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The NSA is probably getting really worried about Louis’ search history. Shit, Louis is getting worried about his own search history. Right now, he either looks like a budding blood-obsessed serial killer or a blood-obsessed sexual masochistic. Either way, he's blood-obsessed. Jesus.

"What're you looking up?" Harry asks him, trying to sneak a peek over his shoulder.

Louis locks his phone and presses his thumb hard against Harry's eyes. "Mind your own fucking business."

Harry removes the thumb. "You are my business, baby," he answers, eyes widened a little. As if he can try looking innocent to Louis, of all people.

Louis rolls his eyes and turns back to his textbook, where his attention should have been all along. “It’s awesome how selective you are about what’s your business and what isn’t.”

“What can I say,” Harry answers, tongue in cheek, “I’m an old guy with confusing ideologies. Gotta be able to keep up.”

“‘Confusing ideologies’,” Louis mocks, flicking Harry in the arm just because he can. “Stop reminding me I’m fucking a senior citizen.”

Harry has become a lot more relaxed about barbs on his inhumanness—not that Louis ever held back when he wasn’t—so he’s either going to answer one of two ways: with a pout or with an exaggerated admonishment that some people are really into that, and it’s not nice to mock others, Lou.

Before he can do either, Louis pushes the textbook away and stands. “Scoot your chair back,” he demands.

“Why?” Harry asks. He pushes back, anyway, and Louis lets his actions answer when he relocates himself onto Harry’s lap and leans in to kiss him.

He means it to be rough and maybe a little bruising, at least on his part, but Harry smooths it down, big hands spread across Louis’ back. Louis bites Harry's bottom lip. He doesn’t want soft.

“Baby, we’re in a library,” he says against Louis’ mouth.

“‘S’no one here.” There isn’t. It’s ten o'clock on a Wednesday, and they're in the back of the third floor. No one comes to the third floor, because it's kind of creepy and has the most archaic and least used books. Not even those unlucky enough to do work study for the night shift bother coming to the third floor.

They're only here because Zayn needed the apartment to himself. Well, what it actually is is that Zayn put in the effort to getting laid—as in, walked outside and beckoned the first person he deemed worthy—and then sexiled them. When Louis tried to complain he reminded him that he and Harry don't even give him the courtesy of a sexile request when they have sex, which is admittedly very often. There was nothing he could say then.

"It's still the library," Harry says, mouth moving down to Louis' unshaven jaw. The tips of his fingers are pressing into the arch of Louis' spine. Louis wishes they would go lower, but apparently they can fuck everywhere but the library. "Wait 'til we get home."

"I don't believe in delayed gratification," Louis says, but he tilts his head for Harry and doesn't try to push his hands into Harry's shorts.

"Millennials," Harry sighs, placing a soft bite on the underside.

Louis wriggles and has to try a lot harder not to shove his hands onto Harry's cock. "Don't fucking bite me if you're not gonna let us have sex," he hisses.

Harry makes some vague noise of acknowledgment but doesn't move his mouth, sucking harder on Louis' skin the more he moves. "Always wanna be biting you, though."

"You're so annoying," Louis tells him, dropping his head onto Harry's shoulder and mouthing at it. He really wishes he could mark Harry; make sure that everyone who walks by him knows that he's Louis'.

What Harry puts on him do a pretty good job of showing it, though.

"If I get you off, do you promise to be quiet? Since we're in a library and this is illegal?" His teeth are right over Louis' jugular. There's always going to be the fight/flight prickle under Louis' skin that buzzes up when Harry's teeth are on his throat, but. But.

He's probably not going to be quiet. "If you keep kissing me like that, I'll come no matter what," he admits.

Harry's head dips up, which is exactly the opposite of what Louis wants. He looks gleeful, dimples in full effect. "Really? You could do that?"

Louis doesn't answer. He scoots back on Harry's thighs and tries to undo his fly to get his cock out. Harry's hands slap his away, and for a moment Louis thinks Harry is going to retract what he said three seconds ago and Louis will have to make Zayn bite his hand off, but instead he just does it himself, being careful to watch the zipper as he releases Louis' cock.

Louis will never know anything better than Harry's hands on his skin.

"You're already wet, baby," Harry murmurs, running his thumb over the slit. "Gonna come quick and quiet?"

He tightens his grip just the way Louis likes, jacks him off hard and steady just like Louis likes, keeps talking the type of bullshit Louis likes. He's what Louis likes.

"Stop sex voicing me if we're not gonna have real sex," Louis demands, fucking up into Harry's hand until his pace quickens.

"Real sex isn't defined by penetration, you know that," Harry tells him, but Louis doesn't care about whatever Harry is spewing now because he's going to come, and he's going to come soon. Harry's so intense about everything, even to the point where, although Louis will always prefer getting his cock sucked over just a hand, Harry makes even this feel otherworldly.

He just needs—He takes firm hold of Harry's hair and adjusts him until he's where Louis wants him to be, mouth back over his throat. "You want my teeth here?"

Louis means to reply, maybe something about how if Harry isn't going to give it how Louis wants then he might as well do this, but then Harry is biting down harder than he usually does, and Louis comes. Like that.

There's a flash of disconnect, where he's spilling over Harry's hand and letting out the type of sounds he hates admitting he has outside of this, but needs a second to piece it together with Harry getting him off this quickly with just a hand and teeth in his skin, where anyone could easily walk up and see them.

"Jesus," he sighs when he comes back up, slumping against his guy. His neck is throbbing. He thinks if he touched it, he'd feel the ridges and indenting of Harry's human teeth.

"Way to go on being quiet," Harry congratulates, bringing his come-dirty fingers up to his mouth to lick away. "Your effort in not bringing the entire school up here was some expert reverse psychology."

Louis groans and closes his eyes. He's not getting hard again. It's not going to happen.

"Shut up," he mumbles. "You'd bitch more if I wasn't loud."


There are... side effects. To dating a vampire.

Louis' memory isn't perfect in stretching back four years with exact recollection, but he's pretty sure that the first thing that hit him, that made sudden and obvious sense when he found out that Harry was a vampire, was the biting.

Harry denies that he bites as much as Louis claims. Louis will always deny liking romcoms as much as he does or that he doesn't mind watching the emo indie queer French films that Harry hunts down on the Internet, but that doesn't mean that he didn't buy the deluxe edition of The Notebook at the same time he bought Talladega Nights or that he doesn't spend half an hour looking at the IMDB quote pages whenever the French films finish. Some things aren't worth lying to yourself about.

Harry never leaves a lot on very obvious places, especially since Louis doesn't allow more than one neck hickey every two weeks, so it's usually just sucking on the same place or on his chest, shoulder, hips, thighs, ass, calves. His ankles, once. Or five times.

Whether anyone can see them or not, they're there. Louis knows they're there, and while before he was fine with just indulging Harry, now he thinks he might like them himself.

Might is an underwhelming word. Louis really, really fucking likes them. It's not that he enjoys the pain or Hiroaki's eye emoji'd Instagram comments whenever Louis posts something that incidentally shows a giant mark, but he—

He’s been Stockholm syndromed, is what it is. That’s it. Harry’s freaky vampire kinks wrote themselves onto Louis’ list, and now his dick perks up a little whenever Harry flashes a toothy grin or pretends like he’s going to bite Louis’ finger off after a round of poking.

And that’s just with Harry’s human teeth.


“What would you say if I said I wanted to switch my major around?”

