Dustin enlists Steve Harrington to protect his older sister from the douche bags of Hawkins High. It turned out much, much differently then he was expecting.
Rating: PG-13, a bit steamy but no smut.
Pairing: Stever Harrington x Reader, Dustin Henderson x Sister!Reader
A/N: Now excepting Stranger Things requests!
You were Dustin’s older sister, and though the young boy would never admit it, he looked up to you more than anyone. Aside from Steve Harrington maybe.
More than anything Dustin wished he could protect you against the assholes of Hawkins high. But much to his dismay, he was only a middle schooler, a short one at that.
So he enlisted the help of his newfound friend, Steve Harrington. He specifically told Steve to watch out for you at school. And that if anything ever, and he meant ever, happened to you, Dustin would beat the shit out of Steve with his own nail covered baseball bat. And he would like every second of it.
Never had Steve taken a threat from Dustin so seriously in his life. It did help that you were drop dead gorgeous, and he’d been searching for an excuse to talk to you since he broke up with Nancy.
And he finally had it. Your little brother would kill him if he didn’t.
That was exactly how you ended up making out with Steve in the back of his car in your driveway. Minus a few steps of course.
Apparently Steve’s idea of “looking out for you” was seducing you. And it worked, because there you were, in the back seat of his car, out of breath as Steve left cherry colored marks down your neck, grinning proudly everytime you let out a soft moan.
Your head was thrown back against the seat, back arched into Steve as he sucked a new mark into your soft skin.
Your fingers were threaded through his thick hair, tugging everytime he did something that you especially liked.
You were knocked out of your lust induced trance by a loud bang on the back window of the car. Steve’s head snapped up, and you swore you could see the blood drain from his face, even in the dark of the night.
“Shit.” He hissed, pulling his red tshirt back over his head. You honestly couldn’t even remember ever discarding the piece of clothing.
“You’re so fucking dead Harrington!” You heard Dustin yell from outside the car, shaking the door handles in an attempt to get in. You had never been more glad that Steve decided to lock the doors.
The last thing you needed was your brother seeing you flustered and shirtless after a wild hour or so at the mercy of his new found mentor and friend.
Steve stepped out of the car with a bright blush on his pale cheeks, hiding your half naked form from the wide eyes of Dustin, Lucas, Will, and Mike.
You quickly pulled on a hoodie of Steve’s that was discarded on the floor of the car and stepped out beside him, smiling sheepishly at your glaring brother.
“What the hell is this? I told you to protect her, Harrington. Not screw her in my driveway!” Dustin yelled, pointing at the red faced boy.
“And you.” He sneered, pointing in your direction. “I can’t believe you’d prostitute yourself to this manwhore.”
You gasped at his words. “He-he’s not a manwhore. And I’m not ‘prostituting’ myself you idiot. He didn’t pay me to makeout with him. I did that all on my own.”
Steve smirked at your statement, placing his hand on the small of your back. Ever since he’d gotten to know you, his affections had grown even stronger.
Steve guessed he had Dustin to thank for your new found relationship if tou cohld even call it that.
“Hey, hey, hey. I like your sister dude. That’s all there is to it. No manwhoring, no prostitution, just a crush.” Steve defended himself, bringing you closer into his side.
“I wouldn’t call fogging up the windows of your car in my driveway a little crush.” Dustin muttered under his breath.
“You have a crush on me?” You question teasingly, poking Steve in his stomach lightly.
“I’d be crazy not to.” He grinned, pulling you in for a light kiss.
“I’m still standing right here! Could you please try not to mount my sister while I’m in the vacinity. Thanks.”
the one on the left is from bee’s sweater and the one on the right is from the cook book (that i actually have its so adorable and i enjoy cooking from it <3) i actually had to draw these instead of editing them out cause i caaaaan
What do you think about an “i picked up your bag at the airport but i can’t find your number so i’m about to embark on the largest scavenger hunt of all time by using your strange belongings to track you down” au with charmer or nurseydex or zimbits or something??
Well, I don’t know if you expected three mini fics, and I didn’t fully follow the prompt, but here we are.
Look, Chris knew it was dumb. He knew that everyone on earth had a plain black suitcase, he knew he should have double-checked the luggage tag, he knew it was important to be sure abut these things. But knowing what he should have done couldn’t help him when he finally got his suitcase home and opened it up to find mostly yoga pants and sundresses.
