Chapter Text
He sits behind the wheel of his car and he looks at the card that Jonathan gave him. Money's been kind of a headache, recently — the University strongly discourages student teachers holding jobs, but Steve also needs to make rent and feed himself. He hasn't spoken to his parents since before his twentieth birthday, so it wasn't like he could go asking for help. He'd been starting to despair, but then Jonathan had called and asked him if, maybe, he'd be interested in doing some casual modelling for a buddy of his who had a studio in Indianapolis? Good guy, great work, looking for a particular kind of look, and Jonathan had immediately thought of Steve.
Steve had thought about it for a day or two, and then he'd asked for the guy's card. How could it hurt, right?
The card in question, currently in Steve's hand, is classy: matte black, with a name and an email address printed in grey. On the other side, there's a black and white shot of a pair of hands, clasped as though in prayer. Steve studies the photo for a long moment, and then looks back at the information. The name is E. D. Munson and the email address is [email protected]. He'd fired off a quick email, suggesting that maybe he'd be interested and Eddie himself had emailed him back about an hour later suggesting a date and a time to meet up.
And here he is.
Eddie had said that this first meeting would just be a chat, just to figure out if they could work together, talk about money, that sort of thing. Still, Steve hadn't been sure what to wear. After he'd finished his teaching day, he'd driven back to the third floor walk-up in Indianapolis that he shares with Robin and changed into jeans and a short sleeve button down shirt, sunny yellow; sneakers rather than dress shoes. His commute is a bitch, his head's aching dully and he really doesn't want to go out again but, on the plus side, Eddie's studio space is only fifteen minutes drive from his own place, and traffic isn't that bad.
He climbs out of the car, slotting his phone into his pocket and locking the car before he does the same with his keys. He bends slightly to examine his hair in the driver's side window. It's ruffled artfully back from his forehead, the kind of careless dishevelment that takes a long time and a lot of product to consistently achieve. Steve's confident enough to know that he's got a good face but, even having known Jonathan for as long as he has, modelling isn't exactly something that's ever occurred to him. Maybe that's why he's weirdly nervous? This whole thing is a long way out of his wheelhouse.
He finds the door easily enough; it's steel, set into the bare brick, with a buzzer and a speaker set next to it. He presses the buzzer and waits, rocking back onto his heels. A moment later, there's a crackle of static.
"Yeah?"
"Uh…It's Steve? Harrington? We spoke via email?"
"Oh, shit! Hey. Yeah. C'mon up."
The voice is lower than Steve's own, a touch of a rumble, a pleasant rasp. The buzzer sounds and Steve pushes the door open. Ahead of him, there's a set of concrete stairs, a neon arrow pointing upwards. On the landing, there's a pair of wood and glass sliding doors. He knocks, opening one cautiously.
"Hello?"
"Back here! Just gimme a sec, 'kay?"
It's kind of a great space, actually. Open, exposed brick, big windows letting in a tonne of natural light. There's a backdrop and lights set up against one wall, sliding doors leading through to what looks like an open-plan living space set in the other. At the back of the room, there's a desk, loaded down with papers and equipment and there he is, Steve guesses: Eddie Munson, in the flesh. He's about Steve's height, built a little broader through the shoulders, dressed in black denim and muted flannel, with his long, dark hair pulled up into a loose bun high on the back of his head. He's wearing his boots loose, the laces trailing. While he finishes the thing that he's writing, Steve can hear the musical sound of bracelets moving against each other.
"Uh. Hi," says Steve, suddenly awkward, sliding his hands into his pockets as he waits. "I…We emailed? I'm Steve."
"Yes, you are," says Eddie, turning. "And, yes, we did." His jaw is shadowed by facial hair, somewhere between heavy stubble and a short beard and there's a silver ring piercing one side of his nose. His smile is…arresting. It's been a long time since anyone smiled at Steve like that. Especially someone as striking as Eddie Munson apparently is.
"Nice to meet you?" says Steve, offering his hand. Eddie steps forward and takes it; his shake is warm and firm, confident. "I guess you know Jonathan?"
"Yeah," says Eddie, squeezing Steve's hand before he lets it go. "Yeah, Byers and I go way back, actually." He tilts his head, his dark eyes narrowing slightly. "You've got a great look. Hair. Jaw." He reaches, taking Steve's chin in a gentle grip and turning his face. "Fuck, your side profile is outstanding."
Steve can feel himself blushing, his face getting hot and, if anything, that just makes Eddie grin brighter.
"I…Thanks?"
"You're welcome."
Eddie takes his hand back and walks away, gesturing for Steve to follow him. There's a velvet sofa, a pair of armchairs arranged so that they face each other. Eddie sits down on the sofa, tucking one booted foot up underneath him and gestures for Steve to take one of the chairs. Steve sits, shifting position, struggling to get comfortable. Eddie's still looking at him like he's sizing him up, his head tilted to one side, a tendril of his dark hair just kissing the side of his face. His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, and Steve finds himself staring at the whorls and spikes of elaborate tattoos that cover him from elbows to wrists.
"So…" he says, finally. "How would…this whole thing work?"
