So here’s a masterlist, it’s small and only has the three drabbles I’ve posted, but I’m hoping maybe someday I’ll be brave enough to fill it up a little more now that I’ve posted it.
Sanctuary: Steve Rogers x Reader, 573 Words
Fill My Cup: Bucky Barnes x Reader, 350 Words
When You’re Overwhelmed: Bucky Barnes x Reader, 394 Words
I'm so sorry Dani, you sent me this ages ago 🤦♀️ but I did promise to take your sad thought and make it fluffy, so here we go.
For @yarnforbrains
Bucky's Right Hand
Warnings: descriptions of sex/adult situations.
Bucky is always touching you. When you're alone, he's wrapping you in a tight hug and squashing you into the sofa, tugging you against him by your shirt or following you around, his chin on your shoulder.
Even in public he's always touching you, there isn't a meeting you've been to where he hasn't got a firm grip on your thigh. When it's just Steve, Sam and Nat he's even been known to pull you into his lap.
Sometimes all he can do is hold your hand.
He's very particular about which hand you hold, even if you're already on his left, even if he should be walking next to the road, he'll give you his right hand. He'll spin you around by his left so that you're on his right instead, he can feel the curve of your waist with his left, he can press the delicious spot inside of you that makes you see stars, he loves to use it to tip your chin up and hold you while he showers you with kisses.
But his left hand isn't for holding.
His left hand is for fixing your car and opening jars. It's for unsticking the zip on your favourite dress and buckling the tiny clasp on your shoe.
It's for rolling your pert nipples until you gasp and gripping the soft flesh of your arse when he slams you against the wall.
His left hand feedbacks sensation in an odd way, he can feel your pulse, your heat, he knows how hard he can squeeze and when to back off. But he can't feel you.
His right hand is for feeling you.
His right hand tugs you across the street to your favourite bakery, it leads you down dark corridors when you get lost together on missions, it wipes tears from your cheeks. The warmth of his right palm radiates into yours when you're cold, it tells you that you're safe, each pad of his fingers can feel the tiny grooves that make up your prints, the scar at the base of your thumb, your life line, your life itself.
Fandom: Triple Frontier (2019)
Pairing: Santiago “Pope” Garcia/F!Reader
Rating: Explicit
Word Count: 12.2k
Summary: After circling around your attraction for hours, Santi brings you back home to wait out the snowstorm that brought you into his bar. Once there, you learn more about the lonely man who’s taken a liking to you and become increasingly aware of just what you’ll be missing if you walk away from him in the morning. (Sequel to “This Must Be The Place”)
Warnings: SMUT (18+ only): fingering (f receiving), protected piv, oral (m receiving)
A/N: What is that, you say? After swearing that I’d never write a sequel to my bartender Santi fic, I did and it is nearly twice the length of the original? It’s more likely than you think. I’ve known that this was where their story would go pretty much since I posted the first part, but I could never quite settle on an ~emotional core~ to the story. Well uh based on the fact that it turned into 12.2k I think I found it. Anyway much love to everyone who’s listened to me yell about this fic in the past few weeks and an extra special thanks to Tegan for quelling my pacing anxieties and to my irl pal Jaime for watching Triple Frontier and talking with me for literal hours about what the hell is going on in this weird man’s brain. I recommend that you read “This Must Be The Place” before reading this fic but I’m not your mom.
PREVIOUS PART | AO3
——
“This is your house? But it looks so normal.”
Santi lets out a laugh, simultaneously surprised and affronted. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“Just with your whole…” You gesture vaguely up and down. He’s raising his eyebrows at you, you can see it faintly thanks to the dim light of his porch, but you try your best to maintain a neutral expression. “Amiable but solitary vibe, I’d’ve pegged you as more of an isolated little rundown cabin deep in the woods kind of guy. But this is…”
You hesitate, peering out through the windshield again. It is only one story, but it’s fairly large and well-maintained, with what seems to be a set of steps lit up by the headlights and leading down to the lake below. Undoubtedly it would feel pleasantly secluded in the summer, but the bare trees make you all too aware of your proximity to the highway, just back down the small driveway.
“Normal,” you conclude at last.
It takes Santi long enough to answer that you turn back to look at him, which means that you are now confronted by a very serious expression indeed as he says, “I don’t usually go for any sort of pegging on a first date.”
“I’d hardly call this a date.”
His lips curl up into a smirk. “Fair enough. Now let’s get inside my very normal house, it’s freezing out here.”
I can count on one hand the amount of times I’ve even opened this app in the last 3 months, let alone actually read something (sorry friends, life has been Real.) and OH MY GOD was this a treat.
You write so, so beautifully. I love how well you captured emotions and the physical chemistry between these two. I love how cautious and curious the reader is, and I can’t wait to go read the first part.
There are a lot of good reasons you should stay away from the new Egyptology professor in your department, including:
1. You're in the throes of thesis research with no time for distractions;
2. Everything about him is bad news, including his tendency to email you at inappropriate hours before dropping off the face of the earth for days at a time;
3. You're pretty sure you saw him talking to a statue of the Egyptian god of the moon at the Art Institute a few weeks ago.
Still, there's something about Dr. Steven Grant that intrigues you, and you've never been able to stay away from a mystery.
A Series in Five Parts*:
Part I: Office Hours
Part II: Lecture Hall
Part III: All Nighter
Part IV: After Hours
Part V: Final Exam
*Donning my clown shoes after declaring this would, at one point, be a “long oneshot,” and then a trilogy, and then a tetralogy
She squeezes his hand and Steven finally registers that she’s been holding it the whole time. “Is this really why you keep pushing me away?” she asks.
Partially. “Er, yeah.”
She frowns. “Don’t do that. Don’t make decisions for me.”
Steven blinks. “What?”
“You said it’s too much for someone else to deal with. What if it isn’t? What then?”
