⋆˚꩜.ᐟ : including — cutesy hcs, avg fluff, implied marriage!
[౨ৎ] synopsis: random domestic things the lads!men do
[♡₊˚ ♕]: her highness's decree: Don't know what I'm gonna post after this lol, we might do a freaked out multi poll but summer themed or sum idk
౨ৎ ⟶ lads masterlist
SYLUS
𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ🐇་༘࿐ puts his hand over sharp table corners when you walk past them; He does it so naturally you almost miss it. Whenever you walk past sharp table corners or low hanging edges, his hand is already there before you even register it. His warm palm pressed against the edge, cushioning it so you don’t bump into it. Most of the time, you don’t even realize it’s happened until you feel it—Sylus's hand brushing lightly against the side of your head instead of wood.
And when you finally do notice, it’s always the same.
You pause, turning your head slightly to look at him, caught between confusion and that soft, familiar flutter in your chest.
Sylus doesn’t look at you right away. Only after a moment does his gaze flick toward you, calm and gentle, but softer when it meets your eyes. "Careful there, sweetie," he says, a teasing lilt threading through his voice.
"Wouldn't want an injured kitten on our hands, would we?"
ZAYNE
𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ🐇་༘࿐ knows exactly when your social battery is dying and gets you out of conversations; He notices when your smile starts to thin just a little too quickly in conversations, when your answers get shorter, when your eyes start drifting instead of really landing anywhere. He never interrupts you while it’s happening. He just waits until the exact second it becomes too much for you to keep pretending.
“Excuse me,” Zayne says smoothly when he finally steps in, appearing beside you as if he’s always been there. One hand settles lightly at your back, subtle enough that no one questions it, but firm enough that your shoulders immediately relax. Your coworker is still talking about some article she read, but Zayne’s presence quickly disrupts the rhythm of the conversation.
Zayne doesn't necessarily make it sudden or awkward, just gently redirects it, polite words and his calm authority wrapping around the conversation until it naturally dissolves.
And it's moments like that that make you so so grateful to be married to someone like zayne.
You barely even realized how much you’d been holding in until it’s suddenly gone, like someone finally loosened a tight knot in your chest. By the time you reach his car, the evening air feels colder than you expected. Zayne opens the passenger door for you without a word, like he already knows you’re running on empty.
You slide into the warm interior of his car, sinking back into the seat with a soft exhale, lashes fluttering shut for just a second longer than intended. “Thank you for that, zaynie,” you murmur tiredly as he settles into the driver’s seat beside you.
Zayne glances at you, the faintest curve forming at the corner of his mouth. His gaze softening as his green eyes flicker over your tired expression, brushing a few stray hairs from your face. “Of course, my love."
CALEB
𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ🐇་༘࿐ automatically reaches for you when he's excited about something; Caleb has never been good at hiding his enthusiasm—though he's never had any desire to hide it from you. The second he's telling you a story, showing you something cool, or rambling about whatever has caught his attention that day, he's automatically reaching for you without even realizing it.
"Okay, okay, but listen, pips—"
One arm slips around your waist as he talks, pulling you against his side while he launches into whatever ridiculous thing he's currently invested in.
"The wing shape is designed like that for a reason. And if you look here—"
Caleb's excitement only makes him more affectionate. A hand on your shoulder. An arm around your waist. Pulling you closer every few minutes like he physically needs you involved in the conversation. Half the time, he isn't even aware he's doing it.
Too busy sharing something he loves with his favorite person.
And somehow, by the end of it, you've learned absolutely nothing about airplanes, but you've learned quite a bit about how cute your husband looks when he's excited.
XAVIER.
𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ🐇་༘࿐ steals your blankets subconsciously but gives them back immediately when you whine; Xavier has this unconscious habit of stealing your blankets like it’s instinct. It starts innocently enough: movie nights, late evenings, him sitting just a little too close until somehow the entire blanket ends up draped over him instead of you.
You don’t even notice at first.
Until you’re suddenly freezing.
“Xavierrrr” you mumble, tugging at the edge of the blanket.
He stirs slowly, blinking up at you like he’s just been pulled out of a dream. There’s a long pause where he processes absolutely nothing, then—
“…hm?”
“you're hogging the blanket, xavi.”
Silence.
"...Sorry, star."
Then, without argument or complaint, he shifts immediately. Still half-asleep and grumbling under his breath, he lifts the blanket off himself and drapes it back over you, carefully tucking it around your shoulders until you're warm again.
The moment he's satisfied, he settles right back down. His arms slip around your waist, pulling you back against his chest with a sleepy sigh. His face buries itself in the crook of your neck, warm and familiar.
Within minutes, his breathing evens out again.
And by morning?
The blanket will somehow be wrapped around him once more.