"So…" says Eddie, that smile still entirely pleasant. "Your comfort levels would dictate a lot of it, honestly. I shoot commercial stuff, arty stuff and…" He makes a vague gesture with one graceful, ringed hand. "Other stuff. It's the other stuff I'm really looking for a model for, but, with a face like that? I'll take any opportunity you'll give me, honestly."
"Jonathan didn't really tell me what the…other stuff would…entail?"
Eddie rolls his eyes fondly.
"Of course he didn't. Asshole. He's so fucking vague. Anyway." He leans forward, spinning a leather portfolio on the table in front of him to face Steve before he opens it. The first shot is in black and white, a close up of a long fingered hand draped across a set of precisely sculpted abs. "So, it ranges from things like this — straightforward nudes — to something more like this?" The next shot is of a pair of hands (different hands, Steve thinks) bound with leather, the fingers locked together. "And so on. When I find the right person, I cater to specific client briefs — in dialogue with the model, of course — so it can get pretty extreme. But safe. Entirely consensual, obviously. Everything discussed and agreed upon ahead of time."
"Right."
"Have you ever done this before? Been photographed?"
Steve shakes his head.
"Not like this. Officially, or whatever. Just family photos and stuff. My roommate is a big fan of a selfie." He laughs at that, shaking his head. "I bet you hate that, right? iPhone selfies?"
Eddie shakes his head.
"Not at all, man. There's an art to a good selfie. Angles and shit."
Still leaning forward, Steve flips through another few pages of the portfolio. There's more images of bound hands, strong shoulders, flat stomachs. He turns the page and pauses. The shot in front of him is of a young man on his knees, shot in profile. His arms are bound behind him, his head tipped back. There's a black blindfold stretched across his eyes and a hand curled around his throat. The tattoos at the wrist look familiar, and Steve's eyes flick up to Eddie's face. The other man is leaning back into the corner of the sofa and he's changed position, so now his ankle is crossed across his knee, his elbow resting on the arm of the sofa and his temple resting against one fist. The look on his face is mild, calm.
"So that? Wasn't for a specific brief. But we did go on to do some of that kind of work. He just moved away for a job, actually. Which is why I find myself in need of talent."
"It's…a really beautiful shot, but I don't know if…" He clears his throat. "I've never done anything like that, before."
"Okay, well. Like I said, if you decide you want to work with me, a lot of what we shoot will be dictated by your comfort level. So we only get to that if you're comfortable getting to that." He reaches up, tugging the elastic out of his hair, dark curls tumbling down around his shoulders. He fluffs them with his fingers. "Why don't we take some test shots and see how you feel?" Something must happen to Steve's face because Eddie smiles. "Clothes on, don't worry."
"Okay."
Eddie gets up from his seat and heads towards the desk where his equipment is sitting.
"Shift over to the couch?" he asks, picking up an expensive looking camera. "Get comfortable and I'll shoot and you can ask me…whatever questions you like. And, if at the end of it, you're not happy with any part of it…well, it was nice to meet you and no hard feelings. Deal?"
Steve stands up from the armchair, tugging on the hem of his shirt to straighten it, walking around the coffee table and sitting in the seat Eddie's just vacated. Eddie stands, camera in hand, head tilted on one side and studies him for a long moment, lips slightly pursed. He leans in, sliding the portfolio out of the way so that it won't be in his shot and then he lifts the camera, studying the screen for a second, fiddling with focus, before he snaps a shot.
"Do you shoot digitally or film?"
"Mostly digital, honestly," says Eddie, shifting his angle slightly. "But I do shoot film sometimes, yeah. There's a dark room back there. Can you just…turn your face a bit…Yeah. That's perfect. Don't move for a sec, okay?"
Steve tries not to feel self-conscious, distracts himself by watching the way that Eddie moves as he works. The soles of his boots scuff against the wooden floor, and he moves fluidly, standing, crouching, perching on the coffee table.
"What's the going rate? For…this kind of work?"
"For modelling?" Eddie leans in and turns Steve's face a little with his fingers against his jaw. A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. "For the arty stuff, $75. Nudes are $100. Per hour, obviously. And, if we're working to brief, it'll depend on what the client is willing to play but it'd be…commensurate with content."
Steve's stomach dips a little bit at the thought of that. $100 an hour is a lot of money, especially when he's not allowed to get a normal paying job. In theory, he could do a few hours a week with Eddie and pretty much make his half of the rent.
"And I'd need to take my clothes off?"
"I mean…you look pretty damn good with them on, honestly, but, yeah, that's…pretty much the point." Eddie flashes a bright grin, pausing to flick through a few pictures on his camera before he lifts it again. "Does that make you nervous?"
"I'm okay with the thought of being naked," says Steve, shifting his position slightly, lifting a hand to adjust his hair when it slips across his forehead. "I played a lot of sports in high school — locker rooms and shit, you know."
"Not from personal experience, but I can imagine it's deeply homoerotic," says Eddie, and Steve can't see his expression because he's bent over his camera, but his voice is warm, teasing. "Okay, so you're zen about getting naked, which is a good start. So what reservations do you have."
"It's about…work, mostly," admits Steve. "I don't know if Jonathan told you what I do, but I'm training to teach elementary school so, I…You know…I have to…be careful."
