Work Text:
Wilbur hadn’t been answering your texts, hadn’t been to work, hadn’t been around at all. You couldn’t deny the fact you were sick with the worry caused by the man’s sudden disappearance. You wish it didn’t make you as anxious as it did, but the two of you had become quite close. Close enough you knew, or thought you knew, he wouldn’t just ghost you and the rest of his life. He certainly wouldn’t risk getting fired from the job the two of you shared, the one you knew he hated, but he needed the money. It had been days, five days since you last heard from him, and sure that was enough to make sense of why you had called him 16 times, texted him too many times to count, and were now pushing open the slightly ajar door to his apartment. The door that had been left unlocked, leaving a waiting void in the crack that gave a window into uncertain territory.
‘Wilbur?” you call out into the dark room as you slowly push forward. The blackness seems to emanate a feeling of dread back to you, leaving you feeling uneasy and with goosebumps over your skin. There is the innate feeling of being watched crawling down your neck but yet the flat is empty. No sound calls back but the slight creak of the wooden floor when you shift your weight to your other foot. “Hello, anyone?” silence finds you again, this time leaving you more disappointed because where else could you look? You couldn’t think of anywhere else he could be. The urge to cry was something you didn’t expect, but you felt hopeless.
You sigh, releasing the tension from your body as you begin to blindly look for a light switch. Your hands run against the nearby wall, fumbling until you are grasping that switch and being met by warm light filling the room. It’s only then do you hear a crash from what you know to be his bedroom, the click of the door shutting. Your blood runs cold as you slowly turn to find what you don’t recognize as the usual state of his home. His apartment is ruined, things are turned over and scattered on the floor in the living room. Glass shards are littered across the ground in the cramped kitchen from cups that have seemingly haphazardly fallen from the cabinets in a struggle.
It’s then do you consider turning around because you should turn around, call the police, do anything but walk forward, trail closer to the smeared handprint you see on the kitchen counter, the one that is dark red and trailing all the way to that closed door you heard shut just moments before. You follow that trail, cringing at the sound of the crunching of the glass beneath your feet. What if Wilbur had gotten injured, had lost so much blood, and couldn’t get help. You weren’t gonna be the person in the horror movie to die first, no, you just needed to cover all your bases, and make sure he was okay. It could be a robbery, it could have been anything, so you steel yourself. Push every feeling telling you to run to the back of your mind and instead, you think of seeing Wilbur. Wilbur who was your only coworker that cared, that you saw outside of those horrible cubicles, that you wish you had the guts to confess to instead of getting yourself stuck in whatever mess this was.
“Wilbur?” you say again, albeit this time quieter. Once again though, no reply sounded back, no familiar voice calling back your name. Your determination made you ignore the metallic smell in the air and the sounds of rustling that you could hear only as you neared that shut door, the handle covered in what you still presumed was someone’s blood. You felt your stomach turn at the sight, the red contrasting with the white walls and the white door. Everything was telling you to run, red meaning stop, danger, blood. Then you were there, your shaking hand hesitantly reaching out with the itching urge to turn that door knob. When finally you slowly pushed open the new door your experience was much the same as the first, a dark room staring back at you, but this one was suddenly silent. All muffled sounds of movement you had heard immediately ceased as the door became ajar with a long squeak.
“H-Hello?” your shaky voice fills the room until all the air is knocked from your lungs. You find yourself sprawled on the ground, a weight on top of you as you reel to focus. Your head aches, as you reach to hold the back of it that hit the wooden floor. You groan weakly, blinking your eyes until you realize you’ve found Wilbur, for better or worse.
“I was begging you to leave, couldn’t even look at you without,” he whines, low in his throat like an animal and the sound unsettles you more than the blood. It’s then you look at him, process the fact he is hovering above you, pressed against you. “God, I was begging you to leave, darling,” his voice says again, this time more strained as he refuses to really look at you, his face turned away until it is not. Wilbur looks strung thin, veins pronounced on his eyelids where shadows seemed to carve deeper into his face. He huffs, his breath shaking as his face became dangerously close to yours.
“What h-happened? The blood in the kitchen-” you ramble and he leans in further, finds himself tucked in the crook of your neck. Cold air escapes past his lips and fans itself across your hot skin in a way that makes you stop thinking, short circuit. He breathes you in with a shudder.
“A lot has... happened,” he struggles out until just as quickly as he was on top of you he is gone, leaving you to scramble back. He smiles then, standing above you in a loose sweater framed by the darkness that seems to leak out of his room. “I knew it was you when I heard that door open, could smell you before you said anything at all,” You observe as he steps back into his bedroom, then back further until you can’t see him anymore.
