#comet writes

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.

It was a quiet culmination of things, meetings running long, results failing to show, the end creeping closer and closer until the Dutch rain is above them; Logan's car is torn apart, and Oscar has to continue driving, debris stuck to his tires.

He's gone before Oscar can get ahold of him, before he can stop Logan from slipping from his fingers again. He can't get ahold of him before the next race, or the one after. The desperation claws under his skin, threatening to burst in between turns three and four, on the apex and the tight corners of Singapore; on the podiums his eyes seek out a race uniform that is no longer there.

It's easier than he thinks to divert his travel plans to Florida before Texas, the familiar beach front house almost daunting--it feels like forever since he was last here. He has a day, maybe two if he can stretch it out, to see Logan.

Logan, as elusive as he can be when he needs to be, is predictable. Before Logan was Logan Sargeant, Formula One driver, he was Oscar's best friend. They had circled around each other their entire careers, lives intertwined off track as on track. Maybe that's the only reason he finds Logan, sitting in the hull of his family boat.

The sun is beating down on him, as unrelentless as always, tinging his skin red.

"You're kind of hard to get ahold of, y'know." Oscar calls out, hands shoved into his pockets. He sees the moment Logan registers that it's him, his shoulders hitching and a sheepish expression on his face. The devastation lingers under the lines of his smile, tight at the edges and sea-green eyes dim like muddy sea glass.

"Don't you have a race to get to?" Logan asks instead, leaning against the railing to peer at Oscar. The Australian shrugs, poking at the side of the boat with the toe of his shoes.

"Take me out." Oscar says jutting his chin out to the glittering ocean water. Logan hesitates, expression shifting minutely until he nods, motioning Oscar to board.

The silence lingers until they're a handful of miles out. They've always been good at this part, existing in each other's space until it all becomes too much, until it spills like a broken dam, taking everything in its wake.

"It sucks." Logan whispers, cap pulled low, voice cracking, "I thought--I started packing for Italy, yknow."

Oscar's heart twists painfully, body jerking until he's beside Logan, arms wrapping around now-narrow shoulders as the dam breaks. There’s anger, righteous and filled with sorrow of what could’ve been.

Oscar can’t fix this, can’t put the pieces of Logan’s shattered dreams back together, but he can hold him, tuck him close and tight enough he can trick both of them that he can.

He ignores the traitorous thrum of his heart, the one that beats almost desperately to be near Logan’s; it has never led him astray, never when it involved Logan.

Aurora is always in sight, except for when Tempest is asleep—in her room with the door locked—though she thinks if she left the door unlocked Aurora might show up in the middle of the night too. She doesn’t trust anyone in the abbey to really obey a locked door (not after she watched Swiss flip a set of lockpicks through his fingers and break into the reliquary in a matter of seconds. She didn’t ask—better to not. Though, when she gets a little more comfortable, when she knows these ghouls a little better, she’s going to ask him to teach her to use the lockpicks. It seems like a handy skill. But she’s also a light sleeper—bred that way by the pit, so she knows she’s at least been alone in her room at night.

Other than that, Aurora has been in her periphery. A careful distance held between them, but always there. Whenever Tempest glances at her, Aurora looks away, more prey than predator.

At breakfast, Tempest sits at the big table in the ghoul wing dining room and sips her tea, eats the food Dew put in front of her—mostly fresh fruit this morning. The others are working through the days itinerary. There are chores to be done, band practice to be had.

Tempest volunteers to tidy up common areas—a daily job that is usually solitary.

“I’ll help,” Aurora says from two seats down, her voice pitched a little too high to be casual. Dew snorts into his coffee, Aether nudges him in the ribs.

Tempest could tell Aurora she doesn’t need help—she doesn’t.

After breakfast the other ghouls scatter, to their chores, or their jobs, or whatever else it is they do when they aren’t together or at band practice. Tempest has always been solitary—she’s had packs before but not like this. And so she doesn’t know—or care to ask—what is happening when she’s alone. She’s just happy for the quiet.

Tempest has put three books, and a board game back on the shelves with Aurora comes into the room and stands behind her. She’s standing a little too far away for the distance to be casual. Tempest looks up, Candyland half wedged into the shelf between Battleship and Connect Four.

Tempest shoves the game into place and then straightens, stands at her full height. She swears she can see Aurora’s pupils get bigger as she does, eyes going round.

“The coffee table needs dusting,” Tempest says in greeting, and color rises to Aurora’s cheeks.

Aurora pivots on her toes looking over at the coffee table, “Uh, yeah of course.”

