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Request-ish: respectfully, I am begging for some ler!aubrey (or April from Parks/other Aubrey characters). The kitchen/kiss scene was 10/10 and I need that energy. Not limited to little bit addicted. I would support something Wanda-related.

working late

thank you for the req! i did end up going with april because she seemed like a fun option / challenge. sorry this took a million years and is also a million words long.

pairing: april x reader (parks & rec) wc: 7.8k content & warnings: tickle fic, ler!april, lee!reader, mild workplace shenanigans, coworkers to lovers vibes, public tickling, varying upperbody tickling, making out in a conference room, mild alcohol consumption, jen barkley is there because how could i not

The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, casting a sterile, blue-tinged glow across the scattered papers and empty coffee cups that littered the conference table. Your pen tapped a steady, anxious rhythm against your leather-bound planner. Jen’s schedule was a minefield of donor calls, media training sessions, and strategy briefings, each block of time meticulously color-coded. Ben’s schedule, open on April’s laptop beside her, was a mess of folksy town hall meetings and Rotary Club breakfasts, occasionally punctuated by Jen’s brutal red annotations: “NEEDS MEDIA COACHING – STAT” and “REMIND HIM NOT TO TALK ABOUT PIE BAKING WITH THE WALL STREET JOURNAL.”

“Okay,” You said, her voice carefully modulated into what you privately called her ‘Professional Pleasant’ register. “If we shift the constituent meet-and-greet in Arlington to 3:30, that gives Ben a solid ninety-minute buffer before the fundraiser dinner. Jen can debrief him in the car.”

April didn’t look up from her phone, where she was idly scrolling through some meme page. “Mmm. He’ll need more than ninety minutes. After an hour of shaking hands with strangers, he smells like a combination of cheap cologne and existential dread. It takes a while to air him out.”

Your smile tightened at the corners. “We’ll have the windows down. Now, about Thursday. Jen has a hard stop at 5 PM for a call with the DCCC. We need to make sure Ben’s policy roundtable wraps by 4:45 at the absolute latest so she can get out.”

“Ben’s policy roundtables never wrap,” April stated flatly, finally setting her phone down. She leaned back in her chair, the plastic groaning in protest. “He gets one whiff of a passionate, misguided opinion from some local busybody and he’s off to the races. Last week, Mrs. Gable from the historical society had him convinced for twenty minutes that the real infrastructure crisis was the lack of dedicated horse-and-buggy lanes. Jen almost had an aneurysm.”

A genuine laugh almost escaped your lips, but you caught it, converting it into a polite cough. You could picture it perfectly: Jen, her jaw a rigid line of suppressed fury, her fingers white-knuckled around her phone as Ben earnestly discussed carriageway restoration. The image sent a familiar, unwelcome flutter through her stomach—a mix of secondhand anxiety and something warmer.

You cleared her throat. “Well, we’ll just have to be firm. I’ll draft a talking points sheet for you to give him, emphasizing brevity.”

“He uses those as coasters,” April said, a smirk playing on her lips. She watched you, her eyes sharp and unnervingly perceptive. “You know, for someone who plans every second of the day, you’re remarkably bad at planning your escape from this place. My stomach is staging a revolt. What are we doing about food?”

Relieved to be on a simpler topic, you brightened. “Oh! Right. I was thinking we could order from that new Thai place? They got a great review in the Post.”

April made a face, a theatrical grimace of disgust. “Ugh. Coconut milk. Tastes like suntan lotion.”

“Okay… how about Italian? That little trattoria by the bus station?"

“All that cream and pasta. I’d be comatose in ten minutes. Useless.”

Your brow furrowed. Her Professional Pleasant mask was beginning to feel heavy, like plaster drying on your skin. “Sushi? There’s a good delivery service—”

“Cold, raw fish? At 8 PM? Are you trying to give me nightmares?”

“A burger, then? The pub down the street does a good cheeseburger.”

“Ground beef mystery meat. Pass.”

The pen in your hand stopped tapping as your irritation set in. You placed it down deliberately, the soft click echoing in the quiet room. You looked at April, who was now examining her nails with an air of detached boredom, but you could see the faint, telltale quirk at the corner of her mouth. The pieces clicked into place: the ridiculous rejections, the deadpan delivery, the glint in those watchful eyes.

“You’re doing this on purpose,” You accused, voice dropping its polished cadence, becoming lower, flatter. You could feel it as your mask slipped, revealing the exhaustion and irritation beneath.

April’s head snapped up, her smirk widening into a full-blown, triumphant grin. “There she is.”

“What?”

“The real you. Not the Stepford Wife version you puppet around for Jen.” April leaned forward, elbows on the table, her chin resting in her hands. “It’s exhausting just watching you do it. All the smiling and nodding and ‘of course, Jen, right away, Jen.’ I was starting to think your face would get stuck like that.”

Heat rushed to your cheeks. It was a direct hit, and it stung because it was true. “It’s called being professional, April. It’s how adults maintain employment and pay their bills.”

“Is that what you call it?” April’s eyes flickered towards the closed door of Jen’s office. “From where I’m sitting, it looks a lot like you’re trying to win a gold star from the teacher you have a crush on.”

The flush on your face deepened to a hot, mortified scarlet. “I do not have a crush on Jen.”

