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share-the-damn-bed · 2 days
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requested by anonymous
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share-the-damn-bed · 6 days
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Is that Jonathan???
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share-the-damn-bed · 7 days
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share-the-damn-bed · 8 days
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Jonathan and Nancy through the seasons:
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share-the-damn-bed · 9 days
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Jancy's Childhood friends/acquaintances trope is so dear to me.
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share-the-damn-bed · 10 days
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No, but the photo is too cute to not be seen !!
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share-the-damn-bed · 11 days
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Jonathan Byers Stranger Things 3 Chapter Two: The Mall Rats | 3.02
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share-the-damn-bed · 11 days
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JANCY + intimacy
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share-the-damn-bed · 13 days
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@stcreators​ event 01: favorite     🡮 Character || Jonathan Byers
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share-the-damn-bed · 13 days
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17a and 3b?
hii, thank you for the prompt!
prompt game posted here
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17a + 3b = the semantics are totally outdated + but they can’t talk
word count: 3.4k | pairing: jonathan x nancy
but i can't live by those stakes, the semantics are totally outdated -sam fender, last to make it home
Her summer, china shop. Lowe and Holloway…two biggest, most aggressive bulls a matador could wish for.
And even that is such an undeserved accreditation, that semblance of animal majesty and dominance and punch, since her china’s literally in mint condition. She’s doing just fine, the guys don’t scare her. They’re not capable.
Her issue isn’t fear, it’s rage. More rage than Jonathan knows what to do with at times. The flush of red on her face, the urge to choke in her hands, the hair-pulling (his hair, not hers) and the pacing, all too wayward in his pen, burning up each of the four corners at once. Not that he’s much of a firefighter—pretty clear that he likes for a girl to take everything out on him, as long as her methods are nonverbal. He’s not gonna smother a flame when he could just let the flame smother him. He loves a good path of least resistance.
Things are different between them, inside the Hawkins Post. She can see him struggling with that, with meanings lost and rules rewritten, her amendments unfairly implicit as she switches up on him, forcing her sweet mariner into the Atlantic with his map of the Pacific. No, his map of the Wabash River. She doesn’t mean to respond differently to him, it’s just that she has to be careful with the way she carries herself here because no one wants to take her seriously. There aren’t many wins to be had by a teenage girl in this building, and there really aren’t many wins to be had by a teenage girl who lets her boyfriend dote on her in this building. The pep talk thing, the passive pity, the hey come here you’re okay after any negative reaction she has…he’s making it worse without realizing.
She’s making it worse, too, though. In her own way.
Keeps getting them in trouble, for example.
Today they're in trouble because of what she convinced him to do yesterday. Apparently, leaving work ten minutes early is really a no-no. Her bad. (She needed out, Lover’s Lake was calling to her. They don’t go much, but when it’s raining? When it’s raining that lake belongs to them. No other couple in town is weird enough to go in thunder and lightning, it is their thing, they own it. Privacy is a guarantee. Never mind that inducing the feeling of drowning has been a secret placation of her survivor's guilt lately, a quiet way to exhaust herself and surrender to nature's embrace for a while, to let it take her over, knocking her down a peg as it comes down in heavy sheets. It should have been her on that diving board two years ago, it really should have.) She never said their date habits were healthy. Oh, except the splashing, the splishing. That’s a normal couple thing. Very healthy.
They’ve been given different punishments for slipping out; he’s meant to be folding all the newspapers, she’s supposed to be stapling reports. It’s 4:45, and they just started. They usually use this time to clean up, but whatever doesn’t get done before five is unpaid work.
So that’s fun.
In the main room they serve their silent sentence, each stationed at opposite ends, less than consumed by their tasks. There’s an early golden hour effect outside; she can tell with the warm glow that’s seeping in between the window blinds, teasing her, testing her, tempting her to just walk out again. Despite her best efforts to focus on work and keep her distance from Jonathan, she does think about him a lot under this roof. And other roofs. And every roof. Like now, she’s thinking about how he’s staring at her and how strange it is that she knows he’s staring at her even with her eyes cast down.
I can feel that.
She combats the softness of the sentiment with a hard press on the stapler. Loud click is overly loud. Obnoxious. Swiping the heavy thing across the desk, she lets it clunk against the lamp’s square base. If he wants to daydream about her, he’ll have to romanticize her inclination towards inanimate object abuse. (Imagine the emotional release in banging that ashtray on this typewriter. Personally, she’s imagining it.)
She tips her head up to check on him. Okay, he is romanticizing how pissed off she is. Blinks at her like she’s some unusual celestial something at the end of a telescope, pretty and rare. He brightens up over there as he realizes that he got her attention, making a small posture adjustment, leaning her way. Still slouchy, of course. She wants to glare, she does, but the edges of her gaze are being anonymously softened and all that’s left behind is a tender, conflicted expression. What do you want from me, it says. This is intern detention after all. Not social hour.
