Jan 23, 2025
THIS PART LMAO 😭😭😭
MC is such a sassy queen sometimes, i love her sm
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THIS PART LMAO 😭😭😭
MC is such a sassy queen sometimes, i love her sm
They Hear You Insult Yourself—and Decide to Correct It. Thoroughly
♡ ft. Caleb, Xavier, Rafayel, Zayne, Sylus x fem!reader ♡ cw: body image insecurity, soft angst, intense husband-core reassurance, protective hands everywhere, ends spicy ♡ a/n: it’s just a passing comment. a little sigh, a muttered insult, a careless pinch of skin in the mirror. You didn’t think it mattered. but to them? it’s the worst thing you’ve ever said, and they’ll prove exactly why you’re wrong—slowly, desperately, until you’re gasping their name and forgetting what you ever doubted. PC: @chiaki_0219_3 on X
Caleb
It happens in the bathroom.
You’re standing in front of the mirror in nothing but a pair of pajama shorts and one of Caleb’s old t-shirts. The cotton clings a little more than you’d like, highlighting the soft lines of your stomach.
You pinch at your side, frowning.
“Ugh. Could stand to lose a few.”
It’s quiet. Barely more than a mutter under your breath. The kind of thing you’ve said a hundred times before without thinking.
You don’t realize Caleb’s there until you hear the sharp inhale behind you.
You freeze.
Your eyes meet his in the mirror—and the look on his face guts you. Wide, shocked, almost hurt. Like he just watched you slap yourself across the face.
“Sweetheart,” he breathes, voice so soft it nearly breaks.
“Caleb—” you start, cheeks hot, already trying to wave it off.
But he doesn’t let you.
In two strides, he’s right behind you. His hands slide around your waist, big palms splaying over your stomach like he’s trying to shield it from your own words. His chin rests on your shoulder, eyes dark as they meet yours in the glass.
“Don’t do that,” he whispers.
“Do what?”
“Say things like that. Look at yourself like that.” His arms tighten. “Talk about yourself like you’re anything less than the best damn thing that’s ever happened to me.”
You swallow hard. “I was just—”
“No.” His voice dips lower, a rough little rasp that turns your legs to water. “You were tearing yourself apart. And I won’t have it.”
His hands slip under your shirt, palms warm and reverent as they stroke over the skin you were just criticizing.
“Do you even know what I see when I look at you?” he murmurs against your neck. “Because it’s sure as hell not flaws. It’s this. All of this.” His hands squeeze, slow and adoring. “Soft and warm and mine.”
Your breath hitches. He catches it with his mouth, pressing a slow, deep kiss to your neck that makes your knees wobble.
“Caleb…”
He turns you gently, until you’re facing him. His eyes are molten—devastated and starving all at once.
“Say something good about yourself,” he whispers.
Your heart twists. “What?”
“Just one thing. For me.”
You hesitate. His thumb strokes your cheek, patient but insistent. So you whisper, “I… like my smile.”
Caleb’s face breaks into this soft, awe-struck grin. Like you just told him you love him for the first time all over again.
“There,” he says, breathless. “That’s the woman I married.”
Then he kisses you—slow at first, then deeper, hungrier, until he’s walking you backward toward the counter. His hands slide under your thighs, lifting you effortlessly onto the cool surface. His mouth never leaves yours, a quiet promise against your lips.
“I’m gonna remind you how perfect you are,” he breathes, hands already pushing your shirt higher. “Until you never doubt it again.”
Xavier
You’re in the bedroom, fussing with the hem of your tank top, trying to decide if it looks too clingy over your stomach.
It’s not like you’re planning to go anywhere—you just caught your reflection in the mirror, and couldn’t stop the little frown that tugged at your lips. The soft exhale that came out more like disappointment.
“Should probably start running again…” you mutter under your breath.
You don’t expect anyone to hear it.
So you jump when a low, quiet voice says behind you:
“…Why would you think that?”
You spin around. Xavier’s standing in the doorway—half-shadowed, hair still slightly damp from the shower. He’s watching you with that usual calm, neutral expression… except his eyes are tight at the edges. Concern. Confusion. Something sharp he doesn’t quite know how to name.
“What?” you try to deflect. “It’s nothing, Xavier.”
But he doesn’t move. Just tilts his head slightly, studying you like he does when reading—like if he stares hard enough, he’ll understand the problem.
“You said you need to run again,” he repeats, voice careful. “Why?”
You shift awkwardly, arms coming up to cross over your stomach. “It’s not a big deal. I just… thought I was getting a little soft, that’s all.”
His brow furrows.
“Soft?” he echoes, like it’s a word he’s never heard before. Then even quieter: “Do you think I would care?”
You blink. “No, I just—I care.”
Another long pause. You can almost see the gears turning. Then he steps closer, hands coming up hesitantly to rest on your sides.
“You think your body is less than it should be,” he says finally. “That it’s wrong somehow.”
It’s not a question. Just this soft, sad realization.
Your throat tightens. “Yeah. Sometimes.”
Xavier’s hands slide up under your arms, slow and warm, until they cradle your face. His thumbs sweep lightly over your cheeks, like he’s trying to memorize every small imperfection you seem to hate.
“I don’t understand,” he admits, voice so quiet it nearly cracks. “When I look at you… all I see is mine. Exactly the way you are. Nothing else even exists.”
Your eyes burn. He dips his forehead to yours, breath stuttering.
“If you ever felt less, it means I’ve failed to show you how I see you,” he whispers. “I won’t let that happen again.”
You start to shake your head, but he stops you with a kiss—soft at first, then deeper, more insistent. His hands slide down to your hips, gripping them gently, pulling you flush against him like he needs to feel every curve.
When he finally pulls back, his mouth brushes your ear.
“Let me prove it,” he breathes. “Let me show you what you do to me.”
And by the time he’s done—lips trailing down your throat, hands learning every inch of you with reverent desperation—there isn’t a single part of you left doubting how wanted you are.
Rafayel
You’re alone in the studio—one of his old, paint-splattered shirts hanging off your shoulders, brushing your bare thighs. You’re not even really trying it on for him. Just grabbed it off a chair because you were chilly.
It doesn’t sit quite right, though. The hem clings a little. Your hips look wider than usual. Your stomach presses soft against the fabric.
You frown at your reflection in the smudged window. Tug at the shirt’s sides, sigh.
“Not exactly a masterpiece, huh?”
You mean it as a joke. An easy, self-deprecating little jab.
Then you hear it.
A sharp intake of breath—like someone punched the air right out of him.
You turn, startled.
Rafayel is standing a few feet away, palette knife still in hand, paint drying on his fingers. His eyes are wide. Bright. Almost glassy.
“What did you just say?” he asks, voice low, careful, but vibrating with something you can’t place.
“Raf, it’s nothing—”
“No, no.” The knife clatters to the floor. He crosses the room in three long strides. “Repeat it. I want to hear it again.”
You flush, heart stuttering. “It was just a joke—”
“Repeat it.”
“Not exactly a masterpiece,” you mutter.
He stares at you for a heartbeat. Two. Then laughs—short, breathless, completely humorless.
