Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It was probably for the worse that, despite living his whole life on Skid Row (a neighborhood not known for quiet or peaceful nights), Seymour was a relatively light sleeper. That said, for someone living in the basement under his workplace, it did make his everything-job easier to fulfill his night-guard duties.

So some kind of scuffle upstairs woke him up pretty quick.

It was at least 2 AM, but still far from sunrise. With a miserable groan, he stretched and got up, feet finding his slippers easily enough, grabbing his fingerprinted-dirty glasses off his side table and putting them on. Walking the cold concrete floor of the basement, nevermind the stairs and retail space upstairs, without shoes was a great way to end up dirty and gross at best, stepping on a thorn or errant pottery shard at worse.

His sleepwear of choice was nondescript: baggy pajama pants, baggy buttonup pajama shirt. Being on the short side meant basically everything felt baggy on him, nevermind that most of his clothes were third-hand, at least.

But right now, he was too tired and annoyed to think much about such things. With a sigh, he dejectedly shuffled over to the steps and trudged up toward the shop.

The sound of whatever it was – from where he had been downstairs, it sounded vaguely like someone messing with the lock on the door – abated as he approached.

Great. Woken up for nothing.

Still, couldn’t hurt to check the door. Fine thing it would be to have….

….wait.

Sleepy as he’d been, Seymour Krelborn had forgotten that he was a murderer.

Was it the police? Was it a friend of the dentist? Had the plant grown legs and started causing problems?

He stumbled up the steps with a renewed panic, doing his best not to hyperventilate – what he had done was fine, the dentist deserved it after all he’d done to Audrey, he’d just done a public service, all the people he’d hurt and abused over the years, masquerading as a doctor who was supposed to be helping, and Seymour refused to feel bad about it.

OK, maybe he felt a little bad about it. Something felt….wrong about it. Like he’d done it for the wrong reasons. Or something.

Or maybe just being a lifelong nerdy little loser made him timid about doing anything bold.

And you don’t get bolder than killing (well, by inaction, he reminded himself) a guy, and butchering him to feed a scary mutant talking plant.

But lucky for Seymour, there was no one at the door.

He hurried forward, grabbing the knob to test the lock, finding it still in place.

Phew.

With another huff of a sigh, he turned back to inspect the rest of the shop.

Desk normal. Flowers normal. Cash register untouched.

Massive and terrifying maneating sentient plant placid, for the moment, silently “looking” up, mouth closed, nothing more sinister-looking than a giant bud.

Seymour took off his glasses and rubbed the sleepiness from his eyes, and wiped them on his shirt hem, before thinking better of it; no, he wanted to go back to sleep, not stay up worried and wracked with guilt….

….maybe….maybe he should report it. Anonymously. Think up something to throw anyone off the trail….

“….Krelbooooorn….”

Seymour froze where he was at the top of the steps to the basement, one hand on the railing, one worn slipper on the top step.

Great. That voice.

“…..KRELbooooorn…..” Audrey II crooned again, menacingly.

Seymour gulped and steeled himself, turning around to face the damn thing. Audrey II had woken up, “facing” him (he still wasn’t sure if she could see, but she certainly acted like it) with a head-bud tilt that suggested something between curiosity and threat.

“What is it?” he asked, voice groggy and low from tiredness. “You’ve already eaten!”

“That’s not what’s keepin’ me up burnin’ the midnight oil right now,” she retorted, wagging her head-bud at him.

“Then what do you want?”

Seymour stayed by the top of the steps, warily. He was pretty sure that, what with him being her caretaker, the plant had no intentions of eating him. She couldn’t move, so she still needed him.

He shuddered to think whether this was about to be a new habit – was he fated to turn into a serial killer, to hang on to the newfound fame and hopefully-someday-fortune a florist could hope for?

“I wanna make sure you aren’t gonna blow our cover.”

That sent a wave of fear over him: could Audrey II read minds? Sense his silent musings about reporting what had happened?

After all, she had somehow absorbed a rather frightening degree of worldliness. Not just speech, but more pop culture references than anyone had ever actually said in front of her.

“I’m not gonna tell anyone,” Seymour replied meekly, voice drifting toward a mumble.

Audrey II did not appear convinced.

“You tellin’ me the truth, Krelborn?”

“Of course I am!” Seymour felt a flash of frustration in his fear. Who was he to have his honesty questioned by a stupid plant?

“Hmmmmm…..”

After a long pause, Seymour was pretty sure that this nighttime conversation was at an end – guess this increasingly-horrifying roommate of his was sated in her grim curiosity for the moment….

