Unravel Every Tendon
Rating: E Pairing: Aeon/Dew Featuring: Quintosis, Dew is always in charge. Anal sex. Anal fingering. Aeon's down bad. Weird power dynamics. Shower sex. Bottom Dew. Top Aeon. Word Count: 2.3k
@forlorn-crows and I had a conversation recently about how Dew is always in charge even when he's pretending he isn't. And then I blacked out and wrote this? So, really, it's all Crow's fault. ♥
Dew asks for something very specific. Aeon, of course, delivers.
Read it below the cut or on AO3.
Dew's been clear about what he wants. Has sat Aeon down—sober and serious—and told him exactly what he wants Aeon to do to him.
Leave it to Dew, Aeon thinks, to be in control even while he's asking to not be. There was a nervousness about him when they talked. At first Aeon thought it was his own anxiety. But no, it was Dew's. It was clear when Dew leveled his gaze on Aeon—eyes glamoured to blue, wearing his most human face since they're on tour and Dew refuses to let that glamour slip until he's safely back on Abbey property—and Aeon saw it. The slight widening of Dew's eyes, the hitch of his breath, when he said:
"You're the only quint ghoul here, bug. And I need it."
It should have stung—and maybe it would have if Aeon didn't know Dew. If Dew didn't want him he wouldn't ask him. Dew can pretend all he wants that it's because he wants quintessence. Wants to be hazy and fucked up and fucked within an inch of his life and he doesn't care which quint ghoul does it. But honestly, any other ghoul on this tour bus could do it quint magic or not. They all have their own ways of fucking Dew up, making him pliant. So, Aeon knows that even though Dew is playing the I guess you'll do card, that he really does want, Aeon.
Aeon can live with that knowledge—even if Dew will never admit it.
Negotiations are hard for Aeon. Not because he doesn't think they're important, but because he exists in a body and a world that is designed to be spontaneous. Plans make him feel like he's going to break out in hives. Routine is hard. Constraints are hard. And so, sometimes, negotiations make him feel like he's being fenced in. Particularly with Cirrus who likes to tell Aeon the exact itinerary of their time together. He thinks, she probably does it because it makes him squirm and she likes it when he's uncomfortable—thrown off.
Dew's a little better—simpler. Less direct instruction and more:
I need you, to fuck me up, get me hazy—take me out of my own head—and use me.
Aeon can work with that.
He palms his hotel key card, the edges bite into the pads of his fingers. He stands in the hallway, rocks back on his heels, takes a steadying breath, then another. He doesn't knock—that would ruin the surprise. He knows Dew's alone.He traded key cards down in the hotel bar with Rain who just cocked an eyebrow and shrugged. And Dew probably suspects Aeon will show up—they did talk about it. But they didn't set a time—a day. But Aeon's impatient, everyone knows it. So, Aeon isn't going to announce himself. He wants to win something for once.
Aeon flattens his hand over the door lock, card pinned between his hand and the plastic. The mechanical lock whirs, clicks. Aeon's other hand is already on the handle, it gives and the door swings open. The room is empty. The shower is on and the bathroom door is open, steam, the smell of Dew's shampoo, roll out of it in hot waves. Aeon steps into the room, notes Dew's bags tossed in the corner. His jacket slung across the desk chair, boots right by the door, set perfectly in line.
Aeon's quiet. He toes his sneakers off, divests himself of shirt, pants, briefs, socks, and pads across the room naked toward the bathroom. He steps from carpet to tile. It's a nice hotel bathroom. Stall shower with frosted glass door, white tile and black finishings everywhere.
Dew clocks him almost immediately, Aeon watches the shape of him go still under the spray. Knows he's being watched—studied.
Aeon takes another deep breath, finds his magic, pulls it. Feels the staticky warmth of it in his fingertips, and then, like the predator he is, he moves.
He pulls the shower door open, steps in with Dew and crowds him. Pins him right in the corner, more with surprise than actual force, and Dew goes willingly. Takes a step back, presses his body right against the wall. Aeon follows, palm hitting the tile next to Dew's head as momentum pulls him in. The water is scalding, the tiles are warm from how long Dew's been in here.
