vega

── .✦ infj-t. leo sun, capricorn ascendent. she/her/star known as the jewel of the summer sky ⊹ ˖ ࣪

[butvega]

VEGA PRESENTS.

— na astrologia, a estrela VEGA está associada à criatividade, autoexpressão, saúde e longevidade. por ser a estrela mais brilhante da constelação de lira, ela também simboliza a harpa e a lenda grega de orfeu, representando a arte e a beleza. historicamente, também era vista como uma estrela de proteção.

MASTERLIST

© only for the moonstruck ones.

[butvega]

23:07 — lee heeseung.

alô dj! solta o som, que hoje o baile é no castle vamp 🦇. um devaneio culposo: quando não há intenção de dedar. obrigada às envolvidas @hanniecoffee @momoonie @wlflia @redtearsheart avisos: blowjob, exibicionismo, pegging, creampie.

Lágrimas se amontoavam no canto de seus olhos, à medida em que seus lábios alcançavam ainda mais fundo. Cada centímetro de pele exposta, até a base. Sentia em sua garganta, a cabecinha rosada, já maltratada, inchada, lisa e macia, maltratando o fundo de sua boca com estocadas descoordenadas, mas frequentes.

Heeseung estava encostado na pia do banheiro, a calça jeans larga já nos pés, as bochechas rosadas pegando fogo, e a franja loirinha grudada na testa pelo suor excedente.

Haviam dado uma fugidinha no meio de uma festinha com seus amigos, depois de alugarem uma chácara para passar o fim de semana. Em segundos estavam daquela maneira: com você ajoelhada para ele.

Agradecia mentalmente a música alta, vinda da JBL do Nishimura. Assim, os barulhinhos molhados e seus pequenos engasgos se tornavam inaudíveis. Tal como… Os gemidos contidos e manhosos que saiam da boca bonita de seu namorado. As mordidas nos lábios não pareciam suficientes para conter os sons prazerosos. As mãos dele internavam entre forçar sua cabeça a chupar com mais força, e se segurar no balcão da pia para não se desmontar ali mesmo.

“Porra, gatinha…”, joga a cabeça para trás, expondo o pomo de adão, franzindo o cenho com tesão, quando você agarra as bolas dele, massageando com precisão, do jeito que sabe que ele gosta.

E sua mão desce… Desce até que chegue no períneo, onde massageia com o polegar. Heeseung sente sua perna bambear, engolindo a saliva, e descontando todo seu prazer agarrando seu cabelo em um coque desajeitado, puxando com força.

Vocês já estão uma bagunça. Rostos vermelhos, suados. Seu rosto repleto de saliva, misturado com pré gozo.

Até que… Perdido demais para contrariar, Heeseung sente a ponta de seu dedo do meio resvalar na entradinha dele. Você nunca havia feito isso. Ele nunca havia feito isso. Mas naquele momento, tudo parecia tão quente, gostoso, intenso, que ele não se importou. Muito pelo contrário… Se entregou ao prazer, e as sensações novas que seu dedo o massageando lá o trazia. Volta e meia você ameaçava entrar. Só ameaçava. Mas logo voltava para a massagem constante e torturante, em colaboração com um boquete babado, é gostoso.

Ele coloca uma perna apoiada no vaso sanitário, de qualquer jeito, tão imerso, para que você pudesse alcançá-lo melhor. Não se sentia exposto. Não se sentia receoso. A chave era a confiança que depositava em você, e na tranquilidade que você conduzia a situação.

“M-mais, eu v-vou… Po-pode, na boca? Caralho, caralho..”

Foi daquela maneira que ele gozou em jatos espessos, com você o mamando até onde dava, com uma mão massageando as bolas, e a outra o buraquinho apertado dele.

Demorou alguns minutos para que ele pudesse se recuperar. Pudera… Com o torpor se esvaindo, ele levanta a cueca e a calça jeans, enquanto você lava o rosto e as mãos. As bochechas dele avermelhadas, não só pelo calor, mas pela timidez que havia o atingido finalmente.

“Mor..”, ele murmura meio desconfiado. As malditas amarradas da sociedade o fazendo duvidar se era certo ou não ter gostado daquele carinho diferente. “Não vamos falar sobre isso não.”

“Tá, Hee.”, você ri fraquinho, achando fofo.

Até porque, aconteceu de novo. E de novo. E de novo.

[leorisingbaby]

juquinha….. cê pode me falar qual membro do enha combina mais com meu mapa? pra sermos namoradinhos

E estamos no ar com mais um episódio de VAI DAR NAMORO, com ENHYPEN:

☁️ POSICIONAMENTOS DA VEGA:

Lua em Peixes

Marte em Escorpião

Vênus em Virgem

☁️ ESCOLHIDO:

Ni-ki:

Lua em Peixes

Vênus em Capricórnio

Marte em Touro

☁️ VEREDITO:

Estava em dúvida entre o Ni-ki e o Heeseung e desempatei por conta da compatibilidade das Luas. Em uma sinastria, ter Luas que não fazem aspecto tenso é fundamental porque, ainda que apareçam outros, é possível resolver por conta do alinhamento emocional do casal.

Os Martes e as Vênus fazem aspectos positivos entre si! O que é ótimo para companheirismo, demonstração de afeto e equilíbrio na relação.

Os Martes fazem uma oposição entre si mas, por ser entre os signos opostos mais compatíveis do zodíaco, é algo positivo por aqui

Escolhi o Ni-ki como seu namorado porque ele tem posicionamentos que conversam muito com o seu, principalmente porque equilibram a sensibilidade do elemento água no mapa de ambos com a praticidade do elemento terra dos dois 🤧

[hoonguin]

homesick‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ ‎ ✿‎ ‎ ⁠. ۫ ·‎ ‎ 이희승

 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎written for the heart’s mailroom event ! ༊

✷ lee heeseung is in need of his stupidly hot girlfriend, a.k.a. you. after seven agonizing days of distance, unanswered yearning, and an alarming amount of time spent staring at your photos, he's hanging onto his sanity by a thread. unfortunately for him, you finally come home looking even better than he remembered !

pairings ⸝⸝ ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎loser!boyfriend!heeseung ✿ f!rea ‎ ‎ ✉️‎ ‎ ‎ wc ⸝⸝ 7.0k

🗯️ 内容‎ ‎ ‎  ‎ explicit sexual content ♫ 18+ ⸝⸝ intended for mature audiences | minors do not interact ᯓ established relationship, clingy!heeseung, needy!heeseung, mutual pining, masturbation is implied for both parties, dacryphilia, overstimulation, degradation kink, edging, oral sex (f. and m. receiving), unprotected sex, multiple orgasms, creampie !

EL’S ✷ BUBBLE : goodness gracious hi again everybody . . . again i spent like 3-4 days going back and forth with this and brah sorry i just kept laughing my ass off because from start to finish this is literally just smut so eeeerm whatever this is just 7k words of absolute bullshit ! request can be found here, thank u! ( •̀ ω •́ )

The worst part wasn't the distance. It wasn't the timezone difference or the spotty hotel Wi-Fi or the way your voice cracked over FaceTime at 2 AM his time when you thought he was already asleep but he never was. 

The worst part was the photos.

You knew exactly what you were doing. 

You had to. 

There was no universe where you posted that bikini photo, the one where the teal fabric clung to your tits like it was painted on, water droplets rolling down your collarbone, sun making your skin glow like something divine, and didn't know what it would do to him. 

Heeseung had been the first person to like it. Three seconds after it went up. He reshared it to his story with a black heart emoji and nobody understood why. His friends thought it was sweet. His followers assumed it was a casual boyfriend thing. But they didn't know that his hand was already down his sweatpants when he did it, that his cock was achingly hard and leaking against his palm, that the black heart was a coded message: I'm losing my fucking mind.

Seven days. One hundred and sixty-eight hours. He counted. He wasn't proud of it.

The first two days were manageable. 

You sent him good morning texts with selfies, soft, sleepy, your hair messy and pillow creases on your cheek, and he could handle that. He'd smile at his phone like an idiot, type something disgusting like "you're so cute," and go about his day. But by day three, the photos started arriving. Not the public ones, those were a different kind of torture that he'd scroll through obsessively, zooming in on the curve of your waist, the glimpse of your thighs, the way your lips wrapped around that cocktail straw. 

No, the private ones were what broke him.

The first was innocent enough. You were changing after the beach, and you sent a mirror selfie from the hotel bathroom — your damp hair, a white shirt that was slightly see-through from the moisture, clinging to the shape of your breasts, nipples pressing faintly against the fabric, and a pair of black panties underneath. That was it. Just that. You added a caption: "oops, forgot u were on read 🫩" and he stopped breathing for a full five seconds.

