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leslie057 · 1 month

Note

17a and 3b?

hii, thank you for the prompt!

prompt game posted here

17a + 3b = the semantics are totally outdated + but they can’t talk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but i can't live by those stakes, the semantics are totally outdated -sam fender, last to make it home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

#*fic #jancy fic #stranger things #jonathan byers #nancy wheeler #jonathan x nancy #prompt fill #*ask #fanfiction #st fanfic #lyrics #songs #they lost focus and had a consensual workplace relationship #faithfulcat111

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twin-scars · 6 months

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Jancy Week Day 02 - looks OR young adulthood

So much had changed in such a short amount of time. It was their first Christmas as a couple, living on their own. Though all holidays were spent together Nancy felt like this was their first stage into real adulthood. It was only them--no family, no friends tagging along, no interruptions from siblings--no one. Just them.

Read the rest at AO3 ---> Just Us

#jonathan byers #nancy wheeler #jancy #jancy fanfiction #jancy fic #jancyweek2023 #giveaway2023

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throttlegainwell · 2 months

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For that whole Six-Sentence Sunday deal (though it's seven, in this case), have some sappy emotional reunion Jancy:

Nancy hung onto Jonathan. Wrapped in the shelter of his arms, the sturdy breadth of him pressed against her even as an unfamiliar softness gave way under the seeking clutch of her fingers, her mind went blank for the first time in a week. All was quiet, peaceful, still. The jolting boom of her heart still caught in her throat after two whole days, that lingering ringing in her ears, even the echoes of chaos and destruction that had played on a loop since the world had cleaved—all gone, all pushed away. She floated on that wave, the absence of ugliness so sharply registered that it could have taken her out at the knees, if Jonathan weren’t a wall of need before her, no more willing to separate than she was. But the tide receded, revealing solid ground beneath, a reality so certain and unavoidable as she washed up against it. Stepping onto the shore seemed a terrible prospect, compared to the cradling warmth, that heady weightlessness, so she clung a little longer.

#writing tag #this is a prelude to very emotional sex #the other snippet i considered was nancy observing that jonathan reeks of weed & his mouth tastes like something died in it #but i figured i'd share the slightly more romantic one #plus i feel like i've spent the last few weeks talking non-stop about weed so here's to variety #jancy fic #jonathan byers #nancy wheeler

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musicalchaos07 · 9 months

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Freaking Out the Neighborhood: A Spiderman AU

“Spiderman” Nancy exclaims “Excuse me?” he panics “Do you know him?" Jonathan Byers is just trying to protect the neighborhood, avoid the police, and finish his freshman year at NYU in good standing. But when a girl from his past shows up demanding answers. Jonathan finds himself thrown into a mystery that might force him to be more than just a friendly neighborhood Spiderman.

Moodboard (& fic) For @jancyweekend Day 3!

#are y'all ready?#I hope you like it tbh #I think it's gonna be good #also Nancy is here but she's not here yet #stranger things #jonathan byers #jancy #nancy wheeler #st fic #st moodboard #jancy fic #nancy x jonathan #jonathan x nancy

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jancy-central · 2 months

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It's the first Saturday of the month, so welcome to another Smutty Saturday! This month's choice is:

The Beauty (2927 words) by reasoningrunningrampant Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Stranger Things (TV 2016) Rating: Explicit Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Jonathan Byers/Nancy Wheeler Characters: Jonathan Byers, Nancy Wheeler Additional Tags: One Shot, Fluff and Smut, Fluff and Angst, show lore, Post-Season/Series 04, Shameless Smut, Story Lore, Jancy, fic request, Post-Stranger Things 4 Vol. 2, Jonathan/Nancy - Freeform

It's a really good post season 4 fic so be sure to check it out!

Don't forget the We Love Jancy Fanfic Event is coming up! If you need any help with ideas, feel free to let us know!

AND since it's March, the month of my and @gnarly-love's birthdays, our prompt this month is Nancy and Jonathan's birthdays. We can't wait to see what everyone comes up with for this month!

As always, feel free to message us with prompts, ideas, questions, etc. Have a great weekend!

#jonathan byers #nancy wheeler #jancy #jancy fanfic #jancy fic #jancy fanfiction #jancy fanfic fun #jancy smutty saturdays #smutty jancy fanfic

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ashyblondwaves · 10 months

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Jancy + “god, we’ve been together for ages! I didn’t think that borrowing a change of clothes would warrant this much attention.” Please!

Better Than Bacon Grease

Pairing: Jonathan Byers/Nancy Wheeler Rating: T Words: 707

GIF by @share-the-damn-bed

"I can't go out like this."

Jonathan stood at the foot of Nancy's bed; arms spread wide as Nancy giggled at his misfortune.

"It's not funny!" Jonathan bellowed, throwing his head back in frustration. "All because I had to dump out the bacon grease."

"And missing the canister completely," Nancy reminded him with another laugh.

