22ayla21

[22ayla21]

I want to apologize to all subscribers and those who requested requests, but I will not write them. Now I have a very difficult period in my life, when I do not even want to live, so I am taking a break for some time until my life gets better at least a little. Once again, I apologize and thank you for understanding.

[22ayla21]

King of This House

On the birthday of Hugo, who can't stand holidays, his wife and daughter surprise him, turning a regular morning into the warmest, most memorable celebration of his life.

From Author: Happy birthday, Hugo❤️

The morning in New Eridu, as always, started with noise: the hum of cars, distant shouts, and the barking of dogs. But in Hugo’s house, there was a suspicious silence. Suspicious—because usually, at this time, the pitter-patter of Serena’s little feet would echo through the halls as she inevitably burst into the bedroom to "wake up daddy" with a jump. But today the bedroom was empty.

Waking up, Hugo’s first thought was to check for her. His hand habitually searched the other side of the bed—empty. An inner sense, honed over the years, told him immediately: they're up to something. He opened his eyes and stared gloomily at the ceiling. His birthday. Hugo couldn't stand this day—it reminded him of time passing. But his wife and daughter never let him get away with a quiet evening. This time, a surprise was clearly in the works.

He got up, put on a shirt, and went into the hallway—almost tripping over a strange "path" of paper flowers. They led somewhere deeper into the house, and each one had a clumsy message written in a child's hand: "FOR DADDY." Hugo couldn't help but smile, picking one up and stroking the paper with his fingers.

"What are you two up to..." he muttered.

Following the "path," he reached the living room. The door was closed, with a sign hanging on it: "DO NOT ENTER!!! (daddy is forbidden)."

"Forbidden, is it?" Hugo chuckled. "And I thought I had some say in this house."

From inside, there was a rustle of activity, muffled giggles, and whispers. Hugo waited, arms crossed. After two minutes, the door burst open, and his daughter appeared in the doorway.

Serena was beaming from ear to ear. Her multicolored eyes shone with delight, and she, dressed up and a little disheveled, held a paper crown in her hands.

"DADDY!" she shouted, probably loud enough for the neighbors to hear. "Happy Birthday!"

She jumped on him, hugged him around the neck, and placed a crookedly cut cardboard crown with glitter on his head. On it was the inscription: "King Daddy."

Hugo barely held back a laugh. He looked at his daughter seriously and nodded solemnly:

"Thank you, Princess. I am now officially the king of this house."

"Nooo!" Serena protested. "Mom is the queen! And I'm the princess!"

Pleased with her hierarchy, she stepped aside, opening the way into the living room.

Hugo entered—and froze.

The entire room was decorated with paper garlands and a sign that said, "HAPPY BIRTHDAY, DADDY!" which, judging by the dancing letters, was made in a hurry. On the table was a cake. An unusual one: clearly homemade, not from a bakery. The frosting was smeared unevenly, and some of Serena's glitter had gotten onto the glaze, but the cake was big, bright, and, without a doubt, made with love.

Next to it stood his wife, a lighter in her hands, with which she had just finished lighting the candles. Seeing him, she smiled, tilting her head slightly.

"Happy Birthday, Hugo."

For a moment, he felt a pang in his chest. That smile always disarmed him more than any weapon.

"You knew I can't stand this day," he mumbled, but his voice held no anger, only hidden gratitude.

"That's exactly why we decided to celebrate it," she teased.

Serena ran up to him and tugged his hand.

"Daddy, blow out the candles! Make a wish!"

"What if I don't?" Hugo squinted, teasing her back.

"Then I'll blow them out for you!" the girl blurted out and was already taking a deep breath.

Hugo quickly bent down to get there first. All the candles went out, and the living room was filled with a child's squeal of delight.

"Well?" his wife crossed her arms. "Did you make a wish?"

"I did," he replied simply.

"And what was it?"

"If I tell you, it won't come true." Hugo grinned. "But, believe me, you were both in that wish."

His wife shook her head, hiding a smile. Serena was already dragging a knife, deciding that she was the one who would cut the cake. Hugo sat down at the table, and his daughter solemnly handed him the first piece, all covered in frosting and berries.

"For you, Daddy. The biggest one!"

He took the plate, but instead of eating right away, he hugged her and said softly:

"Thank you, sweetie. This is the best gift."

Serena's face lit up with happiness, and his wife, watching them, caught his gaze. And in that look, there was no hint of Hugo's usual cold ferocity—only warmth and stillness.

He didn't like birthdays, didn't like remembering the past, but he would remember this day spent with them. Because it was in moments like these that he understood: everything he lived and fought for was sitting right in front of him—his queen and his little princess.

And for the first time in a long time, Hugo allowed himself to celebrate not just a birthday, but life itself.

