Spencer’s head was swimming. You held his wrists just ahead of him in one hand, the other held him by his hip, what little freedom Spencer had was spent gripping the sheets and incessantly pleading to you. His knees had given out, but you held him up as much as you needed him to be, not that you were doing any sort of moving.
He whined softly, pushing back as best as he could to incite you, he winced at the stretch that accompanied his resolve, the pain had faded as you’d worked your cock as patiently and slowly as excruciatingly possible. You tut at his behavior, leaning closer, “I know what you want, darling, but patience is a virtue,” you reminded him.
You adjust your legs and Spencer’s head falls forward when your dick incidentally slips out, “Sorry, love,” pushing aside one of Spencer’s arse cheeks, Spencer mewled and you held him firmly before he could greedily push himself back onto your cock. It had been this way for an hour or two, slow fucking followed by stillness, Spencer was on the verge of tears with his begging. You move again, dick dragging inside Spencer, he felt like his body was alight, you languidly rocked against him, kissing the hickeys you’d left along his neck and shoulders.
Mercifully, you don’t stop indefinitely this time, pace increasing until the headboard was slamming against the wall, you release Spencer’s hands to focus on holding his hips, and Spencer clutches the sheets tighter. “W—what happened to patience?” He half snarks, gasping breathlessly.
“Hard to be patient when I’ve got you, love,” your response equally as breathless, you groan softly, “fuck…” Relief washes over Spencer and he sings a chorus of gratitude when you fuck him earnestly, his senses scramble further, the headboard banging against the wall a distant sound.
"Cookie?" You yawned, waking, you turned to see Spencer trying to hide his face in the nook between your neck and the pillows. You raise a brow and muse, “What’s got you all shy?”
Spencer mumbles something, blushing, burrows his face further and you note the flustered red hue present on his skin. “Didn’t quite catch that, sweetheart,” you tease, but Spencer doesn’t clarify himself, growing redder and quieter, you chuckled softly and bundle him in your arms.
hiii !! recently ran into your blog and i love ur posts sm. i have this silly little thing in my mind i was hoping you could maybe write it?
Spencer (thinking mostly season 2, mostly cuz i love his glasses look) and M!Reader have been dating for a while already, like a few months to a year, and Spencer still gets flustered by him. He still gets all nervous when reader is around him, and when he kisses him. Imagine reader giving Spencer a small kiss on the cheek or smth and he becomes a blushing mess, and reader teases him about it which just causes him to become more flustered over it.
you don't have to write that specifically, just anything with Spencer getting easily flustered by reader would be really cute ^^
Smart cookie
(GIF NOT MINE)
request: yes/no
flustered!spencer reid x Tattooed!male!reader
Description: reader asks for readers help with a new tattoo he wants, and when reader calls Spencer a smart cookie Spencer gets flustered, and reader can't help himself
CW: possible swearing, needles (lemme know if theres anything else)
A/N: thanks for the support love <3 and ofc course ma biche! im actually in love with this idea of like cute little baby spencer being all flustered by reader. i think ill add some of my own stuff bc u did give artistic liberty but i hope you enjoy it!
!!!!SORRY ABT THE TERRIBLE FLIRTING!!!!
Y/N L/N and Spencer reid have been dating for 9 months, 2 days, and 3 hours (and counting according to spencer), but he still had a tendency to get adorably flustered when Y/N would flirt with him, and especially if he called him smart cookie. Which y/n didnt quiet understand since he’d been calling his boyfriend smart cookie since practically day one of their relationship. But y/n found it adorably hilarious so it was okay.
one instance of this adorable awkwardness, was the day y/n decided to ask spencer for help with a new tattoo he wanted, something special for the two of them. Spencer had highly advised against it stating
“31% of men and 24% of women regret getting tattoos of someones name. And if even I plan on being with you for long time that may not happen angel.”
“ugh, your too sweet for me darling. But the world doesn’t deserve a hottie like you anyways” y/n replied with a wink as spencer blushed profusely
“and by the way, you cant change my mind on this spencer, im getting that tattoo. And you’ve seen how stubborn i can be, remember The Book Incident? ya thats what i thought” y/n smirked as spencer grimaced remembering the fateful incident earlier that year.
“okay my love, i wont object to you getting the tattoo, but it has to be something good, and i wanna help with it.” spencer finally relented.
this caught y/n of guard, as he had just been planning a heart with with their initials in the center. nothing special, but when y/n told spencer of this plan, he was incredulous.
“do you not know me y/n/n, thats to simple, and not romantic enough! and its something morgan would get.”
after Y/n was done laughing at the morgan comment and had regained his composure they continued their arguing over what the tattoo should be.
“its gonna be on my body!”
“the tattoo is about you and me!”
but after much bickering they came to a consensus that a simple latin phrase would be nice. Simple, yet elegant and romantic. Some for y/n, some for Spencer. now the hard part was deciding which latin phrase from spencers extensive encyclopedia of knowledge in his head.
After much discussion they decided on the phrase “Amor animi arbitrio sumitur, non ponitur” spencer had translated for y/n when he asked what it meant but he already liked the sound of it without the meaning. But when spencer told him he liked it even more, he stated “we choose to love, we do not choose to cease loving.” And you were in love.
“thats it- thats the one!” y/n exclaimed with excitement. “thanks for the help smart cookie” you added with a smile and a wink. As always spencer flushed bright red when his boyfriend called him the pet name. As y/n studied his boyfriend in his flustered state, he couldnt help but notice how cute he was. His reddened cheeks and small smile as he looked away. Y/n couldnt help but get that enamored feeling of intense love and adoration that often came with staring candidly at his beautiful, beautiful boyfriend. In his thoughtful state he didnt even realize that spencer had noticed the intense gaze of his lover.
“why are you looking at me like that?” spencer questioned with a shy smile.
“cus your just too cute not too! and you deserve it” y/n responded with a sly smile. spencer once again flushed red at the flirtatious comments.
“what? Oh c'mere hot stuff I wanna give ya a kiss" y/n pulled his boyfriend into his lap and put his hands on either side of the man's face.
"ugh! Your so cu-" The rest of the man's sentence was cut off by him kissing his boyfriend. Very aggressively Spencer would add, but he was to busy being kissed. Finally y/n let go of his lips and they both sucked in a large breath. But before Spencer could get word out y/n started peppering his face with kisses, using them to punctuate his words
"You. Are. A. Smart. Cookie."
If it was even possible Spencer's ears grew redder. "Thank you, y/n." Spencer responded with a small smile playing at his lips.
"of course love" y/n said as he gave a bigger sweeter smile this time before leaning in for a more loving and passionate kiss. And as they kissed all that fun through y/ns mind, was Spencer.
Warnings: violence, injury, strained past relationship with father/past verbal abuse, mourning of past loss of a parent, later gets kind of steamy (but SFW)
This was a really interesting and fun piece to write! 💚💚 I sort of love the relationship between Loki and the reader in this one 😍
Based on a few prompts: one prompt where reader has tattoos that she keeps hidden for sentimental reasons (with an added mini prompt suggestion), and another Prompt where reader doesn’t like her laugh because it’s too cute for someone who is a tough Avenger, and Loki seeks to prove it doesn’t matter.
PLEASE check out the warnings first - there's some sort of heavy content in this fic compared to most of my usual work. As always, completely SFW though!
"Steve - watch your six!"
"Got it!"
Clang.
The offending SPECTER soldier met the unforgiving edge of the iconic vibranium shield, his blaster sent catapulting from his hands as the force of the blow propelled him to the ground. Steve's blue eyes met yours for only a moment, the captain offering you a nod of thanks before you both dove back into the chaos.
A soldier rushed at you from your right. A swift planting of your non-dominant foot into the ground allowed you to aim a roundhouse kick at him before he could get his hands on you. The blow to the gut sent him reeling despite the armor covering his torso, a shout of surprised frustration barking out from beneath his black mask.
They always underestimated you. It was both a blessing and a curse.
Behind you, four more SPECTER soldiers fell victim to the broadside of Mjolnir, a lethal swinging blur in the hand of the God of Thunder. By his side, Loki effortlessly took down another three, the sharp edges of his blades finding the nearly imperceptible points of vulnerability within the soldiers' armor.
"Hey Rambo - there's an opening up ahead. We gotta get in there," Tony's voice ordered in your ear. Your eyes flitted up to the door to the research facility, catching the end result of Nat tackling a soldier to the ground as she wrestled his blaster from his hand. There was indeed a clear path, free from the hordes of soldiers still locked in combat with the other Avengers.
"Roger that." You took off sprinting toward the door, boots slamming rhythmically against the ground as you raced to catch up with the blur of red and gold metal that whizzed past your head. A blue flash of light blasted straight across your path, halting you in your tracks as a soldier opened fire at you from your left. Sunlight glinted against twirling metal just before one of Loki's daggers found its home in the soldier's abdomen, just below the breastplate of his armor. Whipping around, you saw Loki dashing in the same direction you were headed, shooting you a wink as he passed.
"You're welcome!" he called back to you. You raced after him with your renewed goal of storming the facility, scoffing as you caught up to him.
"I could've taken him!" you shot back with a grin.
"Oh, I'm certain of that."
That handsome smirk of his crossed his face, the one that always gave off the sense that he was withholding some snide or flirty comment, and you swiftly returned your attention to the door ahead of you. You couldn't be getting distracted by that in the heat of battle.
The door had already been blown open by a blast - courtesy of Tony Stark - and you and Loki ducked inside, with Bucky hot on your heels to assist. The foyer was teeming with more SPECTER soldiers dressed in black armor and black masks, already engaged in battle with Tony as he zoomed around dodging their fire and blasting right back with his outstretched palms.
Clouds of smoke billowed up around the room from the relentless blaster fire as you three late arrivals jumped into battle. Bucky's vibranium arm took hits without a scratch, and he used it as a personal shield as he charged at a cluster of three soldiers. You dove to the floor as blaster fire sailed over your head, somersaulting elegantly to a crouched position and sweeping the legs out from under the nearest soldier. Pushing yourself up onto your feet, you hooked an arm around the neighboring soldier's neck and wrenched him to the ground.
A second's lull in the attacks aimed toward you (the least threatening of the four of you present in the building by their standards) gave you the chance to glance around in search of the central communications hub. Straight ahead, a long hallway led straight to a set of double doors, behind which you could only hope was the room you were searching for.
"Checking the hallway, twelve o'clock," you muttered into your comms device as you took off in a sprint toward your destination.
"Roger that, Rambo," Tony's voice responded promptly, the echoes of the blasts bursting around the room resounding in the background. "Meet me there in sixty seconds."
You ducked low as you ran, making yourself as small as possible to evade fire. A soldier stepped out in front of you, blaster aimed straight at your face. You dodged right at the last second, the heat of the blast grazing your ear as you grabbed hold of his wrist and slammed your other forearm down against his, disarming him. You heard a shout and a thud behind you, pivoting just in time to see Loki driving his boot into another enemy's chest. You used the apparent distraction to yank on the wrist of the soldier who'd nearly blasted your head off, throwing him face-first to the floor. Loki ran by your side, completing the last leg of the sprint to the end of the hallway just as Tony unceremoniously blew the doors open.
