Sorry it took a few days to answer you, I had to take the time to spin it around in my brain like leftover pizza in the microwave so it would sound cohesive.
Lil disclaimer before I start : I don't have the pleasure of living in B Ă…kerlund's brain, so most of course I could be wrong about the reasoning behind certain choices.
So, to fully understand where SkeletĂ came from, you have to know what came before it. I made a whole post already about the outlier that is Impera when you compare it to the previous ghoul costumes (that you can find through my costume tag, shameless self promo) so I'll just sum it up quickly. The very first ghoul costume was made kinda just to fit the whole occult vibe that Ghost was going for at the time. Not to say that it was bad, just saying it was a "oh we need something spooky to wear on stage" kinda moment and this is what they came up with.
Every costume after that had been mostly just bouncing off the previous design, elevating it to a new level and making a natural progression until we got to Impera. Impera had nothing to do with the other costumes, instead choosing to reflect the album's big themes, the rise and fall of empire, society, the evolution of civilizations, you don't need me to go on.
So when it came to SkeletĂ , there three needs that had to be met when it came to building the ghoul costumes.
1 : reflect the album's themes of exploring human emotions, grief, vulnerability.
2 : bounce off of Impera as a natural progression of the last costumes.
3 : somehow manage to tie back to the previous eras to bring it back into a continuous evolution.
It's easy to say that the sparkly skeleton bodysuits came from the Dance Macabre performance at the LA forum in 2023, where we saw the dancers painted as glittery skeletons, but I like to think it goes deeper than that. A skeleton is the last layer of a person's self. It's the last thing that will be left of you after you're long gone.
The bodysuit, which is skintight, leaves you absolutely nowhere to hide your barest form. And the masks, modelled after the performers faces, is coming this close to exposing them fully to the crowd. All together, those elements tie beautifully into the themes of grief and vulnerability.
The next part was to make a plausible transition from Impera to SkeletĂ (which I feel they could've done better but I appreciate the effort.) Something I mentioned in my master post was how the buttons on the tailcoats are reminiscent of the buttons on the Impera jackets, sporting the grucifix of the last era. But there's two other elements on the tailcoats that bounced from the military jackets, being the distressed and raw hem of the shoulders, and the spine of the back. I feel like the hats could also be a nod to Copia's Watcher In The Sky hat.
And lastly, there was an obvious desire to call back to the previous eras as the costumes would also fit chronologically with Prequelle. The tailcoats, obviously, but also the sleek, tailored look that follow the shapes of the performers rather than being loose like the Punkrave shirts or the Jodhpurs of Impera. Smaller boots that don't climb up the legs and, of course, going back to silver masks. The bowtie collars also remind me a lot of the lapel of the Prequelle tailcoats.
Impera was bronze and gold while Prequelle, and now SkeletĂ , is silver, so the costumes play into cool tones rather than warmth.
'Kay that's my ramble for todayyyy. Hope you found it somewhat interesting. As always, please feel free to share any question, comment or insult you might have!
I'm so obsessed with Copia right now. my guy went through an entire journey to accept that everything ends and he needs to move on and make space for change and now that his brother is here he's hate posting.
Aka every single piece of information I have amassed about those costumes.
The costumes were designed by Swedish designer B. Ă…kerlund, who's been working with Ghost since Meliora and has thought out most of the costumes since then.
Let's start from top to bottom, most of the cast wears a headdress, which I believe were made by Ă…kerlund and her team, but Phantom and Dewdrop are wearing hats made by NTTE Hats. Phantom has a feather on the right side of his hat and Dew on the left. (Example of another one of NTTE's designs, and the ghouls)
The masks are all custom sculpted to represent the performers' faces and they all have elements that distinguish them from each other, other people have done posts breaking it down so I won't go into details here. (I can do it in another post if someone really wants me to)
I could not find the creator of the masks, but my bet is either on Jerry Constantine, who's done masks for Tobias and sculpted the Meliora and Prequelle masks, or immortalmasks, who did Perpetua's.