“WHOA!” Seymour yelped in surprise. He had turned his back on the plant and started down the steps, when a frighteningly quick tendril had darted out and snaked around his ankle.

“HELP!” he screamed, to no one. The shop was deserted, and no one on Skid Row took any sounds of domestic violence seriously enough to do anything about.

Audrey II dragged him across the floor, a low, grim chuckle rumbling out of her.

Seymour whimpered and struggled pathetically, powerless against the alarmingly-strong tendril.

This is it, this is how I die. Shoulda seen this coming, he thought, panic turning to resignation.

The damn plant was going to eat him….

….or was it?

Now with him at the base of her massive pot, Audrey II tightened her grip around his ankle. In his attempts to squirm free, Seymour had lost both his slippers, and his pajama shirt being dragged over the dusty shop floor had left it mussed and gross. Another low, wicked laugh, and she hoisted him upward, so he was hanging upside-down.

“Twoey, put me down!” he demanded, flailing at the plant, adrenaline of about-to-die instincts conjuring something close to bravery.

“No, I don’t think I will!” she laughed, tone mocking but some sadistic form of playful.

Seymour’s glasses started to slip, blood rushing to his head, so he pushed them back on, trying to look as authoritative and indignant as possible.

As a meek and nerdy little guy, being helplessly held upside-down by your ankle, baggy shirt leaving your soft belly exposed, was not a position that conveyed any kind of dignity or authority.

“C’mon, I took care of you! Helped you grow!” he protested, trying to bargain, and trying to pull down – or, rather, up – his shirt.

“Oh I know. That’s why I’m not gonna be eatin’ you right now!” Audrey II slightly swung him back and forth, like a cat playing with a mouse caught by its tail.

Seymour exhaled in relief, lips brrrring like a horse involuntarily from how his round cheeks were affected by the upside-down-ness of gravity . He pushed his glasses back into place again, but was starting to feel unpleasantly dizzy with the blood rushing into his head.

“So put me down!”

Audrey II shook her head-bud. “Not til I’m sure you’ve got no intentions of tellin’ NOBODY about what transpired!”

Eyes wide, Seymour’s sense of fear spiked again. “I won’t tell! I promise I won’t!”

“Awwwww, c’mon Seymout, I’m not gonna hurt ya!”

Well, that was confusing, if some shade of reassuring. “So put me down!”

“Hmmmm, no.”

Seymour had been about to retort something back, but almost choked in surprise, then fighting to keep from laughing….

….with the tip of a second tendril, Audrey II started making little circles over his bare foot: the one still locked in her grasp.

He sputtered, cheeks puffing out, trying not to laugh, eyes scrunching up tight. “Two-o-o-ey, no!” he managed to choke out, giggles almost breaking through.

How’d she even know about this? Who taught this damn plant how to tickle someone?

“Why, you’re findin’ this funny, aren’tcha Seymour?” she cackled wickedly, fluttering her tendril faster, poking around under his toes.

Growing up an orphan, then adopted as little more than indentured servant, Seymour Krelborn hadn’t really been tickled much over the course of his life. Maybe some errant, mostly-now-forgotten “playful” bullying from older kids at the orphanage, but that was about it.

This did nothing to mitigate how ticklish he was now discovering he was.

“PLEASE!” he squeaked, now close to his breaking point. He curled up his toes and weakly tried to kick the probing tendril away with his free foot.

“Oh no you don’t, c’mon, be a good sport now!” Audrey II teased, briefly using the second tendril to snatch his other ankle, then loop it into the first.

Seymour now found himself upside-down, bare feet together, face red from struggling against the laughs and dizzy from all the blood rushing down with gravity.

What did this stupid plant even want? Was this some kind of interrogation?

“Plee-eaa-a-se!” he whined, as Audrey II now was brushing the bristley leaves on her tendril back and forth over both soles at the same time.

“You’re tougher than you look, kid!”

As if to disprove that compliment – or condescension – Seymour broke, unable to take it any longer.

“HHAAAHAA!” he all but shouted out, bucking into an attempted curl-up, like he could punch the tendril holding him away, but he was too trapped for that. Under the merciless treatment and now-unstoppable stream of laughter, he could do little more than wriggle and writhe back and forth, suspended off the ground.

“Now, now, now, what’s so funny Krelborn? You’re not thinkin’ of tellin’ anyone about this, now are ya?”

What did she mean now, the murder? the blood-drinking? The mortifying experience of being a hapless florist getting tickle tortured by a damn plant?

