#pent writes

[justpentdraws]

"a helping hand"

the first bit of writing i did for third wing au - a life series au set in the world of fourth wing. it tells a story of how tango makes his way over the parapet and, also, how tango and skizz met. because of its lenght (as you can see below, not a great one), it won't be going on ao3 like. ever. unless i actually make it a chapter. anyway enjoy.

note: this is also the piece of writing that has skizz's double blue eyes, a funny error i made and decided to not edit out for the sake of a joke hehe

word count: 1594

"Next... Tango Tek!"

Tango swallowed and slowly stepped onto the stone bricks of the parapet. His courier bag suddenly stopped seeming like a good idea, but he trained for this. It couldn't be that bad, could it? Just don't look down, he told himself, and you'll be alright.

A blow of wind hit the bridge and his step became wobbly for a second. Just keep going. Don't look down.

"MOVE, TEK!" One of the older trainees called out mockingly. Tango ignored him.

Desperately trying to keep his mind away from the enormous drop - just waiting to swallow him whole and make him just another name written in stone, another plain grave at the bottom - he started looking at the walls of the fortress raising up before him in the distance. Were the splashes of colour on the dark stone banners? No, that was stupid, the dragon riders did not have banners, and even if they had, they wouldn't be colourful, they'd be black, of course they'd be black, it was basic knowledge.

Tango felt a burning pain in his left shoulder where the strap from his bag dug in. Should he change arms? He stopped himself from glancing down beneath his feet. Was the bridge wide enough to allow it? He didn't even notice when his legs had begun shaking from the fatigue. Keep going. Don't look down.

After a few more steps he couldn't bear the weight laid on his left hand side anymore. He stopped and almost slipped, which cost him an adrenaline rush and certainly a few years of his life. Having caught his ballance again, he slowly slipped the strap from his shoulder and took two deep breaths of relief.

It would be so easy to toss it down the bridge.

It would be even easier to just let himself fall, but unfortunately, Tango wanted to live.

He made a small, determined sound and pulled the strap of the bag over his right shoulder. "Keep going.", he whispered. "Don't look down."

Something fell on his nose. A raindrop. Tango's heart raced for a split second. Even a small rain could be deadly on the parapet. He froze and started praying to every god he knew for a helping hand.

When after a minute there were no other drops coming, he relaxed for a bit. He opened his eyes - when had he closed them? - and gazed out into the open space, the fortress and the spots of colour...

Suddenly, one of the spots shifted and Tango felt like if his stomach fell from the bridge out to the valley below.

Those were not symbols, nor roofs, and definetly not banners, he realized with a chill running down his spine. Those were dragons.

He let out a sound between a cry and a scream of terror, making a few wobbly steps back. His voice carried out with an echo, quickly silenced by the creeping mists. When did they appear this high up?

Tango felt himself slip out of balance, the wind crying in his ears was slowly silenced by the beating of his own heart, the rush of blood. He miraculously caught balance again. Don't look...

Down.

A strong sense of vertigo closed its cold claws around his gut. Tango scrunched the fabric of his vest with both hands, bending his knees. He felt dizzy. Barely hearable through his racing heartbeat were footsteps behind him.

Everything was so loud. The mist was pressing on to him from all dirrections. The footsteps were getting closer. His own heartbeat sounded deafening to him. He started breathing faster, his lungs burned as if the air there was too thin to sustain him for long enough. He couldn't move. It could not be that high up. He couldn't see for all the mist. He couldn't hear, he couldn't...

He felt a pair of heavy hands on his shoulders, stabilizing him on the parapet. He yelped. From a jumble of thoughts in Tango's mind, one floated up over the chaos as he gasped for more air. They are going to kill me.

How come he didn't make it to the end before someone caught up? How could he be that stupid? He knew he shouldn't stop. He should keep going and don't look down. Keep going. Don't look down. He was going to die.

"Hey, buddy?" A voice a lot warmer than a battle cry he expected suddenly broke through his racing heartbeat and howling wind. "Do you need a hand?"

Tango gasped something incoherent in response, trying to look over his shoulder and wobbled, but the hands kept him in place.

"Woah there, easy..." The other cadet seemed... worried. Why was he worried? Why should he worry about anything else than just tossing Tango off the bridge like a worthless sack of dead weight he was? "I'm gonna need you to breathe for me, okay? Slowly."

The dark spots that started appearing within his field of vision did not leave him any choice but to frantically nod his head.

"No, I don't think you heard me. Slooooooowly." The reliable grip on his shoulders strengthened. "Breathe in."

Tango forced himself to hold his breath for a second. The world suddenly felt... Quieter.

"Very good!" He could hear the other man smile. "Now, breathe out. Slowly."

The air felt warm exiting his lungs, through his throat and nose. Everything started becoming more bearable. Even the blood rushing in his ears seemed to slow down with his breathing.

"Breathe in?" The voice commanded again. Tango obediently inhaled another sip of cold air, this time managing to avoid frantic gasping for it. Did the mists go away? "Breathe out. Okay?" A slight shift in the weight put on his shoulders brought him back to reality. "We need to move now, buddy. Can I take your bag?"

"No... No." Tango managed to spit out the first words since the world started spinning. There were important things in that bag. "I have to... I have to carry it. Myself."

"You sure?" His savior didn't seem convinced. After Tango did not deny, he sighed. "Okay... So hold my hands then. Can I let go of you?"

"Mhm." Tango nodded, stabilizing himself on his own two feet as he felt the weight slowly taken off his shoulders. It wasn't long until the same pair of hands found his, providing additional balance.

"Now come on." The other cadet squeezed Tango's hands in his in a reassuring gesture.

"You will fall..." He protested weakly. "I will slip and I will fall, and you are going to fall too if you keep helping me like this."

"If you die, I die." The other man replied without hesitation. "But if I get to the end of the damn bridge, you are getting there with me. Now, move. One step at the time. And if you slip, I'm going to catch you."

Of course, he wasn't. Tango knew it. He might've been small, but even if the other cadet was as strong as his hands felt, Tango's weight would knock him out of balance and send them both flying to their early graves at the bottom of the valley. But at that moment, with wind whistling around them and mists finally creeping down, he found himself believing his unexpected savior. So he took a step. And then another. And another.

"Tell me about something you like." The other man did not seem bothered by his shaky movements.

"Clocks." Tango immediately spat out. "Mechanisms. Do you know that pendulum clocks run solely on gravity?"

"The force that will inevitably claim our lives once we get dragons to fall off of? Cool." His companion snickered.

"Well, not quite." Tango realized that it would probably be better to ignore the impression. "You see, they actually have these amazing systems..."

And he ranted away, explaining various types of clocks with his face turned forwards, away from the only pair of ears listening. Or not. Tango did not mind. The only thing that mattered was he hardly even noticed when he let go of his savior's hands, or even when the parapet finally widened when it reached the wall of the fortress.