"Because being in porny photos might get in the way of you getting your teaching licence?"
"Exactly."
"Okay," says Eddie, setting down his camera for a moment. "That's…Right. Do you have any tattoos or anything like that?" Steve shakes his head. "That makes it easier, honestly. All we have to do is keep your face out of the pictures. So, there's plenty we can do there. I can just…shoot you from the neck down, for a start. But then there's masks, blindfolds, hoods." Steve can feel his face heating up — is sure he's blushing — because Eddie says that, in that low voice of his that occasionally slips into a rasp and Steve can't help but picture how it would feel to be naked, posed, his face covered and Eddie shooting the whole thing.
"So you could keep it completely anonymous?"
Eddie nods. "Can you take your shoes and socks off for me? Put both feet up on the couch, whatever's comfortable."
Steve bends over, unlacing his sneakers. He takes his socks off and slips them into his shoes. He feels weirdly vulnerable with his feet bare, but he pulls them up onto the sofa with him. Eddie shifts the camera in his hands, framing a shot.
"That's great," he says, flashing a quick smile. "Don't feel like you've got to stay still while I'm shooting. Move. Dynamic shots are good."
"You told me not to move."
Eddie laughs. "Only because I liked the way you were catching the light right then. Now, I'm saying you can move."
Steve does his best to relax. He shrugs his shoulders and tilts his head, shifts the way he's got his legs on the sofa. His eyes track Eddie as he moves.
"So…if I decide that I want to go for it, what do we do next?"
"If you decide that, I'll draw up a contract — which you can get anyone you need to to look at, by the way, because it's totally above board and legit — you'll sign if you're happy, and we'll go from there."
He sets down his camera on the table and sits in one of the armchairs.
"That…Is it okay if I think about it?" He bends over to start putting his socks back on.
"Honestly, man, I'd be worried if you didn't want to. You've got my card, right?" Steve nods. "And I've got your email. So think about it and, when you've made your mind up, just get in touch, okay?"
Steve nods, bending to retie his laces as Eddie walks back towards his desk, camera in hand.
***
He thinks about it on the drive home, Arctic Monkeys turned up loud on the stereo. He'd kind of enjoyed the process of Eddie taking his test shots (though he's under no illusions that an actual shoot would feel the same, having looked at Eddie's portfolio). He's never minded having his photo taken, but this? Feels different. It is different, right? Various people have taken photos of Steve Harrington in various states of undress on their phones and, yeah, he's sent the occasional dick pic (though never, ever unsolicited because…gross). But it's one thing to let someone he's fucking take his picture while he's naked with his hand on his dick and another thing to get naked in Eddie's studio and pose for it.
He's not sure, is the point.
Home, he kills the engine and gets out of the car, grabbing the bag of groceries that he picked up on his way. It's too late to cook, probably, but he'll throw something together. He's too wired to go straight to bed, anyway.
When he opens the front door, the kitchen is dark, but there's soft, golden light spilling through the doorway into the sitting room and Steve can hear the TV turned down low. He'd messaged Robin to tell her what time he was expecting to be home, so he knows she won't be worried, but it's kind of nice to have someone waiting up for him, all the same.
"Hey," he calls from the kitchen, starting to unpack, opening cabinets and the refrigerator, grabbing a thing of cup noodles and setting it next to the electric kettle that Robin insisted they buy when she got very into herbal teas about a year ago. "Just letting you know that it's me, and not an axe murderer or something!"
"Good to know!" She calls back and, a moment later, he hears the pad of sock feet on the wooden floor. Robin appears in the doorway, swaddled in pyjamas and a blanket, her hair disordered in a way that suggests she's been napping on the couch for at least part of the evening. He doesn't blame her — she's in the middle of her final project for her Masters, and it seems to be involving a lot of night shoots.
"You're late," she says, leaning her head against the doorframe. "I ate without you, and it sucked because I basically can't fend for myself, and we both know it."
"That's not true," says Steve, fondly, carrying the kettle to the sink and filling it, then setting it back on its base and clicking it on. Without even asking, he grabs Robin's favourite mug from the shelf in front of him, and picks up the box labelled 'SLEEPYTIME TEA'. "You're not the best at feeding yourself but, hey. Pobody's nerfect, right?"
Robin rolls her eyes.
"God, you're such a fucking elementary school teacher. I bet even the kids think you're lame and they're seven."
"You fucking love me."
"I try."
They end up at either end of the sofa in the lounge, the TV still on but turned down low. Steve stirs his noodles with his fork and Robin cradles her tea in both hands, blowing gently over the steaming surface.
"So, I went and met that friend of Jonathan's," says Steve, in between mouthfuls of noodles. He hadn't actually realised how hungry he was until he'd started eating. "The guy looking for the model?"
"Yeah?" asks Robin, sipping her tea and nudging him with one foot. "How did that go?"
"He's…Yeah. Interesting. And the money is really good."
"How good?"
"Like…seriously tempting good."
"And you'd just have to…take your clothes off?"
"Pretty much."
Robin's quiet for a long moment, drinking her tea, blue eyes fixed on Steve's face.
"What about work? Because you can't do it if it'll fuck things up for you, Steve. You've worked too hard and you're so close."
