit, she was much stronger than she looked.

He could hear the audience going wild as he tried to struggle, and Ghost giggled softly as she leaned closer to him. “What happened to all that big talk, Li’l Fish~?” She whispered into his ear. “Not so tough now, are we?” She took a breath before blowing gently into his ear, and Miles kicked against the mat as he practically shrieked again. The audience got a bit louder as Ghost looked expectantly at the judges.

“Aw, he kicks; that’s so cute!” Margo laughed, only for a bit of panic to shoot through her expression when Ghost turned to them. “Wait, does kicking count?! We didn’t talk about that.”

Ganke had bit his lip, glancing between the two women and the audience, and he realized he wasn’t containing his smirk very well. “I’m gonna say kicking doesn’t count today!”

“Wha—Since when?!” Ghost’s voice was pretty close to real outrage as her hands suddenly stopped, and a select few audience members backed her up with jeers.

“Since I said so!” He said more firmly, chuckling. “Consider it a perk of being in the peanut gallery.”

The audience laughed, and Ghost rolled her eyes before looking back down at Miles. As she did, he’d moved his hands, managing to land them on her waist and pressing his thumbs into her hips. She squeaked and shoved herself back, stumbling slightly as she scrambled out of his reach.

“Now she wants to run, huh?” Miles snorted, his hand catching around her ankle only for her to slip his hold before he had a full grip. She was quick to return the gesture, yanking his ankles before he could try to get up and kneeling on one of them. He struggled to push himself up onto his hands, only to nearly fall again when she dug all ten fingers into his socked sole. Keeping his hands still now was definitely nearing impossible, but he tried to also keep in mind to not kick her off of him. But, wow, she was merciless.

“So, toes are bad, huh?” She teased over his laughter, scratching under his toes as they curled tightly. “Not your weak spot, but you might get along with—Eek!”

Miles couldn’t tell if she actually didn’t expect it or she just got cocky, but she didn’t duck away this time. He’d pushed himself forward, snatching the back of her hoodie and pulling her into his arms before falling backwards. The audience was loud again as she tried to flail out of his grip, her voice already tangling itself in giggly protests as he fought to wrestle both of her arms against her sides without losing his grip on her.

“Quit that!” He giggled along with her when she kept trying to shove his face. “And what are you laughing about? I haven’t done anything yet!”

“Shut up!” She squeaked, laughing softly as she tried to catch her breath.

“You tired now, li’l fish? Flopping all over the damn place like that.” Miles taunted into her ear, smirking as she cringed and giggled. He spoke a bit louder as he heaved them both upright while keeping her square in his lap. “I’ve figured you out, by the way, they call you Ghost ‘cause you’re slippery, right? You ‘phase through’ grabs like that a lot?”

Ghost turned her head, not that she could really look at him from this angle, but he saw her grin as she shrugged casually. “Well, y’know, it’s what stuck.”

Miles scoffed, squeezing her a bit tighter. “Stuck like you, huh? I’d love to see you slip this one.” Without any more hesitation, he let one of his hands drop to her stomach and skitter across her bare skin, and he was definitely not disappointed. She squealed and immediately started to struggle again, giggles jumping to loud laughter within a fraction of a second.

“No, no; I wasn’t ready!” She whined through her squeals.

“Oh, she’s not ready…” Miles huffed with a roll of his eyes, letting his fingers go still as he dragged his hand slowly.

“You bastard…” She spat in a giggly half-whisper.

“Ghost, be nice!” Margo called down to them.

Miles teasingly blew into her ear again, dragging his nails softly before sneaking a few squeezes on her side. “Tell me when you’re ready for tummy tickles, okay?”

She blushed, shaking her head as she whined and squeaked at each little pinch. “You’re terrible! N-No…”

“Mm-hm?” He curled his fingers and tapped them against her stomach before tracing one slowly around her bellybutton. “If I press this button, will you be ready then?”

She’d had a full-body flinch at the tracing alone, kicking against the floor as she giggled loudly. “Don’t you dare!”

“Aw, c’mon~ You have to work with me here.” Miles poked her a few more times. “You ready now~?”

“Stop teasing!” Her head tipped back on his shoulder, and she yelped when he blew across the side of her neck.

He laughed, smirking softly. “You said you weren’t ready! I do have to tell you, though…” He let his fingers walk to about where he remembered that little drawing on her skin. “You’ve had this spider on you this entire time and it hasn’t moved at—” He suddenly started scribbling his fingers, absolutely relishing in the surprised shriek it got out of her. She kicked hard, knocking them both over, but he didn’t dare let her go. She barely got a chance to protest between her squealy laughs, and Miles could hear her feet flailing against the mat under the cheers of the crowd.

“Think she’s happy we let them keep the kicks now?” Ganke asked playfully, leaning on one hand.

“Yeah, she looks like she’s having fun.” Margo snickered. Both of them flinched a little when Ghost squealed again.

“Hey, do you think he can get one?” Ganke asked with a smirk.

Margo let out a cackle. “If he gets her that bad in his initiation, she will hate him.”

Miles, meanwhile, was starting to have a little bit of pity on the poor Ghost. She seemed to have tired herself out again, having stopped kicking in favor of trying futilely to curl up. She was tough; he could admit that in a heartbeat, but, frankly, his arm was getting tired.

“I’m still wondering what this does, you know.” He mused, and the only bit of mercy he offered her was slowing his fingers down just a little as he finally focused his tickling on her bellybutton.

She absolutely lost it, breaking into loud cackles as she struggled to move her arms. “N-Not there! Please, I-I can’t—!” She squealed, snorts breaking through her laughter as her cheeks ran red. The crowd went wild with cheers and teases, and Miles was pretty sure his heart was melting.

“Tap! I tap! Let go…” She cried out through squeaks, and Miles lifted his hand away and let her go. She curled up beside him, pulling her hood up to hide her face as a few more snorts slipped into her giggles.

“Ghost is out! Make some noise!” Ganke shouted, grinning as they already clapped excitedly. Miles smirked back at him, softly rubbing one hand on Ghost’s back while she caught her breath.

“You good?” He asked quietly, trying not to tease too much. “Need a hand?”

“You’re a natural.” She whispered back, smiling a bit tiredly as she looked up at him. “But you’re not ready for Spider-Punk.”

“Wha—?” He was about to ask, but she started to get up, and he stood quickly to help her.

“And anyway,” She spoke up this time, for the others to hear. “You wouldn’t have won if you weren’t pals with the judges.”

“No, honey,” Margo called back. “You might not have lost if you didn’t run your mouth off.”

Ghost pouted, crossing her arms as she levelled a glare. “Fuck you both.” She huffed, rolling her eyes and smirking.

“Ooh, Swear Jar. Five seconds.” Ganke said quickly. Without being told, Miles grabbed at her sides. He made sure to be gentle this time, barely scribbling with his nails, but she still burst into giggly squeals as she tried to push away from him. It was definitely more like three seconds, but Miles didn’t mind giving her some grace, except for the poke he landed on her bellybutton before pulling his hands back. She didn’t snort this time, but she did punch him in the arm while she grinned at him, and he could settle for that.

“Make nice, you two, let’s get moving.” Margo insisted. Miles offered his hand to Ghost, smirking broadly when she actually hesitated to take it. He might have itched the palm of her hand with one finger when he went to shake it, and she snickered and shook her head.

“You might want to think about whether you want to stick around, because I’m getting you back.” She said softly, grinning.

“Yeah, alright, Tickle Button.” He taunted playfully, laughing as she punched his shoulder again. She squeezed his hand as she turned to do the walk, snatching her robe off of Margo’s chair and flicking the side of Ganke’s glasses.

“I’ll see you in the ring next week, asshole.” She growled with a sneer, and Ganke smirked back at her.

“That’s ten seconds, Ghost.” He chuckled, covering the microphone. “I’ll see you too.”

Her face nearly faltered, but she ruffled his hair, and the audience cheered as she walked back to the locker room.

Margo stretched her arms over her head—Ganke smirked knowingly toward Miles and the audience, but he didn’t do anything—and she shook her hands out with a sigh. “My, oh my, Mr. Lee. Our first challenger in months, and he’s tearing through us. Maybe we should have gotten back in the ring instead of letting these cute little bugs handle it.”

There were claps and murmurs from the crowd, and Miles couldn’t help but be curious about that story.

“At this rate, I think you might be right, Kitty.” Ganke sighed dramatically. “But, then again, if we destroyed him first try, we wouldn’t have anything for this great crowd!” The audience cheered, and Miles couldn’t help but clap along. “And you all really have been wonderful tonight; thank you all so much for coming out—”

“You do know we’re not done, right?” Margo asked playfully.

Ganke pulled a face and pretended to wince. “Are you sure we can’t be done now?” He groaned, resting an arm over his eyes. “You know how he gets.”

Margo smirked, thumping a rhythm on the table that the audience was quick to copy with their hands. “Ladies and Gentlemen—and, of course, our dear New Fish—I want you to give me your best!” The volume grew louder, and Miles felt tingly with the energy swelling. “It’s down to the wire; the last roundup; this one’s for all the marbles! Let’s hear it for Spider-Punk!”

The audience roared—as much as, like, twenty people could compare to a roar—and a good number of them stomped as they clapped. The locker room door opened, and, predictably, Miles saw the tall British man that had inspired his dumb stage name. He bounced a bit on his toes, smiling excitedly as he watched his approach.

Spider-Punk walked confidently, with his robe already thrown over his shoulder instead of being worn. He was also wearing a cropped shirt, funny enough, but it was underneath a battle vest covered in cool patches. He wore a pair of pajama pants too—much more obvious than Ghost’s just by the pattern—and they were cut off just below his knees. He was wearing black lipstick, which he definitely hadn’t been the first time Miles had passed him. He motioned to the crowd with one hand as he purposefully draped the robe over Margo’s head, encouraging them to get louder before he stepped onto the mat.

“Well, well, well…” He practically purred, and Miles felt like a shock ran through him. “Big fish in a small pond, aren’t ya?”

Miles’ eyes lit up, and his hands flapped a bit as his brain failed to process a response.

“You’re doing the thing.” His opponent half-whispered to him, gesturing to his hands, and Miles flinched just a bit nervously. Spider-Punk grinned, chuckling. “Not sayin’ you should stop, love. Ghost’ll get you wound up like that, she’s pretty fun.”

Miles let himself giggle at that and nodded. “I mean, yeah, she’s pretty cool for a ghost.” He said coolly. “Shrieks like one, too.”

Spider-Punk snorted, shaking his head as he smirked. “Fair play, fair play.”

Miles crossed his arms as they started to circle each other. “So, turns out you actually were the final boss, huh? What was that about me not lasting a minute?”

“Oh, you remember that, eh?” He laughed just a bit mockingly, his eyes scanning over Miles before his grin somehow grew even more smug. “I still stand by it.” He asserted with a shrug, resting his hands on his hips.

Miles scoffed, mimicking his little pose and rolling his eyes. “You really want to say that when you know I just wrecked two of your friends?”

Spider-Punk suddenly broke from his path, walking straight toward Miles and spooking him into a half stumble. “Do you really want to ask that when you don't know why they saved me for last?” He reached out quickly to grab Miles by his shirt to stop him from falling, pulling him sharply into a tight hug. Miles flailed slightly, bringing his hands to rest on his opponent’s arms where they squeezed softly around his neck. His own arms were completely free, but his brain also might have been overheating. He could hear the sneer in Spider-Punk’s voice when it tickled his ear. “Your freckles pop up when you blush~”

Miles fell into squeaky giggles, pulling at Spider-Punk’s arms as best he could, and his opponent only hummed casually at the effort, rolling his eyes as he rested his chin on Miles’ head and scribbled gently at his shoulders. Miles quickly switched tactics, digging his fingers into the punk’s armpits. The taller man flinched pretty hard, half a snort slipping out as he let himself laugh. Or, actually, he kind of giggled. It was rough and bass-sounding, almost scratchy, like he was just barely resisting. The crowd behind him murmured softly.

“Oh, not this again.” Miles chuckled teasingly, keeping his voice mostly low this time. “You just want to get tickles, tough guy?” He squirmed just a bit when long fingers trailed down the center of his back.

“Wouldn’t you like to kn—” Spider-Punk’s voice hitched on a louder laugh when Miles dropped his hands to scribble on bare skin and squeeze his sides, and he flinched backwards when Miles pressed his thumbs against his hipbones. Miles grinned a bit smugly as the punk stepped back, and he crossed his arms as he stepped forward.

“I wouldn’t have thought someone so cool would be so cute when he gets a few little scratches.” He taunted before faking a pout. “I expected more fight out of you though, punk.”

Spider-Punk chuckled lightly, making a bit of a show in slightly covering his sides. “You sure know how to make a girl feel special, don’t you?” He teased right back, setting his chin on one hand and batting his eyes. His nail polish matched his lipstick perfectly. “You should watch yourself though~ Could be in bigger trouble than you think.”

 Miles laughed, cracking his knuckles. “Well, the bigger they are…”

“That doesn’t even work for—” Spider-Punk didn’t put up much resistance when Miles hooked his arm and more or less dragged him to the floor, and he laughed brightly Miles tickled across his stomach.

“Ooh, he’s got him on the ropes, huh~?” Margo asked playfully, nudging Ganke with her elbow.

Ganke shot her a sideways glance, pout set on his lips. “Shut up.” He huffed with a chuckle, and she laughed.

Miles’ focus was stuck on Spider-Punk, his grin turning more playful as he let his fingers skitter lightly on his opponent’s back and relished the giggles it brought out of him. He had pulled Spider-Punk’s arm across his shoulders, clutching his wrist in his left hand while he tickled along his back and opposite side.

“Y’know, ‘Spider-Punk’…” Miles mused softly. “If Claw had told me that I’d just be thrown into a fake tournament to tease a bunch of adorable lees to death, I probably wouldn’t have even believed him. I’d say I’m disappointed, but it’s been pretty fun.”

The punk huffed out a laugh, sounding much more derisive than ticklish all of a sudden. “Is that what you think?”

Without any warning, Spider-Punk shifted the hand in Miles’ grip, his fingers managing to scratch along his ribcage and chip some startled giggles out of him. His other hand shot to dig into Miles’ side, completely exposed with how his arm was wrapped around the punk’s back. Miles yelped, immediately letting go of the wrist he held to flee; his opponent snickered, keeping his arm hooked across Miles’ shoulders and holding him close as he pulled some squeaky laughs from his side.

“And there it is.” Ganke fake-pouted as the audience started to get riled up. “Every time with this one.”

Margo was absolutely ecstatic, giggling brightly as she leaned on his shoulder. “If it ain’t broke, y’know? Maybe you should have warned him~”

Miles laughed and tried to flail, but the tickles he landed on the punk’s ribs were hardly distracting him. Instead, Spider-Punk leaned back, pulling his arm from around Miles’ shoulder while his other hand shoved him down to the mat. He was strong. Like, way stronger than Miles expected. When Miles tried to grab at his arm and pull, he couldn’t move an inch, and he wasn’t even sure if Spider-Punk was using his full weight. The giddy sort of panic must have shown in his eyes, because the taller man sneered as he loomed over him.

“Caught in a web, poor thing.” He taunted as he locked his knees around Miles’ legs, ruffling his hair with his free hand before leaning close. “You got a lot to learn, New Fish. For example…” He took a deep breath, and Miles didn’t even get time to panic before he was squealing with laughter as a loud raspberry was blown into the crook of his neck. His legs tried to kick, but his opponent gave him zero leeway. It didn’t help at all when he tried to push him away, only to get scribbling fingers in both of his armpits as another raspberry hit him.

Miles might have broken a little under all that; sue him.

“Oh, yeah, he’s dead.” Margo snickered as their challenger shrieked and writhed under Spider-Punk’s hold.

“Yeah…” Ganke admitted, but he glanced at Margo with a smirk. “You would know though, wouldn’t you? You have a thing or two in common with him.” He snuck a poke just under her arm, and she nearly whacked him with her microphone with how hard she flinched.

Miles, meanwhile, was trying his best to be tough, his hands gripping Spider-Punk’s sleeves to keep from flailing. Those long fingers drilled right into the center of his hollows, and his head fell back against the mat as he cackled. Spider-Punk chuckled over him, finally pulling away from his neck to whisper in his ear again.

“So, who’s the adorable little lee here again, bruv~? You talk so big, but I break brats like you.”

Miles tried to shove the punk’s face, earning some faster scribbles whenever his arms moved an inch. Spider-Punk sneered and pulled one of his hands back, catching Miles’ wrist and blowing another raspberry against his palm. His reaction was much squeakier than attacks on his weak spots, but Miles more or less collapsed in a slight daze. The punk slowly lifted his hands, chuckling a bit deviously as the poor fish tried to catch his breath.

“I’ll give it to ya, mate; you’re a tough one.” Spider-Punk taunted, slipping his hand into his pocket. “Or you’re a hypocrite. Hopin’ it’s the former, since a funny thing happens to hypocrites around here~” He drew his hand back up, and it was covered by a strange-looking glove.

“Oh, Murder Claw!” Margo shouted, and the audience went wild.

“You actual cheating bastard!” Ganke scolded with a grin. “I told you not to bring that!”

“Murder Claw! Murder Claw!” Half of the audience chanted with Margo leading on her mic.

“Margo, don’t encourage this!”

She elbowed him teasingly before playfully punching his side. “Aw, c’mon, Tiger, where’s that Panther blood?!”

“We're supposed to be behaving!” Ganke couldn't help but laugh as the energy swelled.

Miles watched nervously as Spider-Punk wound a little dial on the wrist of the glove. Something about the sound of the mechanism clicking felt…familiar. Coiling springs? It all happened within a few seconds; Miles tried to grab Spider-Punk’s sleeve, only for him to snatch his wrist and pin it firmly over his head. The pure mischief on his face was going to kill Miles before his hands did.

“Go on and give ‘em a show, lovely.” He whispered, showing off the glove on his hand before pressing one of the fingers to the side of Miles’ neck. He felt a sort of click, instantly followed by rapid vibrations that had him nearly screeching. It was barely more than two seconds, but it was almost worse than the raspberries. When the four other fingers pressed into his armpit all at the same time, Miles knew it was over. Quick as it was, that buzzing sensation had him hysterical, and his free hand flailed against the mat as he tried to writhe.

“The Fish is cooked! It’s all over!” Margo shouted over the roar of the crowd.

Spider-Punk gave him another smirk and a cheeky-bastard wink before pushing himself onto his feet, except Miles caught him gently by his wrist.

“That…was definitely more than a minute.” Miles said softly through quiet breaths.

Spider-Punk seemed to light up, barely stifling an incredulous laugh. “You don’t quit! I like it.” He said softly, taking Miles’ hand in a quick handshake before letting it fall. He grinned smugly as Margo ran to his side and hugged him with one arm.

“Your reigning champion, folks!” She called out to the audience. “Give it up for Spider-Punk!” The tall man raised his hands dramatically as the crowd clapped excitedly, seeming to relish in the attention as they started to get up and talk to him and each other.

Miles was content to stay on the mat for a moment with his tired giggles, and Ganke approached to offer him a hand. He might have gotten a little dizzy when he was heaved to stand up, but he played it off with a smirk. Ganke ruffled his hair and snuck a tickle behind his ear, and Miles shouldered him playfully as he went to do his walk of shame. But Ganke grabbed him by his shirt, pointing him toward the locker room door that his opponents had been entering from. Miles glanced at him for confirmation, getting a quick nod and a shooing motion before Ganke went to stand beside Spider-Punk.

“What a freakin’ upset, huh?” Margo said teasingly, leaning to look at Ganke.

“Yeah, I’m upset!” He insisted exaggeratedly, shaking his head as Spider-Punk hugged him to his side. “Should have known you’d let him cheat again.”

