Pretty in Pink
dustin henderson x barbie!reader
Request: here!
Word Count: 3.4k
Warnings & Tags: typical high school cliques, a little bit of bullying? idk carols just carol (i do not like her), reader called Dustin “love” once, kiss hehe, pure fluff, mutual pining, kinda buns. I think that’s all!
Summary: You realize that maybe it’s okay to let colours intertwine.
Notes: I love pink (if you couldn’t tell from my page), and I love Barbie!reader. I don’t think I really did what was requested and kinda took it down a different path than what you wanted so I’m sorryyyy but I hope it’s okay! I still know very little about d&d oops. Also I know glitter isn’t a colour but please just go with it. Mwah! <3
Masterlist
Hawkins High runs on colours. Green and gold rule the hallways, where the air smells of expensive cologne and the laughter comes pre-packaged, loud enough to fill any silence. Shades of black and gray own the corners—the back door propped open with a cinderblock leading to the outside stairs where cigarette smoke curls up from hidden hands. Between those territories stretch beige expanses: empty benches, forgotten lockers, spaces no one claims because they're too ordinary to fight over.
Your world is pink and glitter. Not the absolute top of the pyramid—that's the green-and-gold girls with their letterman-jacket boyfriends—but close enough to count. You're liked without being envied, admired without being dissected by the school population. The pink starts pale and pristine, like the inside of a seashell: a bubblegum cardigan folded neatly over your arm, a white pencil case detailed with light pink ribbons and and hearts, lip gloss that tastes like Strawberry Shortcake and leaves everything shimmering. You wear it like a second skin, skirts swishing in perfect rhythm with your heels, hair tied back with your staple satin bows that match your outfit and never seem to slip. It's comfortable in its predictability. People know what to expect from you: a smile at the right moment, a laugh that doesn't overstay its welcome, and you know your place in the palette.
You first notice Dustin Henderson because he defies the code. A backpack sits on his shoulders with a radio in the side pocket, with an antenna that bobs when he walks, his hat sits crooked over curls that spring back no matter how many times he tugs it down, and his voice cuts through the hallway like a signal trying to find its frequency—quick, precise, packed with questions that make the people around him lean in despite themselves. He fits into a colour code that you can’t quite place, with his Hellfire dice clinking in his pocket, sneakers scuffed from bike pedals and whatever experiment he was working on that particular day.
You spot him at the vending machine one morning, quarters slipping through his fingers. Then again by the gym during a sudden downpour.
The rain traps you both under the narrow overhang, water sheeting off the roof in gray curtains. You're clutching your sweater to your chest, kitten heels sinking slightly into the wet grass. He's holding a cardboard box like it's fragile cargo, rain dripping from the brim of his hat. He glances over, grins through the downpour. "You look like you’re terrified to step out.”
You laugh before you can stop it—a full, unguarded sound that surprises you both. He tilts his head, studying you for a beat, then nods like he's cataloged something important. The rain lets up eventually, but that one moment lingers.
After that, your paths keep crossing. The vending machine by the science wing becomes routine—he feeds in quarters, sometimes leaving one balanced on the edge for you. You never mention it, just slip it into the slot when he's not looking. In the parking lot after school, his bike tires crunch gravel as he coasts past your car, slowing just enough to wave. Your hand rises automatically, a pink-polished nail catching the light. It's nothing overt, no grand gestures, but the beige spaces between colors start feeling less empty.
Word spreads, of course. Hawkins High thrives on it. It’s a small town, after all. Carol corners you in the bathroom one afternoon, eyeshadow brush hovering mid-stroke, her green-and-gold friends clustered behind her as if it was their duty. "One of the freaks tutoring you now, hm? I’m not surprised.”
You cap your gloss slowly, meeting her eyes in the mirror. "Does that really matter to you, Carol?"
They exchange glances, lips pursing. You grab your bag and leave them to their reflections.
Your pink-and-glitter friends don't press as hard. They just mention the A.V. and Hellfire club with a delicate shudder, like the names alone carry germs. "Those boys are so... intense," one says over lunch, picking at her food. You nod, and let the topic drift to weekend plans. Inside, though, your curiosity hums louder.
Dustin talks to you like none of that exists. No sidelong glances for approval, no subtext layered under every word. He asks about your favorite song one day by the lockers, and returns a few days later with a cassette, containing your favourite song and his, “for your Walkman”. One afternoon, he pulls a copy of The Hobbit from his bag and hands it over. “Borrow it,” he says. “It’s one of my favorite books. See what you think.” You mark the pages you love with tiny pink tabs, your notes neat and precise in the margins. A week later, you slide it back to him. He flips through it slowly, lingering over your choices, and lets out a quiet chuckle. The annotations are so perfectly arranged, so you, that it makes him smile before he can stop himself.
