HIII I SAW YOU HAVE REQUESTS OPEN AND I WANTED TO REQUEST :>>
idon't know if your comfortable with this but can i request twst 2nd years (replace kalim with leona) and what they do if their s/o is gone?
their s/o is dead so i wonder how they would mourn, how they take care of their s/o's grave, and how they cope without them?
i don't know if you accept requests like these but if you do then THANK YOU SO SO SOOO MUCH IN ADVANCE 🙏💕
SECOND YEARS + LEONA X READER
Where you died
How the boys would live the mourning process, how they take care of your grave, and how they cope without your death, with a live without you
Warning: This is hard angst. If you're a very perceptive person who visualizes a lot or empathizes with what you read, be prepared for a bit of a tear.
Leona acts like he doesn’t care. At first. But deep down, he’s unraveled. He doesn’t cry in front of anyone. He shuts down. He sleeps even more, not out of laziness— because he can only see you in dreams now. There’s a rawness behind his eyes when your name is mentioned, but he covers it with silence. He avoids people because he hates how they look at him—with pity, like they expect him to break. He already did. Just not where anyone could see it.
Leona visits your grave late at night, always when no one's around. He doesn’t bring flowers. Instead, he sits in silence, talking to you about the mundane. “Ruggie got on my case again. Jack pissed me off.” Things like that. Sometimes, he brings pebbles from Savannaclaw and stacks them on your grave. Small tokens that only he would understand. He leaves when the sun starts to rise. Always before anyone can catch him there.
Leona tells himself it’s better this way—that he was only going to ruin you in the end. That you were too good for him. But that doesn’t stop the grief from choking him. He keeps something small of yours—a ring, a scarf, maybe a notebook with your handwriting. On bad days, he holds it so tightly his knuckles turn white. He doesn’t move on. He just becomes colder, harsher. Your loss is the scar he never lets heal.
Riddle shuts down entirely. He doesn't cry—not at first. He goes numb. Rules become his lifeline. Structure. Order. Anything but feeling. But when he finds the last gift you gave him, tucked in a drawer, unopened—he collapses. He screams into his pillow. Breaks a teacup in his hands. Grief terrifies him because it's messy—and Riddle was taught to fear mess.
Riddle brings roses. Red, white, and blue—each carefully arranged. He memorizes the upkeep schedule of your grave, ensuring it’s spotless at all times. He even files complaints if the groundskeepers neglect it. When he visits, he reads aloud to you—poetry, or books you once loved. His voice is quiet. On your birthday, he always brings your favorite tea and pours a cup beside your grave. He doesn’t drink. Just… waits, in case you’re still listening.
Riddle reverts into old habits—strict routines, harsh punishments, stricter rules. But Trey knows. He sees the way Riddle’s hands shake. Eventually, Riddle softens—just a little. He keeps your photo on his desk, and he sometimes writes letters addressed to you, even though he never sends them. He studies healing magic obsessively. Not because he wants to bring you back—he knows he can’t. But because he never wants to lose someone like that again. You were his exception. His rebellion. His first real love. And he never quite recovers.
Floyd doesn’t react the way people expect. He laughs when he hears the news—but it’s not happy. It’s empty. Then he gets violent. He wrecks an entire hallway, shattering windows and breaking anything that reminds him of you. Then… he’s just gone. He withdraws so deeply into himself that not even Jade or Azul can reach him. He stops showing up to class. Stops smiling. The spark in his eyes is just gone. He mutters your name to himself like a lullaby.
Floyd doesn’t go often. When he does, it’s erratic. One day he’s calm, sitting by your grave with seashells and pearls he found. The next, he’s yelling at the sky, sobbing, asking why you left him alone. He presses his forehead to your headstone sometimes and just stays there for hours. Then he leaves, mood unreadable, but always more exhausted than before.
Floyd changes. He becomes moodier, but not in his usual way. He loses interest in his usual chaos. You were the one who made the world interesting, after all. He keeps something of yours in his jacket—maybe your old hairpin or bracelet—and clutches it when he’s angry or lost. When people ask about you, he snaps: “Don’t talk about them. Ever.” Sometimes, though, he swears he hears your laughter. And for a fleeting second, he smiles like he used to.
Silver is devastated, and it shows. He’s always been calm and emotionally steady, but your death shakes him to his core. He loses his rhythm—his duty falters, his naps grow deeper and longer. He wakes up crying from dreams where you’re still alive, only to remember you’re gone. His voice is softer now, as if anything louder might shatter him. He carries guilt. “Why couldn’t I protect you?” is a question that haunts him endlessly.