"Come on, Nancy," Jonathan whined. "It looks like I pissed myself."

It would be the last time Jonathan tried to cook at the Wheeler's house. The cooking part went fine, perfectly even. He showed up at the Wheeler's house early and made breakfast for Nancy, Holly and Karen while Ted and Mike were off setting up for the block party that afternoon.

Conversation was light, breakfast was delicious and all that had to be done was clean up. But what is usually a coffee canister, at least at his house, the container the Wheeler's used to hold bacon grease had a lid far too small for pouring grease in it and as Jonathan tried to pour, he got it everywhere but the container, including his shirt and the front of his pants, right at the crotch.

"You were supposed to use the funnel!" Nancy said, shaking her head.

"Who uses a funnel to pour out bacon grease?!"

"We do!"

Jonathan sighed, running a hand through his hair.

"I have to go home a change," he said with finality.

"We don't have time for you to go home," Nancy reminded him. "We have to be at the block party in twenty minutes."

"We can be a little late," Jonathan said.

"Not when you're the photographer for the event, we can't!"

"What am I supposed to do?! Walk around smelling like a diner trash can all day?"

Nancy fell silent, chewing on her bottom lip. She looked down, a sly smile playing on her lips.

"What?" Jonathan asked.

"You can wear some of my clothes," she offered.

"Nancy."

"What? I have some oversized clothes you can try on."

What else was he supposed to do? He was not going to walk around full of grease all day.

"Fine. What do you have?" Jonathan finally said with a groan.

It wasn't bad. It really wasn't. Maybe a little tight. Maybe a little short, but it was better than wearing bacon grease all day.

The lavender Emerson t-shirt clung to Jonathan's lanky frame. Every time he raised his arms to bring his camera to his eye the shirt would ride up to his belly button.

Better than bacon grease.

The shorts left little to the imagination, black track shorts with white striping around the edges. They hugged places that would be considered indecent exposure in most states. But everything stayed covered, and nothing moved out of place. He just had to be careful when he bent down to snap a photo.

Better than bacon grease.

But the looks. The looks he was getting were making him uncomfortable, the center of attention. Long gazes that lingered on parts of him people had no right staring at. He just wanted to walk around and take pictures of the event like he was asked. He did need all eyes on his outfit.

But still. Better than bacon grease.

"God, we’ve been together for ages! I didn’t think that borrowing a change of clothes would warrant this much attention," Nancy laughed as she gave a tentative wave to Mike and the rest of the kids.

"I just don't think they're used to seeing the man wear the woman's clothes," Jonathan grumbled, pulling at the tight t-shirt and releasing the fabric with a snap.

"Well, that's sexist!" Nancy barked. "You have every right to wear my clothes, just like I wear yours. Nobody ever gives me looks when I wear your shirts."

"Probably because they fit you."

"Not the point."

"I think that's exactly the point. I probably look like I escaped from the insane asylum."

"Wouldn't be too farfetched," Nancy quipped.

"Har har har," Jonathan deadpanned. "Let's go get some pictures of the kids in the bounce house."

They walked together hand in hand, as everyone's eyes immediately went to Jonathan's outfit. A few people snickered, some gasped, but despite all that. It was better than bacon grease.

#musicalchaos07 #jancy #jancy fic #jancy fanfiction #nancy x jonathan #jonathan x nancy #st fic #stranger things fic #stranger things fanfiction #stranger things fanfic #writing shit #i write shit #jancy drabbles

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stoprobbersfic · 2 years

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in the morning i’ll be better (jonathan byers/nancy wheeler)

rating: teen word count: 12,152 In which our monster hunters (and monster soulmates) get a night to rest, to reflect, and to have three extremely important conversations.takes place immediately after the end of "the piggyback."

It stops “snowing” after an hour. As they work quickly to board up the roof and windows before the sun sets for the night, they keep an eye on the rot. It doesn’t seem to spread any further.

“What does that mean?” Nancy can’t keep the nervousness out of her voice as they stand in a circle in the cabin’s main room, clean enough and patched enough to be somewhat livable for now.

Everyone is quiet until Mike nudges Will with his elbow. Nancy instinctively reaches for Jonathan’s hand, giving it a squeeze. She can feel the tension radiating off him.

“Tell them.”

“Tell us what?” The same tension rings out in Joyce Byers’ voice. Not for the first time, Nancy marvels that the woman – that the whole family – hasn’t completely crumbled under the strain. It was bad enough when Will was missing. Somehow it’s been even worse ever since.

“You didn’t kill him,” Will’s eyes are dark, sorrowful when he looks at her and Nancy swallows, hard. She suspected, but she’d been trying to believe otherwise. She had shot him so many times but… well, she’s seen enough movies. No body, no proof of death. And there was nothing but smoldering grass on that looking glass lawn. “But you did hurt him. A lot. I don’t know what he wanted to do, but I don’t think he’s strong enough to do it. Not yet. So I think we have some time.”

