Neon Whispers & Midnight Coffee

| about me | masterlist |

nsfw sometimes, not too often

President of the Shauna Shipman fanclub <3

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡ FAQ ♢ REQUEST RULES

all bots are explicitly wlw / sapphic (unless specifically requested) ♢ entirely self-indulgent lol ♢ most fics i write are for cate dunlap (Gen V), Shauna Shipman (Yellowjackets) and Jinx (Arcane).

♢ You can request for other characters but i might not

know most of them.

Mine to Keep

Nancy Wheeler x fem!cheerleader!reader

strangers to something more, hurt/comfort, jealous/possessive nancy, cheerleader!reader, popular!reader, angst with a hopeful ending, set in hawkins high circa 1985, soft dom nancy vibes?, established boyfriend (who sucks), reader has a bad day [3.5k] ___

The final bell rings like a gunshot through Hawkins High, and the halls explode into chaos—lockers slamming, sneakers squeaking, laughter echoing off cinderblock walls. You weave through the crowd in your cheer uniform, skirt swishing against your thighs, ponytail bouncing with every step. Practice starts in twenty minutes, but your head’s already pounding from the fight you just had with Jake in the parking lot.

Jake. Your boyfriend since junior year. Quarterback, golden boy, the guy everyone expects you to end up with because that’s how it works in this town: cheerleader and jock, picture-perfect, prom-queen material.

Except lately it feels like a cage made of pom-poms and forced smiles.

He’d cornered you by his Camaro after last period, voice low and mean because someone had seen you laughing with Tommy H. in the cafeteria. Not flirting—just laughing. But Jake’s jealousy is a hair-trigger thing, and today it snapped.

“You think I don’t notice how every guy looks at you?” he’d hissed, crowding you against the car door. “Strutting around in that tiny skirt like you’re God’s gift. Maybe if you weren’t such a fucking tease—”

“Jake, stop,” you’d said, voice cracking. “I wasn’t—”

“Save it.” He’d laughed, cold. “You’re lucky I put up with you. Half the team thinks you’re easy anyway.”

The words hit like slaps. You’d felt the tears burn immediately, hot and humiliating. You don’t cry in public. Not ever. But your throat had closed up, and before you could stop it, one tear slipped free.

Jake had seen it. Rolled his eyes. “Jesus, don’t start the waterworks. Grow up.”

Then he’d peeled out of the lot, leaving you standing there alone, mascara threatening to run, chest heaving like you’d run suicides.

You don’t go to practice. You can’t. Instead you duck behind the gym, sliding down the brick wall until you’re sitting on the cold ground, knees pulled to your chest. The tears come faster now—quiet, ugly sobs that make your whole body shake. You press your palms to your eyes, trying to muffle the sound, but it doesn’t help.

You don’t hear the footsteps at first.

“Hey.”

Your head snaps up.

Nancy Wheeler stands a few feet away, arms crossed over her denim jacket, head tilted. She’s in her usual—high-waisted jeans, pastel sweater, that perfect chestnut hair framing her face like she stepped out of a magazine. But her eyes are sharp, scanning you like she’s cataloging every tear track, every smudge of mascara.

You swipe at your face, mortified. “I’m fine.”

“You don’t look fine.” She doesn’t move closer, but she doesn’t leave either. Just watches. “Was that Jake I saw tearing out of here like an asshole?”

You laugh—wet, broken. “Yeah. That was… Jake being Jake.”

Nancy’s jaw tightens. She’s never liked him. You’ve caught her staring sometimes during lunch, blue eyes narrowed when he slung an arm around your shoulders too hard, or when he talked over you like your opinion didn’t matter. You always brushed it off. She was just protective. Friend protective.

Except you aren’t really friends. Not close. You’ve shared classes since freshman year, traded notes once or twice, smiled in the halls. But Nancy Wheeler is smart, intense, a little untouchable. You’re the cheerleader with the letterman-jacket boyfriend. Different worlds.

She takes one step forward. Then another. Until she’s crouching in front of you, close enough that you can smell her shampoo—something clean and floral.

“Tell me what he said.”

You shake your head. “It’s stupid.”

“It’s not stupid if it made you cry.” Her voice is quiet but firm. Steel under velvet.

You look at her—really look—and something in her expression makes your stomach flip. Not pity. Not judgment. Something darker. Hungrier.

“He… called me a tease,” you whisper. “Said the team thinks I’m easy. That I’m lucky he puts up with me.”

Nancy’s eyes flash. Her fingers curl into fists at her sides.

“He said that?”

You nod, fresh tears spilling. “I just wanted him to stop yelling. I didn’t even do anything.”

She exhales slowly through her nose. Then, carefully—like she’s handling something fragile—she reaches out and brushes a tear from your cheek with her thumb. Her touch is cool, steady. You freeze.

“You’re not easy,” she says, low. “You’re not a tease. And you’re sure as hell not lucky to have him. He’s lucky you even look in his direction.”

Your breath hitches. No one’s ever said anything like that to you. Not with that much conviction.

Nancy doesn’t pull her hand away. Her thumb lingers, tracing the curve of your cheekbone almost absently. “You deserve better.”

“I don’t know what I deserve anymore,” you admit, voice small.

Her gaze drops to your lips for half a second—barely noticeable, but you feel it like electricity. Then her eyes meet yours again, fierce.

“I do.”

She stands, offering her hand. “Come on. You’re not sitting behind the gym crying over that idiot.”

You hesitate. Then you take her hand. Her grip is stronger than you expect—sure, warm. She pulls you up easily, and for a moment you’re chest-to-chest, her breath fanning your face.

She doesn’t let go right away.

Instead she tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear, fingers lingering at the shell. “You’re coming with me.”

“Where?”

“My place. My mom’s at some meeting, Mike’s at the arcade until dinner. We’ll get you cleaned up. And then…” She pauses, something dangerous flickering in her eyes. “We’re going to talk about how you’re never going near him again.”

Your heart slams against your ribs. “Nancy—”

“I’m not asking.” Her voice is soft, but there’s steel in it. Possessive. “You’re too good for this. For him. And I’m done watching him hurt you.”

You should argue. Should pull away. But the way she’s looking at you—like you’re something precious she’s finally allowed to claim—makes your knees weak.

“Okay,” you whisper.

She smiles—small, triumphant. Then she laces her fingers through yours and leads you across the parking lot to her station wagon.

The drive to the Wheeler house is quiet. You sit in the passenger seat, knees pressed together, still sniffling occasionally. Nancy keeps one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the gear shift—close enough that her pinky brushes your thigh every time she shifts.

She doesn’t say anything about it. Neither do you.

When you get inside, she locks the front door behind you. The house is empty, sunlight slanting through the living-room curtains in golden bars. It smells like laundry and cinnamon.

“Bathroom’s upstairs,” she says. “I’ll grab you something to wear.”

You follow her up anyway.

In her room, she digs through her dresser while you stand awkwardly by the door. She pulls out an oversized sweater—soft gray, smells faintly of her—and a pair of sweatpants.

“These should fit.” She hands them over, then points to the attached bathroom. “Take your time. I’ll be right here.”

You change quickly, peeling off the cheer uniform like shedding skin. When you step out, Nancy’s sitting on the edge of her bed, watching you.

The sweater drowns you, sleeves slipping over your hands. You push them up self-consciously.

She stands. Walks over slowly.

“You look better in my clothes,” she murmurs.

Heat floods your face. “Nancy…”

She reaches up, cups your jaw gently. Her thumb strokes your bottom lip. “He doesn’t get to talk to you like that. Ever again.”

