â» When looking them up on Twitter, remember to put them inbetween the straight quotation marks (e.g. "(keywords here)") because El*n's Twitter is barely usable. ( *ÂŻ êłÂŻ*)đ
đFROSTHEIM
ć çč (KamuToku)
ă°ăçč, ăă·çč (BashiToku) or 磎çč (IshiToku)
Hey yâall I have an announcement! My web app that Iâve been working on, Afro Index, is now live! Itâs a visual reference library of Black hairstyles, for artist, animators, writers, and anyone who wants to learn more about them!
Check it out at afroindex.org! đâš
A reference library for Black hairstyles with accurate naming,
structured filtering, and curated reference images.
Omg hi everyone đđ thank you so much for all the love on Afro Index, had to go upgrade the site because of all the traffic lol I appreciate yâall fr đ
If you spot anything missing or incorrect (styles, images, names, etc.), pls drop it here: https://afroindex.carrd.co
This project is meant to grow with the community, so all your feedback is actually perfect and exactly what I hoped for đđŸ
This is an an awesome site. As a writer, this is extra helpful, because i want to get descriptions right and get details right. Hair is really important for characters because it is one of the few features that people use to define themselves in real life and change as they grow.
hihi!!! since Riddle takes inspiration from Ciel from Black Butler (Looks wise, aesthetically, maybe a bit of personality), could you do Riddle with an s/o thatâs like Elizabeth? gender neutral reader is okay, and i hope youâve been well
â°(*Ž`*)âŻâĄ
this idea came to me after a black butler rewatch and seeing Ciel and Elizabeth tg⊠đ€«
ăâLove Is Like A Wild Roseâă
ăSynopsis: In which Riddle fully commits himself to the one person to the only person heâs ever lovedă
â§âË â You see, the two of you grew up together and were extremely close due to your parents and his mother being colleagues
â§âË â You were pretty much the only person other than his mother that he saw and interacted with frequently
â§âË â Surprisingly, Mrs. Rosehearts often let you join Riddle for his lessons where she quickly caught on to the bond the two of you had developed (it's hard not to notice given the way you cling to her son lol)
â§âË â What's even more surprising was when she'd let Riddle visit you at your home â she really did hold your parents in high regard, so she trusted them enough to leave her dear son in their care on occasion â where he'd have a rare taste of freedom from his usually strict life
â§âË â You'd insist on having tea parties and playing dress up, which Riddle would always indulge you in simply to see you smile (it's not like you'd take no for an answer anyway â you always have been rather stubborn)
â§âË â He'd even let you hold his hand, hug him, and give him the occasional peck on the cheek â affection that he greatly lacked from anyone else in his life, but was more than happy to receive from you (his mother rarely ever raised a kind hand to him, so he took any affection he could get)
â§âË â By then, it was rather obvious that the two of you were experiencing a rather serious bout of puppy love
â§âË â While your parents thought it to be just an innocent little crush, you were a lot more serious about your feelings for Riddle and proclaimed that you would one day marry him
â§âË â Luckily, Mrs. Rosehearts was exactly on the same page as you and took your deceleration as her sign to put her plans into action
â§âË â Being the control freak she is, Mrs. Rosehearts figured she'd one day have to find a suitable spouse for her dear boy, but that was before you came around
â§âË â You certainly weren't perfect â no one other that Mrs. Rosehearts herself holds such a lofty title â but she's sure that you had the potential to become her version of the ideal spouse for her son
â§âË â It was obvious to her that Riddle held feelings for you too, so she decided to have a nice long chat with your parents about a potential⊠arrangement of sorts
â§âË â It took some time, but eventually, both you and Mrs. Rosehearts would get exactly want you wanted
â§âË â You took the news of your arranged marriage to Riddle incredibly well, but the same couldn't be said for your husband-to-be
â§âË â Of course, he genuinely have feelings for you, but his conflicted feelings came from the fact that all this was orchestrated by his mother
â§âË â It's bittersweet, and it definitely changes Riddle's feelings for you for a while
â§âË â You used to be an escape, but now you're just another obligation, an expectation set by his mother that he must uphold
â§âË â You started seeing less and less of Riddle the older the two of you get, but that doesn't change how you felt about him