[22ayla21]

Hi, I was wondering if you could do a birthday request for me, since my birthday is August 18th and I'm turning 25, so maybe a Zhongli x fem reader, where's Reader's birthday, and Zhongli and the kids declare that for Reader's birthday, she's forbidden from lifting a finger. He and the kids take care of all the chores, errands, and meal prep for the day, while Reader relaxes. Occasionally, the kids pop in to give their mama Reader hugs and some snacks. By evening, Zhongli quietly admits he’s exhausted; it was all worth it to give her peace. It would also be cute if the kids surprise the Reader with a birthday dinner that they "cooked", which consisted mostly of fruit plates, simple dumplings, and tea, while Zhongli supervises to make sure nothing burns. The reader is then seated at a “restaurant” they set up in the dining room, complete with hand-drawn menus? I ABSOLUTELY LOVE this MAN and would marry him.

The Stone and Heart Restaurant

On his wife’s birthday, Zhongli and their children take care of everything to give her a rare day of peace.

From Author: Happy birthday! 🎂🥳

The morning in Zhongli's home dawned uncommonly quiet. The sun had just touched the curtains, gilding the edges of the fabric, and a silence reigned in the bedroom, broken only by his wife’s soft breathing. She was about to get up, as she always did, to make breakfast and start her day, but she felt a light touch on her shoulder.

"Don't get up today," Zhongli's voice was low but firm. His amber eyes looked at her with a special, deep expression. "Today is your day. And according to yesterday's contract, you are absolutely forbidden to lift a finger."

His wife raised an eyebrow in surprise, but before she could say anything, their elder daughter burst into the room with a serious expression, as if mimicking her father's tone.

"Mama! You're resting today. It's an order! Papa and I will do everything ourselves!"

Their younger son, out of breath, followed close behind, barely holding a tray that was too big for him, with a teapot and two cups. The tray tilted, and Zhongli caught it just in time with one hand.

"And I... I brought you tea!" the boy exclaimed proudly.

His wife laughed and, pulling the children close, kissed them both on the cheeks.

"It seems I've truly been relieved of my duties," she joked.

Zhongli, with a slight nod of his head, added, "Even the Geo Archon does not break his own contracts. So rest. We'll take care of everything."

The house filled with life and commotion. Their daughter ran around with a wet cloth, swinging it more than wiping away dust. The son diligently put toys on the shelf, but half of them immediately fell back down. And Zhongli took charge of the kitchen.

Of course, he was a master chef and could prepare any dish with impeccable precision, but today, he decided to let the children participate in everything.

"Papa, can I fold the dumplings?" the daughter asked, looking at the prepared dough.

"You mean jiaozi," Zhongli gently corrected her. "Of course you can. Just remember: there shouldn't be any air inside, or they'll burst in the boiling water."

The daughter, with a serious expression, tried to fold one dumpling, but the dough stubbornly stuck to her fingers. She frowned, but her brother immediately came to her side and offered her more flour.

"I'll help! See, this is better!"

His wife could hear their laughter and chatter from the bedroom, and her heart filled with warmth. She lay there, enjoying the rare chance to do nothing. Sometimes, the door would open, and the children would run in to hug her, bring her a slice of apple or a cookie.

"Mama, you're the best! Here, eat this apple, it's tasty!" the son said, settling down next to her.

Their daughter, perched right on the edge of the bed, told her, "Papa and I are making a surprise. But it's a secret! Although... okay, I'll tell you: we're going to have a restaurant! Don't tell anyone!"

His wife laughed, pretending to put a finger to her lips.

"I promise, no one."

By evening, the house was transformed. The kitchen smelled of freshly boiled dumplings and fragrant tea. On the dining room table, neatly arranged fruits were displayed: orange slices, grapes, apple wedges, and even strawberries, which the children insisted on so it "would be pretty."

The most charming part was the menu. The children had drawn it on thick paper with crooked letters and funny pictures of the dishes.

Menu: "The Stone and Heart Restaurant"

Fruits — "very tasty, we cut them ourselves"

Dumplings (jiaozi) — "from Papa and us"

Tea — "the best in Liyue"

His wife was ceremoniously seated at the table. Their daughter played the role of the waitress, making funny curtsies and asking, "What does our dear guest desire?"

The son carried the plates, trying not to spill the tea. And Zhongli, standing quietly nearby, watched all the lovely commotion.

When the food was on the table, the children proudly sat down next to her, and Zhongli moved closer to his wife. He leaned in and said softly, "I must admit, I'm tired. But it was all worth it so you could rest today. For this, I am ready to walk all of Liyue on foot."

He said this with a slight smile, but in his voice was a rare note of human fatigue, which he seldom allowed himself to show.

