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IM LITERALLY TRYING TO SAVE FOR ZAYNE'S THIRD MYTH AND INFOLD SLAPS ME WITH THIS FRRRRRRR

Beach banner is finally here!! they all look so romantic

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when will my wife return (me when I'm mydei and anaxa and caelus and childe gi and)

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Bleeding heart

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Imagine finally getting a night alone with Caleb after what feels like months of pent-up sexual frustration and desperate touches that always ended in baby cries, 'mama I pee-peed!' and empty 'I'll touch you later' promises. You two were in a constant cycle of getting blue balled by your daughter.

But tonight was different.

Caleb was kissing down your neck with the kind of focused attention that meant he couldn't wait for any longer. His hands were under your shirt, already unclasping your bra with expert ease, your fingers tangled in his hair, and the look in his eyes screamed need. desire.

“She’s asleep, right?” he murmured against your neck.

“Out cold.”

“Perfect,” he grinned, lips moving lower. “Because I need to be inside you. Now."

Clothes are messily strewn on the bedroom floor, bodies bare. Desperate kisses exchanged and hands feeling each other up. His left hand's squeezing your breasts, his thumb gently tweaking your nipple as he greedily makes out with you. His right hand hooking right under one of your thighs, lifting your leg so he could gain better access.

"Fuck, I missed you.." he gasps out after pulling away from the kiss. He positions himself right to your entrance, teasing the tip around your slit. But just when he's about to slip himself in...

knock knock knock.

You both freeze.

“Mommy?” You knew that voice. The tiny gremlin tone of a three-year-old who was definitely not asleep.

You both turn toward the bedroom door like it just declared war.

“No,” Caleb breathes, forehead dropping to your shoulder in pure devastation. “I'm going to lose my fucking mind.”

Knock knock. Again.

“Mommy? Daddy? I had a dream that Uncle Gideon turned into a waffle. Can I sleep in your bed?”

He dramatically rolls off of you, muttering to himself, “I didn’t even get to put it in.”

You chuckle as he stares at the ceiling. Looking lifeless. Emotionally dead.

Then, a whisper. “A waffle.” Followed by a choked, near-broken laugh. “He got turned into a waffle, and now I have blue balls.”

You're trying not to laugh. You really are. But your daughter knocks again, and you're both yanked from lustful heaven back into parent mode.

"Remind me to tell Gideon I hate him."

Seems like it was another typical night, after all.

[MASTERLIST]

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How do you think caleb or any of the others lads guys would react to their wife lactating? 👀 do you think that they'd be down to try it? I love your writing!! 💗💗

Honey, is that...? 🍼

(wc. 2.1k) How would the LADS boys react when they spot you, their wife, lactating?

featuring: rafayel x reader, sylus x reader, caleb x reader, zayne x reader, xavier x reader (all separate) warnings: mild smut, mdni.

a/n: first request down! i definitely think all of the boys would be down to try it LOL. i had so much fun writing this. hope you guys enjoy! c:

🧜 RAFAYEL:

At first, you think Rafayel’s being moody because of something work related. Probably just something about him not getting inspiration for his next piece.

He's quiet during dinner, pushing his food around with the fork, glancing at you between bites but saying nothing. Then he sighs. Dramatically. Like you’ve just told him the love of his life is marrying someone else.

“Do you need the tub prepared?” you ask, gently patting the baby's mouth with a cloth as your baby drifts off to sleep, full and milk-drunk in your arms.

He shrugs. “No.”

Another sigh. Even more dramatic this time.

You narrow your eyes. “Okay, what’s wrong with you?”

Silence.

You put the baby down in the bassinet, tiptoeing back to the couch where he’s brooding like a man personally victimized by your child. You sit beside him and poke his thigh.

“Rafayel. Talk.”

He doesn’t answer at first. Just shifts in his seat dramatically, like you should already know why he’s in a mood.

You raise a brow. “Raf?”

“…Why does he get to taste it?” he finally mutters.

You blink. “What?”

Rafayel lifts his gaze, eyes narrowed. “Your milk. The baby gets all of it. Meanwhile, I, your husband, don’t even get to try?”

You stare at him, baffled, amused, a little turned on by how offended he looks.

He shifts closer suddenly, tone softening like he’s trying to guilt you.

 “You used to let me suck on them all the time,” he mumbles, voice pitiful. “Now I get nothing.”

“Rafayel Qi,” you say, laughing despite yourself. “You’re jealous of your own child?”

“He doesn’t even appreciate it,” Rafayel huffs dramatically. “He’s just... drinking. No compliments. No praise. No loving gaze. No eye contact.” He places a hand over his heart. “He doesn’t deserve you.”

“You want to flirt with my boobs while I’m nursing?”

He nods solemnly. “And after.”

You blink. “Raf.”

“No, no, go ahead. Ignore me. That’s fine.” He gestures grandly, flopping back on the couch like a neglected kid in a drama. 

“I mean, I get it,” Rafayel huffs, gesturing vaguely toward the baby now blissfully passed out at the bassinet. “He needs it. It’s nourishment. Bonding. Blah blah. But like, what about me? A stranger in my own marriage.”

You roll your eyes. “Then ask.”

He freezes. Turns to you slowly.

“…Seriously?”

You nod. “If you’re that curious, then fine. Go ahead.”

Wasting no moment, he immediately latches onto you, and his reaction is instant. His eyes roll back. A full-body shudder.

