(Steven Grant x reader)

word count -> 5.2k

plot summary -> your egyptology professor is HOT

a/n -> i finally got round to writing this, as requested! hope you enjoy the shameless unedited indulgence that is this fic <3 (also my new @ on tumblr is isawthisangel, changed from isawanangell)

...

Autumn. The start of term, the start of your final year at university in London.

You walked into the lecture hall and cast about the room for your friends, your gaze falling instead on the man stood at the front of the room. He smiled at you, and immediately your heart shot up into your throat. He was gorgeous.

You'd flashed him a smile in return, praying that your expression was one of utter neutrality, and made your way to the left-hand side of the room where a few of your friends were sat huddled together, your thoughts still very much with the man at the front of the lecture hall. Who is he?

'Hey. You look like you've taken something. Have you taken something?' Annabel asks you, by way of greeting. You hit her lightly with your bag as you sit down.

'I haven't taken anything. Don't be stupid,' you reply.

'She looks fine to me,' Monica comments, squinting across at you.

'Nah, she's all glassy-eyed.'

'She is fine. Shut up,' you say, pulling your laptop out and opening it up, using it as an excuse to peek over the screen at the man again. He's still handsome.

'Oh Lord, she's got a crush on the professor,' Annabel sighs, and you flush red before her words actually sink in.

'I have not – wait, what? Did you say profess-'

'Okay, let's start. Good mornin' everyone, I'm Professor Grant and I'll be your Egyptology professor for this term.'

Even his voice was attractive. You sank a little lower in your seat, and Annabel raised an eyebrow next to you. How were you supposed to concentrate now? You were going to fail the unit for sure.

You're hopeless, Annabel typed on her screen.

What's that supposed to mean?, you typed on yours.

Crushing on the professor two minutes into the lecture, she typed, and you could see her annoying smirk out of the corner of your eye.

I'm not crushing on anyone

Sure.

I'm NOT, and besides

'Excuse me, Miss Y/L/N, Miss Clarke.'

The name of your last name in his mouth made you jump almost violently, and your finger flew to the backspace button on your keyboard.

'While I appreciate the enthusiasm, there's no need for notetakin' quite just yet,' he told you, his gaze fixed so directly on you that you felt as though you were about to melt into a puddle on the floor.

Willing your face not to go red, you tried to remember how to form words with your mouth. Everyone was looking at you.

'Sorry, Professor,' you said, mortified. Annabel stayed silent next to you.

He continued the lecture, and you sat very still, practically buzzing with embarrassment. Half an hour later, when notetaking was apparently now acceptable, you heard a muffled giggle from Monica, and turned to look in her direction.

Written on Annabel's screen: Bet you £20 Y/N tries to come on to him by the end of term.

You aimed a kick at her under the table.

September passed in a daze of auburn leaves swirling in the wind and thinking about Egyptology a lot more than was maybe necessary, and by the time October arrived the course was really getting underway.

You promised yourself that you wouldn't let your stupid crush get in the way of your course; the thought of doing badly on assignments because of your feelings was just ridiculous. That didn't stop a small firework display from going off in your stomach every time your professor made eye contact with you for more than five seconds, though.

One week you'd worked up the courage to ask him a question at the end of class ('Oh, yeah? What about?' Annabel had smirked), and it had taken every ounce of concentration you possessed to speak to him coherently without losing your train of thought.

'Thanks, Professor,' you'd said afterwards.

'Call me Steven,' he'd told you, offering up a small smile, and you swear you'd forgotten how to breathe for a full minute afterwards.

It's not that you were trying to sabotage your grades, but you got it into your head that maybe, just maybe, he was looking at you in the same way that you were looking at him.

The days were drawing in, the clocks went back, and it rained almost every day. The Friday before Halloween you walked into class in a pleated skirt, platform boots, and polo neck jumper, shaking out an umbrella which dripped all over the floor, raindrops clinging to your bare legs.

Chancing a half glance at Steven as you walked by, you caught his gaze flying away from your legs as your head turned. You spent the rest of the day feeling quite giddy with satisfaction.

