Tygerwulfe
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Title: Information Gathering
Author: Tygerwolfe/Tygerwulfe
Fandom: Burn Notice
Characters: Michael Westen, Fiona Glenanne, mention of Sam Axe
TK: F/M, M/F, Ticklefight
Summary: Michael Westen used to be a spy. Just because he'd been burned didn't mean that he'd lost any of that training. But there are some things even being the Russian boogeyman doesn't prepare you for. Like a girlfriend who's really determined to find out what you have planned for your anniversary.
Author's Note: So I recently got into Burn Notice on Netflix. And as a result, started looking for fanfiction. Specifically tickle-themed fanfiction, which, you'd expect with a show about spies, there to be a lot, right? Wrong. I haven't been able to find a SINGLE fiction - especially not an F/M one with Fiona tickling Michael, which I just think would be fun. SO, I set about writing one myself.
If you know any other fics of this type, please leave a link in the comments! I would love to read more.
This was written in Pages on my iPhone while sitting in the bathroom this afternoon, so I apologize for any typos or other issues. I tried to follow the basic format of the show. Michael's "spy tips" are in italics. If you enjoy it, please consider leaving a comment/review! Thanks!
___________________
Information Gathering
___________________
When you're a spy, you're trained to resist pretty much every commonly used form of torture. And a few uncommon ones. Despite what Saturday morning cartoons would have you believe, though, tickling isn't usually used at all.
This is for a very simple reason: if your emotional state is anything other than relaxed, tickling is incredibly easy to resist. And when you're in a situation where you're about to be tortured, no matter what you show on the surface, inside you are anything but relaxed.
When you wake up in your own bed with the woman you love cuddled half on top of your back, her hands giving you a slow massage, the opposite is true. Even the best spy is about as relaxed as they can get at that point.
"Mmmm...", he mumbled, stretching slowly beneath Fiona's hands. "Morning."
"Morning, Michael." Fi's words were soft, her voice a breath in Michael's ear as her hands slowly worked their way down over his back, then back up. She kneaded away at the muscles she knew were always tense and tight, slowly working her boyfriend's body to jelly.
"Sam been by yet?" He punctuated the question with a yawn.
"Mm-mm. He called. I asked him to give us a few more hours." Her hands slid back up on either side of his spine, massaging slowly.
"Any special reason for the rubdown? Not that I'm not enjoying it," the former spy intoned, eyes closed and body sinking into the mattress.
"No reason." He could hear the smirk in her tone. "Other than that, as much as I love your muscles, I do not enjoy waking up snuggling with a brick."
He gave a quiet half laugh. "Tense, am I? Can't imagine why."
"Not so much anymore. I've been at this awhile." Now her hands moved to his sides, working the muscles over his ribs with practiced, gentle motions. Michael groaned in pleasure and she smiled. She didn't get to see him like this often - completely unguarded.
It was exactly what she was going for.
Without warning, her gentle massage turned to wiggling fingers digging into the sweet spot on his lower ribs, her body angling down and pressing him into the bed. Their legs were tangled in such a way that Michael had no leverage with which to curl or roll, and his immediate, shocked laughter was evidence that her plan had worked perfectly.
Once you laugh, it's all over. Tickling insights an autonomic response that, if you react to it, all the resistance training in the world can't get you out of. It's worse when you're dealing with someone who knows your body, your skills, and your training. Even worse when that person is someone you trust.
Your only defence is to try and wrestle them off of you and get control of their hands. You'd think this would be easier when you're a man trying to get control of a statistically physically weaker woman.
You'd be wrong. Especially if said woman knows exactly where you're most ticklish and is exploiting it mercilessly.
"Fi! Sto-haha-ap!" He thrashed beneath her, but she'd manoeuvred him into a perfectly pinned position, her hands reducing the great Michael Westen to helpless laughter. "Why-hahahahi?!"
"You can make it stop, Michael," she said playfully, fingers squeezing and pinching at his waist before spidering up and down his ribs. His hands were trying ineffectually to grab hers as he bucked and squirmed beneath her. "Just tell me what you have planned for next week."
Being the victim of torture actually puts you in a place of power. You have the information your torturer wants. In a normal torture situation, withholding this information gives you the control and leverage you need to stay alive and stay useful for longer, giving your team a chance to find and save your ass.
In a more playful torture situation, this is still true. Except that rather than the threat being that once you've given up the information, the other guy will kill you, you now face the threat that once you've given your torturer what they want, they'll keep tickling you for the fun of it.
This is especially true of girlfriends who like to enjoy their upper hand.