“How much time?” Hopper asks. Will shakes his head.

“I don’t know. I can just… feel him.”

“Like last year?” Jonathan chimes in. Nancy watches Joyce’s eyes cut over to him.

“What do you mean last year? You never told me about anything last year.”

Will doesn’t give Jonathan a chance to reply. “Not exactly. Last year I could feel him when he was close, when he was working on his plans in the outside world. This time… it’s more like the time he got inside me. It feels like he’s watching me. Well, me and…”

He trails off but they all know where to look. El steps a little closer to Hopper’s side.

“I did,” she admits softly, “tell him I was going to kill him again.”

“Again?!” It comes from them all, a great chorus of surprise. El’s mouth opens and closes, like she’s trying to figure out how to explain, until Hopper cuts her off.

“OK, that’s enough. Everybody, stop.” Nancy is surprised to find she has missed, viscerally, the quiet authority in Hopper’s voice. It always feels like he knows what to do. Nancy appreciates the weight being taken off her shoulders after the week she’s had. “There is nothing we can do right now. This… thing, whatever you called him, it’s hurt, right? It’s weak? Well, so are we. We need to rest, and we need to heal, and I don’t know about you all, but I could use several hot meals and probably a beer. No one here is in any shape to be fighting anyone, whether you look injured or not.”

“How much time do we have?” Nancy directs her question to Will, but he just shrugs.

“I don’t know. Probably a day or two. Maybe longer? But that’s just a guess. I don’t know much more than any of the rest of you.”

“If we’ve got a day, that’s something,” Hopper nods. “We’ll stay here. Jonathan, your friend can drive you into town to pick us up something to eat, right? Make a grocery run? There are some sheets and linens in the crawl space, a couple of cots too I think, for when we had extra guests. We can get those ready while you’re gone.”

“Sure, but—”

“We can’t all stay here,” Nancy interrupts. “We won’t fit.”

“This town thinks I’m dead, Nancy,” Hopper reminds her sharply. “And there’s a monster hunting my daughter.”

“I know,” Nancy bites out, “I’m the one who shot it. Several times.”

Out of the corner of her eye she sees Jonathan smile, then raise his other hand to wipe it away. Perhaps not quite the time for that, but it makes her feel warm inside nonetheless.

“She’s right though,” Mike chimes in, “We definitely won’t all fit, and my mom will lose her shit if I don’t come home tonight. Nancy too. We’ve gotta go back home. And she saw Will and Jonathan and El and Argyle; we went to my house first. She’s going to ask where they are. You guys,” he gestures to El, Will, Jonathan and Joyce, “don’t live here anymore.”

“I’m not letting El out of my sight until we figure out what we’re up against,” Hopper practically growls.

“We can stay with the Wheelers,” Will jumps in, “Jonathan and me and Argyle. Mrs. Wheeler won’t say no to that, she’ll let us share rooms, and Argyle can sleep in the basement.”

“But what about El?” Nancy points out. “She saw her too.”

“We’ll say she’s staying with Max,” Mike offers. “Mom knows she and Max are close, we’ll say she’s at the hospital with Lucas now and that she’s going to stay with Max’s mom to help her. But really, she’ll be here with you two.”

“And that way you know where to find us,” Jonathan directs that at his mom. “I think the phone here still works. Probably.”

Joyce looks thoughtful, and only a little apprehensive. Nancy hopes that’s a good sign.

“OK,” she finally allows. “At least for tonight, I think that’s the best we can do. Nancy, would you mind helping Argyle pick up some food for us, with Mike and Will? I’m sure you’ll need the extra hands, and I’ve got some cash around here somewhere. I just… need to talk to Jonathan before we split up.”

#jancy fic #jancy #jonathan byers #nancy wheeler #jonathan byers x nancy wheeler #post-s4 fic #sorry for the off site read more but this is INSANELY long i feel like it's too unwieldy fr tumblr's formatting process #also has appearances from: steve harrington robin buckley joyce byers and the rest of the core cast #look these peeps need to FUCKING TALK #so i made them talk

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duns-writes · 1 year

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*banging pots and pans together*

Hey Jancy nation! Jonathan Byers appreciation club! Come get y'alls fic!

Tagging @beef-a-ronie, @jonathanssweatercollection @jancys-blue-bayou in case you're interested. If anyone wants to be tagged or untagged, let me know!

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Music and laughter, and we're young and alive

CW/TW: Very Temporary Character Death, blood, injury, pain, hospitals, mentions of child abuse in later chapters

In which Jonathan gets hurt, and the people who love him realise just how much he's taken on.

Chapter 1: Take Me Out Tonight

Jonathan dies on a Tuesday.

They're in the back of a van. Speeding towards the only clinical space that's still functioning, the FEMA field hospital just outside of town. (Argyle is doing a surprisingly good job of driving both double the speed limit and safely.)

