you hate the crash, but you love the rush
She hears the oof leave him and immediately leans closer, lips brushing the shell of his ear as she tightens her arms around his shoulders and murmurs a low, dangerous, "Careful, you," the word threaded with velvet threat, the implication unmistakable that any suggestion she’s too much of anything (especially weight) will result in consequences swift and inventive. The warning dissolves into laughter the moment he hops her higher, and when he spins them she abandons all hope of clever retaliation and simply clings tighter, giggling helplessly into the crook of his neck as the world tilts and the blanket flares and the basket swings like collateral damage to their joy.
He bounces her again and she squeals before she can stop herself, the sound bright and uncontained, and when he accuses her of weaponizing affection she only buries her grin against his skin as though that’s confirmation enough. There’s no comeback sharp enough to match the chaos of it, so she settles for hanging on, fingers flexing against him, laughter softening into something warm and breathy as he finally begins to walk properly. The ash ferrets draw a distracted glance from her as well, but she’s far more interested in the steady rise and fall of him beneath her palms, in the way he holds her as though this is the most natural configuration of their bodies in the world.
At his grave declaration about classified ticklishness, she sighs dramatically, a theatrical exhale that trembles into a chuckle. "Mm," she hums, conceding the point with a reluctant little huff because he’s right, and that’s deeply inconvenient. When he reminds her about the hundreds of names she’s collected, she shrugs against him, cheek brushing his temple. "You’re right," she admits, though there’s still mischief curled at the edges of the words. "It’s probably for the best anyway. We do want everyone to know whose engagement it is."
She presses a kiss to his cheek, lingering just long enough to taste his smile. "Do you think we should put my answer at the end, or will it be obvious enough that of course I said yes?"
He bounces her again and she squeals before she can stop herself, the sound bright and uncontained, and when he accuses her of weaponizing affection she only buries her grin against his skin as though that’s confirmation enough. There’s no comeback sharp enough to match the chaos of it, so she settles for hanging on, fingers flexing against him, laughter softening into something warm and breathy as he finally begins to walk properly. The ash ferrets draw a distracted glance from her as well, but she’s far more interested in the steady rise and fall of him beneath her palms, in the way he holds her as though this is the most natural configuration of their bodies in the world.
At his grave declaration about classified ticklishness, she sighs dramatically, a theatrical exhale that trembles into a chuckle. "Mm," she hums, conceding the point with a reluctant little huff because he’s right, and that’s deeply inconvenient. When he reminds her about the hundreds of names she’s collected, she shrugs against him, cheek brushing his temple. "You’re right," she admits, though there’s still mischief curled at the edges of the words. "It’s probably for the best anyway. We do want everyone to know whose engagement it is."
She presses a kiss to his cheek, lingering just long enough to taste his smile. "Do you think we should put my answer at the end, or will it be obvious enough that of course I said yes?"
