Call Me Ashe She/her

Requests are open

[apesandashes]

The Ancient Art of Tickling

The night air over Manhattan was crisp, carrying the cool scent of a autumn breeze high above the bustling streets below. On the parapets of the Eyrie Building, the castle stood as a silent sentinel against the sky.

You sat on the cold stone edge, your legs dangling over the side, wrapped in a cozy oversized sweater. Next to you sat Broadway, who was quietly munching on a leftover slice of jalapeno pepper pizza, while Lex was fiddling with a small, disassembled remote control nearby. Brooklyn was perched a few feet away, wings folded comfortably, lazily watching the traffic grid below.

"I'm just saying," you said, shivering slightly and pulling your sweater tighter around yourself, "if you guys didn't sleep as stone all day, you'd realize how freezing it gets up here right before sunset."

Brooklyn snorted, turning his head toward you with a smirk. "Cold? Up here? You humans are so fragile. A little breeze and you start shaking like a leaf."

"I am not fragile," you huffed, crossing your arms defensively. "I just didn't bring a heavy jacket tonight. Besides, gargoyle skin is basically leather. You don't get to judge."

"Leather?" Lex chimed in, looking up from his wiring with an amused glint in his eye. "It's a bit more complex than leather, actually. Dermal armor, flexible joints, temperature-regulating—"

"Okay, okay, engineer," you laughed, leaning back against the cool stone wall. "I get it. You're indestructible."

Brooklyn hopped down from his perch, landing with a soft, heavy thud on the stone floor. He sauntered over, his eyes gleaming with mischievous curiosity. He crouched down to your level, towering over you even while sitting.

"Indestructible? Maybe," Brooklyn said softly, reaching out a giant, clawed hand. "But you... you seem awfully soft. What happens if I just..."

Without warning, his thick, claw-tipped finger lightly poked you right in the side, just above your hip.

"Eep!"

You jumped a foot in the air, a sharp, embarrassing squeak escaping your throat. Your hands instantly flew down to cover your ribs, your face flushing a bright, burning crimson.

Silence fell over the courtyard for a split second. Brooklyn blinked, pulling his hand back slowly, looking at his claws as if he had accidentally triggered a secret trapdoor. Broadway stopped chewing mid-bite. Lex froze, a pair of tiny pliers hanging precariously from his fingers.

"What... was that?" Brooklyn asked, his voice dripping with exaggerated innocence.

"N-nothing!" you stammered, your voice dipping an octave higher than normal. You pressed your arms tight against your sides, pulling your knees up to your chest. "It was nothing. You just... surprised me, that's all!"

Lex slunk over, dropping his tools onto a nearby crate. He tilted his head, his wide eyes scanning you with pseudo-scientific fascination. "Surprised you? But Brooklyn barely touched you. Your heart rate spiked instantly, your facial capillaries dilated, and you made a sound like a startled pigeon."

"I did not sound like a pigeon!" you protested, sinking lower into your sweater.

"It was definitely a pigeon," Broadway agreed, taking another bite of pizza and stepping closer. "Or maybe a tea kettle. Why did you jump like that?"

"Because!" you squeaked, feeling the heat rise straight to the tips of your ears. "He poked my... my sensitive spot!"

Brooklyn squinted, leaning in uncomfortably close. "Sensitive spot? Are you injured? Did a rogue laser hit you during our last fight with Xanatos?"

"No! No lasers!" You flailed your hands defensively. "It's not an injury! It's... it's just... I'm ticklish, okay?!"

The three gargoyles exchanged long, blank looks.

"Tick-lish?" Lex repeated the word slowly, sounding it out as if it were an ancient Latin phrase. "Tick... lish. Is that a human ailment? Is it contagious?"

"No, it's not an ailment!" You hid your face in your hands, utterly mortified. "It's just a reaction!"

"A reaction to what?" Brooklyn asked, stepping even closer. He squatted down, resting his elbows on his knees, his massive frame completely blocking the wind. "A biological defense mechanism? Do you secrete poison when touched there?"

"What?! No!" You let out a nervous, breathless laugh, pulling your hands away to look at them in sheer desperation. "No poison! It's just... when someone touches certain parts of your body, like your ribs, or your waist, or... or under your arms... it makes you laugh! But not because it's funny! It's like... an involuntary twitch-laughter thing!"

Broadway scratched his chin with a claw, looking deeply puzzled. "You laugh when you're hurt?"

"It doesn't hurt!" you stuttered, struggling to find the words while three pairs of glowing eyes stared at you with intense, faux-serious scrutiny. "Well, it kind of feels like a good hurt? No, wait, that sounds weird! It doesn't hurt at all, it just... it overstimulates your nerves! And your brain doesn't know how to process it, so you laugh and try to get away!"

"So..." Brooklyn leaned in, his tail flicking lazily behind him. "If I touch you there again... your brain will short-circuit and force you to make pigeon noises?"

"I—no! I mean, yes, but don't!" You squeezed your arms tightly against your ribs, backing up until your shoulders hit the solid stone of the castle wall. "Please don't! It's awful! I mean, it's fun, but it's terrible when you can't control it!"

"This sounds very dangerous," Lex said solemnly, though his brow twitched slightly. "What if an enemy finds out about this 'tick-lish' vulnerability? What if Demona uses it against you?"

"Demona is not going to tickle me!" you shouted, your face so hot you felt like you were going to melt into the stone. "It's a physical thing! It's light touching! Like... like a feather! Or... or fingers wiggling!"

"Fingers... wiggling?" Brooklyn echoed softly.

He held up his massive, clawed hand. Slowly, deliberately, he began to wiggle his thick fingers back and forth in the air, right in front of your face.

"Like this?" Brooklyn asked, keeping his face deadpan.

"Yes! Exactly like—wait, no! Don't bring those anywhere near me!" You tried to shrink into a tiny ball, holding your knees so tight your knuckles turned white. "I'm warning you guys, I will kick! It's a reflex!"

"A reflex?" Broadway mused, stepping up on your other side. "Like when the doctor hits your knee with a little rubber hammer?"

"YES! Exactly like that!" you cried out, relieved that someone finally seemed to grasp the concept. "It's an involuntary physical reflex!"

"Fascinating," Lex murmured, creeping around behind you. "So if I were to, say, apply pressure to the lateral thoracic region..."

Before you could decipher his technical jargon, Lex's fingers darted out, lightly digging into the soft flesh right under your armpits.

"AHAHAHA! NO! LEX, STOP!"

