Hi, I saw your Genshin request post, and I was wondering if you could do a Neuvillette x fem Reader, where the Reader and Neuvillette welcome their first child, and Fontaine holds its breath, the question on their minds being, what will the Chief Justice be like as a father? As it turns out, he's actually quite quiet, gentle, fiercely protective, and well, let's just say, utterly clueless about diapers. The Reader has never seen him so flustered before. Between late-night feedings, soothing lullabies in the rain, and his awe every time their baby grips his finger, Reader realizes something beautiful. For a man who carries the weight of a nation, nothing compares to holding his child in his arms? It would also be cute if every night, Neuvillette sits by her bed and tells stories, not of Fontaine's laws, but of ancient seas, mythical leviathans, and dragons who learned to love. I just really love his character, and he's like, Husband Material!!!
A Drop of the Ocean in a Dragon's Palm
Even the Chief Justice of Fontaine, a being imbued with the authority of an ancient dragon, was lost when it came to diapers, holding for the first time the one who had become his everything.
The majestic Chief Justice, eternally flawless, strict, and cold, was suddenly confronted with a trial that no law had foreseen. He—the Hydro Dragon, the eternal witness of justice, master of rains and the memory of the deep—had become a father.
All of Fontaine held its breath. Melusines whispered by the fountains, and the Spina di Rosula postponed a high-profile interrogation. A rumor spread through the Fontaine: a daughter had been born to Neuvillette.
He held her in his arms in a room filled with the soft light of an evening rain. The curtains stirred from a draft, and drops sliding down the glass reflected his tense face. She was so tiny that her fingers barely wrapped around his index finger. But when her hand clenched on his, the world—with its courts, sins, and ancient curses—disappeared for a moment. Only she remained.
"She... holds on tight," he said with surprise, his voice trembling.
His wife, still pale after childbirth, smiled from the bed, "That's what babies do. It means she feels safe with you."
Neuvillette was silent. He knew hundreds of formulations on civil rights, could detect a lie by the breath, but now, for the first time in his life, he felt completely lost. She was too fragile. How should he hold her without causing harm? Why was she crying so loudly? What were these... sudden, unannounced flows—like rain, but smelling different?
"Judging by your face, you've just realized that diapers don't change themselves," his wife said teasingly, seeing him freeze, staring at the swaddle. For him, it was like an ancient manuscript written in a forgotten language.
"I am not trained for this," he stated with stony seriousness. "No court has ever required such a procedure of me."
"Then start with the instructions. This is the front, this is the back. And try not to speak to her like she's a defendant."
The first few weeks passed in a soft chaos. The Court, surprisingly, continued to function, although the secretaries noted that the Chief Justice had become... less intimidating. He was still the embodiment of the law, but now his heart beat not only to the rhythm of the gavel but also to the cries from the nursery.
He woke up at night not to the wailing of storms or the noise of voices, but to a tiny whimper. And then he would rise, slowly, with all caution, approach the cradle, and a drizzle would begin outside the window, responding to his anxiety. He sang. Not with words—with the melody of water, light drops tapping on the glass in the rhythm of his breathing. And the little one would calm down, nestled against his chest, where a heart, ancient and ageless, now beat in submission to her fragile presence.
"You sang for her..." his wife whispered one day, lying beside him.
"It was necessary," he replied. "Her distress creates excessive humidity in the room, which disrupts the balance."
"Right, purely for the sake of balance, I'm sure," she smiled.
He began to tell her stories. Not about courts and crimes, but about what he knew, about what he had kept silent for centuries. In the night's stillness, sitting by her crib, he spoke slowly, in the language of waves and ancient memory.
"Far below, at the very bottom of the Primordial Sea, a leviathan sleeps. He is as lonely as all of us who were not born of human will. But one day, he heard laughter... and followed the sound."
She didn't understand the words yet, but her eyes would widen when he spoke of Vishaps flying through underwater storms, of dragons hiding from time. He taught her not laws, but wonder—and, perhaps, in doing so, he was learning for the first time himself.
The girl grew. Even as an infant, peculiarities began to be noticed about her. Water droplets would gather in the air when she laughed. Small puddles would appear under her tiny bare feet. When she cried, a fog would begin. Once, during her first fall, a freezing rain swept across the entire garden.
"She... feels the water," his wife noted, looking out the window with concern.
Neuvillette approached his daughter, lifted her into his arms, and she immediately nestled against his shoulder.
"She feels me," he said softly. "It's inevitable. Half of her nature is from me. But the other half... is much stronger. It is you. Her humanity. Her strength lies in that."
He never thought he could be seen in casual clothes, with a spot of baby food on his coat and a soft bonnet in his hand, but now this was his reality. He, who oversaw the laws of a nation, now read instructions on introducing solid foods. He seriously debated the benefits of carrot puree with his wife.