He screenshotted it. He hated himself for it. He screenshotted it and then he stared at it for twenty minutes, thumb hovering over the call button, cock throbbing in his jeans, and he didn't call because he knew if he heard your voice right then he'd say something pathetic. Something like “please come home” or “I need you so bad it's making me sick” or “I've been hard for three hours and I can't make it stop.”

So he jerked off instead. Right there on the couch, phone in one hand, cock in the other, scrolling through your story, pausing on every frame where your body was visible. 

He came embarrassingly fast, under two minutes, with a broken sound that was half moan, half whine, hips bucking up into his fist, and when it was over he felt worse. Not better. Worse. Because his hand wasn't your hand, wasn't your mouth, wasn't your body, and his own orgasm felt like a consolation prize compared to what he actually wanted.

He cleaned up and stared at the ceiling and missed you so much it felt like a physical wound.

Day four was when you sent the photo. He'd later think of it that way, with reverential dread, the way people talk about natural disasters that ruin their lives.

It was a full body shot. You were wearing his black shorts, the ones that were baggy on you, the ones you'd stolen from his drawer before you left, the ones that had to be pinned at the back with a safety pin because they wouldn't stay up. They were slung low on your hips, and he could see the edge of your panties sticking out from underneath, pale pink, a thin strip of lace, the kind you wore when you wanted to feel pretty and not when you wanted to be practical. 

Above the waistband, your bare stomach, your navel, and then just a bra, black, simple, pushing your breasts up in a way that made his mouth water. And your hand. Your hand was on your breast, fingers splayed, cupping it through the fabric, and you were looking at the camera with this expression that knowing. It was cruel. You knew what this would do to him. You were doing it on purpose.

His favorite. His absolute favorite. He saved it, he screenshotted it, he sent it to his hidden album, and then he put his phone down and pressed his palms against his eyes and breathed through the wave of arousal that hit him so hard it made his vision blur.

you're wearing my shorts 🤨

That's what he texted you. That's all he could manage.

yeahhh 😿 they smell like u & imy already 🙁 i sleep in them every night, you sent back. 

He threw his phone across the couch.

Then he picked it back up, because of course he did.

Day five, you sent nudes. Not even strategically angled ones, real ones, the kind that left nothing to imagination. You were changing, you said, and you just had to show him. Your breasts, bare, your nipples peaked from the air conditioning, one arm stretched out holding the phone, the other covering just enough to be teasing but not enough to hide anything. A second photo: your back, arched, looking over your shoulder, the curve of your ass in those white panties, the dip of your spine, and he could see the strap marks from your bikini, tan lines that made him want to trace them with his tongue.

He sent a voicemail back. He couldn't type. He couldn't form words. So he hit record, and the sound that came out of him was filthy. He was jerking himself off, fast and wet, and he didn't even try to be quiet about it. 

He let you hear everything: the slick sound of his fist, the desperate little "hah, hah" of his breathing, the whine that built in his throat, the way he said your name like a prayer and a curse at the same time. "Fuck, baby, I—I need you so bad, I can't—"and then he came, mid-sentence, with a broken moan that cracked at the end, and the voicemail ended with him panting, shaky, barely audible: "Please come home."

You sent back a voice note of your own. Just your voice, breathy and amused: "Aww. Poor baby." And then, softer, almost tender: "Four more days. You can last four more days, right?"

He couldn't. He really, truly couldn't.

Day six, the sexting happened. It started with a check-in, him asking if you'd eaten, if you were staying hydrated, if you were wearing sunscreen, and somehow, inevitably, it derailed. You told him you'd been thinking about him on the beach. About how the water felt, cold and slippery against your skin, and how you wished it was his hands instead. How you'd touched yourself in the shower that morning and imagined it was him, imagined him pressing you against the tile, imagined his mouth on your neck, his fingers inside you.

He was hard before you finished the second message.

"I want to eat you out so bad," he typed, not even caring how desperate he sounded. "I want to put my mouth on you and not stop until you're crying."

"You want to make me cry?"

"I want to make you feel so good you can't help it. I want to taste you. I want—I want—" He couldn't finish. He was too busy coming again, cock pulsing in his grip, spurting over his knuckles, and he hadn't even been looking at anything. Just the words on his screen. Just the thought of you. He came from reading a text message. 

Heeseung, twenty-five years old, who prided himself on at least a little stamina, came from words on a screen like a fucking teenager, and he groaned through it, jaw clenched, and thought: I am so, so fucked.

Day seven, the last day, he didn't even touch himself. He just lay in bed and stared at your photos and throbbed. His cock was so hard it ached, flushed and angry and leaking, and he didn't wrap his hand around it because he knew it would be over in seconds and he'd feel even emptier afterward. He just let himself suffer. He let the want build until it was a living thing in his chest, a hollow hunger that no amount of his own touch could fill.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow you'd be home.

He didn't sleep.

You walked through the door at exactly 4:47 PM, and Heeseung was already standing in the hallway like he'd been waiting there for hours, which he had been, since you'd texted him your flight landed, since you'd texted him you were in the cab, since you'd texted him you were five minutes away. 

He was wearing his grey sweatpants and an oversized black t-shirt and his hair was messy and he looked like he hadn't slept in a week, and the look on his face when he saw you—

It was hunger. Pure, unfiltered, desperate hunger.

And you looked so fucking good. That was the thing. You knew you did. You'd changed at the airport, into the tiniest denim shorts you owned, the ones that barely covered the bottom curve of your ass, the ones that rode up when you walked. A white tank top, thin enough that the outline of your bikini top was visible underneath, thin enough that if you took that off there would be nothing between your nipples and the fabric but air. Your skin was tanned and glowing and you smelled like coconut and sunlight and he was on you before you even set your suitcase down.

"I missed you," he breathed against your mouth, and then he was kissing you, hands everywhere, your waist, your hips, sliding down to grip your ass through those ridiculous shorts, and he was already hard. You could feel him against your thigh, thick and hot, and he was pressing into you like he couldn't help it, like his body was moving on autopilot, chasing contact.

"I missed you too, baby," you murmured against his lips, and you felt him shiver at the endearment. Your hands came up to card through his hair, and you tugged, just a gentle pull, just enough to tilt his head back, and his breath caught audibly. A small, broken sound that went straight between your legs.

Heeseung, your boyfriend, your pathetic, beautiful, desperate boy, was already trembling.

"Let me—can I—" He couldn't finish a sentence. His hands were shaking where they gripped your waist. He was looking at you with those big, dark eyes, pupils blown so wide the brown was barely visible, and there was a flush creeping up his neck, staining his cheeks pink. "Please. I need—it's been a week and I can't—"

"Can't what?" you asked, and your voice was low and teasing, a dangerous lilt that made his cock twitch. You knew exactly what he couldn't do. You wanted to hear him say it.

"I can't think about anything except you," he said, and his voice cracked on the word you, cracked like he was about to cry, and god, that did something to you. "I've been—I've been so hard, all week, and my hand isn't enough, and I keep coming but it doesn't help, and I—"

"Shh," you said, and you pressed your thumb to his lower lip, and his mouth fell open instantly, pliant and willing, and his tongue darted out to wet the pad of your thumb and you felt a pulse of heat between your thighs. "I'm here now. I'm going to take care of you, okay?"

He nodded frantically, your thumb still on his lips, and he looked so pretty like this — desperate and flushed and hanging on your every word.

You pulled his hair again, harder this time, and he moaned. Actually moaned, loud and shameless, head tipping back to expose the long line of his throat, and you took the opportunity to bite his neck, not gently, not a love bite, a real bite, teeth sinking into the muscle, and he bucked against you with a sound that was dangerously close to a whimper.

"Bedroom," you said. 

Heeseung was on the bed before you finished the word, sitting on the edge, looking up at you with those wide, eager eyes, and you stood between his spread legs and looked down at him and felt powerful. You felt powerful alright. This boy, this beautiful, needy, pathetic boy, was literally shaking with want for you, and you'd barely touched him.

You reached down and took off your tank top, slow, dragging it up your body, and his eyes tracked the movement like he was hypnotized. Underneath was the bikini top, teal, the same one from the photo, the one he'd jerked off to four times. Your breasts were spilling out of it, the fabric barely containing them, and he made a sound — not a word, just a noise, like all the air had been punched out of him.

"You like this one?" you asked, running a finger along the edge of the fabric, pushing your breast up slightly. "You seemed to. You watched the story it was in about forty times."

"I—" His voice was raw. "I lost count."

"Take off your shirt."

