The Pumpkin Patch

There's just something about your coworker.

He’s caught your eye on your very first day at the BAU, even as your boss had introduced you to the team.

“Agent, this is Derek Morgan, Jennifer Jareau-”

“Call me JJ!”

“- Emily Prentiss, our technical analyst Penelope Garcia, David Rossi and, last but not least, Doctor Spencer Reid.”

All of them had shaken your hand…except him.

Spencer.

Doctor Spencer Reid, holder of three PhDs and three bachelor's degrees, who you'd seen lecture once at Georgetown before you'd decided to join the FBI.

There's something different about him, but you're not sure what.

Is it the way he seems to sit perfectly still, hardly moving his shoulders to breathe? The slight pallor, the dark circles under his eyes? The frenetic energy in the way he moves when he does speak? Or is it the fact that you can't seem to stop thinking about him?

***

You try not to let yourself think too much about it. For your first case, out in the sticks in Louisiana, you find yourself mostly paired up with Emily and JJ, who teach you the ropes and give you the gossip on the rest of the team.

“So Rossi's been married three times and is the reason for the FBI’s fraternization policy, and Morgan and Garcia aren't dating?”

“Exactly.”

“Right.” You pause, before forcing yourself to ask. “And what about Reid?”

JJ frowns. “What about him?”

“Nothing interesting about him?”

“He's quiet. Mostly likes to spend his free time by himself. We invite him out, but he usually says no.” JJ sighs. “He's nice though.”

Huh.

***

Of course, that evening you try to talk to him.

“Erm, Reid?”

He turns to you, meeting your eyes. The hazel seems impossibly deep, almost hypnotic, and you find yourself almost forgetting what you were doing. Then, he blinks, and they seem…normal. “Yes, can I help you?”

“I…just wanted to say how much I enjoyed your lecture at Georgetown, a few years ago. I was a senior. It actually convinced me to join the FBI.”

He smiles, very softly, without any teeth. “Well, consider it my honor.”

When you walk away, it feels like he's still watching you.

***

That is the first night you dream of him.

You're in the woods, alone.

Or at least, you think you're alone.

It's dark, but the moon is full, everything silvery but vaguely shadowed.

You look down, and you see you're wearing a white dress, almost antique in style, layers of silk and lace floating around your body.

You hear a twig snap, and you turn, your eyes catching on a figure half-enveloped in shadow. When they step out, you recognise them.

“Spencer?” You blink, and suddenly he's in front of you, even though he was yards away, his hand resting against your jaw and his thumb on your chin.

“You shouldn't be out here alone, my dove. It isn't safe.”

“I'm not alone, though, am I? You're here. You'll keep me safe.”

“Oh, my dear, how I wish that were true.”

He leans into your neck, and when he pulls back, his chin is dark, dripping.

The scent of something metallic, something almost sweet, hits you, and when you look down, you see your dress is no longer white, no longer pure.

“I told you it wasn't safe to be out here alone, my dove.”

You gasp awake, taking a moment to remember that you're in a hotel room by yourself, not wandering in the woods like a girl from a Gothic novel.

You go to the bathroom, just to freshen up, when you spot two small marks on your neck. They look old, already almost scarred over, but you're certain they weren't there when you went to bed.

When you lie back down, all you can think of is the throb between your legs.

***

The next day, it's a little hard to look the team in the eye, but especially Spencer.

Surely there must be some reason why of all the people, your brain chose him to dream of. Is it because he's the one you've struggled to connect with the most? Because he's the one you're most afraid of disappointing?

Even so, you find yourself watching him, profiling - he's different today. He's less pale, a hint of a blush dusting his cheeks. The skin under his eyes is just as purple, but the eyes themselves… when he makes eye contact with, just for the barest of seconds, it's like he's holding something back. They're guarded.

You're not sure what it is, but you wonder if it's shame.

Or perhaps pride.

***

You solve the case that afternoon, although you're feeling slightly tired the whole day - you think the lack of sleep is the reason, and you bemoan the possibility that you might have caught something on your very first case.

You'd hate to have to take a day off so soon after starting.

That evening, on the way to the restaurant to get dinner, you yawn, stumbling a moment on the sidewalk.

Unfamiliar hands catch you by the waist, and when you turn, it's Doctor Reid, looking at you with concern.

“Are you getting ill?”