You squirmed violently, twisting your torso as a burst of loud, uncontrollable laughter spilled out of your throat. You clamped your arms down hard, trapping Lex's fingers against your sides, but Brooklyn immediately seized the opportunity. His large hands swooped in, his claw tips brushing with surprising lightness across your exposed midriff through your sweater.

"Wait! HAHAHA! B-Brooklyn, please! NO!"

"Fascinating reflex," Brooklyn observed smoothly, his red eyes crinkling at the corners. "Look how she wriggles, Lex. It's like a fish out of water."

"A very loud fish," Broadway chuckled, reaching in to lightly poke at your kneecaps, sending another shockwave of shrieks through your lungs.

"S-Stop! HAHAHA! I can't—I can't breathe! You guys said you didn't know what it was!" you gasped out, tears of laughter welling up in the corners of your eyes as you thrashed against the stone wall.

Brooklyn burst out laughing, dropping the stoic act entirely, a broad, mischievous grin spreading across his gargoyle snout. "Did you really think we were that dumb?"

"We've lived with humans in 10th-century Scotland, human!" Lex giggled, continuing to lightly wiggle his fingers against your ribs. "We know what tickling is!"

"You—HAHAHAHA! You jerk—AHAHAHA! You tricked me!" you yelled, trying to swat their massive hands away, but your weak human punches did absolutely nothing against their solid stone-like strength.

"You were just so cute trying to explain it!" Broadway grinned, gently squeezing your sides. "'It's like a feather! My brain short-circuits!'"

"I'm gonna—HAHAHA—I'm gonna kill you all!" you squealed, writhing desperately to escape the merciless onslaught of six giant, clawed hands.

After a few more torturous seconds, they finally pulled back, stepping away to give you room. You collapsed forward onto your hands and knees, panting heavily, your chest heaving as you caught your breath. Your hair was a tangled mess, and your face was burning hot.

Slowly, you sat back on your heels, looking up at the trio. You crossed your arms over your chest, puffed out your cheeks, and gave them the most dramatic, exaggerated pout you could muster.

"I hate you guys," you huffed, turning your head away with a solemn grump. "I'm never telling you any of my secrets ever again."

Brooklyn, Lex, and Broadway looked at each other.

"Uh oh," Lex smirked. "She's pouting."

"You know what we do to pouters?" Brooklyn asked softly, a dangerous, play-filled glint returning to his eyes.

Your eyes widened in sheer horror. "Wait, no—"

"TICKLE ATTACK!" Broadway shouted.

All three of them pounced at once.

"NOOOOO! HAHAHAHAHA! SPARE ME! HAHAHA!"

This time, there was no mercy. Brooklyn scooped you up slightly so you couldn't wiggle away against the wall, his thick fingers dancing relentlessly over your waist and tummy. Lex targeted your ribs, his small, agile hands working with terrifying precision, while Broadway took turns lightly scribbling his claws against the arches of your feet through your socks.

"AH! NOT THE FEET! HAHAHAHA! NOT THE FEET, PLEASE! HAHAHA!" You thrashed around in Brooklyn's gentle grip, completely overwhelmed by the barrage of tickles. Laughter spilled out of you in unending, squeaking waves, your body twisting like a pretzel in a futile attempt to hide your sensitive spots.

Right at that moment, heavy footsteps echoed from the top of the castle stairs.

Elisa Maza walked out onto the landing, holding a mug of warm coffee, looking tired after a long shift at the precinct. She froze, taking in the chaos unfolding on the ledge: three giant gargoyles mercilessly ambushing a helpless, teary-eyed human who was squirming for her life.

You spotted her instantly like a beacon of hope.

"ELISA!" you shrieked through your laughter, stretching a hand out toward her desperately. "ELISA, HELP ME! HAHAHA! SAVE ME FROM THESE MONSTERS!"

Elisa stopped in her tracks. She looked at you flailing in Brooklyn's arms, looked at Lex's mischievous grin, and then took a slow, calm sip of her hot coffee.

She blew gently on the steam, gave you a sympathetic smirk, and shrugged.

"Sorry, kiddo," Elisa called out cheerfully over the noise. "Police business doesn't cover gargoyle tickle fights. You're on your own."

"ELISA! NO! AHAHAHAHA! YOU TRAITOR!" you screamed as Brooklyn took advantage of your distraction to dive right back into your ribs.

From high above on the upper ledge, framed by the towering gargoyle statues, Goliath stood silently. He held his great dark cloak folded around his arms, his deep, noble posture unmoving against the night sky. Beside him sat Hudson, clutching his stone mug of warm tea, a peaceful puff of breath rising from his mouth.

Goliath looked down at the courtyard below, watching you squeal and struggle while Brooklyn, Lex, and Broadway roared with laughter. A gentle, rare warmth softened the mighty clan leader's sharp features. A fond, quiet smile spread across his face, his golden eyes glowing softly in the dark.

Hudson took a slow sip from his mug, letting out a satisfied, rumbling sigh.

"Ah," Hudson grunted softly, his own white-bearded face crinkling into a warm, fatherly grin as he watched the commotion. "It's good to hear laughter in the castle again."

Goliath nodded slowly, his smile widening as your helpless giggles echoed into the Manhattan night air. "Indeed, old friend. Indeed it is."

[apesandashes]

Rain on the Glass

Micheal Jackson x afab reader

The rain didn’t just fall; it pounded against the asphalt, transforming the streetlight glows into blurry, amber smudges across the night sky of Los Angeles.

You wrapped your soaked trench coat tighter around yourself, though it did almost nothing to stop the relentless chill seeping into your bones. Every step in your heels yielded a squelching sound, water splashing over the tops of your shoes. But the physical discomfort was nothing compared to the sharp, humiliating twist sitting heavy in your chest.

The evening had been an absolute nightmare.

When spent weeks coaxing yourself into believing that maybe—just maybe—you were ready to put yourself out there again, you hadn't expected him. Marcus. A man who had spent the entire two hours at the upscale bistro talking exclusively about his wardrobe, his car, his stock portfolio, and his personal physical regimen. He had hardly paused to let you order your entrée.

And then came the check. When you gently tried to join the conversation, mentioning your own career and interests, Marcus had scoffed, leaning back in his leather chair with a patronizing smirk that burned itself into your memory.

"Look, let’s be real for a second," he had said, casually waving down the waiter without looking at you. "You’re lucky I even asked you out. You’re... average at best, honestly. Super plain. I’m pretty much doing you a massive favor just being seen with you tonight. Most guys wouldn't bother."