Rating: 18+ only* / minors: do not read/interact
WC: 8.5k words
Tags/warnings: slow burn; mutual pining; idiots to lovers; professor/student relationship**; Reader is a “blank slate” but has a backstory; smut (finally!): handjobs, oral sex (F-receiving), penetrative sex, dirty talk, Steven's first time; aftercare
A/N: we reach the end! endless thank-yous to @nobodys-baby-now for being the first person to care about this idea and the amazing brainstorming partner who saw it to the end. thank you all for loving this story and these two idiots (affectionate)—stay tuned for more drabbles in this 'verse, because I'm not done with them yet 💓
*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. Please don’t fuck your professors.
[series masterlist] [main masterlist] [taglist]
Each step of the way, Steven considers turning around. He has so many chances to really think about what he’s doing and stop himself. He thinks about it as he puts her address into the maps app on his phone, when he taps his card to pay his fare on the L, and even as he steps out of the station and onto her street. The last moment of hesitation is downstairs, standing outside the door she left propped open for him.
He might not know exactly what will happen if he goes upstairs, but he has a feeling it will change him somehow. Confronting this will make him a different person, irrevocably so, and he doesn’t know if that change will be for good or for ill.
Then he remembers the sadness in her voice in the library and his hesitation crumples. He turns the doorknob and steps inside. As he walks up the stairs to her apartment, he tries to imagine how he’s going to explain himself to her and comes up with nothing. How can he put into words everything he’s felt for the last two weeks? How can he explain that kissing her was the only good idea he’s ever had, and somehow also the worst?
When he reaches her door, he knocks on it softly, half-expecting her neighbors to appear and glare at him or tell him to piss off or call the police on him. Surely they’ll notice something is amiss about him—someone always does. Even miles away from campus, he is still afraid that he’s in the wrong just by being here.
No one notices, though. Just after Steven knocks on the door, it opens, and she’s there in the doorway. She hasn’t changed since leaving the library: she’s still wearing that oversized UC sweatshirt and black leggings. She looks exhausted.
“Hiya,” he says.
The faintest glimpse of a smile flickers across her tired face. She steps out of the way to let Steven through. “Hi. Come in.”
Behind him, she locks the door. “Shoes off, please.”
Steven looks around and notices her beat-up sneakers sitting next to the welcome mat in front of the door. He toes off his shoes and follows her into the flat. The first room he encounters is the kitchen, which shares the same large space as her living room. In the middle of the room is an easel with an enormous half-painted canvas propped on it.
“You paint?” he asks.
She leans up against the kitchen counter and shakes her head. “No, that’s my roommate’s.”
Panic flares up Steven’s neck and he glances around the room warily.
She lets out a noise that could be a sigh or an exhausted laugh. “Don’t worry. She’s out of town this weekend. She’s visiting her girlfriend in Ohio.”
Steven nods, chagrined that his paranoia is so obvious.
“No one from the university saw you here, if that’s what you’re worried about. It’s, like, all retirees and families in this building. Also, I’m not even sure you’d get in trouble for being here. I looked up UC’s socialization guidelines on the way over and I kinda think we might be fine.”
Steven raises an eyebrow.
She sighs. “Can you sit down, at least? You’re making me nervous just standing there.”
“Right, yeah. Sure,” Steven says. His socked feet slip a little on the tiled floor as he makes his way into the kitchen. He looks at the counter, where three mismatched bar stools are tucked underneath. “Here?”
She nods. “Yeah. Well—maybe not that one. Yeah, the middle one. The other one we got for free off the sidewalk, and it’s probably gonna fall apart any day.”
Steven settles down onto the middle stool. It creaks alarmingly but holds steady. It occurs to him that she’s mirroring his nervous tics: she’s rambling to cover her nerves and fiddling with the sleeves of her sweatshirt. Sadness pangs deep in his chest. He wants to comfort her, but judging from her reaction at the library, that’s the last thing she wants right now.
“Do you want something to drink? I think I have some tea. I mean, it’s not your favorite, but it’s something, I guess.”
Steven’s chest aches. She remembers his favorite brand of tea after all these months.
“Water’s fine, thank you.”
She nods sharply and hurries around her kitchen.
While she looks for glasses, Steven excuses himself to the restroom. As he washes his hands in the sink, he avoids looking in the mirror—he doesn’t need anyone else’s judgment right now.
He gets it anyway.
Hey.
Steven looks up. Marc is there in the three-part window of her medicine cabinet.
You’ve got this, Marc says.
Steven rolls his eyes. He pitches his voice low and turns up the water—the last thing he wants is her to hear him talking to himself. “Do I?”
Yeah. Just tell her the truth.
Steven’s eyebrows shoot up. “Which truth, exactly? The part where we’re the fist of vengeance for a bird-brained Egyptian god? Or the part where I share a brain with two absolute gits?”
Marc returns his eye roll with one of his own. A version of the truth, he acquiesces.
Fear tightens in Steven’s chest. He knows what Marc is telling him to do, but he’s not sure if he’s ready for it yet. “What if it’s too much?”
Steven could handle being honest with her if it didn’t come at the cost of losing her. More terrifying than the idea of opening up to someone is the notion that he could break this fragile thing that they already have.
Marc shrugs. You’ll never know if you don’t try. She might surprise you.
Steven takes a steadying breath. He turns off the water and dries his hand on a purple hand towel next to the sink. Marc gives him a remarkably un-Marc-like reassuring nod and disappears.
Back in the kitchen, she leans up against the counter and runs her finger around the rim of her glass, her head bowed. She hasn’t noticed his return yet, so Steven allows himself this stolen moment to admire her: the slope of her neck, the texture of the hair on her nape that he can still feel under his hands, the dip of her lower back. She’s lost in thought, so he coughs to alert her of his presence.
“Oh, hi,” she says.
She gestures to the cup of water by Steven's seat, and he nods gratefully as he sits back down. The other stool scrapes across the floor as she drags it towards her. Her motions are tired and heavy as she sits. She doesn’t drink from her cup—she just drags her fingertips through the condensation beading on the blue glass.
When she doesn’t say anything, Steven starts. “What did you mean back at the library?”
She looks up, the expression on her face guarded, almost wary. “What?”
“You know what. ‘Don’t leave me again.’ What did you mean?”
“I think I said please,” she says wryly.
Steven glances at her and her snarky exterior falls. She lets out a sigh and rubs her hands over her eyes.
