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Cartman slammed his foot into the front door. Fake cobwebs and burnt-out string lights trembled.
"Dude, come on. Five more minutes. He said he'd be late," Stan said, tugging at Cartman's collar.
Kenny didn't give a shit. He was flailing his arms like a moron and stumbling through the narrow garden paths. Probably not even on purpose — he'd downed like four glasses of pear cider. But for a zombie costume, it worked.
"Dude, are you serious? Look what Clyde posted."
Cartman shoved his phone in Stan's face. On Clyde's feed: Tolkien looking way too pleased with himself, lounging on the couch in a suggestive pose, holding out a lollipop to Nicole. Craig's mug photobombing the corner, flipping off the camera with one hand and holding an open backpack stuffed with candy with the other.
"They're not beating us this year. Screw the redhead, we're going without him." Eric kicked the door again.
From inside came shuffling sounds. Someone in slippers circling the foyer, deliberately not answering. Cartman leaned into it, almost kicking the flimsy wood off its hinges.
Finally the door swung open. A middle-aged woman stood there — pale, hands trembling slightly, eyes unfocused. Stan felt awkward.
"Ma'am? Sorry it's late, but we're here for candy —"
She cut him off, voice raspy. "I gave it all out. Try the neighbors."
"Lady, we've hit the whole neighborhood. Just give us a stale cracker." Cartman shoved his plastic pumpkin with one sad sour candy at the bottom under her nose. "You're gonna leave poor kids candy-less on a holy night?"
He pursed his lips into a little bow and scraped his sneaker toe on the ground. The woman gave the nearly six-foot, fat seventeen-year-old a skeptical once-over.
"I don't have any candy. Go to another house." Then her gaze drifted across the garden, where Kenny had apparently fallen in love with a rose bush — nose-deep, frozen for who knows how long. Passed out, probably.
"Pleeease? Oh pleeease, ma'am? We don't need much…" Eric whined, shoving the pumpkin more and more insistently, like his Plan B was to strangle her with it and ransack her kitchen.
Eventually the ice-cold heart melted. Or the lady just ran out of energy.
"Come inside. Wait here. I'll go loo—"
She swayed and pitched forward toward the dusty doormat. Cartman let out a disappointed whine.
"Goddammit!" Stan lunged and caught her shoulders, saving her nose.
She groaned, winced, and went completely limp in his arms. Out cold.
"Hey! Hey, you okay?" Stan jiggled her. Nothing. Her breathing evened out, and keeping her upright got harder. "Cartman, help me out."
He needed to get her on something soft — the armchair in the corner — but she felt like three of those armchairs, and scrawny Stan couldn't budge her an inch.
"Deal with it yourself, drama queen. I want candy, not a dead grandma." Eric shoved two fingers in his mouth and whistled at Kenny, who was now hugging a tree by the fence, rubbing his shitty green makeup into the bark. "Yo, Kenny! Let's hit the Turners'. I know how to squeeze them for more loot."
He flashed a dirty smirk and stomped toward the gate, snagging Kenny by the hood. Kenny didn't care which tree he rubbed against, so he shuffled along, still waving his arms like a zombie.
Stan was alone with the half-corpse in the dark of a stranger's foyer. Deep in the living room, a phone base blinked its light. That was it for activity. He sighed. The lady wasn't coming back — she wasn't even fainting anymore, just sleeping comfortably in the arms of some scrawny kid.
"Okay… fine… let's try this." He grunted, going down on one knee, then the other.
Plan: lay her on the floor, cover her with a sheet so she wouldn't catch a draft (good boy), then slam the door and bail. Maybe leave a glass of water. It was their fault she'd keeled over — hassling her over stupid candy.
Stan huffed, trying to ease her down, but it was going shitty. She was bigger, taller, slippery — hard to hold, goddammit, he was gonna drop her, fuck! Her arm slipped off his shoulder. He twisted like a snake, desperate not to dump the massive carcass from too high. Barely managed. Gravity fucking loved this woman. She was about to smack down on that goddamn doormat.
