#twelve days of superbly subpar writing

[superblysubpar]

I Think I Only Want You, Under My Mistletoe:

modern!steve harrington x fem!reader

3.6k words

summary: Meeting The Harrington's, an office Christmas party, seeing Steve's big, hard d- Desk. Get your mind out of the gutter. // The prompts: [mistletoe] - a playful or romantic kiss under a mistletoe // [BEND OVER] - one muse bends the other over a table/couch/etc. 

warnings: THIS HAS BIG SPOILERS FOR MY SERIES WE’LL CALL IT LOVE ( #a we’ll call it love blurb // we’ll call it love masterlist) - this blurb takes place only a few short weeks after the end of chapter 5: Getting Older, and before the Epilogue. | slight description of reader worrying about her appearance/comparison and anxiety about what people think of it | slight angst with Harrington parent disapproval and judgement | alcohol consumption | SMUT: semi-public (steve's office) teasing, calling Steve Mr. Harrington and sir, illusions to unprotected PIV intercourse

day 1 of 12 days of superbly subpar writing // requested by @palmtreesx3 - thank you for requesting and continuing to encourage WCIL nonsense. Hope you love it babe! 💛

Steve: You found a dress right? You: Nah, I was thinking I’d just show up in my period sweats and that sweatshirt with the stain on it.  Steve: Honey, seriously, I need confirmation.  You: 🙄 You: yes steve. I got a dress. Relax. 

You tossed more popcorn in your mouth, trying to squash the nerves he wasn’t making any better by harassing you for the last week about the dress. 

Like it wasn’t enough to have a boyfriend after swearing off love. The boyfriend you now had after confessing all dramatic and movie-like that you were falling for the guy despite thinking he was engaged. The engagement he called off because of you, much to his parents' fury. The parents you were going to meet at this party. The party at the office he had just put his notice in to quit, again because of you. 

What was there to be nervous about?

The phone next to you lit up and Robin glanced at it, and you caught the name ‘Dingus’ as she  cleared her throat and locked it. Her voice strained to sound nonchalant. 

“Can I see what you’re wearing to the party tomorrow?”

An annoyed huff and strangled cry left your mouth. “That’s it! I’m not going! I’m not!”

You stomped to the kitchen and poured more of the white wine they brought as Nancy failed to cover her smile, coughing over her laugh. 

Robin sat up on her knees, green clay mask beginning to harden on her face, so only her bright blue eyes could convey her feelings. “Just let us see it so we can tell him he has nothing to worry about and he can relax.”

Your head shook, laughing despite being unamused. “Does he think I don’t know how to dress myself? Does he think I’m gonna actually show up in something disgusting? Does he think-”

“You haven’t met the Harrington's.” Robin interrupts, her voice far more serious than you cared for. 

Stomping off to the bathroom, you scrubbed the mask off your face, splashing cold water against your cheeks and tried to ignore the queasy feeling in your stomach. She’s right. You hadn’t met the Harrington's. You’d heard all about them, and you weren’t sure you’d like to meet them under normal circumstances, let alone these complicated, messy ones. 

“Are you-”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah!” You interrupted Robin’s call down the hallway, closing the door to your room and stared at the wine colored fabric with your arms crossed. 

Slipping it on with resentment and nausea fluttering throughout your body, you ran your hands over the velvet material, tilting your head to the side in the mirror as you exhaled. Turning on your heel before you could find all the ways you hated the dress you once were confident about, you stepped out of the room. Nancy and Robin’s mouths dropped in tandem when you stepped into the light of the living room. 

“What?” You squeaked, hands crossing and curling around your waist. “It’s bad? Is the slit okay? I thought…”

Robin started typing on her phone furiously and Nancy held up her hand as you trailed off, “You are so good. Furthest thing from bad. Don’t worry.”

Your shoulders released their tension, but the crease over your brows deepened as Robin smirked down at her phone. “What are you telling him?”

She hummed, “Don’t worry about it. Relax.”

Relax.

Easy for her to say. 

You: steven. You did NOT send a limo.  Steve: 🤷🏻‍♂️ You: you think you’re so cute, huh? Steve: I think *you* think I’m cute.

