Jake Lockley x Reader, Marc Spector x Reader, Steven Grant x Reader
Warnings: Slight angst, mentions of losing virginity, mention of Smut
Summary: Getting into a disagreement with Marc was something you wanted to avoid, but Steven took over and after a mission, he wants to try something out.
It all was so silly.
Fighting over something that was a part of them.
Even if Khonshu healed their wounds, even if he was always okay, it still worried you.
They were still human. Even if they were an avatar. Seeing that bleeding cut on their arm or bruise on their ribs, hurt.
Even when you watched those heal in a matter of seconds, and you could heal them just as quick something about the particular purple bruise on their leg made you crazy.
You didn’t mean to yell, you didn’t mean to get so carried away.
Then Marc switched, and you could tell it wasn’t his choice.
“What’s wrong, Love?” asked Steven who you assume didn’t listen in the last ten minutes. He looked stunned as if he was forced to be out, and you were partially sure he was.
“I had an argument with Marc.” you admitted as you went to Steven, tears in your eyes, you put your hands on his shoulders. “I’m just so worried. Almost every night we go out, yes your wounds heal but, it still hurts to see. But Marc, please I’m not her, you don’t have to hide from me."
"Oh, Love it’s okay, we understand you are just worried, now lets all just calm down and watch something while I hold you okay? Would you like that?” Steven was too sweet, you nodded drying your tears off, and you let out a long sigh. You moved your hands, grabbing onto his shirt.
“I don’t know what happened to me, I’m sorry.”
“No one likes to see the person they love in pain.” Steven pulled you in for a big hug, running his hands up and down your back to calm you.
“I love all of you so much.”
“We love you too, you know that.”
The moment was one of those where you just wish you’d stay there forever.
“Are you two done?” Spoke up Khonshu behind you, making you jump even when you felt his presence.
“FUCK OFF!” you yelled. “Why do you always have to ruin every moment!”
“I do not!”
“Yes, you do! Last time me and Jake tried to have a quiet night, you barged right in!”
“You say quiet night, but you were really loud, I thought it was okay-”
“It was not!”
Steven blushed, still not used to you being so bold and open about intimate things.
“Doesn’t matter, I have a new job for my Knight.” you rolled your eyes.
“Okay, you can go. I’ll stay this time.”
“Why?” asked Steven. “Don’t you want to come as well?”
“Nope, I can feel this is an easy job and I can always go if you need me later, I’ll order some food and I have some leftover ice cream, I’ll be fine.”
“A-About the ice cream…. uhm…You see…”
“You ate it?” Steven nodded. “I suggest you leave this apartment in 0.1 seconds Steven Grant or I might do something I’ll regret.”
And he did.
—
And you were right, it was an easy job, well and easy job for Moon Knight that is. Khonshu found a human trafficking cycle and wanted to shut it down.
“I’m back, Love!” said Steven as he climbed through the window. You were having a shower, as he heard the water running.
“This will be good, give me the body,” Steven heard Jake speak up, “No, I have to apologize to her.” barged in Marc. “Let me have my fun, Amigo!”
“Hush, both of you, this time I’ll be in charge.” this surprised both, Steven was more of a cuddler, he prefered to come out after sex to give you hugs and kisses, he was never in charge during the act.
“Are you sure?” both asked at the same time and Steven nodded at the men in the reflection.
Marc and Jake decided to stay quiet. They wanted to give Steven the illusion that he was alone with you.
Steven was nervous, extremely nervous. He considered himself a virgin. He heard and saw everything Marc does but he was never the one doing it.
He let out a long sigh before he headed to the shower, he failed to notice that the water stopped running.
And out you came with your hair in a towel while only wearing one of their shirts.
“You were quick. How did it go?” you asked.
“It went well. Y-You know… I was thinking…”
“Yes, why are you so nervous Steven? You look like you’re about to explode.” you joked but his serious expression made you change your tone. “Did something happen?”
“No! Not at all, Love, we are all fine, we saved the good people, its just… It’s usually Marc or Jake who’s… with you after.”
It took you a solid minute to realize what he was saying.
“OH, you want to have sex?”
“Make love.” he corrected you immediately. “Love… I-I don’t want to hurt you.”
“But I do like it rough you know!” Steven’s eyes widened. “Hey! I know you are different Steven, and I know how difficult it is to even talk about this, but I’m patient, you don’t have to if you don’t want to. I can wait.”
“I’m ready it’s just. I know what to do, I think, I have seen it but…”
“I can help you.”
“I know that but I still want to be manly!”
“Masculinity is overrated, I do like to be manhandled from time to time but if you’d like I can take the lead, we can take it slow, dim the lights put some awful movie on for background noise.”
“I’d like that.”
And the two of you just stood there for a couple of minutes, unsure.
“I should have got you flowers or chocolate or something. This is so awkward. Maybe I can’t do this.”
“Steven, honey, please.” you walked up to him and slowly started to guide him over to the bed, you pulled him down by the neck and kissed him.
—
You were out of breath as you rolled over and off of Steven, he was breathing just as hard as you were.
“You are amazing.” he said and you smiled.
“I know.” you moved your head onto his chest. “So, how was your first time?” Steven was clearly still under the effect of the afterglow, he smiled and looked at you.
“Amazing. You really are a Goddess.”
“I am.”
“Do you still want to find your parents?”
“EWW Steven! NEVER mention parents after sex, fuck.”
“Sorry! Oh, I ruined it all didn’t I? I’m sorry.” Steven sat up making you sit up with him and when the blanket fell from your chest he blushed and pulled the blanket up but he accidentally touched your skin, making him start to shake a little.
“You didn’t ruin anything. You are perfect. I love you.” this was the first time Steven ever heard you say “you” not “all of you” just “you” just him and he wanted to cry. You leaned over and kissed his shoulder as he moved his arm around you.
You swore if Khonshu was to ruin this moment you’ll paint his beak with glitter paint!
“I love you as well, Love.” he turned his head as a tear formed in his eye and he needed to dry it before turning back to you, he was so happy he felt his chest get tighter.
The movie on the TV ended and it was really quiet now.
“Do you want to do it again?” you asked as he placed his head on your shoulder. He laughed a little.
“I’m a bit… overwhelmed at the moment, Darling.”
“I get it, it’s okay. Also, I don’t want to find my parents or my past. All I want is a future with you. That’s all I care about.” you kissed his temple as he pulled you close, you felt his tears fall onto your chest but you knew they were happy tears.
“Thank you.”
This was the first time when you weren’t sure who said that. You were convinced it was all three of them, but Steven was still in charge.
You held him for a long time after that, Khonsu didn’t arrive to ruin the moment and soon, you were sleeping in Steven’s arms.
This was your future, by the side of these amazing men, and for them, you’d do anything. You’d even pretend to not know about the velvet box hidden amongst the books, you’d pretend not to know about the dinner reservation at a fancy restaurant and you’d pretend to be surprised by his question when he will ask you.
You love them all too much, and they love you way too much as well.
A/N: I really hope everyone enjoyed this mini series! I might continue with short blurbs after this, we will see, currently I’m working on other stuff but I do want to thank everyone who enjoyed this series! ❤
Out of the blue, you hear your name spoken in a familiar voice. You turn and see the person that matches the voice pushing his way through the crowd.
You stare. “Dr. Grant?”
Standing in the middle of a dive bar in Michigan is Professor Steven Grant, wearing a black dress shirt and a name tag that’s completely redundant to you, considering you couldn’t forget him if you tried.
“Hiya,” he says, tipping his glass to you.
Or: An unexpected encounter leads to something more.
Rating: 18+ only* / minors: do not read/interact
WC:10k
Tags/warnings:slow burn; mutual pining; idiots to lovers; professor/student relationship (eventually)**; smut (eventually); Reader is a “blank slate” but has a backstory; yearning; kissing/making out; angst
A/N:big big shoutout to @nobodys-baby-now for helping me work out the kinks in this chapter after I realized I had to delete 5k words and panicked. thank you so much, bb!
*This series, and my entire blog, are 18+ only. To follow & interact, you must be 18 or older and have your age in your bio.
**Do as I say, not as I fictionalize. It goes without saying that the plot of this series would be extremely inappropriate IRL. Please don’t fuck your professors.
Over winter break, the campus is quiet and lonely.
You decide to stay in Chicago over the holidays. After all, plane tickets are expensive, you have research to do, and there are no archives back home. Your roommate leaves to visit her family, then your family comes to visit for a week, but after that you have the run of the place.
On one hand, it’s nice, because you get a lot of work done. The library is still open, so you hole up in a study room to slog through the first draft of your thesis and the outline for your conference presentation. With no distractions in the form of friends or disturbingly attractive professors, you’re able to make real headway on both. It’s just you and the handful of tired-looking student librarians who keep the place running, exchanging knowing exhausted looks when you show up for the nth day in a row.
On the other hand, you’re lonely. Without your roommate around—constantly making noise, listening to the weirdest possible playlists on Spotify—the apartment feels very empty. You wander out of your room after a day of writing in search of companionship, and all you find is an empty living room and your dirty dishes still in the sink.
That said, there’s one reason to be grateful for the solitude that winter break brings: it keeps you far away from Professor Grant. After your little revelation following your date with Josh, the last thing you need is to see Dr. Grant in person. You don’t want to be anywhere near him with the knowledge that you got yourself off thinking about his hands and his cute accent. Nope. The universe seems to have your back for now, because Dr. Grant is nowhere to be found in the entire city of Chicago. Hopefully, that means you will be able to kill your ridiculous crush on him by the time that the spring semester rolls around.
Hopefully. Operative word.
The new year begins and finds you right where you were before: hunched over your laptop, typing furiously, and suppressing all thoughts of the handsome professor you haven’t seen in weeks.
☾
After spending most of winter break floating in the fringes of Marc’s consciousness while he fronts, Steven comes back to an overflowing inbox and a lot of missed calls. Near the top of his email inbox is a message he most definitely wasn’t expecting:
Thank you for registering to attend the 2022 Classical and Ancient Studies Conference at the University of Michigan — Ann Arbor!
Steven stares at the screen. He flicks his eyes up to the window across from him and glowers at himself in the glass.
“You did this?” Steven demands.
His reflection shrugs, showing not a shred of regret.
“I’m going to give you the body just to punch you in the face,” Steven threatens. His reflection glitches, leaving him staring back at himself in the dark mirror of the window.
“This is the last thing I need,” Steven grumbles. He moves his mouse to cancel his registration, but right as his cursor hesitates over the button, he hesitates.
