Pairing: Steve Harrington x Reader ▵ Eddie Munson x Reader▵ Gator Tillman x Reader ▵ Kurt Kunkle x Reader ▵ Travis Meacham x Reader ▵ Johnny Storm x Reader
Summary: Something draws you to him, just like something draws him to you.
Word Count: 2000+ each
Tags: Not established relationship, fluff, a lot of love at first sight what can I say I live to yearn and be yearned for, Scoops!Stevie we're in our loser boy era, 1983!Eddie deeply mistrustful of his peers, I don't want to spoil Johnny's I'm actually very happy with his one in particular.
Warnings: 18+, Explicit Language, Kurt Kunkle, Travis debates stalking he struggles with affection but it's fine because I love him, Gator is thirsty practically foaming at the mouth positively slobbering.
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Steve lets out an exasperated sigh, his shoulders slumping forward in crippling defeat as a girl once again shuts him down before he can even ask for her number. His forehead meets the top of the ice cream display case with a soft thud. He groans loudly to try and drown out the relentless squeak of his co-worker's cherry red marker as she tallies yet another loss on the board. Robin perches on the counter on the other side of the divider, grimaces at the board, and turns to the sulking sailor, “This is starting to be more sad than fun.” Steve’s currently 0 - 8, and she’s certain he’s getting worse at whatever it is he’s attempting to do.
Steve lifts his head from where he’s mourning the charmer he once was, whipping around to scowl at the other sailor. “Then stop doing it,” he hisses, shoving his crooked hat back into place and huffing as he leans back against the counter, staring daggers into the board that mocks him.
Robin looks to the board, then back at the sulking boy in front of her. “How will we know that you suck at flirting though?” She asks with an innocent shrug, re-capping the marker and placing it back onto the holder.
“I don’t want to talk to you anymore,” Steve sneers, arms crossed over his chest as he glares at the girl and then back at the tally. Maybe the numbers will change if he looks at them hard enough.
Robin can’t stop the smirk on her face as she chirps, “I don’t want to experience second-hand embarrassment anymore, but sometimes we don’t get what we want.”
“It’s the stupid hat, I’m telling you,” Steve whines, scuffing his shoe on the floor with a disgruntled pout on his lips as he gestures to the offending item with an annoyed point.
Robin scrunches her face in disbelief, “You said that last week, and still embarrassed yourself,” she reminds, shaking her head in confusion.
Steve feels the rosy heat of embarrassment crawl its way up his neck as he argues, “Well, it’s different this week!” He rips the damn thing off his head and tosses it through the divider, freeing his hair, which naturally seems to tousle perfectly, highlighting the natural blonde streaks the sun seems to have kissed upon his hair.
“How exactly?” Robin asks, hopping off the counter, her face a picture of pure skepticism as she folds her arms across her chest.
Steve stammers for a second as he tries to articulate what could possibly be different this week, compared to last week, “It just is, okay?! Any second now, a total babe is gonna walk in, and I’m gonna woo them,” Steve says, puffing his chest out with false confidence. Robin rolls her eyes. Here he goes again.
“Hey Steve,” A chipper voice breaks their bickering, both sailors turning to look at the owner of said voice, eyes angling down as there stood at the counter one, Dustin Henderson, all bright smiles and cargo shorts. He gives a cheerful little wave to Robin before grinning expectantly at his best friend.
Both of the teens stare blankly at the younger boy, before Robin, now staring a hole into Steve’s head, deadpans, “Go on, Harrington, woo him,” gesturing for the perfect-haired teen to get on with it.
Steve rolls his eyes at the girl before asking his curly-haired friend, “Henderson, what are you doing here?”
“Getting ice cream with my super cool new friend,” Dustin replies with a smug smile and nonchalant shrug of his shoulders as if he wasn’t hoping they’d ask.
Both teens look around, but other than families with their kids and gaggles of pre-teen friend groups, there’s no one who looks like they’re here with the boy in front of them. Robin’s the first to address the lack of a super cool friend in the room, “You’re alone right now, dingus, is this friend imaginary?”
Dustin’s brows knit in wounded pride. “No! what’s with you guys and not believing I have a social life?” He kind expected this from Robin, but he shoots a betrayed look at Steve, arms crossed, silently demanding backup from his so-called best friend.
Steve stiffens, gaze darting anywhere but Dustin’s face. It’s not that he doubts Dustin’s friend-making skills, but a girlfriend and a super cool new friend in one summer? Come on. Besides, Steve’s the only super cool friend Dustin has. “It’s just-”
“Hey, I found a bunch of quarters in my bag. Think if I try hard enough, I can win the banana man plushie from that totally rigged claw outside?” Appearing out of seemingly nowhere next to Dustin is just about the prettiest, most beautiful, ethereal human being Steve thinks he’s ever seen. They have their head slightly angled down, as they count the handful of quarters with their manicured nails; their hands look soft. They’re wearing a black polo, half-tucked into jeans, which peeks out from under a zip-up hoodie. A Radio Shack lanyard hangs around their neck.
Dustin must’ve dragged you straight out of work. Steve tries to look at your name on your ID, but he can’t quite make it out. Finally, you look up, and your eyes meet his. Steve feels like he's been punched in the gut, the way all air leaves his body. You glance at the trio staring at you and ask, a hint of concern in your voice, “What are we looking at?”
“They think you’re not real,” Dustin huffs, arms crossed and lips jutting out in a dramatic pout. He shoots the teens a look of pure triumph, barely restraining himself from leaping onto the ice cream case and squawking the loudest ‘I told you so’ in history.
“Oh…” You say with a little nod. You still have no idea what’s going on, pocketing your quarters, you ask the boy next to you, “Did you order?”
Dustin pops back to his jovial self as he turns his attention to the menu and says, “Oh right, can I get uhhhhhhhhhhh-“
Robin nearly slams her head into the divider screen, as she has to refrain from crawling through it to learn more about the new super babe that Dustin has made friends with, because clearly Steve can do nothing himself, “Dingus, are you not gonna introduce your friend?” Steve turns to Robin, mouth still agape, before turning back to Dustin and nodding dumbly, agreeing with the girl’s question.
Dustin huffs, oh so now they care about his new friend. He jerks a thumb your way, “This is my friend from Radio Shack.” No name for them, since they doubted your existence. You offer a polite wave and a smile that makes Steve’s heart flutter up into his throat. Dustin goes back to ordering, “anyway, I want, um, fudge sundae.” He glances at you. “Do you want one too?” Your eyes scan the menu, and before you can give yourself to choice paralysis, you agree with Dustin, who swiftly holds up two fingers: “Two fudge sundaes.” Hearing no response from Steve, he turns to the boy, who is still just openly staring at you, mouth slightly agape like he’s trying to say something. Dustin squints at him and asks, “Dude, what’s wrong with your face?”
Steve snaps out of his trance. Oh god, how long has he been staring? “Nothing, shut up!” he blurts, cheeks burning as he tries to embarrass himself less in front of you. He can not blow this. He thinks you may be the one, “I’m Steve, Steve Harrington,” he says, aiming for suave as he leans against the cash register, making both Dustin and Robin grimace in disgust for making them watch him attempt to flirt.
You smile, it’s warm, welcoming, and Steve feels like he’s on top of the world. He’s so used to rejection at this point that he’s not sure what to do with himself; he might just go on break so he can scream in the walk-in freezer, get it all out, you know? He wouldn’t wanna be weird. You answer with your own name, just your first, and it’s all he needs because your last name is about to be Harrington. You give him that soft, pretty, dreamy smile of yours that he’s going to sear into his brain forever, as you say, “and I know, we graduated together.”
Steve’s face drops, and so does his heart; he thinks it just fell out of his ass. His voice squeaks up an octave as he blurts, “Pardon me?”
You shrug, a little sheepish, guilt flickering across your face for putting him on the spot. Trying to lighten the mood, you joke, “Hey, no biggie, I wouldn’t remember me either.”
That makes him feel so much worse. Why wouldn’t anyone remember you? He definitely would remember you. He has to go home and read through his yearbook. He goes through the one stage of grief, denial, “Wh-“
“OOOH,” Robin heckles, though she winces, that was louder than intended, she almost feels sorry for Steve. Still, she can’t resist adding another squeaky tally to the you suck side of the board.
“Robin,” Steve hisses, pure venom dripping from every syllable as he whirls to glare at her. He does not need this right now; there’s still hope for redemption.
“Oh, are you guys still doing that?” Dustin says, pointing at the board just about visible through the divider.
“What is it?” you ask, tilting your head, man, someone really sucks.
“Tally for how many times Steve screws up trying to get a date,” Dustin informs with a little smile. Why’s Steve glaring at him like that? He just answered your question.
Steve’s eye twitches as he grinds out from his teeth a warning, “Dustin-“
You frown, sympathy written all over your face for the pretty boy who looks like he’s having a rough time. Maybe a little pep talk will help: “Aw, that sucks, man, I’m sure you’ll get one eventually, don’t give up.” You offer a thumbs up and a reassuring smile.
That was the cutest thing he’s ever seen, unfortunately his soul has left his body. Between his friends and his tragic memory, he’s sure he’s ruined any shot with an angel like you. Maybe he’ll just become a hermit and die alone. His smile is blank as he says, “Thanks, find a table, I’ll make your sundaes.” Maybe he can win your heart with the sundae. Who is he kidding? He will always be sad ice cream sailor boy to you now.
“Thanks, Steve!” Dustin chirps, smothering a laugh at the vacant look on his best friend’s face.
“Thank you,” You say sweetly, blessing Steve with another sweet smile. You tap the counter with your hand and then follow Dustin to a table.
“This is the worst day of my life,” Steve says. Why does the world like making him suffer?
“Could have been worse, Dustin’s super hottie of a friend could have called you Buddy,” Robin says, now she feels bad for Steve. Maybe she should go over to you and beg you to let Steve take you out so she doesn’t have to work with desolate Steve, he’s no fun when he’s longingly staring off into nothing.
“Thank you, Robin. I really needed that,” Steve says flatly, grabbing his scooper from his holster. His eyes snag on a piece of paper left where you tapped the counter earlier, and he reaches over to grab it, letting his hand linger where yours was just a few moments ago. Indirect hand holding is the most action Steve has gotten this summer. He unfolds the paper, and there in all its glory is your name and number with a cute little heart next to it, “Oh my god…”
“What?” Robin asks, a little concerned, that Steve has just picked up some garbage and is going to keep it because you once held it.
“Change that score right now,” he demands, spinning to Robin with a new fire in his eyes and a triumphant grin. He flashes your number at her, and she squints, double-checking that it’s not just Steve’s messy handwriting. There’s no way that it is, because the heart actually looks cute, and Steve draws hearts very ugly.
She lets out a huff, her lips curling into a mischievous grin. “No, you still embarrassed yourself. You don’t rock just because Dustin’s Friend from Radio Shack handed you a pity number.” At least now she can go back to bullying him without feeling like she’s punting a puppy.
Steve gawks at the girl in offense, “It’s not a pity number, and they have a name, you know,” he sasses, clutching the paper to his chest, so it can’t hear Robin’s mean words.
“You learnt it 3 minutes ago,” The girl retorts with a laugh.
“I can’t be expected to know everyone in town,” Steve huffs back. He wishes he did though.
“You were in the same grade!” Robin argues with a dramatic flail of her hands.
He sighs wistfully, resting his hands on something cold as he stares at the table you and Dustin sat at, a pile of electronics between the two of you. You look so pretty, your cheek squished against your hand as you quietly watch Dustin tinker away. You wrinkle your nose, a little confused but impressed. Gosh, you and Steve just have so much in common: “I know I don’t get it, how did I miss…”
“Dingus,” Robin’s voice faintly disturbs his daydream.
“What?” Steve sighs dreamily, still watching you interacting with Dustin. You’re great with kids.
“Hands in the ice cream,” Robin says, pulling him back down to earth, where he remembers he’s still dressed in a goofy sailor costume and his hand is now covered in vanilla ice cream.
“Aw man,” he mumbles quietly, pulling his hand away and staring at the sticky-sweet mess dripping from his fingers. He shuffles to the sink. Robin groans, stomping off to fetch a new container to replace the health hazard.