He zipped the bag back up and flipped open the luggage tag. It was cute, pink with some metallic lettering saying “I’m outta here!” in a handwritten font. Chris blamed jetlag and the redeye flight for making him miss the fact that it wasn’t his Sharks tag. He blamed the bag’s owner for not filling out any of the information on the tag.
Well, sorry random girl, he thought. He opened the suitcase up again to try to see if he could find anything that would give him a clue as to who the suitcase owner was. He moved a makeup bag aside, and hit gold immediately. Well, Samwell red. A Women’s Volleyball tshirt– mystery suitcase girl had to be on the volleyball team.
“Hey Ransom!” he yelled. “You’re facebook friends with all the volleyball team right?”
“He’s friends with everyone on campus!” Holster yelled back.
“Ask their captain if anyone flew in from the Bay Area and lost their luggage!”
“Is Justin here? My captain said he’s got my suitcase.” Chris overheard her at the door. He grabbed the bag and started hauling it downstairs. As he set it down at the bottom and caught sight of the girl in the doorway, he froze. She was pretty. Like, really pretty.
“Um, hi,” he said.
“So you’re Justin? Oh my god, I’m so glad it wasn’t some total rando who got my bag.”
“I’m actually Chris, Justin was just the one who was friends with your captain. Um, I’m sorry, but I kind of had to look through your stuff? Your luggage tag wasn’t filled out.” The girl laughed.
“Yours wasn’t either! Me and my teammates were like one minute away from googling the record holder for most San Jose Sharks merch, but it totally makes sense that you’re on the hockey team.”
“Since we both forgot to write our numbers down, maybe we should do that now?” Chris suggested. The girl grinned, grabbed his phone out of his hand, and opened up a new contact. She punched in a number, and when she handed it back he saw a text of several random emojis addressed to the new contact of “Caitlin Farmer” with a girl farmer emoji and a volleyball emoji.
“Text me sometime, and maybe we can get dinner?” she said, and she was gone with her suitcase.
Chris collapsed on the couch, a dreamy look in his eyes.
“Chowder? You get your suitcase back?” Bitty called out from the kitchen.
“Yeah! and I think I’m in love now!”
“Cheryl, I’m telling you, I had a ton of inspiration on the plane and I wrote some great stuff for act three. No. No, it wasn’t just me thinking it’s great because I popped some melatonin and got really sleepy. It’s like, legit. Yeah, I’ll send it over as soon as I get home and–”
Derek slammed into something. If he’d been holding his phone in his hand (bluetooth is a blessing when you drop stuff easily) it would have launched across the airport. As it was, his post-flight latte was soaking through the nice white shirt of the handsome stranger in front of him.
“Shit,” the stranger said, looking down to survey the damage.
“Oh my god, I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have trusted myself to make a phone call and not be clumsy after such a long flight,” Derek said. He set his briefcase down and pulled a wad of napkins out of the outside pocket. The guy took a deep breath, going from murderous to calm in a few seconds.
“I wasn’t looking where I was going either, it’s not your fault,” the guy said, setting down his own briefcase and accepting the napkins. He blotted at his shirt.
“Let me pay for the dry cleaning. Or a replacement,” Derek offered. The man shook his head.
“It’s fine, it probably needed to go to the cleaners anyways.” He checked his watch. “If I run, I can probably get a new one before my meeting.” He wadded the napkins into one big ball, picked up his briefcase, and walked towards the exit with a terse nod. Derek, feeling terrible about the whole thing, picked up his own briefcase and walked to baggage claim.
By the time he was reunited with his home office, a cozy bookshelf-lined room in his brownstone, he had almost forgotten about the coffee incident. He was focused on sending the manuscript to Cheryl. Unfortunately, that was going to be difficult, considering he pulled a PC laptop out of the bag instead of his Mac.
Derek stared at the computer for a full minute. He almost couldn’t believe that this was happening to him. Hesitantly, he opened the laptop. On one side of the keyboard there was a weird thing that a few seconds of phone googling told him was a fingerprint scanner. Shit. He hit the space bar experimentally. Something flashed on the screen, and then was replaced with just a plain black screen with red text: ACCESS DENIED
Derek swore. He started to look through the rest of what was in the briefcase, but was disappointed to find it empty except for the laptop’s charger, three packs of gum, and receipts from a lobster shack in Maine. Shit. Nothing in here would tell him anything about the redhead he’d launched a latte at.