He ripped it off so fast the seams made a sound, and his chest was heaving, skin flushed pink from his collarbones to his stomach, and you could see the tent in his sweatpants, could see the dark spot of precum soaking through the grey fabric. He was leaking. Just from this. Just from you standing in front of him in a bikini top.

"You're already making a mess," you observed, and you reached down and ran a single finger along the length of his cock through his pants, feather-light, and he jerked like he'd been electrocuted. His hips chased your hand the moment you pulled away, thrusting up into empty air, and he let out a whine that was so pitiful, so utterly desperate, that you felt your own arousal pulse, hot and slick, between your legs.

"Please touch me," he begged. "Please, I need—"

"In a minute." You unbuttoned your shorts and shimmied them down your legs, and underneath were the black panties. The ones from the mirror photo. The see-through ones. And he was staring at them like he was having a religious experience, mouth open, breath ragged, and you could see his cock twitch in his pants, could see another pulse of precum darken the fabric.

"Remember these?" You turned around slowly, letting him see the back, the sheer fabric clinging to the curve of your ass, the lace trim riding up just slightly, and you looked over your shoulder at him and bit your lip. "You came so hard to this picture. I heard the voicemail, baby. You sounded so pathetic. So needy. Were you that desperate for me?"

"Yes," he choked out. "Yes, I was—I am—please—"

You turned back around and stepped closer, close enough that if he leaned forward his face would be inches from your body, and you reached behind yourself and unclasped the bikini top. It fell away, and your breasts were bare, nipples hard from the cool air and from the way he was looking at you, like he was starving and you were the first meal he'd seen in a week.

He lunged forward, mouth open, aiming for your breast, and you grabbed his hair and pulled him back.

"Did I say you could touch?"

The sound he made was devastating. A sob, cut off halfway, and his eyes were wet, actually wet, glassy with unshed tears, and his lower lip was trembling, and he looked so wrecked, so utterly desperate, that for a moment you almost caved. Almost. But you wanted to draw this out. You wanted to make it good.

"Tell me what you want," you said.

"I want—I want to taste you." His voice was barely above a whisper. "I want to put my mouth on you. I want—gosh, I want to eat you out so bad, I've been thinking about it all week, thinking about how you'd sound, how you'd feel on my tongue, and I—"

"Then do it."

He didn't need to be told twice. 

His hands grabbed your hips and he pulled you forward and pressed his face between your legs, mouth against your pussy through the sheer fabric of your panties, and you felt the heat of his breath, the desperate slide of his tongue against the wet material. He was moaning into you, actual moans, vibrating against your clit, and the fabric was getting wetter, your wetness, his saliva, the barrier between his tongue and you becoming translucent with moisture.

"Take them off," you said, breathless, and he hooked his fingers in the waistband and dragged them down so fast the lace scratched against your thighs, and then his mouth was on you, bare, and—

Fuck. 

He was good at this. He'd always been good at this, enthusiastic and sloppy and absolutely relentless, but today, after a week of wanting, a week of desperate late-night phone calls and photos and voicemails, he ate you out like he was dying. His tongue was everywhere, broad strokes through your folds, pointed flicks against your clit, and then he sucked your clit into his mouth and you gasped and your hand flew to his hair and pulled and he whimpered against you, the vibration making your knees buckle.

"Shit, baby—"

He looked up at you from between your thighs, lips swollen and glistening, chin wet, eyes glassy and pleading, and he didn't stop, he kept licking, kept sucking, kept making those small, desperate sounds against your body, and you could feel his hips rutting against the edge of the mattress, grinding against nothing, chasing friction because he was so turned on he couldn't help it.

You pushed him back, and he made a sound of protest, raw and bereft, but you were climbing onto the bed, straddling his face, and then you lowered yourself onto his mouth and he grabbed your thighs and held you there and devoured you. 

His tongue was inside you, then on your clit, then inside again, and he was making sounds like he was the one being eaten out, little muffled whimpers and moans, and you were grinding against his face, chasing the pleasure, and you felt it building, that tight coil in your abdomen, and—

"I'm going—fuck, baby, I’m going to come on your face," you told him, and he doubled his efforts, tongue working your clit in fast, tight circles, and you came with a cry, thighs clamping around his head, body arching, and he kept going, kept licking you through it, kept moaning like your orgasm was his own, and when you finally pulled away, shaking, he was gasping for air and his chin was drenched and he was looking up at you with absolute, total devotion.

"Good boy," you murmured, and he shuddered. Actually shuddered, full-body, and you felt his cock jerk where it pressed against your thigh through his sweatpants. "You made me feel so good. You always do."

"Please," he whispered, and a tear rolled down his cheek. Just one, sliding from the corner of his eye, and he didn't seem to notice it. "Please, I need—I need to be inside you, I need—"

"Not yet." You climbed off his face and positioned yourself beside him, and you reached down and palmed his cock through his sweatpants, and he arched off the bed with a strangled cry. The fabric was soaked. Not just damp, soaked, a huge dark patch of precum, and you could feel how hard he was, how thick and hot and desperate, and you squeezed gently and his entire body seized.

"You're so wet," you said, rubbing your palm over the head through the fabric, spreading the moisture, and he was twitching uncontrollably, hips jerking up into your hand. "You've been leaking all day, haven't you? Just thinking about me coming home?"

"All week," he corrected, voice breaking. "All week, I've been—"

"Take this off."

He shoved his sweatpants down, kicked them off, and his cock sprang free, flushed dark, the head an angry red, slick with precum that was dripping down the shaft in a steady stream. He was so hard, veins prominent, twitching in the open air, and you wrapped your hand around the base and his whole body spasmed.

"Ah—fuck, fuck—"

You stroked him once, slow, from base to tip, spreading his precum, and his head fell back against the pillows and his mouth fell open and the sound that came out of him was barely human. You stroked him again, and he was already close, you could tell, his thighs trembling, stomach clenching, and you tightened your grip just slightly and twisted on the upstroke and he screamed.

Not a moan. A scream. Raw and desperate and overwhelmed, and his hips were bucking up into your fist, chasing the sensation, and you could feel him throbbing in your hand, getting close, getting—

You let go.

He sobbed. Actually sobbed, chest heaving, cock bobbing in the air, flushed and leaking and so close to the edge that a single touch would have sent him over, and tears were streaming down his face now, not just one but two wet tracks down his cheeks, and he was looking at you with the most destroyed expression you'd ever seen on another human being.

"Why—" his voice cracked, shattered, "why did you stop—"

"Because I want to do something else first." You shifted, repositioned, and you wrapped your hand around him again and leaned down and took the head of his cock into your mouth.

The sound he made was not a word. It was not a moan. It was something between a gasp and a wail, and his hands flew to your hair, not pushing, just holding, fingers tangling in the strands, and his whole body was trembling like a live wire. 

You swirled your tongue around the tip, tasting him, and then you sank down, taking him deeper, hollowing your cheeks, and he was falling apart above you.

"Oh god, oh god, oh—your mouth, your mouth feels so—I'm going to—I'm going to come, I can't—"

You pulled off with a slick pop and squeezed the base of his cock, hard, and he yelled, and the orgasm that had been building was throttled, stopped just short of the peak, and he was crying openly now, tears running freely, lower lip caught between his teeth, and the sounds coming out of him were sobs and whimpers and fragmented syllables that might have been your name.

"Please let me come," he begged, and his voice was so raw, so ruined, that you felt a rush of wetness between your own thighs. "Please, I can't—it hurts, I need to come so bad, please—"

"I know, baby," you murmured, and you stroked his hair back from his forehead, gentle now, tender, and he leaned into your touch like a touch-starved animal. "I know it hurts. You've been so good for me. So patient and all. Let me make you feel better."

You reached between your legs with your free hand, you were soaking, absolutely drenched, your fingers sliding through your folds with no resistance, and you touched yourself while you stroked him, and the dual sensation made you both groan. You rubbed your clit in slow circles while you jerked him off, and you were so turned on from watching him fall apart, from the power of having this beautiful, desperate boy at your mercy, that you were already close to another orgasm.

"You want to know a secret?" you asked, voice low and sultry, and he blinked up at you through tear-blurred eyes. "I touched myself thinking about you too. On the trip. In the hotel room. I'd look at the photos you sent—your voice notes, those sounds you made—and I'd fuck myself with my fingers and pretend it was you."

He twitched violently in your hand, and a fresh wave of precum spilled over your fingers.

"I'd come so hard, baby," you continued, squeezing him, stroking faster, your other hand working your own clit in matching rhythm. "But it wasn't enough. My fingers aren't your cock. My fingers aren't you. I needed you just as bad as you needed me."