The bowties are from FkStudio, who also did the ones for the skeleton dancers at the LA show in 2023. They are leather pieces that fasten like dog collars. (Yes, you can buy replicas from them and yes I desperately want one)
The main piece is a custom bodysuit. The skeleton pattern is different on each suits which leads me to believe they are hand painted, along with the "brush stroke" appearance of them when you look up close. The zipper is in the front and center, and the various sizes of stones are riveted on.
Our boys are wearing literally my favourite part of the entire costume, a sleeveless tailcoat with a GORGEOUSLY pleated back that makes me think of a monster's spine and a weird, intricate lapel that seemingly pierces through the coat. The buttons are meant to be an ode to the buttons on the Impera jackets (it was literally impossible for me to find a high quality pics that shows the buttons well, I spent two days on it.)
And our girls are wearing batwings adorned with rhinestones, held in place with snap buttons. I talked about it in another post but the snaps can also be found on the boys' suits, which leads me to believe they were also supposed to get wings until quite late in production (rip wings, you would've been beautiful)
Last but not least, the Skeleta ghouls are truly for the alt bitches with their footwear as they are wearing custom painted chelsea platform boots from Doc. Martens.
Shoutout to whoever painted Dew's boot after his accident.
Aight, that's all for me. I will update y'all if I find any more info but in the meantime, feel free to share any question, comment or insult you might have! Love ya!
comet I NEED to see your take on love at first sight for mushy may with cumdrop pls also ilu <3
You say Cumdrop and I write 1.4k words about them because OOPS. also hi i love youuuuuuuuu ♥
As always, mushy may is organized by the incredible @forlorn-crows
Mushy May Day 5 (take two): Love at First Sight - Cumulus/Dewdrop
At the end of her first day Topside, Cumulus is exhausted. This body is strange, with it's growling hunger, and it's sensitivity to temperature and how much gravity effects her.
There are so many things to see, so many sounds and smells and feelings. She is taking it all in with acceptance and excitement and maybe the tiniest bit of anxiety. None of it is bad. It's just a lot.
The Cardinal is a good host. Thoughtful almost to a fault. He keeps looking over his shoulder to check to make sure she and Cirrus are still there. He's jumpy, excitable, unassuming in a way that makes Cumulus trust him almost instantly. Cirrus is a little more hesitant. But that's to be expected. No one wins Cirrus over in two hours.
"Now, we come to our last stop," Copia says, flourishing his arms toward a heavy arched door that leads to another wing in the Abbey. Cumulus doesn't know how they got here—she's going to get lost 500 times before she figures out the layout of this place, she already knows it.
Copia fumbles the key to the door once, twice, and Cumulus can feel his nervousness. Cirrus takes the key from his trembling fingers and unlocks the door for him. He offers her a sheepish smile and pockets the key swiftly when she hands it back.
Cirrus glances at Cumulus. "You're not going to lock us in here are you?"
Copia startles, he casts a horrified look between both Ghoulettes. "What? No? Of course not. Mountain keeps the keys, I'm sure he has them waiting for you. Come, come, your pack is waiting."
Another long suffering glance from Cirrus. Cumulus reaches forward and squeezes her hand. It's fine. That hand squeeze says. This is going to be great.
Copia leads them down a hallway, past bathrooms and a robust kitchen and dining room. There's a room that looks like a small library, and another that appears to be mostly empty except for a stone altar. They turn a corner and are met with a hallway lined with more thick doors. Each of them has a golden name plate on them.
Cumulus reads them as they walk by. Mountain. Rain. Ifrit….
Her room is already labled, about halfway down the hallway between someone named Dewdrop and Cirrus.
"This is where I leave you, my dears," Copia says with a low bow. "The rest of the pack is in the common room at the end of the hall, I imagine. If there is anything you need, please, do not hesitate. We have our first practice as a full band tomorrow."
"How will we know—"
Copia waves off Cumulus' questions. "The others will make sure you find your way."
He's gone like he possesses some strange magic, turning on his heels and disappearing into a flutter of robes around the corner. Cirrus looks between Cumulus and her bedroom door.
"I think—"
"I'm going to go introduce myself to the others," Cumulus cuts her off before Cirrus can try to convince her otherwise. "I'll bring you back a full report."
Cirrus smiles, she leans down to press warm lips against Cumulus' temple, and then she's opening her door, sliping through, and Cumulus is alone in the dark hallway.