“You know what’s tragic, my love?” His hands slide up to cup your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek in this devastatingly tender way. “You stand there wrapped in my clothes, in my colors, and you dare insult the only work of art that’s ever mattered?”
Your throat tightens. “Raf—”
“No,” he cuts in. “No more dismissing it. Do you want to know what I see right now?”
He doesn’t wait for your answer. Drops to his knees right there on the paint-splattered floor, palms smoothing over your thighs. Tilts his head back, eyes dark and shining.
“I see curves that haunt my sketches. A mouth I’ve drawn a hundred times and still can’t get right. Skin that makes me want to abandon every canvas and worship only you.”
His hands slide up under the shirt, fingertips ghosting over your hips, your belly, reverent.
“You’re not exactly a masterpiece?” he breathes, voice breaking into a soft laugh. “Darling, you’re the only thing I’ve ever created that matters—and all I did was love you enough to be allowed this close.”
You shiver. One of your hands finds his hair, tangling there.
“Let me prove it,” he murmurs, lips brushing your stomach. “Let me show you what art was supposed to feel like.”
And then he’s pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses to your skin—slow and adoring, trailing lower until the shirt is bunched around your waist and you’re gasping his name.
By the time he’s finished with you, you’re breathless and wrecked—and there’s no room left in your mind for anything but the way his mouth keeps whispering, “perfect, perfect, perfect.”
Zayne
You’re half-dressed in the bedroom, standing sideways to the mirror—one hand resting on your hip, the other pinching lightly at the curve of your stomach.
You frown. Tug the skin a little. It’s soft. Softer than it used to be.
“God. Look at this—no wonder he doesn’t touch me like he used to.”
It’s barely a mutter. A little jab at yourself, not meant to be heard.
But then there’s a low, flat voice behind you.
“Excuse me?”
You whip around.
Zayne is standing by the door, tie gone, the top buttons of his shirt undone. His eyes are hard, narrowed, dark in a way that’s never been turned on you before.
“What did you just say?”
You flush, wrapping your arms instinctively over your stomach. “It’s nothing. I was joking.”
“Try again.” His voice drops even lower. “Say it exactly the way you did before.”
You swallow. “Zayne—”
“Say it.”
You breathe out, quiet. “I said… no wonder you don’t touch me like you used to.”
For a long moment, he just stares at you. Then something sharp, almost frightening flickers through his eyes—like you’ve insulted him personally.
“You think that’s why?” he asks, stepping closer. Each word slow, deliberate, dangerous. “You think I don’t touch you because of… this?”
His hands catch your wrists, pull them gently but firmly away from your stomach. Then he places them on his chest—over his heart, which is beating hard and fast beneath your palms.
“You are out of your goddamn mind,” he murmurs.
You try to look away. He tips your chin up, forces your gaze back to his.
“Do you know how many times I’ve stood right there,” he nods to the doorway, “watching you get ready, wearing less than this, and had to physically stop myself from bending you over the nearest surface?”
Your breath catches.
His hands slide down to your hips, gripping tight. “How many times I’ve laid next to you in bed and thought I’d give up everything I have just to feel your skin under my mouth again?”
You shiver.
“That softness you hate?” His mouth dips to your ear, voice rough. “It’s what makes you real. It’s what makes you mine. And it’s why I can’t keep my hands off you.”
His teeth scrape your jaw, the tiniest bite, enough to make your knees weak.
“Now,” he breathes, pulling back just enough to look at you—eyes dark, pupils blown. “Say it again. Tell me why I wouldn’t touch you.”
Your lips part, but nothing comes out. Your throat is too tight.
He smirks. Leans in until his lips just ghost yours.
“That’s what I thought.”
Then he kisses you—hard, deep, his hands already sliding under your thighs to lift you up, carrying you to the bed with single-minded purpose.
And when he finally lays you out beneath him, he doesn’t just prove how wrong you were. He makes sure you never dare to think that way again.
Sylus
You’re in the closet, half-dressed for bed. Just a tank top and your underwear, the overhead light stark and unflattering. You catch a glimpse of your reflection—skin folding a little where you’re bent, faint marks on your hips—and sigh.
Pinch lightly at your side, muttering under your breath:
“Looks worse every year.”
Then you hear it.
A low, dark chuckle from behind you.
Your heart jumps. You spin around—Sylus is leaning in the doorway, shoulder propped against the frame, arms crossed over his chest. Watching you like a cat watching a wounded bird.
“You want to try that again?” he drawls, one brow arching. “Because I must’ve misheard.”
You cross your arms, feeling small under that sharp red gaze. “Forget it. It was just stupid.”
“No,” he says easily, pushing off the door and sauntering toward you, slow and predatory. “Don’t walk it back now. I want to hear it.”
“Sylus—”
“Say it,” he interrupts, voice low and dangerous as he stops right in front of you. “Tell me exactly what you just told your reflection.”
Your throat tightens. You try to look away. He catches your chin between his fingers, forces your eyes to meet his.
“I said…” You swallow. “It looks worse every year.”
There’s a beat of silence.
Then he laughs. Not warm or amused—dark. Almost cruel.
“Oh, sweetheart,” he breathes, mouth curling into a smirk that doesn’t reach his eyes. “You really don’t have a clue, do you?”
Before you can flinch away, his hands are on your waist—big, hot palms sliding up under your shirt, dragging you closer until your hips bump.
“You think this”—he squeezes lightly, fingers digging into the softness you were just criticizing—“makes you less? You think I look at you and see something aging, something spoiled?”
He ducks his head, lips brushing your ear in a breath that makes you shiver.
“No. I see something I’ve ruined so thoroughly you can’t even recognize your own perfection anymore.”
Your breath hitches. His teeth graze your throat, hands sliding lower to grip your ass, pulling you flush against the hard line of his body.
“Every year, every mark, every soft edge—proof you’re mine. Proof of how many times I’ve had you, bent you over this very dresser, made you scream.”
His mouth trails down your neck, biting softly.
“You think I’d ever want you any other way?”
You manage to shake your head, breathless.
“Good,” he growls.
Then he lifts you effortlessly—like you weigh nothing—sets you down on the dresser, steps between your knees. His hands bracket your thighs, thumbs pressing little bruises into your skin.
“Because I’m about to remind you exactly how beautiful you are,” he murmurs, voice like silk wrapped around steel. “And tomorrow? When you catch yourself in the mirror? You’ll remember who put that glow there.”
Then he kisses you—deep, claiming, a little rough—like he has something to prove. And by the time he’s done, your reflection is the last thing on your mind.
If Caleb was a Muslim boy he'd def be crying every prayer at the ripe age of 10 that MC is his naseb (translation: something fated for you and you'll get it someday, in this case, a soulmate)
101 Pulls, got the first five star on the first 10 pull, no money spent!
I Heard the Heartbeat and I Broke a Little
♡ ft. Caleb, Xavier, Rafayel, Zayne, Sylus x fem!reader ♡ cw: pregnancy, first ultrasounds, emotional devastation (soft), quiet tears, twin reveal (Sylus), stoic boy meltdowns, chaos disguised as tenderness ♡ a/n: they all swore they’d stay calm. They all lied. You hear the heartbeat, and suddenly the bravest men in the galaxy are on the verge of crying, fainting, or starting a baby-proofing war plan.
