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rosedom · 23 days

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AHH UR SO RIGHT, fucking him over his bike, his pride and joy, while he gasps and moans while blubbering on how good u make him, how good it is.

AHHH him in leather too, he'd look so fine with a leather jacket bro omfg (≧▽≦) the way he'd tremble when you'd bite his neck, marking him up all from his neck to his shoulders as he tries to he quiet, embarrassed that he's feeling this good with you railing him over his precious bike

Maybe he's known as the "bad boy," the complete opposite of you,, and nobody would expect the two of you to even speak to each other,, but here the two of you are, both of you pretty much trembling from overstimulation and how good you're both feeling aahdbsksbdjs

It's such a good idea omfg ahdhshdbs ur brain is so good it's amazing

-pera

"in an open match, 【 pera 】 has invited WRIOTHESLEY to play . . . dress for the slide

✦ㅤㅤ 【 CW 】 dom!male!reader, sub!ftm!wriothesley, modern au, sex against a motorcycle, vaginal fingering, PIV sex, dirty talk + teasing + lowk praise, lighthearted bickering (mid- and post-coitus), slight breeding kink, creaming, creampie, alluded aftercare .

A/N : i know it technically wasn't an invitation, but . . ye<3 + fun references of dad!wrio with sigewinne <33

"do you want to watch, [PLAYER]? press KEEP READING to spectate the match."

Wriothesley is not an arrogant, prideful man. He is humble; he tips generously at restaurants, holds the door open for anybody coming up behind him, greets people—you especially—with a kind smile.

The scars marring his body, the thick leather of his jacket and pants, the spikes and chains worn like jewelry, accessories—it’s intimidating, sure, but on him, it’s hardly such.

Little children—they bound up to him, pulled as if by a magnet. It’s adorable, it’s endearing; and Wriothesley takes it all in stride, smiling that toothy grin of his and giving lollipops and candies from God-knows-where. (He’s got a pocket in his jacket just for sweets.

It’s why he always smells like sugar, beneath his frosty cologne.)

And speaking of children... Wriothesley is so good with ‘em. He holds custody over small Sigewinne, for crying out loud! She’s quite popular in school, too; while she's certainly a ball of sunshine on her own, her father certainly seals the deal for her—especially when he drops her off and picks her up in that hot ride of his:

a goddamn motorcycle.

Now, you’re not exactly an expert in the things: all you know is that it looks badass, and it makes Wriothesley all the more ruggedly handsome to you.

And, well.

It just so happens that, now, you’ve got this ruggedly handsome, sugar-frosted man all for the taking, spread out across the seat of that damn bike. He’s got his usual get-up on for when he rides—leather jacket, torn jeans, simple tee—, his hair a mussed up mess from where he took off his helmet. The helmet is resting precariously on the back seat, a support for Wriothesley’s body as you kiss him silly.

“Hah—wait, wait,” he’s pushing you back, breathless, his leather, fingerless gloves accentuating his fingertips, the short, bitten nails of his. His cheeks are tinged pink, and he looks good enough to eat—to devour.

You hum, tip your head to the side to nonverbally ask, What’s up? but Wriothesley’s twisting around just-so, just enough to grab his helmet. He passes it off to you—with, to your delight, shaking hands—, and asks, “Can you put this on the ground?” You raise a brow, taking it anyway to do as he asks, and he continues, sheepish. “I—ah, I don’t want it to fall.”

You laugh, then, corralling back up to him once the helmet’s safely deposited on the grass (and not the pavement, thank you. You’re not a monster, letting something as sexy and sleek as that helmet risk getting scratched up).

“Oh?” You lean back in, making like you’re about to kiss him again—kiss him proper, now, without worrying about the precarious balance of his beloved helmet—, but you dip down at the last second to press hot, searing kisses across his throat. “Why would it fall?” you continue, chuckling at the soft whimper that falls past his lips. “Unless you’re thinking about something naughty.”

He goes silent; the motorcycle rocks, just a little.

