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He doesn’t usually do this, is the thing. He’s wound up from his grandfather’s dressing down, even if it had only been on the phone, and he just wants… Something. But he can tell straight away it was a mistake, coming here. The name of the club alone should have given it away - Love Bites. He has been resisting a good eye roll each time he catches a glance of the logo plastered on a coaster or a garish poster. If the gaudy decor isn’t enough, the place is clearly rife with fangchasers. People are sitting in the red leather (really?) booths in twos and threes, occasionally four, in various stages of flirting, kissing, and touching. Those who aren’t paired off in dark corners are either leering hungrily from where they perch on their bar stools, or fluttering their eyelashes seductively from the dancefloor.
It’s fine. He isn’t one to judge. Half of his family’s wealth comes from a human fascination with their kind, so his disgust at the blatant transactionality is directed mostly at himself. Hypocrite. That’s the word that rattled him in all his grandfather’s ranting about his wasted potential, his inability to live up to his legacy. “Weak”, he was used to. “Disappointment” still stung. “Blood traitor” was always a fun one, too. But his grandfather had known what would hurt, he’d looked him in the eye when he spat out the last one. Hypocrite.
His grandfather is right, of course. Isn’t it always the case that those who know you best know how to hurt you the worst?
He sips his drink, surveying the room and trying to drown out the scents of sex and blood permeating the air. It’s a whiskey, not his favourite, but it had the least awful name on the menu. Old Fangshioned. He hates that the blood-alcohol ratio actually tastes good. The name is unforgivable. But at least it wasn’t the Bloodspurt. God. Louis couldn’t have felt more out of place if he tried.
***
Harry’s eyes flick from the bar to the curtained corner booths, to the impromptu dancefloor where people are lazily grinding together, back to the bar.
Sex. Thirst. Money. Thirst. Thirst. Sex. Reptiles… (what the fuck…). Sex. Money. Money. Money.
He sighs, picking up his Pump-lemousse. The names of the drinks alone would be enough to put him off, regardless of the clientele this place obviously caters to. He tries to center himself on the task at hand even though he can feel several pairs of eyes on him like sharp cuts at the back of his knees. He shivers in the cool air - they never got the bloody temperature right in these types of places - and straightens on the gaudy red leather settee.
He’s trying not to look too out of place, doing his best to seem like he’s only lazily jotting down notes, doodling even, to the casual observer. He’s distinctly aware that looking nonchalant in this particular bar might be a unique challenge, but he hopes the precautions he took before coming have paid off.
He runs a hand through his hair only to remember, belatedly, that he’d slicked it back with gel in order to blend into the… aesthetic. He’d worn eyeliner, too. Not his usual bright or sparkly fare, but a deep brown with burgundy makeup layered over top. He hadn’t bothered with any other enhancements, his skin already a pale enough tint to create a nice contrast with the cropped leather of his jacket. He’d opted for simplicity, wanting to look the part without drawing too much attention. He was meant to be an observer. A fly on the wall.
He grimaces at the thought of flies. He was technically in a room full of corpses. Or would be corpses. Or potentially future corpses.
He rolls his eyes internally.
Everyone is a future corpse, Harry.
He angles his head down, shaking it a little despite an absence of the comforting swish of curls that accompanies it usually. Right. He is playing a role. He hopes the way he’s sitting hides the fact that he is closing his eyes to concentrate now, hoping to find something new.
Money. Money. Sex. (Oh, god… really graphic) sex. Sex. Silence. Power. Money. Sex.
Harry’s eyes snap open, automatically turning towards the inconsistency in what he’s hearing. He concentrates to find it again.
Money. Alcohol. Thirst. Thirst. Silence. Silence. Silence.
It’s like a hole in time or the fabric of reality, somehow. A blank where there is usually, well, something. Harry searches mentally for that void, that empty space that he senses, that’s screaming in all its silence, silence, silence. He can’t seem to ignore it now that it’s there and Harry realizes he’s half standing from the corny chaise already. Glancing around quickly, he settles back in his seat, a little embarrassed and a lot confused.
What the fuck?
Harry looks down at his notes, seeing his pen has drawn a line that trails off the page when his mind apparently took note of the… Silence. Silence. Silence.
And it’s fucking good, too. No chatter. No weird images popping into Harry’s mind uninvited. No strange emotions taking over his body without his consent. It’s so nice that Harry finds his mind gravitating towards it again and again. Silence. Blank. Nothingness.
He loses himself in it for a moment, eyes closed and pen dragging across his notebook without any particular goal. He tries to keep up the pretense, tries not to let go of the slight mental tether to the binds of his earlier words muttered into his own skin and temporarily weaved into his being. It’s difficult, though, with the way the dark, rich, nothing seems to invite Harry in. He wants to crawl into it and fall asleep there.
He’s wondering if he can just make himself a tiny nest here, in his head, at this shitty bar, when the darkness shifts somehow. It reminds Harry why he came here, where he is, physically at least, and that he has no idea what this silence actually is.
Harry berates himself, not for the first time, for getting lost in thoughts (his own, or otherwise). He opens his eyes and scans the room, trying to pinpoint that pull, where it’s coming from exactly.
It’s not an easy feat in this type of environment. Hence, closing his eyes to try to shut out other stimuli as he tries to pick up on any interesting or unusual vibes. It’s not a skill he’d particularly honed, anyway, pinpointing the source of any one thought or feeling. Most of the time, Harry is trying to ignore the unfiltered thoughts and feelings invading his brain on a daily basis. His eyebrows furrow as he sort of feels his way to the blank slate. It’s easier than he expects and he thinks it must be due to the fact that it’s just so incredibly silent.
In a sea of chatter and meaningless thoughts, the void glides around like a ghost. Harry is so concentrated on feeling it, getting lost in listening to it again, that he doesn’t notice how it sort of takes over.
“Hi.”
***
Louis never does this. He never does this. This is something Zayn would do, something he does, regularly, at places exactly like this. Zayn with his unabashed caramel eyes perpetually tinged red, whose cool and broody aesthetic seems to appeal to all humans within a fifty meter radius at all times. It’s the main reason Louis hadn’t even invited him tonight. Too embarrassed to be seen in such a cheesy place, Louis had opted to come alone, hoping the anonymity might give him some courage. Ridiculous. Louis simply isn’t made for this kind of seduction, despite all the inherent advantages of his kind to that goal. Louis doesn’t do this. Louis should be at home with a blood bag, a film, and the last two cigarettes in his cupboard he knows he left there (for emergencies, of course).
Instead, Louis is apparently doing this.
The this in question at the moment being walking up to the bar at a sleazy fangchaser's club with the express intention of chatting someone up. Chatting someone up. He is definitely too old for this shit. He feels like he was born too old for this shit. And yet.
“Hi,” Louis says, immediately wishing he hadn’t. The word sounds raspy. Makes sense. Louis’ throat has gone dry and his mind has simultaneously emptied itself and begun to fill with absolute nonsense.
Hi. Louis wishes, not for the first time, that he could simply die. Do his kind even get seizures? He could fake one.
The person startles, seemingly coming out of some kind of trance. Their eyes refocus on Louis and Louis finds his lips part reflexively.
The air hits his tongue and his mouth fills with saliva, the scent of them hitting him harder than he expects. He feels his canines lengthen without his consent and he can’t help the way his hand flies up to his mouth in horror. God. What the fuck. That hasn’t happened since Louis first turned. It’s never happened in public like this. Louis is mortified. If he had any of his own blood running through his veins it would likely be pooling in his cheeks and chest.
Luckily the person doesn’t seem to have noticed because the jolt of their surprise has knocked over their drink and they are trying to mop up the mess it has made of their notebook.
“Oops!” Their wide eyed gaze travels down to Louis’ front, mouth twisting in regret.
Louis is just staring. He knows he is, but he feels frozen, stuck in some sort of stupor at the sight of this long legged, tattooed creature fussing over their spilled drink. Louis is still caught on the way they are grasping a notebook between two delicate fingers as they shake it out, little flecks of their drink landing on their (bare, bare, bare) torso.
“Fuck,” Louis breathes, trying to keep his eyes open at the onslaught of stimuli. It’s too much. Or not enough. Louis feels like he’s run a marathon, even though he hasn’t needed a breath in quite a long time. He’d smelled it from across the room, felt the compulsion to come closer, but now, near them, Louis is nearly overwhelmed.
“Shit, I am so sorry,” the person is mumbling. Louis can hardly pay attention between their scent on his tongue and all that pale, porcelain skin.
He’s been around long enough to be good at this by now. He can pinpoint a scent, hasn’t been surprised in years, maybe twenty at least. He remembers catching the scent of a witch somewhere in New Orleans that had him turning his head, but it was nothing compared to this. The proximity, the intensity… And all of this with his eyes closed. The assault on the visual front is just as strong, if not completely offensive at this point.
Full mouth, dark brown hair slicked back, the rush of warm blood filling their cheeks. Louis can almost taste the thin film of saliva coating parted lips, the faintest molecules of spiced scent coming to land on his tongue where his own mouth hangs partly open. He’s staring. He knows it. Probably in that way that makes him look more monster than man.
Louis clicks his mouth shut, swallowing the pool of saliva under his tongue, forced to part his lips again when his next breath through his nose awakens the ever present hunger in him, sharp and urgent. He barely registers the sticky sweet concoction spilled all over his front. He’s transfixed, mouth watering and ache growing in that hollow place where a heartbeat should sound. 20/20 vision and supposedly perfect reflexes, but Louis is struck dumb by a stranger blushing and fussing over spilled drink.
Louis stiffens when, without warning, the strangers’ hands are all over Louis’ middle, the sopping wet napkin doing nothing to diminish the way Louis feels their heartbeat thrumming, quick, fluttering. A strung chord. A hummingbird. Louis wants to pluck at it, wants this creature in the palm of his hand. Delicate and fragile and… Frowning in concentration as they apparently attempt to wipe away some of the spill on Louis’ shirt.
“I am so embarrassed,” comes the strangely deep voice. A rumbling, scrape of a thing in such a pretty package.
Louis feels another pulse of the ache in his chest. Stronger now, sharpened by the thirst, but not exactly the same feeling he’s become so familiar with. Embers of it igniting deep, the kind he hasn’t felt in decades, maybe even at all. It’s not the familiar sting of putting off a meal, not the tired itch of not quite full day in, day out. It’s more than a want, desire or lust, not quite strong enough words either. It’s a need.
And how novel, really, after inhabiting a body that requires so little to function, to survive. It’s been so long. It’s been so long. Louis thinks he may have forgotten what need is now, how it feels. Sudden and unexpected, but not completely unwelcome. It’s unfamiliar, all consuming. He nearly slices his tongue open on the edge of his own canine in restlessness. He needs it. Not the transient, albeit sweet, relief of cracking open a can or bag on any given Tuesday. This need demands satiation. Satisfaction.
He tries to concentrate on what the person is now saying. Their voice is thick, slow in such a frenzied atmosphere. Where Louis once smelled mingling scents, blood and sex and sweat and alcohol, there is now burnt honey, slow and thick on Louis’ tongue.
Louis looks up into the person’s eyes, trying in vain to make out what they’re saying. There’s a white noise in his ears, some insane version of undead tinnitus, so he has to smile and shake his head when they’re bringing a weighty hand to Louis’ shoulder.
“Really sorry,” they say. Louis can count the flecks of gold in the green of their irises. The hollow of their throat looks rough. There’s a microscopic tear in the skin where the epidermis is thinner. Pink and tender with new growth. Louis’ fingers twitch at his side when the rough pad of a thumb comes in contact with his collarbone, dragging the dark, wide-necked shirt a little as it retracts as if in slow motion. Louis looks down at it, eyes coming back up to see a ghost of a frown on the stranger’s face.
“S’nothing, love,” Louis murmurs. Louis knows, without a doubt, that this person isn’t like him by the way everything about them - warm scent, heated gaze, hot blood pumping under pale skin - screams alive alive alive. Yet he also knows he doesn’t need to make himself heard for this person to understand him. He knows it by the way their pupils dilate, by the minuscule hitch in their breath, by the way sweat pools on their upper lip.
Louis would feel bad for the stilted, robotic way he is talking if it weren’t for the way this stranger keeps staring at him too. As if he’s seen something he doesn’t understand either.
Orange. Apricot? Something nutty, though. Something fresh, too. Thyme? Louis is trying his best to calm down, taking slow, measured (if unnecessary) breaths through his mouth while attempting to hide the fact that he hasn’t managed to retract his canines yet. This delicious-smelling stranger’s hands back to patting his stomach lightly aren’t helping anything in the least.
“Leave it, really,” Louis says after another silence stretches out, those unfamiliar (though not at all unwelcome) hands barely moving at this point.
The stranger seems to kick into gear, blinking for what feels like the first time since their eyes met, and brings their hand back to their own body, fidgeting a little. Louis can hear their heartbeat fluttering under their ribs, the blood still pooling in their cheeks and chest like warm toffee under parchment thin wrapping.
“I’m Louis,” he tries, extending a hand forward in the small space between them.
The stranger startles a little, looking down at Louis’ hand with a bewildered look. Their eyes snap up to Louis’, eyes searching, a little frown forming.
“Harry,” they say. So goddamn slowly. “Nice to meet you.”
The words are hollow despite the way their tone feels like molten bronze in aural form. Harry is busy thinking. Hard. There’s that searching gaze again, frown deepening.
“And, erm,” Harry says, still staring intently at Louis. “To answer your earlier remark. Hi back.”
The unexpected response sparks a laugh in Louis’ belly and he’s too caught up to school his expression in time. The stranger named Harry grins, seemingly proud to have surprised him.
***
They’re a him. Well, they feel like a him. Harry startles at the realization that he doesn’t actually know. This Louis person is a blank slate. No inner monologue Harry can latch onto to start a conversation. No stray thoughts about dinner tonight (though that may be unwelcome given Louis’ likely tastes). Harry is having a hard time staying present when he keeps expecting to hear something and he simply… can’t.
There’s a whole lot of nothing where there is supposed to be something and it makes all of this Louis person’s words echo in his own personal pocket-sized abyss. He hasn't spoken much, but every word feels like it scrapes against Harry’s consciousness, cutting and sharp against the nothing nothing nothing pounding in his brain. Harry had brushed a thumb over Louis’ skin, put his hand in his… Sometimes it was harder to get a read on people without touch. But even with direct contact, Harry can’t really sense much more than a vibe. A… strong vibe, but not enough. Harry feels it in his teeth, the way the person before him commands his attention without effort, the way he watches Harry like prey. It makes goosebumps erupt on his skin.
“I’ll get you another,” comes the raspy tickle again. Distinct. Sharp. Harry is convinced he’d hear their voice anywhere now, pick it out among thousands.
He tries to establish balance again, using the little tricks his nan taught him when he was young. “It’s like tuning a radio, sweetheart,” she’d say back then. “Except you’re not looking for a station, you’re looking for the in-betweens.”