Margo laughed right back. “Well, since you want to be boring all of a sudden, and the crew’s on leave, someone has to keep up the Panther vibe, yeah?!”

--------------

Miles let them and the crowd’s chatter fade behind him as he entered the locker room. He wasn’t sure why he was so nervous. It wasn’t even any different from the first one. Except, well, this one had a ghost leaning in from the door leading to the hallway. She quickly motioned him to follow her, holding the door open before jogging away.

They wound up at a meeting room upstairs, where Sona opened the door after they knocked.

“Told you so.” Ghost said playfully as they entered the room, and Miles rolled his eyes as Sona laughed. There were six pizza boxes on the tables in the back and a cooler stashed underneath next to what he assumed were their bags and things.

“He cheated, didn’t he?” Sona asked once the door was closed, playfully nudging Miles with his elbow.

“Is it really cheating when we know he’s going to do it though?” Ghost rummaged in the cooler for a juice pouch before also snatching a half-finished water bottle from the edge of the table.

“I feel kind of cheated.” Miles said with a shrug, crossing his arms.

The pair of them looked at him with wary expectation, seemingly worried about him.

“I mean, I had a whole fight with you—” He looked pointedly as Ghost. “—And I didn’t even know raspberries were legal. Seems unfair to me.”

He let a taunting grin spread across his lips as Ghost glared at him with a rising blush. Sona had burst out laughing, patting him on his shoulder.

“I really hope you stick around, Fish; you’re hilarious.” He giggled.

“Yeah, you’ll be laughing, all right.” Ghost pouted for a moment, but she started to laugh along with Sona.

“Oh, that reminds me!” Sona stood in front of him, resting his hands on his hips as if he was a superhero or something. “My name is Pavitr. Forgive me if it’s forward, but you’re Miles, right? It’s so cool to finally meet you!”

Miles was a little surprised, but he quickly realized what had happened. “I take it Ganke talks about me a lot?” He asked with a chuckle.

“Oh, definitely.” Ghost nodded, smiling as she leaned slightly on the circular table in the middle of the room. “And somehow, he neglected to mention that you’re a five-alarm tease.”

“Well, time and place, y’know.” He shrugged, chuckling. “Although, I guess I haven’t teased him in a while~”

“You are something else.” Ghost said, playfully flinging the now empty water bottle at Miles’ head before offering a handshake. “I’m Gwen, by the way.”

Miles accepted it without any mischief this time, and she smiled much more genuinely this time. Pavitr approached him from the side, pressing a cold bottle of water against his arm and giggling as he snatched it from him.

“You can grab a plate, by the way.” He offered, opening his own water bottle to take a drink. “We kind of got them for you. Oh, except those two big ones on the end.”

“Oh, yeah?” Miles chuckled, as if he hadn’t been eying the table since he’d walked in. Of course, he had to have been raised to never take the first plate.

Gwen nodded, pushing herself up to sit on the table. “We haven’t had a tournament in a long time, and it’s been even longer since we had a new challenger. We’re celebrating a little, and since somebody didn’t win, it’s more a little party for all of us.”

“You really do snark a lot for someone in a crop top.” Miles grinned and shook his head.

“Maybe, but at least I’m not the one with spider bites on my neck.” She taunted, and Miles could feel his face heating up as he realized what she meant. She laughed teasingly as he covered the side of his neck with one hand.

The door opened suddenly, and a very loud Spider-Punk burst in with Ganke, Margo, and a couple of faces from the audience in tow. “Oi, oi, what’s up, losers?!”

Gwen sighed loudly. “There goes the neighborhood.” She rolled her eyes and smirked as he approached her first.

“Love you too, Gwendy~” He said playfully, ruffling her hair as he leaned to kiss her forehead. His smile widened as he spotted Miles, and he strode up to him like he could definitely tell Miles’ head was spinning. “You stuck around, huh?” He offered his hand and that stupid wink. “Hobie Brown, at ya service, love.”

Accepting the handshake was apparently the wrong decision, because it ended in Miles being yanked into a tight hug as Hobie laughed a bit mockingly. He wasn’t even doing anything, but Miles couldn’t help laughing with him and trying to squirm away, only for Pavitr and Gwen to pile on the two of them.

Ganke had placed Miles’ shoes and things under the table with the others’ stuff, and Margo had done the same with their boombox and microphones. She grabbed the two set-aside pizza boxes, handing them over to the theater club members along with heaps of gratitude for their presence. They happily accepted both before waving to all of them as they left. As soon as they did, the pair of former hosts turned to the interesting little hug-fight their four friends had gotten into.

“Guys!” Margo called, managing to get their attention. “You were all fantastic out there! Miles, they loved you! Hell, we loved you!” She stepped forward, and Hobie let Miles go so she could grab onto his hands excitedly as she spoke. “I wasn’t even kidding, Ganke, where on Earth were you hiding this one?!”

Ganke shrugged, crossing his arms. “What can I say? I like to have an ace or two up my sleeve.” He said with a smirk. “It has been a while since I’ve seen you go all out like that though, hasn’t it?”

Miles grinned a bit proudly. “You know I like to make a good first impression.”

“I have literally never heard that about you, but go off, I guess.”

Miles pouted a bit as the others laughed.

Within minutes, they were all around the circular table, plates piled with pizza slices and cracking soda cans. Miles leaned on his hand to look Ganke in the eye.

“So, how long has this been going on anyway?” He asked, just a bit incredulously. “You never mentioned it while I was gone.”

Ganke nearly glared at him halfway through a bite of pizza. “I told you I made some new friends after you left! And I definitely remember telling you I joined a club.”

“Yeah, and I thought you meant a robotics club or something, not, like, tickle tournaments! You didn’t think I’d be interested in that part?”

Ganke chuckled. “It’s not that I didn’t think you'd be interested.” He set down the slice and leveled a sneer at him. “I just know you get weak around too many cute people.”

Miles nearly choked on the sip of water he’d taken, and he could feel eyes on him as the table got quiet. They were all smiling, some more smugly than others, and Miles buried his face in his hands.

“Asshole…” He groaned, only to flinch a little when Gwen poked his cheek. He glanced at her, and she giggled, and Hobie smirked, and Pavitr grinned.

“Especially cute lees~” Ganke whispered, blowing across the side of his neck, and he barely stopped himself from jumping out of the chair. The others stifled laughter as Miles felt like he was going to melt from the heat rushing to his face, which he promptly dropped into his arms on the table.

“You’re all rosy, mate.” Yeah, like Hobie really needed to tell him that.

He recognized Ganke’s hand patting him on the back. “Sooo~?”

“’M free on Friday…?” He offered.

“We’ve got an Initiation Day!” Ganke shook him by the shoulder as the whole table cheered, and Miles felt himself smiling as hands ruffled his hair and pat his back.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Panda's Extra Notes: Some minor things for consideration.

*I might go back and retcon it, but I'm considering using one of Hobie's beta designs for this AU. Specifically the one with his long braids.

*Miles falls under the Ace umbrella here, hence the joke Ganke makes toward the end. He is very vulnerable to "tickle-crushes", though. And actual crushes, obviously, but we'll get to that later. >w<

#tickling #spiderverse tickle #it blows my mind how talented my friends are #hexalianrebel blackfeathers #not mine #tickle fiction #brilliant idea and epic execution #sorry it took me long to reblog bud

[rosileeduckie]

AHH what a beautiful gift!! Thank you thank you thank you! 🥰🥰

I've only FINALLY gotten snow, so the merry season is officially perfect ❤️😁

Merry (late- I apologize!!) Christmas to @rosileeduckie with a drawing of crowley x aziraphale (good omens) 🌟

"Is your partners hands cold during the winter- give them a warm pair of gloves! It's a harmless gift... right?^^"

#squealing santa 2k23 #good omens tickle art #Artist: chibimochii

[rosileeduckie]

Mean, but Sweet

After all this, I don't know, the naughty list doesn't seem so bad...

Patton can be very mean, if it makes someone else happy 😈💙

Potential warnings: none. Sanders Sides, Janus/Patton tickle fic.

A Squealing Santa Christmas gift for @trashyswitch! Hoping it's worth the wait, and wishing you the happiest new year! 😊😘 Thanks so so so much @squealing-santa Hypah our hero for hosting this year!! Lots of love for everyone who participated; congrats everybody!! ❤❄

Word count: 6,406

~*~

There’s something very attractive about winter. The season is uniquely deep and dark, and Janus can’t help but thrive when there are shadows aplenty, easy to hide in and hide things in. A societal expectation to make nice with everyone also leads to the hilarious sight of people performing their “best life” routine by lying through smiling teeth and juggling a million more responsibilities that, no, they definitely don’t need help with. What could he say, it all made Janus feel very at ease, in the presence of deceit wrapped in pretty paper.

But, then, he wasn’t so cynical this year. He blamed his cohorts for melting his too-small heart over the course of the year to the point where he could now appreciate the whimsy that twinkling fairy lights give to a chilly winter evening. Still dark, but warm, too.

Metaphorically and literally warm–it was not quite a winter wonderland outside the house. Still, the lower temperature and earlier sunset and merry decorations and seasonal flavors in Janus’ mug and the obnoxiously patterned and colored sweater on his body really did make it feel like Christmas. Certainly, the Mind Palace could have been nestled in a snow globe setting if the Sides so desired, but they were partial to their host’s house in Florida. It wasn’t a white Christmas, but it was cozy and homey and–Janus could begrudgingly admit–nice.

Janus was skillfully juggling two mugs as he walked into the living room. In one hand, he carried a peppermint mocha in a plain red vessel, simple and hot. In the other hand, he held a mug covered with scenes of snowmen decorating a pine tree with little birds. The contents of that mug were just as extravagant and sweet: gingerbread spiced hot cocoa completely obscured beneath a layer of marshmallows, whipped cream, and sprinkles.

When Janus set the dessert in a cup on the coffee table, Patton looked up and smiled, his eyes really sparkling under the lights of the room’s opulent tree beside which he sat. The mug was just the newest addition to Patton’s station at the coffee table. Before him were a few sheets of notebook paper, a quill and ink, and a desk lamp and extension cord, which Janus stepped carefully over to sit on the couch just behind Patton.

“Aw, Janus!” Patton beamed, setting down his quill to reach for the mug. “Thank you!”

Even if the gap was seeming to narrow these days, Janus couldn’t help but marvel at how different he and Patton were sometimes. What an easy but incredible show of trust; any of the other Sides would have asked Janus what he wanted in return for such a thoughtful and good deed. (He would have answered “nothing,” but whether or not that was true, who could say?) “Not a problem,” Janus replied, taking a sip of his own drink. “How’s the naughty list looking this year?”

Patton giggled. He had a mustache of sweet fluff on his lip as he set down his mug and drew his quill. “Oh, I can’t say about that. But I do know Santa will have lots of ideas as to what to get you kids if you DO stay on the nice list.” He dipped the quill tip in his inkwell, humming with an audible grin. “Of course, I can’t imagine why you WOULDN’T be on the nice list…”

Janus crossed one leg over his knee and tapped his foot in a subtle but delighted rhythm. “Patton, lying at this time of year?” he tutted. “That nice list is slippery, you know. And lying around me, no less.” Janus leaned forward enough that the hissing chuckle that spread his lips into a smile could tickle Patton’s ear. “Is that my Christmas present?”

Ducking out of reach with a snort, Patton replied, “It’s not lying if I believe you all deserve the best gifts.” He turned to give Janus a boop on the nose with the fluffy end of his quill. “And it’s NOT the gift I have written down, I’ll have you know.”

For a moment, Janus’ eyes caught on the feather–a beautiful thing of blue and iridescent greens and purples that felt as soft as it looked–but curiosity shook him free, and he looked past the writing tool, blurring the beautiful colors as he focused his gaze on the page of just-dry ink. “It’s not?”

“Hey now!” Patton threw out his arm and leaned to one side so as to block Janus’ view. ���No peeking!”

Undeterred, Janus didn’t fall back, just snickered and looked at Patton levelly. “What? I hardly need to know what you think I need for gifts.” He rested his chin in his hand, batting his eyelashes and tapping his cheek with his index finger. “But, say, what if I need ideas for our gift swap with the others? You know how hard Logan is to buy for.” (Untrue; Logan wasn’t hard to buy for, just irritatingly specific, which took out all the fun of surprising someone with their gift. Janus did love a good surprise.)

Eyes narrowed, Patton considered this before shaking his head and turning back to his makeshift desk. “No peeking,” he reiterated firmly. “Sensitive information here, for no one’s eyes but Mr Claus himself.” He paused, musing, then smiled. “Or his secretary. He is a busy guy.”

Janus nodded with a humoring hum. He sipped his coffee, nonchalantly scooting on the couch to be closer to Patton. If the scribe noted the movement, he didn’t mind, even leaning back against Janus’ calf and continuing to write. Janus waited a moment, then another, letting Patton’s guard slowly fall. The snake was hardly invested in letters to Santa Claus, but he did enjoy teasing and getting a rise out of Patton. And, who knows, maybe Janus would end up with someone with a scant wish-list and need a gift idea or two to fall back on. When the air felt calm enough to chance it, Janus leaned forward to peek over Patton’s shoulder.

Quick as a cobra, Patton had whirled around, brandishing his feather quill at Janus. “AH!” he admonished, tipping his head to one side and flashing a warning smile. “You better watch out.”

“You better not cry,” Janus replied with a smirk, leaning back a bit with his hands and mug raised placatingly. “Or what, Patton dear?”

Patton’s lower lip puffed out thoughtfully, and he hummed, clicking his tongue a few times. Janus waited, eyebrows raised and lips crookedly elevated. Then, Patton’s scrunched up thinking face relaxed before brightening into a big smile. He didn’t answer Janus’ question, just turned back to his list. Moreover, he didn’t move away but stayed close enough to be leaned up against Janus’ leg and, potentially, surely, observed by Janus’ looming eyes. The risk was worth the reward, and it would have been punishment to both of them to move apart. (It was nature for a Side, however deeply buried; even the prickliest of them liked company and a cuddle. And pushing their luck.)

Janus took a long sip from his drink and sighed, opening his mouth exaggeratedly wide both because it felt nice and because it tended to freak out any Sides who saw. He leaned forward, reaching purposely past Patton to set down his mug on the far side of the coffee table, securing for himself the perfect view of Patton’s cursive scrawl as well as the ideal perch to view it from, his chin resting upon the soft sweater fabric of Patton’s shoulder. Actually, it was cozy enough there, warm and soothing to the tune of Patton’s breathing and humming, and hard enough to read Patton’s handwriting from that distance, that Janus was content to close his eyes and not even try to peek. So he jumped a little, blinking in confusion, when Patton spoke again, but not quite to his current companion.

“‘And what do I ask of you dear Janus? Well, Santa, that’s quite simple. For my dear Janus, I want him to get the biggest and best–’” Patton paused, striking through the last word of his dictation with a flourish. “‘–the WORSE lee mood for Christmas.’”

Patton glanced sideways at him and smiled when Janus snickered. His head bobbed a bit atop the pleased wiggle that shook Patton’s shoulders. It wasn’t exactly a difficult thing to ask for for Christmas. The Sides, different as they could be, could all find fun in being tickled or making someone else laugh, so moods longing for one or the other were not uncommon. Sure, Virgil was more likely to be yearning for an onslaught of gentle belly tickles, whereas Remus would be more often found with fingers twitching in hopes of digging up screams from between someone’s ribs, and Logan could slide back and forth along that scale in a second. But still, it was a safe bet that someone in the Mind Palace was hoping to be or happy to be tickled. Because even if, somehow, no one was actively in a lee mood, one could pretty easily be teased out. Janus fell in the middle of the chaos, fluid like Logan in the part he was ready to play–tickle monster or squealing victim–and not one to be easily teased into a mood–not to be knocked over with a feather, so to say. Sure, seeing Patton twirl his feather quill thoughtfully and being actively threatened with a lee mood–not even being tickled, just infected with the desire to be–may have flustered Janus well enough, but he was cozy enough where he sat to weather the attack. So he only smiled, smug, closing his eyes and staying cuddled up, however awkwardly leaning, up against Patton’s shoulder.

Perhaps he shouldn’t have been so trusting.

“‘The kind of lee mood that makes you feel so warm and giddy and fuzzy,’” Patton went on, and Janus could hear the big smile around his words, “‘like just thinking about being tickled makes you feel tinsel between your toes and snowflake soft feathers on your belly. I want him to be so happy and flustered that he can only giggle and hiss and do that cute thing where he shakes his legs and taps his feet.’”

They didn’t live in a place with snowy winters, but Janus felt a phrase often used in that region come to mind: deceptively sunny. It was the scenario when one looked out the window to marvel at a beautiful winter landscape, blanketed in crystalline snow and brilliant beneath a crisp blue sky and bright sun, only to step outside and take in a breath that felt like a crackling snap in the lungs. Sunny, but cold. That was Patton. Warm, friendly, happy, but, just beneath, positively wicked. Freezing cold and sharp under a pretty sun, a hot spiced drink under sweet white fluff. Janus felt his stomach turn, swoop like at the drop in a roller-coaster, and burst with a blizzard of butterflies. He couldn’t look away from Patton’s quill as it bobbed, scrawling teases into paper that Janus was suddenly jealous of. Okay, maybe he was easier to tease a mood from than he cared to admit.

And perhaps Patton could read his mind, because he conveniently exclaimed, “‘Oh, and teases! Yes! He needs to get all the teases that make his cheeks go red and his scales change color!’”

Janus’ scales were certainly not doing anything of the sort when Patton paused in writing. He pursed his lips, smiled, and jumped back into his letter.

“‘And, you know, I think this mood’s gotta last until Christmas day, so maybe you can send him some tickly dreams in the meantime, too! Maybe twelve days of them would be fitting?’” Patton’s tongue poked between his top and bottom teeth as he giggled. He cleared his throat, donning a more serious face for continuing his letter to Santa. “‘If that’s too much, don’t worry about it; I’d be happy to take some of the work off your hands. I’m actually writing this letter to you with a beautiful feather quill I got for my birthday–Roman said he just knew I’d get a kick out of being fancy while writing letters. But it’s a beautiful plume, my favorite kind of teal blue and so soft to the touch.’”

‘Writing’ was a stretch; Patton wasn’t even touching the pen to the paper anymore, just twirling the pretty thing between his fingers. It was as long as a hand, with the non-writing end fanning out into a subtle fluffy curl. Its fibers seemed to float lazily as Patton waved the quill around, and Janus imagined they were so delicate as to not even be felt–until they found a place so sensitive on the body that they wouldn’t be ignored. Janus’ usually dark eyes and slitted pupils were bright and dilated, focused so on the gossamer feather that he took little note of Patton looking sideways at him, watching his reactions, with a grin.

Patton sighed dreamily. “‘I bet it would feel so nice tracing down Janus’ neck or around his belly or along his hips. Or circling every scale he has.’” When he smirked at Janus, he would have seen the scales on his face flushed a dark brown-gold. “‘Maybe what I should actually ask you to bring is a good tickle session for Janus on Christmas, and I can do the teasing the twelve days before. Whatever you decide, please know that I am a very good judge of character, and I know that Janus has been SO good this year–’”

Janus’ stomach did another giddy loop-de-loop when Patton chuckled and adjusted his glasses.

“I suppose you’re right, Jan; I should be honest, shouldn’t I?” Patton winked, and Janus’ face may have been warm enough to toast marshmallows on. “‘I know that Janus has been VERY naughty this year, and, so, deserves only the sweetest, meanest, most thorough lee mood, teasing, and wrecking that he’s had all year. And, if your present to me is that I get to deliver this for Janus, I certainly wouldn’t complain. Sincerely yours, Patton.’”

