Archive of Our Own

Eddie’s organizing all of his gear when Chrissy Cunningham practically skips into the studio. She’s laden down with her usual gargantuan amount of shit. Even for Los Angeles porn stars, Chrissy functions at pretty ridiculous level of Los Angeles porn star-ness. Red Bull and phone with the little charms dangling off of it in one hand, her big fancy purse (the designer one that she’d proudly announced last time they saw each other that she’d bought with the paycheck from one shoot alone. “Thank you, Bang Bus!” she’d sang while Eddie jokingly applauded) looped around her other wrist. The purse was undoubtedly holding all of her wellness shots and vitamins that she always methodically took like it had anything to do with anything. 

“There she is! Little miss punctual!” Eddie smiles as Chrissy tugs her bag onto her shoulder to pull Eddie into a hug.  

“How’s tricks?” Eddie asks.

Chrissy takes off her coat and pushes her sunglasses up onto her head before taking another sip of her energy drink. “Pretty good. So happy to see you.” 

“Happy to see you, too, darlin’.”

Chrissy peers over to the metal table where the ropes and cuffs he has started organizing are laid out. “Ooo,” she intones, pretending at grabby hands. “Big haul today.” 

“Yep. The more times I shoot with a specific girl, the more I gotta rack my brains for ways to surprise ‘em.” 

Chrissy shakes her head. “Well, good luck with that. You know I’m a dutiful subscriber and watcher.” 

She’s so cute. Eddie actually can’t stand it, even feels his lips quirk into this little earnest grin without meaning it.  

As Eddie finishes organizing his equipment and moves to fill out his side of the paperwork, Chrissy steps aside with the producer to take her photo next to her ID. Eddie laughs to himself as he sees her do this open-mouthed grin, driver’s license pressed next to her cheek and her free hand jamming a cheesy thumbs-up.

Eddie signs his last little waiver as Chrissy comes up next to him and tugs the clipboard from him. Chrissy checks along the list with the pen almost automatically. She doesn’t even read it anymore, just plows through her yes es, no s, and needs discussion s like it’s automatic. 

“How’s the new man?” Eddie asks. It’s a risky venture to even bring up dating with this one. Chrissy hasn’t had much luck retaining a partner in a hot second, and it’s been almost six months since Eddie and her last shoot. They DM occasionally — reactions to each other’s stories and quick check ins, but boyfriends and such are implicitly off limits. Eddie would love to see her more, and she’s undoubtedly the most requested woman on his site. But she’s also a busy girl, and they liked to keep people subscribed and wanting more, so they’d agreed after their first three or so very successful shoots over the past year and a bit that they’d be taking breathers. 

“We’re okay,” Chrissy sighs. “I think some of it’s starting to bug him. Always does.”  

“It’s why you shouldn’t be dating a civilian, Cunningham,” Eddie singsongs. “What do I always tell you? They don’t get it.”

“Yeah,” Chrissy concedes. “They’re so easy to please, though. Got so many tricks they don’t know up my sleeve. Imagine how much time I’d spend trying to keep someone like you on your toes.” 

Eddie shakes his head, and tries not to think about Chrissy Cunningham using porn star tricks in her private time with some faceless man. “That’s not what happens. Dating in the industry means you can just both not fuck at all. Go home and eat and sleep between shoots. Totally sexless. It’s awesome.”

Chrissy’s nose wrinkles in displeasure. “Yeah, that’s why I got into this business. Trying to have less sex.” 

“Cameras aren’t even on yet. You don’t have to porn star for me.”

“What?” 

“You don’t have to say you love fucking and fucking on camera all the time.” 

“I do like it!” Chrissy returns defensively. “Especially shoots with you . Some of the other stuff feels like work sometimes, I guess.” 

“Well, you’re good at looking like you enjoy it.”

“Oh?” Chrissy’s eyebrow quirks up. “You’ve looked?” 

Eddie cuts a glance at her as he finishes coiling up the last length of rope. “Yes. You’re not going to fluster the guy who works in porn about watching porn.” 

“Did you like what you saw? Did you have a favorite?” Chrissy bats her eyelashes at him.

(He did. The ones where Eddie did stuff to her — made her come, used some of his little accessories on her, called her names, wrapped a hand around her throat — until she was shaking and whining for him. He rarely rewatched his own work, and yet, occasionally, he’d end up skimming those videos late at night. It made him feel sort of icky. He was supposed to be a consummate professional. He usually was . His second favorite of hers was the one she did over at one of those “authentic” type sites that Chrissy managed to make actually look, well, authentic. “Fell in love with you for a sec, there,” her scene partner laughs at the end. “Good, because I’m about to ask you out on a date,” Chrissy laughs back, all her lightly applied makeup smeared off, chest heaving. Okay. So he had a crush on Chrissy Cunningham. How many men on the planet were in the same boat? Eddie never let anything on, never suggested anything. Sue him for harboring a private attraction.)

“I’m about to make you come until you tap out as a job obligation. You don’t need to flirt me into it,” Eddie reprimands her lightly. 

Chrissy pouts teasingly as she hands over her paperwork. She’s drawn little hearts around some of her yes es. (She always checks yes next to oral, penetrative, and kissing, despite Eddie’s whole shtick being that he gets girls off with his (latex gloved) hands and toys and nothing else. He stays fully dressed. Doesn’t get romantic. That’s his whole thing.)  

Eddie rotates his gum casually to the other side of his mouth as he scans the page. Same answers as usual. Same as always, actually. 

(“You seem pretty confident, for a newbie,” he’d said the first time, when, after explaining a few terms to her, he’d seen that she checked yes or maybe on nearly everything. It had been her first official BDSM scene. Like ever. “You sure these are hard yeses? I mean, not that you can’t tap out. But we can go with maybes.” 

