miraichado

[miraichado]

Briar Rose

Malleus Draconia x Reader

CW: Implied sexual content

A/N: Potentially..... a chaptered story??? First tumblr post heh..... (Written as slightly yandere....)

We can state a reason for understanding, why we act, and why we adapt. It comes simple to the adept humans, that is what makes our kind so innovative. It is what makes us see dawn time and time again. If not us, who sees the light of tomorrow, then the kin we leave behind is a trace that we existed at all. I find myself understanding these notions, even living by them. They are feasible for me to comprehend because I am really no different from those we separate by skin and language. Even in Twisted Wonderland, all the notions remain true- except for the last one, only specific to me, of course.

I am [Name], but I am called Yuu. I come from nowhere, and I have no one to call close kin. What happens if I vanish again? What happens if I pass from one of the many "incidents" that roam each dorm. Who will mourn me? I am not known to be wicked or cruel, but I am not kind, my master is my whims, my needs.

I am human first and foremost: I need food, water, and shelter to survive.

I hardly get the first, and the last is debatable. My lips crack like craters and my stomach twists in itself now- I catch myself wondering how much more Grim needs, how to balance us in the delicate scale of Crowley's hand.

I find my respite to be the moon, I fantasize about eating it often. But I think about the one who comes when the moon rises: The horns atop his head not only capture its light, it appropriates it; turning it into its own form of beauty that becomes more radiant than the moon. Now, when I stare at the moon, I stare and think of the two smooth, curved horns that feel like the smoothest porcelain.

I think of him daily, of the way he curves the sun by his sheer height when he walks around campus; warping the thing into his pet. I think about the warmth he brings though he tells me he's a creature of the night, I'd say he's a creature of all things beautiful- to tell him what a lovely creature he is, but I do not.

Our conversations consist of mundanity, petty and deep interests- the fleeting details of the day and adoration so deep, that looking into his eyes feels like a well. They're green, his eyes. The color of jade in a high noon, one tone off from pure acid.

When I had first seen Malleus, he observed the rickety house I have come to love with a confusion that followed a slight sorrow; not to make the sky turn stormy and temperate, but a slight breeze and the added moisture in the air to make the hairs on your neck stand. He was polite and brief. I'm sure I would have found him rather annoying if it weren't for the pretty face that he is, in a way. Ace and Deuce seemed like nuisance it was surprising at all I could feel attraction in such a prison, but humans love beautiful things more than anything in the world: To keep, to own, to soil.

When I look at Malleus now, I feel like one of Vil's curses has laid upon my chest: heaving and heavy, because the boy had presented me with a briar rose.

I can play ill or daft. I can take it with a smile, and nod my head wondering what the token he holds in front of me is. That would be a lie, and as much as I lie like a breath, now it's akin to stabbing a unicorn.

But Malleus stands in front of me with briar roses, red like a bearing heart, plucked straight from his garden in the Valley of Thorns, and the most gentle look on his face, the most at ease look on his face that I've seen so confident and sure of himself and here I am about to soil him. I curse myself, who could have known a disaster like this would occur? Definitely not Lilia, he would have stopped his madness, though he spouts "young love" and the "charm of youth". He is no fool, not a stranger to the hurricane of love and its wake of perish. That is for Silver and Sebek, the boyish guards eager to serve. Not the Briar king, born to serve.

"Roses, from your garden back home?" I say, stunned. My mouth so wide open I can't tell if I'm smiling or frowning.

"Yes, this variety is our family's kind." Our family, he says, like it's not the most revered sign of affection royalty can give you. "My grandmother assisted me with the seedlings long ago, to grow into something I would design." they're perfect. He smiles fondly at the memory, his relaxed grin showing off his canines, long and curved to the point of vampiric.

"These are for?" I probe because fae cannot lie to warp intent, though there's no need to do so. I almost cry when he answers with no hesitation.

"To court you." He says, like it's the most natural thing in the world, to love me.

"And-" fuck. "And you want this?"

"Since the first flower, my child of man."

What the hell? What the hell. Flowers! When I didn't know better, the damage I could do. Braided and woven around his horns, adorning the scaly diadem on his forehead. Violets. No!

"I had no clue... who you were, and what such a thing meant to you, Malleus." I say honestly, though I can't look at him. He opts to grab my hands. A familiar gesture. One of too many, too many close things, close calls with kisses and lingering touches.

Then I have a dark thought.

"And that is the beauty is it not?" His voice starts to shake and all of a sudden, I want this to be a nightmare, a possibility that could never occur, to never be in Twisted Wonderland at all, because of one boy's tears. He gives me a small kindness, a downpour in heavy rain to none of our surprise but a withheld regret.

"...because you accepted me, and that's all that matters." Pouring his beating heart to me in a crystal cup, but I still can't look at him. He wants to come closer to me, so he takes my cheek in his hand. He wants to understand me; to become one with me. The faerie that lives for millennia, the one who blinks into a new era, shows up at my door outside my window, or hovering over my bed to understand why I need to sleep.

"Can you accept that I am human and that I will die before you can fully grow hair on your chin?" I try to jest, it's a horrible idea but in character. He flinches, his ears twitching just as I know the hairs on his neck raise in alarm. "Yes," He says, it may not be a lie, but it is far from reality. "I accept you are human." that is where the honesty stops, he continues with something far more twisted than a lie; a resolve, a promise that he will warp in his head to keep it from gluing his mouth in defiance to a lie.

Something twists in me.

"That doesn't mean I can't have you by my side." I smile uncomfortably partially because it feels wrong to frown when the moon so high it acts as a spotlight.

"You haven't thought this through." It is delicate in delivery, honest and so it cuts him twice as deep. Without missing a heartbeat, for I fear my heart will collapse and so will my tears "Can you handle this human condition of mine?" We both know the answer, yet my arm reaches his in a rare form of contact.

He is quiet and barely audible, he looks at the moon, while I look at the earth. "I...will do everything in my power to understand." His voice strains more than ever, itching to tell me a pretty lie. I mutter out with as much power as I gain. "You haven't seen us sprout and wither like flowers. This is dangerous." I pause for a rehearsed effect, I hope the impact will make the blow harder, I hope he lands on the softest of clouds.

"I can't do this to you, Malleus."

He tries and he fails, faltering and recalculating how to save himself from the loneliness he thinks he'll face. "But...you accepted my courtship, you courted me first!" He is strained with tears, and the moon disappears, faced with a howl of the most bitter winds that throw the excess fabric of my nightdress into a frenzied dance.

The wind twists my desire into a deep-spun coil, tangled like the string he spins, I grab his frosted cheeks with my hands that must feel like embers.

"If you blink, as you say. A blink and ten years pass, another human lifetime... you won't be able to fully close your eyes before I'm gone."

The storm has yet to cease, it is temperamental in nature but it is somber the way the wind ceases and what's left is the lonely rain. It is ice cold.

The dark plays with my reason and heart, "a consequence of loving" says the blot that I had consumed, now, I must think for it- the consequences of the thing that now lives in me.

"We'll have fun, we'll have all the fun in the world for days. But, when you graduate, you need to think of me like a whisper or a dream." I attempt to bargain with him, but it feels wrong. He's not trying to swindle or cheat me or sell me anything I don't already want.

He recoils and flinches like I'd struck him. He's not Azul Ashengrotto, but I'm treating him like he is.

"How can I do that when the one I desire is mine for the taking?!" he implies with a scowl, it starts to blizzard and my nightgown is thoroughly drenched and I'm shaking not from the cold, but because the cold allows me to do so without suspicion. What restraint he must bear, when he has the whole world in his hands.

"Because you love me, and you love yourself." I need to emphasize the last part more for my own sanity than his, I think.

"I...I do love you," he replies like a broken record, this is the first time he's said it out loud forced and butchered from my lips to his.

"I remember, you told me a story, the blessings your elder council gave you as a child. I thought they were far too cruel. Barely out of your shell."

"Longevity" He spits bitterly.

"Strength," I say, clutching his hand now bit tighter than necessary, the trembling ceases and so does the snow.

His hands warm like coal in an instant.

I let go, and there's a thundering crack of lightning from the far off of nowhere because the concern is none in my mind. I grin like I'm around boys, ignoring how red my nose is and how watery my eyes are.

"And lightning."

He grins back, strained, parroting me. "And lightning."

And because I know he'll do anything to keep a word between us alive, I curse him.

"I want to give you one, though I have no power of my own."

He looks at me with no shock whatsoever. Expecting and anticipating my flair.

"close your eyes, and think of our fondest memory. Tell me so in the most quiet whisper, so the birds and beasts won't hear."

He obeys, and I smile wryly. I've taken down one of the top five mages in the world, I don't deserve the applause of the stray droplets on the trees and roofs- proof of my victory. Hopefully, when dawn breaks, the rest of the island will think nothing of the passing storm. I think some of Ramshackle's shingles have escaped and one of the fences had been trampled by the torrent. Malleus interrupts my coping with some of his own coping compliance.

"The first time we conversed till dawn, my cheeks hurt from smiling so much," he whispers, barely audible. I nod, and hum so it reaches his waiting ears and shut eyes.

And so does the world, the night is dead silent, even the crickets cease to hear him speak.

''Tell me more," I say evenly.

"By dawn, we were tangled in which ways. I was in your arms, and you, in mine." This is all true.

"And how did such a thing come to be?"

"Though the most beautiful work of chance," he replies breathlessly, as if the memory plays like the fated seven minutes of memory. Before he opens his eyes, lost in the dream, expecting the dream. I remind him in a knowing tone that even catches me by surprise of how I can lie myself unconscious.

