sagecat

He rolls over, picks up the hotel phone receiver, then puts it down with a sigh. Maybe calling you twice in 5 hours is a bit overkill. Plus, he knows that you're asleep.

But the thought of hearing your voice again, your sweet laugh, is a persistent itch under his skin. He picks up the receiver one more time, dialing the number before he can overthink himself out of it. The phone rings, and it breaks the pre-dawn silence of your bedroom, pulling you from a deep sleep.

You turn over with a heavy sigh, eyes still shut as you grab the receiver. "Hello?"

Your voice is thick with sleep, yet still as sweet as honey to his ears.

"Hey... I'm sorry. I know what time it is, 'n I know we talked a few hours ago. I just... couldn't stop thinking about you."

You push yourself up against the headboard, pulling the blanket closer as your hand slowly rubs the sleep from your eyes. Your hair is messy, your satin top hanging loosely on your shoulders. "You didn't have to hang up earlier. Y'know I would've stayed up with you... How's Chicago? Everything okay?"

He shifts on the bed, the sheets rustling softly. "Yeah.. Chicago's fine. I'm fine. Lonely... I miss you, mama." The line crackles with the distance between you, but his voice feels like he's sitting right in front of you. You hear him let out a soft, shaky breath. "I can almost feel you next to me. Miss your touch... the way you smell."

A small smile plays on your lips as you settle deeper into the pillows. "I'm right here, baby. Not going nowhere."

"Are you?"

"Yeah."

You hear him shuffle again, this time with a soft groan. "I miss you so much."

You giggle softly, sliding down just enough so your head rests against the soft pillows of your shared bed. "I know, baby. You told me already."

"I can't help it." He lets out a soft laugh. "My mind keeps replaying things. From the other night. Before I left."

A heat blooms from your stomach, and you could feel the warmth cascade over you. "Oh, yeah? What part?"

"All of it, really. The way you... you looked at me when I was..." He hesitates, his voice barely a whisper over the phone. You have to close your eyes to fully hear him on the other end. "When I was kissing you there."

"Kissing me where?"

"You know where, woman. Stop playing." His voice is low, a little bashful yet teasing against your ear. "...Down there. Between your legs. You know what I'm talking about."

You let out a soft, involuntary sigh, and you slowly kick the sheets off of you. Your body heat is becoming too much to bear, even in the cool bedroom. "I remember. You were... very thorough, Michael.."

He hums softly, the sound vibrating through the phone line. "I wanna be thorough right now. That's the thing." He pauses, as if he's contemplating his next words. "Are you... are you touching yourself?"

Your hand stills where it had been resting on your stomach. "No... should I be?"

"I think you should." His voice is gentle, but a bit firm. You rest the phone against your ear, his own breath giving you a phantom sensation through the receiver. "For me, okay? So I could hear you again. Pretend it's my mouth on you."

Your breath shakes softly as your fingers trail downward, slipping beneath the waistband of your panties. You can hear the smile in his voice as he pays attention to the shift in your voice. Your voice trembles slightly as your fingers trail up and down your slit.

"Tell me what you're doing, baby. That's it."

"I'm... I'm thinking about you. About your tongue."

A low groan escapes him. "Yeah? What's it doing? Be specific for me, mama. You circling your clit? Slow like I did?"

A soft whine falls from your lips, his voice and your fingers sending you reeling. "You talk so nasty, Mikey."

"I know, baby. Jus' keep imagining it's me. My mouth tasting you. God, you always taste so sweet on my tongue. I never wanna stop, not until you squirm and scream against me... begging." His voice is low and soft. "You like when I talk like this, don't you? Makes you feel real good inside. You just as nasty as I am."

A breathy moan is all you could conjure, your face growing hot as you feel yourself getting shy. You couldn't believe you were so close to getting off by his voice and his voice alone. It's driving you crazy.

"Wan' you to imagine my fingers now, okay? Sliding inside you, filling you up." He lets out a soft groan, and — God, you almost miss it. You force yourself to stay quiet before hearing a quiet 'shlck shlck shlck' on his end. "Fuck... I wish I was there. Wish I could feel you clenching around me."

The sound is unmistakable now as it gets louder — the soft, slick rhythm of his own hand moving over his dick, syncing with the filthy promises he's whispering in your ear. It only spurs you on, your fingers slightly brushing over your sweet spot, only enough to cause your hips to jerk against your hand. This is one of the times you wish he were with you. His long fingers always found it easy to coax you to your orgasm.

"Baby... I need you s'bad. It doesn't feel the same."

"What you mean?"

"I just —" you pant, slightly from desperation. "I can't reach the same spots you do."

"Hm, tell you what, you know that toy I got you for your birthday? Yeah. Go ahead 'n grab it for me."

You scramble out of bed, the phone pressed between your shoulder and ear, and fumble with the top drawer of your nightstand. You can still hear the soft sound of his hand moving faintly, along with occasional moans. You slide back in bed, the cool silicone of the dildo in your hand. A shaky breath escapes you as you press the tip against your entrance, sliding it in nice and slow.

He moans, the sound of his hand moving speeding up. He gazes down at the precum soaking his tip, throwing his head back. His eyes squeeze shut, imagining it was your slick coating his dick instead of his own. "Fuck — shit, baby, just like that. That's my girl. Fuck yourself like it's me. Like I'm right there making love to you."

