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gigglecryptid-art · 1 month ago

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a little tickle ficlet about two of my oldest ocs, mr. dad (clock head) and bbq (mug head)! silly names yes but they've had 'em this whole time so they're keeping 'em.

18+ NO MINORS! brief sexual content, drunkenness/drinking; characters are 38 and 43 years of age! no ai was used and it never will be used.

"--Oof!” The man lands on his back in the dirt.“Oh, I see, so it's a sparring match you're after! Well, I can tell you right now I know plenty of ways to outwit the- hey, wait, what's that look for? What are you doIHIHING--!"

Mr. Dad's confident (read: smug) smirk suddenly widens into a full-blown grin and is followed up, naturally, by a peal of startled laughter. BBQ, just as drunk and twice the troublemaker than the man he's got pinned to the ground, had begun to scribble his fingers over the soft skin of the man's tummy. The younger man's sweater had tugged loose of its place tucked into his jeans during their initial play fight, and the tanned, slightly toned flesh had been left exposed; how's a (touch starved and desperate) man to resist?

Peals of giggles bubble from Mr. Dad's lips and quickly the man's method of madness develops from offensive, making attempts to swat his tormentor's hands away, to defensive, withdrawing his own hands back to frantically attempt to block the attack. "H-hey, this isn't- snrk!- fair!"

"All's fair in- in... ah..." the older man stumbles between the alcohol and finding words and eventually gives up with a shake of his head, "well, you know the cliché, Mr. Booksmarts. Anyway, you were the one trying to slam me MMA-style to the floor a second ago! I'm just defending myself, here!"

BBQ, through all his chatter, manages to continuously hit sweet spots over and over despite the younger man's best efforts to block each and every one. It isn't fair, damn it; the more Mr. Dad squirms, the more his sweater rides up, and the more his sweater rides up, the more it becomes clear that BBQ has exactly zero qualms about being a ruthless bully. His hands are too quick to grab, scribbling across ribs and against the dip of Mr. Dad's navel, and if Mr. Dad blocked one spot, another would reveal itself soon after, leaving him, no matter what, a cackling puddle on the floor.

It isn't long before the man in question is laid curled on his side, kicking weakly as his laughter dances up to an octave he hadn't previously known he could reach.

A new, desperate cackle of laughter confirms said suspicion.

"Stop," he wheezes, body trembling, "I'm begging you, I cahaha- I can't breathe!"

"I'll stop when you admit I was right!"

"Never!"

"Alright, then, your choice, tough guy. Tickle, tickle, tickle- oh! Oh, wow, this is a bad spot, huh?"

BBQ's efforts to bring his man to his knees double and then triple over the next few minutes. He scribbles his nails mercilessly across the sensitive skin just below the man's navel, dark hair and trembling belly too cute to ignore; a few squeezes at his waist have the poor sap howling and begging for reprieve. It's only when Mr. Dad's head starts to spin from lack of oxygen and his tortured pleas become entirely breathless does BBQ finally have mercy, his hands withdrawing from their cruel attack to rest against his own thighs while Mr. Dad gasps for air.

The giggles don't stop, even when he manages to regulate his breathing; it was as if he could still feel the ghost of BBQ's fingertips dancing on his skin and it's just as bad as the real thing, if not worse. The bully responsible for the giggle fit smiles down at him, looking somewhat apologetic and altogether flustered.

"Ahaha, s-sorry. I, uh, got a little carried away there, huh?" He offers a hand. "You alright?"

The only response he gets is Mr. Dad's ragged breathing, and the catch-up game of oxygen goes on for long enough that he almost has time to wonder if he'd broken the poor guy - before his hand is finally, shakily, accepted.

"Alright, then, up you go." He tugs gently, but the body under him doesn't move. "Uh, hey, earth to Mr. Transatlantic! Are you okay--"

The pet name and the question both fall short the moment the tables turn. Suddenly he's the one being pulled, and pulled down at that, flush enough against Mr. Dad's chest that he could feel the man's rapid heartbeat.

He wonders, briefly, if Mr. Dad can feel his. "Wh-"

"Oh, you sweet thing," Mr. Dad purrs into the mechanic's ear, making his skin flush and a shiver run down his spine, "do you really think you've won this little game of yours?"

Before BBQ can even think to respond he's flipped, laid flat on his back with his arms pinned above his head by a single strong hand, hips pinned down by beautiful, full hips on top of his, grinding against him just enough to tease, sending an embarrassing warmth down to his core--

He's honestly a little bit relieved when Mr. Dad's free hand attacks his rib cage. His emotions (and poorly-hidden attraction) toward the younger man weren't something he was ready to face just yet.

"YOUHOUHOU FUCKING ASSHOLE--!" BBQ's laughter is rough and deeper than Mr. Dad's but just as, if not more, panicked.

"Really, love," Mr. Dad's voice is low, amused, "I have a fairly rambunctious teenage son. Do you really think I've ever lost a tickle fight?" He pauses, looks sheepish, before continuing. "Well, I mean, to him I have, but not to anyone else!" Dancing fingers reach his armpits and BBQ wails while Mr. Dad grins. "Your first mistake was showing me mercy. Don't think I'll extend you the same courtesy."

"StopstopSTOP--!" Tears were already streaming down the poor mechanic's face. Unlike Mr. Dad, he's clearly never been on the receiving end of such a brutally efficient tickle attack. He's brought to panic by one skilled hand in a matter of seconds, for god's sake! And, damn it all, how is the man above him so strong? BBQ can't so much as lift his hips under the sturdy body of his assailant. Not that he's ever considered Mr. Dad weak in any capacity, but it's definitely a bit of a shock to be so easily overtaken by someone who looks to be about half of his own body weight and several years his junior.