"...if you open your eyes, the blessing disappears." It's my self-preservation that does my shame. But if he knows that too, he says nothing.

He obeys, and I command "Tell me, what did you wish for that night?"

"To repeat the day, I'd never be bored in the cycle of anticipation and indulgence." He replies obediently. a hundred years for one singular day, how I have given you your most cursed gift of all.

"Why?" I continue to stall and to satiate.

"Because I have never in my existence, felt so assured, so content with where I am. No waiting for a grand moment or a distant, long future. But content in the now, which I want, more than ever; with you" he emphasizes with a slight strain "Only you, and what is it that stops this union?" We both know it's not as simple as he believes on the surface level, if he thought about it for a second longer he wouldn't be allowed to say such a thing, but he is not thinking, he acts on his instinct and so he lies without knowing.

Here, Malleus Draconia tells me his first lie, one he should not be capable to giving:

"There's no one who will succeed in stopping" he feels for my shoulders to feel the fullness that I am there. "-me from pursuing you."

I enact my curse.

His eyes are closed, I turn to leave. My arm behind my back, he grabs it, eyes still closed, knowing that it's there waiting for him.

I walk to a bench, and with the most fragile gentleness push down on his chest to have him sit, for him to collect himself, for me to collect myself. The moon is out. He is tall, now, sitting on the stone-carved bench, he is level with me. He is now shorter than I am.

Perhaps he can feel the change in the atmosphere, or perhaps he can hear the fast beat of my heart, but I speak with conviction:

"I give you my blessing, Malleus Draconia: The will to seek for good hearts."

I lean down, to protect him. Cup his cheeks, and kiss him, it is long and gentle, I stroke raindrops or tears from his face- they're the same for someone like him.

He tries to open his eyes once more, when the shock hits him, I part and mutter "Close your eyes, or the blessing will disappear. A blink for you is a hundred years, after all."

Like a man drowning, he rasps "Yes, I won't open my eyes" he clarifies. He speaks again like an afterthought. "I will cherish your blessing." He is trembling, and the breeze picks up, but this time carries briar rose petals. The scent is lovely, like him.

I press my forehead against his, his birthmark; the scaly diadem feels hot to the touch, like summer glass.

"Good. Then close them, when I am not here so you can be reminded of my blessing. When you open them, dawn will break. And I will be lost to time."

I wish, I think to myself looking at the moon, is that Malleus Draconia is like most men, men devoid who need something to fill. Who feel full with no need to return.

I kiss him once more, I make sure his eyes are closed till he feels the sunlight on his eyelids. When he opens them, I am nowhere to be found, all that remains are scattered rose petals and the scent of bitter petrichor.

TLDR: Emotionally constipated girl gives big orphan lizard minority her best head then leaves.

[miraichado]

hiii :) when you get the chance, can you make a kimi antonelli x chubby/plus sized reader fic where the reader struggles with insecurities?

perfect — ka12

written blurbs

kimi antonelli x reader

you’ve always loved quietly — in little ways, in soft moments. holding your breath when someone takes a photo of you. tugging at your sleeves when the room gets loud. smiling through compliments you don’t quite believe.

dating kimi antonelli wasn’t part of the plan. you weren’t the kind of girl you thought f1 drivers fell for. you weren’t sculpted out of marble or camera-ready at every angle. but then he looked at you like you’d hung the stars. like you were something rare. like you were his favorite place to be.

and for the first time in a long time, you started to wonder if maybe—just maybe—there was more to you than what you saw in the mirror.

(a/n) : love love loved writing this. ive been insecure my whole life so i def understand what it is like. up until my break up last year where i forced myself to become a gym girly, i had been pretty chubby my entire life and it drained me because it was all i thought about. but i hope you love this and i hope you know that you are perfect to me!

—

—

The hotel room is quiet, lit only by the fading London skyline through the windows. Your suitcase is half-unpacked, clothes strewn across the bed like a battlefield of self-doubt. You’ve tried on four different outfits, maybe five — you lost count somewhere between the black satin dress that hugged your thighs too tightly and the tailored suit that made you feel like an imposter.

You sigh and sit on the edge of the bed in nothing but a robe, hair half-curled and makeup abandoned halfway through. Your phone buzzes with a message from the team’s PR reminding Kimi of his arrival time. A second one comes through — a paparazzi article already circulating about his “first public appearance since signing with Mercedes,” with speculations on whether his “mystery girlfriend” will be in attendance.

You feel a pang deep in your stomach. You know people will talk. Compare. Pick you apart.

You press your forehead into your palms. Maybe you just shouldn’t go.

“Babe?” Kimi’s voice floats in from the hallway. You hear the soft shuffle of his shoes on the carpet, then a pause when he steps into the room.

He takes in the scene — the clothes on the bed, the robe clutched tightly around your body, the way your shoulders are curved inwards. You don’t even need to look at him to know he’s frowning.

“I can’t pick,” you mutter. “Everything looks stupid on me.”

You hear his footsteps cross the room. The bed dips as he sits beside you.

“Nothing could look stupid on you,” he says gently.

You scoff, bitter around the edges. “That’s very sweet, Kimi, but I feel like I’m trying to dress a body that doesn’t belong. Nothing fits right. My thighs feel… huge. I keep thinking about how I’m going to look standing next to you in pictures, and—”

Kimi doesn’t interrupt. He just listens, head tilted, eyes soft. When you fall quiet, he brushes a hand against your knee.

“Do you want me to help?” he asks.

You hesitate, then nod.

He stands up, taking a long look at the options scattered across the bed. After a moment, he picks up a silky forest green dress you’d packed at the last minute. You’d bought it on a whim months ago and never had the courage to wear it.

“This one,” he says. “Can you try it on for me?”

You fidget with the hanger. “It’s really clingy…”

He smiles, tilts his head. “Please?”

You give in with a sigh and disappear into the bathroom to change. When you come out, the dress shimmers faintly under the warm light. It hugs you in places that you’d normally try to hide — your stomach, your hips, your thighs. You keep your eyes on the carpet, bracing for the wave of discomfort that always follows.

But when you finally glance up, Kimi’s looking at you like he’s seeing the sun for the first time.

He doesn’t say anything at first. He just walks over, hands finding your waist with such a careful reverence it makes your heart ache. He turns you slowly toward the mirror.

“Look,” he murmurs, standing behind you. His arms wrap around you from behind, one hand resting on your stomach, the other smoothing over your hip.

You try not to flinch at the reflection. “I look—”

“Beautiful,” he says, instantly. “You look like magic.”

You lean back into him slightly, but you still can’t stop your eyes from picking at yourself. “My thighs look—”

Kimi cuts you off by pressing a kiss just below your ear. “Perfect. I love your thighs.” He squeezes them gently through the fabric. “They’re strong. They’re soft. They’re you. And I love all of you.”

Your breath catches.

He kisses your shoulder. “Your stomach?” His hand moves up slowly. “I love it. It’s where I rest my head when we watch movies. It’s soft and warm and mine to hold.”

Another kiss, this time to the corner of your jaw. “Your arms?” His fingers trace down to yours. “They hold me when I need comfort. They anchor me.”

He finally moves to your face, turning you to face him, cupping your cheeks in both hands.

“And these eyes,” he whispers. “You have the kindest eyes I’ve ever seen. I see home when I look at you.”

You blink, and your vision goes a little blurry.

“I don’t want you to hide from me,” he says, voice almost trembling with how sincere he is. “Not tonight. Not ever. I want you to come with me and let the whole world see what I see. Because I’m proud of you. I’m proud to be with you.”

You swallow the lump in your throat and nod.

He smiles, forehead leaning against yours. “Wear the green. Please. I think I might pass out if you don’t.”

You laugh, finally, and he kisses you — soft, slow, certain.

In the mirror, you still see the parts of yourself you’ve spent years trying to shrink. But for the first time, they don’t feel like flaws. They feel like… you. And being loved in this body, without condition, feels like the beginning of something healing.

You reach for your earrings, and Kimi watches you like you’re the most beautiful person he’s ever seen. Because to him, you are.

—

The venue is buzzing by the time you and Kimi arrive — glass chandeliers, velvet ropes, the hum of cameras, and the sleek gloss of high fashion. F1’s elite is gathered for the F175 event, and this is your first time walking into a room like this not just as Kimi’s girlfriend, but as the girlfriend of a Formula 1 driver.

You grip his hand a little tighter.

He squeezes back, gently. “I’m right here,” he murmurs, his lips brushing your temple as you step out of the car. “You’ve got this, amore.”

The flash of cameras is immediate. You feel their eyes — on your body, your smile, your dress — and for a second, it all threatens to rise again: the doubt, the urge to shrink, to blend into the floor.

But Kimi holds you like you’re the most precious thing in the world. Not like he’s posing. Like he’s grounding you.

And when he leans in and whispers, “You’re stealing the show,” it doesn’t feel like a line. It feels like the truth, just as he sees it.

Once inside, it’s a sea of familiar faces — drivers in sleek tuxedos, champagne glasses clinking, ambient lighting casting golden halos over everything. Kimi is quickly swept into a conversation with Toto and some Mercedes execs, but not before giving you a final kiss on the cheek and promising, “Five minutes. I’ll be right back.”

You nod, even though your fingers feel twitchy and your stomach is tight again. You’re mid-scan of the room, unsure of where to stand or who to talk to, when a familiar voice calls out from your left.

