[WIP] My first fanart for Ghost is actually still a wip, that I've started painting more than a year ago now hahah. I intend to finish it one of these days, but I have no idea when.
Anyway happy birthday to my Skeletour ritual <3 a year ago today <3 and a slightly late happy birthday to Skeletá as well
Dewdrop goes out for a smoke to clear his head after the events of RHRN, and meets an interesting stranger, ~2k words.
Dewdrop shouldn’t. He knows he shouldn’t. But it’s been the shittiest fucking night, he needs this.
They played a fantastic show and it all went to shit because Sister Imperator just had to fucking die right as they were coming off stage. He needs a break, damn it. So he’s not going to go back inside, even though there’s already someone leaning against the wall of the hotel in the only halfway reasonable place to smoke, and he’s humming Kiss the Go-Goat, of all fucking things.
The rest of the pack is upstairs, piled into Cirrus and Cumulus’s room. When he’d slipped out Phantom had been curled in a ball on the couch, teetering on the edge of a breakdown, insisting that there must have been some sign he missed, because how could he not have known how sick she really was?
Mountain had knelt in front of him. “Listen to me, bug. This is not your fault. We’ve all learned that you underestimate Sister Imperator at your own peril. You get to be the last one to learn it.”
Phantom’s lip had wobbled, Cirrus had said “Oh sweetie,” and Dew had to get out. There wasn’t enough oxygen in the room.
Copia is beside himself, he knows, even though he’s only known for sure that Imperator is his mother for…fuck, has it even been a year? Dew knows he has no business going near him right now. If he can’t even deal with Phantom, he certainly can’t deal with him.
So he’d come out here, paced around the building until he could find a decent place to smoke and listen to the rumble of late night flights landing at LAX. He hadn’t seen another living soul until he’d found this man, standing right where he wanted to be. He nods a hello, leans against the wall a polite distance away, and lights a cigarette.
It’s always a gamble, talking to fans. Maybe this is one of the unhinged ones and the night can go bad in a new and interesting way. But Dew wants to leech off the good energy, get back some of what was lost to the chaos and the crying, and so he says “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
The man startles, and smiles sheepishly. He’s handsome, for a human. “Heh, suppose I have. Were you there too?”
Dew nods. “Hell of a show.”
“It was.” He’s not smoking anything, just staring out at the skyline. It’s not all that much of a view, just solar panels and a parking garage, billboards for personal injury lawyers, the lights of downtown LA twinkling in the distance. Somewhere on a hillside beyond those lights is the Hollywood sign. Aurora had sworn she could see it this morning.
We should have seen it.
Was that Phantom’s voice, or Aether’s, in his head? Dew doesn’t know, and to all the grudges he’s held against Imperator over the years he adds one more, that both of his quints are going to be doubting themselves because she just had to be secretive about everything, even fucking dying.
The man next to him isn’t hiding anything. Excitement rolls off him in waves, even standing still. It’s not anywhere near as good as a whole crowd but it’s enough to take the edge off.
Dew should be cautious, but he can’t help himself. “First ritual?” he asks. He’s not sure whether he’ll say he’s a fellow fan or crew, he’ll see how it goes.
“Yeah. I’ve listened for years, but I’ve never seen them live before. You?” Something about his voice is too familiar. Dew’s too frayed to place it, but it gnaws at him.
“Seen a few, yeah. What was your favorite?”
He sighs happily. “All of it? Fuck, even the ones I didn’t like on the record, they’re something else live. But if I had to pick… Ritual. Well, no, maybe Faith." Dew wonders if he’s got a partner or a friend up in the hotel, someone who wanted to sleep instead of gush about the show, and that’s why he’s out here. "And I love that they did Miasma, gives the ghouls time to shine, you know?”
“Yeah, they were fantastic.” Dew knows Rain would be throwing him a look right now, leave it, but Rain’s not here is he?
They chat for a while, about songs and spectacle. It’s just what Dew needed. What happened after the ritual doesn’t erase what happened during. They gave thousands of people a night they’ll never forget, comfort and catharsis and the pure unholy energy of the music. It mattered. Still matters.
And then the stranger says “Can I tell you something?”
“Go for it.”
“Well, very long story short, I never knew my birth parents. And a few months ago, I got a letter from, apparently, my mother. She’s…I guess you could say she’s part of the band’s management.”
