cc. 99% lee, subby asf, writes stuff
ââ 18+ blog (i'm 30) ft. nsfw content
obsessed w older women â ËïœĄâàšà§Ë
this is a tickling kink blog. (fic list)
taken emojis ââ âšđ±đđ„
Request: Could you write some more agathario x reader where the reader tries to tickle them but it backfires and they team up against them? your fics are so cute đ„ș
Note: Thank you for this request! I love writing for Agatha and Rio plus the reader <3 Also, I realized it's been 4 years since I started writing on here, and I can't believe it! I truly enjoy sharing this space and community with you all :)
Word Count: 581
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You just got home from a long day of work, and Agatha and Rio were on the couch together, watching TV. All you wanted to do was stretch out and relax under the blanket, but there wasnât enough room.
You decided to go shower first so you wouldnât accidentally fall asleep on the couch. You also hoped this would give them enough time to move off the couch and go to bed.
However, much to your dismay, they were still sitting there. Maybe some convincing would get them up.
âMove somewhere else so I can stretch out,â you said, plopping down in between them.
âWe were here first, kiddo,â Rio said, giving you a playful bop.
âBut Iâm tiredddd,â you whined.
âThen you shouldnât be watching TV,â Agatha lectured you.
You pouted and crossed your arms, still thinking of ways to get them off the couch. You took a quick peek at both of them, trying to see if they were paying any attention to you. It seemed like they were engrossed in the show, so you reached out with both hands to pinch their sides.
âGet off the couch, you couch potatoes!â You teased, rapidly squeezing their sides with each hand.
You heard them yelp and jump away from you, pushing your hands away.
âWow, you two are so in sync,â you teased.
âY/N! Donât do that!â Agatha swatted at you.
âI wonât if you guys move off the couch,â you bargained.Â
âOh is that so, miss bossy pants?â Rio questioned, now reaching over to tickle your belly.Â
âHAHAHA NOHOHO!â You yelled, twisting away from her.
The minute you recovered from that sensation, you felt Agatha tickling your feet, causing you to kick and protest.
The two older women were having fun messing with you now. They didnât pin you down, and they enjoyed watching how much you jumped and flailed everywhere. They knew you were enjoying it too since you werenât escaping.
âI thought you were tired, Y/N? Weâre just trying to help wake you up,â Agatha teased, reaching over and poking your ribs, as you fought her hands away.
âYeah, weâre just helping,â Rio chimed in, skittering her fingers into your armpits, as you panicked and clamped your arms down.
âI HATE YOHOU!â
âAww, poor little Y/N is losing the tickle fight,â they teased, squeezing and poking wherever they could find an opening. You twisted and turned, feeling more and more exhausted as they wore you down. Any time you tried to tickle them again, they only got you back a thousand times worse.Â
âPlehehease thihis ihis mehehean!â You begged. At this point, you were curled up into a ball to protect your tickle spots.Â
âYou can stretch out if you put your feet in my lap,â Rio offered.
âNo way.â
âFine, then you donât have a choice,â Rio said, yanking your feet into her lap. She held your ankles together tightly, using her other hand to scribble all over your soles.
âRIHIO STAHAHAP IHIT I SWEHEHEAR!â You tugged your ankles in an attempt to get free, but she had a death grip on them.
âThis is what you get for being a troublemaker,â Rio sighed.