He clicked at his desktop more, glasses falling down the slope of his nose as he tried to finish work. He felt awful that not only were you nervous, but he was already here, you had to arrive alone, and he still hadn’t seen your dress. His phone vibrated and he looked down to see a picture of you, in the back of the limo, holding up an entire bottle of champagne just for you, and much to his dismay, a coat covering your dress.

You: you know what won’t be cute? When I down this entire bottle of champagne and puke from nerves all over your parents six thousand dollar shoes harrington Steve: they’ll buy new ones You: 🙄

He continued to work on his computer, people calling into his office and asking if he was coming downstairs to which he nodded and said soon to, until the lights started to turn off and it was just him. Hand running through his hair as he flipped back to his conversation with Robin last night.

Robin: DUDE Robin: You’re gonna go into cardiac arrest when you see her Steve: you’re not helping Robin: your mom will love her, you know she will Robin: Well, eventually. I did. Sort of. Steve: Again, NOT helping Robin: honestly your dad is gonna try to sleep with her Steve: you’re sick, you know that? Robin: The way she looks in this dress is sick steve Robin: ILLEGAL Robin: wow. You have wonderful taste in women Steve: YOU HAVE TO STOP 

Despite already having been to Steve’s office, the sight of it tonight still has your jaw going slack. When the limo stops and the door opens for you, the vast and towering skyscraper shimmering with snow swirling around it seems more intimidating than ever. As you push into the warm lobby, the two story Christmas tree steals your breath further. Decorated in golds, silvers, and crimson, two staircases curling on either side of it. 

You make your way up slowly, admiring the decor, hand gliding over the banister and reeling from the noise coming out of the transformed large ballroom. The space was used for a variety of events for the company, anywhere from big convention type conferences, parties, presentations and more. Steve had told you they’d put in a bar, a dance floor and stage, claiming this year’s Christmas party to be the biggest yet. 

Lucky you.

The room overflows out into the hallway with loud chatter, a jazz band playing familiar holiday songs. Boisterous laughter exploding each time the doors open and close, no doubt louder and more easily flowing from the contents inside the glasses you can hear clinking together and the pops of corks. 

You know you’re supposed to text Steve that you’re here, he said he’d come out and walk in with you, that he had been pulled in by his soon to be former boss. The thought of just going in by yourself is somehow easier though. Perhaps no one will even spare you a glance, not when you don’t have him next to you.

The room is even louder once you’re inside. The air smells like leather and cigars, champagne and scotch, stiff and overpowering floral perfume. It drips in luxury - mahogany tables, three Christmas trees, silver and gold candlesticks over burgundy table runners. 

Your feet carry you inside cautiously, and you spot the bar on the other side of the room and head towards it, ignoring the heat of strangers' stares. Feeling like every woman around you is eyeing you from head to toe, their judgment pushing up their chins and noses, rolling their eyes. Their dresses far more expensive and their makeup and hair done professionally. This was worse than the first time you went to Steve’s apartment. 

This was a big, big, massive mistake. 

When you make it to the bar, you order champagne that you can see already being prepped, hoping it’s comped or on the lower end, mentally preparing yourself for Steve insisting he’ll pay for it despite the zeros. The sharp bubbles slip over your tongue as you try to sip it slowly, eyes roaming over the crowd in search of Steve. 

“You look lost,” a deep voice comes from beside you. 

Turning, you find a man in a three piece navy suit that costs more than your rent. His hand holds a glass with three fingers of amber liquid over ice, a silver watch on his wrist that glints. His other is deep in his pocket, his posture nonchalant and lazy yet oozing with the confidence of a man who knows what he wants and how to get it. His jawline is familiar, clean and sharp, leading to soft brown eyes that roam over your face. He has two freckles next to his ear, and dark brown hair that’s just starting to gray. 

Your swallow is louder than the saxophone solo coming from the far end of the room as he removes his hand from his pocket, extends it to you, and says, “John.”

Fuck. 

“Mr. Harrington, it’s so nice to meet you,” your voice is calm, hand shaking his firmly while the inside of you screams, alarms inside your brain going off, shouting abort, abort, abort!

His lips twitch in a far too familiar way and he cocks his head, “Now, how do you know me and I don’t know you?”

