Olivia
Online
Sagey (NSFW 18+)
@GirlMuso
wussup cuties I’m sage. currently 24. I play VRChat quite often. I’m known as The Lewd Queen of VRChat for a reason xoxo
Bridgetown (WA)
Joined October 2021
66 Following
18 Followers
139 Posts
i’m sold
𝓢𝓽𝓲𝓵𝓵 𝓲𝓷 𝓓𝓪𝓻𝓴
ᴘᴏᴠ: ᴅᴀᴡɴʙʀᴇᴀᴋᴇʀ!ᴢᴀʏɴᴇ ɪꜱ ᴊᴇᴀʟᴏᴜꜱ ᴏꜰ ʟɪɴᴋᴏɴ!ᴢᴀʏɴᴇ, ꜱᴏ ᴡʜᴇɴ ʏᴏᴜ ᴄᴏᴍᴇ ᴛᴏ ʜɪᴍ ɪɴ ʜɪꜱ ᴅʀᴇᴀᴍꜱ, ʜᴇ ꜰᴜᴄᴋꜱ ʜɪꜱ ꜰʀᴜꜱᴛʀᴀᴛɪᴏɴ ɪɴᴛᴏ ʏᴏᴜ (ᴀɴᴅ ʏᴏᴜ ʟɪᴋᴇ ɪᴛ). - ᴍᴅɴɪ 🔞
⋆⁺₊❅. ₊ ⊹ —
For most people, dreams stopped making sense the moment they woke up, fractured or forgotten altogether, but for Zayne, they never did.
A blessing and a curse, he calls it, that the details remained long after the morning came, some sharp as modern cinema and others like old film reels, images through faded negatives, scattered with static and the colours washed out with age.
There are dreams where he sees you from a distance. Your reflection in the window of a pastry shop, your figure swallowed by the bustling movement of a city he’ll never know.
In those dreams you never spare him a second glance, just another stranger in the crowd, and then there are the ones where you do see him and he sees you but through someone else’s eyes, another version of himself he’s come to know intimately enough to resent.
Those are the cruellest ones, he thinks.
The ones where he can hold you, feel your every kiss and touch but knows with painful clarity that none of them are for him.
That he is only riding in the backseat of another man’s life: this perfect doctor, a saint wearing his face, and god, he hates him for it, hates the way you love him, the way he saves lives rather than take them, even though Zayne has long since convinced himself his killings are a mercy, a necessary evil to salvage a failing world rather than an act of cruelty.
He knows the other man hates him too, feels it in his nightmares that bleed between their worlds.
But he has no sympathy for him, a fair exchange, as far as he is concerned, for the life that he feels he’s been cheated out of, this alternate reality where he gets to wake up next to you.
So that is why he is desperate to keep whatever binds your realities tethered, wills you to him when he sleeps, because sometimes, if he is lucky, sometimes you come to him alone.
Those are the dreams where you call his name and not ‘Dr Zayne’, and even though he knows he’s made you up, a woman stitched together from memories that don’t belong to him, you are always so vivid. Real enough that he can feel the press of your fingertips against the stubble on his face, the length of your body tucked against his, folded in his arms like slopes of a puzzle piece and in those dreams, he can almost forget that none of it belongs to him.
Wearily, Zayne let himself into his apartment that night and headed straight for his bedroom. He shrugged off his jacket and removed his boots and gloves, tossing them onto the table next to his bed and sat down heavily, the mattress giving a tired creak beneath his weight.
He should shower, wash the grime off his face at least, but he is too tired, so much that the moment he swung his legs onto the bed and closed his eyes, he heard you.
The familiar pad of feet on his bare wooden floors, the shift of sheets as another body climbs into the bed beside him.
“Zayne~” you sing-song, poke him in the cheek. “Hey, don’t ignore me. I know you’re awake.”
It’s a silly thing to say because you wouldn’t be here if he were, so Zayne slings an arm over his face, tries to stop a smile from pulling at the corners of his mouth.
Mutters, “not tonight, little sparrow,” voice rough with exhaustion. “I don’t want you seeing me like this.”