He’s done such a good job keeping himself away from her. Marc taking control of their lives for a while helped. With a healthy distance between him and her, Steven thought he would be able to start the spring semester without that additional distraction. Now, it seems that Marc is setting Steven on a collision course with her. Everything cautious and logical inside Steven tells him to make a U-turn as fast as he can, but he can’t quite bring himself to.
Instead of canceling his registration, he books a trip to Michigan, even though he knows he shouldn’t. When this inevitably blows up in his face, he reasons, at least Marc will have to share the blame.
☾
The first conference you ever attended was way back in sophomore year. You tagged along with the professor who ran your archaeology lab and a few students from your research group. While much of the conference was what you were expecting, the first night certainly wasn’t. When you read “Welcome Happy Hour” on the schedule, you were imagining a polite group of academics sipping champagne and discussing the finer points of their research—not full-on intoxicated debates about the most current controversies in the field.
Being only twenty at the time, you couldn’t drink, so instead you leaned up against a high table with a Shirley Temple and felt like a child eavesdropping on the adults in the room. From then onwards, every time you saw an esteemed name on an assigned article in class, all you could picture was said academic tipsy and shouting down a colleague at a conference center in the Midwest.
Admittedly, you hadn’t understood it back then. What’s the appeal of drinking to excess surrounded by colleagues? Now, after a five-hour bus ride from Chicago to Ann Arbor that turned into six and a half due to construction on I-94, you get it. You dump your bags at your hotel, change out of your traveling clothes, and make a beeline to the bar where the welcome happy hour is being held.
At the moment, nothing sounds better than a chance to unwind after being alone on an empty campus for weeks on end and cramped in a Greyhound for almost seven hours. The conference has cashed out to rent the back room of a campus bar, so it’s a short walk in the cold of Michigan winter to get to the venue. When you arrive, the bar is already bustling—it looks to be a popular spot for students and townies alike.
The bar is no different than the dive bars back in Chicago. The familiarity of it is reassuring. As you weave your way through the crowd to the back room, your shoes stick slightly to the floor and the smell of stale beer fills your nose. When you make it to the back room, the door is already propped open. The sound of voices guides you through, and you enter and find a crowd of blazer-ed and nametagged academics milling around, drinks already in hand.
Okay, so a little different than the bars back home. Seriously, who gives out name tags at a casual happy hour?
The familiarity of the bar evaporates as you hesitate at the threshold. You’re stuck, like the sticky linoleum has taken hold of the soles of your shoes and won’t let go. This is your least favorite part of social gatherings: the uncomfortable period between arriving and melting into the crowd, the moment where everyone turns around to see who walked in. Standing in the doorway makes you feel all too visible. Like you’re being sized up; like everyone is trying to decide whether or not you belong here. In a room full of career academics, that feeling is so much more intense. If Imposter Syndrome could be summarized in a single agonizing second, it would be this.
Out of the blue, you hear your name spoken in a familiar voice. You turn and see the person that matches the voice pushing his way through the crowd.
You stare. “Dr. Grant?”
Standing in the middle of a dive bar in Michigan is Professor Steven Grant, wearing a black dress shirt and a name tag that’s completely redundant to you, considering you couldn’t forget him if you tried.
“Hiya,” he says, tipping his glass to you.
He’s holding a sweating glass of some kind of amber liquid. The condensation wicks off the glass and onto his hand.
Hishands.
You drag your eyes back upwards before you can get lost in the memory of that night after your date. The back of your neck starts to feel hot and you wish you had a cold drink to cool off.
“Hi,” you say, still sounding dumbstruck. “Um, I thought you said you weren’t going to be here?”
He shrugs. “I didn’t think so either, but here I am. When’d you get in?”
You take a deep breath. This is a normal conversation. Be normal.
“About an hour ago, I think? I checked into the hotel and then walked over here. Just wanted to unwind, you know?”
Dr. Grant nods. He takes a sip of his drink, and then steps out of your way and gestures towards the bar. A crowd of conference attendees—all older than you, all definitely more qualified to be here—are leaning up against the counter.
“By all means, don’t let me get between you and a drink,” he jokes.
Sparing a smile, you push past Dr. Grant and head towards the bar. It’s only when you arrive that you realize you’ve made an error: there’s no menu anywhere. The little plastic sign just says “Well drinks = $5.” What the hell is a well drink? You’re an adult and you should have a go-to order by now, but you don’t. Every time you have to order off-menu, you end up sounding like a teenager trying to buy liquor with a fake ID. It’s really embarrassing.
To your relief, Dr. Grant has followed you over. While the bartender makes a drink for the man beside you, you turn to Dr. Grant.
“What did you get?” you ask, pointing at his drink.
“Me?” Dr. Grant looks down at the glass and grimaces. “Rum and coke.”
You tilt your head. If you had to guess what he was drinking, it wouldn’t be that.
He shrugs. “I panicked. It was the only thing I could think of. Terrible, I know. A disgrace to good liquor.”
“I don’t think you’re in danger of getting good liquor here,” you joke.
Dr. Grant’s mouth quirks up into a smile. You hate how much your stomach flutters when you realize you’ve amused him.
When the bartender comes over, you point to Dr. Grant’s drink. “I’ll have the same,” you say, with false confidence that you hope sounds genuine.
Please don’t card me, you plead silently. Please do not card me in front of a room full of my colleagues.
The bartender doesn’t even blink an eye. He just turns around and begins fixing your drink. You let out a small, relieved sigh.
Beside you, Dr. Grant leans up against the bar and stirs his drink with the thin black straws sticking out of it. The ice clinks gently against the glass. “I know it’s a bit of a British stereotype to like a drink, but I don’t. Dunno what it is. I hate the taste of alcohol. Unless it’s in something sweet, I can’t get it down.”
“Hence the Coke?”
Dr. Grant nods and sips his drink.
The fact that Dr. Grant hates alcohol and has a sweet tooth is incredibly endearing. Every new fact you learn about him just makes him more adorable, which is a very dangerous thought to have while completely sober.
The bartender pushes your drink towards Dr. Grant, who picks it up and hands it to you. For a split second, your fingers brush his, and the coolness of the drink against your palm and the heat of his hand against yours sends shivers rippling up your arm. You haven’t even touched your drink yet, but just that brush of his hand makes you feel buzzed.
Picking up the glass, you tilt towards Dr. Grant. “Cheers,” you say, in your best imitation of his accent. It comes out sounding like Oliver Twist.
He almost spits out his drink laughing. You sip yours to hide your smile.
In any other context, this would be called flirting. That’s what you’re doing, right? The banter, the teasing—this is flirting. The only reason that it’s different is that you’re a student, Dr. Grant is a professor, and you’re in a room full of colleagues. You can’t be seen sitting here and teasing him about his accent where anyone could overhear. The reminder of your surroundings makes the rum in your drink go bitter on your tongue. With every joke you share with Dr. Grant, you can feel yourself inching closer and closer to a line you’re not supposed to cross, and you need to pull back before you make an irreparable mistake.
Not here. Not in front of an audience.
Evenif Dr. Grant is standing so close to you, smelling like cedar wood and some kind of musky cologne. Even if you can feel the heat of his body from twelve inches away. Even ifhis glass is sweating droplets onto his hands and you want to lick it off his fingers.
Woah.You avert your eyes and glare at the dark liquid in your glass. Maybe this drink is a little too strong.
You need to get away from Dr. Grant. Immediately. Casting your gaze around the room, you land on a familiar face—a classmate from your cohort at UC. Perfect.
“Well, it was a nice surprise to see you here,” you say. “But I gotta go say hello to some people, so…”
Dr. Grant looks around bemused, like he forgot you were in a crowded bar. Does he feel that same dangerous electricity crackling between you? Does he also feel like you two exist in a sphere of your own? Or is he just more intoxicated than he’s letting on? You can’t tell if the look on his face is one of tipsy confusion or if it’s the same haze of inappropriate desire currently fogging your brain.
Before he can come up with a response to your statement, you’ve already disappeared into the crowd.
☾
Steven still feels a little drunk when he lays down in bed that night.
He shouldn’t have finished his first drink, and he really shouldn’t have ordered a second. In fairness, he had thought it would distract him from his current dilemma—so he did.
It didn’t, and he regrets it.
Now, as the clock ticks closer to midnight, Steven finds himself lying spread-eagled on a hotel mattress that’s about as hard as a rock, staring at the ceiling as the room spins around him. He locks his eyes on the overhead lighting fixture, as if that will help steady him.
“How does Marc do this?” Steven wonders aloud. Steven has watched from mirrors as his alter downs multiple shots in a row and comes up seemingly sober. “Don’t we have the same body? You’d think we’d have the same metabolism.”
The ceiling doesn’t answer his question.
Groaning, Steven rolls over onto his side. The mattress is no more forgiving in this position. The room still spins, and the alcohol pumping through Steven’s bloodstream is making him feel even more melancholic than usual. The absurdity of this situation finally sets in: he’s drunk and alone in a hotel in Michigan, of all places, at a conference he doesn’t know anything about, because—
Because what?
Steven can’t even admit it to himself. He knows why he booked a flight to Ann Arbor instead of canceling his registration, and it’s the same reason he left the Art Institute miserable all those weeks ago, and it’s the same reason he let a student audit his class for no real reason.
Her.
She’s the reason behind all of this. The brilliant student with pretty eyes and razor-sharp wit. Steven has never properly been in love before, but being around her makes him feel stupid and happy at the same time, and that sounds a lot like people describe love on the television and in books.
Steven rolls over again, this time laying face-down on the mattress. His cheek mushes against the hardtack mattress. Apparently, closing his eyes doesn’t help the whole spinning-room thing, but at least it keeps the ceiling light from glaring into his sensitive pupils. Conveniently, the mattress also muffles the sound of him groaning his misery out of the pit of his stomach.
The thing is, he had been doing so well up to this point. In comparison to his first semesters as a professor—all the late arrivals to his own classes, all the missed appointments and deadlines—the fall semester went well. He only missed a week of classes (thanks, Jake), he turned in all of his grades on time, and he even got a handful of positive course reviews when December rolled around. By all accounts, that’s a good semester. Steven had proved to himself that he could live his own life and live it well. No distractions, no major mistakes.
Except for her.
He hadn’t seen her since that day at the Art Institute, the date with her boyfriend that he accidentally crashed, and he had been doing a good job of staying away from her and letting her live her life without him breathing down her neck. Seeing her at the bar was like a punch to the gut. Still bright and kind as always, she had managed to be sweet to him and tease him in a fifteen-minute span, and his fingers are still tingling from when his knuckles brushed against hers around the cold glass of her drink.
Pathetic, Steven thinks. She’s the first person to be properly kind to him in ages, and he falls head over heels for her, despite the fact that she’s a student. Like, seriously?
