[ In any other moment, he'd find the food-related safe words they share a funny little choice. Something simple and ease to laugh at, amidst a scenario that ought to be tense and rich with the undercurrent of unease. He feels less and less unease anyways, with handfuls of Louis's body caught up in his palms and their mouths pressing together. If anyone had asked him whether or not he'd end up kissing a vampire ( willingly ) at any point in his life, he'd have to honestly say no. There's so many memories of teeth, mocking laughter, poison in his blood that'd left him cold and aching and shivering — and they're no where near this moment.
There's just the warmth in the atmosphere, the weight of Louis's body that he can hold so effortlessly — not because he's strong enough as a human, but because there's Sidhe frost burnt into him soul-deep, a Mantle of power draped across his soul that he can tug on. Harry doesn't grow cold, around nonhumans. Not as frenetic and desperate for them, even though his hunger as he licks across Louis's blunt teeth curiously ( oh, how polite of him! ), before digging his way into that wanting mouth.
His fingers dig harder into the backs of his thighs, pulling him apart like something soft and pliable, to wedge his own narrow hips into the space he's molding for them. The rattle of the reins and the bridle hinder him from kissing too deeply, a frustrating thing that has him hissing faintly as metal bit clatters across his molars and keeps his straining tongue from twining around Louis's. ( He can feel the altar reaching for them; ivy twining up the back of his shoulders towards the reins, as if to drag them back and keep him straining, an untrained horse seeking what it wants instead of being precisely what is wanted of it. ) ]
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There's just the warmth in the atmosphere, the weight of Louis's body that he can hold so effortlessly — not because he's strong enough as a human, but because there's Sidhe frost burnt into him soul-deep, a Mantle of power draped across his soul that he can tug on. Harry doesn't grow cold, around nonhumans. Not as frenetic and desperate for them, even though his hunger as he licks across Louis's blunt teeth curiously ( oh, how polite of him! ), before digging his way into that wanting mouth.
His fingers dig harder into the backs of his thighs, pulling him apart like something soft and pliable, to wedge his own narrow hips into the space he's molding for them. The rattle of the reins and the bridle hinder him from kissing too deeply, a frustrating thing that has him hissing faintly as metal bit clatters across his molars and keeps his straining tongue from twining around Louis's. ( He can feel the altar reaching for them; ivy twining up the back of his shoulders towards the reins, as if to drag them back and keep him straining, an untrained horse seeking what it wants instead of being precisely what is wanted of it. ) ]