"I needed you more," he gasped, and it was so pathetic, so utterly heartfelt, that you felt your orgasm crash into you without warning, your body seizing, cunt clenching around nothing, and you moaned loud and long, and the sound of your pleasure pushed him right to the edge again and this time you didn't stop.

You felt the moment he broke. 

His cock pulsed once, twice, and then he was coming, thick ropes of cum spurting over your hand, over his stomach, and he was crying out, sounds, raw and broken and overwhelmed, and his whole body was arching off the bed, and the tears were flowing freely now, mixing with the sweat on his face, and you kept stroking him through it, kept your hand moving, and he kept coming, more than you'd ever seen from him, spurt after spurt, and you realized he was still hard. Still hard and still coming and his body didn't know when to stop because it had been wound so tight for so long that the release was overflowing.

"Stop, stop, it's too much—" he sobbed, and you let go, and he lay there, wrecked, chest heaving, cum splattered across his stomach and your hand, tears on his face, and his cock was still hard, still flushed and twitching, and you knew one orgasm wasn't going to be enough. Not after a week. Not after all that buildup.

"That's one," you said, and you brought your cum-covered hand to your lips and licked a stripe up your palm, tasting him, and his eyes went impossibly wide and his spent cock actually jerked back to full attention. "You've got more in you, don't you?"

He nodded, wordless, still crying, and you thought he'd never looked more beautiful.

You stripped off your panties, the last remaining piece of clothing on your body, and you straddled his waist, and you felt his cum between your bodies, slick and warm against your stomach, and you didn't care. You wanted to be messy. You wanted this to be filthy. You wanted him to remember what it felt like when you finally, finally gave him what he'd been begging for.

"I'm going to ride you now," you told him, and you saw the hope bloom in his eyes, the desperate, grateful hope, and you leaned down and kissed him, properly kissed him, tongue in his mouth, tasting yourself on his lips from when he'd gone down on you, and he kissed back frantically, hands coming up to cup your face, and he was making small sounds into your mouth, little whimpers and sighs, and you could feel his cock pressing against your ass, hot and hard and still leaking.

You reached behind you and positioned him at your entrance, and you sank down, just the tip, just the head, and you both groaned. He was big, you'd forgotten, in a week, just how big, how the stretch of him made your walls flutter and clench, and he was so sensitive from his first orgasm that the mere sensation of your heat around the head of his cock had him whimpering, hands gripping your waist hard enough to bruise.

"More," he gasped. "Please, more—"

You sank down, slow, torturous, and you watched his face as you did, the way his eyes rolled back, the way his jaw dropped, the way his breath came in shallow, ragged gasps. When you bottomed out, when he was fully inside you, you paused, and you felt him throbbing, felt every twitch and pulse, and you clenched around him deliberately and he sobbed.

"Don't—please—if you do that, fuck—I'll—"

"You'll what? Come again?" You clenched harder, and he cried out, hands scrabbling at your hips. "That's the point, baby. I want you to come inside me. I want to feel it. I've been thinking about this all week—your cock inside me, filling me up, making me yours again."

More tears fell, and you realized he wasn't crying from sadness or from pain. He was crying from feeling. From the overwhelming intensity of finally, finally having you, finally being inside you, after a week of his own inadequate hand and your cruel, beautiful photos. He was crying because it felt too good to process. "I'm yours, I'm yours, I'm—"

You started to move. Slow at first, a grinding roll of your hips that pressed his cock against your front wall, against that spot that made your vision blur, and you braced your hands on his chest and rolled your hips and watched him fall apart beneath you. He was gone. Completely gone. His head was thrown back, throat exposed, Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed convulsively, and his hands were on your hips, holding on. Holding on like you were the only solid thing in a world that was spinning too fast.

"Faster," he begged. "Please, faster, harder—"

You obeyed. You lifted your hips and slammed back down, and the sound that rang out was so obscene that he yelled, and you did it again, and again, setting a brutal pace, riding him hard, and the angle was perfect, the pressure on your clit from the base of his dick, the stretch of him inside you, and you were already close again, already feeling that coil tightening.

"Touch me," you commanded, and his hands flew to your breasts, squeezing, thumbs rolling over your nipples, and you moaned and threw your head back and bounced on his cock harder, and he was meeting your thrusts now, hips snapping up to meet you, and the wet slap of your bodies was the filthiest, most beautiful sound in the world.

"You feel so good," he gasped, voice raw and destroyed. "You feel so fucking good, I can't—I'm not going to last—"

"Then don't." You leaned down and bit his earlobe, then whispered against the shell of his ear: "Come inside me. Fill me up. I want to feel it dripping out of me for the rest of the night."

He shattered. His back arched off the bed, his fingers dug bruises into your hips, and he came with a sound that was closer to a scream than a moan, long, drawn-out, broken in the middle by a sob, and you felt it, felt the pulse of his cock inside you, felt the heat of his cum flooding you, and it pushed you over the edge too, your orgasm ripping through you, cunt clenching and fluttering around him, milking every last drop, and you collapsed against his chest and both of you were shaking, trembling, crying — the hell, when had you started crying?

You didn't know, but your bodies were tangled together and it was too much, everything was too much, in the best possible way.

You lay there for a long moment, catching your breath, his cock softening inside you, and you felt the trickle of his cum leaking out around the seal of your bodies, and he was still sniffling, still trembling, and you pressed kisses to his jaw, his cheek, his tear-streaked face, and he turned into your touch like a flower toward the sun.

But this was the thing about Heeseung, you shifted your hips slightly, and you felt it. Still half-hard. Twitching. Recovering. And you knew, with a rush of heat between your legs, that he wasn't done.

Neither were you.

"Baby," you murmured against his ear, and you felt him shiver. "You still want more?"

"I always want more," he whispered, and his voice was wrecked, hoarse from crying and moaning, and the honesty in it made your cunt clench around his half-hard cock and he hissed. "I always want you. It’ll never be enough."

"You’re too greedy, no? How can someone be that greedy," you teased, and you bit your lip and looked down at him through your lashes, and his eyes darkened.

"Only for you."

You lifted your hips and let him slip out. You saw the mess, his cum and yours, smeared across his stomach and yours, and you reached down and ran your fingers through it, and you brought them to his lips, and he opened his mouth without hesitation, sucking your fingers clean, tongue swirling around the digits, and his cock, which had been softening, jerked back to full hardness.

"Dirty boy," you murmured, and he flushed darker, and you saw the conflict on his face, shame and arousal warring behind his eyes, and arousal won, as it always did with him. "You like being dirty for me, don't you?"

"I like being anything for you," he said, and it was the most sincere thing anyone had ever said to you.

You turned around. You positioned yourself on your hands and knees, and you looked over your shoulder at him, and you stuck your tongue out, just a little, just a tease, the way you knew drove him insane, and you wiggled your hips and said: "Then come prove it."

He was behind you in a second. His hands gripped your ass, spreading you open, and you felt his gaze on you, on your pussy, still dripping with his cum, still puffy and flushed from your orgasms, and he groaned, low and hungry, and you felt his cock press against your entrance.

"Wait," you said, and he froze instantly, ever obedient, ever desperate to please. "I want you to eat me out first. Again. I want your tongue inside me again. Then you can fuck me."

He didn't hesitate. His face was between your legs again, tongue sliding through your folds, tasting both of you and he moaned against you like it was the best thing he'd ever tasted. His tongue pushed inside you, fucking you with it, and you could feel his cum dripping onto his tongue, and he was swallowing it, swallowing everything, and the obscenity of it had you pushing back against his face, grinding, chasing more.

"Such a good boy," you gasped, and he whimpered into you, and you felt fresh tears, his tears this time, wetting the inside of your thighs as they fell, and the vulnerability of it, the raw submission, had you hurtling toward another orgasm. "My good boy. Only mine. Nobody else gets to see you like this, nobody else gets to have you—"

"Only you," he confirmed against your body, the words muffled by your pussy, vibrating against your clit. "Only you, only you, only—"

You came on his tongue, again, thighs shaking, and he held you up and licked you through it and when you finally pulled away you were boneless and trembling and he was looking at you with those red-rimmed, tear-stained, absolutely wrecked eyes, cock jutting out from his body, hard as steel, and you felt a rush of tenderness so fierce it almost hurt.

"Come here," you said softly, and you turned onto your back and opened your arms, and he crawled up your body and kissed you, and you tasted yourself and him on his tongue, and you wrapped your legs around his waist and pulled him into you in one fluid motion.

He sank to the hilt and you both gasped, and this time it was slower, not the frantic, desperate pace of before, but something deeper. He was moving in long, grinding strokes, hitting every sensitive spot inside you, and his forehead was pressed against yours, and you could see his eyes up close, overflowing with feeling, and you cupped his face and brushed the tears away with your thumbs and he turned his head to kiss your palm.