Your hips rock against the toy, small whines and his name falling from your lips with each thrust of your hand. "M-Mike... I'm so full... Won't last long like this —"

"I know, mama. You take it so good. Just for me. Oh, baby, I miss you being on this dick." He can't contain himself anymore; the sound of his stroking gets faster, his moans louder against your ear. All whiny and desperate. "You fuck me so good, y'know that? Just thinking about it makes me cum. You make me crazy."

A high, keening sound escapes your throat as you angle the toy against your sweet spot, kissing it just right, your body tensing and then shuddering in a sudden, yet euphoric orgasm. His voice is tight with strain, frantic as his thumb presses against his tip — just like you do. He lets out a high-pitched moan, his own release painting his stomach in pulses.

The only sound on the line is the two of you trying to catch your breath, the connection humming softly with the aftermath as the rising sun starts to seep through the small stripes of the curtains.

"I love you, Tink. I really do."

"I love you too, nasty. Now get some sleep. You got a busy day tomorrow."

Prentiss stands at the head of the table, her expression grim as she clicks on the remote. "We've been called to Cedar Creek, Virginia. In the last three weeks, there have been three victims. All stabbed multiple times in the chest and abdomen." She points to another photo on the screen. "The unsub's signature is this. A 'Ghostface' mask, identical to the one from the Scream horror films."

Morgan leans forward with his arms crossed. "What, so he's like a copycat? He might be living in a fantasy, getting off on the movie iconography."

"Not necessarily. The mask provides anonymity, but its cultural recognition could be a secondary benefit. His primary drive is likely the control and fear it instills."

JJ leans back against the leather seat, flipping through the case file with a sigh. "All three victims were alone, in their homes, late at night. He's either really good at picking locks, or he's someone they trusted enough to let inside."

Garcia's voice chirps over the speakerphone, her voice as bubbly as it could be. "Or maybe he's an actual ghost! — A digital one, at least. I'm already looking through the city's records, but so far, our unsub has left no electronic trail. He's pretty much analog."

"Which makes him more dangerous." You rest your hands on the cool wooden table, fixing your gaze on the single photo a witness managed to get of the unsub. "It means he's organized about his digital footprint, patient, he could possibly blend in if he's managing to sneak into the victims' houses."

"Reid, I want you and Morgan to canvass the local university campus. Two of the victims were students. See if anyone noticed anything unusual. Since the case is rather local, we won't need our go bags."

_

Cedar Creek is a rather quiet town, but now shaken up by the sudden influx of murders. The local police station is buzzing with anxious officers, previously idle due to a lack of crime. Prentiss then spreads a map across a crowded desk as Hotch checks in with the officers.

"Alright, like I said, Reid and Morgan are on university. JJ, let's speak with the victims' families to see if we can get something from them."

Reid nods, his gaze briefly scanning the room before landing on you. "It would be beneficial to have someone with your observational skills on the campus canvass." He offers a small, familiar smile.

You knew that it was against policy, but neither of you cared. You'd always been close with Reid. You both went out on dates, exchanged too-friendly glances, and even got to the point of staying at each other's places.

So, knowing you, you wouldn't have said no.

Morgan claps Reid on the shoulder, then turns to you with a warm grin. "You good to ride with us?"

"Of course."

The drive to the university campus was rather quiet this time, the usual easy banter between Morgan subdued by the grim nature of the case. The Gothic-style buildings of the small college loom against the grey sky. Morgan glances in the rearview mirror at you.

"So.. what you got so far? You think the mask is a gimmick?"

Reid answers before you can, staring out the window. It made you internally roll your eyes. "The mask is a psychological tool. It dehumanizes him in the eyes of his victims and allows him to shed his own identity; it shouldn't be a gimmick."

"Ever the optimist, Reid. I'm asking her."

...

"Well, I think it's both. It's a mask to us, but it's a uniform to him. Whenever he puts the mask on, he stops being whoever he is and becomes who he sees in the horror films. We just gotta figure out who he is when it takes it off."

-

The day yields little. Interviews blur together — nervous students, frustrated professors, a campus security guard who saw nothing — you were tired and utterly confused.

Morgan rubs the back of his neck, frustrated and exhausted. “Nothing. This guy is a pro. He leaves no trace, no witnesses who can give us anything solid.”

"It's okay," you sigh, adjusting the rolled-up sleeves of your shirt. "'Bout time to reconvene with the others anyway. See if they got anything."

But no.

The families offered no new connections, and Garcia came up empty. The day practically went to waste. Hotch pins a new timeline to the board, his usual frown painting his face.

"We'll start fresh tomorrow. Get some rest, everyone."

The team disperses with weary nods, and you gather your things and head home. You feel entirely, indescribably frustrated.

After the long drive, you finally step into your apartment; the silence is a stark contrast to today's franticism. The lights are dim and comfortable, and you throw your purse on the kitchen counter. You kick off your shoes, the cool hardwood floor a relief against your aching feet.

You take your time as you get situated, taking a much-needed hot shower, putting on an old college shirt and shorts for pajamas. You turn on the TV to an old sitcom, and get up to open your fridge when your personal cell phone vibrates on the countertop. An unknown number flashes on the screen.

You know better than to answer numbers you don't recognize, so you ignore it.

You continue your task as normal, pulling leftovers from your fridge and putting them in the microwave. The sitcom's laugh track fills the quiet apartment, a poor substitute for real company, really. Then the phone vibrates again. Same unknown number. Then, a third time. You had to pick up.

"Hello?"

"You had a long day. All that work for nothing. It must be frustrating."