He was in! Tango made a noise half resembling a burst of surprised laughter and resisted the urge to jump around with excitement - his legs were still shaking and he was still standing a bit too close to the edge for his comfort. Instead, he turned around for the first time since he stepped onto the parapet, and met the blue eyes of his savior.

The other cadet had blue eyes, vast like the sky that just attempted to swallow them both and deep as the underwater caves that seem to not have a bottom, and a kind, honest smile, framed by his dark, curly hair gathered back in a ponytail. He was nearly a foot taller than Tango - which, knowing Tango's height, was not exactly that impressive - and he was wearing what once might've been a leather jacket, but now had its sleeves ripped off, leaving frayed edges of a white shirt sticking through. "We made it!" He spoke triumphantly, spreading his arms in a friendly gesture.

Tango hugged him, feeling the other man nearly lift him up in the air with a giggle. "We made it!" Tango agreed.

When they finally let go of each other, his companion held up a hand. "I don't think we were introduced properly. My name is Skizzle, you can call me Skizz."

"Tango." He shook the offered hand. "Tango Tek, nice to meet you.”

[mischievous-thunder]

Be careful, Logan. Your freaky kidnapper's falling in love with you.

[zuzu-draws]

Yuuji's ''I'm going to die with him'' from the start of the series to ''Sukuna, Come back and live with me '' at the end is, honestly, very beautiful.

"Let's try again one more time Sukuna, but this time, without cursing anyone. Even if no one else accepts you, I'll live with you" do you understand what's going on here? This is Yuuji attempting to connect with Sukuna, to show a certain compassion that is entirely alien to Sukuna. To the way he delicately lifts Sukuna's remains, with such carefulness, as if holding the remains of a precious loved one, Yuuji tries to show Sukuna "love". The same "love" that has been teased to us this entire series, that who is it that will show it to Sukuna, teach him of it.

This is the same Yuuji, who, at the beginning of the series held absolute disdain towards Sukuna, and always looked at him with much accusatory contempt and mistrust. At that point, He truly did think of Sukuna as nothing more than a "curse". The same "curse" Sukuna calls himself one last time as the last embers of his soul fade in Yuuji's hands.

But this time, Yuuji has a troubled look in his eyes.

As if he disagreed with him.

This is the look of someone, who is looking at the Humanity Sukuna does not believe exists within himself.

Humanity that Sukuna denies himself.

That Sukuna is not a curse, but a human that has been cursed.

[pawzofchaos]

I'm so upset Pent finally found acceptance and a family and it was snatched away from him cuz he died for them

[starry-bi-sky]

The first time disciple Shen Yuan/Shen Qingqiu meets Liu Qingge, it is during a Bai Zhan peak raid. And what ends up happening is that Shen Qingqiu gets kicked in the jaw with such force he feels his teeth clack together unpleasantly. And frustrated with his situation, the system, and quite frankly a ton of other little things that have been building up over the course of the last few weeks, he feels something snap in the back of his mind like that of a rubber band after being stretched too far.

What ends up happening is that Shen Qingqiu turns and locks onto the very first figure he can see that is dressed in grey-and-white like a homing missile, and then with the force of a twin-tailed mountain tiger, lunges towards said figure with an equally menacing snarl.

He ends up taking the Bai Zhan peak disciple by utter surprise, and they both collide into the ground in a tangle of angry yelling and limbs. What ends up happening is that Liu Qingge gets the subsequent wind knocked out of him and pinned into the dirt by a Qing Jing peak disciple who is filled with the might and fury of a scholar having their peaceful afternoon interrupted and a once-grown-man re-experiencing puberty.

It is with that might and fury that Liu Qingge meets the wild, frenzied eyes of Shen Qingqiu, with his lips pulled back into a truly ferocious scowl. Shen Qingqiu hisses out, with such force it makes his voice rasp, as if he might as well sink his teeth into Liu Qingge's throat and rip it out; "Get the fuck off my mountain."

Liu Qingge is so shocked by -- well, quite a many things, but most importantly the fact that he has been pinned, and the way the sun is bouncing off this boy's face, -- that his brain needs five seconds to reboot. It's five seconds too long, because by the time he registers what just happened, Shen Yuan has clambered off him and disappeared. Gone and thrown himself into the closest dust cloud scuffling in order to unleash the rest of his fury on the other Bai Zhan Peak kids.

Qing Jing Peak experiences an unfortunate uptick in Bai Zhan disciple visits -- specifically of the Liu Qingge variety. Specifically Liu Qingge, actually. Who very much wants to find the boy that managed to get one over on him and demand a rematch. (Or maybe kiss him.)

[murdockparker]

Roses and Regrets Part 2

Anthony Bridgerton x Reader

Summary: What a pleasant life it is, to be a widow with no obligations. Getting new dresses, making unlikely friends, what a treat.

Word Count: 3.9k

Rating: 18+!!! MINORS DNI (I will haunt you)

Warnings: female masturbation, yearning, Reader decidedly hates Anthony (what's new??) , maybe a bit of angst

A/N: oops my hands slipped and this is what happened. sorry bout that, bruv!

first part - next part

—

“You should have seen him, Meg.”

Her lady’s maid nodded along to Lady Barlow’s rant, having heard the interaction in nauseam since she returned from the park. From his appearance to his demeanor—Meg assumed she might as well have been there. Carefully, she continued to remove the pins from the dowager viscountess’ hair, the very same that she had placed in the morning. 

“I am sure Lord Bridgerton was certainly unagreeable,” Meg droned, accidentally snagging her lady’s hair. “Sorry, ma’am.”

“You know, you don’t have to do all that, I am a perfectly capable woman,” (Y/N) laughed, looking at her maid in the mirror. “And he was, unagreeable, if you must know.”

“He is alway unagreeable,” Meg said, exasperated. “My lady, please take no offense, but I think this talk of Lord Bridgerton must cease.”

“You do not have to ask me twice,” (Y/N) snorted. “I wish for nothing more than to stop speaking about that oaf.”

Meg blinked. “Right. Of course.”

“You… you do not believe me?”

“I believe you believe it to be true,” Meg carefully stated, hands by her sides. “We have a good friendship, ma’am, and I am ever grateful that you allow me to speak my mind—”

“So speak it,” (Y/N) said, voice tittering on a giggle. “I shall not take offense, I swear it.”

“You have done nothing but speak of Lord Bridgerton since you arrived from your visit to the park,” Meg began, choosing her words carefully. “Save for when you had your meals, hard to speak over soup and the like. I, for one, am exhausted hearing about it. Perhaps a respite from the topic?”

