ihavetoomanyocsdealwithit

[ihavetoomanyocsdealwithit]

Some emotions practice with some of the twisted bois. Hope you enjoy! ❤️

[ihavetoomanyocsdealwithit]

"YOU'RE MORE THAN ENOUGH."

ft. professors + mr. sam

summary: you’re like a daughter to him, so when he sees you upset, he doesn’t hesitate to comfort you.

- PROFESSOR TREIN:

The hour was late.

The moonlight filtered through the stained-glass windows of the library’s restricted archives, painting the old stone floor in fragmented colors. Most students had long gone to bed, except one.

Y/N sat hunched over an open book at the farthest table, surrounded by a fortress of tomes nearly as tall as Lucius himself.

Professor Trein stood in the doorway silently, watching her for a few moments. Her brow furrowed in concentration as she scanned a chapter about ancient magical law, clearly beyond the current curriculum for her year.

Lucius yawned lazily in his arms.

“She’s still here,” he murmured, and Lucius responded with a slow blink.

He stepped inside.

“You know,” came his deep, even voice behind her, “when I said you could use the archives, I didn’t mean you should try to absorb them entirely.”

Y/N startled, then sat up quickly, brushing hair out of her face. “I’m sorry, Professor Trein. I didn’t realize it was this late.”

“I did not come to reprimand you,” he said calmly, setting Lucius down with a graceful dip of his arm. The cat promptly jumped onto her table, curling beside her stack of notes. “But I will say, your dedication continues to border on concerning.”

She gave a sheepish smile. “I guess I just wanted to get ahead. I didn’t want to fall behind again.”

Trein studied her. “Again?”

Y/N hesitated, then looked down. “Back in my world... I used to be told I wasn’t trying hard enough. Even when I was. I guess... I’m afraid of being seen as a failure here too.”

A long silence passed.

Professor Trein closed the distance between them and set a hand on the back of the empty chair across from her. He didn’t sit, not yet, but the look on his face had shifted. The stern lines around his eyes were still there, but softer. Thoughtful.

“You are not a failure,” he said, voice low but firm. “Not here. Not in this world. Not under my watch.”

Y/N’s throat tightened unexpectedly.

He finally sat across from her, folding his hands on the table as if conducting a private lecture, though no lesson followed.

“You remind me of my daughter, you know,” he said, gaze distant. “Stubborn. Kind. Quietly carrying more weight than she should have to.”

Y/N watched him with wide eyes. He rarely spoke of his family.

“Did she... ever struggle too?”

Trein let out a breath that wasn’t quite a sigh. “She did. Especially when she was younger. She wanted so badly to be perfect. To please everyone. It was exhausting to watch her dim her own light for others’ approval.”

He looked at Y/N again, eyes keen as ever. “You mustn't do the same.”

“I just want to be useful,” she whispered.

“You are,” he said at once. “You listen when others don’t. You take care with your words. You try, even when no one notices. I notice.”

Her lips parted slightly. He continued:

“Lucius tolerates only a few. He doesn’t curl beside just anyone.”

As if on cue, Lucius let out a purring snore.

Professor Trein’s tone grew a touch warmer. “I would be lying if I said I didn’t feel a sense of responsibility for you, Miss Y/N. You are far from home, surrounded by magic you never asked to understand. And yet, you carry yourself with grace.”

Y/N blinked quickly. “Professor...”

“I may not be your father,” he said, smoothing his sleeve, “but should you ever need the ear of someone who acts like one, I am not difficult to find.”

Her vision blurred, just for a moment. She looked down at her open book, then slowly closed it.

“...Thank you.”

Trein rose to his feet and gently placed one of his gloves on top of the closed tome.

“You’ll catch cold walking back like that. The halls are drafty at night.”

She smiled softly. “You said that before.”

“Then clearly you haven’t listened,” he said, but there was no bite to his voice, only the dry echo of affection.

He picked up Lucius, who gave a sleepy flick of his tail.

As he turned to go, he paused. “Go to bed, Y/N. You’ve already done enough for tonight.”

“Yes, Professor.”

“And.. Y/N?”

She looked up.

“I am proud of you.”

Then he was gone, coat brushing against the ancient tomes like the wind through old pages.

- PROFESSOR CREWEL:

The thunder of Crewel’s heels echoed sharply across the alchemy lab as he paced back and forth, his coat flaring behind him like a cape. The classroom was empty, except for the one student left behind, carefully bottling the last of her potion assignment.

Y/N, sleeves rolled to her elbows, gloves on, face speckled with soot, but focused. As always.

She’d stayed after class again. For the fourth time this week.

Crewel narrowed his eyes. “You’re going to drive me grey, girl.”

She looked up, startled. “Professor Crewel! I thought you left.”

He scoffed, tossing his silver hair with a flourish. “As if I’d let my best student burn her eyebrows off unsupervised. Again.”

“That was one time!” she said, laughing softly. “And it was Ace’s fault.”

“Then I should have expelled him on the spot for endangering my honorary daughter’s face.”

He paused, smirk curling at his lips. “Speaking of, sit. You’ve been standing for hours.”

Y/N blinked. “Honorary what?”

Crewel ignored her question and waved his pointer dramatically. A chair slid behind her, and she plopped into it with a surprised oof.

He leaned over the counter beside her, eyes sharp as cut crystal.

“You’ve been overworking yourself again. Don’t think I haven’t noticed the circles under your eyes and the way you almost fell asleep during yesterday’s demonstration.”

Y/N looked down at her gloves, sheepish. “I just... want to prove I belong here. That I can keep up with everyone else.”

“You already have,” Crewel said flatly. “And frankly, I’m growing tired of watching you push yourself to the brink when you should be basking in your success.”

She blinked up at him. “You really think I’m doing well?”

“I don’t think,” he said, straightening, “I know. You are brilliant, clever, and more refined than most of the brutes running around this campus. And despite being magically displaced from your world, you haven’t lost your composure.”

He turned, striding toward the supply shelf in his usual theatrical style.

“I’ve taught many students. Most are exhausting. You are exceptional.”

Y/N's heart clenched. He never said things like that to anyone, especially not like this.

Then, without warning, he placed a small gift-wrapped box in front of her. Black ribbon. Immaculate corners. A silver tag that read simply:

For Y/N – From the only professor with taste.

“...What is this?” she asked.

“A gift. Obviously.”

She slowly opened it. Inside lay a tailored pair of gloves, hand-stitched in deep violet with embroidery in silver thread, her initials sewn inside the wrist. They were beautiful, practical, and clearly made by someone who cared.

“They’re resistant to flame, acid, frostbite, and idiotic lab partners,” Crewel declared. “I enchanted them myself.”

Her throat caught. “You... made these?”

“I don’t trust those flimsy school-issued things on someone I care about.”

He adjusted his gloves, avoiding her gaze now. “Consider it a father’s indulgence.”

Y/N looked at him, speechless.

“I’ll not say it twice, dear,” he added briskly. “But if anyone dares mistreat you, hurt you, or even look at you sideways, just say the word. I’ll ruin them with style.”

She stood up, clutching the gloves. “Professor Crewel... I don’t even know what to say.”

“Then don’t.” He approached, and to her surprise, placed a hand gently on her shoulder. “Just promise me you’ll take care of yourself. You may be strong, but even diamonds crack under pressure.”

She nodded, eyes misty. “I promise.”

He nodded once, then gestured dramatically at the door. “Now, off you go. Before I throw a tantrum about your beauty sleep.”

She laughed and that made him smile, just barely.

“Thank you, Professor,” she said, lingering for a moment. “Really.”

“Anytime,” he replied, voice quieter now. “You may not be mine by blood, darling, but I assure you, if anyone ever asks, I’ll say you’re my most dazzling creation.”

- PROFESSOR VARGAS:

The sun dipped behind the tall towers of NRC, casting long shadows across the Training Grounds. Most students had already stumbled off, worn down by Professor Vargas’ relentless afternoon circuit.