After tormenting you a little bit more, the girls finally showed mercy and gave you a nice massage to calm you down. Within ten minutes, you had fallen asleep, so the girls carried you to your bed and tucked you in, each giving you a kiss on the cheek.
you have no idea how excited I am for this Maya Mason fic of yours to drop but until then Iâll be patient and just reread all the Little Bit Addicted chapters đ
that's what i'm working on more of today! thank you for the support and patience, though, it's very appreciated đ
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:Â 7.8k
content & warnings:Â 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. Jenâs schedule was a minefield of donor calls, media training sessions, and strategy briefings, each block of time meticulously color-coded. Benâs schedule, open on Aprilâs laptop beside her, was a mess of folksy town hall meetings and Rotary Club breakfasts, occasionally punctuated by Jenâs brutal red annotations: âNEEDS MEDIA COACHING â STATâ and âREMIND HIM NOT TO TALK ABOUT PIE BAKING WITH THE WALL STREET JOURNAL.â
âOkay,â You said, her voice carefully modulated into what you privately called her âProfessional Pleasantâ register. âIf 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.â
April didnât look up from her phone, where she was idly scrolling through some meme page. âMmm. Heâll 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.â
Your smile tightened at the corners. âWeâll 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 Benâs policy roundtable wraps by 4:45 at the absolute latest so she can get out.â
âBenâs policy roundtables never wrap,â April stated flatly, finally setting her phone down. She leaned back in her chair, the plastic groaning in protest. âHe gets one whiff of a passionate, misguided opinion from some local busybody and heâs 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.â
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 stomachâa mix of secondhand anxiety and something warmer.
You cleared her throat. âWell, weâll just have to be firm. Iâll draft a talking points sheet for you to give him, emphasizing brevity.â
âHe uses those as coasters,â April said, a smirk playing on her lips. She watched you, her eyes sharp and unnervingly perceptive. âYou know, for someone who plans every second of the day, youâre remarkably bad at planning your escape from this place. My stomach is staging a revolt. What are we doing about food?â
Relieved to be on a simpler topic, you brightened. âOh! Right. I was thinking we could order from that new Thai place? They got a great review in the Post.â
April made a face, a theatrical grimace of disgust. âUgh. Coconut milk. Tastes like suntan lotion.â
âOkay⊠how about Italian? That little trattoria by the bus station?"
âAll that cream and pasta. Iâd be comatose in ten minutes. Useless.â
Your brow furrowed. Her Professional Pleasant mask was beginning to feel heavy, like plaster drying on your skin. âSushi? Thereâs a good delivery serviceââ
âCold, raw fish? At 8 PM? Are you trying to give me nightmares?â
âA burger, then? The pub down the street does a good cheeseburger.â
âGround beef mystery meat. Pass.â
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.
âYouâre doing this on purpose,â You accused, voice dropping its polished cadence, becoming lower, flatter. You could feel it as your mask slipped, revealing the exhaustion and irritation beneath.
Aprilâs head snapped up, her smirk widening into a full-blown, triumphant grin. âThere she is.â
âWhat?â
âThe real you. Not the Stepford Wife version you puppet around for Jen.â April leaned forward, elbows on the table, her chin resting in her hands. âItâs exhausting just watching you do it. All the smiling and nodding and âof course, Jen, right away, Jen.â I was starting to think your face would get stuck like that.â
Heat rushed to your cheeks. It was a direct hit, and it stung because it was true. âItâs called being professional, April. Itâs how adults maintain employment and pay their bills.â
âIs that what you call it?â Aprilâs eyes flickered towards the closed door of Jenâs office. âFrom where Iâm sitting, it looks a lot like youâre trying to win a gold star from the teacher you have a crush on.â
The flush on your face deepened to a hot, mortified scarlet. âI do not have a crush on Jen.â
âOh, 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. Itâs pathetic. And hilarious.â
âYou have no idea what youâre talking about,â You shot back, voice tight. You started gathering her papers with jerky, agitated movements. âMy relationship with Jen is strictly professional. I respect her. Sheâs a brilliant strategist.â
âSheâs a dragon in a Prada pantsuit, and youâre the virgin sacrifice whoâs weirdly into it.â Aprilâs words were blunt, but there was no real malice in them; it was the clinical, observational tone of a scientist dissecting a fascinating specimen. âYou should hear the way your voice goes up half an octave when you talk to her. Itâs like youâre auditioning for a very depressing porno.â
âStop it.â 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. Aprilâs smirk softened into something more contemplative.
