#tickle wars | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

queenlucythevaliant · 6 months

Text

Clad in Justice and Worth

Written for the Inklings Challenge 2023 (@inklings-challenge). Inspired by the lives of Jeanne d'Albret and Marguerite de Navarre, although numerous liberties have been taken with the history in the name of introducing fantastical elements and telling a good story. The anglicization of names (Jeanne to Joan and Marguerite to Margaret) is meant to reflect the fictionalization of these figures.

The heat was unbearable, and it would grow only hotter as they descended into the lowlands. It was fortunate, Joan decided, that Navarre was a mountain country. It was temperate, even cold there in September. It would be sweltering by the sea.

The greater issue ought to have been the presence of Monluc, who would cut Joan’s party off at the Garonne River most like. The soldiers with whom she traveled were fierce, but Monluc had an entire division at the Garrone. Joan would be a prisoner of war if Providence did not see her through. Henry, perhaps, might suffer worse. He might be married to a Catholic princess.

Yet Joan was accustomed to peril. She had cut her teeth on it. Her first act as queen, some twenty years ago, had been to orchestrate the defense of her kingdom, and she was accustomed to slipping through nets and past assassins. The same could not be said of the infernal heat, which assaulted her without respite. Joan wore sensible travel clothing, but the layers of her skirts were always heavy with sweat. A perpetual tightness sat in her chest, the remnant of an old bout with consumption, and however much she coughed it would not leave.

All the same, it would not do to seem less than strong, so she hid the coughing whenever she could. The hovering of her aides was an irritant and she often wished she could just dismiss them all.

“How fare you in the heat, Majesty?”

“I have war in my gut, Clemont,” Joan snapped. “Worry not for me. If you must pester someone, pester Henry.”

He nodded, chastened. “A messenger is here from Navarre. Sent, I suspect, to induce you to return hence.”

“I would not listen to his birdcalls.”

“Young Henry said much the same.”

Joan stuffed down her irritation that Clemont had gone to Henry before he’d come to her. She was still queen, even if her son was rapidly nearing his majority. “Tell him that if the Huguenot leaders are to be plucked, I think it better that we all go together. Tell him that I would rather my son and I stand with our brothers than await soldiers and assassins in our little kingdom.”

Her aide gave a stiff nod. “At once, your Majesty.”

She would breathe easier when they reached the host at La Rochelle. Yet then, there would be more and greater work to do. There would be war, and Joan would be at the head of it.

When she awoke in the night, Joan knew at once that something was awry. It was cool. Gone was the blistering heat that had plagued them all day. Perhaps one of the kidnapping plots had finally succeeded.

Certainly, it seemed that way. She was in a cell, cool and dank and no more than six paces square. And yet—how strange! —the door was open.

Rising unsteadily to her feet, Joan crept towards the shaft of moonlight that fell through it. She glanced about for guards, but saw only a single prisoner in dirty clothes standing just beyond the threshold. He was blinking rapidly, as though the very existence of light bewildered him. Then, as Joan watched, he crept forward towards the gate of the jailhouse and out into the free air beyond. Joan listened for a long moment, trying to hear if there was any commotion at the prisoner’s emergence. When she could perceive none, she followed him out into the cool night air.

A lantern blazed. “Come quickly,” a voice hissed. “Our friend the Princess is waiting.”

The prisoner answered in a voice too quiet for Joan to hear. Then, quite suddenly, she heard his companion say, “Who is it that there behind you?”

The prisoner turned round, and Joan’s fingers itched towards her hidden knife. But much to her astonishment, he exclaimed, “Why, it is the lady herself! Margaret!”

But Joan had no opportunity to reply. Voices sounded outside her pavilion and she awoke to the oppressive heat of the day before. Coughing hard, Joan rolled ungracefully from her bed and tried to put away the grasping tendrils of her dream.

“The river is dry, Majesty” her attendant informed her as soon as she emerged from her pavilion, arrayed once again in sensible riding clothes. “The heat has devoured it. We can bypass Monluc without trouble, I deem.”

“Well then,” Joan replied, stifling another cough. “Glory to God for the heat.”

They did indeed pass Monluc the next day, within three fingers of his nose. Joan celebrated with Henry and the rest, yet all the while her mind was half taken up with her dream from the night before. Never, in all her life, had her mind conjured so vivid a sensory illusion. It had really felt cool in that jail cell, and the moonlight beyond it had been silver and true. Stranger still, the prisoner and his accomplice had called Joan by her mother’s name.

Joan had known her mother only a little. At the age of five, she had been detained at the French court while her mother returned to Navarre. This was largely on account of her mother’s religious convictions. Margaret of Angoulême had meddled too closely with Protestantism, so her brother the king had seen fit to deprive her of her daughter and raise her a Catholic princess.

His successor had likewise stolen Henry from Joan, for despite the king’s best efforts she was as Protestant as her mother. Yet unlike Margaret, Joan had gone back for her child. Two years ago, she had secretly swept Henry away from Paris on horseback. She’d galloped the horses nearly to death, but she’d gotten him to the armed force waiting at the border, and then at last home to Navarre. Sometimes, Joan wondered why her own mother had not gone to such lengths to rescue her. But Margaret’s best weapons had been tears, it was said, and tears could not do the work of sharp swords.

The Navarre party arrived at La Rochelle just before dusk on the twenty-eighth of September. The heat had faltered a little, to everyone’s great relief, but the air by the sea was still heavy with moisture. The tightness in Joan’s chest persisted.

“There will be much celebration now that you have come, Your Majesty,” said the boy seeing to her accommodations. “There’s talk of giving you the key to the city, and more besides.”

Sure enough, Joan was greeted with applause when she entered the Huguenot council. “I and my son are here to promote the success of our great cause or to share in its disaster,” she said when the council quieted. “I have been reproached for leaving my lands open to invasion by Spain, but I put my confidence in God who will not suffer a hair of our heads to perish. How could I stay while my fellow believers were being massacred? To let a man drown is to commit murder.”

Sometimes it seemed that the men only played at war. The Duke of Conde, who led the Huguenot forces, treated it as a game of chivalry between gentlemen. Others, like Monluc, regarded it as a business; the mercenaries he hired robbed and raped and brutalized, and though be bemoaned the cruelty he did nothing to curtail it.

There were sixty-thousand refugees pouring into the city. Joan was not playing at war. When she rose in the mornings, she put poultices on her chest, then went to her office after breaking her fast. There was much to do. She administered the city, attended councils of war, and advised the synod. In addition, she was still queen of Navarre, and was required to govern her own kingdom from afar.

In the afternoons, she often met with Beza to discuss matters of the church, or else with Conde, to discuss military matters. Joan worked on the city’s fortifications, and in the evenings she would ride out to observe them. Henry often joined her on these rides; he was learning the art of war, and he seemed to have a knack for it.

“A knack is not sufficient,” Joan told him. “Anyone can learn to fortify a port. I have learned, and I am a woman.”

“I know it is not sufficient,” the boy replied. “I must commit myself entirely to the cause of our people, and of Our Lord. Is that not what you were going to tell me?”

“Ah, Henry, you know me too well. I am glad of it. I am glad to see you bear with strength the great and terrible charge which sits upon your shoulders.”

“How can I help being strong? I have you for a mother.”

At night, Joan fell into bed too exhausted for dreams.

Yet one night, she woke once again to find her chest loose and her breathing comfortable. She stood in a hallway which she recognized at once. She was at the Château de Fontainebleau, the place of her birth, just beyond the door to the king’s private chambers.

“Oh please, Francis, please. You cannot really mean to send him to the stake!” The voice on the other side of the door was female, and it did not belong to the queen.