You’re certain that everyone in this room knows who John Harrington is, and he knows it too. You squash the nerves inside of you, taking a deep breath. 

“Well, uh, Mr. Harrington-”

“Please, call me John.” He smiles, encouraging, and you nod, plastering on a bigger smile. 

“Right, Jo-John. I’m-”

“Honey, you don’t recognize her?” A softer, sweeter voice comes up behind him and her warm smile makes a little bit of your nerves disappear. That is until she says your name, and then:

“This is Steve’s friend.”

Friend. Friend. Friend. 

“Oh!” He snaps. “I forgot he decided to bring someone after all.”

Your lungs deflate, your stomach churns, you hear the way your heart cracks, chest aching from the pressure. 

Steve’s mom sticks out her hand, “Vivian.”

Introducing yourself far less confident, voice barely a murmur, cracking as you push out, “It’s really nice to meet both of you.”

“So,” John has a cigar in his mouth now, patting at his pockets for a lighter, frowning when Vivian takes it from between his lips, but he continues, “What do you do?”

“Oh, um,” you take a larger gulp of champagne before finishing, “I’m an assistant right now. But I hope to-”

“I’m sorry, what?” John interrupts you, his brows furrowed. Mrs. Harrington’s hand squeezes his bicep sharply, a smile plastered on her face. But he keeps going, “An assistant? How old are you? Your parents can’t be thrilled with-”

“Dad.” His voice is ice, a protective hand on the small of your back, appearing out of nowhere.  

You’ve heard Steve’s end of phone conversations with his dad, you’ve seen the way the people in this room acted just passing by him in the last few minutes, so you are shocked beyond belief when John Harrington closes his mouth at Steve’s singular warning. 

Vivian’s smile relaxes, her voice warm and syrupy, “Hi honey.” She hugs him and he only returns the gesture with one arm, the other keeping a firm grip on your waist as she pulls away and smiles, “We were just getting to know your friend-”

“Girlfriend,” he corrects quickly, strong, and nods at the bartender. You watch as the man behind the wood bar grabs a bottle from the very top shelf, pours two fingers, neat unlike his father, and Steve grabs the drink he didn’t have to order. Despite the last few moments, the tone and action has your thighs pushing together and you clear your throat as Steve’s thumb swipes over your spine. 

Vivian smiles, quietly correcting, “Right, girlfriend. She was just telling us what she does, right sweetheart?” Vivian pinches John’s arm again and he straightens, forcing a closed-lip smile. “So, an assistant, that’s…exciting?”

“I think we’re gonna go dance actually, we’ll talk to you later.” Steve’s voice leaves no room for argument. 

He starts to pull you away and you call over your shoulder, “It was nice meeting you.”

Steve pulls you through the crowd, his shoulders tense and the scotch tipped to his lips in one sip. He sets the empty glass on a passing tray, grabbing your champagne flute from your fingers as well. He stops in the shadow of one of the trees, his hands finding both of yours as he turns. 

“Honey, I think we have a real problem.”

Your heart and stomach drop even more, voice frail and small as you ask, “We do?”

He nods, face solemn, though his lips seem to be fighting a smile as sighs, “I’m afraid I can’t let you out of my sight all night in a dress like this.”

Relaxation floods over your veins, soothing your nerves as it feels like you finally exhale a breath you’ve been holding since last night. Still a little frazzled from the interaction, but a smile twitches your lips up slightly, forcing a light tone. 

“It’s okay? Up to the Harrington standards despite the girl inside it failing miserably?”

Steve hums, leaning in close, spice and stinging scotch on his breath as his nose traces yours. “I think the dress and the girl surpass all Harrington standards. They rearrange the meaning of the word babe.”

Your eyes roll, but your shoulders hunch again, hands smoothing over the lapels of his tux. “That’s a nice sentiment Mr. Harrington, but I think your parents would disagree on the matter.”

Steve’s eyes flash at the use of Mr. Harrington and your eyebrows raise, curious if it’s the authority of the name or the potential of you being a missus, but he’s too quick for you to investigate, bold and something in his eyes hungry. “Fuck my parents and their obnoxious standards. Every other person in this room wants to be you or be inside of you.”