The cruel, offhand casualness of his words had slammed into you like a physical blow. You hadn't argued. You hadn't made a scene. You had simply set down your napkin, stood up, and walked out into the downpour, tears blinding you before you even reached the sidewalk.

Now, hours later, shivering, drenched, and exhausted, you found yourself standing before a set of wrought-iron gates you knew better than anyone’s.

Hayvenhurst.

You didn't even remember deciding to walk here, but your feet had brought you to the one place on earth that always felt like a sanctuary. You pushed the security intercom button with a trembling finger.

"Yes?" came the familiar voice of the guard over the speaker.

"It's... it's me," you managed to choke out, your voice cracking.

The gates swung open almost immediately.

You dragged your feet up the long, winding driveway, the rain soaking through your hair until it plastered against your face and neck. Black mascara dissolved into dark, jagged rivers down your cheeks.

Before you could even step onto the porch, the front door flew open.

Standing in the warm glow of the foyer was Michael.

He was dressed casually in a soft black Fedora, an oversized red button-down shirt over a white tank top, and dark trousers—his classic 1987 Bad era style, yet stripped of all the buckles and stage glitz. His dark curls framed his face, and his deep brown eyes widened in instant shock the second he laid eyes on you.

"Oh my goodness... [Name]?!"

He rushed out onto the porch, ignoring the rain splashing onto his loafers, and grabbed you gently by the shoulders. "What happened?! You're completely drenched!"

You couldn't speak. A sob caught in your throat, shivering wildly as the warmth from inside the house hit your freezing skin.

"Come inside, come on, get inside right now," Michael insisted, his voice laced with pure concern. He led you into the spacious, carpeted foyer, quickly shutting the double doors against the howling wind outside.

He didn't care about the water dripping from your clothes onto the pristine floor. He immediately began unbuttoning your dripping coat, his slender fingers moving swiftly yet with immense care.

"You're shaking like a leaf," he murmured softly, peeling the heavy coat off your shoulders and setting it aside. When he looked up and caught a clear view of your face—the smeared makeup, the reddened eyes, the swollen lips—his expression softened into profound distress. "Oh, sweet girl... what happened to you? Did someone hurt you?"

"I... I walked," you whispered, your teeth chattering violently. "My... my date..."

Michael’s brow furrowed, a flicker of something dark and protective passing through his eyes before he quickly masked it with gentle warmth.

"Shh, don't try to talk right now," he soothed, wrapping his arms around you for a brief, warm hug, completely unbothered by your wet clothes. "First thing's first: you need a warm shower before you catch a cold. Come on."

He took your hand, leading you up the grand staircase toward his master suite. Every step felt heavy, but Michael's hand was a warm anchor pulling you forward out of the cold darkness.

Michael led you into the spacious, spa-like bathroom attached to his bedroom. Steam was already beginning to rise as he turned on the grand shower, adjusting the temperature until it was perfectly warm and inviting.

He hurried out for a moment and returned with a pair of his own oversized gray sweatpants, a super-soft black cotton t-shirt, and a plush, fresh white towel.

"Take all the time you need, okay?" Michael said, setting the folded clothes on the marble counter. He looked at you with deep, soulful eyes filled with quiet tenderness. "I’ll make us some hot tea. I'll be right downstairs when you're done."

"Thank you, Mike," you squeaked out softly.

He offered a reassuring, gentle smile, patting your arm before stepping out and closing the door to give you privacy.

Under the cascade of hot water, you finally let out the tears you had been holding back during your long walk. You washed away the grime, the rain, and the dark trails of mascara down your face. The hot water eased the chill in your muscles, but it couldn't wash away the stinging echoes of Marcus’s voice.

Super ugly. Doing you a favor. Average at best.

You looked at yourself in the steam-fogged mirror after wrapping yourself in the towel. Drying your face, you stared at your reflection—pale, exhausted, eyes rimmed in red. You swallowed hard, the toxic words settling deep into your psyche like lead.

He was right, you thought, a fresh wave of self-loathing washing over you. Why did I ever think I could go out there and be wanted? I'm just a mess.

You pulled on Michael’s oversized shirt—it draped past your thighs, smelling distinctly of his signature cologne, a delicate blend of black orchid and vanilla—and slipped into the comfy sweatpants. Rolling up the sleeves and pant legs, you dried your hair as best as you could before stepping slowly back out into the quiet hallway.

The house was quiet save for the soft patter of rain against the glass ceiling skylights. You followed the soft golden light down to the main living room.

A roaring fire was crackling in the massive brick fireplace, casting flickering warm shadows across the room. Michael was sitting on the plush rug in front of the fire, two mugs of steamy chamomile tea resting on the mahogany coffee table beside him.

He had changed into a comfortable dark blue pajama set, his long curls damp and falling around his neck.

When he heard your soft footsteps, he looked up immediately. A soft, breathless smile touched his lips for a fraction of a second as he saw you swaddled in his clothing, but it faded into compassionate attentiveness as he noticed your downcast gaze.

"Hey," he said gently, patting the carpeted space right beside him. "Come sit by the fire. Drink some tea."

You walked over silently and sank onto the floor next to him, drawing your knees up to your chest and wrapping your arms around them. Michael handed you a warm mug. You held it in both hands, letting the thermal heat warm your palms, staring blankly into the dancing flames.

For a few long minutes, neither of you spoke. The crackling wood and distant thunder filled the silence.

Finally, Michael leaned in slightly, his voice a soft, velvety whisper. "Do you want to tell me what happened, [Name]?"

You swallowed hard, your throat feeling tight. "It... it was the date."

Michael stayed quiet, listening intently, his eyes fixed on you with total devotion.

"It was terrible, Mike," you began, your voice trembling. "He didn't ask a single thing about me. He just talked about his money, his cars, his workouts... for two straight hours. And when I tried to say something..." You squeezed your eyes shut as a fresh teardrop slipped down your cheek. "He... he scoffed at me."

Michael’s posture straightened, his jaw tightening slightly. "What did he say?"

"He said..." You swallowed back a sob. "He said he was doing me a massive favor just by taking me out. He called me... super ugly. He said I was plain, average at best, and that no guy would ever bother with me."

A heavy silence descended upon the room, but the air suddenly felt charged.

You didn't look at Michael, but if you had, you would have seen his hands clench into tight fists, his dark eyes flashing with an intense, fiery anger that rarely surfaced. His breathing turned deep and deliberate.