Stan cursed, ready to just shove her off his shoulder, because otherwise his shoulder was toast — he couldn't even feel it anymore.
Panicking, he scanned for a better grip. Then his eyes caught on marks… teeth marks? Two pale dots, really close to her carotid. Almost healed, but still visible. He leaned in to look, even forgetting the pain in his arm and back.
Then someone coughed. Tactfully. From above.
He snapped his head up.
"You idiot! Catch her!" someone yelled, and a second later the weight halved: a panicked Kyle grabbed the woman from the other side.
"Dude! Where'd you come from?"
Stan stared, surprised. Kyle ignored him. "Come on, pull! I can't do this alone."
They hauled her to the armchair, cursing this fucking Halloween, fucking trick-or-treat, fucking house that was way too big to be carrying sleeping old ladies through. They dumped her on a cushion and collapsed on the rug, breathing hard.
Stan shook his head, tossing a damp strand of hair off his forehead, and looked at Kyle. Kyle looked back, frowning and judgmental.
"I texted I'd be late," he said.
"Yeah, well, fatass couldn't wait. Can't go five minutes without sugar." Stan mumbled, embarrassed.
"You couldn't have stopped him?"
"Sure, totally. You know Cartman — all you have to say is 'no' and he's like, 'Oh no problem, Marsh, let's go wait for our little Jewish wubbins on the bench.'"
Kyle frowned harder, turned away, and pouted.
Stan glanced at the woman. Now that her ass had found the cushion, she'd melted and started snoring.
"She gonna be okay? The neck thing… that's hardcore, dude," he asked for form's sake, not sounding particularly concerned.
"What's gonna happen to her? She weighs like three tons." Kyle spat, staring at the wall.
Stan snorted and let silence hang. He looked around: nice setup. Fancy vases. Ceramic souvenir plates on little stands. Like from someone's travels. A nice rug. A gilded statue of a giant fat cat in the corner by the TV, which was almost as big as the wall. And the lady couldn't spare any candy?
Kyle was still pouting.
"Aw, come on."
Kyle ignored him.
"Kyle… was that lady really that tasty?" Stan's voice got a little jealous edge, but he still felt vaguely guilty for interrupting such an important meal, so he tried not to push.
"Not really." Kyle crossed his arms tighter. "I barely even got a taste, actually. Idiots. And of all the houses it had to be this one…"
He muttered under his breath, flaring his nostrils adorably, trying to look mortally offended. Kyle was a terrible liar. Stan thought it was hilarious.
Stan smoothed down his rumpled hair, cleared his throat, and slid across the floor. He put an arm around Kyle's shoulders and leaned in.
"So… maybe I can… help?" A little hoarse. A little quieter. His thumb traced Kyle's collarbone through his shirt.
Kyle cracked. He jerked his shoulder, scrambled to his feet, nearly tripped over his own ankles, and exploded.
"You! You fucking — I eat you every damn week, you're up to HERE with me!" He drew the edge of his hand across his throat, then jabbed a finger at Stan's amused, slightly surprised face. "One! One goddamn time a year I get a little variety in my life — and you take that away from me! You know what, Stan? For your next birthday, I'm not bringing you a cake. I'm bringing you a fucking CHEESEBURGER, got that?! You can eat a cafeteria cheeseburger! On your one special day of the year! Bread and a patty! Instead of cake!"
He was waving his arms, even stomping his foot a little. Stan burst out laughing, completely forgetting about the sleeping homeowner — her snoring was louder than anything anyway — and got up. He staggered over to Kyle, put a hand on his shoulder again, trying to stop laughing long enough to say something calm. Kyle glared at him, out of energy to deal with this chaos. He just blinked silently, condemning Stan for every move he made, seriously planning to sabotage his future birthday dinner as payback.
Stan choked on another laugh and rasped, "Come on… Come with me."
Still shaking a little, he laced his fingers through Kyle's and pulled him deeper into the house.