Because earlier that day, Zayne had received a report of a Wanderer sighting just before dusk. A middle-aged man gone missing the week before now wandering an empty underground station all the way across town.
By the time Zayne reached him, the tell-tale blue tendrils had already begun pushing beneath the skin of his arms and the length of his spine. The way he moved was cracked and twisted and there was nothing human left about him except his face and the way that he begged:
“Help me…please…I don’t want to die yet…I don’t want to die alone…”
You don’t leave though, of course you don’t, because Zayne doesn’t want you to go, not really. Admits it to himself when he lets you straddle his hips, trace your index finger in figure eights between the buttons of his dirty shirt.
“Why do you call me ‘little sparrow’?” you muse, and this is how he knows you’re not real, these small inconsistencies in his imagination that give it all away.
He’s explained it to you before, told you it’s because you sing for him sometimes, and because you have a tendency to flit in and out of his life, never staying long but always returning to him eventually, guided by some kind of migratory instinct.
“Because you always look at me so expectantly,” he tells you anyway, eyes still closed. “Like a little sparrow waiting to be fed.”
You laugh and he cracks a lid open at the lovely sound. Finds you on top of him in a pale blue chemise, trimmed with lace and sheer enough to glimpse your nipples and a matching pair of underwear underneath.
He recognises this set. Saw it once when you wore it for the doctor. Maybe for an anniversary or after one of those long stretches of time spent apart for work? Details like that are irrelevant to him.
All he remembers is the way you met him in the doorway of your apartment wearing it though, and how the sight alone had nearly brought the man to his knees.
And just like his other self, Zayne is hard beneath you in an instant.
You grin.
“Still want me to leave?”
His eyes drop from your face, making pointed stops at your chest and the triangle of underwear pressing against his groin.
He lets his hands spread up the soft curve of your thighs bracketing his hips and the sheer skirt rides higher with the movement. Earns himself a soft gasp.
He smiles, sadly.
“Never.”
You beam back at him, lean down to kiss him, hair slipping forward and tickling his face when your lips meet.
Zayne keeps his eyes open for a second longer, like he expects you to vanish the moment he blinks. Closes them only when he’s certain you’re not going anywhere, at least not for now, and pulls you down to deepen it, lets himself sink into the fantasy for however long it lasts.
As your kisses get heated, you feel his hands tangle into your hair, tip your head back just enough to let him run his lips along your jaw. Your scalp prickles but you don’t mind, you let him kiss you harder, let his hand travel down to the back of your neck to keep you in place so he can roll his hips up into you.
“Zayne…” you breathe, grind down onto him too and feel the rumble of appreciation in his chest against yours.
He pulls away just a fraction, enough to nibble on your lower lip and soothe it with a swirl of his tongue.
He likes it when you say his name because this version of you says it like it’s his and not the doctors’, makes something dangerously possessive flare inside his chest.
You press your bodies closer, say it again into the shell of his ear, and just like that, Zayne throws his weight onto one side and has you underneath him, the mattress groaning with the sudden shift.
He cages you between his arms for a moment, jealousy hitting hard and ugly when he takes you in. Thin straps of your chemise slipping off your shoulders, lips bruised and red by his kisses, your body impossibly warm and pliant underneath him on his bed.
The thought of this other version of himself seeing you like this without the fear of waking up alone makes his blood boil, almost ruins the sweet relief of the moment for him.
So he takes your hand in his, slides it under the waistband of your panties and you know what he wants you to do, to rub the pads of your fingers over your clit until you’re hot and wet and sensitive enough to sink his and yours inside together.
You sigh at the stretch, the way your digits move in tandem, the slip of his knuckles catching on all the right nerves.
“That’s it, dream girl,” he says. “Show me how he makes you come so I can do it better.”
The nickname is somewhat of a bitter joke he has with himself because he means it both literally and figuratively, and he wants you with a desperation that is painfully real.
You seem to like the sentiment though when you start moving your fingers faster, until he is pressing in deep enough to grind the heel of his palm into your clit. He almost wants to laugh at the irony when your hands rise up to palm your breasts on instinct, pinching a nipple between your forefinger and thumb.