He thought a break in his corporeal existence would help him, but it didn’t. Now that he’s back in his body, it’s a hundred times worse. It’s worse because he’s in his body—now he can feel all the ways his traitorous physical form responds to her. When she brushed past him at the bar to go greet her friend, he felt that passing touch like an electric shock. When he thinks about seeing her at the museum with her boyfriend—watching that tall, blond kid wrap his hand around her waist—he feels that strange, sick feeling boiling in his stomach again.
Now he has a name for it: jealousy.
“Pathetic,” he says again, this time out loud. It bounces off the dingy walls and echoes back to him.
He can’t be jealous of her boyfriend. He isn’t allowed to be jealous of her boyfriend. Still, though, the images from that day keep popping up in Steven’s mind. One: when she leaned over to read the label on the statue of Khonshu and looked up at Steven for his approval when she tried to pronounce it. Two: the cute little dress she was wearing, the floral fabric skimming her thighs and cinching in at her waist. Three: that blond bastard wrapping his hand around her hip and pulling her closer to him, even when her face said she didn’t want it.
The jealousy in Steven’s stomach morphs into something like anger at that particular memory. She deserves someone who will pay attention to her. She deserves someone who will touch her only when she wants it, only the way she likes it. She deserves someone who will appreciate her brilliant mind and laugh when she tells those jokes that are so quick you almost don’t even realize they’re jokes. She deserves someone like that, because she’s good.
And you think you can be that for her?
The sarcastic voice in Steven’s head could be Khonshu or Marc or Jake or it could be Steven himself. Sometimes it’s hard to tell. At this point, he’s too tipsy and too tired to care.
What makes you think she would want you to be that for her?
“Shut it,” Steven mumbles, half-muffled in the mattress.
Pathetic.
“I said shut it,” Steven grunts.
He fumbles for the pillow to his right and drags it over his head, hoping in vain that it will muffle out the sounds of a voice coming from inside his mind. Too tired to get undressed, and feeling too nauseous from the alcohol and the revelations of the evening to do anything else, Steven curls up on top of the comforter and falls asleep.
☾
The conference is going great, other than the looming sense of doom as the day of your presentation grows closer and closer. The panels are informative, the presentations engaging, and the networking opportunities excellent. You get a free tote bag and slowly fill it up with business cards and email addresses scribbled onto cocktail napkins—seemingly everyone is curious about your research and wants to chat later, which makes you feel both very appreciated and extremely out of your element. When you’re not spiraling out into panic about your upcoming presentation, you’re thriving.
Throughout all of it, you barely see Dr. Grant. He appears to be on the entirely opposite schedule to you. Over the course of two days, you only see him exiting rooms that you’re entering and walking in the opposite direction as you. It’s so frequent it almost seems intentional. You would be offended, were it not a relief that your schedules are keeping you apart. After the night at the bar, you’re all too happy to keep your feelings towards Dr. Grant at arm’s length while you have more immediate problems at hand.
Focus, you tell yourself. Stop thinking about him.
You jerk your eyes upward. After staring at the abstract pattern of the conference floor carpet for several minutes, the negative of it still stains your vision. Fanciful shapes dance across your eyes as you focus on the presentation in front of you. There’s a grad student standing behind a lectern, presenting a lengthy talk on recent advances in carbon dating technology. Is it really a surprise your mind wandered?
Maybe if you were a proper archaeologist, this would be fascinating. You’re not, though, and you zone out every time someone says the word dendrochronology. Unfortunately, the student is saying that word a lot, so your mind keeps providing unhelpful thoughts about Dr. Grant and his annoyingly perfect hands and annoyingly charming demeanor to keep you occupied. Okay, you might actually be grateful that he has been nowhere to be found for the past two days—you don’t want to look him in the eye after this.
After the presentation is a panel and then a happy hour. You stick around for the panel, fill two pages in your notebook with notes and doodles, and then decide to head back to your room before the happy hour begins. Your presentation is at eleven tomorrow morning, and the last thing you need is to be carousing rather than practicing. Plus, with everyone downstairs, there’s no one on your floor and therefore no one to bother as you pace around your room presenting your PowerPoint over and over like you’re possessed by the ghost of Steve Jobs.
By eight in the evening, you’ve run through your presentation three times. Each time, you record yourself and watch it back, giving yourself notes like a director on a power trip.
At nine, you’re laying upside down on your bed and shuffling through your presentation notes, trying to decide if you need to reformat them to make your transitions clearer.
At ten, you decide to do another run-through. For some reason, this is the one where you trip up. You’re approaching the middle of it—when you really get into the meat of your research—and you stumble on something you’ve never stumbled on before. The words trip out of your mouth, and suddenly every phrase on your outline tumbles out of your head. It sends you scrambling for your notes, where you realize that you unknowingly skipped through an entire section this time around.
What?How did you miss that? How did you just skip over an entire section? What if that happens tomorrow morning? What happens if you stutter and then draw a blank in front of dozens of experts in your field?
You’ll look like an idiot. They’ll all regret giving you their business cards. You’ll get laughed out of the room.
No, no, no.
Pacing around the room, you try to take calming breaths, but they don’t do much to help. All you can think about is the horrible image of you standing at the front of a makeshift lecture hall and completely freezing up in front of a full audience. This is a familiar kind of panic: the deep-rooted fear that you’re not good enough, you’re just pretending to be smart, and someone will eventually find out that you’re not worth your scholarships and grant money. Normally, you would seek out your roommate or your friends to talk you down. But you’re not at home, and they’re not here to help you, and you feel yourself creeping closer and closer to a full-blown doom spiral.
You’re alone in Michigan, but not entirely. There is someone else here who could help you; all you have to do is ask for it. You think it over for about two and a half seconds, but you need someone to talk to so badly that you don’t hesitate.
Hi Dr. Grant,
I’m sorry to bother you so late. I’m working on my presentation—it’s tomorrow at 11 AM—and I would like a second opinion on some elements of it. Do you happen to have some time tonight to review it with me?
I’m on the third floor, room 306.
Thank you.
In the back of your mind, a very sensible voice reminds you that the last time you were in close proximity to Dr. Grant, you ended up dreaming about his fingers in your mouth. If it weren’t late in the evening, and if you weren’t about five minutes from a panic attack, you might have listened to that sensible voice. Now, though, all that practical bullshit feels very far away.
Barely two minutes after you sent the email, your phone buzzes on the bedspread.
You blink. You can’t say you were expecting that response, especially not so quickly. You type back a quick confirmation and then hurry around the room, attempting to make it presentable for a guest. Your suitcase has to go in the closet—you definitely can’t have it open and showing off your bras and panties that you packed for the trip. Then, you have to clean up the printed copies of your notes that are scattered everywhere, even though Dr. Grant is more than used to that kind of mess.
Oh, and you’re not wearing pants. Maybe you should find pants.
Unfortunately, it seems that you didn’t think to pack proper lounge pants—the only options in your suitcase are slacks or business casual dresses. There’s one lone pair of sleep shorts folded into your bag, which will simply have to do. After giving the room a final once-over, you determine that it’s clean enough, so you unlock the door and slide the deadbolt to prop it open.
Dr. Grant arrives almost exactly ten minutes after sending his email. It might be the only time he’s ever been perfectly on time, now that you think about it.
When you open the door, you’re greeted by the sight of Dr. Grant looking a little worse for wear: his hair is slightly unrulier than usual and the dark circles under his eyes are more pronounced. As far as clothing, he’s dressed as casually as you: a long-sleeved, dark sweater that looks two sizes too big and gray sweatpants. Something inside you squeezes at the sight, something you might call yearning.
You lean against the door. “Thank you so much for this. I know it’s late, but I just…I really need someone to look at this presentation and tell me it’s not awful.”
Dr. Grant smiles. “I’m sure it’s not.”
You sigh and look down at your feet. You’re not wearing shoes—only a pair of fuzzy socks. “Yeah, I know. You can come in, by the way.”
Stepping out of the way, you give Dr. Grant space to walk past you and into the room. As he passes by, you catch that particular scent of his. It’s grown familiar over time: cedarwood and musk, familiar and homey. The yearning in your chest twists tighter.
You follow him into the room. “Okay, so, I only want to run through it one more time. Well, maybe two. It depends on how the first one goes. Like, I thought I had it all memorized, but I messed up the last time and now I’m second-guessing myself. Can you listen and just let me know if there are any, like, massive holes in my argument?”
Dr. Grant nods. “Sure, of course.”
He looks around the room in search of somewhere to sit, and you both seem to realize at the same time that the only option is your bed. Your stomach flips. Why does that feel so intimate?
“Er,” Dr. Grant says, looking at the bed.
“Oh, go ahead,” you encourage. “It’s fine.”
As he settles down, the mattress dips under his weight. He rests his hands in his lap and nods for you to take the lead. You gather your papers off the dresser and put your presentation in full-screen mode on your laptop. You take a deep breath, summon your confidence, and start your prepared remarks.
“Hello, everyone, and thank you for taking the time—”
“So sorry,” Steven interrupts. “I can’t see.”
While you wait, your hands awkwardly curled around your notes, Steven fumbles for his glasses. Usually he keeps them tucked into the pocket of his dress shirt, but today he’s sporting a sweater with no pockets, so he ends up fumbling at his chest for nothing. You bite back a smile and point to his hair, where his glasses are perched on the top of his head.
He lets out a chagrined laugh. “Of course. Alright, sorry for the interruption. Go on.”
His laughter breaks the tension. Before, you were nervous about the idea of presenting to Dr. Grant—after all, he is another academic, the kind of austere professional you will be presenting to tomorrow morning. Then again, he’s not. This is Dr. Grant, with his kind eyes and friendly demeanor. His presence puts you at ease. When you look down at your notes, the words that had seemed like alphabet soup just twenty minutes ago organize themselves in perfect order. Glancing back up, you realize Dr. Grant is watching you patiently with his dark eyes focused on your face. It makes your stomach flip again, but it’s from excitement rather than fear. Sharing your hard work with him is exciting, not terrifying.
You clear your throat and start again.
It takes about seventeen minutes total. You barely have to look at your notes, you don’t stumble, and you don’t forget anything this time. At the end of the PowerPoint, you click to the final slide and turn to Dr. Grant. You imagine that he is your real audience: not one professor sitting in your hotel room in his pajamas, but an entire hall full of academics in blazers and pantsuits. You give your most professional smile and give your concluding remarks.
“Thank you for your time. If you have any questions, I am happy to answer them in the next ten minutes.”
Dr. Grant grins and claps. “Wow, that was amazing!”
Your heart leaps. “Really?” Are you sure?”
He nods. Dr. Grant has a very expressive face and he looks genuinely excited for you. “Yeah, no, that was amazing. Really great work. This is what you were worried about?”