"You've become sentimental," his wife teased when he couldn't help but stand by the crib, watching his daughter sleep, clutching a plush water droplet.
"I'm merely... observing her stability," he mumbled, though his eyes were full of warmth.
"Right, and also placing raindrops on the windowsill in the shape of a heart?"
He was flustered. A genuine, unfeigned, flustered Neuvillette. His face, so accustomed to composure, suddenly flushed with a slight blush.
When his daughter spoke her first word, she said:
"Water!"
And a splash was immediately heard from the fountain in the yard. It spread, taking the form of a dancing vortex, as if rejoicing with her.
He watched her, standing on her tiny feet, with delight and a sense of awe.
"She will be strong," he whispered. "But I will try to ensure that she is also happy."
So passed the months. And when the rain poured over Fontaine, it no longer seemed cold or heavy. It had become a reminder of the quiet miracle that had been born in the Chief Justice's home. Of a little girl who learned to command the element of the heart. Of a man who for his entire life was a symbol of law, but finally allowed himself to be just a father.
And in this, there was no contradiction. Because even dragons born of the seas can learn to love.
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Can I request a Jamil x reader, where his daughter begs Jamil to let her help him cook, and even though he pretends to sigh, he’s secretly thrilled. So, he sets up a tiny apron, safe ingredients, and a simple recipe to follow. The result? Well, it resulted in an adorably lopsided dish and a flour-covered little girl proudly yelling, “I’m a chef like Daddy!". Jamil can't stop smiling as he fixes the food without anyone noticing, and at dinner, he gives all credit to his beloved little girl. The reader then catches him snapping a photo of his daughter's proud little face and saving it to his favorites? I am obsessed with Jamil!! He's my favorite, I love him sooo much!!
"I'm a cook, just like Baba!"
His daughter convinces Jamil to let her help him prepare dinner, and he happily gives her the opportunity to safely try her hand at cooking.
The sun dipped towards the horizon, bathing Scorching Sands and the Al Asim mansion in amber light. Rays filtered through stained-glass windows, dappling the marble floor. The air filled with the aromas of spices, roasted nuts, and sweet figs, creating a cozy atmosphere that hinted at the family dinner to come.
Jamil, as usual, had settled into the kitchen — his quiet sanctuary, where he felt truly free. Amidst painted ceramic jars, wooden bowls, and copper pots, he conjured with spices like an alchemist and sliced vegetables with the virtuosity of a dancer. He could infuse any dish with a subtle, exquisite, almost imperceptible flavor.
But today, he wasn't alone.
Small, bare feet burst into the kitchen like a sandstorm.
"Baba!" Jamil's four-year-old daughter, in her house dress already smudged from somewhere in the garden, exclaimed joyfully. "Baba, can I help cook too? Please-please-please!"
She clapped her hands and bounced in place, a tiny ball of energy. Her eyes gleamed with a determination that Jamil recognized as his own, reflected in miniature.
He sighed heavily, feigning exasperation, then put down his knife and straightened up. "Oh, my little star... cooking is a serious business," he began with mock sternness, looking down at her. "It requires concentration... and neatness... and..."
"I'll be neat! I promise! Word... princess's oath!" she quickly interrupted, placing a hand over her heart as if making a solemn vow.
Jamil couldn't suppress a smile. Secretly, his heart swelled with joy. He had long dreamed of this moment — sharing his favorite activity with his dearest person.
"Alright," he conceded, shaking his head with a feigned sigh. "But only if you wear a chef's apron."
"Hooray!" the girl cried, throwing her arms up.
Jamil opened one of the lower drawers and pulled out a tiny linen apron, specially sewn for her. Pale gold, with embroidered pomegranates along the hem and neat braid — he had secretly commissioned it himself from a tailor in the medina. He put it on his daughter, tied the ribbon behind her back, and she immediately glowed with pride.
"And now..." he leaned down to her and whispered conspiratorially, "we're going to cook a secret family recipe — sweet rice with dates and almonds."
"Ooooooh!" the girl's mouth fell open in awe.
He had prepared safe ingredients for her beforehand: already washed rice, chopped soft dates, roasted nuts, and a little cinnamon in a small bowl. Jamil carefully led her to a low table, specially placed closer to the floor so she could reach.
"First, we put in the rice... now the dates... now sprinkle a little cinnamon, just don't sneeze!"
The girl approached the task with utmost seriousness. With a concentrated expression, she measured each ingredient, sometimes whispering something to herself, as if reading an ancient culinary scroll. But soon, one of the bowls tipped over, dates scattered, and the nearby flour rose into the air like a snow cloud.
"Oops..." The girl looked herself over: hair covered in flour, apron stained all over. Then, after a second of silence, she proudly straightened her shoulders and declared:
"I'm a cook, just like Baba!"