His room is the first real interaction you’ve had outside of school. You follow him to his basement after school one day—he'd mentioned wanting to show you D&D, his voice lighting up in the hallway as he told you all about his friends in Hellfire. The stairs creak under your feet as you descend, the wood worn smooth in the center from years of footsteps. No posters line the walls down here, just a comfortable mess of projects: a half-built spaceship model sitting on the desk; tangled radio cords across the floor; a fan whirring lazily in the corner. It holds a lot of character, you thought. You liked that about him.
You note that the room smells faintly of hot solder and pencil shavings as you lower yourself cross-legged onto the thin carpet, smoothing your skirt flat out of habit even though no one's watching to judge. Dustin dumps his backpack with a thud, rummages inside, and pulls out a handful of dice that clatter like loose change. He launches into an explanation of different spells and the campaign he’s currently playing, the words tumbling out fast and eager, his hands gesturing to demonstrate.
"Slow down a little," you say, smiling up at him.
He pauses mid-sentence, cheeks flushing a warmer shade than your pale pink polish. "Sorry. I get going." He takes a breath, starts again more measured, rolling the dice across the table to show points. You watch him more than listen, drawn to the sure, quick way his fingers move.
That night, after you get home, your phone rings, cutting through the quiet house. His voice crackles through the line. "Forgot to explain that math thing from class." It's a weak excuse and you both know it, but neither of you call it out. You talk for what feels like hours, his laughter breaking warm and scratchy across the line, your words softening as the house settles into sleep around you. When you finally hang up, the darkness in your room feels less heavy, tinged now with something new and faintly electric.
Pink begins seeping into his world in small, unremarked ways. A silk hair tie from your wrist sits on his desk during a study session. The sparkly gloss you wear smudges the eraser of a pencil you borrow from him. He never complains, just takes it back with a half-smile. One day after class, he digs into his pocket at the vending machine and pulls out candy with a bubblegum-pink wrapper. "Saw this at the store. The colour reminded me of you. They’re strawberry too, I know they’re your favourite.”
You take it, the foil cool and shiny. "You remembered that? Thanks.” It's sweet without being overdone, a quiet acknowledgment. You’ve never experienced anyone noticing you the way he does.
The whispers build steadily. You catch them in passing, “pity date," "what's her deal?", most coming from the green-and-gold clusters. One day by the lockers, you see Dustin stiffen, facing down Jason in his varsity jacket. Dustin's jaw sets, voice low but firm. You can't hear the words from around the corner, but he eventually backs off. Dustin stalks away, shoulders tight.
Later, at your locker, Dustin lingers in the hallway's fluorescent hum, his fingers tugging the brim of his hat down low over his forehead. His sneakers scuff the floor once, twice, eyes fixed on a crack in the floor tile as if it holds some answer. The air between you feels thick with whatever happened earlier—whatever Jason said, and Dustin's clipped words you didn't quite catch. "They talk loud around here," he says finally, voice low, almost lost in the locker slams echoing down the corridor.
You dig into your bag, fingers closing around the bubblegum-pink candy he'd given you days ago. You pull one out, the foil of it catching the light like a tiny prism, and hold it toward him, offering. “So do we."
He looks up then, surprise flickering in his eyes before his mouth quirks into a half-smile. His hand closes over yours for a split second longer than necessary, warm and calloused from soldering irons and bike handles, before he takes the candy. He unwraps it, popping the candy in his mouth, folding the foil meticulously—first one way, then the other—tucking it into his palm. He nods once, slow and deliberate, the tension easing from his shoulders. "Yeah," he says, and it's enough.
Your nails shift shades over the weeks that follow, a subtle rebellion you don't even plan at first. Pale blush from last month's bottle gives way to a brighter rose, the kind that gleams under hallway lights and leaves faint traces on the pages of notebooks. He notices one lunch period by the bleachers, the football field stretching empty and green behind you, cut grass sharp in the air. You're sitting side by side on the metal slats, books balanced on your knees, the sun warming the back of your neck. A breeze tugs at the ribbons in your hair. "New polish?" he asks, glancing at your hand where it rests on the bench between you, rose-tipped fingers drumming lightly.
"Yeah. It’s called Kiss Me on the Tulips," you say, flexing them in the sunlight so they catch the glare, the color deepening from a baby pink to something warmer, more alive.