"Sto-hahahap and I'll tehehehell youhoohoo!" He wriggled and squirmed, but she had him very effectively pinned. His blind backwards attempts to secure her hands were getting nowhere, and she'd now graduated from just tickling to leaning down and kissing the back of his neck and between his shoulder blades. A very effective technique for rendering Michael Westen immobile with a combination of ticklish shock and tactile pleasure.
"Oh, I don't think so," she said between kisses. "You tell me, then I stop." She smirked. "If I want to."
One of the main problems with being ticklish is that it has a disarming effect. Your muscles spasm and fight against you, or in some cases, go completely weak and useless. If you're lucky, you'll get one shot to make the torture stop. You just have to wait for your opportunity, and hope your body will cooperate with you when the time comes.
In the mean time, all you can do is laugh. And beg. The second part, as humiliating as it can be, is just as involuntary as the laughter. And your torturer usually will enjoy both equally.
"Plehehehehse, Fi! Go-hahaha-d, stoohohop!"
"Mmmm...the great Michael Westen, reduced to begging." She smirked playfully, whispering teasingly in his ear as her fingers skittered up and dug into his armpits. "I think I like it when you're all cute, giggling and helpless."
"Fi-heheheheheheeeee!"
"Oh goodness, Michael! Was that an actual squeal? Did I just make the big, bad, superspy squeal like a little-Yah!" She cried out in surprise as her boyfriend clamped his arms down, trapping her hands in his armpits, and then kicked out with the leg she hadn't noticed him freeing from the blankets and her legs, sending them rolling over.
Her fingers kept wriggling, trapped in his pits, trying to regain the upper hand. He was still laughing, but the tables were turning and it was happening fast. Before she could even register what exactly he did to get them into a new position, she was suddenly on her back. Her legs were pinned by his, her arms held above her head by his strong hands on her wrists, and he was glaring down at her without a trace of playfulness on his face.
"Fiona." He was breathing hard, and her name came out in almost a growl as he leaned down close, making sure to keep his head back far enough that she couldn't headbutt him. "What the hell was that?"
She tried for an innocent look. "You know, most boyfriends don't mind when their girlfriends tickle them. I was just playing with you, Michael. You don't have to take it so seriously. What happened to your cute little laugh?"
You always know the moment when you push something too far. When what you just said was that tiny step over the line. In a op, that push can get you killed. In a game between significant others, it just dooms you to laugh. A lot.
The shift on Michael's face, from anger to a big, playful smirk was so sudden that she didn't have time to do anything but shriek a "No!" When he released her hands to attack her vulnerable stomach with some tickles of his own.
"What's the problem, Fi? I thought you liked this game. You started it, after all." His hands deftly, quickly and unpredictably attacked her stomach, ribs, belly button, armpits, and even her neck while the former IRA agent shrieked, laughed, and begged him to stop.
Her hands found his ribs, though, as without holding her arms he left himself knowingly vulnerable. They wrestled and tickled, rolling on the mattress and laughing, until they finally came to rest, out of breath, with Michael laying on top of his girlfriend. Their fingers were entwined, holding each other's hands, partially out of affection and partially out of mutual protection from further tickles. Panting for breath with their foreheads resting against each other's, they stared into each other's eyes for a long moment, faces flushed with the force of their recent laughter and struggle.
Breathing became kissing, and kissing quickly progressed to other, even more pleasant activities. Some time later, as Fiona lay against her boyfriend, his fingers trailing through her hair and his other hand massaging one of hers, she made a soft sound of pleasure and nuzzled his bare chest.
"La Mar," he said suddenly, quietly.
She blinked up at him. "Hmm?"
He looked down at her with that affectionate smile that made something in her melt. "I got us reservations at La Mar for our anniversary. You've been saying you were in the mood for Peruvian." He smirked. "There's more, but I really want you to be at least a little surprised."
Her face lit up and Michael felt that thing deep inside him that informed him that she was the most import person in his life warm with pleasure. She smiled at him and snuggled back into his chest. "Ok. You win. I'll wait."
He smiled and they closed their eyes. Soon, Sam would call and they'd be off on whatever life-threatening job he'd found for them this week. But for now, they could relax, and just enjoy being together.
When you're a spy, there isn't much in your life that can be considered stable. This is why your relationship with your team and trust between you is the most important thing. When you're in love, that trust gains a whole new dimension. Like any relationship, it's about a balance - a give and take of affection, information, and time. And sometimes there's a price to pay for that much trust - like nearly being tickled out of your mind.
But much like being a spy, everything else makes it worth it. And eventually, you even start to enjoy the occasional playful torture session. Especially when it ends with both parties feeling like they got what they wanted.