Jamil couldn't help but laugh. His chest filled with warmth. He walked over and gently adjusted her apron, brushing a strand of hair from her forehead. "Yes, my little chef. And you were magnificent."
They finished cooking together — the girl diligently stirred with a spoon while he kept an eye on the fire. When the dish was ready, Jamil carefully transferred the rice into a large painted bowl and garnished it with candied rose petals.
At dinner, his wife came to the table and sat beside them. She looked attentively at the setting, then at their contented daughter, with her smudged apron and gleaming eyes.
"What's for dinner tonight, little chef?" she asked, embracing her daughter.
"I cooked the rice! All by myself! With dates and almonds!" the daughter proudly shouted.
Jamil, carefully serving the food onto plates, nodded. "All thanks to the head chef. I was just her assistant."
His wife smiled, surprised by the tenderness in his voice. She knew how reserved he was with his emotions — but next to his daughter, he melted like sugar in tea.
After dinner, when his daughter was half-asleep in his wife's arms, Jamil took his phone from his pocket. Carefully, almost imperceptibly, he aimed the camera at his daughter's satisfied face, smudged with flour and stained with dates. He took a picture. Then another. And then he pressed the "Favorite" icon.
"Caught you," his wife said, leaning against his shoulder and peeking at the screen. "You already have ten folders of her pictures."
He merely shrugged with a light, almost boyish smile. "And not a single one I'd want to delete."
They sat together in the soft light of the courtyard lanterns. Stars drifted overhead, and in Jamil's heart was everything he had ever desired: home, love, and a tiny girl in an apron who proudly called herself a cook, just like her Baba.
Coming home after a long day, Mydei collapses onto the bed on top of his beloved, not giving her a chance to get up.
Silence had drowned the house. Outside the windows, a lazy rain drizzled, its measured drops lulling as they tapped against the wooden roof. In the fireplace, a cozy fire crackled, filling the room with golden light and the subtle scent of dried herbs thrown into the flames for warmth. She had just settled onto the bed, wrapped in a soft blanket and immersed in a book. The day had been unusually calm, a rare stroke of luck in their usually turbulent life.
Suddenly, the front door creaked open. First came heavy, tired footsteps. Then – a clatter, clicks, and plates of armor hit the floor with a dull thud. Midei had returned.
"Hello, my lion," she smiled, not taking her eyes from the pages.
A low, barely audible growl answered – something between "home" and "tired as hell." He already knew where to go – to his island of peace, to warmth, to her.
Not a minute passed before his silhouette appeared in the bedroom doorway. Rumpled, disheveled, barefoot, but with a satisfied smirk and a determined glint in his eyes.
"No-o-o, Mydei, wait, you're heavy… oh!"
He literally collapsed onto her, burying his face in her neck and hugging her so tightly it was as if he wanted to dissolve into her. The full weight of his strong body pressed down on her, the mattress groaning softly under the load.
She gasped, wheezed, tried to wriggle free – without much enthusiasm, though.
"You… you're like a sack of potatoes, only with swords," she rasped, trying to shift him even an inch.
A blissful purr was the response. Mydei only pressed her closer, throwing a leg over her hip, completely claiming his territory.
"Seriously?!" She tried to free at least one arm. "Can I even breathe?"
"Mmm… you're breathing," he mumbled, not opening his eyes. "So, everything's fine."
She snorted, lifted her head, and with difficulty turned it to see his face. He looked like an exhausted wolf who had finally reached his den and now had no intention of leaving under any circumstances.
"You weigh like a pony," she grumbled, though there was more tenderness than irritation in her voice.
"Then you are my brave rider," he breathed out hoarsely, kissing her temple.
Her heart fluttered. That was it. The escape plan was canceled.
She sighed heavily, one leg still dangling off the bed, and her hand tried to find the edge of the blanket to cover him at least somehow.
"You know," she murmured, stroking his back, "you just use your hugs as a blanket and an anchor at the same time."
"Convenient," came the satisfied reply. "You're soft. And you smell like home."
They lay like that for several minutes: he breathed relaxedly against her neck, and with each of his exhales, she felt her resistance melting away. After all, despite all his weight, he was hers – her own, beloved, warm.
"Tomorrow you'll whine that your neck is stiff," she whispered.
"Let it get stiff, as long as I'm with you."
"You big fool…"
"Your fool."
And with those words, he fell asleep right on top of her, with a sleepy smile, not intending to move. And she, looking at the ceiling and feeling how the weight of his body strangely warmed her soul, only smirked.
Love… it really can be heavy. But in her case – in the very best way.