You want to focus on the person you’re speaking to just enough to drown out the surrounding thoughts floating in the air, but not so much as to only hear what they’re thinking rather than what they’re actually saying out loud. You want that outside noise to be a nonsensical chatter, a somewhat pleasant buzz, even, as the person you’re with directs their thoughts and speech in your direction.
It’s not like there are schools for this type of gift as his mother would call it. In fact, mindreading was especially rare. Harry didn’t know anyone outside his family who could do it. Or at least, no one particularly credible.
It’s taken Harry a good deal of practice on his own to be able to sit in pubs and listen in without causing a scene. His teen years had him forgetting to stay aware of himself and his body while listening to others, which led to a few awkward fainting spells in public. Or, conversely, when the noise or energies of those around him became too overwhelming, Harry sometimes found himself being shaken back into an apparently screaming and thrashing body. That had only really happened once while in public. Still, one does not easily forget such an experience.
And now…
“What were you drinking?”
The sound pierces through the silence that Harry had been cozying up to again. Shit.
“Wha?” Harry asks, guilty gaze snapping to Louis’. It’s not like Louis knows that Harry has been mentally nestling into all his empty space. He couldn’t. He doesn’t.
“Your drink?” Louis asks, and Harry tries to concentrate just on the spoken words, tries to recalibrate his senses accordingly.
“Oh!” Harry says, loud. Too loud. Shit, he thinks again. This is tougher than it seems. He lowers his shoulders consciously. “Oh, erm, alright. It’s a…” Harry glances down at the near empty glass. “Oh, god, erm. It’s a Pump-lemousse. Double shot, ane-...”
“Anemic,” the stranger completes for him, a ghost of a smirk on his lips. “S’alright, love.”
He can feel his cheeks heating again, always, apparently. Perpetually sweating under this person’s gaze. It’s ridiculous. All the names of drinks here are silly, but it feels especially humiliating to form the words Pump-lemousse under Louis’ icy gaze. He’s pale (of course) and standing unnaturally still while Harry struggles to control his heartbeat and breathing. A single eyebrow lifts on Louis’ otherwise immobile face before his gaze shifts, and suddenly he’s leaning on the bar beside Harry. The only indication that he moved a small whoosh of air in his wake.
“Oh,” Harry lets out softly.
Definitely not human. If the slightly outdated clothes, pale skin, and overall impassive demeanour hadn’t confirmed it, this show of speed definitely had. Harry imagines, for a split second, how exactly that speed could be controlled and when it might make an appearance in his daily life (so to speak) when, almost instantly, Louis is placing the silly cocktail in front of him, gaze intent and searching.
“I’m sorry, was that rude? I know that hu-” Louis stops himself, clearing his throat. “Erm. I mean. People find that to be… unsettling. At times.”
Harry doesn’t have time to talk before Louis is speaking again, though.
“M’a bit rusty, it seems,” Louis says, an arm coming up to rub at his neck. Harry’s eyes follow the movement, unable to keep his eyes from widening at the scar peeking out from Louis’ sleeve. It’s old, skin tight and raised, but white instead of pink. Can dead skin scar? Harry tries to remember to write the thought down later. Instinctively, Harry prods at Louis’ mind, curious.
Silence.
Louis is licking his lips and Harry could swear he sees the flash of a fang in the corner of his mouth.
Harry coughs to distract himself from how sound seems to echo in the calm created by Louis’ very existence. It’s either too loud or not loud enough, it’s hard to tell, and it does nothing to help Harry with the way his brain can’t stop burrowing into Louis’ non-thoughts.
“Rusty?” Harry asks, a little late. Louis grimaces.
“With, like,” Louis gestures vaguely. “Speaking out loud.”
Harry startles.
“What?!” he gasps without thinking.
Louis eyes him warily, leaning back a little for the first time, bringing a hand up as if to calm a wild animal.
“M’just joking, love,” Louis says slowly. “Don’t do this often, is all.”
“What? Oh! Right.” Harry chuckles nervously and takes a steadying breath. “God, me too. Rusty.”
Louis looks reassured and to Harry’s relief, settles into a free stool, edging it closer to Harry’s too deliberately to be casual.
“Sorry about the drink,” Harry blurts out. Louis is staring at him, eyes sharp and body way too still again. Harry feels lost for social cues between the silence and the stillness. It’s like time has stopped and all he has to mark its passage is his frenzied heartbeat pumping blood anywhere but his brain, apparently.
“It’s forgotten, love,” Louis murmurs, gaze still intent. “No use crying over spilled ridiculously named overpriced cocktails and all that.” Louis’ smile is sardonic, a slight twitch to his otherwise motionless expression. “It’s Harry, right?”
“Um, yeah. That’s me!” Harry attempts a little jazz-hand-like movement, only to have Louis’ hand clasp his elbow when he nearly loses another drink to his erratic behaviour.
“You sure you don’t need some water?” Louis asks. It would be cute if his expression was concerned, but instead he sort of looks amused. He’s smirking. Dick.
“I am not drunk!” Harry protests. “This is my first drink. I didn’t even get to drink the other one!”
Louis breaks into a smile then, another beaming thing that transforms his face entirely. Harry has to pinch the skin on his inner wrist hard to keep from losing the plot again.
“Don’t laugh, it’s because, you,” Harry splutters. He settles on a pout, turning a mutinous glare on Louis. “I-”
Louis raises a perfect, delicate eyebrow at Harry again.
“You just caught me off guard,” Harry mumbles. Then, quieter, almost to himself, “not an easy feat either…”
Louis’ gaze is sharp again and, bugger, super hearing. Right. God. This stranger was proving to be sort of bothersome, actually.
“People don’t startle you often, then?” Louis asks. The tone is curious, but his eyes are still gleaming with… something. Harry never thought he’d actually miss being able to hear everyone’s every thought.
“Not often, no,” Harry murmurs. He’d never been with this kind of creature, not like this, at least. His best mate Niall was the fangchaser who was currently obsessed with his tutor. He’d shown pictures of the sultry, dark haired crush from the uni’s help centre website and positively begged Harry to go on a reconnaissance mission to their local bar.
“Please, Harry,” Niall had started up for the thirteenth time that Saturday morning. Harry was seriously regretting agreeing to cohabitate with his (frustratingly lovable) troublemaker friend. “I’ve got to learn about their likes, their dislikes… I haven’t got a single one of them as a schoolmate, you know they hate finance.”
“Niall. They’re not like some animal you study in a lab! Just ask him,” Harry had argued, exasperated. “You know, humans don’t all like the same things just because they’re human. Case in point.” Harry had gestured to the completely vile toastie Niall had been tucking into. Pickles, cheese, and chips. Eugh. Present day Harry shudders even at the memory.
Niall had proven to be his usual convincing self, though, and Harry had folded eventually. Thus, Harry’s secret mission to learn more about these particular supernatural beings and report back to Niall at a kitschy bar. Unfortunately, Harry also had a deadline coming up for a “fresh, new idea” for his next novel that his agent heavily hinted might benefit from “current issues”. So far, his all-human romance novels had been popular, but his agent was constantly pushing for something to “spice it up”.
Harry realizes he’s let the conversation die. Again. He shakes himself.
“I’m sorry, I’m really not usually this… This…” Harry sighs, running a hand through his hair. “Scatterbrained? I swear I’ve done this before…”
Louis eyes him with wariness, then amusement.
“S’alright, love,” Louis says, his blue eyes distinctly twinkly. “Despite all appearances, I’ve done this before too. Erm. At some point.”
Mortifyingly enough, an honest-to-god giggle escapes Harry’s lips. Louis looks pleased enough, though, so Harry tries not to blush too hard.
“Stilted conversation with a stranger while getting slightly doused by their drink, you mean?” Harry asks, bringing a hand up to his face in embarrassment.
“Oh, no, that’s a regular occurrence, really.” Louis takes a seat in an open stool next to Harry. “Our kind is notoriously clumsy, don’t you know?”
Harry makes a show of taking out his notebook and jotting something down.
“Un…co…ordi…nated.” Harry mutters, smirking as he pretends to write it down. “Terrible… at… chat-up… lines…”
Louis laughs at that, so Harry feels justified in beaming back at him. Niall might be onto something, what with the current obsession. The way Louis moves - fast, fast, slow - is oddly entrancing and endearing all at once. Where he once saw only unnatural stillness, Harry can now see the tiniest muscle twitches, quick adjustments, wetted lips.
“Sorry,” Louis says after another impromptu staring match. It’s soft and remarkably unapologetic in tone. “M’not usually so twitchy.”
Shit, Harry must have been tracking the tiny movements with his eyes or something. Obvious. Always so obvious. He ducks his head.
“Can’t relate,” Harry rushes out. “Sorry if I’m staring, too. I just…” Never heard silence quite this loud, he finishes mentally. “This is weird, isn’t it? Like. Even for, well, this type of place.”
Louis’ eyes crinkle and he nods.
“Maybe especially for this type of place, honestly… I mean, you sm-,” Louis’ eyes widen and his hand flashes to his chin, then back down to his lap. “Look! Look, erm, different.”
“So are you,” Harry blurts out. “I mean, so do you.”
God, that damn silence is overwhelming and Louis is just staring at Harry, lips wet again though Harry didn’t see his tongue this time.
“Do you smoke?” Louis asks, out of nowhere. Harry is thrown a little by the abrupt subject change.
“No, that’s terrible for you,” Harry answers automatically. Louis smirks. “I mean, for us.” Harry sighs. “I mean, for humans, like.”
Louis just raises an eyebrow again, looking amused and mischievous and a little, slightly dangerous.
“Um, sure,” Harry says quickly. “Sure, though, erm. Outside?”
Louis nods, never breaking eye contact, and gets up from the stool. A hand is proffered to Harry.
“Please,” Louis murmurs. Harry swears he can feel the word trickle down his spine. “Allow me.”
Before Harry can even properly finish nodding his assent, Louis’ fingers are brushing against his lower back, sending tiny electric shocks all over his skin. Harry nearly stumbles, foot catching on the legs of the nearby stool, but, embarrassingly enough, it rights itself suddenly. With no regard for the laws of physics, apparently. Oh shit. That wasn’t Louis’ reflexes. That was all Harry. He felt it, a wisp, an involuntary trickle of energy escaping from where it usually resides, somewhere halfway between his navel and his heartbeat.
Louis stiffens for a microsecond and if not for the pounding silence, silence, silence, Harry is sure he would have missed it. But nothing comes of it, and Louis leads the way to the exit. Harry feels drunk, though he realizes a bit late that their newly ordered drinks are now sitting at the bar untouched. He feels high, then. On the quiet or the buzzing under his skin, he can’t really tell, but he’s just a little out of control even though nothing has happened. Nothing has happened. He tries to shake himself mentally as Louis’ touch leads him outside.
***
It feels instinctual, in a way. Louis usually hates this side of himself, the burn in his throat and the thrumming in his veins that reminds him just how inhuman he is. He doesn’t remember exactly when the laws passed, when humans not only acknowledged but kindly legislated their very existence. Time is funny that way when one begins to measure in decades and centuries rather than months and years. But it’s been so long since he has attempted to do what he is planning right now.
Still, it’s like no time has passed, the way his hands move, his voice deepens, his movements glide confidently through the space around Harry. Around his prey. Louis feels the twinge of nausea at the thought. He’d never really gotten used to it. The artificial sustenances humans had cooked up in the lab satiate the worst of his thirst, of course, but Louis had existed long before this particular scientific interest. The aftertaste and weakened powers weren’t much different than Louis’ forays into other alternatives in the past. Between shady butchers and disappearing neighbourhood hedgehogs, Louis has to admit a warmed grocery store shelf is unmatched so far in terms of convenience.
With the rise of knowledge and so-called acceptance of his community in the mainstream, dedicated blood banks and niche-interest bars like Love Bites have become more and more popular. A part of Louis had gotten used to it. It reminds him of the infomercials he sometimes sees on the telly that claim the low-fat, sugar-free, low-calorie biscuit is just as good as a regular one. Maybe it’s true. What would he know about how “the real thing” tastes? His human tastes were long gone before the invention of Skinny Cow Sundaes anyhow. (Come to think of it, they may have been permanently altered before the invention of sundaes at all. Louis makes a mental note to verify that information at some point.)
He doesn’t think it’s quite the same, however. It may have been years, but he expects that just like his instincts, the taste will come rushing back to him instantly.
This might be a bitch to deal with afterwards.
Fuck it.
“I don’t actually have any cigarettes,” Louis says.
Harry lets out a bark of a laugh, smiling at Louis with incredulity written all over his face. He’s beautiful. He smells so good and he’s beautiful.
“Have you brought me out here under false pretenses, Louis?” Harry asks, pretending to fan himself with his hand. He’s wearing nail varnish, dark red. Louis wants to see how it compares to the exact shade of his blood when he licks it off his fingertips.
“Kind of, yes,” Louis answers, shrugging.
He guesses he did, in a way. He forgot he quit smoking. Zayn keeps saying it deters the humans because of the smell. “You’ve already got the danger thing, Lou. No need to taste like an ashtray too,” his best mate had whined.
He wasn’t sure if the nicotine addiction crystalizes the same way the rest of his body did, but regardless, Louis feels empty-handed and restless without his precious cancer stick.
Not that he could even get cancer. Theoretically.
“I do like myself an honest man,” comes Harry’s reply. Louis just looks at him for a moment. “I mean, erm. An honest… I love honesty in a person.”
He’s fucking pretty when he blushes.
“Do you? Then I’ll be very honest, Harry.”
Louis steps up into Harry’s space, doing his best not to let any hesitance show. Zayn keeps telling him he doesn’t go for things, that he’s given up. “Just cause it’s in your nature, doesn’t mean you have to suck so much, Louis.”
Harry is a bit of an oddball, all long limbs and uncoordinated movements. Like a giant baby deer. With big, green eyes and long, light eyelashes. With warm, thick nectar coursing through his veins.
Right. Focus.
“I forgot I quit smoking,” Louis says, bringing a thumb up to Harry’s bottom lip where he’s biting on it. Louis feels like he can almost taste him where the skin has turned white under his teeth. Harry’s expression freezes, eyes going a little unfocused. Shit. He’s intoxicating. Louis feels intoxicated, and it has nothing to do with his Old Fangshioned.
“But I have two smokes at my place,” Louis adds, hand still frozen where it touches Harry’s face. “In case of an emergency, of course.”
Louis can’t tell if he’s imagining things or not. Harry’s scent is creating a strange haze. Louis would normally have to be a little more convincing at this point. Maybe… push. He’d never forced anything, never crossed that line, but he’d been around long enough to know his power over humans by now. But with Harry… Louis couldn’t hardly concentrate with the way Harry’s scent simply took over.
Louis has the presence of mind to drop his hand, eyes searching Harry’s for a moment.
Harry closes his mouth, like an afterthought, and keeps looking into Louis’ eyes.
“Okay,” Harry says softly.
“Okay?” Louis asks.
“S. O. S., I guess?” Harry asks with a smile.
Oh, Louis thinks. This one will be trouble.
