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“I was thinking maybe I’d go with my girlfriend,” Daniel says.
Armand sucks in a breath, a familiar blend of excitement and fever rearing its head inside him. This isn’t new— nothing is, after nearly five centuries— but it’s certainly been a while. Louis doesn’t care what he looks like, what he is, just as long as he stays below him. On his knees in the endless confessional. Marius would dress him up sometimes: Helen of Troy, Cassandra, Mary Magdalene. When the painting was finished he’d push his skirts up and take him there in the studio.
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I feel like i will cry when I read this (I feel like i will cry reading any of this author's works)
Read later
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<3
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To read
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