deepevol

[deepevol]

Slow Mornings

Title: Slow Mornings Pairing: Zayne x Reader/MC Rating: Mature Genre: Soft smut, morning intimacy, spooning, fluff, domestic. Word count: 1.3K Summary: No alarm. No urgency. Just the warmth of sunlight, quiet breaths, and Zayne wrapped around you. His body speaking before either of you say a word. A lazy, slow morning where everything unravels in touch, sighs, and soft pleasure.

There was no alarm.

Only the gentle rustle of sheets and the golden warmth of sunlight spilling through gauzy curtains. A hush blanketed the room like a shared secret. Quiet and intimate. Known only by two people in the room.

You weren’t sure what woke you. Maybe it was the sliver of morning sun cascading across your face, or the faint songs of birds singing outside. Or, maybe, it was the subtle shift of his body behind yours. The heavy, relaxed weight of his arm draped over your waist. The soft rhythm of his breath against the back of your neck… slow and even… hovering in that delicate place between dreaming and waking. His chest rose and fell in steady cadence, his presence warm and grounding.

The first thing you became fully aware of was him.

Zayne’s body, molded perfectly along yours, one long leg tangled between your thighs, chest pressed to your back. His breath moved across your shoulder in slow, warm intervals, each exhale brushing your skin like a lullaby.

The covers had slipped just enough to bare your shoulders to the morning light. The air was cool, but you didn’t shiver. Not with him wrapped around you like this. You fit together so seamlessly it was hard to tell where he ended and you began.

Neither of you spoke. There was no need.

Then came a deeper awareness.

His arousal, unmistakable, pressed firmly between your thighs. Firm. Prominent. Separated from you only by the soft black briefs he wore, which had shifted slightly during the night. Your own underwear was thin cotton, barely a barrier. Every contour of him was tangible, every pulse echoed in the quiet between you.

You inhaled slowly.

Tilted your hips, just a little.

Your body spoke for you.

Zayne responded instinctively. His hips rolled forward in a slow, unconscious rhythm. He slid himself against the cleft of you, separated only by those teasing layers of fabric. A broken sound escaped him. Low, breathy, half moan, half sigh… as his arm tightened around your waist.

The subtle change in his breathing made you realize he was awake now, if barely.

Not abruptly, just enough to move, his hand slid lower, knuckles brushing your lower stomach, then the edge of your underwear, exploring your skin with slow, sleepy curiosity. Still, no words were exchanged. Only his hand, drifting lower, his fingers grazing the warm cotton stretched between your thighs.

Your thighs parted slightly, almost involuntarily, welcoming him in.

Then came the first true touch.

A single finger stroked down the center of your underwear, slow and maddeningly gentle. You arched into it, breath hitching. He kissed the back of your shoulder. Soft, warm, lingering, and then again, higher this time, lips skimming the slope of your neck.

His hand cupped you fully through the fabric. Gentle and loving. Like you were something to be held, not just touched. He moved his fingers in slow, purposeful circles, coaxing a soft moan from you as pleasure built from the steady friction.

Behind you, he grew harder still—twitching beneath his briefs.

You reached back, blindly, fingertips brushing his thigh, then the waistband of his underwear. He groaned quietly against your skin at the contact.

But you didn’t pull them down. Not yet.

There was something exquisite in the closeness. The tension. The way you were still half-covered, barely concealed but completely exposed to each other’s desire.

Zayne’s hips shifted again, more intentionally this time. His member dragged along your rising heat, the only thing separating you was a single sliver of cotton. His hand moved up to your chest, slipping beneath your camisole. He found your breast and brushed his thumb lazily across your nipple until it hardened beneath his touch.

You moaned again, back arching. Your legs wrapped tighter around his, chasing the slow, pulsing build at your center.

His fingers returned to your underwear, this time slipping beneath. The first stroke over your bare folds made you gasp, fingers clenching the sheets. He moved slowly, spreading your warmth, your wetness, exploring the tension of you with quiet wonder.

You rocked your hips against his touch, falling into a soft rhythm.

And then, wordlessly, he hooked his fingers around the waistband of your underwear and eased them down, inch by inch, until they bunched around your thighs. He didn’t take them off completely, just enough.

You heard the faint shift of fabric behind you as he pushed down his briefs. Then the thick, warm weight of him was there, pressed against your entrance, sliding easily through your slick self, dragging against you in slow, teasing strokes.

Still no words. The silence felt so loud but calming all at once.