“There she is.”

You turn just in time to see Carmen Mundt walking toward you, her smile warm and her arms already open.

“Carmen!” you breathe, surprised but so relieved as you fall into her hug.

She pulls back to look at you properly, hands on your shoulders. “You look stunning, babe. I saw the pictures already and—wow. You and Kimi are glowing. Like… couple-of-the-year glowing.”

You laugh, but it comes out a little fragile. “I was so nervous. I almost didn’t wear this.”

Carmen frowns, taking a step back to give you the full once-over. “Are you kidding me? This dress was made for you.”

“I just… don’t always feel like I fit in,” you admit quietly. “Not in rooms like this. I keep thinking people are staring and comparing.”

Carmen softens, looping her arm through yours. “Listen to me. Every woman in this room is too busy wondering if they fit in to judge anyone else. And honestly? You’re the one making everyone else insecure. I heard a woman in the bathroom whisper to her friend that you look like a damn movie star.”

Before you can even fully process that, Alexandra floats over with her usual elegance, holding a half empty glass of white wine.

“Did I hear someone call you a movie star?” she smiles, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “Because they weren’t wrong.”

You blink. “Hi…”

“I’ve been dying to meet you,” she says, kissing your cheek. “I was watching from across the room and thought, wow, Kimi’s girl is breathtaking. And now that I’m standing here? Even more true.”

Your throat tightens. You look between them — Carmen with her perfect hair and golden glow, Alexandra with her cool-girl beauty — and they’re both just… so kind.

“You don’t have to say that,” you mumble.

“We’re not saying it to be nice,” Carmen says, gently tugging your hand. “We’re saying it because you need to hear it.”

“You belong here,” Alexandra adds. “And Kimi? He looks like he’s in a trance every time he looks at you.”

You blink rapidly, tears threatening the edges of your lashes.

“I think I might cry,” you admit with a watery laugh.

Carmen links arms with you again. “We cry all the time at these things. It’s the heels and the existential dread and the champagne. It’s normal.”

Just then, Kimi returns — like he’s been tracking you from across the room the whole time. His eyes soften immediately when he sees you between Carmen and Alexandra, your expression tender and a little overwhelmed.

“You okay?” he murmurs, wrapping his arm around your waist and pulling you into his side.

You nod, smiling now. “Yeah. I’m good.”

He kisses your temple again and says, low and proud, “You’re my everything, you know that?”

And with his hand in yours, the warmth of friendship on either side, and the soft hum of music in the air — for the first time in a long time, you don’t feel like shrinking.

You feel seen. And safe. And maybe, just maybe… a little radiant.

—

The car ride back to the hotel is quiet. Too quiet.

Kimi has his hand on your thigh, thumb tracing soft circles the way he always does when he’s content. He’s humming something under his breath, half-glowing from the buzz of the night, but every few minutes he glances over at you — and his smile falters just a bit.

Because you’re looking out the window like the night hurt you. And it did. The photos had come out fast. Even before dessert was served at the gala, your phone buzzed with the first ping— a photo of you and Kimi walking in, his arm around your waist, your green dress catching the light like liquid emerald. You looked beautiful. You even felt beautiful — for a moment. Until the comments started.

She’s pretty, but definitely not the usual F1 girlfriend look.

Kind of brave to wear that cut with her body type.

Soft launch? This can’t be serious.

No hate but Carmen and Alexandra would never.

They wormed their way under your skin. You tried to pretend it didn’t bother you, but somewhere between the fourth plate of criticism and the tweet comparing you to Kimi’s own mother — you shut down.

Now you sit, spine stiff, stomach twisted, and every time Kimi looks at you, you force a smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes.

When you reach the hotel, you go straight to the bathroom and peel the dress off like it’s suffocating you. You stare at yourself in the mirror for a long time. You don’t cry. Not yet. But it’s there, lingering. An ache under your ribs.

Kimi waits a bit before knocking gently.

“Can I come in?”

You open the door.

His expression softens instantly. “Hey,” he says, reaching out to tuck your hair behind your ear. “Talk to me?”

You shake your head. “It’s nothing. I’m tired.”

“Okay,” he says, without pressing. “Then… can you sit with me for a second?”

You follow him back to the bed, expecting silence. Maybe sleep.

Instead, Kimi pulls out his laptop and opens a folder on his desktop title— “For when you forget.”

You blink. “Kimi…”

He clicks play.

It’s a PowerPoint. A real, actual PowerPoint.

Slide One is a picture of you mid laugh on the couch, cheeks rosy, eyes squinting, holding a mug half spilled in your lap. The title reads…

Why My Girlfriend Is the Prettiest Human Being on Earth

You laugh — the sound breaking and surprised — and glance at him.

“I made it a while ago,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “You never saw it because… I was waiting for when you’d need it.”

Slide Two is a collage—your thighs tangled with his on the couch, your arms hugging his neck, your hands painting on his back in the sun. All captioned.

Strong. Soft. Safe. Everything I never knew I needed.

Slide Three is just a single photo. You, asleep on his chest, his hand in your hair.

When I saw this, I knew I’d never want anyone else.

Slide Four: a comparison of your eyes beside a photo of the Monaco coastline.

These are my favorite views in the world. Guess which one I get to come home to.

By Slide Eight, you’re crying. Silent, overwhelmed tears.

Kimi closes the laptop and turns toward you. “They don’t know you,” he says softly. “They see five seconds of a picture. They don’t see how you hold me when I can’t sleep. Or how you sit with my sister when she’s having a meltdown. They don’t know that when I think about the future, you’re the only part that’s clear.”

You wipe your cheeks, voice cracking. “But they’re so cruel.”

“I know,” he whispers, kissing your forehead. “But I’m louder.”

He pulls out his phone. “I wasn’t going to say anything, but now I will.”

You watch him type. It’s quick. Confident. A public Instagram post with your gala photo and a caption that reads: she’s the most beautiful person i’ve ever known. inside, outside, always. if you think otherwise, you’ve never met her. and you’d be lucky if you did.

Within minutes, Carmen comments:

you’re both glowing. the dress? ICONIC. and she’s the kindest soul in the room always.

Alexandra follows with:

she lit up the whole event. if you’re hating, just know you weren’t invited for a reason.

George Russell adds:

your girlfriend made my girlfriend cry (in a good way). protective fan club forming now.

You curl into Kimi’s chest, heart aching but softening. You’re still hurting — that’s okay. But you’re also held. And that is enough.

—

Italy suits Kimi in a way that nothing else does. He walks differently here — barefoot, relaxed, his curls still damp from the sea, eyes crinkled in the golden sun. And with his hand in yours, the rhythm of the coast gently lapping against your ears, the weight in your chest finally feels like it’s beginning to melt.

The Antonelli family had insisted you come down for the weekend. Just a quiet escape from everything. No cameras, no comments. Just sun, salt, and the people who love Kimi the most — and, it turns out, love you just as fiercely.

The beach house is nestled on a private cove near Ravenna, tucked between olive trees and sky. There are towels spread across the sand, a cooler full of peach tea and homemade focaccia, and Maggie — Kimi’s ten year old sister — chasing crabs like her life depends on it.

You’re sitting beneath a big striped umbrella, oversized sunglasses on and your legs stretched out across a beach chair. You’re still in your cover up, watching the sea glint and sparkle, half listening to the distant laughter of Kimi and his dad wading into the water with ball.

“YN!” Maggie calls, running toward you with her sunhat flying behind her like a cape. “Come look at the shell I found!”

You smile and hold out your hands as she plops down beside you, her knees covered in sand and her arms full of treasures.

She holds up a small, pale blue shell. “It’s shaped like a heart. Like a real one. You can keep it.”

You blink, touched. “Thank you, Mags. That’s so sweet.”

She beams, then leans into your side without hesitation. “Also, I just wanted to tell you… I hope I look like you when I grow up.”

You pause. “What?”

“You’re so pretty,” she says seriously, picking at the sand. “All the other drivers have girlfriends who look the same. But you look soft and happy. Like you’d give the best hugs.”

You have to bite your lip to stop from crying.

“You already do look like me,” you whisper, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek. “You’re beautiful.”

Maggie shrugs, embarrassed, and tucks her head under your arm.

A little while later, Kimi jogs back up from the water, dripping and sun-kissed, flopping down dramatically beside you and Maggie.

“You’re stealing my sister,” he accuses with a grin, flinging his arm over both of you. “Seems like she loves you more than she loves me..”

“Obviously,” Maggie says with a giggle. “She’s nicer.”

You laugh and lean into his side. “You’re both my favorites.”

Kimi presses a kiss to your temple and whispers, “You okay?”

You nod. “Better than okay.”

He smiles. “Good. Because mamma has been trying to sneak a photo of you all day and papa already told me to marry you.”

“Oh god.”

“I told them they had to wait until I made you breakfast in bed at least ten more times,” he teases.

Just then, his mom calls out from the porch, waving a tray of lemon gelato.

Maggie jumps up instantly, yelling, “GELATO!” and dragging you by the hand before Kimi can even move.

You glance back at him, laughing, and he just watches you — your wind-blown hair, your sun-warmed cheeks, the way you let yourself be for the first time in days.

And in that moment, Kimi thinks he’s never seen anything more beautiful than you smiling in the Italian sun with his family already wrapped around your heart.

—

The sun has dipped low over the coastline, setting the sky on fire in streaks of lavender and gold. The beach is quiet now, Maggie tucked into bed after a full day of sandcastles and sea glass, and Kimi is inside helping his dad wash the last few dishes from dinner. From where you sit on the porch swing, the warm breeze carries the scent of salt and lemons.