Inside was, thankfully, a vast control panel of computers and radars that clearly indicated this was the communications hub you'd been searching for. You approached the central computer as Tony landed beside you, removing his Iron Man armor and setting it to sentry mode.
"Loki - be a dear and watch the door, will you?" you asked with mock sweetness. He rolled his eyes, grinning all the same at your cheek.
"Take your time, agent."
You got to work immediately, fingers flying furiously across the holographic keyboard as you worked your hacking magic on the enemy's electronics. A good fight was always a thrill, but this was the sort of work you really lived for. It was so satisfying, breaking past the flimsy firewalls and supposedly secure passcodes to enter into a sea of data, all available at your fingertips. Except you weren't seeking to take data this time. You were seeking to erase it.
Tony hovered over your shoulder, pointing irritatingly at the screen in front of you as though you didn't already know what you were looking for. "There - that's the SHIELD files."
"Seriously? For a group that prides themselves on being 'unseen and unheard,' seems like a rookie mistake saving your stolen files in your main hard drive..." you muttered tauntingly, making quick work of deleting the file from existence.
"Alright, good to go?" Tony urged.
"Stark - you know as well as I that we need to do a sweep to ensure there's no traces of data anywhere else in the system," you chastised, making a few additional clicks to scan the intranet.
"Remind me why I didn't decide to call you 'cyberpunk?'" Tony quipped. You glanced at him with a slight turn of your head, a half-smirk crossing your face.
"Because you know I'm a force to be reckoned with."
"Fair point. That, and you're crazy."
"Also a fair point."
"STOP!"
A hollering voice sounded, not from the door, but from the corner of the room. Your eyes flitted upward just in time to see a soldier aim his blaster straight at you. Above him, an open vent told you exactly how he’d slipped past your defenses. Unable to dodge quickly enough, you at least managed to turn your body sideways and minimize the impact as the fiery bullet skimmed across your lower ribs on its trajectory past you. Had you not twisted when you did, it most definitely would have burned a hole through your chest. Instead, it singed a hole in your shirt, sending a blinding, searing pain deep into your skin as it burned from the heat of the blast.
With a hiss of pain, your hands shot to the wound as you doubled over. Loki was on the soldier almost instantly, sending him crashing to the ground. Tony took over at the keyboard to complete the last of the sweep as Loki rushed to your side.
"You're injured."
"Yeah, no shit," you grunted through gritted teeth. Turning to Tony, you barked, "Finish scanning the system yet?"
"Just... about... done!" he responded triumphantly.
"Find anything?"
His face dropped into a scowl. "None of your business."
You snickered. "What would you do without me?"
"Yeah, yeah..." Tony activated the Iron Man suit, the metal pieces slamming in formation onto his body like a magnet. "Let's get you outta here, Rambo."
You waved him off dismissively, swallowing the gasp of pain that leapt up in your throat as you stood up straighter. "I'm fine. Let's go."
The jolting motion of each step sent a fresh wave of sharp pain through your wound, but you'd learned not to let it reflect on your face.
To show pain is to show weakness.
Your father always told you that growing up. No matter how many hits you took, he'd never let you so much as wince without reprimanding you. It was just one of the many harsh aspects of his training that you'd carried with you over the years. You supposed he had gotten you where you were, so he couldn't be blamed for his militaristic training methods.
The battle raged on in the foyer with what remained of the SPECTER soldiers guarding the interior. Loki notably stepped out ahead of you the moment you crossed through the doorway into the foyer, but you shoved your way past him to engage with a nearby soldier. You weren't going to let him shield you like that - not while you were still standing.
If you can stand, you can fight.
Your father's words once again echoed in your head. And fight, you would. Shoving the pain out of the forefront of your mind, you swung your fist in a right hook at the soldier's head, making him stumble from the impact. A hand closed around your forearm, and you nearly slapped it away before you realized it was Bucky's.
"Don't be stupid. You're injured," he scolded, gesturing to the hole seared into your shirt where your skin had been burned. You scowled, ripping your arm from his grasp.
"So I've been told. I'll be fine."
To appease your teammates, you at least began heading for the door, fighting only when necessary if a soldier hindered your progress. Tony had already jetted out, likely working to flag down the helicarrier so you could make your escape. The adrenaline of battle ebbed away at the pain, allowing you to focus on getting the hell out of there now that your mission had been completed. It seemed these SPECTER soldiers were in infinite supply - you may have been fierce, but you weren't foolish enough to think the band of heroes would be able to take down every last one of them.
Loki and Bucky were hot on your heels as you burst through the entryway to the building. Steve, Nat, and Thor were looking battle worn, Steve with a laceration to his forehead and Nat with a small burn on her shoulder where a blast likely grazed her skin. They both eyed your wound with concern, making you roll your eyes at the two of them.
"I'm fine!" you shouted as you slammed your heel into an oncoming soldier. "Let's go - the data's erased."
The deafening hum of the helicarrier approached your position as the aircraft appeared in the sky in front of you. The team bolted in unison toward it, ducking under blaster fire as the SPECTER soldiers followed in hot pursuit. The helicarrier hovered low enough to the ground to let out the boarding ramp, allowing the seven of you to hop on before rising into the sky once more. The sound of blaster fire faded into the distance as the aircraft carried you out of firing range.
Bruce appeared at the top of the boarding ramp, looking somewhat anxious with his glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose and his graying brown curls mussed from dragging his own fingers through them repeatedly. Tony was the first to greet him, confirming that the mission had been successful.
"Now, take this one. She's injured," he ordered, pointing at you.
"Hey!" You scowled indignantly. "I'm just fine!"
"Your skin is torched," Steve argued, taking Tony's side. "Go. Get patched up."
"Ugh. Fine." You dragged your feet as you began to follow Bruce to the lab onboard the aircraft. Glancing back, you shouted, "Steve, you and Nat better come with. I'm not the only one who's injured."
Rolling their eyes, the pair of them followed along, knowing you would refuse help if they did.
Entering the lab, you were met with three of the team's medics who were prepared to treat your wounds. They took one look at you, deciding immediately that you would require the most intensive treatment of the three wounded and leading you to the skin regeneration table on board the ship. You reluctantly sat down on the edge of the table, glaring up skeptically at the medic who had taken on your treatment.
"I'll need you to remove your shirt," she instructed, busying herself at the control panel to the machine. Your heart jumped up into your throat at the suggestion.
"I'd rather not."
She glanced up from the computer, peering sternly at you over her spectacles. "How exactly do you propose we treat your burn, then?"
"Uh... you don't." You folded your arms defiantly across your chest. "It's just a surface wound. I'm fine."
The medic paced impatiently over to your side, kneeling down and inspecting the burn on your ribs. She clicked her tongue, shaking her head at your stubbornness. "This will quickly get infected if we do not treat it. Not to mention, it must be very painful."
"I can handle pain," you muttered bitterly under your breath. She gave you a hard look, and you threw your hands up in defeat. "Fine. Go finish programming your little machine, there."
It wasn't that you were trying to be difficult. Your mother had been a medic, so you had quite a bit of respect for their job. It was how she met your father, in fact. She’d been a SHIELD medic until her untimely death when you were only ten years old. Your father never forgave himself for not being there when the enemy stormed aboard the helicarrier that fateful day. He seemed to sort of snap after that, throwing all his efforts into his work, into training you to follow in his footsteps.
You reminded him of her, he always used to say. You wondered if that was the reason he treated you the way he did - pained by the constant memory of what he’d lost.
The real reason you were protesting so much was what was hidden underneath your shirt. Over the years, you’d accumulated a fair number of tattoos, each one easily hidden beneath your clothes and gear. It wasn’t that you were embarrassed by them - you were quite proud of them, actually - but many of them had a deep underlying meaning that you really weren’t interested in trying to explain to your teammates. It was difficult to talk about some of them. So you chose to keep them hidden, keep them close to you as a personal sentiment rather than wearing them openly as a badge of honor.
The walls of the lab were made completely of glass, which meant anyone outside of the room could easily peek inside and see you. If you made too big of a deal of it, inevitably passerby would recognize you were arguing and become more interested. So, instead, you tried to play it cool, grasping the hem of your shirt and pulling it up and over your head. You had to carefully lift it around the burn to avoid irritating it with the fabric scraping across it. Goosebumps erupted on your skin in response to the cool air of the lab as you laid down on the table in nothing but your sport bra covering your upper body. You tried not to look down at the ink staining your skin to avoid drawing attention to the markings.
The medic started up the machine, and you watched impatiently as it sprang into motion, a strip of blue light kissing the wound as your skin knit itself back together. It didn't hurt, exactly, but it wasn't the most comfortable sensation either. The biggest annoyance, though, was how long it was taking to finish. Your eyes kept flitting over to the glass wall beside you, waiting for the inevitable moment someone passed by and saw you lying there on the table with nothing to cover the colorful markings etched into your skin.
Sure enough, Loki appeared on the other side of the glass twenty minutes later.
You couldn't blame him - he probably wanted to be certain you were alright, and it was taking an awfully long time to get this wound treated. In a way, you were somewhat flattered he'd come looking for you. But when his eyes locked on your bare left side, only partially blocked by your arm, skimming over the dragon tattoo that graced your ribs, you could see the curiosity flash on his face.
For a moment, he appeared to be considering entering the lab to talk to you, to inevitably ask the questions you'd been dreading. Fortunately, the medic caught his eye, shooing him with a wave of her hand as she drew the curtain hanging beside the regeneration table to block his view.
You wished you'd noticed it was there sooner.
It took another ten minutes to heal the wound completely, a raw-looking patch of new skin left in its place. The medic inspected her work with an air of pride before finally releasing you. The moment she did, you tugged your shirt back on over your head. With a hasty ‘thank you,’ you scurried out of the lab to your quarters to replace your singed shirt with a new one.
“Are you alright?”
You shouldn’t have been as surprised to hear Loki’s voice in your doorway as you were. Glancing up as you straightened the hem of your clean shirt at your hips, you were met with a concerned-looking Asgardian, though he was clearly trying to hide it. That was one thing you appreciated most about Loki - he never spoke to you or looked at you as a fragile mortal. He learned early on how fierce you could truly be.
“All healed,” you replied with a smile. “That regeneration tech is really something.”
Loki scoffed. “We’ve no need for that sort of thing in Asgard.”
“Well some of us aren’t literal gods, Loki.”
“Ah, but you fight as though you’re immortal like one.”
There it was - that teasing little smirk of his, his blue-green eyes flashing with the internal knowledge that there was something else going through his head that he wasn’t saying out loud. You tried not to let the heat creep up in your face.
“You were awfully nosy earlier, peeking in on me getting fixed up,” you chastised teasingly. “You know, we have privacy rules in Midgardian medicine.”