Except for one.

Y/N was still on the field, her arms trembling slightly as she attempted her final set of push-ups. Her muscles screamed, but she didn’t stop, not yet.

Vargas spotted her from across the field and shook his head with a low whistle.

“Still pushing, Muscle Pup?”

She flopped onto the grass with a grunt and a breathless laugh. “I wanted to beat my reps from last week.”

He jogged over, the ground practically shaking with every step. His signature towel hung over his neck, and sweat still clung to his forehead, but there was a proud grin stretching under that thick mustache.

“Y'know,” he said, tossing her a bottle of water, “most students drop the second I say ‘extra laps.’ But not you.”

Y/N took a long drink. “I figured if I want to survive in this place, I’d better get stronger.”

“You’re stronger than half the magic flingers here already,” Vargas said, crouching beside her. “And not just physically. You’ve got that internal fire, that oomph. That’s rare.”

Y/N raised an eyebrow. “Oomph?”

“It’s a technical term,” he said, mock-offended. “I don’t expect you to understand the complex science behind it.”

She snorted, and he let out a laugh that boomed across the empty field.

Then his tone dropped, becoming steadier.

“I see a lot of kids come through here, Y/N. Some of ‘em act tough. Some try to coast on magic alone. But you.. You work for it. You take every hit and get back up.”

She blinked, caught off guard by the praise.

He rubbed the back of his neck, trying to play it cool. “I may not be the sentimental type, but, if I did have a kid, I’d want ‘em to be like you. Headstrong. Honest. Unshakable.”

Y/N’s eyes widened. “You mean that?”

“I don’t say things I don’t mean. Ever,” he said firmly. Then he paused. “And for the record, if anyone gives you trouble, whether it’s some arrogant spellcaster or a shadow monster, I’ll be right there. No one messes with my best trainee.”

She looked down at the grass, trying not to get misty-eyed. “Thanks, Professor...”

He stood and held out a hand. She took it, and he pulled her up with ease.

“Oh, and before I forget,” he added, pulling something from his gym bag, “got this for you.”

It was a custom wrist brace, sturdy and practical, reinforced for lifting and casting spells. It had a faint charm etched into the side, his own initials.

“Better support. Less strain. No excuses,” he said, giving her a wink. “Now go shower. You stink like hard work and I respect that.”

She laughed, clutching the brace to her chest. “Yes, sir.”

As she walked off the field, Vargas watched her go, arms crossed over his chest. He didn’t say it aloud, but in his mind, the thought echoed proudly:

“Kid’s got more heart than half this school."

(I think I seriously mischaracterized him here, I'm sorry💔)

- MR. SAM:

The chime above the shop door jingled as Y/N stepped inside the dark, warm interior of Mr. S’s Mystery Shop.

It smelled like old incense and lemon tea. Shelves towered with strange trinkets, glowing vials, and charms that whispered to one another when no one was looking.

And in the middle of it all stood Sam, leaning lazily over the counter with a grin that practically shimmered in the candlelight.

“Well, well, well... if it isn’t my favorite customer.”

Y/N smiled, dropping her coin pouch onto the counter. “I’m not here to buy anything today, Mr. Sam. Just wanted to look around.”

Sam raised an eyebrow, then tilted his head. “Mmm. You never come in without a reason, little shadow. What’s on your mind?”

She hesitated. “I just.. had a rough day.”

Sam’s grin didn’t fade, but his voice gentled. “Then you came to the right place.”

He snapped his fingers, and the lights above the counter dimmed. A cozy golden glow spread over the space. Without a word, he pulled a steaming cup of sweet spiced tea from somewhere behind the counter and slid it toward her.

She stared. “You sell tea now?”

He winked. “I don’t sell it. But I keep it for people who need it.”

She sipped it. It was warm and soothing, like the comfort of a hug you didn’t know you needed.

Sam leaned on the counter, watching her quietly.

“You remind me of someone I knew a long time ago,” he said, voice soft and melodic. “She always came into my shop with tired eyes and an aching heart, but never complained. Always thought she had to carry everything herself.”

“...What happened to her?” Y/N asked.

He smiled. Not sadly, not happily—just something in between.

“She learned that even shadows have places they can rest. And that strength isn’t about carrying the weight, it’s about knowing when to set it down.”

Y/N didn’t say anything, but something in her chest loosened.

After a quiet moment, Sam reached beneath the counter again. “I know you didn’t come to buy, but this one’s not for sale.”

He handed her a small black pouch tied with a silver cord. Inside was a charm carved from a dark polished stone. At first glance, it was simple. But if she turned it in the light, the surface shimmered with words that weren’t quite legible.

“What is it?” she asked.

“A protection charm,” Sam said, gently. “Made with memory stone, carved to respond to intent. It won’t block a curse or deflect magic, but when you’re lost, or hurt, or feel invisible, it’ll glow to remind you that someone sees you. Always.”

Her hands closed around it carefully.

“I can’t accept something this valuable-”

“Y/N,” Sam said, a rare seriousness in his tone now. “There are students, and there are customers... and then there are the few who walk in and feel like family the moment they step through my door.”

He leaned in, his grin returning. “And you, little spark, are family.”

Her heart clenched in her chest.

“...Thank you, Mr. Sam.”

“Anytime,” he said with a wink. “But if anyone hurts you, you send 'em my way. I’ve got potions that’ll make ‘em itch for a week. Purely educational, of course.”

Y/N laughed, wiping her eyes quickly. “You’re scary sometimes, you know that?”

Sam threw his arms open dramatically. “Scary? Me? I’m a warm and generous businessman!”

The floating skull above the shelf chattered in disagreement.

She turned to leave, the pouch clutched in her hand.

“Don’t forget,” he called after her. “That charm don’t work with lies. So don’t try pretending you’re fine when you’re not. That’s how you end up stuck in your own darkness.”

She paused at the door and smiled back at him.

“I won’t.”

The door closed behind her with a soft jingle.

And inside the shop, Sam leaned back with a hum, the candlelight flickering like a heartbeat.

“Keep shining, little shadow,” he whispered. “This world don’t know how lucky it is to have you.”

[ihavetoomanyocsdealwithit]

I wholeheartedly believe all the other first years are physically stronger than Ace, and I think I have pretty solid proof to back this up.

It's been stated several times in game how strong Jack is; for example in one of his birthday cards he said himself that a good majority of his day is spent training and working out. (I mean just take one look at the guy and tell me he ain't a musclehead)

Sebek is literally a knight and has been training to be a knight ever since he was small with Lilia and Silver. (And again just look at the guy and tell me he can't throw Ace over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes)

And I know we've all seen Deuce's SSR Liongard card. So it's safe to say that he is also stronger than Ace (Just look at Ace's twig arms compared to Deuce's. Ace is lucky Deuce's isn't a delinquent anymore). Not to mention I'm sure he takes training and exercising more seriously than others. Trying to be a horror student and all.

Now then there's Epel. I also think that Epel would take working out and stuff more seriously. Trying to be more "manly" and stuff like that. But also he is pretty athletic and is shown to like sports and such. So despite his height I think Epel is pretty strong.

Then there's Yuu and Ortho. I mean Ortho is a robot so I'm just gonna assume he's naturally strong. And with Yuu I'm not too but I'm pretty sure most of the book Yuu's could beat Ace in a physical fight. (Yuu's vary from person to person. So I can't speak much on their strength)

Ace has said that he doesn't really care for sports and things like that, and that he just doesn't care for working out in general. Whether it's lack of motivation or just pure laziness. We can assume that Ace doesn't do much heavy lifting (Not to mention the comment he made about himself being considered slim in the beginning of the game). That's why I think the other first years are stronger than Ace.

Buttttt on the other hand I think Ace is smarter than the other first years, but I'll talk about that another day.

