Written for the @steddie-spooktober week one prompts (a little late, oops!)
"Is that your blood?" Cozy/Cinnamon/Macabre
1k words ♡ rated T (for blood)
It’s warm in that sleepy autumn way, the kind of warmth that seeps into your bones. The fire crackles low in the fireplace and the cinnamon from the cider fills the house with something sweet and spiced.
Steve is at the sink, sleeves rolled up, hands deep in soapy water. The party’s over, laughter trailing off into the night as the last of his friends leave. He hears Robin squeal with laughter on the porch, followed by Eddie’s unmistakable cackle and Nancy's quiet murmurings. The door creaks shut behind them, and a moment later, he catches a glimpse of Eddie seeing the girls to their car, their voices now muffled by the closed windows.
Steve exhales, letting the silence settle around him.
He picks up a knife from the sink, its blade slick. It slips, cutting him across his palm.
"Shit." he mutters, dropping the knife and it clatters into the sink. Blood wells up fast, dark against his skin.
Steve jerks and spins, back connecting roughly with the sink, clutching his hand. Spots of blood drip onto the linoleum floor. He looks up to find Eddie standing in the kitchen doorway, silhouetted by the porch light streaming in from behind him.
Eddie crosses the room with a kind of grace that shouldn't belong to a guy in ripped jeans and a tattered leather jacket. Too fluid, too smooth. His eyes dark and fixed on Steve's hand.
In a single, trembling moment, Eddie catches Steve’s wrist, a thin line of blood trickles down to stain the rolled up sleeve of his sweater. The room is suddenly spinning, shadows stretching long across the kitchen, the air suffocating.
Eddie’s face is too close now, his breath warm and fast. He catches a flicker of something hungry in Eddie's gaze—Steve would almost call it ravenous. A hunger that feels almost too intimate, too possessive.
“Eddie—” Steve starts, but Eddie shushes him, voice somewhere between a sigh and a snarl, his teeth brushing dangerously close to the skin. His hand clampes Steve’s tighter, harder, until it almost hurts.
Their eyes lock at last and this isn't Eddie. Not his Eddie. This was a predator pretending at softness.
Panic rattles in Steve’s ribs as Eddie brings Steve's hand to his lips. His tongue presses against the wound, licking slow and deliberate.
Eddie’s lips are wet and crimson when he finally pulls away. Teeth sharp.
"I shouldn't have…" Eddie’s voice is shaky, barely a whisper, but it curls in Steve’s chest like smoke. There is pain on his face, eyes wet.
There he is. Steve's Eddie. But even still, he doesn't release Steve's hand, grip still tight. Pupils blown wide, chest heaving, Steve doesn't make to pull away.
Even though he should shove Eddie away. He should run. He thinks these things even as his body sways closer.
All he can think about is the warmth of Eddie's mouth against his skin. The cider has turned heavy and sweet, sticky in Steve’s throat. "Then dont stop," he says softly.
“You don’t know what you’re asking for,” Eddie says, his voice rough.
That was all it took. The cut on Steve’s hand pulses, hot and stinging, and Eddie’s mouth is back in a flash, tongue tracing the blood like it is the sweetest thing he’s ever tasted. Steve lets his head fall back equal parts terrified and entranced, listening to the sound of his own blood being swallowed.
Steve knows he should pull away. He can feel Eddie’s control fraying, the way his grip tightens, nails biting into Steve’s skin as if to keep him from slipping away.
“Eddie,” Steve whispers again. It's supposed to be a warning, it comes out a plea.
Eddie finally pulls back, panting, lips dark with blood. His chest rises and falls like he’s been drowning and only just come up for air. Steve slumps back, dizzy, his pulse fluttering wild beneath slick skin.
For a long moment, they just stare at each other.
And in that moment, Steve realizes he wants more. Craves it. The warmth of Eddie’s mouth, the terrible closeness of it.
“Jesus, Harrington,” Eddie rasps, dragging a hand down his own face as if trying to wipe away what he’d just done. “I—I shouldn’t have done that—”
“Do it again,” Steve says. His voice shakes, not with fear, but with want.
Eddie freezes, every muscle rigid. “You don’t know what that means.”
“I know enough,” Steve says, tipping his chin slightly, exposing his neck. “You're hungry.” He swallows, tasting cinnamon on the back of his tongue. “So feed.”
Eddie hesitates. Wavers, but after a moment leans in, pressing his mouth against Steve’s neck. His teeth graze the skin, not quite biting, the brush of them as intimate as a kiss.
When Eddie finally sinks his fangs in, Steve feels a sting at his neck, sharp as broken glass. He gasps, his hands clutching Eddie’s shoulders. Pain lances bright for a heartbeat, then melts into something deeper, something warm. His hands reach up to tangle in Eddie’s soft curls, pulling him closer, anchoring him there.
Eddie groans against his throat, drinking like a man starved, but uses one of his hands to tenderly cradle Steve’s jaw.
Steve let his head tip back, eyes fluttering shut. It's dark and dizzying. Eddie’s mouth works at his throat in a rhythm almost like a kiss. Achingly tender even as his fangs slide deep.
When Eddie pulls back at last, breath ragged, his eyes meet Steve’s—wide, dark, and shining with something soft.
“I’ve got you,” Eddie whispers, thumb brushing Steve’s cheek like a promise.
Steve sways, boneless now, chest rising in shallow breaths. The world tilts, but Eddie’s arms are already there, steadying him.
Eddie presses a sticky kiss to the hollow of his throat, where blood still pulses slow beneath the skin. “Rest,” he murmurs. “I’m not going anywhere.”
And Steve, wrapped in warmth and ache, lets the darkness take him.
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