( A shudder rips through Louis' body, and his spine arches so sharply that his hips lift completely off the blankets and into Lestat's hard, straining stomach; his legs wrap tight around Lestat's back as he ruts against him, his body reverting to instinct and reflex as it seeks more contact, more connection, more.
He feels something ache as it's split by Lestat's tongue, and then the delicious tingle as the muscle heals itself again, stronger than before. He doesn't have it in him to wonder what effect the ancient blood is having on him. He can barely remember that he's ever cared about that at all. Lestat looks so beautiful like this, beautiful and feral and deadly and protective, curls splayed across the pale expanse of his chest as his red mouth licks into the meat of him.
And then Lestat's tongue twitches, or flexes, or does something Louis doesn't have a name for, and he can feel Lestat's pulse in his tongue inside of his chest, and oh, oh, God—
Louis keens, head thrown back as his body convulses with pleasure, limbs locked around Lestat and fingers buried in his hair to keep his mouth close. He imagines Lestat's fangs sinking into his heart, the organ throbbing as he holds it in his mouth, his blood pulsing and pulsing as it pours into Lestat without end. And he doesn't die, doesn't weaken at all in this vision; he is an endless chalice, a fount of life, the most primal source of nourishment for his beloved. )
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He feels something ache as it's split by Lestat's tongue, and then the delicious tingle as the muscle heals itself again, stronger than before. He doesn't have it in him to wonder what effect the ancient blood is having on him. He can barely remember that he's ever cared about that at all. Lestat looks so beautiful like this, beautiful and feral and deadly and protective, curls splayed across the pale expanse of his chest as his red mouth licks into the meat of him.
And then Lestat's tongue twitches, or flexes, or does something Louis doesn't have a name for, and he can feel Lestat's pulse in his tongue inside of his chest, and oh, oh, God—
Louis keens, head thrown back as his body convulses with pleasure, limbs locked around Lestat and fingers buried in his hair to keep his mouth close. He imagines Lestat's fangs sinking into his heart, the organ throbbing as he holds it in his mouth, his blood pulsing and pulsing as it pours into Lestat without end. And he doesn't die, doesn't weaken at all in this vision; he is an endless chalice, a fount of life, the most primal source of nourishment for his beloved. )