You stopped dead in your tracks, your back now pressing against the cool surface of the oven. "Who is this?"

There's a low, staticy chuckle on the other end of the line, obviously from the use of a voice changer. "You've been asking that question all day..

Do you feel safe in your little apartment? You're alone, aren't you?"

Your eyes dart to your front door, checking the lock. You hear the microwave beeping loudly, blaring enough for whoever it was to hear it too. Your voice is tighter now, professional, but a tremor betrays you. "This is a federal line. This call is being traced."

"It's not. You're off the clock, warming up leftovers. I'm just checking in anyway. As friends."

"You don't know me."

"I know you more than you think. I know you drink coffee with shortbread creamer. I know you keep your service weapon in the nightstand drawer," he chuckles again. "Along with your little toy, the one I'm sure you were going to use tonight."

"...Nice guess."

"You won't find me."

The line goes dead with a soft click, and the dial tone buzzes in your ear. The silence in your apartment is now deafening, heavy with a new threat. You stand still for a long moment, your appetite now gone. Your hand shakes as you lower the phone, hastily walking to your bedroom, to the said nightstand.

Your gun was still there with, ironically, the vibrator he mentioned sitting next to it. You took a deep breath. It was probably some teenager pulling a prank on you, but you'd assume that if you weren't a federal agent.

You sink onto the edge of your bed, the weight of the day — and the night — pressing down on you.

The next morning felt like hell for you. You couldn't even bring yourself to make your usual coffee. Last night's call lingered in the back of your mind.

The precinct is already busy when you arrive, the energy a contrast to the hollow feeling in your chest. You set your work bag on the desk. Morgan notices your posture as he walks by.

"Rough night? You look like you've seen a ghost." He attempts a weak joke, but his eyes are concerned. You nod, giving him a small smile before Hotch approaches.

"Alright, everyone. We have a potential lead. A security camera a block from the last victim's apartment caught a figure in a dark hoodie. Too grainy for ID, but it's a start."

Reid's eyes linger on the case before he turns to Hotch. "A hoodie suggests he's adapting. He knows we're looking for the mask."

He nods. "Exactly. Which makes him more dangerous. He's not slavish to the fantasy. He only used the mask as a tool."

"But he still uses it — see? Here, you can see the glint of white covering his face." You point at the screen, then grab the remote to zoom in on the photo.

Morgan squints at the screen. "So he wears the hoodie over the mask? He's hiding his iconic part until the last second."

"It means he's blending in until he's ready to strike. He could be anyone walking down that street."

The briefing continues, but your focus is fractured. Because every time Reid opens his mouth, his words about shedding identity and calculated risk echo the cold and distorted voice from last night.

Morgan leans toward you, his voice dropping. "Hey, you okay? You've been quiet. You're usually a chatterbox."

You playfully roll your tired eyes, pulling your jacket tighter around you. "Just tired, hun. Didn't sleep well."

"Sleep deprivation can significantly impair cognitive function. You should consider a twenty-minute power nap during lunch break. The REM cycle —"

"No, thank you, Reid." You keep your eyes on the screen as you cut Reid off gently. Hotch and Prentiss close out and send you all to search the premises to see if anyone has seen anything. You and Morgan head out into the crisp morning air, the normalcy of the town feeling like a thin veneer. The morning sun does little to warm the chill that settled deep in your bones as you walk alongside Morgan.

You scan the street, but every passing face feels like a potential unsub. But part of you had an idea that you knew who it was. Who else could've known about where you kept your gun? Your personal belongings? And Reid sounded like he was narrating his own process.

God, you were going crazy. I mean, absolutely insane.

Spencer Reid? The thought is so alien that it feels like a betrayal in itself. He is your colleague. Your friend.

"Hey. You sure you good? You're scanning everyone like they're about to draw on us."

"Just on high alert. This guy could be anyone." You avert your gaze, keeping your eyes pointed to your shoes momentarily before looking back up.

"I get it, but y'shouldn't let him get in your head. That's what he wants."

You continue down the block, questioning shop owners and pedestrians. The answers are all the same.

No one saw anything unusual.

Morgan checks his watch; it's been two hours since you left. "Alright, let's take a break 'n get a coffee. You look like you need it more than I do."

As you turn toward the small cafe, your personal phone vibrates in your pocket. A cold dread washes over you as you pull it out. You see a new text message.

{ You should smile more. }

Your head spins on a swivel, the blood draining from your face. Morgan stops walking and matches your sudden freeze. "What's wrong? You see something?" You shove the phone back in your pocket. "I don't know."

"What do you mean, 'you don't know'?"

Before you can answer, Garcia calls you on your work phone.

"Bad news, my lovelies. I just got a call from the local PD. There's been another victim. Stabbed in her home two hours ago."

"Damn, two hours ago? While we were in the briefing?"

"And what's crazy was — the responding officers said that the Ghostface mask was left on the victim's chest."

Morgan's jaw tightens; all traces of casual concern vanish. "He's escalating. He's murdering in broad daylight now."

The unsub couldn't have been Spencer, then. He was in the same room as you during the murder.

"The address is 214 Maple Lane. Prentiss and Reid are already on their way. You two should meet them there."

The scene is a study of controlled chaos. Hotch is speaking with the lead detective, his expression grim as he squints. The sun always bothered his eyes.

Prentiss spots you two and approaches. "Uh — The victim's name is Chloe Gardener. She was home for college on the weekend. No type of forced entry."

