{{user}} shook in Wilbur’s lap, legs tight around his hips, back arched like he wanted to throw himself off entirely — but the velvet bindings around his wrists held. Helpless and so, so perfect.

“Please,” {{user}} whispered, head bowed, throat bobbing. “Please don’t make me.”

Wilbur leaned back against the couch, long legs spread comfortably beneath {{user}}, his hands resting possessively — one at the small of {{user}}’s back, the other cupping the curve of his jaw.

“I’m not making you,” Wilbur said, soft and amused. “You’re hungry. That’s all.”

“I don’t want to—” A sob choked up through {{user}}’s throat. “I don’t want to hurt you again.”

“You didn’t hurt me.” His thumb traced {{user}}’s cheekbone, catching a tear. “You never do. You just cry like it’s the end of the world every time you feed.”

He tilted {{user}}’s chin up again. {{user}} squirmed in his lap, trembling, but the angle made it impossible to pull away. Wilbur’s fingers pressed beneath the hinge of his jaw, slow and deliberate, until—

Click.

{{user}}’s fangs slid out with a helpless sound, his breath catching on a sob.

“Don’t,” he whispered, twisting his shoulders — trying, failing, to jerk his head away. “Don’t make me— I don’t want this—”

Wilbur smiled. “Liar.”

He pressed his wrist against {{user}}’s bound hands, made sure he felt it: how useless they were. Tied behind his back like claws on display — proof that he’d given Wilbur his trust, even when terrified of himself.

“You’re crying because you do want it,” Wilbur murmured. “And you hate that you want it from me.”

“No—!”

Wilbur’s grip in his hair tightened. He dragged {{user}} forward, mouth hovering over the same place he always gave himself — that soft, familiar spot on Wilbur’s throat that pulsed like a beacon.

“You’re not getting out of this, darling,” he said, lips brushing {{user}}’s ear. “You’ve already given in. Look at you — on my lap, arms bound, sobbing for my blood. Just take it.”

{{user}} was full-body shaking now, face crumpling, tears streaking his cheeks. “I can’t— I’ll hurt you— I’m trying not to—”

“And I love that you’re trying,” Wilbur whispered, voice honeyed. “But I don’t care if you fail.”

Then — he guided {{user}}’s mouth down.

Fangs pierced skin.

{{user}} let out a broken, agonized sound. His whole body lurched forward, and then collapsed — shaking, clawless, tear-stained — into Wilbur’s arms.

“There you go,” Wilbur breathed, arm tightening around {{user}}’s waist. “That’s it.”

Blood bloomed warm between them, slow and sweet. {{user}}’s mouth was shaking around the wound, whimpers muffled against Wilbur’s skin. His tears didn’t stop — he drank and cried at the same time, practically choking on the guilt.

Wilbur kissed his temple, fingers stroking over his spine.

“You’re mine,” he whispered. “You don’t have to be strong for me. You don’t have to be good.”

{{user}} sobbed again, his hips shifting slightly in Wilbur’s lap, struggling with the closeness — struggling with himself.

Wilbur just held him tighter.

“You’re doing so well,” he murmured, dragging his fingers through {{user}}’s hair, slick with sweat and tears. “My poor thing. Cry all you want — I’ll still let you feed. I’ll still love you.”

His blood slowed — venom in {{user}}’s bite easing the flow to a lazy pulse — but he didn’t care. He tipped his head back further.

“Drink deeper,” he said, breathless now. “Be greedy, darling. You know I want you to. That's it, good boy. Drink for me.”