The soft flicker of the TV cast warm shadows across the living room, the quiet hum of a forgotten film filling the space. You were nestled between two familiar bodies, snug under a shared blanket, the air thick with the scent of buttery popcorn and lazy comfort. Chance, ever the charmer, sat on your left, his arm draped along the back of the couch, his fingers occasionally brushing your shoulder. Mafioso, cool and composed, took the right, his leg crossed, signature black fedora tipped just enough to shadow his eyes.
It was peaceful. Too peaceful.
Chance shifted slightly, glancing at you with that familiar gleam in his eye. A sly grin tugged at his lips—never a good sign.
Without warning, his hand slipped beneath the blanket and jabbed your side.
You flinched. A small squirm. Mistake.
“Oh? Sensitive, are we?” he teased, a chuckle rumbling low in his chest.
Another quick poke, then another. You tried to twist away, but Chance was relentless, already angling himself to keep you from escaping.
Mafioso glanced over, eyebrow raised, expression unreadable. Then he smirked—slow, dangerous.
“You’re starting something you can’t finish,” he said, voice smooth like velvet.
Chance didn’t even look at him. “Then help me finish it.”
Mafioso didn’t hesitate. His gloved hand moved under the blanket on the other side, fingers deliberate, skilled. You were caught in the middle of a coordinated tickle ambush, squirming under their grip, unable to escape either of them.
Chance’s laughter rang out beside you. “You can’t hide now,” he taunted, fingers dancing mercilessly at your sides.
Mafioso’s smirk deepened as he calmly leaned in, his tickling precise and unrelenting. “This is what you get,” he said softly, “for looking this cute and thinking you’d get away with it.”
The movie played on, forgotten. The couch shifted with your every struggle, laughter and chaos filling the space. Pillows hit the floor, the blanket twisted around you like a trap, and still, they kept going, wearing their victory in every grin and low chuckle.