“Steve.” Your head ducks at the forward compliment, “God, how much of that scotch have you had already?” 

“First glass.” His lips part, tongue licking over his top lip as he smirks, “I think you liked it though.”

“The comment or the way you ordered the drink?”

Steve, breathes into your lips as you tilt easily for him, mouth parting as he says, “Both.”

His hands press to your spine, a barely there kiss, when his name is called. He sighs, spinning to shake someone’s hand. The rest of the evening is spent with men clapping on his back and saying they’ll miss him. He holds your hand as he introduces you to co-workers he seems to genuinely like, flagging down servers and getting you glasses of champagne before they’re empty. Shushing you and kissing your temple when you ask how much it is. Maybe it’s the bubbles in your system, the pink flush to Steve’s cheeks when he stares at you, your name on his lips when he introduces you as his girlfriend, but the interaction with John and Vivian is long forgotten. 

All you can think about now, is how tonight has shown you a side of Steve you hadn’t seen before, and he looks good. He holds his drink that keeps being refilled without being ordered, slipping bills in waiters hands almost imperceptibly, their quiet ‘thank you Mr. Harrington.’ even more so if you weren’t listening. His suit is tailored to his body nicely, pieces of his hair falling over his forehead when he laughs in a charming and confident way. Steve is also handsy, and has been since he pulled you away from his parents. Squeezing your hip, running up your spine in the keyhole along it, pads of his fingers following the straps that hang off your shoulders back and forth, back and forth. Each touch of his skin to yours sparking like frayed wires. 

You excuse yourself quietly in the middle of a conversation about trading and something or other you can’t be bothered to listen to and Steve grabs your wrist, cocking his head in a silent question. You call out a little too loudly, maybe a little too flirty, “I’ll be right back, Mr. Harrington.”

The men around him smirk into their glasses and Steve watches you walk away, the color long gone from his eyes as his pupils take over. You feel the presence of his stare on your back as you make your way to the bar, only turning around when you have another glass in your hand. 

Steve’s still across the room, and you watch the path his eyes take over your body, heat rising to the surface of your skin in their trail like he’s physically touching you. He tracks you as you make your way to the exit, starting on your ankle, up your calf, then thigh. You’re almost able to feel his fingers sliding over the velvet, tracing the slit that exposes the skin. The cinch of merlot fabric on your hips and the way his hands would pause there and squeeze. You take another sip as they travel over the curve of your sweetheart neckline that shows off maybe a little too much. Tracing the path his lips could take over the straps, up your collarbones and neck, and they finally meet your eyes. 

His jaw is tight, tongue wetting his lips and gulping. His eyes narrow as you smile and you glance up at the familiar green holiday leaves hanging above the door, dropping your head and forming a fake pout. 

It takes Steve less than thirty seconds to cross the room, the now empty glass on a tray as he passes yet again, freeing his hands to grab onto your waist as he leans in. You let your bottom lip slip between the two of his, teasing and innocent. 

Steve groans as you bump the door open with your hip, letting your fingers linger on his chest, sighing, eyes wide, “Oh, I bet the view of the city is so beautiful on the 65th floor. You have a big, fancy office don’t you? Do you think I could see it, sir?”

He’s a man possessed. His mouth and hands haven’t stopped moving since the elevator closed. Clumsy lips and your name leaving him breathlessly as he pushed you into the railing as the floors climbed higher and higher. 

“Look too good, illegal, she was right,” he mouthed at your neck, slipping lower into your cleavage enough to make you laugh. 

“Wh-who was right?” 

He growled something that sounded like Robin’s name which made you laugh harder, stopping only when his mouth found yours. 

Steve shushed your giggles, leading you down the dark floor to the office at the corner, pulling the door closed and clicking the lock. 

A brown leather couch, gold lamps, a bookshelf and a cart full of bottles of fancy liquors and sparkling glasses. A giant, wood desk with a tall leather chair. A name plate that glinted and said Steve Harrington with a pair of wire rimmed glasses. 

You’d seen it before, but not on a night like tonight. Not with all the lights off, snow falling lazily across the skyline. Not with champagne in your system, not with your boyfriend. Your boyfriend who had confidence and charm, who commanded respect and attention. Who stood up to his parents for you, for what he wanted.