His wife, touching his hand, replied, "Thank you, my dear. This was the best birthday. Because you are all here with me."

The children immediately exclaimed in unison, "Happy birthday, Mama!"

And the whole family laughed, enjoying this simple but wonderfully warm dinner in their small "restaurant."

[22ayla21]

Hmm okay!

Do you accept - its okay to refuse the request - romantic, fluff HCs about Fem!reader who's completely ISFJ person with genshin men like; Diluc, kaeya, wriothesley & thoma.

In short; ISFJ are types who helps out others instead of themselves the most to the point of sacrifice their own health. They usually do things in the dark due to their shyness and less confrontation.

If you do only one character then please write about Kaeya.

Ice and Ashes

Kaeya, in love with a quiet and selfless girl who sacrifices herself for others, tries to teach her to think about herself.

The evening in Mondstadt was quieter than ever. Only distant footsteps on the bridge and the soft chime of bells at the tavern's entrance broke the viscous silence. Kaeya stood by a window in the Knights of Favonius headquarters, thoughtfully swirling a glass of wine in his fingers. Usually by this time, he would be at the Angel's Share or strolling through the plaza, but tonight his attention was captured by a seemingly unremarkable figure that had flashed by below.

It was her. The one he had long grown accustomed to seeking out in a crowd. A girl with a rare ability to blend in, as if fate itself had gifted her with invisibility. She didn't attract attention with loud words or bold actions, but she always appeared wherever help was needed. And she did it so quietly that almost no one noticed.

He saw her carrying a heavy basket, which, judging by the scent, contained herbs and bandages. Her face was tired, strands of hair had escaped from her hood, and her hands were barely steady from fatigue. But she still walked on—rushing, as always, to someone who was worse off than her.

Kaeya frowned. He had tried more than once to convince her that she couldn't wear herself out like this, but each time he was met with her soft, almost guilty smile and a quiet, "I'm fine... really."

"Fine, you say..." he muttered, taking a sip of wine. "But you'll collapse from exhaustion any minute."

He found her later, in a narrow alley behind the market stalls. Where the lanterns barely pierced the thick darkness, she sat on a low bench, bandaging the arm of a young boy who had, by the looks of it, been in a fight.

"Do you even understand what will happen if this wound gets infected?" her voice was quiet but firm. "Next time, run away instead of getting into a fight."

The boy nodded shyly, took a packet of bandages from her, and ran off without even a thank you. She followed him with a tired gaze and only then noticed Kaeya standing in the shadows.

"You again," she said quietly, without surprise, as if she had been expecting him.

"Me again," he stepped into the light, and his usual half-smirk, half-smile touched his lips. "I'm surprised you're still on your feet. How many people did you help today? Five? Ten?"

"I don't keep count," she lowered her gaze.

"You should," he came closer, looking down at her. "Because you're at the very bottom of that list."

She said nothing. Her hands were fidgeting with the edge of her cloak, and Kaeya suddenly realized this was how she dealt with awkwardness. She didn't like conflicts. She didn't know how to argue. And, worst of all, she sacrificed herself just to avoid them.

"You know what I see when I look at you?" he spoke more softly now, but with a cold edge to his voice to break through her shield of politeness. "A person who always puts others before themselves. Even when those 'others' will forget your name later."

She looked up, and a hint of confusion flickered in her eyes. "I... I just can't do otherwise," she said quietly. "If I can help, why should I just walk by?"

"Because sometimes, helping kills the one who offers it," he cut in, feeling a surge of anger in his chest. Not at her, but at this world, where people like her so often break while others take advantage of their kindness.

"I'm not dying, Kaeya," she tried to smile. "I'm..."

"You're pale, you have shadows under your eyes, and your fingers are shaking so much you can barely hold a needle," he interrupted, and for the first time, a note he usually hid—concern—slipped into his voice.

She lowered her eyes. And that silence was worse than any rebuke.

Later, at the Good Hunter, he sat across from her, pushing a plate of hot food toward her. She tried to refuse, but he didn't even let her open her mouth:

"Eat. Don't make me feed you with a spoon, because I swear by the Archons, I will."

She let out a quiet laugh but took the fork. And in that moment, he caught himself thinking that for the first time in a long time, her smile looked genuine.

"You worry too much, Kaeya," she said after a couple of bites.

"Me?" he feigned surprise. "I just like it when the people who are important to me don't collapse on the street."

She bit her lip slightly, and he noticed a faint blush touch her cheeks. Her embarrassment was sincere. And in that, he saw an honesty that he himself had long since lost.

When they left the restaurant, the city was already asleep. The moon cast a silver light on the bridge, and he felt something tighten in his chest.

"Promise me you'll think about yourself sometimes," he said softly. "Not for my sake. For yours."