He suckles on your nipple with the eagerness of a thirsty man who had just found water after days of being dehydrated. When a bit of milk manages to escape from the side? He immediately laps it up, wasting no drop.

He pulls back, breathless. Dazed. “...Fuck."

Then he smirks.

“Alright. New plan. Let’s have six more kids.”

You shove him off the couch.

🐦‍⬛ SYLUS:

Everyone in the N109 Zone knows that Sylus doesn’t kneel.

He doesn’t plead.

He doesn’t repeat himself.

He doesn’t need to.

He gives orders, and people obey. His name alone strikes fear into civilians and corrupt officials alike. He's the kind of man who takes what he wants, and everyone bends at his will.

But you?

You’re the one thing he never commands.

Because with you, he never wants to.

And right now? He’s at your feet.

Literally.

It starts when you’re in the privacy of your home, in a soft robe, curled on the couch with your baby fast asleep in the bassinet. You’re drowsy and glowing, eyes heavy from the feeding, your robe slipping just slightly to reveal a glistening patch where you’ve started to leak again.

Sylus was reading some documents, possibly just about a new batch of weapons shipped to one of his armories. All that boring stuff. When he looks at you, his eyes immediately zero to your chest.

He freezes.

The documents clattered to the ground. 

You glance at him, confused. “Sylus?”

But he’s already closing the space between you. You see it, the desire in his eyes as he kneels before you, palms on your thighs, breath hot and uneven.

“Please.”

His voice is hoarse. Ragged. Barely a whisper.

You blink. “Huh?”

“I need to taste you, sweetie.” He says it like it physically hurts to admit, jaw clenched. 

“Can I try? Please?”

Your breath hitches. “Sylus—”

“I never beg,” he murmurs, leaning forward, brushing his lips against the skin of your breast. “But I’ll get on my knees for this. For you.”

He doesn’t ask again.

Just lowers his mouth to your breast and licks. The moment the white liquid hits his tongue, everything changes.

His lips part in stunned disbelief. Then, he groans, deep and guttural, like you just unlocked something feral in him.

“You taste sweet,” he rasps. He’s already latching on you again, open-mouthed, greedy. 

“Fuck. You taste better than anything.”

You gasp, clutching at his shoulders as he begins to devour you. There’s nothing classy about the way he sucks at you–it’s messy, hungry, possessive. Like he’s waited his whole life for this and didn’t even know it.

You try to say something, to make a joke; “You’re worse than the baby.”

But Sylus growls into your skin, low and dark: “I’ll give you another one. I’ll fill you up again, if that’s what it takes to keep you like this.”

Your breath stutters. “Sylus—”

“No one else gets this. No one else gets to taste you like this.” He presses his palm to your womb. “You hear me? Only me.”

And you believe him. Because when Sylus Qin finds something he likes?

He gets it.

🍎 CALEB:

It starts with the panties.

Caleb thinks he’s subtle about it. Volunteering to do your laundry in the pretense that he 'just wants to help', setting aside a pair that smells like you, worn, soft, intimate. The design doesn't matter too, the one with lace? Spectacular. The cotton ones he bought with the apple patterns? Give him 14 of them right now. He tells himself it’s harmless, just something to keep close when you're gone on long shifts or too tired to stay up with him after work from the Hunter's Association.

When you've caught him in the act, all he does is raise an eyebrow, as if you're the one being strange.

“What?” he says, with that deadpan tone of his, nose still pressed into the fabric. “You smell nice.”

You should be flustered, but you’ve been married to this man long enough to know how weirdly intense he can be. It's part of the Caleb experience. When you tried scolding him because some of your pairs have gone missing, all he does is shoot you his signature puppy-eyed look.

But then after giving birth to your baby, everything changes. Your underwear drawer's surprisingly complete, and none of the pairs have gone missing. You'd think that maybe Caleb had just become too busy tending to the baby to even focus on his needs.

But what you don't notice is how his touches linger longer during nighttime cuddles, especially around your chest, or the way he glances at your shirt when it dampens just a little.

It happens when you’re fresh out of the shower. You're drying your hair, not noticing at first that the front of your shirt is damp. A few minutes later, you glance down and–

Oh.

You’re leaking.

“Caleb?" you call out, not thinking much of it, “I think I’m lactating again. I forgot to pump.”

You don’t expect a reaction. You expect him to say something like, ‘Want me to grab the pump?’

What you don’t expect is for Caleb to freeze in the doorway, eyes locked on the wet patch spreading across the fabric.

“...Again?” he says quietly.

You blink at him. “Yeah? That’s usually how it works.”

His eyes narrow, his jaw clenches, and before you can respond, he’s across the room, pushing your shirt up to your chest with eagerness, hunger glinting in those beautiful purple eyes.

“Let me taste.”

Your brain short circuits. “Wha–Caleb–?”

But he’s already there, lips closing around your nipple, hand firmly planted at your waist like he owns you.

And when he moans? You swear it’s the dirtiest sound he’s ever made.

He drinks like he’s been deprived. Like this was what he needed all along, and nothing else compares. Not the panties. Not your bath soap. Not even the taste of your skin.

No–this. This is divine. This is yours.

Later, when you're sprawled on the bed, dazed and breathless, he kisses your stomach and murmurs softly:

"Maybe we should have another baby. Just so you don't run out."

You laugh. “You're a freak.”

“I’m serious.”

He looks up at you, utterly sincere, eyes dark with something that’s not quite lust–it’s obsession, devotion, need.

And you know then: he’s addicted.

Not just to you.

But to every part of you.