OMG!! I just discovered your blog and I love every single one of your fics, especially the ones with Vil, he's my HUSBANDO!! So, I was curious, If I may request a Vil Schoenheit x reader, where the family is getting ready for a family photo, and Vil and reader's daughter wants to look as beautiful as her father, like in his photoshoots and movies, so she decides to go to her parents' bedroom and gets into Vil’s makeup, but it ends in a glittery mess. Terrified of what her father will say about the mess and thinking he'll get mad, she tries to clean it up, but Vil walks into the room. But, instead of being upset, he kneels down and helps her with the makeup, even if it’s horribly uneven, for the family photo? -Vil's Waifu Anon
A Glittering Mess
Vil's daughter decides to do her own makeup before a family photo shoot and turns her father's office into a glittering mess.
It was the long-awaited day of the Schoenheit family photoshoot, and an extraordinary buzz filled the house from early morning. Bright sunlight streamed into the spacious rooms, and from the kitchen came the clinking of dishes and the appetizing aroma of fresh pastries—Mom was preparing something special for such an important occasion. Vil wanted to capture this day perfectly, so he organized everything himself: he invited a professional photographer, selected outfits, and even thought through the color palette for the background to ensure everything would be ideal. As always, flawless.
Vil paced around the house, adjusting his tie and clarifying details on composition and lighting, while in another part of the house, a completely different story was unfolding. His seven-year-old daughter, a true little star with curly hair and eyes full of curiosity, stood at the door of her father's study. This room was his sanctuary—a true corner of beauty and art, where his entire collection of cosmetics, perfumes, brushes, polishes, and accessories was kept. Usually, Vil only allowed her to enter with him, and his daughter would listen with reverence to his explanations.
But today... Today, she wanted to be as beautiful as her dad. In a light lavender dress and neatly styled hair, she felt almost like a princess. Almost. Because in family photos, Dad always looked especially good—with a radiant face, a soft shimmer on his lips, a mysterious sparkle in his eyes, and she wanted to look just like him. Not just cute. But magnificent, like him.
She quietly opened the door and slipped inside. The room was immaculate, like an exhibition hall: brushes were arranged by size, palettes by color, and lipsticks and blushes gleamed under the lights.
"Dad will never notice," she whispered to herself, though her heart pounded wildly.
At first, everything went well. She remembered that Dad always applied something to his skin first—she found a jar and generously squeezed out some cream. Then foundation—she chose one that shimmered beautifully. Next, shiny eyeshadow, pink blush, and, of course, lipstick! Red, bright. She had never felt so beautiful.
But then the brushes... they started falling when she reached for a shelf. One bottle of glitter fell and scattered across the floor, another, with pigment, spilled onto the rug. Her dress was already stained, and the mirror showed... not quite an ideal look. The makeup had run, her eyes looked like a panda's, and the lipstick was smeared almost up to her ear.
She froze.
Fear ran like a cold shadow down her spine. What had she done? This was Dad's room. He treasured it so much. He would say she hadn't listened, that she'd ruined his things...
She tried to gather the glitter with her hands, but only spread it more across the rug. Panic mounted. Tears welled up in the corners of her eyes.
Just then, the door opened.
"Sweetheart?" Vil called out and froze in the doorway, seeing the scene.
The floor was covered in glitter, the rug in eyeshadow, brushes everywhere, and in the center of the room—his little girl, covered in makeup as if a tornado had done it, with a trembling lower lip and eyes full of fright.
She looked up at him.
"Sorry, Dad... I... I wanted to be as beautiful as you..."
These words struck Vil harder than any reproach.
He was silent for only a couple of seconds, but for her, it was an eternity. And then... he knelt down.
"Oh, meine Kleine," he whispered, gently taking her hands. "You are already the most beautiful girl in the world. Even if your lipstick ran onto your cheek."
She sobbed.
"I ruined everything..."
"No, you didn't ruin it. You just... added a little creativity."
He smiled, took a tissue, and gently began to wipe the makeup from her cheeks. Not with anger. Not with irritation. With the love and patience that only a father has, for whom "perfect" isn't a clean palette, but a happy daughter.
When everything was cleaned up, he took his smallest brush, his safest and gentlest eyeshadow palette, and carefully, with the precision of an artist, drew a delicate shimmer on his daughter's eyelids, added a touch of blush, and a gloss to her lips—with a light cherry scent.
"Now," he said, stepping back and admiring her, "you're a real movie star. Ready for the photo?"
She glowed. Not from glitter. From happiness.
Later, when they posed for the family photo, the photographer noticed how Vil looked at his daughter—not as a little girl, but as an equal, a radiant star in his world. And the light makeup he had applied to her became an integral part of the shot. Not as an embellishment. But as a symbol of trust, support, and unconditional love.
Hello, for your "Sweet Stories, Intoxicating Feelings" Event, may I request Chocolate Cake and Hot Chocolate with Malleus Draconia, please?
