#post-s4

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.

(and does it anyway on accident and ends up thinking his 💕boy's boy💕 might be ✖️stepping out) ——(1/3)

Wayne Munson’s lived his life mostly free from the hubbub of small town gossip. Some was unavoidable in his tiny holler as a boy; more was part and parcel to the service, and plain keeping half-sane in war—anything for a distraction. After all that though, Wayne’d had more’n his fill of even a teaspoon of hearsay, and compared to where he came from? Hawkins, Indiana was small potatoes for keepin’ his nose clear out of it.

Which is all to say he don’t mean to collect any of the latest scuttlebutt on his way just to town after he gets off his shift with the sun barely a glimmer, just past 5 for Leah’s to be open for a better cup-o-joe than the sludge he gets on the floor. All he wants is a hot nightcap because he knows damn well his boy didn’t pick up more grounds before Melvald’s closed last night, and Wayne doesn’t want to see his bed until he’s had a full mug of fair-to-middling coffee.

And honest: he don’t think that’s more than he’s earned to ask.

But it is more than he bargained for signing’ up to, when he sees the only other people in the diner at this hour on a Saturday.

Because the only other people are a girl he don’t know, though he can’t see her real well from the back, which only really means he sees her coffee date full-on and much too well in exchange because they’re leaned in and they’re being all touchy across the table, voices low but not too low—he don’t think they even noticed him come in, let alone come to wait close enough to hear ‘em while he insists on saving the lovely Leah herself the trip to a table when he can damn well carry his own drink, thanks kindly.

“You’re gonna have a coronary if you keep hiding this.”

The girl sounds…she sounds the way Wayne remembers his Mamaw sounding when she was about to hit his Grampy up the head over some harebrained such-and-such. Exasperated, but all from a deep well of unshakable loving.

Which is what perks up Wayne’s attention, and then churns his insides quick right-next, because—

Well. The boy this young lady’s being all over-fond at for his antics is Steve Harrington.

Who, for all that Wayne understands, is meant to be his boy’s boy.

“No, no,” Steve’s shaking his head, tone bowstring-taut; “I’m gonna tell him.” Kid sounds resolved for all of half-a-second before he’s groaning, running hands over his face: “Or, I mean—”

The thunk of the boy’s head to the tabletop clatters the cutlery, and if Wayne weren’t already clued into their conversation, he’d be wholly absolved for dropping eaves given how the noise echoes through the mostly-empty establishment bar-to-door.

“Dingus,” the girl says, and it drips with concern, with affection, with a deep choler that, again, sings loud of married-couple.

Which twists Wayne’s guts all the more to hear.

Because she’s talking to Wayne’s boy’s boy.

KNOCK AT THE CABIN

Series Masterlist

Pairing: Eddie Munson x fem!reader

Series Summary: After the events of the previous months, everyone is shocked by the unexpected return of an old friend. But is it really him, and how much has he changed?

🔞 MDNI! CW: Post-S4, dark themes, canon-typical violence, smut; please read the cautions for each chapter

Prologue

Part One

Part Two

Part Three

Extra: Part One, Flip Flopped

My masterlist

Joyce grimaced and curled the phone cord around her wrist as she mumbled her response into the receiver.

“We haven't.”

“Excuse me?”

Sooo I’ve decided to free this one from the drafts. Hope you enjoy :)

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Sherlock (BBC TV 2010) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade Characters: Mycroft Holmes, Greg Lestrade, Sherlock Holmes Additional Tags: Post-Season/Series 04, 221B Baker Street Party, Mycroft struggles after Sherrinford, Greg takes care of Mycroft, Sherlock is Trying HIs Best, Mycroft has a new suit, Smoking, First Kiss, Inspired by Taylor Swift, Song: Dress (Taylor Swift) Summary:

Author: @nature-and-music

Rating/Warning: Explicit

Chapter Count: 1/1

Description: Chrissy has spent the week teasing and messing around with Eddie. It would be one thing when they're alone, but she's doing it at school. Eddie is definitely surprised at her attempts, but he's certainly in for an even bigger surprise at the end of the week.

two truths, one lie by @sheriffandsteel​ 

"She's my daughter." Beth means to stop there but the next words slip out of their own accord, one more truth free of charge. "And I'll kill anyone who tries to touch her."

