satoruzlove - Tumblr blog

satoruzlove · 24 days

Note

Hiii, always love to see people obsessing over love and deepspace (bc I'm addicted too), can I please request zayne fic about his hands and fingers? Can be suggestive, can be pure smut, up to you lol, ok thanks byee

HIII yes i can!!! i can't believe my first request is a zayne's hands request this feels like a gift. thank you for requesting i hope you like!!!

[ there’s a part 2 now :) ] ☄. *. ⋆ gn! reader | 2.8k words | suggestive, not smut | zayne gives reader stitches but it's deliberately not described in detail/no mentions of needles/blood

“my lunch break ends in fifteen minutes,” zayne had said, staring past your head in thought. “it would be a waste of time to check you in.”

you stood there in the bustling lobby of akso hospital, one paper-towel-bound hand pressed to the sliced skin over your hipbone, and waited. surely he wasn’t telling you to just leave. you were only friends, so it’s not like he had an obligation to you; but he was your primary care doctor, and...

and. there was, is, an and. you’re not sure what exactly to call it, and zayne is so adonis-like you’re embarrassed to even suggest he might like you.

“i’m sorry,” you said in earnest, a little surprised by his usual coldness that you’d arrogantly assumed would thaw upon seeing your injury. “i didn’t mean for you to drop everything for me. i should have gone to an urgent care, or something, i just thought since you’re here...”

zayne looked down from the spot over your head, clearly removed from his pensive mood. his intention to argue with you was clear, but he held his tongue stonily until you finished your rambling.

“no,” he replied. “you should never go to another doctor. i was just thinking.”

you blushed like an idiot. “ever?” you mocked.

“mm,” he murmured, back to thinking again. he brought his forearm to circle the small of your back, not touching, and motioned you forward. “come with me.”

and now, here you are: sitting on the grey sofa in front of the wall-length window, early afternoon light bleeding white all over zayne’s office. for a few moments, he’s left you alone to gather materials, and you relish in what feels like a small victory.

i’ve been personally invited to the office.

not like it’s the first time, though.

zayne returns with a small kit swallowed by the size of his pale hands; the sleeves of his button-down pinned up to his elbows. you shift, balancing your weight unnaturally on one leg. His eyes snag on you as he grabs his glasses from his desk (far taller than the tabletop, he must lean down to grab those, too).

“lay down,” zayne commands.

you blink, glancing around to try to figure out the most convenient position to get into for him to work. by the time he’s come over and sat down on the glass table in front of you, you’re still sitting up.

“you can put your head on the armrest and your feet that way,” he nods, not a hint of impatience in his deep voice. “i can see you squirming. when you sit up like you are, you’re putting pressure on the wound. it must hurt.”

“i haven’t even shown you the wound,” you retort, not sure why you’re arguing so much- and swallowing a wince as you turn to prop your head up on the side of the sofa.

“i see your handywork,” zayne replies. he pulls on a pair of blue latex gloves and they snap quietly against his wrists. he’s clearly careful not to let the noise be too loud. “hm.”

you frown in place of a (shameful) gulp at the sight of the gloves hugging his hands.

“is this bad?” you ask. “i’m sorry. i tried not to mess with it too much.”

zayne pieces through the small kit on the table beside him. even his rummaging is succinct; long fingers deftly parsing through the stack of metal utensils inside. he comes up with two sets of narrow pliers and a cotton round.

he passes the pliers through his fingers like pencils, balancing them between his knuckles, and pours a solvent that looks like lens cleaner onto the cotton pad.

“not bad,” he says, eyes on the pliers as he polishes them. “the paper towel is fine. but you got it wet beforehand.”

“and that’s bad?”

“you’ll be alright,” he murmurs- or maybe he always sounds like that- and discards the cotton round. the corners of his lips just barely curl. “you won’t die, i suppose.”

“well, i’d hope not. it’s just a cut.”

“and what did you do this time?” zayne demands softly, fishing in the kit for what you now realize will be sutures.

“i had an assignment with xavier and failed to climb a fence.”

“you impaled yourself, then,” he remarks coldly. “and xavier.”

he sets a roll of sterile surgical threads on a wider cotton pad and turns his eyes to your midriff, which is still mostly covered by your shirt; wound hiding beneath it.

“xavier, yeah,” you inhale deeply, mentally preparing for the stitches. “my partner. i’ve mentioned him, i think.”

“yes, you have,” zayne says. his voice is strained. then he inhales, a whole breath through his nose, mouth closed in stoic secrecy; and nods to your hips. “lift your shirt, please.”

you’re grateful that he’s given you a task and you don’t have to look him in his eyes after that tiny display of disdain (for your partner? for your hips? hopefully the former?). But as you lift your shirt, the paper towel comes loose.

“ouch,” you hiss.

you realize you’re probably stressing him out.

“it’s not bad,” you add, uncharacteristically hoarse.

“it’s not,” zayne agrees softly, eyeing the wound with his usual cold stare. his eyes refuse to flicker above or below the cut, which rests just over the shallow ridge of your hipbone, right above the line of your trousers. “but it hurts, i'm sure.”

you nod. “sure.”

