When Taeyong wakes, it’s to Johnny’s profile sketched out against the golden light of sunset that filters through his curtains. His lips are parted in his sleep.
Of course he’s a fucking mouth breather.
At some point during the night (day? Taeyong is all turned around thanks to that fucking night shoot; he didn't mean to sleep the entire fucking day away and now he wonders how the fuck he's ever going to get back on track before call time tomorrow morning) his hand slipped under Johnny's t-shirt. The man radiates heat like a fucking furnace. Sweat clings to Taeyong's skin under his arms and between his thighs where his cotton shorts have ridden up.
Taeyong rolls away from Johnny with a groan, spreading his limbs as much as possible to air himself out without jostling his bed partner.
His bed partner. Fuck. He lets his head loll to the side to watch Johnny sleep. The slow rise and fall of his chest reaches for Taeyong like a siren song. Rest, it purrs. In, out, in, out. Put your arms around me and sleep. I'm strong enough to hold your weary head.
He sighs. If he's getting this fucking sappy over sharing a bed, he's really in over his fucking paygrade. Not for the first time, he thinks that he made a huge mistake inviting Johnny into his home. Inviting Johnny into your bed, his brain tacks on.
Yeah. That was a huge, absolutely massive mistake. His level of fuck-up-ery today alone may even be on par with the time he decided it would be a good idea to go tens of thousands of dollars in debt to get a film school degree.
The mistake in question moves next to him, groaning under his breath as he rouses. It occurs to Taeyong that he should pretend to be asleep—or at least hide the fact that he's been staring wistfully at Johnny while he slept—but either drowsiness or recklessness (or both, or one brought on by the other) makes him slow to look away. He watches as Johnny blinks his eyes open so, so slowly—each lash silhouetted against Taeyong's window—and the flutter of his eyelids as he tries to piece together exactly whose bed he's woken up in.
Eventually, his head turns on the pillow and their eyes meet. Taeyong hates himself for feeling that simple contact in tingles up his spine. It's disgusting, really, what this man reduces him to.
Taeyong rolls onto his side again. Johnny's presence has this strange magnetism that he finds impossible to deny. Their bodies curve gently inwards towards one another like the open and close of a parentheses with the text in the middle (as of yet undecided). In this way, they lay together, watching one another in the fast-dying light. Taeyong thinks he can see Johnny's pupils dilating as the room grows darker.
Neither of them speaks. When Johnny reaches across to touch him, it's to brush an errant lock of hair out of Taeyong's eyes. Featherlight fingers skim across his brow bone, over his temple, and down his cheek. Taeyong can't help the way his eyes close, just for a moment, when Johnny's thumb caresses the mark at the corner of his eye.
Later, looking back on it, he'll blame that moment of weakness for what happens next. Curse his gay little heart. Times like these have Taeyong convinced that he was an Edwardian heroine in a past life.
Johnny leans across the narrow space between them, presses his nose into Taeyong's temple and gently—oh-so-fucking-gently, so gently Taeyong holds his breath to be certain its there at all—kisses the gouged-out shape of his scar.
Taeyong moves his hand back to its place under Johnny's shirt. When his breath comes again, it comes wobbly and short.
Before he can speak, Johnny's nose trails down, crossing Taeyong's cheekbone to bump against his own nose, and it's as easy as breathing to tip his chin up and make the connection.
They kiss, lazy and slow. Johnny licks into his mouth, bites at his lips until Taeyong bites back, finally sinking his teeth into that beautiful lower lip of Johnny’s.
Johnny grunts, low and soft in the back of his throat, and rolls over to bracket Taeyong between his arms. His hands, fingers spread wide to cover as much surface area as possible, pet slow and heavy down Taeyong’s sides, under his ass, along his thighs, and below his knees. Twin trails of heat lick through Taeyong’s veins in their wake. Johnny pauses at the top of Taeyong’s calves and guides his legs upwards to wrap around Johnny’s waist. As Taeyong shifts, the legs of his cotton shorts ride up and pool high on his thighs. Johnny’s hands waste no time reversing their path. His fingers sweep back up the smooth insides of Taeyong’s thighs and dip into the hollows where Taeyong’s legs connect to his pelvis.
