#ticklish!reader

“fuckin’ hell, y/n,” steve nearly cried in exasperation when he saw your familiar figure, albeit with one too many twigs tangled in your normally slick, smooth hair.

“i told you not to looking for the fuckin’ demogorgon. and what do you do?” he wringed his hands up in the air, annoyance coating his pupils. “you go looking for the fucking demogorgon.”

you rolled your eyes. “steve, i’m literally fine. i hav-”

“no!” he yelled at you, and you shrunk back, suddenly timid.

“i- fuck. i’m sorry, baby, i’m sorry,” he whispered, running a hand through his immaculate, perfect hair.

you looked up at him. through his farrah fawcett hair, you picked up on something in his eyes. something beyond his angry face- was that fear? wait, what the fuck- steve was crying. steve harrington, so unlike the nonchalant and cold demeanor of king steve- he was crying. crying because his girl had run off monster hunting.

“i can’t-” he sniffed sheepishly, hiccups laced within his shaking voice. “i can’t lose you. please don’t do this again.”

“please,” he begged again, rough hands cupping your face so tenderly you almost started breaking down with him.

“okay,” you nodded feverently, just to get him to stop.

it scared you shitless to see steve so vulnerable, so fragile. his fingers trembled around your nape and he pulled you in for a kiss, other arm wrapping around the curve of your waist. the kiss was slow, passionate, something out of a movie. his lips felt soft against yours- traces of salty tears within it and you pushed into his mouth desperately, linking your tongues in a seductive tango.

when steve kissed you- time stopped. you could feel his pulse in your veins, heartbeat growing faster and faster inside of you. when you opened your eyelids to look at him, you could’ve cried at the proximity of him, at the intimacy of it all. he was so beautiful. long, brown eyelashes coated his eyes and you wondered- how many times has steve harrington cried in his life? not for those random girls he hooked up with at parties, you hoped.

how many tiny fingers have traced up and down his biceps like you have? how many lips have touched his? how many hands have found themselves entrapped into his gel casted hair, pulling and tugging in pleasure? waves of nausea coursed through you. the next whore, you bet tommy h and carol call you. you pushed steve away. he blinked in confusion, clearly still entranced by the euphoric kiss.

your heart splintered as you turned to walk away and he grabbed your wrist, spinning you back into his grasp. a breath hitched in your throat as you pressed up against him. you could feel his bulge against your core, sending heatwaves straight through.

“what are you doing?” steve’s voice was entwined with hurt.

“i just- i just can’t.”

you couldn’t look at him. one more second of those puppy dog eyes boring into your soul would’ve made you run- not away from the heart breaking manwhore, but towards him. you were playing a dangerous game- and if you wanted to get out with your heart intact, you had to leave before it was too late.

you flung your wrist out of his hand and moved away.

“can’t what?”

you stopped. something must’ve possessed you at the moment because your lips suddenly started to quiver- a telltale sign of tears to come. fuck. sobs racked your torso and you almost collapsed to the ground. your hands frantically wiped at your eyes, desperate.

“hey, hey,” within seconds, steve had jogged up to you.

with his hand on your lower back, so gentle you could fall into his touch, he stroked your hair out of your face with his other hand, meticulously tucking it behind your ear. wet tears cascaded down your cheeks and you wanted to push steve away in embarrassment.

“talk to me, baby,” steve wrapped you into a tight embrace, and you damn near bawled into his new denim jacket- he didn’t seem to mind, only squeezing you tighter. he waited patiently for your breathing to calm, working his hands up and down your back in a soothing rhythm.

“you- you’re just fucking going to leave me.” the words left your mouth, barely a whisper, but hanging in the air.

“what?” incredulous, steve placed his fingers under your chin and lifted your head. you couldn’t look at him.

“i’m just another whore you can use to get off of and dump,” you snivelled pathetically, feeling his gaze on your snotty self. he won’t even want to fuck this mess of a person now- mascara running down your face, hair tangled.

“what?” steve echoed, sounding almost angry. “who told you that?”

“come on, steve,” you laughed, but without humour. bitterness coated your voice. “i know how this works. king steve pity fucks the new little bitch for a few months and leaves."

you finally looked up at steve. the aghast on his features was unmistakable. it was honestly impressive how offended he genuinely seemed. the creases on his forehead were evident as he furrowed his brows, nose twitching adorably- you’d be lying if you said you weren’t endeared. yet another manipulative trait.

“just fuck off, harrington.” tears blurring your vision, you turned to leave once again.

“y/n, stop.” something cracked in his voice. he held your face in the palm of his hands- somehow, you let him. your watery eyes hesitantly met his. you both started crying, just this messy symphony of anguished sobs echoing through the cold air of hawkins woods.

“i fucked those girls because- because-” steve swallowed heavily, eyes glossed over with something- something clearly affecting him to a higher level. “because i wanted to feel something. anything. my dad- he- he never let me be sentimental. i grew up feeling empty. being with those girls- they never meant anything. not like you. no matter how many of them i slept with- i went home empty. you, baby, you’ve filled me with so much i’m overwhelmed by you.”

“you’ve filled me with so much love and so much affection i don’t know how to act. i don’t-” steve’s eyes drooped almost shamefully. “i don’t know how to love. but i’m trying.”

steve’s thumb swipped across your cheekbone, taking oceans of tears with it. “baby, you’re the best person i’ve ever met. i love your hair. i love your eyes. i love your gorgeous, gorgeous face. i love how funny you are. i love how your eyes light up when you’re enthusiastic about something and i love the way you mess with my hair.

“i love you for you. i’d be lying if i said i didn’t-” steve stuttered, as if struggling to get the right words out. “i just - i really love you, baby.” 

you flushed, trying hold back your smile- he couldn’t win you back that easily. but he already has. you'd go through the depths of hell and back if it meant you would still be his baby girl. you could sense the genuinity steve was speaking with- feeling it deep in your veins. steve harrington loves me, you wanted to tell the world. fuckin’ hell.

steve’s demeanor brightened at your twinkling eyes and in classic harrington style, he took the opportunity to tease. “why would i keep you around for sex anyway? you suck at giving head.”

“it was my first time, steve,” you whined, but it pulled a dopey grin on your face. “how the fuck was i supposed to not choke on it?"

"you make me feel good about myself," steve winked.

you rolled your eyes. "not everyone has a body count of the entire hawkins female population, steve."

steve gasped indignantly and you giggled, satisfied.

“hey, wanna know what else i love you for?”

oh, bless your poor, innocent soul. “what?”

steve hoisted you up by the hips, entrapping you between the tree trunk and his toned torso, easily towering over you, causing you to yelp. without warning, he wrapped his hands around your ribcage and started tickling you.

“whahat thehe fuhuck?” you immediately burst into uncharacteristic giggles, hands grabbing but never able to stop steve’s quick, methodical squeezing along your stomach.

“i just love how insanely ticklish you are, baby,” steve beamed, and you groaned through your laughter.

“i- ihi am gohoing toho muhurder you,” you seethed and attempted (and failed) to look serious.

“aww, that’s a shame. who’s going to tickle you then?”

you flushed. your enjoyment of this form of affection hadn’t gone unnoticed. steve wasn’t too mean, though, considering your energy was half sapped from running in the woods and crying your brains out. he gave a final scribble to your hips and carried you bridal style, crashing through the remainder of the woods and reveled in the familiar sight of his red beamer.

by then, you were long asleep in his arms. he set you down on the car seat, pulling your seatbelt on and being careful not to wake you. kissing your forehead, he whispered some words he knew you would never hear- yet he needed to spell them out for the stars to see.

“you’ll be my first and last love.”

You were perched on the edge of the sectional with a stack of reports beside you, laptop open on the coffee table, pen cap clenched between your teeth. Your eyes were sharp, shoulders high with tension, jaw visibly set. You’d been like this for days - edgy, overworked, quiet, insular. Everyone knew why.

There was a summit in two weeks. A UN delegation. An avalanche of new diplomatic threads to untangle, several of which involved countries you’d gone on missions in recently. Your name was on every page of briefing notes and draft statements, and now you’d been snowed under.

"Hey. You good over there?" Sam broke the calm, directing his attention pointedly to the way your leg was bouncing.

You didn’t look up, but some kind of awareness flashed across your face and your leg fell still.

"Yeah. Good. Just focused."

Curt. Efficient. Not unkind, but final.

Loki, from his armchair, eyes appearing focused on the book in his lap, quirked a brow.

Bruce glanced up. "You've been at it for a while. You should really take a break."

"I was at the punching bag this morning."

Steve chimed in, not looking away from his tablet. "That’s training. Not a break."

"Feels like a break; I like training."

"You need to do something that isn’t work," Sam offered gently from his couch, falling easily into counsellor mode. "Take a beat. Do you have a hobby? A creative outlet would help."

You didn't look up. Just exhaled slowly through your nose. It was the kind of breath that meant I’m trying to be polite.

"I appreciate the concern," you said, very diplomatically, "but I have a pile of actual responsibilities in front of me, and knitting or bouldering is not going to rewrite the second paragraph of this response to the Wakandan delegation. If you'll excuse me."

You stood, gathering your laptop and papers, and exited the room with a measured grace that only barely masked how tense you were.

There was a moment of quiet as everyone waited for you to be out of earshot.

"She’s gonna snap," Bruce said, setting his mug down.

Sam sighed, arms crossed. "She’s in pressure mode. Doesn’t mean she’s angry. Just means she thinks stopping will make it worse. But we let it sit too long and it’ll turn into the wrong kind of burnout."

Steve sipped his coffee. "I’m watching it."

"She has been boxing," Natasha pointed out.

"She doesn't need more cortisol," Bruce muttered, "She needs a damn serotonin drip. Or something. Or someone. Honestly, just- someone make her laugh."

Natasha shrugged. "I could try."

Bruce winced. An unspoken: maybe it's best you don't.

"Wilson," Loki said aloud, not looking up from his book.

Sam turned. "Yeah?"

"You fancy yourself a comedian."

Sam's brow furrowed. "I mean... I am funny-"

"Then for Norns’ sake," Loki said, flipping a page with precise disdain, "do your job."

Natasha choked on a laugh.

Steve chuckled under his breath.

Loki felt his chest tighten.

The discussion annoyed him more than he expected. Not because of the concern - no, that part made sense. It was how they discussed it. They were talking in circles, wringing their hands, musing about serotonin and yoga, all while you were in the next room slowly grinding yourself down to the bone doing work that, if Loki wasn’t mistaken, concerned all of them.

