Hi This Was Beautiful And Hilarious!! Something About This Resonated Deeply Within My Soul And I've Become

I once read a fic that was about Spencer accidentally handcuffing himself to his bed cause he was practicing escaping them and Derek found him and basically nsfw things went down BUT what if you replaced the nsfw activities with tickles 👀👀👀

Spencer wouldn’t necessarily call himself someone who was prone to luck, other than the fact that he was born as a white male in the 20th-21st century, and really, he was one among many. Sometimes he even considered this a misfortune seeing as certain things were now expected of him which he very rarely managed to fulfill. He was skinny and fidgety and intelligent in a way which had always made him an outcast in certain areas of his life. And with outcast he meant severely bullied as a child and not always warmly received as an adult. And it was fine. He didn’t care. Who was he to wish for a community anyway.

He was around nine - no dad, mom acting in a way he yet couldn’t comprehend - when he decided that luck was not on his side and that he would have to fight for everything in his life other than a splash of white male rights, and so he had never really considered himself very lucky.

Until Derek Morgan entered his bedroom one random Friday evening without having been invited, that was.

“What the hell?”

“I would say the same thing - because how the hell did you even get in here - but I have frankly never been happier to see you in my life.”

“Reid, what- is it an UnSub? Wait, we’re not even working a case.”

“It’s not an UnSub.”

Something flickered across Derek’s face. “Is it a lady?” His wagging eyebrows were enough to have Spencer flushing, until he added “or a gentleman, I don’t judge,” which really had him wishing the ground would swallow him whole.

“It’s not. Shut up.”

“Are you really in a position to be rude to me here, pretty boy?”

Derek was, of course, right. Spencer shifted, grateful that he was at the very least sitting on the bed rather than the floor which had been his first choice before he’d changed his mind about forty minutes ago. “Sorry, sorry, just- get me out of here, please.”

Derek hummed as he approached him. “Well, you did say please. But I gotta know how this even happened first. You owe me that much.”

“I think you owe me an explanation as to why you’re barging into my apartment.”

“I think I barged in just at the right time, didn’t I?”

Spencer relented. “I was trying to practice my escape skills.”

“Ah. And then you couldn’t escape.”

“Something like that.”

“What was your plan for this exact scenario then?”

“I have brunch plans tomorrow with Garcia and she would eventually realize something was up and find me. Or the cops would. I don’t know.” He pulled at his trapped arms, grateful that the handcuffs at the very least weren’t messing up his blood circulation. They were merely tight enough to stop him from slipping out, cuffed to his sides in a way that didn’t hurt. He’d decided he wanted to start slow, not realizing he wouldn’t get any further than this.

“That would be like 15 hours from now.”

Derek was blinking incredulously at him. It was embarrassing. Maybe being found by Garcia in 15 hours would’ve been better.

He averted his gaze. “I know. I just- I guess I wanted to prove myself.”

Derek sat down on the mattress next to him. “To the team?”

“And myself.”

He sighed. “We’ll have a proper talk about this eventually. I guess I should get you out first. Where’s the key?”

“Uh.”

“Spencer.”

“I’m not sure?”

Derek moved his gaze to the ceiling. “Of course you’re not. Why would this rescue mission be easy.”

“I thought I’d get out without it, didn’t I?”

“Yeah, well, clearly you overestimated yourself.” Spencer caught the moment Derek regretted his words, but he couldn’t blame him. Spencer had been doing too many stupid things recently in an attempt to prove himself. A bad decision during a case and a scolding later, he’d started doubting his abilities as an agent in the field. Hotch had told him he could stay behind the scenes if he preferred, but that his analytical skills were useful in the place of action too. And so Spencer had tried to improve.

Clearly it wasn’t working.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that.”

“No, no, I get what you mean.” He leaned his head back. “Just get me out of here.”

“How exactly am I supposed to do that without a key?”

“You’re an FBI agent, aren’t you?”

“Ha ha smartass.” He poked Spencer’s side, most likely out of habit, but Spencer, who couldn’t move away from it properly, tried to jerk back which merely resulted in him slamming himself against the headboard. “Jesus, sorry, sorry.” But Derek was laughing and Spencer was too, maybe out of nervousness, maybe because this whole situation was ridiculous.

“It’s okay,” he said, suddenly blushing for the second time since Derek walked in on him. “I wasn’t prepared.”

“Downplaying your ticklishness, I see.” He leaned closer, grinning. “I have you right where I want you, you know. I could even tickle your neck since you never let me do it without freaking out.”

Spencer could feel the ghost tickles beneath his chin, which wasn’t helped by the fact that his collar was touching his neck already. “You wouldn’t.”

“Are you so sure about that?” He wiggled his fingers in the air. “It would be soooo easy. You wouldn’t be able to stop me.”

Spencer started giggling, which was probably the most embarrassing thing he’d done during this whole interaction. “Derek.”

“There we go. There’s that smile.” He leaned back again with a laugh. “I won’t do it, but it’s fun teasing you.”

“You’re an asshole.” Spencer turned his head away from him in an attempt to compose himself, and as he did - surprised squeak, sigh of relief - he caught sight of the key on the floor in front of his closet.

“Hey,” he said later, when he’d been freed and fed and, yes, somewhat tickled to death. “Why did you come here?”

Derek put down his burger. “I was bored. You weren’t answering your phone. Was gonna bug you to entertain me.”

Spencer let out a laugh. “Well, did I?”

“Oh, very much so.”

know when to walk away. know when to run.

fandom: criminal minds

w/c: 1943

content: fluff very cartoony goofy fluff

summary: morgan bets reid he can't go a day without rambling. reid takes him up on it.

a/n: i got a little carried away with everything that wasn't the main course but i promise it is there towards the end. open to criticism ☝️, i am still new at this and looking to improve.

