your creature, my creature
zayne/reader ❄️ one shot | explicit 🔞 | ~6k summary: after unexpectedly crossing paths with zayne's former girlfriend, you attempt to work out your feelings. he takes matters into his own hands. tags: established relationship, dom!zayne, sub!reader, fem!reader, emotional hurt/comfort, subspace, subdrop, shibari, spanking, use of "good girl" and "sir", mentions of past sub!zayne/bottom!zayne, bisexual!zayne notes: your/your reader insert, some use of she/her in dialogue and other references to gender such as "good girl", "girlfriend", etc. reader's body type is kept vague, one brief reference to body hair crossposted from ao3 (original 03/09/26)
Clear blue skies are a kindness after an hour under fluorescent lights. When you step out of the clinic, a newly freed captive of your dentist's diabolical scraping and tapping, Zayne is already out front waiting. It's not his presence that surprises you, he's always been punctual, but the person by his side stops you short. Pretending to adjust your bag, you pause outside the door longer than necessary just to get a good look at her.
She's stunning. Long legs, perfectly styled hair, and even from her side profile you can see that her smile is radiant. Her easy demeanor disarms you. Has anyone ever looked so comfortable around your taciturn doctor? Zayne's own expression is one of melted fondness. Despite this, he notices you almost immediately and politely makes his farewells. She leans in for one final word, and something pangs in your chest watching him turn away from you for another.
It's all so amiable, a simple interaction, but you only realize now how rarely you've seen him talk to anyone outside of work.
It's childish, a little selfish and you decide not to dwell on it in favor of appreciating the long, easy strides he takes to reach you. Zayne's eyes crinkle at the corners when he joins you. This part of him is yours alone, one thing you allow yourself to be covetous of. When he offers a hand, you take it. The cold metal of his ring warms itself in your palm.
"Anything I should know?" he asks.
You roll your eyes and, with a long-suffering sigh, say, "Can't a hunter have a few secrets? Some things should stay between me and my dentist, don't you think?"
"Mhm," he hums, "Another cavity then, I take it."
Before you can protest, he's swiveling around to get the car door. A practiced routine, one hand over your head and the other at the small of your back, he guides you to your seat and protects you from fatal bonks upon the door frame in one smooth maneuver.
The rules of Zayne's car are simple. No feet on the dashboard, that had been a particularly effusive lecture, and no crumby snacks. The latter he broke frequently.
Once he's settled in on the driver's side, reliably checking his mirrors as always, you ask the question that's been burning on your tongue. Well, you try to ask. What comes out is less a question and more a frazzled attempt to find out as much as possible before he can start the car and send you on your way home.
"That woman you were talking to earlier was beautiful," you say. Very casually. So casually, in fact, that Zayne valiantly hides the twitch of his lips at your expertly wielded casualness.
It's not that you're jealous, though you're not so unaffected to say you never get jealous. You trust Zayne, he trusts you. That's how things work, an unwritten rule across time and space. You and Zayne will always trust each other somewhere deep down.
It doesn't stop the fact that you always feel a little unmoored when faced with his life without you. There are many, many versions of Zayne in the world, walking around in people's heads. Endless Zaynes out there locked away where you don't have access to them. This woman has one of her very own, that much is obvious.
"She's very pretty," he agrees, "I'm sure her husband thinks so as well.
Oh, he's enjoying this. Bastard.
"One of the prettiest people I've ever seen," you continue. His eyes rove over you gently.
"One of them, certainly."
Fine. He wins. You contemplate sticking your feet up on the dash just to make a point of it. Instead, you groan, cracking beneath the pressure, and slide down further in your seat. Sufficiently embarrassed, you can only dig yourself deeper.
"You're messing with me!" you protest.
"A little," he admits, threading your fingers through his across the center console, "I don't get to see you flustered often."
That's patently untrue. You make a fool of yourself in front of him on a regular schedule. You huff when he takes pity on you, bringing your fingers to his lips and pressing a soft kiss to your knuckles.
"That was Mickey," he tells you.