“For two weeks, I played that night over and over in my head, and I had finally accepted that we had made a mistake and you were trying to move on. Like, fine, I get it. I thought it was over, but then you showed up at the library and suddenly it wasn’t over. It felt like it was happening again and I was going to have to watch you leave all over again.”
Steven shakes his head. “That’s not—”
“Can I just say my part? If I don’t say it now, I’m going to lose my nerve.”
Steven closes his mouth. He nods.
She takes a deep breath. “Look, I know the obvious problem, right? You’re a professor and I’m a student. But is it really that bad? You’re not my professor, and you’re not my advisor or on my thesis committee. The point is, we’re both adults, so I think we might be in the clear. So I keep trying to come up with the real problem, and I keep coming back to the feeling that it was something I did.”
Steven opens his mouth to talk, but she shakes her head.
“I’m almost done, I promise.” She waits for his nod to continue. “Like I said, I kept thinking over that night, and it got worse every time. I mean, I practically threw myself at you. No wonder you were nervous. So I thought, ‘oh my god, I’ve upset him, he hates me now,’ et cetera. But then you showed up and you asked if I’m okay and it sounded like you still care about me…”
Her voice gets thick. Steven fights the urge to reach for her, comfort her, do anything.
“I know that’s not an excuse for snapping at you. It’s just— it just hurts. That’s all I’m trying to say. I had accepted the fact that I fucked up whatever was happening between us and you didn’t want me anymore, and then you showed up and for a second I thought maybe you still did.”
Now that it’s finally his turn to talk, Steven can’t find anything to say. There are too many thoughts crowding his brain trying to get out, and instead they just get stuck.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked you to come. I made you uncomfortable before, and you’re nervous about being here…” She stands up from her stool and steps back, like her very presence is too much for him. “I’m sorry. You should go.”
“Wait.”
She freezes.
He nudges the empty stool in her direction. “Please sit?”
Warily, she sits back down. Her hands return to the worn cuffs of her sleeves, worrying the loose threads between the pads of her fingers.
Steven takes a deep breath to steady himself and still his thoughts. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know—I thought you wouldn’t want to see me again. Or hear from me, honestly. That’s why I didn’t come the next day.”
He leaves out the other part, where he checked out of this physical plane and let Marc deal with everything for a few days.
“I mean, you had been drinking, and I-I realized how it must have seemed for you, you know, this authority figure in your room…”
“Steven?” She cuts him off. “Can I clarify something first? I wasn’t drunk. At all. I took a sip or two of the scotch just to try it and then I was drinking water. What happened that night wasn’t you taking advantage of me, if that’s what you’re really worried about. Everything that we did, I wanted. If anything, I was worried that I had pressured you.”
“What?” Steven stares. “Really?”
“I don’t know! I thought you were into it, but you looked kinda— I don’t know, kinda scared, and I remembered that you said you hadn’t done that before…”
The stark reminder of Steven’s inexperience makes his face burn with shame.
She shifts awkwardly on her stool. “So, yeah, I dunno. I was worried I had pressured you into doing something you were uncomfortable with.”
Steven shakes his head so hard his curls bounce on his forehead. He’s having trouble processing the notion that there’s any possibility he doesn’t want her. “No, no. You didn’t pressure me. I mean, I guess I needed a little bit of a nudge, yeah, but I did want it.”
He wanted it. He wanted her. He wants her, present tense—that’s the truth he’s struggled to admit to himself over these two agonizing weeks.
Her pretty face is pinched into a frown. “Wait, let me get this straight. I wasn’t drunk, and I wanted it. And you wanted it, so…what’s the problem?”
When she puts it that way, it all seems so simple. The guilt of all the things he’s hiding burns in Steven’s gut: Marc, Jake, Khonshu, the truth of who he is. Who they are. It all seems beautifully simple to her, and he can see from her face how badly she wants this to work. As much as he wants it too, he can’t.
She reaches for his hand and her touch breaks through to him. “Why are you still pushing me away?”
Her soft hand is curled around his, so gently it makes him ache, but Steven can already feel his walls going up. She’s too close; his instinct says to put distance between them as fast as he can. Brick by brick, his defenses creep up around him. He flicks his eyes over her shoulder, looking for guidance.
In the reflection of her window, Marc nods. Tell her.
That is not what he wanted to hear. Steven looks back at her and her face is a silent plea.
Marc’s voice is louder this time. She deserves to know. She’s right—she’s an adult, she can make her own decisions.
Terrified as he is, Steven recognizes Marc’s point. After all, isn’t this how everything started between them? Being honest with each other, showing each other the flawed and funny parts of themselves that they’ve learned to hide from everyone else?
Marc is right, but Steven is still scared, so he settles for a half-truth. “There are things you don’t know about me.”
Her expression doesn’t waver. “Like what?”
Steven glances over her shoulder. Marc is gone—it’s just him now. Steven takes a deep breath and summons all his courage. “I have something called dissociative identity disorder,” he blurts out.
She tilts her head. “Oh. Huh.”
“Do you know what I’m talking about?”
“Yeah, I think so,” she says. “I mean, I’ve heard of it.”
Steven’s lungs squeeze tight, making it hard to breathe. He hasn’t even gotten to the weird part yet. Maybe he’ll leave the “vessel of an Egyptian god” thing for later; maybe that’s a bit much for now. Instead, he tries to explain the basics. He finds himself rambling, telling her about what it means to have dissociative identity disorder and how he’s learned to manage it and how it affects his life. He gets so caught up in his explanation that he doesn’t even process the fact that she reaches for his hand and holds it while he talks.
“I manage,” he says, ending his ramble. “It’s fine. I mean, I’ve had since I was a kid, so I’ve figured it out. But it’s complicated. It’s a lot—it’s too much to ask someone else to deal with.”
She squeezes his hand and Steven finally registers that she’s been holding it the whole time. “Is this really why you keep pushing me away?”
Partially.
“Er, yeah.”
She frowns. “Don’t do that. Don’t make decisions for me.”
Steven blinks. “What?”
“You said it’s too much for someone else to deal with. What if it isn’t? What then?”