The hall echoes with your footsteps as you quietly drift along it to your destination, knuckles white around the crumpled flyer in your hand. The school counselor recommended you join a club, mentioning that it’ll look good on your college applications when the time comes, and it would help you with settling in here at Hawkins, maybe even land you some new friends. Your mom wanted you to choose something, sporty or social, even better if it’s both. Your dad told you to pick something you like, because in the end, you’re the one who has to go to whatever club may as well be one you like, which led to another argument between the two, again.
You let out a sigh and shake your head. Whatever. At least by joining an after-school club, you’ll be out of the house more often. You slow to a stop outside the drama room, nerves fluttering as you hope this is the right place. With a hesitant push, you crack open the door and peek inside. "‘Scuse me, anybody home?" you call, scanning the chaos of props, costumes, and the usual drama clutter. Only a messy stack of books, scattered papers, and a folded dungeon master screen stand out. Suddenly, a ringed hand slaps the table, and a wild tangle of dark curls pops up from beneath it. Your brows shoot up in surprise as the mystery boy furrows his in confusion. "Oh, hello," you manage, a little awkwardly. His eyes are so intense it feels like he’s seeing straight through you. He’s pretty, you decide, and there’s something endearing about the way he huffs a stray curl from his face, blinking at you like an owl.
The boy climbs to his feet, brushing dust from his ripped jeans, the books he picked up off the floor in his other hand. He tilts his head, brows furrowed in pure confusion as he stares at you. He takes a second to wonder if maybe you’re a mirage. With a gruff edge, he asks, "Are you lost?"
You glance down at the flyer in your hand, its bright red demon face grinning up at you, then look back up at the boy wearing the same demon face on his T-shirt. Now you're no detective, but the flyer says the drama room on Friday is where they meet, and although you are a bit late, Curls is currently twinning with the flyer. “Is this the Hellfire Club?” You ask, turning the flyer in your hand and showing it to the cute curly-haired boy, practically daring him to lie.
His pretty doe eyes flick over the flyer, and with a careless toss, his books hit the table. He folds his arms, a shield across his chest, and fixes you with a wary look. “Yeah?”
“Then no, I’m not lost, I would like to join,” You say as a matter of fact, folding the paper and putting it back into your pocket, as you await the boy’s response.
Eddie sighs, rolling his eyes. “Very funny.” He’s convinced someone put you up to this, probably the cheerleaders, as some sort of initiation ritual, so their skin will be forever clear. He’ll save you and himself the embarrassment of pretending that either of you is even considering this. With a frown, he mutters, “Look, you don’t have to do this. If this is so, you’ll be accepted into cheer. Just tell them you got me so bad I cried. I’m sure they’ll eat that up like a pack of wild dogs.” You’re pretty, way pretty, in fact, he’s surprised you're even able to stand in front of him without him bursting into flames, he may actually start turning up to the pep rallies if you’re on the team. What? He might be being punked by you, but he’s still got functioning eyes.
“What? I’m not in cheer. I want to join your club. If you don’t want me, just say so.” Oh, he wants you, all right. He just can’t tell if you have a great poker face or if you actually want to join, and he honestly can’t fathom the latter.
Eddie figures, what’s the worst that could happen? He humiliates himself in front of a total ten, and he’s laughed at, not his first rodeo. Besides, the joke would be on you anyway; he’s certain you have a laugh that’s as pretty as you. So he asks, “Are you serious?” and braces for impact.
Now you’re starting to worry about him. Do people really come in here just to mock his club, or is he always this suspicious? You soften your voice, coaxing like he’s a skittish animal. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
Eddie just stares, caught between disbelief and fascination. Are you one of those airhead types? He has no qualms with that. You’re still cute. So he answers, “Babes don’t play table tops with freaks, babes cheerlead or do other attractive shit, I don’t know, I’m not a babe,” he finishes with a flippant shrug, tucking his hands into his pockets. The sad little pout on your face is killing him. Maybe he should just apologize.
You have no clue who convinced him he’s not a babe, but when you get your hands on them, they won't have a tongue to talk with. Lying is a sin. With a huff, you declare, “Babes can do whatever they want because they’re babes, and this babe wants to play some goddamn DnD,” jabbing a thumb at your own chest.
You move in closer to Eddie, and his palms go slick with nerves. He covers it up with a quick joke: “Did you just call yourself babe in the third person? Maybe you really are a freak.” He mutters the last bit, making it feel like a secret just for you. Your laughter spills out, bright and real, and he’s right, it’s beautiful. He finds himself grinning, wanting to hear that sound again, loving the way you seem to glow when you laugh.
A gentle smile curves on your lips, and Eddie has to drag his gaze away before you catch him staring. You lean in, voice barely above a whisper, “Does that mean I can join or not?”
“Fine,” He pretends to be reluctant, but he’s absolutely buzzing at the fact that he has a new sheep in his flock. Trying not to put you off by being too eager. He makes himself look busy and starts to pack his stuff away into his bag as he says, “We meet every Friday for the campaign. Lucky for you, today was just session zero. So I guess if you’re serious and free over the weekend, I can go over what we did today, and we can work on your character so you're ready for session one.” Maybe he’s being too forward. Is it cool to ask someone you just met to hang out over the weekend? He gives you an out: “Only if you want, of course.”
“Works for me.” You flash a grin to the doe-eyed boy, excited to join the campaign and make a character. You whip out the flyer from your pocket, scrawl your name and number on the back, and hand it over to your new dungeon master. “Here, call me and tell me when and where, then we’ll meet,” Eddie stares at the paper for a moment, his mouth feels dry and he’s certain there’s puddles in the palm of his hands and he gingerly reaches out of the paper and takes it from you, his fingers brush against yours and he almost screams at how soft your fingers felt, heat creeps up his neck as he tries to keep his cool.
“Is this real?” he has to ask, at this point, if you’re playing the long game, fine, you win, you’ve already got him in the palm of your hand. But the way your brows knit in gentle confusion turns the butterflies in his stomach into a full-blown mosh pit.
“Dude, obviously, who hurt you?” you tease, flashing a crooked half-smile. You’re starting to wonder if this guy has any friends at all. You wouldn’t mind being the first, though you’re a little concerned it might just be the two of you in this club.
If Eddie answers that question, he may just curl up on the floor and sob because the list is long, so he changes the subject slightly, “Do you have any idea who I am?” There’s no way you don’t know the answer to this question, not to stroke his own ego, but most of the school knows him, especially that they should avoid him unless they need to buy.
“Not a babe according to yourself,” You joke with a flirty smirk, which Eddie malfunctions for just a brief moment because what was that? What happened just then? huh?
“Eddie?” He says, pointing to himself as if he’s the only person in the world with that name. “Munson?” Surely adding his last name would send you running, but you just smile and offer your own name, the same one that was written on the paper you gave him. His brows furrow again, trying to get a read on you as he says, “Are you new here?”
You roll your eyes at his question, already growing fond of his self-deprecating charm. Ignoring it, you tease, “I trust you’ll call me? Eddie Munson,” letting his name dance off your tongue. You keep talking to him like that, and Eddie’s gonna need a fresh pair of jeans.
“Yep, Yes, Okay, I will do that,” He nods dumbly, his curls bouncing. He raises the paper you gave him, slotted between two ringed fingers, giving it a little wiggle to reassure you he’s still got it and to make sure it’s not about to disappear into thin air. Maybe he’s home right now sleeping, and this is some weird erotic fantasy where everyone's fully clothed and a hot babe wants to play DnD with him. He really needs to get out more.
You flash a bright smile and chirp a carefree, “Great, later, babe!” before trotting from the club room, thrilled to finally belong somewhere. Sure, it is not the kind of club your mom would ever brag about to her friends, but it is exactly where you want to be. Plus, spending more time with the adorable club leader is a definite bonus.
Eddie stares at the place where you last were, paper still clutched in his hand, gaping as your voice takes over his brain. That same heat crawls up his cheeks, painting him scarlet. He looks down at his bag with all the books and crumpled papers crushed into it. He practically smashes the stuff into his bag and quickly hurries out of the classroom after you. Maybe he can offer you a ride home, talk more about you joining the club, get started on making you a T-shirt, and even get to know you better. The way you called him babe keeps ringing through his head. You were joking, obviously you were joking, that’s not going to stop it from fueling his late-night thoughts or daydreams. You opened the door for Eddie Munson to worm his way into your life, only for you to ram into his heart like a freight train. He likes you, from what he’s seen of you so far. You’re nice and pretty, killer combo by the way. You’re gonna have to change your identity to get away from him now, but you won’t, you quite like the curly-haired cutie.
You’re cruising along the icy road in your beat-up little sedan, heater blasting in your face. You can hear the moving boxes rattling in the back seat as you stare blankly ahead. Your playlist hums in the background, fingers tapping out a nervous rhythm on the wheel as snowy fields blur past, you furrow your brows, Jesus, how long have you had a lead foot? You ease up on the gas. There’s no one else on the road, but just in case it’s not salted properly, you don’t want to flip. You’re not one hundred percent sure how on the ball this town is about salting their roads properly. Just as your foot raises, you pass an intersection, and that’s when you hear it, the trill of a police siren, you gotta be fucking- “Oh, get a real job,” You growl, taking your foot off the gas completely and easing on the brakes, coming to a very slow stop. The siren blares again, impatient. You snarl, glaring at the car behind through the rear-view mirror, “I’m stopping! What, you want me to slam the brakes for you, dickhead?”
“Wow, look at me, I have a big SUV and nothing better to do, so I just sit in my shitbox all day, staring at the road! Go solve a crime!” you bark to yourself, thumping your head against the seat in pure frustration. You squeeze your eyes shut, dragging in a shaky breath. “Deep breath, deep breath.” Maybe you should try a rage room someday; this road rage can’t be good for you. Your eyes track back to the wing mirror as you hear the SUV door slam shut. You see a young man who looks around your age. You wouldn’t tell him to his face, but he’s pretty cute, with big brown eyes and a disgruntled pout on his face. It looks like he’s just as annoyed as you about this traffic stop, his black jacket reads, “Sheriff? He looks like he should be in a day-care.” You always imagine a sheriff with white hair, maybe a mustache, a big hat, and old as balls. This sheriff has a thigh holster like he’s Catwoman and a backwards hat as if he’s still hip with the kids.
You watch him trudge over to you in his clunky combat boots, sleet crunching underfoot, and he takes a drag from his neon green vape. Oh, good, he’s a professional. You roll your eyes, muttering, “I hope he falls over.” You stare him down through the mirror as you chant under your breath, “go on trip, fall, fall, fall, f-“ But as soon as he taps a knuckle on your window, you snap into angel mode, rolling down your window and flashing a syrupy-sweet smile. “Hi, officer, is something wrong?” you ask, your voice honeyed with fake innocence.
Gator leans a hand on your roof, the other toying with his vape before slipping it away into one of his many pockets. He lowers his head, eyes lingering on you, making no effort to hide his interest. So much for subtlety, or chivalry. A slow, wolfish grin creeps across his face. Pretty, he thinks, real pretty. Lucky him. He drawls out, “You have any idea how fast you were goin’?”
You scrunch your nose, squinting up at him, offering a tight-lipped smile. “Speed limit?” you peep out, tossing in a shrug and a raised brow for good measure. Yeah, that felt believable.
Gator snorts, glancing at the empty stretch of road before turning back to you. “Playin’ cute won’t work on me, you were goin’ twenty over the limit.” He doesn’t know why you were speeding, especially down an icy road like this, maybe you have a death wish. His eyes dart over to the boxes in your back seat labeled kitchen, bedroom, and living room. New face, clearly, no one round here would drive like that down these roads and he would’ve recognised a beauty like you in a heartbeat, especially in this sleepy town. He can’t help feeling a secret thrill up his spine, that fate dropped you right in his lap, or he supposes fate had you speed like hell right past him. That’s about as interesting as crime gets around here, so he was inclined to do his job. He supposes.
“Damn,” You mutter incredulously at yourself, dropping your cutesy mask completely. Twenty over? Jesus Christ, how aren’t you dead? Note to self, don’t do that? You know, maybe this whole driving thing is not for you; you hear walking is pretty neat nowadays.