Ah, his ex. You know her by name, though not by face, and very little else. If you can put the right words to it, you're sure Zayne will tell you anything you want to know. Parsing the want tos from the don't want tos is the hard part. Maybe he realizes that, because he puts you out of your misery by simply asking if you'd like to hear more. You nod.
While he talks, you run your fingers along his hands between you. Echoes of a past life adorn the lines of his palm.
They met at twenty-two through a mutual friend. She was driven, something he admired, and didn't seem to mind when he spent long stretches of time hunched over medical texts. Things just worked between them. Not the most romantic thing you've ever heard, but the devotion was there.
"You loved her," you whisper. You expect the answer to sting.
"I did," he agrees. It does sting, in the blurry sort of way something can still hurt you even when you don't believe that it should. It's just as much a comfort to think of him then, not lonely and isolated but with a confidant of his very own. He could push himself too hard, too long, without someone there to stop him. Still, the sting.
His thumb squeezes softly to the tender flesh between your thumb and forefinger and he explains, "She noticed me on the way back to her car. We talked about you. Don't give me that look."
"What look?" you ask innocently. He smooths out the wrinkle of your brow with a firm knuckle. Tension seeps from your shoulders.
"That's better. Good girl," he murmurs. You lean in. Glowing. "She made me promise to be kinder to you. It was… humbling."
Well, that sparks a laugh. You shake your head.
"I can't imagine an unkind Zayne," you admit. His scoff shocks you. He's never been one to wallow, but his tone makes it clear how much he's thought over this.
"I was very ambitious. Maybe more than was sustainable," he says. He looks away, staring off at some distant past, reworking the choices that led him down a long path to this very conversation. Here he was, comforting his girlfriend in the parking lot of the dentist's office. Hopefully no regrets there. "My research is important. I never forget that. But that's not all I am, is it?"
"No, you're much more than that," you agree, "and all mine now. The textbooks can't have you all to themselves anymore."
His nod is heavy. You didn't lighten the mood, as you hoped, but he turns to you with a longing that pins you in place. He's serious about this in ways you don't fully understand yet.
"I've learned since then. Every day I want you to see that," he says, "I know what's most important to me now."
Perhaps not the time, but his stern stare always makes your thighs clench. Does devotion make people horny? You, too, know how much Zayne's time matters to people. Every stolen moment is precious to you. You take your chance, pinching his cheek between your fingers. Frustratingly perfect teeth nip back. You never meant to make him regret a former love.
Cheeks hot, emotionally raw, you flop back into your seat. There's something here you're not quite getting, but you appreciate the sentiment. At the very least, he should know his comfort worked. You waggle your eyebrows suggestively, willing to play the fool.
"I do have one last question," you say.
"Oh?"
"Was she, you know, your first?"
Sometimes he seems to forget you know all of his tells by now just as well as he knows yours. His eyes narrow and dart away, unable to commit to their counter-interrogation. Victory is sweet. He plays his cards all wrong by turning from you. You're graced with a delicious view of his pinkened ears. Oh, so bitable!
When he clears his throat sternly, you think you may swoon.
"She wasn't," he clarifies, still committed to honesty, "I had a, well, I had a friend. We met from time to time, if we were both single. He liked to say I was wound too tight."
His lips purse thoughtfully, as if remembering a particular encounter. Something twinkles in his eye when he catches sight of your hands twisting tightly on your lap. The thought isn't all bad. In fact, you can envision it near perfectly. Young Zayne, so earnest and focused, bushy brows drawn into an ever-present frown, deserved to be teased from his tension from time to time.
"He was a very generous friend," he says. You know better. He's leading you right where he wants you.
"Oh," you squeak. Fuck, you walked right into his trap. He smirks. That's all it takes. As soon as you squirm, he grasps his prize in both hands. Rather too pleased with himself, Zayne starts the car. His knuckles squeeze tight on the wheel once before returning to his usual easy grip.
"I could take you home. Or, if you'd like, I'm happy to show you what he taught me," he offers. Never once has he pressed you. You never need any pressing. It isn't possible to be too eager when it comes to Zayne.
