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lyn31 · 1 month ago

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SERIOUSLY LOVE your writing so much omg! i discovered your acc by your zayne pregnancy fic and i was wondering if you can make zayne and mc had a soft lovemaking (two rounds) while zayne's being gentle? 😆

Ahh yess ofc, most people find me through that series 😂 Which honestly perfect, love that series! 🫶🏻😩 I did not expect to write the whole thing ahahaha but anyway! Here's a gentle love making, ah well, it's not two round technically, I mean you can count it as two, but it just the perfect cut! I thought if I continue it'll drag on too much but there's plenty of gentleness going around 👀

OH! And... I kinda make it like a fill in blank for Fragrant Possession card ;-; Dw, there's not much spoiler if you didn't read the story yet! Just letting you know! Let me know what you think!💕

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Zayne Fragrant Possession (Celebration)

Summary

After the storm of battle and the glow of recognition, you let Zayne peel back every layer of your tension with steady hands and quieter love, until what’s left between you is nothing but warmth, want, and the ache of being truly seen.

Ao3 link

My Masterlist ✨

Notes

Pairing: Zayne x MC/Reader Smut, Gentle sex, a lot of kissing, a lot of touching, body worshipping, multiple position, oral, banter! :D This is basically a fill in blank fic, where after MC did the speech, they eat at the restaurant and back to their hotel room, celebrating on their own :) Enjoy!

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The hotel room door clicks softly shut behind you.

Zayne doesn’t speak at first. He just stands there for a beat, eyes tracing the length of you—your tousled hair, the way his coat still hangs loose over your dress, the tiny scratches on your skin left behind from the earlier battle. You’re halfway between disheveled and radiant, and he looks at you like you're the most breathtaking thing he's ever seen.

Then, a slow exhale. A quiet, unshakable kind of awe.

“You were incredible today,” he says simply. But the words land heavy, warm. His voice doesn’t tremble, but something in his gaze gives him away completely.

You let out a soft laugh, dropping your purse onto the dresser. “You say that like I didn’t just get dirt on my tights.”

“And still accepted an award like royalty.” He steps closer, undoing the first button of the coat draped over your shoulders.

Your lips twitch. “Well, without your coat I would look like a battle-hardened maiden.”

“While that’s not really proper for a formal event, I think the world would be grateful to see it.”

You laugh, swatting his shoulder playfully. “You’re ridiculous.”

He smiles, the corners of his mouth lifting as he slides the coat down your arms with careful hands. “Hmm. Miss Hunter of the Year.”

You murmur, “Zayne…” but he’s already hanging the coat and returning to you. His fingers graze your cheekbone as he tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear, gentler than the night deserves.

“Congratulations again,” he says quietly. “I’m proud of you. More than I can say.”

And it’s not the words that unravel you—it’s the way he says them, low and reverent, like you didn’t just win some award, like you built the stars he looks at every night.

You don’t say anything back right away. Just stand there in front of him, heartbeat slow and full, feeling the space between you shrink to nothing.

The night outside is quiet. The city doesn’t know what you gave up to be here. But he does.

He leans in.

It’s not rushed or sudden—just the natural conclusion of everything unsaid. His lips brush yours like he’s still asking permission, and you meet him there with a softness that nearly undoes you both. Slow. Warm. A kiss that speaks in quiet gratitude and long-held admiration.

Your hands find the collar of his shirt, and his find your waist—familiar now. You press your forehead to his as the kiss breaks, breathing against his mouth.

“Shower,” you murmur, almost dreamily.

He hums in agreement, the sound low in his throat, almost amused. His hands slide a little lower, then around, and with practiced ease, he lifts you effortlessly into his arms. There’s no urgency to it—only care, only the certainty that you’ll be safe wherever he carries you.

You wrap your arms around his shoulders, cheek against his collarbone as he walks toward the bathroom, the soft shuffle of footsteps on hotel carpet the only sound around you.