She'd watched and waited in the final showdown, building the strategy so that all they had to do (ha!) was get to Vecna and strike him down. The demodogs and bats had been neutralised, radio communication turned off, and Jonathan (against everybody's wishes) had volunteered as the distraction. ("Will and El are going to need you two, and Mike and Holly need their big sister.")

Time had stretched and warped like taffy, but they could still recognise it was taking too long. Something wasn't right, but what? She and Joyce had stood close to one another, the chief peering out into the ash and smoke, until-

Will had stumbled through the gate bloodied under his nose, tripping on the rubble. "Vecna's gone, but Jonathan's hurt! I can't pick him up on my own, I tried, but El's too drained to help!"

All three had thrown caution to the wind (nothing new there). They'd gone carefully through the gate itself, but dashed after him toward the ruins of the Creel house. Jane was knelt over a prone body, and-

Her knees wobbled.

Jonathan. His shirt-front slick with blood, stretched out like a pieta. Gazing up at El, breathing something as she gripped him, her tears making trails in the grime on his cheek.

Of course. Of course he would try to comfort her.

"*Gasp*-you're gonna be al-*gasp*-right. 'S all gone. You an' Will are-*rasp*-be okay. Find-hnngh-find out what makes you hap-happy. M'kay?"

His breath gurgled in his throat.

El had managed to pull together a watery smile, then glanced up, seeing their rescue party. "Look! They will help us get you out. You will be okay too. You-you just have to stay awake a little longer!"

He'd visibly shaken himself awake, corners of his mouth turning up as his brother had laid his hand on his shoulder. Reassuring someone else again.

Moving him had broken the spell.

"We have to stop the bleeding from these cuts, we need bandages." (Joyce had pressed the shredded remains of her shirt into the chief's hands, a few knotted together into a skein. She'd had to do something with her hands while they waited.)

"This is gonna hurt, kid. And you don't hold it in. Making noise is a way of dealin' with pain.'

They'd met gazes briefly, before Will was lifting Jon's shoulders and Hopper was winding the bandage around his torso. A tiny nod, then the chief pulled it taut, and a wail of agony ripped itself from the boy's chest. Jonathan was insensible for a few seconds, fighting against their hands like a rabbit in a snare, only stilling when Will's fingers began to soothe through his hair. He whimpered, tears rolling into his hairline.

"Shh, it's okay Jon. You're gonna be okay, just let us help you..."

He'd made a guttural noise when they arranged him across their laps, El curled up and watching from one of the jumpseats. Hopper knelt beside him, keeping pressure on as many wounds as his hands could stretch to. Argyle was grim in the driver's seat, following Joyce's directions.

They were almost at the gates when Jonathan's hand had gone limp on top of Will's. The tips of his fingers, dipped, gracefully, to the floor.

A tiny gust of breath had escaped his lips, and those warm brown eyes fixed themselves on a spot far into the distance, and then-

There's a low moan of "God no, not again, please-" and the teary young-man's-voice of Will urging him to "Breathe, Jonathan. Come on-".

Jane is stone-silent and still.

Nancy shuts it out. She shuts it out, because she has to. Has to move, has to fight, has to win, has to survive. To compartmentalise means to live. Maybe it even means he gets to live.

(Her own talent for detachment scares her sometimes. Jonathan is the only one who can break her out of her Frozen-Charlotte state because Barb is-)

Don't think about it don't think about it don'tthinkaboutit-

She seals her mouth over Jonathan's between Hopper's rhythmic pounding on his chest. Watches while the open-and-shut of his ribcage flares and sinks. All the while, she consciously blurs the sound around her. His soft, slightly chapped lips are all she can feel.

The world comes back in a rush, like breaking a swimming pool surface. Her heart gets hauled out of her hands, whisked away on a gurney.

The running mass of people turns the corner, and he's gone.

#jonathan byers whump #hurt jonathan byers #blood and injury #stranger things #jancy #jonathan byers #jonathan byers is a young carer and we recognise that here #jancy fic #nancy wheeler #nancy wheeler x jonathan byers #jonathan byers x nancy wheeler #with a bit of jopper too #jonwill brotherly feels #duns writes

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jancys-blue-bayou · 1 year

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The Tapes (Nancy/Jonathan + Nancy&Karen fic)

Finally @jancyweek2022 is here! For day 1 I went with the Lyrics theme. This one features Jancy, ofc, as well as some Nancy and Karen. Spawned from a random old dumb idea I had of Jonathan accidentally turning Karen into a Bowie fan.

Preview:

Soon as she’s dropped off Holly she as usual pops the Smurfs tape out again. She doesn’t need to hear another second of it, it’s all Holly wants to listen to in the car nowadays. Halfway through her regular motion of switching over to the radio she stops herself. Normally she always tunes into 105.5, WBAT plays so many nice ones from the 60s. But that song on Jonathan’s tape for Nancy… it’s not what she normally listens to, but it had something. And why must she always do the same thing? She drives the same way, doing the same errands, listening to the same stuff every day. Why not just mix it up a little? She puts the tape back in.