Silver visits your grave with quiet reverence. He brushes fallen leaves off the headstone with his hands, tends to the flowers, and replaces them often with lilies or whatever blooms you once loved. He kneels when he speaks to you, as if he still guards you even in death. He reads aloud fairytales you liked, letting the wind carry his words to wherever you might be. Silver doesn't rush. He stays until the stars come out. And sometimes he sleeps there. It's the closest he'll ever get to falling asleep cuddled up with you again.
Silver keeps a locket with your photo, tucked inside his shirt near his heart. He often touches it absentmindedly when lost in thought. Lilia, Sebek and Malleus worry about him, and while he remains gentle with them, there’s a sadness behind his smile. Silver believes you’re watching over him—so he tries to live a life you’d be proud of. It hurts. But that belief keeps him moving, one step at a time.
Ruggie pretends he’s okay. He makes jokes, forces a grin, but those who know him well notice the cracks—he laughs less, steals less, works more. He throws himself into being useful cause if he stops moving, the grief catches up. The first time he’s alone after your funeral, he breaks down hard. Punches a wall. Screams into his jacket. It’s the only time he lets himself fall apart.
Ruggie doesn’t visit often at first—not because he doesn’t care, but because it hurts too much. When he does, he always brings something: your favorite snack, some charm from the Sunset Savanna, a scrap of cloth from a hoodie you loved. He never stays long. Just stands there, hands in his pockets, voice low: “Hey… bet you’re still yelling at me from wherever you are. I can hear it.… I miss it.”
Ruggie becomes fiercely protective of the few people he has left. He values life more now, but laughs a little less. He keeps your last voice message in Magicam saved and listens to it sometimes under the covers at night. When he sees something you would’ve loved at the market, he stops and stares for a moment—then keeps walking. The pain never really fades. But he carries it like everything else: close to his chest, never letting it show unless he’s completely alone.
Azul is shattered, but he tries to intellectualize it. He tries to convince himself that grief can be processed in logical steps, denial, anger, bargaining. But that doesn’t stop him from breaking down in private, clutching the edge of his desk until his knuckles turn blue, trying to breathe through the panic of a world without you. He continues running the Mostro Lounge like nothing’s wrong. His smile is still polished. But behind the scenes? Azul can’t look at your favorite seat in the lounge without feeling like he’s drowning.
Azul dresses impeccably every time he visits your grave. It becomes a ritual He brings white roses, and small trinkets he made with his own hands. He kneels, brushing dust from your name. Sometimes his voice breaks. Sometimes he just sits in silence and lets the tears fall.
Azul spirals into overwork. He tries to fill the void you left with achievements, contracts—anything. But nothing is enough. He keeps your photo in the drawer of his desk, opens it during long nights, and murmurs to it like you’re still there. Jade and Floyd know. They say nothing, but keep a close eye on him. Azul never quite recovers. He simply learns how to live with a heart that echoes where your voice used to be.
Jamil becomes frighteningly quiet. His grief is organized, sharp, disciplined—he doesn’t lash out, but everything about him becomes colder. Internally, he’s drowning in guilt. He feels responsible somehow. He replays everything over and over, looking for what he missed. He doesn’t cry in front of others. But late at night, he folds your old letters and clothes, tears soaking into his palms.
Jamil treats your grave like a shrine. Every week, he brings fresh desert roses, cleans the stone, and places small food offerings from his own cooking—your favorites, made exactly the way you liked them. He never talks to you there. Instead, he meditates in silence beside the grave. Maybe he believes the words are already in his heart, or maybe it just hurts too much to speak them aloud.
Jamil becomes obsessed with control—over his routine, his environment, his emotions. He starts studying harder, sleeping less, doing more. But it’s all a way to avoid facing the pain. He wears a bracelet you once gave him and never takes it off. On the anniversary of your death, he disappears from everyone for a full day. Only Kalim knows where he goes—and he never asks questions. Jamil's grief is silent, disciplined, and buried deep. But it never leaves him.
Kalim doesn't understand it at first. He smiles, thinking you'll come through the door like always, calling his name. The reality doesn't hit until days later—when your laugh no longer echoes, when your perfume fades from his robes. Then he breaks. Not in fury, in grief so raw it silences even him. He curls up in bed, weeping into your favorite pillow, begging for it to be a dream
Kalim visits every week, rain or shine. He brings lavish flower arrangements, little handmade crafts, and occasionally food—things he learned to cook because you liked them. He talks a lot while sitting by your grave. Sometimes he cries. Other times, he smiles while telling stories, like he’s making sure your spirit is still included in his life.
