Author's Note: This one is short, but I guess I couldn't think of a lot to do with it. It was sort of a tiny thought that arose when working on another story, and it didn't really fit in with that theme... Um, enjoy, I guess.
Dealing with him is like dealing with a hyper, overactive hound. Or perhaps a Saint Bernard, given his size.
Every day when she unlocks the front door, she now has to listen for any signs of a possible 'attack'. They come in pairs: first the scrabble of hard nails as a sentient ball of white lint rounds the corner, and then a pounding set of footsteps as its master follows. No matter what sort of harried call she offers, be it threats, pleas for mercy, orders to STOP, her end is inevitable. She's crushed up in a tight embrace, cutting off her air, choking, wrapped up in the scent of cut lumber or baked goods or bitter ale, depending on where he's been.
And again, when it's her turn to cook supper. One call and the tumult ensues, tiny paws losing traction on the tile and sliding into the cabinet, socked feet following with more finesse and boxing her against the stove in one sly movement, hands sneaking around her stomach as he leans over her shoulder to breathe in the aroma of pasta sauce or steamed vegetables. Never mind that he can cook—has always cooked—better than she can; it could have been burnt and sticking to the pot (it has been, before), and he'd still hug her from behind, genuinely thanking her for taking the time to cook for him.
His dog is only slightly less gentlemanly.
And again, when they're going on about some silly thing, not arguing per se, but just... debating, and the only way he wins is by cheating, pinning her down to the sofa, hands easily finding her most ticklish ribs and forcing her on pain of death-by-laughter to concede for the moment, only for her to retract her statement the minute she can catch her breath. Here she can at least fight back a little, not by tickling—he was never ticklish, making her think he must be some sort of robot—but by lowering her voice to the octave that makes him shiver, running her fingers through his hair, whispering in his ear and pushing her body against his arm like some sort of siren until he's a blushing mess, the sheer force of his willpower the only thing keeping him from being entirely at her mercy and agreeing to anything she asks.
But then, when one or both of them tires of the physical torment—be it willing or unwilling—and on the odd occasion that he does win, before she knows it he's lifting her like some giant trophy, laughing as she shouts for him to put her down, grunting before holding her fully aloft above his head, a weightlifter with a squirming, annoyed woman as his barbell.
And again, when even after being manhandled since arriving home she's somehow still in 'the mood', arranging herself on the bed while he makes sure Constantine has food for the night and the fire is safely taken care of, tossing her loose hair over her shoulder and calling out when she hears him in the hall. For a moment, just a fleeting moment, victory is hers as he freezes in the doorway, looking her over with the same expression he wore the first night they slept together, always taken aback by something he sees in her that she can't see in herself. Then he grins and it's déjà vu, no amount of threatening or swearing can keep him from clearing the room in two great bounds, leaping on top of her on the bed, mattress groaning, pillows and blankets flying everywhere as he grabs her faster than she can comprehend and smothers her with peppered kisses all over her face and neck.
Perhaps she ought to be used to it by now, seeing as she makes no great effort to check him when he's actually listening to her. It's a side effect of his energy, but it amazes her that even after a day of rushing around on a steamroller and training with the knights and working the afternoon shift at the bakery and laughing it up with Rouge at the tavern, he still has the energy left to tackle her three different ways before bedtime. And his enthusiasm, while cumbersome at times, is still... charming. Though she'd never admit it to him, of course.
Maybe it's because she's never in any real danger that she lets him get away with it. After all, it's a display of strength, sure, but he has the brawn to back it up. She's never been fully crushed by his embraces, the mattress always cushions her from the brunt of his tackle (though she suspects he does pull back at the last second), and even when her nose is brushing the ceiling of the sitting room, the hands holding her are steady, unwavering.
Or perhaps it's because it's not unwelcome, especially on the days where he comes home second because she's taken the day off, when he finds her in the kitchen with a cold cup of tea and tearstained cheeks that she hastily tries to wipe before he can see them with his piercing eyes that know too much, when he doesn't say a word because it doesn't matter why, only that she's had a bad day, when he comes over and draws her gently out of the chair, his hands gentle, his arms strong as ever, and she welcomes the tight grip that crushes her face to his chest, the steady thump of his heart beneath her cheek as he silently pours himself into her until she's able to smile, however faintly, against him.
It's a reminder that he's strong enough for both of them, so she can afford to be weak.