Caleb
He tries to be calm.
Really, he does.
You’re holding his hand—well, more like crushing it—and Caleb’s doing his best to be composed. He smiles at the nurse. Makes a dumb joke. Rubs your knuckles.
But the moment that grainy little flicker shows up on the screen?
The moment the room fills with the steady, quick-thudding whump-whump-whump of a heartbeat?
He stops breathing.
The grin drops off his face like it was never there.
His fingers go still.
His eyes are locked on the screen, wide and unblinking.
“That’s… that’s ours?” he whispers.
You nod, voice catching in your throat. “Yeah.”
And then he laughs.
A breathy, broken little sound—half-sob, half-hysterical wonder. Like his whole body can’t decide whether to melt or combust. He turns toward you, eyes shimmering.
“I didn’t—I didn’t think I could feel this much.”
His hand cups your jaw, thumb stroking just beneath your eye. “You’re growing a whole person. Our person. That’s my kid in there. Our kid. I—”
He can’t finish the sentence.
He buries his face in your shoulder and laughs again, shaking a little.
“I’m gonna be a dad,” he says against your skin. “And they’ve already got my whole heart. I’m so screwed.”
You kiss the side of his head. “You’re not screwed.”
He pulls back, smiling through tears.
“No,” he says, looking at the screen again.
“I’m the luckiest bastard in the galaxy.”
Xavier
He’s quiet when the screen lights up.
Not his usual stillness. This is different.
His posture doesn’t shift. His expression barely changes. But you feel it—the way his hand tightens slightly around yours, the way his breath catches just a second too long.
And then the heartbeat comes through.
Whump-whump-whump.
Quick. Strong. Inarguably alive.
Xavier blinks once. His eyes lock on the grainy blur on the screen like he’s calculating a threat.
But there’s no threat.
Just something small. And safe. And yours.
“That sound…” he murmurs, voice low and careful, “is them?”
You nod, not trusting your voice.
He stares a moment longer, then lowers his gaze to your stomach—like he's only just realizing what’s been there this whole time.
“I thought I understood,” he says softly. “What this would be. I thought I was prepared.”
A pause. He shifts in his seat, fingers grazing the edge of the ultrasound photo the nurse just handed him.
“I wasn’t.”
Another silence.
Then, so softly you almost miss it:
“I’ll protect them. Always.”
He says it like a vow. Not dramatic. Not performative. Just fact.
Like this heartbeat rewired him.
You lean your head against his shoulder.
He doesn't speak again. Doesn’t need to.
He just keeps staring at the screen like he’s watching the future take its first breath.
Rafayel
He's already being too much before the machine even starts.
Kissing your hand like you’re royalty. Calling the OB “a vessel of the divine.” Whispering, “Are you ready, my muse?” in your ear like this is a movie premiere.
You roll your eyes. “Rafayel, it’s an ultrasound.”
He leans closer, eyes glowing with mischief. “And what is an ultrasound… if not the first brushstroke of our greatest masterpiece?”
You don’t have time to reply before the screen flares on—and just like that, he goes silent.
Utterly. Completely.
You turn to look at him.
He's frozen. Wide-eyed. One hand over his mouth like he just saw the face of a god.
The heartbeat kicks in.
Whump-whump-whump.
And he loses it.
“Oh,” he whispers, voice breaking on the single syllable. “Oh—look at them. Look.”
You do.
But Rafayel? He’s already gone.
Tears pool at the edges of his lashes—long and unblinking, like he’s terrified that blinking might erase the moment. One escapes down his cheek. He doesn’t wipe it.
He grabs your hand with both of his, reverent. Desperate. “They’re so small,” he breathes. “And they’re ours. You—you made that. In you. I—we—”
He lets out this overwhelmed little laugh-sob that turns into a hiccup halfway through.
Then whispers, “I need to paint this.”
You blink. “Babe. It’s a blur of static and bean-shape.”
“Exactly. It’s pure. Abstract. Untouched by symbolism. It’s raw emotion, darling.”
You stifle a snort. “Are you crying?”
“I am feeling,” he snaps, brushing a tear away dramatically. “Leave me be.”
He presses a kiss to your wrist like he’s grounding himself in reality.
“Promise me something,” he murmurs.
You nod.
“When they’re born... remind me I loved them first. Before I even met them.”
You lean in. Kiss his cheek.
“I think they already know.”
Zayne
Zayne keeps his eyes on the screen the moment it flickers on.
His hand is holding yours, but it’s stiff. Careful. Like he’s trying too hard not to feel anything too early. Trying to stay clinical. Detached. Professional.
Like he’s just here to observe.
Then the sound hits.
Whump-whump-whump.
The heartbeat. Fast. Alive. Steady.
Your baby.
He doesn’t move.
Doesn’t speak.
You glance over, expecting some sarcastic comment. A critique. Something.
But his jaw is tight.
His eyes—sharp, exact, always calculating—are suddenly unreadable. Blank in the way only Zayne can manage.
He doesn’t blink.
Not even once.
“Zayne?” you whisper.
Nothing.
And then—
Quietly.
Like it slips out without permission.
“…It’s real.”
He exhales hard, like he’d been holding his breath without realizing it.
His fingers tighten around yours. Not painfully—but with intensity. Like if he lets go, it might all disappear.
“I’ve seen thousands of heartbeats,” he murmurs. “Monitors. Flatlines. Fibrillations. But this…”
He swallows. Looks down at your hand in his.
“I didn’t know how different it would feel when it’s… ours.”
There’s something cracked open in him now. Something bare.
You watch his throat move as he swallows again, hard.
Then, softer:
“I didn’t think I’d be scared.”
You squeeze his hand. “You don’t have to be perfect.”
He finally turns to you. His eyes are glassy, but he’s holding it in like always. You can see it—the quiet shaking underneath.
“I’m not scared of messing up,” he says. “I’m scared of how much I already love them.”
You lean in, rest your forehead against his.
“They’re going to be okay.”
He closes his eyes.
And lets himself believe it.
Sylus
Sylus is leaning against the wall like this is a business meeting and not the moment his entire future is about to implode.
Arms crossed. Mouth set. Watching the monitor with laser focus, like the image might suddenly sprout a threat he can neutralize.
Your hand is in his, resting on your belly. The gel’s cold. The nurse is smiling. Everything feels calm.
Until—
Whump-whump-whump.
The first heartbeat kicks in.
Sylus doesn’t move.
Then the nurse tilts her head. Frowns slightly. Adjusts the wand.
“Oh,” she says casually, as if she’s not about to detonate a bomb in the room. “There’s another.”
You blink. “Another what?”
She clicks something.
“There are two heartbeats.”
You stare at her. “As in—?”
“Twins,” she says, cheerfully. “You’re having twins.”
You whip your head toward Sylus.
Still frozen. Still unreadable.
Except for the twitch at the corner of his mouth. The subtle roll of his eyes. The very long blink like he’s internally rebooting.
Then, under his breath—just loud enough for you to hear:
“…I’m f*cking surrounded.”
You choke on a laugh. “Babe.”