Johnny’s lips drag away from Taeyong’s to hide a laugh in the crook of his neck. “No underwear, huh?”
Taeyong burns. “Shut up.”
Johnny doesn’t mind, if the hand slipping up the right leg of Taeyong’s shorts to wrap around his cock is anything to go by. He mouths wetly at Taeyong’s throat, still clumsy and half-awake, licking a stripe from the hollow at the base up and over his Adam’s apple to suck a bruise at his jugular. The other hand nudges up the back of the left leg of Taeyong’s shorts. He kneads Taeyong’s ass until he hears Taeyong choke on a whine and then slips in between to press suggestively at his asshole.
A shuddering, juddering breath rips its way out of Taeyong’s lungs as Johnny’s fingertips trace light circles around his tip in conjunction with the touch at his asshole. At his throat, Johnny half-growls, half-hums. “Can I fuck you?”
Taeyong laughs, high and out of breath, and uses his legs wrapped around Johnny’s waist to pull the latter’s hips down. “If you don’t,” he murmurs darkly, using the hand not fisted in the back of Johnny’s shirt to drag his head back up within kissing range. “I’ll fucking kick you out of my house.”
Now Johnny laughs, pulling his head back by inches every time Taeyong reaches up for a kiss. When Taeyong falls back against his pillow, pouting up at Johnny for teasing, Johnny leans forward and kisses him in a way that sends his head spinning. At the same time, Johnny’s grip tightens and twists around Taeyong’s cock.
Taeyong gasps, back arching off the mattress. His fingers ball up into tight fists in Johnny’s hair. He exhales hard in response, breath hot on the shell of Taeyong’s ear.
An odd feeling rises in Taeyong’s chest: light and shiny around the edges like a giant, iridescent bubble of something. It’s equal parts thrilling and terrifying. Taeyong’s stomach turns a somersault. He rests his cheek against Johnny’s and twines his arms around the broad shoulders hovering over his own. He has to say something to disrupt this feeling, this strange, intense atmosphere, so he says, “Remember when you fell asleep the moment I got you into my bed?”
That makes Johnny laugh for real—not a sexy laugh but a real one, all bubbly and giggly. It does nothing to alleviate the funny feeling in Taeyong’s chest.
Johnny takes his time opening Taeyong up. His fingers are thicker than Taeyong’s, and long. The knuckles and pads of the fingertips are rough from calluses. Even two of them crooked just right in his ass are enough to have Taeyong twisting up fistfuls of the fitted sheet.
A sob bubbles up out of his chest on a particularly mean spread of those two fingers. “Johnny,” he cries. “Please.”
Johnny proves that his tongue can be just as wicked as his hands when he drags it up the length of Taeyong’s dick and over his flushed head. Those gorgeous lips of his press against his tip, plumping up cutely as he looks up at Taeyong wordlessly.
“Please, please, please.” All other vocabulary flees Taeyong’s brain as Johnny sucks him down, head bobbing between Taeyong’s thighs while a third finger presses against his stretched pucker like a question: More? as though Taeyong isn’t literally begging for it, as though he hasn’t been gasping for it from the moment Johnny started working him open. Taeyong’s voice breaks as he pleads, “Please, Johnny, please.” An embarrassed flush blazes down the back of his neck but he forces the next words out anyways, just to hear what they sound like in the close semi-darkness of his bedroom. “I— want you.”
Johnny pulls off Taeyong’s cock with a truly embarrassing wet noise. Taeyong expects him to look infuriatingly smug but the expression on Johnny’s face as he leans his cheek against Taeyong’s shaking thigh is… different. Open, maybe. Perhaps it’s a trick of the low light. (Taeyong doesn’t want to say awestruck, he doesn’t want to say tender, he doesn’t want to say soft because he’s already too overwhelmed and overemotional for this kind of casual bad decisions hook-up sex as it is and it would be cruel, really, to allow Johnny access to the soft underbelly of his heart so easily.) Johnny’s free hand reaches down between his own body and the mattress to give his dick some self-care. He turns his nose in towards Taeyong’s leg and leaves an open-mouthed kiss over the soft, squishy part of his thigh.