“Oh, please. You get this… look. This dewy-eyed, slightly terrified puppy-dog look every time she walks into a room. You straighten your posture, you smooth your hair. It’s pathetic. And hilarious.”

“You have no idea what you’re talking about,” You shot back, voice tight. You started gathering her papers with jerky, agitated movements. “My relationship with Jen is strictly professional. I respect her. She’s a brilliant strategist.”

“She’s a dragon in a Prada pantsuit, and you’re the virgin sacrifice who’s weirdly into it.” April’s words were blunt, but there was no real malice in them; it was the clinical, observational tone of a scientist dissecting a fascinating specimen. “You should hear the way your voice goes up half an octave when you talk to her. It’s like you’re auditioning for a very depressing porno.”

“Stop it.” The words came out sharper than you intended, laced with a raw embarrassment that shocked even you. You were usually so good at compartmentalizing, at shoving these inconvenient feelings into a locked box in the back of her mind. April had a crowbar for those locks, you were coming to learn.

For a moment, you just stared at each other across the table, the air thick with the unspoken. The hum of the lights seemed to grow louder. April’s smirk softened into something more contemplative.

“Look,” she said, her voice losing its teasing edge. “Order the Thai food. I don’t actually care. I just wanted to see how many hoops you’d jump through before you snapped.”

You deflated, the fight going out of you. The confrontation had left you feeling exposed and weary. “Why? Why do you enjoy messing with me so much?”

April shrugged, a fluid, careless motion. “Because the alternative is staring at this soul-crushing spreadsheet until my brain leaks out of my ears. And because…” She paused, seeming to choose her words with unusual care. “The professional version of you is a cardboard cutout. This version,” she gestured to your frustrated, unmasked face, “is at least a person. A person who’s stuck in a shitty job for shitty reasons and has a tragically misplaced workplace infatuation. But a person. It’s more interesting.”

You sank back into your chair, feeling stripped bare. April saw right through the facade, through the carefully constructed performance you put on for the world, and straight to the core of your dissatisfaction and not to mention your stupid, secret crush.

“Fine,” You finally muttered, pulling out your phone. “We're doing curry. Level four spicy. And if you complain, I’m putting your number on a Scientology mailing list.”

A genuine, surprised laugh burst from April. It wasn’t her usual sarcastic snort; it was a real, warm sound that transformed her face, making her look younger and far less guarded. “See? Was that so hard? A little threat of eternal harassment?”

As you placed the order, you stole another glance at April, who had gone back to her memes, a faint smile still on her face.

---

The air in the main campaign office was thick with the cheap scent of beer and the giddy buzz of premature victory. A cluster of staffers were gathered around a laptop, cheering as another early poll number flashed on the screen. Ben was beaming, his arm slung around a volunteer’s shoulders, looking every bit the small-town guy making good. Jen stood slightly apart, a flute of prosecco in her hand, her expression one of calculated satisfaction.

You were trapped near the makeshift bar—a folding table with a red solo cup pyramid—by two over-eager junior field organizers. Their names were Chad or Brad, something generically enthusiastic. They were talking over each other, vying for your attention, their pitches a blend of political shop-talk and clumsy flirtation.

“So you see, the real key is grassroots mobilization,” one said, leaning in a little too close, his breath smelling of hops.

“Absolutely, but digital outreach is the future,” the other countered, puffing out his chest. “I ran the Instagram analytics for the last—”

“Fascinating,” You murmured, your smile a practiced, placid curve that gave nothing away. You took a minuscule sip of her warm white wine, the acid biting at your tongue as you scanned for an escape route. You could see Jen across the room, a solitary pillar of competence in the sea of celebrating mediocrity, and felt that familiar, foolish tug in her chest. Stop it, you chided yourself. He’s talking about Instagram engagement metrics. Focus on the horror in front of you.

That’s when you felt it—a sudden, sharp pressure in the back of her right knee. Your leg buckled instantly, a small, undignified yelp escaped your lips as you started to pitch forward, wine sloshing precariously in your glass.

But you didn’t fall. Two hands shot out, catching you firmly by the elbows, steadying before you could make a complete fool of yourself.

“Whoa there, tiger,” a dry, familiar voice drawled right next to your ear. “Looks like someone can’t handle their boxed Chardonnay.”

Your head snapped around to find April’s face inches from your own, a look of mock concern plastered all over it. The two Chads-Brads stared, momentarily stunned out of their mating rituals.

“I… I just lost my balance,” You stammered, face flushing with a mixture of shock and fury.

“Clearly,” April said, her grip tightening on your elbows. She nodded politely to the guys. “Gentlemen. I’m going to have to confiscate this one before she redecorates the carpet with that wine. Campaign finance laws being what they are, we can’t afford a cleaning deposit.” Without waiting for a reply, she steered you away from the bar, through the throng of people, and out into the relative quiet of the hallway.

The moment the office door swung shut behind them, you wrenched her arms free. “What the hell was that, April?” you hissed, whirling around. Your heart was hammering against your ribs. “You could have made me spill wine all over myself! You could have made me fall!”

April just shrugged, stuffing her hands into the pockets of her ripped jeans. “But you didn’t. I’m surprisingly agile when it comes to orchestrating social rescues.”

