#vampires will hurt you/love you

[wolfbluebird]

The Thirst and the Thaw

WandaNat x Fem!Vampire!reader

(No use of Y/N)

Summary: In the quiet isolation of a snow-laden Finnish safe house, the hunger you’ve been denying grows too loud to ignore. With your blood supply gone and the instinct clawing at your control, Wanda and Natasha offer what you fear to take—themselves. What begins as a desperate attempt to survive spirals into a near tragedy, and you’re left reeling from the monster you nearly became. But even in the aftermath, even through fear and failure, they don’t let you go. A story of blood, guilt, and the kind of love that holds on—no matter what you become.

TW: Graphic depictions of blood and feeding, Descriptions of near-feral hunger and loss of control, Brief depiction of self-loathing and guilt, Implied past trauma, Threat of violence (non-sexual, vampire-related), Reader injures a loved one under duress, Recovery from a traumatic incident

(Men and minors dni)

The silence in the Finnish woods was so thick it pressed against the walls of the safe house like snow-laden branches. In the beginning, it had been welcome—quiet, peaceful, a relief after the chaos of the mission. A safe house nestled in a forgotten stretch of forest, shielded by layers of magic and off-the-books S.H.I.E.L.D. protocols. You’d spent the first few days in a cocoon of blankets, cocoa, and low murmurs between Wanda and Natasha as the three of you healed. But that calm had curdled now.

It started with the ache behind your eyes. A slow, steady pulse. You told yourself it would pass—you were strong, trained, and disciplined. But strength didn’t negate biology. And biology was getting harder to ignore.

By day five, the blood supply you had packed for yourself was gone.

You hadn’t said anything at first. You could get by, you told yourself. You could last another few days. But your body disagreed. Hunger started to gnaw at you with sharp, insistent teeth. It made you restless. Pacing the small cabin like a caged thing. Waking in the middle of the night with your fangs extended, breath ragged, jaw clenched so tightly it felt like it might crack. You didn’t trust yourself—not anymore.

And they knew.

Wanda had caught your gaze lingering too long on her neck. Natasha had seen your hands trembling when you reached for the kettle. They weren’t stupid. You weren’t subtle. So it wasn’t a surprise when, on the sixth night, they cornered you in the living room.

You were sat near the fire, knees drawn up to your chest, too tired to pretend you weren’t freezing from the inside out. Wanda sat on the rug in front of you, her hand warm where it touched your shin. Natasha stood behind her, arms crossed, expression soft but serious.

“You need to feed,” Wanda said gently. “We can see it.”

“I’m fine,” you lied, and the words came out cracked.

Natasha raised an eyebrow. “You’re not. And you know it.”

You looked away, guilt a stone in your throat. “Even if I needed it… I’m not feeding from either of you. That’s not up for discussion.”

Wanda tilted her head, eyes narrowing slightly. “Why not?”

“Because I could hurt you,” you snapped, more harshly than intended. You sighed, running a hand over your face. “You don’t know what it’s like when I lose control. I—I’ve never fed from someone I love before. If I take too much, if I don’t stop, it could—” You swallowed hard. “It could kill you.”

A long pause. Then Natasha stepped forward, kneeling beside Wanda.

“We’re not afraid of you,” she said. “We’ve faced worse things than a bite.”

“It’s not just a bite,” you said quietly. “It’s instinct. It’s hunger. It’s—” You shook your head. “It’s not safe.”

Wanda reached for your hand, lacing her fingers with yours. “It’s not safe for you either. You’re getting worse. Your pupils are blown, your body’s shaking, and you haven’t slept. If this goes on another day, you’ll snap and hurt someone anyway. Maybe one of us. Maybe yourself.”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

Natasha leaned in then, her voice low. “If this was me, and I needed something only you two could give, would you let me suffer out of pride?”

You winced. “That’s not fair.”

“No,” she said softly. “But it’s true.”

You looked between them—your girls. Your beautiful, brave, infuriating girls. Wanda, whose touch had become your anchor, whose magic warmed the air around her like sunlight. Natasha, whose sharp edges you had somehow learned to hold without bleeding. They were offering something sacred. Trust. Willingness. Love.

Your fangs ached in your mouth. You wanted to say no. You wanted to hold onto the last shreds of restraint. But you were so tired. And they were still there. Still choosing you.

“Okay,” you whispered. “Okay. Natasha first.”

You didn’t miss the quick flicker of relief in both of their eyes—relief that you’d finally agreed, that you were still lucid enough to choose—but it made your chest ache. They shouldn’t have had to offer themselves like this. But they had. For you.

Natasha’s movements were steady as she joined you on the edge of the bed, pushing up the sleeve of her soft black long-sleeve until her forearm was bare. Her skin was pale in the golden light of the oil lamp, marred here and there by fading bruises and healed scars—each one a story you already knew by heart. But now she was offering something new. Something sacred.