Aeon doesn't give Dew any space, he pushes right in, pins Dew's hips with his, puts a knee between his legs and presses his kneecap to the tile. Aeon looks down at him, cocks his head. There's just enough space to breathe between them. Damp strands of hair fall over Aeon's forehead, into his eyes. He probably looks fucking deranged. Good.
"You were waiting for me," Aeon says, can't help the grin dragging across his mouth. "Weren't you?"
Dew growls—inhuman—scoffs. "Fuck you."
"I mean that is why I'm here," Aeon retorts.
Dew's chubbing up against him, going firm against Aeon's thigh. Aeon presses against it, just a little, enough to make Dew hiss from the pressure.
Dew lets out a shaking breath, stuttering, his hips flex against Aeon, the tiniest roll of his cock against Aeon's body.
"You better do it," Dew says, all heat. "Or I'm going to—"
Whatever Dew was going to do gets lost to the ether when Aeon puts his freehand around Dew's throat, magic primed, right there, already at his fingertips. Dew's eyes slip back, rolling, eyelids fluttering. His knees buckle—just a little—but he won't fall because Aeon has him. He goes nearly boneless from the first taste of magic, sighs bodily, like a weight has been lifted from him.
That little noise is enough to make Aeon feel like he's going to black out. He's hard too, cock pinned between their stomachs. Aeon can't tell if it's wet from the shower or if he's already leaking, doesn't matter.
"Turn around," Aeon orders, backing off enough that Dew can listen to him. Dew's eyes are lidded now, his body loose and sloppy as he tries to do what Aeon says in the limited space Aeon gives him. Aeon helps, puts his hand on Dew's hip, turns him. He can feel his own magic in Dew's veins, tugs on it, pushing it toward desire. Pushes his brain toward empty. He wishes, sometimes, he knew what it felt like. He's been fucked stupid before—it's his favorite pastime—but the only person in the Abbey who could do this is Aether. And Aether doesn't like to use his magic like this. Doesn't like to take his magic and use it like a power-washer in the corners of people's minds. It's temporary, and while Dew hasn't explicitly said wipe me out Aeon doesn't think Dew knows he can—so he does it, a test, a press on the boundaries. Washes out all of Dew's thoughts, his worries, his tension. Replaces it with pleasure, and desire, and buoyant impossibility of no more stress.
Dew makes a little satisfied noise, like finally finally he is finding relief. Aeon flattens himself against Dew's back. Dew's cheek is against the tile, his eyes half closed, mouth slack.
"Better?" Aeon huffs in Dew's ear, and Dew makes another noise, a whine. A whimper. A noise so unlike Dew that it sends heat driving through Aeon's bloodstream. He did this. Him. To fucking Dewdrop.
"You gotta use your words, baby," Aeon purrs. "How will I know if I'm doing it right?"
Aeon lets up on the magic, just a little, gives Dew back enough of himself that he can access language and independent thought again.
"Satanas," Dew moans, breathless. "Didn't know you could—"
"You didn't ask. You like it?"
Dew nods, picks his head up off of the tile to crane his neck back to look at Aeon. "Do it again. Don't stop."
Aeon digs his fingers into Dew's hip, tugs on that thread of his magic again—electric and strong and Dew gasps, shudders. His hips flex against the tile, dragging the hard ridge of his cock over the grout lines and Aeon throbs against Dew's ass.
He slips a hand between them, dips his fingers between Dew's ass cheeks and almost fucking looses it right then because he finds Dew slick, and hot, and already open—ready. Aeon rolls his hips against the barely there swell of Dew's ass.
"You got yourself ready for me?"
Dew nods, dumb, against the tile. "Wanted—fuck—to be good."
Aeon licks a filthy stripe up the side of Dew's face, jaw to temple, tastes clean water and smoke. Then he uses the hand not dipping into Dew's ass, to grab him by the jaw, to crane his neck again so Aeon can kiss him—open mouthed and filthy. He sweeps his tongue through the cigarette and mint taste of him and groans.
His fingers slip deeper, he pets against Dew's prostate and is rewarded by a sharp gasp, a groan into his mouth.
Aeon loves every fucking second of this but it is going to kill him. How is he ever going to fuck Dew the normal way ever again when this is an option.
Aeon scissors his fingers, presses deep. Dew rolls his hips against the shower wall, seeking duel stimulation. Dew makes little aborted noises against the tile, huffs of breath, bitten off moans.
