IN A VERY, VERY, GAY WAY! — nancy wheeler x fem!reader
an: trying a new theme what'dya think? people need to start reading author's notes. i got like 10 submissions for st5 after saying im done writing (im not coming back because of submissions) it kinda bothers me how people don't read authors notes i feel like y'all lowkey don't care for anything but my smut 😭 which sucks because i really wanna connect with my readers and have regulars but oh well in due time!! anyways i've never written about a female character before which is weird because im literally bisexual so i wanted to give my ladies some love w this. comment doodoofart if u read this
tw: wlw (don't know why i have to put this here but wtv), thigh humping, cunnilingus (f receiving both ends), sweet smut?, begging to cum, some praise, heated kissing, bathroom sex, semi-voyeurism, drunken confessions, mentions of alcohol.
It started as a quiet, persistent hum in the back of your mind, a low-grade fever you couldn't shake. Nancy Wheeler. You told yourself it was admiration, that's all. It was perfectly normal to admire a girl who was so effortlessly smart. She wasn't one of those obnoxious know-it-alls who flaunted their intelligence like a weapon; hers was a quiet, confident kind of brilliance. She just knew things, and when she explained them, she made you feel like you could know them, too. It was an admirable quality, you reasoned. A friendly one.
But the lie began to fray at the edges. It wasn't just her mind. It was the way her brunette hair caught the light in the library and turned it into a halo of copper and gold. It was the scent of her shampoo-something clean and floral, like fresh laundry and spring days-that seemed to cling to the air long after she'd walked past your locker. It was the kindness in her eyes, the way a genuine, crinkly-eyed smile could transform her serious face into something so open and warm it made your chest ache.
And then there was her body. You tried not to look, you really did. You tried to keep your eyes on her face when you talked, but your gaze would inevitably betray you, drifting down to the graceful column of her neck, the delicate curve of her shoulders under her pastel sweaters, the way her jeans hugged the dip of her waist and the swell of her hips. You felt like a pervert, a secret voyeur cataloging every detail for your own private, shameful consumption. You'd lie in bed at night, the image of her burned behind your eyelids, and a sick, hot wave of guilt would wash over you. This wasn't admiration. This was a full-blown, stomach-twisting, heart-pounding crush. In a very, very gay way.
The real hell began when Steve Harrington started sniffing around her. Steve, your friend. Your goofy, hair-obsessed, lovably clueless friend. The first time you saw him lean against her locker, all easy smiles and charming bravado, something ugly and volatile roared to life in your gut. It felt like you'd swallowed a pint of battery acid. It was a corrosive mix of blinding rage and a jealousy so potent it made you feel sick. Who was he to talk to her? To make her laugh like that? He didn't see the things you saw. He didn't appreciate the quiet genius, the hidden kindness. He just saw the pretty girl, the prize to be won. Every time their paths crossed, you felt it again - that acidic bubble rising in your throat, a bitter reminder of everything you couldn't have.
The breaking point-or perhaps the tipping point-was one of Steve's infamous house parties. The air was heavy with the smell of cheap beer and stale popcorn, and the bass from his stereo thumped a relentless, dull beat against your skull. You'd spent the whole night nursing a lukewarm soda and watching from a distance as Steve tried, and mostly failed, to impress Nancy. By the end of the night, she was tipsy, her words slurring just enough to be endearing, and her usual sharp edges softened into a hazy, drunken warmth. Being the responsible one, and seeing an opportunity, you volunteered to drive her home.
The ride was mostly silent save for the hum of your car's engine and the occasional nonsensical giggle from the passenger seat. She was babbling, a string of drunken ramblings about Jonathan Byers's photography and some weird experiment in chemistry class. You tuned most of it out, focusing on the slick, dark road ahead, your hands gripping the wheel a little too tightly.
"Y'knowww," she slurred, her voice suddenly slicing through the fog in your head. "I dooon't even liiikeee Steeeve." She let out a loud, ungraceful hiccup. "Haha. hiccup. I thiiiink his HAAIR is cute and all," she conceded, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, "but I don't like him." She paused, and you could feel her gaze on you, heavy and intense in the dim glow of the dashboard. "III think. you'reee prettyyy though, y/n/n."
Your heart seized. A heat so intense swept into your cheeks you were surprised the car windows didn't fog up. You clutched the wheel, knuckles white, and fought to keep the car in a straight line. "You're just drunk, Nance," you choked out, the words strained and not exactly convincing. "You'll forget all about this in the morning."
She snickered, a low, drunken sound, and pulled her knees up to her chest, resting her chin on them. "Pprrrob'ly," she drawled, her eyes twinkling. "Still think yurr pretty."
