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paranoid-borderline-insane · 5 hours ago

Note

Hiii Ashi!! I have a request! Can you make one where the lads love interest are showing MC/Reader affection by kissing or hugging her in front of their children? I would LOVE to their children's reaction ^^

Notes: How i feel after disappearing and re appearing, also incase you don't know whenever i say tonight i mean the next night (●'◡'●)

Pairings: Dad!Lads/MC + Their kid (Part 1: Caleb, Rafayel, Zayne)

Extra: Masterlist || Sylus and Xavier will be on part two

Zayne:

The clock above the stove ticked softly, its hands inching past midnight.

Zayne ran a tired hand through his slightly tousled hair as he leaned back on the couch. His white shirt was wrinkled, the scent of hospital antiseptic still faint on his skin. The tie had been the first casualty the moment he stepped through the door. Now it lay somewhere near the front shoe rack, forgotten in favor of the warm home. and you.

You’d been waiting. Despite the exhaustion in your bones from days of Constant Wanderer missions, you’d stayed up just for this. For the quiet comfort between you two, For him. The two of you sat side by side now, a half-finished dinner sitting on the table, the sound of some low, peaceful movie playing on the screen, though neither of you were really watching it anymore.

He turned slightly, eyes tracing your profile in the dim living room light. “You’re still in one piece, celebration worthy” he murmured, voice low and warm.

You smiled faintly. “Just barely. Wanderers don’t take breaks.”

“Neither do surgeons” he replied, and his hand brushed against yours.

You shifted closer to him without thinking. It was one of those small, shared silences. The ones filled with so much more than words could express.

Zayne exhaled, pulling his arm around your shoulders, settling you against his side. His head tilted to press a slow kiss to your temple, just the kind of tired affection built from years of choosing each other again and again, even when everything else demanded otherwise.

He kissed you again, this time lingering near your cheekbone, fingertips brushing your arm. Your body eased into his side, melting into the rare comfort.

And then—

SSLLLUUUURP.

You both froze.

Zayne stiffened mid-movement.

Another sluuurp, unmistakably from a juice box, echoed from somewhere in the room.

Very slowly, you turned your head toward the sound.

Standing in the corner of the living room, half in the shadows and completely still, was Elias.

Wide-eyed. Tiny. Hair sticking up in every direction. Holding a grape juice box in one hand and sipping it with all the dramatics of a cartoon villain.

Zayne blinked. “...Elias?”

The six-year-old didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Just sipped.

You sat up straight, heart thumping. “I thought you were asleep!”

“I was…” Elias said flatly, lowering the juice. “Then I heard Dad come home. And i was thirsty, and i couldn't reach the glass cupboard for water...”

Zayne ran a hand down his face, half-laughing in disbelief. “You scared us. You were just standing there.”

Elias took another slow sip, completely unaffected. “I didn’t want to interrupt.”

You squinted. “Interrupt what?”

He looked between you and Zayne, blinked slowly, then stared at the TV like the answer was too obvious to say out loud.

Zayne sighed. “Elias… were you watching us this whole time?”

The boy gave a single nod.

Zayne looked almost horrified. “Why?”

Elias shrugged. “You were...hugging. I didn’t know if I was supposed to say something.”

You stifled a laugh and patted the seat next to you. “Come here, juice ghost.”

He climbed onto the couch, wedging himself firmly between you and Zayne. He leaned slightly against his father, still holding the juice box with both hands like a protective artifact, knowing daddy deary might start nagging on the fact that he drank sugary liquid late at night.

“You should go to bed,” Zayne said softly, glancing down at his son.

“Okay. later” Elias leaned closer into him, almost shyly. “I just wanted to… be here.”

Zayne blinked once, the corner of his mouth twitching. He draped an arm around Elias wordlessly, pulling him in without a fuss.

The three of you sat there in the quiet.

The movie played on.

Rafayel:

The bridge glowed under warm, golden lights strung between its beams like stars, their reflections glittering in the water below. The night air was cool but not cold it was perfect, the breeze was carrying a soft scent of sugar and sea salt from the snack carts lining the cobblestone walkway of the bridge. Tourists bustled everywhere. couples holding hands, kids licking their ice creams, musicians strumming guitars with bright smiles.