“Imagine how I feel,” (Y/N) finally laughed. “That man makes me insane.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I pray whenever he marries—oh that poor woman—I hope she can teach him some manners.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Perhaps I should send him a book on it? Manners, I mean.”

“Good idea, ma’am.”

“Meg, you are not hearing me.”

“Oh I am hearing you,” Meg nodded. “I am just choosing not to listen.”

She bit her lip, eyeing her friend’s faraway glance. Glassy, almost. “Perhaps… I suppose I should drop the topic for now?”

“It is late,” Meg shook her head, nearly dropping out of a trance. “I have mending to attend to, if you do not mind.”

“You hate the mending.”

“Picking and choosing my battles, ma’am,” Meg smiled politely. 

“Admirable,” (Y/N) said. “I suppose it is late…”

“Might I fetch you some more tea before you retire?” She set the last pin down amongst the vanity. Covered in expensive oils and products, it’s a wonder that anyone could find anything at all on the surface. Thank God Meg knew the contents like the back of her hand.

“No… I fear it will keep me up all night, but thank you, truly,” (Y/N) said. 

“Goodnight, my lady.”

And then, she was alone. 

Snuffing her candle, she hopped into her bed. Thankfully she never shared this one with Lord Barlow—that was reserved in the wing across the estate—leaving this bed untouched by such a soiled man. It was pleasantly plush and covered in endless pillows, she wondered if the royal princesses slept in beds as nice as this one—nicer, probably. More pillows, if she had to wager.

Sheets pulled up to her chin, eyes focused on the ceiling, she tried to chase sleep. Her mother had taught her a trick when she was young, imagining rabbits chasing around the room and counting those—perhaps it was sheep? Regardless, she tried counting. She only made it to twenty nine before flipping onto her side, exasperated by the count. 

Sleep never came.

The covers melted off of her body in an instant, floating over to her door to ensure it was locked. Quietly, oh-so quietly, she turned the latch. No need for the staff to interrupt her… sleep. She hardly had to turn to such matters, but when exhaustion cycled her brain and not her body, leaving her tossing and turning all night, she really had no other choice. 

No other choice, she reminded herself. 

She laid on top of the covers this time, rabbits and sheep all but forgotten.

If there was to be one positive of marrying, it was the sheer fact that she was able to fully understand her body as a woman. While the marital act itself was entirely loathsome—a chore with Lord Barlow that happened infrequently during their marriage to try for an heir—the act of doing it alone? 

Why the idea alone just got her heart pounding. 

She never had anyone to teach her these things, her mother passed before her marriage, so there was no ‘wedding night talk’. Everything that Lady Barlow had learned was from her sheer will and determination—a chase for something she never quite knew she was racing towards. Her husband? He had never been any help. A few grunts and thrusts before he would spend himself inside, collapsing on top of her for the night. 

She refused to give her late husband much thought—not when her hands were on her breasts, one slinking lower to touch a more delicate area. 

No. She needed to focus her thinking on something else. Something to get the job done, send her to sleep sooner than later. 

The gentleman. The faceless one that she imagined in place of her own hands. It usually sped things along if she focused on a generally well-looking fellow and how he’d touch her instead of just chasing her own feelings with her fingertips. Saved her wrists a lot of pain too—occasionally she felt like she was back practicing her penmanship, writing lines all day with her governess—the ache was fairly similar. Although, one pain caused a higher embarrassment than the other.

Decidedly happy with her diversion of thought, she made quick work on the bottom of her nightdress and pulled it up to her stomach. (Y/N) had never the need to sleep with drawers, feeling a dress was more than enough. Besides, it gave her easy access on nights like tonight. Her fingers danced with her lower lips, already damp with arousal. 

She sighed at the first contact, the pure ecstasy of running her fingertips across her glistening folds. In her mind, he was doing this to her, the nameless man who wanted nothing more than to give her what she needed. With slow and tantalizing circles, she teased her clit, gasps leaving her lips involuntarily, her eyes rolling shut before she could even think. Her non-dominant hand continued to grasp at her breast, squeezing and rolling the flesh until she was utterly mindless. 

The climb was thrilling, it was suffocating and all encompassing. How she dreamed she could experience this with someone, feel this pleasure with another, both giving and taking exactly what the other needed. She groaned again, feeling herself getting closer to the edge, her circles faster now, the gentleman making good work on her neglected center. 

“Gods,” (Y/N) cried, trying her very best to keep her voice down. She didn’t need Meg inquiring about her, not when she was so worked up and so, so close.

And then… the fall. Everything was white and her heart felt like it was bound to beat out of her chest.     

Brown eyes.

As she fell into a peaceful slumber, for no reason in particular, she decided her faceless gentleman had brown eyes. 

—

Breaking her fast was usually rewarding, the chefs at Barlow Estate were some of the most talented in the ton—of course, only in her humble opinion, not that she had much to compare it to. When she first married Lord Barlow, having such fulfilling meals first thing in morning was almost worth marrying such an oaf. Almost.

“Did you have a good sleep, ma’am?” A butler asked, taking (Y/N)’s empty plate, replacing it with one full of fresh cut fruit.

“Oh!” Her face flushed. “Y-yes, James, of course. I always have a pleasant sleep.”

“You look well rested, ma’am,” he nodded.

“My lady,” Meg spoke up, gaining the attention of Lady Barlow from her fruit. “You have an appointment at the modiste early this afternoon.”

“I don’t recall making an appointment,” (Y/N) held her hand still, half of an apple tight in her grasp.

“I made the appointment, ma’am,” Meg said. “You are in need of new dresses—” 

“Is there something wrong with the way I dress?”

“Of course not,” Meg said quickly, her face growing slightly pink. “It is just, since the late Lord Barlow passed you have been in mourning attire—blacks, blues, the entire dreary ensemble. I figured it would be best to get dresses that suited more the colors of the season.”

“I am unsure if you noticed,” (Y/N) said, taking a small bite of her apple. She chewed it quickly. “But my dress today is green.”

“I did notice,” Meg nodded politely. “It is a lovely color, but perhaps a lighter blue would be nice? A purple?”

“Perhaps you should listen to her, ma’am,” James interjected. “The family account has not been used since after your wedding and the mourning attire—”

“And I can use that money elsewhere,” (Y/N) raised her brow. “I’m sure the new viscount will be pleased I am not blowing his money so frivolously, I do not see the need for new dresses.”

Meg sighed, giving James a trying look. He shrugged. “Humor me. Just one dress.”

“Fine. One dress."

Somehow, between the carriage ride to the modiste and the tailoring of a beautiful purple display piece, Lady (Y/N) Barlow was talked into three new dresses. A sharp pinprick to her left leg brought her back to her senses. 

“Oh! Lady Barlow, I do apologize,” Madame Delacroix said. “You must keep still as I pin your hems."

