Would you mind doing hcs or scenarios of the lads boys babying the reader?
ᯓ★ˎˊ˗ Pampered
𝒲𝒾𝓈𝒽 𝑔𝓇𝒶𝓃𝓉𝑒𝒹 𝒻𝑜𝓇 ˙⋆✮ Rafayel, Zayne, Xavier, Sylus, Caleb
𝒢𝑒𝓃𝓇𝑒/𝒲𝒶𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔 ˙⋆✮ Fluff, lots and lots of fluff, rich men, babying, very fem reader, spoilt princessy attitude
> ࣪𖤐.ᐟ A good husband always cherishes his wife
𝙍𝙖𝙛𝙖𝙮𝙚𝙡 °‧🫧⋆.ೃ࿔*:･
The sea was whispering again.
Gentle waves murmured against the pale white shore, the breeze brushing against the silk curtains of the open veranda. Somewhere far in the distance, a gull cried out, but it was barely noticeable over the soft hum of a lullaby playing on the estate’s hidden speakers, something Rafayel composed himself, tuned perfectly to the frequency that made your eyelids flutter and your shoulders melt.
you lay curled in a nest of imported satin cushions, cradled in a hand-carved seashell chaise, one leg lazily thrown over the armrest as you scrolled on your crystal tablet, mostly just pretty things. Dresses, shoes, crowns you didn’t need but would own before sundown. A half-eaten slice of strawberry mille-feuille sat on the side table, and a pearl-handled fork dangled from your fingers.
Rafayel appeared without warning, the way he always did, barefoot, disheveled, smelling like seawater and sun. His shirt was half-open, sleeves damp and rolled to his elbows, revealing speckles of paint on his wrists. He dropped down beside you with a melodramatic sigh, long limbs folding with an elegance that should’ve been impossible for someone so annoyingly lazy.
“You weren’t in the studio,” you murmured, not looking up.
He rested his head in your lap with a little grin. “Nope. Skipped it. Thomas threw a fit. Something about a gallery showcase. I wasn’t listening.”
“You never are.”
“I was thinking about you instead,” he said, voice low and sweet like syrup. “My little cutie. Wondering if you drank enough water. If you remembered to use the SPF I got you. If you ate anything besides strawberries and cream.”
He tilted his head up to look at you, blue-pink eyes soft and utterly devoted. His voice dropped to a playful whisper.
“Did you?”
“…Maybe.”
With a tut, he sat up just enough to kiss your cheek, then your nose, then your collarbone. Each kiss light, lingering, and just a little possessive.
“You’re getting thinner,” he muttered, fingers ghosting down your arms. “Do I have to spoon-feed you again like last week?”
“I was just tired,” you said, already flushing.
He clicked his tongue. “No excuses, darling. Not when you’re this precious.”
Before you could protest, he was standing again, scooping you up like a bride and cradling you against his chest. You gasped, arms circling his neck as he carried you inside, through the long marbled hallway with shells pressed into the walls, past the domed skylight above the orchid pool, into the sun-drenched kitchen where he deposited you onto the barstool like she weighed nothing at all.
“Sit. Watch,” he said, tapping your nose.
He moved around the kitchen like a dancer, pirouetting with flour, sea salt, delicate herbs, and rare imported fish you’d never remember the name of. Youdidn’t need to. All you knew was that Rafayel made it taste like luxury, and he always cut it into heart shapes or something ridiculous and adorable just to make you giggle.
“Raffy,” you said, eyes glittering. “You never let me do anything anymore.”
He smirked over his shoulder, already plating your food with edible flowers. “Exactly. You’re not supposed to.”
“You trapped me here.”
“Mmhm.”
“In a seaside estate.”
“Go on.”
“And now you pamper me like I’m made of glass.”
He finally turned to you, setting the plate down and leaning over, voice dark and sweet.
“That’s because you are.”
He kissed you then, right as the ocean’s breeze came through the tall windows, lifting the hem of her gauzy robe. You tasted like sugar and strawberries. He deepened the kiss for a moment, hands cradling your jaw, before pulling back with a faint sigh.
“You were a deep space hunter once,” he murmured, brushing your hair behind your ear. “So brave. So serious. So exhausted.”
He kissed your temple.
“And now you’re mine. Soft, spoiled, babied. Loved.”
Your heart fluttered as he picked up the fork again, feeding you the first bite like you were a pampered empress, watching you chew with satisfaction.
“I even bought you that glass tiara you wanted,” he added casually. “It’ll be delivered tomorrow. You can wear it in the bath.”
