Nate’s doing a solo shoot for Vogue Homme and Brad decided, if he wasn’t Nate’s roommate, and he wasn’t Nate’s fuckbuddy because Nate doesn’t do that, than he was Nate’s boyfriend, and he was taking the privileges that came along with that, like showing up on his sets, bringing him Honest Tea in glass bottles as surprise, because he wouldn’t drink it out of the plastic. They had Nate grow his hair out a little for this one and it’s spilt over the pillow on the antique couch they have him lying on.
He looks feverish and beautiful, shirt open over his chest and stovepipe pants tailored to fit his legs like a second skin. The photographer tells him to prop up a knee and Nate does it slowly. All Brad can think about was three days ago, he learned what that knee felt like sliding up his side, how Nate’s jaw fit against his shoulder, how Nate’s breath huffed out of him.
The photographer tells Nate to stick his hand down his pants, like he’s so relaxed and alone he can touch himself and not worry about it. Nate does it after he gets his face back from the wide grin and into the more acceptable fond and relaxed expression. He looks dreamy, like he’s somewhere else. Brad’s pretty well hidden, behind drops and props and people, but somehow Nate turns his head and meets Brad’s eyes, lips just slightly parted. His eyelids flutter and white teeth sink into his lip. Lights flash erratically over him, snapping pictures, but Nate holds his gaze as he moves his arm like he’s stroking himself. Jesus, maybe he is.
He reaches a hand to his own face and feels the heat from a dark blush. Nate’s lip quirks at the corner. And then the photographer shouts, “That’s it, that’s the one.”
Re: MODELS AU Prompt #1
He looks feverish and beautiful, shirt open over his chest and stovepipe pants tailored to fit his legs like a second skin. The photographer tells him to prop up a knee and Nate does it slowly. All Brad can think about was three days ago, he learned what that knee felt like sliding up his side, how Nate’s jaw fit against his shoulder, how Nate’s breath huffed out of him.
The photographer tells Nate to stick his hand down his pants, like he’s so relaxed and alone he can touch himself and not worry about it. Nate does it after he gets his face back from the wide grin and into the more acceptable fond and relaxed expression. He looks dreamy, like he’s somewhere else. Brad’s pretty well hidden, behind drops and props and people, but somehow Nate turns his head and meets Brad’s eyes, lips just slightly parted. His eyelids flutter and white teeth sink into his lip. Lights flash erratically over him, snapping pictures, but Nate holds his gaze as he moves his arm like he’s stroking himself. Jesus, maybe he is.
He reaches a hand to his own face and feels the heat from a dark blush. Nate’s lip quirks at the corner. And then the photographer shouts, “That’s it, that’s the one.”