Author: Tygerwolfe/Tygerwulfe
Fandom: Burn Notice
Characters: Michael Westen, Fiona Glenanne, mention of Sam Axe
TK: F/M, M/F, Ticklefight
Summary: Michael Westen used to be a spy. Just because he'd been burned didn't mean that he'd lost any of that training. But there are some things even being the Russian boogeyman doesn't prepare you for. Like a girlfriend who's really determined to find out what you have planned for your anniversary.
Author's Note: So I recently got into Burn Notice on Netflix. And as a result, started looking for fanfiction. Specifically tickle-themed fanfiction, which, you'd expect with a show about spies, there to be a lot, right? Wrong. I haven't been able to find a SINGLE fiction - especially not an F/M one with Fiona tickling Michael, which I just think would be fun. SO, I set about writing one myself.
If you know any other fics of this type, please leave a link in the comments! I would love to read more.
This was written in Pages on my iPhone while sitting in the bathroom this afternoon, so I apologize for any typos or other issues. I tried to follow the basic format of the show. Michael's "spy tips" are in italics. If you enjoy it, please consider leaving a comment/review! Thanks!
___________________
Information Gathering
___________________
When you're a spy, you're trained to resist pretty much every commonly used form of torture. And a few uncommon ones. Despite what Saturday morning cartoons would have you believe, though, tickling isn't usually used at all.
This is for a very simple reason: if your emotional state is anything other than relaxed, tickling is incredibly easy to resist. And when you're in a situation where you're about to be tortured, no matter what you show on the surface, inside you are anything but relaxed.
When you wake up in your own bed with the woman you love cuddled half on top of your back, her hands giving you a slow massage, the opposite is true. Even the best spy is about as relaxed as they can get at that point.
"Mmmm...", he mumbled, stretching slowly beneath Fiona's hands. "Morning."
"Morning, Michael." Fi's words were soft, her voice a breath in Michael's ear as her hands slowly worked their way down over his back, then back up. She kneaded away at the muscles she knew were always tense and tight, slowly working her boyfriend's body to jelly.
"Sam been by yet?" He punctuated the question with a yawn.
"Mm-mm. He called. I asked him to give us a few more hours." Her hands slid back up on either side of his spine, massaging slowly.
"Any special reason for the rubdown? Not that I'm not enjoying it," the former spy intoned, eyes closed and body sinking into the mattress.
"No reason." He could hear the smirk in her tone. "Other than that, as much as I love your muscles, I do not enjoy waking up snuggling with a brick."
He gave a quiet half laugh. "Tense, am I? Can't imagine why."
"Not so much anymore. I've been at this awhile." Now her hands moved to his sides, working the muscles over his ribs with practiced, gentle motions. Michael groaned in pleasure and she smiled. She didn't get to see him like this often - completely unguarded.
It was exactly what she was going for.
Without warning, her gentle massage turned to wiggling fingers digging into the sweet spot on his lower ribs, her body angling down and pressing him into the bed. Their legs were tangled in such a way that Michael had no leverage with which to curl or roll, and his immediate, shocked laughter was evidence that her plan had worked perfectly.
Once you laugh, it's all over. Tickling insights an autonomic response that, if you react to it, all the resistance training in the world can't get you out of. It's worse when you're dealing with someone who knows your body, your skills, and your training. Even worse when that person is someone you trust.
Your only defence is to try and wrestle them off of you and get control of their hands. You'd think this would be easier when you're a man trying to get control of a statistically physically weaker woman.
You'd be wrong. Especially if said woman knows exactly where you're most ticklish and is exploiting it mercilessly.
"Fi! Sto-haha-ap!" He thrashed beneath her, but she'd manoeuvred him into a perfectly pinned position, her hands reducing the great Michael Westen to helpless laughter. "Why-hahahahi?!"
"You can make it stop, Michael," she said playfully, fingers squeezing and pinching at his waist before spidering up and down his ribs. His hands were trying ineffectually to grab hers as he bucked and squirmed beneath her. "Just tell me what you have planned for next week."
Being the victim of torture actually puts you in a place of power. You have the information your torturer wants. In a normal torture situation, withholding this information gives you the control and leverage you need to stay alive and stay useful for longer, giving your team a chance to find and save your ass.
In a more playful torture situation, this is still true. Except that rather than the threat being that once you've given up the information, the other guy will kill you, you now face the threat that once you've given your torturer what they want, they'll keep tickling you for the fun of it.
This is especially true of girlfriends who like to enjoy their upper hand.
