Mars

You've worked a lot of cases where the horror was immediate. Where blood told its story the moment you walked through a door. Where rage soaked through drywall, where the killer was obvious-sloppy, impulsive, begging to be caught.

This isn't one of those cases.

This one whispers.

It waits.

You don't realize how quiet the office is until your pen scratches the paper too loud. The usual background chatter-JJ on the phone, someone's footsteps across the upper level-is absent. Even the AC hums quieter.

The silence presses in as you stare at the open file in front of you.

A cold case. Or... several, technically. Five victims. Five cities. Eight years apart. All women. All vanished without warning, then reappeared days or weeks later, posed like art installations in public or semi-public spaces. Churches. Forests. Rooftops.

No blood.

No cause of death.

No trauma visible to the naked eye.

You glance again at the ME's notes. They always circle the same phrase like it answers anything:

"Exsanguination by unknown method."

It's clinical. Clean. And utterly useless.

You're not sure why Hotch handed the case to you.

He'd said it quietly, like something best not heard. "No one's touched this in years. It's unfinished. Maybe you'll see something we didn't."

He didn't meet your eye when he said it. You didn't question him. You'd thought it would be a simple review. Cross-check the old data, close it out with a shrug. But now...

Now your skin won't stop crawling.

You flip through the case files again.

The first woman was found in New Orleans, laid gently on the steps of an old cathedral. White dress. Clean skin. No footprints, no fingerprints. Her eyes were closed, her hands folded over her abdomen. It looked like a wedding photo gone wrong.

The second victim appeared on the balcony of her own apartment. The door had been locked from the inside.

There were no signs of forced entry, no evidence of restraint. Her roommate had stepped outside to smoke a cigarette and found her slumped elegantly in the patio chair, head tilted back like she'd dozed off.

But she never woke up.

Later, when you're in the kitchenette nursing a cup of over-steeped tea, Emily passes by and eyes the folders on your desk.

"Still digging through that vampire case?"

You raise an eyebrow. "Vampire?"

She shrugs. "That's what we called it. The press never caught the name, thankfully. But yeah. Bloodless, beautiful women, no struggle, no leads. The profile practically wrote itself."

You nod. Try not to let the word vampire settle under your skin like it wants to.

It's ridiculous. Folklore. And yet...You dream about cold mouths and dark rooms that night.

Over the next week, you let the case become personal.

You tell yourself you're being thorough, but deep down, you know better. This isn't protocol anymore. This is obsession.

You track flight records, weather patterns, phone data from towers that don't exist anymore. You start layering old maps with newer ones. You find the exact time the third victim's body would have been staged in a cemetery in Vermont-just before sunrise.

A death so gentle it nearly looked like sleep.

You start noticing patterns, but they don't make sense.

The victims didn't know each other. They lived in different states. No shared occupations. No obvious stalkers. No abuse histories. No inciting trauma.

But there is something.

Something... underneath. You sit with it. You let it simmer.

It's not until you wake up gasping from a dream-a voice in your ear saying lie still-that you realize what you've missed.

You're not thinking about their lives.

You're thinking about their minds.

They were all intelligent.

Not just average-smart. Gifted.

One was a PhD candidate in philosophy.

One spoke six languages.

One ran complex cognitive research for DARPA.

You pull up the notes again, now scanning for overlooked psychological details: IQ scores, test results, academic records. Every single woman had tested in the 99th percentile or higher in spatial reasoning and verbal fluency.

That's not a victim type.

That's a prey preference.

Your stomach twists. Someone hunted them because they were brilliant.

Because their minds were sharp and complex and rare.

Your fingers hover over the keyboard.

There's no record of a current profiler working this case who would match that pattern. But there was someone... You open the archived BAU logs. Internal assignments.

Cross-referenced names. You scroll. And stop.

One name appears again and again-on handwritten notes, post-briefing memos, early field reports. You don't recognize it.

But it's there, buried behind redacted names and outdated credentials.

Dr. Spencer Reid.

Huh. That's strange.

You should know that name. It's familiar in the way the word chapel or fever dream is familiar-meaningless but heavy, like it's stitched into the hem of something you're not ready to unfold.

You lean back in your chair and blink at the screen.

The name stirs absolutely nothing in you. Not an image. Not a memory. Not even a vague impression.

You ask JJ about him in passing, like it's nothing.

"Spencer? Spencer Reid? You never met him?"

You shake your head. "He left right before I came in, I think."

JJ frowns. "You two never overlapped?"

You shrun " don't think so Why?"

She hesitates. "You just... remind me of someone he used to know. The way you work. The way you think."

You laugh it off. But your hands are suddenly cold.

Somewhere in the night, a whisper curls behind your ear.You turn. No one's there. You check the lock on your door twice before bed. You don't tell the team what you've found.

You don't know what to tell them. You don't know why it feels like a secret. But something in you-deep and old and buried —wants to keep it that way.

The case hasn't left you alone. Not once since you took it.

The initial report was thin-three missing women, a tenuous geographic pattern, no clear signs of connection. Cold case, they said. Technically inactive.

Until the fourth woman vanished. Until you opened the file and noticed a pattern.

Now it lives on your desk. In your mind. Beneath your skin.

Victims aged between late twenties and early thirties, all professionally successful, all photographed regularly online before their disappearances-public lives, curated smiles. All gone without a sound. No forced entry. No signs of struggle. In each case, their bodies turned up weeks later, drained of blood. Pale.

Preserved. Still beautiful.

You know the Bureau doesn't want to believe in ritual killings. No one wants to say the word "vampire" out loud.

But Emily had. Jokingly. "Better sharpen your stakes.

This one's starting to feel Dracula-adjacent." It stuck with you. It was stupid. Silly.

But now, every time you open the file, the word scratches at the inside of your skull. You've been digging hard. Harder than you usually do, even for your own cases. You haven't told the team how deep you've gone. There's no need. Not yet. You aren't hiding anything. Not really. You're just... working. Quietly.

One week in, you found something. His name again.

Dr. Spencer Reid.

It came up once-buried in a cross-reference from an old forensic database note. Not assigned to the case.

No interviews logged. No reports filed. But the handwriting in the margin of one of the original files matched the signature on his archived BAU reports.

Same curl of the "R." Same careful slope in the "d."

He had looked into it. Alone. And for some reason, never told anyone. Which means he had access. Interest. Proximity. So you started researching him. His name brought up hundreds of results. Thousands.

Old cases. Lectures. Brief interviews. Then, nothing. A vanishing act. Quiet exit from the Bureau. No press. No retirement announcement.

Just... silence.

You asked about him once. Casually.

Rossi had just shrugged. "Brilliant mind. Retired early. Needed space." That was it. No photos on the walls. No old stories. No lingering ghost.

The name meant nothing to you. You were sure you'd never met him. You would have remembered someone like that.

But his name kept showing up-just faintly enough to make it easy to miss. Two victims had borrowed books from a rare library where he used to lecture. Another had interned at a university where he gave a seminar. A fourth had signed up for a night course in behavioral psych-he'd been a guest speaker that same semester.

You connected the dots. You're trained to. Still, you haven't told anyone. Not Emily. Not Tara. Not Hotch.

You don't know why.

There's no reason to keep it to yourself, but something makes you hesitate every time you think about it.

Some strange instinct. It's not fear, exactly. It's possession. You found him. This connection. This hidden thread. It's yours. And for now, you want to keep it that way.

You work late most nights, filing notes into a private drive and physically locking any hard copy evidence in your desk. You've never been secretive before. But it's easy, somehow. Natural. Like your body knows how to hide this.

The case continues to evolve in odd ways. New forensic results arrive from the oldest scene-trace cologne on the victim's clothing. Not her own.

Masculine. Expensive. You add it to the profile.

A victim's ex-boyfriend finally returns your call, swears she'd been acting strange the month before she disappeared. "Like she was in love or something," he'd said. "But there was no one else."

You nod, write it down. Love. You've profiled worse motives.

You return to the original reports again and again. They keep calling you back. The locations. The placement of bodies. It all has a rhythm, and you know if you can just sync to it, you'll see what he wants you to see.

You don't know why you think of the unsub as a he. But you do. You always have.

The first dream wakes you at 3:47 AM.

You lie there for a moment in the dark, breath shallow, sweat cooling on your collarbones.

You don't remember all of it. Just flashes. Warm hands on your hips. A mouth on your neck. The weight of a body pressing yours into something soft-a bed, maybe. Breathing against your ear. Fingers curled tight in your hair. You'd been saying something. No-moaning something.

His name? You don't remember.

The only clear moment is the very end-his teeth at your throat. Not biting. Not yet. But close. And then the sharp pierce.

Your hips had rolled. Your back had arched. You woke up with your pulse pounding between your thighs.

You pressed the heel of your palm there in the dark, trying to slow the rush of heat. You hadn't meant to touch yourself. Not for that reason. It wasn't like that.

It was just—

Your body didn't know the difference.

You showered long and hot, staring at your own face in the steam-streaked mirror.

You told yourself it was because of Emily. That stupid vampire joke. Of course your mind twisted it. You'd been deep in crime scene files, reviewing bite patterns, notes on exsanguination, toxicology panels. You weren't losing it.

It was just suggestion.

You kept telling yourself that, even when you smelled something warm and woody lingering in your sheets.

Even when you checked your neck in the mirror, just in case.

By the end of the second week, you've built a working profile of your unsub- intelligent, calculated, likely mobile, emotionally cold but capable of mirroring affection. Possibly charming. Comfortable with blood.

Comfortable with control.