[ihavetoomanyocsdealwithit]

Hi I really enjoy your writing you feed my twst boys craving so well😌 but anywho if you're writing rn could I request headcanons for leona,trey,and ruggie (and maybe whoever else you'd like to add) with a reader that was abandoned by both parents when she was little (like left on the side of a road kind of abandoned) but was taken in by someone before getting to go to nrc later and despite the fact that she was ditched for no reason, she's still mellow and loving and likes to help anyone she comes across.

(I felt like this could be a funny scenario with how bitter some of our guys can be lol)

Leona Kingscholar

When he first hears about how you were abandoned—literally left on the roadside as a kid—he scoffs. Not because he’s mocking you, but because the absurd cruelty of it physically irritates him.

“Tch. People are garbage.” He says it bluntly, a gruff, irritated click of his tongue following right after. You’d think he’d be indifferent, but he’s seething inwardly on your behalf.

And when he finds out you’re still soft, kind, and cheerful about life? He deadass stares at you like you just said “I eat fire for breakfast” or something equally insane.

“You’re telling me... they tossed you out like trash, and you still go around helping everyone else like some volunteer therapist?” “Yeah! I mean, it’s not their fault. Not everyone’s like my parents, you know?” “Hah?! Are you listening to yourself?!”

He gets lowkey offended on your behalf. Not because you’re weak—but because you’re too good for this trashfire world. (It's giving "Your too nice for this world, I'll be an asshole for both of us)

Be prepared for passive-aggressive protection. He’ll act like he doesn’t care, but the second someone talks down to you or tries to take advantage of your kindness:

“You got a problem with them?”

“Leona, it’s okay—”

“Did I ask you, herbivore?”

Your calm presence becomes a balm to his bitterness. When you sit beside him in the botanical gardens, warm breeze blowing through the trees, he doesn’t need to talk. Just being near you softens his edges.

And you? You just smile at him with sun-warmed affection.

“You’re a good person, Leona.”

“Ugh. Don’t go spreadin’ lies like that. You’ll ruin my image.”

Summary: Grumpy desert prince meets road-abandoned sunshine. You break his defenses by being too pure for this world—and he’ll ruin the world to protect your smile.

Trey Clover

He listens to your story one day while you’re helping him decorate a tart in the Heartslabyul kitchen. You’re rolling out dough and humming when you casually mention:

“Yeah, my parents left me when I was little. Just kinda… dropped me on the roadside, I guess.”

The way his hands freeze, icing bag mid-squeeze—priceless.

“...Wait, what?”

“Oh, it’s okay! I was taken in by someone kind. And I like helping people now. Makes me feel... warm.”

“...Damn. You’ve got a heart bigger than all of Heartslabyul’s tarts put together.”

He’s quietly, profoundly impressed. You didn’t just survive—you chose to be kind. That kind of emotional resilience? Rare.

Trey is the quiet protector type. He won’t loudly defend you like Leona, but you’ll notice it in how he shields you from heavy topics, gently nudges others to treat you with kindness, and always keeps your favorite flavor in stock.

Whenever you're helping others and wearing yourself thin, he’s the one to slide you a plate of something warm and say:

“You’ve done enough for today, sweetheart. Time to let someone take care of you.”

His bitterness toward his own responsibilities and expectations fades when he’s around you. You remind him why he likes taking care of people in the first place.

He sometimes watches you from afar, smiling softly and murmuring:

“If only more people were like you.”

Summary: The “mom friend” meets the gentle orphan who still loves like she was never abandoned. He admires your strength and quietly commits himself to making sure you never feel unwanted again.

Ruggie Bucchi

When he hears your story, he lets out the most uncomfortable, high-pitched laugh.

“Eheheh... Y-you serious? They just—left ya? Like that?”

“Mhm. I was lucky someone found me before anything bad happened.”

“Geez... talk about dark beginnings...”

This man gets you more than most. He’s known hunger, abandonment, and poverty. But where he chose to become scrappy and street-smart, you stayed soft.

And that baffles him.

“Okay but—how? You’re always smilin’, always helpin’ people. Like, what’s your secret? Magic potion? Brain damage?”

“...Compassion?”

“Sounds like brain damage.”

He teases the hell out of you, but deep down he’s genuinely inspired. You remind him that you don’t have to become cynical to survive.

And, real talk, he will throw hands with anyone who tries to take advantage of your kindness.

“You mess with them, you mess with me—and trust me, hyenas bite.”

Sometimes he’ll just sit beside you and joke around like usual, but there’s this soft look in his eyes when you’re not looking. A quiet kind of awe. You’re the kind of person he thought couldn’t exist anymore.

Summary: From abandoned to soft-hearted saint, you’re a living contradiction to Ruggie’s worldview—and he loves it. You’re a reminder that people can still be kind, even when the world’s kicked them around.

Bonus: Cater Diamond

Posts about how you're "actual sunshine incarnate ☀️💛"

“OMG your origin story is so tragic but you’re like, thriving?? Teach me how to emotionally heal pls”

Bonus: Idia Shroud

“Statistically speaking, people with your trauma should be a villain origin story. You're... You're like some glitch in the simulation.”

Is both terrified and enchanted.

[ihavetoomanyocsdealwithit]

[Company of the Night]

Synopsis: Riddle should’ve known that he couldn’t speak up against his mother, but at least you’re there to give him an escape.

Genre: Hurt/Comfort

Notes: Mentions of Riddle's mom and her toxic parental style (ie. Controlling behavior, diets, physical/verbal abuse)

Pairing: Riddle Rosehearts x Reader

Riddle has changed a lot in the past few months. 

Physically, he’s still the same: Same height, same physique, same ruby red hair, and pale skin. However, internally, he’s not the same person as he was at the beginning of the year. Where he was once a strict, commanding housewarden, he’s now a far more calmer housewarden that's much more lenient with the rules.

He doesn’t turn red at the thought of his dorm members not reciting a poem upon seeing a seven centimeter long caterpillar. He doesn’t scream when people pick flowers from the garden on Wednesdays. He doesn’t cast his unique magic every time someone drinks black tea or lemonade with honey in the evenings. 

No, there’s a sense of relief that followed his overblot and an immeasurable weight that seemed to be lifted from his shoulders. His dorm members appear happier, and Riddle can happily admit he likes that he can eat more strawberry tarts and drink his tea how he wants. 

Yet as winter break draws near, there’s a certain dread that stirs inside of Riddle. For as he enjoys the freedom he has at NRC, surely, his mother would have a differing opinion. 

But, despite how much trouble he has dredged since his enrollment, Ace was right. Riddle is not a trophy for his mother. His accomplishments aren’t ornaments to make his mother feel more worthy. He may be her son, but he is his own person with his own thoughts and behaviors. 

So when winter breaks comes around, there's a quiet conviction that stirs inside him as he stood in front of his companions.

“I'm going to try talking with Mother,” Riddle had said in the mirror room before going home. “I don't know if she'll listen, but even so…”

The thought of confronting her was nerve-wracking, but the encouraging smiles he got from his friends made him feel a tad more confident. With a fiery determination and ignoring Floyd’s exhausting comments, Riddle walked through the mirror. 

Reaching the front door of his home, Riddle had already conjured several different conversations he could have with his mother. Some were handled better than others, but having the multiple possibilities gave him the sense of preparedness in a very difficult conversation with his mother.

“Sevens, you gained weight!” However, all his thoughts instantly vanished with the first sentence out of his mother’s mouth. There was no “Hello!”, “Welcome home, son!”, or “I miss you, Riddle!”, but Riddle knew those words would never be spoken to him. Still, it never made the sting hurt any less. “Have you not been adhering to the diet I created for you?!” 

“I have, mother,” Riddle spoke, but, even to his ears, his voice turned rather meek and quiet instantly. Any remnants of confidence he built up is rapidly crumbling down under his mother’s fierce glare, and a growing part of him is regretting eating all those sweets Trey baked for the unbirthday parties. 

