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The desperate plea of someone who is madly infatuated with you—even if it is just a façade—is utterly addictive.
Riwoo refuses to look at Woonhak.
He only does it to hear the sweet whine that seeps into the younger’s voice. the way his lip curls into a pout, eyes blinking slower, with a need that overshadows every rational action. He hides his pleased smile in the crook of his elbow, watches as the need for attention takes over Woonhak.
When Riwoo refuses, Woonhak bends and bows to fit into the space of his rejection. Riwoo’s refusal is always half-hearted. He wants to be spoiled too. be chased after and Woonhak does it all too well. The yearning, the pining after.
It is dreamy. A sick indulgence. Riwoo can be selfish and toe the line of toxicity when it comes to them. He can keep Woonhak at arm’s length but still want him to only look at Riwoo. And here is the thing: Woonhak does it all. He stays away and desires Riwoo in all his forms. All his moods.
Woonhak will always come back to him, teeth white as he pleads, “Hyung, can I kiss you? Hyung, look at me. hyung hyung hyung—” and Riwoo devours this affection, all this desire.
He presses his thumb against the sharp points of Woonhak’s canines and bites bruises all the way up to his jaw, marking his throat like they are something more. Like he is not a man strung together with stray threads of life, being held by nothing more than just errant clots of desirewantneed.
Woonhak never flinches, not when his cold lips press against his pulse point or when his bloodless hands roam his body. Hip, waist, shoulder, rib, bicep.
Touching, teasing, tasting. The curved head, the dark pucker and all that salt.
Riwoo has of course noticed it. How Woonhak is an obedient lover. How he arches and gasps and bucks under Riwoo’s touch, however half-hearted, however loathing. Riwoo desires him back, it has never been about reciprocation. No. It would have been better. Easier. Worse, in all the worst ways.
The coldness implies Riwoo is something undead—which is only half a lie—but it also masks the heat of Woonhak’s flesh. Touching a boy you love should not feel like cradling the sun in your palms and yet it does. Woonhak’s desperation is so bright, Riwoo wonders how he hasn’t blinded himself but then—then he recalls. The push and pull.
Riwoo pushing away, Woonhak pulling him close, closer, closest. Often, Riwoo wakes up and wonders how he hasn’t made a home for himself in Woonhak’s navel or the space between each rib. The hollow of his throat, the crease of his hip. The musk of his arousal. Things that bear a void. A pocket of space. A cavity. Words that plainly reveal the glaring presence of an existing emptiness.
That implies Riwoo is not ready to give what Woonhak desires and yet—yet it wouldn’t change anything. Not his hot tongue nor his cold hands. When teeth sink into flesh and only taste salt and Woonhak moans a hyunghyunghyung— and spills salt and semen on skin.
His throat oversaturated with arousal and need, every sound embedded with what he wants. Every noise is a song. A siren’s call for Riwoo. Riwoo, all undead and unwarm and unfeeling and half-hearted about everything including his instincts.
Teeth just biting in where they should be tearing out. Tenderness in all the places where it should not exist. Brutality in the places that are too easy to bruise and mar.
Riwoo isn’t a monster. Cannot be a monster. A monster can be unkind without consequences. Riwoo cannot be kind without consequences. The dichotomy of his actions reduces down to nothing. He enjoys being whatever he is. More so now that Woonhak doesn’t turn the other way when Riwoo does. No, Woonhak remains, lingers, stains the space between them with his longing. With his refusal to leave.
Woonhak does not find it in him to care about the details, to flesh out and track back his phylogeny to understand why Riwoo is the way he is with him. Woonhak is more content to just take Riwoo as he is.
After all, it matters so little whether it is claws or nails digging into his back and raking down lines of pleasure sometimes angry, seldom vengeful, often wanting.
Woonhak swallows and drinks and laps at the pucker of him. He buries his face into the apex of Riwoo’s thighs and tries to understand the undeadness. Tries seeking out the root and stops mid-way because what does it matter?
So, instead, he says, “Hyung, am I making you feel good? Can I continue to make you feel good? Hyung, talk to me, please, hyung—” and Riwoo would clench around him in response but, but he would not answer. Woonhak could sob out of desperation, out of the need to be seen, but Riwoo wouldn’t— would not see him and despite it all—
Woonhak would worship him. Would touch his thighs and the back of his knees. Would let Riwoo pout and sulk and curl up near windows and steal the blankets. He would never deny him anything, Riwoo could be raising his arm to point at the moon and Woonhak would already be trying to drag it down to him.
Hip, waist, shoulder, rib, bicep. Left, right, centre. Dorsal, ventral, medial. Riwoo, Woonhak, together. Undead, cold, pale. Too-alive, hot, bronzed. Riwoo, Woonhak, desperation.
Woonhak says and begs, “Hyung.” Like a prayer, like a sermon, like a hymn. He is the choir, he is the mute. He is walking backwards into the water and Riwoo only half peers at him with dark eyes. His cheeks don’t flush, won’t flush and Woonhak watches the sun until every afterimage looks like Riwoo when he is soft under him.
Riwoo doesn’t look at him, doesn’t meet his eye, doesn’t kiss him first. Woonhak still kneels at his feet like a dog and a devotee. The most ardent one. Touches and takes like everything Riwoo allows him to take is something holy.
Woonhak opens his mouth but siren calls don’t work on a dead man so Riwoo never fully looks at him.