☃️ ZAYNE:

You already knew Zayne had a problem with sweets.

The bakery receipts stuffed in his lab coat. The way he always “accidentally” wanders into the dessert section at the grocery store. The time he got bribed by Dr. Greyson with macarons.

But this?

You hadn’t seen coming.

It starts innocently enough; he’s helping you undress after a long day, brushing his fingers along the curve of your side as he unclasps your bra. You’re a few weeks postpartum, still sore and soft in all the ways he loves. He’s kneeling in front of you, peppering lazy kisses along your stomach when he notices the damp spot on your breast.

"Hmm?" He hums, brows furrowing. He leans in closer.

"You're leaking."

You sigh. “Yeah. I forgot to pump again. I’ll go get–”

“No,” Zayne cuts in, already cupping your breast in his hand. “Let me.”

“Zayne–!”

But he’s already latched on before you can finish, mouth closing around you like it’s second nature.

The first taste hits him like a drug.

His eyes widen.

Then flutter shut.

He moans. Actually moans. Like he just took a bite out of the best dessert of his life.

“Dearest,” he breathes when he finally pulls back, his lips still wet. “Why didn’t you tell me it tastes like this?”

You blink, a little dazed. “Like… what?”

He licks his lips. “Sweet. Warm...”

Then his gaze flicks up, dark and hungry. “Better than any dessert I've ever tasted.”

Your face flushes. “You’re insane.”

“Maybe,” he says, already nudging you backward onto the bed, crawling over you with sinful intent. “But you married me.”

And just like that, he’s latched on again, slow, thorough, absolutely obsessed. Like he’s savoring every drop. Like you’re his final meal, and he’s a man who’s starved.

When he finally pulls away, lips wet and pupils blown wide, he looks like he’s come undone.

Then, like it’s the most natural thing in the world, he mutters:

“…I think I need to adjust my meal plan.”

You raise a brow. “You’re joking.”

He shakes his head, dead serious. “You’re my new dessert. Effective immediately.”

⭐ XAVIER:

It’s still dark out when Xavier stirs beside you.

He wakes like he always does. Quiet, warm, arms automatically reaching for your sleeping form. He pulls you close, breath brushing on your neck, his hand splaying across your waist under the covers.

That’s when he notices it.

A damp spot on your shirt. Right over your chest. You’re on your side, curled towards him, unaware.

He blinks once. Then twice. Brain still foggy from sleep.

But then he leans closer, nose brushing against the fabric, breathing in the scent that’s distinctly you. Warm and milky. Sweet.

Something stirs in him. Not lust, something gentler. Deeper.

An ache in his chest he can’t explain. Like he wants to be closer, somehow. Like he needs to feel it. Taste it.

He shifts beneath the blankets, carefully nudging the neckline of your shirt down. He presses a kiss just above your nipple, reverent, before wrapping his lips softly around it.

You stir, eyelids fluttering. “...Xavi?” you murmur, voice gravelly with sleep.

“Mm,” he hums against your skin, mouth still lazily suckling. “Just helping.”

You blink blearily at him. “That’s… not how the pump works.”

“Don’t care,” he whispers. “Tastes better this way.”

You huff a soft laugh, too tired to scold him, too warm to care. “You’re unbelievable.”

He pulls back just enough to look at you, his dark hair tousled, eyes still heavy lidded. 

“It’s comforting,” he says simply, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “You’re comforting.”

And with that, he tucks himself back into your arms, head resting on your chest, one hand lazily cupping your breast. You feel the occasional soft suckle as he drifts off again, slow and rhythmic, like a baby himself.

You close your eyes.

The room is quiet. The baby’s still asleep. And for now... just for now, there’s no need to move.

You both fall back into sleep, tangled together, Warm, safe, and full.

—

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When being asked about what Dr. Zayne’s weakness is, you only smile politely and shrug, saying the same line everyone else gives:

“I don’t know, he’s good at handling everything.”

Because to the rest of the world, Zayne has none.

He's the youngest cardiac surgeon in Linkon City. Achieved multiple awards. Published in the best medical journals in his twenties. Patients adore him, medical students worship him, and even senior doctors step aside with respect when he walks down the hallway of Akso Hospital.

It was natural that people look at him like he's a god. Like he’s untouchable. Like he’s perfect.

But not you.

Because right now? The same man that saved countless of lives with his hands is curled up on your chest, groaning softly while an ice pack is pressed to his cheek. His hair’s a little messy. His eyes are shut tight. He’s in obvious pain, using your chest like a pillow.

“You’re such a baby,” you murmur, gently running your fingers through his hair.

“I’m dying,” he groans into your shirt.

“You have a cavity.”

“Same thing.” He deadpans.

"You didn’t cut back on sugar like the dentist told you." You say with a hint of a stern voice, scolding him.

"I did," he whines, voice muffled.

You raise a brow. "You mean…?"

"I stopped eating cake. For breakfast." He says it like he deserves an award.

"And for lunch?"

He pauses.

"And dinner?"

"...I thought we were in a judgment-free relationship," he mutters, glaring up at you with the most betrayed expression, cheeks puffed, his eyes slightly teary because the painkillers haven't kicked in just yet.

You stifle a laugh. Because that is Zayne’s weakness, not pressure, not blood, not failure.

No. It’s sweets. second to you, but he wouldn't tell you that.

He has the worst sweet tooth in Linkon and the self control of a five-year-old when it comes to desserts. And when that catches up to his teeth, he becomes the most pathetic, clingy, whiney boyfriend in existence. But only to you. Only ever to you.

