🫶 Can i get a one-shot of a popular!reader going to steve for advice to ask out Dustin with?? and then Reader using it to ask her out?? and it’s js cute and fluffy?? 🥹✌️
thanks for requesting!!
HOPELESSLY DEVOTED
with dustin henderson 𝜗ৎ
⋆˚꩜｡ pairing ; dustin henderson x popular gn!reader
⋆˚꩜｡ tags ; fluff, reader and dustin pining over eachother like CRAZY, steve being older brother coded, reader is hopelessly devoted, dustin calling reader “beautiful” once, use of y/n
⋆˚꩜｡ author’s note ; i LOOOVEEE nerd x popular trope😛😛 also i was listening to hopelessly devoted while writing this
⋆˚꩜｡ word count ; 1.262
back to my masterlist? — follow my spam blog @dustins-wife2
꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ⭑꒷꒦
Once again, you couldn’t concentrate during science class. The words of the professor felt distant as you couldn’t stop yourself from admiring a boy you’ve never actually spoken to before, how the sunlight shined on his curls, his teeth held part of his lip while concentrating, puppy eyes looking up at the blackboard.
Since forever, Dustin Henderson has always been considered a “freak” by most of the kids at school, he dressed and acted like a nerd— no, he was a nerd.
No matter what your friends or what your classmates said, you couldn’t help but fall in love with him. I mean, you’ve always had a thing for smart guys.
You. The most popular person at school. People would kill themselves just to have a date with you, yet you rejected every single one of them. You’re sure you’ve had every guy on the basketball team come up to you and ask you on a date.
Still, you kept yourself humble, unsure, the words “What if he’s not interested?” rang through your head constantly. You’ve never felt love in such a strong way, like a boulder pressing down at your chest whenever your eyes crossed paths during class.
You remember one time, Steve, your best friend, worked at Family Video with Robin. You were hanging out with them since it wasn’t a very busy day, helping them organize videos and giving Steve relationship advice.
As you were doing so, Dustin came in because he had to ask Steve something. He didn’t see you because you hid behind some shelves like a kid hiding from the dentist, but you definitely saw him.
After he left, you poked your head out and looked at Steve.
“When were you going to tell me you know Henderson?”
Steve made a confused face, his hands planted on his hips “You know him?”
“He’s in my physics class.” You say, putting away the films in different sections.
“Okay, you like him or something?” Steve leaned against a shelf
“I— no!” You blush, looking up at him “I’ve never even talked to him!”
“Someone has a crush..” Robin said in a singsong tone behind the register, counting the money.
“Oh, so that’s why you hid like a mad person as soon as he walked in.” Steve teased you.
“Y/n” The professor called out your name, making your head snap back at the blackboard, a whole jumbled nonsense you couldn’t make up.
Shit.
Everyone had turned their heads towards you, including Dustin, you fidgeted with the top of your book
“With that being said, can you tell me why electrons in an atom don’t fall into the nucleus?” The professor tapped his fingers on the desk.
“Uh…” you mumble out, looking around in hopes that the answer would jump out in your brain like magic. You didn’t even know what today’s lecture was about.
Your eyes snapped to Dustin who was secretly mouthing you something, your eyes widen before reading his lips
“Because of..uh..t-the quantum mechanics!” You turn to your professor with a nervous smile, hoping he didn’t catch Dustin telling you the answer.
You shifted nervously in your seat as you awaited your professor’s response as he looked back up.
“Very well then.” He said before turning back to the blackboard and continuing the lecture.
A sigh of relief left your lips as you turn back to Dustin, who was giving you a slight smile
“Thank you.” You mouth his way before turning your head down.
He smiled at you! You could feel your cheeks overheating as your eyes scurried to the pages of your class book, pretending to read something when all you could think about was him.
You had to do something about this.
After school, Steve has come to pick you up.
“How was school?” He asked, starting his car as you closed the door.
“It was..i..” you sigh “Okay, you were popular in high school, if i ask a guy out, do you think he’d want to go on a date with me?” You turned your head towards Steve, his hands on the wheel as he drove his BMW.
“..is this about Henderson?”
You roll your eyes, head hitting the car seat. “Yes. Yes it is.” The idea of asking a guy out made you so nervous, you’ve always been the person who’s been asked out, never the asker. The change of perspective sent a shiver down your spine.
“Oh definitely.” Steve nods “Go for it, seriously.” He turns his head towards you for a second
“I can’t just—“ Keeping your eyes on the road, you defend yourself but are unable to find the words
“Y/n, trust me. Act confident and just ask him out tomorrow after school. He’s a nerd for fuck’s sake. The whole basketball team asked you out and you’re sweating over someone who plays D&D?” Steve complained
“You’re right but..what if it goes wrong?” You whine
“It won’t go wrong!”
“If it goes wrong I'm not talking to you anymore.” You cross your arms and look away, pulling a sigh out of Steve’s lips
The next day after school, consequently, you were hanging out with your popular friends, laughing and talking about the latest gossip, when you saw Dustin walking out with Mike Wheeler, Will Byers and Lucas Sinclair.
“Hold this.” You shove the book you were holding into the hand of one of your friends, leaving them confused. You didn’t even look at him, keeping your eyes fixed upon Dustin, who was blabbering about something to his friends.
You confidently— using Steve’s advice, walked up to the friend group, fixing your hair on the way there.
“Hey, Dustin?” Your voice broke just a tiny bit as you fidgeted with your outfit. You could feel the eyes of your friends burning the back of your scalp as they observed from far back.
The whole group turned towards you, the boy you had a crush on gave you a tender smile “Y/n, hi”
Fuck, you felt like you were going to explode, quickly averting his gaze.
“I-I just wanted to say…” Confidence, y/n, confidence!
You look up at him “Thank you for helping me yesterday, do you think…maybe you’d wanna like, hang out or grab something to eat together?” The words came out, maybe a little quicker than intended, you look at his face, searching for any signs of disgust or disapproval.
Dustin blushed, his mouth gaping just a bit “Y-yeah! I’d..love to actually.”
You blush too, not expecting his response. “Cool, tomorrow at 6 in front of the arcade?” You give him a bright smile, confidence finally building up.
Dustin nodded, his voice breaking “Yeah! Yeah! I’ll be there.”
“See you tomorrow then.” You waved as you walked away
“See you, beautiful.” He called out, a stuttering mess.
You blushed at his compliment, slightly turning your head back around to look at him, but he was already walking away with his friends, his arms up in celebration as Lucas gave him a pat on the back in encouragement.
You look back at your friends, their mouths wide open. “You asked him out?!” One of them says.
You nod “Yeah, what’s it to you?” You tease, grabbing back the book from one of your friends
“Isn’t he kinda weird?” Another, a blonde one says. “Shut up! He’s..nice probably” a brunette says, making you laugh.
“He’s nice, he’s really nice.” You leaned your head on the brick wall behind you, watching the group walk away
That idiot Steve Harrington was right.
————
TAGLIST ˎˊ˗ (ask to be added or removed)
@aureliacalista @loserrwinnie @lulubear12 @blizzyblitz @localpanicattack @flowersandsuch111 @feelinglikejuno — marked off means it won’t let me tag you
money makes the world go round, but how much would convince you to date the most irritating guy in school? how much would convince you to build a fake relationship? how much would convince you to bet on yourself losing?
pairing: nerd!gojo x popular!reader
synopsis: your friends are assholes, this has been a known fact since middle school - they always take their stupid pranks too far, always hurting you. you’re the most competitive person they’ve ever met, it’s like you physically can’t stop yourself from doing it. so when you find out there’s a betting pool amongst the student body (curtesy of your friends) about whether or not you could pull nerd!gojo, to say you jumped at the opportunity would be an understatement. however he seems to be bit more trouble than he’s worth. or is he?
cw: mdni, college au, fem-implied reader, very cocky and irritating gojo (don’t let the glasses fool you), bullying, drugs, irresponsible choices made by irresponsible adults, everyone is kinda an asshole, slutty man glasses, piv sex, angst (you’re not coming out unscathed from this one), bet-relationship trope, oral (m! + f! receiving)
a/n: this is my first time experimenting with colors, it looks so cool. this is a format style I’ve seen everywhere in the JJK community so I’m sorry if I’m stealing this from someone 🙏. this is a new series I’m starting since I haven’t reached the JJK part of my fans and I wish to write Gojo at least once before the fanfic curse hits me. 2026 present for all my followers, new series and new fandom.
chapter index to be updated soon !!
one: solage
dividers by @doll-fairy | gojo art by @ruu_sugu on twitter
okay wait hear me out!! A part two for the mike wheeler x regina george type reader where someone walks in and sees them together 🥹🥹 and they have to find a way to either keep em quiet or come up with some lie about why they are together ✌️
wc: 3,8k ₊˚⊹♡ | part one
mornings at hawkins high always feel staged.
the same lockers slamming, metallic and hollow, echoing down the hall like someone testing sound levels before the real performance starts. the same squeak of sneakers against linoleum. the same cluster of freshmen hovering too close to the stairwell like migrating birds who haven’t figured out the pattern yet, all nerves and elbows and badly timed confidence.
you arrive exactly when you mean to.
your locker sticks on the second pull, like it always does. you brace for it before it happens, palm already angling to hit the dented corner just right. the metal bites back against your skin for half a second before it gives.
you’re halfway through a conversation with marissa about friday’s game, about how the pep rally theme is “retro disco” and how that’s a crime no one should be forgiven for, when you reach inside.
you barely glance at first.
then you see it.
a folded piece of notebook paper tucked neatly between your chemistry binder and your lip gloss pouch.
your stomach dips in a way that feels embarrassingly cinematic. a small, traitorous drop like you’ve just missed a step on the stairs.