***
It could be the whole powers thing. If Harry was still committed in any way to helping Niall seduce his crush, he might have jot it down. Constant shivers all over body. Increased and erratic heartbeat. Near uncontrollable urge to get on hands and knees and strip.
Okay. Probably not exclusively the powers thing. Though Harry can’t deny the way Louis had unlocked his front door without a single glance was confusingly attractive. But, no, it wasn’t just the super dexterity or speed. There was also the silence.
Or, it wasn’t quite silence, really. Now that Harry had had some time to get accustomed to it, he could hear… something. It was louder when they were close, a susurrus that scraped at Harry’s bones and shifted at the soft brush of Louis’ skin on his. The very tip of Louis’ finger grazes Harry’s waist, and it’s the buzzing thrum of a string section’s sustained low note. Louis’ breath warms Harry’s neck, and a tinkling cascade of chimes dance down the arch of his feet. When their eyes meet, though Harry is still deaf to any coherent thoughts going through his mind, the silence now feels more like a symphony of colours and feelings Harry has never experienced before. It’s soft and chaotic and slightly terrifying, all at once. Harry wants to bask in it, or possibly squirm away. It’s a little overwhelming. A lot breathtaking.
Harry can’t get enough.
Louis is asking him if he wants a drink, opening a large, stainless steel fridge in a nondescript, colourless kitchen. But Harry is still staring at his own fingers, marveling at the way his hands feel twitchy, electrified. He can still sort of feel Louis’ skin, rough and cool against his as he had taken both his hands to guide him into his home when they’d arrived. He’s not paying enough attention to Louis, because he notices the actual silence in the room.
“Oh!” Harry yelps, jumping a little when Louis appears beside him, the fridge door only just starting to close. Before Harry can speak, Louis’ cutlery drawer bursts open without warning and a cupboard door rips itself off its hinges, clattering to the floor. Immediately, what sounds like roughly three hundred and sixty-nine beads hitting ceramic tile rings out, followed swiftly by several simultaneous tiny popping noises.
Louis doesn’t even look alarmed, though Harry does catch a tiny tick in his jaw at the noise.
“Oh my god,” Harry squeals, clenching his hands into fists and squeezing his eyes shut as the popping noises slow down. “Oh my god, oh my god. I am so sorry.”
His eyes snap back open just as quickly at his own words and they find Louis’.
Oh, shit.
“Erm, I mean,” Harry rushes to add. “W-what the fuck was that?”
He tries very hard not to look guilty.
Louis raises an eyebrow at him, half-incredulous, half-amused. He doesn’t seem angry, at least.
“Er,” Harry says helpfully, both of them frozen where they stand three feet apart.
After a beat, Louis breaks the silence by shaking his head, huffing a laugh and looking down at the cupboard door and what seems to be a half kilo of popcorn kernels on the otherwise immaculate black tile.
“Care to explain, love?” he says, chuckling a little.
“I, uh,” Harry says slowly. A single kernel pops of its own accord. “That’s… Yeah. Uh, weird.”
Louis lets out a cackle at that, throwing his head back a little and palm coming up to rest on his stomach.
“You’ve got a bit of,” Louis gestures at Harry’s hair vaguely.
Harry’s hand comes up instinctively to shake out his curls, but he’s met with the sticky-stiff feeling of gel and he winces.
“Eurgh.” Harry grimaces, forgetting for a moment that he has accidentally outed himself, magically speaking, as he feels tiny pieces of particleboard clinging to his slicked back hair.
Louis presses his lips together, looking up at Harry through his lashes.
“Yeah… Cupboards came with the flat. Probably IKEA or summat,” Louis says casually, still sporting a wry smile. “Cheap as.”
Harry’s gaze whips up to the now doorless cupboard, where it seems Louis has dedicated an entire shelf to… popcorn. Oh, God.
“Um,” Harry starts again. He’s interrupted by the plastic remnants of the bag of kernels finally giving way to a river of kernels tipping over the edge of the shelf and onto the counter and floor. “Oh. Oh, god.”
Louis is back to pressing his lips together, clearly trying his best not to dissolve into cackles again. Harry can’t look at him directly. In the interest of unpopped kernels.
“Wait, do you eat popcorn?” Harry blurts out.
He immediately claps his hands onto his own mouth and looks up at Louis in horror.
“Oh my god, that was so rude, wasn’t it?” Harry says hastily. A single kernel pops on the counter. Harry glares at it. “Shut. Up.” He mutters through gritted teeth.
Louis erupts into laughter then. The sound of his (endearing, lovely) chuckle is still ringing in the air as Louis suddenly appears at Harry’s feet with a dustpan. Just as quickly, the kernels, popped and unpopped alike, are no longer littering the floor. Harry may not hear Louis, but he is sure he can feel his smug smirk lingering. Little shit.
“I don’t like popcorn,” Louis says, suddenly close by. Harry nearly jumps out of his skin again, though thankfully none of the kernels still littering the counter and shelf have the audacity to pop.
“You don’t like popcorn?!”
Harry claps a hand on his mouth for what feels like the twenty-eighth time this evening.
“Sorry, it’s just,” Harry attempts to clarify. “I like popcorn.”
“Bit dry for my tastes,” Louis responds.
Harry’s eyes widen reflexively, a mix of curiosity and slight disgust.
“Oh, because, erm,” Harry gestures.
There’s a tense moment where Louis just looks at him in confusion, a frown forming on his face.
Oh, god. It probably isn’t good form to mention the blood thing. Harry is suddenly acutely aware that he is in a potentially dangerous creature's home. His… His lair, or whatever.
“I prefer my popcorn steeped in fresh human blood, yes,” Louis finishes for him.
The mental image turns Harry’s stomach and something must show on his face because Louis’ casual expression breaks into a smile. He’s laughing again, that fast, fast, slow rhythm of movement and speech making Harry a little dizzy.
“M’joking, Harry,” Louis says when Harry doesn’t respond. “I just don’t like the way it clings to me teeth.”
Harry nods, still wide eyed. Right, because of the…
“Just regular old molars, love,” Louis adds, wry.
He brings a finger up to Harry’s jaw and pushes it closed. Harry’s face is on fire.
“You really don’t know much about us, then, do you?” Louis asks, still smiling a little. His finger brushes up against Harry’s flaming cheek. It’s cool and calloused, jagged relief.
“I…” Harry begins to protest. He slumps a little. “No. Not really. This was actually supposed to be a sort of recon mission or whatever the fuck.”
Louis’ whole demeanor changes at his words, unnaturally stiff again.
“Oh,” he says, taking a rigid step back. “I hope you found what you were looking for, in that case.” Louis backs away toward his refrigerator, pulling the door open. “Would you - ah - like a drink, then? I promise I have human-friendly options.”
Louis’ voice has gone a bit robotic again, clipped and cold. Harry grimaces at the sound as it cuts through the gaping silence of Louis’ apartment.
“What? No!” He waves Louis away where he’s gesturing to his open fridge.
“Not thirsty?” Louis asks. He sounds… bitter. Harry rolls his eyes.
“I meant,” Harry says emphatically, braving a huge step forward and into Louis’ space. “I wasn’t looking for anything tonight. Not… Not in the way you think.”
Louis still looks guarded and for the millionth time tonight Harry wishes he could read his expression. Better yet, his thoughts. He huffs in frustration. Fuck it.
He steps close, pushing the fridge closed and standing directly in front of a motionless Louis, grabbing one of his hands. They’re delicate, cold. Like buttery marble under Harry’s touch. He still feels like he’s treading water, but he isn’t drowning in the deep, dark silence anymore. He can breathe.
Gray, blue, purple. The rush of colours in Harry’s thoughts at their touch make it hard to concentrate, but he pushes through. He feels like he’s learning to navigate, like this is new. Different.
“Listen,” Harry says. He’s surprised to find his voice is shaking a little and, oh. “Oops.” Harry opens his eyes, finding he had been squeezing them shut unconsciously. “Sorry, it’s just. God, Louis, it’s hard to concentrate around you.”
Dark red blooms in the ocean of silence, bright ink in water.
“Erm, mutual,” Louis grits out.
His hand is tense under Harry’s, muscles jumping a little under the tattooed skin.
“I didn’t know your kind could get tattoos,” Harry muses out loud, finger grazing what looks like a castle on the back of Louis’ hand. A two and an eight also adorn his middle and ring fingers.
In a flash the colours disappear in Harry’s mind’s eye and he feels a little queasy. He realizes he’s standing near the entry way.
“Hey!” Harry exclaims belatedly, disoriented.
“What is it? School project?” Louis sighs. Harry jumps a little, turning his head to find him.
He’s standing at least three meters away from Harry, arms crossed. He doesn’t look the least bit apologetic. In fact, he looks somewhat tired. Bored, almost.
“What?” Harry answers, still very confused. “Did you carry me here?”
“You can leave,” Louis says, gesturing to the door. “No one’s stopping you. No coercion or tricks, here. Just wanted to know what it was for. Curious, I guess.” Louis shrugs, nodding at Harry. “Bit old to be a student, but never was too good at guessing human ages, really.”
Harry feels like he is living about 6 minutes in the past with how utterly incapable he is at following Louis’ train of thought. It hasn’t escaped Louis’ notice because he rolls his eyes rather dramatically.
“Well? Go on then,” Louis says. Frustration seeps into his tone, ruining the nonchalant vibe he is clearly striving for. He rolls his eyes again. “You don’t have to tell me, I suppose… I’m usually a bit better at picking up on it. Never had one make it this far yet, f’I’m being honest.” Louis’ arms unfold and he pockets his hands. “Good on you. But if you think that’s earned you a question or two, you’ve got to at least tell me what it’s for. S’it a story, then? ‘My wild night with a monster’ or summat? I promise it’s not that exciting.”
“What?” Harry reiterates. When Louis’ expression turns more angry than annoyed, he lifts his hands in surrender. “No! I’m not…” Harry is struggling to keep up, but it suddenly occurs to him what this must look and sound like. “Oh! No. No, not… Not that kind of story.”
Harry swears he sees disappointment flash in Louis’ eyes, before a mask of indifference is set into place.
“What kind of story is it, then? It’s a myth that our saliva gets your lot high, you know. I’ll give you that one for free, lad.” Louis’ eyes are boring into Harry’s. He’s watching. For the first time tonight, Harry actually feels like prey.
He tries not to let that distract him from sorting this misunderstanding out.
“God, talking is truly the least efficient method of communication!” Harry groans to himself, looking up at the ceiling in frustration. When his eyes meet Louis’ again, his expression has softened a little, eyebrow quirking in interest.
“Do you usually use another one?” Louis asks slowly. Harry bites his lip.
“I just mean…” Harry takes a step towards Louis, whose expression closes off instantaneously as he takes a step back.
“Right there is fine, actually,” Louis says. Harry sees a vein in his neck bulge. “I don’t know what you’ve used to make yourself smell like that, but I don’t need it any closer, thanks.”
His “thanks” sounds more like “fanks”. It distracts Harry from the meaning of his words for a moment.
“Wait, I smell?!”
Harry automatically shoves his nose into his armpits, sniffing loudly. His cheeks flame, trying to place whether he’d put cologne on this morning. Embarrassingly enough, he hadn’t. He’d showered before coming, but of course the leather and the pub… He can’t smell anything, but maybe he simply couldn’t smell himself anymore. Oh, god. Is it the gel? He runs a hand through his hair, bringing it up to his nose to sniff at.
Louis remains unimpressed.
“Come off it, mate, and just tell me who you work for? S’it the Sun?” Louis looks a mix of suspicious and curious.
“The Sun?” Harry asks distractedly. He is probably destroying his slicked back look, creating frizz with the way he is trying to bring some of the longer strands of his hair to his nose to smell them. “Like the newspaper? What? No.”
“A blog, then? Trying to get on one of those lists. ‘12 tricks to go straight from smitten to bitten’, or some shite?”
“Smitten to bitten… Christ, did you just come up with that off the top of your head?” Harry can’t help but ask.
“Yeah and I expect ten percent if I see it in a magazine next week,” Louis answers flatly.
Harry guffaws, despite himself.
“Louis,” he says, when Louis still looks guarded. “I’m sorry. It’s not what you think, I swear. I, erm, don’t talk very quickly, so, like, sometimes I don’t react. Like. Fast enough.”
“Oh?” Louis asks. He looks ready to strangle Harry.
“Sorry, sorry. Just.” Harry moves in the direction of the couches, making sure to give Louis a wide berth. The silence that hangs in the air doesn’t feel so oppressive, despite the clear tension between them. In fact, Harry doesn’t quite want to leave it. At all.
“I am going to sit. Because, as I said, s’a bit difficult to concentrate around you, and I think I’ve mucked this up.”
Harry tries to ignore the feeling of being watched as he plops down into a stiff leather couch. His own leather jacket making an embarrassingly loud squeaking noise as he sinks into his seat. He cringes, giggling nervously, then clears his throat.
“I think maybe my joke about a recon mission may have missed its mark,” Harry starts out, folding his hands nervously in his lap and looking up to meet Louis’ eyes. “And, erm, you weren’t wrong about the, er, story.”
Louis looks like he’s holding himself back from pouncing, so Harry tries to hurry to continue, holding up a hand.
“Wait! Not-” Louis’ fangs actually make an appearance then when he makes a growling noise deep in his throat. Oh shit. Harry tries not to find that fucking hot. He really does.
“Wait, please!” Harry starts again. “M’human. We’re slow. I am especially slow. Even for a human.” Harry tries his best smile on, but Louis is still looking thunderous. And, okay, no. That’s definitely fucking hot.
“I am a writer,” Harry says, still cringing a little. “But not for a newspaper. And also not why I am here.” Louis is still as stiff, eyes narrowed suspiciously. He huffs, hand blurring with a “get on with it” gesture. “Right. I was on a recon mission, of sorts, but not looking for a story.” Harry frowns. “Well, yes, for a story. But not for a story. D’you know what I mean?”
Louis no longer looks as murderous. He does, however, have a sort of suicidal look about him now.
“Mate…”
“No, I know, sorry!” Harry interrupts.
Louis looks like he isn’t used to people interrupting him. Which, fair. He does have a bit of an intimidating air about him, what with the ageless beauty, regal nose, and imperious expression. The romance novel kind of writes itself at this point. Harry focuses in on his explanation, deciding honesty is likely his best strategy at this point. Survival wise.
“Alright, so, basically, my mate Niall has a crush on his music tutor, so he wanted me to like, gather information on his k-” Harry’s gaze snaps to Louis’ and he tries not to look too guilty. “Well, just, on his potential likes and dislikes. Based on, er, his - their, erm, y-your… His, uh, culture?”
Harry winces, shaking his head a little.
“Anyway,” he says hurriedly. “My insane agent, Jeff, has been on me lately about diversifying my reach as an artist.” Harry actually puts the word in air quotes, rolling his eyes a little. “And like, doing something a bit more modern… Wants me to stay relevant.”
Ugh, just thinking about the conversation has Harry feeling stressed and downright… icky.