"He told me I was lucky he was even seen with me," you sobbed out, putting the mug down on the table as tears finally spilled over freely. "And... and the worst part is, Mike... he's right! Look at me! I walked through the rain looking like a monster, I'm plain, I'm pathetic, and I actually believed someone could like me! He was totally right..."

"Stop it!"

The sharp, sudden firmness in Michael's voice made you gasp, cutting off your words instantly.

You blinked through your tear-blurred vision to look at him.

Michael had turned fully toward you. His face was flushed with a mixture of righteous anger and deep, painful heartache. You had almost never heard him raise his voice like that—it carried a fierce, protective power that resonated through the warm room.

"Don't ever say that," Michael said, his voice lowering into an intense, trembling whisper. He reached out and caught your face tenderly in both of his warm hands, his thumbs gently wiping away the hot tears streaming down your cheeks. "Don't you ever repeat those vile words again. Do you hear me?"

"Mike..."

"That man is an idiot," Michael spat out, his eyes blazing with genuine fury at the stranger who had dared hurt you. "A blind, arrogant fool! How dare he speak to you like that?! How dare he make you feel small!"

Michael drew closer, his face inches from yours, his expression softening into something raw, vulnerable, and completely unguarded.

"You want to know the truth, [Name]?" Michael murmured, his brown eyes searching yours with breathtaking sincerity. "You are the most gorgeous, breathtaking, beautiful woman I have ever met in my entire life. Inside and out. Every single day you come over here, every time you smile, every time you laugh... you take my breath away."

Your breath caught in your throat. "Mike... you don't have to just say that to make me feel better—"

"I am not just saying it!" Michael insisted fiercely, a soft, self-conscious flush rising to his high cheekbones. "I've been keeping it inside for months because I was terrified of ruining our friendship... but seeing you cry over some jerk who couldn't see what's right in front of him breaks my heart into a million pieces. I have been secretly in love with you for so long, [Name]."

You stared at him, stunned into absolute silence. The global superstar, the king of pop, the man sitting in front of you in his cozy blue pajamas—his heart was sitting wide open on his sleeve, entirely for you.

"You're beautiful," Michael repeated, his fingers tenderly caressing your cheekbones, brushing a stray strand of hair behind your ear. "You are radiant. And any man who gets to sit across a table from you should be on his knees thanking the heavens."

A fresh tear rolled down your cheek—not from sadness this time, but from the overwhelming warmth blooming in your chest. Yet, the emotional overload of the night still held a lingering grip on you, leaving you sniffling softly, unsure of how to process the sudden shift from heartbreak to pure affection.

Michael noticed the remaining tear, his heart aching at the sorrow still clinging to your posture. He hated seeing you cry. He couldn't stand it. He needed to banish every last trace of that dreadful night from your mind.

A familiar, mischievous spark suddenly ignited deep within his dark eyes.

"Mike...?" you sniffled, noticing the sudden, wicked grin spreading across his face.

"You know," Michael mused out loud, his voice dropping an octave into a playful, teasing tone, "I can't let you sit here looking sad anymore. It's against the rules in this house."

"What rules—ah!"

Before you could even finish your sentence, Michael struck.

With lightning-fast speed, his long, agile fingers darted forward and lunged straight for your sides, his fingertips wiggling viciously into your sensitive waistline!

"Michael! No! Hahaha!" You shrieked, instantly curling inward as a burst of shocked laughter erupted from your throat.

"Oh yes!" Michael declared playfully, wiggling his fingers with expert precision right into the squishy flesh of your ribs. "I am officially revoking your sadness license! Hand it over!"

"Mike, stop! HAHAHA! Please!" You tumbled sideways onto the plush living room rug, trying desperately to cover your sides with your arms.

"Never!" Michael giggled, hovering over you on his knees. His dark curls tumbled forward as his hands darted down to target your stomach, his slender fingers dancing lightly over your midriff through his oversized shirt. "Not until I see a real smile! A big one!"

"That tickles! AHAHA! Mike, no, I'm serious! HAHAHA!" You gasped for air, thrashing playfully on the carpet, completely helpless against his relentless, feather-light attacks.

"I'm serious too!" Michael laughed, his iconic, high-pitched giggle ringing out through the quiet house, filling the room with pure joy. "How dare that guy make my girl cry? He deserves to be tickled to death, but since he's not here, you have to take the punishment for believing him!"

"It's not fair! HAHAHA! Mikey, please!"

Michael’s fingers moved up to your armpits, tickling the ultra-sensitive spots gently, making you arch your back and kick your legs frantically.

"Say it!" Michael demanded, his eyes sparkling with pure delight as he watched you double over in laughter. "Say 'I am beautiful'!"

"No! HAHAHA! Mike, cut it out!"

"Say it or the tickling monster will never leave!" He threatened playfully, fluttering his fingers along your ribs with merciless speed. "Tickle-tickle-tickle!"

"Okay, okay! AHAHAHA! Stop, stop!" You wheezed, tears of sheer hilarity streaming down your face now, replacing every drop of sorrow from earlier.

Michael paused his fingers, letting them rest gently against your waist, though he remained hovered over you, looking down with a victorious, glowing grin. "I'm listening..."

You took a deep, shuddering breath, trying to catch your air, your cheeks flushed bright red and your chest heaving with laughter. Looking up into Michael’s warm, affectionate eyes, you felt a wave of complete safety and adoration wash over you.

"I... I am beautiful," you whispered shyly, your heart racing.

Michael’s smile softened into something breathtakingly sweet. "Good girl," he murmured, his fingers giving your sides one last light, affectionate squeeze before he sat back onto his heels.

You lay on the rug, breathless, giggling softly as you wiped away the happy tears from your eyes. The heavy, dark weight that had dragged you down all evening was completely gone, vaporized by Michael's warmth, his truth, and his playful spirit.

Michael extended a hand to you. You took it, and he gently pulled you up into a sitting position beside him.

Without hesitation, you leaned into his side, wrapping your arms around his waist and resting your head against his shoulder. Michael let out a soft, satisfied hum, wrapping one long arm securely around your shoulders and drawing you close against his warmth.

"Feeling better?" he asked softly, resting his chin on top of your head.

"A million times better," you admitted quietly, inhaling the comforting scent of his cologne. "Thank you, Mike. For everything."

"You never have to thank me for telling you the truth," Michael murmured, kissing the crown of your head tenderly. "You're safe here. Always."

Outside, the storm continued to rain against the glass, but inside the warm glow of Hayvenhurst, wrapped in Michael's arms, the storm had entirely passed.