With a gentle glance he offers her some support, devoid of any pressure or demands. Nothing, Nancy.
She ducks her head and goes back to her report stack. But as quickly as she dives back into the task, she comes out again. He has something to tell her—she can feel it. When she looks up, he's tapping his thumb at the base of his throat, which is kind of weird even for him. His hand hovers near his collar before he motions to her, a silent prompt. She takes the signal and touches the same spot on her neck, brows knit together. Your necklace, he’s trying to say, miming the action of spinning it around, repositioning the clasp and extender so that they’re at the back and hidden away. Your necklace is backwards. She fixes it accordingly, embarrassed by nothing in particular it’s just…yeah, Bruce Lowe definitely doesn’t need to be provided with any joke bait below her neckline.
Bonus points for the ever attentive boyfriend. Just this once, his tendency to space out and stare at her has gotten them somewhere. Good boy.
She busies herself with the stapler, determined to get them out of this place sooner rather than later. Count, separate, slide, straighten. Staple, stack, repeat. Repeat repeat repeat. She wishes she had someone to compete with, to race against. Her brother, maybe, because Jonathan isn’t competitive. Then this would go faster. In the warm office, heat sprawls on top of her, slowing her movements. Sweat has already pooled at the small of her back, gathered behind her ears, formed a light sheen along her jaw. So much for box fans.
Her mind strays away from the chatter around her, a few abrupt fantasies now steering her thoughts. Hormonal thoughts. She’d ignore the love rush if she could, but it’s on her, on her like a sticky lotion in June weather, soaking slowly into her skin. Being seventeen is—yeah. Difficult.
Crazy difficult, once you factor in the need to be a professional mini-adult and not associate with the person you take to bed.
There’s just…it’s her, and Jonathan, and the necklace, and she’s taken off the necklace, held it taut against his neck, not choking him per se, no, but softly sawing at him with the chain until there are faint red lines impressed in sensitive flesh. Who knows where this came from; she’s never done anything like it. Doesn’t typically play so rough with him that there’s physical evidence more severe than your average hickeys or scratch marks. This job is turning her into a hazard.
She indulges for a couple seconds longer in the dumb image that had momentarily eclipsed her reality. He’s not looking at her when she looks up at him, but somehow it feels like their telepathic dialogue is still going, born from shared frustrations.
I want to be done here.
I know, we’ll be done soon. We’re fine, keep stapling.
And maybe she wouldn’t have to take off the necklace. Because he has his tie, his not-so-nice tie. Okay, without sugarcoating, it’s ugly. The one that’s currently loose, gray with diagonal brown stripes, pencil-thin stripes; it would be way more fun to pull across his throat compared to her necklace. Of course, she wouldn’t lead with that, she’d be counteracting with the super soft services of a needy mouth, settling on the kindest way to release her anger and affection in one fell swoop. (Why is it that the uglier the tie design, the bigger her heart? She’s wanting him bad this afternoon.)
In a moment of distracted clumsiness, she knocks over her box of staples, several of the refill strips breaking apart on the ground, their clatter piercing through whatever awful discussion was being had by these overpaid husbands and fathers.
“Wuh-oh,” Bruce interjects before carrying his conversation on. Not as big of a deal as when she fumbles a lunch order, but bad nonetheless; she’s on her knees in a dress, catching everyone’s double takes. A sideshow act to glance at intermittently between unrelated one-offs and cigarette drags.
Jonathan’s soon kneeling by her, ready to lend his assistance. Yeah, absolutely not.
The more he helps her, the more of a girl she is. Her eyes plead with him, begging him to remember that any perceived dependence on him will undermine the tiny shred of social authority she has here.
I love you, but get away from me.
Pouting, he backs off, an achy longing lingering between them. He chooses instead to go tend to the coffee grounds she’d yet to throw out.
Despite the distance enforced by circumstance, and her annoyance, she remains fixated on him, finding some solace in that mental landscape. When they leave this place within the hour, everything will go back to the way it was, and she can go back to speaking in a language they both understand.
She scoops up the staples and tidies the desk. Resumes her work without a second thought, waiting for the embarrassment to bleed out of her.
--
By five after five, they’ve almost finished up their punishment tasks. The office is more peaceful than before, hushed and dreamy, as their older colleagues file out, letting paper cups and gum wrappers fall into trash cans whose bags she and her boyfriend replaced an hour ago.
Tom switches off a couple lamps, touches his watch (with that bizarre air of supremacy and boredom). On his way out, he claps her chair on the back. “Keep up the good work,” he says. “No more sneaking out early.”