A heavy sigh answered it. “I mean to do just that, ma mignonne. He is a damned heretic, and a rabble-rouser besides. Now, sister, don’t cry. If there’s one thing I cannot bear, it is your weeping.”

At those words, a surge of giddiness, like lightning, came over Joan’s whole body. It was her own mother speaking to the king. She was but a few steps away and they were separated only by a single wooden door.

“He is my friend, Francis. Do you say I should not weep for my friends?”

A loud harumph. “A strange thing, Margaret. Your own companions told me that you have never met the man.”

“Does such a triviality preclude friendship? He is my brother in Our Lord.”

“And I am your true brother, and your king besides.”

“And as you are my brother—” here, Margaret’s voice cracked with overburdening emotion. She was crying again, Joan was certain. “As you are my brother, you must grant me this boon. Do not harm those I love, Francis.”

The king did not respond, so Joan drew nearer to the door. A minute later, she leapt backwards when it opened. There stood her mother, not old and sick as Joan had last seen her twenty years before, but younger even than Joan herself.

“If you’ve time to stand about listening at doors, then you are not otherwise employed,” Margaret said, wiping her tears from her face with the back of her hand. “I am going to visit a friend. You shall accompany me.”

Looking down at herself, Joan realized that her mother must have mistaken her for one of Fountainbleu’s many ladies-in-waiting. She was in her night clothes, which was really a simple day dress such as a woman might wear to a provincial market. Joan did not sleep in anything which would hinder her from acting immediately, should the city be attacked in the middle of the night.

“As you wish, Majesty,” Joan replied with a curtsey. Margaret raised an eyebrow, and instantly Joan corrected herself: “Your Highness.”

Margaret stopped at her own rooms to wrap herself in a plain, hooded cloak. “What is your name?” she asked.

“Joan, your Highness.”

“Well, Joan. As penance for eavesdropping, you shall keep your own counsel with regards to our errand. Is that clear?”

“Yes, your Highness,” Joan replied stiffly. Any fool could see what friend Margaret intended to visit, and Joan wished she could think of a way to cut through the pretense.

When Margaret arrived at the jail with Joan in tow, the warden greeted her almost like a friend. “You are here to see the heretic, Princess? Shall I fetch you a chair?”

“Yes, Phillip. And a lantern, if you would.”

The cell was nearly identical to the one which Joan had dreamed on the road to La Rochelle. Inside sat a man with sparse gray hair covering his chin. Margaret’s chair was placed just outside the cell, but she brushed past it. She handed the lantern to Joan and knelt down in the cell beside the prisoner.

“I was told that I had a secret friend in the court,” he said. “I see now that she is an angel.”

“No angel, monsieur Faber. I am Margaret, and this is my lady, Joan. I have come to see to your welfare, as best I am able.”

Now, Margaret’s hood fell back, and all at once she looked every inch the Princess of France. Yet her voice was small and choked when she said, “Will you do me the honor of praying with me?”

Margaret was already on her knees, but she lowered herself further. She rested one hand lightly on Faber’s knee, and after a moment, he took it. Her eyes fluttered closed. In the dim light, Joan thought she saw tears starting down her mother’s cheek.

When she woke in the morning, Joan could still remember her mother’s face. There were tears in her hazelnut eyes, and a weeping quiver in her voice.

Winter came, and Joan’s coughing grew worse. There was blood in it now, and occasionally bits of feathery flesh that got caught in her throat and made her gag. She hid it in her handkerchief.

“Winter battles are ugly,” Conde remarked one morning as Christmas was drawing near. “If the enemy is anything like gentlemen, they will not attack until spring. And yet, I think, we must stand at readiness.”

“By all means,” Joan replied. “Anything less than readiness would be negligence.”

Conde chuckled, not unkindly. “For all your strength and skill, madame, it is obvious that you were not bred for command. No force can be always at readiness. It would kill the men as surely as the sword. ‘Tis not negligence to celebrate the birth of Our Lord, for instance.”

Joan nodded curtly, but did not reply.

As the new year began, the city was increasingly on edge. There was frequent unrest among the refugees, and the soldiers Joan met when she rode the fortifications nearly always remarked that an attack would come soon.

Then, as February melted into March, word came from Admiral Coligny that his position along the Guirlande Stream had been compromised. The Catholic vanguard was swift approaching, and more Huguenot forces were needed. By the time word reached Joan in the form of a breathless young page outside her office, Conde was already assembling the cavalry. Joan made for the Navarre quarter at once, as fast as her lungs and her skirts would let her.

The battle was an unmitigated disaster. The Huguenots arrived late, and in insufficient numbers. Their horses were scattered and their infantry routed, and the bulk of their force was forced back to Cognac to regroup. As wounded came pouring in, Joan went to the surgical tents to make herself useful.

The commander La Noue’s left arm had been shattered and required amputation. Steeling herself, Joan thought of Margaret’s tearstained cheeks as she knelt beside Faber. “Commander La Noue,” she murmured, “Would it comfort you if I held your other hand?”

“That it would, Your Majesty,” the commander replied. So, as the surgeon brandished his saw, Joan gripped the commander’s hand tight and began to pray. She let go only once, to cover her mouth as she hacked blood into her palm. It blended in easily with the carnage of the field hospital.

Yet it was not till after the battle was over that Joan learned the worst of it. “His Grace, General Conde is dead,” her captain told her in her tent that evening. “He was unseated in the battle. They took him captive, and then they shot him. Unarmed and under guard! Why, as I speak these words, they are parading his corpse through the streets of Jarnac.”

“So much for chivalry,” murmured Joan, trying to ignore the memories of Conde’s pleasant face chuckling, calling her skilled and strong.

“We will need to find another Prince of the Blood to champion our cause,” her captain continued. “Else the army will crumble. If there’s to be any hope for Protestantism in France, we had better produce one with haste. Admiral Coligny will not serve. He’s tried to rally the men, to no avail. In fact, he has bid me request that you make an attempt on the morn.”

“Henry will lead.”

“Henry? Why, he’s only a boy!”

Joan shook her head. “He is nearly a man, Captain, and he’s a keen knack for military matters. He trained with Conde himself, and he saw to the fortification of La Rochelle at my side. He is strong, which matters most of all. If it’s a Prince of the Blood the army requires, Henry will serve.”

“As you say, Majesty,” said her captain with a bow. “But it’s not me you will have to convince.”

Joan settled in for a sleepless night. Her captain was correct that she would need to persuade the Huguenot forces well, if they were to swear themselves to Henry. So, she would speak. Joan would rally their courage, and then she would present them with her son and see if they would follow him.

Page after page she wrote, none of it any good. Eloquence alone would not suffice; Joan’s words had to burn in men’s chests. She needed such words as she had never spoken before, and she needed them by morning.

By three o’clock, Joan’s pages were painted with blood. Her lungs were tearing themselves to shreds in her chest, and the proof was there on the paper beside all her insufficient words. She almost hated herself then. Now, when circumstance required of her greater strength than ever before, all Joan’s frame was weakness and frailty.

An hour later, she fell asleep.

When Joan’s eyes fluttered open, she knew at once where she was. Why, these were her own rooms at home in Navarre! Sunlight flooded through her own open windows and drew ladders of light across Joan’s very own floor. Her bed sat in the corner, curtains open. Her dressing room and closet were just there, and her own writing desk—

There was a figure at Joan’s writing desk. Margaret. She looked up.

“My Joan,” she said. It started as a sigh, but it turned into a sob by the end. “My very own Joan, all grown up. How tired you look.”

The words seemed larger than themselves somehow. They were Truth and Beauty in capital letters, illuminated red and gold. Something in Joan’s chest seized; something other than her lungs.

“How do you know me, mother?”

“How could I not? I have been parted from you of late, yet your face is more precious to me than all the kingdoms of the earth.”

