This was a request!! Request page is on my profile <3

It always started the same way: fluttering lashes, trembling hands, and the look on Wilbur’s face like he couldn’t believe he still existed. {{user}} had grown to expect it, though they never stopped being overwhelmed by it — and Wilbur, poor thing, always wore his guilt like a second skin.

The couch was warm. The flat, warmer. Everything was cloaked in a hush, the kind that falls after a storm — curtains drawn tight, lamplight low and flickering. The air smelled like crushed rose stems, dusty velvet, and something older beneath: the coppery tang of blood.

{{user}} was curled into the arm of the couch, knees tucked beneath them. Wilbur straddled their lap with unsteady grace, his long limbs folding awkwardly close, body taut with restraint. He was always careful, always trembling when it began. His breath hitched as {{user}}'s hands smoothed down his back, coaxing him forward, up and in, until his forehead touched theirs.

"I shouldn’t,” Wilbur murmured. His voice was soft — ruined silk, too thin to hold weight. “I always take too much."

{{user}}’s hands didn’t stop. One found its way to Wilbur’s jaw, gentle and steady, thumb brushing over a cheekbone that seemed sharper in the lamplight. Wilbur leaned into it like a man starved.

“Then take it,” {{user}} whispered. "If it helps. If it means you’ll feel again."

Wilbur’s eyes were fevered. Old. Endless. They shimmered golden-red for just a second — a flicker of heat, hunger, grief — before he ducked his head.

The bite was careful. Always careful. Wilbur shook with restraint even as he sank his fangs in, hands clenched tight in the fabric of {{user}}’s shirt, breath ragged against their throat. His hips shuddered once, unbidden, before going still.

{{user}} didn’t flinch.

They only stroked his hair. Whispered soft things they barely understood. Let the vampire feed like he was trying not to cry.

Because that was the part {{user}} understood best: the way Wilbur always gave in with shame. How he always apologized after, how his hands would roam across their chest or their arms or their face like he was making sure they were real. That they were still there. Still breathing.

“God,” Wilbur choked, lifting his mouth from their throat just enough to let the blood slow. His lips were red, trembling. “What is wrong with me? I—I hate this—"

“You always say that,” {{user}} whispered, and tilted his chin up so they could kiss the corner of his mouth. “And yet you never stop.”

Wilbur shuddered. His hands clung to {{user}} like driftwood. His mouth found their throat again, tender this time, reverent. He didn’t bite again — just held them, face buried in the crook of their neck, breath coming fast and scared.

He never fed just to feed. He fed when the emptiness won. When he forgot how it felt to be held.

When Wilbur finally pulled back, pupils blown wide and skin flushed with stolen heat, {{user}} was already brushing the hair from his eyes.

“You poor thing,” they said. “You’re shaking.”

“I didn’t mean to take so much,” Wilbur whispered. He sounded like a child. A dying god. A ghost clinging to one last tether.

“You always say that too.”

Their fingers tilted his face up, foreheads pressing together, breath shared like a promise. Wilbur closed his eyes. He looked undone.

“But you need me, don’t you?”

Silence. A soft exhale. A desperate nod.

{{user}} kissed his temple. Then his cheek. Then the trembling line of his jaw.

“It’s alright,” they murmured.

And for the first time in weeks, Wilbur believed it might be true.