Patton’s smile didn’t falter when Janus stood abruptly from his seat, but his eyebrows did rise expectantly. “I’ve finished my coffee,” Janus answered before Patton could ask. “If you’ll excuse me.” Clutching his half-full mug tightly in his hand, Janus skirted widely around the coffee table and death sentence of a Christmas list. He stopped short at the bottom of the stairs, turning to give Patton a forcibly cool nod. “Thank you for your company.”

After a few startled blinks, Patton snorted and held a hand to his rosy freckled cheek. “Signed, sealed, delivered,” he said to Janus with a grin and a shake of his head. “It’s a little too late to try and get on the nice list now~”

Janus fled calmly up the stairs, ears flushed at the last sight of Patton waving the feather quill to him in farewell.

~*~

The teal fluffy feather was all Janus could see, later–minutes? hours? days? he really couldn’t say–when he lay buried beneath his duvet, trying to pat the heat and smile from his cheeks. The trick really was not to think about it, all the lovely teases Patton had wished for him, but how could he do that when that damn feather was running rampant in his brain, dusting all his thoughts to make them tickly. He had just finished his coffee, too, so he couldn’t even hope to drift off for a cozy little nap. It’d be just his luck though; he’d probably get a dream that would fluster him awake or the second he awoke.

With a huff of a sigh, Janus threw off the covers. If the call was coming from inside the house, there was no point in hiding; if his mind was the monster, a blanket wasn’t going to save him. Besides that, the heat of his sweater and flushing cheeks was beginning to make the bubble of space between his blanket and his bed feel like an oven. He sat up enough to free himself from his sweater and dropped it off the side of the bed and onto the discarded blankets before falling onto his back. If his mind was going to torture him, at least, his body could be comfortable.

But, Janus’ mind sang unhelpfully, now he bore even less protection if some lovely monster slithered down the chimney to leave tickly stardust in his socks and pin him to his bed and–

The pillow previously behind Janus’ head was wailed frustratedly into before it, too, was thrown off the bed. Janus forced himself to take a long, slow breath, burying his fingers in the fabric of his sheets. Okay. Clearly, the lee mood was too grand already to try and wall completely off. Trying to ignore it (and ultimately failing to do so) was just making him irritated. But then, he was too worked up and embarrassed to act on his wants, to ask for it. The very thought was mortifying. Maybe there was a safe middle ground. Maybe he could let the dam leak a little, let the thoughts trickle in. He could handle that, he wouldn’t drown. (He would be dramatic, but he wouldn’t drown.) Surely, he could let himself think about it, a little. Patton had already infected him with the feather fever, after all. Janus figured he might as well try to enjoy it.

Breathing came slower and easier when Janus brought himself to that compromise. He could close his eyes, rein in his agitated leg twitching, wade gently into the pool of his mind.

The image of the quill came back to his mind, and he welcomed it, accompanied it with soft touch from his own hand. As the cerulean feather twirled about, dancing amid the sugarplum visions it had made of his thoughts, Janus traced his fingertips over his belly. With his eyes shut, he could almost pretend the feather to be the perpetrator of the feeling, the gentle swishing back and forth along the border between skin and scales. It was a lovely feeling that made his stomach--just beneath the light show of beautiful sensation--ache with longing.

What else could he imagine? Patton had given him a few cheesy seasonal teasing suggestions, which was kind since Janus wasn't the most creative of the Sides--not the least, but not the most. Janus pictured tinsel, silver and shimmery and soft, threaded between his toes and sawed delicately. His breath caught for a moment, and his toes scrunched against the imaginary sensation. How tauntingly on the edge of feeling.

What else could he imagine? Through his closed eyes, he could see the feather swirling gentle but relentless loops around his belly and scales. He could see the tinsel under his toes. He could see Patton’s smile, his fingers curling and uncurling above Janus’ quivering abdomen. Just a little closer…

Janus sat up, burying his flushed face in his hands. Twelve days of anticipation like this would be its own torture.

A knock to the rhythm of ‘Jingle Bells’ sounded from his door. Janus gave his red cheeks one last chastising pat, floundered for a moment on where to lay his limbs to act natural, and settled on resting his hands on his knees. “Come in.”

When the door opened, the first thing to enter was the bright red and white of a Santa hat, followed by Patton’s merry smile. “Hey, kiddo! You busy?”

“Depends,” said Janus with a hollow scoff. “Did you need more help planning holiday torment, or did you want to bake cookies or something?”

Patton snorted, wiggling his shoulders proudly as he fully entered the room and shut the door. He clasped his hands behind his back, swaying his hips forward and back. “Mm, a bit in between,” Patton decided. “Mean, but still sweet.”

Janus swallowed, trying very hard to bar the dam of his thoughts to keep his hopes from running away from him. “Oh?”

“Well, Santa got back to me,” said Patton, leaning back against the door and crossing his arms with a big sigh. “I know, no time wasted; he is a professional, after all.” He shook his head and smiled sadly, but his eyes were sparkling. “But he said that even he couldn’t make a lee mood and wrecking as wonderful as I asked for in such a short turnaround. So!” Patton adjusted his hat and stood tall, beaming. “He said I should most certainly fill in!”

For someone whose thoughts had just been flooded with elated relief, Janus’ mouth was quite dry. He wouldn’t have to wither away the winter waiting. Patton’s hands and feathers and tinsel and smile were near and real. Janus felt a funny mix of gratefulness and annoyance, seeing as how Patton had been the one to drop him into such a state in the first place. But then, he was too excited already to be annoyed. “Oh,” he said again.

“If you’re not busy.” Patton took a step further into the room.

“Well–” Janus started to say.

“You don’t look busy,” said Patton. Two more steps took him to the edge of Janus’ bed, where he stood, head cocked and smile crooked. “You look like you were expecting me.”

Such rare smugness from Patton was enough to snap Janus from flustered to–well, he was certainly still flustered, but also–indignant. His mouth hung open, and, when no words miraculously filled the empty space, Janus stuck out his forked tongue.

“Don’t be naughty,” Patton chastised with a giggle. “I wrote you a song. May I sit with you and sing it for you?”

Janus nodded, pushing himself up with his hands so as to scoot back and make room for Patton on the bed, but Patton stopped with a gentle hand on his knee.

“Lie back and get comfy,” Patton instructed with a grin. “It’s not a short song.”

His sweater and blankets had already been tossed to the floor; Janus had neither protection nor a saving excuse when the heat in his face spread to his ears and down his neck. He lay back, resting his hands on either side of his head, and, mercifully, Patton commented on neither Janus’ flush nor his eagerness. Instead, Patton whistled a little yuletide carol, climbing onto the bed and kneeling over Janus’ legs. He didn’t settle yet, but turned his torso toward the foot of the bed and tugged off his Santa hat, holding it behind his back and out of Janus’ sight. But Janus could still hear as the hat was held open and its previously unseen contents came tumbling out, rattling like cartoon pots and pans fell onto the sheets. Janus had a guess as to what the hidden pile may have included, but he couldn’t fathom how Patton had managed to hide such a trove so impossibly under his hat. Said hat was placed on Janus’ head as soon as Patton had turned to face forward again, the puff of it being booped on Janus’ nose. Janus' face scrunched up in feigned distaste and fruitless effort to keep from smiling anticipatorily.

Patton adjusted himself to kneel fully and comfortably on Janus’ legs, reaching behind him for a moment to neaten up the mystery gifts from Santa’s hat, then faced Janus once more with a smile. “Alright.” Leaning forward a bit to hunch his shoulders and flex his fingers, Patton began to softly sing. “On the first day of Christmas, I count on my merry lee~”

Janus let out a groaning chuckle. Of course, Patton would come up with the silliest teasing twist on a seasonal song. A song which–Janus realized, derision turning to giddy panic–often had twelve verses that only got longer. He yelped, startled from his thoughts by a sudden whispering soft sensation swirling over his lower belly, and came face to face with the evil feather that had started the whole ordeal. Patton circled the teal feather around Janus’ navel, grinning at the smile straining to be free from Janus’ bitten lower lip.

“A giggle button on his belly~” Patton set the feather by his knee and reached behind him with both hands. “On the second day of Christmas, I count on my darling lee…” And, instead of grabbing a new tool, Patton scribbled his fingers up and down Janus’ soles, prompting a squeal and buck from the man. “Two wiggling feet,” Patton sang, before swinging his hands back in front of himself to dance upon Janus’ stomach once more, “and a giggle button on his belly~”

Second verse cleared, ten more to go. It was too late for Janus to curb his smile–the thing had taken off and spread its wingspan across his cheeks–but he could keep from laughing, he could. He had to. Because, of course, it wasn’t just ten more verses in single phrases; it was ten verses consecutive to all the verses that came before. Janus’ mind was too scrambled to do the math on how many teases in total he was about to endure–he was excited to endure.

“On the third day of Christmas, I count on my dashing lee…” Patton fell forward, hovering above Janus nose-to-nose and grinning. The heels of his hands came to rest on Janus’, his fingers sliding up Janus’ palms until their digits were parallel and easily intertwinable. Janus didn’t know whether this move was a moment of mercy early on or of false security, and he tried to hold Patton’s hands and take as deep of breaths as his cantering heart would allow. Patton squeezed his hands once before curling his own fingers inward. Janus’ eyebrows furrowed in confusion before shooting up in realization, just in time for Patton’s nails to scratch delicately along the palms of Janus’ hands. “Three pairs of twitchy palms~”

Janus snorted, and he would have blamed the tickling, if anyone had asked. No way, no way, was Patton going to get him to unfurl his other two sets of arms into a visible and tangible state. Even if doing so would gain Janus four more terribly ticklish spots to be doted upon… No. He would not so willfully participate in his own demise.

Most all his resistance dissipated into delighted terror when Patton drew back, aiming his wiggling fingers behind him until they touched down to rake Janus’ heels. “Two wiggling feet~”

Janus held his breath and clenched his jaw. He’d already let a little laughter sound loose; even if it was a relief to do so, it was too early in the marathon to let himself go. Wasn’t it?

“And a giggle button on his belly~”

Poor Janus arched his back and threw his head into the mattress as Patton’s fingers danced around his stomach, trailing long slow paths from the bottom of his ribcage to the top of his hips and back up again. On the second trip, Patton changed techniques, using one hand for featherlight skating down Janus’ sensitive skin and using the other for just a bit rougher scratching down his scales. At last, the giggly dam crumbled, and, albeit through his grinning teeth and scrunched nose, Janus began to laugh, a hissing breathy happy sound.

Patton hummed, pleased, and sung on. “On the fourth day of Christmas, I count on my cutie lee…”  From where his hands splayed on Janus’ waist, it was easy as fruit cake for Patton to slide them around until he was holding Janus in a hug, warm but made menacing by his nails sudden scurrying into Janus’ lower back. “Four spine-y squeezes~”

Grabbing at his hat to hold himself still, Janus cackled, shoving his back down into the mattress in attempt to make the spot inaccessible for Patton, but to no avail. Still, he didn’t even have time to get used to the sensation before the song went marching on. Patton gently pried Janus’ hands free to scribble into his palms, fell back onto his legs to skitter down his soles, and bowed forward to dig into the soft flesh of his stomach.

“On the fifth day of Christmas, I count on my love-a-lee…” The flurry of movement from the last verse had paused, and Patton lay, for a moment, his cheek still on Janus’ panting midsection. Janus kept his guard up, though. Haggard as he was, he felt vindicated when he saw the mischievous twinkle in Patton’s eyes immediately before he took a big breath and blew a vibrating raspberry in Janus’ belly. The hilarious and heinous weapon was matched in volume by Janus’ wail of laughter. “Five raspberries!” Patton lifted his head, beaming. Janus shook his head, too breathless to form words and soon swept up once more in a tidal wave of howling humor as Patton planted one, two, three, four more raspberries on Janus’ tummy. It certainly didn’t help that all the Sides had slight stubble growing recently; the scratch of Patton’s peach fuzz, especially on Janus’ scales, made for the most awful raspberries he’d probably ever felt.

No rest for the wicked; Patton’s song carried on. Janus, through quite brutal a memorization process, was starting to get used to the pattern mentally, but not physically. The jumping from spot to spot was too sudden and speedy for him to get used to anything, so all he could do was brace for what he knew was coming next. Four scribbles down his spine (and shoulders, which Patton did not need to be so mean as to target), three pairs of palms subject to little but effective scratches, two feet menaced this time by that damn blue feather, and one belly button turning pink from aching laughter and attention.

“On the sixth day of Christmas, I count on my dearie lee… six ticklish armpits~” 

Another pause, during which Janus gulped giggly breaths before cracking an eye open. Like spiders cut loose from their webs, Patton’s hands descended, diving into Janus’ uppermost armpits with clawing fingers.

It was good that Janus had already let his laughter loose, because, when the newest bout of cachinnation rocked his frame, he needed all his resolve to hold his arms still. His grasp was white-knuckle tight on his arms and hair, and his laughing grin was wide enough to make his cheeks burn from the ache of exertion as well as the heat of elation. And then Patton took the elevator down to the next floor of terribly ticklish underarms. Janus’ elbows strained to flap, and his head whipped back and forth, shoving one chortling cheek and then the other into the bedspread. How long could this verse possibly be?

Another brutal raspberry to his belly amidst the armpit assault prompted a shriek from Janus. He couldn’t verbalize how unfair it was to double up on spots, and Patton’s explanation was hardly sympathetic. “Five!” Patton crowed, burying his face in Janus’ stomach to deliver vibrating lips and nuzzling stubble with each syllable. “Rasp! Ber! Ries!” For as much effort as Janus was using to keep still (aside from his thrashing laughing head and heaving stomach), he was startled at how easy a time Patton had muscling him halfway onto his side. That was definitely why he squealed, and not because Patton had finally moved down to scribbling into his lowest armpits with one jumping hand and feathering his lower back with the other.

“Four spiney squeezes~”

It was small but a mercy still that Patton didn’t make Janus release his ironclad grip on his own arms for the next stanza, settling instead on brushing that evil plume along his forearms and into the crooks of his elbows. (The song’s alignment to Patton’s actions had been askew from the start anyway, but Janus was having too much fun to nitpick.)

“Three pairs of twitchy palms~”

Perhaps unintentional, but there was another brief respite for Janus in the few seconds between Patton pulling back from his upper body to reach back for his feet. Very brief, maybe long enough for one guffaw to have a longer inhale than the rest before tumbling once more into wailing laughter as Patton’s fingers scribbled into his arches.

“Two wiggling feet~”

Patton pounced forward and giggled when Janus snorted amid his laughter, only to place a teasing kiss on his stomach.

“And a giggle button on his belly~”

If Janus wasn’t half-past loopy already, he would have marveled at Patton’s masterminding. This session was pure psychological evil. Janus was all heightened nerves and anticipation; after the reveal of what spot would start the new verse, he technically knew what was coming next, but he was still awash in thrill and terror, like he was experiencing each spot anew.

He also would have applauded six ticklish hands for Patton’s composition skills. Once they’d gotten to the tenth verse, it was a very smooth and terrible line up from Janus’ toes to his knees to his thighs to his hips. The next, eleven, was not so limited in its geography but its choreography, but Patton performed it wickedly. That beautiful quill was the star of it, and Patton made use of his ‘eleven feather swishes’ to waltz up Janus’ tummy, across his chest, dipping into his armpits, to his neck and ears–eleven was so many swishes. If he’d had the wherewithal and malice for it, Janus would have thrown Patton six calling birds for his villainy.

The echoes of the last verse and laughter lingering in the corners of the room, Janus lay, limp and gulping air through lingering giggles, eyes shut and an utterly relaxed smile upon his lips. Patton lay as well, still and content, his cheek resting on Janus’ stomach and his index fingers tracing the scales on his sides.

“How ya doin’, kiddo?” Patton asked with a sigh, chuckling when he received only a happy hissing exhale in reply. “I’m glad.” He sat up, tapping a little tune on Janus’ tummy and biting his lip. “You think you got it in you for one more verse?”

Janus’ eyes scrunched further shut, and he giggled at the mere thought of Patton’s proposal. He peeked through one eye and nodded.

“Okay.” Patton’s soft, fond smile sharpened into something sinister. “But, you know, darn it, I think I’ve forgotten the words. Do you remember them? Think you can sing it for me?”

Janus snorted at that. Yes, an excellent idea, let the snake whose brain had been reduced to happy goopy goofy mush come up with the words to the teasing song that had been his detriment. Don’t let him sink fully into elated sleepiness, make him force himself to stay awake enough to bear a bit more, draw out the session a little longer to make it truly the best Christmas gift… Upon deliberation, Janus could see the appeal. Mean but sweet, indeed. Janus pulled himself up, physically and mentally, assuming the familiar position of bracing his own arms and coaxing his mind from the edge of sleep. He’d certainly heard the verses enough times to know the words. He cleared his throat, voice hoarse and happy from laughing so long. “On the twelfth day of Christmas, the tickle monster gave to me: twelve heaving ribs– PATTON!”

The newest rendition of the song had been softer, wavering a bit, compared to Patton’s more confident and lilting tone. Well. It had been quieter, until Patton had unleashed hell upon Janus’ ribs. Vibrating, scratching fingers followed the furrows of the bones, left to right, and then raked down them like a washboard. Rinse, repeat.

Oh, Patton had been going easy on him all this time. That whole marathon thing had just been a prelude to the real event: the sprint.

“Yes, Janus dear?” Patton grinned. “Go on, just waiting for you to sing the next bit and tell me where to tickle!”

OH, not even a sprint–a sprint implied pushing it to the limit for a short time. This pseudo-sprint’s pace was to be determined by the man whose legs had been jelly for the past ten minutes. So it could have been a short time, if Janus let his shrieking, snorting laughter overtake him, or it could take as long as it took him to think coherently while being tickle tortured. A very, very long time. He really must have been on the naughty list.

Like with the previous, Janus had barely crowed out the next verse before Patton had that damn feather darting everywhere it could reach, his neck and ears and stomach mostly, until it could fly back to saw between his toes for the tenth day of Christmas. The feather flipped to scribble the quill end under Janus’ toes as Patton’s other hand squeezed up until it reached his knee. Nine. Both hands dove in to spider and scratch his thighs. Eight. Then to massage their thumbs into his hips bones. Seven.

Janus was a gay mess of exhausted but elated guffawing and kicking feet and flapping elbows. He could barely get out the words to direct Patton where to tickle next. If he’d been asked to lead a verse earlier in the session, he might have mucked up the order a bit on purpose to make it easier on himself. That option was out the window now, as he could hardly keep up with calling out spots as Patton was actively tickling them. He was swept up in the speed and brutality of the menacing of different spots, all scribbling nails and stubbly kisses. Patton was laughing with him, cheeks red from the upped pace of the activity and smile wide and beaming from getting to make Janus feel so happy and safe. He was jumping and falling between spots on the final countdown, half leading and half following Janus’ howling hymnal. With one final raspberry to Janus’ navel, the both of them collapsed in a cuddly heap, Patton rolling off Janus' body to hug him properly.

Eyes heavy and chest heaving as he took slow, deep, relaxing breaths, Janus gave Patton a boop on the nose with the Santa hat that sat crooked on his head. “Merry Christmas, meanie.”

“And a sweet New Year,” Patton giggled, reaching over the side of the bed to grab the duvet and wrap them both up in it for a well-earned snuggle.

#tickling #squealing santa 2k23 #squealing santa #mine #ro writes #ticklish!janus #lee!janus #ler!patton

[rosileeduckie]

Hark the Herald Devils Sing

Snow was going to fall anyway, don't see what the fuss is about.

A Christmas prank gets Christmessy.

Good Omens/Ineffable Husbands tickle fic. Warnings: none.

Word count: 1,914

~*~

"Crowley, darling, look! Carolers!"

