Do i know you? 🩸❤️🩹
pairing: Vampire!spencer reid x afab fem!reader (no use of y/n)
‘i will love you till the end of time, i would wait a million years’ - Blue jeans Lana del rey.
Rating: MDNI, NSFW, Sexually explicit content 18+
synopsis: Centuries after accidentally killing his mate, the love of his life. Spencer Reid sees you on a rainy street—you look exactly like her, maybe you are her…Drawn by grief and desire, he can’t resist approaching, and what follows is a dangerous, intoxicating reunion of hunger, love, and fate
wc: 8.1k
warnings: | NSFW | Vampism | Mentions of murder | very slight Blood drinking | Oral (f) | unprotected p in v | Age gap (obviously he’s a vampire) | Dirty Talk | Biting | soft dom! spencer | emotional spencer | Male Yearnningggg | soft as hell | intimate and soft aftercare | Sad as hell
Masterlist reqs open
a/n: did someone say vampire spencer reid 🥳🤓
The rain came down in sheets, bouncing off pavement slick with oil, cascading across the roofs of cars as they sped past with harsh hisses of water. Streetlights burned a muted amber, halos diffused through the storm, casting long, rippling reflections over every wet surface. To anyone else, the night was miserable. To Spencer, it was a reprieve.
The storm masked the things that usually plagued him: the sharp tang of sweat, the sweet-sickening perfume of warm blood pumping beneath fragile human skin, the metallic sting of old coins carried in pockets. Rain dulled the world, smothered it, let him breathe without constantly being reminded of what he was.
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.
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