#he then quickly repressed all of this and only remembers when Eddie’s got him pinned to that boathouse wall | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

ticklishraspberries · 5 years

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A/N: (Hello! Haven’t been round here in a while, but it’s still lovely; you’re still lovely. And here’s a dual thank-you-for-filling-my-late-it-cravings and I-miss-stan-he-deserves-some-fix-it-fluff-too thoughts. Hope you’re having a good one!!)

This is so cute!! I loved it, thank you for submitting!! - Raspberry xo

There was a time in Stan’s life where he couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen someone get tickled. It might happen occasionally; a poke here or there to accent a point or get someone to shift away. Then Richie decided he rather liked tickling, and well—

It’s not like any of the Losers had a lot of say when Richie wanted something.

But it wasn’t horrible, as much as Stan might’ve feared anyway. When half their time dissolved into wrestling matches, tussling and rolling around the carpet of Bill’s room, the addition of some wandering, wiggling fingers just meant less bruising (most of the time) and more laughing (all of the time).

This was probably due to the fact that the group, surprisingly or not, knew a lot about each person’s limits, even without saying so.

Richie didn’t have any, first of all. He was as content with ticklish tracing down his back as he was getting pinned to the ground and thoroughly taken apart. Of course, none of the Losers went full overboard or anything nasty, but even the more sadistic times they could remember left Richie cherry red and teary-eyed, beaming long after the tickling had stopped.

On the other side of the spectrum, Stan would have to put himself.

That’s not to say he had a problem participating in the suddenly numerous amount of tickle fights the group now had. If anything, he might even enjoy them, as long as Richie never found out. The gloating of his ‘genius idea’ would be unbearable and likely result in him getting tackled and wrecked—which is exactly what he wanted anyways, defeating the point entirely.

So yes, he enjoyed them, but almost strictly as the one doing the tickling.

Then he started dating Bill.

Dating Bill was easy, especially once their friends stopped their ‘subtle’ gawking and lame teasing. It was as cool and natural as their friendship, with the bonus of cuddles whenever Stan so desired (and he wouldn’t have thought that he’d want them all that much, but once he got them, he couldn’t imagine being without them).

And as their friendship slid easily into their relationship, so did their friend group’s element of random, frequent tickle fights.

And Stan liked them even more, if he were to be honest.

There is nothing in the world that can beat the sound of Bill Denbrough’s laughter or the look on his face as Stan scribbles quick and nimble fingers up his sides.

He’s a constant stream of babbling nonsense with no way to understand through his laughter and stutter combined. His hands tug uselessly at Stan’s sleeves, body squirming violently without going anywhere. His eyes get all crinkly with a smile so bright that when Stan stops, he feels more breathless than he thinks Bill might be.

Just the thought of Bill, flushed red and breathing deeply through stray giggles has Stan’s fingers itching for something to do, but—

That’s exactly what he shouldn’t do.

Stan blinks, eyes focusing back on his surroundings.

The TV is still on, at some part of the movie, though Stan has absolutely no idea where. He could’ve zoned out five minutes ago or fifty. This may even be a new movie; he’s not sure.

He can feel Bill take a deep breath behind him, chest raising enough to push lightly behind Stan’s back.

Bill’s hand lies still on his side.

And that—that’s what started Stan’s train of thought.

Because Bill, he was a bit of a fidgeter, at least when it came to touch.

He constantly had his hands moving; winding through Stan’s curls, rubbing over his back, caressing his cheeks. It was nice, one of Stan’s favorite things, actually. But Stan was perceptive, and he’d started to notice something.

He started to notice that Bill’s hands would sometimes, and with increasing frequency, come to a dead stop.

It happened when the were in his room, wasting the night away with slow kisses, his hands drifting slowly from Stan’s hair down his neck.

It happened in the night, when he held Stan from behind, a hand clasped over the front of his stomach.

And it happened just now, when his hand slipped from doodling small patterns over the sleeve of Stan’s upper arm to lay over his side.