"Chocolate Cake and Hot Chocolate"
Event: "Sweet Stories, Intoxicating Feelings"
Malleus sat in his favorite armchair in the castle library, bathed in the soft light streaming from the window and caressing the spines of the books on the shelves. Silence enveloped him, broken only by the quiet breathing of his young son, asleep in a cradle nearby, and the rustling of pages beneath his fingers. In this cozy sanctuary, the anxieties and the burden of responsibility that usually weighed upon him from his people dissolved. Now, only one thing mattered — his family.
He closed his eyes, and the memory of meeting her, the Queen of the Briar Valley, his beloved, flashed in his mind with the same clarity as on that very day. The warmth and light that had filled his soul then felt almost physical now.
Love… The word echoed within him with deep contemplation. His thoughts, like delicate threads, stretched in different directions but invariably wove together into her image.
Love seemed to him like a rich chocolate cake. He vividly recalled the time they sat together in one of the castle halls, enjoying this delicacy, and his gaze followed with admiration as her lips touched the small spoon, taking a bite of the chocolate bliss. The taste that lingered on her lips seemed the embodiment of everything he felt beside her. The richness of her smile, the depth of her gaze, the tenderness of her touch — everything was as multifaceted and intoxicating as that cake, where each layer revealed new facets of pleasure.
"Chocolate, like love," he thought. Just as thick, dark, and deep. At first, it seems like just sweetness, but the deeper you delve, the more this taste captures all your senses, making you forget everything else in the world. And like this cake, love was multi-layered — every moment with her was a unique piece of happiness that could never be erased from memory.
He opened his eyes and saw his queen, thoughtfully gazing out the window. Soft golden light played in her hair, and her face radiated peace and serenity. In such moments, Malleus felt completely safe, as if the whole world existed only for the two of them. She was his chocolate, his sweet and rich cake. And he understood that he could never be satiated by her. Every minute spent together only intensified this desire. She had become the very essence of his existence.
Suddenly, a desire to prolong this feeling of sweetness overcame him, and he decided to treat himself to a cup of hot chocolate. Malleus turned to the fireplace, where logs crackled merrily, took his favorite mug, and filled it with the thick, fragrant drink. He allowed himself to dissolve in this moment, feeling the warmth spread through his body, warming not only his flesh but also his soul, giving him a sense of comfort and security.
He closed his eyes, savoring the enveloping warmth, as if love itself filled his heart. Like hot chocolate, her love warmed him in the coldest of times. When the outside world seemed cruel and full of anxieties, all he needed was her presence, her warm gaze, her gentle voice. It was like a sip of a warming drink on endless cold nights, which receded only in her tender embrace.
Malleus felt his heart beat faster as he looked at her again. But it wasn't just the feeling of love, but also the realization that she was his anchor, his warmth, his inexhaustible source of support. Beside her, he feared neither the cold nor loneliness. She was his hot chocolate, which he drank in greedy gulps and which warmed his soul in any situation.
At that moment, their son stirred quietly in the cradle, and Malleus, without taking his eyes off his wife, felt a small hand reach out to him. He rose and went to the crib, gently taking the baby in his arms. His son nestled his face against his chest, falling asleep again, and Malleus, looking back at his wife, understood that his love for her, like exquisite chocolate, only grew deeper and richer with each passing moment. And although their son was still very small, he already felt this love, this strength and warmth emanating from their little family.
"He will feel this love too when he grows up," Malleus thought, and his gaze slid back to his wife, whose face, turned towards them, radiated tenderness. She too felt the warming feeling of love spreading within her, and Malleus knew that his feelings for her would never fade. Like this chocolate, love was not only sweet but also bittersweet, deep, giving comfort and joy, asking nothing in return.
He approached her, and she smiled softly, sensing his nearness. Malleus gently kissed her forehead, and she wrapped her arm around his shoulder, affectionately stroking his back.
Their world was filled with this warming feeling, which was more precious than all royal titles and responsibilities. It was love, like chocolate — eternal, warm, rich, and incomparably sweet.
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I had this thought that Mydei would be the type to pick up stray animals off the side of the road and take them home and now I really wanna make a request for Mydei x reader with that prompt in mind if that’s ok
I just can’t get the image of him snuggling a scraggly, ugly, dirty little kitten he found while telling us that it’ll become a vicious protector for us while he’s away (he can’t argue with the cat distribution system lol)
The Lion and the Kitten
Returning home after a long day, Mydei couldn't pass by a homeless, soaking wet kitten, which he decided to bring to his beloved.
The rain lashed down, blurring the road and turning Okhema's familiar streets into shining, winding streams. Mydei, accustomed to the harsher waters of the Sea of Souls, still felt the penetrating cold. Each step echoed dully in the approaching twilight. His mind was filled with thoughts of the upcoming dinner, the warmth of his home, and the anticipation of seeing the one whose laughter was his greatest reward after a long day. He imagined the scent of freshly baked golden pancakes and smiled.