“Oh.” And then, because she could not think of anything else to say, Joan asked, “What were you writing, before I came in?”’

“Poetry.” Joan made a noise in her throat. “You disapprove?” asked her mother.

“No, not at all. Would that I had time for such sweet pursuits. I have worn myself out this night writing a war speech. It cannot be poetry, mother. It must be wine. It must–” then, without preamble, Joan collapsed into a fit of coughing. At once, her mother was on her feet, handkerchief in hand. She pressed it to Joan’s mouth, all the while rubbing circles on her back as she coughed and gagged. When the handkerchief came away at last, it was stained red.

“What a courageous woman you are,” Margaret whispered into her hair. “Words like wine for the soldiers, and yourself spitting blood. Will you wear pearls or armor when you address them?”

“I will address them on horseback in the field,” answered Joan with a rasp. “I would have them see my strength.”

Her mother’s dark eyes flickered then. Margaret looked at her daughter, come miraculously home to her against the will of the king and the very flow of time itself. She was not a large woman, but she held herself well. She stood brave and tall, though no one had asked it of her.

Her own dear daughter did not have time for poetry. Margaret regretted that small fact so much that it came welling up in her eyes. “And what of your weakness, child? Will you let anyone see that?”

Joan reached out and caught her mother’s tears. Her fingertips were harder than Margaret’s were. They scratched across the sensitive skin below her eyes.

“Did I not meet you like this once before? You are the same Joan who came with me to the jail in Paris once. I did not know you then. I had not yet borne you.”

“Yes, the very same. We visited a Monsieur Faber, I believe. What became of that poor man?”

Margaret sighed. She crossed back over to the desk to fall back into her seat, and in a smaller voice she said, “My brother released him, for a time. And then, when I was next absent from Paris, he was arrested again and sent to the stake before I could return.”

“I saw you save another man, once. I do not know his name. How many prisoners did you save, mother?”

“Many. Not near enough. Not as many as those with whom I wept by lantern light.”

“Did the weeping do any good, I wonder.”

“Those who lived were saved by weeping. Those who died may have been comforted by it. It was the only thing I could give them, and so I must believe that Our Lord made good use of it.”

Joan shook her head. She almost wanted to cry too, then. The feeling surprised her. Joan detested crying.

“All those men freed from prison, yet you never came for me. Why?”

“Francis was determined. A choice between following Christ and keeping you near was no choice at all, though it broke my heart to make it.”

If Joan shut her eyes, she could still remember the terror of the night she had rescued Henry. “You could have come with soldiers. You could have stolen me away in the night.”

Margaret did not answer. The tears came faster now and her fair, queenly skin blossomed red. So many years would pass between the dear little girl she’d left in Paris and the stalwart woman now before her. She did not have time for poetry, but if Margaret had been allowed to keep her that would have been different. Joan should have had every poem under the sun.

“Will you read it?” she asked, taking the parchment from her desk and pressing it into her daughter’s hands. “Will you grant me that boon?”

Slowly, almost numbly, Joan nodded. To Margaret’s surprise, she read aloud.

“God has predestined His own

That they should be sons and heirs.

Drawn by gentle constraint

A zeal consuming is theirs.

They shall inherit the earth

Clad in justice and worth.”

“Clad in justice and worth,” she repeated, handing back the parchment. “It’s a good poem.”

“It isn’t finished,” replied her mother.

Joan laughed. “Neither is my speech. It must be almost morning now.”

As loving arms closed around her again, Joan wished to God that she could remain in Navarre with her mother. She knew that she and Margaret did not share a heart: her mother was tender like Joan could never be. Yet all the same, she wanted to believe that they had been forged by the same Christian hope and conviction. She wanted to believe that she, Joan, could free the prisoners too.

She shut her eyes against her mother’s shoulder. When she opened them, she was back in her tent, with morning sun streaming in.

She came before the army mounted on a horse with Henry beside her. Her words were like wine when she spoke.

“When I, the queen, hope still, is it for you to fear? Because Conde is dead, is all therefore lost? Does our cause cease to be just and holy? No; God, who has already rescued you from perils innumerable, has raised up brothers-in-arms to succeed Conde.

Soldiers, I offer you everything in my power to bestow–my dominions, my treasures, my life, and that which is dearer to me than all, my son. I make here a solemn oath before you all, and you know me too well to doubt my word: I swear to defend to my last sigh the holy cause which now unites us, which is that of honor and truth.”

When she finished speaking, Joan coughed red into her hands. There was quiet for a long moment, and then a loud hurrah! went up along the lines. Joan looked out at the soldiers, and from the front she saw her mother standing there, with tears in her eyes.

#inklingschallenge #inklings challenge #team tolkien #genre: time travel #theme: visiting the imprisoned #with a tiny little hint of #theme: visiting the sick #story: complete #so i like to read about the reformation in october when i can #when the teams were announced i was burning through a book on the women of the reformation and these two really reached out and grabbed me #Jeanne in particular. i was like 'it is so insane that this person is not more widely known.'#Protestantism has its very own badass Jeanne/Joan. as far as i'm concerned she should be as famous as Joan of Arc #so that was the basis for this story #somewhere along the line it evolved into a study on different kinds of feminine power #and also illness worked itself in there. go me #anyway. hopefully my catholic friends will give me a shot here in spite of the protestantism inherant in the premise #i didn't necessarily mean to go with something this strongly protestant as a result of the Catholic works of mercy themes #but i'm rather tickled that it worked out that way #on the other hand i know that i have people following me that know way more about the French Wars of Religion and the Huguenots than i do #hopefully there's enough verisimilitude here that it won't irritate you when i inevitably get things wrong #i think that covers all my bases #i am still not 100% content with how this turned out but i am at least happy enough to post it #and get in right under the wire. it's a couple hours before midnight still in my time zone #pontifications and creations #leah stories #i enjoy being a girl #the unquenchable fire

50 notes · View notes

ontherocks21 · 5 months

Text

Someday I'll Write It (Sneak Peek):

“A little advice?” Sola smirked. “Inside right elbow.”

“Sola!” Padmé cried out in protest.

“Padmééééé,” Sola whined back, before lowering her voice and pressing a raised finger to her lips. “Keep it down, would you? My kids are trying to nap.”

Ignoring Padmé’s glare of betrayal, Sola winked a conspiratorial blessing at Anakin, then quickly disappeared down the stairs, leaving the young couple to sort themselves out.

Squirming for all she was worth, Padmé sought to use Anakin’s momentary distraction against him. Her efforts weren’t worth much; already at an advantage with her up against the wall, Anakin easily smothered Padmé’s futile attempts to escape. Pressing his hips further into the cradle of hers freed his hands to capture her flailing right arm, twisting it gently but purposefully up and away from her so that he could discover more about the traitorously revealed tickle zone. Methodically, Anakin peeled back the long sleeve covering Padmé’s right arm, and when her narrowed gaze did nothing to stop his fingers from descending to her exposed elbow, Padmé frantically tried to use the only form of rebellion she had left in her dwindling arsenal.

Deliberately, Padmé ground her hips into his though it was to no avail. Her movements to distract him became less focused and increasingly wilder as his thumb dragged deliriously back and forth over her vulnerable, delicate skin.

“Ani, no! Ani, please!” Padmé cried, laughing helplessly between gasping protests. With her free hand, she shoved hard at his immoveable shoulder, writhing in one last ditch endeavor to halt another barrage, squealing loudly when, “No, no, no, Ani!” suddenly became a breathless, “Ohhhhhhhh…”

The shudder that went through her when he traded his roving fingertips for lips sprung from pleasure of a completely different variety. That betrayingly familiar tremor more than anything stopped Anakin instantly in his torturous track.