Rafayel, always the picture of effortless elegance, walked beside you with a quiet kind of pride. His dark-ish purple hair fell slightly over his brow, ruffled by the sea breeze. A charcoal-grey scarf wrapped loosely around his neck. The edges of his long coat brushed against his boots as he strolled at a relaxed pace, holding a paper cone of roasted chestnuts. Feeding seraphina some.

Your hand was clasped firmly in his. Seraphina skipped ahead of you, her curls bouncing, face sticky from the powdered donuts she’d practically inhaled ten minutes ago. She was wearing the little yellow jacket you picked out for her months ago but never got the chance to give until now.

“Look, look!” Seraphina shouted, rushing toward the side of the bridge. “There’s a boat down there with pink lights!”

Rafayel chuckled, shifting his hand so his fingers laced through yours more tightly. “This place is surreal,” he murmured. “Almost feels like it was painted for us.”

You smiled at that. “Spoken like a man who’s painted enough cities to know.”

He stopped, tugging you just slightly closer to the railing, his voice lowering so only you could hear it. “No painting I’ve ever made could compare to you in this light”

You flushed and rolled your eyes at him, even as your heart fluttered. “You’re embarrassing.”

“I should be. I was gone for two weeks in Paris.” He leaned in slowly, his hand moving to the small of your back. “Missed everything. Especially this face.”

Before you could respond, Rafayel dipped his head and kissed you—soft and sure. Not rushed at all, Just the kind of kiss that said I know you. I love you. I’m home.

You melted into it for a breath or two, your hand settling lightly against his chest.

Then—

“EWWWWWWWW!”

The high-pitched shriek of your daughter cracked through the moment like a bottle dropped on tile.

You broke the kiss, laughing into Rafayel’s coat as Seraphina clutched each of your legs like she was about to faint. Her cheeks were puffed, her eyes wide with theatrical horror.

“I saw that!” she squealed. “Daaaad, that’s so gross! as gross as a legless crab!”

Rafayel grinned, turning toward her with an utterly unrepentant expression. “Your mom’s beautiful.You know I’m allowed little fishy.”

“Not in public!” Seraphina squeaked, stamping her foot. “Other people are looking! They’re gonna think you guys are in love!”

“Oh nooo, what shall we do now?! the seas are going to dry up and its all going to be my faullttt!” he said sarcastically, bending down to pick her up despite her squirming protests.

“Yes daddy! it is, and you two are married. That’s different from being in love!” she protested, though she was giggling as she tried to wriggle out of his arms.

You laughed, watching Rafayel nuzzle his cheek against hers while she let out a muffled scream of mock indignation. “Stop kissing everyone! You’re gonna get me cooties!”

“That’s the risk you take when you travel with artists,” Rafayel said, his eyes flicking to you with a wink. “We’re known for being passionate.”

"no!” Seraphina, now draped like a limp cat in her father’s arms.

“You didn't get that from me,” you teased, pinching her nose lightly.

“No, I get my normal me from you!”

“See?” Rafayel chuckled. “Now she’s turning into a critic. We’re doomed.”

Eventually, Seraphina insisted on walking again—only after Rafayel promised not to kiss anyone for the rest of the bridge walk. She marched forward with her chest puffed and her donut box like a shield, keeping at least a foot of distance in case her parents got weird again.

But every few seconds, you caught her glancing back. Her eyes were squinted suspiciously, sure, but they held something else too.

Joy.

Caleb:

It’s been a long day, you’ve been working two missions back to back in the new work program that the hunter’s association has established, also thanks to that Caleb had to take some shifts off to take care of your little 7 year old son Noah.

The sun was already setting by the time you trudged up the front porch steps, the weight of your gear dragging at your limbs. Your boots were covered in dust and dirt, Your shoulder throbbed from the recoil of your blaster rifle. Two missions back-to-back was brutal. But eversince your boss had been moved and replaced, the new work program at the Hunter’s Association didn’t exactly ask if you were tired. You were one of the few capable of handling the more grotesque, unpredictable alien creatures that kept breaching containment zones. So, you did what you always did: pushed through.

