Bee

He looks extra handsome today, you think. Sleep still hangs over his eyes, his glasses hastily perched on that ridged nose. Stubble dots along his jaw, the soft angle hidden under morning shadow. You still feel it prickle on your skin from he kissed your shoulders.

Even his pajamas were doing something for you. You kick your feet under the blankets because he just makes you that giddy.

While Zayne prepares his razor for his morning shave, he turns his face this way and that, observing himself in the mirror.

“I think I’ve gained some weight,” he says, tone neutral.

You blink in surprise, tugged out of your love-stricken stupor by the sudden statement. When he swipes through the shaving cream rubbed onto his jaw, you see that the prominent line has softened some.

When Zayne reaches over to grab a towel, you see pale skin peek out from the bottom of his white t-shirt. A bit of belly greets you, and his happy trail invites your gaze lower.

You haven’t really noticed it, because his routine never changes. A morning run every day, and an hour gym session three times per week. It compensates for how often he eats take out in a time crunch and the macaron stash hidden in the second drawer of his desk (where he thinks you don’t know).

But now that he brought it up, he has all of your attention.

His shirt is a little more filled out than usual, and maybe you can see the outline of his thighs under the pajama pants. His arms look bulky, strong, all thanks to him insisting on pull-ups as a workout staple.

“Is that bad?” you ask, though you already know your answer.

Definitely, one-hundred percent, not bad in the slightest.

“No,” Zayne chuckles, and you realize that his eyes are already on you. You shift around in the bed, warm and inviting. “It’s normal with age.”

Zayne finishes his shave with time to spare, wiping the excess water and cream from his face, and takes his time lumbering back to your bed. You lean up, reaching out toward him, waiting for him to meet you in the middle, which he always does.

Your arms wrap around his middle. Your wandering hands don’t hesitate to hike his shirt up to feel the soft skin underneath. “Then why bring it up?”

Your hands run over his stomach, down to his hips, around the front tie of his pants. In return, he tugs off his shirt, letting you drink in his body with new eyes.

Crack (Princess Celestia mention) | Dad!Zayne & amused Mom!Reader/MC |

"Daddy, hold still."

Ever obedient and susceptible to the whims of his daughter, Zayne obliges. A change from his usual composure and impeccable appearance, he is currently hunched just slightly so his daughter can reach his chest, hair decorated in sun clips and tied back into numerous little pig tails (as best as they could be anyway), and his face colored with hearts and stars. His nails are also painted and done, a cosmetic that he never would've allowed given his occupation, but until Monday, he shall indulge in.

Besides, he's matching with you now too.

Zia holds a stethoscope to her father's chest, the little plastic pressing against his skin as she makes a very serious face, eyes narrowed. It's during this time you take the chance to snap pictures on your phone, being careful to get a good angle as well as make dure you aren't spotted from your position in the doorway.

"Hmm, yes yes, very serious!" Zia declares, comically solemn, before pulling away, her fingers pulling at the plastic instrument and letting them rest on her neck, "I'm very sorry to say this, princess. . ."

"What is it, sweetheart?" Zayne asks, hardly holding back from pinching her chubby cheeks. His daughter breaks character for just a moment as she huffs.

"Dad, my name is Doctor Sheila right now, and you're Princess Celestia."

"Right, of course. Silly me." If he strained his ears, Zayne might've heard your choked laughter.

Zia then sighs, clearing her throat before going back into character, "You have cancer, princess."

"Ah, and how did you come about that result, wise doctor?" he questions with a tilt of his head, which his daughter mirrors before she turns off to the side, her hand coming up to her chin.

It's a habit you've seen countless times on with Zayne. Now it's one you see on her.

"Your heart, it's not beating good," she finally says, and her diagnosis must've been spot on, for her father --- or rather Princess Celestia --- just sighs, accepting his fate.

"Then please, wise doctor, tell me how long do I have to live?"

Then, he watches her pause. She obviously didn't think that far, so he gives her a minute to think. A full sixty seconds as the gears turn in her head, before she's announcing with an eagerness unbefitting a doctor giving an estimated death day:

"Tomorrow! You have until tomorrow!"

The next Monday morning when Zayne has to work, he's walking by Yvonne's desk when she stops him, barely holding back a laugh.

"Doctor Zayne, since when were you into nail polish, if I might ask?"

Zayne feels the tips of his ears burn before he looks down at his hand, the shimmer of the bright pink, glitter nail polish almost blinding him with their audacity.

". . . Do you happen to have any nail polish remover?"

🌷 NOTES FROM THE AUTHOR

Yeah, I decided Zia's gonna stick from now on.

Also I will finally update my masterlist/navigation list soon. Defo gonna finish that before my summer vacay ends which is in like less than 2 weeks. More on that in a future post.

Something I notice is, when men discuss the manosphere, they either centre the reason boys fall down that pipeline on some inner weakness or defectiveness of the boy, ie. "they're just autistic weirdos who want rules for women because they can't get their dick wet," or they centre the reason on women, "feminism had made women too woke, mean and impossible to socialise with."

What I noticed while working is that every single little Tate goblin I had to work with had conservative parents, and I have never once seen that aspect of all this discussed. Boys will reflect the social norms they are raised in within their household. The biggest preventative for manosphere bullshit I saw in the boys I worked with was a dad who isn't a fuckwit and a household that isn't LARPing the 1960s.