Archive of Our Own ^beta

The key turned wrong twice before Sylvia finally got it right, fingers taking their sweet time to remember which way doors actually opened. Even then, the damn thing stuck—it always stuck when it was damp out—and her shoulder-bump sent her stumbling backward into Finn.

"Smooth as always, Minnow," he drawled. But his hands settled automatically at their usual roosts, steadying her with that casual possessiveness that got her stomach somersaulting—and not the queasy, inebriated sort. His hold spanned her entire waist, and she slanted shamelessly into the embrace for more than the stability it offered.

"Shut up," she muttered, grinning as she said it. The smile felt loose on her face, like it might slide right off if she wasn't careful.

"Hey, least you weren't tryna break down the wrong door this time." His voice brimmed with a kind of rasp that alcohol had been steadily uncorking all evening. "Remember when you—?"

"That was one time!" She snorted out a sound that started normal but devolved into something closer to a snigger. "And I was very drunk."

"You're drunk now," he pointed out as they finally passed through the doorway. His tail swished to avoid the umbrella stand out of habit—except his aim was off, and it went clattering anyway. He blinked down at the toppled stand, then at his tailfin, as if puzzling out a deep mystery.

Sylvia's finger flew to her lips, the shushing motion exaggerated and theatrical. "Shhh! You'll wake—"

"Who, Barnacle? Little guy sleeps like a damn rock."

She dissolved into helpless giggles, the kind that bubbled up from nowhere and refused to stop. Her hands pressed to her mouth, failing to contain the laughter that kept leaking through the gaps.

The potion commission she'd been angling for had come through. Enough gold not only to keep her storeroom stocked for the season, but to buy those imported ingredients she'd been eyeing and maybe plan a little surprise trip to the Pearl Reef Atolls. They'd celebrated accordingly, starting at the Rusty Anchor and ending up at three different taverns over the course of the evening.

"You know what?" she said, turning to face him with the careful precision of one concentrating very hard on not wobbling. Her back found the wall, and she graciously allowed it to support her weight. "I think we should celebrate some more."

"Yeah?" He crowded closer, forearm braced on the wall beside her. "What's the plan, Minnow? Gonna make it to the bedroom this time, or d'you think here's good?"

Instead of answering immediately, she reached up to tug at his collar. The trip took longer than usual, becoming briefly fascinated by the texture of the linen before remembering her goal. When she finally managed to pull him down, she murmured, "Figure it out," against his lips.

"Ooh, bossy."

She kissed him to shut him up, a move from their standard playbook that worked even better without all his faculties. Took a lot to get him well and truly sloshed, but tonight he'd matched every round he bought, eager to corner anyone who'd let him bend their ear about his brilliant girlfriend's latest achievement. And that was enough to tip the scales.

Soft and fond and marginally off-center, the kiss may have been more honest for the lack of precision. His mouth tasted like the honey mead he'd switched to at the second tavern; ale got him a little too handsy for public decency. Perfect for home, though.

Her gaze locked onto his shirt buttons—her old nemesis—and her brow furrowed. "These are unnecessarily complicated."

"You want I should rip it off?"

"No, no, I've got it." She fumbled with the first button, which seemed determined to evade her clutches. When it finally gave way, she uttered a small sound of triumph.

"Real proudaya."

"Bedroom," she ordered, though she made no move to actually head that direction. Too busy tracing the edge of his jaw with fingers that had developed their own agenda.

"Works for me. Got a great idea how to get there, matter of fact."

"What's—?"

He scooped her up at the waist without warning, knocking a bright, startled sound loose from her lungs. It turned airy when he pressed her back against the wall for a moment; a pause purely to look at her with hungry eyes. Or maybe to summon his balance back.

"Show off." But her arms had already wound behind his neck, ankles crossed at the small of his back.

"Aw, you love it."

And she did love it, even if she'd never say as much out loud. The charade of suffering through the constant feet-sweeping was too fun, too ingrained—and she was fairly certain he enjoyed it, too.

Finn navigated the apartment with the swaggering confidence afforded by an exceedingly stable center of gravity and a built-in kickstand. Overconfidence, as it turned out. He lifted her a fraction higher to avoid the corner of the side table that had claimed her hip on more than one occasion, but clipped a doorframe with his shoulder and course-corrected with a muttered, "Fuckin' door's too small.'