You nod. Irritatingly safe with his favorite passenger, he doesn't look away from the road.
"What was that?"
Confidence is secondary to desire. The lie comes easily as you say, "I'm a quick learner, you know."
It turns out to be quite true. Ass up on his bed, deftly knotted ropes pulling your arms taut between your legs, you feel a heated sense of pride in your ability to keep up. At your feet, he takes time to appreciate his hard work. Clearly, he's satisfied with what's he's accomplished. He explains each knot in detail as he ties it. One restrains your chest, wrapping between your breasts and around your shoulders. More than once he's hauled you up from a knot along your back, arranging you just so. You're offered up to him like a treat, nothing more than something for him to savor. It's freeing, all thoughts flying from your head aside from the ones he himself wants to put there. You're his, mind and body, until he gives you permission not to be.
You don't need to be anything, provide anything, just lay how he likes and feel what he bids you to feel. You're beautiful like this because he tells you that you are. Red rope suits you best. You're glowing. You don't need to see it to believe it. You're doing so well, listening so well. That's all you know.
You repeat after him so diligently. You'll be good, you won't worry about unnecessary things. Not when you're all his. How silly, the way your mind keeps tripping up there. You can't help but wonder how many times he's done this before. He's quite good at it. How did he practice? On other men, women, his old friend?
You jolt when he plants one firm slap to your ass. It's not the first of the night. Your flesh is hot and throbbing, tender beneath his hand. You take it well, keening with each well earned punishment. Sometimes you can push him just enough for more, but it's a fine line to tread. You can't be bad and still get what you want, he makes sure of it.
Rather than stopping at one, as you expect, Zayne spanks you twice more. The flat of his hand catches your inner thigh, agonizingly close to where you want him most, and you cry out half words, not quite pleas.
"You're distracted," he chastises, even after you count each smack just like you're supposed to.
"Not really! I was only thinking of you," you whine. Your tone is more petulant than he usually allows. You shiver in the suspended moment, unsure of where he'll fall.
His hand dips between your legs, rough against your folds. Evol chills his skin, making you wriggle forward and away, startled by his touch only to grind right back down into it. You whimper, hoping you sound contrite enough for mercy. He's worked your cunt to sensitivity, teasing the heated flesh mercilessly with icy fingers.
Unimpressed with your answer, he rewards you with a light slap to your core. You rock forward with it. Instead of pulling back, his hand chases forward to cup you. Harshly, he spreads your wetness from entrance to clit. Earlier, he had brought you to orgasm with near perfunctory coolness, treating your pleasure as the first step in his creation. Now he uses that sensitivity to his vicious advantage. Even the slightest touch has you clenching around emptiness.
Spread open, Zayne can clearly see the way you flutter for him, eager to be filled. You only wish you could catch his expression when after all your high, needy keening, he gives in. As wet as you are, his fingers slide easily. The cold of his Evol makes his hands feel foreign, some strange object stuffing you. Only when he's worked you up, up, up does that frigid cold diffuse. His fingers have gone hot with your clenching desire. After the preternatural cold, even the usual heat of his body sears you. You're right on the edge, so desperate for it.
You wail when he stops.
"I don't recall giving you permission to come up with thoughts of your own," he says. His index finger curls at the knuckle, rubbing against your walls with just enough insistence to not be ignored. "We don't have to start over, do we?"
You squeeze your eyes shut, hot with tears. You were doing so well. Your voice comes out embarrassingly thick.
"No, no," you plead. You can't start over, not after how much time he's spent encouraging you. Guilt looms overhead in a great void. With his free hand, he pinches your hip. It's the same encouraging squeeze he gives your hand when your anxieties get the better of you. "I'm sorry, fuck, don't start over. I'll be good."
His fingers pull out of you slowly, much gentler than they entered, and it feels like punishment. Real punishment, not the fun kind from before. Now you do cry a little despite your best efforts, and you feel like an idiot all the more for it.
