Prompt time! Solas and Athi discuss at length if the other would love them as a worm. Please and thank you 🙏
rare and marvelous
Fandom: Dragon Age
Pairing: Solas x f!Lavellan
Rating: G for General
now illustrated :')
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“Are you comfortable in that form?”
Athi’s voice cuts into the quiet of the Fade and Solas’ own silent musings, the path they’re currently on less twisting, and therefore less mentally demanding, than most.
“This form?” he responds. “Or do you refer to another?”
“You know, most people don’t have to specify that.”
“I believe we can agree that I am not most people.”
Athi’s features scrunch together in amusement as she most certainly prepares to tease him—her favorite pastime, not that the Fade provides much of a variety from which to choose. “So true,” she says, the sing-song notes of it echoing in the shifting emptiness around them. “You’re very special.”
“Your approval of my circumstances is paramount,” he states dryly. “Which form are you currently curious about?”
Solas chuckles. “I can say with great confidence that I have never before been accused of being ‘tendrily.’”
“Love that we’re still finding firsts. Don’t you?” Athi nudges him with an elbow. The self-satisfied smile on her face makes its own light, her playfulness a beacon in the dull dark of this domain.
“You are right,” he says, “and I should hardly be surprised that you are still able to surprise me.”
“Or maybe you should be surprised by my surprising you, otherwise it’s not much of a surprise, is it? But back to my question: do you like to hang around as your tendrily spirit-self?”
“It is not so dissimilar to this one.”
“It floats.”
“Well, yes.”
“And you don’t have hands.”
Solas chuckles. “But many tendrils, as I’ve been recently informed. Besides, one does not need appendages to affect the Fade; only a capable mind and sufficient will.”
“Well, you need appendages to affect me,” Athi mumbles.
Solas grins over at her then, waiting until he catches her eye to lean closer, lower his voice, and ask, “Do I?”
She’s not the only one with the power to tease. It has the intended effect, of course: her eyes widen and unfocus for a few long moments, the air thickening with desire before she shakes it off.
“So is that a yes, then?” she asks.
“Yes, I am comfortable in that form, as I am comfortable in this one.”
“But not the wolf.”
This is not something he’s considered, and he takes his time answering. “The Dread Wolf was born of a specific need to threaten the evanuris and as a show of power and protection for those who would escape or oppose them. And, as you know, it takes a great deal of energy to maintain. I would not call it ‘comfortable’ by any stretch of the definition.”
“Cute, though.”
Solas rolls his eyes at her flippancy. “I refuse to dignify that statement with a response.”
“That is a response.” But she takes his hand and squeezes, warmth diffusing into Solas’ chest as her affection washes over him in gentle waves.
Some time later, it occurs to him to wonder why she brought this subject up in the first place. “Are you comfortable with my spirit form, Athi?”
“I mean, sure. It’s just new. And it is different, at least to me. Not as solid.”
“Different in a bad way?”
“No. I mean, yes in some ways. Harder to kiss you, for one thing.” She squeezes his hand again. “Also I’m never really sure which eyes to look into.”
“In truth, that form does not have eyes, or even sight in the way you’d experience it.”
Athi looks up at him, a vacant expression which he can only classify as bewilderment on her face.
“There are other senses which allow me to perceive the world,” he continues. “Ones which are very difficult to explain to someone who cannot experience them, but rest assured that I know where you are and what you are doing, whether in spirit form or this one.”
“That clears things up less than I think you think it does.”
“I am sorry. Perhaps you might simply choose your favorite ‘eye’ with which to maintain contact as we converse.”
“Right, I’ll give that a go.”
“Does it truly bother you? Does it change your opinion of me?”
Athi stops short, her hand still clasped in his tugging him to a halt in turn. “What? No, it doesn’t ‘bother’ me. It’s just different. And I have to be different with it.”
“But I am still…” He is unsure how to ask the right question, but feels it imperative that he discover the answer. “I am still Solas, to you? Even when I wear that form?”
“Who else would you be?”
“Does it change how you feel about me? Your—” It is still so hard for him to accept the concept that even forming the word is a challenge. “Your love for me?”
“Oh.” Athi’s whole being relaxes on a sigh and a soft smile. She lifts his hand to her lips and kisses two of his knuckles. “Don’t be ridiculous. Nothing can change that.”
“Well. That is a relief. Thank you.”
They continue along their path, but the quiet hardly has time to settle back in when Athi speaks again.
“Solas?”
He hums an acknowledgement.
“If I were in a different form, would you still love me?”
The answer is obvious, but he entertains the subject. “Temporarily?”
“No, I think permanently.”
“Of course I would. It is your spirit that I adore—though I am fond of your form as well.”
She laughs brightly. “Good answer! But what if it was really different? Like a fish? Or a worm? What if you woke up one day and I was a worm?”
“Is your spirit intact within this worm?”
“Let’s say yes.”
“Then yes, I would still love you. And I would learn to love your worm form in time.”
“Okay.” She’s silent long enough that he thinks the matter dropped, then: “But what if my spirit was changed, too? What if I had a worm spirit now?”
“That would be an impossibility.” Even more impossible than the premise, but he keeps that to himself. “If your spirit was no longer yours, but a worm’s, then there would be no you within it. I would cherish your memory into eternity, and leave the worm to live out its life.”
Athi gasps and stops again, dropping his hand to match her other one on her hip. “You would leave me?!”
“It would not be you, vhenan. It would be a worm.”
“But I would be the worm!”
“You’re not the worm. Without your spirit, the worm is just a worm.”
“What if I was always the worm?”
She appears genuinely distressed, and Solas isn’t sure he can reason his way out of a conversation this ridiculous. “Then we likely would never have met. You would not love me either.”
“You don’t know that!”
Solas sighs heavily, cradling his temples in one hand. “I fear we’ve stepped out of the incredibly hypothetical discussion we began and into a deeper one.”
Athi starts ahead without him. “You’ve certainly stepped into something.”
Fandom: The Wayhaven Chronicles
Pairing: Mason x Theo West
Rating: T for Teen (flashback to Murphy event, language)
Words: 2,639
[Read on Ao3]
Unit Bravo take to the beach to recruit some merfolk. Theo earns her keep and Mason proves Adam wrong.
| Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 |
Theo wakes to a soft knock on the door, her cheek hot and a little sticky as she peels it off Mason’s chest.
Nate pops his head in and drops Mason’s bag just inside, eyes averted. “Adam has spotted signs of the merfolk a few miles down the coast. You two should get dressed and join us—unless you’d prefer to spend the entire mission in here, of course.”
Theo stretches and pretends to consider it, but Mason rolls out from under her. “Thanks, Nate,” he says. “We’ll be right there.”
Right there is a bit optimistic, considering they both need to wash up again. With a little water and a comb, Theo tames her hair into something resembling a braid, and throws on the first thing she yanks from her bag. It’s a sundress, but it’s comfortable, and if she’s remembering correctly, plans A through C do not involve fighting. Besides, she can kick ass in a dress if she has to—that is, if merfolk even have asses. Do fish? She makes a note to look it up later.
Nate, Mason, and Felix are waiting for her in the living room.
“Ooh, pretty,” Felix croons and slings an arm around her shoulder. “You dressing up for me, Agent West Jr.? Or maybe someone else…?”
“Someone else,” Theo says. “Adam won’t know what hit him. Where’s our guy?”
“Outside,” Nate says, while Felix mimes a dagger twist to his heart and throws himself dramatically against the wall. “We don’t know how quickly they’re moving or if they will choose to make contact.”
“Or if they even know we’re here,” Felix adds.
Mason shrugs and heads out the door. “Time to find out.”
It’s still dark outside, but the clouds have dissipated, allowing the moon to cast a silver glow that glitters across the waves. And it’s cooler than before, Theo notes with a shiver. She spots Adam standing near the shore, arms crossed and shoulders tense.
“We should spread out,” he says as they reach him. “They will likely realize what we are as they draw near and are unlikely to approach us as a group. We will also have a better chance of spotting them from multiple vantage points.”
Nate nods his agreement. “I’ll head north,” he says before striding off.
Adam turns to Mason. “If I send you and Theo south, can I trust you to both keep her safe and complete the mission?”
A thick tension rises between the two, Mason glaring at their leader as Adam holds his hard gaze, unflinching as ever. Theo resists the urge to shrink back, feeling very much like a child fallen in a lion enclosure near mealtime.
“Why the fuck would you ask me that?”
“I am asking about your priorities because you abandoned your watch early—”
“By four minutes.” Theo interjects, and Adam turns his disapproval her way.
“Yes, after he spent who knows how long distracted from his responsibilities.”
“That’s bullshit,” Mason says. “I can multitask just fine and you know that.”
Felix warily steps in. “Adam, I’m sure they’ll be fine.”
“Of course we’ll be fine, and of course we’ll do our goddamn jobs.” Mason stalks off, clearly still fuming. “Let’s go.”
Theo shoots Felix a grateful smile, then shoves her hands in her pockets and hurries to catch up and keep pace. They walk down the beach in a charged silence, smothered by the sound of the wind and the sea. Occasionally, Theo casts her eyes across the water’s surface, squinting at every odd shape and shadow, which all turn out to be nothing more than waves breaking as they near the shore.
Mason stops. “This is far enough.”
“You sure?” Theo asks, peering back in the direction of the house. “I think I can still see Adam.” Or a trick of the light on the dunes, one of the two.
He scoffs. “Et tu?”
“What?”
“Forget it. Yes, Theo, I’m sure.”
Theo bumps him with her hip. “You know I have the utmost faith in you, right?”
His expression doesn’t soften, but his eyes do.
“And so do the others, Adam included. He obviously woke up on the wrong side of the coffin.”
That earns her a smile. “Quit distracting me.”
But he’s the one who has all her attention. Theo may not be as good a multitasker as Mason, but for the next fifteen minutes or so, she is outwardly diligent even as she fights the gravity of his presence. She watches the water instead of the wisps of dark hair that escape his low bun and whip across his face. She keeps her hands deep in her pockets instead of sliding them into his. She ignores the scent of her soap mingling with that of his skin and the briny air.
Yet another movement out on the water draws her gaze. She’s still trying to decide if it’s anything or nothing when Mason says, “Look alive,” and Theo freezes, heart racing.
A rounded shape rises up from the water’s surface, the being’s face in shadow but framed by long wet hair that drapes down to the sides, like a veil disappearing into the inky blackness of the sea. As Theo calms herself and regains control of her limbs, another appears to the left of the first—then another, slightly behind them. She recalls something from the brief about their sense of hearing not working well above water and slowly removes her hands from her pockets to hold them up, spreading her fingers wide to make it clear she doesn’t intend to harm them.