Gator blinks, momentarily thrown by your sudden change in attitude, but he regains his composure quickly. Clearing his throat, he says, “Uh, exactly, license and registration…” As you lean over for your bag, your sweater rides up just enough for him to sneak another glance, his eyes lingering before a sly smirk tugs at his lips. “Yer not from round here, are ya…” he drawls, as you rummage through your bag.
You let out a huff and straighten up, catching his eyes darting back to your face. You roll your eyes; subtlety is clearly not his strong suit. As you hand over your license and registration, your fingers brush for a split second. For someone who’s currently standing in the freezing cold, his fingers are surprisingly warm. “What gave it away, the lack of twang or the out-of-state plate?” You snark lightly, taking a moment to check him out whilst he looks at your license. He leans his forearms on the open window, leaning in real close. You’d complain, but he’s shielding you from the cold wind with his body, and he smells surprisingly good, clean, and has an artificial sweet scent clinging to him. Your gaze traces the constellation of moles on his face, drifting from his focused eyes, down his nose, and finally to his lips, his tongue peaking out the side of them in concentration. His gaze takes in your information, lingering on your name, silently deciding to himself that he likes it a lot.
“The movin’ boxes,” he says, lips curling into a smirk as he jerks a thumb at your packed-up life in the back, “And that attitude.” His grin stretches wider. Gator’s eyes catch yours, lingering on your stubborn pout and the way your arms are folded tight across your chest while you wait for him to finish with your ID. There’s something about you he can’t shake, maybe because it’s been too long since he’s let anyone close, not like he can with his old man always breathing down his neck. You’re a little weird if he’s being honest, but that only pulls him in deeper, makes him want to know how you tick. He almost wishes you were the type to flirt your way out of a ticket. He likes your attention, the way your eyes bore into him like you're trying to figure him out as well.
“No one’s ever back-talked before? I find that hard to believe,” you say, shooting him a skeptical look. Why is he staring so hard? Not that you have no faith in yourself to attract people to you, but you’re hardly dressed to impress, unless he’s got a secret thing for old knit sweaters and the exhausted, dishevelled, I’ve been driving for hours, look. You’re just a little surprised that he seems to have formed a liking for you so quickly. You suppose this is a win? It’s a small town, so having the Sheriff like you is probably a perk.
“Some do. They end up in cuffs, though…” he murmurs, voice curling around you like velvet, that wolfish grin never leaving his lips. His gaze tracks the bob of your throat as you swallow, daring you to call his bluff. He watches the shift in your expression, eyes sparking with desire. Maybe you are interested after all.
“I bet, so am I getting a ticket or what?” You ask with an almost teasing tone in your voice, tilting your head with an innocent smile. You’re not usually one to flirt with cops, but this one’s been eye fucking you the entire time, he’s been pretty obvious about it too, and typically that would gross you the fuck out. Unfortunately, Sheriff No Name is annoyingly easy on the eyes, and the bastard knows it.
“Tell you what, you let me take you out, and I’ll let you off with a warnin’,” Gator says, twirling your license between his fingers. He tries to look confident, but you can tell this isn’t a common thing for him from the way he doesn’t quite meet your gaze like he has been doing. It’s a little endearing, actually. Even though he didn’t ask, there feels like there’s no pressure on how you respond; either way, he’s letting you off with a warning. Perhaps it’s how he mentioned your attitude but didn’t tell you to stop it, almost like he liked it. In fact you're certain he likes it, he’s been smiling this entire time.
You tilt your head, eyes glinting as Gator dangles your things just out of reach, a lazy offer in his hand. “Oh? And if I say no?” you challenge, arching a brow as you reach for them. He slips them away, just beyond your grasp, shifting so you catch the glint of his belt and the tap of his thumb on the cold metal of his cuffs. “Well, that’s just rude and a gross abuse of your power over me,” you huff, feigning indignation, but the grin tugging at your lips betrays you.
He lets out a quiet laugh, his smirk softening into a tentative smile as he hands you your license back. “Promise it’ll be worth your while,” he murmurs, his voice turning unexpectedly gentle. He leans in, eyes soft and pleading, like he’s begging you to give him a chance.
Your heart stutters, caught off guard by his sudden sincerity. Still, you don your playful mask. “Oh, really, sheriff?” you purr, leaning in until your grin hovers just shy of his lips. It’s that same taunting smile he can’t help but wonder about, what it might taste like if you let him get close enough.
“Gator,” he corrects, wishing you’d use his real name. Technically, his father’s the sheriff, he’s just his deputy. Still, the way you say the title sends a jolt through him, heat pooling low. He tries not to let it show. Getting too excited at a first meeting? What have you done to him?
You tilt your head, puzzled. “Gator? Like the animal?” What is he talking about? Are we just sharing favorite animals with each other now? OH shit, did he see one? You didn’t think there were alligators in Minnesota.
“S’my name,” he mutters, a quiet huff escaping as a frown tugs at his lips. He can’t exactly blame you for your reaction, it’s not exactly a common name, not the one he was supposed to have. He shifts back, putting a little distance between you, assuming he’s put you off.
Your gaze softens at his frown. You didn’t mean to poke at a sore subject for him; he just caught you off guard. “It’s cute, I like it,” you say, voice sweet, gentle, coaxing him with a smile, drawing his gaze back to you. His frown shifts into a stubborn pout. Cute? He’s a man, not cute. But your sly grin interrupts his incoming protest as you lean in, “So, Gator, you really think you can make it worth my while?”
The way you slip back into playful banter pulls him in again. “Yeah, promise.” His bravado returning, you really are something. His eyes flicker to your smile, then back to your gaze. Your breath brushes his skin. You’re so close, just a little closer and-
“Well, if I must,” you say, pulling back just out of reach. Gator nearly growls, your wicked smile making his stomach flutter, “I suppose I can let you take me on a date,” you tease, pretending to consider. The brunette is just too easy to rile up. “Just so I don’t get a ticket,” you add, though you both know it’s not about the ticket anymore.
“I’m a man of my word. You free tonight?” Gator asks with a grin and a carefree shrug; he’s already racking his brain for places you could go; he promised you a worthwhile time. You’ll get a worthwhile time.
“Eager are we?” You tease with that flirty little grin again.
It’s like you want him to climb through your car window. “I get off work in a few hours,” he says, straightening up, hands buried in his jacket pockets against the cold. You already miss his warmth.
“Then you have yourself a date in a few hours,” you say, smiling. You grab a pen from your cup holder and hold out your hand for him. Gator looks at your hand, confused.
“You want somethin’?” He asks, giving his forehead an itch as he looks at your hand in confusion.
“Give me your hand, genius,” you say with a little laugh and another eye roll. He lets out a little oh and places his warm hand in yours. You quickly scrawl your number onto his hand and then chirp, “Am I free to go?”
“For now,” He grins after he’s done inspecting his new ink. He’s gonna have to put that in his phone asap before he forgets, or worse, it wipes off. He backs away from your car and watches you start the engine.
“See you later, Gator,” you say with a sly smile, easing away down the road. Gator watches you disappear, then hustles back to his car before the cold freezes his dick off.
You bounce impatiently on your toes, your metal bottle rattling with the movement, the liquid inside sloshing around. You hold your hand above your eyes to block the sun as you scan the road. It’s fucking scorching today, and you just want to get home, shower, and sit in front of your A/C for the rest of the day. You glance down at your phone and see that your driver is one minute away. From his picture, he’s a little goofy-looking, but kind of cute. The up-angle was a choice; you can pretty much see up his nose and into his brain, but you like the little smattering of moles he has on his face, and the peace sign he poses with in the picture makes you crack up a little.
Before you can continue to creepily stare at your driver, Kurt’s picture, a white sedan pulls up, matching the description and license plate on your app. The brunette winds down the window and calls your name for confirmation. “That’s me,” you chirp, flashing a grin. He’s even cuter in person and a little greasier too. You clamber into the back seat, tossing your bag next to you and clip your belt in, only to make eye contact with a camera really close to your face, “Whoa,” you mutter, jerking back, as you look around the car, you see that the cameras are fucking everywhere. No escape now, though the car’s already moving, oh god, he’s not one of those trivia shows, is he, or worse porn, “Hey Kurt?” you call, voice edged with suspicion.
“Yeah?” He answers with an eager smile, his eyes dart up to meet yours quickly through the rearview mirror, then flick back to the road for a split second before his attention lands back on you.
“What’s the deal with all the cameras?” you ask, your voice slow and tinged with nerves. You uncomfortably eye the one looming by your shoulder, fighting the urge to cover it with your hand or something, but you don’t want to risk breaking his gear; you don't have the cash to replace a camera.
“Oh, those, they’re just there for my protection, don’t mind- Don’t worry about them,” Kurt stumbles over his words for a moment before shooting a knowing smile and a peace sign to the camera set up on the dash.
You just stare at him with a confused tight lipped smile. What the fuck was that about? “Uh-huh, ok…” You mean mug the camera next to you before Kurt’s voice snaps you out of your glaring.
“You want a free water? they’re free,” Kurt offers with a chipper smile, gesturing to the bottles of free water in the back. Free, you say? Don’t mind if you do. You reach to grab one tucked away in the back pocket, but the instant your fingers brush the bottle, you immediately pull away. That is warm, not even lukewarm, like being in this car too long warm. You’d rather die.
“No thanks, I’m allergic,” you say flatly, wiping your hand on your shirt as if you’ve just touched a bottle of piss. Oh god is it? You inch away from the water and reach for your own bottle, still eyeing the bottles in the back with you. Kurt wouldn’t do that; he’s weird, but not piss-in-a-bottle offer it to your passengers weird, although you’ve heard your fair share of ride-share horror stories.
“Oh, ok…” Kurt sags in his seat, disappointed, before furrowing his brows in confusion when he registers what you said, “What? You can’t- No one can be allergic to water, that’s impossible,” He turns to look at you over his shoulder before remembering road safety exists, focusing on the road again, and then opting to stare at you through the rear view mirror.
“No, it’s not. I saw a documentary about,” You say with the best poker face you can muster, is it a little mean to be messing with him like this? Yes, but he’s the one with eight kajillion cameras in his car that freaked you out, so you may as well have some fun, whilst you're here.
“Oh yeah? Then tell- Do you remember what it was called?” Kurt starts indignantly but corrects himself to be polite: you are a customer after all, and he still needs a good review. You haven’t taken any water. Yet.
“I dunno,” you say with a shrug, a sly grin sneaking onto your face as Kurt’s frown grows and he lets out a frustrated huff.
“Then you’re ly- Then maybe it’s not real, and you’re making- misremembering it,” He’s really trying his best not call you what you are, a fuckin’ liar, and you have to commend him for keeping it together. For a split second, you think about stopping, but the pout on his face is really cute.
“Mmm, no, I’m pretty sure it’s real,” You say with a teasing lilt. Unfortunately for Kurt, he doesn’t pick up your tone, and falls right into your trap.
“How sure?” he asks, his brow relaxing a little. Maybe you do remember it, and you just forgot earlier.
“Twenty percent.” You’re an asshole, Kurt has decided.
“That’s not- that’s barely anything!” Kurt protests, his voice pitching up as he frowns at you in the rearview mirror.
You have to smother a laugh down; now he’s just yelling at you, you really should stop. You give a light shrug and ask, “Do you remember every detail about everything you’ve ever seen?”
Kurt huffs his hand tensing on the wheel. He supposes you’re not wrong there, but you’d think if you learnt such an interesting fact, you’d at least try and remember it. Kurt would, people love facts. He’s seen tons of videos about weird, cool facts that have millions of views. “Fine, forget it,” he mutters. A flash of metal catches his attention as he watches you unscrew the lid of your personal bottle and take a swig. “What’s in your bottle?”
“Iced tea,” You answer after swallowing the refreshing liquid, lips ticking up into a smile behind the rim.
“There’s water in iced tea!” Kurt protests, halting at the red light. He turns around in his seat, pouting and glaring at you again, but it’s more adorable than intimidating, like a puppy yipping when you tease it too much.