Reid emerges from the front door, pulling off latex gloves. His face is pale, and his usual analysis is now replaced by a hollow look. "The attack was frenzied. More so than the others." His eyes meet yours, and for a fraction of a second, they seem to have a strange look. "Something set him off."

"You got that from the overkill?"

"The overkill was one indicator, but the mask feels like a message of contempt now. Not a signature or a persona."

"Contempt for who? The victim or for us?"

Reid finally breaks eye contact with you, looking at Prentiss. "For the process and our ability to stop him. He's proving he can operate right under our noses."

The rest of the day is a blur of paperwork and dead ends. It was another day of frustration, a push and pull of finding the unsub and bringing him to justice.

You drove home in a daze; the image of the mask on Chloe Gardener's chest burned into your mind. And your apartment no longer felt safe. You double-check every lock, your service weapon held securely in your hands as you move through your rooms. There was nothing, and exhaustion eventually won out. You fall into a fitful sleep on the couch, the TV playing softly in the background.

A floorboard creaks softly in the hallway, just outside your bedroom door, and your eyes snap open. The TV is now off, and the apartment is pitch black and silent.

The voice is a whisper, but it's his. Undistorted and disgustingly familiar. "You're a light sleeper."

A shadow moves in the doorway, blocking the faint light from the street. The silhouette of the Ghostface mask is unmistakable. You open your mouth, but he immediately cuts you off.

"I'd appreciate it if you didn't scream. I don't want to tape your mouth shut. You know better than that." His voice is calm, almost conversational. "You shouldn't leave your window unlocked either. Even if it's on the second floor. Intruders still see it as an invitation."

"What, intruders like you, Spencer?"

"Yeah, like me."

"Didn't usually think of you as one."

"Then, I guess you're not as good at your job as I thought."

He's standing at the foot of the couch now, the white mask seeming to glow in the darkness. You can see the fabric of his dark hoodie.

"But, wait — the unsub left the mask on the victim." Your voice was a strained whisper, your gun directly in your line of sight as it was visible next to the blanket.

He tilts his head, "What, you think I didn't have more than one? They're just props — don't think about touching that gun."

He takes another silent step closer, the floorboard groaning under his weight. The air is thick with the scent of his familiar cologne. "You know, it's fascinating. The cognitive dissonance you must be experiencing right now. There's a part of your brain that trusts me and another that knows what I am. They're practically warring together."

You slowly begin to shift on the couch, sitting up fully. You swallow. "Why are you here, Spencer?"

He lets out a soft, almost sad sigh. "I told you. I was checking in. As friends."

"You know we aren't just friends, Spence. This isn't funny."

He leans over the couch, his movements fluid and predatory. The glint of a large kitchen knife is visible in his hand. "What did I say about the gun?" He gestures with his chin toward the gun you're clutching under the blanket.

With deliberate slowness, he holds up the knife by the handle, only using his pointer finger and thumb, and places the knife on the coffee table with a soft click, the blade pointing toward you. "Since the knife bothers you so much."

Your breath hitches, and you point the gun at him directly. "Stop fucking with me, Spencer — I know you. Do you really want to lose your job like this? Lose your life?"

He lets out a low, dark chuckle. "You keep saying that. But you have no idea who I am. Not really."

Before you could realize it, he's on the couch, his body pinning yours down, the weight of his body shocking and absolute. "The profile was always the exciting part, having those theories, those questions. But, see, the practice..." He leans close, his masked face inches from yours. "...it's so much more visceral."

His large hand grips your wrist, forcing you to release the gun; your gasp mingles with the sound of it clattering on the floor. "Shh, I told you I'm not here for that. Not tonight."

His grip on your wrist gentles, but doesn't release. His other hand comes up to the base of the mask. "You know I won't hurt you. Not like that. So stop trembling. The knife is on the table, and the gun is on the floor... Think of it as an interrogation."

He slowly lifts the Ghostface mask just enough to reveal his mouth and jawline. His familiar lips curve into a small, unsettling smile. "We profile people for a living. Profile me. Right now. Who am I?"

Your heart is still racing, but the outright panic recedes slightly after a long beat of silence. "You're... you're in control. You need to be."

He nods, his voice laced with genuine interest. "Good. Very good." He shifts his weight, making himself more comfortable pinning you down, but the immediate threat seems to lessen once he's seen you calm down a bit. "And what does that control give me?"

"Spencer why are you doing this—"

"Answer the question. What does that control give me?"

"...Power. Understanding. I-It's why you're a good agent. And... a good unsub."

He leans closer, his voice dropping to a whisper again. "Exactly. Now, relax. Let's talk. Just us." His thumb strokes a slow circle on the inside of your wrist, feeling your pulse. "See? I can be gentle." His touch is unnervingly soft, a contrast to the violence he's capable of unleashing on you. He gazes down at your blown-out pupils, and he smacks his teeth.

"Your mind's still trying to fit me into a box. But you know people aren't that simple — that's the problem with profiling. We're a series of contradictions. You, for instance, are terrified, but your pulse is slowing. You're assessing the situation."

He tilts his head, studying you. "That's what drew me to you, as a subject."

"What?"

"For my own profile. How long until the agent becomes prey? How does the mind reconcile trust with betrayal?" He smiles again, a flash of teeth in the dark. "It's a fascinating experiment."

The casual, academic tone is more disturbing than any of the threats he gave you, even the ones implied. He enjoyed dissecting you, under the guise of a damn experiment.