“Say it again,” he breathes. The three fingers inside Taeyong press further into him, narrowly avoiding his prostate on each upstroke. It’s maddening.
Taeyong lets his legs fall open, spreading in a wide vee to give Johnny more room to work. There’s lube on the sheets under his ass and his skin is itchy because he didn’t shower before going to bed and he forgot to turn on the A/C after they got home so he’s the bad kind of just-barely-sweaty. He feels gross—and he wants to be fucked.
Reaching between his legs, he threads his fingers through Johnny’s hair, pushing it out of the latter’s eyes. He holds Johnny’s head close to the junction of his hip socket. Johnny looks up, eyes dark through his lashes. Taeyong watches his shoulder blade rise and fall in hypnotic tempo as he works his cock.
“Fuck me,” Taeyong repeats. His voice barely leaves his throat. “Please. Johnny. I want you.”
Johnny surges up, fingers pulling free of Taeyong’s heat, and their lips connect like kissing is a full-contact sport. He presses Taeyong into the bed, his body covering Taeyong’s at every point. Big hands take a heavy path up the insides of Taeyong’s forearms up to spread across his palms and between his fingers. The breadth of Johnny’s bare chest completely overtakes Taeyong’s own; it’s overwhelming, how completely Johnny covers him. All the while, Johnny kisses him with lips, teeth, tongue—more than kissing, it’s taking, claiming, forever pressing inwards for more. Taeyong can only give. His head spins too rapidly to do anything else. He suspects that even if he could think straight, he would still be unable to deny Johnny; not when every kiss tastes like begging.
Johnny kisses Taeyong until Taeyong feels like crying. It’s only when he thinks I could die like this and, right on its heels, I’ll die without this, that Johnny pulls away. Even then, he leans down and drops a few lighter kisses on Taeyong’s upper lip, unable to resist.
“Condom,” he manages. It comes out rough around the edges and short-of-breath.
Taeyong wriggles one hand free of Johnny’s grasp to cup the nape of Johnny’s neck. He’s afraid, suddenly, weirdly, of Johnny moving away from him and leaving him vulnerable. “They were with the lube.”
When Johnny shifts to crawl over to the opposite side of the bed, Taeyong clings to his neck and makes a petulant noise in the back of his throat. Heat creeps in pinpricks up the back of his neck when Johnny looks down at him, eyebrows arched minutely. He presses his lips together and then forces himself to mutter, “Don’t go.”
“Need to get a condom.” Two of Johnny’s fingers trace over Taeyong’s eyebrow, peeling away some of the hair stuck to his sweat-damp forehead. “Don’t wanna risk getting you sick, baby.”
A breath leaves Taeyong’s chest. “I know, I just—” He arcs up off the bed to press his nose against Johnny’s, just for a moment, and kisses him three or four times for good measure. When they part, he falls back against his pillow and averts his eyes from the uncomfortably perceptive way Johnny looks down at him.
The moment Johnny moves away from him, Taeyong rolls onto his side and buries his face in his hands. God, it’s so fucking embarrassing how over his head he is when it comes to Johnny. He couldn’t be any more obvious if he tried.
Lips touch the knob of his spine at the base of his neck, warm and sweet. A pair of strong, sure arms reach around his waist, drawing him back so his back fits just right against Johnny’s front. Johnny breathes against the shell of Taeyong’s ear as his fingers slip between them to slip his slicked-up, newly-rubbered cock between Taeyong’s ass cheeks.
