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box’a chocolates, s. grant

rating/tags: mature, second pov, kissing & grinding ( ´ཀ` ), friends to lovers, steven’s DID is canon in this btw, missing time, dry humping, crying, missing time, comfort and then confusion

pairing: steven grant/any reader w a clit cuz that comes into play, tagged as steven grant/fem! reader on ao3

word count: 1.7k

a/n: heyo! back to posting on here :-] lemme know if you enjoy or don’t or whatever your thoughts may be. i wanna get back into writing heavy. this is only part one. here’s the ao3 link —> here!

Steven's shoes shuffled nervously over the welcome mat. Despite calling ahead of time and the outrageously cheug-ily humoured ‘Live, Laugh, Love' mat inviting him in, he felt inexplicably nervous.

It wasn't the first time he'd been to your apartment, nor would it be the last. But nevertheless, his heart continued hammering against his ribs like a hummingbird's wings fighting up against the weight of gravity. He held the box of chocolate, evidence of his being stood up to his chest. Maybe it was a stupid idea, going on a date with a woman such as Dylan. She’d had to be interesting for him to ask on a date—she was a tour guide after all—and he'd had to have been idiotic enough to forget the proposition completely.

Dwelling on it certainly wouldn't do him any better now, especially since it was apparently Wednesday and not Saturday anymore.

He stood before your front door, contemplating on whether he should knock at all—the option of going home alone to spiral into self-deprecating thoughts didn’t seem too appetizing to him either, though. And then you caught a flash of him pacing through your peephole. You swung the door open by the handle. He looked sad, out of place. He looked like the sky'd opened up and rained solely on him. And you knew very well it had, or at least felt like it.

You ushered him in, offering tea—he didn't drink coffee regularly, and he’d never try it this late at night—taking his coat and laying it carefully over the back of a chair. He plopped down on the couch, his dark collared shirt looking more and more crumpled by the minute.

"Hey, hey— What's going on? " You found the words tumbling easily from your lips.

Steven pouted, his lips scrunching . He sat the heart-shaped box down on your coffee table, fingers already tracing the rim of the sealed packaging. "Well- the other day, everything’s pretty normal at first, you know? S’almost good; the sun’s out for once, Donna’s not on my back yet. And so I’m approached by this brilliant tour guide, Dylan , and she said she'd been so excited for our date.”

Steven breathes out shakily, his eyes tracking your fast-moving figure as you zip around to pour him a cup of tea despite his lacklustre refusal; it was a frequent habit of his to refuse out of fear of being impolite. “And I was confused, so I go, 'Remind me what time that is again ’ and she says ‘7, at that steakhouse you mentioned.'” 

Steven looks befuddled. His collar’s pressing on the nape of his neck, and he doesn’t like it. He’s too shy to ask to disrobe in your apartment, which wouldn’t even really be the right adjective to use in this situation, and here he goes again winding himself up. He shakes his head, getting back to the story. “Which is so strange because I've never gone there, nor do I… eat meat? So, this morning I wake up, I do all my running ‘round the shops, and then I go later that evening to the restaurant. I'm sitting there at the steakhouse, staring at pictures of these bloody steaks and IPAs. I go to call her phone when she tells me to bugger off and that I ‘ should've never led her on?’ " 

The tears start to well in his eyes, and one escapes down his carved cheek. The pressure on his nape is too much; it makes everything worse. He doesn’t ask for permission before unbuttoning the top three buttons on his shirt. He doesn’t have the voice to, and he’s embarrassed enough recounting this idiotic story. The stream of tears flows steadily, collecting at his jaw. He speaks again, his voice wobbly. Like the stress of all this is making his vocal cords slippery, like he can't find any stability in the moment. "And now it's bloody Wednesday, not Saturday . and I feel as if I've gone completely fucking mad,” his voice cracks.

His eyes get sadder, even though you're not sure how that's entirely possible. He looked like a kicked puppy, sitting here in your kitchen. Your head tilts in a mix of sympathy and pity as you look upon him. You approach, eyebrows furrowed. You set his tea down before brushing your fingertips over his sullen, wet face. The ‘oh, Steven’ you coo is apparently enough to break him, as he slumps over in your embrace. Strong arms wrap around your middle. You can feel when the tears get heavy and hear when the sobs start up. The sound is muffled by your shirt, but it still pains your heart. His head makes a soft landing on your chest, his curls tickling the underside of your jaw. "And the worst part is, after I called her, I ate the steak! One steak eaten and my sanity’s been lost. What a bloody deal that is.” 

You rub his back nurturingly. You rub out all the sobs, your chin resting on the top of his head. His hands grip onto the loose material of your clothing, and you can’t help but notice his cologne; it was something subtle, something sweet baiting you along a trail of sandalwood and citrus. The smell is hooked onto a spot under his ear, a trick he'd have to look up to know. You find a momentary reprieve from the heaviness of the situation taking place at the idea of Steven reading through an edition of Cosmopolitan.

