#dragon fae

Here's some art as well... boop!

Writing under cut !!

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I hope I do not get banned or terminated for this:

The following idea was given by an anonymous person to someone named animeomegas. I hope it is okay to use the initial idea and go on and make fic about it. The idea: (Imagine if you got transported back to your world when Malleus was still pregnant with the egg. Like can you imagine how chaotic things will be? Because you have this powerful fae being absolutely furious and devastated that his mate is gone, its thundering everyday in briar valley, the egg to him becomes nothing more than additional baggage inside him and Lilia probably has to put Malleus under a magic to forcefully calm him down)

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Briar Valley had not known silence since you vanished.

Thunder rolled endlessly over the spires of thorns and crystal, not the distant kind that came and went, but a constant, suffocating presence—as though the sky itself was pacing in grief. Lightning split the clouds daily, sometimes hourly, scorching the earth and shattering ancient trees that had stood since before Malleus was born.

And at the center of it all was him.

Malleus Draconia, heir to the Valley of Thorns, omega dragon fae… and mate left behind.

The egg inside him should have been a miracle.

It should have been warm, cherished, guarded with reverence.

Instead, it felt heavy.

Not physically—dragon eggs were light, resilient things—but emotionally, unbearably so. A reminder. A consequence. Proof that you had existed… and that you were gone.

You had vanished without magic, without warning, ripped back to a world that had no place for fae or dragons or destiny bonds. One moment you had been there—your hand in his, murmuring reassurances in that strange, gentle way only you had—and the next, the bond screamed and went silent.

That silence broke something in him.

Malleus did not cry. Fae royalty rarely did, and dragons even less so. Instead, the grief manifested as power—raw, ancient, uncontrollable. His magic lashed out instinctively, responding to his distress like a wounded beast.

Storms formed wherever he walked. Spells misfired. The ley lines trembled.

The egg—your child—was treated with careful indifference. Not hatred. Never that. But neither could he bring himself to cradle it, to speak to it, to acknowledge it as anything other than something he had to carry.

Because if he did…

Then he would have to accept that you were truly gone.

Lilia Vanrouge watched it all with mounting dread.

He had raised Malleus since infancy. He had seen tantrums that flattened castles, sulks that froze lakes solid. But this?

This was different.

“This won’t do,” Lilia muttered one evening as another lightning bolt shattered the horizon. “At this rate, Briar Valley won’t survive his mourning… and neither will he.”

Malleus hadn’t slept properly in days. His omega instincts were in chaos—nesting urges clashing violently with rejection, grief poisoning every protective instinct meant for the egg. His scales showed faint stress fractures, a dangerous sign for a dragon fae.

So Lilia did something drastic.

He cast a suppression spell—not on Malleus’s magic, but on his emotional output. A temporary enchantment, ancient and forbidden, designed to force calm where none could be found naturally.

When it settled over him, the storms eased.

The sky dimmed to gray. The thunder quieted. The Valley breathed again.

Malleus stood still, blinking slowly, confusion replacing rage.

“…Lilia?” His voice sounded hollow.

“You’re going to rest,” Lilia said gently, though his grip on the staff was tight. “For the sake of the egg. And for yourself.”

Malleus’s hand drifted—hesitantly, for the first time—to where the egg rested against him.

It was warm.

Alive.

A faint pulse of magic, unmistakably yours, resonated from within it.

Something twisted painfully in his chest.

Even calmed, even magically restrained, the bond scar still ached.

“My mate…” he whispered, voice breaking despite the spell’s influence. “He was magicless. Fragile. Lost in a world that cannot hear him call for me.”

Lilia said nothing.

There was nothing to say.

Because somewhere, in another world, you were breathing—unaware that a dragon king mourned you, that storms had risen in your absence, that an egg waited patiently for a father who was too broken to hope.

And deep down, beneath grief and fury and enforced calm, Malleus Draconia made a silent vow:

No matter how many worlds he had to tear apart, No matter how long it took—

He would find you.

And when he did?

He would never let you go again.

The Days After You Vanished

Morning no longer arrived in Briar Valley.

There was light, technically—gray, filtered through storm clouds that never truly dispersed—but the concept of a new day had lost meaning. Time blurred into a continuous stretch of mourning punctuated by thunder.

Malleus Draconia woke every day already exhausted.

Sleep came in fragments, shallow and dreamless, or worse—filled with memories of you that his mind replayed with merciless precision. The sound of your voice saying his name. The warmth of your hand, so small and human compared to his, yet grounding in a way nothing else ever had been.

He would wake reaching for you.

Every time, his fingers closed around empty air.

The bond—once a constant, comforting presence—was now a jagged wound. Not severed cleanly, but ripped, leaving phantom sensations behind. Sometimes his chest ached so badly he thought his heart might crystallize and shatter like glass.