You’re wrapped in one of Kimi’s sweatshirts, legs tucked beneath you, a cup of tea cupped in your hands. It’s peaceful.

Still, something gnaws quietly at the edge of your thoughts. A weight you’ve been carrying even through the laughter, the sun, the sweetness of it all. A whisper of self doubt that’s hard to shake.

You don’t hear her at first, not until the door creaks open and you glance up to see her—Kimi’s mother—stepping out onto the porch, a soft smile on her face and a shawl around her shoulders.

“Can I join you?”

You nod quickly. “Of course.”

She eases into the swing beside you, settling in with the ease of someone who’s always known how to listen. You sit in silence for a while, watching the waves flicker in the fading light.

Then she speaks, voice gentle. “You’ve been a light in this house. You know that, right?”

Your throat tightens. You didn’t expect her to say that.

“I… thank you. That means a lot.”

She glances over at you, her eyes kind and knowing. “Kimi’s always been a good reader of people, but he’s never brought someone home like this. Never looked at someone the way he looks at you.”

You try to smile. “He’s very easy to love.”

“You are too,” she says, without hesitation.

And just like that, something cracks open in your chest.

You don’t mean to speak—honestly, you hadn’t planned to say anything at all—but it tumbles out before you can stop it.

“I’ve just… been scared,” you admit quietly. “Being with him in public, around the other girlfriends, at events. I don’t look like them. I don’t have that model look, or the perfect clothes, or the body everyone expects.”

You pause, your fingers tightening around your mug.

“I see the comments. People always comparing. Saying he could be with someone more… polished. I know I shouldn’t let it get to me, but sometimes I can’t help but wonder if I’m enough.”

The silence after feels thick, almost suffocating. You almost regret saying anything at all.

But then she turns toward you fully, reaching over to take your free hand in hers. Her grip is warm, firm, motherly.

“Listen to me, sweetheart,” she says, and there’s steel beneath the softness in her voice. “You are more than enough. You are exactly what he needs.”

You blink quickly, willing the sting in your eyes to go away, but she doesn’t let up—not in a harsh way, but with a kind of fierce honesty only a mother can offer.

“I’ve seen every phase of Kimi’s life. I’ve seen him win and lose, seen him crumble and rebuild. But I’ve never seen him at peace the way he is with you.”

She squeezes your hand.

“You may not look like the women the media puts on covers, but you love my son like no one else could. You make him laugh from his belly. You ground him. He looks at you like he’s found home.”

A tear rolls down your cheek before you can catch it. She gently brushes it away with her thumb, just like your own mother used to do.

“You don’t need to fit into someone else’s mold to be worthy,” she says softly. “You are beautiful, you are kind, and you have given my son a happiness I didn’t even realize he was missing.”

You finally speak, your voice trembling. “Do you really think so?”

She smiles, eyes sparkling. “I know so.”

You lean into her shoulder without thinking, and she wraps her arm around you, holding you close like you’ve always belonged there.

“Kimi is so proud to be with you,” she murmurs. “And we’re all proud to know you. Please never let the noise out there drown that out.”

And in that moment—sitting on the porch swing in the fading warmth of the Italian evening, wrapped in Kimi’s sweatshirt and his mother’s arms—you feel something shift. The ache doesn’t vanish entirely, but it quiets. Softens. Because being loved by Kimi is one thing. But being loved and seen by the people who made him? That’s a kind of healing you didn’t know you needed.

—

The house is dark by the time you tiptoe back inside. You lingered on the porch swing long after your conversation with Kimi’s mom ended, cradled by the hum of cicadas and the rhythmic crash of the tide. Her words still echo softly in your mind, leaving behind a comfort you didn’t even realize you were aching for.

You move quietly through the house, past the faint glow of the kitchen nightlight, up the creaky stairs and into the bedroom you’ve been sharing with Kimi. It smells like sunscreen and clean linen and him — like home.

He’s already in bed, lying on his side with one arm folded under his pillow. He’s reading something on his phone, the glow casting soft shadows over his face. But when the door creaks open, he looks up instantly.

His eyes meet yours.

You don’t say anything at first. You just walk over, your bare feet soundless against the floor, and slide under the covers beside him. Kimi immediately shifts, tugging you close until your head is nestled against his chest and one of his legs wraps gently around yours.

You feel his lips brush your hair. Once. Twice.

“You were out there a while,” he murmurs. “Everything okay?”

You nod against him, arms curling around his waist. “Yeah. I talked to Mamma.”

He stills for just a moment — then exhales softly, hand moving up to trace lazy circles along your back. “She told me.”

You glance up, just enough to see his expression. “You knew?”

“I saw you two on the porch.” He smiles faintly. “Didn’t want to interrupt.”

“She’s… amazing,” you whisper.

He nods. “She is.”

You fall quiet again. His fingers keep moving gently, tracing over the dip of your spine, your shoulder blades, every line he’s memorized a thousand times.

“She said you’ve never looked at anyone the way you look at me.”

At that, Kimi lifts his head just enough to meet your gaze properly. His expression shifts — soft, but so serious. “Because I haven’t.”

You swallow, cheeks flushing. “It’s just… hard to believe sometimes.”

“I know,” he whispers. “But you don’t have to believe it all at once. Just… let me keep showing you.”

And then he leans in and kisses you. Not rushed. Not urgent. Just slow and warm and sure. Like you’re something sacred. Like kissing you is the only thing he’s ever known how to do right.

When he pulls back, his forehead rests gently against yours.

“I think about you all the time,” he says, voice low and earnest. “Even when I’m in the car, even when I’m in meetings. You’re always there. The way you laugh, the way you say my name, the way you take care of everyone else before yourself.”

He pauses, brushing a strand of hair from your cheek.

“I want this with you,” he says. “Not just now. Not just for a season.”

Your breath hitches.

“I want all of it,” Kimi continues, his voice trembling just slightly. “I want a future with you. Waking up next to you every day. Building a home. Having kids who crawl into our bed at night because they had a bad dream and you’re the only one who can calm them down.”

Your heart flips.

“I want to cook you breakfast and walk the dog and argue about what color to paint the nursery. I want every boring, beautiful, ordinary day with you.”

Tears well in your eyes, full and silent.

“You want all of that with me?” you whisper, your voice breaking.

“I’ve only ever wanted it with you,” he says, cupping your face. “Since the very beginning.”

And then he’s kissing you again — slower this time, even softer. Like a promise. Like something old and true. His thumb brushes your cheek as he kisses away the tears you didn’t know had fallen.

“I don’t need a timeline,” he murmurs against your skin. “I just need you to know that I’m in this. All the way.”

You nod, burying your face into the crook of his neck. “I’m in it too. So much more than I’ve ever been.”

You lay like that for a long time, his arms wrapped tight around you, your legs tangled under the covers, your heart tucked safely into the space between his ribs.

Eventually, you feel him press a kiss to your shoulder and whisper, “Maggie asked if you’d braid her hair tomorrow.”

You smile into his chest. “Of course.”

“And mamma is already planning the next trip.”

You laugh, sleepy and content. “Tell her I’m not going anywhere.”

Kimi tightens his arms around you, lips pressed to your temple.

“Good,” he whispers. “Because this is it for me. You’re it.”

And in that quiet Italian bedroom, wrapped in the boy who dreams of forever with you, you finally believe it.

—

[miraichado]

Vil, Meleanor, and the Virgin Mary: Crowley’s Obsession

I haven’t seen anyone talk about this, but it’s driving me insane: Vil and Meleanor’s design parallel each other SO MUCH that it’s not even funny. In fact, I think Vil is foreshadowing EVERYTHING about Meleanor’s fate and Crowley’s plans.

I know I’m just coping lol, but I think I finally figured out why Crowley is so obsessed with the Fairest Queen and Pomefiore if he was Levan. Here me out: Vil is the representation of Meleanor.

Vil’s Overblot form is what immediately caught my attention. The way his cape connects to his hands, the night sky on his cape, the corset and the gems. The way the edges of his dress looks like old, torn paper, like history long since forgotten. Not to mention how he has claws like Crowley and is wearing Crowley’s same exact shade of blue. Just…this entire silhouette with the sleeves and crown matches Meleanor more than Malleus’s Overblot does. Strange how both Vil and Meleanor are associated with stars, when Crowley has a lot of star designs on the curtains in his office.

In his dorm uniform, look how the gloves and the lace has a similar design as Meleanor’s. Not to mention how in this vignette, Vil is like a “Queen reborn” with “two knights” at his side. Hm?? Like Meleanor with Lilia and Baul, perhaps?

Something I’ve always found strange is how much Crowley dotes on Vil. In both his history and flight lessons, Vil comments a lot on Crowley when a Special Lesson is triggered. Doesn’t it feel…almost uncomfortable??? Vil feeling “eyes” on him specifically when Crowley is there. And there isn’t clarification if Vil is speaking to Yuu or Crowley, but when he says “I’m just fine,” it makes me wonder if Crowley was asking Vil how he was doing.

This isn’t just limited to the lessons. Although Crowley played a less significant role in Book 5 than I thought he would, doesn’t he sound very affectionate when he says this?? “What I’ve always taken you for”…he holds great pride in Vil and how represents the history and beauty of Pomefiore. Crowley has NEVER shown this much of a bias towards any student before. Only Vil.