She stopped, looked at him with a long gaze that held both understanding and something else—warm, but hiding behind her shyness.

"I'll try," she replied.

He knew that didn't mean "yes." But he also knew that he would be there for her now, even if she didn't ask.

Kaeya walked beside her, his gloved hand lightly brushing hers, and thought, "She doesn't realize what she does to me. I, who am used to playing games and deceiving, suddenly want to be honest. I want her to live. Even if it means arguing with her every day."

There had been too much ice and ashes in his life. But perhaps, in her warmth, he might one day stop feeling that eternal cold.

[22ayla21]

Twst Anime Main Visual, Release date: October 29, 2025

[22ayla21]

Greetings, fellow writer on the interwebs, I am curious to ask if I may request an Ayato x fem reader, where Ayato is secretly researching modern dating customs by visiting the reader's teahouse, where she helps lonely hearts find love and romance with her intuition and sharp wit. He pretends to be a regular customer, being fascinated by her perspective and charmed by her warmth. She didn't know who he really was, but she found herself drawn to the mysterious noble with kind eyes and a crooked smile. One day, she offers to help him find "the one", not even realizing that all of his answers describe her. When she finally learns of his true identity, Ayato has one question: “May I still court you... unofficially, of course?” The only question is, will she accept?

The Heart of Yashiro

In his search for love, Ayato found it where he least expected—in a modest teahouse and in the eyes of a woman who didn't know who he truly was.

In Inazuma, it was hard to hide from prying eyes, especially if you were Kamisato Ayato. Take a deep breath, and five advisors, three guards, and most likely Yae Miko already knew about it. But in a part of the city where the lanterns cast a warm glow and the streets resembled an ancient tapestry, there stood a teahouse that remained outside the webs of curiosity. Modest in appearance, it was filled with the aroma of jasmine, laughter, and quiet conversation. It was run by a woman with kind eyes, a sharp wit, and an almost supernatural intuition for the human heart.

Ayato first heard about her from Thoma, quite by accident, during one of the rare moments when his assistant allowed himself to speak freely. He hadn't given it much thought then, but later, tired of endless politics, of Yae Miko’s sharp remarks, and of his own loneliness, Ayato decided to visit the place. Not as the Yashiro Commissioner, but as an ordinary man. He changed into a dark kimono without a crest, styled his hair differently, and made his voice a little lower, calmer.

He became "Kaito."

"Your order, Kaito-san?" she asked for the first time, placing a cup of hot tea in front of him.

"Whatever you recommend," he replied, giving her face a brief glance. She smiled. There was a lightness in that smile he hadn't seen in a long time.

He became a regular guest. At first, out of curiosity. Then, out of something more, something akin to affection. He watched as she listened to visitors’ stories with genuine attention. The way she gave advice softly, with a mischievous sparkle in her eyes: "Try telling her that her voice is your favorite sound," or "Write letters. Paper endures more than you think."

And each time he laughed at her witty remarks or was struck by her perceptiveness, he realized he wanted more and more... to stay.

The woman, in turn, didn't know who he was. But she liked this man with the crooked, almost boyish smile and kind, tired eyes. He was always respectful and never took liberties, but his presence was a comfort. She didn't know his past or where he was from, but her heart told her he wasn’t just wealthy; he was important. And there was something profoundly lonely about him.

"You know," she said one day, pouring him more tea. "You’ve been coming here for weeks, and I still haven't helped you find 'the one.' That's inexcusable."

He raised an eyebrow. "Perhaps you just make tea too well. Why should I look for anyone else when it’s so good here?"

"Don't evade the question. Let's do this: I'll ask a few questions, and you'll answer honestly. Deal?"

He nodded, tilting his head with interest.

"So..." she clasped her hands. "What is she like? Your ideal woman."

He paused for a moment before speaking. "Intelligent. But not cold. Her warmth isn't in her words, but in her gestures. In the way she listens. She must be able to see people... and not be afraid to be direct. Even if it makes her vulnerable."

The woman blushed slightly, but blamed it on the warmth of the tea. "Go on."

"She must have a strong character. She could make a joke at my expense—and I wouldn't even notice right away. And she's... unusual. She knows how to inspire others. Her words seem simple, but they have a certain depth. And..." he paused for a second, "...her voice is my favorite sound."

She blinked, stunned. "Wait... Is that... are you describing me?"

He looked at her. Without a smile. With such a serious expression that a dangerous flutter rose in her heart. "What if I am?"

"But..." her voice trembled. "You're just... an ordinary guest."

He took a slow sip of his tea. "Perhaps. Perhaps not."

The next evening, he came again. But this time, in his true form. People on the street parted before him. Moonlight fell on his shoulders. And he entered the teahouse as if for the first time.