“I just don’t break easy,” Chrissy shrugged. Which obviously made Eddie want to break her very, very badly. Eddie was a sadist’s sadist — for as long as he could remember, since back when he didn’t even know the word, or about the scene, and thought he was just a bad person who hated other people. Before he became the luckiest guy alive and the combination of his fucked-up tendencies and his penchant for perfectionism had landed him a job where he made a ton of money and won awards for fucking with eager, masochistic girls on camera. God must’ve been a sadist, too. He’s not sure how else someone like Eddie would be so rewarded by the universe.  

He had broken Chrissy down that first time. Quicker than the experienced girls, but slower than expected — she wasn’t kidding, she didn’t break easy. But eventually he’d had her where he wanted her; twitchy and mumbling to herself and fisting her hands around nothing as they were tied down to a little rig on the table. 

Eddie had stopped touching her when all he could get out of her was thank you, sir, no matter what he asked or said to her. 

“Oh, wow, ” she’d whispered when she came back to herself as he sat her up and offered her some water. 

He smiled at her as he rubbed her tired wrists. “Good first time?” 

Chrissy nodded. “That’s the best. I just want to do that all the time.”)

“Alright. Pre-interview? You ready?” 

Chrissy shimmies her tight little black tube top down a little and hops on the wooden stool. 

“Alright. Ask away.” 

Eddie gives a thumbs-up to the camera man. He starts rolling, and Eddie seats himself behind the camera and watches sweet little earnest Chrissy with her stretch routines and Trader Joe’s ginger wellness shots turn into beaming porn star Chrissy.

“Happy to have you back, Miss Cunningham,” Eddie starts, lighthearted. 

“Excited to be here,” Chrissy giggles with a little bob of her ponytail. She’s a fucking pro. 

*

Chrissy lies next to a snoring Jason in bed, gnawing on her fading gel manicure. Her nail tech always sighs when she sees how she’s wrecked them, and Chrissy always gets all sheepish and says she’ll do better next time. Chrissy has shed a lot of her past shit around needing to be liked by everyone (or maybe just slotted it into a new source — she’s aware her job is to go look pretty and be validated for taking her clothes off, but, like her therapist says, whatever gets her through the day), but then suddenly she feels like she could die over her nail tech being disappointed in her. 

After most shoots she sleeps like a baby — totally exhausted. She gets home, does her yoga and a meditative full body scan to make sure nothing feels off, drinks a metric ton of water, and then collapses into a totally black night of sleep, waking up with her body sore like when she used to work out for way too many hours in high school. The days where she hardly ate and did HIIT videos and long runs on top of cheerleading. (“You were a cheerleader?” she remembers Eddie cooing during their second shoot together, when Chrissy hitched her leg up into this little rig with a flexible ease. “Were you the team favorite? Did they know about you being so easy? Or did you pretend to be a little Christian prude?”). 

Chrissy’s doing better now. Mostly. She eats a solid amount. She works out a normal-ish amount. She probably shouldn’t be taking advice from Gwenyth Paltrow’s website so much, or doing those juice cleanses she tends to fall for, but whatever. She’s doing better. 

But after shoots with Eddie, she can never sleep. She feels all wired after that pleasant sort of stoned feeling leaves her body. Food tastes better when she gets home, colors seem brighter, movies more interesting, her friends more loving. 

Chrissy’s hand absently circles her left wrist, where the last few broken blood vessels still remain from where she chafed against the rope that morning. 

(Eddie had been distraught when he saw his slip-up. He’d gasped and held her hand up close to his face, examining the rope burn from where he’d tied too tight and Chrissy had tugged too hard. 

“Fuck, I’m so sorry,” Eddie sighed. “I haven’t fucked up like that in ages. Shit .” 

He ran his thumbs along the wrist bone, as if he could rub the marks away. 

“Eddie,” she’d laughed. “It’s totally fine.” 

“It’s not. You shouldn’t have rope burn, period, and you definitely shouldn’t have any marks when you asked for none. You’ve got that other shoot tomorrow, and you shouldn’t have anything left over.” 

“Eddie, calm down. I’ll put concealer on it.” 

He shook his head as his hand encircled her wrist. “Ugh. Alright. I’m really sorry, though. It won’t happen next week.” ( Next week, next week, running on a loop in Chrissy’s head all day long. They’d decided to do a special edition collection of three shoots over three weeks for way too high of a price, and a shit ton of people had already pre-ordered it.) 

Not only can Chrissy not sleep, but she’s horny tonight, despite spending hours on that shoot. She should probably wake Jason up, so he can feel included. 

She shouldn’t do what she is doing. She shouldn’t reach over and grab her little bedazzled airpod case and open her little plethora of porn sites on her phone. She really shouldn’t pop over to the site Eddie and her work together at and watch some of their older shoots. 

If Jason wakes up and sees her getting off to porn of herself, he’s going to think she’s totally broken. That first time with Eddie had been the best fucking thing, though. Chrissy loved rewatching it, like she could remember how her body and brain felt in that exact moment when she watched it back.

* 

She’d only been in the industry for six or so months when they first worked together. She’d shot enough to no longer be painfully shy, but she was still pretty self-conscious. 

Chrissy had seen some of his stuff before meeting him. Actually, she’d seen some of his stuff before she was even officially in porn, back when she was in Hickville Catholic Nowhere thinking she was probably going to hell (which wasn’t the case anymore — now she was definitely going to hell), and Eddie was just getting started in mainstream porn.  