“That wasn’t a rescue, that was an assault!”

“Semantics.” April started walking down the hall, peering into the dark, empty offices. “You looked like a gazelle surrounded by two very, very dumb lions. I was doing you a favor. Your ‘Polite but Bored’ routine was going to keep them circling for another hour. My way was faster.”

“Your way involved potentially giving me a concussion!”

“A calculated risk.” April tried a door handle; it was locked. She moved to the next one. “And honestly? The look on your face was worth the potential workers’ comp claim. Priceless.” This one opened. “Ah. Jackpot.”

She disappeared inside. Fuming, you hesitated for a second before following her in. It was a small, windowless supply room, filled with reams of paper, “Ben Barrett for Congress” yard signs, and the faint, dusty smell of toner.

“I need to get back,” you said, crossing her arms. “Jen might need something.”

“Jen is basking in the glow of her own genius. She doesn’t need you fending off the horny help.” April was already rummaging through a low cabinet in the corner. She let out a soft, triumphant “Aha!” and emerged holding a bottle of amber liquid. It wasn’t top-shelf, but it was a distinct step up from the paint-thinner vodka they were mixing with cranberry juice out in the main room. Glenlivet. Twelve years old. “Looks like someone’s been stashing the good stuff for a private celebration.”

“We can’t just drink that,” you protested, though your voice lacked its earlier conviction. The adrenaline from almost falling was fading, leaving her feeling drained. The thought of going back out into that noisy, performative party was suddenly unbearable.

“Why not?” April had already found two moderately clean coffee mugs from a stack on a shelf. She unscrewed the cap and poured a generous two fingers into each. “We’re staff. We earned this. Well, she earned it,” she jerked her thumb towards the main office, “but we suffered for it. That counts.” She pushed one mug across the small table towards you.

You stared at the whiskey. You could still hear the muffled cheers and laughter from the party. You thought of the Chads-Brads and their terrible flirting. You thought of Jen’s cool, appraising gaze. With a sigh that seemed to come from the very bottom of your soul, you picked up the mug. “You really didn’t have to make me buckle like that. A simple ‘can I borrow you for a second?’ would have sufficed.”

April took a sip of her whisky, her eyes closing for a brief second in appreciation. “Where’s the fun in that?” she said, opening them again. They glittered in the dim light of the single bare bulb overhead. “The knee-trick was for my own amusement. The rescue was a happy byproduct. Consider it a two-for-one special.”

You brought the mug to your lips. The whiskey was smooth, warming you from the inside, a stark contrast to the acidic wine. You felt some of the tension in her shoulders begin to unknot. You leaned back against a stack of copy paper, your defensive posture slowly melting away.

“They were pretty awful, weren’t they?” you admitted quietly.

“The human equivalent of beige wallpaper,” April confirmed. “But you were going to stand there and take it all night, weren’t you? Smiling that tight little smile. Because it’s professional. Because you didn’t want to make a scene.”

You didn’t answer. You just took another, longer drink. The silence in the supply room was a tangible thing, a welcome barrier against the noise outside. It was just the two of you , surrounded by the inert machinery of a political campaign, drinking stolen whisky from coffee mugs.

April watched you , a knowing look on her face. “See? This is better. No mask. No performance. Just you, me, and marginally better alcohol.” She raised her mug in a sardonic toast. “To positive poll numbers. And to not having to talk to anyone about their Instagram strategy.”

Despite everything, you felt a real, unforced smile touch your lips. You clinked her mug against April’s. “To that.”

--

The Monday morning silence of the campaign office was a stark, almost sacred contrast to the chaotic buzz of Friday's celebration. The disposable cups were gone, the stale beer smell replaced by the sterile scent of lemon-scented cleaner and fresh coffee. You stood on a wobbly wooden step-stool in the supply closet, heels making the perch even more precarious. The door was propped open with a ream of paper, letting in a sliver of hallway light.

You were stretched to your full, admittedly limited, height, fingertips just brushing the edges of two overstuffed manila folders wedged onto the highest shelf. Jen’s handwriting on the tabs was a familiar, sharp slash: "Opposition Research - Barrett" and "Media Vulnerabilities - DO NOT CIRCULATE." The weight of them promised a long, grim day of cross-referencing and damage assessment.

A shadow fell across the doorway. "Need a ladder? Or maybe just a really enthusiastic boost?"

You jolted, your balance wavering for a heart-stopping second. The folders slipped from your grasp, thudding dully to the floor and scattering a few loose papers. You clutched the shelf, knuckles white, and glared down at the intruder.

April leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, a familiar smirk already in place.

"Don't sneak up on me like that!" You snapped, the words coming out sharper than intended, fueled by the adrenaline spike. Your Professional Pleasant mask, usually so easily donned, felt cracked. It was too early for April's particular brand of chaos.

"Wasn't sneaking. You're just jumpy. And short." April pushed off the doorframe and ambled into the small closet, her presence immediately making the space feel cramped. She looked from you, still poised nervously on the stool, to the folders on the floor. "Those look fun. Planning Ben's political assassination or just his public humiliation?"

"Neither," You said tightly, bending carefully to scoop up the papers. "It's just research." You tried to refocus, reaching again for the shelf, blouse tugging up slightly in the back with the stretch.