Without the pretense of your presentation, you feel a little shy standing in front of him. You rub your arm. “Um, yeah. I don’t know. Is that dumb?”
Dr. Grant shakes his head. “No, not dumb at all. Being nervous is normal. But, I have to say, you don’t have anything to be worried about. I really can’t come up with any critique. Do you think you just needed someone to listen and tell you that it’s okay?”
Ouch. That was perceptive.
You shift your weight between your feet. “Yeah, maybe.”
“‘s nothing to be embarrassed about. I do it too. Why’d you think I always show you my lecture slides when you come by office hours?”
“That’s why? I thought you were just helping me with my research or something.”
Dr. Grant shrugs with a smile. “Yeah, of course, but it also helps to have someone else look at your work and say it’s good. Which it is, of course. Your work is very good. I’m—”
He stops short and closes his mouth in the middle of his sentence. You want to know what he was about to say, but before you can ask, he changes the topic. “How’re you feeling now?”
You glance over at your notes, now sitting on the dresser. “Good. Good, I think. I mean, I still feel like maybe I shouldn’t have skipped happy hour, but… I’m okay.”
Dr. Grant huffs out a laugh. “I might be able to help with that, actually.”
You raise an eyebrow.
“Hang on.” He gets up from the bed and adjusts his sweater. The sleeves are too long—they hang over his wrists and cover his hands. “I’ll be right back, yeah?”
Bemused, you nod, and watch Dr. Grant hurry out of the room. As he leaves, it strikes you how odd this situation is. It’s past ten in the evening and there’s a professor in your hotel room in his pajamas. On paper, this is a very weird situation. Somehow, though, it feels natural; it feels like you’re just hanging out with a friend.
This isn’t the first time you’ve wondered what your dynamic with Dr. Grant would be like if he weren’t a professor and you weren’t a student. You like to think that you could actually be friends. Maybe more.
You’re still lost in thought when Dr. Grant returns. He knocks lightly on your door and slips through without waiting for your response. You look down at what he’s brought with him.
“Is that whiskey?” you demand.
“Er, scotch, but close,” Dr. Grant says, looking down at the bottle in his hand.
You stare. “I thought you said you don’t like alcohol.”
He shrugs. “It’s for a friend, actually. I mean, I don’t think he would mind if I told him it was for an emergency.” He looks from the bottle to you. “Does stage fright count as an emergency?”
You tilt your head, contemplating it. “Well, considering I emailed you and begged you for help at eleven in the evening…yeah. I think it’s an emergency.”
“Then we’re in the clear.”
Sure. We’re in the clear, you think.
You settle yourself at the foot of the bed, so Dr. Grant sits at the top, near the headboard. He sets the scotch down on the bedside table. The warm light from the lamp makes the bottle glow rich amber.
Dr. Grant looks around. “D’you have cups, or anything?”
“Um.” You look around the room and land on the plastic-wrapped disposable cups by the coffeemaker. Presumably, they’re meant for your morning coffee, but they’ll suffice. You grab them off the counter and come back to the bed, carefully peeling off the plastic and chucking it in the trash. While you dispose of the plastic, Dr. Grant opens the bottle and pours a pinch of scotch into each cup. He passes a cup to you and then takes a sip from his, winces, and sets it aside.
“Not a fan?” you ask, smiling.
“How can you be?” He nods towards your cup. “Try that and tell me it’s not like drinking paint stripper.”
You sip the scotch and wait for the burn. To your surprise, though, it’s not a scorching burn like bad vodka—no, it’s just warm, spreading heat along your tongue and the back of your throat. “Woah,” you say, looking down at the cup. Honey-colored liquid sloshes around the bottom.
“Youlike it?” Dr. Grant demands. He stares at you incredulously, his eyes wide.
With that boyish look on his face, he doesn’t look like the studious professor you know. He looks ten, fifteen years younger with his curls hanging over his forehead and the pink flush on his cheeks.
“Yeah, I think so,” you say, and then realize your voice is raspy from the alcohol.
Dr. Grant reaches for his cup and gives it a skeptical look. He takes a second sip and pulls a face. “Nope. Still not good. S’all yours, if you want.”
You smile and take another tiny sip of the scotch. Not too much, though—you’re not trying to get drunk. Honestly, when you said you wanted a drink, you just wanted an excuse to spend more time with Dr. Grant. After passing by him like ships in the night for two days straight, you’re happy to just sit and chat.
You set the cup down on the floor and reach for your water bottle. Dr. Grant sits with one leg hanging off the bed and the other crooked in front of him. It strikes you again how different he looks like this: in his soft pajamas, ready for bed, looking sleepy but happy to be here. Yearning pangs deep inside your chest. It’s so easy to imagine what it would have been like if you met him some other way. If you had met for the first time two days ago, just two strangers in a bar, would you still end up here? Would you ever get to see him beyond these stolen moments?
You think so. You like to think that the two of you would be like this in any world, any timeline.
“How’re you feeling about tomorrow?” he asks. His voice is raspy from the liquor, too.
You shrug. “Okay, I guess. I mean, I can’t change anything now.”
Dr. Grant studies you, which makes you feel shy. It’s overwhelming to be the subject of his entire focus. “You’ll do great.”
You smile and take a sip of water. “Thanks. I appreciate it.”
“No, I’m serious. It’s a brilliant presentation. You know exactly what you’re doing, and you’re doing amazing work. You’re gonna do great.”
The sincerity of Dr. Grant’s words and the earnestness of his gaze are too intense. You look away. He seems to notice he’s made you uncomfortable, so he clears his throat and changes the topic. “What does your boyfriend think of your presentation? Have you shown it to him?”
Your boyfriend? You look up again, brows furrowed in confusion.
At your confusion, Dr. Grant looks equally confused. He gestures awkwardly. “The blond bloke. What was his name?”
Your confusion turns into amusement as you realize his meaning and you practically double over laughing. “Oh my god, he is not my boyfriend.”
Dr. Grant stares.
You sit up and try to catch your breath. “His name is Josh, and he is definitely not my boyfriend. That was a blind date. First andlast.”
“Oh,” Dr. Grant says. He blinks rapidly, trying to process that information.
Meanwhile, you try to decide if you should be offended that Dr. Grant thought you would actually date Josh. Like, really, Josh told you that your thesis was worthless and then spent half an hour explaining cryptocurrency to you after you already said you know what it is. Would you really date a guy like that?
You take another sip of water in the hopes of cooling yourself off after laughing so hard. “So, no, not my boyfriend. Don’t have one of those, actually. What about you? Is there anyone waiting for you back in London?”
Dr. Grant’s amused expression flickers. “No,” he mumbles, looking down at his hands. “No, just a goldfish. Well, I actually brought him here, so…yeah, no one.”
Your heart squeezes in your chest. The universe is cruel that someone like Dr. Grant—someone so funny, handsome, intelligent, kind—has only a goldfish waiting for him at home. You’re lonely, too, but you’re not alone: you have a roommate and friends and family back home. As far as you can tell, Dr. Grant has none of that.
Before you can think better of it, you reach over to take Dr. Grant’s hand and squeeze it tight. He doesn’t reject your touch, but his eyes flicks down to where your hand rests on his, like he’s trying to verify that this is actually happening. He looks up at you and his expression is both lost and vulnerable all at once.
“Dr. Grant,” you murmur.
He squeezes your hand back. “Steven.”
“Steven.” As you say it, his name tastes sweet and forbidden in your mouth. He turns his hand over and lets you interlace your fingers with his.
You meant for this gesture to be comforting, but all it does is crack your heart wide open and let every emotion you tried to hide spill out. Without thinking about it, you close the space between you, and all you can do is hope that he does the same.
He does. Maybe he shouldn’t, but he does. Steven meets you in the middle and your eyes slip shut as his mouth presses against yours. It’s a short, chaste kiss, but it makes your skin prickle and heat creep up your face all the same. When he pulls away—too soon—you don’t open your eyes. You’re not ready for it to be over. You don’t want to see Steven retreat into himself and hear him tell you that you shouldn’t do this. If you could, you would linger in this moment forever, with the memory of his lips on yours and the smell of cedar and malt all around you.
Finally, you force yourself to open your eyes. You’re greeted by the sight of Steven’s sweet, handsome face marred with worry. He almost looks afraid. The concern in his eyes douses the flicker of desire in your chest, and then it’s you who jerks back, too embarrassed to be caught pining for a man who probably wishes you hadn’t just kissed him.
“I shouldn’t have done that,” you say, covering your face in shame. “I’m an idiot. I’m so sorry.”
Steven wraps a firm hand around your wrist, making you startle. He gently tugs your hand away from your face. “It’s okay,” he says. “Do you… do you want this? Is this something that you want?”
Do you want this?
“This”could mean anything—everything from another kiss to the entire concept of Steven Grant. When you finally allow yourself space to contemplate that question, you find that the answer is yes. Yes to all of it; yes to everything he might mean. Yes to Steven.
You nod, short and sharp.
Steven turns your hand over and laces his fingers with yours. “It’s okay if you don’t. And if you do…I need to hear you say it.”
“Yes.” You nod again, more confident this time. “Yes, I want this.”
“Okay,” he says softly.
His clever mouth tilts up into a smile and you can’t resist any longer. This time, when you lean in, and you don’t have to worry about whether or not Steven will meet you in the middle. He kisses you, and it becomes immediately apparent that neither of you really know what you’re doing, but it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters except the feeling of Steven’s hand squeezing yours and the warmth of his lips pressed against your mouth. You tilt your head to kiss his lower lip and reach up to cup the side of his face in your palm. His breath shudders out of his lungs and fans across your face in stops and starts. When you pull back, his eyes are half-lidded and he leans his face into your touch like a particularly affectionate cat.
Your fingers creep up to his hairline to card through his curls and his eyes slip shut entirely. To see him so affected by the simplest of touches—it throws open the doors to your desire and you fall through headfirst.
When was the last person to touch him like this? How long has it been for him?
Shuffling closer, you cup Steven’s face in both hands and kiss him again. He lets out a weak noise in the back of his throat when he feels your left hand creep back into his hair, and it’s the perfect opportunity to try and deepen the kiss. In response, he reaches towards you clumsily, and you guide his hands to rest on your thighs.
“Steven,” you whisper, against his mouth.
“Yeah, love?”
Oh.
He called you love.
Your hand slips down to his chest, where you feel his heart pounding through his sweater. The fabric is soft over his firm chest and you curl your fingers into the dark material.
“I’ve wanted this for so long,” you confess.
“Really?”
The incredulity in his tone surprises you. You look up. Steven’s heavy brows are knitted in genuine confusion, like he can’t fathom the concept of you wanting him.
