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i don't smile for the camera (only smile for you)

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Yut-lung doesn’t know why he doesn’t stop it then and there.

He should get up and leave, should listen to what’s left of his brain still clinging to common sense and cover himself up, should shrink away from both the lens pointed towards him and Sing’s gaze, focused so intently on him from behind that camera. Yut-lung should stop this before it can turn into something rather than a harmless suggestion dangled in front of him, and yet—

And yet he can’t. And yet here he is, back arching, breath catching, vision blurring at the thought of his body captured on film, immortalized.

“Will you let me take your picture?” Sing asks. It isn’t the first time he’s done so, but now, finally, Yut-lung has an answer.

“Yes,” he says, “as many as you want.”

The first click of the camera sends a shiver up his spine. The second one makes his toes curl. The third one has him reaching for Sing.

He imagines himself, highlighted only by the faint glow of the lamp on his bedside table and the even fainter glow of the moon peeking through the curtains. He imagines the way he looks at Sing, eyes wide and body open, always wanting, always waiting.

He imagines himself in two-dimensions, reaching for Sing’s cock, so obviously hungry for it.

“How do I look?” he asks. Sing is hard in his hand, heavy. His cock barely fits in Yut-lung’s hand and yet in this moment, it feels like that’s right where it belongs.

“Beautiful. You’re always beautiful,” Sing replies, and Yut-lung rewards him with a mouth around his cock and dark eyes looking straight into his camera.

The fourth click of the camera sounds like music to Yut-lung’s ears, and so does Sing’s groan, low and loud and drawn out, starting from the moment Yut-lung’s tongue touches the underside of his cock and dying out only after Yut-lung’s lips have reached the base of his cock. Yut-lung keeps his eyes on Sing the entire time, so he sees the way Sing throws his head back, the way his lips part and let out that beautiful, beautiful sound that can only mean Yut-lung is doing something right for once.

Yut-lung also sees the way Sing eyes fly open, as if he doesn’t realize until that moment that he even closed them, and he sees the way Sing’s gaze immediately snaps back to him, as if Sing would rather look at him than get lost in his pleasure. It ignites a fire at the base of Yut-lung’s spine, a fire that flares and spreads until he feels its heat on the pads of his fingers, pressed against Sing’s skin, feels it on his lips, stretched to their limit around Sing’s cock.

Yes, he thinks. Look at me, only me, always me.

He pulls off of Sing, watches the way Sing’s eyes follow the swipe of his tongue across his lips.

“What are you doing?” Yut-lung says. “Weren’t you going to take pictures of me?”

He tightens his grip around Sing’s thigh, licks a stripe up the length of Sing’s cock, looks into the lens the whole time. He savors the quick click-click-click of the camera, savors the sight of Sing’s shaking hands, of Sing’s face turning red as he holds his breath, as if he’s afraid of what sounds might come out of him if he dares open his mouth.

Well. Yut-lung is selfish enough to want to find out exactly that.

“Don’t drop the camera,” he says. He looks up at Sing with half-lidded eyes, and then he takes Sing’s cock in his mouth once again, takes it all in one go until it hits the back of his throat and he’s doing all he can not to choke.

He doesn’t realize he’s tearing up until he feels the tears clinging to his eyelashes, until he feels Sing’s thumb brushing against the corner of his eyes, wiping them away. That same hand shifts until it’s curled around the curve of Yut-lung’s cheek, cradling him so gently, so tentatively, as if Yut-lung is something fragile, something to be treasured, something to treat with care.

As if he deserves that.

Yut-lung will never understand it, will never understand why Sing chooses to come here, to spend time with him when he could be with Eiji and Ash who are bright and brilliant and beautiful, whose hands are washed clean of blood, softened by time.

Yut-lung will never understand it, but he will always accept it for what it is if it means he gets to have this . Sing, telling him that he’s doing so well, that he looks so beautiful, that he feels so good around him. Sing, holding him so tenderly, looking at him with those wide eyes of his like Yut-lung is the moon and the stars.

Sing, taking his pictures, and Yut-lung, trusting Sing with his body, his heart, his everything .

“You’re so beautiful,” Sing says, and it’s hardly the first time Yut-lung has heard it tonight, hardly the first time Yut-lung has heard it in his whole life, but the words are sweet, coming from Sing, and Yut-lung never gets tired of it.

Because you’re beautiful means much more from Sing than just beauty that’s skin-deep. Beautiful means a big, bright heart like Eiji’s, worn on his sleeve and so strong despite that. Beautiful means grace and resilience in equal spades, means a body like Ash’s which houses a mind, unparalleled in its excellence, and a heart too big for someone who claims to be nothing more than a murderer.

Beautiful means that Yut-lung is deserving of love, of happiness, of freedom. It means that he hasn’t just been imagining how Sing opens his arms so widely for him, how Sing holds him so gently, how Sing loves him.

It means that Yut-lung doesn’t need to hold himself back.

He sucks in his cheeks, drags the flat of his tongue along the underside of Sing’s cock until it catches on the head, until Sing jerks forward just as Yut-lung’s hand traverses up his thigh, his ass, until his fingers settle against Sing’s hole, pressing, but only enough that Sing’s breath hitches and his whole body tenses up right before he finally, finally comes.

And Sing is beautiful when he comes, so much so that Yut-lung wishes it was him holding the camera in his hands. Next time, perhaps, but for now, Yut-lung lets Sing paint his face with his come, hopes it makes him look like he’s been fucked good and hard because this —this is the image he wants Sing to come back to, the image he wants Sing to jerk off to.

Yut-lung on his knees, looking up at Sing with his cheeks flushed, his lips red, used, his face glistening with Sing’s come. Yut-lung, who is, in this moment, Sing’s and only Sing’s.

Sing’s breath is still ragged when he finally takes the photo Yut-lung has been waiting for him take, and it still is even when he pushes Yut-lung down and tells him, “Touch yourself. Make yourself come, Yut-lung.”

Yut-lung wraps his hand around himself, spreads his legs so Sing can fit into the space in between them and take even more pictures of Yut-lung, head thrown back against the mattress, cock hard and leaking and so, so red. It’s hard to find it in himself to care about what he looks like, now that he’s so close to coming, but he does make sure to look up at Sing.

The shape of Sing’s lips when he calls Yut-lung beautiful is something that Yut-lung wants to capture, someday.

“Come on, Yut-lung,” Sing says. “Come for me.”

Yut-lung does, and the camera clicks one final time.

“Beautiful,” Sing breathes, and no, Yut-lung will never get tired of hearing it.