How do you think caleb or any of the others lads guys would react to their wife lactating? 👀 do you think that they'd be down to try it? I love your writing!! 💗💗
(wc. 2.1k) How would the LADS boys react when they spot you, their wife, lactating?
featuring: rafayel x reader, sylus x reader, caleb x reader, zayne x reader, xavier x reader (all separate)
warnings: mild smut, mdni.
a/n: first request down! i definitely think all of the boys would be down to try it LOL. i had so much fun writing this. hope you guys enjoy! c:
At first, you think Rafayel’s being moody because of something work related. Probably just something about him not getting inspiration for his next piece.
He's quiet during dinner, pushing his food around with the fork, glancing at you between bites but saying nothing. Then he sighs. Dramatically. Like you’ve just told him the love of his life is marrying someone else.
“Do you need the tub prepared?” you ask, gently patting the baby's mouth with a cloth as your baby drifts off to sleep, full and milk-drunk in your arms.
Another sigh. Even more dramatic this time.
You narrow your eyes. “Okay, what’s wrong with you?”
You put the baby down in the bassinet, tiptoeing back to the couch where he’s brooding like a man personally victimized by your child. You sit beside him and poke his thigh.
He doesn’t answer at first. Just shifts in his seat dramatically, like you should already know why he’s in a mood.
“…Why does he get to taste it?” he finally mutters.
Rafayel lifts his gaze, eyes narrowed. “Your milk. The baby gets all of it. Meanwhile, I, your husband, don’t even get to try?”
You stare at him, baffled, amused, a little turned on by how offended he looks.
He shifts closer suddenly, tone softening like he’s trying to guilt you.
“You used to let me suck on them all the time,” he mumbles, voice pitiful. “Now I get nothing.”
“Rafayel Qi,” you say, laughing despite yourself. “You’re jealous of your own child?”
“He doesn’t even appreciate it,” Rafayel huffs dramatically. “He’s just... drinking. No compliments. No praise. No loving gaze. No eye contact.” He places a hand over his heart. “He doesn’t deserve you.”
“You want to flirt with my boobs while I’m nursing?”
He nods solemnly. “And after.”
“No, no, go ahead. Ignore me. That’s fine.” He gestures grandly, flopping back on the couch like a neglected kid in a drama.
“I mean, I get it,” Rafayel huffs, gesturing vaguely toward the baby now blissfully passed out at the bassinet. “He needs it. It’s nourishment. Bonding. Blah blah. But like, what about me? A stranger in my own marriage.”
You roll your eyes. “Then ask.”
He freezes. Turns to you slowly.
You nod. “If you’re that curious, then fine. Go ahead.”
Wasting no moment, he immediately latches onto you, and his reaction is instant. His eyes roll back. A full-body shudder.
He suckles on your nipple with the eagerness of a thirsty man who had just found water after days of being dehydrated. When a bit of milk manages to escape from the side? He immediately laps it up, wasting no drop.
He pulls back, breathless. Dazed. “...Fuck."
“Alright. New plan. Let’s have six more kids.”
You shove him off the couch.
Everyone in the N109 Zone knows that Sylus doesn’t kneel.
He doesn’t repeat himself.
He gives orders, and people obey. His name alone strikes fear into civilians and corrupt officials alike. He's the kind of man who takes what he wants, and everyone bends at his will.
You’re the one thing he never commands.
Because with you, he never wants to.
And right now? He’s at your feet.
It starts when you’re in the privacy of your home, in a soft robe, curled on the couch with your baby fast asleep in the bassinet. You’re drowsy and glowing, eyes heavy from the feeding, your robe slipping just slightly to reveal a glistening patch where you’ve started to leak again.
Sylus was reading some documents, possibly just about a new batch of weapons shipped to one of his armories. All that boring stuff. When he looks at you, his eyes immediately zero to your chest.
The documents clattered to the ground.
You glance at him, confused. “Sylus?”
But he’s already closing the space between you. You see it, the desire in his eyes as he kneels before you, palms on your thighs, breath hot and uneven.
His voice is hoarse. Ragged. Barely a whisper.
“I need to taste you, sweetie.” He says it like it physically hurts to admit, jaw clenched.
Your breath hitches. “Sylus—”
“I never beg,” he murmurs, leaning forward, brushing his lips against the skin of your breast. “But I’ll get on my knees for this. For you.”
Just lowers his mouth to your breast and licks. The moment the white liquid hits his tongue, everything changes.
His lips part in stunned disbelief. Then, he groans, deep and guttural, like you just unlocked something feral in him.
“You taste sweet,” he rasps. He’s already latching on you again, open-mouthed, greedy.
“Fuck. You taste better than anything.”
You gasp, clutching at his shoulders as he begins to devour you. There’s nothing classy about the way he sucks at you–it’s messy, hungry, possessive. Like he’s waited his whole life for this and didn’t even know it.
You try to say something, to make a joke; “You’re worse than the baby.”
But Sylus growls into your skin, low and dark:
“I’ll give you another one. I’ll fill you up again, if that’s what it takes to keep you like this.”
Your breath stutters.
“Sylus—”
“No one else gets this. No one else gets to taste you like this.”
He presses his palm to your womb. “You hear me? Only me.”
And you believe him.
Because when Sylus Qin finds something he likes?
It starts with the panties.
Caleb thinks he’s subtle about it. Volunteering to do your laundry in the pretense that he 'just wants to help', setting aside a pair that smells like you, worn, soft, intimate. The design doesn't matter too, the one with lace? Spectacular. The cotton ones he bought with the apple patterns? Give him 14 of them right now. He tells himself it’s harmless, just something to keep close when you're gone on long shifts or too tired to stay up with him after work from the Hunter's Association.