“I—I don’t know if I can just break up with him,” you admit. “Everyone expects—”

“I don’t care what everyone expects.” Her voice drops. “I care about you. And I’ve cared for a long time.”

Your breath catches. “You have?”

She nods. “Since sophomore year. When you sat next to me in English and asked if I understood The Great Gatsby because you thought it was ‘depressing as hell.’ I wanted to kiss you right there.”

You laugh shakily. “I don’t remember that.”

“I do.” Her eyes darken. “Every time he touched you after that, I wanted to rip his hand off. Every time he made you smaller, I wanted to pull you away and show you what it feels like to be wanted. Really wanted.”

She steps closer. Your back hits the door.

“Nancy,” you breathe.

“Tell me to stop,” she says quietly. “And I will.”

You don’t.

Instead you tilt your head up. “Don’t stop.”

Her mouth crashes into yours—soft at first, testing. Then hungry. Her hands slide into your hair, tugging just enough to make you gasp. She swallows the sound, presses you harder against the door.

When she pulls back, her lips are swollen, eyes wild.

“You’re mine now,” she whispers against your mouth. “Not his. Not anyone’s. Mine.”

The possessiveness in her voice sends a shiver down your spine—fear and want tangled together.

“Say it,” she demands softly.

“I’m yours,” you whisper.

She smiles—slow, satisfied. Kisses you again, slower this time. Her hands roam—over your shoulders, down your sides, possessive in every touch. Like she’s mapping territory she’s waited years to claim.

She breaks away only to press her forehead to yours. “You’re staying tonight. I’ll call your mom, tell her you’re at a friend’s. Study group or something.”

You nod, dizzy.

“And tomorrow…” She brushes her nose against yours. “You’re breaking up with him. In front of everyone if you have to. I’ll be right there.”

“What if he—”

“He won’t touch you.” Her voice is ice. “If he tries, he’ll regret it.”

You believe her. Nancy Wheeler doesn’t bluff.

She pulls you toward the bed, sits you down. Kneels between your legs, hands on your thighs.

“I’ve wanted this for so long,” she confesses, voice rough. “Watching you smile at him, watching him not deserve it. It killed me.”

“I didn’t know,” you whisper.

“I know.” She kisses the inside of your knee through the sweatpants. “But you do now.”

Her fingers slip under the hem of the sweater, tracing circles on your bare skin. You tremble.

“I’m going to take care of you,” she promises. “No more tears. No more assholes who don’t see how perfect you are.”

Tears prick your eyes again—but different this time. Relief. Want.

She notices. Kisses them away.

Then she stands, pulls you up with her. Wraps her arms around you tight.

“You’re safe,” she murmurs into your hair. “You’re mine. And I don’t share.”

You bury your face in her neck, breathing her in. For the first time in months, you feel like you can breathe.

Outside, the sun dips lower. The house is quiet except for the two of you—heartbeats syncing, hands clinging.

Jake will be furious tomorrow. The whole school will talk.

But right now, with Nancy’s arms around you, her lips brushing your temple, whispering mine mine mine like a vow—

You don’t care.

Nancy Wheeler x Reader canon-compliant post-s4 (everyone lives), toxic!Nancy, possessive! Nancy, jealousy as a love language, emotional manipulation, slow-burn that aches, co-dependency, angst with microscopic cute moments, no upside down in the present timeline, reader is implied to be the same age as Nancy [2.7k] ---

You meet Nancy Wheeler on a Tuesday in third grade when she punches Tommy Hagan for calling you “four-eyes” because of the thick glasses your mom insisted you needed. She doesn’t apologize for the blood on her knuckles. She just grabs your hand and says, “Come on, we’re gonna be late for art.” You follow her. You always follow her.

By the time you’re fourteen, you’ve memorized the way she bites her lip when she’s concentrating, the way her curls frizz when it rains, the way she says your name like it’s punctuation—sharp, final, mine. You’ve also memorized the way she looks at Steve Harrington across the cafeteria, the way her laugh changes when he’s around. You tell yourself it doesn’t matter. You’re her best friend. That’s enough.

It isn’t.

Barb dies in November of ‘83. You hold Nancy while she screams into your shoulder in the parking lot of the funeral home, her mascara smearing black across your gray sweater. You don’t cry. You can’t. Someone has to be steady. She clings to you like you’re the only real thing left in the world. Later, when Steve tries to comfort her, she shrugs him off and finds you instead. You don’t say I told you so. You just let her fall asleep on your bedroom floor, her head in your lap, your fingers carding through her hair until dawn.

You think maybe this is what love is: being the place someone lands when everything else crumbles.

You’re wrong.

Sophomore year, Nancy starts dating Jonathan Byers. You like Jonathan. He’s quiet, kind, takes photos of you and Nancy laughing in the photo lab and never makes you feel like a third wheel. But Nancy still calls you at 2 a.m. when Jonathan’s asleep, voice small and cracked. “I had a nightmare,” she says. “About Barb.” You drive to the Byers’ house in your mom’s station wagon, park in the driveway, and sit with her on the porch until the sun comes up. Jonathan finds you both asleep against the railing, Nancy’s head on your shoulder. He doesn’t ask questions. He just brings blankets.

You start to notice the pattern: Nancy needs you most when she’s supposed to need someone else.

Junior year is a blur of college applications and SAT prep and Nancy’s growing obsession with the Hawkins Post internship. You apply to Emerson because it’s in Boston and far away and maybe—maybe—you need to learn how to breathe without her orbit pulling you in. She finds the acceptance letter before you do. She doesn’t speak for three days. On the fourth, she shows up at your house with two plane tickets to Chicago. “Spring break,” she says. “Just us. Like old times.” You go. You always go.

The trip is perfect in the way only disasters can be. You eat deep-dish pizza until you’re sick, get lost on the L, take Polaroids in front of the Bean. Nancy kisses you on the cheek for one of them and your heart stops. She doesn’t notice. She’s too busy stealing your fries.

Back in Hawkins, she tells Jonathan about the trip. She leaves out the part where she fell asleep with her head on your chest in the hotel room, where she whispered “don’t leave me” into your skin like a secret. You leave that part out too.

Senior year starts with a miracle: Vecna is dead. The gates are closed. The world didn’t end. Everyone lives. The relief is so sharp it feels like grief.

You think maybe now things will be normal.

They aren’t.

Nancy gets into Northwestern. You get into Emerson. The letters arrive the same week. She opens yours first. Her face goes very pale. “Boston,” she says. “That’s... far.” You nod. “It’s a good program.” She doesn’t look at you. “You’ll love it.” Her voice is flat. You want to ask if she’s okay. You don’t.

The possessiveness starts small. She “forgets” to give you messages from the Emerson admissions office. She schedules study sessions during your shifts at the record store. She cries in your car when you mention visiting campus. “I just—I can’t imagine not seeing you every day,” she says. You hold her hand. You tell her you’ll call every night. She doesn’t believe you. You’re not sure you believe you.

Robin Buckley transfers to your English class in October. She’s loud, funny, smells like coffee and vinyl. She asks you to partner for the Great Gatsby project. Nancy finds out and spends the entire weekend “helping” you. She rewrites your thesis. She color-codes your notes. She sits so close her knee presses against yours under the desk. Robin texts you: your guard dog’s intense. You don’t reply.

