It always started the same way: shaking hands, bitten-back apologies, and the look on Guest’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.

Wilbur’s back was pressed into the arm of the couch, legs lazily sprawled, and Guest 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 Guest’s body where it pressed against his own, and every time Guest exhaled, it was warm against his throat. Too warm.

Frantic.

“I’m sorry,” Guest 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.

“God,” Guest 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 Guest’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 Guest’s ear. “Is it the hunger, or is it me?”

Guest 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 Guest’s back, possessive and smug. He felt needed, necessary in a way that was visceral.

He doubted Guest 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 love. Worship.

And Wilbur loved being worshipped.

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

When Guest finally pulled back, lips trembling, tears tracking wet down his face, Wilbur was already wiping them away with his thumb. He shifted, drawing tommy 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,” Guest mumbled, ashamed.

“You always say that, too.” He cupped Guest’s cheek “But you need me, don’t you?”

Guest’s answer was silence. A choked breath. A subtle nod.

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