p.s the penelope rant was all me i am penelope.

~~~~~~~~

Derek was starting to feel guilty. To an outside observer, nothing seemed unusual. Reid was sitting across from him on the jet, reading some book in Russian. At least he thought it was Russian. When he asked Reid if it was, he made a face which indicated it was not actually Russian. Any other day he would've corrected Derek on the fact it was Ukrainian (which Derek had to find out after looking the book up on his phone - tedious.) Any other day Reid would passionately explain away a passage in the book that particularly interested him. But today he was completely silent.

It was really starting to get to Derek. And he could tell the kid knew he was getting to him. Spencer would check his watch every so often, glimpse at him with a smug ass look on his face, then go back to his book. It was infuriating.

-----

The unsub they had been dealing with was a bride-killer. He targeted women during their bachelorette parties days before the women were set to be married. The only reason for him to pick such high-profile, high-risk women is if it were a compulsion.

“Maybe he’d gotten cheated on during his own bride’s bachelorette party,” Rossi said.

“Wouldn't he have to stalk these women for weeks to know they were getting married?” JJ questioned.

“Not necessarily,” said Morgan. “Wearing a bride-to-be sash like the victims were would be like waving a red cape at a bull.”

“It’s a common misconception but actually, bulls are colorblind. So it doesn't really matter what color the matador waves - it’s the cape’s movement that elicits an aggressive charge response in the bull.”

“...”

Everyone stared at Reid in a silence that stretched for seemingly forever. He shrunk under their intense gaze.

“Um, Morgan’s metaphor still applies here, though.”

Derek laughed the way he always did right before he teased Reid.

“I bet he can’t go a day without saying some completely unrelated fun fact during the investigation. He just can’t help himself.”

“It wasn’t completely unrelated..” Reid mumbled shyly, before speaking to be heard. “I can. But where's the fun in that?”

“You wanna put money on that?”

"Ooh, careful Morgan. Gambling with a Vegas boy is bound to go wrong." Rossi joked.

“The stakes are too unclear. And there would be too many technicalities. We'd argue over what constitutes as irrelevant to the investigation, what counts as a fun fact..” he trailed off as he realized the stares and silence were back.

“Okay, pretty boy. New stakes. I bet you can’t go without talking for… at least twelve hours. About anything.”

“Can I make any noise?”

“Hmm. Nah.”

“How much money?”

“Reid, Morgan, focus up.” Hotch pinched the bridge of his nose indignantly. “We need Reid to talk until the investigation is over. Then you can wager on your own time.” Hotch brought everyone’s attention back to catching the killer. From over his copy of the case file, Reid mouthed to Morgan. You’re on.

-----

It started right after the unsub was processed. Immediately after. As in, while Morgan was putting the suspect in cuffs, he had turned to Reid and said, “50 bucks?”

“Sure,” he replied. “Starting when?” The local PD came to take the unsub away.

“Now?”

Reid smiled confidently in response.

“Great work, everybody.” Hotch walked up to the team huddled inside the killer’s home. “Let’s get out of here. I’m buying coffee. What does everyone want?”

Reid opened his mouth to say something before pursing his lips. This would be harder than he thought.

-----

On the jet ride home, Derek had been trying to goad Reid into saying something. He facetimed Penelope.

“Hey mama, I got a question for you. Here, let me put you on speaker.”

“Oh! I love questions. You know I know everything. What’s up?”

He looked at Reid smugly as he talked, even though the kid was fixated on his book. “Why exactly does ‘Doctor Who’ spend so much time in places that look exactly like Earth when he's got a whole universe to explore? There ain’t no way Earth is more interesting than the entire universe.”

Oh my. The look on Reid’s face was devastating. The only time Morgan would ever willingly discuss Doctor Who, he couldn’t join the conversation. Derek’s heart would’ve broken if he hadn’t found it hilarious.

“...okay. Sweetheart, first of all, he is not called ‘Doctor Who.’ He’s called ‘The Doctor.’ Okay?” Penelope sighed, agitated. Some relief washed over Reid’s face as if that was what he wanted to say.

“Doctor Who is the name of the show. His identity is a mystery and he just goes by The Doctor. So people and alienfolk all go ‘Huh? What do you mean? Doctor Who?’ and that’s why the show is called that. You wouldn't call Captain Kirk 'Star Trek: The Original Series.'" Reid was positively pouting.

"Second of all, I heard about the little challenge you placed unto our baby genius and I will have no part in his torture. Tata.” Penelope hung up the phone.

Derek frowned and put the phone in his pocket. “Damn… I really was curious. Do you mind answering my question?” he taunted Reid with a toothy grin. Reid scowled and returned to his book. A true miracle he had so much self control over his hand gestures.

-----

Two hours had passed slowly and silently. It wasn’t fun anymore. Morgan had seen Reid perk up at least three times to infodump about the books he’s read during the flight, before he caught himself. Each time he was stupidly dejected afterward. Morgan didn’t love it. He hated it. The kid had been shut up his entire life by his peers and bullies. And now by his friends. His heart was actually starting to ache seeing his friend’s gaze become more and more distant.

“Hey, kid. Let’s just call it off.”

Spencer met his eyes and raised a brow.

“I wanna hear about the story. Genuinely.”

Spencer looked down at his watch, then crossed his arms. Morgan scoffed.

“Seriously, you want the 50 dollars that bad? There’s still an hour left before we land.” He didn't want to see Reid be depressed for the entire remainder of the flight. And the longer it went, it seemed less likely he'd be up for talking even after the time limit. Morgan couldn't handle that.

“C’mon man, it’s unhealthy for a brain to store so much information without an outlet. You’ll explode.”

Spencer smiled and huffed out of his nose. His eyes went wide. He awkwardly looked over to the side at nothing.

“..Was that a noise?” Spencer frowned and shook his head. A figmental lightbulb went off over Derek’s head.

He walked over to sit side-by-side with Spencer, who eyed him cautiously. He sighed. Maybe it was inappropriate to play dirty, but Spencer wasn't exactly giving him an option.

“Listen, we can do this the easy way. Where you open your mouth right now and call me an asshole for ever suggesting this stupid bet in the first place. Or we can do this, uh…” he grinned impishly, wiggling the fingers of one of his hands. “..the hard way.”

Spencer’s jaw clenched at the implication. He braved a face of nonchalance and for a moment, Derek thought maybe he wasn’t even ticklish. Or maybe he didn’t think Derek would actually do it. They were in front of their boss after all, their unit chief of the Federal Bureau of Investigation Behavioral Analysis Unit. Not in grade school.

But then Derek saw the red of his ears slowly make its way down to his cheeks and decided he couldn’t help himself. Plus, the kid wasn’t talking.

"Okay, have it your way."

It was childish, Derek would be the first to admit it. But he’d kill two birds with one stone. End the bet, and get Reid to smile a bit.

He wiggled an index finger lightly at the side of Spencer’s neck, which immediately got trapped. Spencer reached up to pull the hand out, before his wrist was snatched and Derek clawed at his ribs.

To Derek’s surprise, Spencer stayed quiet. His physical reaction, however, made up for it. He jerked and contorted so hard his back ended up on the seat of his chair. One leg curled up to protect the attacked side, while the other sprawled over Derek.

He kept his lips and eyes shut so tight they quivered.

“You’re kidding.” Derek was indignant. This was the most stubborn he’d ever seen him. “You can’t keep this up for an hour.”

After spending some time there, he moved up into his underarm. Spencer broke out into an open mouth grin and another spasm. But still no noise.

Derek let go of his wrist - bicep burning from Spencer's struggle against him - to use both his hands to tickle. Something happened that completely bewildered him.

Spencer was laughing. He was trembling, his stomach was tense, and his throat bobbed as it always did when he laughed. But it was silent. How the hell was he doing that? Why was he just taking it? Is he really going to endure this torture for the rest of the flight?

If he could, oh man. There was no way in hell Derek would stop. This was a much better sight than the sad quiet Spencer from earlier. He just wished he could hear it.

Derek was broken out of his thoughts when he saw tears fall from Spencer’s eyes, which suddenly looked much more desperate. He was turning a concerning shade of red. The drawback of silent laughter finally registered in Derek’s brain.

“Woah Jesus, kid! Breathe!” Derek immediately stilled his hands, reaching instead to grab hold of Reid’s face. It was hot to the touch. He quickly wiped away Reid's tears, which felt a bit intimate, but he didn't want the team to see he had accidentally tickled their greatest asset into crying. He figured Reid wouldn't want them to see either.