You’re rubbing his back and saying soothing words when his head raises back up. His gaze meets yours, and to distract yourself from his lips or the potent look in his eyes, you focus on the small dent in his cheek. You could never tell whether it was the result of an accident or if it was just a sole birthmark of some sort. The dent glares back at you, and you wonder if it’s from childhood, made on the handlebar of a bike when he hit a bump in the road.

You focus back to look into his eyes, and you must be delusional. The scent of him and the state of his dress shirt must be the motive, his sad puppy dog eyes bringing out some kind of baser instinct you can’t quite pinpoint. Attraction, sympathy… arousal, too. You swear you’re seeing things—it has to be—because you’re sure he’s staring right at your lips. He’s no longer crying, his deep-set gaze on your lips. You’re certain now; that’s what it has to be.

The thought is confirmed when he leans in, his large hands on your lower back. He’s warm, his touch cradling your waist, and you can feel the blush gather and tingle in your cheeks. You’d never thought about kissing Steven before (or just would never admit it), but God, it’s nice.

His prominent nose fits perfectly, allotted side-by-side with yours, his lips falling into synchronicity with yours. You let the moment take you, and you find yourself straddling his lap—the sweetest of sounds escaping his mouth. Steven shudders, capturing your lips with his again in a deep, passionate kiss. His hands slide from your waist to cup your face, tilting your head back to deepen the kiss further. He swallows your soft gasp, taking the opportunity to pull you in closer.

Another shuddering gasp leaves him as you adjust your seating in his lap, your clothed centre pressed against his. He groans into your neck, and you can feel the slightest scrape of his teeth over your throat. Reciprocating, you press a few scattered kisses along the sensitive skin of his neck before biting him gently. Just enough to test the waters. Voilà. He lets out a long groan, and it’s obvious you’ve awakened something in him by the way he lets the whimpers roll so freely now from his lips. His hips cant upwards to meet yours, the hardened bulge in the front of his slacks against your heated core. 

Warm hands skate down from your face to hover over your backside. His voice grows deeper. Deep like that time a few months ago he wasn’t paying attention and stubbed his toe on the corner of your couch. He had such an appetizing moan of pain that it made you feel guilty for the way you had to press your thighs together so tightly just for an ounce of relief afterward. “Fuck, lovey, can I?” With your nod of approval, his hands seize the globes of your ass. His grip is gentle but commanding, helping to establish the rhythm of your front against his.

It feels like everything’s falling into place now. You forget about your day, the lust-filled haze making you forget whether it was even good or bad.

The hard denim of your jeans shifts in such a way that it pinches your clit just briefly with a delicious sting. You can’t do anything to help the wanton cry that leaves you and the reflex that drives you to grind down on him. The feeling draws a sigh from you and a soft, whimper-y, “Stevennn…” To which he happily replies with another kiss, swallowing all your cries with fervour.

He starts kissing a path down your neck again, starting at your jaw and landing right above where your collar starts. His nose sits at the base of your throat. His big, brown eyes are half-lidded as they look up at you, desperate. Neither of you can remember what you’d been talking about before. Hell, you can barely think with the pounding of blood in your ears. You’d think all your blood had already migrated to your bottom half, the way you’re just so sensitive.

All the touch is overwhelming. So overwhelming that your mind is blank for a full minute when the doorbell rings. And then it hits you: you had anticipatorily ordered food earlier, to be delivered upon Steven’s arrival. And you had the ‘Meet At Door’ automatically selected on all your apps.

“Shit, Stevie, I gotta-” You start, finding your way to your feet. You make it—wobbly and needing a slight boost—but you make it up anyway.

He lets go, putting his hands up in faux surrender. “Got it. Don’t wanna keep the delivery bloke waitin’,” He says, with more than a hint of disappointment in his voice.

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I can't get over how Sinners is such a rich text on assimilation and whiteness and the dangers of "civility" and music as a way to look both forward and back

And it's also a phenomenal vampire movie where a lot of hot people get covered in blood and there's a B plot about eating out girls

[passine]

hiii my name’s naomi 👩🏽‍💻🫧 :-]

she/her/whatever. 18+. STEM girlie!

multifandom sideblawg for @specvell… current interests include: sinners (2025), hbo’s succession, mlp ocs & photography on my fujifilm finepix a600 from literally 20 years ago

i take reqs (and please send me notes/feedback/questions), though PSA, i don’t do a ton of CM stuff anymore ( ⍤ )

my most recent works ⤵

box’a chocolates, s. grant - going to his best friend's (you) flat after his failed first date with dylan, steven is distressed, upset, and feeling a bit insecure. how was he supposed to feel after learning he'd somehow missed out on five days with no leads on... how that even happens. the answer to this tragedy? getting all cozy and wrapped up on your couch, of course. there’s only one problem: he can't remember the last time he's been praised and comforted so much- and his neurotransmitters must be all out of whack because the next thing he knows his pants are getting mysteriously tighter.

coming up soon ⤵

lovely dividers by cursed-carmine