#ticklish reader

the first time ryland notices, it's subtle.

you're reaching for something on the shelves. out of the corner of his eye, a silver of skin peeks out at him under your shirt. he can't help it: it's right there, all smooth and soft and ticklish.

you were basically begging for it.

that's what justifies the frankly, quite cruel action in ryland's head. he simply couldn't resist- the thought of your body squirming and bright laughter pouring out of you is more than enough to sway his judgement. his hands creep towards you and land a series of rapid squeezes over your bare sides.

"a-ahAHA," you burst into giggles, horrified to find that the element of surprise has made the sensation ten times worse. ryland picks up on it- of course he does. he makes a mental note to sneak up on you more often. his fingers follow you, tickling as you slowly go limp, curling up on the floor.

evidenced by his crinkling smile, ryland finds this ordeal immensely hilarious. he reaches up, easily grabbing the jumpsuit off the locker shelf and handing it to you.

you glare at him, pouting petulantly on the floor, refusing to accept his olive branch. ryland's eyebrow twitches upward. you want more? he seems to question. his hands form claws, opening and closing.

you blush and grab the jumpsuit from his hands, refusing to meet his eyes.

ryland doesn't miss the way you stare at his teasing hands for far too long, nor the ghost of a crestfallen face as you leave to change into your jumpsuit.

the second time ryland notices.

there is something about ryland's hands. they are mesmerizing in a way that makes you stare.

your eyes can't help but trace the outlines of his soft fingers as they shuffle with paperwork, the crevices folding and unfolding. his left hand runs across his blonde hair, carving a path of runes.

his fingers tap, tap, tap across the surface of the table as he ponders over something, and you squirm, almost imperceptible. your brain envisions unholy things- his digits running across your skin. scratching. scribbling. tickling.

what the hell.

ryland's head turns in your direction, ever so slightly. you panic, and occupy yourself with stacking random papers on your desk. out of your peripheral, you can sense the corner of ryland's lip twitch in amusement.

it doesn't help your case at all when your trembling hands knock pieces of paper away from your messy pile, floating and cascading across the room. one lands directly next to ryland. he quirks an eyebrow.

"fuck." you murmur under your breath as you scoot down to pick it up. ryland raises his other brow.

"language.” he emphasises with a quick, gentle scribble at the back of your neck and you fold with a yelp, clutching the floorboards as though you could melt through them if you tried hard enough.

you pick up your piece of paper. the white gleams at you. pointedly. the fluttering traces of ryland’s fingers linger on your neck, teasing but not quite there.

ryland's already turned back to his work: you gawk at him. then back at the piece of paper- a desperate manifestation of your need.

"please tickle me. more." the words are slipping off the tip of your tongue, but your embarrassment swallows them down, down, down your throat and into your stomach until nothing remains.

you miss the entertained spark present in ryland's eye in your tickle-less misery.

the third time, ryland doesn't notice. he confronts.

"you like it."

"hmm?" you can't recall what you're doing, but something in his tone makes you glance up, curious.

"the tickling."

it's abrupt, the splutter that explodes out of you. your insides churn. you open your mouth to protest. then close it. you're half-convinced you look like a gaping fish.

ryland's scrutinising you like he's watching a puppy chase her tail in circles. his eyes are all wide and doting, catching your every miniscule movement.

"that- that wasn't a question." you manage to say.

"that wasn't an answer."

a pause. one that you don't trust. if it were anyone else, you would've thought that they had already let it go. but ryland grace doesn't just let things go. he starts intrigued: then he pushes, and he shoves, until every single one of his hypotheses are proved.

and you've just become his newest experiment.

"noho, look at me."

your eyes flicker hesitantly to meet his lens-covered ones, and to his delight, your cheeks tint a rosy pink.

"so you agree then."

"what?" your voice comes out squeakier than intended.

"you want," ryland whispers tauntingly. "to be tickled by me."

a string of stutters and protests pour out of your mouth. that doesn't deter ryland in the slightest. the way he looks at you, all fond and teasing, is too much to bear.

"okay,” his voice is factual. serious. “i won't tickle you, then."

and you know him well enough- ryland will follow through. a whine of frustration builds up in your throat.

"ryland." you clear your throat. you attempt to bargain with your pleading gaze.