And inside him, the egg remained.

Unmoving. Patient. Unaware.

It was impossible not to feel resentment.

Not toward the child—but toward fate itself. Toward the cruel irony that left him carrying proof of your love while stripping him of you. His omega instincts screamed at him to nest, to protect, to soothe.

His grief screamed louder.

The Servants

The palace servants moved like ghosts.

They spoke in whispers, avoided eye contact, flinched at sudden changes in the air pressure. Thunder could strike without warning now—cracking marble floors, splintering pillars that had stood for centuries.

Malleus rarely acknowledged them.

Meals were prepared and left untouched. Tea cooled in ornate cups, forgotten. Fresh linens were changed daily despite barely being used.

One young servant—new, unaware—once asked if His Highness would like the windows opened.

The temperature plummeted so violently that frost crawled across the walls.

Lilia had to intervene before the servant froze solid.

After that, no one asked questions.

They only watched as Malleus passed through halls like a living curse, eyes unfocused, expression distant, power leaking from him in waves that made their knees weak.

Some swore they could hear him murmuring your name when he thought no one was near.

The Guards

The royal guards stood at constant alert.

Not for external threats—no kingdom was foolish enough to provoke Briar Valley now—but for him.

Malleus’s magic surged unpredictably. One moment he was silent and withdrawn; the next, the sky darkened as if responding to an unspoken command. Weapons rattled in their sheaths when he passed. Armor vibrated.

They were trained warriors, sworn to protect him.

Yet all of them feared him now.

Not because he was cruel.

But because he was hurting.

And a grieving dragon was more dangerous than any enemy army.

Sebek Zigvolt

Sebek was the loudest about it.

Outrage poured from him daily—rage directed at the universe, at you (though he hated himself for that), at anyone who dared speak too lightly near his lord.

“How could he just DISAPPEAR?!” Sebek would shout, pacing furiously. “He was the mate of Lord Malleus! A bonded partner! The audacity—”

Lilia shut him down every time.

“Careful,” he warned. “Your words don’t change reality. They only make it louder.”

Sebek adored Malleus with the fervor of a zealot, and seeing his lord diminished—quiet, hollow-eyed, barely responsive—made something in him crack.

He tried everything.

Standing guard outside Malleus’s chambers. Reporting trivial matters just to hear his voice. Offering to hunt, patrol, punish someone, anyone.

Malleus barely reacted.

Once, Sebek knelt and swore he would help raise the child, that the egg would never lack protection.

Malleus did not look at him.

“I did not ask for this,” he said quietly.

Sebek had no answer.

Silver

Silver understood in silence.

He sat nearby when allowed, saying nothing, presence steady. He noticed things others missed—the way Malleus flinched when the egg shifted slightly, the way his claws dug into stone when he forced himself not to cry.

Silver had been abandoned once too.

Not by death. But by circumstance.

Sometimes he thought Malleus feared loving the egg because loving it meant accepting that you were gone forever.

Silver never voiced this.

Instead, he stood watch through the long nights, ensuring Malleus did not collapse from exhaustion or magic backlash. More than once, he caught him shaking uncontrollably, breath shallow, eyes unfocused as grief overwhelmed even Lilia’s calming spell.

Lilia Vanrouge

Lilia aged years in weeks.

He smiled less. Joked rarely.

The suppression spell he had placed on Malleus weighed heavily on his conscience. He could feel how unnatural it was—how it pressed down on emotions that needed release.

But without it?

Malleus would destroy himself.

“I raised him to be strong,” Lilia murmured once to Silver. “But no one teaches you how to survive losing your other half.”

He monitored Malleus constantly—adjusting spells, reinforcing wards, soothing omega instincts when they spiked dangerously.

Sometimes, late at night, Lilia would sit alone and wonder if forcing calm was cruelty disguised as mercy.

The Queen — Malleus’s Grandmother

She watched from her throne of thorns and memory.

Ancient, unreadable, she had lived long enough to recognize fate when it bared its teeth. She felt the egg’s presence immediately—its mixed aura, dragon magic braided with something foreign.

Magicless. Human.

She did not object.

But neither did she comfort.

“Mating bonds are sacred,” she said coldly during one council meeting. “And they are not promises of happiness.”

She allowed Malleus space, but her disappointment was palpable—not in his grief, but in his weakness. A future king who could be undone by loss was dangerous.

Still… she ordered the egg protected with the highest wards in the kingdom.

Even she could not deny blood.

The Senators

They were relentless.

Nosy. Calculating. Terrified.

They whispered in marble halls, debated succession, questioned whether an omega ruler carrying an heir without its alpha present was a liability.

Some suggested reassignment of power. Others proposed “intervention.” One dared imply the egg should be… relieved of responsibility.

That senator was struck by lightning before he finished his sentence.