“I will try my best,” (Y/N) smiled, glancing down at the woman working hard on her new dress. “How fortunate the display dress you had fits so well.”

“Oui, how fortunate,” Madame Delacroix nodded. “A few pins and stitches and it will be perfect. And this color is very flattering—I am certain the men of the ton will turn their heads at this.”

She fought the urge to roll her eyes. “I have no need to turn heads, Madame,” (Y/N) said curtly. “I am simply just refreshing my wardrobe.”

“Oh, no one has the need to turn heads, save for the young ladies,” Madame Delacroix giggled, it sounded almost fake, forced. “But my work will do that regardless, so do expect that Lady Barlow.”

“Joy,” (Y/N) sighed, tilting her head at her reflection. While it hadn’t been an extraordinarily long time since she debuted—a shake over three years at the most—she was no longer the young girl from her first season. Her curves have filled out, her features more defined, so this particular cut was suiting her just fine. Madame Delacroix was the best modiste for a reason, knowing just how to make the ladies of the ton sparkle.

The front door swung open, a sea of blue flooding in the entryway. “Ah, Lady Bridgerton, I shall be with you in a moment!” Madame Delacroix called out.

(Y/N) froze at the mere mention of the Bridgerton name.

“Take your time, Madame,” Lady Bridgerton cooed, practically shoving a book of fabrics in her daughter’s face. Eloise, (Y/N) recalls, the second eldest daughter of the brood. It was her first season. “We’ll be patient.”

“Shall I pull another dress, Lady Barlow?”

“No,” (Y/N) shook her head wildly. “I rather think I am finished for this afternoon. Please add the dresses to my account—”

“Lady Barlow,” Lady Bridgerton said kindly. “How lovely it is to see you.”

Fuck.

“Lady Bridgerton,” (Y/N) curtsied, feeling far too proper. “Likewise.”

“What a lovely color that is on you,” she said, eying the girl up and down. “I take it you are out of mourning then, yes?”

“Have been since the Danbury Ball,” (Y/N) nodded. “But I gather Lady Whistledown has already made that public knowledge.” 

Lady Bridgerton's cheeks flushed, like a child with their hand caught in the biscuit jar. “I cannot say that I find myself reading that gossip rag often, but—”

“Oh Mother,” Eloise groaned, looking up at the ceiling in frustration. “You read Whistledown just as often as I.”

“I do not blame you, Lady Bridgerton,” (Y/N) quickly added. The older woman’s shoulders relaxed. “For the many months I was in mourning and not socializing, Whistledown was my way I could keep up with everything. I very much would like to thank her, should I ever get the opportunity.”

“Yes, well,” Lady Bridgerton cleared her throat. “In any case, if you happen to be free tomorrow afternoon, would you like to join me for tea?”

“Tea?”

“I remember how it felt when—” she stopped herself, eyes becoming glassy. “Becoming a widow so suddenly is difficult. I would like to bestow my wisdom upon you if you’d allow it.”

“You are not quite old enough to be bestowing wisdom,” (Y/N) laughed lightly.

“I beg to differ,” Eloise mumbled.

“Flattery, Lady Barlow, will get you everywhere,” Lady Bridgerton smiled, elbowing her daughter lightly. “And you already have the invite, no need to lay it on so thick.”

“That is very kind of you, but—”

“So, shall we say noon tomorrow?”

The Bridgertons, as Lady Barlow gathered, were a difficult lot to say no to.

“Noon. Sounds perfect.”

—

It felt odd, being in the drawing room of Bridgerton House. She only ever had the fleeting thought that she’d ever sit here the once—ages ago during her first season. Now? Now she was sitting and drinking tea with Lady Bridgerton as if nothing was wrong in the world.

“You have a lovely home,” (Y/N) said, holding her teacup a little tighter than she should. 

“Thank you,” Lady Bridgerton said voice full of appreciation. “Tell me, Lady Barlow, how is your family?”

“My family?”

“Oh, forgive me for asking,” Lady Bridgerton clarified. “I just had realized that I know very little about you, you were only in the season for such a short time before you married. I figured your family was a good place to start.”

“No, no,” (Y/N) put the cup down. “I understand. Seeing as everyone knows about your family,” Lady Bridgerton chuckled at that, “I should only fill in some blank spaces, I suppose.”

The elder dowager nodded her head, tipping her cup at the younger widow to continue.

“No family, I’m afraid,” (Y/N) said, her voice wavering on sad. “Mother passed a few years before my debut, Father just last year. No siblings, so… just me I’m afraid.”

“Goodness,” Lady Bridgerton pressed a hand to her heart. “Your father and husband in the same year? I am truly sorry for your losses.”

“My mother was the true loss,” she said honestly, her voice practically lifting. “Kindest soul to grace this Earth, I mourn her every day. The others? I do not doubt anyone has missed them.”

“Lord Barlow,” Lady Bridgerton dropped a spoonful of sugar into her cup. “He was an odious man. When I had heard he had taken another wife—it was quite the story around the ton. I was beside myself.”

“I happen to be number three,” (Y/N) said matter-of-factly. “Number One and Two both died in childbirth, trying to give that man his beloved heir. Never worked out, and I cannot say I am crestfallen I never came to be with child, either. The new Lord Barlow is quite well suited for the role regardless, I am told, so I suppose it has worked out for the best.”

“Yes,” Lady Bridgerton had a small smile against her lips, “I can imagine so.”

“Does your son,” (Y/N) coughed, correcting herself, “Lord Bridgerton, does he know I am here for tea?”

“Oh my son is not always privy to my social calendar,” the older woman winked. “He is probably out galavanting and trying to find a wife.”

“A wife?”

“Oh, yes,” Lady Bridgerton nearly beamed. “Lord Bridgerton is finally looking to marry—even after all these years of begging him. Something just clicked last season, I suppose. Perhaps Daphne, the duchess, marrying finally gave him the right idea?”

(Y/N) nodded politely. “I’m sure you’re thrilled.”

“I only wish for the best for all eight of my children,” she nodded, “so seeing him look to marry makes me ever hopeful.” 

“Mhm,” (Y/N) sank into more of her cup, polishing it off.

The grand clock ticked away. 

“I apologize if this all makes you uncomfortable Lady Barlow,” Lady Bridgerton started. “It is just… when Edmund passed, I had my family and wonderful friends to support me. I figured, perhaps, having another friend would not be the worst thing?”

“Lady Bridgerton, you are very kind for checking in with me, and I very much appreciate this tea,” (Y/N) said honestly. She felt like she could jump out of her skin with anxiety, but tried her very best to keep it under control. “But… as you had alluded, it is no secret that Lord Barlow and I were not a love match. There is no need—”

“Being a widow is hard,” Lady Bridgerton cut her off. “It is rotten work and you feel like a shell of yourself, only having a title such as ours because of who we married and not in our own right. Tell me, do you plan on remarrying?”

