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Corbeau
The room was quiet, lights low, the city a distant hum beyond the windows. You were curled against Corbeau’s chest, his arm wrapped around you in that steady, grounding way that made it easy to forget the rest of the world existed.
His hand rested at your side, fingers moving slowly—absent at first, tender, tracing the familiar curve of your waist. Then, his fingers slipped just beneath your ribs.
You laughed before you could stop yourself, a soft, startled sound that broke the calm.
Corbeau stilled for half a second. Then, he did it again, lighter.
You squirmed, laughing more openly now, trying—and failing—to pull away as his arm tightened around you with effortless strength.
“…Interesting,” Corbeau murmured.
You looked up at him, breathless. “Don’t—”
He didn’t even pretend to consider it. His fingers returned, precise and controlled, skimming your side just enough to make you twist and laugh helplessly. He watched you with calm interest, like he was filing the information away.
“You never mentioned you were ticklish,” he said evenly.
“I didn’t think you’d—!” You broke off with another laugh.
“Oh, I absolutely would,” Corbeau replied.
The moment he paused, you seized your chance.
You wriggled free and bolted—or tried to—sliding off the edge of the bed in a desperate bid for escape.
You made it exactly two steps.
“—Scolipede.”
The Poké Ball clicked open with a familiar hiss.
You yelped as Scolipede appeared beside the bed, moving fast and smooth, coiling around you with practiced precision—not tight, just enough to pin you in place and lift you cleanly off the floor.
“HEY—!” you protested, laughing already.
Corbeau rose from the bed at an unhurried pace, utterly unbothered as he approached.
“Scolipede,” he said calmly, “hold her.”
The Pokémon chirred obediently, keeping you immobilized while you squirmed uselessly, laughter bubbling up despite yourself.
Corbeau stopped in front of you, arms crossing as he looked you over.
“…Running was a poor choice,” he said mildly.
“This is so unfair,” you laughed.
“Yes,” Corbeau agreed. “It is.”
He reached out, fingers brushing your side again—feather-light, devastating.
You dissolved into laughter immediately.
He didn’t keep it up long. He never did. After a few seconds, he lifted his hand, expression composed once more.
“Scolipede, that’s enough.”
The Pokémon released you gently and retreated, leaving you breathless and very aware of how thoroughly outmatched you were.
Corbeau pulled you back against him without effort, arm settling around your waist like nothing unusual had happened.
“You’re not escaping,” he said quietly, fingers resting at your side—right there. “And now you know better than to try.”
You felt his thumb brush your skin once, slow and deliberate.
“…Sleep,” Corbeau added.
But the faint curve of his mouth told you he’d be thinking about this all night.
Grisham
The kitchen smelled like sugar and vanilla, the oven humming softly in the background as you focused on your task. Flour dusted the counter—and your sleeves—and Grisham stood nearby, quietly rinsing a bowl before setting it aside.
“Do you need anything else?” he asked, voice easy.
“I think I’ve got it,” you said, concentrating as you stirred.
He nodded and moved behind you to reach for something on the shelf. As he passed, he brushed a hand warmly at your waist—an unconscious, affectionate gesture.
You made a small, startled sound—half gasp, half sleepy noise—jerking just enough to slosh batter over the edge of the bowl.
Grisham froze.
“I—sorry,” he said immediately, hands lifting. “Did I—are you alright?”
You laughed, embarrassed, trying to steady the bowl. “Yeah—yeah, I’m fine. I just—”
He waited, brow creasing gently.
“…You just?” he prompted.
You glanced at him. “I, um...think I might be… ticklish.”
He blinked.
“Oh,” Grisham said softly.
There was a pause—thoughtful, careful. He didn’t move closer. Didn’t test it. He just nodded like he’d been handed something fragile.
“Thank you for telling me,” he said.
You smiled. “You don’t have to be so serious about it.”
“I know,” he replied, a little sheepish. “I just—don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”
He went back to tidying, giving you space, until you nudged him with your elbow. “It’s okay,” you added. “I promise.”
Grisham hesitated—then stepped closer again, this time slower. When his hand brushed your side, it was feather-light, barely there.
You squeaked. Loudly.
Grisham startled in tandem. “Oh—!”
You laughed, shoulders shaking. “Okay, I lied. I'm definitely ticklish.”
His ears pinked instantly and he adjusted his glasses. “I—sorry,” he said again, then paused, watching you laugh. Something in his expression softened, like relief had settled in where worry had been.
“…That sounds nice,” he said quietly.
“What does?” you asked.
“Your laugh,” he replied. “I don’t hear it like that very often.”
You glanced at him, surprised.
He smiled—small, genuine—and when he reached out again, it was careful but playful this time, fingers skimming your side just long enough to make you giggle and twist away.
He stopped immediately.
“There,” Grisham said, pleased and a little shy. “Just enough.”
You leaned into him, bumping his shoulder. “Don't get any ideas, mister.”
"I have no idea what you're talking about."
Later, when the cookies were in the oven and you were waiting together, he wrapped an arm around you from behind—no tickling this time, just warmth and quiet closeness.
But every so often, when you teased him just a little, his fingers would twitch.
And he’d smile like he was very proud of his restraint.
Ivor
Helping Ivor train always sounded simpler than it actually was.
“Okay,” he said, crouching slightly in front of you, animated as ever. “So this one’s for core stability and resistance. Super straightforward.”