“How so?” Harry answers, looking up at Louis. Thursday mornings mean chilling on their bed. Louis is fucking around on his phone, leaving rude comments on all of Liam’s Instagram posts; Harry’s body is sprawled out with his head in Louis’ lap, reading some worn poetry book because he’s pretentious and a cliché of himself. Louis loves him.

Louis shrugs. “Comm major, business minor. Would that be okay?”

“You asking my permission or my opinion?” Harry holds his place with his thumb and redirects all his attention on Louis. Louis loves when he does that. Vampires are the champions of multitasking, and Harry can easily hold a dozen different thoughts at once without getting confused, but when he gives Louis that much more focus, he feels caught and happy about it.

“Of course I’m not asking your permission,” Louis answers, affronted. He pokes under Harry’s eye. “When have I ever asked your permission for anything? What kinda relationship you think this is?”

“I can think of a time or two you’ve asked my permission for something,” Harry drawls, smiling lazily. “Getting off track, though. If you wanted to do that, I would say that I'm not all that surprised."

Louis blows out a breath. "It's not that I don't like the business classes, because obviously I have to become very important and powerful and take over the world," he starts, just to see Harry smile and mouth obviously, "but I've been really into the communications classes."

"You could probably take over the world with a communications major," Harry offers. "You could also double major. You'd have to take a few more classes, but it's only your sophomore year of college, baby, there's plenty of time."

"I'm not smart enough to double major," Louis reminds Harry. He doesn't necessarily mean it to put himself down. He knows he has his talents, and he'll always be the first to boast about them, but books and studying have never been his forté.

Harry still gets annoyed. "Get the fuck off that, Louis. Not smart enough for who? If that's how you're talking about yourself, then you're definitely not going to be able to do it because you'll have a dozen self-inflicted mental blocks in place, but not because you're not smart enough. Okay?"

Louis is not a blusher. He pushes at Harry's shoulder until he rearranges his body so Louis can in turn crawl over him to straddle his waist. "Can I suck your dick?"

Vampire biology is weird and stupid and Theresa still hasn't explained it all to him, but hair grows. Harry looks gorgeous like this, curls spanned out over the navy of their bedspread. He and Zayn use their hair to manipulate how old they look, and while Harry has literally never looked truly fifteen, however short he cuts, he looks nineteen here. Louis can't wait until he gets it down to the shoulder-length he had in England. When Louis first saw those photographs, it took him a total of three minutes of grinding to come in his pants. He looked so mature. And hot. Louis has the hottest boyfriend in the world.

Harry's made him so sappy and embarrassing. At least he doesn't broadcast the worst ones like this guy does.

"No," Harry answers. "Well, not that—I mean yes, always, but not now, we are having a serious discussion. You can't keep diverting them with sex."

Louis quirks an eyebrow. "You wanna fucking bet?" He tries to pull Harry's sweats down, but aside from being hot, Louis' boyfriend is also a giant asshole, and he flips them over so quickly it takes Louis more time to realize he's on his back than it does for him to be on his back. "I hate you," he tells Harry, blowing his hair out of his face.

"I know," says Harry, and starts kissing Louis. As if he understands the concept of making out without leading anywhere. Louis will be naked in the next ten minutes.


He doesn't even end up changing anything. He has a good think about it, and talks to his academic advisor and decides that he's fine where he is, after all.

James, Louis' closest college friend and shockingly smart engineering major, sends Louis an actual audio note of him laughing when Louis texts him that he's given up on the switch. Louis might have complained about it a few times, but it's not like he spent a straight hour doing so. (He has done that before—he had to take a course on Eastern European history for a social studies credit, even though he fucking hates history with everything in him, and Harry refused to give him answers for quizzes or write his essays for him and Louis very childishly didn't talk to him for a full day and spent that time getting high with James and whining about it. It wasn't a high point in his life.)

Youre so fucking annoying, he texts him. This time, James sends a video of his laughter.

"This is why I'm dating you and not James," he tells Harry, jumping onto Harry's back when he gets home, legs tight around his waist.

Harry is unfazed, just adjusts his stance a bit and goes right back to chopping green peppers. "Why would you wanna date James, he's so extroverted and loud," Harry grumbles. Louis leans his cheek on Harry's hair, breathing in the citrusy shampoo he uses.

"Babe, so are you." Harry's making scrambled eggs, Louis is pretty sure. It looks like it's near done already; there's shredded cheese on the counter next to chorizo and onions and whatever else weird stuff Harry's thrown in there. He gets very experimental about eggs. Louis is glad to be his guinea pig for food.

"I'm not loud everywhere I go, though. I'm a lot more chill about it." Harry is, overall, too self-assured and confident to get jealous. Very little fazes him. That being said, it will never not be funny how pouty he gets when Louis brings up James. He'll grin and joke around with all of Louis' friends, but the level of fake nice he amps up whenever James is around is fucking hilarious. Louis loves it.

It may have something to do with how the first time Harry met him, he was fucking around and trying to put a hickey onto Louis' shoulder. It's all fun and games until someone else tries to put their teeth on Louis.

"If you've ever been chill about anything, then I'm running for president in 2020," he answers.

Harry throws a bit of green pepper into the skillet, his left hand automatically going down to grip Louis' thigh the moment he slips down an inch. "James Madison was a vampire," Harry says casually. "The better James."

Louis bites down on Harry's cheekbone. "'M gonna tell him that you hate him, and then your reputation as yet another free-loving and unrealistically nice queer in San Francisco will be ruined."

"I don't hate him," Harry argues. "I'm sure he's a great friend to you. We just... haven't clicked yet."

Louis hops down and makes his way around their small kitchen to get a plate from the dishwasher. Harry prefers hand washing, says that it's therapeutic and soothing, but he always hangs them in the dishwasher to dry. "So if I invite him for, I don't know, lunch, you would gladly cook for three and pretend to eat while he's here?"

"There are bagels in the toaster," Harry says, turning off the oven. "Think there might be few leftover packets of ketchup in the spoon drawer."

Harry is such a little shit. After Louis' gotten them and placed the plateful next to the stove, he pastes himself along Harry's back, pressing a kiss on the dip between Harry's shoulders. "Thanks for making me eggs and toast."

He can hear the fond defeat in Harry's voice. "If we're lunching with James, then we're dining out."

Louis smiles.


There's a full length mirror in their room, right on the door of the en suite. Harry was wary about installing it at first, some half-formed fear that it would break and hurt Louis if the door was slammed too hard, but Louis wanted it a lot, and Harry's never exactly been popular for saying no to what Louis wants.

Louis should have gone in to take a shower ten minutes ago, but instead he's standing in front of it, bare ass naked and trying to remind himself to breathe.

It's not that he's obsessed with his own body—although he does know that it's a nice one—but Harry is obsessed with his body, and Harry likes leaving reminders all over to make sure that Louis remembers. To make sure that everyone else knows.

He prods at one right above his hipbone, hissing a little at the sensitivity. It's recent, still sharp and red. Yesterday morning, a Thursday, Louis woke up to a tongue swiping over his hole, spreading him out and getting him wet, then wetter; Harry's hands curling around to his hip to keep him still, thumbing at a sore spot he must have already put while Louis was sleeping.

There's a series around his chest, from when Harry had spent a little too much time on Louis' nipples. They're admittedly not appealing, not anymore, more like lime splotches than littered reds. The very possessive part of Louis likes them anyway.

Sometimes he wants—

He wonders how it would—

Harry's only ever bitten him with his fangs once, and sometimes Louis just. He thinks about it a lot. Is the thing. That's the thing.


"I know," Louis says calmly, leaning against the kitchen entrance with his arms crossed, "that you're not actually giving me the silent treatment because I went out with my friends."