He doesn’t respond immediately. Just rubs a hand down his face like the weight of responsibility has suddenly tripled.
Finally: “I agreed to one. One tiny parasite. We had a deal.”
You grin. “Babies don’t do contracts.”
He mutters something about renegotiating with the womb gods before slouching down in the chair beside you, staring at the screen like it personally betrayed him.
The nurse keeps talking—measurements, due dates, baby A and baby B—but he’s not hearing any of it.
He’s calculating. Strategizing. Probably already planning to fortify the nursery.
Then he turns to you. Deadpan. Quiet.
“I’m going to need more weapons.”
You squeeze his hand.
“More diapers, you mean.”
He scowls. You can see the crisis brewing behind his eyes. But he still lifts your hand to his lips and kisses your knuckles like it’s instinct.
And then—very softly:
“…They’re gonna be so small.”
You nod. “And they’re yours.”
He leans back. Stares at the ceiling.
“God help me,” he mutters. “I’m gonna love them stupid, aren’t I?”
You smirk. “Already do.”
He groans.
But doesn’t let go of your hand.
Not for a second.
Late Isn’t Just Late—Not When It’s You
♡ ft. Caleb, Xavier, Rafayel, Zayne, Sylus x reader ♡ cw: emotional panic, protective husband-core, soft fear turned desperate kisses, subtle possessiveness, implied spicy aftermath ♡ a/n: you didn’t think it was a big deal. your phone died, you stayed out a little too long, lost track of time. But for them? it was hours of empty rooms, worst-case scenarios on repeat, and the sick, cold feeling of what if you never came back? PC: @KikiZhouU on X
Caleb
It’s well past midnight when you finally push the door open.
You’re not trying to be quiet—just tired. The kind of heavy, achy tired that sinks into your bones after a long day out. You didn’t mean to be gone so long. Didn’t think to text after your phone died. Didn’t realize how dark it had gotten.
Until you walk in and see him.
Caleb’s on the couch—still in his jeans and t-shirt from hours ago. Shoes half-kicked off. Hair a mess from running his hands through it. One foot taps the floor in this tense, uneven rhythm that only stops when the door clicks shut behind you.
His head snaps up.
“Where the hell were you?” he blurts.
You blink. “I—babe, I was just at Tara’s. My phone died—”
He exhales like he’s been punched. Closes his eyes. For a second it looks like he might actually get angry—like he’s gearing up for a frustrated rant.
But when he stands, it’s not anger in his face.
It’s relief. Blazing, gut-deep, almost painful relief.
He crosses the room in two strides, grabs your shoulders, and pulls you into him so hard you almost stumble. One hand cradles the back of your head, the other grips your waist like he’s terrified you’ll vanish again.
“You didn’t text. You always text,” he breathes into your hair. “I didn’t know if—what if something happened? What if someone—”
“Caleb—” you start, but he’s already shaking his head.
“You can’t do that to me, sweetheart. Not you. I can’t—I was picturing every damn thing that could’ve gone wrong. And then I kept trying to tell myself I was overreacting, but—”
He pulls back just enough to see your face. His eyes are rimmed red, tired in a way that makes your heart twist.
“I’m sorry,” you whisper. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“Yeah, well…” His voice cracks on a laugh that’s way too close to a sob. “You did.”
And then he’s kissing you.
Hard. Messy. Hands on your face, tilting you just so he can deepen it, mouth moving against yours like he needs to memorize every taste. Like he’s trying to remind himself this is real—you’re real, warm and alive and back in his arms.
When he finally pulls away, breath ragged, he rests his forehead against yours.
“You come home late again,” he murmurs, voice low, rough, “I’m not letting you out of this house for a week. I’ll tie you to the bed if I have to.”
You smile, lips ghosting over his. “That a promise or a threat?”
His answering grin is shaky, but it’s there. His hands slip lower, grip tightening.
“Oh, sweetheart,” he breathes, eyes dark, “with you? It’s always both.”
Xavier
You expect darkness when you step inside.
It’s late. The streets were empty on your drive back. You were already rehearsing your apology for not calling—battery dead, didn’t think it’d get so late, I’m sorry, I’m sorry—when the door shuts behind you and you see it.
The lights are still on.
Soft golden glow spilling from the kitchen, faint shadows dancing in the hallway.
And then there’s him.
Xavier’s standing by the kitchen counter. Perfectly still. One hand resting over his mouth, the other braced against the countertop like he’s been leaning there for a long time.
His eyes snap to you the second you enter.
Not annoyed. Not relieved. Just… intense.
He doesn’t move right away. Just stares at you—like he’s making sure you’re actually real, not some trick of the light.
“Xavier,” you start softly. “I’m—”
Before you can finish, he pushes off the counter and closes the space between you in three long strides.
His hands come up, cup your face so carefully it makes your chest ache. His thumbs sweep over your cheeks, under your eyes, as if he’s checking for damage. As if you might vanish if he doesn’t hold you just right.
“You’re late,” he says, voice low. Controlled. But there’s something off in it—something rougher than usual.
“I know. My phone died, and then Tara wanted to—”
“I thought something happened.”
Your heart stutters.
His hands drop from your face only to slip around your waist, pulling you in until your chest is pressed to his. You feel his breath stutter against your temple.
“You’ve been gone for hours. I ran a hundred scenarios,” he admits quietly. “None of them ended well.”
You rest your hands over his chest. Feel the steady pound of his heart, faster than usual.
“Xavier… I’m okay. I promise.”
He nods—once. Short. Like he’s accepting it because he needs to, not because he’s fully convinced.
Then his head dips. His lips brush yours—light, almost cautious. Until your hands slide up into his hair and you kiss him back.
That’s when he breaks.
His arms tighten. The kiss goes from soft to starved in a heartbeat—his mouth moving over yours with a hunger he rarely shows, breath catching on tiny, almost desperate sounds that he swallows down.
When he finally pulls back, there’s the faintest tremor in his hands where they rest on your hips.
“You’ll tell me next time,” he says—not quite a question, not quite a demand.
You smile, breathless. “Of course.”
His eyes flick over your face, lingering on your lips.
“Good,” he murmurs. Then softer—closer to a confession than anything he’s ever said before:
“Because I’m not sure I’d survive it twice.”
Rafayel
You don’t even make it past the front door.
You’re halfway through dropping your keys in the bowl when Rafayel comes barreling out of the hallway—barefoot, hair mussed, paint still drying on the cuff of his sleeve.
He stops dead when he sees you. Stares. And for a terrifying half-second you think he’s angry.
But then his mouth parts on a shaky exhale, and you realize he’s not angry at all.
He’s terrified.
“Where were you?” he breathes. It’s not sharp. It’s hoarse, like it’s been clawing up his throat for hours.
“My phone died,” you start, heart sinking. “I was just at Tara’s—”
“Just at Tara’s,” he repeats, voice rising, hands flying to rake through his hair. “Do you have any idea what my mind does when you’re late? When I call and call and it goes to voicemail? I pictured your car crushed on the highway, I pictured—god, I pictured—”
He cuts himself off, eyes wet, jaw flexing.