Derek helped him sit upright. Spencer breathed hard, a smile gracing his face as he peacefully closed his eyes in relief and weariness. His lips shaped in a circle to steady his breathing.

Absolutely infuriating. He would have passed out before he lost. It was a battle of wills, and even when Derek held all the cards, he folded first.

He wondered why Spencer was going so far for something so dumb. If he was trying to prove something to himself, to his team, to all the bullies who shut him up, Morgan would never live down the guilt. He hoped it was as simple as Reid just being a competitive little shit.

He groaned. “Okay, fine! You win, Spencer. You proved your point. You know how to stay quiet. Hell, not even I could…" he cleared his throat. "..uh, the point is, you won. You can have the 50 bucks. Please just talk to me.”

Spencer was still panting, the smile on his face seemed permanent. “You're.. an asshole,” he breathed. “And a cheater.”

“Yeah, I know.” Derek laughed.

“I still won, though. Whew."

“Yeah, yeah..” Relief. He was a competitive little shit.

"Can't believe you couldn't take just three hours of me not talking! You must really love learning."

He scoffed. "Whatever." Alright. The kid was starting to get cocky.

“Hasn't anyone ever told you cheaters never prosper?"

“Oh, that’s rich coming from you.” He pinched at his side and Spencer laughed. Audibly, this time. Garcia would call it a swoon-worthy sound. Maybe those were his words.

He pulled out his government issued wallet before his hand was stopped. “Oh. I don’t actually want your money.”

“A bet’s a bet, Reid. You earned it fair and square.”

“You wouldn’t take it if you had won.” Spencer smiled. “Just buy me a coffee when we land. I didn’t get any earlier.”

Derek shrugged. If he took any lesson away from this, it was that the doctor was stubborn. “Alright, fine by me.”

“And listen when I say the whole point of the Doctor’s archetype is to love Earth - specifically humanity - and for logistical reasons it’s just more convenient for the setting to be on Earth or on a planet that resembles Cardiff, Wales..” Here we go. Spencer rambled on, speaking quickly and more with his hands than anything. Derek rolled his eyes, but he sat back and listened.

Checkmate

Fandom: Criminal Minds

Characters: Morgan, Hotch, Reid

Anonymous said: so for lee!reid, could it be that he’s constantly bragging abt how good he is at chess, and hotch and morgan tickle him in an attempt to (lovingly) bring down his ego

Words: 630

“Checkmate.”

“Oh, come on.”

Reid seemed to try, to his credit, not to gloat, but Morgan knew this scenario all too well. Had seen it with both himself and other members of the team. The only person who rarely got to see Reid brag about winning chess was Gideon, but Reid probably wouldn’t be gloating at Gideon anyway.

He watched him now, annoyance rising slowly inside of him as Reid bit his lip to keep from smiling, eyes downcast, looking so goddamn smug that Morgan nearly angered, having siblings and all. Maybe it was because he had siblings that he found himself unable to not take the bait. “You cheated.”

“I didn’t,” Reid said matter of factly. When he looked up he seemed earnest, which made Morgan huff. “I swear.”

“Yeah, yeah, don’t be so goddamn smug about it.”

Reid turned to Hotch, who was sitting beside him with his gaze stuck on the case file. “Tell him you can’t cheat at chess.”

Keep reading

It's camp!

Fandom: Stranger Things

Characters: Steve, Robin

Anonymous said: Hi! Could you write one where Steve is messing with Robin so she straddles him and tickles his belly button? Maybe they’re at his house having a sleepover and he makes fun of her haircut?

Words: 920

Steve became suspicious when Robin didn’t want to take her hat off in the middle of july. “You’re gonna get heat stroke,” he told her, going back and forth between opening his window and slamming it shut upon realizing it was still too early in the evening for the air to have cooled down. “I’m serious, Robin, I don’t feel like driving you to the hospital if you collapse.”

She rolled her eyes, pulling the neon green thing lower down so that it covered her eyebrows. “It’s comfy.”

“It’s psychotic behavior. Did you shave your head or somethin’?” It was mostly a joke, but the way Robin tensed up made him gasp. “You didn’t.”

“I didn’t!” she was quick to reassure him, pulling a strand of hair out of the hat. “See? Hair.”

“So then what’s your deal?”

“I might’ve cut my hair myself?”

Steve waited for her to laugh and say she was joking, but no laughter came. “Robin, oh my god.”

“Listen,” she started, sitting up, legs crossed on Steve’s bed, where she was about to spend the night like many other nights. “I- it’s a gay thing.”

“Okay?”

“Shorter hair? Like short short hair.”

“Right.”

“The hairdresser never wants to cut it as short as I want.”

Steve was beginning to see where this was going. “So you decided to take matters into your own hands.”

“Exactly. But-” She winced, grabbing her hat, but not pulling it off. “But I messed up.”

Steve rubbed the bridge of his nose. “You should’ve asked for help.”

“I know.”

Her voice sounded small, which was fucking terrifying to hear and Steve found himself reaching out to squeeze her knee. “I’m sure it’s not that bad.”

“Promise you won’t laugh if I show you?”

“‘Course not.”

“It’s getting hot.”

“Told you.”

She sighed and shoved the hat off, her hair a mess of tangles on top of her head. Steve waited for it to settle down enough before he said anything, only to promptly realize it wasn’t settling down at all. 

“Oh my god.”

“You said you wouldn’t laugh!”

“Woah, woah, am I laughing?” He wasn’t laughing, but that was mostly due to shock. “Robin, I- Did you try to cut layers?”

Robin nodded wordlessly and Steve mentally wondered how he could convince her to go get it fixed at a hairdresser. “It’s- nice. It’s camp.”

“Did Eddie teach you cultural words again?”

“It’s a good thing he did. I can definitely see the vision here.” He framed her face with his hands. “Way ahead of your time. A trendsetter.”

Robin snorted. “You’re making fun of me.”

“I’m not! It’s-” He waved his hands around, trying to think of a word. “Cool?” The way he’d said it, slightly high pitched, laced in a question, accidentally made way for a laugh which came out at the end, and he was already apologizing by the time Robin had tackled him.

“You’re so dead, Harrington!”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, it’s not funny, it’s just-”

“It looks bad. Just say it.”

“I’m sure we can get it fixed-” He had no time to say anything else as Robin’s fingers were worming their way under his arms, nimble and strong and unbearably ticklish. “Wait, wait, I’m only trying to he- stop!”

Straddling his hips, Robin and her ridiculous haircut hunched over him, her frown slowly smoothing out as he laughed and laughed and begged and laughed. She’d caught him off guard, okay? He could totally fight back otherwise. Probably.

“Oh-kay, no, not there, come on-”

Robin had this thing where she would zero in on a spot and not move away until Steve was a puddle beneath her. This time it just so happened to already be one of his worst spots, much worse than underarms which she’d only tortured for a minute. As Robin ignored him and tickled the edges of his belly button, shoving his flailing arms away easily, Steve felt he would pay for three of her haircuts if only she stopped.

It was a good thing they were alone, because Steve’s scream could surely be heard throughout the whole house. “Robin!”

“This is what you get,” she said, finally grinning at him which was at least a bit of a win for him. “I told you not to laugh.”

“I barely did- oh my god!”

His hands being free was nearly worse, as he came close to relief and then pulled right away from it. Robin was occupying one of her own hands purely with blocking his attempts, her other dancing around his belly, but mostly keeping close to his navel. His shirt was still pulled down, but it tickled too much nevertheless.

The first time she’d discovered this particular spot was a day he could never forget no matter how much he tried. The persistent pokes, over and over again, laughing when he jumped. Embarrassing, but also strangely nice to feel close enough that this could be happening. She’d discovered many spots since, but that memory was one of his strongest.

Also maybe because Robin kept bringing it up, making a very clear reference now as she was poking at his navel over and over. His whole body jerked with each poke, his laughter becoming choppy. He felt nearly as ridiculous as her haircut. Maybe he shouldn’t tell her that though. Although how much worse could this get if he did?

She stuck her hand under his shirt and Steve found out just how much worse it could get, all right.

😔

real footage of me trying 2 write a fic normally (brain making it abt tks again ..)

it’s not so bad here

fandom: criminal minds

w/c: 2155

pairing: platonic BAU (mostly prentiss and morgan), spencer reid

summary: perspective of spencer: on the jet ride home after a long case. The team is so tired they get a lil silly. fluff + minimum angst I mean it is spencer’s brain.

a/n: this is quite literally my first time for everything, my first time using tumblr and my first ever fanfiction. i had a lot of fun so perhaps expect more maybe?? I want to thank the amazing @nhasablogg for being the biggest inspiration and just so cool honestly. they helped a lot with this work and have just been the kindest person ever!!! anyway pls read the following with all this☝️in mind.

