Boltedfruit Archive

He needs to feed, often.

It began with a bite. Hasn’t ended yet. Probably won’t, ever.

Steve lets him, is the thing, and it’s a thing that sometimes he’s bothered by. Not the fact he lets Eddie, or that Eddie wants what he wants, but that Steve isn’t bothered that he’s not bothered.

He offered himself up, after all. Let himself be made disciple, let himself he mauled, consumed, worshipped. He let himself be the altar where Eddie prays, kneeling at his front, face buried along Steve’s throat. To someone else, he might have been an angel. But to Steve he’s just Eddie.

Eddie, with his sharp teeth, his unique thirst, the need for flesh to be sluiced from mated cells and swallowed down in bloody ribbons.

Steve, who bears the scars of Eddie’s hunger, his thirst. Eddie’s cravings etch a map across Steve’s body, and he doesn’t mind. He heals. He always does. Has a knack for that kind of thing after all the pain he’s suffered.

And with Eddie, it never hurts.

The burn is pleasure, is exaltation.

It’s heaven, to anyone who would call it that.