Yet... you wouldn't allow a single report to be taken.

"Rogers." Loki snapped the book shut and settled back into his chair, perching his elbows on the upholstered arms. "Might I ask," he drawled, "are you the leader of this team or not?"

Steve’s brow furrowed slowly. "Excuse me?"

"You," Loki said plainly. "Stars and stripes. Human embodiment of a rousing inspirational speech. Are you in charge, or do you all simply loiter in proximity to each other?"

Sam raised his brows.

Loki didn't wait for an answer. "Delegate."

Steve sighed, long and deep.

"I’ve offered. But she’s protective of it; she cares a lot about the work, and her name is all over it. I can't just take it from her."

"Then order her to accept help."

"That's not how we do things," Steve said firmly.

Loki hummed under his breath as the others went back to their own little worlds.

Fascinating.

A room full of soldiers, spies, and scientists...

And yet none of them, not one, had the teeth to intervene.

The following morning, Loki found himself happening across an tiresomely similar scene, this time in the kitchen. The room smelled like toast and bacon and freshly ground coffee and the underlying tension of one person trying very hard to pretend they didn’t have basic human needs.

You sat at the island, dressed in your running tank and leggings, one foot planted on the stool, knee tucked to your chest. The thin veil of control you were clinging to was starting to crack, but you kept working, stubborn and relentless.

Sam leaned against the counter, nursing his coffee like it was a tactical manoeuvre.

"Just saying," he offered gently, "summit’s a couple weeks out. You could afford a break."

"I'll take a break," you said without looking up. "Once this section’s clean. It’s almost there."

Sam glanced over his mug, still trying to be gentle. "You said that yesterday. And the day before that."

"And when you said it Monday, it was 'just a few more paragraphs.'" Steve was crouched by the oven, checking on the bacon.

"I finally got a response I've been waiting for just before I was about to go for a run," you muttered, tapping a line of text and deleting it without mercy. "I'll go outside once I edit this section with this new info."

"Running is training. Training is work," Sam said. "You need something that’s not work. Something for you."

You sighed, long-suffering. "Something for me - something that'll make me feel better - is having this done."

"You know this is how burnout starts, right?" Sam’s voice was calm, but not soft. The therapist was peeking through. "You run hot for too long, you crash hard. You'll think better when your brain’s had room to breathe."

You gave him a look. It wasn’t angry. Just tired.

"And you think a watercolour landscape will clear my head?"

"You need fun. Your body needs endorphins."

"Exercise gives me endorphins."

"And cortisol. Which you've been running high on for almost a week. You need to let loose. Laugh. Give your body a break from the tension."

"I laugh," you said, with the driest tone possible. "You’re all very funny."

"Nope," Sam shook his head. "That’s not real laughter. That’s the social ‘ha.’"

"My ha is perfectly adequate," you snapped, deadpan, looking back to the screen.

Steve snorted.

From the other side of the kitchen, as his coffee trickled through the filter, Loki’s gaze narrowed on you, his eyes sharp as he observed the exchange. It didn’t escape him - your composure had cracks in it, the way your shoulders were wound tight, the way you barely breathed between sentences. His lips curled into a faint, knowing, endeared smile.

So stubborn.

Sam leaned his elbows on the island across from you, clasping his hands together. "What can I do?"

You raised a brow. "I’m not your responsibility, Sam."

"You’re my teammate."

You looked up. And to your credit, there was no venom in your eyes. Just that same brittle exhaustion that’d been following you like a shadow for days. You blew out a breath.

"I’m fine."

"You’ll think better with food," Sam coaxed.

Your jaw tensed. "I know. I'll eat in a bit."

"C'mon," Sam pressed, his voice light but serious. "Sit with us for half an hour, eat something, then you can get back to your 'almost done' report, and we'll all leave you alone."

You looked back at your screen. "I can’t tell if that’s a bribe or a threat."

"Bruce says the stress will kill you," Sam said, half-joking.

"Your jokes might beat it to the punch," you muttered back.

"Wow."

You resumed typing. "I promise, once this summit is over, I'll watch a Netflix special of your choosing and get more than my fill of endorphins."

Loki uncrossed his arms and stepped forward, smooth and deliberate. Unhurried, but with the weight of purpose behind them. He could feel the tension rolling off you, and for reasons he wouldn’t fully admit - couldn’t fully understand... he couldn’t stand it.

"Why," he began, his voice calm but with undeniable mischief laced beneath, "do you all insist on doing this the hard way?"

He rounded the island and approached you from the side, calm, not rushed, but without delay.

He had nothing to do with this - he told himself. This wasn’t about you or your exhaustion. This was just him solving a problem. A problem they were clearly too inept to fix.

Your shoulders didn’t move. You didn’t acknowledge him. You kept typing as he stood behind you.

His hands were on you before you registered the intent.

Loki’s fingers dug into your ribs, pressing and wiggling into the soft spots just beneath your arms with an expert precision.

You jerked, hands flying off the keys with a sharp sound of protest, an involuntary giggle bursting from your throat as you half-twisted, elbows snapping protectively to your sides.

Loki dropped his tickling hands, looming behind you like an impending storm, and let out a sharp and satisfied puff of air. "Thank the Norns."

And then, before you could gather your wits and react, he grabbed you around the waist and hauled you effortlessly off the stool.

You kicked and cursed in wild shock, flailing against the solid vice of his arm around your middle. "HEY!"

Loki looked to the others - their faces painted in quiet hesitance.

"Oh, don’t look at me like that," the god said with cool amusement, adjusting his grip as you writhed in his arms. “You’re all too bloody soft. Someone has to be the villain, and I rather enjoy the role." He then shot a sharp glance to Rogers. "You’re welcome."

He turned and started walking towards the living room.

"LOKI!" You snarled through gritted teeth, pushing at his forearm.

You were squirming like a snared hellcat in his arms, but your body gave you away. You were tired. Overextended. Tied in so many knots you couldn't tell where your own edges begin anymore.

"Let me go!"

"Yes, yes…" he sighed, striding into the large common room. "Once this matter is dealt with."

Bruce glanced up from his usual armchair, blinking behind his glasses. He took in the scene - you writhing in Loki’s arms, Loki’s expression impassive and focused, the faint storm in his stride.

From the threshold, Sam and Steve peered out with matching expressions of amused disbelief.

"Uh…" Bruce looked to the others, eyes wary and uncertain, coffee half-raised to his lips. "So we’re all just cool with whatever this is?"

Loki looked at the doctor briefly. "You said she needed endorphins. Laughter. Yes?"

"Well yeah but-"

"Lovely."

And then he threw you onto the couch.

It wasn't a gentle toss, but not cruel either. It was precise. Designed to disorient, and it did a hell of a job.

You landed on your side with a sharp bounce, half-seething, pushing yourself up with both murder and a giddy sort of nervousness in your eyes. You twisted and moved to scramble away, but he was already there - moving fast and smooth, settling down beside you.

He sat side-on, one knee on the cushion, the other foot braced on the floor. His hip pressed flush to yours, caging you in where you lay half-twisted against the backrest of the couch. His torso leaned across your waist, the angle perfect for blocking your every attempt to curl or wriggle away.

"You son of a-"

You reached up, maybe to push, maybe to slap, maybe to claw his face off - but it didn't matter. He caught your wrist easily, trapping it in mid-air.

"Easy," he said, voice low and warm. "Let’s not make a scene."

"Don’t you dare."

You didn't stand a chance.

He released your wrist and his hands darted fast - intentional, no wasted movement - his fingers dragging and digging into the sensitive space between your ribs and waist, thumbs pressing with precision.

You slapped at his hands, trying to hold back your giggles, still trying to fight, but he already had you.

Fingers spidered across your sides, precise and ticklish, pressing into the spaces between your ribs, the grooves of your waist. You jolted like a live wire. And then-

"Nnn-shit!"

You broke.

Giggling laughter exploded out of you, bright and helpless, like it had been waiting days to claw its way free. You bucked against him, hands slapping at his chest, knees curling up against his back.

He smirked, not even looking up at you, just watching his own hands move, thumbs circling, working the lines of your waist like a musician playing a their attuned instrument.

"Gods above," he muttered with an exhale, actually smiling. "You’re so ticklish."

"Asshole," you managed an adorable little snarl between breaths, but the laughter didn't stop. You were so consumed by the giggles that your protest didn’t sound as defiant as it should. "I ha-hate you!"

He chuckled, low and dark, his voice so teasing. "Oh, you’re going to have to try harder than that."

You let out a squeal when his fingers dug under your arms for half a second - then lower, finding the softest edge of your waist. You shrieked, bucking again, and Loki's grin deepened. His hands settled there with ominous precision.

Oh, he’d found something.

The spot just under your ribs, where nerves tangled and skin jumped at the slightest pressure. He focused there, thumbs pressing maddening circles, fingertips dragging with infuriating care.

You gasped, laughed, cursed - tried to twist, tried to curl - but it was useless. Your muscles had gone soft with the laughing. Your hands pushed at his chest, but there was no strength in them anymore. You were melting under him. And gods, he liked it.

"That’s it," he murmured, low and amused.

You didn't respond. You couldn't. Instead, you started going boneless beneath him.

He tilted his head, fascinated.

So expressive, mortals. All heat and breath and sudden collapse.

You could be a fury incarnate at any waking moment - sharp-tongued, iron-willed, as comfortable with a combat knife as you were in geopolitical briefings. And just as precise.

You’d spent the last week grinding yourself into steel and silence, undereyes shadowed with exhaustion, soaked in irritation, swatting away gentle jokes and light-hearted concern.

And now - reduced to this. Caught somewhere between defiance and surrender. Giggling, shaking, flushed and boneless beneath his hands.

Adorable.

He narrowed his eyes.

When had that word started surfacing in his brain so often?

God of Mischief, he reminded himself. This was simply the application of chaos toward emotional regulation. A necessary correction. Nothing more.

And yet, he could not look away.

He was a trickster, schemer, a thousand-year-old weapon of mass destruction. He had absolutely no business finding a mortal this... this charming.

And yet, he did not want to look away.

What a ruinous little thing you were becoming.

Your slaps were weaker now, your kicks barely jostled him. Your body had given up trying to fight and was just reacting, all frantic little spasms and helpless gasps. Your hands swatted for a second more- then simply curled around his wrists.

Not to push him away.

Just… to hold.

Your knuckles pressed into his sleeves, clinging without purpose, your palms warm against his skin. You were laughing, really laughing now - wild and breathless and beautiful, the sound pouring out of you with no control, like your body had finally found a way to purge the stress.