Steve stood behind you, hands on your hips again as he led you towards the desk. Sucking a bruise under your ear, tongue soothing the way his teeth scraped down your neck. He was wrecked, gone, could cum in his slacks right then and there with the view of you in his office in this dress. Would he miss being in charge at a place like this? Sure. But he had a feeling it wouldn’t be the last time he was a boss. 

His voice was strong, cinnamon and scotch on his breath as he commanded, “Bend over, baby.”

You laughed, arching over his desk slowly. Looking over your shoulder as you spread your legs and pouted, “Kind of bossy, Steve, not gonna even say please?”

Steve watched under heavy lids as you kept your gaze on his fingers moving over his buckle, the way your chest moved up and down quicker as he freed himself. He knelt behind you, pushing up the fabric of your dress. Kissing up your calves, your thighs, nipping at the curve of your ass and smirking when you yelped. 

He stood, hands landing on the desk on either side of yours, mouth a ghost over your ear, heaving chest pressed along your spine, and his hard erection pressing into your ass. 

“You think you’re cute, huh?”

A shiver ran through you at his tone, the way his breath hit your cheek and fingers overtook yours on the desk. 

You gasped out, parroting your conversation earlier, “I think you think I’m cute, Harrington.”

Steve’s nose skimmed the curve of your ear, tutting, “No more mister already? Where’d your manners go baby?”

He slid his tip against your clit, circles to it until your head fell forward in a gasp, slick coating his cock with barely anything to prompt it. 

Steve finally moved lower, his lips on your neck and his tip nudging at your entrance but pausing as he laughed, smirk pressed to your skin. “You are cute, though, honey. Prettiest,” he kissed your shoulder, “Sexiest,” a kiss below your ear, “Cutest thing here tonight.”

He kept his tip pressed to your entrance, waiting until your hips squirmed, till your fingers twitched below his. Breath warm on your jaw as he kept his voice even, confident, pulling himself back up to your clit and starting all over again as he spoke. 

“Know what’s even cuter though?”

You whimpered, head empty, nerves buzzing, and stomach burning as his lips brushed against your jaw with each word, head circling your clit and tapping again. 

“You’re about to be begging for me.”

[superblysubpar]

All Of This Snow Is Falling, I Can Make You Fall Too:

modern!eddie munson x fem!reader

2.5k words

summary: A trashy reality show, a big reveal, and a disagreement on best friends to lovers being a total cliché.

warnings: modern, teacher, best friend, roommate Eddie - except the teacher thing is really barely mentioned and the only reason it's modern is because of the show | Both him and reader are like late 20s, early 30s but no detailed description of this - it's more so to let you know they've known each other for a LONG time and are still single | no hate to trashy reality shows like The Bachelor, I'm a sucker for em | alcohol mentions | some clothed grinding, ass grabbing making out

the prompts: [french] - a deep, passionate kiss with tongue [STRADDLE] - one muse sits down in the others lap

day 3 of 12 days of superbly subpar writing // requested by @lavendermunson - thank you so much, I hope you love the direction I took it in, I had a lot of fun writing this one 💛

“It’s back on! I can hear it! Eddie pause it! Quick!”

Your muffled cry from inside a sweatshirt you couldn’t quite find the hole to pop your head through sounded truly panicked as you stumbled out of your bedroom. He laughed, sliding out of the kitchen and did as you asked, swallowing and looking away at the bare skin of your stomach as your shirt pulled higher, trapped in the sweatshirt. 

It was a Friday night, the apartment you two shared dark aside from the blue of the television, the warm glow from the lamp shedding light onto the scattered papers littered with red pen marks, and the occasional burst of white light as the fridge was cracked for another beer or a refill on cereal milk. 

He stood, waiting for you to grab the bowl from his hands, sucking in a breath and ignoring the way his heartbeat picked up speed when you smiled, hair a mess and skin flushed when you finally wrangled the sweatshirt down. He didn’t know what was worse, remembering the day you made the old, hand-bleached sweatshirt, or how your body underneath it looked the day you did. 