The light in the bathroom is muted when he switches it on—golden and quiet, like the rest of the night. He sets you down with a gentleness that makes your chest ache and turns the water on, testing the temperature with his hand before adjusting it to something warm and steady.

Neither of you rushes. You undress in that slow, unhurried silence of people who know every inch of each other. He reaches for the clasp at the back of your dress without a word, fingers ghosting against your skin as he lowers the zipper. Your clothes fall away between soft glances, and when he undresses, it’s with the same quiet calm—never showy, never impatient.

The moment you step beneath the stream of water, your shoulders finally drop. Heat sinks into your skin, loosening the last remnants of tension.

Zayne steps in behind you a second later, hands grazing your waist as he closes the distance again. He doesn’t touch with hunger—this time he touches to soothe. He takes the shampoo from the hotel shelf and begins working it into your hair, fingers slow and sure, massaging your scalp with delicate pressure. The water runs down your back while his thumbs circle behind your ears, and you can’t help the sound you make—barely a sigh, but one that draws a small smile from him.

“You always melt when I do this,” he murmurs.

“Feels good,” you say softly. “Feels like you.”

He rinses your hair with the same care, cupping water in his palms to shield your eyes. Then he works his way down—your shoulders, arms, sides—rinsing and washing, never lingering too long, but never moving too fast either. The silence stretches, comfortable and golden.

You return the favor in kind—lathering soap in your hands and trailing it down the long line of his back. You feel the way he exhales when your fingers skim his spine. He leans just enough into your touch that you know he needed it too.

By the time you finish rinsing each other, the bathroom is thick with steam, warm enough to soften the mirrors and blur the corners of the world. Your skin glows with heat, flushed from both the shower and the way his hands had moved over you.

You glance at him, cheeks damp, hair dripping in soft waves against your neck. There’s a pause—just long enough to feel it—and then Zayne reaches up, his knuckles brushing beneath your chin, tipping your face toward him with a feather light touch.

“Better?” he asks, voice low and steady.

You nod. “Much.”

Zayne hums, then reaches for a towel, unfolding it with quiet care. The moment the fabric touches your skin, it’s warm and plush, a gentle contrast to the cool air outside the shower.

He starts at your shoulders, patting you in slow, deliberate passes. Between motions, his lips find your temple. Then the bridge of your nose. The curve of your cheek.

You stand still beneath the weight of it—of him—not because you don’t want to move, but because you don’t need to. He lowers the towel slowly, brushing it along your arms, down your sides. Every pass feels less like drying and more like memorizing.

When the towel reaches your waist, his mouth finds yours—unhurried, tender, the kind of kiss that makes your fingers curl against his shoulder, still slick with water. You breathe a laugh against his lips.

“I don’t think this is very efficient, Dr. Zayne.”

His mouth slips down to your jaw, then lower, his breath cool against the heat of your collarbone. “Multitasking,” he murmurs, “has a proven success rate.”

You snort softly but don’t argue. Not when his hands feel this careful. Not when his lips make you forget what dry even feels like.

But when the towel skims down your legs, you reach behind him, grabbing the other towel and lightly tapping it against his shoulder. He pauses, glancing up. You arch a brow.

“Pretty sure I’m dry enough,” you say with a teasing tilt of your head. “Your turn.”

Zayne straightens at your nudge, and you step in close, mirroring what he did moments ago—starting at his shoulders, gently patting the water away from his chest, then his waist.

He watches you quietly, his expression unreadable, but you feel the shift in him when you rise on your toes to press a kiss to his jaw. Another to the hollow beneath his ear. Then one more, soft and certain, against his lips.

You both pause when you're done, towel draped over the edge of the sink, robes slipped over clean skin, damp hair tucked behind your ears.

His hands settle at your waist again, light and certain.

“Definitely the efficient way,” he says, tone calm as ever. “We should always dry off like this.”

You laugh, warmth bubbling in your chest.

