g0d334t3r

[g0d334t3r]

¡HOLA! May I request headcanons for the main 5 having to leave after their baby with fem reader is born, and they come back after some months... Only to find out their baby looks exactly like them and not like their mother? Please, I want to picture cute little LAD babies 😭😭

𐙚˙⋆.˚ mainfive! x fem!reader ꒰੭

𐙚˙⋆.˚ fluff, hurt/comfort! ꒰੭

𐙚˙⋆.˚ sfw! ꒰੭

𐙚˙⋆.˚ do not translate/copy/repost! ꒰੭

﹙♡﹚¡holi! this was supposed to be super fluffy, but i just couldn't picture them being away from their family for so long and not being heartbroken ( ˶•ᴖ•) !! i absolutely LOVE babies, and i love picturing the main five being fathers, omg. thanks for requesting! ₊‧°𐐪♡𐑂°‧₊

𐙚˙⋆.˚ caleb! ꒰੭

caleb was furious.

and he was also sulking.

how could they choose to send him away for five months, with no communication with the outside world whatsoever for “confidentiality agreements”?

he was a father.

of two!

he stared down at his twin babies; his precious boy and his gorgeous girl.

then, he looked at you.

he was about to cry.

“lebbie, don't…”

but he's already holding you close, inhaling your scent —as if he didn't have it memorized by now— and apologizing for something he didn't have control over.

then, he cautiously picks up his almost newborns in each arm, placing a soft kiss on their tiny foreheads.

“dada will be back, yeah? don't forget me.”

oh gosh, he was seriously sulking.

“time will fly by, lebbie. i promise to always put on your clothes so they can have your scent close.”

ah, that was the last straw.

he cries.

ugly cries.

but your words are true; as always.

five months go by, and, to be honest, you feel exhausted.

taking care of two babies by yourself was challenging.

sure, you had some close friends helping you out here and there, but you missed your husband; the one who would literally stay awake the first nights the twins slept just to check their breathing.

and, on top of that, how could you not think of him?

when your both now crawling and chubby babies were identical to their father.

it was crazy.

they had his hair color, his eyes, even down to his tiny freckles.

and, on top of all, they had to be near you.

all the time.

one afternoon, after feeding your baby girl whilst your baby boy cooed and discovered he had toes —once again—, the door unlocked.

the three of you looked towards the door almost immediately.

and all the maternal stress left your body, as if gravity itself was pulling it away from you.

you carefully put your baby girl down, before shakily calling out for him.

“leb…”

his things fall with a thud, and he rushes to you, enveloping you in his arms and nuzzling his cheek against your head.

you hugged him tightly, tiredly, happily…

relieved, at last.

the twins were cooing curiously, resting on their chubby bellies and struggling just a bit to keep their heads up.

but their violet eyes were focused on the giant man in front of them.

caleb almost faints.

his two tiny apple slices, his precious babies, so aware, so healthy.

of course you'd do amazing, but he'll make sure to make it up to you for each day he wasn't there to be a father.

he approaches and kneels down, eyes locking with the twins.

the baby boy is looking, but the baby girl is reaching out her tiny hand to play with his face.

ah, the tears start falling again.

you sigh softly and smile, leaning against the wall as you clutch the —his— t-shirt you were wearing.

he kisses the baby's hand gently, before his baby boy babbles, taking a chunk of his hair in his tiny fist.

he sees the determination and curiosity in those pairs of lavender eyes, smiling proudly soon after.

but, wait…

lavender eyes?

dark, fluffy hair...

tiny freckles all over their pale skin.

he looks at you, then at his babies.

…how dare they?

he gently steps back, crossing his arms and tilting his head.

“pipsqueak?”

he softly calls out.

“yes. yes, i know.”

“but, pips—”

“yes, my genes didn't even try.”

he looks down at the babies now, studying them again.

they were basically two mini versions of him.

they are perfect, of course. absolutely perfect; the two other loves of his life.

but…

“pips.”

he softly wraps his arms around your waist.

“no.”

he chuckles, pulling you close.

“you didn't even let me speak, baby.”

but you know what he wants.

you know that face.

the same face that led to these gorgeous babies.

“leb, we won't have a third one.”

“oh, but please! a mini you would be the cutest addition to our family!”

he cups your cheeks and kisses your forehead.

“i… listen, not right now, okay? but maybe in a couple of years…? think about it; a mini you having his two big siblings to rely on, to play with, to talk to—”

you sigh, knowing he's already picturing everything in his mind.

“okay, okay, yeah. i'll think about it.”

you kiss his cheek softly.

“but right now… you need to bond with your kids, mister. and i need some time for myself.”

he quickly nods and salutes.

“yes, ma'am.”

and he's more than happy to do so, not even having to ask what to do, as he quietly goes around and finds out where their bottles and diapers are.

he doesn't bother you at all, respecting your need to rest.

and he's overjoyed when his babies seem to be comfortable around him, even more so when he speaks to them in the same silly voice he used when they were in your belly.

however, he's serious.

after making it up to you for every day, every minute, and every second he couldn't be here for you and the precious babies, he'll make sure you feel rested, cared for and loved again.

and once the twins aren't such a challenge anymore, he'll aim for a mini you.

or two, if you're both lucky again.

𐙚˙⋆.˚ rafayel! ꒰੭

rafayel wasn't having it.

thomas dragged him out of his house, carrying the bags in one hand, as the other clutched his arm.

“you can't! this isn't legal!”

he reaches out for you, as you carry your small and crying baby girl in one arm.

you softly sigh and wave with your hand.

“raf, you'll be okay.”

he shakes his head dramatically, managing to yank his arm away from thomas and running back to you.

he hugs you, trying to be gentle so as not to crush his little coral.

he's wailing.

your baby is wailing.

thomas and you share glances, and you quietly kiss rafayel's head.

“sweetheart, we'll be waiting for you, yeah? go make us proud.”

he sniffles and looks up at you.

destiny is evil.

dragging him away from his gorgeous wife and his tiny baby girl.

all for this stupid, high-class, top secret, stupid, and ultra stupid, stupidly stupid art convention.

did he mention stupid?

yeah.

thomas once again guides him back to the car, and with puppy eyes, he looks at you.

“talk to her about me! don't let her forget me! i'll be back, i promise i'll be back!”

and with that, you go inside and try to quiet down your daughter, softly humming and cooing for her.

five months later, and, to be honest, you feel drained.

you miss your husband.

the house is a mess.

your baby girl is just as needy and dramatic as her father, and even when you love her deeply, it is too much sometimes.

as you try to clean around with her in a backpack carrier, the door soon opens fast, making you jump.

thomas opens his mouth to apologize for the sudden entrance, but rafayel is running.

no, sprinting.

“my dearest!”

he pants, and upon seeing you, he pulls you in, crashing both your chests together and peppering your face with fast, quick kisses, each one a bit needier than the last.

“raf—”

“oh, look at you… so gorgeous, my pearl. did you miss me? i missed you a lot! it was unbearable, atrocious, gut-wrenching—”

thomas takes this as his cue to leave, and you subtly nod his way to say goodbye.

rafayel pulls back to look at you, and then, he sees a tiny head peeking from behind your back.

big, shiny eyes, with a mix of teal and pink creating a soft purple.

deep violet curls messily sticking out.

pink, soft and chubby cheeks.

he almost faints.

“m… my little coral…”

he whispers, approaching with shaky hands.

your gaze softens and your initial shock subsides as you turn around for him to look at her better.

she just stares at first, clearly looking at this random man with both curiosity and a bit of apprehension.

until he carefully kisses her forehead and starts talking.

“there she is, so beautiful… my precious tiny starfish, the prettiest princess.”

you suddenly hear cooing and happy babbling as your baby reaches out for him, outstretching her tiny, chubby arms toward her father.

he feels like fainting; again.

he cradles her in his arms, rocking her slightly before looking back at you with a soft, adoring glance.

“thank you, my pearl…”

you take off the carrier and sigh tiredly, but very, very happy and relieved to have him back home.

“thank you for what, sweetheart?”

he looks down at the baby, who happily stares up at him while giggling.

“for… for taking care of her. for being so strong, for waiting for me. i'm sorry for being away for so long…”

he shakily kisses his baby's forehead, before approaching you to kiss yours, his lips lingering.

“please, rest. i'll prepare a bubble bath for you. do we have eggs? i'll cook something. is her diaper clean?”

he lifts her up and soon regrets doing so when the smell reaches his nose.

“nevermind. i'll take care of it.”

and you're so grateful for that.

you try to answer or at least keep up with his rambling, but he's moving around with his daughter in his hands, ready to just take off as if he never left at all.

so, you do as he says, and you finally sigh once you lay down on your shared bed, which won't be so cold nor feel too big anymore.

meanwhile, rafayel and his little coral are bonding.

he practiced a lot when you were pregnant, so he is ecstatic once he nails the diaper change.

now, he dedicates this moment to appreciate how much his baby has grown in his absence.

she's perfect.

her tiny nose, her aware eyes, her squishy cheeks…

huh?

he tilts his head.

she looks… she looks like him.

there's no trace of your eyes, not even your eye color. he doesn't see your nose, nor your lips.

geez, not even your hair.

“wow… were my genes that greedy?”

he whispers, noticing she even has his pout as she is about to cry.

…

oh!

he quickly picks her up and rocks her, shushing her as she cries for unknown reasons.

“okay, okay… let's go prepare mommy a bath, yeah? do you like baths, hm? are you a little mermaid? yeah, i bet you are.”

he quickly tries to distract her, and it seemingly works.

yup.

she's definitely a carbon copy of him.

and after he fills up the tub, he'll make sure to thank you in different ways, not only for being the greatest mother ever, but also for giving him the second greatest gift he has and treasures deeply, even when your genes gave up.

or, as he cockily starts to think, even when your genes also fell in love with him so much that they had to replicate him through your precious baby girl.

𐙚˙⋆.˚ sylus! ꒰੭

he was murderous.

literally.

he was about to make some folks disappear, because they threatened his beloved wife and, not satisfied with that, they put his daughter's name in their filthy mouths too.

he had to send you away.

not because he didn't trust you to be strong enough to defend yourself and your baby girl, but because he felt vulnerable.

after she came into this world, he found another reason to live, to die and to kill for.

and he wouldn't risk either of you, so he sent you to a safe place, with mephisto always by your side.

it hurt, seeing you with your sleeping baby in your arms, looking up at him and begging for him to stay safe, even though you knew he would be.

your worry was endearing, because no matter how strong he is, you still feared losing him, just as much as he feared losing you.

with a lingering kiss on your lips, and a soft kiss on your daughter's tiny cheek, he lets you go.

and it isn't until some months later that he finally gets rid of not only those bastards, but also a couple of organizations that intended to betray him —just for funsies and to release his pent-up frustration.

he comes back for you both, —and mephisto, of course— and he looks for you in the main bedroom of the house you were in.

he doesn't see you at first, but he can hear you humming in the bathroom, as you gently brush the short and thin silverish-white strands of your daughter's hair into two tiny pigtails, while she holds mephisto with her clumsy, chubby hands.

your baby is very calm; a tiny angel, if you will —except when hungry. then, she becomes a tiny monster.

sylus' breath hitches slightly, and he takes in the beautiful sight with a tender look in his eyes.

the same eyes that his baby girl so beautifully carries as well.

you don't notice sylus' presence until your daughter looks his way, and her round eyes sparkle with curiosity.

he almost crumbles when your eyes focus on him too.

his kitten, and his even tinier kitten, safe and sound, right in front of him.

it's a sight for sore eyes, especially after being exposed to gruesome scenes, caused by his very own hands.

the hands you so lovingly hold right now.

“sy…”

he looks at you and doesn't hesitate to hold you in his arms, closing his eyes as he finally has you.

he is where he belongs.

“i am back, darling.”

when you pull back, he focuses on his pretty baby girl, his little princess, cooing back at mephisto, and cawing as he does.

ah, his heart melts.

he softly approaches and picks her up, waiting to see her reaction.

she suddenly feels herself being held so high up by a mysterious set of arms, and when mephisto flies towards sylus' shoulder, she finally meets her dada's gaze.

she looks just like him.

from her attentive gaze, to her adorable white and carefully brushed hair.

there's not a trace of you on her, and while that makes sylus a little bit annoyed, —not at you nor at the baby, of course— he is sure she will soon grow up to be just as wonderful and smart as her mommy.

“hello there, my sweet girl…”

he softly says, looking at those eyes; those beautiful crimson eyes he knows will be the death of him when she starts asking for things or tries to get away with trouble.

he already knows he'll give her the world, just as he will keep giving it to you too.

his deep voice seems to be to her liking, as she bounces her tiny legs and makes grabby hands toward his face, exploring a bit roughly.

he manages to glance at you, and he notices how tired you are, how much effort it took to take care of her by yourself for months.

he'll take it from here.

he won't let you lift a finger if he can easily do it for you.

he'll let you do what you feel like doing, sure…

but he will let you know you can trust him with everything now that he's back.

you've done so much, after all.

especially after gifting him the precious result of your everlasting love; his precious gem, the one that looks like him, but he's certain also carries your best attributes.

he helps you pack everything, and when he guides you both to his car, carrying his now asleep baby in his arms, two cheerful voices soon interrupt the serene moment.

“no way! she looks just like you!”

luke excitedly says, and kieran chimes in, looking down at your baby girl.

“she's our mini boss!”

“is it even legal to have three bosses?”

you muffle a giggle behind your hand, and sylus simply helps you get inside the car, placing your baby in your arms in the backseat for more security.

“i didn't think you guys cared about legalities.”

you look at them as they each sit next to you.

they coo at the baby, trying to stay quiet after sylus glares at them for almost waking her up.

he's already planning how to get you to relax. he knows it will take a bit of nagging, because you're a bit stubborn and you absolutely love taking care of your daughter, but there is someone who also loves taking care of you.

and he'll always be that person.

𐙚˙⋆.˚ xavier! ꒰੭

another mission.

but this time, he had to go by himself, as you were on maternity leave.

they should've been a little bit more considerate, given you two had a newborn, and he needed to be there just as much as you.

however, the situation got worse, and he had to go and fix it.

he was sulking, he was pouting, he almost clung to the door like a cat not wanting to be bathed once you tried to convince him to leave.

after peppering your small baby boy with the sweetest of kisses, and making sure to kiss your lips so you'd remember him, he left.

you couldn't complain.

your baby was the sweetest, most calm little boy.

he slept a lot; he only woke up to eat, and when he did, his round azure eyes would close again to take a little nap.

you were well rested, at least.

but you couldn't leave the room, or he'd cry.

and wail.

and scream for you to come back.

but besides that, he was truly an angelic little baby, wrapped in the coziest onesies and tiny beanies over the abundant and messy silvery-blonde hair of his.

xavier came back in the middle of the night, his quiet footsteps muffled by the white noise playing from the tv, and the soft huffs and puffs escaping from both your lips and his baby's.

he stood there, seemingly frozen in time.

his starlight, and his little shiny star.

his favorite constellation, peacefully resting on the couch, wrapped by xavier's favorite blanket, which now carried your scent and your little boy's.

he left his things aside, and kneeled in front of you both, carefully brushing a strand out of your face before kissing your forehead.

the sound was very faint, but your little boy woke up, tiny eyes taking in his surroundings.

and when he sees this unknown man kissing his mommy?

he pouts, lower lip quivering.

and it looks just like when his dada does it when he sulks.

xavier was so in love with how perfect his little boy was, that he didn't register when he started sniffling and crying, effectively waking you up.

you instinctively pulled your baby back to your chest, not opening your eyes as you gently patted his back.

but when you feel a warm, large hand cupping your cheek tenderly, you open them.

and you see xavier, loving and patiently waiting for you.

“xav!”

you softly sit up, still holding a pouty and fussy baby, and you rub your eyes.

“when did you…? how was the mission?”

he smiles and shakes his head, not wanting to talk about work when he literally wishes to praise you, to hold you, to kiss you, and to see his tiny star up close.

“everything went well.”

he simply assures you, before looking at his baby.

“hi… don't be jealous, my little star. i won't take mommy away.”

—you were his first, but he won't say that.—

he stands up and sits by your feet, noticing those huge, teary blue eyes following him.

xavier caresses your legs over the blanket, and the baby shifts, suddenly curious.

you place your baby close to xav, just to see if he'll crawl or try to reach for him.

and the baby eventually does, when he sees xavier's outstretched arms toward him.

when he finally gets to hold his boy, he sighs shakily, pressing him against his chest and nuzzling his cheek against his messy yet soft hair.

“ours.”

he whispers.

you smile and sit next to him, covering both your favorite boys with the blanket.

xavier pulls you closer with his other arm, kissing your head silently so as not to alert the baby.

not only did the tiny creature have his looks.

he apparently was just as jealous.

or well, as jealous as a tiny baby can be, obviously. maybe he doesn't like seeing strangers close to the only person his brain remembers and knows to be safe.

but he will make sure his baby boy soon knows he is to trust, too. he's his dada, after all, and the love xav feels for him —and you— could travel among thousands of galaxies and beyond.

“he's perfect, he's… he's ours. he's so grown now, yet he is so small.”

xavier whispers, and you understand what he means.

it is so incredible to think he was once a tiny little bean, and now he is growing up, looking just like him, while also wanting nothing but to be close to you and your motherly warmth.

he's growing up too fast, but too perfectly under both your loving and proud gazes.

xavier asks you to teach him where you have everything that the baby needs, because it is his turn to take care of everything. and he'll make sure he doesn't forget, and that he doesn't need to ask you twice, because he wants both your body and mind to rest, knowing he'll be a functional father and even beyond.

after all, you made his life complete, and the least he can do is be the best dad ever and, most importantly, the best man for you, the light in his life.