“Nonsense! You’ve gotten chubbier!” She sneers, gesturing at his body. There’s a disgusted gleam in her eyes, and Riddle has to force himself to keep his hands at his sides and not on his stomach. “If you can’t even stick to a diet, I fear for how your studies are going!” 

Then comes the onslaught. Harsh sentences spew forth from her painted lips, picking and probing at his physical features and his very being. Words that slice his skin, forcing blood to ooze out from the open wounds. Phrases that break down his spirit, shredding and turning them to dust. Statements that remind him that he doesn’t know what’s good for him. 

No, only mother knows best.

The screaming reminds Riddle of a particular moment, where he is regressed to his pitiful, child self sitting alone at his desk. Books are splayed all over the mahogany, and there’s a screeching yell every time he uses his left hand to reach for the pen—the perfect writing utensil in his mother’s eyes as he’s forced to not make mistakes. There’s a deep fear sitting in his heart because he can’t take another sharp reprimand, and his dominant hand throbs from the constant smacks from the wooden ruler. 

“Show me your exams and report card,” In front of the 17 year old Riddle, his mother thrusts an arm out in front of her, wiggling her fingers expectantly. So with an uncanny mechanical movement of his body, Riddle reaches into his bag to take out a folder and places it into her awaiting hand.

As she opens the folder and pulls out the papers, the sight reminds him of his child self once more. It’s the moment where Riddle reaches out his right hand to take the pen, and there’s finally silence in the air. The pen feels awkward in his nondominant hand and his penmanship is shoddy, but mother is pleased. She smiles just as wide back then as she does now, eyeing the 100s scrawled on his tests and straight As on his report card. 

“At least your studies haven’t suffered,” His mother huffs. She peers over the papers, narrowing her eyes. “But don’t think you’re off the hook. I have more workbooks on your desk. I expect you to finish those by the end of the break. Am I understood, Riddle?”

“Yes, mother,” He answers with a nod. Then with a wave of her hand, Riddle is finally dismissed. So he wordlessly takes his luggage and trudges past his mother towards the staircase. On his way, he sees his father sitting in his office, never once looking up at him. Again, the sight is familiar, but a part of him wishes his father had spoken up just once. 

But Riddle knows better, so he forces his gaze forward and heads straight to his bedroom. He shuts the door behind him with a soft click and looks towards his desk instinctively. Like his mother said, there are several stacks of workbooks sitting on his mahogany desk in the corner. 

His mother’s words echo in his mind, and it dawns on Riddle how much work he has to do. Thus, he doesn’t bother unpacking his luggage and forces himself to sit at his desk. He picks up the fountain pen with his right hand and takes one of the workbooks from one of the stacks. Flipping open the book, the second-year begins his arduous task. As he works out the problems on the pages, there’s a familiar numbness seeping into his skin, similar to blot discoloring a mage’s pen. 

Some part of Riddle wonders how he looks—Sitting hunched over his desk, surrounded by multiple towers of workbooks on the first day of winter break in the supposed comfort of his home. What kind of expression does he wear? What emotions would be reflected in his eyes? If his dormmates were to see Riddle now, would they be able to recognize him?

Those questions remain unanswered as the hours pass by. The only breaks he took was for the bathroom and meals, which goes as expected: Tense and eerily silent. After eating a small portion of bland salmon and a salad of supergreens for dinner, Riddle goes back to his work till the sun sets and the stars come out. 

By the time 11 o’clock rolls around, he’s dressed in his nightwear. He’s mentally exhausted and more than ready to crawl into bed for the night. Despite the fact that Riddle has already completed a few of the workbooks, he knows that it’s not enough. Not when there’s still much more left and time is ticking away. Time that could be used to finish his studies, lest he wants to face his mother’s wrath again. So maybe he should—

Knock-knock

The sound is just barely audible in Riddle’s muddled mind, but he glances over to the window in surprise. His heart stutters in his chest as he sees you sitting on a flying broom through the frosty glass, waving his way with a carefree grin. All thoughts fly out his mind as he walks your way and opens the window with a soft creak.

“Hey, pretty boy,” And there was that cursed nickname you gifted him upon your first meeting. You claimed you liked seeing him turn red whenever you used it, but Riddle doesn't enjoy the uncomfortable stutter of his heartbeat when he hears the nickname. Yet, he cannot find himself reacting much to it, and you notice immediately cause your easy-going smile disappears instantly. “Didn’t go so well?”

“No, I…” Riddle starts as he averts his gaze to the ground. Shame fills his chest once his next words fill the air, lingering heavy and pathetic. “I never got the chance,” 

The once named rose-red tyrant finds himself unable to look at you. For all his accolades and titles, Riddle finds that it means little when it comes to you. For whatever reason, there’s a fear that surges in him and he hopes that you don’t find him as despicable as he feels. 

Then you sigh, long and heavy, and already his heart jumps at the sound. Riddle’s mind, for all his intelligence in magic spells and history, finds himself at a loss. Despite how he used to scold you for breaking rules and marching to your own beat, Riddle found comfort in your companionship. There's a creeping panic that he'll lose one of the few friends he has, but in the instance that you do find him pitiful, then— 

“Say the word, and we’ll go,” You spoke suddenly, causing his head to snap upwards. You’re already staring at him, and your voice comes out steady yet soft. “We can go anywhere in the Queendom of Roses. Heck, if you even want to fly over the Coral Sea, we’ll do it. Just say the word,”

And for a second, Riddle heavily considers it before the fear of his mother shadows over him. His parents have long retired into their own bedrooms, but an irrational section of his brain screams that his mother will somehow find out. Even from his peripherals, the numerous stacks of workbooks still sat, taunting him for all the work he still needs to complete. 

“Hey,” Your gentle voice lures his attention back to you. There’s a serious glint in your eyes as you maintain eye contact with him, never once blinking. “What do you want?” 

When he glances between you and the books on his desk, all his previous anxiety doesn't fade away but there's a stark thought that rings out with such conviction that he cannot ignore. 

“Anywhere but here,” The words easily leave his lips, though he wishes the desperation tinging his voice wasn’t so noticeable. “Please,”

Nevertheless, you extend an arm out and bow your head. 

“As my queen demands,” 

You gently grab his hand and help him settle on the broom behind you. The winter air nips at Riddle’s bare skin, and he feels a tad foolish for not wearing shoes or a jacket. However, it’s quickly remedied by you shucking off your own jacket in favor of wrapping it around him. 

Riddle blames the cold for his rosy cheeks. 

Once you zipped the jacket up and wrapped his arms around your body, you took off. And Riddle is quickly reminded how you were the fastest flyer in PE class and the Spelldrive tournament. 

The nearby houses flashes by in a blur and he’s desperately clinging onto you as you both leave the neighborhood. The winds whip vicariously around you and he's forced to bury his freezing face into the crook of your neck. He’s grateful you’ve given him your jacket, but he's becoming greatly worried if you’re warm enough. Upon taking a peak of your face to see how you're faring in the winter night, Riddle finds himself stunned. You don’t seem too bothered by the cold—No, you were having far too much fun riding into the night. 

And a single thought rings in his mind: Mother would hate you. 

Your hair was wind-tousled and your clothes weren’t neat as they were also wrinkled due to the winds rushing around you two. Now that you are far from sleeping residents, you didn’t hold back with your laughter, which mother would deem too loud and unrefined. Your smile wasn’t small or polite, just wholly wide with showing too much teeth. 

But in Riddle’s eyes, you were perfect. Your cheeks and nose were dusted a ruby red and your eyes twinkled brightly in the silvery moonlight. In the company of the winter night, you didn’t need to be prim and proper. You were free to do as you want and be who you are.

A pang of envy throbbed in his heart. As much as Riddle didn’t want to feel that, he was jealous that you didn’t have to adhere to strict rules or expectations like he did—To have such freedom to act, say, or be not as your parent's child but as yourself. Though as quickly as the envy sank in, guilt rose up twice as fast. Tears of frustration pooled at the corners of his eyes because Riddle also knew it wasn’t your fault either. 

