*clears throat* okay!!!!
but imagine the next time you two are apart (probably a day or two but it’s enough), imagine you decide to be the one that jumps him and kisses him all over and make sure you’re the first to say how much you missed him? you use his “how dare you get prettier” discourse on him and kiss him first and call him sweet names before you drag him home. poor boy would be flustered and with his cheeks on fire / pink and breathless and i bet he wouldn’t be able to form words 😮💨😮💨😮💨
oh just y e s - 1.4k, gn!reader i believe, this fic describes a blowjob and as always, MDNI this entire blog is 18+
He's not expecting it. It makes it that much better.
When you sneak down the aisles of the Family Video and spot a certain ass, in a pair of tight jeans that should be illegal, bent over to reach the bottom shelf, your heart sings. You let Steve straighten up, watching him closely as he dusts off his hands and then places them on his hips, leaning into one. Classic Steve pose. You can't wait any longer.
You strike.
Striding down the aisle as quickly as you can, you reach out and grab his shoulders, using the momentum to propel yourself up and cling onto his back - like a piggyback he's given you a thousand times before. Steve startles, but even then, he catches you. Hands come up under your thighs and his face is holds a smidge of that bitchiness you love.
It wipes away in an instant when he realises who it is.
"Baby!" He exclaims, his grip on your skin tightening. Excitement lights up his features- softening when you grapple closer, kiss him on the cheek, and say, "surprise!" with your best grin.
"I thought you weren't—“
"—Coming back til the weekend?" You interrupt. You smother kisses along his jawline, anywhere you can. You're beginning to feel a bit breathless by the time you pull back to speak again and Steve's eyes look oddly misty in their fondness. "Missed you too much. Came back early."
Steve lets go of your thighs and without his support, you sink down his back sluggishly, hands still tangled around his neck. He's turning quickly, his hands seeking out to tug you closer. They slide up along your jaw, cupping it sweetly. "Can't kiss you when you're back there, c'mere,"
It's maddening, the way he kisses you. Plush lips capture yours, soft and sweet, his fingers creeping along your jawline. His fingertips slide into your hair, tightening to pull you even closer.
When he pulls back, his pink cheeks give away his delight. You beat him to the punch on his own spiel. A frown knits together your brows as you reach up to hold his face, palms to his blushing cheeks.
"Hold on," You say. Steve's face flickers with concern. You turn his face in your hand, side to side, just an inch. "I thought we agreed you weren't going to get any prettier?"
Steve's cheeks darken from pink to crimson and try as he might, he can't hide his giddy smile with you holding his face between your hands.
"Stop," he chuckles, rolling his eyes lightheartedly. You shake your head and try to deepen your frown; your smile peeks through.
"I'm serious, Steven—"
"—Not my real name—"
"—I thought you were gonna tone it down, pretty boy. " You pout, reaching up to dot a peck on his nose. Steve looks at you unbearably soft, his grip growing slack as you continue with a grave nod. "You're doing a number on my heart."
"You're being dramatic." Steve says and it makes you grin wider.
"You love it."
It only takes one disgusted bleh! from Robin, who witnessed most of your strangely heartwarming reunion, to send Steve home early. Steve doesn't push his luck, just sheds his vest and blows a kiss to her as he leads the way out the door. You call your thanks over your shoulder, hands on Steve's shoulders, ushering him with a quick little go-go-go!
He doesn't ask why you're in any kind of hurry. There's no need to ask. When your back into your apartment, the door snicking shut behind you, you're upon him. Hands pressed against his chest like a panther sinking its claw into its prey.
Your lips find his skin, hot and heavy kisses along his neck and you can feel the way he pulls you close, pressing you up against him. You can already feel the shape of his hardness against your thigh. Desire flares hot in your tummy.
Steve huffs a breathy laugh, "Always against the door, huh?"
"Can't help it," you whine between your kisses. You give his neck a little nip, then soothe it sweetly with your tongue, basking in the sigh Steve gives. "Missed you."
"I-" He inhales sharply when your teeth scrape in just the right way. "Fuck, I missed you too, honey."
Your hand creeps on his chest, traveling down, down, til you can feel the waistband on his jeans — and then you keep going, fingers wrapping around the shape of him. Steve gives a soft groan, his hips pushing forward in your hand.
"Can I show you?" You say, putting on that sweet voice that just kills Steve every time. Peering up at him through your lashes, you watch his breath catch and his cheeks stay that glorious ruby red colour. "Will you let me show you how much I missed you, Stevie?"
You pair your words with a soft rub of his cock and Steve moans softly, eyes screwing shut. You're already sinking to your knees by the time he's remembering you've asked him a question. "Yes, yes, please, yes, you can."
The zipper scrapes audibly as you pull it down, shuffling clothes enough just to free his cock. Your mouth salivates just a little at seeing it again, even if you had only been gone for a total of three days. It's already leaking for you.