𐙚˙⋆.˚ zayne! ꒰੭

it was a catastrophe.

there was a huge natural disaster in a rural area, and zayne had to go with his team to help.

of course, due to the massive destruction, there was no signal and no other forms of communication besides local landlines and old-style letters —which he would later choose to send.

the day he left, you remember how grim it was.

it was raining, the sky was roaring furiously, and your tiny boy was fussing in his father's arms, tiny fists clinging to his tie.

your baby had always been a dada's boy, even when he couldn't even open his eyes yet.

and zayne had to be stronger than ever to put him back in your arms, promising he'd be back as soon as things got better.

he sealed his promise with lots of kisses and nuzzles, for both you and your little boy.

and he left, driving carefully, with you watching as he left from the window, trying your best not to cry as your baby cried too.

he sent letters every day, but they obviously arrived five to six days later.

he was doing well, things were still complicated, and he promised he was taking care of himself.

you wrote back, telling him that your baby now opened his eyes, that his hair was growing, and even sending a footprint after painting your baby's foot to show how his limbs were getting chubbier.

you also attached your pediatrician's reports, just for him to further ensure his baby was doing okay.

not that he doubted it, anyway. you were the best mother, and his heart was serene knowing you two would be there waiting for him, safe and sound.

the day he came back, you actually took your baby to the train station.

you were covered from head to toe, shielding yourself from the cold air.

and your tiny baby had a warm, cozy penguin onesie, holding onto you as his curious eyes looked around, taking everything in.

when the train arrived, and people started to come out, you finally saw zayne and his medical team, all dragging their bags tiredly but satisfied with their work.

the first one to see you was greyson, who pointed at you.

zayne's gaze soon looked for you, and when he saw you, life came back to his eyes.

his strides were long, yet he tried to remain composed.

especially when he saw that gorgeous smile on your lips, one that clearly said “you're finally back.”

he put his bags down and pulled you closer, cradling your head and caressing your hair as his lips pressed to your temple, relishing the warmth of your skin.

he then kissed your lips tenderly.

before looking down at the little penguin in your arms, or rather, his grown baby boy, whose sharp, hazel eyes were on his.

they stared at each other quietly, before zayne hesitated.

would he remember him?

he doubted it.

babies don't really have a good memory, and if they don't interact with someone often, they'll soon forget them.

but when you softly nudged him, he came back to reality and saw his baby reaching out for him silently, expectantly.

everything fell back in place, and he carried his son, peppering his soft face with tiny kisses before nuzzling his cheek against his head; a love gesture you two also shared quite a lot.

you were attentive enough to hear a subtle yet happy squeal coming from yvonne, and you smiled before asking her to stay quiet, as you were enjoying this tender moment between father and son.

eventually, when you two got home, he carefully took his time to examine him.

his dark hair, his hazel eyes, his chubby hands, his feet, his tiny nose. everything.

and his final diagnosis is…

he looks nothing like you.

unbelievable.

inconceivable, even.

he didn't really expect for his genes to be so dominant, or your genes to be this recessive, in any case.

but you were absolutely overjoyed to have a mini zayne, and that joy was more than enough for him to leave said topic aside.

after all, you two could always try and have a mini you running around —when you felt ready, of course.

when he put the baby to sleep, he turned to you. he saw all the letters he sent carefully placed on your nightstand. he saw you tried to keep the place clean, despite having little to no time, as you took care of the baby, of the cooking, of the groceries…

and then he saw that his side of the bed was left intact.

you noticed his gaze and smiled tenderly.

“it… smelled like you. it still does, a little bit. i didn't want to mess it up by sleeping there, and i also wanted our baby boy to have you close, even if it was through your scent.”

ah, he almost broke down right there.

he never wants to leave again.

it was already hard enough to leave for work, and now that he has experienced being truly away from home, from comfort, from you and his tiny penguin, he was more than certain that here was where he was supposed to be.

and first, he would take a month off just to be a father and take care of everything as you took some time for you.

after that, he'd absolutely make up for all these months when he was away. not as a punishment, but rather as worship toward the woman he loves the most, and the woman who oh so lovingly took care of everything; always strong, always graceful.

[g0d334t3r]

DEAR GOD I LOVE THIS MAN

[g0d334t3r]

summary.ᐟ when they realize they love you. caleb, zayne, & sylus. established relationship.

tee says.ᐟ this is more notes? than actual fic, more so things i've noticed (that may seem obvious lmfao, bear with me i'm new here.) i was thinking about how they'd fall in love with someone who doesn't have shared trauma with them.

as a caretaker at heart, caleb’s love comes in the form of being as useful as he can be—from carrying your bags when the two of you go shopping to being a barrier between a hard surface so you don't hit your head to making sure your hand never touches a handle. chivalrous at best and a bit overprotective at worst, all he wants is for his partner to rely on him.

so i think he appreciates the little things a lot more than the average person would. flowers that appear on his desk ‘just because’, kneading the tension from a long day at work out of his sore shoulders, or just simply holding him when he needs it but can't bring himself to be ‘a burden’. would come to seek it out even, once comfortable enough. acts of devotion he doesn't come to expect, talk less of deserving.

caleb loves very openly without expecting much in return. so when you not only reciprocate his feelings but add gestures of gratitude and affection no matter the size, i think he'd take care to preserve the feeling it brings him and mull over it carefully. even if he keeps telling you that you don't need to 'prove your love' to him. he’d allow himself to relax in your arms a little bit. knowing he has someone to come back to might make him seem a little soft to the ones bold enough to even regard him as such, but it fuels his determination in all aspects of his life tenfold.

having a reason to put himself through everything he does. as long as he has a reason to continue on. and as someone who believes having the reason is all he's afforded, having his affections returned is everything to him.

˖ ࣪ ୨୧

to be high in demand as a vital member of society means zayne rarely has any time outside of long grueling shifts, equally as long meetings and conferences, traveling to give aid, and squeezing in even a few minutes of shut eye. there are times where it feels like he's been awake for three days straight, bone tired but pushing through because he's needed. there are people who rely on him and look to him for support.

not that you don't need him, and not that he doesn't love his profession either, but with you he's come to realize he's allowed to let his shoulders drop and let himself be taken care of, even if it takes him a while to relinquish that kind of control. he knows he can be vulnerable in front of you and the weight of his worries and fears aren't just for his already burdened shoulders bear alone.

i think zayne would realize he loves you very quietly. a quiet realization that dawns on him not with a bang, but in a slow moment of clarity. you bring peace to a hectic routine. peace he cradles to his chest with tender hands. a respite comfortable with the human being behind the renowned surgeon.

(that and enabling his poorly hidden sweet tooth, but more on that another time.)

˖ ࣪ ୨୧

there aren't many people that would talk back to sylus upon seeing him and the way he holds himself. lazy grin, the confident set of his shoulders, his impeccable style, the cadence of which he talks—the list goes on forever. most people would be scared to challenge someone so sure of themselves yet can't help but be drawn in by his mysterious and alluring presence.

he commands attention at will, filling the room as soon as he walks in. so when you talk to him like he's just another human being, it intrigues him. 

not rude, but unwilling to back down. your banter is charged with wit and sass and he enjoys it so much to the point of deliberately riling you up just to bask in the full front of your responses. he loves it. he loves… you.

the way your expression shifts when you're about to tell him off, yes, but also the way you study him closely as if trying to peer past the several fronts put up. the way your relationship shifts from charged responses to care that lingers long after you've parted ways. i think he'd start to seek you out beyond that kind of thing, inquiring about bits and pieces of your life that you're willing to share, and in turn, giving pieces of himself to you. wanting to know more about the person who'd chosen to look at him and really see him when others haven't.

[g0d334t3r]

Whenever anyone writes Bruce showing up to school cause one of the kids got in a fight or some other random occurrence there tends to be a quick oh ok and then he takes them into the car to get ice cream.

No Bruce Wayne never in his life has believed his children did anything wrong.

You think his son punched a child?

Do you have it on videotape? Well then it didn't fucking happen.

His children can be guilty as sin, literally killed another child in class. Bruce does not give a fuck his kid is innocent, now once they get in the car that might change depending on the situation.

But damn right he's defending that kid to every single other adult.

It's not just at school. Or over the age of 18.

Superman once made a comment about Jason's kill count after he's big strong and every bit as tall as Bruce.

"Excuse me what proof do you have?"

"Bruce the duffle bag, you told me..."

"I'm sorry maybe, I just misheard what exactly did you imply about my son!"

Bruce is the parent that when the cops come to the door they better have a fucking warrant.

He has a team of attorneys, and a billion dollars fucking try him.

Call him from the police station. He will have badges.

You think the man with more money and power than god is letting someone else hold his children accountable.

"Who the fuck do you think you are Batman?"

[g0d334t3r]

Zayne x Crush-Ridden Nurse!Reader | Part One

Professionalism is Dead. I Have a Crush. Zayne Edition

Love and Deepspace Masterlist

I | You do not make eye contact with Zayne in meetings because every time you do, you forget what day it is and say “yes, Doctor” to everything, including when he once asked, “Did you get enough sleep?”

II | Zayne once asked you to assist with a minor procedure and you dropped the sterile tools. You apologized so many times, he calmly said, “The patient’s heart rate is more stable than yours right now.”

III | You once panicked and said “Love you—uh I mean... glove you— I mean I’ll get your gloves!”

Zayne: slow blink

“Take your time. I’ll wait.”

IV | Every time he stands too close while you’re charting, you forget how to type. Once you wrote “Dr. Zayne is so—” and caught yourself before you wrote “hot.” You turned it into “so thorough.” You don’t think he bought it

V | You stutter when you talk to Zayne. He never mentions it, but one time he handed you a cup of water wordlessly after you choked on your own breath during rounds.

VI | You overheard some nurses gossiping about how attractive he is and blurted, “He’s probably too focused to notice.”

You didn’t realize Zayne was walking by.

He didn’t even blink. Just said, “I notice more than you think.”

VII | You tried to bring him coffee once but labeled it with “For Dr. Zayne :)” and then panicked because the smiley face was unprofessional. You crossed it out. Then rewrote it. Then crossed that out.

He still drank it. Didn’t say a word.

VIII | One time you were called into his office and rushed into the room out of breath. Zayne looked at you, tilted his head, and said, “You don’t need to sprint through the halls. I’m not going anywhere.”

Cue you passing away on the spot.

IX | You asked him once, very nervously, “Do you ever, like… smile?”

He replied without hesitation, “Only on days you don’t trip over the IV cart.”

(The next day you almost made it. He raised an eyebrow in silent amusement.)

X | Once he handed you a file and your fingers brushed. You squeaked. He stared at you for a full five seconds before saying, “That wasn’t an electric shock, Nurse. You can relax.”

XI | You joked to another nurse, “I’d die if ZaynE ever praised me.” The next day during debrief, Zayne said: “Good job. Efficient, as usual.”

You almost fainted.

He added, “Should I call a nurse?”

You whispered, “I am the nurse…”

XII | You once had to bandage a patient while Zayne was observing and your hands were shaking like a leaf.

Afterward, he pulled you aside and simply said, “Your hands are steady when it matters. Don’t doubt that.”

XIII | He never raises his voice. Never gossips. But the one time another doctor tried to flirt with you a little too casually, Zayne just appeared beside you and said, “She’s busy. Let’s not waste her time.”

XIV | You once caught him looking at you when he thought no one was watching. Just for a second. No expression. But his gaze lingered a little too long to be clinical. And when your eyes met? He said, “You should take your break before I assign you one.”

Part two >

All Rights Reserved © 2025 Darlingsblackbook

[g0d334t3r]

Damian silently crying in the batcave after patrol because a little kid gave him a crayon drawing of him, with crude writing at the top saying ‘favorat ROBIN’ with an arrow pointing at what looked like him in his Robin suit and a Batarang.

When someone sees it hanging above his desk in his room, he calls it art inspiration. That’s all.

[g0d334t3r]

"mirror mirror on my phone, who's the baddest?

✨ us, hello? ✨"

[g0d334t3r]

what are your opinions on syslus getting jealous? like i usually don't consider him as someone who would get jealous, but i do eat those fics up and wonder in what circumstances he might actually experience jealousy (as in romantic ofc)

wanted to know your opinions because i love your characterization of him the most (you could write something with that too if you're comfortable, id be very grateful)

ʕ ꈍᴥꈍʔ: hi anon! dw, i eat those jealousy fics up too— love it when he gets all huffy n puffy over someone else getting your attention ngl.

i personally think, given his draconic qualities of wanting and needing to hoard, claim and possess, sylus is inclined to be one to get jealous. not simply because he’s petty and he doesn’t like others looking at or touching what is his (though i see him disliking that very much too)—but because he will always have the wounds of isolation in his heart. Though he portrays himself to be incredibly secure and collected, he still hoards each ill-gotten memory of abandonment and rejection like etchings in his bones. 

and now that he has you— who chose to be with him, to belong with him, to bind your soul to him so that he would never live or die alone—he bears the incredible weight of being unworthy of the one who loves him. 

so to me, his jealousy is rooted in this: this belief that no one has wanted him before you, and so why now? the pain of not being all you need, because you should be able to lean on him, rely on him on anything your heart desires. the trauma of being seen as a monster; when will you snap out of it and find someone easier to love? 

and though he tries to keep himself in check, communicate as much of the things that shake his heart and wound his loyalty, sometimes in can get a little much for him too

sylus x reader | angst, comfort, fluff, jealous!sylus, clingy!sylus, exploring a few deeper wounds of his jealousy!

“You like him—your partner.” he points out one evening as he walks beside you beneath the canopy of falling golden leaves. dried foliage crunch beneath your feet as you stroll down the paved path between the rows of overarching trees. 

He’d come to pick you up at the association, one hand occupied with a canvas holder with two tall cups of boba tea. 

He waited on a bench across the street, mindful of how people perceive him. Considering how you’ve stressed about your colleagues seeing him out in the open and fraternizing with you. 

So he wears his cap to hide his hair and his sunglasses despite the sunset to hide his eyes, changed his leather coat into a long, brown velvet one. He waits until you notice his presence, instead of ambushing you into their territory, as you so colorfully put. 

There, as he waited, he saw you emerge from the double doors speaking lightly to another man he recognized as the one you are paired off with often. One you’d mentioned was your hunting partner— assigned, designated, and in someways, chosen. 

You slurp at the straw, boba congealed into a mutated blob restricting any airflow into your mouth. “Hm?” 

He knows you’re listening, he resumes his musings. Needs to keep speaking, fueled by the bubbling bile in the base of his throat he absolutely despises feeling. “You seem comfortable.” 

The tone is unmistakable— it wasn’t accusing or a jab, but a mindful observation drenched in a distant dismalness. Giving your lungs a rest at trying to inhale your drink, you look up at him. His eyes are far off, the smoothness between his brows are crumpled, so minuscule only you could have caught it. And his soul, intertwined with yours, flickers like a candle disrupted by a breeze. 

“We’re friends,” you tell him, preferring his warm hand now to the cup, lending an icy one to his searing touch. His shoulders melt, fingers close in on yours like he’d been dangling from the edge of a cliff, now relieved to have found leverage. 

You continue. “He’s very kind.” 

“I’m glad to hear that, sweetie.” he says, although it comes out monotonous. Words from a script he simply read on cue. Your brows furrow, and you feel that flicker again. 

You dig your heels into the dirt and tug him to a stop with you. With a sigh, he parallels you and meets your gaze. 

“Sylus—,” 

“Your day is the most important of all the reports I listen to, your gossip, your rants, your rambles.” he knows he might be talking too much now, that it might be overdoing his sorrow, but… 

When he saw you exiting with your partner, laughing hysterically at just a single word from him. So simple, so basic. Likely taken out of context, an inside joke or a tail end to the rest of an unheard story. 

But when he heard such a laugh for the first time from you and he was far from the cause of it. When he saw how much you actually talked with your hands and your face more than your words, how you spoke and spoke and spoke to your partner in those few moments more than you ever did to him. 

He felt it in his chest—muscle tearing open fiber by fiber. In his lungs that fill with smoke. And in his mind, the beast, snarling at him to take you away. 

And to what? back to him who could never make you do the same? to him who grates on your nerves? to him who is so difficult to remember, however more to love? 

His face is a mixture of anguish and disappointment, a storm raging behind his carmine eyes that focus on your face. Eyes that search yours for any confirmation, any indication that you want to go—leave. Because you should prefer ease, you should prefer comfort and security. 

While he can give you all of that, he can give you anything you wish for and all it takes is for you to say it out loud— it will always come with a cost. 

His life is danger. His being is monstrous. His love is scorching. 

Your cold boba-tea frozen hand is a balm to the world in his mind that alights itself in flames as you cradle his face. His hand comes up to hold yours, press it closer to his skin. He shuts his eyes, breathes in the scent of your wrist— pulse and perfume. “Do you wish more from me?” 

“Oh, Sylus.” you frown, quick to pull him down and plant a cold kiss on his cheek. A grumble escapes his throat as he leans into you, fully lets his head fall onto your shoulder. Closer, closer, closer. “No.”

“I want to claim all your laughter. Have my ears be the only one that hears it.” his words rumble in his chest, rough and aching—like it hurts him to admit.

His voice is reminiscent of a tremble of thunder, rattling stained windows of a cathedral; such power in a whisper.

“I want to be all you need. All you want.” he grounds out into your ear. Your knees buckle at the weight of his confession. He holds you to him by your waist, positioning you in a firm cage of his arms.

Outside, you are a picture of two bundled up lovers sharing an innocent embrace, caressed by the autumnal breeze. Seeking warmth in each other. 

But beyond appearances, you are a raft Sylus is desperately clinging to as he is cast out to an angry sea. Inside, he fights the battle between making sure you are his and being a reasonable, rational partner. 

He nuzzles his nose into your neck, uses your scent to keep himself from causing a scene or saying something that might scare you off more. He only wants to do right by you, only wants to be what you deserve. 

And he’s stronger than this petty jealousy that courses through his veins at the sight of you giving someone else a smile he wants to have too— like the morning sun he wants to usher into the darkness. He wants it, like a deprived child, he wants it to be mine, mine, mine.

“What did he say to you?” he asks plainly, resolve slipping from his fingers at the memory of your laughter. Growls it. Cringes as he says it, but his head is too filled with smoke that he can’t find his filter.

Your throat dries. His voice is entirely different now, a caving of the earth, lightning striking a tree open in a forest. For a moment, fear grips your heart, but it dissipates just as quickly as it comes when you see his eyes.

Red rubies, a diamond slit of obsidian right in their centers. His brows knit painfully together, like he’s warring with something. Holding it back and keeping it from attacking you. 