“NO!” he gasped between hard laughs, trying to spin side-to-side, shaking at the knees as she kept up the scritches and flutters on his bare feet.

“You lying to me, kid?”

“NOOOOO!” he cried again, eyes tearing up, glasses starting to fall again. Even in his distressed state, he managed to push them back onto his nose: something told him that all of this would be a million times worse if he had to go through it blind.

Not that he wasn’t already completely helpless. But at least he could see, for the moment.

“No-o-o-o MORE-eeehee-eEHe!”

Seymour Krelborn didn’t have much in the ways of dignity: it wasn’t that he was too proud to beg, he just hadn’t managed to get more than a word in edgewise between his peals of laughter.

In a surprising display of mercy, Audrey II stopped….but lifted him higher, as if to see better eye-to-eye.

Not that he lacked self-preservation, but some part of Seymour’s mind suggested that if she ate him now, it would at least mean no more torture.

“Did you say more, Seymour? Seymour wants mooooore?”

“NO NO NO NO NO, I said NO more!” he panted desperately.

However, Audrey II wasn’t taking no – or no more – for an answer.

Really, she was a botanical marvel, especially how – from somewhere – she now had three more tendrils snaking from her leafy mass.

One looped around his left wrist, another his right.

Seymour tried to stutter out more begs, but couldn’t help the nervous giggles in anticipation.

This was stupid, she wasn’t even doing anything yet.

Yet.

His baggy pajama shirt fell down, what with now being held aloft, arms ‘over’ his head, legs still wrapped together.

“Twoey, c’mon, I won’t t-t-tell a-a-nybody!” he begged, quickly losing his command of speech, as Twoey’s third new tendril found its target.

Little pokes and teases, prodding around Seymour’s slightly-pudgy lower tummy.

“Coochie coo, Krelborn!” she teased deviously, making circles of strokes around the top of his waistband, wiggling into his flanks, poking his soft and helpless belly in quick rotation.

“HEEELP!” Seymour scream-laughed again, struggling against his restraints. Audrey II just laughed, a low, booming and mocking sound, her jaws close to his face.

“No one’s comin’ to help you, boy! You’re all MINE!”

With that, she kept up her relentless torment on poor Seymour’s squirming body, but got her bristles on his feet too.

“PLEASE!” he squeaked, eyes basically closed now, face red and sweaty, glasses almost dangling.

“Please what? Please what? Oh do tell me, kid, what do you want?” she teased.

Who the hell taught this plant how to do this?!?!?!

“Maybe please this??” she asked, unfurling another pair of tendrils.

Seymour couldn’t even see what was coming: through the tears, laughs, and the fact that his glasses finally fell off and clattered to the floor.

But he could definitely feel it, as the two new snaking probes stroked up (down) his stomach, grazing over his ribs under his shirt, each point finding an armpit.

“You’re all tied up, ain’tcha?” Twoey teased as she started digging in.

“NO!” Seymour cried.

“Well, that just ain’t true now, is it? You look pretty tied up to me!”

Without further comment, just more evil booming laughter, she just kept up the full multi-front-attack.

Seymour could barely decide – or think at all, really – which was the worst. The leafy bristles lightly scrubbing around the creases of his toes as he tried to wriggle his ankles free; the pair poked firmly under his arms like wicked boring drills, his arms pulled up taut and useless; or how Twoey had settled on a sweet spot in his middle, tip of her tendril in his belly button and going to town.

That was, at least right now, the one making him buck and scream. With the little curve of squish around his tummy, his belly button was deep enough for a good poke, and as he now was learning, EXTREMELY sensitive.

Never before had he wished so ardently for some nighttime robber or miscreant to break into the little shop, if only to maybe put a stop to the ticklish horrors this damn plant had unleashed.

After what felt like a murderous length of time, Twoey finally stopped.

She didn’t put him down, though. Seymour stayed suspended like a ragdoll, sweaty and flustered and red-faced and thoroughly tortured.

“Well, well, Krelborn….” she mused, low and grumbling.

“You – how – why?” he gasped, brain too buzzy for more words.

“Not gonna tell anyone anything, are we?”

“No!” he moaned. He’d already promised that, long before this had started.

“Good kid,” she replied, nodding her head-bud in approval.

But – as Seymour realized with trepidation – she hadn’t put him down, and she hadn’t loosened her grip.

“You got any plans for the night, Seymour?” she asked slyly.

