In the shadows, stripped of sin

Based on this tweet

Storm finds the whole pack dynamic fascinating, honestly. But Aeon in particular gives him pause. He isn't sure how it has come to this—how Aeon has figured out how to get whatever he wants without ever really having to ask for it. How can he just bat his long eyelashes and made bedroom eyes at his pack mates and just be delivered pleasure on a silver platter?

It isn't all of them. Cirrus and Dew don't stand for it—but they don't make Aeon ask either. They ignore him, share glances with each other and roll their eyes. But the others—especially Swiss—are putty in Aeon's hands.

Storm wonders, idly, if Aeon is using magic on them.

He's rejecting that thought now. Because Aeon is eying him across the venue dressing room, his eyes hooded, darting between Storm and the door like Storm is supposed to read his mind. Aeon's eyes flick down to Storm's boots, then back up.

Storm doesn't move except to narrow his eyes. "Are you asking me for something, Aeon?"

Always Aeon. Never bug. Never baby. Never any of the sickly sweet nicknames the others give him—ones that it seem like Aeon is the favorite—everyone's toy to dote upon. Storm refuses. If Aeon wants a pet name—he will have to earn it.

Aeon pauses, blinks, his eyes big and wide and seemingly shocked at the question. His eyes flick down to Storm's boots again. "I—it's fine. I can just go see Mountain."

"Or you could ask." Storm presses. His voice a deep rumble. He sinks deeper into the dressing room couch, stretches his arms out across the back of it. Aeon lingers by the door, shifts on his feet. Looks unsure now—uneasy. Not used to having to ask for what he wants—uncomfortable with it.

That won't do.

"Ask me," Storm presses. "What do you want?"

Aeon swallows, rolls his eyes—mostly at himself Storm realizes. He laughs, looks away, shaking his head. Like his own reluctance is annoying even to him. Storm watches Aeon's hands clench into fists. "What—uh—how do you feel about boots?"

Storm tips his head, a lock of white hair falling into his eyes. Aeon rocks back on his heels and waits, a violet blush rising on his cheeks. He can't look at Storm now, he picks a spot on the wall behind him instead. The silence stretches. "What about boots, Aeon?"

Aeon groans. "Can you just—you know what I'm asking."

"Do I?"

Aeon's blush darkens. He's frustrated now but he isn't leaving. The door is right behind him but Aeon makes no move to go through it. To go and find Mountain. To take the easy way out. Aeon chews on his lips, and Storm sinks deeper into the couch, spreads his legs, lounges like they have all the time in the world. They don't—time is a fleeting thing. And Storm can feel the tick of seconds as Aeon gnaws on himself and tries to muster up the courage to just talk.

It would be funny, Storm thinks, Aeon struck dumb over something this simple, if the clock wasn't ticking. If Aeon wasn't rocking back on his heels hoping that Storm will swoop in and save him from having to say it.

"We have five minutes until the bus leaves for the hotel. Ask for what you want, Aeon. Or get nothing."

"CanIfuckyourboots?" Aeon asks in a rush. He looks at his feet as soon as the words are out.

Storm cocks an eyebrow, waits. Aeon looks up at him, brow furrowing. Storm nods his head toward him, prompting.

"Aren't you forgetting something?"

"Please?" Aeon says—asks really, voice tipping up at the end, unsure and nervous in a way that is endearing enough to make Storm's cock start to swell in his pants.

"All together."

"Can I please fuck your boots?" Aeon says, a little slower, but breathless.

Storm stands up, pushes himself off of the couch. He curls an arm around Aeon's shoulder and pulls him from the room, down the hallway, toward the back door and the waiting busses.

"Was that so hard?"

"Yes," Aeon hisses. "Can I? Will you—"

"Room 1293, Aeon. Come up in half an hour. Take a shower, eat something. We'll discuss."

"I don't want to discuss, I want—"

Storm squeezes Aeon's shoulder hard enough that the little ghoul yelps. "Those are my terms. Do you want me or not?"

Forty five minutes later, Aeon is naked on the floor of Storm's hotel room. Storm's in the cuck chair, broad legs spread, looking down at where Aeon kneels in front of Storm's feet. Storm taps his foot on the floor and can practically see the gears turning in Aeon's head, can sense the drool pooling on his tongue.

"Needy little thing," Storm tuts. "Take what you need."

Aeon rockets into motion. He hooks one arm around Storm's calf, and braces himself against the chair with the other. He drags his cock—wet and hard and weeping—against the laces of Storm's boots and the noise he makes sends an electric jolt down Storm's spine.

Aeon bows over himself, bends so completely his forehead nearly meets Storm's thigh as he begins to rut against him earnest. Each thrust is desperate. The room fills with the sound of skin on leather, huffed breath, the little wrecked sounds that pour from the back of Aeon's throat.

Storm allows him a minute of this, a full sixty second count that he keeps in his head. Then he fists his hand in Aeon's hair and pulls. He drags Aeon gaze up to his. Aeon's eyes are lidded, pupils blown, mouth open and slick.

"Let me watch," Storm says, an order. Then he shoves Aeon backwards with enough force that Aeon has to let go of both Storm's leg and the chair to catch himself. He leans back on his hands, gives Storm the view of his body—lean and wiry—and the way his knees are spread around the toe of Storm's boot, and his cock, flushed purple and weeping as he drags it against the leather.

The top of Storm's boot is shiny and slick. Storm looks down at it, clicks his tongue in mock disappointment just to hear the noise Aeon makes in return. Low and, wrecked, and worried.

"Are you close already?" Aeon tries to shake his head, but it doesn't quite work, Storm tuts again. "Don't lie to me, Aeon."

Aeon sobs with it, hips rocking forward, unable to stop himself. "Need it so bad," he mumbles.

"I don't remember telling you that you could make this much of a mess of my boots."

"I—I thought—"

"Ask for it," Storm says, low, fingers tightening in Aeon's hair. "Nicely."

"Please," Aeon moans. Sweat beading on his brow, hips jerking unevenly. His cock dragging up, head bumping against the laces of Storms boots in an unsteady rhythm.

"Please, what?" Storm hisses. Steady, despite his cock straining against his zipper.