If you noticed how his arms tightened around you or the wet drops trickling on your neck, you didn’t say anything. But from how kind your hand grasped his arms around your torso, he had an inkling you understood how he was feeling. And from how firm you squeezed his hands, he knew what you wanted to tell him. 

So, Riddle takes a deep breath in. He doesn’t fuss that his hair is now messy or that he’s dressed in just his pajamas and your winter jacket. He tilts his head back and laughs a little too loud. Even if his vision is teary, his lips part into a wide grin that has a little too much teeth. 

In the company of the night, Riddle is allowed to be himself.

[ihavetoomanyocsdealwithit]

(sharing appreciated 💛)

PREORDERS OPEN!! my silver doujin is accepting orders thru mid-august, with fulfillment expected sometime in early october! i'll also be rerunning the silver artbook one last time, so spread the word to silver nation 🫡🫶

🔗: BIGCARTEL

UK orders: ETSY

[ihavetoomanyocsdealwithit]

ruggie bucchi has always been scrappy. sharp eyes, sharp teeth, and even sharper instincts. in the harsh slums of the afterglow savanna, it was survival of the fastest, the smartest, the greediest. and ruggie was all three.

that’s why he doesn’t share. not his food, not his money, not his time. if he has a full belly and jingly pockets, that’s all he needs. or at least, that’s what he tells himself.

until you.

you, with your dumb little pack of emergency snacks. you, who breaks your bread in half before you even take a bite. you, who laughs and calls him a “scavenger” when he swipes extra pastries from the cafeteria, but never once judges him for it. you, who says “thanks” even when he hands you a squished onigiri from his pocket, like it’s gourmet.

it started small. he started to pretend he was too full, offering you the last dumpling. tosses you a wrapped rice ball, says it’s a “favor” so you owe him later.

but the truth? the raw, scary truth?

he wants to share. wants to see you eat. wants to feed you like it proves something he can’t say out loud.

maybe it’s love. maybe it’s loyalty. maybe it’s the terrifying realization that he’d go hungry if it meant seeing you full.

and that is terrifying. because ruggie bucchi does not share.

except with you.

[ihavetoomanyocsdealwithit]

SECOND YEARS FOUND OUT ABOUT YOUR DEATH.

a/n: other second years are in this part. btw the cause of your death in these headcanons is because you committed suicide </3 i didn't come up with better idea💔💔

- SILVER:

It begins with silence.

Silver had just woken up from a short nap in the forest near the school. Birds were chirping above, the air fresh with morning dew. He expected to hear her voice calling out, maybe laughing at how easily he dozed off again. But instead, it was Sebek who approached him with an unusually grim expression.

“Silver... she... didn’t survive.”

Silver stares. Blank. Still.

“...What do you mean?”

His voice isn’t raised. It’s calm, almost too calm. His eyes remain wide, lips parted slightly, like he’s waiting for the punchline to a cruel joke. Sebek doesn’t answer. He just bows his head. That’s when Silver realizes it’s not a mistake.

She’s gone.

Denial sinks in like fog.

Silver walks. He doesn’t know where. His legs carry him aimlessly, through NRC’s halls, past students whispering, past rooms she once stood in, past places where her scent still lingers faintly in the air. He searches for her. Somewhere inside, he refuses to believe this is real.

She was always full of life. Full of warmth. She used to smile at him even when he spaced out during conversations. She waited patiently when he struggled to stay awake. He never thought someone so vibrant could just... disappear.

He catches himself whispering:

"It’s a mistake... She's just hiding... maybe lost..."

"She’ll come back. She always does."

But then he sees her name carved in a plaque. There’s a small memorial placed near Ramshackle. Her favorite kind of flowers. A ribbon tied around the post. Her name is carved clearly, too clearly for it to be anything but final.

He stares for what feels like hours.

"Y/N L/N. A kind heart, gone too soon."

That’s when the dam breaks. Quietly. Without fanfare. His knees buckle a little, and he lowers himself to the ground, one hand gripping the edge of the plaque like it’s the only thing holding him together.

Tears drip down silently.

There’s no screaming. No sobbing. Just quiet, shaking breaths as he rests his forehead against the wood.

“I... I never told you.”

“I liked you. I really did...”

Silver has always been reserved with his emotions. He’s used to dreams slipping between his fingers like mist, so he was afraid to hold onto something so real as love. But now, that quiet yearning for Y/N is trapped inside his chest with nowhere to go.

He remembers her gentle voice calling his name with concern, her laugh when he stumbled sleepily into her during a walk and the way she once tucked a flower behind his ear and said, “See? Now you look like a prince from a fairytale.”

He had blushed, but said nothing. Because he was never sure if he was dreaming her.

Now, he won’t get another chance.

He visits her resting place often, especially at dusk or dawn, times she loved most. He brings little trinkets she liked: a bookmark she gave him, wildflowers, a polished pebble she once found cute. He never says much aloud... but his presence is unwavering. He sits with her in silence, watching the wind stir the grass.

Lilia notices the change in him. Silver isn’t quite the same. His smiles are softer now, tinged with sorrow. He still does his duties. Still trains. But every now and then, he gazes at the sky with a faraway look in his eyes.

He wonders if she would’ve stayed by his side. If she would’ve smiled if he’d just had the courage to tell her how deeply he cared.

“I’ll live in a way you’d be proud of, Y/N,” he murmurs.

“That’s all I can promise now.”

What hurts him the most is the regret of never telling her, the ache of waking up and remembering she’s no longer in the world, the small things, the echoes of her laughter, the empty seat next to him during lunch, the fact that he still catches himself waiting for her voice after waking from a nap.

Silver’s heart doesn’t shatter loudly.

It cracks quietly, and keeps cracking, every time he sees something that reminds him of her.

But even then, he chooses to carry her memory, not as a weight, but as a light.

“I hope... wherever you are, you're resting. And I hope... I see you again, when I fall asleep for the last time.”

- RUGGIE BUCCHI:

"Ruggie... Y/N... doctors weren't able to save her..."

He didn’t believe it at first. When Jack approached him with that tense, heavy look in his eyes, Ruggie thought maybe something had gone wrong on campus. Maybe a fight, maybe a dumb mistake. But when Jack told him, just bluntly but gently, that Y/N had passed, Ruggie froze.

“Quit messin’ with me, Jack...” he tried to laugh it off, but his voice cracked halfway through the sentence. Jack didn’t laugh. That’s when it hit.

Ruggie’s usual grin faded instantly. His expression turned unreadable, but his eyes were trembling. Jack had never seen him like this before, completely silent, completely still.

He walked away. Not out of disrespect or denial. He just didn’t want anyone to see what came next.

Ruggie didn’t go home. He disappeared into a quiet corner of Savanaclaw’s dorm, somewhere abandoned, where no one could hear the way his breath shook or how his fists clenched until his knuckles went white.

He was used to loss. He had grown up with not enough food, not enough money, and not enough time. But Y/N was different. She wasn’t something he expected to lose.

He remembered how she smiled at him even when he made sarcastic jokes. How she didn’t treat him like some sneaky hyena or lazy guy. She listened to him, made time for him, and sometimes even shared food with him without asking for anything back.

He remembered the times she patched him up after fights, the way she’d tease him with that quiet smirk when he pretended he wasn’t tired.

Ruggie bit his lip hard until it bled just to stop his tears. But it didn’t work.

He kept one of her small notes. She once gave him a little paper with a doodle on it and said, “Don’t work too hard, okay?” He carried it in his pocket sometimes. That night, he held it so tight it nearly tore.

Afterward, he didn’t talk about her. Not because he didn’t care, but because he didn’t know how. Every time her name came up, his chest would ache in a way that felt worse than anything magic could do to him.

But when he’s alone... sometimes he mumbles, “Y/N what would you have said if you saw me crying like this, huh?"

