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Sweet Honey-Peach Tea

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Armie hefted the Hasselblad onto the tripod he’d set up earlier, checking angles, exposure, absently directing assistants to adjust the curtains or the sheets. He knew he wanted this in black and white, the starkness of the sheets against the outfit they’d put Timmy in--as soon as Timmy had wandered in from wardrobe, he’d hauled out the camera, the only one he owned that shot digital and film. He’d been planning on doing digital only, but seeing Timmy in the jeans they’d put him in, black and strategically ripped high on his thighs, thin over his knees, skintight and cupping his ass, the t-shirt billowing off his frame--Armie knew he needed to do this on film. Needed to be able to be in a darkroom with these prints, to be able to control every aspect of the outcome.

This shoot was going to make fucking bank.

As he adjusted, he watched Timmy out of the corner of his eye as he wandered the room, feet bare against the wooden floors, toes curling into the rugs he padded over. He was laughing with the assistants, telling some story by the way his arms were gesturing in huge circles as he talked, and Armie smiled fondly. He remembered a time when Timmy was nervous before he got in front of a camera, would stay by himself off to the side, afraid of talking to anyone. He’d always been a natural once he was in front of the camera, knew just how to make that mouth and those eyes work for him, but he hadn’t always been this confident other places.

Armie liked to think he’d helped with that, in some way or another.

When everything was finally to his specifications, he nodded, signalling Timmy over. “We’re going to want your shirt on for the first couple shots,” he said, ignoring the knowing looks from the PA’s. It wasn’t a secret that he and Timmy were dating, but he kept things as professional as possible between them when they were on shoots together. “And then get it off. We’ve got some props that the company wants you to use--” he gestured, and Amanda offered Timmy a basket of fruit, scattered throughout with bottles of honey, wrapped chocolates, assorted juices. Armie shrugged. “Use them however you want.” With most models, he’d give instructions, but Timmy was so fucking brilliant in front of a camera, he needed the bare minimum before grasping what was wanted. Timmy nodded, standing on tiptoe to kiss Armie’s cheek, fluttering mascara-darkened eyelashes at him when Armie stared him down.

“Sorry, you just get so cute when you’re bossy,” Timmy said, walking backwards towards the bed and winking at Armie, making the PA’s titter. Armie rolled his eyes, ignoring them, watching the way Timmy settled on the bed instead, the contrast of the dark jeans against the white sheets, the way he immediately tangled his legs in the comforter, and bent over the camera. The world narrowed down to shots of long legs and bare feet, fingers combing through perfectly tousled locks of hair, hands gripping the edges of the too-large shirt to pull it over his head. Armie barely needed to say more than one word at a time to get Timmy to adjust--part of it was that they’d worked together for so long, the rest of it was just an inherent knowing of the other person.

When Timmy reached for a peach in the basket and studied it, rolling it between his fingers, Armie changed angles, watching as Timmy bit into the fruit, doing a close-up of his mouth, the slight pucker of his lips against the skin. Watched as juice ran down his chin, curved along the line of his throat, and ignored the way his own throat went dry. He focused on Timmy’s fingers around the fruit instead, the way they gripped the flesh of it, the sheen on his fingers. When Timmy’s eyes flickered towards him and he sucked on the juice in the hollow of his wrist, Armie instantly felt himself harden in his jeans.

He captured the shot, knew that one was going in their own personal collection.

They broke for a moment, Amanda handing Timmy a towel to wipe his hands and face with, Armie switching out rolls of film and stretching, watching Timmy ponder the basket. When he called it, Timmy instantly grabbed one of the honey bottles and unscrewed the top, squeezing until it poured over his fingers, sliding down over his knuckles and the back of his hand, and he left the bottle fall to the floor, holding his hand up to watch the slow progression of liquid down his arm.

Armie kept snapping photos, eyes rapt on Timmy as he licked a broad stripe up his own palm before sucking two fingers into his mouth, humming around them. He pulled them out, mostly clean, and shifted to chase a slow trail of honey down his forearm, Armie capturing the moment his tongue met skin, Timmy’s eyes half closed. He swallowed, hard.

Timmy opened his eyes and looked straight at Armie, trailing sticky fingers down his own chest, smearing fluid over his stomach, fingers working the top button of the jeans, and that was just the opening Armie needed from his little instigator.

“Everyone take twenty, now,” he snapped out, and there was a flurry of activity as everyone left the room (so much for professionalism, Armie thought). He moved the tripod closer, angling it to catch Timmy from the side, making sure his face was in the shot, and set the auto-timer for every thirty seconds. “What do you think you’re doing, baby?” he asked, voice innocent enough in tone, but Timmy shuddered.