Read on Ao3 or FFNet!

#jancyweek2022 #jancy #jancy fic #jancy fanfic #jancy fanfiction #st fic #stranger things fic #stranger things fanfic #stranger things fanfiction #nancy wheeler x jonathan byers #nancy wheeler #jonathan byers #karen wheeler #stranger things

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jaegerisim · 11 months

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SEND ME FIC PROMPTS IN MY INBOX PLS!! I AVOID WRITING SMUT BUT I CAN WRITE INTENSE MAKE-OUTS!!!

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leslie057 · 2 months

Note

9a + 9b please 🙏

hello! thank you for the lovely combo

prompt game posted here

9a + 9b = call me lover + but one is pouting

word count: 3.7k

It isn’t right that she’s sad today, even less right that she’s playing up the sad, and that in doing this she hopes to work guilt into every part of him, like water into clay, like honey into comb.

Given their extra-special circumstances, she knows she shouldn’t be anything more than mildly annoyed with him about his inability to pronounce girlfriend. And that has to be the issue, pronunciation, because why else would he shy away from such an innocent word? There’s no reasonable excuse. It’s an easy statement to make: look, my girlfriend’s here. He can do it, with the same ease that he labels everything else of his, he can do it. It’s my camera, my spatula, my turn to drive, my shirt not yours and you can’t have it…all his, until she’s involved. No, they don’t own each other. But sometimes you have to lay claim to things in life.

You just have to.

He paints houses. Every day in West Somerville he does, from nine to dinnertime. Watertown and Brookline, too. But mainly Somerville, especially Winter Hill. Interior, exterior, deck, door, and drywall. Expensive houses, cheap houses, new and old houses, houses with picket fences. It’s just what Emerson is looking for, a teenage boy who really knows his way around a…picket fence?

But the gap year thing is okay, and he’s still here with her as she navigates everything, even if he didn’t want to apply for college until it was way too late. He can apply for next year.

He moved away, far away just for her, no college waiting for him at the end of the journey, willing and able to be the slow tagalong Somerville boy to her busy Boston girl. And they get to live together. Harmony of opposites applies, as it always has. His loyalty means the world, and for what it’s worth, he is the best rated decorator Lovell Painting’s ever had. Very committed to the job.

But now Mr. Lovell doesn’t know she’s his harmonious opposite, doesn’t know she’s the girl he’s bringing home the bread to (not a lot of bread, but so much more than you’d expect someone to get for slinging paint) (then again, there’s probably no slinging involved, because Jonathan clearly believes there is an art to the task) (he has a weird way of leaning into unbeaten paths, finding purpose in hushed, forgettable places) (it’s lovable, is what it is, when she manages to push away the feeling that he’s missing out by not being in school).

No, Mr. Lovell doesn’t know who she is, because her boyfriend didn’t say. Couldn’t bring himself to say. Couldn’t bring himself to say the G word.

She’d asked Lauren from the student paper to take her to him after class. She missed him, plus she thought he shouldn’t be all alone on his way back home. He does plenty of lonely driving throughout the week. And since Lauren does everything for everyone, she actually said yes. Fifteen minutes later, Nancy was at a place she’d never been before. Here they were at the end of October, and she hadn’t been. She had no idea where her five star trades-boy turned in his paintbrush at the end of the day.

She’d wandered in, into the little white office that likely used to be a shed, all open windows and whirring box fans and latex fumes. On a stool, he filled out his timesheet. She gave him a hug around the neck from behind, avoiding the sensitive surface of his sunburned arms.

Made him jump, then made him relax.

“Sorry, I knew that would scare you. I’m not trespassing, am I?”

“No, you—no, not trespassing at all. What time is it?”

She tilted her head sideways and consulted her watch. “5:11,” she said. Tilted her head more, more, more, trying to kiss his jaw and its underside.

Hung over his shoulders like that, she took her first deep breath of the day. Tendrils of dried paint stretched across his shirt collar and sleeves, the kind of spiderweb splatters that don’t come out in the wash. She watched him jot down a couple light-handed notes in all capital letters. His name was everywhere on the page and highlighted in some instances, an indication of overtime work. She had felt weird then for being judgy—felt bad—thinking maybe there was a chance he was where he needed to be. Not school, right here. Humble, dependable, and first-rate.

Then Mr. Lovell came in.

And ruined everything.

“Jonathan, you heading out soon?”

“Oh, right now, actually. Turns out we can’t pick up anything until tomorrow morning. Like, anything at all, they said.”

“Yikes. Oh well, then.”

“Apparently our order got delayed because of the tight space rollers.”

“Hm. Tight space rollers, they never have them in, do they?”

“No, sir, never. They never ever have anything below a 6 inch.”

She stayed still, reading the room. Gauging the boss. Lovell didn’t seem to mind her or her public display of affection. He was a youngish man, son to the original Mr. Lovell of Lovell Painting, tall and nonchalant with the look of a relatable salesman.