RAFAYEL
𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ🐇་༘࿐ always checks your reflection before his own; Every time you pass a mirror together or find yourselves standing in front of your shared bathroom mirror: Rafayel's eyes find you first.
It doesn't matter if you're dressed up for one of his gallery openings or standing in one of his oversized shirts with your hair half done. His gaze always drifts toward your face before anywhere else.
Most nights, he'll wander into the bathroom while you're doing your skincare, drawn in by your presence more than anything else. You catch his reflection in the mirror as he walks up behind you, arms slipping around your waist before resting his chin on your shoulder. The embrace is loose and familiar, his attention seemingly fixed on your reflection rather than his own.
"Don't stare at me," you mumble, patting moisturizer into your skin. "I look dehydrated right now."
Then his arms only tighten around your waist. "Then you'll be my dehydrated, beautiful muse." He says sweetly, despite the teasing lit in his voice, which makes you roll your eyes as he presses a kiss to your cheek.
"I wonder if I'll still be your muse once I start shedding like a lizard."
Rafayel hums thoughtfully, resting his chin more firmly on your shoulder as he studies your reflection.
"Of course."
"Really?"
"Mm. Then I'd simply paint the most beautiful lizard in existence."
"...you're ridiculous."
Rafayel only smiles, pressing another kiss to your cheek.
"Anything for my muse."
♡ princessxmin please do not alter, copy or translate my work !
It’s something you didn’t realize until Yvonne pointed it out shortly after Zayne had rushed off for an emergency operation. “You two are very reminiscent of cats.”
“Huh?” You only turned to look at her after Zayne had disappeared from your sight. Cheeks a little warm as she smiled at you. “You two said goodbye, but when Dr. Zayne kissed your cheek, he nuzzled you with his nose… you nuzzled him right back. It was pretty cute.”
You can't even say anything in response, your mind slightly malfunctioning as you think back on all the times you and Zayne have subconsciously nuzzled into each other.
You mean to tell Zayne about it when he gets home, just to see his ears grow red and his cheeks pink as he realizes his own habit.
Except, you forget about it when he gets hime. It's not until he's on top of you, his face buried in your neck, that it dawns on you. "You're like a kitten, Z." His body weight is settled snuggly on top of you, a slight hum sounding from his mouth as he processes your words.
"So are you." It vibrates your skin, makes you giggle a little harder and your nails scratch his scalp a little harder. "Yvonne pointed it out today, y'know. I couldn't even come up with a response."
Now, Zayne is chuckling too. The warmth of his face against your neck growing a little hotter. "You've softened me, my love. Ruined me, even. Now I can't help myself when my colleagues are present." The kiss that lands on the top of his head only ruins him further.
a/n: wanted to finish some drafts to get out of writer's block before starting two recent requests!
headcanons masterlist
Zayne — Light sleeper. He always takes a shower before going to bed; he can't fall asleep otherwise. Has plain pajamas in cool tones, but in summer, he can sleep shirtless (🫦). Doesn't move much during the night and breathes softly, letting soft sighs pass through his lips when he's fully asleep. As a doctor, he is aware of the rule of no screens before bedtime, but 1) sometimes he goes straight to bed after typing reports, and 2) he likes to chat with you before going to sleep, so he doesn't follow it that much. When you're sleeping by his side, he either lets his arm open so you can cuddle beside him or he fully spoons you.
Rafayel — Heavy sleeper, but he wakes up at random noises, yet NEVER the alarm. He doesn't set alarms unless he has plans with you, and yes, he goes 5:50, 6:00, 6:10, 6:20- it's a nightmare. Can sleep very still and stiff when he finally rests after overworking himself (meaning he doesn't fully rest, but sleep is sleep), or in starfish mode. He has a huge bed for a reason, y'know? Gets tangled in the sheets, his pillows get all messy, and he can sleep in the weirdest positions when he's sleeping by himself. If you're with him, he needs to hug you or touch you in any kind of way.
Xavier — HEAVY SLEEPER. I don't think there's much I can say about him. We know he can sleep on the sofa, the bed, his bean bag... and he's definitely a pretty sleeper most of the time. Key word: most. When he's been sleeping for over 12 hours, his face gets all smushed on the pillows, his lips a little puckered, and cheeks squished oh so cutely, you have to take a photo! If you tease him too much, he won't wake up, but will start mumbling and bury his face in the pillows. Cuteness aggression goes hard with him. Rewarding of his clothes... whatever is comfy and warm will do. If you're sharing a bed, ditch one of the pillows; you're either sleeping on top or underneath him, so no more than one pillow is needed at this point.