“No, I'm just tired. Didn't sleep the greatest last night. I suppose you'd know something about that.”

He smirks, like there's a joke you're not quite getting. “Yes, you could say that.” His hand lingers on your side, just a moment longer than could be considered appropriate, but you find that when he lets go, jogs over to catch Morgan with a comment on what he's just said, you miss the contact.

When you go to pat the side of your coat, you find the fabric where he'd touched you just as cold as the rest of it.

***

That night, you dream of him again.

You're not in the woods this time - no, this time, you're in a city, late at night. There are lights everywhere, the sound of people heading home from the pictures.

You turn a corner onto a quieter street when you hear the footsteps of someone behind you.

They're not fast, but they are perfectly even, almost calculated.

A shiver travels up your spine, a warning that you should be afraid.

And yet, you're not.

You turn around, and he's there.

“Spencer.”

“Yes, love?”

“Are you following me?”

He laughs, very slightly. “And what if I am?”

“I'd tell you that I can look after myself, and that I don't need a chaperone.”

“Are you quite sure about that?” In a second, your back is pressed against the wall, his hand at the base of your throat and his lips mere millimeters from yours. You lean forward and he pulls back, a puff of laughter. “Perhaps I'm the one who needs a chaperone?”

You laugh. “I think, perhaps you do.” You wrap his tie around your hand, pulling him forward so that you can finally kiss him. He sighs into your mouth as your tongue runs along his teeth, when there's a sharp pain and you pull back.

When you touch your tongue, it's bleeding.

And when he smiles, you see the sharp tips of fangs, ever so slightly longer than the rest of his teeth.

***

When you wake up, you're extremely confused.

Two dreams about your coworker in two nights, and both times he's a damn vampire?

You pull your laptop out, connecting to the WiFi, googling the meaning of vampire dreams.

Most websites suggest you're feeling controlled, or manipulated, but you can't think of anything like that, so you look further.

What you find is that it can be a desire for change, or perhaps coming to terms with a hidden part of yourself, and you don't know how to feel.

When you look in the mirror that morning, you don't find any more strange marks, and the previous ones are almost completely gone.

It's strange to get bitten by mosquitos in the middle of October, but it's not unheard of.

You're just glad you didn't have an allergic reaction like last time.

***

You spend most of the flight home doing paperwork, occasional sneaking a peek over at Spencer.

He's curled up on the couch, fast asleep.

In fact, he hardly looks like he's breathing, he's so still.

JJ catches you, and smiles. “Yeah, I know - I've never seen anyone sleep so hard either. I think it's because he pulls so many all-nighters.”

You hum in agreement, sharing a smile with the other woman, before returning back to your work.

***

When you arrive back at Quantico, he approaches you.

There's a brief touch on your shoulder, and when you turn, he's pulled his hand back already.

“Hey.”

“Uh, hey, Doctor Reid.”

“Spencer or Reid is fine, you know. That's what everyone else calls me.”

“Okay…Spencer.” You smile. “How can I help?”

“We're all going out for a drink tonight, if you'd like to join.”

You smile, then yawn. “Normally, I would, but I'm exhausted, so perhaps another time?”

He smiles. “Of course. Have a good night.”

“Goodnight, Spencer.”

You've turned to pack up, ready to leave, when you hear your name again. You turn, and it's him, again. “Yes?”

“Just wanted to say that taking a regular iron supplement can help with tiredness.”

“Thank you, Spencer. Have a good evening.”

“You too.”

On your way home from work, you stop at a pharmacy and pick some up.

***

When you wake up, you know you've dreamt of him again, but there are no clear images that you can grasp - they're there, but when you try to reach for them, they vanish, skittering to the very corners of your mind.

When you go into work, you get small flashes as you work through the file on your desk - the caress of a hand against your jaw, fingers pressed against your waist, a flash of pain in your neck followed by the sweetest oblivion.

And when you look up, there's a smirk playing on Spencer's lips.

***

That night, you take the initiative, and walk up to him. “Spencer?”

“Hmm?” He doesn't turn to you, but you have no doubt that you have his attention.

“Fancy getting that drink tonight?”

He smiles, but shakes his head. “I'm afraid I'll have to take a raincheck. I am…otherwise engaged this evening.”