She froze, holding a tray with tea bowls. She looked at him as if she were truly seeing him for the first time. The Kamisato crest on his sash gleamed like a sentence.

He walked over and bowed. "Forgive the deception. I didn't mean to play a game. I just wanted... to be ordinary. I wanted to understand."

"Understand... what?"

He met her gaze. It held everything: weariness, fear, and hope. "To understand what it's like to love. Not for the sake of the clan. For my own sake. For my heart. For your sake."

She lowered her eyes. It was too much. Too fast. "This is... impossible. You are Kamisato Ayato. I am nobody."

"You are everything," he said. And for the first time, he allowed himself to touch her hand. "I'm not asking you to be my wife. Not asking for titles. Just... allow me to court you. Unofficially, of course."

Silence.

The night stretched on endlessly. Somewhere outside, a cricket chirped.

And then, quietly, almost a whisper: "Ayato... if I say 'yes,' do you promise you won't force me to choose between you and my freedom?"

He smiled, his head tilted slightly. "Never. I just want to be near you. Until you say, 'enough.'"

She smiled back. "Then... court me. But remember, I'm still selling you the tea."

He laughed. A genuine, lighthearted laugh. "I consider this the official start of the most unofficial relationship in Yashiro's history."

And in that moment, amidst the scent of jasmine, simple words, and unspoken feelings, Ayato found what he could not buy with power or title. He found love—the kind that begins with a cup of tea and the question, "What if I am?"

[22ayla21]

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.

[22ayla21]

High-res Assets for Vil Schoenheit - Overblot series

Dialogue, animations, and extra assets can be found on Drive: Link

[22ayla21]

Hello! How are you doing? Hopefully doing good.

I saw your post that you accept GI requests, do you accept platonic requests?

Hi. No, I don't accept platonic ones. I write more romantic ones.

[22ayla21]

Open Requests Announcement!

For the entire month of August, I will only be accepting Genshin Impact requests. You can find my blog rules in the pinned post.❤️

[22ayla21]

High-res Base card for Vil Schoenheit - Overblot version

[22ayla21]

Fluffy Saboteurs

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.

[22ayla21]

Hi, I don't know if you do the NRC staff, but if you do, would it be alright to request a Dire Crowley x reader family headcanons or fics? Like, I really love his character and think he would be a pretty fun dad, I wouldn't say the most perfect dad, but he tries... I can see him totally 100% trying to use his child as a reason to get out of work. Like the whole “Can’t do paperwork today! I have very important bedtime cuddles to attend to.” But I also have cute moments, like making little masks with his kid, reading bedtime stories with full sound effects, voice acting, and cape flourishes, etc. It would also be cute if his child asked him why he always wears a mask, and at first he dodges the question, cause maybe he's a bit insecure but after he talks with his wife and opens up to her, the next morning, he surprises your child by taking off his mask to show his real smile, and his child proudly saying, “You’re even cooler without the mask!” or something like that? He's my chaotic fictional crush/husband, I just go "I love you, I hate you, I hate that I love you~" to him!!

Unmasked

Crowley is learning to be a real father, husband, and himself—for the first time without his usual mask.

“Darling, I’m dying…” Headmage Crowley’s voice, imbued with tragic intonation, drifted from the slightly ajar door, followed by a light but expressive slap.

“You die every time I ask you to change the bedsheets or take out the trash. Next time ‘die’ usefully—at least turn on the kettle,” came the weary but tender reply.

Mrs. Crowley, whose name never appeared in the college’s administrative documents, was neither a teacher nor a participant in meetings. However, everyone, from professors to the caretaker, treated her with reverent apprehension. Not because she was strict. It was simply that when she asked for something—even very gently—somehow, no one dared to contradict her.

She could listen to her husband’s meaningless rants for hours, head tilted, chin propped, and then utter a single phrase that would make Crowley stutter.

“I love you, but I hate that I love you”—this phrase became not just an expression but a mantra of their marriage. Its truthfulness was confirmed by years of shared life and... the arrival of their daughter.

Little Mirabelle—five years old, with expressive eyes and fingers perpetually stained with ink—was a mix of chaos and light. She wasn’t afraid of spiders but was terrified of losing even one of her pencils. She drew everywhere: on paper, on wallpaper, on Grim’s back (Crowley once took his daughter to work), and secretly tried to tame the garden crows, which her father strictly kept her away from.

“Mirabelle! Daddy needs to work. You don’t want the college to descend into anarchy, do you?”

“But you yourself said anarchy was fun,” she innocently raised her eyebrows.

“Oh, the Great Seven... that was in a different... uh... a different pedagogical concept!”