Pulling back, his own eyes wide with pleasant surprise, he grinned devilishly at her. “Really?”

“I… I… I didn’t…” Padmé stammered, coherent thought suddenly difficult with the cerulean hope staring down at her. Licking her lips, she tried again, “I didn’t know about that.”

“Should we find out more then?” Anakin whispered huskily, nuzzling his way back and placing an open mouth kiss to her elbow’s soft crook. Tantalized by his touch, her tender flesh erupted in chilled goosebumps even as her insides dissolved with molten heat.

“Please,” Padmé practically begged.

#anakin skywalker #padme amidala #anidala #someday i'll write it #fanfic ideas #sola naberrie #fan thoughts #tickle fights turned spicy #star wars #sw fanfic #anidala fluff and fun #i still have no idea what starts this tickle fight #but i'm fairly certain i know how it ends

28 notes · View notes

softer-sunny · 9 months

Text

Just Ask

Fandom: The Bad Batch

Word Count: 6,579

Summary: The Batch learns that Echo responds a lot better to touch if he is asked first.

Sweetness, fun, and shenanigans follow.

I posted this idea a little while ago and it completely inspired this whole fic ��

This is a tickle fic

It had all started a few days into being with the batch. Echo had his back turned to the wider ship, his headpiece sat on one of the bunks while he methodically cleaned his weapon so he could vaguely Wrecker milling around behind him. Sometimes all of the noise was too much. It made his head hurt and it was more comforting to be alone in the nearly soundless space between his ears as he tried to center himself. It was just him and Wrecker on the ship and the big guy was minding his own as well. That is until he felt two arms wrap around him and lift him off the ground. It happened so fast he didn’t have time to let his mind catch up. He saw red and he flailed, dropping his blaster in the process, and those two arms retreated as quickly as they first arrived. Once on the ground he put a hand to his chest, trying to suck in air and get his lungs to stop screaming at him. His head spun for a moment, his skin feeling like fire as he tried to wrap his head around the sudden change in contact. Slowly, as Echo regained his regular heart rate, he picked up the headpiece and put it back on - tuning in to the world around him again. Wrecker was standing a few feet away now, watching with a spooked look on his face. The big guy must’ve been talking to him and he hadn’t heard him properly.

“Sorry. I didn’t realize…” Wrecker trailed off, head ducked and hand rubbing self consciously at the back of his neck. It was so disheartening, even as he was trying to calm his rapid breathing. “I won’t do it again. I’m sorry.” Wrecker turned to move away from him, retreating back to the cockpit, but Echo couldn’t stand to watch him go.

“Wait!” He reached a hand out but didn’t quite reach the big guy who was now looking at him expectedly. Echo sighed. His heart was still beating a little quick but he tried to push that away to be able to calm the no doubt racing thoughts in Wrecker’s mind. “I don’t… It's fine.”

Wrecker waited but when Echo said nothing he put on a smile. “If you don’t like hugs that’s okay. I won’t do it anymore.” Ugh. He didn’t want the big guy to be weird around him now. He was embarrassed for reacting the way he did, even if it was just because it had surprised him.

“No that’s not…” This sucked . “I don’t dislike hugs. I just…” He didn’t know how to phrase it. He didn’t want his new squad to avoid touching him. His old squads were always so tactile and this one was no different. It would be so isolating to not be included in that type of dynamic - to be the odd one out. “You can hug me. I just need you to ask first. It took me by surprise. I… I don’t really like being surprised right now.” His stomach felt sick, an odd lump forming in his throat. Admitting that this was something he was struggling with was hard.

But, of course, Wrecker paid it no mind.His face immediately brightened, all the awkwardness slinking away. “Oh! Okay! I can do that. No problem, Echo.”

And it was that easy. Wrecker went on with his day and the next time he felt like pulling Echo into a hug he asked . He didn’t expect it to be such an easy thing for Wrecker to remember so if he looked a little shocked the first time Wrecker asked who could blame him? They were all sitting in the ship, drinks in hand and snacks spread between them. And Wrecker looked at him with such a hopeful expression and asked, very simply. “Can I hug you?”

Echo just stared back at him for a moment but once he recovered he was able to mutter the quietest of ‘ yes ’s. Wrecker wrapped him up in a hug so fast, body warm and solid and comforting. By the time they let go he knew he was beaming up at the big guy with so much appreciation and happiness that it must’ve been all too obvious to the rest of the squad that he was really thankful for the ask. He barely caught the other three sharing a knowing glance with each other. It was a little embarrassing to have such a reaction to such a simple thing but he couldn’t care too much when all he could feel was warmth.

From then on he noticed the rest of them doing it. He hadn’t even mentioned it to them and yet they were all asking to touch him. He noticed it first with Tech who always worked on his cybernetics and made sure he conducted all of his physicals. It was always easiest to be touched by Tech who didn’t do things out of the blue and didn’t surprise Echo with random contact. He was sitting on the makeshift medical table they could tuck away when they needed to and Tech was getting supplies ready. The man looked over to Echo as he got the last of his supplies and held out his hand. “May I look at your scomp?” Echo furrowed his eyebrows but held out the arm, letting Tech take it and start fiddling with it. Slowly he made his way upwards, pausing right where skin would meet metal. “I will have to roll up your sleeve to check where it connects. Is this alright?”

Ah . He understood now. Echo let himself give Tech a small smile. “It’s alright. You can do what you need to do.” Tech let one corner of his lips raise in a small half smile then rolled Echo’s sleeve up to start probing at the skin under the fabric. Each time Tech moved to a new place he announced what he was doing then very carefully asked if what he was doing was alright - if he was permitted to touch the metal and the skin around it. It was the most taken care of and respected Echo had felt since his rescue and that was enough to make emotion well behind his eyes. It was also - coincidentally- the first time his hands didn’t shake during a physical.

Hunter was, surprisingly, very physical just in smaller ways. It was rare that a conversation with Hunter didn’t begin or end with his hand on your arm or shoulder. He often urged squad members forward with a hand on their backs or a nudge to the shoulder. Hunter had been avoiding doing this to Echo anyway, feeling him out for boundaries and not wanting to move too fast, but it wasn’t until one night about two weeks in that Hunter started doing it.

Echo was standing with their group, nervously trying to avoid staring eyes and attention from onlookers while they waited to get into a small bar on the planet they’d just got done completing a mission on. They were there to celebrate a job well done on their first mission together as a squad but all Echo could feel was dread.

“It’ll be fine.” Hunter had leaned a little bit into his space, still leaving a few inches between them, but had his face forward like he wasn’t talking to Echo at all. The man could sense his apprehension.

Echo looked between Hunter and the entrance to the bar. “ I know. ” It was hard to keep the irritation out of his tone but the attitude only made the corners of Hunter’s lips twitch upwards.

“We’re all right here. No one will say anything fucked up with the big guy around. They’re all too intimidated by his size to be assholes.” He was so at ease with the crowd with the whole group around. Echo expected more displeasure from Hunter, especially with the noise, but it seemed that he was fine as long as the rest of the squad was around - and if they didn’t stay too long.

“Oh, so the face tat doesn’t do enough to frighten away onlookers?” Echo smirked. He was happy to be able to make fun of his sergeant - it got the pressure off of him for a moment.

Luckily for him Hunter rolled his eyes but the amusement was there - clear as day. “Don’t be smart with me.” They stood in silence for a moment, unease creeping into the edges of their conversation the longer they were quiet. Eventually Hunter cleared his throat, arms folding over his chest as he regarded Echo. “I could keep a hand on your arm, or your shoulder, when you’re getting overwhelmed. Only if you’re alright with that.” By now Echo was used to them asking - they’d been doing it enough - but it still made him bristle a bit with embarrassment. He appreciated it at his core but there was still a little bit to get used to. It made him feel so seen - in a way he wasn’t exactly used to yet.