“Think he just wants a fucking paycheque,” Harry mutters to himself. Remembering his point, he directs his gaze back to Louis, whose expression has gone aggressively neutral. Harry takes a breath, steadying himself. “So, Niall being Niall,” Harry continues, interrupting himself for a moment to add, “if you met him you’d understand, truly. He’s really quite convincing, all cherubic, big blue eyes, and Irish accent.” Harry takes a breath, checking for a moment if Louis is still listening. He feels less closed off. Harry can’t seem to get used to it, the way Louis’ thoughts don’t project into his mind. Instead, it’s something between knowing and feeling, this vague taste on his tongue or colour in his mind. It’s stronger when they’re close, strongest when they’re touching, and Harry is slowly becoming obsessed with it.
“Sorry,” Harry says. “Got distracted again. Sorry, sorry.” Harry waves a hand in front of his face, as if to dispel whatever… vibe is hanging there. God, Louis is ridiculously distracting. Especially now that his attention seems to be completely and fully focused on Harry, impassive and attentive (and sinfully attractive, still).
“So, Niall, best mate, adorable, charming, Irish.” Harry tries to get back on track. “Absolutely begs me - don’t forget the blue eyes,” Harry looks up at Louis, letting a dimple pop. “I have a bit of a soft spot for blue eyes, you see.” A muscle in Louis’ jaw twitches. Harry thinks if he concentrates he can almost taste… lemon? Some kind of bright... Either that or he’s having a stroke. Harry shakes his head, closing his eyes. Yellow. He squeezes his eyes shut harder. “Anyway, Niall has been moaning about this bloke for months now, Jeff’s been moaning for weeks… And, well, I guess I’m weak.”
Harry opens his eyes back up to look at Louis.
“So, technically, yes, I was kind of looking for inspiration and, erm, research, really, for my job,” Harry says carefully. “But it was more of a… kind curiosity. For my job.” Harry pauses. “And in the name of intersp- cult-cultural relations.” Harry brings his index and thumb up to his bottom lip, pinching it. “In the name of love, Louis.”
Louis remains impassive for a few seconds. The image of an ice block melting in the sun pops into Harry’s mind unbidden. He takes it as a sign. Possibly. He also wonders if one of his protection spells was done wrong and he is losing his mind.
“For love…” Louis repeats, slow. Harry brightens, nodding quickly. Louis levels him with a piercing gaze. “And a story.”
Harry cringes.
“A love story!” Harry hurries to add.
It’s true enough, considering. Jeff hadn’t suggested Harry change genres. He had pushed for him to “branch out”. “Spice things up”. Harry ignored the bitter taste of embarrassment at his insistence, at Harry’s eventual acquiescence. He’d been taking notes on people, listening in on their private thoughts. For the sake of what? Recognition? Or worse, fame? Harry feels his stomach turn at his own choices so far.
Damn. Maybe he’d been a little less accepting and open than he thought.
“Ugh,” Harry says, slumping a little. “No, honestly, maybe I should go.” Harry looks down at his own hands, still a little queasy at the way he’d sat in that pub and judged people he didn’t know. “You’re right, you’re not a bloody zoo animal. I can’t believe I gave into the pressure…”
Harry looks up suddenly, mouth twisted into a frown but eyes steady when they meet Louis’ head on.
“I swear I wasn’t using you, though,” Harry says. He tries to tune out the slight buzzing under his skin, the dark red that blooms behind his eyelids when he blinks. “Seriously. I wasn’t trying to just, like, exploit, erm, you. Or-or anyone, really. My friend is too much of an emotionally constipated idiot to ask a fellow adult some uncomfortable or slightly embarrassing questions and my novels aren’t selling as much as my greedy fucking agent would like, apparently.” Harry laughs, low and and more than a little bitter. “And I’m a shit.”
Harry feels a rush of air, and suddenly Louis is sitting beside him. Not quite close enough to touch, but enough that Harry feels a tiny spark of hope ignite in his gut.
“You write romance,” Louis says. His tone is impossible to interpret and the fact that he’s looking at his phone isn’t helping.
“Erm, yes?” Harry says, unable to keep the note of uncertainty out of his voice.
“Human romance,” Louis clarifies.
Harry blinks.
“Yeah, erm, my agent was pushing me to be more…” Harry trails off.
“Inclusive,” Louis says, glancing up at Harry with what looks like a smirk on his face.
“Yeah,” Harry answers faintly. The bloody eye contact with him is nearly unbearable. Still, Harry keeps his gaze steady and swallows hard. “It wasn’t meant to be exclusive, per se.” Harry squirms under Louis’ calculating stare. “I told you, I am an ignorant shit, okay?!”
Louis looks back down at his phone, fingers blurring as he types and scrolls at high speed. Trying to track the movements of them is dizzying. Harry tries not to think too hard about that.
“You kind of are, yes,” Louis says after nearly a minute.
Harry’s jaw drops in an automatic protest, but he snaps it shut before blurting out something he might regret.
“Scrolled through the synopses online,” Louis continues. Harry hears it now. Smug. “Your agent might have a point.”
“What!” Harry cries at that. “You… That’s not how they’re meant to be read! What the fuck!”
Yellow blooms bright again, in his mind’s eye or somewhere deep in his stomach, Harry can’t tell. It’s something bright, citrus-sweet, though, of that he’s sure. Louis’ laugh rings out again, genuine and loud.
“Had to check if you were lying,” Louis says through a chuckle. “But I guess you really are a slightly specist,” Louis sticks his tongue out between his teeth, smirking at Harry’s outraged scoff, “romance novel writer.”
Harry is stunned into silence, mouth hanging open, unsure if he wants to pout or start shouting.
“I’m just teasing,” Louis says, leaning in a little. “I can usually tell if someone’s lying by their heartbeat anyway.”
Harry’s eyes widen at the admission. He hates that his instinct is to grab his notebook to jot this tidbit down. Louis must know, somehow, that he is resisting the urge to do so because he chuckles, softer this time. It tastes like dark chocolate and orange on Harry’s tongue. A little bitter, a little sweet.
“Yes, Harry, you may use that in your novel if you like. You have my permission,” Louis sighs, rolling his eyes. His energy has changed again. Easier. Open, maybe. Harry wants to lean in, though he isn’t sure why or where the feeling is coming from exactly. The word permission knocks against the edge of Harry’s thoughts like loose change. “That one was free, babe.” Louis actually winks.
“What will the next one cost me?” Harry asks without thinking. His heart rate speeds up at his own audacity.
Louis’ smile widens, canines gleaming a little in the low light of his living room. (Does he call it a living room? An undying room? Harry makes a mental note to ask.)
“A little taste and you’re already asking for more?” Louis says, still sporting a smirk. Orange and red bloom in Harry’s mind. Chocolate oranges, chocolate oranges. Spiced rum. “Greedy.”
Harry can feel the shift. There’s a dangerous edge to Louis’ voice, playful and testing all at once. But their proximity means Harry can feel… something. Like the air is thick again, tight and full between them.
“And if I am?” Harry asks, distracted by the way Louis’ tongue darts out to wet his lips. He barely spots it, too fast again, yet he feels the space between them shrinking at a snail’s pace. Fast, fast, slow.
“I could allow it,” Louis says, quiet. Harry feels the blood rush all the way to his fingertips.
They haven’t said enough, probably. It’s fast, and normally Harry is okay with that. More than, even, for a hookup. But it doesn’t feel like a hookup, hasn’t since the silence. It’s only worsened with time, like his own thoughts are drawn to Louis’ lack thereof. He feels powerless to the pull of it and he can feel tendrils of himself reaching out to Louis already.
As much as Harry wants to say it’s too soon - fast, too fast - he can’t help but feel part of him has been waiting a long time for this kind of pull - dark and sickly sweet tar clinging to him. He can’t quite resist it, but most importantly he finds he doesn’t even want to.
***
It’s confusing. Louis is usually good at reading people, humans especially, usually. But Harry’s scent is so goddamn distracting. It’s making him stupid. Foolish. Weak. His mind utters the words in a familiar growl, cold and commanding.
“Always so soft. You’ll be the end of us, so starved by your precious principles that you’ll latch onto the first decent-smelling vein you sink your teeth in.”
Louis wishes, not for the first time, for the ravages of time on his memory if only to forget his grandfather’s cutting words. The lack of degeneration with a near-immortal experience was a caveat most humans never quite seemed to grasp. Maybe it was the gradual loss of brain plasticity in question that limited their ability to fathom the agony and weight of forever. Or, almost. Probably it’s what led them to so thoroughly romanticize Louis’ kind.
Maybe Louis should tell Harry about that. Though judging by the quick foray into Harry’s works, an existential essay on the pros and cons of prolonged animation of undead ex-humans may not be the “spice” his agent is looking for.
But Harry... Harry is something else. In all senses of the word, Louis can’t place him in any of the usual categories.
On the outside, with his eyeliner, his leather jacket, and (now slightly mussed) slicked back hair, he’d blended right into the Love Bites crowd. If not for the scent. Bergamot? But richer. Louis still had a hard time placing the smell exactly and it was slowly driving him insane.
Even just considering telling a total stranger - maybe human, maybe not - his inner existential ramblings should be enough for Louis to have stayed far, far away from Harry. That isn’t even mentioning the way Harry reacted when Louis even attempted slightly glamouring him. It was like opposing poles of a magnet, or something. It’s like Harry knew something was happening. Or maybe Louis was proper paranoid now. Still, at the very least, Harry seemed resistant to any kind of suggestion, magical or not.
And that was… new.
And now, well, there was something more familiar brewing between them. And Louis wanted. It wasn’t thirst, it wasn’t need. It was desire, desire, desire.
Fuck it.
“Harry,” Louis says, breaking one of the many silences that seem to plague them.
Though, he has to admit, it’s somewhat welcome. It’s been a long time since he’s met a human who isn’t chattering away to fill silences or assuage their own nerves. There is a noticeable absence of the human stench of anxiety in the air. In fact, Harry hasn’t displayed much fear at all. It’s intriguing, if a bit unsettling. He either has a total lack of survival instincts, or he’s some kind of powerful entity Louis has never encountered before.
Or… both?
He’s forgotten his sentence again, half spoken and abandoned, but Harry barely reacts. His pupils are blown and his cheeks are still a little pink from their minimal banter. He’s so exquisite. So alive. Louis can’t tell if it’s just his nature, but Harry’s breath, his scent, his soft, soft warmth makes Louis want to pull and tear and wreck. He feels a little out of control. His grandfather’s words echo in his ears. Shit. Maybe he’s the one who’s afraid.
“I want to,” Harry says in the silence.
Louis finds he’s been eyeing the skin of Harry’s collarbone. Epidermis. Dermis. Hypodermis. His scent would likely be strongest just a little higher, at his pulse point. Subcutaneous tissue. Stratum basale. The integument. He tears his eyes away to meet Harry’s again.
“I want to,” Harry repeats louder. They’ve been drifting closer in the silence, slowly, unconsciously, at least on Louis’ part. But Harry lifts himself deliberately, settling even closer to Louis.
Every muscle in Louis’ body tenses. A deep, pleasure-pain ache drills up into his skull from the base of his canines. It calms some vestiges of his human instincts to take an unnecessary breath through his mouth to calm himself. The smell isn’t as overwhelming this way, but it still claws at his throat mercilessly.
“I’m not sure what you mean,” Louis chokes out, holding his body still. Too still to look natural, probably, but he allows himself this indulgence for the sake of Harry’s safety. Probably.
He’s a predator. Harry is prey. He should never have allowed it to get this far. He almost managed to stop it. He should have stayed angry. Anger was safer.
“Yes you do,” Harry says confidently. His blood - his blood, his blood, his blood - pumps faster under his skin. Thin as a pin. Pin. Prick. Lick. Oh god, Louis may be losing it.
“I-” Louis starts, barely present. He feels something against his fist where it’s clenched in his lap. He looks down, but Harry isn’t touching him.
It’s bright and warm and in his mind’s eye, he imagines an otter or a fish. The feeling doesn’t subside, even though Louis can see his own fist, still tensed but wholly untouched on his thigh. It’s not unpleasant. No, it’s… playful? Teasing? His head jerks up fast - too fast, shit - to see Harry’s eyes flick up from his fist to meet his gaze.
He’s sure the half-curious, half-terrified look Harry is sporting is mirrored in his own face. He knows his jaw is hanging open.
“Shit,” Harry curses. It’s supposed to be quiet, probably, but Louis feels the word reverberate in his bones. Harry looks… stern. Like, well, a disgruntled woodland creature. Or a kitten holding back a sneeze. It’s disturbingly endearing, considering Louis thinks he may be actively hexing Louis.
“What the fuck,” Louis says blandly.
“That’s never happened before,” Harry says quickly, and he’s looking at Louis’ arm.
Louis can still feel the something winding its way around his forearm. It’s not visible, but Louis feels it there.
“And so I say again,” Louis says slowly. “What. The fuck.”
Harry makes to reach out and touch Louis’ arm, but he instinctively recoils. Louis winces, guilty, but Harry looks nervous, staring at his middle, to his fingers, to Louis’ arm in an endless cycle.
“Harry.” Louis brings the arm not currently filled with a tingly sensation in front of Harry’s face, snapping his fingers. “Tell me what’s going on.”
Louis hasn’t really tried to outright force Harry to do anything. It’s just not his style. Even if it was, Harry hadn’t seemed particularly easily swayed up until now. But he’d been around long enough that a mishandled spell could really fuck up your day or decade.
“I don’t know!” Harry exclaims, but it isn’t frantic or fearful. Instead, he sounds a little embarrassed.
“What do you mean? Are you some kind of…” Louis doesn’t really want to ask. It’s not quite polite to do that, but, Christ. There’s some kind of invisible force cuddling up to his arm. “Harry.” Louis locks eyes with him. “What. The fuck. Is going on?”
Harry looks down at Louis’ arm again and grimaces.
“I’m a bit, erm,” Harry shrugs apologetically. “Magical, like, yeah?”
It’s not some groundbreaking information or anything, Louis fucking figured.
“No, yeah, I got that part, love,” Louis replies dryly, flexing his fingers a little. It doesn’t feel bad, is the thing. It feels… friendly. “Am I about to experience death by friendly invisible spirit or something though? What the fuck have you done?”
Harry is frowning at Louis’ arm and reaching out his hand again, this time with purpose, palm out. He closes his eyes and seems to concentrate.
“I swear if this is some kind of love hex…”
Harry’s eyes snap open at that and Louis feels a tiny shock on his forearm. He almost draws back, but suddenly the unidentifiable flow of energy dissipates as quickly as it had formed on his skin.
“It’s not a love hex, Christ,” Harry mutters, still frowning at his own hand a little. “It’s, erm, my magic.”
“D’you do some kind of ritual or something?” Louis asks, rubbing at his arm with his free hand now. “I didn’t hear you cast anything…”
His arm seems normal. He finds himself missing the slippery wisp playing on his skin. Harry shifts a little in his seat, uncomfortable.
“I, erm, don’t always need to cast,” Harry says. When Louis looks up at him, he’s biting his lip, scratching the back of his neck with one hand. “S’a family thing.”