I can hear some of you asking: Why in the world would Crowley/Levan care so much about Vil if MALLEUS and DIASOMNIA exists? Here’s the thing: Vil simply represents more of who Meleanor was as an evil, proud princess.

He is proud, he is beautiful, he truly understands the power of his beauty, how to make people submit to him with harsh truths. He has a certain charm and pride in his accomplishments that Malleus doesn’t.

But what REALLY got me was the religious symbolism in Vil’s Overblot form. @pianostarinwonderland made a really amazing post on the resemblances Vil has to the Virgin Mary and the Lady of Sorrows.

The Lady of Sorrows is another “form” of the Virgin Mary- which ironically enough, is depicted with SEVEN swords piercing her HEART. Sometimes she is depicted with only one sword- more on that later. The Virgin Mary is considered to be the holiest of saints- a figure of worship. She is also considered to be the “god-bearer.” Her death is referred to as the Dormition of the Mother of God, Aka the “falling asleep of the god-bearer.”

And back to the swords in her heart, the seven swords represent the Seven Sorrows, but the singular sword represents the Prophecy of Simeon.

The prophecy of Simeon said something like Mary’s child would be the RISE and FALL of many in Israel, and that a sword would pierce through Mary’s heart too, as an allusion to the crucifixion. Because Mary would suffer alongside her son, the one curse of motherhood. Stars are also significant in Christian mythology, like the star of Bethlehem to guide the wise men to the birthplace of Mary’s child. Another significant “star” is the Morning Star, Aka Lucifer. The Morning Star title is based off Venus, whose Greek name means “the light bringer” or “the DAWN bringer.”

If all of these things I’m saying reminds you about the imagery in TWST, I feel like this is purposeful! Lets back up and go over each of these points and how it relates to TWST (I am not religious, so if any of this is inaccurate, please let me know!)

Crowley in the opening seems to worship his “benefactor,” and I’ve been theorizing that it’s Meleanor whose trapped in the Dark Mirror. She is quite literally a figure of worship to him- the holiest of saints. And with Meleanor being the mother of Malleus, who is one of the most powerful mages in the world, doesn’t it sound similar to be a “god-bearer?”

The swords through her heart not only sounds like a connection to Meleanor’s death, but to Maleficent’s too. The sword of truth piercing her heart- but not only that, Vil’s Overblot crown LITERALLY has the design of a singular sword piercing through a heart. Yes, its a representation of the Evil Queen demanding Snow Whites heart, but why is Vil’s design combined with the Virgin Mary of all figures??

I bolded “prophecy” because I think Levan is heavily connected to prophetic powers, but doesn’t this prophecy sound A LOT like Meleanor’s blessing on Malleus? Malleus would be the benevolent star to the Fae, and an evil star to humankind. Like the Star of Bethlehem for the Fae, and the Morning Star for humans…and the Morning Star is heavily connected to the DAWN. Dawn Knight? Silver???

It doesn’t help that Dragon Fae seem to be ostracized by humans for their horns. Maleficent in Sleeping Beauty though, refers to her powers as “powers of Hell,” heavily leaning toward his demon like design.

Meleanor suffered to protect Malleus. She gave him up and fought an entire army to better his chances of survival because she loved him so much. And if Meleanor is trapped in the mirror and will be brought back to “life,” all of this suffering stemmed from the fact she sacrificed herself for Malleus.

SNDJDHSJSJDJD STOP IT TWST WHY DOES THIS ALL FIT TOGETHER SO WELL????? YANAAAAA HELP

But do you see what I mean on how I think Vil is slyly foreshadowing EVERYTHING? Not only that, but look at his Overblot design again. At his waist, there are sharp crystal-looking objects surrounding him. I think these represent broken mirror shards. This, combined with all the coffin imagery at NRC, Epel’s Unique Magic, and Malleus’s making everyone fall asleep like Aurora or Snow White…

Perhaps Meleanor really is trapped in the mirror, put in a death-like sleep…but one day she will be freed, like Aurora or Snow White with the power of true loves kiss. Until then, Vil is the closest representation of her to Crowley. Someone who understands the power of beauty to make others submit, someone to worship.

[miraichado]

OMG MAAAAX DAD VERSTAPPEN

[miraichado]

Me after explaining the multiverse of different people and characters where I have different ocs in my head to my sisters

[miraichado]

Want You Back with: Vice-Housewardens + Ruggie

Where they're still in love with you

Other parts: Housewardens

Trey Clover

Trey insisted that he was doing just fine after the breakup. He said it with a firm, reasonable tone which made people afraid to challenge him. But there was a sudden spike in sweet production that should've triggered an intervention.

The first sign that something was deeply wrong was the dessert box you received. Deuce was the delivery method–nervous, sweating slightly, and holding it like it might explode.

"Trey asked me to give you this," Deuce said. "He made too much again. I didn't ask questions. Please don't ask me questions."

Inside was your favorite dessert. Made exactly the way you liked it, portioned perfectly, with a note about storage instructions.

The next week it happened again. Deuce looked more tired this time.

"I don't even think he's making any for us anymore," he said. "There were twelve of these and they all had your name on them."

The week after that, he just left the box outside your door and sprinted away.

Meanwhile, Trey had developed a new habit of dropping half-memories into conversations and then staring into the distance. He'd start a sentence with something like, "Remember when we went to—" and then just stop speaking altogether. Sometimes he'd blink slowly. No one ever asked him to continue.

The real problem happened during a meeting, when Riddle asked Trey to pass the sugar.

"Sure thing, babe," Trey said, without thinking.

Silence. Absolute, dead air silence.

Trey apologized immediately, said he'd been distracted, maybe overtired, clearly mixed something up. Riddle stared at him for a full ten seconds before continuing like the moment had been stricken from existence through sheer force of will.

But for the rest of the day, he referred to Trey exclusively as "Mr. Clover."

Even Cater started noticing. During a tea party planning session, Trey was explaining seasonal pastry pairings and said, "They always liked the these in spring—" and then stopped. And just stared into space with a haunted look, eyes unfocused like he was watching a flashback play out on the wall.

Cater, in a rare moment of self-preservation, slowly slid his chair backward and excused himself from the room.

Trey never addressed any of it. The desserts kept coming. The flashbacks kept happening. He went about his day as if this was all very reasonable.

He never asked you to come back and you never said anything either.

But when the next dessert came with a note that read "Let me know if you want to bake something together again," you kept the note.

You'll answer him soon enough.

Ruggie Bucchi

Ruggie took the breakup well. Or at least, that was the impression he worked very hard to give. He laughed a little too loudly at everything, kept his tone light and breezy, and absolutely would not stop making jokes. About anything. Including your name, the concept of heartbreak, and on one occasion, a broom that somehw reminded him of you for reasons he refused to explain.

He also always seemed to know where you were. He could recite your schedule better than most professors, which was concerning considering he never wrote anything down and clearly wasn't trying to remember it for academic purposes.

That was around the time the snacks started appearing.

A variety of edible items were now being left on your windowsill with increasing regularity. One day it was a crumpled bag of crackers. The next, something that looked like it had been stolen from the cafeteria. The quality varied, but the intent was consistent: he was absolutely not going to speak to you, but he was going to feed you like you're a raccoon whose trust he's trying to earn.

Eventually he started doing things "just because." Favors you didn't ask for, tasks you hadn't gotten around to, errands you never mentioned. You'd open your bag and find things you lost last month. Your laundry got done at suspiciously convenient times. When your dorm got mysteriously dusted while you were in class, you caught a faint trace of a very familiar scent and found a magift disc that definitely wasn't yours under the bed.

You stepped outside your dorm one afternoon to find him lying on the ground in the grass, dramatically clutching his ankle and squinting at the sun like it had personally wronged him.

When you asked what happened, he made a vague gesture and said he "might have twisted something," although there was no visible injury and his shoes were off for some reason he refused to explain. He stayed there, groaning softly, waiting for you to help him, and occasionally adjusting his pose whenever you looked away—presumably to appear more pitiful.

When you finally helped him stand, he immediately stopped limping, dusted himself off, and suggested that maybe you could "hang out or whatever, since we're already here."

And how could you say no?

Jade Leech

Jade didn't make a scene. That wasn't his style. After the breakup, he went about his life with the same calm demeanor he always had. There was no change in his expression or his routine but there was a slightly unsettling increase in how often he happened to be standing somewhere near you, doing absolutely nothing.

It wasn't stalking. That would be unrefined. But it also clearly wasn't coincidence. He never approached you directly, he just loitered with purpose, nearby, always pretending to be on his way somewhere else.

The mask only cracked once, when Floyd casually brought you up in conversation and Jade's smile froze so precisely mid-expression it looked like it was carved onto his face. He just stopped blinking for a moment, like he'd mentally stepped out of his own body to scream into a bucket somewhere. Floyd stared at him, then slowly reached across the table and took his drink without asking.

He never brought you up directly. Instead, he asked theoretical questions that weren't quite as subtle as he believed.

"If one were to mend a broken relationship," he asked Azul one afternoon while reorganizing in the lounge, "would it be wiser to reintroduce emotional intimacy gradually, or would a surprise approach prove more... efficient?"

Azul didn't respond. He just walked out of the room.

Every time he ended up beside you, always by coincidence, of course, he acted surprised.

Jade didn't sit next to you on purpose. That would imply intent. He simply appeared, occasionally, in the seat beside yours with a faint expression of interest and a stack of papers that had no relevance to the current activity. He never made conversation. He'd just sit there, glancing sideways every so often, not enough to be obvious but enough to be very clear that he was waiting for something.

