Idea for mamas princesses, maybe what if our princess accidentally overheard MC and the boys during sexy times, and thinks the boys were hurting mama, so she gives the boys the cold shoulder the next day and our boys have to find a way to appease her? And MC of course will be enjoying the shenanigans lol
ᯓ★ˎˊ˗ Mama’s Princess P.9
𝒲𝒾𝓈𝒽 𝑔𝓇𝒶𝓃𝓉𝑒𝒹 𝒻𝑜𝓇 ˙⋆✮ Rafayel, Zayne, Xavier, Sylus, Caleb
𝒢𝑒𝓃𝓇𝑒/𝒲𝒶𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔 ˙⋆✮ Fluff, suggestive leaning into smut? just adorable kids, me saying raf cause i’m not bothered to type his full name
> ࣪𖤐.ᐟ Your babygirl thinks daddy is hurting you
It had been a late night. You and Rafayel hadn’t even been trying to be that loud… but with a house that big and quiet, and a bed that creaked just so when he got a little too into worshiping you? Well. Little ears might’ve caught a thing or two.
Especially ears belonging to a wide-eyed 2-year-old girl in a ruffled pink nightgown who had padded into the hallway for her usual middle-of-the-night search for Mama.
And when she heard muffled moans and gasps and your sweet little voice crying, “Raf… too much, please—” followed by his husky, “Just a little more, baby. Take it for me—”?
And then she scuttled back to her room like a scandalized little gremlin, clutching her bunny plush with a stricken expression, “Papa hurting Mama…?”
Rafayel walked into the kitchen all smiles, lips still smug with the memory of last night and hair loosely tied up as he carried your favorite breakfast tray in one hand, his other reaching for his little girl.
She was sitting on the counter beside you, arms crossed, lips pouty, face set in the deepest baby betrayal known to man.
“No huggies!” she said firmly. “No kisses, no talkies.”
You were definitely not helping. In fact, you very clearly turned your face away, hiding your giggle behind your coffee mug like the absolute traitor you were.
Raf knelt down, confused. “Sweetheart… what did Papa do?”
She pointed at him. “You hurt Mama.”
His eyes widened. “I—I did what?”
“You were in Mama’s bed going ‘hnngh’ and Mama said ‘too much’ and ‘please’ and I HEARD YOU.”
There was a full beat of silence as Rafayel’s soul left his body.
You? You nearly choked on your coffee.
“I wasn’t—I didn’t—She liked it!” he burst out, turning to you in sheer panic. “Tell her you liked it! You were begging me for more five minutes later!”
“Oh my god—Raf!” You smacked his arm through your giggles. “She’s two! You cannot say that!”
Meanwhile, your daughter turned away dramatically, swiping a strawberry off your plate and pointedly feeding it to you, not her Papa.
“Only Mama gets huggies today,” she huffed, clinging to you like a little koala. “Papa’s mean.”
Raf stood there, clutching the breakfast tray like it was evidence in a trial. “…I’m being framed. I’m the victim.”
He tries everything. Princess dresses, new plushies, a tea party invitation where he brings his best pouty bunny voice. Nothing works.
“She said no talkies,” he whispers to you, utterly destroyed. “I’m on probation.”
“She’s very mad at you,” you say, sipping your tea from your little porcelain cup. “I dunno, maybe you should’ve held back on the headboard banging.”
“I’m never touching you again,” he deadpans.
He frowns. “You’re enjoying this.”
You grin, feeding your daughter a cookie and whispering to her conspiratorially, “Don’t let Papa win. Make him beg.”
Rafayel glares. “You’re raising a warlord.”
And then your little girl slowly slides a pink tiara across the table toward him.
“If Papa wears it and says sorry.”
He puts it on in under two seconds flat.
“I’m sorry, my little moonflower,” he declares with complete, dramatic flair, kneeling beside her high chair. “Papa will never hurt Mama again. Only gentle snuggles. Soft like bunnies.”
He makes the most pathetic sound of relief and cradles her to his chest like he’s been saved from death row.
You just shake your head, sipping your tea, your job here done
It started with a mistake.
Not your mistake, of course. It was Zayne’s, really, for thinking he could let go just a little in the comfort of your shared bed, in the privacy of the master suite, at 2AM on a night the baby monitor was turned off because your toddler had gone to sleep peacefully for once.
A few soft, low groans from Zayne. Your breathy pleas. The rhythmic creaking of the bed.