April didn't offer to help. She just watched, her gaze idle at first, then sharpening, focusing on a spot just above the waistband of your tailored trousers. A sliver of black ink was visible against the skin of your lower back, a hint of a curving line peeking out from where the fabric had ridden up.

"Well, well," April murmured, her voice dropping its teasing edge and becoming genuinely intrigued. "What's this?"

Before you could process the question, you felt a touch. Not a grab, not a push, but the startling, cool press of April's fingertips directly onto the small of your back, right on the exposed edge of the tattoo.

The reaction was instantaneous and entirely involuntary. A violent, full-body flinch, a surge of pure, unadulterated panic that shot up your spine and erupted from her throat in a short, piercing scream: "Aah!"

Your balance, already tenuous, completely deserted you. The stool legs skittered out from under you. For a horrifying second, you were falling, the shelves of paper and toner cartridges blurring around you. Instinct took over; you threw your hands out, grabbing the edge of the high shelf with a desperate, white-knuckled grip. Your body swung, dangling for a moment before your feet found purchase on a lower shelf, leaving you clinging to the metal framework like a startled cat, heart hammering against your ribs.

The scream echoed in the small, enclosed space, absurdly loud in the Monday morning quiet.

Breathing in ragged, shallow gasps, you stared wide-eyed at April, who had taken a half-step back, her own smirk wiped clean and replaced with a look of genuine, shocked surprise. Her hand was still suspended in the air where it had touched your back.

For a long moment, the only sound was your panicked breathing and the distant, muffled ring of a telephone from the main office.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" you finally managed to choke out, voice trembling with a mixture of fury and residual terror. "You can't just… touch people!"

April slowly lowered her hand, her eyes wide. "I… I was just… is it real?" she asked, the question sounding stupid and inadequate in the aftermath of the scream.

"Yes, it's real!" you hissed, still clinging to the shelf, entire body thrumming with adrenaline. "What did you think it was, a temporary sticker? Get away from me!"

April’s shocked expression dissolved, replaced by a slow-spreading grin that was pure, unadulterated delight. Her eyes lit up with a predatory glee, thrilled at the nuclear-level reaction she’d provoked with just a single, casual touch. The scream had been better than she could have ever hoped for.

“Whoa, easy there, killer,” she said, her voice laced with amusement. She took a step forward, her hands coming up in a gesture that was meant to be placating but felt anything but. “I was just gonna fix your shirt. You’re looking a little disheveled for the dragon’s lair.” She reached out again, aiming for the hem of your blouse to tug it back into place.

But you, still vibrating with adrenaline and humiliation, flinched back violently. The problem was, you were still precariously braced against the shelf, and the sudden jerk caused a fresh wave of that hypersensitive, skin-crawling sensation to ripple across your lower back where April’s fingers had been.

And then it happened. A sound escaped, high-pitched and utterly mortifying. It wasn't a scream this time. It was a giggle. A nervous, strangled, completely involuntary burst of laughter that you tried and failed to smother behind clenched teeth. Your face flushed a deep, scorching crimson. Oh, god, no.

April froze, her hand still outstretched. Her eyebrows shot up towards her hairline. The amused grin on her face widened into a look of dawning, ecstatic revelation. A low chuckle escaped her, then grew into a full-throated laugh that echoed in the small closet.

“Oh my god,” April breathed, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “Are you ticklish? Is that what this whole dramatic performance was about?”

Your horrified, wide-eyed stare, the way you seemed to be trying to physically shrink into the shelving unit to escape, was all the confirmation April needed. The mighty, professional, the unflappable assistant to the most intimidating woman in D.C., had a secret kryptonite: a simple, unexpected touch on the lower back.

“I am not,” you insisted, voice tight and embarrassingly squeaky. You willed your body to stop betraying you, but the mere idea of being tickled, now that it was out in the open, seemed to make every nerve ending on your body hyper-aware.

“You are!” April crowed, delighted. “You’re like a startled cat. All claws and hisses until someone finds the right spot, and then you just short-circuit.” She shook her head, rolling her eyes in sheer amusement at the discovery. “Unbelievable.”

With a long-suffering but entertained sigh, she righted the wobbling stool that you had nearly toppled. She planted a firm hand on it, testing its stability. “Alright, get down from there before you give yourself a heart attack. And for god’s sake, chill out. It’s not a federal indictment.” She gestured for you to descend, her demeanor shifting from provocateur to mildly exasperated caretaker. “Your secret is safe with me. Though I can’t promise I’ll never use it again. The scream was honestly a career highlight.”

--

The rest of the week passed in a state of high-alert tension for you. Every time April entered a room, your posture would stiffen, senses on high alert for any sudden movement. You found yourself strategically positioning chairs and desks as buffers, turning your back only to walls, and generally moving through the office with the cautious paranoia of a gazelle that had just learned lions could climb trees.

But April, infuriatingly, gave no indication that the incident had ever happened. She didn’t smirk knowingly, she didn’t make veiled references to your ticklishness, she didn’t even look at your lower back. She was her usual, sarcastic, apathetic self, which somehow made you even more anxious. It felt like waiting for the other shoe to drop, a shoe she now knew was lined with feathers.