“hold on,” you say to marissa, forcing your voice into something mildly distracted instead of suddenly aware of your own pulse. “i think i left my history worksheet in here.”
it’s a flimsy excuse. she knows it. you know it. but she rolls her eyes sympathetically anyway, already drifting toward someone else with a dramatic sigh about academic oppression.
you wait to open it.
only when her back is fully turned do you unfold the paper.
blue pen. slightly pressed too hard into the page. the indentation of the letters visible before you even focus.
meet me in the av club after school. i promise i’m not planning anything illegal. probably. p.s. if anyone asks, tell them you’re tutoring me. you’re already smarter and scarier than half the teachers, so it’s believable.
your mouth almost betrays you right there.
then you see the last line, squeezed in, handwriting more cramped.
p.p.s. you looked really unfairly pretty yesterday. it was distracting. just thought you should know.
unfairly pretty.
you read it once. twice.
your brain tries to translate it into something ironic. something you can file away under banter. but it doesn’t quite fit there.
you can hear his voice in it, that careful almost-joke tone he uses when he’s about to mean something and doesn’t want to admit he means it. like he’s daring you to laugh so he can pretend that was the goal all along.
heat creeps up your neck. not dramatic. just enough that you’re grateful no one is currently looking too closely.
you fold the paper carefully. more carefully than it deserves. smoothing the crease like it matters that it stays intact.
it shouldn’t matter.
it does.
you slide it into the pocket of your blazer, and it sits there the rest of the day like a live wire.
lunch is loud in the way only high school cafeterias can be, fluorescent lights humming overhead, trays clattering, someone laughing too hard at something that wasn’t that funny.
jason drops into the seat beside you with the easy confidence of someone who’s never had to check whether he belongs somewhere. your friends orbit. conversations spark and fizzle and overlap.
you perform effortlessly. you always do.
it isn’t fake, exactly. it’s just curated.
and across the room, mike wheeler is mid argument with dustin, gesturing so broadly he nearly knocks over his milk.
you don’t look at him first.
you never do.
there’s a game to it. an unspoken rule. whoever looks first loses something, control, maybe.
but when you finally glance up, casual and faintly bored, he’s already looking at you.
he looks away too fast.
that does something strange to your ribs.
you twist your fork and say, almost lazily, that his inability to win an argument without flailing like a malfunctioning inflatable tube man is both concerning and medically fascinating.
it lands. people laugh.
he fires back that your personality is ninety percent performance art and ten percent caffeine dependency, and you roll your eyes like he didn’t just call your bluff a little too accurately.
after school drags.
you wait exactly eight minutes after the last bell.
you tell yourself it’s strategic. ten would look intentional. five would look overeager. eight feels like an accident.
but really, you just need the extra seconds to slow your breathing. to decide what version of yourself is walking into that room.
you tell marissa you have to “help someone not fail english.”
she makes a face. the kind that says she has theories.
you take the long way to the av club.
the hallway is quieter now. sunlight cuts through the high windows at an angle that makes the dust in the air visible, suspended, glittering, slow.
your pulse is steady.
mostly.
you pause outside the door for half a second.
not because you’re scared.
because you don’t want to walk in wanting too much.
you smooth your expression into something neutral. controlled. untouchable.
then you push the door open.
the room smells like warm plastic, old carpet, the faint metallic tang of equipment that’s been running too long.
he’s there.
of course he is.
back turned, pretending to adjust one of the cameras with a level of concentration that would be convincing if his shoulders weren’t so visibly tense.
he heard you. he’s been listening for you.
“you’re early,” he says without looking at you.
he’s still facing the camera, fingers fiddling with a knob that doesn’t need adjusting. you can see the tension in his shoulders, the way they lift just slightly when the door shuts behind you, like he’s been holding his breath since the bell rang.
“oh please, not like you could tell the time,” you reply, closing the door carefully, deliberately. the click feels louder than it should.
he turns then.
and there it is, that flicker.
relief first. quick and unguarded. then something softer that almost looks like awe before he reins it in. like he’s embarrassed to have been caught wanting you here this badly.
it only exists in rooms like this. never in the cafeteria. never in front of anyone else.
“did you get my note?” he asks.
he tries for casual. he doesn’t quite make it.
you tilt your head slightly, studying him, pretending to search your memory. “what note?”
it’s mean. a little. but you like watching the moment his confidence falters.
he groans immediately, dragging a hand down his face. “don’t do that.”
you let the silence stretch just long enough to feel his discomfort settle in his chest. then you reach into your blazer pocket and unfold the paper slowly, smoothing it between your fingers.
“this note?”
his ears turn pink almost instantly. not dramatic. just enough to give him away.
“y-you didn’t have to bring it with you,” he mutters.
you glance down at it again even though you’ve already memorized every word. “i liked the p.s. structure,” you say lightly, folding it once more. “very professional. very persuasive.”
he huffs a quiet laugh, nervous energy bleeding through. “i was trying to be subtle.”
you look up at him.
“you called me unfairly pretty.”
the words hang there differently when you say them out loud. heavier. less like a joke. more mockingly.
he shifts his weight. “that is subtle for me,” he argues, but there’s no real bite in it. just truth.
you step closer.
slow enough that he notices. slow enough that he tracks the movement without meaning to. his eyes drop briefly to your shoes, then lift again.
“you think i’m scary?” you ask.
you don’t know why that’s the question you choose. maybe because it lodged somewhere uncomfortable when you read it. maybe because you don’t like not knowing how you’re perceived when you aren’t performing.
“absolutely,” he says without hesitation.
then, softer, almost like he’s correcting himself before you can misunderstand, “in a good way, of course.”
you stop an arm’s length away.
close enough to feel the warmth of him. not close enough to touch.
“define good.”
you don’t blink.
he swallows. you see it, the way his throat tightens, the way his fingers curl slightly like he’s bracing for impact.
“like…” he starts, then exhales. “like you know exactly what you’re doing all the time. like you walk into a room and decide how it’s going to feel.”
that lands somewhere unprotected.
because most days, you’re not deciding how it feels. you’re deciding how you’ll survive it.
you hold his gaze anyway.
“and that’s scary?”
he gives a small, almost helpless shrug. “only because i never know if i’m about to get roasted or kissed.”
your lips twitch before you can stop them. there it is again, that choice. that control.
“maybe that’s the fun part,” you murmur.
the air shifts. not dramatically. not like in movies. just a subtle tightening. a gravity that wasn’t there before.
you step past him to set your bag down on the desk behind him, and your fingers brush his wrist in the process. it’s accidental enough to be plausible.
it isn’t accidental.
he goes still anyway. like you’ve pressed pause on him.
“so,” you say softly, turning back toward him, “why am i here, wheeler? besides your clearly professional tutoring request.”
he hesitates. and in that hesitation, you see it, the fear that this might be a mistake. that you might laugh. that you might reduce this to banter and walk away untouched.
then he steps closer. not enough to corner you. just enough that the space between you feels intentional.
“i just… wanted to see you,” he admits.
his voice loses its edge there. it’s just him.
“without the audience.”
something in your chest softens before you can stop it. because you know exactly what he means.
“you see me every day,” you say, but it comes out quieter than before.
“not like this.”
the words hang there.
you look at his mouth for half a second before you mean to.
you don’t miss the way his breathing shifts when you do.
his hand lifts like he’s going to touch you then falters midair, uncertainty flashing across his face.
you could let him drop it.
instead, you close the distance.
your fingers curl around his wrist gently, guiding his hand to your waist. you feel the warmth of his palm even through the fabric.
“there,” you say quietly. “that wasn’t so hard.”
he lets out a breath that almost sounds like a laugh, like relief. “you’re impossible.”
you tilt your head. “and yet.”
“and yet,” he echoes, stepping fully into your space now.
your hands slide up the front of his shirt, smoothing over the fabric. it gives you something to focus on besides the fact that your pulse is climbing. beneath your palms, his heartbeat is fast. uneven. real.
“are you nervous?” you ask, studying him.
“no,” he says too quickly.
you smile slowly. softer this time. less sharp.
“you’re blushing.”
“i am not.”
you lean closer, your mouth near his ear, your voice dropping without effort. “it’s unfairly cute.”
he makes a small sound at that, half protest, half surrender.
and for a second, you feel the power of this. the way he leans into you instead of away.
you pull back just enough to look at him.
and you give him that half second.
because for all your control, you don’t want this to be something you took.
you want him to choose it.
he doesn’t pull away.
so you kiss him.
it starts light.
tentative in a way that surprises you. like you’re both checking if this is real.
his hands tighten at your waist almost immediately, grounding himself. like he’s afraid you might vanish if he doesn’t hold on.
your fingers slide into his hair, not teasing now. just feeling. just confirming he’s here.
he kisses you back carefully at first.
then with more certainty.
the shift is subtle but undeniable. the way his mouth presses firmer, the way his hand moves from your waist to the small of your back, pulling you closer like he’s finally letting himself want this without apology.
you step forward, and he steps back, until the desk meets his lower back.
the sound is soft. the contact is not.
your breath hitches against his mouth.
it’s not rushed.
it builds.
your lips part. his thumb traces slow, unconscious circles against your side. your hands move, hair, shoulders, collar, mapping him like you’re trying to memorize every little detail about him.
he responds every time.
when you finally pull back, it’s not because you want to. it’s because you need air.
your foreheads rest together.
“still scared?” you murmur.
his smile is small and wrecked. “terrified.”
you brush your nose lightly against his. “good. means you care.”
his hands slide up your back, hesitant but wanting. “i do,” he says quietly. “i really do.”
that part isn’t banter.
and for once, there’s no audience to absorb it. no cafeteria noise to swallow the weight of it. just dust floating in the slanted sunlight. just the hum of equipment. just him.
when he kisses you again, it’s deeper.
and this time, you let yourself sink into it.
you don’t think about who might walk in.
you don’t think about how this would look under fluorescent lights.
you just feel him.
the warmth of his hands. the way his breathing steadies the longer you stay. the way your body fits against his without calculation.
and that’s when the door handle turns.
a soft metallic click.
your brain lags behind the sound.
the door swings open, bright hallway light spilling across the carpet like exposure.