You frown, too. “Of course I have. How can I not?”
Steven shrugs. “I mean, it’s just me, innit?” He’s half-joking, but it doesn’t completely hit the sincere insecurity underpinning that question.
You scoff. “Well, if ‘it’s just me’ means ‘it’s just me, the handsome professor who genuinely cares about me and what I have to say, then, yeah, I guess it is justyou.”
Steven tilts his head. The shadow of a smile plays across his lips. “Handsome?”
“Yes,handsome,” you say, even as your face burns with embarrassment. “I mean, have you ever seenyourself?”
Steven’s little ghost-smile spreads into a broad grin. “You’re not so bad yourself.”
Even if it’s a joke, your heart leaps into your throat at the idea of Steven thinking about you the way you think about him. You scoot closer and your knee bumps against his. “What, I’m handsome?” you tease.
Steven’s grin slides down his face. “No! I mean, you’re not handsome, but you’re pretty. Very pretty. Really pretty, actually. I mean, beautiful? Both, I guess,” he stumbles.
With every word, Steven’s face turns redder and redder. It’s adorable. Finally showing some mercy, you wrap your hand around the nape of his neck and draw him in. “I think you’re pretty too,” you whisper, and kiss him again.
Steven melts under your touch. His hesitant touch resting on your thighs becomes more insistent, and soon you shuffle forwards and sink into his lap while he leans his head back against the headboard. This new angle is different: like this, Steven has to look up at you, and the sight of his handsome face tilted up in supplication sends a shimmering wave of desire through you. Even with the warm light of the bedside lamp casting amber rays across his face, Steven’s eyes are still dark as night. His pupils are twin black holes, wide and beautiful and endless, and you feel yourself drawn in by their irresistible gravity.
Surging forward, you deepen the kiss and savor the weak noise of desire from the back of his throat. He holds tight to your hips, clutching at your gray sweatshirt like an anchor in a storm. With your eyes shut, you can focus entirely on the feeling of his hands on you. His touch is equal parts greed and hesitation.
Resting your forehead against his, you let out a warm sigh across his face. “Is this your first time doing this?” you murmur.
You open your eyes just in time to see Steve nod. There’s something curious about his expression that makes you pause.
“I meant with a student,” you clarify.
Steven swallows hard. He nods again. “That too.”
As realization dawns, all you can do is lean in and press the sweetest kiss to his lips. Your heart cracks open at the idea of sweet, lonely Steven living his entire life without knowing what it feels like to be touched gently and with affection. You want to be the one to give him that. When you rest your forehead against his again, you cup the nape of his neck and his breath rattles out of his chest.
You twirl one of his curls through your fingers. “It’s okay, Steven,” you murmur.
“I feel like I’m gonna have a heart attack,” he confesses. “Is that normal?”
In fairness, you don’t really know what’s normal, either. It’s not like you do this very often, and you’ve certainly never kissed a gentle, handsome professor that you’ve been secretly pining after for months. You let out a soft laugh and run your hands through Steven’s hair.
“I think so.”
He nods. His tongue darts out to wet his lips. “Can I touch you?”
You nod, maybe a little too eager, too hungry for him to care. “Yes. Please.”
Something snaps, then. Maybe it was the last thread of your hesitation or perhaps the lingering shadow of Steven’s insecurities. Whatever it was, it’s gone, and you crash together with all the greed of two lonely people aching for connection. When you meet in the middle, you trade hungry kisses that grow less and less hesitant as Steven slowly gains confidence. He allows his hands to skate up your back, cupping the curves of your ribcage and exploring the notches of your spine. Even over your clothing, his touch feels amazing, and you find yourself kissing him harder to stifle the needy noises rising up in your throat.
Having thought about this for so long, you’re shocked to learn it’s even better than you imagined. You never could have imagined the reverence of Steven’s touch or the way he draws back from kissing you to periodically ask if you’re still okay.
“Yes,” you tell him, every time.
With every whispered confirmation, he gains courage, eventually gripping your hips and helping you sink further into his lap. Soon, your kisses migrate from his lips to the sharp line of his jaw and down to his neck. His skin tastes like salt and you fight the urge to suck it between your teeth to leave a mark. His hands fall to your thighs, his fingertips dimpling your soft flesh, and he grips tight as your messy kisses cascade down his neck. His head falls back against the headboard and he swallows hard. With all your attention on his throat, you notice the thin gold chain around his neck and press your lips along the line of it. His entire body shudders from the contact.
He rasps out your name, and soon he pushes off the headboard to return the favor. Copying your motions, he leaves hot, messy kisses across your jaw and under your ear. He doesn’t have technique so much as a desire to have his mouth on as much of you as he can. The humid press of his mouth on your skin feels like something out of your wildest dreams. Every press of his lips makes you burn hotter and hotter. No one has ever touched you like this and you never want anyone else to, either. No one except him.
Somewhere along the way, Steven gets the idea to bite you, and his teeth grazing over the tender skin of your neck strikes you like lightning.
“Steven!” you gasp.
He jerks backwards. “Sorry,” he says, reflexively. “Oh, shit. Did that hurt? I’m so sorry.”
You shake your head and cup the nape of his neck to draw him back in. “N-no, keep doing that. It felt good,” you murmur shakily. “Do it again, please.”
With his hands planted on your hips under your sweater and his curls brushing the underside of your jaw, Steven returns to kissing your throat, alternating each gentle touch with a nip to the sensitive skin of your neck. If it leaves a mark, you don’t care. You want it to leave a mark: you want to wake up tomorrow morning with evidence of Steven on your skin.
That’s the thought that finally makes you moan aloud. It’s a high-pitched, girlish sound, one you’ve never made in front of another person.
Steven freezes. He looks up at you, his face the picture of innocent surprise.
“Did you— did you like that?” you ask.
He nods dumbly. “Yeah. Yeah, I liked that a lot.”
“Okay,” you murmur.
Steven hitches you forward in his lap, which makes you yelp in surprise. “Can you make more of those pretty noises for me?” he rasps.
With your chest pressed against his, you barely have time to register that he feels unexpectedly broad and firm before his hot mouth returns to your neck. Reaching up, he tugs at your collar with his thick finger, exposing the hollow of your throat and your clavicle to his hungry mouth. His tongue laves over your collarbone like he wants to devour you and you find yourself wondering what else he might be able to do with that smart mouth.
Following the instincts of your body, you let your head tilt backwards and arch your body into Steven’s. Without every thinking about it, you press yourself down into his lap, pushing your hips needily against his and—
Oh.
If you weren’t paying attention before, you certainly are now. The bulge in Steven’s pants is unmistakable: he’s hard for you, because of you, and you clench so suddenly that you’re sure he can feel it. You freeze in place, the hard length of him pressed against your clothed sex, and suddenly you’re imagining a whole new array of images: being under Steven, his arms caging you in, his hips thrusting into you while he kisses every bare inch of your skin.
Your chin tilts forward and you look down at the place your thighs are spread around him. You roll your hips again, slowly, but Steven’s hand flies out to stop you. His grip is iron on your hip. He looks up at you, his expression guilty as sin.
“Steven,” you murmur, his name slurred with need.
He’s frozen in place, his gaze distant and focused on something over your shoulder. You look behind you, but there’s nothing there—just your closed laptop and presentation notes scattered over the dresser.
“Steven?” you ask. Where your hands grip his shoulders, you knead gently, trying to work out some of the tension there.
He shakes his head. His gaze snaps back to yours. “I can’t. I’m sorry.”
You frown. “What?”
He hides his face in his hands, pressing the heels to his forehead. The movement jostles you and you practically fall out of his lap and onto your rear on the mattress.
“Steven, it’s okay. It’s normal, it’s just how your body reacts. I’m not bothered—”
“Stop,”Steven pleads. He’s not looking at you, his face still hidden in his hands. His ears are bright red where they peek out from under his curls. “Just— stop. Please. I should— I should go.”
“Steven.” You rest your hand on his knee. He flinches, and you draw back like you were burned. “Steven, please look at me.”
He drops his hands and looks at you. His dark eyes look haunted, replacing the richness of desire that was just there a few moments ago. “You don’t understand.”
“What? What do you mean, I don’t understand?”
“I can’t. I shouldn’t have come here. You have a presentation tomorrow, it’s late, I should go.”
He’s rambling. You recognize an anxious episode when you see one, and Steven is spiraling out. You wish you knew how to comfort him, but he doesn’t want you to touch him—he doesn’t even want you to look at him. What can you do?
You watch, lost and bereft, as Steven awkwardly climbs off the bed and tugs the wrinkles out of his sweater. He’s retreating back into himself, hiding in plain sight the way he does when he’s around strangers. No, you want to say. Come back. Don’t hide. Not from me.
“I should go,” he repeats. He’s a broken record.
“Okay,” you say. “Yeah, okay.”
“I shouldn’t have… we shouldn’t have,” he says, his voice broken.
“Yeah,okay,” you snap. You feel a headache starting—your punishment for letting your desire lead you into this place you don’t belong. “I get it. We made a mistake.”
When you look up, he doesn’t look so scared. He looks apologetic, more than anything. “I’m gonna go now,” he says softly.
“Okay.”
He starts to walk towards the door and you follow him from a few feet behind. When he reaches the door, he pauses.
You fiddle with the sleeves of your sweater, falling over your hands. “Will you still come tomorrow? To my presentation?”
He doesn’t say anything. You start to feel betrayed—angry, almost—but you don’t know if you’re allowed to feel that. Are you allowed to be mad that the person you shouldn’t have kissed tells you that you shouldn’t have kissed him? Isn’t he just telling the truth?
He doesn’t answer your question.
“Goodnight,” he says. There’s a hollow quality to his voice and it hits you like a gut punch.
“Goodnight,” you echo.
He opens the door, steps through, and he’s gone. The sound of the door clicking shut rattles you like a tornado passing through. He’s gone, but you can still feel the ghost of his curls through your fingers and the tingle of his lips on yours. You feel dazed, hollowed-out, stunned.
What did you just do?
☾
Steven needs to get out.
He needs to breathe. He needs to crack open a window, fill his lungs with the cold air of the Michigan winter, suck down the ice-cold breeze until it clears the panic rapidly clouding his brain. He sucks in a deep breath and wets his lips and immediately regrets it, because he can still taste her on his tongue.
This was a mistake. He shouldn’t have come here. Was he really so naive that he thought he could be alone with her and just talk? He should have known better. He knows he can’t resist her, and right now—so far from home, so distant from the roles they play back in Chicago—it was all too easy to give in.