But the world doesn’t need to know that the flawless Dr. Zayne Li of Akso Hospital once sulked all day at home because you threw away his secret stash of Kitkats.

That part of him? That’s yours to keep.

[MASTERLIST]

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Being pregnant with Sylus's twins. Your belly is huge, and your back hurts like nothing else

You're in the kitchen, trying to prepare breakfast. You appreciate Sylus's help, and you love him for all that he's done, but you wanna feel at least a little useful and competent still. You're pregnant, not completely incapable

You manage to get something together when he finds you. Hugging you from behind, resting his chin in the crook of your shoulder, nuzzling his nose against your jaw and cheek with a rumbling, "Good morning, beloved."

You turn your head to give him a good morning kiss, groaning into it in annoyance. "My back hurts, Sy," you whine. "I swear they weigh as much as you."

He chuckles, kisses your cheek. "Let me help."

You give him a confused look, but you always trust him. Sylus has been looking up a lot of tips and videos for helping his pregnant darling, without telling you, of course, for moments like this when he gets to put what he's seen into action to help you like some suave superhero

He has to bend by his knees a bit to reach your height. Supports your belly from underneath with both hands. And lifts you back against him, all weight taken off your back as he effectively holds up all the weight of your belly for you

The effect is immediate. He smiles as he watches your eyes roll back, flutter shut, as your head falls back against his chest with a relieved sigh. Food is forgotten as you completely succumb to the feeling, arms slack and brain empty

You can feel his smile when he kisses your head. "Better?"

You nod dumbly, humming. "How long can you hold me up?" you murmur

"As long as you need me to."

"Then you're stuck here for a while."

"As you command, sweetie."

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Watch him for me?

You set the phone down and record him

“Hey can you guys watch him for me?” You walked into the room setting the phone down in front of him. He looked up briefly as he was making his model. He just stared at the camera for a moment before flashing a smile. He continued to work before looking over again.

“She’s always doing pranks. I don’t think I understand this one though.” He explains not making eye contact with the camera, “I enjoy it though makes me feel wanted.” He mumbles before finishing his model.

“Done. It’s the newest one and I finished it in a little less than an hour.” He explains smirking as he shows it off to the camera. You come back and pick the phone up.

“Thanks guys!” You smile ending the video. Caleb showed off his model to you as you stared in awe.

Later that day you watched back the video with a sad smile. You hugged Caleb a little tighter that night and told him you loved him a bit extra so he knows you’ll always want him.

“Hey guys can you watch him for me?” You say as you put the phone on the claw machine. Xavier looks down for a second before waving. He watched you briefly as you walked away before looking back at the machine.

He presses the button and watches it lower before it drops the plushie. He huffs before his hand lights up causing the plushie to fall into the hole. He side eyes the camera before putting his finger to his lips.

“Don’t tell her.” He whispers as he picks up the plushies. When you return he gives it to you.

“Aww thank you Xavier.” You coo as you thank the camera for watching him. He gives the camera the eye before you shut it off.

Zayne was reading when you set the camera down in front of him.

“Watch him for me guys.” You wave “bye” before leaving the room. Zayne glances up before looking back down flipping the page. His glasses sitting on his nose.

“I don’t understand why I have to watched.” He says not looking up. He sits in moments of silence before closing the book.

“Let’s play a game of saying keywords until you come back.” He smiles softly as he repositioned the phone towards the door.

“I should go get some dinner before it gets too late.” He says loud enough for you to hear. You tumble into the room falling over your two feet as he stood there with his arms crossed. You look up with a smile.

“Dinner?” You offer as he chuckles helping you up. He turns the camera off before handing it back to you.

“Watch my boss for me?” You ask the camera before putting it on a stand across from Sylus who was listening to classical music. You scurry out of the room before he can question you.

He turned to the camera before putting his finger to his lips. He grabs the camera and the video swishes catching glimpses of his swaying waist before he stands by the door. He tilts his head towards the door before opening it to see you standing there with your ear to the door.

“Gotcha.” He chuckles making you pout as he records you both. He kisses your cheek before ending the video.

“No fair.” You whine as he laughs. “Alls fair in love and war.” He teases giving you your phone back.

“Watch him for me?” You put the phone across from the ladder. Rafayel’s eyes follow you as you leave. He looks back at the camera, his eyes shifting around.

“I don’t feel comfortable with anyone watching my creative process…it’s like taboo.” He climbs down before standing in front of it.

Immediately his demeanor shifts as he grabs the phone in a rush. His eyes shift around the room as he gets up close and personal.

“Guys I’m trapped here. Everyday I’m making paintings until my hands bleed.” He says quickly as you burst into the room to snatch the phone.

“Don’t listen to him!” You yell into the camera as he doubles over in laughter. You glare at him as he cries laughing.

This has been in the vault too long as you can tell by the eye dividers 🥲

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WERE GETTING MARRIED! CONGRATS TO ALL OF US HAPPY BRIDES

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baby boi

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save a cow ride a boy or what um save a uh ride a horse no its save a uhh guys who we saving

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sylus doesn’t posture like most alphas do. he doesn’t need to. there’s something in the way he watches you from the corner of a room—silent, calculating, hungry—that reminds everyone he’s top of the chain without him saying a word.

he doesn’t like people getting close to you when you’re in heat. he tries to act rational. logical. but you feel it, that flicker of tension in his scent, how he holds your wrist a little too tight, his pupils dilated like he’s trying not to lose it.

