— fluff

in defence of the babysitters by @lurkymurker

crushes, chaos, and confessions by @quin-ns

our kids by @cosmicloki

sleep soft by @upsidedownwithsteve

dancing by @heytherejulietx

movie night by @heytherejulietx

losers and the supernatural by @luveline

bribery and a movie by @luveline

day of the dead by @luveline

next week by @heartburriedinvenice

no sleeping over by @sarahisslytherin

original sin by @robinsgfs

you're too drunk for this by @eufezco

upside down squad by @scandalous-chaos

— smut/ nsfw (18+)

between two scoops by @hawkins-losers

front seat almost-sex by @1986harrington

kiss me once by @foreverrogers

the thin line between love and hate by @sortagaysortahigh

star cuffed jeans by @strawberrysodaslut

like heaven by @wallhhoes

aftercare by @virgoyves

back aches (1) (2) by @peterparkergirlfriend1

Steve Harrington is many things.

An impressive head of hair, a stupidly roguish grin, five-foot-ten (and a half, the royal pain in the ass insists) of devastating charm, and perhaps most unfortunately — your best friend.

Steve Harrington is many things, but a photographer isn’t one of them. Especially not the kind that wears a polaroid camera around his neck; he isn’t the brooding type — the very opposite of strange and mysterious.

And yet, all overconfidence and terrible good looks, he manages to epitomise the look as though he invented it. As though photography was hardwired into his king Steve, DNA, instructing you to pose with that heart-melting smile on his face.

“Harrington,” you warn, sounding a broken record at this point. “Seriously. Stop.”

Steve offers a half-shrug in response, the kind that makes you want to strangle him (or perhaps, to kiss him hard).

“What?” He furrows his brow then, trying his very best to feign nonchalance. There’s a brilliant twinkle in his eye, corners of his mouth twitching as he disguises his amusement, and he looks at ease — frustratingly so, like he hasn’t spent the better half of the summer taking bad photos of you.

You let out a defeated huff in response, folding your arms across your chest. It isn’t as though you can get him back by turning around and taking polaroids of him — frustratingly handsome Steve is crazy photogenic, on top of everything else, and all returning the favour will do is make you fall harder for him. As if your poor heart isn’t already a bulletin board of his stupid grin and stupid eyes and stupidly big hair; as if you need any more photos of him lying around — heart palpitations sure to grow downright arrhythmic.

“Dude, seriously,” you admonish, fixing him with a stern glare. “Don’t you think you have enough shitty photos of me to last a lifetime?”

“Ah,” Steve nods sagely, as though any part of him is considering stopping on your account. “Not quite.”

He secretly loves riling you up — you’re at your brightest when you’re mad, and alright, sue him, but a secret part of Steve finds it perplexingly attractive. The kind of attractive that feels a magnetic pull to his heartbeat; he’s the kid on the playground your mother tells you about, the one that teases you instead of conveying his affection.

So maybe Steve Harrington has a schoolboy crush he isn’t aware of. You’ll have to forgive him, he’s clueless at the best of times, and your presence even more so makes him malfunction. All warm and golden and everything good in this world, as though you were made to slot right into his side.

“Not quite?” You repeat, narrowing your eyes some.

Steve nods, again, bringing his polaroid camera up to his right eye. He’s squinting into the lens with his tongue pressed between his teeth, capturing you frowning as though your life depends on it. It’s more an endearing pout than anything formidable, and maybe, definitely Steve Harrington is biased, but he’s fairly certain the image has glacéd his heart, like a cherry.

It’s a fleeting thought, one he’s sure will return once the polaroid develops. Right now, though, he’s all cool, calm, collected charm, camera swinging back into place as he tugs the white film out.

“The worst,” you mutter, shaking your head irritatedly. “You’re the fucking worst, you know that?”

Steve grins, searching your features in a way that has your heartbeat quickening. “You love me.”

I do, you think without missing a beat, feeling like a high-school cliché as you do so. The boy-next-door — seriously? Your cheeks feel warm, and your traitorous stomach is doing somersaults; you hop off the hood of Steve’s pick-up, hating how unconvincing your response sounds.

