❝ Loosen Up Your Buttons. . . ❞
Nyoka Wadjet x Photographer Reader
The Prefect assists Nyoka with what they expect to be a small and casual photo-shoot for his magicam profile. What transpires is the most breath-loss the Prefect's has ever experienced in a mere hour's time.
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@cozymochi and @oddberryshortcake 's slitheringly handsome oc makes a return, baby
you know I had to do it to em.
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Now, truth be told, you didn't exactly grasp the huge draw to Magicam.
It seemed not to be dissimilar to your universe's version of instagram, and maybe fused with facebook too based on some of the interface.
Your old friends back home had always found it amusing that you weren't a social-media-bug, despite being so proficient in digital photography.
The short answer to that was: you preferred candids. And every photo on people's socials went through more edits and "touch-ups" than celebrity magazine covers.
Now, by some miraculous grace of fate, one of the first things you acquired when you entered this brand new world was the thing you can scarcely imagine living without - a camera.
A normal one? No. Professional one? Doubtful. Crowley gave it to you, after all.
But until you can get home, the pictures it develops are a high enough quality to satisfy your itch.
Now, even though you didn't exactly shy away from expressing your love for your hobby t your new friends here, it still took the NRC a little while to catch on to your exact talents.
It wasn't until Vil payed you a (shockingly substantial) amount of Thaumarks to photograph a few headshots for Epel that the school got its first a real taste for your skills.
And this was where a certain beastman came slithering back onto your radar.
"A photoshoot?" you repeat as you stall from placing down your final knight. You were in the middle of one of your now weekly sessions of chess matches, currently pretending you weren't vitally aware how badly you were losing this time. "Like, a real one? For your magicam account?"
"Yes." his reply is low and matter-of-fact, and, you notice, without shame.
Not that he should feel shame. Of all people, you think he should not. Every time you see him, it just re-instills in you how unnatural perfect he is.
You have to break yourself free of your own thoughts, teasing him to cover your blush, "Oh? So you don't 'have a guy' for that already?"
"I will," Nyoka leans more onto his knuckle, making the window light flicker across his glasses. "Have you. If you agree to it."
That sets off the heat in your face tenfold. You make a clumsy move on the board that Nyoka takes instant advantage of. A few more moves go by, between you both, before you finally answer.
"Alright" you say, holding up a finger, "On one condition. Outside of lighting and contrast adjustments, the photos get no edits."
You can't tell if the face he gives is because he finds that condition foolish, or if he is minutely approvingly towards your integrity.
Regardless, leans forward a tad more, showing off the sharp juts of his collarbones, and murmurs, "Very well." before checkmating you.
May the Seven have mercy on me, you think to yourself.
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The Seven do not have mercy at all, and in fact, must have banded together for your downfall.
Because when you walk into the private Savanaclaw room where Nyoka texted you to meet him, your knees almost buckle.
"Wadjet." The sight before you is off-guard catching that you call him by his surname.
He gives you only an acknowledging "Mmh?" while adjusting his braids over the many, many defined muscles of his back. Each one sticking out against his sheer shirt.
You think you die while this happens. You're still standing, and awake, but you aren't breathing, so you can't be too sure either way.
"You're-" comes squeaking from your throat.
You were about to say "you're wet", because the statement is true. He is wet. His entire upper half is drenched enough that his shirt has become see-through.
And it so baffling that this is the reality you're in that you nearly just blurt "you're wet" at him, but you can't say that. Not out loud. That can't come out anything but wrong.
He's watching you now, pinning you with those snake charmer eyes. Without the glare of his glasses, the warm sunlike colors in his eyes shine unobscured, drying your throat like desert sand.
Oh hell, prefect, get ahold of yourself. Please. You're a photographer. He asked you because he must trust you to be professional. Do not ruin this already fragile friendship by being stupid.
"You're ready... for the pictures... like that."
Oh god.
"You were late. I got prepared to keep ahead of schedule." Nyoka points out dryly.
He surely must to see how disheveled your expression is, and how your eyes keep skating down his chest, but you're thankful he isn't bringing it up.
You force a breath in and out. "Right. Let's- let's just get started. Where do you want to stand?"
"Are you not the photographer?" Nyoka challenges coolly, "And I not the subject? Your job is to adjust me into the ideal image."
Hauntingly erotic visage or no, he is still the Nyoka you've been playing chess with for the passed weeks.
To yourself, you mutter, "like you need me for that.", while pointing your camera to a few different spots in the room. Looking for the points with the best lighting.
"Over here." you decide, directing him between two deep red curtails.
There's a scoff from him, but he moves obediently to the position. The first pose he tries is a simple one. Raising his arms into a loose grasp of each curtain, stretching his wet shirt up slightly up his stomach.
You swallow hard.
"Uh, maybe, um, turn a little. To the side."
Nyoka edges his body sideways slowly, waiting for your signal to stop. His movement is languid, smooth and fluid as water. His face, though is as impassive as ever, clearly unaffected by the alluded high intimacy of this venture at all.
But in front of the lens, it turns smoldering. His professional training kicking in. His eyes burn you, and his lips are very slightly pursed in a way that accentuates their shape.
The camera is shaking in your hands. If these photos come out blurry, there'll be nothing else to blame except you.
With all your will, you steel your arms.
"Good. Can you," you hear yourself say, "Curl your tale, around your body."
After a minute, his tail slides up from its spot on the floor, and begins to spiral around his waist, peaking up into the lens view of the shot.
"Higher?" you rasp.
He does what you ask. The tail curls up until its a loop frames his abdomen, and the tip is grazing a loose hug to his chest. You swear that somehow you can feel the tail as if its on your own body instead.
Photos snap. Your heart won't stop slamming itself into your ribs.
His scales glitter with the perspiration on his neck. The pose you adjusted him to reveals the contours of his figure like some kind of marble statue in a museum. His skin glowing in this warm, fiery light.
These are probably the best photos you'll take in your whole life, and you aren't sure you can ever look at them again, not if you want to maintain any semblance of sanity in front of Nyoka from now on.
You stop clicking.
"Okay... I got- I got it."
Nyoka relaxes into a more familiar pose, crossing his arms and inclining his head by way to call you over. Wanting to see the results.
You inch over to him. You mean to just hand him the camera, even though it feels like you're handing someone your own severed limb every time you let people scrutinize your work.
But instead, he leans over you. His tall form hunches to peer over one of your shoulders, his wet shirt pressing onto your back, and his hand grabs over your's that's still on the camera.
Nyoka lightly pushes you finger aside with his own and hits the scrolling button. Reviewing the footage.
You do nothing because you actually are dead this time. Every ounce of breath has exited your lungs. There's nothing left inside you except mush and a loud, deafening roaring sound at your's ears.
A hum blows passed your ear. "So Schoenheit wasn't exaggerating. You are well at what you do. I could be impressed, mouse."
Oh yeah, you're dead.
Some mild eternity later, Nyoka rescues your soul by detaching from you. Walking to grab a small towel and pressing it over his neck.
"Adjust the lighting on those final four how you see fit," you hear him instruct you distantly, "I will chose the best one when you send them to me. Have them sent to me before next week's shoot, we'll discuss pay and post dates then."
Life crashes back upon you.
You whip around. Nearly drop the camera, fumble for it, and squeeze it into your both arms like it can protect you from the prospect you just heard.
"Next week!?"
"Next week," Nyoka confirrms. His eyes find your's, they pool heat into like lava. "You're my 'guy' for this now. Wasn't that the deal."
Oh. What the hell have you gotten yourself into.