“you smell like you need me,” he murmurs once, voice a low rasp in your ear. “don’t you?”

ultra possessive in private. in public, he’s your quiet protector. in private, he’s pulling you into his lap, scent-marking your throat with slow, open-mouthed kisses. whispering how sweet you smell, how good you are when you let him take care of you.

surprisingly gentle. even in rut. his instincts scream at him to claim, to leave marks, to breed you full and watch your belly swell, but he holds back. every time. “you’re mine,” he says, “but only when you want to be.”

likes to scent you before bed. sometimes it’s soft, nuzzling your neck with sleepy kisses. other times? it’s messy, intense. rutting against you, growling as he rubs his slicked-up scent glands all over your chest and inner thighs.

he calls it safety. you call it obsession.

he doesn’t purr, but his chest rumbles when he’s close. like distant thunder. especially when he knots you.

“you make me lose control,” he admits, teeth grazing your mating gland. “i don’t know what i’d do if someone took you from me.”

that’s not a threat. that’s a warning.

his first rut with you

he knew it was coming. the signs were there. his scent sharpening, his muscles aching with tension, his thoughts growing foggy with need, but he didn’t expect it to hit this hard. not with you here. not with you smelling so sweet.

“go,” he warned you. “leave now.”

you didn’t. of course you didn’t. you just blinked up at him, scent shy and soft and so heartbreakingly omega, “i want to help you.”

that’s what broke him.

the moment you touched him, it was over. sylus snapped.

his mouth found your scent gland before he even realized what he was doing. open-mouthed, hot, almost frantic. like he could breathe you in and calm the storm in his blood.

“omega,” he growled ruined. “mine. you’re mine.”

he was so careful at first. trembling hands, soft apologies, like he was scared he’d hurt you. but then you whined and it triggered something primal.

his restraint shattered.

the bed creaked. your thighs were pinned wide. he was everywhere—mouth, hands, scent—leaving you gasping and soaked with slick and sweat and desperate for more.

“you smell like heaven,” he said, knot already swelling. “don’t move. i need to—fuck, i need to breed you.”

it wasn’t rough. it was consuming.

he knotted you with a low groan, burying his face in your neck, and whispered the kind of promises only an alpha in rut could make,

“i’ll keep you full for days.”

“gonna take care of you forever.”

“no one else will ever touch you again.”

and then he kissed your forehead like he hadn’t just ruined you with instinct and obsession.

“you’re too good to me,” he murmured. “even now.”

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I made more 🫠🫠

YES, I MADE SURE THEY ALL HAD A PIC WITH EACH LI ALXNOSNXLS I THINK I TOOK NEARLY AN HOUR DOING ALL OF THESE (and 28 solo pictures from each LI 🫠🫠)

I got no one to show these off to, but all I gotta say is that I wasted 30 minutes of my life on these men, for these photos

And here's one I made about 3 days ago (pls ignore how my mc's face keeps looking a pixel off, ISTG I CAN NEVER GET HER RIGHT KSNZLSMSL)

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* ‧̍̊˙· .° ｡SUBMERGED ECLIPSE˚｡ °. ·˙‧̍̊ *

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i need your talented hands to write about reader being needy, clingy, and crybaby with lads husbands who always keep their girl in their lap pampering her, bestie i’m ovulating i need this plz

ᯓ★ˎˊ˗ His Crybaby

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

𝒢𝑒𝓃𝓇𝑒/𝒲𝒶𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔 ˙⋆✮ fluff, fem reader who cries for no reason. indulgent men who adores their wife. this anon is thinking on the same wavelength as me so im gonna name you star anon. come back to me pookie :p

> ࣪𖤐.ᐟ They adore their crybaby wife, after all, they're the ones who spoiled you enough to be this comfortable.

𝙍𝙖𝙛𝙖𝙮𝙚𝙡 °‧🫧⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

The morning sun streamed lazily through the wide windows of your beachside home, reflecting soft blues and silvers across the marble kitchen floor. You sat curled in Rafayel’s lap, your rightful throne, wrapped in one of his oversized white shirts, legs thrown over his and arms tucked to your chest, sniffling like the world had ended.

And to be fair, to you, it sort of had.

“They’re round, Raffy,” you whimpered into his chest, voice trembling with betrayal. “You always make them heart-shaped. Always…”

Rafayel blinked slowly, a half-bitten scone in one hand, his other palm gently stroking your lower back. His long lashes fluttered over his dual-colored eyes, the corner of his mouth twitching into an amused smile.

“I was in a rush,” he offered lightly, tone bordering on amused and indulgent. “Shell delivery came early. I had to check for the right pigment.”

You glared up at him with teary eyes, bottom lip trembling. “But you forgot.”

He set the scone down and wrapped both arms around you, nuzzling your hair with a sigh. “I didn’t forget, pretty girl. I just… momentarily neglected aesthetics.” A pause. “Which I see was a grave crime.”

You hiccuped. “You never do round ones. Even when I was mad at you that one time, you still made them heart-shaped.”

He chuckled softly, the sound low and fond. “That’s because even when you’re mad at me, you still eat them with those pouty cheeks and kiss me after.”

You turned your face into his neck, voice muffled and pathetic. “But they’re not heart-shaped today, so now everything feels wrong. I was gonna take a picture for my little breakfast diary…”

“Ah.” He tilted his head, brushing his lips over your temple, then lower, along your cheek where a tear had slipped down. “My girl’s so delicate today. You’re like a little seashell that got smudged with morning sadness.”

