This is just a thingie. I tried to write it in the weird, adorable mood of the movie with a little more seriousness maybe. I hope I stayed in character fairly well. Just a supplement to the lack of cannon in the Napoleon Dynamite section. Which I don't own, by the way. ;)
She appears at his doorstep with that diminutive smile, all sunlight and clean skin and a light pink sundress with a checkerboard pattern and a square neckline.
"Hey Deb," he greets, absently wiping his mouth.
"Hey," she says, and her voice is small and soft. Her feet do that prim little step up into the house, snug in a pair of white slip-ons that somehow don't have grass stains. They're bright against the earthy (vomit) living room carpet; she's a beam of light in the orange-brown dim of the house. Gramma's out on the dunes again with her boyfriend. Kip married LaFawndah and Uncle Rico has his van. Distantly, Napoleon realizes they are alone, but somehow it doesn't matter because it's just Deb. A second vague thought insists that it does matter, specifically because it's Deb, but either way he can't bring himself to care.
"Want some food?" he asks, because it's something to do. Deb says yes and he realizes that he hasn't given her the bass. Immediately after, he realizes that he can't cook fish, so they settle on a dang quesadilla.
It's too quiet for him. Deb is always quiet, but it isn't an awkward quiet so he won't ruin it. They touch fingertips over a greasy morsel, but she only pauses to smile his way. He apologizes, knowing it doesn't matter.
Deb tells him she brought a movie, and Napoleon agrees because it's something else to do. The top-loading VCR in the family room needs to be cleaned, so he takes her into his bedroom. Deb doesn't mind the frolicking unicorn poster or the various mythical drawings on torn notebook paper taped to the walls, or the figurines on the dresser or his superhero bed sheets. To her it's just Napoleon's room; the bed is soft, and the sheets smell like him. It's lighter in this room, and the white walls make it even brighter. It's almost a sanctuary from the gloomy, wood-panel décor of the house.
It's Weird Science, which Napoleon doesn't mind, and he scoots back against the pillows. Deb keeps her legs straight out on the bed, making sure the hem of her dress is straight and flat in her lap. He lives moment by moment in the film, though neither of them truly reacts to it, simply enjoying the time. Deb smiles the entire time, and sometimes she rocks her feet side to side instead of laughing. Wordlessly, Napoleon removes his moon boots and socks, figuring that he might as well. A strange elation lifts his mind when Deb sets her flats neatly by the side of his bed. It's as though she always has.
The movie ends and he's warm against the bed. Deb drifted by millimeters over the past two hours; now she's pressed up against his side. Eventually the credits fade into silence and solid blue as the movie automatically rewinds.
Napoleon isn't sure if he can't talk because they don't need words or because he has none. The sun is white and clean through his blinds, and Deb's face is smooth and bright against his shoulder. She smiles and then they're kissing, with her lips trembling against his for a few moments before pulling back. Deb apologizes, knowing it doesn't matter. She's still smiling, but her cheeks are warm and pink. He touches one, feeling her skin as it gains heat at his actions. He realizes distantly that they're alone, but he can't bring himself to care because it's just him and Deb and there's nothing wrong with that.
She pulls at the straps of her dress and her bra is pink too. Napoleon can't bring himself to feel nervous about being with a girl when it's just Deb and she's smiling in that small, proper way as she slips her dress over her knees. He looks at her like he doesn't know what to do, figuring maybe he should undress too. Deb is already questing with her fingertips as she pulls the hem of his "running horses" shirt from the waistband of his jeans. Months of jumping bikes, moving chickens, and playing tetherball makes his stomach flat but not muscular, and Deb feels him jump under her sudden touch.
Napoleon whips it over his head in a clumsy imitation of something remotely manly. To his credit, he follows through by acting like it was the most awesome thing he's ever done. Deb giggles, sliding down on the mattress, and he leans over to kiss her. Her hair is brown and straight and a little messy and that ounce of difference is so erotic that he feels that little rush like when he can't sleep and his hand gets curious. She's not as slim as Summer Wheatley, but her skin is soft and pale, and the swell of her breasts is gentle like the sloping, grass covered lowlands by his house.