“Hello. My name is Agent Theo West, and this is Specialist Agent Mason,” she calls out, carefully enunciating each word. “We’re with the Agency.”
None of the merfolk react.
“Can you understand me?” she asks, louder this time, and hopes to whatever god is listening they can. If they need a translator, she’s screwed until Nate arrives, and he may not even know he should be booking his ass over here yet.
“We understand,” the first says in a musical voice, and all three advance. At first, they move with a gentle weaving motion, back and forth like sharks do, then it shifts to a more humanlike gait. By the time the water is shallow enough to stand, they each walk on two legs. All have long hair in shades of teal and blue and green that blur toward black in the faint predawn light, and all are lovely in an otherworldly way.
All three are also super naked—a fact she files away to appreciate later and does her best to ignore for the moment.
They stop when the first, presumably their leader, reaches the water’s edge.
“My name is impossible to say above-waves, but you may call me Ciraith.”
“Ciraith,” Theo repeats. “Pleasure to meet you.” Mason grunts from behind her.
“We know of your Agency,” Ciraith says, then extends a long, slender arm to point at Theo. “And we have heard of you as well. What you can do.” Their large dark eyes are fixed on Theo’s own as they tilt their head, sending silken strands of hair cascading down one shoulder as if made of water themselves. They breathe deep as if savoring the lungfuls of air. “And what you have become.”
For a full and eternal second, Murphy’s needles are back in her arms, his foul compound raging through her veins, narrowing her sense of the outside world to pain and rust and his sharp aftershave, before she blinks hard and snaps back to the present. The merfolks’ features may be mostly humanoid, but their mannerisms are different enough to set Theo on edge. She can’t read Ciraith’s intention. Is this their idea of a warning? A threat? Or are they just making conversation?
“I can neither confirm nor deny any such statements at this time.”
“Smooth,” Mason mutters.
Ciraith takes another step forward, and Theo holds her ground. Despite feeling rather like prey for the second time in an hour, she has Mason at her back. Soon there’s no more than an arm’s length between them, and at this distance, Theo can make out starry little flecks of silver in the merperson’s eyes.
“Tell us the truth, young one,” they say, voice pitched lower and far more resonant than before. A headache threatens, a pinching pressure at Theo’s temples reminiscent of when Mason uses his compulsion around her, though not nearly so intense.
Young one. They hadn’t covered lifespans during her crash course on merfolk—or maybe she just missed that bit—and Theo can’t help but wonder how old the supernatural now standing in front of her is. But before she can ask, the pain in her head intensifies and Theo winces, pressing her fingers to her throbbing temples.
“That’s enough,” Mason growls, and the headache abates just as quickly as it came on.
Ciraith’s expression changes from rapt observation to something like amusement. It’s still hard to tell. “Confirmation of the first, at least,” they say.
“I— Yes,” Theo blurts out, dropping her hands to her side. “And?”
“How might we test the second, I wonder?”
Mason’s between them in a flash, his body inches from Ciraith’s as he shields Theo. A shout comes from the water as the other two merfolk, content to remain passive observers until now, take a few startled steps forward.
“You don’t,” Mason growls. Sounds like his fangs are out. “Back off.”
Ciraith smiles placidly but shows their pointed teeth, and Mason hisses.
Predators. Theo almost rolls her eyes. She lays a hand on Mason’s arm to try and soothe the rising tension and gently tugs him out of the way. “Ciraith, the Agency would like to meet with you in an official capacity. They will ask you to sign a treaty on behalf of your people. For their part, they offer shelter, protection, provisions, whatever you might need.”
Ciraith’s gaze stays locked on Mason’s even as they respond to Theo. “And if we do not need what they can provide?”
“I think you do. Even if you stay under forever, the ocean’s not exactly becoming a more welcoming place as time goes on.”
“Thanks to your kind.”
“Most of my kind doesn’t know you exist.” Not that knowing would stop them, she thinks. “Regardless, the Agency won’t force you to sign. It can’t hurt to hear them out.”
“Perhaps not. They offer these things in exchange for our subservience?”
“No.” Theo shakes her head. “They only ask for peace.” Then she adds, too honestly: “As far as I know, anyway.”
Ciraith’s brow furrows, then smooths as they suss out Theo’s tone. A light laughter, like the tinkling notes of a wind chime, escapes their shapely lips, and a smile more pleasant than the last lingers after the sound fades.
“Very well.”
The stale air Theo has been holding in reserve since this encounter began whooshes out of her lungs in relief. “OK,” she says, not sure what happens from here.
“Our people will remain in this area for two days’ time. We will watch this stretch of sand. Send your Agency here and we will meet with them.”
Theo nods. “I will. Thank you, Ciraith.”
The three merfolk move as one to return to the deep, and Theo notices a shimmer on their skin—or scales, perhaps—as the first full light of sunrise spills across the horizon. As they had spoken together, the sky had gone rose and lavender and gold, warming the shallows to a luminous green.
Ciraith looks back and catches her eye, then silently disappears beneath the surface.
Sheer relief washes over Theo and she turns to look at Mason, unable to keep the grin from her face any longer. He’s still glaring at the spot where the merfolk vanished, but finally relaxes and almost smiles back when Theo whoops and jumps into his arms, wrapping her legs around his waist and hugging him tight.
“We fucking did it!” she says, maybe a bit high on her success. “Suck it, Adam!”
“I actually did very little,” Mason points out, “other than keep you from being dragged to the seafloor and eaten.”
“Yeah, but that’s really important. I hate getting eaten.” She leans back and caresses his cheeks, one then the other, and adds, “Nonconsensually, anyway.”
The others reach them and Theo twists to high-five Felix.
“Did you guys see that?” she asks and kicks her feet in uncontainable excitement. “Did you see me totally win that negotiation?”
“A negotiation is not a contest,” Adam says, expression stony as usual, “and therefore it cannot be won.” But he does nod to Mason, who almost imperceptibly nods back.
Felix groans and rolls his eyes. “What do you even mean? Winner’s the one who gets more.”
“By that definition, I did not win,” Theo points out.
“Well, you got what we came here to get! So yeah, you won. Ignore Adam, he’s just mad because he didn’t get to talk to the pretty fish people. He made us watch the whole thing from back there so we didn’t intimidate them, and it was going so well, but then shit almost hit the fan and I was like, ‘Oh, damn, she doesn’t have this,’ but then you totally did.” He high-fives her again, then Mason.
Nate smiles as his gaze shifts from her to Mason, then back. “Yes, well done to the both of you. You two made an excellent team, though that should hardly be a surprise at this point. Wouldn’t you agree, Adam?”
Lips pressed tightly together at the light rebuke only Nate could ever get away with, Adam grunts in reluctant agreement.
Theo hugs Mason one last time, smashing her cheek into his neck, then pushes at his shoulder.
“OK,” she says. “I’m sorry I freaked out. I’m good now, you can let me down.”
“What if I don’t want to?”
“Then I shall graciously allow you to carry me all the way back down the beach.”
“No, I don’t think I will.”
His grip tightens into unforgiving steel as he gives her a frighteningly self-satisfied smirk, then walks directly into the surf—boots, jeans, t-shirt, sneakers, sundress, and all.
“Wait! Waitwait wait—”
The last of her protests is swallowed as he dunks them underwater, and when she surfaces to find him soaking wet and shivering right along with her, all she can do is laugh. A yell of “Make room!” comes from the shore, and she whirls around just in time to see Felix charging in after them, stripping shoes and pieces of clothing off as he goes.
“Come on, you two!” Theo yells. “Water’s fine.”
She yanks her waterlogged shoes off and lobs them up onto the sand. One doesn’t quite make it, bouncing back to drift freely in the swash until Nate rescues it. He shares a long look with Adam, one of their unspoken conversations, then grins and shrugs off his jacket. He’s got a zillion layers, and is meticulous about folding each one he removes, but ages later he finally wades in to join them in just a pair of boxers she can tell are expensive.
“Wow,” he says, hugging his arms tight to his body. “So, by ‘fine,’ you meant ‘freezing.’”
“You’ll warm up.” Theo rears back to splash him, but Felix comes out of nowhere to scoop her up by the waist with a feral yell and dunk her backward.
“Oh, that’s war.” Mason dives toward Felix, who darts around Nate, who tries his best to avoid them both but ends up as wet as Theo would’ve gotten him in the first place. And even though Adam keeps watch from the beach, nice and dry and tactically superior, Theo swears she can see his ass unclench, and maybe even a hint of a smile.
Fandom: The Wayhaven Chronicles
Pairing: Mason x Theo West
Rating: E for Explicit (sexual content)
Words: 3,423
[Read on Ao3]
Unit Bravo take to the beach to recruit some merfolk. Theo and Mason get the sand out of their shorts, then test out the bed.
| Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 |
Mason shoves the screen door open with more force than necessary for the little resistance it gives, and it bangs against the wall. Theo’s fingers twist tight into his own as she stumbles on the threshold and goes wide-eyed.
Like he’d just let her fall.
Once she regains her footing, she starts barking out instructions to the others, who all startle at the interruption.
“Your watch, Adam. Nate, I strongly recommend you join him. Bring the book, it’s boring as hell. Felix, headphones.”
“Forgot ‘em.” Felix is draped sideways over the armchair by the window, bouncing his shit-eating grin between the two of them. “I guess you could try being quiet, for once.”
“Not happening,” Mason assures him.
Theo tuts at him, then fishes her own pair off the couch and flings them over to Felix. Mason grabs her hand again before the distance drives him mad and steers her toward the single bedroom at the back of the house.
“Really, you two?” Adam's voice booms in the small space, but before the door even shuts behind them, Theo's touch drowns him out.
Her hands slide up Mason’s chest, thread into his hair, tug at the back of his neck, pull him down to her mouth. All the chapstick’s been kissed off already so it’s just her he tastes, and he’s tempted to slow down. Savor it. But she is urgent, impatient and needy, clutching him closer to grind her hips against his and the sudden wash of sensation is overwhelming. Mason groans, his grip going too tight. Not so painful that she stops, but it will leave bruises. Little marks in the shape of his fingers at her waist and on her ass, and she’ll pretend to be annoyed about it tomorrow but she’s always pleased.
Hell, sometimes he wishes she’d stay put on him, too.
They slam back into the wooden door, pushing a soft “oof” out of her, and Nate yells from the other room, “Would you give us a moment, please? Honestly.”
Theo laughs against Mason’s lips. He pulls away just in time to catch it.