The lines had blurred. Steven doesn’t do well with blurred lines. He needs clarity to keep him on the right path. He needs barriers and boundaries to keep from his life from descending into chaos. Chaos, it turns out, is kissing a student in a hotel room when he can still taste the liquor on her lips. How can he know she really wanted to kiss him anyway? He’s a professor, she had been drinking—it’s all wrong. He feels bile rise up in his throat and wishes there were somewhere he could retch out all the guilt burning inside him.
Just as he was about to lose himself in her, Marc had appeared in the mirror over her shoulder. Steven waited for his rebuke, but it didn’t come—the mere sight of him was enough to remind Steven of all the reasons he shouldn’t be doing this. He’s a broken man, fractured into pieces, every part of him chained to a vengeful deity that holds his soul in a withered hand. After all, there’s a reason the three of them only have each other.
He isn’t right for her, not with her gentle heart and trusting ways. She wants to be closer to him, but she doesn’t know that getting too close will just mean that she gets cut on Steven’s broken edges.
He needs to go. He never should have come in the first place. The only thing left for him to do is leave before he makes it any worse.
synopsis:y/n was always late home, not because of work, but because she would visit her father at a care home every day without fail, it was admirable… but y/n gets bad news.
pairing:steven grant x fem!reader, marc spector x fem!reader (previously established relationship with steven)
warnings:death of a parent, mentions of bad relationship with parent, steven is in a relationship with y/n - marc is not, potentially hinting at abuse in the past (nothing explicitly stated), grief, hurt/comfort
author’s note: this won’t be following the storyline of the show, but minor spoilers about marc’s life w/ his mother ! this will be sort of sad, but it’s mainly a comfort fic :)
reblogs, hearts + comments r always appreciated <3
with an exhausted huff, marc entered his, well steven’s, apartment. it wasn’t often that marc fronted during the day, steven loved his job as much as donna was a bit of a twat to him, he adored being surrounded by egyptian history, marc.. not so much. he’s stated something about the museum being a constant reminder of the god he’d had the misfortune of meeting.
marc walked past y/n’s frozen figure not paying any mind to her, grabbing something to drink from the fridge, “would it kill you to lighten up a bit?” marc muttered, looking at y/n briefly as she sat at the small kitchen table she had bought for her and steven.
“oh, sorry, i’ll … i’ll um put some music on,” y/n stood up, her body visibly stiff as she walked over to the bluetooth speaker sitting by the sink.
“are you alright?” marc furrowed his brows, confused at her odd behaviour. usually she’d quip back at him, saying something like ‘as if you’re a joy to be around’, or ‘when you give me something to smile about, i’ll lighten up’, but this time there was nothing.
“yeah, music, let me put some.. some music on,” y/n nodded to herself, barely speaking at an audible volume.
“y/n, what’s wrong?” marc spoke softly, or as softly as he could. he wasn’t really a soft person, but he tried knowing how much y/n meant to steven. she was important to steven.
“food? you want some food? i can get something cooked up, yeah i’ll only be a few minutes.. music, need some music,” y/n muttered, moving around the kitchen and opening a drawer or two, only to head back to the sink to fiddle with the bluetooth speaker.
“y/n.” he spoke up a bit louder, moving closer to her.
she’s home early?
steven’s concerned voice spoke up and marc looked towards the cabinets, he stared at steven in the reflection of the glass for a few moments and then looked back at y/n who was muttering to herself.
“y/n..” marc stood next to her, looking behind him at the table that had an empty wine bottle and next to it an empty glass, “did something happen?”
y/n looked at marc and it was like she had only just noticed him, despite talking to him only seconds before.
“um..” y/n swallowed the limp in her throat and closed her eyes, “i.. um, my.. my dad.”
marc’s face softened and he realised what had happened. why steven was so confused about her being home early. at this time, y/n would have been at the care home with her father.
“my dad, he um, he passed.” she nodded, blinking away her tears.
“here, c’mon sit down, i’ll get you some water.” he put his hand on her lower back and guided her to the chair she had just been sat on.
“thanks, yeah.. some water, thank you..” y/n muttered to herself as she sat down.
“do you.. want steven?” marc asked, placing a glass of water in front of y/n and dragging the other chair closer to her.
“i..” y/n paused, looking at the glass of water, “i don’t know what i want…”
“alright.. just let me know if you want him, he’s here,” marc nodded awkwardly, unsure of how he was supposed to go about comforting the girlfriend of the man in his head.
“thanks.. ‘ppreciate it.” y/n took the glass of water and took a few sips.
“how did you find out?” marc asked.
“i was there… and, he just fell asleep, it was normal, he usually falls asleep - i guess alzheimer’s really takes it out of you, dunno, but… he just stopped .. breathing.” y/n explained solemnly.
“i’m sorry for your loss,” marc put his hand over her’s and squeezed it.
“it’s weird..” y/n sighed, “my whole life, i’ve just been waiting for this day, i’d pray every night as a child that he would just.. drop dead, but.. i guess i lost my real dad a while ago and .. he was different now, sick of course, but he wasn’t the same man he was and i guess that hurts even more.”
marc just stared into her eyes, letting her talk, knowing that it wouldn’t help for him to try comfort her and that she just needed to speak her mind.
“we never had a good relationship. he was always up my ass for one thing or another and he drove me up the fucking walls, he was a bully, he really and truly was a bully, that is all he ever was!” y/n let out a deep breath and scrunched up her face, “i really can’t believe he’s gone, this is the one thing i always wanted, so why.. does it hurt so fucking bad.”
marc looked down at her hands and thought about his mother, it wasn’t something he did a lot, but he knew exactly how y/n felt, “it hurts because you never got closure.”
y/n looked up and met his eyes.
“you never got closure for the stuff he did and said.. that’s what hurts, he was sick and you got to know a different man, you’re mourning for the sick man who could barely remember his own name, not your father.” marc gulped, licking his lips nervously, his lips suddenly feeling too dry for him to be comfortable.
y/n’s eyes widened a bit and her eyes started to tear up, “yeah..”
“i’m sorry about what he did and what he was like, you of all people don’t deserve that.” the sincerity in marc’s voice struck y/n right in the chest.
“thank you, that means a lot.. coming from you.” y/n smiled sadly, trying to blink the tears away.
“i mean it,” he smiled back, “you’re a good person, you’re good to steven, hell, you’re good to me even if i come back at eleven at night with bloody knuckles,” he laughed, trying to at least for a moment, lighten y/n’s mood, “you didn’t deserve anything that ever happened to you.”
y/n leaned forward and wrapped her arms around marc, his body tensing up for a moment out of shock, but his arms wrapped around her tightly letting her cry on his shoulder. he rubbed his hand up and down y/n’s back soothingly, occasionally reminding her to breathe, or giving her reassurance that she was going to be okay.
the two stayed like that for a while, not that marc minded. he liked it, it was comforting for him just as much as it was for her. marc, although he’d never admit it, was a touch starved man and it was nice to know that y/n trusted him enough to let him be there for her and hold her.
marc, please let me have the body
marc reluctantly pulled away from y/n and whispered, “steven wants the body now.”
“okay,” y/n sniffled, smiling at marc, “thank you, i owe you.”
“try not to get snot over my shirt next time you see me,” marc smirked at her and she laughed, wiping her nose with her sleeve.
“sorry about that.”
“it’s fine, just nice to see you smile again.”
“thank you, marc.” y/n smiled softly at him and picked up the glass of water and gulped down the rest, as steven fronted.
“y/n.. love, you alright?” steven put a hand on her shoulder.
y/n turned her head to face steven and she smiled, “i’m.. a bit better, yeah, thank you.”
“let’s get you to bed, yeah? all nice and cozied up, sound good?” steven smiled back at her.
“mhm,” y/n hummed as steven put an arm around her and guided her to bed.
“good thing you’re already in jammies, ey?” steven chuckled, helping y/n get onto the bed, “let me get changed and i’ll be just a sec.”
“okay,” y/n nodded, her voice slightly drained of any emotion, but steven didn’t take it personally, he knew she was probably still in shock and grieving about her dad. steven rushed over to his dresser and changed out of the clothes marc had dressed the body in that morning, settling for a nice comfortable pair of grey sweatpants and a white t-shirt.
“so,” he started, getting into the bed next to y/n, grabbing one of her hands with both of his and holding it tightly, “do you need anything? i can do anything you want, love, really! you name it and i’ll do it.. although if you asked me to jump out a window i might hesitate a little bit.”
y/n laughed and shook her head, “steven, if i ever ask you to jump out a window, please don’t.”
“you can’t stop me! i’ll do it, i will!” he laughed with her, and then stopped and looked into her eyes with a softened expression on his face, “really love, what do you need? anything at all.”
y/n pulled him closer to her and wrapped her arms around his torso, putting her head against his chest, “you are enough, just want you.”
“i’m all yours darling.”
“how come you weren’t fronting today? donna say something to you? i swear when i see that cow in the streets no one will be able to stop me from teaching her a lesson.” y/n muttered into his t-shirt and steven chuckled.
“nah… not donna, to be honest, was feelin’ a little lazy today..“ he spoke softly, tracing little shapes into y/n’s back, “marc told me if i didn’t get my ass out of bed, he’d kick my ass… let me just tell you, getting punched by your own fist, biggest betrayal.”
y/n laughed at him, relieved that nothing bad had happened to him and that marc was just helping steven out, “fed gus for you by the way.”
“oh my days, i completely forgot about that, you’re an absolute dream.” steven let out a breath of relief.
“no problem, just glad you’re okay..” y/n mumbled, exhaustion slowly taking over her body.
“let’s get some sleep now, yeah?” steven pressed his lips against her head and squeezed her tightly in his arms.
“yeah.. night night steven.. night marc.” y/n whispered, before finally allowing herself to fall asleep.
“night, love.” he smiled.
don’t go into work tomorrow.
“you must think i’m a bloody idiot if you think i’m going into work and not staying here with her.” steven whispered, trying not to wake up y/n, but not hesitating the shoot a glare at the mirror that marc was standing in, his arms crossed over his chest.
marc didn’t say anything, but he raised his eyebrows and looked to the side.
“you are pulling my leg right now. sod off, will ya, i’m trying to sleep here.” steven looked away from the mirror and pressed another kiss to y/n’s forehead.
hello! i am diagnosed with DID and have noticed a little bit of a trend with some fanfic writers, so i wanted to address it just to help people that are not educated about the disorder.
