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"Gonna need a tougher gag than that, Minnow."
Sylvia stared at the shredded remains of what had been—mere minutes ago—a perfectly serviceable linen sash. Now it looked like it had gone through a meat grinder. Which, considering Finn's dental situation, wasn't far off.
"You started this." She indicated the carnage with both hands. "You were the one who brought it up. 'Might be fun,' you said. 'Could try it,' you said." Scooping up a tattered strip of fabric, she let it dangle pathetically. "And now you're systematically devouring my closet. If this is some elaborate scheme to get me to walk around naked, there are easier ways."
Finn had the audacity to not even pretend at sheepishness, lounging naked against the headboard with his fingers laced behind his head like he hadn't just destroyed the cinch to her third-favorite tunic. "Wasn't doin' it on purpose."
"Oh, of course not. Your teeth just accidentally sawed through fireproofed canvas."
"They got a mind of their own when I'm…" Waving vaguely, he offered silent shorthand that encompassed the general situation: him, her, the bed, the whole enterprise they'd been engaged in before the latest gag casualty.
"Distracted?" Sylvia supplied, crossing her arms. The motion had the intended effect on her bare breasts, and on Finn's ability to maintain eye contact. Point to her. "Because if I'm keeping score—and I am—you've gone through a rope, a sash, and what used to be a quality leather belt."
"That belt was gettin' old anyway."
"It was vintage!"
"It was crackin' at the—" He stopped, apparently recognizing he was not winning this argument. "Look, I'm gonna replace it."
"With what, chainmail?" Turning away, she scanned the bedroom for anything that might survive contact with what amounted to a biological saw mill. Her eyes landed on the dresser, where Finn's abandoned clothes lay in a neat pile.
Well. Neat-ish. His shirt was wrinkled, his slacks were draped over the edge, and his bow tie sat on top, unrolled, the burgundy fabric gleaming in the lamplight.
Something lit up in her brain. A solution both practical and deliciously mischievous.
Sylvia picked up the accessory, let it unfurl between her fingers. Pearl silk, the expensive kind that probably cost more than her entire wardrobe combined. And it was the bow tie. The same one he'd been wearing that first day he'd swaggered into her shop. He wore it to every major event, anywhere he wanted things to go his way. The superstitious sap.
She turned to face him, holding it up with a grin that would've made a cat proud. The kind that promised trouble.
"Hold on now," Finn hedged immediately.
"I haven't said anything yet."
"Don't need to. I can see it on your face." He sat up straighter, tail flicking in agitation. "That's—no way. Come on."
"You come on." Sylvia advanced on the bed, the tie swinging in her grasp. "It's perfect. Strong silk, nice and long, and you won't want to chew through it."
"Damn right I don't want to. That's a custom piece!"
"Exactly. Built-in incentive not to eviscerate it." She climbed onto the mattress and settled in next to him, pleased with her own cleverness. "This was your idea. I'm just trying to problem solve."
"Yeah, but I figured we'd—" He made a helpless motion. "Use something practical. Somethin' disposable."
"We did. Three times. And you shredded them all." She dangled the slip of burgundy overhead. "This is the only thing in the house that you'll actually be careful with. I mean, you do manage not to slice me up, so two things, I guess."
Finn stared at her, then at the bow tie, then back at her. She could practically see him calculating: pride versus practicality versus the fact that he was responsible for suggesting this endeavor in the first place.
"If you wreck it," he said slowly, "I'm blamin' you."
"If I wreck it?! I'm not the one with the teeth, mister!"
"You're the one tyin' it around my face!"
"Yes, that's the entire point of a gag." She sat back on her heels, letting the tie drape over one thigh. "But if the whole…" She gestured vaguely at his mouth. "You know. If this is unworkable, that's just biology. Nothing to be done about it."
Her voice was matter-of-fact. Sympathetic, even. Not at all like someone baiting a trap.
His jaw worked for a moment. Then he sighed, a great put-upon thing that would've been more convincing if certain parts of his anatomy weren't already voting yes.
"Alright," he said. "But you gotta promise to be careful with it."
"I promise to be extremely careful with your precious bow tie." She shifted until she was straddling his thigh. "Now open up."
"You're enjoyin' this way too much."
"Oh absolutely. This is payback for the sash. And the belt. And—" she booped his nose with one finger "—for being a smug bastard about it afterward."
