13 Resons Why Imagines

Tyler Down|Smile for the picture

Warnings:Smut & Fluff

You had been dating Tyler Down for all of around two years, and in that time he’d accumulated more pictures of you than you had yourself. His room was basically his own personal shrine. Photographs of you littered the walls; taped into albums, tossed onto shelves, falling out of the pockets of nearly every pair of jeans he owned.

    He’d invited you over to stay the night while his dad was off on some out of state business trip, claiming the two of you would have free reign of the place until he got back. You were just settled down in your favorite spot, his bed, when you caught him trying to snap another.

    “That’s it,” you said, pushing yourself out of the warm burrito you’d made with the blankets. “Give me the camera, Ty. It’s your turn.”

    He looked up at you from where he sat crossed legged on the carpet, said camera still poised for the shot. You’d never seen someone so utterly offended by the prospect of getting their portrait taken. “I take the pictures, I’m not in the pictures.”

    You laughed, reaching out from the edge of the bed to make a grab for it. “Come on. You have like a thousand of me, and I don’t have a single one of you. That doesn’t seem fair, now does it?”

    He stood, brushing himself off with one hand. “I don’t take them for no reason. You’re like my pièce de résistance, my muse. Most of the images I have of you are easily my best work.”

    “Don’t try to act all lovey dovey, thinking that’s going to put me off,” you replied, “but thank you. That was the sweetest, cheesiest thing you’ve ever said.”

    He stuck his tongue out at you, holding the camera up over his head as you made it off of the bed and started moving closer.

    “Oh, wow. Now that’s just mean. Bad Tyler,” you said.

    “Works, though,” he responded with a shrug.

    “Fine. You wanna fight me for it?” you asked. You kicked off of the ground, taking off with a running start, jumping up to reach for his hands. You came up just a couple of inches too short, hands slamming against the side of his desk to keep your pelvis from hitting instead. “Just give me the camera!”

    “No,” he whined. “Take a picture of the lamp or something.”

    You turned to glare at him, looking his tall, slender body up and down. “Okay, fine. I can’t jump, but I can do this.” Your hands were on him in seconds, sliding up under the edge of his t-shirt to feather light touches on his most ticklish spot—his waist.

    He burst into a fit of giggles almost instantly, trying to back away from you. When his legs hit the edge of the bed, he tripped and fell backwards onto it, letting you crawl on top of him with little protest. He was so dazed by the sudden shift of things that you snatched the camera right out of his hands without him so much as blinking.

    “Got it,” you murmured, smiling slyly down at him. You brushed a hand through his wild, curly hair. It had grown over the summer so that it seemed nearly impossible to keep out of his eyes. “Let’s get you looking pretty for your picture.”

    He came back to with a start, reaching up to mess his hair from where you’d just fixed it. His cheeks had flushed, and he was shifting beneath you, trying to knock you off.

    “Hey, quit it,” you snapped, nearly being unseated. You managed to grab onto the front of his shirt, squeezing your thighs tightly enough around his waist to keep him from being able to move at all. “I’m taking this picture, Tyler. Whether you like it or not.”