“I couldn’t help myself. You’ve never shown that much skin before. Forgive me for being… intrigued.”
Ok, the heat was definitely settling in your cheeks now.
“What was that marking you have on your side?”
Ah. There it was, the inevitable question.
“It’s a tattoo,” you responded casually, breaking eye contact to look down at your hands.
“A tattoo?”
“Yes. Ink etched into skin. A sort of art form here on Midgard.”
You chanced a glance up at him, finding a genuinely curious expression on his face. It made you shift uneasily in your seat atop your bed.
“Might I see it?”
You winced, turning your head. “I’d rather not.”
“I apologize. I didn’t intend for it to sound inappropriate.”
Looking back toward him, you offered a weak smile. “No, it’s not that.” With a chuckle, you added, “When have you known me to be self-conscious?”
Loki grinned. “Never. Though, as I said - you’ve never shown that much skin before.”
You let out a slow breath. “It’s just… well, I don’t like to talk about them. My tattoos.”
“Do you not like them?”
“No, I do. It’s… they’re sort of personal to me.”
He nodded slowly, that smirk returning to his face. “Perhaps someday you’ll feel comfortable showing me?”
“Are you asking for me to get personal with you?”
He shot you a wink as he stepped backward out of the doorway. “I certainly wouldn’t mind.”
Your jaw went slack as he vanished around the corner.
Loki had this way of bantering with you that toed the line between friendly and flirty for quite some time now. You never really thought much of it - just sort of chalked it up to Loki being Loki, the silver-tongued God of Mischief. Though, admittedly, you'd never seen him behave in the same way around any of the others. Still, you never took it too seriously. You couldn't lie and say you would be opposed to becoming something more with him. It just had always seemed so far out of the realm of possibility for a mortal.
But that comment... that was the first time he'd said something that alluded to the possibility that he just might feel the same way.
He began to ask you about your tattoos every so often after that. Probing you to see if you'd cave and let him see, let him in on such a personal attribute of yourself. He never pushed you too hard, of course. The idea of possibly letting him in on those parts of you was simultaneously terrifying and exhilarating. More and more, you found yourself wanting to share them with Loki. To let yourself be vulnerable for once in your life.
That was something your father had never taught you to do. To be vulnerable. Vulnerability was weakness to him, and so you learned to shove down everything you ever felt and pack it away in the back of your mind to avoid letting it reflect on your face, in your movements. You'd seen your teammates be openly unguarded with one another, sharing in their heartaches as they did their victories, and you longed for the ability to do the same. It had been so engrained in you to hide everything since your childhood that you weren't really sure where to start.
Loki wasn't exactly the most open-book sort of person either. Perhaps that was a good thing. You could figure it out together.
It was probably around the sixth or seventh time he’d brought it up that you finally caved.
You’d been in the fitness room back in the tower, now that the team was safely stationed back on solid ground. It was one of those rare instances that the room was otherwise empty, and you were not about to pass up that opportunity.
After only ten minutes of hitting the heavy bag, your knuckles were beginning to sting and sweat was beading on your brow from the intensity of your workout. Around the others, you typically tried to tone it back a bit, but when you were by yourself, your old training regimes came back to you.
Finally feeling satisfied with the divots you’d punched into the leather, you wiped your forehead with the back of your hand and reached down for your water bottle. Just as your fingertips touched the condensation building along the chilled plastic, the bottle suddenly slid a few feet to the left, seemingly of its own accord. But you knew better by now.
“Loki, I’m thirsty,” you griped, glancing over your shoulder at the smug-looking trickster who was now standing behind you. “Can’t you at least save your little tricks for after I get to take a sip?”
"Then it wouldn't irk you nearly as much. Where is the fun in that?"
"Is that the sole reason you came in here? To get on my nerves?" A grin pulled at your lips as you took the swig of water you'd been craving.
"Perhaps I wanted to exercise."
You waved your hand in a sweeping motion around the room. "Have at it, then."
He followed along behind you as you made your way across the gym to the pull-up bar. "But getting on your nerves is much more interesting."
"Of course it is." You plunked your water bottle down beside the mats on the hardwood, rubbing your hands together before stepping under the bar and grabbing hold with both hands. "What else are you planning to annoy me with today?"
"Oh, well that's no fun. I can't irritate you on command."
You pulled yourself effortlessly up, lifting your chin over the bar before lowering yourself down once again. "Then maybe you should go exercise."
He shrugged. "I've lost my interest. A god doesn't need to exercise anyhow."
You sniffed out a laugh, pulling yourself up over the bar again. Obviously he'd come in here with the sole purpose of talking to you. He often hovered as you did your own workouts, chatting with you and making teasing comments about your mortal need to exercise to build your strength. In return, you teased that you would become stronger than he was if he didn't start exercising himself.
You didn't mind having his company. He was the only one you'd allow to hang around you like this while you did your workouts.
"You still haven't shown me these tattoos of yours," Loki stated suddenly as you relaxed your arms to dangle from the bar. You released it in your surprise, feet slamming down onto the padded gym mat beneath you with a thump.
"What made you think of that?"
He pointed to your right hip, where a small phrase was tattooed just above your hipbone on your side, hidden underneath your shirt. "Your shirt rode up a bit just now."
"Did you read it?" you asked hesitantly. Loki shook his head.
"I couldn't see the whole thing." He flashed you his trademark smirk, the one that made you weak in the knees. "I must say, you've got me rather curious."
You grinned. "It's killing you, not knowing what they are, isn't it?"
He clicked his tongue. "You're infuriating, teasing me like that."
"And you're nosy."
"I never said I wasn't."
You sighed, pressing your tongue to the inside of your cheek as you tried to fight back a smile. "Alright. I'll show you. But I need to shower first."
"Fair enough."
You directed him to stop by your room in a half hour, heading up to wash off the sweat from your workout. Once you'd cleaned up, you tied your hair back rather than bothering to dry it all the way, throwing on a pair of sweatpants and a sleeveless top. You only owned a couple of those, preferring to wear shirts with sleeves to better conceal your tattoos. It always struck you how exposed you felt even just baring your shoulders. You threw a zip-up hoodie on over it, despite the fact it wasn't cold, just for the added sense of coverage of your skin.
A knock at your door sounded right at the time you'd told Loki to swing by. You opened the door and allowed him inside your room, shutting the door behind you.
This wasn't the first time he'd been in your room. He'd come by a few times in the past, usually to seek council from you when he was arguing with his brother. Although, once, he'd stopped by to check on you when you'd fallen ill with the flu. That had been a rather unexpected visit, but a pleasant one nonetheless, when he'd delivered you a bowl of hot soup after hearing Wanda say it was something Midgardians did when someone was sick.
Despite all that, it still felt foreign having him in your room today. Perhaps because you weren't sure how best to approach the reasoning behind his visit. He stood in the middle of your room, gazing at you questioningly as though trying to determine whether he should sit down or not. You motioned to the edge of your bed, inviting him to sit down beside you as you perched yourself atop your bedspread.
"Understand that you are privileged to be able to see these," you declared sternly. "I don't go around showing my tattoos to everyone."
"Are you certain you're alright with it?"
The uncertainty in his tone startled you. He had an intense look in his eyes as he gazed at you, as though trying to read your mind. Hesitantly, you nodded.
"Yes. I... trust you. It's just hard to share some of the stories behind them."
With a nervous hand, you unzipped the hoodie and shrugged it off, setting it down on the end of the bed. His eyes were immediately drawn to the words inked just below your collarbone on the right side, covered partially by your tank top sleeve. You pushed it aside and allowed him to read the phrase etched on your skin.
With pain comes strength.
"That one is in memory of my father," you explained before he could ask. "He's the reason I became a SHIELD agent."
"I'm sorry you've lost him."
You cringed at the thought that ran through your mind in response. I'm not.
"He was... difficult," you explained. You could tell Loki knew you were sugar-coating it by the skeptical raise of his brow. "He stopped being a father when my mother died. After that, he became nothing more than my instructor, my fighting coach. He... pushed me to become a SHIELD agent like he was."
"Is that what you wanted?"
"Yes... and no." You turned around to allow Loki to see the tattoo between your shoulder blades, the thin black parallel lines and circles designed to depict a circuit board. "I've always been into computers. If I'd had my choice, I'd have worked in the technology department in SHIELD. Developing new gear, programming new A.I.s, hacking into bad guys' systems from afar..."
"Why didn't you?"
"My father wanted me to be a field agent like he was. He always said the techy agents were the ones who were 'too weak to throw a punch.'"
You felt his finger suddenly tracing along the lines of the tattoo, down along your spine, and you shivered. Loki apologized and retracted his hand.
"It's alright, you can touch it. Just warn me next time, will you?" you griped, turning your head to grin at him and let him know you didn’t mind. He smirked right back, lifting his hand to the markings between your shoulders once again. The pads of his fingers were soft against the smooth skin of your back. It had been years since someone had touched your bare skin. It felt foreign to you, but it felt... nice. His touch was almost reverent as he traced along one of the sharp bending lines that bordered your shoulder blade.
"Show me another one," he requested. You felt an odd sense of loss when his fingers left your back. Turning back towards him, you shifted to point out one of the few colorful tattoos you had inked into the outside of your upper right arm, normally hidden even beneath the short-sleeved T-shirts you wore. It was a small hummingbird, with feathers of blue, green, and pink and wings flared out as though in flight.
"My mother always loved hummingbirds," you murmured, feeling a painful lump forming in your throat.
"What happened to her?" Loki asked quietly.
"Ambush. She was a medic on board the helicarrier that my dad was stationed on. They never saw it coming." You released a shuddering breath. "I was only ten, but I remember it like it was yesterday, the day my father came home and told me she was dead."
Loki placed a gentle hand on your forearm in comfort. You glanced up at him, blinking back the tears blurring your vision as you fought to keep them from spilling over. To show pain is to show weakness. You had to remind yourself again that the reason you chose the phrase along your collarbone was to rewrite those words your father used to tell you in a more positive light. With pain comes strength. You just weren't used to showing it to other people.
"My mother was killed in an ambush as well." Loki’s voice sounded heavy, laden with sadness and possibly even a touch of guilt.
"I'm sorry," you breathed, placing your hand over his where it still rested on your arm. He allowed it for a moment, then cleared his throat and lifted his hand, and you followed suit. With a watery laugh, you told him, "I do have some with happy memories, I swear."
"Go on then. Show me."
You scooted backward a bit on the bed, bending your knee and rolling up your pant leg to show him the small black anchor tattooed on your ankle. "My friend and I got matching ones when we were younger. We used to go sailing every summer. This one's small, but it hurt like hell getting it done."
"Is it often painful?"
"More like... scratchy. But this one hurt."
You let your leg drape back over the bed, shaking it a bit to unfurl your pant leg to cover your ankle once again. Loki's eyes flitted down to your hip where he'd seen your shirt ride up earlier.