You want to stop. You think maybe you should. Zayne trusts you to follow the rules. You can only pleasure each other like this if you're honest, but in all of the hours you two spent in the bedroom you had never stopped him before. Had she? Would you disappoint him, unable to leave your insecurities behind long enough to appreciate the moment?
The soft snick of his pocket knife snaps you from your spiral. Your eyes fly open, sticky with tears. From between your legs you can see the blade sawing at your bindings. It shocks you how easily anger bubbles to the surface.
"I didn't even say the word!" you snap. As if in disagreement, your hands fly free from your ankles. Zayne ignores your pouting, grabbing your harness to flip you onto your back. You bounce against the mattress with an indignant gasp.
He takes stock of you slowly. Nothing on his face betrays what he's feeling. You think you might be sick. Your wrists are still bound together, laying limply on your belly with that frayed, red rope. Naked and vulnerable while he scoots to a kneel, pristine as ever at your side.
"No," he agrees, "You didn't."
He's nonplussed, one eyebrow poised, and you're sure you know this trick. He's waiting for you to choose, you think. You can be good and continue, or say your safeword and he'll clean you up sweetly. Zayne is kind. He won't even utter a word about your failure.
Maybe he can read your mind because he sighs deeply above you. His hands run gently up and down, from thigh to ribs, but instead of soothing you only bristle more. Tenderness is almost an insult. You can take it. You want to tell him so, even when you don't mean it.
"You're a good girl," he lies. You might just kick him for it. Have you ever been so on edge? He shields against your sharpness with practiced patience until the blade of your anger dulls, battering against those impenetrable walls. Tension drains from you the firmer his grip gets, starting with a tweak to your nipple and ending with a harsh grab at your chin. He holds you in place, ensuring your eyes meet his, and says, "You are my good girl, even when you're not acting like one. Do you think you can remember that?"
You blink. Stupefied, you nod. His fingers tighten against your jaw. A nod isn't an answer. You know this.
"I can wait," he says.
"I'll remember," you whisper. Zayne smiles softly. How easily you melt in the luminous light of his approval. Just when you thought you had taken the moment, irreparably shattering it to pieces, he pries it from your fingers and brings it back to you wholly.
When he lets go, you think you may fly away. That's better, isn't it? You remember who you are now. His, his, his, Grounded only by him, dragged back onto your back when he maneuvers you just right. Your ankles are slung together over one of his shoulders, squeezing your thighs together just right. One-handed, he undoes his pants enough to free his cock. You can't watch, too afraid to see physical proof of what you had done to the mood.
Hot and hard, he pushes softly between your legs. You gasp at his low, deep groan. His shaft glides along your folds, the tip peeking between the apex. This you can watch.
"So perfect," he says. Each thrust builds gradually until you're worked to wetness again, whimpering. The better you feel, the more he encourages you. He turns just so and peppers kisses to your calves and ankles. His free hand drops to your hip, gripping bruise-tight. "Tell me, what are you?"
"I'm perfect. I'm yours."
"That's right," he says, "and what else?"
"Nothing else," you promise. You mean it this time.
"Very good," he croons. In reward, he grinds against your clit. You relax, at long last, and smile at the pleasure. It's a giddy sort of high to make him happy, to feel the physical proof of it fucking against you, spreading your folds. "No more mouthing off. You're going to mind your manners, or I'll have to get the gag. You can control yourself, correct?"
Yes, you can. And you can please him even more. It's easy. His two favorite words fall sugar-sweet from your tongue, "Yes sir."
Zayne clenches his jaw around a moan. His brow furrows, always a little frustrated when control is out of reach. You know his secret, the way his cock twitches at his own irritation. One little warning slap to your ass for your cheekiness and a giggle threatens to break free. You bite your lip to lock it back in.
You think maybe you haven't gotten away with it when he forces his hips to a stop, until you feel the tip of his cock line up at your entrance. Although your legs block the view, you don't need to see it to know how tightly he holds himself. He's always a bit rough with his own body, pulling his foreskin back from the tip white-knuckled to push himself inside of you. You're greedy for him, walls tightening to hold him there forever. His smile is little more than bared teeth.