"Good?"
"More," Dew slurs.
And Aeon isn't feeling particularly cruel, and his cock fucking aches, and Dew is warm, and wet, and open for him. He doesn't even entertain the idea of drawing it out longer—of saying no.
He nudges Dew's feet a little further apart.
"Spread yourself open for me," Aeon instructs, and Dew's hands come around to do it. Aeon hisses as he presses in. Dew's always so fucking hot inside. Soft and tight, and fucking divine. Aeon tips his head back as he pushes in deep. He whines too, high pitched and needy—can't fucking help it. Dew's already fluttering around him, clenching, pulling him in.
"Not going to take much, Droplet," Aeon rasps, pushing Dew's hair away from his face, gathering it into his fist, mostly just to hold it out of the way—but also for leverage, for something to hold onto. The other hand curls around Dew's hip, holds tight enough to bruise as he starts to move.
Aeon's magic makes it better—different. Aeon's connected to Dew in more ways than just one. The link of the magic gives Aeon phantom sensation. He can't feel what Dew feels, but he can feel the idea of it, the distant push and pull, the stretch, the fullness. The deep haze of magic. Contentment and immeasurable pleasure. Can feel Dew's orgasm building, low in his belly, right next to his own. Dew presses both hands to the wall to steady himself, fingers digging in against the tile.
The fucking noises they're both making. Satanas, Aeon's going to cum about them for the next year. Dew's hips roll in time with Aeon's, meeting each thrust, driving his cock against slick tile. And Aeon thinks about giving Dew more, about sliding a hand around him and taking him in his fist. But he's already given Dew so much, has given him everything he asked for.
He should—he knows it—it's the right thing to do—the nice thing to do. But Dew so rarely likes nice—
The hand on Dew's hip slips forward, wiggles between Dew's body and the wall. Dew catches him by the forearm, fingers digging in, nails biting against Aeon's hammering pulse. "Don't," Dew says, pleading, and Aeon doesn't backs off. Presses his fingertips into the bruises that are already forming against Dew's hipbone instead and lets Dew fuck himself between Aeon's cock and the wall.
Dew's close, Aeon can feel it through the magic, and also in the way he clenches around Aeon's cock. Dew whimpers, eyes falling closed.
"That's it, c'mon, Dew." Aeon pants. He gives one last little pull on that magic, wipes Dew of everything except this, the physical sensation, the press of Aeon behind him—inside of him—the glide of his cock against warm tile.
Dew goes tense, stock still, and then he shudders. Clenches hard enough that Aeon doesn't even get to savor Dew's orgasm. His own, rushes up to meeting him. It drags up his spine, through his veins, toes curling against the slick tile as he presses as deep as he can into Dew's body and cums, hard. He bites down on Dew's shoulder to muffle the noise he wants to make—a shout, a cry—something and shudders through it. Tries to keep them both on their feet despite his buckling knees.
Dew sags, nearly collapses. Aeon's right there with him. He has just enough wherewithal to sever the magic as he pulls out, an arm curling around Dew's waist to keep him upright. Aeon's shaking, stuttering, his vision black at the edges.
"Holy fucking shit, Dew." Aeon breathes.
And Dew, sturdier now that Aeon's magic isn't coursing through him, fucking laughs. Rusty and warm, and utterly delighted. He's facing Aeon now, leaning against the wall, chest heaving, cheeks pink, fucking grinning like he won something.
"You going to live, bug?"
Aeon takes a few steps back, presses his back to the opposite wall. Scalding water pours down on him. He scrubs his hands over his face, tries to drag himself back to earth and into his body.
"No," Aeon answers. "No, I'm absolutely about to die."
Dew crosses the shower, gets right in front of Aeon. He cards a fond hand through Aeon's hair. Leans up to kiss him, soft and reverent. When he pulls back, he's grinning. He pats Aeon once on the cheek—just hard enough for Aeon to feel the sting of it, then he fucking winks. "You're welcome."
Dew slips from the shower, starts towel off. Aeon sinks to the floor, heart hammering. He laughs softly to himself, curling his arms around his knees, tucking his face into them as the water beats down on him.
"You always fucking win, huh?" Aeon calls breathless.
Dew chuckles, "always."