When you've caught him in the act, all he does is raise an eyebrow, as if you're the one being strange.
“What?” he says, with that deadpan tone of his, nose still pressed into the fabric. “You smell nice.”
You should be flustered, but you’ve been married to this man long enough to know how weirdly intense he can be. It's part of the Caleb experience. When you tried scolding him because some of your pairs have gone missing, all he does is shoot you his signature puppy-eyed look.
But then after giving birth to your baby, everything changes. Your underwear drawer's surprisingly complete, and none of the pairs have gone missing. You'd think that maybe Caleb had just become too busy tending to the baby to even focus on his needs.
But what you don't notice is how his touches linger longer during nighttime cuddles, especially around your chest, or the way he glances at your shirt when it dampens just a little.
It happens when you’re fresh out of the shower. You're drying your hair, not noticing at first that the front of your shirt is damp. A few minutes later, you glance down and–
“Caleb?" you call out, not thinking much of it, “I think I’m lactating again. I forgot to pump.”
You don’t expect a reaction. You expect him to say something like, ‘Want me to grab the pump?’
What you don’t expect is for Caleb to freeze in the doorway, eyes locked on the wet patch spreading across the fabric.
“...Again?” he says quietly.
You blink at him. “Yeah? That’s usually how it works.”
His eyes narrow, his jaw clenches, and before you can respond, he’s across the room, pushing your shirt up to your chest with eagerness, hunger glinting in those beautiful purple eyes.
Your brain short circuits. “Wha–Caleb–?”
But he’s already there, lips closing around your nipple, hand firmly planted at your waist like he owns you.
And when he moans? You swear it’s the dirtiest sound he’s ever made.
He drinks like he’s been deprived. Like this was what he needed all along, and nothing else compares. Not the panties. Not your bath soap. Not even the taste of your skin.
No–this. This is divine. This is yours.
Later, when you're sprawled on the bed, dazed and breathless, he kisses your stomach and murmurs softly:
"Maybe we should have another baby. Just so you don't run out."
You laugh. “You're a freak.”
He looks up at you, utterly sincere, eyes dark with something that’s not quite lust–it’s obsession, devotion, need.
And you know then: he’s addicted.
But to every part of you.
You already knew Zayne had a problem with sweets.
The bakery receipts stuffed in his lab coat. The way he always “accidentally” wanders into the dessert section at the grocery store. The time he got bribed by Dr. Greyson with macarons.
It starts innocently enough; he’s helping you undress after a long day, brushing his fingers along the curve of your side as he unclasps your bra. You’re a few weeks postpartum, still sore and soft in all the ways he loves. He’s kneeling in front of you, peppering lazy kisses along your stomach when he notices the damp spot on your breast.
"Hmm?" He hums, brows furrowing. He leans in closer.
You sigh. “Yeah. I forgot to pump again. I’ll go get–”
“No,” Zayne cuts in, already cupping your breast in his hand. “Let me.”
But he’s already latched on before you can finish, mouth closing around you like it’s second nature.
The first taste hits him like a drug.
He moans. Actually moans. Like he just took a bite out of the best dessert of his life.
“Dearest,” he breathes when he finally pulls back, his lips still wet. “Why didn’t you tell me it tastes like this?”
You blink, a little dazed. “Like… what?”
He licks his lips. “Sweet. Warm...”
Then his gaze flicks up, dark and hungry.
“Better than any dessert I've ever tasted.”
Your face flushes. “You’re insane.”
“Maybe,” he says, already nudging you backward onto the bed, crawling over you with sinful intent. “But you married me.”
And just like that, he’s latched on again, slow, thorough, absolutely obsessed. Like he’s savoring every drop. Like you’re his final meal, and he’s a man who’s starved.
When he finally pulls away, lips wet and pupils blown wide, he looks like he’s come undone.
Then, like it’s the most natural thing in the world, he mutters:
“…I think I need to adjust my meal plan.”
You raise a brow. “You’re joking.”
He shakes his head, dead serious. “You’re my new dessert. Effective immediately.”
It’s still dark out when Xavier stirs beside you.
He wakes like he always does. Quiet, warm, arms automatically reaching for your sleeping form. He pulls you close, breath brushing on your neck, his hand splaying across your waist under the covers.
That’s when he notices it.
A damp spot on your shirt. Right over your chest. You’re on your side, curled towards him, unaware.
He blinks once. Then twice. Brain still foggy from sleep.
But then he leans closer, nose brushing against the fabric, breathing in the scent that’s distinctly you. Warm and milky. Sweet.
Something stirs in him. Not lust, something gentler. Deeper.
An ache in his chest he can’t explain. Like he wants to be closer, somehow. Like he needs to feel it. Taste it.
He shifts beneath the blankets, carefully nudging the neckline of your shirt down. He presses a kiss just above your nipple, reverent, before wrapping his lips softly around it.
You stir, eyelids fluttering. “...Xavi?” you murmur, voice gravelly with sleep.
“Mm,” he hums against your skin, mouth still lazily suckling. “Just helping.”
You blink blearily at him. “That’s… not how the pump works.”
“Don’t care,” he whispers. “Tastes better this way.”
You huff a soft laugh, too tired to scold him, too warm to care. “You’re unbelievable.”
He pulls back just enough to look at you, his dark hair tousled, eyes still heavy lidded.
“It’s comforting,” he says simply, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “You’re comforting.”
And with that, he tucks himself back into your arms, head resting on your chest, one hand lazily cupping your breast. You feel the occasional soft suckle as he drifts off again, slow and rhythmic, like a baby himself.
The room is quiet. The baby’s still asleep.
And for now... just for now, there’s no need to move.
You both fall back into sleep, tangled together, Warm, safe, and full.