"I love you," he whispered, and his voice broke on love, broke open like he couldn't contain it, and you pulled his hair and he moaned and you bit your lip and he watched your mouth like it was the center of the universe.

"I love you more," you said, and then you tightened your legs around his waist and rolled your hips and he made a sound that was half sob, half moan, and you swallowed it with a kiss.

He fucked you slower but deeper, each thrust deliberate, purposeful, hitting that spot that made your breath catch, and you could feel another orgasm building, your fourth, his third, and this one felt different, bigger, like something immense was gathering at the base of your spine, and you broke the kiss and gasped against his mouth.

"I'm close," you warned, and he nodded, and his pace increased, hips snapping faster, and he was hitting so deep, so perfect, and you were clenching around him, and he was groaning with every thrust, and—

"I'm—I can't—" He was crying again, silent tears streaming, and his face was scrunched up in an expression that was almost pain, almost pleasure, something in between that was too intense to name. "I'm going to—again—"

"Do it," you commanded. "Come with me. Now."

You clenched around him and his mouth fell open in a silent scream, and you felt him pulse inside you, felt the heat of his cum, and that triggered your own orgasm, this one different, deeper, your whole body shaking, cunt clenching rhythmically around him, and you were both crying, both gasping, both clinging to each other like you were the only two people in the world, and he was still thrusting through it, shallow and twitching, and you could feel the overstimulation making him shake, making his breath come in hitches and hiccups, and he collapsed against you, full body weight pressing you into the mattress, and you held him and he sobbed against your neck.

"I'm sorry," he wept, and you could feel his tears hot against your skin. "I can't stop crying, I'm sorry—"

"Don't apologize," you said, and your own voice was thick, wavering. "Don't you dare apologize. That was—you were perfect. You're always perfect."

He lifted his head and looked at you, face blotchy and wet and so, so beautiful, and you kissed his eyelids, his cheeks, the tip of his nose, and he smiled, and you felt your heart crack open in your chest.

"You're mine," you told him, and it wasn't a question.

"Yours," he agreed, and he buried his face in your neck and breathed you in, and you felt his cock twitch one last time inside you, and you both laughed, the sound of it echoing off the walls of your shared apartment, your home, the place where you belonged, together, tangled up in each other and the mess you'd made.

Later, much later, after showers and water bottles and the kind of gentle, exploratory touching that was less about arousal and more about reassurance, you lay tangled in bed together, your head on his chest, his fingers tracing absent patterns on your shoulder.

"I have a confession," he said quietly.

"More confessions? After all that?"

"I screenshot every photo you sent. Even the ones from your public story. I have a whole album."

You laughed, bright and surprised. "I know. I can see your screenshots."

He groaned, covering his face with his free hand. "Fuck, that's so embarrassing."

"That's so hot," you corrected, and you bit his chest playfully, and he squirmed. "I love that you were that desperate for me. I love that I had you on a chokehold."

"You always have me on a chokehold," he muttered, and there was no heat in it, just fact. Just the simple, unvarnished truth. "You could wear a garbage bag and I'd still be hard for you in three seconds."

"Ew, that's so… disgusting and romantic and I'm going to think about it every time I miss you."

"Don't go anywhere for a while," he said, and his voice was small, and when you looked up at him his eyes were earnest and vulnerable and still slightly red from crying. "Please."

You reached up and stroked his hair, and he melted into the touch, and you pressed a kiss to the underside of his jaw.

"I'm not going anywhere," you promised. "I just got back to you."

He pulled you closer, tighter, like he could fold you into himself and keep you there permanently, and you let him. You let him cling and you clung back, because the truth, the truth that neither of you said out loud but both of you knew, was that the desperation went both ways. You'd sent those photos on purpose, sure, but not just to tease. You'd sent them because you needed him to want you. You needed to feel wanted from five hundred miles away. You needed proof that the ache was mutual.

And it was. God, it was.

"I'm already hard again," he mumbled against your hair, and you felt the evidence pressing against your thigh, and you laughed again, incredulous, fond, so deeply in love it made your chest hurt.

"What a weirdo," you accused.

"Only for you," he said, and it was the second time he'd said it tonight, and you believed it completely.

You rolled on top of him and pinned his wrists to the pillow and leaned down and whispered against his lips: "Then let's go again."

And his eyes lit up, bright, eager, desperate, yours, and he said:

"Please."

⭐️ ⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

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💿 ࿐ . . i want you around by snoh aalegra

✷ NOTE : thank you all so, so much for reading ! i hope you enjoyed this little world for a while ♡ all of this is purely a work of fiction & doesn’t reflect reality at all . . likes, reblogs, and feedback are deeply cherished and very, very appreciated on here !

[wlflia]

𝓘nside you.

⭑ park sunghoon x fem! reader.

࿔. 𝑤𝑎𝑟𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑔 : hard sex, menção a sexo sem proteção (se protejam, galerinha), fisting (é babado), dirty talk, praise kink, hoon namoradinho safado, relacionamento estabelecido, menção a creampie, menção a anal e ACHO que só.

࿔. 𝑛𝑜𝑡𝑒𝑠 : ah que não sei o que e não sei o que lá (isso é tudo culpa da @hanniecoffee

©𝘸𝘭𝘧𝘭𝘪𝘢. 𝘵𝘰𝘥𝘰𝘴 𝘰𝘴 𝘥𝘪𝘳𝘦𝘪𝘵𝘰𝘴 𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘦𝘳𝘷𝘢𝘥𝘰𝘴.

𝄞 𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨 — for the high - octbrfrst, cheyanne.

Seu gemidinho manhoso ecoa pelo cômodo, ultrapassando até mesmo a música alta que tocava na caixinha de som acoplada na estante da imensa sala de estar aconchegante do apartamento de vocês.

Não sabia dizer quando o momento caseirinho e completamente inocente com o namorado havia se tornado a bagunça suja de agora, mas lá estava você, deitada de bruços sobre as pernas abertas do Park, gemendo cada vez mais alto e melosinha ao passo que os dedos grossos do moreno judiam de seu doce pontinho sensível.

Seus gritinhos saíam ora finos, ora rouquinhos, visto que há alguns minutos você havia abusado em demasia de sua gargantinha, alojando a pica graúda do namorado até o talo em sua boca, se deliciando ao executar uma mamada babona, faminta e completamente imunda naquele pau grande que enchia cada pedacinho de sua e que você tanto amava se esbaldar.

Porém, não pode se demorar demais ao brincar por ali. Sunghoon não esperou muito tempo para recuperar a frente do ato chulo e a deixar totalmente maleável nas mãos dele. Ele aproveitou a comodidade da ausência de um shortinho em seu corpo para alcançar seu meio com facilidade e, em seguida, arredar o tecido fino e clarinho da calcinha para o lado, começando um esfregar circular e moroso em seu clítoris.

— Caralho, princesa… — Ah, ele era um puto. Dos mais imundos que você teve o prazer de degustar e chamar de seu. Ele sabia o que fazer para te enlouquecer, te deixar no limite. Usava e abusava muito dessa autoridade que você tinha dado a ele.  “Isso… Esfrega essa buceta pra gozar, vai…”

Você manha mais uma vez, o gemido saindo arrastadinho, grudento, deixando evidente a sua entrega pelos toques de Sunghoon. “A-Amor… Enfia…” suplica, o rostinho choroso enfiado contra uma das almofadas que havia por ali.

Escuta o riso rouco que vem de trás, o grave do tom risonho batendo diretamente contra sua pele e causando arrepios em cada pelinho.  “Quer que eu enfie meus dedos em você, amor?”  Solta, arrastado, baixinho. O tom de superioridade, devido ao seu estado completamente burra, é evidente no timbre.  Filho da puta, cretino, convencido do caralho…

— N-não… As mãos… — soluça, a vozinha soltando o pedido de forma quebradiça. “Enfia s-sua mão em mim…”

Mais um riso vem por parte do Park, um completamente luxurioso dessa vez. Seus olhinhos não puderam ver, mas Sunghoon foi obrigado a morder os lábios com força numa forma inconsciente de tentar conter o tesão avassalador que tomou conta do corpo robusto dele ao ouvir seu pedidinho imundo. A rola grossa até mesmo dando uma guinada.  Merda, ele jura que poderia te quebrar no meio de tanta fome que a sua pequena súplica tinha causado nele.