You type the name Spencer Reid at the top of the list. And highlight it in red.

~~~~~~~

The landlord had warned you not to get your hopes up.

"There's nothing in there. Cops combed it already.

Place is still the way she left it, but I haven't touched a thing. Figured it was better that way. Out of respect."

Respect. You nod, thank him quietly, and step through the door with your flashlight raised.

The apartment is like a photograph-untouched, preserved. Frozen in time.

Your boots disturb a soft layer of dust just beyond the threshold. It's thick enough that your footprints follow you across the wood flooring, quiet and solitary. The air is still. Dry. There's no hum of electricity, no ticking clock. No noise at all but the soft creak of the floor beneath your weight.

You close the door behind you, sealing the silence.

It smells like old wood, paper, and perfume that's long since faded. A shadow of who she was.

Your beam of light moves carefully across the living room-past a leaning stack of magazines, a turned-down throw blanket, a crooked wine glass half-full of air and memory. Everything is coated in dust.

Everything but one thing.

A small journal sits neatly on the coffee table, completely clean. Not a trace of dust. It's so out of place you don't approach it right away.

You circle the room first, letting your body adjust to the unease sitting low in your stomach.

Why hadn't this been tagged or logged? If it had been here before, someone missed it. Or someone placed it recently.

You reach for it eventually, gloved hand hovering just long enough to let your instincts warn you-this is something.

You flip it open. There's nothing inside but a torn scrap of paper.

Handwriting, sharp and deliberate, pressed deep into the page.

55 Forest Line Road. Cabin. No service. Ask for no receipt.

You stare at it for a moment, brow furrowing. The handwriting is unfamiliar-It has that same practiced neatness you've seen in academic files and lectures.

Could belong to a student. A doctor. Or a killer. No receipt? Was this to throw people off? or was this an innocent note.

The name Spencer Reid flickers across your mind, but you brush it aside. There's nothing linking him here yet.

Still, you tug the journal into your jacket and zip it up before moving deeper inside. The bedroom is worse somehow. Not because of the dust. Not because of the silence.

But because it doesn't feel like a crime scene. It feels personal.

The bed is neatly made. The kind of careful made that suggests ritual, not routine. There's a single pillow. A silk robe hanging on the back of the door. A smudge of old lipstick on the vanity mirror.

Your flashlight lands on the roses. They sit wilted on the nightstand, their petals browned and shriveled inward like they're still holding their breath. Next to them, you find something strange.

Slips of paper. You crouch down to look closer. They're aged, yellowing slightly, curled at the corners.

Love notes. You scan a few, careful not to breathe too close:

My beloved- Your silence is not emptiness, but invitation. I know you're listening. The moon watched us last night. She always has. You're not mine, and still you will be.

Your stomach tightens. The penmanship is elegant. Slanted. The kind of calligraphy no one writes in anymore, like the letters were inked with a quill instead of a ballpoint.

Victorian-style, but not replicas. Originals. The texture of the paper, the aged corners, the subtle scent of something musky-old books, or dried rosewater-tells you they weren't printed or planted from some cheap boutique shop.

They feel... lived in. As though they were meant for someone else entirely, and you're only intruding.

You gently replace them, leaving them exactly as you found them.

Standing in the bedroom, you try to picture her life.

The victim. The one who lived here. She had someone—Something—in her world that no one else knew about.

No forced entry. No signs of violence. Just love notes and wilted flowers.

You backtrack through the apartment, moving slower now. Listening harder. Like if you breathe just right, the walls might whisper something back.

Your hand brushes your jacket pocket, fingers curling instinctively around the journal.

The address burns at the back of your mind.

You don't know what you expect to find out there.

You only know you have to go alone.

You were about to leave.

Heels turned toward the door, hand halfway to the knob. The apartment had given you enough, you thought. More than enough, really. The journal. The address. The roses. The strange letters still clinging to perfume and old paper.

But something caught your eye.

A soft glint in the dark. Low to the floor, near the arm of the couch. Almost hidden by the hem of a blanket.

You nearly missed it. You lower your flashlight and tilt your head.

A scarf. Deep red. Satin. Slouched in a pool like it had been dropped, not placed.

It should've been covered in dust like everything else, but the fabric shone. Smooth. Clean. It shimmered faintly under the beam of your torch, catching on the grain like water.

You crouch down slowly. The silence of the apartment stretches with you, wrapping around your shoulders like something watching.

Your fingers brush it. And you freeze. You know this scarf. It's not a maybe. Not a coincidence.

You owned one just like it. Not like it-this one. Same color. Same texture. Same faint snag in the weave near the hem, where the corner once caught in your jacket zipper.

You fumble for the tag, hands suddenly clumsy with disbelief.

Maison du Noir. The brand you bought it from two years ago in a boutique in D.C. One of a kind.

You press the fabric closer to your face, inhaling instinctively.

The scent hits you like a punch to the chest. Your perfume.

Not just the same brand. Your exact scent. Warm amber and white woods with a trace of fig. The one that clings to your pillowcases at home. The one people compliment you on in elevators.

The one no one else should be wearing.

Your heart stutters in your chest, a beat too fast. Your skin prickles. The torch shakes slightly in your grip.

This woman couldn't have owned the same scarf and worn your perfume.

She wasn't you. And yet. You stand too quickly, the world shifting sideways around you. The scarf clenched in one hand, your other clutching the flashlight as you turn your gaze to the hallway.

It stretches out before you like a throat waiting to be swallowed. Narrow. Dark. Silent.

You don't want to go down it. Not really. But something pulls you forward.

You step lightly, slowly, like even the floorboards might scream if you move too fast. You pass closed doors-bathroom, maybe. A closet. The final door at the end hangs open, just slightly.

There's a table there. Small. Ornate. Covered in more dust.

You raise your flashlight, the beam cutting across cracked wallpaper and cobwebs. The smell is stronger here-faded roses and something richer underneath.

Musk. Like sweat, or sex, or something that doesn't belong.

The light dances over a frame.

You move toward it on instinct. It's a photo. And your knees nearly give out. You're in it. Smiling. Hair down. A little windblown. Your head tilted like you were laughing at something just out of frame.

Your hand is raised, frozen mid-motion, like you were reaching toward someone.But the other half of the photo is gone.

Torn away.

The edges are ragged. The paper peeled back in soft tufts like it had been yanked in anger. Someone used to be beside you. Close enough to touch.

But now there's only you. Only your smile. Only your face. You stare at it for a long time, blinking hard.

You have no memory of this photo. None. Not the moment. Not the outfit. Not the expression.

It's like seeing yourself through a window in a house you've never lived in. Your scalp tingles. Your throat closes.

You try to come up with answers. Maybe the victim knew you. Maybe this is part of the case. Maybe there's an explanation- A breath ghosts over the back of your neck.

Warm.

Too close.

Your heart lurches. You spin around, flashlight raised like a weapon, breath locked in your chest.

Nothing. No one. Just the hallway. Just silence.

But your skin is crawling. The scarf is clenched too tight in your hand, the perfume clinging to your fingers like guilt.

You look back down at the photo one last time.

You don't know who took it. You don't remember being in the location of the photo, smiling like that. Wearing that. You’ve never been here before.

But somehow- She had something of yours. And maybe—maybe you had something of hers. You drop the photo. You don't look back as you leave.

You barely remember getting back to your car. The cold night air had felt like a slap, but even then, your mind stayed inside that apartment-among the dust and ghosts and the scent of your own perfume on someone else's death. You don't turn on the radio. You don't check your mirrors.

You drive back to Quantico like you're being pulled by a string, sharp with purpose, fraying at the edges.

The Bureau never really sleeps. You pass two techs in the lobby and nod at the night guard, who barely looks up from his crossword. You slide your badge over the scanner and head for your desk like a sleepwalker.

Everything is too quiet.

You scoop the cold case file off your desk-loose papers, rough notes, the thin threadbare links you've managed to make between women who were never supposed to be found. Then the journal.

You slip it from inside your jacket and press it between the other folders as you walk, as if that'll help hide what you weren't supposed to take.

You find a quieter room-small, tucked behind a half-lit hallway near Archives. No windows. No foot traffic. Good.

You spread out the file. Flip open the journal. Your torch beam has since dimmed, but your laptop hums to life under your fingers, screen casting you in cold blue light.

You dig deeper. Victims. Timelines. A pattern that no one else had seen because no one had looked long enough. But it's there

-Whispers beneath the data, woven into the pages like a secret rhythm. There's a strange intimacy to it now. A closeness you can't explain. You know these women.

You feel them. But what unsettles you more is her. The woman whose apartment you were in tonight. There's no record of you knowing her. You scan every note, every record, every contact. Nothing connects you. You check the FBI internal systems, your own phone history, old email archives. Nothing. And yet your scarf was there.

And a photo of you. The journal lies open to the page with the cabin address, but you haven't looked at it again. Not yet. You lean back in your chair and rub at your eyes, just as the door opens.

"Hey, night owl," Garcia chirps, stepping in without knocking. Her unicorn mug is full and steaming, her cardigan clashing cheerfully with the sterile lighting of the room.

You close the journal half a second too late. Her eyes flick to the file, the map, the notes, the screen.

She sips loudly. "You're working the vampire case," she says, not even pretending to be surprised. "Spooky."

You exhale a breath, nod once. "Just following a lead." She walks closer, bouncing a little with each step, peering at the photos on your screen like she's watching a true crime show for fun.

Then she says it, so casually it almost doesn't register. "Isn't it strange how they all look like you?"

You blink. "What?"

She points a lilac-painted fingernail at the row of victim portraits. "Yeah. Hair, face shape, that whole soulful-eyed lost-girl thing." She shrugs and sips again. "Could just be my brain being weird. But it's like you're looking in a mirror from the uncanny valley. Creepy."

You hadn't noticed.

You hadn't noticed.

You stare at them now. Closer. Closer. And she's right. They do look like you. Not identical, no. But similar. Similar enough. Variations on a theme. A pattern hiding in plain sight. You swallow, mouth suddenly dry. Is that why you've been chasing this so hard? Why you're doing things you shouldn't-visiting closed scenes alone, keeping things off the books?

It's just a coincidence. It has to be. You weren't even on the team when most of these women died. Some cases go back years. You were given this by Hotch. Handed it like a puzzle no one else had time for.

But why you? Why now?

Garcia's still talking, something about a shoe sale at a store that doesn't ship and a pair of heels that may or may not be cursed. You nod along. But your mind has already spun off again.

The scarf. The photo. The journal that wasn't covered in dust. The way it was just sitting there, like it had been placed for you.

You hadn't told Garcia about it. You hadn't told anyone. Because, deep down, something told you not to. Not yet.

You reach for the scarf in your bag. Touch it. Still warm from your coat. Still yours. Still impossibly, unforgivably wrong.

You smile faintly at Garcia as she waves and leaves, already halfway into another conversation with herself.

Then you look down at the address again.

A cabin. In the woods. Your fingers tighten around the edge of the table. You're not supposed to be doing this alone. But something about it... needs to stay secret. Like if you tell someone, you'll ruin whatever this is. Or worse-you'll be stopped. You tuck the scarf back into your bag. You'll go tomorrow. You have to.

Whatever this is—whatever's pulling you in—it's waiting. And it knows you're coming.

The Woods Don't Want You Here, You shouldn't have come at night.

Even you can admit that now, standing alone in the dark with your car a distant shape behind you and the mouth of the forest yawning open ahead. No moon. No stars. Just a worn wooden sign leaning sideways in the undergrowth, its carved arrow faded and moss-eaten.

"Cabin →"

No distance listed. No map. Just a direction.

Your boots sink slightly into damp earth as you step out past the tree line, flashlight drawn, your other hand resting awkwardly against the grip of your service weapon-not out of training, not out of confidence, but as if it might do something to calm your pulse. You've never had to shoot anyone. You don't think you could.

But right now, the weight of the gun is the only thing that feels remotely solid.

There's no path. No markers. Just uneven forest floor slick with moss and leaves and shallow roots that feel like they're reaching up to trip you. The air is damp, but your lips are dry. Every breath feels strange-too cool.

You adjust your grip on the flashlight and glance behind you. Nothing.

Just the way you came, swallowed up in black. You press forward.

The beam of light dances ahead, bouncing off tree bark and swallowing shadows. It barely seems to make a dent in the darkness. The farther you go, the deeper it gets-not just in distance, but in quality. Like even the air doesn't want to let light through. A strange thickness creeps in. It clings to your coat, your skin. It makes every footstep louder than it should be.

You tell yourself it's fine.

Your imagination. Your brain playing tricks because it's late and you're alone and the forest at night is always unnerving. The human mind doesn't like the dark. It tries to fill it. That's what you told yourself earlier, whispering aloud as you walked to keep yourself company.

You say it again, voice soft and strained:

"It's just a phenomenon. Brains fill in gaps in sensory input. Hallucinations. Illusions."

The trees don't care.

You squint downward, careful of slick stones and branches, using the light to find your footing.

Everything is wet. Even your breath fogs in front of you, though it wasn't cold before. You think of the way fog gathers on a mirror right before something steps out of view in a horror movie.

You shake the thought off.

Keep moving.

Ten minutes pass. Maybe more. Time doesn't feel normal out here. There's no signal on your phone. You stopped checking it after the third attempt. Your flashlight flickers, once. You slap the side of it and it steadies, but your heartbeat doesn't. It lodges higher in your throat.

Then—

A voice.

Distant. Soft. Male. Familiar and not. Not distinguishable.

You freeze. Spin around too fast, feet stumbling.

"Hello?" you call, breath catching.

No answer.

Nothing but the creak of tree branches far above and the sound of your own blood in your ears.

You turn slowly in a circle. No other lights. No movement. No beam cutting through the dark to meet yours.

Not your team. Not anyone.

Maybe you imagined it. Or maybe-maybe it was your team. Maybe Hotch sent someone to follow up on you.

Maybe Garcia flagged your searches. Maybe they're just behind the ridge, flashlights off for some godforsaken reason.

But that doesn't feel right.

Your fingers tighten on the flashlight. You press on.

There's a cold slick feeling on your spine now, like someone watching from just out of view. Not a person.

Not exactly. Something else. You shake it off and keep going. The trees grow closer. More twisted. More hungry-looking. Like they curve slightly toward the path you're taking.

You speak out loud again, needing to hear your voice:

"I'm fine. I'm just-fine. Forests do this. The isolation. It tricks you."

It's not comforting. The silence is too deep.

There are no birds. No wind. Not even insects. Just the soft squelch of your boots and the brittle snap of twigs underfoot. The forest is still. Like it's holding its breath.

Your flashlight flickers again. This time it stays on —but you notice the beam seems weaker. Or maybe the darkness just feels thicker now. Heavy like velvet. You blink hard.

Your eyes are straining. And the feeling of being watched sharpens.

Your shoulders stiffen. You glance to the right-nothing. Left-nothing. But you know. There's something.

Something in the trees. You don't know if it's an animal. Or a person. Or something else. But you're not alone. Not anymore.

Still-you press forward. You've gone too far to turn back now. You don't even know if you could find your way back. The path behind you is gone, swallowed. All you can do is keep going.

You walk faster. Then slower. Every shift in sound makes your heart stutter. Every breath of wind —if it is wind-feels like it's circling your neck.

You're not fine. And you know it. But still... the cabin is waiting.And whatever's ahead......it knows you're coming. You nearly miss it.

The trees thin just slightly ahead and you think it's another trick of your tired eyes, another shape that will disappear when you blink-but then your boots scuff against soft pine needles, and you're in a clearing.

The cabin stands in front of you.

Small. Wooden. Nestled in the clearing like it grew there. The roof slants low and leans slightly to the left, and the porch is caved in on one side like something heavy stepped too hard once and never came back to fix it. The windows are dark. The curtains behind them unmoving.

The door is ajar.

Your light stutters across the frame. You don't move closer.

Something in you freezes.

Like prey.

The air is wrong again-thick and still. Your hand moves back to your weapon, resting against it more for reassurance than function. You won't use it. You'd fumble the draw. But it makes you feel like you could do something if you needed to.

You narrow your eyes at the building.

Maybe this wasn't the cabin.

Maybe it was one of those old ruin shacks hikers stumble on in the middle of nowhere and write horror stories about.

You curse under your breath.

This was stupid.

Still, you don't turn around.

You call out instead, voice wavering only slightly.

"Hello?" No answer. You raise your voice. "Is someone inside?" The forest doesn't answer. No insects. No birds.

Nothing.

It's the kind of silence that makes you feel like the world is watching. Like the trees are holding their breath. You take a tentative step forward.

"FBI," you say, like anyone living in a place like this would care. The door doesn't move. The cabin doesn't creak in response.

You step onto the porch, avoiding the rotted plank. You breathe once, twice. You cross the threshold.

It smells old. Dry. Not quite like rot, but like paper left too long in the sun. Dust thick in the air. But not empty

—there's furniture here. A faded couch with sunken cushions. A small table. Shelves. A coat still hanging by the door. Someone lived here. You sweep your flashlight across the room, slowly.

Everything is covered in dust, but there's a strange order to it. Like whoever was here wasn't expecting to leave. Like they planned to come back.

You move down a narrow hallway, each footstep muffled. The floorboards creak only once, under your heel. Three doors. You pick the one at the end. It opens with a soft groan.

A bedroom-what's left of one, at least. The bed frame rusted, half-eaten by time. The mattress long since collapsed into itself. Curtains torn where a raccoon or something worse must've pushed through at some point.

But your eyes catch on the vanity across the room. Old. Cracked. Half-rotted. But still standing. You approach slowly.

There's something on the tabletop. Yellowed paper. Handwritten notes. Love notes. Not the same ones from the victim's apartment. But the same style. Same curling handwriting. Same aged paper, folded and pressed with care. A strange perfume clinging faintly to the pages, like they'd been sealed in a drawer for decades. You flick through them. One by one.

Poetic. Obsessive. Dark. The last one catches in your breath.

It has your name. Not your last name. Not your badge. Just your name.

Written with such achina intimacv it makes your stomach tighten. Your fingertips go cold. Your heart stutters hard against your ribs.

Then -

Creaaaaak.

Soft. So soft. But in the silence, it echoes like thunder. You whip around, breath caught in your chest. The hallway behind you is empty. Still. You strain your ears. Nothing.

But- There. At the end of the hall. Just barely visible past the cracked bedroom door- A shape. A silhouette. Tall. Still.

Perfectly framed in the jagged corner of the doorframe that leads back out into the main room.

Someone's there. Not moving. Not speaking. Just watching. Your mouth goes dry.

Your light trembles in your hand. Your legs lock. You stare. And he stares back.

You can't move.

You won't move.

The shadow at the end of the hall hasn't shifted, hasn't stepped forward, hasn't breathed-but it's there.

Watching.

Leaning in. Just slightly.

Just enough to be wrong.

Your body goes rigid.

It's not the kind of stillness you choose-it's the kind of stillness that happens to you, the kind that floods your chest and locks your throat and makes your fingertips tingle with the ice of panic.

It's not a man.

You want it to be. A lost hiker. A squatter. A drifter who found a place to sleep and doesn't want to be disturbed. But you know.

In the way it's too still. In the way its head tilts— just a little too far.

In the way the light from the hallway bends strangely around it, like it's swallowing up the darkness and making it worse. It doesn't move. It doesn't have to.

You don't know how long you stand there, staring. Long enough for your arms to start to tremble.

Then, with shaking hands, you try to raise your flashlight. Try to aim it directly at the thing. But the light flickers once-then goes out. Just dies in your hand. You don't breathe. The black around you is so complete it's suffocating.

You're not sure if your eyes are open or closed. The silence bears down on your ears, crushing them, like sound itself has vanished. Your knees go weak and your back hits the wall behind you. Dry wood crumbles at the touch. Dust kicks up and catches in your throat but you don't cough, don't dare make a sound. The corners of your eyes start to burn.

You want to cry. You want to scream. You want to rewind time, to go back to your car, to tell yourself this wasn't worth it, that no case is worth this.

You squeeze your eyes shut. And it's suddenly worse.

You feel it move. Not the sound of footsteps. Not the groan of wood. Nothing so obvious. But the air changes. The pressure shifts. It's closer.

Your skin tightens. The fine hairs on your arms rise like they're being pulled by a magnet. Your lungs scream for air but your chest stays locked.

You don't open your eyes. You can't. You can hear it now.The breath. Not loud-but present. Measured. Deep. Inhumanly steady. Like it doesn't want you to know it isn’t exactly human.

It smells like—You don't want to know. But you do.

Iron. And cedarwood. And something else. Cologne, faint and old, like it was worn by someone once deeply in love. And blood. Not fresh. Not sharp.

Familiar. Something brushes your cheek. Not a touch. Not yet. Just the suggestion of one. A presence. Like its face is inches from yours. You flinch, every muscle taut, heart hammering like it's going to crack your ribs open. But still-you don't look.

Something inside you knows better. Your hands are shaking at your sides. You curl your fingers into fists against the wall, splinters biting your skin.

Your mind is trying to escape you. Rationalizing.

Bargaining. Maybe this is just your imagination. Sleep deprivation. Stress. The cold case. The photos. The dreams. The perfume. The letters. Your name. Maybe none of this is real.

Maybe you fell asleep in your car and this is just another nightmare-another product of letting yourself get too close to these victims.

But the breath on your lips is real. The darkness pressing against your body is real.

Whatever is in this cabin with you — It's real. And it's waiting.

Waiting for you to open your eyes. Your eyes are still closed. Tightly. Desperately. Like if you just keep them shut long enough, this will all go away. But it doesn't.

You can feel him. He's there. Right in front of you. And then-he speaks.

"You're right, you know. The brain creates a phenomenon called the Ganzfeld effect..."

His voice is low, unhurried. Calm in a way that makes your stomach twist.

"When there's no sensory input, the mind starts to invent. Fill in the blanks. You see things in the dark that might not be there...

A pause. So still you can hear your pulse pounding in your ears.

"In your case, you just perceive." Your breath catches. You said that. Out loud. To yourself. While walking through the woods. Trying to calm down. And now someone-he-is using your own words against you.

Your chest tightens, breath shallow and sharp. He was watching you. The whole time. And suddenly, knowing he's real is worse than if he were just some hallucination. Because that voice... it sounds human. No static. No growl. No monstrous distortion.

It's a man's voice. Warm. Articulate. Measured. Like it belongs to someone who reads leather-bound books in quiet corners of old libraries. Someone who smells like cedar and worn paper and rain.

Someone you should be able to trust. You shake.

And then, because your throat is dry and your heart is climbing too high up your ribs, you whisper:

"W-Who are you?"

Another pause. A smile, maybe. You don't know why, but you feel it— like it's curling behind the silence.

"Maybe if you opened your eyes, you'd see." You flinch like he touched you.

But he didn't. You just know he's closer now.

You press back against the crumbling wall. The wood cracks behind you. You think if you open your eyes, you'll scream, and if you scream, he'll—

"W-Why are you doing this?" The words come out fractured. You hate how afraid you sound.

He exhales-soft, patient. Almost...fond.

"I missed you."

Your blood turns to ice. Your body doesn't move, but your mind does —it spins and spirals, searching for an anchor, for sense.

No.

No.

You shake your head, your fists clenched at your sides, nails biting into your palms.

"You….. you've got the wrong p-person."

You feel his presence shift, like he's leaning closer. No contact, not yet. But the threat of it pulses in the space between you.

His voice is lower now. Less clinical. And somehow worse.

"No. I don't."

You stop breathing. Because he isn't cruel. Not yet. There's no rage in his tone. No violence. Just something slower, deeper. That quiet type of madness that doesn't need to scream to be dangerous.

He's not taunting you to scare you. He's speaking like you owe him something. Like he's been waiting. Like he's... hurt.

"You don't have to be afraid," he adds, and that's when it all starts to bleed together-

the voice, the scent, the notes with your name, the photograph, your scarf on a dead woman's couch, the whisper of your name in dreams you didn't remember having. You shake your head harder. Tears prick the corners of your eyes, and you keep them closed, tighter, tighter, as if it'll protect you. You don't know this man. You don't. You can't.

And yet...

"Don't run again," he says, quieter now. "I won't let you." And your heart shatters against your ribs, because he says it like he's sad. Like he's tired. Like he's done chasing. Like you've already run before. But you haven't. You're sure of it. You have to be. You don't remember him.

Not his voice. Not his scent. Not those hands-hovering, but not touching. And yet, when he whispers-so close you feel the air stir against your ear—

"You came all this way for me, didn't you?"

—you start to wonder if maybe you did.

"Open your eyes." His voice is so close now, it's warm against your ear.

You flinch, your whole body trembling, but he doesn't touch you again-yet. You feel his breath like a pull, magnetic and wrong.

"Please," he adds, quieter. "I'm sorry I scared you." But he doesn't sound sorry. There's no remorse behind it. Just hunger wrapped in velvet.

Still, something inside you slips-maybe from exhaustion, maybe from some small and desperate need to put a face to the thing stalking your nightmares and dragging you into shadowed cabins in the woods.

You suck in a breath, chest tight, and slowly, so slowly, your eyes open. And he's standing in front of you. Just a man. Not a creature. Not a shadow. Not a demon. His silhouette isn't fractured or wrong in the light now.

He's not some crawling horror lurking at the edge of your vision. He's tall, lean, and pale in the washed moonlight filtering through the broken windows.Brown eyes. Tousled hair. A wool coat clinging to his large and lean frame. He could be anyone. He could be normal.

But he's not.

Because there's something about him that still doesn't sit right. His posture too still. His eyes too wide. Like he's memorizing you. Like he already knows what you're going to say before you say it. He's smiling. But it doesn't reach his eyes.

"I-I don't know you," you whisper, voice trembling.

His expression softens, but it's not comforting. It's... affectionate. He tilts his head, like he's sad you don't remember. "I can help you," he says gently.

You don't move. Then-his hand lifts, cupping your cheek. His touch is freezing. Your skin twitches under it, but you don't pull away. You can't.

"You want answers, don't you?"

"That's why you came to find me."

"Fate brought you back to me."

He says it with certainty. With ownership.

You think—he's insane. You think-this man is delusional. But you nod. Because... you do want answers.

"I-I need answers," you murmur, eyes on his chest now anywhere but his face. And he smiles wider. Still not reaching his eyes, That was all he needed.

He didn't tell you what it would feel like. He didn't warn you. His fingers slide across your temple-and it's like a dam breaks inside you.

The first memory hits like a brick to the skull: Him. His mouth on your neck. His voice in your ear. Your body arching under him in the dark. His fangs sinking in - You choke, stumble. But it doesn't stop. You see flashes like lightning-burned across your vision. Him. Biting you. Holding you. Whispering that you were his. Your blood on his lips. Your name on his tongue. Your blood on his lips. Your name on his tongue. You telling him you'd never leave him. Him laughing.

Your breath shudders as your knees almost give out. You. Together. Kissing like you were starving. Him saying he'd burn down the world if you asked. You laughing. Telling him he were the only thing that ever truly belonged to you. You remember everything.

The love. The hunger. The violence. And the fear. He was a vampire. You knew that once. You chose it. And you left. You ran.

Your eyes blur with tears as your present self spirals through the past. And then —

You remember his name.

Doctor Spencer Reid.

The cold air of the forest. The notebooks. The photo. The cases you thought you worked alone. He was there. You remember. Every glance. Every touch in the elevator. The way he would linger by your desk. The way your coworkers never acted like it was strange that you never mentioned him.

Because to them-you had. To them-you'd always been together. You remember asking JJ about him. You remember the way she looked at you.

"Of course Spencer... You two-your time at the BAU overlapped, right?"

You'd shaken your head. Said you never met him. But that wasn't true.

He'd erased himself from you.

The image slams into your chest again:

That photograph at the victim's apartment. The torn edges. The smile on your face. The empty space beside you. It was him. And now it's like someone turned the volume up too loud, all at once.

Memories of him press in from all sides —

His hands on your body. Your voice begging. The way he touched you like you were fragile. Like vou were sacred.

The way he fed from you. And made you love it.

Your legs finally give out and you crumple to your knees, crying, shaking, gasping for air that won't fill your lungs.

And he's still there. Silent now. Watching.

You want to scream at him. To hit him. To beg him to stop. But the memories won't.

The way you'd whisper his name like a prayer.

The way you told him you'd die for him.

The way he told you he already had. It's too much.

It's too much.

You're breaking apart and no one is going to put you back together. Not after this. You're his. You've always been his. And somehow, you ‘forgot’ . But he didn't. He never stopped watching. Never stopped waiting.

Never stopped wanting you back. You don't know how long you've been crying.

The memories still throb in your skull like your mind has been split open and glued back together all wrong.

You're on the floor of a rotting cabin in the woods, somewhere far from logic and further still from safety

—but it's not the splinters in your knees or the cold seeping into your bones that's making your hands shake.

It's him.

He crouches down in front of you, his expression soft like he's watching a wounded animal. There's nothing threatening in his posture. He's calm. Still. Like he's been waiting for this exact moment.

"There you are," he says gently.

And somehow that's worse than anything he could've done.

Like this is exactly how it was supposed to go. Like he's done this before.

Like he knew you'd remember. Knew you'd break.

You stare at him, throat too tight to speak, your chest rising and falling in panicked little jerks. There's a part of you that wants to scream. To run. But your body won't listen.

Because you know him now.

You remember the smell of his skin. The cadence of his voice when he said your name like it was holy.

The quiet hum of the world when you laid with him in that small, sunlit room he used to call home.

Home.

He says the word like a promise. Like it still belongs to both of you. "We should go," he murmurs. "It's late.

You must be tired."

"Let's go home."

And the word cracks something inside you, because -

You remember.

The apartment with the crooked floors.

The green-tiled bathroom.

The mug with the chipped rim you always stole from him.

The books piled in corners.

The way he used to curl around you in bed like he'd die if you moved too far away.

That was your home.

Your life.

And it's gone.

Erased.

You blink at him, voice hoarse.

"I don't understand..."

He reaches for you again-slow, deliberate-and brushes your hair out of your face with an intimacy that feels like a ghost wearing skin.

"I had to," he says.

And you know exactly what he means. You knew about him, you knew everything. You were a risk and he wasn't going to kill you. So.

He took time.

Years, maybe.

