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songbirdstyles · 4 years ago

Text

kodachrome.

summary: you give harry a camera for his birthday and the two of you are more than excited to put it to good use.

warnings: smut, 18+

word count: 5k

song inspo.: kodachrome - paul simon

It’s true that you may have had ulterior motives with Harry’s birthday gift.

His hands are delicate, fingertips running across the surface of the Polaroid camera as though he’d break it if his grip got any tighter. The packs of film you’d purchased with the camera rest on the coffee table, being thoroughly ignored while Harry examines his gift, and you duck your head just a bit to read his expression. Slightly confused, brows furrowed, a small grin tugging at his lips - it’s what you’d expected with a gift like this, because it isn’t as though either of you need a camera. Surely both of your phones are better quality than the photos you’ll be taking with the Polaroid but it’s for the aesthetic, you suppose.

“Do you like it?” you question, voice soft.

Harry rests the camera on his lap and glances up at you, large hand moving to rest over your knee through your jeans. “Well, I love it, ‘course.”

There’s a second part of his response that’s left unsaid - perhaps the question of why you’d gotten him it - so you lean in, chin resting on your boyfriend’s shoulder and your lips drifting dangerously close to his ear. Just enough that you know his jeans are growing tighter and he shifts in his seat on your living room couch as if to prove it to you. “Thought it might be fun to start taking pictures of each other.”

A beat passes with silence, and then he turns his head to look at you, nearly bemused by the concept, as though he doesn’t know exactly what you’re implying. “Wha’ kinda pictures?”

You hum softly, reaching over to the coffee table to pick up one of the film packages, already beginning to tear open the wrapper. “The kind that’ll make touring more fun for both of us.”

Harry pauses, eyes narrowing at your fingers ripping open the crinkly film packaging, and you can practically hear his rebuttal of the idea before he says it. “Thought we said no nudes - people could find ‘em, babe.”

“Physical copies are more secure than digital ones,” you tell him, picking up the camera from his lap to put the film in. “Are you telling me you don’t want to take pictures of me sucking you off to have with you on tour? ‘Cause that’s very out of character for you, Mr. Styles.”

He snorts and the familiar sound is like music to your ears, and then he reaches over to grab the film-loaded Polaroid from your hands, fingers tracing over the small rainbow printed on the front of the camera. “I do,” he confesses, voice dropping in a way you recognize all too well, and your stomach drops with it. “Yeah, I do.”

You lean sideways, resting against the arm of the couch as Harry shifts to face you, raising the camera up to his face with a grin gracing his lips that doesn’t at all match the mood of what you do next - mere seconds before Harry takes the picture, you grip onto the hem of your shirt, tugging it up and over your chest for the camera to capture as his mouth drops into a soft ‘o.’

The click of the photo being taken is nearly deafening against the sudden thick silence, flash blinding you for just a moment and you’re left blinking furiously to regain sight as Harry lowers the camera to his lap. The camera spits out the photo, still white and undeveloped, and he picks it up with delicate fingers to rest it on the couch cushion between you two.

Your shirt drops back over your chest as you shift closer to Harry, pretending like you don’t hear the way his breathing has picked up and how his eyes keep darting to examine your side profile as if trying to see if you’re as affected as the photo as he is - and you are, of course. It’s possibly one of the hottest things you could ever imagine doing with him, taking photos like that, and you can’t lie and say that the redness blooming in his cheeks isn’t adding to the moisture you’re feeling in your panties.

You drag your thumb over the image slowly developing on the Polaroid between you. You can see the beginnings of the outline of your body, though it’s too light to discern the details yet. “Starting to come to. What do you think?”

It’s a stupid question and you already know the answer but it’s more gratifying to hear the way Harry’s voice cracks as he begins, “S’hot.”

“Just hot?”

“Like, g’na cum in m’pants hot.”

You grin and Harry turns his head and it’s practically all you can do to lean in, press your lips to his and feel his hand, pressing to your thigh and sliding upwards. Even through your jeans, his fingers so close to the spot you’re yearning for him has your stomach turning, and you raise your palm to press delicately against his cheek, holding his face close to yours. His breath smells and tastes like the birthday cake you’d been eating in the kitchen with a tinge of expensive wine from dinner with all of your friends but above all he tastes like Harry, the man you love so much, the man who’s reaching down to the couch between you two and picking up the Polaroid with two careful fingers.

“Look,” Harry hums softly as he pulls away from you and you look down at the picture to examine it with him. It’s you, in full color, fingers gripping the hem of your shirt tight above your breasts, exposing the cherry-red bra you’re donning beneath. It’s Harry’s favorite bra of yours - meant to be a surprise for later tonight but you don’t think he’ll mind seeing it early. The photo cuts off halfway up your face but you can see your smirk, smug as you saw the shock on his face just as the photo took. “S’developed.”