Magnificent.
He helps her out of her clothes, shirt, then swimsuit top, then both bottoms together, all tossed or kicked aside as she steps free.
She’s so goddamn beautiful. Mason moves away, a few feet of distance for the sake of the view.
It doesn’t seem to matter how many times he sees her or how well he remembers the sight; every time, her features seem more perfect. If her lips were shaped differently, her smile would be wrong, and if her nose wasn’t slightly asymmetrical in that specific way, it wouldn’t crinkle up right when she laughs, or he gives her a terrible line. She has more freckles already, and she was always supposed to have them, right where they are now.
And it doesn’t matter how long it has or hasn’t been since he last touched her. The anticipation of it, of feeling every single square inch of her under his hands, his lips, his tongue, makes his blood rise.
Fingers on her chin to keep her from deflecting, he tells her. Only the very first bit, but it's enough to make her smile again before she starts fiddling with his clothes, too. But when she pulls his shirt over his head, a spray of fine sand comes with it, and Mason winces as it coats his skin and sticks like pulverized glass.
Theo grimaces. She runs her fingers through the hair at the back of his head and a fresh torrent of sand tumbles out. “That’s my bad.”
“It had to come off eventually,” Mason grumbles.
“And I’m glad I got to be there for it, but I meant because I pushed you onto the— Whatever. We can salvage this. New plan!”
Theo marches into the connected bathroom without explanation and Mason hears the squeak of various knobs, followed by a hushed string of creative curse words.
She pops her head back out and says, ”Shower’s fucked,” before disappearing again.
Groaning, Mason follows.
The bathroom is surprisingly large for such a small house, with a double sink and a white-framed mirror next to the toilet to the right, a large free-standing tub on the far wall, and the huge glass-walled shower to the left, door hanging open. He turns the knobs as well, but to no avail. They both look at the shower in defeat, then Theo wanders over and wrenches the handle on the tub.
Water pours in.
With a cry of triumph, she adjusts the temperature and drops the plug. “Scrub my back?”
“I’ll do a lot more than that.”
He tugs her to him and kisses her, soft and leisurely now that there’s time to kill. This, at least, they can do without grinding sand into any especially sensitive places. Her arms hang easy around his waist, hooked together at his back, as he brushes her hair off her face and works on familiarizing himself with all those new freckles.
“Surprised you haven’t tried to get my pants off yet,” he says.
“Know thyself.”
He arches an eyebrow at her.
“I wouldn’t be able to resist that kind of temptation,” she explains. “I would simply have to fuck you and we would get sand in even more unfortunate places, and I just don’t hate myself enough to risk that.”
Mason tilts his head toward the tub. “I won’t be wearing these in there.”
“Well, I’m hoping you’ll have enough willpower for the both of us.”
He snorts. “That’s not exactly what I’m known for.”
“Listen, if you want a good plan we have to get Adam involved. I’m just on this trip to smell tasty.”
“You’re good at a few other things, too.”
That earns a laugh. “Nate wouldn’t let me put those things on the idea board.”
She turns away from him to shut off the water, swatting at Mason’s hand when he goes to pinch her ass cheek, then she disappears into the bedroom.
Mason leaves his clothes in a semi-folded pile on the counter, though they’ll need to be quarantined until he can wash them. He tests the water temperature with a swish of his fingers, and steps in.
“Good?” Theo asks when she returns, eyes roving his body appreciatively.
Mason nods and dips under the surface to wet his hair before he leans back, hissing at the cold shock of porcelain. “Good.”
“Good. Didn’t think you’d appreciate my preferred temperature of ‘scalding.’” She sets a bar of soap and a couple large bottles on the low table next to the tub, then unties her hair from its bun. “So you’ll just have to keep me warm.”
The corners of his mouth twitch upwards and he flicks his fingers at her invitation. Theo takes his hand and carefully steps into the tub, lowering herself into the water opposite without so much as a splash. Leaning forward, she douses her hair—first one half, then the other—and reaches back for one of the bottles. She dispenses some product into one hand then offers the bottle to Mason. He takes it and sets it back on the table.
“What, you want to watch me lather up?” Theo rubs her hands together. “Hate to break it to you, sunshine, but it ain’t nearly as sexy as those commercials make it look.”
“How about you let me be the judge of that?”
She shrugs and gets to it, massaging the shampoo into her scalp with her fingertips and working it into a rich lather before wringing it down toward her ends. Suds slide off the tips of her hair and drip down her skin and plop into the water, and Mason follows each slick soapy trail with his eyes.
“Ten out of ten—very sexy,” he says and scoots forward.
Theo rolls her eyes but moves toward him, too, until she’s nearly in his lap. The water in the tub sloshes dangerously as she slips her legs over his hips. Mason braces her as she leans back to rinse her hair clean—no easy feat with her skin so slippery. She wrings out the water, grabs another bottle, and rakes the conditioner into her ends before looking at him in question.
Mason nods and she swaps bottles again.
Her usual brand smells herbal and sweet, and he’s gotten used to how the scent lingers on her after it’s been rinsed out. In this concentrated form—a dollop of gel in her cupped palm—it’s too intense, but he closes his eyes and sits still while she scrubs it into his hair, basking in the pleasant sensation of her fingertips running gently yet firmly around his scalp and through the strands.
She kisses him in the middle of it, here and there. On his closed eyelids, his lips, his chin, his shoulder, along his collarbone and at the base of his throat, but she never lets the soap drip into his eyes. It almost does, once, but she spots the breach and holds her finger against it and wipes it away.
When she’s finished, he follows her instructions, tipping his head back to let her rinse it off with handfuls of water—slow going, but it feels so good it doesn’t matter. Then he gets a dose of conditioner as well.
Part of him wants to ask: what is all this; why care for me; why be soft with me? But the undisturbed tension of the moment is already stretched thin, and he feels too good to risk bursting this fragile bubble for an answer he doesn’t really need. She does care for him, and she is soft with him, and that can be enough.
Besides, if he’s reading the flush in her cheeks and chest and the warmth in her eyes right—and he always is—this still works as foreplay for her. And Mason can get on board with that line of thought. There’s a thin coat of sand covering the bottom of the tub, or he’d take her right here. Just like this, wet and slippery and smelling like twelve tons of basil or some shit.
Mason grips the back of her neck to pull her in for a hard, passionate kiss. She pushes it further, sliding her hips toward his, and trapping his cock—already half-hard and closing the gap quickly—between them. Theo moans and moves against him. Compared to the tepid bathwater, the heat between her legs is boiling.
“Mason,” she whispers, resting her forehead on his. “I really, really, really want you.”
“Don’t say that to me right now.”
“Sorry.”
But she won’t stop moving, her pussy against his now rock-hard dick, and Mason finds it hard to remember why they aren’t already fucking. There’s a reason he’s not supposed to be rutting up into her. A reason not to give her what she wants so she’ll say his name so reverently again.
There’s sand in the tub: not good enough.
The water is soapy: not good enough.
They haven’t actually washed yet; there’s still conditioner in their hair; they’ll get water all over the floor. Not fucking good enough.
She asked him to.
She asked him to.
Mason growls in frustration and lifts Theo off him, fishing the soap off the side table with some difficulty and thrusting it in her direction. “Wash. Rinse. Dry. Now.”
She looks between him and the soap with a dazed expression until he waggles it in front of her more insistently. Then she blinks and accepts it.
Mason rinses his hair out faster than he has ever done so before, washing with the same urgency. Then he grabs a plush white towel off the hook and rubs it over his hair and half-assedly down his body before hunting down a dry one in the cupboard.
This one gets wrapped around a barely-finished Theo, who knocks the soap into the water and yelps as Mason scoops her up in his arms. She giggles as he carries her, still dripping from her toes and her hair, all the way to the bed, and when he tosses her onto the mattress it fades—if it could possibly be called that—to a bright, delighted grin.
Mason lowers his mouth to the inside of her knee and pushes her legs wider apart to kneel at the end of the bed between them. The towel parts, falls away with the weakest of tugs. He skims his lips along her skin, gathering droplets of bathwater as he goes. As patiently as he can manage, he makes his way up her leg, kissing and licking and speaking little praises that make her hips squirm and her cheeks turn a delicious shade of pink. All the way up to that sensitive junction between hip and thigh and she hisses when he nips at her there—then just as quickly threads her fingers into his hair to keep him from backing off. He makes up for it with a severe kiss, sucking and licking at her skin until she’s writhing and whimpering, then just a little more.
Another mark for tomorrow.
He hooks his arms underneath her legs and rests them on his shoulders. Then he tastes her. Licks up her folds and there’s some soap on his tongue, but on the second, deeper, pass it’s only her. Warm and rich, heady and slick.
“I've been wanting to get my mouth on you all damn day,” he says, going in for another long lick to prove his point. “While you were out there splashing around and picking out fucking seashells, I was thinking about tearing your swimsuit off and holding your hips down and finding out just how wet you were for me. Did you know that?”
Theo’s pupils are wide, eyes more black than blue at this point, and signs of her arousal are flooding his senses. She licks her lips and swallows and shakes her head.
“Nothing to say?” Mason presses a too soft kiss to her clit that makes her shudder. “Did I break you already?”
She shakes her head again, more firmly this time, a challenge playing on the edges of her lips. “But I wish you would.”
Mason sucks his two middle fingers into his mouth and draws them out slowly. Theo watches, expression frozen. Watches him lower them from his mouth and tenses, wriggling her hips in anticipation. Watches and whines when he slides them along the length of her wet inner lips. Then he circles her entrance and sinks his middle finger in deep and she drops her head back to the bed.
“You know what they say about wishes,” Mason says.
“I get three?”
He smirks and adds the other finger, fucking her deep and steady and gently stretching her open for him. “Keep wishing like that and I’ll give you a lot more than three.” He curls his fingers up to hit just the right spot. “But I meant the thing about being careful.”
“Ohfuck. Yeah, I’ll take my chances.”
“Suit yourself.”
Her hips arch off the bed when he moves his mouth back to her clit, and he has no soft kisses for her this time. Lips and tongue and the threat of teeth, he knows what she likes, what her body needs from him. Her chest heaves unevenly, lower lip drawn tight between her teeth when she isn’t moaning or whining or babbling encouragement. She’s been building since the beach and unravels all too quickly. His wrist isn’t even stiff by the time she comes, with her fists twisted into the sheets and his hair and a low melodic sigh.
Mason coaxes her down, then shrugs out from under her legs. Theo’s splayed out, flushed and happy and satisfied, on the comforter, and she’s so fucking beautiful. A flash of pride wells up inside him, and that less comfortable something else, but all that can wait. He’s not done.