You pay it no mind, though. “Dirty, dirty boy,” you coo instead, lapping at the heavy thrum of his pulse. He groans, strong, leather-bound hands coming to wrap themselves around your biceps, yet he makes no other noise besides the quiet sounds of each exhale.

Soon enough—because it seems Wriothesley truly is intent on keeping it zipped—, your mouth has landed on the softest, most tender part of his neck. You hone in on it like you’re some type of mosquito blood-sucker, lips wrapping around his skin and sucking, suckling, working your tongue over it until it blooms a pretty shade of purple.

You tire quick, though, of the lack of vocal reply from your lover. “You can’t tell me you haven’t fantasized about this already,” you murmur, suckling a new mark opposite of the first one you’ve set prominently, “about me, about me fucking you jus’ like this...” You slide your hands up from his side to cup his jaw, thumbing at the subtle stubble as he looks up at you with such icy-blue irises.

You don't expect Wriothesley to nod. “I do,” he adds on, to really fluster you.

“I—ah?” You hiccup, pause, bite at the side of his neck mere inches above your first mark. “Gimme the deets.”

(It’s fun, to be immature like this.)

He huffs above you, gentle laughter shaking you from where you suckle bruise after bruise after bruise, leaving him looking like he got mauled by a bear, or whatever. (Your possessive heart soars at seeing your claim spread across his skin, where even his jacket collar can't cover.

Everybody will know he's yours.)

“Stop talkin’ like that,” he grumbles—the effect lost by the way he laughs—, “you sound like a teenager.”

“A horny teenager.”

He barks out a true laugh at that, the sound spilling into a soft moan when you suck at the slight hollow of his throat, the area oversensitive because of the scars. “You're insufferable.”

“And hard,” you murmur, rolling your hips down into him. The motorcycle creaks at your movement, but, this time, it stays still—perfectly still. (You thank Wriothesley for the care he gave his bike, going as far as to invest in a good and proper kickstand.

He definitely didn't imagine this when buying that, though.)

It's time to up the ante, then (to really test the give of the product.)

“Lemme fulfill those dirty fantasies of yours, sweet thing,” you coo, suddenly dropping the pretense of light-hearted teasing and diving right on into adopting that tone of voice you know makes Wriothesley utterly helpless in his arousal.

Yet, “Sigewinne rides on this with me—” he tries to say.

“So?” You dip down, hot breath fanning against his lips. His eyes cross to follow your descent, trained on your mouth getting closer, closer. “I’ll clean it.

“Besides,” you continue, rubbing the tips of your noses together. His own breath tickles your face. “I want you to be reminded of this. Every time you go on a ride, you’re gonna be thinking about this—about me, about the way I ruined you right here, right on your precious lil’ bike.

“You’ll always be reminded of this.”

You don't expect the way he mutters, all breathless off of nothing but the pleasant ache across his neck from the hickeys and your dirty, dirty words—it’s a simple, a quiet but gruff, “Good.”

“Good?” You tip your head to the side.

Wriothesley only huffs again, pulling you closer with the hands he's moved to your shoulders. You swear you can feel the grooves of his gloves through your own shirt. “Good,” he repeats, easy confidence dripping from his voice. (You want him to drip with something else.) “I want to remember.”

And, really, the grin you give is downright ridiculous, this love-sick, dopey thing that has no place in such a charged environment; but Wriothesley shares it with you, your own private smiles, and then he's surging forward and pulling you down to meet him in a desperate kiss, one all tongues and teeth.

“Now quit talkin’,” he drawls, licking at the roof of your mouth, “and make g-good on that promise.”

“Promise?” You chuckle, dark, a play out of Wriothesley’s own book. It doesn't fit you, really—you, the epitome of a good boy, a handsome sonuvabitch who has grandmas tripping over themselves trying to marry off their granddaughters. (“Oh, isn't he charming, sweet Cecily?”

“Grandmama, I’m a lesbian.”)