He ripped your memories out like weeds, plucked the roots of himself from your mind, and left your life with empty soil. You never noticed the holes. Never knew anything was missing.

Until now.

You shake your head, your voice raw and shaking.

"You had no right."

The warmth leaves his smile. He still looks calm. Kind, even. But there's a coldness behind his eyes now, like ice sliding beneath glass.

"I did," he replies softly.

No hesitation.

No shame.

You flinch at the finality of it. He believes it.

You push yourself upright, using the wall to keep steady. Your legs feel weak, like you've run through a war you didn't remember signing up for.

"You took years from me," you whisper.

And something flickers across his face-something unreadable.

But then he leans in, and kisses your forehead. A soft press of cold lips. Gentle. Reverent.

"You'll get them back," he says.

And somehow that's not a comfort. It's a threat.

Because he doesn't say how.

Because you know now—he doesn't let go.

Not when he's claimed something.

Not when he's loved something.

Not when he's bled for it.

And not when it's you.

He offers you his hand like he always used to do, like no time had passed.

"You'll understand more when we're home," he says.

You stare at his hand. The man you remember is somewhere in there. The warmth. The tenderness. The passion that used to set your skin on fire. The devotion so absolute it felt like gravity.

But now there's something else.

Something dangerous.

Possessive.

Patient.

You realize he's been waiting years for this moment.

For you.

You take his hand.

And he smiles like he's won.

Because in his mind, he has.

It's a blur. One breath, and you're in the cabin. The next, you're standing in front of a door you somehow recognise.

You don't remember the walk.

You don't remember the forest.

You don't even remember moving your feet.

Just Spencer, holding your hand like a tether, his fingers colder than they should be.

You must've blinked.

Or maybe he did it again. Stole time like it was nothing.

He unlocks the apartment door and gently ushers you inside. You're still too shaken to fight him, your thoughts scrambling to piece together what's real.

"How did we get here?"

Your voice is thin, a whisper made of panic and realization.

Spencer doesn't even glance at you. He just closes the door behind him and flicks the lock with a quiet click.

"No need to worry," he says.

And that's exactly what makes it worse. Because that's what he always says right before taking something.

He gestures to the couch, and your body obeys before your brain does. The cushions dip under your weight, and you sit there like a puppet with cut strings.

Everything looks the same.

Exactly the same. The blanket you used to curl up with.

The unread books you used to tease him for. Even the candle on the end table-half-burned, lavender and vanilla-is still there. It's like you never left. Like the apartment held its breath without you. Like he never moved on. But then the memories catch up. The ones you didn't ask for. The ones he shoved back into your mind like a cruel gift.

You remember the faces of the women in those files.

The crime scene photos.

The way their bodies were found.

The way garcia said they looked like you.

You grip your thighs like the pressure might keep you grounded.

"W-wait," you stammer. "This means... that you-you ki

You can't even say it. Not fully.

But he answers anyway.

"Yes."

And it's like the air leaves your lungs all at once.

You stare at him.

He's not pacing. Not fidgeting. Not trying to explain or deny.

He just stands there, looking down at you like it's the most natural thing in the world.

Like this is a conversation.

Like it's normal.

"They looked like me," you whisper.

Your nails are digging into your legs now. You don't even feel it.

He nods. Slowly. Like he's explaining something to a child. "Yes," he says. "They did."

And something inside you breaks.

Not loudly. Not like a scream.

More like a crack in ice. A silent fracture no one can hear but you.

"Why?" Your voice is shaking. It doesn't feel like your own.

Spencer's face softens, as if the question itself causes him pain.

He kneels in front of you again, like he did in the cabin, and rests his hands on your knees. You flinch, but he doesn't move.

"I missed you," he says.

And that's not a reason.

That's not a justification.

But he says it like it's enough.

"They weren't you," he continues, his thumbs tracing slow, calming circles on your legs. "Not really. Not even close. But... they reminded me. And I was hungry. And I was lonely. And you were gone."

The words hit you like a wave of cold water.

You shake your head, your mouth opening and closing, desperate for something to say that could make sense of this. But there's nothing.

You can still see them.

The victims.

Women with your hair.

Your eyes.

Your face.

And now, the truth is here, bleeding into your lungs—

He didn't just kill them.

He pretended they were you.

"I'm not like them," he says softly, gently tilting your chin up so you have to meet his eyes. "I need more than blood. I need you. Always have."

You wish his eyes didn't look like the ones you used to fall asleep beside.

You wish his voice didn't still sound like safety.

Because it's not.

It never was.

But even now, even with everything you remember, But even now, even with everything you remember, even with the bodies, you're frozen.

Because he still looks at you like he loves you. Like you're the moon and he's been starving in darkness.

And the worst part?

Some part of you remembers loving him back. You can't breathe.

He's still kneeling in front of you, watching you like a man reunited with something sacred, like you are some lost artifact he's spent centuries searching for. His hands are gentle on your knees, his body language soft and open, not predatory. Not threatening.

But he doesn't have to be.

Because Spencer Reid doesn't need violence to trap you.

Not when he has your memories.

Not when he is one.

And worst of all, part of you is already slipping back into it.

You can feel it, can't you?

The way your skin remembers his touch, even when your brain still screams run.

It's like standing at the edge of a high ledge - you know the fall will kill you, but there's something hypnotic in the pull downward. The gravity of him.

You shake your head and pull away from his touch, standing on unsteady feet.

"I-I can't do this. This is insane," you breathe, pacing a few feet away from him. "You killed people. You killed them. You took years from me. You erased my memories. How the hell am I supposed to stay here and-"

You cut yourself off before you say it.

Before you say love you again.

But it hangs there anyway, unsaid, heavy in the silence.

Spencer rises slowly, but he doesn't close the space between you yet.

He lets the silence breathe. Lets you fill it. It's a trick, one he's always used. Give you the quiet long enough and eventually, you'll talk yourself in circles.

"Why did I leave?" you ask suddenly, voice breaking as you stare at him. "Why won't you let me remember that?"

Because that's the piece still missing. The edge of the puzzle you can't fit.

You remembered him.

You remembered you and him together.

The blood. The pleasure. The nights wrapped up in each other like a secret.

You even remember being his.

But not the part where you chose to stop.

Why?

He sighs like the question exhausts him, turning his back to you and dragging a hand through his curls. His shoulders rise and fall slowly, deliberately.

"You left," he finally says, "because you hated what you were becoming."

You blink. "What...?"

"You didn't leave because of me. You left because of you."

He turns to face you again, stepping forward with that same quiet intensity that used to undo you.

"You liked it," he says, soft, calm — like that should be comforting. "You liked watching them die."

Your stomach twists.

"That's not true," you breathe, backing up a step.

"No? You remember now, don't you? The way you'd touch me after I fed. The way your eyes would glaze when I told you what they said before they died. You used to ask me how they begged. What their blood tasted like."

He steps closer.

"You weren't afraid of me. You were afraid of how much it turned you on."

Your knees nearly buckle. Because somewhere inside you, the memory is there.

The nights soaked in blood.

The moans he dragged from you with fangs still wet.

The way he'd come back to you and you'd sink to your knees before he even said a word.

You shake your head.

"No. No, that's not-I'm not-"

"You couldn't handle it," he interrupts, voice still soft, dangerously gentle. "You looked in the mirror and didn't recognise yourself. You thought leaving me would make you clean again. Make you good."

He smiles — not with cruelty, but with pity.

"But that was your mistake. Thinking goodness was ever real. That you weren't just pretending."

He's in front of you now, close enough to touch, but he doesn't. Not yet.

"You loved what I was. The power. The danger. The hunger. You didn't want to be saved, you wanted to be devoured. And you were. Over and over again."

Your mouth opens - but no words come.

Because he's not wrong.

You did like it.

There was something monstrous in you, something you'd buried your whole life beneath the image of the good girl, the profiler, the protector. But he saw it. He fed it.

And maybe that's what terrifies you more than anything - that part of you wants to let it out again.

But you force yourself to pull back. You shake your head, desperate.

"But you-Spencer, you stole time from me. You didn't give me a choice. How am I supposed to stay if you're still keeping things from me?"

His eyes darken at that.

But his smile - it stays. Gentle. Almost sweet.

"I didn't want to lose you," he says softly. "You were going to confess. You were going to tell someone. Turn yourself in. You thought dying without me would make you pure."

His hand lifts, brushes a knuckle over your jaw. You don't stop him.

"So l made it easier for you. I took the guilt. I took the memories. I let you forget who you really are."

You feel the burn behind your eyes again.

Hot, salty betrayal threatening to spill. Your body remembers being worshipped, and your soul remembers being broken. And they're both screaming over each other.

"You had no right," you whisper.

His smile falters — just a hair.

"But I did it anyway."

And there it is.

The real Spencer. The one behind the tenderness. The one who plays the long game and still wins. The one who doesn't need to chain you to the bed — because he can chain you to your own truth.

He steps closer and presses a kiss to your forehead, just like he used to. Reverent. Like he's praying.

"You'll get it all back," he murmurs. "Every piece. Every sin. You'll remember who you were. What we were. And you'll come home to me again."

You close your eyes.

Because part of you already wants to.

And that's the darkest thing of all.

He kisses you.

Not tenderly. Not carefully.

Like you're his, and you always were.

It's not a question — it's a claim.

His mouth crashes into yours before you can think, can breathe, and the worst part is: you kiss him back. Like instinct. Like memory. Like you never forgot how.

And maybe... you didn't.

The taste of him lights up every forgotten nerve, every buried instinct you swore you didn't have. His hands grip your face like he needs to hold you together, like it he lets go, you'll disappear again.

He pulls back just enough to look at you — not scared, not asking permission, just reading you. Your lips are parted, breath shallow, pupils blown wide.

You don't slap him. You don't run. Your hands are already in his hair when you pull him back in.

You don't know who moves first — maybe both of you

- but the space between you collapses as your mouths crash together again, harder this time. You moan against him, desperate and confused, your body already betraying you.

"You remember," he murmurs against your lips, voice low and hungry. "I can feel it."

You nod. You hate yourself for it. But you nod.

His tongue slips between your lips, kissing you deep, like he's trying to taste your memories through your mouth. Your hips are flush now, his hands gripping your waist, dragging you against the hardness pressing into your stomach.

The tension's not slow — it's already snapping.

He walks you back until your knees hit the couch. You fall back, and he follows, body caging yours in. His hands roam - your thighs, your waist, under your shirt, over your chest. He touches you like he knows every inch already.

Because he does. "Tell me to stop," he whispers, lips brushing your ear.

But you don't

Because you don't want him to.

Instead, you gasp, "Don't.""

His eyes darken. His control breaks. He lifts your shirt and pulls it off, baring you to him. His mouth is on your chest before you can breathe again, kissing and biting down over your bra, sucking the fabric just enough to leave your skin flushed and aching.

"You taste like you used to," he mutters, dragging a hand down your stomach and unbuttoning your jeans without asking. "Sweeter when you're scared."

You whimper, hips lifting into him as he slides your jeans down. You're wet. Embarrassingly so. But he's not teasing. He wants you frantic, and he's already halfway there. His mouth trails lower, but he doesn't go to your thighs

- not yet.

Instead, he leans up, eyes burning into yours.

"Take your bra off."

You obey.

He watches like it's reverent, like it's holy. Then he leans in and sinks his teeth - fangs — into the swell of your breast. Not too deep, but enough for blood to bead.

You cry out.

He licks it. Drinks it.

And moans. "Look at me," he says, voice low, commanding. "When I fuck you for the first time again, I want to see your face when it all comes back."

You do.

And he thrusts in — hard, deep — filling you completely in one motion.

You cry out, fingers digging into his shoulders, and he groans into your throat, hips grinding into you like he can't get deep enough. Like he needs to be inside you in every sense of the word.

He sets a brutal pace - deep, controlled thrusts that make you see stars. One hand wraps around your throat, not squeezing, just resting there, just enough for you to feel the power he has. The other finds your clit, circles it in time with his thrusts.

"You left because you couldn't face what you were," he growls. "But you're mine. You always have been."

You want to deny it — but you're moaning too loud.

"Say it," he snarls, fucking you deeper, faster. "Say you're mine."

Your body's already trembling.

"Say it, or I'll stop."

You pant, desperate, right on the edge.

"I'm yours," you whisper, barely audible.

"Louder."

"I'm yours!"

He slams into you, thrusts turning savage, relentless, dragging you over the edge until you're crying out, legs shaking, sobbing his name. You're clawing at his back, at his hair, needing him closer, deeper, everywhere.

He keeps going.

"I missed you," he whispers again, mouth pressed to your ear as he grinds through your orgasm. "I never wanted to hurt you. But I will never let you go again."

You're sobbing - from pleasure, from confusion, from the intensity — but you don't stop him.

Spencer's still inside you, cock thick and pulsing as he thrusts deep, dragging long moans from your throat with every relentless grind of his hips. The couch creaks beneath you, your legs locked around his waist, your body already overstimulated - but he's not finished. Not even close.

"Fuck," he hisses into your neck, hips slamming into you. "You still feel the same. So tight, so fucking wet for me."

Your head falls back with a cry, pleasure swelling again, so intense you're shaking. He bites at your throat — not breaking skin yet - just teasing. Cruel.

"Bet you missed this too," he mutters, voice thick and low. "Missed being full of me. God, I can feel your pussy begging me to stay inside."

You whimper, his words making you clench around him.

"You want me to drink from you again, don't you?"

The question hangs in the air - condescending, smug.

Because he already knows the answer. You're too far gone to hide it.

He pulls back, his hand curling around your throat again, holding your face so you have to look at him.

"Say it," he demands.

"Say you want me to feed from

you while I fuck you."

Your lips part. You try to lie — but the heat between your legs tells the truth.

"I... I want it."

"You want me," he corrects, his cock grinding deep, making your eyes roll back. "You want this. You want me to drink from you while i fuck your brains out."

"Yes," you sob, barely able to speak. "Yes, Spencer-please-"

"Good girl."

He grins, and you're still moaning when his mouth latches onto your neck - this time hard.

His fangs pierce your skin with precision. The pain is sharp, but it fades quickly into something deeper, something raw and euphoric. You gasp, your hands flying to his hair, tugging him closer as he drinks from you - feeds from you - and still fucks you like he owns every inch of you. Because he does.

His hips snap forward in deep, punishing thrusts, the wet slap of your bodies echoing through the quiet apartment. You're soaked, dripping around him, the bite sending shivers down your spine.

"Mmm, fuck-" he groans into your throat.

"You taste

like mine. You still are, aren't you?"

"Answer me," he snarls, blood wet on his lips as he pulls back to look at you. "Tell me whose you are."

"Yours!" you cry, arching under him. "I'm yours, Spencer-please-don't stop-"

Your orgasm hits fast and violent, ripping through you like a wave. You tremble and sob beneath him, completely overwhelmed - and still, he doesn't stop.

He growls something feral and spills inside you, thrusting deep to the hilt as he pumps you full, his hand tangled in your hair, his mouth back on your skin

— licking the blood like he's starving for it. "Mine," he whispers against your ear, possessive and quiet.

"Every inch of you. Inside and out."

You don't argue. Because you're home. For a moment, you almost believed it was love again—until you looked into his eyes and remembered: you’d chosen to stay, not because you forgave him, but because somewhere deep down… you wanted to be ruined.

He adjusted his coat, collar pulled high, and shoved his hands into his pockets as he wandered nowhere in particular. He’d been doing a lot of that lately. Wandering. He had time—endless, gnawing, unyielding time.

After Everett Lynch, he had told himself he’d had enough. The BAU had drained him, and though no one on the team would ever truly know why he couldn’t stay—why the weight of death had finally broken him—it wasn’t just the violence of man that exhausted him. It was the violence in himself. The thing inside him that had never, no matter how hard he tried, gone away.

The thing that had once taken everything from him.

He was halfway across the block when he saw you.

You weren’t doing anything remarkable, and that was the first cruelty of it. Just standing beneath the dripping awning of a small café, fumbling with a cheap umbrella that refused to obey its hinges. But Spencer stopped dead in the street, frozen as though a hand had shot out of the dark and grabbed his chest.

Cars swept by, spraying water up onto the curb, horns blaring as he failed to notice the crosswalk light changing. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t think. He could only stare.

Because it was you.

Not you—not really, not rationally—but her. The same arch of cheekbone, the same soft slope of your nose, the same impatient little crease between your brows as you fought with the stubborn umbrella. The same exact shade of blood that rushed beneath your skin, hot and bright and intoxicating, even through the downpour.

His mouth went dry. His throat burned.

It couldn’t be. You weren’t supposed to exist.

The last time he had seen you—her—you had been lifeless in his arms, head tilted back at an angle too fragile, skin pallid, throat torn open by his own reckless hunger. He had been so young then. So utterly lost. Newly turned, freshly cursed, with instincts sharp as knives and no discipline to blunt them. He hadn’t even realized what he was doing until it was too late, until the taste of your blood turned metallic, the rush of it fading. Until you were gone.

He had never forgiven himself. He had never forgotten. And despite centuries, despite lovers and distractions and fleeting attempts at something like a life, he had never moved on.

And now—now you stood across the street as though pulled from the grave, as though God himself had set out to torment him.

Your hair clung to your cheeks in damp strands, rain dripping down your jaw. Your lips, flushed from the cold, parted with a frustrated little huff as you shook your umbrella. Spencer’s body reacted before his mind could argue. His chest ached with something dangerously close to longing, his fangs ached with the sharp throb of hunger.

He could smell you. Her. The same exact fragrance of blood, familiar in a way that almost made him sick. Sweet, alive, unbearably tempting. His hands curled into fists in his coat pockets to stop himself from moving, from crossing the street and pressing his mouth to the fluttering vein in your throat like a man starved.

It was uncanny. It was impossible. It was you.

His decision was instinctive. He couldn’t lose you—not again. Rationally, he knew you weren’t her, couldn’t be her, but logic had never mattered when it came to you. To her. To the ghost he’d carried like a scar through centuries.

Maybe it was selfish. Maybe it was cruel. But the idea of turning his back, of letting the storm swallow you into anonymity—he couldn’t. Not when fate had dragged your face back into the light.

So he moved, quick and certain, weaving through the flow of traffic, ignoring the spray of tires and the curses of drivers. Rain plastered his curls to his forehead, slid down the column of his throat, soaked through his coat in a way that would chill any man. But Spencer wasn’t like other men. The only thing he felt was the pull toward you.

He cleared his throat as he reached the awning, rain dripping off his shoulders, his heart—or what passed for one—thundering. “I, uh…” His voice sounded raw, too quiet against the storm. “Sorry. Did you…need help with your umbrella?”

You looked up.

And for a moment, he forgot how to breathe.

Same eyes. Her eyes. Wide and bright, carrying the same impossible warmth he had once drowned in. His body went taut with the ache of recognition, and he was grateful the rain masked the sharp tremor that went through him.

You blinked at him, then down at the stubborn umbrella, a faint smile tugging at your lips—the lips he remembered kissing, worshipping, destroying. “Actually, yes. That would be helpful.” You let out a soft laugh, self-deprecating and sweet. “Thank you.”

The sound of your laughter twisted in his gut. It was uncanny, the way it struck some buried nerve, a sound he thought had been lost to the grave.

He forced himself to smile, careful, controlled. “Of course,” he murmured, taking the umbrella from your hands. His long fingers worked at the crooked hinge, deliberate and gentle, because God help him, if he let himself touch your skin he wasn’t sure he’d be able to stop.

A quick snap, a twist, and the metal clicked into place. He shook it once, tested the frame, then handed it back to you. “There you are.”

You took it, your fingers brushing his just slightly, warm against his cold. His stomach coiled tight.

“Thank you,” you said again, beaming up at him. “You’re a lifesaver.”

The words sliced him open.

He managed a faint twitch of his mouth, but it wasn’t a smile. Not really. Not when every cell in his body screamed the opposite. He wasn’t a lifesaver. He had killed you once—killed her—and all the centuries in the world hadn’t washed the blood from his hands.

Before he could respond, you tilted your head, studying him. “Do I…know you?”

The air punched out of him. His eyes widened.

Did you—? No. No, that was impossible. Recognition wouldn’t pass across lifetimes. Would it?

“I, uh…” His throat was tight. He forced himself to look at the wet ground, then back at you, trying to read the question in your eyes. “I don’t think so?” The answer came out more like a question than he intended.

You frowned faintly, then shook your head, brushing wet hair from your face with a small, apologetic smile. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to make that weird. You just…look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

If only you knew.

Desperate to deflect, he nodded toward the umbrella. “Well…your umbrella’s fixed. That’s something.”

You let out another small laugh, and the sound pulled at every hunger inside him. “It is. And now I owe you. At the very least, your name, umbrella fixer?”

He blinked, startled by your lightness, by the way you offered him a way in so casually. His lips parted, then closed. He almost said the wrong name—her name—but caught himself.

“Spencer,” he said finally, voice low, careful. “Uh. Spencer Reid.”

You repeated it back to him, rolling it over your tongue. “Spencer.”

The simple sound of his name on your lips made his chest ache. Centuries of silence, and now here you were, saying it again as though nothing had ever been lost.

He gave the smallest nod, swallowing down everything else—the desire, the guilt, the desperate need to reach out and touch you just to make sure you were real. “Yeah.” His voice was hoarse. “That’s me.”

You gave him a soft, polite smile—already half turned away, already slipping from his grasp. “Well, Spencer…thank you. But I should get home.”

Something in his chest seized. You were going to walk away. Just like that. Gone, swallowed into the night. He had lost you once. He couldn’t lose you again—not to him, not to fate, not to the dark.

The words left him before he thought them through. “You’re walking?”

You paused, brows lifting slightly. “Yes?”

His mind scrambled for justification. He didn’t want to sound…what? Dangerous? Desperate? God, he already did. “It’s just—” He shook his head quickly, rain dripping from the tips of his curls. “Is it okay if I walk you? At least halfway. I don’t need to know where you live or anything, it’s just…dark.”

The plea in his voice was too naked, and he knew it. To you, he was a stranger. A drenched, awkward man you’d spoken maybe twenty words to. Jesus, what was he thinking?

You hesitated, studying him in silence. The pulse in your throat ticked steadily, betraying a little spike of caution. He couldn’t stop watching it, the way the fragile line of your artery fluttered just beneath your skin.

Then you nodded. “Okay. Halfway is reasonable.”

The tension in his chest loosened. He didn’t let it show, but inside something sharp and triumphant bloomed.

“Thank you,” he murmured, falling into step beside you as you set off down the slick, lamp-lit street.

Rain misted against your umbrella, pattering faintly overhead, while water still rolled cold down his temples and neck. He barely felt it. What he felt was you. Every inhale carried your scent—sweet, mineral, alive—threaded through with the metallic tang of blood beneath the surface. The sound of it rushing, the steady rhythm of your heart, pressed into his ears as if the night itself amplified it.

You talked as you walked. Not in the way most people did—small, cautious pleasantries—but freely, with an openness that unsettled him. You spoke the way she had: a spirit unburdened, curious, gentle.

A small detail caught his eye. Your handbag swung at your side, cluttered with dangling charms and trinkets. His gaze snagged on one in particular—a carved moonstone talisman, worn smooth by touch.

“You’re into spirituality?” he asked, his voice careful, testing.

You glanced up at him, eyes bright under the umbrella’s shadow. “Yeah. A little bit of everything, really—crystals, tarot, meditation. I like the idea that there’s more to the world than what we can see.”

His lips parted. He nearly said there is.

Instead, he cleared his throat. “That’s…interesting. Most people I know would call it unscientific.”

“Maybe.” You shrugged lightly, water dripping from the edge of your umbrella. “But science can’t explain everything. Some things are felt, not measured.” You paused, tilting your head as though deciding whether to share more. “I actually believe in reincarnation.”

The words nearly stopped him in his tracks.

Reincarnation.

The cruelest irony.

He swallowed hard, keeping his stride steady, but inside his mind was a storm. If only you knew. If only you understood what you were saying, what you were to him.

You glanced at him again, searching his face. “You probably think that sounds silly.”

“No,” he said quickly, too quickly. His voice was low, rougher than he intended. “Not silly.”

Your smile softened. “Good. Most people would argue.”

Spencer forced a small smile in return, but inside his thoughts were ravenous. If you believed in reincarnation…if your soul had returned…could he tell you? Could he confess the truth—that you had lived and died in his arms, that your blood was already on his conscience, that your eyes had haunted him for centuries?

No. That was insane.

And yet…your nearness made the words itch at the back of his throat.

Your hand brushed his arm as you adjusted your umbrella, just the lightest graze. The heat of it seared through the damp fabric of his coat. His hunger flared, sharp and dangerous. The need to taste you, to feel your pulse throb beneath his tongue, pulsed through him with the same insistence as desire.

He shoved his hands deeper into his pockets, nails biting crescents into his palms. He couldn’t let himself slip. Not again.

“Spencer?”

He blinked, snapping back to you.

“You went quiet.” Your voice was warm, teasing. “You think too much, don’t you?”

A laugh escaped him, soft and self-conscious. “Yeah. I…do.”

Your grin widened. “Good. Then maybe I won’t have to do all the talking.”

He let himself look at you—really look—and for the briefest second, he allowed himself to imagine that this wasn’t chance. That this was fate. That he was meant to have you again.

And that terrified him more than anything.

The walk stretched on, steady and quiet except for the hiss of passing cars and the rain drumming against your umbrella. Spencer had kept his hands buried in his pockets, jaw tight, his every inhale filled with you. The scent of your blood rode the damp air, subtle but sharp, winding around his senses like smoke. He could hear your heart, unhurried and steady, pulsing in time with your stride.

The question slipped from him before he could stop it.

“Do you believe in fate?”

You slowed a little, brows lifting, and glanced up at him beneath the glow of a streetlamp. To you, it might have sounded like the kind of line men on dating apps tried too hard to use. But Spencer wasn’t smirking, wasn’t charming. He looked…serious.

“Very deep conversation to be having with a stranger,” you said lightly, the corners of your mouth curling in amusement. “But…I guess the answer is yes. I believe everything happens for a reason.”

He nodded once, too quickly, like he was processing data. That was exactly what he was doing—running every possible way he could follow that answer without sounding unhinged. How do you tell someone they were the love of your life…a life you ended yourself?

“Most people don’t,” he said at last, his voice soft, careful. “They think everything is random, chaos. Statistically, chaos does make sense.” His throat bobbed as he swallowed, eyes flicking to you and then away again. “But…I’ve seen too much not to believe in patterns.”

“Patterns?” you echoed, curiosity tugging at your tone.

“History repeating itself,” Spencer clarified, gaze fixed on the wet pavement. “The same choices made over and over. The same people finding each other, no matter the circumstances.”

The words hung between you, heavier than they should have been. You studied him for a beat, searching his face. There was something strange about him—about the way his eyes seemed older than the rest of him, carrying centuries of grief.

You tilted your umbrella slightly toward him, sheltering him more from the rain. “You’re not talking about statistics anymore, are you?”

The gesture disarmed him. The closeness of you, the small kindness—it was unbearable. He forced a small laugh, nervous, self-deprecating. “No. I guess I’m not.”

You smiled faintly, as if indulging him. “Then what are you talking about?”

His lips parted, the truth pressing against them, clawing to be free. You. I’m talking about you. About the way I killed you centuries ago and have never stopped regretting it. About how I’d recognize your heartbeat in a room of a thousand strangers.

But he couldn’t say that.

Instead, he breathed out, “Just…that some connections feel inevitable. Like they were meant to happen.”

Your chest tightened at the weight in his voice. He sounded almost pained, as though this wasn’t a line but a confession. You weren’t sure what to make of it, but it made something in you stir.

“Do you have someone like that?” you asked quietly, surprising yourself with the softness of the question.

His jaw clenched, the muscles working. He kept his eyes on the rain-slick sidewalk. “…I did.”

The past tense sent a pang through you, though you couldn’t say why.

You didn’t push. Instead, you let your hand swing at your side, brushing lightly against the sleeve of his coat as you walked. The fabric was cold and damp, but beneath it his body was solid, unyielding. The brief contact made his breath catch—barely audible, but you noticed.

Spencer’s thoughts roared. He wanted to reach for you, to lace his fingers with yours, to feel the heat of your palm and reassure himself you were real, alive. Instead, he dug his nails into his pockets harder, grounding himself in pain.

“You think everything happens for a reason,” he murmured, almost to himself. His voice dropped lower, rougher. “Then maybe…maybe there’s a reason I saw you tonight.”

You looked up at him, heart stuttering at the intensity in his gaze. His eyes weren’t predatory—not exactly—but they burned, heavy and unblinking, as though he were memorizing every detail of your face. It was overwhelming.

You broke the tension with a small laugh, trying to lighten the air. “Well, maybe the reason was so I wouldn’t have to keep fighting with my umbrella.”

He smiled faintly at that, but his eyes didn’t lose their hunger.

Inside, he was screaming.

Not her. Not really. But close enough. And if fate had brought you back to him, then he wasn’t going to let go this time.

The storm had gentled to a mist by the time your street curved into view. Water dripped from gutters in a steady rhythm, pooling at the edges of the sidewalk.

You should have told him goodbye long before this point—after all, “halfway” had passed blocks ago. But something about him kept you from speaking the words.

You weren’t usually like this. You didn’t let strange men walk you home, didn’t strike up conversations in the rain. But with him…God, there was something different. Something familiar in a way that made your skin prickle, not with fear but recognition.

Earlier, you’d brushed it off by teasing him about looking like he’d seen a ghost. But as you walked, your heart only beat louder against your ribs, telling you you weren’t imagining it. It wasn’t just him. It was you too.

You knew him. Somehow.

His eyes. That was it. You knew those eyes.

Your throat tightened. Without meaning to, you broke the silence. “Can I say something crazy?”

He looked at you quickly, water still dripping from his curls, eyes catching faint streetlight. “Sure,” he said. There was the smallest twitch of amusement in his lips. It reminded you of something—or someone—you couldn’t place.

It only emboldened you.

“I know you.”

He stumbled in his step. Almost choked. His gaze snapped to yours, too sharp, too intent.

You kept going, even though the words felt fragile on your tongue. “I mean…I don’t. But I do. I don’t know how. Maybe I’ve seen you before? Served you at work? I—I run the bakery on Fifth Avenue…”