By Thursday afternoon, the constant vigilance had begun to wear off, replaced by a tentative, weary calm. Maybe it had been a one-off. Maybe April had gotten her kicks and moved on. You were standing side-by-side near the back of the main office, where Ben had gathered the entire staff for an impromptu announcement. Jen stood just to his left, a portrait of polished impatience, her arms crossed as she scanned the crowd.

Ben was beaming, his folksy charm dialed up to eleven. “…and I just want to thank each and every one of you for the incredible hustle this week! Those poll numbers don’t lie, and it’s because of your dedication that we’re seeing this momentum build!”

You, lulled into a false sense of security by the boring corporate pep talk and April’s prolonged silence, let your guard down. You leaned ever so slightly towards April, her eyes still fixed dutifully on Ben, and muttered under her breath, a dry, quiet observation meant only for the intern beside her. “Nice of you to finally join us. Did you get lost on your way back from your three-hour coffee break?”

It was a tiny jab, a return to the familiar rhythm of their barbed exchanges. You expected a sarcastic retort, maybe an eye-roll.

You did not expect the lightning-fast, precise strike.

April’s hand, which had been hanging casually at her side, darted out with the speed of a viper. Two fingers pinched a small, unforgiving fold of skin and fabric right at your ribs.

The effect was instantaneous and catastrophic.

A sharp, involuntary gasp was ripped from your lungs, followed immediately by a high-pitched, strangled noise that was half-yelp, half-squeal. It was a sound of pure, unadulterated surprise and physical reflex, utterly devoid of any professional composure. Your entire body convulsed, jumping what felt like a full foot sideways and crashing into a filing cabinet with a loud thump.

The room froze.

Ben’s smile faltered. The low murmur of the staff died instantly.

Jen whirled around, her gaze a laser of pure, icy fury. Her eyes swept over the assembled staff, her brow furrowed in utter contempt for the interruption. “What in God’s name was that?” she snapped, her voice cutting through the silence like a whip crack. “Is there a fucking chihuahua loose in my office?”

Panic, cold and absolute, flooded your system. Your face was on fire, your heart felt like it was trying to escape through your throat. For a single, horrifying second, you was paralyzed, caught in the crosshairs of Jen’s displeasure.

Then, pure survival instinct kicked in.

Your eyes went wide with feigned innocence. You straightened up, smoothing her blouse, and began to subtly peer around the room yourself, your expression a perfect mask of bewildered curiosity, as if you, too, were searching for the source of the mysterious noise. You even craned your neck slightly, looking under a nearby desk. “I… I’m not sure, Jen. It sounded like it came from over there,” you murmured, gesturing vaguely towards the kitchen area.

From beside you, you heard a choked, sputtering sound. You risked a glance. April had both hands clamped over her mouth, her shoulders shaking violently. Tears of suppressed laughter streamed from the corners of her eyes as she desperately tried to turn her uncontrollable snickers into a convincing coughing fit. She was failing miserably.

Jen’s steely gaze lingered on you both for a moment longer, her jaw tight with suspicion, before she turned back to Ben with a dismissive, exasperated shake of her head. “As I was saying, Ben…”

The moment she turned away, April doubled over, silently shuddering with laughter, her entire body trembling with the effort of staying quiet. She wiped a tear from her eye and shot you a look of pure, unadulterated triumph.

With your own heart still hammering, you could only stare straight ahead, cheeks burning. April had just discovered a weapon of mass destruction.

As soon as the clock hit 5:00 PM, you shoved files into your bag with more force than necessary, the sharp zip of the zipper sounding like a guillotine blade dropping. You needed air.

“Going somewhere in a hurry?” April’s voice was light, teasing, but with an undercurrent of something else. Caution, maybe.

Your head snapped up and you snatched a pen from her pencil cup. You brandished it like a shiv.

“Don’t,” you warned, “Don’t you come any closer. I swear to god, April, I will stab you with this.”

April stopped dead in her tracks. For a second, she just stared, and then a slow, incredulous laugh bubbled out of her. It wasn’t the mocking cackle from the supply closet or the suppressed snickers from the meeting; this was genuine, surprised amusement. She slowly raised her hands in a gesture of surrender, her palms open and empty.

“Whoa, okay. Easy there, Bourne Identity.” A smirk played on her lips. “I come in peace. Mostly.”

“I don’t care what you come in,” you hissed, not lowering the pen. “Just stay over there.”

“Alright, alright.” April took a deliberate step back. She let the silence stretch for a moment. “Look,” she began, her tone shifting, losing some of its teasing edge. “I’m… sorry. About earlier. In the meeting.”

You scoffed, finally setting the pen down with a clatter to continue packing, though you kept a wary eye on her. “You’re not sorry. You’re never sorry.”

“I’m sorry for the timing and the location,” April clarified, her voice dropping to a more serious, conspiratorial level. She glanced around to ensure they were truly alone. “If I’d known you were capable of making a sound like that I would have done it a lot sooner. And a lot more often.”

You froze, a flush creeping up your neck again.

“But,” April continued, her voice firm, “I wouldn’t have done it right in front of Jen ‘Dragon Lady’ Barkley. That part was… My bad.”

“Shut up,” you muttered, voice thick with embarrassment.