The bottom drops out of Dew’s stomach. He should have stayed upstairs. He’d take holding a crying Phantom any day over continuing this conversation. Somehow, he only says “Oh?”
The man nods. “She invited me to out here to see the show, and to meet her.”
“Did you get to? Meet her?” Dew can hear how his own voice has shifted, but hopes the human can’t.
“Not today, there was too much going on—I mean, obviously, it’s a lot to organize, right?” His voice. How had Dew not realized? His voice is Copia’s, but different, lighter, another accent. “But tomorrow’s relatively free, since they’re in the same venue again. We’re going to meet up for brunch and…just talk about it all.”
Dew takes a long drag on his cigarette. Images are flashing across his vision, two hours ago and now, all at once. What can he say? Sorry, you just missed her.
The other man shakes his head. “You probably think I’m crazy, huh?”
“Nah, I’ve heard crazier. That’s a lot to get your head around though, isn’t it?”
“It is. But…I don’t know, something feels right about it all. Like things are finally lining up the way they were supposed to.”
If the rumors are true, if Copia’s being forced out, then this is—
This is too much for one day, is what this is. Dew finishes his cigarette, looks out at the skyline one more time. Huge things hidden in plain sight. “Fuck it’s late,” he says. “I’ve gotta head to bed. I hope it goes well for you, man. I really do.”
The man turns to face him fully. He knows it’s coming, and still only just manages not to flinch at the sight of the white eye. “Thank you,” he says, soft and sincere.
Dew doesn’t tell the pack when he gets back upstairs. They’ve all been through enough tonight.
***
It feels like a lifetime since they were last in Inglewood. Dew had been hoping Copia would come out to this last ritual, but in the end he couldn’t do it. Couldn’t stand being back in that neighborhood, he’d said, but Dew suspects it’s the meeting with Perpetua that he’s putting off.
This time, he’s alone when he leans against the building to smoke. The crew’s end-of-tour party is happening inside, so he expects to be joined by some of them eventually, but not—
“Well,” says Perpetua, “fancy meeting you here.”
Dew stares at him. “Are you kidding me? You’re gonna get clocked.” There are too many fans at this hotel. Not five minutes ago Dew walked past a woman in the lobby wearing a Ghost shirt—the Lachryma shirt, even. Perpetua shouldn’t have left his room until call time tomorrow, even unmasked and unpainted like this.
He just shrugs. “Maybe. But I had to. For old times’ sake.”
“So you remember our last meeting here, then?”
“I do.” Perpetua leans against the wall, closer than last time. He sighs. The pure joyful energy from that night is long gone. “I’ve wanted to ask about that for a while, but truth be told I didn’t know how.”
“That makes two of us.”
They stare out at the city. It’s a warm evening for February, a welcome change from the cold of most cities on this tour. Finally, Perpetua speaks. “How much did you know, back then?”
“Nothing,” says Dew. “I had no idea you existed until you said who your mother was.”
“But you knew, then? Who I was talking about?”
“I did.”
“And you knew she was dead?”
“I did.”
Silence. Dew doesn’t turn to look. The traffic’s starting to slow down for the evening, cars passing in twos and threes instead of a steady stream.
“Those words stuck in my head, you know,” says Perpetua. “ ‘I hope it goes well for you.’ Very carefully put.”
“I couldn’t have told you.”
“No. You couldn’t. Not sure I’d have believed you if you had.” He sighs again, a deep breath in and out to reset his nerves. Sometimes he reminds Dew so much of Copia it hurts. “I was really hoping to talk to Copia, about that night.”
“I wouldn’t.” Out of the corner of his eye he sees Perpetua tilt his head. “It was bad.”
Perpetua scoffs. “No, really?”
“I mean like he wasn’t all there. He was…dissociating? Whatever the fuck you call it, I don’t know, but it was… I don’t know how much he’d be able to tell you.”
Dew could tell him. He’s never told him he stood over Imperator as she was dying. As the medics had worked on her, her eyes had opened for just a second, barely able to focus. Dew’s old mask may well have been the last thing she ever saw.
He could tell Perpetua about the change from person to corpse, the thinnest slice of an instant between the two. He doesn't think that humans can sense it as clearly as ghouls, when a soul disconnects from a body. He'd known before the medics had.