Harry’s soft moans are like music to your ears - like a favorite song and you’d love nothing more than to listen to it on repeat, plug in your headphones and tilt your head back until it’s stuck in your head like an earworm.

For now, though, you’re more than content to enjoy them in the moment, and God, you’re enjoying it. He’s always vocal in bed but even more so when you ride him, when his fingers are digging bruises into your thighs to help your movements up and down and the only words that manage to fall off of his lips are breathy cries of your name like prayer, as though you’re a goddess and he’s merely a worshipper at your altar.

Your hips slow into a gentle roll against his, clit brushing up against his pelvic bone in a way that has a chill rolling up your spine, and your hand slides from its place on Harry’s chest to his throat. Wraps around his neck just so, squeezing experimentally to listen to the way his moans crackle in the thick, humid air of your London bedroom, and a rush of arousal gushes to your core at the sight and sound.

“Look at me,” you order Harry, and you think you understand why he’s always so reluctant to hand you the reins when you want them. There’s something special about being above him, knowing that you can control what he does with just an authoritative lilt in your voice - even if he has the strength to flip you over at any moment. Deep down, you reckon he likes being below you sometimes just as much as you adore being on top. When he doesn’t obey your commands, eyes still rolled to the back of his head, you pause your movements completely, and his eyes fly open as if you’d pried them open. “Look at me, Har.”

You tighten your hand around his throat again as his eyes bore into yours, pupils clouded with lust that you’re sure are reflected in your own. When you’re positive he won’t look away from you, his hips bucking up in just the slightest for any semblance of movement, you resume your motions. Roll your hips just once against his, moan catching in your throat, and you keep going. You lift your hips up, thighs trembling to hold yourself up before sinking back down, feeling him fill you again and again.

“Fuck -” Harry gasps, tone cracking and you grin down at him, slamming your hips into his hard enough that the sound of skin slapping skin nearly overpowers his voice - but it doesn’t, and you’re oh so glad that you could hear it. “Feels - feels so good, babe.”

As dominant as you’re trying to be, his praise nearly makes you break and it would be the perfect moment for him to grab your thighs and flip you over but you regain your composure just as fast as you’d lost it. Your voice is shaky as you loosen your grip ever so slightly on his neck, leaning backwards enough so your clit is on display for him, glistening wet with the mixture of your juices together. “R - rub my clit for me.”

And he complies, hand sliding down his sweaty abdomen until two fingers are pressed to your clit, rubbing soft circles into the overly sensitive nub but you don’t want soft, you want hard. So you push your body forward, pressing your clit further into his fingers and he’s not stupid - he catches the hint and presses down harder, circles tightening into hard rubs that has your head dropping back, sweaty hair sticking to your back.

“God,” you tell him, rocking your hips more against his as a reward, “feels so good, Har. Doin’ so good - keep doing that.”

And he does, of course. Keeps rubbing your clit like he was born for it and in return you ride him with the new form of vigor that he earns, eyes rolling back into your head. When you look back down at him, grip tightening like a noose around his throat, you’re nearly overwhelmed by how fucking spectacular he looks. All sweaty hair, mouth dropped open in a permanent ‘o’ and his eyes struggling to stay open.

You could decide to merely engrave it in your brain for all eternity, but you have a better idea to memorialize it.

You swallow thickly, hips slowing to a near halt as Harry’s eyes fly completely open, threatening to complain. “R - reach into the drawer, Har. The nightstand.”

You can read the confusion on his face clear as day but he follows your orders, reaching over to tug open the nightstand drawer. Sitting inside, clear as day, sits the white Polaroid camera, and Harry knows what to do before you tell him to. He picks it up with one shaky hand and you immediately reach to grab it from him, turning it over briefly in your hands before raising it up to your face.

Briefly your hips roll over his, gentle but enough for him to rest his head back into his pillow, lips turning upwards into a satisfied grin and you know that’s the best shot you’ll get - his face contorted with pleasure, hair spread out over the pillow, and the flash of the picture being taken only makes the scene look that much more angelic.

You grab the photo with two shaking fingers and lift it up to examine it, resting the camera on the bed beside you. It hasn’t developed and so you shake it just for a moment, feeling increasingly needy to fucking see it but you know it will take time - and you certainly have a lot of that.

“Open up,” you direct and he obeys, mouth dropping open and you insert the picture onto his mouth, watching his teeth and lips clamp onto it. “Now, keep it nice like that ‘till it develops. You can do that, can’t you? ‘Course you can.”