â§âË â The distance only grew when he left home to go to NRC, but you tried your best to keep in touch by texting and sending him the occasional letter â none of ever received a response (he red and kept every text and letter, though)
â§âË â In his defense, he was rather busy becoming Housewarden and reforming Heartslabyul and he told you as much when he returned him for break
â§âË â You thought that things would get better from there, but you very quickly realized that Riddle has changed greatly during your time apart
â§âË â If he wasn't enforcing some stupid rule from the Queen of Hearts, then he was studying and practicing his magic, and that meant he had no free time for you
â§âË â You, of course, wanted to spend some time with him before you both went back to school, but in the process of asking him to take a break from studying to hang out you accidentally broke some convoluted rule which resulted in him blowing up on you
â§âË â You didn't speak to him at all for the rest of your break
â§âË â In fact, you didn't speak to him at all until after you heard about his overblot
â§âË â You texted him asking if he was okay, fully expecting that it would be ignored like the rest of them, but, much to your surprise, he responded
â§âË â It was short and sweet, confirming that he was recovering and wanted to talk about everything in person with you once he was feeling better
â§âË â Riddle was, of course, extremely early â both on account of his punctuality and eagerness to see you again (he even brought you a bouquet of of red roses as a small apology for his past behavior)
â§âË â He was a bit awkward at first â especially when you wrapped him up in a tight hug â but he eventually started chatting with you just like old times
â§âË â You guys talked about everything from his issues with his mother, to the circumstances of his overblot, and finally, to the current state of your relationship
â§âË â Even after all this time, Riddle still genuinely cares about you and wants to pursue something with you on his own terms and not his mother's
â§âË â He wants your relationship to happen naturally and not because of some agreement your parents made when you were both to young to even understand what such a thing entailed
â§âË â Riddle apologies for how he treated you in the past and asks for a chance to start over and rebuild your relationship anew â that's if you want to, of course
â§âË â Obviously you say yes, and from that moment on your relationship improves a great deal
â§âË â Riddle finally starts communicating with you and replying to your texts â wishing you and good morning and a goodnight every day
â§âË â He sends you blurry, poorly angled pictures from his school life â from Trey's dessert spread at the latest unbirthday party, to pictures of him and his horse Vorpal before an Equestrian Club meeting (he just about dies when you tell him how good he looks in his club uniform lol)
â§âË â Riddle will, of course, start taking you on dates too â he usually tries to plan them ahead of time, but he's gotten used to humoring your whims and going wherever you want to that day (you still can't take no for an answer it seems)
â§âË â He's still not used to affection after all this time, so don't tease him too much when he flushes bright red over a little kiss goodbye after your date
â§âË â After some time, Riddle presents you with a matching set of promise rings â one for you and one for him â signifying the seriousness of your bond and his dedication to you, which you happily wear with pride
â§âË â In the future, Riddle put a real ring on your finger, but for now, this will have to do
Hereâs the other request that I combined this one with:
Ooh, I love this! Quite heartwrenchingly sweet. đ I've always thought of this sort of idea when I remembered Black Butler. It's really cool to see the same idea fleshed out. đâšïž
the fact that he injured himself but brushes it off, and when traveller feels guilty over ruining his chance for revenge, he immediately reads her mind, reassures her, and EQUATES rescuing her to killing dottore. "equally important" is an insane phrase because we all know how much he is (rightfully) itching to get back at dottore, yet he was completely willing to ignore that....
A while ago, I rambled about how Wanderer is weirdly intimate with the Traveler, and now that Natlan has come out with new lore, it turns out it's even more insane than I previously thought.
He told Lumine to give him a new name.
A new name.
He told her to give him a n e w n a m e.
It was already a pretty big thing, but now? After Simulanka and Natlan lore? After discovering the power of names? What the fuck were you thinking, Don Sombrero?