"yes?"

you sigh.

"please." the walls suddenly look very interesting to you.

"please what?" you can practically feel the mischief radiating off of him.

"...please tickle me."

it comes out as a garble of syllables, the dreaded word spreading heat across your face. but despite the incoherency, this just about satisfies ryland. in a split second, he’s already making his way towards you.

oh, fuck.

you scamper across the room, ryland and his smirk swiftly following.

"w-wahait!" your hands are held in front of you as a weak means of defence.

"wait for what?" ryland laughs at the absurdity.

you struggle to find a proper response. instead, you dance around the room, evading his every step. ryland's circling you like prey and you can't help it- an anticipatory giggle bubbles up your throat.

"noho, back off!"

"but if i back off," the cocky grin on ryland's face is contagious. "how will i tickle you?"

he reaches for you and a gasp erupts from your mouth.

"bad grace!" you must be picking up rocky's vocabulary.

"did you just scold me," ryland snorts. "like a dog? you are so dead."

you whimper when ryland lunges for you, managing to duck past his arm. but when he grabs a handful of your shirt and reels you into his chest, a pair of strong arms wrapping around your stomach, you realise that ryland is always right- you are so dead.

"hi," he whispers into your ear for dramatic effect, laughing at your whimper as you glance back at him.

ryland drums his fingers, gently against your waistline. your hands circle his wrists, tugging them away but they don't budge an inch. even now, you can't help but stare at his fingers. intoxicating. calculating. tickling.

ryland notices, flexing them intentionally.

"where should i tickle, baby?"

oh god.

"noho- nohowhehre," your voice breaks off into helpless giggles when he claws gently around your stomach.

"i thought you wanted this!" ryland has the audacity to pout at you.

"shuhut uhp!"

"did you just shush me? hmm?" he vibrates his hands into your ribcage and a squeal escapes from you. "that was pretty rude of you."

you try and fail to pry his wrists away from your torso. ryland conveniently decides to ignore the way you're slowly going limp in his arms, landing stray scribbles over your sides as he holds you upright.

"had enough?"

you look back, mirth-coated eyes meeting his.

"oh my god." ryland laughs, a loud, genuine sound. like this is the funniest fuckin' sight he's ever come across. "oh my god, you really like this."

you forget how to talk.

in your embarrassed state, you spin in his grasp to face him, before your own hands skitter up his sides and into the hollows of his armpits. the result is instantaneous- ryland folds, breaking into tiny, wheezy giggles. you can't help but laugh along with him.

he grabs your wrists in a panicked frenzy and now, you're panicking.

you're pretty sure they could've heard you back down on earth.

You collapsed face-first into the couch in the archives, groaning.

Dan Heng looked up from where he was organizing files, his gaze flicking toward you. “...You’re in pain.”

You groaned into the pillow, muffled. “Muscle aches. It feels like I’m carrying Welt’s entire collection of antique newspapers on my shoulders.”

There was a pause. You felt the couch shift slightly as Dan Heng approached, his tall figure kneeling beside you. He rested a hand gently on your back. “You should have said something sooner. I can help.”

Your heart jumped. Dan Heng offering comfort wasn’t rare—he cared in his own quiet way—but the idea of his hands working over your sore muscles sent a different kind of heat rising in your cheeks.

Still, the soreness was unbearable. “...I could really use a massage,” you admitted weakly.

He nodded, already pushing up his sleeves with that cool, focused efficiency of his. “Lie still. Tell me if I press too hard.”

You were already trembling before he started. The first press of his thumbs into your shoulders made you sigh—until you nearly jerked out of your skin.

“Hhh—!” you squeaked.

Dan Heng froze, brows furrowing. “Too much pressure?”

“N-no,” you stammered, heat rising to your face. “It’s just... I’m really ticklish.”

A flicker of amusement passed across his normally stoic features. His lips almost curved into something that resembled a smile. “Ticklish?”

“Don’t tease—” you started, but then his hands pressed again, and you flinched violently.

Dan Heng tilted his head, studying you as though you were a puzzle to be solved. His stoic patience turned into a deliberate, cautious kind of experimentation. He adjusted the angle of his hands, slower, more precise, pressing into pressure points instead of broad strokes.