“You’re thinking so hard,” he murmurs. His hips rock slowly. The breath catches in Taeyong’s throat when he feels the tip of Johnny’s dick catch and drag past his asshole. One of Johnny’s hands presses firmly on Taeyong’s shoulder, forcing it down and then continuing along the length of his arm. His touch carries Taeyong’s tension along with it, leaving his body in a long, slow exhale. “Relax,” Johnny whispers, hand sliding down and around to curl around Taeyong’s dick. “Let me take care of you for a minute.”
Taeyong’s head lolls back on a particularly good twist of Johnny’s hand that syncs up just right with the nudge of Johnny’s dick at his asshole. Perhaps it shouldn’t come as a surprise when it lolls back only to drop onto Johnny’s shoulder. In a heartbeat, Johnny’s lips return to Taeyong’s pulse point. He leaves a few sweet kisses there before nipping a line up the curve of Taeyong’s neck back up to his ear.
“There you go.” Taeyong can feel the words rumble in Johnny’s chest. “You ready?”
He nods, unable to speak for the odd, expanding thing in his chest. Johnny kisses the corner of his scar and then draws back minutely to reach between their bodies and line himself up.
All the tension in Taeyong’s body ratchets right back up when Johnny pushes into him but Johnny is all soothing touches and kisses dotted up and down Taeyong’s neck and soft, mumbly half-words. His breath goes slow and heavy. The muscles of his stomach flex against Taeyong’s back.
Taeyong squeezes his eyes shut, then opens them and rolls them upwards. Doyoung told him once that you should look upwards if you want to hold back tears.
The bubble in his chest cavity has expanded past capacity and now he feels suffocated and breathless and slightly, distantly panicked by how fucking much this feels like being loved.
Johnny noses at Taeyong’s cheek. “You okay, Yong?”
Taeyong swallows once, twice, and then nods in a jerky one-two motion. “Yeah,” he breathes. He experiments with a roll of his hips and can’t hold back a broken noise. “Yeah, s’good.”
It is good. They fuck just like that and it’s good, it’s really good: slow and languid and rich with Johnny breathing too hard in Taeyong’s ear, his hand keeping a counterpoint on Taeyong’s dick, his heart pounding against Taeyong’s back while Taeyong’s own pulse struggles to keep its own rhythm. Johnny’s touches trail up and down Taeyong’s body and leave electric sparks wherever they land. Now he squeezes Taeyong’s hips, guiding the grind of his ass; now he smoothes over Taeyong’s belly; now tweaks his nipples (and laughs lowly at the way it makes Taeyong squawk); now presses dimples into the meat of his thighs.
It gets better when Johnny reaches for Taeyong’s leg and pulls it back over his own. He rolls over slightly, holding Taeyong halfway on his chest. The new position gives Johnny more freedom to move and suddenly the pace doesn’t belong to Taeyong anymore.
Taeyong reaches over his shoulder to hold onto the back of Johnny’s neck. He’s really, really ready to come. He’s been on the edge of being close for awhile now. They’ve been fucking for awhile now. His thigh muscles shake from the exertion. He wants to come so very badly.
Johnny buries his nose in Taeyong’s neck and uses his newfound leverage to grind his dick deep inside Taeyong’s ass. He lifts his face to groan, “Taeyong.”
The sound of his name like that on Johnny’s lips sends a heat rush (more heat, it’s always more heat with Johnny, everything escalating hotter and hotter until it boils over) to Taeyong’s head. He squeezes the back of Johnny’s neck and rolls his hips down to meet the rock of Johnny’s hips. He swallows his cottonmouth and gasps, “Yeah?”
“‘M gonna come,” grunts Johnny.
A vague, lazy smile stretches the corners of Taeyong’s mouth. “You should,” he coos. “Just don’t fall asleep before you return the favor.”
He doesn’t have to see Johnny’s expression to know he’s grinning, too.