Sometimes Crowley used his daughter as an excuse to dodge administrative tasks. Like, for instance, one Monday morning:

“Professor Trein, I apologize, but I won’t be able to attend the Halloween budget allocation today. My daughter has drawn a mask that absolutely must be realized materially! In the interest of fostering artistic thinking!”

Professor Trein nodded wearily, but that same evening, he would still receive an email attachment—Mirabelle’s drawing with the caption: “It’s a crow. Daddy said you’d appreciate it!”

Of course, not everything was lighthearted buffoonery. There were days when Mirabelle was ill, and Crowley would pace the house in a panic, pulling on gloves and a mask, as if his appearance could somehow help.

“You kept her outside longer than you should have, Crowley. Without a scarf. The wind. And yes, you gave her cold ice cream in October. Who else is to blame?”

“But she’s so charming when she asks!”

And yet, it was on such evenings that he was the first to sit by his daughter’s bed, reading her bedtime stories with accents, special effects, capes, and shadow puppets.

“...and then the Brave Crow, perched atop the highest tower, proclaimed: ‘Never give up as long as you have a feather!’”

“Daddy, did you make that up yourself?”

“Of course. I am a source of inspiration, my little star!”

One day, closer to winter, as Mirabelle sat by the fireplace, sifting through her pencils, she suddenly quietly asked:

“Daddy, why do you always wear a mask?”

Crowley, usually quick-witted, froze. He began, as always:

“Oh-oh-oh, little star! A mask is a symbol! Mystery! Mysticism! I’d lose my aura without it!”

“Or maybe you just don’t want people to see your face?” the girl quietly clarified, without looking up.

He didn't answer. That night, he couldn't sleep. And when his wife, reading a book in bed, noticed him tossing and turning, she put down her book and simply asked:

“Are you afraid she won’t accept you without the mask?”

He nodded.

“You don’t accept yourself, Crowley. You’ve built an image around yourself, but not to hide from the world. But to hide from yourself.”

He chuckled:

“I’m married to a philosopher. How am I supposed to live with that?”

“Accept it. And—stop hiding, at least from your daughter.”

The next morning, Mirabelle woke up to the smell of chamomile tea and a strange feeling that something had changed. Her father was sitting by the fireplace. Without his mask. His hair was disheveled, his eyes—the same golden and sincere ones, but not hidden beneath armor.

He smiled:

“Good morning, sweetie. Daddy came to show you who he really is.”

Mirabelle blinked, scrutinizing him. Then she nodded:

“You’re even cooler without the mask!”

He laughed. A genuine laugh—open, warm, human. And then his wife, entering the room, just shook her head, hearing him say:

“Now I definitely won’t go to the meeting. I need a very important hug with my daughter before school. For the sake of education!”

“Is a gentle tap on the head included in the morning menu?” she affectionately inquired.

“With love, as always,” he replied with a theatrical bow.

And Mirabelle, sitting between them, simply smiled. Because at that moment, her family was truly genuine. Unmasked.

[22ayla21]

High-res Assets for Leona Kingscholar - Relaxing In Room

Dialogue, animations, and extra assets can be found on Drive: Link

[22ayla21]

Hello, i was curious if it's alright to request a Cater Diamond x Reader, where Reader helps run a small bake sale with Grim, Ace, and Deuce, along with Trey in the courtyard every Friday, and Cater is always the first one in line to show up with a new selfie pose for each treat. Though one week later, he accidentally forgot his wallet, so he tried to charm his way out of it. Only for the Reader to jokingly say to him that he can just “pay with a kiss.” Although he tries to laugh it off, he also wasn't going to say no to the offer? OMG!! I just love this beautiful man sooo much!! He's my favorite boy, out of all the guys in Twisted Wonderland. He's my #SelfieHusbando~.- Cateris#BAEAnon

A Kiss Instead of Change

A typical Friday bake sale turned into a flirtatious, embarrassing kiss when Cater forgot his wallet.

In the courtyard of Night Raven College, amidst gloomy gothic towers and lanterns creaking with magic, Friday bake sales had become a real breath of normalcy. In this crazy place, where things were constantly exploding and at times, Overblots would fly around the school, such an idea seemed like salvation. It all started simply: headmage Crowley had once again cut the already meager allowances, and finances in Ramshackle were getting really tight. Why not try something more down-to-earth? Something that wasn't related to magic, ancient curses, or unpredictable students. That's how the idea of an open-air bakery was born. It was put together with Trey, Ace, Deuce, and, of course, Grim, who, truth be told, was more interested in eating the entire assortment than selling it.