“Keep those eyes on me, babe.”

It’s a task that’s easier said than done, eyes rolling nearly completely back in your head as you search to meet Harry’s. When your eyes find his it’s difficult to maintain, vision nearly completely upside down as you hang off the edge of the bed of your Malibu hotel room, fingers gripping so tight onto the duvet you’d be surprised if your nails hadn’t torn through the fabric. Gripping the coversis the only way to not reach out for Harry’s thighs and he’d forbid you from doing so with the threat of not being able to cum - a risk you’re rather unwilling to take.

His fingers brush your neck, surely searching for the bulge indicative of how far his cock is shoved down your throat, and you can tell he’s found it when he squeezes just hard enough to have your vision go fuzzy. Your tongue swirls around the swollen tip of his cock, feeling him slide out of your mouth just enough for you to press a gentle kiss to the tip, his hiss showing how much he appreciated the gesture before he’s pushing back in your mouth.

He’d been starting slow, fucking your throat gentle to make sure you’re alright with it. It’s not often that you do this - you prefer to be on your knees for him, with his hands in your hair to occasionally force you to go faster. But there is certainly something better about this, struggling to keep your eyes open and feeling blood rush to your head while trying to keep your sore jaw wide open for Harry to fuck.

Eventually, though, the slow pace had been abandoned and you can feel him picking up the pace, hips bucking into your face just fast enough to make you feel like you’re losing your damn mind but you wouldn’t have it any other way, even if you’re nearly gagging on him with every other thrust.

“God,” Harry moans, and through your blurred vision you can see his palms coming down to cup your face, using his leverage on your cheeks to increase his speed. “God, look so fuckin’ - fuckin’ pretty, baby. So pretty, takin’ my dick so well. Look at tha’ - moan f’me, babe.”

And you do, of course. You moan desperately and it’s muffled as his pelvis presses nearly flat to your face, holding himself there, and your cheeks hollow as you suck him, and you watch him toss his head back with sheer ecstasy and it encourages you to hold out for just another extra second before your hand flies towards his thigh, smacking twice, and he pulls out of you immediately until only the tip of his member rests on your tongue.

His thumbs massage your jawline as you flick your tongue over the tip of his cock, taking the second of pause to catch your breath and relish in his touch. It’s only a moment, though - you jerk your head just once up and he takes the gesture as it is, an invitation to keep going.

“There y’go,” Harry breathes, hands sliding downwards until he’s grasping your throat, heels of his hands massaging the lump in your throat as he had before. “Should take a picture of you - remember this forever.”

Do it, you want to shout at him. You love when he takes pictures and you’d love nothing more than to see yourself from his perspective but it seems that he didn’t need your suggestion - resting on the bed is his Polaroid camera from when you’d dumped your bags when you’d first gotten to the hotel and it’s become a traveling staple since you’d gotten it for him - you two never forget to bring it with you.

His fumbling hands raise the camera to his face, cock still thrusting in and out of your willing mouth and you make sure your eyes are open when the flash goes off, the click intensely loud in the hotel room. Your tongue swirls around his cock, grinning as Harry pulls the photo from the bottom of the camera and tosses it onto the bed, hand sliding down from your throat to your tits and his fingers pluck at your nipple just as the flash goes off again and the camera spurts out another image.

“Here’s what’s gonna happen,” your boyfriend murmurs, hips thrusting his cock further into your mouth and you gag around him before loosening your throat to take him, no way of encouraging him to continue but he doesn’t need it. “M’so fuckin’ close - and m’gonna cum on your face, and in your mouth, too. D’you want that?”

You nod.

“Knew you would.” His face is nearly adoring as he stares down at you and it’s an expression that doesn’t match the absolute filth of what’s in your mouth. “When I’ve painted your face like - like fuckin’ Michelangelo - m’gonna take another picture, and then m’gonna fuck you.”

It sounds just about perfect to you and you nod vehemently, Harry’s palm closing in around your breast and squeezing and in turn, you tighten your throat around his length and it gets the response you’d wanted - a sharp buck of his hips, and then he pulls out of your mouth.

Your lips close in around the tip of his cock, sucking on the swollen head and you can tell by the way his head drops back that he’s there - just a moment later, his hand pumping his cock, thick ribbons of cum spurt from the head and it’s warm as it lands on your face, and your tongue darts out to lick at the bit of it that had landed near your lips.

His breathing is heavy, desperately trying to catch his breath and it has a rush of pride coursing through your veins - only you do this to him, leave him needy and desperate and just as the smirk graces your lips, he’s muttering, “Say cheese,” and the flash illuminates your hotel room once more.