[apesandashes]

Where You Belong

BTS x afab reader

The practice room mirror was a cruel witness.

You stared at your reflection, chest heaving, sweat dripping down your neck. Step left, turn, sharp snap, pivot. You did it again. And again. But your legs felt like lead, and on the third turn, your foot slipped, ruining the synchronization.

"Again," you whispered to yourself, blinking back burning tears.

"No, not again," Jimin’s voice cut through the heavy silence of the room. He was standing by the door with the rest of the members, all of them exhausted from an eight-hour grueling dance rehearsal.

"I just need to fix the bridge—" you started, your voice raspy.

"Y/N, seriously, get it together," Namjoon sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. The weight of the upcoming world tour was crushing everyone, and patience was running dangerously thin. "We’ve been over this part twenty times. You’re overthinking it, missing basic steps, and dragging out the practice."

"We don't have time to play around right now," Yoongi added, his tone flat, though his tired eyes showed he was at his limit. "The comeback is in two weeks. If you can't keep up, you need to figure it out on your own time, not keep everyone else waiting."

The words hit you like a physical punch. Get it together. Dragging out the practice. Figure it out.

You froze, looking at the seven men who were supposed to be your brothers, your safe haven. They looked annoyed, drained, and disappointed.

"Right," you whispered, lowering your head so they couldn't see your eyes welling up. "Sorry."

They left for the dorms shortly after, leaving you alone in the studio. But something inside you snapped that night. The constant self-doubt, the brutal schedule, and now the undeniable proof that you were holding them back... it was too much.

Over the next three days, you completely shut down.

You stopped talking in the car. You stopped offering ideas during meetings. When the members tried to pass you a plate at dinner, you politely shook your head and retreated to your room, refusing to eat with them. You became a ghost in your own home.

At first, the guys thought you were just pouting or tired. But by day four, the quiet wasn't just uncomfortable—it was terrifying.

"She hasn't eaten a full meal since Tuesday," Jin said softly in the kitchen, staring at the untouched bowl of soup he’d left on the counter for you.

"And she hasn't said a word to anyone," Hoseok murmured, looking down at his hands. Guilt was beginning to eat away at all of them. They had been stressed, sure, but they had taken it out on you—the youngest, and the one who had been working herself into the ground.

"I'll go talk to her," Jungkook offered, but Namjoon shook his head.

"We all need to talk to her. We messed up."

Together, the seven of them walked down the quiet hallway toward your bedroom. Namjoon raised his hand to knock, but stopped when he heard your voice from behind the door.

You were on the phone. Your voice was small, cracked, and completely heartbroken.

"...I don't think I can do this anymore, Min-ah," you sobbed softly into the phone. "I'm just a burden to them. You should have heard them... they're so tired of me. I keep ruining the choreography."

The members froze outside the door, their hearts dropping straight to their stomachs.

"No, really," you continued, sniffing back a cry. "I think... I think I should just leave the band. BTS will be so much better off without me. They hate having to babysit me. They'll be happier once I'm gone."

Jungkook gasped, clapping a hand over his mouth. Tears immediately sprang to Taehyung's eyes. Without waiting another second, Namjoon pushed the door open.

You whipped around, hastily dropping your phone onto the bed, staring at all seven of them in wide-eyed panic. "I—I was just—"

Before you could finish, Jin crossed the room in three quick steps and pulled you into a tight, suffocating embrace. Hoseok and Taehyung were right behind him, wrapping their arms around the both of you.

"Don't you ever say that," Jin choked out, his voice trembling. "Don't you dare say we'd be happier without you."

"Y/N, we are so, so sorry," Namjoon said, his voice raw as he stepped closer, the rest of the guys crowding around your bed. "We were stressed, exhausted, and completely out of line. We took our frustration out on you, and that is unforgivable. You are not a burden. You are our eighth member. BTS doesn't exist without you."

"We don't hate you," Yoongi said gently, sitting on the edge of the mattress and reaching out to wipe a tear from your cheek. "We love you. We were just stupid and tired, and we let the pressure get the best of us. Please don't leave us."

"You're the absolute heart of this group, Noona," Jungkook added, his eyes shiny with tears. "We're so sorry we made you feel like you weren't enough."

The heavy wall of sadness you’d built up over the past few days crumbled in an instant. You sobbed, burying your face in Jin's shoulder, all the built-up tension spilling out of you. They held you tightly, kissing the top of your head, whispering apologies over and over until your heavy cries slowly tapered off into tiny sniffs.

"Feel a little better?" Jimin asked softly, rubbing your back.

You nodded weakly, wiping your nose with your sleeve. "I'm just... really tired."

"We know, sweetheart," Hoseok smiled softly. But as he looked down at you, sitting cross-legged on the bed with your waist completely unguarded, a mischievous spark lit up in his eyes. He wanted—needed—to hear you laugh again.

Without warning, Hoseok’s hands darted out, his fingers digging lightly into your sides.

"Gah! Hobi, stop!" you squeaked, leaping half a foot into the air and curling into a ball.

The room went dead silent for a fraction of a second.

Jimin’s eyes widened in realization. "Wait a minute..."

"Is the baby ticklish?" Yoongi smirked, a dangerous glint in his eye.

"No! No, no, guys, wait—" you gasped, scrambling backward, but you were surrounded by seven athletic men. There was nowhere to run.

"Attack!" Taehyung yelled.

In an instant, chaos erupted. Hoseok wiggled his fingers directly under your armpits, making you burst into a high-pitched, shrieking laugh that echoed through the dorm.

"Ahaha! Stop! Hobi, please—HAHA!"

"Oh, she is extremely ticklish," Jungkook grinned wickedly, diving in to attack your knee-pits and ankles.

"No! Kookie, not the feet! NOT THE FEET!" you screamed, kicking your legs wildly, but Jin held your ankles gently in place while Jimin relentlessly tickled your waist and ribcage.

"Say 'BTS needs Y/N' and we'll stop!" Namjoon teased, coming in from behind to lightly trace his fingers over your neck and shoulders.

"NEVER! HAHAHA! OKAY, OKAY! BTS NEEDS Y/N! BTS NEEDS Y/N!" you shrieked, tears of laughter rolling down your cheeks now, a stark contrast to the tears of sadness from moments before.

"Louder! I don't think Yoongi-hyung heard you!" Taehyung laughed, trailing his knuckles down your sides.

"I definitely didn't hear it," Yoongi grinned, joining in by lightly scribbling his fingers over your stomach, making you double over in helpless, breathless laughter.