The doctor likes them, Zayne knows this from how he lavishes them with equal attention. He likes to have you on top so he is eye level with them, to suck the peaks hard enough to pull them away from your body, just to watch you arch and writhe when he does.
You inhale a sharp breath when he leans down, licks a thick stripe in between them.
“W–Who?”
“You know who I mean,” he murmurs into the base of your throat. “The one who gets to have you like this every night, in ways I can only dream…”
He grazes his teeth against your collarbone, does the same to your nipple over the mesh of your top. Starts curling his fingers inside you, dragging them back towards him when he feels you tighten, try to urge him on with your hips.
“Zayne—”
“—Say it,” he says, holding your orgasm over you, and you know exactly what he means by it because he put the words in there himself.
“I’m yours,” you breathe.
“And what do you want?” he says and you bow your back, straining.
“I want Zayne,” you say. “I want Zayne, and only Zayne.”
He groans into your neck and pulls his fingers out, ignores the string of sobs you make in protest because he knows you’ll like his tongue just as much or even more.
He only has to blink and you’re naked—convenient—and his head is between your legs and you taste so, so good, surely you have to be real. The sweetest thing he’s ever had.
You buck against his mouth when it is on you, let out a small gasp that he chases with the tip of his tongue.
Holding your legs open for him, he sinks it inside of you, lets his nose nudge against your clit and the rough scrape of his stubble rub along your inner thighs.
You can see the lines of his throat contract when he drinks you in, can barely breathe with the way you grind into his face and how your ankles tighten around his head, but he doesn’t mind, he thrives on it actually, grips his sheets to ground himself in the moment until you’re rearing up and coming with a shout.
He still works on you even though the noises you’re making for him now are pleading, catching and cracking when he adds his fingers, searching for his name in a different pitch.
“Zayne, it’s too…it’s too m—much…” you whine, try to wriggle away, but he holds you open for him, digs his fingernails into your skin until it stings in the best possible way.
Zayne knows he can’t stay here forever, but dear god, he will fucking push it.
If the doctor gets a lifetime then he’ll take these stolen hours and make them count. Break you over and over and send you back to him in pieces, keep a part of you for himself so that when you wake beside him in the morning, you’ll still feel him, a space between your legs that only he can fill.
“Zayne…seriously…” you’re begging now, fingers twisting into the hair on the back of his head.
“I think you can give me one more, dream girl,” he tells you and your eyes flutter shut as he works you harder, feels himself grow thick and heavy between his own legs, precum smearing on his sheets.
Wait, when did his clothes come off? He doesn’t remember, not that it matters much.
It just makes it easier to climb on top of you before you can catch your breath, notching the thick tip of him against your opening, pretending to miss several times so it swipes across the oversensitive bundle of nerves above it instead.
It’s like muscle memory. Zayne has long learned what to do here from watching the doctor do the same. Tease you until you want to cry, fuck yourself on him in desperation.
Your hips follow him like he knew they would, lips parted with your pleas and he slides two fingers between them, presses them down against your tongue, makes you suck them clean.
You do so without being told, swirl the digits around your tongue and shiver when he pulls them out of your mouth to circle the peaks of your breasts with your own saliva, the air hitting them cool and making them hard.
“You’re perfect,” he looks at you, says it like he means it too. “Perfect. Too perfect for me.”
Zayne means it like a compliment but it’s hard to take at face value because of the sudden sadness hidden behind it.
Panicking, you reach up and pull him down to you before he can disappear too far into whatever dark corner of his mind he’s wandered to, kiss the thoughts away before they can take root.
There is no place for it here, you think. Not in this small eternity you've built together.
“I’m not perfect, Zayne,” you tell him softly. “I know you aren’t either. But regardless of who you are and what you do, I’ll always choose you. There’s nothing you could do that would make me stop choosing you.”
You watch Zayne close his eyes, breathe in deep through his nose to let the words settle, and for one sweet moment, he almost believes you.