“Hey. Jake Lovell,” he finally said to her. “Don’t think I’ve met you before, how’s it going?”

“Hey, good, thanks.” In the subsequent silence she waited. Waited for what was sure to come. Oh yeah, sorry, this is my girlfriend, Nancy. This is Nancy, we just moved in together. This is the girl I told you about, Nancy Wheeler. We’ve been dating for almost two years. She’s the best. Nancy is the best. Hey, guess what, my girlfriend Nancy once repainted her little sister’s dollhouse from top to bottom, think we should hire her next?

He kept his mouth shut.

“I’m Nancy,” she sighed.

“Oh, okay, you’re Nancy.”

Had he heard the name before? If he had, that must have been all he heard. His eyes were brimming with confusion.

“That’s me,” she said and untangled herself from her betrayer, the one she’d been draped over like some sleepy starfish.

Starfish didn’t want to cling anymore.

“She’s Nancy,” he’d mumbled while clearing off the desk.

The eldest in the room clocked the tension between them. “Well, you know it was nice to meet you, Nancy, but I’ve gotta get going. Be careful around the mess, you look very professional in those clothes.”

She slid her hands down the sides of her thighs, black slacks swishing above high heels.

“You look very…casual, Mr. Lovell. Guess we’ll see you later.”

And that was it.

And that was then. This is now: now, she is pouting. The most pathetic pouting session she's had to date. This is textbook manipulation pouting and then some, this is wallowing in the events of the afternoon like they involved theft, fraud, and murder.

Is she putting on a performance here? Yes, duh, of course she is. But is she down about what he said (and didn’t say) earlier? Also yes. That part is real. He did make her sad.

Yes.

Lucky for her, she’s got tricks in her bag.

Exactly four tricks, to be precise, for this type of situation. One, a shower—a shower taken earlier than usual. To get away and to get out of restrictive clothing (restrictive clothing doesn’t mix well with sadness). No more black slacks, no more newsgirl blouse. No jewelry either, it’s totally unnecessary. Unless…keep your necklace on, if you want, since that can be played with. Really you just have to remember that comfort is what works. Wet hair is what works. An XL shirt works, and peach soap works, and so does a frown, and so does a thick pair of socks, for whatever reason.

Two is a book. Not a short book, pick a long book. Flip to the beginning to read. Beginnings are hard to get through, and he knows it. He will empathize. Three, lack of light. The less light in the room, the better. Not only have you chosen to start a long book after 5pm without having even eaten dinner, you’ve chosen to do so without sufficient reading light. That’s true misery.

Four, the most important trick, is a bad record. Just awful. It needs to be scratched, it needs to skip. Needs to skip a lot. Your record should make other records worry about where they’ll be in ten years. Jonathan Byers doesn’t want this for you; if you are his favorite person, and listening to music is the best thing anyone can do, your tolerance of a broken record will rile him. You deserve better. He will want to compensate for all the hurt caused by your subpar listening experience.

“Nancy?” he says from the doorway.

“Mhm.”

“Good shower?”

“Sure. Good shower.”

“You beat me to it.”

It’s an understatement. Without a word, she had headed for the shower. Very first thing she did when they got to the apartment. She went to turn the water on, still wearing her shoes, and waited for it to get hot, and never once looked back.

She curls in on herself on the bed, avoiding his gaze. “Since when did you decide you have first dibs on everything?” she murmurs to her book. To Middlemarch.

“Uh, no, it's not that, I just meant that I’m…pretty paint-y, at the moment. You know?”

The response is delivered innocently, harmlessly, lightly, and she almost considers backing down, ditching the majority of her plan or maybe all of it. Almost considers, before deciding against. (She has to soldier on; his adorable use of a made-up word doesn’t fix a thing, now does it?)

“Right.”

“There’s so much primer on my hands, it’s the worst feeling in the world. It’s so bad. It’s like…it’s like if someone brushed plaster right onto my palm and then let it harden. Overnight.”

“Mhm.”

A break in the tense conversation comes and gives those background noise record screeches their moment to shine. Leaning on the doorframe, he winces.

“So,” she shifts her body until the blanket slips, “did you need something, or…”

Their eyes meet. His are sleepy–his are suddenly charged with doubt, two dark wells of worry.

“No, nothing, I don’t…it…it seems like you might be the one that needs something?”

She huffs. It seems like she needs something? For that she won’t go easy on him. A fake cry might cross her mind, if she were a psychopath, but fortunately for both of them she’s not. Sincere regret is already cocooning her, compacting itself with each passing minute, a dense shroud of claustrophobic ickiness. Not always as fun as you’d plan for: guilt tripping someone who’s hopelessly devoted. Really, how hard is it to have a mature conversation about the way you feel neglected in this one marginal area of the relationship, even though you’re well taken care of in all the others. Very hard, it turns out. Very very hard.