“Nuh-uh, it’s different,” you insist, taking another sip. As you look past him, you flash a peace sign of your own to his dash cam, but before you can say anything, a voice cuts in.
Streamer’s getting rage baited lol.
A random, maybe-feminine voice throws you off, it’s coming from his phone resting on the console. “Are you streaming?” you blurt, unable to hide your surprise. Instantly, Kurt perks up, his pissy mood vanishing at the mention of his stream; it’s like someone flipped a switch inside him.
He turns back to the front grabbing his phone, lighting up as he explains more to his stream than to you, “Yeah, I’m just doing a tutorial for my followers right now. Show- Teaching them how to grow their views and followers and stuff. Do you watch streams?” he asks, addressing you personally, you feel honored that he remembered you are still in his car.
“Occasionally, when I see an interesting one,” you say as you watch Kurt, half paying attention to you and half watching the chat messages. He seems happy; he must have a few people watching, god knows why, what's so entertaining about a car ride. You toss up another peace sign to the camera, great, you have a new tick now, thanks to your cute spree driver.
When the light turns green, the ride picks up again. Kurt catches your eye in the rearview and says, “Would you- You should check me out at Kurtsworld96 on all socials, I follow back. I’m currently starting hashtag ‘The Lesson’.” His gaze is intense, but you can’t help grinning; his oddness is so endearing you almost want to hug him. You pull out your phone and search for his channel, landing on a video titled "Vape Review!" “You’re doing it now?” he asks, a flicker of worry in his voice before he returns his attention to the road, sneaking glances at you in the mirror. Not sure why he’s so worried, he was just raving about you looking up his socials. What does he have something to hide?
“You told me to check you out,” you say as you blast his video from the back seat. Within thirty seconds, you’re doubled over with laughter; his awkward delivery and choice of words are pure comedy gold. When he dubs himself Mr. Mouthfeel, you lose it completely. “This is incredible,” you gasp, wiping tears from your eyes as you try to catch your breath. It might just be the best video you’ve ever seen.
“Are you being sarcastic?” Kurt asks; he’s never been too good at detecting that, but he just wants to be sure. Your laugh seemed real, very real; it made him feel all light and tingly when he heard it.
“No, I genuinely think you are very funny, even if that wasn’t the intention,” You say, little pearls of laughter still slipping from your lips. You like his video, and he gets the notification on his phone, making a bright smile pull to his face.
You liked it, you like him. “Oh, thank you,” Kurt smiles. He doesn’t correct you. If you liked his review that much, maybe he should make more of them. He slows to a stop, his GPS telling him he’s arrived at his destination, right outside an apartment block, your home, he assumes. Kurt frowns, “Uh, um, we’re here…” he tells you. He doesn’t want you to go.
“Aw, that’s too bad, I was just starting to have fun,” you say, lips curling into a playful pout. You enjoyed Kurt’s company; he was a good sport with all the teasing, even when you were a little worried you should relent after a while.
“You were?” Kurt breathes, just staring at you in awe, wonder flickering in his eyes. He can’t remember the last time anyone said they enjoyed being with him or in his presence.
“Yeah, and hey, sorry if I messed with you too much earlier. I was just joking around. I hope I didn’t upset you,” you say, your apology sincere. Kurt goes still, caught off guard. No one has ever apologized to him. Honestly, he’s racking his brain, and the closest thing to an apology he’s ever heard is his father telling him to get over it and be a man. You’re not like anyone else; you’re different, you’re kind.
“Oh no- I’m- It’s ok, I wasn’t mad, I knew you were just joking,” Kurt insists, pretending he was in on the joke all along. You let it go, relieved he’s not actually mad. Still, you can’t shake the feeling that, for a split second, he wanted to reach into the back seat and wring your neck.
“Yeah? Well, thanks for the ride, Kurtsworld96,” you say, flashing a gentle smile. Relief washes over you; at least you didn’t tank your passenger rating. He’s sweet, if a bit awkward, but honestly, who isn’t these days? “I liked talking to you. See ya,” you chirp, scooping up your things and hopping out of the car.
Boo rage baiter’s leaving.
“Wai-“ Kurt’s words are swallowed by the slam of the door. He frowns, watching you disappear inside the building, and with your departure, so do some of his viewers. He feels antsy. You made the viewer count go up, and people liked watching you and him joke around together. He can’t just let you go. You weren’t like the others; you weren’t bad for views, you didn’t treat him like shit, you were just joking around. You even apologized to him after. You’re kind, you make him feel warm. He can’t let you go. He needs you. They want to watch him when you’re around. You liked talking to him; you said so. You like him; he likes you. He won’t let you go. It’s ok; he takes a shaky breath, switching off his stream. He doesn’t need to stream anymore today. He’ll see you tomorrow.
Travis stares blankly at the wall in front of him, the monitors casting a dull glow over his face. He gives them a cursory glance every so often, but they’ll be closing soon, so he highly doubts anyone will be coming in anytime soon. Who is that? Travis perks up, leaning closer to the monitor, which shows one of the entrances. Standing behind the front desk is what Travis believes to be an angel. Their brows are tipped up in worried confusion as they look around the empty desk area, and they shift on their feet, looking back at the door. Oh shit, are they gonna leave? Why is his colleague so useless? How dare he leave them waiting…
Oh fuck, his eyes shift to the other monitor showing the other entrance where he spots his colleague lounging at his front desk, feet kicked up, book over his face. Oh fuck that’s his entrance, the most beautiful person in the world is standing at his entrance, and they’re about to fucking leave. Travis rips out his earphones, launches himself from the creaky chair, and lets it crash to the floor. He hears a startled gasp leave the angel’s lips as he bursts from the backroom, slapping his hands on the desk and blurting, “Hello, how can I help you?”
You stare at the frazzled blonde, hand over your heart, as you breathlessly say, “Oh my god, you scared me, holy shit,” you take a little step back because the guy looks a little unhinged. But he’s also a little cute, he has these big brown puppy dog eyes, messy blonde hair, he’s got a small thin silver earring on his right ear, and you can just about make out a tattoo on the left side of his neck. He’s got on the garishly bright orange uniform shirt, with a few buttons undone so that you can see his white undershirt; at the very least, you can confirm he actually works here.
Travis nearly climbs over the desk when he sees you step back, planning to just grovel at your feet so you don’t leave before he can even talk to you properly. He’s used to people keeping their distance from him, especially after getting to know him, but maybe this time it’ll be different, god please be different.
He barely restrains himself, leaping over the desk would be a bit much, but he still blurts out an apology, “Sorry! M’so sorry, I had my music on and I didn’t hear you come in, and then I was watchin’ you on the camera-” his hands flail as he articulates what he’s saying, his eyes widen in panic at the concerned look on your face when he says he was watching you, he holds out a placating hand as he quickly backpedals, “not like watchin’ you, watchin’ you I mean like I saw you on the camera standin’ here and I thought you were on the other side where my coworker was an’ I thought where is that asshole? Why’s he makin’ you wait so long? that’s a dick move if he makes you wait any longer, I was gonna come over to help you out instead and then I realized, oh fuck that’s my side and then I ran out and freaked you out, and I am still so sorry about that,” Travis pants after his long winded explanation and you can’t help the little laugh that slips out. If Travis had a tail, he’d be wagging it so hard it would have helicoptered off his body as he smiles brightly at your laugh. He basks in it like it’s pure sunlight. “So, what brings you in today?” he asks, hopeful.
“Oh, right!” you say, recognition flickering across your face as you get back on track. “I’m moving here and need somewhere to store all my stuff whilst I’m cleaning out my old place, so, uh, how do we do this?” you ask with a bit of head tilt moving closer to the counter to place your hands on the counter, the movement captures Travis’ attention as he finally gets to see you up close, he stares for a little bit before, you wave your hand in his face worried he just fell asleep with his eyes open, he can smell your perfume, it’s sweet and now his new favorite scent, as he comes back to earth you look worried as you say, “I’m sorry I know it’s late. I can come back in the day-”
A jolt of panic hits Travis. You can’t leave now. He only works the night shift, mainly because no one else wants to do them. He’ll never see you again if you come in the day, or worse, you come back in the day, and someone else helps you, and you fall in love with them instead, and he’s invited to come to your wedding with them, and he just can’t let that happen. “No! No, it’s ok, I’m sorry I can help you now, don’t mind me, so, uh, do you have an account with us?” He asks, turning to the set on his desk and logging in to open up your profile.
You look nervous as you lean over the counter and say, “No, did I need to make one before coming in? I’m sorry I can-“
Idiot, of course, you don’t have an account, you’ve just moved here, he scolds himself in his brain and is then quick to reassure you, “No, no, that’s ok, I can do that for you, I just need your name, address, phone number, all that stuff.” He’ll only memorize your name. Your phone number and your address would be a little much; he’s not crazy. Although you are moving, so maybe you’d like some help with that, he can help. Travis is a helpful guy who loves to help.
“Oh, okay, here,” you say, fishing your license from your bag and sliding it across the counter to him. Travis is quick to sweep it up, eyes scanning over it, memorizing every detail. You actually don’t live too far; your new place is practically on his way to work. As long as he goes the opposite direction of his normal route, which is the quickest, but like, the way past your place is more of a scenic route, and Travis loves scenery, huge fan. You snap him out of his daydream, “Um, I probably should have asked first, but how much will this all cost?”
“Well, that depends on how long you plan to use the storage room,” He asks, hopefully for a long time so he can see you every day. Should he lie and tell you the best time is to come is just before closing, well he wouldn’t call it a lie there’s less people around to snoop at all your stuff during the night and he’ll be here to help, he loves to help, did he mention that already, he helps so much, he’ll probably get employee of the month… if there were such a thing here.
“Oh, not too long, I think. I just gotta move everything out of my old place, which is a little bit of a drive, then repaint the new place and rip out the carpet because the one it’s got smells… weird. After that, I’ll need to sort through all my stuff before moving it in, so…” You look up briefly, tilt your head in thought as you give a rough estimate of how long it should take, “A few months, maybe a little longer, it’s just me doing it all, so I might take a while…”
Travis perks up at this, “You don’t, like, have anyone helpin’ you move?” He asks, surely someone as majestically beautiful as you has a partner three times his size that could crush him like an empty beer can and launch him into the sun for even looking in your direction, because he certainly would, if he were physically capable of such a thing, maybe he should start working out again.
You scratch your cheek, cheeks warming with embarrassment. “Not really, the few friends I have are, uh, busy, and I’m trying to save as much as I can before my new job starts, so movers are out of the question, so uh, how much is a few months?” You ask nervously, peaking up at the blonde through your lashes. Travis will never recover from this. The image of you looking at him like that will forever be seared into his brain.
He clears his throat as he tries to keep it together, “Well, depending on the size you need, roughly, 15-35 for a small, 30-80 for a medium, and 70-135 for a large,” he says, listing off all the packages they have.
“Monthly?” You ask tentatively because that already sounds like a lot.
Travis glances at the screen, then back to you; the worried pout on your lips distracts him for a whole minute. Travis practically melts at your cute expression, as he answers cautiously, “Uh… weekly.” He almost cries for you as your face crumples into a panic.
“Weekly?! Oh shit, okay, hold on a sec.” You fumble for your phone, fingers moving fast as you check if your bank account can handle this surprise.
“I can give you my staff discount, if you want. I never use it anyway,” Travis blurts out, desperate to keep you from freaking out and changing your mind about using the lockers here.
“You get a staff discount on lockers? Why?” You ask, with a confused head tilt. You suppose it’s a cool benefit, but how often does someone actually use the lockers here?
“Prolly ‘cause they know no one who works here is gonna use ‘em,” Travis answers with an eye roll. It’s barely a benefit, but if he can help you, he will never be ungrateful for this benefit ever again.
“Are you sure that’s okay? I don’t want you getting in trouble,” you say, lips forming that worried pout again. He’s been nothing but sweet, and the last thing you want is to cause him any trouble.
Travis’ heart leaps to his throat as your worried eyes linger on him. “It’s no big deal, like I said, I ain’t usin’ it,” he insists, trying to look smooth as he leans on the counter. His attempt at suaveness backfires when he slips on a stray piece of paper. He stumbles up straight and tries to play it off like that didn’t happen, and you didn’t physically see that with the beautiful eyes in your beautiful face. Your laughter rings out, and though he’s embarrassed, he's thinking about doing it again just to hear that sound again.