“Nothing.” you say, and immediately you know it’s the wrong answer.

He looks away. Not because he dislikes your answer, although he very much does, but because of the way you say it. 

Whispered, careful, guarded. 

Proving his fears to be true. How can he ask you to love a monster? He isn’t easy, he’s far from it, he can be meticulous and cold and absent—all of which you don’t deserve. It’s not a choice he’d make for you, so why would you choose him? 

“Nothing I can remember now, Sylus.” your voice cuts through his thoughts like bullet in cold air. He finds you catching his gaze, begging him to look back at you. Your fingers catch his chin, like he does to you so many times, and guide him back home. “Not now that I’m with you.” 

His heart swells thrice its size at your reassurance. At how your careful fingers remove his hat and brush away the matted down hair by his ears. How you kiss his cheeks, his nose, his mouth—uncaring of who might see or catch you. Uncaring of getting caught. So willing to show the world he is yours. 

How you see right through him. That despite his humiliating show of possession, you pinpoint its exact origins. 

“Tell me what you’re afraid of.” you’re so calm and he is filled with gratitude. You lead him to a nearby bench and he practically curls himself around you as you sit. His arm wounds around your shoulders, slips his knee beneath your thigh so your one leg dangles off of his, and his nose is buried back into the junction between your jaw and your throat. 

“I want you to be happy.” he says, hesitant. His mouth moves, opens like he needs to say more— but no other words follow. 

“I am happy.” you nudge him gently. “My boyfriend picked me up from work today, and he looked handsome in his new coat. And he gave me boba tea.” 

He snorts, fingers splaying out on yours as you begin to play with the ring on his middle. He’s keenly aware of the wind that blows your hair in your face, his other hand comes up to shield your eyes and hold some bundles back behind your ear. Painfully honest, he whispers, “I’ve never heard you laugh like that.”

You lean your cheek onto the top of his head. You feel his lungs draw breath, even and slow, but know his heart is racing. He seems to fixate on the ring you spin on his finger, brushing his thumb over the nail of yours as if to encourage you to keep doing it. 

Leaning deeper into his frustrations, you ask, “Does it sound different?” 

He snuffs, a dragon puffing smoke out his nostrils. “It was radiant.” he says, breaking your heart even more. 

You pause, scooting that little bit closer to him as the dimming sky turns the air into a nipping chill. You huddle close and lend him your undivided attention. 

“I hate that it was for someone else.” he confesses quietly. 

You brush his cheek. “But that doesn’t mean you don’t make me happy, sylus.” 

His eyes squeeze shut as you ask, “You’ve made me laugh plenty of times, my love, help me understand why this shook you so much?” 

You’re lost. After everything you’ve been through, all you’ve shared, you can’t help but feel the sting of distrust as he worries for your loyalty. And rarely is he like this, aside from the times he acts on his jealousy— pulling you close, making sure whoever tries his or her hand at claiming you knows who they would be up against by a press of his lips to your temple or a caress of his hardened fingers to the soft curve of your jaw. 

But the way he is now—genuinely upset, wary and at the verge of a quiet surrender he struggles not to make a show of—makes you mourn something that looms in the distance. What if he thinks you’ve but put a mask on before him? or does he not believe that who you are with him is the barest form of you there is? You believe firmly he does not think so little of you that you would prefer someone else over him, but… 

He swallows, adam’s apple bobbing to push his anxiety down. You’re relieved to see him so open to share, at least. Look forward to him bringing you some clarity. But you don’t expect clarity to come in the form of jagged shards of broken glass. 

“In the worst of my nightmares, there is one thing that truly petrifies me.” slowly, he takes your fingers in his and brings them up to his lips to cool them with his breath. thawing the freeze, keeping you comfortable. “And that’s when you look at me, turn and walk away.”

You hold your breath, because you’re sure that the next one you let out will usher with it the tears that burn behind your eyes. 

“When you see—truly see—the fiend I was. the monster I am.” he mutters, a muscle in his jaw feathering at how tightly he’s clenching his teeth. “How shameless and greedy I am—how proud I am to be. 

“And you, my dove. Beautiful, brilliant sun. Why burn to ashes when you can burn in light?” 

It’s silent.

Whether it was the cold or the tension, you don’t have time to figure it out before you’re trembling. Ribs rattling, muscles tensing. It is your turn to use him as a raft as you drown in his devotion. For now, you see—that as much as he loves you, he thinks he is poisoning you. Knowing that, his fears then lie there: that his poison has begun to spread and will be the cause of his loss of you. 

“Stupid.” you choke, squeezing your arms around his shoulders, pressing your tear-streaked face into his neck. Then, you laugh, grim and wet and raw—a laugh you yourself had never heard before. “Idiot dragon.” 

He wraps you in his coat and rubs circles on your lower back. The park has cleared, a single streetlamp illuminates the pair of you. There is no sound but the rustle of leaves and the thrumming of your hearts. 

“I burn where I want to.” you grit—not angrily, just through the uncontrollable rattling of your jaw. “I burn with you.” 

He stares. To say he was taken aback by your words would be an understatement. He is dizzy, knocked back and shattered into a wall. He could crumple at your feet, he could kiss you until you both see stars. 

“We were talking about some dumb lunch thing where another hunter took the last empanada right before his eyes and before he could cuss her out, it turned out to be the captain and I thought it was funny because it happened to me last week and now it’s all so trivial and it’s not even funny—“ you ramble, words stuttered and stumbling out of your mouth like a waterfall. explaining yourself, doing everything you think will soothe the earthquakes in his mind. 

As you speak, Sylus watches you with the softest of looks. wiping stray tears away with light fingers, brushing more of your hair back from your eyes, placing his palms over your cold cheeks, your frozen ears—you barely notice, too engrossed in telling him everything. Anything, really, to show him that he will always be ground zero. He will always be the only one ever to witness you as your purest self. 

and you doing so means worlds to him. 

“And this afternoon, Tara was supposed to—don’t, don’t kiss me! I have snot!” you shriek as he leans to press his warm lips to your freezing face. he chuckles as you scream, drawing you closer, closer, closer. Saying I don’t care with his actions as he kisses you anyway. Slow, warm and consuming. I love you.

And so easily, he forgets why he ever doubted you, feared you’d love him any less than what you already show him. When you so simply complete his day with your voice, when you so effortlessly choose to love him then and now. He places his heart back in your hands, unconscious how he’d clutched it tight in his, and feels the weightless joy you wash over him once more. 

He tucks your squeals into the chest of treasures in his mind, along with the atrocious laugh you gifted him as you called him stupid. Never mind the one you gave your hunting partner now, his is much better.

Your light is his to hold, keep and hoard for eternity—and you, yourself, offered it to him as you burn.

✧˚ ⋆｡ more sylus thoughts ✧˚ ⋆｡

thank you so much for sending in this ask & for reading! (˶˃ ᵕ ˂˶) .ᐟ.ᐟ

[g0d334t3r]

yeah you want her to wear a white veil in her hair too? because we the fandom can arrange that for you

[g0d334t3r]

PROTOCOL Pairing: Doctor Zayne x Nurse Reader

author note: love and deepspace is my addiction guys LOL anyways enjoy!!

wc: 3,865

✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦

Akso Hospital looms in the heart of Linkon like a monument of glass, metal, and unrelenting precision. Multi-tiered, climate-controlled, and fully integrated with city-wide telemetry systems, it's known across the cosmos for housing the most advanced medical AI and the most exacting surgeons in the Union.

Inside its Observation Deck on Level 4, the air hums with quiet purpose. Disinfectant and filtered oxygen mix in sterile harmony. The floors are polished to a mirrored sheen, the walls pulse faintly with embedded biometrics, and translucent holoscreens scroll real-time vitals, arterial scans, and surgical priority tags in muted color-coded displays.

You’ve been on the floor since 0500. First to check vitals. First to inventory meds. First to get snapped at.

Doctor Zayne Li is already here—of course he is. The man practically lives in the operating theatres. Standing behind the panoramic glass that overlooks Surgery Bay Delta, he looks like something carved out of discipline and frost. His pristine long coat hangs perfectly from squared shoulders, gloves tucked with methodical precision, silver-framed glasses reflecting faint readouts from the transparent interface hovering before him.

He’s the hospital’s prized cardiovascular surgeon. The Zayne Li—graduated top of his class from Astral Medica, youngest surgeon ever certified for off-planet cardiac reconstruction, published more than any other specialist in the central systems under 35. There's even a rumor he once performed a dual-heart transplant in an emergency gravity failure. Probably true.

He’s a legend. A genius.

And an ass.

He’s never once smiled at you. Never once said thank you. With other staff, he’s distant but civil. With you, he’s something else entirely: cold, strict, and unrelentingly sharp. If you breathe wrong, he notices. If you hesitate, he corrects. If you do everything by protocol?

He still finds something to critique.

"Vitals on Bed 12 were late," he said this morning without even turning his head. No greeting. Just judgment, clean and surgical.

"They weren’t late. I had to reset the cuff."

"You should anticipate equipment failures. That’s part of the job."

And that was it. No acknowledgment of the three critical patients you’d managed in that hour. No recognition. No room for explanation. He turned away before you could blink, his coat slicing behind him like punctuation.

You don’t like him.

You don’t disrespect him—because you're a professional, and because he's earned his reputation a hundred times over. But you don’t like how he talks to you like you’re a glitch in the system. Like you’re a deviation he hasn’t figured out how to reprogram.

You’ve worked under strict doctors before. But Zayne is different. He doesn’t push to challenge you. He pushes to see if you’ll break.

And the worst part?

You haven’t.

Which only seems to piss him off more.

You watch him now from the break table near the edge of the deck, your synth-coffee going tepid between your hands. He’s reviewing scans on a projection screen—high-res, rotating 3D models of a degenerating bio-synthetic valve. His eyes, a pale hazel-green, flick across the data with sharp focus. His arms are folded behind his back, posture perfect, expression unreadable.

He hasn’t noticed you.

Correction: he has, and he’s pointedly ignoring you.

Typical.

You take another sip of coffee, more bitter than before. You could head back to inventory. You could restock surgical trays. But you don’t.

Because part of you refuses to give him the satisfaction of leaving first.

So you stay.

And so does he.

Two professionals. Two adversaries. One cold war fought in clipped words, clinical tension, and overlapping silence.

And the day hasn’t even started yet.

The surgical light beams down like a second sun, flooding the operating theatre in harsh, clinical brightness. It washes the color out of everything—blood, skin, even breath—until all that remains is precision.

Doctor Zayne Li stands at the head of the table, gloved hands elevated and scrubbed raw, sleeves of his sterile gown clinging tight around his forearms. His eyes flick up to the vitals screen, then down to the patient’s exposed chest.

“Vitals?” he asks.

You answer without hesitation. “Steady. HR 82, BP 96/63, oxygen at 99%, no irregularities.”

His silence is your only cue to proceed.

You hand him the scalpel, handle first, exactly as protocol demands. He doesn’t look at you when he takes it—but his fingers graze yours, cold through double-layered gloves, and the contact still sends a tiny jolt up your arm. Annoying.

He makes the incision without fanfare, clean and deliberate, the kind of cut that only comes from years of obsessive mastery. The kind that still makes your gut tighten to watch.

You monitor the instruments, anticipating without crowding him. You’ve been assisting in his surgeries for weeks now. You’ve learned when he prefers the microclamp versus the stabilizer. You’ve memorized the sequence of his suturing pattern. You know when to speak and when not to. Still, it’s never enough.

“Retractor,” he says flatly.

You’re already reaching.

“Not that one.”

Your hand freezes mid-motion.

His tone is ice. “Cardiac thoracic, not abdominal. Are you even awake?”

A hot flush rises behind your ears. He doesn’t yell—Zayne never yells—but his disappointment cuts deeper than a scalpel. You grit your teeth and correct the tray.

“Cardiac thoracic,” you repeat. “Understood.”

No response. Just the soft click of metal as he inserts the retractor into the sternotomy.

The rest of the operation is silence and beeping. You suction blood before he asks. He cauterizes without hesitation. The damaged aortic valve is removed, replaced with a synthetic graft designed for lunar-pressure tolerance. It’s delicate work—millimeter adjustments, microscopic thread. One wrong move could tear the tissue.

Zayne doesn’t shake. Doesn’t blink. He’s terrifyingly still, even as alarms spike and the patient's BP dips for three agonizing seconds.

“Clamp. Now,” he says.

You pass it instantly. He seals the nicked vessel, stabilizes the pressure, and the monitor quiets.

You exhale—but not too loudly. Not until the final suture is tied, the chest closed, and the drape removed. Then, and only then, does he speak again.

“Clean,” he says, already walking away. “Prepare a report for Post-Op within the hour.”

You stare at his retreating back, fists clenched at your sides. No thank you. No good work. Just a cold command and disappearing footsteps.

The Diagnostic Lab is silent, save for the low hum of scanners and the occasional pulse of a vitascan completing a loop. The walls are steel-paneled with matte black inlays, lit only by the soft glow of holographic interfaces. Ambient light drifts in from a side wall of glass, showing the icy curve of Europa in the distance, half-shadowed in space.

You stand alone at a curved diagnostics console, sleeves rolled just above your elbows, eyes locked on the 3D hologram spinning in front of you. The synthetic heart pulses slowly, arteries reconstructed with precise synthetic grafts. The valve—a platinum-carbon composite—is functioning perfectly. You check the scan tags, patient ID, op codes, and log the post-op outcome.

Everything’s clean. Correct.

Or so you thought.

You barely register the soft hiss of the door opening behind you until the room shifts. Not in volume, but in pressure—like gravity suddenly increased by one degree.

You don’t turn. You don’t have to.

Zayne.

“Line 12 in the file log,” he says, voice low, composed, and close. Too close.

You blink at the screen. “What about it?”

“You mislabeled the scan entry. That’s a formatting violation.”

Your heart rate ticks up. You straighten your spine.

“No,” you reply calmly, “I used trauma tags from pre-op logs. They cross-reference with the emergency surgical queue.”

His footsteps approach—measured, deliberate—and stop directly behind you. You sense the heat of his body before anything else. He’s not touching you, but he’s close enough that you feel him standing there, like a charged wire humming at your back.

“You adapted a tag system that’s not recognized by this wing’s software. If these were pushed to central review, they’d get flagged. Wasting time.” His tone is even. Too even.

Your hands rest on the edge of the console. You force your shoulders not to tense.

“I made a call based on the context. It was logical.”

“You’re not here to improvise logic,” he replies, stepping even closer.

You feel the air change as he raises his arm, reaching past you—his coat sleeve brushing the side of your bicep lightly, the barest whisper of contact. His hand moves with surgical confidence as he taps the air beside your own, opening the tag metadata on the scan you just logged. His fingers are long, gloved, deliberate in motion.

“This,” he says, highlighting a code block, “should have been labeled with an ICU procedural tag, not pre-op trauma shorthand.”

You turn your head slightly, and there he is. Close. Towering. His jaw is tight, clean-shaven except for the faintest trace of stubble catching the edge of the light. There’s a tiredness around his eyes—subtle, buried deep—but he doesn’t blink. Doesn’t waver. He’s so still it’s unnerving.

He doesn’t seem to notice—or care—how near he is.

You, however, are all too aware.

Your voice tightens. “Is there a reason you couldn’t point this out without standing over me like I’m in your way?”

Zayne doesn’t flinch. “If I stood ten feet back, you’d still argue with me.”

You bristle. “Because I know what I’m doing.”

“And yet,” he replies coolly, “I’m the one correcting your data.”

That sting digs deep. You pull in a breath, clenching your fists subtly against the side of the console. You want to yell. But you won’t. Because he wants control, and you won’t give him that too.

He lowers his hand slowly, retracting from the display, and finally—finally—steps back. Just enough to let you breathe again.

But the tension? It lingers like static.

“I’ll correct the tag,” you say flatly.

Zayne nods once, then turns to go.

But at the doorway, he stops.

Without looking back, he adds, “You're capable. That’s why I expect better.”

Then he walks out.

Leaving you in the cold hum of the diagnostic lab, your pulse racing, your thoughts a snarl of frustration and something else—unsettling and electric—curling low in your gut.

You don’t know what that something is.

But you’re starting to suspect it won’t go away quietly.

You sit three seats from the end of the long chrome conference table, back straight, shoulders tight, fingers wrapped just a little too hard around your datapad.

The Surgical Briefing Room is too bright. It always is. Cold light from the ceiling plates bounces off polished surfaces, glass walls, and the brushed steel of the central console. A hologram hovers in the center of the room, slowly spinning: the reconstructed heart from this morning’s procedure, arteries lit in pulsing red and cyan.

You can feel sweat prickling at the nape of your neck under your uniform collar. Your scrubs are crisp, your hair pinned back precisely, your notes immaculate—but none of that matters when Dr. Myles Hanron speaks.

You’ve only spoken to him a few times. He’s been at Bell for twenty years. Stern. Respected. Impossible to argue with. Today, he's reviewing the recent cardiovascular procedure—the one you assisted under Zayne’s lead.

And something is off. He’s frowning at the scan display.

Then he looks at you.

“Explain this inconsistency in the anticoagulation log.”

You glance up, already feeling the slow roll of nausea in your stomach.

Your voice comes out measured, but your throat is dry. “I followed the automated-calibrated dosage curve based on intra-op vitals and confirmed with the automated log.”

Hanron raises a brow, his tablet casting a soft reflection on the lenses of his glasses. “Then you followed it wrong.”

The words hit like a slap across your face.

You feel the blood drain from your cheeks. Something sharp twists in your stomach.

“I—” you begin, mouth parting. You shift slightly in your seat, fingers tightening on the datapad in your lap, legs crossed too stiffly. Your body wants to shrink, but you force yourself not to move.

“Don’t interrupt,” Hanron snaps, before you can finish.

A few heads turn in your direction. One of the interns frowns, glancing at you with wide eyes. You stare straight ahead, trying to keep your breathing even, your spine straight, your jaw from visibly clenching.

Hanron paces two steps in front of the display. “You logged a 0.3 ml deviation on a patient with a known history of arrhythmic episodes. Are you unfamiliar with the case history? Or did you just not check?”