“How will you know that I’m overwhelmed?” Echo asked quietly.

Hunter thought for a moment then smiled. “You can just tap three times on the table. I’ll know.” Tapping three times. That could work. It was quiet and subtle enough that no one else would know if he didn’t want them to. Crowded spaces, unfamiliar places, they still made him pause.

“Maybe… maybe we could try that.” He said as they piled into the noisy bar and found a table. Hunter held true to what he said, watching and listening for when Echo was overwhelmed by their surroundings. It was surprisingly easy to tap the table and admit to needing support. Every time the air felt too tight around his throat, or the lights were too blinding, the noise too much, he’d tap the table and a hand would find its way to his back or his shoulder. The grounding touch was certainly welcome and it helped pull the nerves out of him and bring his breathing down to a level he’d consider normal. After his heart rate calmed Hunter’s hand would disappear until the next time he needed it.

Crosshair was the last one to ask to touch him and it had taken Echo by surprise when it happened. He was just as tactile as the rest of them but had been holding Echo at arms length - literally . They could, however, sit in silence with each other, a good foot of space between them, and feel completely comfortable. It was nice having someone who was happy with silence. When they eventually did cross the boundary it had been one of those days when they were getting under each other's skin for fun. Every time Echo would get engrossed in a task Crosshair would find some way to pull him out of it and it was really starting to irritate him.

“Crosshair I swear to the Maker.” Echo complained as Crosshair tossed another article of clothing at his face. If Crosshair wasn’t so intent on irritating him that day maybe he could actually get something done for once. This had been going on for the past twenty minutes - ever since the rest of the batch left on a supply run - and it was really starting to grate on his nerves.

“You’re so dramatic.” Crosshair tsked as he reached out - looking like he was either going to grab Echo’s shoulder or push him - then he paused uncomfortably. He pulled his hand back, looking between Echo and the ground before turning around and rifling through his bag. It made Echo’s eyebrows furrow.

“What?” He asked irritably.

“Nothing.” Crosshair shot back without turning around. It made the irritation in his blood boil.

“ Dammit Crosshair. What?!” If he had a problem he should just say it already.

Crosshair let out a sigh, putting down his bag and turning to face Echo. He folded his arms over his chest and studied Echo’s face for a moment - something he knew was a thing Crosshair did when he was considering his words more than usual. “Permission to push you around?” Echo tipped his head to the side in confusion, still not really getting what Crosshair was aiming for. Crosshair rolled his eyes. “You’re being annoying. I want to shove you. But only if that’s fine.”

Ah. Right. Echo let his face soften, shaking his head at the sniper. “You’re so weird.” It made Crosshair bristle - something that made the edges of Echo’s mouth tick upward. Getting to get under Crosshair’s skin was always a fun pastime - even if it sometimes ended in a few hurt feelings. They tended to get over it quickly anyway. “Fine.” There was a quick moment of surprise that flashed across the sniper’s face but after that he was firmly shoved at the shoulder, tipping backwards slightly at the surprise of it. Bickering with Crosshair became a lot more fun after that.

From then on Crosshair would plop down next to him and grin, hand held in his chin and ask with all the snark and sass he could muster “Mind being my footrest?” Echo always rolled his eyes but straightened out his legs to give a flatter place for Crosshair to rest his feet.

“Just don’t dig your bony heels into me and you can leave them there as long as you like.” Crosshair usually tsked and muttered under his breath about how Echo was one to talk but he did prop his feet up in Echo’s lap and lean back to doze. It was part of Crosshair’s show of trust - Echo noticed - and he only ever did it when he was really relaxed. Echo was glad for the company and usually rested his datapad on top of Crosshair’s shins, sometimes rubbing gently at them to rouse him if he needed the sniper’s attention for something. There was something nice about it, the weight of Crosshair’s feet on his lap and the pleasant sound of someone snoring nearby. There were plenty of times that the warmth and company lulled Echo to sleep too. The rest was worth all the holos Tech would take of them.

It wasn’t until one day about a week later that Echo learned just how much they were willing to accommodate him. They were all mucking around in the ship. They had a few days off and the squad was bored so it was smackdown time on the Marauder. Well… as much of a smack down as play fighting and wrestling could be. Wrecker kept pulling them into unfair wrestling matches and he even let them win a few times just to keep their spirits high enough to keep the game going. Echo sat on one of the bunks, calmly reading while the other four men were basically playing not too far away. Their loud bickering and laughing kept him amused while he read.

“Hey, Echo!” Hunter called after some time, pulling him away from his book. “Any chance you want to spar?” He had such a hopeful look on his face. It was rare that Echo would join in when they got like this - all of that contact was still too much for him to handle - but he couldn’t say he wasn’t interested in trying.

Echo quirked an eyebrow up at him, giving into the playful energy that had built up in the ship. “You really think you can beat me? I was an ARC trooper.”

Hunter sat back on his heels, a challenge flashing behind his eyes. “I don’t doubt your skills but I have yet to see them in action against me. My hand to hand is unmatched.”

Echo sat his book down then rolled his head from side to side to stretch the muscles in his neck and shoulders. He leaned forward, grinning. It was about time he gave this a good try. “You’re on.”

It didn’t take very long to get Hunter pinned. His new sergeant was incredibly skilled but he definitely underestimated Echo’s ability to measure up. Plus, Echo had spent a lot of time watching Hunter take down the other batchers and knew all of Hunter’s blind spots and weak points. He may not be back up to his previous weight but he was still a skilled strategist. Echo had Hunter on his back in less than four minutes, pinning him to the ground with his knee and one hand pressed against Hunter’s wrists.

Hunter huffed up at him. A surprised look dawned on his face at being flat on his back but he did look impressed. “ Damn . Remind me to never piss you off.”

“Hunter let you win. For sure.” Crosshair piped up, smirking from his vantage point on the bottom bunk.

Echo shot him an insulted look, leaning back so he could give Crosshair the full extent of it. “That’s not true!”

Mischief flitted behind Crosshair’s expression, something he didn’t miss but probably should’ve paid attention to. “You’re the newbie, you're getting his slack.”

Echo pointed his scomp at the sniper, not completely paying attention to his surroundings - which was probably his goal. “I’m not oof -“ Suddenly there were arms around his waist, a shoulder pressing into his chest and toppling him over onto the ground. There was a moment of grappling where Echo tried to get out from under Hunter, although it didn't work out well. He did eventually have to concede and let Hunter pin his wrist and scomp down to the ground - smirking down at him. “That wasn’t fair.”

“Technically,” Tech piped up, his chin resting in his palm while he watched them. “He did follow all of our rules. You simply were not… aware of your surroundings.” Tech smirked when Echo rolled his eyes.

“I told you. My hand to hand is unmatched.” Hunter’s smug smile matched Crosshair’s - this was totally their plan all along. He should’ve known.

Echo let his head fall back against the floor with a huff. “Maybe if you’re facing off against Cross, but if you didn’t cheat I’d still be on top.” Crosshair threw some expletives his way in retaliation for that comment.

An expression that was half amused and half insulted played across Hunter’s features. “You’re talking really big for someone on their back.”

Echo let a wicked grin spread across his face. “And you’re talking big for someone with a face tat. I know you got that thing to look intimidating but I see through it.”

Hunter’s jaw dropped, but Echo could sense that there wasn’t any real shock behind it. “How dare you talk about my face tat like that.” Echo couldn’t help but laugh at the indignance on his sergeant’s face. Hunter sat back on his heels, arms folded over his chest, and pointed threateningly at Echo. “You better watch it.”