Sylus — Oh, he's big. He's taking up a lot of space on the bed, that's why he has a custom-made mattress: perfect size, perfect cushioning. Wears fancy pajamas/robes or sleeps straight up naked/in underwear, on his stomach and face smushed on the pillows too... but he's too handsome, even his smushed face looks handsome, and kissable, too kissable... Don't kill me, but I think he snores a little bit, but it's more like a low grumble. He's a heavy sleeper, but his senses are too sharp; he will wake up if he perceives any weird noise. Most likely to sleep on top of you and bury his face in your neck. Sleeping on your bed will force you to snuggle closer, but oh well... can you reaaaally complain?
Caleb — My poor baby is a light sleeper :( I think it's rare if he gets to the REM phase, so he's always alert and frustrated because he can't fully rest. When he was younger, even if he had nightmares, he could sleep a bit more soundly. Of course, his sleep quality goes exponentially up when you sleep by his side. Spooning you is enough for him, and he likes it when you cling to his arm or put a hand on his chest. He feels like he can finally relax.
Tag list: @hirayalia @totallyuniquenut @foxfairylights @cherrysherryblossom @hilliserose @emowitchwithatwist @violasepals @animegamerfox
I hope that tagging you for headcanons is also okay !! If you don't want to be tagged, just tell me :)
♱⋅── ZAYNE is just a perfect husband, even more than they know.
♱⋅── MDNI just horny thoughts about zayne, once again.
"Zayne is such a wonderful husband."
The entire hospital knows of the mystery lady who seems to be the only thing more important to the man than surgery itself. The one who, if you ask about the cute homemade bento box or a cup of caramel coffee (with whipped cream on top) and a sticky note on the side, will say, “my wife got it for me,” with a smile that you might have thought impossible for him to make.
"Zayne is such a wonderful husband."
Even your apartment neighbors know him as such, the sweet elderly lady on your left always greeting him with a hug and a coy smile, asking what goodies he brought for you today. It’s his own fault, really, always bringing back a new bouquet of flowers, groceries he noticed you running out of, or a new pile of books you begged him to pick up from the library on his way over.
"Zayne is such a wonderful husband."
Especially in your eyes.
Especially when he’s been stuck in the hospital or on a god-forsaken business trip, pushed away from you for days (although he insists anything more than 24 hours is unbearable enough), and nothing can keep him from you once he returns.
He’s such a wonderful husband, especially when he has you on your back, gasping for air and mercy you don’t want as he forces your legs up higher, quivering thighs shoved against your chest.
It’s hot, too hot, and not even Zayne’s Evol can keep up, sweat making long black strands stick to his forehead, dripping down his neck and back as you claw against every ripping muscle there, incoherent, burning up from the inside as you beg for more and more and more.
You were a mess already, undone by an hour prior of tortuously delicate touching, Zayne’s tongue giving unwavering attention to your clit and nipples, building you up until you practically ripped his pants off and demanded that he be inside you. Not that he could ever refuse you.
Now you think it might have been a mistake, feeding an insatiable beast.
You’ve already cum on his fingers, and yet you feel something build again, a pressure that feels more like a complete loss of control, intense and overwhelming as you gasp into Zayne’s neck, scrambling to push him off even as his hips fuck into yours.
“Wait,” a moan, muffling yourself into your palm as Zayne’s thumb goes to your poor abused clit again, misreading your blabbering as an indication you’re close. “Wait! No, no, it’s not. It feels different, just–”
Finally, he freezes. Pulls out, and immediately drops to his stomach, large hands pushing your thighs to your shoulders, tongue already at your cunt. “Don’t stop me.”
The please at the end of his sentence is swallowed by a guttural groan as he tastes you again, rich, heady, intoxicating. His eyes, half-open and lovedrunk, were locked on your face, never leaving, drinking in your unraveling expressions with terrifying devotion as you writhe and arch desperately into his mouth.
“That’s it, love,” he leaves a kiss on your shaking legs before forcing you to hold them up yourself, his fingers immediately curl inside you. The horrible pressure in your stomach coils tighter, threatening to explode. “That’s it, good girl. You’re doing so good for me. Fuck.”
And then his tongue joins his fingers, gently circling your clit as his fingers mercilessly piston in and out of you until they hit a spot that makes you scream. Everything inside you convulses, a violent, helpless shudder that rips a delirious sob from your chest as something bursts. You feel it even as the world spins, thighs and ass slippery and filthy as the obscene sounds of skin on skin are magnified, covered only with Zayne’s low, guttural moans, swallowing everything you give him.
He can’t stop, panting against your cunt, leaving kisses and licking the spray of your release up your abdomen before he’s hovering atop you once more.
“Again.”