He takes his dick in hand and pumps a few times. “Up for more?”
Still breathing heavily, Theo nods and gives him a thumbs up. “Begging for it.”
For a second or two, he debates making her do just that, but decides against it in the end. Maybe next time.
A knee on the mattress, right between her legs, and she shuffles backward toward the pillows, waiting to see how he wants her. Truth is, he doesn’t care. He wants her however she’ll have him.
Mason crawls over her, and as soon as he’s near enough, Theo draws his lips down to hers. She shifts her legs further apart as he settles between them, her heels at the back of his thighs pulling him in, and lets out the sweetest sound as he slides into her heat.
She’s wet, and tight, her muscles clenching then relaxing in turn as she adjusts to take him in further. Fuck, she feels good.
Maybe too good.
Once he’s fully sheathed inside her, hips pressed to her thighs, she holds him there with her legs, breath catching at every slight movement of his hips and every flex of his cock inside her. She is impossibly warm. Mason’s whole world could shrink down to that scorching point where they meet, if he let it.
But he can’t. He has to move. Starts slow and shallow but doesn’t stick to it, driving as harder and faster and deeper as she urges him to, while her cries get louder and less restrained.
“Come on, sweetheart,” he murmurs into her ear. “Give me another one.”
Theo nods furiously. He gathers her wrists above her head and pins them there with one hand. Then he fucks into her from a slightly different angle and she hisses out a nearly incoherent stream of “ohyesyesrighttheredothat” and soon she’s bucking her hips, riding him from below. He palms her breast, guides her nipple into his mouth to flick and suck it with his tongue and teeth, working the other with his thumb. And when she’s panting and begging, he moves his fingers back to circle her clit and mouths at the crook of her neck in imitation of the one thing she still can’t give him.
It’s more than enough to send her flying over the edge. This time she comes hard, her inner walls clenching tightly around him and dragging him to his own climax. And it grips her long after he’s done. Mason carries her through it, grinding into her while she clutches at him with desperate, shaking hands, lost to the aftershocks.
After what seems like an eternity, she stills. Her limbs go limp, her breathing evens out.
Mason untangles himself and lays down next to her, arms folded on the pillows behind his head.
“Well,” he says. “That was a good one.”
Theo stares at him like she's forgotten how to speak—an exceptionally satisfying response.
“You get your wish?” he asks.
A faint, faraway smile settles on her lips and she turns her head to look at the ceiling. Sweat gleams on her skin, pooling between her breasts and hips and in the dip at the base of her throat.
Mason’s a mess himself. “We’re going to need another bath.”
“Separately might be best.”
He snorts and agrees, but neither of them attempt to get up. Theo tucks herself in against him, and Mason drops an arm to hold her there. Her hair is damp and frigid against his ribs, but the rest of her is so, so warm. She draws swirling patterns into the skin on his chest and shoulder, lines wandering down toward his hips, then over to his ribs where he smacks her wrist and gives her a warning look before placing her hand back on his chest.
Theo huffs, but thankfully stays put. He doesn’t want to punish her for tickling right now.
This would have been uncomfortable, once. A foreign concept, associated in his mind not with pleasure but with affection, and therefore one that would never interest him. Now, he gets it. Gets why she likes it. Even likes it himself, with her.
Mason glances down to see her eyes are closed. She’s falling asleep. He could rouse her. Clean up, dry off, put her back to bed—or go for another round, if she’s up for it. But she seems content and he finds he’s inclined to leave her that way.
Besides, someone has to keep an eye on their squishy little human. And it’s not like he has anywhere better to be.
Fandom: The Wayhaven Chronicles
Pairing: Mason x Theo West
Rating: M for Mature (language + beach makeout sesh)
Words: 3,169
[Read on Ao3]
Unit Bravo take to the beach to recruit some merfolk. Theo talks about difficult feelings with Mason.
| Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 |
Don't go far.
Like a kid set loose upon a playground, Theo has heard the same warning a dozen times already, and they’ve only been at the beach house for a day. Not even a full one, just half an afternoon and an evening, and Adam and Nate spent the better part of the former describing the social, migratory, hunting, and feeding habits of merfolk in great, horrifying detail. Well, not so horrifying until Theo was helpfully reminded that despite human tartare being no more than a footnote in that part of the lesson, she and her superblood might still be on the menu.
There’s a plan for the merfolks' arrival, of course. Adam wouldn't run an op without a plan. And a backup plan. And another backup, in case the first backup doesn't work. Theo doesn't remember plans D through J, but they exist and that's comforting, even if she will need an on-the-fly refresher course should A through C go south. Hopefully, it all goes well. The group—pod? School? Fuck, she can't remember—will be drawn to the beacon Adam placed, won't be immediately hostile, will never have heard of her, and Nate will charm their fins off and successfully broker a treaty on behalf of the Agency.
Nothing to it.
In the meantime, they wait. And Theo can think of far worse places to kill time than the beach.
Mason had enthusiastically—for him, anyway—volunteered to slather her in sunscreen right up until she'd popped the lid on the bottle. Then he'd made a face like she'd tried to feed him nuclear waste and recoiled. She really couldn't blame him, but it also couldn't be helped, even if it meant he'd probably avoid her the rest of the day. The sun at that point had been high and blazing, and Theo had gotten a hell of a burn once when she was a kid. Could still remember the blisters and the ice baths, her nanny’s scolding as she applied layer after sticky layer of aloe, and crying herself to sleep from the pain. Besides, she was planning to be outside anyway, and couldn't imagine Mason opting in to that. Nate had stepped up instead and, claiming first watch, had joined her and Felix outside.
That was hours ago, though, and she'd only needed to reapply once before the sun dropped low enough to let her guard down.
The very same warmth making the days nearly unbearable leaves nights just the opposite. The air is still comfortable, the sun's heat held captive by a thick layer of clouds that had drifted in as the day stretched on, but an insistent breeze sweeps inland to ruffle through her hair and the loose linen top she'd pulled on after darkness fell. Unwilling to abandon the peace of her surroundings, she steps through the surf. Its waves are calm but relentless, each icy wash across her feet and ankles less sharp than the last as she inches her way toward numbness. She should go inside, or at least stay up on the sand. But there is something addictive about enduring this gentle, harmless sort of pain.
So she walks on, her pace easy and undriven and her hands shoved into the back pockets of her jean shorts, one eye always on her self-established boundary.
It’s a perfect evening, she thinks, or would be if she didn’t have babysitters with night vision watching her every move—or premium-grade supernatural fuel running through her veins to necessitate said babysitters in the first place. Not babysitters, Nate’s voice in her head corrects her. Concerned team members.
But at least it’s Mason’s watch now, and Theo never minds his eyes on her.
During the last watch, Felix had walked alongside her, chattering the whole way. Not that he did much actual walking. Even moving down the beach, he couldn't keep still, dancing around her and darting into the water to scoop up shell fragments and tiny unsuspecting creatures for closer inspection. He had asked hundreds of questions about ocean-adjacent subjects and settled on most of the answers—or moved on without one—before she'd had any opportunity to respond. It’s hard not to have fun with Felix; he’s good company. But his energy is limitless and hers is very much not, and soon enough she'd begun to crave a sliver of quiet
Quiet is not Felix's specialty. It is, however, something Mason does exceptionally well.
It's so dark Theo can't see him from here, though she occasionally catches the faintest orange glow of his cigarette flaring up on the inhale like a toxic little lightning bug. He's parked higher up, near the dunes, most likely glaring at the waves which must be roaring in his ears, but every so often she thinks she can feel his gaze fall on her. It still leaves her breathless, that fluttering in her ribs and the prickle running up her spine as some sixth sense screams in awareness of him.
The draw is impossible to resist for long and she’s held out for a while already. Her bare feet move quicker, then slower again as she works her way through the dry unpacked sand to where Mason sits. He is close enough now that she can just barely sketch his shape: knees up, elbows propped casually atop them and hands folded together.
He scoots over and Theo plops down in the space he just vacated, onto some kind of cloth still warm from his body heat. She leans back on her hands and one lands on something hard and cold: a zipper. It’s a sweatshirt beneath them, unzipped and spread out, a barrier to keep the sand from finding its way under his clothes. And the cigarette’s long gone, tossed away sometime before she reached him. The breeze makes short work of any lingering traces of smoke, though Theo knows it’s still there in the pores of skin and fibers of his clothes.
She’s getting used to it, not that she’ll tell him.
“Is the sunscreen still bad?” she asks.
“Nah. It’s mostly just you. And a lot of salt. With”—He leans over and sniffs. Makes a face just to tease. “Notes of nasty sunscreen shit.”
Theo screws her nose up. “Sounds sexy.”
“It is, on you.”
They sit in silence for a minute or so, Theo’s toes digging under and out of the sand, over and over, slowly warming back up as Mason watches them and the beach and the water. It’s the comfortable kind of silence, one she doesn’t feel the need to fill with whatever she can scrounge up from her reserves. It’s one of her favorite things about him: talking comes easy; not talking does, too.
Theo flinches and gropes for her phone as her ringtone chimes, the dull tones harsh against the contented peace of the moment.
She glances at the name and frowns before answering. “Rebecca.”
“Hello, Marjorie. I trust the mission is proceeding smoothly?”
“Yep.”
“Good, that’s— good. Has there been any sign yet?”
“Nope.”
“I see.” Rebecca’s words are clipped, but she doesn’t sound disappointed so much as uncomfortable. “Well, according to the Agency’s most recent intel, your current position is still our best opportunity for contact. Keep your eyes peeled.”
Theo snorts. “It’s pitch black out here, so my eyes are about as useful peeled as they are gouged out. Bet you meant to call Adam. You know, Adam? Commanding Agent Du Mortain? Leader of this formidable posse?”
Theo can almost hear the heavy sigh Rebecca holds back as she chooses to politely clear her throat instead. “Marjorie, please.”
“No, it’s fine, I can get him for you. He’s probably still studying those, uh”—she snaps her fingers, trying to recall the term she just learned, but it doesn’t help—“those depth map things. He really seems to like them, by the way. Something to keep in mind for his birthday. Does he still celebrate those?”
She shoots an inquiring glance at Mason, who just rolls his eyes.
“I called you intentionally, Marjorie. You are just as much a part of this team as Adam is, and I wanted to—”
“Check in, right. I know. And get in your weekly ‘be safe,’ but the thing is…” Theo knows she should temper her words, knows she’ll regret them as soon as they’re spoken, just like she always does, but then just like they always do they bubble up inside her until she gives in and they get out. “I don’t need you to do that. I don’t want you to do that. I signed up for this, remember? Besides, you can rest assured that my team members are present and accounted for, all keeping a close watch on their squishy little human. I don't need you to play mother, so call Adam for your updates and leave me out of it.”