“Oh I’m so scared .” Echo put a hand to his chest, grinning wider when Hunter rolled his eyes. It really had been too long into them knowing each other before Echo let this side of him out. “No. Really. Terrified.” He laughed again when Hunter huffed, clearly more entertained than annoyed but still putting up the front. It was the same game they’d all been playing with each other all day. One of them would get indignant and the other would poke fun at them - a simple but effective way to pass the time.

“Echo?” Hunter seemed apprehensive for a moment, almost nervous. Echo wanted to combat this so he leaned up on his elbow and smiled so maybe Hunter wouldn’t hold back with whatever he wanted to ask. Hunter made a strangled noise but sighed in resolution. “Can I tickle you?”

“What?!” Echo’s eyes immediately widened, flopping back onto the floor of the ship and wrapping his arms around himself to prepare for the oncoming attack. He’d been on both sides of this plenty of times before. He knew exactly how it went.

“Can I tickle you?” Hunter asked again. It was then that Echo realized that Hunter’s hands were still firmly away from his body and he was waiting with an expectant raise of his eyebrow. Hunter wasn’t aiming to grab him before he was ready. He wasn’t going to reach out and tickle him without permission.

“W-why?” Echo stuttered out. He let his arms upcurl from around himself, now confident that he wasn’t going to have to fend off a sneak attack any time soon. He was sure one day those things would happen - after he was comfortable and used to new and surprising touches - but for now he knew nothing would happen unless he allowed it.

Hunter shrugged, the corner of his lip turning up. “Because you’re being a shit. And usually being a little shit on this ship earns you at least a few pokes.” Made sense. This squad was just as tactile as all of Echo’s previous ones had been and tickling was bound to come with the territory. “But you get to choose what happens to your body so I won’t if you aren’t comfortable.”

Was he comfortable? It had been a long time since he’d been tickled and he’d never just allowed someone to do it. Usually he was rolling around on the ground trying to get the upper hand so he could pay back his brothers in full but this was different. This was Hunter asking explicit permission to be allowed to do it and Echo wasn’t entirely sure how he’d react to it. Would it be too much? Would it not feel the same way it did before? There were a lot of questions he didn’t have the answers to, a lot of gray areas. He had no doubt that Hunter would stop if he needed to, if he couldn’t handle the sensation and needed it to end. It had never been entirely unpleasant to mess around with his brothers like that. There was always something fun to it that made the anxiety and nerves roll off of him. He’d never know what had changed if he didn’t try and this was probably the safest way he could find out - with people who would never push past a boundary he wasn’t comfortable with. “You…” Echo huffed - a little bit awkwardly - but he did move his arms out of the way a bit in a show of trust. “You can.”

Hunter looked a little shocked but he did start to smile a bit more at the possibility of being allowed to. “Really?” Hunter asked, again . All of this asking was making the heat in Echo’s face even worse. Echo tried not to outwardly groan as he nodded his acceptance. A grin spread across Hunter’s face that made Echo want to curl up. “Tell me when to stop.” Hunter’s hands moved slowly, always in Echo’s line of sight, as he experimentally poked a few times at Echo’s side. It wasn’t too bad but the unfamiliar sensation did make him bend away, hands following him and moving to scratch over the thin material of his shirt, the beginnings of soft laughter starting to pour out of his mouth from the sheer giddiness of it all. Echo clamped his hand over his mouth to try and muffle it as much as he could. He hadn’t been tickled since… before the citadel but he did remember that trying to hold back your reactions made whoever was tickling you simply try harder. Hunter did pause and scan his eyes over Echo’s face to check in on him. He was hoping Hunter would move on but he just sat there, watching and waiting for permission from Echo.

He swallowed the laughter that had been ready to come out and removed his hand from his mouth. “It’s okay. I’m fine. It just…” Echo rolled his eyes. “It just tickles. I’ll tell you when to stop.” The concern slipped off of Hunter’s face, getting replaced with a small smile as he got back to scratching his fingers over Echo’s side. Echo couldn’t help but remember Fives holding him down and tickling the shit out of him right before they left for a mission - something about how he was being sour and needed to smile and Echo had fought so hard to keep himself from outright giggling while his brother poked and prodded at every tried and true weak spot. Echo didn’t last long. That was nothing like this . The touch was so gentle it was a little maddening, but certainly not wholly unpleasant. It wasn’t a bad feeling, certainly not unbearable with how softly he was being touched. It wasn’t until Hunter used both hands to squeeze his lower ribs that he finally let go of holding back his reactions and bucked involuntarily - barking a surprised laugh before he could stop it.

“ Oh shit!” He hissed at the feeling - fluttery and insistent - and that made Hunter let out an amused hum. The gentle squeezing didn’t stop, not even when he tried to turn onto his side to put some distance between him and Hunter’s hands. The tactic of squeezing - now proving effective - was now being used to travel up and down his sides, stopping when Echo’s laugh kicked up a notch so that Hunter could fucking scribble his fingertips over the spot. It was weird to let someone tickle him but the gentleness associated with it was making it easier to keep himself from blocking any potential spots Hunter might want to try. He was used to protecting those spots with every ounce of energy he had but now he was leaving them out in the open and resolving himself to cover his face and squirm on his spot on the ground. A particularly sensitive spot right at the soft part of his side was traced then, causing a snort to leave him before he turned onto his side to press his face into the ground so his back was to Hunter now - unfortunately facing the rest of the group who was watching with amusement. It was a little embarrassing to be Maker damned giggling into the floor but he couldn’t be bothered too much over it.

“A little ticklish there, huh?” Don’t tease that’s so unfair. The playfulness in the question meant Echo didn’t have to answer it but his laugh did get a little louder then, something Hunter must’ve taken note of because he slowed down a bit. “Too much?” Hunter asked, fingers still gently tracing over the dip in his side and making that fluttery feeling even worse.

Echo couldn’t bring himself to look over but he did shake his head. “ Nohohoho . You can kehehehep goihihing!” He knew there were eyes on him, each of them most likely absolutely glinting with mischievousness or fondness but he wasn’t going to worry about that until he absolutely needed to. Preferably after Hunter was done testing out every patch of skin available to him.

He heard Hunter chuckle at him, his fingers pausing to rub comfortingly at the spot he was just teasing before starting their path again, this time beginning from his hip and climbing upwards in a light, swirling path that was absolutely impossible to ignore. “You tell me if you’re done. I mean it.” His tone was stern but it was so clear that he was smiling too wide to pour any true command into it. The reminder that this was up to Echo made his face burn again but he simply pushed his face further into his arm and tried to make his laugh sound as dignified as possible. His squirming increased as fingers climbed, giggles pouring out with more urgency as the path swirled upwards. It wasn’t until Hunter wiggled his fingers under his arm that he finally turned onto his back again, dislodging Hunter’s hand for a moment. The sergeant sat back on his heels, hands resting on his thighs so they were completely in view.

He let Echo breathe for a second and he took full advantage of that opportunity. Unfortunately it didn’t take long for one of their other brothers to grow impatient. “Hey.” Crosshair got their attention then nodded towards Echo. “He protects his stomach with his scomp when he doesn’t know what to do with it. You should try there.”

Echo flung a glare at the man, who had the gall to look smug. “ Dammit, Cross! ” Screw that enhanced eyesight and stupid observational skills. Even though he wasn’t being touched yet he did subconsciously do exactly what Crosshair had ratted him out for. His hand moved to cover his face but his other arm remained folded over his midsection. Hunter looked over Echo’s face and tipped his head, raising his hand to see if Echo would stop him. He squirmed in place but didn’t say anything and it made a happy grin spread across his brother’s face. Hunter gripped the scomp and slowly lifted it away, nervous laughter already falling out of Echo’s mouth. Hunter moved until he could rest Echo’s arm on the floor then pointed at him.