"So, let's experiment. Tell me something true. Something you'd never told me before. A secret for a secret."

He can't be serious. Out of his goddamn mind.

The air in the room changed once he finished his proposal. The immediate threat receded, replaced by a psychological game you'd usually refuse to play. But apparently you're out of your goddamn mind too.

Your voice is barely a whisper, the words feeling like a betrayal as they leave your lips. "I... I almost quit after the Mr. Scratch case. I couldn't sleep for weeks."

His expression doesn't change, but his eyes darken with intense focus. "It's understandable. You were having imposter syndrome. Highly common among high-achievers. But statistically, your hunches have a success rate of—"

"Don't. Don't profile me right now. You're the serial killer. You asked for a secret. That's mine."

He nods slowly. "Fair."

"I didn't want to start doing... this... when I put on the mask. I just enjoyed the silence it gave me. I felt like I could finally slow down my thinking." The confession hangs in the air, more intimate and terrifying.

"Your turn again. Why didn't you quit?"

"No. You asked for one secret. You got it."

His smile returns, colder this time. "Negotiation. I like it. But the experiment requires a control variable. One more. Why. Didn't. You. Quit?" His free hand moves from your wrist to grip your jaw, his grip firm enough to make you wince, tilting your face up to his. "Tell the truth."

You hold his gaze, the fight draining out of you as you feel your eyes well up with tears. "B-Because I'm good at it. And I liked that the team — that you... needed me to be.."

He leans in, his lips brushing your ear. "There. Was that so hard?" His voice was a whisper. "You needed to be needed. And I... I need to be in control." He pulls back slightly, his hidden eyes now roaming your face. "Not that we didn't already know that, given our existing dynamics during sex, but..." He shrugs, and there's a pause before he stands up abruptly, releasing you.

"Get up."

You sit up slowly, your body tense. "What are you doing?"

He picks up the knife from the table, but instead of pocketing it, he holds it loosely at his side. "Get. Up. I'm not done."

You slowly stand, your legs feeling unsteady. "What more could you possibly want??"

He closes the distance between you in one swift step, his free hand snaking around your waist to pull you flush against him. "The physiological response to fear is remarkably similar to arousal. Increased heart rate, dilated pupils, shallow breathing."

"Spencer — I can't do this right now —"

His lips find yours in a harsh and claiming kiss, absolutely nothing like the gentle, hesitant kisses you've shared before.

He breaks the kiss, his breathing slightly ragged. "See? There's a line. Your heart is pounding." His hand slides from your waist down to your hip, gripping hard. "Tell me to stop."

Your breath hitches, the words stuck in your throat. He knew you wouldn't. You couldn't. Because you're curious, and part of you feels so impossibly guilty to want to see how far this goes. He kisses you again, more insistent, backing you toward the bedroom.

He pushes you onto the bed, his body following yours, turning into a cage as the knife is placed carefully beside your head, well within his reach just in case you tried something stupid. He pins your wrists above your head with one hand, and you struggle weakly, curse the exhaustion he inflicted upon you. It was probably his plan to begin with, to get you so tired and utterly spent from trying to find him, so he could be entirely in control once he had you to himself.

"This is fucking insane."

He uses his free hand to push up your shirt, his leather-covered fingers splaying across your stomach. "No. It's not. It's called collecting data." His mouth finds the sensitive skin of your neck, biting down just hard enough to make you gasp. "Be good and participate. You wanna feel needed, don't you?"

He releases your wrists only to tear down your work slacks, his movements efficient and rough. He then yanks off his gloves, throwing them mindlessly. "Hm, you've always liked it a little rough, haven't you? When I take charge."

You turn your head away, a feeble attempt to regain some composure in your foggy consciousness. He grips your chin, forcing you to look at him. "Look at me. I want to see your eyes when I break you."

"Please..."

Your eyes reluctantly rise to his, and his fingers trail down your stomach, slipping between the waistband of your underwear.

"Aw, please? Is that a request or a plea? Your pulse is racing here too..."

He presses two fingers against your clit, applying a firm, steady pressure. He watches your face intently as a sharp gasp escapes you, your back arching involuntarily. He begins to move his fingers in small circles before sliding a finger inside you. His touch was clinical and exacting. "There's the arousal. You're soaking my fingers — has it been that long since I finger fucked you?"

A choked moan escapes your lips as your hips buck against his hand. He adds a second finger, curling them inward, his thumb maintaining that relentless pressure on your clit.

"Fuck — Sp– wait —"

"That's it. Let go. For once in your life, just let go."

He increases his pace, his fingers moving with the same rhythm he knew would push you closer to your orgasm. He could feel it. He's coaxing it with his fingers, mindlessly increasing the 'come here' movement of his fingers. His voice is low against your ear, talking you through the silent scream catching in your throat as the orgasm crashes through you, wave after wave of pleasure. He watches, fascinated, as the tension leaves your body.

"Good."

He withdraws his fingers, bringing them to his lips without breaking eye contact.

He unbuttons his pants, freeing his cock before slapping the tip on your sensitive clit.

"Please—"

His voice is dripping with condescension, "Please? Are you begging me to fuck you now? You were just pointing your gun at me not even ten minutes ago. Is that all a little fingering does to you?"