Zayne flips you over, hands bruising your ass and waist in ways that make your eyes roll back, a moan ripping from you as Zayne’s hand pulls on your hair, forcing your limp head off the pillow and back, lips meeting yours in a wet, sloppy kiss that has saliva and sweat running down your throat. You think you might be losing consciousness or maybe just your sanity, but gods, you never want this to stop.
zayne believes in consequences. so, when you decide not to behave tonight, he simply delivers your punishment.
right now, you’re hovering over his lap, your thighs shaking so hard you can barely keep your balance. he’s already used his stupidly long fingers to make you cum three times, leaving your cunt feeling raw, dripping wet and so sensitive that the friction of your own movement feels like a shock.
and now your punishment, it seems, is to ride his cock until you fucking can’t.
“z-zayne...i don’t...i can’t,” you whimper, tears stinging your eyes. you try to lower yourself but the head of his cock stretches your aching walls so intensely that you immediately freeze, crying out from the sheer fullness of him.
zayne lies perfectly still beneath you. he looks up at your flushed face, his expression entirely calm with a slight upturn of his lips, even though his own cock is twitching inside you, tip leaking with pre cum.
without a word, he reaches over to the nightstand. the familiar clink of his stethoscope makes your heart race.
“sit still,” zayne says, voice low and steady.
he puts the earpieces in and then the freezing steel of the stethoscope presses right against your bare chest.
the icy metal against your flushed hot skin makes you gasp. your cunt instantly clamps down, squeezing his cock like a vice. a heavy groan escapes zayne as you tighten around him.
“your pulse is too fast,” zayne murmurs, his eyes locked onto your face, reading every flicker of your expression. “your heart is pounding. it’s all for me, yes?”
the audacity to even ask, you think.
“because of you,” you sob, trying to lift your lips to escape this agonizing pleasure. “p-please... zayne, let me stop..”
“no,” zayne replies softly, pressing a kiss to your forehead. oh fuck you. you want to say it out so badly, but you precisely know what position that’d leave you in, so you don’t.
his thick cock buries itself completely inside your soaking wet cunt, bottoming out inside you. a broken, breathless wail escapes your lips as you slump against his chestt, completely ruined by the friction.
zayne keeps the stethoscope pressed firmly over your racing heart listening to the chaotic, rapid thumping spike to a dangerous peak as he fills you to the brim.
“you brought this on yourself,” zayne whispers against your ear, his warm breath sending a shiver down your spine. “now, stay right there. let me listen to your heart race for me.”
Thinking about how the boys cuddle. We have had clues like most of them being big spoons during the anniversary banner. But I do think they have more distinct styles when it isn't a post sex cuddle where they're performing aftercare.
Like I think Rafayel sleeps on top of you. Full weight and all, nuzzling your chest while you play with his hair. His body tucked between your legs while lays flat down on his stomach. He's probably grumbling about Thomas making him do his job again and enjoying your scalp scratches like the cat he so obviously is but is in denial about.
Xavier is all about your lap as his pillow and he holds your hand against his chest, letting you feel his freakishly slow heart beat. He prefers when its your bare thighs too, occasionally pressing his face against them and giving tiny kisses. Little balls of light always shake off him the way he is so happy lying there.
Zayne is always the big spoon, mainly because his motivation is unfettered access to your back. He nuzzles the back of your head and his big hand rubs up down your back, giving you tiny shoulder kisses while narrating his busy day in his soft whisper ASMR style. Then occasionally he pulls you into his embrace and hugs you tight, letting out a small content sigh.
Caleb is face to face cuddles. Full body intertwined. I am talking limbs, arms, chest to chest in a tight press like he is trying to absorb you. Lots of forehead kisses. Playful little tickles here and there. Occasionally moving you against him using your thigh for more contact. He could cradle you like that for eternity. I'm serious, the man wants to live in your skin.
Sylus puts you right on top of him. He lies flat on his back and wants your full weight on top of him, your one leg between his and the other raised and over his hip. He's also big on forehead kisses because thats the first thing he learnt about expressing human love when he was a dragon. So he will play with your hair, kiss you randomly and the other hand drawing lazy circles along your hiked up thigh.
⋆. — headcanons for dating him while you work in a restaurant (based on this request)
⋆. — slice-of-life + fluff
⋆. — word count: max 700 each ♡
Rafayel
Here’s the thing about dating Rafayel while working in food service: he was simultaneously the best and worst thing that ever happened to your tips.
He became a regular within a week of finding out where you worked. Not because he particularly enjoyed dining out—Rafayel would happily subsist on seafood he caught himself and whatever Thomas shoved into his hands between deadlines—but because the concept of you being somewhere for eight hours where he couldn’t reach you was, apparently, a personal offense against his entire emotional stability.
So he’d show up. Always at the same booth, tucked into the corner near the window where the light was good, sketchbook open, ordering the most ridiculous thing on the menu just to watch you try to keep a straight face while reading it back to the kitchen. He tipped absurdly. Embarrassingly. The kind of tip that made your coworkers fight over who got to take his table on the nights you were hosting instead of serving.