Eventually, during one of these "well-timed encounters," you shifted slightly toward him.

He didn't say anything and he didn't look at you. But his posture straightened, and he put the papers away.

They had been blank the entire time.

Jamil Viper

Jamil tried to maintain the illusion that everything was fine but it was convincing nobody. It was the kind of performance that might have fooled a distant acquaintance or a houseplant, but not anyone who had seen him operate at full power.

He still showed up where he was supposed to be, still got things done, but he looked like he hadn't been sleeping, hadn't been resting, and had possibly stopped eating.

The worst part was the silence. He didn't correct anyone, didn't complain, didn't throw out any of his usual quietly exasperated commentary. The version of Jamil who rolled his eyes at other people's nonsense had vanished. In his place was a pale imitation who sat in the corner during group work and didn't even make a face when someone proposed an obviously bad plan.

People stopped bothering him with small talk. It was like he had been quietly reclassified as an emotional hazard zone—calm on the surface, but likely to combust without warning. Even Kalim gave him space, which was saying something.

Eventually, something gave out. He cornered you after class and he looked like he had rehearsed being casual and then immediately forgot how to be human. He asked, very quietly, why you were still being nice to him if you were done.

His voice cracked on the last word in the most inconvenient, humiliating way possible. You didn't even have a chance to respond. He just blinked like he wanted to walk into a wall and left before he could hear whatever answer might make it worse.

You caught him pacing behind the library one day, clearly in the middle of talking to himself.

"Just say you want them back. Just say it. Just—"

He noticed you and immediately fell into silence. He tood perfectly still like he thought if he didn't move, you might forget he existed. The silence stretched for so long it started to feel like you were intruding on a wildlife documentary.

And when you stepped closer and reached for his hand, he didn't pull away. If anything, he looked offended it had taken you this long.

Rook Hunt

Rook didn't take the breakup well, but in typical fashion, he made it everyone else's problem long before it became obvious to you.

Every animal in the woods now had an opinion about your relationship with Rook. Squirrels paused on branches when you walked by. Birds gave you judgmental side-eye. There were rabbits that watched you like they knew something.

Rook took the breakup in stride, if your definition of "stride" included extended lurking behind trees and several suspiciously well-tended patches of flora outside your dorm.

He didn't approach you or speak to you but somehow, your favorite flowers were always in bloom, even out of season, even when they shouldn't have survived.

When this failed to produce results, Rook made a tactical shift that alarmed everyone more than the silent stalking ever did. He became "normal."

It had people watching him out of the corners of their eyes, waiting for him to snap. He spoke plainly. He answered questions without dramatic pauses or poetic tangents. He didn't climb anything. He didn't even add French into his sentences.

It was so unnatural that Epel asked him, in all seriousness, if he had been replaced with a government clone. Vil asked if he'd taken a blow to the head. Trey nearly dropped a tray when Rook said "thank you" without calling him "chevalier."

And through it all, he stayed out of your way.

If you went to the greenhouse, he was suddenly busy elsewhere. If you entered the courtyard, he exited as though he'd simply remembered an urgent appointment on the other side of campus. It was like he was trying to give you something you hadn't asked for: peace or space.

Then one afternoon, you saw him outside your dorm, kneeling beside the flowers with a small trowel while performing an act of unspoken devotion.

You didn't say anything and just knelt beside him in the dirt.

And when he shifted slightly closer, you stayed exactly where you were.

Lilia Vanrouge

Lilia claimed to be doing fine. He laughed about it and told everyone he was at peace. He tossed out a few remarks about how heartbreak was good for the bones, and then promptly vanished for three days.

When he returned, he looked like he'd been emotionally dry-cleaned and hung out to air. The sparkle was gone from his eyes. His posture was slightly hunched, like he'd lost a duel with gravity.

No one mentioned it. He brought it up before they could.

"Refreshing trip," he said, standing perfectly still in the doorway. "Cleared my head. Found myself. Spoke to a bird."

From that moment on, the descent was slow and profoundly unserious.

He started texting you again, always in the middle of the night, always with images no one could trace to a known source. Memes of screaming frogs, unidentifiable creatures holding signs that said things like "miss u" and blurry screenshots from ancient anime with captions he had clearly written himself.

The culinary sabotage began shortly after. Each dish felt like a personal challenge to every culinary rule known to man. There was something that resembled soup but smelled like pickled beans.

One meal arrived in a jar, bubbling slightly. Silver tapped it with a spoon and backed away slowly. Sebek refused to eat altogether and Malleus did not comment—but the haunted look in his eyes said enough. If he ever got down on one knee, it would be to beg you to fix this.

Lilia, of course, pretended to remain blissfully unbothered. He'd hum quietly to himself while pouring powdered sugar into things that weren't desserts and casually mention how lovely it would be to "have someone to experim—I mean, cook for—again."

One evening, as you were winding down, you heard a strange tapping at your window. It wasn't the usual rhythm of branches or wind so you pulled the curtain aside.

And there he was.

Lilia, suspended upside down from your roof. He was perfectly still while grinnimg. Hanging there as if this was the most natural way to say hello. You screamed. He screamed back. It was as though he'd forgotten that normal people didn't expect unsolicited nocturnal bat-visits from their ex.

The silence afterward stretched far too long. He remained dangling. You stood frozen. It became a standoff of mutual embarrassment and stubbornness.

And then, with a sigh, you opened the window.

Not because it was a good idea or because you'd forgiven him. Not even because he'd apologized.

Because, in some twisted way, you had missed him too (and honestly, it was starting to rain.)

Masterlist

[miraichado]

kyrie eleison.

Referencing: Alien Stage - KARMA

[miraichado]

kpop demon hunters as anime 🎶✨

[miraichado]

this blog was meant to be focus on my yumeship but i'm ADHD anyway soooo have anyone done this yet?

[miraichado]

Some portraits!

[miraichado]

Mercurii Sepultus

Chapter one: Manes Dominae Meae

Author’s Note: Hello! This is my first long fanfiction for the Twisted Wonderland fandom. I’d like to thank my beta reader, Tammie (@house-of-tales), for all their help. They were incredible - correcting and improving the text, sharing amazing ideas, and just being an absolute blessing to work with. While this chapter doesn’t contain any smut, I do plan to include it later on - so, kindly: minors, do not interact!

Trigger Warnings: Death, angst, grief, mentally unstable Malleus, and implications of depression.

Characters Count: 13667

Your body was buried on a Wednesday evening.

The air bit with cruel indifference, wind lashing the folds of Malleus Draconia’s cloak as he stood like a monument of grief before the stone that bore your name. A marble too soft for the horror it concealed. Beneath that soil, you lay - silent, cold - and the world around him seemed hushed, as though nature itself dared not disturb the stillness of death. The warmth that once clung to your skin had long since fled, leaving behind only a hollow echo of what you were. You, who once danced through the castle halls like firelight on dark stone, who laughed like chimes shaken by spring winds - now stilled, muted, devoured by the earth. He could not weep. The grief had calcified, a crown of thorns buried into his skull, throbbed by the soundless memory of your voice. You had held him once, arms wrapped like sanctuary, breath soft against his horns as you whispered promises meant to outlive the stars.

"I will never leave you."

You had said it, so softly, with eyes full of love and hope. A promise spun of warmth and eternity - and yet, you had left. Why? Why had you woven lies from love and sewn them into his heart? Were you deceived yourself, or had the cruelty of time simply stolen your breath before your promise could be kept? Now you were no longer warmth, nor voice, nor laughter. You were only a memory rotting beautifully beneath the earth, perfumed in petals, decaying with elegance as all mortal things must.

They had all foreseen this. The courtiers whispered it from the halls: This human is a fleeting flame; they will perish long before the dragon’s fire fades. And yet, Malleus had refused to believe them. But death is a tyrant with no regard for kings or vows. And so, he stood alone, as dusk closed its dark wings over the land, mourning not only your departure, but the cruel truth that even love, in all its grandeur, is powerless before the grave.

Now it is Thursday morning, and the sun stretches golden fingers across the graveyard, casting warmth upon the pale face of the grieving king. Its rays, soft as breath, dared to caress him, as if urging him to rise, to return to his castle and forget the one who once crowned his heart with joy. But how does one forget a cathedral once filled with light? How does one abandon a body that was once a sanctuary, now reduced to sanctified rot beneath indifferent earth? How could he walk away? How could Malleus Draconia leave you there - to decay, to fade like a half-remembered verse of a love poem? In your absence, the centuries pressed down upon him with a child’s weight, and he was no longer king, no longer fable - merely a boy again. A boy stumbling through the lonely corridors of Night Raven College, searching for something - anything - that would make the silence stop echoing.

Malleus had stood vigil beneath the moon’s gaze, all through the hours when ghosts grew brave. He had waited, mad with hope, as if you would rise laughing from the grave and tell him this was simply a stupid jest. But the dawn brought no miracle, only the cruel morning light. And so he fell - at last - his knees sinking into the grave-soiled ground. The regal weight of his mourning cloaks pooled around him like black blood. Silent tears carved down his cheeks and kissed the earth where you slept. His fingers clawed into the damp soil, trembling as they curled around the mud - his last, desperate tether to your vanished warmth. If he clutched it tightly enough, would you come back? If his grief soaked the ground deeply enough, would you feel it beneath the veil? The mud dirtied his hands, but he did not care. A king no longer. A husband no longer. Only a widow - drenched in daylight that mocked the night he carried inside his chest.