He works harder than ever after that. Not just to escape the grief, but because he knows she’d nag him if he ever gave up. He keeps pushing forward, with her memory quietly tucked into the part of his heart no one gets to

- JAMIL VIPER:

It was a quiet afternoon when Jamil first noticed something was wrong.

Classes were dull as usual, but he couldn't shake the odd tension that hung in the air. Whispers floated around NRC's halls, heavy with unease. People stared, then quickly looked away when his eyes met theirs. It irritated him.

He had been heading to the cafeteria when Kalim, looking unusually solemn, stopped him halfway.

“Jamil,” Kalim said softly, “have you... heard about Y/N?”

Something in the tone made Jamil’s heart stutter.

He paused. “No? What about her?”

Kalim hesitated, biting his lip. “She’s... gone. She committed suicide but doctors weren't fast enough... She didn’t make it.”

Jamil froze. The words didn’t compute at first. He blinked, expecting Kalim to say something like “Just kidding!” with that usual oblivious grin. But it never came.

The moment Kalim tells him, time seems to stop. Kalim’s voice trembles as he says the words, he’s visibly shaken, and that only makes it more real. Jamil doesn’t speak right away. His eyes just widen, jaw tightening as a wave of disbelief hits.

He stares at Kalim like he misunderstood something. There’s a long silence before Jamil finally says, quietly, “...What?” Kalim’s tears are already falling as he leans his forehead against Jamil's shoulder and that’s when it hits Jamil fully.

Shock doesn’t even begin to describe it. He doesn’t cry, not at first. He’s frozen. Mind racing, body tense. Y/N? Dead? It doesn’t register. She was just here. He saw her not long ago. She was smiling... her calm voice still rings in his head.

He isolates himself for a while. Jamil avoids people more than usual. He doesn’t want Kalim or anyone else to see the way his hands tremble when he’s alone, or how his thoughts keep spiraling. He says he’s “just tired,” but his eyes are sunken, and he barely eats.

He keeps remembering their last conversation. It replays endlessly in his head, what she said, how she looked, the way her voice sounded. He obsesses over it, trying to find some deeper meaning in it. Did she know? Was she trying to say goodbye?

He doesn’t admit it aloud, but she meant a lot to him. Maybe more than he ever got the chance to say. He respected her. Trusted her. She didn’t treat him like a shadow to Kalim, she actually looked at him and saw him. That alone made her precious.

He starts getting more irritable, then strangely quiet. At first, his temper flares more often, but then it fades into tired silence. He’s harder to read, more withdrawn. The students at NRC start to notice. So does Kalim, but Jamil brushes it off.

He visits the last place she was seen. He doesn’t go with anyone. He makes up an excuse and disappears alone. Standing there, in that quiet place... he closes his eyes and pretends, for a second, that she might still walk up behind him like always.

He brings incense and lights it for her in silence. Just one stick. It's a small ritual, quiet and personal. The smoke drifts in the air, and for the first time since hearing the news, his eyes sting. He murmurs a soft prayer. He never says her name aloud.

He keeps something of hers. A handkerchief she once lent him. A simple gift she gave without much fuss. He keeps it tucked safely in his drawer, touching it when he feels like he’s about to fall apart.

He sometimes talks to her, when no one’s around. Soft whispers when he’s alone in the room. “What would you say if you were here right now, huh?” or “I didn’t get to thank you. You made things... easier.” It’s subtle. Gentle. Grieving.

He doesn’t talk about her with others unless they bring her up. And even then, his voice tightens. His responses are short. He nods when people say nice things about her, but he doesn’t trust his voice enough to say much back.

He dreams about her sometimes. In his sleep, she’s standing in the hallway, back turned, always just out of reach. He always wakes up before he can call out to her. Those mornings, he doesn’t say a word. He just stares at the ceiling, silently aching.

He changes how he treats people subtly. He doesn’t say it, but her death shook him deeply. He watches people more closely now. He’s more careful with his words. He’s slower to push people away. He doesn’t want to lose someone like that again.

He still hides most of it. Jamil isn’t someone who openly mourns. He buries things. But Y/N’s death isn’t something he can just lock away. It’s in the way his gaze lingers in certain places. In the way he’s quieter at meals. In the rare times he looks vulnerable.

He never says it aloud, but he loved her. And the weight of that never having been confessed is something he’ll carry for a long time. Maybe forever.

- FLOYD LEECH:

Azul was the one who told him. Normally, Azul doesn’t beat around the bush, but this time... he pauses. Hesitates. That alone tips Floyd off that something’s wrong. Really wrong. He tilts his head in suspicion.

"Y/N... took her life."

At first, Floyd just stares blankly. “Hah? What do you mean?” His tone is light, too light, almost teasing, like it’s a bad joke.

Azul explains carefully. He doesn’t say too much. But he makes it clear: Y/N is gone. She isn’t coming back.

There’s a pause. Floyd’s expression shifts. Slowly, his usual lopsided grin fades. He tilts his head, eyes half-lidded. “...You’re lying. That’s not funny, Azul.”

"I would never joke about such serious matter."

When he realizes it’s not a joke, something in him snaps quietly. Not loudly. Not violently. Just quietly. His eyes go dull. He doesn’t scream, doesn’t cry right away. He just walks off.

The dorm students don’t see him for a while. He didn’t go to class. Even Jade didn’t know where he went at first. On especially quiet nights, he’d go underwater, swimming far beyond Coral Sea’s usual reach. No one knew what he did out there. When he came back, his eyes were always red.

He avoids his twin. Even Jade's calm presence doesn’t reach him. Floyd doesn’t want anyone to understand what he’s feeling, because how could they?

Floyd used to always chase Y/N around campus, calling her Shrimpy with a grin, pulling her into his unpredictable moods. He’d light up just seeing her.

He never got the chance to tell her how he felt. That hurts the most. He thought he’d have more time. He always thought there’d be more time.

He remembers the little things. The way her eyes looked when she smiled at him, even when he was being a pain. The sound of her laugh when he caught her off guard. The way she never seemed scared of his moods. She saw him. That’s what he misses most.

Sometimes, the hurt would build up and leak out through random, small outbursts. A sudden grip on someone’s shoulder, a sharp “Leave me alone,” or a lingering stare at the empty seat where she used to sit.

Grief hits him in waves, sometimes furious, sometimes quiet. He’ll have a day where he lashes out at everything, flipping chairs, picking fights, throwing himself into reckless danger during dorm duties. Azul and Jade have to rein him in.

When he finally returned, something was off. He still joked. Still teased people. But it was quieter. His eyes weren’t as wild as before. His grin didn’t always reach them.

Sometimes, he’d mutter things like:

“Shrimpy would’ve loved that...”

“Tch. Not the same without her.”

“Should’ve held her longer that day...”

Though he never said it aloud, it was clear to everybody that Floyd missed her deeply.

Floyd doesn’t talk about Y/N to others. But sometimes, when he’s alone, he whispers her name. Over and over, like a chant he can’t stop.

He didn’t tell anyone what he was thinking. But every so often, Jade or Azul would find little tokens at places Y/N used to frequent, pressed shells, tiny charms, or coral pieces. Floyd had left them there without saying a word.

He visits places they used to hang out, the spot in the courtyard where he’d sneak up behind her, the hallway corner where he used to trap her between the wall and his grin, the place where she once gave him a small handmade gift.

He still keeps that gift. It’s in his drawer. Wrapped in cloth. Unopened.

Will he ever move on? Maybe. But he’ll never forget. Not her laugh. Not her beautiful eyes. Not the way she made even him feel calm, sometimes.

And whenever he passes a spot they used to share, he mutters, “Miss ya, Shrimpy.” Quiet. Just once. Then he walks away before anyone sees the look in his eyes.