“I didn't promise you anything, Wrio,” you coo, but your mouth and hands are hardly on the same wavelength; as you tease him with your words, dripping straight sin, your hands are unbuckling the heavy metal strung across his hips, thumbing down the fly ‘til you get your fingers wedged right between his thighs. “Maybe I should have you beg, hm? Beg to be ruined right now, right here on the same bike everybody sees you ride around town in.

“Oh,” you murmur, then, an idea springing to your mind as your fingertips press to the throb of his cock even through his briefs, “isn’t that an idea?” He whimpers, the sound so soft, so—so unbecoming, if you didn't know Wriothesley the way you do. “E’rybody’s gonna see you ridin’ this, and they're not gonna have a damn clue, are they? They're not gonna know the way you spread yourself so eagerly across her pretty seats—” you tease him by calling the bike a her, knowing how peculiar Wriothesley is about personifying the thing.

He nods, hips humping desperately into your fingers. The whole time, he's making these other soft sounds, and you're taken, over and over again, by how lucky you are to have such a strong man at your mercy. “Please,” he begs. “Quit talkin’, and fuck me.”

Snickering, you bump your palm against his mons, saying, “But you love it when I tell you all the things I’m gonna do to you.”

Unable to even deny it, he groans, deep and throaty. “I do,” he acquiesces while you take away your hand and help lift him enough to shimmy down his jeans and boxers both, “but I’d love it better if you'd do more than just talk.” You leave the fabrics bunched mid thigh as you stand him up proper and spin him around, pressing him gently into the leather upholstery.

It’s quick, after that, to curl over the heft of him, to nudge your fingers back down between his bare thighs to tease at this thick cock, his throbbing cunt. He's soaked, off so little, and it's easy, too, to slide in one, two, three, working him open in soft, gentle movements that stretch him without a biting burn.

“I’m ready,” he bemoans, shimmying his hips ‘til he bumps against your own erection, tenting at your own pants. “Fuck me!” His hips move, tantalizing, teasing, and you find, unsurprisingly, that pre-cum is seeping through the fabric of your boxers.

“Fine, fine,” you murmur, pressing your fingertips against his g-spot for the first time today, the spot swollen beneath your touch. He mewls, chasing the pleasure, and you give it to him readily as you dig your cock out from your fly, barely pushing your pants down enough to rest just past your balls.

Now that your cock’s out, you slide your fingers from his wet, loose heat. (It never ceases to amaze you, how loose a cunt he gets when he's sufficiently aroused. He opens so easily for you, sopping off of nothing but some words, some foreplay.)

No matter how wet he is, though, you're still careful to further slick him up with lubricant. You dip into him just-so, just enough to slather his hole and cock both in lube. He starts, slightly, at the starkness of something cold against where he's most hot, most sensitive. “Ah.”

Grinning devilishly against the nape of his neck, nosing down the high leather collar of his jacket, you drag out your fingers, terribly slow; and, only when you're sure Wriothesley is well aware of just where your hand is, you slather your own hard cock with the mess of lube and his slick.

“Ready?”

He huffs. “I’ve been ready, babydoll.”

You laugh at that, nudging your cockhead up and into his loose hole. The resistance is hardly evident—really, his body gives so easily for you—, your cockhead popping in in that perfectly saccharine way that always makes you groan low, makes Wriothesley whimper high in his throat.

“So open for me, babydoll,” you coo—his own word against him—, one hand dropping from his hip to brace against the seat of the bike. It hasn't gotten truly unsteady yet, but you always like to err on the side of caution when your beloved is involved. (Plus, you’re really not keen on having to buy a replacement bike for him.

A year’s salary alone probably couldn't buy a bike as souped up as his, the years Wriothesley put into the thing paying off beautifully in the long run. That damn bike's been around longer than you’ve been his boyfriend.)

Your cock slips in quick, easy, smooth, sliding right in down to the hilt, where you pause to let him adjust to your size. And, like clockwork, he shuffles his hips side to side against your one-hand hold and breathes out a low, whistling breath, says, “Okay.”

With that simple word—that small phrase, really—, you’re drawing your hips out slow n’ slick, the sound frankly obscene in the quiet around you. His bike doesn't so much as creak this time, either: it’s silent but swaying in time with your thrusts, barely noticeable and not at all that important, supporting the weight of you both and the heft of your next tender thrust.