No one claimed responsibility.

The storms worsened after that.

Malleus Alone

At the end of every day, when the palace finally stilled, Malleus sat alone in his chambers.

He did not cradle the egg.

He did not speak to it.

But he always stayed near it.

Because even if he could not love it yet… it was the last thing tying him to you.

Sometimes, in moments of unbearable weakness, he pressed a hand to it and whispered:

“I am sorry.”

Sorry he could not be enough. Sorry he could not protect you. Sorry that love had become pain.

Outside, thunder rolled.

And somewhere beyond worlds, you lived—unaware that every single day without you was killing a dragon king inch by inch.

The Omega Who Refused to Rest

Malleus Draconia stopped caring for himself in ways so subtle at first that no one realized how dangerous it was becoming.

He still stood tall. Still spoke when required. Still attended councils—if only to silence them with his presence.

But his body was failing him quietly.

An omega dragon fae was meant to nest during gestation. The instinct was older than language—gathering warmth, magic, familiar scents. Nesting stabilized the egg, regulated magic flow, protected both parent and child.

Malleus did none of it.

No nesting chamber was prepared. No stabilizing crystals were placed. No magic was gently fed into the egg the way dragon omegas were taught from childhood.

Instead, he burned his magic outward.

Day after day, night after night, he tore at the boundaries of worlds—ancient scrying spells, forbidden dimensional magic, divinations that even Lilia warned against.

“I will find him,” Malleus said flatly whenever anyone tried to stop him. “I do not require rest.”

That was a lie.

His scales dulled. Dark circles formed beneath his eyes. His hands trembled faintly when he thought no one was watching.

The egg inside him responded accordingly.

Its aura weakened.

Lilia Notices Too Late

Lilia had been watching—of course he had—but even he underestimated how badly Malleus was deteriorating.

“You haven’t eaten,” Lilia said one evening, placing a tray down that went untouched.

“I am not hungry.”

“You’re an omega carrying an heir.”

Malleus did not look at him. “I am a mate whose alpha is lost.”

That was the end of the conversation.

The suppression spell kept Malleus functional, but it did nothing to encourage care. In fact, it dulled the very instincts that might have forced him to slow down.

Lilia began reinforcing the egg magically when Malleus slept—but it was not enough.

The child needed him.

The Collapse

It happened without warning.

One moment, Malleus was standing in the highest tower, chanting an incantation meant to pierce worlds.

The next, his vision blurred.

Pain lanced through his abdomen—sharp, blinding, nothing like the dull ache he had grown accustomed to. His magic surged violently, then stuttered.

The storm outside fractured.

Lightning struck the tower itself.

Malleus collapsed to his knees, breath ripping from his lungs.

Something was wrong.

Lilia felt it instantly.

So did the Queen. So did every dragon fae in Briar Valley.

The air screamed.

Premature Laying

Dragon eggs were not supposed to be laid early.

Certainly not like this.

Malleus barely had time to register what was happening before his body betrayed him entirely. His magic flared erratically, then cut off in places it should never have faltered.

The egg came too soon.

Too fast. Too weak.

Lilia caught him before he hit the stone floor, shouting orders as guards flooded the chamber.

When the egg finally rested on the magically reinforced surface Lilia hastily conjured, silence fell.

It was… small.

Noticeably so.

Its shell lacked the usual luminescence of a royal dragon heir. The magic inside flickered unevenly—alive, but fragile. Its aura was thin, incomplete.

Silver swallowed hard.

Sebek looked like he’d been struck.

The Queen said nothing.

Malleus barely looked at it.

Complications

Malleus should have rested afterward.

Should have been confined to bed. Should have been magically stabilized. Should have bonded with the egg now that it was outside his body.

Instead, he pushed himself upright, swaying.

“It is done,” he said hoarsely.

Lilia stared at him in disbelief. “Done?! You nearly tore yourself apart. The egg—Malleus, it’s underdeveloped. You starved it of magic. Of care.”

Malleus’s gaze flicked to the egg for half a second.

Then away.

“I am no longer burdened,” he said coldly.

Sebek shouted. Silver tried to intervene. Even the Queen’s voice sharpened.

But Malleus was already walking away.

Obsession Unleashed

Now that the egg was no longer inside him, there was nothing holding him back.

No biological restraint. No physical reminder to slow down.

He abandoned all remaining caution.

The storms intensified. Dimensional rifts appeared and sealed in seconds. Ancient wards cracked under the strain of his magic.

Malleus did not sleep. Did not eat. Did not heal.

He was hunting.

“My mate is alive,” he declared during one shattered council meeting, eyes glowing dangerously. “I will not waste time on failures.”

The senators fell silent.

No one dared argue.

The Egg Left Behind

The egg remained in the care of Lilia, Silver, and the Queen’s chosen mages.

It pulsed weakly.

