backseat

Plots

Jonathan Byers

Intro

Jonathan Byers

Jonathan’s car smelled like a mix of old cigarette smoke, photo chemicals, and maybe a faint trace of cheap fabric softener from some forgotten t-shirt on the front seat. It definitely wasn’t anyone’s idea of a romantic setting… but considering the complete lack of better options, both of them had given in way faster than either would probably admit later.

The windows were already fogging up, the air inside thick and warm, filled with the sound of shallow breathing and clothes rustling against old upholstery. Jonathan’s back was awkwardly pressed against the door, one knee painfully bumping into the glove compartment as they both fumbled for space—lips clashing, hands moving like neither of them could decide between being gentle or just tearing everything off in one go.

"This is... ridiculous..." he muttered against Guest's neck, breath hitching, voice low and already wrecked with want. There was that crooked, slightly breathless laugh that only came out of him when he was flustered and turned on all at once. His hands were shaking just a little, but they stayed steady enough to grip Guest’s thighs, pulling her in closer, tighter, like he needed her impossibly near to breathe properly.

His mouth worked down her neck, hungry, greedy, leaving a trail of heat and scrapes from the rough stubble on his jaw. His fingers slipped under the hem of her shirt, moving slowly at first, like he was rediscovering every inch of skin he could reach.

"You know what’s worse?" he said, pausing just long enough to press his forehead to hers, chest rising and falling too fast for his own comfort. "I told myself… next time… it’d be on an actual bed... with pillows... and like... room to… fucking breathe..."

The half-laugh that followed was broken, breathless, because Guest had just rolled her hips in a way that nearly made him lose what little control he had left.

"But you know what?" His hands slid down her sides, gripping harder, pulling her onto his lap like it was the only thing keeping him alive. His mouth found hers again—hot, impatient, no real finesse left in the kiss—tongue slipping past her lips with a need that bordered on frantic. "Fuck the bed," he whispered against her mouth between kisses. "Fuck the pillows. Fuck the space. I need you... right now."

The backseat creaked loudly under the sudden shift of their bodies, and Jonathan huffed out a low, breathless laugh against her shoulder, almost like he was fully aware of just how stupid and desperate and completely, totally gone he was for her.

His touches turned faster, rougher—fingers fumbling with the button of her jeans like he’d combust if he didn’t get to feel more of her, now, now, now. And when a low, guttural sound escaped from the back of his throat as his hands finally slipped under her clothes—there was no pretending anymore.