She stands there for a moment, breathing in the scent of old wood and the heady smell of the Pack, a mingling of earthy smells that should set her on edge but instead…she'd never say it in front of Cirrus, not yet, but she feels like she's finally home.
She turns in the direction Copia pointed and walks toward the slant of warm light spilling from the room at the end of the hallway. She can hear the low murmur of conversation,laughter, ease. She's never had a pack—she's too busy wondering what it's like to see one of the bedroom doors (this one labeled Swiss) opening in front of her, or to notice the ghoul slipping out of it.
He turns one second too late and they collide. It's not a bad collision, enough to send Cumulus stumbling back and enough for the little ghoul—the culprit—to let out a string of surprised swears.
"Unholy fuck you scared the shit out of me—oh shit." He straightens up, posture immaculate in an instant as he tries to get his shit together and make a good first impression."You're one of the new girls."
Cumulus looks at him—studies him really. He's a little taller than her, and skinny. Built wiry and lithe like a water ghoul but the heat coming off of him says something different. He reeks of wood smoke and cinnamon and weed. His hair—long and somewhere between golden and strawberry blond—is pulled messily back from his face in a bun that looks like it's going to hurt to take out later. His white horns are short, but come to a wicked, deadly point. He is made of sharp angles, his lips twitch up at the corners and Cumulus can't help but think that this is what demons are supposed to look like.
Her vessel, soft and easy and round makes her unassuming, it's a good disguise. But this ghoul? whoever he is. No one will ever mistake him for anything other than one of Satan's favorites.
"Cumulus," she says finally, holding out her hand to him. He takes it. His hand is dry, almost too warm. She can't stop looking at his eyes. They're impossibly blue—and glamoured that way she's sure. As she studies him she can see the flicker of amber beneath them, a glitch in his ability to hold onto the ruse.
"Dewdrop," he tells her. "You're my new neighbor."
She likes him, she realizes. It's instant. She feels like a magnet drawn to his side—knows that it will not be this way when she meets everyone else. There is something about Dewdrop that calls to something in her and she is too tired and too in awe of this new world she's found herself in to want to fight it or understand it.
She smiles at him, and watches the way his face changes when he sees it—angles softening, tension in his jaw fading. "Guess so. I hope you're quiet."
He chuckles, it's a dark sound that makes something low in her belly turn to liquid. Oh. Oh no. She knows he feels whatever spark has crackled to life between them, knows it by the way his lips part just a little, by the crease in his eyebrows, by the way his eyes go fully amber for one full breath. She expects him to drop her hand, for that strange professionalism in his posture to take over. She senses it in him—something she sees in Cirrus. Perfectionism. Discipline. Devotion to the Dark Lord above all else.
"I have a feeling I'm going to disappoint you there, 'Lus."
But maybe he isn't as bad as Cirrus, because he doesn't let go. Instead he tugs n her hand until she steps closer and he can sling his arm around her shoulders. He pulls her into his warm, his fingers curled around her shoulder, squeezing, just a little. He turns them and guides her down the hallway toward the common room. She should pull back—Cirrus would punch him for this move. But she finds she doesn't want to. Despite the air of it, none of Dewdrop's movements feel cocky or arrogant. He touches her with a ease that feels like he's known her forever. Like all it took for her to become part of the pack was to be here.
"I'm pretty hard to disappoint actually," she says, looking up at him. "Just, if I bang on the wall—"
"Invite you over?" He grins and a flush follows it, warm and bright over his sharp cheekbones. Cumulus wants to chase it with her fingers—feel the heat of it.
"Who knew you were so accommodating?"
"It's one of my many talents."
"Somehow I doubt that."
Dew laughs again, squeezes her a little tighter. They step into the warm glow coming from the common room, snippets of conversation curl around Cumulus. She expects Dew to let her go as she step through the threshold, he doesn't.
"What about the other one?" He asks, nodding back toward the rooms where Cirrus has tucked herself away.
Rating: E
Pairing: Dew/Aeon
Featuring: Boot Fucking, Mean!Dew, Aeon and Dew are both little shits in their own ways. Mutual masturbation. A lot of build up because that's what I like best. IDK Man it's boot fucking what do you want from me? Dew puts Aeon in his place.