Eddie was scary and intense and the girls seemed both incredibly vulnerable and incredibly desperate for his approval.  Which was part of the performance, she knew. She almost loved watching him chat with the girls before and after the shoot as much as she liked the actual porn. The clips where they went through their checklists, talked about what they did and didn’t like at the end, where he talked to the girls so casually and kindly and respectfully, and they acknowledged the performance of it all, made Chrissy feel all warm and fuzzy. But Chrissy had the sense, unlike these performances, that she was actually going to be all nervous and lame around Eddie, not even for show, when they made plans to shoot. 

But Eddie was cool. Eddie had made her laugh a lot the first time. He was charming, and asked lots of casual questions as he walked her through the paperwork and the little kink checklist (stuff on there made Chrissy’s breath hitch. There was stuff she wanted to try, and stuff she didn’t even understand that Eddie explained to her with such a casual tone that he sounded more like he was a waiter talking about the specials).  

As Eddie had stepped away to work on his own checklist that first day, because the site they worked for asked that both the dominant and submissive performers answered their hard yes es and no s (despite the fact Eddie didn’t have any sex himself and Chrissy wasn’t going to be doing anything to him), she found herself wondering how exactly all this worked for him. 

“Do you, um —“ Chrissy started before wondering if it was appropriate. What if it was a touchy subject? 

“Go ahead,” he’d nodded encouragingly. “You can ask whatever you like. I’d prefer it.”

“I know today we don’t have any sex, or, like, you don’t get off. Well, you never do, actually. So do you even like it?”

Eddie had laughed loud, though not meanly. He’d reached out to pat her knee. “Don’t worry about it. I love it. I’ve loved this kind of shit since I knew it was an option. I’ve got the best job in the world.”

“Except you don’t even get to get off,” Chrissy said, earnestly confused. 

“Aren’t you considerate?” Eddie’d smiled. “I like to focus on the girls for shoots, that’s all. Plenty of other options for my own personal shit. We’re here to work, right?” 

Chrissy nodded, unconvinced. “Sure, but it’s cool when you can also come. As your job.” 

Eddie laughed even louder. “Yeah. I’m sure it is.” 

He’d asked her where she was from. Chrissy had said her little rote response: “Small town in Indiana. Got out right at eighteen. Spent a few years hopping around and not making enough money being a waitress, decided California seemed most glamorous, and now we’re here. And if that’s not cliche enough, I also don’t have a relationship with my parents. And that was before the porn.” 

She only noticed once it was all out that she’d shaded in way more detail than usual. 

Eddie had shook his head. “It’s not cliche if it’s what happened to you,” he said. “Everyone’s allowed their own personal experiences. Just because it happened to other people doesn’t mean it’s not important that it’s your story, too.” 

Chrissy thought that was incredibly intimate and perceptive for a dude who had just met her and was going to finger bang her on camera for the next two hours. 

And then, after explaining the whole power dynamic — how Eddie would break character if she tapped out or safe worded or he got a bad vibe, but otherwise would be mean and dismissive and a little rude while she was meant to be submissive and respectful —the bastard had used all the shit he had collected against her mid-scene. 

“Where are you from again, Chrissy?” He’d asked, two of his gloved fingers pressed deep inside her as she lay stretched out and tied down on one of the studio’s tables. She held her head up weakly, hazily fascinated by the way he was making her so desperate with just his hands and a little wand vibrator. 

“Indiana,” she’d answered weakly. 

“Indiana? That’s cute. Small town girl thought she’d come and make it big over in California, huh? Did you ever think you were gonna be a movie star?” Eddie said it like it was pathetic. 

Chrissy came so hard she almost hit her head against the wooden table when she fell back — she would’ve if not for Eddie’s hand being there for her to thud against. She thinks she probably started falling in love with him a little then. 

“Chrissy told us before shooting that her favorite part of the job is that she gets to come,” he’d said to no one in particular as he continued holding her head. “So we’re going to make this a day of real hard work, aren’t we?”

*

Chrissy scrolled past her own videos, resisting the urge, and found some other girls’ scenes with him. If Jason woke up Chrissy could claim it was research. She clicked on one he had made with a girl she worked with before, who Chrissy found really sweet. Maybe it’d be fun to watch if Chrissy liked both people involved. But it wasn’t right. And the next one wasn’t right, and the next one wasn’t right. 

Chrissy hated how Eddie talked to them all the same. Same cold, distant tone during the scene. Same friendly banter in the preceding and post-interviews. Chrissy rolled her eyes at one of the girls laughing at something Eddie said until she snorted, like they were actual friends, and then immediately felt badly about having such bitchy thoughts. It was his job. Chrissy was his job, and every other chirpy fifteen minutes of fame porn star was his job, and there was nothing to be mad about. 

Chrissy shut off her phone and touched herself quickly and quietly with an arm slung over her eyes and teeth digging into her bottom lip. She thought about Eddie between her legs — no gloves, no toys, just his mouth and body. She came imagining how it’d feel to ride him. How it’d feel to have him flustered beneath her — the things he’d say to her in private, when her body wasn’t for performance, but just for the two of them to do what they pleased with. 

*

“I forgot to ask you last time, is there a current Mrs. Munson? Anyone doing this with you in your free time?” Chrissy asks in a way she hopes is casual. She couldn’t stop thinking about it after she came the other night. How maybe Eddie was somewhere else in Los Angeles at that exact same time, making some pretty girl come in his own soft bed, someone he maybe even loved, planned to be with forever. 

Chrissy’s finishing up her stretch routine. She had the same one for every shoot, but always added some extra pigeon poses for her shoots with Eddie since the time she’d had that killer hip cramp during one of their scenes. (It was so bad she’d had to tap out briefly, the closest she’d ever gotten to safe wording. Eddie had uncuffed her leg from where it was strapped and gently helped her stretch it out, bending her knee in and pushing her leg toward her torso, pressing his weight into the stretch until her joints clicked back into place while he told her about how he’d just finished the newest Game of Thrones season. “Total shit,” he’d said emphatically as Chrissy had nodded along. It had been such a normal moment she forgot she was, like, completely immobilized under all sorts of rope around her arms, legs, and torso.) 