“I mean it,” April said, and she actually sounded sincere. “That was a tactical miscalculation. Your secret weapon is too good to waste on a crowd. Something like that should be deployed strategically. In private. For maximum effect.”

“I said shut up!” you finally whirled to face her, composure cracking. You were flustered, nervous, and utterly disarmed. There was no defense against this.

April just looked at you, her expression unreadable for a moment—a mix of amusement and curiosity.

“Fine, fine. I’m shutting up.” She gave a lazy, two-fingered salute.

And with that, she turned and sauntered away, leaving you standing alone, bag half-packed, and face on fire.

--

Friday. The finish line was in sight, a glorious forty-eight-hour reprieve from color-coded schedules, Jen’s piercing gaze, and April’s… well, April’s everything. The day passed with a blessedly mundane rhythm—emails answered, appointments confirmed, a minor crisis with a printer jam deftly handled. By 4:45 PM, a quiet, hopeful energy began to hum through the office. Coats were being retrieved from closets, weekend plans whispered over cubicle walls.

You were just shutting down your computer, mentally already on her couch with a glass of wine and a truly terrible reality TV show, when you passed by Ben’s open door. April was inside, slouched in a chair with the posture of a disgruntled teenager.

“…a whole box? By myself?” April’s voice was a masterpiece of whining apathy. “It’s Friday, Ben. This is a violation of the Geneva Convention.”

Ben’s chuckle was warm but distracted as he sorted through a pile of papers on his desk. “I know, I know, but these mailers have to go out Monday morning. It’s just addressing and stamping. You’ll be done in an hour.”

“Famous last words,” April muttered just as you tried to slip past the doorway unseen.

Ben’s head popped up. “Oh! [Y/N], perfect timing.”

Your heart sank. No. No, no, no.

You forced your feet to stop, pivoting with a smoothness born of long practice, Professional Pleasant mask clicking into place so fast it was almost audible. “Yes, Ben?”

“You wouldn’t mind giving April a hand with these, would you?” he asked, his smile genial and utterly oblivious to the silent scream building in your chest. “Many hands make light work, and all that.”

Every fiber of your being wanted to say no. To cite a fictional prior engagement, a sick relative, a sudden onset of bubonic plague. But the people-pleasing instinct, honed to a razor’s edge by years of working for Jen, was too strong. The words came out smooth and agreeable, a complete betrayal of your inner self. “Of course, Ben. Not a problem at all.”

You caught the look on April’s face—a roll of the eyes so intense it seemed to involve her entire skeletal system.

“Great! You two are lifesavers,” Ben said, grabbing his jacket. “Just lock up when you’re done.”

The moment he was gone, the pleasant smile evaporated from your face, replaced by a weary, resigned flatness. You stalked into the conference room where the dreaded box of mailers sat, a monument to your own inability to set boundaries.

You set up camp at the far end of the long table, creating a neat little fortress of envelopes, a pen, and the voter address list. You worked with brisk, efficient movements, your focus absolute. The faster you worked, the faster you could escape.

April slunk in a few minutes later, dropping into a chair with a theatrical sigh. She grabbed a handful of envelopes and started scrawling addresses with a kind of aggressive carelessness. For a blessed twenty minutes, the only sounds were the scratch of pens, the rustle of paper, and the distant hum of the building’s HVAC system.

It was April who broke the truce. She didn’t look up from the envelope she was defacing. “Why’d you say yes?”

Your pen didn’t pause. “It’s my job.”

A snort. “Your job description does not include ‘enabling Ben’s poor planning on a Friday night.’ Your job is to manage the dragon’s schedule and prevent her from literally incinerating people with her glare.”

“We’re a team. We help each other,” you replied, the corporate-speak tasting like ash in her mouth.

This time, April did look up, fixing you with a stare that was both bored and intensely perceptive. “You’re such a kiss-ass.”

The words, delivered with such casual accuracy, hit their mark. You kept your eyes fixed on the address list, the names and numbers blurring slightly. She didn’t have a retort. Because April was right. You were a kiss-ass. A people-pleaser. A yes-woman who would rather sacrifice her own Friday evening than risk a flicker of disappointment on her boss’s—or even her boss’s client’s—face. The truth of it sat between them in the quiet room, another piece of ammunition in April’s ever-growing arsenal.

The pleasant mask was gone, shattered by the blunt force of April’s accuracy. Without thinking, your hand shot out, snatching the pen you'd been using. You didn’t even look up, just flung it in April’s general direction across the wide conference table.

It was a pathetic throw. The pen clattered harmlessly against a stack of unused envelopes and skittered to a stop halfway between them.

April let out a short, sharp bark of laughter. “Wow. A real threat.”

“Grow up,” you muttered. You refused to grant April the satisfaction of eye contact, staring down at the voter list instead.

There was a rustle of movement, and then the paper was ripped from beneath your pen. Your head jerked up in shock - April was standing now, holding the address list just out of reach, a challenging glint in her eyes.

“If you’re going to insult me, you could at least have the decency to look at me while you do it,” April said, her voice a low taunt.

“Give it back,” you demanded, your chair scraping loudly against the floor as you stood up. You made a grab for it, but April, taller and infuriatingly agile, simply held it higher.

