Unconventional // z.m.

xxi. In Which He Struggles Alone

I'M SORRY PLS DON'T GIVE UP ON ME
(and also bear in mind that it's been only 2 weeks since I last updated so gimme some credit pls)

READ ZAYNGERthings AND milkedandhoneyed 's books !!!!!

Also, I kind of hate when people ask me to read their books bc I never know what to say when they have some trash ass grammar (which is often). BUT!!!! Let me know here if you have books you want me to read, I've only really read 1D fics and then normal (non fan)fiction but idm !!!!

((Also if you're aware that your grammar is trash or you won't be offended by me telling you that your grammar is trash, I'd love to be an editor for you. I won't change the story, just fix the grammar and let you know if the plot doesn't quite make sense. I did it a couple of years ago and I loved it, and tbh if I don't keep myself busy I get hella depressed so let's kill two birds w one stone !!))

*

Zayn is drunk.

He's fùcking plastered, having downed two bottles of some alcohol he can't even remember the name of, in the space of about an hour. He started in the morning, taking a couple of shots that burned his throat on their way down. They were only to create a buzz - to keep him numb, make him forget the pain. They worked for a bit, maybe just an hour. But then he swore he heard Diamond giggle from some remote corner of his apartment and he had to drink more.

It's ironic, really. He's drinking to forget and yet all he does is remember. Instead of making him forget Diamond, the alcohol has made him lose control of his thoughts. Helplessly, he simply has to watch as the memories replay behind his eyes, like he's a prisoner strapped to a chair. It hurts. Every time she smiles in one of the memories, or laughs, or moans, or even fùcking blinks, the ache in Zayn intensifies. She's beautiful, so painfully beautiful, and for a fleeting moment he had convinced himself that she was all his. Only his. That she only moaned his name, only writhed beneath his body, only withered beneath his touch. He loves her. He loves her so damn much, but she gets paid to sleep with other people.

With a groan, Zayn fumbles to his feet and gives a loud belch that would earn him a slap to the back of his head by his mother. He almost trips over one of the empty bottles on his way to the sofa, laughing as he kicks it out of the way. In a feat that requires much more coordination than most wasted people possess, he lets himself fall forward onto the leather, face down. He can't smell her on it, he can't smell anything but artificial animal skin. Rolling onto his back, Zayn begins to cry. He cries because Diamond will never truly be his. He cries because he let her go. He cries because he's alone again, like he was just a few months ago. He cries because like a prick, he'd decked out the apartment like a typical bachelor pad and chosen a leather sofa that he can't even bury his nose in to smell her. Leather doesn't pick scents up like fabric does.

Instead, he has to rely on his impaired brain. He doesn't have anything that smells like her, nothing he can torture himself with. She hasn't spent a single night in his bed, and despite his aversion to laundry the few shirts of his that she wore have been washed. There isn't anything, not even a pair of panties. He has to conjure up the smells in his mind - the smell of her shampoo, of her skin when she was sweaty, the smell that emanated from between her legs when she was wet for him. Her skin was so soft, smooth beneath his palms, beneath his lips...

"Fùck!"

It takes Zayn a moment to figure out that that animalistic roar came from him, from his mouth. It takes him another moment to realise that he's smashed one of the empty liquor bottles against the wall. Somebody else is probably touching her skin right now. How many men have touched her since she left here four days ago? How many of them did she cry out for, come undone for? Selfishly, Zayn hopes that her inability to come from her own fingers also extends to people that aren't him. He hopes that none of her clients give a shìt about making her come. He hopes that she never comes from anybody else again - that she has to crawl back to him, begging for his fingers, his tongue, his còck.