Stan had noticed, though he hadn’t said a word. And he’d spent the week trying to put the pieces together, though it hadn’t really clicked until last night.

They were lounging around Bill’s room, splayed out over his bedsheets. It was all casual conversation when Bill shot off a snarky comment that had Stan poking a giggle out of him, a sound Stan felt compelled to chase after. And then after he’d wrestled Bill down and made him cry mercy—

Bill had sat up, a glint in his eyes.

A glint that had Stan’s eyes widening, skin prickling.

And then the look left, and Bill tugged him into a gentle and tired cuddle.

And it sounded dumb at the time, when Stan had tried to work out what just happened, but now-

Did Bill want to tickle him?

The thought sends heat crawling up Stan’s neck; it’s dumb and embarrassing, but-

It makes sense, if he thinks about it.

While Bill did get his fair share of attacks in the group, he’d never been one to turn down revenge. He’d even start a fight or two, if one of their friends looked a little bored or put out, just to liven them back up again.

Having a younger brother, Bill did have some of the most experience in this niche topic. He’d definitely sent more than one of the Losers into hysterics with his skilled, probing fingers.

And just the image of Bill, straddling a friend Stan can’t bother to conjure into better focus, with his head tilted, grin teasing, a devilish glint to his eyes—

Stan’s wants so badly to turn and check that Bill can’t feel the heat that’s burning his ears, but that’d probably look even more suspicious than what his paranoid brain is coming up with now.

So, what?

The problem had been found, mostly, kind of. It’s the closest thing to an answer Stan can reason to anyways, what with the small amount of information he’s gathered.

So this would be the part where he plans out the solution.

But—

Stan shifts in muddled discomfort before he can really think about what he’s doing. He masks it as repositioning and settles back more snuggly against Bill’s chest, hoping his boyfriend hasn’t noticed.

He settles for worrying at his lip, still lost in thought.

He doesn’t know how ticklish he is. He doesn’t even know if he is ticklish.

When tickle frights became a normal thing in the Losers’ Club—and even the thought has Stan rolling his eyes—he’d been hesitant.

Alright, more than hesitant, he’d been opposed.

The thought of being squished against the floor, hands ruffling through his clothes, while he made any number of weird snorting (Bill), shrieking (Eddie), or combined (Richie) kind of noise—

It unsettled him.

And bless him, somehow all of his friends, down to Richie ‘no boundaries’ Tozier, had gotten it without being asked and let him be.

But now…

Now he hears a thump and screaming laughter and he’s not scared. He’s sometimes annoyed, sometimes entertained. But now, it’s the new normal and…

His eyes roll more forcefully, almost rolling right out of his head.

It’s the new normal and he kind of wishes someone had just gotten him involved already so he didn’t have to go through the process of giving his boyfriend permission to tickle him.

The movie is still going, but Stan is 100% sure Bill isn’t paying attention. If he were, he’d have already gone back to some mindless, endearing movement, but his hand still lies fixed on Stan’s waist.

So Stan flips forward onto his stomach before pushing himself up to straddle Bill’s legs. Now Bill seems to be paying attention, though he only get a small “w-wha-“ out before his mouth seals shut at Stan’s hands, slipping under his shirt to drum lightly on his stomach.

He immediately goes to bite his lip, fighting to keep the twitching of his mouth to a minimum. Stan can’t help the smile that takes his own face. And though he knows what his goal is, he can’t help a quick swipe of fingers that has Bill tensing, eyes shutting, and mouth puffing in a startled breath, before he continues the steady tap-tap-tap.

“S-Stan, come on. Are you r-re-really-��

Another gratuitous scribble of Stan’s fingers catches Bill mid-speech and pulls a bright laugh out of him before his mouth zips shut once again, stubbornly refusing to let Stan catch him off guard.

And then they’re silent—waiting—tension growing with every bored tap of Stan’s fingers.