It had been the hottest day of the summer, he had been laying in the dark, with a fan blowing on him when the lights flipped on without warning. Wincing and squinting as you stood above him, a lime green bikini top, cut off shorts - that kind the pockets stuck out past the frayed denim, revealing far too much. A grape popsicle in one hand and a bag from the dollar store in the other asking him if he wanted to have some fun. Somehow the girl he’d grown up with, somehow his best friend, and somehow a woman with a figure and confidence and-

He’d struck out on every single date he’d had since, either calling it off himself or girls telling him he should “tell her” whatever the fuck that means. 

Eddie stood in front of you, holding out the bowl of fruit loops, until you took it with both hands, bouncing up and down on your now wool-sock covered toes. He kept his gaze on the bowl as he poured, waiting for you to say ‘when’ and you took the opportunity to admire the way his eyelashes cast a shadow on his skin and the way this new shorter haircut made his curls go every which way and wondering if it’d be weird for you to card your fingers through it. 

You know, as friends do. 

His brown eyes met your gaze, his eyebrows shooting up in a question and you startled out of imagining things you shouldn’t have been about your best friend. “Oh! When! Sorry!”

Nestling yourself between the couch and coffee table, you glanced at the short stories he was grading while he put the milk away and grabbed a beer, your voice calling out around a too big of bite, “One for me please!”

He was already rounding the corner with one in hand and you beamed, putting on a funny voice, “Why thank you good sir.”

Eddie flicked your shoulder as he sat, “You’ve had too much sugar tonight.”

Taking another bite, you drummed your hands on the coffee table, waiting until you had swallowed to look at him, remote poised to hit play. “So, final predictions, Munson?”

He sighed, taking a swig of the amber liquid, letting it coat his tongue as he squinted at the TV. “For the record, again, I do not like this show and I have not been watching it and-”

Your hand waved him off, interrupting, “Yeah, yeah, yeah, your man card is still intact. Just play the game.”

He hunched over the coffee table, elbows on his knees after he ran a hand through his hair. You quickly looked at the TV before your eyes could linger on the muscle flexing in his arm, before your mind could wander to the tattoos that disappeared under the white cotton shirt. Before you could start to wonder about the matching tattoos in script on his ribcage, tracing it with his tong-

“Ex. Totally the ex.” He declared, starting to grade again. 

“No way, they did that like three seasons ago. I think it’s the girl he sent home that first night. The one he talked to, you know? He walked her out? Which is really weird for a first rose ceremony.”

“Uh-huh.” His eyes scanned the story about aliens and cowboys in front of him, his middle schoolers just as unpredictable and weird as you. He loved them. 

You tapped the back of the paper, nodding, “This one should get an A,” you spoke around a mouthful, “Real plot twist ending.”

He tapped your nose with the cap of his red pen, “Who has the teaching degree?”

His lips twitched in a fight of a smile at your eye roll and your snarky, “Who’s home on a Friday night grading twelve year old’s writing while watching ‘The Bachelor’?”

“Not watching,” he took another sip of beer.

“Uh-huh.”

He’d lost count of how many years he’d “not” been watching The Bachelor with you, but long enough for The Bachelorette, and then Paradise to be added. 

It became a tradition to record them and wait till your schedules allowed you both to sit down and watch it. This season, they’d been hinting about this episode from the beginning, some big reveal, a person interrupting a date, and you’d been placing bets for a month. 

You nodded, satisfied, hitting play, “I’m right.”

The dramatic music resumed, the heels clicked on the cobblestone as a deep sapphire blue dress was panned up and up-

Eddie’s eyebrows bunched, his stomach did a little twist because of fucking course. He watched as your spoon, overflowing with fruit loops, stopped before your lips. Your mouth parted in a gasp, and you swore. 

“Vanessa?” Hunky bachelor man sputtered on screen. The blonde he’d just been about to makeout with completely forgotten as he stood, smiling through his shock, “What are you doing here?”

“Oh my god,” your spoon clattered into the bowl, pink milk splashing over the side a little as your hands went to your temples, elbows landing hard on the coffee table. 

Vanessa looked at the blonde date, then at him, whispering, “Hey, I know…sorry I’m so nervous.” She laughed a little, reaching for his hand he was already offering out reassuringly, “Can I talk to you?”

Hunky bachelor man didn’t hesitate for a second, nodding, “Of course. Yeah, hold on.”