And just outside the door, a sleepy, pink-cheeked two-year-old clutching her favorite stuffed lamb, staring at the door, eyes wide.
“Mama said ‘don’t hurt people.’”
Zayne is freshly showered, in his robe, hair damp and swept back. He’s setting up your breakfast tray, fruit, poached eggs, tea exactly the way you like it. A perfect Saturday morning.
“Darling,” he murmurs, already lifting your hand to kiss it. “I’ll bring her in after breakfast so she can cuddle with you, she was half-asleep when I checked on her—”
The second he opens her nursery door:
She’s standing there. In her bunny slippers. Looking up at him with betrayal written all over her tiny face.
Zayne blinks. “…No what, sweetheart?”
You, watching from the hallway, immediately duck behind the wall because you are already cracking up.
Zayne steps inside slowly. Kneels down, professional hands cradling her soft cheeks. “What happened, honey?”
Her lip wobbles. “I heard her. She said ‘Zayne, stop’ and you didn’t!”
His soul evacuates his body. His face drops.
“I wasn’t—Mama was fine. She was—she liked it.”
He says that and then IMMEDIATELY looks up toward where you’re peeking around the corner, “She did like it— tell her you liked it—!”
You shrug, completely deadpan. “You didn’t stop, Zaynie.”
He turns back to your daughter, panicked. “Sweetheart, listen to Papa—Mama was just—Mama was making a very special sound because—because—”
“Because you were being mean!”
She covers her ears. “Mama always says don’t touch people if they say ‘no!’”
She glares. “YOU said okay, but you didn’t stop!”
She storms off. To your lap.
Zayne is devastated. She won’t come near him. She won’t even take the pink thermos he made her. She wouldn’t even let him clip her barrette in.
And of course, you’re no help.
“Oh, maybe she’s just confused,” you say sweetly as you let her climb into your lap like a little queen. “After all, you were a little… aggressive last night.”
“I was being intimate,” he mutters.
“You were pushing my knees up and whispering ‘take all of me.’”
“And then I was like, ‘Zayne no—’ and you said ‘shhh, good girl.’”
He buries his face in his hands. “She’s two. I’m being trialed.”
He sits her down like it’s a serious consult.
She’s seated in your bed, arms crossed, wrapped in your silk robe that’s dragging behind her like a royal train.
Zayne’s got a clipboard and kneels down.
“Sweetheart. I’m very sorry that Mama sounded upset last night. But I promise I didn’t hurt her.”
“Mama cries when I make her feel really good.”
“Like when you get me strawberry mochi?”
“Exactly like that. Only for grown-ups.”
He leans in and holds out a bandaid. Her favorite kind—little glittery ones with bunnies.
“I made you pancakes with mochi. And a smoothie. And I cleaned Lambie.”
But she stares at him hard.
Then she pokes his cheek. “Don’t make Mama cry again.”
“…Okay. You can kiss my hand now.”
Zayne does it instantly, relief pouring off him.
And you? You just pull the covers higher and sip your tea like the smug queen you are.
The stars above the penthouse glowed through the glass panels overhead. Your pretty daughter was wrapped in her bunny blanket, supposedly asleep in her moon-shaped bed in the nursery across the hall.
You and Xavier had finally settled in. One thing led to another. And then,
Soft kisses. Whispered, breathy praise. The low, sleepy groan of Xavier’s voice murmuring, “You’re so good for me…”
And then your teasing reply, something like, “You’re so mean when you’re sleepy—”
Followed by his usual, deeply out-of-it but filthy tone:
“Want me to be mean, baby? Can be worse. Want it rough?”
Unfortunately, your daughter had wandered halfway to the kitchen for her midnight milk run when she passed your door and heard that.
She gasped. Clutched her bunny plush.
And turned right back around.
You’re in your fluffy robe, making pancakes. Xavier’s still sleep-mussed, wearing his pajama pants and his usual loose sweater, hair unbrushed, blinking like he’s got no idea what day it is.
Your daughter is sitting on the counter beside you, arms firmly crossed. And when Xavier walks in and sleepily leans forward to press a kiss to her cheek,
“…No?” he repeats slowly, like he’s trying to reboot.
“No kissies. You were mean to Mama.”
He straightens. Blinks. Looks at you.
You raise a brow. Say nothing.
“…Mean?” he echoes. “I wasn’t—Mama likes me—”
He turns to you again. “You do like me.”