"You've yet to show me that one," he urged, gesticulating toward the spot. You let out a breathy laugh through your nose, lifting the hem of your shirt to expose your right side. The words were small, and Loki leaned down a bit to read them.
"You are enough." His eyes lifted to once again meet yours, his face startlingly closer to your own now that he'd shifted closer to see the black ink scrawled across your side. A tilt of his head told you he wanted to know the story behind it. This was quite possibly the hardest story to tell, and you braced yourself for it.
"That one, I got to remind myself that no matter what harsh words my father had for me... I am not worthless."
Loki hummed thoughtfully. "I'm beginning to dislike this man more and more."
You laughed despite yourself. "I doubt you'd have gotten along with him if he were still alive. He was no-nonsense - he didn't like to joke around, always straight down to business. Maybe that's why you and I get along so well."
"Oh?"
"I was a mischievous kid, you know. Dad always hated that. For a while, it only made me try harder to get on his nerves, just to defy him." You grinned at the trickster. "I bet you were a little monster when you were a kid."
Loki let out a rumbling chuckle from deep in his chest, one that made your heart flutter in your chest. "I certainly wasn't an angel - let's leave it at that."
You let go of your shirt to let it drape back over your hip, hiding the black ink from view once again. Loki looked at you expectantly, waiting for you to show him the last one.
"Well?"
"Well, what?" You tried to look confused, biting back a teasing smirk. He saw right through it, folding his arms sternly across his chest with a grin.
"Oh, come now. You can't expect me not to ask about the one on your other side - not after I saw a part of it while you were in the lab the other day."
"You saw the whole thing!"
"Your arm was blocking it. Don't try to get out of this one, darling."
You huffed through your nose, shaking your head in defeat. In truth, this was your favorite out of all of them. It was also the largest and most intricate tattoo you had. You'd debated it for months before having it done, knowing you wanted to be certain you'd love it if you were to get something this extensive inked permanently into your skin. The fact that Loki was so curious about it made you a bit giddy to show it to him, but you simply had to tease him a bit first.
"Oh, alright. I suppose I can show you again."
You turned around to sit with your left side facing Loki, seated cross-legged on the bed. Gradually, you rolled your shirt up to the middle of your ribs, revealing the dragon tattoo you had winding up the span of your side. Various shades of blue and black ink added depth and dimension to the dragon's scales as it twisted from just above your hip to the middle of your ribs.
Loki's eyes roamed curiously over the image inked into your skin. "What's the story behind this one?"
You turned your head just slightly, enough to flash him a sly smirk. "I just like dragons."
A breathy laugh escaped his nose. "I can appreciate that." He lifted his hand hesitantly, catching your eye. "May I?"
You nodded, eyes shifting to watch his hand as he gently touched his fingertips to the bare skin overlaying your ribs, tracing along the snout and head of the dragon. It took every ounce of effort you had not to flinch at his touch. Holy hell, it tickled. It had been some time since anyone had attempted to tickle you, and you'd forgotten how terribly sensitive you were. What you hadn't forgotten was the squeaky, girlish laughter that burst out of you whenever someone managed to find a particularly weak spot. It was far from the tough façade with which you'd learned to carry yourself. So, whenever a friend happened to try to tickle you, you either withheld your reactions long enough for them to grow bored, or you scolded them into thinking you didn't want them to touch you.
But Loki's tender touch was not unwelcome. Quite the opposite, really. If only you weren't so damned ticklish, you could melt right into it. You could not let him know what he was doing to you. You knew the God of Mischief well enough to know that the moment he found out how ticklish you were, he'd go searching for the spots and pressure that might actually make you laugh those embarrassingly cutesy giggles of yours.
His fingertips glided along the dragon's spine, winding back and forth down the length of your ribs. You balled your hand into a fist and curled your toes as you willed yourself not to react. Goosebumps rose along your skin in the wake of his fingertips as they flitted down the softer skin of your side, tracing down along the dragon's tail. You let out a breath you hadn't realized you'd been holding the moment his finger paused at the very tip of the tail, just above your hipbone, only to suck it right back into your lungs as he reversed direction and began tracing back up the way he'd come.
"Am I tickling you?"
He had an impish lilt to his tone that made your stomach flip as your eyes darted up to meet his. You opened your mouth to deny it, and he purposely lightened his touch with the intention to make it tickle as he continued ghosting his fingertips along the image on your skin. Your hand shot to your mouth to stifle a giggle on instinct.
"Damn," you muttered, voice muffled in your palm. That godforsaken handsome smirk spread across his face, and you knew you were in trouble. You brought your arm down to cover your side, releasing your shirt in hopes it would slip down to cover your bare skin and offer a bit of protection, but it was bunched around your midsection where you'd rolled it up.
"I wasn't finished admiring your tattoo, you feisty little dragon," he scolded teasingly, his hand closing around your wrist and prying your arm from your side.
"L-Loki! You brat!" You wrenched your wrist from his grasp, only for him to catch it in his other hand as you swatted at him playfully. "N-noho! Don't you dare!"
His free hand found your side, fingers flitting ticklishly over the bare skin wrapping around toward your belly. You clapped your hand back over your mouth as another little giggle threatened to burst out, shaking your head with wide eyes at your flirtatious assailant. Loki withdrew his hand, releasing your wrist with a concerned, hesitant look on his face.
"I apologize - do you not like to be tickled?"
You lowered your hand from your mouth, tugging your shirt down on instinct but softening your expression. "No, it's not that. I just... it's embarrassing."
"You're embarrassed by being tickled?"
"By my laugh."
Loki cocked his head inquisitively. "You laugh all the time." Boastfully, he added, "I am quite funny, after all."
"You keep telling yourself that," you teased, shoving his shoulder playfully. "I don't mind my usual laugh, but... god this is embarrassing... I sort of laugh... differently when someone tickles me."
Loki's eyebrows shot up his forehead, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Now I'm very intrigued."
"Well that's a shame, because I'm not gonna- HEY!" You swatted at his hand as it darted out and pinched your ribs, barely withholding a giggle. "No, none of that! I don't want you to hear it! It's embarrassing!"
"Explain to me how your laugh can possibly be that embarrassing that you won't allow me to tickle you."
"First off, no one allows anyone to tickle them-"
"So you'd prefer I take you down by force and tickle you instead?"
Your face caught fire, and you were somewhat mortified to realize that part of the reason was because you didn't mind that idea in the slightest.
"N-not the point. AS I was saying... my ticklish laugh is... ugh, it's-squeaky-and-cutesy-and-terrible." You were surprised Loki could even understand what you said, the words came tumbling out of your mouth so fast. Based on the sly, flirty grin that crossed his face, you knew he understood every word.
"That sounds charming."
You swatted his hand away once again as he reached for your side. "That's exactly the problem! I'm not meant to be adorable! I'm a SHIELD agent - I can take guys down with my bare hands, I know how to handle nine different types of weapons-"
"And you're adorably ticklish. I don't see the problem here."
"Loki!" You hid your burning face in your hands, only to bring your arms right back down as his fingers skittered across your belly. With a non-threatening growl, you smacked his hand away once again. Truthfully, you were loving this playfulness. This sort of interaction was something you seriously lacked as a kid, your childhood stolen away from you in favor of long hours of relentless training and cruel words. Still, you weren't sure how keen you were on allowing Loki to hear your childish-sounding giggles.
"You don't need to be the tough, hardened SHIELD agent every waking hour of the day," he insisted. "In fact, I rather enjoy this softer side of you."
"Really?"
He nodded, a smirk spreading across his lips. "What's life without a bit of laughter?" he asked, experimentally squeezing your hip and earning another slap on the wrist. "Now then. I'd very much like to hear this 'squeaky and cutesy and terrible' laugh of yours. And as you so astutely stated, no one simply allows someone to tickle them..."
You laughed nervously as he caught hold of your wrist, wrenching your free arm out of his reach before he could get his hand on the other one. He tutted at you, shifting to kneel beside you on the bed so he could gain leverage to increase his efforts to capture you in his hold. His hand reached out for yours again, and you swiftly hid it behind your back.
"You are well aware this is a fruitless endeavor, attempting to evade capture." He smirked devilishly at you. "Eventually you know I'll overpower you."
Despite the fact that you weren't exactly excited about the prospect of Loki hearing your less-than-threatening bubbly giggles, you found that you trusted him completely. You trusted that he cared about you - perhaps cared for you, if you could be so fortunate - and you trusted that he would never say something hurtful to you.
You trusted him enough that when he finally did catch your other wrist and wrestle you down onto your back, you didn't fight as hard as you knew you could as he pinned your wrists beneath his knees.
"Lohoki you AHASS!" you cried, squirming under his gaze.
"You wound me, darling." He let his hands hover threateningly over your sides, knowing already that you were ticklish there at least to a lighter tough. You stiffened in anticipation of his impending attack. "Let's hear that laugh then, hmm?"
His hands latched onto both sides, kneading into the soft, sensitive skin. You sucked in a breath and squeezed your eyes shut, trying to withhold your laughter despite how horribly ticklish the sensation was. Undeterred, he let his hands wander in search of a weak spot, one hand clawing its way into the center of your belly while the other ascended your ribcage.
"Come now, darling... laugh for me," he urged teasingly, swapping his hands to dig one into the spot just below your ribs and slotting the other up under your arm. You clamped your mouth shut tight, letting out a screech of protest from deep in your throat through your nose as you kicked your heels against the mattress. He had you writhing with the gentlest scratching of his fingertips at that spot under your ribcage, and the fingers wriggling into the pliant skin beneath your arm were certainly not helping matters.
However, neither compared to the agonizingly ticklish sensation as his hand descended from your ribs to the side of your belly, about halfway between your navel and your side. Just one scratch at that spot and you were done for.
Those silly ticklish giggles poured from your lips, only increasing in speed and volume when he realized what was causing your sudden outburst of laughter and dropped his other hand to the other side of your belly. You giggled and squeaked, writhing and kicking helplessly as a fond grin spread across his face.
"There it is." Loki scratched faster at the torturous spot, his grin widening as your eyes scrunched shut and you threw your head back with desperate laughter. "I don't know what you're talking about - this is a very normal-sounding laugh."
"SHUHUT UHUP, YOHOU!"
"That's quite rude of you - I'm trying to make you feel better. The least you can do is not shout at me." He wrapped his large hands around your sides, toggling circles into those same spots on your belly with both thumbs while scratching at your sides. A giggly screech ripped through your chest as your back arched, then finally you went limp against the bedspread as your own hysterical laughter overpowered you.
But not once did you tell him to stop. Not once did you want him to stop. Sure, the sensation was overwhelming, ticklish shocks shooting through your nerves with every squeeze of his fingers into your middle. But you trusted Loki. Enough to let yourself be vulnerable with him, just as you had been when you'd explained the stories behind each of your tattoos. His touch was mischievous, but it was kind and playful, and you hadn't laughed like this in a very, very long time. Your abdominal muscles ached and your laughter was becoming breathless, but it felt good. Refreshing.