The breaking point comes in March, the night of the spring talent show. You’re not performing—God, no—but Robin is. She’s doing a comedy set about working at Scoops Ahoy. Nancy refuses to go. “It’s stupid,” she says. “We have the chem midterm.” You go anyway. Robin’s hilarious. The crowd loves her. After, she finds you in the lobby, adrenaline-high and grinning. “Drinks at Steve’s? Celebrate my triumphant return to stand-up?” You hesitate. Nancy’s waiting in the parking lot. But Robin’s looking at you like you’re the only person in the room, and for once, you want to be selfish.

You go.

Steve’s basement is crowded with familiar faces—Dustin, Lucas, Max, even Jonathan with a beer he’s nursing like it personally offended him. Robin drags you to the center of the room and announces, “This one’s my new favorite person!” Everyone cheers. You laugh. It feels good. Nancy isn’t there to see the way Robin’s hand lingers on your arm, the way you lean into it.

You don’t realise its late until 2 a.m. Nancy’s car is in the driveway. She’s asleep in the driver’s seat, headlights off, keys still in the ignition. You wake her gently. She startles, eyes wild. “Where were you?” Her voice is hoarse. “Steve’s. Robin—” “I called you seventeen times.” “I didn’t have service.” It’s a lie. Your phone’s been on silent since 8 p.m. She knows. You know she knows.

She drives you home in silence. When you reach for the door handle, she grabs your wrist. Hard. “You’re choosing her.” “I’m not choosing anyone.” “It feels like you are.” Her grip tightens. “I need you.” The words are a bruise. You pull away. “I’m right here.” “You weren’t tonight.”

You don’t sleep. You sit on your roof and watch the stars until they blur. You think about Boston. You think about Nancy’s hand on your wrist, the way it felt like a handcuff and a lifeline.

The next week, she apologizes. Sort of. She brings you coffee and a new notebook and says, “I was scared.” You forgive her. You always forgive her.

Prom is a disaster waiting to happen. Nancy’s going with Jonathan. You’re going stag. Robin asks you to dance during “Total Eclipse of the Heart.” You say yes. Nancy sees. She doesn’t speak to you for the rest of the night. Jonathan finds you by the punch bowl, tie askew. “She’s freaking out,” he says. “She thinks you’re leaving her for Robin.” You laugh. It’s not funny. “I’m not leaving anyone.” Jonathan looks tired. “You might have to.”

You find Nancy outside, smoking a cigarette she stole from Steve. She doesn’t smoke. “Nance.” She doesn’t turn. “Go back to your girlfriend.” “She’s not—” “I saw you.” Her voice cracks. “You looked happy.” You step closer. “I am happy. With you.” She finally looks at you. Her mascara’s running. “You won’t be. Not when you’re gone.” “I haven’t decided—” “You will. You always do what’s best for you.” The accusation stings because it’s true.

You reach for her. She lets you. Her cigarette burns forgotten between her fingers. “I’m scared,” she whispers. “Of what?” “Of being the thing you leave behind.” You don’t have an answer. You just hold her until the cherry burns out.

Graduation is in June. You give a speech about resilience. Nancy cries in the front row. You both get into your respective cars—hers to Northwestern, yours to wherever you decide. You haven’t told her you deferred Emerson. You haven’t told anyone.

The summer is a slow unraveling. You work at the record store. Nancy works at the Hawkins Post. You see each other every day. She brings you lunch. You drive her home. You kiss in her car once, twice, a dozen times. It’s never enough. It’s too much.

Robin leaves for Bloomington in August. She hugs you goodbye in the parking lot of Family Video. “You know where to find me,” she says. Nancy watches from her car, arms crossed. You wave. Robin waves back. Nancy doesn’t speak the entire drive to her house.

The night before Nancy leaves for Northwestern, she shows up at your window. It’s 3 a.m. She’s crying. “I can’t do this,” she says. “Do what?” “Leave you.” You pull her inside. She’s shaking. “You’re not leaving me. You’re going to college.” “It feels the same.” You kiss her then. Really kiss her. Not the stolen moments, not the almosts. She tastes like salt and terror and home. When you pull back, she’s staring at you like you’re a mirage. “Stay,” she says. “What?” “Stay here. With me. We’ll figure it out.” “Nancy—” “Please.”

You think about Emerson. You think about the life you almost had. You think about the way Nancy’s hands tremble when she’s scared, the way she says your name like a prayer. You think about Barb’s empty chair at graduation, about every time the world ended and you were the only thing left standing.

You stay.

Northwestern is two hours away. Nancy comes home every weekend. She calls you every night. She sends you letters on stationery that smells like her perfume. You enroll in community college. You tell yourself it’s temporary. You tell yourself a lot of things.

The first time she accuses you of cheating, it’s over nothing. You mentioned a study group. She heard “girl named Emily.” She drives to your house at midnight and screams in your driveway until your mom threatens to call the cops. You calm her down. You always calm her down.

The second time, it’s Robin. She’s home for Thanksgiving. You have coffee. Nancy sees the Instagram story. She doesn’t speak to you for a week. When she finally does, it’s to say, “I trust you. I just don’t trust her.” You don’t point out the difference. There isn’t one.

Christmas break, she gives you a necklace. A tiny silver locket with a photo of you both from eighth grade. “So you don’t forget,” she says. You wear it every day. You don’t take it off even when it leaves a green ring around your neck.

Spring semester, you transfer to UChicago. It’s closer. Nancy cries when you tell her. Happy tears, she says. You’re not sure.

You move into an apartment off-campus. Nancy decorates it with string lights and Polaroids. She has a drawer in your dresser. Then a shelf. Then half the closet. You don’t mind. You like the way her books look next to yours, the way her shampoo smells in your shower.

Robin visits once. Nancy is polite. Too polite. Robin leaves early. You don’t ask her to stay.

The first time Nancy says “I love you,” it’s during a fight. You’re screaming about boundaries, about space, about the way she reads your texts over your shoulder. She’s crying so hard she can barely breathe. “I love you,” she chokes out. “I love you so much it’s killing me.” You stop yelling. You kiss her instead. She kisses back like she’s drowning.

You say it back. You mean it. You’re not sure what it means.

Years pass. You graduate. Nancy gets a job at the Chicago Tribune. You get one at a small press. You move in together. The apartment is too small, but it’s yours. Hers. Ours.

Robin gets engaged. You go to the wedding. Nancy holds your hand the entire time. When Robin kisses her fiancée, Nancy whispers, “That’ll be us someday.” You smile. You’re not sure if it’s a promise or a threat.

Some nights, you dream about Boston. You dream about a life where you left, where you learned how to miss her without breaking. You wake up with Nancy’s arms around you, her breath warm against your neck. You stay.

shauna shipman x reader toxic possessive shauna at full throttle, slow-burn pining that hurts, jealousy as a love language, underage drinking, shauna’s inner monologue is a war crime, reader is painfully oblivious, mild stalking vibes [2.1k] ---

You meet Shauna Shipman in freshman English when she slides into the seat behind you and kicks your chair exactly three times—once to say hello, once because she’s bored, once because she likes the way your shoulders tense. Jackie Taylor is already your best friend by then, has been since the first day of middle school when she declared your mismatched socks “iconic” and claimed you for life. The three of you become a unit before the first bell rings on day two: Jackie in the middle, you on her left, Shauna on her right like a shadow that learned how to scowl.

Shauna doesn’t talk much that first month. She watches. She learns that you bite your thumbnail when you’re thinking, that you always save the last fry for whoever looks hungriest, that you let Jackie paint your nails cherry red even though the color clashes with your skin. She learns the exact pitch of your laugh when Jackie whispers something filthy during silent reading. She learns, and she stores it all in the part of her brain that never sleeps.