A name can seal a person's fate. A name can give you a role to play in the world. And he gave this responsibility to Lumine.
I cannot possibly overstate this: Wanderer gave Lumine the reins of his fate. He judged her worthy of trust and readily accepted whatever role she'd give him.
And, if we go by the notion that "Wanderer" is his canon name, then... Then Lumine, the Traveler, chose a role similar to hers. She tied their fates together by name.
Can you two chill for a second. This is actually scary. I feel dizzy.
i brewed this with a friend over 3 discord calls.... it's actually so corny but girls GIRLS do we see the vision here..!!! also lowkey mightve been because flins's trailers were way too baity (and im a fish glub glub). (more notes below)
keeping it to one li per element was so tough
also my friend is a massive diluc fan and i was advocating for my boy lyney for pyro but in the end she won out and convinced me HAHAHA
also truth route is dainsleif i dont make the rules (even though im a childe girlie through and through)
in my head scara would be... txa alice-adjacent in terms of personality (?) like he'll shoot you down at the earliest opportunity like a hissy cat but really means well :'))
im probably gonna end up drawing more of this god help me... we even came up with good ends and bad ends for each of them HAHAHAHA oh it was a fun time..
girlies if any of you have hcs for genshin as an otome game PLEASE do tell
Authorâs Note: I finally did it! One of my bigger projects finished! And this is the most ambitious thing Iâve posted in a while! Itâll be my biggest post for sure! I truly, truly hope you guys enjoy this. I hope this sickfic can make you feel a bit better during these times. (*slaps fic* This bad boy can fit so many cuddles in it). Thank you all for your encouragement and support, itâs honestly what helped me get this finished! Also, I swear Iâve been over this thing more than thirty times to try and catch mistakes, but itâs a lot so if I missed mistakes I apologize.Â
Word Count: 18,300
Warnings: Blood, Medication Use, Vomiting, Iâm not a doctor in any way shape or form, so please donât take any of this as a personal guide.Â
Other parts: Vice-housewardens + Ruggie ; First Years (-Ortho)
Riddle Rosehearts
After the breakup, Riddle acted like he'd read somewhere that repressing emotion was a perfectly valid coping mechanism. Which, to be fair, he probably had. And so he embarked on what could only be described as a grief management routine so structured and detail-oriented that you almost had to respect it.
First came the part where he behaved like nothing had happened.
He went about his day with all the usual pompâcollaring students, citing arcane dorm rules, and drinking his tea as usual.
If anyone brought you up (on purpose or by accident), he would simply blink, nod, and go back to arranging sugar cubes in a perfect geometric formation. "We are no longer together," he would say, as if it were an administrative change and not, say, a soul-crushing emotional catastrophe.
"Oh. I didn't see you there," he said, the fourth time in a week.
You stared at him from behind your drink. "I've been sitting here for thirty minutes."
"Well," he muttered, "public seating is for everyone."
By week two, he began inventing reasons to talk to you. Weird ones.
He approached you one day, armed with a rulebook and what looked like three sticky notes marking battle locations.
"According to Queen of Hearts rule 42," he said, clearly having practiced this in front of a mirror, "ex-partners must return borrowed items within twelve days."
You blinked. "You lent me a pencil."
"It was part of a set," he snapped, scandalized.
You told him you'll give it back and he looked like someone slapped him.
You thought that might be the end of it. But then, course, it escalated.
He showed up at your door one evening with a paper in his hand. A list. A physical list. Titled, in absolutely unnecessary cursive, "A Non-Exhaustive Record of My Missteps."
"It's not meant to change anything," he said stiffly, not quite looking at you. "Only to⊠acknowledge."
There were bullet points. Short, awkward, and occasionally baffling.
Should not have critiqued your sock choice in front of your friends.
I apologize for saying 'emotional outbursts are not strategic.' That was, in hindsight, a poor choice of words.
You are allowed to eat dessert before dinner. Even if it is cherry pie.