* i do also have schizophrenia and thought i should mention that for the section about the green goblin.
why is ‘personality’ not okay to use when referring to steven, or marc?
the only thing people tend to know about DID is what it was previously known as (multiple personality disorder) this term has since been changed, due to the inaccuracy that the term‘personality’has in relation to the disorder. personality is the way that you act and present yourself, to say steven and marc are personalities, or even alter egos would be inaccurate, it is not one person changing the way that they act (or changing their personality), alters in a system are different people, separate from each other, but in the same body. the term personality implies that it is one person that is consciously changing the way they act, but DID is not like that at all. the different alters can have their own personality, but they themselves are not ‘a personality’.
what can i say instead of personality?
alters is the term commonly used for the different people in systems, although there are other terms, such as headmates that some systems prefer. i personally think people should use alters when referring to steven and marc, but never personality/alter ego.
i have seen some people compare norman osborn/green goblin to steven grant and wanted to speak about that too.
norman does not have DID, i’ve tried to research and all i have found that it’s said that norman suffers from a form of schizophrenia and that the formula he created worsened that schizophrenia and brought out the green goblin. i believe the green goblin in some sort of hallucination or delusion, but i couldn’t find any canon evidence, besides a fandom wiki suggesting norman suffers from schizophrenia. schizophrenia and DID do have a lot of overlapping symptoms, so i understand the confusion, however they are both very different and should not be grouped together/compared. DID is a disorder that comes from childhood trauma, to say norman and steven experience the same thing would be incorrect. in norman’s case, the green goblin wasn’t present during his childhood, instead came around later in life, whilst what steven experiences would have been right from childhood.
trigger warnings for DID
i have seen several people put warnings for DID and frankly i see this as unnecessary and ridiculous. i personally find it incredibly dehumanising, as this disorder already has such a bad reputation due to the representation in movies such as split. there is no warning in the show for ‘mentions of DID’, the only mention of DID the show has is in the description of the show. no one that is‘triggered’ by DID (which they shouldn’t be) would be watching the show, let alone be reading fanfiction about the show. stop putting warnings for DID on your fanfictions. it’s unnecessary and hurtful.
some extra information to help your writing
in a system, alters can have different views on people, not every single alter is going to like the same people, so keep that in mind. if there are people shipping marc and steven (although i do not ship it myself), it is not selfcest or incest at all! alters in a system can have romantic, platonic or familial relationships and it is not selfcest/incest.
my dms are open to questions, along with the comments. feel free to ask any questions and i will try my best to answer them :)
Your best friend (and secret crush), Steven Grant, has been missing for multiple days, and when he finally appears he has a very interesting story to tell you
Pairing: Steven Grant x F!Reader, Marc Spector & F!Reader
Word count:1.4k
Warnings: Mention of Gus dying (the fish), friends to lovers, Steven gets a cute nickname, no beta we die like Gus
The dish you’re washing slips from your hand and lands with a heavy thud on the sink, cracking into three pieces.
Knock.
Knock, knock.
Knock.
The beating of your heart is almost as loud as the knocking. There’s only one person who knows the secret knock. But that person has been missing for multiple days and you don’t want to get your hopes up only for them to be crushed. Another round of knocking prompts you into action and you close the running water and head to the door. When you open it you find your best friend, sure his hair is a little longer and the bags under his eyes are more prominent, but he’s real and he is in front of you.
The moment his eyes land on you, he steps inside and hugs you tight. You wrap your arms around him just as tight and bury your face in his neck. “I’m so happy to see you,” he whispers.
You want to stay in his arms forever, but curiosity gets the best of you, and you back up enough until you can see his face. “Ven where have you been?” The nickname makes him smile, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
“Gus died.” Steven had always been fond of the fish yet you don’t think him dying is what caused him to wreck the museum’s restrooms and then disappear.
Your hand finds his and your fingers intertwine. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s alright,” he shrugs, “I got a new one.”
“So is he Gus the second?”
His face lights up at your joke. “I suppose he is,” he chuckles.
“So where have you been? I was really worried.”
“I’m sorry.” He rubs his neck and stays silent for a couple of seconds as if he wants to think of his next words very carefully. “We’ve been in Egypt.”
“Egypt? We? Steven, what’s going on?” He looks at you unsure. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”
“I do want to tell you, but it’s complicated.” He closes the door. “I’ll tell you everything, I promise, but can we do something else for a lil’ bit?”
“Of course, wanna watch a movie? We’re way behind on our movie marathon schedule.”
He gives you the first real smile of the evening. “Absolutely.”
You’re in the kitchen transferring the popcorn from the pot to the bowl trying to figure out how did your best friend end up in Egypt. “Is Tony here?” Steven calls from the other room where he is going through the DVD collection. The mention of your ex-boyfriend causes a lapse in your attention and you burn your hand with the still-hot pot, letting out a yelp.
In less than ten seconds Steven is next to you. “Are you okay love?” He asks while he examines the burn and places it under running water.
“Yes, it’s just that we’re no longer together.”
“What happened?”
“I get he’s your friend and you’re worried, but can you not worry so much? It’s ruining our lives.”
“I’ll keep worrying about him until he appears, if that’s a problem to you, you are free to leave.”
You wince at the memories, there’s no way you’re telling Steven about what really happened, not when he might feel guilty about it. “We had some fights, and decided it’d be best to go our separate ways.”
“I’m so sorry.” He envelops you in a careful hug while still making sure your hand is under the cold water.
“It’s alright, I don’t think I ever really loved him.”
“Really? You always were doe-eyed when I was around the two of you.” You want to scream and tell him Tony wasn’t the reason for that. Steven is the one that makes you feel all fuzzy inside, but the timing has never been right for the both of you. He more often than not cancels plans, he is an amazing friend and man but tends to disappear and that’s not something you can handle in a relationship. And you’re going to be damned if you are going to confess your feelings after he disappeared for so long this time.
“The popcorn is ready.” You gently push him away from you and place the bowl in his hands.
.
It’s not even five minutes into the movie when he starts talking. “You’re not going to believe me.” He turns to you and you mirror his actions.
“When have I not?”
He tells you everything, every single detail from the Alps to Egypt, and while it sounds impossible you trust that your friend is telling you the truth. Plus all newspapers have reported about the inexplicable deaths in Egypt that perfectly matched Steven’s narration. When he finishes he looks at you expecting your reaction. You take a deep breath trying to wrap your mind around the existence of gods and the fact that Steven shares a body with someone else.
“So this Marc, is he here right now?” You ask carefully, not sure whether knowing more will be better.
“No, I ask him to step back, it’s just you and me right now.” He hesitates for a moment. “But I could call him if you want to meet him.”
“I-”
“You don’t have to,” he cuts you off, a worried expression on his face. “It’s fine if you don’t.”
“No, I’d love to meet him.”
“Okay.” His head moves down, followed by some fast blinking.
“Steven has told me a lot about you. It’s nice to finally meet you.” All trace of his English accent and cheery demeanor is gone replaced by an American one and a serious tone. “I’m Marc Spector.” He offers you a hand but you are frozen in place, so he lowers it again. “I know this might be weird, so-”
“So, all those times Steven disappeared it was you taking over the body?” Marcs nods, looking slightly guilty. “All those canceled plans, it was you?” He nods again.
“I’m sorry, I know Steven always looked forward to spending time with you.”
“Gosh, everything could be so different now,” you think out loud.
“What do you mean?” Marc’s brows are furrowed.
“I thought he wasn’t interested in me, so I stopped insisting and that’s why I got with my ex, thinking I didn’t have a shot with Steven.” You bury your face in your hands. “It always felt as if someone was keeping us apart, no offense.” Before he can speak you continue “Do you know how much I like him? Ever since he walked into the museum with that nervous smile and spilling facts about Egypt, I knew I was a goner. And it feels weird telling you this because you’re a complete stranger, but I just like him so much, his laugh, how much he cares about others, everything about him.”
“Are you serious?” You lift your head up at the English accent.
“Ven?! I– I thought I was talking to Marc, you were here the whole time?” The questions tumble out of your mouth at lightning speed.
“Yes,.” He has the decency to avoid your eyes “We can choose if we want to be here, sorry I didn’t tell you. Marc says it was nice to meet you, he’s gone now.” Neither of you talk for a whole minute and it’s Steven who breaks the silence by asking “did you really mean everything you said?”
“I-I did.” The smile that appears on his face makes your stomach flutter and your heart beat faster.
“I like everything about you too.” He starts playing with the hem of his shirt. “Now that Marc and I are able to communicate perhaps we can go on a date.”
“I would love that.”
“It might be complicated, Marc has Layla so we are going to have to figure that and-”
You press your lips to his and he goes silent. You kiss each other trying to make up for the lost time, for the many months where you could only stare at those lips for a brief second and wonder how he’d taste. This is better than anything you could have imagined.
“Hey.” Once the kiss ends you put your hand over his intertwining your fingers together. “We’ll figure it out. Together.”
Characters: Marc Spector x Female Reader and Steven Grant x Female Reader (it’s kinda complicated okay?)
Words: 2.7k
Warnings/Tags: Explicit sexual content (18+ MINORS DNI), a whole lot of yearning, pining angst, borderline dubcon, fingering, oral sex (female receiving), unprotected P in V.
Author’s Note: A second part to The First Move, very much written from Marc’s POV. Set before the events of the Moon Knight series, when Steven isn’t aware of Marc’s presence. It’s angst mode for this one, with my usual sprinkling of smut towards the end.
~
Marc had been worried about this. This exact moment, this scene, this time and place.
I DO NOT GIVE PERMISSION FOR ANY OF MY WORKS TO BE COPIED, TRANSLATED, OR REPOSTED EVEN WITH CREDIT
You and Steven have been together for a few months, and every-time you reached to take thing further he pushes away. But in reality, it has everything to do with him not you
Warnings|Smut 18+ folks, afab!reader, virginity loss, porn with little plot, oral (m! receiving), unprotected p in v (yall better be safe irl this is fiction smh) dom/sub dynamics, really reader just takes care of steven, fluffiness, slight aftercare
A/N|listen folks, i was in church- over zoom and this came to me how could i not listen to my brain and write it??? Also this scene with layla and steven, lord give me strength….
Steven wasthe perfect boyfriend; words couldn’t even begin to describe how lucky you felt to call him yours. The 4 months you’ve been together have been filled with absolute bliss.
It was like a cliche rom-com with how he always got you flowers, always paying for your meal- no matter the cost, remembering your preferred coffee order, or just calling you at the right time
It felt like nothing could ever be wrong with the two of you
pairing: steven grant x fem!reader (mentions of marc)
genre: pwp, smut
word count: 1.6k
warnings: glove kink, exhibitionism (they do it on the roof but no one sees), vaginal s.ex, dirty talking, rough s.ex, reader is aware of alters and moon knight, creampie, dom!steven, sub!reader
The way the cold wind brushes the loose strands out of your face, the way it rouses goosebumps across your skin. You love the lights, they remind you of the stars but instead of the sky they decorate the very earth you walk on. You look down on the city from the rooftop, everything seems so tiny.
cw/tw: mentions of erection, explicit (18+), female reader
summary: some turn ons for some marvel men
ft. Steven Grant, Matt Murdock, Frank Castle, Bucky Barnes, (request more if you would like other characters)
Steven Grant:
Wearing your hair up.