“You wish,” you say, dusting off your sweet-looking flares.

Steve pretends to swoon, shaking the polaroid in the air. “I do.”

“Yeah, yeah,” you scoff with a roll of your eyes, flipping him off before turning on your heel. “I gotta go, alright? We still on for tomorrow?”

“Movie night?” Steve confirms, nodding a response, “always. You know Henderson would kill us if we bailed.”

You let out a soft laugh, shaking your head bemusedly. “I love that kid,” you say, in near unison to Steve adding — “I hate that kid.”

“Take it back, Harrington,” you warn, fixing him with what you hope is a stern glare. It isn’t. Perhaps it’s the polaroid talking, but Steve thinks you look like a heart attack packaged into five-foot-something trouble.

One he doesn’t mind having, all things considered. It would be a valiant way to go, and he can see the headlines, now: Extra! Extra! Read all about it — unfairly beautiful girl causes poor boy’s heart to malfunction.

“Taking it back,” Steve says solemnly, raising his arms in surrender. “I’ll see you tomorrow!”

You offer him a mock salute in response, jingling your keys as an added farewell before heading for your car. He waits until you’ve driven off before opening his door and doing the same — he needs to know you’re making your way home, safely, before he can even entertain the idea himself. In a perfect world, he’d be the one driving you around. But you’re his best friend, not an object; he needs to keep his irrational fear of losing you to an accident in check.

Once he’s buckled in, he takes off his camera and places it on the passenger’s seat; it acts as a reminder of the polaroid still in his free hand, and he takes a pause to glimpse it.

It’s only half developed, but Steve’s breath catches anyway. The film acts to soften your pout; it looks even more so endearing, a fact he didn’t think possible until now. Summer’s in full force in Hawkins — the heat is unforgiving, sunshine beating down harsh. It should look the same in the polaroid, but for some reason, it doesn’t; sun beams radiate your figure, create a halo around its form. You look angelic, like something out of a dream, and Steve drinks the image in until he’s sure he’s drunk off the feeling. It’s as though your opaline, almost ethereal — this photo is it, he thinks, feeling like he’s captured something romantic.

And it isn’t as though you’re doing anything out of the ordinary — you frowning, arms folded (on the hood of his pick-up, no less) is the very picture of your dynamic, something he sees far too often. He shouldn’t feel it flutter through his chest, nor settle spun gold in his veins. But it does, you do, and Steve feels overwhelmingly as though this is a secret kept.

Yours and his, like the big L word with the I and you on either side of it. Perhaps a part of him has always known you’re something special, because he doesn’t hesitate to tuck the polaroid into a hidden slot in his wallet. The others he’s taken he’s used as ammunition; they’re littered around his room, some tacked to his cobweb-gathering locker. Though now that he thinks about it, his eyes do tend to linger on them as he passes. They bring a smile to his face when you’re not around; Steve’s hopelessly smitten, and he doesn’t even know it.

“Shit,” he curses, so very desperate now that he’s talking to himself, apparently. “There’s no way, right?”

Except that there is, of course there is — Steve Harrington is done for, was the minute you were assigned the seat beside his, freshman year. Somewhere between then and now, he’s memorised faint bergamot, lavender and tones of honey without even realising it. He’s pavlov-ed himself into doing everything in his power to make you laugh; whether that be through silly pranks or a polaroid camera you hate to love. And now, he’s the guy with a photo of you in his wallet — with a highlight reel of you playing on repeat, soft, pouty lips and a smile like sunshine.

“Shit,” he repeats, though this time, it appears he’s resigned to his fate. “You motherfucker. You’re in love with her, aren’t you?”

—

Steve Harrington doesn’t get nervous.

He’s the epitome of smooth, self-proclaimed creator of Skull Rock’s reputation, and he rarely, if ever, gets nervous — especially when said nerves are to do with a crush.

Perhaps that’s why Dustin eyes his figure with interest when he opens the door. You aren’t due to arrive for another few minutes, and Steve Harrington looks alarmingly overdressed — his dreamy head of hair is styled to perfection, letterman on that he swears he only wears to lend. To pretty girls, he’ll add, when in the mood to dish out pearls of wisdom — “girls go crazy for it, you hear me Henderson? Get your hands on one of these, dude, and you’re sorted. For real.”