The regret is instant, but she won’t—can’t—apologize. Theo pulls the phone away from her ear and bites her lip instead, hard enough for it to hurt.
“Of course.” Rebecca's voice is unnaturally calm when it finally drifts through the speaker. “I apologize for bothering you. Goodnight, Marjorie.”
“Fuck.” Theo shoves the phone back in her pocket to keep from chucking it into the sea. Her shoulders have climbed up so far toward her ears she has to mindfully untense them.
Mason doesn’t comment, but Theo’s not optimistic enough to assume that will last.
“Come on,” she says. “Get it over with.”
“Want to tell me why you do that?”
Theo’s hackles rise even though she asked for it. But there’s no judgment in his tone, nor much concern.
“Do what?”
He scoffs. “Hey, if you don’t want to talk about it, that’s fine by me. I can think of more than a few ways to spend our time that don’t involve talking at all. But don't play stupid, sweetheart. Doesn’t suit you.”
Theo starts brushing off the sand caked onto her now-dry ankles. “Well, you see, it all started when she named me Marjorie Theodora.”
“I’m going to need another smoke.”
“I’m serious! Kids are assholes, M. I tried to go by ‘Maggie’ but that never took. I was ‘Margarine’ until my tits grew in.”
Mason’s gaze drops to the aforementioned body parts. “Looks like you made it out all right.”
“Sure. Showed up to high school with a new nickname and offered to give anyone who refused to use it a personal and immediate introduction to my fist.” Theo grins and points out a scar between the first and second knuckles of her right hand. “Spent a lot of time in detention that first week and spent the second suspended.”
And Rebecca never even mentioned it, but Theo doesn’t say that.
“But it stuck.”
She nods. “It stuck.”
Mason takes her hand and rubs his thumb against the scar. The small smile he wears, so full of pride, tightens into a skeptical purse of his lips. “So you shut her down like that because she picked a bad name?”
“No, that’s— I don’t—” Theo chews on the problem. She’s not ready to spill all over him. But how can she condense her mothers sins, make a couple dozen years’ worth of all the shit stewing in her brain bite-sized and palatable for him?
She could just say she doesn’t want to talk about it. Mason would respect that boundary as well as he does any other. It’s on her lips, but then the moon at last escapes the heavy cloud cover and the silver catches on his face, and he is watching her with such openness that she falters.
Maybe he can take the mess.
“I don’t know,” she says at last, drawing alphabetic furrows in the sand with one finger. “I mean, I get it. I do. Why she wasn’t around, why she kept all this Agency stuff from me. And I know she wants to do better now. I even— Well, I don’t want it to be like this.”
The rest is trickier. The tangled clusterfuck of her mommy issues resists unweaving, but Mason is waiting and so she pokes at it nonetheless.
“Sometimes when she’s talking to me, I feel like I’m a kid again. Hoping for the bare fucking minimum. A note on the fridge, you know? A pop-in at bedtime. But she couldn’t even do that. And stupid me just kept waiting for her to show up. Waiting for her to decide I was important. Waiting to be disappointed. I think about that pathetic little girl waiting around for her mom to decide she mattered, and now Rebecca tries motherhood on like some dress she stashed in the closet and forgot about for twenty years, and I want to hurt her. Like it will even out somehow. Or something, I don’t know.” Tears prick at the corner of her eyes. She groans, exposed and embarrassed, and buries her face in her arms. “So damn juvenile.”
They sit there for another long minute, and Theo’s stomach churns as she wishes for the second time tonight that things said could be unsaid. This is why she doesn’t talk about it. Too easy to overshare. Then Mason’s hand comes to rest between her shoulder blades and she calms under the weight and the warmth of his unexpected comfort.
He hesitates for a moment, then starts to rub soothing circles into her skin. Theo would purr if she could, but settles for a soft hum.
“Makes sense to me,” he says.
“Yeah?” A deep breath fills her lungs with salty air and sweet relief. “Feel free to explain it then, Mr. Therapist Man, because I kind of just feel like an asshole.”
He huffs out a quick laugh. “You’re not an asshole. Well, no more than the rest of us.” More circles, as the waves fill the silence, then: “Maybe she didn’t mean to, but she hurt you—a lot, and for a long time. Hell, I’d be surprised if you didn’t want her to know how that feels.”
Theo chokes back her surprise. Despite the relatively sober mood, she hadn’t truly anticipated an answer from him that didn’t include some version of “let the past lie” or, at the very least, another half-serious innuendo to distract them both.
It helps to be heard. To have permission to be a bit fucked up. It doesn’t justify her pettiness or assuage the guilt she’s become so familiar with, but it does make her feel less monstrous. Theo takes a deep, sharp breath and holds it for a few beats.
“What’s your hourly?” she teases.
“Pretty steep.” His hand dips lower, to the small of her back. With his eyes locked on hers, his fingers skim the bare skin there.
The touch sends a shiver up her spine, and she pouts playfully. “I can’t afford much. But I’ll find some way to pay you for this session, I promise.”
Her hand slides onto Mason’s knee and down the inside of his thigh. She stops just short of his groin to lightly drag her nails at the fabric of his jeans and his long, careful exhale has her biting her lip with anticipation.
“I’m sure we can come to some sort of arrangement,” he says, voice low and husky.
“I certainly hope so.”
Then Theo throws one leg over both of his, straddling his hips. His knees drop to accommodate her, and he feels his way down her waist and hips before palming her ass with a wide grin.
“Good start,” he says.
She bows her head to press a kiss just behind his ear, then tugs on the lobe with her teeth. “Wait'll you see how it ends,” she murmurs. Then she leans forward even more to urge him to lie back.
The breeze blowing inland wreaks havoc on her hair, so she sits back up just to slip the spare band off her wrist and tie it up in a messy bun. It’s not a seductive move—at least, not intentionally—but that doesn’t seem to matter to Mason just now. His fingers dig into her flesh in a deliciously needy way, and he uses the grip to grind their hips together. It throws her off-balance and she secures the last loop just in time to catch herself with a hand beside his head.
“What?” she taunts, and rolls her hips again. Slowly, purposefully, teasing the growing hardness between his legs and savoring that tense, hungry expression on his face. “Can’t do without me for five seconds?”
“Not even one,” he growls. Then he captures her lips like a man starved.
The first time he ever kissed her she felt reborn, as though every other kiss she had ever had or would ever have after no longer counted. Just read-throughs and dress rehearsals, and that was opening night. Makes sense he’d be good at it. She’d have been worried if he wasn’t; his proverbial bedposts are whittled away to toothpicks by now. Yet somehow, every time he kisses her, he outdoes himself.
He’s ruining her for anyone else. It can’t last. He is an addiction and she is terrified of the inevitable withdrawal.
Don’t borrow tomorrow’s worries, Theo.
Doesn’t work any better than it usually does, but Mason’s as good a distraction as always. Even with her on top, in control, he has her losing it. The bitter smoke on his tongue she hates and craves all at once, the noises of approval he leaves in her mouth, the dark look he gives her when she ever-so-briefly breaks away to gasp for air before she needs to taste him more—it’s all too much. And his hands roam everywhere, over and under her clothes, pulling her tight and touching her just for the sheer pleasure of it, scattering hot sparks across her skin wherever they go.
It all drives her wild, but none of it is new: every whispered word an instinct, all their movements muscle memory. Theo hasn't known someone else’s body this well since—
She shoves herself backward, chest heaving for breath, and blinks hard against the thought.
Bobby? Really, dumbass? You want to think about that fucker right now?
“You good?” Mason props himself up on his elbows. Even now, Theo’s eyes are drawn to his mouth.
“Yep,” she says. “Though I’m told sex on the beach is a lot more fun in theory than in practice.”
Mason chuckles and visibly relaxes. “You get some sand in your shorts, sweetheart?” He runs a couple fingers inside the seam of her jeans. “Want me to help you get out of them?”
Thoughts of ancient exes—and anybody else—forgotten, Theo nods and kisses him again. When she finally resurfaces, she climbs to her feet and brushes the sand from her knees, then extends one hand back down for him. No way he needs it but he takes it anyway, and keeps hold of it all the way back to the house.
Fandom: The Wayhaven Chronicles
Pairing: Mason x Theo West
Rating: E for Explicit (sexual content)
Words: 1,633
[read on Ao3]
Theo wakes up before Mason.
Theo blinks awake. Her dream fades as quick as echoes, and for once, none of it lingers. Not the screaming. Not the shivering sensation of blood leaking from her veins. Not the cold steel table or a flash of sharpened teeth or tearing flesh or even the imprint of some nameless shapeless fear. It’s already forgotten, and all that remains is a quiet darkness and smooth warm sheets and someone else's pillow.
Limbs still leaded, she could drift off again if she wanted, would only need to close her eyes and let the hum of the central air and Mason's steady, slow, near-silent breaths lull her back to sleep.
But curiosity wins out.
She peers over her shoulder at him. By his own design, there's almost no light for her eyes to work with, but she can just about make out the jut of his shoulder and the slight rise of his hips. Mason sleeps, of course. But not all night, and not every night, and almost never with her. To see it is a gift.
Twisting in the sheets that smell a little like laundry soap and a lot like Mason, Theo reaches out, near-blind in the pitch black. Her fingertips find him faster than expected, stumbling over his skin before her palm comes to rest on his side. It rises almost imperceptibly. Falls. An age later, rises. The pace of her own breathing feels frenetic by comparison.
With careful movements so as not to wake him, Theo shifts closer, finds a place to wedge her other arm that might be comfortable for more than forty seconds, and tucks herself in behind him. Her hips right up to his butt, her chest to his back, her forehead between his shoulder blades. His pulse thrums beneath his skin and she can smell the heady mingling of their scents with every inhale.
She wonders if the others can scent it on them, the mornings after they fuck. If anyone can tell how well and thoroughly they've tangled. If he's sunk into her skin so deep at this point that she couldn't scrub him out if she tried.
Theo bites her bottom lip and squeezes her thighs together against the sudden wave of pleasure between her legs. She doesn’t want that. She doesn’t.
And yet, it’s all she can do to keep from wrapping her arm around Mason's front and clutching him to her—an unexpectedly needy impulse that sets her fingers twitching with its denial. Luckily, a quick, half-assed search for a good reason not to touch him comes up empty, and she slides her hand down to his front, spreading her hand out across the usually-hard planes of his abdomen which have been softened by sleep along with the rest of him. Even relaxed, his body is all sleek power and coiled temptation: broad, built shoulders, dense muscle under hot skin, big clever hands, and a mouth that drives her to distraction.