There’s something about the way your nape and collarbones are completely exposed that ignites a burn of desire deep in his stomach.
The need to press his lips and run his tongue along the bare skin chews away at his sanity. The moment you walk out of the bathroom, a cute sun dress and hair up into a French bun, clipped back with the pastel butterfly clip he got for you last week, he’s stunned.
“Babe!” You squeal the moment you feel his lips against your neck, sucking gently on the skin as his hands anchor at your hips. “You’re going to leave a mark.”
“You’re so lovely.” Steven presses a few kisses against the harsh, throbbing mark, “My pretty girl. I can’t help it.”
And as he presses his hips against your own to feel just how pretty he really thinks you are, you soon realize you’re going to miss your reservations.
Matt Murdock
After the shower
Honestly, he really doesn’t know what it is about it. With his heightened senses he could practically hear the water droplets grazing across your skin, gathering in the crevices of your collar bones and dripping to the floor.
Not to mention the smell, behind the lavender and flowers is the natural scent of you. It could be the comfort it brings or the familiarity but he’s hard before you can even step out of the shower. He waits at the edge of the bed, facing the door as it opens.
“Hi babe,” he’s still dressed in his suit, tie pulled from his collar before answering, “Hi baby.”
But before you can move another muscle, his hand finds your towel and pulls it from your body before pulling you into the bed.
Frank Castle
Wearing his clothes
Seeing you in his clothes does something to Frank. Maybe it’s because is scent is all over them or the fact that you without a doubt are completely his.
No matter the case, he always leaves a shirt or pair of pajama pants out with the hope you’ll see it and decide to throw them on.
Frank had been away for a mission for a few days. It’s normal for him to cut communication for the sake of not only the mission but the safety as you. Typically he calls you before coming home but didn’t bother.
Imagine his surprise when he walks into your shared home when you’re stirring a pot of noodles in nothing but his shirt. He leans against the door frame, admiring as the hem of the shirt rises and rises as you bend down to open the oven and peak inside.
His throat dries instantly at the realization that you’re not wearing panties. Just like that you’re wrapped in strong arms, kisses pressing against your nape as you feel the line of his erection against your lower back.
Bucky Barnes
Your lips
Bucky loves your lips. The softness and feeling he gets every time he touches them or kisses them he is filled with more love than he ever thought was possible.
But now, watching as you smile and giggle at the ladies that surround you, he wants nothing more than to take you home and smear the plum colored lipstick you just bought.
He leans against the bar, ignoring the bartender who asks if he wants a drink. All he can do is stare at you. While it did take some convincing to get him to this party, the moment he saw you and that damn lipstick he suddenly didn’t want to do anymore.
He lets out a troubled breath as you make eye contact with him from across the room, sucking in your bottom lip and winking - you were doing this on purpose.
summary: Moments in which he calls you his sweet girl.
Ft. Steven Grant, Matt Murdock, Frank Castle
and currently taking requests for preference topics such as this one, please include characters you would like :)
Steven Grant (mentions of Marc)
Steve can’t help the way his heart pounds inside his chest. Along with the warmness that fills his cheek, makes his hand clamy.
So beautiful and unbelievably soft. Watching the way your chest falls into a shallow pattern of breathing. Mouth slightly ajar as you cuddle the pillow closer in your sleep.
After canceling your date due to business involving Marc, the last thing he expected was to find you in his apartment, asleep on his couch.
A slight frown fills his feature rather quickly when noticing your hair done up and more makeup than usually. A darker color lipstick slightly snugging at the corner of your lips.
With a guilty heart he sighs, all of this just for him to cancel? He licks his thumb before reaching forward to wipe the corner of your lips. The weight of his finger makes your eyes flutter, a lazy smile matches yours.
“Hi, you look beautiful.” Guilty eyes moving closer and closer until the warmth of his lips press into your cheek, “I’m sorry I canceled, you put so much effort in.”
“’S okay,” it’s cute the way your word’s slur, “Just wanted to see you.”
Steven smiles for what seems like the nth time this day, arms wrapping around your body and pulling you into his chest. Nuzzling his nose against the smooth strands of hair, mumbling the words, “My sweet girl.”
Matt Murdock
Matt lets out a deep sigh, pulling his tie away from his collar but not before a certain scent catches his nose. He can’t help but tilt his head and breath deeply.
Almost instantly there is a rare smile filling his features. He texted you hours ago, it was nothing more than a 'having a horrible day, thinking of you.’
What he didn’t expect was you cooking his favorite meal of his day to cook. Ever since retiring and swearing the whole daredevil off, he began to find new ways to fill his time such as cooking.
And absolutely is terrible at, despite the lessons and following recipes but you always end up kissing his cheek and thanking him despite the fact it was burnt to bits and not edible.
“Tell me you did not spend all day cooking this for me.” Matt leans against the kitchen counter with a look of annoyance but he was anything but.
“It’s just lasagna, anyways, you said you had a bad day, I wanted to make it better.” Not bothering to look back as you continue to mix the salad but before you could even mutter another word, two large arms wrap around your waist. Matt hunches over but just enough to rest his head against the back of your neck and press a soft kiss there.
“I love you so much - you’re so -,” he pauses for a second before continuing, “My sweet, sweet girl.”
Frank Castle
The moment Frank turned the corner of the busy street and didn’t see you walking in front of him anymore, he of course, assumed the worst.
Heart beating a mile a minute as he surveys the area, looking for one glimpse of that red, winter coat to soothe his panic.
“Did you see a woman in a red coat?” He panics, asking every person who passes him but the majority deny or ignore him.
“Damn it,” he whispers under his breath, how could he even let you out of his sight? He knows how many enemies he has, how many people would crush you in order to get to the ex-punisher.
In a quick 360 around the block, there is a quick swish of red. Between his heavy breaths and the brutal New York winter he can barely make it out but catches sight of you rather quickly. Down a sketchy alley that smells of trash, footprint in the snow lead him to you.
Crouch to the side of the dumpster, talking softly but Frank doesn’t even give himself a second to think before grasping your shoulder. “Why did you run away like that?” He’s angry, voice raising with every word. “Don’t you ever do that again.”
“Frank, I’m sorry, I’m okay.” Heart filling with guilt as you find the bewildered expression across his face, he was scared. “I didn’t mean to scare you, I was thinking straight, I saw this dog and it’s snowing and so cold and - puppies.”
He takes the time to finally realize what you’re petting; a blue nosed pit with a wagging tail, the mama dog having four little puppies suckling from her stomach. He watches as you frown, “I’m worried, the storm is only going to get worse.”
Frank can’t help but crack a smile at his pretty girl, “I’m sorry for yelling,” He reaches forward to press his fingers against your cheek, “My sweet girl, you have a beautiful heart.”
Frank turns his attention back to the mama dog, petting her head softly, “Hi girl, you’re a good girl huh?” He starts to pick the puppies up, handing them over to you one at a time before affectionately tapping the dogs behind, “C'mon mama, my girl is too sweet to leave you out here - thata girl.” He looks up at you with soft eyes, “Let’s go home, we have some babies to warm.”
Arguments in which you sleep on the couch with marvel men
summary: what happens we you sleep on the sofa after an argument
characters: Steven Grant, Matt Murdock, Bucky Barnes (will do another set if requested)
Steven Grant
Arguments are a rare occurrence.. so when they do happen Steven is just as confused as he is upset. How did it get to this point?
One minute he’s leaving for work and then the next you’re yelling, frustration as clear as day as well as the crystal tears which freely flow down your cheeks.
The apartment isn’t big at all, the lack of walls makes it hard to escape his presence. The fact that you gathered some blankets and pillows while laying on the sofa makes Steven’s brows knit.
Before you know it Steven is on his knees, using the edge of the sofa’s cushions as he speaks softly, “Darling, why are you here?”
Honestly, you don’t know, today has been a hard day. Everything that could go wrong, absolutely has and poor Steven, the man that caters to your every request has gotten the blunt of it. It just happened, he didn’t mean to leave his clothes scattered across the bedroom floor, he woke up late this morning. He didn’t mean to leave the kitchen in shambles either.
It’s like he knows you; and your racing mind. A hand gently strokes the hair from your forehead and leans forward to press a kiss against your nose. “It’s okay, everything is fine.”
“I’m sorry, you don’t deserve to be treated like this..” the words are followed by tears which are only crushed under the soft pad of his thumb.
“Come back to bed, honey. It’s so cold without you.”
Matt Murdock
Matt is stubborn, always has been and always will be but it gets to the point where it’s absolutely maddening. He will not be the first to apologize despite the last hour of screaming back and forth at each other.
He’s the type to ignore it until it finally works itself out but will secretly sulk at the fact you’re no longer speaking to him or in this case, sleeping with him either.
He almost has to stop himself from commenting on how childish you looked, stomping into the room and grabbing your pillow before slamming the door close. In the morning you’re still fast asleep, clinging to the pillow.
With a coffee mug in the other hand, he uses the left to pull the blanket up and over your shoulders. Winters in New York City aren’t kind to apartments like his, he turns up the heat before setting off for another day of work.
On the third day he decides enough is enough, it’s about 9pm when his strong arms wrap around you, lifting you into the air before wrapping your arms around his neck and legs around his waist. With a strong arm secure around your waist, he reaches for the pillow and ignores your protest.
“I don’t want to sleep with you, Mathew.”
He presses a kiss against your temple, “I don’t care what you want, it’s cold.”
Bucky Barnes
Bucky is the type to be completely confused. He can’t tell that you’re angry at him - it’s hard to miss with the silence and small jabs. But when you don’t come to bed, poor baby is so confused.
He’ll quietly creep behind the couch, biting his bottom lip as he watches you snuggle closer with the blanket as the TV blares some show you’re watching.
“You’re not coming to bed?”
“No.” Short and simple.
Bucky clears his throat and before you know it he’s jumping onto the sofa, tucking himself between your body and the cushions. Metal arm wrapped around your waist as he pulls you closer, sighing into your hair.
“What are you doing?”
“Sleeping with you. Hard when you’re not in bed.”
Maybe you were being a little hard headed, it’s not like Bucky meant to shrink your favorite shirt in the washer, he was only trying to take some responsibilities off of you.
Without a word you turn to face him, only to find puppy dog eyes, “I didn’t mean to shrink your shirt, honey.”