You stared at the soft, vulnerable place just above her wrist, where the veins pulsed visibly under the skin. Your fangs were already out, no longer able to hide themselves. Your jaw ached from holding back. Hunger roared in your gut like a storm, but your fingers were gentle as they wrapped around her arm.

“I need you to tell me the second it’s too much,” you said. “Don’t wait. Don’t try to tough it out.”

“I will,” Natasha murmured. “I trust you.”

That undid you more than anything else.

You lifted her wrist toward your mouth slowly, reverently. You kissed the skin first, a soft brush of your lips, and she shivered under the contact. Then, without letting yourself hesitate, you sank your fangs in.

Her blood hit your tongue like heat and iron and smoke. Rich. Potent. Alive. For a moment, everything else vanished. The cold. The fear. The guilt. It was just her, pouring warmth into your starved body, and you drank with slow, careful pulls. The taste of her curled through you like silk and fire, and you had to close your eyes against the rush of sensation.

Natasha didn’t flinch. Her breathing deepened slightly, but she stayed still beneath your mouth, her fingers curling gently into your hair, anchoring you. You let that tether hold you in place, one hand pressed flat to her thigh, grounding yourself in the solid warmth of her. You listened—to her heartbeat, to her breath, to the way her body responded—and you stopped the exact moment the rhythm changed. Before her pulse weakened. Before the hunger in you could try to drown the part of you that loved her.

You withdrew slowly, licked the wound closed with care, then pressed your forehead to her wrist, your whole body trembling.

“Fuck,” you breathed, the aftertaste of her still burning through your veins. “I’m sorry. That was… more intense than I thought it’d be.”

She was pale, but smiling. “It’s alright,” she said, her voice low and steady. “I’m alright. I’ve had worse bites.”

You huffed a laugh, but there was too much emotion behind it. You couldn’t meet her eyes as you reached for the clean cloth Wanda offered, dabbing gently at the two tiny punctures before applying a plaster. The bandage was ridiculous—a little cartoon fox from a first-aid kit meant for minor scrapes—but Natasha grinned when you smoothed it into place.

“Fierce predator,” she teased, voice wry. “Absolutely terrifying.”

You rolled your eyes. “Shut up.”

She leaned in and kissed your cheek anyway.

And then Wanda held out her hand.

Her wrist was already bared, slender and trembling slightly, but her gaze was calm. Determined. You stared at her, something primal twisting deep in your gut.

“Are you sure?” you asked, voice strained. “Yours is… different. I can feel it.”

Wanda nodded. “I want this. I trust you too.”

You hesitated. But only for a moment. Because the truth was, you wanted her too. You needed her.

You took her wrist with both hands, cradling it like something precious. You pressed a kiss there too, reverent as a prayer, then let your fangs pierce her skin.

Her blood hit you like fire.

It’s not like Natasha’s. Wanda’s blood is chaos and sunlight, grief and power, every emotion she’s ever swallowed down now pouring into your mouth. You drink—and the taste drags you under. It’s too much. She tastes like love. Like your name whispered in the dark. Like the first time she held your face and didn’t flinch. You feel her in every inch of you—her magic threads through your veins, golden and wild, binding you to her in ways that make your chest ache.

She gasps. Her head tips back.

And you don’t stop.

You can’t.

You’ve never tasted anything like this—sweet and aching and full of memories. Her childhood. Her loneliness. You feel it all, and your hands grip her tighter, anchoring yourself to her like she’s the only thing holding you together.

Her breathing stutters. Her fingers twitch against your shoulder. But you don’t stop.

Her heartbeat falters.

And then Natasha is there.

She yanks you back, hard, her arms around your chest like iron bands as she tears you away from Wanda.

You scream—no words, just sound—and fight her, fangs still bared, hunger still wild. But Natasha holds you. Holds you like she’s done before. Like she will always do. Her breath is in your ear, fierce and shaking.

“Stop. Stop, baby. She’s done. That’s enough. You’ve got to come back now.”

Your hands are fists in her shirt. Your vision is red at the edges. You can still feel Wanda’s pulse against your lips, her blood singing in your body.

But Natasha is stronger.

She keeps whispering. Keeps anchoring you.

And finally—finally—you come back to yourself.

Wanda is on the bed, curled in on herself, pale and shivering. But her eyes are open. She’s conscious. She’s looking at you with something that hurts worse than any wound—trust.

You drop to your knees at the bedside, trembling. Your fangs are still out, your breath ragged.

“I didn’t mean to,” you whisper. “I didn’t mean to go that far. I’m so sorry, I—”

“Shh,” Wanda murmurs, her voice hoarse but gentle. “You stopped. That’s what matters.”