You tried to scowl but failed miserably as he kissed you again, tongue brushing yours with teasing affection.
“Now be good, sweetheart,” he whispered, brushing his thumb over your lips. “And eat everything. I need my princess fat and happy and absolutely useless, remember?”
You giggled, and Rafayel smiled like it was the only sound he ever wanted to hear.
Later That Evening…
The sea was quieter now. Dark. Still.
Inside the bedroom, the lights were low, casting soft golden patterns across the high ceiling. You were sprawled across Rafayel’s chest, tucked beneath a gauzy blanket that still smelled faintly of orchid milk and sea salt. His arms were looped lazily around your waist, fingertips drawing little circles over your spine.
“You’re heavy when you’re full of cake,” he murmured sleepily, voice low and teasing against your hair.
You huffed. “You made me eat it.”
He chuckled, the sound rumbling through your cheek where it rested against him. “Exactly. Can’t have my princess going to bed hungry. What kind of housewife would you be if you weren’t spoiled to the brim?”
“You baby me too much.”
He kissed the top of your head. “And you let me.”
You were quiet for a moment, listening to the waves outside the open windows, the hush of the curtains moving in the breeze. Then softly, almost inaudibly:
“…I like it.”
He smiled against your skin, arms tightening just enough to remind you he was there—warm, solid, utterly yours.
“Good,” he whispered, brushing your hair back, “because I’m never going to stop.”
𝙕𝙖𝙮𝙣𝙚 ⋆꙳•❅‧*₊⋆☃︎ ‧*❆ ₊⋆
The kitchen was too bright for the early hour, sunlight spilling through the marble arch windows and casting pale gold over polished countertops. The scent of warm rice and grilled miso fish hung in the air, delicate, mild, designed to suit his palate, even if the aesthetic of the lunchbox was unmistakably yours.
The box itself was pastel pink and shaped like a bunny. Inside were neatly arranged rice balls with seaweed smiley faces, tamagoyaki folded into hearts, and a miniature note folded into a star that read:
“Don’t skip lunch, Dr. Grump <3”
Zayne adjusted his tie with one hand and looked down at the open box on the counter with a small, nearly imperceptible smile. The corners of his mouth tilted up just a touch. That was all.
“Adorable,” he muttered under his breath, voice thick with fondness.
Then, he heard it, your steps, light and quick, coming down the grand stairs wrapped in that little robe he bought for you. Silk, dove gray, your initials monogrammed just above the heart. Your hair was still messy from sleep, lips pouting with early-morning fatigue as you shuffled into the kitchen, bare feet soundless against the heated floors.
He turned just in time to catch you mid-yawn.
“You’re up early,” he said quietly, smoothing his coat sleeve. “You usually sleep in when I have morning rounds.”
You blinked up at him. “Wanted to see you off.”
Zayne leaned in immediately, pressing a kiss to your temple, then your cheek, then the corner of your mouth. Each kiss was firm, grounding, practiced. He only pulled back to brush a loose strand of hair behind your ear.
“You should be in bed,” he said in that soft, familiar scold he reserved only for you. “The sheets aren’t going to warm themselves.”
“But your lunch—”
He held up the bunny-shaped box with a faintly amused expression. “Already packed. With love, I assume?”
“Always,” you mumbled, rubbing your eyes.
“Then I’ll eat it in front of the nurses just to show them what a spoiled man I am.”
You flushed a little at that, but Zayne was already turning back to the counter, picking up his tablet and checking the schedule for the day with mechanical efficiency. You knew that look, the Doctor Mode™ face. Still, even with the schedule laid out and his mind already halfway into the operating room, he reached for you with his free hand, pulling you to stand between his legs as he leaned back against the counter.
“You should go back to bed,” he said again, tone softening. “Or take a bath. I already had the temperature set.”
You made a small, sleepy whimper and leaned into him, arms around his waist.
“I miss working,” you admitted, voice muffled against his vest.
Zayne’s fingers slowly combed through your hair. “You miss exhaustion. You miss forgetting to eat and falling asleep in your office chair.”
“I miss my team…”
“They email you. Weekly. And I never stopped you from reading the mission reports.”
You pouted. He kissed it off your lips.
“I didn’t make you quit,” he murmured. “I asked you to rest. To be soft. To be mine. Fully. And you said yes.”
You nodded, slowly. Zayne held your chin and looked at you seriously, hazel-green eyes sharp behind his glasses.