"Can't be giving you the silent treatment when I've been speaking to you the entire time," Harry replies blankly. He's a stress baker, shocking to no one, and has been furiously whisking away at cupcake batter for the past two hours. Louis doesn't know what he expects to do with all of it.

Louis ignores him. He knows what Harry's silent treatment looks like, and just because he's said a whopping ten words to Louis over the past day doesn't mean that he's not giving it. "I know that's not what you're mad over, because that would be something a jealous asshole does, and you're being an asshole right now, for sure, but you're not a jealous one. Tell me what's wrong."

"Maybe you're just learning new things about me every day," Harry answers, switching to furiously whisking icing. He's going to break the whisk. He can be so dramatic sometimes.

Louis rolls his eyes. Harry is generally very good at getting a rise out of Louis when he wants to, but that's only when Louis is just as or more upset. Louis is not upset right now. Louis is annoyed, yes, because Harry has been snappy and short for the past few days, but he's not going to blow up over this. "You gonna tell me what's wrong, or am I going to have to leave and room with James until you get your head out of your ass?"

That gets Harry's attention. He's looked so tired this past week. Louis hadn't initially thought anything of it, but it's striking now—he's a vampire. He can't get tired, and he certainly can't look it. "You're going to leave?"

Louis isn't going to leave. "Please tell me what's wrong."

Harry looks like he's debating whether or not he should say, which is admittedly an improvement from the static Louis has been facing so far. Before he even has a chance to, though, Zayn walks past the kitchen, and calls out, "It's because he hasn't fed in fuck long, come on, not that difficult to figure out."

Louis isn't a vampire; he's not exactly overflowing with knowledge of what Harry's like when he doesn't drink. They don't talk about that. Ever.

"What," Louis asks flatly.

Harry looks up at the ceiling. The front door opens and shuts behind Zayn. Idly, Louis wonders what their internal dialogue sounds like right now.

"Why the fuck aren't you fucking drinking?" Louis steps farther into the kitchen, until all space between them is arbitrary.

Harry doesn't look at him when he says, "it's too time-consuming to go out and hunt every two weeks, Lou."

"Doesn't Zayn?" he demands. "Zayn doesn't ignore it for so fucking long that his attitude rottens and he's—" Louis pauses. "Shit, Harry, it's not like—you're not... It's not..."

Harry's eyes snap to his. "No, no, baby, no, it's nothing like that. That's not—no. That's not it at all. That can't really happen to us."

Okay. Louis trusts him to be honest about things as serious as this. Still. “If that’s not it then why? Zayn manages, doesn’t he?”

“Zayn’s not in the same situation,” Harry argues. “I have, like. Priorities. Hunting takes forever.”

“How are you not in the same situation? What priorities could you possibly have that you think make feeding irregularly okay—which is really fucking hypocritical, considering how much you yell at me about it, Harry. What priorities?”

“You,” Harry answers.

Louis freezes. “No,” he finally replies. “Absolutely not.”


“Yes. No. That’s not romantic, that’s stupid and selfish,” Louis tells him, not entirely sure that he’s not trying to convince himself of it as well. Regardless. “And you’re never going to do that again.”

“I wasn’t trying to be romantic, Louis,” says Harry, crossing his arms. There’s batter smeared across the back of his left hand; much of Louis wants to lean in and lick it off, suck Harry’s fingers into his mouth and think of nothing but all the stupid and selfish shit Harry does because of him.

He takes in a deep breath and walks backwards. “I’m gonna go… somewhere, and do something, and I’m not coming back until you fix it. Zayn can text me when you have.”


There’s a knock on James’ dorm door at 4:25 on Sunday. Monday?

James has long fallen asleep, full off greasy food and Blue Moons and drowsy from weed, but Louis has stayed awake, leaning against the walled side of James' bed, careful not to bump his body as he gets through Prison Break.

Well. An hour ago he was on Prison Break. Now he's squinting in the darkness and drinking his way through an obscure and depressing queer film. He's not entirely sure that it's not softcore porn. Whatever. James can explain it to his girlfriend himself.

When the door knocks, Louis is pretty sure he already knows who it is. Fumbling his body over James and ignoring his sleepy grunt when Louis accidentally elbows his side, he plods barefoot to the door and opens it.

Harry is standing there, just as Louis expected. The white shirt he’s wearing is still splattered with blood, as if he didn’t even bother going home to wash up, and there’s a slash across his thigh on his black shorts, and he looks crazed. Louis doesn’t think he’s ever looked this wild before. Louis has never seen clear remnants of the hunt, but his tensed stance and wild red eyes and soft dirt under his fingernails are animalistic and a little frightening in a way that Harry rarely is.

He doesn’t look tired, though. Not anymore.

Louis leans against the doorframe, sweats bunched up around his ankles. He smells like wings and is a bit tipsy. Tipsy enough to almost want to ignore the entire argument and just go home and fuck. “How were you planning to explain the blood if James was awake?” Louis asks.

Louis doesn’t notice how unnaturally still Harry has been until he lunges forward and kisses Louis, his hands coming up to frame Louis’ face, grip a little too tight. Louis kisses him back. The inside of his mouth tastes like rawness and blood, and Louis is definitely not going to think about the solid and detailed why. Vague awareness is good enough.

“Sorry,” Harry gasps into the kiss, “sorry, sorry, I won’t, I wasn't—"

He wasn't. Louis agrees.

He swipes his tongue across Harry's bottom lip, but he pulls back immediately after that, much to Harry's apparent displeasure. Louis wants to keep kissing him, of course he does, he always does, but he's not going to do it in the entrance of James' dorm.

"I'm gonna get my stuff, and then we're gonna go, okay?" Louis says softly, brushing his hand over Harry's hip. Harry nods. "Okay."

It's not as if they've never spent time away from each other. Louis is aware that they're more codependent than the average couple, and it's a constant battle making sure that it doesn't cross into unhealthy standards, but they can deal with being away from each other. To an extent. They just don't deal well with being away from each other when the circumstances are rough.

The walk back home is quiet. Harry's eyes are bright and glowing in the dimly illuminated darkness, and he holds on tight to Louis' hand the entire time, bodies so close together that walking is almost awkward. It doesn't pass almost, of course; Harry has fantastic reflexes. Harry has fantastic everything, but Harry also has a weird conglomerate of a god and martyr complex, and Harry is more human than he believes himself to be, and sometimes Harry does really stupid shit. Louis is so in love with him he can't even wrap his head around it sometimes.

Inside their apartment, on their bed, Louis' body curled around Harry's back and his fingers still tangled up with Harry's. "I'm sorry," Harry says quietly.

Louis huffs out a breath against his neck. "I think you're more sorry that I'm upset about it than you are about actually doing it." Harry's silence is answer enough. "Whatever. It doesn't matter why, because either way, it's not happening again, or I'm gonna be gone a lot longer than forty-something hours."

Harry doesn't do it again.


"I have two nephews," Harry grinned. "Do you wanna see pictures?"

"Sure," Louis replied, expecting Harry to pull something up from the phone nestled between his thighs. Instead, Harry grinned even wider, dimples out, and before Louis' eyes could register that he'd even left, he was back with an album book in his hand. "Jesus Christ." The only people he knew who still casually referenced scrapbooks were his grandfather and Lottie as her Pacific Coast indie hipster phase got into full swing. Louis was dating a geriatric hipster.

Harry opened to the first page. "That's Gemma, my sister," he said, pointing at a yellowing picture of him with a brown-haired girl on the beach. Harry was shirtless and lankier than he is now, she was wearing a bikini top, and they were both in red short shorts and beaming at the camera. The resemblance was insane. "This was January '77, when I was still seventeen. I got bitten by a crab five minutes later."