“That’s the painter, right?” one of the newer servers whispered to you once, sliding past with a tray. “The famous one? He literally just ordered a kids’ menu chocolate milk and drew a fish on the placemat.”
Yeah. That was your boyfriend.
The teenagers on staff adored him, which was both predictable and deeply annoying. He was exactly the kind of effortlessly gorgeous, unbothered celebrity presence that made sixteen-year-old hostesses forget how to speak. He didn’t notice, or if he did, he wielded it with well-thought mischief—signing napkins with little doodles when they asked, then immediately turning to you with those shifting blue-pink eyes and a grin that said jealous yet, cutie?
You were not jealous. You were at work.
He learned your coworkers’ names within the first month. Not because he was social—Rafayel’s tolerance for humans that weren’t you hovered somewhere between “barely” and “absolutely not”—but because they were part of your world, and he was quietly, stubbornly invested in every corner of it. He knew your manager’s coffee order. He knew which cook always burned the garlic bread. He’d once spent an entire slow Tuesday afternoon teaching your youngest busser how to sketch hands, their apron still on, while you ran tables around them.
The period thing, though. That was where it got theatrical.
He didn’t pay off your manager. That would’ve been subtle, and Rafayel didn’t do subtle. What he did was show up on one of your bad days—the kind where the cramps sat low and mean in your abdomen and you were running on ibuprofen and spite—take one look at your face, and walk directly to your manager’s office.
You didn’t hear the conversation. You didn’t need to, if you were honest with yourself. Your manager emerged five minutes later looking vaguely shell-shocked and told you to take the rest of the night off, and Rafayel was already waiting by the door with your jacket, his ears faintly pink.
“What did you say to her?”
“Nothing.” He draped the jacket over your shoulders. “I simply explained that my cutie was in physical distress and that her energy was being siphoned by capitalism, and that I would be taking her home now.”
“Raf, you can’t just—”
“I also bought four desserts to go.” he held up a bag, smirking. “The chocolate one is mine. Don’t even think about it.”
You thought about it. You stole the chocolate one in the car. He let you, grumbling the entire drive back to Whitesand Bay, one hand on the wheel and the other resting on your knee, thumb tracing slow circles that matched the rhythm of the waves outside his studio.
He drew you that night. Curled up on his couch, heating pad on your stomach, chocolate on your mouth. You found the sketch weeks later, tucked between two canvases.
He’d titled it My cutie, Resting.
Zayne
The restaurant was equidistant between Akso Hospital and your apartment, which made it a logical midpoint for the nights when his shift ended late and yours ended later. He’d come in, sit at the bar if it was available, order something light, and read medical journals on his tablet while he waited for you to finish closing.
Your staff thought he was terrifying.
This was, to be fair, not an unreasonable assessment. Zayne sitting at a bar in his dark coat, glasses on, expression carefully neutral, reading about cardiac valve regeneration while the dinner rush swirled around him, radiated an energy that made your servers instinctively straighten their posture and stop swearing in the kitchen.
“Your boyfriend is here,” became the unofficial signal for everyone to start acting professional.
He didn’t mean to be intimidating. You knew this because you’d seen this man eat an entire sleeve of cookies at 2am while watching a nature documentary about penguins, and because he once got so flustered by a compliment you gave him that his ears turned red for twenty minutes. But the restaurant staff didn’t know any of that. To them, he was the tall, sharp-jawed surgeon who looked like he could perform your annual review and your appendectomy simultaneously.
The teenagers, though. The teenagers loved him. Not in the swooning, blushing way, but in the specific way that teenagers latched onto any adult who treated them like a competent person. Zayne answered their questions. Zayne remembered their names. When one of your teenage hostesses mentioned she was thinking about pre-med, Zayne spent fifteen minutes of a slow Wednesday evening explaining the residency process with a lot of patience, probably the same amount he gave his own residents, and the girl walked away looking like she’d been handed the keys to the universe.
He knew your schedule better than you did. This wasn’t romantic so much as it was clinical—he tracked your shifts the way he tracked your blood pressure, your sleep patterns, your eating habits. Data points in the ongoing project of keeping you alive and functional, which he approached with the tender, relentless focus of a man who had chosen cardiology because the person he loved had a heart condition and he’d decided, apparently at age fourteen, that he was going to be the one to fix it.
When your period hit, Zayne didn’t talk in person to your manager. Zayne did something worse: he texted your manager. A single, polite, medically worded message about the physiological impact of dysmenorrhea on work performance, citing two studies, and suggesting—not demanding, because Zayne was nothing if not professional—that a modified shift might be advisable.
Your manager, who had a healthy respect for anyone who used the word "dysmenorrhea" correctly in a sentence, gave you the afternoon off.