And besides, this is how the Jonathan and Nancy network operates. She uses her upset to make weird power moves. He lies about his upset altogether. The system is what it is.

“If you care so much, figure it out yourself.” It’s a feeble whisper, accessorized with the twitch of her bottom lip and an arbitrary sniffle. She flips over to the eighth page of Middlemarch. Pulls her blanket back up over her waist. The leftover scent of her body wash is strong, so strong, even in her own nose. It’s like peach sorbet and paint thinner had a baby in their bedroom.

“Nancy…”

His voice has that deconstructed softness in it, gentle yet desperate, which is highly familiar. He uses it constantly. That’s the trick in his bag, but she’s not quite sure he knows it’s a trick. Because of it, the whole stay-mad-at-him project isn’t gonna be smooth sailing. She swallows hard, necklace pendant between her fingers.

“Hey, what happened?” He steps closer to the bed and uncrosses his arms. “This isn’t…it isn’t about Lauren, right?”

Oh, wow. Okay. Clueless.

“Because you really do ask her for a lot of favors, and I know she’s always happy to do them, but just…maybe don’t make her drive out there again. Not when I’m literally clocking out.”

“Oh…” She closes her book and fixes her eyes on the window. That one actually does make her want to cry.

“No, don’t,” he pleads, “don’t do the sad oh thing. You’re gonna make me sad. You’re gonna break me.”

The sigh that escapes her is fully authentic in its lethargy. Her fingertips play over the pillow under her head and its silky case. “Sorry, it’s just that now you think I take advantage of Lauren and you don’t like to see me at work, so.”

“No, I love to see you, I had no idea you would come after class just for that. It was really nice.”

“Yeah, so nice—”

“Until you ignored me in the car, yes!”

Hugging her own waist, she draws up her knees. God, that record…it should be physically impossible for ABBA to ever sound bad but this is pushing it. How truly depressing.

She imagines that the invisible thread connecting his heart to hers is starting to fray at this point; those grating sounds in his ears, the mix of chemicals on his skin, the intentionally seductive nature of her pity party, the annoying flicker of the lamp in the corner (only thing the previous tenants left behind when they moved, the sole forgotten object). All of it must be torturing him.

He picks up her book off the mattress, leaves it in the windowsill to—sunbathe? Who knows, honestly.

"Look,” he says, “I think we might need to take a second before we get into this. Do you want me to leave you alone for a minute? Would that help, or no?”

Apprehensively he reaches down, down to touch her shoulder, sort of…petting her, a few times. What you’d do if you found a wild jaguar in your backyard, but it was a really sweet looking jaguar.

When she doesn’t bite, he bravely makes eye contact with her. “You just have to tell me what you want, that’s all I need.”

(Such a good boyfriend when he’s trying. Holy shit.)

Fearful that the affection wave will show on her face, she flips over, switching sides. “Want you to lay down,” she mumbles.

Well that wasn’t part of the plan.

She listens for his reaction. A deep breath in, a deep breath out. “I’m filthy, you do realize that.”

“We’ve gone to bed wearing monster blood…”

He shrugs his jacket off.

(So, the summer had been a violent ride. Summer of ‘86, filed away in her brain with the rest of her nightmare inventory forever. All’s said and done now. Maybe they’re finally safe. God, please.)

It takes them a sec to get settled, but he hems her in, wraps her up, holds her close without any further begging. It’s crazy satisfying. Plaster-rough hand curls around her ribs under her shirt, and his nose brushes her neck. Antsy, she shuffles her feet together, scrunched socks keeping her warm.

“You genuinely—”

“Smell so good?” she predicts.

“Yeah.”

“New soap.”

“Ten out of ten.”

“Well, you know, it’s not formaldehyde, but what is?”

“Give me some slack,” he murmurs, “not my fault all my passions involve chemicals.”

Painting houses is his passion now? Alright, good to know. It’s that, developing photos, and being so much of a dummy he forgets to introduce his girlfriend to his boss when they first meet.

Again: exactly the kind of boy Emerson is looking for.

A minute later he’s kissing her neck.

Yeah, not sure how that happened.

After taking his first few tastes, he quickly stops himself. “Wait, can I do this?” he wonders aloud.

“I’ll let you decide. Do you think you should be doing that?”

“I don’t know. On the one hand,” he places a soft kiss at the base of her throat, “I still haven’t figured out what’s going on with you.”

Her eyelids flutter. “And on the other?”

Mouth barely open, he drags the tip of his tongue across her collarbone in one slow slide. “On the other I think—”

She fails to repress a squeaky whimper, which makes him falter.

“…that doing this could maybe, just maybe, help me get information out of you.”

She’s lost her breath so fast. “Decisions, decisions,” she manages to get out.

Second option wins him over. Next he’s tangling up his hand in her wet hair, kissing her neck like there really is peach sorbet to be found in her pores. He hums while getting acclimated to the malleability of her damp skin, impossibly supple malleability, and lingers with his mouth at her pulse point before giving in and sucking on it, not hard enough to make a bruise, but enough to make blood rush to her head.