âLook,â she said, her voice losing its teasing edge. âOrder the Thai food. I donât actually care. I just wanted to see how many hoops youâd jump through before you snapped.â
You deflated, the fight going out of you. The confrontation had left you feeling exposed and weary. âWhy? Why do you enjoy messing with me so much?â
April shrugged, a fluid, careless motion. âBecause the alternative is staring at this soul-crushing spreadsheet until my brain leaks out of my ears. And becauseâŠâ She paused, seeming to choose her words with unusual care. âThe professional version of you is a cardboard cutout. This version,â she gestured to your frustrated, unmasked face, âis at least a person. A person whoâs stuck in a shitty job for shitty reasons and has a tragically misplaced workplace infatuation. But a person. Itâs more interesting.â
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.
âFine,â You finally muttered, pulling out your phone. âWe're doing curry. Level four spicy. And if you complain, Iâm putting your number on a Scientology mailing list.â
A genuine, surprised laugh burst from April. It wasnât her usual sarcastic snort; it was a real, warm sound that transformed her face, making her look younger and far less guarded. âSee? Was that so hard? A little threat of eternal harassment?â
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 volunteerâs 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 barâa folding table with a red solo cup pyramidâby 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.
âSo you see, the real key is grassroots mobilization,â one said, leaning in a little too close, his breath smelling of hops.
âAbsolutely, but digital outreach is the future,â the other countered, puffing out his chest. âI ran the Instagram analytics for the lastââ
âFascinating,â 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. Heâs talking about Instagram engagement metrics. Focus on the horror in front of you.
Thatâs when you felt itâa 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 didnât fall. Two hands shot out, catching you firmly by the elbows, steadying before you could make a complete fool of yourself.
âWhoa there, tiger,â a dry, familiar voice drawled right next to your ear. âLooks like someone canât handle their boxed Chardonnay.â
Your head snapped around to find Aprilâs 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.
âI⊠I just lost my balance,â You stammered, face flushing with a mixture of shock and fury.
âClearly,â April said, her grip tightening on your elbows. She nodded politely to the guys. âGentlemen. Iâm going to have to confiscate this one before she redecorates the carpet with that wine. Campaign finance laws being what they are, we canât afford a cleaning deposit.â 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. âWhat the hell was that, April?â you hissed, whirling around. Your heart was hammering against your ribs. âYou could have made me spill wine all over myself! You could have made me fall!â
April just shrugged, stuffing her hands into the pockets of her ripped jeans. âBut you didnât. Iâm surprisingly agile when it comes to orchestrating social rescues.â
âThat wasnât a rescue, that was an assault!â
âSemantics.â April started walking down the hall, peering into the dark, empty offices. âYou looked like a gazelle surrounded by two very, very dumb lions. I was doing you a favor. Your âPolite but Boredâ routine was going to keep them circling for another hour. My way was faster.â
âYour way involved potentially giving me a concussion!â
âA calculated risk.â April tried a door handle; it was locked. She moved to the next one. âAnd honestly? The look on your face was worth the potential workersâ comp claim. Priceless.â This one opened. âAh. Jackpot.â
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, âBen Barrett for Congressâ yard signs, and the faint, dusty smell of toner.
âI need to get back,â you said, crossing her arms. âJen might need something.â
âJen is basking in the glow of her own genius. She doesnât need you fending off the horny help.â April was already rummaging through a low cabinet in the corner. She let out a soft, triumphant âAha!â and emerged holding a bottle of amber liquid. It wasnât 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. âLooks like someoneâs been stashing the good stuff for a private celebration.â
âWe canât just drink that,â 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.