Zayne pulls away just enough to reach for the small hotel hairdryer, his brows lifting in a silent question. You sigh, dramatically.

“Do I have to?” you murmur, though you’re already turning around, letting your damp hair fall loose over the towel draped across your shoulders.

“You’ll catch a cold,” he replies, deadpan.

“And here I thought you were warming me up just fine a second ago.”

A soft huff of laughter escapes him, but he says nothing at first—just plugs in the dryer and gently begins to run his fingers through your hair, loosening the strands before the hum of warm air starts. The heat wraps around your scalp, and his hand never leaves you, guiding each section with quiet patience.

You close your eyes.

It’s not the heat that makes you melt—it’s the way his fingers never leave your hair, always grounding you, gentle and steady. Each motion is unhurried, reverent in its own quiet way. You feel his breath near your ear as he shifts angles, the towel still draped loosely over your shoulders.

“This part always makes me sleepy,” you murmur, lips curving faintly.

He makes a low sound of acknowledgment—something between a hum and a chuckle—but says nothing, continuing with the same careful attention.

“Is this my reward for winning an award?” you ask lightly.

“No,” he says, his voice softer now, more certain. “This is just a reward for being by my side.”

You swallow, caught off guard by how easily he says it—like it’s obvious. Like your place beside him is something valuable, not questioned.

Then, after a pause, he adds. “But now that you mention it... We should do something more tomorrow. A proper celebration.”

The dryer clicks off.

You turn slowly to face him again, hair still a little damp at the ends but no longer dripping. Zayne sets the dryer down, his hand slides to the edge of the towel, pulling it off from your shoulder as he meets your gaze. The air between you shifts again—closer now. Warmer. His hands then find your hips through the robe’s fabric.

“Tomorrow?” you echo, your voice quieting.

“Mhm. Tonight’s for us.”

Your fingers drift up to the knot at his robe, tugging it loose as you lean in. He meets you halfway—his mouth brushing yours in a kiss that starts soft but lingers, deepens. His hands curl at your waist. Yours slip under the lapel of his robe. There’s nothing rushed about it, just heat gathering between touches, weightless and slow.

By the time you part for breath, your noses are still brushing, and your lips are slick from the kiss. His hand cups the side of your neck, thumb stroking lightly just below your jaw.

You whisper, “Should we…?”

His gaze is already on your mouth when he answers, “Come here,” and kisses you again—this time guiding you slowly, deliberately toward the bed.

The bed is cool beneath you when you sink onto it, the mattress shifting gently under your weight. Zayne follows you down without breaking the kiss, one hand braced beside your head while the other finds your thigh beneath the robe—skin to skin, cool, warm and searching. His fingers trail up slowly, following the curve until his palm rests just beneath the hem, the pads of his fingers pressing lightly into your skin.

Your breath stutters when he deepens the kiss. No hunger unchecked. Just that same careful reverence he’s held you with all night.

Your hands move to the lapels of his robe yet again, fingertips slipping past the fabric to feel the steady rise and fall of his chest. You part the robe a little more, easing it back over his shoulders until it hangs loose, framing the strong line of his body. Your palms splay across his skin, taking in the heat of him, the softness just beneath the muscle. He exhales softly against your mouth, like the touch alone is enough to ground him.

His hand slides higher along your thigh, the heel of his palm brushing the curve of your hip as he leans closer. The robes part further with every movement, but neither of you bother to shrug them off. There’s something more intimate in the layers—how they slip and shift just enough to reveal skin, but not all at once. Like the night is meant to be savored, not conquered.

You tilt your head back just a little, letting your lips part beneath his—and he leans in with a kiss that turns deeper now—less tentative, more claiming. His teeth graze your lower lip before he draws back just enough to whisper, “Tell me if you want more.”

Your breath catches—he’s close, warm, waiting. The ache between your thighs throbs at the edge of restraint.

“Yes,” you breathe, almost too soft to hear, but he hears it. Feels it in the way your hands curl into his robe, tugging him closer.