I realize now that asking if we could schedule arguments during free periods was not romantic.
I should have asked you to stay.
You didn't know what to do with itâhim. He was so Riddle about everything. Polite. Procedural. Very slightly insane. But under all the awkward attempts at regulation and paperwork, it was clear he missed you. Badly.
And the truth was, you still hadn't returned the matching pencil.
You kept it. Not because you believed in fate or romance or even well-meaning tyrants who quoted rulebooks like love poemsâbut because part of you thought, maybe, if he was willing to be just a little more flexible, there might be a version of this that could work.
And you hoped it could.
Leona Kingscholar
After the breakup, Leona made it his personal mission to convince the entire worldâRuggie, his dorm, the mirror in his room, the literal wildlife outsideâthat he did not care.
He went around saying things like, "Tch. Good riddance," and "Like I got time to babysit someone who cries over movies," even though no one had brought you up. He slept more. Talked less. Got moodier, which no one thought was possible until he started growling at actual potted plants for existing near his nap spots.
Whenever Ruggie so much as hinted at your nameâusually while dancing around some scheduling conflict or trying to explain why Leona's mood had tanked againâhe'd get cut off mid-word.
"I wasn't even talking about them!" Ruggie would complain.
"Then stop thinking about them so loud," Leona snapped, face buried in the crook of his arm like the concept of you physically hurt his eyes.
But of course, the moment your name stopped being brought up, that became a problem too.
He started acting restless. Less asleep all the time and more awake and clearly trying to look like he's not looking around for someone. He'd frown when someone laughed in the hallway, then look annoyed when it wasn't you. He started showing up to classes he normally skipped, sitting in the back with his legs stretched out and arms crossed like he was doing the entire school a favor just by existing in the room.
And then the things started appearing.
First, it was his jacketâleft casually across the back of your desk chair, like maybe gravity had just pulled it there on accident. Then his spellbook, shoved between your textbooks in a way that definitely required premeditated effort. Then a sandwich. An entire sandwich, wrapped up and labeled "Not Yours."
He denied all of it, obviously.
"Must've been Ruggie," he said, regarding the jacket that literally smelled like him.
When confronted about the book: "I don't even read, what're you talking about."
As for the sandwich? "You're imagining things. I didn't make that for you."
By that point, no one believed himânot even himself.
The final blow came in the form of a confrontation you hadn't expected. Late evening, when you were walking back to your dorm from the library. You were alone, or you thought you were, until you turned the corner and found him thereâhalf in shadow, arms crossed, gaze trained somewhere just over your shoulder.
He didn't say hello.
Didn't say anything actually.
Just let the silence stretch until it started fraying at the edges, and then muttered, voice low and rough:
"You still want this, don't you?"
You stared at him. He didn't flinch, but you could tell he wanted to. He held himself like someone who didn't expect the answer to be yes, but still desperately needed to hear it before he gave up entirely.
And you realized somewhere between the jacket, the sandwich, and the way his voice cracked at the end of the sentenceâthat for all his snarling and attitude, he never stopped loving you.
He just didn't know how to ask you to stay without sounding like he might actually need you.
Which, of course, he did. Not that he'd ever say it out loud.
Not yet, anyway.
But the next time he leaves something behind, you think you might return it in person. Maybe even stay awhile.
Azul Ashengrotto
Azul handled the breakup the only way he knew how: with spreadsheets, surveillance footage, and a truly unhealthy amount of denial.
He claimed to be fine, of course. Said it with a straight face while color-coding inventory spreadsheets and inputting customer satisfaction data at four in the morning like a man unburdened by heartbreak. But when the tweels found the Lounge security footage pausedâagainâon a scene of you laughing near the bar, they stopped asking.
He'd memorized the timestamp.
And no, he didn't want to talk about it.
Azul had always been prone to spiraling in a unique way. After the breakup, that tendency mutated into something truly concerning. He didn't cry. He didn't wallow. Instead, he opened a blank document and began calculating. How many hours you'd spent together. How often you laughed in his presence. What the average rate of eye contact was in happy couples versus yours. There were charts. Graphs. Some kind of weighted affection index.