"I talked to him about that, actually," says Steve, leaning to set his empty cup down on the floor and then settling back against the arm of the sofa, one arm curled up over his head. His head hurts, which is a good sign that he's been wearing his contacts for too long, but his glasses are in his bedroom, and he's too comfortable to get up, right now. "He can apparently make sure I'm anonymous for the whole process. So he'd see my face, obviously, but it wouldn't be in any of the shots."
"And you didn't get like…creepy weirdo vibes from him or anything?"
Steve chews at the corner of his thumbnail for a long moment.
"Kind of the opposite, actually." He'd thought about Eddie a lot on the way home — the way he'd looked, the way he'd talked (not just the low roll of his voice, but the quiet earnestness, too). "I got a really good feeling about him, Rob. And Jonathan rates him, so that's another plus. I think this could actually work."
Robin shrugs her shoulders under her blanket, raising both eyebrows as she takes a sip of her tea.
"Sounds like you've already made up your mind, dude," she says.
They chat for another couple of minutes, but then Steve takes his trash into the kitchen, puts his fork and Robin's mug in the dishwasher to wait for the breakfast things to be loaded in the morning. On his way to his room, he checks his email on his phone, finds one from Eddie waiting.
from: Eddie Munson
to: Steve Harrington
date: 01 March 2022, 21.02pm
subject: test shotsHi Steve,
Good to meet you earlier. Attached are some of the test shots that I took, just so you can see how they turned out. Take your time thinking and I'll hopefully hear from you soon.
Best,
Eddie.
There's five attachments to the email; Steve finds himself weirdly nervous, his stomach fluttering as he looks at it.
"Stop being fucking ridiculous," he murmurs to himself, dropping his phone on his bed and padding into his bathroom. He does his nighttime routine: strips down to his underwear, takes out his contacts and washes his face, brushes his teeth, puts on his glasses. He takes off his underwear and picks up the rest of his dirty clothes and drops them in his hamper, then he climbs into bed naked. Once he's settled, he picks up his phone again. He rereads Eddie's email. He opens the photos.
He looks…really good, actually. Really good. Eddie's got this way of shooting that highlights the lines and angles, and Steve feels seen in a way that he doesn't usually in photos. If he hadn't already made up his mind, he does, looking at those photos.
He opens his emails.
from: Steve Harrington [[email protected]]
to: Eddie Munson
date: 02 March 2022, 00.03am
subject: re: test shotsHey Eddie,
Enjoyed our chat earlier and I love the shots you sent through. Let's do it. Let me know when's good to talk about contracts and stuff and I'll get back to you with my schedule.
Talk soon.
S
***
As it turns out, it takes about a week for things to line up. Steve's parks on the street below Eddie's studio and kills the engine. He'd slept late and showered, taken way too long shaving and trimming and looking at himself critically in the mirror. It had felt weirdly like getting ready for a date — looking at his naked body critically, imagining what it would look like to someone else. Only, this isn't a date, is it? Eddie's going to have a camera in his hand and, for some reason? That's terrifying.
Steve's heartbeat is fluttering in his throat as he walks up to Eddie's front door and presses the buzzer to let him know that he's there. A moment later, the door clicks open; the speaker stays silent. Still, Steve knows where he's going, so he lets himself into the building, making sure that the door is firmly shut behind him, and then he climbs the stairs.
The studio looks the same as it did the last time he was here only, this time, there's a low platform draped in sheets and cushions set up in front of the backdrop. Under his jacket, Steve's wearing a t-shirt, jeans, and the skin of his arms shivers into goose-pimples, even though it's pretty comfortable in the space. There's no sign of Eddie, but Steve can hear faint noise coming from the doors that he assumes lead through to Eddie's living space.
"Hey?" he calls. "Should I just…?"
"Yeah, make yourself comfortable," calls Eddie's voice. "I'm just fixing a coffee. Do you want anything?"
"Maybe, just, like, a water?" says Steve, wandering over to the couch and sinking down to perch on the edge.
"Sure thing."
It's another couple of long moments before Eddie appears, a mug of coffee in one ringed hang, a bottle of water in the other. He's got his hair pulled up again, bangs tumbled across his forehead, and his wrists loaded with leather bracelets and silver bangles. Steve notices chipped black polish on his fingernails. The t-shirt that he's wearing is cut away, showing tattoos all the way up his arms and spangling his ribs, too.
Jesus Christ. This is a ridiculous idea. There's no way Steve is going to survive this.
"Hi," he says.
"Hey," says Eddie, handing him the water and then folding himself into the armchair opposite, pulling one foot up onto the chair with him, his leg folded against his chest. He rests his coffee cup on his knee, tilts his head slightly, studies Steve with shrewd, dark eyes. He taps a staccato rhythm on his mug with one ring, silver on ceramic making a musical noise. "How're you feeling?"
Steve cracks the cap on the water and takes a long swallow. It tastes clean. Cold. Exactly what he needs.
"I know I'm not supposed to admit this, probably, but I'm…genuinely terrified," he says, flashing a slightly nervous grin. "I'm probably supposed to play it cool, right?"
Eddie shakes his head, takes a sip of his coffee.