“Come on, kiss-ass. Earn it.”

Frustration boiled over. You lunged across the corner of the table, leaning deep into April’s space, your fingers straining for the paper. It was a mistake. A catastrophic miscalculation.

In that same instant, April’s free hand came up. Not to push her away. Not to block her. But to land squarely, gently, on your waist, right on the sensitive curve above your hip.

A burst of panicked, helpless giggles erupted from your throat. You stumbled backward, away from the touch, legs tangling with the office chair. You half-fell, half-collapsed into it, the wheels screeching as you rolled back a few inches. The address list was forgotten, fluttering to the floor. Your hands came up to cover your face, but the giddy, terrified laughter kept bubbling out, completely beyond your control.

April stared, her own anger and teasing morphing into pure, unadulterated delight. She abandoned the paper entirely, her mission shifting. She took a slow, predatory step forward, then another, looming over you where you were trapped in the swivel chair.

“You are so ridiculous,” April breathed, a wide, wicked grin spreading across her face. She watched you squirm, a creature caught in a trap of its own physiology. “I hardly touched you. Look at you.”

You could only shake your head, breathless, pressing yourself deeper into the faux leather as if you could phase through it. “Don’t,” you gasped, the word dissolving into another helpless giggle that you desperately tried to stifle.

“Don’t what?” April purred, her hands coming up, fingers wiggling theatrically. “Don’t prove my point?”

She moved to strike, to dive in and exploit this glorious, hilarious weakness.

But your own hands shot out faster. You caught April’s descending wrist in a rough, desperate grip. Your other hand clamped over April’s fingers, stopping them inches from your ribcage.

“Don’t you dare!” You squealed, gripping tight.

And then, everything stopped.

The struggle ceased. The laughter died in your throat, replaced by a sudden, sharp intake of breath.

You were inches apart. Close enough for you to see the faint dusting of freckles across April’s nose, the flecks of amber in her otherwise dark eyes. Close enough to feel the warmth of April’s body, to smell the faint scent of her shampoo—something clean, like citrus and mint. The air, which had been crackling with antagonism, suddenly felt thick, charged with something else entirely. The giggling, the grappling, the sheer physicality of it—it had crossed an invisible line from a battle of wits into something more intimate.

Your gaze was locked with April’s, whose expression had shifted from predatory glee to something more complex—curiosity, impatience, a challenge held in the slight arch of one eyebrow. The warmth of April’s captured wrist seeped into your palm.

Then, April’s eyes did it. They rolled. A slow, deliberate, oh-for-fuck’s-sake roll that was the final, infuriating spark.

Something in you snapped. It wasn't a thought; it was a raw, impulsive surge that bypassed every circuit of self-preservation and professional decorum. The hesitation shattered.

You surged forward, closing the minuscule distance between you.

It wasn't gentle or questioning. It was a collision—a firm, desperate press of mouth against mouth, a direct transfer of all the pent-up frustration, embarrassment, and terrifying attraction of the past weeks. Your hands, still gripping April’s wrist, pulled, dragging April down and into your space, boxing yourself further into the confines of the office chair. For a heartbeat, April was rigid with surprise. Then, with a soft, muffled sound against your mouth, she yielded.

She kissed back, her lips parting, the kiss deepening from a stunned impact into something slower, hotter, infinitely more intentional. Her free hand came up, not to push away, but to cup the side of your neck, her thumb stroking a slow line along her jaw.

And then April’s thumb brushed a particular spot just below your ear.

A full-body shiver wracked you. You flinched back with a sharp, involuntary giggle, shrinking away from the touch that had just moments ago felt so good. "Ah! Don't—"

The sound was your undoing.

April’s eyes, which had been dark with a mirrored daze, lit up like a predator spotting fresh prey. The spell of the kiss shattered, replaced by the familiar, exhilarating game. A wicked grin spread across her face.

“Oh, here too?” she murmured, her voice a husky tease. She deliberately dragged the tips of her fingers lightly, torturously, down the sensitive column of your neck.

You jerked away with a yelp, slapping ineffectually at April’s hand. “Stop it!”

But April was relentless, her laughter low and thrilled. As you batted one hand away, April’s other hand that had been cupping your neck darted down, finding the exact spot on your ribs she’d discovered days before.

A shriek of laughter burst from you, raw and completely unrestrained. You bucked in the chair, trying to curl into a protective ball, but April was there, leaning over you, pinning you in place with her body, her fingers dancing mercilessly over the vulnerable spots on your ribs and waist.

“N-no! April, stop! Please!” You begged between gasping, undignified giggles, the professional facade utterly annihilated. You were a writhing, laughing mess, your attempts to fight back feeble and uncoordinated. The conference room echoed with the sounds of your helpless laughter and April’s triumphant, delighted chuckles, a private chaos in the heart of the silent, empty office.

Both hands were in motion now, a relentless, searching assault. One hand scribbled vicious, tickling circles over the soft, vulnerable plane of your stomach, while the other danced up your side, finding the delicate space under your arm.

“I didn’t even know you could laugh!” April crowed, her voice breathless with her own amusement. She watched, mesmerized, as you dissolved beneath her touch—a writhing, gasping, giggling heap of what had once been a perfectly composed political assistant. “I thought it was against your programming! ‘Error 404: Sense of Humor Not Found!’”