Loki relented, having succeeded in his mission to make you laugh. Your mind was fuzzy as you sat up, smoothing your hair down as your giggles slowly faded. He flashed you his smirk, and you shot him a hardly-menacing glare.
"I don't believe there is anything 'terrible' about that laugh of yours," he assured with a wink. You swatted his shoulder jokingly.
"Yohou suck," you grumbled. Then, with a glint of mischief in your eyes, you dropped your hand down to his side and swiftly pinched at the soft spot a few times. He merely stared down at your hand, unmoving, then looked up to meet your eye with an impossibly wider smirk. Your jaw dropped indignantly. "No. No way are you not ticklish."
"Not in the same way you are."
"So you are ticklish, then."
"In exactly two places, yes."
With a fierce look of determination, you brought your other hand over to dig into his lower ribs. He sighed as though you were boring him, casually taking hold of your wrists and prying them away from his sides.
"Hey!"
"As you stated earlier - no one simply allows someone to tickle them." He grinned, holding fast to your wrists as you tugged and twisted to try to free them from his grip. He was teasing you now, you knew - not doing anything but preventing you from continuing on your mission to find the two solitary places he was ticklish.
"Oh, come on!" you groaned, shifting to sit on your knees to be able to push harder against his hold. "Now I - mmph - I need to know where!"
Loki chuckled fiendishly. "I'm sorry to tell you, darling, but you're going to have to work for it."
Growling, you threw your weight forward to try to catch him off guard and knock him backward. You nearly succeeded, but he regained his balance at the last moment, suddenly shoving your wrists in retaliation and easily slamming you down onto your back once again with your arms pinned beside you. He loomed over you with a self-assured grin, gradually dragging your arms up above your head as you began protesting and laughing all at once.
"What - did you think I was going to make it easy for you, little spitfire?" He gathered your wrists in one hand, lowering the other to your right hip and slipping it up under the hem of your shirt. "Is this tattoo of yours ticklish as well?"
"How should I know- hehey!! Lohohoki!!" You let out a few giggles as his fingers swept maddeningly gently over the bare skin above your hip where the words were inked into your skin. He clicked his tongue, grinning victoriously.
"Ah, I see it is. Tell me - do the tattoos make your skin more ticklish in those spots? Or have you always been this sensitive?"
"I-hi hahate you." You twisted to evade his fingers, and rather than trying to follow you, he turned his attention to the words under your collarbone, lightly tracing his finger along the looping text. A surprised giggly shriek burst from your lips at the sensation, a stretch of skin you'd never anticipated would be ticklish and yet it was making your nerves tingle.
"This one too? Perhaps it's the ink, then?" He shot his hand down to your belly, scratching at the weak spot he'd discovered earlier and throwing you into hysterics. "Although, that wouldn't explain why this makes you laugh so hard."
Your half-hearted protests were lost beneath the sound of own laughter, amplifying when Loki released your wrists in favor of digging into the other side of your belly. Your hands grasped feebly at his wrists, then wrapped around your midsection, all failed attempts to lessen the ticklish feeling of his fingers clawing at your skin. In a last-ditch effort, you slotted your thumbs up under his arms, digging your eight fingers into the backs of his ribs.
Loki spluttered, removing his hands from your belly to sit up and shift out of reach of your fingers. But you were swift. You practically threw yourself at him, not even considering the implications as you wrapped your arms tight around him and pinned his arms to his sides. Without waiting for him to start fighting back, you latched your fingers onto those spots on the backs of his ribs and launched a ten-fingered attack.
"Pfft yohou lihittle..."
Whatever he was planning to call you, you never found out. The rumbling, deep laughter that burst from the trickster's chest was startling. You'd never heard him laugh before. Sure, he chuckled snarkily all the time, but to hear him really laugh... It was quite possibly your new favorite sound. Still, you couldn't pass up the opportunity to tease him for it.
"Ah-ha!! I found one!" you cried triumphantly, tightening your hold as he began trying to throw you off him. You squeaked as his hands found your sides and squeezed, digging your fingers into his ribs faster to deter his counterattack. You could feel his muscles weakening in your hold from his laughter. You leaned back a bit to look him in the eye, flashing him a smirk reminiscent of the mischievous god himself. "Oh-ho-ho, you're so screwed."
His eyes locked on yours for a moment, those blue-green irises practically glowing.
What happened next, you couldn't possibly have anticipated.
Loki suddenly allowed himself to fall backward, bringing you down on top of him with a surprised yelp. The shock of it made you loosen your grip, scrambling to plant your knees on either side of his hips to regain some semblance of leverage, preparing yourself for his ticklish retaliation. His hands found your hips, and you opened your mouth to begin playfully scolding him.
Anything you would have said to him was muffled against his mouth as he captured your lips with his.
For a brief moment, you stiffened, more than a bit shocked by this sudden advance. As your mind processed what was happening, you relaxed into his arms, melting as you sighed blissfully against his lips. Loki's hand slipped under the hem of your shirt, making you gasp and tense in anticipation of more tickling, but he kept his touch firm as he slid his palm along the side where the dragon tattoo adorned your skin. Your lips curled up into a grin against his, parting from him just slightly to look at him through hazy eyes.
"Is that one your favorite too?" you mumbled. That smirk that always made you weak in the knees graced his lips as he nodded, running his palm back down along your side.
"I'd like to see it again."
"Mm... later." You silenced him once again with another kiss, savoring in the taste of his lips. His hand came to rest on your hip once again, the other rising to cradle your neck as he lifted his head slightly to deepen the kiss.
There was no way of knowing how much time passed while your lips were locked with Loki's. And in all honesty, you didn't really care. Not once in the entirety of your life had anyone made you feel this good. If this was your reward for being open and vulnerable with him... well, perhaps you'd need to do it more often.
You let him kiss you until you became breathless, finally forcing yourself to part from his lips to get some air. He let his hand at your neck slide down to your shoulders as he lifted his lips to kiss along your jawline.
"You... you just kissed me to make me stop tickling you, didn't you?" you teased. He grinned, pressing one last kiss to your neck.
"It worked, did it not?" You scoffed and rolled your eyes with a laugh. "In any case, no. I kissed you because I wanted to. That was just an added bonus."
You leaned down to press gentle kisses along his jawline to return the favor, grinning as you heard his breath hitch in his chest. "You know..." you mumbled between kisses, "... you're not getting out of telling me where your other tickle spot is just by kissing me."
Loki hummed thoughtfully, lifting his head to recapture your lips with his once again. You considered scolding him for attempting to evade the question once again, but you allowed it, pressing your lips harder against his and kissing him fervently. His hands slid firmly down your sides and along your hips, coming to rest at the back of your thighs just above your knees. He let his head fall back against the mattress to break apart from your lips once again, and you barely registered the mischievous glint in his eyes in your euphoric daze.
"Why don't I just show you instead?"
Caught off guard after being lulled into a kiss-drunken trance, you didn't have time to react as you felt his fingers hook around the undersides of your knees, shifting up just a couple inches and scratching at the apparently hypersensitive patches of skin just above your knees on your inner thighs. An embarrassingly high-pitched shriek burst from your lips at the sudden sensation, collapsing against Loki and burying your face in his shoulder to muffle your desperate giggles.
"MM-HMM LOKIHI!" you squealed, trying to roll off of him. Loki held fast, his fiery fingers fluttering and sweeping along the cotton fabric of your pants covering those wretched spots above your knees. You kicked your feet against the mattress in protest, earning a laugh from the mischievous god as he finally showed you mercy. His hands left your knees so his arms could wrap tightly around your waist, squeezing you to his chest.
"It seems we have that spot in common, don't we, darling?" he murmured in your ear teasingly. You growled playfully, lifting your head to glare at him.
"I'm beginning to think that kissing me was all a ruse to be able to torment me," you scolded jestingly. He responded by rolling swiftly, pinning you on your back and gazing down with nothing but adoration in his eyes.
"There are many more reasons than that for me to want to kiss you." To emphasize, he ducked his head to kiss you once more, stealing your breath away. You laughed against his lips, drinking in his kiss for a moment before swiftly latching your hands around the backs of his knees and targeting those same spots he'd just demonstrated on you moments ago. He barked out a surprised laugh at your ticklish touch, toppling sideways onto the bed to escape your fingers. You managed to continue a moment longer before he captured your hands in his, raising them to his lips and pressing a kiss to each of your palms.
"Mm... you're no fun," you whined, eliciting an amused laugh from the trickster.
"I beg your pardon - as I recall, I just made you laugh for the last twenty minutes," he retorted with mock indignance.
"That might be an exaggeration. But, I'll let you have it."
Loki propped himself up on his elbow, reaching over and gently grasping the hem of your shirt in his hand with a pleading look in his eyes. "Might I see it again, now? I promise I won't tickle you."
Your cheeks warmed as you nodded, allowing him to slide your shirt up to reveal the dragon tattoo once again. He smoothed his palm over it with enough weight in his touch not to tickle, just as he'd promised.
"This one suits you," he declared after gazing at it a moment longer.
"Oh? And why is that?"
"It's elegant and beautiful, and yet simultaneously fiery and fierce. Much like you."
You turned his words over in your mind, a grin tugging at your lips. "You know... I never thought of it that way. I like that."
It was true - you'd honestly gotten that tattoo because you liked it. The one tattoo that had no story behind it, and yet Loki found a way to make it the most meaningful of all of them. You strove to be fiery and fierce, but you'd never thought yourself to be elegant and beautiful until Loki suggested you were. It was perfect - the perfect blend of your past and the future you were striving for.
Loki smirked as he watched you react to his words, that smirk you were beginning to love more and more each time he showed it to you. He wrapped an arm around your waist and tugged you close, eyeing your lips hungrily as your face burned under the weight of his gaze.
Anon requested: “Imagine Loki noticing the reader has an Yggdrasil tattoo!”
~~~~~~~~
Y/n was proud of the various tattoos on themselves, but none made them more proud than the large tattoo of Yggdrasil covering their back. The intricate tattoo was the work of a close friend and it was y/n’s favorite.
And it was apparently Loki’s, judging from the look on his face when he first saw it. Y/n had been changing into their pajamas when the god of mischief had stopped by their room to ask a question.
“Y/n, would you mind—” Y/n turned halfway towards Loki, raising an eyebrow at the stunned look on his face.
“Yes?” Loki gestured to y/n’s backside.
“What is that on your back?”
“My tattoo? It’s of Yggdrasil. Do you like it?” Loki nodded and tilted his head slightly.
“May I see it again?” Y/n nodded and turned around to give Loki a clear view of their tattoo. A cool hand traced the swirling branches and delicate leaves, causing y/n shiver slightly. “I think it’s a beautiful work of art. Truly, the artist should be proud.”
“If you like, we could get you a tattoo.”
“I may take you up on that offer.”
~~~~~~~~
I don’t own the above gif, all credit goes to the owner.