"Shirtless on the beach in January?" Louis asked in disbelief, dragging his finger over Harry's laminated body. Louis wondered what this Harry was like. If he was still so caring, still so kind-hearted and generous and witty and weird and tripping over himself to make sure that all the people around him were happy and comfortable and loved. He couldn't imagine a decade where the answer wasn't yes. "Nice shorts."

"Flo-grown," Harry drawled, a sudden and unfamiliar southern twang in his accent. Louis pulled a face at him. "Ideally, I would have been naked, but my Mom had these weird ideas of 'proper' and 'public decency' and 'prison', so. It is what it is."

"It is what it is," Louis repeated, eyes caught on another picture of Harry and Gemma. Gemma was in an unzipped graduation robe, sprawled across Harry's back, and the hand Harry wasn't using to steady her ankle was throwing a peace sign to whoever was taking the photo. Her graduation cap was on his head. He looked freely happy. Louis wondered if he'd ever known a Harry without any weight or burdens on his shoulders other than what he wanted to be there. "You guys look like you could be twins. If she was the more attractive one. Is it too late to trade you in for her?"

Harry scowled. "Don't retroactively hit on my sister."

Louis smiled. “Show me evidence of her MILFness.”

Harry flashed his eyes red. Louis snorted. “Yeah, alright. I’m not afraid of you, big guy.”

“I’ll tell Theresa,” Harry threatened.

He wouldn’t. “You wouldn’t.”

“She doesn’t appreciate objectification,” Harry answered, smirking. “She’ll be right pissed.”

Louis forcibly turned the page. “Show me the fucking kids.”

There’s Henry—”Like, how Harry used to be a nickname for Henry? She didn’t wanna give an exact reference, but, like, his friends call him Harry all the time now, so it’s, like.” He paused, mouth stretched in a wide smile. “Look, here’s me holding him when he was born. He was the angriest baby ever. Like. At his christening, I was holding him up, and I had to take his pacifier out of his mouth, and even though he didn’t cry, he spent the rest of it glaring at me with these eyes—he wasn’t really a crier, which is weird since Mom used to say that Gem was the worst, and Tony spent the first three years of his life crying nonstop, but I guess he gets it from me. I was a lovely baby.”

He kept going. There was a picture of Harry and Gemma’s husband, Casey, swinging a three year old Henry between their arms, one of seven year old Henry working on a science fair project, one of thirteen year old Henry with his first set of braces (internally, Louis wondered Harry really needed to have Gemma document every mildly important moment, and then he remembered that Harry would be around long after any of them were gone, and he stopped with all the wondering), seventeen (and a half, the caption added) year old Henry with a smirk on his face and his arms around some pretty and tall black girl. Twenty-two year old Henry accepting his college diploma. Twenty-five year old Henry marrying the same girl. Twenty-seven year old Henry holding his daughter, Harry's great-niece.

"That was last year. I haven't gotten to meet her in person yet, because Catherine wasn't in the know, but she is now, so that's half the reason I'm Chicago bound for Christmas. Her name's Anne," he added, soft smile on his face.

And then there's Anthony, the original Anne namesake—"Wait, shit, am I looking at a picture of you or?"

"I know," Harry said vehemently.

Harry playing peekaboo with eleven month old Tony, Casey hoisting a frowning five year old Tony on his shoulders on his last day of Pre-K, a frowning eight year old Tony in full hockey gear ("Midwesterners, you know. It was either this or football, and he's scared of flying objects."), twelve year old Tony reluctantly smiling with his hand intertwined with Harry's at a dark and cloudy Disney World, sixteen year old Tony tuxed up and smiling shyly with his arms around a boy. Eighteen year old Tony frowning seriously as he gives his valedictorian speech at his high school graduation, twenty four year old Tony grinning as he accepts his masters' degree in engineering from UCLA.

"That was, um... this summer. When I went to California for the weekend and Zayn wouldn't tell you why? He graduated magna cum laude," he beamed. "He's certifiably a genius, and he took Gem's last, right, our last, so, like. Anthony Styles. God, he's so smart, Lou, it's so amazing to see the way his mind works. He and his friend made groundbreaking research in their sophomore fucking year of college. Isn't that insane? It's so insane. You would love him, baby."

Louis' boyfriend's youngest nephew—nephew—was twenty-four years old and graduated with a masters from a California state university. Nephew. Not cousin.


Louis swallowed and made careful work to make sure his smile didn't come out as a moderately freaked out grimace. Some reminders hit harder than most. "He lives right here, on the West Coast?" Harry nodded. "Why don't you go see him more often?"

Harry shrugged and looked away, running a hand through his hair. "He's really busy. I don't like bothering them, I already call and text and request way more pictures than any normal, like, uncle would. He's busy."

"Babe," Louis said lowly, circling his fingers around Harry's wrist. "Pretty sure you're not a regular uncle."

"It's okay." Harry flashed a smile, and turned the page. "It's okay. Look at this one."


Louis wants to build a shrine to Harry’s hands. Louis wants to start a religion around Harry’s hands. Louis wants to call the federal government and formally request that Harry’s body, and subsequently his hands, gets classified as a national treasure.

Louis wants Harry to adjust his hand away and stop pressing so directly against his prostate, and Louis will kill him if he twitches just an nanometer away and stops pressing so directly against his prostate.

“Fuck,” Louis curses, body squirming from the unbearable pleasure, keening high in his throat when Harry hums around his cock in reply. “Babe, babe, I—”

Harry looks amused as he takes Louis’ cock fully into his throat, rubbing the soft pads of his fingers where they’re almost hurting inside his body, and just—

God. Fuck. A national fucking treasure.

Harry climbs back up the bed, lying on his side and staring at Louis as he calms down his breathing. "Baby," Harry says. Louis grunts in reply, dark behind his eyelids. "Remember an hour ago when you said you wouldn't go post-verbal?”

Louis exhales through his nose. “You’re the one who spent an hour not letting me come, asshole.”

“I never explicitly said anything,” Harry answers, dragging his fingers down Louis’ bare stomach.

“It was explicitly implied,” Louis says, opening his eyes and watching as Harry runs his thumb around a greening bruise on Louis’ thigh. Last Tuesday.

“How you handle implications is entirely up to you, baby.” He presses his thumb on the mark. Louis shuts his eyes again. “You remember when I gave you this one?”

“Last week after accounting after my tirade against Matthews.” Harry gave one of his usual not-at-all succinct motivational speeches, and then Louis fucked his mouth. Twice.

Harry hums. “What about this?” he asks again, bracketing a ridiculously large and dark one on Louis’ stomach between his index and middle fingers.

“It’s been there for three years,” Louis replies. He’s barely exaggerating. “Because you’re obsessive.”

“And this one?” Harry continues, trailing his lube-tacky left hand back down Louis’ leg to his ankle, bright red and a deep purple right over the bone. "How'd you get this one?"

Harry knows how. It was last night, after Louis spent a week tensed and stressed and snappy because of school, to the point that even his weekend had been ruined under a mound of essays. When Louis finally got done working on some stupid group project in the library, Harry baked him Slutty Pot Brownies, gave him a massage with insanely expensive Moroccan oil he of course just had lying around ("it stimulates healthy and strong hair growth," he defended, spending an excessive amount of time on the tension knots he swore were on Louis' ass), and then folded Louis in half and fucked him into their bed until he forgot that there was anything to be stressed about.