God, she wishes she could turn him over and see his face. Take in his ridiculous beauty for as long as she likes with no interruptions. Trace his cheekbones, his jaw. Maybe even touch his lips without them sharpening into a smirk or opening for a playful bite. Just once.
A low rumble from deep in his chest has her pulling away, but he catches her wrist. His fingers make an uncompromising vise until she smooths her hand back into place and he loosens his grip on her. And when she dips a bit lower, brushing the fine coarse hairs below his navel, he doesn't protest.
“Bad dream?” His voice is rough, rusted with sleep.
“No,” she mumbles to his back, then presses a kiss to his spine as he hums in acknowledgment. “Just horny.”
He tenses when her touch slides lower still, but despite the near overwhelming need she has to wrap her fist around his dick and feel him hard for her, she doesn't touch him where they both want her to. Not yet. Instead, she grows bolder in her exploration of his body, mapping out familiar territory with her hands. The ridges of his abdomen flex with her traversal, now that he’s aware of her, and he flinches away with a huff when she skims too lightly along his ribs.
“And were you planning to wake me up before or after you had your wicked way with me?”
Theo’s lips twitch. The teasing in his voice keeps that warmth in her cheeks from blossoming into actual embarrassment, though a part of her regrets waking him up for her stupid libido. Such a selfish waste of a gift she might never get again.
But then, no doubt he’d have done the same.
She drags her nose up and down his spine in a nuzzle that earns her a satisfying shiver. “Maybe during. Would you have a problem with that?”
“None whatso-fucking-ever.” He reaches back to pull her leg up around his own, then runs his hand up her thigh and around to her ass where he spreads his fingers wide and squeezes—hard and hungry. “So long as turnabout's fair play.”
“To be clear, if I say it's not, you don’t want me to wake you up with a blowjob?”
Mason's head turns to the side, and she can almost see his smile in profile. “All right, Detective. Called my bluff.”
“I’m very good at my job.”
“So I hear.”
Theo presses her fingers into his pectoral and circles the pad of her thumb around the tiny bud of his nipple as her mouth waters enviously. The expanse of his back is frustratingly empty; she can’t even reach his shoulder to get a good bite in. She settles for his shoulder blade.
“Gotta say, waking up to those pretty lips wrapped around my dick would be a decent start to the day.”
“Which ones?” she mutters, and he chuckles low and lightly smacks her ass.
The thought of exploring his body on her own time, watching his pleasure rise and rise until his eyes opened, already lost in the throes of it—
Theo lets out a shuddering whoosh of breath and grinds her hips forward hard, seeking any source of friction. Impatient now, she shoves her hand lower and palms his dick, firm along his shaft and gentler on his balls. Again, and then again, pressing his hard-on back into his belly with the heel of her hand, dipping down to cup his balls, then back up.
Mason moans, and laughs again, and pushes into her hand. She toys her fingers around the head of his dick, then takes it in her palm and softly squeezes. Mason's muscles are tense and twitching as he strains to be still and not rush her. Then she finally does what they've both been waiting for and strokes him fully, all the way to his base and back. She twists her palm around the tip at the top of the movement to gather the precum there and ease the rub of her hand around his sensitive shaft. She moves slowly, at first, lavishing every part of his cock with the kind of prehensile attention she could never give him with her pussy until he’s panting hard and jerking his hips, fucking into her fist. Then she pumps him faster and rougher as he groans, his dick hot and impossibly hard under her touch.
“I'd like to wake up that way, too,” she confesses, knowing he's on the brink. “Spread wide open with your fingers already knuckle-deep inside me, your mouth on my clit. Nothing I could do but come all over you.”
Mason barks out a quick curse and pulses his climax onto the sheets, moaning beautifully as Theo works him through it. One final squeeze toward the tip and the last few drops spill over onto her fist.
She releases him, stretches the pinch from her shoulder, and gently shakes her hand off. “‘Atta boy.”
Mason only relaxes for a second or two before he sits up, and in one whirlwind of movement, turns over, pushes her to her back, and kneels astride her hips.
“My turn.”
“Not fair,” Theo protests. “I can't see in this damn batcave.”
“Poor little human.”
Still, he shifts on top of her to reach the bedside lamp, wincing as its warm light illuminates the room. His hair's all mussed and he looks a bit dazed, but it only makes her want to ruin him more. She squirms underneath his weight, so wet she's convinced there'll be a spot on the bed underneath her to match the new one on his side.
“There's still cum on my hand.”
“That is problematic.” He takes her wrist to review the evidence. “Guess you should probably clean it off.” The expectant look on his face says: and not on the sheets.
Theo shoots him a token glare. “Maybe you should clean it; it's your mess.”
Mason's responding grin is devilish and breathtaking. “No, sweetheart. That was all you.”
The way he says it inspires the expected indignation but also more than a little pride, and she stares at him while she begins to meticulously lick her fingers clean of his cum. He meets her gaze but doesn't hold it, fully enthralled by her mouth instead. His teeth worry at his lower lip as she draws out the show for him, licking the flat of her tongue from the base of her thumb to the tip, hollowing her cheeks around a finger, then two, before pulling them out with a little pop.
When she's finished, she holds her hand up, fingers splayed, for his inspection. “Satisfied?”
Mason bats it out of the way and surges down to kiss her, pulling all of an inch away to mutter, “I could go again.”
Fandom: Dragon Age
Pairing: Makon (@bearlytolerant) x Athi Lavellan (professor au)
Rating: G for General (no swears?!)
Words: 2241
[Read on Ao3]
Athi reluctantly informs her professor she'll be dropping his class.
This is the right call.
Athi repeats the thought with each step, walling off her doubts with manufactured confidence. Unfortunately, Professor Makon’s office is a decent hike from her advisor’s, across campus and two floors up, giving her way too much time to cave.
This could've been an email. Should've, really. After what happened, he won't want to see her any more than she wants to see him. Maybe he won't be there. That syllabus was pretty dense; Athi’s only mostly sure she's remembering his office hours right. Maybe she got them wrong and he won't be there and she won't have to admit her defeat to his face.
The dark, polished wooden door is closed when she finally reaches it, and she breathes a sigh of relief. Surely a note will be fine.
But luck is not on her side today. As Athi approaches, it opens, and a student she doesn't recognize emerges. They hold the door and she gives them a tight smile in reluctant thanks.
It snicks shut behind her.
The professor is seated at his desk in the center of the decently sized room. It's a dark, heavy, ornate piece of furniture that matches the door and full bookshelves and is large enough that he doesn’t dwarf it like he undoubtedly would a more delicate one.
“Miss Lavellan.” His voice is calm but his surprise is plain. “Please, take a seat.”
She takes in his office in one discerning sweep. It's lovely, but moody and serious, high ceilings and cohesive décor utterly drowned in black and brown and crimson, though the huge arched windows set into two of the walls help keep the room from being oppressive. Afternoon sun streaming in turns the red from vampire edgelord to pinot noir.
It feels comfortable, but not the lived-in sort. Immaculately clean, and there are no papers on his desk, no garbage in the bin, no personal effects anywhere—save a single picture frame set on one corner of his desk and a pipe stand and humidor on the other.
“I won't be staying that long,” she says.
The large leather chair behind the desk creaks slightly as the professor leans back, arms folded to his chest. His dark eyes are fixed on her in precisely the situation she was hoping to avoid.
“Very well,” he says, then continues before she has a chance to blurt out her confession. “In fact, it is quite fortuitous for me that you visited my office today, as I have been desiring to speak with you since the regrettable events of last week.”
Of course he wants to talk about it. Athi drops her gaze to the desk and clenches her jaw, fully prepared to derail whatever tiresome rant he has planned.
“I owe you an apology, Miss Lavellan,” he says, yanking the fight right out from under her. She scans his expression for signs of insincerity or mockery but finds none. “I singled you out among your peers, and despite any vexation I may have been experiencing, it was not at all my intent to confound or mortify you. I assumed—wrongly, we may agree—that all the students enrolled in a course on the medicinal magic curriculum would already be able to perform the spell I requested, and hoped that by being a part of the lesson you might become more engaged with it.”
The way he speaks, like some century-old thesaurus is swapping words out for him as he goes, is both mesmerizing and irritating. Athi could listen to him speak for hours in that deep timbre which rumbles at the lowest dips in tone, though she has to hold onto the actual words a while, shuffling them around in her head until they fall into some kind of sense. But once they do, she has to agree; his assumption was fair. Most of the others probably could have done it without a fuss.
Athi digs her thumbs into the back of the padded wooden chair as he keeps talking.
“We may not always see eye-to-eye on appropriate classroom behavior. However, it is not my job to embarrass you into submission, but to teach you. I am afraid I did you a disservice, and I am sorry for it.”
He is quiet, then. Finally. Waiting for her acknowledgment? Her acceptance? Her forgiveness?
The silence hovers a little longer as Athi finds her words.
Then she slumps into the chair. “No.”
His straight black eyebrows draw together, a few deep furrows appearing between them. “I beg your pardon?”
She shrugs one miserable shoulder. “You asked me to do something I should have been able to do. I couldn't do it, got upset, and took it out on you and your very nice shoes. I'm sorry.”
Professor Makon waves one hand in dismissal. “Please do not trouble yourself over the shoes. They survived the assault quite unharmed, I assure you.”
“Glad to hear it. I'd hate to force you into sneakers.” Athi bites back a grin.
He sets his elbows on the desk, steepling his fingers in front of him. Taps the tips together thoughtfully. “I appreciate your apology, yet I find myself unable to surrender the entire portion of blame for our… altercation. Perhaps we might agree to share it?”
There's the beginnings of a smile on his face, too, uncertain but warm. It disarms her.
“If you insist,” she agrees.
“Excellent. And now, perhaps you and I can start afresh. Your magi—”
“I’m dropping the class.”
His expression sobers. “Oh.”
“My advisor said I should talk to you about options, but I think it's pretty obvious I'm not cut out for this.”
“Why would you say that?”
“Oh, please. I can't even unwilt a few leaves. And there's no way I'll be able to make up for the hands-on portions with theory, much less put it into practice in future.” She shakes her head. “Honestly, I shouldn’t have even enrolled.”
“May I ask why you did?”
Athi can't stop the sheepish smile that spreads across her face. “Healers get the best gigs. And the biggest paychecks.”
“So this is merely a means to an end?”