“oh my go-”
you jump back on instinct. not because you’re ashamed.
because you’re exposed.
mike’s hands fall from you immediately, like he’s been burned.
and just like that, the room isn’t private anymore.
it’s public.
dustin stands in the doorway, backpack sliding off one shoulder, eyes enormous behind his cap.
his gaze moves slowly. from your flushed face to mike’s equally flushed one. to the space between you that was not there two seconds ago.
you feel it happen, that fragile, nauseating shift where something private threatens to become spectacle.
your pulse is still high from kissing him. it doesn’t have time to settle before it has to disguise itself.
mike inhales sharply. “d-dustin! i-i-i can explain-”
of course he says that. of course he leads with panic.
“well, i sincerely hope so,” dustin says, voice cracking somewhere between shock and delight, “because from where i’m standing, it looks like you were aggressively not tutoring.”
you move first.
you step sideways, putting the desk between you and mike. the motion is smooth, almost absent-minded. you smooth the sleeve of your blazer like you’ve just been interrupted mid-conversation instead of mid-kiss.
you slow your breathing deliberately.
cool your face from the inside out.
“you didn’t knock,” you say evenly.
dustin blinks at you. “that is not the issue.” he says, with a dry chuckle that sounds more like disbelief than anything else.
“it’s impolite.”
your voice is steady. you’re proud of that.
“you were kissing,” he insists.
you almost laugh at how transparent this is.
“were we?” you ask lightly.
mike makes a small choking sound beside you.
you don’t look at him.
if you look at him, you might remember the way his hands felt on your back.
dustin stares at you. “yes! yes, you were!”
you tilt your head slightly, studying him the same way you study opponents before a debate. what does he know? what does he want to know? how much of this is curiosity versus ammunition?
you sigh softly, like he’s exhausting you. “we’re working on something.”
mike’s head snaps toward you.
you can feel his confusion like heat at your side.
dustin squints. “working on what? advanced lip movement?”
you flick your eyes toward mike. as if your eyes could tell him to follow your lead. he swallows and nods almost imperceptibly.
good.
“presentation rehearsal,” you say smoothly. “for debate.”
you step forward slightly as you say it, not aggressively, just enough that you’re controlling the center of the room now. dustin is responding to you, not to what he walked in on.
“..debate,” he repeats slowly.
“have you ever tried delivering a persuasive argument,” you continue, voice calm, measured, “while someone is deliberately invading your personal space?”
mike catches up a second later. “it’s about composure!” he adds quickly. “..maintaining focus under pressure.”
his voice is steadier now.
you don’t look at him, but you feel a flicker of approval.
dustin’s mouth opens. closes. opens again.
“you’re telling me,” he says carefully, “that what i walked in on was… academic.”
“it’s a social experiment,” you clarify.
your heart is still racing.
“she said i lose my train of thought when i’m distracted,” mike says, gaining confidence. “so.. we were testing that.”
you nod once. crisp. efficient. “he does.”
dustin’s eyes narrow. “you were literally pressed against him.”
“exactly,” you reply. “maximum distraction.” you widen your eyes in exaggerated innocence, as if explaining something painfully obvious.
you almost admire the absurdity of it. almost.
there’s a long pause.
you can see him trying to reconcile what he saw with what you’re giving him. dustin likes drama. he also likes logic. you’re betting on logic.
“okay,” he says slowly. “but why were you kissing?”
that’s the weak point.
you feel it immediately, the crack in the story. mike freezes beside you.
you shrug lightly, like if his question could be so easily answered. “because he panicked.”
“i did not-“ mike starts.
you glance at him.
he stops.
“he panicked,” you repeat, softer this time, almost amused. “i told him to maintain eye contact and he overcorrected.”
dustin’s eyebrows shoot up. “by… kissing you.”
“have you met him?” you ask.
mike makes an offended noise, but it’s believable. casual. the kind of noise he’d make at lunch.
dustin looks at him more closely now.
really looks at him.
his hair is messed up. his lips are slightly swollen. he’s still breathing a little unevenly.
you feel a flicker of something dangerous, the urge to glance at his mouth again.
don’t.
“did you panic?” dustin asks him.
“..m-maybe a little,” mike admits.
you roll your eyes like you expected that answer. “exactly.”
silence stretches.
this is the dangerous part.
because dustin isn’t stupid.
he steps fully into the room and shuts the door behind him with a soft click.
the sound makes your stomach tighten.
“okay,” he says, crossing his arms. “let’s say i buy that this is some weird psychological training thing. why is she helping you?”
“because he asked,” you say.
mike nods quickly. “she’s good at staying calm. even when people are trying to get a reaction out of her.”
that hits somewhere you don’t expect.
you glance at him before you can stop yourself.
dustin catches the look.
you feel it.
“this is insane,” he mutters. “this is the most unhinged study method i’ve ever heard.”
“innovation is often misunderstood,” you reply coolly.
your composure is back in place now. smooth. polished.
“this isn’t innovation. this is you two being weird.”
you take one slow step toward him.
not threatening, just confident enough in whatever excuse you’re about to pull out of thin air.
“dustin,” you say gently, softening your voice just slightly, “if there were something to tell, don’t you think you’d be the first to know?”
it’s a calculated move. but it’s not entirely false.
he falters.
mike nods. “yeah. obviously.”
“we argue at lunch,” you add. “we barely tolerate each other publicly. that’s not exactly secret relationship behavior.”
relationship.
the word lands heavier than you intend.
it echoes in your chest.
because for a split second, you see it, what it would look like if it were real. public. named.
your stomach flips.
dustin’s eyes flick between you again.
“so you’re not-”
“no,” you say smoothly.
mike echoes, “no.”
the timing is almost perfect.
and in that almost, something inside you tightens.
because the word comes too easily.
and part of you doesn’t want it to.
dustin exhales slowly. suspicious. unconvinced.
“then why are you both blushing like you just committed a felony?”
“because you burst in here yelling,” you answer immediately. “it’s jarring.”
“and i don’t like being accused of things,” mike adds, defensive in a way that feels real.
dustin studies you for another long moment.
you hold his gaze. steady and unflinching.
eventually, he sighs.
“if this turns out to be some elaborate sick slowburn enemies to lovers situation,” he says, pointing between you, “i’m going to be furious i wasn’t consulted.”
your lips curve faintly. “you consume too much media.”
“that is not a denial.”
“it’s also not a confession.”
he hovers there. uncertain.
you soften just slightly.
not enough to look guilty.
just enough to look honest.
“we’re working on debate,” you repeat. “that’s all.”
mike nods again. “that’s all.”
dustin finally adjusts his backpack.
“fine,” he says. “but next time you conduct whatever this is, maybe lock the door so i don’t need therapy.”
“noted.”
he reaches for the handle, then pauses. “if jason asks why you’re in here together, what do i say?”
you don’t hesitate.
“that you saw me tearing apart his opening argument and he looked two seconds from crying.”
mike sputters. “hey-“
dustin snorts. “that, i can sell.”
the door opens.
he gives you one last look. curious. calculating.
then he’s gone.
the door shuts.
and the silence that follows feels completely different from before.
thicker.
mike turns to you slowly. “that was terrifying.”
you exhale through your nose, tension finally leaking out. “you almost ruined it when you hesitated on ‘no.’”
“i was processing!”
you cross your arms, more to steady yourself than to scold him. “you can process later. in public, you commit.”
he stares at you for a second.
then he laughs quietly.
“you’re scary.”
“i’ve been told.”
but it doesn’t land the same way now.
there’s a beat.
his expression shifts. less flustered. more serious.
“do you think he believed us?”
you consider it honestly.
“not completely,” you admit. “but he wants to. that’s enough.”
he steps closer again, slower this time. cautious, like the moment might shatter if he moves too fast.
“and if he doesn’t keep it quiet?”
you meet his eyes.
“then we come up with a better lie,” you say instead.
his hand hovers near your waist again.
hesitant now.
like he’s asking permission.
you take it and place it back where it was before.
this time, you feel the tremor in his fingers.
“next time,” you say quietly, “we actually lock the door.”
Warnings & Tags: Angst, fluff, insecurity, miscommunication, a break up (and a make up), mentions of depression, mentions of not eating, rumours made up about reader, not proofread, popular!fem!reader, a kiss hehe, i probably forgot something
Summary: When Dustin hears a rumor that his popular girlfriend secretly thinks he’s clingy and annoying, he breaks up with her to “give her space,” convinced it’s what she really wants.
Notes: hiiii, long time no see my friends! coming back with a request that i just couldn’t get overrrr. i missed writing and i had so much fun writing this :) hope you all luvvvv it mwah
Masterlist
You don’t hear from him for eight days.
For the first day or two, you’re sure it has to be a joke, some over-the-top Dustin scheme to crack you up. It would be just like him to show up at your door with a fistful of hand-picked flowers and that unstoppable grin, grabbing your hand to whisk you off into a whole day he’d planned down to the last detail, just for you two.
But he misses your routine ‘good morning’ on Monday, and he isn’t at your locker before first period, and by lunch your stomach is twisting in tight, confused knots.
By Wednesday, you aren’t sure if this is a joke anymore.
You are popular in the way that counts at Hawkins High; your name gets called across the hallway, you sit in the middle tables at lunch, you get invited to parties at the quarry and the big houses out past the tracks. People notice when you walk into a room. They always have something to say to you.
The thing is, most of the time it is shallow, like skimming stones over water. Compliments about your hair, your outfit, the way you laughed at someone’s joke. Invitations that mean they want you there as proof, as decoration, not as a person.
Dustin has never been like that.