“You know one of those little papers you sign is about sexual harassment on set? Not overstepping bounds outside of the sex acts agreed upon?” Eddie laughs at her question as he checks the hook hanging from the ceiling — reaching one muscly, wiry arm up to give it a tug.

“You’re my friend, aren’t you? Can’t I ask you about dating?”

Eddie makes his way toward her, grabbing a length of rope on his way by their equipment table. 

“There’s a different Mrs. Munson most nights,” Eddie smiles as he gestures for Chrissy’s wrists. “But no one long term.”

She happily offers them out to him, and ignores the relief that flows through her at his answer. 

“Girls I know?”

“ People you know. You’re not the only bisexual darling in the industry.”  

“Now who’s pushing boundaries!” Chrissy complains in mock offense. “How do you know I’m bisexual? Maybe I’m just a really great performer.”

“I keep tabs, Cunningham. I saw that one, with the new amateur girl. Robin? Seemed pretty authentic.”

An understatement. Chrissy’s regular collaborator, Steve Harrington, had mentioned her — some OnlyFans newbie who loved strap-on shit and had some money to spare on bigger talent. Chrissy had gone in ready to look pretty and play to the cameras and instead came so hard she felt like she was going temporarily blind. 

“How would you know what’s authentic?” 

“I can read you like a book,” he answers, almost smug. Chrissy’s already starting to get squirmy and they haven’t even started. 

“Anyways, occasional dating,” he continues. “No one I personally work with, but you know I keep it industry-exclusive. Less drama. How’s the boy toy?” 

“Gone,” Chrissy murmurs. 

Eddie throws her a pout as he tugs a knot into place so that her arms are tied together tight from the forearms down. She feels the most secure she has in weeks. 

“What was it in the end?” Eddie asks. 

“The usual,” Chrissy says. “This.” 

(She doesn’t let on how truthful she’s being. It was literally this. It was her and Eddie’s scenes. 

“Do you have no boundaries? It’s one thing to give head on camera, or whatever. I’m open to what you do. But you have five videos of this guy slapping you around and tying you down? I just can’t—” Jason had shook his head. He’d actually sounded hurt more than mad or judgmental, which had made it harder for Chrissy.

“It’s my job, Jason. You knew that. You knew it from the very beginning.” 

Jason’s jaw clenched. He pointed to where he’d paused the video, a still of Chrissy grinning up at Eddie off-camera. 

“It’s just that you look so fucking slap happy. I don’t know if I can stomach it.”) 

“Mm. Good riddance. Doesn’t deserve such a superstar,” Eddie says, like it’s no big deal. And as he scans Chrissy over thoughtfully — all wrapped up in his handiwork — and gives a little approving, pleased nod at the way she looks, Chrissy can’t remember why she ever gave a fuck about Jason. 

“Can someone check my make-up one more time?” Chrissy asks. She’d been breaking out — it happens when she doesn’t eat enough, when she’s sustaining off sugary coffee and not much else. And that happened when things were getting not quite right inside of her, when she was anxious or filled with dread or having the sneaking suspicion that she was sort of unloveable and was going to have to seek affection from her job forever instead of healthy sources. 

As the girl dusts the last bit of powder along Chrissy’s chin, Chrissy looks to Eddie. “Will you mess me up, please? The last few weeks have sucked.” 

Eddie smiles. “Sure. But say that same thing with the cameras rolling, please. People will love that.”

This was his job. Fucking with her head and touching her, so that other people got turned on. That was both their jobs. She understood, but it pissed her off that he wouldn’t let her forget it. Couldn’t she fantasize for just a second?

*

Eddie gets Chrissy down into that pliant little headspace crazy fast this time. It was almost like she was a newbie. Usually she was chatty, and even a little mouthy, as they got her warmed up. But today she was like putty in the first ten minutes, not even complaining about the little suspension bondage that she usually got lightly bratty about, not whining when he said no to her first few requests to come. 

“Eddie,” Chrissy breathes when he finally lets her let go for the first time.

“That’s not my name when we’re mid-scene,” Eddie whispers back, mostly teasing. 

“Sorry. Sorry, sir.” 

And then, a little while into it, things almost get really off the rails. 

Eddie’s hand cracks across her ass and Chrissy gasps, like she always does. 

“I love you,” Chrissy whines. Eddie freezes briefly. Fuck. 

 “I mean—I love this,” she rushes out, coming back to herself. 

“What are you even saying?” Eddie laughs meanly, trying to recenter the dynamic and not think too hard about it. “Getting all tongue tied on me?”

“Yeah,” Chrissy concedes, playing along. He spanks her again, and everything resettles. 

When they call “cut”, Chrissy looks worn out (which, Eddie wants on the record, she had specifically requested. So much of his job and his sex life was pretending he wasn’t just doing what his so called “submissive” partners demanded of him, but that’s also why he loved it). 

Eddie unties her and waits for her to sit up and start cracking her neck and shoulders like she always does (sometimes with this cute little oof as she strains against where her body was stuck in the same position for a long while). But this time, she just stays laying there. Doesn’t even bring her arms down from where they were above her head. 

“Alright, missy,” Eddie says. He gives a little tickle along her tummy. “Up we get. Post-interview and then a shower.”

Chrissy groans in response, shifting away from his tickling hand and into a fetal position on the unforgiving wood.

“You’re okay,” Eddie laughs. “You’re all done! Did so good!” 