Shallow breaths escaped both of you. The sound of skin brushing skin. The soft sigh he let out as he nudged forward, carefully, until the tip of himself breached you.

Your lips parted in a soundless moan as he pushed deeper, aching at every inch, until he was fully inside. One hand found yours beneath the blanket and threaded your fingers together, grounding you both.

He stilled.

For a long moment, neither of you moved. Wrapped in heat and silence, in the sheer intimacy of being joined like this.

When he finally began to move, it wasn’t rough. Nor fast. Just a gentle grind of his hips, his firm body gliding slowly in and out with deliberate grace. He held you tightly, every stroke an unspoken confession, a carving of memory into your skin.

Your moans were soft, breathless. His were even quieter, drawn out through clenched teeth. He moved with you like it was the only thing that mattered, like the world had been reduced to this single moment.

The rhythm built, lazy and tender. Outside, the birds continued their morning song. The morning sun cascaded brighter against your skin. The hum of the world blurred into something beautiful. Your release crept up before you knew it. Long, drawn out, and trembling. Your body clenched around him as it hit, hips jerking, a moan slipping past your lips as waves of pleasure rippled through you.

He followed seconds later, burying himself deep as he spilled inside with a low, shuddering groan. His lips found your ear, pressing there as his body stilled behind you.

Stillness returned.

Only your breathing filled the space. His heartbeat, steady against your back. The slow softening of him still inside you, his arm still around you, hands still entwined.

Moments passed. He kissed the spot just below your ear and whispered, voice husky and warm:

“Good morning.”

You smiled into the pillow, dazed and content. “You really know how to ease a girl into the day.”

He chuckled low, pulling you closer, his leg slotting securely between yours. “I thought I was dreaming. It turned out to be better than a dream.”

You let out a breathy laugh. “Was dream-me wearing underwear too?”

“No,” he said honestly, nuzzling into your hair. “Dream-you was a little less modest.”

You grinned. “Sounds accurate.”

Neither of you moved for a while. His hand traced slow circles over your stomach, and you ran your fingers along his arm, grounding yourself in the warmth.

Eventually, you stretched your legs under the covers with a lazy sigh. “Do we have to do anything today?”

He stretched out his own body too, giving you a kiss on top of your bedhead hair, a soft nuzzle followed as he hummed. “I have an online meeting later… So technically, I could stay in bed all day. You?”

“Maybe check my email. Finish up some reports... but nothing urgent.”

“Good,” he murmured, kissing your shoulder. “Then I say we stay here. Let me hold you a while longer.”

You turned slightly, teasing. “You’re in a clingy mood this morning.”

“Cuddle time is sacred,” he said, completely serious. “You can’t rush recovery. It’s a medical fact.”

You laughed softly. “Is that so?”

“Hmm. I’m a doctor. You can trust me.”

You closed your eyes, a smile lingering. “You’re a very lucky man.”

“I know,” he whispered, kissing you again, unhurried, devoted.

Then he tucked his face into the crook of your neck, and the two of you fell into silence again. The world outside could wait.

No alarms. No urgency.

Only the warmth that clung to bare skin, the hush of shared breath, and the unspoken promise of many more slow mornings to come.

[deepevol]

A Nightly Prescription

Title: A Nightly Prescription

Pairing: Zayne x Reader/MC

Rating: Explicit (18+)

Genre: Sensual, Domestic, Slow Burn, Smut.

Summary: It's a rainy night and you're having trouble sleeping. Wrapped in his shirt, pressed against the glass window, Zayne touches you like a quiet storm. Patient, yet unrelenting. He doesn’t just help you rest. He ruins you sweetly first.

Author’s Note: This is my first public fanfic so go easy on me. I wanted to capture Zayne and MCs domestic sensuality. Zayne's quiet control and tenderness, the way he undoes you not with force, but with reverence. Thanks for reading, and if this makes you ache a little… good. 💙 If this goes well, I'll write more in the future.

The rain whispered steadily against the tall windows, casting ribbons of silver across the floor. Beyond the glass, the street lights blurred into a dreamy watercolor, its glow softened by the storm, traffic a distant murmur beneath the steady hush of falling water. Inside the home, it was still and dim. The kind of quiet that pressed in gently, wrapping everything in the hush of midnight hours.

You stood barefoot by the window, Zayne’s white dress shirt hanging off your body, far too large, its sleeves draping over your hands. One side had slipped down your shoulder, leaving your skin bare to the cool air. Your finger traced idle shapes in the condensation on the glass. Slow circles, soft lines, and initials of someone's name, all while the storm hummed behind the silence.