“Does that offend you? That I should want to end up with a reliable, stimulating job that pays me well enough to live a comfortable life?”
“Of course not. That is your prerogative.”
“If it's any consolation, I don't mind the part about saving people’s lives, either.”
His low hum of acknowledgement settles in her ears. Gods, but he’s handsome. It's hard to hold his gaze too long. Athi grabs the frame off his desk and flips it around.
It's a picture of the professor with one arm draped around the slender shoulders of a much shorter woman. He's dressed down, shirt open in a loose vee, and she's gorgeous, with tightly coiled green hair and a wide, infectious smile. A lover, likely enough; he certainly seems happy to be with her. His wife?
Odd that the idea should sit so poorly in her stomach.
“Has finesse always been a struggle for you?”
Athi nods, strangely glad for the interruption, and sets the photo on her lap. “Can’t warm a mug of water for your tea, but I can set a pond boiling.”
“I hope you don't know that from experience.”
She smirks and lets him speculate.
“I wonder if you might indulge my curiosity,” he starts slowly, “with another demonstration.”
So she’s to be a circus act? Watch the sad semi-mage bumble through simple tricks—what fun. Athi barely keeps from grimacing at him. “Why? Are you in the slim and elusive market for a hot spring?”
He laughs, then coughs as if to cover it.
“Believe it or not, I gather no pleasure from your success or failure. I am a teacher, Miss Lavellan, and I only wish to assess your abilities for your own benefit.”
Athi fills up her lungs, then hisses out a long breath. “Fine.”
Professor Makon fishes a pair of scissors out from his desk then unlatches one of the windows, drawing in a branch from the outdoors and snipping off some leafy new growth. He lays it on the gleaming unmarred surface.
“Remove some of its life.”
Athi does so. Stretches out her hand and focuses on drawing its life force, its moisture, its vitality, into herself until the leaves lay crisp and withered on his desk.
“Very good. Now restore it.”
It’s but a sip of life, not enough to have her glowing but enough to drain her when it’s gone. The leaves start to unfurl, then a stray thought, a doubt, and she nearly loses her grip on it. Cuts it off to avoid a disaster.
The professor hums again. “You very nearly had it. Based on what I've witnessed, your magic is indeed quite strong,” he says. “Your willpower is formidable, though your focus and discipline are…” His head tilts back and forth as if sifting the right word to the top of the pool.
“Pathetic?” she supplies.
He levels a weary look at her. “Unbridled.”
Athi snorts. “Tactfully put.”
“It is not a matter of tact but of implied permanence. Do you not wish to improve your skills?”
“I guess, but why do you care?”
“Ah, right. You are quitting.”
She hates the way he makes it sound, but it's not inaccurate. “Yes.”
“And so I should wash my hands of you, then?”
“Why wouldn’t you?”
His index finger, long and well-manicured and probably capable of channeling more magic than her entire body, taps steadily on the desk. “What if you did not quit? What if you remained enrolled in my course?”
Athi narrows her eyes at him. “Are you promising to pass me?” He doesn't seem at all the sort, but people can be surprising.
Apparently not this one, though, because he looks thoroughly offended she'd even suggest it.
“Absolutely not,” he says. “Whether you pass or fail will be entirely up to you and your efforts. However, I am willing to take the time to assist you in your studies outside of class if you are willing to apply yourself. I would hate for you to walk away from my course because I failed to assign an appropriate prerequisite. Might I plead with you to finish out the semester with some personal assistance?”
“Outside of class?”
“Can you not make the time?”
“I can, but—”
“Then what holds you back?”
Fair question. He is a master of his craft. It's a generous offer, and one he has no reason to extend. Plus, she could think of worse ways to spend a few hours per week than personal lessons with Professor Tall-Dark-and-Dreamy—even if he does have a smoking hot wife at home. But there is still no guarantee that she won't fail, wasting both her time and money and denting her GPA in the process. And this way, she'll be disappointing more than just herself.
Athi sits back in the chair and sighs. “Will there be snacks?”
Her professor’s eyes soften, deep brown crinkling at the edges as he smiles. “You should take the evening to consider your options. If you are not present in class tomorrow, I shall take that as my answer.”
She’s been dismissed. He holds his hand out and Athi nods and returns the picture. Gathers her bag from the floor and makes to leave.
“If you decide in my favor,” he says, “then I shall see you tomorrow, Miss Lavellan. And if not—”
“See you never?”
He straightens the picture on his desk and meets her eye. Jaw tight, a sharp nod, and he lets her go.
-
Too early the next morning, Athi paces the hall, avoiding the gazes of her potential classmates as they file into the lecture hall ahead of her. She envies their confidence, their probable magical skills, their sense of belonging. Wants to be one of them. Wants to show them.
Wants to show him.
A careful sip of coffee; she leans against the wall to weigh her options. She could leave. Drop the class, and lose the option to label herself a healer-surgeon and all the benefits that would incur. Maybe take another course that’s more to her strengths, like Patient Relations, or Experimental Medicine.
Or she could stay.
Take the professor’s offer and walk in that room like she deserves to be there. Like her magic is every bit as good as it should be. Make her dad proud. Or, if she fails, make him regret subsidizing her education—and still lose the lucrative subspecialty of “healer,” making it that many more years until she could pay back his investment.
Professor Makon wouldn’t fail her, though. Would he? He cares. He’d try. He’d teach her.
Another minute until class starts. Everyone planning to show is already inside, seated, books open, ready to learn. And she’s out here, cradling her coffee like a coward.
The door creaks open. Professor Makon’s head pokes out, black hair pulled back in a neat bun and eyes scanning the hall. Too soon, he spots her loitering like an idiot.
Smiles.
“Well?” he says, “Will you be joining us, Miss Lavellan?”
She gives herself another five seconds to consider, then holds her coffee up—a lavender anti-spill travel mug she purchased especially for this class—and says, “This is my price.”
The professor examines her offering, then opens the door wider to let her in.
Fandom: Dragon Age
Pairing: Makon (@bearlytolerant) x Athi Lavellan (professor au)
Rating: T for Teen (language)
Words: 1381
[Read on Ao3]
Athi's first day in Professor Makon's class.
“Class dismissed.”
Athi snaps out of her daze as the room erupts into a hushed flurry of activity. Whispered commentary passes between those who came into the course with friends or made them along the course of the past seventy minutes. Pens and pages of notes get crammed into messenger bags and backpacks along with as-yet-unopened textbooks. The best prepared start filing doorward, down the stairs, while a few teacher’s pet hopefuls branch off toward the professor’s desk.
She unhooks the clasp on her own bag, the wide worn brown leather top flap bending back easily, and swallows back the anxiety rising in her chest.
It was a hard lecture to follow, due only in part to the painfully early start time. And this was only the first day.
After struggling through undergrad, Athi has learned to be more careful where her grade point average is concerned, and taking this elective is a huge risk. She certainly hadn’t expected to breeze through med school, but this course is not required and she can’t afford a mark on her record. Not after clawing her way this far.
She puts her textbook away, then stands and stretches her stiff limbs as two people who sat in the only row behind hers shuffle toward the stairs, talking about their chosen specialties. They round her desk, attempting to walk together down the decidedly single-file space, and as one guy turns to talk to the other, his bulky backpack swings toward the still-half-full to-go cup sitting on the corner of her desk. Athi’s hand shoots out to keep it from going flying, but the lid pops off and a good amount of room-temperature coffee sloshes onto her desk and the floor in front of her, pouring down the step and pooling in the next row down.
“Oh man, my bad!” The guy looks from the dripping cup in her hand to the floor, then back to her face where his eyes widen and drift down her form.
Athi levels a weary glare at him. “No shit.”
“Um. Do you have— I could— Uh.” He’s blushing, tongue-tied, torn between looking at her and looking anywhere else. Sweet, but useless.
She briskly sets down the cup next to her sepia-stained notebook and shakes coffee from her fingers. “Unless you have a towel in that mammoth bag of yours, or are going to sacrifice your shirt for the cause, forget it.”
He seems to consider the idea, inspecting his outfit as if to recall which one he’d worn today and whether it was worth a successful meet-cute. Decides against it. Shoulders his bag and moves on with another mumbled apology.
“Son of a fucking bitch,” Athi grumbles and holds her notebook up by one clean corner so the excess coffee can drip off. A bunch of pages are soaked through in places, but if she dries it out she could still use them.
“How eloquent.”
Professor Makon stands a few steps down, regarding her with the same keen eyes and cool expression he’d leveled her with when she’d first walked in the room—lost and late and not nearly awake enough to take his presence at the front of the lecture hall in stride. She’d been expecting a professor, of course, but one wizened and reedy, not tall, dark, and gorgeous, and had gaped at him for a long moment, wholly certain she was in the wrong room despite the large-lettered course name on the blackboard behind him. There may have even been a full-body scan performed.
Not her best entrance.
And then he had ruined her seconds-old crush by deciding to be a condescending tightass about it, reminding her of the class start time and pausing the lecture to follow her progress through the room until she was seated.
“At your leisure, Miss…?” he had said.
Out of spite, she had given him her most irritated smile in place of her name, and sipped her coffee—which at that point had still been piping hot and safe in its cup. Then he’d continued on his own after a few more beats of silence, and eventually her cheeks had stopped burning.
And now they've started up again. Fantastic.
“That’s me,” she says. “Eloquent.”
A flinch at the corner of his mouth. Not quite smile-like. “I made it quite clear on the course syllabus that neither food nor drink would be allowed in the classroom.”
“Oh, we’re supposed to read those?”
His jaw tenses. “I believe this most unfortunate incident could have been avoided, had you done so. Though perhaps the fault is mine. I ought to have confiscated your beverage when you waltzed in this morning.”
“Walt—” Athi feels her fist clench, then sharply warm. “Are you kidding? Your class starts at half past seven. In the morning.”
“Ah, excellent. You remember.”
Still no smile, but at this point she’s glad of that. What an infuriating man. Athi inhales through her nose and exhales slowly through her lips, drawing strength from somewhere deep down inside her to keep from throwing the sopping wet notebook in her hand directly at his head.
“Professor,” she says through gritted teeth, “did you bring a towel with you, or have you come all the way up here just to scold me? Room’s empty. Could’ve yelled at me from down there.”
Professor Makon’s indecipherable gaze lowers to the notebook, and hers follows. The next drop of coffee never hits the ground, simply hangs in the air. More of it pours from the pages in a thin stream as if being squeezed out of the paper, coalescing into a small airborne sphere of liquid. Then the puddle on the floor shifts in shape as it flows back into the air, and the sphere grows.