"Oh, brilliant."

If Aziraphale, certainly bright with cherry cheeks and a merry smile, had turned back from the front door to look toward the couch where his partner had just been, he would have found the seat completely vacated. For as relaxed as he'd been lounging on the sofa, snuggling and reading over Aziraphale's shoulder, Crowley had been off like a flying reindeer the moment there had been a knock at the door and the dreadful sight of a gaggle of Santa hats out the front window. It's not that the golden-eyed demon didn't WANT to suffer through being sung at through a door to the polar vortex by an all too cheerful amateur choir. It's just that, well, okay, he didn't. Even if being subjected to such torture came with the blessed side effect of getting to bask in the radiance of his angel’s unabashed gleeful smile at humans doing silly human things in even subzero weather. But Crowley would have many a chance to see that smile. The chance to thwart the spirits of people banging down doors in the name of peace and cheer? That was seasonal.

Crowley took the stairs up through the bookshop and flat with enough enthusiasm that he could have been flying, and soon found himself on the roof, overlooking the a cappella band. Time was short before they would become other than sitting ducks, but, upon getting blasted with freezing night air, Crowley spared a precious few seconds to miracle himself up some gloves and a diamond patterned scarf. Gingerly, avoiding both patches of ice and lumps of snow that threatened to cling to and soak the cuffs of his pants, Crowley crouched low to the edge of the roof, perched above a bucket of water that had neither been there that morning nor frozen after the sunset. He could already feel his feet beginning to tingle with numbness. No time for dilly-dallying. One big breath, one tight grip, one good heave, and the bucket was upended over the side of the roof, an impossibly massive but precise deluge of water raining down onto the street.

“Happy Christmas, indeed,” Crowley snickered, rocking back on his heels to dodge out of view. The choir would be fine, surely. Their concert had been disrupted, yes, but they’d all find themselves miraculously immune to frostbite as well as pass a wagon that would just so happen to be offering free hot cocoa and biscuits for the holiday. Crowley was a demon, not a total asshole. To be safe, he’d made himself scarce so as not to earn more ire from people, even if said people were uninvited carolers. As such, he’d missed getting to see their faces as the torrent of water descended upon and soaked them. Still, he should have been able to HEAR their shocked shrieks and grumblings as a result of the prank. He peeked over the edge.

Rocketing up to the roof before the prank had made him miss seeing one of his angel’s sunniest expressions. Craning to look over the edge of the roof now brought him face to face with about the sourest look Crowley had ever seen from Aziraphale. The choir having ostensibly been pushed back a good ten feet, the only one to suffer as the target of Crowley’s mischief was Aziraphale himself, figuratively frozen to the newly wet snowy ground and shooting a glare burning with divine fire up into the eaves.

Crowley shrunk back but could still feel Aziraphale’s gaze singeing the tails of his scarf and melting the snowflakes from his hair. Or perhaps he mistook the sound of his own mortified hissing. “Oh, fuck.”

**

“I’m sorry,” Crowley bemoaned again, having lost count of how many times he’d done so. The carolers, scared stiff but dry, had been shooed away, and Crowley had ushered Aziraphale back inside toward the fireplace, shucking off any of the wet and cold clothing clinging to his skin, sitting him in his reading chair, and wrapping him in all the blankets Crowley could carry without losing balance. The demon had begun his apologies before even making it down from the roof, and he didn’t see himself stopping any time soon.

Aziraphale’s glare had been murderous, but he had softened considerably upon such repentant dotage from his partner. Crowley watched, with substantial relief, the way the crease in Aziraphale’s brow smoothed over and the pout in his lips faded after being dried off and bundled up in his favorite chair with a cup of steaming cocoa easily in reach.

“Angel, I really am sorry I caught you in the splash,” said Crowley, kneeling by the arm of the chair and laying a hand on Aziraphale’s knee--or where he approximated a knee to be; it was hard to tell through at least three throws and a comforter. “I didn’t mean to--”

He broke off his umpteenth apology, breath catching in his throat, when Aziraphale chuckled. “I know you didn’t, my dear.” Aziraphale wriggled one hand free from his blanket cocoon to take a sip of cocoa and then to hold Crowley’s cheek. “You would have been much more devious and proud of yourself if you’d meant it.”

Crowley smiled, half-sighing and half-chuckling and fully nuzzling into Aziraphale’s touch. “Absolutely, I would have been.”

The angel scoffed, smile growing brightly and easily as he gave a little shove against Crowley’s nuzzling with his hand. “Come give us a cuddle? Least you can do to make it up to me, really,” Aziraphale teased.

With a roll of his eyes, Crowley nodded, pretending to mutter, and rose from his knees, melting comfortably into Aziraphale’s lap when the angel spread his blanket wings to create a spot for him. Soon, they were both wrapped up, tangled up, safe together in their little nest. Crowley’s legs straddled Aziraphale’s thighs, arms around his shoulders and face buried in his neck, purring in quiet contentment as the angel’s hands rubbed slow circles over his back.

“Wouldn’t have to make it up to you,” Crowley hummed, catching a whiff of lovely sandalwood cologne from the angel’s curls that had dried and gone back to their usual white-blond fluffiness, “if you hadn’t insisted on being daft and heroic. Saving carolers from their just desserts, hgk. And when they were ASKING for their figgy pudding.”

Aziraphale giggled, pressing a kiss to Crowley’s crimson hair that brought his lips close to the demon’s ear. “And from whom did I need to save them?”

“Ggk,” replied Crowley, leaning back from Aziraphale’s chest enough to scowl and wave his hands to bat away that logic. “Are you warm yet or what? While you’re incapacitated, I could set up another bucket on the roof. Bound to be more than just one group of carolers tonight.”

“You would return to engaging in such villainy after it’s already hurt me so?” Aziraphale gaped, wiping at a nonexistent tear. “Crowley, darling, I don’t know that my heart could take the thought.”

“OKAY, okay, drama queen,” Crowley said, nestling back into Aziraphale’s neck but still well aware the angel was grinning.

“You won’t let me be heroic OR dramatic?” Aziraphale tutted. “Would it make you feel better if I was mischievous? Since you’re busy keeping me warm?”

As quickly as he’d molded back to his cuddle spot, Crowley wrenched backward, spurred by Aziraphale’s hands, once soothing, slipped beneath his jumper, and they were COLD. “Angel-!”

The grin Aziraphale had already been wearing was downright devilish. “Yes, my dear? Oh my, you don’t mind, do you? This is such a nice way to warm up my hands~”

If Crowley minded, he couldn’t exactly say so, because Aziraphale’s hands had taken up exercise to warm up all the more quickly. The angel’s fingers moved to Crowley’s ribs, plucking them as delicate and sharp and quick as if he were playing a harp. Sputtering with a shriek that dissolved embarrassingly quickly into merry chortling, Crowley tried to lean back and out of reach, only to find himself thoroughly trapped by the weighty blankets around the pair. Rather than run, since that option was out, he elected to hide, crumpling forward to bury his laughter in Aziraphale’s chest (which was easy enough since the demon hadn’t even let go of his angel in his escape attempt. Maybe he knew he deserved some recompense for drenching him. Maybe he didn’t want that badly to get away. He couldn’t say, literally.)

“Why, thank you, love,” said Aziraphale, kissing Crowley’s ear once more and taking extra care to brush the stubble of his newly growing beard against the sensitive skin of it (a style change inspired by Crowley’s historically shifting fashion sense, which Crowley wasn’t sure if he regretted or adored at the moment.) “Your laughter does always make me feel warm and happy. I know you don’t care for the sound of it, but I rather adore it.”

If Aziraphale wanted warmth, the sudden heat in Crowley’s face ought to have sufficed. “Angel,” he whined, the sound morphing into a squeal and then wild gay laughter as Aziraphale’s fingers scuttled up to tickle under Crowley’s arms.

“Come to think of it, Crowley darling, you must be quite cold, too. Yes, I didn’t appreciate being on the end of your little prank, but it must have taken you a bit of cleverness to set up and a bit of strength to deal with that cold, my lovely snake. And, seeing as tickling you gets you warm enough for both of us, I think that’s the best way for us to spend the remainder of our evening, don’t you?”

Crowley’s ecstatic squirming had all but tipped him off Aziraphale’s lap (it couldn’t be helped; he had the bad habit of forgetting he had bones when he laughed hard enough), and soon Aziraphale’s torturous hands were the only things keeping the demon from falling off the chair in a tangle of blankets. Giggling proudly, the angel had mercy, pausing his attack long enough to get Crowley comfortably lounging upon his lap once more. Gulping air and keeping his guard cautiously up, Crowley held onto the lapels of Aziraphale’s cardigan and tried to rub away the tingling beneath his arms while he could. “You’d discorporate me before the evening was over, mean as you are when you tickle,” Crowley said, sticking out a forked tongue as though that could negate the blissfully happy smile stuck to his face.

Aziraphale’s chuckle was a purr as he leaned in to kiss Crowley’s neck. “I could tease you all evening instead. We both know you’d get just as red.”

With a flustered grumble, Crowley tilted his head away from Aziraphale’s advances, able to pretend to be grumpy for maybe five seconds before Aziraphale dove back in to croon and kiss along his ear. “You’ll have to be gentle if you want to keep from getting an elbow to the face or a demon on the floor.” The angel raised his eyebrows, and Crowley smacked his arm, growing all the redder when Aziraphale laughed. “You know what I MEAN.”

“I do, darling. I do.” Aziraphale pulled Crowley close, warm and secure. “Ready then?”

Crowley nodded.

Slowly, sweetly, Aziraphale’s hands returned beneath Crowley’s sweater, tickling gently and with the occasional flurry or scribble of his nails just to make Crowley snort and squawk. Each time, without fail, Aziraphale pressed a kiss to Crowley’s cackling mouth. “You make much sweeter music than those carolers, anyway.”

#tickling #mine #tickle fic #ro writes #ticklish!crowley #ineffable husbands #gomens #i'm manifesting snow for myself

[rosileeduckie]

Marvelous stuff here 😍 wonderful writing, incredible idea!!! You rock!!

The Fluffiest Time of Year

Summary: Featherflake falls have always been your least favorite part of the season. What should just be simple precipitation presents too high a risk of tickles around people you don't want seeing you all giggly and vulnerable, but this year you're with your loving partner. Maybe it's time to let loose a little and see if they'll take some initiative, with a little help from the weather.

Word Count: 947

Note: I know I had the poll recently and Skitters is 100% going to be my next fic, but this prompt of featherflakes was given as an extra little fun assignment for people participating in @squealing-santa this year and I just thought of this simple little idea that was too cute not to do first. Plus it's only a few days until the actual assignments for that are going to be given out so I wanted to get this done before then. I hope you all enjoy this little fluff piece, I had a lot of fun coming up with an explanation of what featherflakes are and a cutesy little story to go with them 💜🪶

--------------------------------------------------

Every year for as long as you can remember, between fall and winter, there's been a special weather phenomenon. When it starts to get only barely colder than hoodie-weather and birds fly through the clouds, the lightest and cleanest fibers of feathers separate from their wings and stay behind. Very much like water droplets in a snow cloud, the fibers begin to bind together, and soon fall to the ground as featherflakes.

This has always been a difficult time for you, because as much as you secretly love to be tickled, you've also never quite felt comfortable with the people around you knowing. On days where featherflakes were suspected to drop, you'd bundle up as best as you could, telling others you were cold when in actuality you were just hiding as much skin as possible. This year though, something's a bit different.

This is the first year you're experiencing a featherflake falling while with your partner. They unlike anyone you've ever known makes you feel safe, safe to laugh and love and be yourself. No tickling has taken place just yet in this relationship, they haven't thought of it and you've been too nervous to initiate it, but you know you want it to happen and today may be the perfect day for it.

It's shopping day, time to get the weekly batch of groceries, and you two are getting dressed to leave when out the window you notice the first flakes fall. You begin bundling up extra carefully like you always do, but then pause. There's an opportunity here, one that would require little doing and could get you what you've wanted for a while now, so you just throw on a light winter jacket and prepare to go out to the car.

You step outside, partner by your side as you both begin the short walk down the path. Featherflakes fall and fly around, and for the first time in years you feel them make contact as a few brush past your cheeks. A shiver runs down your spine, and apparently quite a visible one.

"You okay?", they ask, noticing your shiver and nervous expression.

The truth floats through your brain, but you just can't bring yourself to say it. "I-I'm fine, just chilly." Your partner nods and continues the walk. You follow while scolding yourself internally, pouting as you kick piles of flakes covering the path. One kick accidentally leads way for some to fall into your shoes, just as more are blown around your neck. You stop dead in your tracks, trying your hardest to suppress the rising giggle, able to stop all but a snicker that escapes your lips.

They turn back towards you, at first concerned but then noticing the slight smirk on your face that you try to wipe away. You watch as their face turns to a suspicious grin as the words you dread yet crave finally follow, "Hold on, did you just laugh? Are the flakes tickling you?"

A bright red blush washes over your cheeks as your hands rush to conceal them, but it's too late, they've already noticed. "Oh my gosh, you're ticklish! How did I never realize this?!"

Muffled words come from behind your hands, "I.. didn't know how to.. bring it up. You never did it before and it just.. seemed silly to ask for." You sigh through your hands, refusing to look their way.

Their arms wrap around you, holding you close and placing a kiss on your forehead. "It's not silly, sweetie. I mean, it's a little silly, but not bad silly! The type of silly that makes me love you even more, if that's even possible with how much I love you already."

The hands that once hid your face from the fears of what they could say fall just as quickly as those fears. "Really? Y-You'd do this with me? You don't think I'm.. a freak?"

Your partner, whose face was once soft with compassion, suddenly give you a sly look you could have never expected from them. "Call yourself a freak one more time and just see what I do about it."

That blush returns to your face with a vengeance, but you can't help but smile as you decide to call his bluff, "I-I'm.. a freak!"

"That's it!", they say as they scoop up a bunch of featherflakes off the ground and quickly stuff them down the back of your jacket and into your shirt. The little pieces of fluff cascade down your back as the giggles begin, each twitch and squirm sending them further down and around your sides. Your partner smiles and holds you close once again, this time to reach up from the bottom of your jacket to wiggle their fingers on your belly.

Between the feathers and fingers you can't stop laughing, and also you can't continue standing as you fully lose your balance and fall into a small pile of featherflakes, only adding to the experience further. They follow you down and continue their attack, even grabbing some more flakes with their other hand to sprinkle over you like they were seasoning a ticklish little meal.

Once you've had enough you both lay their for a little bit before heading back inside to clear the flakes out of your clothes so you can relax fully, which was still a tickly process but such a relief once you were finally rid of them. The shopping can wait til later, or even tomorrow. Right now you just want to cuddle with your love, smiling brighter than you have in a while, the remaining tingly sensation cementing this as your new favorite time of year.

#tickling #switchyglitch #writing #s tier concept #not mine #i am quarantined and i think the writing bug just bit me

[rosileeduckie]

Spooky spider season forever with this masterpiece 😋🥰

Trick or Sneak

Panda’s Notes: Spooky Month is every month, which means every month is Tickletober, nerds! Get used to it. >w< This is based on/partnered with this lovely art from @rosileeduckie. I hope you guys like it!

[Ao3] || [Commissions] || [Ko-fi]

If there was one thing no one expected from Spider Society, it was a Halloween party. Probably because it wasn’t Miguel’s idea. It had been an anonymous suggestion by at least one of the Spiders to LYLA, and it quickly became an addition to the schedule that Miguel was promptly outvoted and overruled on.

And so, the week leading up to Halloween saw several sectors of the building completely decked out in all kinds of wild decorations. From “spooky” garlands, and cool-colored lights, it honestly looked pretty fun.

But you could convince most people that something was fun if you threw enough candy at them.

Miles stood on one of the higher floors, looking over the railing at the other Spiders wandering back and forth. Many had gotten clearance to bring friends; several had brought along their kids; even Miles planned to bring Ganke and his own Earth-42 counterpart along later in the week. Y’know, as long as it didn’t suck. Hence, today was a scouting mission, so to speak.

“Miles!”

His Spider sense proved useless against his girlfriend rushing up to him, and he barely turned in time to catch her in his arms and squeeze her tight.

“Hey, you!” He laughed lightly, holding her at arms’ length for a moment to take in her costume. She had been pretty stingy with any details beside it being a witch costume, but the dress was an adorable black with several orange patches of shiny material and a black and white sort of belt with a skull resting on the center of her stomach. He pecked her forehead and playfully flicked the brim of her hat. “Even cuter than I thought you’d be.”

“You hush.” She snickered, patting his arm. “I see you liked the patchwork we did~” She motioned to the patches coloring Miles’ sweater and overalls. “More surprised you survived the makeup chair with Hobie though.”

Miles rolled his eyes and chuckled. Hobie assaulting him with a makeup brush wasn’t a new experience by any means, but the scars and bruises expertly drawn on his skin were worth a few teases and tickles. “Yeah, yeah, where’s your punk anyway?”

“Don’t go talkin’ about me like I’m not here.” Miles flinched as Hobie spoke, practically against the side of his neck. When he spun around, he found the young man snickering and wearing… a sweatsuit?

“Uh, Hobie? That’s your costume?” Miles asked, stifling a snort.

“I thought you were going to wear the space thing.” Gwen said with a little pout.

“Not sure what you’re talking about, love. This is much cooler, I think.” He said with a smirk. They weren’t sure what he was so proud of; it was just a set of black sweats—shirt and pants. Didn’t even look like he’d tried. He was wearing a different guitar though; that was a little weird.

“Okay, but what are you supposed to be?” She asked a bit more directly.

“Wouldn’t you like to know~”

“Oh, I’ll tell you what he’s dressed as: a stick in the mud.” Miles joked teasingly, earning a quick elbow to his shoulder as he and Gwen laughed.

“You lot always want to act like you’re so smart.” Hobie sighed with a grin, shaking his head as he played with the fake sunflowers and vines tangled in Miles’ hair. “It’ll bite ya when you least expect it.” He hooked his arms around both of his partners before shoving them forward. “Get a move on, then; Pavi said we can find him down in Sector 2.”

Miles and Gwen lit up excitedly and started to jog off, and Hobie snickered as he trailed behind them.

Sector 2 was the big draw of this thing. The whole wing was sectioned and decorated floor to ceiling to make some kind of haunted funhouse labyrinth. There were a few Spiders volunteering as scare actors; there were candy baskets strewn about the maze; some of the rooms in the sector had even been designated for certain games and scary movies. The area right in front of the main elevator had been dressed up into a gaudy sort of entrance, there were a few Spiders handing out decorated little bags, flashlights, and blank maps of the maze.

“Once you’re in there, you’re on your own~” The Spider at the “gate”—wearing cat ears and a tail over their suit—teased playfully as they dramatically pulled back the curtain blocking the darkened hallway. Another Spider—just covered by a bright white sheet—was refilling a bowl with candy and scrambled through a “hidden” door when the curtain was opened. Miles and Gwen laughed, and Hobie just rolled his eyes with a smirk.

When the curtain fell back into place, it was nearly pitch black. The floor was lined with glow-in-the-dark tape along the walls, and the ceiling had string lights with Halloween themed bulbs. Miles couldn’t help flinching a bit when a hand slipped into his, but he locked his fingers with Gwen’s and squeezed gently. He flicked on the flashlight and led the group through the maze of “tunnels” made of strategically opened and blocked-off doors. After several minutes of dubious turns only occasionally halted by Gwen sneaking handfuls of candy into the bag on Miles’ back before grabbing his hand again, Miles paused to glance at their linked hands.

“Gwen, I can’t help but notice that you seem a little nervous.” He said just a bit playfully, nuzzling gently into her cheek. “Are you scared of the dark?”