He watched you unravel under his hands, and it did something to him. Bended something inside him.

The laughter had knocked the fight out of your limbs. You were still squirming, yes, but without aim now. Pure reflex. He could feel the tension in you - the pressure that had been building for days - finally start to release.

He slowed his fingers, letting them glide lightly now, teasing, drawing out that helpless warmth until your laughter turned soft. Sweet. Still squirming, but relaxed.

When you went completely pliant, Loki stilled.

He watched your chest rise and fall, fast but looser. He'd felt the fight seep out of your shoulders, the weight in your brow gone. Your laughter trailed off into a breathless smile, your lips parted, eyes dazed with that post-laughter glow.

"There you are," he murmured, low and quiet, brushing his thumbs gently over your sides, not tickling anymore.

Something knotted tight in his chest as he looked at you - you, who could break bones and weaponise words. You, who had glared at the others like you wanted to bite them for suggesting a break. You, who hadn’t smiled in days, eyes heavy and sleepless with the unbearable weight of caring so very much.

Now a flushed, giggling heap on the couch. Under him. His body curved over yours, his hands still warm at your waist. Your fingers still wrapped loose around his wrists like you didn’t even realise it.

He swallowed.

This had been about endorphins. About tricking your nervous system into resetting. That was all.

Just… good strategy.

Right?

He kept his weight over you, hands still in place, but his voice dipped - lower, closer, with that subtle edge.

"I think your teammates are perfectly capable of helping you finish off those reports," he said. "Wouldn’t you agree?"

You nod without thinking, eyes unfocused. "Yeah."

Loki glanced up. Met Rogers’ gaze. Held it.

Steve was standing there in the kitchen archway, arms crossed, brow lifted. Loki didn't say a word - but the look was pointed.

"Captain Rogers will have Sergeant Barnes review the response to the Wakandan delegation," Loki continued, speaking to you but keeping his eyes on the one apparently in charge. "The others can proofread the rest, and deliver you notes... tomorrow."

"Yeah okay," you sniffed, still dazed, still sputtering residual giggles, but fully aware of your defeat.

Steve's mouth twitched. Not quite a smile.

Loki turned towards the good doctor.

Bruce was still watching from his chair, coffee in hand, one brow raised. Loki cocked his head, gesturing to your giggling form.

"Well, Bruce? What’s your diagnosis?"

Bruce watched you for a long second - your loose limbs, your lazy grin, the visible ease now where tightness had controlled your frame just minutes before. The corners of his mouth turned down in an analytical frown.

"Tension’s down. Endorphins kicked in. She looks lighter. I’d say she could use... another minute or so."

Loki’s smirk turned feral.

You didn't even protest.

You barely registered it, not until his fingers at to your sides started tickling with that same precision, but just a little gentler now, and your body danced with a squealing giggle you didn’t know you had in you.

The couch shook with your laughter again, the sound of your heels thudding against the cushion. You were completely wrecked. And you let it happen. You let him ruin you with laughter, your body betraying you, all your sharpness and strength replaced by unguarded sound and colour and heat.

And Loki...

He was half-smiling down at you like you were dangerous.

Like he was just realising you might be the only thing on this wretched planet that could bring him to heel. That could... soften him. That could make him enjoy softening.

And that, in itself, was terrifying.

But your laughter hit that beautiful, breathless pitch - and he knew he’d be doing this again.

.

.

.

end note:

That’s what got you in this predicament in the first place. The whining.

That’s not your fault though. How could it be?

You’d been in a mood all day, eyeing his hands, watching the way they worked so efficiently with such delicate precision. You of course couldn’t help but think about his hands on you, that was only natural, and you knew he’d love to get his hands on you just as much, so why were you still here, frustrated and un-tickled?

You’ve done literally everything you know to do when it comes to getting what you want from him. Whining and pouting and batting your pretty eyes at him and… that’s.. well, that’s about it.

But that usually works!

Oh how very well it usually works. Just looking up at him with big puppy dog eyes and tilting your head so slightly to the side. It makes him weak. His knees buckle just slightly and his stomach twists, and how can anyone say no to a face like that?

So, when you found him on the beach tinkering with some Eridian device, and you looked up at him, your eyes wide and glazed over, bottom lip poked out just a bit, you had expected him to give in to you nearly immediately. Drag you into the little house, pull you into his lap, find all of your favorite sensitive spots, coo over how sweet your laugh is. You certainly don’t expect him to tilt his head and furrow his eyebrows just a bit, confusion evident in his expression.

But, of course, that’s exactly what he did. He even went as far as to ask you if everything was okay.

You had just huffed out of your nose, eyes narrowing slightly for just a moment. You first thought he maybe just wasn’t picking it up. Yeah, that must be it. He’s just too engrossed in his work to properly comprehend the pressing matters at hand. But, when you batted your eyelashes at him, leaning in just a little closer to him, he just gave you a quizzical look before turning back to whatever he was working on.

You were taken aback to say the least. He’d never had any problem putting two and two together before, so it didn’t take a genius to figure out that he was doing it on purpose. Though you couldn’t quite land on a reason when you wracked your brain.

You pouted, an honest to god pout. Your eyebrows knit together, lips pursed, and your arms crossed over your chest, as you stared right at him. He didn’t notice- or at least he pretended not to for the moment. You didn’t notice the way he bit his lip or turned his head so that his face was just out of your view. Though, after several seconds of you burning holes into the back of his skull, he turned back to you, eyebrows raised a bit.

“Can I help you with something?”

His expression was unreadable, along with his tone. You huffed through your nose, glaring as you turned away from him and stomped through the sand back inside.

You missed the way he watched you when you turned your back to him, and the breath he let out when you got out of ear shot.

‘This is going to be much more difficult than I thought’, he thought to himself as he shook his head.

————————

It’s about an hour later when he makes his way into the house. You’ve had time to wallow in self pity, which included curling up in bed, and pouting, and thinking more and more about what you want. You just don’t get it. He’s usually jumping at the opportunity to tickle you out of your mind. Why would this be any different.

You sigh, chewing on the inside of your lip as so many different things run through your mind. The way he’d looked at you outside, especially compared to how he’d usually look at you. He usually looks at you like he wants to eat you alive— you’re not always unconvinced that he actually does.

You think about how he’d watch you, the way you’d watch his eyes narrow and his lips curl into a smirk. The way he’d approach, slow and stalking just to tower over you and look down at you with that grin. Your mind races as you think about how he'd hold you, how he’d wrap you in his arms, keep you in his lap, his hands exploring every ticklish spot they can reach— god, his hands.

You don’t realize how lost you are in your own pitiful yearning until the sound of the door opening and closing startles you out of your daze, your face and neck hot.

You perk up almost immediately, and you start to unwrap yourself from the blanket to find your way to his heels again, but your mind jumps back to what he’d done to you on the beach, and you make a snap decision.

If he’s got a point to prove, you’ll prove one of your own.

He walks into the small kitchen, whistling as he pours himself a glass a water. The house is only so big, you can hear him shuffling around, the clinking of the glass against the counter, and if you were to peer around the doorway, you could watch him. You stay right where you are, back to the doorway of the little bedroom as you lay in bed. You say nothing, but you sigh loud enough for him to hear it. He stops, and you can hear the sudden halt of the water trickling. Everything is still, including him, aside from the way his lip twitches upward at the corner. He waits for a moment, listening out for anything from you, but when you don't say anything, he starts meandering around the kitchen again. You furrow your eyebrows, huffing out of your nose before letting out another exaggeratedly loud sigh.

When he stops this time, he laughs, and you light up as he makes his way into the bedroom.

“Alright”, he sighs, sitting on the edge of the bed next to you. Your back is to him as you lay completely cocooned in the soft blanket. His hand snakes around your waist and you tense, inhaling sharply. You’re sure this is it- he’s had enough of watching you sulk, and he intends to do something about it.

At least, that’s what you tell yourself.

He pulls you closer, and you shift just a bit to look at him. He can see it all over your face, in the way your eyes shine with something hopeful, and how you chew anxiously on in the inside of your lip, even as you try to glare at him. He stares for just a moment, considering his options.

He’d planned to keep this up much longer. He has a point to prove after all. What kind of lesson is he teaching by giving in to you every time you so much as look at him a certain way? He has to hold his ground, put his foot down.

It’s just… that spark behind your eyes, and you had been asking for it all day, and would it even be fair to deny you something that you want so badly? Something he needs just as much? And… yeah, okay. Whatever. Maybe he had overestimated his own willpower, but that doesn’t mean you need to know that.

He just huffs. He’s not ready to give in to you yet, at least not completely.

“I know what you want”, he says simply as he pulls the blanket down, his hands trailing and resting on your hips. He holds you firm, and you can’t help but squirm beneath him, your face flushed red as your heart flutters in your chest. It’s almost embarrassing, how quickly he broke your little grumpy facade.

To him, it’s an absolutely breathtaking sight, the way you get so visibly needy. His jaw drops just slightly and his chest heaves as he takes a deep breath to ground himself. His skin is absolutely crawling as he watches you writhe underneath him, his fingers twitching instinctively at your sides.

He takes you in entirely, just watching, and he has to bite back a smile of his own.

“You’ve been just beggin’ for it all day, huh?”.

You deny it of course, shaking your head, but this is what you’ve wanted all day. You feel a nervous smile playing at your lips, and you bring your hands up to cover your face.

“No?”, he repeats, quirking an eyebrow as he reaches up and pulls your hands away from your face, gently pinning them to the mattress beside your head.

You turn your head, trying to hide your face as much as you possibly can- something he corrects almost instantly. “Hey, eyes up here. On me please”.

His tone is low and steady, and certainly not unkind, but still stern. Your stomach twists just a bit and you find yourself turning your head, your eyes meeting his.

“Good. Thank you.” Your lips part just slightly as your breath catches in your throat. You just nod, any argument you could have posed faltering on the tip of your tongue.

“Now”, he starts, brushing a loose strand of hair out of your face. His tone is low, just above a whisper. “Just because I know what you want doesn’t mean I’m gonna give it to you.”

You start to whine, but he cuts you off with a chuckle, rolling his eyes.

“What, you think just because you whine and give me those big puppy dog eyes, I’ll give you whatever you want?”

You’re quiet for a moment, chewing on your lip.

“Umm… yes?”

In your defense, it usually does.

He’s quiet for a second, lips pursed. “Okay, you know what? That’s fair, but, this time,” his thumb rubs soothing circles against your wrist, “that’s not gonna work.”