There’s something almost relaxing about having Harry’s face between your thighs.

It’s a sensation you’ll never tire of no matter how often it happens - and with his absolute adoration for the act, it happens often. Sometimes it’s hard and intense, fingers digging into your thighs and leaving bruises that won’t vanish for days, but other times - like now - it’s nearly offhanded. Lazy and gentle, his tongue swirling around your clit as your fingers lightly brush through your hair, your free hand clutching Harry’s Polaroid, waiting for the best moment to take the picture you’re yearning.

Your fingernails scratch at his scalp, digging deeper into his head as his teeth brush against your clit just enough to have your back arching upwards, hips bucking up into his mouth as a soft moan escapes your throat. You can practically feel Harry smirking as his tongue rests flat over your folds, juices gushing to the apex of your thighs at the motion.

His breath is hot against your cunt as his lips close around your clit, tongue flicking over the sensitive bud and his palms smooth up and down your thighs, gently holding your lower body down before your hips can buck up to meet his mouth again. “Try not to move,” Harry mumbles against your pussy, voice sending vibrations rolling through your body and a chill slithers up your spine, head dropping back onto the arm of your living room couch. The movie playing on the television - Groundhog Day - has been long forgotten, abandoned from the moment he pushed you to lie on the couch and pushed off your sweatpants. “C’mon, baby - stay still f’me.”

You swallow thickly, raising the camera to your face and peering at Harry through the small screen. You can’t see his face - just the mess of curls on top of his head and your fingers combing through the locks - his palms, smoothing over your thighs gently - his eyelashes, on display while his eyes remain shut with pleasure. He tells you, again and again, that he loves eating you out more than you do and you’ve always rolled your eyes because there’s no way in hell he likes it more than you -

But sometimes you do believe him.

“Do that again, Har,” you murmur, voice dropping into a breathy cry as Harry repeats what you’d asked him to, his nose nudging at your clit while his tongue flicks at your folds. It’s at that moment that you take the first picture, flash illuminating the slick that coats your mound in a way you hadn’t noted before - at the sudden brightness Harry looks up and you can see your wetness surrounding his chin and mouth, pure proof of how hard he’s been working your cunt, and you take another picture.

The two images fall into your palms and you rest them on your stomach, tugging your shirt further up your torso so they lay flat on your skin. Harry’s eyes drift upwards for just a moment, scanning the faded outline of your legs wrapped around his shoulders and you can see the beginnings of a smirk working his lips before he turns back to the task at hand, tongue parting your cunt before it slips inside of you, thrusting in and out.

“Fuck,” you breathe, legs tightening around his shoulders and forcing his head further into your cunt, and he moans into your folds at the motion. “Fuck!”

“Y’like tha’?” Harry questions, voice rolling through your body again and you toss your head back with a moaning sob, pushing your hips further up to him. “Yeah, y’do.”

“Har -” you swallow thickly as his lips close around your clit, cheeks hollowing as he sucks. “Har - oh my god, I’m gonna - gonna cum -”

“Cum f’me,” and his voice is gruff and desperate, practically a plead for you to cum on his tongue, to bless him with your juices. “Cum on m’tongue.”

Whatever he’d been spouting before about keeping still is long forgotten, your hips bucking upwards to meet his mouth as your orgasm washes through you. It’s intense and near brutal, not any sort of match for the energy Harry had been maintaining but it doesn’t matter - it’s so relieving that you don’t try to fight it, just let your body relax and your head fall back with what’s nearly a scream.

His flexed tongue continues lazily thrusting in and out of your cunt, helping you through your orgasm like it hadn’t affected him one bit but you know that isn’t true. You can see his lips, turned into a grin and his eyes darkened when he glances up at you, hands on your thighs sliding across your skin until his thumbs lazily pull apart your lips, giving him easier access to the parts of you he craves.

He’s going for your second orgasm - you know that. And you also know it won’t be too long until you get there, especially when his thumb focuses on your clit, massaging the over-sensitive nub as your cunt clenches vehemently around his tongue.

Click. One final picture, of Harry’s hands and face pressed to your pussy, devoted to getting you off and not worried in the slightest about his own neediness. When you’ve rested it to your stomach, next to the other two fully-developed images, you let your arm fall off the side of the couch, letting the camera slip from your fingers and land silently on the carpet, more than intent to focus solely on your boyfriend between your thighs.