Kalim throws himself into making others smile. If he can’t be happy, at least someone else can be. But deep down, there’s a hollowness. He wears a ring you once gave him—tells people it’s “for luck,” but it’s really a promise he’s trying to keep: To never forget you. Jamil ends up watching over him more carefully than ever. Kalim still laughs, still shines, but there’s a sadness behind it that never quite goes away
Jade’s grief is clinical, almost surgical in how neatly he tucks it away from others. No one sees him cry. No one sees him falter. He mourns in silence, in isolation. He’ll continue his duties, serve in the Lounge, smile with those sharp teeth—but inside, he’s completely quietly broken. His calm becomes eerie because there’s no balance anymore. Not without you.
Jade visits your grave with ritualistic precision. Once a month, on the same day, at the same time. He brings rare mushrooms, a flower you loved... He speaks rarely, if at all. He stays until nightfall, then vanishes like he was never there.
Jade becomes more elusive. Even Floyd can’t always read him. Jade starts going into deeper and more dangerous places, almost like he’s looking for something he lost. He keeps your memory alive through action—keeping what you loved alive in the world. But he never talks about you unless someone dares to ask… and if they do, he just smiles. A sad, secret smile. “You wouldn’t understand.”
"Why do you keep blaming yourself Riddle? You were just a kid then,It was never your fault."
Yes, Riddle Angst in this au before his design or Backstory in this au is fully revealed . I hope you like the art. If you have any questions don't be afraid to reach out (:
⇝stuck in a failing and/or loveless marriage with them.
[ n: thank u for 600 followers, everyone! special thanks to @v-anrouge and @/love-thanatopsis for helping me so much with this fic i love u sm this is for u i hope u like it ! not proofread. ]
{ - - - → tw. angst. cheating, alcohol, arguments, aggression, mention of children on kalim's part, gaslighting, mentions of divorce, unhappiness and basically anything u would associate with marriages that just aren't working out exdee. just sad vibes here so stick around if ure in the mood to cry </3 }
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riddle rosehearts ‹ heartslabyul ›
he sat behind his desk, rubbing his temples in exhaustion. but despite the lingering tiredness of the day, you would think riddle would be ready to head himself to bed and get some proper rest, right? wrong. he feels like a man being sent off to war.
he'd have much rather spent the night in his office with a blanket and a pillow on the couch. the neck pain would be an easier form of misery to endure than having to spend an hour in a room with tension he often compares to a sinking ship with no lifeboats.
it almost seemed like you lived in separate worlds. he worked, you did whatever it is a dutiful partner does. only you did it far, far away. to your parties you went and talked to your friends, to his meetings he went and shared some good brandy with his own company. you both come home and head to your own separate chambers.
when you're out together you put on a good display of affections for everyone to see. holding hands, kissing each other on the cheek, smiling as if it were all just you against the world. how suffocating.
but behind the facade is an empty world. an empty house. empty hearts. just the clinking of sliver ware on the quiet dinner table sitting eight feet away from each other on both ends. silence was the only way to keep yourselves afloat. distance was your own form of a makeshift lifeboat because your vows at the altar were your own ways of saying it was ‘every man for himself’.
you were two strangers forced to live under the same roof.
and if it were not for his mother trying to salvage your miserable marriage—the marriage of her own engineering—by getting you both to sleep in the same room together, he would have been perfectly content with that dull, dreary, miserable lifestyle. the lifestyle once again, enforced onto him by his beloved mother.
the redhead leaned forward from his leather chair. a breath through his nose, exhaling through his mouth. his hand reached for the whiskey on the table and took one last sip before standing up, mentally hoping you were out to a party with your insufferable company of people. because if not, it's going to be another long night of sad, silent agony in a king sized bed—a sinking ship with no lifeboats.
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leona kingscholar ‹ savanaclaw ›
“open this door right now, [name]! stop acting like a damn brat!”
as the prince yells out that last word he pounds on the door more aggressively than he initially did. it echoed across the halls. the sounds reverberate and bounce back to reach his ears reminding him of the torment of his existence. all his efforts, efforts he never wanted to exert, all come in for naught. this always happens to him. this was the bane of his existence. falena gets the light shone in his face and the cheers and acknowledgement of everyone around him, he gets to pound on a door trying to get his partner to come out of their bathroom because they are late to the party where it was essential they should attend.
