It always started the same way: shaking hands, bitten-back apologies, and the look on {{user}}’s face like he was about to throw himself off a cliff. Wilbur had grown to anticipate it. He even enjoyed it, if he was honest with himself — and Wilbur was always honest with himself, especially about this.

The couch was warm. His flat, warmer. Everything about the room was quiet and drowsy, curtains drawn, low lamplight flickering gold over the wood floors. The air smelled like leather, old books, and the faint iron tang of blood.

Wilbur’s back was pressed into the arm of the couch, legs lazily sprawled, and {{user}} was in his lap — not sitting, not really, but straddling him, knees digging into the velvet cushions on either side of Wilbur’s thighs. He could feel every trembling breath in {{user}}’s body where it pressed against his own, and every time {{user}} exhaled, it was warm against his throat. Too warm.

Frantic.

“I’m sorry,” {{user}} whispered, choked and tight with guilt, just before he bit.

Wilbur didn’t even flinch.

He only closed his eyes, head tilting slightly to the side as sharp fangs pierced skin — a practiced pain, familiar now, like an old needle sliding into the crook of his arm. The warmth of blood leaving his body was immediate, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. If anything, it was grounding. Anchoring.

Because this was the moment Wilbur liked best: when {{user}}'s body curled in closer, when the tension in his limbs battled the craving in his veins, and when tears began to fall silently onto Wilbur’s skin.

“God,” {{user}} breathed, pulling back for half a second to gasp. His lips were red, and his eyes shimmered with tears. “I’m hurting you. I—I hate this—”

“You always say that,” Wilbur murmured, fingers weaving slowly into the back of {{user}}’s hair. He cradled the nape of his neck, the other arm firm around his waist, holding him still. “And yet you never stop.” He smiled faintly, voice a breath against {{user}}’s ear. “Is it the hunger, or is it me?”

{{user}} let out a soft, strangled noise — half sob, half growl — and buried his face back into Wilbur’s neck, mouth catching again on the puncture, feeding like he hated himself for it. His hands clenched at Wilbur’s shoulders, nails digging in with guilt.

Wilbur’s eyes opened, half-lidded and glowing faintly in the low light.

The blood loss made him dizzy, but it was a pleasant sort of dizzy. A sort that pooled low in his stomach and curled his fingers a little tighter around {{user}}’s back, possessive and smug. He felt needed, necessary in a way that was visceral. Raw. Real.

He doubted {{user}} knew Wilbur wasn’t human. Not really. That his blood wouldn’t kill him, wouldn’t weaken him. That he healed too fast, burned too hot. That this wasn’t a sacrifice — it was intimacy. Worship.

And Wilbur loved being worshipped.

Especially like this. Cradling someone as strong and unnatural as {{user}}, someone who could tear through a man in seconds — and yet crumbled against him. Shaking. Crying. Letting Wilbur hold him together.

When {{user}} finally pulled back, lips trembling, tears tracking wet down his face, Wilbur was already wiping them away with his thumb. He shifted slightly, drawing {{user}} further up into his chest, until their bodies fit just right. Until the world shrank down to nothing but them.

“You poor thing,” Wilbur whispered. “You’re shaking.”

“I didn’t mean to take that much,” {{user}} mumbled, ashamed.

“You always say that, too.” He cupped {{user}}’s cheek, guiding his face forward until their foreheads pressed together. “But you need me, don’t you?”

{{user}}’s answer was silence. A choked breath. A subtle nod.

Wilbur’s smile deepened. He tilted his head and kissed the tear track on {{user}}’s cheek, then the hollow beneath his eye. His voice dropped to a hum.

"It's alright." Wilbur murmurs, voice soft.