He excused himself from the other girl, the two walking away and talking incoherently as the camera zoomed in on sad blonde. Eddie was ninety percent certain her name was Rachel and she taught yoga. Or maybe it was Jessica and she was in real estate. 

Either way, sad blonde was now in her confessional. Her blue eyes dead, fake, runny mascara lines running down her cheeks as she stared at something beyond the camera, and a commercial started. Eddie booed. 

Your head whipped around, glaring at him, “Why the hell are you booing?!”

Eddie shook his head, gesturing at the TV and took another swig of his beer, angry. “That’s bullshit.”

You were on your knees, sitting up, eyes wide, tone incredulous, “What do you mean that’s bullshit?!”

“The best friend? C’mon.” He rolled his eyes, shaking his head at the screen again. 

“I don’t understand why you think that’s bullshit?” Your cheeks hot, hand in your hair as your brain circled through the footage of them from the beginning of the season. The interview with her smiling sadly, wishing him luck and hoping the best for him. Hoping he found what he was looking for. 

You started to message your other bestie:

You: IT WAS THE BEST FRIEND?! Robin: babe, seriously? You didn’t see that coming? YOU?

Your eyes darted over to Eddie, quickly locking your phone again as his adam’s apple bobbed with another gulp. 

Was it that obvious?

Eddie scratched at the label on his bottle, knee bouncing as he shrugged. “I think there’s gonna be some big confession about how she’s always loved him, maybe he says it back, but like, if she always loved him, why weren’t they together before the show? Why is she saying it now?”

“Maybe she didn’t know how she felt fully,” you countered, hand thrown to the TV.

He shook his head again and stood, “If she didn’t know how she felt, why is she there? Why is she a part of the show? I bet they offered her a shit load of money.”

Eddie felt hot, angry at a fake reality show, making people believe best friends fall in love. Making innocent people hope that one day it could happen to them. It was bullshit. It wasn’t real.  

You were on your feet, following him towards the kitchen. “No, no way. That was all her. Couldn’t you see it in her face? She loves him. She just needed to tell him before it was too late.”

Eddie tossed his empty bottle, spinning to find you right on his heel. “Okay, maybe she is. Maybe it’s real and not for TV, but then that’s super shitty of her.”

You laughed, hands on your hips, “What?! How is telling someone you love them, shitty, Eddie?”

He threw his hands in the air, “Because! She had to have known for a long time. Had to have known how she felt. The only reason she’s telling him now is because she’s jealous. Or she’s afraid she’ll lose him, so she’s sabotaging his love life which is selfish.”

Your head shook, but Eddie’s heart accelerated, words tumbling out of him before he could stop them. “I bet that guy has been in love with her since they were like fifteen and every single relationship he’s had has ended because of her. Because,” he licked his lips and spoke faster, hands gesturing wildly, “If it wasn’t him comparing every single girl to her, it was them, dumping him, because of his best friend hanging around making them doubt their relationship.”

His words felt like a bucket of cold water was dumped on you, toes going numb as he finished, voice softer, strained, “And that’s really fucking shitty. If she knew how she felt and never told him.”

“Maybe she was scared to ruin their friendship! Did you ever think about that? And why couldn’t he tell her?” Your cheeks hot, fingers curled in fists at your side as you glared at your best friend. Was he insinuating that you were the reason he was single? Your throat felt dry, head and heart pounding as you blurt out, “What if she lost her best friend in the whole entire world because she was selfish and had to know how his lips felt, huh? What if it didn’t work out?”

Your bodies were magnets, chests almost touching as your breath came sharper, his brown eyes darting over your face - the few inches between you pulsing, like if someone snapped their fingers a fire could start. 

Voice cracking, as you stared at the curve of his lips, “What if the guy who held her hand on a swing set when they were ten and promised to always be there, suddenly wasn’t there?”

Eddie swallowed, nerves of that ten and fifteen year old alive like he never outgrew them because suddenly he wasn’t talking about the show anymore and neither were you. 

Your breath caught in your chest as he reached his hand towards you, heart stumbling over itself it was going so fast as his fingers curled around your jaw. 

His voice was raspy, full of years, but soft, eyes even more so as he leaned in, forehead touching yours.