Baffled, Steven just stares at her.
“I don’t want you to make decisions for me, Steven. If you don’t want me, and you don’t want to be with me, that’s fine. But if you do, please let me decide what’s too much for me to handle. And the way I see it, you’re not too much. I want you, and I care about you, and I want to understand you and be there for you. Don’t tell me that I can’t handle that, because I can.”
Her words bowl Steven over. He expected this to be a breaking point; he never expected this level of determination. To hear her speak with such conviction about being with him and making it work—it’s more than he deserves.
“Are you sure?” he pushes.
“Can you please stop talking about yourself like you’re a burden?” she snaps, half exasperation and half affection. “Believe it or not, it is not an arduous task to be with you. Believe it or not, you are actually quite a catch.”
Steven wants to laugh, but he also wants to cry a little bit. She sees the conflict on his face and sighs. “Oh, sweetheart.”
She slides off her stool and suddenly she’s in Steven’s space, smelling like coffee and lotion. She wraps her arms around his chest and nestles her face in the crook of his neck. “Please stop trying to protect me from you. You’re the only person who actually makes me feel safe.”
“Okay,” Steven whispers. It comes out ragged, his throat too thick with emotion.
She speaks again, half-muffled in the fabric of his shirt. “Also, um, that time you slammed your door in my face…that wasn’t you, was it?”
Steven lets out a choked laugh. “No, it wasn’t.”
“That explains things,” she says. Her fingers comb idly through the curls at the nape of his neck, and finally she removes her face from his shoulder to look at him. “Does this mean you’re okay with this? With— with us?”
“Us?”
“Yeah. You and me. If you want to try and make this work, so do I. I just need to know if you want that, too.”
It’s a gigantic question—a life-altering question—but Steven knows the answer. Against every instinct that tells him to keep to himself and avoid letting people in, he wants to let her in. He can trust her with the parts of himself that he’s learned to hide.
“Yeah,” he rasps.
“Are you sure?”
“Now you’re doing it,” he teases. “Yeah. I’m sure.”
Finally, she smiles. That perfect, bright smile lights up her face, and she leans in to rest her forehead against Steven’s. “Can I kiss you? ‘Cause I’d really like to.”
Steven can’t help but return her smile. “Yes, please.”
When she kisses him, it feels just like before, but with the newness of honesty and open air between them. She tucks herself between his thighs and cups his cheeks with both palms as her lips meet his. His knees go a little weak at the feeling of her soft lips pressed against his and her fingers weaving into his hair. She’s standing so close to him, her body warm in the space between his legs, and he wants to reach out and hold her even closer. He wants to hold her and never let go.
She pulls away, but her hands linger on either side of his face. Her thumbs brush across his cheekbones. “I’ve been thinking about that for two weeks,” she confesses.
Steven flicks his tongue out to wet his lips. Her chapstick on his lips. It tastes like mint. “Me too.”
She bites down on her lower lip to hide a smile. “To think we could’ve just been making out this whole time, and instead we were avoiding each other.”
Steven lets out a sheepish laugh. His chin dips down, his eyes falling to the floor. “Yeah.” He looks back up at her, at that pretty face and those kind eyes that have been a rare steady presence in his life since September. “I guess we have a lot of time to make up for.”
At that, she gives up suppressing her smile and grins wide. She leans her forehead against his and weaves her clever fingers into his hair.
“Yeah. I guess we do.”
☾
Kissing Steven makes your brain go fuzzy and time turn to soup. You have no idea how long you’ve been standing in your kitchen and kissing him, but you could keep going forever. Every brush of your thumb over his cheek or your fingers through his hair is a promise that you’ll be gentle with him. The world has not been kind to Steven Grant, so you resolve to give him what the world has always denied him.
With gentle encouragement, Steven slowly starts to return your affections. Soon, he’s holding onto you like his lifeline in a storm: his hands curve around your waist and hold you close to his chest. You press yourself against him eagerly. It’s been so long since you were kissed like this (have you ever been kissed like this?) and you want everything he can give.
When you pull away to take a breath, Steven chases your lips. The motion makes his stool tip forward dangerously, and he catches himself on the counter before looking up at you with a sheepish smile.
“Should we relocate? Er, do you have a couch, or something…?”
You look over Steven's shoulder. Technically you do have a couch, but your roommate has been using it as a staging zone for her portfolio for weeks.
“Kinda?” You say, tilting your head. “Well, it’s occupied at the moment, so maybe my room?”
As soon as the suggestion leaves your mouth, you realize how it sounds.
“Oh. I, um, I didn’t mean— I just meant I have a bed, and it’s maybe the only place two people can sit right now that isn’t covered in paint. Wow, now that I’ve said it, that doesn’t really make it any better.”
You hide your face in your hands as your cheeks burn with embarrassment. To your surprise, Steven wraps his hands around your wrists and lightly pulls them away from your face. He’s smiling at you, his eyes half-lidded, his gaze lingering on your mouth. Kiss-drunk, your brain supplies. You’ve never seen someone so aptly fit the description.
“S’okay. Lead the way,” he says.
Your stomach flips at the idea of Steven Grant in your bedroom—in the very bed where you’ve fantasized about him so many times. You take his hand in yours to lead him there, and his hand feels so perfect and strong and warm in yours. For his part, Steven looks equally amazed by it: he looks at your intertwined hands and grins dopily.
Your room is a bit of a mess, so you start to apologize for it, but you stop when you see the way Steven is staring at you.
“Do I have something on my face?”
“What? No,” he says. His cheeks flush in embarrassment. “Just… blimey, you’re beautiful.”
Oh. You weren’t expecting him to say that. The instinct to deflect the compliment is strong, but you suppress it. “Um, thanks.”
He tugs on your hand and draws you closer. “No, I mean it. You’re so beautiful. I should’ve told you that before. I mean, I’ve been thinking it for ages.”
Now that surprises you. You step closer and wrap your arms around his neck. “Really?”
Steven swallows hard and nods. “In my classes, I would always notice you. You made it rather hard to focus, you know.”