“Keep it out of the way. Alright?” All he could do was nod in agreement and hope that it wasn’t nearly as sensitive as he remembered it being, especially being so exposed. Hunter’s fingers collided with his side again - the same damn spot that got him to laugh in the first place - and the bastard walked them up his side and onto the outer edge of his stomach. He couldn’t help scrunching his nose when the tracing started again, this time zeroing in on his abdomen and skirting along in a way that made his muscles jump. He was already laughing again, the giddy feeling returning and making it bubble up in his chest. It was just as bad as before and - for some reason - it was more difficult to keep his hands out of the way. Maybe it was that he was so exposed, or the impulse to curl up that he had to avoid now. Either way he could feel that crawling, tingling, ticklish sensation make him want to wiggle away.

Hunter hummed again then skated his fingers along Echo’s lower stomach and chuckled when his bright laughter jumped up and turned a bit more frantic. “What about here?” Hunter asked, forming a claw and vibrating his hand. It was such a childish move but one that was extremely effective, Echo throwing his head back to laugh freely at the ceiling. “Hmm. Pretty good spot, huh?” The damn teasing again. Hunter didn’t keep that up for long, otherwise Echo was sure he’d have to stop then and there. Instead he went back to the method he’d tried earlier - poking his stomach and stopping to scratch at any spot that made Echo laugh harder than usual. It was an unfamiliar buzzing on his skin now but it was something he was well accustomed to before. He could barely get through a day without one of his brothers poking him just to see him squirm. Hell, even Rex and Cody would gang up on him from time to time, usually throwing him over one of their shoulders and squeezing his sides until he could do nothing but bury his face in their back and laugh. He never expected to miss those times - that they would be gone before he knew to appreciate them for what they were. He was reaching his limit, his body starting to get over sensitive to the touch and almost verging into too much. It wasn’t until Hunter used both sets of fingers to scribble into the flat expanse of his abdomen that he yielded, a jolt of electric tingles finally making him bring his arms down to block the area from further prodding.

“ Okay! Stohohop, I’m done!” He hadn’t even gotten all the words out before Hunter was backing off, keeping his hands in his lap where Echo could see them again. Echo rubbed his hand over the ghost of fluttering on his stomach, slowly letting the feeling ebb away and his giggles tapper off the longer he was left without the touch. Hunter carefully placed a hand on his arm and rubbed gently, careful to be firm enough not to tickle. It was a nice gesture as he regained his breath and got the energy to sit up. The hand on his arm migrated to his back - only to let Echo remember that Hunter was still there and was trying to support him.

There was a split second between Echo sitting up and tucking himself into Hunter’s chest, wrapping his arms around his brother to hug him. Hunter only hesitated for a second before curling his arms around Echo in return. Echo wasn’t sure why he couldn’t fight the urge to hug his brother. He didn’t quite know how to express his thanks, how to let Hunter know how much this had meant to him - how much they all meant to him. He was starting to get overwhelmed with a prickling of emotion in his chest. They’d tried so hard for him. They’d tried to make him comfortable and feel accepted and a part of not just their team but also their family. There wasn’t much he could say to thank them for that. He just hoped that he could give them the same things they’d given him. Hunter leaned his head on top of Echo’s as his hands rubbed up and down his back - carefully skating over the cybernetics embedded into his skin. The extra attention to not avoid the cybernetic parts of him made that swell pull at his chest again. He did pull away after a moment and Hunter let him go, eyes still checking him over to make sure he wasn’t too overwhelmed.

Despite how borderline embarrassed he felt he did find the courage to look at the rest of the batch. What he found was all of them watching him with exactly what he expected - a mix of mischievousness and fondness. It made him want to squirm again but he settled for wrapping his arms around his middle and hugging himself tight. “What?”

Wrecker was the only one who looked even remotely apologetic for staring, his hand reaching up to rub the back of his neck. “We just…” He shrugged and sent Echo a smile. “We hadn’t really heard you laugh yet.” Maker. Echo knew his face was red. It was a lot of attention that he wasn’t used to and he couldn’t help but feel a bit too seen under all of it. By some miracle he was saved - by Crosshair no less.

The sniper stood from his spot and shot him a grin. “Want to take me on next? Best two out of three?” Echo couldn’t help but smile back at him at the offer of a challenge, a distraction.

“I don’t know, are you going to cheat?” Echo asked but he was already pulling himself up off of the floor and getting into a starting stance. Crosshair didn’t answer, only mimicked Echo’s stance and raised his eyebrow. Waiting for Echo to make the first move. He sighed and shook his head. The risk of dirty, underhanded cheating was high but the reward of beating him would be sweeter .

The following weeks were filled with the same amount of check ins and questions that they’d given him before just with a new activity thrown in. Everytime it happened Echo got more used to it - the question and the feeling. Soon he started to feel the normalcy of it sink in and he began to anticipate when they’d ask, how they’d do it, and how long he could handle it before calling a truce. Wrecker was about as playful as Echo expected, sometimes punctuating his frequent request for hugs with an ask to make Echo laugh. He’d been picked up off of the ground more times than he could count, fingers digging into his sides while he dangled in the air and laughed. Tech had started asking when they were quietly counting down the hours in the cockpit together on watch. They’d try to keep it as quiet as possible so no one else got woken up but they’d get caught anyway, half fallen out of their chairs into a pile on the floor. He started to expect Crosshair to ask whenever they were bickering back and forth over something inconsequential. The best time was when they were both huddled in one of the lower bunks together, debating whether or not Crosshair could hit a specific target from a moving ship while hanging upside down. Echo was firmly in the boat that there was no way in hell he could and he’d believe it when he saw it. Was he exaggerating to get under the sniper’s skin? Yes. It was too easy. Crosshair huffed, narrowing his eyes at him before letting amusement play across his face.

“Any chance you’re up for me pestering you until you take that back?” Echo rolled his eyes but let out a nervous laugh already.

“Only if I can do it back.” Echo threw back at him.

“ Deal. ” Crosshair didn’t hesitate to grab his ankle and yank Echo onto his back. They nearly toppled off of the bunk a few times but eventually Echo did have to admit to being a little shit on purpose. Crosshair would’ve stopped had he just asked but putting up the front was part of the game and Echo didn’t want it to end.

Hunter usually was the kindest when he asked. At first he only did it when they were sitting quietly next to each other and minding their own business so he could be gentle about it. Echo always ended up curled up on the bunk, squirming while Hunter wiggled his fingers into any sensitive spots he could reach. Hunter’s favorite tactic was to get permission to lay on top of Echo, successfully pinning him down, then using his hair and the scruff of any facial hair he had to tickle Echo’s neck. Somehow that had become Hunter’s favorite way to get him to laugh and he couldn’t say it wasn’t fun. Over time he got to see a more playful side of Hunter, slowly evolving until they were all out brawling every now and again. It was those times with Hunter that built up his confidence in playing around with them. If there was anyone he had to sprint away from it was Hunter, who let himself goof off sometimes just to get some energy out or make the rest of them lose their attitudes.

“You can only tickle me if you catch me first!” Echo always took off before Hunter could catch on, hearing the sound of pounding feet behind him to propel him forward. He always got caught - there was no hiding from Hunter - but it always ended with the ship feeling lighter than it was before.

There would never come a day when everything felt like it had before. Things had changed, there was no going back to it now. Despite that there was still a lot that Echo could feel grateful for gaining. New additions to his family, a safe space to learn, and so many new experiences he was sure would come in time. He was grateful for the bit of understanding and security he’d carved out for himself, fitting perfectly in the spaces they had made for him and calling their little ship home.