“You are not missing anything out there. You have everything here.”
Then he lifted you easily onto the counter, his large hands warm against your thighs. “You’re my perfect little wife. You pack my lunches with bear-shaped rice balls and handwritten notes. You bring me tea when I forget to hydrate. You nap in the sunroom. You water the hydrangeas. You pick out my pocket squares.”
He slid one into your hand now, a soft peach one to match your robe.
“I am not letting you throw yourself back into that chaos. Not when I finally have you to myself. Not when you finally smile more than you sigh.”
You swallowed, cheeks burning. “You’re so bossy in the mornings.”
“I’m bossy because I care.”
He pulled you off the counter, set you gently on your feet, and buttoned up your robe with care, like you were porcelain. Then, from his coat pocket, he produced a sleek little pillbox.
“You forgot your supplements yesterday. Take them now.”
“Zaaaynieeee…”
“No. Open.”
You did, and he popped one onto your tongue, following it with a kiss so soft you forgot what you were arguing about.
Later that day…
He would sit in the break room, quietly ignoring grayson’s complaints while pulling the pink bunny bento out of his briefcase. When he read the little note, he’d smile to himself, just a bit.
Then, when one of the interns commented on how “cute” it was, he would deadpan:
“She makes them for me every morning. I consider myself extremely fortunate.”
And when he got home—exhausted and loosened from his suit, he’d find you in his oversized shirt, already asleep in his study, curled up in his reading chair. He’d pick you up, kiss your forehead, and carry you to bed without a word. Tucking you in like the most precious thing in his life.
Because you were.
𝙓𝙖𝙫𝙞𝙚𝙧 ⋆⭒˚.⋆🪐 ⋆⭒˚.⋆
It was always quiet in the upper floors of the penthouse.
Soft, surreal quiet, the kind that only existed in homes built high above the clouds. The kind of quiet where time slowed down, and everything felt like a dream stitched together with silk and moonlight.
You were draped in one of Xavier’s oversized white sweaters, sleeves swallowing your hands as you curled up on the crescent-shaped couch in the sunroom. The sweater smelled faintly of his cologne, clean, cool, and something like starlight, and you’d started to associate that scent with safety.
With home.
The low hum of the smart kettle simmered in the background. A jar of golden marmalade sat open beside a tiny teacup, half-filled with his special blend of herbal tea. A handmade plate of shortbread cookies (triangle-shaped, because Xavier didn’t understand why cookies had to be round) waited quietly beside it.
And of course, he was fast asleep. Again.
Curled on the floor beside your legs, one hand resting gently on your ankle like a makeshift leash. His silver hair spilled over your lap, impossibly soft. His breathing was slow, rhythmic, peaceful. Even when unconscious, Xavier looked like something from another world, beautiful, strange, quietly devoted.
You giggled softly and brushed his bangs back, watching the way his lips parted slightly. He made a sleepy hum, then shifted closer, nuzzling into your thigh with all the gentleness of a pampered cat.
“You really fell asleep again?” you whispered, amused.
“Mhm,” he mumbled without opening his eyes. “Recharging.”
“You came in to bring me tea, not nap.”
“I did bring the tea.”
You smiled, brushing your fingers along the shell of his ear. “You’re lucky I don’t mind.”
He finally opened one eye, a soft, glassy blue, and tilted his face toward you, still resting against your lap. “You left the bath too early.”
“You were asleep in the bath.”
“I was making sure the temperature was consistent.”
You snorted. “By napping in it?”
He blinked slowly. “Yes.”
You leaned down and kissed his forehead. “You’re ridiculous.”
“I’m your husband.”
“Which is the same thing.”
Xavier exhaled slowly, then rose to sit beside you. He reached over, wordlessly tugging you into his arms and onto his lap, adjusting your position with graceful efficiency. Your legs ended up draped over his, arms looped around his neck as he cradled you like something precious. Which, to him, you were.
“You’re not allowed to go back to the association.” he murmured, voice low. “I locked your gear away.”
“You hid my gun too.”
“You’re not a hunter anymore,” he whispered, resting his cheek against yours. “You’re… you’re mine.”
You shivered a little, not because it was cold, but because there was such finality in the way he said it. Not possessive. Not controlling. Just… pure. Like a simple fact of the universe.
“You say that like I’m your treasure.”
“You are,” he said. “And treasures stay indoors. Where they’re warm. And happy. And dressed in very soft sweaters.”
You laughed, pressing a kiss to the side of his mouth. “You made me quit.”