“Raf—”
“No, don’t ‘Raf’ me,” he snaps, but it’s weak. His hands drop to his sides, clenching and unclenching like he doesn’t know what to do with them. “I had paintings to finish. Commissions, deadlines—I couldn’t even pick up the brush. I was too busy seeing your face on a morgue slab in my head.”
Your throat goes tight.
You step toward him.
He steps back. Shakes his head, blinking rapidly.
“I’m being dramatic, I know—what else is new—but you don’t get it,” he says, voice breaking. “You don’t get what it’s like to need someone the way I need you. It’s visceral. It’s ugly. It’s—I can’t create if I think you’re gone.”
“Hey,” you whisper, reaching out.
He catches your wrist in both hands—almost too tight. Stares down at where your skin meets his.
And then the dam breaks.
He tugs you into him with a desperate sound, arms locking around your shoulders so hard you’re breathless. His nose buries in your hair, breath shuddering against your ear.
“You’re here,” he whispers. Over and over. “You’re here, you’re here, you’re here—”
Your hands slip under his shirt, feeling the frantic drum of his heartbeat.
“I’m here,” you promise.
When he finally pulls back, his eyes are glassy, lashes damp. But there’s a crooked smile curling on his lips.
“Next time you decide to terrify me,” he murmurs, thumb brushing your cheek, “at least let me paint you first. So I’ll have something to haunt me properly.”
You laugh. He kisses you—soft at first, then rougher, hungrier, hands sliding into your hair with a low groan.
And by the time he’s backing you against the nearest wall, muttering “never scare me like that again” against your mouth, you’re pretty sure the painting will have to wait.
Zayne
You don’t even get your shoes off.
The door swings shut behind you, you’re juggling your bag and keys, already rehearsing your apology—when you see him.
Zayne is standing at the end of the hall.
Still in his scrubs. Shoes on. A faint smear of sanitizer on his wrist like he’s been compulsively scrubbing his hands. His glasses are pushed up high on the bridge of his nose, but his eyes are darker than you’ve ever seen them.
You open your mouth. He cuts you off.
“Where were you?”
It’s not sharp. It’s worse—it’s flat. Completely stripped of inflection, like he’s trying to keep something dangerous from breaking loose.
“My phone died,” you start, heart sinking. “And Tara needed help with—”
“You were supposed to be home at six.”
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. Just watches you.
You try to fill the silence. “I know. I lost track of time, it was stupid, I’m sor—”
“You didn’t call.”
It hits you then—how tightly he’s holding himself. Arms folded. Shoulders locked. Like if he lets go, he might fly apart.
“Zayne, I’m okay,” you say softly.
And that’s when his composure cracks.
He takes one slow step forward, then another. By the time he reaches you, his hands are shaking.
He cups your face like he’s afraid you’ll flinch—thumb brushing your cheekbone, eyes searching yours so intensely it hurts. His breath hitches, chest stuttering against yours.
“You can’t do that,” he murmurs. Voice low. Rough. “You can’t just disappear and expect me to function.”
“I didn’t mean to scare you,” you whisper.
He lets out this soft, unsteady sound—half a laugh, half a breathless sigh. His forehead tips to yours.
“You didn’t just scare me,” he says. “You hollowed me out. I couldn’t focus, I couldn’t think—every worst-case scenario was playing on a loop in my head.”
Your hands slip up to his shoulders. You feel the tremor there, the tight coil of muscle that hasn’t let go since you were late.
“I’m sorry.”
He swallows. Closes his eyes.
Then when he opens them again, there’s something new there—dark, possessive, desperate.
“Don’t ever do it again.”
Before you can answer, he’s kissing you—deep, hungry, nothing like his usual restrained affection. His hands slide into your hair, grip tightening until it almost hurts. His mouth moves over yours like he’s starving, like he needs to memorize you all over again to prove you’re real.
When he finally pulls back, breath ragged, his voice drops to a hoarse whisper.
“Next time you’re late,” he mutters, lips brushing your ear, “I’m putting a tracker under your skin.”
You laugh—shaky, breathless. “Romantic.”
His answering smile is faint. Crooked. But it’s there.
“You think I’m joking.”
And the way his hands roam your hips, tugging you closer, says he absolutely is not.
Sylus
The door barely shuts before you’re pinned.
Not by force—just by presence. Sylus is leaning against the entryway console, arms crossed over his chest, dark eyes tracking your every move like a sniper scope.
“Late night?” he drawls. Voice smooth. Almost lazy. But there’s a razor edge beneath it.
You swallow, forcing a small smile. “Tara's party ran long. My phone died—”
“Convenient.”
You pause halfway out of your coat. “Excuse me?”
He pushes off the console, stalking toward you with that predatory grace that always sets your pulse racing. Except this time, there’s no teasing glint in his eyes. Just something sharp. Barely restrained.
“Sylus, I didn’t mean to worry you—”
“Don’t flatter yourself,” he cuts in, stepping close enough that your back hits the wall. “You think I was worried? Please.”
But the way his jaw clenches, the way his hands curl at his sides like he’s stopping himself from grabbing you—says otherwise.
You tilt your head, breath shallow. “Then what’s this? Because you look ready to murder someone.”
He laughs—low, bitter. “Murder’s easy. It’s waiting for you to walk through that door that almost killed me.”
Your heart stutters.
He leans in, one hand braced on the wall beside your head. His breath fans across your cheek, and suddenly it’s hard to think.
“You can disappear for hours without a single damn word, and I’m left here imagining every possibility,” he murmurs, voice rougher now. “You want to scare me? Congratulations. You did.”
“Sylus—”
“Don’t do it again.”
He doesn’t give you time to answer. His mouth crashes to yours—hard, hungry, almost punishing. One hand tangles in your hair, the other grips your waist so tight you whimper against his lips.
He pulls back just enough to rasp, “If something ever happened to you…I wouldn’t just burn down this town. I’d salt the ground so nothing could grow back.”
Your breath hitches. “That’s...dramatically romantic.”
A dark smirk tugs at his mouth. “That’s me. Always sentimental.”
Then his hand slips lower, squeezing your hip, voice dropping to a dangerous whisper.
“Now get upstairs. I’ve been waiting all night to remind you exactly who you belong to.”
And by the time he’s done, you’re pretty sure you’ll never dare come home late again.
Fatherhood Is a Full-Contact Sport
♡ ft. Caleb, Xavier, Rafayel, Zayne, Sylus x fem!reader ♡ cw: dad!headcanons, domestic chaos, tag-team toddler warfare, sticker abuse, ego injuries, public humiliation (soft), wife-led mischief ♡ a/n: you didn’t mean to start a war… but once your kid picked a target, you had to support them. teamwork makes the dream (dad meltdown) work.
Caleb
It starts with the socks.
You and your kid exchange a look over breakfast—just a slight twitch of the eyebrow, a smirk over toast—and Caleb should have known. He should have.
But he’s got stars in his eyes and jam on his fingers, and he’s too busy cutting your kid’s pancakes into perfect little hexagons to notice you’ve already swapped his socks.
They’re pink. With glitter hearts. And the words “#1 Trophy Husband” stitched in sparkly thread.
He puts them on without looking.
And then?
Operation: Bully Dad begins.