“Oh, I like you plenty,” you hum. “Even when you’re mean.”
His daughter gasps. “You said he’s mean!!” she huffs, turning on you, completely betrayed.
“She did say that,” Xavier murmurs like a man on death row.
“You said, ‘stop, Xavi,’ and he said ‘want me to be worse,’” she mimics with full scandal, slapping her tiny palms to her cheeks. “Papa was mean to you in BED.”
You nearly choke on your pancake.
Xavier… walks out of the room.
He reappears one second later with a full pillow over his head.
He follows you both around the house like a confused ghost. She hides behind you, clutching your dress. He kneels beside her toddler chair with a plate of fruit stars and whispers, “…forgive me.”
You? You’re giggling behind your hand the entire time.
“She’s very hurt,” you say dramatically. “You were… very mean. She might need therapy.”
“She’s going to be an anti-men feminist now.”
“She’s two, she can’t even spell feminist,” he hisses back.
“She’ll remember this forever.”
“I didn’t do anything!” he protests, distraught. “You said you liked it!”
“I did.” You sip your tea. “But your daughter didn’t.”
He slouches in the corner, arms folded. His voice goes monotone.
“…I’ve ruined everything.”
He brings her his prized glow-in-the-dark galaxy stickers.
He brings her her favorite star-shaped jelly snacks, perfectly arranged.
Finally, he picks her up, carefully, gently, and places her in his lap on the couch. He presses his forehead to hers, eyes closed.
“I didn’t hurt Mama,” he says quietly. “I promise.”
“She said that in the way she says ‘stop giving me kisses’ but then she giggles.”
Your daughter frowns. “…She did giggle…”
“She likes when I’m like that. But if you ever think something’s wrong, you can tell me, alright?”
Then throws her arms around his neck. “I forgive you.”
You walk into the room just in time to see your smug sleepy husband trapped under his toddler and sigh in relief.
“…Did I pass the moral interrogation?”
She peeks over his shoulder.
“Don’t be mean next time, Papa.”
“I’ll try,” he says. “But Mama’s very pretty. It’s hard.”
You throw a pillow at him.
It had all started the night before.
You and Sylus had finally gotten a break. The estate was quiet. Your daughter was asleep, the phones were off, and you were wearing that red lace number he bought you in Paris, the one that makes him go insane.
You were cocky. He was worse. And at some point, while he had you pinned beneath him whispering, “Look at you. Mine. Say it—” and you were panting, “You’re being rough…”
Well. Your daughter had been up.
In her little silk pajama set.
And she heard everything.
Peeking into the hallway like a tiny security officer on patrol, gripping her plush saber-toothed tiger and scowling—
Sylus was in the middle of finishing his black coffee and planning the acquisition of a rival armory when your daughter marched into the kitchen with all the grace and fury of a betrayed empress.
He crouched down automatically.
“Good morning, sweetheart. Did you sleep—”
SLAP.(Okay not a real slap. But she smacked her hand onto his shoulder like he was under arrest.)
“You were being rough with Mama.”
She scowled up at him, fire in her little red eyes (just like his). “I heard you say say it and Mama said no, and you said you can take more.”
Sylus blinked once. Twice.
Then he turned his head slowly toward where you were already choking on your croissant.
“Are you kidding me right now,” he muttered.
“I’m not the one who growled ‘take it, sweetheart’ with the door cracked open,” you said sweetly, reaching for your tea.
Your daughter crossed her arms and sat in your lap, smack in front of Sylus, like a tiny mafia boss issuing a silent verdict.
“…Excuse me?? I built this house.”
“You hurt Mama. Timeout.”
He sends her a chocolate fountain. She narrows her eyes and turns her nose up.
He tries to pick her up for snuggles, she squirms out and runs to you.
He holds up the emergency “Papa is sorry” briefcase (yes, he has one).
She closes the nursery door in his face.
You? You’re eating grapes on the chaise lounge like the queen you are.
“She’s very upset,” you sigh. “I mean… I was crying last night.”
“From pleasure,” he snaps.
“She’s plotting my demise.”
Sylus’ Bribery Plan Fails
He finally sits her down like he’s about to negotiate an international treaty.
“Princess. I understand you think I hurt Mama. But I didn’t. It was a… special grown-up activity that involved some… theatrics.”
She frowns. “You were growling.”
“…I was being expressive.”
“And then said don’t stop.” He clasps his hands. “That’s very different.”