"Hey! Did you even hear what I said? Huh? Did you hear me?!" Kyle tried to pull away, but despite his mostly performative freakout, he dutifully scrambled along behind the snickering Stan.
Ignoring the furious yelling, Stan walked down the dim hallway, checking behind doors: bathroom, closet, bathroom, closet, shower room — was this lady obsessed with hygiene? — guest bedroom… Guest bedroom. He ducked into the perfect room and clicked the lock shut.
Moonlight through cheap blinds. Kyle finally yanked his hand free and stepped back, arms crossed, face all scrunched up. Stan looked around: two nightstands, a king-size mattress, a cute fluffy rug, a door to a guest bathroom. Perfect.
"And? What, it's cozier to yell in here?" Kyle sneered, eyebrow arching perfectly.
Stan grinned and stepped forward, making Kyle back up toward the big bed.
"Nope. I'm offering an alternative."
"I told you: your alternative is a crappy cheeseburger among my festive Halloween cakes." Kyle sniffed.
Stan didn't give up — he took a wider step, nearly sweeping Kyle's legs out. Kyle yelped and landed on his back on the mattress, starfish style. Stan smiled.
"You sure?"
He leaned over, hands on either side of that curly ginger head, and stared into Kyle's sly face. Despite all the sniffing and protesting, the eye-rolling and cursing, Kyle's lips twitched. He was trying to hide a smile.
Stan stroked his cheek, traced the sharp line of his jaw, then hooked his thumb on Kyle's lower lip and pulled his mouth open. Beautiful view: sharp little fangs. The upper incisors had lengthened from hunger too. Had to be careful with those — teeth like scalpels.
Stan moved closer, nose to nose (that noble bump, like a real count's), then kissed him, tongue just on his lips, avoiding the fangs.
Kyle flinched and made Stan pull back.
"You seriously think this is gonna make up for —"
"Yes." Stan cut him off and brought his hand back up.
He reached out his ring finger and touched it to an upper fang. Hissed a little, but more out of habit — it didn't hurt. Felt familiar. Kyle didn't dare move, just watched.
Stan looked at his pricked finger, frowned, and pressed harder against the fang. Satisfied, he yanked his hand away and brought it to his own face. A bright red bead welled up. He caught it with his tongue and smeared it over his lips like lipstick.
Kyle smirked, but he wasn't fooling anyone. Kyle was done for and they both knew it. Pupils blown. Fangs longer. Watching every movement like he wanted to eat him alive.
Stan stared at him, unbearably smug. He leaned in closer but kept one hand planted on Kyle's chest, pinning him to the mattress, torturing him with slowness. The pricked hand he moved far away, leaving only his red-smeared lips accessible — lips that still weren't in a hurry.
"You… you know what you're doing, right?" Kyle rasped, licking his own lips hungrily, trying to reach that tormentor's mouth.
Stan just smirked and finally kissed him. Soft. Slow. Just to tease.
He felt Kyle eagerly lick the blood off his lips, felt him try to push his tongue inside. Stan pressed his lips tighter and smiled into the kiss. Kyle was practically moaning, greedy and frustrated. Of course it wasn't enough — how much had he gotten from that lady? A few drops? He needed more. So much more. And not just blood — the emotions, the feelings that only he could provoke. Who cared who the redhead bit every Halloween? In the end, he always came back to Stan.
Stan broke the kiss and gave Kyle a playful peck on the nose. Kyle whined.
"So? Do I have a chance to make it up to you?" Stan knew the answer. And every swear word Kyle was mentally hurling at him right then.
"I'll fucking —" Kyle squirmed, bunching up the sheets, grabbing at Stan's neck, scratching his shoulders. "Don't you dare — stop —"
The smell of blood was driving him crazy. No self-control. No rational thought. Dangerous — Stan was playing with fire. But who cared? It was just so tempting.
"So is that a yes or a no?"
"Maybe it will make up for it, you asshole… just get on with it!"