Louis frowns. Magic without casting or ritual is rare. Louis can’t remember knowing anyone born in the last century who could do it. If they could, it was often party tricks like mild telekinesis or minor feats of thaumaturgy. He’s never seen or felt anything like what just happened before. Apparently, neither had Harry.
“But this is… new,” Harry says, and he’s flexing his fingers too.
“Can we at least confirm that m’not losing a limb or anything anytime soon?” Louis asks, feeling a little ridiculous and a lot impatient at this point.
Harry tilts his head.
“I don’t have the Sight or anything,” Harry says slowly. “I can’t predict the future.”
Louis looks up to the sky, shaking his head.
“Not what I meant, but good to know, I suppose. What,” Louis clears his throat. “What can you do?”
Maybe it’s bad form, but Louis can’t help the curl of anxiety in his gut. It’s been a long, long time since that particular feeling has cropped up. Harry finally drops his hand to his side, bringing the other one up to his mouth to pinch at his bottom lip again. He’s nervous.
“How about this,” Louis asks. The words come out of his mouth before he can think, before he can calculate the risks. It’s unlike him, in a way. Or, maybe it is like him, a version of him at least. The one that remembers what it’s like to have a heartbeat, probably.
“I’ll answer one of your questions, then you answer one of mine.”
It’s a risk. A big one. Humans (and other… creatures apparently) were always looking for insider information on Louis’ kind. To sell or to use, fuck if Louis knows the reasons. All he knows is that from a young age, his grandfather had instilled in him that giving away any secrets was a slippery slope that led to weakness, pain, and, most importantly, ruin.
“Basic,” Harry says, breaking through Louis’ slowly mounting panic.
It surprises him. Again. Harry’s scent was one thing, but Louis felt like he couldn’t read him at all. He couldn’t predict a single thing Harry would say or do and it was driving Louis insane.
“Basic?!” Louis said incredulously. “Didn’t you want to know how to write a sexy romance story about me to make loads of money and take over the world?”
“Basic and a bad listener… Yikes,” Harry says, a smile forming on his lips. They’re so very pink.
“Excuse me, how dare you?” Louis is only half-joking. He finds he’s leaning in again. Drawn, always drawn to him. “You said-”
“I said.” Harry says, elongating the word in a sing-songy voice. His eyes are twinkling and it’s infectious. Harry sighs and brings a hand up to his chest, rubbing his skin as if savouring something. “My manager and best mate wanted me to gather information on… on…” Harry looks at Louis guiltily. “Whatever, I am not trying to take over the world. That’s my point.” Harry pouts a little. “You’re very distracting. And your game is basic.”
“Sorry, I guess I’m old,” Louis says, lifting an eyebrow. Louis is good at noticing, used to standing still while the world moves at a slower pace around him. But everything is different with Harry, so he nearly misses the way his eyes widen, a mix of curiosity and embarrassment in his gaze. Louis wonders just how basic his suggestion had really been. Harry’s still here. Harry wants to know.
It should scare him. It does, actually. But it’s not self-preservation that’s making his throat burn like that. Louis feels reckless.
“What do you suggest, love?” Louis says. He likes the way Harry’s cheeks seem to colour at casual endearments. He wonders what else might solicit that response. “I’ll follow your lead then, shall I?”
Harry frowns for a microsecond.
“I-” Harry hesitates. “No, okay, let’s - let’s do that. Just…” Harry repositions himself on the couch so he’s turned towards Louis. “Let’s make it a little more interesting, yeah?”
He’s smirking a little. Shy, but Louis hears the way Harry’s heartbeat pounds behind his ribcage. Fluttering, unsteady. Bird in a cage. Louis nods, slow.
“You can refuse to answer,” Harry says, pausing. His pulse ratchets up, Louis feels like it’s pounding throughout his own body. The scent of his blood gets thicker, sweeter and spicier somehow. “For a price.”
Harry looks proud of himself. Louis hates how fucking cute it is, how much it just makes Louis want to wreck him more. He readjusts in his seat, mirroring Harry’s position and bumping the back of his hand on the skin of Harry’s knee where it peeks out of a rip in his jeans. Cheeky thing.
Harry sucks in a gasp at the touch, blushing furiously, darker than he has all night. Louis can’t help but tense a little. Harry’s scent has gone dark and warm, like warm cider.
“So you do want money and fame,” Louis says mildly, resisting the urge to quite literally sniff at Harry’s neck.
“What?” Harry says, a little dazed. “What! No!” He seems to wake up a little. “No, not that kind of price.” The silly little smirk is back now, though it looks less sultry when Harry’s cheeks are still ruddy, eyes still a little glassy. “Every refusal costs… an article of clothing.”
Harry wiggles his fingers, spreading his hands out in a jazz-hands-like movement, raising his eyebrows and smiling goofily.
“Alright,” Louis shrugs. He doesn’t give anything away, not yet. He likes watching Harry. He likes noticing the subtle shifts in his scent. Right now, Harry’s face falls a little, that pout returning in full force.
“Come on!” Harry says. “That was supposed to be sexy. You know we came here for a reason!” Harry folds his arms over his (bare, bare) chest.
“We did,” Louis says quietly, looking up at Harry through his lashes. “So you’re part succubus, then?”
Louis tries for the element of surprise, still a little unsettled from the way Harry’s magic, energy, or whatever it was had danced along his arm. Harry just giggles.
“Inappropriate,” he chides, but he’s grinning. “And I’m not sure if I am meant to take that as a compliment or an insult.”
“Take it as a question, love,” Louis shoots back, grinning too. His canines must be out, sharper, though they haven’t fully descended. “That’s what it was.”
Harry actually sticks out his tongue, and his hand comes up to run through his hair. It must be habit, because he grimaces a little when his fingers catch at the gelled back strands.
Louis is up and back before he can even think twice, handing over a brush he wet in the sink on the way back. Harry looks surprised, but not totally unnerved.
“Oh,” Harry says softly.
“For, erm, your hair. If you like.” Louis shrugs again when Harry takes the brush.
“It’s wet,” Harry remarks.
“Dipped in blood, yeah,” Louis says casually. This time Harry doesn’t even react except to roll his eyes.
“Lovely, that’ll mix nicely with the gallon of gel I’ve managed to pile onto my head,” Harry mutters to himself, already brushing out his hair a little.
Louis stays silent, unsure of what to say. He’s not even sure why he got the brush, why he took the time to wet it, even.
“Thanks,” Harry says, once he’s done. “I’m, erm, not a succubus.”
Louis didn’t think so. He’d smelled those before, when he used to go out and, well, hunt. They made him somewhat queasy. He figured it had something to do with that intention to dupe or confuse to get what they wanted. It was something their kinds shared. Louis knew at least three of his mates who’d actually liked the scent, developed quite a taste for it. Ever since humans had taken a break from their navel-gazing ways to notice the existence of other intelligent beings on earth, A, B or O weren’t the only types of blood available anymore.
Louis had stopped drinking it long before that, however, so he’d never really tried it properly.
Still, he wasn’t surprised to learn Harry hadn’t any succubus in him. Besides, this pull wasn’t artificial. It wasn’t created or manufactured or even intentional. Louis didn’t know how he knew that, but he did. He felt it in his bones, old and tired as they were. This pull just was. Is.
“Okay,” Louis says. Harry’s hair looks a bit different now. It’s brown, not as dark with less gel in it, and the ends have started to curl.
“Okay,” Harry parrots. He looks up at Louis with another unreadable expression. “This isn’t my question, okay?”
“Cheating already,” Louis responds drily.
“S’not cheating, just want to know if, erm,” Harry squirms a bit in his seat, folding his legs up like a pretzel, then unfolding them again so one dangles off the edge of the couch.
God, he is just so slow. Louis feels antsy, impatient. A rare feeling, so used to the world’s sluggish pace around him, he feels like something electric is burning through his veins.
Harry seems to sense something. Maybe Louis’ face twitched or he had fidgeted again, but Harry readjusts himself so that their knees bump and he reaches for Louis’ hand.
“This okay?” Harry asks. It’s breathless and Louis can nearly taste his scent in the air - heady and sweet and deep. Harry’s stare is intense. He looks tense, fighting to keep his eyes fully open where they droop to half-closed.
“That your question?” Louis asks. He’s being a little shit, but he just needs a distraction Anything to distract from how Harry’s hand feels, a little sweaty. Warm. Alive. Louis’ throat burns, his chest aches. He feels shaky.
“That yours?” Harry asks, and his eyelids have dropped fully now. He looks a little blissed out, smiling with his eyes closed like that. It sprouts desire, hot and stubborn, in his gut.
Instead of squeezing Harry’s hand, wrenching it over his head so Louis can pin him down on the couch and pierce his skin like a soft peach, Louis huffs out another unnecessary breath. His grin is probably a little more grimace, but he tries. Harry doesn’t seem to mind, his eyes open like slits when he looks at Louis, pupils blown and lashes lush against thin green irises.
“Can you… What, erm, can you do?” Harry asks, sounding a little dazed.
Louis considers refusing, just to see that goddamn blush again. But fair’s fair, even though Harry’s question felt a little lazy, just echoing Louis’.
“Lots of things,” Louis says casually. The warmth in his palm is spreading. He wonders if he will feel that tendril again, that something, playful and so alive against his skin. He finds he kind of wants to. He tries not to think about it too hard.
Harry’s eyes open a little wider so that he can glare at Louis meaningfully.
“If that’s your answer, I want your shirt,” he grumbles. Louis flashes his fangs playfully, without thinking. Harry’s eyes snap to them.
Shit. Too comfortable, too fast. He brings his lips together before speaking again.
Harry brings his free hand up to touch his lips, run his fingers against his own dull canines. Louis wants to smile again. He imagines the taste of Harry’s fingertip against his tongue.
“I can move very fast,” Louis says.
God, that pout.
“I can, erm, hear pretty well, like I said,” Louis adds, gesturing to Harry’s chest.
Harry looks down at his own chest, free hand coming up to feel his own heartbeat. (It’s fast, still.)
“Yeah,” Louis says, nodding a little. “Sort of like a lie detector, that.” Louis frowns a little. “Yours is quicker than most, though.”
For some reason, that makes Harry blush again.
“So you can’t tell if I’m lying?” Harry asks.
Louis isn’t sure that he can. Between Harry’s smell and his frizzy little curls now forming on his neck… Louis wasn’t lying, either. The way his heart pounds erratically has Louis itching to research what supernatural creatures may have irregular cardiac rhythms.
“Thought it was one question each,” Louis says.
“Hearing heartbeats and moving fast,” Harry says, sniffing. “Not as impressive as I thought.”
Louis has to chuckle at that, a little taken aback.
It’s not that he’s never been with someone who was unimpressed by his abilities, but he’s never quite met someone who had the audacity to just call him out like that. Especially considering that Louis couldn’t quite place his scent, though most of it seemed very, very human. And humans. Well, there was a reason places like Love Bites existed. Flight, fight, fawn and…
“Fuck, babe,” Louis says, laughing a little. “Are you baiting me, now?”
“Is it working?” Harry answers.
Cheeky, fucking thing. God, it was sexy. Louis was starting not to care if Harry was some sort of demi-god as long as he was okay with them fucking each other all night.
“Oh,” Harry breathes again, this time both surprised and -
“Oh,” Louis blurts out.
He can’t remember the last time his mouth moved faster than his brain like that. But, oh.
Fuck, Harry is turned on. Louis can recognize that particular scent anywhere. He looks down at where their hands are clasped and feels it again, the energy. He feels he should be able to see it, it feels like a physical thing, emanating from Harry’s skin. But there’s nothing there. It’s unsettling. Louis wonders if he is going insane. Maybe where humans smell smoke when they’re having a stroke, Louis smells a very turned on, unidentified halfbreed’s blood instead.
“Sorry, god, that’s embarrassing!” Harry exclaims, but he doesn’t let go of Louis’ hand. Louis makes to move away, but Harry grabs on tighter.
“Wait,” Harry says, a little pleading. “It’s easier like this, please.”
Louis doesn’t like this and if it weren’t for their entire night - this odd push and pull, the pure draw of him - he might have already extricated himself from this… Harry a long time ago. As it stands, he’s too curious to stop it. He’s too into it.
“My turn then, Harry,” Louis says darkly. “Tell me what the fuck you’re talking about.”
He forgets for a second that the command won’t really work on Harry. It doesn’t, either, because Harry doesn’t immediately start spilling his guts. It’s frustrating and confusing.
“Please,” Louis tacks on, unsure of what he is meant to do when someone isn’t obligated to do what he wants.
He doesn’t glamour people often, but he feels he’s owed an explanation.
“I can read minds!” Harry nearly shouts, closing his eyes as if shielding himself from his own words.
Louis feels himself freeze for a moment. Oh shit, is Harry reading his mind right now? Oh, shit, has he been reading Louis’ mind all night? He immediately tries to conjure up any embarrassing thoughts he may have had about Harry since meeting him earlier. Louis looks down at where Harry’s nipples are hard, peeking from behind the leather of his jacket. Oh, god, he’d definitely pictured biting at them at some point in the evening. He’d even wondered how it would look to drink off Harry there, suckling and licking at the bite as Harry squirmed underneath him…
Shutup, shutup, shutup!
Louis presses his lips together and tries to concentrate on the present. When he looks up at Harry, he’s somewhere between apologetic, embarrassed, and unmistakably aroused.
Louis doesn’t even know what to say.
“I can’t really read yours,” Harry says after a beat. “I mean, sort of, but not quite. I couldn’t at all, erm, earlier. At the pub.”
“And now?” Louis demands, instinctively attempting to free his hand again. He could use more force, but there’s a part of him that recoils at the thought of hurting Harry. Plus, that invisible energy is holding them fast.
“That’s why I wanted to touch you,” Harry says, motioning to Louis’ arm. “I can sort of, erm, feel? Your thoughts? And feelings, maybe?”
Louis stays silent, suspicious.
He doesn’t really know how this would benefit Harry in any way if it’s a prank or trick. He might get some money out of a story, or, considering the strange magic, Harry might manage to harvest some of Louis’ blood or something of the sort. Still, it seems like a very convoluted and complicated way to achieve such a simple goal.
Harry looks steadfast, though.
Probably not lying.
So, crazy?
“Feel my thoughts?” Louis repeats.
“Um, taste, yeah,” Harry says sheepishly. “Sometimes images or colours, too.”
Louis ignores the sting of shame and concentrates on the confusion and anger.
“What’s it feel like now?” Louis demands then, not bothering with any pleasantries.
Harry closes his eyes, thumb rubbing against Louis’ inner wrist. Louis looks down at their hands and he can sort of see the air distort where he feels that slippery tendril of magic climbing like a vine up his arm.
“You’re angry with me,” Harry says, expression turning cloudy. “Shit, are you?”
Harry looks at Louis with pleading eyes.
“It’s dark orange. Like, burnt caramel, it’s all bitter,” Harry says, smacking his lips a little. “But, um,” Harry pauses and his cheeks redden.