Your throat was dry. You swallowed hard, your free hand coming up to scratch the back of your head, a nervous tic you couldn't control. "Yeah," you whispered, the admission feeling both terrifying and exhilarating. "I think you're pretty, too."
You risked a glance over at her, ready to see her reaction, but she was already gone. Her head was lolled against the window, her breathing soft and even. She was asleep. The words - your first and only honest confession - hung in the air between you, unheard and unacknowledged.
The week that followed was a masterclass in avoidance: a switch had been flipped in your brain, and every instinct in you screamed to flee. You arrived at third-period math early, switching from your normal seat to one in the back corner, where you huddled behind a textbook you weren't reading.
You got a sixth sense about her presence in the crowded hallways-your body automatically swerved into another classroom or ducked behind a clot of jocks whenever you saw that familiar strawberry-blonde hair. And over lunch, all it took was the sight of her headed toward your table, and you were off, blurting out some spindly excuse-"Bathroom," "Forgot my textbook," "Feeling sick"-and making for the exit, not returning until you knew she was gone.
You were a coward. You knew that. But the alternative-facing her, seeing the confusion or pity in her eyes-was unthinkable. Today was no different. You watched her make her way across the cafeteria, a tray in her hands, and your fight-or-flight response kicked in with a vengeance. "Bathroom," you blurted to your friends, not waiting for an answer before you were out of your seat and speed-walking toward the nearest exit.
You didn't stop until you were in the deserted third-floor corridor, pushing open the heavy door to the girls' bathroom-the one nobody used, the one with a perpetually flickering light and the faint smell of old cleaning supplies. It was your sanctuary. You leaned over the cold, cracked porcelain of the sink, splashing cool water on your flushed face. You stared at your reflection-a pitiful, anxious stranger stared back.
You took a deep, shuddering breath, trying to quiet the frantic hummingbird in your chest. Then the door slammed shut behind you, the sound echoing through the small, tiled room like a gunshot. You jumped, your head snapping up so fast you felt a twinge in your neck. And there she was: Nancy Wheeler. Her face was a thundercloud of hurt and fury, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. The last girl on earth you wanted to see and here she was, standing right in front of you.
"Okay, fess up," she said, her voice dangerously low. "Why are you ignoring me?"
Your heart hammered against your ribs like a trapped bird. You couldn't look at her, couldn't face the raw hurt in her eyes. You focused instead on the water stain on the ceiling, a shapeless brown blob that suddenly seemed fascinating. "I'm not ignoring you," you lied, your voice a thin, reedy thing that didn't even sound like your own.
Nancy let out a short, humorless laugh. "Bullshit." She took a step forward, the worn sole of her Converse squeaking against the grimy tile. "You've been dodging me for a week. A week. Ever since... ever since the party. Did I do something wrong? Did I say something stupid?" Her voice cracked on the last word, the anger dissolving into a pained vulnerability that was a thousand times worse. It was the sound of rejection, and you were the one wielding the knife.
"No! No, you didn't," you rushed to say, your gaze finally snapping to hers. The sight of her, standing there looking so small and wounded, broke something open inside you. The dam you'd so carefully constructed all week crumbled into dust. "It's not you. It's me. It's... complicated."
"Then uncomplicate it," she pleaded, taking another step closer until she was right in front of you. The scent of her shampoo, the one you'd tried so hard to forget, filled your senses. "Because I thought... I thought we were friends. And I don't want to lose that over whatever is making you act like I have the plague."
The week of pent-up anxiety, jealousy, and longing came rushing to the surface, a tidal wave of emotion you could no longer contain. "It's because of what you said in the car," you blurted out, the words tumbling out of your mouth in a frantic, messy rush. "What you said about Steve... and about me."
Nancy's expression shifted from confusion to dawning realization, her eyes widening slightly. "That I thought you were pretty?" A flicker of something you couldn't name—hope?—crossed her face.
You nodded miserably, your cheeks burning with a shame so deep it felt like it was scorching you from the inside out. "And that I said you were pretty back."
A small, hesitant smile touched her lips. "Okay... so why is that a bad thing?"
"Because!" you exclaimed, your voice rising with a desperate, frustrated energy. "Because I don't just think you're pretty, Nancy! I think about you all the time. I think about your hair and your smile and the way you smell. I get sick to my stomach when I see you with Steve, and I feel like a total creep for it. I'm in love with you, okay? There, I said it. I like you, in a very, VERY, gay way!"
The silence that followed was deafening, stretching out for an eternity. You braced yourself, your entire body tensing for the impact of her rejection, for her to call you a freak and run out of the bathroom, leaving you alone in your pathetic confession.
Instead, she closed the remaining distance between you until there was nothing left but a sliver of air. She reached out and gently, so gently, tucked a stray strand of hair behind your ear. Her fingers were warm against your skin.