The scent of grilled cheese and Fried wings wafted through the front door the moment you stepped inside. The lights were warm and soft. Your hearing still rang faintly from the concussive force of earlier explosions, but even so, you caught the faint patter of socks on hardwood before you heard the shout:

“MOM!”

You barely had time to drop your pack before Noah launched himself at you like a guided missile, arms flung wide. He crashed into your legs with all the force his small body could manage, wrapping himself tightly around your waist.

“Whoa—hey, kiddo,” you breathed, crouching down, even though your back screamed in protest. “Easy, I’m still in one piece. I promise!”

Noah sniffled, clearly holding back tears. “You said just one mission.”

“I know,” you said, brushing his messy black hair back. “Got reassigned last minute. You know how it is.”

Caleb’s footsteps came from the kitchen, heavy and precise. “That’s not an excuse” he said, but his voice was quiet.

You looked up at him.

He had the sleeves of his gray undershirt rolled to the his biceps, a dish towel slung over one shoulder. His uniform jacket was draped over a nearby chair. His hair was slightly tousled—clearly Noah had gotten his hands in it earlier, but his eyes, those stormy Purplish pink eyes, locked on yours like you were the only person in the room.

“You’re home,” he said simply.

You nodded. “Mhm”

He didn’t say anything else. He just walked forward, wrapped an arm firmly around your shoulder, and pulled you into him. You let your face fall against his chest. The warmth of him, the strength, the safety, for a few seconds, it melted every ache of your bruises and every ugly image from the day. His hand smoothed down your back, a firm, slow drag. Then you felt him tilt his head down and press a lingering kiss to your temple, right against the place where your skin was still smudged with ash.

You closed your eyes. Sank into it.

And then—

“EWWWWWW!”

Caleb didn’t move. His lips curved against your skin instead.

“Disgusting!” Noah wailed, half-laughing, half-betrayed. “That’s—gross, Daddy!”

You pulled back just enough to glance at your son. He was standing there with both hands over his eyes, fingers spread wide enough to peek through, his nose scrunched like he’d smelled rotten milk.

Caleb smirked. “It’s affection, Noah. You better get used to it.”

“No! You’re not supposed to kiss Mom! She’s a Hunter! She fights monsters, she’s cool, she doesn’t get kissed like that!” Noah flailed his arms dramatically and dropped to the couch like he was dying.

You couldn’t help the laugh that escaped.

“Hunters don’t get affection, huh?” you teased, glancing at Caleb.

“I guess I missed the memo,” Caleb said, brushing your hair off your cheek and leaning in again—purposefully slower this time—to press a quick kiss to your lips.

Noah screamed again. “DADDY STOP! I’M RIGHT HERE!”

“Then stop looking,” Caleb muttered with zero remorse, pulling you even closer.

“I have EYES!”

You chuckled, resting your forehead against Caleb’s. “Come on now, no more, He’s gonna lose it.”

“He’ll survive,” he murmured. Then, quieter, meant only for you: “I missed you.”

You softened. “I missed you too.”

Behind you, Noah was flailing around on the couch again, trying to smother himself with a pillow and declaring that this was “THE WORST DAY OF MY LIFE.”

Caleb rolled his eyes but gave you a final squeeze before letting you go. “Come on Pipsqueak 1 and 2 . Food is still warm.”

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paranoid-borderline-insane · 6 hours ago

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LaDs: How they sleep

~ in honor of the new quality time feature coming soon lol

Xavier starts to glow when he falls into a really deep sleep. Soft snoring, lips slightly parted, typically sprawled on his back with his arms at full mass

Zayne sleeps stiff as a fucking board if you’re not in the bed with him. Lips barely parted, mostly breathes through his nose. Molds himself to your body.

Rafayel tosses and turns like a rotisserie chicken. You’d think he’s fighting demons. He’s accidentally smacked you a handful of times and stayed asleep.

Sylus is surprisingly the most normal sleeper. Stomach sleeper, snores like a beast, one hand is always inches from the gun under his pillow.