Oh. You deflate, a bit, not sure why you were so hopeful. “Oh, well, I hope you have a nice time.”

“Thank you. Perhaps… tomorrow?”

Tomorrow? “Yeah, uh, that would be nice. Tomorrow.”

“It's a date.”

You spend the entire drive home trying to ignore the way your stomach flips every time you think of him.

***

The dream is clear that night.

You're in your apartment, watching TV, when you hear a knock at the window by the fire escape. You look over, and there's no one there, but you get up and close the curtains over anyway.

When you sit back down, you try to ignore the feeling that you're being watched, but eventually you give up on trying to concentrate on the screen and go and lie in bed.

When you get into your room, you find the window open.

You're sure it was closed before - maybe the wind blew it open? - but you close it again, before settling down under the comforter. You close your eyes, and then the other side of the bed dips.

You open your eyes, and he's there, eyes glowing strangely in the dim light.

“Spencer? Why are you here?”

“I just…I needed to be close to you.” He leans into you, the barest brush of lips against yours, and you sigh instantly as his tongue runs against the seam of your lips. Your mouth drops open, and then his tongue is dancing against yours as you drown in his scent - lignin, starch, something dark and woody that you can't quite name.

He turns you so you're on your back and he looms over you dangerously as he slides between your legs. You pull his mouth back to yours, and he moans before pulling back, his mouth running along your jaw, down your neck.

He takes a deep breath at the juncture of your neck and your shoulder, nuzzling at the skin, something just a little sharp scraping there and making the heat between your legs even harder to ignore. You run your hand into his hair, twisting the curls around your fingers as he licks your skin, not realising what you're saying.

“Spencer, please, I'm all yours, take it, take what you need-”

There's a sharp scratch as his fangs sink in, and you gasp, and then you're carried away on a wave of pleasure.

***

When you wake up, the first thing you do is look in the mirror.

There aren't any new marks, and part of you is disappointed.

***

You spend your journey into work thinking.

Sure, when you'd been younger you'd had more than a small obsession with vampires - much like most of the other girls your age - but as you'd grown up you'd thought you'd got over it.

But with the new dreams?

Vampires are fiction, borne of the human fear of death, disease, and the unknown. They appear in the folklore of nearly all cultures: the Filipino manananggal, the Portuguese bruxa, the Romanian strigoi.

And part of you is wondering if, perhaps, there might be some truth in legends after all.

***

The next few weeks at work are quiet - you're careful not to say the word out loud, the superstitious part of you fearing that saying it might cause some horrible case to pop up out of nowhere - and so you spend your time getting to know the team.

Or more accurately, observing Spencer.

You try not to make it too obvious, but you're not sure you're successful.

What starts as an attempt to try and quiet that silly voice in your head that screams predator when you watch him, turns into trying to prove yourself right.

He sits so very, very still when he's focusing on something.

His skin grows paler over days, then he comes in the next with flushed cheeks, his complexion no longer alabaster pale.

You catch his hand once or twice by accident, reaching for a spoon in the kitchenette, and each time his skin is cool - not cold, but cooler than it should be. You ask if he's got poor circulation, and he just smiles slightly and says, “Something like that.”

You're out on a local case one night, and you spin around and catch him with your flashlight - his eyes glow when the light hits them, iridescent green. Something in your brain shouts tapetum lucidum, predator, run, but you ignore it.

He never seems to sleep, getting in early and leaving late, and sometimes you catch him laughing just as you've said something on the other side of the room, like he can hear it.

Vampires aren't real, you tell yourself. They're fiction.

Folklore. An allegory for female sexuality.

But what if, whispers a small voice.

***

It's a case in Pennsylvania that finally reveals the truth. You've just got back to the hotel - well, the inn, you're not exactly in suburbia right now, rather a small town in the middle of the Moshannon State Forest - when you hear the door next to the room next to yours close and fifteen minutes later, it opens again.

Spencer's room is next to yours, and it's just gone midnight - what could he possibly be doing?

Even though part of you is screaming at you to stay put, stay safe, you need answers.

So you pull your shoes and your coat on and lock the door behind you, before heading downstairs after him.

When you're outside, you can't see him anymore, but you spot fresh prints leading down the dirt track into the forest, so you follow them.

The woods are silent in a way they shouldn't be.

The moon is full, like it was in your first dream, casting everything in silver light. There's an owl hooting at a distance, but there's not the usual sound of creatures in the undergrowth.