You eyed him suspiciously. “Those are famous last words.”
He laughed. “No, really! You just lean back, and I’ll keep you steady. Partner work—trust exercise.”
That probably should’ve been your first warning.
You positioned yourself where he directed, feet planted, bracing as he placed his hands at your sides to keep you balanced.
The second his fingers settled near your waist—
You squeaked. Not gracefully. Not subtly. A full, startled sound escaped you as you jerked sideways.
Ivor yelped in surprise, scrambling to keep you from tipping over. “Whoa—hey! Careful!”
“I—I’m sorry,” you laughed breathlessly, already trying to pull away. “I’m ticklish—there.”
He froze.
“…You’re what?”
“Ticklish,” you repeated, still laughing. “Especially there.”
Ivor blinked. Then, he smiled. Slowly.
“Oh,” he said. “Ohhh.”
You immediately backed up. “Don’t.”
“I wasn’t going to!” he protested—far too quickly. “I just—okay, we can adjust. No problem.”
He stepped closer again, hands hovering uncertainly. “How about—here?” he asked, moving them slightly higher.
You nodded. “That’s fine.”
He tried again.
It lasted approximately three seconds.
You burst into laughter as his fingers brushed too close to your side again, instinctively twisting away.
Ivor, to his credit, did catch you.
Unfortunately, that required pulling you closer—hands settling exactly where they absolutely should not be.
You dissolved.
“Ivor—!” you laughed, trying to escape. “Stop—stop—”
“Oh no,” he said, laughing too now, “okay—okay, this is not working.”
He finally let you go, both of you doubled over and breathless.
“So,” Ivor said, wiping his eyes, “note to self: partner exercises are dangerous.”
You pointed at him. “This is your fault.”
He grinned, unrepentant. “Maybe. But your laugh is awesome.”
You groaned. “You’re enjoying this.”
“Listen,” he said earnestly, holding up his hands, “I promise I won’t tickle you on purpose.”
There was a pause.
“…Probably.”
You stared at him.
He broke immediately, laughing. “I’m kidding! Mostly!”
Despite himself, he stepped closer again—careful this time—hands placed very deliberately where they wouldn’t set you off. When you leaned back again, he held you steady, focused, surprisingly gentle.
See? Progress.
But the second you poked his side in retaliation—
“Oh, you’re DONE,” Ivor laughed, scooping you up before you could escape.
The tickling that followed was chaotic, affectionate, and absolutely unfair—but he stopped the moment you tapped his arm, concern replacing laughter instantly.
“Okay—okay, time out,” he said, still smiling. “Truce?”
You nodded, catching your breath.
He helped you back to your feet, still grinning, and slung an arm around your shoulders.
“Best workout I’ve had all week,” Ivor declared proudly.
You rolled your eyes.
But you were smiling too.
Urbain
Cleaning with Urbain had somehow turned into a competition.
You weren’t entirely sure when it happened—only that at some point, a casual “I’ll do the kitchen” became points, and points became rules, and rules became sabotage.
“I’m just saying,” Urbain called from the other room, “if I finish the living area first, I win.”
“You don’t get to make up the rules as you go!” you shot back, wiping down the counter.
“That’s exactly how games work,” he replied cheerfully.
You heard him approaching behind you just as you bent to grab a cloth from the cabinet. A moment later, his presence was warm at your back, hands hovering like he was about to pounce.
“You know,” Urbain said lightly, “distractions are a perfectly valid tactic.”
“Oh no you don’t,” you laughed, trying to scoot away.
He reached out, intending nothing more than a playful poke at your side. The second his fingers made contact—
You yipped.
Not loud. Not dramatic. But unmistakable.
Urbain froze.
“…Did you just—?” he began, incredulous.
You straightened too quickly, already suspicious. “No.”
He grinned.
“Oh-ho,” Urbain said, thoughtfully. “You’re ticklish.”
You backed up a step. “It’s not—don’t—”
He didn’t give chase immediately. Which, somehow, was worse.
“Well,” Urbain continued thoughtfully, setting his cleaning supplies aside like a man preparing for war, “this changes the competition entirely.”
You tried to dart past him.
He was faster.
With a laugh, Urbain caught you easily, hands finding your sides with terrifying accuracy. You squealed, laughter bursting out of you as you tried to twist away, useless against his longer reach.
“URBAIN—!” you protested between laughs.
“Oh, I would never,” he said solemnly, absolutely not stopping, “abuse such valuable information.”
You laughed harder as he tickled you mercilessly—but still carefully, just enough to make you lose all sense of balance. He kept you upright with ease, like this was simply part of the game now.
“Yield,” Urbain demanded dramatically.
“Never!” you wheezed.
He leaned in closer. “Very well. I admire your resolve.”
You collapsed against him, breathless, laughter finally overwhelming you as he stopped at last, one arm braced around you to keep you from falling.
“There,” Urbain said, pleased. “That should count as… bonus points.”
You glared at him weakly. “You’re impossible.”
“Yes,” he agreed happily. “But you love me.”
He pressed a quick kiss to your temple, still grinning, fingers resting suspiciously close to your side—just in case.
“And for the record,” Urbain added as he picked up the cleaning supplies again, “I fully intend to use this tactic again.”
You had a feeling the apartment was going to take much longer to clean.
And somehow, you didn’t mind at all.