Louis throws his forearm over his face, ignoring the rush of blood to his gut. "You should've seen the other guy."

Louis twitches when Harry lightly nips at his hipbone, and rearranges their bodies so that he's on top of Harry, pinning his wrists in place with his hands and rocking his ass back on Harry's cock, still half hard and wet from Louis' mouth. "Hey."

Harry wriggles his wrists in Louis' hold but doesn't try to free himself. Not that he'd have to try. "Hey."

"I love you," Louis says.

Harry's mouth quirks up enough that his dimple pops out. "I love you so much."

Louis pokes him in the dimple. Making himself comfortable on his favorite resting seat, he asks, "have you ever drank from someone? A human?” He wonders if he sounds casual. He hopes he sounds casual.

“Uh,” Harry answers, smile fading slowly. “I think you know the answer to that one.”

“No, not like—not the accidents. Like. Purposely, with full disclosure and you in total control of yourself and no death scares.”

No death scares, Harry mouths. 1994 wasn’t the best year for Harry, aside from the fact that Louis was born. The lack of disclosures and loss of self-control and death scares were the reasons why he and Zayn fucked off to England in the first place. “Why?”

“Just wondering,” Louis says. Casual. Trying to keep his heart rate steady.

Harry’s brow furrows in confusion at why Louis is obviously lying, but he answers. “Yes.”

Yes?” Louis wasn’t expecting a yes. Louis was expecting a no. Louis had replies planned with a no in mind. “Who? How? When?”

“Jesus, Lou. It wasn’t often. It’s just, um… There are humans in the know, sometimes, and there’s a pretty big number in Europe, since it’s been around for so long. And they can sometimes tell? And I’ve… been with some of them.”

Louis lets go of Harry’s wrists and sits up. “What do you mean by been?”

Harry’s got a shifty look going on right now. “Mostly one-off things. I only saw one of them regularly.”

“What do you mean by saw regularly?”

Harry pulls his bottom lip into his mouth. “I dated her.”

Okay. It’s not that Louis is one of those horrible people that refuses to date bisexual guys/guys that aren’t entirely gay, especially when he himself isn’t exactly a Kinsey six. But Harry is—

Vampires can have children with human females. Theresa said. And Louis knows that Harry wants kids, shit, Louis wants kids, Louis wants to make a fucking army and hold down fort, and he wants them with Harry, but adopting and surrogacy involve Harry further into the legal system than he ever needs to be, and that will be his only option if he stays with Louis.

Logically. Logically, Louis knows that being involved with a man isn't the only thing keeping Harry from going out and knocking up some pretty and willing and "in the know" girl, but he's still only twenty-one. Sometimes logic eludes him.

"Baby," Harry says hesitantly. "What are you thinking?"

Louis chews on the inside of his cheek. "Kids."

Harry's face falls. "Baby," he whispers, devastated.

"I'm not upset that I'm probably never gonna have kids—"

"You could," Harry cuts in. "If you wanted to. Like. Nothing's sure."

Louis rolls his eyes. He's sure. He's a sure fucking thing. He's going to be turned into a vampire before his twenty-third birthday, so fucking help him God. He ignores Harry's comment. "I'm not upset over that."

"Are you sure?" Harry asks quietly.

"I am," Louis nods, bracing his palms flat down on Harry's chest. "In fact, I'm not upset over anything. Put your dick inside of me."

Harry's hands go forward to grip Louis' hips, stopping him from lifting up and sinking down. Louis shouldn't have released his wrists. "You're lying. You're upset over something."

Louis stares at him for a moment. At his sharp eyes, his lips pulled into a thin line, the smear of dry precome across his jaw. "You could have had children with her."

"I didn't want to have kids with her," Harry replies without pause. "Having kids with her was never even an option for me. The only way I'd ever have kids is if you managed to talk me into it."

"I'd obviously never talk you into doing anything you're not entirely sure about," says Louis. Nothing that serious, anyway.

"I know," Harry says softly, rubbing his thumb across Louis' bare skin. "That's why you're the only one."

Louis' mouth stretches into a smile, toothy and wide. He flattens his body alongside Harry's, mouth to calf, and kisses him, tongue soft and easy, and when that one's done, he kisses him again. And then again. "Remember when we agreed to tone the gross love declarations down to no more than five a week?"

Harry licks his lips. "No."

He's right. He never actually agreed to it. When Louis brought it up after an unbearable amount of teasing from his friends because they apparently communicate like a straight romcom couple—which they don't, for the fucking record; gay people don't even get romcoms and Louis isn't that fucking sappy—Harry chuckled, then giggled, then laughed, then walked out of the room snorting.

Louis pulls a face at him. Harry pulls it back, scrunching his nose and squinting up at Louis with amusement. "I love you so much. We're gonna get married stupid and young, and you're gonna turn me before I'm twenty-three—"

"—I'm gonna turn you after you graduate and finish telling all your family members and are absolutely positive," Harry corrects. Louis, as far as he's concerned, has been positive since he was eighteen years old, but according to Harry Styles, grand master of logic and the human condition and expert of freshman year psychology, no one in the world is positive about anything at eighteen.

The only reason Louis doesn't push more is because Zayn told him of the highly dubious consent surrounding Harry's own turning and the reasons why it took him so long to even consider a turned Louis on the table.

"Anyway," Louis continues, threading his fingers through the hand Harry's got splayed flat across Louis' stomach, "you're gonna turn me once your fifty qualifiers get accomplished, and I'm gonna stay young and beautiful forever, and we're gonna be the best fucking gay uncles our sisters' kids will ever know."

Before Louis even finishes his spiel, Harry rolls them over, one hand across the small of Louis' back and the other on the side of his neck, and kisses him to an inch of his life. "I love you," he says every time he pulls back so Louis can breathe. "I love you."

"Understandably," Louis says haughtily, threading his hands through Harry's curls. "I'm going to be older than you for the rest of eternity."

Harry trails his mouth down to Louis' neck, kissing and licking and lightly biting at his favorite spot directly above Louis' collarbone. "You're going to be smaller than me for the rest of eternity."

"I'm gonna be better looking than you for the rest of eternity, too, loser. In the future, when everything is smaller and we're all living on Neptune, who's gonna be in better luck? Not freakishly tall people with giant hands."

"This is a sudden turnaround from your love proposal three minutes ago," Harry murmurs into his skin. His cock is sliding against Louis' belly, hard and already wet at the tip. Romance gets Harry hot.

"Gotta keep you on your toes," Louis says, gasping when Harry lifts his legs and braces himself on his knees so that the tip of his cock is pressing into Louis' rim. "Thought you weren't gonna put your dick in me."

"I never explicitly said anything," Harry smiles, grabbing the lube on their counter before slicking himself up and slowly pushing in.

Louis licks his lips, shutting his eyes at the familiar burn of Harry's frankly ridiculous cock. "It was explicitly implied."


"I want you to drink from me," Louis rushes out.

The blue-haired girl next to Louis side eyes them.

Harry doesn't answer. He slides his sunglasses back on, even though they're under the shade of the giant trees in the quad and it's the usual cloudy outside. His hands go in the pouch of his hoodie.

Right. Bringing this up at a GSA meeting on a Wednesday afternoon probably wasn't Louis' smartest idea.

They were meant to go grocery shopping after the meeting, but once everyone has cleared away, Harry collapses onto his back and doesn't move.

"Harry," Louis says, poking his side.

"Carolina and Kai are thinking of putting you in charge of the pre-Pride fundraiser," Harry says. His voice is slurred and heavy. "Since you did so good helping last time and are so good with pronouns."