You didn’t need to turn around to know he was coming. First, the subtle creak of the bedroom door. Then bare footsteps, unhurried against the wood floor, padding softly toward you.

“I knew I’d find you here,” came his voice, low and rough with sleep.

A shiver danced down your spine, not from the cold, but from him. That quiet, familiar timbre in his voice. Never overly warm, but always filled with something tender when he let his guard down. Something just for you.

You smiled without looking. “The rain's too loud. I couldn’t fall asleep.”

He was silent for a moment. Then you heard the faint smirk in his voice. “Or maybe… you shouldn’t have had that second cup of coffee at 9:30.”

You exhaled a laugh. “It was one and a half cups.”

“Still… one and a half more than anyone needs that late.”

He was behind you now. You could feel it. His body radiating heat, the rhythm of his breath shifting the air between you. His presence alone changed the room.

“You’ve always been bad at resisting the little things.”

You smiled fondly. “Like chocolate mints. Or overpriced candles. Buying books I'll never finish. Or…”

You tilted your head just slightly, enough to catch the reflection of his eyes in the window.

“…you.”

He paused behind you. A slow exhale. Then a quiet scoff of amusement, more breath than sound. His hand found your waist, palm resting lightly against the fabric of the shirt, his thumb brushing the bare skin beneath where it had ridden up.

“I think you’re blaming me for your restlessness,” he murmured, his lips near your ear now, every word grazing your skin. “When you’re the one standing here at midnight… wearing nothing but my shirt.”

You turned ever so slightly, and his hand followed the curve of your waist, now sliding across your stomach, thumb pressing in slow circles that made your muscles flutter.

“It’s comfortable,” you said innocently. “You left it on the floor. I was helping you clean.”

“Mm,” he said, and his voice dropped lower. Softer, more deliberate. “You're very considerate.”

His arms eased around you, a slow pull that pressed your back against the solid warmth of his chest. You felt the inhale he took. Deep. Like he was drinking in the scent of your hair, the feeling of you against him. One of his hands drifted upward, fingers skimming the slope of your ribs before brushing lightly beneath your breast, barely touching, barely there.

You felt him smile against your temple. “Still can’t sleep?”

“Not with you doing that.”

“I haven’t even started.”

The words fluttered against your neck, and you exhaled shakily, your body instinctively leaning into him. His hands held you with that maddening patience of his. Firm but gentle, exploratory without greed.

He pressed a slow kiss just behind your ear, his lips moving like they had all the time in the world. Then another kiss, lower, dragging heat down your neck. One hand pressed gently over your sternum, thumb tracing circles at the center of your chest. His palm was warm, grounding. His breath matched the rhythm of the storm outside—steady, hypnotic.

“I could help you fall asleep,” he whispered.

You turned your head toward him, your breath fogging the glass, your gaze catching his in the reflection.

“And how would you do that?” you asked, voice barely above a murmur as your hand curled around his wrist.

He grazed your cheek with his lips, then your jaw.

“Very slowly,” he breathed. “With you trembling against this window… perhaps, with my name on your lips If I'm lucky…”

The air thickened between you. Every breath was heavier now, every inch of space charged. And still, he didn’t rush. His fingers moved in slow reverence, unfolding you, not undressing. Worshipping you in the smallest touches, learning your edges again like a sacred text he’d never tire of reading.

He shifted behind you, his hips pressing against the curve of your backside, the fabric of his sweatpants brushing against your thighs. You felt the weight of his arousal. Firm, unyielding. But still, he held back.

His hand moved, cupping your breast through the thin cotton of the shirt, thumb circling your nipple until you gasped softly, the stimulation electric beneath the barrier of fabric. The other hand drifted lower, grazing the inside of your thigh with fingertips that danced like whispers.

“You’re so sensitive tonight,” he murmured, lips brushing the curve of your ear. “Is it the rain, or is it something else?”

You swallowed, your knees softening again. “It's you...”

He groaned. A low sound in his chest, barely audible but felt. One hand held steady at your waist while the other disappeared beneath the hem of the shirt, fingertips gliding over bare skin. He moved slowly, teasing the space just below your navel, then lower still, never quite where you wanted him yet.

He turned you gently, slow and guiding, until you were facing him. The window’s coolness kissed your back as you met his gaze, the weight of it pulling something loose inside you. Zayne looked at you like you were something he needed to memorize. Every detail, every shift of breath.

“I could spend forever like this,” he whispered. “Watching you melt.”