“W-where are you going?” you ask before foolishly finding yourself on your feet, following after the man that seems so different than your coworker. You can feel your heartbeat, practically hear the blood rushing in your ears as you enter the room. “Wilbur, I came here to check on you,” you say, trying to diffuse whatever this was, cut the right wires with the right words. You step further into the room until it’s just you suspended in that darkness. The light behind you illuminating your silhouette. “You haven’t been to work, or answered your phone, and I was getting really worried, okay, so-”
The door shuts with that click you heard minutes earlier, and everything is silent again except for the sound of your panicked breathing. You want to stumble back, find yourself against the door, maybe find a light switch and banish all of this away if only you could see. You want to run, leave whatever thing was in this room that was so clearly not Wilbur behind a shut door to never think about again. You want to scream, and yet you do nothing.
“How sweet of you to worry about me, darling,” his voice is just behind you as you begin to tremble in the open space. “I saw all your texts, listened to those voicemails,” and you are frozen feeling the chill of air fanning against your skin.
“Please turn the light on, Wil,” you say. He didn’t reply, no, but you could hear him just behind you. Then it was one sharp intake of his breath and you could feel his hand run its way from your shoulder to the small of your back.
“It hurts my eyes, love,” he says and he is still touching you, his hand moving again now to rest on your neck, settle there.
“But I-I can’t see,” you whine and you hear him huff again, frustration that bleeds into his voice.
“Is that the worst thing? I don’t think I look too pretty right now,” and you shutter with his words. “And isn’t this more exciting?” His hand is freezing against your skin, where it is gently still holding your neck. He moves his touch up, tilting your jaw and then caressing your cheek. Then his thumb pulls down your lip as he sighs out at the sight of you, and you are just so perfectly pliable. “Are you scared?” he asks.
“Yes,” you breathe out immediately. It’s not just fear that is coursing through you though, something distinctly making you feel drawn to him.
“You should be,” he says, suddenly leaving you again, stranded in the room without knowing where he was. “You know, I was so drunk I don’t remember what happened to me, love, I just woke up here, home, so thirsty,” his voice falls with the last word and you don’t understand why the mundane confession terrifies you, why it makes you shiver when he sounds so far away “and no amount of water fixed the practically burning feeling under my skin, and all I could think about was you, ”
“Wh-what are you talking about?” you ask, desperate to hear his voice again if only for some sense of space in the room. He does something better, his hands once again on your body, resting on your hips, pulling you back against him.
“Do you like acting stupid?” he whispers “I couldn’t keep my eyes off you at work and then this,” he groans, pulling you against him tighter “All I could imagine was how you smell, how you must taste-” and he’s licking up your neck, tracing your pulse point with his cold mouth. “But what’s the point of dreaming of it now when you are right here, so worried about me?”
“What the fuck?” you say, moaning involuntarily as he suddenly is sucking hickeys on your neck, his arms now wrapped firmly around you. You clench your eyes shut and pretend like this isn’t fucking crazy and terrifying. This isn’t what you had imagined when you thought of intimacy with Wilbur, yet you couldn’t help but melt into his demanding touch. You think about coworker Wilbur, who was a little awkward and stiff around the edges, who jumped sometimes when you just made eye contact with him, who now is making your head spin effortlessly.
“You don’t need to pretend like you don’t like it, love,” he says the words lowly in your ear. You squirm against him with a whimper.
“Please let me see you,” and you hear him sigh before you are released from his grip. For a moment, you stumble forward losing your balance and then there is a click and he has turned on his bedside lamp. Wilbur is quick to walk back toward you. In this low lighting, he looks worse than before. You meet his gaze, feel your heart stop with the way dread so quickly grows in your body again and consumes you. He is looking at you like he is starving, pupils blown. You see the slight upturn of his lips, his eyes that of a begging puppy as finally he’s mere inches from you.
“You look divine, darling,” and his hand is taking yours, holding it up to his mouth where he gently presses his lips against the back of it. You watch with bated breath as he trails down with his mouth until he’s kissing your wrist. “Would you let me?” he asks and you look at him confused and he smiles, flashes two sharp teeth. You stare with wide eyes as his grip tightens on your arm, and keeps you close.
“Bite me?” you ask and he hums. The question lingers for a second as you wait in the jaws of an animal. Then you nod, something small and almost imperceptible. He opens his mouth, so close again to your wrist, to that beating pulse under your skin that he can no longer just ignore. Those fangs enter you, derive sweet blood from the broken skin, and he licks at that wound like the gentleness of his tongue will soothe you. There is only pain for a moment, something that makes you whine before it becomes waves of leg-shaking numbness. You breathe out and he sees you waver, catches you before you fall, and sets you gently on his bed.
“You’re okay,” he whispers into your ear as you flutter your eyelashes, reeling with the feeling of something beneath you. When you finally come back to him he’s looking at you carefully, eyes tracing everything he used to when he thought you weren’t looking. You feel your heavy breaths stabilize slowly. “Is that how much I affect you?”
“Maybe,” you say quietly looking away from him.