And then, in the alleyway where empty barrels and broken carts usually lay piled, he noticed something. Something small, trembling, curled up into a wet ball. He slowed his pace, then stopped altogether. At first, he thought it was a discarded rag, but on closer inspection, he made out pointy ears and a thin tail.
It was a kitten. Tiny, impossibly thin, soaked to the bone and covered in mud. Its fur was matted, revealing protruding ribs. Its eyes, if they could even be seen through the caked-on dirt, seemed enormous and full of despair. Apparently, someone had pushed it into a puddle or simply abandoned it in the rain, leaving it to die.
All the harshness, all the ruthlessness that had been forged in him by years of battles and survival, momentarily gave way to an unexpected feeling. This tiny ball of life, so vulnerable and miserable, evoked in him what no army of enemies, no prophecy, could: pure, unfeigned pity. Mydei couldn't just walk past. It was simply impossible.
He crouched down, oblivious to the puddle he knelt in. He extended a hand. The kitten hissed in fright but didn't move, as if it had no strength left even to flee. Mydei spoke to it softly, almost a whisper, words he didn't even utter before his soldiers. Words of comfort, tenderness, and promise.
"Hey there, little one," he murmured, gently scooping up the trembling body. The kitten was lighter than he expected, and colder than it should have been. Mud left traces on his armor, but Mydei paid no attention. He pressed the kitten to his broad chest, trying to warm it with his own body heat. The little one trembled but didn't resist, burying its face in his damp clothing.
Lost in his thoughts, Mydei continued on his way. Images of battles, strategic plans, senatorial letters accusing him of treason, receded into the background. Now, only one thought occupied him: how to bring this tiny creature home without scaring it even more, and how to explain its sudden appearance.
The door to their home swung open, and warmth immediately enveloped him. Candles glowed with a soft light, and the scent of stewed meat and cinnamon filled the air. His beloved stood by the hearth, her back to him. Hearing his footsteps, she turned.
Her eyes, usually full of light and laughter, widened when she saw him. Or rather, what he held in his arms.
"Mydei?" Her voice held surprise mixed with slight bewilderment.
He coughed awkwardly. "I... I found him. Out there. On the street. He's... very small." He carefully offered her the kitten. The little one let out a weak squeak.
She took him, and her fingers gently stroked its matted fur. Her face softened. "Oh, my poor dear..." She looked at Mydei, and a mischievous spark flickered in her eyes. "Did you bring home a lion cub, Mydei?"
He blushed slightly. "He... he needed help. He was soaked. And hungry." He shuffled his feet, then added with unexpected seriousness: "When he grows up, he will protect you. From everything. He will be your personal guardian."
She looked at him, her eyes filled with tenderness and barely suppressed laughter. She looked at the kitten, then shifted her gaze to Mydei, surveying him from head to toe as if evaluating him.
"My dear," she said, and her voice held genuine love. "You know, you yourself look like a wet kitten right now. Big, but still a kitten who needs a home and care."
Mydei blinked in surprise. He – a kitten? A warrior who defied gods, called a kitten? But there was no mockery in her words, only warmth and affection. He suddenly realized that in her eyes, he was always something more than just a killing machine or the heir to a cursed throne. He was the one she loved, with all his weaknesses and contradictions.
"Well, as for this little one," she looked at the kitten again, which had already begun purring softly under her gentle touches. "I don't mind. He's certainly dirty and looks like he hasn't eaten in a long time. But we'll wash him, feed him, and take him to the vet tomorrow. We'll check if he has any illnesses. And then he'll become part of our home."
Mydei felt a strange, unaccustomed warmth spread through his chest, stronger than any hearth fire. It was a feeling he hadn't experienced in the Sea of Souls, nor in battles, nor even at the thought of Kremnos. It was the feeling of home. And perhaps, at that moment, holding the dirty kitten he had saved from certain death, Mydei, the "lion without a pride," finally found his own, true pride.
Hello, can you do a cute Jack Howl x Reader, where there's been a flu virus that's been going around, and unfortunately, all three of Jack's kids got it, and let's just say Jack is panicking about what to do. Meanwhile, his wife, Reader, is very calm, has already made some soup and tea for her pups, while Jack's been triple-checking temperatures and carrying tissues like a soldier on the front lines. When the Reader finally got all of them to take a nap, Jack curled up beside them with the Reader, their feverish little bodies snuggled against both of them like pups in a den? I really love Jack so much, especially in that one fic you wrote about him and his little pack, so cute!!!! And this is especially a bit comforting for me, cause I have not been feeling well and need some wholesomeness.~
The Wolf's Den
When three children get seriously ill with the flu, even the strongest father can be at a loss - but with his loving wife by his side, he finds the strength to be a support for his family.