“Well, thanks,” You say with a sweet grin. You ask him, “What is your name, by the way?”
“Teacake.” The answer was a knee-jerk reaction; he wants to slam his head into the desk, but he doesn’t want to freak you out again. Why does he do these things to himself? Finally, he meets someone, and he instantly fucks it up. When’s he getting a medal for this shit?
“Teacake?” You parrot with a confused look on your face. Yeah, that’s about what he expected, reaction-wise, you probably think he’s a super fucking weird.
“Yeah, it’s a dumb nickname. Long story. Annoying, too,” Travis mutters, frowning at his own misfortune.
“Well, what’s your actual name?” You ask, curiosity taking over, wanting to learn more about the cute blonde in front of you.
He’s caught off guard that you actually want to know more. “Uh… It’s, um, Travis.” It’s been so long since he’s said his own name that it feels foreign on his tongue.
“Travis,” you repeat, your smile brightening the whole room. He’s sure his heart skips a beat when you say, “Thanks for helping me, Travis.” Your voice is sweet like honey, and he would happily drown himself in it. He wants you to call him a name again.
“Yeah, yeah, of course, anything for you. I uh- if you want, I can help you move your stuff too, so you won’t have to make too many trips,” Travis offers. He was debating in his head whether he should offer to help; if he didn’t, you’d be here a lot to drop off stuff. But if he does help you, he could see you outside of work and get closer to you.
“Is that extra?” You ask, he’s really sweet for offering, but you’re worried about taking advantage of his kindness or having to spend more than you already have to.
“Huh, oh no, that ain’t like a service here or anythin’, just you know when I’m free, I don’t mind if it’s you,” Travis says with what he hopes is a carefree shrug, he doesn’t want to come off as too eager, “I ain’t busy or nothin’ like that so I can help whenever I work nights anyway.”
“That’d be great, I’d love that,” You say. It must be your lucky day. Someone wants to help you out of the kindness of their heart, and they’re really cute, too.
“Yeah?” Travis says with a brightening smile of his own.
“Mhm, well, thanks for the help, Travis. Call me when you’re free?” you say, taking a pen from the desk and quickly scribbling down your number, sliding it across the desk for him to put into the system and keep for himself. As you turn away, you offer him a soft smile and a little wave goodbye.
“Uh-huh,” He hums, smiling dreamily back at you and waving to you even after you’ve turned away from him. He only stops when you're out of sight…
Is it too soon to call you now?
You step out of your favorite cafe into the crisp spring air, half-finished iced coffee in hand, dribbles of condensation sliding down the plastic. You flip open your trusty little notebook and read the day's agenda: groceries, dry cleaning, and then a luxurious stretch of nothing. Today is gonna be a great day. Until you collide harshly into a warm, firm body, causing your cold drink to explode all over your shirt. At least you’re not wearing white today; unfortunately, light blue isn’t much of a difference. You gasp, peeling the cold, sticky fabric from your skin. Gross. “Aw man,” you mumble quietly, using the singular paper-thin napkin you were given to dab at your shirt. It’s not doing a lot; you sigh. “That sucks.” You reach for your fallen cup, but another hand gets there first. You look up, catching your own reflection in a pair of sunglasses, and you can see yourself in the reflection, and oh man, is that stain diabolical.
“I’m really sorry, I didn’t see you there.” The blonde man flashes a sheepish grin, hastily tucking his magazine under his arm. He reaches out, gently plucking the soggy napkin from your hand. “Here, uh, lemme just-” He recoils for a split second at the napkin’s squishiness, then stuffs it into your cup, shakes off his hand, and with a single, practiced motion, tosses both into the trash. Turning back, he winces at the coffee splatter on your shirt, sucking air through his teeth. “Oh boy, ok, wow...”
You sigh, tucking your notebook away, still pinching your shirt between two fingers as if that might magically dry it. The guy, trying his best to assist you, starts fanning your chest with his magazine. Maybe you should just go back inside for more napkins instead of letting a stranger air out your shirt on the sidewalk; you're both getting looks and not good ones. “It’s fine, it was half empty anyway…” You say, adjusting your bag. You can’t really be mad at him; you weren’t watching where you were going either.
You let go of your shirt, and he stops waving his magazine at you. You feel the material cling to your skin, and you frown at the feeling. When your eyes pull back up, you see he’s perched his shades on the top of his head. Revealing his very pretty eyes, a mesmerising, vibrant blue. He grins, and your heart stutters against your rib cage. “No really, I’m sorry, let me get you a new one, it’s the least I can do for a pretty face,” he says, winking, which then faulters into an embarrassed smile as his gaze flicks to your soaked shirt that is now clinging to your chest in a way that is very indecent, “And for what I did to your shirt.” Without missing a beat, he shrugs off his jean jacket and drapes it over your shoulders. You’re not sure what to say, so you just offer an awkward but grateful smile.
“Uh… I guess if you’re offering,” you reply with a small nod, pulling his jacket over your chest tighter to cover yourself more, and you let him steer you back toward the café. He proves himself a gentleman, holding the door open and gesturing for you to go in first.
“After you,” he says, that suave grin never leaving his face. You nod politely, a soft thank you slipping from your lips as you step back into the cozy warmth of the cafe. He follows right behind you as you both make your way to the counter. You can feel his presence right next to you; he’s standing pretty close. When you glance over, your eyes meet his; his eyes were already on you. Weird, you give him a little smile that he reciprocates before both your attention is drawn in by the barista.
It’s the same girl from earlier who greets you; she’s young, her hair tied back, a brown apron that all of the staff here wears tied around her waist, plastic smile at the ready. “Welcome! What can I get started for… you…” Her words falter as her eyes land on the man beside you, glued to him as her cheeks begin to darken with sudden color.
Your new companion doesn’t seem to notice her reaction, or he’s simply used to it and pays it no mind. He orders smoothly for both of you, “Can I get an espresso and an iced coffee, please?” As he reaches into his back pocket for his wallet, he pauses, then nods toward the napkin box just behind the counter. “And a couple dozen napkins.” He fishes out some bills and hands them to the frozen girl with practiced ease.
The sight of him holding out cash seems to shock her back to life. “U-Uh um yes! Yes, of course, I’ll get right on that!” she stammers, suddenly in frantic motion like she’s on fire. She snatches a mountain of napkins, thrusts them at the blonde, snags his money, and rings up the order with trembling hands. Change clinks into his palm before she jets off to tackle your coffee order, nerves trailing in her wake.
You blink, caught off guard. She wasn’t like this earlier. You glance at the guy next to you, and you wonder if he’s some movie star you’ve never heard of. She seemed to recognize him, or maybe his face just overwhelmed her. He is striking, the sort of handsome that probably draws a crowd, maybe his own club. “She seems busy, being a barista must be a lot,” you comment, it’s a dry joke, and it still makes the blonde next to you let out a laugh, you both know your collective lackluster coffee order isn’t what freaked her out.
He tilts his head, nodding toward the tables. “Come on, let’s grab a seat while we wait.” He lets you take the lead, and you claim a cozy booth in the corner, tossing your bag onto the cushion. The blonde sets napkins in front of you, taking one for himself to wipe his hand from earlier. You take the rest and try your best to wipe off any residual moisture on your shirt, though the coffee has already dried into a stubborn stain. Good thing you brought a scarf, you’ll use it to hide it later. Suddenly, the blue-eyed man offers, “If you want, I can get you a new shirt too.” You blink at him, surprised by his generosity. Coffee and a new shirt? What is he made of money?
You shake your head, a grateful smile tugging at your lips as you nudge the crumpled napkins aside. “No, it’s fine. I’ll just go home and change later,” you say, shrugging with easy confidence. Now, with nothing distracting you, you finally get the chance to take in the man across from you. You still don’t recognize him at all, but then again, work has kept you too busy for movies or even the news lately, so perhaps you’re just out of the loop. Still, his smile sends your heart into a wild rhythm, especially when it’s aimed right at you like it is now. He props his head on his hand, watching you with a spark of curiosity that matches your own. Unable to resist, you ask, “So, what do you do?”
He grins, pride lighting up his face. “I work for ANSA.” He leans back, arms folded over his chest, practically glowing with self-satisfaction. Your brows raise in surprise, not that you believe the ditzy blonde troupe, it’s just with his sunglasses, movie-star looks, and the way women seem to orbit him, you assumed that he was a model or actor, but an astronaut is far more interesting.
“Oh, so you’re like an astronaut?” you ask, tilting your head with genuine curiosity, hands folded in your lap as you lean in, drawn closer by the intrigue.
He scoffs, feigning offense. “Like an astronaut?” He presses a hand to his chest and leans in, making you face his over-the-top pout. Your laughter bubbles out, impossible to hide, your shoulders shaking as you turn away. He grins at the sound, clearly delighted by your reaction.
“My apologies, you are an astronaut,” you say, only half-serious, a small smile tugging at your lips. Your eyes meet his, both of you grinning. “So, have you been to space yet?” you ask, wanting to know more about your kind mystery man.
“Well we’re preparing to go on an expedition soon actually, but this will actually be the first time we go up, so you weren’t totally wrong,” He says with a bright smile, he’s practically buzzing with excitement and you feel happy for him, he seems real passionate about his job, who wouldn’t be, being an astronaut is one of those jobs that is just cool as fuck.
“We?” Your curiousity peaked even more.
“Yeah, we’re a team, four of us, me, my sister, her husband, and Ben.” The man says, listing off the people on his fingers.
A laugh pearls from your lips as you ask with a smile, “Just Ben?”
“Well, he’s Sue’s husband’s best friend, so he’s pretty much my brother-in-law as well; he and Reed are pretty close.”
“I’m assuming Sue is your sister and not another random name you decided to drop, which makes Reed her husband. Then who are you?”
“I’m Johnny. Johnny Storm,” he finally says, flashing a grin and offering his hand across the table. Finally, you can put a name to his face, you slip your hand into his, your own smile blooming. You share your name with him, and he repeats it back to you, liking the way it rolls off his tongue, the way it fills his brain. He likes that little smile that pulls to your lips when you don’t know what to say back to him. He likes you. Conversations with you feel effortless.
“I’m swooning. I can’t believe I’m in the presence of a soon-to-be superstar,” you tease, with a mirthful twinkle in your eyes. Johnny scoffs, rolling his eyes with a smirk, shaking his head at your theatrics.
“It’ll definitely be cool for me, making history and all that, but I’m not sure about superstar,” he says, leaning back with a grin. “Although I do have the face for it, don’t you think?” He turns his head for your inspection, and you play along, leaning in. Honestly, he really does have the face for it.
You beam. “Absolutely. Who knows? Maybe you’ll end up saving a planet full of tiny aliens and return as a galactic hero.” You lean in, arms on the table, spinning the tale with a gleeful spark in your eye.
Johnny lets out a loud laugh, evoking one of your own out as he quips, “Let me guess, you write fantasy novels.”
“Oooh, so close,” you say, sucking air through your teeth. “I channel all my creativity into spreadsheets and the kind of shitty letters nobody else wants to write, so they end up on my desk.” Your dry delivery and crass language makes the blonde laugh again.
“And I’m sure they’re a thrilling read,” Johnny reassures with a hand on his heart, “scouts honor.”
“It would absolutely blow your mind,” you tease, raising your eyebrows for effect.
“More than going to space?” Johnny asks, leaning forward with a cheeky grin. You lean in as well.
“Oh, definitely way more interesting than space, I really know how to use a comma,” you say, cracking him up again.
“I bet,” he says softly, a warm smile on his face. He really likes talking to you; in fact, he would like to make this a regular thing. He hopes you’ll stick around even after he goes up to space, and he wants to tell you all about it.
“Think you’ll still wanna talk to me even after you come back from space, supernova?”
“I think I can pencil you in.”
A/N: Isn't that Johnny Storm guy so cute, hope his space trip goes well and he's not exploded by a cosmic ray <3
I had a lot of fun with this if it wasn't obvious, took longer than I thought but I am very happy with it and I hope you all like it too!