“Nothing, daddy,” he answered, fluttering those eyelashes at Armie again, leaning back on his elbows so the honey glistened in the lights above them. Armie heard the faint click of the shutter. “You said to use the props, so I am.”

“I did say that, didn’t I?” Armie asked, moving to stand in front of Timmy’s reclining form, watching the way he was slowly drawing circles in the honey pooling in his navel. “But you’re doing a lot more than that, aren’t you?” Timmy shrugged, reaching up to brush his fingers over Armie’s shirt, teasing them under the hem and leaving a sticky trail behind. “Are you going to keep being a brat?” Timmy looked up from under the curls in his eyes and smirked. Armie reached out, fisting his hand in Timmy’s curls, reveling in the way it made Timmy shiver and arch back into his hand. “You made a mess.”

“Sorry, daddy,” Timmy bit his lip, doing his best to look contrite, but Armie caught the smile peeking out. It was the smile that cinched it.

Click.

“Well, when you make a mess you have to clean it up, don’t you?” he asked, and Timmy nodded, reaching for Armie with sticky fingers again, and Armie jerked him back by the hair, making Timmy hiss. “Did I say you could touch? I don’t want you making more of a mess.” Timmy whimpered and shook his head the best he could with Armie’s hand restricting him, and Armie fumbled with his pants with one hand, Timmy’s eyes rapt as he pulled out his cock, fisting it loosely in one hand. He jerked himself off slowly, enjoying watching Timmy struggle not to move, the way his hands fisted at his sides, the tacky sound of honey drying on his hands echoing in the room. When Timmy finally gave in and shifted, Armie stilled his hand. “I’m sorry, did you want something?”

Timmy whined, hips bucking slightly as he sought any sort of friction. “Please, I want to help.” He looked up at Armie, eyes desperate, hair still caught in Armie’s hand, miles of leg tucked under him as he tried to gain leverage to get at Armie’s cock. “Please, daddy.”

Click.

“Well, since you asked so nicely….” Armie trailed off, keeping one hand around his dick as he guided Timmy forwards, drawing in a sharp breath between his teeth when Timmy lapped at the head of his dick before sucking the tip between his lips, sticky still from honey and the peach, and Armie let him control the pace for another few seconds before gripping his hair and thrusting, making Timmy gag before he pulled back, watching Timmy’s face for any sign of distress.

Timmy just opened his mouth wider, and Armie’s hand tightened in his hair as he thrust again, holding Timmy still while he fucked his mouth, Timmy’s cheeks hollowing around him with the perfect amount of suction, and as he watched he saw Timmy beginning to drool, making a mess of himself.

Click.

“God, look at you,” Armie panted, and Timmy moaned, eyes closing. “If Saoirse could see you know, my little cock slut, can’t even wait until the shoot is over before you’re just begging for me to gag you with my dick, huh baby? Can’t wait another thirty fucking minutes before we’re alone and I can fuck you on this bed, spread you out for me and taste you until you’re begging for me to fuck you, just needed to be filled up right now. I should have plugged you before the shoot, made you wear these tight little jeans, put one of the jeweled plugs in you so everyone could see it through the fabric, see how desperate you are to be filled up--”

Click.

Timmy whined around Armie’s dick, shaking, and Armie pulled out, leaving just the tip of his dick resting in Timmy’s mouth as he jerked himself off, hand slick from Timmy’s spit, Timmy’s chin shining from drool and precum. “I’m gonna come all over this pretty face,” Armie said, cupping Timmy’s cheek. “In your mouth and all over your face, take pictures of you like this and submit them with the final portraits, see if anyone can tell the difference between the honey and my cum--” when Timmy jerked at that, he grinned. “Oh, you like that, don’t you sweetheart, the idea that your pretty face all messed up and ruined could be in a magazine somewhere, people could see you like this, know that you belong to me--” he broke off with a strangled groan as he came, pulsing in Timmy’s mouth before pulling out and painting his cheeks, his chin, down his throat, Timmy keeping his mouth open and swallowing what he could when Armie pulled back.

Click.

“Don’t move,” Armie said, stepping back and tucking himself back into his pants, Timmy trembling and panting on the bed, cum trickling down to the hollow of his throat, his lips swollen and flushed, hair a fucking wreck from Armie’s hands. Armie turned off the timer, leaned over the camera, and framed the shot.