At least she’s getting credit for something. For leading the rebellion.
She watches Fallon, the receptionist, push in her desk chair and begin to pull at the hem of her skirt. As she passes by Jonathan, she carelessly drops a keyring into his lap, instructing him to lock up when they go. She also calls him Jordan. Not a thought in her head.
“Yes ma’am,” he mumbles, “have a good night.”
They’re left all alone when the last footsteps fade away, and she shifts in her spinny chair. For possibly the first time today, she takes a deep breath in, a deep breath out. This is good. This is better.
It’s sort of warm and sweet and spongy—cakelike, she’d say—the growing sense of comfort she has in the privacy that’s been laid upon them. That, or she’s hungry. They should pick up a cupcake from the bakery downtown. Key lime, lemon, one of their seasonal flavors. No, wait, the bakery closed a few minutes ago. Not that they get much business anymore. (If they shut down and the mall ruins her and Jonathan’s cupcake sharing thing, she might choke someone. She might kill.)
Though her gaze is locked on him, he keeps his head slanted down, not acknowledging her or their privacy.
She taps the desk, slides her tongue behind her teeth, resentment creeping in amid neglect. This is the part where their tension falls away, right? The part where he apologizes for overdoing the boyfriend thing, and then gives her his undivided attention until one or two in the morning, thus overdoing the boyfriend thing, but in the right place at the right time. Trying to make up for the shittiness of their internship, trying to help her bubble wrap all the china in her china shop before morning comes around again.
He’s slumped down over there, sleeves cuffed, collar half-popped, movements slow as he calmly creases his final papers. The box fan’s soft currents delicately ruffle through his hair, and at first glance, he doesn’t have a care in the world. At second, though, he’s wearing a bit of a frown, moodily refusing to acknowledge anything but himself and his newspapers.
And yet. She can’t deny the magnetic pull drawing her that way. With a defiant flip of her hair, she sets out to close the big gap between them and put an end to the ridiculousness. They shouldn’t be ignoring each other upon being given total privacy, not even for a second. Reaching his space, she stops in front of his chair, leaning back on the edge of the desk. She’s the wall between him and his paper stack.
He sighs, eyes cast up to her. “Hi.”
“Hi,” she parrots.
“You’re done?”
“Pretty much.”
“Me too.”
He’s still in that place of self-minimization, that corrective headspace following the staple incident. He’s stuck on being quiet and invisible and adult and the absolute opposite of lovey and dovey. It’s no longer necessary.
She fidgets with her ring blindly, an anticipatory energy working itself up inside her, right under her ribcage. He opens his mouth to speak. Closes it quickly. Guarded, he averts his gaze.
“You’re allowed to correct her, you know.”
“Huh?”
“Fallon. You don’t have to let your name be whatever she decides.”
The silence stretches between them, a tight wire, trembling faintly, a few touches away from snapping. She’s unsure if he’s playing a game here or if he simply doesn’t feel like talking. You never know with him (but she does).
“We’re allowed to talk now, you know,” she adds.
A beat.
“Your dress is messed up,” he says, to himself more than her.
“What?”
“The hooks on your dress. You accidentally skipped the first one.”
“I—” she starts. Her jaw hangs. Curious, she feels for the mismatched hook and eye clasps below the frilly collar of her dress, and she finds that the bottom one did get skipped over. This is what happens when you don’t get enough sleep, wake up late, and have to dress yourself in sixty seconds. She huffs. “Well come fix it?"
Because he has to want to. He likes this dress a lot, he’s never said anything, but he does. It’s white and yellow, not any yellow, but like a buttercup yellow, semi-sheer with an open ruffly collar and wide sleeves. He would want the excuse to touch it. He would want that sense of purpose, that delegation of mess-fixing. She’s so rarely a mess when there are no monsters to slaughter. He’s usually the one with the inside out shirt, the smudge of lipstick on his face. This is his one chance.
His bottom lip curls, and his shoulders shrug. “Thought you wanted to pretend like we don’t know each other.”
“Jonathan…please come fix it.”
She reaches out, and without a word he holds her hand, standing up. He bites down on his tongue, presses it against the side of his mouth, looking like he knows how cliché this is but is too sad to complain. He moves closer, his hands gentle as he begins unfastening those top four hooks so he can fasten that fifth one, the one she’d skipped before she also skipped breakfast. Her eyelids sink, wispy bangs brushing the tops of her eyes as the fan’s whisper of a breeze plays over her.
He’s still working with the clasps when her hands find his neck, tickling their way to the ends of his hair, curled by humidity.