You know what lives in the Pennsylvanian forests - raccoons, bats, squirrels, coyotes.

Bears.

Part of you thinks they might not be at the top of the food chain tonight.

You follow the path a little longer, keeping one hand on your gun the entire time, before you finally spot him.

He's crouching on the ground, leaning over something large that you can't quite make out in the dark. There's a strange sucking sound, almost like someone is taking large mouthfuls of a drink.

You take another step forward, and your foot finds a twig.

It snaps, and Spencer turns to you.

At least, you think it's Spencer.

The way his face is contorted in a hiss, his eyes glowing yellow-green and the blood dripping onto the ground from his fangs make him look like something completely inhuman.

Like a monster.

You see the exact moment he recognises you - his back straightens, the fangs recede, and his posture shifts to something more neutral, away from the defensive crouch he had been in.

He says your name, but you're already running back down the path, back towards the safety of the inn.

You go to your room, locking the door, and ignoring the gentle knock that follows you a few minutes later.

You don't sleep much that night.

***

The next day when you try to leave your room, he's already waiting outside the door.

“We need to talk.”

“Not right now, Spencer, I'm busy-” you try to push past him, but his hand takes your wrist, the skin more flushed than it had been the day before.

Now, you know why.

You try to rip your hand out of his grasp, but he doesn't even move.

“Let go.”

“We need to talk about what you saw last night.”

“You mean that I saw you drinking blood from some creature in the woods-”

“A white-tailed deer.”

“Fine, a deer. Whatever, Spencer. I'm busy - in case you haven't noticed, we have a case. We'll talk about it later.” Then, a realization hits you. “The marks on my neck on our first case. That was you.” He'd drank from you, without your permission, or your knowledge, and suddenly you're full of rage. “Is that why I keep dreaming of you?” You've read Dracula. You know what it means. “Am I in thrall to you now or something?”

“If you were, this would all be a lot easier.” He lets you go, and scrubs a hand down his face. “Can we talk about this, please?”

“What's there to talk about? You're a vampire.” Saying it out loud sounds so ridiculous that you laugh. “You drink blood. You drank my blood.”

“I did.”

“Then we have nothing more to say.”

You walk off downstairs, leaving him standing there.

***

He leaves you alone for the rest of the case, and it gives you a moment to think things through.

You have questions.

How can he go out in the sunlight?

You've seen him eat human food, and you know he loves coffee - how?

Why did he drink from you in Louisiana?

Now, your anger is fading, as is your fear - he could've killed you in the woods, but he didn't.

So why didn't he?

***

When you're back in Quantico, you approach him.

“Shall we get that drink?”

He closes the file and grabs his bag.

“Let's.”

***

That is how you end up sitting across from a vampire in a bar in DC.

It helps that he's as awkward as you, staring down at the glass of whiskey in his hands like he's hoping you'll start.

So you do. “How come you can go outside during the day?”

“The concept of sunlight killing a vampire came around with the 1922 film Nosferatu. It weakens me slightly, but it doesn't do me any harm.”

“How come you can eat food and drink coffee?”

“My digestive system still functions. It doesn't provide any nutrition, but I can enjoy it.” He raises his glass. “I can get drunk, too, but only if drinking from a person who has…imbibed.”

“Do you… do you often drink from humans?”

“No, very rarely.”

“So…why me?”

“Would you believe me if I said it was an accident?” You raise your eyebrow. “I thought not.”

“So why?”

He sighs. “I hadn't fed in far too long, and I couldn't risk any of the rest of the team finding out, so I chose you. The fact that you were part of the team meant that it would be easier to control myself.”

“So I'm expendable.”

“No, not at all.”

“Why didn't you kill me in the woods?”

“Why did you follow me out there?” He leans forward, his voice dropping. “Was it the call of the void, perhaps?”

You lean forward as well. “Why didn't you kill me, Spencer?”

“Because I dislike it. I feed off animals out of necessity, not because I enjoy it - I'm in this career for a reason. I try to stop killers, not be one.” he sighs. “And I am sorry for feeding on you. It's been so long since I did that I forgot the dreams would perhaps be a hindrance. They should continue to fade over the next few weeks, and I won't do it again.”

“Good. And apology accepted.”

“Thank you.”

