girlofghosts

[girlofghosts]

my type is (questionably) straight girls and loser boys and thank GOD stranger things has both

[girlofghosts]

dating jonathan byers ‧̥°̩̥˚̩̩̥͙°̩̥‧̥

[girlofghosts]

thinking about nancy propped up in robin's lap, makeup brushes, pallettes, and various lipsticks surrounding the two of them in nancy's bed.

how nancy tilts robin's chin up to look up at her and tells her to close her eyes, but not too tightly, in a way that has robin's stomach in a knot and hands tightening around her girlfriends waist.

because as much as robin hates the suffocating feeling of femininity, of lipstick and eyeshadow on her face and a skirt digging into her waist, it's worth having some makeup on her face to have her pretty yet bossy girlfriend on her lap.

[girlofghosts]

a night like this

jonathan byers x fem!reader

⟢ summary: neither of you have reached out since everything with the upside down ended. jonathan changes that one night.

⟢ warnings: mildly suggestive tones

it was a rainy night in october, clock reading 1:02 in the morning, and jonathan was wide awake. tossing, turning, covers on, covers off.

every night now, he thought of you.

it was embarrassing, how much he thought of you. a girl he only ever talked to during the whole upside down, missing brother fiasco.

he cried in your arms in his room when will's disappearance got hard. twice. in a day.

you were a popular girl at school. long story short—totally out of his league. but you were actually really cool. the type of character development steve had, except you hadn't necessarily been a dick to him before. he just... assumed.

he turns in bed again, holding the pillow in his arms a little closer, face buried in it for a moment. he still has photos up from when you'd hang out.

his mom asked what happened, he said you two drifted apart. she said she thought you two would turn into more. that didn't help.

his brother asked what happened, he said the honest truth. you were out of his league. his brother refuted, but it was hard to refute something they both felt was true.

and now he stares at his camera on his bedside table, the one you got him for christmas.

it was the least i could do after steve broke yours. you said. so you better take photos to give me.

he had a stack that he took for you, that never made it your way.

everytime he closes his eyes, it's your eyes he sees, your hair, your face... that one sweater of his you borrowed when you spent the night that you wore day after day.

he pushes himself up off the bed and reluctantly reaches for his coat and stack of polaroids, sliding them in his pocket.

it's either he keeps lying here and thinking about doing it, or he does it and ideally gets some peace of mind.

he has to be quiet about leaving the house so late at night, floorboards creaky but he makes his way out to the porch nonetheless. you only live down the street, he can make it by foot. the real question is if he wants to now. it feels too real.

with a huff, he begins down the side of the road, towards your place. he knew you'd be up. it's early for you on a saturday.

his palms sweat, his coat feels too hot even though it's no more than 40° outside, his mouth is dry, and his head is full of regret. he wasn't a confident guy, what was he even doing?

but he's already here, and the light in your room is on anyway. he sees it through the familiar window he's climbed in and out of countless times.

knock, knock, knock.

the glass is cold against his knuckles and he has to stare at his feet just to keep his composure.

the sound of the window opening is immediate and he sees your head peaking out, curtain pushed to the side. the look on your face makes him want to die, yet also wish he brought his camera for the ride.

"hey," he initiates, "could i come in?" it comes out strained, hands hidden in the pockets of his coat, and surprise is written on your face as you nod.

he watches you step aside before offering a hand to help him in, as if he'd need it. he'd never deny the offer of holding your hand though.

dusting his jeans off, he settles in your room. familiar, the same he'd been in months before.

"why are you here at one in the morning, jonathan? it's late." you question him, hands smoothing over your shorts and baggy shirt.

"you're the one whose awake at one in the morning." he shrugs a bit, avoiding the question, because how is he supposed to answer that without seeming insane?

sorry, i couldn't sleep because i missed you and was looking at old photos of us and missed your touch.

"...i just was taking a walk and noticed your light on." he stumbles over his words a bit, never all that good at lying.

"since when did you take midnight walks?" you ask, "that's the first i've heard of that new habit."

"things can change in a few months." the words are bitter on his tongue and as much as he regrets saying it, he wasnt... wrong.

your soft nod has him tracking you, watching as you sit on the edge of your bed.

"why'd you actually come over, jonathan?" now it's your turn to stun him to silence with your words. as much as they should be accusatory, because it's so late and he just showed up, they're not. they're genuine. just like he remembered you.

"would it be bad if i just came over because i missed you?" he admits. he's bad at lying to you.