Dustin waits in the cold outside as you finish up your last class with his bike leaning against his hip. Dustin sits way up in the bleachers during games that you’re cheering at just so you can see him waving his arms when you look up from the field. He calls you by your name in a way that makes it feel new and important every time.
He’s a nerd, which isn’t a secret to anyone. He plays Dungeons & Dragons, corrects teachers under his breath, and knows practically every quantum physics theory that’s possible. He’s also yours.
At least, he was.
The next time you saw him, he was standing in your driveway with his hands jammed into the pockets of his jacket, eyes wide and shiny in the glow of your porch light.
“We should break up,” he said.
You were halfway through a sentence about movie night. You still remember the way the words died on your tongue, how the air suddenly felt too thick to swallow.
“What?”
He swallowed. “I think we should… take a break. Or, you know. An actual break up. I just— I think it’s better if I give you some space.”
Your mind had gone immediately, stupidly blank. “Space from what? From you?”
“From us.” His voice cracked, and he cleared his throat like he was trying to swallow the sound. “I don’t want to be all over you all the time if it’s annoying you. If it’s too much.”
“That’s not—” you started, but he shook his head, curly hir flopping into his eyes.
“It’s okay,” he said, too quickly. “Really, it’s okay. I get it. You don’t have to explain. I just… I care about you, and I don’t want to make things worse than they already are.”
“Dustin, what are you talking about?”
He flinched like the words hurt. “I just think this is the right thing.” He’d stepped back, away from you, the distance between you feeling like a physical thing. “I’ll, uh… I’ll see you around.”
And then he was on his bike, wheels crunching over the gravel, tail light blinking red until he turned the corner and vanished.
You waited for him to call that night. You waited the next day. You waited for him at your locker, at the bench under the big oak where you always sat before heading home. You stared at the phone on the wall so long the it started to blur your eyesight, willing it to ring.
Nothing.
You replay the last week over and over in your head, looking for something you did, something you said. You didn’t fight. You didn’t even bicker in that way you both found secretly fun. Everything was fine. He kissed you goodbye before the ghosting started, which tasted like popcorn and soda. He told you he’d call.
And then Monday afternoon, you hear it.
You are in the girls’ bathroom between third and fourth period, fixing your lip gloss, when you hear your name followed by a whispery giggle.
“I told you,” a girl says from the stalls. You recognize the voice immediately—April, who sits two rows over in English and has never bothered to hide the way she watches you. “She said he’s, like, obsessed with her. Follows her around like a puppy. It’s gross.”
Your heart catches.
“It’s Henderson, what did you expect?” another voice replies. “He probably sends her, like, science facts instead of love notes.”
They laugh. Nails click against the metal of the stall door.
You tell yourself you’re going to walk out, that you’re not going to listen, but your feet root to the tile.
“I mean,” April continues, “she said he’s sweet or whatever, but she feels like he’s always there. Like, clingy? She can’t even breathe.”
Your blood goes cold.
“She told you that?” the other girl asks.
April hums. “Yeah. Said he’s kind of annoying. That she wishes he’d… I don’t know. Chill.”
They wash their hands, still talking about someone’s hair, someone’s shoes, some boy’s car. The door creaks open and slams shut and you are left alone, staring at your reflection in the mirror.
You did not say that.
You would never say that.
You grip the edges of the sink so hard your knuckles ache. Your face looks wrong: too pale, eyes too wide, mouth a thin, shocked line.
They’re lying, you think. Or, no, they’re exaggerating. Maybe they misunderstood something you joked about once. Maybe someone else said it and they put your name on it because that’s what people do; they trade stories like currency, and your name spends well.
But Dustin believed them.
That’s the only thing that makes sense. He heard that you thought he was annoying, that he was clingy, that you wanted space, and instead of talking to you, he decided to give it to you.
The thought lands heavy in your chest. It makes your eyes sting.
You barely make it through the rest of the day. The halls feel too bright, too loud. People keep talking to you, keep asking why you look “off,” but you brush them off with practiced smiles and non‑answers.
When the final bell rings, you don’t wait under the oak tree.
You walk straight home, close your bedroom door, and do not come out again except when you absolutely have to.
By Friday, your mother stands at your doorway with her arms crossed, her frustration barely hiding her concern.
“You’ve missed two days now,” she says.
You sit on your bed with your knees pulled to your chest, comforter wrapped around you like armor. “I think I’m sick.”
“You don’t have a fever.”
“Maybe it’s, like, a stomach thing.”
“You’re not throwing up.”
You shrug, looking down at the fraying edge of the blanket. “Maybe it’s emotional.”
She sighs, the sound softening around the edges. For all her exasperation, she is not unkind.
“Is this about that boy?” she asks. “The one with the hair?”
“The one with the hat,” you correct automatically, and then your throat clamps shut.
She comes to sit at the edge of the bed. “Sweetheart, you can’t just stop living because a boy broke your heart.”
“He didn’t break my heart,” you say, except it comes out thin and small and painfully unconvincing. “He… he just left.”
Her hand lands on your ankle through the blanket, a grounding weight. “That’s what breaking your heart looks like.”
You press your forehead to your knees. You are so tired of trying not to cry that you no longer have the energy to pretend you are okay.
“Can I just… have the weekend?” you ask, the words muffled against your legs. “Then I’ll go back on Monday. Promise.”
She hesitates, then squeezes your ankle. “You’re going on Monday,” she says, which is as close to a yes as she is willing to give.
You nod without lifting your head.
You do not sleep much that night. Or the night after. You lie awake and stare at the glow‑in‑the‑dark stars on your ceiling, tracking constellations Dustin once traced with his finger, humming some made‑up song under his breath.
You think of his hands, always warm and fidgeting, drumming patterns on your knee in math class, twisting the fringe on your scarf, tugging you gently closer when you stood too far away. You think of his voice, the way it always found you in a crowd, anchoring you even when you pretended not to notice.
You think of how quiet everything is now.
Eventually, you stop counting.
You stop changing out of pajamas. You stop doing your hair. You stop answering the phone. Your mother stands in your doorway again, worrying at her bottom lip, but she lets you be when she sees the way your shoulders shake under the covers.
You aren’t that dramatic, normally. You have bad days, sure, but you bounce back fast, always. There are people watching, after all. There is a rhythm to being you that you rarely let slip.
But nothing feels right without him.
The worst part is not knowing why. Not hearing it from his own mouth. If he told you he did not love you anymore, that he woke up one day and realized you were not who he wanted, it would hurt, but at least it would be an answer. Instead, all you have is a half‑explained “I think you want space” and the echo of gossip you never started.
You are still in bed on the eighth morning, curtains drawn tight against the light, when your mother knocks again.
“Sweetheart?” she calls. “You have a visitor.”
You do not move. “Tell them I’m sick.”
“He says he’ll leave if you really want him to,” she replies, oddly precise.
He.
Your heart stutters.
You shove the blanket back, limbs suddenly heavy and shaky all at once, and stumble to your feet. You catch sight of yourself in the mirror—a mess of hair, eyes red‑rimmed, sweatshirt wrinkled and too big—and you almost retreat, almost grab the covers and disappear again.
But Dustin is downstairs.
The boy who hasn’t called, who hasn’t written, who cut himself cleanly out of your life like pulling a stitch and letting the wound gape.
You square your shoulders.
“Okay,” you say, voice unsteady. “Okay. I’m coming.”
The hallway feels longer than it ever has. The stairs creak under your weight. You hear low voices—your mother’s, polite and concerned, and his, higher and rougher than you remember, like he has been yelling or crying or both.
You turn the corner into the living room and there he is.
Dustin stands just inside the doorway, hat clutched nervously in both hands. His hair curls madly without it, haloing his head. He wears his usual layered t‑shirt and jacket, but he looks smaller in them somehow, shoulders hunched, gaze fixed on a point somewhere around your mother’s shoes.
When he senses movement, his head snaps up.
For a moment, neither of you say anything.
His eyes sweep over your face, your hair, the oversize sweatshirt hanging off your frame. Something like horror flashes across his expression.
“Hey,” he says softly.
Your throat tightens. “Hey.”
“I’ll be in the kitchen,” your mother says, squeezing your shoulder as she passes. “Call if you need me.”
You nod, not taking your eyes off Dustin. The sound of her footsteps retreating down the hall feels like a curtain dropping, leaving the two of you on an unfamiliar stage.
Dustin shifts his weight from foot to foot, then steps closer. “You look…” He hesitates, eyes flicking to yours. “You look tired.”
You let out a breath that is half laugh, half broken thing. “Wow. Thanks.”
He winces. “I didn’t mean— I just… Are you okay?”
The question hits you like a physical blow.
“Am I okay?” you repeat. Your voice comes out hollow. “I don’t know, Dustin. Let’s see. My boyfriend dumped me out of nowhere and then disappeared for a week. My friends are talking about me behind my back. I haven’t been to school in days. So, yeah, I’m fantastic.”
His face crumples. He takes another step forward, then stops, as if afraid you will push him away.
“I’m sorry,” he says. The words tumble out of him, tripping over each other. “I’m so, so sorry. I messed up. I messed up so bad.”
“For what?” you demand. The anger climbs up through the fog of your sadness, sharp and bright. “For leaving? For not talking to me? For believing a bunch of stupid rumors instead of asking me?”
His eyes widen. “You know about the rumors?”
You scoff. “Of course I know. Hawkins isn’t that big, Dustin.”
He looks like he might be sick. “I didn’t want you to know.”
“Well, I do,” you snap. “I heard them in the bathroom. Apparently I think you’re clingy and annoying and I wish you’d leave me alone.”
The words taste poisonous on your tongue.
Dustin’s jaw clenches. “You never said that,” he says quietly, like he is reminding himself as much as stating a fact.
“No,” you say. “I didn’t.”
He sucks in a sharp breath. “I know that now.”
You stare at him. “Now?”