“No.”

“No?”

“I am quite content with my life,” (Y/N) said thoughtfully. “Widows have all the freedom in the world, I am allowed many opportunities because of it—far more than when I was simply a little thing on the Marriage Mart.”

“I suppose that would be… correct,” Lady Bridgerton treaded lightly. “However, do you not wish for a family? The support of another?”

“It is not that I do not wish for a family,” (Y/N) said truthfully. “I am sure part of me does, but it is more the matter of everything that comes with it.”

“I could never imagine going about life alone,” Lady Bridgerton said. “After Edmund… I am just grateful my children were here to keep me sane, grounded, even.”

“Children can be a blessing…”

“But children,” Lady Bridgerton added quickly, “they are not for everyone. I hope you find happiness in whatever you need.”

“Thank you,” the young viscountess said sincerely. “You have such a wonderful life, Lady Bridgerton.”

“Violet,” she corrected. “Please, call me Violet.”

“Oh,” (Y/N)’s cheeks darkened. “Violet, then.”

“We are friends now, after all,” Violet smiled kindly, the kind of smile only a mother possessed. She waved for the tea to be replaced, a butler practically rushed to fulfill the viscountess’ request. “More tea?”

“I would love some more,” (Y/N) said, feeling lighter than air. Perhaps having a friend was a good step forward, a leap into the right direction.

The door to the drawing room slammed open.

“Mother, I just received our balance from the modiste and—”

Much like he owned the place—and in a way, he did—Lord Bridgerton took command of the less-than-quaint room and had all eye on him. His own eyes—his brown eyes—were trained solely on the widow sitting beside his mother, his mouth agape.

“Oh Anthony, you cannot just barge in here,” Violet scolded, “we have a guest.”

“I see that,” he seethed, shoving his hands behind his back in faux-decorum. “Lady Barlow.”

“Lord Bridgerton,” she nodded stiffly, not bothering to raise from her seat.

He ignored her, turning swiftly to his mother instead. “May I have a word alone with our guest, Mother?”

Feeling the tension in the room rise, Violet sighed, giving into her son’s request. “I believe I should check on the governess, anyhow,” Violet said, rising from her seated position. “Behave.”

Anthony brushed his mother’s whispered warning off, tilting his head to the staff, all leaving the room at his command. The door had barely clicked shut before he stepped forward. “Since when are you friends with my mother?”

“Since when do you care about who I spend my time with?”

“Since that company is my mother,” he said cooly. “I would have thought you were just so turned off by the Bridgerton name that you would ignore all of my family—”

“She is a nice woman,” (Y/N) rose, crossing her arms. “How you managed to turn out the way you have despite that is beyond me.”

“You are in my home,” Anthony pointed. “You insult my character and you dare try to befriend my mother?”

“Dare?” She laughed. “Am I not allowed to have friends?”

“Not with my mother,” he stepped towards her. 

“Your mother,” she smiled forcefully, “Violet, has been nothing but kind to me today. She was merely looking out for me—offered me some good advice.”

“Advice?” He laughed. “On what planet could someone many years your senior offer you helpful advice?”

“You could not settle with just insulting me, so you had to insult your own mother? She is not yet elderly—”

“Yet she is older than you,” he corrected, his cheeks pink from his mistake. “Do you not have friends your own age?”

“Do you not have something better to do?”

He huffed, squeezing his wrist in restraint. “I came here to speak with my mother—”

“Yet you shooed her out of the room and decided to speak to me instead,” she countered, stepping closer. “To insult me? To threaten me? Whichever, I suppose, I will never understand. I decided to take tea with Lady Bridgerton because she offered it—offered advice on being a widow, something you have already known about me.”

“I wouldn’t wish for her to hear our conversation, besides, her advice could not have been that helpful,” Anthony snorted. “My parents were in love, her trials of being a widow pales in comparison to your situation—”

“The one in which I also lost a husband? The sole definition of being a widow?” She said, her arms tight against her chest. “That situation?”

The grand clock—that damned grand clock—chimed in the uncomfortable silence, a new hour beginning.

“I may not have loved Lord Barlow,” she admitted. “He may not even have been a friend to me, but I still am a lady who has lost her husband—a lady who has so much as lost her way in this fucked world, a world where a woman cannot simply be without one. Your mother was simply being kind.”

“I did not mean…” Anthony’s posture softened, even just a bit, words caught in his throat.

“But you did,” she pointed. “If you hadn’t meant it, you wouldn’t have said it. My, Lord Bridgerton, you certainly have a way with words, much like you always have, it seems.”

“I beg your pardon?”

She looked at the clock. “I must take my leave. I am expected to be back home soon, the estate certainly cannot run itself, seeing as my husband,” she nearly spat the word, “has left it to my care. What a thoughtful man he was.”

“I—Lady Barlow,” Anthony started, unsure of where he was going with it. “Please accept my apologies.”

“Keep them,” she smiled. “They are nearly as useless as you are. Excuse me.” Lady Barlow opened the door with haste, nodding to the staff members who were waiting outside. Her lady’s maid, Meg, followed only a few steps behind her, her attention caught on the wounded viscount in blue.

Anthony practically dissolved into the arm chair, unsure of what to do next. He had half a mind to go to his study to drink, to pour over the invoices that had him enter this room in the first place. His interactions with Lady Barlow usually left him buzzing, his blood boiling and his ego only partially wounded. How he was left feeling so defeated was beyond him.

“A way with words?” He mumbled to himself. “I never wish to understand that woman.”

Yet, a part of him nearly screamed the opposite.

How peculiar.  

—

Roses and Regrets Tag List:

@creative-heart , @sunshineangel-reads

want to be added to my taglist? comment below!

[xythlia]

thinking about cockwarming one of the brothers (asmo or mams) while doing your nails or vice versa 🫣

𓏲 ࣪₊ warnings: cockwarming, use of pussy/cunt/clit, teasing, nail painting, being called cute, creampie, sloppy sex

feedback \ rbs are appreciated ♡

"Ah, I told you to stop squirming so much," you teased, wiggling your fingers over your shoulder to show Mammon the smudged polish on your cuticles.

Your laugh dropped to a groan feeling his hips buck against your ass, the weight of him inside you shifting as he whined. Biting your lip to hold back you shifted your hips as your eyes drifted back to the bottle of polish on your desk.

Mammons breathy groans made your skin clammy, desperate to have him touch you but you couldn't walk back your restrictions now. He had to learn to be patient, and apparently so did you. Still, a little teasing never hurts so with each drag of the brush against your nails your cunt squeezed around him, mapping every vein and feeling his cock throb in response.

"You think you're so cute, don't ya?" He panted through gritted teeth, fingers digging into your hips.