“You were tired,” he said simply. “You were hurt. You didn’t say it. But I saw.”
You looked away, but his fingers gently turned your chin back toward him.
“I’ll never let you get hurt again,” he promised. “Not while I’m here.”
“…You’re always here.”
“Exactly.”
He kissed you, soft, dreamy, slow. The kind of kiss that erased the years of chasing stars and burying your exhaustion in duty. The kind of kiss that said: Stay. Let me love you like this forever.
You melted into him, into his arms, into this beautiful moonlit home he’d made for you both.
Later that night…
You found a small wrapped package on your vanity: a new pastel dress, chosen by Xavier himself. Along with it, a simple sticky note in his oddly neat handwriting:
“For tomorrow’s sunroom breakfast.
I promise to make round scones this time. I love you. – X”
You giggled, holding the dress to your chest. Then, from somewhere in the hallway, came the sound of a light thud, Xavier had fallen asleep halfway to the bed again.
Of course.
Your sleepy, sweet, doting husband.
𝙎𝙮𝙡𝙪𝙨 ✮ ⋆ ˚｡𓅨⋆｡°✩
The mansion wasn’t built for subtlety.
It spanned over three sprawling hills of private land in a region Sylus referred to only as “safehouse no. 7.” You once joked that any place with diamond chandeliers and six koi ponds didn’t qualify as a safehouse, but Sylus had just smirked, kissed your forehead, and said, “Kitten, I don’t half-ass security. Or aesthetics.”
Everything inside shimmered like it had been plucked from a fairy tale and reimagined through luxury catalogues. Velvet chaise lounges in your favorite colors. Rococo mirrors imported from galaxies you couldn’t pronounce. Every door had a gilded, custom-made floral etching, and every single room smelled faintly like roses and the perfume Sylus claimed “only suits his princess.”
And in the center of it all, you.
Wrapped in lace and tulle and sitting on the marble vanity as your husband fastened a delicate anklet around your leg. A charm dangled from it: a tiny red crow with a ruby eye. Matching the brooch nestled on your collarbone. Matching the smug glint in his red eyes as he leaned forward to press a kiss just above your ankle.
“There,” he murmured. “Now the whole estate knows who you belong to.”
You giggled, lips parted in a dazed smile. “You already made them print my initials on all the guest towels.”
“And?”
“And you renamed the island after me.”
His smile grew wider, arrogant. “A island is still too small for you.”
You laughed harder, curling your fingers in his silvery hair as he stood to full height, crowding you gently against the mirror. His hand slipped around your waist, firm and possessive.
“You’re insufferable,” you teased.
“I’m perfect,” he corrected, voice low, smug. “And so are you. That’s why I dragged you out of that pathetic job. Look at you. You were never meant to be anything less than worshipped.”
His voice dropped lower, brushing heat against your neck.
“I built this place for you. Every velvet curtain. Every silk sheet. Every gold-dusted bath bomb. All so my princess could finally live like the doll she was meant to be.”
“I do like the bath bombs…”
He chuckled. “You like the fact that I warm the tub for you and brush your hair while you soak in them.”
You couldn’t argue with that.
“And today,” he said, brushing his thumb over your lip, “you’re not lifting a single finger. I had a schedule drafted.”
You blinked. “…A schedule?”
“Of pampering,” he said, guiding you off the vanity and onto his arm. “First: brunch. The chef has recreated those heart-shaped waffles you liked. Then: wardrobe preview. Every dress in your new closet is custom—frills, bows, ridiculous sparkle. You’re picking your favorites and we’re hosting a private photoshoot. I’ve cleared the whole wing.”
You flushed. “Sylus, I don’t need—”
“You need to be spoiled,” he said simply. “That’s my job. To make you giggle. To hear that sweet voice saying you missed me while I was out threatening arms dealers. I want to come back to my princess twirling in something pretty and demanding I carry her down the stairs.”
“…So if I did that right now—?”
He bent low and swept you off your feet before you could finish. Bridal-style. Effortless.
You squealed and held on as he carried you, smirking all the way down the marble steps like he was showing off a rare jewel.
“See?” he said. “Perfect.”
“You’re ridiculous.”
“I’m your ridiculous.”
Later that evening…
He returned from one of his armory audits, only to find you curled on the sofa in one of your new frilly nightgowns, cuddling a plush red crow he’d sneakily commissioned to resemble him.
He didn’t say anything at first, just stood there, leaning against the doorway, watching his wife hold a doll version of him like it was her most treasured thing in the world.