A year was not enough to mend the fractures death carved into him. Nor was the second, which passed like a ghost brushing its fingers across an unhealed wound. Some say that the third year brings mercy - “third time’s the charm,” they claim, with smiles stitched from ignorance. But such words are lullabies for the damned, sung by those who have never known true loss. Lies we inherit as children - wide-eyed and foolish - and repeat as adults who’ve forgotten how to live without illusion.

Malleus Draconia had no illusions left. He was an abandoned man, a soul with no future, condemned to linger in the shadow of a love turned to dust. For five long years, he returned - like a mourner possessed - to the place where your body slept beneath the withered earth. Every month without fail, he knelt before your grave and wept the same tears, salt-slicked and soundless, each one a memory he could not bear into forgetting.

He brought flowers, always the same kind - those soft-petaled things you once adored. He would cradle them gently in his hands, brush them against his lips, as if kissing you again through their bloom. And then he’d lay them down, right where your ears once wore them like a crown of spring. “Not even they could rival you” he used to whisper, when your laughter still lit the hollows of his heart.

On the fifth anniversary of your death, Malleus commissioned a portrait. Not a simple likeness, no - but a relic, wrought by the steadiest hands in all the Valley of Thorns. The canvas was stitched with threads of gold and silver, each one trembling with the weight of devotion. And your face… oh, your face. It was captured in cruel perfection: flushed cheeks, lips softened by the illusion of breath, skin painted with a warmth that no longer touched your bones. Yet it was the eyes - those eyes - unsettled even the fae. There was something in that gaze, something unholy and piercing, as though your soul had found its way back through pigment and brushstroke just to accuse him. You stared out from the frame not like a memory, but like a judge. Not lovingly, but as though whispering, "Why did you let me rot in the dark? Why did you bury me and call it love?"

Yes, those were your eyes… and yet, the painter - no matter how skilled - could not resurrect the light they once carried. That particular fire had died with you, and it would never burn again. His fingers brushed the dried oil gently, and for a moment he swore the paint seared his skin - a heatless flame, born not of fire, but of guilt. Still, he did not pull away. He placed the portrait where the king’s should have hung, high above the throne room - breaking the rules settled by bloodlines and titles. Let the courtiers murmur. Let tradition fade. What was royalty, after all, if not the power to choose who you worship - and how deeply you mourn them? This was his shrine in your memory.

The ink bled like blood across the parchment - a dark, oozing wound upon the letter your majesty had so carefully begun, meant to serve as a reply to a distant king’s plea: the offering of his daughter’s hand in marriage. The error was born of a simple gesture - Malleus, rising to shut the window against the sighing dusk, his sleeve brushing the inkwell’s lip. A soft clink, a tip of glass, and then ruin. The black ichor spread like rot, devouring his words before they had even been born - as though fate itself had risen from the grave to strike the quill from his grasp. He stared at the marred page for a long while, not with frustration, but with a hollow stillness that haunts. Then he cast it aside - not in defeat, but as one acquainted with the impermanence of all things.

A fresh page lay before him - blank, pale, expectant - yet it remained untouched. Malleus sat once as outside, the world turned on: stars wheeled in indifferent constellations, winds danced through trees. But the seconds grew heavy. Minutes blurred into hours, losing their shape. He did not chase them. He only thought. The ink at his quill’s tip trembled, then fell - a single drop blooming on the virgin parchment like a bruise. And with it came the sigh, deep and slow, dragged from the hollows of his chest like a final breath. He could not write. Not because he lacked words - but because no word, no sentence, no treaty scrawled in gold that he thought would fit as an answer. He knew he should remarry, bond his soul with someone of high class with noble blood - but it sounded so… wrong.

Rising, he reached for the ornate chandelier resting upon the nightstand - that little altar beside the bed you once shared, now cold, untouched by breath or dreams. The moment his fingers brushed the metal, the flames within flickered - and then bloomed into green. Not the harsh green of envy, nor the sickly hue of poison - but a soft, phosphorescent glow that shimmered like emerald dew upon midnight leaves. It pulsed gently, alive with fae magic, casting halos that swayed like spirits against the cold stone walls. He stepped into the corridor, the dark swallowing him like a tide. The castle slept - no servants stirred, no nobility whispered. Only his steps remained - slow, echoing.

It was as if his feet moved of their own accord, drawn not by destination but by sorrow - silent pilgrims. They carried his pallid form through the vast, hollow corridors of a castle far too grand for a soul so burdened. He, the lonely monarch, wearied not by rule but by remembrance, drifted as a wraith might, until he stood once more before the altar of memory - the throne room. There, your visage awaited him and it was enough to unravel him. Would you call him weak, he wondered, for refusing to let your death settle into silence? For summoning your spirit with every breath, tethering himself to a memory too tender, too cruel to release? He gazed into those eyes - eyes that once knew the shape of his joy - and imagined their judgment: that he was not a king. Tears, always waiting, rose once more. His lips cracked about to speak - a whisper, perhaps, your name, or some plea the stars might understand… when suddenly, a voice pierced the hush.

A voice echoed in that mausoleum, so soft and familiar: “Tsunotarou! You’re back!”

And there you were. A phantom, watching him from the other side of the room. The garments that once adorned you in life - and later in death - now hung from your form like a thin veil. You smiled… just as he remembered, just as he had longed for in countless fevered dreams - and opened your arms, as if the grave had never claimed you. There was no reason for your presence, no law of nature that could explain such an apparition… But Draconia no longer cared for the laws of life or death. 

He felt like retching, like tearing his own chest apart just to see if his heart still dared to beat within it. What vile trick was this? What cruelty did fate now stage before his weary eyes? Was it destiny that mocked him… or the last desperate fracture of a mind undone by grief? The king stood motionless, trembling - not from fear, but from the overwhelming ache of longing. Had he yearned so bitterly, so violently for your return, that even his soul had grown defiant? Had his mind, broken by mourning, chosen to rebel against reality itself - conjuring you in the hollow silence just to spare him from madness? 

His hands rose toward you as if by instinct - trembling limbs guided by love and delusion alike. Fingers stretched toward something far too divine, too sacred, too lost for one such as him. He reached not for flesh, but for memory… for stealing one last kiss from your lips, for a warmth he missed so dearly. And oh, how he longed to feel it again - to feel alive. It was blasphemous, to crave so greedily what the heavens had claimed, to reach for a soul meant to rest in peace. And yet, what man would not dare the wrath of angels… just to hold his beloved one more time? The love of his life. His human.  He stepped forward, haltingly - like a man afraid to frighten a specter of deer-bone fragility, one that might flee into the shadows of eternity if startled. 

But before he could close the distance, before their fingers could meet and tangle like they once had in moonlit gardens, his body betrayed him. His knees buckled. The weight of grief and guilt crashed into him like a tidal wave, and he crumpled to the stone floor with a thud that echoed through the silence. He could not look at you. He could not meet those eyes. Because they were the same eyes that had looked into his during your final moments - when life had fled her body like smoke from a dying flame. Eyes that had once held warmth, light, laughter... now stared down at him with a chilling stillness. There was no anger in them, no cruelty. And yet they judged him more harshly than any sword or sentence ever could.

A sob tore through his chest - guttural, full of all the pain he'd tried to bury in the ruins of his castle, in the ashes of memory. It wasn’t a cry. It was a groan, a sound dragged from the very marrow of his soul. He wanted to say something - to tell that figure right in front of him that they were still everything, that they haunted him in sleep and in waking, that his love hadn’t died with them. He wanted to beg for a kiss, even just the remnants of one. To feel their breathless melody on his lips, even if it was a lie.

But all that came out was the truth: "I'm so sorry." he whispered, barely able to breathe through the trembling of his voice.

The only response was the way your hair shifted slightly, as though stirred by wind that did not exist - as though some god had sighed in pity… or in disapproval. You gazed down at him - eyes as lifeless and cold as the soil that once held you. And yet, with the tenderness of a haunting, you brushed a single strand of dark hair like coal from his face and began to sing. A lullaby for the damned. You were there. But were you mercy… or malediction?

You appeared at dawn on Wednesday.

[miraichado]

BERCEUSE

Inc: Meleanor, Raverne, Mallegg, Lilia, and Baby Silver Warnings: None WC: 1.3k Summary: Berceuse: A quiet song to lull a child to sleep (Promptober day 3)

She remembers it from her father. This fact often takes people by surprise when they first learn it. No one would have expected the former king consort, rest his soul, to be the type to hum lullabies to his daughter to soothe away nightmares—but he was. He was a calm man beneath the rough exterior of sea-born and battle crafted that he presented as. Softer, to balance out the typhoon that was her mother’s personality when it came to matters of ruling. 

Meleanor remembers very little of her father beyond the lullaby. On occasion something will trigger a memory of him—a certain smell, or a certain sound—but the image of his face in her mind appears to be held under water. His features are ripples, his voice like a hymn, and the phantom touch of his hand holding her own is a weighted reminder of loss. Many people passed condolences to her mother when her father died, but they all seemed to forget the impact it had on her, as well. She remembers standing at her mother’s side during the pyrrhic burning of his corpse, humming the lullaby to herself, only to be silenced by a hand on her head.

It was the last time she had dared sing the song out loud until Malleus had been born. Despite still developing within his egg, he was a restless thing, constantly shifting and squirming and making the egg tremble in precarious positions. If he was born a live birth then one would have diagnosed him as ‘colic’—crying and fussing for reasons. Raverne had joked one time, when the egg had nearly fallen off of its perch from the movement of the baby within, that Malleus was swiftly developing a typhoon-like personality himself.