Stars blur beneath your eyelids. You never feel more centered than when Zayne sheathes himself inside of you completely. There's just enough time to appreciate the rush before he draws himself back out all the way. Your body protests, tightening and shivering, but he carries on ruthless as always.
You're good. You behave. You wait.
He acknowledges your sweetness with a wry smile. His thumb spreads you open, eyes fixed to where you're wanting.
"That's better. You're ready to listen now," he says, "I should have known you needed this. It was my fault before, I apologize. We'll clear your head this time, won't we?"
You frown. It's a twisted, guilty feeling to hear him blame himself for your lack of focus. You have to try harder, prove to him that you can learn better.
"You want to be fucked, don't you? That's what you're for, after all."
It's rare, even in moments like these, to hear him so vulgar. You writhe and whine, wishing you could will him to thrust back inside of you. If you're eager enough, maybe he will.
"Yes, please. I am, that's all I am. Yours, please," you babble. It's nonsense, but any sweet words can be the right ones, no matter how clumsily said. He huffs a laugh.
He says, "I have some questions. If you can be honest, I'll give you what you need."
"Yes, sir."
"You were distracted earlier. Explain."
You're ready to give him anything. You're not sure how to give him this. It's not what you were expecting, and the answer scatters like a puzzle. Shame coats your throat, sticking until the words can't get out. You open your mouth, desperate to please him. Still, nothing but silence. His thumb runs along your clit in lazy circles. Slow and steady like this, you believe he could wait all day.
"I'm sorry," you try, "I was thinking of her."
"Mickey."
Once set free, you can't hold back. You blurt out, "It's stupid. I don't know why. I just couldn't help it. One second I'm doing everything right, then my mind just starts wandering."
He doesn't interrupt, never changing the cadence of his hand between your legs. Just when you think you might stop, he applies pressure just so. It catches your breath. On the inhale, deep bliss. On the exhale, more words.
"What if I'm pretty, but she's prettier? What if I'm good now, but she was good then? What if I'm here, and she's in your memory, always better?"
He's silent. His thumb works you higher and higher until your brain floats away. It can't be you saying these things. How can your body feel so good, just as your emotions pummel you in rocking waves? You've said it all, you think. Now you can just throw yourself into what he offers and be free. Don't make me think about this anymore, you want to beg. You open his mouth to tell him so, but that other part of you beats you to it.
"I know it's not real. Like, of course you wouldn't do that to me, but it's like a splinter in my head. The more I try to ignore it, the more I know it's there. If I pick at it, it only goes deeper," you heave. Sorrows come as naturally as breathing. You're sure you look awful, puffy with jealous tears. Envious of a memory. It's what he wants to see. He asked for this.
Faster, he drags against your cunt. If you give him more, you'll shatter. You open your mouth anyways, expecting some new mortification to stumble from your lips, only to break on a sob. Your hips grind up into the release he offers you. You're unreal, outside of yourself and so deeply captive in your body at once, unsure of anything except the painful indulgence at your core. Your face screws up. One last thing, heavy in your chest, bound just beneath those pretty red knots.
"You loved her," you cry. It's all you can think to say, the most honest words you can offer. Let that be enough. Let that please him.
"That's it," he coos, "You're doing so well."
You shake with it. Two fingers shove inside of you, rough hands in contrast to his soft words. He murmurs honeyed praise while he fingerfucks you mercilessly. You cries work up in pitch until you're hoarse. Right upon the crest, your peak just on the horizon, everything sharpens into clarity.
You're his. That's the easiest thing for you to be. You're his, so sweet, so pretty, and you always remember your manners.
"Please," you whimper.
He hums, curls his fingers just right, and finally you come. The waves crash hard. You clench your thighs around his forearm. The flex of his tendons, the raised skin of his scars, you hold him there just to feel he's real. Wetness drips down his fingers, coating his wrist. Indulgent kisses trail from your calf, to your knees, lazily carrying whispered compliments the whole way. Each encouraging word brings upon another spasming pulse until you're spent completely and panting beneath him.