“Going to sleep! If I can’t rest, no one’s gonna be awake to take care of you!” he found a shred of confidence.

“Hmmmhmmhmm….” she laughed, low and devilish. “I think I can help you stay awake!”

Seymour had half-hoped she might just eat him here and now.

But alas….the four previously-unoccupied tendrils started slowly slithering towards him.

He started to smile in spite of himself – this was cruel, she was taking her time, one grazing up his legs to his feet, the other three pulling his shirt up (down), tips tracing on his bare stretched-out skin….

“Twoey, c’mon! We’re – we’re friends!” he begged, chuckles starting to rise as she slowly stroked his tummy.

“Oh sure, Seymour, we’re friends!” she teased, nodding in agreement, sadistically enjoying toying with him. “You’re havin’ a good time, look at that smile, boy!”

She’d accompanied that comment with starting to slowly trace over his left foot, up and down, heel to toe, back down….

“I think we’ve got plans all….night...long!” she boomed, starting in on the poor trapped little “botanical genius” in earnest again.

Seymour tried and failed to thrash free.

All night? All night?!?!?!

He’d be dead by morning. Asphyxiated like the dentist, laughing himself to death.

Twoey’s tendril was slowly snaking toward his belly button, his stomach quivering with the laughs, little creases in his chubbiness as he tried to curl up.

She, naturally, just tightened the ones around his wrists, holding him out nice and taut.

“I think you need to lighten up, kid! Laughter’s the BEST medicine!”

“Nooo-ha-hah!!!” Seymour’s scream was swallowed by more deep, hard belly-laughs, completely melting as his evil plant unleashed another barrage.

This poor ticklish florist wasn’t going to be getting any sleep tonight.

Chapter Text

The world – honestly, to both of their surprise – had turned out blissfully normal for Seymour and Audrey Krelborn (nee Fulquard). Just like it had been in all of Audrey’s dreams; apparently, saving the world from alien plant domination (albeit featuring a few had-it-coming assisted homicides) plus a downtrodden pair of lives up to that point bought a kind-of-young couple enough karma for a peaceful little suburban existence.

After finishing up with the front yard landscape detailing for the day, Seymour had stepped into the shower in the late afternoon, washing the summer sweat and garden dirt off him. Despite the horrors now a little over a year ago, he’d managed to come back around to enjoying gardening as a hobby. Plus, Audrey still loved flowers, and neighborhood cul-de-sac parties always had plenty of good-natured garden talk. He took pride in his own yard, and how happy it made his wife to show off their combined botanical skill in their yard and garden.

Audrey still did flower arranging too, though now as a recreational artist or occasional commission rather than desperately supplementing the income of a failing shop. They’d cashed in on the insurance money after the damn plant had blown up the place, and then – despite no longer having access to his strange and interesting plant – the network program Seymour Krelborn’s Gardening Tips had taken off on local TV programming.

He shut off the water and toweled off in front of the mirror, looking himself over with a slight frown.

A comfortable, low-impact job and an enthusiastic wife’s cooking had suited this little botanist nicely, but at least by conventional body image standards, he’d noticed a difference. Tummy a little rounder, his flanks in a cute little muffintop over the waistband of his boxer shorts, spot under his chin a little softer.

Hmm. Maybe he should take up some exercise, try to take off a few pounds….

“EEK!”

The meek little guy jumped as the bathroom door opened; Audrey had apparently come home from backgammon with the ladies from up the street, and invited herself in. Despite the propriety of having their separate beds, like any respectable couple, they were – adorably – no strangers to sharing, so to speak. It had taken a little while to build up comfort with intimacy, between Seymour’s inexperience and Audrey’s glut of unpleasant ones, but a year into a simple and soft marriage had did them both good.

“Oh, sorry Seymour…” Audrey smirked a little, stopping in the doorway.

“Oh no, it’s fine, just got surprised.” He self-consciously crossed his arms over his middle, trying to smile through that little moment of insecurity the mirror had unkindly prompted in him.

“What’re you doing?”

“Showering, after taking care of the raking and weeding this morning. Well, I was showering, it’s done now.” He laughed lightly, gesturing to the shower as if it were a third member of the conversation.

His glasses were still slightly fogged up, which Audrey naturally just found endearingly dorky.

“Ah, OK.” Her high-pitched, airy voice could make almost anything sound gentle and loving. “Did you want me to bring some clothes in?”

“Um….”

They’d been married long enough for her to catch when he had something on his mind, when something was nagging at him.

“What’s wrong Seymour?”