The excuse sounded thin, even to yourself. You’d never seen him before in your life. You would have remembered.

No. This was deeper. More impossible.

His pulse—if he even had one—roared in his ears. He hadn’t felt this kind of hope in centuries, not since before he’d lost you the first time. Maybe this was insane. Maybe he should keep quiet. But the storm of your voice saying I know you cracked something open in him.

He licked his lips, his throat dry, and let out a breath heavy with nerves. “Can I say something crazier?”

You tilted your umbrella toward him, meeting his eyes. “Promise not to freak out,” he added quickly.

Your curiosity sparked at the raw edge in his voice. You nodded. “Go on.”

His fingers tightened in his coat pockets until the fabric creaked. “I know you,” he said softly. Then, firmer: “I mean you. You remind me of someone I lost. Scarily so. You look like her. Act like her. And you believe in reincarnation…” His laugh was brittle, shaky. “And I never did. Not until tonight.”

The street seemed quieter somehow, the rain no more than a whisper.

You stopped walking, staring at him. “…You don’t look old enough to have lost someone and think they could’ve been reincarnated into me. I’m in my twenties. How does that make sense?”

He opened his mouth, closed it. The centuries crowded his tongue, fighting to spill out, but how could he tell you everything? How could he tell you that he’d buried you centuries ago? That he had drained your body until it went limp? That every woman since had been a shadow of you?

“It’s…complicated,” he managed, voice husky. “But you feel it too, don’t you?” He took a half-step closer, his eyes almost desperate. “You said it yourself. You know me.”

You swallowed hard, your umbrella trembling slightly in your grip. His intensity should have sent you running. Instead, it sent a rush of heat through your chest, low in your belly. You hated that it made you ache.

“Spencer…” you whispered.

His name on your lips nearly broke him. He was pleading now, his voice raw. “Please. You see it too. You remember me.”

You couldn’t explain why, but you didn’t pull away. Because deep in your chest, where reason had no hold, something whispered that he was right.

And that terrified you more than anything.

Your voice soft but cutting through the silence. “My place is…right around here. Why don’t you come in?”

He blinked at you, startled. Of all the responses he’d expected, that hadn’t been one. He should have said no, should have turned and left you safe in the doorway of your life—but instead he nodded. He couldn’t resist.

You weren’t even sure why you asked. The words had slipped out, impulsive, irrational. But it felt the way it does when you stumble across an old song you haven’t heard in years and every lyric comes rushing back—you didn’t choose it, it was just meant.

The two of you walked the final stretch in silence. His coat was plastered to him, the faint scent of rain and something older clinging to the wool. When you reached your steps, you set your umbrella aside, water sliding off the stone. You pushed the key into the lock, and the door creaked open with the soft familiarity of home.

When you turned, he was still outside. Hovering at the threshold. Watching you.

You frowned. “You can come in, you know.”

The moment the words left your lips, he stepped inside—as if he had been waiting for the invitation.

Something about that pricked at your mind, but you shook it away. You reached for his coat, tugging it gently from his shoulders. It was heavy with rain. You hung it up beside your own.

He stood awkwardly in the entryway, shoulders tense, lips parted as if half a dozen confessions pressed against them all at once. He looked like he was unraveling inside his own skin.

You gestured toward the couch. “Sit.”

The room was pale and inviting—white curtains, lace-trimmed pillows, old wood softened by candlelight. A strange kind of gothic brightness, not harsh blacks but worn ivory, like faded memory.

He sat stiffly at one end, hands laced, jaw tight. You sank onto the other cushion, leaving space between you. The air buzzed with unspoken things.

Finally, you exhaled. “Why do I feel like I know you?” You turned your head toward him, searching his face. “And I think you know.”

His lips pressed together, his throat working. For a long moment, he didn’t speak. When he did, his voice cracked at the edges. “You’re going to be scared.”

Your brows furrowed. A sane part of you whispered he was a stranger, that you should laugh, tell him to leave. But no—he wasn’t a stranger. Not to you. Something inside you believed him before he even spoke.

“Please,” you whispered, leaning toward him without realizing it. “I’ve never felt this before. Don’t hold it back.”

He closed his eyes, a trembling breath escaping. His long fingers flexed against his knees, desperate for something to hold. Anything. You.

“This is going to sound…” He swallowed hard. “It’s going to change everything about how you see the world. So just…listen. Okay?”

You nodded, pulse thrumming in your neck.

“I’m—” he faltered, almost choking on the truth. “I’m a vampire. I’m centuries old. And the woman I loved—the woman I lost—” his voice cracked. “She looked like you. Sounded like you. You. Everything about you is her. It’s like she’s back.” His gaze dragged over you, raw, starving. “You even smell like her.”

The words hung heavy in the air. You blinked, reeling, your heart stuttering.

“I’m not her,” you said quietly, voice small but steady.

His head shook almost violently. “I think you are. Somehow—you’re her. You remember me. You said it yourself. You knew me.” His voice was unraveling now, desperate, breaking. “You didn’t even flinch when I told you what I am. Because you already knew, didn’t you? Some part of you…remembers.”

Your throat tightened. His pleading eyes cut straight through you. Sadness welled unexpectedly in your chest. “…What happened to her?”

His breath hitched. His shoulders curled inward as though the memory itself clawed at him.

“I—I was new. I’d barely been turned. I didn’t know what I was doing, I didn’t…” He shook his head violently. “I lost control. I—fed from her. From you. And I couldn’t stop. I didn’t mean to—”

You went still, his words burning into you. “You killed her?”

Your voice was soft, fragile, but it made him crumble.

Tears stung his eyes as he nodded. “I’m so sorry. I’m sorry.” His voice broke entirely. “I didn’t mean to. I swear to you, I never meant—”

Before you could move, he was on the floor in front of you, knees sinking into the carpet. His hands hovered at your thighs, trembling with restraint. You didn’t stop him when his palms finally pressed there, warm and shaking. He bowed forward, pressing his forehead to your knee, a broken prayer spilling from his lips.

“Please. Please remember me.” His voice cracked into something between a sob and a plea. His breath trembled against your skin. “I can’t lose you again. Not again.”

You froze, every nerve ending firing. Your neck throbbed with a strange, phantom ache—like a wound reopening. Flashes stirred at the edges of your mind. Heat. Darkness. The press of lips and teeth.

Your lack of reaction to his confession should have been a red flag. Instead, it felt like déjà vu.

Maybe—just maybe—you were remembering him.

The tear that slid down your cheek didn’t make sense. You didn’t even know why you were crying. It wasn’t just him—though seeing a man like Spencer Reid, brilliant and broken, sobbing at your knees was enough to twist your chest. No, this ache came from somewhere else. A place your conscious mind couldn’t name, like grief from another lifetime pressing against the walls of your skull.

His hands trembled against your thighs, his forehead still pressed to your knee like he was bowing at an altar. His voice cracked, ragged from centuries of silence.

“Please… anything, just—remember me,” he whispered, a plea wrapped in desperation.

You should’ve pulled away. Should’ve told him to leave. But instead, your hand lifted, almost against your will, and slid through his damp hair. The strands clung to your fingers, soft despite the rain, and you combed through them gently. The motion soothed him instantly and shattered him at the same time.

He choked out a breath, his voice raw. “She… she did this for me when I got upset. When the world felt too loud, when I couldn’t control the noise in my head, she’d—”

You cut him off, the words slipping from your mouth before you even thought them through. Words that didn’t feel like yours at all.

“—let you rest with your head on her chest.”

His head snapped up so fast you startled. His wide eyes locked onto yours, searching, disbelieving. “Y-you… remember that?” His voice broke again, but this time on a note of hope.

Your throat tightened. “I… I don’t even know how. I just—” You shook your head, a fresh tear sliding down. “I just know it.”

His hands tightened on your thighs, as though anchoring himself. The haunted look in his eyes shifted, softened into something rawer.

“I love you,” he breathed, and it wasn’t a line, wasn’t performative. It came out like a confession ripped from his ribcage. “I love you. God, I’ve loved you every single day since the moment I lost you. And I’m so—so sorry. A day hasn’t passed where I didn’t feel disgusted with myself, guilty about what I did. You didn’t deserve that… you deserved better than me.”

His words bled into your bones, that ache in your neck pulsing harder. You didn’t remember everything—your life, your death—but your body was beginning to.

“Spencer…” you whispered, and his name felt like something you’d said a thousand times before.

He lowered his gaze, kissing your knee softly, reverently. When you didn’t push him away, he let his lips linger, then pressed another kiss a little higher. His breath was warm against your skin, contrasting the damp chill from the rain.

Your breath hitched.

His voice dropped, shaking but deep, carrying the weight of centuries. “I shouldn’t touch you. Not like this. Not when I’ve already taken too much from you. But… I can’t stop. I’ve missed you so much, I…” His lips brushed the inside of your thigh now, the words muffled against your skin. “…I don’t know how to let you go again.”

Your hand was still in his hair, and without thinking, you tugged gently. His eyes flicked up to meet yours, dark and endless, hunger and heartbreak tangled together.

“Then don’t,” you whispered.

It wasn’t permission so much as surrender—your body answering before your mind could. Because the truth was you didn’t feel fear. Not when he said he was a vampire. Not when he confessed to killing you. All you felt was that aching familiarity, the pull in your chest, the way his touch sparked something buried deep inside you.

His fingers curled tighter into your thighs, the pads of his thumbs brushing slow circles against your skin like he was trying to memorize you all over again. “If I start… I don’t know if I can stop.” His voice was gravel, low, as though he was warning you. Pleading with you to protect yourself from him.

Your pulse stuttered, heat pooling low in your belly. The ache in your neck grew stronger, sharp and insistent. You knew what he was implying, but instead of recoiling, you leaned in slightly, your voice softer now.

“Then don’t stop.”

Spencer’s breath caught in his throat, his pupils blown wide. His restraint cracked in his eyes as though he were clinging to the last threads of control. His lips ghosted over your inner thigh again, higher this time, and you could feel how badly he wanted—needed—you.

The silence between you burned, alive with unspoken memory, old love, old hunger.

When he finally spoke again, his voice was ruined with want.

“I’ve dreamed of you for centuries.”

And then his teeth grazed your skin—lightly, testing—while his trembling hands gripped your thighs like you were the only thing tethering him to this world.

“God, you’re—” he broke off, his breath ragged as he gripped your tights and tugged. The fabric gave way with a harsh tear, seams splitting under his long fingers. He didn’t even give himself time to regret the sound, too frantic, too reverent, pressing soft open-mouthed kisses along the newly bared skin of your thighs.

Your legs parted instinctively, welcoming him, and his whole body trembled at the sight—at your offering. He sank lower, on his knees before you, hands spreading over your thighs like he could brand himself into the moment. You could feel the heat of him even through the damp chill of the room, his forehead brushing against your skin, his lips trailing higher and higher.

When his fingers found the edge of your panties, he hesitated just long enough to meet your eyes. Seeking permission. Begging silently.

You nodded. “Yes,” you whispered, breathless, voice barely there but enough.

That was all he needed. With a groan so low it sounded like it had been locked in his chest for centuries, he hooked the fabric aside. His gaze fixed on you—your cunt, glistening already, wet with want for him—and his throat bobbed as he swallowed hard.

“The same,” he murmured, voice trembling with awe. “God, you’re the same. Every detail. Every—” His words faltered, broken by another groan as he leaned closer, the heat of his breath ghosting over your folds. “I’ve missed you so much. I’ve missed this.”

Then his mouth was on you.

His tongue pressed flat against your slit, dragging from your entrance to your clit in one long, deliberate lick. Your back arched immediately, a sharp gasp escaping your lips. He moaned into you, the vibration making your thighs twitch.

“Taste—” he broke off, circling your clit with his tongue, “you taste exactly the same. Sweet, perfect, I—” Another hungry lick. “I could live on this.”

You tangled your fingers in his damp curls, tugging him closer, and he groaned again at the contact. He latched onto your clit now, sucking softly, his tongue flicking in quick, desperate movements that made you shudder.

“Oh my god, Spencer—”

He pulled back just long enough to look up at you, his lips and chin already slick with your wetness. His pupils were blown wide, his eyes fever-bright.

“You don’t know what this is doing to me,” he said, voice rough, needy. “Do you have any idea how many nights I dreamed of this? Centuries of lying awake—imagining your thighs around my head, your taste on my tongue. And now you’re here. You’re here.”

Your hips bucked against his mouth, his words sending heat straight to your core. He groaned and dove back in, licking into you now, fucking you with his tongue. His nose pressed against your clit, grinding with each movement, and you whined, tugging his hair harder.

“That’s it,” he rasped against you between licks. “Use me. Please. I need you to come on my mouth. I need to feel you fall apart.”

The desperation in his voice was matched only by the reverence in his touch. His hands squeezed your thighs, thumbs stroking circles against your skin as though grounding himself while he devoured you like a man starved.

You couldn’t stop the sounds leaving your throat, broken moans, gasps of his name. He moaned right back, every sound you made fueling his own pleasure.

“Yes—just like that,” he whispered against your clit, flicking his tongue faster now. “You’re so wet for me. Always so responsive. I remember this. How your body knows me. How you let me—fuck—how you let me worship you like this.”

The praise sent a shiver racing through you. You could feel your climax building fast, too fast.

“Spencer—I’m gonna—”

He cut you off, pulling your clit between his lips and sucking hard, his tongue lashing it at the same time. His grip tightened on your thighs, holding you still as you cried out, your orgasm crashing over you in sharp waves.

He moaned against you as you came, drinking in everything you gave him, his eyes fluttering shut like he was tasting salvation.

When you finally slumped back, shaking, trying to catch your breath, he didn’t let go. He kept his mouth on you, gentler now, slow licks, coaxing you through the aftershocks.

When he finally pulled back, his lips were wet, his hair wild, his chest heaving. He rested his forehead against your thigh again, his voice ruined and reverent.

“I love you. I’ll never stop loving you. Not in this life, not in the next.”

His words settled into your bones like truth—like memory.

His lips crashed into yours before you could even take another breath. The kiss was messy, desperate, his hands threading into your hair like he was anchoring himself to reality. He groaned into your mouth when your tongue met his, the taste of you on his lips mingling with the taste of yourself from his mouth. It was intoxicating, overwhelming, perfect.

“God,” he panted against your lips, kissing you again, harder. “I need you. I can’t—” His forehead pressed to yours, his voice raw. “I’ve waited too long. Please. Tell me you want this.”

“I do,” you whispered, tugging at his soaked shirt. “I want you.”

That was all it took.

He hauled you into his lap, guiding you backward until your body sank into the couch cushions. Your thighs spread open beneath him, his weight pressing you down into the fabric. His mouth never left yours, kissing you with bruising intensity, his hands sliding down your sides until he hooked under your knees and shoved them wider. You could feel the thick length of him straining against his pants, grinding into you as if he couldn’t help it.

“Perfect,” he murmured between kisses, his hips rutting into you with barely restrained desperation. “You feel what you do to me? I’ve never wanted anything—anyone—like this. Except you. Always you.”

Your hands fumbled at the buttons of his shirt, tearing it open enough to push the wet fabric down his shoulders. He groaned when your palms flattened against his bare chest, his heartbeat pounding fast—far too fast for a vampire, like his body was betraying just how undone he was.

He kissed down your jaw, biting softly at the hinge, then dragging his lips to your throat. His breath hitched there, hovering, trembling, his fangs just grazing your skin. He stilled, fighting himself, his entire body taut with restraint.

“Not yet,” he rasped against your pulse, kissing over it instead. “I can’t—I won’t lose you again.”

Then he was moving lower, his mouth finding your collarbone, your chest, kissing every inch as he pushed you further into the couch. His hands tore your ruined tights the rest of the way off, your panties following in the same desperate motion. His own pants and boxers were gone in a blur, his cock thick and heavy, flushed dark as he wrapped a hand around the base, stroking himself once as he looked at you sprawled out beneath him.

“God, you’re so beautiful,” he breathed, almost reverent. “You’re wet for me already. Open for me.” He stroked his cock again, the head glistening, and groaned. “I’m going to fill you up, sweetheart. Finally.”

You nodded, your own need overwhelming now. “Please, Spencer—”

He lined himself up, his hand pressing your thigh open wider, and pushed in slowly. Inch by inch, stretching you, filling you in a way that made you cry out and clutch at the cushions. His head fell forward, his mouth dropping open as a broken groan ripped from his throat.

“Fuck—” His voice cracked as he bottomed out, his hips flush to yours. He buried his face in your neck, shuddering. “You’re so tight. You feel—exactly the same. It’s you. It’s really you.”

He didn’t move at first, just holding himself inside you, trembling with the effort of control. You ran your hands over his back, whispering, “It’s okay. I want you to move.”

That undid him.

He pulled back slowly, dragging his cock out until only the tip remained before thrusting back in with a force that made you gasp. He moaned into your skin, his hips beginning a steady, deep rhythm, every stroke deliberate, hitting the spot inside you that made your legs shake.

“Yes—yes, that’s it,” he groaned, kissing your cheek, your lips, your jaw between words. “You take me so well. God, you were made for me. My perfect girl.”

Your moans spurred him on, his thrusts growing rougher, needier. His hands gripped your hips tight, anchoring you as he fucked into you, each snap of his hips harder than the last.

“I love you,” he gasped, his voice breaking, his forehead pressed to yours. “I love you—I’ve loved you for centuries. Do you—do you feel it too? Tell me you feel it.”

“I do,” you panted, nails digging into his back. “I love you too, Spencer.”

He groaned loud at that, his thrusts faltering for a moment as his lips found yours again, desperate, wet kisses swallowing both your moans.

“Gonna make you come,” he whispered against your mouth, thrusting deep again. His hand slid between your bodies, his thumb finding your clit, rubbing tight, fast circles. “Come for me, sweetheart. Please—I need to feel you come around me.”

The dual sensation—the stretch of him inside you and the pressure on your clit—sent you over the edge. You cried out, clutching him as your orgasm tore through you, your walls clenching around his cock.

The feeling broke him.

“Fuck, yes—” he growled, his thrusts erratic now as he chased his own release. “So tight—milking me—can’t hold on—”

And then his fangs sank into your neck.

The sharp pain melted instantly into white-hot pleasure, your orgasm spiking all over again as his mouth latched onto your pulse. He groaned against your skin, drinking deep as his hips snapped hard into you, his cock pulsing as he came inside you. The combination—the pull of his mouth, the flood of his release—made you arch and cry out, clinging to him as your own climax dragged on, endless.

“Mine,” he growled into your throat between swallows, his voice guttural, primal, as he filled you. “You’re mine—forever.”

When he finally pulled back, his lips were slick with your blood, his eyes blown wide and wild—but softer, too, awed. He kissed your neck, then your mouth, desperate and sweet, tasting of copper and salt and everything that was him.

And through the haze of trembling limbs and the warmth of his body pinning you to the couch, you knew: this time, there was no losing each other.

Your eyes slipped closed, your chest heaving, every muscle trembling with the aftershocks. You were limp against him, boneless from the back-to-back orgasms, your throat slick where his mouth had been.

Spencer froze.

“—no, no, no.” His voice cracked as his hands cupped your face, tapping lightly against your cheeks. “Open your eyes. Please—open them, don’t do this to me, not again.” His breathing was erratic, bordering on frantic, and for a second the world tilted for him, the memory of centuries ago flooding his mind. Her body, limp. The stillness. His fangs in her throat.

He was shaking. “I didn’t—god, I didn’t mean to—”

Your lashes fluttered, your lips parting as a breathy sound escaped you. Not death, not loss—just recovery. Your hand slid weakly over his wrist, squeezing. “Spencer,” you whispered, voice hoarse but steady enough. “I’m okay.”

His eyes closed tight, a sharp exhale breaking from his chest as relief surged through him. He pressed his forehead to yours, trembling like he was about to fall apart. “I thought—I thought I’d lost you again.”

“I’m here.” Your lips brushed his, soft and reassuring. “You didn’t hurt me.”

He groaned low, burying his face against your shoulder, his arms winding so tight around you it almost hurt. And still—still—he didn’t pull out. His cock throbbed, still seated deep inside you, as if his body refused to let go. He shifted, maneuvering the both of you until you were straddling him again on the couch, his back against the cushions, you in his lap, your chest pressed to his. His arms locked you there, every muscle taut with possession and fear.

“I can’t,” he whispered raggedly into your hair. “I can’t pull out. I need you here, I need to feel you around me. I need to know you’re real.”

You kissed the side of his jaw, your fingers threading through his damp curls. “Then don’t. Stay inside me. I want you there.”

His chest rose sharply, his breath unsteady. He leaned back enough to look at you, his eyes glassy, dark with love and hunger. His hands held your hips gently, reverently, his thumbs tracing circles over your skin as though he could memorize you anew.

“You don’t understand,” he said softly, his voice cracking. “Every night, for so long, I’ve dreamed of this—of you. And then I’d wake up and you weren’t there. But now—” His voice trailed off as he pressed a shaky kiss to your lips, barely holding it together. “Now you are.”

You smiled against his mouth, slow and certain, your hips shifting just a little around him. The movement pulled a groan from his chest, deep and unguarded. “I’m not going anywhere,” you murmured. “You’ve got me.”

His eyes squeezed shut, a tear escaping down his cheek. You kissed it away, and he kissed you back with gratitude so raw it stole your breath.

“You’re perfect,” he whispered between kisses, his hands sliding up your back, holding you flush against him. “So warm, so alive, so mine. God, you feel like heaven. Do you know what you do to me? How good you are?”

You rocked gently in his lap, both of you shivering at the slight movement of him still buried inside. He hissed through his teeth, his head falling back against the couch. “Fuck—you’re still so tight. I can feel every flutter. Don’t stop. Please, don’t stop.”

You obeyed, slow and languid, grinding down in his lap. The pace was unhurried, not the frantic thrusts from before—this was grounding, tethering. His hands roamed your body like he couldn’t decide where to touch first, cupping your breasts, cradling your jaw, sliding down to grip your hips again.

“That’s it,” he panted, kissing you feverishly. “Take me. Take everything. You’re doing so good for me.”

Your moans were soft but steady, your lips brushing his ear as you whispered, “You feel so good inside me, Spencer. I love being full of you.”

He groaned so deep it vibrated against your chest. “Say it again,” he begged, kissing the corner of your mouth. “Please.”

“I love being full of you.”

His thrust upward was instinctive, sharp, but he slowed immediately, kissing your shoulder in apology. “Sorry. I just—fuck—you saying that. You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to hear it.”

You cradled his face, forcing him to look at you. “Centuries,” you said softly, knowingly.

He blinked at you, eyes wide, undone. And then he kissed you again, desperate, his hips rocking up to meet your slow grind, the two of you moving together in a rhythm that was more about closeness than release.

The blood on his lips had dried, faint copper lingering, but when he whispered your name against your mouth, you knew he was tasting you in every way.

“Stay with me,” he pleaded, still holding you close, still buried deep inside. “Promise me you’ll stay.”

“I’m not leaving you,” you whispered, forehead pressed to his. “Not in this life. Not ever again.”

And for the first time in centuries, Spencer let himself believe it.

taglist: @yokaimoon @blacksnake13 @ssyren @kimiantonelliismyhusband @shinygivergalaxy @sharksandsquirrelsandsnakes-ohmy @lexxaxxus @evam0481 @lulirossstuff @coldflowermuglover @nighthowlergamez @justlivinginadaydream @nevermorexlee @tbolesar @superbeaglewitch @starneul @iqraaaa07 @imyourapocalypse

You’ve left the room; you don’t trust that you wouldn’t do anything stupid while he’s in there. Like trying to sniff his dirty clothes. Or worse, try to join him in the shower. 

The thought makes your face flush, sweat trickling down the back of your neck tauntingly. A reminder of your lecherous thoughts. With a groan, you pace around the parking area, and when that doesn’t alleviate your restlessness, you walk through the perimeter of the motel as well. It’s a tiny town, this had been their only place of accommodation. Not that you mind, of course, you’re not really picky. A place to rest your head is all you need.

Rounding to the back is where you see him, leaning against the wall in a denim jacket. Curls haphazardly arranged over his forehead. Jesus Christ, why is he here? 

“I thought you were showering?”

The man looks up, startled, and that’s when you notice the cigarette hanging from between his lips.

“When the hell did you start smoking?” you ask, cocking your head to the side. How strange. Even his clothes. You had never pegged Spencer to be a denim on denim kind of guy, even on casual days.

“I don’t think that’s any of your business, but since I was seventeen.”

It’s here that you detect your mistake. His accent. Not as strong as Will’s, who you’ve met on a few occasions with JJ, but the unmistakable drawl is there, urging you to look closer. This man’s eyes are darker, his cheeks somehow more gaunt than your coworker’s, the stubble on his jaw more prominent. His hair is shorter too, reminding you of Spencer from a few years ago. But other than that, he looks nearly identical.

“Hey, miss, you alright?” He takes a tentative step closer, brows furrowing in the exact same way Spencer’s does when he’s confused.

You squeak and shuffle back, eyes wide.

“Okay, okay,” the man lifts his hands in apology, chuckling lightly, “God, I thought you’d be tougher, carrying around a gun like that.”

Your hand automatically rests on the gun at your holster, something familiar to keep your panic at bay. However, he seems to mistake it as a defensive move, because he steps away from you, both hands still in the air.

“Whoa, hey, hey, easy—”

“Sorry,” your voice returns, breathless from confusion. You hold your hands up as well, showing him you’re harmless, “Sorry, no, I wasn’t gonna—I’m sorry. You just remind me of someone, is all.”

He seems wary, but he lets one arm fall to his side, while the other lifts the cigarette from his mouth, “The one takin’ a shower?”

“Yeah,” you let out a soft chuckle, tucking your hair behind your ears, “Yeah, my colleague.”

“Ah,” he nods, something lighting up in his eyes, “You’re the fancy police that arrived this morning.”

“We are,” you look at him, marveling at how much he looks like Spencer, “My god, you’re nearly identical.”

“Must be a handsome guy, then.” The man smirks, boyish and lovely, and you see he even has dimples too, though they’re a little lower than Spencer’s.

You feel your cheeks warm at that, “He—uh, I guess you can say that.” So handsome you want to jump him at every opportunity. 

The man laughs, venturing another step closer. This time, you relax enough to let him. 

“What’s his name, then, this handsome coworker?”

“I—I don’t know if that’s any of your business.” you say, raising a brow at him.

He shrugs, another chuckle leaving his lips. You find that you like his laugh. It’s carefree, light. “All right, fair point. What’s yours?”

Your teeth catch your lower lip for a moment, before you relent and give him your name. 

“Pretty name for a pretty lady,” he tips his head, “I’m Chip Taylor.”

“Chip. It’s nice to meet you.” you reply, leaning on the plaster wall, “Mind if I keep you company?”

“I’d never say no to a pretty woman,” he says, offering his cigarette. You shake your head, already imagining Spencer’s spiel about the effects of nicotine, and how secondhand smoke is just as bad, if not worse. 

“Suit yourself,” he shrugs, taking a long drag. You can’t help but watch his lips wrap around the end, the way they purse together to blow out the smoke. He looks so much like Spencer. It’s easy to imagine those lips as Spencer’s lips, puckering for a kiss…

“Hey, you still with me?” he’s laughing, a light and teasing sound. 

You feel warmth on your cheeks, looking away, “Yeah.”

Too late. He seems to have caught your staring, the single minded focus your eyes had on his lips, “See something you like, pretty girl?”

You huff, eyes flitting back up to glance at him. Relaxed, with an easy going smile on his face. And he looks like Spencer. 

If you can’t have your coworker, then the next best thing is this handsome stranger, right? This doppelganger, who the universe seems to have dropped upon your lap as an apology. Besides, you’ll be gone after the case wraps. You’ll never see him again. The perfect hook up. 

Your lips curve up, “Matter of fact, I did.”

His smile turns cocky, voice lowering to one laced with seduction, “Is that right?”

“Mhm,” you tilt your head to the side, lashes fluttering as he steps closer, caging you against the wall, “Just wondering what those lips would feel in other places.”

Chip tosses the cigarette to the ground, “Well, baby, you don’t have to wonder.”

His lips are on you in an instant, every glide against yours firm and sure. You’re forced to follow, mouth yielding to his, parting to open and accept the press of his tongue. A whimper is swallowed by his eager mouth, and his hand comes up to cradle your face, tilt your head back. His tongue pushes farther, the acrid, smoky taste of his marlboro reds filling your mouth. Your moans barely make it out of your mouth, muffled immediately by his breathtaking kiss. You’re first to pull away, panting heavily for breath. 

His mouth travels down, leaving moist kisses along your jaw. Rough stubble scratches at your skin, but the sensation only sends shivers tingling across your spine. “Your fancy FBI man won’t take care of you, huh?” he whispers against your jaw, “Don’t worry baby, I got you.”

“I don’t have too long,” you mumble breathlessly, leaning back on the wall as he unbuttons the top of your blouse. 

He chuckles, “Won’t need too long.” cocky words, but spoken with surprising tenderness. Your thighs clench in response. He abandons your blouse, the first three buttons undone, just enough to expose your collarbone and the tops of your chest. His hands find your skirt instead, tugging it up over your thighs. “Can I?”

“Yeah, please.” 

A chuckle, and then a kiss to your throat. “So fucking polite.” 

Chip’s hand finds the soaked fabric of your panties, running two fingers over them. A soft, croaky laugh leaves his lips when he makes contact with your arousal, and he latches on your collarbone. Teeth nips at the skin, before they are replaced by lips that suck rough and demanding, all while his fingers locate your clit through the lace. You moan as he laves your skin with kisses and his fingers rub soft little circles on your needy center.

“So fucking wet, baby,” he cooes, finally pushing your panties to the side. He chuckles when he feels your hot core, folds and entrance completely dripping, “Jesus, what a needy little thing. Don’t worry, I got you.”

And he does. As if he’s taking your time crunch into consideration, he teases at your entrance only briefly, and slides a finger past it. Your  pussy swallows the digit without problem, and it disappears inside you to the knuckle. 

He chuckles, “There you go,” he adds another finger, stretching you perfectly, then dips down to kiss your collarbone again, as though intent on leaving a mark there. You’re relieved he’s giving you a hickey somewhere you can easily conceal by clothes. 

You clench around his fingers as they pump in and out of you, throwing your head back as your moan fills the humid evening air. “Need more.” “Yeah? Not just needy huh, greedy too.” he chuckles, crooking his fingers as they are buried deep inside your pussy. It hits your g-spot perfectly, sending shocks of pleasure throughout your body.

“God, yes!” you gasp, arms tightening around his neck. You lean into him with a whine, moving your hips to match the pace of his fingers, “Yes, just like that, Chip.”

“I gotcha, baby, I gotcha.” he murmurs, his voice sweet as he wraps his free arm around you. Held to his chest as he slides a third finger inside your pussy. It’s a snug fit, what with his long, thick fingers, and you’re stretched so deliciously you can’t help but moan again. You’re thankful for his arm around your waist, as your knees are shaking, ready to give out as he increases the pace of his fingers.

“Fuck, yes!” you moan, biting into his clothed shoulder.  You hear him chuckle, and his thumb presses into your clit, adding another source of pleasure for you. “Chip!”

“Yeah? I can feel you clenching baby, you’re close, aren’t you?”