But he doesn’t tell him. He’s not sure he really wants to know. He smokes his cigarette and stares at the skyline and the question that he both does and doesn’t want answered is heavy in his chest.
Fuck it, there’s only one more night. How bad can it be to know? “How much did you know back then? About all this?”
“Almost nothing.”
“Really?”
“I had my suspicions. I mean.” He gestures at his eye. “You have to wonder, right? But all I knew for sure was that Imperator was my mother, and she wanted to offer me a job in the Ministry so we could have time to get to know each other. Or so she said. I never imagined she meant this.”
His energy is an open book, just as it had been that night, and there’s no shadow of deception in him. He didn’t know he was being set up to supplant his brother. It’s a comfort, and it’s not. “Got a bit more than you bargained for, huh?”
“Ha, no shit.”
They’re quiet for a while, watching the sunset. It’s the prettiest the sky’s going to be all night, all pink and yellow and orange. Finally, Perpetua speaks.
“It’s… Hm. It’s odd.” He gestures broadly. “All of this. I wish it had gone different, start to finish, you know? But at the same time, I’m glad I get to be part of it. If that makes sense.”
“It does.” Dew doesn’t like to think too much about it. He misses how things were then, and he knows he’s going to miss how things are now. “For what it’s worth, I’m glad we get to do it with you.”
Perpetua looks at him for a long moment, and puts a hand on his shoulder. “Thank you, Dew. For everything.”
“Don’t get sappy on me now,” he says, though he doesn't shrug off the touch.
His friend grins, a little ghost of that first smile he saw in this exact spot. “Either I’m sappy now or I say nice things about you all on stage tomorrow, take your pick.”
[click image for better quality. full list ID under the cut.]
I said I wasn't going to do it this year . . . but then I felt bad. So here is the fourth annual Ghost Fandom Mushy May!
There is one prompt per day. You can participate in as many or as little of the days as you wish. Any Ghost artist/writer is welcome to participate.
Happy creating, and don’t forget to tag me so I can see ♥
"just the two of us"
staying the night
cooking lessons
long phone/video calls
road trips
rest & relaxation
lingering hugs
scary movies
clingy
day(s) off
wound tending
friendly competition
coffee shop au
mutual pining
acts of service
"can't wait to see you"
pets & animals
unexpected confessions
"i've got you"
springtime picnic
late night conversations
celebrations
silly shared habits
domesticity
drunken affection
song writing
gaming together
potluck
first time(s)
quiet togetherness
unspoken 'i love you's
thank you to @jimothybarnes, @wrathofrats, and @ghoul-slime who encouraged me to do mushy may still this year, even with the fandom being pretty quiet lately.
Curious how would you write Mountainxdew if you haven’t already, with mountain taking care of dew before or after one of his heat cycles.
Love your fic work!!!
Before It Comes Roaring Back
Pairing: Mountain/Dew, ~1.8k
Warnings: none, heat prep, a rare SFW piece that fades to black
a/n: you've been so patient and i am so sorry this was simmering on my back burner. i don't do a ton of heat/rut stuff so i needed to be hit with inspo and i think it has made me want to do more! anyways... i'm sorry this took one zillion years and i hope you enjoy 🫶
· · · — ⸸ · ⛧ · ⸸ — · · ·
Mountain has been in Dew's room for the better part of an hour.
No one sent him. No one asked. He'd simply woken that morning with an awareness that sits low in the chest — a certainty as old as the rock he's made of — and had known: today, then.
A text from Aether confirms that it'll be soon.
He works steadily.
The blankets first, because a nest is only as good as its foundation and Mountain's never been one to do anything halfway.
The thing about Dew is that his heat makes him run cold, and Mountain has learned over the years that the nest needs weight as much as warmth — something that presses back, that says you are here, you are contained, and nothing else is getting in.
He layers methodically. The heaviest quilt on the bottom. Two of the softer ones on top, folded so the texture sits right, because Dew has opinions about texture that he has never once articulated out loud, but Mountain has picked up on anyway.
He adjusts the fold twice before he's satisfied.
The water goes on the low shelf where it can be reached without sitting up. Three bottles, because two is never enough and Dew will not ask for more once he's down. A fourth, tucked behind the others, because Mountain knows how this goes.