“sure,” he repeats, almost as if to mock you, almost as if he’s just making sure he heard you right.

zayne busies himself preparing a cotton round of saline, and in the middle of this, says,

“you’ll have to unbutton your pants. can you fold the waistband over?”

your neck is suddenly clammy. “oh. yeah, sure.”

“if you can’t fold them down far enough, you’ll have to take them off.”

your eyes blow out like glass.

zayne, whom you suspected might have been deliberately extending the length of his cotton-round-preparing, is surprisingly the one to smile first. almost wickedly. “i would get you a cover, of course.”

“oh, how nice of you.”

he laughs barely, an exhale from his nose. you unbutton your trousers, fabric shifting against metal.

he inhales at the sound.

the blue latex over his knuckles catches light from the windows. you watch moments later as he threads the sutures, fascinated by how efficient his hands are. they’re longer than they are wide, and slender, not bear-like; but big nonetheless. and yet his fingers move like knitting needles, never missing a beat, never shaking. “would you like to do it yourself?” zayne asks suddenly.

his voice is like a hum, always vibrating in his chest.

you bristle. “god, no.”

“then why are you staring?”

you’re hoping he won’t finish on that very word, but he does, and he looks at you with his usual resolve of steel. you decide that no answer is the only good answer, and instead say,

“okay. good luck. don’t mess up, please.”

he chuckles and leans over you, the breadth of his sharp shoulders blocking the sun. “i never mess up.”

the words ‘mess’ and ‘up,’ are foreign on his tongue, like he’d never refer to a mistake so casually, like he’s never made one in his life. he probably hasn’t, you think.

zayne lifts up the cotton round, which is practically the size of a pea in his hand. “i’m going to clean around it. the solution may sting, but not much. it will be over fast.”

you nod. “sure.”

he chuckles again. “sure,” he hums, and then, before he presses down, “here.”

he swipes the cotton round over your hipbone, startlingly light. goosebumps rise instantly on your flesh. his fingers are icy, even through the gloves; they radiate cold like a lamp radiates heat.

zayne is kind enough not to mention your instant squirming and moves quickly to start the sutures.

“this will be fast, too,” he says, looking unwaveringly into your eyes. like he’s trying to will the fear out of you. “not as fast as that, but faster than you’d imagine.”

you nod. “sure.”

“there it is again,” he smiles. “sure.”

you grin incredulously. “i don’t know what else to say. you’re about to stab me.”

his smile is thin and almost prideful as he grabs his glasses and slips them on. he leans over your hips, then looks up at you; pushing them up the bridge of his nose.

“aren’t you glad it’s me, at least, and not some stranger?”

you’re busy inhaling and exhaling like a horse, trying to calm down. “i am glad it’s you, yes.”

your desperation throws him and his jaw sets like a stone, adam’s-apple bobbing.

“alright,” zayne says, nearly whispering. “now.”

he begins the sutures. you gasp, instantly, at first through your nose and then through your mouth; which pops open unwittingly. it’s nearly a whine.

“i know,” zayne murmurs, leaning back a tiny bit as he works; so his face is visible to you. “i’m sorry.”

“it’s okay.”

you bite down hard and screw your eyes shut, but all you do is flinch each time his fingers move. he stops almost instantaneously, like pulling the plug on a treadmill.

“look at me,” zayne says, deep voice rumbling against your thigh.

you peel one eye open and then the other.

“i know it hurts,” he says gently. “but you can’t move. i could seriously hurt you.”

“sorry, sorry,” you nod. “i know.”

the pools of his eyes are clear. he’s resolute in his instructions as he speaks, every word confident.

“breathe the entire time, through every suture. i can work while your stomach moves; i can’t work if you’re flinching away.”

“okay.”

his brows lift. “okay?”

again, you nod. “okay. i’m sorry.”

“no apologies,” zayne says.

he presses his hand flat to the side of your belly that’s unharmed, the tips of his long fingers just barely curling around the slope of your waist. you inhale slowly at that, blinking rapidly. his hand is cool as glass.

you panic, as if he can somehow feel the coil that winds up in your stomach; watching his fingers splayed across your navel.

“i’m going to try again,” he says. you can feel the words all the way down to his fingertips. then his thumb moves, caressing the skin just over your waistband. “breathe.”

well, i can’t now.

“got it,” you grind out.

“good,” zayne hums. “three, two, one...”

and it starts again. you bite down, tongue taut to the roof of your mouth.

“don’t,” zayne warns, stern as ever, but his fingers keep working. “breathe. i can see whether you’re doing it.”

the coil in your stomach tightens. you peel your eyes open and watch him work, knuckles grazing over the soft, thin flesh that’s been revealed from behind the waistband of your trousers.

his eyes flash away from your navel as you start to watch. moments later, you’re stunned to see how laser-focused he is, pupils never moving from your cut.