“Mhm hmm,” you nod, trying to breathe, trying to maintain some semblance of yourself, but everything is him. The smell of Marlboro reds and leather mixed with his sweat. It’s all so very hot, heady, your body pressed into a motel’s dingy walls by a handsome stranger and his familiar face, with three fingers buried deep inside your fluttering cunt. 

“God, baby, can feel how tight you are,” he murmurs, pushing you harder into the wall. It gives him more leverage to increase both the speed and impact of his digits, pumping them into you deliberately, “What I’d give to feel this sweet pussy around my cock.”

That’s it. Words. Words tip you over the edge, not his fingers, not the tongue running over your ear, but those nasty words being uttered under his breath, into your ear. You groan, shuddering in his arms as your orgasm hits you. He continues to finger you, thumb rubbing figure eights on your clit, slowly helping you come down from your high. 

“That’s it baby,” he pulls back slightly to watch your face, grinning as he takes you in. You’d been so lovely when he first laid eyes on you, put together and rigid, but now you’ve come undone in more ways than one. Completely dishevelled, skirt askew, shirt half unbuttoned. “Goddamn, you’re so pretty like this.”

You hum, smiling back at him as he slowly pulls his fingers out. They glisten even in the dim light, completely sticky with your cum. You can’t stop the gasp when he brings those fingers up to your mouth. Taking advantage of that, he pushes his index finger past your parted lips. 

Your eyes flutter closed as you take it in, sucking on the digit as he pushes it deep into your mouth. The salty, bitter taste of yourself explodes in your mouth. His chuckle hits your ears, and you open your eyes to meet his heady gaze again.

“So fucking pretty,” he murmurs, pulling his fingers out with a pop. He licks and sucks on the other two fingers, smirking at the dazed look in your eyes. “You know, when that case of yours is done, come find me.”

“How will I know where you are?”

“I’m usually at the bar, babe,” he helps you button your shirt, his movements deft and gentle, “”And if I’m not, just ask old Deb, the bartender. She’ll give me a call.”

You understand what’s happening. Not even bothering to give you his number. It’s just a hookup, nothing more. Honestly, it’s what you need too, so you grin, “Deal. I’ll see you around, then.”

After helping you straighten up, he leans in to give you one last kiss. “I’ll see you around, pretty girl.”

Spencer is pacing along your room when you return, his hair still weighed down by the water and curling at the ends. It makes you pause, seeing him in a plain t-shirt and plaid pajama pants, looking so much like the man from the alley that you felt another burst of heat at your core.

“Where on earth were you?”

“Out.” you shrug as nonchalantly as you can.

“You’ve been gone for nine minutes and eighteen seconds,” he frowns, “But that’s not even counting the time I was in the bathroom.”

Your cheeks flush at the realization that you’d met a dude, hooked up with him, and came around his fingers in such a short amount of time. Under fifteen minutes. God, that’s a little pathetic.

“I just needed some fresh air, Spencer,” you say placatingly, ignoring the frown on his face as you brush past him. You rummage through your go bag quickly, finding the sleepwear you’ve brought with you, “Now, if you don’t mind, I’m gonna take my shower.”

You wash away the trances of Chip from your body, letting the water cool your heated skin and drag the scent of cigarette smoke away, down down down the drain. After getting dressed, you pad back into the room, where Spencer is bent over his bed, poring over the case file. At the sound of your shuffling footsteps, he looks up, eyes narrowing but staying silent. The intensity of his gaze makes you want to shrink back. It's an obvious scrutiny, cold, a look that is meant to cast judgement upon you. 

You smile at him and get to your bed. Wet hair and all.

The case resolves within the next few days, a conclusion so comically mundane in comparison to the severity of the crimes. Arrested in his home while he's mowing his lawn. With the search warrant, it had been easy to sweep the house and find evidence of the stalking, and the trophies he had kept of his victims.

Throughout the case, Spencer had been keeping an eye on you. Ever since you returned that one evening smelling of cigarettes and sweat, he’d been suspicious. The small, purple mark that poked through your tank top that same night simply raised his senses even more. Judging by the color, it’s new. He’s suspicious, wondering what the hell you’d gotten into while he was showering.

So when you tell Emily that you won’t be flying back with the rest of the team, he perks up. Once again, he doesn’t say anything to you, but he does make an excuse as well, telling Emily he liked Louisiana enough to spend more time there.

Emily had looked at him with the same suspicion he regards you with, but ultimately allowed him to stay. 

It was easy enough to follow you (okay, so he enlisted the help of Garcia, offering to help her organize her office in exchange for her sworn secrecy), which is how he finds himself inside a seedy bar in the outskirts of the small town.

The heat is  even more oppressive inside, a humidity that seems to press in from all sides. Spencer makes quick work of the scene, locating your figure with such an ease that one would think his eyes are magnetically drawn to you regardless of the circumstances. All of his suspicions are confirmed when he catches sight of the tall man leaning into your space, a hand resting on your hip. 

Your body language, even from afar, tells Spencer that this isn’t the first time you’ve met this other man. That this is okay, encouraged even. He watches with narrowed eyes, hidden in plain sight amidst other bar regulars, as you lean into this stranger’s touch, how his fingers slip and settle upon the skin under your shirt. Such a casual assertion of  familiarity. The heat that unfurls in his chest surprises him. 

It’s ridiculous. You’re not together. He has no ground to stand on, no real reason to ask you to leave. Yet here he stands, fighting against the urge to tear you away from this other man’s grasp. Stupid. What had been his goal, coming here? Following you? Now that he knows you’re staying to hook up, what is he supposed to do? Obviously, he can’t try to change your mind. You’re a grown woman, after all, and completely single at that. It shouldn’t matter what you do during your free time. The case is wrapped up, who is he to judge you for however you want to celebrate that?

His feet refuse to move. 

Unfortunately for him, he’s hovering right around the doors—which serve as both entrance and exit—so when the man leads you away from the counter, the collision is inevitable.

And for a moment, Spencer Reid’s world seemed to stop. Not out of jealousy or betrayal (which he, admittedly, is nurturing somewhere in his chest), but from sheer bewilderment.

Because the man you’re leaving with is identical to him.

“Spence!” your voice is uncharacteristically high when you see him, eyes wide with panic.

The strange man looks between you and Spencer, lips pulling into an easy smile, “Oh wow, you weren’t kidding. We really do look alike.”

Spencer is rooted on the spot. Genius mind, astronomically high IQ, none of them seem to matter when he realizes that you’re leaving, most likely to sleep with, a man who looks exactly like him. 

“This is why you stayed back?” Spencer tries not to sound accusatory, he really does, and when you flinch at his tone, he softens immediately, “You—you don’t even know this man.”

“That’s kind of the point,” you reply, meeting his gaze squarely, “It’s just a one time thing and it’s not like he’s a total stranger. I met him before.” 

Something in Spencer’s chest clenched as he watches you shuffle closer into the other man’s side, bodies flush.

Why him, he wants to scream, why sleep with someone who looks like me instead of just me?

Before he can articulate his thoughts into more acceptable words, you’re already rambling.

“This is Chip. It’s nothing serious, really, just you know, physical. I’ll be completely safe with him, I promise, I know it sounds stupid but—”

“Let me come with.”

Spencer doesn’t even realize that the words came from him, until he catches the look of confusion and surprise on your faces.

The other man, Chip, whistles in amusement, joining the conversation for the first time. His eyes glint in the lowlights of the bar, darting between Spencer and you, “To watch or to join?”

Spencer straightens, ignoring the drumming in his ears. He trains his eyes on you, ignoring the other man, as he answers, “To join. You’re not the only one who needs release after that case.” 

You sputter, indignant and disbelieving, “J—join? Are you serious? Spence—”

He narrows his eyes, “What, afraid you can’t handle it?” There. Posed as a challenge, he knows you well enough to know that you’d never back down.

“Of course I can.”

Hook, line and sinker.

“But,” you turn to Chip, brows furrowed in concern, “Are you okay with this? It’s not exactly what we originally planned.”

Chip only smiles, “The more the merrier. Just as long as you’re sure you can handle it, baby.”

Spencer isn’t sure what he wants you to say. Stuck in some sort of limbo, he’s prepared for either option—to go to the motel alone, or to participate in an impromptu threesome with his beautiful co worker and a stranger who bears his face.

When you agree, he lets out a breath, unsure of whether it’s dread or relief.

The walk to the motel is inevitably awkward, almost businesslike. Talk of birth control and STDs—Chip assure you both that he’s clean, you tell them you’re on birth control. It must be a weird conversation to overhear from an outsider’s perspective. Once inside the room, Spencer finds himself oddly at ease. Level headed and calm, he closes and locks the door while the stranger, now identified as Chip Taylor, sinks into one of the motel chairs with a lightness that reminds Spencer of his own younger self. 

“C’mere, baby,” Chip says to you, patting his lap enticingly. 

Wide eyed and disoriented, you look at Spencer. His brows raise, taking in the shadows that seem to plague your cheeks, the confused expression on your face. “Well?”

You bite your lip, glancing at Chip who’s an open invitation, legs spread and smiling easily, before your eyes inevitably return to Spencer. Almost as if asking for permission. 

Oh. 

“Go ahead then.”

That’s all you needed to cross over the room and stand between Chip's thighs. Words. Spencer’s words, spoken so clearly they cut through the heady tension of the room. His instructions. Spencer is powerless to stop the smirk playing at his lips when he realizes.

Chip doesn’t miss it either. He laughs, good natured and teasing, “I see how it is, pretty girl.” His kisses on your neck are soft, slow, clearly taking his time getting you worked up, “Good thing I’m not the jealous type.”

Spencer finds himself shifting, pants beginning to feel tight as he catches sight of a pale pink tongue darting out, dragging over the hollow of your throat. Chip’s hands tug at your skirt, the fabric descending down your thighs and legs until they pool on the floor. Both men’s eyes admire your legs with openly hungry gazes, pinning you frozen on Chip’s lap. Your underwear follows, a scrap of lace landing on top of the twill, shockingly, scandalously red against black. 

Chip shifts, arms straining as he rearranges you on his lap so that you’re straddled over his thighs, but facing Spencer. You let him, completely pliant in his arms. You can’t decide if your cheeks are burning from embarrassment or desire. Spencer’s eyes are wide, nearly black as he takes you in, your spread legs revealing an already glistening pussy.

“Why don’t we show Dr. Reid right here how you like to be touched, huh?” Chip murmurs, rough pads of his fingers making gentle circles on your clit. Your neck arches back, head slotting perfectly on the crook of Chip’s shoulder. Your mouth parts ever so slightly, a rosebud on the cusp if bloom, emitting soft sighs of pleasure.

The sight makes Spencer stagger onto the bed, chest rapidly rising and falling as he takes in the scene in front of him. Inappropriate. No, it goes beyond that, he’s sure there’s at least twenty rules he’s crossing right now, social boundaries and work rules. Somewhere in the back of his cloudy mind, he thinks this is headed towards sexual deviance, but the years of training and his eidetic memory are no match for how utterly arresting this is.

He can’t tear his eyes away from the smooth line of your neck, the goosebumps on your bare arms and thighs as this other man—Chip—plays with the slick folds between your thighs. Completely enthralled as two long fingers find your entrance and push into it. Knuckle deep, Chip twists his fingers the same way he had done a few days ago, an action that has you letting out the most pornographic sounds.

Unable to help himself, Spencer’s palm presses into his crotch, palming his erection through his trousers. For the first time, one of his sounds join the twisted melody of the room, a soft groan escaping from his lips as a result of the delicious friction  from his hand. The sound seems to excite you, as you squirm in Chip’s arms. Your head lifts from Chip’s shoulder, hazy eyes focusing just enough to meet Spencer’s gaze. 

Chip laughs, “I think the lady wants you,” he tells Spencer.

Spencer stares at you, eyes dark, feeling petty, of all fucking things. “Does she? She seems perfectly content right there,” he raises a brow, “Aren’t you, sweetheart?” The nickname is spoken with such cloying sweetness it makes you flinch.

The cool haughtiness of his tone doesn’t escape you. It’s a struggle to sit up a little straighter, seem a little more respectable (how do you even achieve that when they’re being fingered right in front of their coworker?), but really you’re just trying to get a better glimpse of Spencer. 

The sight that greets you doesn’t disappoint. There he is, Spencer Reid, your normally calm coworker, sitting on the edge of the bed, fondling his obvious erection through his trousers. You moan again, walls clamping hard around Chip’s fingers.

“Is that right?” Chip’s teeth nip at your earlobe, his breath hot and smelling of whiskey, “See, I’m not a jealous man, babe, but I think Dr. Reid’s a little different.” He crooks his fingers, hitting that sweet spot inside, and you squirm in his lap. Ruthlessly, Chip continues the pace, pumping his fingers in and out while he murmurs in your ear so casually one would think he’s simply exchanging pleasantries with someone on the street. “I think he’s a little upset that you went out of your way to find me, and that we’ve shared something real special a few days ago. I think he wants his share of you too, baby, and I know I’m making you feel real good, but  you don’t want him to feel left out, do you?”

“N-no, I don’t.” your voice sounds foreign. Is this really you, breathless and nearly pornographic?

“Of course not,” Chip coos, “Because you’re a good girl, aren’t you?” You clench tightly around his fingers. He laughs, grinding the palm of his hand to your clit while his fingers work your walls relentlessly.

“You’re so close, huh? Can feel you clenching.”

And then the pressure is gone, so quickly you’re left in confusion. Blinking rapidly, you look at Chip with a wounded expression, which only makes him grin.

“No cumming yet, baby, the night’s still young.” he kisses the tip of your nose, a tender move amidst the wanton craziness happening, “Now, go and give poor Dr. Reid some attention.”

Spencer has been silent this entire time, eyes regarding you with an intensity that feels as though it’s sinking into every pore of your skin. Even with Chip’s steadying hands on your waist, you stumble as you climb off his lap and cross the short space over to your coworker. Strangely, your heart’s drumming in your chest, and you’re suddenly unsure of what to do. Chip had been easy—eager to start, lavishing you with so much attention you didn’t really have to do anything but take it. 

Spencer… Well, you don’t even know what Spencer is like one on one, much less right now when the presence of a third person hangs heavy in the room. Much less when he’s like this—jealous, was that what Chip had said? In your fantasies, Spencer is thorough and attentive, honey eyes full of unadulterated adoration.

Right now, he’s staring at you with a mixture of lust and haughty disdain.

And heaven forbid, it’s making you even wetter.

“You like that, huh?” he says finally, so softly you have to strain to hear him, “Like being touched by some stranger?”

“Yeah.”

Hands splay over your thighs, and you can distinctly tell the difference between his touch and Chip’s. Spencer’s is softer, certain calluses formed at specific points from writing with a pen and holding a gun, but otherwise, his fingertips are smooth. They sink into your flesh with ease. You gasp at the strength, not expecting such a display. Chip’s hands may be rougher, but Spencer holds onto you with the intention to possess—unyielding and firm. 

It’s gone just as quickly.

“Get on your knees.” he says.

Oh, shit. Without needing to be told twice, you kneel in front of him. Behind you, you hear Chip’s carefree chuckle, and your cheeks burn. You like this, some sick voice in your head whispers, and you flush even more, the warmth spreading down your chest. 

“God,” Spencer hisses. You watch as he undoes his pants, and his cock springs free. It’s already bright red, viscous liquid leaking from the tip, evidence that your little performance with Chip had gotten to whom you had assumed is an impassive coworker. Almost automatically, your hand wraps around the base, stroking up.

A low, throaty laugh escapes Spencer’s mouth, “Oh, sweetheart, you’re just so eager, huh?” his hips buck into your hand, head thrown back, curls hanging off his head haphazardly. “Use your mouth, come on you know you want to.”

You don’t need to be told twice. You lean in, alarmingly hasty, dragging your tongue along the underside of his shaft. He lets out a groan, so you continue, licking his length teasingly, before moving to the tip. Your tongue swirls around the swollen head, collecting the salty precum and gliding back and forth over the tip. It twitches against your tongue, an affirmation that what you’re doing feels good.

Peeking up from beneath your lashes, you make sure Spencer’s eyes are focused on you. For a second, you simply look at him, your own eyes blazing with desire and confidence, every single notion of embarrassment seems to have been expelled from your person. And then you wrap your lips around the tip. 

Spencer’s eyes slip shut, head thrown back as you suck at the head of his cock while your hand pumps up and down the rest of his length. His hands come to your hair, tucking the strands back with his long fingers. In response, you work his cock deeper into your mouth, cheeks hollowing out as you continue to suck. Another moan joins the wet sounds of your union, but Spencer is in a breathless, silent daze.

Chip has taken things upon himself, stroking his cock as he watches you give head to his lookalike. “Goddamn, this is surreal.” he chuckles, craning his neck for a better view, “Like a mirror, but not quite.”

Spencer manages to reply, looking down at you, “Mhm. A mirror—ah—that’s right, she’s just eager for some cock. Weren’t you?”

“Wanted yours specifically.” Chip points out through a breathy moan.

“Yeah?” Spencer tugs your hair, forcing your head back so he can look more clearly into your eyes. His cock twitches at the sight of you—cheeks hollowed, eyes watering from how deep he’s making you take him— and he smirks, “Wanted me so bad you would fuck a random stranger just because he looked like me, huh? That’s how low you would go, sweetheart?” 

You moan around his length, unable to answer. It sends vibrations up his spine, and you feel his cock pulsing as it rests heavily against your tongue. Bringing up a hand, you cup his balls in your palm, adding another layer of stimulation for your coworker.

“That’s enough.” Roughly, he tugs you away from his crotch, “Get on the bed.”

You stay kneeling for another moment, trying to catch your breath, but then Spencer hauls you by your hips and tosses you unceremoniously on the bed. You squeak as you bounce on it, clutching the sheets to steady yourself.

“H-how do you want me?” you ask, voice hoarse and meek. How embarrassing. 

“Hands and knees.”

Chip lets out a whistle as he approaches, “Am I allowed in on the fun, bossman?” he grins at Spencer, completely undeterred by the resemblance. In his mind, there’s a stunning woman who wants to be pleasured, and he’s more than willing to help out, weirdness be damned. 

“Sure,” Spencer says, undoing the buttons on his shirt and tossing it somewhere on the floor, “She said it herself, didn’t she? She can take us both.”

Your gaze travels between them alternatively, watching as they both strip off their clothes and reveal more and more skin. Chip’s blue collar lifestyle once again bears witness in the lines of his body, lean muscles obviously honed from working with his hands. Spencer’s arms are wiry, but his stomach is softer, skin paler from always being in long sleeved button downs.  

You scramble to your hands and knees, your head near the edge from where Chip stands. Meanwhile, Spencer settles beside you, sitting down and cupping the swell of your ass with one hand. Two fingers slide into your pussy. With a quick curl, Spencer finds that sensitive part within your walls, fingertips dragging against it as he thrusts his fingers in and out. 

“God, he wasn’t kidding,” Spencer murmurs, brows knit as he marvels at how soaked you are, “You really are needy. One man wasn’t enough for you, huh? Got yourself worked up over the thought of taking two cocks?”

He’s right, you realize. You’re eating up the attention, arms and thighs shaking not from the strain of holding yourself up, but from anticipation. 

“Y-yes,” you manage to reply, squirming from his assault. You’re pulled taunt, desperate to come, having been denied by Chip earlier.

“You’re just a dirty little slut, aren’t you?” Spencer’s harsh words are tempered by the soft coo of his voice. He doesn't wait for a response, adding a third finger. It stretches you out deliciously, and pulls a breathless cry from your lips. His fingers fill your walls, finding a rhythm that has you mewling as he assails your g-spot with quick movements. Spencer chuckles, marveling at how prettily your pussy flutters around his digits, “Such a needy, needy girl. Don't worry, we'll take care of you.”

Never, in your entire career, have you heard Spencer speak this way. There’s something exhilarating about it, allowing yourself to be at mercy. Complete submission turns you on, apparently, and so does degradation. Being confronted with this fact makes you moan, tightening around his fingers in response. 

“Needy and obedient.” Chip agrees. He’s been surveying the scene with that easy smirk, as though debating the best way to join. You help him make a decision by opening your mouth. He chuckles, cupping your jaw, thumb running over your bottom lip. “And so pretty.” he murmurs before pressing his thumb flat on your tongue. Immediately, you close your mouth around it and begin to suck.

“That's it,” Chip chuckles, eyes dark as he takes you in, “You just like having your holes filled, don't you baby?”

At that, you feel a sudden emptiness at your core, Spencer having pulled out his fingers, “Course she does.”

At your muffled whine of protest, your coworker laughs, “See, your pussy already misses being stuffed.”

Immediately, you feel movement behind you. Slick, warm thighs position against the backs of your own. The bed dips from his weight, and Spencer's unmistakable erection presses into your ass. You feel it pass through your folds, the blunt tip collecting your slick, sending shivers of pleasure in the process. 

Eyes flutter close. Something thick and burning unfurls deep inside you, simultaneously in your chest and the pit of your stomach. 

“Ah, ah,”Chip pats your cheek gently, “Open your eyes, pretty girl.”

With a muffled whimper, you obey. A grunt of assent comes from behind you. Spencer's hand lands on the small of your back, applying just enough pressure to make you arch your back just a little more. “There you go.” he murmurs, his tip teasing at your sodden entrance. Slowly, you feel him push forward, the engorged head of his cock spreading your hole farther than it has ever been tonight, and you find yourself tensing. 

“Shhh, you’re doing so well.” Chip coos, dragging his thumb out of your lips when he notices the crease at your brow. He bends down, kissing you lightly, tenderly, coaxing his tongue into your mouth. Doing your best to keep up with his sure movements, you focus on the way his lips move, the lingering taste of whiskey mixing with the acrid cigarette smoke that clings to him. He kisses you deeply, distracting you enough that you lose your rigidity. This allows you to relax, and Spencer takes advantage of that, plunging the rest of his cock inside your walls.

Chip’s mouth muffles your cry of surprise. There’s a slight sting as you flutter around Spencer’s length, your pussy adjusting to accommodate all of him. 

Despite every inch of his body yelling at him to move, to take you and give in to the overwhelming bliss that spreads to every muscle, Spencer steadies himself. He lets you get used to the intrusion, knowing that this snug fit could potentially cause pain. No amount of his pleasure would ever surpass his concern for your comfort. Large palms skim over your hips in slow circles, while he keeps himself alert, feeling you relax and loosen the heavy grip you had on his cock. 

He gives a tentative roll of his hips, shallow thrusts to test your readiness, eyes trained on your figure while you engage in a heated, messy kiss with Chip. You seem receptive, slick and at ease, so he builds up a steady pace, holding your hips still as he fucks into your warm cunt. 

The motion completely makes you lose focus, your mouth falling slack against Chip’s, who only laughs and  pulls back. The man straightens up, watching as Spencer finally fucks you from behind, before lining up his own cock at your parted lips.

“Come on, pretty girl, let’s see you make good on your promise.” he murmurs, letting the heavy tip rest on your bottom lip. Spencer doesn’t stop thrusting into you, and the impact has you rocking forward slightly, smearing Chip’s precum all over your lips and chin. With a groan, you wrap a hand around the base of Chip’s cock, helping guide it into your mouth. 

You listen triumphantly at Chip’s low moan, the sound telling you that you’re doing a good job. Humming in the back of your throat, you bob your head down, taking in more of his cock. A hand wraps around your hair tightly, making you halt your movements. You wait, bleary eyed but eager, sucking on the tip as Chip considers the scene. 

He is watching Spencer’s rhythm, studying the way every plunge of the other man’s length sends you careening forward. Pushing down Chip’s cock deeper into your throat. Once he has it figured out, Chip moves, his own hips tilting into yours every time Spencer thrusts in, ensuring that you’re stuffed deep and full at the exact same time. 

You can do nothing but take it, eyes blinking with a lethargic slowness as you remind yourself to hollow your cheeks around the cock in your mouth. You’re rewarded by a groan from Chip, his hands gripping your hair tighter as he pushes into your throat. Tears fill your eyes and your entire body tenses, squeezing around Spencer’s cock just as he’s pulling out of you.

“God,” your coworker hisses, “You’re so tight.”

He thrusts in, roughly, and the impact tips your body forward again, sending Chip’s length deep inside your throat. The helplessness of this moment should make you feel scared, worried. You can barely move, too busy balancing yourself on this wobbly motel bed, too cock drunk to really make any sound decisions, physical or otherwise. Instead, being caught between two men as they insert themselves into your holes just makes your entire body sing with pleasure. Goosebumps erupting over exposed skin, toes curled and tucked tight into themselves, hands digging white knuckled at the sheets.

You come apart under Spencer’s expert thrusts, his cock hitting that delicious spot deep inside you with a nearly terrifying precision. The orgasm hits you hard, elbows nearly giving out, if it weren’t for Chip’s hands—one aty your jaw, the other at your head—holding onto you firmly enough that he’s able to help you hold your upper body. 

But Spencer’s not done. He speeds up, the sound of his sweat slick thighs hitting your ass filling the room. His cockhead brushes against your cervix, and you’re sure you lose your vision for a moment. 

It’s an assault to all your senses, what little air you can breathe reeks of sweat and musk and leather, your skin feels white hot and ready to burst into flames at any given moment, and the tangy, bitter taste of Chip’s length is so distinct you’re sure you’ll be tasting him on your tongue for weeks. 

You love every single moment of it. 

You don’t even squirm when Spencer’s fingers find your oversensitive bud, circling it over and over again as he coaxes you into another orgasm.

“Come on, sweetheart, I know you have another one in you.” he murmurs, one hand gripping your hip tight. 

Chip’s thumbs come up to your cheeks, brushing them away as he pulls his cock almost all the way out, allowing you to suck on the tip. “That’s it, baby, be a good girl and come again for us.” he cooes, “You’re so pretty like this, tears running down your face. You’re taking us so well, baby.”

Your face scrunches up in pleasure, their words pushing you to the edge as another climax hits you. This time, you’ve no more strength to hold yourself up, arms trembling and giving away. Chip’s cock slips from your lips but he doesn’t seem to mind, his soft chuckle fills your ears as you succumb face first into the sheets. Body shaking as Spencer fucks you through your orgasm, rough pads of his fingers gently pinching your clit. 

“Mind flipping her over?” Chip’s voice fills the air, “Wanna mark up her pretty face.”

Your pussy clenches deliciously around Spencer’s cock in response. Your coworker makes a sound that’s half groa, half laugh, quickly easing himself out of your hole. His hands guide you to lay on your back, a welcome reprieve that has you moaning in relief. This way, you see both of them too—Chip standing over your head, pumping his fist up and down his cock, Spencer parting your thighs and reentering your heat to chase his high.

“God, you’re so good.” Spencer murmurs, fucking into you with quick, decisive strokes, “Gripping my cock so tight—”

At that moment, Chip groans, his orgasm hitting him like a truck. His cum spurts out in long, thick ropes aimed right at your face. You open your mouth, tongue sticking out in hope of catching some of them inside. The warm liquid paints your face, and the very act of being marked in this way makes you squirm, the familiar heat building up again low in your belly.

“You look so good like this, baby.” Chip murmurs, still stroking his still erect cock and collapsing beside you on the bed, “Bet you’ll look even prettier with some dripping out of you.”

You moan, loud and clear for the first time, back arching off the bed as they whisper praise to you, sweet, filthy words that join the wet sounds of sex. 

“God—fuck, sweetheart, I’m coming.” Spencer groans, collapsing on top of you, his body twitching as he buries his cock inside you. Warmth shoots up inside your walls, filling you up as his cock pulses out his load. You bite into his shoulder, tears streaking down your face and mixing with Chip’s release. 

Stillness invades the room for several long moments, stark contrast to the previous, sex riddled chaos. And then Spencer pulls out slowly, kissing your sweaty neck in the process. 

“You okay? Did we hurt you?”

“I’m good.” you’re exhausted, mind empty except for the memory of pleasure that still lingers, the perfect cocktail of hormones that leaves you limp and soft.

You hear a laugh from Chip, feel the bed shift as he moves. “Here,” his footsteps fade, and reappear, an arm extending to your coworker. He’d dampened a washcloth from the bathroom for you.

Spencer looks up, smiling in acknowledgement before taking the warm washcloth from Chip. Gently, he wipes your face, chasing away the traces of Chip’s drying cum from your skin. As he moves down to clean between your legs, Chip guides your head onto his lap, fingertips gliding tenderly across your cheeks.

“You sure you’re good, baby?” Chip asks, thumbs making mindless circles on your skin. 

“Yeah,” you sigh, eyes closing.

“Don’t fall asleep on us yet,” Spencer speaks up, slowly cleaning away between your thighs, making sure not to put too much pressure on your oversensitive, swollen folds. “You need to pee.”

“D’I hafta?” you slur your words, nuzzling into Chip’s touch.

“Yes, sweetheart, unless you want a UTI.” Spencer says, tossing the washcloth aside. 

“Can’t feel my legs.”

“Yeah, I bet.” Chip laughs, propping you up, “Don’t worry, pretty girl, we’ll help you.”

And just as they’d done previously, they guide your pliant body between them, this time not to chase and provide pleasure, but to make sure you properly come down from it. Once you’ve peed and slipped into Spencer’s button down, they tuck you to bed where you fall asleep almost immediately, curled up in between their warm bodies.

Others got straight poison, bodies left in symbolic poses: limbs arranged in circles, skin etched with runes that mimicked lead turning to gold. Autopsies revealed exotic compounds rare herbs mixed with synthetics, always just shy of traceable. The BAU profiled him as a failed chemist or pharmacist, someone with a god complex, seeking control over life and death.

You’d been buried in it alongside your best friend, Spencer Reid. Late nights in the bullpen, him rattling off facts about historical alchemists while you cross-referenced victimology.

Spencer was different now, post-prison sharper edges, a quiet intensity that made him seem taller, more commanding. His hair curled a bit wilder, his eyes held shadows from those months in hell, but he was still your Spencer: the genius who could quote entire books verbatim, the one who made you laugh with obscure trivia.

You’d always felt a spark with him, buried under professionalism, but prison had forged something raw in him. He moved with purpose, less awkward, more dominant in subtle ways like how he’d hold your gaze longer during briefings, or brush your arm when passing files.

Hotch paired you two for the recon that afternoon. An anonymous tip had come in about suspicious activity at an old industrial park crates moved at odd hours, chemical smells reported. “Check it out,” Hotch said, his voice clipped. “Eyes open. This could be our break, but don’t take risks.”

You and Spencer arrived as the sun dipped low, casting long shadows over the chain-link fence. The warehouse was a hulking beast of rusted metal and broken windows, the kind of place that screamed “trap” in every profiler’s handbook.

But tips like this were rare, and the body count was rising. You slipped through a side door, flashlights piercing the gloom, guns at the ready.

“Air’s stale,” Spencer murmured, his beam sweeping over stacked crates labeled with faded chemical warnings. “No recent disturbances on the floor—dust patterns are uniform. But the tip specified this sector. Statistically, anonymous calls have a 62% chance of being hoaxes or misdirections, but given the unsub’s pattern…”

You nodded, heart rate ticking up. “Let’s clear it quick. Something feels off.”

Deeper in, the space opened up high ceilings with exposed pipes, shadows pooling like ink. You both should have turned back when the faint hiss started, like a leak in the plumbing.