— Quer minha mão enfiada dentro dessa buceta, é? — provoca, um sorriso sujo se abrindo de ponta a ponta nos lábios.  “Mas você acha que aguenta, amor? ‘Cê passa um sufoco tão gostoso com meu pau…”

— A-aguento… — Seu chorinho fica evidente no tonzinho entregue, soando quase como uma prece, completamente manhosa.  “P-por favor…”

Um tapa ardidinho é estalado em sua bunda redonda, a marca avermelhada da palma grande ficando grifada na região, fazendo-a arranhar mais alguns sonzinhos melosos pela garganta.  “Putinha gulosa… Sempre querendo mais do que aguenta, né?”  Murmura baixo, a mão que antes maltratava seu clítoris com apenas dois dedos formando uma concha, todos os dedos agrupados. Os posiciona em direção à sua entradinha e os empurra para dentro aos poucos, observando suas perninhas tremerem e seu canal tentar apertá-lo mais.  “Tcs… ‘Cê pediu, agora aguenta, puta!”

Com o rostinho abafado contra o sofá, você mordia os lábios e apertava a borda do sofá com força; os dedinhos chegam a esbranquiçar pela força aplicada. A sensação de estar sendo abertinha pelo punho do moreno despertava um desejo que beirava ao sádico, uma dor rasgante em meio ao prazer fora do controle.  “Hoonie… Porra!”  Caralho, de fato não passava de uma putinha gulosa… A putinha dele.

— Olha como essa buceta ‘tá aguentando tudo, hm? — a voz grave provoca, ao passo que sua aberturinha vai acolhendo toda a palma do moreno, deixando apenas parte do pulso adornada pela pulseira de prata para fora. Estava toda abertinha na mão dele… Literalmente.

A posição favorecia os movimentos do moreno no seu meio, visto que todo seu íntimo estava exposto, empinadinho sobre o colo do namorado, esse que se deliciava com a sensação e visão de estar com a palma completamente envolvida por sua bucetinha babona. Os paredes íntimos engolindo a mão enorme dele. O ombro tensiona devido ao movimento lento de entra e sai que a própria palma segue, fazendo as veias saltarem e ficarem evidentes por todo o antebraço.

— Isso, amor… aguenta tudinho que depois eu vou abrir esse seu cuzinho de puta… — solta, provocando, o riso chulo evidente no tom de voz ao passo que aumenta a velocidade das estocadas do punho em seu meio. Mesmo sem o olhar, consegue ouvir os estalos molhados que a boca gostosa do Park faz ao ele levar a mão até os próprios lábios e chupar o indicador e levar até a sua entradinha traseira intocada até o momento, começando uma leve carícia circular sobre o local enrugadinho.  “Vamos ver se esse cu aguenta igual a sua buceta, amor…”

Um gritinho abafado contra o estofado escuro escapa de sua garganta pela junção dos diferentes estímulos direcionados a você. Seu quadril se juntando aos movimentos rudes do punho do moreno ao você começar a rebolar desesperada contra as moções sujas. Outro riso rouco vem por parte de Sunghoon ao ele observar sua ânsia de cima, porém esse vem somado a um arfar penoso, visto que uma de suas reboladas atingiu o caralho teso completamente esquecido abaixo de seu corpo.

— Quando ‘cê tiver bem aberta, ‘cê vai vir sentar no meu pau, ouviu bem? — Larga o esfregar em seu rabinho para desferir mais um tapa forte em sua bunda, dessa vez na outra anca, fazendo agora ambos os ladinhos terem a coloração avermelhada da marca dos dedos grossos do namorado. Você concorda, a cabeça balançando para cima e para baixo contra o sofá num “sim” mudo, sem nem ao menos saber sobre o que assentia. A essa altura, queria qualquer coisa que o Park poderia lhe oferecer de tão burrinha. “Só vou parar quando ver seus buracos cheios de porra, ouviu?”

Ah, Sunghoon…

. ۟ 🍥 ⃞░ㅤㅤㅤㅤ curtiu? deixa um comentáriozinho, uma curtidinha ou um rblog. até a próxima história ⟡﹒🐺

⭑ MASTERLIST

[butvega]

[butvega]

oii vega, desculpa pelo desabafo, mas você é tipo uma mamãe pra mim, então eu preciso da sua ajuda

há alguns meses, entrou um menino novo no lugar onde eu trabalho, eu logo me interessei nele, e depois de alguns dias a gente começou a conversar, bem de boa

mais ou menos depois de uma semana a gente saiu, foi bem gostosinho, a gente se beijou horrores ( foi meu primeiro beijo 🕊)

mas, um pouco mais de uma semana depois, ele entrou no assunto de morar juntos, eu fiquei bem assustada

nunca tinha vivido nada vivido nada assim antes, ele foi meu primeiro contato com "namoro", então, quando ele falou sobre isso eu fiquei bem receosa, visto que eu tenho um certo bloqueio emocional devido a experiências passadas (e ele sabe disso)

pedi pra ele ter paciência, pra gente ir se conhecendo, não tinha um mês que a gente se conhecia, a gente nem namorava

ele meio que não gostou, disse que queria ter uma certeza que a gente ia morar juntos, e como eu disse antes, tenho bloqueio emocional, e um pavor absurdo do abandono, então eu não consigo pensar muito sobre o futuro, mas isso não significa que eu não quero um futuro com ele, entende?

por isso eu pedi pra ele ter paciência, pra mim pensar sobre

nós somos novos, ambos com 18, acho meio paia falar sobre isso tão rápido

enfim, resumindo...

ele terminou comigo, eu tô muito mal

a gente se conhece a bem pouco tempo, não tem dois meses, mas eu real gosto dele, e agora eu não sei o que fazer

eu já conversei com ele umas três vezes, e não dá em nada, ele não quer "ceder"

me ajuda por favor, o que eu devo fazer? seja super sincera, mas não me julgue, eu tô na minha fase mais venerável, estou apaixonada 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭

help, please!!!!

oi, meu amor! desculpa a demora pra responder.

eu acho que você foi certíssima em impor os seus limites. ele foi muito emocionado, né? morar junto requer mais que maturidade, você passa a dividir sua vida, seus momentos bons e ruins com outra pessoa, suas metas, seus desejos, a responsabilidade das contas, de uma casa…

como conselho, te digo pra não ceder. se ele realmente gosta de você, vai entender até onde você pode ir no momento, e respeitar sua decisão. não muda por medo dele não querer voltar com você, porque se ele faz isso é porque não vale a pena. você merece coisa melhor.

[butvega]

saudades de ti, veguinha! como você está? ᥫ᭡

aaaa meu xuxu, você por aqui ❤️🤏🏼

eu tô bem, e voce? como você ta?

[butvega]

Eu vi a gabi falando que te seguia no insta, fiquei com invejinha 😭

oi amor! qual gabi?

[butvega]

20:10 | park jongseong.

cuddle session, sexo desprotegido, creampie, nipple play, relação estabelecida, jay!maridinho.

A cama rangia de leve à medida em que seu marido afundava o quadril no seu. As mãos grandes e fortes agarravam sua coxa, trazendo seu corpo para mais perto, enquanto a fodia com manha, tentando ao máximo perdurar o momento.

Tão fodidamente bom.

“Shh, sh….” a voz rouca murmurava em seu ouvido. “Eu tô aqui.. Tô aqui.”

O braço forte estava em baixo de sua cabeça, resquício da posição anterior; dormiam em uma conchinha aconchegante, até que o som de chuva e trovões a acordassem. Jay estava te acalmando da melhor forma que podia. Te comendo lentinho.

Mal se deu o trabalho de abrir os olhos, sentia-se em um sonho. Entrando e saindo de seu interior apertado, quentinho, e molhado.

“Mais…” você sussurra com esforço, as mãos indo para trás do próprio corpo, afim de alcançar a nuca de Jongseong, e arranhá-la. Como resposta, ganha um gemido rouquinho no pé do ouvido.

Impulsiona o quadril para trás, quer que ele vá mais fundo. Rebola com dengo, quer senti-lo dentro de ti até o talo. Ele sempre consegue alcançar seu pontinho com facilidade, angulando a maneira que mete.

“Calma, bebê…” sopra em um fio de voz, suficientemente perdido no próprio prazer.

São esses momentos que Jay parece vulnerável, livre de qualquer máscara, sendo apenas seu.

Longe de qualquer amarra, podendo gemer, entregue. Era seu marido. Apenas. E o único trabalho dele era te proteger de tudo aquilo que te assustava, fazer com que você se sentisse amada, e te comer do jeitinho mais gostoso possível.

Jay agarra seu peito quentinho, a mão máscula se fechando por completo, e massageando com certa força, beliscando de leve o mamilo sensível.