He presses the head of his dick against your entrance, applying just enough pressure to make your eyes roll back. "Such a pathetic contradiction. A trained federal agent, reduced to begging." He pushes into you with one deep thrust, burying himself without giving you any time to adjust, not like how he usually did. He sets a punishing rhythm from the start, each thrust jarring and deliberate. "You feel that? That's the control you're so afraid of. It feels good, doesn't it?"

Your nails dig into his shoulders, a desperate effort to ground yourself as he makes it impossible to form words. He grabs your hips, angling them to hit that good spot, the one that makes your vision white and your mind go blank. But then he suddenly slows, pulling almost all of the way out, hovering there. With his free hand, he pulls a small, black camera from his hoodie pocket. The lens glints in the dark. He thrusts back in deeply.

"Smile for me,

Say cheese."

Your eyes widen at the sight of the camera, a fresh wave of humiliation and arousal washing over you. "No... don't, please."

He captures the image, the shutter click unnaturally loud in the quiet room. "Too late." He begins moving again, his pace relentless. "Not that you mind, though. Don't you want this, sweetheart?"

You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to lift your hips to meet his thrusts. "Yes... god, yes..."

He lets out a satisfied chuckle, "I know, baby. The data is irrefutable." He leans forward, bracing himself with one arm, the camera still in his hand as he drives into you. "You wanna cum for me?"

You bite your lip, nodding frantically as the pressure builds again, your resolve completely shattered. "Please..."

"Then do it. Cum for the camera, let me see it — shit."

He angles the lens down, focusing on your face as his thumb draws circles on your clit. His orgasm triggers yours, a second, more shattering wave that leaves you breathless beneath him. For a moment, the only sound is your ragged breathing mingling in the dark. He collapses beside you, pulling the mask off completely. His face is slick with sweat, his expression unreadable.

He lies beside you, staring at the ceiling, his breathing slowly returning to normal. He turns his head to look at you, his eyes eerily calm.

The book called him "The Lord of Blackwood", a vampire of immense age and power, who had withdrawn from the world centuries ago. The description was vague, but it mentioned something about eyes that held the weight of eternity.

So, you decided to test the waters the next morning. Approaching an old woman who ran an antique shop, her knowledge of the town's history was as vast as you could dream of. You walked into the shop under the guise of 'shopping'.

She looks up from polishing a silver locket. "Can I help you, dear?"

"I was wondering if you knew anything about Blackwood Manor just outside of town? The history seems so fascinating."

Her friendly demeanor vanishes instantly, putting down the locket so sharply you were afraid she might've broken it.

"We don't ask questions like that here."

Over the next week, you ask others — the postman, the baker, the farmer on the edge of town — and their answers were always the same. A nervous glance, a hurried change of subject with intelligible mumbling, or a warning not to speak his name here.

But of course, you didn't listen. They knew you wouldn't. They even started planning a funeral in your name without your knowledge.

You decided to pack a small bag that weekend, full of a change of clothes, a lantern, a notebook, and some fruit. You take the old path leading out of town, the dirt road almost completely covered by long-term abandonment. The woods are dense and quiet, the canopy thick enough to block out most of the moonlight, and the air grows colder.

After an hour of aching steps, you push aside a final, low-hanging branch. And there it stood before you. A monolith of dark stone against the dark blue sky, all sharp angles and towering spires. It wasn't as ominous and scary-looking as you thought.

No light shone against the windows, and the path to the front door was overgrown with thorny vines that snagged your clothes as you pushed forward. The massive, iron-branded door looked like it hadn't been opened in forever.

You take a deep breath and raise your hand, your knuckles hesitating for just a second before connecting to the metal. The knock echoed into the silence behind the door, and for a long moment, there was nothing. You hoped you didn't walk all this way for nothing.

But then the door groaned inward on its own, the sound a deep, weary sigh. It hadn't been locked. You then pushed with all your might, the heavy door moving inch by agonizing inch until there was just enough space for you to slip through.

The air inside was still and cold, carrying the scent of old dust, dried herbs, and something metallic, maybe blood or iron.

The grand foyer was vast, and the moonlight from the open door sliced through the darkness. It fell across portraits in gilded frames — faces from centuries past; their eyes seemed to follow you as you descended into the castle. Your lantern aids your vision, glinting off a suit of armor as you pass by, a marble statue, then a collection of ancient-looking urns.

"Hello? I'm looking for the one they call... Michael?"

Your voice doesn't echo, but is swallowed by the immense silence. You take another few cautious steps forward, your heart beating loudly in your eardrums.

A shadow detached itself from the deeper darkness near the grand staircase. It was tall, impossibly so, and moved with a silence that was more unnerving than any kind of footstep. His voice is smooth as velvet, yet cold as it suddenly spoke from behind you. "You have a great deal of nerve coming here. Or a death wish. Which is it?"

You spin around quickly, the fire in your lantern highlighting his features, sharp and pale. You nearly drop the damn thing. "I was looking for you—"

"Why?" His voice sounded more like an order than a question as he took a step closer. You felt your blood run cold, and your voice trembled slightly.

"Because... the books. The stories. They couldn't all be wrong. I had to see for myself."

A faint, cold smile touches his lips. "See what? If the monster under the bed is real? You risk your life for a child's curiosity."

"Not exactly from a child's curiosity, but a scholar's. I've studied your kind, and I believe there's more to you than the stories of monsters."

He lets out a soft, humorless laugh that doesn't reach his eyes; his voice is full of mockery. "A scholar. How quaint. And what do your 'studies' tell you I am?" He circles you slowly, and the air grows colder with his proximity. He smelled faintly of wine and old wood, acquainted by faint ash.