But you pressed on, and that’s when it hit: a fine mist spraying from unseen vents above, coating your faces, your clothes, in an instant. You gasped, stumbling, wiping at your eyes as the particles invaded cool at first, then warming unnaturally.

“Spencer—what the fuck?” Panic clawed at your throat. Was this poison? The Alchemist’s signature? You fumbled for your radio, but your hands shook.

He coughed, swiping at his face, but his mind was already dissecting it. “Wait—analyze. No burning in the throat, no immediate respiratory distress. Scent is… herbal, synthetic undertone. Not lethal neurotoxin. Pupils are dilating, heart rate accelerating, but it’s… oh.” His voice dropped, eyes widening as realization hit.

You leaned against a crate, breathing hard. “What? Spencer, talk to me.”

“It’s not going to kill us,” he said, but his tone held an edge of alarm. “It’s an enhancer. Aphrodisiac compound likely a custom blend. Yohimbine for arousal, maybe phenethylamine derivatives for euphoria, laced with hallucinogens. The Alchemist’s experimenting beyond murder. This is behavioral manipulation.”

The words barely registered before the symptoms crashed in. Heat flushed your skin, starting in your chest and spreading like wildfire. Sweat beaded on your forehead, trickling down your neck, making your shirt cling uncomfortably.

The warehouse warped at the edges—colors intensifying, blues shifting to vibrant purples, shadows pulsing gently. But worse was the ache building low in your belly, a insistent throb between your legs.

You shifted, horrified to feel wetness soaking your panties, your clit swelling with unbidden need. Your nipples hardened against your bra, every brush of fabric sending jolts straight to your core.

You tried to play it off, pressing forward. “We need to get out. Call it in.” But your voice came out breathy, strained. The radio crackled in your hand—Hotch’s voice, faint: “Reid? Status?”

Spencer was feeling it too. He adjusted his stance, but you caught the bulge straining against his slacks, his cheeks flushed under the flashlight’s glow.

He grabbed his own radio, voice tighter than usual. “Hotch—we’ve been exposed to an airborne agent. Non-lethal, but debilitating. Send backup, hazmat protocols. Location pinned.”

He dropped the radio, leaning against the wall a few feet away. “We can’t press on like this. The effects will intensify. Body temperature rising, sensory overload… we need to wait it out.”

You nodded, but the heat was unbearable now, like a fever without illness. You slid down to the floor, knees drawn up, trying to focus on breathing. “I’m… hot. Everything’s spinning.” You didn’t mention the arousal, the way your thighs clenched involuntarily, seeking friction.

But he knew his eyes flicked to you, dark with the same struggle.

“Me too,” he admitted, voice rough. “Erection started almost immediately. Head’s foggy hard to think straight. This drug shuts down prefrontal cortex inhibitions, amplifies limbic responses. We’re going to… crave touch. Intensely.”

The admission hung heavy, electric. You curled tighter, nails digging into your palms to distract from the yearning. Spencer did the same across from you, back to the wall, eyes squeezed shut. But the distance only made it worse the drug twisted your thoughts, fixating on him.

His long fingers, how they’d feel inside you. His mouth, clever and quick, turned to something filthier. You’d always harbored a crush, but this was amplified to torture.

Minutes dragged like hours. Sweat soaked through your clothes, your skin hypersensitive. Colors warped more the gray concrete shimmering like oil on water.

The radio buzzed again—Morgan this time: “Reid, kid? You okay? We’re ten out.”

Neither of you answered. You whimpered softly, rocking slightly, the pressure between your legs agonizing. Spencer glanced over, his restraint visible in the tense set of his jaw, the way his hands fisted at his sides.

Prison had taught him control, but this was chemical warfare on his stoic brain. Fear flickered in his eyes not of the drug, but of what it might unleash in him. The animal side he’d buried. What he was capable of.

“Spencer…” Your voice was a quiet plea, breaking the silence. “It hurts. I can’t fight it anymore.”

He turned, crawling closer on his knees, stopping just short. His pupils were blown wide, breath ragged. “Don’t. We can’t— this isn’t real consent. It’s dub-con at best, the drug forcing us.”

But his words lacked conviction, his gaze dropping to your lips, your heaving chest. The heat between you was palpable, the air thick with unspoken want. You reached out, fingers brushing his arm, and he shuddered. “Please. I need you. It’s you—it’s always been you.” Because it had, and maybe you were just to scared to say it before.

That shattered him. With a growled curse, he closed the gap, pulling you into his lap roughly. His mouth claimed yours in a desperate kiss, nothing gentle about it teeth nipping, tongue delving deep as if to devour you.

Hands roamed frantically: his tearing open your shirt, buttons scattering, exposing your lace bra. Yours fumbling with his belt, freeing his straining cock.

“Fuck, I can’t stop,” he muttered against your neck, biting down hard enough to mark. Spencer surged through dominant, unapologetic. “You’ve got no idea how long I’ve wanted to bend you over, fuck you until you can’t think. But this drug… it’s making me lose it.”

His words sent shivers through you, the dirty talk igniting fresh wetness. He shoved your bra up, mouth latching onto a nipple, sucking hard while his hand dipped into your pants, fingers finding your slick folds. “So fucking wet. This pussy’s dripping for me the drug did that, but I bet you’ve been wet thinking about my cock before.”

You moaned, grinding against his hand as two fingers plunged inside, curling to hit that spot that made your vision blur. “Yes Spencer, please. More.”

He pumped them faster, thumb circling your clit with expert pressure. “Beg for it, then. Tell me how bad you need me to fuck you raw.”

“God, fuck me hard, please. I need your cock inside me now.”

He withdrew his fingers, making you whine, then flipped you onto your hands and knees on the cold floor. Pants shoved down to your thighs, he knelt behind, gripping your hips bruisingly. “That’s my good girl. Gonna take every inch like you were made for it.”

He thrust in without warning, burying deep in one stroke. The stretch was exquisite, painful-pleasure that had you crying out. He didn’t pause, setting a brutal rhythm hips snapping forward, skin slapping as he pounded into you.

“Fuck, you’re tight. Squeeze me harder yeah, just like that. This cunt’s mine now.” The drug amplified everything: the drag of his thick cock against your walls, the way he hit your cervix with each thrust, sparks of ecstasy building fast.

His hand wrapped around your throat from behind, pulling you up against his chest, controlling the angle for deeper penetration. “Listen to you moaning like a slut. The team’s on the radio, and here you are, begging for my cum.”

The radio crackled Hotch again: “Reid? Respond!”

But you couldn’t stop, wouldn’t. You reached back, nails digging into his thigh, urging him on. “Harder—don’t stop. Make me cum, Spencer.”

He growled, free hand slapping your ass lightly before rubbing your clit in furious circles. “Cum for me then. Milk my cock show me how desperate you are.”

The orgasm hit like a storm, ripping through you, walls clenching as waves of pleasure drowned out the world.

You screamed his name, body shaking. He followed moments later, thrusting erratically before spilling deep inside, hot pulses filling you as he groaned low in your ear.

You collapsed together, panting, the drug’s intensity ebbing into a warm afterglow. Spencer pulled out gently, tucking you against him as reality filtered back. “We… that was…”

“Needed,” you finished, cupping his face. “Drug or not, I wanted you. Consent was there dubious, but real.”

He nodded, eyes softening, but that dom spark lingered. “When this is over… we do it right. No chemicals.”

The team burst in shortly after, finding you both “disoriented from the gas.” You blamed hallucinations for the flushed skin, the scattered clothes. The Alchemist was caught later that night—another tip leading to his lab, where the team ambushed him mid-experiment.

Back at the hotel, the case wrapped, Spencer knocked on your door. No drug haze this time just raw want. “Round two?” he asked, voice low, that post-prison confidence shining.

You pulled him inside, kissing him slow. “Make it last.”

He did.

Pushing you against the wall, hands pinning yours above your head. “On your knees first,” he commanded, and you sank down, taking him into your mouth, sucking eagerly as he guided you with a hand in your hair. “Good girl take it deep. Swallow around me.”

He fucked your mouth gently at first, then rougher, praising your gag reflex. Then he lifted you, tossing you on the bed, spreading your legs wide. “Gonna eat this pussy until you beg me to stop.”

His tongue was magic, lapping at your folds, sucking your clit, fingers curling inside. You came twice before he finally thrust in, slow and deep, building to fast, desperate again. “You feel so good tight and wet just for me. Cum again, let me feel it.”

You did, over and over, until exhaustion claimed you both. Curled in his arms, the kink satisfied, you knew this was just the beginning alchemy of your own, turning friendship to fire.

Spencer has been watching you for months, noticing things about you that even you haven’t picked up on. He notices everything.

The way your lips always seem to be occupied with something — a pen cap, your fingertips, the straw of your iced coffee that you absentmindedly swirl between your lips. The way your tongue flicks out to wet your bottom lip when you’re deep in thought, how you drag your teeth over the soft skin like you don’t even realize you’re doing it.

He’s caught you sucking on the tip of your thumb absentmindedly while reading through case files, your brow furrowed, lips pursed around the pad of your finger. You only do it when you’re lost in concentration, not even aware of how utterly distracting it is.

Then there’s the gum. The way you roll it between your teeth, lazily pressing it against the roof of your mouth before sucking on it like you're teasing yourself with something you can’t have. He sees the way your jaw moves, the way your tongue works behind your lips, and it makes his cock twitch in his slacks every goddamn time.

But the worst?

The absolute worst is when you’re chewing on something — a pen cap, the arm of your glasses, even just tapping your fingernails against your lower lip, like you’re waiting for something to be put there. And when you’re really not thinking about it, when you’re fully lost in whatever you’re working on, you’ll let out these little sounds. Soft hums, barely-there whimpers, like you’re trying to satisfy some need that’s not being met.

And it drives Spencer fucking insane.

Because he knows exactly how to fix it.

The weight of the case pressed down on you, thick and suffocating, curling around your shoulders like an iron shroud. It had been another dead end, another frustrating attempt at deciphering a pattern that refused to reveal itself. The victims — three so far — had been taken with terrifying precision, their bodies left posed with meticulous care. The UnSub was careful, methodical, deliberate. Just like Spencer.

The thought flickered through your mind unbidden as you sat at his desk, your fingers idly tracing the edge of a case file, your bottom lip caught between your teeth. The dim glow of his desk lamp bathed the room in golden light, casting deep shadows across the scattered notes and open books surrounding you. The air smelled faintly of old paper and coffee, the scent of late nights and restless minds.

Across from you, Spencer sat hunched over a file, his gaze scanning each page with the kind of intensity that made it seem as though he was reading something the rest of the world couldn’t see. His fingers moved in that absentminded way they did when he was thinking —drumming lightly against the wood, tapping patterns only he understood. His lips were slightly parted, his jaw tight, his focus absolute.

But you weren’t focused.

You were chewing on the end of your pen, rolling it between your teeth, letting it press against your lips in slow, absent motions. It was a habit, something to keep your mouth occupied while your brain worked, though tonight, your mind wasn’t working at all. Instead, it was wandering — lingering on the way Spencer’s hands flexed when he turned a page, the way his mouth pursed slightly in concentration, the way his eyes flickered when something caught his attention.

You bit down a little harder on the pen cap.

A soft sigh slipped from Spencer’s lips. At first, you thought it was just another noise of frustration — another sign of how little progress you’d made. But then he shifted in his chair, straightening slightly, and when he spoke, his voice was sharp.

“You’re doing it again.”

The words sent a jolt through you, grounding you back into the present moment. Your gaze snapped up to meet his, heart stumbling slightly when you realized he wasn’t even looking at the files anymore. His attention was on you.

You let the pen drop from your lips, blinking. “Doing what?”

His jaw clenched.

For a moment, he didn’t say anything. He just looked at you, his gaze slow, deliberate and assessing. The air between you thickened, tension creeping into the space that had once been filled with quiet concentration. You could feel the weight of his stare, the way it lingered, dragging over your lips, down to your throat, before flicking back up to meet your eyes.

Then, he leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, his voice dropping into something quieter.

“You have an oral fixation.”

Your breath caught.

A slow, pulsing heat curled low in your stomach, coiling tightly at the casual certainty in his voice.

“I—”

Spencer tilted his head slightly, studying you. His face was unreadable, but his eyes… His eyes held something deeper, something unreadable and entirely dangerous.

“You chew on pens,” he continued, his tone impossibly steady. “You sip drinks even when you’re not thirsty. You touch your lips when you’re thinking. I’ve watched you do it for months.”

Your stomach twisted.

It wasn’t the observation itself that sent warmth rushing through your veins — it was the way he said it. Like he wasn’t just stating a fact. Like he had spent far too much time noticing, cataloging, analyzing every movement, every unconscious habit.

“You notice that?” Your voice was softer now, breathier than before.

Spencer exhaled through his nose, the faintest hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “I notice everything about you.”

A shiver rippled through you, your fingers curling against your thighs.

He leaned in a fraction more, closing the space between you just enough for the warmth of his breath to ghost over your skin. “Do you even realize how often you do it?” His voice was lower now, more controlled, each syllable measured and deliberate. “Or how distracting it is?”

Your pulse thrummed wildly.

Distracting.

The word settled deep inside you, igniting something restless and needy.

You swallowed hard, your tongue darting out to wet your lips—another unconscious habit, but this time, you did it under the full weight of his stare. His eyes darkened.

“Spencer…”

The name came out softer than you intended, like a quiet plea.

His fingers twitched.

And then ever so slowly, he reached forward, his fingertips brushing the curve of your jaw. The touch was featherlight, but it sent a sharp jolt of electricity through you, your breath stuttering at the unexpected intimacy.

“I think,” he murmured, his thumb tracing the corner of your mouth, “you need something to keep your mouth occupied.”

The words sink into your skin, lighting a fire deep in your belly. Your thighs press together instinctively, your lips parting slightly as warmth floods through your veins.

He notices. Of course, he notices.

Spencer is a profiler before anything else. He sees the way your body responds, cataloging every flicker of arousal like a scientist analyzing an experiment.

His thumb drags lower, skimming your chin before tilting your face up ever so slightly. His touch is featherlight, teasing.

“If I were to give you something,” he continues, as if he’s simply musing over a hypothesis, “would you take it? Would you let me fill that pretty mouth of yours?”

Heat floods through you so quickly it’s dizzying.

“Spencer,” you breathe, the sound of his name falling from your lips like a plea.

His eyes darken. “That’s not an answer.”

You swallow hard, your throat tightening under the weight of his stare. Every inch of your body is humming, aching, the slow burn of tension winding so tight inside you that it’s almost unbearable.

“Yes,” you whisper, barely able to get the word out. “I would.”

His lips part slightly, his breath faltering for just a fraction of a second before he recovers, his hand tightening just a little against your jaw. He shifts in his chair, spreading his legs slightly, and you don’t miss the way his pants have grown tighter, the clear evidence of his arousal straining against the fabric.

“You’re so good at running that mouth of yours,” he murmurs, his fingers tracing over your cheek, down the curve of your neck. “Always teasing, always distracting. But I think we can put it to better use.”

The words send a sharp jolt of arousal straight to your core. Your nails dig into your thighs, desperate for some kind of relief, but Spencer doesn’t give you a chance to focus on anything but him.

His hand slides into your hair, gripping just firmly enough to make you gasp. He watches your reaction, his eyes flickering with something dark and knowing before he tugs gently, guiding you forward.

“On your knees.”

Spencer is already hard by the time you slide off your chair and sink onto your knees between his spread legs, his cock pressing thick and heavy against the fabric of his slacks. He’s aching, barely keeping himself together, and you haven’t even touched him yet.

You press your palms to his thighs, feeling the heat radiating through his clothes, your fingertips digging in slightly as anticipation coils tight in your stomach. The air between you is charged, every second stretching longer, the weight of his gaze burning into your skin like it could set you aflame.

Spencer exhales sharply, his fingers sliding into your hair, gentle but possessive, pupils blown wide, jaw tight with restraint.

“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath, almost like he can’t believe this is happening, like the sight of you there between his legs is more than he can take.

But you’re not hesitating.

Your hands move to his belt, undoing the buckle with slow, deliberate movements, dragging it out just to watch him squirm. His breath stutters, his fingers twitching in your hair, grip tightening ever so slightly as you free the leather and let it drop to the floor with a soft thud.

The tease has you buzzing, tension coiling low in your belly as you toy with the zipper of his slacks, letting the moments stretch, watching the way his chest rises and falls faster, lips parting just slightly when you finally drag his pants down, exposing him.

And Jesus fucking Christ...

Spencer is big.

Thick, flushed, his cock already leaking at the tip, veins prominent along the length, pulsing with every ragged breath he takes. He’s achingly hard, the sight of it stirring something hot and primal inside you, making your mouth water.

“You’re already drooling,” he mutters, voice wrecked with desire, his thumb brushing against your bottom lip. He drags it down slightly, just enough to make your mouth part, the tension between you thick enough to cut. “You want it that bad?”

You hum, a low sound of affirmation, nodding as your lips part wider, the heat of him brushing against your cheek, teasing the both of you with the softest contact.

Spencer hisses, his grip in your hair tightening just enough to make your scalp tingle. “Fucking tease.”

A flicker of mischief sparks in your eyes as you glance up at him, and then — finally — you press a slow, open-mouthed kiss to the tip of his cock, your tongue flicking out to catch the salty taste of his precum.

Spencer shudders, thighs tensing beneath your hands, his whole body wound tight with need.

You start slow, dragging your tongue lazily along the underside, tracing the thick vein from base to tip, savoring the way his breath hitches, the way his fingers curl into your scalp. Every reaction is a reward, and you want to drag it out as long as possible.

Then, you wrap your lips around the head, sucking lightly, teasing him with shallow strokes of your tongue, flicking against the sensitive slit, tasting him, moaning softly at the weight of him on your tongue.

Spencer groans, the sound rough and low, his hips twitching slightly forward, like he’s holding back, like he’s trying not to lose himself completely.

“Quit fucking around,” he mutters, voice strained, his hand tightening at the base of your skull. “Take it. Now.”

A rush of heat surges between your legs, your stomach clenching at the command, and you obey.

You sink down, letting his cock stretch your mouth, your jaw already aching as you take him deeper. Your tongue presses flat against the underside, tracing along every ridge and curve, feeling every pulse.

Spencer curses under his breath, his chest rising and falling faster, his fingers tightening in your hair as you take him all the way to the back of your throat, your nose almost brushing his stomach.

You pause there, letting your throat relax, your eyes flicking up to meet his. His chest heaves, his eyes dark and half-lidded, his lips parted as he watches you with barely restrained hunger.

“Jesus fucking—” He cuts off, breath catching when you swallow around him, your throat constricting, your tongue lapping against the underside as you hollow your cheeks and start to suck.

His reaction is instant - his hips jerk slightly forward, a groan spilling from his lips as his body trembles under your hands. His control is slipping, and you can feel it in the way he grips your hair, in the ragged edge of his breathing.

“Fuck, that’s—” His voice breaks, shaking as you bob your head, setting a rhythm that has his cock sliding slick and wet between your lips.

You make it messy, sloppy, saliva pooling at the corners of your mouth, dripping down onto his thighs as you take him deeper, the sensation overwhelming as your throat constricts around him with every pass.

Spencer’s breathing turns erratic, hips starting to move of their own accord, a raw need taking over. He’s close, and you know it.

“You’re so—” He hisses, cock twitching in your mouth, thighs tensing like he’s trying so fucking hard not to lose himself completely, not to just fuck your throat like he’s aching to.

But you want him to.

You press your hands against his thighs, urging him on, and Spencer groans, his hips snapping forward just slightly, the head of his cock hitting the back of your throat.

You gag, throat tightening around him, a desperate, choked sound spilling from your lips as his fingers dig into your scalp, his entire body trembling with the effort to hold back.

“Fuck, I’m—” His voice cracks, breath coming in short, shallow gasps, cock twitching violently against your tongue. “I’m gonna—”

You don’t pull away.

Spencer’s groan is guttural, his entire body seizing up as he comes, hot and thick, spilling over your tongue in deep, pulsing spurts. His thighs shake, his breath coming in ragged, broken gasps as you swallow every drop, your throat working around him until he’s whimpering from the overstimulation.

When you finally release him, Spencer slumps back against the couch, his chest heaving, a dazed look in his eyes.

“Holy fuck,” he breathes, voice wrecked, his fingers brushing against your cheek, tilting your chin up so he can look at you, still catching his breath.

His eyes are dark, but there's still something hungry lingering behind them.

“You,” he murmurs, voice hoarse, “are going to be the death of me.”

Spencer’s chest is still rising and falling in quick, uneven breaths, his fingers tangled in your hair as he studies you, a flicker of something darker lurking behind his half-lidded gaze. You can see it—the shift from restrained control to raw, unfiltered hunger. He’s not done with you. Not even close.

“Get up,” he murmurs, his voice hoarse, rough around the edges with the weight of his own arousal. His fingers tighten in your hair, not enough to hurt, but enough to make you listen. “Now.”

A shiver runs through you at the quiet authority laced in his voice. You obey, your legs unsteady as you rise, the heat between your thighs unbearable.

The moment you’re standing, Spencer surges forward, one hand gripping the back of your neck as his lips crash into yours. It’s messy— hot, desperate, his tongue sweeping into your mouth without hesitation. You can taste him, the faintest traces of salt and heat still lingering. His other hand grips your waist, tugging you flush against his body, and you gasp at the hardness pressing into your stomach.

Already.

Already, he’s hard again.

You whimper into the kiss, your fingers fisting into his shirt, nails scraping against the fabric as his mouth moves hungrily against yours. He groans at the way you melt into him, his fingers digging into your waist before sliding under the hem of your shirt, dragging rough fingertips up your spine.

“Take this off,” he demands, voice breathless as he tugs at the fabric.

You don’t hesitate. You strip your shirt off in one swift motion, and before it even hits the floor, his hands are on you — palming your breasts through your bra, squeezing just enough to make you arch into him. His mouth leaves yours, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down the column of your throat, his tongue flicking against your pulse before sucking hard enough to leave a mark.

He doesn’t stop there. His hands slide behind you, finding the clasp of your bra, and with one deft motion, he unhooks it. Before you can even shrug the straps from your shoulders, he’s already peeling the fabric away, exposing your breasts to the cool air.

You barely have time to register the sensation before his mouth is on you — hot, wet lips wrapping around a nipple, sucking hard enough to make you arch into him with a sharp gasp.

“Spencer,” you whimper, threading your fingers into his hair as he groans against your skin, his tongue flicking against the hardened peak before switching to the other, giving it just as much attention.

His hands are everywhere, roaming over your bare skin, gripping your waist, kneading your hips before sliding lower, curling around the backs of your thighs as he presses you against the desk.

Your hands move with frantic desperation, tugging at his tie, unbuttoning his shirt with clumsy, eager fingers. You need to feel him— his skin, his heat, the steady thrum of his pulse under your fingertips.

As soon as his shirt is gone, you push it off his shoulders, letting it drop to the floor. Your palms splay across his chest, nails raking lightly over his skin, and he shudders under your touch. His lips find yours again, his kiss even rougher this time, all teeth and tongue and sheer, unrestrained need.

Then his hands are at your jeans, undoing the button in one swift motion, shoving the denim down your hips. You kick them off, standing before him in just your panties, and his breath stutters.

“Fuck,” he mutters, his gaze dropping to the soaked fabric between your thighs. He drags a finger over the damp material, pressing just enough to make you whimper.

“Already this wet?” His voice is almost mocking, but his pupils are blown wide, his own need barely contained. His fingers toy with the lace of your panties before slipping beneath them, and when he drags his fingers through your slick folds, he groans. “You’re drenched.”

Your legs tremble as he teases you, his fingers moving torturously slow, spreading your wetness before pulling back completely. You make a noise of protest, but it dies in your throat when you see him.

Spencer is watching you with dark, ravenous eyes as he unzips his slacks completely, shoving them and his boxers down in one swift motion. He steps out of them, kicking them aside as he stands before you, completely bare.

He wraps a hand around his cock, stroking himself slowly, lazily, the head already flushed and leaking. The sight of him — so unabashedly aroused, so shameless in his hunger for you — sends another rush of heat straight to your core.

“Get on the desk,” he orders, voice steady but firm, leaving no room for argument.

You hesitate for half a second, and then he’s gripping your hips, turning you and guiding you backward until your ass bumps against the wood.

“Up,” he says again, stroking himself as he watches you. “Spread those pretty legs for me.”

The heat between your thighs is unbearable, need pooling low in your stomach as you do as he says, lifting yourself onto the desk, spreading your legs wide, letting him see everything.

Spencer’s breath shudders as he watches, his jaw clenching, his grip tightening on his cock. He steps closer, positioning himself between your thighs, his free hand sliding up your inner thigh, teasing the sensitive skin, dragging his fingertips closer and closer to where you need him most.

Then he grips the base of his cock and drags the tip against your slick folds, teasing you, coating himself in your wetness. You shudder, hips bucking slightly, but he just smirks.

He slaps his cock against your clit once, twice, the sharp sting sending jolts of pleasure through you. You gasp, hands fisting against the desk, body twitching with each stinging slap.

“Spencer,” you plead, your voice breaking.

He groans at the desperation in your tone, gripping your hips to hold you still as he teases you again, dragging his cock over your entrance, pressing just enough to stretch you open — but not pushing in.

Then he leans in, his breath warm against your ear as he whispers,

“Hold on tight, sweetheart.”

And then he thrusts inside you.

Spencer’s cock sinks into you in one smooth, unrelenting thrust, stretching you open, filling you so completely that your head tilts back with a strangled gasp. Your fingers scramble for purchase on the desk, nails digging into the wood as your thighs squeeze around his waist.

“Fuck,” he hisses through clenched teeth, his hands gripping your hips so tightly you know there’ll be marks tomorrow. “You’re so goddamn tight.”

He pulls back just enough to drag the thick length of him against your walls before slamming forward again, knocking a breathless moan from your lips. Your body jolts from the force of it, the desk creaking beneath you, but Spencer doesn’t care. If anything, the sound spurs him on.

His rhythm is ruthless - deep, hard thrusts that send pleasure rippling through your entire body, forcing your back to arch, your mouth falling open in a silent cry. Every inch of you is hypersensitive, nerves alight with overwhelming heat, and then...

A sharp slap lands against your breast.

You yelp, eyes snapping open in shock, only to find Spencer watching you with dark, calculating eyes, his palm still hovering in the air. The sting blossoms across your skin, warmth spreading from the impact, and before you can fully process it, he does it again.

The second slap makes your cunt clench around him, a ragged moan spilling from your lips as the sharp sting melts into something heady and intoxicating.

Spencer groans, his hips snapping forward harder, deeper. “You like that, don’t you?” His voice is breathless, edged with something dangerous.

You can’t form words, can’t think past the pleasure consuming you, so you just nod frantically, gasping when he delivers another slap, this one harder than the last.

His free hand grips your jaw, tilting your face up so you have no choice but to meet his gaze. “Say it.”

“Yes,” you choke out, your voice wrecked, needy. “Fuck, Spencer—yes, I love it.”

A smug smirk tugs at the corner of his lips. “Good.”

Then he gives you no warning before he picks up his pace, thrusting into you with a force that leaves you breathless, your legs wrapping tighter around him as he fucks you into the desk.

The wet, obscene sounds of your slick cunt taking him over and over again fill the room, mixing with your ragged breaths, your whimpers, the sharp crack of his palm against your breasts. He alternates between squeezing them roughly and slapping them, watching the way your body reacts, the way you tighten around him every time he does it.

You’re close, so unbearably close, your stomach tightening, your muscles trembling with the buildup of pleasure. Spencer knows it too.

His grip shifts, one hand sliding down your stomach, his fingers finding your clit. The moment he touches you, your whole body jerks, a strangled moan ripping from your throat.

“That’s it,” he breathes, circling your clit with quick, precise motions. “Come for me. I want to feel you squeeze my cock.”

That’s all it takes.

Your orgasm slams into you like a tidal wave, white-hot pleasure exploding behind your eyes as you cry out his name, your walls spasming around him. Your entire body shakes, thighs trembling as aftershocks wrack through you, pleasure so intense it borders on overwhelming.

Spencer groans, his pace stuttering, his thrusts turning sloppy, erratic. He grips your hips hard, driving into you one last time before burying himself to the hilt, his cock twitching as he spills deep inside you.

A ragged moan rips from his throat, his head dropping forward as his release pulses through him, hot and thick, filling you completely. His fingers dig into your flesh, holding you still as he empties himself inside you, his breath shuddering against your skin.

For a moment, neither of you move, the only sounds in the room your shared panting, the quiet hum of the desk lamp casting light over your flushed skin.

Then Spencer pulls back slightly, lifting his head to look at you, his dark eyes clouded with satisfaction. A lazy smirk tugs at his lips as he drags his thumb along your cheek, his voice a husky murmur.

“Messy girl,” he muses, his tone dripping with amusement as he watches his cum drip from your still-throbbing cunt. “I guess I’ll just have to clean you up.”

The look in his eyes tells you he means every word.

He’s careful as he adjusts, lowering himself down to kneel beside you, his eyes studying you with an intensity that’s no longer sharp and commanding but tender, attentive. His thumb brushes along your cheek, wiping away a bead of sweat, and his gaze softens as he watches you blink up at him, slowly coming back to earth.

"Hey," he says softly, voice still rough but full of warmth, "you okay?"

You nod, your chest rising and falling with each breath as the tension in your body gradually unwinds. Spencer’s hand moves to your shoulder, gently massaging the muscles there, as though he can feel the strain of the night’s intensity. His fingers press into your skin, not with the same urgency they had before, but with careful, deliberate motions meant to soothe.

“Let me get you cleaned up,” he murmurs, his voice low and reassuring. He stands for a moment, disappearing into the bathroom, and you hear the sound of water running before he’s back with a damp cloth. He’s gentle as he wipes you down, making sure to be soft around your sensitive spots, taking his time.

Once he’s finished, Spencer grabs a blanket from the couch, wrapping it around your shoulders like a cocoon. He settles next to you, pulling you close, his arms enveloping you in warmth as he presses a soft kiss to the top of your head.

“I’m proud of you,” he whispers, his voice full of sincerity. "You did amazing."

Your head rests against his chest, and you can hear the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath your ear. The weight of the night settles into something quieter, more intimate—this quiet aftercare, where words aren’t necessary, but the tenderness in his touch speaks volumes.