You bit your lip, trying not to squirm. “Dan Heng, this is impossible—”

He ignored your protests, his focus sharpening. “Your muscles are tense. I’ll adapt.” His voice was low, grounding, with that strange ability of his to make a simple statement sound like a vow.

Slowly, he shifted techniques—using the heel of his palm, applying firmer pressure to avoid the ticklish nerves. Each careful adjustment sent relief through your sore muscles, though occasionally he grazed too lightly, earning another involuntary squeak from you.

The corner of his lips twitched, almost imperceptibly. “You’re... very sensitive.”

Your face buried into the pillow. “This is humiliating.”

“Not at all,” he murmured, voice unusually gentle. “It just means I need to be more careful. Trust me.”

The words, spoken so steadily, melted your embarrassment. You focused on his touch—not playful, not mocking, but purposeful, meticulous. Each press eased the ache bit by bit.

And when you finally relaxed fully under his hands, you caught a soft sound from him, like the quiet exhale of someone relieved.

Dan Heng’s hands stilled briefly on your back. “Better?”

You turned your head just enough to meet his gaze, your cheeks still warm. “Better. Thanks.”

“[Name].”

The sharp, confident timbre of Ratio’s voice cut through your groaning. You were hunched over his desk, head buried in folded arms after hours of helping him sort through academic proposals and field notes. Your muscles screamed, every nerve ending tense from overwork.

“You look like a wilted plant,” Ratio said dryly, adjusting his glasses as he observed you. “I told you assisting me was laborious. But no, you insisted on demonstrating your ‘stamina.’”

You glared weakly at him from under your arm. “I’m sore everywhere. Be nice.”

He leaned back in his chair, tapping his temple with a pen. “Nice is not my specialty. Precision, however...” His lips curved into a smirk. “You require relief. I happen to know the techniques of therapeutic pressure. Shall I demonstrate?”

Your jaw dropped. “You? Massage me?”

“Why does that surprise you? I possess eight doctorates, [Name]. Do you truly think one of them did not involve human anatomy?” His tone dripped smug amusement.

“Fine,” you muttered, slumping forward. “I’m desperate. Do your worst.”

He moved with measured grace, rolling up his sleeves as he circled behind you. When his hands settled firmly on your shoulders, you stiffened—then nearly shot out of your seat at the first press.

“Ah—!”

His brows furrowed. “Painful?”

“N-no!” you squeaked. “Ticklish.”

For a beat, silence. Then Ratio chuckled, low and deliberate, like a professor amused by a student’s folly. “Ticklish? Oh, this is going to be interesting.”

“Don’t you dare,” you warned, already flushed.

He smirked, squeezing deliberately until you wriggled. “Fascinating reflex. The body reacts involuntarily, yet the tension remains. Hm.” His analytical tone was maddening. “This requires a more... scientific approach.”

“Ratio, I swear—”

“Quiet, subject.” He pressed again, this time more firmly, bypassing the sensitive nerves and digging into the muscle fibers instead. Relief flooded through your shoulders, though you twitched at the edges of sensation.

He leaned down, lips brushing your ear as he spoke, voice smooth as velvet. “You must train your body to distinguish between touch meant for comfort and touch meant to provoke laughter. Consider this an experiment in control.”

Your face burned. “This isn’t an experiment!”

“It is now,” he murmured, fingers kneading slow circles. “Relax. Focus on the relief, not the reflex.”

Against all odds, his words worked. He guided you through the tension like a lecturer coaxing understanding, shifting pressure, avoiding the worst spots. You melted into his touch despite yourself.

When he finally pulled back, his smirk was triumphant. “See? Even a ticklish subject can be rehabilitated with the right instructor.”

You rolled your eyes, though you couldn’t stop smiling. “Show-off.”

His gaze softened, only slightly. “Perhaps. But only for you.”

The healer’s quarters smelled faintly of herbs, warm broth, and incense. You sat gingerly on the mat, stretching your sore limbs after a long day. Every movement tugged painfully at your muscles.

“You’ve overexerted yourself again,” Jiaoqiu said gently. His eyes remained mostly closed, but his awareness of your state was uncanny.

“I’m fine,” you lied.

“Mm.” He tilted his head, fox ears flicking. “You are not fine. Your breath catches when you move, your shoulders are tight. Even without sight, I can hear it in you.”