“I didn’t,” you choke. “She stopped me.”

Natasha moves beside you, kneeling, her hand warm against your back. “You would’ve,” she says. “You just needed help. That doesn’t make you a monster.”

“I could’ve—” You don’t finish the sentence. You can’t.

Wanda reaches for your hand, her grip weak but insistent. “You didn’t,” she says. “I’m still here. And I’m not afraid of you.”

Her thumb strokes over your knuckles, and your throat tightens.

Natasha presses a kiss to your shoulder. “We’re not leaving you to carry this alone. Not now, not ever.”

You hold Wanda’s hand like it’s a lifeline, and Natasha wraps herself around both of you, pulling you close until the three of you are tangled together on the floor, heartbeats mismatched but steady.

You lick the bite marks on Wanda’s wrist closed with trembling care, and when you press two plasters over them—matching ones this time, little cartoon foxes—she smiles.

But you don’t.

Because as the haze lifts, and the rush of blood dulls into something quieter, colder, realer—you finally see Wanda. Really see her. Her skin is too pale, her body curled small with exhaustion, dark circles under her eyes like bruises. You had done that. You had almost—

Your stomach twists, still not full, still not satisfied, and that’s what does it.

That clawing, awful part of you that whispers, More. Just a little more. One more pull, and you’ll feel whole again.

You jolt back from her like she’s on fire. The instinct flares and fizzles, shame rising like bile in your throat.

“I can’t—” you start, voice raw. “I need to go. Just for tonight. I—I need to be away from you.”

Natasha blinks, still crouched beside you. “What? Why?”

“I’m not safe,” you say quietly, backing away until your spine hits the wall. “I thought I was. I thought I could handle it. But I couldn’t. And I still—” You stop yourself before admitting just how badly you want to taste Wanda again. “I don’t trust myself. And I’m not putting either of you at risk.”

Wanda pushes herself up onto an elbow, barely steady. “Please don’t do that. You stopped. You came back.”

“I didn’t. She did.” You nod toward Natasha. “If she hadn’t been here—”

“But I was here,” Natasha says. “And I will be. We’re not going to let you spiral alone.”

“I can’t be around her tonight,” you say firmly, staring at your own bloodstained hands. “I still want it. That should terrify you.”

“It doesn’t,” Wanda whispers, but she’s too tired to fight you on it. And that breaks you more.

You back slowly toward the guest room—tiny, windowless, just a cot and a bolt on the inside of the door.

“I’ll lock myself in,” you say. “Just for tonight. I need to reset. I need to remember I’m still me.”

They don’t stop you, not really. Natasha watches you go with a tight jaw and damp lashes. Wanda leans her head against her knees, fighting the fog of blood loss. Neither of them begs. Neither of them turns away.

They trust you. Even now.

You shut the door. You slide the bolt.

And then you sink to the floor, pressing your back to the wall, fists clenched, fangs still aching behind your lips.

You don’t sleep. Not that night.

But you sit in the dark with the guilt, and the hunger, and the terrifying reminder of what you almost became.

You sit with it because it’s yours to carry. Because if you’re ever going to earn the right to touch them again, you have to know that next time—next time—you’ll stop yourself.

The light in the safe house was grey and pale when you finally stirred. Morning, maybe. Or just the slow thaw of northern dawn through snow-heavy clouds. You hadn’t slept—not really. Maybe you dozed in fits, but your dreams were sharp and red-edged, and the hunger was still a dull throb in your throat, echoing beneath your skin.

You hadn’t moved from the floor. Still curled where you’d collapsed the night before, knees to chest, your back pressed to the wall like you were trying to sink through it and vanish entirely. The cot remained untouched. You hadn’t deserved the comfort of it.

There was a knock at the door.

Soft. Familiar.

“Moya lyubov’?” Natasha’s voice. Careful. Testing. “You awake?”

You didn’t answer at first. But you heard the sound of her settling just on the other side of the door, her back sliding down the wood, mirroring your posture like she knew exactly how you were sitting.

“I know what you’re doing,” she said after a moment. “Locking yourself away like this. Punishing yourself. You think that’s protecting us.”

You closed your eyes.

“It’s not.”

There was silence for a few seconds, then a second body joined her on the other side. Wanda’s presence was unmistakable—like warmth easing in through the cracks, her magic brushing softly beneath the door like fingertips reaching for yours.

“I’m alright,” she said gently. “Really. I slept a little. Nat fed me. I’m just tired.”

You could hear the way she leaned her head against the wood. “But we’re worried about you.”

You buried your face in your arms.

“I nearly killed you,” you said hoarsely. “You’re both acting like that’s nothing.”