“I did check,” you say, quieter, trying to keep your tone professional. Your hands are starting to sweat. “The scan flagged it within range. I wasn’t improvising—”

“Then how did this discrepancy occur?” he presses. “Or are you suggesting the system is at fault?”

You flinch, slightly. You open your mouth to say something—to explain the terminal sync issue you noticed during the last vitals run—but your voice catches.

You’re a nurse.

You’re new.

So you sit there, every instinct in your body screaming to speak, to defend yourself—but you swallow it down.

You stare down at your datapad, the screen now blurred from the way your vision’s tunneling. You clench your teeth until your jaw aches.

You can’t speak up. Not without making it worse.

“Let this be a reminder,” Hanron says, turning his back to you as he scrolls through another projection, “that there is no room for guesswork in surgical prep. Especially not from auxiliary staff who feel the need to act above their training.”

Auxiliary.

The word burns.

You feel heat crawl up your chest. Your hands are shaking slightly. You grip your knees under the table to hide it.

And then—

“I signed off on that dosage.”

Zayne’s voice cuts clean through the air like a cold wire.

You turn your head sharply toward the door. He’s standing in the entrance, posture military-straight, coat half-unbuttoned, gloves tucked into his belt. His presence shifts the atmosphere instantly.

His black hair is perfectly combed back, not a strand out of place, glinting faintly under the sterile overhead lights. His silver-framed glasses sit low on the bridge of his nose, catching a brief reflection from the room’s data panels, but not enough to hide the expression in his eyes.

Hazel-green. Pale and piercing

He’s not looking at you. His gaze is fixed past you, locked on Hanron with unflinching intensity—like the man has just committed a fundamental breach of logic.

There’s not a wrinkle in his coat. Not a single misaligned button or loose thread. Even the gloves at his belt look placed, not shoved there. Zayne is, as always, polished. Meticulous. Icy.

But today—his expression is different.

His jaw is set tighter than usual. The faint crease between his brows is deeper. He looks like a man on the verge of unsheathing a scalpel, not for surgery—but for precision retaliation.

And when he speaks, his voice is calm. Controlled.

His face is unreadable. Voice flat.

“If there’s a problem with it, you can take it up with me.”

The silence in the room is instant. Tense. Airless.

Hanron turns slowly. “Doctor Zayne, this isn’t about—”

“It is,” Zayne replies, tone even sharper. “You’re implying a clinical error in my procedure. If you’re accusing her, then you’re accusing me. So let’s be clear.”

You can barely process it. Your heart is thudding, ears buzzing from the sudden shift in tone, from the weight of Zayne’s voice cutting through the tension like a scalpel. You look at him — really look — and for once, he isn’t focused on numbers or reports.

He’s solely focused on Hanron. And he is furious — not loudly, but in the way his voice doesn’t rise, his jaw locks, and his words slice like ice.

Just furious—in that cold, calculated way of his.

“She followed my instruction under direct supervision,” he says, voice steady. “The variance was intentional. Based on patient history and real-time rhythm response.”

He pauses just long enough to let the words land.

“It was correct.”

Hanron doesn’t respond right away.

His lips press into a thin line, face unreadable, and he shifts back a step—visibly checking himself in the silence Zayne has carved into the room like a scalpel.

“We’ll review the surgical logs,” Hanron mutters at last, voice clipped, his authority retreating behind procedure.

Zayne nods once. “Please do.”

Then, without fanfare, without another word, he steps forward—not toward the exit, but toward the table.

You track him with your eyes, unable to help it.

The low hum of the room resumes, like the air had been holding its breath. No one speaks. A few nurses drop their eyes back to their datapads. Pages turn. Screens flicker.

But you’re frozen in place, shoulders still tight, hands clenched in your lap to keep them from visibly shaking.

Zayne rounds the end of the table, his boots clicking softly against the metal flooring. His long coat sways with his movements, falling neatly behind him as he pulls out the seat directly across from you.

And sits.

Not at the head of the table. Not in some corner seat to observe.

Directly across from you.

He adjusts his glasses with two fingers, expression cool again, almost as if nothing happened. As if he didn’t just dress down a senior doctor in front of the entire room on your behalf.

He doesn’t look at you.

He opens the file on his datapad, stylus poised, reviewing the surgical results like this is any other debrief.

But you’re still staring.

You study the slight tension in his shoulders, the stillness in his hands, the way his eyes don’t drift—not toward Hanron, not toward you—locked entirely on the data as if that can contain whatever just happened.

You should say something.

Thank you.

But the words get stuck in your throat.

Your pulse is still unsteady, confusion mixing with the low thrum of heat behind your ribs. He didn’t need to defend you. He never steps into conflict like that, especially not for others—especially not for you.

You glance away first, eyes back on your screen, unable to ignore the twist in your gut.

The room empties, but you stay.

The echo of voices fades out with the hiss of the sliding doors. Just a few minutes ago, the surgical debrief room was bright with tension—every overhead light too sharp, the air too thin, the hum of holopanels and datapads a constant static in your head.

Now, it’s quiet. Still.

You sit for a moment longer, fingers resting on your lap, knuckles tight, back straight even though your entire body wants to collapse inward. You’re still warm from the flush of embarrassment, your pulse still flickering behind your ears.

Dr. Hanron’s words sting less now, dulled by the cool aftershock of what Zayne did.

He defended you.

You hadn’t expected it. Not from him.

You replay it in your head—his voice cutting in, his posture like stone, his eyes locked on Hanron like a scalpel ready to slice. He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t even look at you.

But you felt it.

You felt the impact of what it meant.

And now, as you sit in the empty conference room—white walls, chrome-edged table, sterile quiet—you’re left with one burning thought:

You have to say something.

You rise slowly, brushing your palms down your thighs to wipe off the sweat that lingers there. You hesitate at the doorway. Your reflection stares back at you in the glass panel—eyes still a little wide, jaw tight, posture just a bit too stiff.

He didn’t have to defend you, but he did.

And that matters.

You step into the hallway.

It’s long and narrow, glowing with soft white overhead lights and lined with clear glass panels that reflect fragments of your movement as you walk. The hum of the ventilation system buzzes low and steady—comforting in its monotony. The air smells of antiseptic and the faint trace of ozone from high-oxygen surgical wards.

You spot him ahead, already halfway down the corridor, walking with purpose—long coat swaying slightly with each step, back straight, shoulders squared. Always composed. Always fast.

You hesitate. Your boots slow down and your throat tightens.

You want to turn back, to let it go, to pretend it was just professional courtesy. Nothing more. Nothing personal.

But you can’t.

Not this time.

You quicken your pace.

“Doctor Zayne!”

The name catches in the air, too loud in the quiet hallway. You flinch, just a little—but he stops.

You break into a small jog to catch up, boots tapping sharply against the tile. Your breath catches as you reach him.

Zayne turns toward you, expression unreadable, brows slightly furrowed in that ever-present, analytical way of his. The glow of the ceiling lights reflects off his silver-framed glasses, casting sharp highlights along the edges of his jaw.

He doesn’t say anything. Just waits.

You stop a foot away, heart thudding. You don’t know what you expected—maybe something colder. Maybe for him to ignore you entirely.

You swallow hard, eyes flicking up to meet his.

“I just…” Your voice is quieter now. Careful. “I wanted to say thank you.”

He doesn’t respond immediately. His gaze is steady. Measured.

“I don’t tolerate incompetence,” he says calmly. “That includes false accusations.”

You blink, taken off guard by the directness. It’s not warm. Not even particularly kind. But coming from him, it’s almost intimate.

Still, you can’t help yourself. “That wasn’t really about incompetence.”

“No,” he admits. “It wasn’t.”

The hallway feels smaller now, quieter. He’s watching you in full. Not scanning you like a chart, not calculating — watching. Still. Focused.

You nod slowly, grounding yourself in the moment. “Still. I needed to say it. Thank you.”

You’re suddenly aware of everything—of the warmth in your cheeks, of the way your hands twist at your sides, of how tall he stands compared to you, even when he’s not trying to intimidate.

And he isn’t. Not now.

If anything, he looks… still.

Not soft. Never that. But something quieter. Less armored.

“You handled yourself better than most would have,” he says after a moment. “Even if I hadn’t said anything, you didn’t lose control.”

“I didn’t feel in control,” you admit, a breath of nervous laughter escaping. “I was two seconds from either crying or throwing my datapad.”

That earns you something surprising—just the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth. Almost a smile. But not quite.

“Neither would’ve been productive,” he says.

You roll your eyes slightly. “Thanks, Doctor Efficiency.”

His glasses catch the light again, but his expression doesn’t change.

You glance past him, down the corridor. “I should get back to my rotation.”

He nods once. “I’ll see you in the lab.”

You pause.

Then—because you don’t know what else to do—you offer a small, genuine smile.

“I’ll be there.”

As you turn to leave, you feel his eyes on your back.

[g0d334t3r]

beneath it all

contents ౨ৎ ⋆ jason todd x fem reader. fluff. — 1k words. ⭑ after a long night out, you and jason come home to read together on the couch.

The night finally exhales in the gilded drawing room of Wayne Manor.

Its breath drifts slow across polished pearl-like marble floors, rustles the sheer curtains by the ceiling-high windows, and pools quietly beneath the twinkling crystals of the chandelier above, though the room has long since gone still, save for the soft thrum of two heartbeats, tucked quietly beneath it all.

Tonight’s mission had been infiltration. A high-class party in Gotham’s heart, where secrets hid beneath silver and smiles that didn’t quite reach the eyes. With a gun strapped to your thigh, hidden under silk, your fingers stayed steady even when the night turned sharp. 

But now, here, the danger has melted away, leaving only calm in the form of Jason’s steady warmth pressed close. 

Sitting pretty in his lap, your strappy white dress spills like moonlight over a midnight lake draped across his dark slacks. You can feel his warmth beneath your thighs, fabric pressing against bare skin.

Jason drinks you in quietly—the curve of your shoulder, the way the fabric shifts as your thin little straps slip down, the gentle rumple of the hem from how he keeps tugging you closer, closer still, once the city finally let the both of you go.

Gotham doesn’t need you right now. He does.

He’s still in his white oxford, unbuttoned at the throat. Sleeves rolled to his elbows, flexed forearms showing the faintest trace of the night’s effort. 

You’re on your couch. His couch. The one Dick playfully rolls his eyes at, watching the two of you tangled up and taking over the space. The same one Damian pretends to throw up near whenever he passes by, making you laugh as Jason flips him off without missing a beat.

One of his arms is around your waist. The other balances a paperback between you, those strong, nimble fingers that so gently trace your skin, keeping the spine cracked without thought. The cover is soft, well-loved and worn from use.

Your body sinks into him and your breath softens. You’re safe. 

Jason pulls you in closer, watching you with the quiet kind of attention that always makes you feel seen without ever having to utter a word. The book stays open.

He’s sitting deep into the cushions while your back is pressed comfortably against his chest. It’s the kind of closeness that doesn’t require an excuse anymore. Just muscle memory. 

You finally reach the last sentence on the page, then slide your fingers under the corner to flip ahead.

“Wait, sweetheart.”

Jason’s cheek grazes yours as he leans forward, eyes still on the paragraph. His warm breath brushes the shell of your ear, voice like dark chocolate melting slow and deep, low over a quiet flame.

You freeze, page halfway turned.

Jason nudges it back with just his thumb, glancing down at you with that little tilt of his mouth that makes your stomach flip—half fondness, half amusement.

“You skipped my favorite part.”

“You have a favorite part?” you murmur, leaning back into him.

He hums, lips brushing close to your ear. You giggle. It tickles. “I always have a favorite part. Especially when I’m reading with you.”

You lean your head against his shoulder, letting him finish the page. The book is steady in his hands, and so are you.

You shift a little, legs draping comfortably across his lap, one arm loosely circling his waist as you settle more fully into him. Tucked into him sideways, nothing has ever felt so right.

Jason’s arm tightens around you instinctively, the book dipping slightly as he adjusts to hold you closer. He doesn’t say anything. Just rests his cheek briefly against the top of your head, like you’ve always fit right there.

The words on the page are starting to blur together and eventually, you give up trying to stay upright. 

Jason glances down, a slow, lazy curve tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Even half-asleep, you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

“Falling asleep on me? Didn’t think the book was that boring.”

“No.” You shift closer, voice soft and mumbling into him. “S’not the book. You always make me sleepy.”

The corner of his lip twitches. “My sleepy girl.”

Your fingers find his waist. Just barely—cold at the tips, almost a whisper of a touch.

But it’s him. Of course, he notices.

Because it’s you.

His larger, calloused hand finds yours. He folds it gently into his palm, then lifts the hem of his shirt—guiding your touch beneath, until your hand lies flat against the bare skin above his hip. Heat hums beneath your fingers.

“That better?” he murmurs, voice low. Soft enough to make something flutter and curl inside of you.

You nod into his chest, fingers splayed flat against his skin.

He exhales softly. Chin rests on your head. The book slants closed beside you, half-dropped.

You move again. Slower this time. Legs stretched across his lap, one arm settling around his middle. Your cheek finds the space just over his heartbeat. The silky material of your dress glides against the cotton of his shirt, soft over firm.

His breath hitches. He doesn’t move.

Then his hand drifts down. Finds yours where it’s fallen loose near his ribs. Lifts it again, and tucks it beneath his shirt.

He’s solid beneath your palm—all defined muscle under soft heat, the steady rise and fall of him slow against your fingers. 

“Here,” he says.

You hum, low and content. He laughs under his breath, running a knuckle affectionately against your cheek.

Jason shifts, one arm beneath your back, the other draped across your shoulder. His head tilts against the couch, eyes already half-lidded. He doesn’t need to wonder if he’ll sleep well. You’re here.

“Goodnight, sweet girl.”

—

Morning seeps slowly through the high windows of Wayne Manor, a pale whisper of light drifting slowly across the marble floor, softening the edges of the waking house.

The grand drawing room door parts with a gentle creak. A pause.

Two figures lie tangled—one folded into the other like threads spun tight. Her hand slips beneath his shirt, fingers resting against skin. A pair of arms curve around her, steady and sure. A worn paperback, half-sunken into the cushions beside them.

Alfred moves soundlessly across the floor to the cedar chest nestled in the linen closet by the window. The scent of lavender rises as the lid lifts.

A thick blanket is unfolded with great care, draped gently over the pair. Corners tucked just so. It settles like a quiet benediction, like freshly fallen snow hugging the ground. Simply meant to be.

A small smile tugs at Alfred’s lips.

From the hall, a gagging noise, followed by a sharp yell: “Father!”

A breath. The door was still open.

“They’re doing it again!”

A sharp sigh. Footsteps retreating, fading behind the call.

He slips out as Damian appears. The door clicks softly closed behind him.

“Alfred." The boy mutters, nose wrinkled with disdain. "We must burn that couch."

“Of course, Master Damian,” Alfred replies. There’s a twinkle in his eye.“Right after breakfast.”

[g0d334t3r]

caleb with filipino reader yippiee ٩(ˊᗜˋ*)و

your legs are draped over caleb’s when you decide that you’re far too comfortable to make any sort of move that would ruin your position, even if it looks a little weird to the average onlooker. 

“psst.” you bend your leg slightly so you could poke him with your toe. unfortunately, your foot ends up at his side, and he lets out a quiet, disgruntled huff at the sensation. “hey.” 

caleb all but sighs deeply, a show of his poorly disguised faux-annoyance. “what. what could you possibly want, pips? you’re compromising my streak here.”

he turns his phone to you, gesturing to his current attempts at beating his high score on whatever block puzzle game he’s been playing. all you do is roll your eyes at his childishness. 

you don’t even raise your head from your phone, too engrossed in one of the ten-minute ads that feature parts of a chinese drama—something about an emperor disguised as a poor man who married a woman who was just disowned by her parents. absentmindedly, you pucker your lips and move your mouth in the general direction of the object you’re asking caleb to grab. “can you get me that?” 

there’s a noticeable dip in the couch, and you hold your hand out, assuming that you would soon feel the weight of the charger on your palm. however, you were sorely mistaken as caleb leans forward to sneak a quick kiss, pecking your lips with an exaggerated ‘mwah!’ before pulling away. 

that catches you by surprise. finally tearing your gaze away from your phone, you blink at him in confusion as to why he kissed you. 

“what was that for?” 

for a split second, caleb’s adorably proud expression falters. you really don’t mean to rain on his parade; he looks so proud of himself, too, with his signature boyish grin and sparkling puppy-dog eyes. 

“were you not asking for a kiss?” 

you shake your head. “no? i was asking you to get my charger.” you repeat the gesture, puckering your lips in an attempt to convey what you meant. 

it was caleb’s turn to blink at you, lips pursing in a line in mock annoyance as he reaches for the charger,  the precarious nature of your comfortable position long gone as he moves. “how was i supposed to understand that?” 

“i was literally pointing at it.” 

the complete deadpan delivery of your words causes caleb’s pout to deepen. with a sigh, he drops your beloved charger in your hand, purposefully slumping back on the couch cushions with added force to make some kind of a point.

“there’s a kiss tax, by the way. for my troubles.”

you can hear the smirk in his voice and he thinks he’s so slick, but all you do is slide your legs off the couch and unceremoniously retreat back to your shared room, leaving him all alone.

“wha—hey!”

i haven't written in so long okay plz excuse me if there are any grammatical or spelling errors. btw kuya caleb realness

[g0d334t3r]

“my boyfriend wants to show you his books, and you better say they’re cool,” you demanded while glaring at the camera. an amused jason could be seen in the back as you made way for him to take center stage. “go, babe.”

“hi,” your boyfriend awkwardly greeted before showing off the two paperback books in his hands. “so this one is ‘frankenstein’ by mary shelley. i know we all dreaded reading it in high school, but i really relate to frankenstein’s monster, and the story’s pretty good if you just give it a chance. plus, it’s a pioneer for the science-fiction genre, so that’s cool.”

you could be seen behind jason making threatening gestures with your hands, almost as if to say ‘leave a nice comment or you’re getting blocked!’

“and this one is ‘pride and prejudice’ by jane austen. another oldie but a classic,” jason said with a nonchalant shrug. “the writing’s beautiful, and i love elizabeth’s character because she reminds me of a certain someone. probably one of my favourite books of all time and just a really good comfort read.”

he turned to see your face quickly morph into heart-eyes and a sweet smile.