Your lips pressed into a pout. “Okay, fine. I need... a massage or something. Everything hurts.”

A soft chuckle escaped him. He unfurled his fan, snapping it shut again as he set it aside. “Then allow me.”

You blinked. “You? Massage?”

“Do not sound so surprised,” he teased, settling behind you with a graceful sweep of his robes. “I am an alchemist, a healer. Touch is one of the oldest remedies.”

Warm hands settled lightly on your shoulders. You already shivered, not from pain but anticipation.

“Wait—” you stammered. “There’s a problem. I’m... really ticklish.”

His fingers paused. Then he smiled, faint but knowing. “Ah. That explains your hesitation.” His voice softened, coaxing. “Do not worry. I will be careful. Trust me.”

Your chest tightened at his tenderness.

His hands moved again, deliberate and steady, pressing into the knots of tension. You flinched at the first ticklish edge, but he adjusted immediately, intuitively sensing where to apply firmer pressure.

“You are trembling,” he murmured. “Breathe with me. In... and out...”

You obeyed, focusing on his voice. Slowly, the tension eased. His thumbs worked in circles, never lingering where you twitched, always grounding you with warmth.

“Better,” he whispered, almost to himself. “I can feel it. The ache is leaving you.”

You let out a shaky laugh. “You’re... really good at this.”

His smile was wistful. “Healing is not always about medicine. Sometimes, it is about listening. Even the body’s laughter tells a story.”

Your cheeks burned, but under his careful touch, you finally relaxed fully. And though your ticklish nerves made you giggle occasionally, he never once teased—only adjusted, only soothed.

By the time he finished, you leaned back against him, boneless with relief. His tail curled around you protectively.

“Better?” he asked softly.

“Much better.”

He pressed his forehead lightly against your temple. “Then rest. I will guard your dreams tonight.”

The dim chamber smelled faintly of ink and burning wax. Tomes and notes littered every surface, and at the center of it all sat Anaxa, quill in hand, his eyes flashing when you staggered in and collapsed dramatically across his desk.

“Beloved,” he drawled, voice poetic even in irritation. “If you insist on desecrating my work with your mortal groans, at least have the decency to explain your suffering.”

“My muscles hurt,” you whined. “Everything aches. I’m dying.”

He arched a brow. “Dying? From labor? How tragically pedestrian.” Yet he set aside his quill, rising with a sweep of his cloak. “Stand, then. If you insist on breaking before me, allow me to rebuild you.”

You squinted. “Are you... offering me a massage?”

He smirked, wicked and theatrical. “Do not look so aghast. I have mastered forbidden knowledge of body and soul. Surely I can coax relief from your fragile form.”

You were too sore to argue. “Fine. Just... don’t say I didn’t warn you. I’m ticklish.”

At that, his smile widened, sharp and dangerous. “Ticklish, you say? Ah, the body’s betrayal of dignity. Delicious.”

“Anaxa—don’t—”

But his hands were already upon you, pressing into your shoulders. You yelped, jerking away. He laughed, rich and unrestrained, the sound echoing off the chamber walls.

“Truly marvelous!” he declared. “A creature so sensitive, yet so desperate for touch. You are a paradox worthy of study.”

You glared, cheeks burning. “Are you going to help me or mock me?”

His expression softened suddenly, the theatrics dimming to something raw. “Both. Always both.”

And then, with surprising care, he adjusted his touch—firmer, slower, avoiding the nerves that betrayed you. His hands moved like a ritual, precise and reverent. Each press released tension, and though you flinched occasionally, he soothed each reaction with murmured words.

“Do you feel it?” he whispered, lips near your ear. “The ache unraveling? The body remembering peace?”

Your breath hitched, heat curling in your chest. “...Yes.”

His voice turned almost reverent. “Good. Then endure my touch a little longer. Let me be both torment and salvation to you.”

By the time he finished, you were limp in his arms, your pain eased, your heart thundering.

Anaxa held you close, his gaze unreadable. “You trembled, you laughed, you yielded. And yet, you trusted me.” His lips brushed your temple. “For that, beloved, I am undone.”

You sighed, smiling tiredly. “Even if I’m ticklish?”

“Especially because you are ticklish,” he murmured, a rare, genuine warmth breaking through his dramatic mask.