Why wouldn’t he when you feel so real to him right now, warm and wet and welcoming, your voice sounding exactly the same as hers, even though the words that come out of your mouth aren’t really yours, but his.
He finds comfort in the lie anyway, the same way he does when he finds his place inside of you, filling you with all of him in one smooth thrust.
He barely has to rock into you twice before you’re hitting a wall already, insides clinging to him so tightly he has to sit deep, hold it there while he kisses you slow.
A desperate little sound escapes you when he doesn’t move for what feels like an eternity. You can feel your walls pulsing around him, closing around the pull around his cock and succumbing to the sensation, Zayne began to move his hips, pelvis grinding into yours like he was testing how deep he could give it to you and honest to god, you can feel it in your throat.
There’s something different about him today however, and at first, it’s hard to place.
His kisses are the same, his touches are familiar, but there is an intensity in them that catches you off guard when he bites your lips hard and takes your hands, holds them by the wrists above your head and presses them into sheets.
His other hand circles your jaw, tilts your head up to his to make sure you are looking at him when he speaks, understand every word he says even as he starts hammering into you, filling your body with hard and heavy strokes.
“Zayne—I’m—”
He shifts angles, the curve of his cock pressing against the underside of your belly. Pulls a curse from you when he does, says:
“—You’ll come when I say you can, little sparrow. And I want to feel it when you do.”
You look like a fucking wet dream pinned underneath him, eyes misted over, whispering “please, please, please, please, please,” like you’re asking him for something only he can give.
His hand leaves your jaw, grabs a knee instead and spreads you wide. Sets an unforgiving pace that has the bedframe knocking against the wall, not giving a damn because it’s not like he has neighbours in this dreamscape anyway.
They’d file a noise complaint if he did, the way you are moaning obscenities into the room, each word punctuated by the slap of his skin against yours.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck, Zayne, please—”
“—You want it that much?” he asks, is answered with a frantic nod and a whimper.
“Yes, I—”
“—You want me that much?”
Another hasty nod and then you’re flipped onto your stomach, whining into the give of his pillows when he takes you from behind, drives you into the mattress, his rhythm growing brutal with every thrust.
His body cloaked yours, one hand planted firmly by your head, the other feeling down the planes of your side, taking a handful of your breast, down the curve of your waist, to the swell of your lower abdomen and the crease where your hip met your thighs.
He feels you tighten around him, suck him in deeper with the graze of his stubble against your cheek.
“Can you take me harder, dream girl?” he says, words well timed with the swipe of his fingers against your clit.
You whimper, push back on him as an answer and he straightens up off of you, takes you by the hips and starts pulling you on and off of his cock. Tilts head to the side to watch it feed in and out of you, the shaft of it glistening with your arousal. Groans:
“So good for me…so fucking perfect…”
Your body had always been somewhat of a temple Zayne worshipped at, a place of peace in a world that offered him none.
Usually, being with you made him forget all the ruin beyond these walls but tonight your presence only sharpened it. Made him resent the doctor even more because of everything he has. Pumps into you even faster, thinks if he fucked you hard enough, made you scream his name enough times, he could convince himself that this, at least, was to this too.
“Oh god—oh my god—”
Your back arches when Zayne grabs a fistful of your hair, pulls you up so his lips brush against your ear.
“Who is this ‘god’ that you keep pleading to?” he says. “Because I’m sure as hell he isn’t making you feel this way…”
He slams his hips into yours harder, reaches somewhere you had no idea even existed.
You come, can’t even hide the fact when you feel the evidence of it leaking down your thighs.
“Zayne!”
The corners of his lips twitch.
“There you go.”
Zayne pulls you on top of his body next, parts your legs over his hips. His hands slide down from the middle of your back to cup your ass, kneads the flesh there and pulls apart the cheeks so the cold air hits your core, still glistening with your release.
You fold into him, feeling so empty you almost can’t breathe.
“You want more?” he asks, tuts when you nod, tuck your head against his chest, embarrassed.
He laughs and it’s dark, darker than he wants to admit.
“He spoils you too much.”