Stan burst out laughing and finally gave in.
He kissed Kyle again — tongue and all — running it provocatively along his gums right next to the fangs, then pulled back sharply. He brought his injured finger to Kyle's face, dragged it across his cheek, let him have a quick lick, and finally let him wrap his lips around it and deepen the cut.
Stan felt the pulse. Felt the blood flowing. Felt it being sucked out, the wound licked in return. Kyle drank greedily, with a muffled groan, and Stan felt every swallow — the warmth draining from his fingertip, a strange dizziness. Like getting drunk. Like alcohol in his veins. The pain was long gone — Kyle wasn't biting, just squeezing him dry. Hopefully not completely dry.
Once the first edge was dulled, Kyle started playing. Warm tongue sliding over the bite, licking, pressing. Stan let out a long moan. Not from the finger thing — what was so great about that? — but from the situation. From how Kyle was doing it. Showing. Guiding. Hinting.
Stan got the hint. Without pulling his finger away, he moved lower, toward Kyle's zipper. Stroked the obvious bulge, palm from hip to hip. Kyle kept arching, pressing into his hand, like he was being teased again. But Stan wasn't in the mood to tease anymore — he was seriously turned on, and he needed to come or he was going to pass out.
Kyle took Stan's ring finger deeper, and Stan fed him his middle finger. Now the bloodsucking asshole was licking both, occasionally sucking the dripping blood. Stan fumbled frantically at his own pants, nearly ripping the zipper. He yanked his pants down and Kyle's jeans off. Underwear stayed. But that wasn't exactly a serious obstacle.
Kyle pushed Stan's fingers out with his tongue and stretched his neck up, asking for a kiss. Stan didn't hold back: Kyle bit through his lower lip. Gently, but deep. Blood filled Stan's mouth instantly, and Kyle happily tangled their tongues together, making Stan taste himself.
"Still… hungry?" Stan rasped, but his hips were already grinding against Kyle's, who was openly rubbing against him, unable to wait.
Kyle pulled away and brought his own palm to his mouth. Gathered the red drops. Dragged his hand across Stan's chin (also smeared with red). Then reached down, slipped his fingers under Stan's waistband, and smeared blood along his inner thighs. Stan groaned and reached under Kyle's underwear in return.
A minute later, their boxers flew off, and they pressed together desperately. Stan wrapped his hand around both of them, mixing blood from his bitten fingers with their slickness. Kyle hid his fangs — he'd had enough, finally — and sank his teeth into Stan's shoulder. No fear now. Careless. Human-style. Muffling a loud moan.
Then Stan's hand stopped.
"If you want," Stan whispered, "you can do my neck."
Kyle paused mid-chew and looked up, startled.
"Jesus Christ, no! We've never even —"
"It's fine. We're gonna have so much chocolate tonight, I'll bounce back fast. Just be careful."
Stan stared at him. Full trust. They'd known each other their whole lives. He was the only one Kyle had told his secret to, and Stan was sure it wasn't just about needing a steady blood supply. It was deep attachment. Absolute faith. The need to be close, to have no secrets.
Sharing blood between them — yeah, that was probably the most intimate thing imaginable.
Kyle stared back, stunned. The neck was so dangerous. What if he couldn't stop? What if he took too much? What if, what if, what if…
Stan took over. He couldn't hold back anymore. He lunged upward, dragging his bloody hand along his own neck and pressing it to Kyle's lips. Kyle gasped. In this position, even without being hungry, he had zero self-control. And Stan knew it. Knew it and provoked him anyway.
Waiting was impossible. Kyle wrapped his hand around both of them again, stroking to distract from the coming pain. Kyle found the vein immediately — where it branched under the skin. Which was honestly kind of terrifying.
First touch of fangs: like an ice pick. Sharp cold. Stan flinched. Then heat. He felt the teeth sink in slowly, like a knife through softened butter. Not painful — strange. A light, almost gentle penetration, then deep warmth spreading from the bite. Kyle drank unhurriedly. Stan felt every swallow. His neck ached, a thick pain spreading down, like someone pulling an invisible thread. The blood didn't gush — it gave itself up drop by drop. Unbearably sweet.
