Summary: You can’t tell if it takes you a day a week or a month to fall in love with Steven. You just know that you do.
Warnings: There’s a Super Super Super brief description of bandaged wounds in the Friday section. there’s nothing graphic but just in case you should know that’s there.
Author’s Note: Hi I’m still obsessed with him your honor. It is once again, not beta read because somehow the idea of roping one of my friends into proofreading my unhinged softness is too embaressing for me ajlkfjdslfjdlksajflkdjas
❀✿❀✿ ❀✿❀✿ ❀✿❀✿ ❀✿❀✿ ❀✿❀✿ ❀✿❀✿ ❀✿❀✿ ❀✿❀
It starts on a Tuesday at noon.
You hate Tuesdays of course, you’ve always had an issue with them since you were little, the first one to throw them under the bus in defense of Mondays. This Tuesday was particularly bad though, as if the whole of the universe had ganged up on you to make you regret ever learning the name for the worst day of the week.
AN: I’m obsessed with Steven and I feel like i’m going insane refreshing the xreader tag for him so I made my own adjlfkadjsflkjsadd. Not beta read, very mushy because that’s how he makes me feel. Enjoy!
❀✿❀✿ ❀✿❀✿ ❀✿❀✿ ❀✿❀✿ ❀✿❀✿ ❀✿❀✿ ❀✿❀✿ ❀✿❀
It’s soft, the way Steven loves you. It’s in the way he plays with your fingers at night when he’s procrastinating falling asleep, his dark eyes tracing your face in the low light as if committing you to memory over again despite taking the same actions every night.
If you ran away - Mind if I stay? Part 2 (Steven Grant x Reader)
Summary:The worst morning of Steven’s life is officially the one he woke up without you. Nothing’s made sense since. And if he thinks it can’t get any worse, that’s only because he has yet to notice his nightmares catching up to him.
Warnings:SO MUCH ANGST, sad Steven is an understatement, no smut just brief mentions but the series is 18+ so minors DNI, ep 1 spoilers
Word count: ~6.1K
A/n:Okay just so it’s clear, I am not making Marc the bad guy! I’m going somewhere with this (I’m trying to at least:)) This is just me experimenting with making a series *sweats nervously*
Title and lyrics from Where’s my love? by SYML. Gonna start adding those at the beginning ‘cause I love the soundtrack in my head.
“Yeah, no, the date was great. She really liked the… flowers. And me. She’s really… smart and funny, and she’s got the most wonderful laugh. You’d really like her. I think this could really… lead somewhere, you know? Might bring her around soon. Anyway, sorry I missed you again, Mom. Love you. Laters, gators.”
The smile Steven had forced onto his face died the moment he hung up. Not that it had done much to brighten the tone of his voice.
Author’s Notes: Just some cute fluffy headcannons with a dash of NSFW! I absolutely love this man, all I wanna do is cuddle up to him as I’m sure many of you also do! Anyways, let me know what you think and hope you enjoy!
Warnings: NSFW themes, minors dni!! +18!
Very forgetful. Tends to forget dates and stands you up, but he always makes it up perfectly and you don’t go harsh on him.
He loves spoiling you. I’m telling you, this man will be drowning you in chocolate, good wine and flowers!
a/n: time for another motnoneshot! This is a blurb, set very soon after domesticity–but you don’t need to read that to understand this! This is a short blurb of Alfred’s POV.
Fear is a tool. But Bruce - even under the cowl and cape of Dark Vengeance, Bruce is still a man. When he returns in the wee hours of the morning, there’s an ache in his bones and his eyes are nearly crossed from exhaustion. But they come into sharp focus when he notices what awaits him at his workstation.
A basket, wicker and quaint, with an old beat up metal thermos perched in front of his bank of monitors. It pings something in Bruce’s tired brain and a moment later it registers where he’s seen the basket and thermos before. Dory’s late husband, groundskeeper to the Wayne family for decades before his untimely passing. He remembers the kitchen from his childhood and how she’d pack her husband his lunch and piping hot coffee.