The house filled with the scent of linden tea with honey, the subtle aroma of fresh chicken broth, and—alas—the unsettling background of muffled coughs and hoarse breathing. The influenza virus, like a cunning enemy, had crept into the home of Jack, one of the strongest, most resilient, and resolute people one could imagine. But as soon as the illness touched his children, his unwavering confidence began to crack.
Jack paced the house like a cornered wolf. His eldest son lay in bed with flushed cheeks, breathing heavily, his usual lively rhythm disrupted. His middle daughter plaintively pressed a cool cloth to her forehead, buried in her favorite soft toy. And the youngest whimpered in a half-sleep, snuggled dependently into his mother's shoulder, like a tiny wolf cub.
Jack clutched a second thermometer between his fingers—the first he had already broken from anxiety. A third lay in the pocket of his sweatpants, already warmed to 37.4°C just from his own body heat. He measured his eldest's temperature again. "37.9°C... No, that's less than it was. Though, maybe it's because he threw off the blanket?" His thoughts raced, spiraling into panic.
He prowled the house like a true wolf searching for a way to save his den. In one hand, a box of tissues; in the other, a thermometer; under his arm, a box of fever reducers. From time to time, he would stop at a doorframe, lean his forehead against the cold wood, and command himself, "Get it together. You're a wolf. You can handle this." But each time he heard another cough from his daughter, he would lose himself again, as if encountering for the first time an enemy he couldn't defeat by force.
Meanwhile, his wife—calm as a frosty morning in the forest—had long been acting with familiar methodicalness. While Jack thrashed about, she cooked chicken soup, unhurriedly adding carrots, celery, garlic. In the background, the kettle quietly simmered, and linden tea with sea buckthorn was already steeping in a thermos. She didn't raise her voice or rush into a frenzy—instead, she tenderly wiped her children's foreheads, gave them warm tea, administered medicine, and tucked them under blankets, as if shielding them from the whole world.
"Are you sure they're not delirious? Maybe we need to go to the hospital?" Jack asked for the third time in half an hour, his voice sharp like a growl.
"Jack, it's just the flu. You yourself said yesterday they have strong immune systems. Everything is under control," she replied, without looking up from slowly stirring the soup. "Now, the main thing is rest, warmth, and fluids."
He growled to himself, disagreeing, but said nothing. Instead, he carried a warm blanket to the youngest, tucked in the corners for the eldest, adjusted his daughter's pillow... and then measured all three temperatures again.
"38.7°C... 38.5°C..." he whispered like a mantra, squinting as if trying to burn into the glass strip the answer to the question, "Will everything be okay?"
When the children finally fell asleep—covered, hydrated, sweating under soft blankets—his wife quietly exhaled, leaning against the kitchen doorframe. Her body seemed relaxed, but Jack saw it: shadows of fatigue appeared under her eyes, her movements became a little slower. He couldn't help but admire her. She handled the illness like another chapter in the book of their lives. Confidently, patiently, without fear.
He walked up to her. Without words. He just reached out and pulled her close, tightly, almost desperately.
"I'm sorry. I..." He swallowed. "I didn't know what to do. I almost went crazy."
"I know," she said softly, stroking his back. "You're just a wolf whose pups got sick. It's normal—a father must also pace until he's sure all his children are alive and well."
They went to the bedroom, leaving the children's door slightly ajar. On the table in the corner, there were already wet wipes, thermometers, a box of medicine, and tea in a thermos. Jack couldn't seem to fully relax. But when his wife lay down on the bed and called him, he quietly curled up beside her, like a huge white wolf guarding his den, finally allowed to rest.
He pressed against her, feeling her warm body breathe steadily and calmly. His hand rested on her thigh, fingers clutching in gratitude.
"Thank you..." he whispered, almost disbelieving that he could say it. "I wouldn't have managed without you."
She smiled, already falling asleep, and just whispered:
"Together, we are a pack. And a pack can handle anything."
That night, for the first time in a long time, Jack slept truly peacefully, hearing the quiet snuffles of his children in the next room and knowing that beside him was her. His anchor. His strength. His true den in this wild world.
On Leona's birthday, he receives an unexpected surprise from his family, proving that it is with them that he is the true king.
Leona never liked holidays. His birthday only reminded him of the status he had never achieved, and that in the eyes of others, he was always second. A prince without a crown. An heir without the right to the throne. Since childhood, he preferred to keep silent, bury himself in pillows, and pretend that this day simply didn't exist. Even at Night Raven College, he tried to avoid extra attention on this day – every "happy birthday" seemed empty, formal, and hypocritical to him.
But since then, everything had changed.
