It had started innocently enough: a quick nudge of a bony elbow to his ribs, a soft protestation to the joke he'd made on your behalf; teasing you for not getting the name of the particular, heavily forested moon his heroes were traipsing through. The two of you had been watching Star Wars in his bedroom for the past couple of hours; the little T.V. he'd pulled out of a dumpster the week before propped up on an equally trashy table you'd managed to find out on the street in front of your apartment building just for the occasion. The DVD player he'd refurbished wasn't the best; you'd spent a majority of your time skipping back and forth through some of the most iconic scenes, attempting to work through the heavily pixelated images as the machine stuttered and choked over itself.
"Hey, be nice Darth Parker," you bumped shoulders with him, your elbow pushing its way under a firm arm, past the loose fabric of his flannel, and into his ribs, "not everyone is a walking Star Wars encyclopedia." You noticed when he scooted an inch or so away from you, torso twisting, blanket wrinkling as he pulled part of it with him, the warm space between the two of you beginning to cool as he did so. A mischievous grin spread across your lips.
Was Peter ticklish?
"Darth Parker?" He laughed, his head thrown back, curly strands of hair at his neck catching on his collar, eyes twinkling and pinched at the corners, "really? That was the best you could do?" This time you sent an errant finger to tease at his stomach as an accessory to the dirty look you gave him.
He jumped and let out a choked laugh, cutting it off quickly, schooling his features in record time to turn and glare at you.
"Quit it," he said, cheeks slightly pink, a hand holding his wounds, calloused fingers enclosed over the secret spots your fingers had discovered.
Peter was definitely ticklish.
A wide, lecherous grin encompassed the whole of your face, hands coming up with fingers tensed and claw-like as you looked at him; the whole of you cloaked in mischief. His eyes widened then, eyebrows nearly at his hairline, "No, no, no." His hands waved frantically in front of him as you leaned in towards your prey; hands which were quickly neglected in favor of wrapping his arms tightly around his torso, knuckles white as he held firm to his ribs.
"[Y/N,]" he warned, "No," a lone finger freeing itself momentarily to point it at your nose sternly in warning. He was doing his very best to keep the smile on his face from breaking free of its defenses.
"Why not, Qui-Gon Pete? Is someone ticklish?"
"Oh my god, really?" He let the smile loose.
"Afraid my mad tickling skills might win me the battle for Endor?" He shook his head at you, his eyes full of laughter.
"OK, OK, that was so bad, you've got to stop," He flinched when you inched a little closer to him, bodies facing each other, bent knees touching, "I'm sorry I teased you." He wasn't trying to hide his smile any longer, the full force of it pulling at your chest. You didn't move to lower your fingers, instead you brought yourself closer to him, sitting upright and onto your knees, faces so close you could pick out the palette of differing shades of brown that mixed to form the unique color of his irises.
He narrowed those eyes at you, "You have no idea what you'd be getting yourself into."
"Don't tempt me," you whispered back, rolling your eyes at his half-baked threat.
"No really, you're looking at a real life Jedi here. I am one with the ways of the tickle." He tried to keep his expression serious and solemn, the corners of his lips twitching as the words left him and he took in your face.
You smiled at him. He smiled back.
One brow arched. He gulped.
And then you pounced.
It was funny the way he arched his body away from the source of that tingly sensation you sent through him as you worked, at how his hands pawed at your reaching fingers, pushing at your shoulders, your arms, one whole heated hand landing at your navel, shaky pressure against the skin there, pushing to keep your greedy fingers away.
The heat of that hand, even through the fabric of your shirt, spread throughout your skin, ticklish in a different way than the light, happy sensations you were sending through Peter.
What was funnier still, were the sounds escaping his lips as you managed to push past his defenses, crawling back into his space time and time again to brush over the skin of his ribs, trekking over ridges and diving into the valleys between, his laughter infectious as the sound worked its way into your chest; then you were laughing with him.
He was a beautiful thing to watch when he was happy. Not just happy, but glowing; his joy lighting up every part of his face and his rose colored cheeks.
His eyelashes and crinkled eyes, pink lips and the stretched skin of his neck, messy hair and messy brows distracting you long enough for him to gain the upper hand. Suddenly, a pair of warm hands were wrapping almost fully around your arms, then your shoulders, and a pair of lean, hardened legs were tangled up in yours, knees banging against knees, ankles twisting with ankles and before you were aware of what was happening, two bodies were meeting, two bodies were rolling, and then your back was hitting the floor with a thud that echoed through the both of you, the impact startling and nearly stealing your breath.
You had yet to open your eyes, and probably wouldn't have for fear of what you'd see; the feel of his solid body nearly on top of yours reminding you of what he'd said moments before. But then you had known what you were getting yourself into, hadn't you?
You'd have kept your eyes closed if not for the puffs of breath tickling your neck with feather light fingertips as he laughed.
His face was over yours and you were distracted by his eyelashes again as the light hit them at this new and exciting angle; chest heaving in time with yours as you both fought to catch your breath from the laughter you'd coaxed out from beneath those ribs, cage pulsing with life only inches from you. His hands were this light pressure on your forearms now, holding them above your head; the pulse throbbing in his wrists, bouncing against the beating of yours. His legs were still around yours, intricate weaving of flesh and bones holding you in place.
At the thought of how close he was to you, how warm he was, your already flushed cheeks reddened further.
He laughed at your widened eyes, "Let's see, Padawan, are you ticklish, too?" He joined your arms together, one hand holding onto both wrists; your heart stuttering, blood in your arteries gasping for air as they fought to catch up with themselves as his fingers tightened further and his breath tickled your skin again.
When did this geek get so strong?
And, God, how did this turn into this?
"No, Peter," you shook your head furiously at him, tangling the hair at the back of your head on the carpet, "No, no, I'm not ticklish."
You were most definitely ticklish.
He smirked. You gulped.
"I did warn you."