Your breath catches. You love that idea—you love the thought of cute, bookish Dr. Grant getting flustered by the pretty girl in his class. It’s even better to know that you were the pretty girl doing the flustering.
“And in your office hours?” you tease. You brush his hair off his forehead where it hangs over his strong eyebrows.
He nods. “Yeah. Being that close to you and not being able to touch you…” he lets out a low whistle.
You hum and slip your hands down to his chest. Curling your fingers in the fabric of his shirt, you start to back up in the direction of your bed. “You could’ve touched me, you know. I would’ve liked it.”
Steven nearly trips over his feet following you. “Really?”
You nod. “I wanted you too. I knew that I shouldn’t, but I wanted you anyway. I still want you.”
Steven follows you as you lay down on the bed. He kneels with his legs on either side of your thighs, but he still doesn’t kiss you—he’s too caught up in your words. “Yeah?”
“Mhm.” Your face burns the confession of how badly you’ve wanted Steven, and for how long. “I used to wonder if I was the only one who felt it, or if you felt it too. Sometimes I wondered if you were going to kiss me when the door was shut or if I was just imagining what I wanted to happen.”
Steven’s pupils are wide, dark pools. “You wanted me to kiss you? Even back then?”
You grin and tug on his collar to bring him closer. “I wanted you to do a whole lot more than kiss me.”
Steven’s face flames red. “Can I kiss you now?”
“Please.”
You pull on Steven’s shirt, but he’s already surging forward to kiss you. His lips part and you deepen the kiss as you wrap your arms around his neck. He lets out a muffled groan, which just gives you access to kiss him deeper, messier. It feels so good to be able to kiss Steven like this—to do what you wanted to do before, now in the privacy of your room where there’s no one to interrupt you. Before, you had been stealing time because that’s all you thought you would get. Now, the future unfurls out in front of you, full of promise. You weave your fingers into Steven’s hair and breathe that hope right into his mouth.
Steven lowers himself down until he’s almost laying on top of you. He’s heavy and warm and broad and you feel safe with his strong arms caging you in on either side. He repositions himself so he doesn’t crush you, and that’s when you feel the drag of something rather firm against your thigh.
You gasp into Steven’s mouth. He jerks back. His eyes are half-lidded and hazy and his lips kiss-bruised, but he looks concerned.
“Oh, crikey. Did I hurt you?”
This sweet, innocent man, you think. You run your palms up and down his broad back, feeling the muscles flexing under your hands. “Um, no,” you say.
Steven tilts his head. “Oh. Right. Okay. Good.”
“Steven…” Underneath him, you wriggle around so he feels every place where your bodies touch, and you watch the moment of realization at his hardness pressed against your thigh.
“Shit.”
Before he can panic, you curl your fingers in his shirt and tug him closer. His eyes flick to your mouth, and then to where his erection is grinding against you.
“Bloody hell, this is embarrassing,” he pants.
“It’s okay. It’s normal,” you reassure him. “Are you okay with this?”
“Y-yeah,” he says. His voice is a little shaky. “Yeah, I’m fine. If it’s okay with you, it’s okay with me.”
The start of a smile plays across your lips. “Okay.”
Slowly, giving him time to stop you, you shuffle around and rearrange yourself until your knees frame his body. His hips settle into the cradle of your thighs and the friction makes you gasp. You can only imagine how it would feel if you did this without your clothes in the way.
Steven’s dark eyes flutter shut. “Shit,” he swears. “Oh, shit.”
All you can do is nod dumbly and drag him into a bruising kiss. You might not know exactly what you’re doing, but your body knows what feels good and how to chase it. As you kiss him, you roll your hips into him and feel the slow grind of his bulge against your core. Molten heat pools between your legs and thrums under your skin. Steven slips his hand under your sweatshirt—either on purpose or by accident, you can’t tell—and his hand on your bare skin makes you gasp.
“Steven,” you sigh.
“Yeah, love?”
Your eyes roll back at the sound of that pet name in his gorgeous accent. It’s hard to focus with the feeling of his broad body interlocked with yours. Still, you manage the question you want to ask: “Can I touch you?”
He manages to pull himself together enough to frown. “You’re already touching me, aren’t you?”
“No, I mean, can I touch you…there,” you say, glancing downward.
Steven sucks in a sharp breath. “You want to?”
You nod. “Very much.”
He lets out a slow, shaky exhale. “Yes. If you want to.”
There’s just enough of a gap between your bodies for you to slip your hand down. With your palm pressed to Steven’s crotch over his pants, you can feel exactly how hard he is for you. Your mouth waters. Your brain supplies a helpful montage of images of all the things you want to do with Steven. To Steven. You want all of it eventually, but you’ll settle for this first.
Steven’s watching you with his chin tucked and his ears turning red. Making quick work of his fly, you finally get your hand in his pants, and he responds with a punched-out groan.
“Fuck,” he swears meaningfully.
You can say that again, you think. Is it just the angle, or does Steven feel almost alarmingly big in your hands? You throb at the thought of trying to take him inside of you.
One thing at a time, you remind yourself.
Steven moans your name, and you remember that you’re in the middle of a task. You try to circle your hands around his length, but his pants are getting in the way. There’s just not enough room to move. You remove your hand from his trousers and look up at him through your lashes.
“Pants off? Please?” you ask.
Steven nods vigorously. He rolls off of you and scrambles to free himself from his pants. In the meantime, you shed your sweater onto the floor and roll your leggings down. When he turns back to you, his eyes go wide at the sight of so much bare skin.
“Oh. You’re, um, undressed.”
You smile and turn onto your side. “It didn’t seem fair to make you get naked alone.”
Tilting your head, you regard the sight of Steven Grant in your bed wearing only his underwear—tight and black, very sexy—and a button-up fastened still all the way up to his throat.
“Wait, no, that’s weird. Shirt too, please,” you instruct.
Steven rushes to unbutton his shirt. This time, you can pay full attention to every inch of skin that’s revealed. You don’t know what you were expecting under all of Steven’s oversized clothing, but certainly not this.
Why on earth is Steven Grant jacked?