Unfortunately, Jade opened the file looking for the March sales report and instead found a document titled:
"Projected Probability of Them Still Loving Me (v6)."
He would not let him live it down.
"Idea," Floyd said. "You wanna run those numbers again but include the variable where you're super pathetic lately?"
Even Jade raised an eyebrow. "The correlation between desperation and appeal might not be as linear as you'd hope."
Azul tried to brush them off. He even lied (very badly) about what the spreadsheet was for ("Just⊠tax optimization. Personal hobby. Totally normal."), but the damage was done. The eels were smug. He was mortified. And worst of all, he still couldn't stop thinking about you.
So he pivoted.
If direct emotional vulnerability had failed him, perhaps passive-aggressive marketing would do the trick.
You started receiving coupons. Neatly folded, hand-delivered, no return addressâbut you recognized the ink. And the handwriting. And the aggressively formal tone that somehow still managed to sound like begging.
"One (1) free drink of your choice at the Mostro Lounge. Offer valid for exes statistically proven to be an optimal match."
Another read:
"Your preferred drink has been discontinued. Kidding. Please come back."
And your personal favorite:
"A reminder that our pairing was 94.3% ideal. Come back. For research."
You didn't respond. He didn't expect you to. But every week, a new coupon showed upâsome increasingly ridiculous, some borderline romantic, all of them signed with that same flourish he used when pretending he wasn't panicking.
You weren't sure if it was pathetic or endearing. Probably both. The coupons had piled up in a drawer now, next to a coaster you never returned and a little napkin with a sketch he once made of you during a slow night.
You told yourself it was nostalgia. Curiosity. Scientific inquiry, if anything.
And one slow afternoon, you found yourself digging through the drawer, smoothing out the least crumpled coupon, and thinkingâjust for a momentâthat you might stop by.
For research. Obviously.
Kalim Al-Asim
Kalim took the breakup as well as someone who had never actually took a negative emotion in his life to heart could. Which was to say: terribly.
He cried. A lot. At first, it was appropriateâprivate tears, sniffles in the dorm room, a distant gaze over his drink. But then it started happening at other times. Like during an ad for laundry detergent where the happy couple folded towels together. Or during a weather report where the forecast mentioned rain, which, apparently, you once said made you sleepy. Or during absolutely nothing at all, except that the sun was setting "a little too much like that one day you held his hand, remember?"
He insisted he was fine.
"Totally fine!" he chirped, voice three octaves higher than normal, eyes red-rimmed and suspiciously glossy. "Breakups happen all the time, right? We're both growing and learning! It's healthy!"
No one believed him.
Jamil looked like he was considering reporting you to the disciplinary committee just to end Kalim's reign of emotionally unhinged sunshine. Even Grim asked if someone should "turn him off and back on again."
But Kalim doubled down. If he couldn't be fine naturally, he'd brute-force his way into happiness. Which, in his mind, meant: throwing parties. So many parties. For no reason. His calendar suddenly became a horror show of "themed celebration nights" and "spontaneous joy hours," all of which were weirdly tailored around your favorite things.
"Here!" he said brightly, handing out goodie bags. "Everyone gets this specific brand of chocolates and stickers! Because those are just objectively fun! Not because anyone used to love them or anything!"
It was transparent. Alarmingly so.
Even when he gave someone a little clay charm that looked exactly like the one you wore on your bag, Kalim waved it off with a too-wide smile. "Just spreading the joy! It's important to stay positive, right?"
Everyone knew it was a cry for help. The kind that sounded like party poppers and glitter and repressed sobbing in the school gardens.
The turning point came on a quiet afternoon when he showed up at your door holding a tiny cupcake. It had a frosting heart on it. His hands shook slightly.
"I know this is weird," he said, already teary. "I didn't wanna make you uncomfortable. I justâ"
He swallowed, voice cracking like something inside him was giving up the act for good.