“good job, honey. that was a great presentation,” you praised before giving his cheek a loving kiss.

“oh, and i’m also part of a book club. we meet at the community center in the bowery every thursday evening. new members are always welcome,” jason off-handedly added.

“and new members are always welcome,” you sharply reiterated, glancing at the camera with a scary scowl and furrowed brows. “see you thursdays.”

gothambaddiexoxo commented: this man was written by a woman lol singleasaprinlge commented: girl, where can i get myself a boyfriend like this 😭 birdzofprey0 commented: sooo does everyone in this book club look like him or?? asking for a friend

inspired by this video here. REBLOGS and COMMENTS are greatly appreciated

[g0d334t3r]

ᯓ★ˎˊ˗ Mama’s Princess P.17

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

𝒢𝑒𝓃𝓇𝑒/𝒲𝒶𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔 ˙⋆✮ fluff, barely any sight of the boys this is just reader gushing over babygirl lol

> ࣪𖤐.ᐟ Today is just for you and your babygirl

Masterlist

𝙍𝙖𝙛𝙖𝙮𝙚𝙡 °‧🫧⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

The estate was unusually quiet that morning. Rafayel had an early meeting with Thomas, something about contract revisions and a press interview, and with a little pout, you watched him vanish out the grand front doors with a sleepy wave and one last kiss to both your lips and your daughter’s cheeks.

“She’s mine today,” you declared proudly the moment the door shut, cradling the chubby little bundle of pink and lace against your chest. Your two-year-old babygirl blinked up at you with sleepy blue-and-pink eyes, just like Rafayel’s, framed by soft curls of lavender hair. Every time she looked at you with that pouty mouth and the faintest beauty mark under one eye, your heart melted all over again. She looked so much like him it made you squish her just out of instinct.

“No daddy today, huh?” you cooed, pressing a hundred soft kisses along her cheeks. “Just mama. And we’re gonna have the cutest garden day ever.”

You dressed her in a little puff-sleeved sundress that matched yours, all soft strawberry cream tones and frilly lace, and pinned a dainty satin bow behind her ear. The moment you walked into the garden, your daughter gasped like she’d forgotten how magical it was, tulips taller than her, glittering koi in the ponds, soft pastel rugs and tea sets laid out under cherry trees. The gardeners had already prepared your space with parasols and cushions. A basket of plush toys and snacks waited by your side.

“Mamaaaa,” she squealed, chubby legs wobbling toward the patch of wildflowers.

“Careful, princess!” You rushed after her, arms open and ready for any stumble. But she was getting better every day. You watched her toddle into the sunshine with the most dramatic expression of wonder, like the flowers were clapping just for her.

You chased her, picked her up, spun her in your arms, then kissed her cheeks so much she burst into shy, breathless giggles. And you couldn’t help it, you smushed her again.

“I can’t take it. You’re so squishy,” you whined, half-laughing and full of cuteness aggression. “Why are your thighs this chubby, huh? You’re not allowed to be cuter than Mama! I’ll eat you up!”

You spent hours in the garden like that, playing peekaboo behind rose hedges, laying her on the blanket while you gently braided her soft curls with little daisies, feeding her bite-sized fruit with your fingers while she cuddled against your chest. She kept holding onto your dress like a safety blanket, rubbing her face into your collar and muttering sleepy babbles like “Mama smell nice… no daddy, just mama…”

Your heart exploded all over again.

You kissed her forehead, cheeks, tummy, toes. You took dozens of pictures to show Rafayel later. One of her holding your finger, one of her napping belly-up in your lap with a half-eaten strawberry in hand. And one of the two of you nose-to-nose, both smiling with your eyes.

By afternoon, she was dozing off in your arms, full and warm and happy. You whispered lullabies in her ear and cradled her like the precious thing she was.

Rafayel returned home at sunset, quiet as always, slipping in through the garden gate, and froze when he saw the two of you. His eyes softened at the sight of his baby curled in your lap, her tiny hand resting over your heart.

You looked up at him with a soft smile. “We had a very important girls’ day.”

“…Looks like she didn’t miss me at all,” he said dryly, but with the faintest smirk tugging his lips.

“She said I smell better,” you teased.

“I taught her taste,” he deadpanned, bending to kiss your head. Then he crouched beside his daughter, brushing a curl from her flushed cheek. “You two looked like a painting.”

“She is a painting. My masterpiece,” you whispered, rocking her gently. “She looks just like you, but she’s all mine.”

“…Hmph.” He leaned closer, eyes flickering between you and your sleeping baby girl.

“Don’t even think about stealing her. She’s still on my lap.”

He smirked. “You’re both mine anyway.”

𝙕𝙖𝙮𝙣𝙚 ⋆꙳•❅‧*₊⋆☃︎ ‧*❆ ₊⋆

Zayne’s clifftop estate sat perched high above the ocean, its private gardens spilling out in terraces of lavender, roses, and soft clover. The breeze was salty and crisp, and the morning sunlight bathed everything in gold. Normally, Zayne would have already made his rounds at the hospital and returned to hover over you both with quiet, protective doting.

But today, he’d been called in for back-to-back emergency surgeries.

You stood at the estate’s glass balcony doors, your baby girl on your hip, both of you in matching flowy dresses the color of honeyed cream.

“Looks like Daddy’s saving lives today, huh?” you whispered, nuzzling her soft cheek.

She looked up with the same hazel-green eyes as her father, wide, thoughtful, and full of quiet mischief, and murmured, “Mamaaa…”

You pressed a hundred kisses to her cheek in response. “That’s right. You’ve got mama all to yourself today, little lovebug.”

The upper garden was reserved just for the two of you. Zayne had designed it that way, lush hedges for privacy, tall hydrangeas along the edge of the cliff, soft walkways paved in imported stone. He had even added shade pergolas and built-in heaters for days like this. But today, you chose to lay out a thick silk picnic blanket in the sun, where you could sit and kiss your baby endlessly.

Your babygirl was chubby and curious, toddling through the grass with a little bonnet on her head and ribbons tied at the ankles of her socks. She looked like a tiny doll version of Zayne with her deep, thoughtful gaze and soft dark hair, except every time she fell or tumbled, she turned to you, not for comfort, but for praise.

“Good girl!” you gushed, clapping as she plopped onto her bum with a squeak.

She lit up like it was the best applause in the world, giggling wildly. You scrambled over to her on your knees, cupped her cheeks in both hands, and smothered her in kisses.

“Stop being this cute or I will bite you,” you warned playfully. “I’m serious. These cheeks? These chubby little arms?? You’re just like your daddy, making mama crazy with that pouty face!”

You squished her little belly and she shrieked in laughter, clinging to your gown and clambering into your lap. “Mamaaaa,” she babbled, cuddling you like a favorite plush.

She didn’t want anything but your attention all day. You spoon-fed her bits of mango, wiped her mouth like the princess she was, and brushed her hair with a soft gold comb Zayne had custom-made. Every five minutes, you had to pause just to squeeze her again because you couldn’t take it, she was that cute. That soft. That squishy. You weren’t even sure your heart could take another giggle.

By the time afternoon sunlight turned golden-orange, she was fast asleep in your arms. Her bonnet had slipped, and her cheek was pillowed against your chest, little lips parted and damp with drool. You didn’t dare move. You just rocked gently, brushing her hair back again and again, overwhelmed by how much she looked like him.

Then you heard the familiar quiet footsteps behind you. Zayne, still in his scrubs, coat unbuttoned, stethoscope hanging forgotten around his neck. He froze at the edge of the garden when he saw you both in the sun.

“…She didn’t nap in her crib?” he asked quietly, walking closer.

“She refused,” you whispered with a smile, “She said she’d only sleep with her mama’s heartbeat.”

Zayne knelt beside you, his eyes soft, tired hands brushing a finger along his daughter’s cheek. ���Her heart rate’s steady… skin’s a little warm from the sun.” Then his eyes flicked to you. “You too. Did you rest?”

“I got my cuddles in. That’s rest enough.”

He exhaled a quiet laugh and leaned in to kiss the crown of your head. “I don’t know how I’m supposed to go back to work knowing you both look like this all day.”

“You don’t,” you said smugly. “You retire. Stay home. Join the mama-baby club.”

Zayne chuckled, low and warm, and kissed your temple again. “I’ll think about it. But only if I get to be the one holding you both next nap time.”

And with that, he lifted your baby gently into his arms, then reached out to you too, pulling you against his chest so you could rest together in the sky garden, wrapped up in love.

𝙓𝙖𝙫𝙞𝙚𝙧 ⋆⭒˚.⋆🪐 ⋆⭒˚.⋆

The penthouse garden floated high above the city, an enclosed Eden nestled in the clouds. Lush and carefully overgrown, it brimmed with soft grasses, glowing fungi, glimmering pools, and bioluminescent petals that curled open in the sun. It was your favorite place in the whole world, especially when it was just you and your daughter.

Xavier was gone for the day, called away for a mission debriefing. He’d left just before sunrise, kissing the crown of your head as you sleepily clutched his robe and muttered, “Hurry back…”

Now, with the afternoon light spilling golden across the greenhouse-glass roof, it was just you and your babygirl.

Your daughter looked exactly like Xavier, down to the faint silver undertone in her soft hair and the luminous, piercing blue of her eyes. She blinked up at you with that same quiet stare he had, like she could see things you couldn’t. She was your precious, clingy baby, but today she was exploring.

Well… trying to.

She wobbled in her little bunny-printed bloomers and puffed-sleeve top, her chubby legs unsteady on the mossy floor of the garden path. “Mamaaaa!” she squeaked, lifting her arms.

“I’m right here, baby,” you laughed gently, already scooping her into your arms before she could tip over again. “Mama’s always here.”

You kissed her soft cheek, then the tip of her button nose. She gave a giggle so pure and bubbly you felt your entire soul squeeze. Then she rested her head on your chest, thumb in her mouth, sighing like she’d just been through a long day of very serious baby work.

You were helpless. You squished her. You kissed every inch of her. You sniffed her hair and cooed, “Why are you so cute? This isn’t even fair. I’m gonna eat your cheeks, don’t test me, bunny.”

Her only reply was a sleepy babble and a giggle that made your heart ache.

You laid out a soft blanket on the glowing clover patch, Xavier had enchanted it to hum faint lullabies when weight was applied, and set out a tiny tea party for two. Strawberry-shaped cups for juice, soft steamed buns, little fruit hearts cut just for her. She babbled away as you pretended to sip tea with her plush fox in your lap.

“Mamaaa sip,” she insisted, holding up a cup with both hands.

“Yes, ma’am.” You took the tiniest sip, then gasped dramatically. “The flavor! You’re a genius! What did you put in this?”

She giggled so hard she tumbled over.

You immediately squished her again, unable to resist the giggle. “Stop it, stop it, I’m going to burst. My babygirl is too cute. TOO CUTE. Daddy gave me a clone of himself but squishier and clingier and I can’t breathe!”

You kissed her belly while she laughed and kicked, then held her up so you could kiss her face all over again.

Later, you both napped on the swing under the star-glass dome. Your baby slept with her fingers tangled in your sleeve, cheek pressed over your heart. You stroked her back softly, humming lullabies you’d made up just for her.

The door hissed open softly.

Xavier stepped in, cloak draped over one shoulder, his expression unreadable as always, but the moment his eyes fell on the two of you asleep in the garden, something cracked. His gaze softened like sugar in tea.

You stirred. “…You’re home early.”

He nodded, voice quiet. “I told them I had more important matters.”

Xavier walked over and gently traced a gloved finger along your daughter’s hair. “She smells like clover.”

“She was rolling in it.”

“Mm.” He slowly sat beside you, pulling you gently into his lap, wrapping his long arms around both of you. “I dreamed of this once,” he murmured, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. “You and her. Here. In a world that’s not falling apart.”

“She had the best day,” you whispered, already nuzzling closer. “But she did say she missed you.”

He glanced down at her.

“…I missed you both more.”

𝙎𝙮𝙡𝙪𝙨 ✮ ⋆ ˚｡𓅨⋆｡°✩

It was a rare still day in one of Sylus’s quieter safehouses, this one nestled deep in the hills, surrounded by encrypted security walls, scent-tracked fauna, and a carefully curated garden that stretched behind the estate like a pocket of private paradise.

He’d left at dawn for a meeting with some arrogant arms investor, muttering under his breath about amateurs wasting his time, but not before cupping your face and kissing you deeply, gaze flicking to your babygirl asleep in her lacey crib beside you.

“Don’t let her take over the world while I’m gone,” he teased lowly.

“No promises,” you whispered back.

She was taking over your world by midmorning.

Chubby. Silky soft. Your perfect little babygirl who looked nothing like you and exactly like Sylus, silver hair, sleepy blood-red eyes, even the tiniest curl of smirk on her pouty mouth when you doted on her. You were obsessed. Dangerously obsessed.

Today, she wore a tiny puff-sleeved dress in cream and garnet, with matching socks and delicate pearl clips you swore she let you place just to be admired. You’d picked everything to match you, a soft frilly dress set with your hair curled and lips glossed just for her. You looked like a pair of porcelain dolls in a painting. A queen and her heir.

“Look at you,” you cooed, scooping her into your lap on the silk picnic spread in the garden. “Daddy’s little menace. Mama’s squishy doll. Do you even know how perfect you are?”

She giggled and nuzzled her face into your chest like she knew exactly what she was doing.

You didn’t stand a chance.

“Oh no,” you whispered, wide-eyed, lifting her under the arms and staring at her tummy. “Not the belly. Not this soft chubby belly, you’re doing this on purpose.”

She let out a squeal of laughter and you immediately kissed her tummy with loud dramatic mwahs, smothering her in affection as she giggled so hard she hiccuped.

“You’re lucky I’m the one who made this tummy,” you said, mock-scolding as you blew another raspberry on her belly. “I fed you every single meal. I gave you the best milk. Look at this! Look at what a masterpiece I made!”

She kicked her legs and reached for you with a soft, clingy “Maaamaaa…”

“Yes, baby. You can have everything. You already own me.”

You spent the entire afternoon like that, brushing her hair, feeding her tiny fruit hearts, giggling as she waddled around and then demanded to be held every two minutes. Every time you looked at her you had to smother her again. You held her in your arms, cradled her in your lap, rocked her in the garden swing and kissed her eyelids when she yawned.

And when she fell asleep cuddled to your chest in your lap, you whispered, “You’re just like your father… but soft. But mine.”

That’s when you heard the low hum of the front gate disengaging.

Sylus returned earlier than you expected, sleeves rolled, gloves off, dark eyes scanning instinctively, until he saw you.

You, sprawled on the garden blanket, pretty hair pinned back with a bow, soft dress wrinkled from crawling after your babygirl. And your daughter, asleep in your lap with her round tummy rising and falling, pearl clips glinting in the breeze.

He stopped in his tracks.

Then—slowly—he smirked.

“…Did I leave you two alone for five hours or five years?”

“You should see her walk now,” you grinned, stroking her silver curls. “But you’d better brace yourself.”

“For?”

You gently tilted your baby girl to show off her adorableness.

“She’s even squishier today,” you whispered like it was classified intel. “You’re gonna lose it.”

He chuckled low in his throat, crouched beside you, and reached to trace her cheek with one long finger. “I’m not the only one losing it,” he murmured, leaning in to kiss the top of your head. “Look at you. My beautiful little wife going absolutely insane over a baby that looks like me.”

“She doesn’t just look like you. She’s better than you. And she came from me,” you sniffed proudly.

Sylus chuckled again, dark and soft. “Of course she did. I wouldn’t let anyone else make her.”

He kissed your lips, slow and deep, then rested his forehead against yours.

“…She’s perfect,” he whispered.

“So is her mama,” you whispered back, wrapping your arms around both your loves and closing your eyes with a sleepy smile.

𝘾𝙖𝙡𝙚𝙗 ⋆｡ ‧˚ʚ🍎ɞ˚‧｡ ⋆

The Skyhaven penthouse was unusually quiet without Caleb home, no bootsteps on marble, no rustling of tactical coats or comms crackling through speakers. He was off at a Farspace strategy summit, something high-priority, something political. He hadn’t wanted to leave.

“Only for a few hours,” he’d said, hands resting protectively on your hips, eyes flickering down to the tiny bundle in your arms. “Keep her close to you.”

“As always,” you’d whispered, pressing a kiss to his lips, then to the forehead of the baby in his arms before he reluctantly handed her back.

Your daughter was still the sweetest thing you had ever seen.

A chubby little angel, soft and smiling, with her father’s deep violet eyes and rich dark hair, curled against your chest in a cloud of tulle and satin. You had dressed her in a little lilac puff-sleeved romper with bow socks and a lace bonnet, and the moment you picked her up to admire her, you squealed.

“Caleb,” you whispered aloud to no one, cradling your daughter against your chest as she blinked up sleepily, “How did we make something this sweet? I can’t even breathe, she’s too precious.”

Your baby let out a gentle coo, nuzzling her face into your neck.

“Oh my goodness, do you want me to explode?!” you gasped, clutching her close and peppering soft kisses all over her cheeks, her chubby hands, her dimpled arms.

You took her out into the private Skyhaven rooftop garden, just as the artificial sky dome adjusted into warm sunlight. Everything sparkled, the skyline, the flower beds, the soft playground padding Caleb had installed just for her to crawl on safely. You laid down a blanket and placed her gently on your lap.

“There,” you whispered, beaming. “My pretty little babygirl. You look like a doll. You are a doll.”

She smiled, wide and gummy, clapping her hands together with glee. Her curls bounced beneath her bonnet as she babbled toward the clouds.

You couldn’t take it.

You leaned down and kissed her tummy over and over, then buried your face in it with a muffled squeal. “You’re so soft and squishy because mama made very good milk, yes I did,” you cooed proudly. “Your thighs are so chunky. Your arms are little dumplings. You’re perfect. And you’re mine.”

She giggled so sweetly, so softly, like a flower blooming in the sun.

You had never loved anything this much.

Hours passed just like that, nuzzling, playing, feeding her, cuddling her until she drifted to sleep in your arms, fingers curled into your gown.