They reinforced it constantly—pouring magic into it, stabilizing the shell, whispering assurances it could not yet understand.

“It’s too quiet,” Silver said softly one night.

Lilia nodded grimly. “It’s missing its father.”

“And its alpha,” Silver added.

Sebek refused to enter the chamber at first. When he finally did, he knelt stiffly, fists clenched.

“This is Lord Malleus’s heir,” he said fiercely. “He’ll return. He must.”

Lilia did not answer.

Briar Valley Without Him

Briar Valley began to fracture—not physically, but politically.

A king who abandoned his post. An heir too fragile to present. An omega ruler bleeding magic into the void.

The Queen watched the horizon daily.

She did not order Malleus back.

But when she finally spoke, her voice carried something dangerously close to regret.

“If he does not find his mate,” she said, “he will not survive this path.”

And somewhere between worlds, Malleus Draconia tore at reality itself—driven by grief, obsession, and the desperate certainty that finding you was the only thing left worth living for.

Behind him, a small egg waited.

Fragile. Unchosen. Still alive.

And fate, cruel as ever, was not finished yet.

The Slow Unraveling of an Omega Dragon

By the time anyone acknowledged it openly, Malleus Draconia was already dying.

Not dramatically. Not all at once.

But in the way ancient beings do—quietly, stubbornly, and with terrifying inevitability.

Physical Decline

Omega dragon fae were not meant to exist in isolation after bonding.

The bond between alpha and omega was not merely emotional; it regulated magic circulation, stabilized hormonal cycles, and anchored the omega’s instincts during heat cycles. Without the alpha’s proximity, the omega’s body attempted to compensate—burning through reserves at a catastrophic rate.

Malleus ignored every warning sign.

His body temperature fluctuated wildly, alternating between feverish heat and unnatural cold.

His scales cracked more frequently, bleeding silvery magic instead of blood.

Muscle tremors set in during prolonged spellcasting.

His heartbeat desynchronized from the ley lines—a critical condition for a dragon fae.

Worst of all, his heat cycles did not stop.

They came irregularly now—unpredictable, violent, and unsupported.

Without his alpha nearby, each cycle placed immense strain on his body. His magic surged erratically, instinctively reaching for someone who was not there. The feedback loop tore at his organs, his magic core, his mind.

Lilia knew the truth.

An omega dragon bonded and abandoned during recurring heat could die.

Not quickly—but painfully.

Mental Degradation

Psychologically, Malleus deteriorated faster than his body.

The suppression spell that once kept him functional began to fail—not because it weakened, but because his grief grew too large to contain.

Symptoms observed:

Dissociation: He frequently lost track of time, sometimes standing motionless for hours.

Intrusive bond hallucinations: He heard your voice calling him, felt phantom touches, reacted physically to sensations that weren’t real.

Paranoia: He became convinced the world itself was conspiring to keep you from him.

Fixation: Every thought looped back to one conclusion—find you or cease to exist.

Sleep deprivation worsened everything.

When he slept at all, nightmares consumed him: visions of you dying alone in a world without magic, calling for him while he failed to answer.

He woke screaming only once.

After that, he learned to choke the sound back.

Heat Without an Alpha

The most dangerous episodes came during heat.

Without an alpha’s grounding presence, the omega’s body flooded itself with destabilizing magic. In Malleus’s case, that magic was ancient, draconic, and devastating.

During one such episode:

The air pressure in the palace dropped abruptly.

Thorn walls melted into slag.

Guards collapsed unconscious from magic overload.

Malleus himself curled inward, claws gouging into stone as his body burned from the inside out.

He did not ask for help.

He refused stabilizers.

“I will not be soothed by substitutes,” he snarled at Lilia. “Do not insult the bond.”

Lilia watched helplessly, knowing that refusal increased the risk of organ failure.

Of death.

The Egg Brought to Him

Lilia made the decision against everyone’s advice.

He brought the egg to Malleus.

He hoped—desperately—that seeing the child might ground him. Reignite instinct. Restore connection.

He underestimated the damage already done.

The moment the egg crossed the threshold, Malleus’s magic reacted violently.

The bond residue inside the shell—your magic, faint but unmistakable—hit him like a blade through the chest.

He staggered back.

“No,” he whispered.

His pupils dilated. His breath hitched sharply, as if he were suffocating.

The egg pulsed weakly.

Malleus’s reaction escalated immediately.

His heart rate spiked dangerously.

His magic flared uncontrollably, cracking the floor.

He retched—nothing coming up but raw magic.

“Get it away,” he hissed, clutching his chest. “Get it AWAY from me.”

Lilia froze in horror.

“Malleus, it’s your child—”

“It smells like him,” Malleus snapped, voice breaking. “And he is NOT HERE.”

The bond inside him screamed for completion.