He nods, curls bouncing. “I— Can I sit?” he asks, gesturing jerkily to the couch.
You shrug, crossing your arms over your chest as you sink into the armchair across from him. The distance between you feels deliberate, a line drawn in carpet. He perches on the edge of the cushion, hat still twisting between his fingers.
“Okay,” he says, inhaling deeply like he is about to jump into cold water. “I need to tell you what happened. And you can hate me after, and I’ll leave, I promise, but I need you to at least have the whole story, because the version in my head clearly wasn’t the truth and I’ve been walking around with it like an idiot.”
You nod stiffly. “Go ahead.”
“So.” He licks his lips. “Last week, I was at the arcade with Mike and Lucas and Will. Just, you know, normal stuff. After, we went to get fries at Benny’s, and that’s where I heard them.”
“Heard who?”
“Amanda and her friend. I was coming back from the bathroom and they were at the table behind us, and I heard your name. I wasn’t trying to eavesdrop, I swear, but then they said my name and I…”
His shoulders sag. “I heard them saying that you thought I was clingy. That I was always around. That I was—annoying.” His voice catches on the word like it hurts to say. “That you wished I’d back off. That you were embarrassed to be seen with me sometimes.”
Your breath stutters. “Embarrassed?”
He nods, eyes fixed on his hands. “They said you didn’t want to hurt my feelings, because I’m… me.” He pulls a face, self‑conscious. “But that you didn’t know how to tell me without making it weird. So you were just kind of waiting for me to take the hint.”
It feels like someone is squeezing your lungs in a fist.
“I never said that,” you whisper.
“I know.” His voice is raw. “But at the time, it sounded… possible. I mean, look at you.” He gestures at you helplessly. “You’re you. You’re… popular. People like you. You could date literally anyone. And I’m… Dustin. I play board games in a basement and get into arguments about movie physics. I’m not exactly the guy people expect to see holding your hand in the hallway.”
“You are exactly the guy I want holding my hand in the hallway,” you shoot back, the words leaving you before you can stop them.
He freezes.
Something fragile sits in the air between you.
He looks up slowly, eyes glossy. “Yeah,” he says hoarsely. “That would’ve been good to know before my brain decided to throw a self‑sabotage party.”
You stare at him. “So you just… believed them? Some random gossip from girls who barely know me?”
“Not random,” he says miserably. “They… they said they heard it from you. That you told them. And I know we’ve talked about me being… a lot. I get excited. I talk too much. I want to be around you all the time. And you’ve made jokes about it, which, like, I know, I laughed too. But I started thinking… what if they weren’t just jokes to you? What if you really were suffocating and I was too into my own feelings to notice?”
Your mind flickers through memories: how you tease him for calling you so often he was running up his phone bill; joking that he was going to wear a path into the hallway outside your homeroom
They were jokes. You always smiled when you said them. You always curled closer, not farther, when you called him clingy in a fond voice.
But if someone took those words without the context, without the warmth…
Your chest aches.
“So,” Dustin continues, “I panicked. I thought, okay, if I really care about her, I should give her what she wants. Space. A chance to breathe. And if that hurts me, then that’s the price. Because the last thing I want is to be some annoying guy you feel trapped by.”
He laughs, a short, humorless sound. “I told myself I was being noble. Like some hero in a comic book sacrificing his happiness for the greater good or whatever. In reality, I was just… cowardly. Too scared to ask you and hear you confirm it.”
“You should have asked me,” you say, voice trembling. “You’re supposed to talk to me.”
“I know.” His hands clench in his hat, knuckles white. “I know that now. I’ve had a week of the guys yelling at me about it.”
You blink. “The guys?”
He nods, face flushing. “Mike noticed first that you weren’t at school. Then Lucas. They thought you were sick, but then they saw your friends whispering and… I don’t know. Mike Wheeler can be weirdly observant when he wants to be.” His mouth twists. “He cornered me at lunch yesterday and asked what I did. When I told him, he called me an idiot for, like, twenty solid minutes. Lucas joined in. Will just looked disappointed and sad, which was worse.”
Despite everything, a flicker of humor sparks in your chest at the mental image of Dustin being tag‑teamed by his friends. It fades quickly, but it is there.
“Steve somehow got involved too,” Dustin adds.
Your eyebrows jump. “Steve?”
“Yeah.” He grimaces. “Apparently he’s some kind of self‑appointed relationship guru now. Said how I shouldn’t even doubt our relationship with the way you look at me.” Blush rises to his cheeks as he quotes Steve.
You remember catching sight of Dustin across the parking lot, the way your whole body lit up, how you could not stop yourself from grinning. Maybe Steve has a point.
“Anyway,” Dustin says, barreling on, “it took me too long, but I finally realized that even if you did want space, I owed you an actual conversation. I wanted to talk to you at school today, but you weren’t there. And you weren’t there yesterday. And you weren’t there the day before. And then your friend Jenna said she hadn’t seen you all week and that you weren’t answering your phone and—”
He breaks off, swallowing hard. His voice cracks when he continues. “I got scared. Like, really scared. So I biked over here. Your mom said you’ve barely left your room. That you haven’t been eating much. That you… that you cry a lot.”
Your cheeks burn. Humiliation tangles with hurt. “Oh my God.”
“I’m sorry,” he says again, urgent. “I’m not trying to embarrass you. I just— I did this. I did this to you. I thought I was doing the right thing, and instead I… I hurt you. More than I ever wanted to. And I am so sorry.”
The anger drains out of you as fast as it came, leaving something heavy and exhausted in its place.
“I was confused,” you say quietly. “You were the one person who actually, like… cared. Who wanted to be around me for me, not for what I look like or who I sit with at lunch. You were the one person who hugged me just because, who held my hand because you like it, not because it looks good. And then you were just gone. No explanation. No warning. I thought I did something. I thought I—”
Your voice cracks. You pull your knees up on the chair, hugging them to your chest like you did in bed.
Dustin’s eyes shine. “You didn’t do anything wrong,” he says fiercely. “This wasn’t about you messing up. This was about me being insecure and stupid and letting other people’s words get into my head.”
You sniff, wiping at your nose with your sleeve. “You really thought I was embarrassed of you?”
He winces. “I didn’t want to. But I thought… why wouldn’t you be? You’re so…” He gestures vaguely at you, flushing. “You. And I’m… me.”
“You keep saying that like it’s a bad thing,” you mutter.
“It’s not,” he says quickly. “It’s just… different. And people talk. They always have. I hear them too, you know. The comments. The jokes. How they ask you what you’re doing hanging out with the nerd from AV club.”
You think of the glances, the little smirks, the questions half‑asked in hallways. You had brushed them off. You thought he did too.
“I guess I thought you’d eventually get tired of defending me,” he admits. “Or that you’d realize they were right and want someone… cooler. Someone who looks like they belong in your world.”
You stare at him, stunned. “Dustin, you are my world.”
The words slip out, unpolished and raw. You do not try to take them back.
He goes very still.
“I—” he starts, then stumbles over his tongue. “You… what?”
You drop your gaze, cheeks burning. “When I’m at those parties or whatever, I’m just… there. People like the idea of me. They like that I laugh at their jokes and pose for their pictures and show up where they want me. But it’s like being a poster on a wall. They don’t… see me.”
You glance up, eyes locking with his. “You see me. You ask how my day is and actually listen to the answer. You remember how I take my coffee. You noticed when I got quiet in November and you didn’t stop asking what was wrong until I told you about my grandfather. You’re the only person who’s ever really made me feel like I’m not just… decoration.”
Dustin’s lips part. His eyes shine so bright they almost glow.
“Decorations are important,” he says automatically, voice wobbling. “They make things… festive.”
A watery laugh huffs out of you. “You know what I mean.”
“I do,” he says. “I really do.”
Silence stretches between you, heavy but not suffocating. You can feel the shape of something shifting, like tectonic plates grinding slowly into a new alignment.
“So what now?” you ask finally. “You came here to apologize. You’ve apologized. A lot.”
He nods. “I’m not done.”
You blink. “You’re not?”
He shakes his head. “No. Because I didn’t just hurt your feelings. I also broke a promise. I promised I’d be on your side. That I’d always talk to you. That if something bothered me, I’d tell you, not listen to some girls who survive on gossip at the diner.” His fingers tighten around the brim of his hat, voice catching just a little. “I let them make me doubt us, and that was the worst part.”
“Anyway.” His expression sobers. “I broke that promise. And I can’t undo it, but I can promise that I won’t do it again. I can promise that next time I get in my own head, I will drag my ridiculous self over to you and say, ‘Hey, my brain is being dumb, can we talk about it?’ instead of disappearing like an idiot.”
You duck your head. “I’m still mad at you.”
“I know,” he says. “You should be. I’m mad at me too.”
“Good.”
He fiddles with the brim of his hat, then inhales deeply. “I also… would like to un‑break up with you. If that’s something you’d even want. Which I know you might not. And if you don’t, I get it, and I’ll leave you alone, and I’ll still help you with math homework if you want—”
“Dustin.”
He shuts up instantly. “Yeah?”
“Did you actually just come into my house and ask if I want to get back together with you while also offering to be my math tutor?”
His ears burn red. “I thought it was a good package deal.”
An unexpected warmth unfurls in your chest. It feels like sunlight after days of rain.
“You’re ridiculous,” you say, but there is no heat in it.
“I know,” he says again, faintly hopeful. “But I’m your ridiculous. Or, I was. And I’m hoping maybe I could be again. If you’ll let me. I’ll do better. I’ll… I’ll be better. For you. And for me. And for our hypothetical math grades.”
You study him.
He looks nothing like the confident, loudmouthed Dustin who strides down the hallways cracking jokes and high‑fiving people. He looks small and nervous and heartbreakingly earnest, like a kid who broke his favorite toy and is begging for a chance to fix it.