—
Phase One: Language Manipulation. You teach your kid to call him “Captain Cranky.”
Every time he sighs? “Okay, Captain Cranky.”
When he says no to dessert? “Ugh, classic Captain Cranky.”
He stares at you like you betrayed him. You just sip your coffee.
“I am not cranky,” he mutters.
From under the table: “You’re literally pouting right now, Cap.”
—
Phase Two: The Snack Swap. He reaches for his favorite protein bar in the pantry.
Finds a note instead.
"Too slow, Captain Cranky. We needed it more. For… missions"
He spins around.
You and your kid are already on the couch. Sharing it. Making dramatic yum noises.
“I swear to god, you two are a menace.”
You both say it at the same time: “A menace to CRANKY.”
—
Phase Three: The Betrayal. He finally gets a break. He’s lying on the floor with your kid on his chest, playing spaceship noises.
It’s quiet. Peaceful.
Then your kid leans down and whispers: “Mommy says you talk in your sleep. About kissing her toes.”
His eyes FLY OPEN.
You’re across the room, hiding a smile behind a throw pillow. “I said what I said.”
He groans and drags both of you onto the floor with him. “Unbelievable. My own family.”
You grin. “You love it.”
He kisses your temple, then your kid’s forehead. “You have no idea.”
Xavier
It starts with a whisper war in the hallway.
You and your kid peek around the corner like spies on a stakeout—clipboard in hand, checklist ready.
Mission Objective: Tease Daddy Until He Short Circuits.
Xavier is at the kitchen counter, pouring cereal into the mug he always insists is “just more ergonomic than a bowl.” He’s wearing socks with swords on them. A gift from you. He takes them very seriously.
You circle “Target Acquired.”
—
Phase One: The Wrong Name Game. Your kid walks in casually.
“Hey, Xylophone.”
Xavier glances up. “Hello.”
No reaction.
Not even confusion.
So your kid tries again, louder. “I said Xylophone.”
Xavier frowns faintly. “Yes. I heard. Are we experimenting with sound-based naming systems today?”
You lose it from the hallway.
—
Phase Two: Sticker Warfare. This one’s your idea.
While Xavier’s reading on the couch, your kid climbs into his lap with all the innocence in the world—and slowly starts covering him in dinosaur stickers.
One on his cheek.
One on his temple.
A brontosaurus on his neck.
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t flinch.
Finally, he blinks over his book. “Is there a… theme?”
“Jurassic Daddy,” you say sweetly, passing by.
He nods thoughtfully. “Very well.”
Doesn’t even take them off.
—
Phase Three: The Hidden Alarm. Your kid sneaks your phone into Xavier’s jacket pocket.
Sets a timer.
In two minutes, it’ll go off. Loud. In the middle of him doing birdwatching on the balcony.
He’s squinting into the trees, focused and serene—until a digital duck quack blares from his coat.
He freezes.
Then calmly pulls out your phone, stares at it like it’s a new lifeform.
“...Is this my punishment for using your mug?”
You and your kid high-five from the doorway.
—
That night, you’re brushing your teeth when you feel arms wrap around your waist from behind.
“I love you,” he murmurs into your hair.
You smile at his reflection. “Even when we bully you?”
He hums. “Especially when you work as a team.”
He’s got a triceratops still stuck to his sleeve.
You leave it.
Rafayel
It starts because Rafayel wouldn’t let your kid put googly eyes on the blender.
A crime, truly.
So now?
You’re at war.
You and your mini-me form an unholy alliance before breakfast. The mission is clear: mess with Rafayel all day. Confuse him. Fluster him. Bring him to his knees (with love, obviously).
—
Phase One: The Sketch Swap He leaves his current canvas in the studio—half-finished, ethereal, probably titled Longing for Lemuria II: A Study in Violet Silence.
You and your kid sneak in.
When he returns, the dreamy mermaid now has a mustache. And laser eyes. And a speech bubble that says “My dad has stinky feet.”
He gasps like you physically struck him.
“You defiled my muse?!”
You shrug. “Consider it a collaboration.”
Your kid adds: “We made it better.”
He puts a hand to his chest. “You’re both going to artist jail.”
—
Phase Two: The Fashion Sabotage He goes to pull on his favorite pants—the flowy, artsy ones with the embroidered moons—and finds they’ve been replaced with hot pink yoga leggings from your drawer.
You: “I think you could rock them.”
Your kid: “Slay, bestie.”
He stares at the pants.
Then stares at you.
Then changes into them like a man on a catwalk.
But he’s muttering the entire time. “This is emotional abuse. I’m filing a glitter-based complaint.”
—
Phase Three: The Cookie Theft He opens the cabinet for his secret stash of lavender shortbread.
Finds an empty tin and a note inside:
“Stolen in the name of justice. Your blender crimes have consequences. —The Chaos Coalition”
He screams. Loudly. Then walks dramatically into the living room and collapses across the couch like a Victorian woman fainting on a chaise.
You toss him a goldfish cracker.
He glares.
Then eats it.
—
That night, he pulls you close in bed, head on your chest.
“I hope you both know,” he whispers, “that I am keeping a list.”
You run your fingers through his hair. “Of what?”
“Every emotional injury I sustained today.”
Your kid peeks in the doorway. “You forgot we replaced your shampoo with whipped cream.”
He gasps.
But honestly?
He’s never felt more loved.
Zayne
It begins when he finds his stethoscope floating in a bowl of cereal.
“Do you have a reason,” Zayne asks slowly, very calmly, “why my hospital equipment is now... infused with oat milk?”
Your child blinks up at him. “It was cold and needed a bath.”
You, from across the kitchen: “Honestly? Sound logic.”
He closes his eyes. Sets the stethoscope on the counter. Says nothing.
That was your warning shot.
—
Phase One: Renaming the Routine
You and your kid refuse to call anything by its normal name.
Zayne walks into the room, setting his laptop down with surgical precision.
You: “Look out. The Ice Cube Cometh.”
Your kid: “All hail Frost Daddy.”
Zayne: “I am literally holding your dental insurance forms.”
You both clap like he told a joke.
He blinks. Once.
“...What’s happening right now?”
—
Phase Two: The Hospital File Swap
He opens his neatly labeled folder before work.
Finds a glittery drawing titled “ME + MOMMY + FROST DAD = BESTIES FOREVER 💖”
Also, you’ve replaced his bio with:
“Zayne: World’s Coldest Softie. Will cry at piano music and is afraid of butterflies.”
He reads it. Stares at the paper.
Puts it back.
And takes it to work anyway.
—
Phase Three: Sticker Surgery
He showers. He gets dressed. He puts on his favorite button-down.
Then glances in the mirror—and freezes.
There’s a little cartoon Band-Aid sticker on his jawline.
Purple. With a smiley face.
You don’t even try to hide your laugh.
His jaw tics.
“I’ve conducted heart transplants with less sabotage than I face in this household.”
You pat his cheek. “And yet, you’re still so lovable.”
“Debatable.”
—
At bedtime, he’s halfway through folding laundry (into immaculate rectangles, obviously), when your kid leans against his side.
“Hey Dad?”
“Yes?”
“We bullied you good today.”
He pauses.
Then quietly nods.