His eyes flashed between the mirror and her, looking down at himself bashfully. Still in nothing more than his white underwear shorts, all 5’5” of him standing awkwardly on the bathmat. From his stubby little toes, short legs, plump thighs and tummy, soft body all the way up to his curls, that little seed of insecurity was blooming into a rather self-deprecating picture.

“Do you….want me to look different?”

“What do you mean?” Audrey’s voice picked up in concern.

“I mean….” Seymour uncrossed his arms and poked his chubby sides pathetically. “I’ve gained some weight. You’re so good at cooking.” He tried for a smile, but still looked nervous. “I could start exercising, I could - ”

“Oh, is that all?” With no further ado, Audrey glided to his side, then stood behind him and gently turned them both to the mirror, wrapping her long, slender arms around his hunched shoulders and resting her chin in the crook of his neck. The sweet smell of her perfume was comforting, like home, and it still made his heart flutter to have her touch him, the graze of her perfectly-done hair scratching over his cheek and bringing a little smile to his lips at the sensation.

“Seymour, I love you just the way you are.”

“Really?” He frowned, dropping his arms to his sides, pondering the two of them in their reflection. Perfect Audrey, an nymph-like vision of beauty, cradling a dorky little chubby guy almost a head shorter than her from behind.

To be fair – self-deprecation creates double standards like that – he knew without a doubt that he’d love Audrey in any shape or size the future had in store, emotionally as well as physically. Loving her was like his heartbeat: he couldn’t imagine living without it.

“Really.” As if to demonstrate her point, she gave him a soft kiss on the cheek. “I love your face.”

She gently drew her fingertips over his chest, loving the way it made him shiver. “And I love this.”

“….gosh, Audrey….”

She was not done with him, hands lightly stroking down to the spots he’d dejectedly poked before, perfectly-manicured nails running over the curve of his sides. “And this too.”

Spasmodically, he squirmed a little in the hug….then giggled, as her hands reached his round little belly, nails in playful circles then lightly skittering around his muffintop.

“You’re so cute, Seymour.”

For a second, she let her hands drop further, running over the soft flannel of his underwear, like she was suggesting she might be headed to touch elsewhere – gosh, the way his breath hitched was adorable – but then brought them back up, hugging him to her from behind, folding her hands over his waist and kissing his shoulder again.

He let out a nervous, embarrassed laugh.

“And I definitely love your laugh.”

Well, that just made him giggle again, blushing hard. He opened his mouth to speak, but she wasn’t done with the compliments, especially not if they kept giving such sweet results.

“This -” she playfully pinched at his chubby sides “ - is just more to love.”

“Really?”

“Really. I don’t want you to stop enjoying eating either.”

“Well, I won’t complain about that….hey-ee-he-y!”

He squirmed in the hug, chuckling as Audrey caressed around the rim of his muffintop again with just her index finger nails. From the way she laughed through her nose, lightly in his ear, he could tell she knew exactly what she was doing.

With another low, mischievous laugh, she whispered in his ear, letting her breath prickle the soft skin there. “How about you go lay on the bed?”

An even redder blush. “….in the a-afternoon?”

As much as he wouldn’t say no, that was not exactly proper per wholesome-household protocol, if that was what she was suggesting. Audrey snickered.

“Not quite.” She gave him a coy head tilt. “Well, not yet. I think Seymour needs a little more cheering up.” She accompanied that with scribbling all ten fingers over the soft skin around his tummy and sides, earning a dorky bubble of giggles out of the cute little botanical genius trapped in her arms.

There was, with that, no doubt in Seymour’s mind about what his Audrey wanted to do with him, should he acquiesce to laying on his bed, his whole little body almost completely bare and at her leisurely disposal.

After the night of being tortured by the damn plant – he didn’t like calling it Audrey II or Twoey or anything like that, it didn’t deserve that namesake after what it had tried to pull – Seymour Krelborn hadn’t quite been interested in ever being tickled again. All night in the clutches of a sadistic alien, even if it hadn’t hurt-hurt him, did a number on his own feelings about helplessness and vulnerability like that.

So Audrey – his Audrey, the real Audrey – discovering that sensitivity almost the first time they made love after their wedding had been a moment of uncertainty and embarrassment.

No stranger to hangups about power and touch, she had immediately adjusted, careful to keep her touches loving but predictable and firm enough not to tickle.

But with a year of learning to touch and love each other, they’d both started to soften those hard boundaries: slowly, carefully, with explicit consent at all junctures.