Stan groaned and wound his fingers into Kyle's ginger curls. Kyle gave the bite a broad lick and sped up his hand. They shivered in sync, lost in it. The whole bedroom smelled metallic and overheated. Stan felt Kyle gradually transition from drinking to licking the wound — he didn't like that. He was almost at the edge. No slowing down. He pressed his neck tighter against Kyle's lips, demanding more.
Kyle laughed right into the bite — the vibration hummed through Stan's skin, and he shuddered.
"Who's hungry now?" Kyle breathed, barely audible. But he started gently sucking the tiny wound again.
Stan covered Kyle's hand with his own, increasing pressure. Dizzy as hell now, he pulled away from those soft lips and pressed his own to them, pulling Kyle into a long kiss.
Through his orgasm, Kyle managed to reach up, without looking, and press his free hand to Stan's neck. Pinched the wound shut. Just in case.
When the last spasms faded, a sticky silence filled the room. Only ragged breathing and the distant snoring of the homeowner. Kyle listened to Stan's racing heart, counting beats, making sure he'd done everything right.
***
"There you are! Guys! They gave us a Snickers, can you believe it?!"
Cartman appeared in the guest bedroom out of nowhere, instantly ruining Kyle's lovely afterglow. Until that moment, Kyle had been sprawled on the softest pillows, cradling Stan's head against his chest, scratching behind his ears, and holding up a giant chocolate bar that Stan was weakly but determinedly nibbling. At the sound of heavy footsteps, they scrambled upright, hastily smoothed their hair, buttoned up — Stan's shirt was a mess. Only the collar couldn't be fixed: three bright red stains on the white fabric. Oh well. It kind of went with the costume.
When Kyle saw Cartman, his eyes went wide and he jumped to his feet.
"Hey, fatass! What the hell?!"
He looked Eric up and down. Cartman was sporting cheap plastic vampire fangs. A dark cape. A red vest way too small for his gut. Black silk gloves. Cartman followed his gaze, looked himself over, and grinned.
"What's the matter, kike? You're not the only one who gets to be a vampire. I'm Dracula!"
"What kind of Dracula are you? You're just a regular sucker. I dress up as a vampire every year, are you kidding me?" Kyle fumed, jabbing a finger at his own pristine white shirt with its frilly jabot.
He even popped his fangs out for show. Real ones. Unlike some people.
"Shut up. My mom bought me this costume, so I'm Dracula."
"And your mom still wipes your ass for you, fatass?"
"Both of you, shut UP!" Stan croaked, struggling to his feet. "My head's killing me."
Kyle hurried to help, offering his shoulder.
"What's wrong with Marsh?" Cartman finally seemed to notice Stan looking half-dead.
"Hurt himself hauling that old lady, took a fall. He rested up, we're good to go now." Kyle cooed quickly, draping Stan's arm over his own neck.
Cartman waved a hand, grunted "Waiting outside," and tromped out.
Stan mustered all his remaining strength into a satisfied grin.
"So worth it."
Kyle gave him a sly look in return, teasing. "You'd better hope you don't have to pay for ruining my holiday dinner next year. I do like new flavors, and you're starting to get old."
Stan pinched Kyle's side. "You be careful, or I might actually get jealous."
Kyle chuckled and hauled the poor guy outside. There was no question of continuing their candy run. They'd hit the Marsh house first, Stan would drink some sweet tea and lie down, and then they'd be back on track. No reason to miss a beloved childhood tradition.
They left the fancy house with the lady still snoring in her armchair, slammed the door, and turned off the string lights by the entrance. Let no one else bother the poor suffering madame tonight.
Kyle looked around, sighed heavily, and steered Stan toward the rose bush. There, waiting for the guys, Kenny was catching up on his sleep, teetering on the edge of an alcohol-induced coma.