"...no." you pause before your reply, shaking your head, looking back up at him and patting the bed.

he sits alongside you, and for a moment all he can think of is how his clothed thigh is pressed against your plush, bare one.

but that's not why he's here, he reminds himself.

"...and i'm leaving for california in a few weeks. so." he glances up at you, "to get away from all this stuff. especially for will. he's had a hard time here."

god, he sees the way your heart drops at the admittance, "california? you can't go to california."

he doesn't wanna go. maybe that's why he's been thinking of you so much more lately.

"i don't want to." he hums back, fumbling with the hem of his denim jacket.

"...i don't want you to." you mumble back.

"you say that as if you've even talked to me lately." he knows it's a low blow. he hasn't talked to you, either, but it's what he thinks in the moment.

"i know." he watched you lie back on the bed, legs bent at the knee and dangling over the edge.

he feels winded at the sight. the sight of you all pretty, lying in your bed, looking up at him expectantly. of what, though, he has no clue.

"when are you leaving?" you break the silence.

"the first of next month." he admits, looking back and down at you.

"holy shit. that's soon." he watches you look at your calendar above your desk nearby, "three weeks. jonathan, holy shit."

"yeah..." he trails off.

he reaches in his pocket, "remember... remember how you told me to take photos for you?" he asks. "when you got me my camera. which—which i still use, by the way. everyday."

"of course i remember." you sit back up beside him, head falling onto his shoulder as he pulls out the stack of film, a hefty one, "you actually did?"

"of course i did." he says, as if it's laughable that he didn't. that he wouldn't do whatever you asked.

he flips through some for you, showing pretty sights. on the back, he wrote the dates and small notes about each of them to you.

he watches you eagerly reach for a few, looking at them, reading them closely.

"you never talked to me again after christmas night." you hum. that's your recollection of events—gave him an expensive gift and he didn't reach out again.

in his defense, the next day, you were with your popular crowd at school. he'd never approach you with them. so, he kept his distance.

"i never had a chance to," he says, "i wanted to."

"i guess we're both at fault there." he hears you say before looking back over at him, "i thought you and nancy were dating. wouldn't she be mad, knowing you're here?" you ask. you were clueless.

"we aren't dating," he says, "it didn't work out."

it was like a witch hunt for another girl—trying to forget about you. but it was always you.

"i'm sorry about that." you reply, and he shakes his head. it didn't affect him as much as a breakup should've, honestly.

he doesn't really know what to do now. you're looking through the photos, and he's just looking over your features, unable to tear his gaze away.

the expressions on your face, the way your eyes flit over the images, the way your head feels on his shoulder, the way your thigh feels under his hand, which he didn't really process was there until now. and all of a sudden he feels breathless.

"you two are cute." you point out a photo of him and his brother, will easily the happiest anyone had seen him in a while, "you grew your hair out that long? it looked really good."

he has to hide the way he flushes at your compliment, glancing from you down to the photo, "yeah... thanks."

you two both awkwardly dance around the tension between you, the fleeting compliments, the touches.

"god, we're so... oblivious." he hears you mumble.

he knows what you're talking about, but the fact you're confirming it is a relief.

"we... definitely are." he nods back, "i've been thinking about it all recently. us."

"i always do, too, especially... y'know." and he knows what that vague statement means.

when you two kissed in his room, having snuck some alcohol from his mom's cabinet in the kitchen. it was good. really good. you two don't remember much, though, courtesy of the alcohol.

"that was good. really, really good." he says absentmindedly, breathing out at the thought.

"i wish we were sober." he finds himself admitting, before internally cursing himself for letting himself get too comfortable and saying that.

he watches you set the stack of film, half left unseen, on the bedside table. he almost wants to ask why, but there's been enough unnecessary questions tonight, he thinks.

"i mean..." you trail off, looking up at him, those eyes giving him an unfortunate amount of ideas.

he watches you lie back on the bed, looking up at him. expectantly, again, except this time he knows what you're expecting.

his hand squeezes your thigh gently before he leans down so he's towering over you.

"yeah?" he asks.

"...yeah." you reply, nodding, lower lip drawn taut between your teeth.

it doesn't take long for him to move his hand from your thigh to hold himself up over you, other arm doing similarly, but tangled in your hair, lips caught up in yours with a small, relieved whine he lets fall past.

your chapstick is familiar, that sweet taste of cherry against his lips.

he practically melts when he feels your hands find his back and wrap around it all too sweetly, pulling him down flush against you, the kiss longingly.

god, he doesn't wanna leave. especially not to california, where he can't do any of this to you.

part 2?