“Sweetheart, he’s always gonna be there.”

Then he was kissing you.  

His lips parted over yours, a ghost of a touch, before he let a shaky exhale warm them, waiting. 

It was like tasting your favorite food for the first time, the way you tilted to catch his lips again, needing more, the way the movement encouraged him to keep going. The scrape of his short scruff against your skin made your toes curl, spice and mint of his cologne drawing you closer. He parted your mouth with his, a little fuller of a kiss, stealing your breath as he caught your bottom lip with his teeth. Cheap beer and sweet cereal on shared breaths, each of your desperate inhales pushing your chests together, back arching as his hands found your hips and yours climbed higher up his chest. 

The two of you started to stumble backwards, your lips moving a little more desperately against each other until the back of his legs were hitting the couch. Your body followed his, knees landing on either side of his hips as he sat and you spoke into his lips, both panting. “Is this okay?”

Eddie nodded, hands roaming lower, sliding over the curve of your ass as he tapped his nose against yours, brown eyes hidden under heavy lids and blown out pupils. His bottom lip hitting your top with his own question, “This?”

You pressed yourself lower, feeling him hard against you and groaned as he squeezed. “So okay, Eddie.”

He cursed quietly, encouraged your hips, holding them down and thrusting up to meet each roll as he leaned in for more. 

Eddie’s lips brushed over yours in a gentle, deep, and confident way. A man who knows how to kiss, and does so with intent. His hand roamed from your hip, waist, settling against your ribs and scratching as his tongue licked slowly over your bottom lip, releasing a shiver to run through your body. 

Your hands explored up the smooth planes of his chest, over broad shoulders, until they were against the back of his head, fingers running through the short, dark curls there. His mouth savored yours as his hands pressed to the back of your spine, drawing you closer, your chests heaving together, kissing becoming urgent, like you were making up for the years of lost time. 

Gripping each other tightly, each sharp inhale and exhale against one another addicting, demanding you be closer. You tugged on his hair to hear him stutter out your name, a whisper against kiss bitten lips, he rolled his tongue over yours before sucking on your bottom lip to draw a noise from deep within your chest out. 

Teasing and curious touches, using what you’ve grown to know about each other from years of bad (and some good) dating stories, and trying to learn even more yourselves.

“I’ve been in love with you since we were fifteen,” her voice echoed out of the TV speaker and your mouth titled in a smile, teeth scraping against his bottom lip. 

Eddie huffed, the two of you breaking apart, breathless as you laughed together. 

His palms soothed up and down your spine, his nose skimming the bridge of yours as you both took a second to breathe, to realize what had been in front of you the entire time.

“It was always you,” hunky bachelor man choked out. 

Eddie rolled his eyes as you threw your head back in a louder laugh, his smile pressed along the hinge of your jaw, shaking his head as he squeezed your waist. 

Yeah, it was always you. 

[superblysubpar]

12 Days of Superbly Subpar Writing:

This year (read my sappy 'thank you for a great year' here), I'm in the mood for some naughty (and I suppose a little nice) short, holiday/winter themed blurbs.

Here's how it'll work:

-select a Kiss AND an Action Prompt from the two lists below

kiss prompts action prompts

-send them over to me in an ask and if you'd like reader to be with steve harrington, eddie munson, (or both boys 👀 - just make sure you specifiy if you'd like it to lean towards one over the other, like in this eddie bf oneshot here) robin buckley, or nancy wheeler.

❄ Feel free to choose a version or AU of any of these characters I've already written too! (like WCIL boys, boyfriend steve as seen here, newlyweds who fuck in churches, modern hopelessly in love steve, wealthy man, mechanic, best friend...the dads - you get the picture!)

-Let me know if you'd like your request to lean more naughty (smut) or nice (mainly fluff) - however they all will contain at least hints or nods to NSFW material, so keep that in mind. I'm an 18+ Blog, please respect this.

-Feel free to send some more details you'd like included, most will have an overall winter theme/some specific activities may be mentioned - but please specify if you wish for no holiday mentions at all.

Please make sure you're aware of the guidelines on my blog and about my writing before requesting.

Requests are currently: CLOSED - thank you

Posting will occur between December 12th-24th