Louis flushes a little in happiness, but he knows what Harry is trying to do. "I want you to drink from me, Harry.”

He can’t see Harry at all behind these glasses. They’re thick and very dark and if Harry would just take them off, then Louis could have an idea of how he feels about the request.

When Louis reaches his hand out to pull them away himself, one of Harry’s snaps out of his hoodie and curls a few fingers around his wrist, stopping him. His claws are out.

“I want you,” Louis enunciates for the third time, “to drink from me.”

Still, Harry says nothing. He doesn’t say anything while they walk home, or while they both shimmy out of their black jeans and into sweats and he finally takes off the shades, or while he reheats last night’s spaghetti for Louis, or while his green eyes stare at Louis while he eats.

It’s the quietest evening they’ve had in a long while, but for once, Louis doesn’t keep trying to push. He can’t tell if he’s being rejected or ignored, which one is worse, and if there’s any difference at all.

Finally, as Louis curls himself up on their loveseat and idly works on an essay in between scrolling through Facebook and brainstorming selling ideas for the pre-Pride fundraiser (of course he’ll act surprised when Kai brings it up, but he wants to make sure he starts off on the right swing), Harry asks, “why?”

Louis glances up. “Why what?” Harry looks back at him until he quits fucking around. Louis sighs. “It’s logical. It’s way logical for you to drink from me.”

Harry makes a weird, choked off noise. “Logical? It’s logical for me to suck your blood?”

Part of Louis wants to make the joke, not the only thing of mind you’ve sucked, but he doesn’t actually enjoy sticking his foot in his mouth. “You’ve fed from other people loads of times before. You dated someone and drank from them from the get-go.”

“I’m not going to drink from you because you’re jealous.” He’s standing with his arms crossed, legs crossed at the ankles, against the opposite wall.

“I’m obviously not—” Harry arches an eyebrow. “Whatever. That’s not the point. That’s not why I want you to. It’s not like we never have before, babe, like, there was that time in the forest two years ago.”

“That doesn’t… that doesn’t count,” Harry mumbles, gaze shifting away.

Louis moves his laptop onto their coffee table, littered with Zayn’s copy of Hundred Years of Solitude and Harry’s Pleasure of the Damned and a bunch of Louis’ open and highlighted textbooks. He stands up. “The forest counts, Harry.”

Louis keeps his steps careful and measured as he walks towards Harry, maintaining clear eye contact the entire time until he’s stood directly in front of Harry and looking up. “The forest definitely fucking counts. You almost cried because I was bleeding a little, and when I let you—of my own free will and suggestion, by the way—you got so worked up from it that you literally humped me against a tree. I'm fucking positive the forest counts."

Harry rubs his fingers over his lips, a learned human tick.

"I know that you're probably scared that you're going to lose control and fuck up, but you won't. I know that you won't."

"You don't," Harry tells him. "You don't know that."

“I know you," says Louis. "And I trust you, even when you don't trust yourself." Slowly, Louis takes Harry's hand in his and lifts it up to his neck, to the same spot that Harry bit him on all those months ago. "I want you to drink from me. It doesn't have to be today, babe, but the offer's on the table, and if you want it then it's yours."

Harry's eyes flash, fixated on where their hands are resting on Louis' neck. "It's always been mine," he says, a little grumbly.

Louis grins. "That's the fucking spirit."


"Hey, bro, what're the chances that we can go somewhere and talk without Harry snooping in?"

Harry was off working on a group project for his women's studies class, but Louis didn't know how far their telepathy extended, and he didn't want to take any chances and have Harry aware before Louis was aware of him being aware.

"Sure," Zayn answered, lowering his phone and locking it, giving Louis his full attention. "It's gonna be mad annoying blocking him out until you're ready, but it's always great when Harry doesn't know everything. What's up?"

Louis made himself comfortable on the couch, folding his legs under his thighs and cradling his Power Rangers' mug between his hands as the hot chocolate cooled down. "I've been doing some Googling, right, about acceptable amounts of human blood output."

"Fancy phrase," Zayn said. "WebMD taught you that one?"

Louis flipped him off. Zayn smiled a little, tongue poking out. "It says humans can lose a pint every eight weeks without, like, health risks. That true?"

Zayn made a vague noncommittal noise. Louis chose to take it as an agreement. "But let's say that a human is hypothetically letting a vampire drink from them—”

“The human being you and the vampire being Harry,” Zayn said.

Louis took a sip from his cocoa. “Hypothetically. How would the vampire, like… know when to stop feeding without dipping into the danger zone? Do they not know, and that’s why Harry gets freaky about it?”

“Nah,” said Zayn. “It’s like… instinctual. We can tell how far we can go, depending on the person. It can be hard to stop for some, though, which might explain Harry’s weirdness about it, but just like Harry, I’m positive your hypothetical vamp has a lot more self-control than they think they do and wouldn’t fuck up. Do you?”

“Do I what?” Louis asked.

“Fuck the hypotheticals, babe—do you trust and believe that Harry wouldn’t fuck up? ‘Cause you can’t bring it up to him if you’re not. He’s gonna be looking and waiting for a lie or for the littlest doubt. You need to be totally positive, Lou."

"I whole-ass everything," Louis said as seriously as he could. Zayn cracked a grin. "Is there anything I should know going in?"

"Human blood is fucking amazing," Zayn quickly answered. "It's the most—it's so good. Like, animals are fine, but human blood is just ridiculously awesome. We can go longer with smaller amounts of human blood than otherwise."

"You want a bite?"

Zayn bit his bottom lip. "It's too attached to sex for you, so no. Harry would flay me alive."

"And then me," Louis conceded, skin already prickling at the new knowledge. He could be a better life source for Harry. So fucking wild.

"Harry would kill me twice before he even thought about laying a hand on you,” said Zayn.

Louis got up. He had a meeting with his advisor to decide if he was going the route of administration or marketing. Marketing was the clear winner. “It’s because he gets emo when he can’t eat me out,” Louis said. “Needs me alive for that one.”

“Not that alive,” Zayn replied idly, innuendo heavy in his voice.

Louis groaned. “I fucking hate you.”


“What if I wanted to now?” Harry asks, lying on his side and trailing his hand down Louis’ back.

Louis doesn't bother lifting his head from its resting place between his forearms, still working to get his breathing under control. The slick warmth of Harry’s come inside his ass is distracting and making it hard to settle.

"Wanted to what?" he asks, squirming on his stomach when Harry's fingers slip in between his ass and tap on a very, very recent hickey on the inside crease.

"You know. Drink from you."

Louis' heartbeat picks up, heavy and thick in his chest. "You hungry?"

Harry hums. “Yeah. Yeah, baby, I am.”

“Well.” Louis clears his throat. “Get on with it, then. Nothing we need to like, prepare with, right?” They didn’t need anything in the forest. Harry just shoved him against a tree, dropped his fangs, and pierced his skin. Just like that.

“You don’t want to switch positions? You’ll feel trapped like this.” Louis feels a little trapped every time he’s under Harry and he’s yet to complain.

“Won’t it be better for you like that? If I feel a little like prey?”

“No,” Harry says weakly. Not even trying to pretend to tell the truth.

Louis smiles into his forearms and cants his neck to the side. Doesn’t move. Waits.

It doesn’t take long at all for Harry to climb onto his body, stretched out along the soft and hard lines of Louis’ back. This isn’t exactly a new position to Louis, and his hips instinctively incline themselves up, just a little, bringing him closer to Harry’s skin and Harry’s cock.