“It’s not nothing,” Natasha said. “It was scary. But it wasn’t you. It was your hunger. And you came back.”

“I didn’t come back fast enough.”

“You came back,” Wanda echoed. “You stopped before it was too late. That means everything.”

You shook your head, even though they couldn’t see. “It doesn’t mean I’m safe. It means I’m a risk. And I’m not willing to gamble either of you.”

There was a pause.

Then the doorknob rattled gently. Not trying to force it—just testing it.

“You think we’re scared of you?” Natasha asked. “We’ve seen what you are when you lose control. And we still love you. So either let us in, or come out here. Because we’re not going away.”

You hesitated. Everything in you still screamed that you didn’t deserve their softness. That you needed to stay in this box you’d made for yourself. But Wanda’s voice broke through your spiralling thoughts like sunlight through ice.

“I kept reaching for you in my sleep,” she whispered. “Natasha had to hold my hand so I wouldn’t notice you were gone.”

Your chest caved in around her words.

Your fingers trembled as you reached for the bolt, sliding it back with a quiet metallic click. The door creaked open a fraction—and then warm arms were already around you. Natasha pulled you into her chest without hesitation, her hand cradling the back of your head like she’d been waiting all night to do it.

Wanda joined you both a second later, wrapping herself around your waist from behind, her face pressing into your spine, her fingers knotting in the fabric of your shirt like she was afraid you’d disappear again.

“I still want to run,” you whispered, raw. “Even now.”

“But you’re not running,” Natasha murmured. “You opened the door.”

“You let us in,” Wanda said, voice thick. “That’s all we ever needed.”

And you broke.

Right there, in the tiny hallway of a safe house in the woods, you let it all fall—guilt, fear, control. Your girls held you through every ragged breath, every whispered apology, every trembling exhale. They rocked you gently between them, their warmth banishing the cold that had lived in your chest since the night before.

You didn’t feed again that morning. You didn’t need to. You just let them love you.

[Masterlist]

[hitlikehammers]

unforeseen complications 🩸 steve/kas!eddie

“What’s wrong?” Steve doesn’t try to sit up again, knowing Eddie wants, more like needs to press against Steve like this because…they’d pushed the boundaries. Eddie had needed more blood than normal, because they’d skipped out on more than one quick snack-time. And Steve does feel the hit harder for it. It’s not a foreign feeling, though: the aftermath, beyond what his own body needs to recover— “We can’t keep doing this, Steve.”

rating: t ♥️ tags: post-s4, kas!eddie, established relationship, angst with a happy ending, as in: eddie angsts about his new vampiric tendencies while steve has none of it, true love, blood drinking (just a little), terrified eddie (that he did steve any possible damage), long-suffering steve (who knows it’s all completely fucking FINE and also they’re dumb in love forever)♥️

for @steddielovemonth day eight: "I'll take care of you." "It's rotten work." "Not to me. Not if it's you." —Euripides

Steve is groggy, his head’s a little fuzzy and unevenly weighted in that way he can already tell will make him dizzy when he opens his eyes and tries to lift it—so he doesn’t, not just yet—but normally he sleeps this part off. Normally the side effects aren’t as sharp as this is already shaping up to be, because his body keeps him blissful conked out long enough where it’s all a little more of a dull roar that he can ignore while he gets through the day and slides slow back to normal.

And it’s not like it gets this intense that often; it’s in extenuating circumstances. Sometimes one’s they create for themselves, sure, but usually it’s some world-threatening shitfuckery that pushes the limits this bad. Like…at least eight times out of ten.

At least.

So it’s weird that he’s waking up before he’s due to shake off the worst of it, when said worst-of-it is still clinging to his skin, his eyeballs, the linings of his veins.

He tries to make sense of what he can feel through the fog: weight, mostly. Something heavy that’s not just his own body rebelling against regaining consciousness too soon. There’s…something on top of him.

Heavy.

Shaking.

There’s a sound, maybe, like…breathing but that’s shaky too and—

Oh.

Oh no, it’s not just shaky.

The weight on top of him’s fucking crying, and trying real hard not to be found out for it.

Steve would goddamn know what that sounds like, specifically. From a whole-ass lifetime of experience in his godforsaken family.

And Steve knows what his own fucking boyfriendsounds like in distress, so—

“Eds,” Steve doesn’t even have to push to open his eyes and sit up too fast because there no dizziness, no nausea he can’t work through when Eddie in need is on the other side of it; “what’s wrong, what happened, I—”

The hand on his chest is firm but awkward, because Eddie is still splayed over his chest, doesn’t seem to have any intention of moving at all.

“Lay back down,” Eddie’s voice is muffled in Steve’s skin; “save your strength, you’re still,” and yeah…muffled, but too rough, cracked down the middle; “you’re…”

More than cracked, fuck. Shattering.