You whine again, and again he cuts you off.

“Ah-ah, what did I just say, hm?”

He tilts his head down, eyebrows raised as he gives you a pointed look.

“Use your words.”

Your eyes widen. Those words in that tone out of his mouth… it’s the last thing you expect to hear from him. He’s never done this to you, denied you like this. Honestly, you didn’t even know he had the self restraint to tell you no. About anything.

Truth be told, he doesn’t. With every passing moment, he’s starting to regret this little game more and more.

He had done this as a means of toying with you. He wanted to watch you squirm, to see that desire build inside of you until you were too desperate for it to think about anything else. He hadnt considered his own need hindering that, and he tries to push it down, but instinct is gnawing at him. Everything in him is telling him to just give you what you want, draw out all those pretty giggles and squeals.

Still, he just waits, watching you, but you feel his grip on your wrists get just slightly firmer. You don't know what to do. He's never put you in a position like this before- at least not that you can remember. You open your mouth, trying to find the right words before closing it again almost immediately. You've never... asked for it before. You're honestly not sure that you can even fix your mouth to form the proper sentence to do so. You think and think, taking a breath every now and then as if you've thought of something before going quiet again. He watches the way your eyes shift. You keep looking at him, like you're hoping he'll help you out, but you don't look at him long enough to meet his eyes or hold his gaze. He can see the frustration build, your eyebrows furrowing and your face burning as you realize you can't force it out.

He’s silent for the entirety of the battle you’re having with your own brain, and that only makes it worse. He’s just waiting. Waiting for you to do as he’s told you, no exceptions, no easy way out. His fingers tap idly at your pinned wrist, which isn't helping you at all. You think he's teasing you, just the lightest tapping of his fingertips against your skin as if he's giving you just the slightest bit of what you want, making you want more, and god it's working, but that's not his intention. He's getting just as restless as you are, eager to touch and to tickle, but who would he be if he didn't uphold his own rules? It feels like the words are stuck in your chest, like you know what you need to say, but you can't make yourself. 'Please tickle me'. It's just three little words. A simple request. Something you know you both want. And still, your tongue feels like cement. You take a deep shaky breath, your face contorting into a small wince as you start to force something out. "I-", you clear your throat, rolling your eyes with a huff, "Ryland- just, please-" Before you can even get out the rest of it- or at least try to- he's got both of your hands in one wrist, moving shockingly quickly to pin them above your head and straddle your hips. "Yeah, okay, that's good enough for me". It comes out rushed, so much so that you almost don't fully comprehend what he's saying, but it certainly doesn't take you long to register the feeling of his free hand squeezing rapidly up and down your side. It all happens so fast, it feels like a jolt of electricity trailing down your spine, and suddenly, what was a plea for him to get on with it turns into a desperate for him to just wait. He shakes his head, his hand suddenly jumping from your side to your ribs, clawing against the sensitive skin and worming his fingers into the spaces between the bones. "I’ve done enough waiting. I will literally never do that again. Don't ever make me wait that long again." You squeal when his hand jumps again, this time under your arm before he scribbles back down to your ribs. You don’t believe what you’re hearing.

After all of that, he has the audacity to blame you for the delay, and for what? Because he got impatient? How can that possibly be fair? "ME?", you ask through loud cackles, in utter disbelief. "I dihihidn't! I-", He cuts you off, clicking his tongue at you before he brings his hand to your belly, clawing around your navel before scribbling across your lower belly from one hip to the other. It's so sporadic, fingertips jumping from one spot to the other and swapping between clawing and spidering and scratching. "Excuses, excuses...", he sighs, but you don’t miss the small smirk on his face. You know arguing with him about it will only dig you into a deeper hole, but you just can't help it. You're already so worked up. I mean, he was the one that demanded you ask for it anyway. He had intentionally denied you earlier just to prove a point, and then he got too impatient to even enforce it properly. And now he blames you? You just can't believe it. You start to tell him that you're not making excuses, that the whole ordeal is his fault, but his thumb finds that sensitive spot in the dip of your hip, and any rebuttal you might have had is immediately lost. Your head falls back against the pillow, eyes squeezed shut us as you twist your hips as much as possible.

You’re so focused on trying to get away from the unbearable sensation of his relentless squeezing that the argument falls further and further into the back of your mind, but you just can’t seem to worm free even in the slightest.

You whine, a mess of flustered, frustrated giggles as his unpredictable movements finally turn into a steady kneading in one spot.

You’re honestly not sure at this point which is worse.

“There ya go”, he draws out, his tone softer, higher, almost patronizing. “Isn’t this so much better than laying around and pouting all day? And all you had to do was say please! I didn’t even make you say tickle.”

He watches the way your nose scrunches at the sound of the word, and the way you shake your head in response to his question. You try to say no, but you’re not sure it comes out too coherently through squeals and giggles.

He laughs. “Ohhh, that’s right! You can’t say tickle.”

He already knew that.

“We’ll work on that. I’m sure I could help you.”

A whimper slips out through frantic giggles as he reaches up to hold your wrist in his other hand before pushing the soft fabric of your tshirt up just enough to slip his hand underneath it.

You arch your back when his fingertips swirl in a smooth motion around your navel, but they don’t linger. He traces all the way up your side, just to wiggle his fingers into the soft skin under your arm.

You shake your head, trying to pull your arm down. You feel like you’re putting up such a hard fight, but he doesn’t budge.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

He barely manages the question out before you’re squealing for him to let you go, but he just shakes his head.

“No,” he says, drawing out the ‘o’, “You wanted me to tickle you, didn’t you?”

You whine again, squirming and twisting as much as you can, but not only are you stuck beneath him, you can feel your muscles giving out on you.

You’re so incredibly conflicted, just as you usually are, and he knows it, and loves taking advantage of it. This is exactly what you wanted, but you- you poor thing, you’re just so ticklish, and he’s so very mean.

It’s his favorite thing, to watch that little bit of panic flare behind your eyes when you realize that you’ve gotten exactly what you want, and ,despite the fact that you craved it all day, it’s still just as unbearable as it always in.

You nod, but then you shake your head, and it turns into some weird combination of both.

“I-I don’t knohohow!”

He laughs again, this time genuine. He almost feels bad hearing how frantic your responses are.

Almost.

Not nearly enough to stop.

His fingers stay in motion as they crawl upwards, over your bicep and to your elbow before trailing back down, spidering and scratching lightly in your armpit and down to your ribs. It’s such a repetitive motion, up and down, up and down, but you can’t adjust to the sensation at all.

“Okay, okay, fine. I’ll stop teasing.”

Liar.

Though, his hand does slow. It doesn’t stop, but it slows at your ribs.

Desperate cackles turn to something lighter, but his fingertips are still trailing gently over the spots he’d already assaulted. You can’t fight it anymore, aside from twitching and squirming out of pure instinct.

“Why are you still giggling?”, he asks, feigning confusion as his nails keep tracing against your ribs in a slow circular motion. You can feel his hand traveling higher and higher, inch by inch, devastatingly close to that oh so sensitive spot under your arm again.

“Becahahuse! It-“, you cut yourself off, biting your tongue with a frustrated whine as you throw your head back against the pillow in defeat.

“Because it what?”, he asks, eyebrows raised. “Because it tickles?”

He annunciates the word by kneading, rougher and quicker, into the soft flesh of your ribs, but only for a second before he’s back to slow teasing.

“Yehehes!”, you squeak, planting your feet against the mattress and trying to buck him off.

You don’t knock him off, but you definitely throw him off of his balance as he falls forward. He almost loses his grip on your wrists, but he holds tight using his other hand to steady himself against the headboard.

Everything’s quiet for just a moment, aside from the quick, shallow huffs you let out as you try to settle down.

He doesn’t say anything, not for a minute anyway. He’s just looking down at you, his jaw slack, and eyes narrowed, almost offended.

When you finally do look up to meet his gaze, your heart sinks.

You’re fucked.

You are so completely and utterly and extremely fucked.

“W-Wait— Ryland, hold on-“

He just shakes his head, cutting you off before you can even get started.

“You…”, he chuckles, a grin that can only be described as shit-eating playing at his lips.

“You are so screwed.”

——————

What’s this? More Ler Ryland? Who could have thunk. This isn’t my absolute favorite of my ler Ryland concepts but fret not because I already have another one bubbling and brewing in my drafts.

“Five more minutes?”

“You said the exact same thing half an hour ago.”

He shrugs at this, and keeps trying to snatch his stuff back. Things quickly devolve into a childish wrestling match, both of you grabbing and slapping at the other.

“Give! It! Back!” Grace punctuates the words with three lunges towards the book. They all miss.

Somewhere in the midst of the flailing, he grabs your sides, trying to drag you closer. He doesn't miss the sudden flinch it causes, nor the poorly suppressed yelp.

Deathly silence falls over the pair of you. 

Ryland narrows his eyes, calculating.

You school your expression into one of indifference as Grace starts smiling, and adjusts his glasses.

 “Are you ticklish?” He's thrilled. This does not bode well for winning your little argument.

“No. Don't distract me.” It's the least convincing lie you've ever told. You hold the notebook higher in case he tries anything, and lament the telltale blush creeping up your neck. The human body is excellent at betraying itself.

Before you can react, he tickles you again, with intent this time, fingertips skittering above your hip. 

A strangled squeak escapes. You instinctively reach down with your free arm and shove his wrist, eyes wide. 

"Ohhh, you liar!" Ryland meets your gaze with a low laugh, and the look on his face makes you briefly consider running out the airlock. You're out of time to contemplate one-way exits though, as he promptly grabs onto your waist and starts squeezing. 

“Grace! Don't-” You try to even out your breathing, not wanting to give him a reaction so easily. Laughter threatens to escape every time you try to speak. 

“I’ll stop if you give me the notepad,” he states matter-of-factly, fingers creeping up to prod your ribs. It's getting harder and harder to hold your arm up, and he can tell.

“Ne...aha...Never!” You manage, giggles rapidly overtaking your ability to string together a sentence.

He sighs. “Alright then, you leave me no choice.” 

With that, his hand moves under your arm, and it comes crashing down towards your chest. You're not ready to give up - you clutch the book close to your chest, both hands holding onto it for dear life.

Unfortunately, this makes it all the more difficult to stop Ryland from scribbling up and down your ribs in a way that drives you into utter hysterics.

“C’mon, I know you want to let go. Just let go. It’s so easy.” He worms a couple fingers under your arms, and laughs at the small shriek it causes. “Did that noise come out of you?”