November arrived alongside an onslaught of assignments, which required more time spent on campus, something which might have annoyed you if there wasn't a chance of seeing a certain professor at any given time.

In lectures, you were finding it increasingly hard to concentrate.

He's not even that good looking, Annabel typed on her screen one day, and you had to supress a snort of derision.

Seriously?, you typed. You could look at him for hours. You did look at him for hours, fighting to absorb the information he was relaying to you, to not get lost in the way he would sometimes push a hand absentmindedly through his hair, leaving it perfectly tousled.

Everything about him was distracting. The way he was almost constantly frowning slightly in concentration, his brow furrowed as he read or listened to someone speaking. His glasses, which when he put them on shouldn't have made him better looking but somehow did.

Even the way he moved, the way he stood, drove you to distraction. He'd ask a question and then stand, his feet slightly apart, arms crossed over his chest waiting for raised hands while you concentrated on not watching the way the fabric of his shirt strained across his biceps.

One time he'd rolled his shirt sleeves up and you'd almost imploded on the spot. Monica had offered you some paracetamol, asking if you felt okay, while Annabel rolled her eyes in exasperation.

'Oh, come on,' you'd said quietly, nudging your friend. 'Tell me that's not attractive.'

She'd been silent for a second.

'I think that vein in his arm is looking at me.'

You'd accepted it as a win.

Winter. It snowed, and you had to stop wearing skirts so often. The end of the semester loomed, and Christmas lights started appearing around campus.

Steven called you Y/L/N, instead of Miss Y/L/N, in a lecture, and your friends started accusing him of favouritism. Not to his face, of course, just to yours. Their accusations filled you with an intense sort of pleasure.

During your last lecture before the Christmas holidays you'd been invited to a Christmas party right after class, and decided, against Annabel's advice, to wear your outfit to Steven's lecture.

It was nothing overly special, but the dress was nicer than anything you usually wore to class, and quite a bit lower cut. Not that you had taken this into consideration, of course. Heads turned as you walked into the lecture hall; one of the guys you'd worked with on a group project gave an appreciative whistle, and you couldn't help but smile a bit.

'Goin' somewhere nice, Y/L/N?' Steven asks you as you sit down. You hadn't looked to gauge his reaction when you'd walked in, and you're regretting it now. The use of your last name by itself sends a thrill through you, even though he'd addressed another girl in the class in the same way last week and it had made your blood practically boil with jealously.

'Christmas party,' you reply with a smile, shrugging your bag off of your shoulder. The guy who'd whistled at you is still looking your way; you can feel his gaze on you. You get your laptop out, and when you look back up Steven is looking at the guy, who is now chatting with his mates.

It might be your imagination, but you're sure you can see a muscle going in Steven's jaw as he watches him. Your breath comes short for a moment or two, but then he's starting the class and you're almost certain you had imagined it.

An hour and a half later you're faced with the prospect of not seeing Steven for three weeks (he's taking your class again next term - thank God, you'd thought when you'd found out) as people begin packing up and filtering out of the room.

'I might ask him to come to the Christmas party,' you say to Annabel at the end of the lecture. She turns to you, an expression of muted disbelief on her face.

'Are you mad?' she asks politely.

'Well... probably. But I-'

'Don't. Please, God, Y/N, do not do that. I'll pay you not to. How much do you want?'

You laugh, feeling slightly hysterical. 'I'm going to do it.'

'Right, and what happens when he turns you down and you have to come back and sit here next term knowing what you did?'

'But what if he says yes?' you ask. Annabel throws her hands heavenward and stands up.

'Please allow me to escort you from this room.'

You sigh, and let her, fully aware that you would most likely get rugby tackled to the ground by her if you tried to break away. Just before you follow her down the steps, you drop your jacket surreptitiously on to the back of your seat.

'Have a good Christmas, girls,' Steven says to you as you're practically dragged past him and out of the room by Annabel.

'Thanks. You too,' you manage to smile, and then you're in the corridor.

'Right. Do I have to escort you to the party as well? Or can you be trusted by yourself?' Annabel asks you.

'I'm fine. Thanks for looking out for me,' you say begrudgingly, and receive a rare smile from your friend.

'You wouldn't last a day without me.'