Se tratavam de sinais sutis que traziam para você a certeza de que ele estava perto; os apertos sem medir a força, os arfares descontrolados, as estocadas descoordenadas.

E comumente, saber que o deixava assim, também te levava ao seu próprio orgasmo. Se imaginar sendo tão gostosa aos olhos dele, que ele não aguenta e se desmancha com vontade em seu interior..

Você o aperta ainda mais, as pernas se cruzando intensificando a sensação, espremendo as coxas em torno do pau dele — quando ele leva o dedo médio e o anelar até seu grelinho inchado, massageando. É o estopim. Você o esmaga instantaneamente, fechando os olhos e gemendo, enquanto espanta qualquer medo anterior. Só resta ele. Tudo é sobre ele. Seu Jay.

Ele choraminga jorrando jatos espessos e quentinhos em seu interior, apertando suas ancas com força, como se você fosse fugir. Você não ia a lugar algum. Nunca.

“Tá tudo bem..?”, pergunta baixinho, dando selares leves em seu pescoço e bochecha. O braço dá sinais de formigamento, mas a posição é tão gostosa que ele prefere ignorar.

“Agora tá…”, diz em um sussurro preguiçoso, se aninhando mais nos braços dele.

“Fecha o olhinho, amor. Tenta dormir agora, hm? Eu tô aqui, não vou sair daqui.”, faz um carinho leve em suas bochechas com a ponta dos dedos.

“Te amo, Jongseong.”, é seu último suspiro antes de tornar à dormir, desta vez relaxada, nos braços de seu marido.

[butvega]

oiee vega tudo bem? queria te perguntar por curiosidade porque nunca achei isso em português (quase nada em ingles também)

você escreveria algo com... piss kink? preferencialmente com o bts rsrsrs

amo suas histórias!! beijoss

oi, amor, tudo bem?

então, eu já cheguei a escrever uma vez com piss kink (não era a base do smut, mas teve sim uma citação e uma ação), MAS, hoje em dia não me vejo escrevendo mais.

obviamente não julgo o fetiche, uma vez que não envolve nenhum crime (?) kkkkkkk, mas não é algo que eu pense muito, ou que me instigue a escrever... talvez você possa encontrar com outras escritoras!

e obrigada por acompanhar!

[butvega]

amg e o maps do dk? ainda existe a possibilidade de sair?

(não minto, fiquei de vigia no seu perfil esperando esse maps sair 😔✊🏾)

oi, amor! pretendo que saia sim, já tá até nos meus rascunhos... o problema é que até alguns dias atrás eu só estava conseguindo escrever com o enha. agora, nem com eles tô conseguindo.

tô com zero zero criatividade :(

[butvega]

Galera não entende que o sunghoon não tem bunda pra facilitar meu trabalho de enfiar a língua

????????

MORGANA SAIA JÁ DO FAKE

[wlflia]

𝓝o control.

⭑ 𝗵𝗶𝗿𝗼𝘁𝗮 𝗿𝗶𝗸𝗶 𝘅 𝗳𝗲𝗺 ! 𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗱𝗲𝗿.

࿔. 𝑤𝑎𝑟𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑔 : hard sex, sexo sem proteção (se protejam, galerinha), MUITO dirty talk, maki namoradinho, reader subindo pelas paredes, maki marombinha core, relacionamento estabelecido, creampie, menção a anal e ACHO que só.

࿔. 𝑛𝑜𝑡𝑒𝑠 : se vocês viram a patifaria que o maki fez no show da tour hoje, vocês sabem o porque desse curta estar sendo postado. não possuo palavras pra definir o quanto eu queria matar esse garoto na sentada, é isso.

©𝘸𝘭𝘧𝘭𝘪𝘢. 𝘵𝘰𝘥𝘰𝘴 𝘰𝘴 𝘥𝘪𝘳𝘦𝘪𝘵𝘰𝘴 𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘦𝘳𝘷𝘢𝘥𝘰𝘴.

𝄞 𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨 — hotel california - prznt.

Merda, você estava fodida Foi o que sua mente divagou ao ver a última storie que seu querido namoradinho havia compartilhado na rede social. Porra, achava ser impossível o garoto ser mais gostoso do que já tinha conhecimento, mas aparentemente não, não era.

Não era nada bom para a sua saúde mental aquele cabelo preto sedoso com o corte raspadinho que ele era habituado a usar, junto daquele risquinho na sobrancelha de puto. Sim, puto. E esse era o adjetivo mais tranquilo que você estava usando para o denominar.

Não conseguiria explicar o que a rotina incessante e rigidamente adotada por Maki tinha causado em você. Aquelas costas malhadas imensas, os braços fortes, as coxas torneadas, o abdômen duro trincado… Ah, caralho, sua buceta babava apenas de fantasiar o corpo robusto e imenso do namorado sobre você, a cobrindo totalmente ao passo que ele te enlouquecia.

Coisa que não demorou a acontecer, visto que, assim que o moreno passou pela porta de entrada do seu apartamento, depois de mais uma sessão de treinos, você não o deixou pensar demais. Agarrou aqueles bíceps imensos e o arrastou para seu quarto, não dando outra escolha para o Hirota a não ser reivindicar seu corpo necessitado. Poxa, que tarefa complicada…

— M-Maki… Ah, caralho, amor… — sua voz repleta de manha e arrastada não esconde sua entrega pelos movimentos rudes acertados em seu centro.

Sem se desgrudar nem um centímetro de você, sente o Hirota não diminuir a velocidade do quadril, para frente e para trás, lento, um rebolar moroso em seu meio, fazendo o pau dele acertar fundo e logo em seguida sair devagarinho, a glande rigorosa acariciava bem seu âmago. Ele geme. Geme completamente rouco, somado a uma lufada de ar que bate diretamente contra seu rostinho.

Você não consegue conter o arrepio na espinha que a cena lhe traz e muito menos o gemidinho repleto de manha que te escapa. Caralho, ele sabia muito bem o que estava fazendo. Ele sabia que um dos seus pontos fracos era vê-lo assim, bruto, devoto. Todo entregue ao prazer que seu aperto o proporcionava. Tsc, ele te tinha na palma da mão.

— Amor… mete… Porra, isso! Mete assim… — estava completamente burrinha em meio às arremetidas fortes do japonês em seu interior. O corpo molinho, mesmo apoiado nos cotovelos, era empurrado para frente e para trás em junção às estocadas brutas dele, que não media esforços para meter forte, arrombando sua bucetinha com uma fome desmedida. “Riki, caralho…”

— Gostosa, porra… — O observa jogar a cabeça para trás, deixando o maxilar marcado completamente atraente, evidente para você, juntamente ao abdômen atlético abrigado em meio a suas pernas, se contrair em meio aos movimentos certeiros da ilharga do namorado. “Que delícia que é te comer, princesa…”

Não contém os sonzinhos imundos que saem de sua boca, cada vez mais manhosa, mais entregue, adorando estar sendo empalada rudemente pelo moreno. Uma de suas mãozinhas larga o braço dele, onde descontava seu tesão com aperto, e segue até sua blusinha, sobe o tecido e expõe seus peitinhos eriçados para o loiro, esses que balançavam em união às moções brutas.

— Não gosta de me chamar de puto, amor? — os dedos longos se encaixam no seu queixo, forçando-a a olhá-lo com seus olhinhos distantes, a manha completamente evidente em seu olhar de súplica.  “Olha seu estado, hm?” Desce o tronco, o corpo forte a cobrindo, sela seus lábios. “A puta é você, amor.” Outro selinho, rude. “A minha puta.”

Sua intimidade se contrai, apertando o falo teso entre suas paredes molhadinhas no mesmo momento em que as estocadas do comprimento grosso a abrem com afinco. Os dedos longos de Maki largam seu rostinho para capturarem seu clitóris, esfregando a área com rapidez ao mesmo tempo em que não diminui as arremetidas grosseiras em sua bucetinha babona. Sua palma agarra o ombro dele e as unhas bem feitinhas deixam vergões pela pele alva. Você morde os lábios para conter um pouco dos sons altos, mas não consegue evitar o gritinho por muito tempo.

— M-Maki…

— Tsc… — riu Roquinho, observando você quebrar, de cima. “Vem, putinha, esguicha pra mim.”

O cenho franze e, sem demora, jatinhos aquosos jorram de sua xotinha judiada, vazando pelos ladinhos da pica grossa que ainda maltratava a entradinha, fazendo o barulhinho molhado ecoar pelo quarto abafado.

O Hirota solta um grunhido, quase um rosnado, no momento em que a própria gala quentinha é jorrada em seu interior ao passo que a sente apertar em demasia, respirando ofegante ao passo que vai diminuindo os movimentos.

