#noah-foreman

closed for @noah-foreman​

Noah wasn’t like the creepy old men that wanted to take pictures of him in the suburbs. They’d urge him to take his shirt off, and he would. Then his pants, and he’d oblige. Then his boxers, and he’d dart out embarrassed, running down the sidewalk in his tiny little town with his clothes in his arms and a gut wrenching kind of feeling stirring within. Noah never even asked Hudson to take off his shirt, to show off his cut physique and bulging pectorals. Maybe that was why he was unbuttoning the lovely pressed Ralph Lauren dress shirt that hugged to him. They hadn’t discussed this, really, but Hudson was sure that Noah would voice his concerns if he had any. Communication between them the last couple shots had been like nothing he had experienced before. He reached the final button, and raised his eyes to the camera, looking at it for a moment, before his hand drifted back down, undoing the button of his jeans. Now, he posed, shirt open, jeans open, his happy trail on full suggestive display, leading into his tight, white Gucci underwear. 

So, the nineteen year old sat at the bar, drowning his sorrows in straight tequila. He never got ID’d here, and the bartender wasn’t stingy with the booze. His clothes were tight, hoping to secure looks from strangers, but his heart wasn’t really in it. Slumping over the bar, he sighed, before raising back up, eyeing the man that had slipped next to him while his face had been against the cool counter. His mouth said nothing, but his eyes said ‘take advantage of me’. 

Merry Christmas to you, my little devil. I hope you'll be spending it somewhere nice and warm surrounded by love.