Sunbeams lazily pierced through the dark bedroom curtains, and a golden, warm morning slowly crept into the city. The house was enveloped in a strange, suspiciously organized silence, which in itself was already alarming to Leona. Usually, by this hour, ringing squeals, the patter of bare feet on the floor, the clinking of toys, and his wife's restrained voice persuading someone not to stick their curious tail into a pot would already be heard in the hallway. But now... silence.
He rolled over onto his other side, pressing his cheek against the pillow. Soft. Warm. He wanted to sleep and sleep.
He almost drifted off to sleep again when suddenly…
"DAAAAADD!!!"
The bedroom door burst open with the force of a hurricane, and two fluffy little creatures literally crashed onto him. Twins. His children. His pride. His curse of morning sleep.
"Happy birthda-a-a-a-a-ay!!" two voices sang in unison, loudly and with such sincere joy that even a predator like him couldn't help but smile.
A little girl with disheveled brown hair jumped onto his chest and kissed his nose. Her lion ears trembled with delight. Next to her, his brother, almost a miniature copy of Leona, tried to restrain his tail, which almost slapped his father in the face from an excess of emotion.
"You're even older now!" his son happily announced.
"But still handsome!" his daughter added, winking and shining like a little sun.
"Mh…" Leona grunted, squinting. "Fluffy saboteurs, get off me… you're already heavy…"
"No!" both exclaimed and again collapsed onto his chest, clinging like small kittens demanding warmth.
He sighed and stroked their heads, feeling himself relax internally. This wasn't just a birthday. This was his day with them. With the family he had chosen himself. Created himself. Here, he was first, paramount. Here, he was king, even if without a crown.
"Time to get up!" the children shouted. "Mom said the surprise is ready!"
"A surprise, you say?" Leona raised an eyebrow and, stretching, lazily sat up in bed. "If you've turned the kitchen into a battlefield, I'll punish both of you. Especially if my meat supply has suffered."
"Oh, no, we haven't! We did everything neatly! Almost..." the boy mumbled, looking away.
"And it's delicious! Mommy said you'd be happy!"
The kitchen smelled of meat, spices, and something… homemade. Leona's wife greeted him with a smile, turning from the stove. There was flour in her hair, and small handprints on her apron.
"Good morning, sleeping king," she said with a slight irony, approaching and kissing his cheek. "Happy birthday."
"If every one of my birthdays started with lion cubs attacking their father, maybe I'd start to like this day," Leona grumbled, but he couldn't hold back a smile anymore.
"We made you a pie!" his son proudly announced. "A real meat pie!"
"I told them Dad doesn't need cake if there's no meat in it!" his daughter chimed in, bouncing in place.
"And I completely agree with you," Leona chuckled and reached for a spoon.
But his wife gently slapped his hand:
"First – close your eyes."
"Seriously?"
"Close them."
He obeyed, frowning slightly, while his little ones happily twirled around. Someone placed a plate in front of him, someone quietly giggled… And then – he opened his eyes.
On the table was a magnificent meat pie, decorated with… lion ears made of dough. And the inscription: "You are our king."
He looked at his children, then at his wife. There was something in his eyes that hadn't been there in previous years – softness. Warmth. Gratitude. No victory in the arena could compare to this moment.
"Hmm. Alright. So be it," he said, taking a fork. "This year, I accept my birthday. But only because you're damn good at ambushes."
"HURRAH!" the children shouted again and jumped around, while their mother smiled, pressing her hands to her chest.
The whole day passed in a cozy, noisy atmosphere. After the pie, there were presents – drawings made by the little ones' hands, a wooden lion figurine his son had crafted with his mother for weeks, a necklace made by his daughter in the style of the Savanna, and fragrant body oil from his wife, with a hint. He appreciated it. Especially the hint.
After lunch, the whole family settled in the living room. The children fell asleep right on the carpet, holding onto their father's fluffy tail, and he, with one arm around his wife, finally allowed himself to relax.
"You know…" he said softly, while the children were already snoring. "For the first time in a long time, I actually like this day."
His wife looked at him, tenderly touching his cheek:
"Because you're with us. And here, you're always first."
He didn't answer. He just held her closer, inhaling the familiar scent of her hair. His pack. His pride.
And when night came, and the house again fell silent, Leona was not in a hurry to fall asleep.
He lay next to his wife, stroking her back, his fingers lazily exploring her waist, then sliding lower. She held her breath, already knowing what that look, that tone of voice meant, when he whispered:
"And now… my main gift."
"Leona…" she tried to protest, but already felt her body surrendering to his heat and impatience.
"Don't you dare fall asleep," he whispered, pressing his lips to hers. "It's my day. And you're mine."
He was gentle and passionate at the same time, like a predator protecting his female, but also not forgetting how to burn her from within. That night, he wouldn't let her forget who he was. Not a prince. But a man in whose heart warmth had finally settled.
And if he had hated his birthday before, now he knew – there was a family for whom this day became a beginning. The beginning of the best chapter of his life.