“Please-!” You gasp, legs kicking uselessly. It's becoming apparent that tickle fights in zero G suck. Your instinctive squirming doesn’t do much without gravity to help you, so you're basically a sitting duck. Grace seems aware of this and takes full advantage, nudging you into a lying position to scribble over the sides of your stomach. He looks so damn smug that it makes you grip the notebook tighter out of spite.

“Oh, that's a good spot, isn't it? You go all squeaky when I do this.” The smirk on his face nearly kills you. 

Good god. You're trapped on a spaceship with a sadist. 

“Grace! Stop, mercy-” Your frantic laughter is punctuated with many embarrassing noises - a snort here, the occasional hiccup there. Ryland seems intent on cataloguing which areas draw these out, and it’s wearing your resolve very thin, very quickly. Luckily, he seems to sense this, and backs off to give you a breather.

“Mercy?” He hovers his hands near your torso. “Okay. Here’s what’s gonna happen. I’m gonna count to three, and if you don’t give me that notebook, you’re done for. Got it?”

You’re a little too busy gasping for air to process anything. There’s a stupid grin on your face that won’t go away, and whenever you breathe out, a bunch of giggles slip out too. It’s utterly humiliating. 

“Two…” You must’ve missed the start of the countdown. Grace tilts his head at you, clearly surprised at your determination. He wriggles his fingers above your stomach, and that’s when you decide to give up. You shove the notepad at him in a panic, the thought of more tickling sending you into another laughing fit.

“Three- oh, thank you. There, was that so hard?”

You go to say something snarky in response, but it just comes out as an incoherent giggle. Grace chuckles.

“Ok, and what did we learn?”

You give him a rude gesture. He scowls and pokes you, which is enough to set you off again for a moment. Whilst you recover, he heads over to the desk to finish up whatever notes he was writing before. 

After a second, he hesitates, and looks at you over his shoulder.

“And don’t you even think about tickling me. Won’t work.”

Hobi had been continuing this charade for weeks. You understood that comeback preparations required a lot of Hobi’s time, but a lot of that time had been bleeding into your relationship. You were seeing him less and less. You were trying to be understanding, but you missed him.  Romantic kisses from him in the morning turned into quick pecks as he rushed out the door. Time that the two of you reserved for cuddling on the couch had been reduced to none. Plates of food that you left for him were being eaten in his studio, rather than with you at the table. At least he didn’t forget to do his dishes. 

When thirty minutes turned into 45, you had popped your head into his studio again.

“I’m about to go to bed.” Your tone was flat. Maybe he’d recognize the impatience in your voice. 

“Okay, jagi,” Hobi said without removing his eyes from the screen. His leg bounced up and down in his chair as he grooved to the beat in his headphones. 

When you didn’t respond, he removed his headphones off of his head completely and turned to you. 

“This is taking longer than I thought,” Hobi explained, failing to completely acknowledge your irritation. He was too focused on his work to realize how upset you were. His mind was elsewhere, already thinking about the next change he could make on the song rather than the sour look on your face or the hurt in your voice. “I’ll come to bed soon, jagi.”

“Right,” you said shortly. “Good night.”

Without another word, you spun on your heel and stormed off to bed without him. You had expected him to come back at an unreasonable time, but there was a sprinkle of hope left in you that he actually meant it the last time. 

Now that you were awake, you could now see that you were dead wrong. You looked at the time on your phone, seeing that two hours had passed since you told Hobi you were going to bed. Hobi never came “soon,” like he claimed he would. 

Frustrated tears brimmed your eyes. This was ridiculous. Hobi couldn’t keep procrastinating sleep, and you couldn’t keep pretending that you were okay going to bed without him night after night. You missed his cuddles—how he would play with your hair, and how he would graze his fingers across your bare back or down your arm. You missed how he would make cute noises each time he squeezed you closer. You missed how he’d hum until you’d drift off. It felt like you had been living alone for the last few weeks, and you didn’t like it one bit.

You let a few hot tears roll down your cheeks before deciding to drag Hobi out of his studio. You wanted him in bed, both for his health and selfishly, for your own sanity and emotional well-being. 

You flipped the covers back, shivering at the slight breeze the action created. The floor creaked under you as you walked across the room and down the hallway. 

You could see light seeping from underneath the door as you stood in front of it. You knocked on the wood, regretting it immediately. The determination and anger you felt in bed was brief. Standing in front of his door now, you realized that you only felt defeated, sad, and scared. You didn’t want to bother him, or make yourself look needy. But, you needed Hobi. You didn’t have the energy to physically drag him to bed, but you were at least going to beg him. 

You almost turned to leave but the sound of his door opening stopped you.

“Jagiya,” Hobi said, scanning your face. “What’s wrong?” His eyes filled with worry as your own filled with tears. You dropped your eyes to the ground and wrung your hands together.

“Um, I can’t sleep.” This excuse wasn’t going to cut it; you had to tell him the whole story. It wasn’t just that you couldn’t sleep, it was that you couldn’t sleep because he wasn’t there. 

“You don’t need to cry, jagiya, yeah? It’s alright.” Hobi ruffled your hair and placed a loud kiss to your forehead. “How about I take a break to tuck you in, hm?” 

“Can you just…” You trailed off and exhaled a shaky breath. Your bottom lip quivered and the tears finally fell from your eyes. You felt embarrassed for not only asking, but for crying as well. It felt humiliating having to ask Hobi to give you the attention he had been failing to give you for several weeks. You felt like a little girl standing at his door, begging her parent for affection. You didn’t understand why he didn’t get it. Being tucked in wasn’t enough; you needed him beside you for the rest of the night and every night after. Regardless of your fears, you pushed them aside. 

“Can you just come to bed, please? Can you be done for tonight?”

“I really want to, sunshine, but I still have to finish mixing the chorus before tomorrow.”

You whimpered. “Please, Hoseok. You said you’d be done soon, and that was over two hours ago. I just want to sleep next to you, baby. Please. You just—you’ve been…” You whimpered again. “I miss you.” 

Hobi’s face fell at those words. He had so much work to do to prepare for the next album, and he let deadlines from the company come between you and him. It was impeding on the precious time he had with you. Hobi failed to notice how much of a toll it had taken on you. He had been missing you as well, thanks to an endless cycle of jumping out of bed earlier, skipping meals, and not going to bed at a reasonable time. However, he had pushed that pang in his heart away, deciding that it would all be worth it once comeback preparations paused. Hobi was able to keep his mind busy, but he didn’t realize that you couldn’t. 

Seeing you cry like that in front of him—and to be the reason why—made him want to march up to Bang PD at that very moment and put his foot down. But that could wait until tomorrow. The song could wait a few more days. 

“Honey, I’m so sorry,” Hobi said sorrowfully, taking your shoulders and guiding you into his chest. 

You wrapped your arms around his torso and buried your face in his chest—tiny, yet rib-cracking sobs emitting from you. Hobi began patting the back of your head, causing your cries to get louder at his affection. 

You had missed his presence, but you missed his comforting touch even more. You relished in the feeling of his hand resting on your knee, and the sensation of Hobi squeezing your shoulder when walking past you. You savored each back rub and the minutes he’d spend playing with your hair. You welcomed each hug, kiss, and tickle you received from him, but you had been offered none of that while he had been spending most of his waking hours in his home studio or at the HYBE building. You missed the feeling of being in his arms, and finally getting to experience that again made you emotional. 

“Please, just come to bed,” you begged again, words slightly muffled by the fabric of his hoodie. 

“I’m coming, honey, I’m coming,” Hobi reassured. He tried to pull away, attempting to shut down his computer and tend to other necessary items, but you tightened your hold around his waist. He leaned back to look at you, hoping that the several kisses he placed on top of your head would loosen your grip. When his kisses didn’t work, Hobi chuckled.  

“You have to let go of me, silly,” Hobi teased gently, making you let out a watery giggle involuntarily. 

“No,” you whined against him, but he could hear the smile fighting to reveal itself in your voice. 

“I just need to save and close these files, okay, jagiya? I’m coming, baby, I promise.”

You let out an indignant grunt, but released yourself from Hobi’s warmth nevertheless. More tears filled your eyes as you watched him close each file and irrelevant internet tab. Although you had finally got a taste of the touch you needed, you were clingy and emotional, impatient to be held by him again. The seconds he spent shutting down his workspace felt like an eternity to you. Watching him hunched over as he clicked away made you want to jump on him; he looked so cuddly in his hoodie, brown waves falling just right on his head and clear skin glowing from the computer screen.

Hobi pushed his chair in and turned off the ambient lamp on his desk as the computer screen switched to a photo of you and him at the Han River. 

“Done?” You asked with uncertainty, bottom lip wobbling. You didn’t know if he was truly finished for the night or if he was going to come up with an excuse to keep working. 

Hobi nodded before giving you a reassuring smile. He grazed his thumbs across your cheeks to wipe the fresh tears away. 

“Come here, you.” Hobi let out a playful growling sound before scooping you up in his arms. 

Before you knew it, he was rushing out of his office and into your bedroom with you bouncing in his hold. He shut the door behind him with his foot and bustled across the room, coming to a halt at the edge of the bed. Hobi proceeded to pretend to drop you onto the mattress, turning your slowing weeps into giggles. He let out a dramatic, content sigh and exclaimed at a volume that was probably too loud for that hour, “Let’s get you comfy!” 

Hobi pulled the sheets back and finally—plopped you onto the bed. He climbed in next to you and you closed your eyes, waiting for him to turn off the lamp on his nightstand. You sniffled a couple times as you felt him place the sheets over the two of you. He pulled you close to him and you snuggled into his warmth, your back against his chest.

Your tears were gone, as you now felt safe, secure, and at ease. Yet, sadness and anxiety still lingered inside you. You couldn’t help but worry that Hobi would go back to his office once he noticed you were asleep, or that he wouldn’t be there when you woke up in the morning. He was fixing tonight, but that didn’t guarantee that he was fixing tomorrow. 

After a few seconds of you shifting around to get comfortable, you felt Hobi put his mouth close to your ear and asked at a rapid speed, “Are you okay? Are you warm? Are you comfy?” With every word, he used his finger to poke and prod you, causing you to let out a string of giggles. His eyes gleamed at your reaction. 

“Dohohon’t,” you whined, but not bothering to hide your grin. You could practically feel his mischievous smile upon you.

“What? What am I doing? And why are you laughing?” 

