step closer so i can push you away - chapter one: the daily torture
A/n: Hi everyone! This is my first fic ever published, so it's probably going to be bad. Don't be afraid of leaving criticisms- I need them like I need oxygen. I'm still not too sure on the title, so if anyone has any better title ideas I am welcoming them wholeheartedly. I hope you can get a few molecules of serotonin from this attempt if it happens to reach you. I am planning to put this on A03 as well.
Word count: 798 words
Pairing(s): Marc Spector x reader, Steven Grant x reader
Warnings: nothing spicy sadly, a very British take on builders (I mean no offense to any men who happen to be called Steve and are also builders)
You shift your shoulder, balancing your phone precariously between your shoulder and chin. A jolt of the bus almost sends your phone to the wet floor.
“Listen, I’m going to have to cut the call. I’m about to get off at the next stop.”
Lie.
In your defence, you needed the 3 stops left to keep sifting through the folder you were holding and attempting to absorb somehow. Also, you had experienced this exact conversation at least ten times this month alone.
“Okay, see you. Oh and good luck, you’ll smash them to pieces.”
“Thanks, see you! Bye. Bye.”
You put your phone away in your pocket, elbowing someone around you and mumbling an obligatory ‘sorry’ as you elbowed someone again to get your headphones out of your bag. All whilst trying to keep your wet umbrella under your arm.
Turning your head to see who you maimed in the packed bus, you see him.
He had a lethargic, disorganised, chaotic energy that made him impossible not to notice; a slightly hunched back from bad posture and tiredness; a wide-eyed stare that held depths (when he wasn’t napping on the bus), and he was called Steven.
You only knew his name courtesy of a late night out at the pub with some people from the office. You almost spoke to him that night on the bus going home, but thought better, knowing you were tipsy enough that only incoherent, never-ending mumblings would come out.
It was only when your gaze had slid down (because of the tipsiness- definitely not because you wanted to ogle him) that you noticed the name tag.
Steven. He was your commute crush- entirely harmless, yet a nuisance all the same. Especially when he caught you staring at him with glassy, red-tinged eyes that fateful evening. You kept staring at him for at least a full minute whilst he kept blinking awkwardly and adorably looking around. Thankfully, he pressed the stop button and got off at the next stop before there was any possibility of a restraining order against you.
You just never thought you would have a crush on someone called Steven. Your mind sneers the name sometimes when your thoughts drift to him. What? Is he a 50-something year old builder with an arse crack permanently on display? ‘Hello, I’m Steve, here to overcharge you for something I’ll never actually get around to doing.’
Sometimes you couldn’t figure out if it was the crush or the man himself that was the nuisance.
He was right there. Somehow asleep standing up, unaware of your simultaneously annoyed yet longing glances.
Another jolt of the bus stopping at a red light made you stumble from your thoughts, almost slipping back into a blinking Steven.
“Sorry,” you mumbled out again, too sleep-deprived and irritated to do anything more than mumble and grumble that morning.
“S’okay.” A voice still deep with the last vestiges of sleep answered, soft breaths warmed your neck. He was so close you could feel the vibrations of his voice as if he was speaking into your skin.
You stiffened slightly, becoming too aware of your movements, feeling awkward in your own body.
He was too close. So close that he could be nuzzling your neck if you both moved a little closer.
Clearing your throat, you flit through the plastic wallets in your folder, too fast to even be able to feign reading. You lean heavily on the pole to your side, looping your arm through it, allowing you to use your hand.
The bus jolted forward, and you felt a hard body against your back. Just another stop, you thought to yourself, then he gets off.
He made no move to back away from your body.
It took all your willpower not to look over your shoulder.
You felt him move behind you and see his arm from the corner of your eye, pressing the stop button on the pole situated by your hip. You looked briefly to see his olive toned hand, before steadfastly looking down at your folder, glaring and feeling your lungs burning with the effort of holding in your breath, determined not to move.
You’re contorting your body to the side as far as you can go before he can even say ‘excuse me’, concentrating on ignoring the slight press of his body on yours.
He was in front of you now, waiting for the bus to slow before he could move further down. You quickly checked your watch, far too engrossed than necessary in checking the time. You would have missed it if you looked up a second later.
He was looking straight at you.
You end up missing the next stop- your stop- and have to trudge to work in the pouring rain.
A/n: So? What did you think? Was it worse than you thought?? (Give me attention)