STRANGER THINGS CHAPTER SELECT: PART I ◘ PART II ◘ PART III ◘ PART IV ◘ PART V ◘ PART VI ◘ PART VII ◘ PART VIII ◘ PART IX
Pairing: Steve Harrington x Fem!reader
Summary: When a young boy vanishes, a small town uncovers a mystery involving secret experiments, terrifying supernatural forces, and one strange little girl.
Word Count: 7.2k
Tags: reader is a henderson, reader's appearance not described, strangers to friends kind of, season 1 rewrite, slow burn, angst, hurt/comfort, fluff
TW: 18+, canon typical violence, blood, peril, descriptions of death, colorful language, minor drug use, morbid humor
Series Masterlist▵ Steve Harrington Masterlist ▵ Tag List
CHAPTER III ▹ HOLLY, JOLLY
Barbara Holland has always had it relatively easy: a loving family, a small circle of friends, and even a best friend, one she does practically everything with. And school's not the worst for Barbara; middle school was a breeze for her; her biggest worry would be studying and band practice. Navigating the student body is easy. Just keep your head down and steer clear of students who are trouble. Students of rumor, the nerds, the loners, the freaks. If you find yourself in one of those groups, you’ll be on the receiving end of their teen angst, someone has to be their punching bag. So you look away, keep moving, never linger too long, or risk making things worse. What could you possibly do for them anyway? Someone else will help. Someone else never does. Nothing ever changes, nothing does in a small town like Hawkins.
Barbara first heard of the new girl in 1980, when a new-ish family moved to town, a single mom, two kids, you can imagine how quickly rumors spread with a family situation like that. The youngest started school straight away, a fourth grader. He was different, which made him an outcast. Barbara didn't know all the details, but from what she heard, he had a medical condition, and he had made friends with Nancy's little brother Mike and his friends, more outcasts. Barbara didn't hear much about the mother, other than she grew up here and moved away when she married. She's back now. Anything else she learnt about the woman came from Nancy's Mom's brief mention of her during one of their sleepovers. She mentioned that the new kid's mom was a sweet lady, and the two women reconnected, becoming quick friends along with their sons.
It was the oldest that she had heard the most about. Kids with older brothers and sisters swapped stories about the new girl who had skipped a grade. She didn’t show up at school until '81, jumping straight into high school. Rumor had it she worked to help her mom until they could get by comfortably. She still worked, even during high school, she juggled odd jobs every now and then so she could actually attend classes. For a week, Barbara saw her every day, striding past the middle school to collect her little brother. Her style was very particular, hard to miss in the sea of colorful clothing in Hawkins, dark clothes, graphic tees, jeans. Except on Tuesdays and Thursdays, when she wore the track uniform, but always the same battered sneakers and leather jacket, always a Walkman clipped to her jeans, headphones clamped over her ears, and that apathetic expression on her face. The town’s curiosity faded after a month, but Barb always saw her.
By 1982, Barbara expected high school to be more of the same, and in many ways, she was right. Still, she felt a jittery mix of excitement and dread, the kind that made her heart race and her stomach flutter at the thought of high school. She and Nancy had spent the weekend shopping for supplies and new outfits, preparing for their first real day. The halls of Hawkins High felt bigger; its halls teeming with a rush of new and familiar faces. The morning passed without a hitch, and Barbara and Nancy stuck to each other, practically inseparable.
During the first passing period, Barbara caught sight of the so-called king of the school. She lingered by Nancy’s locker, waiting to meet up with her friend, watching as Tommy Hagan, Carol Perkins, and Steve Harrington closed in on a boy wearing a T-shirt that read 'Hellfire Club'. King Steve, someone she heard about the moment she set foot in this school. He was the whole package: tall, athletic, rich, funny, and Barbara would never admit to his face but he was strikingly handsome. That mane of hair alone explained his nickname. Wherever he went, eyes followed. But Barbara had no love for the company he kept.
Tommy and Carol seemed to take the reins of the encounter. Their voices carried just enough for Barbara to catch the words 'cultist freaks.' She’d heard the warnings all day: steer clear of the Hellfire Club, a covenant of supposed psychos who worshipped Satan and sacrificed animals. It was absurd, especially because the poster she saw advertising the club was recruiting for that board game Nancy's little brother plays. It's hard to watch the kid looking more and more uncomfortable, begging for the three to leave him alone. Tommy Hagan not believing in personal space, hand gripping the neck of the boy's shirt stretching it out, Carol's tittering laughter ringing through the halls as she eggs her boyfriend on and Steve smirking joining in with taunts on whatever problem he and his friends had with the boy's shirt. That same word from earlier is the only one she can make out, ‘Freak. Freak. Freak’. And Barb knows this song and dance. Avoid students of rumor. Someone else will help.
The sound of ripping fabric punctuates the halls, followed by the crack of knuckles crushing a nose and Carol Perkins' ear-splitting scream.
Tommy goes down hard, shock and horror flashing across Steve and Carol’s faces as they stare at the boy writhing, clutching his bleeding nose. All eyes snapped to the initiator. Barbara shifted for a better view, joining the crowd of students drawn to the first fight of the year. There she was, standing in front of the kid with the torn shirt: leather jacket, battered sneakers, Walkman clipped to her jeans, headphones draped around her neck, and the same T-shirt as the boy behind her. You, irritation written on your face as you stand there, as Carol screams vitriol at you for punching her douchebag boyfriend. You let her wear herself out, not bothering to try and get a word in, and with a subtle wave, you sent your clubmate away, the boy leaving with a reluctant glance to you before scampering off to safety.
You share a look with Steve that catches Barbara's attention, your eyes heavy with disappointment, his clouded with forlorn guilt, before you turn your back on him, leaving Carol yelling after you in indignation at you blowing her off like she wasn't even there. By the next day, the rumor mill was in overdrive: the Hellfire Club were violent, unpredictable, monsters. Despite the crowd of witnesses, everyone believed it. Hellfire was dangerous. Barbara noticed how students steered clear of you and your clubmates, how you no longer wore the track uniform, and finally, she learned your name as classmates whispered, 'Stay away from Henderson.'
So she does.
Wake up!
You feel numb, the cold gnawing at your bones. Someone calls your name, their voice slicing through the haze, your brow twitching as you try to register what’s going on. Hands shake you with growing urgency. You’re sprawled on your side, groaning, batting them away, mumbling, “Five more minutes.” The words scrape out, rough and raw, like gravel in your throat.
The voice pleads for you to wake, again and again, raw with urgency. Your head swims until finally your foggy brain catches the edge of panic in their words. Scared, the voice is scared. You wrench your eyes open and push yourself upright, every bone screaming in protest. A set of trembling hands helps you to your feet, and you find yourself suddenly, face-to-face with a disheveled and terrified Barbara.
“Babs? Holy shit, what happened? Are you okay?” You grab her upper arm, pulling her close as your eyes dart wildly. You’re at the bottom of what looks like Steve Harrington’s pool, only it is rotting and strangled by strange, twisting vines. “Where the fuck are we?” Your hearts thunder as you scan your surroundings.
There towering before you is a horror beyond your imagination: a nine-foot, faceless creature, its skin ghostly pale. Terror roots you in place. Then its face splits into five jagged petals and a guttural roar shakes the air. You and Barbara scream, instinct taking over as you both scramble for escape. You grab Barb’s hand, pulling her as she stumbles, her injured ankle nearly giving out. She cries out, pain and fear tangled in her voice. “Shit, I'm sorry! I'm sorry, we have to go. Now!” you panic, eyes darting for any way out until you spot the pool ladder tangled in vines. "Over there!"
You release Barb’s hand, quickly darting over to the ladder and starting to tear the fleshy vines out of the way of the rungs. “Barb, Hurry!” your voice cracks, thick with fear. Blood roars in your ears as you glance back. That ankle looks bad, purple and swollen, as she hurriedly staggers towards you. Barbara's shout of your name snaps you back to your unfortunate reality; you don't have time for a panic attack, so you begin your ascent.
At the top, you only take a moment to greedily take in a breath before you quickly turn back to the ladder and reach down for Barb, who drags herself up, every step up a battle against the pain in her ankle. She whimpers, and you grit your teeth, stretching until your fingers brush hers. You grip her hand and haul her up, but just as she reaches the top, she shrieks, a cold, clawed grip clamps around her ankle, yanking her back down and pulling you with her. Barb clings to the ladder with one hand, knuckles white, while you brace your feet against the bars of the pool’s ladder, refusing to let go. “Barb, hold on, I’ve got you!” you shout. She screams again as the creature’s claws dig into her skin. Barbara sobs your name, tears blurring your vision. “I’ve got you, I promise!” you choke out, voice trembling.
Barbara can see it clearly now, what others couldn’t. You aren’t the violent monster everyone talks about, not a cold-blooded psycho or a cultist freak, they all say to avoid. Right in front of her, the girl who clutches her hand, tears pouring down her cheeks, desperate to save the life of someone who avoided her because of lies they heard from everyone around her, someone who kept her head down and ignored the bullying to avoid drawing the attention of the popular kids to themself instead, just like everyone else.
In this moment, Barbara realizes two things: Hellfire's Henderson is a good soul with a bleeding heart, always has been. Second, you are about to get yourself killed for someone who is already gone. So, just for once, Barbara won’t ignore you again. Just for once, she won’t let you get dragged down so she can coast on by. Summoning every ounce of her courage, Barb shouts, “Let go!”
Shock roots you in place, tears streaming down your cheeks as you stammer, “What?” Before you can say more, both your voices shatter the air with shrill screams. The creature yanks Barb’s leg again, dragging you both closer to the pool edge. Your foot slips as you try to grind the sole of your shoe into the ground. Barb’s scream is raw with pain. She can feel her leg practically being ripped off, the arm you cling to feels like it might tear from its socket, but she refuses to let you be dragged down, too. With the last of her strength, she screams your name and shouts, “RUN!” She releases the pool rail and, in a final act, lands a sharp punch to the left side of your face. The blow stuns you, forcing you to let go. The monster rips her away, and her final scream echoes: ‘RUN!’
A sickening wet thwack hits the bottom of the pool, followed by a gut-wrenching squelch and crack of something tearing through flesh and bone. You want to cover your ears, but you can’t find the ability to move.
A heavy silence crushes you, broken only by your own frantic, uneven breathing. Your gaze is locked on the spot where Barb stood moments before. You had her. You had her. You had her. You had her. You had her. You had her. You had her. You had her. You had her. You had her. You had her. You had her.
I’ll be fine.
The monster’s growl snaps you back to the nightmare. You hear it prowling at the pool’s depths. You scramble upright, nearly tripping as you bolt into the Harrington house, desperate to escape the thing that just devoured your friend. Your stomach churns as you stagger into the vine-infested home, “Nancy? Steve?” you rasp, voice shredded and raw. Every breath burns as you spot odd particles drifting in the air. You yank your grimy jacket over your nose and mouth, duck your head, and, still dizzy, stumble toward the garage.
The garage is just as decrepit as everywhere else. You scan the shadows for anything useful. If that thing comes for you, you want a chance to defend yourself. There’s not a whole lot in the garage, just like the rest of the house, just more of the same suffocating tangle of vines crawling over every surface. In the corner of the room, you spot a steel pipe. Your new best friend, you grab it, gripping it like a lifeline. Seriously, how does someone as rich as the Harringtons not have an axe, or a sword, or at least a gun? What the fuck is the point of being rich if you’re not buying random shit? You tiptoe to the stairs, every step careful, ears straining for any sign of the monster. You enter a room that screams teenage boy. The same vines snake along the walls, weaving between basketball trophies and posters. There’s even a bikini girl poster, and if you weren’t so traumatized, you’d laugh. The whole place feels like what you expect a popular kids' room to look like; it’s a little uncanny. To each their own, you guess.