“I could have devoured you already, darling, and yet here you are,” he grins as he admits that power he has over you, that fear that he could wield so easily as your heart races. He’s crawling to you then, demanding again all of you, your attention, your body, your blood. “Would you like that?” you gasp as he kisses you for the first time, presses his lips into yours, nips at your bottom lip with those fangs, and moans at the taste of your blood again filling his mouth. You pull at his hair and meet him with the same level of high-strung desperation. The bubbling desire for him to bite you again surprises you.
“Please,” instead leaves your mouth in between the taking of your breath by his lips. All that longing and worry becomes hunger.
“If I knew it was this easy to make you beg I would have done this ages ago,” he purrs before sucking at your neck, nipping at the skin before you gasp as he bites you again. You feel that wave of strange pleasure now run through you as you arch your back. He laughs darkly, aroused by not just your pleasure but that bit of pain evident in the way you pull at his hair. He soaks in the sounds ripping from you as he digs his teeth in further. It’s the stuttering breaths and whimpers that make him smile against your skin as he again laps at the wound. He thinks he’s addicted to you, the way you taste, the way you feel.
“Am I enough?” you ask.
“More than enough,” he says. “Doesn’t mean I don’t crave more, love,” and his hands roam their way under your shirt, exploring unseen skin. “Days of just thinking about this, imaging your blood in my mouth,” he pulls that shirt over your head practically panting.
“Why di-didn’t you answer your p-phone?” you say and his mouth is on that newly revealed skin as he presses his fingertips into your hips.
“Didn’t want to hurt you,” he says and you whine as he’s pawing at the rest of your clothes. Taking them off clumsily as he struggles.
“You can hurt me-” you say and he’s furrowing his brow, looking at you again with those puppy dog eyes.
“Wouldn’t,” he huffs before he’s kissing you again. “Not really,” His mouth tastes of blood, of desire that burns its way through you. It’s the kind of kiss that makes you feel raw, that makes your lips ache. “Please let me have this, darling,” he says looking at you and you are nodding.
“Yes, Wil, yes,” he’s parting your legs and you want him to bite you again, to devour you as he promised, but his fingers are prodding at your entrance, entering you slowly. You whine with the feeling as he moves slowly, quickly inserting two fingers and curling them within you. His thumb is pressing against your clit, everything done in that perfect rhythm that makes your hips twitch up into his movements. You cry out, overwhelmed by the attention, the blood loss, and him. You are babbling his name until he’s hungrily kissing you again. You cum with a strangled sound. When you meet Wilbur’s eyes he’s watching you with a reverence that makes you spin all over again. He never expected this, never thought he would get to have you like this.
“So good for me, all for me,” he’s cooing and his hands are running over you again, pressing bruises so easily as you tremble under his gaze. When he finally slides inside you he makes a choked sound. “Christ,” and everything about him is making you feel weak. He steadies himself in the crook of your neck and when he’s whispering again of desire, of hunger that consumes him, and you are nodding your head desperately, mindlessly willing to give. Then he’s drinking from you, creating more marks on your skin that prove you are his because surely you can take it. You pull at his hair as he moves his hips slowly.
This is ruin, you think, as waves of pleasure make you squirm, buck your hips, and drown in the feeling of him all over, beg for more. When his teeth leave you his pace becomes brutal, fucking every pathetic sound from your body as his hands knead skin. You throw your head back and Wilbur stares at your neck, at the collum of your throat so utterly destroyed by him, every perfect patch of skin made red or bled by his teeth and cleaned by his tongue. Everything he does feels like being ripped apart by desire as his motions are relentlessly bringing you to an edge that deems you speechless.
“No one is ever gonna make you feel this good again, darling, just me” he’s purring in your ear before he’s groaning reaching his own climax so much quicker than expected. His thrusts are as rough and demanding as his never-ending touch, cold hands that press and prod and learn the curves of your body as he destroys it. You are whimpering as he uses you, meeting his movements fruitlessly with your own as your hands cling on to anything they can grab. The pleasure hurts as much as it feels mind-numbingly good and you are gasping for air as you come undone once again now around him. He’s kissing you, devouring you, starved for you until he’s cumming. It’s gasping for breath, aftershock, and fallout.
He’s pulling you into his body, carding his hands through your hair, and kissing at your forehead. Everything feels dizzy, your eyes shutting and blinking open just to keep yourself from passing out. Maybe it was too much blood, too much touch.
“Darling, are you okay?” he’s so gentle now, no longer set on making you his but taking care of what he’s done. His freezing hands hover over hot injured skin, making you whine and lean into the touch.
“So dizzy,” you whisper, pressing yourself into the pillows feeling overemotional and pathetic. You want him to keep holding you, keep whispering in your ear. His touch is grounding as sweet words replace all those thoughts of animalistic desire. He’s sated, for now.