Nosing at his sweat-damp hair, you drawl, “Look’it you, sweetheart, all open n’ pliant for me on my cock. You’re takin’ it so well, pretty thing right on your pretty bike.”

“Baby—” he starts to say something else, but he gets cut off with his own moan, your thick cock budding up against his g-spot. You feel him froth around where you're balls-deep in him, and you slide your hand from hip to mons.

“Want my hand, Wrio?” you ask, fingers brushing the mess of black curls sprouting from between his thighs.

He nods vehemently, his bangs splayed across his sweaty forehead. God, if anybody walked by, drove by—they’d get an eyeful of your Wriothesley, fucked silly and hot by your cock; they’d get their heart’s content of punked-out Wriothesley, leather gloves and leather jacket spread across leather upholstery, his accessorizing chains rattling off with each thrust.

But Wriothesley is yours and yours alone; you wouldn't dare share the sight with anybody else. As such, you curl yourself further over his stretch-out, prone body, breathing hotly against and moaning against the blushing shell of his ear.

“There we go,” you murmur, taking to circling the throbbing head of his cock with a gentle finger. He mewls into the air, his head almost limp on his shoulders. “There we go.”

“F-feels good,” he moans as he tips his head into yours. “So good.”

“Yeah?” you ask, rhetoric, switching from circling to stroking him, your pointer and middle finger lightly squeezed on either side of his straining erection, moving forwards n’ backwards in gentle undulations. You swear you can feel his heartbeat in each throb of his cock, driving you to give it to him better, sweeter. “I can feel you throb for me, sweet thing: are you already that close?”

No longer trusting his voice (which is a shame, really, considering how much you love to hear those ruined syllables pass from his lips), Wriothesley can only nod, letting his head loll even further forward ‘til he’s practically curved over the seat of the bike. You follow him all the way down: you, wrapped over his curled back; and him, head pillowed on his crossed arms. A shimmer of sweat makes itself known on the sleeves of his jacket, the leather of it catching the sun. He’s devolved to helpless moans.

While he trembles beneath you, around your cock, you hone in on that perfect angle—the angle of your fingers stroking him off, the angle of your cock bumping against the spots deep in his cunt that never fail to pull Wriothesley apart. “There we go,” you repeat, your own words coming out muddled with the pleasure threatening to pull you under, instead. “‘m gonna cum in you, gonna fill you up ‘til you can’t take anymore—y-you want that, baby? Want me to breed you while you cream my cock—”

“—yes!” His voice is shot to hell, this raspy thing that’s somehow thrice as gruff as normal and equally as hot, as absolutely, resolutely ruined. “Yes, yes! Breed me, w-wanna be bred...” He tapers off with a whimper, cunt beginning to tighten up around you as his orgasm threatens to pull him under with you—no longer just apart, but wholly wrapped in you, safe and protected.

“Cum for me, then—mm—, Wrio, Wriothesley—”

He whimpers, again, and you barely catch a whisper of your own name in the intelligible mess before you’re cumming, too, your cock pulsing with each involuntary squeeze of Wriothesley around you. Even as blood rushes through your ears, though, you’re whispering sweet words—nasty words, each one making him whimper n’ whine—, your fingers—long-trained, by now—keep up the gentle strokes of his cock until he’s too sensitive to go on. You withdraw them slowly, even as you’re still pumping him full with cum, even as his cock is still helplessly twitching and cunt still milking you for all you’re worth.

Coming down from your highs, then, is a slow, drawn out thing. You stay seated to the hilt, but you tease at the way his cunt’s spread open around the base of your cock, your fingers coming back covered in opaque white. He whines and weakly kicks his leg back, but you only laugh, bringing his cum up to your lips, tongue darting out to lick it clean. You groan—more-so for show, to get a rise out of your boyfriend—at the taste, and he seems to finally find his voice at that.