His shirt hits the floor and you’re confronted with the sight of a shirtless, very muscular man in your bed. His golden skin ripples with muscle and he’s wearing a shiny gold necklace with a small pendant that drapes over defined collarbones. Nothing about his body makes sense with the bookish professor you know, but you’re not going to complain.
“You’re so hot, what the fuck,” you swear.
Steven’s eyebrows shoot up. “Excuse me?”
Your body burns with embarrassment. You didn’t really mean to say that aloud—it just sort of came out. “Sorry. I just— I mean, look at you.”
He looks at you, totally bemused, as you turn into his body and trace your hand down his chest. His abs tighten (why does Steven have abs?) as your palm slides down to his navel and over the dark trail of hair leading into his underwear. Just the sight of it makes your mouth water.
Steven’s back arches off the bed when you slip your hand into his underwear and tug it down. His cock springs out of his boxers, thick and hard and curving towards his stomach. You clench at the sight of it. An almost tortured expression crosses his face as you start to stroke him. He looks beautiful like this, and you’re overwhelmed with the desire to kneel between his legs and take as much of him in your mouth as you can until you gag.
Maybe a bit much for his first time, though. You file that thought for future reference and focus on pulling as many pretty noises from Steven as you can. When you focus your attention on the sensitive, flushed head of his cock, Steven whimpers like he’s in pain. His hand shoots down and curls around your wrist.
“Stop,” he groans.
You loosen your grip on him. “Everything okay?”
He drops his head back onto your pillow, his eyes still shut. “Y-yeah. Shit, I was close. Bit early for that, innit?”
Nuzzling into his neck, you settle your hand on his lower belly, feeling the coarse hair there. “That’s the point of sex, didn’t anybody tell you?”
Steven turns his head and gives you a look. “Cheeky.”
You laugh softly. Desire still thrums under your skin, but a new expression has crossed Steven’s face—contemplative, almost curious.
“Steven?”
“Yeah?” he says, a little too quickly. His face is rapidly turning red.
“Wanna tell me what you’re thinking about?”
If it’s even possible, his face goes even redder. “I, er… I was wondering if we could try something else.”
Surprised, you smile. You like this—you like that he has the confidence to suggest something. “Let’s hear it.”
“I want to taste you,” he blurts out. “I’m sorry. That’s weird. I just— please, sweetheart, I want to know what you taste like.”
Your eyes widen. “Oh.”
He mistakes your surprise for disgust and shrinks back into himself. “Sorry, that’s definitely weird. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. Oh, crikey.”
“No!”
Reaching for him, you crash your lips against his. You pull back; he looks dazed.
“I mean, no, that’s not weird. I want that. Please,” you murmur.
Steven blinks. “Oh. Alright. I mean, I’ve never done this before, so…”
“That’s okay. Um, no one has ever offered it to me before, so… I guess we’ll figure it out together?”
Steven’s surprised expression softens into a smile. He kisses you far too sweetly for what he has just proposed. “Sounds good. So—where do you want me? On my knees, or…?”
Steven Grant asking if you want him on his knees will be burnt into your brain for the rest of time, you can already tell.
“On your knees, yeah. That works.”
It’s a desperate scramble to rearrange yourselves, but you both manage it through the sheer force of desire. Steven fumbles a little as he gets off the bed and sinks down onto his knees. You scoot on your butt closer to the foot of the bed, feeling less like a girl about to get eaten out by a hot professor and more like you’re doing a crab walk in gym class. It almost kills your arousal—almost—but Steven promptly puts his hands on your knees and looks up at you for permission and heat flares in your core.
“Go ahead,” you encourage.
Steven pushes your legs apart to make room before himself. You prop yourself up on your elbows to watch and shiver as Steven’s lips find your inner thighs. His lips are so soft, even as his grip digs into the soft flesh of your legs.
Steven bends down and noses at your clothed seam, making you gasp. The prominent ridge of his nose presses against your most sensitive place. “Fuck, you smell so good.”
This is how you die: with Steven Grant between your legs, telling you that your pussy smells good. It’ll be a weird obituary, but it’ll be the truth.
He looks up at you with those doe eyes. “Can I…?”
“Yes! Please, please, yes.”
It’s awkward at first, admittedly. He tugs your panties to the side and then gets frustrated by the fabric in the way, which leads to an awkward shuffle to remove them. Then he goes straight to licking at your entrance, which is nice, but not what you had in mind, so you have gently guide him up until he finds the tight bundle of nerves at the apex of your sex. The good thing is that Steven takes instruction very well, like the stellar scholar that he is. He rubs your clit with his thumb and then mimics the motion with his tongue, which feels so good that you fully collapse onto the bed.
“Oh, shit. Yes, just like that. Right there. Do that again— nnh— fuck, Steven,” you gasp. Your hands find his hair, holding his head between your thighs as you start to grind against his face. “Yes, yes, just like that.”
Your praise just stokes Steven’s confidence, which makes his technique better, which makes your instructions increasingly nonsensical. The last full sentence you manage is an instruction to give you his fingers, and Steven dutifully obliges. When you feel the blunt press of his thick fingers pushing at your entrance, your mind goes blank. Everything fades when you feel Steven’s finger slide inside you.
He moans into you. “You’re so warm. And tight. Shit.”
“Nngh,” you respond.
He pushes his finger deeper, crooking it experimentally. “Does this feel good?”
“More,” you moan. “Give me another.”
His second finger joins the first and it’s perfect. It’s only a slight stretch to take him—enough to feel full, but not so much to be painful. You clench around his fingers with a moan. He realizes your arousal is dripping onto his hand and laps at you eagerly, like he doesn’t want any of your slick to go to waste. Your instructions become more and more slurred, but he still follows them to the letter. It’s not long before your self-control is slipping through your fingers, much faster than you can process. Steven moves with you, letting you fuck yourself on his fingers and his face, and he drops his other hand to palm himself and relieve the ache of his own arousal.
“Ste-e-ven,” you whine. “Yes— yesyesyes— so good, so good, fuck—”
The filthy, wet sound of Steven’s mouth on you combined with your increasingly desperate moans is what finally breaks you. It’s just too much, and you cry out a warning and slip off the edge with your hands tightening in Steven’s hair.
