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Tangled limbs. Uneven breaths. Hair matted from the friction against the pillow, lips swollen from the onslaught of kisses. Riwoo makes a sudden movement, and Taesan clears his throat, an unsure sound that makes Riwoo frown.
“Don’t do that,” he says softly. “I want to hear you.”
Taesan plays dumb. “I’m not doing anything.”
Riwoo finally settles; Taesan shifts his weight against the mattress, tries to adjust to the new sensation while keeping his enjoyment contained. He knows Riwoo knows his response is bullshit, but he doesn’t drop the act, because he can’t; this entire ordeal is too embarrassing for him to fully relax.
“You’re holding back,” is all Riwoo says as he removes a strand of hair from Taesan’s forehead. “You don’t have to do that—this is for you.”
But he does have to do that, Taesan thinks, because it’s what he does when the roles are reversed, which they always are, this afternoon a detour in their routine he’s yet to fully process. The fact that he’s bare and lying beneath Riwoo is mortifying on its own, and anything more will send his already racing thoughts into overdrive.
He’s not entirely sure why they’re doing this in the first place. Sure, it’s their year anniversary, but he’s already received numerous congratulations and a gift (a bag from Maison Margiela that he had been eyeing for a year but never bought due to the unreasonable price tag; he nearly begged Riwoo to return it, the idea of someone spending that much on him riddling him with guilt, to which Riwoo insisted he wasn’t going to return anything because he deserved to have it, to which Taesan still hesitated to fully accept it despite his excitement, only giving in once Riwoo called him ‘cute’) for it, and he isn’t a fan of gifts anyway, isn’t a fan of having people physically care for him, that care being something he provides for others, never reserving it for himself, never wanting to burden anyone with the labor of doing something for him.
Riwoo seems to sense Taesan’s uncertainty. He hooks a finger underneath his chin, initiates eye contact. “We can stop if this is really too much for you.”
Taesan doesn't want to stop.
This might become tiring for Riwoo, though.
“I'm okay,” he affirms. “But we can stop if you want—”
A gentle kiss that silences him. “This isn't about me.”
Taesan wants to argue against that—this is an act that involves two people therefore it's about both of them—but Riwoo starts to move again, and Taesan holds his breath, nervous about the next step, nervous about what could happen if he doesn't control himself.
Riwoo, sliding out, cautious, slow. “You're so tense.”
Taesan, struggling to continue looking at him. “I'm just shy. You know that.”
A smile so affectionate it hits him directly in the heart, wounds him. “You don't have to be shy around me. I got you.”
Right.
Riwoo steadies himself by digging his fingers into Taesan’s thighs (and Taesan likes the roughness—embarrassing) and slides back in with ease, more force this time, a lopsided grin appearing when Taesan bites into his bottom lip to stifle a faint whimper.
“Baby.”
“Hm?”
“You're doing it again.”
“Sorry,” Taesan exhales, not really meaning it, wishing Riwoo would stop being so attuned to him for once. He doesn't deserve this care, or this attention, or this tenderness, and it should be given to someone worthy of it, someone worthy of being admired and cradled and loved, so it doesn't make sense to lean into it, to melt into it, regardless of how much he wants it.
“It's okay,” Riwoo whispers, moving his hands from Taesan’s shoulders to the pillow. “But it's okay to let go, too.”
Let go.
No, a death grip is the only way to ensure he doesn't lose the things he's worked for by doing something stupid, like allowing himself to be needy.
Riwoo doesn't wait for a response; he continues his movements, sliding out then back in once more. A clear rhythm is initially absent, only experimental motions as he gauges Taesan’s response, until he hits Taesan at an angle that takes him by a surprise, his eyes involuntarily rolling back with a sigh falling from his lips, causing him to almost go rigid once he realizes what just occurred, heating wildly when Riwoo smiles at him, amused.
“Pretty,” he coos. “Keep doing that.”
What's ‘pretty’ to Riwoo is unrecognizable to Taesan—he's never heard himself sound like that, didn't know he even could sound like that, and he quickly decides he hates it.
This is humiliating.
Having someone love him this way is humiliating.
