Latrodectus hesperus; commonly known as the Black Widow.

When Callum saw that poisonous, self-centered arachnid tattoed across your back, he knew he was in trouble. It was like a warning, boldened for only him to see. The man wondered what prompted you to get the tattoo; was it your callsign, Widow? Your tendency to play with men like they were toys at your disposal? Was it how you made sure to hurt everyone who you saw as a threat? Callum didn’t know, but a deep part of him wanted to find out. Unfortunately, that deep part of him wasn’t the bold part.

You were changing from your formal assassin’s garb; a suit that was simple, yet elegant. It provided no additional weight on the body, giving you little restraint on your speed and agility. Callum loved the look of it on you, but the sight of it being peeled off by your hands was being branded into the scrambled space of his brain. A desire to help you made his hands twitch, the urge to just pull you by your waist and brush kisses up your jugular burning inside Callum’s chest – but he pushed it down. Instead, he turned towards the wall and slipped his own suit off.

“You did good tonight, Widow,” Callum said softly, pulling off the lightweight turtleneck he was sporting. “Made it look easy with how fast you wrapped it up.”

A smirk curved his thin lips, and he was almost glad that you couldn’t see the pride in his expression. You probably would’ve made fun of him.