Heyy!!

Chan, the leader, the unshakable pillar of their strange little alien family, was currently flat on his back on a wide, padded mat. His wrists and ankles were secured by magnetic cuffs that hummed faintly, pinning him spread-eagle and utterly helpless. Noticeably the same spot where Jeongin had his checkup weeks ago.

Traitors, he thought miserably. I built those cuffs.

His face was the color of a ripe strawberry, the blush crawling down his neck and disappearing beneath the collar of his loose t-shirt.

"You said it yourself, hyung," Jeongin said, settling his weight more firmly across Chan's hips. He was straddling him like it was the most natural thing in the galaxy, his knees bracketing Chan's ribs, his hands hovering in the air just above Chan's heaving chest. "Minho hyung's...torment triggered my powers. Maybe yours are just slow."

"Jeongin, that's nohot how it works." Chan gasped, already breathless and Jeongin hadn't even touched him yet. The anticipation was killing him. His whole body was taut as a wire, every nerve ending screaming, and he could feel the laughter already building in his throat like a trapped animal.

"Aww, look at him," Jisung cooed from somewhere to Chan's left, sprawled across a beanbag with his vines curling lazily against his fingers. His grin was enormous, gummy, and absolutely menacing. "He's already red and Innie hasn't even started."

"His ears are practically florescent," Hyunjin added from a plush armchair, long legs crossed elegantly, chin propped on his hand like he was watching the season finale of his favorite drama. His eyes were bright with barely contained glee. "This is going to be good."

“You’re a traitor, Seungmin.” Chan snarled. It had in fact, been the two maknaes ganging up on him to get him pinned to the table. The eldest would be lying if he were to say he wasn't just a little curious, though.

Jeongin tilted his head, all wide-eyed innocence. "But hyung, if your powers manifest, we need witnesses. For science."

"For science." Jisung repeated, deadpan, and then dissolved into snickers.

Chan had told himself it was fine. He'd told himself it was a logical experiment. He'd told himself he was the leader, the oldest, the one who had held this ragtag family together through asteroid fields and bounty hunters and at least three near-death experiences involving malfunctioning airlocks.

He could handle his baby brother wiggling his fingers.

But Jeongin lowered his hands.

At first, it was just the pads of his fingers—featherlight touches skating up the sides of Chan’s torso, tracing the valleys between each rib with excruciating slowness. Chan’s breath hitched. His stomach muscles fluttered involuntarily. He bit his lip, hard, determined to maintain some shred of dignity.

Jeongin's fingers landed on the lower slopes of Chan’s ribs, just above the waistband of his pants, and scribbled—short, quick, scratching motions that bounced from rib to rib. Chan jerked violently, a startled yelp punching out of him before he could stop it.

“NAHAHAHAHA—JEONGIN!!”

“Oh.” Jeongin said, delighted, “That’s a good sound.”

He didn’t let up. His fingers danced upward, tracing the ridges of Chan’s ribcage with merciless accuracy, dipping into the soft spaces between each bone.

Chan bucked beneath him, but the magnetic cuffs held firm, locking his wrists above his head and his ankles spread wide. All he could do was twist and writhe and laugh—loud, helpless, breathless laughter that filled the room and made Hyunjin clap his hands together in glee.

"Oh my god, he's dying." Minho laughed. "Look at his face!"

Chan’s face was, indeed, a masterpiece of embarrassment. His eyes were squeezed shut, tears already beading at the corners.

His mouth was stretched wide in a helpless grin, cheeks flaming, ears practically glowing red. He was squeaking—full-on, high-pitched, undignified squeaks between cackles, the kind of sound he’d never live down.

Changbin wheezed from the floor. “I’ve never seen him like this.”

“No one has.” Jisung agreed, clutching his pillow like a lifeline. “This is historic.”

Minho tilted his head, cat eyes gleaming. “His worst spot is the sides of his chest, by the way. Just under the armpits. If you want to be thorough.”

Jeongin's face lit up like a Christmas tree, looking away from his red faced, squirming victim towards his hyung. "Remind me to give you one of those weird cat hybrid treats later."

Minho beamed.

"NOHOHOHOHO DOHOHOHON'T—" Chan thrashed, really thrashed now, his whole body twisting in the cuffs. The magnetic bonds held him fast, but his torso was free, and he used every inch of that freedom to squirm and buck and try to dislodge the absolute menace sitting on his hips. "Jeongin, please, not there, not thehehehere—"

"The armpits, huh?" Jeongin repeated, and his fingers dug in deeper, nails now, light scratches that made Chan's nerves light up like a constellation. "You said that was your worst spot, right? A few months ago? During truth or dare? I can't believe I haven't exploited it before."

"Jeongin," Chan said, his voice still raw and breathless, a thin thread of warning wrapped in leftover giggles. "Jeongin, don't. Don't you dare—"

But Jeongin was already moving.

Not slow. Not dramatic. Just casual. Infuriatingly casual.

He let his right hand drift up from Chan's stomach, dragging his fingertips lightly over the hem of his shirt, over the tense ridges of his abs, up toward his chest. His eyes never left Chan's face.

And that was the worst part. The eye contact. The smug, knowing little quirk of his lips. The way he watched Chan's expression crumple in real time.

Chan's breath hitched. His whole body tensed.

"No—" Chan whispered, already squirming, already trying to twist away even though the cuffs held him fast. "No, no, no, no, no—"

Jeongin paused, his hand hovering over the spot. Chan tenses so hard his abs ached.

And then the demon of a maknae pounces, raking his nails over the soft hollow, watching Chan absolutely howl and thrash like crazy.

He couldn't breathe. He couldn't think. He could only laugh, loud and helpless and absolutely shameless, thrashing against the cuffs like a fish on a line, while the youngest reduced him to a puddle of helpless, squealing, blushing mess.