"Took you long enough," she whispered, her eyes shining with an emotion that made your breath catch. And then she was kissing you.
It wasn't a gentle, questioning kiss. It was a desperate, hungry kiss, a week's worth of unspoken feelings pouring out in a single, explosive moment. Her lips were soft and tasted like cherry lip balm, and she kissed with a fierce intensity that stole the air from your lungs. You kissed her back just as hard, your hands tangling in her hair, pulling her closer, needing to feel her against you. You stumbled back until your hips hit the cold, hard edge of the sink, and Nancy followed, her body molding to yours. The kiss was messy and heated, all teeth and tongue and frantic need. You broke apart, panting for breath, your foreheads resting together.
"I've wanted to do that for so long," she admitted, her voice husky and raw.
"Me too," you breathed, your heart hammering a wild rhythm against your ribs.
You captured her lips again, one of your hands sliding from her hair down to the small of her back, pressing her even tighter against you. She let out a soft whimper against your mouth, a sound that goes straight to your core. You can feel the heat building between your legs, a desperate ache that you've only ever felt in secret, late-night thoughts about her. You trail your kisses down her jaw to her neck, licking and nipping at the sensitive skin there. She tilts her head back, giving you better access, her fingers gripping your shoulders.
"Please," she whimpers, her hips rocking against yours. "Touch me."
You don't need to be told twice. Your hands find the hem of her shirt and slip underneath, your fingers tracing the soft, warm skin of her stomach. She shivers at your touch, a soft gasp escaping her lips. You explore her body, your hands roaming up her sides, your thumbs brushing against the wire of her bra. You can feel her nipples, hard and straining against the lace. You tease her through the fabric, and she moans, her head falling back against the mirror with a soft thud.
"Please," she begs again. "I need more."
You pull her shirt over her head, tossing it carelessly onto the floor. Her bra is a simple, lacy thing, and you fumble with the clasp for a moment before it comes free. You slide it off her shoulders, and her breasts are finally exposed to you.
They're perfect, pale and round with rosy nipples that are already peaked with arousal. You lean down, taking one into your mouth, swirling your tongue around the sensitive peak. Nancy cries out, her hands flying to your hair, holding you to her as you lavish attention on her breast. You lavish the same attention on the other, your other hand sliding down to the button of her jeans.
You undo the button and zipper, your knuckles brushing against the warmth of her core. She's already so wet, you can feel it through her underwear. You hook your fingers into the waistband of her jeans and panties, pulling them down her legs until they pool at her feet. She kicks them away, standing before you, completely naked and breathtakingly beautiful in the dim light of the bathroom.
You drop to your knees, your eyes never leaving hers. You can smell her arousal, a sweet, musky scent that makes your mouth water. You lean forward and press a soft kiss to her inner thigh, and she shivers, her legs trembling slightly. You kiss your way up her thigh, getting closer and closer to where she wants you most. You can see how wet she is, her folds glistening with her arousal. You part her lips with your fingers and blow a gentle stream of air against her clit. She lets out a choked moan, her hips bucking forward.
"Please," she begs, her voice ragged. "God, you're such a tease.."
You smile, then finally give her what she wants. You flatten your tongue and lick a long, slow stripe from her entrance to her clit. She cries out, her whole body trembling. You do it again, and again, your tongue exploring every inch of her. You circle her clit, flicking it with the tip of your tongue before sucking it into your mouth. She's writhing against you, her hands tangled in your hair, her moans growing louder and more desperate. You slide a finger inside her, then another, curling them to find that spot inside her that makes her see stars.
"Oh god, right there," she gasps, her hips grinding against your face. "Don't stop. Please, don't stop."
You pump your fingers in and out of her, your tongue working her clit relentlessly. You can feel her walls clenching around your fingers, a sure sign that she's close. You double your efforts, sucking her clit harder, fucking her faster with your fingers.
"Please," she begs, her voice a high-pitched whine. "Please, can I cum? Please let me cum."
"Come for me, Nance," you murmur against her. "I want to taste you."
That's all it takes. With a loud, keening cry, her body tenses, and then she's shattering, her orgasm ripping through her. You feel her pulse around your fingers as she comes, her thighs shaking uncontrollably. You lap up her release, your tongue gentle now, helping her ride out the waves of her pleasure. You stay there until her breathing slows and she gently tugs on your hair, pulling you up.
You stand, your knees a little weak, and she kisses you, a deep, languid kiss that tastes of her. She fumbles with the hem of your own shirt, her hands shaking slightly. "Your turn," she whispers against your lips. She pulls your shirt over your head, her eyes roaming over your body with an awe that makes you feel powerful. She unbuttons your jeans, sliding them and your underwear down until you're just as naked as she is.