The egg amplified the absence.

It was too much.

Malleus collapsed.

Aftermath

He survived.

Barely.

For days afterward, he refused to allow the egg anywhere near him. The mere mention of it triggered tremors and dissociative episodes.

Lilia finally understood.

The egg did not comfort Malleus.

It tortured him.

It carried echoes of you—proof of the bond, proof of abandonment, proof that his omega body had fulfilled its duty while his mate was lost to another world.

To his broken mind, the egg represented failure.

Lilia’s Realization

Lilia stood alone in the nursery one night, watching the small egg glow faintly under stabilizing magic.

“This shouldn’t have happened,” he whispered.

An omega dragon should never be forced to endure heat cycles without their alpha. Should never be allowed to neglect nesting. Should never be separated from their bond anchor.

And yet, fate had done all three.

Malleus was not merely grieving.

He was unraveling at every level—biological, magical, psychological.

And if he did not find you soon…

The Valley of Thorns would lose its future king.

Not to battle. Not to betrayal.

But to love, unfinished and unanswered, tearing him apart from the inside out.

The Pulse That Would Not Leave Him

It began as irritation.

A faint, irregular tug at the edges of Malleus’s senses—soft enough to be dismissed, persistent enough to gnaw at him when he tried to focus. It flared strongest when he was exhausted, when his magic thinned and the suppression spell faltered.

A pulse.

Not thunder. Not ley lines. Not the echo of your bond.

Something… smaller.

Malleus assumed it was longing.

Of course it was. Everything in him was longing now—his body, his magic, his broken omega instincts clawing endlessly toward an absent alpha. He ignored it, forcing himself back to his work, back to tearing at dimensions with spells that cracked his voice and bled magic from his scales.

But the pulse did not stop.

It answered him.

Whenever he pushed his magic outward, it responded with a faint resonance, like a heartbeat trying to sync with his own.

It drew him—subtly at first—toward the deepest chambers of the palace.

Toward the nursery.

The Egg’s New State

Malleus’s grandmother had intervened quietly.

No announcement. No council. No permission asked.

She wove ancient, bone-deep magic into the egg—old dragon rites that predated modern bonding laws. Not enough to force growth, but enough to anchor it. To prevent collapse.

The egg stabilized.

Its glow deepened. Its magic evened out.

And with that stabilization came something new.

A direction.

Lilia noticed it first, long before Malleus acknowledged it.

“The air bends when he’s near,” Lilia murmured to the Queen. “Like the egg recognizes him again.”

The Queen’s expression remained unreadable. “Or perhaps,” she said, “it recognizes what it carries.”

Misinterpretation

Malleus resisted entering the nursery.

Every instinct screamed that it would hurt—and it did. His chest tightened, breath stuttering, bond scars flaring violently when he crossed the threshold.

But beneath the pain…

There it was again.

That pulse.

Stronger now.

He staggered, clutching the doorframe, magic flaring reflexively.

“This is not possible,” he whispered.

The egg pulsed in response.

Malleus laughed—a short, broken sound. “Even now you torment me,” he said hoarsely. “You carry his echo. That is all.”

He told himself it was merely your lingering magic—residue clinging to the shell. Nothing more.

Yet the sensation differed subtly from the bond.

The bond screamed outward.

This… pointed.

The Incident

It happened during another failed attempt to breach worlds.

Malleus had overextended himself—again. The spell collapsed inward violently, throwing him back across the chamber. His magic backlash tore through wards, cracked pillars, and sent guards scrambling.

The egg screamed.

Not audibly—but magically.

A sharp, desperate flare that pierced straight through Malleus’s spiraling senses and latched on.

He froze.

His magic stilled mid-chaos, arrested by something unfamiliar.

The pull intensified—no longer vague, but precise.

A vector.

A path.

Malleus’s breath hitched.

“…blood,” he whispered.

The realization struck him like a physical blow.

The child was not only his.

It carried your blood too.

Alpha blood—magicless, yes, but bound to him through the mating bond, altered irrevocably by contact with his magic. The child was a convergence point, a living intersection between worlds.

Not a reminder.

A key.

The Forbidden Synthesis

Lilia argued furiously.

“This is reckless beyond measure,” he snapped. “You’re talking about fusing bond magic, blood magic, and temporal scrying—Malleus, this could tear you apart!”

Malleus did not waver.

“I have already been torn apart,” he said calmly.

The Queen watched in silence as ancient runes were carved into the chamber floor—runes she herself had outlawed centuries ago.

The egg was placed at the center.

Malleus knelt opposite it, hands trembling—not with fear, but with exhaustion and resolve.

He did not touch it.

Instead, he bled.

Silver magic pooled into the runes, mingling with the egg’s faint glow. He channeled the mating bond—not outward, but through the child’s mixed blood resonance.

