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On a slow spring afternoon, the members of the Third Street Saints lazed about, strewn about haphazardly on ratty sofas and chairs. They squished together around a small, ancient, dusty tv. The Boss’ entire Star Wars collection was on VCR. They were indisputably a badass, but could certainly use some help in the technology department. Especially when said technology was close to breaking at any given time.
Somehow, perhaps using their roguish, unprecedented charm, The Boss had roped the gang into marathoning Star Wars. The only one who was even slightly interested was Matt, until they mentioned in passing that there might or might not be strippers - because honestly, how else are world-infamous gang members going to be bribed into watching some geeky-ass cult movie?
Unfortunately (yet predictably) for the Saints, The Boss was a chatterbox when it came to movies they really liked - which is how they’d already gone through about 3 couch mates only halfway through the second prequel. First, it was Shaundi. She muttered something about her legs cramping, opting for the floor so she could “stretch them out.” Pierce took her place after the first movie, and entertained The Boss’ enthusiastic trivia for an honorable amount of time, but Shaundi’s constant passive aggressive sighs and eyerolls eventually willed him to move to an open spot beside Kinzie.
And so came Matt Miller, who was eager to swap sweet geeky nothings with The Boss. Little did he know it would become his downfall.
The Boss excitedly poked him in the side as Anakin’s infamous fight with Obi Wan began, which caused Matt to squirm away. Sensing his discomfort, The Boss turned their attention from the movie and raised an eyebrow, experimentally poking him again. This time, Matt flinched and scooted away. Turning to The Boss, he squinted his eyes, brows furrowing. “What. Are you doing.”
“Science.”
“What.”
The Boss reached for his neck this time, with Matt relentlessly slapping it away.
“Oh my god. Matt Miller, are you ticklish?” They snorted, playful scandal evident in their tone.
By this point, other Saints had taken notice. “Shh!” Kinzie huffed, glaring. “You were the one who wanted us to watch this.”
But The Boss paid no mind. Determined now, The Boss all but launched themself onto Matt, pinning him to the couch. In turn, Matt tried his hardest to wrench free, but it was pointless. The Boss laughed, then all but attacked his stomach with wiggling, unrelenting fingers.
Much to the confusion and horror of the Saints.
“What the hell!” Matt grappled with The Boss’ hands at first, trying to protect his stomach. Eventually, though, his defensive slapping and hitting slowed, and strangled laughter bubbled through. The Boss couldn’t help but grin. Success.
The Saints looked on in absolute bewilderment. The credits rolled on the TV screen, completely forgotten. A mutter of “oh my God please get a room” filled the tense air.
The Boss leaned back on their heels, brushing their hair out of their eyes, laughter dying and awkward silence settling in.
Matt saw his chance. He grunted and swapped their positions, which admittedly was not an easy task for a scrawny goth kid. “Let’s see how you like it,” he mocked sarcastically, tackling The Boss’ stomach. “Retribution!”
But The Boss didn’t squirm an inch, snorting when Matt rocked back with an expression two parts frustration and one part disbelief.
“I hate you,” he grumbled.
“I know.”