The feeling of being manhandled and tickled into submission by a man he's barely known all of a month is... well, it's...

...kind of hot?

...BBQ is once again grateful for the torture against his sensitive body, because if it wasn't for the distraction, his mind would be running laps like a hungry hound dog with that sort of hormonally-influenced revelation in about three seconds flat. "UNCLE! Uhuhuncle, ahah- mercy, anything! PLEAHEAHEASE! I yield!"

"Oh, how precious," Mr. Dad ignores his pleas and continues the torment without a single sign that he's considering mercy, "have you started something you can't quite finish, Mr. Mechanic?"

BBQ's laughter is the only response. Mr. Dad clicks his tongue in mock disappointment, but he's finally merciful enough to stop his ministrations, if only to give his friend a moment to catch his breath.

Mr. Dad's hands duck under BBQ's shirt and scribble anywhere they can reach, from the soft flesh of his well-fed tummy to the sensitive spots between the ridges of his ribs. BBQ, of course, wails with laughter all the while - how is he supposed to not? The soft touches, the torturous digging of nails, he can't do it, he can't keep quiet, and there's not a damn thing he could do to protect himself, either; Mr. Dad's swift hands are much more practiced at the art of playing 'gotcha' than BBQ could ever hope to be.

"Tell you what: if you can go a whole minute without so much as a giggle, I'll let you go. A little test of willpower and whatnot. Deal?"

"W-wait, ah-" something sweet and hot pulses between BBQ's legs and he tries fruitlessly to beg for mercy, "that's not fair-!"

"And here we go!"

"Aww, not even a moment of resistance," Mr. Dad's fingertips dip into the man's bellybutton and BBQ's voice breaks.

He can't take the feeling anymore, he can't! The last time BBQ had been tickled (or touched with some semblance of gentleness), he'd cried, long and hard and pathetic. Rough spanks and blood-drawing bites? That he was used to. He knows how to react to pain, sure, but this? This... tickling is a unique hell, of that he's sure, but...

...if it's a hell delivered by the handsome man currently on top of him, he supposes he doesn't entirely mind it. Much.

Still, he can't help the pleas escaping his mouth when said man's wiggling fingers dip into his nerve-riddled underarms. The contact causes him to instinctively clamp his arms down, effectively trapping the tickling fingers exactly where he does not want them.

Oh.

"PLEASE!" A loud, drawn-out cackle. "I'M BEGGING YOU!"

A low chuckle. "Then beg, darling."

Oh no.

Nonono- no, not that! The deep baritone of Mr. Dad's voice--! Oh, between the tickle torture and the heat of the man's hips straddling his own, BBQ feels himself go from half-hard to fully erect in about five seconds, the rough texture of his slacks not helping in the slightest. He'd be embarrassed if he wasn't so fucking turned on.

"Pleahease-- ohFUCK!"

The booze gives him just the right amount of confidence to keep going.

"Please, you're beautiful, ple-EASE--!"

Fuck, was he pathetic or what? One man (one overwhelmingly sexy man, he thinks to himself) talks a bit rough at him and his first reaction is to beg like a damn dog in heatt?! He can't help it, he just can't, and soon moans are interlaced with the laughter.

"Please fuck-- me-!"

There it is. He's ruined it, BBQ thinks miserably under his giggling pleas and cries of arousal. He's ruined the most stable friendship he's had in years just like he'd ruined countless friendships in the past, all because he can't control himself. Here it is, his brain scolds him, prepare to be rejected and ridiculed, idiot.

Mr. Dad stops tickling the man pinned below him for just a moment.

"Oh, thank goodness! I've been feeling your, ah, problem against my rump since about five minutes into when I first straddled you." His cheeks flush a pretty shade of pink. "I was worried I would have to be the one to beg!"

BBQ is... is he dreaming? There's no way Mr. Dad has just agreed to- to have-- with him, of all people?

"I wonder if you're just as ticklish below the belt!"

Uh oh. Now it's BBQ's turn to have his laughter shoot up an octave.

Mr. Dad stops his torture for now, and in the space of the pause BBQ pants heavily, lungs burning from laughter and dick twitching visibly in his pants. He's beyond embarrassed to admit it, but... if the man on top of him had continued with the ticklish torment, BBQ probably would've cum right then and there. 'Pent up' doesn't even begin to describe it.

"No! Don't even think about it-!"

"Oooh, I'll take that as a 'most definitely'!" Mr.Dad smiles, cheeks tinged from booze and interest both. "Now, if you would be so kind as to remove your trousers...?"

"Or, I can simply go back to grinding on you, if you'd prefer." Mr. Dad's face says 'trouble,' that was certain, and BBQ's scarlet blush deepens.

"Aaahn- oh--! N-no, no, we can-- continue!" His hips buck involuntarily upward against Mr. Dad's. The heat above him is just too damn delicious to ignore. "I mean- ah, c'mon, please keep going, I'm-- mmmghgh!!!" BBQ couldn't stand it; he realizes then and there that he needs Mr. Dad more than... fuck, more than he needs oxygen itself.

With almost youthful haste the shorter man practically tears off his pants, allowing his cock to spring to full attention at the mercy of the man straddling him, red and aching. "Please, please-- r-ride me, use me, I'm begging you--!"

"Say no more, hot stuff." Mr. Dad smirks as he begins the process of unbuttoning his own pants, "let me take care of you."

---

hehe hope ya'll liked it!!! been awhile since i've written anything so be nice

#tickle content #tickle art #cryptidtklart #tickle community #tickle fic #minors dni #tkl art #reblogs appreciated

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