"THAHAHAHAHAT'S NOHOHOHOHOT FAHAHAHAHAIR—"

“Aww, hyung,” Jeongin cooed, digging his thumbs into the soft flesh and circling. Chan screamed with laughter, thrashing so hard the entire examination table rattled. The cuffs held fast. “You’re so sensitive. This has to be it. The power’s in there somewhere, just dying to get out.”

"I DONT FEEHEHEHEEL AHAHANYTHING EXCEHEHEPT DEHEHEHEATH!!"

"You're so dramatic." Jeongin laughed. As if Chan thrashing around on a table screaming under him was a daily occurence. "What if I add more hands?"

Chan gasped at that. "NOHO WAHAHAY!! YOUR POWERS AHAHARENT STROHOHONG ENOUGH FOHOR THAT!!"

Jeongin shrugged.

It started as a faint pressure against his stomach, like someone pressing a palm flat against his trembling abs. Then another pressure against his neck. Then his hips. Then the insides of his wrists—spots he didn’t even know were ticklish until that exact moment.

“What—” Chan gasped, but he didn’t get to finish.

The invisible touches moved.

They weren’t hands exactly—Jeongin had described them before as “blobs of sensation,” and that was disturbingly accurate.

They were warm, semi-solid masses that could shape themselves to any surface, and right now, they were shaping themselves into claws. Thin, pointed, nail-like protrusions that scritched and scratched and dragged across every inch of Chan’s exposed skin.

Chan absolutely shrieked. Jeongin’s real hands never stopped their own assault, now targeting Chan’s stomach with a relentless, squirming wiggle.

The invisible hands were the stars of the show, though. They were unpredictable. They moved in patterns no human hands could mimic, attacking from impossible angles, skittering up his sides one moment and then diving back into the hollow of his armpits the next.

Chan tried his hardest to form a coherent sentence. To order Jeongin to stop. Instead, what came out was: "FUHUHUHHUUHUCK—!!"

Jeongin tsked. "Language, hyung. Feel anything? Any powers trying to escape?"

Chan wailed. "NOHOHOHO!!"

Jeongin hummed and let up, poking his tongue in his cheek as Chan panted, gasping for air that never seemed to be enough. "I guess we've gotta try something else then."

Chan's stomach was tingling from Jeongin's swirling fingers, his neck and ears were melting from the invisible touches, and his whole body felt like it was floating in warm, ticklish honey.

"There he is," Jeongin murmured, and there was something reverent in his voice. "There's my hyung."

Jeongin's been tracing for ten minutes and Chan thinks his brain is gonna melt out of his ears.

Chan's giggles turned into full, bubbly laughter—not the desperate cackling from before, but something lighter, brighter, almost musical. His head fell back against the cot, baring his throat to the invisible blobs that were still tracing lazy patterns along his neck.

His eyes were squeezed shut, but tears were leaking from the corners anyway—not from distress, but from sheer, overwhelming sensation.

"Tickle tickle tickle, hyungie~" Jeongin sang under his breath, his fingers wiggling up and down Chan's sides in a steady, hypnotic rhythm.

Chan shook his head weakly, still laughing. "Nohohohoho!!"

"You like that, hyung? You like the tickles?"

Chan's brain was static. "Yehehehehehes!!"

The word came out before he could stop it. The room erupted.

Felix made a sound like a boiling teakettle. Hyunjin literally fell off his chaise lounge, clutching his chest like he'd been shot. Jisung buried his face in his hands and screamed. "SO CUTE OH MY GOD."

Jeongin's face split into the widest, most delighted grin Chan had ever seen. His cheeks were flushed, his eyes sparkling, and he looked for all the world like a child on Christmas morning who'd just received everything he'd ever wished for.

Jeongin's fingers started wiggling again, faster now, bouncing up and down Chan's sides in a flurry of light, teasing touches.

"Tickle tickle tickle for the hyungie who likes it~" Jeongin sang, his voice dripping with affectionate mocking. "Tickle tickle tickle for our sweet, shy leader who just wants gentle tickles on his tummy—"

"STAHAHAP!!" Chan shrieked, but he was grinning, laughing so hard his stomach ached, tears streaming down his temples. "STAHAHAP SAHAHAYING IT!!"

Jeongin laughed and eased up a bit. Chan's chest was heaving. He needed air.

"M' tired," Chan mumbled, voice hoarse and cracked from all the laughing. His head lolled to the side on the cot, curls plastered to his damp forehead. His chest was still heaving, but the movements had lost their frantic edge. "Can't do any more."

Jeongin pulled his hands back immediately, hovering. The invisible telekinetic blobs dissolved into nothing. "Okay," he said softly. "Okay, hyung. I've got you."

Chan blinked up at the ceiling, eyes glassy and unfocused. A few residual giggles bubbled up and died in his throat. His whole body felt like warm jelly—loose and heavy and done.

"Don't feel anything," he whispered. Not accusing. Just tired. Just empty. "Nothing's there. I guess I just… don't have powers."

Minho's expression flickered—something soft and almost sad passing over his features before he smoothed it away.

Jeongin didn't say anything. Not right away.

Instead, he reached down and pressed the release on Chan's wrist cuffs. The magnets disengaged with a soft click, and Chan's arms dropped limply to his sides. Then the ankles—another click, and his legs drew together slightly, knees bending in unconscious relief.

"You are everything." Jeongin said firmly. "You are not less for not having powers."

Chan melts. "Innie—" And he was being tugged into the maknae's arms. "Just shut up and let me hug you."

The oldest deflates, eyes going soft and fond. "Okay, baby."

"And this video is going in the group chat forever!!"

"HAN JISUNG!!"