But it feels good, physically, so he persists, lets Riwoo push his leg back and study his face, hooks his arms around Riwoo’s neck as the pace gradually strengthens and quickens, more (timid) sighs leaving him and matching Riwoo’s grunts, overly self-aware as he recalls how Riwoo usually looks in his own position, soft and angelic and unreal with a slack jaw and knitted eyebrows, wondering if he's currently living up to that beauty in Riwoo’s eyes, wondering if Riwoo is in awe of his appearance like Taesan always is with him, hoping—praying—that's the case but knowing it isn't, because he isn't made for things like this, and the proof of that is probably written on his face, wide eyes and reddened cheeks that'll probably make Riwoo change his mind about this entire thing in the next minute or so, and Taesan wouldn't blame him if he does, because this is stupid, and he's stupid, and tending to his needs is stupid.
A particularly powerful thrust results in another unrecognizable sound: a proper moan, full and loud and accompanied by Taesan throwing his head back against the pillow, eyelids fluttering, jaw dropping, the weight of Riwoo’s gaze that he knows is on him urging to him to come back to reality, the pleasure of Riwoo repeatedly slamming into him too great for him to actually listen to his fearful thoughts.
This is humiliating, and this is stupid, and he hopes Riwoo will at least do him the favor of turning a blind eye to his unexpected unraveling.
“Baby,” Riwoo says again, because he's always calling Taesan that, ‘baby’, like it's his given name, like it isn't a big deal to address him in a manner that's consistently gentle and drenched in admiration. “You're beautiful. So beautiful.”
Taesan could crawl out of his skin.
Riwoo takes one of Taesan’s arms away from his neck, connects their hands by interlocking their fingers. He plants a kiss on the inside of his wrist that blooms into a trail that cascades down his forearm, pausing briefly when he asks a simple question.
“Feel good?”
Taesan doesn't want to answer. It's easier to pretend he isn't in their shared room, in their shared bed, underneath Riwoo, whining and twisting as he's brought closer and closer to the edge if he doesn't speak. The noisy reactions spilling out of him should be an answer in itself; this is humiliating, and Riwoo is probably secretly aware of that, and he's probably aiming to worsen it.
Stupid.
A strained “Mhm,” is all Taesan can muster, because he can't think, because he can't let go, because he can't admit that yes, it does feel good, that it feels better than good, that it feels wonderful to finally receive what he's constantly dreamed of but has constantly been too afraid to ask for.
A hushed “Good. I'm glad,” is what Riwoo offers in response as he continues his trail of kisses. “You deserve this, to feel good.”
Taesan can't help himself.
“Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why do I deserve it?”
Taesan knows what he sounds like—entitled and demanding—and he regrets it as soon as it leaves his lips, his self-sabotaging tendencies on full display, unfortunately effective if the slight falter in Riwoo’s hips is anything to go by.
Riwoo slows down. And the kisses stop. And Taesan falls silent, stiffens, mentally berates himself for never knowing when to shut up, immediately proving Riwoo wrong, because he's stupid and incapable of handling this.
Riwoo lazily rolls his hips, waits for Taesan to look him in eye to answer, which Taesan eventually does after what could be an eternity.
“Well…why wouldn't you?”
That's easy.
An unvoiced answer: because he's annoying and difficult and complicated and exhausting and hard to understand and hard to talk to and hard to tolerate and hard to love. Not needing anything lessens these traits; not needing anything makes him more digestible; not needing anything makes him easier to handle. It’s better for him to give and never receive, because he wants too much, and he needs too much, and he—
“I know you like to pretend that you never need anything,” Riwoo starts, still moving. “But I know that you do, and I want you to know that's okay. I want to give you what you need; I want to give you what makes you happy.”
A rebuttal: “But you already make me happy.”
“No,” Riwoo shakes his head. “You do so much for me and I want to return the favor. And I know this—” A jarring thrust; a pathetic gasp. “—is something you've wanted for a while.”
Taesan refrains from asking how he could've possibly known that (it was obvious, he assumes, from the handful of times in the past where Riwoo had finished and immediately asked if there was anything he could do for Taesan, a question that was always met with a hum of thought before an inevitable “I don't need anything, silly.”), and instead asks a more pressing one, always finding a way to put someone else's needs before his own.
“But is this what you want?”