You say goodbye, wishing her a merry Christmas, and start heading across campus to where your car is parked. It's snowing gently, and you're beginning to regret your little plan. Now you have no jacket and pretty solid confirmation that you've been making everything up about Steven.

'Y/N!'

Your heart skips a beat as you hear him calling your name, and suddenly you're not at all cold anymore. You pretend not to hear him and continue walking.

'Y/L/N, hey!'

A small smile creeps across your face; you force it away as you turn and pretend to look confused. Steven is striding towards you through the snow, clutching your jacket.

'Oh, thanks!' you say, retracing your steps to meet him and taking the jacket from him. He's frowning.

'Aren't you freezin'?'

'I don't really feel the cold,' you lie blatantly, hoping that he can't see the goosebumps which have erupted across every inch of your exposed flesh. Which is quite a lot of flesh.

'Well, don't get ill. Enjoy your party,' he says, taking a step backwards. Before you can stop yourself, you say, 'Thanks. Are you doing anything nice tonight?'

'Yeah, actually I – have a date.'

The air turns to solid ice in your lungs, rendering you unable to draw a breath. You are frozen, unable to do anything but blink. Smile, Y/N. Smile!

It only takes a split second for your face to catch up with your thoughts, but you're certain the crushing disappointment you'd felt had been clear to see all over your features. The thought makes you want to bury yourself under the snow and stay there forever.

'Oh, that's great! Have a nice time,' you smile, gripping your jacket hard. There's snow in his hair and a few days' worth of stubble on his face and he's frowning at you in that way and he just looks so, so gorgeous.

And he's going on a date.

For a few seconds he doesn't speak, and you stand looking at each other in the snow, him frowning, you trying desperately not to shiver. Say something, you find yourself silently begging, suddenly feeling warm rather than cold as he holds your gaze.

'Thanks,' he finally says. 'Merry Christmas.'

And then he turns and walks back the way he came.

Much to your surprise you don't die from either embarrassment or heartbreak over Christmas, and come January you're so stressed about assignments that Steven is the last thing on your mind. Well, maybe not last. Maybe second. Or joint first.

You get through January's lectures mostly by telling yourself that he's probably now in a relationship, which actually does nothing to help and makes you quieter than usual. To make matters even worse he'd started growing his beard out; you'd decided that he was doing it specifically to torture you.

January rained its way into February; you got ill and were forced to stay in bed for just under a week, missing your lectures and having to rely on Annabel's sparse notetaking to keep up with your studies, and when you were feeling better she came to visit you.

'I swear he kept looking at your empty seat.'

You rolled your eyes, 'Yeah, right.'

'Like, you know I don't condone this weird thing you have for him, but it was like every five minutes.'

'He's definitely got a girlfriend, Anna,' you told her, wiggling the mouse around in circles on your laptop as you spoke.

'How do you know?'

'Well, how could he not?'

'To be fair, he's definitely hotter now he has a beard.'

'Hey, back off. I saw him first,' you grinned.

'He asked where you were, as well.'

Your heart did a sort of weak bellyflop.

'Did he?'

'Yeah, after class. He looked proper concerned and everything.'

'Only because I'm top of his class and he doesn't want me falling behind.'

Annabel erupted into cackles.

'If you're top of the class then I'm a PhD student,' she chortled.

'Well I'm not bottom,' you protested, feeling quite put out.

'I'm kidding, you're doing great,' Annabel said, getting to her feet. 'You'll be back next week? I can't stand another two hours of him gazing forlornly at your empty chair.'

'Shut up. Yes, I'll be back next week.'

Annabel had reignited a spark of hope in you; maybe he wasn't with someone after all.

Spring. Slowly but surely, the temperature began to climb, however the rain stayed relentless. You started wearing skirts again, not really knowing what you were hoping to achieve by doing so but wearing them all the same.

You managed to sit through a one-to-one meeting with Steven to discuss your dissertation without breaking out in a sweat, which you viewed as a win. There had, however, been one moment where he'd handed you some paper across his desk and your fingers had brushed together.