#bad batch tickle #the b//d b//tch #the bad batch #star wars tickle #tbb echo #the bad batch fanfiction

50 notes · View notes

chalterdh22 · 7 months

Text

Day 8: Din Djarin in Truth augtickletober2023

Lee: Din Djarin/Mando

Ler: Y/N

Summary: After getting hurt, again, Din is trying to help you while you recover. He doesn’t know what tickling is and is intrigued. You have nothing better going on, so you show him. Will he like it though?

Warnings: This is a tickle fic, so if that’s not your thing, don’t read. Mostly fluffy.

Ugh, I came hobbling into the Razor Crest ahead of Mando and the kid. Of course, I sprained my ankle, again. I swear….. I sat down on a bench, pulled up a crate and propped my booted foot on top of it. Leaning my back against the wall, I just sat there, looking up at the ceiling, shaking my head.

All of a sudden, I heard a loud commotion and the door started to open. Din was running in, shutting the ramp and had Grogu in his arms. “Here. We have to go!” He said forcefully, handing me the kid, who was fast asleep. I noticed he had holes in his pants, blood stained, but it didn’t look like he was hurting. Grogu probably healed him, I was thinking. “Hang on!” He yelled from up front, since I wasn’t in a chair when the ship started to take off, I grabbed a pipe against the wall to sturdy myself as we shot off.

Once it seemed we were safe flying distance, Din walked back, picked up Grogu and put him in his cot to rest. As he came back to me, he sat down next to me and let out a huge sigh. “What happened? I thought you were going to just go get coordinates?”

“Things didn’t go as planned.”

“I can see that,” touching a hole in his pant leg, where there was no mark. “At least you had the kid to heal you. I’m gonna be hobbling on this stupid foot for a while.

He looked down at my propped-up leg. “What happened to your leg?” he asked genuinely concerned.

“Sprained it, again. I just need to keep it up and iced. Can you grab me a pack please?” He stood up to grab it as I pulled off my boot and sock. It was swollen already, but nothing a few days won’t fix. Still, what a pain. He brought back the pack, kneeled down next to my foot and softly placed it on my ankle. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome. It looks swollen.”

“It is, a little, but I’ll have to wait to see how bad it actually is. I heard a pop and I got a cramp in my arch, but that doesn’t look swollen or colored yet.”

He looked around at my foot, like he was trying to see what I was talking about. I pointed to my arch, dragging my finger on it and sat back again. He took his gloved index finger and touched it, dragging it softly like I did and my whole leg jumped and I let out a small gasp. “I’m sorry!” he said quickly withdrawing his hand. “Did that hurt?”

“Uh, no, not exactly. It just tickled.”

He looked at me blankly and didn’t say anything. It was silent and I was sitting there trying to figure out what was going on in his head. “What?” I asked bluntly.

“I don’t know what you mean. Does that mean hurt too?” Now I was just staring at him, confused. Are you kidding me, I was thinking? You’ve never been tickled, seen it or heard of that word?

“Are you serious?” I asked with a grin on my face.

“I just have never heard of that word. What does it mean?”

“Um, I’m not sure I can put it into words exactly.” I sat there and tried to think about it. “So, there are parts of your body that are more sensitive than others. It gives you a squirmy feeling.” He was still staring not saying anything.

I’m doing a horrible job explaining this. I pulled in my hurt foot and crossed it over my lap. “See, my foot, when you touched it, sent a feeling through my body because it’s sensitive.” I scratched that area again. He was looking down at it.

“Why didn’t you jump when you did it. Why did you jump when I touched you?”

I laughed. “You can’t tickle yourself! Do you want to know what it feels like? It doesn’t hurt, I promise. Sometimes it feels nice.”

He stood up abruptly and started walking away. “I need to shower and change.” That was weird. I wonder if I scared him off. I sighed and hobbled back to an actual chair, leaned back and propped my foot back up with the ice pack.

I must have started to doze, because Din came back in and sat on a chair next to me and startled me. “Sorry, I didn’t hear you.” I looked over and realized he was only wearing his flak suit, and helmet. No armor or boots. I just sat there looking at him, like what the kriff are you doing. “Where’s your gear?”

“I, uh, kind of want to see what you are talking about.” he said softly. This was huge in our relationship. We definitely weren’t a couple or anything like that, more like co-workers, but we trusted each other immensely. Still, even so, he has NEVER not had his armor on around me!

“Really?” I paused, turned in the chair to face him and took his hands in mine. “So, remember how I said you can’t tickle yourself?” He nodded. “I want to show you what I mean.”

“Ok,” he said, still not moving a muscle. He seemed tense and maybe a little nervous. I was trying to think of a good place to show him that most people would find ticklish. I took my hand and squeezed my own thigh, just right above my knee. “See what I’m doing to my leg? Do the same to yours.” He complied and gave it a few squeezes, with obviously no reaction.

“Ok, so we are going to unveil the truth about Din Djarin!” I had a huge smile on my face. I reached over to the same thigh and gave it a good squeeze. He jumped out of the seat and took a step back like he just sat on fire. “Whoa! I guess we found out our answer.”

“What was that?” He asked with a small, shaky voice, one that I’ve never heard before.

“I tickled you! That was your bodies’ response to me grabbing your leg! Do you want to try again?” Please say yes, I was thinking.

He slowly sat back down and nodded.

“Do you want the same spot or someplace different?” He looked down at his body like he was thinking about it.

“Someplace different.” I nodded and reached quickly to his hips before he could say anything else. This time though, I grabbed stern and pulled down so he couldn’t jump away. I was standing over him at this point, leaning on my good leg. He was tittering out small noises but seemed to gain control quickly so my hands shot up on his ribs and he fell off the chair on his back and started laughing. “Waaait! Sttttoooopppp!” He kept trying to move my hands but was curling up in a ball and didn’t have his normal strength because of his laughing, plus I’m sure he didn’t want to hurt me.

“Oh no. You wanted to know so I’m revealing the truth right now!!!” Just as I finished my sentence, my hands quickly went into his arm pits, and I squeezed. He looked like he was having a seizure at that point. He was laughing, I was laughing and neither one of us could really speak.

“Puuuuhleeease, stttoooppp! Ahhh!” He finally rolled away from me and stopped, laying on his back, panting hard. I sat down and was breathing hard too from laughing.

“That was awesome!” I couldn’t wipe the smile off my face if someone paid me. “Oh man, I think you just found a new torture method! Don’t tell anyone!!!”

He finally sat up, his chest still moving up and down hard. “Why would anyone do that?”

“Because it’s hilarious!” I laughed. He was shaking his head, his legs sticking straight out in front of him.

I lunged quickly, grabbing one leg, rolling on it, effectively pinning it down and started mercifully tickling his foot. He let out a low scream, trying to turn over. “Stop, stop it!” He laughed.

Then he kicked me hard in the back. “Ow!” I yelled, letting him go. “That hurt!” He now had his legs pulled up against his chest, like he didn’t know what to do next. “Fine, I’ll stop. I just wanted to see it all.”

He got up and reached out his hand to help me up as well. “You were a good sport, Din. And now you know!” He nodded as I started to hobble away from him to sit back down. He grabbed my arm, to turn me slightly.

“So, next time I’ll have to practice on you then.” He chuckled under his helmet and started walking away. My mouth was open as I stood there. Was he kidding? “Don’t worry. I’ll wait until your ankle feels better.” he yelled back as he was still walking. Nope, not kidding!

#pedro pascal #grogu #star wars #the mandalorian #mandalorian and grogu #din djarin x reader #din djarin x you #grogu djarin #mando #tickle scenarios #augtickletober2023 #tickletober #tickle fluff #tickle content #tickle fic

32 notes · View notes