“…I take it you like the surprise?” he said smoothly.
You looked up, eyes wide and glowing. “He sings when you squeeze his tummy!”
You demonstrated, and yes, it was his voice. Singing one of the lullabies he only ever hummed when he thought you were asleep.
“God your singing is horrible as always” You laugh lovingly.
Sylus stared for a moment. Then gave a rare, genuine smile.
“does that mean i can take it back?.”
You pout. “No.”
“Okay okay kitty put those claws away,” he said, eyes glowing faintly red, teasing.
And he crossed the room, scooping you, and the plush crow, into his arms.
𝘾𝙖𝙡𝙚𝙗 ⋆｡ ‧˚ʚ🍎ɞ˚‧｡ ⋆
The Skyhaven penthouse was silent, save for the hum of the wind outside and the soft mechanical shhhh of the air purification system. So high up the clouds drifted right past the windows, and the golden skyline of Linkon City blinked faintly beneath your feet.
Inside, it was all warmth.
Plush carpets. Heated tiles. The faint scent of Caleb’s cologne, cedar, fuel, something electric, lingering on every blanket and every t-shirt of his you stole.
And on the cream-colored velvet couch, you lay sprawled like a doll, clutching a purple dinosaur plush he’d won you from a claw machine, one of seven from that day, actually. Your legs were propped over a pile of throw pillows, your pink robe slipping just enough to reveal the soft lace camisole Caleb had picked out for you that morning.
That was when the front door opened.
Heavy boots. Click of metal. The deep voice, smooth like gravity itself.
“I know you’re not wearing socks again.”
You pouted immediately, pulling your blanket over your toes. “They made my feet hot.”
Caleb’s voice warmed. “Did my little pipsqueak overheat again? Poor thing. C’mere.”
He was out of uniform, just in a dark grey tee and his flight pants, gloves tucked in his back pocket. His hair was still slightly windblown from the helipad. And yet, like always, he looked straight at you first.
Not the mail on the table. Not the reports from the Farspace Fleet.
Just you.
You squealed as he crossed the room in three long strides and scooped you up off the couch like you weighed nothing.
“Caleb!”
“What?” he grinned, settling you on his lap like you belonged there. (You did.) “I didn’t get my hello kiss.”
“You could’ve just sat down next to me!”
He blinked. “…But then I couldn’t baby you properly.”
You sighed dramatically but curled into him like second nature, cheek pressed to his chest.
“Gege…” You mutter out of habit.
“Mhm?”
“I didn’t clean today.”
“Good,” he said without hesitation. “What did I say about that?”
You mumbled into his shirt. “That cleaning is not your job anymore.”
“Exactly.” He ran his gloved fingers gently along your spine, slow and indulgent. “You’re cute to be mopping floors. What if you slipped?”
“You’ve got drones for that…”
“And they’re happy to do it. So why’s my pipsqueak crawling around on the floor like a maid, huh?” He kissed your temple. “You’re supposed to be pampered.”
You sighed again, the kind of sigh that only ever came when you were completely, utterly spoiled.
“…I was gonna cook for you.”
He paused. “Did you touch the stove?”
“…No?”
“Good. You’d probably burn your pretty fingers.”
You gasped, swatting at him. “I made you lunch last week!”
He caught your wrist easily and kissed the back of your hand. “And it was adorable. Still had rice stuck to your cheek after.”
You groaned and buried your face in his neck, already melting as he chuckled.
Then—he shifted, standing with you still in his arms.
“Caleb—!”
“Dinner’s being delivered. I already ordered. You’re having the little custard thing you like for dessert.”
You blinked. “…The peach blossom tart?”
He kissed your cheek. “Mhm.”
“You do love me.”
He smirked. “I married you, didn’t I?”
Later that evening…
You were laying across his lap in the penthouse lounge, nibbling on a fruit skewer while Caleb scrolled through your shared calendar on his tablet.
“…Did you really block off next week as ‘Princess Downtime’?” you asked between bites.
“Yes.”
“You didn’t even write what it was.”
He looked at you, deadpan. “You don’t need a reason. You’re my pipsqueak. If I want to spend three days dressing you up in new outfits and feeding you strawberries while you lounge in my arms, I will.”
You flushed.
“…You’re over the top.”
“You married me anyway.”
You leaned in, kissing his cheek, then whispered: “Only ‘cause I wanted your last name.”
He laughed. Then—casually—
“…Want me to change the law so I’m the only one who can have it?”
“CALEB—!”