You think she’s quiet because she’s shy. You have no idea she’s cataloging.

Sophomore year is when the rot sets in. The soccer team makes varsity, and suddenly the three of you are untouchable—Jackie the golden captain, you the manager who keeps stats and Gatorade and everyone’s secrets, Shauna the midfielder who runs until her lungs scream and still finds energy to glare at anyone who looks at you too long. You start spending every free period in the equipment room, door cracked just enough for light. Jackie sprawls across the mats doing homework; you sit cross-legged on the bench, icing Shauna’s shins.

Shauna lets you. Only you.

One Thursday in October, you’re tracing the bruise blooming across her knee when Jackie’s phone buzzes. Some senior—Jeff Sadecki—wants to take her to the movies. Jackie squeals, kicks her feet, asks your opinion on outfits. You give it, enthusiastic, because that’s who you are. Shauna’s jaw locks so tight you hear it click.

“Jeff’s nice,” you say later, walking to Shauna’s truck because Jackie’s getting a ride with him. “He held the door for me in bio once.”

Shauna’s knuckles go white on the steering wheel. “He’s a mouth-breather.”

You laugh, thinking she’s joking. She isn’t.

That night she sits in her driveway for forty-three minutes, engine off, staring at the dark windows of your house across the cul-de-sac. She doesn’t cry—she’s not there yet—but her chest aches like someone parked a cleat on it. She tells herself it’s heartburn from the cafeteria pizza.

Junior year is a slow bleed. Shauna starts driving you to school even when Jackie’s Jeep is fine. She keeps your favorite pens in her glovebox, your spare scrunchie on her gearshift, your hoodie in her backseat because “you’re always cold.” You let her. You think it’s sweet. You don’t notice how she times the route to avoid the stoplight where Randy Walsh waits for his mom. You don’t notice how she memorizes your schedule better than her own.

At parties, she’s your anchor and your chain. You dance with Jackie, with Tai, with half the lacrosse team, and Shauna stands by the keg counting. One drink: fine. Two: she’s hovering. Three: she’s cutting you off with a plastic cup of water and a look that could curdle milk. You roll your eyes, call her “mom,” and she flinches every time.

The first time she almost ruins everything is February, Valentine’s dance. Jackie convinces you to go stag—“for the vibes”—and you wear this stupid pink dress that makes your eyes look like melted chocolate. Shauna spends the entire night leaning against the bleachers in her leather jacket, arms crossed, watching you spin under the disco ball. When some basketball guy—Connor? Carter?—asks you to slow dance, Shauna is across the gym before the first chorus of “Wonderwall” hits.

She doesn’t say a word. Just slides between you and the guy, takes your hand, and pulls you into the next song like it’s the most natural thing in the world. You blink, surprised, but let her lead. Her palm is clammy. Her heart is trying to punch through her ribs.

“You okay?” you ask, chin on her shoulder.

“Fine,” she lies.

You believe her.

Summer before senior year, Jackie gets a boyfriend—Jeff, officially—and suddenly the three of you aren’t three anymore. Jackie still texts in the group chat, still demands matching Halloween costumes, but she’s busy. You fill the space with Shauna the way you always have, except now it’s just the two of you in her truck at 1 a.m., sharing fries and silence.

Shauna starts leaving her bedroom window unlocked. You start climbing through it when Jackie’s at Jeff’s. You fall asleep on her floor more nights than your own bed. She watches you breathe and hates herself for how much she loves it.

Senior year starts with a heatwave and a rumor. Someone saw you kissing Mari in the drama room—closed rehearsal, lights off, definitely not platonic. Shauna hears it in third period and spends the rest of the day vibrating out of her skin. She finds you at your locker, slamming it so hard the metal dents.

“Tell me it’s bullshit,” she says.

You frown. “What?”

“Mari. You and Mari.”

You laugh—actually laugh—and Shauna wants to die. “We were practicing a scene, Shauna. For the fall play. She’s my duet partner.”

Relief floods her so fast she feels faint. Then guilt. Then something darker. She spends the weekend replaying the rumor on loop, imagining what she’d do if it were true. The fantasies get violent. She punches her pillow until the seams split.

October brings homecoming and the first real fracture. Jackie wants to run for queen—obviously—and drags you into the campaign. You make posters, hand out buttons, wear the stupid crown pin she gives you. Shauna helps because you ask, but every time someone chants Jackie’s name, she pictures setting the gym on fire.

The night of the game, you’re on the sidelines in Jackie’s letterman jacket again—Taylor #19—because the wind off the field is brutal. Shauna’s on the bench, ankle taped, watching you jump and cheer. When Jackie scores the winning goal, you launch yourself into her arms. The jacket slips off your shoulders. Shauna catches it before it hits the ground.

She doesn’t give it back.

You forget to question it.

November is college applications and panic attacks in bathroom stalls. You cry in Shauna’s truck because your essay sucks. She drives you to the diner, buys you pie, lets you fall asleep against her shoulder with whipped cream on your nose. She takes a picture. Sets it as her lock screen. Doesn’t tell you.

December is the holiday party at Nat’s lake house. Someone spikes the punch with Everclear. You’re three cups in, giggling on the couch between Tai and Van, when Shauna finds you. Your cheeks are flushed, eyes glassy, and some junior—Joanie? Jennie?—is trying to braid your hair.

Shauna sees red.

She yanks you up by the wrist, ignoring your squeak of protest. “We’re leaving.”

Outside, the cold slaps you sober. You stumble after her, confused. “Shauna, what the hell?”

She doesn’t stop until you’re at her truck, door wrenched open. “Get in.”

You cross your arms. “Not until you tell me what’s wrong.”

“What’s wrong,” she spits, “is you letting every goddamn person in that house touch you like you’re public property.”

Your mouth falls open. “I was sitting on a couch.”

“With Jennie’s hands in your hair.”

“She was braiding it! It’s a French braid, Shauna, not a proposal.”

She laughs, sharp and ugly. “You think that’s the point? You think I care about the braid? I care that you let him. That you let everyone. Jackie, Mari, Randy, fucking Jennie—I watch you give pieces of yourself away like they’re nothing and I’m over here drowning in it.”

You stare at her. Snow starts to fall, fat flakes catching in her lashes. “Shauna.”

“I love you,” she says, and it sounds like a confession and a curse. “I’ve loved you since you kicked my chair in freshman English and I hate it. I hate how easy it is for you to smile at them, how you don’t see me losing my mind every time you do. I’m jealous and I’m mean and I follow you into bathrooms to make sure no one’s hitting on you and I steal your hoodies so they smell like me and I—”

She stops, breathing hard. You step forward, slow, and cup her face. Her skin is ice.

“I see you,” you say quietly. “I’ve always seen you. I just didn’t know what to do with it.”

Her eyes search yours, terrified. “Don’t say that if—”

“I mean it.” You brush a snowflake from her lip. “I love you too. The jealous, mean, hoodie-stealing parts included.”

She makes a broken sound and kisses you like she’s trying to crawl inside your skin. It’s messy—teeth and desperation and the taste of punch—but you kiss back, fingers tangled in her hair. When you pull away, she’s crying.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers against your mouth. “I know I’m too much.”

“You’re exactly enough,” you tell her. “But we’re setting boundaries, okay? No more death glares at Randy. No more stealing my drinks. And you talk to me when you’re spiraling.”