“M’so tired.” 

“Right. You need water and a blanket before we chat?” 

“Don’t wanna. Wanna nap right here.” 

“Well, no,” Eddie laughs. “Not an option.” 

“Can’t talk.” 

“Alright. We need the couch, huh?”

“Maybe,” Chrissy sighed. 

Eddie is pretty good at gaging people. He never gives no aftercare, but usually keeps it relatively professional. Helps them out of their restraints, offers to help them stretch a little or dig his fingers into any tensed up pressure points, gives them a friendly hug once they’re in a robe or a blanket. 

But when he couldn’t snap someone out of it with the usual moves, they’d go to the couch. The couch is just this big pleather thing they have in the back of the studio when people need a minute to get their head on straight. Crew would take half an hour to do what they wanted before post-interview, and Eddie would sit with the girl and try to figure out what they needed. Usually they just needed to be held, and to talk about something that wasn’t related to sex. Sometimes they shared something really personal that had come up, and then would be relieved when Eddie didn’t react with shock or disappointment, but just validated what they had to say. 

Or, with Chrissy, who was strange and spacey and extremely hard to understand, they played fucking cards. 

“Go fish,” Chrissy murmurs. 

She’s sitting in a robe, with one knee up and the other leg extended so that her foot rests by Eddie’s legs across the couch. Her hair is in a weak and messy little bun, and she’s got her green pressed juice on the arm of the couch next to her. 

“Damn. You’re kicking my ass,” Eddie laughs.  

Chrissy snorts. 

“Any other work this week?” Eddie asks. 

“Any sixes?” Chrissy responds. 

“Two.” 

Chrissy reaches a palm out, still studying her own hand, and he slaps his cards into it with a goofy force.  She laughs before answering his first question. “Yeah. Just one shoot in a few days.” 

“With?” 

“Steve Harrington,” she says, reorganizing her cards. “For a newer site.”

“Oh, yeah? Tell him I say hi, that guy’s a sweetie.” 

“I will,” she nods with a little smile. 

Eddie can see Chrissy returning to herself finally. It had taken a hot second, though. She’d been like a ragdoll as he guided her over to the couch and got her some water. Usually she just popped right back into herself. 

“If I do the interview now, will you sit with me when I’m in the shower?” Chrissy bargains softly. “I feel better, but still sort of, like, Bambi legs.” 

Eddie nods. “Sounds like a fair deal.” 

*

“Y’know, most girls bring their own stuff. I don’t have, like, purple shampoo for dye jobs or skincare or any of that shit,” Eddie says as he hands her some generic drugstore shampoo and conditioner through the flimsy curtain in the studio showers. 

Chrissy reaches for it, her wet fingers meeting his briefly. “First of all, I’m a natural blonde, thank you very much.” 

“Oh, sorry to presume. Were those eyelashes that came off today mid-shoot natural, too? And that fresh set of upper lip filler? That just appeared overnight?”

Chrissy’s hand comes out from the shower curtain, flipping him off. 

“I also like using this shampoo because I like smelling like here the rest of the day,” Chrissy adds. “S’ a nice reminder.”

Eddie’s heart squeezes. He wants to hang out with her for the rest of her day. He wants to go run errands with her, see what her little girly Hollywood apartment looks like, see how she grocery shops and what pharmacy she goes to. He doesn’t say any of that. He opts instead to say, “That’s cute.” 

“I wish I could live here,” Chrissy muses, clearly still a little dreamy. 

“In this shitty, drafty dungeon studio?” 

“I just feel like myself here.” 

“I’m glad you feel safe,” Eddie says. “I like to think I make things at least sort of fun and enjoyable. Even if it’s for work.” 

Eddie hears the clicking of the shampoo bottle, hears the slicking sound as she rubs the liquid between her palms. He feels so comfortable, even sitting on the toilet and staring at his hands. He hopes she takes ages in here. 

“I think I really like you,” Chrissy says. It’s so soft over the water he’s sure he’s misheard her.

“We work really well together, yeah,” Eddie nods. His heart’s pounding. This is not good. 

“Not like that.”

Eddie clears his throat. He’s glad she can’t see him. 

“We’re only thirty minutes out from our shoot, babe. I’m sure there’s just a lot of happy chemicals buzzing around in there.” 

“You’re not taking me seriously,” Chrissy sounds frustrated. “I know what I feel.” 

“What do you want to hear, Chrissy?” Eddie asks, gentle. 

“Do you like me?"

Eddie doesn’t mean for it to come out so cold. “I like doing my job without overstepping boundaries. I like keeping a good reputation.” 

There’s another long pause. “Okay,” Chrissy finally answers. It doesn’t sound tearful. It just sounds really weak.“Please get out. I’ve got it from here.” 

Eddie feels an I’m sorry, let me explain, let me tell you the truth catch in his throat as he leaves the bathroom. 

“I’ll give you your direct deposit form when you’re done.” 

“Yep,” Chrissy answers curtly. 

Chrissy comes out of the showers a little while later. She looks fresh-faced and smiley in her sweats and tank top — but performatively so. Eddie knows the difference. He really can read her. She gives the producers, directors, and crew little kisses on the cheeks as she exits. 

“See ya next time,” she smiles, even more tensely, to Eddie. He forgot they have one more shoot booked next week.  

“See ya, Chris. Get home safe.” 

*

Chrissy has no idea what she’s going to do. She thought — well, she’s not sure what she thought. She thought he’d say he liked her, too. Or she thought he’d pick on her so she could laugh it off. Or she thought he’d at least sound tempted, or something. But it was nothing. It was hollow. She seriously was work. 