‘it takes two to tango’, they say. how does one dance when the other party can't even sit down for one second and look you in the eye without making you feel like you're the biggest burden to have ever arrived in his life? how does one cope with the resentment that's so evidently there? the contempt held for you when you enter a room together and he immediately drops your hand the second everyone starts looking away? you aren't his partner. you are nothing but a prop to him. to get his family off his back. he couldn't even do as much as acknowledge you whenever you entered your chambers alone.
people surround you day after day but you've never felt more alone in your life.
and as leona banged and screamed and twisted the knob the way he twisted your heart up and squeezed it dry, you pulled your knees close to your chest. biting your quivering lower lip till the metallic taste of blood filled your senses.
the light from the open door illuminates the room. your comfortable corner in the bathroom invaded by the lion's dominating presence. and as he watched you, gripping the fabric of your attire like it was your only other anchor to sanity, you felt him soften. ever so slightly, his shoulders eased up. his eyebrows raised a little from their initial cross direction and his eyes showed a hint of melancholy—no... pity. his shadow loomed over your curled up form, cast from the light outside that only reached you and him.
he did not do anything else. he just slightly clutched the key he held in his hands that he used to open the door a little tighter. he watched you for a moment, as if he were observing a small animal being cornered by a predator. silence enveloped the room only broken by your occasional pathetic sniffle and sob. he then turned on his heels.
“change your clothes, they're all wrinkly now. we leave in ten minutes.”
he closed the door to the room and the darkness enveloped you once more.
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azul ashengrotto ‹ octavinelle ›
the vase shattered as it hit the wall barely missing your husband's head. all the jewelry on your dresser tossed and strewn all across the floor. the clothes, the shoes and all the other vain things he'd given you as a consolation for never being home, never being available, never being a husband.
the thing about azul was that he could be a good actor whenever he wanted to be. it's essential for a businessman to know when to play a poker face, when to seem interested or whatnot. he'd mentioned that in passing back then when he would actually talk to you before you were married but now you forget the details. now that you think about it, back then he must have been acting, too. to gain your affections. to make you fall in love with him. so he can achieve his own greedy little goals. you look over at him and can't help a bitter laugh escape your throat.
he gave you a sharp look, “what is it that you find so humorous in this situation, darling?” the businessman asked in a mocking voice, “finally gone mad, have we?”
you turn to him, a small, resentful grin on your face, “oh honey you know i'm always mad for you!” you scream the last part as you hurled one of your favorite shoes at him. your husband was quick to evade this causing it to fly directly to one of your bedroom lamps. the two items fell to the floor with a clatter and smash. the sound of breaking glass mirrored your breaking heart.
azul opened his mouth, a string of insults flowing from his tongue so freely and you mirrored this by shooting your own painful words at his direction. the mingling angry voices bounced across the four walls of the room.
this was not the life you envisioned with him. where was the sweet, suave man that held your hand so gently and softly as he brought you to dinner? where was the kind, generous soul and took a short portion of his day to see you and personally deliver his flowers to you? where was the funny, charismatic person that charmed your family so much they were practically begging you to marry him? where was the husband that vowed to love and to cherish you at the altar?
that man was replaced by the empty space on your bed, the flowers delivered to you by random people you didn't know, the shoes and clothes and other ridiculous things he probably doesn't even pick out himself. and you would sit alone at your home, in front of a full sized mirror that reflected your pathetic state by showing you the tears that streamed down your face night after night that azul spent on his stupid company. the company which you made possible for him by marrying him. what a fool you are.
objects flew, tears shed, hearts broken.
but the saddest of all is that each and every one these things only seem to come from your side of the room and not his.
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kalim al-asim ‹ scarabia ›
you sat in your bedroom, watching the seconds tick by. the clock's hands showed it was two in the morning. normally you would expect a married couple to be in bed together asleep at this hour, but not for you. these days, it seemed to be a somewhat better though. as of late, he was usually out because of the hectic pressures of being head of the family and jamil would attest to this fact.
he'd promised you he wouldn't see her anymore. you wanted to make it work. you begged him to try to make it work with you—even if only for the children. and he agreed. and somehow, this sparked some home in your bitter situation. and that made it bearable for you.
you sat, then stood, then paced, then sat again. restless energy built up in your body thinking of what to say to him when he comes through the door. things were looking up and you wanted to help him relax after another very stretched out day. it's the least you can do for him. after all, no matter what the situation, kalim was always kind to you. he always made you feel like you mattered and listened and made you feel valid. you are essentially the parent to his children and so he made sure he was treating you well to an extent.