"HAHAHA! I'M SORRY! BTS NEEDS ME! I WON'T LEAVE! I PROMISE! STOP, I CAN'T BREATHE!"

Hearing you promise not to leave was all they needed. One by one, the relentless tickling slowed down, replaced by gentle affectionate pats, hair ruffling, and soft giggles. You collapsed backward onto your pillows, panting heavily, your chest heaving as a wide, exhausted smile remained plastered across your face.

"There's that smile," Jin murmured fondly, leaning down to press a sweet kiss to your forehead.

"You're stuck with us forever, you know that right?" Jimin said, flopping down right next to you and resting his head on your shoulder.

"Yeah, yeah," you wheezed, still catching your breath, but a warm, cozy feeling washed over your entire body. The dark clouds that had hung over you for days were completely gone.

Taehyung dragged your heavy duvet over everyone, and slowly, the seven boys piled onto your bed and the floor right beside it. Jungkook snuggled in on your other side, throwing an arm over your waist. Yoongi settled at the foot of the bed, resting a hand on your ankle, while Namjoon, Hoseok, and Jin stretched out around you, creating a human shield of warmth and protection.

"Tomorrow, we take a rest day," Namjoon declared quietly as the room softened into peace. "No dancing, no studios. Just food, movies, and sleep."

"And you're eating a huge breakfast," Jin added softly.

"Deal," you whispered, feeling your eyelids grow impossibly heavy.

Surrounded by the comforting weight of your seven best friends, listening to their steady breathing, you finally felt safe. You drifted off to sleep, knowing without a doubt that you were exactly where you belonged.

[apesandashes]

Imagine if…

The quiet hum of the room completely faded into the background as you shifted, settling comfortably right across Michael’s lap. Your legs straddled his hips, and your arms were wrapped securely around his neck, pulling him close. The weight of the world outside dissolved the moment his hands settled securely on your waist, drawing you flush against him.

Michael kissed you deeply, his lips moving softly against yours with a familiar, intoxicating warmth that always made your head spin. You sighed into the kiss, completely lost in the rhythm of it.

Suddenly, Michael broke the kiss, trailing a line of hot, deliberate kisses down the sensitive curve of your jaw and straight along your neck. The unexpected change in texture sent a shiver straight down your spine. A breathless, high-pitched giggle slipped right past your lips before you could stop it.

Michael paused, lifting his head. A playful, feigned look of exasperation crossed his face as he looked up at you through his dark eyelashes.

"Really?" Michael murmured, a lopsided grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. "I'm trying to have a romantic moment here, and you're giggling?"

"I can't help it!" you protested, a laugh bubbling up again as his warm breath brushed your sensitive skin. "That tickles!"

"Oh, it tickles, does it?" Michael challenged, his eyes sparkling with absolute mischief. "Well, if you're going to laugh at my kissing, you're going to get the real thing."

Before you could scramble backward or defend yourself, Michael’s hands dove straight for your ribs. His fingers worked with lightning speed, digging right into your weak spots with expert precision.

"No—Michael! Ha-ha-ha! Stop it!" you shrieked, instantly collapsing forward against his chest as waves of helpless laughter overtook you.

"Nope! No mercy!" Michael laughed, his own joyful sound echoing in the room as he relentlessly wrecked you with tickles, his fingers dancing across your sides until you were thrashing and gasping for breath. "You think my neck kisses are funny? Let's see how funny this is!"

"Stooop! I surrender! I'm sorry!" you cried out, laughing so hard your eyes watered.

Finally, taking pity on you, Michael slowed his assault, his hands sliding up to grip your waist securely as you panted for breath, your forehead resting against his shoulder.

Michael pulled you just a fraction closer, his chest rumbling with a soft, affectionate chuckle. He pressed a gentle kiss into your hair, his voice dropping into that sweet, velvety tone that always melted you completely.

"You are just the cutest thing in the whole world," Michael whispered, his hand gently stroking your back. "Do you know that? I love your laugh so much. I want to hear it all the time."

At the praise, a blazing heat rushed up your neck and straight into your cheeks. Overcome with sudden shyness, you groaned softly, burying your burning face right into the crook of his neck, trying desperately to hide from him.

Michael let out a soft, fond laugh at your shyness. "Oh no, you don't. You don't get to hide from me after melting my heart like that."

With gentle but absolute authority, Michael caught both of your wrists. He easily guided your arms upward, stretching them gently and pinning your hands safely above your head against the cushions behind you.

Trapped in his gentle hold with nowhere to hide, you peeked up at him through flushed cheeks, your heart hammering against your ribs.

Michael looked down at you with a gaze so full of adoration it took your breath away. Without missing a beat, he leaned in and began to smother you in soft, relentless kisses—pressing them to your forehead, your temples, your eyelids, your cheeks, and finally capturing your lips once more in a sweet, lingering promise that made you forget all about trying to hide at all.

[apesandashes]

Bad Jokes and Belly Laughs

Michael Jackson x afab reader

The heavy velvet curtains of the private screening room at Michael’s home were drawn shut, blocking out the crisp autumn evening outside. Inside, the space was a sanctuary of warmth and comfort. A massive, overstuffed sectional couch swallowed up most of the floor space, piled high with plush fleece blankets and embroidered pillows.

On the screen in front of you, a classic black-and-white comedy film played, casting soft, flickering shadows across the room. But despite the cinematic masterpiece unfolding on screen, your attention was entirely captured by the man holding you.

You were curled against Michael’s side, your head resting comfortably on his chest as his long arm wrapped securely around your shoulders. He wore a soft, oversized red flannel shirt over a plain white t-shirt, his dark, curly hair falling loosely around his face. It was supposed to be a relaxing movie night, but tonight, Michael was practically vibrating.

For the past twenty minutes, he hadn’t stayed still for more than thirty seconds. He had shifted positions five times, played with the fringe of a nearby blanket, tapped a rapid rhythm against your shoulder, and sighed dramatically. The man was a powerhouse of boundless creative energy, and it was spilling over into a restless, playful mood.

He didn't want to just watch a movie; he wanted entertainment. More specifically, he wanted *you* to break.

Michael shifted again, propping himself up on one elbow so he could look down at you, a mischievous spark dancing in his dark, expressive eyes. A slow, lopsided grin spread across his face—the kind of smile that warned you he was up to absolute no good.

"You know," Michael whispered, his voice smooth and melodic, breaking the quiet murmur of the movie audio. "I was thinking."

You tilted your head up, offering him an amused, skeptical look. "About what, Mr. Jackson?"