He closed the laptop dejectedly, ignored his editor’s text messages, and went into the kitchen to make himself lunch and feel sorry for himself. This was the universe punishing him for covering a cute guy with coffee. If he had just kept his focus and waited to call his editor later, he could have sent the draft along and saved it and not be desperately trying to remember his inspiration.
Just as the self-pity spiral was really taking off, the doorbell rang. Derek sighed, put down his tea, and walked to the door. When he opened it, it wasn’t Girl Scouts or Jehovah’s Witnesses, but the guy from the airport.
“Cancel whatever you’re doing today, I need to teach you the most basic principles of digital security,” the guy said, pushing past Derek into the dining room. He shoved a stack of papers onto a chair and pulled Derek’s laptop out.
“I’m Will, by the way, I make software that’s hopefully a step ahead of viruses.”
“Is the draft still there?”
“The draft of what?” The guy looked confused.
“My third act breakthrough. I’m a novelist, I need to get it to my editor and I couldn’t remember if I saved it,” Derek explained.
“You know you can set up an auto-save every five minutes or so, right?” Will asked.
“This might be surprising to you, but I’ve never had a cute guy storm into my house and yell at me about computers before.” Will looked up from Derek’s computer, blushing.
“I haven’t had a cute guy dump a gallon of coffee all over me and steal my laptop before, either, but here we are.”
“Maybe you can yell about computers over lunch with me?”
Button downs. Tank tops. Slacks. Shorts. Three rolling pins. A pie tin. A half-emptied multipack of sharpies.
No lucky puck. No clothes in his size. No jerseys.
Jack sighed. It would just be too much to ask for anything to go well today. He picked up his phone to call someone with the Falconers, in the hope that they could talk to the airline and sort all this out. At the same time, his phone lit up with Tater’s face.
“Zimmboni! Look on twitter. Small internet baker has your suitcase!” Tater hung up before he could reply, so Jack just opened twitter instead.
omgcheckplease: A bunch of pucks, some dirty jerseys, and a history textbook. Either I’m back in college or this isn’t my suitcase.
omgcheckplease: .@falcsofficial please tell your #1 player to DM me and come get his shit
omgcheckplease: and @falcsofficial tell him to give me my shit back. my hockey days are in the past, I need rolling pins, not a mouthguard
Jack smiled and laughed in the way a person laughs when they’re alone, just blowing more air than normal out of his nose. He looked through the twitter for a minute– the guy, Eric Bittle, was a Providence-based chef, whose latest tweets were mostly greetings to the various cities he’d been visiting on tour. Jack clicked the media tab on the account, and looked through the pictures. Bittle was cute. He wrote a reply.
zimmboni: .@omgcheckplease how do I send u a DM
omgcheckplease: .@zimmboni you don’t deserve to be verified, oh my god #verifybittle2k17
A few seconds later another notification popped up, and he tapped it to be brought to a DM window.
omgcheckplease: hey! sorry about the mixup. I can only imagine how confused you were to find all my book tour stuff.
zimmboni: Probably as confused as you were finding hockey stuff?
omgcheckplease: I wasn’t joking in my tweets, I did play hockey before I got into the whole cookbook/food show thing
zimmboni: Exactly, I did a book tour last year in the off-season :-)
omgcheckplease: oh my gosh, isn’t it the best and the worst?
zimmboni: I know. It’s great to meet people and talk about your work, but it’s exhausting.
omgcheckplease: that’s why I’m so excited to be back in Providence! at least until the next cookbook.
zimmboni: Well we should probably meet up to trade suitcases. Want to meet somewhere for dinner?
omgcheckplease: don’t trust me to learn where your house is?
zimmboni: I mean, if dinner goes well enough…
omgcheckplease: OH. okay, then, Mr. Zimmermann, it’s a date.
Jack smiled to himself, and got ready for his date.
i’m gonna be the chillest parent ever when it comes to my kid’s clothes
u wanna wear band tshirts and red lipstick? hell yeah. u wanna wear floral skirts and hockey jerseys? cool man, if that’s what u want. you wanna wear fedoras and rage comic shirts? well actually,