He chuckles, studying them for a beat before his shoulder bumps yours lightly, deliberate but casual, the fabric of his jacket rough against your cardigan sleeve. "It suits you. It’s nice." The contact lingers, as chatter from the track team drifts over from the far field.
You start skipping the usual pink-and-glitter tables at lunch more often, the ones where conversations circle endlessly around weekend parties and whose boyfriend said what. Instead, you drift closer to his group some days, tray balanced precariously on your lap as you sit on the edge of their bench in the courtyard or the far end of the cafeteria. Your friends shoot looks at first—curious arches of perfectly plucked brows, then cooler, sidelong glances that turn into silence when you don't explain. No one calls you out directly; they just fill your seat with someone new, their laughter a little sharper when you walk by. The pink on you deepens with time: a brighter, more vibrant pink cardigan draped carelessly over the back of his chair during basement hangouts, picking up faint solder dust along the hem; a satin ribbon tied loosely around his walkie-talkie antenna, fluttering when he clips it to his belt. He never unties it, the pink standing out like a small, defiant flag against the canvas of his world.
One evening in his basement, he fiddles with wires on the cluttered table while you read yet another book he recommended, legs crossed on the chair across to him. A single desk lamp pools low, golden light over your open pages and his half-finished circuit board, leaving the rest of the room in soft shadow. Silence settles easily between you, broken only by the occasional snap of his pliers or the quiet turn of a page. His knee brushes yours under the table, the denim rough against the smooth cotton of your skirt, which was accidental at first, but then lingers there, warm and steady, neither of you acknowledging it or pulling away.
"You get quiet when the sun goes down," he says after a while, not looking up from the circuit board, where a bead of solder glows molten under his iron.
You close the book softly, the cover thumping against your thigh as you lay it in your lap, and watch the tiny sparks fly up—brief, pink-white flashes that dance for a split second before dying into darkness. "It sets too early this time of year," you reply, your voice matching the room's hush.
He nods, blowing gently on the cooling metal, the sparks' afterglow fading. "Yeah," he agrees, and the fan's rhythm fills the quiet again, comfortable as breathing.
The air soon turns thick and sweet with spring, holding the kind of warmth that sticks to your skin. You drive Dustin home once after school, your mother's old but well kept car rumbling down back roads, radio murmuring some classic rock song low enough to talk over. His hand rests near the gearshift on the vinyl console, fingers splayed just inches from yours, close enough to feel the heat radiating. They touch, your pink-polished tips grazing his knuckles, tentative, then sure. They don't move away, even as the car sways around a curve, the world outside blurring into green fields and picket fences.
That same week in the cafeteria, the sound of trays clattering and voices overlapping like static, Eddie Munson leans across a Hellfire-crowded table, his rings flashing as he spears a tater tot. His voice carries deliberately over the noise, drawing heads. "Heard Henderson's got himself a princess."
Dustin doesn't look up from pushing the cafeteria food around his tray. "That's right," he says evenly, fork pausing mid-air.
Eddie grins, all teeth and mischief, curls falling wild over his forehead as he leans back. To Dustin, it feels like the room quiets for a single heartbeat now that he’s said it out loud for the first time.
Friday after the final bell cuts through the chaos, Dustin waits by your locker as metal doors slam and footsteps hurry past. “Hellfire tonight,” he says, adjusting the stack in his arms. “You should come.”
Your stomach gives a small, nervous twist—equal parts dread and excitement at the thought of stepping into that dark, fluorescent world of battle maps and whispered rules. You turn your locker key slowly in your fingers. “Are they expecting me?”
“Not yet,” he says, and a grin tugs at his mouth. “But they won’t complain when you show up.” His eyes stay on yours, steady beneath the brim of his cap, warm without pushing. “I’d like you there.”
You nod, heart kicking up. "Okay."
The school at night feels hollowed out and strange, a skeleton of daytime bustle—lights buzzing faint overhead, your shoes echoing sharp down empty halls that smell of floor wax, chalk dust, and rain seeping through cracked windows. Lockers line the main hallway, half-hidden in shadow. The drama room glows at the far end of the corridor, voices spilling out in bursts of laughter and argument, warm light pooling under the door. You push it open and it creaks long and low.
Nine heads turn as one. Eddie mid-sentence, frozen with rings glinting as he gestures wildly over a table littered with hand-scribbled papers, miniature figurines clustered together, crumpled soda cans, and dice scattered across. Mike and Lucas are hunched over their character sheets, pencils clenched tight in white-knuckled fists, faces etched with mid-game focus.