Steven lets out a muffled groan as he feels you clench around his fingers and arch off the bed. You let out a strained, ugly, unrehearsed moan, and the crook of Steven’s fingers inside you prolongs your orgasm until you’re kicking at the sheets and gasping for breath. Finally, his fingers slip out of you and he falls back on his heels as your pussy flutters around nothing.
“Oh my god,” you gasp, and promptly collapse onto the bed.
“Wow,” Steven says.
You untangle your fingers from his hair and reach for him. “Get up here.”
Mindful of your own wetness slicking his mouth and his fingers, Steven hesitates to kiss you, but you drag him down and lick into the hot cavern of his mouth all the same. You’ve never tasted yourself before, but you find you don’t mind it when it’s on Steven’s tongue.
“You’re a quick study,” you tease, when your brain finally comes back online.
Steven grins. “Maybe you’re just a good teacher.”
“Oh, do I get to be the teacher now?” you tease.
Steven just hums as he kisses you again. You can tell he’s holding back, but he can’t hide his own arousal pressed against your belly. Even though you just had one orgasm, you’re greedy for more. You want to make Steven feel just as good as he made you feel. You want him in every way; in fact, you would even say that you need him.
Shifting under him, you spread your legs and let Steven slot himself against your core, and he almost bites your lip when he feels the wet heat of your sex through his underwear.
“Fuck,” he groans, his head tilting back.
You take a second to admire the long line of his throat and resist the urge to bite him. “Steven.”
“Yeah?”
“I want you.”
He manages to open his eyes and look down at you. “You mean…?”
“Yeah. I want you all the way.”
His pupils are wide and dark, his lips parted. “Are you sure?”
You nod. “Are you?”
He nods eagerly, almost boyishly. It’s cute. “Yeah. Although, er, I don’t have supplies. I didn’t exactly think this was gonna happen,” he says.
You smile and jerk your head to the left. “Middle drawer.”
His eyebrows shoot up, but he leans over and fumbles around in your bedside table anyway. He comes back with a box, which he holds up and inspects before glancing at you. “Someone is prepared. You,” he teases.
You shrug. “My roommate got them for me when I downloaded the apps again. I think she thought I was gonna be a lot more successful than I was.”
“Hey, I’m not complaining. Always good to be prepared.”
Steven’s comment makes you laugh, but the importance of this moment finally settles in. You pry the box of condoms from his hand and place them to the side.
“Are you sure this is okay? We’re not moving too fast?”
Steven’s expression softens into that love-drunk look from before, his eyes half-lidded and adoring. “No, it’s not too fast. Maybe with someone else it would be, but not with you.”
“You mean it?”
He nods. He shifts on the bed, settling back on his heels and rubbing his palms up and down your thighs. “It doesn’t feel fast with you. It feels right. Like we were meant to do this.”
“Like everything has been leading here since September?”
He nods. You beckon for him and he leans down to kiss you. You fumble for the box as his tongue sweeps against yours. When you break away, you look up at him with equal adoration in your eyes.
“Yeah. That’s how I feel, too.”
From there, Steven lets you take control. He watches as you open the condom, and then his left hand curls in the sheets and his brow furrows as you roll it on. When you’re satisfied, you sprawl out on your back and invite Steven to settle between your thighs. He shudders at the feeling of his cock settling against your still-soaked folds.
“Ready?“ you murmur.
He swallows hard and nods.
You bite your lip in concentration as you reach down and guide him to your entrance. He presses in shallowly, just the thick head of him entering you, and you’re grateful that you’re still wet and relaxed from your previous orgasm. He’s definitely bigger than anything you’ve taken before. His eyes flick up to your face, screwed up in concentration.
“Are you alright? Does it hurt?”
You shake your head. “No. Keep going.”
Steven holds the base of his cock as he pushes inside, inch by inch. Like your body knows that you can trust him, it yields to the intrusion willingly. It’s not long before he slides home, his pelvis meeting yours and his entire length sheathed inside you.
“Shit— shit, you’re perfect. You feel so good,” he whimpers.
Your eyes slip shut and you nod. It’s so much. God, it’s so much. You’ve wanted this for so long, and it’s even better than you imagined. You feel full—like he’s carving out space inside you meant just for him.
For his part, Steven doesn’t seem any more composed than you. He’s flushed down to his chest and fisting the sheets on either side of your head. “I’m sorry, love, I don’t think this is going to last very long.”
“S’okay. First times usually don’t,” you reassure him. Your fingers weave into his hair and pull him down until your noses are practically touching. “Please move, Steven.”
He groans. He pulls out, just a little, and grinds back in slowly. With your encouragement, he repeats the motion, slowly picking up the pace as he realizes he’s not hurting you. Steven is a sight to see like this: his beautiful curls hang over his forehead and his skin is damp with sweat that makes him glow. His eyes flick between your face and the place where your bodies meet, seemingly mesmerized by the sight of himself splitting you open.
“God, you’re so perfect,” he mumbles. “How are you so perfect?”
All you manage is a moan in response.
He gives you a particularly good thrust—deep, slow, amazing—and you cry out. You wrap your arms around his neck and squeeze your knees around his hips.
“Steven,” you whimper.
“Yeah, love?”
“It feels so good,” you mumble. “You feel so good. I feel so full.”
Steven moans and you feel his cock throb at your words. “If you keep talking like that, I’m not gonna last.”
Your knees tighten around his hips. You wrap your calf around his thigh, nudging him deeper. “S’okay. You can let go, baby. I’ve got you.”
Your words just seem to stoke his fire. Steven lowers himself further until he’s almost laying on you. His rhythm changes, no longer pulling out and pushing in; he grinds into you, staying deep and getting deeper. The friction is perfect and you can feel the coil tightening inside you again.
“Oh, yes. Just like that, perfect, Steven— keep going, just like that, yesyesyes.”
Steven groans your name. His knees dig into the bed as he pushes further into you, like he’s trying to fuse his body with yours. Your name falls from his lips in a whimper, almost like a prayer.
“It’s okay, baby,” you coo. “I’ve got you. You’re doing so well.”