Her brow furrows. Sylus feels sweat on his spine.
“She wasn’t sad. She was just… being bratty. Like you get when I take the TV remote.”
“…Mama was being bratty?”
“Yes. And I was punishing her.”
Sylus slowly turns to look at you.
“You’re fired,” you say flatly.
He flops next to you on the bed, exhausted, sighing like a man who’s been bested in battle. “She hates me.”
“She does not hate you,” you reply gently, patting his chest. “She’s just confused. And dramatic. Wonder where she got that from.”
He rolls his eyes. “From you.”
From the hallway, your daughter appears with her tiger plush.
You hold your arms out. “Perfectly fine, baby.”
She walks over. Climbs onto the bed.
She pats his hand. “Don’t growl at Mama again.”
She leans over and kisses his cheek. “You can hold my tiger now.”
He holds it like it’s the holy grail. Looks at you with pure smug victory.
“You barely escaped a coup,” you mutter.
It happened during a late evening on Skyhaven, stars glittering outside the glass panels, the entire penthouse quiet. Caleb had just come home from a long mission. Tired. Tense. And the second the door shut behind him, he grabbed you.
It was one of those kisses. One of those possessive, desperate, “I missed you too much” moments. The kind that ends with your legs wrapped around his waist and your breathy, teasing little voice whispering:
Low voice, eyes burning violet, growling right against your skin:
“No. Not after how long you made me wait—”
The creak of the bed. Your little whimper. His panting, shaky “That’s it, pipsqueak. Take it. You’re mine—”
What neither of you realized…
Was that your babygirl had just woken up from her nap.
She’d toddled into the hallway to find you.
And stood. Frozen. Plushie in hand. Eyes wide.
Caleb’s up early, dressed in his soft black shirt and sweats, hair still tousled from sleep. He’s in the middle of pouring cereal into a tiny bowl when he hears soft footsteps behind him.
He turns around with a warm smile.
His daughter is standing there in her little nightgown, clutching her bunny.
“Don’t talk to Mama again.”
He freezes. Cereal box still in hand.
“You hurt Mama. I heard it.”
His soul leaves his body.
He turns immediately, “Pipsqueak. Babe. Help.”
You’re sipping coffee on the couch, silk robe draped off your shoulders, looking so damn amused.
“Mm. What did you hear, babygirl?”
“She said ‘Caleb no…’” your daughter says, looking horrified.
“And Papa said ‘yes.’ And then ‘take it.’”
Caleb literally drops the cereal box.
“I—I didn’t hurt her,” he says immediately, crouching in front of her, looking frantic. “It was—it was a hug.”
“That was a hug???” you snort
Caleb shoots you a look like PLEASE, and turns back to your daughter.
“She wanted the hug. Even if she said no. I mean—she didn’t mean the no—I mean, she meant it in a good way—”
“You didn’t stop!” your daughter gasps.
You lean back with a sigh. “Wow. Cancelled by a two-year-old. Tragic.”
She won’t let him near her.
She won’t eat the little astronaut-shaped pancakes he made.
She says “Mama can feed me. Not Papa.”
She sits between you and him like a bouncer.
When he reaches for the remote?
He paces the penthouse. Carries the baby monitor with him like it’s a black box from a crashed shuttle. Keeps playing the last 30 seconds of the recording from the night before.
“She said ‘Caleb, no’ and then I said ‘shhh.’ That sounds—bad. It sounds BAD.”
You’re curled up on the couch with your robe and a smug smile.
“Well,” you hum, “you did get a little… feral.”
“I cried into her onesie.”
“You called me your ‘defenseless little wife.’”
“You said you liked it but She doesn’t know that!!” he hisses, clutching his head.
He finally kneels in front of her crib, holding out a tray with apology cookies, baby vitamins shaped like moons, and a drawing of your daughter with a crown on.
“I know. I shouldn’t have been rough. I’ll be more gentle with Mama.”
Caleb looks like he’s about to cry now too. “She only cries when she likes it a lot.”
You peek in. “That’s true.”
Your daughter narrows her eyes. Then slowly, reluctantly, walks over.
“Okay,” she mutters. “But next time, I’m checking on Mama first.”
Caleb picks her up immediately and hugs her like he’s been blessed by the stars.
And then she looks up at you. “Mama?”
“…Did you really like it?”
Caleb covers your mouth with his hand. “Do not answer that.”
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