“You did.”
You sit beside him, resting your head on his shoulder.
“But you liked it.”
“…No comment.”
You kiss the spot beneath his ear. “Tomorrow we’re calling you Doctor Cuddles.”
He exhales. Resigned. But soft.
“…Fine. But only inside this house.”
(You do not respect that boundary.)
Sylus
It starts before 9 a.m.
Sylus—warlord, tactician, red-eyed nightmare of the underground—walks into the living room fully dressed for a meeting with a black-market arms dealer.
Hair slicked. Suit sharp. Brooch in place.
You and your kid are waiting for him.
He stops. Narrow eyes. Tilt of the head. Suspicion.
You smile sweetly.
Your kid lunges forward.
And slaps a bright pink unicorn sticker onto his briefcase.
Dead center.
Sylus just… stands there.
“…Is this meant to be intimidation?”
You: “We’re marking our territory.”
Your kid: “Now the bad guys will know you have backup.”
He looks down at the sticker.
Then at you.
And says absolutely nothing.
But he takes the damn briefcase.
—
Phase One: Name Disrespect
He’s mid-hologram conference when your kid walks in, climbs into his lap, and announces to the entire Onychinus leadership:
“This is Mr. Grumpy Fangs. He doesn’t like it when I boop his nose.”
Sylus doesn’t even flinch.
Keeps talking about supply routes like there isn’t a giggling toddler poking his cheek on live cam.
Later?
He finds out you recorded it.
You send him the clip labeled:
“POV: You’re a villain and your child is your boss.”
He replies with one word:
“Traitor.”
Phase Two: Crow Brooch Chaos
You’re in the middle of folding laundry when your kid comes sprinting in, giggling with something clenched in one hand.
Minutes later, you hear Sylus’s voice—flat, deadly.
“Why… are there googly eyes on my crow?”
You don’t even look up. “Balance. Every villain needs a little whimsy.”
He turns to your kid. “Did you do this?”
“Team effort,” they chirp.
Sylus glares at the glittery-eyed brooch sitting on his chest.
Then sighs.
And doesn’t take it off.
Until hours later.
(He leaves it on his desk. Keeps looking at it.)
Phase Three: Tactical Sabotage
He walks into the war room.
Finds the giant wall map—his map—covered in crayon scribbles.
He blinks.
“Did someone… add butterflies to the Northern quadrant?”
Your kid: “It needed joy.”
You: “And balance.”
He stands there in silence.
Then mutters: “You’ve both become a security threat.”
You blow him a kiss.
That night, he’s sitting on the edge of the bed, jacket off, tie loose.
You crawl into his lap, wrapping your arms around him. “Did we push you too far today?”
He grumbles something unintelligible.
Then rests his forehead against yours.
“You’re lucky I love you.”
You kiss him slow. “We know.”
He exhales.
“…You’re not going to stop, are you?”
“Nope.”
Your kid shouts from the hallway: “TOMORROW YOU’RE GETTING GLITTER STICKERS!”
He closes his eyes. Bends his head to your shoulder.
And mutters:
“I should’ve stayed in the shadows.”
(He never means it.)
Midnight Promises
♡ ft. love and deepspace men x fem!reader + future children ♡ cw: fluff, domesticity, soft dad behavior, implied past intimacy, extreme husband material, babies everywhere ♡ a/n: Got a lot of asks for more wife/children with the boys so I had too! Love them so much! Also if this one seems a bit off sorry I have been drowning in finals
Caleb
It’s 3:42 AM.
You’re barely awake—draped in Caleb’s old flight hoodie, fuzzy socks mismatched, hair a mess. Your baby’s been fussing for over an hour, and the soft whines from the bassinet are just starting to edge toward a full-blown meltdown.
You don’t even make it out of bed.
Because Caleb’s already there.
You feel the mattress shift, the soft pad of bare feet, the faint rustle of fabric as he leans over the bassinet. Then—
“Shhh, baby,” he whispers, voice so gentle it cracks your heart open. “C’mon, lovebug. You’ll wake Mama.”
He says it like Mama is royalty.
He scoops up the baby with practiced ease—cradles them against his broad chest, one hand patting their back, the other supporting their head with the kind of reverence people usually reserve for ancient artifacts or handwritten love letters.
You watch, half-lidded, as he starts pacing the room barefoot.
He’s wearing soft cotton sleep pants and nothing else. Dog tags glint faintly under the moonlight seeping through the curtains. His hair is messy. His eyes are tired.
But none of that matters when your baby whimpers and he starts humming.
A melody you don’t recognize—slow, a little sad, sweet in the way old lullabies are. He sways as he walks, murmuring words you can’t quite make out.
You think you hear:
“You’ve got Mama’s nose…”
And:
“You’re already perfect. I’ll protect you forever. No matter what.”
Eventually, the baby settles. Caleb’s still moving—slow, endless loops around the room like he’d walk forever if it meant peace for both of you.
And then?
He comes back.
Leans down to kiss your temple first—soft and lingering—then lays the baby carefully between the two of you in the co-sleeper.
You’re half-asleep when you feel the weight of his arm slide around your waist.
“Go back to sleep,” he whispers against your neck. “I’ve got you both.”
And you believe him.
Because he’s Caleb. And he always does.
Xavier
It’s late.
Too late.
The kind of hour where the world feels paused—still, heavy, suspended in moonlight.
You’re curled up on the couch in the quiet dark, cradling your baby against your chest. The nightlight glows dim in the corner, casting soft shadows across the living room. There’s a blanket draped around your shoulders. You’re swaying gently, murmuring something soft and sleepy.
But your eyes are fluttering shut.
You don’t even hear the door open.
Xavier steps in without a sound.
He’s still in his gear—jacket open, blade strapped to his back, boots silent on the floor. His hair’s a mess from wind and mission grime, and his shoulders are tense from too many hours moving through dangerous spaces.
But the moment he sees you?
Everything stills.
He crosses the room in a few strides. Drops to one knee in front of you—like a knight, like a sinner, like a man who can’t stop needing you close even when he’s exhausted.
You blink awake as his hand brushes over yours.
“You should be sleeping,” he says quietly.
You shake your head. “She wouldn’t settle.”
His eyes drop to the baby nestled in your arms, now sleeping soundly. His jaw clenches—not in frustration. In awe.
He leans forward—careful, deliberate—and presses a kiss to your forehead. Then another, just above your brow.
“Let me,” he murmurs.
You hesitate. He sees it.
“I washed up outside,” he adds, voice barely above a breath. “I’m clean. I promise.”
You nod, and he lifts the baby from your arms with heartbreaking care—like he’s holding something sacred. His hands are calloused. Steady. Gentle. He cradles her close to his chest, one hand splayed protectively over her tiny back.
And then he just… stands there.
In the living room. Rocking back and forth. Saying nothing.
He doesn’t speak much—not about his love, not about the aching protectiveness in his chest—but his actions are poetry.
His eyes stay on her face like he’s memorizing every blink, every breath. When she stirs, his voice breaks the silence, low and soft:
“It’s alright. I’m here.”
You watch as he walks the room in slow loops, quiet and constant.
When he finally comes back, he lays her down in the bassinet and turns to you.