“Alright, you two! You good for a position change?” the director calls, yanking Chrissy out of her thoughts. This director is a nice enough woman, and the shoot is fine, but Chrissy sometimes hates working with these newer companies. She wants to work with women, of course, and porn companies attempting at the right ethics. But they often are so early on in their companies that they don’t even have hair and make-up people — Chrissy has to get their two hours early to do her own shit. 

“You good?” Steve asks as he sits up and away from her, taking a breath between shots. 

“Sorry, I’m fine,” Chrissy smiles. “Doing my grocery list in my head there for a second.” 

Steve laughs as he gives her a friendly squeeze on the arm. “S’fine. It happens.” 

“Can we do doggy next?” Chrissy turns to the director, already rolling over onto her stomach. 

The director gives her a thumbs up. 

“You can really go for it,” Chrissy smiles at Steve behind her. “You know what I can handle.” 

Steve gives her a little salute. 

“You two have such great chemistry,” the director intones, smiling. She seems to still be in her very romantic stages of porn, the time where you’re surprised porn stars are good at being charming and appealing, even with each other. But that’s the whole job. 

Chrissy smiles, deciding to play into it. “Yeah, we go back a little while. Steve’s a real sweetie.” 

Which is true. But Chrissy feels nothing at all for him — like she does with most everyone she works with. Chrissy’s just good at what she does. She’s capable of neatly dividing up her brain and body, performing like a little marionette and letting herself enjoy it if her body decides to, and keeping everything going on up in her brain (like the fact that she’ll never find love or the fact that she needs to stop eating and be as small as she was in high school to feel some control) scream away as she ignores it. 

Which is why she’ll be a big girl and go to her last shoot with Eddie next Monday. And she’ll feel like dying, but no one will ever know, not even him. And she’ll take that big fat paycheck and go travel somewhere far enough away to power wash her brain, until she feels normal enough to come back to LA and divide up her body and brain again. 

*

Eddie had been so nervous he almost called the last shoot off. But Chrissy had come in chipper and sweet. Still tense, but manageable. 

“We don’t have to talk about it,” she’d said, almost convincingly. “I appreciate your professionalism.” 

“Okay. No weird feelings on my front, either,” Eddie’d reassured. “I know we can have big emotions here sometimes. Comes with the territory.” 

Chrissy had nodded once. A little curt, maybe, but not bitter or sharp enough to raise questions. 

*

But he knew it was a mistake once they got going.

Eddie felt like she was miles away, like he couldn’t connect with her. And he could connect with everyone — let alone Chrissy. The first time they’d ever shot together Eddie felt like he had already knew how she ticked before he even touched her, understood it in his bones.  

Every time she came it was like this big, shuddering, mechanical event. Tapped only into her body, not at all into her brain. 

“Where are you going? ” Eddie whispered, mostly to himself, as Chrissy got close and then lost the urge to come — it’d happened three times now. Eyes squeezing shut, shoulders going tense, like she didn’t want to let him see her relax. 

“I’m sorry. I’m being bad,” Chrissy whispers. Which is not part of this thing. That is not the game they play here. In Eddie’s personal life this sort of dynamic comes up — but here, on these shoots, they don’t really do “rules” or apologies. Eddie doesn’t sit around passing moral judgment, even in a kinky way, as part of these scenes. 

“Alright, pause,” Eddie calls to the crew. 

Chrissy’s crying. Which is usually fine — she gets sniffly sometimes, lots of people do. It can be really intense. Your body can go a little haywire in an attempt to process everything. But Eddie’s got a spider sense prickling from almost a decade of doing this; he’s seen Chrissy cry a few times, and this feels different. 

“You okay?” Eddie asks. 

Chrissy cries harder. Like hard enough a snot bubble forms. And then she shakes her head. “Red. Mercy. Feel like I’m gonna be sick.” 

Eddie doesn’t waste any time. He snaps off his gloves and just starts moving. He’s good at this. He’s great at this, actually. He actually appreciates when this happens — it reminds him that he’s not into all this to actually be a dick, but instead to explore something pretend and abstract. He doesn’t actually want anyone unhappy. 

Eddie unknots the ties on Chrissy quickly. “It’s okay, you’re okay. Thank you for telling me, it’s okay,” Eddie says quietly. 

“Hey, guys?” Eddie calls out softly to the crew, running his hands down Chrissy’s arms, pulling them apart from each other where he’d had them behind her back. “We’re gonna move right to the couch. We have enough from the first half. You can just take twenty.” 

From where she’s been laying, face down and ass up, Eddie gently guides her into a seat before picking her up and wrapping her legs around him. She clutches at his neck, continuing to cry. 

“You don’t have to do this,” Chrissy wails. “I don’t want to make it weird.”

“Not weird,” Eddie coos. He reaches a hand up to pet at her hair. “Shh. That’s okay. Easy, easy. We’re all done.” 

“Am I freaking you out?” Chrissy continues to sob. 

“Nuh-uh,” Eddie lies. He’s not freaked out by the safe wording out, or anything. That happens. It’s a good reminder that Eddie’s always got to be paying attention. But he’s a little worried about where the meltdown may be coming from. “Do you still feel sick?” 

“A little,” she hiccups. “But I don’t think there’s anything to come up anyways, so don’t worry, I won’t throw up on you.” 

Eddie frowns, trying to figure out what she’s saying. “Have you eaten?” 

Chrissy doesn’t answer. 

“Chrissy?” Eddie presses. 

“Not today.” 

“Hm. Okay,” Eddie says. “Well, we’re gonna start there.” 

“I don’t want to go anywhere,” Chrissy sniffles — no longer sobbing, but still a mess. 

Eddie laughs softly. “Really? You don’t want to go out to lunch butt-naked and in the middle of a BDSM induced episode? I thought that’d be fun.” He keeps petting her head. “I meant we’ll order something, silly. You got any allergies?” 