Her bra is simple cotton, looking more like an elastic tank-top than the fancy lingerie he sees in Gramma's catalogues. He forgets about it when her nipples raise dimples in the thin fabric. They tickle at the palms of his hands and Deb hums softly. The bra is pushed aside, eventually up over her head, but Napoleon just wants to feel the soft secrets of her skin because it might be the only chance he ever has.
Her fingers are small and quick at the fastenings of his pants; even quicker to set his glasses on the nightstand. She'd be blurry if he were any farther away, but as it is he can see every delicate crinkle of her palms when she reaches up to pull him down for another kiss. Their bodies don't exactly fit, with his tallness and her lack thereof, but the feeling is new and exciting and he knows that if she looked she could see him tenting in his boxers but the embarrassment isn't worth giving this up. Somehow he's kicked his jeans down and off the bed; he's in his undies with a girl and has no clue what to do.
Deb wordlessly tells him that he doesn't need clues. The clean light shines over her bare hips when she leads his hand to pull her underwear off. It's almost fast and without decorum when she slides his away, but Napoleon thinks that any other way wouldn't suit her. Deb never makes a big deal about anything; he likes her for it.
"Lie down for me?" she asks, her eyes open and soft like they always are, and Napoleon can hold his embarrassment for that look. He could hold anything for that look. It's forgotten when her soft little fingers slip down his length, curious and obliviously tantalizing. She watches, memorizing the ridges and folds and velvety feeling of him, even down to the soft pouches between his legs. He shows her how to grip and slide, relishing the solid contact. Deb giggles when he jolts in her palm, her cheeks staining with a gentle wash of red. The blush arrows down to her breasts, which he caresses absently, feeling the twin pebbles amongst the weighty, silky softness.
She silently relinquishes her hold on him, lying down as an invitation. Napoleon sits up, and Deb sees the crinkle of skin at his abdomen and marvels at his nudity. His hands tremble on her thighs. It's sort of new for her; the slick feeling at the apex there. He doesn't touch, but coaxes her legs apart to look and she feels exposed before him. The air is cool there, when he opens her with two fingers and sees the slickness dribble down in one slow rivulet. Deb whimpers in embarrassment.
"Cool," he mumbles, and she laughs gloriously, contracting before his eyes with mirthful spasms. The giggles dissolve to moans when he tests the opening with his tongue, tasting and feeling her essence. It's serious, he thinks, now that she's making these sounds, that the humor between them is gone and replaced by need. He tongues the enclosed nub near the top of her sex, and realizes that she's making an utter mess of his comforter. His fingers brush the droplets back up, creating a slick path to that opening. The deepest part of her, covered by dark pink petals and hidden between her legs; it's a secret he knows has only been revealed to him. He feels like he's discovering the treasures of Tutankhamen when he slides his first finger easily into her hot passage.
Deb asks for one more, wincing at the slight pain but wanting. Wanting is all she can do now, crushing his favorite left pointer finger with that mysterious female power. He pushes against it, opening her from the inside and her moans are soft but full. When he laps at the swollen pearl again, she pushes herself over his fingers, encasing them completely. Napoleon wonders if she wants him to make love to her, and feels a rush of moisture at the thought of slipping into this incredible tightness.
Propriety doesn't really matter. He knows they aren't bad kids. They won't get into trouble this way. Not with Deb. Never with Deb. Sure, they could have dated and married and promised and waited but he doesn't care for time and order and all that nonsense. It's Deb, and it's enough. She reassures him, tells him not to worry and he's inside her and god why haven't they done this before, in the clean light with the cool, fresh air coming in from the window.
It feels good for awhile, and he knows she can't finish like this, not how they are now, so he won't either even though he could. It sounds unfulfilling, nothing like the storybook romances he never reads, but it's enough. He can't bring himself to care, because it's just Deb. She sleeps beside him and something tells him that he can't bring himself to stop caring, just because it's Deb.
Thanks for reading! :) Review is appreciated, but not mandatory.