but that... that just isn't enough. you're his partner. you needed to feel like his partner. someone he could turn to, someone he could talk to, someone he could run to whenever things got bad. but kalim always kept you at arm's length. he was your husband but he could never completely be a husband.
because he did not love you.
he loved—loves her.
it shows on his disheveled hair. it shows on the perfume that you smell on his clothes. it shows on the lipstick stains on his neck. it shows on the look of shock on his face when he sees you awake. waiting. disappointed.
your twiddling fingers drop to your sides the same way your heart dropped and shattered on the floor. the exhaustion evident on your features when you sit down heavily on the soft cushions of the sofa.
“[name]... i... i thought you were asleep...” kalim sputtered out. he sounded like a child who was just caught snooping around the kitchen late at night.
if only it were as simple as stealing cookies from the kitchen cupboard at two-thirty.
“and i thought we were trying, kalim,” you replied flatly.
he didn't respond. you didn't want to stay. you couldn't. so you stood up and looked him straight in the eye—they looked guilty. and... they feel sorry for you. you hated it.
you turned around, not giving him time to finish whatever ‘explanation’ he had come up with again. you couldn't bear it. you refuse to cry for him—not anymore. you're exhausted and you couldn't bear to be inside that suffocating room with him any longer.
“i'll sleep with the children tonight.” you say before heading to the door leaving your husband and your broken heart along with him.
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vil schoenheit ‹ pomefiore ›
‘there's no business like show business!’
this is true for the most part. it has its ups and downs but vil personally never had much of a say in the matter of whether he would be in the public eye or not. all his life he'd been under the spotlight. the blinding flashes of the cameras, the bright lights of the stage, the softboxes and umbrellas that would make any normal person squint and and turn away don't even make him flinch. but that's not to say it wasn't exhausting.
of course that was the small price to pay for a profession such as vil's. he has made the many greater sacrifices to get where he is in life. and although people who don't live the lifestyle he had would feel the intimidation of the showbiz world, he was surprised you didn't seem like it bothered you much at all.
the people of twisted wonderland adored you when you both started dating. it all seemed like a perfect fairy tale whenever they saw you and vil liked that. of course they weren't really far off. at the beginning it did seem like a fairy tale. you were perfect and even to himself it felt too good to be true.
and sure enough, it was.
majority of your dating life with vil was private but later down the line, after you got married, you both became more public about it. posting more pictures, going out together, attending events.
headlines of ‘the perfect couple’ turn into ‘the luckiest man alive’(referring to vil), to ‘[name]! the real star of the show’.
wherever vil went, people would ask for you. even in movie interviews meant for him—starring him. they were looking for you. they wanted you. they, “only really came because we thought [name] would be here!” in events where he was supposed to be the main attraction.
it's always you, you, you.
and at first he didn't mind. he was proud to have you as his partner. he even did feel like he was the happiest man alive for a while. but the more people asked for you, the more he felt the disappointment and sadness morph into something more bitter. his years and years of endless hard work and silent suffering against neige all came crashing back down in a repeating dance of fighting for acknowledgement. to be recognized as himself. and he thought he was finally over all that. working twice as hard and feeling—being overlooked. but you... he knows you don't do it on purpose. it's not your fault you're so easy to love. vil knows you would never purposefully overshadow him but whenever he sees you in the red carpet waving and smiling at the crowds all cheering and chanting your name like you were some sort of otherworldly being, he couldn't compete.
the way they all run to you without even so much as acknowledging his presence beside you felt the same as getting thrown tomatoes at and booed to him. and he remembers he was even booed at some point for not bringing you along on a public trip!
he didn't know when the sadness fully morphed into bitter resentment but whenever you were alone he found himself criticizing your every move. his subtle, snide remarks of your (perfectly well) clothes turned into full on insults. sometimes he would even guilt you into not attending events you were exclusively invited to.
and he knows you would never betray him. so you take it all quietly. you knew leaving vil would only villanize him more in the public eye. no matter what, he was still your husband and you made a sacred promise on the altar.
you both smile for the cameras in public, the mirage of the most perfect couple to be advertised to the whole of twisted wonderland. but behind closed doors are the heated arguments, the endless screaming, the nights you spent alone in your once lovely home curled up in bed.
your husband might have loved you once, and this hurts him just as much to admit—but vil can never love you again in circumstances like this. but you're both given no choice but to bear it.
there really is no business like show business.