~~~~~~

Spencer never really got used to flying. The team was currently thirty-six-thousand-eight-hundred-sixty-four feet above what Spencer assumed (or more accurately, calculated) would be Tennessee based on flight patterns from Dallas to Quantico and the amount of time they’ve been in air for. Which was roughly three hours, forty-five minutes, six seconds. Seven. Eight. They had about three more hours to go.

The pressure was building in Spencer’s ears and he grimaced, swallowing hard in an attempt to pop them. He always felt a pang of anxiety whenever any pain came to his head, as his memory would replay his mother’s cries for relief during bad episodes.

There was one night when Spencer was eleven, experiencing his first true migraine after finishing his college applications. It was one of the few times Spencer remembered his mother taking care of him instead of the other way around, she was almost completely lucid. His fear was much stronger then, and while he was a boy-genius, his brain was still biologically too immature to handle it.

“I’m dying, mom.” The corners of his eyes wet with tears. His mother smiled at him. It wasn’t often that Spencer behaved his age like this.

“No baby, your head is just too full, and your skull is too small to contain it. The pain is just your head expanding, working to grow and stay ahead of your thoughts.”

“Actually, your brain can’t be too big for your skull. There’s just a blood vessel swelling, and that’s putting pressure on the surrounding nerves which is making the muscles around my skull tighten and causing…” he groaned in frustrated pain. His mother stroked his hair soothingly.

“Would you listen to your mother for once, Spencer? Just go to sleep, you can’t feel the world in your sleep, you know. Go somewhere other than this reality, where your head isn’t constantly working. Relieve some of that pressure... It’s too stressful here, isn’t it?” A far too familiar distant look crossed her eyes for a moment. He rushed to retrieve her.

“Mom.. would you stay with me tonight?”

She returned her son’s gaze. “Of course, I’m not going anywhere.”

His pain seeped out with every stroke, as if his mother’s fingers were magically sucking it out from his skin. As he fell asleep, he found that she was right. He didn’t feel anything. It was like traveling through time.

—————

The case in Texas was particularly rough. Over the past five days, the team got maybe a total of eight hours of rest each. And as far as successes go, they’ve gotten better wins. As a headache creeped up on Spencer, he kicked off his shoes and curled up on the jet couch for a nap. He fell asleep pretty quickly, ready to skip through the headache until he was in Virginia again.

But a funny sensation on his right foot caused his leg to jerk in. I thought I couldn’t feel the world in my sleep. He stirred to see Prentiss standing at the end of the couch.

“I like your socks, Reid.” She said, before wiggling her fingers over his left pink-and-purple striped sock.

“Hey!” He pulled his other leg in and smushed it against the cushion to smother the feeling. He checked his watch, the jet couldn’t be landing already? “What’d you wake me up for?”

“I couldn’t help myself. Purple’s my favorite color.” She grinned at his reaction, before it faded into a frown. “Hang on, now that you’re up though, how come you always get the full couch to sleep on?” Morgan leaned over from his seat, invested in the conversation.

“Thank you. I’ve been meaning to say something about that bull.” He craned his neck, exaggerating the pain of sleeping upright.

“Reid is the youngest,” Hotch said from out of nowhere, neither against him nor in his defense. Spencer hadn’t even noticed him watching. Had they all been watching him sleep? Rossi continued for Hotch, “I suppose he assumed he got first rights to the couch for being born last. And you all let him.”

Hotch went back to the paperwork in his lap, diligent even while running on no sleep. “No, what about Ashley Seaver? She was younger than Reid,” he said. Definitely against him.

“And he still took the couch. Like a gentleman,” said Rossi.

Suddenly, Spencer felt very ganged up on.

“Is that right?” Morgan squinted at Spencer as if he stole something precious from him.

“I don’t think that’s fair,” Prentiss said. “We can’t let him get away with this anymore.”

At first, he was confused by the rare playfulness of his coworkers, especially from Hotch adding to the banter after the crazy, long week. Then he realized; everyone was sleep deprived and filled with a goofy, delirious energy. And while they weren’t able to catch the unsub, they were able to return a young girl back to her family - traumatized, but albeit unharmed - something they saw far too little of. The feeling left everyone more fuzzy than anything, it outweighed the disappointment of losing the unsub. Reuniting a family always strengthened his own, Spencer thought. Perhaps that fuzziness and fatigue was expunging all the professionalism they maintained while the case was ongoing.

And now Spencer - who was just sleeping soundly on the couch that everyone was hungry for - was beginning to feel that fuzziness himself. He faced his back towards his team as he pulled his cover up to his chin and closed his eyes.

“If you wanted it, you should’ve gotten to it first.”

At that, he heard Morgan rise and make his way toward the couch. The blanket was ripped off him dramatically. He kept his eyes closed and opened his mouth to snore lightly. His snore lasted half a second before the sound was abruptly cut off, immediately snapping his mouth shut in a toothy grimace and slamming his elbow down to his side.

“Get your ass up, Reid,”

“No.” He buried his face into the back of the couch, trying to hide his smile as if the way his elbow followed each of Morgan’s delivered pokes didn’t give him away. Reid stiffened a bit more, he focused on schooling his reactions and moving less. If he started laughing, there was no way they would stop, probably even after he gave up what they wanted.

“C‘mon, it’s time to wake up.” His resolve began to crumble when Morgan tasered both sides of his ribs. “Share with the rest of us.”

“Ahhh-ha! Stop!” He huffed out a laugh before holding his breath to stop himself. His face quickly flushed as he wiggled on the couch.

“You know, everyone else sits during the whole flight. As a courtesy to the rest of the team. Except for you-” He accentuated by digging into his ribs again, causing another yelp and laugh to slip. “-who’s just sleeping here like a baby. What’s up with that?”

“Derek-“

“Hmm?”

He couldn’t speak.

“Aww, what’s the matter, Reid? You’re not ticklish, are you?” Prentiss cooed as if nobody could tell he would be just by looking at him.