You found out about the text three days later.
“Zayne. You sent my boss a medical briefing.” you bit back a smile, astonished yet not entirely surprised at the gesture.
He was chopping vegetables in your kitchen, sleeves rolled to the elbow, glasses slightly fogged from the steam. He didn’t look up. “I sent her relevant literature. What she did with it was her decision.”
“You cited sources.”
“Would you have preferred I didn’t?” the ghost of something dry flickered at the corner of his mouth. “I could have simply told her you were unwell. But I find that people respond more favorably to peer-reviewed evidence than to emotional appeals.”
You stared at him. He continued chopping, precise and even and utterly unbothered, and the warmth in your chest simmered the way it always did around him—slow, steady, the kind of heat that didn’t burn but never went out.
“You’re unbelievable sometimes.” you scoffed, amused and smiling so big it reached your ears.
“I’m thorough, my love.” He set the knife down and crossed to you. Pressed his cool hand to your forehead out of what you suspected was pure habit, his thumb brushing your temple. “There’s a difference.”
Xavier
Xavier just... appeared.
That was the only way to describe it. One day your restaurant didn’t have a silver-haired regular who napped in booth six, and the next day it did, and nobody could pinpoint exactly when the transition happened. He materialized quietly, without announcement, as though he’d always been there and you simply hadn’t noticed yet.
He ordered the same thing every time. Whatever you recommended. It didn’t matter what it was. You could’ve told him the special was a bowl of lukewarm soup and a bread roll and he would’ve nodded, eaten every bite, and left a neat, precise tip folded under his glass. Not flashy nor excessive, but simply the appropriate amount that suggested he’d actually thought about it, calculated the percentage, and rounded up because that was what you did for someone you loved.
He never sat in your section on purpose. You figured this out after the third week, when you realized he always chose whichever booth was furthest from your assigned tables—close enough to watch you, far enough not to be in the way. If you caught his eye across the dining room, he’d give you that barely-there nod, calm and warm, and go back to whatever he was doing.
What he was doing was usually sleeping.
Your coworkers had opinions about this.
“Is he... is he okay?” your colleague asked you once, genuinely concerned, peering at the silver-haired man slumped gently against the booth wall with his eyes closed, empty plate pushed aside, looking for all the world like a very beautiful, very tired cat in a human suit.
“He’s fine. He does that.”
“Should I bring him some coffee?”
“He’ll wake up when I get off shift.” And he always did. Right on time, every time, like he had some internal clock synced to your schedule. Eyes open, standing, jacket on, waiting by the door. Ready to walk you home because the route was dark and he just had to make sure you’re safe.
The teenagers on your staff were terrified of him, which was genuinely funny because Xavier was about as threatening as a sleepy golden retriever. But something about the way he carried himself at times—the stillness, the quiet intensity, the fact that his eyes tracked every person who got too close to you with a focus that was more hunter than boyfriend—made the high schoolers give his booth a wide berth.
He knew your manager by name. Your manager did not know how Xavier knew her name. This was never addressed.
On the bad days—the period days, the days when you moved through your shift with a heating pad shoved under your apron and your jaw clenched against the cramps—Xavier didn’t talk to your manager. He didn’t make a scene. He just appeared at the end of your shift with a bag from the convenience store near your apartment: painkillers, your favorite brand of chocolate, a hot water bottle and a packet of those instant soup noodles you only ate when you felt terrible.
He handed the bag to you in the parking lot, took your work tote off your shoulder and transferred it to his, and started walking.
“Xavie, you didn’t have to—”
“I know.” he adjusted the tote strap and kept walking. “I was already at the store.”
He was not already at the store. The store was twenty minutes in the opposite direction of his apartment. You knew this. He knew you knew this.
Neither of you said anything else. You walked home in the comfortable silence, his shoulder brushing yours with every step, steady and warm and there.
He was always just... there.
Caleb
The thing about Caleb knowing you worked in a restaurant was that Caleb was a better cook than your entire kitchen staff, and he would never, ever let you forget it.
“The risotto’s overcooked,” he’d murmur, barely glancing at a plate being run past your section, his cap pulled low and his long legs stretched under the booth he’d claimed as his personal territory every Tuesday and Thursday night. “Tell the cook to pull it thirty seconds earlier.”
“Caleb, you can’t tell my line cook—”"
“I’m not telling him. I’m telling you, baby. You can tell him.” He swiped a fry off the appetizer plate you were about to deliver, popping it into his mouth with a grin that was all teeth and zero remorse. “Also, those need more salt.”
Infuriating. Completely, devastatingly infuriating. And right. He was always right about the food, which made it worse.
Caleb became a constant presence at your restaurant the same way he’d become one in every other part of your life—by simply refusing to exist anywhere else. He showed up after flight briefings still half in uniform, jacket unzipped, looking like the kind of trouble that made your hostesses suddenly very interested in the seating chart near his section.