Despite smiling, Meleanor had seriously hoped her boy was more like his father then the temperamental Draconia line. 

When Raverne disappears (not dead; she rebuked that notion) and she’s left to care for a war and a baby on her own, Malleus’ inability to remain still sends her to a near breaking point. It’s hard to divert your attention between making sure your nation doesn’t collapse and making sure your baby doesn’t crack his own egg open because he just has to get a move on. It’s in this borderline breakdown she’s having (in private, mind you) that she returns to it. She hadn’t forgotten the song over the years, but it had become a taboo to her, to consider forming the sounds with her voice once more.

But for Malleus—for the warm evidence of life and of love that she cradles—it’s a taboo that she’s willing to break. When she begins to hum the song in a voice that’s shaky from disuse and slightly out of tune, the movements she feels beneath the fragile shell exterior began to still, and the outline she can see of her precious son seem to settle in a fetal position. If she was to consider it, she’d say that he’s fallen asleep in her arms at the sound.

She becomes bold in its use after that. Alone in the throne room or before an audience of her court, if it serves as a means to comfort her baby, then she will use it. She won’t allow him to feel as cold and as forgotten as she had when she stood before that pyrrhic marker of an end. When the war escalates, she sings it. When the Silver Owls surround Wild Rose, she sings it. When the feeling of a blade cutting through the scales upon her breast drags her world to darkness, she sings it. 

A lullaby to soothe a son. A swan song to herald an end. 

_______________________________

He knew it from her. Lilia had spent many hours in the company of the royal couple before the picturesque life they lived was shattered, and in doing so he had been privy to many things. An engagement, a wedding, and the delicate bond between a mother and her son. 

He used to scoff at that bond. His lip would curl whenever his future of babysitting was brought up in discussion, drawing amused teasing from Raverne at the notion of ‘Uncle Lilia’—a title he would vehemently deny. He used to tell himself that he would never bring a child of his blood in the world, that there would never be a baby in his arms, and that there would be no ‘uncle’ for the future prince. 

He kept most of those intentions true. He never did bring forth a child of his blood, and he certainly was not carrying any ‘uncle’ title at the moment—another five-letter word beginning with ‘e’ and ending with ‘e’ serves in its place. 

He did, however, misjudge the second intention. 

Red faced and fussy, Silver is making it abundantly clear that he’s not to be disregarded in the moment. He’s wailing, and crying, and his pudgy cheeks are wet with tears as he refuses to be put down for the night. Lilia has probably paced around the kitchen for almost an hour at this point patting Silvers back, and kissing those cheeks, and speaking in the most soothing tone he can muster while trying to refrain from breaking down himself.

Lilia had never expected to come to love the little guy, but he knows it to be true by the way his heart is aching the more he sees Silver in such an upset. 

“Please, please,” he whispers softly, kissing Silver’s forehead again as the baby’s voice increased in volume. “Shh, you’re okay, little one. It’s all going to be okay. I’m right here.”

‘Colic’ is a term he read in a human parenting guide. The book defines it as the state in which a perfectly healthy baby cries for no reason beyond just apparently wanting to. Mind you, Lilia has gone through the checklist to make sure there isn’t actually something wrong. Silver was fed, had his position changed, was rocked, and was bathed. Lilia had shown him pictures and rubbed his back and even floated in the air with him for a while to see if that would work. He had tried a pacifier, and a baby swing, and all of the cuddles Silver could possibly need. Hell, he had even reached out to Baul, who was just as lost as he was on what to do. 

Silver, it seems, just likes to make his feelings known. 

“You are my sunshine… oh for fucks—fudge—sake,” Lilia sighs, looking up to the ceiling as he continues to bounce Silver gently. His exhausted mind scrambles for any other solutions that might be at his disposal until a memory finally resurfaces. It’s distorted, as though held under water, but the sound of it is as clear as day. In his final attempt to put his baby and his heart at ease, Lilia shifts to hold Silver just a touch closer, and begins to hum a song he had long hoped to forget. 

At first, Silver doesn’t buy it. He continues to cry and fuss in his fathers’ arms—until finally his auroral eyes open, still brimming with tears, and he looks up at the other in interest. His wails die down to the softest sniffles, his pudgy hands stop waving in the air, and he simply looks curious for a while. Lilia continues to hum and to rock his boy until Silver’s apparent ability to fall asleep with ease returns, and the baby goes from a typhoon of emotion to a picturesque infant. 

Lilia’s breath leaves him slowly as he presses another kiss to Silver’s brow and sends a silent word of thanks to the stars. In his mind, he can see Meleanor and Raverne’s smug expressions at the sight of this as Lilia carries Silver back to his crib. 

A swan song to herald an end. A lullaby to soothe a son.

[miraichado]

Imagine a ball between NRC and RSA then ‘THEY’ surprise you with ‘THESE’ dress

Would you be their princess?

[miraichado]

Food for thought:

Why hasn't Meleanor, who's already in her 300s before her death, ascended to be queen? Is it because they're waiting for Maleficia to die? Is it because Meleanor isn't as strong as Maleficia yet?

Or is it because Meleanor isn't easy to control? Because unlike Maleficia, Meleanor does not listen to the senate and does things her own way. Because she keeps a filthy bat they hate as her closest aide, because she married a radical who wanted the Fae and humans to coexist?

I want to reserve my judgments until we get explanations in Maleficia's perspective, but for now it's looking like the senate wants Maleficia, old and tired as she is, to stay in power because she has grown extremely weak mentally and is easy to manipulate. That's why they don't want Meleanor to become queen. That's why Meleanor moved out of the capital and built her own castle somewhere far. That's why they want to lock Malleus up in his little tower, because if he goes outside and learns of how the real world works and how disgusting their kingdom has become, they'll have to deal with a young and powerful radical who they would not be able to manipulate to their benefit.

Lilia did great in bringing out Malleus. I think Maleficia has faith that her grandson would be able to do what she couldn't, and that's why she at least fought for him to enroll in Night Raven College even when the senate probably opposes.

Honestly I think this will have a huge plot relevance in the upcoming Book 8 because you do not just introduce a detailed account on an entire country's politics just to trash it after Book 7. This book is extremely, extremely heavy in the sudden lore drop and world building that it would be disappointing not to expand on it and give it a satisfying conclusion.

[miraichado]

dont fight all alone in the rain, mother

I found it depressing that when Meleanor faced the Silver Owls, it was raining hard and she didn't have an umbrella to shield her from it. In her life, she was always the spoiled and sheltered princess so her standing in the rain feels so dissonance with her noble nature, but it also tells that she went in that battlefield without anyone protecting her.

I also realized that, unlike Levan, when Meleanor bid goodbye to Lilia, she never said that she'll return. Baul and Lilia trusted that she'll survive and return home yet Meleanor didn't believe that could happen so she didn't promise she'll come back. 💔😭

[miraichado]

A Fan favorite HC for Malleus is him giving you jewels/gifts made from items in his horde. i agree that he definitely does, but i feel we're forgetting something else.

He probably has some of his mother's jewelry.

I think you'd have to be engaged/married before he'd give you anything. But imagine he proposes with his mother's ring. on your wedding day, you're wearing one of her crowns. (i don't think gender matters with the way the crowns styled)

I'd think most of Melanor's belongings are owned by the royal family with only some specifically personal items given to malleus. Same with his dad's things.

I'd think this would be a big deal for everyone but Mallificia especially. Maybe the way she shows her approval of you is through letting you use some of the items she's kept from her daughter. Or having the royal seamstresses rework some of melanor's old clothes into something for you. Same with reverne's clothes.

I think this would also go for more then just jewelry/clothes.

I HC, his dad was also a book nerd/scholarly type. If you're into reading, he gifts you one of his father's favorite books. While you're studying to become Malleus's consort, he lends you Reverne's notes from when he had to study the same things.

I feel like one of the biggest shows of love is letting you use his parents items. The last things he has to remember them.

I don't think lilia would give you anything physical. Instead he shares the most important thing to him. Memories. Lilia will sit with you for hours telling you stories of your future-in-laws. All the stories he can remember of malleus' youth and of the Draconia family in general.

[miraichado]

I like to imagine that in an au where Meleanor lives and Lilia somehow still gets custody of Silver, like Malleus she is also initially disgusted by Silver before growing extremely attached to him because the "you love me, so you'll love my child" thing goes both ways.

A few hcs that I had while I brainrotted about this in Discord dms:

-Meleanor, like her son, is very fascinated by Silver's fast development.

-She is an easily impressed aunt/godmother and would heap SO MUCH praise on Silver for the littlest things. (and immediately turn around and strike Lilia with lightning for interrupting her)

-Lilia, on the phone(?): "Silver just said his first words!"

Meleanor, appearing in a burst of fire: "HOLY SHIT!!!"

-Sort of reflecting fae in folklore, she loves to kidnap take Silver back to the castle with her for "play dates" with Malleus, who will complain about it as he so very gently plays with the fragile infant his mother had trusted him with (he is a tsundere big brother)

-Revan always sighs every time he catches Silver in the castle because he KNOWS his wife didn't tell Lilia she took him, but he isn't unhappy to see him. Will include Silver in Malleus's tutoring sessions even though Malleus's curriculum is much too advanced for the average human, let alone a baby.

-Growing up, Silver calls Meleanor "Mother" because he hears Malleus call her that all the time. When he grows out of it and starts calling her "Lady Meleanor/Meleanor-sama", she sulks about it a bit.