That’s all it took to crack him. Once the hysterical laughter began he couldn’t stop it. Like a defense mechanism, his brain started working in overdrive to apply logic to best overcome this assault. It took no time to figure out he could never physically stop Morgan; in terms of strength he was far outmatched.

Well, tickling is essentially the body’s response to unpredictable stimuli, so theoretically he could dull the sensations by predicting the attacks. He could trick his brain into believing he was tickling himself. He applied it in a fraction of a second.

All he did was swat at Morgan’s hands in an awkwardly gentle manner, unable to take hold of them. It really did absolutely nothing. Spencer wondered if he were one of the few who could tickle himself.

Before he could think of another solution, Prentiss grabbed one of his arms and hoisted it up above his head.

“No no no, wait wait doN’T-“

Being able to predict was proven a completely worthless tactic. Morgan tickled under his arm and he screamed. His ears finally popped and he could hear the sounds of his own bright laughter at its true pitch. His defense mechanism was shot, as if Morgan’s fingers were sucking out any ability to form a useful thought.

“Oh my god, how’d an eagle get so high up here?” Prentiss teased before breaking down herself.

Spencer wailed and curled his legs in protectively. When that did nothing, he kicked and pulled down at his arm. When that did nothing, he fell back in a whiny giggle in an attempt to garner their sympathy. That did nothing but encourage them.

“Hotch!”

Hotch finished his note, glanced very briefly at his team before returning to his work with the slightest of smiles. Spencer felt betrayed. Supervisory special agent my AAHHAA-

“Oh oh, what’s going on? It sounds like fun, let me see,” JJ turned the laptop over to show Garcia what was happening: Spencer flopping red in the face with Morgan practically sitting on him, Prentiss crouching - legs wobbly from her own laughter - behind Spencer’s head, still holding onto his arm.

“Oh geez, Spencer. How did I not know you were ticklish! Because of course you are. What did he do to deserve this? Did he cheat at Go Fish again?”

Upon seeing Garcia’s grin and his own disheveled form mirrored back at him, Spencer felt embarrassed. If anyone was going to make this a recurring experience, it would be her. He wasn’t totally against the idea, which made him blush furiously harder.

“Okay, okayokay! Y-you can have the couch. I don’t want it. I don’t want it!” Prentiss let go and Spencer squirmed out of Morgan’s grasp, falling to the floor of the jet. He stayed there catching his breath in high-pitched giggles, bewildered by what just happened. He wiped his eyes and looked up at Hotch and Rossi, who stared down at him with immense amusement.

“Thanks for the help guys,” he exhaled, exhausted. They both shook their heads with fond smiles.

“I trusted my agents could handle an internal conflict on their own,” Hotch said.

“You mean manhandle..”

He looked to Morgan, who was settling comfortably on the couch with Reid’s blanket, Prentiss cuddling next to him. He rubbed his sides and looked down at the ground, defeated.

“There’s plenty of room for all of us, big guy,” Prentiss offered her hand, inviting him to the couch. Spencer took it with a smile and sat down awkwardly with his hands resting on his thighs. She draped the blanket over the three of them.

“I’m sorry for being a couch hog.”

“I’m sure you are,” Prentiss snickered.

“It’s alright, Reid, you seem like you always need the sleep. We were just having fun. Did we go too far?” Morgan asked sincerely, arm around Emily and hand on Reid’s shoulder.

“Nah.. I-I had fun too. I mean, I haven’t laughed that hard in a while. I don’t think you guys have either actually.”

“Yeah, well, you did look really funny.” Prentiss said.

Spencer nudged her with a smile, earning him a poke which he quickly followed with a soft noooo don’t.

Morgan scratched the side of his head, mostly to teasingly get his attention. But it felt nice. “Start preparing for a lot more of that.”

“Hmm.. my mom used to do this for me.”

“Tickle you?”

“Uh, no. Stroke my hair. Whenever I got a bad headache, she would tell me to sleep, and then she would pet me until I did.”

“Do you have a headache now?”

“Earlier, a little.”

Without saying any more, Morgan patted down his (now) short hair before stroking up and down soothingly.

“Like that?”

Spencer slumped over and began fake-snoring. Morgan withdrew his hand and sat up a little straighter, which immediately woke him back up “I’m kidding I’m kidding I’m kidding please just- keep doing what you were doing.” They returned to their original positions after Morgan shot him a warning look.

Prentiss rested her head on his shoulder. He leaned his own head back against the couch and allowed himself to relax. The reality of Emily being there with all of them suddenly hit him. Countless nights he begged for her death to be reversed, to be a hoax. To be replaced even. Back then he wished to go to another reality, somewhere without the pressure and the stress, somewhere he couldn’t feel the world. But now, how lucky was he for her to be returned, for her to be truly safe and sound and laughing with them again? He would rather be nowhere else.

He checked his watch, there was two hours left of the flight. The three of them fell asleep very quickly, but rather than try to skip through time, Spencer savored the moment.

Stained Leather (Good Omens)

(Switch!Aziraphale/Switch!Crowley)

⚠️SPOILERS FOR GOOD OMENS S2⚠️

Summary : He’s lost his angel. Now all Crowley has are the memories they shared. Memories he wishes he could forget as easily as he remembers them.

A/N : love these gay old-ass genderless beings with my whole heart and soul. which is why i’m devastated and needed to vent with angst and tickles :)

Warnings : angst, tickling

Word Count : 2221 (omg kinda angel numbers)

hope y’all enjoy! :)

—

He’d been thinking a lot lately. For someone’s sake, he sure knows he’s got the time for it now. Driving endlessly for days, weeks, maybe months. Who really knows, with how time has blended seamlessly together like one long stretched road, terrifyingly eternal in its seeming hatred for dead ends. He’s had far too much time to ponder on the last, oh, 6000 years or so. But who’s counting? Certainly not Crowley.

He gave his head a stern shake, trying so hard to knock loose all those dreadful little thoughts that keep his knuckles white against the steering wheel. But thoughts always fell right back into place, and yet again, he felt trapped. Did the Bentley shrink since he drove it last? It seems far more cramped than usual. Like he doesn’t fit comfortably anymore, like his body can’t seem to find that Crowley shaped indent in the leather cushion that he worked so hard to make just for him. For a moment, he wonders if it took a new shape, one the car favored over his own.

Angel-shaped.

His eyes shut tight, silent fireworks in the darkness of his pinched eyelids. He’s thinking like a fool now. An idiotic, foolish sap.

That one thought has his mind drifting though, and he feels his heart race with the memories. It’s not the usual heart rate he has when thinking of his…the angel. No, it’s uncomfortable and uneasy. Unbearable. Like a blood-boiling type of heart rate. He’s never felt this way before when remembering.

One particular memory hits him like an oncoming truck. Makes him wish a real truck would hit him even harder.

…

“Please Angel, you’re gonna ruin the leather!”

“Oh, do stop being foolish. I know you are well aware that I’m not much of a mess-making type. Plus, I did bring napkins-“

“Mmyes, napkins, the pinnacle of all cleaning products against 100 year old leather” Crowley says too sarcastically for Aziraphale’s taste. “D’you remember 1991, that little excursion of ours in New York. You tried a hotdog that resulted in the world’s first mustard stain down an angel’s white button up,” Crowley popped the ‘P’ as he poked Aziraphale’s chest, right where the stain had sat years ago. Aziraphale swatted the hand away, annoyance painted all over his face. “It took a miracle to get that stain out, quite literally might I add.”