"Even if you don't love me again," he said, "can we still be something?"
You looked at himâhis earnest eyes, his trembling lower lipâand you felt something soft and painfully familiar unfurl in your chest.
Because Kalim didn't know how to lie to the people he loved. Not well. Not really. He was all impulse and heart, the kind of boy who loved too loud and too fast and never quite knew how to stop once he started.
And maybe you weren't ready to be what you were. Not yet.
But looking at him, at the little cupcake with the slightly smudged heart and the the way he was holding it like he might shatter if you didn't take itâ
How could you say no?
You took the cupcake. And maybe his hand, too. Just for a moment. Just to see if something could still bloom.
Vil Schoenheit
Vil did not mourn the breakup. Mourning was for people who couldn't maintain composure under pressure. For people who let emotion smudge their mascara. He was not one of those people.
At least, not publicly.
He was flawless. Unbothered. The exact picture of someone thriving post-relationship, thank you very much. His interviews were polished. His smiles were poised. His posture was impeccable. If anyone noticed that his usual acerbic wit had gone curiously blunt, no one said anything.
They wouldn't dare.
Privately, though, when the cameras were off and the spotlight blinked out, Vil cracked in very small ways.
He started using your favorite perfume. A subtle layer, never enough to be obvious, but just enough to make him feel like you were still somewhere in the room. Like maybe if he breathed in deep enough, he could hold onto something.
He flipped through magazines during lunch breaks, claiming it was for "market research." But every time he lingered on a movie review or a lifestyle spread, it was with the faint, ridiculous hope that you'd read it too. That your fingers might have touched the same paper. That your eyes caught the same line he was rereading for the fifth time.
He knew it was foolish. But Vil had always been prone to beautiful illusions. It was sort of his thing.
The unraveling came, ironically, in the most public of places: a toothpaste commercial.
He was halfway through filming, mid-speech about the importance of a radiant smile, when something in the script triggered a memoryâsomething you once said about how his laugh.
He kept talking.
Kept improvising.
Went off-script entirely.
The crew let him go for a minuteâVil was known for his "emotional depth," after allâbut when he hit the line "even the most polished smile can still ache when it remembers someone who made it feel real," the director had to call cut.
"Vil," they said gently. "It's a toothpaste commercial."
He didn't speak for the rest of the shoot. Just touched up his own makeup in silence, eyes a little glassy.
It took him another week to knock on your door.
He showed up in a soft sweater, smelling faintly of something familiar, holding his own hands like he didn't know what else to do with them.
He didn't ask for much. Didn't ask for forever. Just quietly, cautiously:
"Would you like to try again?"
And you thoughtâlooking at him, at the person who once swore he'd never show up like this for anyone, at the vulnerability hiding under all that polishâ
Maybe this time, you could make it work.
Idia Shroud
Idia handled the breakup the way he handled most things in life: with a complete and total digital meltdown, buried under forty layers of denial and an emotionally scorched Discord server.
He didn't text. Didn't call. Didn't even leave passive-aggressive emoji reactions on your old posts like a normal ex with unresolved feelings. He simply⊠disappeared.
Vanished like a ghost into his room, into his code, into the vast and uncaring expanse of the internet, where feelings didn't exist unless they were typed in all caps or conveyed through a crying anime girl gif.
And for a while, it was total radio silence.
Until you logged into that game.
The shared one. The one you used to play together after class, where the two of you ran a little shop in a pixelated fantasy village and spent an embarrassing amount of time farming digital potatoes.
Your shop was still there.
But now there was⊠a shrine.
Your character's pixel art face, recreated painstakingly in custom tiles and surrounded by in-game flowers, torches, and glowing pink mood crystals that did not exist in the vanilla version of the game.
He'd modded it.
There was a sign in the middle that just said:
"Here Lies Happiness (RIP)"
You stared at it for a long time. Then, just to confirm the ridiculous suspicion building in your chest, you checked the nearby player list.
Sure enough, his username had changed too:
"SadBoy420"
Online. Loitering.