You could only shake her head wildly, words lost in a cascade of breathless, squealing giggles. You tried to bat April’s hands away, but her arms were flailing, uncoordinated, her defenses completely compromised. Every attempt to curl into a protective ball was thwarted by a new attack on a freshly discovered weak spot.

“Is this one good?” April mused, her tone one of clinical, sadistic curiosity as she switched tactics, her thumbs digging gently but insistently into the hollows of your hips. The reaction was immediate and violent: you shrieked, back arching off the chair, her legs kicking out uselessly.

“Or how about… here?” April’s fingers skated lightly, tantalizingly, up the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, just above her knee.

“NO! NOT THERE!” You yelped, laughter pitching higher into a desperate, frantic register. You tried to slam your knees together, but April was already moving.

April leaned in closer, her face hovering just inches from yours, her eyes alight with discovery. “My god, you’re a goldmine,” she breathed, her voice a mixture of awe and sheer delight. “It’s like your entire body is one big ‘on’ switch. I just have to find the right buttons.”

Her fingers spider-walked up your sides, tracing your ribs one by one, cataloging the subtle shifts in your hysterical reactions; a sharper gasp here, a more choked squeal there.

The world had narrowed to the sensation of April’s hands on your skin and the uncontrollable, giddy agony of laughter tearing through you. Your carefully constructed walls lay in ruins around you. There was no professionalism, no crush on Jen, no student loans, no people-pleasing, no public facade. There was only this overwhelming reality of being completely and utterly at someone else’s mercy. And April, it seemed, had no mercy at all.

You made a weak attempt to grab April’s wrists, a token struggle that lasted all of two seconds before you had to bring your elbows back in protectively. Your body seemed to have chosen its own strategy: complete and utter surrender. Instead of fighting, you arched into the touch, a helpless, writhing offering, your nervous system hijacked by the dual onslaught of sensation and humiliation.

“Please—ah!—stop!” you begged, the word dissolving into a high-pitched squeal as April’s fingers found a particularly devastating spot just below your ribs on your upper stomach. Your threats were equally feeble, gasped out between peals of laughter. “I’ll—hee!—I’ll tell Jen! I swear I will!”

April didn’t even pause. “Oh yeah?” she chuckled, her voice a low, wicked hum right next to your ear. “Go ahead. Call her. Let’s see how you explain this.” She demonstrated her point by digging her fingertips into your sides, eliciting a fresh wave of frantic giggles. “Hi, Jen? Yeah, it’s [Y/N]. I can’t come in on Monday because the intern found my off-switch and I’ve been rendered completely non-functional.”

You blushed but had no comeback. You were a blushing, giggling, utterly disarmed mess, and the knowledge of your own complete loss of composure only made you blush harder, which in turn seemed to fuel April’s amusement.

“Look at you,” April teased, her movements slowing but not stopping, her hands now tracing light, maddening circles on your stomach. “The great [Y/N, Y/L/N], reduced to a puddle of giggles. Who knew the dragon’s right hand was so… ticklish?” She dragged out the last word, savoring it.

“I hate you,” You moaned, but it came out as a breathless, watery laugh, completely devoid of any conviction. You squirmed, trying to escape the gentle, torturous circles, but your body was betraying you, leaning into the touch rather than away from it.

“No, you don’t,” April said, her voice dropping, becoming almost soft. She leaned in again, her breath ghosting over your flushed cheek. “You’re having fun. Admit it. This is the most fun you’ve had all week.”

You shook her head, a desperate, silent denial, but the continuous, helpless giggles spilling from your lips were a confession in themselves.

The relentless assault of tickling fingers gentled, then stilled completely. April’s hands came to rest, warm and heavy, on your hips, a grounding pressure after the storm of sensation. The only sounds in the room were your ragged, gasping breaths and the faint, residual giggles that still shook your shoulders.

April looked down at you, her expression unreadable for a moment, the predatory glee replaced by something quieter, more contemplative. A slow, genuine smile touched her lips.

“You know,” she said, her voice husky, “I was wrong about you.”

You dragged in a shaky breath, chest heaving. You tried to muster some semblance of fury, to curse this woman out for reducing you to a hysterical, blushing puddle. “You… you are the most infuriating… insufferable…” you managed, the words lacking any heat, coming out as a breathless, exhausted accusation.

April leaned in, cutting off the feeble tirade not with a touch, but with her mouth.

This kiss was different. It wasn't the frantic, impulsive collision from before. This time, April initiated it, a slow, deliberate claiming. There was no hesitation, no surprise—just a deep, searching intensity that stole the last of the air from your lungs.

All the fight, all the tension, all the carefully maintained control seeped out of you in a single, surrendering sigh. Your hands, which had been flailing uselessly moments before, came up to clutch at April’s shoulders, holding on as if she were the only solid thing in the world. You kissed back, her response open and yielding, a complete capitulation.

April broke the kiss, pulling back just enough that their lips were barely brushing. Her dark eyes searched your dazed ones, her own breathing slightly uneven.

“You’re annoying,” she whispered, the insult a soft, intimate caress. Then she kissed you again, deeper this time, swallowing your soft, startled gasp.

The mailers could wait a little longer.

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