Exhaustion drags at your limbs, you glance around the room, and there's nowhere the vines aren’t touching. As a last resort, you open Steve’s closet; it's clean, just packed with stale-smelling clothes, but it’s better than nothing. You pull a bunch of clothes off the hangers and make a bed on the floor. You yank a few shirts from their hangers and pile them on the floor, making a makeshift bed. Peeling off your filthy jacket and shirt, staring hollowly at the dirtied face of the grinning demon. Your lip quivers as you fight back a whimper, clutching the shirt tightly in your hands. You sniffle, wipe your eye, then fold the shirt and place it on top of your jacket, which you haphazardly dropped to the floor. You pull a yellow sweater over your head, shut the closet door, and curl up in your improvised safe room. Pain throbs in your injured eye, a sharp reminder that you’re still alive.
The next morning is weird for Dustin. You're not in the kitchen toasting whatever you can find; you haven’t left a bowl on the counter for him to make his cereal, and Mews is staring expectantly into her food bowl. Confused, Dustin grabs Mews' food and gives it to her, and then goes to make breakfast for himself. He sits at the kitchen table, spoon in hand, and looks to the sink by the window, where you’re usually leaning against as you try to wake yourself up in the mornings. Something’s off, and Dustin doesn’t like it.
Footsteps echo down the hall. Finally, you must have just slept in after that party. Relieved, Dustin calls your name, teasing, “You must’ve been out super late if-” But his words falter as his mom shuffles in instead, hair tousled, still in slippers and a robe, rubbing sleep from her eyes.
“What was that, Dusty?” your mom yawns, catching sight of her son frozen at the table. Dustin quietly sets his spoon down, then asks if she’s seen you. “She’s not in her room?” she replies. That must be it, Mom’s always right. He dashes past her, races upstairs, and bursts into your room without knocking. Empty. Your room is a mess, but it always looks like that. Your cassettes are scattered all over the floor, papers with stuff written on them like a stick figure with stink lines coming off of it with an arrow that just says you pointing to it, but you’re gone. Even more concerning, your bag and Walkman are missing, too. So either you left early, or you didn’t come home last night. Heart pounding, Dustin bolts downstairs, grabs his bag and coat, and heads for the door. He has to tell the party.
“Dusty? Was she in her room?” Your mom calls from the kitchen, Dustin swings the door open, pausing to think for a second.
“Uh, no! I think she left early!” He yells back, hearing his mother accept the excuse. He slams the door and sprints for his bike. Something’s wrong; you wouldn’t just ditch him, not now, not after making everyone swear to keep you updated, you said you were going to check in with him first thing in the morning. Maybe something stopped you from coming home, just like something stopped Will. You’d never break a promise. Dustin trusts you, always.
Dustin speeds to the Wheeler house, faster than he’s ever biked before. He skids to a stop, flings his bike onto the driveway, and barrels to the front door, pounding until Mrs. Wheeler opens it, wide-eyed at the near-frantic boy in front of her, “Dustin? Where’s-” He barely hears her, blurting a rushed apology as he darts straight for the basement. He nearly tumbles down the stairs, jumping the last few steps, landing with a thud that jolts his friends. Gasping for breath, hands braced on his knees, he tries to find the words to explain himself to his stunned friends.
Mike and El watch Dustin, breathless and wild-eyed, as he staggers into the room. Lucas hovers by the game table, tense. “C-Co- D- Cod-,” Dustin gasps, words tangled on his tongue. He clings to the banister, chest rising and falling in frantic bursts.
“Dustin, what happened? Where’s your sister?” Mike blurts, confusion etched across his face as he scans the doorway, expecting you to appear behind Dustin.
“Dude, are you about to pass out?” Lucas asks, his eyes wide with a mix of worry and disbelief as he watches Dustin nearly collapse.
Dustin gulps in a ragged breath, blurting out, “Red. Code Red.” His voice trembles with panic. “She’s gone. I think whatever took Will took her too.”
“What?!” Mike shouts, springing up from his seat and startling El. “Are you sure?”
“I didn’t see her this morning. Her bag wasn’t in her room. I don’t think she even came home last night,” Dustin insists, panic rising in his voice.
“How do you know she’s not just skipping with Eddie or something?” Mike asks, trying to think of any other reason you aren’t here, because the alternative is very, very worrying.
“I know my sister,” Dustin declares, fierce determination in his eyes as he defends you in your absence. “She promised to catch up with me when she came home, and she didn’t. Something stopped her.”
“He’s right. She’s not like that. We can always count on her,” Lucas says, moving beside Dustin and giving his back a steadying pat, “She wouldn’t ditch us when we need her.” Mike nods, agreeing, though worry gnaws at him. Lucas looks to Dustin, “So what do you want to do?”
Dustin exhales a heavy sigh, nerves flickering in his eyes as he strides to the game table. Lucas and Mike follow both boys, standing on either side of him, anticipation thick in the air. “We stick to Operation Mirkwood. If we find Will, we’ll find my sister,” Dustin declares, his voice ringing with conviction.
“But what if we don’t?” Mike asks, worry creasing his brow as doubt creeps in.
“We will,” Dustin says, not even entertaining the thought.
“We definitely will, and we won't stop looking for them ‘til we do.” Lucas agrees.
The boys exchange determined nods, each patting Dustin’s shoulder in solidarity as they huddle over the day’s plan. In the background, El fiddles with Mike’s radio. Mike lays out the strategy: “We tell our parents we’ve got AV Club after school. That buys us a few hours for Operation Mirkwood.”
“You seriously think that the weirdo knows where Will is?” Lucas says his mistrust of El is clear in his tone.
“She has too…” Dustin insists, willing to believe in El for Yours and Will’s sake.
“Just trust me on this, okay?” Mike implores.
Lucas sighs heavily, giving in, “Okay.”
“Did you get the supplies?” Mike asks.
“Yeah.” Lucas reveals his haul: binoculars from ‘Nam, an Army knife also from ‘Nam, a Hammer, a camouflage bandana, and the wrist rocket, listing off all the items to his friends as he pulls them out of his bag.
“You’re gonna take out the Demogorgon with a slingshot?” Dustin asks in disbelief.
“First of all, it’s a wrist rocket,” Lucas corrects, “and second of all, the Demogorgon’s not real. It’s made up.” He aims the wrist rocket with a flourish. “But if something’s out there, I’ll shoot it in the eye and blind it.” He snaps the empty slingshot for effect.
“Dustin, what did you get?” Mike asks, turning to the other boy, happy with what Lucas brought.
Dustin upends his bag, spilling out a cascade of snacks. “Well, alrighty, so we’ve got… Nutty Bars, Bazooka, Pez, Smarties, Pringles, Nilla Wafers, apple, banana, and trail mix.” Pointing to each item as he goes over them.
“Seriously?” Lucas asks, staring at your brother in disbelief.
“We need energy for our travels, for stamina, also I packed before I found out the Demogorgon probably stole my sister as well, so sue me. Besides, we've got her.” Dustin huffs with a shrug before gesturing to El, “She’s better than any weapon.”
“She shut one door!” Lucas argues.
“With her mind! Are you kidding me? That's insane!” Dustin exclaims, baffled that Lucas can downplay El’s powers as if they’re not the most bonkers, coolest thing they’ve ever seen.
Their plotting is cut short by Mrs. Wheeler’s calling them up for school, sending them scrambling for their coats and bags, and then up the stairs in a chaotic rush.
The next morning is weird for Steve. He woke up alone, and if he’s honest, he doesn’t remember Nancy leaving last night. If he really thinks hard enough, he thinks he heard her tell him she’ll see him tomorrow, so obviously her friend took her home. Shrugging it off, he goes through his usual routine: get dressed, do his hair with the regular four puffs of spray and little extra primping until he’s satisfied. he heads into the kitchen to get breakfast, rolling his eyes when he sees a cheeseless fridge, so much for his breakfast bagel, he grumbles your name, but can’t help but huff a laugh to himself as he remembers the look on your face when he caught you raiding his kitchen. He’d say he can’t believe you made yourself a sandwich at his party, but honestly, he can. You took his “make yourself at home” literally.
Something odd catches Steve’s eye by the pool, a lumpy shape slouched against one of the pool chairs. Confused, Steve makes his way outside and picks it up. It’s a bag, and it’s really light. He can hear something plastic rattling around inside. Recognition dawns on him; he practically sees this bag every day. It’s yours, you left your bag here, he scoffs and shakes his head mumbling a sarcastic, “And she calls me an air head, well im not the one who forgot their bag before they went home so…” Steve brings your bag with him back into the house as he gets ready to go, putting on his jacket and grabbing his keys and his own bag before he heads out the door to his car.
He tosses your bag in the car next to his, but curiosity wins out before he can start the engine. He grabs your bag again and zips it open. It’s pretty much empty apart from some keys, random papers, and a battered Walkman with headphones. He pulls them out and looks at them curiously. Holy shit, are they busted to all hell. You need to buy some new ones, like yesterday. Well, he’s definitely holding this from you until he… he doesn’t know what he wants from you, he’ll think of something before he sees you, so it’s fine. Still messing with your Walkman, Steve tries to pop open the cassette player, but it's jammed shut. He scrunches his brows and huffs and then tries to force it open.
CRACK!
Oh fuck, oh shit, he broke it. His eyes widen in horror as the Walkman’s plastic front snaps off and lands in his lap, cassette and all. “Shit.” The brunette hisses, fumbling to reattach the broken piece to no avail. In his panic, He shoves the ruined Walkman into the glove box, snapping the taped-up headphones in his rush. “God- Shit!” Steve feels fucking awful. He just destroyed your most prized possession. He’s never seen you without it. How is he gonna tell you he broke it and not have you hate him forever, oh God, what if you just start crying? He can’t watch you cry; he’d rather you beat the shit out of him instead of forcing him to watch you cry. At least the cassette survived. He checks the label: ‘Bitsy’s Mix #1.’ “Who the hell is Bitsy?” He mumbles to himself, staring at the cassette baffled, but considering it was stuck in your Walkman, he figures it must be one of your favourites, so he carefully tucks it into his backpack and stuffs your deflated bag into his. He’ll tell you he has no idea where your Walkman is and buy you a new one. You might even smile at him again if he does. With that plan, Steve finally heads to school. It’s going to be a long day.
Aside from wrecking your Walkman, Steve’s morning has been smooth. His girlfriend said she had a good time last night, which is always a win, and luck seems to be on his side since you’re not in class. That means he can avoid confessing to the Walkman disaster. Was class painfully long and boring without you? Absolutely. Is he worried you’re missing after seeming perfectly fine last night at his party? Definitely, you looked pissed when he last saw you. He hopes you're not avoiding him; who else can he gloat to? He figures you’re just skipping. His theory is only further solidified when Nancy asks Tommy if he had seen Barb leave last night. “She’s not here today,” Nancy says, worry clouding her expression due to the absence of her best friend.
Tommy answers with a mocking smile, “I seriously have no idea who you’re talking about.” His response earns him a snicker from Carol, which he joins, laughing off Nancy’s concern like the hyenas they are.
Steve frowns at his friends, irritation flickering in his eyes. Steve huffs out an annoyed sigh, “Come on, don’t be an ass, man. Did you… Did you see her leave last night or not?”
“No, she was gone when we left,” Tommy replies, his tone flat and bored, as if taking Nancy seriously was a chore.
“Probably couldn’t stand listening to all that moaning.” Carol bursts out laughing, then mocks Nancy with over-the-top moans whilst Tommy laughs, then joins in, pounding the table with his fist, joining in with his girlfriend’s joke. Steve just watches, silent, an awkward smile pulling at his lips while Nancy shrinks uncomfortably in her seat.
“I’m sure she’s fine,” Steve says, leaning back to speak to Nancy quietly, trying to sound reassuring. “She’s probably just, like, skipping with Henderson or something; they seemed to get along last night.” He shrugs, casual and dismissive. When was the last time you skipped class? He honestly can’t remember, but that’s got to be it. Where else could you be?
“Maybe the freak brought your friend to her cult to be sacrificed,” Tommy cuts in harshly, grinning with Carol as if what he said was funny.
“Stop it, don’t say that,” Steve snaps, the words tumbling out before he can stop himself. Tommy and Carol shoot him a look; once again, he’s jumped in to defend the freak, before either of them could retort. Steve turns to Nancy, voice dropping, “Barb’s fine, Nance. Henderson’s harmless.”