âWhy not?â 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. âWeâre staff. We earned this. Well, she earned it,â she jerked her thumb towards the main office, âbut we suffered for it. That counts.â 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 Jenâs cool, appraising gaze. With a sigh that seemed to come from the very bottom of your soul, you picked up the mug. âYou really didnât have to make me buckle like that. A simple âcan I borrow you for a second?â would have sufficed.â
April took a sip of her whisky, her eyes closing for a brief second in appreciation. âWhereâs the fun in that?â she said, opening them again. They glittered in the dim light of the single bare bulb overhead. âThe knee-trick was for my own amusement. The rescue was a happy byproduct. Consider it a two-for-one special.â
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.
âThey were pretty awful, werenât they?â you admitted quietly.
âThe human equivalent of beige wallpaper,â April confirmed. âBut you were going to stand there and take it all night, werenât you? Smiling that tight little smile. Because itâs professional. Because you didnât want to make a scene.â
You didnât 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. âSee? This is better. No mask. No performance. Just you, me, and marginally better alcohol.â She raised her mug in a sardonic toast. âTo positive poll numbers. And to not having to talk to anyone about their Instagram strategy.â
Despite everything, you felt a real, unforced smile touch your lips. You clinked her mug against Aprilâs. âTo that.â
--
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. Jenâs 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!"
Aprilâs 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 sheâd provoked with just a single, casual touch. The scream had been better than she could have ever hoped for.
âWhoa, easy there, killer,â 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. âI was just gonna fix your shirt. Youâre looking a little disheveled for the dragonâs lair.â 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 Aprilâs 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.
âOh my god,â April breathed, her eyes sparkling with mischief. âAre you ticklish? Is that what this whole dramatic performance was about?â
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.
âI am not,â 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.
âYou are!â April crowed, delighted. âYouâre like a startled cat. All claws and hisses until someone finds the right spot, and then you just short-circuit.â She shook her head, rolling her eyes in sheer amusement at the discovery. âUnbelievable.â
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. âAlright, get down from there before you give yourself a heart attack. And for godâs sake, chill out. Itâs not a federal indictment.â She gestured for you to descend, her demeanor shifting from provocateur to mildly exasperated caretaker. âYour secret is safe with me. Though I canât promise Iâll never use it again. The scream was honestly a career highlight.â
--
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 didnât smirk knowingly, she didnât make veiled references to your ticklishness, she didnât 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. ââŠand I just want to thank each and every one of you for the incredible hustle this week! Those poll numbers donât lie, and itâs because of your dedication that weâre seeing this momentum build!â
You, lulled into a false sense of security by the boring corporate pep talk and Aprilâs 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. âNice of you to finally join us. Did you get lost on your way back from your three-hour coffee break?â
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.
Aprilâs 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.
Benâs 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. âWhat in Godâs name was that?â she snapped, her voice cutting through the silence like a whip crack. âIs there a fucking chihuahua loose in my office?â
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 Jenâs 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. âI⊠Iâm not sure, Jen. It sounded like it came from over there,â 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.
Jenâs 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. âAs I was saying, BenâŠâ
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.
âGoing somewhere in a hurry?â Aprilâs 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.
âDonât,â you warned, âDonât you come any closer. I swear to god, April, I will stab you with this.â
April stopped dead in her tracks. For a second, she just stared, and then a slow, incredulous laugh bubbled out of her. It wasnât 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.
âWhoa, okay. Easy there, Bourne Identity.â A smirk played on her lips. âI come in peace. Mostly.â
âI donât care what you come in,â you hissed, not lowering the pen. âJust stay over there.â
âAlright, alright.â April took a deliberate step back. She let the silence stretch for a moment. âLook,â she began, her tone shifting, losing some of its teasing edge. âIâm⊠sorry. About earlier. In the meeting.â
You scoffed, finally setting the pen down with a clatter to continue packing, though you kept a wary eye on her. âYouâre not sorry. Youâre never sorry.â
âIâm sorry for the timing and the location,â April clarified, her voice dropping to a more serious, conspiratorial level. She glanced around to ensure they were truly alone. âIf Iâd known you were capable of making a sound like that I would have done it a lot sooner. And a lot more often.â
You froze, a flush creeping up your neck again.