It started with a kiss. Just a sweet, slow press of lips to your cheek as you sat curled up in Sam’s lap, buried under a fleece blanket. The cabin was quiet, the fire still crackling gently across the room. Then another kiss. And another—closer to your neck this time. You tensed.

“Mm… you’re so warm,” Sam murmured, trailing soft, teasing kisses up your jawline. “So cozy. So… twitchy.”

“Don’t,” you breathed, already turning red.

“Don’t what?” he asked, voice all fake innocence as he definitely brushed his lips deliberately across that sensitive spot behind your ear.

You flinched. He grinned.

“Sammmm,” you whined, voice already shaky with half-held-in laughter.

“I’m just kissing you,” he said, arms tightening around your waist to keep you right where you were. “You’re the one acting all flustered and squirmy…”

You bit your lip, already biting back giggles as his lips wandered lower—just to the crook of your neck, where he started peppering slow, fluttery kisses that tingled.

“Stohohop!” you giggled, pressing your hands to his chest as you twisted in his lap. “Y-you’re doing it on purpose!”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he purred, now definitely using his lips and a little bit of breath to make you melt. “Just giving my sweetheart some love.”

He shifted slightly, dipping his head to your collarbone and blowing a gentle raspberry that made you squeal.

“Saaam!” you gasped, laughing now, face fully buried in your hands. “I— I c-can’t—I’m gonna die!”

“Aww, poor baby,” he cooed, fingers joining the fun now—lightly dancing along your sides while he kissed just under your jaw. “I thought you liked this…”

“I do!” you whined, blushing so hard your ears burned. “That’s the problem!”

He chuckled, pulling you closer, ignoring your wiggling as his kisses turned feather-light again, just enough to keep you helpless and squeaky and utterly at his mercy.

“Guess I’ll just have to kiss everywhere,” he said, smug as ever. “Until you tell me your least sensitive spot.”

“Th-there isn’t one!”

“Oh no?” He nuzzled your neck with an evil little hum. “Then I guess we’ve got a lot of exploring to do.”

You never smile around Floyd. In fact, his very presence seems to irritate you. He's unpredictable, and every time he's around you he seems to enjoy pressing your buttons. This time, however, is the most annoying one of them all.

"C'mon, shrimpy. Squirm, squirm, squirm!" he cheers with an enthused giggle, watching you squirm and writhe beneath him as his hands squeeze at the flesh directly above your hips.

"YOU'RE SSSOO.. HAHAHA! YOU'RE SO FUCKING ANNOYING!" you shriek in complaint, hips jerking as he goes in for another flurry of squeezes and squishes.

You pressed your face a bit more firmly on the bed under you, feeling the light rumbles of Betty’s amused chuckles around your uncontrollable smile, fingers gripping the mattress as another ticklish sparkle teased the lovely spot under your shoulder blades, too close of your ribs. 

How could you say to be surprised? Years and years of taking care of your ceramics, of course even Daisuke’s firmer touch would still be light enough to not even chip the most delicate of the plates. 

Noticing your shudder of reaction, and mistaking it for pain, Daisuke softened even more his massage, only his fingertips pressing “firmly” on the edge of the back of your ribs, drawing circles across the muscles just like Amir told him to do.

“Relax.” 

Somehow, this words only seemed to make your ticklishness grow stronger, fishing a squeak from your lips. He stopped.

“Does it hurt?”

Turning your face to the side, you tittered, reactions only getting louder when Daisuke pressed once more on the spot, digging just a bit in search of the horrible knot that was making you squirm around in pain, high pitched sounds of protests leaving your mouth over and over again. 

“Ack! Nohohoho! Please!” More yelping, bubbling titters filled the room, each sound and each touch only teasing your senses further, making tiny, ticklish sparkles travel the entirety of your back, filling each one of your weak spots on it with buzzing, anticipatory tingles. “Tihihihickles! It tihihihickles-”

Ah. Daisuke thought, fond, melted, sweet, looking at your adorable face shining in a beautiful smile, hearing that melodious laughter and realizing that he wouldn’t mind at all to keep listening to it over and over again. I see.

