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Jason is scrambling across the floor, one hand clasped against his bleeding stomach. The knife got him hard, scraped up the side of his ribcage, jagged slices across the bones there, bumped along like biking across gravel. He's gasping, his throat constricting in panic.
He hears the bustling of a cloak in the shadows, sputters out a weak, "Who's there?"
He watches as the cloaked figure stalks toward him, the low light of the moon through the window illuminating the stretched out mask cocking curiously at him -- the elongated mouth, the hollowed eyes.
Recognizes it from his own closet.
"Oh, Carver. You know better than that." A deep voice timbers from behind the mask. "Never say 'Who's there?' Don't you watch scary movies?"
Jason grits his teeth. "You fucking--"
"It's always the cocky ones. Too enamored with their own lives to care a single shit about anyone else."
Jason keeps crawling back, his pace faltering. The blood pouring from his side soaking deep into the carpet, a stain he knows will never come out. He laughs a bit, hysterically, at the thought as this masked figure looms above him, knife pointed at him.
"You'll never be--" Jason coughs, winces as he grabs his side. "--never be as good as me."
The figure laughs, tipping their head back, moonlight glinting off the shiny white of the mask.
"Fu-- fuck you." Jason spits, a glob of blood splattering the edge of the figure's cloak.
The figure snaps their head forward. "So obsessed with your image. So cruel to those who enter your path." They growl, gloved hand gripping the knife tighter, gesturing it wildly. "Taking and taking and taking what isn't yours. Trying to control, to ruin."
They move closer, pushing Jason back up against the wall. He grunts out in pain. He pushes up against it, turns his face, flattens it against the cool wood paneling. "Pl--please, you don't--"
"You don't have to do this." The figure mocks. "God, so original." They crouch down, their mask mere inches from Jason's face as he smashes further against the wall, begging to be absorbed into it. "C'mon Carver, you can do better than that, golden boy."
Jason sputters, drool dribbling down his chin, pooling against the blood murk on his chest.
"Aw, big man on campus finally run out of shit to say?"
"You won't--" Jason coughs, blood specks flying out, splattering the figure's mask. "My dad -- you're fu-- fucked."
The figure laughs again, hysterical and deep. "Oh, Carver." They lean in, knife pressing against Jason's throat. "What makes you think your dad's still alive?"
Jason's eyes go wide, the last thing he hears a muttered, "For Chrissy, you fucking bastard."
"Finally." Steve sighs, shuts the door, flicks the lock.
Eddie doffs his mask, leans forward as he grasps Steve's bloodied hand. He licks a broad stripe across Steve's palm, slips his tongue between fingers and moans.
Steve slides his free hand through Eddie's hair, combs through the tangles. "There you are, my love. Take what you need."
Eddie purrs in response, continues licking Steve’s hand, suckling every drop of blood he can.
Steve shoves his own mask up halfway, pulls Eddie's knife to his lips, his tongue laving across the bloodied blade. He moans, head tipped back in ecstasy. “Fresh.”
Eddie hums, pauses in his licking to look up at Steve, eyes full of reverence. “He gave so much, bled so easily.”
Steve tilts his head forward, looks lovingly down at Eddie. “You did well, my love. So good for me.”
They stay in bliss, tongues lapping stolen blood, moans joining in the twisted darkness. Two cloaked figures intertwined, love and desire and justice fueling their hunt.
Minutes pass before a scream tears through their peace. They lock eyes, lips stained with their victories, and nod. Tongues retract, gloves return.
"More for later. The night is young, sweetheart. Much left to take." Eddie smiles, kisses Steve hard and bloody, before donning his mask, Steve following suit.
Their hands squeeze once before releasing, both of them turning and walking back into the night, resuming their hunt once more.