“Tell me if you want me to stop,” Harry says, voice a little breathy. Louis doubts he’ll want or need to stop, but he nods anyway, careful not to say or do the wrong thing to make Harry change his mind. Harry wants this, and Louis wants Harry to have this. There’s no reason why he shouldn’t have it.

When Harry’s fangs first cut into his skin, it doesn’t feel like anything. They’re just like small pinpricks against the back of his neck, not all that different from what needles feel like, although obviously thicker. And then the venom kicks in.

Vampire venom isn’t inherently poisonous, and Louis can’t get turned just from a drinking bite (“There’s a difference?” “Of course there’s a difference, Lou. Wouldn’t it be really counterproductive if we turned everyone we drink from?”). But it is something of a natural anesthetic and mild paralyzant, and it numbs Louis all the way through. The focal point is centered on where Harry’s bitten, but it spreads, slowly, slowly, down his chest and through his arms, past his torso and all the way to his toes. He tries to wriggle them, but it’s like his brain can’t connect the request with the muscles in his foot. He doesn’t feel like he can connect much of anything other than this, other than where Harry has wrapped his hand around the front of Louis' neck and tilted him closer.

It’s almost like being high or drunk, but nothing like it, all at the same time—it’s heady and indescribable and all-engulfing. Like everything in his body is moving towards Harry’s teeth, like he wants to be drained dry, like he would let Harry if that’s what he wanted. He would let Harry do anything to him right now, and it’s dangerous in a way that he doesn’t have the right mind to recognize.

He feels like he’s floating somewhere, and the faint pressure of Harry’s body pressing him into the mattress, Harry’s cock fitting between and rubbing off on his ass, Harry’s hand around his neck, Harry’s teeth sucking out his life to make it his own—like these are the only things keeping him here. Keeping him present. He doesn’t feel present. He feels like he needs to always be like this, always present himself to Harry as his to take.

“Baby?” Harry’s voice filters in very slowly. “Louis? Baby, Lou, are you—“

Louis grunts in reply. Awareness and feeling in his body wash back in waves of sensation under his skin. “Babe?”

“Yeah, fuck, yeah, I’m right here,” Harry breathes.

Louis has been turned over onto his side, woozy and slow to respond. He needs another few minutes to open his eyes, and in the meantime: “Hi.”

Hi. Jesus Christ. Are you okay?”

His back and torso feel familiarly wet and tacky, and when his hand scratches down and around, there is, in fact, come pooling around his belly button. Well. That’s interesting.

He opens his eyes. “Dandy.”

Harry is sharp and inhuman. His eyes are abnormally bright, like they’re redder than they usually are, and there’s—Louis’ blood. Louis’ blood is smeared around his mouth. Like a reaction, his tongue swipes out to lick it away. Louis doesn't remember it being so intense last time, but last time is also a blur. It could have been.

"Are you okay?" Harry asks, worry clear in his voice. His brow is furrowed, mouth parted a little. There's blood on his tongue. Louis'.

Louis hums. He is. God, he feels more than okay. "You full?"

Harry nods, worry easing out and a barely restrained grin taking place. "You're so fucking amazing."

Louis' mouth ticks up as he stretches out a little, taking advantage of being in full control of his muscles once again. “Hm, I know. How was it? I taste like yours?”

Harry’s smile turns dirty, in familiar Harry fashion, and he edges closer. “‘Course. You are.” They’re always so close but right now Louis doesn’t see how this could be enough. It doesn’t— “Hey, you with me?”

Louis laughs faintly, blinking hard and fast. “I don’t know. Kinda out of it. This I remember.”

Harry makes like he’s going to get off the bed, saying, “I’m going to go get you a protein shake and something small to eat, okay? That’ll help.”

“No,” Louis quickly responds, pulse picking up.


“Don’t—Not yet. Stay here.” Later, he might feel embarrassed over how needy and clingy he’s acting right now, but then again he also might not. He just donated blood to keep the great fucking love of his life healthy and happy and strong. There’s no embarrassment in that, he doesn’t think.

Harry stays. They’re quiet for a few minutes as Louis’ system comes back to full throttle, and it feels nice, his man’s body wrapped around his, bare and comfortable. “There’s come on my back,” Louis finally murmurs sleepily, eyelids at half-mast.

“That is a fact,” Harry says.

“Why is there come on my back?”

“That is also a question,” Harry says.

Louis grins. What an idiot. “Does blood make you hot?”

“Your blood makes me hot,” Harry answers. “I’m slipping into the lava…”

“Stop,” Louis groans. Harry either listens to weird indie, R&B, oldies he was alive for, or abolished boybands. Those are his four moods. Louis can’t believe this guy. Lamest vampire ever.

“Baby,” Harry speaks, green-again eyes twinkling and voice toneless, “who turned the temperature hotter? ‘Cause I’m burning up. Burnin’ up for you.” He pauses. “Baby.”

“I was fourteen when that came out,” Louis tells him.

Stop.” He covers his face with his freakishly large palm. “You know how uncomfortable that makes me. God.”

“Can’t hold myself,” Louis starts. “Back.”

Beneath his palm, Harry grins.


Me + you + this bag of weed = the beach?

Can’t, Louis responds, fingers shaking a little over the keyboard.

Why? You scared of the sun?
I’ll protect your weak skin with my superior brown body

Hahahahahahha fuck you, no
I’m busy

Tell Harry to get his dick our your ass for 5 seconds so we can chill

“No,” Harry answers when Louis relays the message, dipping his head back down between Louis’ thighs.

He’d say no but his dick’s not the thing up my ass


Louis smiles, but that quickly fades out into a flat mouth, phone falling out of his hands and onto the pillows beside his head when Harry starts working his tongue in, as dirty and perfect as it always is.

The one person Louis had regular sex with before Harry, Max, had a beautiful mouth and a long tongue, but it was all pointless, because he didn’t know how to use it. He hated rimming and he sucked at blowjobs. A good guy and great soccer player, yeah, but Louis couldn’t have lasted in a relationship where he had a greater chance of winning the lottery than getting his dick sucked.

Harry has a beautiful mouth and a better tongue and is really, really into going down on Louis.

God. Louis loves Thursdays. He woke up at noon, ate a chicken tender sub with almost an entire bag of frozen TGI mozzarella sticks—much to Harry’s total disgust and Louis’ subsequent glee—rewatched half of season one of Friday Night Lights with Zayn and Harry, spent so long in the bath he pruned up, and then pressed the backspace on Harry’s laptop until he got the hint and came back to bed with Louis. It’s been a great day, and it’s only 6:20-something. College is great. Harry is great. Harry’s tongue is fucking fantastic.

Harry’s tongue is soft and all-encompassing. He always takes his time, doesn’t bother starting this unless he knows he can take his time, but usually by now he’s sped up and is fucking fast and dirty, putting his superior biology and limitless lungs to use and not bothering to move up for air.

He hasn’t moved off much now, but the way he’s grinding his tongue in is steady and purposeful. Louis is well aware of how long Harry can go down there (or rather how long he can handle Harry being down there), but he doesn’t want to come from this.

“Babe.” He pulls at Harry’s hair, softly even though it wouldn’t make a difference to Harry if he used all his strength. “Harry, babe, wanna.” He stops, sighing out a moan when Harry presses his tongue as deep as it can go, shy of something awesome. “Babe. Wanna come on your cock.”

Harry dips up, mouth shiny and wet. “You trying to say I can’t do both?”

“Calm the ego,” Louis says, throwing their almost empty bottle of lube at Harry’s head.

Harry always, always uses so much lube, which explains why their bottle is almost over even though they got it two weeks ago, and now is no exception. "You really don't need that much."