You sniffled.

Then Rafayel shifted, standing up smoothly with you in his arms, still cradled like a sobbing princess.

“I’m redoing them.”

Your head shot up. “Really?”

“Mhm. You think I won’t shape twenty scones by hand for my favorite spoiled crybaby?” he teased, walking you to the counter like you weighed nothing, setting you down on the stool just beside the mixing bowls. “You’re the only person I even tolerate. If you want heart-shaped, you get heart-shaped.”

You tried to pout again, but his words melted you too quickly.

He was already back at the counter, sleeves pushed up, a tiny ponytail tied loosely with a ribbon you’d left lying around. He didn’t ask for help. Just hummed to himself as he redid the dough from scratch, tossing glances your way every few moments to make sure you were watching.

You sat with your chin in your hands, watching him move, elegant, annoyed at the flour in his rings, muttering about how the heart mold wasn’t symmetrical enough.

You sighed happily. “Raffy?”

“Yes, cutie?”

“…Can I eat the raw dough?”

He turned, expression deadpan. “Will it stop the tears?”

You nodded.

He handed you a pinch. “Then yes, absolutely. Take the whole bowl if you want. I’ll kiss you better if you get a stomach ache.”

Once the new batch came out, perfectly heart-shaped this time, Rafayel pulled you back into his lap, dusted icing sugar from your nose with a dramatic sigh, and whispered smugly against your cheek:

“My wife throws tantrums over pastries. I married a princess.”

You beamed, mouth full of warm scone.

And he kissed you anyway.

𝙕𝙖𝙮𝙣𝙚 ⋆꙳•❅‧*₊⋆☃︎ ‧*❆ ₊⋆

You were sitting sideways in Zayne’s lap, arms wrapped tightly around his neck, sniffing dramatically into the collar of his long coat. His hand rested calmly on your thigh, the other flipping through the patient report he had been trying to review before you burst into his home office in tears.

He hadn’t even flinched when you flung yourself into his lap like it was your natural place, because it was.

Now, you were sobbing softly into his shirt.

“I just wanted the kitty sticker on my water bottle,” you hiccuped. “The pink one. And now I can’t find it anywhere, and it’s just… everything’s ruined.”

Zayne blinked once. Slowly.

“…You’re crying,” he said, tone flat, “over a sticker.”

“It was a limited edition one,” you wailed louder, curling further into him like a miserable kitten. “The sparkly holographic one from the art market you said was overpriced but still bought for me anyway—”

“Yes,” he interrupted mildly, adjusting his glasses with one finger. “That sticker.”

A beat.

“Did you check the back of your phone case?”

You paused. Then went still.

“…Oh.”

You twisted slightly, reached back, peeled it off the case, and stared at it. Whole. Unharmed.

You glanced back at him sheepishly. “Oops…”

Zayne exhaled quietly through his nose, resting his forehead against yours like he was centering himself spiritually. “You’ve cried on four of my shirts this week,” he muttered.

“It was five,” you corrected meekly.

He looked at you, hazel-green eyes dry and unimpressed. “…Of course it was.”

You clung tighter to him. “I’m sorryyy. I just get so emotional sometimes and, and you’re warm and I needed to be held and I thought it was gone forever, and now I feel dumb and—”

“Enough.” His voice cut through your spiral with practiced ease. His thumb slid along your cheek, catching a fresh tear. “You’re not dumb. You’re dramatic. There’s a difference.”

You blinked up at him.

He continued with dry precision: “A dumb woman wouldn’t be able to weaponize her tears so efficiently. You cried, and I halted a coronary consult.”

You blinked again. “…Did you really?”

“I couldn’t hear over the sobbing,” he said, flat as ever. “And I wasn’t about to drag my wife out of my lap when her world was ending over foil cat stickers.”

You hid your face in his chest again, muffling a helpless giggle. “I’m sorry…”

“No, you’re not.”

“…No, I’m not.”

He hummed. “Didn’t think so.”

Then, quietly, Zayne placed the file on the table beside him and adjusted his grip on you, hand under your thighs, the other firm at your back.

His voice dropped, quieter, softer.

“Do you want me to find you more of those stickers?”

You nodded.

“I’ll message the seller.”

You peeked up at him. “Even if it’s overpriced again?”

He leaned down and pressed a slow kiss to your forehead.

“I’m a surgeon. I can afford your sticker addiction.”

You grinned through drying tears. “You love me.”

Zayne looked back down at you, mouth twitching at the corners. ���Tragically.”

That evening, he returned home from work with three new sticker packs.

When you tried to cry again, this time because one was “too cute to ever use”, Zayne simply sat down, pulled you back into his lap, and muttered against your temple, “You’re banned from Etsy.”

You didn’t listen.

And he didn’t mind.

𝙓𝙖𝙫𝙞𝙚𝙧 ⋆⭒˚.⋆🪐 ⋆⭒˚.⋆

The penthouse was quiet when Xavier padded in, soft footfalls echoing on polished floors. His hair was tousled from sleep, even though it was nearly evening, and he was still dressed in his off-duty clothes: oversized white sweater, soft grey pants, and socks that didn’t match. One blue. One purple. He didn’t notice.

He found you where he always did.

Curled up on the sunken couch, surrounded by plush pillows and blankets he didn’t remember buying, tissues scattered like a fallen army.

You looked up with teary eyes, bottom lip wobbling.

He blinked. “Are you in pain?”

You wailed.