âBut,â April continued, her voice firm, âI wouldnât have done it right in front of Jen âDragon Ladyâ Barkley. That part was⊠My bad.â
âShut up,â you muttered, voice thick with embarrassment.
âI mean it,â April said, and she actually sounded sincere. âThat 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.â
âI said shut up!â 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 momentâa mix of amusement and curiosity.
âFine, fine. Iâm shutting up.â 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, Jenâs piercing gaze, and Aprilâs⊠well, Aprilâs everything. The day passed with a blessedly mundane rhythmâemails 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 Benâs open door. April was inside, slouched in a chair with the posture of a disgruntled teenager.
ââŠa whole box? By myself?â Aprilâs voice was a masterpiece of whining apathy. âItâs Friday, Ben. This is a violation of the Geneva Convention.â
Benâs chuckle was warm but distracted as he sorted through a pile of papers on his desk. âI know, I know, but these mailers have to go out Monday morning. Itâs just addressing and stamping. Youâll be done in an hour.â
âFamous last words,â April muttered just as you tried to slip past the doorway unseen.
Benâs head popped up. âOh! [Y/N], perfect timing.â
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. âYes, Ben?â
âYou wouldnât mind giving April a hand with these, would you?â he asked, his smile genial and utterly oblivious to the silent scream building in your chest. âMany hands make light work, and all that.â
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 razorâs edge by years of working for Jen, was too strong. The words came out smooth and agreeable, a complete betrayal of your inner self. âOf course, Ben. Not a problem at all.â
You caught the look on Aprilâs faceâa roll of the eyes so intense it seemed to involve her entire skeletal system.
âGreat! You two are lifesavers,â Ben said, grabbing his jacket. âJust lock up when youâre done.â
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 buildingâs HVAC system.
It was April who broke the truce. She didnât look up from the envelope she was defacing. âWhyâd you say yes?â
Your pen didnât pause. âItâs my job.â
A snort. âYour job description does not include âenabling Benâs poor planning on a Friday night.â Your job is to manage the dragonâs schedule and prevent her from literally incinerating people with her glare.â
âWeâre a team. We help each other,â 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. âYouâre such a kiss-ass.â
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 didnât 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 bossâsâor even her bossâs clientâsâface. The truth of it sat between them in the quiet room, another piece of ammunition in Aprilâs ever-growing arsenal.
The pleasant mask was gone, shattered by the blunt force of Aprilâs accuracy. Without thinking, your hand shot out, snatching the pen you'd been using. You didnât even look up, just flung it in Aprilâs 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. âWow. A real threat.â
âGrow up,â 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.
âIf youâre going to insult me, you could at least have the decency to look at me while you do it,â April said, her voice a low taunt.
âGive it back,â 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.
âCome on, kiss-ass. Earn it.â
Frustration boiled over. You lunged across the corner of the table, leaning deep into Aprilâs space, your fingers straining for the paper. It was a mistake. A catastrophic miscalculation.
In that same instant, Aprilâs 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.
âYou are so ridiculous,â April breathed, a wide, wicked grin spreading across her face. She watched you squirm, a creature caught in a trap of its own physiology. âI hardly touched you. Look at you.â
You could only shake your head, breathless, pressing yourself deeper into the faux leather as if you could phase through it. âDonât,â you gasped, the word dissolving into another helpless giggle that you desperately tried to stifle.
âDonât what?â April purred, her hands coming up, fingers wiggling theatrically. âDonât prove my point?â
She moved to strike, to dive in and exploit this glorious, hilarious weakness.
But your own hands shot out faster. You caught Aprilâs descending wrist in a rough, desperate grip. Your other hand clamped over Aprilâs fingers, stopping them inches from your ribcage.