From her perch, Sylvia peered over his shoulder and watched the living room get farther away. His tail had broken free of his governance, apparently. It kept drifting, curling, fin brushing against furniture legs for no discernible reason. Her head listed to rest against his collarbone, but she drew the line at closing her eyes. Surrendering to that temptation would take her straight down the road to sleep.

And she had a different agenda in mind.

Her legs jolted faintly when her feet touched down beside the bed. He'd set her down gingerly, hands lingering at her waist to help keep her upright, but still gave her a start; she didn't quite remember when her legs had loosed their hold on him.

For a moment they simply stood there in the dim lamplight, and Sylvia was caught in amber. Cozy and suspended and utterly content.

"Hi," she said softly.

"Hi yourself." His thumbs drew lazy circles over her tunic, bunching the fabric absentmindedly while his pause dragged on a bit too long, staring hard into her eyes. "Have a good night?"

"The best. Seriously." Watching him light up every time he bragged about her work—it did things to her chest. Made it feel too small for everything inside it. "You were so cute tonight." She craned one arm up to pat the top of his head. "Going on about my potions like I'd invented—I dunno, fire or something. Very sweet."

"'Course I did. You're freakin' incredible. Love showin' you off. Love havin' you next to me. Love—" He paused, swaying slightly. "Love you. Didn't say that one already, did I?"

"Not for, like, a whole hour I think." Her finger lifted to wag at him in mock reproach, and she nearly bopped his nose. "So you're overdue."

"Well, I do. A lot. Whole lot." Catching her wrist, he brought it to his teeth and grazed the thin skin there before a wry curve took over his mouth. "And y'know, it looks real good for me to be punchin' above my weight class."

She blew air loose between her lips and reached for his shirt again, managing the remaining buttons with a bit more success, though her attention kept getting diverted by the muscle uncovered. When the fabric finally parted, she pressed her palms flat against him and just... stood there for a moment, marveling.

"You're ridiculous," she declared, fingers splayed wide across the planes of his chest.

His eyebrows lifted. "You complainin'?"

"Just observing." She began a slow, wandering exploration. Fingertips skating up over his shoulders, down the grooves between muscle groups, tracing back and forth along the grain of those microscopic scales. "Someone commissioned you. Had to. 'Make him unreasonably hot,' they said. 'Give the witch absolutely no chance.' Probably paid extra for the whole—" she gestured vaguely at all of him "—structural integrity situation."

"Structural integrity?" He was fighting a grin and losing. Badly.

"Mmhmm." Poking his chest for emphasis nearly overbalanced her. He caught her automatically. "Very well put together. Like a really good tonic. All the ratios right. Nothing excessive, but definitely... generous where it counts."

"Don't gotta butter me up, Minnow." His hands slid under her tunic, palms warm against her ribs as he eased the fabric upward. "Already locked me down."

"Not buttering. Analyzing." Considering all her constant squeezing, though, her analysis was becoming less excusably academic by the second. It was pure tragedy when she had to peel her hands off him to raise both arms overhead and be disrobed. Cool air kissed her skin, raising goosebumps that prickled across her chest and down past her elbows.

His gaze dragged over her, taking the scenic route. "Never gets old."

"Better not." She stepped out of her pants—well, attempted to. Got one leg out fine. Halfway through the second she pitched forward face-first into his chest. Way better landing spot than the floorboards. Almost aspirational.

He caught her by the shoulders, which turned into them propping each other up like a couple of flimsy tentpoles. "Real convenient stumble, there." Her palms were already sliding down his abs with zero intention of pushing away.

"Safest place." She clawed into his waistband. For stability. "The floor's already betrayed me twice. And these—" she kicked at her half-off trousers with increasing irritation "—these are staging a rebellion."

"Architecture's got it out for us tonight." He crouched to tug the fabric free, knee plunking gracelessly onto the rug while she flopped back on the bed with a huff.

"This is taking forever," she complained to the ceiling. "We're being very inefficient."

"Yeah? You wanna time us?" His palm slid up her calf once finally freed from the traitorous pants. "See if we can set a new record?"

Her head popped up, eyes brightening with interest before the logistics defeated her. "I don't remember the old one."

"Me neither." He tossed her pants somewhere behind him. A soft fwump suggested they'd hit a chair and slid to the floor. "So this is automatically a new record."