“Quit it,” he says; and, damn, did you do a number on his voice. It seems to have dropped an octave, all syrupy-slow and gruff in that way he always gets post-coitus. “‘s nasty.”

“I’m nasty?” Laughing, you nuzzle your cheek against the back of his head, cat-like in your affections. “You begged for it.”

Wriothesley groans. When he attempts to lean up, you help by wrapping your hands around his abdomen—surely leaving a patch of saliva somewhere on either his tee or jacket—and prop your chin on his shoulder... all while you’re still balls-deep.

“Hi,” you say, grinning. You can feel his eye-roll.

But he says “hi” back anyway, letting his head fall back onto your own shoulder. He tilts his face towards you and meets your gaze with a satisfied sort of smile.

“Well?” you ask. “Did I live up to your fantasies?”

He nods. “And more,” he adds; but then he’s pulling off of and away from your cock, leaving you no time to dwell on it. “I starkly remember you saying you would clean my bike.”

“I did.”

“Get to it then.”

You grumble, though, tugging him back into your with the bear hold you’ve got wrapped across his torso. “You and the bike,” you finally correct, “and you come first. C’mon.”

Whether or not you actually get to cleaning that leather upholstery, well... Wriothesley may be driving Sigewinne to school tomorrow while sitting on a barely-there, all-dried patch of his and your cum.

i got rlly carried away . . this was 3k words before i even knew it >< . . but: was this inbox from february? ye. does my pera anon still show their face? idk ! if ur still here, this is dedicated to u, honey <33 i know this may feel shallow of me, but i really do miss u guys when u disappear (；′⌒`)

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sunshyni · 2 months

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vamos lá!

pensei em um roommates to lovers com o jeno! ele tem um crush na roommate dele e tenta ignorar isso, nunca flertou com ela nem nada, até que um dia ele acidentalmente flagra ela trocando de roupa e vê que ela tem uma tatuagem, aí ele não consegue tirar isso da cabeça e decide se declarar pra ela

é uma ideia louca, mas consigo imaginar muito o jeno nessa situação

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤchristmas tattoo

notes: FINALMENTE!!! Era pra eu ter postado isso no domingo, (geralmente posto atualização no final de semana) mas não consegui 😔

Foi um tanto quanto difícil escrever isso (por isso, se estiver ruim, relevem KKKK) porque eu não 'tava conseguindo encontrar um contexto bom pro Jeno e pra pp, mas acho que no final deu tudo certo.

(OBS: tive que adicionar uma personagem e o apelido dela é “Lala” porque eu costumo chamar uma pessoa muito especial de “La” mas achei que ia ficar muito vazio KKKK)

w.c: 1.6k

warnings: o final tá um pouquinho sugestivo porque eu 'tava com “The boy is mine” da Ari no fone e eu acho que é isso!!!

boa leitura, docinhos!!! 🎁

Você e Jeno dividiam as despesas de um apartamento próximo do campus da universidade de vocês desde que você estava no terceiro semestre do seu curso e ele no primeiro, a verdade é que Jeno havia deixado passar as datas de solicitação de um quarto no dormitório masculino, então o seu anúncio de que precisava de um colega de apartamento com urgência foi como um grande milagre para ele, que até começou a trabalhar meio período numa cafeteria para arcar com as contas.

A princípio, você hesitou quanto aceitar dividir a casa com ele, afinal Jeno era um verdadeiro colírio para os olhos, deveria ser o tipo de calouro que traria uma garota diferente para casa todas as noites, foi o que você pensara, no entanto o Lee te mostrou o contrário, ele costumava ser calado e compenetrado, e mesmo depois de ter conseguido um estágio remunerado numa grande empresa de tecnologia, não havia trazido ninguém para casa para comemorar. Na ocasião, ele comprou um vinho caro e você fez um brownie de chocolate que quase assou demais, comeram a luz de velas porque uma tempestade despencava lá fora enquanto Jeno se fartava feliz de uma sobremesa que nem estava tão deliciosa assim.