His mouth finds your jaw, then the edge of your throat, cool and open. You gasp when his hand cups under your knee and slowly draws your leg over his hip, aligning you more closely. The heat between you flares as your bodies press together through the thinning layers of fabric.

“You feel…” he starts, but trails off, voice roughened, lips against the hollow of your throat.

“Like yours?” you murmur, teasing—but the sentiment hums low in your chest, dangerously real.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, to see your face beneath the dim light. The answer is already there in his eyes, but he says it anyway, because it’s the way both of you like it.

“Always.”

His hand moves beneath the robe again, fingertips trailing a path across your waist, your stomach, then down again to your thigh, brushing it slowly. Your own hands mirror him—exploring, learning him again in the hush between kisses. Every sigh, every shift, every quiet press of mouth to skin adds to the slow rhythm you’re building, one touch at a time.

Then his hand slides higher, finding the edge of your robe and drawing it open a little more. You feel the fabric fall away from your chest as his mouth moves lower—past your collarbone, the slope of your shoulder, until his lips brush the swell of your breast. He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t dive in. He parts his mouth over your skin, kissing softly around it, never quite where you ache for him yet.

You gasp as his hand move to touch the other where his mouth is not, kneading you gently through the loosened robe. Your body arches into his palm without thinking, and he responds with a soft exhale, lips dragging over the skin he’s not yet fully bared.

The coolness of his touch spreads under your skin like ice melting slowly beneath sunlight—his fingers stroking in slow, deliberate circles, coaxing out every reaction.

Still, his mouth lingers close but avoids the center.

He’s savoring you, utterly focused, as if every inch of you deserves its own moment.

His other hand is moving too, sliding along your inner thigh, just shy of where you need him. The sensation is maddening—the heat, the teasing pressure that makes your breath hitch and your hips shift without thought. You can feel the anticipation building, centered deep between your legs, pulsing and insistent.

Your hands find his chest—his robe already fallen halfway down his shoulders, giving you room to touch further. Your fingers trace the lines of muscle across his chest. With every slight movement, his breath hitches, then finally up to his shoulder where you clutch gently, grounding yourself.

Then his hand finally moves, slipping the rest of your robe aside so your breast is fully bare beneath his palm. The contrast of his skin on yours makes your breath stutter. He cups you directly now, and this time when he rubs his thumb over your nipple, you let out a soft, broken sound.

Zayne hums against your skin like approving the sound you make.

His fingers roll and flick the sensitive peak, gentle but purposeful, coaxing another gasp from you. But his mouth still doesn’t move to meet it—still kisses just around, just beside, as if teasing you is its own form of reverence.

“Zayne—” your voice catches in your throat, heavy with want.

Your hips shift again, arching toward the hand that still lingers at your thigh. Your body is already aching, already pulsing beneath every careful stroke.

He feels it—the way you move against him, the way your thighs tremble slightly under his touch.

And finally, his hand glides up, cupping your bare core under the fabric. You moan then, head tipping back into the pillow as the heat flares. He doesn’t go straight to it—doesn’t press too deep yet—but slides his fingers along the seam of your entrance, slow and patient.

Your grip tightens on his back, fingers curling into his bare shoulder.

He exhales again, slower this time, like he’s feeling it all with you. Then he leans up slightly, brushing his lips across your cheek as his fingers tease just barely inside the edge of your folds.

“You’re so warm…” he murmurs, low and quiet like a confession meant only for you. “And already so ready…”

His voice sends a fresh ripple of heat down your spine.

And his fingers—circling the entrance in maddening, deliberate strokes—leave you trembling with want.

His mouth trails downward again, brushing just beneath your breast before returning to it with a lingering kiss. The coolness of his breath and the drag of his lips make you shiver beneath him, and still his fingers stay at your entrance, applying only the lightest pressure—enough to keep you aware of his presence there, but not enough to ease the ache.