Food next — nothing that requires thought or effort or any kind of decision-making. He's raided the kitchen for things that are easy, things that are dense, things that Dew actually likes rather than things that are merely available. He arranges them without ceremony and does not let himself feel fond about it.
He mostly succeeds.
He's working on the temperature, opening the window about two thirds of the way —the room runs too warm otherwise, a water-turned-fire ghoul heat is a whole climate conundrum — when he hears it.
Footsteps in the corridor with a very specific cadence, slightly too controlled. The walk of someone managing themselves very carefully.
Mountain closes the window to halfway. Reconsiders before he leaves it.
The door opens.
Dew looks — not bad, exactly, but tight. His hands are tucked close to his body, fingers curled in, and Mountain can see even from here the pallor that creeps in at the start of it — warmth retreating inward, the body hoarding what it has. There's a tension across his shoulders that hasn't released, and his eyes are too-sharp and too-aware, like everything in his peripheral vision is slightly offensive.
He's been like this for two days.
Yesterday, Mountain hadn't said anything.
Today, he's is in his room having reorganized everything, so the conversation is happening whether he wants it to or not.
Dew sees the blankets. The food shelf. Mountain standing in the middle of all of it like a very calm geographical feature.
"I almost bit the new guy," Dew says, instead of hello.
"I know," Mountain says.
"I didn't, though."
"I know."
Dew's jaw works. He drops his gaze to the bed, the layering, the arrangement, and something moves across his face that he shuts down immediately.
"You didn't have to do that."
"I know," Mountain says, for the third time, with exactly the same weight as the first two times. Not dismissive. Not pointed. Simply: yes, and here we are anyway.
"I was going to—"
"When?"
Dew closes his mouth.
Mountain waits. He's good at that. He's made of something that has been waiting since before either of them existed, and Dew knows this, which is probably why he doesn't bother finishing the sentence.
They've had this argument before. They've had it in a dozen different forms in about as many years and it always ends the same way, which is Dew accepting help while maintaining total plausible deniability about having done so.
"Stop looking at me like that," Dew says.
"Like what?"
"Like—" Dew gestures, imprecisely, somewhere in the vicinity of Mountain's entire face. "That."
"I'm not looking at you like anything," Mountain says, which is technically true and also a complete lie, and they both know it.
Dew makes a sound that isn't quite a growl and crosses to the bed. He picks up the edge of the top blanket, inspects it and finds that there is nothing wrong with it, that Mountain knows him well enough to arrange everything just so.
He puts it back down.
His hands are restless. They want something to do — and Mountain has learned this too. The way Dew's agitation needs a task, needs somewhere specific to go or it just keeps circling.
Mountain picks up the spare pillow from the chair and holds it out.
Dew looks at it. "I'm not—"
"I'm not saying anything."
A long pause.
Dew takes the pillow with a growl.
He turns it over once, finds the position he wants with the efficiency of someone who would rather die than admit they've been thinking about this, and adds it to the nest with more precision than strictly necessary.
Mountain says nothing. He picks up the next thing — a folded blanket, one more layer — and holds that out too.
Dew takes it without looking at him.
They work like that for a while: Mountain supplying, Dew arranging, neither of them acknowledging what they're doing or why. The room gets quieter. Dew's shoulders come down a half-inch, then another.
He's still frowning — he will probably still be frowning when he's fully settled and warm again and completely taken care of — but the quality of the frown has changed. It's less everything is wrong and more I reserve the right to have opinions about this, and my opinion is that I hate it.
Mountain considers that a significant improvement.
"The window," Dew says finally.
"Halfway."
Dew glances at it. Hums as he considers.
"Fine."
Mountain doesn't smile. But he does, very quietly, decide to feel fond about it
He's earned it.
When the nest is finished — and it is genuinely, thoroughly finished, nothing missing, nothing out of place — Dew stands at the edge of it with his arms crossed and surveys his work and Mountain's all mixed together into something that is very clearly his.
There's a long moment where Mountain can see him deciding whether he's going to say something real or whether he's going to pick a fight about the water placement instead.
Dew uncrosses his arms.
"The new guy's fine," he says, gruffly, to the middle distance. "Rain. I didn't actually— he's fine. I told him I was sorry."