"That's cheating."

"Nah, that's strategy."

The stern look she tested out cracked when he nipped at her ankle. She reached for him then, pulling him higher, and his hands settled on her knees. Warm and broad and wonderful; she loved his hands. The weight of them, the way they held her like she was something small and precious. Through the lovely haze, every brush of coarse skin was electric. They moved slowly up her sides, finding the spots that made her arch, creeping up on the ones that made her squirm with laughter.

Like the area just below her ribs he targeted now.

"No fair," she protested, arms and legs folding inward protectively like a startled hocus locust.

His mouth pressed to the curve of her neck and all her defenses dissolved. "All's fair," he said against her pulse.

She knew that. Just like she knew that threading through his hair as his mouth worked lower and pulling gently would make his gills tremble. Just like she knew that vibration rumbling in his chest meant his patience was wearing thin too.

The descent stopped short, caught on the swell of her breasts. He paused there, lips closing around one nipple while his thumb swept over the other. Kneading, tracing the border of pinker skin, sending sparks straight down to her core. Her spine arched, pressing into the sensation of wet heat and gentle suction and a rolling squeeze.

"Finn—" It came out thin, beseeching.

"Mmhmm." The sound vibrated against her skin, and she shivered. He switched sides, tongue flicking over the peaked bud before drawing it into his mouth. Teeth were a no-go here, excepting those delicious junctures where the flat of them depressed the soft mound of tender flesh. Just enough dare to make her suck in a sharp breath. Her other breast didn't sit abandoned for long; when he gave it a drawn-out pinch, her hips lifted from the bed in pursuit of friction that was running late, in her opinion.

Futilely, one hand flailed downward, reaching for him, and he swatted her grasping fingers away. "Gimme a minute," he rasped against her chest. "I'm… still gettin' there."

She let out a disappointed whine. Unfair, perhaps, but she needed him.

"But that just means—" his hand slid down her body, tracing her from shoulder to thigh "—more time to make you come your brains out first."

When he finally continued his path downward, she was on the verge of writhing, twisting in the linens and so ready she could've wept. Big, boozy tears of relief.

Anticipation had started the moment they'd stumbled through the front door. Her body had seen the signs in flashing arcane letters—and helped write them. The openness of it might have made sober-Sylvia blush, but drunk-Sylvia simply tipped her head back and gave herself over to sensation when he settled between her legs.

He made a meal of it, and those hands pressed firm against her inner thighs, holding her open and still. Heavy, they anchored her even as the world went floaty and unfocused. Sounds drifted from her throat without permission, formless and needy. Her body was liquid, melting, seeping farther into the mattress with each pass of his tongue. His coordination was definitely compromised—occasionally drifting off course, requiring correction—but what he lacked in precision he made up for in boundless enthusiasm. And the fact that he seemed perfectly content to stay down there indefinitely.

Eventually, though, his head drooped to one side, pillowed on her thigh. "You're so loud," he mumbled against her skin.

"I didn't even say anything!" She tried not to be offended. It didn't sound like a complaint. It sounded like a self-inflicted regret, akin to eating candy until you were nauseous.

"Not—not that." He tapped his temple. "All that..." His fingers stirred the air like skittering spider legs. "Electric. S'everywhere."

"C'mere then," she managed, laboring to pull him up.

The coordination required defeated them both, limbs tangling, laughing helplessly as they sorted out whose leg was where. He shifted, rolled to his side and pulled her with him. Her leg hooked over his hip automatically, opening her to him while his arm wrapped just below her breasts, holding her snug.

"There we go." He nuzzled at the crown of her head, drew in a deep breath.

This was—yes, this was better. Close and lazy and perfect for how leaden her limbs felt. He was right there, hot and blunt and so very close. Hips wriggling in invitation, she strove to align even as her head tipped back, seeking his mouth.

Their lips met as he pushed forward. Gradually, as though pouring into her.

Whatever she meant to say slipped out as a sigh instead.

The angle hit just right, deep without being too much, and the arm around her middle kept her grounded even as her thoughts went fuzzy around the edges. She relished every inch of him, the stretch and fullness exactly what her body was craving so loudly, yelling since the soles of her boots brushed the doormat.

He started to move, hips rolling in a lazy cycle matched to the syrupy slowness that had draped them all night. A few strokes in, he shifted, adjusting the angle until she shivered.