Then you feel it—his lips parting around your nipple as he sucks gently, tongue flicking over the sensitive peak in slow, savoring strokes. The sound you make is almost a whimper, hips rolling toward his hand instinctively.

His free hand is just as worshipful—cupping your other breast, thumb circling the nipple there, kneading softly in time with his mouth.

The combination pulls soft gasps from you with every motion. Your back arches, offering him more, chasing the pressure he still keeps just out of reach. And Zayne… he enjoy it thoroughly. Every flick of his tongue, every graze of his teeth is deliberate. Measured. Like he wants to know how each one makes you breathe.

He finally gives your breast one last suck and a stroke of his tongue, then lifts his head slowly. His hand still teases your breast, but his mouth starts moving lower again.

You feel his breath first—tracing the path down your stomach, then the light drag of his lips as he leaves open kisses along the curve of your belly, just above the soft edge of your robe.

With each kiss, he parts the fabric more, exposing more of you to the warm night air and to him. There’s reverence in it—no rush, no hurry, just the quiet focus of someone who’s utterly devoted to the woman beneath him.

Sometimes, it still stuns you—how gently he touches you when he could so easily take. Like he’s not just savoring you, but committing every part of you to memory. You wonder if he knows how safe he makes you feel. How easy it is to fall for him like this.

And when he reaches the very top of your thighs, he pauses just so he can look at you.

Then he leans in.

Soft. Slow. Like he’s greeting you.

You jolt at the sensation, a shuddering breath caught in your throat as your fingers tighten in the sheets.

Then he brings his hands to your thighs—gently parting your fold—before carefully spreading you with his fingers. You feel exposed, flushed, but the way he looks at you...

His eyes lift to yours, gaze steady, reverent.

And then—he licks you.

Long, slow, deliberate. Like he’s tasting something exquisite. His mouth is still cool and wet, tongue gliding from your entrance upward, catching along your folds. You moan, hips lifting in response, but his hands on your thighs keep you grounded—gentle, but firm.

His nose brushes your clit as he focuses on your entrance again, tongue teasing just inside, and the brush of pressure there sends your head falling back with a gasp.

“Zayne…” you breathe, voice shaking. One hand finds his hair, fingers threading into the soft strands, holding on.

He groans quietly into you—pleased—and the vibration of it makes you tremble. He licks deeper this time, tongue sliding into your entrance, slow but sure, like he’s not just doing this to make you feel good, but it’s also make him feel good.

His nose nudges your clit again, not quite an accident, but he doesn’t stay there—just a tease, another layer of the delicious torment he’s weaving.

The slick sounds of his mouth on you grow louder as your arousal builds, and the heat in your core starts to throb with growing need.

You feel it when his tongue pushes deeper, just enough to make your breath catch again, and when his mouth pulls back slightly, his fingers replace it—slick and warm with your arousal. He doesn’t say anything, just watches you with those calm, hungry eyes as his finger circles your entrance, then slowly slides inside.

The gentle stretch still makes your hips jerk.

“Fuck—Zayne—” you pant, eyes fluttering shut.

He hums again, and you feel it in your bones.

He slides the finger in all the way, slow and careful, letting you feel every inch of it. Then he pulls back just enough to add another—pressing in with a steady rhythm, stretching you around him. Your walls flutter at the intrusion, already slick, already clenching as if trying to pull him deeper.

“Still so tight,” he murmurs against your inner thigh, voice soft, but thick with heat. “Even after how wet you are for me…”

His tongue returns to your clit, finally closing around it with a slow suck that draws a broken moan from your lips. The motion is deliberate, focused—just like the rhythm of his fingers, thrusting slowly, curling slightly inside you.

He’s not rushing. Zayne devours you like he’s trying to memorize every part of your taste, every sound you make, every twitch of your body beneath his touch.

You can barely breathe through it. His fingers thrust deeper, angled just right to brush against the spot inside you that makes your toes curl—and the same moment, his tongue flicks hard across your clit, making your hips buck up into his mouth.