"Oh," you say softly, your hand wrapping around the girth of him. You move slowly, gently, thumb coming up to rub over his slit and spread his precum. A string of curses and moans escape Steve's throat. His hands clench tightly at his side. "So hard for me already?"
You're teasing him, just a bit. It works exactly as you planned — Steve shivers, his cock giving a little twitch in your hand. His voice sounds strained already when he speaks, "Didn't —ah— didn't touch myself when you- you were gone."
Surprise blooms in your chest and sets a fire in your belly, thinking of him waiting for you when you were away. Determination licks at its heels. You give his cock a more purposeful squeeze, adoring how he whines in response and lean up and give the tip a kiss, then a soft lick.
He moans again, raspy and long as you wrap your lips around it, your mouth hot and wet and perfect. You drool on his cock, letting yourself get it soaked as you suck on it gently — not taking him as far as you can. Teasing. Steve’s breathing is beginning to sound jagged, little whiny noises seeping into every breath.
You pull off with a slurp and use the slickness of your saliva to jerk him, your hand twisting perfectly on his cock to pull the most sweet and pathetic little noises out of your boyfriend. Your pace is nearly cruel how slow it is. Steve doesn't even dare complain, especially not when you whisper his name so he opens his eyes— and he sees you looking at up him from your knees. Beautiful.
"S’missed you so much," you say again, rubbing over his slit as you do, and Steve feels that familiar flare of heat in his cheeks as he chokes out a whine. You nuzzle against his cock, soft lips giving the smallest of kitten licks to the head of it and Steve can’t help it, he keens, giving a loud whimper. His lust is equally entangled with adoration.
"Missed this cock too," you say, beginning to pump your hand a little faster. Steve’s breath catches. "Missed hearing all the noises you make when you cum, Stevie— y'gonna let me hear them again?"
"Yeah," He whines loudly, hips chasing your grip, fucking his cock into warm, wet hand. It feels fucking amazing. Pleasure claws at his chest, rising rapidly.
He doesn’t even sound like himself as the next string of words pours from his mouth, all high and breathy— he must be so wound up from being away from you, "Yes, yes, gonna- fuck, gonna give you anything— anything you want."
Slowing your hand, there's only a moment for Steve to whimper before you take him back in your mouth and start sucking, cheeks hollowing. Your hand on his cock trails up, giving a soft rake of nails along his thighs before giving a soft rub on his balls.
Steve shudders violently, a gaspy moan warbling out his chest and the only warning you get is his hushed whimpery whispers of, "Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck," before he's spilling down your throat with a loud moan.
It drips from your mouth as you pull off, giving yourself some air as you take in the state of your boyfriend. It makes your feel down right carnal the way his looks slumped against the door, cheeks still coloured pink and pleasure written all over him.
You give him a minute before taking his softening cock back in your mouth, soft slow motions — Steve seizes up and whimpers loudly, hands reaching to pull you off him.
"Sensitive, christ," He pants a bit, gazing down at you. "S'too much, sweetheart."
You pout, turning to give his palm a little peck and give a little huff, then repeat your words from earlier. "Just missed you, baby. Won't you let me show you how much I missed you?"
Before you, Steve's cock twitches. You smile. It's going to be a long night.
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The only change NFCV made to canon that I like, dare I say even more than canon, is Hector killing his own parents rather than the fire apparently being caused by demons. It doesn't go anywhere in N!Hector's case (at the end of S3 he looks angrily into the fireplace, but sadly he doesn't set Carmilla and Lenore on fire, what a missed opportunity of poetic cinema), but this change would work splendidly in Hector's case.
Imagine. Baby Hector is tormented by demons day and night, who keep whispering in his ear that he doesn't deserve this treatment, and he should just kill everyone, because they should suffer the same pain they put him through, it's only fair. Hector is scared that one day he'll do something "bad", but he can't talk about anyone about these voices, everyone hates him enough and they think he's a weirdo when he stares into nothing, assaulted by vision and voices.
Then, one day, he returns home from his games with the animals… only to see that his mother killed his black kitten. His best friend in the world. "It's cursed, it brings us bad luck, as if you weren't enough." Father, of course, couldn't care less about anything: he never even noticed that his son went around with a cat in his arms, but even if it's dead, so what? It's only an animal. Nothing important, the kid should grow up already.
And Hector snaps. He agrees with the demons, for once. They do deserve to die for hating him so much. So he sets the house on fire, and enjoys his parents' screams, who don't sound too different from the demons screeching in his ear.
But then he returns to his senses, and he's horrified at what he has done, and he has no choice but to flee. He doesn't know where to go, so once again, he listens to the demons guiding him to Dracula's place. After all, he can't blame them for doing something horrible, can he? He was the one who killed his parents and enjoyed it. He really is a horrible creature. At least they care about him.
And there everyone, the demons, Dracula, Isaac, all tell him that he did the right thing, that it's alright to kill those who hurt you, and thanks to that action he saved himself and he found his true home.
