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The moment the tip of his cock breaches Yeosang’s hole, Wooyoung stops talking. Yeosang would laugh, if only he weren’t suddenly breathless and overwhelmed and a tiny bit scared.
“Sang-ah,” Wooyoung says. His fingers are sweaty and catch Yeosang’s hair when runs his fingers through, but Yeosang leans into the touch anyway. He’s so easy, always so easy for Wooyoung; it’s astonishing it took them so long to get this far.
“Don’t talk.” The words steal across Wooyoung’s mouth when Yeosang leaves them there, desperate and warm. “Hold on to me.” His thighs burn from how tense he is, his belly taut. He blinks his eyes open to a beautiful, open face caught between his hands and sinks down a little more. It kind of hurts, it’s a little too much, but the broken noise following is a tell Wooyoung can’t hold in. It keeps him going as much as his sheer stubbornness.
“Jagi,” Wooyoung whispers. “Breathe.” Yeosang lets him put both of their hands over Wooyoung’s chest. Even like this, the rabbit-fast beat of Wooyoung’s heart is clear. Yeosang exhales into it; he’s not the only one here on the precipice of a new thing, nor is he the only one overwhelmed by it. “In,” Wooyoung says, bright eyes on his, chest expanding. “Out.” Yeosang syncs his breathing; attuning his body to Wooyoung’s is a learned habit anyway. They’ve never done this, but he knows the movements of Wooyoung’s body, and how to match them.
“Does it hurt? You’re not hard.”
“Shut up,” Yeosang whispers, biting his way into a kiss. He lowers himself down just a little more. He stops. Inhales that gorgeous too-sticky warm Wooyoung air, so familiar it’s practically his own. Yeosang knows his body. He trusts his body. He’s been trained to go for what he wants desperately, and how his body is a finely honed instrument in that quest.
“The article said to bear down.”
“The article?” Yeosang’s laughter does interesting things where they’re pressed so tight together. “You studied?”
The crease between Wooyoung’s beautiful brows is adorable, his face a tormented study of pleasure held back. It’s honest. This is the boy who loves him. Who wants him so tremendously. Wooyoung’s eyes never stray; Yeosang no longer feels but knows he’s beautiful, Wooyoung wants with an aching hurt only Yeosang can bear responsibility for, can alleviate. He bites his lip again, tilts his face the perfect way, subtly settles the lines of his body; devastating Wooyoung for both of their benefits. It’s only a little selfish, how greedily he swallows down Wooyoung’s whimpers, how hard he bites Wooyoung’s troublesome mouth. Yeosang drapes his arms over Wooyoung’s shoulders, settles his knees where he’s straddling him, and exhales. He wants to feel embarrassed, the simple correlation between what his body normally does when he bears down and the action in this context. He does it anyway. He’s completely soft and stupidly enamored by the stunned-quiet that breaks over Wooyoung’s face every time he takes a little more.
He traces Wooyoung’s cheekbone, the bridge of his nose, moves and rocks and moves slowly, cataloging how good he’s making Wooyoung feel. There’s a power to this second-hand pleasure; a bright, delighted and smug heat that feeds and feeds the roll of his hips. Wooyoung tucks his face into the crook of Yeosang’s neck. So focused on Wooyoung as he is, Yeosang hadn’t even realized he’s bottomed out.
“I won’t last, jagigya, I-”
“Then don’t last,” Yeosang says, and then lets himself go, gives over to that body-instrument he believes in without hesitation, to a slow, grinding roll. It’s good now, it feels so good; a good directly in proportion to Wooyoung’s reactions. Yeosang feeds himself from it, an absolute glutton for what their bodies are doing to each other. He’s suddenly so hard now it hurts, he can feel pleasure blooming and curling into his pelvis. He won’t come from this, but it’s too-big almost, too new, too brilliant.
“Don’t cry,” Wooyoung says, trying to still them. Yeosang bites the thumb collecting a stray tear.
“I’m not.” Stupid, stupid claim, and a little bit lie, but not really. A tear that’s an overflow of too-much, an involuntary reaction, is nothing compared to this crazy-bright, overwhelming, forbidden thing they’re doing.
“Yeo-” Wooyoung cuts off with a cry, arms tightening around Yeosang so hard he steals the breath from him. Yeosang doesn’t stop, still he moves, slow and gentle, milking what can only be Wooyoung’s orgasm from him. His cock throbbing inside Yeosang tests the limits of what his body can handle but he simply presses his forehead against Wooyoung’s hard enough to hurt, to ground them together so that Wooyoung won’t be lost as well. The feedback pleasure inside is so great he’s delirious.
“I’m sorry,” Wooyoung says. Yeosang lets him have one breath, and then another. He holds as still as he can, all things considered.
“We knew it would-” Yeosang can’t breath from how aroused he is. “Can you--just, don’t move. Is that okay?”
“Yeah.” Wooyoung kisses Yeosang’s ear, orgasm-dumb and wet, then his neck, chasing the delighted shivers this never fails to incite.
“Stop me if it hurts,” Yeosang murmurs, then guides Wooyoung’s hand to his cock. Wooyoung’s done this part countless times. He knows the shape and weight of Yeosang perfectly, just as Yeosang knows Wooyoung. He doesn’t hesitate, which Yeosang appreciated infinitely, and he doesn’t complain when Yeosang involuntarily clenches down. Yeosang doesn’t dare move much, unwilling to overstimulate Wooyoung painfully. But the closer he comes to the edge, Wooyoung touching him with ferocious focus, the harder it becomes to manage the micromovements of his hips.
He tries to stop, he does, only Wooyoung is kissing threats into his neck. “Trust me. Trust me. Go, go.”
And, well, Yeosang can’t argue with that, with his own words handed back to him.
So he does; he lets Wooyoung carry his body into a beautiful, pleasure-soaked orgasm. He’s unprepared for how big it all feels, for how powerful it would be to come with Wooyoung so close, so far inside him. Yeosang closes his eyes; he lets the control he has over his body unravel, a ribbon helplessly tangled in Wooyoung’s waiting fingers. By the time it’s over, Wooyoung is the one holding him up, is the core strength and tense muscles and unfairly, deliciously beautiful body.
This won’t happen often. Yeosang can tell this will take a kind of toll on his body tomorrow they can’t afford often. He can dance through almost anything, but their careers demand a kind of practicality they are unwilling to ignore. Yeosang knows all the ways in which he can feed Wooyoung’s hunger, and vice versa. This is just one way. He can’t wait for it again, to test more limits, to unlock everything else his body can do.
But that’s a future study of them. Right now, this Yeosang is helpless in Wooyoung’s arms, is tangled in a too-beautiful moment, impossible to ignore.
In five minutes they’ll be laughing. Wooyoung will be running his mouth, Yeosang will be sore but slapping a hand over Wooyoung’s face, hissing at him to keep it down for fuck’s sake. He’ll be sore, and maybe a little chagrined at just how much power he’s given Wooyoung over the years. He’ll delight in what a little shit Wooyoung can be, he’ll retreat into a more quiet, self-contained version of himself. They’ll be them. But they’ll be doing it together.