You were so in love with her that you barely noticed the faint sound of the elevator until it opened quietly behind you.

Caleb.

Bootsteps were light today. He wasn’t in uniform anymorec just a soft black shirt, sleeves rolled, no tie, eyes a little tired, but the moment he saw you and your baby laying in the garden sun, he paused.

He said nothing for a long moment.

Then, “You two look like you were painted here.”

You smiled and glanced up, still cradling her sleeping form. “She had the best day. We played all morning. I dressed her up. I kissed her so much I think she’s sick of me.”

“She’s never sick of you.” Caleb came closer, crouching beside you both. “I’m not either.”

He brushed her cheek gently, then leaned in and kissed your lips with reverence. “She’s getting chubbier.”

“Because I’m doing a very good job,” you said smugly, kissing the top of her head. “She’s a total mama’s girl today, by the way.”

Caleb raised a brow. “That so?”

“She wouldn’t even look at your picture on the comms.”

He narrowed his eyes playfully and scooped her up into his arms with the softest, most careful grace. “What about now, sweet pea? Hm?”

Your daughter stirred softly, her little mouth forming the beginning of a yawn, until her sleepy gaze landed on him.

“Da…dy…”

Caleb’s entire expression shattered.

“…Oh,” he murmured, voice thickening. “There you are.”

You leaned your head against his arm and smiled at the two of them. “Told you. She’s the sweetest baby girl in the universe.”

He glanced down at you, eyes impossibly gentle. “Like her mama.”

And he held you both close for the rest of the sunset.

[g0d334t3r]

GIRL PLS I'M A BIG FAN OF YOUR FANFIC, THEY'RE SO CUTE I'M SO OBSESSED 😩😩 thank you for your service!😋🥰 but can you please write the same scenario as mama's princess pt 5 but with boys? if you don't want to it's totally okay! thanks in advance girly! 😽💗💖

ᯓ★ˎˊ˗ Mama’s Prince P.2

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

𝒢𝑒𝓃𝓇𝑒/𝒲𝒶𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔 ˙⋆✮ fluff, adorable, lmk if you guys have more requests for mamas prince cause mamas princess is atleast at like part 13 lol

> ࣪𖤐.ᐟ Your babyboy’s ready to defend mama at all cost

Masterlist

𝙍𝙖𝙛𝙖𝙮𝙚𝙡 °‧🫧⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

The children’s gallery opening was meant to be a soft launch for your son’s first official art show, a pastel-filled space brimming with tiny easels, velvet cupcakes, and his watercolor paintings of shells, fish, and dreamy undersea castles (most of which featured a “mama mermaid” in the center).

Rafayel spared no expense.

The entire exhibit was sponsored by his studio. The invite list had been personally filtered. You were in Secret Honey lace and platform heels, sat on a tufted bench with your son in your lap, while he proudly clutched a mini plastic paintbrush like a scepter.

He looked just like his daddy.

Purple waves brushing his cheeks. Pale lashes. Big, serious, blue-pink eyes staring down every adult who dared enter the room like they were a threat to your peace.

And then, of course, someone slipped through.

A woman from the city’s creative committee, tall and overly perfumed, leaned in too close to where you sat and cooed, “Oh, he’s so talented for his age! Must’ve inherited it from daddy’s side, hm?”

She laughed lightly, eyes flicking toward you. “Not to be rude, dear, but you don’t really strike me as the artistic type. You’re more like, um… decoration?”

She probably meant it as a joke.

But your smile faltered. Just slightly.

Before you could even respond,

Before Rafayel could step out from behind the display he was adjusting,

Your son turned around in your lap and glared at the woman like a royal insult had just been issued.

And then, in a voice that was eerily calm:

“Don’t talk to my mama like that.”

A pause. A chill.

Then he turned his head slightly, nose tilted up with perfect Rafayel-level disdain, and added:

“You’re not even invited.”

The room went still.

The woman blinked. “E–Excuse me?”

Your little boy didn’t flinch.

“You’re not on the list. My daddy said only nice people can come.”

And then Rafayel appeared, silent behind the woman.

A sweet smile on his face. Icy fingers grazing her wrist as he plucked the untouched champagne glass from her hand.

“Oh? You aren’t on the list, are you? How strange. You’ll leave now, won’t you? Before you embarrass yourself further.”

He turned to your son, ruffling his soft curls.

“Thank you for protecting mama, little moon.”

“She’s my mama,” your son muttered stubbornly. “Mine first.”

Rafayel chuckled lowly, kissed your temple.

“He’s right, you know,” he murmured, smiling against your skin. “Even I’m not allowed to upset mama. So what made her think she could get away with it?”

Needless to say,

The gallery staff escorted the woman out, and your son received a second cupcake for “excellent taste and judgment.” Rafayel carried you both home after the event, mumbling how lucky he was that his wife and son were perfect and terrifying, and how he wouldn’t want it any other way.

𝙕𝙖𝙮𝙣𝙚 ⋆꙳•❅‧*₊⋆☃︎ ‧*❆ ₊⋆

The hospital’s pediatric ward was throwing a celebration, your son’s finger-painting had won first place in a fundraiser art contest, and the gala was to honor all the kids who participated.

Naturally, you were there in a pale pink sundress with matching heels. Your baby boy wore a tiny tailored vest and slacks, hair combed neatly just like Zayne’s, and clung to your side with a death grip on your hand.

He wasn’t smiling.

But he never really did, unless it was just you and Zayne.

Zayne had been called away briefly by a nurse, leaving you to mingle quietly with a few hospital board wives. The ones who smiled with their teeth and made passive-aggressive comments about “how lovely it is that you get to be a full-time wife now.”

And then one of them chuckled, sipping her champagne and gesturing toward you and your son.

“He’s adorable, I’ll give you that. I mean, no offense, but you clearly lucked out in the gene pool. Your husband’s got those sharp features, and the boy takes all after him, doesn’t he? Hopefully he gets his brains too.”

You didn’t react. Just gave a tight, neutral smile.

But your son’s head turned slowly.

He stared at the woman for a long, deadpan moment. Then,

“…She’s not just pretty.”

His voice was quiet, flat, serious.

The woman blinked, startled. “Oh, I didn’t mean,”

“She’s smarter than you.”

And then he tugged on your hand.

“Mama, let’s go. I don’t want to be near rude people. You can tell Daddy later.”

You can tell Daddy later.

That was a threat.

You were still recovering from the shock when Zayne returned, crouched down to straighten his son’s collar, and murmured, “Everything alright?”

Your little one leaned in and whispered exactly what the woman said.

Zayne’s face remained unreadable, except for the way his eyes locked onto her across the room, sharp and clinical like he was mentally dissecting her.

“…I see.”

She was asked to leave not long after. Something about “violating the event’s code of conduct.”

You sat down with your son on your lap, his arms looped around your waist as he buried his face into your chest like nothing had happened.

Zayne came back a few minutes later, smoothed your hair back, and murmured:

“I heard what he said. You raised him well.”

“You helped raise him,” you whispered, touched.

“…I never said I was talking to you.”

He kissed the top of your head, then your son’s.

“Good work, kid. I’ll buy you a better set of paints than whatever the hospital gave you.”

Your son just blinked up at him and said flatly:

“You should buy mama a new dress too.”

𝙓𝙖𝙫𝙞𝙚𝙧 ⋆⭒˚.⋆🪐 ⋆⭒˚.⋆

The Deep Space Hunter Association was holding their annual memorial gala, honoring the families of retired hunters and their contributions to the field. This year’s theme was “Beyond the Stars.”

You weren’t a hunter anymore. You were Xavier’s pretty, pampered wife now.

But your son’s drawing, an oddly accurate rendering of a decommissioned Starclass cruiser drifting in a starlit field, had made it into the memorial booklets, and a miniature 3D model of it was placed on a display table with his name.

He stuck to your side like glue the entire night.

Tiny silver-haired copy of his father, dressed in a suit Xavier had custom-commissioned in midnight blue silk. His little hand clenched tight in yours. He didn’t speak much to anyone. Just blinked slowly at them and occasionally stared at the ceiling like he was thinking about the fate of dying galaxies.

And then it happened.

A guest, some washed-up former officer’s wife—approached you during cocktail hour.

She smiled too widely.

“You were a hunter, weren’t you, sweetheart? Gave it all up to play house?”

You laughed politely, brushing your son’s hair from his cheek.

But the woman leaned in conspiratorially, loud enough for the nearby table to hear.

“Well, I suppose even a little darling like you needs a fallback plan. Married a high ranking hunter, didn’t you? Smart. That’s how you keep eating. Pretty face, cozy job title, the baby’s probably the only reason he keeps you around now, hmm?”

You froze.

And before Xavier could even reappear from behind the wine bar where he was reading the gala sponsor list…

Your little boy turned his head toward the woman.

Very slowly. Eyes dull. Voice flat.

“You shouldn’t talk to mama.”

She blinked. “Sorry?”

“You shouldn’t talk to mama.”

“Ever.”

There was something eerie about how still he stood.

How his little mouth didn’t move much. How his hand was still in yours, but his words felt like they came from the void.

The woman frowned, awkwardly laughing it off.

“Oh, he’s a serious one, isn’t he—?”

“Mama doesn’t need to be smart. She’s perfect already.”

“And I’m smart enough for both of us.”

You gasped softly, touched. But the room had gone tense.

That’s when Xavier’s voice cut in, quiet, but sharp, from behind.

“…Is there a problem?”

He was suddenly next to you. One arm around your waist. The other resting protectively on his son’s small shoulder.

“Because it sounded like someone was disrespecting my wife in front of our child,” Xavier said softly, expression unreadable. “And frankly, I’m feeling… territorial.”

The woman stammered. “I-I didn’t mean—”

“Leave.”

“He already told you once. You shouldn’t talk to her. Don’t make me repeat him.”

She left. Pale.

You turned to your son to kiss his temple, but he was already clinging to your leg again like nothing happened. His little voice whispered:

“I don’t like loud people.”

Xavier nodded in agreement, lifting the boy into his arms with ease.

“Neither do I. But you did well, little star.”

“I didn’t like what she said,” your son mumbled, hiding in Xavier’s neck.

“Me neither,” Xavier murmured, brushing your lips with a soft kiss. “If I’d gotten to her first, I might’ve removed her from the guest list literally. But you were faster.”

He paused. Smiled faintly.

“Like father, like son.”

𝙎𝙮𝙡𝙪𝙨 ✮ ⋆ ˚｡𓅨⋆｡°✩

It was supposed to be a harmless little ribbon-cutting ceremony, The Learning Annex, a gleaming, high-security facility for early childhood education and strategy training (because of course your husband thinks kindergarteners need chessboards and surveillance-proof lockers).

Your son had helped design the logo.

A dramatic silver phoenix… wearing a crown.

“Like mama,” he said with a perfectly straight face when reporters asked him why.

You were seated in the front row in a frilly pearl-toned dress and heels that Sylus had picked to match the annex aesthetic, while your son stood beside your chair like a tiny bodyguard. His suit was custom. His posture perfect. His expression already disgusted with the general public.

Then someone made the mistake of speaking.

A local board member, trying far too hard to sound cute in front of the press, smiled and said loudly:

“You know, it’s sweet. You can tell the boy worships his father. He’s got the blood. Strong. Sharp. Knows how to command a room.”

Then came the fatal line.

“Though I suppose his mother’s… charm is more aesthetic, isn’t it? Not everyone’s built for real influence.”

There was a beat of silence.

You felt your stomach drop. You weren’t even sure what you would’ve said.

But your son stepped forward.

One hand in his pocket. The other pointing right at the man.

“…Say it again.”

“Excuse me?” the man blinked, flustered.

“Say it again. I dare you.”

He tilted his head slightly, red eyes glittering with his father’s exact brand of premeditated malice.

“Say one more thing about my mama. And I’ll tell papa you touched her.”

You choked.

The man paled visibly. “What—?!”

“I won’t even have to lie. I’ll cry in front of the cameras and say you yelled at her. I bet you’d get fired. Or worse.”

At that moment, Sylus himself stepped into view, sipping wine from a black crystal flute like he’d been watching from the wings the entire time.

“Is that true, darling?” he said lazily, eyes flicking to the man. “Did he say something stupid?”

Your son turned to Sylus, voice cold.

“He called mama a decoration.”

Sylus’s smile didn’t reach his eyes.

“Unforgivable.”

He turned to the man and said smoothly, “Your invitation to the gala next month is revoked. Your grant request? Shredded. Your seat on the board?”

He reached into his coat, pulled out a folder, and ripped it in half.

“I don’t trust anyone who underestimates my wife. And neither does my son.”

“Smart boy,” he added, ruffling his hair. “He knows power when he sees it.”

Your son beamed for the first time all day.

Then promptly turned to you and climbed into your lap like nothing had happened, muttering:

“Don’t worry, mama. I won.”

𝘾𝙖𝙡𝙚𝙗 ⋆｡ ‧˚ʚ🍎ɞ˚‧｡ ⋆

The banquet was being held in your husband’s honor. A sprawling, glimmering Skyhaven function for his most recent Farspace Fleet success, one of the most high-profile operations in the last five years.

You were seated near the front in a dark velvet dress, wearing a diamond collar Caleb had clasped around your throat himself. Your little boy sat beside you in a mini formal uniform tailored to match his father’s, a gift from the generals. He refused to sit still unless your hand was resting on his thigh.

Caleb had stepped away briefly to speak with a few councilmen. Which was exactly when someone got brave.

An older officer’s wife sat down beside you and offered a tight smile.

“You must be exhausted, dear. Being married to a colonel at your age?”

You tilted your head with a polite smile. “I’m quite happy, thank you.”

But she wasn’t finished.

“I suppose you’re what they call a pretty distraction. A soft thing he can come home to. But he wouldn’t have made it this far if he actually took your opinions seriously, hmm?”

You blinked. That one stung.

But you didn’t respond, because someone beat you to it.

Your son had stood up.

“You don’t talk to my mama like that,” he said, voice shaking. Not from fear, but fury.

The woman turned in surprise. “Excuse me?”

He narrowed his violet eyes, and for a moment, he looked exactly like Caleb on the battlefield.

“You don’t talk to my mama like that. Ever.”

“She’s not a distraction. She’s my dad’s whole world.”

“He says that to us every night.”

You froze, eyes softening.

The woman let out a nervous laugh. “I think you’re a bit too young to understand how grown-ups—”

“I’m not too young,” your son snapped. “I’m smarter than you. And I have better ears.”

Then came the final blow:

“Do you want me to tell my dad what you said? I don’t think you’ll get to keep your table.”

And then you felt it: Caleb had returned. Quiet as a shadow. Standing just behind the woman now, arms crossed and gaze cold.

“…He wouldn’t even need to tell me,” he said darkly. “I heard every word.”

The woman turned pale.

“I’d suggest you find a different banquet to slither into next time. Preferably one where my wife and child aren’t in attendance. Because if I hear you speak to either of them again—”

“—you’ll find yourself uninvited from Skyhaven entirely.”

The woman stammered and fled, heels clacking.

Your little boy turned to you, pouty but proud.

“Did I do good, mama?”

You pulled him into your lap and kissed his forehead.

“You did so good, baby.”

Caleb crouched down beside your chair, smoothing his son’s hair and brushing his lips against your cheek.

“He’s right, you know,” Caleb whispered. “You’re my whole world.”

“And if anyone forgets that,” he murmured, violet eyes glittering, “our son will remind them.”

[g0d334t3r]

RAFAYEL MYTH I REPEAT RAFAYEL MYTHH

LONG HAIR, HIS TAILLL ?? HE IS SO FAWKING GORJUS BROO @ilovemitsuya

[g0d334t3r]

ᯓ★ˎˊ˗ Obsessed

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

𝒢𝑒𝓃𝓇𝑒/𝒲𝒶𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔 ˙⋆✮ flufffff, can you tell i love obsessive men. a very long ramble so get a snack and buckle up. not proof read ( ._. )""

> ִ ࣪𖤐.ᐟ 5 Things the boys do that reveals how much they adore their wife

𝙍𝙖𝙛𝙖𝙮𝙚𝙡 °‧🫧⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

ೃ⁀➷ He Paints you Into Everything. Every canvas in his private studio, landscapes, abstract storms, seashell mosaics, contains you likeness or silhouette, whether in bold strokes or hidden in the texture. He claims he doesn’t mean to. He always means to.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

You slip into his studio barefoot, the silk hem of your robe whispering around your ankles. The scent of oils and saltwater hangs in the air, heady, familiar, a little intoxicating. Sunlight pours through the high windows, casting glints across half-finished canvases and glass jars filled with crushed shells and pigment powders.

At first glance, you think it’s another seascape. Rafayel only paints landscapes. He’s said it dozens of times, lips curled in that soft, mocking smile: “Humans are too noisy to trap in stillness.”

But as you step closer, your breath catches.

It’s you.

Floating in a dreamy, underwater world, suspended in a swirl of iridescent blues and pearlescent whites. Your figure is draped in silk, hair drifting like sea grass, your eyes gently closed as if in some impossible, peaceful dream. Jellyfish coil in the background like soft lanterns. Coral blooms behind you like a crown.

You blink slowly. “Raffy… is that me?”

He doesn’t answer at first.

But then you feel him, bare feet silent on the floor, arms sliding around your waist. He presses himself to your back, resting his chin on your shoulder. His skin is warm, his breath tickling the side of your throat.

“You know I don’t paint people,” he murmurs.

You nod, still staring.

He exhales, and it’s almost a sigh. “But I can’t stop painting you.”

His fingers, still faintly stained with lilac and sea-glass green, tighten around your waist, slow and protective.

“You’re not for sale,” he adds, so quietly it barely registers. “They ask me what it’s worth. I tell them it’s mine.”

Your heart stutters.

And in the silence, you suddenly notice: every canvas in this room, every abstract tide, every storm, every island, holds the faintest shape of a woman. Of you. Not always clearly. Sometimes only a curve, or a silhouette, or the ghost of your profile in the reef.

He’s never stopped. And he never will.

ೃ⁀➷ He Forgets Everything But You. Rafayel vanishes for a major press event he was supposed to attend, again. When Thomas demands an explanation, he only says, “She made grilled prawns. What did you expect me to do, miss dinner with my wife?”