Jeno nunca tentara nada com você, mas sempre teve uma quedinha pela veterana do curso de publicidade, afinal desde que começou a morar contigo, ele tinha consciência do longo relacionamento que você tinha com um carinha do curso de nutrição, mas o quadro mudou agora que já faziam seis meses desde que você terminou com o homem em questão.

— Qual você prefere? Essa ou essa? — Jeno alternou o olhar entre as velas aromáticas nas suas mãos — Essa é de torta de maçã e essa é de cookies.

— A de cookies é mais natalina, né? — E lá estava, aquela agitação e falta de fôlego quando os dedos de Jeno roçaram suavemente com os seus quando ele segurou a vela escolhida, e ainda para ajudar, você optou por luzes baixas naquele natal, então as únicas luzes que iluminavam seus rostos na sala de tv era a do pisca-pisca da pequena árvore de natal recheada com alguns presentes que vocês tinham preparado.

Você engoliu em seco e Jeno seguiu com o olhar o movimento da sua língua que umedeceu o lábio inferior de forma automática, como se de repente percebesse que estava com sede, e realmente estava, com o Lee diante de você te secando sem hesitar.

Era por isso que você ultimamente evitava a todo custo tocá-lo, mesmo que minimamente, afinal o mínimo dos toques já estava se mostrando bastante desastroso.

— Eu tô pensando num negócio faz tempo... — Jeno quase soprou no seu ouvido, não ajudava o fato da sua voz adquirir do nada um tom grave extremamente atraente, do tipo “vou arrancar os cabelos se não beijá-lo nesse instante” — Eu meio que...

A campainha tocou antes que o Lee pudesse começar, como consequência da súbita interrupção ele pigarreou e se afastou do seu corpo, até aquele momento você não tinha percebido o quão próximos um do outro vocês estavam, o que te deixou um tanto quanto zonza quando ele se afastou de uma só vez para abrir a porta do apartamento com um sorriso contente.

— Quem é esse Jaemin e porque eu tenho a impressão de que ele flerta até com as paredes? — Jaemin era um dos amigos mais próximos de Jeno e sim, ele poderia facilmente não só flertar como conquistar uma parede. E Lala, a responsável pelo questionamento se tratava da sua amiga do ensino fundamental — Eu realmente espero que aquele presente embrulhado de forma bem desleixada seja do Dodo.

E era, vocês três eram amigos desde o início da faculdade, tinham feito o trabalho de conclusão de curso juntos e receberam elogios de todos os professores na época. Vocês também tinham uma tradição de natal que envolvia presentear uns aos outros com presentes bregas, e dessa vez você decidira presentear o garoto de óculos e cashmere com um suéter colorido feito a mão com a inicial “D” posicionada bem no centro da roupa.

— E como você tá? Digo, em relação àquela geladeira Eletrolux bem alí — Sua amiga questionou baixinho, obviamente se referindo a Jeno que conversava animadamente com Jaemin. Você instintivamente guiou o olhar na direção dele, que não tardou em sentir seus olhos queimarem sobre sua pessoa, acenando com a cabeça para você enquanto respondia alguma fala de Jaemin com um sorriso pintado nos lábios.

— Eu continuo muito ferrada.

— Mas essa história toda não é super conveniente? Vocês dois se gostam e ele é um bom garoto.

— Porque você acabou de se referir ao Jeno como se ele fosse um cachorro? — Doyoung finalmente se uniu a vocês depois de beliscar algumas entradas em cima da mesa e tirar sua atenção nas miniaturas natalinas dispersas pela casa.

— É que ele parece um cachorro Samoieda — Lala disse sem titubear.

— Tem razão — Você e Dodo assentiram ao mesmo tempo enquanto os três olhavam para Jeno em conjunto.

O restante da noite seguiu de forma tranquila, vocês presentearam um ao outro à meia-noite, Jeno te deu uma câmera Polaroid porque ele sabia como ninguém há quanto tempo você estava namorando aquele item numa vitrine de uma loja que com frequência vocês passavam pela frente.