Hi! Could I please request Vincent Sinclair x Tattooed Gender-Neutral Reader? Unless you've already done that; then could you please link it?
Hello! You can definitely request that!! This was fun to imagine and write :) thanks for the request :D
VINCENT SINCLAIR WITH A TATTOOED, GENDER NEUTRAL READER
When you first met Vincent, your tattoos are what he noticed instantly
As an artist, he was fascinated!
Although his art is done in a different “medium,” Vincent is the type of guy to appreciate all art
One of the main things he loves about you is your dedication to tattoos and the art form
He thinks it physically represents how similar you two are, it shows something in common
Once you’re in a relationship, he absolutely cannot keep his hands off them!
You’re a live canvas! That’s amazing to him! Living, breathing, beautiful art
His favorite past-time is being alone with you, usually cuddled up in his basement/studio while running his fingers over the engravings all over you
It was a quiet night in Ambrose, your favorite. The kind of night where Bo was out fixing up the town and Lester was knowhere to be seen. It was a rare time when Vincent fully got to relax and be with you. You let out a content sigh as you were pulled closer to a warm chest. Vincent always gave the best cuddles; sometimes shy, but always caring. Vincent spread his touches all over. To you, this was the most relaxing spot in the world; in the basement cuddled up with your warm boyfriend on a warmer night. Vincent’s adept fingers traced the healed designed on your skin, admiring the wart. You knew this was his favorite physical attribute of you. As an artist, he could appreciate your style and dedication to the craft. You snuggled up closer as his fingers found a particularly soothing spot. Smiling, you looked forward to spending the rest of the night just like this.
Summary: The reader finds out some startling news about her boyfriend Dean.
Characters: Dean x tattooed!reader
Word Count: 1,920
~
Dean watches in horror as a multitude of emotions flutter across your face. It started with adorable confusion and ended on completely ripshit mixed with total heartbreak. The hurt expression you deliver before stalking away yanks his own anger to the surface.
Although Dean isn’t upset with you, instead he’s beyond pissed at himself and his current situation. Racing in your direction, he manages to keep an eye on you while still keeping his distance. The last thing this shitshow needs is an argument in the middle of downtown Brooklyn.
“Son of a bitch.” Dean growls under his breath, watching your perfect plump ass stomp itself right past his flatbed truck. “Y/N, where are you going?”
“Wherever you’re not.” You harshly quip at your boyfriend, refusing to even lock eyes with the lying bastard. “Leave me alone.”
“Y/N…please get in the truck.” The slight panic in his rough voice makes you tense up, that’s definitely a new thing for him. “Just let me explain.”
“I can’t even look at you right now, never mind talk to you, asshole.” You scoff, barely glancing over your shoulder as you speedwalk down the street.
“God damnit.” Your boyfriend huffs loudly, no doubt chasing after you with his heavy sounding work boots.
“Dude, seriously…”
“It’s late, Y/N.” Dean grabs a hold of your bicep, tightening his grasp as you try to break away. “It’s not safe to roam around this neighborhood by yourself. Get in the god damn truck.”
The icey glare Dean gets in response makes his stomach drop, “I won’t talk to you or even look at you, ok? Just let me drive you home, sweetheart.”
You start hurling insults as you rip your arm away from his strong hand, “Well it seems I don’t have a damn choice.” You snap now hightailing it towards his stupid black Tacoma truck.
The tension filled drive home to your apartment is extremely uncomfortable, scratch that - it’s extremely fucking painful. You swing open the passenger side door before the truck even comes to a halt, running away from the 6’1 man calling out your name.
You don’t allow yourself to look back, even though you hear Dean climb out of his truck and follow behind you. The resounding slam of your front door in his handsome face is effective, but doesn’t give you the satisfaction that you crave.
“I can’t fucking believe this.” You whimper, burying your face into your hands as you sink down onto your faded blue couch.
“Y/N.” Your head snaps up to reveal a distraught man standing awkwardly in the living room. “We need to…”
“Give me back my friggin key and get out. Now.”
Dean hesitates but doesn’t give in to your demand, “No. This is happening whether you like it or not. There’s shit we need to discuss.”
You laugh humorlessly before flinging your high heels into the corner of the room, ignoring Dean’s silent pleas. You pull out a bottle of Grey Goose vodka and take a big swig straight from the bottle, pretending you’re not grossed out by the taste.
“You wanna talk? Let’s fucking talk.” You sneer at him from across the room before marching right up to him. “Who are you?”
“Y/N, wait…” Dean now looks visibly distressed over your simple question and it makes your insides burn.
“Damn it!” You yell hitting him hard in the chest. “Answer me now!”
“Baby, calm down…”
“I’ve been fucking you everyday for the last year.” You snarl getting in your boyfriend’s face again. “So I’m going to ask you again…who the hell are you?!”
Dean painfully rakes over your enraged form, his eyes landing on the intricate sleeve of tattoos that he’s always loved. He’s spent so much time tracing them, kissing them and memorizing them. And now he’s beyond afraid that he’ll never see them again.
“I love you, Y/N.” Dean pleads with his eyes snapped shut. “And I will explain everything but I just need you to trust me.”
“Trust you?” Your voice cracks in disbelief. “Who’s asking? Jeff...or Dean?”
Fuck. That’s the first time Dean’s real name has slipped past your lips and it makes bile rise up in his throat. This isn’t the way you were supposed to find out, this isn’t how things are fucking supposed to be.
The internal war your boyfriend is clearly having only amplifies your anger, “Nothing to say, tough guy? Fine. Let’s talk about your buddy Benny that we just ran into. He had some interesting things to say about you...”
Dean finally locks his hazel eyes on yours, his tormented demeanor instantly changed into something colder, “Go pack a bag, Y/N. This operation has been compromised so I need to remove you.”
“Compromised?!” You squeak with wide eyes, watching him push past you towards the kitchen without a second glance.
Dean automatically ignores your shocked reaction, intending to not leave any room for discussion on this. Of course whatever the hell this is - you still have no fucking clue and it makes your heart beat so hard that it hurts.
Before your jumbled brain even registers it, your body races itself into the kitchen only to find that it’s empty. You hear rushed movements down the hall that lead you into your bedroom. Drawers are hanging open, clothes are thrown all over your bed and there’s a suitcase already half way filled.
“Will you stop?!” You screech causing Jeff or Dean or whoever the fuck he is to freeze. Taking a strangled deep breath, you suddenly feel really light headed as strong hands guide you to sit down.
Dean crouches down in front of you with concern painted all over his features, “Baby, you need to breathe ok?” He adds softly cupping your cheek with his hand.
“I’m not doing shit until I get some answers.” You mumble, making him chuckle at how stubborn you are. “Please just tell me what’s happening.”
“Y/N. I need you to...”
“No.” You growl pushing his chest away from you, he stumbles a little before standing back up and walking out of the room.
“Great.” You groan throwing your head down dramatically.
“Drink this, Y/N.” You look up to see a bottle of water held out in front of you, with an upset expression accompanying it. “You get one question. Then you get your pretty ass off that mattress and pack your shit. Got it?”
You open your mouth to argue but shake away the idea, “Fine. I want to know why...Benny...” You stutter starting to feel your anxiety creep up from the green eyes boring into you.
“Hurry up!”
“Why did Benny call you Dean when your name is Jeff?” You catch the annoyance on your boyfriend’s face, already knowing that he’ll feed you bullshit. Screw It.
“He said you’ve come a long way from being a country boy in Kansas but you’re from Pittsburgh.” You rush out ignoring his daggers. “And he said you haven’t seen each other since the academy. Which doesn’t make sense because you’re a god damn drug supplier!”
“That’s like four questions!” Dean barks out making you jolt in surprise.
“It’s three!” You defend loudly, crossing your arms over your chest with a pointed scowl. “Asshole.”
Dean’s jaw tightens, something you’ve always found sexy, as he curses under his breath, “I’m agent Dean Winchester. I work for the narcotics unit in the FBI and I’ve been undercover for the past year.”
“Oh my god.” Hot tears threaten to spill from your eyes as you see the stress and guilt written all over Dean’s face. “This is because of my dad.”
“You know what your dad does, baby. So yes it’s about him.”
“He...he’s involved in the drug thing but...” You sniffle trying and failing to form a complete sentence.
“The drug thing? He’s practically a drug lord, Y/N!” Dean roars at you. “The large scale of product that he trafficks is just insane. And he’s so fucking meticulous about it all, so surveillance from the outside wasn’t cutting it.”
“Fuck.” You whisper watching Dean pace maniacally along your bedroom’s hardwood floor.
“Your dad has so many underlings doing his dirty work...it’s taken time to collect enough evidence to link it all to him.” Dean sighs dragging a hand down his face. “There’s just so many moving parts.”
Dean pauses once he hears you crying, he moves to comfort you but it’s just all too much, “Don’t.” You rasp feeling droplets cascade down your cheeks.
“For Christ’s sake, Y/N.” Dean huffs deeply. “This wasn’t...you weren’t part of my plan ok? Falling in love was the last thing I thought would happen to me.”
“So what...you’re just gonna arrest me too?” You narrow your eyes. “I’m not even involved in any of that. Not at all!”
“I know you’re not, sweetheart. I did recon on everyone in your dad’s life and the last I knew, you were a hair stylist living in Boston. So color me fucking surprised when I saw that you were actually in Brooklyn.”
“You know my grandmother wasn’t doing well so I came here to help her out. My dad and my idiot brother obviously wouldn’t do it.” You add quietly. “I planned on going back but then I met you...”
Dean nods solemnly, “I know, Y/N. Now will you please work with me here and get going? I can’t risk anything tipping off your father. I need to alert my unit and spring shit into action as soon as possible.” He finishes making your mouth drop open.
“So I’m just supposed to let my dad and brother get burned?” You gasp jumping up from your seat. “While I get to escape?”
“I worked hard on this case for two god damn years before I even went undercover! I’m not letting it go to hell now, Y/N.”
“I get it, Agent Winchester.” You seethe making him flinch at the name change. “I’m just a random piece of this fucked up puzzle you’ve been playing with all year.”
“You need to understand...this was going down next weekend anyways.” Dean tells you softly. “So it’s just a little early.”
“I wouldn’t even be...” You trail off with it all dawning on you. “You bought me the spa weekend. I was supposed to be away with Cindy when it all happened.”
“Yeah. And now shit’s changed.” Dean grumbles at you. “You’re still involved, Y/N. Even though you didn’t actually participate in anything. You still know about a lot of it and never reported it, which means you can still get in trouble. I’ve tried to keep you out of all my debriefs with the bureau but still...I need to get you away from this. I have to make it so this affects you as little as possible.”
“Fine.” You mutter after skipping a beat. “I pack my shit and then what happens, Dean?”
“Huh, impressive, Dr. Reid; you’re a smart cookie.” You hold a door open, and he passes through; confused, he turns back.
“Smart cookie?”