“I don’t like seafood,” she mumbles. 

“Alright. No seafood," Eddie laughs. "I think I have a Chinese food delivery menu thingy in my office somewhere. Wanna go see how messy and disgusting that room is?”

Chrissy petulantly nods against his neck. Finally quieting. 

“Alright, let’s get you into a robe and we’ll go do that.” 

*

Chrissy picks through some chow mein on one of the little leather armchairs in Eddie’s extremely cluttered office in the back room of the studio. 

“How are we doing?” Eddie asks from where he sits next to her. She noticed he chose to sit in the other armchair by her instead of across the desk — was he really that aware of how dynamics could appear? 

“I’m sad that I tapped out,” Chrissy says. 

Eddie shakes his head sharply. “Nuh-uh. That’s a good thing, Chris. Good to be able to do.” 

He reaches over to touch her arm gently. “Do you want to say why you stopped?” 

It was that it physically ached to be around him, touched by him, and tended to by him, and still want more of him so bad. She felt greedy, and manipulative. Like she was getting something extra out of it, like she was hunting for something he told her he couldn’t give her. But she was able to move through it the first little while. But then he’d touched her in this really gentle, careful way when she was getting sensitive, and his voice had softened, and Chrissy had just been hit with this wave of affection so deep she thought she might throw up. She couldn’t separate body and brain, hard as she tried. Every skimming of his fingers over her crawled right up into the nooks and crannies of her brain, sent out this message of want more want more want more that was beyond the physical, was about having all of Eddie in a real way. 

“I can’t,” Chrissy says quietly.

“Alright.” 

“I mean that I can’t do it anymore, probably,” Chrissy admits. “Ever.” 

“Okay,” Eddie nods. “I understand.” 

Chrissy looks down. “I’m sad, though. It’s my favorite thing.” 

“I know,” Eddie murmurs. “It was really fun.”

“Do you want me to do a post-interview? If you give me a sec I can get back into porn star mode.” 

Chrissy looks up to see Eddie shaking his head. He smiles, but it’s sad. “That’s alright, Chris. We’ll work something out. Do you have a way to get home safe?” 

*

Eddie isn’t sure it’s her at first. The flashbulbs going repeatedly at the red carpet are giving him spots in his eyes, and there are a lot of pretty blondes at the AVN Awards. 

But he sees the girl lean toward someone with a microphone on the red carpets, and hears the words “Female Performer of the Year” uttered by the press person, and can’t resist turning to get a proper look. 

And it is her. Chrissy’s right there, in this strappy little dress that’s more cutout than fabric and these clear pleaser heels so high that Chrissy is probably eight inches taller than usual. 

“Oh, well, I’m just happy to be here,” she laughs, her big bubbly giggle. “It’s just fun to dress up and see my friends.” 

She’s being waved down by another performer who drowns her in little kisses while she laughs some more before Eddie can catch her eye. 

*

It’s a surprise to no one that she wins. Well, no one but Chrissy, who hauls up on stage and stares at the award with her jaw dropped to the floor, like it’s an Oscar. 

“I’m just really grateful for this work,” Chrissy laughs into the microphone. She teeters in her platforms. “I really like feeling pretty and wanted.” 

A collection of people wolf whistle. 

“Sorry. I’m drunk. Um, you’re all really fun to fuck! I guess that’s it!” Chrissy blushes and hides her face in her hands as the room devolves into shouts and applause. 

*

Eddie hangs around to see her. He pretends like he’s there to schmooze and maybe organize a few new shoots while he chats with people he’s worked with in that easy, inclusive way that they all have by virtue of sharing the weirdest job on earth. But he’s really there to feel himself be watched by an increasingly drunk Chrissy Cunningham. 

He glances over to watch her get into a low squat so Steve Harrington can pour a shot of tequila into her waiting mouth, while a couple dozen people record on their various socials with bright flashes beaming onto Chrissy’s smiling face. After she stands and adjusts her dress, she bows as the room jokingly applauds — and then locks eyes with Eddie. 

She smiles and gives a little wave. When he returns it, she makes a beeline, and pulls him in for a hug. It’s not tight, or earnest, it’s just a hello. He senses her holding back immediately — the same way he could tell while he touched her on the table just two months ago. 

“Hi,” Eddie says softly.

Chrissy tucks her hair behind her ear. “Have you been good?” 

“Pretty good, yeah,” Eddie nods. 

“I miss you,” Chrissy says. 

“Miss you, too,” Eddie returns, and he means it. He checks her socials every night before bed like a total freak. He’s hovered over their DMs multiple times before figuring they were both in the process of trying to just shake it off. The more time apart, the less he even remembered what the actual technical sex of the shoots were like (though he thought about them with his hands down his boxers more than he liked to admit). Instead, he remembered weird details that she’d share about her life as he rigged her up, or what flavor of those bottled frappuccinos she would tug out of her bag on morning shoots. He remembered things she’d say that made him laugh. 

“I wish you weren’t so professional,” Chrissy says. 

“Mm, well, I don’t. There are enough assholes around here,” Eddie returns. 

Chrissy looks at her feet. “You’re right. Myself included. I shouldn’t have — That time in the shower was fucked up, I really fucked up.” 

Her voice wavers. 

Eddie pulls her into a hug. “Ugh. Cunningham, you’re breaking my heart. It’s fine, it’s fine, it’s fine,” he repeats again and again, and because he’s been drinking he punctuates each “it’s fine” with a friendly kiss to the top of her head. “Don’t beat yourself up, please.” 

Chrissy finally pulls away. “Alright,” she shrugs, shy. 