Every Friday, they would set out small wooden tables covered with bright tablecloths (one of which the girl even sewed herself from materials found in the attic of the old dorm) and fill the stalls with fresh baked goods. Trey, like a true culinary wizard, worked wonders with dough and cream. The girl was responsible for packaging and decorating, Deuce tried his best not to drop the trays, and Ace... well, Ace mostly grumbled and lazily waved a flag that read "Delicious, Fast, No Magic Needed!" Grim sat importantly nearby on a stool, wearing an apron embroidered with "Number One Chef Cat," and took on a "fluffy" form to attract customers, hoping to get some sweets himself by the end of the day.

And amidst all this warm and chaotic hustle and bustle, always, without exception, Cater was the first in line.

He would appear as soon as the air began to smell of vanilla and cinnamon, in his usual manner – phone in hand and a wide, almost advertising smile.

"Okay, guys, I'm here! New day – new Magicam post," he'd exclaim cheerfully, already choosing a filter for the shot. "Who's ready to be in the stories with 'Trey's Confectionery Miracles'?"

Sometimes he would take three shots in a row, from different angles, making Trey turn a plate or hold a cup of cocoa. The girl even nicknamed him "our walking marketing." Which, by the way, wasn't far from the truth – his posts with hashtags like #TwstBakeryFridays really attracted students from other dorms.

But then, one Friday evening, something... piquant happened.

Cater, as usual, came running, joyful and radiant, ready for his photoshoot. He picked out two donuts and took a couple of photos with them. But when it was time to pay... he slapped his pocket.

"Um... no wallet, it seems," he drawled apologetically, smiling widely and scratching the back of his head. "Well, you know me! Cay-Cay would never forget to pay... he just... sometimes forgets... to bring money."

"Uh-huh," she drawled, crossing her arms over her chest and raising an eyebrow. "Then maybe you can pay with a kiss?"

A pause fell. Even the birds seemed to fall silent.

Cater froze with the donut in his hands, then, almost imperceptibly, blushed. The smile was still on his face, but his ears turned scarlet.

"O-oh, wow... seriously?" he mumbled, his voice cracking. "You... jokes are jokes, but... Hey, you do realize that after this, I might start hoping?"

"Who said you couldn't?" she smiled slyly, pretending not to notice Ace already rolling his eyes and Deuce loudly choking on his water.

"Hey, stop it! We're working here!" Ace protested indignantly. "Cater-Senpai, next time just write down the debt, don't paw at our friend!"

"I wasn't pawing!" Cater exclaimed, raising his hands in a defensive gesture. "And besides, she offered! I just..."

"Just succumbed to temptation," Trey noted with that signature adult smirk, as if he already knew how this would end. He wiped a knife, looking eerily calm. "Well, what can I say... romance is in the air, it's spring after all."

Cater chuckled, but his eyes showed it: he was embarrassed, flattered, and absolutely not opposed. He moved closer, leaned towards the girl, and, pretending to kiss her on the cheek, stopped literally a millimeter away.

"Last chance to cancel the 'transaction'," he whispered.

"Expired," she replied just as softly.

And the next moment, he really did touch her cheek with his lips. A light, warm, almost fleeting kiss – like a brushstroke on a painting. Neither too forceful nor timid. Just... like a promise.

Grim made a sound resembling a muffled "YUCK!" and almost fell into the bowl of cream. Ace threatened menacingly with his hand and went to rub his eyes. Deuce went somewhere, muttering something like: "can't watch this."

But Cater, forgetting everything, was spinning around her, beaming like never before.

"You know, that was the sweetest pastry ever," he said with a wide smile. "And not because Trey overdid it with the sugar."

"I hope you won't start coming without your wallet every time now?"

"Who knows," he winked. "What if 'kiss on credit' becomes the new bake sale gimmick?"

"Just you try," she snorted, but there was no anger in her voice.

He sat nearby for a long time afterward, helping to arrange drinks, suggesting ideas for new posts, and making sure the lighting was "influencer-worthy." And all the while, he smiled. As if he had found something he had been missing for a long time.

And the Friday bake sales, meanwhile, became even more popular. Especially after a new hashtag appeared on Magicam: #SweetsWithRomance

[22ayla21]

Sorry for my short absence, it's just that I kind of found a job, I was studying, on an internship, they said that they can't take me, because for this job (I found a vacancy for remote work) my laptop is old and not suitable, and I have no way to buy a new one. So I have to look for a job again, oh. what I'm upset about, because now I really need a job to rid myself of financial problems...

About requests. By the end of this month I will try to finish writing a fic for the requests that I have in my mail now (for Twisted Wonderland), and it is already August, there will be a month of requests for Genshin Impact, but I will post an announcement somewhere next week.

[22ayla21]

Sick Leave with Family Accompaniment

Harumasa is on sick leave again, but even at home, there's no escaping his wife, injections, and the ringing laughter of their six-month-old son.

From Author: Happy birthday, Haru!❤️

"And you managed to overexert yourself again?" His wife's voice came with a characteristic, barely suppressed sarcasm.