“I do have more questions.”

He smiles. “Why does this not surprise me?”

“Have you ever been staked?”

“No, I have not. And yes, it would kill me.”

“What else might?” You know sunlight is out.

“Any direct impact to the heart or the head. I'm immortal, not invulnerable.”

“How old are you?”

“Physically, twenty-seven. Chronologically, more than that. Several times more, in fact.”

Fine, if he won't give you a straight answer, you won't force him. “How wrong was Bram Stoker?”

He laughs. “If we start that, we'll be here long past the time you need to sleep.”

***

Over the next few weeks, the dreams do fade.

Of course it doesn't last.

You're on the trail of an UnSub, just the two of you, trying to catch him before he gets the chance to kill again.

When you find him, you're not expecting him to have a gun.

He points at you, pulling the trigger as you pull yours, and you hit him in the shoulder as his bullet catches Spencer in the neck. They both drop to the floor, and you immediately go to Spencer, trying to stop the bleeding.

“Hey, it's okay, you're alright-” There's so much blood. It's darker than yours, flowing sluggishly, but he's becoming paler and paler as it spreads out below him.

He can't go to the hospital.

But you know there's one thing that will help.

You unbutton the cuff of your shirt, rolling it up and pressing the skin to his lips. “Drink.” He tries to shake his head, but you push against him. “No, you need to, Spencer. If you don't, this is going to get messy.” The UnSub is on the floor, clearly dead already, but right now you don't really care, not when someone you care about is bleeding over the floor. “Spencer, please. You need it.” You touch his neck, and your hand comes away, sticky. “You've lost a lot of blood, and you need to heal."

He seems to fight with himself for a moment longer before you feel the prick of his fangs in your wrist, his hands holding your arm still as he finally starts to drink. It hurts to start, the strange feeling of the pull of his mouth as he takes your blood into him. When he looks at you, there's that inhuman glint in his eye again, but it doesn't scare you, at all. He continues to drink from you for a while, and you start to feel lightheaded.

“Spencer, hey you need to stop-” He does, not without what seems to be a Herculean amount of effort, licking across the wounds on your wrist before pressing the gentlest of kisses over the area.

“Thank you.” His skin is flushed, the previous paleness long gone, and when you look at his neck, the wound is fully healed, the only evidence it ever existed the blood on his collar.

He stands, waiting for a moment before going to pull you up, and although you see stars for a moment, you stay on your feet.

He checks the UnSub, confirming he's dead before radioing Hotch, and helping you back out.

***

He practically demands you get checked out by the ambulance crew, and you acquiesce, letting him tell the paramedics what he thinks you need.

“She might need a transfusion, or at least a bag of saline.”

“Spencer, c'mon, they're professionals-”

“No, ma'am, he's right - I would like to give you a bag of saline.”

“I'm fine-” You stand up but almost immediately fall back down, black spots in your vision and the only thing keeping you upright Spencer's hands around your waist. “Okay, maybe I'm not.” You hold your arm out - not the one where you know there are healing marks - and look away as they hook you up to a bag. Of course it's fine to let someone drink your blood, but God forbid someone try to hook you up to an IV.

“Sir, will you be joining us? We're about to leave.”

You're about to tell Spencer that he doesn't have to come, that you'll be fine, but before you know it he's sitting next to you in the back, the doors closed and his cool hands wrapped around yours.

***

At the hospital, he doesn't leave your side until they force him to.

They assess you and confirm that you're ready to be discharged, noting that your haemoglobin is a little low but not enough to need a blood transfusion, so they just recommend you take iron tablets.

You know exactly why it's low, and you're already on them, so you just nod and take the papers and walk out into the corridor.

He's down at the end, standing eerily still. You're amazed no one's noticed him, but it's like he's invisible to everyone but you.

Of course, he lifts his head when you push the door nearest him, and he stops leaning against the wall, approaching you. His hands are cold, but comforting as he takes hold of your hand again.

“You're alright?”

“Yes, just a little low on haemoglobin, but I'll be fine.”

He drops his voice. “That was dangerous.”

“What was?”

“You know what. Letting me- drinking like that when I was in that condition could've meant that I seriously hurt you. Maybe even killed you.”

“I trust you, Spencer. I knew you'd stop.”

His hand drops from yours, and his expression twists into something a little less human. “You shouldn't.”