Louis hates how attractive that makes him look. He tries not to think about licking up the sweat he can smell on Harry’s nape.
“You’re also… red. Like,” Harry swallows, eyes opening again. Louis swallows reflexively too when their gazes meet. “Fuck,” Harry breathes, pushing the air out of pursed lips that shape a tiny, plush, “o”.
“So I’m angry,” Louis interrupts impatiently. God, why did this feel oddly vulnerable. When was the last time he spoke to anyone outside of Zayn? “And red.”
He means it to be biting, but Harry just nods, lips parted a little.
“And dark red, yeah,” Harry says, swallowing again. “God, you taste like my favourite Cabernet.”
The last part is whispered, but Louis can definitely smell it now. Harry is turned on. Louis is turned on. Harry can taste or feel or see or whatever the fuck when Louis wants to fuck him up against the wall while he sinks his teeth into his neck and drinks.
“S-sorry,” Harry stutters. “It’s making my mouth water a little.”
He chuckles nervously, bringing his free hand up to wipe at his mouth, checking for what Louis assumes is drool.
It shouldn’t be as fucking hot as it is.
“I know the feeling,” Louis says softly.
They just stare.
“Is it dangerous?” Louis ventures, nodding at their hands.
“Um, no,” Harry says slowly.
“That’s reassuring,” Louis deadpans.
“Well, it’s never happened before,” Harry answers, defensive. “But it shouldn’t be dangerous… It’s, well.” Harry’s cheeks get even darker. “It’s me.”
Louis frowns at Harry’s hand, at the way the invisible thing kind of flickers against his wrist. Metaphorically. Because Louis still can’t really see the damn thing.
“You.” Louis eyes his own arm suspiciously, then brings a hand to touch at where he feels what is apparently some kind of metaphysical manifestation of Harry.
“Yeah, me,” Harry says. He shrugs a shoulder up, wry.
Louis’ fingers don’t meet any resistance, exactly, when he attempts to touch whatever energy is concentrated at his arm. It’s like dipping his fingers in something wispy and light, like a sunray, almost. He brings curious eyes up to Harry’s face. Harry is watching his fingers, lips bitten.
“Feels strange,” Harry whispers, free hand back up at his mouth, pinching that damn lip.
“Yeah,” Louis says. “More,” he adds.
Harry startles, eyes wide and dropping his lip to answer.
“I mean, explanation,” Louis quickly amends. “More explanations, please. You’ve just said it’s you. What does that mean, Harry? This isn’t a game, I’ve seen a lot over the years and I’ve never seen this, love.”
“You’ve never seen this?” Harry asks. Louis can tell he’s being genuine with the way his eyes light up with curiosity. “Wait, how old are you exactly?”
“Oh no you don’t,” Louis answers, skirting around that question before it can derail them. “Explain, Harry.”
“I don’t know how!” Harry says, exasperated. “I swear, it’s never been like this before. I think,” Harry goes pink again. “I think my magic likes you or something.”
If Louis had the capacity to blush, he is pretty sure he would. God, it’s pretty much the corniest shit he’s ever heard in his life, but paired with the way the energy whirls around his arm again, Louis can’t help but feel a little affected. Harry - it - he? - the apparently sentient bit of magic actually seems smug now. As if it’s been waiting for them to figure it out all night. Maybe it has. Louis certainly feels a familiar yet not quite familiar thing inside himself burgeoning too. A flash of shag carpet and the smell of cigarettes on a rainy England day.
Shit. It’s his home.
“Your magic likes me,” Louis repeats, ignoring the wave of emotions that tries to rise in his chest. No heart beat, no sweat, no breath. Yet Louis still feels like he’s run a marathon. Blasted human instincts. Cockroaches, they never did quite die.
“I don’t know,” Harry says, and lifts both arms, yanking Louis forward a little with the motion. He has to put his hand on Harry’s thigh to avoid knocking him over. “Sorry, sorry,” Harry says quickly, righting himself. Louis finds he doesn’t want to move though.
“So it’s… safe, at least,” Louis states, eyeing his own arm gingerly.
“Very, I think,” Harry says.
A beat passes.
“So like, how old are you exactly?” Harry asks.
Louis just looks at him for a moment.
“According to my current driver’s, on my way to 27,” he answers. It’s not quite a lie.
“Bullshit. How old?” Harry asks.
When Louis doesn’t answer right away, Harry smirks.
“If you’re worried about the age difference, I’ll have you know I have a bit of a thing for older men, really,” Harry says.
He’s so smug.
“Do you?” Louis asks immediately. He can’t help the way it makes his eyes glint, he’s sure. The images running through his mind would likely make Harry blush.
Wait.
“Shit,” Louis mutters, making to let go of Harry’s hand.
“No,” Harry says, tightening his hold. “It… I can feel you better like this.”
Louis grimaces.
“Let me,” Harry says. “Please.”
Louis doesn’t like the way his chest feels tight.
“S’cheating! Maybe I like that you can’t read my bloody thoughts, Harold. Ever thought of that?” Louis huffs, rolling his eyes.
Harry just grins, shaking his head.
“I can’t read them, I told you. I can usually hear everything, but with you…”
“Burnt caramel, right. Guess I taste bitter or whatever,” Louis grumbles, throwing in another eyeroll for good measure. He ignores the small pang of disappointment at the thought of Harry potentially disliking the taste of Louis’ thoughts.
Louis spares a thought for how ridiculous this night has been so far.
“No, no,” Harry says, frowning. “Burnt caramel is when you’re angry, I think. Or… Annoyed, maybe? Confused?”
Louis eyes him warily.
“How should I know? You’re the insane person claiming my thoughts have a taste,” Louis whines. “And they say our kind are disgusting for having preferences for certain flavour profiles.”
Louis clamps his mouth shut, looking at Harry guiltily. Humans, even fangchasers, tended to either be revolted or obsessive when the actual taste of blood was discussed. Sometimes, for inexperienced ones, saying shit like that out loud could preemptively end a night, for better or for worse. Then again, Harry isn’t completely human, it seems.
“What’s my flavour profile then?” Harry asks eagerly. Louis doesn’t smell any disgust or fear, though he’s not sure things are working like they’re supposed to around Harry anymore.
“Patience, baby,” Louis says without thinking. “Haven’t tasted you yet, have I?”
Harry tenses a little, eyes widening and teeth digging into his lip again, hard enough to turn it white. Louis licks his lips.
“Your laugh tastes like lemon,” Harry says, closing his eyes and rubbing Louis’ wrist again. He opens them back up. “But that, you see. That was red. Dark red, like wine. There’s this Cabernet I love. French.” Harry levels him with a hooded stare again. “Like your name.” Harry finally lets go of Louis’ hand, but he’s running his finger against what would be his pulse point, not breaking contact.
“Louis.”
He says it in a stupid accent. Which should be awkward, a shitty chat up line at best. Instead, Louis feels the pulse of energy run from his wrist all the way to his shoulder, settling under his chest where a heart would be pounding right now. Louis can’t stop replaying the way Harry’s tongue curled to touch the bottom of his cupid’s bow.
“Rooibos.” The word appears in his mind and tumbles out of his mouth.
“Sorry, what?” Harry asks.
“Erm, like the tea?” Louis says uncertainly.
“No, right, I know that,” Harry says, waving his hand a little. “Just… Why?”
“You smell like African Red Tea. It’s, erm,” Louis sighs, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment. “People call it Rooibos.”
“Oh,” Harry says. He looks positively chuffed, though he is clearly trying not to show it.
“Sometimes it’s lighter,” Louis keeps talking. He wishes he could shut the fuck up, but Harry does smell lovely. It’s only getting stronger the longer Louis keeps saying things. “Like, cider or, erm, apples?” Louis shrugs. “But it’s warm. Spiced rum or summat.”
Harry looks delighted, eyes shiny and hand squeezing at Louis’. His so-called magic is sending sparks up and down Louis’ spine. Or maybe it’s the eye contact, he can’t tell anymore.
“Thank you for telling me,” Harry says solemnly. Louis shrugs again, too fast to be natural, probably.
“S’just a game,” Louis deflects.
“Actually,” Harry says slowly. “That wasn’t my question.”
Louis frowns, replaying their conversation in his mind. Harry smirks before he even opens his mouth.
“Bloody cheater,” Louis says, instead of what he planned to say.
He tightens his fingers around Harry’s hand, shooting him a reassuring look, and tugs on the neck of his shirt, pulling it off in a quick motion.
Spiced rum, warm cider… God Harry smells good.
“Coward,” Harry says, but it’s shaky. Louis smirks.
“That’s me,” he says, still smirking.
He likes the way Harry’s eyes keep flicking down to Louis’ chest, like he is trying, but can’t help but stare. Louis has the almost uncontrollable urge to grab a handful of his curls and pull him in, superpowered demigod or not. Louis licks his own lips at the thought of Harry kneeling at his feet.
Harry’s finger freezes where it was still tracing the tattoo at Louis’ wrist. Suddenly, he’s tensing, nails digging into Louis’ skin. Louis gasps a little, more out of surprised instinct than anything else. Harry releases his grip almost immediately.
“What was that?” Louis asks accusingly.
Harry looks suspiciously guilty.
“N-nothing, sorry!” Harry says, but it’s breathless again.
Louis narrows his eyes.
“You’re lying!” Louis says, triumphant.
“M’not!” Harry says quickly. The quickest Louis has ever heard him speak, actually.
“You are, you little minx,” Louis snatches his hand away from Harry and points at him. “You can read my thoughts, can’t you?”
Harry’s cheeks are blotchy now, eyes wide and expression a little frantic.
“No! I can’t… I can’t h-hear what you’re thinking, I told you!” Harry says, but he sounds guilty.
Larry makes an impatient gesture for him to go on. Harry tries (and fails) to grab his hand again.
“Nuh-uh,” Louis tuts. “No touching privileges until you explain yourself, lad.”
He’s embarrassed, but that spiced scent still lingers too, along with the sweat and the rush of blood through his veins. Fuck. He’s so god damn lovely.
Harry reaches out again, finger brushing up against Louis’ bicep. Louis grabs his wrist, careful to keep the leather of his jacket between them, and places his hand back in his own lap firmly.
“Be good,” Louis admonishes.
To his surprise, Harry doesn’t protest any further. Oh.
“Tell me,” Louis says. He’s not using any kind of supernatural power, but he still feels something when Harry’s pupils grow as he nods. He looks proper chastened.
“I can sometimes, erm,” Harry mumbles.
“Speak up.” Louis knows he’s pushing it now, but he can’t help it with the way Harry reacts, straightening a little in his seat.
“I sometimes see images when we’re, ah, touching.”
Harry looks up at Louis, half-ashamed but a whole lot smug. He sneaks a hand back to Louis’ lap, brushing their thumbs together.
“Cheeky, cheeky thing,” Louis mutters, shaking his head.
Harry huffs a laugh, shaking his head a little.
“Yeah,” he says, looking up from where he’d let his head fall forward. “Heard that earlier too.”
Louis narrows his eyes again, shaking his head. He’s not upset, not really. It’s just easier to focus on his playful teasing than to think about what Harry might have seen, heard, felt, or (god forbid) tasted throughout the night.
“I don’t like this,” Louis says finally. “You’re a cheat.” He moves closer to Harry, though they’re already in each others’ spaces. “You lie.” Louis places his hands deliberately on Harry’s bare waist, just above the cut of his hip and the denim of his jeans. “And you seem to be under the impression that your little party tricks…” Louis shifts his weight quickly, able to see Harry losing his balance before it happens and allowing him to sprawl backwards on the couch. He pins him down, faster than the gasp that leaves his lush lips. “Give you the upper hand.”
Now that he has an idea how it seems to work. Now that he knows what it means when Harry blushes and squirms, Louis is decidedly impatient.
Fuck the game. Fuck knowing what Harry is. He knows what he needs to know - his throat is burning, his jaw is aching from being clenched all night, and Harry is warm and pliant beneath him. Apple and spiced rum and golden sun dripping over his couch. It’s high time his self-imposed drought comes to an end. Harry, melted brown sugar and cinnamon sweet, is spilled out in front of him, ripe and ready to be lapped up. Savoured.
And Louis is fucking parched.
***
Flashes of syrup and spilled blood are crowding Harry’s mind as the taste of wine and dark chocolate flood his mouth. He loses himself in it for a moment, surrounded and overwhelmed by Louis - arms pinned up by his ears, Louis’ cool nose tracing a vein in his neck. Harry whimpers, loud, and squirms a little under Louis’ surprisingly strong hold.
“Fuck,” Harry whines, hips coming up to rut against Louis’ automatically.
They haven’t even kissed yet, still on the couch in Louis’ vast living room. He’d spare a thought for his vague reminder to ask about the linguistics of such a room in someone like Louis’ house, but he’s too busy being assaulted by images of himself on his knees, bent over a large bed, laying sprawled out under Louis as he laps at a bloody bite on Harry’s chest.
It should probably disgust Harry. It has in the past. He’d silently judged Niall, at least a little, for having such a fascination with who he used to call walking corpses. But now…
“Louis,” Harry says, pushing back a little on Louis’ chest, tapping impatiently when Louis inhales deeply and growls. “I know, big bad monster. Horny, horny predator.” Yellow bursts through red in his mind’s eye and he hears a huff that is more laugh than growl. Ha, got him.
“Lou,” Harry says again when the yellow starts to fade. “Wait.”
Louis stiffens a little, leaning back. He seems to look around Harry, frowning a little.
“No, you’re right,” Louis says without context. Harry is just about to reply when he feels a rush of air and a slightly queasy feeling in his stomach.
“Okay now?” Louis asks.
It takes Harry a second to realize they’re in a bedroom now.
“Are we still in England?” he asks, looking around at the generic decor. “Is this your flat?”
Louis cocks his head. His expression is nothing short of bewildered shock. Burnt caramel. Orange.
“Yes? Where the fuck else would we be?” Louis blurts out.
Harry holds up his hands, exasperated.
“Well, what do I know about your customs! Maybe humans aren’t allowed in your private quarters or something, so you’ve teleported us to the nearest hotel room!”
Louis looks completely unimpressed, his right eyebrow quirking as he levels Harry with a flat look.
“How much time do you think just passed, babe? M’not a time traveller!” Louis chuckles and Harry crosses his arms mulishly.
“Maybe if you hadn’t so rudely interrupted our game, I might have asked you just how fast you move and what exactly the limits of your speed are!”
And oh, oops. Perhaps antagonizing a supernatural creature of unknown origins with super speed and strength (and a penchant for dramatics) was not Harry’s brightest idea. Louis looks… Devious.
God, it’s hot.
Harry is one hundred percent certain that if he were to make contact with Louis’ skin, he’d have another slew of images entirely. Harry tied up. Harry being spanked. Harry blindfolded. Oh, god. The thought of having access only to his inner thoughts, his mind’s eye, the sounds, images and tastes he might feel from Louis…
“So you want to stop?” Louis asks.
No, Harry doesn’t bloody well want to stop.
“Shut the fuck up and kiss me alread- mmpf!”
Fuck. Fuck, fuck.