Within moments you’re at the edge again, Harry’s face deepening between your thighs to help you ride out your second. Your hips roll against his lips, his thumbs rubbing your clit until you’re sobbing out towards the ceiling, heels digging into his back and forcing his body towards yours. You’re so lost in the sensation, in fact - and on the developed Polaroids sitting on your tummy - you hardly register his mumble of, “Think y’got a third one f’me?” But when you do -

Fuck.

On Harry’s next birthday, you have a very different gift idea planned.

The plane tickets to Greece were the main course - a vacation you’d both dreamt of taking for as long as you’d known each other and you’d never gotten around to it, but you figure there’s no time like the present to knock it off your bucket list. And you could tell Harry was overjoyed, turning and wrapping you in a hug so large you nearly fell off of your seat in the middle of his favourite restaurant.

The side to the main course, though - the appetizer? - is what you’d been waiting for him to open, and not in the middle of the restaurant. It’s only when you two get home, your arms hooked together, giggling like teenagers as Harry fumbles with his keys, that you pull out the small envelope with his name scribbled on the front in red pen.

“Go ahead,” you tell him, pushing yourself to sit on the marble countertops in your kitchen while Harry situates himself between your legs, turning the envelope over in his hands with the same lingering curiosity he’d held last year. “It’s not gonna bite you, Har. Just open it.”

He rolls his eyes at that, a grin tugging his lips upwards as his fingers dig into the paper, tearing the envelope delicately open and you can tell he’s trying not to rough up the wrapper too much, in case he’ll want to keep it for sentimentality but you’re positive that, once he finds what’s inside, he won’t care too much.

Then he dumps the contents of the envelope onto your lap, ten small Polaroid pictures falling onto your dress where it covers your thighs, some face up and some down and as soon as Harry’s eyes scan then, you can see the red blush creeping up his cheeks.

“You fuckin’ minx,” he breathes, and you grin, leaning forward to drop your forehead against his shoulder just as Harry picks up the first Polaroid. Turning it over in his hands you glance down to look at which one he’s examining - it’s a close up he’d taken, his palm wrapped around your neck tight enough that his fingers turned white and you can remember the exact moment. How you’d whined and begged him to go harder, to God, fuck me like a whore, Har, and he’d responded by grabbing your throat so tight you saw stars before he released you.

“I like that one,” you confess, nail dragging over the edge of your jawline where it’s cut off by the camera before you reach down to your lap, overturning every image so you can see them all before grabbing one. “This one - it’s my favorite, though.”

You hold the picture up for Harry to see, watching his eyes narrow as he scrutinizes it. It’s a picture of his back, taken when he’d been bent over putting on pants the morning after Valentine’s Day - you’d intended to be inconspicuous, memorializing the array of deep red scratches you’d left on his skin the night before and you were beyond grateful when you saw the developed image. He’d complained when he heard the click of the camera, telling you that if anyone gets their hands on this, they’ll think I’m being abused - but you knew he liked it, because you caught him peeking at it on your dresser during the next few weeks.

It’s a nice thing to do to include it in his gift, though you’d love nothing more than to frame it on your wall to have there forever.

Harry hums gently, grabbing the picture from your fingers and dropping it back to your lap. You can feel his fingertips, drumming along your thighs as he sorts through the photos. “I remember this one,” he tells you, picking up the end of one of the pictures so you can both see it. Your cheeks flush when you see it - you’d picked it to commemorate the very first (and certainly not the last) time the two of you had tried anal. “God, came so fuckin’ hard tha’ day. Look at tha’ - how red your ass is, fuckin’ beginn’ be to spank you -”

“Alright,” you interrupt, feeling heat creep up your neck to your cheeks as you smack the photo out of his hands. It’s a shaky picture, taken while he was balls deep in your ass, his palm spreading your cheeks apart to get the best angle of his cock inside of you - you remember how good it felt, watching the flash illuminate the room and hearing Harry moan as the photo developed where he’d placed it on your back. The Polaroid lands back on your lap and you reach down, sorting through the array of images until you find the one you’re searching for. “Here - thought you’d like this one the most.”

And - God - when he sees it, grabbing it out of your hands to examine up close, you swear you can hear him whine with need as he brings it up to his eyes. It’s a photo of the two of you in front of a floor-to-ceiling mirror that had been at one of your hotel rooms and neither of you could pass up the chance to watch yourselves during the moment. Your dress, pulled down over your chest, his hand covering your breasts with his head buried in your neck, and you remember feeling him pressed inside of you, both so desperate and needy that you needed to capture it.

“I was right, wasn’t I?” You prod, pressing your lips to the side of Harry’s throat as his head drops to the side. It was, perhaps, the best sex you two had ever had - you couldn’t walk for a week without thinking of him. “You love it.”