“do you ever get nervous doing this?” you ask, apt to make the time pass faster by talking. like your mouth isn’t wet just watching him do his job. “are you nervous?”

“no.” his reply is instant. “i’ve done this hundreds of times.”

you’re stunned. “i would be nervous.”

“you are nervous,” zayne murmurs. “close your eyes.”

the ball of his wrist presses into the juncture of your hipbone.

“no,” you gasp. too fast.

zayne’s fingers slow, utensils suspended. he looks up at you, somehow feeling taller still. “no?”

you shake your head. “i-i don’t like not knowing what you’re going to do next.”

oh, sure.

he’s stopped working at this point, watching you like a hawk. “then i’ll tell you what i’m going to do before i do it.”

“that’s okay,” you exhale. i’m dying.

zayne’s eyes rove over yours, not unkind, but uncaring about how visible his assessment of you is. clinical, even still. the corners of his lips curl up.

you’re not sure how it’s possible for your stomach to drop while laying flat on your back, but it does; your ears hot as irons.

he goes back to work without another word. you’re so embarrassed, you finally shut your eyes and let your head weigh on the armrest until he’s done.

“alright,” zayne says. “that’s it. don’t move.”

you keep your eyes shut, nodding. “i really can’t thank you enough, i-”

“watch.”

for a moment, you lay there. then you open your eyes, peering down at him, too uncertain to be shocked yet. “what?”

zayne takes his small kit from the table and places it on your lap. you startle, blink, as he sifts through the contents of it. gloves still on.

“this is another cleanser,” he hums, his voice uncharacteristically musical. “i’m going to clean around the sutures.”

you stare incredulously at him. “...okay.”

he’s not fooled by your aloofness. zayne’s right hand works slow circles with a cotton round around your cut; the other comes down flat to keep the waistband of your trousers from getting in his way. both are cold to the touch; never quite warming.

your jaws come apart and you barely manage to stop your mouth from falling open as discards the cotton round and takes the corner of your waistband into his hand.

he buttons your trousers; pulls the zipper up.

you watch like a fool. then, when he’s done, and you think you’ll have to admit to what you’re thinking, he furrows his brows at your face.

“did you cut yourself here, too?” he murmurs.

“where?” you croak.

zayne shakes his head and slowly peels off the gloves; letting them slide slowly off his fingers. “mm. here.”

he reaches forward and spreads fingers to cup your temples. one thumb glides over your browbone, low enough that you can see it; four or five times before removing his kit from your hips and leaning back.

you exhale harshly and move to sit up, wondering if you’ll be able to somehow flee the office without another word.

“not yet,” zayne says. “lay back again. you don’t have to put your head back; just lean back.”

and you do it, instantly, because...well, because.

zayne pulls a rectangular gauze pad with an adhesive border from the small kit. then he leans forward- he'd be positioned between your legs, if you opened them- and pulls your shirt up once more.

as he presses the bandage over your sutured wound, it seems like even he can’t look at you. but his usually statuesque expression is lifted with amusement, plus something more sinister.

“you like to watch me work,” he hums.

his fingers dip under your waistband to smooth the bandage over.

“shut up,” you bite.

he leans back and watches you with no further offerings- words or otherwise medically dubious practices- and looks quite pleased. his breath is ragged, though; chest lifting and caving.

“thank you,” you exhale. your tongue darts out over your lips.

his pupils are swollen. “sure.”

you grin, caught off guard by the joke. it sounds ridiculous in his voice.

“my break will be ending,” zayne says, stony as ever once again as he walks to his desk.

you stand, smoothing your hair down like something far more scandalous just occurred than stitches.

“what do i owe you?” you ask. this earns a genuine, icy glare.

“nothing,” zayne replies, pulling on his white jacket and grabbing his things. “but go to the front desk before you leave. i’m going to call in a prescription ointment for you.”

you blink at him, thrice. a little dizzy. “oh, wow. thank you.”

as zayne strides to the door, you think he might genuinely leave you there without another word. but he takes the door handle, and, almost shy, turns over his shoulder and says,

“i’d like to stay with you, but i can’t. i’ll be working until dinner.”

“no, no,” you rush, stepping to meet him at the door. “i’m fine. thank you so much, for doing this. i was just thinking.”

he still can’t look at you, but at that; zayne grins.

“i’ll call you when i get home,” he says. then, “is that okay?”

you swallow. “of course.”

“i want to know how the sutures feel in a couple of hours,” he adds.

“oh, sure,” you tease.

his eyes darken, like darts. you’re almost afraid.

zayne opens the door for you and waits for you to pass by, eyes full of mirth as he looks down at you. “i’m glad i could be of service.”

he raps his fingers on a clipboard until you look away. you blush feverishly all the way down the hall at how he says ‘service.’

☄. *. ⋆

this is not how you do stitches nor how you sterilize utensils. anyways FIRST POST. lol. anon if you or anyone else wants a part 2 of this (nsfw) i wiiiiiill do it lmk

#i i i i i i #LLWASE #THIS MADE MS BLUSH LOL #raines favs

503 notes · View notes