"Sto-hahahap and I'll tehehehell youhoohoo!" He wriggled and squirmed, but she had him very effectively pinned. His blind backwards attempts to secure her hands were getting nowhere, and she'd now graduated from just tickling to leaning down and kissing the back of his neck and between his shoulder blades. A very effective technique for rendering Michael Westen immobile with a combination of ticklish shock and tactile pleasure.
"Oh, I don't think so," she said between kisses. "You tell me, then I stop." She smirked. "If I want to."
One of the main problems with being ticklish is that it has a disarming effect. Your muscles spasm and fight against you, or in some cases, go completely weak and useless. If you're lucky, you'll get one shot to make the torture stop. You just have to wait for your opportunity, and hope your body will cooperate with you when the time comes.
In the mean time, all you can do is laugh. And beg. The second part, as humiliating as it can be, is just as involuntary as the laughter. And your torturer usually will enjoy both equally.
"Plehehehehse, Fi! Go-hahaha-d, stoohohop!"
"Mmmm...the great Michael Westen, reduced to begging." She smirked playfully, whispering teasingly in his ear as her fingers skittered up and dug into his armpits. "I think I like it when you're all cute, giggling and helpless."
"Fi-heheheheheheeeee!"
"Oh goodness, Michael! Was that an actual squeal? Did I just make the big, bad, superspy squeal like a little-Yah!" She cried out in surprise as her boyfriend clamped his arms down, trapping her hands in his armpits, and then kicked out with the leg she hadn't noticed him freeing from the blankets and her legs, sending them rolling over.
Her fingers kept wriggling, trapped in his pits, trying to regain the upper hand. He was still laughing, but the tables were turning and it was happening fast. Before she could even register what exactly he did to get them into a new position, she was suddenly on her back. Her legs were pinned by his, her arms held above her head by his strong hands on her wrists, and he was glaring down at her without a trace of playfulness on his face.
"Fiona." He was breathing hard, and her name came out in almost a growl as he leaned down close, making sure to keep his head back far enough that she couldn't headbutt him. "What the hell was that?"
She tried for an innocent look. "You know, most boyfriends don't mind when their girlfriends tickle them. I was just playing with you, Michael. You don't have to take it so seriously. What happened to your cute little laugh?"
You always know the moment when you push something too far. When what you just said was that tiny step over the line. In a op, that push can get you killed. In a game between significant others, it just dooms you to laugh. A lot.
The shift on Michael's face, from anger to a big, playful smirk was so sudden that she didn't have time to do anything but shriek a "No!" When he released her hands to attack her vulnerable stomach with some tickles of his own.
"What's the problem, Fi? I thought you liked this game. You started it, after all." His hands deftly, quickly and unpredictably attacked her stomach, ribs, belly button, armpits, and even her neck while the former IRA agent shrieked, laughed, and begged him to stop.
Her hands found his ribs, though, as without holding her arms he left himself knowingly vulnerable. They wrestled and tickled, rolling on the mattress and laughing, until they finally came to rest, out of breath, with Michael laying on top of his girlfriend. Their fingers were entwined, holding each other's hands, partially out of affection and partially out of mutual protection from further tickles. Panting for breath with their foreheads resting against each other's, they stared into each other's eyes for a long moment, faces flushed with the force of their recent laughter and struggle.
Breathing became kissing, and kissing quickly progressed to other, even more pleasant activities. Some time later, as Fiona lay against her boyfriend, his fingers trailing through her hair and his other hand massaging one of hers, she made a soft sound of pleasure and nuzzled his bare chest.
"La Mar," he said suddenly, quietly.
She blinked up at him. "Hmm?"
He looked down at her with that affectionate smile that made something in her melt. "I got us reservations at La Mar for our anniversary. You've been saying you were in the mood for Peruvian." He smirked. "There's more, but I really want you to be at least a little surprised."
Her face lit up and Michael felt that thing deep inside him that informed him that she was the most import person in his life warm with pleasure. She smiled at him and snuggled back into his chest. "Ok. You win. I'll wait."
He smiled and they closed their eyes. Soon, Sam would call and they'd be off on whatever life-threatening job he'd found for them this week. But for now, they could relax, and just enjoy being together.
When you're a spy, there isn't much in your life that can be considered stable. This is why your relationship with your team and trust between you is the most important thing. When you're in love, that trust gains a whole new dimension. Like any relationship, it's about a balance - a give and take of affection, information, and time. And sometimes there's a price to pay for that much trust - like nearly being tickled out of your mind.
But much like being a spy, everything else makes it worth it. And eventually, you even start to enjoy the occasional playful torture session. Especially when it ends with both parties feeling like they got what they wanted.
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