“What’s wrong?” Steve doesn’t try to sit up again, knowing Eddie wants, more like needs to press against Steve like this because…they’d pushed the boundaries. Eddie had needed more blood than normal, because they’d skipped out on more than one quick snack-time. And Steve does feel the hit harder for it. It’s not a foreign feeling.

And the aftermath, beyond what his own body needs to recover—

“We can’t keep doing this, Steve.”

—is also not unexpected. Pretty fucking routine now. Steve’s even practiced enough to swallow down the urge to sigh.

Because, considering that Eddie is skin-to-skin, blanketed on top of Steve under about seven blankets, more than Steve even knew they owned as he shudders through something suspiciously close to sobbing while the tone of the words screamheartbreak: Steve would have every right to be concerned when it sounded a whole hell of a lot like his boyfriend was trying to break up with him.

The first time was a fucking doozy, sure. Second time even, that sucked too.

Now though, with it being fairly fucking routine for…close to a year, now, especially after rough runs like last night?

Steve’s kinda learned to take it as the sign of affection he’s come to understand it stems from, deep in Eddie’s too-soft, too-tender chest, always having been ready to feel so fucking much—Steve wishes he’d known it sooner. Maybe they could have felt less alone, together.

Whatever. They’re here now.

Though it’d been a pretty free-and-clear couple of months—Eddie had only crumbled so far as to have shaken in a corner in Steve’s arms for close to probably five hours one of the three or so times they’d had to stretch too much time between regular feedings—because when Eddie came back, when he appeared in Steve’s living room dripping the black sludge the Upside Down seemed to specialize in best—trembling and stammering and…be-fanged.

And Steve had just looked at him, gaped a couple minutes—which he stands by being wholly fair and justified—and then did the only genuinely sane thing he could have done, given the givens.

He’d pushed Eddie toward the nearest fucking bathroom, under some hot water, and cleaned him the fuck up.

And didn’t think—yet—about how warm it made Steve: the sight of Eddie’s naked frame under the spray as it slowly siphoned off the goo.

Nope. Not the time.

He was sick, though, that was clear, but Steve…he can’t explain even now how he knew to be cautious in letting anyone in the Party know that they’re friend, this singular lost member of their family had somehow crawled back to the land of the living. Because yeah, it could have been the fact that Eddie was cool to the touch. Paler than he’d been before. Barely had a heartbeat but was definitely alive enough to insist he was pressed into Steve’s heat every night, in Steve’s bed; to keep shaking, to wretch more of the black slime up until it was just dry heaving, and…

There were plenty of reason to have caused the hesitance. But it wasn’t any of that.

It wasn’t even how, after Steve slit himself on an envelope, Eddie had scurried to his side, made to lunge then cowered back, cried like he was in pain before saying the first words Steve had gotten out of him yet:

Please. I’m sorry, I’m sorry Stevie, please—

And Steve wasn’t immune to what spending every fucking night wrapped up in another body. A definitely not unattractive body. A body belonging to a personality that Steve was getting pretty interested in getting to know better—literally and…intimately, y’know, Steve crossed the bridge of being totally shocked by that after he’d less-than-half-mourned Billy fucking Hargrove for the sake of his and and literally no other reason—but. Yeah.

He’d have given Eddie anything, at that points while he was hoarding and harboring him, safe as much as selfish in this house. He’d have—

What Eddie wanted was the blood from his papercut. And…well.

The fangs make…wel, they made a lot more sense all of a sudden.

Eddie fought it when Steve dragged him to the couch and offered his wrist because the guy was sucking kinda pitifully, like, way too desperate on Steve’s fingertip and not in a sexy way—and Steve would actually really like to reach the point of it being a sexy way someday, specifically with Eddie, he’d already stopped trying to deny that to himself—so he pulled his hand away, cupped Eddie’s cheek (warmer, more color in it), brushed by accident against his jugular (a real pulse, and racing, but overtaxed, like it needed…more to work with and yeah, if Steve hadn’t made up his mind already that would’ve done the job, flat out)—and when Eddie whimpered, Steve pushed his advantage of having a full blood supply, dragged Eddie into his lap, tore his own bloody strips from above the veins he could see under the heel of his palm straight down and Eddie gasped, cried out, tried to scramble away—

But Steve shoved his wrist to Eddie’s lips—knew it was maybe dirty pool but…he wasn’t stupid. If Eddie needed blood, he…he needed blood.

And Eddie was reluctant, at first, didn’t try to pull away once he realized that Steve had got him in a pretty solid hold from the waist down, and he just was not strong enough right now, not yet but he could be, if he’d just—

Steve hadn’t been worried, but if there’d been reservations, like, if Robin had had any idea he was doing this and voiced her innumerable concerns: if Steve have been worried, Eddie’s presence of mind to even think to resist, to look at Steve like he was in pain to avoid the blood waiting on offer, specifically for him, it’s all he would need.