“I do love it,” he confirms, hand snaking around your side to begin tugging your dress up your sides. “Reckon it’s not too early to start working on another year’s worth of pictures?”

#harry styles smut #harry styles x reader #harry styles imagine #harry styles blurb #harry styles fluff #harry styles one shot #harry styles writing #i hate this so much i didnt even reread it to edit it #also writing 1k words EXACTLY for each section was not a smart decision in hindsight #but whatever.#too late now!

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stories-sometimes · 5 years ago

Text

B-A-B-Y Baby

Peter Parker x Reader

Summary: (Baby Driver AU) She’s a getaway driver and he’s the cute barista working at the local cafe.

Words: 1556

Masterlist

The cafe’s small, virtually empty, still looks almost identical to the day it was built, a remnant of the 60s. Photos of mods lined the walls, with their suits and mopeds and miniskirts. Old Beatles’ albums played from the now vintage record players, merging with the music playing through her headphones. She always came here after she got her pay. It was a reminder of better times, a reminder of more innocent days. Although today there was a new guy behind the till and he caught her eye. She vaguely knew everyone at the cafe, but she mostly kept to herself. Yet somehow she was drawn to this guy.

“Hey, what can I get you?” He greeted her cheerfully when she reached the counter. The name tag said ‘Peter’.

“Medium latte please.” She replied, pulling one headphone out of her ear.

“And your name?”

“Baby.”

“Baby?” He laughed slightly.

“B-A-B-Y, baby.” She pulled down her sunglasses, glancing over them to ensure him she was serious.

“Alright, one medium latte for Baby coming right up.” She grinned at his goofy smile, moving towards her usual booth, all while watching Peter. She removed her headphones completely, instead opting to listen to the barista singing along to ‘Twist and Shout’, making the drink in time with the beat. He carried the coffee over to her, swaying from side to side, twisting to the words.

“Thanks.” She mumbled.

“So Baby, is that what everyone calls you?”

“Yeah, people I know don’t really get too personal.”

“What got some secretive job, weird undercover stuff.” He said, slipping into the seat opposite her, the cafe was empty and he was intrigued by her, why not.

“Something along those lines.”

“Mysterious. Must be kinda weird, everyone calling you Baby all the time. I mean I kinda get it, most people at my internship just call me kid or kiddo or anything else along those lines. And school wasn’t really much better, worse really, seems like no one would ever call by my actual name. I mean nicknames can be good but sometimes people give ‘em to you and they suck but there’s not really-”

“I’m fine with my nickname,” she cut off his rambling, his sudden blush not going unnoticed, “don’t really want the people I work with knowing my real name. I want to keep some part of my life out of that.”

“So you like being called Baby?”

“I didn’t say that, but it does sound awful good hearing some people saying it.” She flirted.

“Well I'll keep that in mind Baby.” The time flew by as they talked. Most things were really of little importance really, but somehow it seemed as though nothing else mattered.

Weeks and weeks passed and these little chats continued. Throughout the visits they grew closer. She found out he was working at the cafe so he could afford to stay in the city, to stay at the Stark Internship, keep up the barista work until he could land his dream job. He learned she was a driver, used the money to support her Grandma. Despite that she still found ways to skirt around what her job actually entailed. There was no way this perfect, sweet, wholesome guy would stay with her if he found out what she did for a living. He knew she drove, but every time he asked about it she’d just tell him she couldn’t talk about it. Peter assumed she drove important people around and she never corrected him. Being a getaway driver for a gang of criminals was hardly the most appealing thing about her.

Peter asked her out after one particularly long conversation that continued way past the cafe’s closing time. She said yes, of course. The first date was a picnic and a walk through Central Park. The first kiss was one her doorstep after they’d got caught in the rain. Their first time together was after a tipsy night out with Peter’s friends, giggly and messy but romantic nonetheless. Everything was perfect except the overwhelming threat of her work. Everything seemed perfect until it all came tumbling down.

The impact was loud, deafening really. One wrong turn and a truck came crashing into the side door, before she knew it glass was shattered over her face. She looked around and saw the rest of her team stood outside the bank, ready to run now that their ride was destroyed. One of them threw open her door, dragging her out of the car, giving her a bag of money and shouted at her to run. She did, unaware of where she was actually going, but her subconscious led her to the cafe. Peter looked up, his usual excitement quickly soured when he saw the blood dripping down your cheeks.

“Baby, jesus christ are you alright? Oh my god, why do you have blood on your face?” He stumbled out, more panicked then she’d ever heard him. She pushed past him, ducking under the counter, hiding. “Baby, Baby, talk to me please.”