Your words are what finally breaks his self-control. The snap of his hips gets more erratic and his hands tighten in the sheets.
“I’m sorry,” he mumbles. “Sorry, sorry, I’m gonna— sh-shit…”
Your fingers dig into his broad back, slipping on the sweat on his skin. “Don’t apologize. You can let go. Come for me, baby. Yeah, just like that.”
Steven gives one last good thrust before shoving into you and staying there. He groans your name and his entire body shudders in your arms as he spills into the condom. The slow grind of his body triggers your second climax, softer and more gentle than the first. Your walls convulse around him, pulling a ragged moan from deep in his chest as you inadvertently overstimulate him.
After a long moment, Steven pulls out slumps onto you. The full weight of his body squishes you into the mattress and a small oof escapes you as he crushes the air out of your lungs. Admittedly, you’re sweaty and sticky and Steven’s softening cock is pressed against your thigh, but none of those things are sufficient impetus to move. Instead, you settle yourself into a more comfortable position under Steven’s bulk and weave your fingers into his hair. He lets out an appreciative hum at the gentle scrape of your nails along his scalp.
“Feels good,” he mumbles.
You hum happily.
You feel completely and utterly fucked-out, but you still have the energy to lift your head and kiss the top of Steven’s head. He shifts and props himself up on his elbows, one on either side of your head, and looks down at you. He looks boyish, sleepy, perfect. The white-hot heat that had been burning in your gut just minutes ago softens to a gentle warmth.
You adore this man. You might even be in love with him. Somehow, that doesn’t scare you.
“Please stay the night,” you murmur.
Steven nods. A small smile quirks the corner of his lips. “Sure. Would’ve brought pyjamas if I knew that was the plan, though.”
You shrug. “We can sleep naked.”
Steven’s cock twitches against your leg. Your eyes widen.
“Already?”
He has the decency to look sheepish. “Sorry.”
“No, you’re not.”
Steven leans down and brushes his nose against yours. “Yeah, I’m not,” he mumbles, and then he presses his lips to yours.
☾
When Steven returns from the bathroom, she’s already snuggled up under the covers of her bed with her phone in hand. She smiles sleepily when she hears the bathroom door open and drops her phone onto the fluffy comforter.
“Hi,” she says.
She opens the comforter for him, and Steven catches a glimpse of her body tangled up in the sheets. If it’s possible, she’s more beautiful now than ever before. Steven wants to memorize every inch of her, from the smooth wings of her collarbones to the dimples on her thighs. He wonders if she would let him do that—worship her body until he knows it with his eyes closed.
That’s for later. This is now.
The bed creaks under Steven’s weight as he settles down next to her. She smells a little like sex, but also just like herself—the slightly sweet, honey-like smell of her lotion, the ever-present scent of coffee that seems to cling to her hair and her clothes. His body reacts to her presence and swathes of soft, bare skin with marked interest, but he tamps it down.
She curls into her side and rests her cheek on his chest and her hand on his stomach. Steven loops his right arm around her waist. He’s amazed at how easily their bodies fit together, like this is how they were meant to be all along.
“What were you reading?” he asks.
She looks askance. “Um.”
He quirks an eyebrow.
“I don’t want you to think it’s weird,” she says.
It’s a dodgy response. His eyebrows raise even higher.
She sighs. She picks up her phone and reaches over Steven to deposit it on her bedside table. “Fine. I was reading about dissociative identity disorder,” she admits.
Steven shifts uncomfortably. “You were?”
She nods. “Specifically, what it’s like to live with it. And, um, what it’s like to date someone who has it.”
“Really?”
She looks down, embarrassed. “I hope that’s not presumptuous. I just wanna understand, you know? I wanna know how to be there for you.”
Steven tightens his arms around her and pulls her halfway across his chest. The hug squeezes the air out of her lungs with a soft puff of breath.
“There are still things I haven’t told you,” he murmurs into her hair. “Things that I… honestly, they’re things that I don’t even know if I can explain.”
She props her chin on his chest. She reaches up, tracing her fingertips down his nose, the shape of his lips. “I was thinking. There are still a couple months until graduation, when I won’t be a student anymore. So…”
He squeezes her hip. “What are you saying, love?”
“I’m saying we have time. We have a few months to figure things out before we can actually be together. In public, I mean. We can figure it out then.”
She’s offering Steven the greatest gift he could ask for: time. She’s offering him time for them to figure out what they want to be to each other and time for Steven to figure out how to tell her the truth. It’s more than he deserves, but he’s grateful for it all the same.
He nods. “Alright.”
“Okay.” She snuggles closer to him, her breath a gentle breeze across his skin. “I’m glad you told me.”
He leans down and presses his nose into her hair. “I am too.”
Her smile curves against his skin. “I really like you,” she mumbles.
Her voice is small and vulnerable. Steven wants nothing more than to protect her.
“I really like you too,” he responds.
He expected it to feel juvenile, saying that, but it doesn’t. It feels right. He likes her. He likes this. He likes who he is around her. He likes that she feels like she can be herself with him. For all the complications in his life, this is simple.
I like you. I like you too.
Simple.
Maybe more, one day. Maybe another four-letter word, one that isn’t “like.” There will be time for that in the future. Right now, all Steven cares about is her slow, steady breathing as she falls asleep, safe in his arms.
“Maybe more, one day. Maybe another four-letter word, one that isn’t “like.” There will be time for that in the future. Right now, all Steven cares about is her slow, steady breathing as she falls asleep, safe in his arms.”
V. 😭😭😭 this was the perfect ending. It’s so perfectly soft and sweet (and oh so spicy). I love how realistically you wrote about “first time together” sex — it takes some figuring out in real life, it’s so refreshing and relatable to see that written out.
A+ smut, A++ plot, this is definitely a series I’ll be re-reading. 💜
PS - “do as I say, not as I fictionalize” makes me giggle every time. I love it.
I’ve been wrapping up at my old job and getting ready to start my new one tomorrow, plus my best friend just moved into an apartment 154 feet away from me and I’ve been helping her set up & all that. so I’ve been a bit mentally exhausted by everything😂🥲 but good exhausted! The hard parts are over!