"Absolutely not," he says. "This works best if you tell me exactly how you're feeling, all the time. Remember what I said last time we met, Steve — all of this is dictated by your comfort levels, okay? I don't want to do anything that freaks you out."
Steve nods and he tries to take that to heart — he really, truly does. There's something soft and warm in Eddie's dark eyes, something trustworthy. Steve wants to trust him, anyway.
"Right," he says, taking another sip of water. "I remember."
"Your contract is there," says Eddie, nodding towards a document in the middle of the coffee table. There's a pen, too. "Take a look over it, ask any questions you need to. If you're not comfortable signing without someone looking over it, that's absolutely fine, but there's in there that's designed to trip you up. It's basically just consenting to me taking and then distributing your photo."
Steve leans forward, pulling the document towards him. He reads it carefully, slowly, making himself focus on every word so that he takes it in.
"So here…" He turns the document so that Eddie can see it. The other man puts both feet down on the floor and leans in, reading the line that Steve is indicating. "That's basically saying that I've got…first refusal, right? That you show me the images and tell me what you're doing with them, and I get to say no, basically?"
Eddie nods.
"Obviously, if we're working to commission and you say no, you don't get your percentage of what it would have sold for, but…" Eddie shrugs. "Neither do I, so."
"And the thing about my…anonymity is in here?"
Eddie leans back in his chair, taking another sip of his coffee.
"It's in there. Keep reading."
Blushing, faintly, Steve keeps reading. He finds it, the clause he'd asked about, there in black and white — Eddie stating that he'll take all steps to protect Steve's identity and reiterating that Steve can veto use of any prints that he's not entirely happy with. He's still nervous, sure, but it feels like a weight off. He can breathe easier..
"Okay," he says, finally. "All of that sounds good. So I just…" He picks up the pen. "Sign?"
"Everywhere that's indicated with a cross. There's a copy for you and a copy for me."
Steve signs everywhere he's supposed to and then he picks up his copy of the contract. He's not entirely sure what he's going to do with it, but he folds it in half, anyway.
"So," says Eddie, looking at Steve over the rim of his coffee cup. "I'm ready and able to shoot today, but if you need some more time to get used to the idea, we can compare notes and schedule something now?"
"No," says Steve, shaking his head. "Now's good. I…Yeah. I've got the rest of the day." A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. "I'm all yours."
"Lucky me," says Eddie, setting his coffee cup down on the table in front of him. "You want to get started?"
"Sure," says Steve, wishing he felt as confident as he sounds. He stands up, shrugs out of his jacket, and his hands itch for something to do, so he slides them into the back pockets of his jeans. Eddie stands up, too.
"Can you just…come stand here for me?" says Eddie, pointing to a bare patch of floor a few feet away. Steve moves to stand there, and tries not to feel self conscious as he's studied. Eddie folds his arms across his chest, head tilted slightly to one side, dark eyes flickering over Steve, taking him in from head to toe. "That outfit's good," he says, gesturing to the plain white t-shirt and mid-wash jeans that Steve's got on. He had been wearing a sweater, but he'd stripped that off and left it in the car. "We can lose the shoes and socks, though?"
"Now?"
A smile tugs at the corner of Eddie's lips.
"In a minute," he says. "So, this first shoot, we're going to keep things really tame, okay? I'll start with a few shots of you in your clothes and then we'll start stripping down and go from there?" The 'we' makes Steve's face feel hot, even though he knows that it's a figure of speech; he's the only one who's going to be taking anything off here.
Eddie's asking him something else, he realises. He'd stopped listening, distracted by the lines of Eddie's tattoos, the sharp line of his jaw under his neatly trimmed beard.
"Hm?"
"I was asking if you minded telling me what kind of underwear you've got on?"
"Oh. Um. Briefs. White ones?"
Eddie's grin is sudden and broad and, fuck. Lovely.
"That'll do," he says. "Okay. Come over here and just…stand. Some way that feels comfortable."
He's already got a camera set up on a tripod, and Steve moves to stand in front of it, his back to the white backdrop. He slips his hands into his pockets, realises he's still got his keys and his phone and shit. "I need to…"
Eddie's behind the camera, fiddling with something. "Yeah, sure. Just drop them on the table, man. And let's lose the shoes and socks now, please."
Steve empties his pockets onto Eddie's coffee table: phone, wallet, keys, a handful of loose change he'd been meaning to put into the jar that he and Robin use for laundry. When he's done that, he sits down so that he can take off his sneakers and his socks, balling the two together and tucking them inside one of his shoes. The floor is cool and smooth under the soles of his feet. It feels nice, actually. He pads back over and places himself in front of the camera.
Straightening up, Eddie studies him for a long moment.
"Can I just…" He comes closer, stepping into Steve's space. Steve's hair is styled the way it usually is, pushed back from his face, combed through with product. Eddie pushes his fingers into Steve's hair, ruffling it forward across his forehead, combing some of the product away, arranging it so that it brushes against his cheek, his jaw. Steve all but freezes, holding his breath until Eddie steps away, looking at him critically. There's that smile again, bright and unguarded, big enough to crease at the corners of his mouth. "That's better," he says.
"Yeah?" asks Steve. His voice breaks in a weird way, and he clears his throat. "Sorry."