She nods, fervent. “Anything.”

You smile. “Good. Now take me home, girlfriend.”

The word makes her light up like Christmas.

Monday morning, your locker has new graffiti: S + Y, mine. Jackie sees it and rolls her eyes so hard you hear it. “Fucking finally.”

Shauna kisses you against the metal while the bell rings, possessive hand on your waist, and you let her.

(forgive her. she’s just a girl who learned love tastes like teeth.) ---

Shauna Shipman x Reader (gender-neutral) Canon-typical repression, quiet jealousy, Shauna’s internal monologue is a war zone [2.3k] ---

The first time Shauna thinks she might be cursed, it’s the spring of sophomore year and you’re bleeding on the locker room floor.

You’d taken a cleat to the shin during scrimmage—nothing broken, just a deep, ugly gash—and the sight of your blood on the tile hits her like a slap. Jackie’s already yelling for the trainer, but Shauna’s on her knees before anyone else moves, pressing a wad of gauze to the wound with shaking hands.

“Easy,” you say, voice thin but steady. “I’m fine, Shipman.”

“You’re bleeding,” she snaps, like you’re personally offending her.

You laugh—laugh—and the sound slices her open. “You’re acting like I’m dying.”

She doesn’t answer. She’s too busy memorizing the way your pulse flutters under her thumb, the way your skin smells like grass and antiseptic and something uniquely you. Jackie busts in with ice and a lecture about sliding tackles, and the moment folds itself away. Shauna keeps the gauze. She doesn’t know why. ---

Junior year is a slow bleed.

You sit between them in every class you can manage—Jackie on your left, Shauna on your right, a living buffer. You pass notes in Shauna’s neat handwriting, doodle on the margins of Jackie’s planners, steal fries from both their trays like it’s your birthright. Shauna watches you balance them like twin suns and wonders when she started orbiting you instead.

After games, you wait for her by the equipment shed. Always. Even when Jackie’s already halfway to Jeff’s Camaro, you linger, kicking at loose gravel until Shauna catches up.

“Good game,” you say, bumping her shoulder. “That assist in the second half? Filthy.”

She shrugs, but her chest glows. “You set it up.”

“We’re a team.” You grin, and it’s so easy, so yours, that Shauna has to look away before she does something stupid like kiss the corner of your mouth. ---

The jealousy is a living thing, small and sharp-toothed.

It starts with the way you light up when Nat calls you “trouble” at the kegger in the woods. Shauna stands three feet away, nursing a warm beer, watching you laugh at something Nat says with her cigarette dangling from her fingers. When Nat slings an arm around your shoulders—casual, friendly—Shauna’s grip tightens on the bottle until her knuckles blanch.

She doesn’t say anything. She just appears at your side like a shadow, sliding her jacket over your shoulders when the night turns cold. “You’ll freeze,” she mutters. Nat raises an eyebrow but lets go. You don’t notice the exchange. You just burrow into the flannel and smile up at Shauna like she’s the only warm thing in the world.

Later, in the car, Jackie’s asleep in the backseat. You’re humming along to the radio, feet on the dash. Shauna’s hands are steady on the wheel, but her mind is replaying the way Nat’s arm looked around you.

“You mad at me?” you ask suddenly.

“No.” A lie.

“You’ve been quiet.”

“Just tired.”

You reach over, tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. “You’re a bad liar, Shipman.”

She wants to say I’m not mad at you, I’m mad at the idea of anyone else touching you. Instead, she turns the radio up. ___

Senior year is a funeral march in cleats.

College letters start arriving—Jackie’s Princeton packet thick as a phone book, your Brown interview scheduled for December, Shauna’s applications still blank. You study together in the library, knees touching under the table, your highlighter leaving neon trails across her notes. Jackie’s across the room flirting with the librarian for extra printer paper.

“You’ll get in,” Shauna says one night, watching you chew on the end of your pen. “Brown wants you.”

“I want you to want me there,” you say, so quietly she almost misses it.

Her heart stutters. “What?”

You shrug, eyes on your essay. “Just… don’t want to leave you behind.”

Shauna stares at the top of your head, at the way your hair falls across your forehead when you’re thinking. She wants to say then don’t leave, wants to say come with me, wants to say stay. Instead, she reaches over and steals your pen.

“Stop chewing. You’ll get ink poisoning.”

You laugh, and the moment passes. But it lives in her ribs like a bruise. --- The breaking point is the state championship.

You score the winning goal in overtime—pure instinct, a curling shot that kisses the top corner—and the crowd loses its mind. Jackie tackles you on the field, screaming, but Shauna’s already there, hands on your face, checking for injuries like you’re made of glass.

“You’re bleeding,” she says, thumb swiping across your cheekbone. It’s just a scratch from someone’s elbow, but her voice cracks like it’s a mortal wound.

“I’m fine,” you laugh, breathless. “We won.”

She kisses you in front of the entire stadium.

It’s not planned. It’s not soft. It’s teeth and adrenaline and four years of wanting, her hands fisted in your jersey, your gasp swallowed by her mouth. The crowd roars louder, thinking it’s celebration. Jackie whoops like she’s known all along.

When she pulls back, your eyes are wide, lips swollen, grass stains on your knees.

“Shauna?”

“I’m sorry,” she says, but she’s not.

“Don’t be.” You touch your mouth like you’re checking it’s real. “I’ve been waiting for you to do that since sophomore year.”

She stares. “What?”

You laugh, shaky. “I thought you’d never.”

Jackie appears, slinging arms around both your necks. “About fucking time. Now can we go celebrate before Coach makes us run laps for PDA?”

Shauna doesn’t let go of your hand the entire night. ---

Later, in the parking lot, the team’s gone to diner. It’s just you and Shauna leaning against her Jeep, sharing a lukewarm Gatorade. The sky’s the color of a healing bruise.

“So,” you say, nudging her with your hip. “Brown’s only three hours from Rutgers.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Stalker.”

“Shut up. I looked it up.” You take a breath. “I want us to work. Whatever this is.”

Shauna looks at you—really looks. At the mud on your calves, the championship sticker on your jacket, the way you’re worrying your lower lip like you’re scared she’ll vanish.

“I’ve been yours since third grade,” she says. “Just took me a while to say it out loud.”

You smile, small and real. “Good. Because I’m not going anywhere without my favorite defender.”

She kisses you again, slower this time. The Gatorade falls, forgotten. Somewhere in the distance, Jackie’s yelling for you to hurry up, but Shauna doesn’t care. She’s got her whole world right here, warm and solid and hers.

Shauna Shipman x Reader (gender-neutral) high school slowburn, possessive!shauna, teen angst Canon-typical emotional repression, possessive behavior (non-toxic), pre-crash timeline, slow-burn pining, Jackie Taylor’s emotional support capitalism ~2.3k | ---

The summer before junior year smells like chlorine and cut grass. Jackie’s backyard is the center of the universe—three lawn chairs in a crooked triangle, a cooler of stolen beer, and the three of you pretending the future isn’t breathing down your necks. Jackie’s recounting her latest conquest (some lifeguard named Kyle who “totally gets her vision board”) while you balance a popsicle on your tongue, laughing so hard cherry juice drips down your wrist.