You could say no. You could protect your heart by wrapping it in barbed wire and handing it to no one ever again.
But the truth is, he never really stopped being yours. Even when he was gone. Even when you were furious and hurt and hollow.
“On one condition,” you say.
His eyes light up. “Anything.”
“You talk to me next time,” you say. “No more breaking up with me because some girl at Benny’s wants to stir drama. If you think I’m embarrassed of you, you ask. If you’re worried you’re too much, you tell me. If your brain starts doing that thing where it lies, you come to me and we fact‑check it together. Deal?”
His smile cracks through, hesitant at first, then growing. “Deal,” he says instantly. “Absolutely. Cross my heart, hope to— Actually, maybe I won’t finish that sentence.” He mimes zipping his lips. “Deal.”
“Also,” you add, because the hurt still smarts, “you have to forgive yourself, eventually.”
He startles. “What?”
“You keep putting yourself down,” you say. “I’m allowed to tease you. You’re not.”
He stares at you. “That seems like a double standard.”
“It is,” you agree. “Live with it. You messed up. But you came here. You apologized. You were honest. That counts for something.”
His throat works. “I don’t deserve you,” he murmurs.
“Maybe not,” you say lightly. “But you have me, so don’t waste it.”
He laughs, a little breathless. “I won’t. I swear.”
You uncurl slowly from the chair, your muscles stiff from days spent huddled in a ball. When you stand, the room tilts for a second. Dustin is on his feet in an instant, hands hovering at your elbows.
“Whoa,” he says. “Careful.”
“I’m fine,” you say, but you do not pull away when he steadies you.
The aftershave you got him for Christmas lingers on his skin, something clean and warm that has become comfortingly familiar. Your heart stutters, then settles.
“Can I hug you?” he asks. His voice is quieter than you have ever heard it.
You swallow hard.
For eight days, you have missed the weight of his arm around your shoulders, the way his chest feels under your cheek, the steady thump of his heart against your ear. You have missed the way his hoodie smells like fabric softener and junk food and pine needles, a scent you associate with safety.
“Yes,” you say. “Please.”
His breath leaves him in a shaky rush, as if he has been holding it since he walked through your door. Then his arms are around you, awkward for half a second and then sure, solid, familiar.
You sink into him like a magnet finding its pair. Your fingers curl into the back of his jacket. You press your face into the crook of his neck and breathe.
He squeezes you, one arm banded tight across your shoulders, the other hand splayed warm against your back. He is shaking a little. You realize he has been just as scared as you have.
“I’m so sorry,” he murmurs into your hair. “I’m so, so sorry.”
“I know,” you whisper. “I know, Dusty.”
He makes a soft, wounded noise at the nickname. “I missed you,” he says. “Like, physically. My chest hurt. My hands didn’t know what to do if they weren’t holding yours. It was very inconvenient.”
You huff a quiet laugh against his skin. “My bed felt too big,” you confess. “And way too cold.”
He leans back enough to look at you, hands still framing your shoulders. His eyes search your face, drinking you in like he does not want to look away ever again.
“I love you,” he blurts.
Everything inside you goes very still.
You know it. You have known it for a while, in the quiet way you know when summer is ending or when a storm is coming. You have felt it in the way he looks at you, in the care he takes with even the smallest parts of your life. But he has never said it out loud.
He looks terrified. “You don’t have to say it back,” he says in a rush. “I know I picked a really bad week to drop that word, and I know I haven’t exactly been, like, Boyfriend of the Year material, but I needed you to know. Even if you never talk to me again after today. I needed you to know that I love you. That I didn’t leave because I stopped. I left because I was stupid and scared and—”
“I love you too,” you say.
He stops mid‑ramble, mouth hanging open.
“You do?” he breathes.
“Obviously.” You roll your eyes, though it comes with a smile this time. “Why else would I let you drag me into dangerous nerd adventures and listen to you talk about radio frequencies for, like, an hour?”
He beams, the kind of grin that takes over his whole face, lighting it from within. “Because radio frequencies are fascinating?”
“That too,” you admit.
He laughs, giddy. Then his expression sobers, eyes softening.
“Can I… kiss you?” he asks. “Properly this time. Not a terrified ‘we’re breaking up on your driveway’ kiss. A ‘I love you and I messed up but I’m going to make it up to you’ kiss.”
Warmth floods your chest.
“Yes,” you say, heartbeat loud in your ears. “You can.”
He leans in slowly, giving you every chance to change your mind. When his lips finally meet yours, it is gentle at first, tentative, as if he is afraid you might vanish if he presses too hard.
You kiss him back, looping your arms around his neck. He makes a small, surprised sound against your mouth and relaxes into it, his hands sliding to your waist, fingers curling in the hem of your sweatshirt.
The kiss deepens, still soft but surer now. It feels like a promise knit into every brush of his lips, every exhale shared between you.
When you pull apart, a little breathless, his forehead rests against yours. His eyes are closed. He smiles, slow and peaceful.
“Okay,” he whispers. “That… that felt like a restart button.”
“A good one?” you ask.
“The best,” he says. “Way better than the reset buttons on my old consoles. Those just erase your progress. This one kept all the levels we cleared and just fixed the glitch.”
You laugh, shoulders loosening for the first time in days. The room feels brighter, the air easier to breathe.
“Stay?” you ask impulsively. “For a while? We could order pizza or something. Watch a movie. Not a sad one.”
His smile widens. “Stay here? With you? Obviously yes. I was going to suggest it if you didn’t.” He glances toward the hallway. “Think your mom would let me?”
“I think she’ll be relieved I’m not hiding in my room anymore,” you say. “She’ll probably make us snacks.”
“Your mom is a saint,” he says reverently.
“You have no idea.”
You lead him toward the kitchen, your fingers intertwined with his, the simple contact flooding you with warmth. Your mother looks up from the sink when you walk in, eyes darting from your joined hands to your faces.
“You two okay?” she asks carefully.
You meet Dustin’s gaze. He squeezes your hand, a silent reassurance.
“We’re getting there,” you say. “We’re going to order pizza and watch something dumb.”
Your mother’s shoulders visibly relax. “I’ll get the phone,” she says. “And some blankets for the couch.”
As she moves around the kitchen, Dustin leans close to murmur in your ear, “Dibs on being the blanket burrito.”
“You always are,” you whisper back. “I’ll allow it.”
He grins, bumping his shoulder lightly against yours.
Later, you curl up on the couch together, his arm snug around your shoulders, your head tucked under his chin as he presses a gentle kiss to your hair, the two of you sinking into the kind of quiet that feels like everything’s fixing itself.
{ ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ } Nerd!rafe gets forced to go to a 'cool' party by Sarah and there, he sees you, the girl hes liked since 8th grade with your beautiful dress but everything he's held in comes crashing down when he sees you laughing with the more golden, popular footballer.
[ᴀᴜᴛʜᴏʀꜱ ɴᴏᴛᴇ] i wrote angst once and this is now my second time attempting to gut wrench some people tonight. Colton is made up so take him as you will.
The music was too loud. Rafe Cameron had never been to a real high school party before. His sister, Sarah, had begged him to come, swearing it would “be good for him” to stop hiding behind his laptop and endless books for one night.
Good for him.
Right.
Rafe already felt like his lungs were being squeezed the second he stepped into the crowded living room. Everyone here seemed so… effortless. The cool kids with their perfect hair, perfect teeth, perfect confidence — laughing like they’d been born to fit into this world.
Rafe didn’t fit. He never had.
But then he saw you.
And for one blinding, perfect second, everything else faded.
You were standing across the room, your favorite soft blue dress catching the warm glow of the string lights. He knew it was your favorite because you’d told him once — years ago, back when you were friends in middle school and he was just the awkward, lanky kid no one else talked to.
You were laughing. That laugh—the one he’d memorized the first day you sat beside him in science class, actually talking to him instead of pretending he didn’t exist like everyone else.
You’d been his first real friend. His first crush. His first everything.
And you didn’t even know it.
Rafe’s heart swelled with a fragile, stupid kind of hope… until he saw him.
Colton Miller. Star quarterback. Golden boy. Everything Rafe wasn’t. His arm was draped casually around your waist like it belonged there, like he owned it.
You didn’t pull away.
You leaned closer, smiling up at him like he was the only person in the world.
Rafe’s stomach dropped. So violently it felt like the floor had been ripped out from beneath him. His gut twisted with a cold, nauseating wave that left him breathless.The sound of your laugh changed. It wasn’t just a laugh anymore — it was a knife twisting in his chest, over and over again.
No. No, this couldn’t be happening. Not him. Not Colton.
Then Colton bent down, whispering something in your ear.
You blushed.
Rafe felt it like a physical punch to the ribs. His chest seized up, heart pounding so violently it hurt. His throat burned, and for one terrifying second, he couldn’t breathe.
His vision blurred as a hot, painful ache spread up his throat. Sweat beaded along his hairline despite how stiflingly hot the house already was.
Sarah’s voice cut faintly through the ringing in his ears. “Rafe? You okay? You look like you’re about to—”
“I’m fine,” Rafe rasped, his voice hoarse, cracking halfway through.
But he wasn’t fine.
His legs felt like they were made of rubber, trembling so badly he had to jam his hands deep into his hoodie pocket to hide the shake. His breath kept coming too fast, too shallow, and his chest physically hurt.
Then you tilted your head back, laughing again, and Colton’s hand slid lower on your waist.
Rafe choked on a breath. His stomach heaved violently. A dizzy wave crashed over him, the lights blurring, the walls warping. His ears filled with a deafening hum.
He was going to throw up.
He bolted.
He barely heard Sarah shouting his name as he stumbled down the hall, shoving past strangers, his shoulder slamming into a doorframe hard enough to leave a bruise. His tears burned so hot and fast they blurred everything into streaks of color and light.