Audrey had gotten used to pleasure without pain, to letting herself enjoy things for her own sake; Seymour had gotten over his insecurity about being too much, too fast, too eager.

And, on a much lighter note, had realized that with a loving and gentle partner, maybe an occasional tickle or two wasn’t so bad.

Then came a night about three months ago.

They were relaxed, side by side in Audrey’s bed together, cuddled all warm and fuzzy after a passionate last hour or so, when absentmindedly, she’d lightly stroked his belly.

“HMMPh!” he swallowed a laugh, and she recoiled her hand.

“Sorry Seymour, I won’t -”

“N-no, it’s OK….” he frowned, thinking. Maybe it was a little bit of afterglow hormone-high-seeking, mixed with a little curiosity, but in that moment, it had occurred to him that laughter – and touch – were great for releasing endorphins. Stress relief, trust, just sheer playfulness….he hazarded a cautious, almost-embarrassed suggestion.

“Uh….do it again?”

“What?” Audrey sat up, looking down at him curiously.

He blushed, slapping a hand to his forehead. They were both still nude, albeit under the covers, so he was perfectly exposed for any kinds of touch. “T-tickle me again?”

Cocking an eyebrow, Audrey skittered her nails over his stomach again – Seymour sucked in and jolted, a high-pitched laugh squeaking out of him.

“Sorry!” She pulled back, worried.

“N-no, it’s….I’ll tell you if it’s bad, or it hurts, OK?”

“….you want more?”

He was too bashful for words, giggles already threatening to pop out in anticipation, so he just nodded.

Audrey was still a little uncertain, at least at first; but before long, she had a deliciously adorable little botanist in her bed, squirming and squealing in dizzy delight under her fingers. So who was she to complain?

Three months of ‘helping’ him past that boundary, and Audrey accurately gauged that her Seymour wouldn’t object to something a little less spontaneous, a little more intentional right now. See, the handful of times she’d gotten to play with him like this, it had been spur of the moment: cuddling on the couch giving way to fingers under his armpits sending him into curled-up chortles, snuggling in bed prompting stomach scribbles that got him giggling.

But she had been curious about the rest of her cute little husband. What wonderful little sounds might be coaxed and teased out of those soft little ears and cheeks, under that boyish chin and sensitive neck, those adorably squishy armpits and chest, that excellently poke-able and scritchable belly, those plump little thighs and crinkled knees, those twitchy little feet and short bubble-tip toes.

“Only if you want to,” she added, rubbing his back kindly and looking them both over in the mirror again.

Seymour furrowed his eyebrows like he was considering the proposition….

….OK, sure, that sounded like fun. He knew she’d stop if he asked, so maybe a good, long, planned-out afternoon tickling from his Audrey might do the trick to shake off any glumness or uncertainty about the extra weight.

“OK, I’ll, um, be waiting?”

“I’ll be in shortly, Mister Krelborn.”

Blushing at the teasing formality, he quickly trotted out to the bedroom, flopping himself out flat on his neatly-made bed. For the moment, Audrey stayed in the bathroom – he wasn’t sure what preparations might be required, but this was ultimately an exercise in trust. So whatever she wanted, he would go along with it.

He grinned to himself like a kid in a candystore, staring at the ceiling as he put his hands behind his head, shivering a little. He then looked down, wiggling his toes.

Seymour Krelborn wasn’t yet sure exactly what his wonderful wife was going to do to him, but he knew he was going to love it.

He also knew he was about to be laughing his head off for the foreseeable future. Splayed out in just his underwear, this was going to tickle like crazy.

Audrey reappeared in the bathroom door, hands on her hips, looking over her subject proudly.

“Well well well, if it isn’t the star of daytime TV’s top-rated gardening program!”

Seymour let out a groan. She did love playfully hyping him up in their private time together.

She slowly walked toward the bed, raising her hands and starting to wiggle her fingers. Seymour giggled and squirmed in place a little, sucking in his tummy in anticipation, but summoning bravery to keep his arms up over his head.

“You know what I think?”

After a beat, Seymour realized this wasn’t a purely rhetorical question. “What do you think?”

“I think….” she sat on the side of the bed, hovering her slowly-wiggling fingers over that wonderfully round little belly. “….this TV star is in need of a good tickling!”

Hands quickly finding her target, this little botanist was immediately laughing hard and loud and gleeful and carefree, helpless and writhing under her hands, but happily laughing himself silly, taking it the whole way.

This was going to be a long afternoon – there was plenty of ticklish little botanical genius to explore, as far as Audrey was concerned.