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idia shroud ‹ ignihyde ›
there is no doubt idia shroud is a clever man. he’s a genius in more ways than one. he knows how to stand out in his own. he knows how to turn a situation in his favor and this isn’t just because of his years and years of experience in strategy games or looking for ways to try and escape social situations he hates so much, but also because he’s just a master at running away from situations.
the only situation people thought he could never escape from was standing with you at the altar. the “most horrifying” day of his life.
to think a hermit shut-in nobody like him would find himself in a lifelong commitment with someone is just absurd. but here you are in your miserable state of trying to get him to get out of his room. constantly bugging him to spend time with you—he’s already married you! is that not enough?
idia shroud is a clever man. he’s a genius in more ways than one. he knows how to turn a situation in his favor. and he’s spent enough time with you to know exactly how to break you without getting his hands dirty.
he finds himself buying a different house, far from where you are. under the guise of working better with no distractions. lies of saying he would call but never did.
endless nights of you pacing your room, phone to your ear hearing the ringing over and over and over again.
it just kept ringing and ringing and you wanted it to stop. you needed it to stop. you needed an answer.
and when the other line of your connection was the sound of company—of a companion—who was willing to give you the attention you deserved from such a cruel life, idia finally shows himself.
idia shroud is a clever man. he’s a genius in more ways than one. he knows how to turn a situation in his favor. and he’s always known how to win a game. you've fallen into his trap. he has the receipts of your conversations with the other person you were seeing, the photographs, the evidence. and as he slid the piece of paper and pen towards you on the other side of the table, a cocky grin on his face feeling like he'd finally got exactly what he wanted, he caught a glimpse of your sadness.
your melancholy in the way you picked up the pen and read through the divorce papers of his orchestrating. idia felt a tsunami of guilt wash him away as the sight of all the pain he caused you was so vividly clear to him now. but instead of signing, you drew a line across the piece of paper that was his path to ‘freedom’. and what idia saw that replaced the sadness in you was anger. resentment. betrayal of the worst kind.
there is no doubt india shroud s a clever man. he’s a genius in more ways than one.
but he is also a fool to think you were going to take all these hits lying down.
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malleus draconia ‹ diasomnia ›
people had given you a heads up before you got married that malleus draconia was a serious man.
he married you, sure, but you didn't know what you expected out of this marriage. after all, a marriage arranged by two families didn't really promise much on the love department and your made peace with that.
but you didn't expect the lack of affection to be in this extent.
he wouldn't touch you, let alone even look you in the eye. malleus was constantly busy in his study or going out to attending other formal gatherings. The only times he would come around to spending a portion of his day with you was during dinner. and they were long, painfully quiet dinners.
he had a duty as the prince of briar valley, after all. but you understood that. but sometimes you lie around your empty bedroom thinking about how your life could have been so much more better. the agonizing silence, the awkward touches, the forced smiles. it all felt so terribly depressing.
surely your husband could at least pretend to be comfortable when he's spending the day around you. but somehow it's always just some form of... indifference. whenever you would show small forms of affection like touching his hand or giving him a kiss, he would just stand there, not returning. not reflecting the same amount of affections as you did with him.
and of course you tried your best to make it better. consulting those closest to him to you try to understand him whenever he talked about things he was interested in. you tried to show support on his projects and his interests. you even tried to get invested into the gargoyles and architecture he so dearly loved and finally you thought it worked.
the occasional invite to tea, the small acknowledgements, the small talks about the things he liked. you felt like all your hard work started to pay off.
but when you made your way through the long corridors of the castle with a box of something special in your hands picked especially for the prince one afternoon, your feet came to a halt in front of the mahogany double doors of his study.
two voices—muffled by the barrier between you and the people in the room but it was enough to hear the all important parts of the conversation.
“it all is such a pain, lilia,” he said, “they're constantly trying to catch ny attention. to show me affection. but it all just feels so... miserable.
“i have tried to take your advice. to be more open and responsive to their advances but it just doesn't work. i cannot love them the way they want me to.”
the conversation goes on but you could no longer listen. the ringing in your ears were far louder drowning out any other sound around you.
you made your way back to your chambers silently slipping away.
that night malleus asked about the present left in front of his study and you only sighed softly in response
"When she was finished hurting me, she'd kiss the scars she left as if she remembered providing comfort was part of her job as a mother."
-unknown
(y'all ever think his mom was kind or caring enough to kiss his forehead or cheek? I mean, she had to be, right? Or was she that strict and mean to leave a small crying Riddle alone?)