You step fully into the room, the pink of your cardigan catching the harsh fluorescent lights and glowing almost otherworldly against the dim clutter of the drama room. The pizza boxes feel warm and heavy in your hands, their cardboard edges damp from steam curling faintly from the seams, carrying the rich, greasy scent of pepperoni and melted cheese. Dustin stays right behind you, close enough that the fabric of his sleeve brushes your arm with every small movement.
Eddie blinks once, then twice, his dark eyes narrowing as he processes the sight. A slow, wicked grin spreads across his face, all teeth and mischief, his rings glinting as he lowers the hand he'd been gesturing with. "Henderson... what the hell?"
"My girlfriend," Dustin says clearly, his voice cracking just once on the *r* before it firms up with resolve. He squares his shoulders, standing a little taller. "She brought dinner."
The pizza boxes thump solidly onto the table's edge, lids flipping open to reveal circles of pepperoni glistening under thick, bubbling cheese. The tension in the room snaps quickly, shattering into laughter and the sudden scrape of chairs pushing back. Their hands dive in immediately—grabbing slices with eager fingers, thanks muttered around mouthfuls of hot crust and sauce, paper towels crumpled in haste. You slide into the empty chair beside Dustin, your shoulders pressing against his, and knees bumping lightly under the table's edge. The pepperoni steam curls thick and savory around you; you take a slice for yourself, cheese stretching in long golden strings as you pull it free, and settle back to watch.
Mike hesitates on his turn, frowning deeply at the scribbled grid on his graph paper, his pencil tapping an erratic rhythm against the table. You lean over Dustin's shoulder, close enough to smell the faint cologne on his shirt, and trace a faint line through the inked corridors with your fingertip. "What about invisibility? The one that’s too expensive, or something like that?”
Heads snap up in perfect unison—Mike's eyes widening, Lucas's pencil slipping from his fingers to roll across the table, Gareth’s chew pausing with sauce smeared at the corner of his mouth. Dustin's face lights up with pure, unguarded pride. "She's right," he says, turning to Mike. "Do it!”
Eddie swallows his bite, wiping sauce from his chin with the back of his hand, and nods slow. "Not bad for a first go."
Hours slip into the game's steady rhythm. Dice tumble across the table, clattering over the solid wood. Arguments spark and fade fast. Mike debates rules. Lucas cites old campaigns. Eddie turns disputes into theatre, which makes you watch in awe. You enjoy how into it they all get, loving the passion for what they’re into. Your pink-and-glitter friends never did have interests as intense as this, or interests at all, really. Minus the obvious boy-talk and about weekend plans. Rain drums against the windows. It seals the room from the world.
The space carves its own pulse. The smell of ink from markers sharpens the air. Jokes between everyone overlap naturally. The vibe blends your bright colour with their darker. Your laugh threads into theirs now.
When Eddie calls time just after midnight, you begin to gather your things slowly. Outside, streetlights buzz overhead. The lot gleams slick with rain. Puddles mirror neon streaks from the school sign. Dustin's bike slumps wet against the curb.
He leaves it there. He falls into step beside you instead as his hands stay deep in his pockets. Gravel crunches underfoot while he walks you to your car through the mist.
"They liked you," he says after a moment, voice low and warm in the misty air.
"Pizza's a good bribe," you reply, smiling as you fish the car keys from your bag.
He lets out a soft laugh, the sound blooming into a cloud of breath in the damp night air, then quiets again. His eyes flick toward the dark silhouette of the school building looming behind you both, windows black and empty, the faint buzz of dying fluorescents still echoing. "Monday's gonna have a lot of talk," he says, voice low but steady. "Everyone's gonna talk. The whole school's gonna have something to say."
Rain falls in scattered beads across your cardigan, each drop darkening the bubblegum pink to a deeper colour at the damp edges where the fabric clings soft and cool against your skin. A shiver runs down your arms, not just from the chill. You lean back against the car door, the metal pressing cold and unyielding through your skirt. "And we’ll take it one day at a time, love," you say, meeting his gaze. His hand finds yours in the narrow space between your bodies, calluses rough from endless hours with wires and tools scraping gently against the smooth plane of your palm. His fingers curl warm around yours. He pulls you in slow, deliberate. The kiss starts clumsy, with your noses brushing awkwardly at first, breath mingling sharp with the tang of pepperoni and the clean bite of wet air—then steadies as your lips press sure and warm, “One day at a time.”