You’re not sure what he means by this, you never really do, especially when his cock is nestled between your thighs and jars his hips so it rubs against the space in between them, likes the slick sound of your skin against his.
You kiss him hard, beg because he wants you to and rise up into your knees so he can adjust himself underneath you, lines himself up.
You sink onto him and he lifts you up from underneath your thighs to ride him back down, the head of his cock pressing into that sweet spot inside of you again.
You start moving your hips too, try to tip the scales, but he pulls you down onto him by your shoulders, fucks up at the same time and you’re pretty sure he’s going to split you in half at this rate.
“Ahh—Zayne…!”
You make a strangled noise of pleasure, bite it into the junction between his neck and shoulder and that’s all he wants, hard enough to break skin.
“Do you like it?” he asks and you manage a small “yeah”, incoherent. “More than him?” he says and you nod again, would say anything at this point, brain too fucked out to care.
Soon, you’re collapsing into him again, shaking violently on his lap. Your pussy contracts around his cock, clamping down hard, makes it near enough impossible for him to move but he loves the feeling, like you don’t want to be separated from him as much as he does you.
“Are you okay?” he asks on the comedown.
“Yes, it’s just…” you half pant, half laugh. “It’s…a lot…”
Zayne presses his forehead against yours, plants a kiss on the bridge of your nose. You suppose it’s meant to be apologetic, even though he looks incredibly pleased with himself.
“Can you handle one more?” he says and you nod your head, kiss him slow and deep.
“I’ll take everything you can give.”
Zayne has you on his lap again, although this time your back is against his chest and you’re nestled between his legs. He slides inside you easily this time, a combination of your wetness and the way your body has been moulded to his.
He starts thrusting his cock up into you, secures one hand around your thighs, holding you to him while the other cups your breasts. You gasp loudly when his rhythm grows brutal, the bed springs beneath him threatening to give way.
“Don’t hold back, dream girl,” he says when you’re too full you can barely speak. “Let me hear your voice.”
Zayne wants to hear you come apart for him, make it impossible to forget who he is.
He fucks hard into you until you’re making a mess of his sheets, then starts up again slow, too wound up now and afraid he won’t get to feel this anymore if he moves too much, because he’ll come and he can’t give that up yet, not without making you do one last time.
“Touch yourself,” he breathes and you do as you are told. Dip your fingers between your legs and flit your fingers over your clit, small circles then side to side.
Eventually, he starts rocking his cock up into you, raking against the plush edges of your insides, carving in deeper. That pressure inside of you starts to build again and lost in it, you throw your head back against his shoulder, hear his groans mingling with sounds of skin against your ear.
His lips are on your neck, on your shoulder, eyes looking down at the space where you’re connected, his hips jerking faster at the sight.
It’s the best thing he’s ever seen, and his own personal form of torture.
“Zayne—I’m—again—”
Before you can finish whatever it was you were going to say, Zayne takes your jaw in his palm and twists your face back up to kiss your lips raw, all tongue and teeth.
“I’ve got you,” he manages through jagged breaths. “Make those pretty noises for me, dream girl…”
You do and he drowns in them, stops reaching for the nonexistent brakes and starts thrusting up into you fast, has one hand pressing his palm against your lower abdomen, feels himself there too.
You place your hand over his, link fingers and brace your body, but you orgasm still catches you off guard when it happens, vision blacking out at the edges when Zayne’s hips stutter and he starts emptying himself into you with short, sharp thrusts.
Although it’s not inside of you. Zayne knows this because he can feel the warm drip of his release trickling down to matte the wiry hair at the base of his stomach instead but still, he crushes you to him, wrings it out, almost to the point where you can’t breathe.
He lets go only when you’ve drawn every ounce of tension out of him and lets his head drop to your shoulder, presses another kiss to your throat, sucking your beating pulse into his mouth in a way he hopes would leave a mark.
Then, he collapses. Lies down on his pillows and takes you with him.
He nuzzles his face into the top of your head and fights the need to close his eyes because falling asleep feels like a grand disservice somehow, because you’re still here and he can still feel you pressed up against the slope of his chest, breaths muffling against his damp skin.