Aurora, mercifully, does what Tempest suggested and stops staring at her back while she straightens the shelves. She has to reorder a few things, not that it really matters, but Cirrus likes things to be alphabetized and honestly so does Tempest. Aeon and Swiss however have no respect for it and she swears they pull things off the shelf just to put them back wrong.

They work in a mostly easy silence. Though Tempest can feel Aurora’s eyes on her as they work. Aurora clears and wipes down the table, she fixes the pillows on the couches, folds blankets with near expert precision. Tempest, catches herself watching and has to shake herself free of whatever spell her little shadow has her under.

“Why do you drink your tea like that?” Aurora asks once Tempest has moved to the entertainment center. She’s on her knees, wrapping a cord around a video game controller. She looks up to find Aurora sitting on the edge of the coffee table, one leg crossed over the other. Closer now than she’s probably ever been—bolder maybe. Tempest puts the controller away, grabs the next one.

“What do you mean?”

“Like,  black tea, no honey, no milk, just…bitter water?”

“Because I like it?” Tempest says, is annoyed with herself when it sounds more like a question than an answer. “How do you know how I take my tea, anyway?”

“I…” Aurora looks away, color drifts into her cheeks again, high and pretty. “I asked Dew? I was curious. And of course I tried it and it’s gross.”

“It’s not gross.”

Aurora shrugs, like she’s saying Tempest is allowed to have her (wrong) opinion, and Tempest just stares at her. This little ghoulette who will not stop following her, who has appeared around every corner and has acted both too shy and too eager, is giving her shit about her morning beverage choices?

Aurora laughs at her, it’s a giggle more than anything, filled with mischief and mirth. “To be fair, Rain told me I wasn’t going to like it.”

“You should have listened.”

Aurora shrugs. “I’m not very good at that. I like to figure things out for myself.”

“Is that why you’ve been following me? Trying to figure me out?”

“I have not been following you.” Aurora crosses her arms, looks down her nose at Tempest. Tempest shakes her head, turns her attention back to straightening the inside of the entertainment center.

“Sure,” Tempest says, unconvinced. “What have you figured out?”

Aurora makes a noise—somewhere between a hum and a sigh. The silence after stretches long enough that Tempest isn’t sure Aurora is going to answer her at all.

“Nothing,” Aurora says eventually. “I mean, not nothing, but like. That isn’t why. I’m not like a spy or something.”

“That’s obvious. You’re a bad one.”

“I am not.”

The look Tempest levels on her makes Aurora laugh, really laugh, a high bright sound that hits Tempest right behind the ribs. She tries to shake it off, she isn’t here for this. For desire, or feelings, or anything, but the warmth persists. It makes Tempest smile despite herself. “What did you really want?” Tempest hears herself ask, her voice a little softer, lower. She wants to reach out and put her hand on Aurora’s knee. Wants to feel the warmth of her against her palm. Aurora doesn’t answer for a breath, instead she swallows hard like she doesn’t want to admit it. Like maybe she is a little shy despite everything.

Aurora looks away, has to take her gaze off of Tempest to be able to answer.

“You. I guess.” Auroras eyes cut back to Tempest, the shyness gone now, replaced with more mischief, laughter pulls at the corners of her mouth, and it almost feels like it could be a joke except for the way Aurora’s hands clench against the coffee table—white knuckled; nervous. “But I was playing the long game, you ruined it.”

“I make you nervous,” Tempest says. She doesn’t give herself permission to touch Aurora—but she’s doing it anyway, placing her hand over Aurora’s knee. She can feel the fine tremor of Aurora’s body beneath her palm.

Aurora scoffs—it’s ineffective, shaky. “No.”

“Yes,” Tempest counters, can’t help the chuckle that breaks out from between her teeth. Then, in a moment of temporary insanity decides to take pity on her—decides against all of her own judgement, to open it all up, offer something. See what happens. “If you want to be a better spy, I could teach you.”

There’s dinner—though Cirrus doesn’t eat much. She’s jet lagged and barely knows what time it is or even what continent she’s on. She’s exhausted, the kind of bone deep tired that only settles in after returning from a long trip. After the body finally realizes that is home, and it is safe, and it is comfortable and it can finally let go.

So, she isn’t surprised to find herself in her bedroom without fully remembering how she got there. Nor, is it surprising to find Cumulus pressed up against her. Standing on her toes to catch Cirrus’ lips in a kiss that has been overdue since the moment Cirrus boarded the bus and left her behind.

Cumulus tongue sweeps into her mouth and Cirrus curls her arms around Cumulus’ waist, pulls her closer. She buries her face in the cloud of her hair, smells fresh linin and spring even though it’s still a long way off. She noses along Cumulus’ jaw, presses her mouth to Cumulus’ pulse point and forgets, at least for a moment, how tired she is.