And Stan, he was just going to say it.

Rather, his plan was to just go out and say it.

But for some reason, the words, “You can tickle me, if you want,” are stuck somewhere beneath his windpipe. And in the time it takes for Stan to wrestle them into his mouth, Bill’s smile has shifted from one of light torment to full-bodied amusement.

He raises an eyebrow, when Stan finally meets his gaze, a repressed huff of laughter shaking his chest even though Stan’s fingers have stilled.

And damn it if this deviates a little from the plan, but sometimes Bill is just asking for it.

So Stan decides to take the scenic route to his destination, scribbling his fingers over Bill’s lower stomach and admiring the view when his shocked expression quickly crumbles into unrestrained laughter.

Bill does as Bill always does, grabbing ahold of the fabric around Stan’s wrists without really doing much to block the movement of his fingers, spidering up to his rib cage and back down. He just needs something to hold onto and the thought would make Stan smile if he weren’t already.

As his fingers travel along the familiar space, tracing nonsense onto Bill’s stomach, kneading along his sides, and scratching at the bone and spaces of his ribs (maybe sneaking a poke or two under his arms when he’s dumb enough to keep them up), Bill’s squirming only grows more wild.

It’s kind of funny actually. Here Bill is, able to pin any one of them down in a wrestling match (or whenever he finds it necessary to help someone else get some well-deserved revenge), and yet he never tries to use any of that strength to just, say, buck his torturer off.

It’s really not that hard a conclusion to come to, even if your mind is preoccupied with something more…pressing. But Bill still manages to let that slip his mind entirely, every time, and instead squirms and jolts and writhes around until he’s spent.

Sometimes Stan thinks Richie isn’t the only one who’s taken a liking to this new pastime of their’s. But Stan is a nice boyfriend, so he won’t embarrass Bill with that conclusion yet.

There’s enough pink in Bill’s cheeks now to see in the dark of the living room, lit only by the television long forgotten in the corner. The color starts somewhere beneath the collar of his shirt and washes up to the tips of his ears. Stan’s fingers travel with a mind of their own, slipping up the side of Bill’s well-travelled torso to follow the path of color.

And although Bill’s movements had calmed slightly as the tickling went on, fingers spidering up the side of his neck are enough to get him going again. His shoulder flinches inward, hands moving to fist in Stan’s shirt and push him marginally back. A desperate and semi-clear, “p-p-plehehease!” squeaks out through the blubbering.

Stan lingers, long enough for Bill’s nose to scrunch up and deliver an unfairly adorable snort, kicking the color in his face up a notch, before he finally stops, leaving his hand to play with the wild hair mussed up around the nape of Bill’s neck.

It doesn’t take Bill too long to get his breath back, though the tingly feeling of Stan playing with his hair does punctuate his breathy ‘calm down’ laughter with a sharp giggle or two every now and then.

It’s a sight Stan can’t get enough of and who could blame him?

But then, he’s reminded of exactly how this all came to be and exactly what is waiting for him.

One hand slips loose of Stan’s shirt, settling behind Bill for him to use as leverage. He pushes himself up, a smile on his face, but one much more controlled, more devious than the one Stan had put on his face moments before. His eyes are sparkling with left over laughter and steely with a quiet determination.

The hand still gripping one side of Stan’s shirt, hovering over his side, is suddenly all Stan can think about.

But all too soon, Bill’s gaze starts to go soft again. Stan latently thinks of what he must look like, the deer-in-the-headlights look, the spike of fear that muddles the strange anticipation in his gut. It’s got to be this that has Bill backing down before he’s even touched him.

“You know, you can-“ Bill’s eyes find Stan’s from where he’s begun settling back into the pillows. Stan has to take a second to refocus. He swallows.

“You can get me back, if you want.”

And that seems to be the last thing Bill was expecting, if his eyebrows disappearing into his hairline means anything. His mouth hangs open for a second, trying to speak with no sound coming out. Bill clears his throat.