âDonât you dare!â 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 Aprilâs nose, the flecks of amber in her otherwise dark eyes. Close enough to feel the warmth of Aprilâs body, to smell the faint scent of her shampooâsomething 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 itâit had crossed an invisible line from a battle of wits into something more intimate.
Your gaze was locked with Aprilâs, whose expression had shifted from predatory glee to something more complexâcuriosity, impatience, a challenge held in the slight arch of one eyebrow. The warmth of Aprilâs captured wrist seeped into your palm.
Then, Aprilâs eyes did it. They rolled. A slow, deliberate, oh-for-fuckâs-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 collisionâa 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 Aprilâs 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 Aprilâs 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'tâ"
The sound was your undoing.
Aprilâs 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.
âOh, here too?â 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 Aprilâs hand. âStop it!â
But April was relentless, her laughter low and thrilled. As you batted one hand away, Aprilâs other hand that had been cupping your neck darted down, finding the exact spot on your ribs sheâd 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.
âN-no! April, stop! Please!â 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 Aprilâs 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.
âI didnât even know you could laugh!â April crowed, her voice breathless with her own amusement. She watched, mesmerized, as you dissolved beneath her touchâa writhing, gasping, giggling heap of what had once been a perfectly composed political assistant. âI thought it was against your programming! âError 404: Sense of Humor Not Found!ââ
You could only shake her head wildly, words lost in a cascade of breathless, squealing giggles. You tried to bat Aprilâs 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.
âIs this one good?â 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.
âOr how about⊠here?â Aprilâs fingers skated lightly, tantalizingly, up the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, just above her knee.
âNO! NOT THERE!â 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. âMy god, youâre a goldmine,â she breathed, her voice a mixture of awe and sheer delight. âItâs like your entire body is one big âonâ switch. I just have to find the right buttons.â
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 Aprilâs 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 elseâs mercy. And April, it seemed, had no mercy at all.
You made a weak attempt to grab Aprilâs 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.
âPleaseâah!âstop!â you begged, the word dissolving into a high-pitched squeal as Aprilâs 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. âIâllâhee!âIâll tell Jen! I swear I will!â
April didnât even pause. âOh yeah?â she chuckled, her voice a low, wicked hum right next to your ear. âGo ahead. Call her. Letâs see how you explain this.â She demonstrated her point by digging her fingertips into your sides, eliciting a fresh wave of frantic giggles. âHi, Jen? Yeah, itâs [Y/N]. I canât come in on Monday because the intern found my off-switch and Iâve been rendered completely non-functional.â
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 Aprilâs amusement.
âLook at you,â April teased, her movements slowing but not stopping, her hands now tracing light, maddening circles on your stomach. âThe great [Y/N, Y/L/N], reduced to a puddle of giggles. Who knew the dragonâs right hand was so⊠ticklish?â She dragged out the last word, savoring it.
âI hate you,â 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.
âNo, you donât,â April said, her voice dropping, becoming almost soft. She leaned in again, her breath ghosting over your flushed cheek. âYouâre having fun. Admit it. This is the most fun youâve had all week.â
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. Aprilâs 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.
âYou know,â she said, her voice husky, âI was wrong about you.â
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. âYou⊠you are the most infuriating⊠insufferableâŠâ 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 surpriseâjust 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 Aprilâs 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.
âYouâre annoying,â she whispered, the insult a soft, intimate caress. Then she kissed you again, deeper this time, swallowing your soft, startled gasp.
I love when the tops of someone's feet are really bad because it's like a tickle sandwich! Top and bottom at the same time and there's nowhere for them to go but further into the tickles
It was a crisp autumn day, and you were currently out on a walk with your new wives, Agatha and Rio. You took in the different colored leaves, the quiet wind, and the occasional bird chirping. You took in a deep breath, still feeling surreal that this was your reality.Â
âWhatâs on your mind, Y/N?â Agatha asked curiously.