He growled into your ear playfully before blowing on your neck. You scrunched up your shoulders, trying to protect yourself. “You knohohow—“

Hobi put his hands under your shirt and trailed his fingers up and down your side, making you squirm. Although he was tickling you in a way that made you jerk and twitch, it felt comforting and soothing.

“W-why, are yohohou dohohoing thihis?” You asked, squirming around even more. You tried grabbing at his hands, but there was no use getting them to stop, for there was no way you could escape his hold on you. While his free hand traveled around the soft areas of your sides, his other arm wrapped around your shoulders and came around to grip your wrists—firm but gentle. 

Hobi had you tucked up beside him in a secure hold, but you weren’t protesting—you delighted in it. It didn’t feel like Hobi held you that way because he was possessive or controlling; it simply reassured you that he reveled in holding you, protecting you, and touching you. It reassured you that he wanted to be with you, and was never shaken by how clingy or touchy you could get. You never felt threatened by Hobi’s firm hugs and cuddles; you felt safe and loved. Thus, the lack of physical affection from Hobi the past several weeks was taking a toll on you because you weren’t getting that reassurance. You needed the bear hugs, the feeling of practically being in his skin, the playful taunts that you couldn’t escape from his arms.

“Because I want to cheer you up, silly,” Hobi replied truthfully.

“But your cuddles—aha!—are juhuhust fihihine,” you tried to explain without completely dissolving into giggles.

“Fine?!” Hobi exclaimed, playfully bewildered. “My cuddles are just fine? That's it.”

You squealed as he dug his fingers into your sides and clawed at your tummy. He spidered his fingers over and in between your ribs, and you tried curling up into a ball to protect yourself. Hobi made sure to prevent that from happening, skillfully wrapping his legs around your own. You cried out in laughter as your body tried to thrash around at the ticklish sensations. He laughed right along with you, amused by your reactions. 

“Wait!” You struggled to say. “Thahahahat’s not, nohohot what... nohohoho!!” Your sentence was cut short as your laughter became silent, for he blew a long, hard raspberry into your sensitive neck, right where it met your collarbone. 

“I cahahahan’t!” You howled, scrunching up your shoulders weakly.

You gave up trying to fight him, allowing him to continue tickling you. You just laid there, only squirming and thrashing and writhing around because your reflexes told you to do so. You enjoyed this, and deep down you knew you needed this. Hobi did as well. He knew the significance of tickling in your life, such as how important it was in the context of physical touch. He was aware of how flustered it made you, but how it could also be used to cheer you up and release tension. 

Soon, Hobi’s fingers began to slow and came to a stop. When he loosened his grip on you, you turned and looked up at him, breathing heavily at what just went down. As Hobi looked down at you, you noticed that indeed, he wore the mischievous smile you had felt searing into you when he first started his ambush of tickles. 

“That's not what I meant,” you finally managed to get out, giggles still spilling from your mouth.

Hobi grinned at the smile plastered on your face, and said, “I know. And I also know that you loved that.”

You smacked him lightly, then hid your face in your hands, embarrassed that he exposed the truth. Admitting that you liked to be tickled was never easy, and Hobi never passed on an opportunity to tease you about it. If you needed him to dial it down, however, he would respect your wishes in a heartbeat. 

“You’re mean,” you said sarcastically. Hobi forced you out of hiding, pushing your hands down and chuckling. When he could see your face again, he kissed your nose and forehead. Then, tracing your bottom lip with his thumb, he kissed your lips gently.

“My little sunshine,” he cooed as he pulled away. 

You tittered, pecking the birthmark on his top lip. “I’m supposed to call you that.”

Hobi turned around slightly to reach the nightstand lamp to finally turn off the light. The light was out before you could catch him blushing at your affection. 

You snuggled into your boyfriend once more. Hobi draped his arm over you and you felt him kiss the top of your head before delicately running his fingers through your hair. 

“Hobi?” You questioned softly. He hummed deeply. “Are you… will you be here when I wake up?” 

“Oh, baby,” Hobi sighed contently. “I’m taking the day off tomorrow.”

“Thank you,” you whispered, closing your eyes as they were quickly growing heavier and heavier.

“No, thank you, jagiya.” Hobi’s fingers scratched at your scalp. “You made me realize that I need a break, and that I’ve been taking advantage of your patience and understanding. I just kept thinking to myself that you’ll always be here, but I didn’t show you that I could always be here for you. That song can wait. Deadlines can wait. My baby can’t. I’m so sorry it took me this long to see that.”

If you weren’t so exhausted, you knew that the little energy you had left would have been enough to make you burst into grateful tears. 

“I love you.”

“I’m pretty sure I love you more,” he whispered teasingly, fluttering his fingers over your ear.

It had started off unintentionally, perhaps innocent even. It was a few songs to remind you of home, and the fun times that you’d all shared in the compound before the Hail Mary had taken off. 

Ryland, Rocky, and you always listened to music in the lab. Stratt had outdone herself in terms of how much media had been sent with the four of you. The catalogue went back as far as the 1860’s, and up until the very day that the ship had taken off. If you were to play through all of it, you would probably never hear the same song twice for the entire journey from Tauceti to Erid. If you combined that with Rocky’s ability to literally create notes that your and Ryland’s human ears couldn’t hear, then you truly had nearly endless possibilities. 

That morning, when you and Ryland had woken up, you were the first in the lab, so you were the one who got to pick the music for the day. By the time that Ryland climbed the ladder after you, the classic tunes of Johnny Cash filled his ears. 

He looked up at you with his brows raised. 

You held his stare across the stark white lab. “What?”

“Country music?” he asked, looking tired. 

You shrugged. You hadn’t even realized that you’d never played any songs in that genre before, and you couldn’t tell if Ryland was just confused or annoyed. Once you all had gotten into the habit of listening to stuff while you worked, the three of you established the rule that none of you could complain about what music was picked. You were a perfectly good spacemate, never saying anything, even when Ryland played all sorts of questionable things. You’d even let it slide when he’d played baby shark once when he was drunk, saying it was because his kids would make him listen to it ‘ironically.’ 

“It’s my turn for controls, is it not?” you said, arching a brow. 

“My students would’ve called this old people music,” he said with a chortle, almost in disbelief. 

“That's because we’re,” you gestured between the two of you, “old to them.”

He shrugged and moved out of the doorway and Rocky came rolling up after him. “No. Humans very young. Eridians grow old, humans are babies.” 

“Yeah, yeah,” Ryland shrugged him off, heading to his work station. “Hopefully, you have better music tastes than us to show for it.”

You narrowed your eyes, catching his not so subtle insult. “Ryland, are you complaining about my music choices?”  

He held one of his hands up in mock surrender, the other one still holding his coffee. “Of course not, I know the classroom rules,” he said, leaving you to continue fidgeting with your devices, but your mind was elsewhere now, a sneaky smile beginning to play on your lips. You had been working on a gadget, it was a special musical device that would allow you to press the buttons like a piano in order to make Eridian noises and communicate in their language. Since you were now bounding through the depths of space towards Erid instead of Earth, you figured it was probably best to start working on your communication skills, however, it seemed that perhaps the tool could wait a little while for you to try a different sort of experiment. 

Rocky rolled by you, heading for the station that was on your right side, and you took that moment to hiss at him. “Rock-” you whispered. 

Sensing that you needed him for something more urgent than usual, he rolled over quickly towards your side. “Friend whispering, why? Question?”

“I have a joke we can play on Ryland.”

“Tell Rocky. Rocky will determine if idea is good.”

You fondly rolled your eyes. Of course the engineer was going to want to inspect your plan first.  “Well, you know how our music rule works, right?”

Rocky’s carapace shifted up and down like he was nodding at you. “Yes. You are in control. Grace is not. Rocky does not understand why any of this is important so assume is human thing.” 

You clucked your tongue, forgetting that Rocky focused so much on what he was doing in the lab that he often zoned all other noise out. You supposed it made sense. Their language was basically composed of melodies and vibrations, so human music probably just sounded like weird overlapping conversations to him. “Right, so, if Ryland complains about the music then he’s in violation of the rule.” 

Rocky spoke softer, as if Ryland was suddenly listening in. “What happen if rule broken? Question?” 

You frowned, considering his words. “We actually didn’t decide.” You looked over at Ryland, who was now immersed in what he was doing. “I guess that means that I get to decide what sort of prize I want, right?”

“This makes sense to Rocky,” he agreed, tapping his foot on the floor. “But how does friend get Grace to break?”

At this, your brows furrowed. It would be difficult, but you were sure you could push his buttons far enough for this to work. “Even a teacher’s patience can only go so far, right?” 

Rocky rolled away slightly, even his computer voice sounding slightly shaky. “Friend is evil. Rocky see now why they put humans to sleep for journey.”

You brushed off his concerns with a short huff of air through your nose. “Relax, he’s not going to kill me.”

Rocky was already moving away, back towards his station, like he didn’t want to be infected by the energy in yours. “Rocky will watch. Rocky will see.” 

His words almost made you reconsider your plan, but then you looked over at Ryland peacefully putting the Taumoeba boxes away and decided you simply couldn’t allow him any peace. Later, you could blame it on the boredom of space, or how you had hit a wall with your language device, but for now all of your attention turned towards irritating your friend. 

You switched from Johnny Cash to Tim McGraw, another American country classic, and nothing that would throw Ryland off too much. You saw him bite his lip for a second as you made the switch, but he made no other movements, not even so much as an ill contented sigh. It was odd, how Ryland knew this was out of character for you, but he was still choosing not to comment on it. You gnawed on your lip, wondering how long it could truly take to irritate him. It was no doubt that he was the most patient one on the Hail Mary but his inaction was making you question how far he would go.

You pulled out a drawer in your station and grabbed a notebook and a pen. You flipped it open and scribbled at the top, “Ryland’s annoyance capacity, Test One.” You wrote about your first change in music and his barely visible reaction and then went back to sort of paying attention to your actual project. You needed to wait a little bit in order to up the ante. Ryland was patient, but he wasn’t an idiot. If you kept changing the song every five minutes, he would start to grow suspicious and then your experiment would be rendered null and void. 

You waited a solid ten minutes to walk back to the main computer in your setup, adjusting the music to that of Florida Georgia Line, a more modern country group with funny nods to their redneck roots but nothing too obscure. You picked one of their more popular songs to start with and cued up a few more before going back to your ‘work’. 