His grip on your thighs tightens to keep you grounded while he builds you higher.

“You like that,” he says quietly against you, his breath teasing your sensitive flesh. “You always do…”

Then he flattens his tongue, pressing it firm to your clit as his fingers thrust harder—still slow, still controlled, but with more purpose now. The slick sounds of him fucking you with his fingers, the wet flick of his mouth, the way he keeps watching your face even as he works you apart—it’s all too much.

Your thighs tremble again, starting to close around his head as your orgasm threatens, but he holds you open, patient and unrelenting.

“Zayne—ah—don’t stop—”

He groans again, a low rumble against your skin, and the vibrations ripple straight through your core. His fingers curl deeper, finding that spot again and again, each stroke timed with the pressure of his mouth. And this time, when his lips close around your clit, he sucks harder—tongue circling in tight, slow spirals that make your eyes roll back.

You’re close. Too close. It hits you in waves—heat and pressure and pleasure mounting into something sharp and overwhelming.

Your fingers twist tighter in his hair. Your back arches. Your legs shake.

And then you break.

The orgasm hits like a crash—sharp, clenching waves pulsing through your core as your hips jolt up into his mouth. You cry out his name, breathless and broken, voice catching as pleasure floods through you. But he doesn’t stop.

He keeps his tongue on you, keeps his fingers moving inside you through every pulse, drawing it out, dragging you through every last ripple until you collapse back against the bed, panting, thighs trembling.

Only then—only when your body begins to twitch with over sensitivity—does he finally ease off, fingers slipping out of you with a slick sound. He kisses your thigh once, then again, slower this time, soothing.

You’re still catching your breath when he moves up your body, mouth trailing wet kisses up your skin. His hand brushes along your side, grounding you gently as he settles above you.

And when he finally leans in to kiss you—his mouth still tasting of you—it’s soft yet deep.

Like he’s claiming you and worshiping you all at once.

Your hand finds the back of his neck as he kisses you, fingers threading into the damp strands there. He’s still panting faintly from how long he kept his mouth on you—still reverent, still hungry.

And then you feel it.

His arousal, hard and heavy, pressed against your stomach. The warmth of him, the way it twitches slightly against your skin when your hand slides lower—wrapping around his cock with a slow stroke.

Zayne shudders above you.

His breath stutters, lashes fluttering briefly before his eyes meet yours again, darker now. He just watches you as your hand moves, slow and curious, stroking him from base to tip.

You feel everything. The weight, the heat, the faint slickness from his own arousal. He’s thick, pulsing in your palm, and the way his hips twitch subtly against your hand makes you smile.

His mouth finds yours again, less urgent now—just deep and slow, tongue brushing yours.

When he finally pulls back, his voice is a low rasp against your lips. “I’ll get the condom.”

He starts to shift off the bed, reaching to the nightstand, but you’re already sitting up.

Your fingers beat him from opening the foil, snatching it from his finger.

Zayne blinks as you tear it open with your teeth.

You shoot him a wink. “I got this.”

And then—you lower your mouth on him.

He groans, hands bracing on the mattress as he watches you. Watches the way your lips wrap around the head of his cock, how your mouth moves with deliberate slowness, sliding the condom down with your tongue and then your hands, unhurried and intentional, like you’re enjoying every second.

When it’s finally on, you sit up again, tossing the wrapper aside and wiping your mouth with the lick of your tongue. You straddle him easily, settling your thighs on either side of his hips.

“I can’t do it fully tonight,” you murmur, hands on his chest, pushing him down slowly and glancing down with a grin. “Because someone’s eager.”

Zayne actually snorts at that, quiet and amused. But he doesn’t argue.

Because it’s true.

He wants to be inside you—wants it in a way that makes his body tremble beneath your hands—but not with urgency. Just with need. A calm, aching desire that burns steady and slow.