Spencer lets you relax against him, his fingers tracing gentle patterns on your skin as you both catch your breath. He doesn’t rush you. He just holds you. When you finally speak, it’s soft and a little hoarse from the intensity of the night.

“Thank you,” you murmur, your voice barely above a whisper.

Spencer simply nods, kissing your forehead in response. “Always.”

And for the rest of the night, he stays close, making sure you feel safe, cared for, and cherished. The outside world feels miles away, the two of you cocooned in your own quiet intimacy, where aftercare doesn’t just mean physical, but emotional tenderness that leaves you feeling loved, even after everything.

His words echoing in your head even now when your brain is on a high from the new thing Spencer learned to do with his tongue. Sometimes bringing up the idea of watching porn with your boyfriend was beneficial.

“Is it the threesome thing?” Your silence was enough of an answer for him. You could see him enter a deep state of thought, genuinely thinking of if he wants to share you with not only another person, but his own brother. His TWIN brother. The men in his family were really good at giving, a fact he was unhappy to know about his father and brother, and what if Chip was better than him? 

Though he doesn’t know what makes you weak in the knees. He could try with all his might, but Spencer would be the end for you… Right?

In the end he knew he would give into your desire, even if he wasn’t that comfortable with it, because Spencer would give you the moon and the stars if he could.

hich is how he found himself agreeing to your request. Your squeal of happiness was the immediate reassurance that he made the right decision, but then a few days later when you were on your knees, in HIS favorite purple lingerie no less, sucking on his brother’s dick, he wasn’t so sure anymore.

“After all that happened to you, Chippy, I just want you to feel worshiped.” Was the reasoning you gave to Chip as you slid down to your knees in front of him, wiggling your hips for Spencer’s view from where he sat in the recliner you requested be in the room, and undoing Chip’s jeans.

You whimpered at how hard he was already, the tip a bright red. And without warning you had swallowed Chip whole, his brother’s head falling back and letting out a loud moan.

Spencer smirked a little at the sight, knowing how warm and wet your mouth was and what it was like to experience it for the first time, despite the little green monster sitting on his shoulder telling him that he should tie Chip up and make him watch as Spencer fucked his woman into submission.

But all he could do was palm his erection to relieve any form of pressure. He told you that he would go along with this and do as you wanted.

And right now you wanted to devour his brother’s cock while he seemed to lose his mind.

“Oh fuck!” Chip moaned, his hands searching for a perch in your hair, gripping harshly which caused you to moan around him, the vibrations sending him over the edge, his cum spilling into your mouth.

You pulled back, swallowing what you could before turning to Spencer, opening your mouth to show him that you finished your meal.

“My good girl always knows how to please, huh Chip?”

Chip nodded, his cheeks flushing at the authoritative voice that came from his twin. While they were the same in looks and everything, they were also so different. Spencer was smart and Chip was a bit dumb, sweet, but dumb.

And it seems that they were also different in the bedroom as well, Spencer seeming to stay in complete control despite the little minx currently crawling towards him and crawling into his lap.

And Chip? He came so fast that it was almost embarrassing, but no one had ever had their mouth on his dick before. He wasn’t used to the sensation.

But one thing was for certain, he wanted more. Though it was Spencer’s one rule, no fucking his woman, he wanted to defy his brother and have you.

He wouldn’t, because he respected Spencer, but god did he want to. Just the thought of taking your tight little pussy had him hard again.

Your mewl pulled Chip out of his thoughts, his eyes seeing that Spencer had already started what he wanted to do, panties of the lingerie pushed aside, his brother’s cock buried deep inside of your cunt as you rode him with all your might, which even to Chip he could tell that it wasn’t for you.

Spencer’s smile said that he noticed Chip’s stare and as if it was what he was waiting for he planted his feet firmly on the ground and fucked up into you. You screamed at the sudden force, falling forward and submitting to Spener’s assault.

Chip couldn’t stand it anymore as he wrapped his fist around his cock, pumping in time with his brother’s trusts. Faster and deeper, Chip couldn’t tear his eyes away from the spot where Spencer’s cock disappeared, the wet slick of your pussy glistening in the dim light.

The three of you moan in sync, the sensation becoming too much to handle. Chip came first, his cum spurting from his tip and over the floor, you shortly after, Spencer’s assault of your G-spot having you seeing stars.

A few more thrusts and Spencer came deep inside of you, painting your insides white with his release.

As much as he hated to admit it… That was the hottest thing the two of you have done in the bedroom in a long while.

Maybe Chip can join again, but only on his terms.

You’re already overdressed—the silk blouse and trousers stand out in a crowd of tees and denim, not just because of their style but also because they scream money. Paired with the sleek, maroon pumps and the matching handbag you’ve strung on the back of your stool, you’ve already earned quite a few curious looks thrown by the other patrons. 

Admittedly, this establishment normally wouldn’t be your first choice.

Hell, it probably wouldn’t even make it to the top ten. Or top fifteen.

Which is precisely why you’d chosen it. Well, that, and the fact that you hadn’t paid that much attention to where you were going when you left the office. You simply wanted to disappear for a little bit, but without your driver navigating through traffic, the city and its sidewalks are an indecipherable maze. Especially at night. Especially at night, to a woman who’s heartbroken over a promotion that should have been hers.

Okay, so maybe it wasn’t always guaranteed, and in the business world, there’s nothing owed to you. And maybe your father only ever hinted at giving you the promotion without ever confirming anything. 

But he’d put it in your mind, made you want it. And your whole life, you’d gotten what you want, and more.

“You should’ve worked harder for it, then.” he’d said when you confronted him after the meeting had adjourned. 

Rich words coming from the man who’d taught you that you deserved everything handed to you on a silver plate. 

So you’d congratulated Mr. what’s-his-face for his promotion, declined every invitation for cocktails from the rest of your colleagues, and speed walked out of the business district. Perhaps your subconscious led you here, in the grungier part of downtown, because you knew they’d be hitting up all the places you enjoy going to.

The bartender slides another whiskey neat over to you. 

It’s shitty whiskey, tastes like straight gasoline without the refined, woody afternotes you’re used to, but the burning line down your throat is welcome. Tangible pain. You’re aware this is cliche—rich girl drinking her feelings in some unknown bar—but it’s your third glass of the night, which means you’re too far gone to care.

Halfway through this glass, the music changes to something upbeat and fun. With a squeal to no one in particular, you slide off your chair to join the small crowd in the middle of the room, swinging your hips this way and that. 

A couple of girls accept you into their fray, wrapping an arm around your waist and yelling the lyrics at each other over the speakers. Sweat drips down your back, along your temples, but the world is a blur of lights and shadows and the promotion is promptly forgotten. Everything is forgotten, every worry, every thought.

That is, until a slight altercation happens over at the bar. Yelling, two men shuffling over a chair, and then a bouncer. You wouldn’t have cared, would have continued dancing with these two girls who smell like vanilla and cigarette smoke, if it weren’t for the bartender yelling and pointing at you.

“Girl, I think they’re calling you over.” one of your dance partners says, glittery eyes wide with surprise. 

“Oh,” you giggle, and extricate yourself from the other girl, who pouts but continues dancing, “Yeah, I guess they are.”

Stumbling in your heels, you manage to walk back to the bar in one piece. A soft, confused smile stretches your lips, eyes glancing between the bartender and another taller man with light brown hair. 

“Hey!” you exclaim, pointing at his hands, “Why do you have my bag?”

The bartender bristles, blue eyes turning sharp as he regards you. “Lady, he saved your bag from that asshole.”

“Huh?”

The tall man moves behind you, guiding you back to the stool. “Easy, I think she’s drunk.”

“Yeah, clearly. Fucking out of her mind, leaving her fancy ass designer bag laying around.” the bartender grumbles.

You plop on the stool with a groan, still glancing between the two of them. “What’re you talking about? I’m not that drunk.” And you aren’t. You’re still able to dance in your pumps, that counts for something.

The bartender rolls his eyes. “You got her, Chip? I don’t wanna babysit.”

The tall man nods, crowding behind you in a way that feels oddly protective. Like he’s just there to make sure you’re okay. “Grab her some water?”

“Gotcha.”

“I’m not drunk!” you insist, twisting in your seat to face this mystery man called Chip. You come face to face with him hovering by your temple, a corner of his lips tilted up in a smirk. Up close, you see that he’s handsome, some weird, compelling mix of rugged and boyish that makes your stomach twist into knots.

“No?” he sounds amused, a little exasperated, “Then why’d you just leave your bag on your chair?”

“Because it’s my chair! I was going to come back for it after the song.”

“Lady, that’s the drunkest excuse I’ve ever heard.”

“No, it makes perfect sense!”

“Sure it does.” he reaches forward, closing the gap between you as he grabs the glass of water that the bartender had provided. Something leathery and spicy hits your nose. The knot in your stomach grows more uncomfortable. “Here, baby, drink up.”

You grumble, but oblige, sipping at the water for a few moments. “What even happened?” 

“Some asshole was trying to take your bag and I stopped him, that’s what.”

Comically, your eyes grow wide. “What, like to steal?”

His head tilts, and the smile grows confused. “Yeah, what else?”

“Don’t you guys have security around here?”

“There’s Dave outside, but I doubt he’d think twice if someone walked out with your bag under their coat.”

“Oh my god, so someone tried to steal my bag.”

“Hate to break it to you, but that’s bound to happen if you leave it on a random chair.”

You look at him bewildered, never even considering it like that. Most of the places you frequent have such high security detail that no one would even dare. Besides, the people in those places would have their own designer bags, and wouldn't even blink twice at yours. It never occurred to you to worry about your stuff, simply because you’ve really never had to.

The man stares back, equally bemused, eyes dragging down the length of you, taking in your fancy ensemble with a more critical gaze. His grin returns, crooked and teasing. “Now, what’s a rich girl like you doing here? Got lost?”

You huff, cheeks flaming with embarrassment. “No. This was a very intentional choice.”

“Ah, you just wanted to what? Mingle with us poor people?”

“No!”

“Then what, trying to act up so daddy pays attention to you?”

“No.” this time, you slap his shoulder. 

He laughs, but doesn’t seem deterred. “I’m just saying, doll face, we don’t get folks like you around here very often.”

“I was in the area, and wanted a drink.” you lie, sipping at the water again. The way he called you doll face made your throat go dry. 

“Well,” he shifts, moving beside you now that he can see you can still keep yourself upright. “You shouldn’t leave your shit lying around like that. You’re lucky I saw him.”

Your brain finally catches up to what has happened. Someone tried to steal your bag. With a panicked jump, you go through your belongings, rifling through to make sure everything is still inside. Wallet, your phone, a leather journal that you use as a planner, the small bottle of perfume you can’t live without. 

“Everything there?” his eyes have softened, like sunlight warming the earth.

“Yeah, it’s all here. God.” you run a hand over your forehead, a sudden tiredness washing over you. “Thank you, that would have actually ruined my life if he took my stuff.”

“Hey, no worries baby.”

The pet name makes you scoff, your name leaving your lips as an introduction.

“Pretty name, but I think I’ll stick to baby.” he winces when you smack his shoulder again. “All right, damn. I’m Chip, if you care.”

“Chip?”

“It’s a nickname.”

“Sure.” you giggle, wondering what sort of name could possibly warrant a nickname like Chip. “I should buy you a drink, Chip.”

His grin returns. “You coming onto me now?”

“I meant as a thank you.” you huff, glaring at him. Up close, he’s actually very handsome, cheeks dimpled, with an angular face that’s framed by floppy brown hair. Bad idea, but then again, tonight has been filled with pretty classic bad ideas. Your back straightens and something shifts in your smile. “You know what, maybe I am.”

His grin stalls for half a second, like he wasn’t expecting you to own it so easily. Then it comes back wider, slower, eyes dipping to your mouth before meeting your gaze again. “Oh,” he says, voice dropping just enough to feel intentional, “Careful, doll face, that sounds an awful lot like an invitation.”

“You think?” your eyes roll dramatically, “What, do you need a billboard with massive neon letters too?”

He laughs, the sound easy and unguarded, and for a moment you forget about the noise around you—the music, the crowd, the sticky floor beneath your shoes. He crowds you into the bar again, one arm moving to the back of your stool, while the other rests on the counter. 

“I’ll just have a beer, then,” he says.

“Lame.” you quip.

“Baby,” his breath tickles your neck, warm and smelling like menthol cigarettes. “If you’re serious about this, then I don’t want to be drunk and stumbling around.”

You suppress a shudder, teeth sinking into your lower lip. “Oh. Oh, uh, okay.” 

Chip flags down the bartender, ordering a beer for himself, and another water for you. You’re parched, but you know it’s the sort of thirst that can only be quelled by one thing.

Chip’s studio apartment is the size of your bedroom. An unmade bed is pushed to one corner. Beside it sits a dresser, the top bearing an ashtray and a couple loose sticks of cigarettes. Another corner is turned into a makeshift kitchenette, complete with a stovetop and a minifridge, and to your left, a half opened door that leads to a small bathroom.

On the drive here, he’d mentioned being a handyman, taking jobs all over the city. You didn’t really know how that would reflect his living situation, and now it’s staring you in the face.

“It’s not much.” he laughs as he closes the door behind you, “But it’s home.”

Not much feels like an understatement. It’s bare. Clean in a way that suggests he doesn’t have much money for the frill, only the most basic necessities to survive. You slip your heels off, following Chip’s lead as he kicks his shoes right by the door. His tool box sits there, deep green and black, filled to the brim with things you’ve never touched before. It sobers you slightly, your two-bedroom penthouse suddenly feeling excessive. 

“It’s cozy.” you say, and it’s true. The space is small, but it doesn’t feel suffocating. He’s decorated it with vinyls on the walls, which brings a smile to your face. Well, at least that’s one luxury. “You like music, huh?”

“Yeah,” he grins, coming up behind you, “You wanna play something?”

“Not really,” you giggle, spinning around to face him, “I wanna see you good you are with your hands.”

 “Eager, huh?” his head dips, lips finding your jaw as he backs you deeper into the room.

“Well, you talked big game.” you yelp in surprise when the backs of your knees hit his bed, but Chip’s hands tighten over your waist before you could fall.

“I guess I did.” he mumbles, lips traveling down the length of your neck, his stubble rough against the sensitive skin. Something warm and wet moves over the juncture beneath your ear, eliciting a low moan from your lips.

“Fuck,” you breathe, arms wrapping around his neck as he tongues at that spot again, slowly licking his way down. “Good with your tongue too.”

“Barely even started, baby.” he chuckles. Big, calloused hands keep you steady, one firmly planted on the small of your back, while the other explores. Up your sides, squeezing your hips tentatively, like he’s giving you room to say stop, but all the sounds that leave your lips are soft, pretty moans.

He groans, kissing his way back up your neck, finally finding your lips for the first time tonight. Your knees nearly buckle at how deeply he kisses you, mouth moving slow and languid against yours. He sucks at your bottom lip greedily, and you’re already gasping for breath, body buzzing with the remnants of alcohol and the smell of cigarette smoke, and something even more addictive.

Finally, his roaming hand lands on your ass, squeezing handfuls of you through the slacks. 

It’s embarrassing, how high your voice goes when he does it again. And again. And again, until he swallows your moans with another kiss, tongue pushing past lips and teeth, licking deep into your mouth. 

You clutch handfuls of his hair and try to keep up. 

He’s right. He’s barely even started, and you already feel gone.

He pulls back, laughing hoarsely as you lean forward, nearly tipping over in your attempt to latch on his lips again. 

“Easy, baby.” he cooes, making sure you’re upright before his hands leave your hips to unbutton your blouse. “We’ve got all night, I promise.” he says, making quick work of your top. You shimmy out of them, the fabric sliding like a breath off your shoulders, while he unzips your pants. 

Long, gentle fingers ease the pants down, and a breath whooshes from Chip’s lips as he takes you in. The underwear you’ve chosen aren’t your best set, they aren’t even lace for heaven’s sake, you’d worn the most boring pair to feel professional today, but Chip’s looking at you with such an open adoration and desire that it makes your entire body hum. 

“You’re so pretty,” he mumbles, hands returning to your ass, fingers sinking deep before he hoists you up. 

Your legs wind around his hips automatically. “Thanks.” 

You’re airborne for all of five seconds, because he lays you back down on his bed, slow and careful. Long, heavy limbs settle atop you, presses you into the mattress as his head dips and he’s kissing you again, kissing you like he’s trying to steal your breath and your very soul. Rough fingers draw patterns over your neck and collar, and then his lips are following, open and sucking with a desperation that makes your toes curl.

When those lips lick at your chest, your nipples pebble, peaking even through the padded fabric of your bra. Chip tugs the offensive scrap down, too distracted now to even think of taking it off completely, and wraps his mouth over one nipple.

If his body weren’t pressing into you, you would have arched right off the bed.

Instead, you content yourself in twisting beneath him, fingers scrambling all over his back, fisting into his t-shirt. He groans in complaint when you pull at the fabric, forcing him to part from your pert, heaving chest.

“Off.” you demand, tugging his shirt over his head. 

Chip eases himself up, just enough to pull it off, and then eagerly returns his attention to your chest. His skin is slick against yours, body lean with muscle that’s obviously used to long hours of hard labor. 

“Fuck, you’re so soft.” he breathes, moving to lave your other nipple with equal fervor as his free hand cups you through your panties. He moans at the wetness he finds there, warm and messy even with the barrier of fabric. “And so wet, baby, this all for me?”

“Yeah.” you don’t bother with denial, with coyness, too far gone you would have started begging if he asked you to. And begging has never even been part of your vocabulary. “All for you, Chip.”

He hums. Slides his hand down the front of your underwear and finds a throbbing slickness that makes his own shaft twitch. A finger slides in, slow and careful, before a second follows. You clench around them instinctively, neck baring as your spine curves upwards.

“There you go,” he whispers against your breast, teeth closing around the pebbled nipple the same time his fingers curl, pumping in and out. “Feel good?” When you nod, a third finger slides in, stretches you out easily.

Stars explode behind your eyes.

“So good.” You’re sobbing, all the pent up disappointment of today dissolving into pure, aching bliss. “More, please, I need more.”

Suddenly his fingers are gone, leaving you fluttering around emptiness. Another sob wracks from your throat, though there’s no tears, not really, just sweat and a gnawing need that has you feeling like floating.

“I’ve got you,” he shushes, shifting over your body to kiss your lips again, featherlight touches meant to soothe rather than work you up. “Shh, baby, just let me-”

You hear a zipper, and rustling clothes, feel his legs kicking around against yours until the unmistakable weight of his erection settles on your thigh. A gasp escapes your lips at the sheer heft of it, and then it’s gone again, and Chip is sitting on his haunches, cursing under his breath.

“What now?” you whine.

“Condom.” He grunts, searching the pockets of his discarded jeans.

Oh. He’s right, it’s the responsible thing to do, after all, but you’re so desperate to continue you find yourself tugging him back down. 

“I’m on the pill, don’t worry about it.”

“You- fuck, baby, you sure?”

Your legs wrap around his hips as you nod. “Positive.”

He groans again, hands running up your thighs. “Okay, if you’re sure.” His fingers dip beneath the waistband of your panties, drags them down your legs. You free one leg from his hips, just enough to unhook your underwear off and get it out of the way, unwilling to completely let go. 

Chip laughs. Leans back over your body slowly, one arm bracing himself by your head, the other wrapped around his base. He drags the tip over your soaked folds, gliding through the wetness until he’s covered with your arousal. The friction is delicious, makes your fingers fist into his sheets and your hips cant up, seeking more of the sensation. 

Every slow drag hits your clit, and you whimper. “Damn it, Chip, stop teasing.”

He laughs. “Sorry. Couldn’t help it, you look so pretty, writhin’ like that.”

“I assure you, I’ll still be writhing even with your cock inside me.”

His laughter rings out alongside yours. It’s a crude little joke, nothing you’d say in different circumstances, but this is Chip, and this feels special. At least, you think it is. He bends down, kisses you softly as he finally guides himself to your entrance, replacing the space his fingers had previously occupied.

And oh, the stretch is even more delicious than before. There’s no room to clench around him, not initially, not while you’re still adjusting and he’s easing torturously slowly into your tight heat.

“Jesus Christ.” he hisses, dragging his shaft out, then thrusts back in shallowly. He doesn’t bottom out just yet. “God, baby, I’m not hurting you, am I?”

“No,” you whimper, half lying. It does sting, the fullness just on the edge of too much, but there’s also so much pleasure from being stretched taut, of being stuffed. “It’s good, just don’t move too fast.”

“Okay,” he nods, allowing himself another inch, eyes trained on your face with every thrust in. “Tell me if it’s too much.”

You nod, though you doubt you’ll actually do it. How can something be too much when you want even more? And you’re used to getting what you want, after all.

Chip thrusts back into you, groaning as your walls flutter with more ease now, sinking deeper than before, moving slowly until his pelvis is flush with yours. His hips stutter, letting you adjust when he finally bottoms out.

“Fuck,” you moan, “Oh my god, Chip.”

“Good?” he asks, lips pressed against your jaw. He starts a slow, shallow rhythm, like he’s testing how much you can take.

“Yeah.” Your ankles lock together at the base of his back, keeping him deep inside you. “Yeah, just like that.”

His groan rumbles through his entire body, thrusts growing more confident when he feels you relaxing around him enough to properly fuck into you. Your body seizes with pleasure when his rhythm grows a little harsher, squeezing around the length of him like you never want him to leave.

“God,” he groans, “Fuck!” his hands grip your hips, holding you steady as his pace gets faster, deeper, pulling out nearly all the way before slamming hard into you. Loud, wanton sounds fall from your lips, only to be muffled when you bury your face into the crook of his shoulder.

“Chip!”

“I know, baby.” he grunts, an arm coming around your waist and lifting your hips up. The angle drives him even deeper somehow, lets his hips grind against your exposed clit. Beneath you, the bed creaks dangerously, the frame hitting the wall with dull thuds in time with each thrust.

You feel delirious. Drunk. Eyes half-lidded as you watch him take you, over and over until the pleasure curls and swells, flooding your body from your lower belly, to the tips of your fingers, till there’s nowhere else to go but out.

Your orgasm shakes your body, squeezes hard around Chip’s already twitching length, and he groans, falling over you as he chases his own high. His pace is sloppy now, quick bursts, skin slapping into skin until he bites down hard against your shoulder, hard.

Heat floods inside you, filling you so much you could feel it leaking out as he keeps thrusting, riding out the intense high. And then he slumps. Apologizes.

“What for?” you whisper, breathless in the sudden stillness. His apartment smells of sex and sweat.

“Didn’t pull out.”

You laugh. “Oh. Don’t worry about it. Told you, I’m on the pill.”

He hums, soothing over the bite mark with his lips, gentle and sweet. “Right. Guess I forgot.”

“S’okay.”

He pulls out with a hiss, rubbing your hips gently with his large palms. The emptiness is staggering. You already miss the way he’d made you feel, but you don’t say any of that, not tonight.

“Can I stay?” you whisper, afraid to disturb whatever aftershocks are present.

“Doll face, did you really think I was gonna make you leave?” his arms close around you, piling your boneless body over him, until you’re cradled against his lean frame. “Stay. Stay as long as you like.”

He adjusted his coat, collar pulled high, and shoved his hands into his pockets as he wandered nowhere in particular. He’d been doing a lot of that lately. Wandering. He had time—endless, gnawing, unyielding time.

After Everett Lynch, he had told himself he’d had enough. The BAU had drained him, and though no one on the team would ever truly know why he couldn’t stay—why the weight of death had finally broken him—it wasn’t just the violence of man that exhausted him. It was the violence in himself. The thing inside him that had never, no matter how hard he tried, gone away.

The thing that had once taken everything from him.

He was halfway across the block when he saw you.

You weren’t doing anything remarkable, and that was the first cruelty of it. Just standing beneath the dripping awning of a small café, fumbling with a cheap umbrella that refused to obey its hinges. But Spencer stopped dead in the street, frozen as though a hand had shot out of the dark and grabbed his chest.

Cars swept by, spraying water up onto the curb, horns blaring as he failed to notice the crosswalk light changing. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t think. He could only stare.

Because it was you.

Not you—not really, not rationally—but her. The same arch of cheekbone, the same soft slope of your nose, the same impatient little crease between your brows as you fought with the stubborn umbrella. The same exact shade of blood that rushed beneath your skin, hot and bright and intoxicating, even through the downpour.

His mouth went dry. His throat burned.

It couldn’t be. You weren’t supposed to exist.

The last time he had seen you—her—you had been lifeless in his arms, head tilted back at an angle too fragile, skin pallid, throat torn open by his own reckless hunger. He had been so young then. So utterly lost. Newly turned, freshly cursed, with instincts sharp as knives and no discipline to blunt them. He hadn’t even realized what he was doing until it was too late, until the taste of your blood turned metallic, the rush of it fading. Until you were gone.

He had never forgiven himself. He had never forgotten. And despite centuries, despite lovers and distractions and fleeting attempts at something like a life, he had never moved on.

And now—now you stood across the street as though pulled from the grave, as though God himself had set out to torment him.

Your hair clung to your cheeks in damp strands, rain dripping down your jaw. Your lips, flushed from the cold, parted with a frustrated little huff as you shook your umbrella. Spencer’s body reacted before his mind could argue. His chest ached with something dangerously close to longing, his fangs ached with the sharp throb of hunger.

He could smell you. Her. The same exact fragrance of blood, familiar in a way that almost made him sick. Sweet, alive, unbearably tempting. His hands curled into fists in his coat pockets to stop himself from moving, from crossing the street and pressing his mouth to the fluttering vein in your throat like a man starved.

It was uncanny. It was impossible. It was you.

His decision was instinctive. He couldn’t lose you—not again. Rationally, he knew you weren’t her, couldn’t be her, but logic had never mattered when it came to you. To her. To the ghost he’d carried like a scar through centuries.

Maybe it was selfish. Maybe it was cruel. But the idea of turning his back, of letting the storm swallow you into anonymity—he couldn’t. Not when fate had dragged your face back into the light.

So he moved, quick and certain, weaving through the flow of traffic, ignoring the spray of tires and the curses of drivers. Rain plastered his curls to his forehead, slid down the column of his throat, soaked through his coat in a way that would chill any man. But Spencer wasn’t like other men. The only thing he felt was the pull toward you.

He cleared his throat as he reached the awning, rain dripping off his shoulders, his heart—or what passed for one—thundering. “I, uh…” His voice sounded raw, too quiet against the storm. “Sorry. Did you…need help with your umbrella?”

You looked up.

And for a moment, he forgot how to breathe.

Same eyes. Her eyes. Wide and bright, carrying the same impossible warmth he had once drowned in. His body went taut with the ache of recognition, and he was grateful the rain masked the sharp tremor that went through him.

You blinked at him, then down at the stubborn umbrella, a faint smile tugging at your lips—the lips he remembered kissing, worshipping, destroying. “Actually, yes. That would be helpful.” You let out a soft laugh, self-deprecating and sweet. “Thank you.”

The sound of your laughter twisted in his gut. It was uncanny, the way it struck some buried nerve, a sound he thought had been lost to the grave.

He forced himself to smile, careful, controlled. “Of course,” he murmured, taking the umbrella from your hands. His long fingers worked at the crooked hinge, deliberate and gentle, because God help him, if he let himself touch your skin he wasn’t sure he’d be able to stop.

A quick snap, a twist, and the metal clicked into place. He shook it once, tested the frame, then handed it back to you. “There you are.”

You took it, your fingers brushing his just slightly, warm against his cold. His stomach coiled tight.

“Thank you,” you said again, beaming up at him. “You’re a lifesaver.”

The words sliced him open.

He managed a faint twitch of his mouth, but it wasn’t a smile. Not really. Not when every cell in his body screamed the opposite. He wasn’t a lifesaver. He had killed you once—killed her—and all the centuries in the world hadn’t washed the blood from his hands.

Before he could respond, you tilted your head, studying him. “Do I…know you?”

The air punched out of him. His eyes widened.

Did you—? No. No, that was impossible. Recognition wouldn’t pass across lifetimes. Would it?

“I, uh…” His throat was tight. He forced himself to look at the wet ground, then back at you, trying to read the question in your eyes. “I don’t think so?” The answer came out more like a question than he intended.

You frowned faintly, then shook your head, brushing wet hair from your face with a small, apologetic smile. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to make that weird. You just…look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

If only you knew.

Desperate to deflect, he nodded toward the umbrella. “Well…your umbrella’s fixed. That’s something.”

You let out another small laugh, and the sound pulled at every hunger inside him. “It is. And now I owe you. At the very least, your name, umbrella fixer?”

He blinked, startled by your lightness, by the way you offered him a way in so casually. His lips parted, then closed. He almost said the wrong name—her name—but caught himself.

“Spencer,” he said finally, voice low, careful. “Uh. Spencer Reid.”

You repeated it back to him, rolling it over your tongue. “Spencer.”

The simple sound of his name on your lips made his chest ache. Centuries of silence, and now here you were, saying it again as though nothing had ever been lost.

He gave the smallest nod, swallowing down everything else—the desire, the guilt, the desperate need to reach out and touch you just to make sure you were real. “Yeah.” His voice was hoarse. “That’s me.”

You gave him a soft, polite smile—already half turned away, already slipping from his grasp. “Well, Spencer…thank you. But I should get home.”

Something in his chest seized. You were going to walk away. Just like that. Gone, swallowed into the night. He had lost you once. He couldn’t lose you again—not to him, not to fate, not to the dark.

The words left him before he thought them through. “You’re walking?”

You paused, brows lifting slightly. “Yes?”

His mind scrambled for justification. He didn’t want to sound…what? Dangerous? Desperate? God, he already did. “It’s just—” He shook his head quickly, rain dripping from the tips of his curls. “Is it okay if I walk you? At least halfway. I don’t need to know where you live or anything, it’s just…dark.”

The plea in his voice was too naked, and he knew it. To you, he was a stranger. A drenched, awkward man you’d spoken maybe twenty words to. Jesus, what was he thinking?

You hesitated, studying him in silence. The pulse in your throat ticked steadily, betraying a little spike of caution. He couldn’t stop watching it, the way the fragile line of your artery fluttered just beneath your skin.

Then you nodded. “Okay. Halfway is reasonable.”

The tension in his chest loosened. He didn’t let it show, but inside something sharp and triumphant bloomed.

“Thank you,” he murmured, falling into step beside you as you set off down the slick, lamp-lit street.

Rain misted against your umbrella, pattering faintly overhead, while water still rolled cold down his temples and neck. He barely felt it. What he felt was you. Every inhale carried your scent—sweet, mineral, alive—threaded through with the metallic tang of blood beneath the surface. The sound of it rushing, the steady rhythm of your heart, pressed into his ears as if the night itself amplified it.