“What’s up with you?” Dustin greets with a raised eyebrow, giving his figure a pointed once-over. “You coming from another commitment, Harrington?”

He cocks his head to one side, raising an eyebrow, “planning on going to one?”

“Dude — no, of course not,” Steve responds, uncharacteristically defensive as he pushes past Dustin’s figure. He deposits his keys and wallet atop the entrance table, muttering something terse about using the bathroom before disappearing into the house.

Dustin’s eyes follow his figure until he disappears out of sight, narrowing some before settling on his belongings on the counter. He regards them a moment, racking his brains for a plausible explanation — sure, going through someone’s wallet is a felony, but maybe it holds a clue to his strange behaviour. Probably some girl’s number, or something, scribbled onto a napkin with the i’s dotted with hearts. And Dustin swears, if Steve plans on bailing movie night early to go on a date, he isn’t sure he’ll be able to forgive him for it. He needs to have evidence, ammunition to call his bluff; prevent him making a move if that’s what he intends to do.

It’s a split second decision, but the devil on his right shoulder gets the better of him. He grabs the wallet from the counter hurriedly, opening it up to find it painfully empty. No napkin, nor any pieces of ripped, note paper; just some loose change, a crisp twenty, and — something barely visible tucked into a corner.

Dustin’s eyes light up. Jackpot. He only just manages to tug it out of it’s slot before the doorbell rings again, affording him a single second to register the polaroid photo before he’s hastily putting it back in.

He’s barely able to appreciate that it’s your picture in Steve’s wallet — the same you that’s since rung his doorbell twice more, in succession. And Dustin’s eyes are incredulously wide, expression fairly disbelieving, only just turning the handle as Steve Harrington peeks his head into the corridor.

“What’s the hold up?” He says with a frown, and then straightens some, clearing his throat and deepening his voice when he registers your figure in the doorway. “Oh, Y/n — hey!”

Dustin turns his head toward him, mouthing an exasperated “Hey?” before beckoning you in.

“Snacks are all set up in the living room,” he announces, ushering you forward quickly. “Rest of the gang’s all here, and uh — Steve, can I talk to you for a sec?”

Steve sends Dustin a bewildered glance, sharing a look with you before nodding his response.

“What?” He questions once you’re out of earshot, hazarding a stray glance behind him in case you were checking him out. Steve Harrington has been told he has a nice behind. Who is he to try and deny it?

“Dude,” Dustin raises his eyebrows, looking down at Steve’s wallet pointedly. “A polaroid? Seriously?”

Steve’s eyes widen, expression a perplexing mix of anger and sheer embarrassment. “Henderson,” he hisses, words near inaudible but unforgiving all the same, “you went through my fucking wallet?”

“A polaroid?” Dustin repeats, refusing to acknowledge the accusation.

Steve grimaces defeatedly, requiring a beat to gather his thoughts. “A polaroid.”

“In my defense,” he adds lamely, retrieving his wallet to take the photo out of it’s spot. “She looks illegal. I had to keep it.”

“Unbelievable,” Dustin mutters, looking as though he’s aged several years. “A polaroid of Y/n, of all people, who you know I have a crush on —”

Steve grins then, ruffling his curls affectionately. “Call her in ten years, buddy.”

“Call who in ten years?”

If Steve Harrington’s heart was a stack of pancakes, your voice would be the thick slab of butter that softens them right up. Your presence would be the maple syrup that sweetens every layer, your smile the knife one wields to cut it into neat pieces. You could destroy him, if you wanted to, and Steve Harrington would let you.

You narrow your eyes as you register their figures, clocking the polaroid photo in Steve’s hand with an exasperated scoff.

“Seriously, Steve?” You frown, heading toward them to snatch it from his grasp. “Is this the one you took yesterday? Because —”

You falter when you glance down at it, realising it isn’t catching you at an unflattering angle like the rest. “— oh, this one isn’t half bad, actually.”

“Isn’t half bad?” Steve repeats incredulously, forgetting for a moment that you share a very platonic relationship — boy-next-door, and his crazy beautiful best friend. “You’re not serious? You look like you’re fucking glowing, or some shit.”