You swallow hard as you try to keep your head upright, keeping eye contact as he passes by. "They tell me you value truth, given your own collections and studies. I thought maybe you'd appreciate someone who actually wants to learn, rather than just scream and run at the sight of you."

He stops his circling, now standing directly in front of you. "Appreciate? You think I crave the company of morals?"

"No, but I'd assume a life without interaction would be rather lonely." You try to shrug and laugh, but he continues to stare at you with an unreadable expression. Only continuing the conversation when you fixed your face. He reaches out to touch you, but gently taps at the cover of the notebook sticking out of your bag.

"Your book is full of little fairytales."

You lift your chin, "It's not a book of fairytales. It's full of records with history you left behind. I know you're not the mindless beasts people make you out to be."

"You think you can trace all my steps through history?"

"No, but I could with your firsthand account."

He turns and walks toward the grand staircase, his back to you. "Firsthand account?" He glances over his shoulder. "You want an interview with a vampire?" (haha get it?)

You stay in the same spot, but your voice elevates slightly. "I told you. I'm a scholar. I want to understand."

He turns around and moves back towards you. A slight, genuine smile — the first one you've seen — curves his lips. He stops an arm's length away, his head tilted. "Understanding is a dangerous thing to seek from you. Knowledge has a price."

"I'm willing to pay it."

The weeks turned into months, and your visits to Blackwood Manor became a nightly ritual. The intimidating foyer soon felt familiar, the shadows less threatening, and they were now clean from age and dust, thanks to you.

Michael's library became your home. Floor-to-ceiling shelves held books you were sure existed in places you couldn't bear to think of, and he would watch you — sometimes for hours — as you pored over ancient texts you could barely read yet.

He leaned against the bookshelf, using his nail to pick the human flesh from his teeth, clothes still slightly blood-stained from his hunting. But he did clean up the best that he could, out of respect for you. He didn't want to scare you away just yet.

"Your fascination with the Venetian plague is... odd."

"It's all the eyewitness accounts." You mutter, not looking up from the fragile pages. "I mean, you lived through it. What was it really like?"

"Messy. You humans are so terribly fragile."

"You were a human once. Weren't you?" The silence that followed your question was deafening, aside from the soft crackle of the grand fireplace.

He pushed off the bookshelf, his movements slower than usual.

He walked to the fireplace, staring into the flames before resting his back against the stone. "Yes. I was. A very, very long time ago." He paused for a moment, as if it was difficult to remember how life was before his transformation.

You closed the book fully in your lap, giving him your full attention. "Do you miss it?"

He lets out a short, sharp breath, almost a laugh. "The sickness, the fragility, the inevitable decay? No."

He pauses, his gaze now at the expensive rug beneath him. "But.. I do miss the sun. Cherishing the days well-lived. I used to get the best sleep.

And I do miss the family I had."

He pushed away from the mantle, turning to face you fully, but the vulnerability in his voice was now gone. "But don't romanticize it. What I am now," he gestures vaguely around the vast library. "This is freedom. Of a sort."

You stand up, taking a tentative step toward him. "Sounds lonely."

His eyes narrow, but there's no real anger to them. "Lonely is a human concept. I would say that we're patient."

"You've been patient for centuries. That's a long time to be alone."

"Who said I was alone?"

You give him a knowing look, your arms crossing over your chest, and he chuckles. "You ask a lot of questions under the ruse of a 'scholar'."

"You keep inviting me back. So you must not mind them too much."

A slow smile finally touches his lips. "I don't." He glances toward the tall library windows. "It's nearly dawn. You should stay. The spare room is yours, as always."

He turns and walks toward the door, his cape whispering against the cold stone floor. He pauses at the threshold for a moment, bidding you goodnight before the heavy door clicks shut.

The next few nights progressed this way. Your conversations linger later, the topics drifting from history to philosophy, and then to the small absurd details of your moral life that seem to fascinate him somehow.

Tonight, you find him not in the library, but in a solarium you'd never noticed before, full of meticulously preserved plants that should've died a long time ago. You never thought of him as having a green thumb. "A habit from another life," he says. Some routines were harder to shed than others, but it didn't make him any less admirable. You reach out to touch one of the leaves he was catering to, your fingers brushing against his as your thumb traces over the petal.

He doesn't pull his hand away; instead, he turns his hand, his cool fingers lightly tracing the line of your wrist. "Your pulse is fast. Even after all these months, are you still afraid of me?"

"No. Not afraid."

"Then what is it?"

His dark eyes hold yours, and you could feel your breath catch. You couldn't find the words to describe how you felt. Let alone a vampire. But you knew that wasn't how you saw him anymore. He wasn't dangerous, nor a monster. He's gentle, kind, more than any human could be.

He leans closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. "I can hear it, you know. The shift in your heartbeat."

"Does it bother you, Michael?"

The space between you vanishes, and he closes the distance, his lips meeting yours in a kiss that's so soft, it almost feels airy. His lips were curious against yours, a taste so sweet, you could easily fall addicted to the drug of him.

His hand comes up to cradle your jaw, his thumb stroking your cheek with a tenderness that contradicts his cold skin. His breath ghosts against your lips before deepening the kiss. His other hand slides to the small of your back, pressing you flush against the unyielding coolness of his body, which never seemed to warm against yours. He didn't mind your warmth, though. You felt like sunshine against his skin, inviting him with want and endless curiosity.