You talked as you walked. Not in the way most people did—small, cautious pleasantries—but freely, with an openness that unsettled him. You spoke the way she had: a spirit unburdened, curious, gentle.

A small detail caught his eye. Your handbag swung at your side, cluttered with dangling charms and trinkets. His gaze snagged on one in particular—a carved moonstone talisman, worn smooth by touch.

“You’re into spirituality?” he asked, his voice careful, testing.

You glanced up at him, eyes bright under the umbrella’s shadow. “Yeah. A little bit of everything, really—crystals, tarot, meditation. I like the idea that there’s more to the world than what we can see.”

His lips parted. He nearly said there is.

Instead, he cleared his throat. “That’s…interesting. Most people I know would call it unscientific.”

“Maybe.” You shrugged lightly, water dripping from the edge of your umbrella. “But science can’t explain everything. Some things are felt, not measured.” You paused, tilting your head as though deciding whether to share more. “I actually believe in reincarnation.”

The words nearly stopped him in his tracks.

Reincarnation.

The cruelest irony.

He swallowed hard, keeping his stride steady, but inside his mind was a storm. If only you knew. If only you understood what you were saying, what you were to him.

You glanced at him again, searching his face. “You probably think that sounds silly.”

“No,” he said quickly, too quickly. His voice was low, rougher than he intended. “Not silly.”

Your smile softened. “Good. Most people would argue.”

Spencer forced a small smile in return, but inside his thoughts were ravenous. If you believed in reincarnation…if your soul had returned…could he tell you? Could he confess the truth—that you had lived and died in his arms, that your blood was already on his conscience, that your eyes had haunted him for centuries?

No. That was insane.

And yet…your nearness made the words itch at the back of his throat.

Your hand brushed his arm as you adjusted your umbrella, just the lightest graze. The heat of it seared through the damp fabric of his coat. His hunger flared, sharp and dangerous. The need to taste you, to feel your pulse throb beneath his tongue, pulsed through him with the same insistence as desire.

He shoved his hands deeper into his pockets, nails biting crescents into his palms. He couldn’t let himself slip. Not again.

“Spencer?”

He blinked, snapping back to you.

“You went quiet.” Your voice was warm, teasing. “You think too much, don’t you?”

A laugh escaped him, soft and self-conscious. “Yeah. I…do.”

Your grin widened. “Good. Then maybe I won’t have to do all the talking.”

He let himself look at you—really look—and for the briefest second, he allowed himself to imagine that this wasn’t chance. That this was fate. That he was meant to have you again.

And that terrified him more than anything.

The walk stretched on, steady and quiet except for the hiss of passing cars and the rain drumming against your umbrella. Spencer had kept his hands buried in his pockets, jaw tight, his every inhale filled with you. The scent of your blood rode the damp air, subtle but sharp, winding around his senses like smoke. He could hear your heart, unhurried and steady, pulsing in time with your stride.

The question slipped from him before he could stop it.

“Do you believe in fate?”

You slowed a little, brows lifting, and glanced up at him beneath the glow of a streetlamp. To you, it might have sounded like the kind of line men on dating apps tried too hard to use. But Spencer wasn’t smirking, wasn’t charming. He looked…serious.

“Very deep conversation to be having with a stranger,” you said lightly, the corners of your mouth curling in amusement. “But…I guess the answer is yes. I believe everything happens for a reason.”

He nodded once, too quickly, like he was processing data. That was exactly what he was doing—running every possible way he could follow that answer without sounding unhinged. How do you tell someone they were the love of your life…a life you ended yourself?

“Most people don’t,” he said at last, his voice soft, careful. “They think everything is random, chaos. Statistically, chaos does make sense.” His throat bobbed as he swallowed, eyes flicking to you and then away again. “But…I’ve seen too much not to believe in patterns.”

“Patterns?” you echoed, curiosity tugging at your tone.

“History repeating itself,” Spencer clarified, gaze fixed on the wet pavement. “The same choices made over and over. The same people finding each other, no matter the circumstances.”

The words hung between you, heavier than they should have been. You studied him for a beat, searching his face. There was something strange about him—about the way his eyes seemed older than the rest of him, carrying centuries of grief.

You tilted your umbrella slightly toward him, sheltering him more from the rain. “You’re not talking about statistics anymore, are you?”

The gesture disarmed him. The closeness of you, the small kindness—it was unbearable. He forced a small laugh, nervous, self-deprecating. “No. I guess I’m not.”

You smiled faintly, as if indulging him. “Then what are you talking about?”

His lips parted, the truth pressing against them, clawing to be free. You. I’m talking about you. About the way I killed you centuries ago and have never stopped regretting it. About how I’d recognize your heartbeat in a room of a thousand strangers.

But he couldn’t say that.

Instead, he breathed out, “Just…that some connections feel inevitable. Like they were meant to happen.”

Your chest tightened at the weight in his voice. He sounded almost pained, as though this wasn’t a line but a confession. You weren’t sure what to make of it, but it made something in you stir.

“Do you have someone like that?” you asked quietly, surprising yourself with the softness of the question.

His jaw clenched, the muscles working. He kept his eyes on the rain-slick sidewalk. “…I did.”

The past tense sent a pang through you, though you couldn’t say why.

You didn’t push. Instead, you let your hand swing at your side, brushing lightly against the sleeve of his coat as you walked. The fabric was cold and damp, but beneath it his body was solid, unyielding. The brief contact made his breath catch—barely audible, but you noticed.

Spencer’s thoughts roared. He wanted to reach for you, to lace his fingers with yours, to feel the heat of your palm and reassure himself you were real, alive. Instead, he dug his nails into his pockets harder, grounding himself in pain.

“You think everything happens for a reason,” he murmured, almost to himself. His voice dropped lower, rougher. “Then maybe…maybe there’s a reason I saw you tonight.”

You looked up at him, heart stuttering at the intensity in his gaze. His eyes weren’t predatory—not exactly—but they burned, heavy and unblinking, as though he were memorizing every detail of your face. It was overwhelming.

You broke the tension with a small laugh, trying to lighten the air. “Well, maybe the reason was so I wouldn’t have to keep fighting with my umbrella.”

He smiled faintly at that, but his eyes didn’t lose their hunger.

Inside, he was screaming.

Not her. Not really. But close enough. And if fate had brought you back to him, then he wasn’t going to let go this time.

The storm had gentled to a mist by the time your street curved into view. Water dripped from gutters in a steady rhythm, pooling at the edges of the sidewalk.

You should have told him goodbye long before this point—after all, “halfway” had passed blocks ago. But something about him kept you from speaking the words.

You weren’t usually like this. You didn’t let strange men walk you home, didn’t strike up conversations in the rain. But with him…God, there was something different. Something familiar in a way that made your skin prickle, not with fear but recognition.

Earlier, you’d brushed it off by teasing him about looking like he’d seen a ghost. But as you walked, your heart only beat louder against your ribs, telling you you weren’t imagining it. It wasn’t just him. It was you too.

You knew him. Somehow.

His eyes. That was it. You knew those eyes.

Your throat tightened. Without meaning to, you broke the silence. “Can I say something crazy?”

He looked at you quickly, water still dripping from his curls, eyes catching faint streetlight. “Sure,” he said. There was the smallest twitch of amusement in his lips. It reminded you of something—or someone—you couldn’t place.

It only emboldened you.

“I know you.”

He stumbled in his step. Almost choked. His gaze snapped to yours, too sharp, too intent.

You kept going, even though the words felt fragile on your tongue. “I mean…I don’t. But I do. I don’t know how. Maybe I’ve seen you before? Served you at work? I—I run the bakery on Fifth Avenue…”

The excuse sounded thin, even to yourself. You’d never seen him before in your life. You would have remembered.

No. This was deeper. More impossible.

His pulse—if he even had one—roared in his ears. He hadn’t felt this kind of hope in centuries, not since before he’d lost you the first time. Maybe this was insane. Maybe he should keep quiet. But the storm of your voice saying I know you cracked something open in him.

He licked his lips, his throat dry, and let out a breath heavy with nerves. “Can I say something crazier?”

You tilted your umbrella toward him, meeting his eyes. “Promise not to freak out,” he added quickly.

Your curiosity sparked at the raw edge in his voice. You nodded. “Go on.”

His fingers tightened in his coat pockets until the fabric creaked. “I know you,” he said softly. Then, firmer: “I mean you. You remind me of someone I lost. Scarily so. You look like her. Act like her. And you believe in reincarnation…” His laugh was brittle, shaky. “And I never did. Not until tonight.”

The street seemed quieter somehow, the rain no more than a whisper.

You stopped walking, staring at him. “…You don’t look old enough to have lost someone and think they could’ve been reincarnated into me. I’m in my twenties. How does that make sense?”

He opened his mouth, closed it. The centuries crowded his tongue, fighting to spill out, but how could he tell you everything? How could he tell you that he’d buried you centuries ago? That he had drained your body until it went limp? That every woman since had been a shadow of you?

“It’s…complicated,” he managed, voice husky. “But you feel it too, don’t you?” He took a half-step closer, his eyes almost desperate. “You said it yourself. You know me.”

You swallowed hard, your umbrella trembling slightly in your grip. His intensity should have sent you running. Instead, it sent a rush of heat through your chest, low in your belly. You hated that it made you ache.

“Spencer…” you whispered.

His name on your lips nearly broke him. He was pleading now, his voice raw. “Please. You see it too. You remember me.”

You couldn’t explain why, but you didn’t pull away. Because deep in your chest, where reason had no hold, something whispered that he was right.

And that terrified you more than anything.

Your voice soft but cutting through the silence. “My place is…right around here. Why don’t you come in?”

He blinked at you, startled. Of all the responses he’d expected, that hadn’t been one. He should have said no, should have turned and left you safe in the doorway of your life—but instead he nodded. He couldn’t resist.

You weren’t even sure why you asked. The words had slipped out, impulsive, irrational. But it felt the way it does when you stumble across an old song you haven’t heard in years and every lyric comes rushing back—you didn’t choose it, it was just meant.

The two of you walked the final stretch in silence. His coat was plastered to him, the faint scent of rain and something older clinging to the wool. When you reached your steps, you set your umbrella aside, water sliding off the stone. You pushed the key into the lock, and the door creaked open with the soft familiarity of home.

When you turned, he was still outside. Hovering at the threshold. Watching you.

You frowned. “You can come in, you know.”

The moment the words left your lips, he stepped inside—as if he had been waiting for the invitation.

Something about that pricked at your mind, but you shook it away. You reached for his coat, tugging it gently from his shoulders. It was heavy with rain. You hung it up beside your own.

He stood awkwardly in the entryway, shoulders tense, lips parted as if half a dozen confessions pressed against them all at once. He looked like he was unraveling inside his own skin.

You gestured toward the couch. “Sit.”

The room was pale and inviting—white curtains, lace-trimmed pillows, old wood softened by candlelight. A strange kind of gothic brightness, not harsh blacks but worn ivory, like faded memory.

He sat stiffly at one end, hands laced, jaw tight. You sank onto the other cushion, leaving space between you. The air buzzed with unspoken things.

Finally, you exhaled. “Why do I feel like I know you?” You turned your head toward him, searching his face. “And I think you know.”

His lips pressed together, his throat working. For a long moment, he didn’t speak. When he did, his voice cracked at the edges. “You’re going to be scared.”

Your brows furrowed. A sane part of you whispered he was a stranger, that you should laugh, tell him to leave. But no—he wasn’t a stranger. Not to you. Something inside you believed him before he even spoke.

“Please,” you whispered, leaning toward him without realizing it. “I’ve never felt this before. Don’t hold it back.”

He closed his eyes, a trembling breath escaping. His long fingers flexed against his knees, desperate for something to hold. Anything. You.

“This is going to sound…” He swallowed hard. “It’s going to change everything about how you see the world. So just…listen. Okay?”

You nodded, pulse thrumming in your neck.

“I’m—” he faltered, almost choking on the truth. “I’m a vampire. I’m centuries old. And the woman I loved—the woman I lost—” his voice cracked. “She looked like you. Sounded like you. You. Everything about you is her. It’s like she’s back.” His gaze dragged over you, raw, starving. “You even smell like her.”

The words hung heavy in the air. You blinked, reeling, your heart stuttering.

“I’m not her,” you said quietly, voice small but steady.

His head shook almost violently. “I think you are. Somehow—you’re her. You remember me. You said it yourself. You knew me.” His voice was unraveling now, desperate, breaking. “You didn’t even flinch when I told you what I am. Because you already knew, didn’t you? Some part of you…remembers.”

Your throat tightened. His pleading eyes cut straight through you. Sadness welled unexpectedly in your chest. “…What happened to her?”

His breath hitched. His shoulders curled inward as though the memory itself clawed at him.

“I—I was new. I’d barely been turned. I didn’t know what I was doing, I didn’t…” He shook his head violently. “I lost control. I—fed from her. From you. And I couldn’t stop. I didn’t mean to—”

You went still, his words burning into you. “You killed her?”

Your voice was soft, fragile, but it made him crumble.

Tears stung his eyes as he nodded. “I’m so sorry. I’m sorry.” His voice broke entirely. “I didn’t mean to. I swear to you, I never meant—”

Before you could move, he was on the floor in front of you, knees sinking into the carpet. His hands hovered at your thighs, trembling with restraint. You didn’t stop him when his palms finally pressed there, warm and shaking. He bowed forward, pressing his forehead to your knee, a broken prayer spilling from his lips.

“Please. Please remember me.” His voice cracked into something between a sob and a plea. His breath trembled against your skin. “I can’t lose you again. Not again.”

You froze, every nerve ending firing. Your neck throbbed with a strange, phantom ache—like a wound reopening. Flashes stirred at the edges of your mind. Heat. Darkness. The press of lips and teeth.

Your lack of reaction to his confession should have been a red flag. Instead, it felt like déjà vu.

Maybe—just maybe—you were remembering him.

The tear that slid down your cheek didn’t make sense. You didn’t even know why you were crying. It wasn’t just him—though seeing a man like Spencer Reid, brilliant and broken, sobbing at your knees was enough to twist your chest. No, this ache came from somewhere else. A place your conscious mind couldn’t name, like grief from another lifetime pressing against the walls of your skull.

His hands trembled against your thighs, his forehead still pressed to your knee like he was bowing at an altar. His voice cracked, ragged from centuries of silence.

“Please… anything, just—remember me,” he whispered, a plea wrapped in desperation.

You should’ve pulled away. Should’ve told him to leave. But instead, your hand lifted, almost against your will, and slid through his damp hair. The strands clung to your fingers, soft despite the rain, and you combed through them gently. The motion soothed him instantly and shattered him at the same time.

He choked out a breath, his voice raw. “She… she did this for me when I got upset. When the world felt too loud, when I couldn’t control the noise in my head, she’d—”

You cut him off, the words slipping from your mouth before you even thought them through. Words that didn’t feel like yours at all.

“—let you rest with your head on her chest.”

His head snapped up so fast you startled. His wide eyes locked onto yours, searching, disbelieving. “Y-you… remember that?” His voice broke again, but this time on a note of hope.

Your throat tightened. “I… I don’t even know how. I just—” You shook your head, a fresh tear sliding down. “I just know it.”

His hands tightened on your thighs, as though anchoring himself. The haunted look in his eyes shifted, softened into something rawer.

“I love you,” he breathed, and it wasn’t a line, wasn’t performative. It came out like a confession ripped from his ribcage. “I love you. God, I’ve loved you every single day since the moment I lost you. And I’m so—so sorry. A day hasn’t passed where I didn’t feel disgusted with myself, guilty about what I did. You didn’t deserve that… you deserved better than me.”

His words bled into your bones, that ache in your neck pulsing harder. You didn’t remember everything—your life, your death—but your body was beginning to.

“Spencer…” you whispered, and his name felt like something you’d said a thousand times before.

He lowered his gaze, kissing your knee softly, reverently. When you didn’t push him away, he let his lips linger, then pressed another kiss a little higher. His breath was warm against your skin, contrasting the damp chill from the rain.

Your breath hitched.

His voice dropped, shaking but deep, carrying the weight of centuries. “I shouldn’t touch you. Not like this. Not when I’ve already taken too much from you. But… I can’t stop. I’ve missed you so much, I…” His lips brushed the inside of your thigh now, the words muffled against your skin. “…I don’t know how to let you go again.”

Your hand was still in his hair, and without thinking, you tugged gently. His eyes flicked up to meet yours, dark and endless, hunger and heartbreak tangled together.

“Then don’t,” you whispered.

It wasn’t permission so much as surrender—your body answering before your mind could. Because the truth was you didn’t feel fear. Not when he said he was a vampire. Not when he confessed to killing you. All you felt was that aching familiarity, the pull in your chest, the way his touch sparked something buried deep inside you.

His fingers curled tighter into your thighs, the pads of his thumbs brushing slow circles against your skin like he was trying to memorize you all over again. “If I start… I don’t know if I can stop.” His voice was gravel, low, as though he was warning you. Pleading with you to protect yourself from him.

Your pulse stuttered, heat pooling low in your belly. The ache in your neck grew stronger, sharp and insistent. You knew what he was implying, but instead of recoiling, you leaned in slightly, your voice softer now.

“Then don’t stop.”

Spencer’s breath caught in his throat, his pupils blown wide. His restraint cracked in his eyes as though he were clinging to the last threads of control. His lips ghosted over your inner thigh again, higher this time, and you could feel how badly he wanted—needed—you.

The silence between you burned, alive with unspoken memory, old love, old hunger.

When he finally spoke again, his voice was ruined with want.

“I’ve dreamed of you for centuries.”

And then his teeth grazed your skin—lightly, testing—while his trembling hands gripped your thighs like you were the only thing tethering him to this world.

“God, you’re—” he broke off, his breath ragged as he gripped your tights and tugged. The fabric gave way with a harsh tear, seams splitting under his long fingers. He didn’t even give himself time to regret the sound, too frantic, too reverent, pressing soft open-mouthed kisses along the newly bared skin of your thighs.

Your legs parted instinctively, welcoming him, and his whole body trembled at the sight—at your offering. He sank lower, on his knees before you, hands spreading over your thighs like he could brand himself into the moment. You could feel the heat of him even through the damp chill of the room, his forehead brushing against your skin, his lips trailing higher and higher.

When his fingers found the edge of your panties, he hesitated just long enough to meet your eyes. Seeking permission. Begging silently.

You nodded. “Yes,” you whispered, breathless, voice barely there but enough.

That was all he needed. With a groan so low it sounded like it had been locked in his chest for centuries, he hooked the fabric aside. His gaze fixed on you—your cunt, glistening already, wet with want for him—and his throat bobbed as he swallowed hard.

“The same,” he murmured, voice trembling with awe. “God, you’re the same. Every detail. Every—” His words faltered, broken by another groan as he leaned closer, the heat of his breath ghosting over your folds. “I’ve missed you so much. I’ve missed this.”

Then his mouth was on you.

His tongue pressed flat against your slit, dragging from your entrance to your clit in one long, deliberate lick. Your back arched immediately, a sharp gasp escaping your lips. He moaned into you, the vibration making your thighs twitch.

“Taste—” he broke off, circling your clit with his tongue, “you taste exactly the same. Sweet, perfect, I—” Another hungry lick. “I could live on this.”

You tangled your fingers in his damp curls, tugging him closer, and he groaned again at the contact. He latched onto your clit now, sucking softly, his tongue flicking in quick, desperate movements that made you shudder.

“Oh my god, Spencer—”

He pulled back just long enough to look up at you, his lips and chin already slick with your wetness. His pupils were blown wide, his eyes fever-bright.

“You don’t know what this is doing to me,” he said, voice rough, needy. “Do you have any idea how many nights I dreamed of this? Centuries of lying awake—imagining your thighs around my head, your taste on my tongue. And now you’re here. You’re here.”

Your hips bucked against his mouth, his words sending heat straight to your core. He groaned and dove back in, licking into you now, fucking you with his tongue. His nose pressed against your clit, grinding with each movement, and you whined, tugging his hair harder.

“That’s it,” he rasped against you between licks. “Use me. Please. I need you to come on my mouth. I need to feel you fall apart.”

The desperation in his voice was matched only by the reverence in his touch. His hands squeezed your thighs, thumbs stroking circles against your skin as though grounding himself while he devoured you like a man starved.

You couldn’t stop the sounds leaving your throat, broken moans, gasps of his name. He moaned right back, every sound you made fueling his own pleasure.

“Yes—just like that,” he whispered against your clit, flicking his tongue faster now. “You’re so wet for me. Always so responsive. I remember this. How your body knows me. How you let me—fuck—how you let me worship you like this.”

The praise sent a shiver racing through you. You could feel your climax building fast, too fast.

“Spencer—I’m gonna—”

He cut you off, pulling your clit between his lips and sucking hard, his tongue lashing it at the same time. His grip tightened on your thighs, holding you still as you cried out, your orgasm crashing over you in sharp waves.

He moaned against you as you came, drinking in everything you gave him, his eyes fluttering shut like he was tasting salvation.

When you finally slumped back, shaking, trying to catch your breath, he didn’t let go. He kept his mouth on you, gentler now, slow licks, coaxing you through the aftershocks.

When he finally pulled back, his lips were wet, his hair wild, his chest heaving. He rested his forehead against your thigh again, his voice ruined and reverent.

“I love you. I’ll never stop loving you. Not in this life, not in the next.”

His words settled into your bones like truth—like memory.

His lips crashed into yours before you could even take another breath. The kiss was messy, desperate, his hands threading into your hair like he was anchoring himself to reality. He groaned into your mouth when your tongue met his, the taste of you on his lips mingling with the taste of yourself from his mouth. It was intoxicating, overwhelming, perfect.

“God,” he panted against your lips, kissing you again, harder. “I need you. I can’t—” His forehead pressed to yours, his voice raw. “I’ve waited too long. Please. Tell me you want this.”

“I do,” you whispered, tugging at his soaked shirt. “I want you.”

That was all it took.

He hauled you into his lap, guiding you backward until your body sank into the couch cushions. Your thighs spread open beneath him, his weight pressing you down into the fabric. His mouth never left yours, kissing you with bruising intensity, his hands sliding down your sides until he hooked under your knees and shoved them wider. You could feel the thick length of him straining against his pants, grinding into you as if he couldn’t help it.

“Perfect,” he murmured between kisses, his hips rutting into you with barely restrained desperation. “You feel what you do to me? I’ve never wanted anything—anyone—like this. Except you. Always you.”

Your hands fumbled at the buttons of his shirt, tearing it open enough to push the wet fabric down his shoulders. He groaned when your palms flattened against his bare chest, his heartbeat pounding fast—far too fast for a vampire, like his body was betraying just how undone he was.

He kissed down your jaw, biting softly at the hinge, then dragging his lips to your throat. His breath hitched there, hovering, trembling, his fangs just grazing your skin. He stilled, fighting himself, his entire body taut with restraint.

“Not yet,” he rasped against your pulse, kissing over it instead. “I can’t—I won’t lose you again.”

Then he was moving lower, his mouth finding your collarbone, your chest, kissing every inch as he pushed you further into the couch. His hands tore your ruined tights the rest of the way off, your panties following in the same desperate motion. His own pants and boxers were gone in a blur, his cock thick and heavy, flushed dark as he wrapped a hand around the base, stroking himself once as he looked at you sprawled out beneath him.

“God, you’re so beautiful,” he breathed, almost reverent. “You’re wet for me already. Open for me.” He stroked his cock again, the head glistening, and groaned. “I’m going to fill you up, sweetheart. Finally.”

You nodded, your own need overwhelming now. “Please, Spencer—”

He lined himself up, his hand pressing your thigh open wider, and pushed in slowly. Inch by inch, stretching you, filling you in a way that made you cry out and clutch at the cushions. His head fell forward, his mouth dropping open as a broken groan ripped from his throat.

“Fuck—” His voice cracked as he bottomed out, his hips flush to yours. He buried his face in your neck, shuddering. “You’re so tight. You feel—exactly the same. It’s you. It’s really you.”

He didn’t move at first, just holding himself inside you, trembling with the effort of control. You ran your hands over his back, whispering, “It’s okay. I want you to move.”

That undid him.

He pulled back slowly, dragging his cock out until only the tip remained before thrusting back in with a force that made you gasp. He moaned into your skin, his hips beginning a steady, deep rhythm, every stroke deliberate, hitting the spot inside you that made your legs shake.

“Yes—yes, that’s it,” he groaned, kissing your cheek, your lips, your jaw between words. “You take me so well. God, you were made for me. My perfect girl.”

Your moans spurred him on, his thrusts growing rougher, needier. His hands gripped your hips tight, anchoring you as he fucked into you, each snap of his hips harder than the last.

“I love you,” he gasped, his voice breaking, his forehead pressed to yours. “I love you—I’ve loved you for centuries. Do you—do you feel it too? Tell me you feel it.”

“I do,” you panted, nails digging into his back. “I love you too, Spencer.”

He groaned loud at that, his thrusts faltering for a moment as his lips found yours again, desperate, wet kisses swallowing both your moans.

“Gonna make you come,” he whispered against your mouth, thrusting deep again. His hand slid between your bodies, his thumb finding your clit, rubbing tight, fast circles. “Come for me, sweetheart. Please—I need to feel you come around me.”

The dual sensation—the stretch of him inside you and the pressure on your clit—sent you over the edge. You cried out, clutching him as your orgasm tore through you, your walls clenching around his cock.

The feeling broke him.

“Fuck, yes—” he growled, his thrusts erratic now as he chased his own release. “So tight—milking me—can’t hold on—”

And then his fangs sank into your neck.

The sharp pain melted instantly into white-hot pleasure, your orgasm spiking all over again as his mouth latched onto your pulse. He groaned against your skin, drinking deep as his hips snapped hard into you, his cock pulsing as he came inside you. The combination—the pull of his mouth, the flood of his release—made you arch and cry out, clinging to him as your own climax dragged on, endless.

“Mine,” he growled into your throat between swallows, his voice guttural, primal, as he filled you. “You’re mine—forever.”

When he finally pulled back, his lips were slick with your blood, his eyes blown wide and wild—but softer, too, awed. He kissed your neck, then your mouth, desperate and sweet, tasting of copper and salt and everything that was him.

And through the haze of trembling limbs and the warmth of his body pinning you to the couch, you knew: this time, there was no losing each other.

Your eyes slipped closed, your chest heaving, every muscle trembling with the aftershocks. You were limp against him, boneless from the back-to-back orgasms, your throat slick where his mouth had been.

Spencer froze.

“—no, no, no.” His voice cracked as his hands cupped your face, tapping lightly against your cheeks. “Open your eyes. Please—open them, don’t do this to me, not again.” His breathing was erratic, bordering on frantic, and for a second the world tilted for him, the memory of centuries ago flooding his mind. Her body, limp. The stillness. His fangs in her throat.

He was shaking. “I didn’t—god, I didn’t mean to—”

Your lashes fluttered, your lips parting as a breathy sound escaped you. Not death, not loss—just recovery. Your hand slid weakly over his wrist, squeezing. “Spencer,” you whispered, voice hoarse but steady enough. “I’m okay.”

His eyes closed tight, a sharp exhale breaking from his chest as relief surged through him. He pressed his forehead to yours, trembling like he was about to fall apart. “I thought—I thought I’d lost you again.”

“I’m here.” Your lips brushed his, soft and reassuring. “You didn’t hurt me.”

He groaned low, burying his face against your shoulder, his arms winding so tight around you it almost hurt. And still—still—he didn’t pull out. His cock throbbed, still seated deep inside you, as if his body refused to let go. He shifted, maneuvering the both of you until you were straddling him again on the couch, his back against the cushions, you in his lap, your chest pressed to his. His arms locked you there, every muscle taut with possession and fear.

“I can’t,” he whispered raggedly into your hair. “I can’t pull out. I need you here, I need to feel you around me. I need to know you’re real.”

You kissed the side of his jaw, your fingers threading through his damp curls. “Then don’t. Stay inside me. I want you there.”

His chest rose sharply, his breath unsteady. He leaned back enough to look at you, his eyes glassy, dark with love and hunger. His hands held your hips gently, reverently, his thumbs tracing circles over your skin as though he could memorize you anew.

“You don’t understand,” he said softly, his voice cracking. “Every night, for so long, I’ve dreamed of this—of you. And then I’d wake up and you weren’t there. But now—” His voice trailed off as he pressed a shaky kiss to your lips, barely holding it together. “Now you are.”

You smiled against his mouth, slow and certain, your hips shifting just a little around him. The movement pulled a groan from his chest, deep and unguarded. “I’m not going anywhere,” you murmured. “You’ve got me.”

His eyes squeezed shut, a tear escaping down his cheek. You kissed it away, and he kissed you back with gratitude so raw it stole your breath.

“You’re perfect,” he whispered between kisses, his hands sliding up your back, holding you flush against him. “So warm, so alive, so mine. God, you feel like heaven. Do you know what you do to me? How good you are?”

You rocked gently in his lap, both of you shivering at the slight movement of him still buried inside. He hissed through his teeth, his head falling back against the couch. “Fuck—you’re still so tight. I can feel every flutter. Don’t stop. Please, don’t stop.”

You obeyed, slow and languid, grinding down in his lap. The pace was unhurried, not the frantic thrusts from before—this was grounding, tethering. His hands roamed your body like he couldn’t decide where to touch first, cupping your breasts, cradling your jaw, sliding down to grip your hips again.

“That’s it,” he panted, kissing you feverishly. “Take me. Take everything. You’re doing so good for me.”

Your moans were soft but steady, your lips brushing his ear as you whispered, “You feel so good inside me, Spencer. I love being full of you.”

He groaned so deep it vibrated against your chest. “Say it again,” he begged, kissing the corner of your mouth. “Please.”

“I love being full of you.”

His thrust upward was instinctive, sharp, but he slowed immediately, kissing your shoulder in apology. “Sorry. I just—fuck—you saying that. You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to hear it.”

You cradled his face, forcing him to look at you. “Centuries,” you said softly, knowingly.

He blinked at you, eyes wide, undone. And then he kissed you again, desperate, his hips rocking up to meet your slow grind, the two of you moving together in a rhythm that was more about closeness than release.

The blood on his lips had dried, faint copper lingering, but when he whispered your name against your mouth, you knew he was tasting you in every way.

“Stay with me,” he pleaded, still holding you close, still buried deep inside. “Promise me you’ll stay.”

“I’m not leaving you,” you whispered, forehead pressed to his. “Not in this life. Not ever again.”

And for the first time in centuries, Spencer let himself believe it.

taglist: @yokaimoon @blacksnake13 @ssyren @kimiantonelliismyhusband @shinygivergalaxy @sharksandsquirrelsandsnakes-ohmy @lexxaxxus @evam0481 @lulirossstuff @coldflowermuglover @nighthowlergamez @justlivinginadaydream @nevermorexlee @tbolesar @superbeaglewitch @starneul @iqraaaa07 @imyourapocalypse