"I know," Mountain says. "Aether told me. He said you were very gracious about it."
Dew's expression does something complicated. "New guy's annoyingly sweet."
"Yes."
"It's a problem."
"Mm."
There's another pause as Dew reaches out and adjusts one corner of the top blanket, a minute adjustment that changes nothing, and then he doesn't move away from the bed.
Mountain waits.
The window lets in a thin thread of cool air and the room is exactly the right temperature and everything Dew needs for the next several hours is within arm's reach.
He can feel it now, in the pit of his stomach. That gnawing cold feeling, growing and growing and growing.
"You got the one from the top shelf," Dew says quietly. The heavy quilt. The one that takes him a great effort to reach. "You didn't have to—"
His tail shivers. It's his favorite blanket but it always gets put up and he's not about to ask, because asking means admitting defeat and that means admitting how he feels and —
"Dew."
"What."
"Get in."
Dew huffs about it and gets in.
His tail shivers again, and when Mountain reaches across to pull the pillow straight his fingers brush Dew's wrist — cold, properly cold now, the heat already pulling inward to wherever it goes before it comes roaring back.
Dew pulls the blankets up with something that might look like annoyance to someone else, but Mountain knows.
He can see the cold flush starting to raise in Dew's cheeks and he can see the way he shifts his narrow hips to find the spot and the way he settles like he's being convinced.
He knows that the quiet little sigh Dew lets out is nothing short of gratitude, and he can't help but smile.
Mountain sits on the edge. Present, until Dew's ready.
Which, if Mountain had to guess, will be any moment now.
Dew's hand finds his arm and rests there, tapping idle little patterns into his skin — and then stops.
A small sound, barely anything. Not a word. Not quite a whine.
He wouldn't admit to that anyway.
Mountain doesn't make a thing of it. He just lifts the blankets and gets in.
Dew doesn't protest. That, more than anything, is how Mountain knows.
He tucks himself against Mountain's side with his face turned into his chest and his tail curled in close, and Mountain settles an arm around him, heavy and sure, and pulls the quilt up over them both.
Dew's breathing evens out. Not sleep yet but something close to calm before the storm rolls in.
"You're warm," Dew mutters, accusatory.
"Yes," Mountain says.
A pause.
"...Good."
Mountain doesn't smile where Dew can see it.
⛧
Down the corridor, in the small kitchen, a kettle is filled at the sink.
Someone has set out Dew's favorite mug, the heavy ceramic one that holds heat, and beside it a tin of sea nettle tea. The lid is cracked open, the smell of it something coastal and mineral and faintly sweet.
The kind of thing that takes some knowing to source.
The kind of thing you'd only think to reach for if you already understood.
He'll want that when he surfaces, someone says, quiet.
Mhm, says someone else.
The kettle clinks when it meets the stove.
⛧
Down the hall, Mountain rolls slow and deliberate until he's half over Dew, one arm tucked beneath him, the other dragging a pillow from the pile and slipping it under his hips.
Dew makes a sound that is probably supposed to be a complaint, but it melts when Mountain's hand finds the curve of Dew's ribs and rests there.
Mountain runs his fingers along them, feeling for the slow rise and fall of his breathing, the warmth of it fading beneath Mountain's palm, the smallness of him that Dew would absolutely object to being noted.
Mountain won't say it out loud, but he loves that about him. The hidden strength, despite it all.
Dew doesn't know about the kettle. He doesn't know about the mug, or the tea, or the quiet murmur of someone who knew exactly which shelf to check.
He doesn't know any of it yet.
He just knows the weight of Mountain's hand, the warmth he'll eventually bleed back into his skin, and the room at exactly the right temperature, for now at least.
Not to sound like a decrepit, rambling corpse about it, but back in my day Word used to be a pre installed program that came with your computer, if you were running Windows.
No subscription. Just program.
On your computer. You got to use it forever and ever and never had to worry about it going away.
Because it was physically on your computer. As a program. That you actually owned. Not because you got it separately, but because it was a standard inclusion with your computer.
I'm sorry but I'll just never get over it. I remember when companies cared about their products being usable out of the box. I remember when our things belonged to us.
Old man shaking fist at cloud, wherein the cloud is the background of the Windows 98 logo.