Shauna watches the drop slide over your pulse point and feels something sharp hook behind her ribs. Not jealousy—Jackie flirts with disaster the way other people breathe—but a quieter, meaner thing. Mine to guard. She tears her gaze away, focuses on the way the sun bleeds through the maple leaves instead. You don’t notice. You never do. ---

Senior year begins with the ritual sacrifice of summer: 6 a.m. conditioning, Coach Martinez screaming about footwork, the metallic taste of blood when you push too hard. After practice, the three of you collapse on the bleachers like fallen soldiers. Jackie’s already scrolling through college mail, her Princeton legacy packet open like a coronation invite. You’re sketching on Shauna’s calf with a ballpoint pen—little doodles of dragons curled around soccer balls, wings made of cleats.

“Stop vandalizing me,” Shauna mutters, but she doesn’t move.

“It’s not vandalism, it’s branding.” You cap the pen with your teeth. “You’re officially Team Dragon now. Hoard and everything.”

Jackie snorts. “Shauna’s hoard is just her color-coded notes and that ratty journal she thinks we don’t know about.”

Shauna’s ears burn. “Shut up, Jax.”

You lean closer, inspecting your work. “Nah. Dragons keep treasure. Gold, jewels…” You tap the dragon’s tiny claw, right over the vein in her ankle. “Best friends.”

Shauna’s throat locks. She wants to say you’re the only thing in the vault, but Jackie’s already launching into a rant about early decision deadlines, and the moment slips through her fingers like loose change. ---

The possessiveness arrives in increments, the way frost creeps across a window.

It’s Tyler from AP Chem offering to carry your books after the pep rally, and Shauna’s there before you can answer, slinging your backpack over her own shoulder with a flat, “I got it.” It’s the way she positions herself between you and the junior varsity boys at the homecoming bonfire, her shoulder brushing yours like a silent claim. It’s the night Jackie tries to drag you to Jeff’s lake house rager and Shauna fakes a migraine so convincingly you cancel without hesitation, curling up on her bedroom floor with The Craft and a pint of mint chip instead.

“You’re my favorite person to be miserable with,” you tell her, mouth sticky with ice cream. “Jackie would’ve made me shotgun a White Claw.”

Shauna hums, cataloging the coconut scent of your shampoo, the way your pinky keeps brushing hers on the carpet. She doesn’t sleep. She counts the rise and fall of your breathing like a prayer. ---

October brings college essays and the slow hemorrhage of certainty.

Jackie’s set on Princeton—legacy, network, the whole gilded path. You’re waffling between Rutgers and Brown, close enough to visit but far enough to fracture. Shauna hasn’t applied anywhere. She keeps rewriting her personal statement, deleting every line that doesn’t orbit the truth: I want to stay where you are. I want to keep you.

One night at the diner, Jackie’s waving her early acceptance letter like a victory flag. “We’re talking Ivy, babe. Matching bumper stickers, coordinated dorms—”

You laugh, but it’s thin. “I haven’t even finished my supplementals.”

Shauna’s fork stills. “You’ll get in wherever you want.”

You look at her, surprised. “You think?”

“I know.” The certainty makes Jackie raise an eyebrow, but you just smile like Shauna’s the only fixed point in a spinning world.

Later, in the parking lot, Jackie’s distracted by Jeff’s Camaro idling at the curb. You linger by Shauna’s Jeep, kicking gravel.

“Hey,” you say. “If I go to Brown… you’ll visit, right?”

Shauna’s heart is a trapped animal. “Try and stop me.”

You grin, bump her shoulder. “Good. Can’t survive without my dragon.”

She wants to ask what happens if Jackie wants you at Princeton. Wants to ask if you’d choose her. Instead, she opens the passenger door, and you slide in without noticing how her hand lingers on the small of your back. ---

The winter formal is a glittering wound.

Jackie’s date is some lacrosse guy from Westfield—tall, harmless, forgettable. You don’t have a date, but you’re wearing this midnight velvet dress that makes every head turn when you walk in. Shauna’s in the corner with a cup of spiked punch she hasn’t touched, watching you spin under the disco ball with Jackie like you’re the only two people in the room.

Then Tyler cuts in.

Shauna’s across the gym before her brain catches up. “She’s with us,” she says, voice flat. Tyler backs off, hands raised. Jackie’s laughing, but you look confused.

“Shauna, what—”

“Dance with me.” Not a question.

You let her pull you close. The song’s slow, something by The Cranberries that aches in the chest. Shauna’s hands settle at your waist like they were carved for it. You rest your head on her shoulder, and for one dizzy minute, she lets herself pretend.

“You okay?” you murmur.

“No,” she says. “I hate this.”

“The dance?”

“Watching people touch you.”

You pull back, searching her face. “Shauna?”

She can’t do it here, under cheap lights with Jackie watching. So she tightens her grip and says, “You’re my best friend.”

You soften. “You’re mine too. Always.”

It’s not enough, but it’s all she has. ---

The real confession happens in February, in the back of Shauna’s Jeep during a snowstorm.

You’d been at the library for hours, drowning in scholarship essays. Jackie bailed early for some party, leaving you and Shauna to brave the weather. The roads turn treacherous; Shauna pulls over on a backroad, hazards blinking like a heartbeat.

“Great,” you groan, fogging the window with your breath. “We’re gonna die out here.”

“We’re not dying.” Shauna’s calm, but her knuckles are white. “Just waiting it out.”

Silence stretches. You’re drawing on the window again—dragons, hearts, little stick-figure versions of the three of you. Shauna watches the snow pile up and thinks about how easy it would be to drive you both somewhere no one could find you. Somewhere she could keep you safe. Keep you.

“Hey,” you say suddenly. “Remember when we were kids and you used to hide my toys so I’d play with you instead?”

Shauna huffs a laugh. “You were obsessed with that Barbie jeep. I wanted the Legos.”

“You were so mad when I wouldn’t share.” You turn to her, eyes bright in the dim light. “You haven’t changed much.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You still hoard me.” You say it lightly, teasing, but Shauna flinches. “I don’t mind,” you add quickly. “I like being your treasure.”

The words crack something open in her chest. “You don’t get it,” she says, voice rough. “It’s not a game. I need you. More than Jackie, more than soccer, more than—” She stops, breathing hard. “I’m in love with you. And it’s killing me.”

The silence is deafening.

You stare at her, mouth parted. Snow taps the windshield like static. Shauna waits for you to laugh, to call her dramatic, to ruin everything.

Instead, you reach over and lace your fingers with hers. “Shauna.”

“I know you don’t—”

“Shut up.” You squeeze her hand. “I’m oblivious, not blind. I just… didn’t think you’d ever—” You laugh, shaky. “I thought you were waiting for me to catch up.”

Shauna’s brain short-circuits. “Catch up?”

“I’ve been in love with you since the prom dress,” you admit. “I just didn’t know what to do with it. You’re Shauna. You don’t— You’re not supposed to want—”

“I want,” Shauna says fiercely. “I’ve wanted for years. I just didn’t think you’d ever look at me like I’m more than the third wheel.”

You lean across the console, careful, like she’s made of glass. Your forehead rests against hers. “You’ve never been the third wheel. You’re the whole damn axle.”

The kiss is clumsy—teeth clacking, noses bumping, breath fogging the air between you—but it’s the first honest thing Shauna’s tasted in years. When you pull back, your thumb brushes her cheekbone.

“Still hoarding me?” you whisper.

“Always,” she says, and means it like a vow.

— Nancy Wheeler has been claiming you since 1979. You’re just now noticing.