"Yeah, so do you-"

Before the quip made it all the way past your lips you moaned feeling his lithe fingers against your clit.

"You're right, I think you're so- fuckin- cute," he growled through gritted teeth, ignoring your squeak of protest as he rose, still inside you, and placed a hand firmly on your lower back to keep you pressed to the desks surface.

Your mouth dropped open as he slowly pulled out before slamming back inside you, making your body jerk against the wood. Mammon set a deep, rough pace and as your hands scrambled to hold on to something the bottle of polish clanked to the floor, forgotten.

He helped you get one leg bent against the desk, giving him a better angle and making tears floor your lower lash line. His fingers danced smooth, rhythmic circles around your clit in time with every thrust and it made your breathing hitch.

The desk rattled, suddenly feeling rickety against the onslaught of movement and for a moment you imagined it breaking beneath you. You didn't get to linger on the thought for long with white hot pleasure burning fast through your bloodstream and shooting straight to your brain.

As your legs shook all you could do was babble his name, cries of harder, more; it spurred him on until his thrusts became bruising and sloppy, one hand massaging your ass cheek.

"You look even cuter like this ya know," he bent to whisper against the shell of your ear, body pressed hot against yours as you felt thick, warm cum flood your cunt.

If your brain wasn't feeling like jello you'd tell him he was absolutely adorable when he was all worked up.

[blushedfemmes]

ok but can we talk about how the current wave of resentment towards “pillow princesses” has become like. straight up femmephobia and people being weirdly shitty towards femmes online / calling us spoiled and damn near evil because butches wanna take care of us and how dare we

yes we can and we can also talk about how a lot of people use femmes as a receptacle for their unexamined internalized misogyny. i have experienced this directly from a masc queer partner in the past, and on a casual/subtle basis my entire life, both from cishet women and from fellow queer people. and i will go ahead and say this is a femme-specific problem (at least in the context of these posts) because people will often use the way we present and our mannerisms and what we might prefer in bed as an excuse to belittle us, because the urge to belittle women (or that which we perceive to be woman-shaped, consciously or not) is so prevalent. in other queer people it will come out as ‘well i just think they’re being selfish in bed, i think they’re being spoiled/entitled, i think they look childish and stupid dressed that way, i think they’re scared of looking queer, i think they’re dressing for the male gaze, i think they’re acting like a stereotype, (and especially if it’s a femme transfem) i think they’re being too binary-gender conforming and therefore oppressive/predictable/bad, etc etc’ and all this plus more for femmes of color whose femme expression doesn’t ‘make sense’ to any given white person or immediately read to a white person as queer or lesbian

and it really is about gut reactions and never about the truth. femmes often exercise a great deal of care in our interactions with butches or with anyone, and we often derive immense satisfaction in caring for our partners. of course femmes can be shitty. femmes can be selfish. we are an enormous and complex group of people and, furthermore, everyone is capable of causing harm, i know i have. but the times when i have personally experienced this brand of femmephobia it is almost always because of assumptions that people made because they already had a gut reaction to me and how i dress and what i like, and they’re making up reasons to justify it.

there is no end to the excuses people will make in their minds to justify treating femmes badly, because they saw a woman-shape and decided to use us as a dumping ground for internalized misogyny. and yes it is a particularly stinging betrayal, because it happens the most in our own queer communities, where we long to be accepted.

[crybaby-bkg]

“Oh, I’m sorry, baby. Want me to kiss it where it hurts?” Kirishima purrs up at you, his place between your thighs seemingly the closest thing he can get to ascension. His eyes are wide, his pupils blown out, any red swallowed up by the lust pooling in his eyes. he looks like the picture of adoration and worship, all faux worry and pure hunger as he bounces between your gaze and the pretty picture that twitches in front of his face. his eyes cross to watch the slick ooze from your hole, sighing.

“It’s the least you could do for me,” you pout to him, running your nails through his soft locks, tugging a little meanly at the root. “After using me like a toy on your cock for so long.” Your words are sighed wistfully, your eyes betraying just how much you want his mouth on you as he wants to taste you. Kiri moans at that, quiet and in the back of his throat, but you hear it none the less.

“I’m sorry, baby,” he repents, but it’s all for naught when his tongue laves over your sensitivity and doesn’t let up until you’re crying from the overstimulation once more. he’s so sorry—that you can only cum so many times before you tap out. he’s so sorry—that your thighs are more sore from tightening up around his head than his working jaw. he’s so sorry—that you’re so addicting, that he can lay between your legs until his last breath leaves him.

[turtleofdamascus]

I thought I'd never see

Inspired by the breathtaking fic save the undone years by Whitherward @whatanybodygets which is an AU about Kaz and Inej during WW1 where Kaz is a soldier and Inej is a nurse. This moment that stuck with me:

“All this waiting, and his brother appears at his bedside like a ghost in the night. [...] [Captain Reitveld] simply drops onto the edge of Kaz’s mattress and yanks him forward by the shoulders, wrapping him into a tight hug.

She sees Kaz go tense for a moment, and then relax, bury his face into his brother’s shoulder.

And then he begins to sob."

-

Been working on this for a month. I can't put into words how beautiful of a writer she is. I am always in awe and must drop everything for it.

Bonus: process

[creativesplat]

I would also like to see some miphlink, if that's okay!

I was really struggling with what to draw, and then I remembered your ask from ages ago (dang ADHD brain...) anyway, sorry its such a late answer, but Miphlink inspired by Dicksee's La Belle Dame

[hungharrington]

something about teasing steve in public to the point where he's just flustered and so whiny and can barely keep a conversation... aaah

MMMM ANON U ARE SPEAKING MY LANGUAGE 

it won’t even be your fault in the beginning, he’s just a little more keyed up than usual - a steamy dream of your lips stretched around his cock that felt a little too real, had him squirming in his sleep— and worse is, he slept later than usual because of it so he hadn’t even been able to get out of his system before heading to work :( so yeah, his hormones might be flowing a little easier today but steve is fine! he’s fairly confident that the boring lull of his solo shift is precisely the boner killer he needs. 

except, of course, you decide to visit him— because you’re so nice to your boyfriend! and somehow, it’s like you manage to look actually mouth-watering today, like steve does a double take when the chime of the door goes off, head looking up twice and it’s like a visceral reaction, a pulse of heat that runs through his body. steve out right groans a little bit, covers his face with his hands for a moment and then runs them through his hair. you’re frowning a bit because what kind of welcome is that? and steve’s like “no no! not like that!” but fuck, wait those shorts you’re wearing are quite short— showing off your thighs sinfully and steve actually can’t control how he eyes you up and down unashamedly, tongue darting out to wet his lips — you clock the horny in him in a second

“my my, what’s got you in a such a mood today?” you ask, an elbow meeting the front counter as you lean on it, but you might as well be purring the words to steve- the way you just read him in an instant does not help all of the morning’s unforgotten feelings from crawling back into his body— steve groans aloud again when he feels his dick twitch in interest in his pants. 