The words leave his lips so matter-of-factly, so naturally, it’s no wonder they catch you off guard. Your breath hitches, something light and airy in your veins, and it’s only then that you look at him — really look at him, realise there’s more than just embarrassment to his sheepish gaze.

“He keeps it in his wallet,” Dustin blurts out then, and Steve wonder fleetingly whether it would be possible for the ground to open up. Swallow him whole, or his stupid kid; he isn’t fussy, he just needs one less person to be a part of this train wreck of a situation.

Your eyes widen a little at the revelation, a soft smile on your lips like you’re trying to fucking kill him. “Really?”

“Really,” Dustin affirms, though Steve’s punishing grip on his shoulder prevents him from continuing. His eyes dart back up to the older boy, preemptive wince on his lips; he knows better than to ignore the glare Steve sends his way, clearing his throat several times before attempting to separate.

“Anyway,” he adds, tugging at his shirt collar nervously. “I’ll, uh — yes, Lucas?” He shrugs then, points at thick silence as though someone in the gang has actually called his name. Adorable. Steve will have to get him a dollar store Emmy for his theatrics. “Yes, yeah — I’ll be right there!”

And he’s disappearing out of sight before you can so much as open your mouth in protest, leaving something warm and anticipatory in the air that’s raising paradoxical goosebumps on your skin.

“So,” you start awkwardly, breaking the silence first. “Your wallet, huh?”

Your voice is soft, endearingly so, and Steve is so pathetic over it, so hopeless, that he decides he’s better off telling the truth.

“You look stupidly cute in it, sour patch,” he says, addressing you by the same nickname he’s tormented you with since freshman year. It feels different this time, far sweeter. Like the spent memories that define your relationship now hold the promise of something greater.

He braves a step forward, thumb brushing over the contour of your cheek. Your lashes flutter at the action, pouty lips parting slightly, and you can feel your traitorous heart thump harder, wondering in a haze whether it could jump out of your chest cavity, and into his.

“I look stupidly cute in all of them,” you manage to counter, feeling his other hand on the skin of your waist, feather-light.

Steve cocks his head to one side, grinning in that roguish way he tends to do. “True.”

And he’s dipping his head a little now, lips inches from yours, every nerve-ending in your body lighting up in anticipation. When he first kisses you, it’s barely a brush — something tentative and soft, very un-King Steve like, as though you’re the first girl to really steal his heart. And when you don’t pull away, when you lean in, instead, Steve feels it like electricity in his veins — his hold tightens, his breath grows heavier, and he kisses you hard, like you’re something delicate he wants to ruin. It’s lawless and hot and renders you incapable of any thoughts — his lips on your skin, and you almost forget where you are.

Almost.

“Steve —” you manage to say between kisses, feeling them descend to the pulse point on your neck, your sensitive earlobe. “— the — kids —”

“Those cockblocks,” Steve breathes, murmuring the words into your skin like a prayer — like he’s worshipping you, and doesn’t plan on stopping yet, “can fucking wait for us to finish.”

“Ew, god, gross.”

Your eyes widen at the familiar voice, pulling Steve up hastily before turning toward the source.

“We’re coming!” You say, voice high and breathy like you’re halfway through a rendezvous.

“Or,” Max drawls, gagging violently before waving her hand about, “maybe like — don’t be hang out with middle-schoolers on a Saturday night, and go out on a real date or something?”

“Hey!” Dustin’s voice calls from the living room, the scowl on his lips audible. “No one ditches movie night, you hear me?”

Max fixes him a pointed glare, deciding to ignore the sentiment. She turns her head back to regard you, arms crossed, a beat or two passing before she’s nodding you off.

“Well?” She says impatiently, already heading back into the living room. “What are you waiting for? Go!”

You steal a glimpse at Steve once you’re sure she’s out of sight, stomach flipping pancakes when you realise he’s already zero-ed in you. He grins then, something smooth and delicious that has your knees buckling, taking a step back before offering his arm for you to link.

“C’mon,” he urges them, like danger and spice and bad decisions, “my polaroid’s in the car.”

—