"Hey. Hey, let's be clear about one thing," he says, adopting an overdone serious tone and southern accent, Louis' least fucking favorite inflection on him, "I think I know what I'm doing by now. Let me do my job."

"This is your job?" Louis asks, trying to keep his voice steady as Harry slides in two fingers, immediately going for the money shot and crooking them just right. "Getting paid to fuck me? You gotta secret side gig I should know about?"

"Everyone has their place in the workforce," he replies airily, stretching his digits out. "I'm doing my part to keep unemployment low and domestic GDP high."

Louis throws his forearm over his eyes, caught between laughing breathlessly at Harry's dorkiness and whining low in his throat at the action down there. 'Action down there', Jesus, even his internal thought processes sound like Harry. It's also something James would say, but Harry gets pouty and sensitive when Louis brings up James during sex. He can't wait until Harry gets over himself and realizes how well they'd get along.

"I'm uncomfortable with how much you're laughing when I am stim—"

"Don't even finish that sentence," Louis cuts him off. "I swear to God, Harry, if you finish it, you're dead."

"Funny thing about that," Harry starts. He doesn't actually finish; while Louis is gearing up for more shit talking at each other, Harry angles himself back down and swipes his tongue around Louis' rim, scissoring his fingers, trying to ease his tongue in between. Trying implies a possibility of failure, though, and that’s definitely not a factor for Louis’ guy.

Louis is easy for it, easy for Harry. He literally always is going to be, and there isn’t even a hyperbole in that one. “Hey, big dick,” he murmurs, full up on three fingers and Harry’s tongue.

“Come quick?” Harry answers, moving off and nipping on Louis’ thigh. If he was human, his tongue would undoubtedly be swollen and heavy beyond belief. As it is.

“Come now.”

Louis likes fucking missionary. One time, when he was high and oversharing his gay sexual life with his mostly straight soccer teammates just to see how far he can go before one of them awkwardly tries to change the conversation to tits, as he is wont to do, the admission slipped out and he got teased beyond reason for his vanilla and boring preferences, but missionary or not, he’s positive he still has a better sex life than any of them do.

There’s no way he doesn’t have the best sex life in, like, the entire state of California. On a small scale.

Louis likes fucking missionary, and sometimes Harry likes starting real slow, and it seems like this is going to be one of those times.

“Tell me when you want me to go faster, baby,” Harry murmurs, bracing his forearms on either side of Louis’ head and leaning down so they can kiss, wet and easy. Louis lets out a vague acknowledgement, letting his eyes shut close and his legs wrap around Harry’s waist.

He likes missionary because this way he can kiss Harry as much and as long as he wants, without any uncomfortable cramps in his neck. It’s great fun making Harry do all the work. His slow and deep thrusts are purposeful, effortlessly nudging at the right place, always the right place, with every slick movement forward.

"You wanna drink?" Louis asks, canting his throat in the way he knows by now is most effective, pulse right in Harry's direct eye line. Lets his body go limp.

He wants to come, he's close to coming, and he wants his freaky vampire boyfriend's fangs to get him there.

Harry’s hips stutter, mouth going lax at the edges. “I mean. I’m not gonna say no.”

His teeth have already elongated, and they’ve done it enough times over the past weeks that he’s not spending ten minutes trying to make sure that Louis is absolutely positive, sinking in above his pulse smoothly. Louis appreciates the trust.

They don’t do it, like, every time they fuck (and they don’t even do it only when they fuck, although it does lead into it pretty frequently, since it’s so sexually laced for Louis and his blood actually does get Harry ridiculously hot), as there is a limit to how much blood Louis can lose. Zayn was right about Harry instinctively knowing when to stop, though; any and all dizziness he feels is because of the venom. Small amounts do a lot for Harry and sometimes, when Louis is feeling particularly romantic, he likes to believe that it’s just as much because it’s his as it is because it’s human.

Harry pulls off sooner than Louis’ idle and influenced brain expects him to. He’s still aware enough that it only takes Harry two tries for him to respond. “Do you wanna taste?”

Louis blinks. “My blood?”

Harry nods. His lips are so bloody, and he doesn’t even try to clean it off. “Please. Might as well start getting over the human aversion now, right?”

Louis’ eyes widen. Fuck. Shit. Fuck. “Right,” he says faintly. He can’t believe what he’s fucking hearing. “Right, yeah, c’mon. Why not.”

Harry sets his teeth back under Louis’ skin for but a moment, transferring to Louis’ mouth without pause and letting the blood—his own blood—gush onto his tongue.

It doesn't taste like much of anything to Louis other than metallic and somewhat salty, but Harry whimpers into his mouth and kisses him harder than he has all day, hips starting back up and fucking in fast, less rhythm and pacing then he usually has, and when Louis licks back and purposefully catches his tongue on Harry’s fangs, he keens low in his throat and comes, grinding deep and filling Louis up the best way he knows how.

Louis is settling in for a lot of smugness and self-satisfaction, but then Harry mumbles, “can’t wait for you to understand how fucking good you taste,” and even though it doesn’t make much sense, since vampire Louis obviously won’t be able to taste human Louis’ blood, he comes so hard and so long that he’s not convinced he doesn’t black out and find God for a few minutes.


“Five out of five stars,” Louis sighs after, sprawling his limbs over Harry’s body and yawning. “Would watch again. Outstanding recommendation to all my friends.”

“I should sleep tonight,” Harry muses.

“Hundred percent on Rotten Tomatoes. Not only would I watch in theatres five times, but I would pay for four of those times and have a full tank of gas.”

“Zayn and I are thinking of visiting London for winter break. You down?”

“International honors at Cannes, especially with how much the French love their softcore gay films,” Louis continues. “Is Cannes in France? It’s in France, right?”

“We need to stop meeting like this,” Harry finally relents. They don’t even entirely do it on purpose; Louis won’t stop until he’s finished his thought, and Harry’s brain is always at a thousand miles per second, and sometimes these interfere. It’s not like they speak over each other. A real conversation, save for the different topics. Louis does it with Lottie all the time, except then it’s because Lottie never cares about what he has to say and is of the same barrel through the end mindset.

“I think we both know I’m never going to shut up until I die,” Louis says. “You need to give in and submit to my urges.”

“You’ll be dead and still talking my ears off,” Harry mutters darkly. As if he won’t love it.

“This is the point in the movie where you kiss me hard and then passionately bite me on the neck for my final transformation into a vampire, and the first thing I say when I awake is mine, right before I seductively rip your neck off,” Louis whispers to Harry’s right nipple. He feels punchdrunk and deliriously happy.

“Why would you say mine?” Harry asks in disbelief. Louis lifts his head just so he can squint at him in mutual disbelief. “You’re right, baby, I’m sorry.” Louis drops his head back down. “You know how it is with those possessive supernatural types.” Damn right Louis does.

“Wait, back up a few scenes, babe,” Louis says to Harry’s other nipple. “Imagine we’re in, like, a forest, right, let’s get a little specific and say a clearing, and your god complex is amped up a few thousand megawatts.”

“You’re pushing it,” says Harry.

Louis adopts his breathiest voice, peering up at Harry through his eyelashes. “What a stupid lamb.”

Harry shoves him off and storms out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

Harry’s cellphone stayed in the living room when they migrated into the room, and Louis reaches out to grab his for a quick text, knowing that no matter how fake angry Harry is, he’ll never be fake angry enough to ignore his messages.

I thought you were open to any new ideas I might have ?

Who is this?

Louis cackles, staring up at their ceiling with a grin. God. He's so fucking happy. There's no way it can ever get any better than this.