But seeing that Steve hadn’t even thought to be worried, he ultimately caught Eddie’s frantic eyes, leaned in and brushed his lips to Eddie’s, tasted his own blood as he whispered:

It’s for you, I want you to have it so that you’re okay, and his hand had braced on Eddie’s chest where that heartbeat was struggling, but wild, and he didn’t even dare to blink until Eddie’s tongue lapped accidental at the blood steaming down.

And the rest is…history.

Eddie had tried to set his own limits, but Steve’s old hat at being the victim of the Upside Down’s bullshit, or Russian spy craft at that; he knows when the blood loss is actually a concern. He keeps his hand to eddie chest, makes his own call when that pulse is strong enough to ease his wrist away.

Steve hadn’t been a fucking lifeguard, after all. He does know some things.

And so that had been…that.

They’d told the others, eventually, but just that Eddie was back. It was enough to prove Steve’s fears in and of itself—they already suspected Vecna, Eddie as a sleeper agent or some shit, two guns trained on him in an instant: and that’s without the blood…thing.

So they keep that to themselves. It’s definitely a contributing factor to how they end up in dire enough straits that Steve’s laid up a little after just some casual bloodsucking until eddies heartbeat finds its strength of rhythm again.

It’s not a big deal. Steve’s had so many migraines worse than this ever is.

Except for when it gets to how Eddie reacts. How he falls apart for fear, for Steve.

That’s the worst pain Steve’s ever known, every goddamn time.

“You were cold,” Eddie’s voice shivers as he raps into Steve’s chest hair; “to me, you were cold to me.”

“You’d just fed, and you were hurting for it,” Steve reasons; it takes Eddie time to warm back up when they spread the feeding out too long. “You’re still not evened-out,” he reasons; Dustin would have a good science-y name for it, but they…they can’t risk it.

Steve won’t fucking risk it. Risk Eddie.

He cranes his neck, keeps his eyes closed to make sure he doesn’t aggravate the feeling of being off-balance, but he needs to press his lips to Eddie’s temple, test the heat.

“Close though,” Steve smiles into the skin, then kisses with intent. He…he loves that he can give this to Eddie. He doesn’t think Eddie gets that part, thinks Eddie only sees it as taking, rather than a gift for Steve in return just as strong.

“Steve,” Eddie moans, shakes his head as more a messy swirl of matted curls; “we can’t.”

Again: it stopped being convincing months ago; but Eddie does sound particularly distressed.

Steve brings a hand to run through that unruly hair, careful. Gentle.

“You weren’t moving,” Eddie finally whispers; “I couldn’t see, I couldn’t hear,” and Steve knows his limits, knows that Eddie didn’t hear or see even with his enhanced senses now because he’d been frantic, and his own heartbeat and shot quick to pounding after being so weak—it always sets him off kilter for a second or two.

Steve cradles Eddie to his chest rig he re, so he can hear clear the heartbeat Steve knows is steady now, strong.

They’ve both evened out. They’re both okay.

“I can’t risk you,” Eddie breathes into the space where the beat hits hardest; “I can’t lose you.”

“So,” Steve nods, tucks Eddie under his chin a little tighter; “losing me by design instead is your solution,” he sucks his teeth, hums as if he’s actually consider such fucking nonsense:

“Yeah, cool, makes sense.”

He thinks the sarcasm drips just the right amount.

“Stevie,” Eddie whines, like it hurts, and Steve never wants that. But he might…need for it to, a little at least, to get the point across.

“We’ve been through this, Eds,” Steve breathes low; “I’m not actually looking to kick the fucking bucket here,” he knows Eddie won’t appreciate the levity but he can’t help it, pressed the curve of his lips to eddies scalp. “I’m much more interested in making sure you’re not ell enough and strong enough and safe enough,” and he reaches, then, to lift Eddie chin, to turn him, to look, to see:

“To stay with me.”

And like clockwork, Eddie’s eyes widen, darken, narrow and Eddie scrambles up, takes Steve’s face in both his open palms:

“Always,” he hisses; “nothing could make me want to be anywhere else, not ever.”

And Steve knows it. Knows he means it

“But Steve—”

And because Steve knows? He’s happy to cut this the fuck off at the stem, nip it in the bud, press a the same fingertip eddies sucked the blood from so many nights ago, that first time that started the rest of Steve’s whole goddamn life—

Steve’s more than happy to press that fingertip to Eddie’s lips, to shut him the fuck yo when he needs it.