Your blood. His magic. One spell.

The chamber screamed.

Reality thinned.

The Rift

The air tore open like fabric under strain.

Not a gate.

A wound.

Time warped violently around it, images flashing in fragments—cities unfamiliar, skies without magic, a thousand versions of almost.

Malleus screamed your name—not as a plea, but as a command.

The egg pulsed once.

And the rift stabilized.

He reached in without hesitation.

Retrieval

His hand closed around a wrist.

Warm. Human. Real.

With a roar of exertion that shook the palace to its foundations, Malleus dragged you through.

The rift collapsed violently behind you.

Silence fell.

The Wrong Time

You collapsed to the floor, gasping, terrified.

Too small.

Too light.

Your face—unscarred by grief, untouched by the years you would later spend with him. Your eyes were wide with fear, not recognition.

Malleus stared.

His heart stuttered.

No bond flare. No resonance. No answering call.

Only confusion.

You scrambled back instinctively, staring at the towering, horned fae in horror.

“W-what the hell is this?” you choked out. “Where am I?!”

Your voice was wrong.

Too young.

Too unbroken.

Malleus staggered back as if struck.

“…no,” he whispered.

The truth crashed down with merciless clarity.

He hadn’t pulled you from his present.

He had pulled you from before.

Before the bond. Before the love. Before Twisted Wonderland.

Before you were his.

Severe Realization

The mating bond screamed in protest—recognizing the soul, rejecting the timing.

Malleus clutched his head as agony ripped through him, magic destabilizing catastrophically.

“I broke time,” he gasped. “I—by the Seven—I—”

You were seventeen.

A child by fae standards. Unaware. Unbonded.

Terrified.

The room spun.

The egg pulsed weakly—confused, incomplete.

Malleus dropped to his knees.

He had found you.

And in doing so, he had destroyed everything.

Behind him, Lilia whispered in horror, “Malleus… what have you done?”

Malleus looked at you—really looked this time—and the weight of it crushed what little remained of him.

You did not know him.

You were not his mate.

Not yet.

And now… because of him…

You might never be.

The One Who Should Not Exist Here (Yet)

You stayed because you had nowhere else to go.

The palace terrified you at first—not because it was cruel, but because it was alive. Walls hummed faintly. Shadows moved when you weren’t looking. Thunder rolled even when the sky was clear. And at the center of it all was him.

Malleus Draconia.

You learned his name quickly. Everyone said it with reverence, fear, or grief. Never casually.

At seventeen, you were old enough to understand danger, but not old enough to understand this. You knew you’d been taken from your world—ripped out of a moment that should have been ordinary—and dropped into something vast and ancient and wrong.

You were terrified.

But you stayed.

Not because you were brave.

Because leaving him alone felt worse.

Day-to-Day Adjustment

Your days settled into an uneasy routine.

You were given a room—too large, too quiet. Food that tasted unfamiliar but warm. Clothes that didn’t quite fit but were altered overnight by silent servants who watched you like you might vanish if they blinked.

You learned quickly:

Don’t wander alone.

Don’t touch glowing runes.

Don’t ask about the egg unless spoken to first.

Most importantly—

Don’t stare when Malleus walks past.

You failed at that one often.

He looked… unwell.

Not sick in a human way. More like something immense was being hollowed out from the inside. His posture remained regal, but his steps dragged when he thought no one noticed. His eyes—once sharp and luminous—were dulled by constant pain.

Sometimes he didn’t seem to see you at all.

Other times, his gaze would lock onto you with such intensity that your breath caught—like he was seeing someone else layered over your face.

Those moments scared you the most.

Learning Without Being Taught

No one explained things outright.

You pieced it together from fragments.

From Sebek’s furious pacing and muttered apologies. From Silver quietly placing a blanket around your shoulders one evening. From Lilia watching you with eyes far too knowing.

You learned that Malleus was an omega. That omegas like him bonded for life. That his alpha—you, apparently—was supposed to exist here, now, anchoring him.

You learned that without that anchor, he was dying.

Slowly. Inevitably.

And worst of all—

You learned that the egg, fragile and glowing faintly in its chamber, was breaking under the strain of everything that had gone wrong.

When Heat Returns

The day it began again, the palace knew before anyone said a word.

The air grew thick, heavy with magic. Thunder rolled beneath the floors. Wards flared erratically. Servants retreated. Guards doubled.

You found out when Lilia came for you personally.

He looked… tired.

Older than you’d ever seen him.

“Kid,” he said gently, crouching to your eye level. “I need you not to panic.”

That alone made your heart race.

“Malleus is entering another cycle,” Lilia continued. “This one’s worse.”

You swallowed. “Is he—”

“He won’t survive it alone,” the Queen’s voice cut in from behind him.

She stood tall, ancient, terrible—and for the first time, afraid.