Xavier didn’t flinch. He simply crossed the living room, lifted you like you weighed nothing, and settled down with you in his lap, your permanent seat, apparently. He tucked the blanket around you both automatically.

His tone was calm. “Did something hurt you?”

You nodded into his chest.

He blinked again, blue eyes soft. “Who do I eliminate?”

You sniffled. “You.”

There was a pause. A long, quiet one.

“…Me?”

“You ate the last sakura mochi ice cream. Mine. The one I’d been saving for a bad day.” You looked up at him with wet lashes and righteous heartbreak. “And now I’m having a bad day and it’s not there.”

Xavier blinked slowly again, as if replaying the event in his mind. “I didn’t know it was yours.”

“It was in the back corner of the freezer behind the emergency dumplings!” you snapped. “You know that means it’s mine!”

“Oh,” he said flatly, as if you’d just told him water was wet. “I thought you were hiding it from ants.”

“There aren’t ants in the freezer, Xavier.”

He tilted his head. “Are you sure?”

You sobbed again. “I just wanted something sweet and cold after I did so many chores and folded your weird space socks and cleaned up after that dumb pigeon that keeps coming to our balcony and now there’s nothing left.”

You buried your face into his chest.

“Nothing but betrayal.”

Xavier wrapped his arms around you gently. “I didn’t mean to betray you.”

“You did.”

He nodded once, solemn. “Then I will bear the punishment.”

You sniffed again, looking up with suspicious eyes. “What’s the punishment?”

“Letting you cry on me for as long as you want.”

“…That’s not a punishment.”

“I know,” he said softly, tucking your head under his chin. “But you seem to like it.”

You sniffled, cheeks heating up.

A silence fell again, this one softer.

“Do you want me to go back to the market?” he asked suddenly, voice muffled against your hair.

You blinked. “It’s like a two-hour round trip—”

He was already standing, carrying you with him.

“I will go,” he said firmly. “You must stay. Crying wives should not be on trams.”

“…You’re just saying that because I fell asleep on one once and missed the stop.”

“You drooled on the pole,” he said, expression neutral. “The conductor filed a complaint.”

You clung tighter. “but take me with you.”

“No.”

“Xaaaaviiiieeer.”

“No,” he said again, voice soft but resolute. “You’ll fall asleep again and cry in public and then I’ll have to destroy someone for looking at you too long.”

You paused. “…Fair.”

He sat back down with you. “I will get the ice cream. You will stay here. I will return in ninety-seven minutes. You may cry until then.”

You blinked up at him, touched.

“You love me.”

He looked down at you like you hung the moon.

“I have risked my life multiple times,” he murmured, kissing your temple, “but I fear nothing as much as my pretty wife crying over desserts.”

When he returned, you were asleep in his sweater on the couch with a new box of tissues, the balcony pigeon perched smugly nearby.

Xavier placed the mochi ice cream in your lap, kissed your forehead, and whispered:

“Victory.”

𝙎𝙮𝙡𝙪𝙨 ✮ ⋆ ˚｡𓅨⋆｡°✩

The safehouse was too quiet.

Sylus knew it the moment he stepped out of his weaponary room and into the velvet-draped hallways. No spoiled chatter echoing through the corridors. No unnecessary purchases being flaunted in his direction. No soft steps scampering down the stairs with a “look what I ordered!”

Silence, in your world, was always suspicious.

He followed the soft sound of sniffling like a predator tracking prey, though the scent of vanilla, luxury skincare, and fresh credit card ink made it painfully obvious where you were.

His smug smirk sharpened the second he entered the lounge.

There you were. Curled on one of the silk chaises, the biggest one of course, wrapped in a fluffy blanket and surrounded by open boxes, designer bags, glittering heels, two jewelry cases, and a luxury drone still hovering in standby.

And you were sobbing. Sobbing over…

He narrowed his glowing eye slightly.

“…Lipstick?”

You turned, bottom lip trembling, eyes glassy and wet. “It’s not rose gold! It’s just shimmery salmon, they lied, Sy!”

He blinked. “And for this,” he murmured, voice lilting, “you’ve called for the end of the world?”

You wailed louder. “It doesn’t match my nails! Or the heels I picked for brunch tomorrow. You said you liked the brunch outfit, you lied to me too!”

He bit back a smirk. “I said I liked the outfit, my kitty. I never said your shoes matched the lipstick.”

You let out a dramatic gasp and flopped back like you’d faint.

He let you. Indulged in it.

He stepped closer, letting his coat slide off one shoulder as he dropped to sit on the edge of your fainting couch. You peeked at him through your fingers.

“I’m being so tragic today,” you whimpered.

Sylus’s gloved hand reached down, tucking your hair behind your ear, a slow curl to his lips.

“You’re being adorable.”

You blinked up. “Even when I cried at the drone for not having better taste?”

“You yell at drones. You sob over luxury packaging. You throw a tantrum when your brunch schedule is moved by ten minutes.” His voice lowered, smug and possessive. “You are the perfect little disaster. And all mine.”

You whined softly and reached for him.

He pulled you into his lap without hesitation, one arm hooking under your knees, the other curling behind your back. You immediately wrapped your arms around his neck and buried your face in his collarbone.

“You’re mean,” you mumbled. “You think I’m dumb.”

“I think you’re delightful,” he corrected. “Painfully high maintenance. Obnoxiously bratty. But delightful.”

You hiccuped. “Do you actually like it when I cry?”