Word Count: 4k.
many thanks to @forlorn-crows for the title inspiration
If you want to impress me Aeon, you're going to have to do better than being a little shit. That doesn't work on me."
Aeon swallows. He's quiet for a moment—waiting to see if Dew really wants him to speak this time. Without instructions he's floundering. It's delicious. Dew wants to drown in this feeling, this power, the way Aeon crumples beneath him.
"What does?"
Dew tilts his head, considering. He clicks his tongue. Strokes his thumb along the sharp plane of Aeon's jaw. "Obedience."
Read it all on AO3 or under the cut.
The back bend is impressive. Dew has to admit that—though he'd be hard pressed to do it out loud. He watches the horns of Aeon’s mask kiss the stage as he flattens. Watched Aeon expose himself to stage lights. To Dew's hungry gaze.Â
Dew stands closer every night. Boots creeping ever closer to the seam of Aeon’s uniform pants.Â
He points, an order, and watches Aeon slide to his knees and tries not to wonder what that desperate compliance would look like somewhere else.Â
Wonders if Aeon would bend and break for him like this on a hotel room carpet.Â
It isn't like he hasn't had the opportunity. But Dew won't ask. If he does Aeon will have an ego about it. Aeon thinks he's hot shit and every side eyed glance inflates his ego that much more. Every caress. Every time he is whisked away into a hotel room to be played with like a new toy, he emerges cockier, more annoying. Glowing with self satisfied smugness that makes something grind together inside of Dew's chest.Â
Dew refuses to participate. Refuses to add fuel to that fire. He will not build Aeon up, can't fathom why anyone would want to. Doesn't the little ghoul have enough confidence now? Doesn't he already think too highly of himself? Like Swiss without the actual experience to back it up. Dew's not playing into it—fuck that. When—not if—he gets his claws on Aeon this tour, he will break him.Â
Dew seizes whatever opportunity he can get, knows Aeon will take that finger, pointed at the ground, as another flirtation. And later—when Aeon sidles up to him, cocksure and handsy, Dew slips away. Ignores him. Sliding out of the grip of those spindly fingers and not even sparing a look back at Aeon's confused face.Â
Dew sets his trap. Over and over again. And Aeon kneels for him, night after night, falling every time Dew demands it. The screams from the crowd buoy Aeon even more, and of course Dew's sees it. He sees the way the praise lifts him higher and higher, until Aeon has placed himself on a teetering pedestal.Â
And all the while, Dew waits for the exact right moment to knock Aeon’s wavering tower out from under him.Â
It's mid-tour. Dew barely knows what day it is, each of them blending together with long bus rides, and a revolving door of hotels and catered meals. He feels perpetually dirty. Coated in a fine film of sweat no matter how long he spends in scalding showers each night.Â
Aeon's been driving him crazy all day. Something about what happened the night before. A sign with his name on in the crowd maybe. Or that human girl at the bar who was clinging to his arm for an hour before he finally let himself be dragged away from the bar at the hotel and up to a strangers room. Whatever it is, the extra attention has made Aeon unbearable to be around. Â Dew's been thinking about strangling him all day.Â
Dew watches him out of the corner of his eye through an excruciating bus ride, and a sound check that feels like it is never going to end. Watching as Aeon bats his eyes at every single person he comes in contact with. A guy who works for the venue has been waiting on Aeon hand and foot all day—water, food, new guitar strings, whatever Aeon can ask for the man goes running for it. And Dew can't help but wonder  if Aeon isn't using just a little quintessence on him.Â
It doesn't really matter though. Because Dew sees the way Aeon keeps looking at him. Gaze casting toward him like he's hoping Dew is going to praise him too. Like he so desperately wants Dew to be proud of him—wants Dew to engage in the "Everything Aeon Does is Perfect" show—and Dew won't. Dew pretends he doesn't exist, and watches Aeon wobble on his self-made pedestal. Watches him get closer and closer to the edge.Â
Dew scents it like blood—the desperation on him. It's only a matter of time. Soon, Dew knows. Tonight, preferably. The ache between them has risen to a fever pitch. Aeon thinks he wants to win, but Dew knows the truth.Â
All Aeon really wants—is for Dew to make him lose.Â
So, when one of the roadies hands out hotel key cards, Dew trades with Mountain.Â
"I'll take the kid tonight," Dew says like he's taking one for the team. He knows Mountain will be game—especially since Dew was originally paired up with Cumulus. Mountain doesn't hesitate, swiping the card out from between Dew's fingers.Â
"Bad deal for you," Mountain says, tucking the key in his back pocket lest Dew come to his senses and change his mind.Â
Dew shrugs, "I have my reasons."Â
Mountain raises two dark brows and shakes his head like he knows better than to ask.  "He'll be happy though—been complaining that you never room with him."Â
Dew smiles—wolfish—victorious. "Good."Â
"Go easy on him."