“Shit,” Louis breathes against Harry’s mouth. Harry is still reeling from the onslaught of emotions, colours, tastes of their mouths colliding. It’s too much. It’s not enough. Harry scrabbles at Louis’ skin, eyes still closed, uncaring. He’s sure that if Louis was human, he’d have scratch marks on his chest at this point.
“Hold on,” comes Louis’ voice. It feels far away, because Harry’s mouth is still tingling from Louis’ tongue. He can’t tell if Louis even said that out loud at this point.
“God, just shut.” Harry moves his hands to Louis’ hair, pulling harshly at the short strands. “Up. Fuck, me!”
“Okay,” Louis says. Harry knows that one is out loud because he feels Louis’ lips spit slick against his own when they form the word. “I will, baby, I promise.”
Harry likes that. He loves that, actually, especially with the way his brain is filled with different scenarios, all flitting in and out of focus and each filthier than the last.
“But first.”
Rush of air. Cool air. And Harry finds he is sitting on the bed. He frowns down at his lap, then back up at Louis, who is standing a good two meters away.
“You have got to stop doing that,” Harry says. He’s probably pouting, but he doesn’t care.
He starts to dispel himself of his jacket, hands automatically unbuttoning his jeans once he’s bare chested.
“Okay,” Louis repeats, but Harry can’t be sure if he’s saying it for Harry’s benefit or his own. “Okay, just. Hold on. I want to do this right.”
Harry ignores him, for the most part. He feels like he deserves an award for resisting an eyeroll. God, he wants that tongue again. In his mouth, on his skin, between his thighs. His fingers fumble at his zipper, but he straightens up to get a good grip on it.
“Christ, baby, never thought I’d say this but,” Louis steps forward and holds a hand up in a placating gesture. “Slow down. I need to, like, ask you things.”
“God, what is it?” Harry says impatiently. He feels frantic. Feral, almost. He does roll his eyes then. “Can’t you use that little speed trick to get us out of our clothes or something? Honestly.”
Louis chuckles a little, but he turns serious. He comes closer, placing his hands on Harry’s thighs, avoiding the (many) holes in his jeans. It feels like progress. Sort of.
“Harry,” Louis growls. Harry feels a tug at his navel, like an urge to look up at Louis that’s not quite his own. He resists it slightly, but it doesn’t last long anyway. He feels his magic pulse around them, spreading out.
“Shit!” Louis curses, just a nanosecond after the sound of breaking glass interrupts them.
A lightbulb in Louis’ modern looking reading lamp had burst.
“That might have been me,” Harry says, finally distracted enough to stop pawing at his own jeans. He’s still annoyed at how slow Louis is suddenly being with all of this.
“Doesn’t matter,” Louis says dismissively, focusing straight back on Harry. “Listen to me, okay?”
The pull isn’t at Harry’s navel this time. Instead, his eyes snap to Louis by instinct alone. He feels the energy behind his ribcage hone in on Louis’ gaze.
He is so beautiful. All angular cheekbones and permanent stubble. He looks young, outside of his icy blue stare. He really could be nearly 27, if Harry didn’t know any better.
“I need you to say stop when you need to stop, ok?” Louis enunciates slowly. Harry nods, resisting the urge to roll his eyes yet again.
“Hey!” Louis says sharply, bringing a hand up to grasp at Harry’s chin.
Harry’s vision goes crystal clear all of a sudden. No haze, no heady overwhelming taste of wine. It’s like a veil has been lifted for a moment and Louis is staring right into Harry’s soul.
“Focus for me, baby, I want you to pay attention for this,” Louis says softly. Or maybe his lips don’t move. Harry can’t be sure of what’s happening in his peripheral vision as he is busy taking in Louis’ dilated pupils.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” Louis says. His tone is careful. Nervous, almost. Harry feels some tendrils of black, like crude oil infiltrating his mind’s eyes, invading the light blue of Louis’ emotions. “So I won’t. But I need you to fight, okay? If you feel yourself slipping, you fight it, alright?”
Harry frowns a little at the request. Fight what, exactly? But he nods his assent.
“Promise me, Harry,” Louis says. “I’m… I’m scared.”
It’s a bright, flashy orange that pierces through the mix of colours. It’s obnoxious. Harry instantly hates it. He brings a hand up instinctively to cup at Louis’ cheek and he smiles back at Louis despite his worried expression.
“I know you’re used to being the big daddy alpha here,” Harry says, ignoring the way Louis’ eyes widen and yellows and purples bloom in Harry’s mind. Laughter. And… pride.
“Oh, fuck off,” Harry mutters, unable to keep from smiling back. “But you listen to me now, alright?”
Louis nods, if only a little, and stays obediently silent.
“I’m not scared,” Harry says steadily.
And it’s true. He’s not. He doesn’t know what’s going on here tonight, doesn’t know if it’s fate or cosmic alignment or just some strange quirk of existence, but he knows his magic. He knows the feeling of right and the way his energy has gone completely batshit insane for this creature, human or not, alive or not quite. Harry trusts it. If the way his magic is rubbing up against Louis like a cat in heat is anything to go by, Harry thinks he’ll be just fine.
“And I will tell you if it’s too much. I’ll say…” Harry looks around at the woefully nondescript room, considering. “I’ll say Pump-lemousse.”
That startles a laugh out of Louis, whose expression so far had been tense and worried.
“Pump-lemousse,” Louis repeats, shaking his head a little. “Is, erm,” he clears his throat. “Does ‘popcorn’ work for me, then?”
Harry barks out a laugh at that. Right in Louis’ face.
“God, yes, fine, oh my god,” Harry says, rolling his eyes a little. He’s fond. And he feels like the yellows and purples and vanilla and caramel scents mean Louis is too.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” Louis says again, biting his lip. “But baby…” Louis leans in so their foreheads touch, shifting his hands so he is cupping Harry’s cheeks. Pink, red… The colours swirl in Harry’s mind and his mouth floods with the taste of Cabernet again. God, it’s intoxicating, overwhelming. Harry wants to close his eyes and drown in it.
“I want you.” Louis presses his lips to Harry’s mouth, gentle. Harry feels an ache deep in his chest. “So much I can barely… Fuck, Harry. I’m scared to hurt you.”
“You won’t,” Harry says. He won’t, he knows it. “Louis,” Harry pleads. “Please.”
***
Louis feels out of control. He feels like all the cells in his body are screaming for the taste of Harry’s skin. He’s had it now and he’s burning up, all-consumed. Harry has set him on fire.
“Baby,” Louis whispers. Or maybe he only thinks it. Still, it’s barely a second later and he’s on top of him, touching, touching. He tries to slow himself down, tries not to lose himself completely.
He’s never felt desire like this before. He’s sure of it now.
“Fuck, sweetheart,” Louis mutters, pressing into Harry’s skin.
“Yeah,” Harry says, squirming and tugging at his own jeans. Louis moves before the thought even forms, taking Harry’s hands in his own and pressing them up by his head.
“Stay.”
The sound of Harry swallowing is background noise to the slip of his zipper and the rustle of his jeans. He’s being way too fast again, probably freaking Harry out a little. He’s sure his fangs are showing now, he can’t keep his mouth closed with the way the smell of Harry’s arousal assaults his senses. The jeans are off and his own follow suit.
“Louis,” Harry gasps, bucking up so Louis’ lips nearly brush his hip. Louis jerks back, eyes wide.
“Hey!” Louis says sharply.
Harry freezes instantly, looking down at Louis with his arms still obediently up by his ears.
“S-sorry,” Harry breathes, biting his lip.
“S’ok, baby, just…” Louis takes a deep breath to soothe himself. (Stupid human instinct.) “It’s…” Louis can’t bite his lips in this state, so he brings a hand up to rub at his face instead. “It’s hard. To, erm, control.”
Louis feels rather than sees the blood travel down to Harry’s crotch. He twitches under his black briefs and Louis’ saliva pools in his mouth at the scent alone.
“You like that,” Louis states. It’s not a question, there’s no doubt about it. Harry’s heartrate spikes at Louis’ words and a blush spreads across his chest. Harry is embarrassed. And he likes that too.
Louis doesn’t do this. He doesn’t do this kind of thing, because it’s wrong. Or. It should be. Harry is perfection personified for someone like Louis. Beautiful. Smells divine. And so goddamn willing. Louis hates the thought of Harry going back to the bar in the future. He hates the thought of someone else taking him home and figuring out just how far he can be pushed.
No. Louis wants it more. Louis doesn’t want to force Harry to do anything. He wants Harry to want to obey.
And somehow, Harry does.
“Yeah, baby?” Louis asks. He can’t help the pet names. Maybe in the morning his glamour will work on Harry long enough to simply erase how pathetic Louis is to be so gone for a near stranger already. Maybe after they fuck, the hold this scent has on Louis will die down.
A little voice inside him pushes it further.
Maybe once Louis drinks from Harry, this deep aching need inside him will finally be quenched.
“You like seeing me lose control?” Louis asks, bringing his hand down to Harry’s throat. His touch is feather light, but he can still feel Harry’s pulse under his fingers. It makes his bones ache, from his toes to his teeth.
Harry shakes his head a little, though, and Louis realizes he’s answering the question.
“No?” Louis asks when Harry doesn’t elaborate. He shifts his weight onto his forearm, leaning forward between Harry’s long, long legs so he’s level with Harry’s chest. He brings his hand up from Harry’s throat to his jaw, squeezing a little.
Harry looks fucked out, cheeks blotchy and eyes completely glassy, but he still shakes his head no with a hazy smile. Louis wants to laugh, raising an eyebrow at him incredulously.
“Not very convincing, baby,” Louis says wryly. “You look quite pleased with yourself.”
Harry smiles wider, smug and self-satisfied and unbearably, awfully cute.
“Trust you,” Harry says, not quite enunciating his words. He’s still smiling, looking down at Louis lazily. “Magic trusts you.”
Harry looks like he wants to bring his hands down to cup Louis’ jaw. Louis’ not sure how he knows that, but the thought pops into his head and he knows it to be true. Harry breaks eye contact to look up at his own arm, frowning a little, then following it down to Louis’ gaze. His eyes flick to Louis’ cheek, where a tingly sensation blooms on Louis’ skin.
“What did I tell you about cheating?” Louis says, shaking his head. He lets go of Harry’s jaw to bring his hand up to his own face.
That same wispy, slippery feeling is there, dancing along his own jaw and cheek. He leans back a little on his knees, towering over Harry where he’s laid back on the bed.
“Cheeky.” Louis tries to follow the pulse of energy with his fingers as it seems to dance around his fingers. “Naughty.” He brings his hand down his own chest, staring at Harry as he watches Louis’ hand travel down his stomach. “Thing.” Louis’ hand reaches Harry’s groin and he lays his palm against his length and squeezes.
“Fuck,” Harry blurts out, hips shaking with the effort of holding himself back.
“S’that an order, baby?” Louis asks mildly, running his hand up against the hard line of him under his pants. Fast, fast, slow.
Harry giggles a little, drawing Louis’ eyes up to his face. He’s pink, biting his lip and smiling.
“What’s so funny?” Louis asks, not halting his movements. Harry hisses a little when Louis runs his thumb against his head. “You gonna tell me what to do now? Should I stop then, baby?”
“No way,” Harry breathes, still smiling a little. “God, you’re pretty like this.”
Louis can’t quite hide his grin.
“M’trying to be sexy, babe, you’re sort of ruining it,” Louis huffs.
“Am not!” Harry protests, wiggling a little and squeezing Louis’ waist around his thighs. “S’not my fault you’re so… so…”
Louis waits, but Harry seems to have lost his train of thought, licking his lips and watching Louis’ hand where it moves against his pants.
“Ugh!” Harry grunts suddenly, wiggling a little harder.
For a moment, Louis wonders if Harry is coming. He thinks, for second, that maybe his sense of time is so skewed that he can’t tell a half hour from three minutes anymore. Maybe sex with humans, or human-like creatures, was much shorter than he remembered.
But in the millisecond it takes him to consider whether he’s so out of practice that he’s forgotten how to tease properly, he looks down to find Harry’s pants have disappeared.
“Wha-”
“Oh!” Harry cries out, hips bucking up into Louis’ hand. “Oh, shit.” Harry looks down at his own crotch, then up to Louis’ face, eyes owlish. “Oh my god, sorry. I- it… It didn’t want to wait.”
Louis doesn’t know whether to laugh or to cry because on the one hand a random stranger’s magic seems to be so enamoured with Louis that it’s disappearing pants to move things along in bed. And in the other hand, Harry’s hard cock.
“Such a dirty, dirty, cheat,” Louis admonishes, shaking his head in faux disappointment.
He shifts quickly, divesting himself of his pants and pushing up against Harry when he settles back between his legs.
“Fuck, Lou,” Harry whines, crossing his legs behind Louis’ back and pulling him in.
Louis can’t resist thrusting a little against the crease of Harry’s hip. He grabs at Harry’s waist as he does so, tempted to just rut against him, listening to the little gasps and whimpers that are spilling from Harry’s lips.
“S’that my name, now, love?” Louis asks, not totally paying attention. He worries for a moment that he might be holding on too hard. Humans always bruise like peaches, but god it’s hard to stop. But Harry only looks blissed out.
“No,” Harry answers, frowning. He looks up at Louis properly and Louis can’t tell if it’s magic or if it’s that strange feeling of just knowing Harry, but he can tell the next thing out of this boy’s mouth is going to be ridiculous. “Already told you what your name is.”
“Did you?” Louis asks, not quite grasping the joke yet. God, Harry did talk some shit.
“Strange… And I was pretty sure you liked it.” Harry asks. He looks at Louis innocently, even as his thighs squeeze hard around Louis’ middle. “I can read minds, remember?”
It’s not like Louis has memory problems, but it’s hard to concentrate when Harry’s weird magic is sending shocks straight to his nipples and his cock is slipping sticky and hard against the sweat on Harry’s skin.
“Think you like it when I call you Lou,” Harry says, and for the first time, he moves his arms out of the position Louis had put them in. He draws himself up onto his elbows so Louis has no choice but to slow his movements and look him in the eye. “But you loved it when I called you Daddy.”
Fuck.
Louis doesn’t bother warning Harry. He might have, if he had felt like any of his choices were anything other than pure instinct. As it is, he finds himself on his knees in front of a distinctly smug Harry. Well, as smug as one can be naked and sweaty on their hands and knees.
Louis’ hand meets Harry’s bare arse between two beats of Harry’s heart, the resounding SMACK! ringing out above Harry’s little whimpers. Despite the speed at which it all happens, Louis still feels like he watches it all in slow motion, like his hand moves of its own accord.
“Fuck, baby, fuck!” Louis growls. It’s dangerous. This is dangerous, a tiny voice whispers in his brain. It’s drowned out by Harry’s moans.
“Yes! Oh, god, Louis!” Harry cries out. And shit, he’s so loud. Louis wants to fucking wreck him. He wants him babbling, cockdrunk and dumb for it.