“Yeah, you know, clever, intelligent,” you explained, “a smart cookie.”
Pairings:
Spencer Reid x Male!Reader
Main AU Tag:
Smart Cookie Universe :)
Tags:
Fluff | Inaccurate Laws Probably | First Meetings | Tattooed Reader (Because I Don't See Enough Of That) |
Words: 3871
Author's Note:
Guess what I started watching 😂 but like seriously, I am loving Criminal Minds, and as you can see, Spencer has become my favorite, I just wanna wrap this man in a hug or something.
“Love is friendship that has caught fire. It is quiet understanding, mutual confidence, sharing, and forgiving. It is loyalty through good and bad times. It settles for less than perfection and makes allowances for human weaknesses.”
- Ann Landers
Spencer’s knowledge of romance could be put together in a mountain of anecdotes and books, labeled by theme, source, and moment of discovery - sexuality, unknown source, age 15, conclusion: gay panic. Practical experience, however, could be summed into a blurb on the back of a book and promptly thrown in a fire. Friendship was something far easier; he’d come to learn it later in life - with childhood peers who took pleasure in putting him through the worst of what the American high school hierarchy had to offer - and even now, in adulthood, there were times he would think that those around him much preferred his absence over his presence.
The BAU was a lot kinder than high school was. Still, there were moments when patience would run thin, tempers may flair, or the occasional reminder that now was not the time for a tangent or a pointless anecdote or ‘do you ever shut up?’ or anything else along those lines - he didn’t mind, not like he’d used to as a child, besides, more often than not, the comments came from outside the BAU. Bystanders, police, investigators - very rarely did Spencer feel the need to squeeze himself into a neat little box and present what was deemed desirable to others, at least not until now.
“Nice to meet you, Dr. Reid.”
Change was never readily accepted by the BAU; in regards to new and retiring teammates, it was met with distaste; the change came in the form of you - a recent transfer to the team - your first case with them in Seattle, Washington. An open case, the unsub would stalk their victims and gather intel on them and their lives before attacking; victims had the murder weapons clutched in their right hand and some form of personal belonging stolen by the unsub. Trophies for his collection, his victims, all graduating students from the local university - he had access to the victim’s schedules, details of their personal lives, and used tools at the scene.
“We’ll split up,” Gideon says, “ask around the university, staff, students, and the victim’s families.”
Spencer gets paired with you, questioning the university’s Faculty of Arts, the main focus of the unsub. The Faculty of Arts focuses on creative arts, writing, philosophy, and humanities - the liberal arts - with the campus’ main library in the area. “Wow, this is fancy,” you remark. Fancy’s an understatement; the faculty entrance was grand, with a pediment and columns overhead and the university emblem on a banner at the door. With the recent deaths, fewer students had been attending classes in person; the faculty head, Professor Jody Cunningham, was an older man with dark graying at the edges, a well-trimmed beard, and smoothed clothes.
“Professor Cunningham….” you called his attention, introducing yourself, “....and this is my colleague, Dr. Reid; we’re with the Behavioral Analysis Unit.”
“A pleasure; thank you for coming; we’re all devastated by the news.”
“Did you know the students?” you ask.
Professor Cunningham nods, “They’d just handed in their thesis, and I’d been making my way through before, you know….” he ran a hand down his face, “now, none of my graduates or other students are coming in.”
“The murders all connect back to one of the subjects taught here; the first was arts, the second, humanities; if he’s going by alphabetical order, then the next one should be natural sciences,” Spencer describes the first two victims, their characteristics, similarities, differences, “do you know any graduate students doing the natural sciences who fit that profile?”
“Three students I can think of, though one of them’s not in the States anymore, so it can only be the other two, Jesse Hudson and Lynn Watson. Jesse’s majoring in biology, and his thesis, I believe, was on the role of the clock gene in protection against neural and retinal degeneration; not 100% caught up on what that is yet, Lynn —”
“The clock gene is a major circadian system regulator found in mammals and fruit flies, the latter of which the transcription factors - clock and cycle - combine and stimulate the transcription of the period and timeless genes. The two proteins bind together and enter the cell nucleus, where the timeless gene then begins to degrade and the liberated period gene interacts with the clock and cycle to prevent them from activating gene expression.” His explanation comes to a stop, and he’s hoping he hasn’t managed to weird you out.
You turn to him, “What happens after?”
“What?” He’s dumbfounded, “uh…well…you want to hear me speak more?”
“It’s why I’m asking,” you reply. “If that’s ok, you don’t have to continue if you don’t want to.”
“No, no, I’d love to; I just….people usually ask me to stop talking,” he shrugs. You raise your eyebrows, and he feels giddy, beaming a little; he carries on, even after you’re finished with professor Cunningham, you don’t deter him. Head tilted to glance at him, your undivided attention. “....I read this from an old thesis in my junior year.”
“And you still remember it?”
He nods. “I don’t forget much,” he points to his head, “eidetic memory.”
“Huh, impressive, Dr. Reid; you’re a smart cookie.” You hold a door open, and he passes through; confused, he turns back.
“Smart cookie?”
“Yeah, you know, clever, intelligent,” you explained, “a smart cookie.”
Spencer’s a smart cookie.
He’s a smart cookie.
He’s your smart cookie.
Well, technically, he’s not, but you’re the only one that calls him that nickname, not all the time; of course, you still call him by his name, but you also call him smart cookie. He bounces on his feet when you call him that, a little grin on his face as he turns to you, “What’s got you all happy, cookie?”
“Nothing, just happy to see you too,” he responds earnestly.
“I’d hope so; otherwise, this coffee run would’ve been for nothing,” you remark, placing his order on his desk, a smile on your face; then you go to your desk, to the left of him, and across from Morgan - kick your legs up and lean back on your chair.
“What none for me?” Derek pouts.
“Sorry, only deliver to sweetness,” you wink at Spencer, and he grins.
Morgan fakes offense, “Oh, oh, that’s how it’s going to be, alright. Don’t expect me to play middleman with you and Nick again.”
You snort, “Doubt that’s ever going to happen again,” you tell him, “that ship has sailed.” You move your hand through the air, mimicking a wave.
“Nick?” Spencer asks.
“Morgan’s friend, we hooked up a few times, but it never went anywhere,” you reply.
“Yeah, loverboy here did a hell of a job with him, could barely walk the next day, not that he was complaining,” Derek added on, “Said you had quite the package.”
You throw a pen at Derek, tongue stuck out at him, “TMI Derek,” Elle voiced; she’s just arrived, her own coffee in hand, chuckling while she shakes her head.
“I’m just giving performance reviews,” Derek shrugs.
“Oh god,” you laugh.
Spencer feels a little hot under the collar, knocking his knees lightly to keep his imagination at bay - your voice by his ear, hands roaming his body before settling on his hips, his own arms around your shoulder - he shook his head a little, eyes slightly wide as he sipped the coffee.
“You alright there, cookie?”
“I’ve been meaning to ask, what’s with the cookie nickname?” Elle voices.
You shrug, “Spence’s a smart cookie.”
“That’s a weird name,” Derek says.
“I think it’s adorable,” Elle counters.
“Adorable name for an adorable guy,” you wink again, and Spencer looks away, flustered.
“Well, I’m not adorable….adorableness inspires great affection or delight; you use it to describe someone or something that makes you love or like them, usually because they are….” attractive, he wants to say, but that might imply something and people didn’t like it when he implied things. He’d like you to keep liking him.
“You good there, Reid?” Derek’s voice snaps him from his thoughts, and he nods, finishing off with a lesser, more implicating adjective. Attractive, there was a 50% chance you found him attractive, but he couldn’t get all that information out of a singular nickname, let alone a few interactions - you liked his rambles and tangents, that was something, right? You’d made him an origami heart - that he kept tucked away in his journals - and called it a hint.
“No facts for me today, cookie?” You’re parked just further along the street of your target - a suburban house in Atlanta, one car in the driveway, three bedrooms, and the target of your unsub - Hotch and Gideon were on the opposite end of the street, Elle, and Derek were shacked up in the house across from it. JJ and Garcia were back at base.
“Facts?”
You turn to him, “Yeah.” You tilt your head, and he feels something, the little fluttering in his stomach, his hair brushes by his cheek when he tilts his head as well, and before he can reach up to sweep it away, you beat him to it.
“Sorry.”
“No, it’s alright….” Spencer wishes he’d stopped talking right there, that his mouth just shut or Hotch’s voice filtered through earlier before he laid down his knowledge on human touch and then proceeded to end it with the words love hormone - quite the subtle move. On the plane ride back, Reid feels every muscle in his body knot and stiffen as he goes through the interaction in the car; you’re sat beside him, dozing off with your head propped by the wall. He glances over at you every once in a while, faintly touching the side of his head you’d touched, “love hormone,” he whispers to himself.
Dr. Spencer Reid was something else; when you’d joined the BAU, it took some adjusting, your first case in Seattle was a handful, and the unsub - a student advisor - had access to his victims. He’d begun with the Faculty of Arts, and chosen graduate students from each subject, starting alphabetically; he’d only managed two before you’d caught him. You’d learned that Dr. Reid was intelligent, had an impressive memory, and “....I read this from an old thesis in my junior year.” And his voice was really nice.
He seemed to like the nickname smart cookie, bouncing on his feet and grinning when he responds; he does the same when you greet him either way. “What’s got you all happy?” you ask him after a coffee run.
“Nothing,” he responds, “just happy to see you too.”
“I’d hope so. Otherwise, this coffee run would’ve been for nothing,” you remark, placing the warm drink on his desk. Granted, it’s not really a coffee run; you’d only gotten him coffee, mainly for the smile on his face. You turned to your desk across from Morgan.
“What, none for me?” he pouts.
“Sorry, only deliver to sweetness,” you wink at Spencer, who grins in response as Morgan fakes offense, mouth agape.
“Oh, oh, that’s how it’s going to be, alright. Don’t expect me to play middleman with you and Nick again.”
“Nick?” Spencer asks.
Morgan’s friend Nick had been nice; you’d had a double date with Morgan, and one of his dates, then gone on a few more dates and spent a few nights together, but it hadn’t worked out - nothing personal, but that ship had sailed.
“Yeah, loverboy here did a hell of a job with him, could barely walk the next day, not that he was complaining, said you had quite the package,” you threw a pen at Derek, groaning, as Elle regretted walking into work at this moment and hearing the tail end of that conversation. Spencer goes quiet, and his eyes dart away as he sips his drink, a blush creeping along his face.
“You alright there, cookie?” you ask him, and he turns his attention back to you with a small smile.
“I’ve been meaning to ask, what’s with the cookie nickname?” Elle asks; she looks between you and Spencer.
You shrug, “Spence’s a smart cookie.”
“That’s a weird name,” Derek says.
“I think it’s adorable,” Elle counters.
“Adorable name for an adorable guy,” you wink again, and Spencer looks away, flustered.