Pairing: Nancy Wheeler x gn!Reader (slow-burn, ultra-possessive!Nancy, oblivious!Reader, heavy mutual pining) Word Count: 1,900 Warnings: canon-typical violence/gore, blood, injury, possessive jealousy, near-death experiences, grief, season 1–4 spoilers, no smut, no full confession (but it’s razor-thin) Summary: You’ve been Nancy’s since she wrote her initials on your wrist in seventh grade. Robin and Max are here to make sure you finally read the contract. A/N: Second-person, 100 % canon-compliant timeline + you in the Party from S1. Max lives, Robin is the chaotic translator, Nancy is a walking “touch them and die” sign. No beta, we die like Barb.

---

You meet Nancy Wheeler in September 1979, seventh-grade art class at Hawkins Middle. She catches you pocketing her cerulean crayon and, instead of snitching, grabs your left wrist, uncaps a black Sharpie with her teeth, and scrawls N.W. in perfect block letters across the inside of your forearm. “Mine now,” she says, blowing on the ink to dry it. The teacher calls it defacement. You wear long sleeves for a week until the letters fade to gray ghosts. Nancy redraws them every Monday before homeroom. You think it’s a game. It’s not.

Eighth grade, fall 1980. You eat lunch under the bleachers, trading her mom’s lemon bars for your peanut-butter crackers. When Tommy H. tries to sit on your free side, Nancy slides her tray over and plants her knee against yours. “Taken,” she says, voice sweet, eyes sharp. Barb Holland joins in October, red hair and dry wit. The three of you become a unit, but Nancy’s hand always finds yours first. Sleepovers start in November: you on the floor, Nancy on the bed, her blanket draped over you both by morning. “You kicked,” she mumbles when you wake tangled together. You grin, oblivious.

November 6, 1983 – freshman year, Will Byers vanishes after D&D at the Wheeler house. Mike drags you into the AV club the next day because “Nancy says you can pick any lock with a paperclip.” You’re in the Wheeler basement at midnight on November 7, mapping Mirkwood on graph paper. Nancy’s fingers bruise your wrist when the lights flicker. “Stay where I can see you.” The Demogorgon crashes through the Byers’ wall on November 12. You swing a metal lunch tray; Nancy unloads Jonathan’s .38. Blood spatters your faces. In the Wheeler bathroom she scrubs it off your cheek with a washcloth, knuckles white. “Never again,” she whispers. You blame the adrenaline.

December 10, 1983 – the Snow Ball. Steve Harrington spins Nancy under the gym lights. You stand by the punch bowl pretending the cup is fascinating. She ditches him at 9:47 p.m., finds you on the curb, coat half-zipped. “Dance with me.” “We’re outside.” “Then dance outside.” Snow falls; her mittened hands clutch your jacket like lifelines. Carol Perkins whispers “Wheeler’s guard dog.” Nancy hears. Carol transfers schools in January.

October 31, 1984 – sophomore year, the Mind Flayer possesses Will. You’re on dart-tranq duty in the Byers’ living room on November 3, syringe full of horse sedative. Billy Hargrove corners you in the hallway, breath hot with cologne. “Wheeler’s little shadow—” Nancy appears, nail bat raised. “Touch them and I’ll cave your skull in.” Billy smirks but retreats. Max Mayfield—new stepsister, skateboard, attitude—watches from the kitchen. “Your girlfriend’s intense,” she mutters. You choke on air. That night demodogs swarm the junkyard. Nancy shoves you behind the bus, body shielding yours. “Mine,” she growls into your ear. You blame the cold.

June 28, 1985 – junior year, Starcourt Mall opens. Scoops Ahoy is HQ by July 1. Robin Buckley decodes the Russian transmission; you keep Dustin from licking the tape. Nancy’s eyes track every time Robin’s hand brushes yours. When Robin high-fives you after cracking the code, Nancy wedges herself between you. “Strategy meeting.” Robin salutes. “Yes, Chief.” July 3, the hospital basement: a flayed rat explodes, claw raking your forearm. Nancy drags you behind a gurney, rips her cardigan into strips, ties the tourniquet so tight you see stars. “You don’t bleed for anyone but me,” she hisses. Max skates up, pale. “Is this normal?” Nancy’s glare silences her.

July 4, 1985 – the roof. Fireworks bloom; Nancy’s head on your shoulder. Robin and Steve bet twenty bucks on when Nancy will snap. Max, bandaged from Billy’s possession, leans over. “She’s gonna tattoo her name on you.” Nancy’s fingers dig into your hip hard enough to bruise.

March 21, 1986 – senior year, Vecna. Chrissy Cunningham dies in Eddie Munson’s trailer. Max is target two—nosebleeds, headaches, Dear Billy letter by March 22. You’re with her at the cemetery on March 24 when the first vision hits. Nancy bursts through the gate, shotgun cocked. “Step back.” Max, gasping, wheezes, “She’s talking to the demon, not me.” March 25, the attic bait plan: you volunteer your favorite song. Nancy loses it. “Over my dead body.” She shoves you behind her, shotgun trembling. “You don’t sacrifice for Max, for Eddie, for anyone.” Max, plugged into Kate Bush, mutters, “She’s scarier than Vecna.”

March 27, 1986 – Reefer Rick’s boathouse. You bring Eddie Pop-Tarts and play Master of Puppets to calm him. Nancy walks in on you laughing at his air-guitar. Temperature drops. “We’re leaving.” She drags you by the belt loop. Eddie whistles. “Territorial much?” Max, guarding the door, snorts. “Understatement.” March 29, the War Zone: Nancy loads your shotgun first, fingers lingering on every shell. “Eyes on me.” Robin pretends to gag. “Get a room, Wheeler.” Nancy flips her off without looking.

March 30, 1986 – Creel house attic. Vines snare your ankle. Nancy saws through them with a hunting knife, screaming your name like a war cry. Max’s heart stops at 9:17 p.m. Nancy tackles you to the floor, sobbing into your chest. “Don’t you dare leave me.” Robin hauls you both up, muttering, “Codependent much?”

April 1, 1986 – Hawkins splits. The Party camps in the high-school gym. Max claims the cot beside yours; Nancy appears with an air mattress and wedges it between. “She needs rest,” she says. Max smirks. “Sure, mom.” Robin stages an intervention at 2 a.m. with stolen Jell-O. “Nancy’s one step from branding you. Talk to her.” You blink. “We’re best friends.” Robin and Max exchange looks that could curdle milk.

That night Nancy crawls into your sleeping bag without asking. “Nightmare.” You let her. She traces every scar—demodog claw, Russian blade, Vecna vine. “These are mine,” she whispers. “You’re mine.” You fall asleep to her heartbeat against your spine. Robin takes polaroids. Max labels them Evidence.

May 24, 1986 – Lover’s Lake picnic, senior skip day. Steve grills; Robin DJs. Max challenges you to chicken fights. You win. She tackles you in celebration. Nancy’s there in a flash, hauling you out by the waist. “Careful,” she snaps. Max grins. “Relax, she’s not porcelain.” Nancy’s grip bruises. Robin yells, “Twenty bucks says murder!”

May 30, 1986 – graduation eve, the quarry. You’re skipping rocks when Nancy finds you in her cap and gown, curls escaping her mortarboard. “Seventh grade,” she says. “I wrote my name on you.” “Still there in Sharpie scars.” She steps close, lake wind whipping her hair. “I’m done pretending.” Your heart slams. “Nance—” “I’ve watched you bleed for Max, laugh with Eddie, let Robin hug you—and I’m done sharing.” Her hands fist your shirt. “You’ve been mine since art class. Say it.”

You swallow. “I’ve been yours since art class.”