Cute little Aether/Dew thoughts for dewther week organized by @ghoul-slime. It's already getting too hot for my liking so here's some fluffiness of them warming each other up in the winter.
Word Count: 613
- - - - - - - - - -
Dewdrop has decided that he hates winter. And he spends the whole of his first winter topside expressing this to anyone who will listen. Well, anyone in earshot really.
“Hate it. Too cold.” The water ghoul mutters as the big double doors of the Ministry’s lobby shut after letting in one last frigid breeze.
He and Aether have just returned from an errand run in town. Aether enjoyed it, the town iced in frost like a beautiful cake. The water ghoul however is bundled up so tightly he has little choice but to waddle like a penguin.
Aether, in his light jacket and sweats, has the audacity to chuckle. Dew shoots him a look as he peels off the first of many layers of outerwear.
“What?”
“You haven’t even given it a chance. There's actual seasons here at least. The pit was just hot and dry all the time.”
“Not in the water.” Dew snips. “And you weren’t even fully corporeal.”
Aether sighs and shrugs. Dew’s got him there; quintessence ghouls existing more as energy than physical beings, without a vessel anyway.
“I dunno. It makes me really appreciate the summer I guess.” Aether hums.
Dew throws his scarf at Aether and starts to stalk off ahead.
Removing the projectile yarn heap from his face, Aether calls after him. “Will my poor little Dewcicle feel better if I get a warm bath going?”
Dew freezes mid stride, considering. Back still turned, Aether can’t see his face but his finned tail flicks in interest where it's been freed from Dew’s snow pants. Finally he turns, eyes big and round.
“Maybe…”
Aether chuckles again but his bribe is enough to keep Dew’s frustration to an annoyed flick of his ear fins.
“Right behind you.”
Aether smiles as Dew scurries ahead, this time with an excited spring to his step. Aether follows the trail of shed clothing layers all the way back to the den.
- - - - - - - - - -
Dew still hates winter. He may have embraced a new element but even the season of goodwill isn’t enough to sway his vendetta against Jack Frost. There's maybe one nice thing about it though.
Dew, returning to bed from the ensuite, takes a moment to admire how the light of the rising sun peaks through the blinds and dyes the room pink and gold. And at the center of those sunbeams is his favorite thing of all. Aether lays nestled in their blanket nest, in their shared bed. He’d been asleep when Dew got up but he cracks an eye open now.
“Come back. I need my little space heater.” He mumbles, still drowsy. He pats the empty space where Dew should be.
Dew chuckles. The chill in the air doesn’t freeze him to the bone like it used to; a core of pure hellfire will do that. It's still noticeable though. Quintessence ghouls are only slightly better at regulating body temperature than cold blooded water ghouls. If Dew can feel it, Aether is certainly affected by it.
“I’m coming. Scoot over.”
Dew slips back into his space in the bed, his space in Aether’s arms, like a puzzle piece finding its match on all sides. His nose finds the crook of Aether’s neck as the quint’s tail laces with his. He cranks up his internal furnace until Aether’s purring and pulling him closer.
“Better?”
“Mm hm.”
Dew soothes the goosebumps on his mate’s arms with caresses of his warm hands until Aether stops shivering. In turn, Aether scratches at Dew’s scalp just how he likes.
The warmth quickly causes a fresh wave of sleepiness to encroach like the flow of the tides and before long they’re blissfully asleep once more.
Last year, @carnivore-voyeur pointed out that 3/24 was the first day of the Popestar tour - the first day that Aether, Dew, and the rest of the Popestar ghouls appeared onstage. This year I thought it might be fun to spend the week reblogging a bunch of Dewther content to celebrate. They're still my absolute favorite ghoul pair and a huge reason I joined the fandom side of Ghost.
I have a couple of new Dewther fics I plan to drop this week and I'll go back and re-share some of my older stuff too. I'll tag everything with #dewtherweek and #dewtherweek2026 if anyone wants to follow along or add any of their own stuff (or for tag blocking purposes, if this isn't your cup of tea)! I would love to see people recommend their own works or share some of their favorite Dewther moments!! Or feel free to submit Dewther stuff to me, and I'll share it.
(I also hear that it's @carnivore-voyeur's birthday today, so happy birthday! Please also accept all of this Dewther content as a bday present!)
2087
jacobvanloon
dededos
kianamaiart
annaxmalina