“S-Stan, are you-?”

The question fades out and Stan has absolutely no idea why it has him feeling twitchy. The need to slip off Bill’s lap, out of his hold, grows strong in the back of his head.

“I don’t know,” His tongue feels dry. “But you can—you can try.”

The statement ends high, like a question, with Stan shifting his position at how awkward it all sounds. Bill doesn’t move his hand an inch, from where it’s still fisted in his tee, but Stan’s own movements have the fabric ghosting against his side and tingling in a shockingly new and sensitive way.

And they just sit there, in silence. Bill probably still staring up at Stan; he wouldn’t know. For some reason—despite how confusing this situation is making him feel—he knows for a fact that he’ll blow a fuse if he keeps looking Bill in the eye after finally spitting that out, so he doesn’t.

They sit there so long—at least it feels ridiculously long—in such a tense silence that Stan feels the sudden need to apologize.

Maybe he got it wrong. Maybe Bill was just forming new habits and Stan read too much into it. Maybe now he’s gone and asked Bill to—to tickle him, basically, and now he’s weirded out!

Stan gets so caught up in his own internal rambling that he doesn’t recognize the soft yet persistent pinching against his side until he’s jerking away and into the couch cushions.

It stops upon impact, but as soon as Stan’s pushed himself back upright, it’s back and worse.

A gasp catches in his throat and his left arm is pushing at the feeling with no thought as to what is could be, just that it needs to stop.

Then three things happen, in rapid succession.

First, Stan’s fingers tangle with Bill’s.

Next comes the realization of what’s happening, a realization Bill seems to have at the same time.

Then, Bill’s sly grin makes a reappearance, and Stan feels breathless all over.

Of course, that’s nothing compared to what real breathlessness can be, Stan finds out.

Because it’s a quick tussle that leads to their positions reversed, Stan—frazzled and still in minor shock—pinned underneath Bill—whose smile seems to grow with every second.

And then Bill’s fingers are tripping up Stan’s sides, clumsy in their excitement, but very, very effective.

They’re so devastatingly effective that Stan doesn’t actually realize he’s laughing until the room is echoing with it.

It sounds almost foreign to his own ears, high and frantic and loud. He can’t remember the last time he laughed so long or hard, but it’s not the most prominent thought on his mind at the moment. What is front and center is the tingling, electric, and down right debilitating sensation sparking along his body.

If Stan could get a coherent word, or even thought in, he might compliment Bill on his thorough technique. All that comes out though is a series of mortifying squeals and varying degrees of laughter. Ironically enough, this seems to be all the compliment of skill Bill needs.

His hands work methodically to trace, prod, and spider over every conceivable tickle spot Stan might have. And while it answers Stan’s lingering curiosity of his body, he did not need to know with such depth (or any depth, really) the different pitches of his own laughter that come from Bill drilling into each and every one of his ribs. Of course, Bill finds this to be critical information, and it might drive Stan a little crazy.

It’s only once Bill wriggles his fingers into the space under Stan’s arms that he squeals and latches onto Bill’s wrists.

Oh, yes, self-defense is a thing. Maybe Stan wouldn’t judge Bill on forgetting that quite so harshly next time.

But even with Bill’s hands in his grasp, Stan can’t just…push them away.

He could—physically. Despite the barrage of giggles pouring from him, he knows he could shove Bill onto the carpet or at least away from his shockingly sensitive armpits with enough effort.

But when he peeks through damp lashes (when did he start tearing up?), Bill looks the happiest Stan can remember seeing in a while. And beneath all that giddiness is a look so fond, it warms Stan in a way even his useless struggling hasn’t done yet.

So he—gives in.

His hands stay clamped around Bill’s wrists but do little more than squeeze tighter when Bill’s mouth joins the fray, dotting kisses into the crook of Stan’s neck and making him squeak externally and groan internally at the sappy picture they must make.

And in what must be the most surprising revelation of the night, Stan finds that he…doesn’t hate this.