Aziraphale fixed his posture quickly, chin up in defiance. “Now that’s not fair, and you know it, Crowley. I distinctly remember a certain someone pinching my knee under the table just so I would spill something all over my garments.” Aziraphale huffed, wiping his mouth with one of the napkins he brought specifically because he knew Crowley would make a fuss. He had gotten an ice cream cone on their most recent outing, buying from a local vendor who made it from scratch. He tipped quite generously too, as homemade is always his favorite.

“Yeah well, s’not my fault your vessel’s too ticklish to keep food in your mouth,” Crowley grinned, leaning just a tad closer to Aziraphale so he could get a good look at that flustered expression painted on his angel’s face.

“Oh hush, it wasn’t even in my mouth when it fell. You know that, too,” He took a generous lick of the treat, unable to hold back a smile and slight wiggle at the strawberry flavor coating his tongue. “And don’t you forget, I’m not the only one here with a sensitive vessel. I seem to remember a particular incident in, oh, 2004 was it? Ah yes, you drew quite the attention of just about everyone in the pub with your scream-“

“Oh shuttuuuup, I did not scream,” Crowley insisted, just as he did back in ‘04, even with all those curious eyes on him. He specifically remembers two blue ones paired with a particularly un-angelic smile bringing a sickening warmth to his face. He merely rolled his eyes at the memory.

“A shrieking cackle then, maybe?” Aziraphale couldn’t hold back his cheeky smile as Crowley glared at him. “Would a shrill squeal better suffice? Nooo, I know, it was more like the wail of a —ah! Ah, Crohowley, wait-!” Aziraphale was cut off mid sentence by devilish fingers squeezing just above his knee cap, an unfortunate repeat of ‘91 waiting to happen. “The leather, Crohowley, the leatheheher!”.

“Oh no, do continue! I’d just love to hear what other synonyms you’ve been cooking up the past 10 years!” Crowley couldn’t help the grin as he saw Aziraphale struggle to keep his ice cream from dripping while pulling at the tickly hand on his leg. Those angelic giggles always have been his downfall, though he never did complain. “Haven’t got all day, have we, Angel?”

Aziraphale groaned through his giggles, nearly crushing the cone in his hand from his mirth. “You fiehehend!” He stomped his legs (gently, though for the soft angel it might as well been a violent kick) against the car floor, nearly pressing his face into the window next to him in giggly embarrassment. “Stop ahahat once!” His voice squeaked on the last word, and Crowley couldn’t hold back the fond coo if he wanted to.

“Aww cmon, now, you don’t have to kick her! What did she ever do to you, huh?” His hand moved to strike the angel’s side, cackling like the demon he is as Aziraphale practically folded sideways, the angel’s hand on the opposite side having quite the struggle to pull the tickly one off him. He must’ve forgotten he could switch the ice cream to his other hand, the poor ticklish thing.

Aziraphale no longer got any words in, too caught up in giggling his head off to care. He’d folded so much to the side his head began falling onto Crowley’s shoulder, seizing the opportunity to hide his face in the material.

Crowley thanked everything above and below that Aziraphale’s eyes were hidden, now that a familiar fond smile and warm blush painted the demon’s usually cold face. He loved seeing his angel like this, and he could surely get used to it.

However, he didn’t want to embarrass his friend so much he discorporated (though the thought awfully enticed him. Not the discorporation necessarily, but definitely getting his angel to blush so hard he was hot to the touch).

Crowley finally let go of him, smoothing out the fabric of his suit and snickering when Aziraphale flinched. “Oh, I’m done, angel. You can relax.”

Aziraphale pouted as he caught his breath, shoving the cone towards Crowley which he took without thinking twice. Aziraphale smoothed out his coat on his own, like he just knew Crowley wasn’t doing it properly before. After composing himself in silence, he gave a glare towards his demon. “That was rather childish of you, don’t you think?”

Crowley grinned. “Mmyes, I suppose it was,” he took a lick of the ice cream before handing it back to a still blushing Aziraphale. The angel looked to the roof of the car as if sending a silent prayer. Crowley tilted his head. “But rather fun though, wouldn’t you say?”

Aziraphale gave a tight shake of his head. “I cannot agree in the slightest. Exploiting my vessel’s sensitivities like that is just…well it’s unprofessional, Crowley. You should know better.”

“What, know better than to give my angel a little laugh once in a while? I say no harm, no foul,” He shrugged, sagging back into his seat and throwing an arm over the back of Aziraphale’s own.

“No no, much harm, much foul. It’s humiliating!” Aziraphale pouted again, looking down at his ice cream with those awful puppy-dog eyes Crowley just can’t stand for long. “Vessels are such strange things.”

Crowley sighed, “That they are.” He gazed at Aziraphale’s face for a moment, before decidedly looking anywhere but his face. He’d embarrassed his angel. He really didn’t mean to (well, he did, but he was allowed to feel a little bad about it after). Those heavenly giggles just have such a hold on him sometimes. He growled when a thought popped into his head he absolutely despised, but knew would make his friend feel all the better. “Look, if it embarrasses you that bad…and really it shouldn’t, it’s just laughing after all, not like I dressed you in feathers and made you dance down the street like a plump chicken-“

“Get to the point,” Aziraphale said straight-edged, like he’d been waiting to hear this from the start of his pout-parade. Oh that slimy little bastard. He always got his way with Crowley, didn’t he?

And still, Crowley didn’t call him out on it. He just growled through a long, dramatic sigh, looking up towards the roof. “You…well, I could allow, if only for a moment-!” He pointed a finger towards Aziraphale’s face (which he was looking at again, why did he always feel the need to look), and he was doing that smug little grin he always did, cheeks round and eyes squinted in his direction. Oh, Someone save him. “…nrk, just, make it quick, would you angel?”

Aziraphale cheered back up a little too quickly at that. “Oh of course. If you please?” He offered the cone back to Crowley, who took it with great hesitance. He squeezed his eyes shut tight, never one who was able to handle the anticipation. His lips pressed together in preparation to conceal all those embarrassing sounds he dreaded escaping, he held his breath and waited.

And waited.

He was half tempted to say something, but he was far too clever for that. Aziraphale’s done this before to him, making him open his mouth to complain before striking so he had no chance of holding back those sounds his angel dared to call giggles.

Instead, he opted to open one eye, just to see what all the hold up was about. So much for being clever.

Aziraphale’s hands were poised over Crowley’s torso, fingers wiggling with very un-angelic intent. His face said it all, though, looking directly into Crowley’s eyes like he had been waiting for him to look. Such an unfair game he played, at least Crowley got it over and done with!

Crowley growled behind gritted teeth, smacking away at those mean, teasy hands with his own free one. Aziraphale tsked.

“Now, Crowley, you said you’d give me a moment’s tickle, but I haven’t even started yet! You can’t shove me away already,” His hands continued their tickly motions here and there while being fought off (quite lazily if he had any say about it), “It’s against the rules.” Crowley groaned, always unable to stay silent against teasing.

“We’re rule-breakers, it’s what we do—AH!! No wahait! Oh you fuhucker!” Crowley released bubbly cackles as soon as Aziraphale touched down, squeezing the bottom of his ribs like his fingers were a magnet to his most sensitive spots.

