. ⋮ ₍ 𝐅𝐈𝐑𝐒𝐓 𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 𓏲 ⌗ 𓈒 ──── ꒰ photographer!matt ⅋⅋ onlyfans!reader ꒱ ╱ ⋆ ་ :: this au is mainly smut based, so most prompts will contain themes of sexual content, mature situations, and nsfw dynamics. read at your own discretion.
The apartment is packed, heat radiating off bodies pressed shoulder to shoulder, bass vibrating through the floor. Dim light pools in the corners, catching the haze from cheap smoke and the glint of half-empty bottles littering the counters. You’re somewhere in the mess of it all when your mutual friend calls out to a guy leaning against the wall, camera strap slung crossbody like an extra limb. He’s dressed simple—vintage Levi’s, plain white tee, silver chain resting just above his collarbone—but he stands out anyway, the kind of attractive that doesn’t need trying.
She asks him for a picture, loud over the music. He straightens, stepping forward without hesitation, his hand already curling around the smaller camera hanging against his hip. The group forms quickly, bodies shuffling into position. You’re part of it, standing close to the friend in the center. His eyes flick over everyone, landing on you for just a fraction too long before he looks through the viewfinder. A couple of quick adjustments—“little to the left,” “yeah, that’s better”—then the soft click of the shutter, over and over.
When he’s done, he gives the group a brief look at the shots, nods once, and turns back toward the quiet corner he’d claimed earlier. Minutes pass before you peel away from your friends, weaving through the crowd until you find him again. Without asking, you drop into the seat beside him, close but not touching.
“Can I see the pictures again?” you ask, voice pitched low to cut under the music. He looks at you, a small smirk pulling at his mouth, and nods. The camera comes up, his thumb scrolling until the shots from earlier appear. You lean in, scanning the small screen.
“So, you’re good with cameras and stuff?”
His gaze flickers to you instead of the screen, the corner of his mouth curling like he’s trying not to laugh. “Somethin’ like that,” he says, voice low, almost swallowed by the bass. “I’ve been doin’ it for a while.”
You hum, eyes still on the photos. “They’re good,” you admit, lips tugging into a small smile. “You actually made me look decent.” His brow lifts, an incredulous look paired with a quick huff of air. “Don’t give me too much credit—you made it easy.” The way he says it isn’t overplayed, but it lands anyway, something unspoken hanging in the space between you.
The conversation drifts easily after that. You ask how long he’s been shooting, if he does it for work or just for fun. He tells you about starting young, always carrying a camera like it’s second nature. The words themselves are harmless, but the way he’s looking at you isn’t. His eyes are steady, scanning your face like he’s framing another shot in his head. You match him without thinking—smiling a little too long, brushing his arm lightly when you laugh at something he says. Once, when your shoulder nudges his, his hand shifts just enough to rest along the edge of his thigh, close enough that you could bridge the gap if you wanted to.
He smiles often, but sometimes it’s paired with a subtle bite to his bottom lip, a flicker that’s gone as quickly as it comes. You notice, and you don’t look away.
Someone calls his name from across the room, but he doesn’t move, doesn’t even glance over. He’s still watching you, one elbow resting casually on the back of the couch like you’re the only thing in focus in a crowded frame.
The noise of the party hums around you, but it’s all background. He shifts slightly, angling toward you, knee brushing yours in a way that feels deliberate. “You ever been in front of a real camera?” he asks, voice steady but threaded with something heavier than casual curiosity.
You tilt your head. “Define real.”
He smirks, eyes dragging over your face before meeting your gaze again. “Not an iPhone. Not a blurry digital camera. I mean a real shoot.”
You shake your head, feigning disinterest but unable to hide the curve of your mouth. “Can’t say I have.”
He leans back just enough to look at you fully, one arm draped across the back of the couch. “We should change that.”
It’s said simply, like it’s not an offer so much as a statement, and you catch yourself holding his stare a beat too long. “You think you could handle that?” you ask, tone light but laced with a challenge.
His grin widens, slow and sure. “Yeah. I could handle it.”
You pull your phone from your pocket, unlocking it and sliding it toward him. He takes it without hesitation, his thumb moving as he types in his number. When he hands it back, his fingers brush yours, lingering for the barest moment.
You stand, slipping your phone away, and glance over your shoulder as you head back toward the crowd. He’s still watching you, elbow propped lazily, lips tugged in a knowing half-smile. Just before you disappear into the noise, there’s a faint click—so soft you almost miss it. He lowers the camera from his face, a candid already saved, one you won’t see until later.
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