You quietly uncapped your blue pen and tucked your hair behind your ear. Ryland stopped his work for a moment when the song came on. You couldn’t see his face, but he went completely still, just staring at the wall in front of him. It took everything in you to push your laugh down, picturing him with his face screwed up in confusion. Then, as if the matter were settled, he went back to his work. You waited a minute to see if he would do anything else, but after another five more minutes, the boredom started to gnaw at you and you wanted to work on something. You wrote down his reactions in your notes, then turned towards Rocky, giving him one of your keys to test out. The Eridian piano would only prove to be useful if the Eridians could understand it so you ran everything by Rocky before it was implemented. You began to become so engaged in the work, that you almost didn’t notice Ryland calling your name. 

“What?” you said, breaking your intense gaze away from Rocky’s fidgeting with your other experiment and turned back towards your human subject. 

“I asked who made this song,” he said with a warm smile and a look in his eyes that felt almost too knowing.

“Oh,” you said, feeling the heat rush to your cheeks. You rolled towards your computer in order to have time to recover. “The music station says this is Florida Georgia Line.”

“Oh, okay,” Ryland said with a shrug. 

Ryland quickly turned back around, getting back to his work like he had never even asked the question in the first place. You couldn’t help but pester him a little more, just to see if you could get to him. “Is that all you wanted?”

“Yep!” he said cheerily, even popping the P emphatically. 

You spun around on your stool to widen your eyes at Rocky and he just shook his head at you. He was becoming more accustomed to human tendencies by the day, and you were pretty sure that you had just been given the disapproving stare of a parent without him having eyes. 

Still, you wouldn’t be deterred so easily. Ryland had to have a breaking point, you and Rocky did, so he had to have one too. You just needed to find it. You marked his question in your notebook as well as the time and then set to finding more impossibly silly country music in the database. 

You quickly switched to one of Luke Bryan’s earlier albums, moving further into the newer and more unhinged country songs. In your defense, the songs were catchy, and they had a good beat, even if they were mostly about trucks, beer, and women in jean shorts. 

You played the album out of order, starting Ryland off a little lighter and then progressively seeing how much he would take. The first song he had no reaction to, you weren’t even sure he’d noticed if you’d switched artists, the second and third song he continued working through, and by the fourth you knew you needed to pull out the lead single. 

You pressed play on the opening track, and watched as Ryland furrowed his brows. He placed his hands down on the counter, abandoning the test tube that had been in his hand in the sink. You saw him look up at the speakers then look over at you. 

“Isn’t this heavily sexualizing women?”

“Huh?” you asked, looking up from your notebook like you hadn’t just been staring at him just a second ago. 

Ryland waved his hands around. “This song and the way he talks about women, I mean I know it’s probably at least a decade old, but isn’t it all a bit misogynistic?”

“Oh,” you said, looking up at the speakers as if you’d just noticed they were playing. “I guess I hadn’t really been listening to the lyrics, I just like the beat,” you lied, knowing that this particular song would set Ryland off. He wasn’t wrong, most country songs were that way when you’d left Earth, but at least they were giving you something to annoy him with. You bit your pen, sensing your opening. “Do you want me to change it?”

Ryland was already turning back towards his vile in the sink. “Nope, was just asking,” he said calmly, but you could see the tightness in his shoulders. You were starting to get to him. 

You pivoted slightly, shifting back to the classics and putting on Margaritaville, and watched as Ryland slumped as if he had gotten hit by a middle school insult. You laughed to yourself at the sight of Ryland putting his head in his hands, very clearly fighting to keep his thoughts to himself. 

You decided to up your game, adding any songs that included anything close to the words honky tonk or used tractor and sexy in the same metaphor. It was at this point that Ryland fully abandoned his work, instead just sitting on his stool, looking completely dumbfounded. Luckily for you, he seemed to be refusing to look up at you, making it much easier to cover the way you were snickering at him. 

With him already down, you decided to go for the kill and you put on Parked Out By The Lake, and waited for Ryland to realize what you’d done. For a moment, he seemed to almost recover what you’d put him through. At first, it seemed to him like the song wasn’t that bad, but by the fourth or fifth line he started to catch on. The song was repeating the same five words over and over again, just in slightly different ways. 

You watched as the usually fidgety man grew more and more still, and you furiously scribbled in your notebook, looking over at your stopwatch every few seconds. Halfway through the song, Ryland finally looked up at you. 

“This is the worst song I have ever heard,” he said, deadpanning.

Your jaw dropped far more dramatically than what was necessary. “Did you just insult my music?”

You managed to hold back your laughter but Ryland’s eyes narrowed on you. The lab suddenly felt hotter than it had a minute ago and you felt yourself flush at his intense eye contact. It felt as though he was looking right through you, like he could see to the very deepest point of your soul, and knew exactly what you were doing. You jerked your head away and slowly inhaled through your nose, willing your face to cool.  

“What?” you asked, praying to any nearby stars that you were keeping your face intact. 

He held a finger up. “Wait a second.”

He stood up from his stool and began to walk through his station. Your breath caught in your throat as he drew closer to you, stopping just at the edge of your table and placing his hands on his hips.

He leaned in towards you. “You’re trying to do this.”

You shrugged, your heart hammering in your chest. “Do what?”

Suddenly Ryland was moving towards you, hands reaching out to grab, and you no longer cared for keeping your little act in play. You didn’t know what he was planning on doing when he caught you, but you weren’t going to stick around to find out. 

You scrambled to somehow move away, scurrying towards Rocky’s station as if he would protect you. Unfortunately, with you out of the way, Ryland reached out and grabbed your notebook instead of grabbing you.  

“Shit,” you muttered under your breath. His eyes flicked down to the notepad and you stood frozen as he silently read the words that would no doubt seal your doomed fate. He looked over the top of his glasses at you as he dropped the paper back on the table and you instinctively took a step back. 

“I was your science experiment?” He asked, and if the look he was giving you wasn’t scaring you then the way that he sounded nearly amused certainly was.

You held your hands up in surrender. “Observation is the sincerest form of flattery?”

Ryland dropped the notebook and took after you. You yelped and jumped over Rocky. “Ryland wahahahait!” you laughed, nervous laughter being pulled from you as you realized he was just behind you. You didn’t even know where you were headed. You were technically going in the direction of the bedroom, though you truthfully had no idea how this was going to help you. 

Your feet pounded across the ship, and you willed your socked feet not to slip against the ground. A bubbly feeling of anxious tension was rising in your stomach, making you feel as though you were already caught despite the fact that you were still running away from him. 

You grabbed a hold of the bedroom door just as Ryland’s arms snaked around your middle. “No!!” you yelled, smacking at his arms, a random assortment of words tumbling out of your lips. “You are the one in violation of the music rules! I should not be the one in trouble here!”

Ryland clucked his tongue. “Oh, you negated your music rule the moment you started using me as a little experiment.” 

Ryan gently threw you onto the small makeshift couch that the three of you had set up for when one of you got too tired to climb down from the lab to the bedroom. You squeaked with surprise as you bounced on top of the plush pillows, surprised with the ease that he tossed you with. 

“Now,” he said, standing over top of you and essentially cornering you in with his body. “What are we going to do with you?” 

You pushed yourself backwards as if you could fade into the wall. “Nothing,” you pleaded, your voice wobbling with uncontained giggles. You weren’t used to seeing him like this and the smarmy way he was looking down at you was making you all too nervous. “You’re gonna let me go.”

Rocky rolled over with a speed that you’d never seen him use outside of dire situations. He pulled at Ryland’s shirt. “𝀌᭴᭵♮᭢᭨᭫᭮” 

“Ohhhhhhh,” Ryland said, and then looked at you with the biggest smirk. You looked between him and Rocky trying to determine what was going on. The translator hadn’t turned on, but Ryland clearly knew what Rocky was saying. You started to feel more nervous laughter bubbling up in your throat. 

 “Will it work on them?” he asked, holding his hand over his mouth as if you couldn’t hear what he was saying. 

Rocky nodded his head. “It worked day before last. Rocky tried just like Grace asked. Friend made big noise. Was very cute. Statement.” 

You frowned, trying to figure out what Rocky was talking about, but coming up blank. The days on the Hail Mary started to blend together at certain points, but this seemed big enough to Rocky that you felt like you should be able to recall it too. Then, all of sudden you remembered when Rocky had accidentally jabbed you in the side as you had just barely been waking up. You had screeched and giggled as he continued digging his claw into your side for a few more moments, your mind not even awake enough to try fighting him. 

Now, however, you were awake and suddenly aware that that moment had been significantly less spontaneous than you’d realized. As you looked up at Ryland leering above you with a smile, you realized that you hadn’t needed to push his buttons to provide yourself with entertainment. He was bored too, and now you’d just given him the perfect excuse to screw with you. 

Ryland already knew you were ticklish, thanks to Rocky the traitor, but you couldn’t just let him win.

 You sprung from your position against the wall, and slipped around Ryland’s legs, attempting to crawl towards the edge of the makeshift couch. Already giggling furiously, you managed to place a steady foot back on the ground before two hands jabbed your sides, just above your hip bones, and your legs involuntarily gave out. 

You fell backwards onto the plush pillows, and looked up to find Ryland who was smiling down at you like he’d just discovered a new star. As you scrambled towards the wall a second time, it started to dawn on you that you might’ve finally found the point that your mild mannered friend turned into a mischievous planner, and your heart started to hammer in your chest.

“No, no,” you said, as Ryland came to sit down beside you. “Hold on, we can talk about this. We’re all very reasonable people.”

“Correct. We’re all scientists, and now I want to run an experiment of my own.”

You swallowed hard, wrapping your arms around your middle and pulling your knees up. This didn’t seem like this could possibly end well for you or your overly sensitive skin. “Which is?”

He cocked his head. “We’re going to see how much of the tickle monster you can take till you apologize.” 

He started to wiggle his fingers towards your stomach and you jolted on instinct. “NO!” you yelled. 

“Ohhh, very interesting, a ticklish stomach it seems.” Ryland turned around. “Rocky, can you keep notes for me since my hands are a little busy right now?”

Rocky chirped and ran to grab your notebook and pen. “Of course. Friend very ticklish. Make very squeaky noise even when fake tickles.”

“Rocky! Be quiet!” you yelled, somehow feeling even warmer. 

“What?” Ryland said, cooing sweetly at you. “Are you feeling too perceived right now?”

“Shut up,” you whined, but then his hands were shooting towards your neck and you screeched without him even touching you. 

“Rocky, can you please add that our test subject seems to somehow get even more sensitive when teased?”

You covered your face with your hands in favor of protecting your middle. “I don’t know how to deal with you like this.”

Ryland laughed. “Like what?”

“Like,” you risked a glance outside of your hands, only to find him looking at you like he was prepared to lovingly destroy you within an inch of your life. “Like that!” you said, unable to find anything else. 