Harumasa, surrounded by pillows and covered with a blanket almost to his ears, sighed dramatically. He lay on the bed in his and his wife's already compact but cozy bedroom, bathed in soft, diffused daylight. The clatter of dishes came from the kitchen, and the gentle cooing of the baby from the next room.

"Managed is the wrong word," he mumbled, adjusting the blanket as if it could protect him from the impending threat. "I, by the way, was performing my duty! And that's despite my poor health. It's heroism, not negligence."

"Heroism?" She had already entered the room, a tiny vial in one hand and a syringe in the other. "So, heroism is when you sent the report a full twenty minutes before the deadline, and as a result, you have 'unusually anxious weakness in your legs' and a sudden bout of fatigue. Hmm?" she tilted her head slightly. "Dr. Sato said the symptoms are classic; you just wanted to wriggle out of it again."

"I'm tired. My organs can't take it," Harumasa grumbled dejectedly, moving to the edge of the bed. "I'm, by the way, on the brink. This injection will definitely make it worse. Just let me die peacefully, at least with some dignity…"

"Mmm," she hummed thoughtfully, sitting on the edge of the bed. "Interesting, where is dignity usually located? Somewhere around the thigh, under the elastic of your underwear?"

"What?"

"Oh, nothing. Lie down, heroic martyr," she chuckled cheerfully.

He realized that running was pointless: his wife knew how to handle his stubbornness. And most importantly, she knew where to inject and how to apply pressure at just the right moment so he wouldn't even have time to squeak. Therefore, when she skillfully grabbed his wrist with a practiced movement and nudged him toward the pillows, Harumasa already knew — resistance was useless.

"Couldn't you do it in a less humiliating way?" he moaned as she, without losing an ounce of dignity, sat on his hips, pressed him to the bed, and began pulling down his pants.

"I'm a medic, not a certified aesthete. Bear with it. It'll be quicker."

"What if the baby sees this?! His psyche is delicate!"

"He's playing with a rattle over there. More likely, he'll develop an image of a happy childhood where Mom takes care of Dad, and Dad screams like a wounded sea urchin from the gentlest injection in the history of medicine."

She wasn't lying. She gave injections flawlessly: one precise, gentle shot — and that was it. Even painful solutions didn't bother her. She had some secret magical skill, passed down through generations, with which she once saved Harumasa's butt (literally).

"There. Done. You can go back to impersonating a vegetable," she said, rising slightly.

"Ow… It hurts…" Harumasa groaned theatrically, putting on his most pained expression. "I think you hit a nerve! I'm going to have paralysis of the hip area… I feel my vessels spasming… my butt hurts…"

She turned to him, raised an eyebrow, and without a word, slapped his other buttock — not the one where she gave the injection, but the "healthy" one.

"OUCH!!" Harumasa shrieked as if an ethereal blade had been thrust into his heart.

And then, from the next room, came the sound of a baby's laughter. It was contagious, genuine, a little squeaky, and filled with pure, unadulterated joy. The baby rattled his toy as if in rhythm with his father's yelp.

"See?" his wife said contentedly, looking over her shoulder. "Dad suffers, and the baby is happy. Harmony in the home."

"Unbelievable. Even my son didn't take my side," Harumasa grumbled, still lying face down in the pillow.

"He's on the side of justice. And you're a dramatist with a diagnosis. Come on, turn over, I'll give you a massage so the solution spreads better through the muscle."

"You want to kill me, don't you?"

"Only morally. And that's only on holidays," she leaned down to his thigh, accustomed to stroking his muscles with her palm.

In the next room, the baby continued to giggle merrily, sometimes reaching for a soft teddy bear, then pausing, listening to his father suffering very convincingly in the bedroom. Apparently, for him, it had become a fun show — another episode of the beloved play "Mom Cures Dad."

Harumasa finally rolled onto his side, hugged the pillow, and sighed quietly:

"When I was dying in the cavern, saving those children, I thought the worst was behind me… But I was young, foolish, and had no idea that my fate would be taken into her hands…"

"Stop complaining. Tomorrow I'll make you porridge with strawberry pieces. And I'll let you not change the baby's diapers if you moan so talentedly again," she winked, getting up from the bed.

"You're a tyrant."

"I'm a wife. The difference is in the letters, not in the essence."

And, picking up the syringe and vial, she left the room, leaving her husband face down in the pillow, accompanied by a slight pulsation in his muscle and the distant, still lingering sound of children's laughter.

Harumasa sighed, muttering stifled:

"...and yet I love her. How does that even work, huh?"

Judging by the baby's reaction, who was still enjoying himself, this was what you call "true family idyll." Only in Harumasa's style: through sick leave, injections, spanks, and laughter.