Athi holds her breath for a few seconds, transfixed by the casual display of magic. She’s not doing it, which means—
She glances at the only other possible culprit. His hands aren’t moving, still tucked between his thin brown vest and the white sleeves of his crossed arms, but his focus is fixed and the air around them has changed. Become more mutable, more accommodating.
There was plenty of time to watch him during the lecture. Despite her rough start with the man himself, she could at least enjoy the view between scribbling notes: long dark hair tied back in a bun, a strong clean-shaven jaw, and hints of an impressive physique under that respectable professor getup. From eight rows back, he cuts a very sexy figure. Up close, he’s physically stunning—the butterflies and breathless kind. And he smells good.
Too bad he’s a pompous jerk.
He guides the liquid back into its cup and releases the spell. It isn’t a surprise that a professor of Restorative Magic is adept at using magic, but her own grasp on it is tenuous and unpredictable at best, dangerous at worst. To see it used so easily, and without any kind of kinetic channel, is impressive. And, if she’s honest, intimidating.
“Show-off,” Athi mutters, and resecures the lid to toss the whole thing on her way out.
He sneers at that before tamping it down. Pinches the bridge of his nose with two fingers. “I am not sure which offends me more: the thought of flaunting my abilities to impress a mere student, or your assumption that I could not conjure something more advanced than basic liquid manipulation. And I believe the phrase you are searching for is ‘thank you.’”
Sexy and infuriating.
“Chapter eight,” he adds brusquely.
“Excuse me?”
“The material manipulation of a liquid, particularly when the path is visually obstructed or otherwise unclear, can be useful in a number of medical applications, such as slowing or redirecting the flow of blood in order to staunch an internal hemorrhage. It will be covered in chapter eight. Week four, if you care to read the—”
“The syllabus. Right.”
Along with the desk and the floor, her notebook is now dry. She packs it away and slings her bag over her shoulder, exiting the row and turning sideways to get past him.
“Well, this has been lovely. ‘Til Thursday, Professor.”
“Will you be joining us on time?”
She rolls her eyes, not that he can see it. “On time.”
Fandom: Dragon Age
Pairing: Makon (@bearlytolerant) x Athi Lavellan (modern au)
Rating: T for Teen (language, unresolved horniness)
Words: 1811
[Read on Ao3]
Makon and Athi unwind after a long day.
…draw a line in the sand and we’ll smooth it down…
Athi sings along absently to the song blaring through the speaker. A pretty one, but she’s heard it three times this afternoon. Keeps meaning to switch playlists. Keeps forgetting, too.
She rests her elbow on the top of the ladder, arching her back into a series of sick satisfying pops. Then stretches her shoulders and pulls her neck from side to side to tease out a few more. Almost done. Maybe six more feet until she’s done cutting in for this room and can move on to the next.
Or maybe she’ll roll tomorrow. Another several hours of this sounds miserable. And painful.
…it’s a slow cinnamon summer, your spell’s pulling me under…
Wide hands slide up her legs from below and Athi whirls around, startled, flicking a few drops of beige-green paint out into the room.
Makon is looking up at her, hands still moving on her body as it twists to face his. Her arms come so easily around his shoulders from up here.
“Shall we call it a day?” he asks. He has sawdust in his hair. “It is time for supper.”
“Should be more careful. You almost got painted.”
“My thanks, I will take that under advisement. Now, come wash up. You need to eat.”
“I ate like two hours ago.”
“You ate six hours ago.”
“Oh. How time flies when you’re having”—Athi looks around the Koi Pond™ rimmed walls and the drop cloths spattered with her accidents and held down by open paint cans and cheap bare-bulbed lamps—“this.”
The look Makon gives her is soft but demanding. Take care of yourself or I will. He’s sweaty. All worn out and dirty, a full day’s worth of work weighing on him. His eyes are a little red and drooping and his expressions subdued. Too much effort to smile and still he thinks of her.
He’s better to her than she ever could be.
Athi sighs and brushes at the sawdust. A losing game. “Yes, mother.”
“I am not your mother.”
“So you’re my d—”
He smothers her mouth and the grin spreading on it with one hand. It stays put, even when she licks.
“I am going to release you now,” he says, “but I implore you not to continue that sentence.”
There’s no need; he’s already blushing. Athi takes his face in her hands, brushing her thumbs along his freckled cheekbones. Leans down and presses a long kiss to his lips, relishing the way he melts, his fingers curling in. “Just going to finish this corner. Then I’m done. Promise.”
He nods, stretching up for another. “I will hold you to that.”
Athi keeps one shameless eye on his rear end as he goes, hoping he’ll turn around and catch her and blush all over again but he doesn’t.
Back at it, then. Another dip into the bucket, four or so steps up the ladder, the first lines of a different song.
If they’d planned this better, he would’ve done the cutting in and she’d have done the rest, but she wanted to paint and he was busy so that’s not the way it went. She’s not very good at it. Can keep her hands steady no problem, but isn’t patient enough. Isn’t careful.
It looks fine from the doorway but the more she looks the more she sees. And although Makon won’t give her shit for all the flaws, his keen eyes will catch on every drip mark and missed spot and green smudge on the ceiling. He’s particular like that. Wants things done right, done thoroughly, and done well. It’s one of the things she admires about him, even when she threatens to shove a stick up his ass just to pull it out so he knows how nice it feels. Most of the time, it makes her want to try harder. Go slower. Measure twice and cut once. All it costs her to see him satisfied is a little fucking patience.
But the end is in sight and she wants a hot shower, and now that food’s been mentioned her stomach is growling. So she paints a little bit of the ceiling.
Sorry, mountain man.
Perfect is the enemy, or something.
There, it's done, and Athi closes up the paint and leaves the brushes to rinse later. Even though there’s no water running, the bathroom door is still shut, steam escaping from its seams to replace the paint fumes she’s been breathing for hours with the cloying scent of sweet herb and cucumber.
By the time she’s stripped, paint-speckled clothes in a pile on the displaced dining chair to maybe wash or just reuse another day and the rest in the basket, Makon is finished. Stops just past the doorway, looking edible himself in nothing but those baggy gray sweats he knows look damn good on him, with all that warm, freshly clean skin exposed for her to—no, better not. She’s still filthy.
“You left me some hot water, right?”
Maybe she can tempt him later.
Though that look on his face has her upping her chances to definitely. Surprise, raw hunger, and something else layered in that she can’t quite pick out. Nevermind that there’s a streak of paint from wrist bone to elbow and another, she’s pretty sure, on her ear, or that her hair has got to be a right mess.
Athi poses coyly for him. “Stunned to silence by my beauty again, huh?”
“Yes.”
Makon is easy to tease but his earnestness is her downfall and she feels the blush rise to her skin. Doesn’t know what to say. Thankfully, this old house is drafty as hell and the door slamming shut snaps them both out of the moment.
Athi laughs at his wide eyes and takes the opportunity to try and slip past him, but he catches her hand before she can warn him back. Plants a hand at the back of her neck and his lips to the inside of her wrist.
She mutters, “I’m dirty,” but it’s a token protest. She wouldn’t stop him for all the world.
“And?” As if to prove his point, he kisses her good and soundly, but his self-control is better than hers. Relief and disappointment wash over her in equal measure as he takes a small step back. “Alas, I am not so selfish as to deny my beloved the pleasure of a shower. Go on. I shall prepare some sustenance.”
“Okay. Thank you.” She’s a bit shaky as she opens the door.
Makon nods, and there’s that curious expression again. He’s right in front of her and a million miles away, and it irks her that she can’t read it.
“There’s still leftover steak in there,” she reminds him, drifting down the hall. “And some greens that won’t last too long.”
The scent of his soap still hangs in the thick wet air and the mirror is fogged, blurring her reflection into a roughly person-shaped haze of brown. But there is hot water.
She makes it a quick one, dutifully washes her hair and scrubs at her skin, sloughing off the paint she can see and hoping she gets the rest blind. But she does indulge in a few long minutes more, groaning in bliss as her tight muscles melt and unknot under the cascade of heat.
The bedroom’s empty when Athi finally makes it back, hair towel-dried and dripping down her back. The closet’s huge but currently torn apart, so half their clothes are in boxes, but they’d lugged up a dresser along with the mattress when they decided to stay here through the rest of the renovations.
Well, Makon and her dad had brought it up. She’d told them where to put it.
She rummages around the top drawer for a pair of underwear and opens the third for something comfortable, stuffing several of Makon’s shirts back in before finding anything of hers.
Although—
Who is she to argue with fate?
His shirt drowns her perfectly, and she is rather fond of the way he looks at her like this.
More stairs creak than don’t on her way down. A built-in alarm system they’ll probably never get around to fixing.
She loves this place, their home. Loves the idea of a place all theirs and likes to see the progress her own hands have earned. It’s just… some days, she gets overwhelmed by the endlessness of it. Makon, on the other hand, seems to have an endless energy for the work. Even when solving one problem uncovers three more, or she makes him look at a thousand flooring samples before discarding his opinion and going back to the store for more. Even when he’s bone-tired. It’s like he sees the finished product in the possibility already, whereas all she can see is today’s to-do list.
Everything’s better with Makon, but she can’t picture doing this at all without him.
The kitchen is empty, too. A pretty series of almost sorrowful notes gets louder as she follows them to the living room where Makon sits in one corner of the couch.
Athi watches him awhile, not sure if he’s aware of her yet. Takes in the peaceful beauty of it: his long hair draped over the back, the way his muscles move as the chords shift, the small sway of his head with the phrases. There’s food on the coffee table—a sturdy roadside find—and she joins him, grinning when he sees her and misplays a note and grateful when he keeps playing. As she makes to settle on the floor in front of him, he spreads his legs a little wider.
“Was your shower satisfactory?”
Athi hums an affirmative and rests her damp head on his knee, weaving her hand around his ankle. “Did you eat?”
“I waited for you.”
The lights work but he’d lit candles instead. Looks like all of the odd ones they’d brought in case of a power outage, and it’s nice. Calm, and not too bright, and one of them smells like brown sugar. He’d brought out a large bowl of salad with strips of steak and slices of the bell peppers she’d completely forgotten about, bread with butter, two plates stacked, and an open bottle of wine with two glasses. She should go portion it out but can’t do that and this at the same time.
She turns her face into him and presses a kiss to the inside of his thigh and doesn’t think about tomorrow’s work.
The song stops and Makon sets his guitar aside. He lays one hand heavy on her head, then combs his fingers back through.
“Thank you,” she says, ready to launch into a list of all the things she loves him for.