“Mm… Yes and no.” She admitted, swinging their hands casually. “I’m not exactly built for dark spaces. You can probably tell just from my suit. It never really bothered me before, but ever since, um… that night in the museum, dark and cramped spaces make me anxious…”

“Aw, Penguin…” Miles pulled her closer, releasing her hand to hug her to his side. “Why didn’t you bring a friend of yours? Those ones Hobie made? Witches love cats.”

“If you mean Ol’ Miss, I don’t think a big, pink cat would go with my…” She paused, glancing over her shoulder. “Hey, where is Hobie?”

“What?” Miles spun around, aiming the flashlight back the way they’d come from. “Oh, that prick; he had the map!”

Gwen sighed, but she smiled fondly. “Are you really surprised? I didn’t think he’d want to do the maze with us, honestly.”

“It’s Hobie, Gwen; we can’t afford to be surprised.” Miles joked, giving her hand a firm squeeze before stepping away to peek around the corners they’d passed.

“Think he’s up to something?”  Gwen called, wringing her hands as she waited.

“Of course he is.” Miles returned quickly, letting her take hold of his arm as he scanned the new fork in front of them. “Let’s focus on finding Pavitr before he springs it on us.”

She gave a slight nod, jogging beside him through a few more turns.

Meanwhile, a certain someone tsked and shook his head from the room he’d slipped into, tuning his guitar before checking the map and sending a message through his watch.