Caleb has insomnia, not even that chip can force a shut down of his body. When he does sleep it’s usually in awkward positions. Drools a lot.

Xavier will sleep on top of your body if he falls asleep with you in his bed already. Often times he’s out like a light before you’re done with your night routine.

Zayne twitches occasionally, startling you into a half awake state before he settles and clings to you again. That’s how you know he’s okay most the time.

Rafayel could crawl into your skin when you’re asleep. You’re so warm and soft. He could have you snuggled into his side and still hog the blanket entirely

Sylus tangles his legs with yours when you’re sharing the bed, that or one arm is slung over your middle. He tries to keep a little distance cuz he knows he snores. (Bonus points if you sleep like the dead, nothing is waking you up, not even his monstrous snoring)

Caleb talks in his sleep. Sometimes it’s unnerving like “don’t go, don’t leave me” other times it’s “apples are not purple” like okay king pop off?

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paranoid-borderline-insane · 6 hours ago

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LaDs: their night routine

~ bouncing off the sleep post, here’s my personal head canons on what their nightly routines look like before bed

Xavier

Starts his night routine the moment he gets home from work. Otherwise, he’d prob fall asleep instantly and feel nasty when he gets up.

He is stripping the second his foot hits the bathroom tile. Uniform in the hamper, water on scorching, the bathroom is filled with steam before he’s fully undressed and ready to go

Not guilty of using 3-1s but he does use the cheapest shampoo and conditioner imaginable. The kind you’d find at the grocery store that you know if you used it would totally dry out your hair. For him? It makes it incredibly soft and smells so damn nice (like vanilla)

He's the type to literally wash his face with dish soap and still have the softest, most flawless skin you've ever seen. He's settled for a soft face cloth and warm water post shower and then a moisturizer you bought him.

He'll towel dry and then blow dry his hair, brush it out, and then start brushing his teeth. His eyes are nearly closed at that point.

Zayne

His night routine depends on where he is and what he is doing. For example, if he's working overnight or even a twenty four hour shift? The most he's doing is showering before passing out.

If he's just finished a day shift, he's going to take a little more time with his night routine but the exhaustion still wears him down.

He's very much guilty of using a 2-1 just for the convenience of it. Mostly used when he is at the hospital just to save a little time. Somehow still looks good after using it (ugh, men.) At home, he's very much taken note of all the things you recommended for him - often asks for your help too hehe.

Uses nice shampoo and conditioner at home, not super high end but not something you can find at the convenient store. Smells like pears and jasmine and it's so soft, you could sniff his hair for hours.

He'll use a gentle face wash - your recommendation - brush his teeth (floss and mouthwash since you keep calling him out about his frequent dentist trips), and blow dry his hair before heading to bed for the night.

Rafayel

He takes his night routine very seriously. Typically starting it with a nice hot shower to get all the day's work off of him. Then, he follows it with long soak in the tub (legit like 2-4 hours). He'll sketch and sing and call you while he relaxes.

His shower routine consists of luxurious floral shampoo and a nice deep conditioning hair mask. His hair is naturally a bit wavy so he tries to make sure it's soft and nourished. His hair smells like cherry blossom and strawberry.

He'll let it air dry and then cringe when it poofs up, then he'll go in with leave in conditioner and some scalp serums before blow drying it.

His skin is literally flawless, so he uses a very gentle cleanser, a nice milky toner, a rich moisturizer, and lastly lip balm. But he brushes his teeth before the lip balm portion (which is flossing, brushing, and then mouth wash)

Sylus

He takes his time with his night routine if you're with him in the N109 Zone. Spa night of sorts. if your not with him? His routine is short yet efficient.

Shampoo, conditioner, and body wash are all per your recommendations. But he's very guilty of using the shampoo, conditioner, and fruity body wash you leave behind. Which he does with a smirk despite your complaining.

He's a shower, brush his teeth, shave if need be, and pass out in bed type of guy. But all of his products are top of the line, so like, he can put that little effort in and still look perfect (again, men.)