"Shouldn't what?"

"Trust me."

He storms off, leaving you in the hospital corridor alone.

***

The next few weeks at work are strained.

He talks to you, but it's brief, any of the rapport, the friendliness you two had built over the previous couple of weeks is gone. He only talks to you about things if they're case related, and if you try to talk to him, he gives you a brief answer before ducking out of the room.

It's stressful.

It's annoying.

And the dreams…well, they're worse than they were before.

Instead of dreaming he's biting you, he's kissing you.

His hands drift lower, across your breasts, the planes of your stomach, and lower still.

Every time you look at him, you remember the things he's done to you in your subconscious, because you let him feed off of you.

And even worse, you liked it.

***

The dreams have finally stopped when there's a knock at your door one evening after work.

When you open it, it's the last person you expect.

“Spencer?” He looks fine, at a glance - he's not pale, so you know he's fed recently, he's not limping or holding onto any part of him, so he's probably not injured. But his eyes…there's a hunger in them. “Are you alright?”

“Can I come in?” His voice is a little husky, and it does funny things to you.

“Do you need to be invited?”

He smiles, and holds a foot across the threshold. “Another myth, I'm afraid. But I won't come in if you don't want me to.” He looks, and sounds, genuine.

You stand back from the door, gesturing with your hand, and he walks in, settling down on the couch. You follow him, shutting the door and sitting in the armchair opposite. “How can I help?”

“I, uh, I wanted to apologise. For how I've acted the last few weeks.”

“Hmm?”

“I've been rude, dismissive…perhaps even a little unkind.”

“I mean, yes, but I get it.”

“Do you?”

“Yeah, I mean, you did something you really didn't want to do, and you've been beating yourself up about it for weeks, as per usual. That's what that whole thing in the hospital was, right?”

“You're half right. I have been…struggling…with what happened. But that's not the only reason I've been staying away.”

It's not? “Really?”

“There's something I didn't tell you. When I said the dreams were to be expected… I didn't just mean for you.”

Wait, that means- “Can you read minds or something?”

He laughs. “No, I can't - no telepathy or psychic ability here. If I could, our job would be a lot easier.”

“So when you say you've been having dreams…”

“I mean that I have been exercising a Herculean amount of self-restraint the past few weeks, and tonight I think I might have been just a little bit weak.”

Oh.

Oh.

You stand still for a moment, knowing that both of you can hear the way your heart picks up in your chest.

After a moment, he looks a little sheepish, and then stands. “Maybe I should go, I've made you uncomfortable and I am very sorry-”

You shut him up by standing up, crossing over to the couch, and straddling his lap. “I think that maybe, you should turn that brain of yours off for a second.”

You lean forward and press your lips to his. They're cool, but not as cool as the rest of him.

He's frozen, just for a second, and you think you've made another huge mistake, and then it's like he's devouring you alive.

His hands wrap around your back, holding you with strength that you know he's holding back, and you can't help but rock down against him, making him moan into your mouth.

“Wait, wait-” he pushes you back, very slightly, and when you look at him, his lips seem almost bruised.

And his fangs - oh, his fangs have descended.

You should be scared: instead, the sight makes you ache between your legs.

He looks at you. “Are you sure?”

You nod. You're very, very sure. But there are some logistics. “Can vampires get STDs?”

He laughs, one hand leaving and cupping your face. You lean into his touch. “No, but human-vampire hybrids are real. Rare, but very real.”

“I've got an IUD, so we're covered for that.” You rock down against him again, watching the way he throws his head back and grows. “So, shall we take this to the bedroom?”

“I think that would be a very good idea, Agent.” He stands, holding the backs of your thighs and rising to his feet with minimal effort. It's like you weigh nothing to him.

It's very, very hot.

His fangs are still out, so you lean forward, the tip of your tongue running along from point to root and back. When you switch to the other, you feel a slight hint of pain, and he stumbles, almost dropping you. When he looks at you, his face has shifted again.

It's almost like his bones have moved, sharpened somehow. His eyes are shining again, golden-green.

He's unnaturally beautiful, and even as part of you recognises him as something predatory, something dangerous, the rest of you doesn't agree.

When he speaks, there's no room for argument. “You need to be careful. I don't want to hurt you.”

You kiss him again. “You couldn't.”