“Well, I’m not adorable….adorableness inspires great affection or delight; you use it to describe someone or something that makes you love or like them, usually because they are….” he doesn’t finish right away, stalling, as you assume he gathers his words. You’re not sure what he was supposed to say, but you don’t think it was “....small.” Even after, he looks deep in thought, mind wandering away from the present.
You don’t think about it much and proceed with your day; it’s a slow day at the BAU, so paperwork seems to be the main task today, though there’s not much of it, so the majority of the day is spent idling by each other’s desks. You’ve been throwing scrunched-up paper balls at each other; Spencer had started off on the discovery of paper, then its distribution globally, and was now on its more uncommon uses. “....and you could use the paper to make worthless currency.”
“Like Monopoly money?” you question.
“Probably.”
You toss back the paper, and when he catches it this time, he unfolds it and refolds it into a swan, “You can also use it to make origami, though I wouldn’t consider that an uncommon use.”
When he hands you the swan, you take another piece of paper, fold it into a heart, you drop it in his hand, “You can also use it to leave hints,” you say, and he stares down at the heart, rosy-cheeked.
Dr. Reid was also easy to fluster.
“No facts for me today, cookie?” you ask him during surveillance; the house is empty, a decoy set in place to catch the unsub, surrounded on all sides; now all you had to do was wait.
“Facts?” he asks.
“Yeah,” you turn to him, tucking his hair back, his eyes widen again, and a blush runs along his cheeks. You apologize, withdrawing your hand.
“No, it’s alright….touch builds up cooperative relationships and reinforces reciprocity, and studies show that it signifies safety and trust. Basic touch can calm cardiovascular stress and activate the body’s vagus nerve, which is involved with our compassionate response. A simple touch can trigger the release of oxytocin, the, uh, love hormone,” he pauses, “why did I say that?”
“We’ve got movement.” Hotch’s voice interjects before anything else can be said, and you’re both out of the car, guns drawn as you track up to the house. The unsub tries to run back through the back, but Morgan’s waiting for him, knocking him down before he can escape. You don’t stick around in Atlanta, exhausted; you all pile into the plane, and you’re out; you wake to Spencer tapping your shoulder.
You stretch your arms, “Thanks for waking me, cookie.”
“No problem,” he responds.
You’re out the second your head hits the pillow, and wake up uncomfortably in yesterday’s suit. The new apartment looks homier and less empty, with most of your things already set out; you toss the old clothes in the hamper and get ready - shower, teeth, breakfast, and out the door. It’s a warm morning, so you carry your jacket in your hand.
“Damn, loverboy, I didn’t know you had sleeves.” You’d bumped into Derek on the way in, and he’d been immediately drawn to the ink on your arms.
“Oh, these old things,” you quip, “they’re nothing special.”
He whistles, and you lightly smack his arm, “Oh, shut up.” Derek wasn’t the only one taken back by the tattoos; the others were either shocked or intrigued, gathering by your desk to gander at them.
“Never, ever, keep your sleeves down again,” Garcia pleads.
“I’ll try,” you chuckle.
Spencer walks in last and takes a double glance at you, “You have tattoos? Wow,” he pauses, “wow.”
The others soon dissipate, but Spencer lingers a bit, looking between you and the ink; he reaches out but then hesitates, you hold out your arm and nod, and he traces the imagery. “That's one of my favorites,” you comment on the one he’s tracing.
“It’s beautifully detailed,” he observes, “they all are.”
“Thanks, I’ve had them done over the years,” you say. He traces the lines to your fingers, and when he finishes, he moves to the other arm - he gives you facts on the origins of tattoos and asks about some of your tattoos. You get lost in your own world, carrying on with the conversation as you’re called in for a briefing.
“What about this one?”
Spencer fixates on your tattoos, tracing them over and over, eyes following his fingers as they go over the lines again, “My second tattoo, got it a few months after my first one on my birthday.”
“What was your first one?” You’re going through paperwork looking for clues and hints to lead you to the unsub, “It’s a spinal tattoo,” you tell him and his eyes widen, “I can show you if you’re curious.”
He brings a folder to his face, a nervous laugh, and he looks like he’s considering it; he shrugs a little, “Only if you want,” he murmurs.
“Oh, cookie, I could eat you up,” you reply, and he makes a sound of amusement or surprise, or maybe it’s giddiness - as he kicks his legs a bit.
“Hey Morgan, how does dating work?”
Morgan slowly lowers the paper in his hand; it lays on his desk as he leans forward and glances over at Spencer. “Come again?”
“How does dating work?” Spencer repeats, “I assume you’re the most adept at this matter, I mean, I know how it works, but I’m also not…are you alright? Your face is doing —” Spencer gestures uncertainly.
“Just….just savoring this moment, " he replies, smiling, “I know something you don’t,” he cheers.
“I don’t not know about dating, I’m aware of it from societal expectations, facets, and data, but I lack the field experience.”
“Don’t,” Morgan holds his hands up, “don’t ruin the moment,” then he’s back, a smirk on his face; he asks, “Is it loverboy?” Spencer nodded; Morgan clapped his hands, a satisfied grin on his face, “I knew it!” he whispered before returning to the matter at hand, “So,” he cleared his throat, hands together on his desk, “dating.”
“Yes.”
“We’ll start simple; what do you know about dating? Not the facts, just the practical, like have you ever been on a date?”
“No, well, there was this one time I did get asked out by this girl in my class; we decided to go to the local park, but then I overheard her tell her friends it was a prank and they were going to douse me in some concoction, so I didn’t go,” he responds, “does that count?”
Derek shakes his head, “No, it does not, and are you ok?”
“Oh, yeah, it was a long time ago,” he shrugs, “so, what do I do about —” he winds his hands in a circular motion. “Is there a set of words I should say? Are there things I’m expected to do?”
“No, no, look,” Derek replied, “just, he likes you, for you, so don’t worry, just be yourself.”
“Be myself, huh? That’s the first time someone’s said I should do that,” he remarks. “Wait, how do you know he likes me?”
Derek raised an eyebrow, “He looks at you like the sun shines out of your ass,” he responded, “trust me, he likes you.” Spencer would like to believe Derek, and he does, but the little nagging voice in the recess of his mind, he starts wringing his hands a little and runs them along his pants to calm his nerves. “Hey,” Spencer glances up; Derek’s moved from his seat to his desk to his, leaning, “he likes you, ok?”
“How can you be sure?” Spencer purses his lips, twisting the strap of his bag, “He doesn’t deviate from how he acts when he interacts with all of us, he flirts with you just as much as he does with me, and Garcia, and Elle —”
“Why don’t you just ask him,” Derek points to the brief room; you’re currently standing by the door to it in deep conversation with Garcia. Spencer turns back and shakes his head.
“I think he’s busy; I —I’ll do it later.”
Later, in layman’s terms, really meant not ever. Preferably on his deathbed if he had to, but now that he’d asked Derek, any moment he’d look over, Derek would gesture to you, head tilted towards where you’d gone or were. Sometimes he’d mimic movements with his hand - one hand you, the other him, and they’d smoosh together into a kiss - then he’d groan, running a hand down his face when Spencer would shake his head frantically.
He’d like to avoid you and give a chance for the infatuation to die, but either he can’t bring himself to or doesn’t want to. He’s been playing the potential outcomes in his mind, he could confess, get turned down, and you’d remain friends, or he’d confess, get horribly rejected and then never see you again, or he could confess, and you could return the feelings. Considering all the options, he won’t be doing anything; he’ll just let this float away.
“You’re staring, cookie.” It’s the two of you in the kitchenette, no case, just tying up loose ends. “What’s going on in that mind of yours?”
“A potential hypothesis,” he responds.
“Oh yeah, what about?”
“Uh….I’m not sure how to put it into words,” he responds.
“Well, that’s a first,” you laugh, turning away from the kettle heating, “come on, give it a go.”
He nervously rubs his hands together, “Actually….it might be easier if I–I demonstrated it.”
“In the kitchen?” You ask, and he nods, asking you to close your eyes; you raise an eyebrow.
“Just trust me,” he begs, “....please.”
You do so, and there’s a split second where you can hear him mutter to himself - you can do this, come on - there’s a soft push against your lips, and it takes you a moment to realize he’d kissed you, holding your wrist to balance and ground himself, and then it’s gone. Your eyes open, and Spencer’s pursing his lips, hands wrangling more intensely, “R–results?” He’s not just asking; he’s hoping, the subtle worry underneath his voice as he waits for an answer.
You take one of his hands and reel him back in with a slight tug, and he looks so terrified as if bracing himself for the worst, so you kiss him, hoping it displaces any of his fears - Spencer clings to you, even after, your bodies are flush as he hides away in your arms; drawing back every once in a while to look at you, before shying away, a frivolous laugh caught in his throat.
“Good?” You inquire, and he nods.
“Very good.”
End Note:
I apologize profusely for using the word cookie as a nickname for Spencer, but I named the fic and got committed so you get to suffer with me. Stay Hydrated.
could i request morpheus x tattooed!reader where he likes tracing reader’s tattoos when he’s stressed or upset? or reader playing with morpheus’ hair !
Lovebirds
Summary:
Morpheus’ fingers trailed across your forearm; the sleeve tattoo contained both meaningful and unmeaningful tattoos - he’d shuffled into the room looking a tad unhappy, you’d uncrossed your legs, opened your arms, and the endless had gladly taken the invitation. His back to your chest, he traced your tattoos as you combed a hand through his hair, chuckling at the near cat-like tendency he had to lean into your touch for more.
Pairings:
Morpheus x Male!Reader
Tags:
Fluff | Tattooed!Reader |
Words: 262
Author's Note:
I swear all these compliments are gonna make me cry 😭 thank you
Morpheus’ fingers trailed across your forearm; the sleeve tattoo contained both meaningful and unmeaningful tattoos - he’d shuffled into the room looking a tad unhappy, you’d uncrossed your legs, opened your arms, and the endless had gladly taken the invitation. His back to your chest, he traced your tattoos as you combed a hand through his hair, chuckling at the near cat-like tendency he had to lean into your touch for more. He hmms to himself, going over a few of the curves repeatedly, before turning over to grab at your other arm. He moves his head back into your face, and his hair tickles at your skin, eyes glancing lazily into yours. He smiles.
“I see you’re enjoying yourself,” you remark.
“Of course, nothing better after a stressful day.” You raise an eyebrow in question, and he sighs, “Desire,” he says, and you try not to laugh, “they, well we, had a fight.”
“That’s nothing new.”
“It must have been this time, Death got angry,” he continues, “she called me an idiot.”
“Well…” your voice takes on a teasing tone, and Morpheus gawks at you, smacking your chest with a pout, he goes to move away from you, but you trap him in your hold, insincere apologies pouring from your mouth. “Oh, do forgive me, my dear,” you say, peppering his face with kisses.
He tries not to grin, but with every small kiss, there are cracks in his faux pout until he’s laughing alongside you. He returns to tracing the tattoos, and you follow suit, threading your hand through his hair.