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The doorbell rings during lunch. You glance up from your plate of crisp prawn tempura, and Rafayel doesn’t even flinch. He’s busy balancing another piece between his chopsticks, lips slightly pouty as he leans over the table.

You sigh and rise to answer, robe fluttering open just enough to remind you how little effort you put into dressing. The moment the door creaks open, you’re face-to-face with a whole delegation, his sponsors, dressed in business formal, holding tablets and tight smiles.

“Is Rafayel here?” one asks.

You hesitate. Behind you, his voice rings out lazily from the kitchen. “Tell them I’ve retired.”

You turn your head, startled. He’s lounging back in his seat now, bare feet on the chair beside him, eyes half-lidded and lazy.

“Tell them my wife made tempura,” he adds, like that explains everything. “I’m very busy being adored.”

There’s silence at the door. The delegation stares. You just smile, gently close it on them, and pad back to your seat.

ೃ⁀➷ He Gets Jealous of Everything. Seashells you picks up? He polishes and stores them in glass boxes labeled with the date and what you were wearing. A stranger who compliments you? He smiles politely, then later throws the guy’s business card into the sea.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

You’re scrolling through your messages on the terrace, legs tucked under you, when Rafayel crawls into the lounge chair beside you like a cat. He’s shirtless, damp from a swim, hair a little tangled. You offer him a bite of your snack. He ignores it.

Instead, he leans over your shoulder.

“Who’s this guy in your comments?” he asks, his voice light but his eyes too sharp. You glance. Just an old acquaintance from when you were a hunter, dropping a harmless “Looking gorgeous as always.”

You shrug. “Just someone I used to work with. It’s nothing.”

Rafayel says nothing for a moment. Then he nuzzles your temple, the scent of sea salt in his hair. “Mm. Nothing, huh?”

You don’t think much of it—until the next day, when you go to reply and realize the account has blocked you. And the comment’s gone. You glance up at Rafayel, who’s lounging in the sun, sunglasses on and humming.

He never admits anything. He doesn’t need to.

ೃ⁀➷ He Makes You Kiss His Paintings. He used to sign his name in paint. Now, every finished canvas is sealed with a kiss—yours, pressed into the corner using the exact lipstick you wore the day you inspired it. Collectors call it iconic. Rafayel just shrugs. “My wife touched it. That’s what made it valuable.”

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

You find him in the sunroom with the windows cracked open, paint drying slow and fragrant in the humid afternoon air. He’s crouched barefoot over a massive canvas, white shirt riding up his back, sleeves rolled high and streaked with the dreamy colors of ocean light, pearl blue, soft coral, the shimmer of crushed shell.

You approach quietly, knowing he’s in that delicate space between obsession and completion. He doesn’t turn. Not until you say gently, “Is it finished, Raffy?”

Rafayel leans back on his heels, pushing a wavy strand of lavender hair behind his ear. His blue-pink eyes lift to meet yours, and in them: pride. Possession. A hint of something dangerous.

“It was missing one thing,” he murmurs. “But now you’re here.”

You watch as he walks over to the table, picks up a sleek gold lipstick tube, and returns. It’s your favorite shade, sheer cherry, the one he never lets you throw away even when it wears to a nub.

He uncaps it and offers it to you.

You blink. “You want me to…?”

He nods. “Right here.” He taps the corner of the canvas with two fingers. “Your kiss. Just one.”

Your lips part to protest, this is a multimillion-dollar piece. It’ll be in some sealed climate-controlled vault, studied and auctioned and critiqued to death. But Rafayel just tilts his head, smile lazy, voice velvet.

“It’s not real until you touch it.”

So you give in. You always do.

You swipe on the lipstick, lean in close, and press your mouth to the edge of the painting. Soft. Careful. You feel his eyes on you the whole time.

When you pull back, he doesn’t say a word.

He just steps forward, kisses you slow, slow enough to taste the pigment, and then turns back to the canvas like he’s finished a prayer.

“You know they’d pay triple just for that,” he says absently.

You glance at him. “Why?”

He smiles. “Because you’re iconic, darling.”

ೃ⁀➷ He Keeps Your Things Close. He steals your perfume, your hair clips, even a used teacup you left on the balcony. Says it’s for “inspiration,” but really, he just likes the idea of your scent lingering while he works (or sulks).

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

You’re looking for a clean brush in his studio, muttering to yourself as you open one drawer, then another.

Then you pause.

Inside the drawer is a strange little hoard, your old lip balm, a few bobby pins, one of your silk ribbons, even a used teacup you left on the balcony last week. You pick it up slowly, squinting. There’s even a candy wrapper tucked between some pigment jars.

“Rafayel,” you call out, turning to face him.

He’s lounging in the window seat, sketchpad on his knees, not even pretending to look guilty.

“What?” he says innocently.

You hold up the teacup. “This? Seriously?”

He grins. “It still smells like you.”

You raise an eyebrow. “So you’re just keeping…trash now?”

He laughs and sets the sketchpad aside, moving toward you.

“It’s not trash,” he whispers as he corners you. “It’s you. I collect you. It makes me feel better when you’re not here.”

And then he plucks the ribbon from your hand and ties it loosely around your wrist, like he’s tagging his favorite possession.

𝙕𝙖𝙮𝙣𝙚 ⋆꙳•❅‧*₊⋆☃︎ ‧*❆ ₊⋆

ೃ⁀➷ He Tracks Your Health Like a Patient File. Zayne keeps a private log of your vitals, moods, and sleep patterns. You think he’s just observant, but he’s cross-referencing it with medical journals at 3 a.m.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

You find the notebook by accident.

Tucked beneath his copy of Advanced Cardiac Interventions, bound in clean black leather and edged in silver, it looks like one of his clinical logs. You flip it open, expecting complicated sketches of vascular stents or surgical outcomes.

Instead, you see this:

7:42 a.m.

Slept poorly. Rolled to left side more than usual. Possible muscle strain? Check pillow firmness.

8:10 a.m.

Drank only half of tea. Appetite lower than yesterday. Monitor.

8:47 a.m.

Smiled during hair brushing. Slight color return to cheeks. Good.

Your name appears at the top of every page.

You stare at it, stunned. Pages and pages of you, your moods, sleep cycles, appetite, temperature tolerance. Every headache, every restless night. The week you had a sore throat, he recorded it down to the hour. On the morning you cried watching a commercial, he’d written: Stress response? Hormonal? Monitor quietly. Do not press.

You turn another page. This one has no timestamp. Just a scribbled line:

If she ever shows signs of cardiac fatigue, run full scan. No delays. Assume responsibility.

The door clicks open behind you.

“Zaynie—” you start, holding the notebook.

He doesn’t even look surprised. Just walks forward, expression unreadable, loosens his tie. “It’s not a diagnosis log. It’s a care record.”

“You track me like a patient.”

“No.” He takes it gently from your hands, tucks it away without shame. “I track you like someone I can’t afford to lose.”

You go quiet.

He tilts your chin up with two fingers, eyes steady behind his silver-framed glasses. “You’re the only case I won’t let worsen. Not even for a moment.”

ೃ⁀➷ He Clears His Schedule Around Your Routine. He’s performed emergency surgeries on four hours of sleep, but will never miss tea time at 4 p.m. with you. His assistants think it’s a personal ritual. It’s not. It’s yours.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

You’re half-asleep on the velvet couch when you hear the front door click open.

It’s early. You glance at the clock: 3:52 p.m.

Zayne shouldn’t be home for another two hours, he had two consultations and a surgical debrief on the calendar. You even teased him about it this morning, telling him to stop looking at the clock during breakfast like he was counting down.

But there he is.

Stoic as ever, undoing his cuffs and shrugging off his coat with that meticulous grace. He doesn’t say anything as he walks in, just places his briefcase down, rolls his sleeves to the elbow, and starts making your tea.

You blink at him from the couch. “Zaynie. Your schedule—”

“Pushed the debrief to next week,” he says calmly. “The consults can wait.”

You sit up. “You left the hospital for tea?”

He glances over his shoulder as he lifts the kettle. “It’s 4 p.m. I always make your tea at 4 p.m.”

You shake your head, a laugh in your throat. “You’re going to get scolded by the board again.”

He hums, unbothered. “They can manage. You can’t be replaced.”

You watch as he takes out the tea set, the one with the delicate gold rims you picked out for no reason except that it made you feel pretty when he poured from it.

He sets your cup down first, always yours first, then his. Sits beside you and taps your wrist softly, like clockwork.

“You haven’t taken your supplements today.”

You scowl, pouting as you reach for the bottle. “What are you, my doctor?”

He raises a brow. “You married a surgeon. What did you expect?”

You expect a lot of things. But not this, Zayne cutting through a lineup of executives, board members, and patients to be here at 4 p.m. sharp. Not this ritual that feels more sacred than professional.

“I’m not a meeting,” you murmur, sipping the tea.

“No,” he says, leaning back with one arm behind you. “You’re a priority.”

ೃ⁀➷ He Hates When You’re Cold.Zayne keeps your home slightly warmer than normal, always brings your coat before you asks, and has custom-heated floors installed in your dressing room without telling you.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The mansion is warm.

Not just comfortable, warm. The kind of heat that wraps around your ankles and wrists like a cashmere hug. You never thought twice about it, not until guests started pointing it out.

“Is it always this cozy in here?” someone had asked once, tugging at their collar. “You could grow citrus trees indoors.”

Zayne just adjusted the thermostat two degrees higher and said nothing.

You only notice now because you’re in the dressing room, barefoot on the plush floors, rifling through your jewelry when you feel it, radiant heat rising from the floorboards. Not the artificial kind, but the quiet, engineered warmth that takes someone weeks to plan and hours to install.

You drop your earrings into the tray and call out, “Zaynie?”

He appears in the doorway like a shadow, black slacks, dress shirt still tucked in from work, silver glasses slightly fogged from the change in temperature.

“Yes?”

“Did you… get the floors changed?”

A slow blink. “You’ve been cold lately.”

“I wasn’t complaining—”

“You shivered twice last week. I counted.”

You stare at him. “You installed radiant heating just because I shivered twice?”

He steps forward, gently brushing a lock of hair from your cheek, then taps your nose once with a gloved finger. “Three times, if we’re being honest.”

Your protest is swallowed when he pulls a soft wrap from behind his back, a designer one, neutral-toned and heavy with warmth, and drapes it around your shoulders like a cloak.

“I also replaced the coat hooks by the door. Yours are lower now. So you don’t have to stretch.”

“You’re insane.”

“I’m observant,” he corrects, dipping to press a kiss against the top of your head. “And I don’t like it when my wife is uncomfortable. Even a little.”

You want to say something, something sweet or teasing, but his arms slide around your waist, anchoring you there.

And the truth is… you’re not cold anymore.

ೃ⁀➷ He Has a Room No One’s Allowed to Enter. It’s not a secret. Everyone at the hospital knows: third-floor office, east wing, always locked. Inside? Dozens of framed photos of you. Candid shots. your school ID. A painting you made in childhood. Everything.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The east wing of the hospital is always quiet. Too quiet, even for a place filled with polished tile and pressed coats and the sterile smell of antiseptic. You walk past the administrative offices, nod to a few nurses who smile at you knowingly, and stop in front of the door with no label.

Just a number etched into frosted glass: 3-E.

No one else ever enters this room. You know because you’ve asked, and because when you tried to open it once without him, it was locked. Always locked.

Until Zayne’s on shift.

Today, as always, he’s already waiting inside.

He doesn’t say anything when you enter. Just looks up from the chair by the window, glasses pushed slightly down his nose, and gives you that rare, quiet smile that no one else gets. The one he never makes in operating rooms or at board meetings.

“This isn’t your office,” you say, teasing lightly as you close the door behind you.

“No.” He stands, crosses the room, kisses your cheek. “It’s ours.”

You glance around. The room is dimly lit, untouched by hospital whites. The shelves are filled with little things: your high school award ribbon, a clay heart you made when you were kids, framed photos of you asleep on the couch, smiling with a pastry, reading at the garden table.

One wall is just… you.

Dozens of images. Not just posed photos, but candid shots from over the years, captured quietly, some even a little blurred. One from your university entrance ceremony. Another of you holding a stray kitten. One where you’re dancing barefoot in the kitchen, clearly unaware of the lens.

“They’d say this is unprofessional,” you whisper, half in awe.

Zayne follows your gaze. “They don’t enter this room. They don’t even know what it’s for.”

“Doesn’t the hospital need the space?”

He turns to you, brow slightly raised. “They can build another wing.”

You laugh. But he’s serious. He always is.

You sit on the leather couch, brought in just for this room, and lean into his side when he joins you. It smells like clean books and cologne, like safety.

“They think I’m taking breaks here,” he murmurs against your hair. “And I am. You’re the only thing that resets me.”

You press your hand over his, steady and warm on your thigh. “Even on days when you’re operating for ten hours straight?”

He answers without pause. “Especially then.”

You smile.

Because no one else is allowed in here. Not nurses. Not doctors. Not directors or surgeons or donors. No one.

Only you.

ೃ⁀➷ He Keeps Your Wedding Ring on During Surgery. Strictly against protocol. But Zayne wears a thin chain beneath his scrub top with your ring on it, always close to his heart. He kisses it once before every surgery.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

It’s early.

Too early for visitors, but the surgical wing lets you through anyway. They always do. You’ve become a familiar sight, soft sweater, low heels, a thermos of tea in one hand and a warm roll tucked into foil in the other. Someone even tried calling you “Doctor’s Wife” once in passing.

You didn’t correct them.

You find him in the prep room, silent and steady, already halfway into his scrubs. His surgical coat is neatly folded beside him. Monitors glow soft green and blue around the edges of the room.

He doesn’t look up when you enter, but only because he doesn’t need to.

“You’re early,” he says, voice low, hands gloved as he ties the final knot at the back of his scrub top.

“I made you tea.”

He finally turns to face you.

For a second, all the tension in his shoulders melts. “You always do.”

You cross the room, careful not to disrupt the sterility, and hand him the thermos. His fingers brush yours, a small, practiced touch, but his gaze lingers longer.

And then you see it.

Around his neck, tucked beneath the high collar of his scrubs, a silver chain glints against his skin. Hanging from it, almost modestly, is the wedding ring.

Your breath catches. “Zayne…”

“It’s safer this way during surgery,” he murmurs, fingers brushing the chain once. “Can’t risk tearing a glove or contaminating the field.”

“You could leave it in a locker.”

“I don’t take it off,” he replies, eyes locking with yours. “It stays on me. Always.”

You stare at him, chest aching.

He steps closer, lifts your hand to his lips, and kisses your knuckles through the gloves. “If something goes wrong in the OR… I want it to be the last thing touching me.”

You don’t speak. Can’t.

He gently taps the ring where it rests against his heart. “This isn’t for display. It’s a promise. And I don’t break promises.”

The intercom chimes, calling his name.

He gives your hand one last squeeze before slipping past you toward the surgical theater, every step calm, every movement exact. As if the ring resting against his heart is the most sacred tool he’ll carry in with him.

And maybe it is.

𝙓𝙖𝙫𝙞𝙚𝙧 ⋆⭒˚.⋆🪐 ⋆⭒˚.⋆

ೃ⁀➷ He Keeps a Journal Only You’re Allowed to Read. Each night, Xavier writes in a private, leather-bound journal filled only with thoughts of you. His quiet observations, sketches, and memories line the pages, everything from what color you wore that day to how you smelled when you hugged him goodnight. No one else knows it exists.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Xavier has always been quiet, unreadable to nearly everyone. But buried in the locked drawer beside his bed, tucked beneath mission reports and sleek silver weapons, is a worn, soft-covered notebook.

He writes in it every night.

No one else knows it exists. It doesn’t contain mission details or philosophical musings.

It’s about you.

Each entry is a fragment of a day with you: what you wore, what you smiled at, the exact phrasing of something you whispered in your sleep. He documents it with a near-clinical focus, until the margins start to fill with drawings of your earrings, your hand, the way your lashes curl when you cry.

You once caught him writing.

He froze, half-leaning over the desk, hand hovering above the page.

“I’ll stop,” he said, not quite meeting your eyes.

You asked, “Why would you stop?”

He finally looked up. “Because I wouldn’t want it to scare you.”

You took the journal, read the last line he’d written:

She brought me a piece of cake and fell asleep in my lap. The frosting was on her cheek. I hope she does it again.

You kissed his temple and handed it back.

Now, when he finishes writing for the night, he sets it beside your pillow.

No lock anymore.

Because only you are allowed to read it.

ೃ⁀➷ He Memorizes the Sound of Your Footsteps. Xavier claims it’s for safety reasons, but he can tell it’s you coming from down the hall before anyone else, no matter how quiet. If someone else walks like you? He’ll tilt his head, eyes narrowing just slightly. “Not her,” he murmurs.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The doors of the Deepspace hunter association HQ hiss open behind him.

Xavier doesn’t turn.

His fingers glide over the interface of the tactical screen, scanning alerts from Sector 9. Silence, for a moment. Then he pauses, his body still, attention snapping to the faint echo of steps approaching.

He listens.

One beat. Two. Click. Tap. Click. Tap.

Too fast. Too light.

“Wrong rhythm,” he murmurs to no one in particular.

The new hunter at the entrance freezes. “Sir?”

Xavier finally turns. His blue eyes narrow ever so slightly. “You walk like someone trying to be unnoticed. My wife doesn’t.”

The hunter stammers something about relaying a message.

“Leave it on the console,” Xavier says, returning to the screen. But the data means nothing now. Not until he hears the right steps.

Twenty minutes later, he hears them, high heels, soft, wrapped in the familiar click of your star anklet charm, and for the first time that day, he breathes properly.

ೃ⁀➷ He Keeps Falling Asleep in Your Lap, No Matter Where. Floor of the observatory? Mid tea time? Wrapped in a blanket on the rooftop terrace? If you’re there, he’s instantly more relaxed, and unconscious. Only you can wake him. Gently. With a kiss.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

You find him curled up on the reading room floor, halfway under the desk, using your folded cardigan as a pillow.

Again.

You huff softly and crouch beside him, brushing a bit of silver hair from his cheek. “Xavi…”

“Shhh,” he mumbles without opening his eyes. “You make good shadows.”