He opened his mouth to argue, and she took the opportunity to slip the fabric between his teeth.
The effect was immediate and deeply satisfying. Finn's eyes widened slightly as the fabric settled against his tongue, and whatever retort he'd been formulating came out slurred and unintelligible.
"Here we go." Sylvia reached around to tie it at the base of his skull. The slick pearl weave was cool against her fingers, smooth and accomodating as she knotted it firmly. Not tight enough to hurt or impact circulation, but secure enough that it wouldn't go sliding off. "There," she said with satisfaction, plucking the fabric once. The recent doomed attempts had gotten her pretty familiar with the correct tension. "How's that feel?"
He made a sound that might've been "alright" or might've been "menace." Hard to be sure with the way he was holding his teeth apart. The sheen of silk winked at her from the back of his mouth.
"You're having a wonderful time and I'm a genius?" She patted his cheek. "That's so sweet of you. And honestly, impressive how you fit so many words into so few syllables."
His mock glare would've been more effective if his gills weren't working overtime. If his pupils weren't blown wide. If his interest weren't plain as day.
Sylvia shifted on his thigh, enjoying the way his breath stuttered when her weight settled higher up. This was interesting. Really interesting. Not just the visual of him gagged and trying to seem annoyed while clearly being into it, but the whole dynamic. He'd handed her control by suggesting this, by conceding the bow tie. More so than usual.
The power of it sang through her, rendering her just a touch wicked.
"I could probably do with a break," she said conversationally, fingers trailing down his chest. "Been a long day of trial and error, you know. I could brew us some tea. How does that sound?"
The noise he made was definitely one of protest.
Her palm drifted lower, skating over his stomach before wrapping around him with a firm grip. His hips jerked up involuntarily, and the groan that spilled out, distorted and raw, went straight between her legs.
"I agree. Sounds boring." She set a slow rhythm. Her thumb swept over the head on each upstroke, redistributing the moisture there, and she watched his face with rapt attention. The way his sharp jaw flexed under the red fabric. The wavering of his gills.
This was new. Usually by now he'd be running his mouth; offering approval or suggestions, that intermittent commentary that scrambled her thoughts and made her flush. That'll sure fuckin' do it, Minnow. Tide take me, you look good like that. You tryin' to wreck me?
One hand ran up the outside of her thigh and settled at her hip, thumb pressing into the hollow there. Anchoring himself. Sylvia increased her pace a fraction, and his head dropped back against the headboard with a thunk.
"Comfortable?" she asked, voice gone a bit thready despite herself. The sight of him like this—reduced to incoherent sounds and desperate reaching—was doing things to her. "Not too tight?"
He shook his head, then made another futile attempt at words.
"What's that?" She leaned in until his hot breath was loud in her ear. "You're saying I'm incredibly talented and should be awarded a medal? Gosh, if you say so. I didn't think they made medals for this kind of thing."
His laugh came out huffed through his nose, and his fingers flexed on her hip. Then his grip slid around to her backside and squeezed.
"I'll take that as a yes," she said, smiling sharp as a hook.
But as her fist kept pumping, as she trailed kisses along his throat, something nagged at her. A sense of... an ingredient missing from a formula. It took her a moment to place it, but it was obvious.
His voice.
She'd gotten so accustomed to the peppered-in filth and praise, the way he'd narrate what she was doing to him, what he was aching to do to her, the verbal confirmation that she was driving him mad. Now there was only inhale, exhale. The wet slide of her fist. His garbled attempts at speech that went nowhere. And while all of that was plenty clear, the absence still felt a bit odd.
He exhaled hard, more growl than word, and bucked up into her grasp.
There was something compelling about this. About him trying to talk, to provide feedback, and being unable. About seeing his face contort with pleasure without the filter of clever remarks. About the raw honesty of just his body speaking.
She tightened her grip experimentally. His tail lashed where it hung off the edge of the bed, and she felt the tremor run through him. Getting close. It was obvious from his ragged breath, the tension coiling through his muscles, his fingers nearly convulsing where they pressed in against her.
But she'd gotten him this worked up, and—more importantly—the bow tie was intact. Not a single torn fiber to be seen. Seemed silly to waste all that buildup and her ingenuity on just a handjob.
So Sylvia slowed her strokes, then stopped entirely. A sound of pure frustration escaped him, hips jerking reflexively.