- JADE LEECH:

Azul doesn’t usually hesitate, but this time, he approaches Jade slowly, quietly. His voice is unusually gentle, and there’s a strange weight in the air. The moment Azul says Y/N’s name with that tone, Jade knows something is wrong.

When Azul tells him she’s gone, Jade doesn't speak right away. His smile fades, not into shock, but into something unreadable. His expression goes still, as if he’s trying to process a foreign language.

Jade stands in silence for a long moment. No questions. No dramatics. Just a terrifying quiet. Then, in the calmest voice imaginable, he says, “I see.” But his hands tremble ever so slightly.

He excuses himself politely from Azul's office and walks alone for hours. Into the forest, perhaps. Where it's quiet enough to think, but also loud enough to drown out the growing ache in his chest.

Jade never told her how he felt. He never even let it show. He always admired her quietly from the shadows, her voice, her kindness, the way she carried herself with quiet strength. There was always something in her that reminded him of calm tides before a storm.

In the days after, Jade works as if nothing has changed. He keeps his duties, stays composed, even smiles at times, but there's a subtle shift. His joy in watching people squirm is dimmer. His usual love of unpredictability feels... tasteless now.

He visits the place where she used to sit at lunch. Just to stand there. Sometimes he places a rare mushroom nearby, not because she liked them, but because he wished he could’ve shown her the one growing in his heart, the one named after her.

Jade doesn't cry. Not in front of anyone. But when he's alone, when the water is dark and still, he lets the silence carry his grief.

He begins to write in a journal. Not of poisons or potions, but of memories. Little things she said. The way her eyes lit up at certain topics. His regrets. He keeps it hidden under his bed.

Floyd notices the shift and asks, “Shrimpy’s gone, huh?” Jade only nods. No sarcasm. No teasing.

Months later, Azul asks if Jade is okay. Jade smiles, eerily calm, and says, “Some wounds never bleed, but they still ache.” And that’s all.

Deep down, Jade knows he will carry her memory like a tide beneath the surface, always present, always pulling gently at his thoughts.

[ihavetoomanyocsdealwithit]

LOOK AT THEM! 😭🩵💎

I finally finished this drawing of them!

I really love their story, as tragic as it is...So I think my 7+ hours drawing this were worth it.

I really wanted to see official art of him as a child, it must be very accurate and beautiful. 😭🩵

[ihavetoomanyocsdealwithit]

What if I drew these useless kids but *older*

[ihavetoomanyocsdealwithit]

Who needs some comfort ?

ME.

[ihavetoomanyocsdealwithit]

a maleficia theory

It’s rare that I make Draconia-related theories so 🧍‍♂️ cherish this once-in-a-blue-moon event…

The other day, I was thinking about the circumstances surrounding Malleus’s birth (because it related to another post I was working on the response for). Of course, this meant that the hatching complications also came up. I started to wonder “Huh, why DID Malleus reject his grandma’s magic anyway??” No clear reason is stated in the narrative, though I think we’re meant to believe it’s because Malleus was always finicky and prone to tantrums, even as an embryo. Well, here’s a theory for ya: what if the reason why Malleus was struggling to hatch… is because Maleficia, who was giving him her magic, didn’t love him?

✋ STICK WitH ME HERE, I PROmiSE THIS’LL mAkE SENsE…

We learn from Lilia that dragon eggs need BOTH magical energy and love in order to hatch.

In terms of magic, Maleficia, being from the Draconia lineage, is blessed with an abundance of it. She’s said to be getting up there in age, so channeling the immense amounts of magic that she is causes strain. However, the fact is that she is still many magnitudes more powerful than Lilia can ever hope to be. Maleficia trumps Lilia in terms of magical might. So… if it’s not magic that’s the determining factor that puts Lilia ahead of Maleficia, then it must be love that is.

In hindsight, love being more powerful than magic makes sense both in a meta and in-universe context. Disney, the company whose IPs are borrowed for the world of Twst, is well-known for promoting virtues like love, friendship, and wishing upon stars. “Love conquers all” is a sentiment that Disney unironically runs with in several of its films, perhaps with the most overt example being Frozen, where love allows Elsa to finally control her ice powers. Within the Twst universe, Lilia is set up for this whole arc of coming to terms with the idea that he is capable of loving others and, in turn, is worthy of being loved himself. With this in mind, what could this potentially mean for Maleficia? If Lilia is the source of love for Malleus, why is Maleficia—Malleus’s own grandmother—deficient in love for him?

It’s Maleanor—and, more specifically, the loss of Maleanor.

Maleanor is Maleficia’s one and only child, and Maleanor’s life was very recently claimed in their conflict with the Silver Owls. And why? Because Maleanor decided to stand her ground to buy time for Lilia and his men to ferry her unborn child to Dragonopolis. She died so that Malleus could live, and that is a thought that Maleficia has to contend with.

I don’t believe that Maleficia outright loathed Malleus or hated him. She was probably happy that some piece of her daughter was left with her. However, I think it may have been difficult for Maleficia regardless. Her hands were full with governing and rebuilding her country in the wake of the war. Maleficia was being pulled in several directions at once, and she may have not been given the time to properly grieve or to process Maleanor’s death. This could have led to feelings of bitterness developing towards her grandson, try as she might to love him with all her heart. And I don’t doubt that she does care for him—but there’s some part of her, however small, that holds her back. Some part of her that blames Malleus for surviving while her daughter had to die. Maybe this “taints” the magic that she tries giving to Malleus, and he rejects it because Maleficia isn’t able to unconditionally love him. This could even feed into a cycle where she becomes increasingly frustrated with his behavior (and we all know how furious a Draconia’s temperament can be 🧍‍♂️).

Another possibility is that, after losing her one and only child, Maleficia feared experiencing it again. She could have intentionally distanced herself from Malleus, not letting herself become too attached in an effort to save herself the trauma of losing another loved one. These feelings could have formed some kind of a mental block that prevented her love from reaching Malleus, because Maleficia wasn’t allowing herself to achieve the full extent of it.

The reason why Lilia was able to hatch Malleus is because he is the one to form a true emotional bond with him. Maleficia is always busy with her work and, as I proposed earlier, may have reservations about her grandson. It’s Lilia who visits Malleus and keeps him company. It’s Lilia who tells him about his travels and the world he wants Malleus to someday experience for himself. It’s Lilia who fully opens his heart to Malleus.

If we look at Malleus’s and Maleficia’s relationship post-hatching, well… It’s not much better? Maleficia and Malleus have a relationship, but it still feels detached and emotionally distant. We never really hear stories or get flashback scenes of Malleus interacting with his grandmother. Maleficia sends him cards on special occasions, so Malleus is definitely someone who stays on her mind—but we don’t see her engaging with her grandson more intimately than via these pieces of cardstock. Malleus’s happiest and/or most detailed memories are always featuring Lilia. Servants (be it nameless NPCs or Lilia himself) raised and taught Malleus. Maleficia continued with her work, on various occasions missing meals she promised to have with her grandson to prioritize her royal duties. I understand the importance of these tasks, but part of me also wonders if she threw herself into work as a means of coping with her grief or as an excuse to avoid seeing Malleus. After all, he has a STRONG physical resemblance to the daughter she lost…

I DON’T KNOW, maybe I’m talking out of my ass here 🤷‍♀️

[ihavetoomanyocsdealwithit]

⚡️Thunder⚡️

[ihavetoomanyocsdealwithit]

🌟 wish upon a star🌟

[ihavetoomanyocsdealwithit]

no thoughts only clingy!riddle <33

Clingy!Riddle who blinks awake slowly, groggy from sleep, his red lashes fluttering against his cheeks, and the first thing he does is seek out the warmth beside him. His arms instinctively tighten around your waist as if to make sure you haven't left his side. "...I suppose a slight delay won’t destroy the Queen’s Order." He whispers it like a justification to no one but himself.

Clingy!Riddle who presses his forehead against your shoulder with a quiet sigh of relief, whispering something like “You’re still here...” before placing a soft, barely-there kiss on the skin above your collarbone.