Dew shakes his head, barks out a laugh almost devoid of humor. "He's so eager to take it. Why not give it to him and see if really can?"Â
"Dew—"
"Don't look at me like that you know he'll love it."Â
Mountain scrubs a hand over his face. Â "He just wants you to like him, you know."
"I'll like him better with my—"
Dew cuts himself off as Aeon rounds the corner toward them, sauntering. "308, what about you guys?"Â
Dew flashes the matching card between his fingers. "You're stuck with me tonight, Bug."Â
Dew feels something treacherous slip into his gut when Aeon smiles like the sun has just come out. He bounces on the balls of his feet as the grin widens. And Dew reads all of it, the golden retriever excitedness. The way Aeon thinks this is just an another opportunity to stroke his own ego—that he will have an ego to stroke at all once Dew's done with  him.
"We're going to have so much fun," Aeon says, slinging his arm around Dew's shoulder and enveloping him in the smell of ozone and Swiss' weed.Â
"Yeah, Bug," Dew says, wrapping an arm around Aeon's waist, digging his  nails into the space beneath his ribs hard enough to make Aeon jolt against him. When he tries to pull away, Dew holds him fast, solid, fingers digging wicked bruises into soft skin. "We are."Â
Dew gets back to their hotel room long before Aeon. He left him with the others in the bus, everyone hovering somewhere between high on adrenaline and fading fast from exhaustion. Dew shoulders his overnight bag and slips out of the bus and into the hotel before anyone else has mustered the energy to get up—to separate.Â
Dew has enough time to shower and redress and watch half an episode of something mindless on TV before he hears the key card in the lock.  He wants a cigarette—he settles for cinnamon gum instead, grinding it between his teeth as the door swings open. Dew's stretched out long on top of the bedspread. Fully dressed in ripped black jeans, a black band T, and his boots. Not the stage ones—Papa had a fit the last time Dew liberated those from the costume trailer. Just his well worn docs instead. The ones he takes just as diligent care of as he does his guitars. The leather supple, flexible from years and miles of wear.Â
Aeon's eyes flick down Dew's body, they linger on those boots for far longer than Aeon realizes. Dew watches the way Aeon swallows, the way his eyes dart up and away when he realizes he's been caught.  He watches the mask slide back into place—cocky, over-confident, but nervous all the same. Desperate for Dew's approval despite how flippant he pretends to  be.Â
Dew doesn't have to feign nonchalance, it comes naturally. He regards Aeon as if bored.Â
"You gonna close the door or…?"
Aeon startles into motion, snicks the door shut behind him and tosses his overnight bag on the floor somewhere near Dew's.Â
"Are you…are we going out?"
"No," Dew says, eyes flicking away from Aeon and back to the TV. There's some mindless decorating show on. Dew watches as some truly atrocious tile is laid in the entryway of an otherwise beautiful Victorian house. He watches Aeon in the periphery.Â
He's off balance now. Looking at Dew like he's a puzzle he can't solve because he's missing most of the pieces. Dew looks back over at him when he starts to feel the way Aeon as staring at him.Â
"What?"
"You're…you're wearing your boots."Â
"I am."