"Relax." She repositioned between his spread legs. "I'm not abandoning you. Just getting comfortable."
She wrapped her fingers around the base and licked a slobbery stripe up the underside.
The sound that answered was distorted and yet so Finn that she had to choke down a laugh.
"Didn't catch that," she said innocently, pulling back to cock her head at him.
He tried again, the words mangled by silk but the intent crystal clear. She was killing him. She was terrible. She was—
"'Please keep going, Sylvia, you're incredible'?" she filled in helpfully. "Well, I was planning to, but I certainly appreciate your glowing review."
The look he gave her was pure want, edged with exasperation at his inability to articulate it. His palm settled on her crown with barely any weight behind it. No pressure. No insistence. Just resting there.
Oh, that was hot. Asking without words.
He could easily maneuver her where he wanted; she'd felt that strength plenty of times. But instead his fingers threaded gently in her hair, and the restraint of it coiled warm in her chest. A touch that requested rather than demanded. Trusting her to interpret.
Ducking her head in assent, she parted her lips around him again, slow and deliberate, peering up to watch his eyes roll back. A sigh escaped him as his hold tightened on her hair, and his tail thumped once against the bedframe.
This was better. Allowed her to feel him fall apart while she worked, savor every reaction. Air hitching in his throat when she did that thing with her tongue. The way his thigh tensed beneath her palm when she took him deeper. How his fingers trembled on her scalp when she hummed around him.
She brought him right up to the edge, then pulled off with an obscene pop.
"Shyllia—" The protest was slurred but unmistakable. For a split second, his hand spasmed in her hair—pure instinct trying to guide her back. Then he forced his grip to loosen, fingers going slack even as his body stayed tense with privation.
"What?" She rested on her heels, wiping her mouth on her wrist. "Did you need something?"
Exaggerated indignation rumbled forth from him throat, trying again to lodge his complaint. The bow tie rendered it unintelligible, but she could guess the gist.
"Oh, were you?" Nudging his legs together with her knee, she climbed up his body until she sat astride his lap. He pressed hot and insistent, slotted perfectly through the cleft of her, and she rocked her hips enough to tease how wet she'd gotten. "Well, I just figured the whole experience would be elevated if we kicked it up another notch."
She could practically hear the internal monologue behind his half-pleading, half-incredulous expression. You're killing me. I love you. I'm gonna get you back for this.
"Don't look at me like that." She reached down to position him. "I'm just trying to make the most of the successful gag. For your sake. Is that not what you want?"
He nodded, urgent and emphatic.
"Oh, so it's not what you want. Well, we should probably stop then. Get you some water…"
Frantic head shaking, garbled noises that were definitely objections.
"Just kidding." Mischief curled her lips. "I'm not that mean."
His likely insistence that she was, in fact, that mean, cut off into a moan when she began sinking slowly, enjoying every inch of the descent as her body yielded. His hands flew to her hips, digging in, helping bear her weight, and the sound he made was filthy even with silk in the way. The angle was perfect with him propped against the headboard, brushing every sensitive spot on the way down, keeping them face to face, letting her catch every micro-expression.
A shaky exhale slipped past her lips as she settled fully into his lap. She sat there a moment, pulse thudding, adjusting to the fullness.
"Better?" she asked before giving a slow roll of her hips. Enough to shift the press of him inside her.
He nodded vigorously, clutching at her.
Almost without thinking, Sylvia reached up and hooked one finger behind his bottom teeth. Not pulling, exactly, merely settling there in the valley between sharp enamel, exploring the wet heat of his mouth, the saliva-slick tongue beneath her fingertip.
Finn went rigid. His whole body locked up, and his head jerked back instinctively—not violent, but immediate. Breaking the contact. His eyes were wide, pupils blown somewhere between arousal and panic, and he shook his head in short, urgent movements that tried not to jostle her finger.
"Too much?" Already knew the answer, already withdrawing. "Got it."
An almost rueful chuckle broke over the fabric, and his grip firmed on her hip like he needed the tether. But when she clenched around him deliberately—testing a different kind of intensity—he didn't shy away. Even when she rose high and he visibly had to fight not to chase her up, he kept that focus locked on her face.
She leaned forward, bracing on his shoulders. "Bet you're composing a whole speech right now, aren't you?" she murmured against his jaw. "Everything you'd be saying if you could."