Após mais alguns minutinhos em que só se era possível ouvir apenas os ofegos de ambos pairando pelo abafado de seu quarto, você sente o tronco a cobrir novamente e beijos sendo deixados por seu pescoço e colo. “Matei seu tesão de vadia, amor?” Murmura num tom baixo, risonho, o peso do corpo forte caindo contra o seu.

Você apenas ri baixinho e concorda com um acenar de cabeça, ainda recuperando seu ar e a sua consciência após o orgasmo avassalador. “Ah, só porque eu ia comer seu cuzinho, poxa…” A voz rouca divaga contra sua pele, causando arrepios gostosinhos em sua espinha.

Merda, Hirota Riki…

MASTERLIST

[butvega]

[hanniecoffee]

SEVENTEEN AS CLASSIC BOOKS

𓃹 SPECIAL EDITION — ILIAD, HOMER.

CONSIDERAÇÕES — espero que vocês gostem muito! pois em conjunto com os irmãos karamazov (95 line), esse é um livro que eu guardo no meu coração ♡ então vamos se divertir juntos com esse flashback da sua provável aula de história favorita: GRÉCIA ANTIGA.

↷ STARRING ROLES .

— considerada a obra fundadora da literatura ocidental, iliada narra poeticamente um dos principais acontecimentos históricos do período pré-homérico: a Guerra de Troia. (e em consequência, o seventeen contempla a verdadeira origem da ira de Aquiles).

CH.I — THE "NEUTRAL" ONE.

I. ZEUS, THE GOD OF THE GODS.

CH. II — ACHAEANS (GREEK) SIDE.

I. ACHILLES, THE MOST POWERFUL WARRIOR OF ILLIAD.

II. ODYSSEUS, THE CLEVEREST OF THE ACHAEAN COMMANDERS.

III. HERA, THE GODDESS OF MARRIAGE AND FAMILY.

IV. ATHENA, THE GODDESS OF WISDOM.

V. POSEIDON, THE GOD OF THE SEA.

VI. HERMES, THE MESSENGER OF GODS.

CH. III — TROJANS SIDE.

I. HECTOR, THE PRINCIPAL WARRIOR FROM TROY.

II. PARIS | ALEXANDER, THE DRIVE OF CHAOS.

III. APOLLO, THE GOD OF SUN AND THE ARTS.

IV. APHRODITE, THE GODDESS OF BEAUTY AND LOVE.

V. ARES, THE GOD OF WAR.

VI. ARTEMIS, THE GODDESS OF HUNT.

ꔛ hanniecoffee by morgana !

[butvega]

amo você, e sua mente de titânio, morgs. isso aqui é pura arte ❤️

[hanniecoffee]

SEVENTEEN AS CLASSIC BOOKS

𓃹 SPECIAL EDITION — ILIAD, HOMER.

Owner's Notes: um dia = um membro, mas não irei prometer muita coisa ♡ link para conferir o elenco! para terminar o especial, tem que ser com a diva!

↷ STARRING ROLES .

— considerada a obra fundadora da literatura ocidental, iliada narra poeticamente um dos principais acontecimentos históricos do período pré-homérico: a Guerra de Troia. (e em consequência, o seventeen contempla a verdadeira origem da ira de Aquiles).

WEN JUNHUI — as ARTEMIS.

☆ ARTEMIS é a deusa da caça, da lua, da proteção dos animais selvagens, da região silvestre e da virgindade. irmã gêmea de apolo e também seu contraponto (sol x lua), é filha de zeus e leto.

a deusa se posicionou a favor dos troianos, em vista que ela e seu irmão eram deuses verenados pela região. essa questão de hierárquica espiritual e veneração são regras contempladas por artemis, que por ora impediu a circulação dos navios gregos a troia justamente pois o rei agamenon havia abatido um dos cervos preciosos a deusa.

assim como ares, artemis se viu em confronto direto com uma deusa, no caso hera. a rainha do olímpo não somente a agrediu, como também quebrou o arco e flecha da diva. além disso, artemis auxiliou na proteção do soldado eneias em conjunto a apolo.

— "A fome nunca ataca a terra, nem a doença, que sempre assombra a vida de nós, pobres homens. Não, à medida que cada geração envelhece na ilha, Apolo desce com seu arco de prata, com Ártemis, e eles atiram em todos eles com flechas gentis."

ꔛ hanniecoffee by morgana !

[hanniecoffee]

SEVENTEEN AS CLASSIC BOOKS

𓃹 SPECIAL EDITION — ILIAD, HOMER.

Owner's Notes: um dia = um membro, mas não irei prometer muita coisa ♡ link para conferir o elenco!

↷ STARRING ROLES .

— considerada a obra fundadora da literatura ocidental, iliada narra poeticamente um dos principais acontecimentos históricos do período pré-homérico: a Guerra de Troia. (e em consequência, o seventeen contempla a verdadeira origem da ira de Aquiles).

KIM MINGYU — as ARES.

☆ ARES é o deus da guerra (da carnificina), filho de zeus e hera é descrito como um imortal violento e sanguinário.

o deus assume o partido dos troianos, por mas que anteriormente havia feito uma promessa a atena e hera em prestar apoio aos gregos. ares não somente lutou com eles (em conjunto de seus filhos: fobos (medo) e deimos (terror)), mas incentivou a guerra.

na iliada, o deus da guerra possui dois duelos essenciais — ARES (guerra sanguinária) x ATENA (guerra estratégica), no qual a deusa da sabedoria o fere com a lança, causando a fuga do homem ao olímpio. e ARES X DIOMEDES que conforme a ajuda da atena, atinge no ventre do mesmo, induzindo a ele fugir da batalha (de novo).

— "Ali, Diomedes mirou e apunhalou, arrancou-lhe a carne brilhante e arrancou a lança de volta. O deus da guerra, de bronze, soltou um grito, rugindo,estrondoso, enquanto nove, dez mil soldados de combate gritam com a fúria de Ares quando exércitos enormes se chocam. / Um tremor percorreu todas as fileiras, troianos e argivos, aterrorizados pelo grito que o deus soltou, Ares, cuja sede de matança nunca morre. / Mas agora , selvagem como um ciclone negro serpenteando em um banco de nuvens, crescendo a partir do calor do dia, rajadas e torres tão descarado Ares parecia para Diomedes, filho de Tideu. Elevando-se com as nuvens para o amplo céu varrido."

ꔛ hanniecoffee by morgana !

[hanniecoffee]

SEVENTEEN AS CLASSIC BOOKS

𓃹 SPECIAL EDITION — ILIAD, HOMER.

Owner's Notes: um dia = um membro, mas não irei prometer muita coisa ♡ link para conferir o elenco! hoje teremos a deusa criadora do CUNT (e a que mais sofre misunderstanding).

↷ STARRING ROLES .

— considerada a obra fundadora da literatura ocidental, iliada narra poeticamente um dos principais acontecimentos históricos do período pré-homérico: a Guerra de Troia. (e em consequência, o seventeen contempla a verdadeira origem da ira de Aquiles).

XU MINGHAO (THE8) — as APHRODITE.

☆ APHRODITE é a deusa do amor, da beleza, da sexualidade e da procriação. segundo homero, ela é filha de zeus e dione, entretanto na mitologia grega, a versão mais famosa regida por hesíodo é de que afrodite é filha de urano. mais especificamente se reconstituiu a parte da espuma do mar (os órgãos genitais cortados) do deus primordial.

aquiles de fato é o protagonista da guerra de troia, mas convenhamos... foi a deusa que trouxe a performance no movimento! lembram-se que o estopim desse acontecimento histórico foi o sequestro de helena, executado por paris? adivinha quem ofereceu o amor da mais bela princesa ao guerreiro troiano, resultando no rapto a esposa de menelau? AFRODITE.

a deusa da beleza para ganhar no julgamento de paris, ofereceu uma recompensa ao "juíz" para ser selecionada como a mais bela entre as deusas — entregar helena. esse deslocamento eclodiu na maior invasão grega/aqueia aos troianos já acontecida naquela ocasião ♡.

ao decorrer da batalha, afrodite se posicionou no campo de defesa do exército troiano, proporcionando proteção ao soldado eneias (filho da deusa) além de intervir no duelo menelau x paris, onde aplicou uma névoa sob o rei como uma "cortina de fumaça" para a fuga do troiano.

— "Com isso, ela soltou de seus seios a faixa peitoral, perfurada e sedutora, com todo tipo de encantamento tecido através dela... Há o calor do Amor, a pulsação da Saudade, o sussurro do amante, irresistível - mágica para fazer o homem mais são enlouquecer."

ꔛ hanniecoffee by morgana !