“I very much could, my dear. I'm stronger and faster than you, and I've fed off of you twice before. Others of my kind wouldn't hesitate to drink you dry.”

“But you would.”

“Yes. I told you, I dislike hurting people.”

“And you have more control now, because you've fed recently?”

“I fed before I came over, yes.”

You lean right next to his ear. “Does blood sharing during sex make things…better?”

He freezes, again. “It can heighten the experience, yes, but… it's so risky, my dove. I don't want to hurt you.”

“What if…what if I wanted you to?”

“Then that would be beyond reckless.” He carries you to the bed, setting you down gently before kneeling in front of you. His face has shifted back to normal, but his eyes still glow. “I won't hurt you. I won't.”

“What about…a swap?”

“Are you saying you want me to turn you? Because that requires a lot more discussion.”

He'd be willing to- not, you're not doing to think about that right now. “No, just - if you give me enough to heal after you drink. Not turning me. Would…would that be pleasurable for you?” You frown. “Would that make me attached to you?”

“You wouldn't be in thrall, but…there would be a bond. We'd be even more aware of each other than we are now.”

“I'm not sure that's possible.” You've been very aware of him for a long time, and you suspect that after you've gone to bed with him, that will only get stronger.

“Believe me, it is.” It speaks of a tale, and one you know he won't tell tonight.

So instead you lean forward and kiss him again. He groans in the back of his throat, and you start to undo his coat, letting it fall behind him before you start on the cardigan next. It makes you smile. “Did you get into cardigans in the Forties?”

“Yes, actually.” His hands brace against your thighs, sliding up until they reach the hem of the Henley you're wearing, playing with it until you pull your arms away from him and raise them up, allowing it to slide off of your body. He drops it on the floor and turns his attention back to kissing you, the vague points of his nails a delicious sting against your back.

You pull him off the floor to lean over you, his legs slotting between yours as you wrap your legs around his hips. He rocks down against you, and you can feel he's hard in his slacks, making you whimper slightly. He does it again, this time very obviously on purpose, and you gasp into his mouth, making him growl. “So responsive.”

He pulls back, hands sliding to your trousers, undoing the button before sliding them down your legs. When they're on the floor, you pull the tie from around his neck and start working on the buttons of his shirt - it's purple, one of your favourites, but you think you like it better on your floor when you finally get to see him shirtless. He's lean, but his forearms are corded with muscle and there's a light trail of hair that leads into his underwear. Your fingers play at the elastic at the top of his boxers, and when you push his trousers off of him, you can see the stress they're under.

You can feel yourself getting wetter.

Then, his hands are on you again, one sliding behind your back and undoing your bra before taking it off you and dropping it onto the floor. Your nipples pebble in the chilled air until he takes one into his mouth, his other hand gently stroking the swell of your breast. A half- descended fang scrapes against your nipple, and he sucks, making you gasp. You look down and see that his eyes are almost black as they flutter closed. When he pulls back, there's a tiny bead of blood that he licks off of you before leaning back over you and pressing his mouth to yours. His fingers dust across your sides before reaching the edge of your underwear, and you nod, not separating your mouth from his as he pulls them off.

Then, you're totally bare underneath him, and he sits back, taking in all of you. There's nothing uncomfortable in the way he looks at you, but the heat in his gaze makes you wonder if you might burst into flames.

“Beautiful. Simply beautiful.”

You feel yourself blush, and he slides off the bed onto his knees, spreading your thighs with his eyes meeting yours. You nod, and he leans in, his tongue running from your pussy up to your clit, his hands holding you down on the bed as he does it again and you try to buck up into his mouth. He chuckles darkly, and pulls back and smiles, his fangs pressing against his lips. “Patience, my dove. I'll give you what you need.” He moves one hand to press a finger at your entrance, his forearm pressed across both of your hips, keeping you in place as he slides one long, cool digit into you. It soothes the ache inside of you, and you sigh as he runs the pad of his finger over your g-spot.

Then, you gasp, as he sucks against your clit, your hands grabbing his hair and pulling. He whimpers, and the sound pulls you closer to the edge, his attentions making you moan his name into the pillow next to your head.