The teenagers worshipped him. Openly. Without shame. He was tall and athletic and had that effortless, golden-boy energy that made high schoolers want to impress him, and he played into it just enough to be charming—remembering their names, asking about their games, challenging your teenage busser to arm-wrestling contests during slow shifts that he won without trying and then pretended were close.
But his eyes always tracked back to you.
That was the part your coworkers noticed. The way he watched you move through the dining room—not casually and definitely not passively. The way a pilot watched a radar screen. Constant, precise awareness. He knew where you were at every moment, which tables were giving you trouble, which customer had been rude, which coworker had stuck you with their side work again.
He filed it all away. You’d learned that about the new version of Caleb—the Colonel version, the one who’d come back sharper and darker and more honest about what he wanted. He didn’t forget anything. He held it, sorted it, and deployed it later with a precision that was equal parts comforting and terrifying to you.
“Table nine was rude to you.”
“Table nine was just impatient, Caleb.”
He ate another fry. His eyes didn’t leave table nine for a very long time. Table nine left a generous tip and exited quickly. You chose not to investigate why.
He knew your staff better than some of them knew each other, because Caleb had grown up studying people—reading rooms, tracking hierarchies, figuring out who was trustworthy and who wasn’t. Your manager liked him because he was polite and charming and tipped well. Your manager did not know that Caleb had memorized her scheduling patterns and had, on more than one occasion, subtly rearranged your availability through a series of very casual, very friendly conversations that somehow always resulted in you getting the shifts you wanted.
When your period hit, Caleb didn’t negotiate with management. Caleb showed up at your apartment before your shift with a container of homemade soup, the heating pad you liked, and a text already sent to your manager from your phone—which he’d unlocked, because of course he knew your passcode, he’d watched you type it once six months ago—saying you wouldn’t be in tonight.
“Caleb! You can’t just do that!”
“Already did.” he steered you back toward the couch with both hands on your shoulders. Gentle but absolute. The grip of a man who had decided what was happening and was deeply uninterested in alternatives. “Sit down, pips. You’re not carrying plates for eight hours when you can barely stand up straight.”
“I can stand up perfectly—”
He raised an eyebrow. You were, at that exact moment, slightly hunched.
You sat down.
He tucked the blanket around you, kissed the top of your head, and went back to the kitchen to finish the soup, humming something under his breath, his shoulders relaxed in the particular way they only got when you were close and safe and exactly where he wanted you.
“I’m calling in tomorrow, too,” he added, back to you, stirring. “Your fridge is empty. I’m making enough for three days.”
“You have briefings—”
“Rescheduled.” He glanced over his shoulder. You caught the ghost of his smile—warm, certain, the smile of a boy who used to carry you home on his back and had simply never stopped. “You come first. You always come first.”
Your chest ached. The good kind. The kind that had been there since childhood and had only grown louder in all the years since—through the separation, the grief, the silence, and the impossible, aching miracle of his return.
You pulled the blanket tighter and watched him cook, and the soup tasted like home.
Sylus
Sylus didn’t come to your restaurant. Sylus acquired your restaurant.
Not literally. Not on paper. But within approximately two visits, every single person on staff—from your general manager down to the dishwasher who only worked Sundays—understood with perfect clarity that the white-haired man in the corner booth was not a person you kept waiting, served the wrong order to, or looked at sideways. This understanding was not communicated through threats. It was communicated through Sylus simply... existing. In their space. With that energy.
The first time he showed up, your floor manager nearly had a cardiac event. Not because she recognized him—most people outside the N109 Zone wouldn’t—but because Sylus occupied physical space the way a thunderstorm did. You couldn’t ignore it. You just had to decide how wet you were willing to get.
“Table for one?” your floor manager had managed, her voice only slightly strangled.
Sylus had looked past her, found you across the dining room, and the slow, proprietary curve of his mouth made your entire section of tables feel like they were intruding on a private conversation.
“I’ll sit wherever she is.”
He tipped like he was laundering money. Which—given his background—you occasionally worried he was. But the staff didn’t ask questions. The staff had developed a collective, unspoken policy of treating Sylus’ visits with the respectful caution of people who understood that this particular regular could buy the building and was choosing not to out of what appeared to be affection for one specific server.
The teenagers were a mixed bag. Half of them were openly terrified. The other half had developed the most transparent, mortifying crushes you’d ever witnessed, which Sylus navigated with the lazy amusement of a large predator watching smaller creatures attempt to bring him offerings. One of your teenage bussers once left a mint on his table with a smiley face drawn on the wrapper, and Sylus pocketed it without comment, and you watched a sixteen year old nearly ascend to another plane of existence.