She kisses you like the world’s ending—because it might be. Teeth clash, breath mingles, four years of mine igniting. When you break apart, breathless, she rests her forehead against yours. “About damn time,” Max whoops from the shore. Robin wolf-whistles. Nancy flips them both off without breaking eye contact. “Mine,” she whispers again, softer. You laugh into her mouth. The Upside Down can wait.

---

Authors Note:

shauna shipman x reader (ft. jackie taylor) pre-crash, high school slowburn, possessive!shauna, trio tension, heated kiss, teen angst ~2.3k | ---

I’ve known Shauna Shipman since we were kids trading stickers on the playground, but lately she’s been looking at me like I’m the last one left in her collection and she’s terrified someone else will snatch me. Jackie’s always been the sun we orbit around—loud, bright, impossible to ignore—but Shauna’s the gravity, the quiet pull that keeps me from drifting too far. I never thought she’d tighten the rope until it burned.

It starts in the cafeteria on a Tuesday that smells like overcooked tater tots and Jackie’s vanilla body spray. Jackie’s perched on the table, legs swinging, mid-rant about Jeff forgetting their six-month anniversary again, and I’m laughing so hard my eyes water because her dramatic hand gestures nearly knock over Shauna’s Coke. Shauna’s quiet like always, but I feel her staring before I see it—dark eyes locked on my mouth, the way it curves when I laugh, like she’s trying to carve the shape of it into her memory. Jackie’s oblivious, waving a fry for emphasis, but Shauna’s knee nudges mine under the table and stays there, warm and deliberate, a silent claim. I meet her gaze and she doesn’t flinch, just lets her eyes drag slow from my lips back up to mine, something hungry flickering there. Heat pools low in my stomach. Jackie keeps talking. Shauna’s leg doesn’t move an inch.

Later in the parking lot the sky’s bruising purple and Jackie’s complaining about Coach running suicides until her lungs burned. I’m leaning against Shauna’s beat-up jeep waiting for her to unlock it when Jackie sneaks up behind me, arms looping around my waist, chin hooking over my shoulder in that easy, affectionate way she’s had since freshman year. “You’re coming to the party on friday, right? You promised,” she sing-songs, breath warm against my ear. I nod, laughing, but Shauna’s keys freeze mid-air. She doesn’t say anything, just stares at Jackie’s hands splayed over my stomach like they personally offend her, then yanks the passenger door open so hard the hinges squeal. “Get in,” she mutters, voice flat. I do, Jackie sliding into the back still chattering about keg stands and whether Randy Walsh is finally going to make a move on Nat. Shauna’s knuckles are white on the steering wheel the whole drive, jaw ticking every time Jackie leans forward between the seats to poke my shoulder.

The possessiveness creeps in after that, slow and insidious. Shauna starts sitting closer in bio, thigh pressed to mine under the desk, her pen tapping a restless rhythm against the margin of my notebook like she’s inking her name across my skin. When Jackie texts the group chat about movie night at her place—bring popcorn and your best pajamas—Shauna replies before I can even open the message: we’re busy. Jackie spams question marks and skull emojis; Shauna ignores them, pockets her phone, and drags me to the library instead. “I need help with the Great Gatsby essay,” she says, but the way she says it, low and rough, makes it clear the essay’s the last thing on her mind. She picks the corner table in the back, the one half-hidden by encyclopedias nobody’s touched since 1987, and sits across from me with her knees bracketing mine under the wood. Every time I lean forward to point at a quote her fingers brush my wrist, lingering longer than necessary, thumb tracing the thin skin where my pulse jumps. “Focus,” she murmurs, but her voice is gravel and her eyes keep dropping to my mouth like she’s imagining what it would feel like under hers.

Jackie corners me in the locker room after Thursday practice, toweling off her hair while I tug my hoodie over my head. “Shauna’s being weirdly clingy lately,” she says, bumping my hip with hers. “Like, more than her usual brooding lesbian vampire vibe. You two fighting or fucking?” I choke on air, hoodie half-stuck over my face, and Jackie laughs bright and sharp, but there’s something watchful in her eyes, like she’s testing the waters. Shauna’s two lockers down pretending to lace her cleats, but I see her shoulders go rigid, fingers fumbling the knot. I mumble something about homework and escape before Jackie can dig deeper, but the seed’s planted. I catch Shauna watching me in the mirror as I leave, eyes dark and unreadable.

Friday night is the party at Jackie’s—parents in New York for the weekend, basement decked out with stolen Christmas lights and a keg someone’s cousin definitely paid for with a fake ID. The music’s loud enough to rattle my ribs, bass thumping through the floorboards. I’m three vodka-crans in, laughing on the couch with Jackie’s head on my shoulder, her fingers playing with the hem of my shirt, when some guy from the soccer team—Mike? Matt?—plops down on my other side and slings an arm around me like we’re old pals. Jackie’s still talking, something about Nat and Travis maybe hooking up in the upstairs bathroom, when I feel Shauna before I see her. The air shifts, heavy and electric, and then she’s there, standing over the couch, eyes black with something dangerous. “We’re leaving,” she says, voice flat and final. She doesn’t wait for an answer—just grabs my wrist and pulls me up, ignoring Jackie’s indignant “Hey, what the hell, Shipman?” and Mike/Matt’s confused “Wait, what’d I do?”

Outside the air is sharp with October cold and Shauna’s still holding my wrist, dragging me around the side of the house to the shadows by the garage where the porch light doesn’t reach. The music thumps muffled behind the walls and she backs me against the brick, hands braced on either side of my head, caging me in. Her flannel brushes my arms and she’s close enough I can smell her shampoo—something citrusy—and the faint trace of cherry lip gloss she swiped from Jackie’s bathroom counter earlier. “What the fuck was that?” she asks, low and furious, and I’m breathless from the walk, from the vodka, from the way she’s looking at me like she wants to devour me whole. “Jackie’s all over you, then that guy—do you even see how they look at you?” Her voice cracks on the last word and I realize she’s shaking, fine tremors running through her fingers where they grip the brick.

“Shauna,” I start, but she cuts me off with a sharp shake of her head. “I can’t do this anymore.” She leans in, forehead pressed to mine, breath warm against my lips. “Watching you with her, with everyone else, pretending I don’t want—” She stops, swallows hard, throat working. “I’m so fucking in love with you it hurts.” The confession rips out of her like it’s been clawing at her ribs for months and I’m dizzy with it, with her. I’ve felt it too—the way my skin buzzes when she’s close, the way Jackie’s bright, easy affection never quite fills the space Shauna leaves when she goes quiet and broody. I’ve caught myself staring at the sharp line of her jaw in class, wondering what her mouth would feel like on mine, what her hands would do if she ever stopped holding back.

“Shauna,” I whisper, and that’s all it takes. She crashes into me like a wave, desperate and messy, teeth clacking at first before she slows, licks into my mouth slow and filthy, cherry lip gloss and cheap beer and something uniquely Shauna. One hand slides into my hair, fingers tangling to tilt my head exactly how she wants; the other drops to my hip, thumb slipping under the hem of my shirt to trace bare skin. I moan into it, can’t help it, and she presses closer, thigh sliding between mine, the friction making me gasp against her tongue. She tastes like summer and want and every secret we’ve both been keeping. When she pulls back just enough to bite my bottom lip, sharp and possessive, I feel it spark straight to my core. “Mine,” she murmurs against my mouth, voice rough with reverence, and kisses me again, slower, deeper, until my knees are weak and my hands are fisted in her flannel like I’ll float away if I let go.