“Please, I ask for you to stop giggling yourself silly, I am trying to help you to relax.” There was a hint of smile in his voice, and a playful glint on his eyes that made you only squeal louder, especially as his hands spread in claws and began gently vibrate on your higher ribs, taking their sweet time to crawl downwards to your sides. 

Each touch of his was precise and, with the same single-minded focus he was previously searching for every tense knot or aching muscle of yours, now his curious, prodding and wiggling fingers were searching for every sweet spot, every weak, ticklish place that had you jolting under his hands, laughing adorably, squirming from one side to another, letting out the most mesmerizing, precious sounds, clinging to the mattress in a lovely way, not even trying to push his tickles away.

Daisuke pinched lightly at your sides, softening with how it sneaked crackles in your laughter, swiped his fingertips again and again across your lower back, scratching softly along it as you chuckled wheezes and kicked your legs. He prodded your spine, up and down and up and down, watching hypnotized as you snorted, squeaked and let out a string of half baked words, then spread his hands on your shoulder blades, taking turns in digging on every ticklish spot around it and drumming, amazed at how uncontrollable, how loud and mirthful your laughter could go. 

He took his time, just like he did polishing every plate to the brightest, sharpening his every knife, cooking every dish and organizing every self with his most loved ceramics. With patience, attention and care he found every single one of your ticklish spots, he grazed lightly at them and then vibrated on each one unmercifully, he caressed then squeezed and brushed and poked and tickled, tickled, tickled, again and again until your arms finally came down and held (as best as you could) his playful fingers.

Even so, his chuckles, amused and endeared and everything else in between, still danced with your remanent, looping giggles, a grin fixed permanently on your face, a light, relaxed feeling taking over and melting the tension on your muscles, leaving a good, happy feeling behind.

“Hm, good. Now, truly, do not move, I will start your massage.”

“I swear on every cursed tool in this room, Gojo, if you don’t stop whistling—”

“You’ll what?” he grinned, reclining dramatically against a shelf stacked with scrolls. “Tickle me? Wait, no. That’s me.”

You glared at him from your corner of the closet, arms crossed, foot tapping like a metronome of rage. A training mission turned into chaos, a collapsing building, and now you were both stuck in a magically jammed supply closet with no signal. Of course it was Gojo’s fault.

He took a slow step toward you, hands in his pockets. “C’mon, don’t be so grumpy. This could be… fun.”

“We’re literally trapped in a dusty box with no air circulation.”

Gojo tilted his head, “You know what helps with stuffy air?” He smirked. “Laughter.”

Your brows furrowed just before his hand shot out and poked your side.

You gasped and jumped back into a stack of scrolls with a loud thud. “Don’t—!”

“Ohhh?” His grin widened like a predator who just scented weakness. “There?” Another poke, this time to your ribs.

“Gohojoh!” you half-yelled, half-laughed, twisting away. “K-knock it off!”

“You should’ve never let me know you’re ticklish~,” he sang, stepping closer.

“You shouldn’t be trying to figure out whether I am or not!"

But your protest turned into a squeal when his fingers skittered at your waist. You doubled over, trying to bat him away, but he was persistent — playful, not mean — and the laughter spilled out despite every attempt to hold it back.

“Okay! OKAY!” you gasped, tears pricking your eyes from the giggles. “You’re so—annoying!”

He finally relented, hands up in surrender. “See? Doesn’t it feel better in here now?”

You leaned against the wall, catching your breath, flushed and flustered. “You're the worst.”

Gojo leaned in, voice lower now. “Yet somehow, I always end up stuck with you.”

You blinked. His glasses had slipped down his nose a bit, and behind them, his eyes were actually… soft. Sincere, for once.

“Maybe,” you murmured, “you’re just really bad at choosing escape routes.”

“Or maybe,” he said, “I don’t mind being stuck. With you.”

You stared at him, brain buffering, trying not to think about how close he was, or how your heart was beating too fast for someone you supposedly couldn’t stand.

He reached out, slowly this time, brushing a speck of dust from your cheek.

Just as your lips parted to speak, the door creaked open. A student peeked in, confused. “Uh… you two good?”

Gojo stepped back with a stretch. “Perfect timing! We were just bonding.”

You huffed, pushing past him. “You’re unbelievable.”

But as you walked out, you didn’t stop him from following close behind. And you didn’t say a word when his fingers almost brushed yours the entire way back.

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