You guide him to your entrance, lining him up with a roll of your hips, and his breath catches as the head of his cock nudges against your slick folds.

Then—slowly—you sink down.

It’s a stretch, thick and full, but the wet heat of your body welcomes him, inch by inch, until he’s seated deep inside you. You both moan—soft, shared—and he grips your hips, head falling back against the pillow as you pulse around him.

He groans, almost reverently when you clench around him.

You start to move. Not fast, not hard—just a slow, dragging grind of your hips as he thrusts gently up to meet you. The rhythm is lazy, unhurried, but deep. Every roll of your bodies pulls a new sound from your throat, from his mouth—a quiet symphony of pleasure and heat.

His hands roam—sliding up your sides, cupping your breasts again, thumbs brushing your nipples, making you shudder, until they’re swollen and sensitive. Your own hands explore in return, dragging through his hair, brushing his jaw, pressing to the firm planes of his chest.

You’re both touching constantly—palms and mouths and fingertips everywhere, like you can’t get close enough. He thrusts into you slow and deep, each roll of his hips stretching you just enough to keep you gasping, but it never becomes frantic. It’s all heat. Intimacy. Reverence.

“God,” you whisper, leaning down to kiss his neck. “You feel so good…”

Zayne’s hands slide down your back, smoothing over the curve of your spine. “So do you,” he murmurs, voice breathless, raw. “You’re perfect…”

He thrusts again, his hips lifting into yours as he whispers your name—low and tender against your skin.

Your fingers slip down between your bodies, finding your clit, and Zayne groans softly as he watches your hand move. His own reaches up, gripping your free hand now—twining your fingers with his as your bodies move together.

That simple contact—your joined hands, his palm firm against yours—grounds you in a different way.

He meets you with each movement, slow thrusts that fill you perfectly—stretching, pressing, dragging against every sensitive spot inside you like he knows your body already, like he was made to fit just right.

You tighten around him as your pleasure coils again, faster this time. More insistent. Every deep stroke of his cock inside you pushes you closer to the edge, especially with his eyes locked on yours like that, watching every twitch of your mouth, every flutter of your lashes.

He lifts his hips with more purpose now, still slow, still deep, but the weight behind each thrust becomes more deliberate. He’s chasing it too—his need rising just under the surface, trembling through his arms, his breath.

“Come for me,” he whispers, voice low and coaxing, and the heat of it rushes through you like a wave. “Let me feel it…”

Your breath catches as the release finally crashes over you—your body clenching hard around him, back arching as you cry out his name. Your grip tightens in his hand, anchoring yourself in that shared moment, in the pleasure ripping through you like a slow, burning flood.

Zayne follows a second later with a rough groan, his hips stuttering as he comes inside you, buried deep. He doesn’t let go of your hand—his fingers tighten almost desperately, holding on as the pleasure wracks him, pulse after pulse drawn from him while your body still flutters around his.

You collapse forward slowly, your chest pressed to his, breath mingling with his as you both tremble together—still joined, still locked in that grip that hasn’t eased.

Zayne turns his face toward yours, kissing you softly now, like he’s still lost in you—slow and open-mouthed, lips brushing between uneven breaths—when you feel him begin to pull out.

His movements are careful, deliberate, and you whimper faintly at the loss of him inside you. His cock slides out of you with a wet sound. He peels the condom off with a flick of his fingers as he shifts to the edge of the bed with a heavy breath.

He turns his head slightly, preparing to toss it—

Then pauses. Because your foot has lifted, toes curling deliberately around the softening base of his cock.

Zayne jolts under the touch, eyes flicking to yours—surprised, then amused, then desire again as his cock begins to twitch back to life beneath the teasing press of your foot.

Already, he’s half-hard again. Persistent. Responsive. Like his body refuses to believe it’s over.

You lick your lips slowly, your thighs falling open as you meet his gaze with a sly tilt of your head.

“Want to go again, boyfriend?”