If you're still awake he'll video chat with you while he does his skincare (literally only does it if you're there or if he calls you) and catch up with you on your day.

He's a brush teeth and mouth wash person, he'll floss when he remembers... speaking of... do you think because he can heal himself he can just heal his cavities before they even happen?

Caleb

Night routine? He has none. I should just end this right here because oh lord help him. His night routine is enough to make anyone shiver. He wasn't that bad when he still lived with you, but on his own? Lord.

He's a bar soap type of guy, y'know the ones that leave a stiff feeling film on your skin? And he is so guilty of 3-1s please.

Once you're back in his life? You get him a whole regimen and call him each night to ensure he is properly doing it (if you don't live together already)

He uses apple scented products, all curtsy of you, shampoo, conditioner, and body wash all have some apple note in their scent profile. You also bought him an acne safe face wash (he had some acne in his teen years) a nice moisturizer, and a good razor for shaving. Oh and a few lip balms and chapsticks.

You set up an auto-renew subscription for these products so they show up at his doorstep before he can run out of them. He spent all those years taking care of you, now it's your tune to take care of him.

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paranoid-borderline-insane · 6 hours ago

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ᯓ★ˎˊ˗ Anniversary gift

𝒲𝒾𝓈𝒽 𝑔𝓇𝒶𝓃𝓉𝑒𝒹 𝒻𝑜𝓇 ˙⋆✮ Rafayel, Zayne, Xavier, Sylus, Caleb

𝒢𝑒𝓃𝓇𝑒/𝒲𝒶𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔 ˙⋆✮ Suggestiveeeee, lots of fluff and simp men, 🧶 anon i used all your ideas :p let’s hope i did it justice, let’s not question who took the photos for reader lol

> ࣪𖤐.ᐟ You give them a book of very spicy photos for your anniversary

𝙍𝙖𝙛𝙖𝙮𝙚𝙡 °‧🫧⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

He’s seated cross-legged in the sun-drenched studio of your estate, purple hair tousled, shirt entirely unbuttoned. Blue-pink eyes are completely locked on the glossy little album you gave him.

He was quiet for a while.

Too quiet.

Then he flipped the page and let out a sound that could only be described as an emotionally-compromised whimper.

“Pearlie… what are you trying to do to me…”

Another page flip.

“You’re actually unreal, baby. This isn’t fair. I’m gonna have to fight a god for this level of beauty. I’ll duel the moon. I’ll—”

He presses the album flat on his chest and throws himself backward on the floor, groaning, curling around it like it’s sacred.

The first photo, you, in a cherry-red bikini, towel wrapped low on your hips, the string of your top cheekily untied and draped over one shoulder, hair tousled from ocean spray. There’s glittering salt on your collarbone. The light hits your skin so perfectly it looks airbrushed.

“This is art. You are art.”

“You knew what you were doing… you minx.”

The second photo, you in your bridal veil, no clothes but a sheer white cloth draped carefully around your chest and thighs, pearls in your hair, eyes all soft and sleepy. There’s a vintage hand mirror in your hand. It was his.

He gets emotional.

“My wife. My muse. My everything. You expect me to function after seeing this?”

The third photo, the tasteful nude. Just your bare back, wrapped in white fabric from the waist down, lounging against the satin sheets he brought back from the North Territory. Your hair’s loose. There’s a fresh bouquet behind you.

“You have one hour to explain why I can’t paint this right now.”

“Actually, No, I’m starting now. I need my brushes. Baby, I’ll cry if you don’t let me immortalize this.”

Rafayel becomes insatiable. He needs a new photo every week. No, every four days.

He makes a whole cabinet drawer in his art room just for them, lovingly labeled “The Pearlie Archive.”

He carries his favourite polaroid in his coat pocket.

If he has to go to a meeting, and someone annoys him too much? He’ll look it mid-conversation just to soothe himself.

Eventually, he even makes a rotating sculpture series based on the photos, each titled something stupid like “Wife in Moonlight No.3 (She Looked At Me After This One and I Died).”

And of course, every time you hand him a new photo with that bashful little smile?

He groans, presses his face into your neck, and says—

“You’re evil. A beautiful, perfect little devil, pearlie.”