“You are not his alpha in this time,” she said plainly. “But you are close enough to his soul to matter.”

Your hands shook. “What are you asking me to do?”

“Be near him,” Lilia said softly. “Talk. Sit. Exist.”

The Queen bowed her head—just slightly.

“Please.”

Entering the Nest

Malleus’s chamber was transformed.

Not ornate. Not regal.

A nest.

Layers of fabric, magic-soaked stone, familiar scents woven into something meant to hold him together. He lay at the center, curled inward, scales fractured, breath shallow.

His eyes snapped open when you entered.

Immediate panic.

“No—” he rasped, trying to push himself up. “You cannot be here.”

You froze.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” you said honestly, voice trembling. “But they said… you shouldn’t be alone.”

His magic surged violently—then faltered.

Pain crossed his face.

“…stay,” he whispered, voice breaking against his will.

You sat at the edge of the nest.

You didn’t touch him.

You talked.

About your world. About school. About stupid things you missed. About how scared you were.

Gradually, his breathing slowed.

Survival, Not Intimacy

Heat nearly killed him that time.

You watched Lilia reinforce wards with shaking hands. You watched the Queen pour magic into the room until her posture sagged with the effort.

And you stayed.

Sometimes you read aloud. Sometimes you just breathed where he could hear it. Sometimes he reached out blindly, fingers curling into your sleeve like an anchor.

When the pain peaked, you lay beside him—not holding, not pressed close, just there. A warm, living presence when his instincts screamed for something impossible.

That was enough.

Barely.

What Changes After

After that cycle, Malleus no longer recoiled from you.

He still didn’t look at you like a mate.

But he looked at you like something real.

Over time—cycles passing, each less catastrophic than the last—small changes emerged.

He allowed you into the nest willingly. He slept more when you were near. His magic stabilized around your presence.

Eventually, without realizing it, he leaned into you.

Just slightly.

Later still, he rested his head against your shoulder.

The first time his fingers brushed your wrist, he apologized immediately.

“I am sorry,” he murmured. “Instinct.”

“It’s okay,” you said, even though your heart was racing. “You’re not hurting me.”

Reassurance Behaviors

They came gradually.

Nonverbal. Subconscious.

Malleus began scenting you—just faintly, brushing close, breathing in like committing proof to memory. Sometimes, when anxiety spiked, he pressed his forehead to your collarbone, grounding himself.

Occasionally—only when pain or fear overwhelmed him—he nipped lightly at your sleeve, your shoulder, once at your neck through fabric. Never enough to hurt. Never aggressive.

Marks faded quickly.

They weren’t claims.

They were reminders.

You were real. You were here. He was not alone.

What Everyone Else Sees

Lilia watches with relief he barely hides. Silver stands guard outside the nest during cycles. Sebek pretends not to notice, but his voice is less frantic now.

The Queen observes silently.

The egg’s pulse strengthens.

For the first time in months, Briar Valley knows quiet.

And You

You are still terrified.

Still seventeen. Still out of place. Still not meant to be here yet.

But when Malleus sleeps—truly sleeps—for the first time in what feels like forever, head resting near your heartbeat, you realize something heavy and terrifying:

You are keeping a dragon king alive.

Not with strength. Not with magic.

Just by staying.

And whatever comes next—whatever time has broken—

You know one thing with painful certainty:

If you leave now, he will not survive it.

So you stay.

Even though none of this was supposed to happen yet.

When Hope Quietly Runs Out

Days blurred into months.

Months became a year.

And still, no path home revealed itself.

At first, everyone believed time could be repaired—that with enough magic, enough searching, the tear could be reversed and you could be returned to the place you were stolen from. Lilia tried. The Queen consulted records older than kingdoms. Malleus himself, weakened though he was, tested reality again and again.

Nothing answered.

The truth settled slowly, cruelly:

The timeline you were taken from no longer existed.

Not broken—replaced.

A future where you aged naturally, fell into NRC by chance, met Malleus as equals under the night sky… that future had already collapsed the moment you were pulled from it. Time did not tolerate duplicates. It compensated by erasing the path behind you.

When Malleus finally understood this, he did not rage.

He went very still.

“I see,” he said quietly.

Lilia watched his shoulders sag—not with defeat, but acceptance.

“You were never meant to go back,” Malleus continued. “Not anymore.”

The egg pulsed faintly in its chamber—still fragile, still struggling, but alive.

Malleus rested a hand against the glass and whispered, “Then this is enough.”

Enough that you were here. Enough that he was not alone. Enough that love, even broken, had endured.

The Subtle Correction of Reality

Time and space, however, were not finished.

They never were.

Mass and energy could not be destroyed—only altered. Fate did not undo mistakes; it redistributed them until balance was restored.

It began subtly.

You changed.