He shuddered under her, and his palms slid up her spine, heat following. Holding her closer, even as she rode him. His hips started moving despite his obvious effort to stay still, brief, abandoned thrusts that had him rumbling with discontent.
"You know you're allowed to participate, right?" she said, picking up the pace. "This isn't a spectator sport."
Accepting the invitation with gusto, he planted his feet and thrust up to meet her. The angle shot a streak of lightning up her spine that curled her toes before bursting into stars behind her eyes. Burying her teeth above his collarbone, her nails scraped over the coarse skin at his shoulder blades.
They found a rhythm together, her rolling down as he surged up, bodies slick with sweat, the wet sounds of sex mixing with his wordless groans and her increasingly short-winded gasps. The tension built quicker for all the delay, flooding him: the desperate edge to his movements, the flutter of his gills, the irises swallowed up by black.
"Don't you hold out on me now." Her lips pressed to the hollow just under his ear. "I think I dragged this out long enough."
He tried to say something—her name, maybe, or a warning—but it came out as incoherent sounds. His whole body went taut, strung wire-tight, and then he was coming with a grunt, hips jerking as he spilled inside her.
Sylvia kept moving gently, rocking, as his expression morphed from pleasure to overwhelm. Once he'd finally turned to jelly beneath her, she stilled. Let him catch his breath, let the aftershocks roll through him. His hands were trembling on her back, and his chest heaved against hers.
She moved to kiss him, automatic, and bumped into teeth instead.
Oh. Right.
A laugh bubbled out of her as she reached up, fingers weaving under his hair to untie the silk and pull it free from his mouth.
Finn rolled his jaw from side to side, tongue darting out to wet his lips. When he finally spoke, his voice was rough. "Fuck."
"Good?" Unable to keep the pleased note out of her voice.
"Minnow, I think you broke somethin' in my brain." He huffed a thin laugh, shaking his head. "Tryin' to lose a finger."
"Your fancy bow tie survived, though." Triumphantly, she held it aloft. Slimy, soaked through, but otherwise unmarred. "See? I told you you could do it."
"Yeah, yeah. You're a genius. We've established this." His hands were still moving over her, restless and gentle, needing to keep touching her. "C'mere."
Sylvia glanced down at her ribs still pressed to his. "I can't get much more 'here,' love." But she obliged as best she could, tucking her head under his chin. His heartbeat raced, gradually slowing as they lay there tangled together.
"That was..." Finn trailed off, then tried again. "Didn't think it'd be that intense."
"Yeah?" Sylvia traced idle patterns on his chest. "Good intense or bad intense?"
"Good. Real good." His fingers slid into her hair, combing through the strands. "Turns out lettin' you run the show has its perks."
She snorted. "I always run the show."
"Sure, but usually I get to at least comment on it." His grin was audible.
Sylvia tossed the fabric aside, landing in a soggy heap among the linens. She settled more comfortably against him, still joined, still warm, and took internal inventory.
No orgasm. She was aware of that—hyperaware, actually—of the pleasant ache still humming between her legs. The want that hadn't crested into release.
And she was... fine with it?
Usually she'd already angling for round two, or at minimum making pointed comments about reciprocity. Not that such comments were necessary to motivate him. But right now, draped across Finn's chest with his heart thrumming under her ear, she felt quite satisfied. Full, in a way that had nothing to do with the literal fullness of him still inside her.
She'd wanted to take him apart. Mission accomplished. Making him come so hard he'd gone boneless beneath her—that was its own reward. Scratched an entirely different itch.
Besides, the night was young. They had time to rally.
"We should probably clean up a little," she said eventually.
"In a minute." His arms tightened around her, though she'd made no move to actually get off of him. "I'm real comfortable right now."
"And your bow tie is going to need dry cleaning."
"Worth it."
She lifted her head. "Really?"
"Really." Finn reached for the strip of silk, damp and crumpled on the sheets where she'd lobbed it, and turned it over. “Y’know, I used to think this thing was my good-luck charm.” His tone was excessively nostalgic.
“Used to? You called it lucky yesterday.”
"Yeah." That familiar smirk tugged at his mouth. “But I think I got a better one.”
Sylvia groaned in anguish, covering her eyes with one hand as the sound broke into pained chuckling. “You’re such a cornball.”
“You love it.”
“Guilty.”
The rumpled fabric slipped from his fingers, forgotten between them as he pulled her closer for that long-overdue kiss.