summary: (80s AU) dan howell, a nineteen-year-old model with an ego bigger than his wardrobe, is the hottest thing to come out of the UK since The Smiths. Phil is a twenty-two year old photography student who prefers to be behind the camera rather than in front of it, but upon landing himself a six month placement with River, the biggest modelling agency in Britain, he finds himself in the company of the younger boy more often than he’d like to be.
(alternatively the one where dan’s a bratty ass model and phil has to take pictures of him all the time)
can you believe this idea sprung upon me in the middle of a bath because ‘paparazzi’ by lady gaga came on shuffle??? who would have known hoarding so many hits from 2009 on my ipod would be so beneficial huh
Also as this is pretty much my first attempt at writing in another era, some things might be a lil factually inaccurate. If you spot anything that seems a little off, please let me know!!
Consider this a lil ‘oh-shit-I-hope-I’m-still-relevant-enough-to-act-upon-this-sudden-urge-to-get-back-into-writing-fic’ experiment. Enjoy!
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One
“But you said these were okay to use!”
“Well, I changed my mind,” Dan mutters, his speech slightly obscured by the cigarette dangling from his lips. “I don’t like them anymore.”
“Why not?” Christopher stares at the pictures. A few pairs of fierce brown eyes stare straight back at him. “They’re fine, Dan, I-“
“I think I’ll be the judge of whether or not they’re fine, thank you very much,” Dan shoots back. “And as it goes, they’re not fine. I don’t like them. We’ll have to do another shoot tomorrow.”
“But we’ve spent three hours adjusting your-“
“Look, I couldn’t give a shit if you spent three days on them. If they go anywhere other than the bin, you can kiss goodbye to your five-hundred pound commission bonus.”
“But-“
“Is there a problem?” Dan raises a sculpted eyebrow.
Christopher opens his mouth. Dan’s eyebrow arches further up.
He sighs. “No. It’s fine.”
“Good,” he flashes him a smile. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”
Christopher shrugs and throws him a tired nod before making himself scarce.
Upon hearing the firm click of the door shutting, Dan rolls his eyes and takes another drag of his cigarette, swinging lazily in the revolving chair.
“Bloody idiot,” he mutters to himself, stretching out his arm and stabbing his finger on the buzzer.
There’s a crackle, and a voice on the other end.
“Daniel?”