“Cir,” Cumulus whispers, tipping her head to the side to give Cirrus more access even as she protests. Her fingers clench against Cirrus’ spine and Cirrus’ chest expands with a litany of home home home. “Wait.”

Cirrus doesn’t want to. She wants to map each and every inch of Cumulus’ skin with her mouth. Wants to make up for every second way, wants to—

“Let me take care of you, please.”

It’s always the please that gets her. The way Cumulus breathes it rather than says it, the way she drags it out. Cirrus has never known how to say to no to her—even about things like this. Even when she is the one who wants to press Cumulus into the sheets—who wants to make her writhe. What Cumulus wants, Cumulus gets.

And, Cirrus knows, there is plenty of time for both of them to get what they want.

“And how, my love, do you want to do that?”

Cumulus answers with a musical laugh. She untangles herself from Cirrus, and Cirrus lets her albeit reluctantly. Cumulus makes efficient work of Cirrus’ clothes and coaxes her onto the bed. As soon as Cirrus’ back hits the mattress she sighs, full bodied and pleasured, and Cumulus laughs at her again. Settling on her knees between Cirrus’ splayed legs. She presses impossibly soft palms to Cirrus’ thighs, strokes her thumbs up and down until a rusty purr kicks up in Cirrus’ chest, it surprises her, how content she suddenly is. How all it takes for her to be truly happy is her bed and Cumulus in it with her. 

“Close your eyes, love,” Cumulus purrs, and Cirrus does, sinks deep into her pillow. The bed shifts as Cumulus settles. Cirrus expects the first huff of her breath over her cunt, but it makes her jolt anyway. She hasn’t been a nun during tour—of course not. But she hasn’t had Cumulus and it might as well be the same thing.

The first pass of Cumulus’ tongue is gentle, not teasing just soft. A warm up. Cirrus slides one hand into Cumulus’ curls, feels the softness of them against her fingers. When she moans, it’s partially because of the pleasure and partly because of who is giving it to her. Her other hand slips down to rest against Cumulus’ cheek. Her fingers grazing over the ghoulette’s jaw so she can feel every movement of it in the pads of her fingers.

When Cumulus finally, finally slips a finger inside of Cirrus, she keens, toes curling, back arching. It’s bliss to be here with her, to be loved by her. And she is reminded again of one of the reasons she loves touring so much: she gets to come home. She gets this particular brand of pleasure bred from distance.

“Make me cum,” Cirrus breathes, voice shaky already, “so I can fuck you until you can’t walk.”

Cumulus laughs against Cirrus’ clit. “Is that a promise?”

Cirrus shudders above her, tightens her grip on Cumulus’ hair, nods even though Cumulus can’t see it.

Dew slips two fingers inside of her and crooks them and Cirrus digs her teeth into her bottom lip to keep from making a sound. As it is, she gasps, an aborted little noise that tips up at the end and makes Dew chuckle against where his mouth is latched onto her clit.

"Little shit," she chides, a breathless whisper. And it earns her another laugh, more cool breath fanning out over slick skin. Dew rewards her with a sharp bite to the inside of her thigh. He drags the flat of his tongue over her, collecting salt and musk and perfection on his tongue as he struggles to hold back his own groan at the taste of her.

Fuck he loves this. Loves grinding into the bed while Cirrus writhes above him. Loves the way she shifts, hitches one thigh over his shoulder like she means to pull him closer. Loves that tomorrow, she will wear his fingerprints against her hip where he pinned her to the bed, will bear the marks of his teeth on the inside of her thigh. Loves that he will be able to smell her—taste her—as he falls asleep tonight; tucked securely in his own bunk while still dreaming about the way she clenches around his fingers when she cums.

He's been hard since Umbra. Since he met her eyes across the stage and watched her finger skate across the keys. He caught the challenge in her gaze and met it full on. He's always hard during Umbra if he's honest. He’s been hard every time since the first time their little battle materialized. Both of them just fucking around in the practice room, riffing back and forth until Cirrus had come out from behind her keys and Dew had barely had the time to untangle himself from his guitar strap before she was on him. Chaos gritting through the amps as his guitar dropped, strings grinding against the floor as Cirrus shoved her tongue into his mouth and his back against the wall.

He groans about it now. Grinds harder against the bed, redoubles his efforts. Her heel digs hard into the point beneath his shoulder blade, and he knows he'll wear the bruises too. The shape of her heel imprinted into his skin, just out of reach. A place for someone else—Rain most likely—to dig his fingers in while he's fucking Dew and whisper in his ear about it. A bite of pain to bring him back to this, to Cirrus writing above him in her bunk. Her knuckles shoved between her teeth to keep quiet as his fingers push and pull and his tongue drags over her clit in indulgent strokes.