"Why?" Aeon blinks, confused, body pulled taut like he is remembering the way Dew pulled him closer. Like he is finally deciphering what Dew meant when he said they'd have fun.Â
Dew swings his legs off of the bed and stands in one fluid motion that has Aeon taking one stumbling step back. They are basically the same height but Dew feels tall like this. Feels like he towers over Aeon despite being able to look him directly in the eye. Aeon folds so easily, so quickly, the same way he does when they're on stage and Dew points at the ground.Â
He stands so close he can feel the magic wafting off of Aeon in nervous waves. Can smell it. Can see the way his pulse flutters, panicked—turned on—at his throat.Â
Dew chews his gum, looks at Aeon. They're standing close enough to kiss, close enough for Dew to drag his nose along the length of Aeon's if he wants to. Close enough for him to fist his hand into the hair at the back of Aeon's skull and put him where he wants him. He doesn't have to though. Aeon doesn't need a firm hand, he just needs a little direction.Â
Dew motions toward the floor. A gesture not quite as pointed as the one he makes on stage, but the meaning is still crystal clear. Aeon takes a breath—hesitates only that long—before his knees are folding underneath him, dumping him onto the ground.Â
He looks up at Dew, blinking, eyes wide, facade already melting. Aeon will be good for him because all Aeon wants, really, is to be good.Â
"See how easy that is," Dew says softly, carding his hand into Aeon's hair. He pets him gently. Scratches his nails across Aeon's scalp until Aeon purrs softly, eyes fluttering closed. "You don't have to act like a prick to get my attention."
Aeon's eyes open, just a little. Heavy lidded and lined with exhaustion and a false sense of safety. "It worked."
Dew barks out a laugh—humorless. It's a dangerous enough sound that Aeon goes rigid at his feet. Dew feels the clench in his jaw against the meat of his palm. "You think it worked. You think that's why you're here? You think I'm going to be nice after all of that?"Â
Aeon whimpers, eyes snapping open fully this time, air huffing out of his nose. "Dew—"
"What? What were you hoping for here, bug? That I'd kneel for you? That I'd take you apart nice and slow? That you'd get worship after that shit?" Dew's grip on Aeon's hair turns cruel.Â
"I thought—"
"That's the problem."  Dew's hand drags down, out of Aeon's hair, down the curve of his cheek to curl  under his chin, tipping Aeon's head back further. Dew feels the beat of Aeon's pulse against his fingers. He tries not to get hard about it—not yet—not while Aeon is eye level with it and will know. "You thought. If you want to impress me Aeon, you're going to have to do better than being a little shit. That doesn't work on me."Â
Aeon swallows. He's quiet for a moment—waiting to see if Dew really wants him to speak this time. Without instructions he's floundering. It's delicious. Dew wants to drown in this feeling, this power, the way Aeon crumples beneath him.Â
"What does?"
Dew tilts his head, considering. He clicks his tongue. Strokes his thumb along the sharp plane of Aeon's jaw. "Obedience."Â
Aeon makes a pitiful noise. Wounded. And something dangerous turns over in Dew's stomach.Â
"Will you be good?"Â
Aeon's breath hitches, he nods before the words are even fully out of Dew's mouth. Dew digs his fingers into Aeon's cheeks, feels the ridges of his teeth through them, tries not to grin. He's hard against his zipper now—obvious no matter how much he wishes he could hide it. It isn't like it makes a difference. Aeon's glassy eyed already and they haven't even begun. There are times when Dew's obvious interest could stack the deck against him—this isn't one of them.Â
The next handful of minutes are borderline clinical. Dew steps back, out of Aeon's range and plants himself on the edge of the bed. Knees wide, feet planted on the carpet. Dew turns the TV off and tells Aeon to strip, and he leans back on his hands as he watches Aeon peel off his sweatshirt, his t-shirt. He kicks his shoes somewhere near their bags, almost tripping over himself in his haste to get his jeans off. All the while, Dew studies him; chews his gum; waits.Â
"All of it," Dew says, needlessly, once Aeon is standing there in just his boxer briefs. He's hard too, Dew's eyes catch on the darkening spot of fabric above the head of Aeon's cock. He watches it pulse through the cotton, catalogs it as ammunition in case he needs it. Aeon can pretend all he wants that he wants to be in control. All the words in the world don't matter when his body betrays him.Â
The quint ghoul listens, hooking his thumbs into the elastic and divesting himself of the last of his clothing. Dew points to the space between his knees and Aeon is there. A little more of his arrogance has returned, he sinks to his knees fluidly, eyes on Dew's as he does like he's hoping to see a crack in the facade. To find Dew's desire laid out plain on his face. When he doesn't get it, the expression flickers, just a little. It's enough for Dew to feel the heat of it deep in his gut.Â
Aeon tries again, leans in, breathes hotly against Dew's zipper. Mouths up along it. Dew can feel the heat of him through the denim, the staccato bursts of breath.Â
He reaches forward, and maybe Aeon thinks it's to pull him closer, because the noise Aeon makes when Dew fists a hand in his hair and yanks him away is pure shock—surprise. A startled yelp, eyes going wide as the last bit of hope to flip the script dies in them.Â
"Did I tell you that you could touch?"Â
Aeon shakes his head as best as he can with Dew's hand still held tight in his hair. "No but—I thought you—I just wanted to—"
"If we're going to play, Aeon, it's by my rules. Ask first."Â
"Can I…?"
