Ticklish

Ally drags a single feather across Galaxy’s lips. The tip catches at the corner of her mouth, pulls a half-laugh, half-breath. Galaxy returns the favor, brushing upward from Ally’s chin to the bridge of her nose. Light strokes. Skin tightens, then eases. The laughter dries out; what’s left is the sound of breath catching and releasing again, slower. Feathers glide under jaws, skim earlobes, trace the rise of cheekbones. Then lower. The next sweep lands beneath the collarbone, the thin bone vibrating under each downy pass. Ally’s hand wanders, tracing the curve of Galaxy’s breast with the feather’s edge. The laugh turns into a drawn inhale; the inhale breaks into a soft, low sound caught behind closed teeth. Galaxy answers by sliding the plume from Ally’s sternum to her navel in one continuous arc. Tiny hairs rise. The body answers before the mind can decide. Shoulders roll back. Hips tilt. The tickling stops pretending it’s just a game and slips into something else—small, involuntary noises replacing any words left.