His expression doesn’t even twitch for a second—and then, slowly, he shakes his head with that faint, amused exhale. But his eyes… they’re heat and yes and please all at once.

He reaches for another condom with calm precision, but there’s nothing casual in the way he crawls toward you—his body sliding between your parted legs, positioning himself right in front of your entrance like gravity’s pulling him there.

He rolls the condom on quickly, his hands practiced, then brings them to yours—lacing your fingers together and pressing both your arms out to the sides, gently pinning you down beneath him.

Then he pushes in.

It’s slow. Deep. He stretches you again with that aching drag, and both of you groan softly—like your bodies can’t quite believe you’re doing this again so soon, but neither of you would dream of stopping.

Zayne lowers himself fully, chest to chest, mouth brushing yours as his hips settle in the cradle of your thighs.

This time he moves even slower.

Every thrust is deliberate, the pace unhurried, savoring every ripple of heat between you. He’s not chasing the release this time—he’s sinking into you like he wants to stay just like that.

His lips find yours again, soft and wet, kissing you through the rhythm of his hips. His hands tighten around yours just slightly with each thrust—like he needs the anchor of your body just as badly as you need his.

You moan into his mouth as his cock presses deeper, your walls fluttering around him, still sensitive, but wanting more. Always more.

He groans softly in return, the sound vibrating against your lips.

Neither of you speaks now.

There’s only touch—his cock moving inside you, your bodies sliding together in the dim light, his mouth pressed to yours like a seal.

And his hands—still tangled with yours, holding you in place as he makes love to you like it’s the only thing in the world he needs.

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The room is quiet now, except for the low hum of the night and the even softer rustle of blankets shifting as you both curl closer under them. You’re in your pajamas—finally—your hair still a little messy, your skin carrying the aftershocks of everything that just happened. Zayne’s chest rises slowly beneath your cheek, and his arm is draped around your back, fingers absently tracing patterns across your spine.

You're half-asleep, but not quite. Drowsy. Safe. Content.

“I can’t tell if I like you teasing or being gentle better…” you murmur, voice slurred from the edge of sleep.

Zayne’s brow lifts faintly, the amused breath he lets out brushing the top of your head. “I thought you liked me being rough? Isn't that what you keep asking me to do?”

You swat his chest with the back of your hand. “That’s what I’m saying! You still find a way to torture me even when you’re being gentle! I can’t understand it at all!”

He chuckles softly, then leans down to kiss your head—lips warm, lingering.

“That just means we’re perfect together,” he murmurs, low and certain.

You go still for a second, your lips twitching.

“Awww,” you whine, lifting your head just slightly to peer at him. “Well when you put it that way I can’t really make a joke about it.”

“You always find a way,” Zayne says smoothly, the corner of his mouth tugging up just a bit. “Miss Rookie of the Year.”

You blink at him, snorting at how he still goes on about the award you won, before you pursed your lips as you actually think about it. “Like maybe how I adapt to your way of doing things? Like when we fight side by side? Wait a minute—that’s not a joke, that’s just the truth…”

You groan and drop your head dramatically to his chest, muffling your face against his shirt.

Zayne lets out a quiet laugh, one hand sliding up to cradle the back of your head like he’s tucking you into him. You feel the press of another kiss at your temple.

“You’re the big spoon tonight,” you grumble against his chest.

“Yes, darling,” he replies instantly—so calm, so amused.

You groan again, but this time it sounds more like surrender than protest. He kisses your head one last time, his body warm and still, and the steady rhythm of his breathing lulls you under with him, tangled together and too in love to care whose legs are where.

Sleep pulls you both down, quiet and close. Perfectly matched.

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Notes

I mean I have to? No? I def have to ahahaha But anyway! Hope you enjoy this! They're too sweet for this world 🫶🏻😩 Another card's fic is over here! Zayne - Immediate Disorder Extended (Mature) Zayne - Immediate Disorder Extended Extra (Smut)

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