“I grew up not knowing what love was,” Steve says simply, and eddies eyes flash red—only when he’s incensed do they do that, and Steve not-so-secretly finds it hot as fuck. “Except for knowing that what I got wasn’t it,” he shrugs; “or else, not the kind it was supposed to be. Benign neglect,” he flinches a little as other, harsher memories buck their heads and he knows he has to say something because Eddie sees him, Eddie will draw it out himself otherwise and…

“Until the times it wasn’t,” Steve murmurs and, well.

At least he gets another sexy-as-fuck flash of crimson in those eyes he adores.

“But I knew what I did have wasn’t right,” Steve’s quick to press on; “so even though I kinda started from zero on the learning curve, it wasn’t,” he bites his lip and it’s not even weird anymore, to revisit the journey even if it started less-than-happily.

Because Steve knows the ending. And how it’s not even an ending at all.

“I knew I was looking for something that sat at the opposite end of the spectrum from what I did know. What I had been taught,” and he grabs for eddies hands and gathers them under his chin to rest on, to just…look his fill of this impossible man he’s fallen for, that he’s more than happily given his life to all the ways he knows how.

“And once I unlearned the bad shit, and started finding the real deal?”

He waits for Eddie’s eyes to glitter just so, waits for his head to tilts just the tiniest bit before he leans up:

“Love is this,” Steve breathes against Eddie’s lips with real fucking meaning:

“Love is exactly this.”

“Nearly fucking dying because your freak-ass boyfriend has to drink your goddamn blood and—” Eddie tries to deflect but is pretty fucking shirt with it. Not least because there are tears running down his cheek. Not least because Steve knows now. What love is.

He’d just spoken on the truth.

“Not even close to fucking dying at all,” Steve reminds him with a playful eye roll and a squeeze of his hand; “save maybe how much it killed me when I thought I’d lost you before we had a chance,” and honestly: Steve hates thinking about how all of this was almost never know, never had, never felt.

Yeah: that fucking kills him, just to think.

“So add that into the love-column,” Steve grins a little, imagining the upgraded version of a ‘YOU RULE’ board; “this is love because you’re breathing,” and Steve kisses the little divot above Eddie’s top lip; “you’re safe,” and then he kisses, nibble Eddie’s neck;“your heart beats when there’s enough blood for it to move around,” and Steve’s not strong enough to resist nipping at the heady pulse between Eddie’s collarbones.

“You’re as alive as anything or anyone in every way that could ever count,” Steve breathes; “you’re here. With me.”

Then he leans back again, looks Eddie in the eyes:

“You care enough—”

“Love.”

Eddie’s tone is this sharp, unquestionable thing. It’s thrilling every time it comes out.

All the more, said around that one word.

“I love,” Eddie’s hands hold closer, more dear at the sides of Steve’s face again; “whether it’s enough or not, whether it ever could be, I fucking love you—”

“Then you love,” Steve picks back up, pecks Eddie’s lips because he can; “enough to check that I’m okay, when we do this, and it’s just a little more of a challenge than normal.”

Eddie looks like he’s about to choke on something.

“Challenge?”

Ah. About to choke on that word specifically; that tracks.

“I like a good challenge,” Steve reminds him, reaches to pinch his cheek, delights in how blood—Steve’s blood—rushes to the surface; “fills the gap from all the sports-playing.”

Eddie’s mouth moves around silent words for a few seconds and then:

“Normal?”

Steve doesn’t even try not to laugh. With glee, even. With wonder.

“Wild, ain’t it,” he asks, kinda fucking joyful; “who’d have ever thought Steve Harrington would find a love this big,” and he runs his hand over Eddie’s arm, shoulder to wrist; “this perfect, for everything he is, not what he’s gotta twist himself in knots to try and become,” and Steve’s voice gets lower, more earnest, more genuinely fucking grateful for…all of it.

For his Eddie.

“Who would have thought Steve Harrington would fall into a love that held his whole fucking heart in its hands,” he brings those hands to his chest, where they clutch automatic; “to do with what you would, to take as far as you liked,” and his voice goes low—they don’t know what’s been done to Eddie beyond the obvious, what life and death mean for him;

“To keep as long as you decided to want.”

Basically, Steve isn’t too concerned about the whats. He’s more concerned about Eddie having no shred of doubt, that Steve wants whatever it means, to be something they share. He wants whatever it means to mean the same for both of them, if it can. However it can.

Whatever it takes.

“Steve,” Eddie shakes his head, face ruddy, tear-strewn and mouth agape.

“I don’t deserve you,” he exhales, then breathes in, sharp and shaking; “and you deserve so much more than this.”

“Let me make the decision,” Steve says, sure in it. Maybe for the first time in his life, he has no doubts for anything involving what he feels for Eddie, and the truth of what Eddie feels for him.