“don’t,” he warns, jabbing a finger in your direction as his other hand as subtlety as he can readjusts his pants, “i was already nearly late to work because of you!” that makes you frown a bit in confusion, moving to round the counter to properly greet him since it’s so quiet in store- you plunk down a bag containing some lunch of him that you’d brought with you. steve arms are waiting and twine around your waist as your sling over his shoulders and round his neck, a sweet embrace with his back to the door. you smirk up at him just a bit, “late because of me? and how did i manage that all the way from my own home?” 

steve glances at the front door, dutiful in checking there’s no one coming, but even so his voice drops a bit quieter when he says, “you… i had a dream about you.” his face manages to get a little warmer, given away by the colour in his cheeks, and if you weren’t clued in before you definitely are now. steve’s funny about dreams, even though you assure him you’re quite flattered he searches for you even in his subconscious— but he always admits them a bit shyly, like you might react badly.

“a dream?” you echo, slithering your hands from around his neck down his chest purposefully — and steve shivers at the motion. before he gets a moment to tell you knock it off, you’re speaking first, hands travelling to trace over his tummy, “what sorta dream?” you ask, even though you know. steve glares at you because he knows it too. he glances out the front window again and speaks in a hushed voice when he turns back, “y’know,” he says, face somehow growing redder. “like a… a sexy dream,” 

and that makes you laugh a little bit, because how can he be so good at dirty talk in bed and still call it ‘a sexy dream’ like a 13 year old? you’ll never know. all you do know is that you’ve decided mischief is what you’re after today, hands slipping under his polo to scratch lightly along his v line — and it’s enough to make steve’s breath stutter. “what are you—?” he asks, his hands around your waist beginning to move, like he might seize your torturous hands. “what happened in the dream?” you ask instead, cutting him off. you pair your question with a hand that runs down his front, not at all subtle with the way you brush against his cock. it shoots a thrill through you to feel he’s already half hard in his pants- your hand ends up atop his thigh, fingers rubbing the sensitive inner part of it as you ask him again, before he can catch up, “what got you so worked up, stevie?” steve’s eyes scrunch closed, whether from the memory of the dream or your inching higher hand— the other stays on his tummy, thumbing light circles on his happy trail. 

“you-“ he starts, cutting himself off with another little shiver. one hand leaves your waist like he’s going to grab your own but you’re already trailing further up, beginning just lightly palming him through his jeans - and his hand just hovers instead, clenching into a fist. his gaze has moved to watch your hand work him intently “fuck, wait,” he says, breath a little heavier than before. “you— you were,” he’s scarlet in the face by this point, words getting a little weaker. you properly rub him, curling your fingers around what you can feel and giving it a good squeeze and steve audibly swears, some pathetic noise escaping his throat before he can stop it. 

“you gotta stop,” he manages to exhale through a jagged breath, even though his hands stay exactly as they are, flexing through his pent up hormones. “it’s— someone could…” he trails off breathily as you dip your thumb beneath his waist line as you give another delicious rub along his cock, enough that another strangled pitiful noise comes from steve’s mouth, along with a whisper of your name. you can’t tell if it’s lucky for him or not that nobody has come into the store in the time you’ve been toying with him. you pout exaggeratingly, “but you didn’t even tell me what happened in the dream?” 

you choose that exact moment to retract your hands, pulling back just a bit and standing on your tiptoes to press a kiss to his scorching cheek. steve’s blinking, confused by the whiplash of suddenly having so much touch turn to none but you’re already rounding the corner— “you’ll have to tell me later, i guess! enjoy lunch, baby” and he’s like stammering, turning in time as you approach the door and barely get out his own goodbye before you’re gone, the bell chiming as you go. steve huffs, taking one glance at his pants and resigning himself to spending the next hour pressed against the counter and not moving at all. “little minx,” he curses, tugging his collar away from his neck to try cool off even just a bit. he swears that is the longest shift he’s ever worked - but can’t even be too mad about what you did, considering you were well & truly waiting for him when he came home, ready to bring his dream to life 

[kaeddehara]

high key just slow, sensual fucking with gepard—nothing fast paced and overwhelming—just you on top of him, riding him slowly and gently. maybe consider it one of your first times with gep—he’s sure to want to impress you and not disappoint. thinking you want something fast paced that’s sure to tire you out, but instead showing him the loving, caring side that sex has to offer. all the while you’re riding him slowly, your make our session thats been going on for who knows how long is getting more and more heated. hands sliding down your body from your hips to your waist, groping and feeling up your body just so he can appreciate everything about you physically. your arms around his neck, occasionally threading through his pretty blonde strands as you grind down on his girthy cock. the whole time you share gently words with each other—praise about how good this feels from one another. especially gepard, he can never keep his mouth shut when he’s around you like this. words of praise and compliments come spilling from his mouth and it’s only until you kiss his reddened lips that he quiets down—fully enjoying his time with you <3.

[munsonify]

desc. when with with your friends at a local diner, you see your ex boyfriend out with a new girl not even two weeks after the breakup. luckily, steve’s there to support you.

blurb • 525 words

you could feel your eyes welling up with tears the moment they laid eyes on him. him and his smug little smirk you only saw when he got something he wanted. it sent you into a spiral, and it was quick. you stumbled on your feet as you were guided towards a booth inside of the dimly lit diner, eyes not leaving what you saw.

he was sat with a girl with thick, curly blonde hair and a wide toothy grin plastered on her face. whatever he was saying must’ve been funny. her hand reached over to nudge his arm gently with a high pitched giggle. it was awful.

your friends knew of the situation - he’d broken up with you only 2 weeks before this, giving some fake excuse as to why he felt like he needed to. it broke your heart. you couldn’t quite pinpoint where it went wrong. you’d just been talking about your future with him days beforehand.

you sat yourself on the inside of the booth you shared with four of your other friends. it was a tight squeeze on your side, but you made it work. your thigh was pressed firmly against your friend steve’s, with the other pressed right up against the wall to your side. even with your knees knocking against his, and the slight stickiness you felt on the table, you couldn’t bring your eyes away from him.

you always had a feeling he’d been embarrassed of you. he’d insist on going on dates late at night, or in the next town over. he’d never ramble about you to his friends, or make an effort to show you off to anyone. it sounded self centered complaining about something like this, but you couldn’t help but feel overly self conscious about the whole thing. seeing him with a new girl, smiling proudly as she laughed at every last dumb joke he made, only made it worse.

it wasn’t until you felt a hand on yours that you pulled your eyes away from your ex. you looked down at your lap to see a third hand accompanying yours, large and slightly calloused and gentle. your eyes drifted to steve, whose eyes were shining right back at you, welcoming. he gave your hands a gentle squeeze, swiping his thumb against the back of your hand closest to him. there was something about him that helped you ground yourself.

steve offered you a soft, encouraging smile, his hand not leaving yours. you let yourself settle in beside him, taking a long deep breath.

he made conversation with you the entire night. his hand barely left yours as you spoke about whatever came to mind - life, friends, silly memories. he spoke to you with such care, even though the conversation wasn’t about your problem and worries. you liked how thoughtful and caring he could be.

steve was a reminder that everything would be okay. it was nights like these that made you remember you had someone to fall back on no matter what. you’d be forever grateful you had someone who wasn’t embarrassed of you. you’d be forever grateful you had steve.

taglist: @songbirdofthenight

[arithmonym]

as much as i love abigail pent, i forget sometimes that she’s very much annexing the fourth house and the teens have complicated feelings about it!