And this is how Hector got desensitized to killing… but only those he believes deserve death 🙂 like the mob who executed Lisa, or Isaac when he orchestrated Rosaly's death. But not mankind as a whole.
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32) dust motes, Martin
The way that stained glass filters sunlight has a way of making everything feel—a little more holy. A little more beautiful. He understands anew, when the frosted segments of Akatosh cast the chapel in bright hues, the sense of serenity the chapel bestows.
The stained glass paints the front pews in bright afternoon oranges and golds, where Sister Oleta dozes next to the cobbler’s little girl. “We are praying, boy,” she grumbles without opening her eyes. The little girl cracks an eye open to peek, ducking her head again in embarrassment and holding her clasped hands over her face when she sees Martin.
Where Sister Oleta is praying in the front pew, he amends mentally. “I wouldn’t suggest otherwise,” Martin says, smiling, and blows a thin speckling of dust off the worn edge of the pulpit. In the light, against the shadows further in, the dust in the air looks like the flecks of gold leaf that cling to one’s fingertips from the front covers of the older catechisms. He draws a slow inhale. Dust in the air, breath in his lungs.
Perhaps it’s only that the right light can make anything beautiful.
The heavy sound of the chapel doors opening interrupts his cleaning and earns a dignified snort from Sister Oleta, mimicked in miniature by her studious little shadow. Eldamil stands squinting under the arch at the shift from bright outdoor sun to the darker chapel interior, his tall spindly frame silhouetted nearly black against the color of the city. His expression shifts as his eyes must adjust. “Brother Martin,” he nods. “I have the Guild’s donations for the month.”
“Ah—thank you.” Martin skirts the pulpit to hurry down the aisle. The small wood crate Eldamil lowers into his arms rattles faintly with the tell-tale sound of alchemist’s bottles. “Let me put these away and I’ll draw up your receipt.”
“Oh, do allow me to assist,” Eldamil says with a cat’s smile, quick. “I didn’t make any of these; it’s the least I can do, I’m sure.”
The hues of light in the chapterhouse are much less bright, much less variegated, but not unwelcome. Martin sorts and Eldamil tallies, head bent and shoulders stooped to accommodate his height as the pen scratches over the page. “Have you been well?” Martin holds up a bottle to inspect the smudged label—handled wetly while the ink was yet drying, it seems.
“Fairer than ever, Brother Martin.” He peers over the tops of his glasses frames at the bottle, then offers, “Allergy warning—wheat in that one.”
He sees it, now, the feathered shapes more legible once the meaning is supplied. “Thank you,” Martin sets down the bottle. “The constitutionals have been helping, then?”
Eldamil flickers another smile, somehow more obfuscated than the bleeding of the ink on the label. “You’ve no idea.”
“It’s good,” he says, watching him, curious, “to find a fresh perspective. A change every now and again refreshes the mind, I’ve found. Did you find anything interesting, exploring the streets afresh?”
“Many things,” Eldamil waves a hand. The curve of his mouth does not falter. “Odd, isn’t it, how people perform the same routines, take the same paths every day? Nothing changes, nothing new. No one really knows the place they live in.” He huffs a laugh, the light catching a glint off the lenses of his glasses. “No one really knows their neighbors, for that matter. Do we, Brother Martin?”
The last bottle tallied, his signature on the receipt. “No,” Martin says thoughtfully. “But isn’t that why we make the effort? There is always something to learn.”
“There is that,” he agrees. He scans the receipt before nodding, satisfied, and folding it to tuck into his shirt pocket. “Thank you for this. And for the privilege of assisting.”
“Please,” Martin lifts the emptied crate, amused, “I appreciate it. Let me carry this to the door for you. It went much quicker with the help—you seem singularly focused, lately. You are well?”
Some note of surprise flits across his face, then is subdued by his usual composure. “Yes, I promise. No need to waste your priestly concern on me, Brother. I suppose I am…” Eldamil pauses, adjusts his glasses, almost embarrassed. “I am only a little—a little excited. I am making myself ready,” he says at last. “I have a friend, coming to visit soon. That’s all. I’d like to show him all the new ways to walk the streets I’ve been learning. All the—small things, to appreciate, you understand.”
He does. It’s a nice thought to share with someone. He thinks of his own little discoveries of wonder, things to pause and point to. Dust in the air. Flecks of gold leaf. It’s only that people so often take it as doctrine instead, from his mouth. Martin walks him back up the short flight of stairs, the colorful chapel light welcoming their return, warmly dazzling. “I hope that your friend enjoys the city.”
Eldamil’s gaze lingers at the front of the chapel, where Sister Oleta has acquired three more small students tugging at her skirts with a thousand whispered questions that she shushes: There’s an order to these things, you lot; finish your prayers. He smiles without teeth, as blooming and golden as the motes still suspended aloft. “I think he will.”
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