She grabs the back of his neck in an attempt to stay anchored and from there he surrenders, from there he lets her force the path that his lips map out on her. Chapped but sticky with spit, they part and purse on her jaw, softly massaging the bone.

“Please can we get you a new album soon,” he whispers, “this is painful.”

“Hm?”

“The record’s a disaster, throw it away.”

“Don’t tell me to throw my things away,” she slurs weakly.

Her thigh catches his hip, and she bucks a little, rocks a little. Nothing crazy, just dirty. She can’t help herself.

“Tell me what upset my girlfriend and I won’t say anything ever again for the rest of my life.”

There it is. Jesus, it’s what she wanted. See, there’s no pronunciation issue after all. Girlfriend. His girlfriend.

She goes perfectly still. He may not realize she’s all shook up inside, but he notices the outward change, that’s for sure.

Time to get into it.

She takes a moment to prepare herself. “Are you ready to listen?”

“I’ve been ready, Nance.”

“Okay. It wasn’t about Lauren,” she spills, “Lauren and I are fine. We didn’t have a fight, we’ve never had a fight, and after she dropped me off today she told me she likes the drive to Middlesex because the roads are so smooth and driving calms her down and she gets sick of being in Boston, and I promise I’m not lying when I tell you this, but she offered to take me again tomorrow, I swear to you she did.”

“Okay, I believe you—”

“Though now I’m thinking I don’t even want to take her up on the offer, because me being there was clearly an unwanted change that didn’t exactly mean anything to anyone, and if you seriously don’t know what made me switch up today I need you to ask yourself how you think my conversation with your manager made me feel earlier.”

“You’re upset because of…something Mr. Lovell said?”

He’s so lost.

“No, because of what you said.”

“And what did I say?”

“It’s what you didn’t say. Jonathan, you didn’t tell him who I was. You didn’t introduce me at all.”

“I’m—sorry, you…you introduced yourself, why would I need to—”

“He doesn’t know you’re dating me.”

“But he does? It’s kind of obvious, isn’t it? Without words?”

“No! Not without words. For all he knows I’m some random girl you met on the street, next thing you know he’ll be setting you up on dates with his niece and scheduling you to work Valentine’s Day. You’re supposed to be upfront about us and you never, ever are. Why aren’t you?”

His turn to pout now. He rests his head on her shoulder. “I don’t know? Sometimes it feels like…”

The gears in his brain go on and on, and his blush deepens. “Like fishing for attention.”

“Well that’s why I’m sad, you’re why I’m sad. You don’t want attention, so you don’t call me your girlfriend. Maybe once a month, if that. You don’t call me your girlfriend a lot and I love when you call me your girlfriend. There’s nothing unclear about a word like that."

“I…can do better, I didn’t know it was a big deal to you. That I say it more.”

“Duh, I don’t wanna feel invisible. I want you to talk about me.”

Her heart pounds with the energy of the moment, with surfacing reminders of how different they are. The silence expands around them, his breathing shallow. This is really the first time it’s dawning on him, the depth of her need for validation? Maybe she forgot that acknowledgment of their relationship outside their private bubble is not something he would go for without being asked. Maybe she forgot.

"So it’s not the word,” he says, “it’s telling people?”

“I like privacy, I do, but what’s between us needs to be something others can see. Something they don’t have to guess on.”

Yeah, keeping their peers guessing in high school was good. Low-key meant less harassment, fewer problems. Having said that, high school is gone forever.

He nods. “I get it. I'll get it, eventually. I’ll try.”

“Okay. Good. Thank you.”

Though the conflict isn’t totally resolved, it kind of feels resolved for tonight. At least that’s what her hormones want her to go with, shifting back and forth, this way and that, residing on the rockiest of tectonic plates that have been calibrated to him for longer than he knows. As strange as her first two months of college have been, as many messes as they’re making in their relationship, she has infinite confidence in the Jonathan and Nancy network. All things considered, this is the right time to be messy, they’ll have plenty of room to clean up the love when they’ve grown up. Fighting isn’t fun but…it feels amazing to know he’s in this with her, wading out to her in the swell of their mature immaturity, sticking up for young love even after their conflict resolution turns chaotic.

He loves her, and whenever she’s blue, he begs her to let him fix it. Neither of them rest easy until the blue gets painted over.

“Hey, girlfriend?”

She breathes out a laugh. “What?”

“Since we’re sharing…”

She tilts her head back, pushes her nose against his gently. “Careful, don’t say something you shouldn’t.”

“I really like it when you use your revenge soap against me. Very evil, but I like it.”

#*fic #jancy fic #stranger things #jonathan x nancy #jonathan byers #nancy wheeler #prompt fill #*ask #fanfiction #manipulation pouting is not a victimless crime #but give nancy a pass please i wrote this in less than three days

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