"Yeah. Just…there's a look I'm going for." Eddie steps behind his camera, looking down at the screen. "Okay. Just come and stand here for me." He points at a spot on the floor and Steve moves to stand there. He slips his hands back into his pockets and watches Eddie. "Can you turn your head to the side and look down?" asks Eddie. "Just let your hair…" Steve turns his head as directed and his hair spills forward, skimming along his jaw. It'll hide his face, he realises.
He hears the sound of the camera shutter.
"That's good. Now just…relax your shoulders for me. You look really fucking tense, man."
"Sorry."
Steve does his best to relax, taking his hands out of his pockets and flexes his fingers. Eddie takes another shot. "You can move however it feels natural. It's not like I'm painting a portrait or something."
"Got it."
"So I figure we'll go a bit at a time? I can direct you? And I'll keep checking in on your comfort levels. If you want to stop at any point, you just tell me, and we'll stop. Okay?"
"You make it sound like I need a safeword."
Eddie grins at him.
"Not for this kind of shoot, baby."
"Jesus."
"Don't worry — we're a long way out from that kind of thing. Feeling ready?"
"Ready as I'll ever be."
"Okay. Let's start with your shirt."
This part's easy enough. He knows he looks good — he stays active, and he's proud of his body — not pumped up the way some guys are, but he was on varsity for swimming and basketball in high school, and that still shows in the way that he's built. He likes to run. Steve's been sexually active since he was sixteen, out since he was nineteen, so he's used to stripping in front of men, women. . Peeling his shirt up and off, he hears the camera's shutter sound while it's still in his hand.
Eddie directs in a quiet, firm voice — asks him to put a hand on his abs, his chest, his hip. Asks him to play with his chest hair, turn this way and that. Steve gets into the rhythm of it, turning when Eddie asks him to turn, posing as requested.
"One hand like this?" asks Eddie, and demonstrates on himself, his ringed right hand skimming down his belly, over his own crotch to squeeze, lightly. Steve barely manages to choke back the strangled sound that threatens to slip out of him.
"Like this?" he asks, sliding his hand over his own cock, squeezing through his jeans. He's not hard, not quite, but his cock is definitely filling out and he tries desperately to think unsexy thoughts — engines, math problems, visiting with his granny. Anything to stop him getting a hard-on where Eddie can see it.
"Yeah," says Eddie, his focus back on his camera. "That's perfect."
Steve stands there, shirtless, his face turned to the side, fondling his own cock through his jeans while Eddie shoots.
He can't remember the last time he was this turned on.
"Right," says Eddie, finally. "Ready to lose your jeans?"
"Yeah," says Steve, aiming for casual, hoping that he at least gets somewhere close. He's absurdly tempted to turn his back on Eddie as he starts to unbutton his jeans, but he doesn't, facing the camera instead as he opens his Levis one button at a time and then eases them down around his hips. For a moment, pushing down his jeans, he deeply regrets wearing white briefs. They don't give him anywhere to hide and he's intensely aware of how obvious the bulge of his dick is, especially because his unsexy thoughts have failed him catastrophically and everything's just a little bit fuller than it usually would be.
But Eddie's seen it all before, right? He has to have.
"You look great," says Eddie, his voice soft, reassuring, as he shoots. "Hook your thumbs under your waistband for me. Yeah, just like that."
Steve's blushing pretty intensely now, his hair still falling forward to curtain his face, his thumbs hooked under the waistband of his underwear, the line of his filling cock snug against cotton. The sound of the camera is starting to fade into the background, but he's so intensely aware of Eddie's eyes on him, so aware of the fact that he's being perceived.
"I'm sorry," he says, finally. "About…" One hand grazes his cock, a vague attempt to cover himself.
"Man, don't apologise," says Eddie, standing up from behind his camera. He looks serene, that smile still in place and Steve might be imagining it, but he thinks there's the faintest flush to the other man's cheeks. "It's kind of the point, actually. And the camera fucking loves you. Just relax, okay? You're in good hands."
Steve nods, tries to remember that. He takes his hands away, grazing his fingers through the hair on his chest instead.
"Turn around for me?" asks Eddie, back behind the camera. "Spread your feet further apart, and…Yeah, just like that. Lace your fingers on the back of your neck and just…" He hears footsteps coming towards him and, suddenly, Eddie's fingers are light on the back of his skull, nudging his head forward. "Hold that." Eddie squeezes his shoulder and then he's gone, and Steve hears the camera. He feels exposed like this, sure, but it's not necessarily a bad feeling. It's pretty hot, actually. He feels it roll over the surface of his skin, his cock twitching.
"How're you doing?" asks Eddie.
"Good," says Steve, and he's surprised to realise that he does feel good, that he's relaxing into this whole weird thing. A big part of that is Eddie — he's really good at this, at directing someone while making sure that they're at ease, and Steve can already see that he's not going to throw the brakes on anytime soon.
"Cool," says Eddie. "Put your shirt back on for me? I want to try a pose I've had in my head since the first time you walked in here."
"That sounds ominous," says Steve, bending to grab his shirt and pulling it back on over his head. Eddie glances back over his shoulder from where he's leaning over the platform, rearranging blankets and pillows. He grins.