To her surprise, he doesn’t flinch when she sneak attacks him, stealing a kiss off his mouth. Just makes a huffy sound afterward, all judgy eyes and short breaths and pinked skin. “Does that mean you like me again—”
She guides the slipping of their lips, a soft sensation of stickiness lingering in the inbetween. “Shut up,�� she murmurs, “I never stopped.”
“Yes, you did.”
Plush lip tissue gives way between her careful teeth as she nibbles, trying to draw out a whimper or a groan or some other noise of desperate compliance. She thinks she hears an ow, and if she did, that’s good. His ow isn’t code for hey that hurts, his ow is like a regular boy’s don’t stop, I need more.
“I did not,” she argues.
“You did, you said so.”
“When?”
“With your face.”
She tightens her grip on the back of his collar and pulls. Seeking a diversion, she peppers his mouth, the tip of her tongue relaxed, impressively subtle. A muffled squeak leaves him as the collar tightens around his throat, and she lets go, releasing him. Maybe she does feel a little bad. “Don’t be so sensitive,” she says, but her words lack conviction, and her heart’s not in the dig. “I know I’ve been acting weird. It’s not about you.”
He rests his forehead on hers. “It’s only about them?”
“Duh, it’s about them.”
They put the conversation on hold among their shared prioritization of making this into more of a makeout than just a way to argue. Kissing mainly because it feels good to kiss, and bad to not. Their age demands this, pushes them. (They’ll grow out of the phase someday…she assumes. If she ever learns how to control herself. Perhaps.) She noses her way to his jaw while getting wrapped up in a hug, the gleam of sweat under her lips pleasantly salty. “So sweaty,” she teases (though she’s burning up, too). His breath hitches, and he doesn’t start the banter back up, doesn’t say what’s on his mind which is probably: I didn’t ask you to come over here and lick me like a cat.
Eventually they do separate a few inches, significantly more satisfied than before, significantly more pink in the face. Her head tips, and her tired eyes follow the path of daylight pouring in through the window, casting long shadows across the office floor as he distractedly massages her shoulder.
“Not that I’m complaining…” he begins, and her lashes flutter, her ears tune in, “but you are sending me mixed signals here.”
He’s right. Her professionalism has come at the price of his trust and certainty. She’s still adjusting to the job, getting used to the fact that she’s not particularly needed, wanted, or respected here. Jonathan doesn’t get it, and a Jordan wouldn’t get it, or a Josh, or anyone else who has never been on the receiving end of that coffee maker too tricky for you, sweetheart?
His concern is being obedient, being good, getting paid, keeping to himself, not making a fuss. It makes sense that he’d want to pep talk her out of her anguish, but it’s not healthy for her reputation. She thinks he owes it to her to roll with the punches for a little while.
“I know. I’m still figuring all this out. You’re gonna have to buckle up and settle in for now.”
“Do you think I could have a…handbook, or something?”
“A handbook?”
“I want the dos and don’ts. I want to know what you think makes you look bad and what doesn’t.”
She laughs softly. “That could be arranged. I’ve always wanted to write a book.”
--
After they’ve hesitantly split up and attended to closing tasks, she takes pride in the fact that they’ve only had to do twenty minutes of unpaid work this evening.
The remaining lights get switched off, and they gather their things, ambling to a door whose glass promises the return to a nicer world, a return to wide prospects—night drives and music, dinner and shared showers, lakeside commitments and homemade cupcakes.
“Hey,” she murmurs, hand curling around a few of his fingers, “just so you know, about that handbook: I haven’t forgotten about the darkroom.”
“What about it?”
“Nothing, I just mean that I don’t think any of the rules would have to apply to the darkroom. It’s private, it’s safe, it’s…rule-free, isn’t it?”
“Umm…”
"You can pick up as many staples for me as you want in there."
--
creds to @musicalchaos07 for helping me come up with this idea, and creds to @wanderleave for picking his tie color for me
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share-the-damn-bed · 14 days
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✨ One week! ✨
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See our pinned post for all the info!
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share-the-damn-bed · 16 days
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JONATHAN BYERS
1.02 | The Weirdo on Maple Street
#<3
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share-the-damn-bed · 17 days
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JONATHAN listening to NANCY as she opens up to him
"...and no one is listening to me!"
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share-the-damn-bed · 17 days
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@musicalchaos07 would you be shocked to learn that this resulted from me working on a separate, larger set: “Jonathan listening to Nancy” in a very specific way aligned with the “And no one is listening to me!” quote…?
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Nancy realizing that Jonathan is still her partner in every way, shape, and form.
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share-the-damn-bed · 17 days
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they're in love.
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share-the-damn-bed · 17 days
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Nancy realizing that Jonathan is still her partner in every way, shape, and form.
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share-the-damn-bed · 20 days
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"He's not like you"
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