“I’m gonna spend the next 17 hours painting your elbow.”

𝙕𝙖𝙮𝙣𝙚 ⋆꙳•❅‧*₊⋆☃︎ ‧*❆ ₊⋆

The two of you return to your estate after a private anniversary dinner at Linkon’s most exclusive restaurant. He’s been looking at you all evening like you’re the only woman on earth, because to Zayne, you are.

You’re dressed in something elegant and white, your hair done exactly how he loves it, diamond earrings glinting when you lean in to murmur sweet things during dessert. He kissed your hand at the table. He fed you the last bite of your souffle. He looked genuinely weak when you smiled.

Now, back home, you lead him by the hand into the cozy sitting room, your heels already kicked off, makeup still perfect, and you sit him down on the plush velvet armchair. You pull out a small, gift-wrapped item from behind the bar cart. It’s square, not too thick, tied in a delicate ribbon.

He eyes it suspiciously, lips quirking slightly.

“Another gift, sweetheart?” he murmurs, hazel-green eyes sparkling. “Wasn’t dinner and your company more than enough?”

You smile innocently, cheeks warm.

“This one’s just for you. A private gift. Promise you won’t open it until I say so?”

He raises a brow. He’s intrigued.

“You’re starting to worry me, snowflake.”

Still, he obliges, sitting obediently with the album in his lap while you go behind him, slipping your arms over his shoulders.

“Okay,” you whisper. “Now.”

He unties the ribbon. Opens the first page.

And stops breathing.

⸻

First photo, you in the kitchen, wearing nothing but a frilly pastel apron over one of his old dress shirts… buttoned only halfway. The hem flutters just below your thighs, leaving your legs completely bare. Your hands are flour-dusted, cheeks pink, and there’s whipped cream on your nose.

You’re bending slightly over the counter, sliding a tray of heart-shaped cookies into the oven with the most mischievous smile.

“Sweetheart… what… what is this…”

He flips the page.

Second photo, you licking icing off your finger, eyes wide and innocent, the bow of the apron tied low on your back, the skirt very short. Zayne’s name is scrawled in icing of the cake on the countertop beside you, surrounded by pink sugar hearts.

Third photo, you, from behind, balancing on your tiptoes to reach for a spice jar. The dress has ridden up. There’s no mistaking what’s not underneath. The caption under it reads in your handwriting:

“oops. no panties today, chef~”

He’s silent.

Dead silent.

His jaw’s locked. His throat bobs as he swallows hard, ears turning red.

You lean close to whisper innocently, “Do you like it?”

And Zayne, your brilliant, stoic, always composed husband, finally breathes out—

“I’m going to have a stroke.”

⸻

The album now lives in his locked desk drawer, where no one else will ever find it. Not even if the house were on fire.

But more importantly, you find yourself pinned between the kitchen counter and your blushing husband not even twenty minutes later, his tie long gone, your apron hanging off your shoulders,

“Was this all a plan, darling?”

“Did you intend to drive me mad tonight?”

He kisses you breathless, his hand cupping your cheek, the other sliding beneath the fabric with reverent slowness.

“Next year,” he murmurs, voice low and hot, “I want one in a nurse uniform. And the year after that? Surprise me.”

𝙓𝙖𝙫𝙞𝙚𝙧 ⋆⭒˚.⋆🪐 ⋆⭒˚.⋆

The evening had been perfect in that quiet, Xavier-esque way.

A soft dinner at home, lights dim, stars glittering through the penthouse windows. The table set with care, he’d even lit candles, though he tried to pretend he hadn’t planned that far ahead.

You’d cooked, and he sat beside you the whole time, sipping wine, brushing his fingers against yours between each course, looking like he wanted to say something but didn’t have the words.

He never needed them anyway.

Not with how he looked at you.

“You’re… beautiful, starlight,” he murmured as you curled into his lap on the sofa after dinner, blanket half-draped over your legs. “You always are. But tonight… I’m starting to believe you really were made to haunt me.”

You giggled, pressed a kiss to his jaw, and handed him a small, ribboned album from behind the couch cushion.