“I know…” Nancy murmurs, her sad gaze drifting across the cafeteria until it lands on Eddie Munson. The curly-haired boy sits slouched, arms crossed over his chest, a frown etched on his lips, ignoring the chatter of the other Hellfire members. He just stares at the empty seat beside him like he was expecting someone to be there. Nancy quickly looks away, not wanting to be caught staring. Her eyes find the exit, where, like magnets, she locks eyes with Jonathan Byers, but he quickly looks away and disappears down the hallway.
Steve’s day nosedived from great to absolutely awful the moment Nicole gossips to Steve and his friends what she’d found in the darkroom. Byers had snapped some sketchy photos at his party last night, and if that wasn’t creepy enough, Nicole claimed she’d seen shots of Nancy, nearly naked, and that sent Steve’s blood boiling. The real gut punch came when he saw the photos himself. Each one stoked his anger higher. And Byers didn’t just take a picture of Nancy; there were pictures of you in there, too, and almost all of them were of you smiling, and that gnawed at Steve. This creep didn’t just have his eye on Steve’s girlfriend; he seemed obsessed with you as well. What if this guy took more unsolicited pictures of you and just had them locked away somewhere, Creep.
He was angry. Steve berated the boy, shredding his photos, but it still didn’t feel like enough, so Steve broke a second thing today. He watched as Byers’ camera hit the floor, shattering on impact. He watched Jonathan’s heartbreak flicker across his face, the quiet boy sinking to his knees, silent and stunned, staring at the wreckage as he tried futilely to pick up the pieces. Steve felt nothing. He smirked, jeered with his friends, but inside, he just felt as hollow as he always does, and he would never admit that a little tiny part of him was expecting you to come barreling in to pick a fight for the underdog, you always do, you’re like the Lorax for the freaks of Hawkins High. Maybe this time you would see what Jonathan had done and be on Steve’s side for once; he knows you wouldn’t be.
You don’t appear.
Because you can’t.
So for the first time in a long time, Steve walks away victorious.
Yeah, he feels like a real winner. Once he’s put enough distance between himself and the mess, he calls out for his girlfriend, who is still gathering scattered photos from the floor. She snatches up what she can and hurries after him. He doesn’t ask what she picked up; she probably just took the worst ones.
It has been a long day for Dustin; they’ve been following El all afternoon, and it feels like they’ve been walking in circles. Dustin’s on edge with you missing, he hates that it’s dark out, the party has made no progress, and Mike and Lucas’ endless squabbling only makes his headache worse. If you were here, you’d get them to stop or make fun of them with him so he could laugh and tune them out. When El leads them to Will’s house, another argument breaks out between Mike and Lucas over El, the girl who can only watch the boys argue. It’s the wail of sirens that snatches his attention as he worriedly calls to his friends, “Guys!” Dustin’s shout snaps everyone to attention as police cars and an ambulance streak by. Mike whispers Will’s name with worry, as Dustin whimpers yours in panic. Terrified for their friends, they quickly grab their bikes and pedal rapidly after the emergency vehicles. Fear propels them onto their bikes, chasing the flashing lights to the quarry, hearts pounding, the silence between them thick with dread at what they may find at the end. They skid to a halt behind the fire engine, bikes abandoned in a tangle. Breathless, they crowd around the back of the vehicle, eyes wide, watching as something is dragged from the water by the paramedics.
The body is small, and for a split second, a tiny, guilty hope flickers in Dustin. It’s not you. But as the truth of who lies on the stretcher hits, his eyes sting with tears, the weight of grief crushing him. “It’s not Will, it can’t be,” Mike mutters, his voice shaky, the scene before him clashing with everything El told them.
“It’s Will. It’s really Will.” Lucas says, voice wavering with grief, staring at the scene in disbelief, even though he didn’t trust El, there was still a small part of him that held hope that maybe, somehow, she had been telling the truth.
They turn away, unable to watch any longer, as the body is placed into the ambulance. El reaches for Mike, but his anger erupts; he lashes out at El, raw and betrayed, and he storms off, leaving them all behind. The remaining three can only watch in despair as the heartbroken boy leaves, unable to be around the quarry any longer. Lucas and Dustin’s voices tremble as they call for Mike to come back, as tears streak their faces as they watch him go, getting further and further from them. Dustin can’t stop sobbing, grief for Will tangled with fear for his sister. How long until it’s you that they find? He tries to quiet his cries as Lucas hugs him tight, both of them crying for loss. Dustin wishes for nothing more than for you to come home safe. For this to be some horrible nightmare that once he wakes, you and Will will be fine. He can only hope.
Dustin is still sniffling when he and Lucas finally let go. Lucas keeps his hand steady on Dustin’s shoulder, voice steady as he promises, “She’s gonna be ok.” He tries to lighten the mood, reminding Dustin of the time at the fair when you demolished the hammer and bell game just to prove to the stall guy that his game was rigged. You were right, it was rigged, but you still slammed the mallet so hard the bell rang, breaking the machine and winning everyone hush prizes so the cops wouldn’t get involved. It was one of the best days ever. Dustin wipes his eyes and nods. Lucas is right: wherever you are, you’re probably raising hell. As they walk home, Dustin notices El’s absence but keeps quiet, not bringing it up to Lucas, knowing the response will probably be, ‘don’t know, don’t care.’ They talk about happy memories with you. Any time either of them thinks about Will, they can’t stop the waver in their voice, so they avoid the subject. Lucas reaches his house first, and their goodbye is quick, with a promise to talk tomorrow.
Dustin pedals the rest of the way home alone, and he hates it. He hates that there's no weight on the back of his bike, or that there's no one cycling next to him. There’s no one to make a dumb bet with him, there’s no one to laugh at him when he loses, he’s all alone. His eyes sting, but he blinks the tears away until he finally reaches home. He walks through the door, and the moment he sees his mother, he collapses into her arms, wailing like a baby. His mom coddles him, shushing him gently, small tears of her own spring to her eyes. Dustin cries until he’s all out of tears. “Oh, Dusty, it’ll be ok, my sweet boy.”
Dustin melts into her embrace, but her next question chills him to the bone. She wants to know where you are, hoping to comfort her more than likely grieving daughter as well. In that moment, Dustin makes a decision; they couldn’t save Will, but he would be damned if he can’t save you. He wipes his tears and puts on a brave face, telling his mother, “She’s at Eddie’s. He’s looking out for her. She’s not taking it so well.” His mother gives a soft, understanding pout and nods sympathetically.
“Oh, that Eddie’s so sweet, I’ll call him tomorrow just to check in with her,” your mom decides. She squeezes Dustin in a tight hug, tells him to get ready for bed, and reassures him he can skip school if he needs to. He bids his mother a good night and watches her pad off to her room, and once she’s out of sight. Operation Cover Your Ass commences. Although his trust in El is waning, he still believes her when she says they can’t tell any adults; her fear was just too real when she stopped them from telling Mike’s mom. Dustin firmly believes that the bad men are out there, that the Demogorgon is out there. Dustin needs time to find you, to make a plan. If anyone realizes you’re missing and tells your mom, he’ll be grounded for life, and then he can’t help you at all. He needs an alibi for you, someone you trust to cover until he brings you home. He sprints to your room, rifling through your things until he finds your notebook. It’s not a diary, just pages and pages of jumbled thoughts, wild ideas, and crude sketches of the people you dislike. Dustin snorts at the drawings, then flips to the page with your messy reminders in your chicken scratch handwriting. He brings the book back to the kitchen. He grabs the phone and dials the number verbatim, as in your book. He clutches the book, grabs the phone, and dials, heart pounding as he glances nervously down the hall for any sign of your mom. The line rings for a long time, and Dustin gets antsy. At last, someone picks up.
A groggy, scratchy voice finally answers. Dustin hears a whiny groan, the kind that says he’s woken someone up, but he doesn’t care. The voice grumbles, “What?”
Dustin feels relief wash over him, white-knuckling the phone. Thank god he answered. “Eddie?” Dustin asks for confirmation.
“Child?” Eddie is weirded out by the squeaky voice coming from the line. First, you completely blow off school, without him, mind you, and now someone’s toddler is calling him, as if he’s Hawkins’ day care or something.
“I need you to do something for me. No questions, got it?” Dustin cuts in, wasting no time. He needs Eddie on board, fast, and there’s no room for argument.
Eddie reels, baffled that some kid is bossing him around and laying down rules. Sure, he’s done weirder things for less, but this is where he draws the line. He flatly answers back, “Uh, no? Who the hell is this anyway?”
Dustin lets out a heavy sigh. Why couldn’t your friend just be cooler with this? Is doing whatever a random voice tells you to do so hard? “My name is Dustin Henderson, and you know my sister,” he says, voice steady. On the other end, the older boy’s voice repeats your name, baffled. Eddie knows you have a little brother. You talk about him and his friends a lot, Eddie’s just never met any of them himself; he’s sure they’re cool kids, you certainly think they are. Babysitting, though, is definitely not his thing. That’s your department.
“Okay? Why are you calling? What’s the favor?” Eddie says getting more and more confused.
“I need you to cover for my sister until she gets back,” Dustin explains vaguely.
“From where? Is that why she didn’t come to school today? For how long? Is she gonna miss Friday’s DnD? She knows I hate postponing.” Eddie rattles off a bunch of questions; you never mentioned going anywhere to him. Maybe that explains why you were so quiet yesterday.
“Don’t. Ask. Questions. My sister’s… away at the moment, and since you’re always getting her into shit, you owe her this,” Dustin insists, brooking no argument. Dustin nervously fiddles with the phone cord. God, he hopes this works.
“Wh- Ugh, fine. What do you want me to do?” Eddie groans, surrendering because he knows Dustin’s right. You always go along with his dumbass ideas, and it always ends with the two of you getting in trouble with Hopper. At the very least, the Chief never actually arrests either of you; it’s usually a warning or a slap on the wrist. Still, if your brother’s serious and you need help, Eddie’s got your back, no additional questions asked.
Dustin pulls the phone from his ear, a quiet fist pump marking his silent victory. Phase one, complete. He presses the phone back to his ear, voice low and urgent. “If anyone asks, she's staying with you because she’s not feeling like herself, that includes our mom. And if a cop asks, you have the right to remain silent, capiche?”
“Whoa, no, not capiche, cops?” Eddie sputters, suddenly worried about what you’ve gotten into. Cops are involved? Your mom isn’t even allowed to know? What the fuck is going on? He can’t help himself, the questions tumble out: “Dude, what the hell is happening? Where is she?”
Dustin clamps a hand over the phone, muttering curses under his breath, eyes squeezed shut in exasperation. He exhales, then snaps at Eddie, “My sister is literally your only friend. If you don’t do this for her, I’ll tell her to literally never talk to you again, do you understand? This is super important, ok. She needs you to cover for her, for however long it takes. No questions. She’ll fill you in when she’s back, but for now, just trust me and do what I say.”
Eddie mutters, “Jesus, fine. You really are her brother, you nag just like she does.” The metalhead shakes his head in disbelief, floored that he’s being blackmailed into doing your pre-teen brother’s bidding.
“Thank you, I know, and just stick to the plan,” Dustin says, a proud grin appearing on his face. He can’t wait to tell you about this, knowing you’ll get a kick out of it.
Eddie says with a lazy salute that Dustin can’t even see. Eddie catches his own reflection in the darkness of the trailer window and wonders how it came to this as he mumbles an “Aye aye, captain" to your younger brother.
Dustin hangs up. Mission accomplished. Eddie should be able to stall anyone who comes asking about you, buying time for him and the rest of the party to bring you home. All Dustin needs to do now is get Mike, Lucas, and El to work together without an argument breaking out. That’s tomorrow’s problem. Dustin trudges upstairs, but instead of his own room, he heads to yours, curling up on your bed, surrounding himself in the remnants of your presence, and drifting off to dreamless sleep.
A/N: I thought this chapter was going to be shorter than it is. I was very wrong. Next week either NFMD or another snippet, maybe even both, odds are low but never zero, also depending on how I'm feeling. Also might write a my first one shot for this series taking place between 1980-1982 :)
Also I'm sorry Barb
▹Up Next ▵ Chapter IV - The Body◃
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