"About comedy," he said solemnly, though his shoulders shook slightly with suppressed laughter. "I was thinking that maybe this movie is just a little too old-fashioned. It needs a modern touch. Some real humor."

You raised an eyebrow, biting back a smile. "Oh really? And I suppose you're a connoisseur of fine comedy now?"

"I am a master of the craft," Michael declared proudly, tapping his chest with his free hand. "A titan of wit. Listen to this one." He cleared his throat dramatically, assuming the posture of a stand-up comedian delivering a career-defining punchline. "Why don’t scientists trust atoms?"

You sighed, recognizing the trap immediately. "Michael, please. Not a dad joke."

"No, no, you have to hear it," he insisted, his eyes twinkling brightly. "Because they make up *everything*!"

He burst into a high-pitched, delighted giggle at his own joke, throwing his head back slightly before looking down at you expectantly, waiting for the uproarious applause and laughter he clearly felt he deserved.

You stared at him deadpan, your face completely straight. You didn't even crack a smile. You just blinked slowly.

Michael’s laughter tapered off into a questioning hum. He waited a beat. Then two. He leaned in closer, squinting down at you as if trying to inspect a microchip under a microscope.

"Wait," Michael said, his tone shifting into one of utter disbelief and mock offense. "That was hilarious. Did you hear that? Atoms make up *everything*."

"I heard it," you said evenly, though your lips were beginning to twitch at the corners.

"And not even a chuckle?" Michael gasped, clutching a hand to his heart in theatrical heartbreak. He dropped his head back down onto the couch pillows, staring up at the ceiling fan with a dramatic pout. "Unbelievable. My own partner is a tough crowd. A stone wall. An icicle."

He turned back to you, propping his chin in his hand, his lower lip pushed out in the cutest, most exaggerated pout imaginable. "Why aren't you laughing? Are my jokes not funny to you? Am I losing my touch?"

You couldn't help the fond, affectionate warmth blooming in your chest. You reached up, gently poking him in the center of his chest.

"You're cute, Michael," you said, your voice softening as you looked up into those impossibly dark, gorgeous eyes. "It takes a lot more than a cheesy science pun to make me laugh."

Michael’s pout vanished instantly, replaced by a flash of absolute challenge. A low, wicked chuckle vibrated in his throat.

"Oh, is that a challenge?" he whispered, his eyes narrowing playfully. "You think you're immune, do you?"

Before your brain could even process the warning signs, Michael lunged.

His hands shot out with lightning speed, bypassing your ribs and zeroing straight in on your absolute worst, most defenseless spot: your hips.

A sharp, breathless gasp ripped out of your throat, instantly followed by a shriek of absolute betrayal. "Michael—no! Not there! You traitor!"

You twisted away, trying to curl into a tight ball, but Michael was relentless. His fingers danced fiercely across your sensitive sides and hips, finding every single ticklish nerve ending with terrifying precision.

The composure you had maintained all evening shattered in a single second. You collapsed against the cushions, your body convulsing with uncontrollable laughter.

"Ha-ha-ha! Stop! Michael, I'm warning you! Stooop!" you cried out, thrashing helplessly as waves of tickles washed over you.

And then, right in the middle of a particularly fierce onslaught of giggles, it happened. The sound you always tried your hardest to hide slipped right past your defenses. A loud, sharp, undeniable *snort* echoed off the screening room walls, followed instantly by a high-pitched, breathless cackle that sounded like a flock of startled geese.

You froze, instantly clamping both hands over your mouth, your face burning hotter than a bonfire. Your eyes squeezed shut in pure mortification. *Oh god. I did it. I actually snorted in front of Michael Jackson.*

You braced yourself for him to stop, to look at you weirdly, or to tease you about it.

Instead, the tickling stopped, replaced by a sound so pure, bright, and infectious that it filled the entire room. Michael was absolutely howling with laughter. He threw his head back against the cushions, his shoulders shaking, clutching his stomach as he laughed so hard he could barely breathe.

You opened one eye, peering at him through your fingers. Michael looked utterly delighted, his face flushed with joy, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

"Did..." Michael wheezed out between gasps of laughter, wiping a tear from the corner of his eye. "Did you just... *snort* like a little piggy?"

"Shut up!" you groaned, mortified, trying to shove his shoulder away with a weak, playful slap. "I hate you. You're evil. I'm never speaking to you again."

"Oh, no, no, don't you dare take that tone with me," Michael chuckled, catching your wrists effortlessly in his warm hands and pinning them softly against the cushions. He hovered over you, looking down with a mixture of immense adoration and absolute mischief. "That was the cutest thing I have ever heard in my entire life."

"It was humiliating," you muttered, trying to glare at him, though it was impossible to keep a straight face when he was looking at you like you hung the stars in the sky.

"It was adorable," Michael corrected softly, his voice dropping an octave, turning warm and intimate. He leaned down, pressing a tender, lingering kiss to your cheek. "And you know what else? It proved my point."

"What point?"

"That I can make you laugh," Michael whispered triumphantly, a proud, radiant smile spreading across his face. "Even if I had to resort to physical warfare to do it."

You narrowed your eyes at him, a sudden spark of retaliation flashing through your mind. "Oh, physical warfare? Is that how we're playing it now?"

Michael blinked innocently. "What do you mean?"

"I mean..."

With a burst of sudden energy, you wrenched your hands free from his grip. Before he could react, you flipped the tables, diving forward and burying your fingers straight into the sensitive ribs beneath his flannel shirt.

Michael let out a high, startled shriek that sounded entirely unlike the King of Pop, instantly losing all his cool composure. He flailed backward, tumbling over onto his side across the couch cushions as a bright, booming laugh erupted from him.

"Hey! No fair! That's cheating!" Michael laughed breathlessly, trying to bat your hands away while squirming desperately to escape your onslaught. "Timeout! Timeout!"

"There are no timeouts in a tickle war, Michael!" you declared victoriously, pressing your advantage as you mercilessly tickled his sides, thoroughly enjoying the rare sight of the legendary pop icon completely defenseless and melting into helpless giggles.

"Mercy! Mercy!" Michael gasped, laughing so hard his voice cracked. He managed to catch your wrists again, pulling you down with him in a tangle of limbs, blankets, and breathless laughter until you both collapsed against the plush cushions of the couch, completely out of breath.

For a long moment, the only sound in the screening room was the heavy sound of your breathing and the quiet echo of the movie still playing on the screen.