Você o presenteou com um moletom que sabia que ele amaria, tanto ao ponto de vesti-lo assim que o teve em mãos. Agora, só restavam vocês novamente no apartamento aconchegante, Jeno estava numa ligação característica de ocasiões especiais com a sua família, e raramente você compreendia alguma palavra que saía da sua boca, só entendia aquelas que por curiosidade ele havia lhe dito o significado.

— Aquele também é seu — Você arrumou a postura na cadeira da mesa de jantar quando Jeno falou, dessa vez numa língua comum a vocês dois. Você olhou para trás, debaixo da árvore só existia um embrulho solitário de uma loja de jóias que você conhecia bem — Não tá curiosa pra saber o que é?

— Mas você já me deu um presente.

— Esse é o segundo — Jeno afirmou com confiança e você não teve escolha a não ser tornar visível a caixinha de um colar com uma pedrinha azul brilhante no seu centro. Você ergueu o olhar na direção do Lee que retirou o colar dalí com delicadeza e te pediu para virar de costas para ele com o mesmo tom de voz grave de antes.

— Quando foi que você fez isso? — Ele claramente estava falando sobre a tatuagem de borboleta gravada na sua nuca que você havia feito há umas duas semanas, mas que havia se arrependido e por isso, dificilmente prendia o cabelo num rabo de cavalo ou num coque bagunçado. Você segurou o cabelo para ajudar o Lee no processo de fechar o acessório no seu pescoço, no entanto quando você fez menção de soltar as mechas, Jeno enrolou seu cabelo delicadamente em volta do próprio punho — Esse desenho ficou na minha cabeça desde...

Ele não precisava terminar a sentença, você sabia que ele estava falando do incidente recente em que você deixou a porta do quarto aberta numa troca de camiseta e Jeno acabou vislumbrando mais do que deveria, certamente foi por se recordar desse evento que você fechou os olhos e sentiu as bochechas esquentarem, e não porque naquele momento, Jeno havia acabado de pressionar os lábios sobre a pele da sua nuca de forma suave.

— Foi uma bobagem...

— Eu achei perfeita — O Lee te cortou ao passo que a mão enlaçava sua cintura por trás, te fazendo prender o fôlego involuntariamente, o colar só era uma desculpa esfarrapada para ele poder visualizar mais uma vez a tatuagem e poder te tocar daquela forma íntima pela primeira vez.

— Você sabe que eu gosto de você, né? — Ele soprou no seu ouvido, descansando o queixo sobre o seu ombro ao mesmo tempo que as mãos estavam repousadas na sua cintura. Você resolveu se virar de uma vez, olhando nos olhos dele que cintilavam, as pupilas dilatadas, as bochechas coradas por todo o vinho tinto ingerido e até um tanto quanto abobalhado, muito diferente do Jeno silencioso que poderia facilmente intimidar qualquer um, ele cutucou gentilmente o pingente no seu pescoço, despreocupado, como se não tivesse se confessado na sua última fala — Gostou disso?

— Acho que eu gosto de você — Jeno te olhou com admiração, sorrindo e achando adorável a forma como você retribuiu a coisa, ele te beijou suavemente nos lábios, envolvendo seu rosto com as palmas das mãos e te beijando loucamente, mesmo que não tivesse experimentado ainda utilizar a língua no ato.

Você nem percebeu como foram parar no sofá, mas lá estava Jeno, tornando todos os seus pensamentos em borrões sem sentido dentro da sua mente, fazendo você se repreender internamente porque existiam duas barreiras têxteis dessa vez por causa do moletom que você havia o presenteado, mas vocês não tinham pressa alguma, o que dava pra perceber com cada beijo preguiçoso que o Lee te dava ao passo que o quadril simulava contato com o seu de forma extremamente perversa.

— Foi a tatuagem que te deixou desse jeito? — Você inquiriu sem fôlego, e Jeno sorriu de uma maneira tão radiante que seus olhos se tornaram duas luas minguantes adoráveis, ele beijou os seus lábios e com os olhos ainda semicerrados de desejo, ele sibilou bem perto da sua boca.

— Não só a tatuagem.

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