Sylus chuckled, low and pleased, the sound curling against your ear like velvet.

“I like anything that makes you run to me. Crying, shopping, scheming, screaming, doesn’t matter.” He nuzzled your cheek, a slow drag of his nose down your tear-stained skin. “You always end up in my lap either way.”

You sniffled again.

“…Can I buy a different rose gold lipstick?”

Sylus smirked against your cheek. “Buy thirty.”

“Okay,” you said immediately, perking up. “I’ll get every brand.”

“Mm.” He pressed a kiss to your jaw. “And while you do that, I’ll call your stylist. You’ll need new shoes to match all thirty.”

You gasped. “You do love me!”

He laughed, quiet, but genuinely. “You’re the only creature who could make me sit through a crying fit over cosmetics and still want to kiss the tears off your cheeks.”

You beamed, messy and smug and still a little wet-faced, clinging to him tighter.

Sylus leaned back on the chaise with you sprawled across his chest, lazy and possessive as ever.

“I’m going to destroy that brand,” he added offhandedly.

You blinked up. “Wait, what?”

He tilted his head, red eyes gleaming faintly. “They lied to my princess.”

“…Sy.”

“You cried.”

“You don’t need to destroy them—”

“You cried.”

The lipstick brand posted a mysterious apology the next day.

You got a PR box with actual rose gold lipsticks inside. Thirty of them.

And Sylus?

He smirked, sipped his wine, and kept your shopping drone “accidentally” hacked so it only displayed items in your preferred colors.

All of them were now tagged as princess-coded.

Because that’s exactly what you were.

And he wouldn’t let the world forget it.

𝘾𝙖𝙡𝙚𝙗 ⋆｡ ‧˚ʚ🍎ɞ˚‧｡ ⋆

Caleb had faced lots of things.

He’d commanded entire fleets, rewritten gravity, walked through explosions with only one glove smudged.

But nothing, nothing, prepared him for this.

You were crying.

Again.

In the middle of your gilded, bedroom in Skyhaven, surrounded by seventeen fluffy, high-end imported petticoats, with tears in your big wet eyes and your lower lip sticking out like a weaponized pout.

“It’s not puffy enough!” you sobbed, holding up the offending dress like it had personally betrayed you. “I said I wanted maximum puff, Caleb! You promised!”

He blinked from where he stood in full Farspace uniform, his cap still tucked under one arm, black boots gleaming, gloves unbuttoned. He had just gotten home.

And now you were sniffling and stomping your foot, your dainty little slippers slapping against the mirrored floor.

“Pipsqueak,” he started softly, trying not to laugh. “Baby. You have twelve custom princess dresses. They literally fly when you twirl—”

“But they don’t float like clouds!” you wailed. “I want the kind that make a sound when I walk. Like fwah-fwah-fwah!” You stomped again for emphasis. “This one just rustles!”

He couldn’t help it—his lips twitched.

You caught it. “Are you laughing at me?!”

Caleb crossed the room in two strides, lifting you effortlessly into his arms before you could storm away again. You squeaked, clutching his neck, your pout deepening.

“No,” he murmured, kissing your nose. “Never. You know I’d bark if you told me to. Hell, I’d jump off Skyhaven if you said it made your dresses poofier.”

You hiccuped mid-sniffle.

“You mean it?'

Caleb sat down on the edge of your pink chaise, pulling you into his lap so your skirts pooled around both of you.

“I literally rewired the AI in this house cause you said they weren't treating you gently enough. You think I wouldn’t raze the entire fashion industry if it meant you’d stop crying over dress volume?”

You whined and buried your face in his shoulder.

He rocked you gently. “There we go. Let it out. Cry about the bad dress, baby.”

You sniffled again. “I had a whole tea party outfit planned. Now what will the other official's wives say?”

Caleb growled softly under his breath. “They’ll say whatever I tell them to say, or I’ll dump them into deep space.”

You giggled wetly. “You can’t just throw skyhaven's high society ladies out, Caleb.”

“I can do anything,” he said, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Especially for you.”

“…Even puffier dresses?”

“I’ll fund a new brand that only makes them.”

You blinked up at him, tears drying fast. “You’d do that for me?”

He nodded solemnly. “I’ll call it... Princess Puff. Only you can buy from them.”

You squealed and kissed him messily on the cheek, smearing your lip gloss. “You’re my favorite boy.”

Caleb, hopeless, clutched you tighter and leaned back on the chaise, letting your frilly skirts bury him like a hero in a fairy tale.

“You’ve always been my favorite girl,” he murmured. “Even when you were a little crybaby who used to throw tantrums over sticker books.”

“I was a sensitive artist,” you huffed.

“You were a brat,” he teased, grinning. “My brat.”

You buried your face in his chest again, the fit of your next meltdown already forgotten.

And Caleb? He didn’t care if Fleet Command pinged his tablet. If the Bureau directors demanded his return.

Right now, his only mission was holding his precious pipsqueak close, wrapped in layers of unpuffy skirts and dramatic demands, and planning a fleet raid on every designer who had ever disappointed her.

Because your tears were sacred.

And Caleb, Farspace Colonel or not, was always going to roll over and play knight for his princess.

Every single time.

[soft-dots]

A bond everlasting

[soft-dots]

I got no one to show these off to, but all I gotta say is that I wasted 30 minutes of my life on these men, for these photos

And here's one I made about 3 days ago (pls ignore how my mc's face keeps looking a pixel off, ISTG I CAN NEVER GET HER RIGHT KSNZLSMSL)