“Toughen up, honey,” Eddie teases. “Can’t sustain a career around here by getting all mushy.” 

“I just honest to God really like you. I haven’t liked someone like you before. I’m sorry, I’m not asking you to —” 

“I like you, Chrissy,” Eddie shouldn’t be saying this. Chrissy’s eyes widen up at him, like she’s surprised (How in the world would she be surprised that anyone liked her?) “So stop feeling bad. I like you. But it’s… I’ve worked so hard for things to be above board, you know? To not be seen as a total deviant asshole. And I worry about our dynamic already having bled into too much of our relationship for us to take a step back and get to know each other. I just —” 

Chrissy’s eyes are beginning water. “Can’t I try to get to know you?” she asks. And it sounds like what Eddie is worried about — submissive and pleading and like something is off. “I mean, I do know you, but can’t I try and prove it to you that I like you for all sorts of reasons?”

Eddie shakes his head. “Sweetheart. How do you even know what you really want, you know? This industry, it’s so messy. I fuck with your head for my job. It freaks me out that we can’t be certain what is or isn’t —” 

“Chrissy!” A woman’s voice squeals. 

Chrissy turns her head to see Robin Buckley and some of her friends waving. “Do you wanna come sleep in our hotel room? I need to take these tight fucking pants off and sleep off this drunk immediately. ” 

Chrissy pauses for only a millisecond before breaking into one of her most dazzling smiles yet, expertly wiping where her tears threatened to spill only moments ago. “Yes, please! Coming!” 

“I think I’m going to never get over this, and probably hate you forever,” Chrissy turns to Eddie with the same grin plastered on her face. “Have fun fucking some other girl that holds up to your impossible standards tonight.” 

*

Chrissy woke up with her mouth tasting like Mango White Claw and tequila. Someone’s hand is on her face. She takes stock, remembers she’s crammed into bed with four other girls.

She won performer of the year yesterday. She has a shoot tomorrow where she’ll make enough to pay two months of rent. How strange to make it big, and feel so sad. 

Chrissy tried her best to get over it. She made lots of porn, and went on lots of dates. She even followed his instructions and went on a few industry ones. He’d been right. They were better. But they weren’t him, so it kept not working. She got her full pay for three videos from Eddie’s site, but he only released the two. She tried to send some money back. It was rejected immediately, with no attached note. She used the money to go to Europe for a month, to places with really old, rich histories and fancy hotels and she journaled and forced herself to eat and purposefully had no sex for that whole time (which sucked, and she decided was not going to give her any sort of interesting insight).

And then she’d accepted feeling sad forever, and went to her porn awards to get drunk and have all the people she fucked for money be endeared with her and hug her and chat with her, and she knew she’d see him there, and she knew she’d be totally unable to not say hi. But she didn’t know he’d say he liked her, too. And she didn’t know he’d double down on not being able to try. And so now she was worse than before. 

Except that sucked. And Chrissy had been sad enough in her life. Chrissy had not known what she wanted for long enough to now know when she really wanted things. And she wanted that stupid, patronizing, mean, cocky know-it-all that was sleeping somewhere in this hotel. And he couldn’t fucking decide that for her like it was one of their little shoots where she asked for permissions. Fuck that. 

Chrissy sat up and carefully stepped over where a collection of the most sought after porn stars in America lay sleeping next to each other naked without even thinking about it (Chrissy liked that part. She liked being in on something). 

And in her sleep shirt and smeared make-up, Chrissy walked out and started slamming on doors. If anyone seriously wanted to bitch about the most watched porn star of the year accidentally knocking on their door while she looked for somebody, they could go fuck themselves. 

*

Eddie has just finished getting dressed when there’s a slamming on his door. He’s checking out early, anyways, so whoever it is can just take his room if they need a place to fuck or — 

“Oh, thank God,” a winded Chrissy sighs. “I was running out of doors to knock on down this hall.” 

“You okay?” Eddie asks. 

“I’m fucking mad at you.” She looks like death — eye bags, hair flying around her out of her little ponytail. She’s wearing some rock band shirt, and no pants. She has a mysterious bruise on her knee that wasn’t there last night, presumably from the way she was drunkenly flinging herself around. He wants to kiss her. 

“I’m sorry.” 

“You can be really condescending, you know that?” 

“Professionally, actually.” 

Chrissy smiles, but forces it away. “Do not fucking make me laugh right now.” 

Eddie puts his hands up. “Sorry. Continue.” 

“You keep saying I don’t know what I want. You think you’re such hot shit, you think because you sizzled my brain a few times by making me come a bunch, that you, like, permanently changed me. That’s sort of insane.” 

“Sizzled your brain, huh?” 

She reaches out, exasperated, and cups his chin in her little hands. “Listen. To. Me. I know what I want. 

I want to come inside your hotel room. I want to shower and brush my teeth. And then I want to ride you — without looking good for the camera and without giggling. I want to fuck you like a civilian. And I want you to be whoever you want with me. If you told me the truth, that you’ve been that nasty little sadist since you were a kid, I want him. I’ll ride you like it’s nothing special and you can call me a whore and I’ll be happy.” 

“Anything else?” Eddie prompts. He’s already smiling like an idiot. There’s no point in fighting. The universe wants him to have this too, he guesses. 

“Yeah, actually. Tomorrow I’ll go to my shoot and fuck some guy, and you’ll go finger some girl until she cries, and I don’t care. If you’ll have me, I’d still like to come to your apartment and sleep next to you. And I know you say it’s sexless between industry couples. But I’d like to blow you anyways. So. That’s it, I guess.” 

Eddie pauses for only a moment before stepping aside and letting her in. 

Chrissy Cunningham skips into his hotel room like she fucking owns the place.