Beth escapes the prison with Judith and searches for their family. Being alone with a baby and trying to keep them both safe from the dead and worse, the living, is no easy feat. When she is offered sanctuary from an unlikely source she doesn't trust it, but she still takes it.

"What do you want?" her voice doesn't shake, Beth isn't sure how as she feels like she is shaking like a leaf but her voice comes out steady and cool. It reminds her of Daryl, as much of a hothead as he can be, when they are in danger he can keep his voice steadier than anyone when facing trouble.

"Your shit." the man in the middle says calmly, taking a step forward heedless of the gun in Beth's hand. "Then you."

The world sways and Beth conjures up Daryl's blank face when people threatened him and forces her face to wear the same features.

"You can't have us." Beth drops her hand from Judith whose cries are providing a fitting soundtrack to this moment and draws her machete in her right hand. She hopes that these people take it as a sign she is willing to fight hard and not as a signal that the gun is empty. She has never killed someone before but as she stares into the remorseless eyes of the people before her Beth knows that she will tonight. If that is what it takes for Judith and her to walk out of there she'll do it. Until the bitter end, she will fight, no matter what it costs her.

She thinks that the man before her is smiling but she can't tell through the dirt and the darkness. A movement flickers in the corner of her eye and Beth's heart sinks as she remembers her back is unprotected. She has been so worried about the people before her she hasn't spared a second to worry about watching her back.

To her surprise, the people before her don't look smug to watch their friends surrounding her. One is inching slowly to the woods and the others are stepping backward.

"You said she was alone." the leader hisses to the one on the right whose eyes are so wide Beth can see the whites from where she stands.

Before she can wonder too much at their reactions or fear what is behind her several loud shots ring out. They are loud enough to be heard over Judith's cries and Beth's ears ache from all the noise. Blood rains on the pavement as the four people before her crumble to the ground. Some of the splatters reach Beth's boots and she blinks at them for a moment before spinning around, her ankle protesting at the movement. She keeps the gun steady and the machete high as she surveys this new group of problems in the quickly fading light.

Three men, two women. Some primal fear deep inside Beth lessens at the sight of the women although it doesn't fade completely. Four of them are holding the guns that killed the people behind her and saved Beth and she feels a heady mix of gratitude and fear. The fear wins out and that keeps her arms steady as the fifth member of this new group scans her up and down.

Beth can't help but wonder what he sees, easy pickings like the group he just took out clearly did? Someone weak and willing to cow to them because they saved her life? Certainly not as someone to fear or he wouldn't be smiling at her like that, letting his weapon of choice rest casually against his leather-clad shoulder as if he'd just hit a home run and could saunter around the bases instead of the usual sprint.

"Well now," he tuts stopping just out of reach of her machete should she choose to swing it. As if she would be stupid enough to do so. Beth can see two of the guns pointed at her. She wonders if both shots would be meant for her or if one would be intended for Judith. The thought makes her sick and she wants to curl around the little girl in protection but that would mean lowering one of her weapons and Beth doesn't dare risk that, not with guns on her and the man before her.

His eyes flicker from her gun to the machete and he smiles at her like he's the big bad wolf from the story and he wants to show her how sharp his teeth are.

Stranger Things fic. Mike-POV. Mike/El & Mike/Will

Summary: The thing is, Mike feels like he’s still lying to El. He feels like his heart is breaking every time he looks at her.

But maybe that’s the new normal for him. Because he feels like his heart is breaking every time he looks at Will as well.

Series: Seventeen Seconds

Notes: post season 4, spoilers for season 4 Vol. 2, missing scenes, introspection, angst

Also on Ao3

When Eleven woke up and told them about Max, all Mike could do was hold her as she sobbed. That moment when he finally felt like he was doing something important – that his words were helping rather than hurting El – vanished so quickly it was as though it had never existed. The helplessness he’d been feeling ever since his first day in California took hold of his body again as the water from the bath and El’s tears soaked his clothes.