Dory doesn’t spend as much time in the kitchens anymore. That’s your domain now. And he can only imagine where you’d managed to dig such relics out from.
And he knows this is your doing. He doesn’t need to decipher the handwriting on the folded leaf of paper resting atop the fabric cover of the basket. But recognize it he does, the flourish of the simple letter B scrawled on the front and the crisp practically perfect fold sharpened by your nail along the edge.
Bruce is accustomed to, weary of even, cryptic messages and vicious clues. They are part and parcel to his mission. A note from you, however, is almost a relief. Plain and simple, no real hidden meaning to the words written instead of sent through text.
Alfred has ordered breakfast at 7am sharp. I will keep yours warm until 9. After that, you’re on your own.
Your own initial signs the bottom, matching the letter B on the front. Bruce or Batman? You joked once that you weren’t sure which was the man and which the persona. He isn’t always sure either, but the simple initial covers them both and he’s content with the moniker.
Message received, he pulls aside the fabric to reveal just what you’ve provided for him. Front and center is a large bottle of ibuprofen and a haphazard collection of first aid items. Bruce always calls ahead to let Alfred know if he’s been wounded and needs assistance. There was no need tonight, just a few contusions and sore knuckles. But you left these just the same and he appreciates the thought.
The containers inside are lidded tight, but near bursting. Grilled chicken, brown rice, roasted Brussels sprouts, and a salad. Healthy and nutritious. Fuel for the body, as you’d explained. But tucked behind these containers is a chocolate protein bar, a slice of coffee cake, and a small bag of mini marshmallows. Food for the soul.
Bruce turns his attention to the hefty thermos, instinctively testing the weight in his hand as he eyes it. It’s warm, but only just, obviously having set there long enough for the heat to begin diffusing. A few hours maybe? This isn’t a case, but even with a body exhausted to the bone, his brain still whirs with information. It’s hard to turn off, the few times he honestly tries.
There’s no steam when he opens the lid, but still warm just the same. He expects the sharp scent of coffee, but finds something far sweeter. Nostalgic. Hot cocoa. That explains the marshmallows.
There might be a part of him that would balk at something so childish, but that part has long since fallen asleep in his mind. Instead, there is curiosity and parched lips from a hot suit and a cold night’s exertion. He swigs from the thermos and immediately feels his body lurch with the unexpected sharpness of the drink. It’s another moment to register the faintest sickly sting on his tongue. And for probably the first time that evening, his mouth creaks into a smile. Butterscotch Schnapps.
After another sip, he secures the lid again and tucks it into the basket with the rest. Pretention still lies dormant as he moves toward the elevator, black gloves wrapped around the wicker handle. There is just enough time to shower and sleep a few sparse hours before a 9am alarm.
You yawn and glance at your last order for the night. It seems to be only a couple of minutes away but it’s the special request the catches your eyes. ‘Bring the pizza to the rooftop and slide the box to the left side of the door you exit. Pls and thank you. BTW the elevator is broken, I’m sorry so you could take a couple slices if you want.’ Their card information also didn’t go through correctly so they’d have to pay in person.
You stifle a laugh but shrug it off, it’s not the weirdest request you’ve gotten. Though you’re a bit worried about how many flights of stairs there’s going to be. You’ll survive, you think to yourself, you need some cardio for the day anyway.
Once you make it to the apartment and head to the stairs, you glance at the number of floors. 15.
You exhale loudly and audibly groan, stomping your foot. “They couldn’t meet me at the door?” you grumble and enter the stairway, making your way up the many steps.
Less than half an hour later, you finally make it to the rooftop with sore legs and heavy breathing. Opening the door brings your relief when New York’s icy air blasts against you. You let out a dramatic sigh and look around, then remembering you were told to slide the pizza to the left.
You crouch down and carefully do so, waiting to see what’ll happen. Nothing happens and you assume they’re waiting for you to leave so you open and close the rooftop door. You see an oddly familiar gloved hand reach to grab the pizza. Once you take a closer look, you realize it’s Spider-Man’s hand. Your eyes widen and you couldn’t help but ask, “Spider-Man?”