He could get it done quickly—would if he were feeling merciful. But Dew so rarely contains mercy, and Cirrus likes it better when he doesn't. They don't go easy on each other. Both of them driven by perfectionism, by control. Each night the umbra battle feels like a reflection of their relationship. Calculated, precise, an ever-escalating call and response until they come together, entwining into brutally controlled chaos.

So, because Cirrus likes it better—Dew drags it out. He laps at her with slow firm strokes and pets his fingers just hard enough against her g-spot to make her shudder but not quite hard enough to make her shake. It's the buildup that's the best anyway. What's that saying about the journey being more important than the destination? Dew loves the journey. And yes, of course he likes to cum. He likes even better when Cirrus does, the edges of her curated control disintegrating under his touch. But mostly, he likes the slow unraveling.

The hand in his hair shifts to curl around one of his horns. She drags her thumb along it, up and down, a steady metronome as he takes her apart. He cracks his eyes open and finds her looking down at him, their eyes meeting here just like they do across the stage. Dew's belly swoops, he presses his hips tighter into the mattress. It's a paltry relief. Not enough to get him off—enough to take the tiniest bit of the edge off.

Cirrus' lips are spit slicked, bitten red. Dew can't resist. He unhooks his arm from her waist, giving her some range of motion back, and slides his hand up her body. Over the T-shirt of Cumulus’ she prefers to sleep in, up along the delicate skin of her throat. He hooks his thumb against her chin and pulls her mouth open wider, wide enough that he can slip two fingers between them. Her lips close around them, tongue darting between both fingers, her eyes flutter closed.

Her mouth is warm, and slick, and perfect. Dew groans against her—can't look at her any more or he really might cum in his sweatpants. He can't look away either, though. She's just so fucking pretty like this. Color high on her cheeks, sweat dotting at her hairline. He presses his fingers down on her tongue, matching the rhythm he's using in her cunt. And the noise she makes is muffled by his fingers but loud enough that he knows Aeon can hear her in the bunk above them. Dew should shush her—he doesn't. Dew doesn't give a shit if Aeon beats off to the sound of Cirrus coming apart on Dew's tongue. Dew's the one who gets to taste it, why should he care who knows?

It's faster after that, something about the heat of her mouth and her cunt around his fingers, about the way her body shudders, and then begins to shake beneath him spurs him to move faster. She's ready, so is he if he's being honest. Her thighs tremble around his hand, her hand tightens against his horn, draws him in. She rocks her hips, little movements to put his mouth right where she needs it, to drag his fingers even harder against that soft spot inside of her.

Dew growls, animalistic, the brittle bonds on his own self-control fraying as she rides his face. When he dips his mouth to lap at her entrance—his own fingers—she grinds against the proud line of his nose—desperate. Dew can relate; he is too. He lets her take what she needs, gives her his tongue, his nose, whatever she needs, to grind against until she's trembling hard above him. He bares down with his fingers, sucks hard on her clit, and relishes in the sound she makes when she finally cums. A high-pitched breathy gasp, her fingers clenching hard against his horn, the other fisted in her t-shirt, knuckles white, as she convulses above him. She clamps down hard on his fingers, and writhes. Aeon definitely can hear her now. Mountain—in the bunk beneath them—probably can too. Dew barely gives either of those thoughts any airtime. He's too far gone too. He pulls his hand from Cirrus' mouth and shoves it into his sweatpants. Curling spit slicked fingers around his aching cock. He grinds against his palm once, twice, and then he's cumming too. Tossing his head back, biting his lip hard enough that he tastes copper as he tries to keep the broken whine locked behind his teeth.

Cirrus' hand strokes through his hair as he shudders with it, paints his knuckles and the inside of his pants with a release he's been desperate for since the middle of the fucking concert hours ago.

He collapses against her; his head pillowed on her bare thigh. Breath rasping out of him, heart pounding against his ribs. The only consolation is that he can feel Cirrus' pulse in her thigh, hammering against his cheek.

She strokes his hair, pushes it away from his face, nails scratching over his scalp. Dew needs to get up—needs to get them both cleaned up, but exhaustion is dragging at his limbs now. He feels like he's never been more tired in his life.

Cirrus gives him a few minutes, then she nudges him with her leg. He obeys, pressing a soft kiss to her thigh before he slips from the bunk in search of a warm, wet, washcloth and a change of pants.

Cirrus is half asleep when he gets back, and Dew cannot help being self-satisfied about it. He tries not to preen too much as he cleans her up, but she catches it anyway. Pulling him in for a kiss and calling him a little shit again against his lips. He laughs into her mouth.

"Don't complain, you love it."