“Happy anniversary, Xavier. I wanted to give you something personal.”

He blinked, confused.

Took it delicately, like it was a sacred relic.

“A… book?”

“…Wait.”

He unties the ribbon. Opens to the first page.

And that’s when the nosebleed hits.

⸻

First photo, you in a sheer, pale lilac negligee that hugs your body like mist. Your thighs peek through delicate lace. The neckline drips low enough to give a suggestion of cleavage, hidden by a loosely tied robe. You’re sitting in his reading chair. One hand rests lightly on your collarbone. Your expression is soft. Sleepy. Dangerous.

Blood hits the page.

“X-Xavier?!”

“You’re bleeding!”

He slaps a hand over his nose, face completely red, eyes wide as dinner plates.

“Starlight what did you do.”

“You can’t—you can’t just give me this!”

⸻

Second photo, the robe is slipping off your shoulder now, revealing more of your bare skin, your stocking-clad thighs folded neatly beneath you as you recline on your side like a classic painting. The caption is handwritten:

“I imagined you’d like this one. I was thinking of you when I posed.”

Xavier collapses backward. Still holding the album upright like it’s the last thing tethering him to earth. He’s trying not to breathe too hard. His nose is still bleeding, too frozen to take the tissues you’re offering him.

“I’ve made contact with divinity,” he murmurs dramatically. “It’s her. She’s real. She’s my wife.”

⸻

Third photo, you, standing in front of the penthouse bedroom mirror. The robe is untied. Your back is to the camera, head turned over your shoulder. The light catches on your shoulder blades, your soft hips, the top of your thigh-highs.

Underneath it is another note:

“You can come find me now, if you want. The robe’s still on the floor.”

He gets up. So fast you hear the whoosh of air.

Absolutely frantic.

“Where is it. Where is the robe.”

You laugh, backing toward the bedroom.

He follows like a man possessed.

⸻

Later, after he’s finally calmed down and your poor bedsheets are a casualty of the nosebleed and the aftermath, he insists on making a velvet-lined case for the album.

He keeps it in a drawer near the bed.

Takes it out every few days just to sigh over it.

“You didn’t have to go so far,” he murmurs, tracing the page edges. “You could’ve given me a photo of you in sweatpants and I’d still cry.”

Then his voice drops to a whisper.

“But I am going to need another shoot… same robe… maybe no robe… just a suggestion.”

𝙎𝙮𝙡𝙪𝙨 ✮ ⋆ ˚｡𓅨⋆｡°✩

You’d just come home from a week-long seaside villa getaway where Sylus spared no expense, private chef, marble infinity pool, silk robes delivered every morning, a whole fleet of bodyguards paid to “look the other way” when his hands wandered too far under dinner tables.

He was glowing with pride the entire trip.

“I’m a dangerous man, kitty,” he’d murmur as you swam up to him in the ocean, sunglasses perched on his silver hair. “But I’d give it all up to keep you soft like this. Tucked away. Spoiled rotten. Never needing to lift a finger except to choose which bikini to wear.”

He returned home relaxed, sun-warm, glowing from power and pleasure.

That is, until you handed him the velvet envelope.

“A little souvenir,” you said coyly, settling into the penthouse lounge with a yawn. “From me to you.”

He opened the album.

He paused.

Then he tilted his head.

Slowly. Like a predator smelling blood.

“…Kitten.”

⸻

First photo, you reclined across red silk sheets, wearing a see-through black chiffon robe that slips completely off your shoulders, revealing glitter-dusted thighs, sultry makeup, and the barrel of one of his gold-plated pistols perched lazily on your hip. A diamond necklace is looped between your teeth like candy.

Your eyes are half-lidded. The wedding band sparkles under the camera flash.

“Is that my pistol?” he murmurs, voice strangled.

“Did you take that from the vault?”

Second photo, you’re in the passenger seat of one of his vintage sports cars, door open, one leg outside, the other tucked provocatively on the leather seat. Your silk stockings are barely rolled up. The seatbelt’s undone. The caption below reads:

“ready for a ride, baby?”

He flips the page and laughs.

