R A N D O M || OS

151. (MCU) Steven Grant - Red Flags *

https://astroboots.tumblr.com/

Pairing: Steven Grant x female reader (hints of Marc Spector x female reader)

Summary: Sweet as he is, dating Steven means you have to be willing to ignore a few red flags along the way.

Or alternatively: You get to use that ankle restraint on Steven and sit on his beautiful face.

Rating: really fucking explicit

Warning/content: will cause unrealistic sex expectations, bondage/restraints, cunnilingus (face sitting), safe sex; unsafe relationship choices.

Word Count: 9.2k (ahahahah please don't look at me)

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The warning signs were written all over him like a marquee outside a theatre, lit up in gold and bright flashing red neon.

On the first date you were supposed to have, he stood you up, only to call you four days later on a Wednesday night. Closer to midnight than dinnertime, oblivious and confused and asking where you were with a slight panic in his voice.

"Date's tonight, yeah? Saturday at seven?"

Un-fucking-believable.

That was the first red flag. The point at which you should have done the sensible thing and told him to piss off and lose your number.

He'd clearly lost the plot, and you've never been the forgiving type. You have a tendency to nurse your grudges like little houseplants by your windowsill, feeding them with pettiness that always simmers in your chest aplenty.

But there's something about Steven. Something you can't quite put your finger on that won't let you leave well enough alone. The friend who was with you when you'd approached him and asked for his number, had laughed and rolled their eyes.

"Of course, you'd be into him, he looks like the saddest stray dog at the shelter. The one nobody wants."

Which is true you suppose. But he's also charming in a geeky, unconventional sort of way. Surprisingly handsome, even if it's hidden underneath dishevelled hair better suited to a mad scientist and sleep-deprived black circles under his eyes. He's got the sort of beautifully defined jaw that belongs on a marble sculpture and gorgeous brown eyes that you want to drown in.

Besides, dating prospects in London can be grim. Even with this colossal fuck up, Steven was still the preferable option when compared with Ben on Tinder, whose profile photo showed him in a tux with his (hopefully ex-)wife standing next to him in a wedding gown. Or unsolicited dick pic numbers 1-3 and 5-12 (you were saving the possibility of number 4 for a rainy day). Or another dreary night home alone in your tiny flat.

So despite your better judgement, you take the tube to Leicester Square, slipping down the crowded alleys of Chinatown and into a tucked away dim sum diner with dimly lit walls washed in cracked red paint.

He's waiting for you at a cramped table in the corner, still looking like he hasn't had a good night's sleep in years. Hair unkempt and frazzled, much like the man himself. His entire body is bowed and hunching in on itself like he's afraid of taking up too much space—the whole of him one big apology for even existing. He's nothing much to look at, not until he looks up and sees you, and then his whole face lights up with amazed delight.

There's something about his hopeful, nervous smile that tells you this isn't a ploy or misguided attempt at negging. Not some weird power game to show you that he's just not that into you. Something about those big round puppy-dog eyes, filled with awe and gratitude for your presence, tells an entirely different story: he's the one who thought he was being stood up tonight. For whatever reason, this man genuinely seems to believe it's Saturday.