You'd felt the contact like an electric shock, a tingling sensation shooting up your hand. Steven had flinched as though he'd been burned, a movement so minute that afterwards you'd decided, again, that you had imagined it. The meeting ended quite abruptly after that.

April arrived and the downpours finally ceased. Your exams loomed, and a sort of quiet dread had descended upon you and your classmates in lectures.

There was little time for distraction anymore, even when Steven called you by your last name or stood behind you to read your work over your shoulder to offer advice. Even Annabel had stopped teasing you.

That eighth month of university was lost to you through your enormous workload; you lived, breathed, and slept assignments and essays.

Suddenly it was mid-May, and Steven was wishing you luck with your exams.

'Not that you need it,' he added, and everyone had smiled sort of grimly. You got the sense that, much like you, everyone was ready for this to be over.

You had a final one-to-one meeting with Steven after class, and walked with him to his office, Annabel staring after you. A few months ago this might have had you breaking out in a sweat, but the stress of your exams was leaving you little room for any other emotions.

'Will you wait out here for a second? Won't be long,' Steven asked you as you reached the door to his office.

'Sure,' you said, moving to lean against the wall.

You wait for a minute, then two, and it might be your imagination but you... can you hear him talking in there? You'd been certain there hadn't been anyone else in the room when he'd entered.

Another minute passes, after which the temptation to move closer to the door and try to hear what he's saying grows too strong. You strain your ears, trying not to look too conspicuous.

'Can't,' you hear him say, and he's speaking too quietly for you to make out full sentences. The only other thing you hear is, 'Don't you dare,' about another minute later, and then footsteps. You slide quickly back against the wall, positioning yourself as you had been when he entered his office.

The door opens.

'Come in,' he smiles, and you tell yourself, yet again, that you must have imagined him speaking, because there's no one in his office.

The meeting goes quickly; you have ten minutes to ask him a million questions about your papers, and you're so focused that you don't notice the whiteness of Steven's knuckles on his left hand, which grips a pen in danger of snapping in two.

You do however notice his voice, which sounds slightly hoarse.

'Are you... okay?' you ask him once your ten minutes is up, putting your papers back into your bag and standing up.

He seems to relax, his features softening as he looks at you.

'Yeah, just... it's been a long week,' he says. You smile and sigh, tilting your head in sympathy.

'Tell me about it.'

And then there's a moment where you're not entirely sure what happens. Steven tenses suddenly, his smile vanishing, and he closes his eyes, bowing his head. But before you've even had time to frown in confusion, he's looking back up at you, and your heart launches itself against the inside of your chest as though it's trying to throw itself at him.

Because all of a sudden he's looking at you like you've wanted him to look at you since September. Like he wants you.

He looks the same but... different, somehow. His eyes are darker beneath his hooded eyelids, and when he stands up it's not with the careful composure you're so used to, but with careless abandon, as though he means to go somewhere and is not planning on letting anyone get in his way.

You're frozen as he comes around the side of the desk and settles just in front of you, sitting back carelessly against the wooden surface and crossing his arms slowly, still looking at you like a man starved.

You swallow nervously, and then realise that you have stopped breathing, taking in a sudden breath of air which mortifyingly sounds like a small gasp. A smile begins to spread across Steven's face, slow and almost contemptuous. You can't take your eyes off of him.

'Was there... anything else?' he asks you.

A small part of your brain registers that he speaks with a deep, American drawl instead of the English accent that you're used to, but it's buried too deep for you to hear it at the moment. There are more important matters at hand, like the way he continues to look at you.

You open your mouth to say no, but find that you're physically unable to form words, and shake your head slightly, lips parted, instead.

His gaze falls from your eyes to your lips, and if possible, darkens even further. For a few blissful seconds you really think he's going to do it, that he's actually going to kiss you.

And then, then, his eyes continue downwards, almost excruciatingly slowly, and it's like you can feel his gaze on you as it moves south, carving a searing line of warmth down your skin. He stops around your shins, before his eyes make their way back up, if possible even slower than before, and you feel suddenly actually lightheaded.

When your eyes meet his again, you feel almost faint, your ears buzzing with shock.

'Off you go then,' he tells you, tipping his head towards the door.