"Oh, that's—" Her leg folded tighter over his hip, pulling him farther in. "How do you always—?"

She lost the end of that thought when he thrust again. Sensation had taken priority over words. Hard to finish sentences when your brain was very busy processing other information. More important information.

His forehead pressed to hers, and they breathed the same air. This close, she couldn't help but watch his gills flare with each flex, wider than usual. Stuttering, almost.

She kissed him, because he was right there and it felt important to acknowledge. Both of them breathing too hard to make it neat. Didn't matter. His tongue swept against hers and she hummed into it, the sound vibrating between them.

The rhythm he'd set was unhurried. Nothing athletic about it; a languid connection. Her body rocked to meet him without much coordination, but somehow it worked regardless. Like they'd figured out how to move blindly together through a pleasant fog.

Her hand drifted up, up, thumb tracing along the periphery of his gills. The texture transition always got her. Rough-smooth, rough-smooth. Gods, she wanted to keep kissing him forever. Needed to.

She couldn't still her touch, sliding to his shoulder and down his ribs, mapping familiar territory like she might discover a new landmark. It was all more. The heat of his skin, the firmness of muscle, bicep curling around her with every half-formed moan that slipped out between her lips, all crowding in her senses.

Pleasure built persistently, winding tighter in her core with each slow thrust. A thick, glowy coil that spread through her limbs and saturated her whole body with a weighty want. Slick and aching, muscles fluttering around him with each withdrawal, trying to pull him back.

"This is really… really…" She gave up the endeavor of explaining exactly how amazing she felt. Wrapped her hand behind his neck and pulled him down again, mouths meeting messy and eager, tongues sliding together in between bumps of teeth and breathy chuckles.

His thumb stroked slow circles across her skin, holding her in the present even as her thoughts made a concerted effort to drift away. She focused on his face—the clench of his jaw, the heat in his eyes.

"You're starin', Minnow," he murmured. "S'nice though."

"You're handsome." The words came out without filter, sincere and simple. "Very handsome."

"You're not so bad yourself." He reached down, found the slick heat between her legs. Circling right where she needed him, firm and mesmerizing, while he kept up that slide and drag inside her. The combination had her panting, nails digging into his shoulder. Her hips floundered, aiming to grind against his touch while taking him deeper and somewhat failing at both.

She needed something to hold onto. The room was tilting, soft-focus except for the point where they joined. "I'm almost..."

"Could tell. All that—" he nodded, a vague gesture "—cracklin'. Love when you do that." His rhythm faltered with the words before picking up again, winding her tighter and tighter. "C'mon. Lemme feel it."

The pressure built in waves, each one cresting higher than the last. Her body knew what was coming before her brain caught up, legs holding taut in anticipation. She wanted to say something—his name, maybe?—but it dissolved into a moan when the pleasure finally peaked.

Rolling hot and viscous all the way down to her toes, the orgasm had her clenching around him in erratic throbs. She was too busy floating, riding the last lazy wavelets of ecstasy when his hold tightened around her ribcage convulsively, face buried in her neck as he came. The sensation of him pulsing inside her sent one more ripple of pleasure traveling through her belly.

For a long moment neither of them moved. Just stayed tangled together, breathing deep.

Her hand combed slowly through his hair. When had she grabbed his hair? Well, it didn't matter anymore. Everything was soft and sated and splendid.

"That was—" Turning her face away, she yawned hugely as though she'd enjoyed a phenomenal feast and now exhaustion had come to take its due. "Really good. Like, really really good."

"Yeah," he agreed, rough and gratified. "Top three. Maybe top one. It's gotta be up there." Cradling the side of her face, he tilted her back toward him for another kiss. "You're the best thing that ever happened to me, you know that? Hands down."

"You're drunk."

"Don't make me wrong."

She hummed agreement into his skin, too wrung out to form actual words. Her leg still dangled over him, and neither of them made any move to separate. Instead, she pressed her face harder into the crook of his neck, nose smushed against the hollow of his throat where his pulse beat slow and heavy.

Somewhere in the distant realm of Practical Concerns, a tiny voice noted they were sticky and messy and should probably do something about that. That voice was promptly voted down by every other part of her that had already surrendered to gravity and warmth and the smell of his skin.

His breathing slowed. Hers followed.