“Oh, can someone dish it out, but they can’t take it?” he asked, raising a brow. 

You frowned at this, sensing that he was very close to feeling like he was winning. “No, I’m just not used to it.” 

“Oh, well I suppose we better test that theory then, huh?” Ryland said, shooting a hand out to your side that you effectively blocked. 

“Uh uh, none of that.” He hooked his arms under your legs, and pulled them out, sending you sprawling across the cushions. 

“No, NO, give them back!” you yelled, trying to scurry back into your curled up position, but Ryland was already climbing on top of your hips, pinning you in place. 

“No.” Ryland gently trailed his hands across your arms, it didn’t tickle, but it was enough to send goosebumps across your skin. “We have to finish my experiment.” 

He leaned in close to you and whispered. “And the tickle monster can’t conclude his hypothesis without some giggles to prove it.” Ryland then began to wiggle his fingers into your neck and you screeched as your shoulders practically came up to your ears. 

“Ryland!” you yelled, squeezing your eyes shut against the horribly ticklish sensation. 

“Nope. Tickle monster needs laughter, not your friend's name.”

Indignation hit you like a ton of bricks despite the fact that your unpinned hands were doing very little to fight him off. “You are NOT the tickle monster. We are too old for this!” 

“Ooh, tickle monster did not like that answer,” Ryland reached down and squeezed your hips and a bright burst of laughter exploded through you. His thumbs found the divot point in the bone, and you threw yourself forward in shock, only to have Ryland gently push you back down. “Are you trying to invalidate my experiment?”

“Fuhuuhhuhuhuck yohohohohu!” you yelled, your body twisting around wildly in an attempt to dislodge that ticklish feeling from your skin. 

“You are so lucky that the tickle monster is here instead of your amazing friend Ryland because he’d probably do this for saying that word,” he said, before grabbing a hold of your wrists and pushing them up to leave your middle unprotected. Before you could process what he was doing or scream, he was bending down to blow a raspberry on your stomach. You screeched as the vibration travelled through you like magic. His scraggly beard was like tiny individual feathers across your sensitive skin and you swore he was moving it around as much as possible. 

He sat back up and swiped his fingers across your tummy. 

“Rocky, please note that our subject is especially susceptible to raspberries, though we’ll have to try it other places to confirm this theory.”

Rocky chirped and you heaved in enough of a breath to speak. “We are NOT doing that.”

Ryland looked down at you, looking as innocent as the devil. “Why not?”

Your jaw dropped at his audacity for even asking you that. “Because, because- YOU are the one who broke the music complaint rule.”

Ryland threw his hands up with a laugh. “You don’t care about the music rule.” 

“You don’t know that,” you breathed out heavily.

Ryland cocked his head. “I have a different hypothesis, do you want to hear it?”

“What?” you said, raising your brows.

He poked your shoulder. “I think you would’ve picked this as your compensation for me breaking the rule.”

You weren’t aware that your face could get any warmer. “I would NOT” 

Ryland leaned back, looking smug. “Okay, then apologize for your experiment and I’ll let you go right now.” 

You glared at him. It wasn’t like you were craving the feeling of his fingers sending that zappy tingly feeling through your nerves, or the playful energy that was currently buzzing around the inside of the Hail Mary, but you simply couldn’t give him the satisfaction of letting him win that easily. “I won’t apologize for being a thorough scientist.”

Ryland twisted around to yell over his shoulder. “Rocky, please note down that its possible our test subject likes being tickled but we need more proof before our conclusion.”

You would’ve pushed him if you still had your hands. “Ryland, stop teasing!” 

“Sorry, I can't help you. Ryland isn’t here, if you need something you’ll have to address the tickle monster,” he said, before clawing his fingers into your armpits. You yelped and kicked, and then descended back into laughter as your skin twitched underneath his careful hands. 

He was nearly methodical in his methods, alternating between softly stroking the skin, spidering his fingernails, and scratching at your hollows. “Subject seems to be more susceptible to lighter softer touches, but we will have to try elsewhere to be sure it isn’t a fluke,” he said, and you heard Rocky chirping behind him before his words started to make sense to you. 

“Try ribs, usually ticklish for humans,” Rocky suggested, and you tried to pull your arms down to no avail. 

“Good idea Rock, I almost forgot about those.”

“Bad idea, no bAD IDEA!” you tried to say, but then Ryland’s hands were softly scritching across your sides again, taking his sweet time in wiggling his fingers across each bone. He alternated between each side, making you lean into one of his hands, only to change which hand was doing the tickling. 

“Grace!” you pleaded, descending into the madness of your giggles. 

“I might listen if you call me by my real name, you know,” he said, letting his hands trail down to your stomach. You nearly shot up out of your skin, but all Ryland had to do was squeeze your sides again, and you went right back down. 

His hands went right back to your stomach and it felt like your nerves and your face was on fire. His hands twitched just above your belly button making your laughter turn deeper as you tried to suck your stomach in to no avail and you squeezed your eyes shut. The sensation ran deep, like the feeling of his hands was spreading hazy warm waves through your body and the laughter was all heading straight to your brain. 

“Switch spohohohohts!” you begged, needing him to be anywhere else other than your stomach. 

“Hey Rock, can you write down that it appears that our test subject would rather deal with what appears to be their worst spot being picked apart than say the word tickle?”

You opened your eyes to gape at him, but promptly wished you hadn’t as he looked down at you in mock sympathy. 

“Yes. Does appear to be stubborn when solution is so obvious. Rocky think friend too flustered to say word.”

“You bohohohohoth SUCK!” you yelled, wishing you could give both of your mischievous crewmates a withering glare, but laughing too much to even be able to speak properly. 

Ryland smiled down at you. “If you want me to switch spots then you’ll have to ask the tickle monster.” 

You were never going to live this down, but you were going to explode if he kept raking his fingers against the soft skin of your middle. “Tihihi- tihihih,” you started, then got too flustered to finish. Ryland squeezed your sides again and you yelped loudly. “Tihihihckle mohohohonster, please!”

“Interesting that you said that and not the words that stop this,” Ryland murmured plenty loud enough for you and Rocky to hear it as his hands fluttered at the sides of your neck once more. 

“Rocky, do you think we have enough information to present our conclusion?” 

“Not enough data. Friend is fine. Must keep going.” 

“Friend is NOT fine,” you yelped, as Ryland accidentally brushed his fingers across the shell of your ear. 

“Your ears are ticklish too?” Ryland all but yelled. 

“Yours are wOHOHOHORSE!” you laugh screeched as he swirled his fingers around your ear and his nails scuttled across your neck. You tried to push your ear into the pillows but that just left the other side exposed, leaving you in a never ending search for a place where Ryland’s tickles could not reach you. 

“Maybe so,” Ryland said, flushing a little red, but smirking too much for your liking. “But I’m not the one screaming.”

“I’m not screa-NO!” you had started to say into a pillow only to have a pair of lips press into the sensitive skin of your neck and blow as hard as possible. You shrieked loudly enough that it would’ve been embarrassing if you were with anyone else, but instead you just happily giggled yourself silly. 

Ryland pulled back and you heaved in air as he gently brushed your hair out of the way. “Anytime you want to admit that you shouldn’t have experimented on Ryland I’m happy to hear it.”

You did your best to glare up at him. “You are so mean!”  

Ryland shrugged and blew another raspberry on your neck, wiggling his face around and pressing that horribly ticklish stubble into your skin. “FINE!” you shrieked. “Ryland, I’m sohohohohry!”

He raised his head from your neck. “And what do you have to say to me?”

You inhaled a breath, willing yourself to be able to say the word again. You opened your mouth to say it right as Ryland bent down again, his lips connected with your neck and a gutteral scream came out instead. The vibrations were toying with your nerves and it broke down any walls you had left. 

“Tickle monster PLEASE! I give!” you yelled, and Ryland pulled back, 

“That’ll work,” he smiled, and you inhaled air like you chugged water on a hot day. 

“You’re evil,” you looked up at him through your eyelashes. “I always thought you were too nice, but underneath those sweaters and kindness is an evil, evil man.”

Rocky scittered towards you. “Ryland not evil. Friend is lying. Had fun. Statement.”

You looked at Rocky in horror but Ryland only laughed and got off of your legs. He curled his hand under your knee and you jolted, but he only moved you around so your back was against his chest, his arms pulling the two of you close. You settled into him easily and Rocky pressed in beside you, tucking into Ryland’s side, “Rocky has a point you know, you never told me to stop.” he whispered in your ear. 

“Shut up,” you hissed, resituating yourself overtop of his legs. 

He laughed good naturedly, but Rocky shifted beside him. “Grace also seems happier now. Less bored.”

At these words Grace actually blushed, and his reaction hit you like a ton of bricks. He had said all of those things about how easily you were teased and yet he was being just as bashful about what had just happened. You smiled, realizing you weren’t the only one who had fun but wouldn’t admit it.  

Rocky made a clicking noise. “We did two tests. What are conclusions? Question?”

You looked up at Ryland as he tilted his head side to side. “Subject is clearly unbearably ticklish-” you tried to reach your hand up to cover Ryland’s mouth, but he only grabbed a hold of your hands and held them to your chest like he was hugging you. 

“The tester had a little bit too much fun tormenting me I think!” you pointed out, and though Ryland’s blush deepened, he pressed on. 

“But between a combination of sheer obstinance and holding a secret enjoyment for the game, was able to hold out for a long time.” You wiggled around, trying to break out of Ryland’s hold but between his strength and your exhaustion you were stuck being forced to listen to his teasing words or come up with your own.

“You had more fun than me,” you said, your voice rising in pitch.

Ryland raised a brow, the look you were sure he’d given dozens of students before. “Is this you admitting you had fun?” 

You let your head slump forward. “Shush-” you groan. 

Ryland laughs and Rocky chirps. 

“You look sleepy,” Ryland coos, looking down at you. 

You nuzzle your head into Ryland’s side. “I’m gonna get you back so bad.”

Ryland begins to stroke your hair, and if it was possible, you can almost feel the heat of his smile on you. “I have no doubts.”

Your eyes began to flutter shut. “Rocky and I are gonna team up and it’ll be over for you.”

As if in response, Rocky curls around you, the warmth of his carapace making you feel so cozy and safe and Ryland murmurs contentedly.  “Mhmm, I’m sure.”

You yawn loudly and curl your fingers into Ryland’s soft sweater. 

“Friend sleep. I watch. We attack Grace later.”