A dangerous, breathless kind of laugh.

The kind that says you’re not getting out of bed for three days.

“This is evil.”

Third photo, you, laying sideways across the hood of the car, fully naked except for stilettos and a diamond anklet, one of his revolvers laid carefully across your bare stomach.

⸻

He flips back. Again.

And again.

Then he gets up. Walks directly to the foyer. Takes his wallet from the marble console.

Silently, carefully, slides his favorite photo, the red silk sheet one, into the inside flap.

“You are truly born to torture me.”

⸻

You spot him flipping through the album again later, standing shirtless by the balcony with a cigar in his mouth, laughing under his breath.

“I knew you were perfect, kitten,” he drawls. “But this, this is perversely delightful.”

He tosses the cigar into the ashtray. Stalks over to you, scoops you into his arms like you weigh nothing.

“Give me another shoot. In my office next time. I want a shot of you splayed across the desk.”

He grins.

𝘾𝙖𝙡𝙚𝙗 ⋆｡ ‧˚ʚ🍎ɞ˚‧｡ ⋆

You had a second honeymoon at the tropical resort, It was perfect.

Private beach. Ocean-view suite. Room service for every meal because you “didn’t feel like leaving bed” and Caleb had no problem with that. He spent most of the week either kissing saltwater off your shoulders or carrying you around like his pretty little prize.

“You really gonna let me have you all to myself like this again, pips?”

“No comms. No Fleet. Just my pretty wife lookin’ like paradise.”

Now, back home, sun-kissed and still a little sand-dusted, you hand him a neatly wrapped album as you’re snuggled on the couch, legs over his lap, wearing his oversized academy flight jacket.

He’s already smiling like a golden retriever with a brand new bone.

But the moment he opens the album?

Full body combustion. (He didn’t blow up again, don’t worry)

⸻

First photo, you, provocatively leaning over his fighter jet, hips arched, wearing a custom, skimpy version of his old pilot jumpsuit. The front is unzipped nearly all the way down, teasing a scandalous glimpse of your favorite lacy bra underneath, his favorite color. His name tag is pinned to your chest.

You’re wearing his flight jacket over your shoulders.

Hair tousled. Lipstick smudged.

The note underneath says:

“Reporting for duty, Colonel.”

“BABY.”

He literally shouts. Slaps the photo against his chest. “How will i ever step foot into that jet again without thinking of you?!”

Second photo, you inside the cockpit, half-in, half-out, glancing over your shoulder, lips parted, legs bent, the jumpsuit riding way too high. Helmet beside you, glove between your teeth.

He clutches his chest. Falls back onto the couch. Groaning.

“That’s my cockpit,” he moans dramatically. “You’ve defiled military equipment, and I have never been prouder in my life.”

Third photo, domestic theme. You in a retro gingham dress, pearls and red lipstick, holding a woven basket full of apples. You’re on a ladder, picking fruit, skirt accidentally hitched way too high, revealing sweet white thigh-highs and the hem of lace panties. The sun flares behind you like a lens filter from heaven.

Underneath, in your own handwriting:

“Almost fell off the ladder. Hope it was worth it”

“Oh my GOD,” he whines, flipping back and forth between pages. “Every photo is my favorite. I need one a week. No, twice a week. Actually, start filming them too.”

He grabs your face, squishes your cheeks, eyes sparkling like he just won the universe.

“Next time you wear that jumpsuit, you’re not taking it off. I wanna peel it off myself.”

You tease, “So you liked it?”

He growls.

“Pips, If you weren’t already my wife, I’d marry you all over again for this. I’d drop to my knees right now. I’d burn the Fleet down to make sure i never have to leave your side.”

He tucks the album into his duffel bag. That bag goes everywhere.

He literally calls it his emotional support photo album.

If he’s gone on deployment, he’s flipping through it in the captain’s quarters, smiling like a lunatic.

“God, my wife’s such a bombshell.”

And yes, he starts commissioning a video next.

Wants voiceover. Wants to hear your giggles in the background. Wants you whispering “I miss you, Colonel” while lying on his jet wearing nothing but the flight jacket.

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