âIâm just so grateful that I got to marry you two,â you said, looking at them both lovingly.
âYouâre our sweet little angel,â Agatha said, as they both gave you a kiss on each cheek. You blushed, looking around to make sure nobody saw.
âWhat? You donât like our kisses?â Rio asked.
âNo,â you said, with a cheeky smile as you wiped both of your cheeks off with your sweater sleeves.Â
âHey! Thatâs so rude!â Agatha cried, softly pinching your arm.
You let out a quiet yelp, and slapped her hand away, much to their amusement.Â
âYouâre such a wimp,â Rio said, as you turned red again.
âLetâs go home and have dinner,â you suggested, quickly walking ahead of them.
Your wives helped cook dinner, while you were relaxing on the couch and reading a book. You were currently invested in a mystery novel, and were deeply engrossed in the height of the plot.
âDinner time!â Rio called, setting the table.
âY/N?â Rio asked, peeking out of the kitchen.
You had slightly heard her, but you wanted to get to a good stopping point in your book before eating, so you continued reading.
âY/N, the food is gonna get cold,â Rio insisted, as your eyes worked even quicker to get to a good stopping point. Just when you were on the last page, Rio plucked the book out of your hand and set it on the table.
âWe prepared dinner for you, Y/N. The least you can do is acknowledge us,â Rio said sternly, as you huffed in annoyance and got up to eat.Â
Your wives tried to make conversation at the dinner table, but you were still annoyed that your reading time was interrupted. You gave them short answers and didnât engage much.
âWhatâs going on, Y/N?â Agatha asked.
âNothing, Iâm fine,â you muttered, clearing your plate and putting it in the dishwasher. You then got back on the couch and resumed reading your book. Agatha and Rio shared a look at the table, which you hadnât seen.
âHey Grumpy,â Rio said, sitting at the end of the couch near your feet.
âIâm not grumpy, Iâm reading,â you said flatly, moving the book higher up to cover your view of her.
âAm I not attractive? Is that why youâre hiding your eyes from me?â Rio asked teasingly. You internally rolled your eyes, trying to concentrate on your book. However, it was difficult when Death was literally sitting inches away from you. A hot Death, that is.
âOh, so now youâre gonna ignore me?â Rio asked, running a single nail up your bare foot. You jolted, pulling your leg away quickly, but kept the book up to hide behind.
âUh ohâŠare you ticklish?â Rio asked, now grabbing and holding both of your feet in place. Your toes wiggled in nervous anticipation, as you continued to hide.
âAgatha! Come over here and help me break this tickle toy!â Rio shouted, as Agatha said she was coming over, just after putting away the last dish.
Your breath hitched, as you knew you were doomed. You couldnât even handle one person alone, so you knew two would be the end of any sort of tough mask you tried to put on.Â
âWhat is she doing now?â Agatha asked, a curious smile on her face.
âWell, for one, you know she was being grumpy during dinner. And two, she wonât talk to me!â Rio fake pouted. Part of you wanted to make a snarky comment back to annoy her, but this game was fun.
âOh really?â Agatha asked, as she took your right foot, and Rio took the left. Their nails started to slowly rake over your soft and tender soles, making you immediately buck on the couch and snap your mouth shut so that you wouldnât laugh.Â
âYou are fucked,â Agatha said in a low tone, as they both picked up the pace of their tickling. You slammed the book down on the couch, no longer able to control your response, as a grin broke out on your face.
âOh my gosh, thereâs that precious smile!â Agatha beamed, as you shook your head and attempted to chuck your book at them. The two of them dodged it, but paused temporarily, giving you a stern look.
âThat was not a wise decision,â Rio said, as they both went ballistic on your feet, sending you into hysterical laughter.
