vincere aut mori.

By the time we left Italy I was playing dangerous little games with mortals. I’d see a man, or a woman—a human being who looked perfect to me spiritually—and I would follow the human about. Maybe for a week I’d do this, then a month, sometimes even longer than that. I’d fall in love with the being. I’d imagine friendship, conversation, intimacy that we could never have. In some magical and imaginary moment I would say: “But you see what I am,” and this human being, in supreme spiritual understanding, would say: “Yes, I see. I understand.”

— Who are you, Louis? Who are you outside of me? If there was no me, and there was no him, who would you be? What do you want? How you gon' get there? (Interview with the Vampire, Season 2 Episode 2)

@solilacquist : sender plays with receiver's hair while being cock warmed by them.

the undoing of all that was holy comes to light only after dusk settles behind the bayou's skyline, moss-eaten trees and whores alike witness to the abandonment of all reason once the sun dips for slumber. the quarter was dewy with afternoon rain that still lingered, a sticky heat leftover in the room, warm enough to bring a sweat to the nape of his neck; beads of exerted slick that runs down his spine between his bunched up shoulder blades, squirming at the sensation. amadeo's hands are splayed over both pages of the book that's propped up and open in front of him, the fingers digging into the pages when louis hands come to collect the sweat at his hairline. a shiver, tightening around the cock inside him, louis' fingers running up the back of his skull, nails that search and scratch and, ❝ stop - ❞ falls from his amadeo's open mouth, too soft to be abrupt but gentle, too, a whine that precedes the hips and how they push back and move back and forth. trying to get more inside of him even if he knows there is no more. falling forward onto his elbows now, held up by the desk, amadeo hangs his head in attempt to get away from the touch. does louis see the way his skin crawls under his touch, can he see the way his hair stands on end? ❝ - can't read if you're touching on me, louis-sir. ❞ it wouldn't be difficult to finish by himself. he didn't need to move or touch, didn't even need the pimp's hands on his body - amadeo squeezes around him anyway, the toes underneath the desk coiling tight when it sends a slow, barely-there pulse of pleasure through him from head to toe.

the house offers more than sweetness. still, the palette of the mortal man isn’t as complicated as all that. if not intimacy, then shame. if not shame, then punishment. if not punishment, then mommy issues, sister issues, ‘mrs thibodeaux hit me over the knuckles with her ruler one too many times and now i’m all kinds of fucked up, could you do it again but a little harder this time, miss?’–

all flavors and then some are on offer under this roof, but no voice as sweet as this one. no body as sweet as this one. amadeo reads, and amadeo squirms, and amadeo pleads soft, and louis smiles. touching him is all louis can do as soon as he walks through the door, unless he’s feeling slighted by the world around him and particularly cruel, and then amadeo too becomes the vessel for touch, or the agonizing lack of it. not tonight. tonight the books are in order, and the trading routes are established, and the ink is still drying on the documents, the machinery of commerce hums obedient beneath his hands, and louis feels grand in himself for it, satisfied to a sinful degree. the city bends where he presses. the night belongs to him. so why not indulge in that which is his already? 

the tight heat of amadeo is enough for a while. the boy’s back presses warm through the front of louis’s shirt, sweat dampening the fabric between them. tiny beads gather at the nape of amadeo’s neck, and louis traces them first with his fingertips, then with his mouth when he leans close enough to taste. the lightest brush of a tongue on an open-mouthed kiss. beautiful thing. ambrosia, little rivers of veins and landscapes of bone, all his. the hands that buy and create and destroy wander lazily. over narrow shoulders. down the chest. one nail dragging lightly over a dark nipple. further still, over the hollowing stomach. he moves the boy’s legs apart with patient strength until amadeo’s knees hook themselves around louis’s thighs, as exposed as he can be, even behind the desk as they are. lightly, still, the way louis’s fingers trail along the inside of amadeo’s thighs, this body made just for him to enjoy and abuse and love. he bends close enough for his mouth to hover by amadeo’s ear.