His hand found the soft junction between your thighs, his fingers brushing over your underwear, heat igniting between each pass. He didn’t touch you directly—yet. His thumb grazed along the edge of the fabric, a silent question lingering in the space between you.

You gave a tiny nod. Impatiently waiting.

His hand slipped beneath.

The moment his finger met your slickness, a shudder ran through your body. You gripped the hem of his shirt tighter around yourself, your breath faltering.

“You’re already soaked,” he whispered, voice dark with awe. “All from a little talking?”

“You talk too much,” you breathed, trembling.

He smirked slowly. Devastatingly. “You don't seem to mind…”

Within an instance, everything began to blur.

His fingers slid through your folds with reverence, parting you, circling your clit with devastating precision. He touched you like he’d done it a hundred times, yet still marveled at the response each stroke pulled from you. His mouth found yours then—slow, deep, open. His tongue teased yours lazily, matching the rhythm of his hand below.

“Let go,” he whispered between kisses. “Let me give you something better than sleep.”

One long finger slid inside you, curling, stroking. Then a second, joining the first, filling you in a way that made your breath stutter against his mouth. He fucked you with his fingers like he was writing poetry, pausing in the right places, pressing where it mattered, guiding you through every rise and fall.

“You feel so good,” he murmured, kissing the corner of your mouth, then your throat, then lower. “Your voice… I want to hear all of it. Don’t hold back.”

You came with his name on your lips, the street lights blurring behind your eyes, your body collapsing into his hands. He caught you as your legs gave out, lowering you gently to the floor, bracing you against him, his fingers coaxing the last tremors from your thighs until you were wrung out and shivering.

“Easy,” he whispered, brushing your damp hair from your temple. “You’re shaking.”

“I can’t… stand,” you laughed breathlessly.

“I noticed.” Equally breathless. He lifted you effortlessly, one arm beneath your knees, the other around your back, cradling you like something cherished. Your cheek rested against his shoulder, and you felt the steady beat of his heart, still fast, still full of the heat he hadn’t yet let himself spend.

He carried you to the bed, laying you down carefully. His shirt was still draped over your body, rumpled and barely buttoned. He smoothed the fabric down your sides, then bent over you, pressing kisses to your forehead, your cheeks, your collarbone.

“You still awake?” he asked, brushing your hair back gently.

“Barely.”

“Think you’ll sleep now?”

You blinked up at him, dazed but smiling. “Hmm… I might need a… nightly prescription.”

He chuckled, low against your skin. “Is that your professional opinion?”

“Mmhmm. Something warm and thorough. At least twice a week.”

Zayne leaned down again, lips brushing yours with slow promise. “I think I can fill that prescription.”

And he kissed you again. Deep and sure. The quiet promise that this wouldn’t be the last time he touched you like this. Breaking the kiss, his forehead gently pressed with yours, he exhales a soft laugh.

“But next time…” he responded with fondness, “no more coffee after dinner."

[deepevol]

"One last kiss before you go?"

Coffee in the air, his tie still crooked from her hands, her hair smelling like him. It's just a Tuesday, but love still lingers in this moment.

[deepevol]

My soft boy came home, so I made art to celebrate. Now I need the white suit. ❄️😭❄️ Hope all my zayne mains brought their boy home.

[deepevol]

“Come to bed. Or do I have to make you?”

Sylus. A low voice, a dark room. A gaze that isn’t a request; it’s a challenge.

[deepevol]

Softly unraveling beneath the hush of what was never said, tracing the outline of absence like a lover’s touch. Devoted, aching... craving the moment eyes find each other once more.

[deepevol]

Cold hands, warm heart. Restrained emotions wrapped in snow-dusted silence. late night thoughts that echo like footsteps in an empty corridor. Gentle longing, tenderness, and the quiet promise of staying by your side. For when love is patient, precise, and buried deep.

For fans of: slow-burn romance, emotional restraint, late-night confessions, snow-draped cityscapes, and the soft ache of quiet love.

[deepevol]

No fluff. Just Sin.

A moody, seductive descent, laced with dark electronica, sultry synths, and slow-burning tension. Perfect for late nights, unspoken cravings, and moments where danger feels like a lover’s touch. Much like a man and his crow.

For fans of: velvet noir moods, slow smirks, and the thrill of control.

[deepevol]

Touch II. Zayne x MC. Caught in a tender pause. Where time slows and affection speaks in silence...

[deepevol]

The quiet moments between Zayne and MC — where words fall away, and love speaks through a single touch.

[deepevol]

Oh hi.