He doesn't ask if you're okay.
He just gathers you into his arms and pulls you into his lap on the couch—your body curled against his chest, your face tucked under his chin.
“Sleep,” he says.
And you do.
Because when Xavier says he’s here—he means it.
Rafayel
It’s nearly 2:30 in the morning.
The studio’s dim, lit only by the soft flicker of string lights and the distant glow of the moon bleeding through the stained-glass window he swears wasn’t always cracked.
You’re half-asleep on the old velvet couch, wearing one of his oversized button-downs and curled under a blanket that still smells like him—smoke, lavender, paint.
Your toddler is curled up on your chest, drooling peacefully, one chubby fist tangled in your hair.
And Rafayel?
He’s sitting on the floor.
Cross-legged. Shirtless. Covered in gold leaf and paint smudges.
Sketching.
You don’t know how long he’s been at it, but there are at least six versions of you sprawled around the floor, each more unhinged than the last—some romantic, some ridiculous. One with you wearing a crown made of snack wrappers. One where the baby is glowing like a celestial being. One where he’s asleep in your lap, drooling.
(“For realism,” he mumbled when you pointed it out.)
He looks up and catches your gaze before you can pretend to be asleep again.
“Caught you,” he says, voice a little too loud for the hour. “Can’t sleep without me anymore, can you?”
You groan softly, not bothering to deny it.
He grins and sets his sketchpad down. Crawls across the floor like a lazy jungle cat and presses a kiss to your bare knee.
Then another.
Then a third, way too high up your thigh.
“Rafayel,” you warn.
He laughs into your skin.
“Okay, okay,” he says, pushing himself up beside you. “You win. For now.”
He curls around you on the couch, nuzzles his nose into your neck, and gently adjusts the blanket so it covers all three of you—his long arm curling around your waist and your baby like you’re both his personal treasures.
You hear his breath catch when the baby sighs in her sleep and curls instinctively closer.
“Do you think she dreams?” he whispers. “Do you think babies dream of past lives?”
You hum. “Probably not.”
“She’s ours,” he murmurs, kissing your temple. “So if she does, she’s dreaming of color. Of brushstrokes. Of the way you laugh when I say I’d paint the moon just to match your skin.”
You roll your eyes. “That doesn’t even make sense.”
He grins. “Neither do you. That’s why I love you.”
You fall asleep in his arms to the feeling of his fingers trailing over your hip, sketching shapes into your skin he’ll try to remember later.
When he finally dozes off, he dreams of nothing but you.
Zayne
It’s just past midnight.
The house is silent except for the faint whir of the baby monitor and the occasional rustle of sheets as you shift beside him.
Zayne’s lying flat on his back, arms folded behind his head, eyes wide open—like sleep is something that’s just out of reach. Again.
You roll over, still half-asleep, and reach for him without even opening your eyes.
He exhales softly. That sound that always comes out when he thinks you’ve caught him thinking too much.
“Can’t sleep?” you mumble against his chest.
“I’m fine.”
You don’t believe him for a second.
He never sleeps easily. Not when there are scans to review. Charts to double-check. Or, more often than not, you and your daughter to hover over protectively when you’re both too peaceful to notice.
You shift closer, throwing a leg over his, curling your fingers into the fabric of his shirt.
“You’re doing it again,” you murmur. “Thinking too loud.”
He doesn’t answer right away. His hand just comes up to rest on the small of your back, warm and grounding.
“I keep hearing her cough,” he finally admits. “Twice. It was faint. Could be nothing. Could be—”
“Zayne.”
“I know.”
His fingers tighten slightly against your spine.
“I just… I’ve never had anything like this,” he says. “Not really. A house. A family. Something I could lose.”
You lift your head, blinking at him in the dark. His jaw’s tight. His brows drawn. Even now, he’s holding everything too close to his chest.
You reach up and cup his face.
“You’re not going to lose us,” you say.
“But I don’t know how to stop trying to prevent it. I don’t know how to relax.”
Your daughter lets out a tiny whine over the monitor—just a sleepy noise—but Zayne’s already moving before you can stop him.
You follow him down the hallway.
In the dim nursery, she’s sound asleep again, thumb in her mouth, little fist curled around the corner of her bunny blanket.
Zayne stands there for a long moment, watching her.
And then—surprising even himself—he reaches into the crib and lifts her gently into his arms. Just to feel her close. Just to make sure.
You step up beside him, arms sliding around his waist.
He kisses the top of her head.
Then yours.
When he speaks, it’s barely a whisper:
“She looks like you when she sleeps.”
You smile.
“She snores like you.”
His lip twitches, just barely. “She’s perfect.”
You press your head to his shoulder. “So are you.”
He doesn’t say anything.
But when you’re all curled back in bed—your daughter nestled between you, your leg tangled with his again, his hand wrapped tightly around your fingers—you feel it.
That quiet shift.
Zayne doesn’t sleep much.
But when he does?
It’s only like this.
With you.
Sylus
It’s past 2 a.m.
The house is quiet—but not asleep.
You’re half-asleep on the couch, still in your robe, a half-drunk cup of tea cooling on the side table. The nursery light is off, save for the warm glow of the star projector pulsing gently across the ceiling. Two soft little heartbeats breathe slow and steady in the twin bassinets by the wall.
And Sylus?
He hasn’t moved in over an hour.
Still shirtless, dark sweats low on his hips, he sits in the old armchair by the window—broad shoulders silhouetted in gold, silver hair tied messily back. One twin lies draped against his bare chest, asleep with a hand tangled in the crow pendant Sylus never takes off. The other had fussed, and he calmed her with nothing but his heartbeat and a lullaby you’d never heard him sing before.
He’s holding both of them like the world might try to take them away.
And he’s watching the window like he’d burn that world down first.
You don’t say anything when you approach. You just cross the room quietly and kneel beside him, one hand smoothing along his thigh.
“I thought you’d gone back to bed,” he murmurs without looking.
You shake your head. “Couldn’t sleep.”
He finally turns to you. His expression is unreadable—but you see it in his eyes. The softness. The weight. The disbelief that he has something so precious now.
“She cried,” he adds, glancing down at the baby in his arms. “Then he did. Didn’t want them to wake you.”
“You didn’t have to stay the whole time.”
“I did.”
Simple. Unyielding. Sylus.
You smile and rest your chin on his knee, watching the twins rise and fall with his slow breathing.
He shifts one arm carefully, just enough to curl it around your back and pull you close—right there on the floor. His fingers drift to the nape of your neck. His voice is quieter now.
“You’re not allowed to leave me alone with them like this again,” he whispers. “I’ll get soft.”
You laugh softly, eyes warm. “You already are.”
He hums.
Then, after a pause: “They make me want to be good.”
You look up. “You are good.”
“No. I’m careful. With you. With them.” He looks down at the sleepy weight in his arms. “That’s different.”
You don’t push it. You just nuzzle closer, his warmth sinking into your skin as the stars dance across the nursery walls.
Eventually, the baby in his arms yawns. He watches her like she’s a secret no one else gets to know.
“They’re safe with me,” he says, barely audible.
And somehow, you believe him more than anything you’ve ever known.