Clingy!Riddle who pretends to be asleep when you stir. He closes his eyes tightly, relaxes his breathing, and prays you don’t try to get up just yet. Because if you move, that warm, quiet moment will end. And he’s not ready. Not when your fingers are lightly curled on his chest and your hair smells like flowers and parchment and faint hints of tea.

Clingy!Riddle who gently rubs his cheek against yours, his voice a sleepy mumble, “Don’t go yet... just a little longer..” as he nestles closer, one hand sliding under your shirt just to feel your warmth, not with any indecency, he just needs the comfort. He doesn’t even care how soft and desperate he sounds. He just needs to feel you against him for a little longer. Maybe a lot longer.

Clingy!Riddle who can’t meet your eyes when you open them and smile at him, yet refuses to let go of your waist. His hands just stay there, gripping gently, tracing invisible circles on the small of your back. He mutters: "What of it? A dorm leader is still a human..." while his face is buried into your collarbone.

Clingy!Riddle who peppers your face with lazy kisses: your eyelids, cheeks, the corner of your lips. He doesn’t stop until you giggle softly, and even then, he just mumbles, “Your smile is too lovely to not kiss.”

Clingy!Riddle who also starts trailing soft, sleepy kisses across your shoulder, then up your neck, then to your jaw. Each one barely a breath, like he’s worshipping the very fact that you’re his. "You’re so warm... It's unfair." He pouts against your skin, but doesn’t stop kissing you.

Clingy!Riddle who gets very possessive of the blanket and pulls it back over both of you when you try to sneak out of bed. "You're not going anywhere. I command a royal pardon on all responsibilities for the next 15 minutes." You laugh softly, and he blushes, but still won’t let you move.

Clingy!Riddle who hides his face in the crook of your neck when you start to stroke his hair, the gesture so calming that he actually dozes off again briefly, completely vulnerable in your arms.

Clingy!Riddle who says, “Five more minutes,” then five minutes later says, “Actually, maybe ten,” and then completely forgets how long it’s been as long as he gets to hear your heart beating softly against his cheek.

Clingy!Riddle who shyly asks, “Can I have a morning kiss?” even though he’s already given you at least six. He just wants you to initiate one, just one sweet, sleepy kiss from your lips to start the day.

Clingy!Riddle who acts all proud and serious in public, but if you quietly tease him about how cuddly he was that morning, he turns bright red, clears his throat way too many times, and grumbles: "That was private. You mustn't speak of such undignified things so casually!" He whispers angrily. But when you tease him with a smile, he secretly adores it.

[ihavetoomanyocsdealwithit]

the fact that riddle is a perfectionist all product of his upbringing under his overbearing and controlling mother who imposed rules in every single aspect of his life and as a result he internalized the belief that following rules is the only way he can be accepted or valued and thats why he enforces the Queens rules so much, his strictness does not come from malice but more from fear of failure and rejection and emotional vulnerability because control is his coping mechanism which is why his relationship with his housemates/classmates is so important because he starts to soften and listening to what others tell him and ackownedging that freedom has value too without abandoning his love for order, he now leads with fairness instead of fear

[ihavetoomanyocsdealwithit]

Hiya. So recently I started hyperfixating on wolverines and then of course my brain had to immediately transfer that into twst scenarios so could I request headcanons for leona,jamil,ruggie and idia with a fem reader that is a wolverine beastfolk and she's not a bully by any means (actually very sweet) but she absolutely takes no crap and will unleash verbal or physical warfare on the nrc delinquents if they start stuff with her or friends and like maybe she has a high pain tolerance so she can and will keep taking hits until they back off.

Thank youuu! Also make sure to stay hydrated 💧💧

im just drinking powerade and gatorade 💪

Leona Kingscholar

At first, Leona watches you with mild curiosity and amusement—“A wolverine beastfolk? Huh. That’s new.” He mistakes your mellow demeanor for passivity… until you body-slam a Savanaclaw student for trying to corner a first-year.

When he sees you tank hits without flinching—eyes locked on your opponent like you're daring them to try harder—he straightens up and watches with genuine interest. That’s the kind of brute resilience his dorm is built on. It’s respect at first sight, actually.

“Tch. You’re all bark until she shows up,” he mutters when the other Savanaclaw boys suddenly get real quiet as you approach.

He loves that you don’t seek conflict but are unshakably feral when pushed. You remind him of his homeland’s guards—loyal, sharp, and terrifying when needed.

He gets territorial over you, though. You can fight your own battles, sure, but he’s growling behind you whenever someone tries to lay a hand on you.

Lazy lion king is quietly smug when people start whispering, “Don’t mess with Leona’s girl—she’ll chew you up and spit you out.”

Jamil Viper

Jamil is immediately wary of you—not because you're aggressive, but because you can be. He sees the signs of controlled strength in your posture, the flick of your ear when someone irritates you, how calm your breathing stays even mid-fight.

He understands the cost of being underestimated and appreciates that you don’t demand respect—you earn it. The moment he sees you drag a troublemaker out by the collar with a polite smile on your face, he’s like: “I need to be careful around her.”

But then he sees your soft side—offering food to Grim, patching up Ace, doting on Kalim despite him being a sunshine explosion—and his guard lowers. You’re not a threat. You’re a protector. A guardian.

“You’re… very strange,” he mutters, watching you nurse your bruised knuckles with casual indifference. “Why take the hit instead of dodging?”

“If I dodge, they hit someone smaller.”

That answer shuts him up. He walks beside you more after that.

Bonus: The first time someone tries to flirt with Jamil in front of you and gets touchy, you step between them and drop your voice: “Try that again and I’ll remove your hand at the wrist.” Jamil is both horrified and deeply endeared.

Ruggie Bucchi

Ruggie doesn’t know what to make of you at first. You’re sweet, generous with your food, and laugh at his jokes—until you flip a delinquent over your shoulder because they tried to yank Grim's tail as a prank.

“Whoa—easy there, chica! You broke his ego!” he wheezes.

You have the exact kind of moral compass he likes: “Don't start nothin', won’t be nothin’.” You’re a protector of the underdogs, and Ruggie can’t help but be drawn to that.

He’s stunned by your pain tolerance. One time a rogue spell knocks you into a wall, and you just blink, shake your head like a dog drying off, and smile. Ruggie practically screams.

“What the heck are you made of!? Steel-fur?!”

Low-key terrified but also incredibly proud. He calls you his “little honey badger”—though he always corrects himself when you growl, “I’m a wolverine.”

Likes to sit on rooftops with you and people-watch. You both judge people’s fashion and quietly keep an eye on any shady activity.

He absolutely brags about you. “You see that girl? The one sipping tea while that dude’s unconscious in the dirt? Yeah, that’s my girlfriend.”

Idia Shroud

When Ortho first introduces you as someone who’s “really strong and kinda scary when she’s mad,” Idia panics. He expects you to be loud, aggressive, and confrontational. He hides in his room.

But then you come knocking—not with violence, but with cookies and soft conversation. You’re surprisingly gentle, careful even, and you let him ramble about games and mecha builds with patient enthusiasm.

Then you chokeslam a third-year who tried to shove Ortho in the hallway and Idia ascends.

“Oh my god, she’s like… a real-life raid boss. A Valkyrie. A tank main and a healer—”

He becomes obsessed. You're his favorite character in the entire world. He draws fanart of you in custom armor. Has your roar as his text alert.

When people try to mess with him now? He doesn’t even flinch. “Go ahead. She’ll show up in 3… 2…”

Your high pain tolerance terrifies him. You get hit and shrug it off, and he practically has a nervous breakdown. “Y-Y/N please… just because you can take it doesn’t mean you should!! Let me wrap your arm at least—!”

But also… Idia melts when you curl up in his lap after a long day, still bandaged but smiling as you listen to him explain boss mechanics. He never thought someone so cool could be so sweet.