"No."Â
"But—"
"I didn't say I'd say yes did I? Just that you should ask." Dew lets go and Aeon slumps forward, spine curving. He tucks his hands against his bare thighs, drops his gaze to the floor, his cock, Dew's boots. Dew doesn't move. Doesn't inch closer or reach out to sooth the ache away from Aeon's face. The room falls quiet. Dew can hear the TV on in the room  next door; the distant blare of a car alarm; a siren; Aeon's breath.Â
"What can I do then?" Aeon asks, quietly but not dejected. Not deterred. "I don't know the rules—I don't—"
Dew clicks his tongue, takes one moment of pity on the little ghoul slumped between his knees. When he touches him this time, it's gentler. A calloused hand cradling his cheek, a thumb dragging over cool dry lips. Aeon raises his gaze to Dew's face and they search each other. Dew for any more signs of Aeon's arrogance—his petulance, and  Aeon for a clue, for mercy.Â
"Don't worry, Aeon," Dew whispers, softer now that he knows the fight has drained from Aeon. Knows that Aeon has fallen into step—that he will play whatever game Dew wants. And really all Dew wants is pleasure, for both of them, in spades. "I'll teach you."Â
When he folds over himself to kiss Aeon, Aeon surges up to meet him. Dew sweeps his tongue into Aeon's mouth and Aeon tastes like adrenaline, like the stage on a good night, like ritual and worship and the feeling that settles under his skin when the crowd is really good. He tastes like magic.Â
Dew pulls back, holds Aeon in place with a hand on his jaw. He keeps his eyes closed as he whispers "I want to watch you cum" into the minuscule space between them.Â
Aeon rears back, eager to please. One hand finding his cock, the other steadying himself on Dew's thigh. Dew shifts, presses the toe of his boot into Aeon's wrist. The hand on his cock stutters to a stop. Aeon looks up at him, head tilted.Â
"No hands."Â
Aeon blinks, looks away as he tries to piece together exactly what Dew wants. Dew nudges his wrist again and Aeon's hand falls away. Dew settles his boot against Aeon's thigh, a steady pressure.Â
A hint.Â
Aeon, bright as he is, blinks up at Dew through lidded eyes. He's hazy already, pupils blown wide, each blink slow and syrupy. Satanas, he always falls so fast once he strarts. He fights tooth and nail for agency but the second he realizes it's out of his reach he drops like a stone into the center of the lake. It makes Dew feel insane to have this kind of an effect on Aeon. Fills him with a feral power that makes him fell dangerous—like he has ascended to one of the thrones of hell and the entire circle is at his mercy.Â
Aeon heaves in a breath, his eyes dart down to Dew's boot pressed where milky skin of his thigh is already going red—then violet as Aeon looses the last grips on his glamour. He looks back up at Dew—then down again.Â
"I don't—"
"You've thought about it," Dew tells him. It's not a question, and Aeon's nodding as soon as Dew starts to speak. "You practically beg me for it every night on stage. And now that I'm giving it you, you don't want it?"Â
Aeon shakes his head. "It isn't that. I just…" Aeon trails off, his eyes dip away from Dew's face, go back to the carpet. Back to where his cock has started to soften from lack of attention between his legs. Dew nudges it with the toe of his boot and the noise it drags from Aeon makes him feel like he's going to light himself on fire.Â
"You just what?" Dew prompts.Â
"Don't know how," Aeon's voice is quiet, a whisper, an admission that tips the playing field that much more in Dew's direction.Â
"Course you do." Dew drags the toe of his boot down, then up, the length of Aeon's cock. It twitches in attention. Aeon hisses out a breath, his eyes flutter. "Take what you need. That's all you have to do."Â