The bathroom door slammed shut behind him. Rafe lurched to the sink, gripping it so tightly that the porcelain splintered beneath his fingers. His breaths came in ragged, shuddering gasps, each one louder than the last.
He stared at his reflection — red-rimmed eyes behind thick glasses, sweat dampening his messy hair, his pale face blotchy and hollow.
Pathetic Rafe, that word echoed over and over in his skull, standing alone in a locked bathroom while the girl he’d loved since middle school was out there with someone better.
His stomach lurched violently, and he collapsed to his knees, gagging. Dry heaves wracked his entire body, his ribs aching as he retched, but nothing came up. Just bitter, burning acid coating his throat.
His arms gave out, and he slumped forward, pressing his forehead to the cold tile floor. The chill of it was the only thing keeping him from completely unraveling.But it didn’t help.
Not really.
Because even through the walls, he could still hear your laugh.
Muffled.
Distant.
And every note of it gutted him.
He wanted to disappear. To crawl into some dark corner of the world where no one could see him, where he couldn’t see you with him.
Instead, Rafe stayed there — trembling, gasping, swallowing back broken sobs because he couldn’t let anyone hear them.
➠tags; 18+ ,popular!reader, depictions of drugs and substance abuse, intoxicated!reader, plug!denki, college!au, fem!afab!reader
➠synopsis; it's not common for girls like you to be in denki kaminari's roster. and it's less common that girls like you are actually interested in him after said fact.
➠a/n; initially,I wanted this to be the opposite where stoner! denki gets weed from the popular!reader and basically he's surprised ab it yadayadayada. but I didn't know how to expand that idea so I stuck to an easier plot and just focused on improving my writing and character immersion .maybe in the future I'll do a vice versa lol. this will probably get a smuttier part two. once again, open to criticism and tips, no meanies or I'll cry.
➠w/c;~2.5k
life has been kicking you in the balls lately, figuratively speaking.with your boyfriend publicly breaking up with you and your grades slowly going downhill, your perfect pretty princess image has slowly started to fade. not enough for your peers to notice ,but enough for you to be rotting in your room, stripes of tears and mascara streaming down your flushed cheeks as mitski blasted off in the background.
for a couple of days you've been keeping up with society by energy drinks and cigarettes. a habit that had been so hard for you to get rid of but pretty easy to get back onto. even though your room reeked of the smell from how many you had, it wasn't hitting the same. the buzz and the lightheaded-ness were no longer there, just inhale and exhale.. nothing more nor less.
by snooping around you found your uni's primary source of dope. your eyes burned onto your phone screen. it wasn't like you had never tried weed before. just, ordering it was a big commitment. so spontaneous of you that when you had come back to your senses, you hesitated for a second.
exhaling, you pressed on the account, deciding it was safer to message than call. at least that way you could have a digital barricade between yourself and embarrassment.
hey. got your snap from kirishima.e. u got anything on deck for rn?
your thumb tapped against the send button once and you immediately slid out of the chat, your neck hitting the headboard with an exhale. your teeth dug into the bottom of your lip, you'd check your messages, pursing them when there was nothing.
sure. how much?
your brows shot up at the ding.you let yourself take a breather,not giving him the satisfaction of your anticipation.when a minute or so had passed you quickly slid into the chat again, your fingers working fast on the keyboard.
1/8th indi
before texting you had done a lengthy research,seeing how many joints one gram would give you,different types of weed,dealer slang etc ,and felt fairly confident about what you were saying.you debated on whether or not to add a ? at the end but decided not having any punctuation marks made you look at least a little cool.
his stupid blond haired bitmoji popped up on the corner.it peeked over your typing bar as if it was mocking you. your teeth were assaulting the edge of your bottom lip now, picking at the skin mindlessly.
alr pull up
and then a location. sitting up straighter on your bed now,you retracted at the message. you had to go and pick it up?? you sprung out of your comfort, immediately starting to get ready. your greasy hair was put up in a tight slicked pony and you put on enough makeup to make it look unintentional.
the whole drive there had you on your toes, anticipation simmering as you rehearsed what you were going to say at least a million times. your eyes darted to your phone propped up on the air ventilation every now and then, hoping to get a message from him. you didn't even know what. you just needed something to calm your nerves atleast a little bit.
pulling in next to the sidewalk,you stared at his door as if it was offending to you. you picked on your nails, once, twice before placing your forehead on the steering wheel, already regretting everything.your car honking snapped you out of your thoughts as you perked up, cheeks flushed.
you turned your head more than once, seeing if anyone caught that. besides a middle aged woman with a stank face, walking her dog, you were fine. you sighed, cupping your face in your hands before groaning into them.
after a couple of minutes you had finally built up the courage to walk up to his door. on his porch, the old wood whined under your feet with each step. you stopped in front of his house , took a deep breath and counted to three.
one.. two..
click
just as your hand was moving to knock, it froze in the air as the blond man stood opposite from you. he was wearing a white tank top, sweatpants hung low , tattoos scattered across his arms. it took a second for the smell of his house to hit your face. it reeked of.. well. you know.
at your surprised eyes and very flushed cheeks he couldn't help but snort.that didn't ease your situation, lips pressing together in embarrassment as you wanted the ground to swallow you whole. denki immediately caught that, waving his hands around innocently.
“sorry sorry! you just look so surprised” he smiled softly,making your heart skip. your chuckle came out more awkward than you intended it to be. he tilt his head and gestured at the small steps. “i heard those old things croak, so I figured someone was at the door”
you turned your head towards the stairs, like you'd forgotten what was behind you.
“oh yeah I guess..”
you blinked once or twice before flipping your head towards him now. “well come in. I got your stuff ready” he gave you one look down, so quick you almost might've missed it. you followed suit when he walked inside, eyes scanning around.
you couldn't see much of the other rooms since it was dark ,the only way of navigation being a beat up floor lamp on the far corner of his living room.
“sit,sit.” he urged you. you plopped ur ass on the couch, the furniture making a small creaking noise. you tried shrinking yourself as much as possible, one leg over the other and hands placed linked atop your lap. the weird stains the couch had made you tighten up more within yourself.
on the small coffee table in front of your knees, lay scattered different bags, all with different types of drugs.from weed to coke, pills etcetc.
“sorry about the mess, cleaning up and whatnot” his hand flew up to mingle with the small hairs that trailed down his neck,eyes darting away.the house was messy, thats for sure, but it seemed more like a mess accumulated over time, not because he was cleaning up. apart from you sniffing that out (literally), what really convinced you was the pizza boxes shoved under the couch , kicking them when you pressed your heels back.
denki excused himself for a moment, saying he had to get your things. from how nice and friendly he was being, it calmed your nerves a little,making you feel less like a loser.
in a few minutes a plastic baggy was waved in front of your face, paired with a chuckle. you reciprocated, but it still had some awkward undertones nonetheless.
he circled around the couch, settling in next to you before grabbing another small one which had been on the table in front of you.
“i gave you a lower thc percentage, guessing it's your first time?” he gave you a look from the corner of his eye, still organizing the product he had. you internally wondered if it was that obvious that you had no idea what you were doing.
your hands curled up in your lap, something which did not go missed by denki. “ah.yeah um.. It is technically my first time” the double innuendo passed your thoughts for a moment, making your cheeks warm up, but it went as quickly as it came.
“mhm.. you know how to roll a joint?” you inhaled , a little harshly, like it would be your last time breathing. you crossed your ankles one over the other eyes zeroing in on your hands ,nails still picking on your skin. “ah.. uh no, not really.”
denki gave a small nod before lifting his hips up to stretch sideways and past you to open the drawer on the other side of the couch. from this position you could see the muscles on his bicep stretch and struggle with him, the fine lines inviting you to touch. you pressed your palms harder against your lap.
when he got nicely settled on the couch again, you had been too busy ogling him to realize he had a pack of opened index cards on his hands, the ones he had fished out the cabinet. he laid them out next to the rolling papers.
he grabbed another smaller zip back full of weed, separate from the ones he had put aside for you. “ill teach you how” he turned to face you, baggy on his hand and that stupid smirk on his face “ my specialty for first timers” wink.
he held a rolling paper between his pointer and thumb, slightly curling it to create a fold. he did it slowly enough for you to mentally note how you should do it and how good his fingers looked bent like that.he put one of the rolled up index cards on the far end of the paper. “this works kind of like a filter” he held onto it before distributing the weed along the crease of the paper. he pinched the paper again now, rolling it back and forth between his fingers.
your eyes kept trading between the focus of his expression and how his practiced fingers moved across the joint. your thighs clenched a little snugger together when you saw him bring the joint to his mouth, sneaking the tip of his pink tongue out from between his lips and licking a stripe across the edge of the paper before sealing it.he rolled the opposite end before grabbing a lighter inside the front pocket of his sweats.
“y'wanna try?” suddenly he flipped his head towards you,you were halted out of your thoughts. thoughts which had prior been about how nice his jawline looked in the shitty dimmed room.
“oh uh. yeah” you reached out to grab the blunt from his hands but it was quickly snatched away from your reach.
“i meant rolling one silly” he smiled at you before nudging the necessities your way. you puffed out your cheeks, leaning down to reach the low set table. from this angle , denki could see the small patch of skin on your lower back from your hoodie riding up. he averted his eyes, lighting his joint and exhaling, now fixated on your work.
with shaky fingers you tried replicating his movements feeling his gaze burning the back of your head. your lips rubbed together in concentration.when you were about to add the weed you heard a tut behind you, making you freeze in place.
“you forgot the filter”
“oh yeah.” you grabbed the small rolled up index card, placing it how he did on the wedged paper. you kept going, with the other steps. sprinkle, roll, tongue. the finished product was a bit wonky, not as sturdy as denki's was.