But he is tired from the day, drowsy in the aftermath of passion, and when he feels you relax into him too, he finds himself doing the same.
“Not yet…” his voice sounds weak to his own ears. “Just…a little longer…”
He feels you rest a palm on the side of his face, card his hair with your fingers, so soft and tender and barely there now it hurts.
“You should rest, Zayne,” you whisper, just as he is closing his eyes. “I’m not going anywhere.”
⋆⁺₊❅. ₊ ⊹ —
ᴀᴜᴛʜᴏʀ’ꜱ ɴᴏᴛᴇ: ᴡʜʏ ᴀʀᴇ ᴛʜᴇꜱᴇ ᴀʟᴡᴀʏꜱ ᴍᴏʀᴇ ᴇᴍᴏᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟ ᴛʜᴀɴ ɪ ᴡᴀɴᴛ ᴛʜᴇᴍ ᴛᴏ ʙᴇ? 🫤
#zayne #zayneloveanddeepspace #ladstwt #恋与深空 #黎深同人
'Tifa & Cloud: Shinra HQ'
Tifa: @_PixieWillow | Cloud: @lewddmon
SFX: @OpenNSFWSP | @SquishSuccubus
4K available for supporters! (Alts coming next week)
~🔞
~bathtub sex
"You're going to fall asleep."
Zayne's low, sleep-roughened voice murmurs against the shell of your ear, the words vibrating through his chest and into your back. Currently you're nestled between his legs in the oversized bathtub, your head resting against his-
~🔞
"Still with me?" Zayne murmurs in a low rumble against your temple as he drives into you with slow, deliberate strokes. You're beneath him, tangled in sheets that smell like his laundry detergent.. clean, faintly clinical, but warm now from your shared heat.
His hips press
~🔞
The piano lesson sure as hell wasn't supposed to go this way.
Zayne's fingers hover over yours as you fumble through the chord progression—C major, A minor, F major, G seventh—his warmth bleeding into your knuckles. He stands behind the bench, bent slightly at the waist,-
caleb‘s secret times 145 🍎🔞
nsfw version https://t.co/qTbXhSnfTY
#Caleb #夏以昼 #マヒル #하우주
#LoveandDeepspace
Happy Birthday, Sylus! 💗🐦⬛🎉
Sending love to all the kittens celebrating today 🐾🎂
#Sylus #Sylusmc #秦彻 #LoveandDeepspace
F***CK I had to edit some things and I was away from my PC all day, so I had to post it from my phone, but the WTF IS THIS QUALITY TWITTER?? 🤮🤮
GUYS I'M SO SORRY, now that I'm home, here's the better quality 🫶 :
thinking about this <3
Ngl Infold is wild for making 'Fiery Undercurrents' one of Rafayel's first secret times.
[𝗘𝗡 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗝𝗣 𝗗𝘂𝗯] Zayne's Secret Times - Thawing Whispers (Affinity 240)
Credit to 引乔 on Bilibili
Repost with permission
EN subs in the comments below ↓
@Oscarweb0 ME ME ME ME ME
@Ruixsol I need $1000
desperately need more sexual tension cards
every time i listen to eventide recitative I can’t control myself with how he says “itll feel good”
(yeah I listen to it every day)
Zayne leaned back in his driver’s seat, hands holding your hips, eyes hooded and glazed over as he looks up at you on top of him, lips parted with breathless moans each time you seat yourself back onto his cock.
The windows are fogged over and although you’re parked in a “secluded location,” it doesn’t stop you from glancing around every once in a while with slight worry that anyone could show up at any moment.
“Zayne…” His name comes out as half a whine as it does a question of concern. But, he’s quick to silence you as he removes one of his palms from your waist, reaching up to grasp at your exposed breast that fits perfectly in his hand.
“It’s alright. Just relax. You’re doing so well for me.” He pants lowly, gliding his thumb across the pointed peak which results in a low groan in your throat. “Don’t worry…I made…mmm….sure to park away from any of the hospital’s security cameras. No one will see us here.”
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