You didn't message him immediately. Mostly because you weren't sure what to say to someone who had quite literally built a shrine to your relationship in a farming sim. But stillâyou lingered. Logged in more often. Left offerings of rare items near the shrine like it was some strange, silent conversation.
Idia never spoke to you directly, but you noticed the shrine changed a little every day. One day it had a sign that said "I'm Fine." The next, it was replaced with a drawing of your characters fishing together. One morning it was just a massive, pixel-art rendition of the word "SORRY" in bold letters with a sad face emoji.
Outside the game, his silence continued.
But Ortho?
Ortho was not subtle.
"Did you know my brother has been listening to the voicemails you left him on loop for the past 72 hours?" he chirped once in the cafeteria. "Not that he's, like, sad or anything! Just nostalgic. Definitely not crying."
Later: "He made your favorite NPC in our custom server the town mayor! Isn't that cute? I mean, objectively, not emotionally, haha."
Eventually, you got the call.
Your phone lit up with his name and you answered before you could talk yourself out of it.
"Uhâhey," Idia said, voice barely above a whisper. "I didn't, like, mean to call. OrâI did, but. Crap. Okay. Hi."
You waited.
He took a breath.
"I was just wondering," he said, "if you maybe wanted to talk again. Or, y'know. Game. No pressure or anything. It's fine if you're, like, over it and I'm just like a pathetic ghost haunting your social life, haha, classic tragic NPC vibesâ"
"Yes," you said, before he could spiral into apologizing for existing.
He paused. Long enough that you thought the call had dropped. Then, quietlyâhopeful, almost disbelieving:
"Wait. Really?"
You smiled, even if he couldn't see it.
"Yeah," you said. "Log in."
Malleus Draconia
Malleus did not understand how something so radiant could simply⊠end.
He didn't throw a dramatic tantrum after the breakup. He didn't disappear in a swirl of thunderclouds or curse the moon or anything out of a tragic love story.
He didn't so much as frown in public, because the full gravity of the breakup hadn't quite hit him yet. Instead, it settled in stranger placesâquiet things, strange habits.
Like how he started speaking to the plush bat you gave him on his last birthday as though it were you. Not in a creepy way, more like someone who didn't know what to do with the empty space you left behind.
He asked it questions. Told it how his day went. Laughed, sometimes, as if it had told him a jokeâlow and fond, the kind of laugh only you had ever coaxed out of him. And when he sat beneath the stars, plush cradled carefully in his lap, he whispered to it with a gentleness reserved only for the lost.
The gargoyles? They weren't even sentient, but even they seemed exhausted. Every night he stood in front of them, musing out loud about the way you smiled or how you always called him weird little nicknames. One of them lost a noseâmaybe unrelated.
Lilia, bless him, said nothing for a long while. He simply watched as Malleus wilted, quietly and beautifully, like a flower sealed in ice. But one evening, after Malleus asked in the softest voice, "Do humans ever come back when they leave?", Lilia did not answer. He only wrapped his arms around his ward and held him close.
At some point, he started writing letters. Not to send, just⊠to say things. Things he didn't know how to tell you, or hadn't said enough when he could. Some were serious. Some were barely legible thoughts written in the middle of the night. But he kept them all, folded neatly in a box that lived under his bed.
And then, of course, Silver found the box.
Silver, ever helpful and half-asleep, assumed it was mail Malleus meant to send and delivered the whole thing to your dorm like it was completely normal to get a hand-bound novel of unsent love letters dropped off on a random day.
You read them all.
You didn't say anything at first. You weren't sure what you were supposed to say. But that night, you left your window openâjust a little.
And sure enough, just past midnight, Malleus appeared outside your dorm. Just⊠standing there. Looking up.
He didn't ask to come in. He didn't even call your name. He just waited. Like maybe you'd hear the quiet, and somehow understand.
And when you finally stepped outside, he looked at you like he'd been waiting centuries.
"May I court you again?" he asked softly. "From the beginning."
