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moodboard . ( visualisation ) LEE EUNYU . BALLERINA/SURVIVOR . treated as an original character . — own added developments alongside events of SWEET HOME .

hands are in pockets , there’s a downward smile that forms as you approach him . “Ya— you really meant abandoned , abandoned huh?” sarcasm laced in the tone of voice , not in a menacing manner but to lighten the air that evoked quietness of the moment . [ EMPHATIC NATURE , GENTLE HEART . ] fond over friendship , was ever one to just accept people but also your reputation perceives you . sitting beside the other and kicking loose stones , swinging lightly from the rusty chair , playgrounds always made you feel nostalgic of childhood . but of course you wouldn’t show it .

Blissful.　Too worked up to bother traversing past his bedroom door,　figuring the couch would suffice good as any other location.　So he lays Jae on his back,　fumbles and fumbles with stupid fucking clasps and zips on his own clothing,　until he follows it through into completion and may strip down the other in similar enough fashion.　Much more gracefully,　this time,　without stupid fingers intercepting a buckle one too many goddamn fucking times.　The contact is intoxicating,　moment taken to relish in the warmth of their frames sat sung,　flush against one another.　Grin creeping across his comportment is met with knuckle pressed betwixt teeth;　bite down,　try　(and fail)　to show restraint.　The drapes are half pulled back,　clarity in outward sightline where his apartment overlooks.　Trees and drab buildings scraping the sky.　Not a soul of similar elevation nearby.　The third floor has its perks.　He’d flick the television to life if he had half a mind for it　—　the polite thing to do would be drown out his imminent noise　—　but the remote remains untouched on the low table,　black and undisturbed screen casting reflection of Dae-ho’s wandering hands.

He doesn’t want to think,　only chasing the satisfaction that comes in finally bringing touch to his aching touch.　A few strokes,　something to keep him lucid.　The other hand pries Jae’s legs apart.　There is no use in being greedy,　and he sheepishly retracts hand from himself,　head dipping down to spit onto his fingers.　A shift,　gentle prod against his entrance,　and Dae-ho scissors his two fingers in.　In,　out.　In,　out.　Repeat.　(He can’t resist.　Jae’s just so goddamn cute⸻　there is no way he can hold back the urge to fret himself against plush texture of tiger-stripe blanket spread out beneath them.)　Spit again,　this time lathered onto himself　—　he knows,　he fucking knows that both condoms and lube sit tucked away in his bottom bedside drawer,　but he knows,　too,　that his own desperation to rut into Jae can only serve to heighten things　—　and the curved edge of his front teeth presses indents into his bottom lip.　No more thinking.　He hooks forearm beneath Jae’s knee to hold him open,　other hand aiding to guide himself inside.　Shallow roll of his hips to press in further,　and outstretched arm drifts until it finds purchase at the arm of the sofa to stabilize,　shape of muscle hovered faintly above Jae’s shoulder.　It feels like heaven,　he does.　Dae-ho could kiss him and kiss him and kiss him.

Fingertips buzz with urge for touch,　more and more,　rapacious bastard that he is,　and only a few seconds pass before he shifts and adjusts himself again,　hand sneaking under to cradle the back of Jae’s head,　gentle drag of nails against his scalp.　It’s nice to feel close to him,　isn’t it?　Proximity he can really drink in once heated contempt has dissipated into the air,　evanescent and ever-exaggerated.　Then face is pressed into his neck　—　nuzzled,　maybe,　if Dae-ho could ever tolerate such saccharine verbiage　—　and a whine pulls through his teeth while losing himself in fucking into Jae,　erratic and sloppy and desirous.　Whatever he can manage below his breath in the aftermath is incoherent,　a gravelly mélange of moans and pleas tucked safe and sound beneath his tongue.　Breath grows ragged,　grip at Jae’s leg tightening inadvertent,　tiny beads of perspiration glistening upon his form.　 Blissful.

He should think of himself less.　So much fucking less.　But he is Dae-ho,　all flesh and wrath and teeth ground down into his jaw,　and maybe he shouldn’t think at all.　It’s difficult:　what does this say about him?　What would people think?　Why doesn’t he feel agony of comparison against his skin laid bare?　Sticky with sweat,　it is a conscious fight against the rigidity his body demands versus sinful pressure of Angel above him.　Oversized fingers clutch his jaw in gesture that would be nauseatingly sweet if it were anyone else.　Bane of his existence permitting,　it’s not;　any such resistance with the backwards motion of his head had ceased early on.　Angel is stronger.　Angel is stronger,　and he loathes him for that.　He had one fucking thing in life going for him,　and with Angel,　it is stripped away,　made completely irrelevant.　Angel is stronger,　and he wants him so fucking badly.

thinking about them very loudly today . si-eun and suho variants . I repeat . they means sm to me @trash2k

mickey mortimer's contact info !! @trash2k