He's ever-present on your come down. Always prepared, he wipes his sticky fingers on a towel he set side, before massaging little circles into your sides. He tells you how happy he is so effusively that your eyes flutter shut just to bask in it.
Sleep lingers at the edges of your mind. It tempts you. Utterly exhausted, you nearly follow it. Distantly, you think you can hear Zayne step away, rustling around in one of the drawers. You ignore it. Soon enough he's back anyways, freeing you carefully from your bindings.
Rest, that's all you need.
Zayne intervenes. Sharply. With a tug to your ankles, he twists you back around until you're face first in the mattress and bent over the bed. Your arms are trapped, tingly beneath you, feet hanging feebly. You're utterly at his mercy.
"You'll have what I promised you," he says. A command. You squirm and whimper. It's too much, you're overwhelmed, tired, you can't take it. He reminds you otherwise. "Tell me what you are."
"Nothing. Yours."
"I do whatever I want with you."
That's right. Of course, you know that. Whatever he says, that's the truth. You're not supposed to think, so you don't. You must say yes, fuzzy as you feel, because his cock pounds into you until you're drooling into his bedset. You roll back into him. Now and again, he lands an icy-cold, open palm slap to your ass. They're few and far between, but jolt you awake. You keep count aloud for him, just like you're supposed to.
Usually, he's quiet during sex. He lets you have the mouth between you. He commands, he compliments, but he rarely truly talks. Now, his hips piston into you and all the while he vents.
"I had it all figured out, you know, before you came back into my life. Everyting was under control. So foolish," he says. On a groan, a bittersweet laugh, he unwinds completely. Despite your fatigue, his honesty warms your belly, tightening in your navel. He's giving exactly what you offered him, entirely equal in his undoing.
His rolling hips grind deep and with one particularly breathy cry from you, he slows. Ignoring your whines, one arm wraps around you and yanks you up higher. Between you and the bed, he shoves the smooth head of a vibrator against your clit. Any attempts to scramble away are feeble. He flicks it on with little concern for your attempted escape.
"Too much," you cry, muffled into the duvet.
"A little more," he says, "you can take it."
You can, if he says so. Your muscles tremble, thighs twitching together. You moan low in your throat, but you know you can take it. Your tight squeeze around his cock tingles through you, head to toe.
He tells you everything. The words are hazy. Nothing quite sticks in your head. You take it all. It's the best feeling in the world, to be his.
"I thought I couldn't have you," he continues. He waited for you, wanted you. He tried to fuck you out of his system, went to his friend for just that reason. It doesn't stop there. Each truth revealed pushes him further over the precipice. He leans over you, envelops you, his breaths hot and wet between the knobs of your spine.
"He could tie me up, whip me, whatever he wanted. It didn't matter. All I could think of was how pretty you would be, how you would sound if you were mine," he grunts, "I wanted to fuck you the way he fucked me."
Oh, how you vexed him. It was clear now, in the punishing pace he kept. The vibrator is turned against you like a weapon, all while he relishes in the heat of your cunt. Your toes curl where they graze the hardwood floors. You're whimpering, babbling nothing words. It's begging, slurred little please, please, please. You only realize that when he chuckles and obliges.
He fucks you hard, just like he said he would. Each time he hits deeper, you're thrown into the vibrations with renewed fervor.
"Even when you weren't there, I only thought of you," he groans. Both accusation and admission. "I'll never let you go."
Your orgasm crashes through you, the force reverberating from you to him until he's pinning your hips down with his forearm and releasing inside of you. He comes hotly, pulsating throbs that fill you with him. You both hold there panting, searingly connected, until your shudders subside.
Spent, he flops on top of you. His body weight presses you to the mattress until you're utterly secure. He's hollowed you out just to fill you up again.
Blearily, you remember your manners.
"Thank you, sir," you muster. The slur of your words wrings a tired chuckle from him and it vibrates through your back. He whispers his own thanks into the sweaty nape of your neck. You can feel the heat of his chest through his shirt, sticky on your skin.
You giggle weakly, though you don't know what's so funny.