“If the police come in you need to look scared.” She said, her voice detached from her body.

“What! Why the hell would the police come by?”

“Something at work went wrong, very wrong.” She turned to look at him, “you need to listen to me, if the police come by, you don’t know me, you’re my hostage.”

“No way, no fucking way. I’m not letting you fall.”

“Peter, I’m not bringing you down with me. I don’t know what’s gonna happen to me, but I don’t want you to have to suffer because of me. I love you too much to let that happen.”

“No.” He said firmly, reaching out, grabbing her arm and pulling her up.

“Peter stop!” He continued to lead her out toward the back door. His car was parked directly outside.

“Your supposed to be good at driving, get us out of here.”

“I’m not taking you with me, it’s too dangerous.” She tried to reason with him. But he was set in his decision.

“Well you don’t really have a choice now.” He shouted, both of them jumping into the car as soon as they saw the police running through the cafe. So she drove, twisting and turning, shifting through gears, until they were far enough away from the police, switching to driving slowly. Peter looked as though he was about to throw up, clearly not used to the reckless driving she used to escape chases. “Tell me everything.” He said bluntly once colour began to return to his face. “If you lie about anything, I’m out. We’re over.” She gulped, stared guilty at the dashboard. He’d leave her if she didn’t tell, she thought he’d leave her if she did.

“My work’s not good. I help some very bad people get out of sticky situations. I -”

“Just tell it to me straight.” He cut her off, gone was the usual light-hearted, dorky guy she loved so much.

“I’m a getaway driver. The others go rob some bank or something, then I escape. It’s illegal, and I’m not proud of it. But I totally get it if you want out, I’m not exactly the girl you thought I was.” She said, her voice devoid of emotions.

“No!” He shouted, turning to her, grabbing her thigh as some show of support, “jesus christ no, I love you way too much to let you go. I know you, I can’t believe that you’re a bad person, I don’t get why you’d want to do this?”

“I owe my boss a lot of money. I messed up when I was a kid, my parents had just died, I was doing shit to distract myself from my issues. And I hot wired his car, he watched me drive away, and apparently he saw some potential in me. He tracked me down, I was fucking terrified. This crazy powerful guy was at my door telling me I’d stolen his insanely expensive car. But he told me I could work off the debt, so I took the job.” She explained, still avoiding Peter’s eyes. “One job went wrong, and now I’m here.”

“It’s not your fault,” He reassured her, “we can fix this. I’ve got pull at Stark Industries, some higher ups owe me, I can get their lawyers involved, you’ll be fine.”

“I said I’m not getting you involved, and I mean it. I’m driving you to your aunts and dropping you off. If anyone asks, you had no clue about what I did, we never had this conversation.”

“Baby, please, we can -” He was distracted by the sound of sirens once again. Three cars blocked off the road to Aunt May’s street, there was nowhere left to run. She leaned over and pulled him into one last kiss, full of all the passion, not knowing if they’d ever be able to see each other again. She gave him one last bittersweet smile before she stepped out of the car, hands raised in surrender. The police cautiously walked towards her, their guns extended in front of them. She followed their orders, turning around to face Peter as they put handcuffs on her.

“I love you Peter Parker.” She mouthed to him, refusing to let out tears as she watched his face contort with sadness.

“I love you too Baby.”

#peter parker #peter parker x reader #peter parker imagine #peter parker x you #peter parker x original character #marvel fic #baby driver #baby driver au

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junkverse-archive · 7 years ago

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alright. i asked for permission and you gave it. let's crank it up to 100 joshneku and 8/9 (either or). destroy my fucking ass

things you said when I was crying/things you said when you were crying

They didn’t give you a manual when you got into the Game. Or Neku didn’t get one anyway. (But then he had the impression his circumstances were… unusual.) And you didn’t get one for how to handle things after you won, either.

Like, for awhile, all of them -Neku, Shiki, and Beat- still… saw things, once they came back. Faint visions of spiny wings rising from the shoulder blades of random passers-by, or the shape of animals too strange and wild to be real, flitting through the crowds. Sometimes they’d hear sounds like a Noise calling -animal growls fractured and distorted, the cracks filled with static.

This faded, after a few weeks… for Beat and Shiki.

It lingered for Neku.

He wasn’t sure why. A side effect of whatever had happened to him during the Game, as far as he could tell.

Not like there was anyone he could ask about it.

Which isn’t to say he hadn’t tried to find someone -Udagawa had been empty the times he’d gone there, and his attempts to go to WildKat had ended curiously, with him somehow getting turned around and lost for an hour or more in what was essentially a straight thoroughfare. Sure, there was the river, but something in Neku told him that way was closed for him, now.