“Such lovely laughs you always produce when I tickle here. Though, I’ve wondered before why some spots are more ticklish than others. Like, for example, here-“ He moved his hands up to Crowley’s neck, fingers fluttering softly against the skin and making Crowley break out in breathy giggles. “-you make such sweet giggles-“

“Nohohot gigglin’!”

“-and yet when I tickle your ribs, you just-“ He struck back down against his bony ribs, the gentle fervor behind his finger tips sending Crowley’s head slamming against the headrest behind him, overcome with belly laughs and cackles he couldn’t contain if he wanted to (he did not, but don’t tell his angel that). “-my, well you just can't take it, can you?”

Curse Aziraphale and his evil teasing. Why did he have to be so sweet and gentle about it? Always made Crowley want to explode on the spot just to expel all that nervous, flustered energy inside him.

“Stohohop! Really, ahahangel, I-!”

CRUNCH

The tickling stopped, and so did any movement or sounds amongst the two of them, for just a moment. They eyed the ice cream cone dripping between Crowley’s fingers, dollops falling onto the leather between his legs.

A small snicker from the back of Aziraphale’s throat, before the angel fell into helpless cackles. The irony of it all just…tickled him so.

And though so very annoyed at that sticky stain he was now having to angle himself away from, avoiding getting any on his black jeans…Crowley began to laugh too. What could he say, angelic laughter was far too contagious for him to help himself.

…

Crowley burnt from the inside out. The flames soured everything inside him, churning his insides and scolding his flesh to a burnt replica.

His eyes unconsciously darted to the seat he sat upon, wondering if under all the cleaning products and the eventual miracle, there was still a sweet pink stain underneath it all.

He turned back towards the road. His hold so tight on the wheel his arms started to shake, pushing hard against the wheel until it began shaking too.

Strangling the wheel of his poor car, he shook and fought and bellowed out a loud, growling yell from deep in his belly, slamming his fist against the wheel repeatedly. Of course, it was of no use. Memories replayed over, a broken record of moments he dreaded bringing to surface.

With an agonized cry, he tried again.

—

A/N : hope you enjoyed, i didn’t, these two have broken me!!!! bye i’m gonna go listen to Unknown/Nth by Hozier yet again and grieve

an old new thing

fandom: good omens

w/c: 1977

summary: word vomit domestic life feat. crowley and aziraphale.

a/n: got dang this is all over the place!!! this is plotless fluff and very much self indulgent. self-soothing after season 2. also i cannot write kiss scenes for my life so it turnt stupid LOL. please do not pay it any attention and enjoy the rest 🫶

----

"What on earth are you doing?"

"Convincing you."

“Well.. I’m not convinced.”

“You will be.”

Crowley stiffened. Over the last six millennia, Aziraphale had used distance as a hand over Crowley. If he'd suggested a scheme slightly too outrageous, or gone out and done it himself before relaying it to Aziraphale, he wouldn't see the angel for a long time. It sure took a lot of patience, being his..frenemy.

To be fair, Aziraphale was much more tolerant of mistakes than the angels he’d been surrounded by for all of eternity. Much more forgiving than the demons Crowley reported to. It only took hunting the angel down (not a particularly difficult task; he was conveniently predictable) and a little dance before they were back on their Arrangement and regularly scheduled meetings. Still, the weeks of silence frustrated Crowley beyond anything. He's glad Aziraphale decided to do away with the silent treatment since the notpocalypse.

He's taken up a new way to get Crowley to admit when he's wrong. Or to get him to admit Aziraphale is right. Rather than disappear, Aziraphale will cling. He’ll bother and bother and bother. He’ll talk and pout and follow Crowley endlessly until he’s had enough. Crowley definitely prefers this to the former method. He’d rather be annoyed endlessly than ignored for a little while.

Perhaps it's even why it takes so much longer for him to fold.

With that said, it's just so new. After 6,000 years of the same old routine, the affectionate turn in their relationship is taking some getting used to. It’s a bit much to handle in Crowley’s opinion. It's probably why Aziraphale does it so often, the bastard. He knows it's effective.

---

Two nights ago, Aziraphale had been reading on the armchair when the lights inexplicably went out. He picked up the lit patchouli candle next to him when a sound came from the darkness.

Aziraphale has cleverly stayed away from horror content most of his existence. Unfortunately, this made him very unaware of most cliches used in films. He was an excellent target.

“Crowley?” He tucked the book underneath his arm, using both hands to grip the candle closer to him. Another noise came from the left.

Aziraphale went to investigate. Crowley was meant to be in Glasgow for a boogie-concert. Both decided it would be better if he had gone unaccompanied. The last time Aziraphale attended a concert with the demon, a spill to his tartan coat had him miracle every narcotic on site into the chalky substance they put in candied hearts. There was a lot of confusion among the mosh pit, mainly about the lack of confusion everyone felt.

“Is that you, mister Mouse? I've told you, it's not safe for you here. There are snakes in this household.” Aziraphale called out, but there was no response. All noises stopped.

He went to the front door, intending to check the electrical box outside. He swung the door open. Aziraphale felt a presence somewhere out in the night. Dread filled his guts.

He chuckled to himself for being silly. The list of things which could harm an angel were short. Other angels took up a majority of it. Fear was one of the hundreds of human attributes he's indulged in during his time on earth.

He took a breath of courage, but choked on it when a two-headed, red goblin roared out from the side of the doorframe. Aziraphale screamed, dropping the candle and the book. The goblin quickly saved the book from hitting the floor, but the candle shattered. The ancient and quite ridiculously flammable carpet lit up instantly.

Aziraphale clutched his chest and shouted several incohesive ‘oh dear goodnesses’ while Crowley blew the fire out in a long, icy breath.

“Hm, well. Wasn’t expecting that.”

Aziraphale pushed past him. “Oh no, oh no..” he softly repeated until he was too far away to hear. The lights inside the bookshop flickered on. Crowley could now see the charred stain over the antique rug. He hissed.

The “oh no’s” were returning, growing steadily in volume, until it was shouted right near Crowley’s ear. Aziraphale appeared in the doorway.

“Look what you've done!” He whined.

Crowley stared at the spot in disbelief. “How did it go up so fast?”

“You startled me!” He continued indignantly.

“It's October, angel. Really, what do you use to top off these carpets? Petrol?”

“You burnt my rug!”

“...would explain the Bentley's recent behavior.* Actually, you dropped the candle. Seems terribly irresponsible to keep candles in an old bookshop.”

“You turned out the lights. I needed to see!”

“Right, well. Not a big deal.” Crowley pushed the armchair directly over the stain. “Good as new.”

“Not good as new, it’s still all ruined.” Aziraphale enunciated dramatically. “I expect you to fix it.”

“You're being ridiculous. You can't expect me to miracle it out tonight. The two heads thing took a lot out of me. You can’t even see it!” Crowley sat on the armchair, covering the gap - in which the stain was still very much visible - with his legs.

“I don’t expect you to miracle it out,” Aziraphale said. “I want it restored. Naturally.”

Crowley groaned. “Alright, sure. Fine."

“And a new candle.”

“Whatever you want.” he said spitefully.

“And company to Derren Brown’s Illusionist performance.”

“Never!”