They both go quiet; still except for the slow pass of Dew's boot up and down. Gentle, a barely there touch that has Aeon shuddering beneath him. Hardening against the rubber. And then Aeon moves. His legs spread a little more, he leans back, bracing himself on one hand. His head tips back as he rolls hips up, catches the head on the sole of Dew's boot. Aeon whines, a broken pitiful sound that makes Dew feel like his stomach is in a free fall. He watches, stony faced as Aeon ruts against the  toe of his boot, watches him get harder against the rubber.Â
Dew holds his foot in place—that's all he has to do. That and watch. He squeezes at his cock through the denim of his jeans. He'll ask Aeon to suck it later—after. Or maybe he'll just pull himself out and jack off to the sight in front of him. To the way Aeon's cock dribbles pre onto Dew's boots. To the way Aeon's breath rockets out of him with every thrust.Â
Aeon's frantic beneath him. His free hand drags up over his torso, pinches at one of his nipples, slides further up into his own hair. Dew tries not to imagine that hand is his—tries not to think about the noises Aeon would make if it was.Â
He fails, and before he's telling himself to do it, he's tugging down his zipper and curling his hand around his cock. He's so hard it aches. The first pull feels like relief. The second is like self-immolation. He matches his strokes with Aeon's thrusts. Eyes glued to the way Aeon ruts against his boot. The way the shiny head peeks back up over the toe with each roll of Aeon's narrow hips.Â
Aeon flattens himself a little lower and it's so close to the position they're in on stage that Dew almost has to stand up—has to make it right. But he doesn't—it would interrupt Aeon's rhythm. He can't have that—not when Aeon's already so close.Â
Aeon cums first with a startled yelp. His head tips back up so he can watch Dew when he does. Dew's hand stutters on his cock, heat builds at the base of spine, spreads through his stomach. Aeon paints the top of Dew's boot and his own stomach in pearlescent white. And then Dew's cumming too—orgasm rushing up to meet him. He shoves his fist into his mouth to muffle the sound, tastes blood as he bites down—glamor failing, fangs digging into soft skin.Â
Aeon's kneeling like before when Dew comes back to himself. Torso upright, chest heaving, his body covered in a fine film of sweat. They'll shower, Dew thinks, and maybe if he can muster the energy back into his exhausted limbs, he'll press Aeon down into the sheets and fuck him the way he deserves.Â
But for now, Dew studies Aeon while he wills breath back into heaving lungs. There is exhaustion written through the delicate lines of Aeon's face—but pride too. Dew tucks himself back into his jeans and leans forward, into Aeon's space as he reaches for him.Â
Aeon looks up at him—there's worship there, awe. And when Dew offers Aeon his hand—knuckles and fingers coated in cum, Aeon doesn't hesitiate to drag his tongue through it. Sucking the tips of Dew's fingers into his mouth; reverent.Â
When  Aeon's done Dew cards his hand over Aeon's face, his skin damp with sweat, curls flattened against his forehead. Dew brushes them out of the way, looks down into those violet eyes. Studies the way Aeon's guard drops, watches how pliant and easy he's become, boneless as he sags over himself, shoulders curling, eyes drooping.
"You forgot something," Dew says, softly, trying to keep his voice calm despite the sick delight dragging down his spine. Â Aeon blinks up at him.
"Huh?"Â
Dew taps the toe of his boot against Aeon's thigh and Aeon jolts, he looks down at the mess splattered across the leather.Â
Aeon makes a pitiful noise, broken, distressed and Dew feels like his body is caving in on itself. He'd be hard again if it was possible. As it is the sight before him feels like an electric shock. One he'll take with him into his bunk and every venue shower from here until the end of the tour.Â
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