[Get in position; good to go.]

~~~~~~~~~~~~

“So… We’re lost, right?” Gwen asked playfully after a few more minutes of wandering. She had gotten comfortable enough to let go of Miles’ hand over the walk, which meant the backpack was nearly overflowing with candy and small party favor bags.

Miles snorted, stashing his phone after taking a picture of the decorations in the stairwell they were in. “Oh, we been lost. Sorry; I thought you knew.”

She laughed happily, walking ahead and checking out their new tunnel options. She let out a gasp, and Miles caught up to find her holding four glow-in-the-dark spider rings. They’d been sitting in a bowl under a small light to charge, and they all glowed different colors in the dark hallway.

“Heh, classic.” He chuckled, pointing the flashlight away as she took his hand.

She was about to put one of the rings on his finger, but she huffed out a sigh and pouted. “I wish Hobie was here. And it’s been a while, hasn’t it? Should we just call Pavitr?”

“Knowing him, he’s probably just as lost. Or he’s found the best game room and is killing it.”

“If he was lost, he would call for help. Not that we’d be much without our map. And he was the one who promised no games until we meet up.” She tapped her chin with one hand, biting her lip a bit worriedly.

“Okay, okay; you’re right.” Miles conceded, squeezing her hand for a second. “Don’t work yourself up yet; I’m still not so sure about our missing punk.”

She gave a slight smile, slipping behind him and placing the spider rings in the bag. “Hey… Listen.” She pulled him backwards to the fork they’d passed. In the distance, there was a commotion: a bit of chatter that suddenly turned into a chorus of scared shrieks and muffled laughter. “I think there’s a movie room down there. Maybe we could get a look at someone’s map.”

Miles nodded slightly as he walked, and he was about to say something when his Spider Sense tingled. “Wait.” He stopped abruptly, glancing around warily and turning the flashlight back on.

Gwen felt a tingle of her own, but…it seemed different from whatever had tripped Miles’. Something was behind them. She grabbed Miles’ sleeve as she looked over her shoulder. “Do you—” She blinked as she heard the plucking of guitar strings. “Did you hear that?”

Miles glanced in that direction, lowering the flashlight just a second too soon. His Spider Sense went off again, more urgently, and he turned back to find—

“BLEGH!” A face was right in front of his, the beam from the flashlight casting striking shadows across it.

“Whoa!” He yelped, backing suddenly into Gwen.

She pressed her hands to his shoulders to steady him, caught off-balance herself by the scare. That faint guitar playing had gotten closer before it had gone silent nearby. Her Spider Sense went off again, but she didn’t even get time to take her hands off of Miles when a familiar pair of hands dug scribbling fingers into her sides.

Miles flinched at the squeal she let out, his shoulders relaxing when he realized she was laughing. And she wasn’t the only one; he finally angled the flashlight at the ceiling to find Pavitr upside-down and laughing at them, his face, arms, and torso wrapped in bandages for a mummy costume.

“Pavi!” He scolded, grinning brightly. “And let me guess…” He looked back to confirm what he’d known from the start: Hobie had Gwen by her waist, tickling up her sides before wrapping his arms around her to pick her up.

“You brats really thought I’d ditch you, eh?” He tsked and shook his head. “No trust at all.” He pressed a few kisses to Gwen’s cheek as he set her down. “You missed me~” Gwen shoved at his face, giggling happily and earning some pokes on her stomach.

“I knew you had to be up to something!” Miles leaned to tap Hobie on the arm with the flashlight. “Why’d you take the ma—” He paused, stunned into silence for a moment, and Gwen’s face lit up in awe.

“Hobie, it looks awesome!” Pavitr called excitedly.

With the flashlight turned away, in the dark of the hallway, they could finally see the skeleton painted on Hobie’s sweatsuit in glow-in-the-dark paint, as well as the glowing skull painted on his face. He stuck his tongue out playfully, showing off the painted gloves on his hands; even the guitar he carried had bones and spiders stenciled on in the glowing paint.

“How did you…?” Miles started to ask, only for Hobie to slip the folded map out of his pocket and tap him on the head with it. Gwen could spot marks of color and lines where he’d been filling in room numbers and landmarks.

“I might’a stepped away a few times to let the paint charge up in a room. But, trust, love, I was following you two the whole time.” He sneered, handing back the map. “And watch who you’re accusing, Brooklyn. This was Pavi’s idea; not mine.”

“What?!”

“Guilty!” Pavitr exclaimed, lashing his hands out to quickly tickle under Miles’ arms while his back was still turned. He smirked a bit at Miles’ loud cackle before flinching away when he spun around. “You should have seen your faces!”

“Yeah? Did it look something like this?!” Miles lunged forward and dug his fingers under Pavitr’s arms and up his ribs. Pavitr flailed and laughed, taking backward steps on the ceiling before he suddenly fell. He managed a very unstable landing on one foot, barely able to turn in time to grab Miles’ wrists again.

“Wait, wait, wait!” He giggled, trying to push him back. “You were right about one other thing!” He jumped back and held his hands up innocently before reaching to pull his own mostly empty bag over his shoulder. He pulled out his copy of the map, unfolding it to show them where he’d labelled some upper rooms. “I found the room where we can play for full-size candy bars. And—!” He pointed out one of them excitedly. “This one has plushies with the cutest little costumes on! You guys have to see, at least.”

The others nodded with equal excitement, with Gwen unfolding their map against Hobie’s back to copy the room numbers.

“We have a couple of hours to run around; I grabbed some schedules for movies, and the one downstairs is going to have Monster House!”

“No way.” Miles snickered.

“From which universe, though?” Gwen called, leaning out from behind Hobie.

“It doesn’t say. Maybe that’s the scariest part.” Pavitr laughed lightly, pulling his flashlight out of his bag and turning it on.

Hobie let out a huff of a chuckle, letting his arm fall across Gwen’s shoulders. “You lot seen Texas Chainsaw Massacre yet?” He asked a bit tauntingly. “If you want a real scary movie, I mean.”

“You haven’t even seen Monster House yet!” Miles argued as they started to walk again.

“Nah, but I know you punks are lightweights.” He teased, poking Miles playfully in the back. “My place, yeah? After all this, I mean.”

“I’m game.” Gwen grinned playfully. “If you win me one of those plushies.”

“Ooh, same!” Pavitr said quickly. “Auntie gave me all night!”

Miles rolled his eyes as they all looked at him expectantly. “I’ll have to let my parents know…” He sighed as they cheered. “And you have to win me a plush too.”

#tickling #atsv tickle #tickletober #hexalianrebel blackfeathers #so freaking cute #my fren!! #so talented and wonderful #not mine

[rosileeduckie]

Five Days Remaining!

Registration closes at midnight PST on November 5th, so be sure to share with your knismobuddies!

For event details and registration, click here!!

[rosileeduckie]

Not only must you fear the monsters in the haunted house, you must beware the monsters in your own party! 😈🎃🧡😊

Happy Halloween~

#ros art #spideyverse #digital art #tickletober #spooky doodles

[rosileeduckie]

Not So Fast-Travel

No matter the genre or universe, there's always someone in the middle seat of the car.

Yasha and Caduceus find a way to pass the time while traveling, and their friends join in the fun. First piece (yes, on day three; it's practickly tradition for me:) for Tickletober 2023

Critical Role/Mighty Nein tickle fic. Warnings: none.

Word count: 2,928

~*~

She may have grown up in the wastes of Xhoras, but Yasha could find little love left in her for her home. Sure, the cities to the north had been fascinating to explore for the first time, and traveling with the odd bunch that was the Nein made any place entertaining, but the wastes were just as dull and dangerous and endless as she remembered, not to mention her backside was starting to get sore from the endless ride across the bleak plains. Maybe she was biased, but anyone who'd suffered a long rocky upbringing and then one ass-numbing journey on those wastes was justified in finding them bleak.

At least she had a good riding companion. Not that any of the party would be bad to travel with. Still, Yasha was glad she'd lucked into sharing a beast with Caduceus. The firbolg was fuzzy and warm, which gave Yasha all the more reason to keep her arms wrapped around his waist to keep from flying off the back of their beast. With both adventurers' armor pieces lashed to the saddle, Yasha could rest her cheek against Caduceus' back without his usual beetle green chest plate clocking her in the nose, for which she was grateful. His heartbeat was steady beneath her ear, and she could every so often hear vibrations from when he would softly hum or croon in his deep voice to their moorbounder. If said moorbounder's loping gait wasn't so tumultuous, Yasha might have fallen asleep. She didn't blame Clarabelle, though. Hopefully the huge cat-thing was enjoying the exercise.

It had taken a bit for Yasha to become comfortable with Caduceus. Part of it was due to her own solo journeys apart from the Nein, making her miss some of the voyages they'd all bonded more deeply on, even though they'd embraced her back into their midst each time as though she'd never left. But it was also how kind the firbolg was. Yasha had only met one other person with so warm a heart, and she had a hard time trusting that another person so good could cross her path. Through his relentless kindness, he'd worn down her walls, and his courage and wisdom helped her see how genuine he was. Yasha respected that. He was also very warm to sleep next to in the Nein's camping bubble, which Yasha was privy to where the others were not for complaint of Caduceus' snoring. Yasha didn't mind. The thunderous sound was comforting to drift off to. 

"Doin' alright back there?" Caduceus asked, his easy smile visible as he looked over his shoulder. Yasha's hands were folded over his middle, but the firbolg, though thin, was a full head taller than her. Yasha adjusted to look up at him, resting her chin on his shoulder blade and tipping her head back to meet his eye.

The barbarian hummed affirmatively, closing her eyes and offering a tired smile. "Could use a cupholder."

A chuckle rumbled through Caduceus' chest that made Yasha's jawbone buzz, and her smile softened into something fond. "I'll see after this adventure if we make enough to get a few improvements for our saddle, sound good?"

"Yeah. Just think, we could have tea on the road."

"Ah," Caduceus said, grin beaming as he urged Clarabelle onward to keep pace with the rest of the group. "That'd be nice."

Yasha turned to rest her cheek once more on Caduceus' back. The view this way hardly varied enough to interest Yasha, the sky the same ever-dark and clouded and the scraggly scrub grass silhouetted and whistling in the cold late season wind. It was a relief, then, when Clarabelle charged forward, catching up and keeping pace with the two larger moorbounders and giving Yasha the colorful view that was Jester and Fjord atop their bounder. Ironically, Fjord looked green, his arms clamped tightly around Jester's waist and his face buried in the  back of her neck. For a moment, Yasha wondered if the half-orc had somehow gotten seasick from the lumbering, racing stride of Yarnball, Jester's mount, but when Fjord lifted his head, Yasha could see that his features were twisted in embarrassment—brows furrowed and newly growing tusks exaggerating his lower lip as he pouted—rather than nausea. Yasha's wondering then wandered to whether what had flustered Fjord was Jester teasing him or just her inevitable closeness from their riding positions on a single moorbounder, and apparently such musing was easy to read from her soft chuckle because Fjord caught her eye and glared. Meanwhile Jester's smile was just beaming, her shoulders wiggling delightedly and her tongue poking out between her fangs.

At the encroach of sharp-tongued Zemnian, Yasha shifted to rest her other cheek against Caduceus' back. To her left, she could now see Caleb and Beau atop Jannick, the largest moorbounder among the group's. A moment later, Yasha saw Nott, popping her head out from where she was evidently sandwiched between the two humans. Beau's arms, folded and resting on Caleb's shoulders, served as a crown for the disgruntled goblin that boxed her small frame in. Caleb had hardly finished chastising the pair over his shoulder before Nott sent an elbow sharply and bodily backward into Beau's abdomen. The movement jostled both women and nearly unseated them, Beau balancing herself by gripping fistfuls of moorbounder fur on either side of the trio's saddle and Nott flailing for purchase by clawing at Caleb's coat and hanging on tight. Caleb swore again, Nott pulled sour faces, and Beau only laughed. At the sound and the grin Beau threw her way, Yasha prayed briefly and gratefully that Caduceus was too busy driving to notice how her heart skipped a beat and her cheeks warmed beneath her dark eye paint.

"It seems you have some problem passengers, Mr Caleb," said Caduceus, and the wizard huffed.

"Nothing escapes your notice, Caduceus."

Nott relaxed her grip in favor of crossing her arms the moment she had reclaimed some semblance of balance. "PassenGER," Nott said, speaking to the firbolg cleric but with a squinting side glance toward Beau. "I'M not the one causing problems. And how could I be, when I'm the size of a carry-on?"

Beau rolled her eyes and replied with a shove that squished Nott's face into the back of Caleb's coat. "Maybe if you'd quit SHIFTING—"

Before the monk could say more, Caleb, seething to the point of smoke nearly coming out of his ears, barked over his shoulder, "If you won't BOTH behave, I swear I'm feeding you to Jannick the moment we stop to camp for the night."

"See, Cad, Yasha, here's the thing," said Beau, swinging her leg over so as to ride side-saddle and politely face the pair she spoke to and less politely lean an elbow on Nott's head and anchor a hand on Caleb's shoulder. "When we left the city, I, very honorably and fairly, called dibs on not having to sit in the middle. It's Nott who's got a problem with that and making it everyone else's problem."

"I wouldn't have any problems if you'd stop SQUISHING me!" Nott whipped her head back to hiss at Beau and grinned smugly when the monk flinched back momentarily. Only to hiss all the more when Beau stubbornly hugged her tight and pinched her ears.

Caduceus chuckled and turned forward once more as Clarabelle, evidently done with the bickering noise, took a few pounces further ahead of the pack. 

Yasha turned back with a smirk as Nott yelled. "No, Caduceus, Yasha, come on! We need an impartial third party! Ow--! Make Beau switch seats with me!” 

The two women launched back into bickering, and Caleb’s shoulders hunched all the higher until he swore at them and yanked his mount’s reins, prompting Jannick to offer an irritated and deep meow to the collective complaints department. 

Caduceus’ ear flicked toward the sound, and Yasha’s attention was drawn from the squabbling caravan. It really showed how dull the journey had been that Caduceus’ ear, of all things, was suddenly so fascinating a sight to Yasha. But she could hardly nitpick at the odd--at any--entertainment.

Unlike Yasha's which were close to her head and small and rounded and pale, Caduceus' ears were more bovine in nature, long and droopy and covered in thin grey fur (the backs were, anyway, that she could see). They looked soft, and it was not the first time she'd thought so. She may have developed a bad habit of pinching her friend's ears to get their attention. At least, it had always worked on Molly, and, though she hadn't tested it nearly as much, it seemed to be equally effective on the Nein, certainly on Beau and Caleb. Height posed a challenge with some of her friends, so, while she could physically pick up Nott if she needed her attention, Yasha hadn’t given Caduceus many ear pinches. He didn’t annoy or ignore her enough to give her real reason to. They had poked and elbowed one another in the past if they needed to rise quickly from a contented, quiet snuggle, but that was mutual. Yasha didn’t think she annoyed Caduceus. She certainly hoped not, but would have fully understood if that changed after what she was about to do. Lifting her hand, Yasha curled her index finger and gently ran her knuckle along the back of Caduceus’ ear. Yup, she was just deciding, downy and soft as a baby angel’s wing–when Caduceus jolted, twitching forward with a huff. Yasha drew her hand back and furrowed her brow. Huh.

“Don’t tell me,” Caduceus chuckled, looking over his shoulder at her, “you came up with an even better improvement for the journey than a cupholder?”

“Maybe.” Yasha crossed her arms on Caduceus’ back and rested her chin atop them, tilting her head slightly to one side to watch his face. “Are your ears ticklish, Caduceus?” she asked, a crooked smirk rising on her lips.

From her vantage point, Yasha could easily see Caduceus’s mouth tighten into a pinched smile–and, he didn’t blush like some of the other Nein but, Yasha swore she saw tiny flowers begin to bloom in his long pink hair–before he scoffed. “I have siblings,” he sighed, turning to face the road ahead but grinning. “I know there’s no right way to answer that question.”

“Sure, there is.” Yasha’s ears didn’t twitch, but she could still hear when Caleb’s swearing grew louder, either closer or snappier. “You could threaten to feed me to Clarabelle.”

Caduceus snickered and said again, “I have siblings. You’d have to do a lot more than tickle me to annoy me enough to where I’d threaten that.”

Yasha grinned, uncrossing her arms and holding her hands up behind Caduceus’ ears. “I can accept that challenge.”

She didn’t attack right away for two reasons: the first was because she didn’t want to be too mean to Caduceus, in general but, because he was driving, and the second was because she had a funny thought she wanted to test, and doing so would only build up the butterflies of anticipation. (In her earlier life, she hadn’t had much experience with comforting and playful touch, but since finding family in the Nein, she’d become something of an expert in receiving and giving it. And maybe wielding its effects as easily and sharply as her sword.) Moving carefully as she could while on the back of a lumbering beast, Yasha moved her index fingers at a snail’s pace toward the back of Caduceus’ ears, keeping out of his periphery and just shy of actually touching him.

Her head was still tilted to one side as she said, soft and lilting, “Caduceus~”

His left ear flicked back toward her voice, only to brush against her waiting fingers. Yasha grinned as Caduceus flinched forward and gave his head a little shake. When he returned to his previous posture, Yasha didn’t let suspense prolong; she traced her first and middle finger down the length of Caduceus’ right ear. Said ear swatted at her like she was a buzzing gnat while the ear’s owner ducked his head and snorted.

Some combination of boredom and hearing that adorable sound ignited something in Yasha–a fire of mischief, a blazing villainous streak, what have you–and was definitely to blame for her becoming the worst traveling companion for the following few minutes.

Yasha rested the heels of her hands against the base of Caduceus’ skull and, gentle but unyielding, fluttered the tips of her fingers along the back of his ears. She took care not to hold too tight if Caduceus needed to hunch forward and out of reach, and the gentle half-giant tensed under her hands but didn't actively pull away. His body seemed to want to, instinctively, but–because he knew Yasha could be very stubborn or because he also needed some diversion to lighten up their tiresome trip and maybe because he didn’t mind her tickling all that much–Caduceus held firm against that instinct, and, if he couldn’t help but duck his head, he rounded his back to curl closer to her and stay within reach. Maybe such a feat of willpower was possible because his ears weren’t his most ticklish spot. Yasha’s little demon flared up again inside her, and she grinned, fluttering her fingers a bit faster. Caduceus might have been in for a bit of trouble if he ended up next to Yasha in the camp cuddle bubble that night, because she was absolutely going to be searching him for spots that would make him laugh so loud that the Nein would wonder how they ever complained about the volume of his snoring. As of yet, his laughter was quiet, huffing breaths through his nose and the occasional, adorable snort.

“Doin’ alright up there?”

Caduceus groaned, and, when he looked back to glare at her, she could see how big and gritted his smile was.

Though the little demon in her longed to, she didn’t push further. She wanted to be his traveling companion again at some point to get to play this game again, after all. Slowing her fingers, Yasha rotated her hands so she could reach the spots on either side of the jaw that always seemed to carry tension for her, and she pushed her thumbs gently into those points. Caduceus hummed, then coughed up a squeak when Yasha’s fingers curled into his hair, her nails gently scratching his scalp. Her heart seizing momentarily at how cute the cleric was, Yasha thumped her head against his back. How had their journey suddenly gotten so much shorter and so much longer so fast?

Yasha lifted her head at the sound of a delighted squeal–Caduceus’ ears also flicked toward the sound, and she dusted her fingertips along them–and looked toward it, finding Jester and Fjord having loped up alongside them. “Yasha, that’s such a good idea!” Jester clapped. “This trip was taking forever. A tickle fight would definitely pass the time!”

The tiefling wrangled her reins into one hand and reached behind her, fingers splaying and curling dramatically as she grabbed at Fjord’s side. Fjord wasn’t having it. Apparently, however Jester had been teasing him the rest of the journey, he was ready to have equal footing and even, since he had both hands, the advantage. He grabbed her wrist with one hand, smirking, “A fight, huh?” His other hand shot under her arm, fingers wiggling, and Jester crumpled against his chest with a burst of bright, happy laughter.

“Don’t even think about it!”

Yasha looked to her other side, and, sure enough, Beau and Nott were grinning at one another behind Caleb, whose glower now featured a prominent flush and arms pulled tight to his sides.

“It really is a good idea!” said Nott, snickering as she watched Fjord and Jester play atop an oblivious moorbounder. “And I’ve got another one.” She grinned toothily at Beau. “Let’s put Caleb in the middle.”

“Nein–” Caleb snapped, but Beau had already wedged her hands under his arms and lifted him out of his seat enough for Nott to scurry under and claim shotgun.

“Why didn’t we think of this sooner?” Beau exclaimed, hooking an arm around Caleb’s waist to keep him pinned to her front and to prevent him from accidentally squirming himself off of their riding beast from what Beau’s other hand was doing, stuffed underneath the book holsters on his ribs and fingers surely digging in mercilessly, judging by the sudden shriek of cackling, swearing laughter from Caleb. “It’s been a long ride for everyone; our drivers could use a break.”

“But don’t break him,” Nott giggled, taking up Jannick’s reins. “Hyah!”

Their moorbounder leapt forward with an eager yowl, making Nott and Beau join Caleb in wild laughter. “Thanks, Yasha!” Beau called over her shoulder, beaming, and Yasha fought the urge to bury her face in Caduceus’ back again.

Having satiated her own appetite for mischief and inspired enough playful chaos for the moment, Yasha gave Caduceus’ ears a little pinch each and then ran her fingers through his hair, weaving pink braids. “I know you said you won’t feed me to Clarabelle, but I haven’t annoyed you so much that the cupholder is off the table, have I?”

Caduceus chuckled, leaning back into her touch as he urged their beast forward to keep up with the rest of their silly little group. “Nah.” He turned his head to smile down at her. “But you’re driving next time.”

#tickling #mine #tickle fic #ro writes #tickletober #tickletober 2023 #record to beat for last year is two yall #i believe in me so bad #critickle role #ticklish!caduceus #i forget if i said or not but no prompts atm #i'm already overwhelmed so i'm gonna try to take it easy for what's supposed to be fun

[rosileeduckie]

Pardon my plotting 😋

I've been seeing awesome people posting about their progress prepping for Tickletober, and I think it's super neat to see, so I figured I'd do the same!

My plan right now is to do a piece every few days, getting longer and more spooky the further we get into the month. I haven't had the time or stamina to do one prompt everyday since college, and I'm not really following any one list, but I hope you'll enjoy my roster nonetheless!

Much love and pumpkins 😘🎃💕

#ro rambles

[rosileeduckie]

I believe the demon Crowley invented it

Which he does, on occasion, do on purpose.

Crowley makes up something special for a certain angel someone. So season two is a thing. I made a thing about Crowley making a thing because I needed more things. I hope you like the thing! :) No spoilers for new season, no worries

SFW. Potential warnings: none. Good Omens/Ineffable Husbands tickle fic.

Word count: 6,003

~*~

It took Crowley a while to want to fly again. To be expected, really; falling, cast from the heavens and plummeting to the depths amid a cacophony of agonized screaming and terrified wailing of the damned all plunging downward into jagged rock and sizzling sulfur–it wasn’t an experience he was eager to repeat. He kept to the ground for a while. Crawling, slithering, was much calmer. But one day, he caught a breeze. Sitting on a crag, sunning himself, the downy feathers of his large dark wings felt a cool gust and began to fluff up. He stretched out the limbs, welcoming the wind, and his long gossamer flight wings began to shiver as well. The wind whistled through him, beckoning him to stretch further, to go faster, to fall. And, with a deep breath and golden eyes wide, he fell. Tucked his wings tight against his back, feeling the wind batter him, rocketing down the mountainside–and then threw them open wide, like floodgates accepting rain, like garden gates accepting fire. He caught the wind, the wind caught him, and he was no longer falling but flying. The wind, the sky, embraced him, surrounded him, whipping through his long crimson hair and tousling it a thousand directions, pinning a hysterical smile to his cheeks, drying tears before they could fall from his eyes. Flapping, swooping, diving, soaring, Crowley shrieked in whooping laughter, utterly free. He wasn’t doomed to the depths; he was up, left, right, down, and everywhere. The sky was his to ride, the earth his to explore. He was alone, and he was free. 

He did a lot of flying after that. Still walked often, sure; humans and their antics were much easier to see from the ground. But his heart pounded loudest and brightest up in the atmosphere.

Speaking of heart pounding.

One day, as Crowley flew, he spotted a large white shape in a tree below him. He couldn’t say offhand where he was–it wasn’t like he often flew with a destination; as much of the world as there was, humans hadn’t filled it with all the fun stuff they would one day–but he could see plenty of empty open desert to catch him when he landed. So, he angled his flight downward, and, just for fun, somersaulted into the dry scrubland, loving the feeling of sand freckling his grinning cheeks and grass adorning his mussed hair. A hop, skip, and a jump, and he’d crossed the distance to the curious tree and was perched on a branch beside its familiar inhabitant.

“Hey, angel.”

“Hello, Crawly,” said Aziraphale. Prim and polite as ever, albeit looking painfully bored. The angel’s eyes were wandering the fuzzy desert horizon, hands folded in the lap of his obscenely white robes which billowed gently around his crossed ankles, which swayed subconsciously back and forth. His wings were folded at his back, appearing tight and stiff from disuse. Crowley counted back in his head how long it had been since their paths had crossed and wondered how much of that time Aziraphale had been made to spend as a tree ornament.