Immediate, hardly a nanosecond wasted. “Yes. God, yes. You're beautiful, and you sound perfect, and the faces you're making—You don't know how hard I'm trying to last right now.”
The last half is delivered with a breathy laugh; the confirmation that Riwoo has been watching him makes Taesan grow shy, makes him want to cover his face with his hands, and he almost does it, but Riwoo beats him to it, pinning his hands above his head with his own, smiling.
“Let me see you, baby. Please.”
Taesan gives a defeated huff, submits to the circumstance of being observed at his most vulnerable, because he deserves it.
No, that's not right.
Because it's what Riwoo wants.
That's better.
Riwoo returns to his previous pace when Taesan doesn't show any protest. His smile is soon replaced by the knitted eyebrows Taesan knows all too well, and Taesan relaxes a little once he sees it, knowing for sure that Riwoo is enjoying himself, knowing for sure that Riwoo is getting what he wants, his role of being a giver still being fulfilled in a convoluted way.
But his role as a receiver—the role he signed up for this afternoon—is still difficult to fill. Yes, it feels nice, and sure, he's enjoying it, and of course, it's something he's wanted, Riwoo’s attractiveness causing his imagination to get carried away at times, and okay, fine, maybe, maybe he does deserve it, but that's only because it's their anniversary, so he shouldn't get too carried away, because this is a courtesy more than anything else.
Riwoo grips Taesan’s wrists so tightly that the skin might bruise and it's a courtesy; Taesan pathetically utters a string of curses as he nears the edge and it's a courtesy; Riwoo gets the hint, somehow finds the strength to fuck him harder, freeing Taesan’s wrists in favor of gripping his thigh again, Taesan now clinging to Riwoo’s back from the new force, digging his nails into the skin, realizing too late that the action will leave marks that Riwoo won't let him hear the end of and it’s a courtesy; Taesan lets out a high-pitched whine and it's a courtesy; Riwoo achieves a new angle that makes Taesan bite the inside of his cheek to stop himself from being any louder and it's a courtesy.
The sweet nothings, the unwavering attention from Riwoo, the kindness and care—a courtesy, all of it.
Something makes Taesan admit the humiliating truth that he's going to cum, and Riwoo responds accordingly by wrapping a hand around his cock and pumping him in tandem to the rhythm set by his hips. Taesan spills over himself just a few seconds later; Riwoo attacks his jaw and neck with kisses while whispering "I love you" in between each one like a Jesus Prayer, making Taesan erupt into a fit of whines as he loses his composure, a confusing wave of pleasure and embarrassment enveloping him and refusing to let him surface, to breathe, to let him hide for a moment of reprieve.
Riwoo finishes shortly after Taesan, and that's when the kisses stop, gets replaced by Taesan planting his lips on Riwoo’s. They move together hungrily, with haste, eager to devour one another, quickly becoming uncoordinated as Taesan’s whines slip between their mouths and weaken the grip they have on each other.
“I love you, too,” Taesan exhales, meaning it, glad that Riwoo is so attuned to him, because this—being cared for, tended to, loved with genuine intent—feels good, a joy he wasn't aware could ever be afforded to him, the tension he's carried inside of himself for however long finally having a release, a pressure lifted off of his chest.
“I love you,” Riwoo repeats, moving his kisses to the rest of Taesan’s face, to his cheeks and nose and forehead. “How do you feel?”
That’s difficult.
He's still reeling from his high; Taesan struggles to make sense of what's surging through him. There's the happiness, and there's the inexplicable closeness he feels to Riwoo, and there's the intimacy, and there's the love, but there's also the guilt, and there's also the shame, and there's also the humiliation, and there's also the stupidity.
He let himself get carried away.
He let go.
A non-answer that manages to be an answer in its own right: “I'll find a way to make this up to you…”
Riwoo sighs, more out of endearment than disappointment, and rests his hand on the top of Taesan’s head.
“There's nothing you need to make up for,” he reiterates. “This was for you, because I love you, and I love seeing you enjoy yourself.”
Taesan stares Riwoo down, searches for any telltale signs of a white lie or half-truth, resigns when he can't find any. He loves Riwoo, and he loves seeing Riwoo enjoy himself too, and if surrendering to his unspoken desires is the route he has to take to achieve that sight, then he'll (slowly, surely) accept it.