âNOHOHOHO PLEHEHEASE IHIHIT TIHIHICKLES!â You squealed, twisting and turning on the couch to no avail.Â
âWe finally got you to talk!â Rio said triumphantly, as you shouted at them to stop.Â
âYou couldâve just been nice to us and talked to us,â Agatha tsked.Â
They changed their method up now, as Agatha was still tickling your foot with full force, while Rio was just gently tracing her nails over your other foot. The difference in sensation was driving you nuts, as you felt tears forming in your eyes.
âOHOOKAY STAHAHAP ENOHOUGH!â You squealed, covering your face in embarrassment.
âNuh uh, none of that,â Agatha said, now coming over towards you and grabbing your arms and placing them above your head so you couldnât hide.
You full on cackled when Rio began to tickle the tops of your feet, and begged for her to stop.
âHmm, fine Iâll have to find out where else youâre ticklish,â Rio said, moving up slightly and squeezing right above your kneecaps.
You convulsed in ticklish agony, as your face scrunched up from the strong sensation.
âYou wanna do the honors?â Rio asked Agatha.
âYou go ahead, Iâll test a different spot,â Agatha said, as your eyes widened. With that, Rio tickled your knees, and you then felt a ticklish sensation on the palms of your hands. You tried to yank your arms out of her grasp, but you only felt Agathaâs grip tighten around your wrists.Â
âHAHAHAHA NOHOHO IHIHI HAHAHATE THIHIS!â You kicked and shouted, pulling in every direction.
âYou seem to be laughing a lot for someone who hates this,â Rio teased, now shaking her hands into your ribs. You tried closing your hands into fists to prevent that spot from being tormented, but Agatha was one step ahead, as she held all your fingers back and continued tickling.
After a bit, they gave you a break, as you laid there panting.
âAre you guys done yet?â You huffed.
âWe still have to find your worst spot,â Agatha said, poking your armpit. You yelped and yanked your arm down.
âOh? What do we have here?â Agatha asked, as she switched spots with Rio to sit on your waist.
âPlease donât tickle me there! Anywhere but there!â You begged, hoping that they would soften from your pouting.
âHmmm, you are very cuteâŠbut I still want to watch you writhe around,â Agatha said, digging all ten fingers into your armpits, as you screamed with laughter.
âSCREHEW YOHOHOU AGAHAHATHA!â You shouted, as your laughter fell in and out of silence and your cheeks were tinged pink.
You managed to roll over, but didnât get very far since Rio still had your wrists held tight. However, this did give Agatha access to tickle the back of your thighs, sending you into a new, fresh wave of laughter.
In addition to all the kicking and screaming, Rio used her free hand to continue tickling in your armpits, switching every so often.
âMEHEHERCY PLEHEASE!â
âAre you sorry for ignoring us and being a grouch?â
âYEHEHES IHIHIM SOHORRY LEHEHET ME GOHOHO!â You squealed, letting out a sigh of relief once they let you go.
âWas that so hard?â Agatha asked, patting your tummy.
You rolled your eyes, still catching your breath.
âWas it?â Agatha said sternly, wiggling her nails over your tummy.
âNohohoho plehehease ihihihi cahahant!â You giggled, sucking in your tummy to try and avoid her fingers.
âMan youâre just ticklish everywhere,â Rio commented, poking your belly button.
âAH! Donât do that!â You snapped.
âWhy not?â Rio asked, repeatedly poking your belly button.
âBecause it tihihickles!â You giggled, swatting her hand away.
âSo this is your giggle button? Any time I want a smile or giggle I just press here?â Agatha teased, joining in and poking you there.
You smacked her hand away too, reaching out to poke her belly button instead.
âHey!â Agatha cried, quickly grabbing your hand, as you giggled in glee.
âWatch it, cheeky,â Agatha said, threateningly running her fingers over your hands again.
âNo! Okay stop it! I wohohnt do ihihit!â
âThatâs more like it,â Agatha said with a smirk.
âWe love you little sub,â Agatha and Rio said at the same time, kissing you again and making you blush.