He rolls off you, giving you room to breath, and although you're grateful for the air you miss him immediately. You want to cling to him, crawl inside of him, not quite ready for real life to flood back into your mind. Comfortingly cool, he runs his hand up and down your arm.
"I'm happy too," he agrees with what you couldn't say. His cold fingers are featherlight. Soothing, after all the kicking and screaming on your way down. Every sweet word he offers is a balm. You did so well. You love him. You think you might say so, before you finally succumb to sleep.
Later, freshly bathed and swaddled in pyjamas, you let him rub the soreness from your lower back. He's especially gentle where the rope may have dug in, though any aches you feel are comforting in their own right. Patiently, indulgently, he compliments how well you took him. You're clay in his hands, reshaped into your own person again.
"How are you feeling?" he asks.
You wiggle happily in approval, squealing when he pinches your ass. It's truthful when you finally say, "Good. Thank you for taking care of me."
It pleases him, though he flushes at the compliment. It's always a bit harder to get him to accept your appreciation. When you look over your shoulder, you can see the way his chest has gone pink in praise. He's cleaned up as well, in his loose pyjama bottoms and nothing else. The soft tufts of his hair stick up from his shower. He's ruffled. You want to grip him, bite him, keep him always.
"I do have one last thing, though," you say. The lilting tease of your tone leads him further up your body, where he can dig his thumbs to your shoulders and watch your expression at once.
"Is that right?"
"Mhm. I've just been thinking," you say on a yawn, "She really was beautiful. Your ex."
He's too well trained to freeze up, but there's a stutter in his ministrations. He looks over your face carefully. Tired as you both are, you know he'll reassure you a million times over if you ask. Instead, you scrunch your nose in a squish-faced attempt at a wink. Close enough.
"Two for two. You have great taste, don't you?"
Now, he does pause. Laughs. Gives you a little shake for teasing him. And, of course, he agrees.
"Is it weird that I even love her a little?" you ask.
He hums thoughtfully, "That beautiful, hm? Should I be concerned?"
You prop onto your elbows, twisting to bother him properly. He leverages himself up just enough to allow it. Settled back on your hips, he immediately returns to work on your massage.
"Not like that," you say, rolling your eyes, "She's part of you too. Every person that you loved also helped to make you mine, I think. That matters."
It doesn't free you from envy, or insecurity, or whatever nasty thoughts crop up on your worst days, but it is one less shackle.
He grunts thoughtfully. You wonder if he agrees, if he thinks of people from your own past the same way. The little divot in his brow when he thinks on these things is a comfort. He'll play around, even aggravate you at times, but he listens well when it matters.
It's comical how comforting it is, the way he trails his fingers through the smattering of hair between your legs as he considers your words. He stops, flustered, at your smirk. Watching him is endlessly compelling. He's careful with his words in a way you never learned to be.
"I did love her then," he says. The sting is easier to take this time. "But I love you now. Every moment of my day, I'm loving you. When I hear a bird sing from my desk, when someone tells a bad joke, I turn to you when you're not around. I will tomorrow, next year, until I'm nothing but ashes. You consume me."
You suck in a breath, unprepared for his vulnerability, "Oh. And do you enjoy… being consumed?"
He chuckles, leaning back to think some more. Thighs pressed to yours. Always connected in the tiniest ways.
"Yes, I enjoy it quite a bit. It's rather annoying."
You laugh, curling up to give him a shove. He wrestles back, grasping your wrists and pinning them over your head. A kiss to your nose, a nip at your lips. So close together that his eyes morph into one big blur. You're sure you look them same. Cyclops gazing upon cyclops lovingly. Whatever creature you become, he's yours and you're his.
"Somebody should teach this annoyance a lesson," you whisper.
He laughs. His eyes close, banishing cyclops Zayne for now and bonking your foreheads gently together.
"I believe she's had enough lessons for the day. And her teacher could use a nap," he admits.
You giggle, "Nap granted. Tomorrow, then?"
You don't need to see his smile to know it's there. It's in his voice, his gentle hands, the warmth of his skin on yours.
"Yes, my tomorrow is yours."