“Crowley,” the demon corrected, feeling antsy just watching Aziraphale sit so still and so standing up on his branch, which creaked protestingly against the first real new movement in a while, and reaching up to ruffle the foliage with his fingers.

“Right,” Aziraphale said, furrowing his brow and shaking his head with an embarrassed smile. “Crowley. I wasn’t expecting to see you. What brings you here?”

Crowley’s fingers found purchase on a higher branch, and he gripped it tight, using it to swing himself up and around and hang upside down from the taller vantage point by his knees. His long curls hung down like a red willow, but his own black robes hugged dutifully to his corporal form. (Even if he didn’t have the human habit of shame, he wasn’t keen to let gravity have his clothes; the wind could get cold even in the desert). The blood rushing to his head made Aziraphale’s question not quite register right away, and Crowley blinked. What had brought him? He stretched out his onyx wings and flexed them demonstratively.

“Ah,” Aziraphale chuckled. “I mean, what are you doing?”

The demon stuck out his lower lip thoughtfully and narrowed his eyes. “Nothing?”

The angel tipped his head, brow furrowed. “What do you mean, nothing?”

“Just that, I guess. Flying quite a bit, having fun. Not like demons really have anything we’re meant to be doing, so.” Crowley curled forward, reaching up to his hanging branch and pulling himself upright before laying down on his stomach, resting his head on his arms to look down at the angel. “Yeah, whatever I want. Nothing.”

Aziraphale sputtered, and Crowley chuckled.

“’We have no time to waste, the Almighty has much work for us to do,’” said the demon in so impressive an impression of the head archangel that Aziraphale held a hand to his lips when a titter startled him by escaping. Crowley grinned. “Even if I’m not on God’s payroll anymore, time’s hardly wasted for us, is it? We’re not mortal; we don’t have a limited amount of time to get done all the things we should.” Crowley closed his eyes with a deep sigh. “So I’m doing none of them. Too much earth to enjoy to get busy with work.”

When Crowley slowly opened one eye, he saw Aziraphale turning his ring over on his little finger, white wings twitching and puffing out, subconsciously agitated.

"Could show you, if you want. Come fly with me, I'll take you on a tour."

"What!" In an instant, Aziraphale's wings went from anxiously fidgeting to defensively spread, puffed up and rigid and making him look much bigger and more threatening. Or, it would have, if he hadn't whipped his head around to look at Crowley with the biggest eyes and flapping mouth and reddening cheeks. He looked positively scandalized.

Crowley couldn't help it--he laughed, a hissing snickering sound that he buried in his arms. He noted Aziraphale's flush looked even darker when he lifted his head, but the thought didn't even occur that it could have been from something other than the words from his mouth.

"I- I- I-! I couldn't possibly--!!"

Couldn't possibly, Crowley sighed, hiding the way his smile began to fade by pressing his cheek into his forearm. Couldn't possibly be seen flittering about with a demon!

Aziraphale settled himself, clearing his throat and smoothing his ruffled feathers. "Couldn't possibly. Far too busy."

"With what?" Crowley scoffed, smiling again when Aziraphale's blush rebloomed. "Looked to me like you were doing as much nothing as I was." He pushed himself up, looking through the verdure to an empty desert. "Unless I'm mistaken, not much of a garden here for you to guard."

"Precisely, there isn't," said Aziraphale, visibly brightening, more confident, when Crowley furrowed his brow and opened his mouth in confusion. "Humans are free to roam about wherever they like now," Aziraphale explained, "even if they're harder to keep track of. And angels are tasked to give them inspiration and blessings."

"Yeah, but," Crowley said, reluctant to disagree when the angel had given so content and cute a wiggle in his seat, "doesn't look like there's many humans around for inspiring or blessing."

"No," Aziraphale relented, casting his gaze downward and fidgeting with his fingers. "Actually, there aren't many yet at all, certainly not enough for all us angels to keep busy, so I- I'm waiting for them to do their whole--" he scrunched up his nose and flapped his hands in front of him, “’go forth and multiply’ing… thing…”

“Uh-huh.” Crowley leaned to once side and then the other before tipping off his branch, catching himself one the perch with one elbow and swinging one leg up to hang from his knee. “And, while you’re waiting for that,” he said, tipping his head back to look at Aziraphale, “you could come fly with me to–”

“I most certainly could not.”

“You should,” Crowley countered. “If for nothing else, because you’ll get stiff just sitting there.”

Aziraphale gave his head a quick and resolute shake. “But I won’t.”

Crowley narrowed his eyes and raised an eyebrow. “You won’t get stiff?”

“No,” Aziraphale huffed with an exasperated smile, “I won’t go flittering about. Angels aren’t meant to…” He trailed off, brow furrowed as he sought for words. Instead, he gave a shaky wave with his hands, as though that gesture wasn’t equally vague.

“Fly?” Crowley guessed.

Aziraphale gave another huff, part impatient and part amused. “Obviously. We, no, um… There’s a certain level of professionalism to…” He’d run out of words again. Crowley wondered if the Lord’s precious humans would be so kind as to one day make up a way for someone to communicate with their hands for beings like poor Aziraphale. (Probably would, clever things.) As it was, the angel said no more, but his inability to articulate in concert with his anxious hands and wide eyes spoke bounds.

Professionalism, hm? Ah. Crowley guessed again, words slow and eyebrows rising. “You’re not meant to have fun?”

At that, Aziraphale nodded, the tension in his shoulders and wings dropping, and a relieved smile gracing his cheeks. An answer, even one delivered so astonishedly as Crowley’s had been, evidently was enough to settle him. “Yes. Far too busy.”

“Let me get this straight.” Crowley unbent the two limbs suspending him from his branch, languidly loosing them so he could drop down sit beside Aziraphale on his lower branch. “Lord of all light and goodness,” he wiggled his fingers upward, “made all this world for you to serve and forbade you to enjoy any of it?”

“Not forbade, but serving does come first” Aziraphale replied, seeming only have just realized Crowley was now beside him. He cleared his throat and clasped his hands in his lap. Crowley cocked his head curiously; no more hand-flapping or chin-wagging, then. The angel had let himself out of his box enough for one day.

“Well,” said Crowley, clapping his palms to his thighs and pushing off until he tipped backwards and into freefall. His wings caught him with practiced ease just beneath the tree’s canopy, but he definitely delighted in the angel’s startled jolting and almost reaching to try and catch him. “Have fun sitting in your nest.” He gave the angel a salute, then touched a finger to his head. “Or don’t have fun, I guess, whichever. I’ll be up there.” Crowley pointed upward, then snorted. “I mean, ‘up there’ like the sky, not ‘up there’ like– you know what I mean.”

The last he saw of Aziraphale before flying off was cherub cheeks glowing an embarrassed pink and hands all but anchored to his robed lap. Crowley’s wings beat fast and hard, arms thrown wide, and soon he was back amongst the cloud. Which way he’d been intending to go, he had no idea, so he hailed the first wind gale and let himself float along it. His thoughts, which usually wandered just as aimlessly as the winds, were stubbornly pointed downward and behind him.

Oh, an angel didn’t want to have fun, what a shocker. Let him sit in his tree, bored, all he wanted. Angel didn’t know what he was missing.

Crowley’s wind carried him to an ocean that would one day be called the Red Sea, passing him off to an air distinctly cooler and tasting of salt. Beneath him, the blue vastness stretched on toward the horizon, in no time at all swallowing up the desert he’d come from until he was flying over only sea. Ocean above, ocean below, even from so high up, he could see no end to either. Beautiful. Peaceful. Lonely.

The sighed Crowley exhaled was ocean-deep. Angel didn’t know what he was missing.

Banking hard, Crowley dove under and out of his wind current, flying lower and closer to the sea as he trekked back toward land. A spray-laden breeze spurred him on, carrying him like a leaf riding the rolling waves.

He couldn’t just pull the angel from his tree. Well. He could, of course, literally. But he couldn’t pull him from where he’d metaphorically rooted himself. Maybe there was a figurative middle ground at which to meet him.

Literal ground came into view, and Crowley slowed until he’d lighted on a beach. He stood there a moment, hands on his hips and lips pursed and wings stretching, thinking. Stewing. Any other angel, Crowley probably wouldn’t have been so stuck on. But Aziraphale wasn’t any other angel. He had a little devil in him, or he wouldn’t have talked with a devil in the first place. An angel’s stuffiness didn’t suit him; even if he was prim, it wasn’t like he’d had much chance to be anything else. To try anything else. He wanted to have fun; Crowley knew he did. Crowley watched the waves tumble onto the sands with thunderous yawns, listened to the gulls’ distant disgruntled cries as they squabbled over dinner. The ocean was just as vast from below. If only he could have Aziraphale standing next to him, get him to see all there was to see.

Something scuttled over his foot, and he brought his gaze down. A small crab, no bigger than his thumb, had elected that the risk of invading a demon’s personal space was worth the few seconds it’d safe on its journey. Crowley stepped back–obligingly, not because the creature had startled him; he was far scarier than a crab, thank you–and crouched down to watch the crab scurry on. The sand beneath them both was warm and deep, too, shifting beneath Crowley’s feet in miniscule landslides of grains too many to count. Crowley snickered; some poor angel had to have been saddled with the task to count sand and pour it out on the earth, he was sure. There were shells atop the sandy scape, too, and stones already being smoothed down from the waves’ crashing. Crowley picked up one of each, a pretty little brown spiral and a slate rock hewn quite flat. After a second of consideration, he reeled back his arm and tossed the stone out across the ocean, grinning when it jumped four times across the surface before sinking into the water. Like it was skipping. Snickering proudly, he scooped up another such stone and tucked it safely alongside the shell into one of the many folds of his robe. (Like gravity, the robe was willing to ignore space and mass to allow Crowley to carry more things. Very considerate.) He walked a few paces further, gathering up a small piece of driftwood, another rock with an interesting texture, and, deciding the risk of getting pinched was worth it, the crab. Then, back into the air, he went.

Time was still funny. After the big seven days at the beginning had been counted, the calendar had gotten a little messy. Humans would probably benefit from it, get a few more weeks or years or centuries in change from days not counted for the sun having forgotten to have been set. Maybe some angel would be appointed to sort that out eventually and keep time organized. As it was, Crowley didn’t know how long he’d been gone from Aziraphale’s tree. A few hours? A few days? It was easy to get lost up in the air and up in one’s thoughts. What he did know was that it had been long enough for Aziraphale to fall asleep.

Angels didn’t need to sleep. It had been a design feature. Too much to do. But, as Crowley clambered into the tree once more, he saw a blonde head tipped back, eyes closed and jaw relaxed.

“Hey, angel!” Crowley crowed and jabbed a finger into Aziraphale’s side, already grinning.

Aziraphale’s eyes snapped open, and he jolted forward with a yelp, floundering with his wings to get his balance back while one hand gripped his branch and the other was pressed affrontedly to his heaving chest. When was no longer in danger of falling, Aziraphale’s focus shifted squarely to Crowley, all dagger-glares and flushed cheeks. Crowley couldn’t help laughing, which, he realized, was all too easy to do around Aziraphale. “Crowley! That was–! You startled me!”

With a shrug and lingering snickers, Crowley moved to Aziraphale’s perch, sitting down beside him. “Just helping you out, angel. You were working so hard before; would hate to see your higher-ups find you dozing.”

Whatever retort or further scolding Aziraphale had intended to give fizzled away in his flapping mouth. He pressed his lips tight together and turned his pink face away slightly, and Crowley wondered if he was trying to keep himself from coming up with an excuse or, God forbid, breathing a lie.

With a chuckle, Crowley reached into his robes, elbowing Aziraphale’s side as he did. “I’m just teasing. I wouldn’t want to see your higher-ups at all.” At that, the line of Aziraphale’s lip wobbled, the muscle of his cheek twitching like it ached to pull upward. Crowley’s grin was unabashed. “Anyway, hopefully this will make up for it.”

Aziraphale jumped when he found himself with hands full of small silly objects. “What’s this?” he asked, juggling them for a moment before laying the treasures in his lap. The offended crab stayed determinedly pinched to the hem of his sleeve, but the other trinkets spread out nicely upon the fabric his white robe in a flattering little display.

“Figured,” explained Crowley, holding a hand out to catch the crab when it eventually tired, “since angels are allergic to having fun and going to new places, it’d be a shame for you to not even see things from those places.” Moreso, it was its own temptation, but nothing Crowley had been instructed to do. He hoped that, if Aziraphale saw pretty little things from somewhere else, maybe he’d want to go there more than he’d want to do his nothing job. Maybe want to do nothing together. Maybe.

“Oh.” The angel’s gaze hadn’t left the little exhibit. His eyes wandered between the objects, and, slowly, he let his hand–the one not currently being clambered up by a crustacean–trail over them, tentative and featherlight. Gentle. Reverent. Crowley tore his own gaze from Aziraphale’s hands back to his face. The flustered blush had faded, and his eyes were as bright as Crowley had ever seen them, positively shining. “Thank you. I suppose.”

The verbal response was so detached from the visual one that Crowley snorted. Right, so, angels didn’t know how to receive gifts (albeit, admittedly, they were as new to the concept as any other earthling). Maybe that was enough of an excuse to give him more gifts.

"No one's ever given me-- ow." Aziraphale looked up from his treasures to the crab that had scaled his sleeve and delivered a disgruntled pinch to his arm. He smiled, regarding the little creature with eyes still bright. "No one's ever given me a crab. Excuse me, my fine little fellow?"

"Well, I wasn't planning repeats anyway, but definitely no crabs next time." Crowley jabbed at the crab with his finger. "Oi."

The crab promptly let go of Aziraphale to brandish both pincers at Crowley.

"Ow," he said when the crab latched onto his nail. "Fine, read you loud and clear, I'll give you a lift home." He tucked the little devil into his pockets and looked back to Aziraphale, who'd gone red again. "Don't look so terrified, angel. He's safe in there, you're safe out here."

Aziraphale's response was quiet. "Next time?"

"'Next--'?" Crowley's eyebrows furrowed, then rose to his hairline. 'Next time' that he brought the angel a gift. Well, he hadn't meant to speak that implication into the universe. Whoops. "Ahm, s-- so. You want to come with me to escort the little thing home?"

"I can't," Aziraphale sighed, but he was cradling the smooth stone and tracing it with his fingertips.

"Busy, right." Crowley scooted forward and off the branch, into the air. "Well, sleep tight."

Maybe not the best time to tease when the angel had a stone in his hand, but Crowley could get used to seeing Aziraphale blush before flying off.

He was still seeing red, and is was just as adorable, while he lay on his belly on the warm beach sand, fending off the little crab from pinching his nose with one hand.

"You were no help back there," Crowley told his tiny bloodthirsty foe, parrying away a jab with his index finger. Only after delivering a few nasty blows to Crowley’s knuckles and fingertips was the vengeful crab, at last, satisfied, scuttling off into the surf. Crowley mussed his hair with both hands before letting his head loll forward, resting his forehead on the sand and mindlessly scratching lines into the sand with his fingers.

Not a total failure of a plan, but not a complete success, either, with or without the aid of Captain Stabby. He hadn’t gotten the angel out of his nest, but at least he now had something to keep from being bored to sleep. Crowley wasn’t usually averse to giving up, but he could be pretty stubborn. And maybe he had a pretty big crush. But that wasn’t the point! Aziraphale was perhaps the only angel to speak to, let alone be kind to Crowley after his fall. He was too sweet a soul to deserve being benched from all of Earth’s joys for a few centuries just because he didn’t technically have work to do. Crowley couldn’t let him be stuck like that.

Resolved, Crowley lifted his head and determined to come up with another plan. Watching the waves crash and turn over, so he shuffled through the thoughts and ideas in his mind. Giving Aziraphale things hadn’t swayed him enough to move from his perch, even if those things had obviously delighted him. (More than obviously, but Crowley didn’t yet know how Aziraphale had carefully tucked all of the little beach treasures safely into his own pockets.) Perhaps, instead of showing the angel how much fun could be had somewhere else by collecting things from that somewhere, Crowley could make him feel that right where he was. Hard to replicate the feeling of being on a warm beach, soaking in the sun and listening to the sea, while in reality sitting in a gnarled old tree. A different feeling, perhaps. A different place. Crowley’s most favorite place was the sky; as an angel, Aziraphale would be well acquainted with how good flying could be. But how to make him feel that way from the ground? It wasn’t like he could collect bits of cloud and wind.

Crowley looked up at the clouds, following the bright white hilltops and grey flat plains with his eyes. No angel designed them or upkept them; the wind pulled and pushed and shaped them, taking them and making them to its whim. Like it took Crowley. From in their midst, clouds looked mostly like great pale curtains. From below, Crowley could almost see fluffy sheep and snowy mountaintops in their formless shapes. Chaos, random chance, channeled to make something substantial. Collecting hadn’t work to replicate feelings; why wouldn’t making something?

Demons loved making stuff. Creativity had been made to be a human trait, but demons, by principal, had the bad habit of doing things they weren’t supposed to. It was fun in so many ways. To come up with and then make something overcomplicated, accidentally brilliant, or absolute bullshit nonsense–and then to see what humans did with it. It was invigorating, cathartic, and hilarious.

What, what, what could Crowley make for his angel? It actually wasn’t too hard yet, to think up something unique, occupying such an early chapter of history. Still, he wanted it to be special. Moving. Figuratively and literally. What did he feel when flying, and how could he make that happen down here? How to ruffle an angel’s feathers without wind?

Crowley looked at the squiggling furrows his fingers had left in the sand. They had been made without intention, for the satisfying scraping sounds and gritty shifting texture as he thought. But, now, they gave him an idea. Hands could ruffle feathers, sure. He looked over his shoulder and reached back to give his own feathers an experimental ruffle. Yup, that could work. Like the waves crashing over one another, Crowley’s thoughts started to race, spurred as he looked backward. Hands ruffling feathers, fingers buried in sand, feet bare in soft grass. He thought of one human he’d seen poke another in the side and how the second had recoiled with a smile before they’d both gone back to fishing. He thought of how it felt when an itchy leave wriggled its way down his robe. He thought of how it felt when an angry little crab scittered across his skin. He thought of an angel’s beaming smile and bright eyes. He had many thoughts, but he had one idea. One idea for something absolutely nonsensical and extremely silly, and, when he eventually workshopped a name for it, he’d call it tickling.

But, one unnamed idea in hand, Crowley flew up from his sandy sunning spot and back in the direction of a now very familiar tree.

“I saw you coming this time,” Aziraphale declared when Crowley all but crashed into the tree with how fast he’d been flying.

Crowley scoffed, picking twigs from his crimson hair. “I would hope so, between how many eyes you have and how much noise I was made landing.”

Aziraphale set his eyes heavenward, as close as he seemed to get to rolling them.

“Why?” Crowley said as he sat down next to the angel. “Were you watching for me?”

“I wasn’t sure you’d come again,” Aziraphale admitted, cheeks going rosy and fingers worrying a small brown shell.

For a moment, Crowley’s heart beat loud and eager in his ears. He kept it. No time to be swept up in that thought, though; he was far too busy with the task at hand. Crowley cleared his throat and shrugged, moving to sit close enough to Aziraphale that their knees touched. “Had to. I had another gift for you.”

“Oh?” The angel’s eyes lit up excitedly, even as he tried to look professional. “From where this time?”

“From me. I made it up. For you.” Crowley stuck out his tongue and cursed his own ears for burning. “Ngk– I’ll show you.”

Before the angel could offer any turnabout teasing for Crowley being the one flushed and at a loss for words (because, Crowley just knew, there was enough devil in Aziraphale to absolutely turn the tables given the opportunity), Crowley thrust his hands beneath Aziraphale’s folded wings, wiggling his fingers to muss the feathers and scribble at the muscle beneath.

“Ah–!” Aziraphale yelped, his wings swinging out wide to escape the surely strange feeling. Crowley only targeted the space closer to Aziraphale’s shoulders instead. “What are you–?” Aziraphale tried to ask through laughter that seemed to be building and bubbling quite irresistibly from his chest, “What are you doing?”

“I’m tickling you,” Crowley explained, crawling his wiggling fingers from Aziraphale’s wings, down his shoulder blades and under his arms. “Not sure about the name yet, but I figured vessel nerves usual react for preservation. Why not make them react to something fun?”

Perhaps for preservation against this new attack, Aziraphale tried to lean back and away from Crowley, flapping his wings and batting at his hands. The tickling under his arms, though, had him curling up and laughing enough to mostly rob him of words once again. “This isn’t–!”

“This isn’t fun?” Crowley guessed, puffing out his lower lip. “Now, is that because it’s actually not fun, or because you, as an angel, could not possibly be having fun?”

“Crowley!” Aziraphale squealed, and Crowley grinned, downright devilish.

“I mean, if it’s not fun, why are you laughing? Laughing means you’re happy, yeah?” he teased, slipping his hands from under Aziraphale’s arms to set his dancing fingers loose upon his stomach.

Aziraphale was nearly horizontal, leaned so far away from Crowley and wings and hands flapping weakly. When Crowley’s next attack targeted his stomach, Aziraphale loosed a merry wail before tumbling into bright laughter that made the lines by his eyes crinkle happily and the breath in his throat catch wheezily. And oh, his laugh was perfect. All the pristine stuffy angel was gone, drowned out by the loud, head-thrown-back, wrinkled nose, toothy, shoulder-scrunching, belly-shaking laughter. It suited him.

Crowley had some mercy, switching from digging and scratching to poking and wiggling. “It is supposed to mean you’re happy, right?” he asked, for a moment concerned he might accidentally kill the angel. He certainly looked happy, and he hadn’t been doing much to push Crowley away, but… “I came up with tickling, but I’m not yet fully clear on…”

A still-giggling Aziraphale blinked through laughter-induced tears–tears were sad; had he become so happy, he was sad?–to look at Crowley, his gaze an odd but warm mix of fond and sympathetic and sweet and teasing and just losing the edge of hysterical. Just that look nearly bowled Crowley onto his back.

“Oh well!” Crowley exclaimed, a little too loudly. “I’ve got to perfect my new little game for you. And you,” he grinned as Aziraphale grew all the redder and scrunched his neck, “you just stop laughing if you stop being happy.”

Aziraphale didn’t stop laughing, but he didn’t stop squirming either. In fact, when Crowley set out to practice until perfect by testing other techniques to see what would tickle and started squeezing the soft spots of Aziraphale’s stomach and sides, the angel thrashed so exuberantly that he rolled right off the branch. Crowley followed, and, in a mess of feathers and flapping wings, the two tumbled from the tree and into the desert scrub grass.

With how much of a reaction squeezing had gotten, Crowley continued doing it, chasing Aziraphale’s laughter down along his thighs and behind his knees. With more ground on which to metaphorically stand, Aziraphale did put up a bit more of a fight, and Crowley was sure no one who pictured wrestling an angel would conjure that image. Of the angel with a wide smile beaming like the sun, of the demon getting the upper hand by jamming his thumbs into the angel’s hips until the later collapsed backward with a snorting cackle, of the adoration in the demon’s eyes as he tickled the angel apart piece by piece. Crowley rounded back, at last able to get one of Aziraphale’s wings pinned under his knee and burrowing the fingers of one hand into the wing pit and the fingers of the other into the soft stomach and vibrating both sets until the angel was wheezing.

Crowley had had about a dozen other ideas for this tickling thing once Aziraphale had actually been under his hands, but he had actually succeeded in getting Aziraphale from his tree, and he didn’t want to overwhelm with too much of his brilliant new idea. He pulled his hands back to a featherlight crawl, tracing the fair hair of Aziraphale’s forearms with the tips of his fingers and the tops of his feet with the tips of his black wings. The angel, thoroughly spent and thoroughly happy, lay giggling and content, hands twitching and stomach jumping but otherwise still. Eventually, all Crowley’s movement stopped as well, transfixed by the sight beneath him.

Here lay Aziraphale, opalescent wings thrown wide and with feathers mussed, perfect curled hair a tousled mess, hysterically happy smile stuck to his cheeks, tears drying on his cheeks, chest heaving from a belly full of screaming laughter. Crowley fell from on top of him, laying beside Aziraphale with a smile of his own. Perfect.

“That was fun,” Aziraphale said, eyes closed and smiling so gently that Crowley simply couldn’t bear to gloat just then. (He would eventually gloat. A lot. But not just then.)

“Yeah, it was.” Crowley lay beside Aziraphale, reveling in the validation of a successful plan and good idea, as well as the echoing angelic laughter still gracing his ears. He turned his head when Aziraphale pushed himself to sit up.

“Well, it will be a bit before humans fully populate the earth anyway.” Aziraphale stood, brushing off a bit of sand from his robes and producing the shell and a rock from them to make sure they had survived the fall, and holding out a hand to Crowley. “You can lead the way to that ocean you were so keen about, and you can tell me more about your creation. I haven’t ever laughed like that, have you?”

Crowley took Aziraphale’s hand and stood, shaking his head. “Just when I catch a really good breeze, but even then…”

“Ah. Well, I liked your gifts. Can I share this one?”

The demon was struck with the absurd image of angels dropping like flies around the old garden under the menace that would be Aziraphale the tickle angel. He snorted. “Sure, if you want.”

“Thank you.” Aziraphale wiggled his shoulders happily and stretched out his wings. “I’d like to tickle you then, so you can laugh like that, and I can see it.”