A cinematographer’s job goes beyond pointing the camera where the action happens and hitting record. Behind every shot that goes onscreen there lies motivation, decades of theory, and in the best cases, a certain amount of that intangible intuition known only to visual artists. The science of cinematography goes hand-in-hand with its art. A director of photography chooses angles, framing, color palettes, and lighting ratios with an understanding of human psychology and how those artistic choices will work together to elicit the desired emotional response from the audience. One of the first and most simple ways to do so is through the choice of angle. Angle can convey status, scope, distance, and even the state of reality all within one simple, static shot. One specific angle, called the ‘God’s eye view’, is designed to place the audience high above and perfectly perpendicular to the action to create a sense of total objectivity and neutrality as well as to allow the audience to observe both sides of what unravels onscreen from a lofty perspective—literally from the vantage point of the gods.
There’s moment just before Johnny pulls Taeyong’s ass flush against his hips and whines, high and strung-out into the back of Taeyong’s neck; just before he comes, dick twitching inside Taeyong’s ass; just before Taeyong comes, too, spilling over his and Johnny’s fingers where they tangle together around the head of his cock; just before he completely unravels in Johnny’s arms, sighing Johnny’s name into the hollow below Johnny’s jawline.
There’s a moment before all of that when Taeyong sees himself from the God’s eye view angle. He looks down at himself, spread out and wrapped up in Johnny’s arms, sweating, panting, flushed from the chest up. He sees how his body curves, arching away from Johnny’s in a way that begs to be chased, to be held close, and he sees how Johnny does so without being told. They make a messy, beautiful picture.
In that objective moment, Taeyong realises that he’s in a lot deeper than he ever intended to go.
After he comes back down from his orgasm, his head drops back against Johnny’s collarbone. It’s too easy to let his eyes flutter closed and just lay there, listening to Johnny catch his breath. The other man’s hand stays curled loosely around Taeyong’s dick as it softens; not squeezing, just sort of holding. It’s kind of nice. Soothing.
However—in the words of the postmodernist—nothing very very good ever lasts for very very long. The room has become more shadow than light by now. As Taeyong stares up at the vague blur that his fan cuts out against his ceiling he becomes very aware of a few incredibly upsetting things.
Firstly, he’s fucking filthy. Cum congeals in his belly button. Sweat itches in the crooks of his limbs and the places he and Johnny’s skin stick together. Lube squishes between his asscheeks every time either of them shift. And his hair—he didn’t wash his hair last night and he can only imagine what it must look like, all sweaty and sexed-up and clumpy with leftover product. Their bodies radiate heat even under the fan and there’s nothing Taeyong hates more than being overheated in the comfort of his own home.
Secondly, he just had sex with John Suh.
Lazy, emotionally intense, I–gasped–your–name–into–your–mouth–as–I–came sex. With John Suh.
God, fuck. Taeyong covers his eyes with the inside of one elbow. Jesus Christ. What was I thinking?! What was I fucking thinking, bringing him here? Making him sleep in my bed?! I’m a rebound. I’m a fucking rebound and I fucking asked for it. Fucking begged him on my hands and knees to hurt my feelings. A merry-go-round of fucking pathetic dances an out-of-tune loop around his internal monologue.
He uses the hand twined with Johnny’s on his own stomach to unwind Johnny’s arm from his waist and rolls off of Johnny’s chest. The man behind him groans softly as his dick slips free of Taeyong’s ass. Taeyong grimaces. That’s never a fun feeling.
His knees wobble when he slides off the bed. He goes extra slow when he bends down to pick up his shorts just in case they give out completely. Fortunately they decide to hold. Taeyong frowns down at his little cotton shorts, thinks about the mess on his ass and thighs, and wonders if they’ll be ruined if he puts them on for the trip to the bathroom.
A hand reaches out and grasps at his fingers, interrupting his contemplation. When he glances over his shoulder, Johnny peeks back at him from under the arm thrown across his face. He doesn’t even try to cover his junk.
“You okay?” Johnny slurs. Trust him to be the cum-dumb type.
Taeyong smiles, small and tight. “I’m gonna go take a shower.”
The arm obscuring Johnny’s face lowers. His eyes flick back and forth between each of Taeyong’s eyes as though in pursuit of some secret he sees evading him there.
“Okay,” he says, clearer this time.
By the time Taeyong finishes his shower, he’s gone.