So, instead, he talked.

To what would’ve looked like empty air, if anyone was looking (which they usually weren’t: Neku spoke quietly, when no one living was around to hear.) He talked about school, about his parents, his friends, whatever song currently had his attention. He talked about the Game, what he had done, what he’d seen and was still seeing.

Which is what he was doing now: talking, softy, to the still late afternoon air, as he sat with his back against one of the newer CAT murals at Udagawa. (CAT still made art, but it happened less frequently, and it seemed less bold and sure, somehow). It was getting late, Neku knew, but he didn’t want to go back home just yet.

“-and I dunno how to talk about it with them?” Neku said. He gestured as he spoke, as if there were an invisible listener with him. “I think Shiki and Beat just wanna move on, and I don’t blame them, but. I don’t know anyone else who’s… who’s been where I was. And it sucks.”

A pause. “Also I can’t find my headphones? The ones I had back in the Game, I mean. I think I lost them back at Hachiko, but, y’know, good fuckin’ luck finding ‘em, they’re probably all trampled and shit.” Neku laughed, ruefully, and ran his fingers through his hair, leaning back against the wall.

For a moment he said nothing, taking in muted sounds of the city. Things were always oddly quiet in Udagawa.

“…I wish you were here,” Neku said. His throat suddenly felt tight, and something stung at the corners of his eyes. “I’m not. As mad, anymore? Like I’m still mad, dude, don’t get me wrong-” here he sniffled, rubbed at his eyes as that stinging beaded and began to trickle down his cheeks, “-but I still wanna be friends with you. Even after… after everything.”

Neku peered up and around at the empty alleyway, half hoping he’d see a familiar face rounding the corner, or settling down beside him. Someone he hadn’t seen since that strange throne room, deep underneath Shibuya.

There was no one.

Neku sighed, pushed himself up from the concrete, and brushed himself off. He cleared his throat, sniffed again.

“I’ll, ah,” Neku said, “talk to you later, I guess.” He hesitated. “That invitation to meet up at Hachiko is still standing, y’know. If… if you want it.”

Neku waited for a response, as he always did. There was none.

So he began the long walk down the steps of Udagawa, towards home. Neku reflexively reached to slip on his long-gone headphones before remembering, and sighed, grumbling under his breath about needing to get a new pair-

-when a strange crackling noise tore through the air, the sound of it somehow electric and liquid all at once.

Neku spun in place, heart thudding in his chest at the familiarity of the sound -not like a Noise, but close, static in the spaces of it, with a low barely-there thrumming underneath that made his stomach churn. It filled the narrow alleyway, echoing until it was almost a solid blanket of sound-

-and with a crack ended as abruptly as it had begun, the silence that followed deafening.

And, standing in the middle of that silent alleyway, Joshua.

Neku blinked at him, staring. Because he was hallucinating, surely, he’d finally gone off the deep end and this was all a dream or a brain-tumor induced vision or something, because Joshua looked just like he had the last time Neku had seen him, but somehow smaller and more real.

“You dropped them,” Joshua said.

“What,” Neku said.

“Your headphones,” Joshua said. He reached towards his own neck, and Neku belatedly realized that Joshua was wearing the set of headphones he’d lost. “You dropped them, back at Hachiko.”

“I-you’re-”

“I, um, held onto them,” Joshua said as he slowly took off the headphones. “For safekeeping. Until I could see you again.”

“Y-you’re…” Neku took a step towards him, then another. “You’re real?”

Joshua nodded, minutely. “As real as you are.” He smiled a small, apologetic smile, and Neku realized, with a jolt, that he was crying. “Sorry it took me so long.”

And then all of a sudden Neku had somehow closed the distance between them and he was holding onto Joshua and hugging him for dear life, not caring about the plastic of the headphones digging into his chest, or his own tears. All he cared about was Joshua leaning into him, how he felt solid and warm and too-thin under his hands, and how he was here, with him, finally.

Eventually they pulled away from each other. Neither of them spoke at first; Joshua put Neku’s headphones around Neku’s neck, the gesture so careful that it made Neku’s heart clench.

“Now,” Joshua said, slowly, “I didn’t hear everything you’ve been telling me, so. Mind getting me up to speed?”

Neku laughed, wiping at the tear stains on his cheeks, and nodded.

“Sure, Josh. Sure.”

#I don't know how all these words happened oops #also happy birthday #RIP in peace #TWEWY #JoshNeku #Joshua #Neku Sakuraba #fanfic #my writing #geragerasan #text #long post

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