In a fluid motion, he lifts you into his arms, and the castle blurs for a moment as he carries you from the solarium through the corridors.

He lays you down upon the vast expanse of his bed, the black silk sheets slippery beneath you as they ground you from your slight dizziness. The room is lit only by the faint glow of moonlight filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows on the left side of his bedroom.

He kneels over, caging you in, his dark eyes burning with undeniable hunger and desire. A look both thrilling and terrifying.

"Are you sure you want this with me? Truly."

You reach up, your fingers tracing over the sharp line of his jaw, tucking stray strands of hair behind his ear. "I've never wanted anything more."

A low groan rumbles in his chest as he lowers himself to kiss you again, peppering soft kisses downward as his lips find the sensitive skin of your neck. His breath catches as he sucks on the dip of your collarbone. A soft moan escapes you as his mouth finds a sensitive spot against your sternum, your back arching off the silk sheets.

He pulls back slightly, his breathing unsteady — something you thought was impossible with him. And you could feel the tension coiled in his body. His fangs, which you've only seen in glimpses, are a subtle pressure against the skin of your stomach as he kisses his way lower.

His hands slide up your thighs, pushing the simple fabric of your dress higher, exposing you to the room's chilling air. He moves down your body with a reverence that steals your breath more than you thought. His lips brush against the inside of your thigh as your fingers tangle in the smooth sheets.

It seems like forever before his tongue dances on the fabric over your clit, clear with intention as you feel his fingers hesitantly pulling against the waistband over your panties.

You become breathless, your hips lifting in silent invitation. "Michael, you're teasing. Please."

He hooks his fingers into the waistband of your panties and slowly, deliberately, slides them down your legs. The air feels sharp against your core, now soaked with arousal. He lowers his head again, his tongue tracing wet circles against your slit. The sensation was almost too much. You could feel his teeth as he suckled and kissed on your bundle of nerves, and his cold breath ghosts over you, making you shudder slightly.

You cry out as his slender tongue slowly fucks your entrance, tasting you with the focus of a connoisseur, each thrust and flick and kiss a slow, aching torture. A string of pleas falls from your lips as he groans against you, the vibration sending shockwaves of pleasure through you.

His fingers join his mouth, a finger sliding inside you in a way that brings spots to your vision, the dual sensation overwhelming the heat building in your stomach. He looks up to watch your sweet reactions, his eyes glowing faintly in the dark. "Is this what you thought would happen when you knocked on my door, scholar? To come apart on my tongue? Is this what you wanted?"

You can only manage a frantic nod, your hands fisting in his dark hair. "D-Don't stop."

His pace quickens, his tongue circling your clit relentlessly while his fingers curl inside you. Your orgasm washes over you unbearably fast, and you feel his fangs brush against your inner thigh, a sharp threat amidst the bliss. Your vision grows white, and your body trembles uncontrollably against the silk.

He gentles his movements, drawing out the last shudders of your release with a soft, lingering kiss over the same spot as your inner thigh.

He moves back up your body and hovers above you, his gaze dark as he brushes a damp curl from your forehead. His touch is tender as he kisses you, the taste of your orgasm still fresh on his tongue. His bulge presses against your thigh, so undeniably hard and prominent, even through his trousers.

You reach between you, your fingers fumbling with the fastenings of his pants.

He guides himself to your entrance once you free him, the tip of his dick a slick, hot pressure against you. You wrap your legs around his hips, pulling him closer, deeper as his slow thrust steals the air from your lungs. He stills, buried deep inside you, his forehead pressed against yours. You couldn't contain the small pants falling from your lips; it felt like he was splitting you open, and he hadn't even moved yet.

He begins to move, each thrust a rolling movement that pulls your mouth agape, a silent scream as he kisses your cervix. His lips find your neck again, his tongue tracing the frantic pulse there. "You smell so sweet. Practically screaming for me, sweetheart."

You tilt your head back, baring your throat to him in absolute surrender, and it seemed like all of his control frayed at the edges, deteriorating with every moan against his ear.

Then a sharp, sudden pain of his fangs piercing your skin is eclipsed instantly by a wave of euphoria. It became a pleasure so intense it borders on pain, a dizzying rush that syncs perfectly with the fast rhythm of his hips. His mouth is sealed against your throat, a low, continuous moan vibrating through you as he drinks you in.

Your body instinctively jerks against him, your hands flying to his abdomen, but he captures your wrists, pinning them to your chest as he fucks you senseless.

"It's okay, sweetheart. Just relax and take what I give you."

The dual sensations of the intimate fullness of his dick moving within yours and the deep, pulling ecstasy of the bite bring you to your orgasm simultaneously. It is a silent, yet hot convulsion of pleasure, lasting longer than usual as he follows closely behind you.

He holds you there for a moment, his body draped over yours before letting your wrists go, lapping gently at the small wounds on your neck. You drift into an exhausted sleep as you wrap your arms around him, the taste of metal and dizziness on your tongue.

You wake to the soft kisses on your cheek, the curtains now closed as they concealed the grey light of pre-dawn light filtering slightly at the edges. His voice is a low murmur next to your ear, his arm a heavy weight across your waist. "Good morning. Or what passes for morning here."

"Did I pass out?"

A soft chuckle rumbles through his chest. "You did. I may have done too much."

You shift slightly, feeling a pleasant ache in your muscles and the faint mark on your neck. "It's okay. I don't mind. It's the price I'm willing to pay."