[wrathofrats]

16 for the angst prompts pleasee (maybe mountain dew?)

-☀️🌙

… I’m so sorry

This turned into 1.2k words of me deep diving into dew’s insecurities. Y’all keep telling me to hurt that fire ghoul and I sadly have more than enough to deliver.

Hope you enjoy!

“He’s just been extra sensitive recently.”

It sounds like rain from what dew can make out through the door.

“I know. He’s just been harsh.”

That was definitely mountain. Were they talking about him?

“I don’t think he means it. Just been rough for him”

“Yeah but it’s getting hard to be around. He’s been mean rain, more than he usually is”

Usually is?

“I know. I’ll talk to him. He’s just in a funk I’m sorry”

“You don’t have to be sorry. You’re not the problem, dew needs to figure himself out”

So they were talking about him.

“I agree, trust me. Just cut him some slack ok?”

“Fine”

He hears the doorknob turn and he quickly darts in the direction of his own room.

Had he really been that badly recently? Sure he’s usually blunt and likes to mess around, but *mean*? Has he really been mean to everyone? To mountain?

The questions race through his head as he sits on the ground in his room. He doesn’t try to be mean. He doesn’t try to hurt anyone, the thought of being genuinely malicious to those he loves makes him feel sick. He knows no matter how much guilt he may feel or whatever his intentions actually were, they don’t excuse the effect they’ve apparently had.

He tries to suck it up and stop wallowing in his own pity. He wants to make it up to mountain, and whoever else is thinking the same thing as him, because surely everyone else is right? Dew doesn’t feel right with himself.

He starts with the greenhouse. He brings up the fresh mulch from storage that mountains been talking about needing to retrieve, and quickly refills his watering can before mountain comes to start his work.

“Droplet, did you do this?” Mountain asks. Dew doesn’t like the tone of confusion in his voice, like he would never expect dew of all people to help out. But he nods anyways and retreats back to his room.

The next day dew makes mountain his coffee alongside is. Wakes up 15 minutes early to be able to beat him downstairs.

“I made you coffee since I was awake, just how I know you like it.” Dew offers him a nonchalant smile. He tries hard to not seem like he’s going out of his way to be so kind. He hopes that the others will maybe just think he’s finally changed his ways, become better.

“Dew, can I ask if something’s wrong” mountain stares down into his coffee in confusion.

“What? No. Nothings wrong with your coffee. It’s just a kind gesture” dew rolls his eyes. Mountain didn’t think this was some elaborate prank did he?

“No, is there something wrong with you droplet” mountains eyes held genuine concern.

“Why would there be?”

Mountain doesn’t know how to phrase it. Doesn’t like the weight of the words on his tongue, but tries to say them anyways.

“You’ve just been … overly kind recently. Did something happen? I just want to know if you’re alright”

The slam of dews ceramic coffee cup echos off of the kitchen walls. He knew this would happen, he should’ve expected it.

“Why do you think something’s wrong with me when I’m nice? You wanted me to be nicer and now something’s wrong with me?” His voice is higher than he wants it to be.

“Dew no, that’s not what I meant-“

“I heard what you told rain. I’m sorry I just wanted to do better for you” he doesn’t want to cry. He is anyways. He again prayed that mountain would just take his kindness and forgive him and they could move on but he’s never had that kind of good luck before, why would he now?

“I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean it. I was frustrated and was venting and I never wanted you to hear that.”

Dew hiccups around his words. He’s embarrassed, never likes to show this much emotion. He’s always been the emotional one and he hates it more than words can ever describe.

“But you said it for a reason. Just let me change. I just want you all to love me I’ll change I’m sorry I’ll do better” his words slur together. His wipes his face with his sleeve and tries so hard to be composed though he knows he can’t be. Not like this.

“You don’t need to change dewdrop. We don’t want you to change. I’m sorry, you didn’t need to hear any of that. I didn’t mean it.” Mountain tries his best to plea with him, but he knows this about more than a stupid conversation behind closed doors.

“I do need to change. I need you all to love me like you do each other. Please” he can’t stop the words from tumbling out if his mouth. Years of pent up insecurities and he’s ashamed for how easy he’s letting them all go.

“We do love you dew, we love each other all equally, what is this about?”

“You don’t treat me the same” the words are choked, they’re barely coherent. “No one gives me the same affection as everyone else and I don’t get it. I just want to be loved like everyone else is”

“Oh dew, we do love you. I’m sorry if we made you feel otherwise. Why didn’t you say something?” Mountains abandoned his coffee now in favor of trying to rest his hand on dews shoulder but it’s quickly batted away. He’s concerned, almost scared at the way dew is practically sobbing, almost hyperventilating.

“I shouldn’t have to tell you how I feel. If I deserved love I would’ve gotten it already” he finally yells, sobs around his words. He collapses on the ground with mountain by his side. He’s again ashamed for his emotions. He doesn’t like being like this, doesn’t like being a nuisance. This was supposed to be about proving himself to mountain and he’s made it about himself. He again tries to push the concerned ghoul away. He doesn’t deserve the support.

Dew knows he's being unreasonable. He's jerk, a menace, a brat. Why would anyone go out of their way to show him any extra kindness. He doesn't deserve it. There's always the question of "if you crave love so badly, why don't you treat others with it" and the internal debate of "I don't deserve it" and "if I deserved it, someone would see past the act and give it to me anyways"

He's blind though, as the other ghouls do love him no matter what. The way they mess with him a bit extra, giving him an outlet to have fun, they think he enjoys it so they keep doing it. How they go to him when somethings wrong, or immediately move aside when all he needs is a warm bed and no talking.

The way mountain plants extra lilacs because he likes the smell, or how ether stands closer to him than the others on stage.

He's just too blinded by his own insecurities to see it. A bitter sweet feeling at being "right" about not deserving to be loved, but he was never right, just can't get over his own ego to admit that.