“You’ve been holding onto that one for a while now, haven’t you?” Louis mumbles, rutting against Harry’s arse, grabbing harshly at one of his perky little cheeks. “This what you wanted, baby? Got what you need?”
Harry twists around so Louis can see half his face. His hair is curlier now, damp with sweat and frizzy all over. He’s beautiful. He smells like heaven. Louis wants to tear him apart and put him back together.
“Not even close, Daddy,” Harry says, pushing himself back so that the blunt head of Louis’ cock presses against where Harry is still tight and dry. “I’m not scared.”
Louis’ movements slow a little at those words, a spike of anxiety piercing through the haze of arousal and thirst, thirst, thirst.
“You hear me?” Harry interrupts, tone fierce and gaze aflame. “I’m not scared, Louis. Take me.”
Louis feels something shift in him, the buzzing energy dancing along his skin seeping into his chest and settling there, deep inside. It almost feels like a heartbeat, it’s frantic, wired energy beating wildly in his bones. It makes him brave.
“Think you’ve earned it?” Louis asks. He hasn’t done this in a long time, but he finds he slips right into it. It’s old hat. Comfortable slippers.
Harry just whimpers, bringing a hand out to reach for the side of the bed. Louis is about to ask what he needs when he watches the first drawer of his nightstand slide open, a bottle of lube flying out and landing with a muffled thud against the duvet.
Louis stops thrusting for a moment to try and stifle his laugh.
“Really, Harry?” Louis asks, chuckling a little. “You could have asked.”
“Shut up and fuck me already,” Harry says, half muffled by the bedding himself.
“Excuse me?” Louis says, indignant.
“I can see you imagining me tied up and gagged you know,” Harry says airily. “So you better get started if we’re going to have time for round two later.”
He knocks the bottle with his knee, pushing it closer to Louis and nodding a little.
“Very presumptuous of you,” Louis grumbles.
He feels like he can almost hear Harry’s eyeroll.
“Come on, Daddy,” Harry sing-songs. “You gonna argue with me or fuck me like you mean it already?”
“Cheeky little shit,” Louis mutters, speeding up his movements so his fingers are coated in lube and repositioning them so his fingers are aligned with Harry’s entrance. He pushes one in, slow as he can manage. Gently.
“Finally,” Harry sighs, sounding much too pleased with himself.
“I’m offended that you don’t think I can argue and fuck at the same time, you know,” Louis comments. He waits until Harry takes a breath to answer to add a second finger.
“I-Oh, fuck,” Harry moans, rocking back a little. “God, Louis, please!”
“That’s better,” Louis praises. “Good boy.”
Harry makes a noise halfway between a wail and a groan at that, trembling a little when he pushes back against Louis again, hard enough to take Louis by surprise.
“You like that,” Louis says, cataloguing that information on instinct. He’s already picturing round two and three, Harry wasn’t bluffing. He wonders idly if Harry likes lingerie.
“Yes,” Harry gasps, eyes shut and back arching. “Love…” Harry takes in a breath. “Oh, god.. Fuck, t-tastes so… Louis. Louis, fuck!” Harry seems to concentrate for a moment, eyes fluttering with the effort. “L-lace’s my favourite.”
Louis thrusts faster at that, can’t help but imagine Harry in a rainbow of lace undergarments. Delicate little thongs that have his enormous cock straining at the seams. A pretty pink babydoll slip that leaves nothing to the imagination. A matching white set with matching garters, immaculate and stark against his blushing skin.
The image of that very set splattered with red flashes in Louis’ mind and his hips stutter into the air, a groan leaving his lips at the same time as Harry cries out.
“Yes! Louis, Daddy, fuck! Please!”
Louis can’t wait a second longer. He digs his nails into Harry’s arsecheek and uses his free hand to slick his own aching cock up.
“Gonna fuck you now, baby,” Louis says, control hanging on by a thread.
“No!” Harry says suddenly, scrambling up from where his chest had ended up pressed against the mattress.
If Louis had a heart, it would be somewhere near his navel at the sound of that one syllable.
“Shit. Shit, baby,” Louis says, releasing Harry immediately and trying to tamp down the panic flooding his body. “What is it? I’m sorry.”
Oh, fuck. He smells it first. It’s not much, but he confirms it when he notices the little half-moon marks on Harry’s skin. His throat is on fire, like the mere sight of it has ignited an inferno inside him. Harry is bleeding.
But he’s apparently unaware.
“No, don’t want to stop, Louis, just,” Harry is babbling, turning over onto his back and grabbing at Louis where he kneels, completely immobile.
“Louis?” Harry asks, grabbing hold of Louis’ arm.
Louis’ eyes flash, narrowing in on the scent of fresh blood, small as it is, and the burning touch of Harry’s hand. But Harry doesn’t flinch. He isn’t scared.
“That’s it, Louis,” Harry says slowly. “I want it.” Harry brings Louis’ hand to his own stomach, pulling on it until Louis stumbles forward, laying over Harry’s body. “Do you see?”
Harry lays Louis’ hand directly over his heart, pressing down hard enough that Louis worries about bruising him. There’s a split second where Louis is about to question Harry, confused and overwhelmed and feeling so close to totally losing control, but then an image floods his brain.
It’s Harry. Naked and sweaty, eyeliner smudged and panting. And Louis. Louis is splayed over him, head buried in Harry’s neck, hips burying themselves between Harry’s legs. And… blood. There’s blood. Oozing from tiny bites on Harry’s wrists, splattered on the sheets underneath them, in handprints on Harry’s thigh.
“Harry, how are you-”
“Look at me,” Harry interrupts, making sure Louis is looking him in the eye. He tugs at Louis’ body, urging him forward so they’re touching everywhere. “I’m not scared.”
Louis feels tears prick at his eyes. He can’t remember the last time he felt so… full. Colours and feelings swirl behind his eyes when he shuts them, and Harry’s pink lips and green, green eyes meet him once they’re open again.
“Fuck, baby, are-”
“I’m sure,” Harry interrupts again, smirking a little. “Come on.” Harry leans up, licking Louis on the nose. “Aren’t you thirsty, Daddy?”
***
It’s almost unbearable. Harry feels like it’s so much, almost too much, yet not quite enough when Louis pushes in. The colours burst in his mouth and the tastes swim in his eyes, mixing together into sweet oblivion. Harry’s high. He’s going under. He feels so painfully aware and yet a thousand feet off the ground.
He’s out of metaphors and similes, Harry just feels so goddamn good.
He’s sure he’s not making sense, but his mouth is working on its own, mumbling nonsensical ramblings on a loop.
yes daddy please, yes, good daddy, fuck me…
And Harry can feel Louis, too. He can hear him.
Fuck, he’s amazing. God, he’s so beautiful. Yes, baby, take me. Just like that, good boy. Good boy, fuck I want him. And on and on on a feedback loop that makes Harry want to explode.
He thinks he hears the sound of breaking glass at some point, but neither of them stop or slow down, Louis’ hips pumping furiously into Harry. He’s going to be sore tomorrow.
I’ll lick you out until you feel better, baby, I promise. Feel so good, doing so well, sweetheart. I’ll rub lotion on your skin, treat you right like you deserve. I’ll make you come over and over until all you can think is…
“Daddy!” Harry cries out. God, he can feel Louis, taste and hear him all over. “Take me. Take it!” Harry doesn’t know how to ask, how to tell him he wants more.
I got you baby, I got you, sweet boy…
Harry can barely feel his body when Louis finally does it.
It hurts, of course. It’s sharp and stinging and Harry hears himself cry out. But then…
“Fuck! Fuck…” Harry feels lightheaded. The pain mixes in with Louis’ pleasure and Harry finds he can’t tell the difference anymore.
It’s Louis and Harry and LouisandHarry and pain and pleasure on a loop. Louis tastes sweet nectar, spiced tea, warm apple pie, so Harry tastes it too. Harry sees deep red and sharp yellows and swirling purple and greens, so Louis sees them too.
Somewhere in the muddled sensations, Harry thinks he must come. He knows Louis does too because the pleasure is blinding in its intensity, sharpened and amplified through the haze of the high. Harry opens his eyes with some effort, looking down at his stomach where, between their bodies, they’re sticky and wet. He wriggles a hand to swipe at his release, a little shaky when he shifts his shoulder so Louis looks up at him, bleary and dazed.
His mouth is red, stained like he’s indulged in Harry’s Cabernet. Harry doesn’t think, just pushes his fingers inside, a tiny pinprick of pain blooming on his fingers as they graze Louis’ fangs. Louis shudders, his entire body going lax, dick twitching somewhere against Harry’s thigh. Harry tastes salt and iron and wine. Bottle of rouge.
“Fuck,” Harry says, fingers slipping from Louis’ mouth once he’s lapped up all of Harry’s come.
He feels (and sees, and tastes, and hears) Louis’ chuckle rumble in his chest. It causes a shiver to run up and down Harry’s spine. Though that could also be his magic. He can’t make sense of where things end and begin at the present.
“Yeah,” Louis says, just as eloquently.
“We’re doing that again, right?” Harry says, too tired to care about things like social etiquette or playing coy.
Louis, to his credit, doesn’t even laugh.
“Many, many times, for as long as is inhumanly possible, I should think,” Louis replies without hesitation.
It takes Harry a minute, but he lets out a weak chuckle. He can feel Louis’ come leaking out of him and Louis is casually licking at Harry’s neck. It’s fucking hot. Harry doesn’t care to examine why.
“Inhumanly,” Harry says. “Nice.”
“Heh,” Louis mumbles absentmindedly, sniffing at Harry’s neck and licking at the blood oozing there. “Yeah.”
They lay in comfortable silence for a moment, Harry basking in the afterglow and Louis fussing at Harry’s neck and skin, checking for bruises and kissing them gently when he finds some.
“So you’re a fairy, huh?” Louis says after a few minutes, between kisses on Harry’s inner thigh.
“Louis, I know you’re old, but people don’t really use that word anymore,” Harry says, giggling a little. “You can just say gay, babe.”
Louis’ head rises so he is looking up at Harry. He tilts his head.
“What are you on about, now?”
Harry huffs a laugh.
“No one says fairy, babe, s’a bit of an insult, actually,” Harry explains patiently, laughing a little. Louis looks at him curiously.
“W-what do you call yourselves then?” Louis asks carefully. Harry frowns at the blues and greys seeping into his mind’s eye.
“Like… gay? Homosexuals? Or, erm, queer, maybe?” Harry tries again, lifting a brow at Louis. “What do you call… yourselves?”
Harry wonders if Louis’ kind had a special word for queer people who happened to drink blood.
“No,” Louis says, waving a hand and pushing himself up so he can lay beside Harry on his side. “I meant like, a fairy. Like… you know? A fae.”
Harry frowns at Louis.
“I know it’s bad form to like, ask… And I couldn’t quite place it by smell, but like, the powers… The mindreading…” Louis reaches up to touch Harry’s mouth, thumbing at his bottom lip. “I get why you don’t let on. Your kind is quite rare, isn’t it?”
Harry can tell Louis isn’t kidding. He’s completely serious. And completely calm.
“I’m a FAIRY?!” Harry blurts out, sitting up abruptly.
“Oh my god. I’m.” Harry looks at a very confused and concerned Louis. “I’m part fae. I have fae blood in me. Louis, I’m fae.”
“No, yeah, love, I know,” Louis says, sitting up a little and touching Harry’s arm. “Did you… Did you not realize that until right now?”
And Harry can’t help it, he laughs out loud.
“Oh my god, how did I not know I was part fae!” Harry groans, bringing both his hands up to his face and laughing incredulously.
“Oh my god, I have to go to the library!” Harry cries, looking around for a piece of paper to make a list.
“It’s one in the morning, Harry, I don’t think the library is open,” Louis says, still eyeing Harry skeptically. “Are you quite alright? I, uh, didn’t drink too much, I don’t think. But… Maybe I should get you something to eat.”
Harry looks back at Louis, taking in the specks of blood on his shoulder and the dark red tint of his mouth. He looks at his own body, taking in the bruises and his pale skin.
“Right. No, yeah, that’s smart.” Harry nods. “Yeah. Midnight snack.” Harry looks around again, this time for his phone. “What do fairies eat?”
“Babe, I haven’t a clue. Probably what you’ve been eating for the past twenty-odd years, love,” Louis says exasperatedly.
“Right.” Harry nods again. He feels lightheaded. It could be the blood loss. “Right.” Harry shrugs. “I mean, whatever you want is fine.”
Louis looks at him helplessly, making a face.
“No, right, you don’t really eat. I know this.” Harry taps at his neck, then immediately winces, as it’s still a little tender. “Oops. Right. Erm…”
Louis looks a little worried. Tastes a little worried too. God, everything feels heightened.
“Sorry, it’s just… a lot. Not sure what I should eat.”
“Are you sure you’re quite alright?” Louis asks doubtfully. Harry nods eagerly.
“More than, I swear,” Harry reassures, attempting to calm his wildly beating heart. He both feels like he has run a marathon and like he could start another. “Um, what do you have to eat?”
“Erm…” Louis hesitates. He gets up and whooshes to the doorframe. “Popcorn?”
***
Later, when a bowl of cherry pits and an empty glass of orange juice are sitting on the nightstand, Louis lazily plays with Harry’s hair as he reads the entry for “fairyfolk” off an online encyclopedia.
“Did you know about mushroom circles, Lou? Have you ever seen one?” Harry asks. It’s his fifth question of the like in thirty minutes, but Louis can’t find it in him to care. He’d managed to talk Harry down from calling his great uncle to grill him on his family ancestry tree at three in the morning, so he was counting that as a win.
“You’re not even listening to me,” Harry pouts, and Louis shrugs.
“Not really, love, no,” Louis says mildly, twirling one of Harry’s curls in his fingers. After their shared shower, Louis was delighted to see that Harry’s natural hair was chocolate brown and fell in messy curls around his chin.
“I hate you,” Harry grumbles, scrolling further on his phone.
“Okay, baby,” Louis agrees easily, tugging on Harry’s hair.
Harry’s head snaps up, eyes glaring.
“Watch it, sir,” Harry growls. Louis can’t help but grin.
He looks like a disgruntled kitten again. Louis finds it both adorable and incredibly attractive.
“Sir?” Louis asks, lifting an eyebrow. “That’s new.”
Harry narrows his eyes at him, but his mouth is turning up into a smile, betraying him. Louis wants all his smiles. He decides he’ll have them, then and there.
“I’m trying to learn, stop distracting me with all your…” Harry drops his phone to wave at Louis’ entire being, rolling his eyes. “Cabernet.”
Harry swallows. Louis smirks. There it is.
“Cabernet?” Louis asks innocently. “Bit late for a drink, isn’t it?”
Harry’s gaze meets Louis’, pout melting into a grin.
“God, you’re annoying,” Harry mutters, but he’s already pushing his phone out of the way, and moving into Louis’ waiting arms.
“You love it, Tinkerbell,” Louis says, chuckling at his own joke.
“Shut up and kiss me, Daddy,” Harry mumbles into Louis’ mouth. And there isn’t a single magical reason why Louis feels compelled to obey.