He didn’t expect to truly despise it or anything (though he can’t say the thought didn’t cross his mind). But even so, the fears he’d had before—about losing control and feeling silly—haven’t really been an issue. And the unexpected pros of Bill being touchy, fixed with that sunshine-bright smile, and leaving him with the pleasant ache of a good laugh—

It’s actually kind of nice.

Damn it, Richie.

Stan doesn’t have the mind to follow that thought though, or any other matter-of-fact, because as soon as it enter his head, Bill’s fingers have slipped into the dips of his hip bones and started drilling in.

And he may have—no, definitely—spoken too soon, because it’s not until that point that Stan really does loose his mind.

It’s like the tingles that’ve floated through his body have all decided to ricochet towards one unbelievably sensitive point, and the shriek leaves his mouth before he can even get the breath for it.

Stan’s hips buck up instinctually, trying frantically to displace the sudden, overwhelming feeling. He can hear weird shrieking and loud laughter that can’t possibly be coming from him, but he can’t place it over the number one priority of getting enough air in.

He doesn’t know what to do, what to say. His body and mind are live wires that won’t connect, so he does the only thing he can think to do.

“B-Bill, plehease!” Stan gasps out, and—just like that—Bill’s hands are rubbing firm, soothing, and decidedly non-tickly strokes over the lingering prickle in Stan’s hips.

Stan is still gasping, like he’d just run a marathon if not for the intermittent strings of laughter. When Bill slides off Stan’s legs and into the space beside him, Stan can’t comment, but he does shift closer to smother the last of his soft giggles into Bill’s chest.

At that point, Stan is put together enough to realize that Bill is laughing, albeit without making any noise, but still laughing at Stan. So Stan smacks his shoulder, without any of the force that he should be using, before snuggling back into Bill’s arms. It has the opposite effect in making Bill laugh more, but Stan can’t be bothered to care; all he wants right now is to nap.

And with Bill’s hand rubbing softly up and down his back, sometimes trailing lightly in a way Stan now recognizes as a little bit ticklish, it’s all he can do to not pass out then and there.

But first, his voice comes out low and slurred.

“You are not telling the others about this.”

Bill laughs again, this time out loud. The shaking of his chest earns another smack from Stan. But between that and the kiss he leaves on Stan’s forehead, Stan falls into a peaceful sleep, a soft smile still on his face.

(Of course, the others do end up finding out. And Stan knows Bill didn’t say anything—at least purposefully—by the shock of his wide eyes and the apologetic gaze he offers Stan when Richie throws the first teasing comment.

Stan figured this would happen honestly, but that doesn’t stop him from rolling his eyes and flipping Richie the bird.

Things don’t change too drastically, even so. Sometimes Richie will tase his sides to steal Stan’s attention away from his books. Sometimes Eddie will poke at his ribs to check if he’s paying attention to his lectures.

Once in a while someone will try to catch him unaware and launch an attack. And sometimes he’ll just—let it happen. Because it’s really not that bad and it can feel nice to laugh with friends—especially when Stan knows he can turn the tables at any moment.

The only thing that does worry him for some time is the thought of someone slipping their hands a little lower than his sides. Call it baby steps, but Stan doesn’t feel quite ready to let that loose in front of a crowd.

But thanks to the fact that Stan’s hipbones are secured safely underneath the band of his pants, a place even Richie wouldn’t venture in his little experiments (if only because of Bill’s glaring), Stan feels sure enough that his secret will stay safe.

As safe as possible, anyways, with Bill already abusing the information.

Because as many times as Stan thinks, and even calls, Bill a monster for using that secret so liberally when they’re alone, Bill will always shoot back, smiling ear to ear, that he’ll stop as soon as Stan asks him to.

And well, behind the lingering smile and buzzing warmth in his stomach, Stan finds himself ignoring the teasing comment and diving right back in to make sure Bill knows the same is true for him too.)

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