He knew your staff. Not by effort—by intelligence. The man ran a criminal organization; he could memorize the name, shift pattern, and temperament of a twelve-person restaurant crew in his sleep. He knew which cook to compliment to get your food out faster. He knew which server was skimming tips. He told you about that last one privately, because he didn’t involve himself in things that weren’t his business unless they affected you, and someone stealing from your tip pool very much affected you.
The period situation was handled before you even realized it needed handling.
You’d texted the twins—because some things were embarrassing even when your boyfriend never made you feel embarrassed—that you were having a rough day. Cramps. Didn’t want to call in because you needed the hours.
Twenty minutes later, Luke texted back. In your work locker, you found a heating pad that was somehow already warm, a thermos of something that smelled like ginger and honey, imported painkillers you’d never seen before that turned out to work twice as fast as anything over the counter, and a note in handwriting that was elegant and unbothered and entirely Sylus.
Take these. Finish your shift if you insist. I’ll be in the parking lot at closing.
—S
p.s. If your manager gives you trouble, give him my number. I’d enjoy that conversation.
Your manager did not give you trouble. Your manager had never given you trouble. Your manager had once seen Sylus hold a door open for you and had immediately restructured the schedule to give you every holiday you’d ever requested off.
You finished your shift. He was in the parking lot, leaning against the car, arms crossed.
“You didn’t have to do all that, Sy.”
“Get in the car, sweetie.” he opened the door for you. “I made reservations.”
“Sylus, I work in a restaurant. I don’t want to eat in another—”
“Not at a restaurant. At home. I cooked.” the smirk softened into something quieter. “You’ve been on your feet for nine hours. Sit down and let someone take care of you for once.”
✰summary: under the desk support for dr li 👅
✰ content: married relationship, fem reader, oral s*x [m receiving], exhibitionism, not proofread [563 words]
✰ notes: the new zayne trailer inspired me, also my bad idk how to write orals very well 😭
“Is that all?”
“Yes sir-“
“Then leave, I am busy.”
Zayne’s curt response makes the secretary stiffen. He gathers the paperwork together and walks towards the door. A muffled groan is heard. The secretary whips around in concern. “Are you ok?”
Zayne stares pointedly at the secretary, and he takes the hint to leave.
Poor Dr Li, he must be so overworked.
As soon as the door clicked shut, Zayne let out a desperate moan your warm mouth bobbing up and down on his needy cock. “F-Fuck, that’s it, darling.” His hands rested on your head, not pushing, just wanting to feel you. One hand travels down to your throat to feel the bulge of his cock in your throat. “You’re such a good girl for me, aren’t you? Letting me use your—s-shit—pretty mouth. You’re taking me so well honey.”
You moan around him, the praise going straight to your heated core, already dripping into your blue panties, Zayne’s favourite pair on you.
Kneeling under Zayne’s office desk to provide “under the desk support”, as you put it. Your husband has been so stressed out with the back-to-back surgeries. You both barely had any time together; it left him feeling miserable and achy, almost akin to withdrawal. So, when he suggested a little office romp, how could you refuse? After all, you missed him just as much.
And you thought the least you could do was let him use your willing mouth to de-hunch those tense shoulders.
Zayne throws his head back when you teasingly trace your tongue over the thick vein on the side of his cock. He eyes your arched back and watery eyes fixed on the trail of thick hair on his abdomen.
He hasn’t kept up with shaving recently, and you couldn’t be happier. Burying your face into his grown-out pubic hair is a treat you’re not willing to give up. Zayne’s scent envelops your senses, the musk and sweat send your eyes rolling in pleasure as you take his length to the base.
His hands grip onto you as he gently thrusts into your mouth. “Darling I’m c-close,” Zayne’s voice cracked as he hurtled towards his first orgasm with you in weeks. The string of pleasure tightened into a coil, his limbs shaking, and his breath stuttering. His hazy eyes trace over your focused form. He brings a hand up to your chin to lift your gaze to his. My beautiful wife’s eyes.
With a sharp gasp and mouth open in silent ecstasy, the coil snapped. Zayne’s cock pulses as warm, thick ropes of cum flood your mouth as he twitches and spasms with the onslaught of his orgasm.
Slowly crawling out from under his desk, you stand and straddle his thighs ignoring the sound of your bones cracking from how long you were under there.
Zayne’s lips encase yours in a rough kiss, pouring all his gratitude and neediness in it. His veiny hands slip under your skirt, his cool hands pressing into your warm thighs. Flipping the skirt up, the sight of blue panties with snowflakes stitched into the hem greeted him.
“You planned this, didn’t you, you little minx?” Cold wood presses into your back as Zayne splays you out on his desk, his hands spreading your legs as he pulls your panties to the side.
“It’s my turn to return the favour.”
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