Something in Crowley’s mind popped. Full of ideas as it had been minutes earlier, it was amazingly empty at Aziraphale’s proposal. With all the excitement the demon had had coming up with the idea and developing it, he had not once considered it being turned against him. Regifted. He was struck with another image, this time of himself, pinned under Aziraphale, at his mercy, laughing like flying. That image actually struck him as quite lovely, but it did also make his ears burn like hellfire. “Well!” Crowley said, kicking up off the ground and hovering a few feet above it. “One fun thing at a time. Ocean?”

Aziraphale nodded, smiled, and shot up into the air like a feathery stone shot by a sling. “Race you!”

“Hey!” Crowley laughed, chasing after him.

~*~

Crowley had come up with it, but Aziraphale had made it his own. And had inspired Crowley to coin the term ‘tickle monster.’

Such inspiration came to Crowley in an instance much like the one he found himself in at present: head tipped back against the cottage bedroom door, cheeks and chest aching from laughing, knees wobbly, so high and happy that the only thing keeping him from floating away was Aziraphale holding him (quite nicely after so evilly pinning him there earlier), stroking his fingertips along Crowley’s hips and sides, slow, featherlight, gentle, reverent.

“This may have been the best gift ever given,” Aziraphale chuckled, pressing a kiss to Crowley’s neck and leaning back with a proud wiggle.

Crowley lifted his arms, still a bit jelly-like, to wrap around Aziraphale’s shoulders, holding him close and keeping himself upright. “And it got me a hefty promotion way back when.”

Aziraphale laughed, “What?!”

“Yeah,” Crowley grinned, crooked and dizzy. “’Oh, Crowley, what an ingenious torture method, all the fun of hysteria with no marks left behind!’”

He let his head fall onto Aziraphale’s shoulder, giggling, as Aziraphale smothered his own laughter in his hand.

“But,” Crowley said, lifting his head but still too boneless to actually hold it up and so letting it thump back against the door, “you are by far more evil with it, so I may have taken credit where I was not due.”

“How rude,” Aziraphale tutted, giving Crowley a little scratch to one hip that had him crumpling sideways and squeaking. The angel caught him easily, supporting him around the waist and gently tickling his back to get him to purr and slump further into Aziraphale’s shoulder. “Well, whatever the offices took it for, I am very grateful.” He pressed a kiss to Crowley’s forehead and smiled. “Very happy with it.”

“Good,” Crowley mumbled, “because I didn’t keep the receipt.”

#tickling #tickle fic #mine #ro writes #good omens tickling #ticklish!aziraphale #ticklish!crowley #i saved my tired for the description if you can't tell #i really did like season two #how have i not written for them in so long #tickle fiction #tickle fanfiction #peak crow flirting

[rosileeduckie]

Waiting so long , it's finally finished AND ITS INCREDIBLE 😍😍😍😍😍 Bravo Panda 💕🥰👏👏 masterful as always!

Never Let 'Em Know Your Next Move

Panda's Notes: Hobie is the most Switch Spider there is. I don't take notes; I don't debate; I have decided. >w< Feel free to send all thanks/blame to @rosileeduckie for the ending, which was inspired by the very lovely art they made. >w< Special thanx also to @ssnicker-doodless for helping with beta reading.

[Ao3] || [Commissions] || [Ko-fi]

Gwen peered over the back of the long couch, resting her chin on her arms as she pouted a bit. Hobie was snoring faintly, one arm flopped across his face as he slept. It was just after ten o’clock, and, frankly, Gwen was getting a little impatient.

She slipped quietly around the couch, and, being as careful as possible, she lifted his head and climbed onto the couch, setting his head down on her crossed legs. He huffed softly, shifting slightly in his sleep and yawning.

Gwen smiled slightly, poking gently at his nose a few times to watch his face scrunch up before leaning over to wiggle her fingers against his ribcage.

Hobie huffed again and squirmed, a smile sneaking across his face as steady chuckles rolled out of him. Gwen snickered to herself, letting her hands crawl over his stomach and out to his sides. He started to laugh softly, rough bass-sounding giggles shaking his body as he started to move. His hands stretched out into the air before he pressed his palms against the arm of the couch on either side of Gwen’s body. He yawned softly before one of his eyes opened groggily.

“Oi, Gwenny…” He grumbled, glancing curiously at her hands for a moment.

“Geez, I thought you’d never wake up.” She chuckled, starting to tickle him a bit more earnestly. She was shocked when he didn’t yell or push himself away from her. Instead, he let himself laugh, his voice tangled up in those giggles as her nails scribbled against his midriff.

“You’re not moving much, are you, tough guy?” She teased, sneakily tugging his shirt up a little. “You got a giggle bug in there or something?”

“You’re not funny—Gwen!” He barked out a louder laugh when she scribbled around his navel, one of his legs kicking at the other end of the couch.

“That is the name I go by; you need something?” She taunted, poking quickly up his torso and resting her hands on his elbows. She walked her fingers along his sleeves toward his armpits, grinning brighter at the way he shivered while keeping his hands in place. “Yeah…I’m starting to think that gigglebug is just you~”

Hobie snickered, smirking as he narrowed his eyes up at her. “Call me that again; see what ha—Ack!” He cried out as her fingers dug and scribbled into his armpits, his fingers curling slightly against the couch as he burst into cackles.

“Call you what, Hobie~? A cute, ticklish, wittle Giggleb—Ah! Wait, wait, wait!”

Like a trap snapping shut, Hobie’s hands suddenly attached themselves to Gwen’s sides, his thumbs pressing around her flanks while his long fingers wiggled over her sides toward her back. “What’s the matter, Gwenny? Always trying to start stuff you can’t finish with me, aren’t ya?” The smirk on his face shifted to a more genuine grin as he shoved his hands up into her armpits, chuckling as she squealed and tried to lean away from him. He let her go as she leaned back, dropping his hands to sneak scribbles at the soles of her feet and snickering as she nearly kicked him.

“That’s for stealing my Chucks, by the way.” He chuckled. “If you ain’t wearin’ ‘em, you ain’t safe.”

Gwen rolled her eyes and giggled, starting to pull her legs back when Hobie’s hands returned to their position on the arm of the couch.

“Ah, no, sorry, love; you’re not leaving yet.” He shrugged, smirking up at her.

“Aw, what?” She asked with a fake pout, returning her own hands to gently tickling along his arms. “Your gigglebug still hungry or something?”

Hobie somehow seemed to stifle an emotional response to that one, despite the giggles shaking him. “Oi, tell me: What’d I tell you about waking me up in the morning when I let you crash here?”

Gwen’s hands went still. Hobie kept laughing. She tried to scramble away from him, but he grabbed onto the jacket she was wearing as he sat up, dragging her into his lap and digging his hands back into her waist.

“The rule is NOT TO WAKE ME UP!” He barked over her laughter, grinning a bit deviously as he watched her flail.

-------------

“Hey, little man.” Hobie called, lightly tugging Miles’ headphones.

He had perched himself upside down on the ceiling, head buried in the sketchbook in his hand. He tipped his head, acknowledging him with a glance.

Hobie hooked his thumb over his shoulder. “You wanna grab some couch time with me real quick, mate?”

Miles hesitated a bit, but he closed the pencil into his sketchbook before placing his hand on the ceiling to swing himself down. Within a minute he was lying across Hobie’s lap, his headphones wrapped around his neck and Hobie tapping casually on his stomach.

Miles grinned warily. “Am I in trouble?”

“Only if you want to be.” Hobie teased, shrugging as he dragged Miles’ shirt up with one finger while his other hand pulled Miles’ hood over his face. “Count to three for me?”

“Shouldn’t you be the one to—Naah! I wasn’t ready!” His voice came out in a loud cackle as Hobie blew a raspberry against his stomach, and he grabbed at the arm holding his hood down.

“I heard ‘one, two’, mate; simple as.” Hobie said, the smirk clear in his voice while one of his fingers traced circles around Miles’ bellybutton.

“You know what I said.” He giggled helplessly. “I didn’t even say three—Hobie!” Another raspberry; another giggly screech as Miles’ legs flailed against the couch cushions.

“…You said three.” Hobie snickered, watching Miles try to wrestle his arm away before reaching one of his hands toward the floor and— “Hey, n-no, quit that!”

Miles had reached out, mostly blind, and tickled along the edge of his foot and up the back of his leg. Hobie quickly grabbed his arm, pinning it beside his head and scribbling under his arm with his free hand. Miles shrieked, cackling loudly and pawing at Hobie’s shoulder where he could.

“You tapping out already, Miles? Here I thought I trained you tougher than that.” Hobie gave an exaggerated sigh, shaking his head with a grin. “Or is it just because you got too many Squeak Spots?” His voice pitched hilariously toward the end, and he snatched the hand that was trying to crawl under his own arm to pin it over Miles’ head.

“Squeak Spots like that one?” Miles tried to tease as he caught his breath.

Hobie chuckled, maintaining a calm smirk and pulling Miles’ hood over his face again. “Nah, man. Squeak Spots are like this—” Miles squeaked and flinched at a quick poke to his bellybutton. “—Or this—” A screech at two fingers being jabbed under both of his arms. “Definitely this one.” While Miles’ arms were clamped at his sides, Hobie’s hands slipped under his hood, fingers crawling along his neck and scratching behind his ears. His face shifted to a bit of a sneer as Miles cracked into noisy giggles, snorts and squeaks escaping between them as he grabbed loosely at Hobie’s sleeves and kicked against the couch.

“You sound like Mayday, bruv; this’ll get you done out.” He teased. “Some mook is gonna get hands ‘round your throat, and you’ll be bustin’ up like who knows what.”

“I-I don’t understand—” Miles was barely able to form words through the giggles, only to get cut off by Hobie pushing his head to one side and blowing a loud raspberry into his neck. The resulting squeal put all the others to shame.

“Understand that well enough, Smiles~?” Hobie smirked and lifted Miles enough to slip out from under his full—now basically dead—weight. He let the teen’s legs rest across his lap, tapping a rhythm as he caught his breath.

“Nooo, don’t call me that.” Miles practically whined, little giggles still slipping into his voice. “I couldn’t get my family to shake that off until I was, like, thirteen.”

“’S pretty recent. Bet I could bring it back.” Hobie lightly poked a few lines across Miles’ foot.

“Hobie…” Miles kicked gently, pushing himself to sit up.

“What? Your parents like me; I could slip some suggestion, easy. I’m magic like that.”

“My parents don’t even like the friends who live in my dimension.” He gave a bit of a stretch, pulling his arms across his chest. “And I would have to actually kill you.”

“Pfft, like you even could.”

“I dunno.” Miles eyed him for a moment before putting his hands up, and the tiniest sparks of electricity jumped between his fingers. “I think I could.”

Hobie’s face might have twitched a bit, and he crossed his arms as he stared the kid down. “Square up then.”

Miles visibly brightened, shifting quickly out of Hobie’s lap and grabbing at his side with tingly hands. Hobie prickled at the shock, but he hardly bothered holding back. He curled up slightly, laughing softly and trying to keep his arms still.

“No fair; this worked on you last time!” Miles giggled, poking small shocks up and down Hobie’s side and ribs.

“Wasn’t expecting it last time; not my fault if you turn yourself into a one-trick—pfft, HA!”

Miles had shoved Hobie over onto the couch, one hand switching between quick squeezes and scribbles on the softest part of his hip while the other crawled along his leg to scratch his knee.

“Oh, ticklish legs? Figures you’d have Tall People Problems.” Miles teased, kneading along the back of Hobie’s calf and under his knee.

“S-Shut up!” Hobie demanded through loud giggles, crossing his arms over his face. “You little brat!”

“Hey, uncalled for!” Miles smirked at him, fingers crawling down around his ankles and up his socked soles. “You talk awfully big for someone who likes being tickled so m—”

Miles yelped as Hobie suddenly kicked him in the ribs. It hardly even hurt, but it easily threw him over the arm of the couch, leaving him slightly breathless on the floor. He let out a sort of giggle, his head spinning a little from the fall.

Hobie chuckled, having caught his breath almost instantly. He loosely held Miles’ ankle where it remained from him falling over, leaning his weight on his leg and smirking down at him. “See, now you’re in trouble, mate.”

-------------

It was actually a little rare for Pavitr to come to Hobie’s dimension. Something about the near-constant, raging anarchy made Pavitr kinda nervous. Hobie could admit that the comparatively chill vibe of Mumbatten was cozy in a way, not even mentioning how pretty a city it was.

But sometimes, you just don’t want to leave your own couch; and thankfully, the area seemed chill enough lately. So, Pavitr sat cross-legged on Hobie’s couch, wildly hitting buttons on a game controller as he tried to fight a boss. Hobie leaned backwards over the back of the couch, glancing between the upside-down views of the television and Pavitr’s determined look. He smirked to himself, reaching to run his hand obnoxiously over the side of his face.

“Oi, Pavi.” He said in a whisper, poking Pavitr’s cheek. “Pav, hey.” He poked his neck, grinning as he flinched. So began a series of mixed whispers and pokes and pinches around Pavitr’s head, escalating quickly to lightly ruffling his hair and tickling purposefully under his chin.

“Hobie!” He finally caved to giggles and paused the game, flailing one hand at Hobie’s and curling slightly away from him. “What do you want?”

Hobie shrugged with a smirk, and Pavitr groaned, shaking his head with a smile and refocusing on the game. Hobie yawned and stretched his back over the couch, feeling his shoulders and spine pop after a second. He watched Pavitr kite and jab at the boss for at least a couple of minutes before he finally rolled over. He rested his chin on his arms, his elbow nudging against Pavitr’s shoulder.

“Oi, Pavi…” He barely kept a straight face when Pavitr slowly cringed away from him. Boss was at, maybe, ten percent health. “What’d you say if I asked you to tickle me, eh?”

A look of visible confusion cut through Pavitr’s ‘focused gamer’ face, which was a shame, because that crit he just got put the boss at five percent health. “You—Wait, what?” He glanced up for half a second, panicking a little when he almost got hit.

Hobie had already moved though, now leaning over the couch directly behind his guest-turned-prey. “Ooh, too slow, mate.” He sighed as if he were disappointed, and his hands suddenly appeared at Pavitr’s sides, squeezing up and down his flanks. He pressed his thumbs firmly into his hipbones, and he sneered as Pavitr practically fell to pieces with bright laughter.

“W-Wait, no; not now, Hobie, please!” He just barely managed to hit the pause button again, and Hobie lifted his hands away.

“What’d you pause it for? You’re close.” Hobie was grinning like a fiend, letting his hands hover tauntingly.

“I know what you’re doing.” Pavitr couldn’t keep the nervous giggles out of his voice, and he didn’t dare look back. “Not my first time around the block with you.”

“Aw, c’mon now; I’ll be nice.”

“No, you won’t…”

“Nah, I won’t.” He leaned and rested his hands on Pavitr’s legs. “I think you just need one more hit though. How about it?”

The pause lasted a bit longer; Pavitr whined, and Hobie smirked at the pout he could picture on his face. Without warning, the game started up again, and so, with equal warning, Hobie’s hands scribbled along Pavitr’s thighs and knees.

“Tricky little bastard.” Hobie teased, resting his chin on Pavitr’s shoulder as he giggled loudly. “Yeah, maybe stop missing the guy.”

“Shut up!” Pavitr giggled, and the game paused again. Hobie pat his thighs, chuckling softly. “Hobie…”

“It’s just one more hit, mate. Pretty sure, anyway.” He let his fingers walk, slowly, almost politely toward his knees again. “Waitin’ on you.”

Pavitr flicked through the pause menus, using a few items before, once again, dropping back into the game when he thought it was safest. Hobie let him have that one second of thinking he wasn’t paying attention before his hands scratched and scribbled at both of his feet, ripping an adorable shriek out of his mouth that was quickly followed by cackles.

“Oof, maybe someone should consider a costume that doesn’t go around barefoot.” He hummed, poking his fingers between Pavitr’s toes.

Suddenly: an explosion appeared on the screen, the boss keeled over with a roar before suddenly bursting in a cloud of smoke and random drops.

“Well, damn, Pav. Look at you!” Hobie chuckled, nuzzling playfully against his face, and giving a few more gentle scribbles at his feet. “Respect, really.”

Pavitr stonewalled him—Well, almost, scratching between his toes still made him squeak like a mouse—and he clicked through the menus to save the game without looking back at Hobie once. He leaned to slide the controller onto the table before sitting up; he rolled his shoulders for a moment and cracked his neck as he uncrossed his legs. Finally, he took a deep breath and let it back out.

And then he grabbed Hobie by his arm and the back of his shirt, heaving him over the couch and slamming him against the cushions harder than necessary. Hobie didn’t put up much of a fight, laughing softly as the wind was knocked out of him on impact. By the time he looked up, Pavitr had moved to perch on the couch arm, crossing his arms as he tried to glare down at him.

“Pavi?” Hobie asked casually, mimicking his crossed arms. Pavitr held up one finger, cringing a little as he stood up and stepped onto the back of the couch.

He crouched down again, smirking this time. “Every boss has a second phase, Hobie.” He quipped, snapping his fingers.

Hobie snorted, shaking his head. “Took ya a minute cookin’ that one up, eh?” He grinned as Pavitr sat on his legs and glared at him again. He grabbed Hobie’s wrist in one hand, drawing his fingers down his forearm and tracing the edge of his hand.

Hobie prickled, biting at his tongue and the piercing on his lip as his whole arm tingled under that touch. “Y-Y’know anything about palm readin’ yet, bruv?”

Pavitr gave him that look he kept specifically for people who tease him about the same old stereotypes. “I do actually!” He said brightly, the sarcasm probably indecipherable to someone who didn’t know him as well as Hobie did. “Like, this line right here tells me you’re super ticklish!” He scratched gingerly along the largest visible line on his hand.

“This line shows you’re prone to being really bratty if you don’t get enough tickles.” He traced the muscle around Hobie’s thumb.

“Each of these lines—” He traced up each of Hobie's fingers, the smile on his face still genuinely sweet. “—Represents every little tickle spot you like. And, yeah, there are a lot of them.”

Hobie was…well, “struggling” was a fitting word. His free hand hadn’t really moved from where his arms had been crossed, but he gripped at his sleeve as Pavitr started teasing his palm. It tickled so badly, but at the same time, it wasn’t enough to really break him. His breath left him in shaky giggles that he had already given up on trying to stop, and his arm twitched as if every muscle inside was a tightening spring.

“Easy to forget, but this spot here—” He traced gentle circles on the back of Hobie’s hand, smiling brighter as his fingers clenched. “—keeps track of all your tickly energy. Even when you’re tickling someone else. And this last one…” He paused, staring as if he was confused. “Here, let me just—”

He suddenly blew a raspberry on the palm of his hand, and Hobie fell apart, his giggles bursting into loud laughter as his fingers tried to scratch Pavitr’s neck. The speed at which Pavitr shut that down made him flinch.

“Yeah, sorry; I couldn’t read it.” Pavitr shrugged, removing his grip from around Hobie’s fingers. “But, it pretty much just says ‘Tickletickletickletic—’"

“Pavi!” Hobie practically snorted, finally yanking his hand away when Pavitr scribbled at his palm. He let out a few tired laughs as he slowly caught his breath, flexing his hand in an effort to get rid of those tingles.

“Not gonna work, Hobie~ I thought you wanted me to tickle you!”

“Shut up…” Hobie rested his arms over his face, still giggling quietly and twitching a little as Pavitr started to poke him again.

“Poor, poor Gigglebug.”

“Do not call me that when you’re in throttling range.”

“Oh? Why? Would it be like this?” He moved his hands quickly up to Hobie’s neck, fingers scribbling at his collarbones and under his chin.

Despite the new wave of loud giggles, Hobie shoved himself to sit upright, wrapping his arms tight around Pavitr and leaning into his shoulder. Pavitr giggled quietly, getting one of his own arms free and tracing gently on Hobie’s back.

“I win.” He teased sweetly.

“I am going to kill you.” Hobie’s threat came on shuddering breath, and he snickered as nails dragged over his spine.

-------------

“Ooh, he’s taking the vest off!” Gwen called teasingly, snatching it out of the air when it was thrown at her head. “So serious all of a sudden.”

“Fuck you.” Hobie smirked; it felt good to be able to say that again. “‘less you want to go first, Gwenny.” He pulled his arm across his chest before rolling his shoulder.

“No, no; do your macho thing.” She taunted, slipping the vest on almost automatically. “So, Miles? Explain.”

The little gang was gathered in one of the training rooms at Spider Society HQ, sharing a few stories of feats from each of their dimensions, when Miles brought up the night he and Gwen had shut down Kingpin’s collider. Mostly, how he had barely survived the aftermath of doing that.

“Okay, so, like I said, the collider’s collapsing in on itself; implosions, explosions, it’s just crazy.” He began, twirling the strings on his hood between his fingers. “And I’m just there holding a string of web, and well…” He shrugged, lying across Pavitr’s lap. “Didn’t let go.”

“Pretty sure we’ve all done the lifeline before, bruv.” Hobie huffed. “Don’t see why ya wanted to bet on it so bad.”

“I never said it was a bet! You’re the one who—” Miles stopped himself when he caught sight of the smug look on Hobie’s face. “Look, just hold the thing, and don’t let go. Three minutes. Sound good?”

Hobie mulled it over, letting himself sink back to the floor. “Make it five. I’m showin’ you brats up today.” He smirked, setting a timer on his watch.

Pavitr chuckled, playing with Miles’ hair and glancing at Gwen. “He’s asking for it again.”

“Is he?” Gwen placed a hand on her chest, filling her eyes with as much shock as she could manage. “I never would have guessed.”

They giggled; Miles didn’t catch on until a few seconds later; and Hobie went a bit still.

He rested his arm across his knee and set his chin on his hand, levelling his eyes at the three of them with a stern sort of look. “Oi...”

His tone shut them up instantly, and he couldn’t resist smirking.

“Since you all like laughing so much, I suggest usin’ your five minutes wisely. Because when they’re up, well…” He shrugged casually, firing a small amount of webbing onto the floor and taking the strand in both hands as he laid back on the floor.

The trio glanced warily at each other before moving to line up beside him.

“Hm… Let’s try—” Gwen lifted Hobie up onto his side, and she and the boys crowded against his back. “Thoughts? Arguments?”

Pavitr leaned against Hobie’s thigh, smiling brightly. “Good here.”

Miles pat gently along Hobie’s arm, reaching to start the timer on Hobie’s watch. “Ready when you are.”

“Let’s go then!” Gwen declared, and the second Miles pressed the button, thirty fingers promptly set to crawling anywhere they could reach. Barely ten seconds passed before Hobie was struggling to keep his mouth shut. His hands clenched and pulled at the piece of web as snickers shook his frame.

“Sooo, five minutes, huh?” Miles snickered, scribbling gently along his armpit and ribs with both hands. “How’s everyone been? Hobie?”

“Shut up.” Hobie snapped at him, biting his lip on a few giggles.

“I’ve been great, personally!” Pavitr called, leaning slightly as he squeezed Hobie’s knee and around his hip. “Projects at school are going well; Margo said she might have a web shooter design for me; ooh, and I got to hang out with our favorite Gigglebug just recently.”

Hobie’s legs kicked slightly, and he barely managed to keep his mouth shut.

Gwen giggled as she watched Hobie’s face, scratching quickly across his stomach and up his side. “Ooh, our favorite Gigglebug? Maybe your favorite, Pavi.” She teased, sneaking one of her hands to pinch Miles’ waist and grinning as he elbowed her back. “I can’t blame you though; he does have this cute tickle button.” Her fingers managed to track down his navel through his suit, finally dragging out some unfiltered giggles.

“So do you!” All three boys said suddenly, eyes on her, and she was taken aback. They all fell into laughter, hands faltering enough to give Hobie a chance to breathe.

Miles snickered and leaned on Gwen for a moment, one hand digging fingers under Hobie’s arm while the other crawled along his neck. “I love that you didn’t tell me about your little nickname, by the way, Hobie; it’s awfully cute.”

“Why the fuck would I—No!” A choked laugh cut through his threatening tone when both of Miles’ hands moved back under his arm.

Miles shrugged, smirking down at him. “Well, if you’re going to beg for us to tickle you, it’d be a lot easier if we had a name for your little moods.”

Hobie just laughed and tried to curl up, his boots squeaking against the floor as he kicked.

“You still holding on, Hobie~?” Gwen called playfully, goosing his side and hip. “You know you can just admit you’re having fun.”

“F-Fuck off already.” Hobie’s voice was teetering on breathless with how he was straining to stop his giggles. “You brats wish you were as strong as I am taking this.”

Miles rolled his eyes and scratched at his ribs, but he blinked as Gwen leaned close to him.

“On my signal, we need to bolt.” She whispered; he practically had to read her lips.

“Wha—?”

“I play drums, Miles; keeping time is the least of what I can do. And he’s definitely jumping you first, so…”

She tapped his knee sharply, and he stammered for a second before turning invisible. Pavitr did a double-take, and as he was pushing himself off the floor, Hobie’s watch started beeping loudly.

The room was suddenly quiet as Hobie’s hands finally came off of the web, and he shut his watch off before running the heel of his palm under his eye.

“Ya always thinkin’ you’re so damn smart.” He murmured, pushing himself to stand up. “I was actually always planning on getting’ you first—” He fired off a shot of web fluid, catching Gwen by the back shoulder of his vest and yanking hard before she could just shrug it off. “Gwenny, I’m sick of you takin’ my shit!”

The sneer on his face said otherwise, especially at her indignant whine when he caught her against his chest. “You threw this at me!” She hardly even put up a fight as he scooped her under his arm, giggling excitedly even before he tickled the back of her neck.

“Yeah, and you sure fuckin’ caught it. Look where that got ya, sis. Oi, losers! The longer I wait for you, the longer I destroy both of ya.”

It was easy to keep Pavitr in his peripheral; his costume didn’t blend at all with the shadows here. Miles, though, Hobie could easily hear him hopping around nearby, inching closer with each landing.

It was hilarious being the only truly unpredictable one in a room, and Hobie loved showing these kids up.

#tickling #not mine #but i feel like i helped somehow 😆 #atsv tickle #lee!spiderman #ler!spiderman

[rosileeduckie]

the detail of him holding onto that web for dear life my god you really gave me a MEAL bro

He's definitely only holding on A LITTLE-- he could so keep his arms up without it 😋 Thanks for noticing it! It was a fun way to have a restrained pose but still be able to see everyone and have some movement!

#ask #answered ask #thank you for your ask!

[rosileeduckie]

OOOOOOOOUYGGG YEAH BABEY LEE HOBIE THANK YOUUU 🥂🥂🥂

You are very welcome 😘✨

#ask #answered ask