“You’re not even on me this time.”

He shifts, arms snaking out lazily until he finds your lap. Without a second thought, he lays his head there and sighs. “Better.”

You blink. “This is the sixth time this week you’ve passed out in a random room.”

“I don’t pass out,” he says sleepily. “I regenerate. You’re my recharge station.”

You roll your eyes. But your fingers are already stroking through his hair, and he’s already asleep

ೃ⁀➷ He Wears Your Hairpin in missions. He found it on the bathroom counter once, small, simple, glinting with a faint lavender shine. Now he tucks it into his uniform, inside his coat, just over his chest. No one else sees it. But it’s always there. And he always comes back alive.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The black undershirt of his uniform is half-unzipped, hung up beside his jacket after a long mission. You notice it only when helping him undress, right there, tucked just inside the lining near his chest.

Your lavender hairpin.

“Xavier.” You hold it up. “What is this doing in here?”

He looks at it, expression unreadable. “It was on the bathroom counter.”

“Yes, last week.”

He tilts his head slightly. “You left it. It looked like protection.”

“You wore it into the no hunt zone?”

He meets your eyes and finally says, softer, “I always come back when I wear it.”

Your heart stutters.

He doesn’t ask for it back. You tuck it into the pocket of his coat yourself the next morning.

ೃ⁀➷ He Keeps a Jar of Your Perfume in His Jacket Pocket. He claims it’s to mask foreign pheromone readings during missions. But when he thinks you’re not looking, he opens the jar just to breathe you in. Even mid-fight.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

He’s supposed to be on a stealth mission.

But you find him crouched on the balcony at 3AM, jacket over his shoulders, gloved fingers toying with the tiny glass jar he keeps in his pocket.

You know what it is. Your perfume, mixed into a custom oil he once bottled by hand. Just enough to carry your scent with him.

He doesn’t see you approach until you sit beside him.

“Couldn’t sleep?” you murmur.

“No.” He doesn’t look at you—but his fingers still on the jar. “This is the part of the mission where I start wondering if I’ll get back.”

You press a hand to his thigh. “You always do.”

He finally turns to you, eyes darker in the moonlight. “Because you’re waiting.”

He opens the jar and breathes in. Then leans forward and presses a soft kiss to your neck, just under your ear.

“You smell like home,” he says quietly.

𝙎𝙮𝙡𝙪𝙨 ✮ ⋆ ˚｡𓅨⋆｡°✩

ೃ⁀➷ He Brands His Territory. With Elegance. Every dress, every pair of heels, every piece of jewelry you wear at public events is custom-designed and crafted with a hidden signature: a red crow seal pressed somewhere only he knows to look. You belong to him, and everyone important knows it.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The gala hall is filled with powerful men and women, each dressed like royalty. Your gown glimmers, slit high, heels sharper than your stare. Still, you fidget. You feel them watching.

Then Sylus appears.

He leans close, voice low against your ear, lips brushing your skin. “You feel them staring, don’t you?”

You nod, uneasy.

He doesn’t scowl. Doesn’t growl.

He smirks. “Let them. None of them are brave enough to ask what the red crow seal means.”

You blink. “Seal?”

He runs a gloved finger along the back of your dress—stopping just above the zipper. You feel it now: a faint embossed sigil, stitched in blood-red silk.

“They’ll see it eventually,” he hums. “And they’ll know: you’re already taken. Stamped. Sealed. Mine.”

ೃ⁀➷ He Secretly Monitors Every Room You Walk Into. His tech teams set up discreet surveillance in every public space you frequent, not to spy, but to react instantly if you’re ever in trouble. He doesn’t trust the world with you. Only himself.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

You had thought it was coincidence, the same man, twice in the café, once again outside the plaza. He hadn’t spoken. Hadn’t approached. Just… lingered.

When you mention it offhandedly during dinner, Sylus stills mid-sip of his wine.

His eyes glow faint red.

“Describe him.”

You do.

He doesn’t ask for clarification.

The next morning, the man is gone. Not dead. Not harmed. But scrubbed from every system, persona, and file. As if he’d never existed.

You ask Sylus about it.

He raises an eyebrow. “Do you think I built surveillance in your world for decoration? I see what you don’t, darling. And I remove it before it gets close enough to blink.”

ೃ⁀➷ He Makes Enemies Disappear, Before You Know They Were a Threat. You never hear about the journalist who tried to dig into your private life. Or the petty business who made a backhanded comment about you in an executive room. But Sylus heard, and their influence vanished overnight.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

You never hear about them.

The journalist who asked one too many questions. The analyst who muttered something sharp under their breath during a conference. The rival heiress who dared to imply that you were just a pretty face on Sylus’s arm.

You don’t notice it, but Sylus does.

He always does.

And he acts before the insult ever reaches your ears.

One week later, the journalist’s platform is gone, shut down by a legal landslide no one saw coming. The analyst? “Transferred” to a silent post on the moon’s edge. The heiress? Her fortune crumbles overnight, and no one dares mention why. It all happens so quietly, so cleanly, like they simply… ceased to matter.

You ask, once.

“What happened to her?”

Sylus hums, unbothered, sipping his wine as he fingers the red brooch on your chest. “Nothing important.”

You lean into him, the warmth of his blazer draped over your shoulders. He kisses your temple without taking his eyes off the skyline.

You never ask again.

Because when you walk into a room now, people look twice, and then bow. Not out of fear of you, but of what moves behind you. What watches. What whispers your name like a silent, invisible crown.

They never see it coming.

But Sylus does.

And he never misses.

ೃ⁀➷ He Keeps a Private Gallery, Of Only You. Tucked deep in his base is a red-lit room that no one enters but him. Inside: holograms, still photos, sketches, images of you in every expression, mood, and angle. He never brings it up. But when he’s gone for too long, that’s where he disappears to.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

You’ve never seen the room.

No one has.

Tucked beneath biometric locks and red-lit corridors in one of Sylus’s most secure bases, it’s not listed on any blueprint. Not even his most loyal lieutenants know it exists. But it does.

A space carved out of shadows and silence. The walls? Floor-to-ceiling screens and sketch-strewn tables. Dozens of holoframes flickering in dim light, each holding you.

You, smiling in the garden of your villa. You, asleep with a book slipping from your fingers. You, storm-eyed and laughing, lips painted in defiance. Moments you don’t even remember, captured and preserved like relics of devotion. Holograms move in slow loops, and still sketches, hand-drawn in crimson ink, rest beneath protective glass.

He doesn’t speak about it. Never tells you.

But when he’s gone too long, deep in enemy territory, cut off by war, surrounded by silence and blood—that’s where he goes. Sits in the dark. Watches you.

Not the public versions of you, no.

The real ones.

He doesn’t look at maps. Doesn’t check reports. He stands with his hands in his pockets and eyes on your smile like it’s the only light left in the universe.

And when he finally returns, smelling of steel and victory, he always cups your face like it’s been centuries.

You don’t know why.

But he does.

Because even the coldest man in the world needs warmth to come back to.

And for Sylus?

That warmth is always, only, you.

ೃ⁀➷ He Carries a Locket, A Crimson One. Worn under his shirt, never seen by anyone else. Inside it? A delicate photo of you, smiling, hair windblown, wearing the crow brooch he gave you. You’ve never seen it. He never takes it off.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

You’ve never seen it, not once.

But you’ve felt it.

The faint weight beneath his shirt when he leans over you. The way his fingers brush against it when he’s deep in thought, lounging with that maddening, crooked smile. It’s small, oval, and warm with his body heat, and he never lets anyone touch it.

He’d never even mentioned it until one evening, when you reached for the top button of his shirt, teasing, playful.

His hand closed gently over yours, not stopping, just… slowing.

“What’s that?” you asked, your voice lilting as you tugged the fabric aside.

His eyes flicked down to the blood-red glint at his chest, half-concealed by shadows. You expected a smirk. A sly remark.

But instead, something quieter.

“A locket.”

You blinked. “With what inside?”

A pause. Then:

“You.”

You laughed softly, thinking he was joking.

But he wasn’t.

Worn beneath his clothes, closer to his heart than even the blade strapped to his side, was a crimson locket, deep as garnet, smooth as glass. Inside, a photo he’d taken himself. You didn’t even remember when. You, laughing. Wind in your hair. His crow brooch pinned proudly on your coat.

He hadn’t asked. Hadn’t warned you.

He just kept it.

You reach for it again, slower this time. His fingers don’t stop you.

“I didn’t know you carried this,” you whisper.

His voice is low, rough with a rare honesty. “They can burn my armories. Wipe my networks. Hunt me across star systems. But no one touches this.”

You press a kiss to the spot just above the locket, over the soft beat of his heart.

No words needed.

Because you know now.

That long before he wore crowns of weaponry,

He crowned you the only thing worth carrying.

𝘾𝙖𝙡𝙚𝙗 ⋆｡ ‧˚ʚ🍎ɞ˚‧｡ ⋆

ೃ⁀➷ He Locked You in Paradise. After his last mission, Caleb used his authority to retire you from your job and install you in the Skyhaven penthouse, top floor, panoramic view, full staff, and only one keycard. His. You never asked for a cage. But now? You never want to leave.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

It started with a mission. A long one. Too long.

You didn’t even hear the shuttle land that night, just the hiss of the pressure seal releasing and the sound of Caleb’s boots crossing the penthouse marble like thunder.

“Where’s your comm?” he asked you before even setting down his cap, eyes sharp, voice too calm.

You’d left it in the bathroom. Just for a moment. But it didn’t matter.

The next day, he filed the retirement papers. Without discussion. Without permission. The same afternoon, he upgraded the locks, biometric. One keycard. His. The others, including yours, were deactivated with clinical efficiency.

You had no job. No schedule. No exit.

Just the view from the top of Skyhaven. And him.

At first, you resented it. You tried sulking. Tried pacing. Tried threatening to “go back out there.”

Caleb didn’t flinch.

He just poured you wine, removed your comm privileges from the Farspace network, and told the staff to prepare your bath. “You’re not a hunter,” he said simply. “You’re mine.”

But somewhere between the soft silks he ordered in your exact size and the new vanity fully stocked with all your old favorite products, between the morning massages, the hand-delivered breakfasts, and the scent of him clinging to your sheets, you stopped trying the door.

Now? You wait for him at the window every night, curled in the armchair in one of his stolen shirts. The sky glows violet with the shimmer of passing ships. Your comm is still offline. The outside world doesn’t reach you here.

But Caleb does.

He always does.

The door opens with a soft hiss, and you don’t even have to turn your head.

Gloved hands slip beneath your knees as he lifts you effortlessly into his arms. “I told you I’d be back before sunset.”

“You’re late,” you murmur against his collar.

“I’ll make it up to you.”

And he does, every night.

Because the penthouse may be a cage, but the view?

The view is everything.

And you’ve never been more adored, more protected, or more kept than you are here, locked in paradise, where you belong.

ೃ⁀➷ He Runs, While Carrying You. Every morning, he runs laps around the private garden district of Skyhaven, where only the richest officials live. And every morning, you’re in his arms, giggling in your robe while he jogs with your full weight cradled like treasure. You hate cardio. He makes sure you never have to do it.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Every morning, at exactly 0600, Colonel Caleb of the Farspace Fleet runs his required laps around the gated Skyhaven residential sector. It’s part of his personal discipline, regulation fitness, stamina drills, mental clarity.

But ever since you became his wife, the routine changed.

Because you wanted to be with him, always, but you hated exercise. Hated the way it made your limbs sore, hated sweating, hated the sheer effort of cardio.

You pouted once, half-wrapped in a throw blanket on the penthouse balcony, saying, “I wanna come, but I’m not doing all that running.”

He didn’t miss a beat. “Okay.”

The next morning, he scooped you into his arms, like it was a drill, and took off at full pace, jogging smoothly with your full weight held against his chest.

And now?

It’s ritual. His boots pound the stone path as sunrise lights the clouds, your laughter curling around his ear as you rest your cheek on his shoulder. You’re wrapped in one of his jackets, and you hum softly while he breathes in time with his stride.

Guards salute him. Other officials glance and look away. No one dares comment.

It’s not just a run. It’s his workout with you.

“You’re ridiculous,” you giggle.

Caleb smirks, lips brushing your temple as he exhales, “And you’re my favorite dumbbell.”

ೃ⁀➷ He Dresses You Like a Trophy. You don’t just attend his banquets, you dominate them. He reserves exclusive boutiques just for you, takes leave just to sit back in uniform while you model silks and satin, and buys anything you so much as glance at. You don’t even carry your own bags. That’s what aides are for.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

You don’t even know how many gowns you’ve tried on at this point, but from your place in the boutique’s mirrored lounge, you can hear Caleb’s answer before you ask.

“Get it, Pipsqueak” he says smoothly, voice low with that self-satisfied purr he only gets when you’re dressed to kill. He hasn’t even looked up from where he sits, one leg crossed over the other, black gloves still on from his uniform, Farspace insignia glinting at his collarbone.

You arch a brow in the mirror, turning to examine the open back of the navy silk gown. “You haven’t even seen it.”

“I saw you step out in it. That was enough.”

The stylist freezes. The aides freeze. Even the boutique manager, who only takes appointments from Skyhaven’s highest elite, keeps her eyes low. This isn’t just any Farspace officer treating his girl. This is Colonel Caleb. And you? You’re his. Everyone knows it.

You shift toward him. “You’re spoiling me.”

He leans back on the velvet sofa, eyes dragging up your body with slow, deliberate appreciation. “I’m dressing my victory. You think I’m walking into my own banquet without showing them exactly what I come home to every night?”

A flush rises in your cheeks, but Caleb just gestures lazily with a gloved hand toward the boutique racks. “Try the white one next. I want them to suffer.”

You do. And when you step out in it, spun moonlight over your skin, slit high enough to tease his attention, you catch the twitch of his jaw. That little shift in posture. The faintest smile tugging at his lips.

He doesn’t say “get it” this time.

He just pulls out his comm and says, “Wrap the collection. She’s taking everything.”

You don’t carry a single box. Caleb’s aides handle it all, silent, efficient, practiced. You only hear him again when he’s behind you, coat brushing your back as he leans in to whisper against your neck:

“Next time, we’ll have the whole atelier flown in. I don’t want you lifting a finger. You’re mine to admire, not to work.”

And when you strut into his banquet hours later, his arm tight around your waist, his voice low as he murmurs sweet praises against your temple, you realize something:

You’re not just his wife.

You’re his masterpiece on display.

ೃ⁀➷ He Keeps All Your Stuff, Everywhere. Caleb spreads pieces of you in all his outposts. A lipstick-stained mug on his office desk. A perfume bottle by his cockpit window. A hairbrush tucked in his warship quarters. His subordinates know better than to ask. It’s not for them. It’s for him. Always.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The Skyhaven airstrip bakes under the sun as Caleb descends from the sleek body of his warship, black coat catching the breeze like wings. Officers stand at attention. Engines wind down. But his mind isn’t on them.

It’s on you.

More specifically, on the soft pink lip print still visible on the mug stationed by his cockpit window.

He doesn’t bother wiping it off.

Inside his private wing at Command, the same pattern repeats: a perfume bottle resting beside a case of classified datapads, a velvet scrunchie on the corner of his comms console, a pair of slippers you once kicked off after sitting in his lap during a mission briefing. They’re still there. No one dares move them.

Because everyone in the Fleet knows: those aren’t forgotten things.

They’re claimed.

“Sir,” one bold officer says as he walks past. “You want us to clear the desk before Admiral Talyn arrives?”

Caleb looks up from the mug.

The lipstick kiss stares back at him, barely faded, still perfect.

“No,” he replies coldly. “She can learn to keep her hands to herself.”

The officer goes silent. Caleb continues typing a report with one hand while gently straightening your brush with the other, aligning it so the strands you left behind remain untouched. His expression never softens in public, but if they look closely, they’ll see the way his thumb drifts over the place where your fingers last held the handle.

Later that night, when he’s back at the penthouse and you’re curled in his lap like always, drowsy, spoiled, his, you ask him why he brings your things everywhere.

“Because,” he murmurs, voice low as he presses a kiss beneath your ear, “even when I’m flying over war zones or buried in Fleet intel… I need a piece of you to breathe.”

ೃ⁀➷ He Answers to No One But You. Military brass demand his time. Parliament wants answers. But the moment your call pings his comms, he’s gone. Doesn’t matter if he’s mid-meeting, mid-strategy, or mid-battle. He always answers your voice with one word: “Yes, sweetheart?”

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The command deck of the Farspace Fleet flagship is locked in tension, holographic maps flickering, lieutenants barking coordinates, and Caleb standing at the helm, arms folded behind his back. His black military coat billows slightly from the ship’s internal draft, the purple and red of his insignia gleaming beneath sterile light.

“Colonel, the intercept window closes in three minutes. We need your—”

A soft chime pings in his earpiece.

Caleb stiffens.

One breath. Then another.

The officer beside him squints. “Colonel?”

Caleb lifts a gloved hand, silencing the room with a single motion. Without explanation, he turns on his heel and walks out of the war room, no hesitation, no urgency, like none of this matters compared to the name flashing across his comms.

By the time the blast doors seal behind him, his voice softens into something nearly boyish. He taps the call. “Yes, sweetheart?”

There’s a moment of silence, then your warm, sleep-softened voice: “Hi. I couldn’t sleep… Are you busy?”

He exhales through his nose, slow and fond, already pulling off one glove. “Not anymore.”

“Caleb—wait, aren’t you in the middle of something—?”

“No,” he says simply. “I’m in the hallway. Alone. And I’d rather talk to my wife.”

Your breath catches. He can hear the tiny creak of the penthouse sheets when you curl deeper into them. He imagines you in that oversized shirt you stole from his closet, blinking at the ceiling like you always do when he’s away too long.

“I just missed you,” you murmur.

“I’m flying back after this,” he replies instantly. “Banquet be damned. They’ll reschedule.”

You laugh quietly, like you don’t quite believe him. He’s already opening a classified channel with his off-hand, rerouting half a fleet to cover his absence.

They’ll survive.

They always do.

But only one person gets his everything.

And she’s already in bed, waiting.