#3: A breathy demand “kiss me” and what the other person does to respond
#45: Kisses exchanged as they move around, hitting the edges of tables or nearly tripping over things on the floor before making it to the sofa, or bed
I tried to do a combo of these, if that’s ok. And I don’t know why it took three days. But I hope it makes you smile at least! Prompt me in my ask box for more drabbles like this one.
(Also this is set right after season two, to give some context.)
It’s a little exhausting. When nothing ever works out the way you wish it would, and you start to feel like you’ve done something very wrong in the eyes of the universe.
Because this—her pointless National Honor Society obligation falling on the exact day that Jonathan is finally coming back to school—is proof that the higher powers hate her.
And she misses him like hell. He feels further away than she can comprehend. Off on the most deserted island. Or maybe Saturn.
It shouldn’t be such a big deal. It really shouldn’t, but she knows the chance of them working out is time-sensitive. He pushed her away once, and given the time, he will do it again. He said he wouldn’t. She knows he might.
When he hears people talking about them, he will. Because they’ll make him feel like he’s too much for her. And not enough. All at once. And in the case where he doesn’t care what they think, he still cares what they say to her.
The thought of that, the thought of their classmates intruding into this delicate thing she has with him, is why she’s come here. She’s not gonna let pests ruin this.
His car is here. And that makes sense, because it’s midnight. It’s Wednesday at midnight and he’s here and she’s here and she probably shouldn’t be. His whole family must be so tired.
But his bedroom is lit, glowing like fire behind his window. To say the least, it’s inviting. The thought of him there as she stands in the pitch-black cold. She just wants to get inside and be with him.
She knocks on the front door, only loud enough for him to hear.
She pictures his face contorting at the sound. Pictures his furrowed brow and bitter pout. Her nerves recede like a wave on the beach; she can’t wait to see him. It’s been ten days since she last did. Since she held his hand and they burned a virus, an otherworldly virus, out of his baby brother.
The lock clicks as he opens the door, and when he looks at her, it’s like he’s seen an angel. An insomniac, desperate angel.
“Nance,” he whispers, “are you—”
“I’m okay, nothing’s wrong. That’s not why I’m here.”
She takes in the sight of him. Or the sight of his silhouette, really. (The porch light is off.) But the silence quickly becomes awkward.
“Uh, what are you doing here, then?”
What is she doing here? What is she doing here? It’s a relief when she thinks of something to say.
“Well I heard Will tell Mike you guys were both coming back to school tomorrow.” Her tone is strangely casual.
She feels more than sees the bewilderment on his face. Feels him blinking at her, trying to read her body language. That’s when she realizes she didn’t answer his question, so she continues.
“And the thing is I won’t be. At school, tomorrow. So that’s what I was thinking. I mean, I know it’s late, but that’s what I was thinking when I came here.” She shifts her weight and curses the world once more in her head. Surely, she used to be better at this. But she supposes she’s never done this. This is trying to get under Jonathan Byers’ sheets at 12am. It’s a first.
She gives a shallow sigh, not knowing what to expect from him.
“I’ve missed you, too,” he confesses. “So much.”
Oh. Did he step closer to her? Oh.
She leans into him, imperceptibly. Sways barely forward and thinks about his touch and his warmth.
“Yeah, I missed you,” she murmurs, “guess I coulda just said that.”
“So we miss each other. So,” her hands touch his and he looks down at that, “kiss me.”
No, that wasn’t what she meant to—
He covers her lips with his carefully then releases them with a soft tsk. A couple light kisses follow, so much softer and slower than the ones they exchanged in Sesser, but not unlike them in warmness.
And it’s kind of exciting: that now, she can tell him to do that, and he will. But she really hadn’t meant to command like that. To say it aloud.
Her nose bumps against his and he smiles. The feel of his grin by her mouth is one of the best things she’s ever experienced. She bites her lip to contain her own smile and pecks the groove in the skin beneath his nose. He laughs. It’s a really cute laugh. She can’t remember if she’s heard him laugh that way before, breathy yet relaxed and happy. Mostly uninhibited.
He leans in again and does something very nice and very subtle with his tongue (who the hell taught him to kiss?), and the sound she makes is a little too animalistic for a 17-year-old girl. He doesn’t seem to mind.
“Gonna invite me in maybe?” she asks, breathing hard.
He tugs hard with his hands on her hips. “Come on.”
She’s pulled into the heat of the house and the heat of his chest. She thinks about the last bed they were in and is glad that this mattress will be Jonathan’s and not some dirty one belonging to a stranger. A stranger whose help she was grateful for but whose laundry habits she had to question.
Not that the dust stopped them from anything.
She pushes her fingers deep into his hair as they walk, then she feels a pang of pain in her ankle as she almost rolls it on something. She yelps, his hands keep her steady, and there’s that peaceful laugh again.
“I’m sorry,” he kisses her neck, “I’m really sorry, we haven’t cleaned. The floor’s a mess.”
Her face goes hot as he hugs her waist, and she looks down beside her feet. It was some sort of bulky rope toy.
“Since when do you have a dog?”
“We used to. We rescued him. C’mere.”
He distracts her with more kisses as he moves them across the room and to the hall, guiding her. He’s never seemed confident like this. Where does it come from? Is it because they’re at his house? Because he has the advantage of knowing where on the floor random things may be waiting to trip you? Whatever it is, it’s dangerous. If he keeps it up, she’ll probably tell him she loves him or something.
(She’ll want to tell him that anyway. She wanted to when they slept together, and he was not very confident at all. They were both nervous wrecks that night.)
As they linger in the hallway, inching along the wall, their kisses feel like conversation. Like he actually uses them in place of words he doesn’t want to say to her. It doesn’t bother her. The conversation is a good one. With the way he doesn’t let himself bite her lip without licking it afterward, to soothe it. With the pauses he takes because otherwise they get seriously overwhelmed. With the boyish groans that he tries very hard to tone down. His kiss is unique and vulnerable. It makes her certain that she never wants anyone else in the world to ever think about kissing her again. Just like she doesn’t want anyone to kiss him.
They eventually enter his room, where there’s light. They practically fall on the bed, too eager. His hair’s in his eyes. His mouth is shiny with her spit and his expression is a little dopey. Hers must be, too.
“You would have still kissed me a minute ago if I hadn’t told you to, right?”
He considers the burning question. “I would’ve gotten around to it,” his lips press on her jaw, “would you have sprained your ankle if I hadn’t been holding onto you?”
blakekathryn
dededos
germansingergirl
origamiaround
stormborns
turnnoffyourmind