He stops and looks at you. “No, sweetheart, I want to hear you. Let me hear how I make you feel while I worship you.” He puts his mouth back to you, and does something, and when you dare to look down at him, the sight of his eyes shining in that hypnotic, otherworldly way and the sound he makes as he licks into you sends you over the edge into a blinding climax, gasping as he works you through it and only stopping when you whine at the overstimulation.

Then, with superhuman speed, he's looming over you, looking at you desperately. His boxers are off, somehow and his cock is resting against your entrance, making you clench in anticipation. You nod, and he pushes all the way into you with one thrust, filling you completely and making you dig your nails into his back, his mouth kissing along your neck. He pulls almost completely out before slamming home again, pushing you slightly further up into the pillows and making you almost scream his name. “Spencer, fuck-”

“I know, my dove, I know- you can take it, I know you can-” His teeth scrape along your neck, and you gasp at the hint, the promise of pain followed by oblivion.

“Spencer, baby, please, bite me-” You beg, and he nuzzles at the juncture of your neck and shoulder before his fangs sink in, making you clench around him and causing him to moan as he drinks from you, the pleasure washing over you again, only this time stronger.

He drinks only for a short amount of time, thrusting into you in time with the pull on your neck, and soon you're hovering on the golden edge again, every slide of him inside you pulling you closer to another orgasm until you tip over the edge, the pleasure of climax and being drunk from mingling to create something euphoric. You know he can feel it, can probably taste the endorphins in your blood as it floods through him, and he keeps the pace even as he licks over the wounds on your neck, making sure they'll heal over in time for tomorrow. When he's done, he kisses you again, before baring his neck to you.

“Your teeth are strong enough, and it won't hurt. Bite me, my dove.”

You kiss along his neck, thanking genetics for your slightly pointed canines as you find the spot where you know the skin is thinnest, before sinking your teeth into him.

Blood runs into your mouth as his hips stutter, and three pulls later he's slammed all the way into you and stilled, your name on his lips as he moans into your shoulder as he comes. You take one more mouthful of the strangely sweet and invigorating liquid in before licking over the crescent shape marks your teeth have left, marvelling over the way the wounds heal as you watch.

You lie still for a moment, already slightly achy as he pulls out of you but missing him immediately, even as he kisses you again in apology.

You feel sated in a way that's completely unfamiliar, and then you realise that it's not your emotion.

It's Spencer’s.

He looks at you, and smiles, his fangs fully retracted. “It's an interesting feeling, isn't it? Being able to feel someone else's needs?”

You nod, and he kisses you again, and all you can feel is deep satisfaction when he presses his lips to yours.

There's something else in there that you're not going to say out loud right now, not when he's lifting you up and carrying you to the shower. He leaves for a moment, returning with towels you didn't realise he knew where to find, before turning the water on and pulling you under.

You lean against his chest as he rinses through your hair, massaging the shampoo into your hair before rinsing it off, making you sigh. He massages every muscle that feels even the slightest bit stiff, before turning the water off and wrapping you both up in a towel.

He carries you back to the bed, drying you off before you finally push him off to dress yourself. He laughs, then vanishes very briefly to dress himself, sliding into the bed next to you.

You lie against his chest, his heart slower than a human's but still comforting in your ear, his fingers running across your skin.

You can feel his relaxation alongside yours, as well as elements of protectiveness, making you laugh. “You know, I'm not quitting my job any more than you are.”

He sighs. “I know, but forgive me for my baser instincts.”

You look up to him, seeing the way his eyes are still glowing before wrapping a hand around his neck and pulling his mouth down to yours. “Nothing to forgive, Spencer. Just try not to let it interfere with work? You can protect me all you want outside of work.”

He kisses you again, and you can feel him smiling. “That seems like a reasonable compromise.” Then, you yawn, and he pulls you right next to him. “Seems like it's time for certain humans to sleep.”

“Not you?”

“I'll fall asleep at some point - I don't need as much as you. Any issues with me lying here and holding you?”

“Watching me sleep? What are you, a Cullen?”

He snorts. “Meyer got it even more wrong than Tarantino.”

“Why am I not surprised?”

He pokes you, gently, and you find your eyelids getting heavier. “Sleep, dove. You're tired, and you need to be at your best tomorrow.”

“Ugh, I hate when you're right-”

“I know.” He kisses your hair, then runs his fingers through. “Sleep, sweetheart. I'll still be here in the morning.”

“Goodnight, Spencer.”

“Goodnight.”