At first, it was small things—your height increasing almost imperceptibly, your voice deepening faster than it should. Your stamina grew. Wounds healed quicker. Days felt shorter to you, as if time had begun to slide beneath your feet instead of carrying you forward.

Then came the fear.

You aged too fast.

Months passed, and you looked years older. Lines of worry creased faces throughout Briar Valley. Lilia counted your growth against human standards and went pale.

“At this rate…” he murmured, unfinished.

A human lifespan was nothing compared to a fae’s.

Everyone feared the same thing:

That time was burning through you to make up for what it had lost.

That you would reach old age in a handful of years and vanish, leaving Malleus to grieve all over again.

Malleus did not sleep for days after that realization.

He stayed close—always within arm’s reach. Watched you breathe. Memorized your expressions as if preparing for loss.

“I will not survive it twice,” he admitted one night, voice raw. “If this is all the time I am given, I will not waste it.”

The Memories That Shouldn’t Exist (Yet)

The first memory surfaced without warning.

You were standing in the courtyard when you froze, eyes unfocused.

“…there was a school,” you said slowly. “A strange one. Gothic. Full of idiots.”

Sebek sputtered in outrage. Silver leaned forward sharply. Lilia’s breath caught.

You blinked. “Why do I know that?”

More memories followed.

Fragmented at first—faces without names, laughter without context. Then clarity grew. You remembered NRC. The dorms. Classes. You remembered meeting Malleus beneath the stars, remembered fear turning into trust, loneliness into devotion.

Memories from a future that had never happened.

Time was not killing you.

It was catching you up.

Your rapid aging slowed as the memories solidified, your body aligning with the life it was correcting toward. When the last memory settled—the day you vanished, the bond igniting fully—your growth stopped.

You were the right age now.

The age you were meant to be when you stood beside him.

Everyone wept.

Malleus did not.

He pressed his forehead to yours and whispered, “Welcome back.”

The Bond That Did Not Automatically Return

And yet—

The mating bond did not reform.

No flare. No pull. No instinctive anchor.

It hurt more than Malleus expected.

Not because it was gone—but because it waited.

The Queen was the one who spoke the truth.

“Fate returned his memories,” she said. “Not your bond. That must be chosen.”

This time, there would be no inevitability. No predestination. No future pulling you together.

Only consent. Only will.

Only love, rebuilt deliberately.

Malleus bowed his head.

“I will court you,” he said solemnly. “As I should have from the beginning.”

You smiled—soft, a little overwhelmed.

“I already know how this ends,” you replied. “But I still want to choose it.”

Reforging What Was Lost

The bonding ritual was ancient.

No spectacle. No audience.

Just the two of you, the nest rebuilt not out of desperation but intention. Malleus was reverent—gentle in a way that surprised even Lilia. He guided, never demanded. Waited. Asked.

When the bond finally ignited, it did so quietly.

A warmth. A certainty. A homecoming.

The egg reacted instantly.

Its magic surged—not erratic now, but joyful. Cracks formed across its shell, radiant and strong. When it finally hatched, the chamber filled with light and a cry that echoed through Briar Valley.

A healthy heir. Bright-eyed. Powerful.

Loved by both parents from the first breath.

Malleus wept openly then.

After Everything

Peace returned to Briar Valley.

But Malleus changed.

He was still kind. Still dignified. Still gentle with those he ruled.

But with you?

He was unyielding.

He kept you close—always touching, always aware of where you were. His possessiveness was not cruel, but absolute. A dragon who had lost everything once did not gamble again.

“You are not leaving,” he said plainly one evening, arms wrapped around you, wings sheltering you completely. “Not to time. Not to fate. Not to anything.”

You believed him.

Because this time, the bond was not destiny.

It was choice.

And standing beside you, with a child born of loss turned love, Malleus Draconia finally had what even fate could not take away again.

!Pairing: Malleus Draconia x GN Reader

Warnings: Religious themes, slight NSFW (brief mention with little details), reader is implied to be the Ramshackle prefect/Yuu, in first person, implied relationship

A/N: I was reading up on religious themes for a school assignment, and I saw that in the Bible (Book of Revelations), Satan is described as a dragon, and OMG, the symbolism was far too perfect, especially with how Malleus is viewed by the cast of twst. This is a little shorter (and a lot more dramatic) than the last, but I hope you enjoy 🐉💚✨️🖤

Oh well,,, shapeshifting dragon feyrie powers activate ig

Feeling my long tail draping off the side of the bed as I cuddle my partner like the most prized possession of my hoard. Listening to the storm outside and hearing the thunder thrum in my heart!!! The rain makes me feel alive, and when I shut my eyes, I can picture myself twirling amongst the raging clouds. Dancing like ribbon. My scales shine like gold in the flashes. The lightning is my friend, and when I land I'll sprout flowers beneath my clawed feet.