Kitte

@wildkitte.bsky.social

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29 | she/her | MDNI | aro/bi | HQ, akotsk, jjba, mxtx, patho, fe3h, silm, DA, Star Wars | icon @adelaida.bsky.social | banner @rowanartist.bsky.social

Matarys bit his lips into a thin line, and yet a sob broke through, wracking his entire body with its force. Baelor did the only thing he could do: he gathered the boy in his arms and Matarys buried his head in his neck. Tears soaked into his tunic but he paid it no mind, holding his son close, his fingers caressing his long, tangled hair. Their little miracle – there had been children between Valarr and Matarys, but none had lived to their first name day. So was life, babies were fragile. This was until Matarys came to the world, kicking and screaming. He survived a fever in his infancy, a broken leg as a toddler, a pox when he was six. Each time Baelor and Jena had held their breath, wondered if this was the time when death won over life, but time and time again Matarys overcame the odds. And he grew up kind, and mischievous, and charming, and intelligent. Kind to people, even kinder to animals. The kind of boy who let a whining puppy sleep in his bed so it would not get lonely on the floor. Matarys, their little evening star.
Fic title: there will be time. By WildKitte. Summary: He lifts the false bottom of the drawer and reveals the innards of the compartment. There is nothing but a stack of letters, tied up with a red string in a neat bow. For a moment jealousy flashes through Felix. What are these letters Sylvain has deemed to tuck away so meticulously? A secret lover? The thought makes his blood boil. But he shakes the thought – maybe it's just confidential correspondence, maybe with the King, or officials at Sreng. In that case it really is none of Felix's business, but he runs his finger over the sides of the letters anyway, maybe to catch a clue of the sender. As he sees his own name written in Sylvain's handwriting, he freezes. For Sylvix week 2025 - old man yaoi
“Stop reading the paper.” “I’m just checking,” Marie said with an air of nonchalance, but the way she was gripping the paper told Eddie otherwise. The man sighed, dragging a paw over his face, and sat down at the breakfast table. “You won’t find anything new there.” He picked up a boiled egg and plopped it into a small cup. “Or anything nice.” “I’m not looking for nice,” Marie said, bringing the paper closer to her face, as if looking closer would bring her answers. “Can we eat breakfast in peace at least?” Eddie asked, tapping the eggshell with a spoon. “No,” Marie replied. “We can’t.” She glanced up at him under her brows. “I don’t understand why you’re not more worried.” “I don’t care for gossip. And neither should you.” Eddie reached for the salt. Marie handed it to him, and then dropped the paper on the table. Her boiled egg had already been devoured. She never ate more than one, perhaps she didn’t like the taste. Or the texture. She was picky about it sometimes – especially when it was inconvenient. She was bad at holding back her gags. Marie’s ears perked up as their servant walked into the room with a pot of fresh coffee. Eddie thanked her as she poured for them both and disappeared. “We should always be on top of our reputation,” Marie said then. Eddie gave her a side eye. “I am.” “Money can’t solve everything.”