“And since I made that decision fucking months ago already, I’ll save you the suspense,” he turns Eddie’s chin on the tip of a finger, one more time.

“There is no more than this.”

And Eddie blinks; blinks.

And then his strings are cut, and he collapses full into Steve again, this time gathering him in by every limb he can tangle, gasping and grasping and needing and desperate and kissing every inch of Steve he can reach.

“Fuck, I love you baby,” Eddie moans deep from the center in his chest: “forever.”

It’s a true thing. It’s a promise.

It’s an acknowledgement of what they don’t yet know, but can agree with all they are to share, together, equal.

For always.

“I know,” Steve tells him simply, pulse pumping only joy; “and I am always gonna know. I’m always gonna be here, to make sure you never forget.”

And Eddie’s face falls for half-a-second, before it steels with resolve, before his hands lace with Steve’s and smack them flat to Eddie’s heaving chest.

To Eddie’s pounding heart.

“Never forget here,” he vow sir; “it’s never a matter of not loving.”

And Eddie’s scared, still, in his eyes; Steve knows.

It almost means more, that he’s promising it all, nonetheless. With his whole goddamn heart.

“I know,” Steve reminds him the best way he knows; pressing closer, tighter to that beat.

“And I’m always gonna be right here.”

Eddie nods, closes his eyes and holds Steve one breath closer to that pumping blood:

“Right here.”

And that?

And that suits Steve more than fucking fine.

✨permanent tag list: OPEN (lmk if you want to be added/removed): @ajeff855 @askitwithflours @awkwardgravity1 @bookworm0690 @bumblebeecuttlefishes @captain--low @depressed-freak13 @dragoon-ze-great @dreamercec @dreamwatch @dreamy-jeans137 @estrellami-1 @goodolefashionedloverboi @grtwdsmwhr @gunsknivesandplaid @hiei-harringtonmunson @hbyrde36 @imhereforthelolzdontyellatme @kimsnooks @live-laugh-love-dietrich @mensch-anthropos-human @nerdyglassescheeseychick @notaqueenakhaleesi @ollyxar @pearynice @perseus-notjackson @pretend-theres-a-name-here

divider credit here

[lizardkingeliot]

me: i'm fine

the tender voice of lestat de lioncourt, separated from the love of his life for decades with no idea where he is or how to find him, turning on a reel in my head since 3 o'clock this morning: mon cher are you ill what's happened to you mon cher are you ill what's happened to you mon cher are you

[vxmpirehunterd]

@gcldfanged Wrote [Greetings, I am the Vampire Hunter named D, the D stands for Dark'ness Dementia Ravenway and I have long ebony black hair (that's how I got my name- except when I am drawn by Yoshitaka Amano, who makes my hair white, it’s really not clear tbh) that reaches my mid-back and the extreme Dorito-like physique of a male CLAMP character and a lot of people tell me I look like Alucard(if you are familiar with his person, go straight back down into the fiery depths of DEEPEST HELL). I'm not related to that hot Medicine Seller guy from Mononoke, but I wish I was because he is the epitome of gender-blurring beauty and unearthly elegance that also has a really sharp sword. I'm actually a Dhampir butI have all of the insane powers of really strong vampires yet almost none of the common weaknesses. I have pale milk-white skin that is susceptible to sunlight sickness, but only like every 5 or so years which makes no sense but whatever. I also have a bitchin’ hat, and my body hosts a Deus ex Machina sidekick called Left Hand. Left Hand is a Homunculus (in case you couldn't tell) and it possesses Hammer Space where it stores its absurd powers that can do literally anything to advance the plot. I love wearing a mysterious pendant that allows me to successfully infiltrate castles belonging to the Nobility. For example, today it deactivated a defensive laser field. I was wearing no lip rouge and no foundation because my unearthly aura is mesmerizing enough without needing make-up, my trademark wide-brimmed hat and black bodysuit with some awesome boots. I was walking around in the Frontier. It was midnight and raining and so there was no sun, which I was very pleased about. A lot of human women and men swooned around me. I melodramatically departed with a flourish of my cape.]

{When I tell you the scream I SCRUMT reading this!}

[spuffyarchive]

maybe i'm ready to love you by chasingfictions [NC-17]

“Buffy?” He almost never used to call her Buffy. Did he? Always Slayer, or pet, or love. Or like, he’d use her name, but it always sounded odd, in his mouth. All tender, touchy. Like, like he was making eye contact with her, just by saying it. "Spike." She wonders if it feels the same, for him. His name, her tongue. - (Or: Spike’s gone, and Buffy doesn’t care. No, really, she doesn’t. Cross her heart.)

[superiorkenshi]

If vampire Daniel definitive eye color is orange that would mean that every time Louis will look at Daniel he will only be able to think at Armand and the pain that come with it