"What did I tell you?" he says, holding up both hands and wiggling his fingers. "You're safe with me."
Steve looks at him for a long moment.
"Okay," he says. "What do you want me to do?"
Eddie arranges him on the platform, leaning his weight on his elbow and his hip, the other leg bent. He adjusts the drape of Steve's other arm so that it's across his hip and then he lifts the hem of Steve's shirt, draping it so that it exposes his belly. Eddie's fingers brush his jaw again, nudging his face to one side.
"Are you sure this doesn't look ridiculous?" says Steve, watching Eddie as he pads back behind the camera.
"You definitely don't look ridiculous, man," says Eddie, shooting a few frames. "I know you probably feel it right now, because you're not used to it, but, trust me — camera loves you, dude. You look like a wet dream."
Now Steve's definitely blushing. He knows his face won't make it into the shot — he signed a contract, after all — but Eddie can see it. He finds that he doesn't mind that so much; it doesn't seem to be bothering Eddie, anyway, Maybe, like the growing hard-on, it's kind of the point…
"How do you feel about taking everything off?" asks Eddie, taking his camera off the tripod and coming closer, getting into position so that he can shoot a few close-ups of Steve's belly, his hands, his crotch. He gestures for Steve to pull his shirt up further, and Steve does, until it's tucked up under his chin, his arms draped over his head, his face buried in his bicep.
"Everything?" asks Steve, keeping his face turned away as Eddie keeps shooting.
"We don't necessarily have to do any full frontal shots if you don't want to, but I really want to do a few shots from behind. You've got a great ass, man. And I bet I'm not even the first person who's told you that."
"You're not."
"Colour me unsurprised."
Steve skims one hand down his belly, stirring the fine hairs that trail under his waistband and he's gratified to hear Eddie take a shot.
"Yeah," he says, finally. "Okay. Let's do it."
"However feels good," says Eddie, heading back to his tripod, setting his camera back up there. "Whatever feels natural."
Steve lies there for a moment and thinks about it, and then he sits up. He shifts so that his back is to Eddie, to the camera, and then he wraps his fingers in the hem of his t-shirt and pulls it up and off, discarding it. He tries to forget about the camera for a minute, to imagine that, instead, Eddie (or someone who looks just like him, because, goddamn) is sitting back and watching him, enjoying every movement, every inch of exposed skin. He focuses on how hot the thought makes him, as he shifts up onto his knees, as he hooks his thumbs under the waistband of his underwear and starts to work it down, breathing quickly through his nose when elastic scrapes against the sensitive skin of his cock. It's kind of undignified, getting them all the way down and off, and it doesn't escape his notice that he doesn't hear Eddie's camera for a moment or two. Once he's naked, he stays on his knees, back to the camera, head bent.
"That's perfect," says Eddie's voice. "Just hold that for a second."
Steve does, looking down the length of his own body at his cock, which is definitely more than half-hard now, thick and heavy between his thighs. His skin is slightly flushed with arousal, and he wonders what he looks like, in the photographs. He wonders if this looks as amazing as it feels.
"Lie down for me?" says Eddie, and Steve does, smoothly, easily, stretching out on his back on the rumbled sheets, his head on a pillow, turned away from the camera. He bends one leg, essentially hiding his cock from view, drapes his arms over his head again. He's self aware enough to know what he must look like, right now. He's laid in enough half-made beds and wanted people to want him to know.
"Okay," says Eddie, and he sounds very far away, because Steve is drifting, somehow, relaxed and content and turned on all at once. "We can leave it there, or…I can come over there and take a few more shots."
Steve nods, his nose brushing against his own skin.
"You can do that," he says. "I'm good with that."
He's dimly aware of Eddie's footsteps coming closer and then Eddie's standing at his feet, camera in hand. Eddie's face is definitely flushed now, but it's warm in the room, isn't it? Steve's really warm, anyway. With Eddie standing there, there's nowhere to hide, nowhere to hide how hard his cock is, and he keeps his hands where they are, and he lets Eddie shoot.
"That's perfect," says Eddie, his voice soft, reassuring. "God, that's phenomenal. You were made for this, man."
And Steve feels that, fundamentally. He was made for this. He drifts, for a moment or two, listening to Eddie's breathing and the sound of his camera and he makes a mental note to send Jonathan Byers a fucking thank you card.
"I think that's good for today," says Eddie, finally. "I'll give you a minute to get dressed and I'll sort out your cash."
Cash. Fuck. Steve had actually forgotten that this whole thing was work, a transaction. He'd gotten so into it that he'd somehow forgotten that he was getting paid.
"Cool," he says, stretching his arms over his head, feeling the pull in the small of his back. He feels like he's just woken up from a really awesome nap or something. He sits up, swinging his leg to the side, feet hitting the floor. He leans, groping for his underwear and his shirt, pulling them both on before he reaches for his jeans. He's still half hard and tucking himself away is uncomfortable, but, honestly, he's felt worse.
Once he's dressed, his feet still bare, he pads back over to the coffee table, retrieving his shit and stowing it in his pockets. He pushes both hands back through his hair and then he sits down on the couch to start putting on his socks. Eddie comes back over with an envelope in his hand.