---

Aziraphale is currently hugging Crowley from behind him, entrapping his arms in a one-sided embrace.

“No, I will not. Get off!” Crowley growled, pulling out his arms. Aziraphale remained hugging around his waist. Crowley huffed. “If a person makes a mistake, and then fixes said mistake, the mistake no longer exists and nobody owes anyone anything. I agreed to fix the rug. I’m not going to a silly magic show.”

“I’d hardly call it a mistake. The scare was certainly deliberate.” Aziraphale grumbled. “He who has done wrong unto another must make it up to thee who he wronged.” He made up.

“What, like… building interest? That's not how it works. Do all angels forgive like a bank?”

“Afraid so.” He hugged a little tighter. “Even though I've returned, I still haven't made up for… leaving.” The example seemed to spill out before he could ponder its appropriateness. “Didn’t do much good in the end, did it? So much was damaged. World nearly ended again. No, haven't even begun to make up for it.”

It's a tricky thing. Part of the healing process for Aziraphale had been to bring it up every so often, as casually as possible. Even during moments of domesticity. Perhaps one day they'd grow immune to the pain if exposed to it enough times. That was Aziraphale's logic, though sometimes he regretted ruining a nice moment with a sour memory. Crowley saw it more like a confession. A way for Aziraphale to relieve the guilt he felt. Guilt which hit him harder anytime he realized he was starting to feel happy rather than guilty. What a bitch, that guilt.

Angel’s felt nothing but guilt for over 6 millennia. Only for ever doing what he thought was right.

Personally, Crowley wished to never speak of it again. He didn't find it healing to reopen wounds. But he was working on his tendency to run from his fears, so he tolerated it.

“Course you have. I’ve forgiven you for that.” He softened.

“Yes, well..” I haven’t, he didn’t say.

Crowley squeezed the arm around his middle and took in a breath. “You can hold me however long you want, I’m still not going to the show with you.” He reminded Aziraphale despite not wanting to go. Perhaps he was running a bit. The subject is still awfully uncomfortable.

“It won’t kill you, my dear. It’ll only last six hours.”

“Six hours?? I’ll go mad. Add onto the week of you attempting all the tricks you've seen him do. Forcing me to watch. Forcing me to participate. No. You cannot make me- haha! You can’t make me go!” Aziraphale began to tickle around his grip.

Crowley tried to walk away, but Aziraphale followed surprisingly lightly on his back. Like a pair of wings. It would’ve been less frustrating if he had held Crowley solid.

“Let go!” He laughed.

“Oh, please come with me darling. We’ll have an incredible time. He won’t be performing here again for another year!” Aziraphale persuaded, pretending it was still his words doing all the bargaining.

“I- ehehe, piss off!!” Crowley stumbled over to the couch, legs beginning to give out under him. With a war cry, he suplexed himself Aziraphale-first onto the couch. His attempt to dislodge the angel failed. Infact, it only invigorated him. The hold around him tightened and the once gentle tickling turned deadly. Like a snake. Ironic.

There was an initial few seconds of kicking and cackling, before the laughter became true and bright. Still every bit as loud, but margins sweeter.

“GET OFF!” He shrieked.

“I think you’ll find you're the one on top of me. I’m quite frightfully stuck. I can’t seem to get out.” Aziraphale replied calmly. “Do you mind letting me up?”

Crowley struggled to sit up or wiggle off with Aziraphale still holding onto him. He dropped his head back and laughed in frustration. “Please!”

“Oh, alright.” Aziraphale chuckled. He stopped and let go. Crowley immediately rolled off the couch.

They both lay staring at the ceiling for a moment. Crowley turned his head to look under the armchair, directly at the charred stain. The cleaners wouldn't arrive for another day.

"Never do that again. Ever."

"I'll do it again the second your back is turned."

The threat made Crowley blush. There was another silence.

“Why do you want me to go with you anyway? I'll only spoil it with my complaining.”

“Nonsense. I enjoy most things more with your company. You could never spoil it.” Aziraphale stood up to straighten himself out. He stepped over Crowley, who frowned. Bastard didn’t even lend a hand. “But I suppose you’re right. I wouldn't want you to have a bad evening on my behalf.”

Aziraphale left the room without Crowley for the first time in two days.

“Hang on!” Crowley called from the floor. “What, that’s it? All that.. blasted effort into persuading me and you’re just letting it go?”

“Well, I tried everything I could think of. I figure you must dread to go if you're willing to endure all that tickling.” Crowley could hear him fiddling with cups. “I’ve stooped to torture. How you've corrupted me.” Aziraphale said low and fond.

“You only did it for a moment.” Crowley said as Aziraphale returned with a bottle of wine and two glasses. He furrowed an eyebrow.

“What’s this? You'll miss the performance if we start drinking now.”

“Oh yes, well… what's a year to beings like us anyway?” Aziraphale said gently. “Are you saying I could have convinced you if I kept going?”

“What? Ngk-no, no. I mean, maybe. F'ya did it long enough. This.. bloody corporeal thing. Right ticklish. But don't you dare!” he pointed at Aziraphale. He dropped his hand to his chest. “But the pestering. The hugging, I mean. I almost conceded there. Didn't, though. But that's only ‘cause I didn’t want it to stop so soon. Shut up!” he exclaimed upon seeing Aziraphale smile widely.

"Ugh." By that explanation, the same logic would have applied to the tickling.

“You could have just said.” Aziraphale smiled, bending slightly over Crowley’s head. He appeared upside down. Crowley looked away too late - a little smile was tugging the corner of his own mouth. “So, then, tell me. How can I convince you to join me?”

“Get me off this damn floor, for one.”

Aziraphale pulled Crowley up as though he were a feather, holding his hands. He scooted closer, straightening out the fabric over his chest. “And then?”

“Hm," he looked off. "I suppose you could give me a kiss. Might do the trick.” He said with a smirk and an old confidence in his words. He was grateful how well this communication thing was finally working out.

Both were flush when they parted. To Crowley’s dismay, a bit of steam trickled out of his ears quite cartoonishly.

“Look at the time!” he said, flustered again. “Ahm, better get a move on if we want good seats. Might as well be comfortable if we’re going to be there for six hours.” He hurried out the room to the front door. Aziraphale smiled and straightened with giddiness. How good the demon was to him.

“Bring the wine!” the demon shouted.

*referencing the headcanon that the Bentley and bookshop are in love with each other. 😼

Making Blindfolds Fun (Spencer/Maeve)

Summary: Maeve keeps her promise; blindfolds can be a lot of fun. (I AM CRIMINAL MINDS TRASH SORRY ANYWAY HOPE YOU LIKE THIS BYE) {Warnings for slight bondage and sexual themes!}

“I’ll make blindfolds fun again.”

After the incident with Diane, Spencer was sure that promise wouldn’t be able to be fulfilled. Two traumatic experiences were much harder to cure than one. But Maeve was kind, and gentle, never pushing the subject or making him feel unsafe or uncomfortable.

They built up to it, kissing with her hands over his eyes, him allowing her to hold his wrists together in her hands…And he felt safe with her.

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Doctor Who in 100 years:

Welcome to Doctor Who! We call this "New Who' since it was made after what we call 'Classic Who' but this is the fifteenth time the season count has restarted so it should technically be called "New New New New New New New New New New New New New New New Who.