Michael was pressed flush against you, his chest rising and falling rapidly. His dark curls were wildly tousled across his forehead, and his cheeks were flushed with a healthy, glowing pink. He looked down at you, his chest rumbling with a final, lingering chuckle, his eyes shining with a deep, bottomless affection.

Slowly, his expression softened, the playful mischief melting away into something quiet and profound. He reached up, his long, gentle fingers tracing the line of your jaw, tucking a stray lock of hair behind your ear. His thumb gently stroked your cheekbone.

"You know," Michael whispered softly, his voice a smooth caress in the dark room, "hearing you laugh like that... really laugh, without holding anything back... it's my favorite sound in the world."

Your heart skipped a beat, all the lingering embarrassment completely vanishing, replaced by a deep, swelling warmth. You looked up at him, your hands resting comfortably against his chest, feeling the steady, strong beat of his heart beneath your palms.

"Even the snort?" you asked, a teasing smile playing at the corners of your lips.

Michael laughed again, a soft, rich sound, and leaned down until his forehead rested gently against yours. "Especially the snort. Because it means you're completely happy. And keeping you happy... that's my favorite job in the world."

He closed the remaining distance between you, capturing your lips in a sweet, lingering kiss that tasted like pure magic. You melted into it, wrapping your arms securely around his neck, knowing right then and there that no matter how cheesy his jokes were, you never wanted to be anywhere else in the world.

[apesandashes]

Title: The Laugh You Tried to Hide

The studio was alive with energy.

Michael, in the middle of his Bad era, had just wrapped another rehearsal. The room echoed with laughter as everyone finally relaxed after hours of perfecting choreography. La Toya sat beside you on one of the couches, sipping a soda while you absentmindedly watched Michael joking around with the dancers.

“You’ve been staring at him for ten minutes,” La Toya teased with a knowing grin.

“I have not.”

“You absolutely have.”

You buried your face in your hands, earning a laugh from her.

“Fine,” you admitted quietly. “Maybe I have a little crush.”

“A little?” she giggled.

Before you could answer, she leaned closer.

“So why don’t you tell him?”

You immediately shook your head.

“No way.”

“Why?”

You hesitated before sighing.

“…Because if he ever made me laugh for real…” you whispered, “…I’d snort.”

La Toya blinked.

“What?”

“I snort when I laugh really hard.”

“So?”

“It’s embarrassing! I always stop myself before it happens.”

She frowned.

“That’s why you always cover your mouth?”

You nodded.

“I’ve had people make fun of me before. I don’t want Michael thinking I’m…ugly.”

La Toya’s expression softened.

“I don’t think he’d ever think that.”

“I know…but what if?”

Neither of you noticed the rehearsal room had grown unusually quiet.

Standing just around the corner, Michael had come back to grab his jacket.

And he’d heard everything.

⸻

The next afternoon, Michael found you helping organize costumes backstage.

“Hey.”

You looked up.

“Oh! Hi, Michael.”

He smiled warmly.

“Wanna take a little break?”

“Sure.”

You followed him down the hallway toward one of the quieter lounges.

The second the door closed behind you, he folded his arms with a playful smile.

“So…”

“So?”

“I heard your conversation yesterday.”

Your eyes widened.

“…You what?”

“With La Toya.”

Your face immediately turned bright red.

“Oh no…”

He chuckled softly.

“You really think I’d stop liking somebody because they snort when they laugh?”

“I—”

“You’ve been hiding your laugh this whole time?”

You looked at the floor.

“…Maybe.”

Michael stepped closer.

“I don’t believe you.”

“What?”

“I’ve never heard your real laugh.”

“You don’t need to.”

“I think I do.”

You narrowed your eyes suspiciously.

“Michael…”

He grinned.

“Ohhh…you’re nervous.”

“No, I’m not.”

“You are.”

“I’m not.”

Without warning, his fingers lightly scribbled against your sides.

You squeaked.

“Michael!”

“There it is.”

“No!”

You twisted away, laughing quietly through tightly closed lips.

“I’m serious!”

“I know,” he laughed.

His fingers danced gently over your ribs again.

You squealed louder, trying desperately to hold everything in.

“Nohoho!”

“You are fighting this way too hard.”

“I cahahan’t—”

“You can.”

He switched to your waist, making you jerk sideways.

A burst of laughter escaped before you clamped both hands over your mouth.

Michael laughed just as hard.

“There it was!”

“It wasn’t!”

“Oh yes it was.”

He gently caught your wrists before they could cover your face again.

“No hiding.”

“Michael…”

“Promise I won’t laugh.”

“You are laughing!”

“I’m laughing because you’re adorable.”

Your heart skipped.

He gave your sides another playful wiggle.

This time, your composure completely shattered.

Laughter burst out uncontrollably.

And then—

Snort.

Your eyes went wide.

“…”

“…”

Another laugh escaped.

Snort.

You froze in horror.

“…I’m so sorry.”

Instead of teasing you…

Michael doubled over laughing.

Not at you.

With you.

“That’s the cutest laugh I’ve ever heard!”

“What?”

“I mean it.”

You blinked.

“I’ve never seen you smile like that before.”

“I thought you’d think it was weird.”

“Weird?”

He shook his head.

“It’s real.”

His smile softened.

“And I like real.”

Your cheeks warmed.

“You…do?”

He looked down for a moment, suddenly looking much more nervous than before.

“I’ve actually been trying to figure out how to tell you something.”

“What?”

He rubbed the back of his neck.

“I kinda…”

He laughed quietly.

“…I’ve had a crush on you for a while.”

Your jaw dropped.

“You…what?”

“I figured I’d probably scare you if I said something.”

“I’ve liked you for months.”

“I know now.”

“You heard that too?”

“I did.”

You groaned dramatically, covering your face.

“I’m never recovering from this.”

He gently pulled your hands away again.

“I hope you don’t.”

“You don’t?”

“No.”

He smiled that unmistakable Bad-era grin.

“Because now I get to hear your real laugh.”

You laughed again—this time making no effort to hide the little snort that slipped out.

Michael smiled even wider.

“There it is.”

You rolled your eyes playfully.

“Oh, don’t get used to it.”

“I already have.”

And for the first time, you realized you didn’t have to hide your laugh anymo—especially not from the person who loved hearing it the most.

[yongbok-lixie]

there needs to be more tickle content for the pitt im going insane

like almost ALL of them give me switch vibes. Especially santos and javadi

mckay gives me such BAD lee moods im sorry I love her.

and as much as langdon gives me ler vibes... I need to see him be wrecked. he's such a little asshole that he needs to be taken down a notch.