"You've been here a couple of hours, so that's $200," says Eddie, setting the envelope down on top of Steve's copy of his contract.
"Two hours? Seriously?" says Steve, glancing at his watch. "Jesus. Time flies, right?"
"When you're having fun," says Eddie. He's taken his hair down, Steve notices; it spills around his shoulders in chestnut curls. He slides into one of the chairs, folding his legs up, fiddling with one of his rings, turning it around and around on his finger. "And you did, by the way?"
"What?"
There's that smile again, not the full grin, but the smile that creases his face in all kinds of pleasant ways and warms his dark eyes.
"Look like you were having fun."
Steve rubs the back of his neck, pushes his hair back out of his face.
"Yeah," he says. "I really kind of did."
"Bodes well for us doing this again, then?"
Steve nods.
"Yeah," he says. "I think so."
***
The drive home is torturous. He's half-hard the whole way and all that he can think about is Eddie Munson. His hands, big but somehow graceful, too, the silver rings on every finger. How he looks with his hair up, the slope of his neck, and the loose tendrils that kiss the side of his face. The tattoos that decorate so much of his skin (the skin that Steve's seen, at least). His smile, and the way it creases the skin around his eyes, and at the corners of his mouth. The way it feels, to be looked at by him, to be photographed by him.
Steve's in so much trouble. He's fucked.
He's never been so relieved to find the apartment dark, Robin not at home. She's left a note for him on the kitchen table, but he doesn't even take the time to glance at it. He's got his jeans open by the time he gets into his bedroom, his dick in his hand, and he doesn't even bother kicking them off before he starts stroking. It's not enough, though. He needs more. He forces himself to take his hand away from his cock, to take a few deep, centering breaths. He undresses, completely, stretches out naked on his bed with his cock hard and aching, leaking whenever it brushes his belly. He closes his eyes, and he imagines Eddie standing at the foot of the bed, camera in hand.
God, that's it. That's exactly it.
Reaching for the lube at his bedside, Steve slicks his palm and then he curls his fingers around his cock, stroking slowly. He teases the head of his cock with his thumb, spreading precome, his back arching slightly. He imagines the sound that Eddie's camera makes, and then he imagines those thick, warm fingers on his skin, adjusting his position, posing him. He lets his legs slip further apart, his free hand cupping his balls, fondling, squeezing. He imagines Eddie climbing up on the bed with him, kneeling between his spread thighs so that he can get in close, take an obscene picture of Steve's fingers, the way they contrast with the flushed skin of his cock. He thinks about how, from that angle, it'd be so easy for Eddie to photograph every secret part of him.
He comes so suddenly it takes him by surprise, his cock throbbing and twitching in his hand, come roping hot and liquid up his belly and chest, striping the underside of his jaw. As he comes, he hears Eddie's voice. You look like a wet dream.
He idly sucks two of his fingers clean, laughing at himself a little.
"Fucking hell," he says, softly, and then he peels himself off the sheets and pads into the bathroom to clean up.
***
By the time he hears Robin's key in the door, he's showered and dressed in pyjama pants and a worn HAWKINS HIGH PE t-shirt that's snugger across the shoulders that it was when he was eighteen. He's in the process of cooking — just pasta and a jar sauce, ground beef, garlic. His hair is still wet and he's got his glasses on and it's that wonderful point in the week where he knows he gets to wake up tomorrow morning without setting an alarm. He's got some grading to do, some lesson plans to write but, for this evening, he can eat dinner and drink some wine and watch a shitty movie with his best friend.
"Where have you been, young lady?" he asks, as Robin walks into the kitchen. She rolls her eyes, shrugging out of her coat and hanging it in the closet.
"I left you a note, dingus."
"Oh, shit. Yes, you did." He hasn't read it. It's still where she left it on the kitchen table.
"I had a production meeting," she says. "But I'm home now, and…" She rummages in her bag and produces a pint of Ben and Jerry's. "I bought dessert."
"This has got about another ten minutes, if you want to go get changed?"
Robin leans in, pressing a kiss against his cheek and pads off in the direction of her own bedroom.
While he's waiting for things to pull together, standing with his ass leaned back against the counter, he checks his emails and finds one from Eddie waiting.
from: Eddie Munson
to: Steve Harrington
date: 12 March 2022, 18.03pm
subject: shootHi Steve,
Please find attached some of the best shots from this afternoon's shoot. Hopefully you enjoyed yourself; I definitely did. If you're up for it, we could do the same time next week?
Best,
Eddie.
At the bottom of Eddie's email, there's a cellphone number. Steve stares at it for a long moment.
He opens the shots and flicks through them, one at a time, lingering on them. He barely recognises himself in them — he looks like something beautiful, something burnished gold. He keeps going back to a couple of them: the one with his shirt pushed up over his belly, the line of his cock snug against the thin fabric of his underwear; the one where he's naked on his knees, his head bent, so that the light's catching the muscles in his back and shoulders and his ass. Eddie's included one of the full frontal ones, too, and Steve finds himself staring at it. He'd expected it to be pornographic and, yeah, it is, but it's…Yeah. It's really beautiful too.
He inputs Eddie's number into his phone and then he sends him a message.
Love the shots. See you next week. S