She leads you to the floor, laying you down on your discarded clothes. She settles between your legs, her body hovering over yours. She kisses you again,
She kisses you again, her hands roaming over your body with a newfound confidence. Her touch is electric, leaving a trail of fire in its wake. She breaks the kiss, her eyes dark with desire as she looks down at you. "I want to make you feel good," she says, her voice a low, husky whisper. "I want to make you feel as good as you make me feel."
She doesn't wait for an answer. She kisses her way down your body, her lips soft and wet against your skin. She pays special attention to your breasts, her tongue swirling around your nipples, teasing them into hard peaks. You arch your back, a soft moan escaping your lips as she takes one into her mouth, sucking gently. Her hand slides down your stomach, her fingers tracing the line of your hip before dipping between your legs.
You're already so wet, so ready for her. She slides a finger through your folds, gathering your arousal before circling your clit. You gasp, your hips bucking up to meet her hand. She smiles against your skin, clearly pleased with your reaction. She slides a finger inside you, then another, her thumb continuing to rub slow, deliberate circles against your clit.
"You're so wet," she murmurs, her voice filled with wonder. "Is this all for me?"
"All for you," you manage to gasp out, your hands fisting in her hair. "Only for you."
She starts to move her fingers, pumping them in and out of you in a slow, steady rhythm. It's not enough, and you tell her so. "More," you beg. "Please, Nance, more."
She obliges, increasing the pace of her fingers, her thumb pressing harder against your clit. You can feel the pleasure building, a tight coil of heat low in your belly. But it's not quite enough to push you over the edge. You need something more.
"Please," you whimper, your hips grinding against her hand. "I need... I need your mouth."
She doesn't hesitate. She pulls her fingers out of you and replaces them with her mouth. You cry out as her tongue makes contact with your clit, licking and sucking with a fervor that takes your breath away. She's a natural, a fast learner, and she seems to know exactly what you like. She slides her fingers back inside you, curling them just right, and that's it. That's the final push you need.
The coil of heat in your belly snaps, and your orgasm crashes over you like a wave. You cry out her name, your body arching off the floor as the pleasure overwhelms you. She doesn't stop, her tongue and fingers working you through your orgasm, drawing out your pleasure until you're a trembling, whimpering mess.
When you finally come back to earth, she's kissing you again, her tongue tangling with yours, sharing your taste. You can feel the heat building in you again, a slow, simmering need that has nowhere to go. You want more. You want all of her.
You roll her over, reversing your positions until you're hovering over her. She looks up at you, her eyes wide with surprise and desire.
"That was..." she says, her voice trailing off.
"Amazing," you finish for her.
She nods, a lazy, satisfied smile on her face. "Amazing."
You lie there for a while, just holding each other, your bodies tangled together on the cold, hard floor of the bathroom. The reality of the situation starts to sink in, but for once, it doesn't scare you. This feels right. This feels real.
"I meant what I said," you whisper, your voice barely audible. "I'm in love with you."
She tightens her arms around you, pressing a soft kiss to your temple. "I know," she says. "I'm in love with you, too."
You shift, rolling onto your side to face her. You can feel the heat building between you again, a slow, simmering need that has nowhere to go. You want more. You want all of her. You want to be as close to her as two people can possibly be.
You slide your leg between hers, your thigh pressing against her core. She gasps, her hips rocking against you instinctively. You can feel how wet she is, how ready she is for you. You start to move, your thigh rubbing against her clit in a slow, steady rhythm.
"Is this okay?" you ask, your voice husky with desire.
"More than okay," she breathes, her hands roaming over your back.
You increase the pace, your movements becoming more urgent. She meets you thrust for thrust, her hips rising to meet yours. The friction is delicious, a slow, building burn that has you both gasping for air. You can feel another orgasm building, this one slower and deeper than the last.
You lean down, capturing her lips in a passionate kiss. You pour all of your love, all of your desire, all of your longing into that kiss, and she meets you every step of the way. You can feel her getting closer, her movements becoming more erratic, her breathing growing ragged.
"Please," she whimpers against your lips. "I'm so close."
You grind your thigh against her harder, faster, pushing her toward the edge. With a loud, keening cry, she comes, her body trembling uncontrollably as her orgasm washes over her. The feeling of her coming undone against you is enough to push you over the edge, and you follow her into oblivion, your own orgasm ripping through you.
You collapse against her, both of you breathless and spent. You lie there for a long time, just holding each other, your bodies slick with sweat and your hearts beating in perfect sync. The bell for the next period rings, a shrill, jarring sound that breaks the spell.
"We should probably get to class," you say, though you have no desire to move.
"Probably," she agrees, making no effort to move either.
You share a look, a silent understanding passing between you. School, Steve, the rest of the world—it could all wait. For now, it was just the two of you, tangled together on the floor of a forgotten bathroom, and that was more than enough.
