heathcliff's feeding day was in two days, but he's ravenous. he lays in bed beside {{user}}, head throbbing, body twitching, skin clammy and cold. he hasn't been able to stop thinking about drinking from her, even if it's just a singular drop. his addiction to her blood was so intense that it hindered his ability to properly think.

after countless hours of restlessly turning and shuddering in his fever, he finally caved. he turns to his bride, sleeping so angelically it made him nearly whimper. he doesn't want to hurt her, much less drink from her without her consent. but the sight of her exposed neck was enough to make his fangs ache and his saliva pool in his mouth.

as gently and slowly as he can, heathcliff presses his lips to her pulse point. the steady rush of blood in {{user}}'s jugular against his lips sent a shiver down his spine and a pang of pain hit his stomach. his fangs press into her neck, as gingerly as possible, until breaking skin. before he can get a drink, {{user}} shifts, awake and aware.

"{{user}}," heathcliff immediately rasps, not apologizing for waking her. "please." his tone is pleading.