For a few seconds you don't move, can't move, before wrenching your gaze away from him, turning on your heel and walking out of the room. Chest heaving, you walk-run down the corridor, and don't stop until you're in your car, where you allow your head to fall into your hands.

Steven's POV

It's so very frustrating wanting to hurt someone who lives inside your head.

'She's about to start her exams, she doesn't need her professor comin' on to her!'

You won't be her professor in a few weeks, Marc replies, in that stupid, haughty tone he uses when he knows he's in the wrong but won't admit it.

'That's not the point!' Steven half shouts, collapsing on to the sofa and imagining how mad he must look, yelling into the reflection of the TV screen.

It's exactly the point. You don't have to wait anymore.

'It's not about waitin', Marc. We've been over this; I'm not goin' to ask her out, student or not.'

Oh, come on. You know she wants-

Steven turns and walks away, flicking the kettle on so that he doesn't have to listen to Marc's voice anymore. This would have worked if not for the fact that he was literally inside of his head.

You need to hurry up and do it, or I will.

'If you so much as go near her you can say goodbye to frontin' for the foreseeable future,' Steven snaps. He hears Marc laughing.

As if you could stop me. I managed well enough earlier without you giving me control.

Steven puts his head in his hands when he thinks about earlier. He'd had to watch, in utter, agonising helplessness as Marc had looked at you like that, as you'd gone the most perfect shade of pink, eyes wide, lips parted, looking so ridiculously kissable...

He groans quietly, and can almost feel Marc smirking in his mind.

'Shut up.'

I didn't-

'Yeah, well don't,' Steven growls, preparing to make the angriest cup of tea ever. To Marc's credit, he does shut up after that.

Later that night, Steven says, 'Two weeks, and then her exams will be over. Maybe, then, I'll say something to her. If I see her again.'

The thought of not seeing you again, ever, is sudden and unpleasant.

We will, Marc says, and Steven doesn't ask how he can be sure.

Two weeks later you're still the first thing on his mind. Some students have been coming to see him before and after exams, but you're not one of them, and he can't decide whether to be relieved or disappointed about it.

He's in his office the day after the last exam, marking some second-year papers and resigning himself to the fact that you've forgotten about him, and that Marc had been wrong, there was nothing to it apart from him pining after you.

A knock on his door startles him out of his brooding, and he realises that he's been staring at the same sentence on the page for over a minute and not actually taking any of the words in.

'Come in,' he calls wearily. He's going to have to do this later, at home.

The door opens slowly, and when he looks up and sees that it's you he's instantly on his feet without remembering deciding to stand up.

'Hi,' you say, and Steven's heart starts beating double time, despite his best efforts to stay calm.

'Y/N, hi. To what do I owe the pleasure?'

And a pleasure it was; you were wearing a summer dress which barely reached your knees and no jacket, with boots and a bag slung over your shoulder. You stepped inside the room, leaving the door slightly open, looking... nervous?

Marc was suddenly front and centre in Steven's subconscious; he could see Marc watching you in the reflection of the tinted glass in the window behind you which looked out into the corridor. He was looking at you the same way he'd looked you at last time you'd been in his office.

'I just... wanted to talk about – before,' you said, and he could now hear the nervousness your voice carried.

'Before?' Steven asked, and caught sight of Marc rolling his eyes.

You took a few slow steps closer to his desk, hovering nervously before him.

'When I came in here before. I heard you talking when there was no one in here, and then you seemed... different,' you told him, looking almost apologetic.

Great. She thinks we're mad.

'Different, how?' Steven asked you, feeling Marc virtually vibrating with tension, and watched as you practically squirmed under his gaze.

'Well, you... you looked at me like – like you wanted to...'

Steven had had his chance. You were all but throwing yourself, verbally, at him, and he was just stood there like a lemon, doing nothing, saying nothing. Marc was at the end of his tether. You were struggling, it was plain to see, and Marc was loathe to sit by and watch a damsel in distress.

He took the body so abruptly that Steven barely had time to look surprised, and then he was finally, finally walking around the desk towards you, eyes fixed on you like you were the only bright point in a room full of darkness.