“let me light it” with his own between his lips, resting on the corner of his mouth, he leaned forward, one hand cupping the end of your joint, close enough that you could smell his axe body spray overpowered by the smell of cannabis.his thumb rolled against the spark wheel , golden eyes lighting up when the flame finally appeared.holding it against your curled end his eyes moved to yours. conveniently ,yours were on him too.
“inhale” and you did. the wick slowly started burning down, even after the flame had gone.your back hit the couch now , smoke lingering with his in the air.
“ ‘you planning to smoke with your cheerleader friends? ” his words made a laugh echo in your chest, a real one this time.
“ no.. haa–” you tilted your head, resting your temple against the soft cushion of his sofa. “ just wanted something for the stress ” he nodded along, head resting the same way.
“figured.girls like you usually prefer sativa.”
“girls like me?” you strained your neck just to give him one of your looks. he did the same, though, his expression was much softer.
“yknow.girls like you. pretty, popular, bubbly.” your heart clenched at 1/3 of that comment. you let out a thoughtful hum before resting your neck comfortably again.
“ glad to know that's all people think of me ”
he rolled his eyes playfully his neck still bent in a way to look at you, eyes tracing your glowing profile. he stopped at your mouth, jealously creeping up at the blunt resting between your lips.
“ I didn't mean it like that. that's just how the stereotype is. just like I'm the oh so dangerous drug dealer” his chest beamed forward at his own words.
“self proclaimed.. I'm guessing?” denki let out a humorless laugh, enunciating every dry ha ha “very funny”.
the room went quiet after that, the only sound being the small huffs and puffs of smoke. as your mind slowly blanked out .you couldn't help the words that spilled out of your mouth next.
“thanks for thinking I'm pretty”
denki leaned forward on the small coffee table, shoving the remains of his blunt into the ashtray. he placed his elbows on his knees, looking at your dazed expression over his shoulder. your eyes had already started to swell up, the red creeping around the frames that were your lids.
“ didn't know you needed me to say it” you sat up straighter now, leaning forward and towards him. your stance was more relaxed now , not caring much about the stains on his worn couch. your thighs had parted slightly, almost involuntarily. it's like you were on autopilot.
“ don't. but it feels more genuine from you.. someway.”
you could feel the tips of your ears warm up, you were glued to his lips. your mind telling you to do one thing over and over again. you leaned forward more, eyelashes fluttering rapidly as your breath got laboured, chest heaving up and down. denki froze in place, not moving towards you but not away either. he didn't know what to feel either when he felt your soft lips press against his, your hand snake around his neck and the one still with the blunt in hand rest against his cheek.
he indulged in it, for a bit that is. enticed and manipulated by the way your nails dug into his hair, how your hand stroked his cheek and how your tongue pressed against the roof of his mouth. then he quickly broke it off, a hitch escaping from you at the lack of warmth.
“you're high” he sighed at your surprised eyes paired with swollen lips, an expression which shot blood all the way down to his cock. he turned away from you, not trusting himself to keep his composure. he hid his face in his palms and you felt so so dumb from thinking there was actually something there. you sprung up from the couch, grabbed the small zip bags and replaced the empty space with two 20$.
you mumbled a quick apology before rattling the doorway shut with a bang.
only late at night, when your eyes were bloodshot red from the weed and crying did you hear your phone ding again.
Heyyyy I wanted to request a (later season) Dustin x popular!reader where it's reader that's the one being nervous to ask Dustin out (I was going to say to prom but idek if that could be a thing to fit in) and him and the boys are like '.....what is happening right now'
ouuu wait lemme cook on this!!! this is so cute hold the fucking phone omg ; tysm for requesting, hope you enjoy!! ; also kinda twisted their reactions, but trust dipshit mike is a must
DUSTIN HENDERSON ; what the...?
summary ; nervous! popular! reader asks dustin to prom!
warnings ; language, depictions / storytelling of murder in regards to eddie, running away (?)
disclaimers ; upside down doesnt exist but illusions to eddies death occur, el still exists but its short for her middle name (eleanor) and doesnt have powers, platonic henderhop, madwheeler and henclair go kinda crazy, implied byler, canon eddie x chrissy but eddie is actually shown as a drug dealer who puts his friends in dangerous situations because he does + chrissy ends up running away
word count ; 1.2k
masterlist
You're well aware of the fact you dont know Dustin very well. You know of him, but you don't know him. In a way, you teel you should be more ashamed about all this, especially because of that fact. All your defending him from the other popular kids, trying to defend his honor and respect for his late friend, Eddie, it could be seen as... almost nuanced, but nearly ignorant at the same time.
You disnt know much about the Eddie situation yourself. You only found information through rumors, you'll be honest. It was too much a touchy subject to ask your lab partner, Dustin himself, about. To you, it'd be beyond inappropriate, plus, you didn't even know Dustin or his friends, like, at all. If anything, it seemed they all kinda hated you. I mean, they hated your friends, which was valid. You hated them, too. You were only popular because you were a chronic people pleaser, let's be for real.
Anyways.
Apparently he, Eddie, Mike, Lucas, and the rest of the Hellfire Club (Will, Max, and El weren't a part of their group, loyal to the Party, their shared D&D group) were out in the woods one night over spring break during freshman year. The story gets fuzzy around the edges, but Eddie had drugs, I mean, why wouldn't he? It seemed like a drug deal gone wrong, Gareth led the freshmen away, and the other Hellfire members tried helping, but it... it didn't go great. His girlfriend / not really his girlfriend but a situationship at least, Chrissy, practically ran away the second she graduated. Dustin mentioned her a few times here and there, leading you to suspect they may still have contact with one another.
So, it truly was odd when you found yourself in this odd situation. Single, alone, pressured by your peers and parents to find a date to your senior prom... and your pick, Dustin fucking Henderson. Y'know, that kid who keeps getting beat up after his druggie friend got murdered? The kid you literally don't know? The kid you've only had classes with maybe three times in the past four years?
Yeah, that Dustin.
You decided that even though you knew this wouldn't go well, you'd put some big kid pants on and ask him to prom anyway. Just for the thrill and notion that you attempted. And that way, your shitty friends would stop bothering you about it and bother you about the fact you got brutally rejected by a 'loser freak of a nerd'. Yeah, actual quote from Andy before he graduated.
So, that's how you ended up here. With Dustin. In the hallway after eighth period. With his friends behind him.
God, this is embarrassing with a capital e.
"Hey, so, like..." you nervously smile, scratching your nape, "Sorry for doing this all of a sudden straight after class, but uh, I was wondering..."
Dustin raises an eyebrow, perplexed at what you of all people would want to ask him. He glances back at Mike, Will, and Lucas waiting for him behind you, leaning against the pillars that lead to the library. He notices Max approaching with El, both carrying pieces of some history project they put together for class. Lucas greets Max by slinging an arm around her shoulder while Will hugs El before helping her carry some of her things. Mike smiles and waves at her, both he and Will asking how their project presentation went.
Needless to say, with the amount of time it takes Dustin to see all of this unfold, you'd noticed he wasn't paying attention to you. God, this was a horrible idea. You don't even want to ask him now. You feel your blood run cold down your arms and legs. You feel your knees grow weak.
But, you know the embarrassment of just up and walking away would probably be the death of you, far worse than any rejection. When he regains his composure, he's just staring at you with those curious doe eyes. Under all that anger, that hate, and the grungey eyeliner, he's still wondering what you wanted to tell him.
"Uhm," you clear your throat, feeling your face grow warm, "I was wondering if you maybe wanted to go to, uh, prom? With me? Maybe?"
Dustin's face seems to soften.
And then he shows you this dorky, lopsided smile. He glances back at his friends, silently watching a few yards away, unable to hear either of you.
"I hate the idea of prom," he answers, separating his thoughts into two that nearly gives you a heart attack, "but I would like to hang out with you. Like, in a romantic way. If that's what you meant."
You feel your heart drop to your toes.
"Actually?"
"Yeah," he giggles, raising his hat to run a hand through his hair, just to fix his long curls, "Are you a fan of the arcade, Mx. Popular?"
"Uh, yeah, yeah, I am."
"Cool. Oh, uh, are you busy tonight?" he asks.
You shake your head. In all honesty, you are, but you can ditch your shitty friends to go to the arcade with Dustin.
"Cool. See you at six?"
"Yeah!"
With that, you spin on your heels, and with a smile, walk away. Dustin's shoulders lower, a bright smile radiating from him. He returns to his friends, oddly happy. They are not used to that.
"I just got asked to prom!" he exclaims.
Mike raises an eyebrow, "I thought you hated prom?"
Will lightly smacks his forearm. Max glares at him.
"Be nice! Dustin got asked out!" the redhead pokes.
"Yeah, by a popular kid," Mike presses, "What happened to your morals, dude?"
Lucas rolls his eyes on Dustin's behalf before scooping him into a side hug, "My boy's all grown up!"
"They're so pretty/handsome, Dustin!" El smiles, "Good job."
Mike, being his typical hater self, speaks again. "You're not actually going to prom, are you? Don't tell me you're going to prom with a popular kid. Dustin. Please."
Will turns his head, "I would like to mention... don't get ahead of yourself, man."
"No!" Dustin defends, "We're just going to the arcade tonight. No prom, ever."
Mike narrows his eyes, glaring amongst the others. He's silently wondering if everyone else is actually hearing what he is. "Guys. Dustin got asked out. What the fuck?"
Max smacks him across the shoulder, "Be nice, dipshit!"
Lucas shrugs, turning to Dustin, "Just be careful. And be smart. Please, dude. No one trusts them or their bitchy friends, so don't be surprised if shit goes wrong."
Dustin nods with a little salute, "Yessir, General Sinclair."
"It's not my place to judge," Will sighs, "I just hope you'll end up happy, Dust."
"See? At least Will and Lucas are supportive of me!"
Dustin smiles before his face softens, then reignites again, "Y/n asked me out! A hot popular kid asked me out! Holy shit!"