The door, he heard Steven saying, panicked, as if from down a very long tunnel. The door was still slightly open, and Marc almost scoffed at the thought of that getting in his way.

He reached you and, instead of pulling you to him and kissing you like he wanted, he took hold of your waist and without breaking his stride backed you up against the door, using you to push it firmly shut, a small gasp of an exhale escaping you as he did. Then he locked it, without breaking eye contact with you once.

Your pupils were blown wide with want, your lips parted slightly in that way which had driven him crazy last time, which had been keeping Steven awake for the last two weeks. And now he was inches away from them.

'Can I?' he asked, and didn't even think to be embarrassed by the way it came out as a hoarse, whispered plea.

Your eyes widened ever so slightly before dropping to his lips, and then you lifted your face a fraction of an inch and it was enough for Marc, who instantly, almost frantically pressed his lips to yours, kissing you hard.

You immediately turned pliant in his hold, kissing him back readily, your hands coming up to his arms, sliding up his biceps to his shoulders, pulling him closer to you while his hands gripped your waist, his thumbs pressing against your hips in the most intoxicating way.

He feels your hands carry on up meet at the nape of his neck, and then your fingers are in his hair and he's in heaven, he's actually in heaven. It's better than he'd imagined it, your lips are so soft and fit perfectly against his, just like your body between him and the door.

Your fingers are still tangled in his hair, and all of a sudden you make a fist and tug gently, and it feels so delicious that Marc can't help but let out a quiet groan against your mouth. You react with a small gasp, pressing yourself further against him, and it's all Steven needs to take control, taking advantage of Marc's stunned mind as he manages to front.

He breaks away from the kiss just to look at you; your lips are swollen from the kiss and your eyes have a slightly glazed quality to them, as though you've been stunned. Your faces are just inches away from each other, your body still pressed between him and the door.

'...like you wanted to do that,' you finish your sentence, breathless, and then you're kissing him again except for Steven it's for the first time and you feel so good. Your fingers in his hair are making his brain short circuit and he slides his hands up from your waist so that they're flat against your back, pressing you to him as though he can't have you close enough. Which he can't.

He could kiss you forever, and truly thinks that he would have carried on for days if not for his need for oxygen.

'Remind me why we didn't do this months ago?' he asks you when he pulls away. You giggle and blush, and maybe it's not just lust because something warm bubbles up inside Steven's chest when you look back up at him shyly.

'I didn't want you to think I might be doing it for the wrong reasons,' you say, and all of the reasons why he shouldn't be doing this rush back into Steven's mind. You must see his change in expression because a small frown appears on your face, and your hands leave his hair.

He lets go of you, despite all of his bodily instincts telling him not to, and takes a step back, leaving you stood, flushed-looking, in front of the door.

'You're still my student until you graduate,' he says, hating himself.

'But you just kissed me,' you reply, a small smile playing on your lips.

'I know,' he says, running a hand through his hair. Your smile vanishes.

'Do you want me to go?' you ask, your voice suddenly sounding very small, and abruptly he wants you close to him again, pressed flush against his chest.

Steven, Marc says, and it sounds like a warning.

'No, no, that's not what I meant,' Steven says quickly, taking a step back towards you and taking your hands in his. 'I'm just - if we get caught...'

'So we'll wait,' you say, and he's shaking his head before you've finished the sentence.

'No, enough waiting,' he replies, and you look visibly pleased as he says it.

'We should just maybe... not meet here again,' he continues, and you nod.

'Fine. I won't be here from now on anyway.'

Your phone buzzes in your pocket, and it seems to snap you back to reality.

'I should go,' you say, and Steven nods, letting go of your hands.

'Here, take my number,' he tells you, casting about for some spare paper and a pen on his desk. You take the piece of paper and fold it, putting it in your pocket.

'So can I kiss you again, or..?'

His lips are on yours before you can finish, and you smile into the kiss, which makes Steven's heart feel like it swells to twice its usual size. You break away reluctantly, and then you're saying goodbye, smiling, and disappearing around the door.

Steven sits back down behind his desk, and tries to find it in him to be angry at Marc for kissing you first. He can't.

You're welcome, Marc says, irritatingly.

'Shut up,' Steven says.