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I am sincere, even when I lie
Jean-Claude found the whole request terribly amusing. And more than a little gratifying to his ego, less so to have his power acknowledged and more in terms of how representative it is of his success in ingratiating himself to the human world. Vampires have not been legal ten years yet, and already Jean-Claude is considered approachable enough, dangerous yet safe enough, to receive requests like these.
There was a considerable amount of work behind that, and more than being a Master of the City or even a sourdre de sang, it is not something another vampire could do, or has done.
So it puts him in a good enough mood to accept. He has many questions of his own, but he prefers to ask them in person and on his own territory. Although he knows phones and computers, Jean-Claude has never gotten comfortable with them, as they remain a peculiarly human insistence. Important vampire functions are always carried out in person, no matter the distance to travel. The time involved feels immaterial when you are immortal until killed.
Of course, he puts on a show for his visitor, awaiting him in an old-fashioned receiving room beneath the Circus of the Damned. The Circus itself might've been an experience just to walk through on the way down - there are a couple truly singular acts, such as the world's last living lamia, a fierce and inhuman woman with the lower body of a snake. On entering the restricted area, the Circus's dark gothic decor meant for tourists gives way to a more sincere and lavish set of living quarters. Bronze sconces and both fine and modern art line the stone walls, far enough underground to be devoid of windows, and tufted area rugs scatter between clean white and black furniture. Staff and residents mill about, casting the visitor curious and sometimes covetous looks, but leave him alone given his escort, who he sheds at the door to the receiving room.
Jean-Claude himself is arranged on a wing-backed armchair, an over-the-top vision in lace and leather, as always, one leg slung over the other. He has an empty wine glass in his hand as a prop, and water and wine set out on a coffee table between the chairs and couches.
"Monsieur Sims, welcome," he says in his smooth, tactile voice, without standing. "Have a seat. Help yourself. It is a pleasure to receive such a distinguished guest so unattached from my normal circles." He smiles a politician's smile, polite and sincere while giving away nothing of substance.
There was a considerable amount of work behind that, and more than being a Master of the City or even a sourdre de sang, it is not something another vampire could do, or has done.
So it puts him in a good enough mood to accept. He has many questions of his own, but he prefers to ask them in person and on his own territory. Although he knows phones and computers, Jean-Claude has never gotten comfortable with them, as they remain a peculiarly human insistence. Important vampire functions are always carried out in person, no matter the distance to travel. The time involved feels immaterial when you are immortal until killed.
Of course, he puts on a show for his visitor, awaiting him in an old-fashioned receiving room beneath the Circus of the Damned. The Circus itself might've been an experience just to walk through on the way down - there are a couple truly singular acts, such as the world's last living lamia, a fierce and inhuman woman with the lower body of a snake. On entering the restricted area, the Circus's dark gothic decor meant for tourists gives way to a more sincere and lavish set of living quarters. Bronze sconces and both fine and modern art line the stone walls, far enough underground to be devoid of windows, and tufted area rugs scatter between clean white and black furniture. Staff and residents mill about, casting the visitor curious and sometimes covetous looks, but leave him alone given his escort, who he sheds at the door to the receiving room.
Jean-Claude himself is arranged on a wing-backed armchair, an over-the-top vision in lace and leather, as always, one leg slung over the other. He has an empty wine glass in his hand as a prop, and water and wine set out on a coffee table between the chairs and couches.
"Monsieur Sims, welcome," he says in his smooth, tactile voice, without standing. "Have a seat. Help yourself. It is a pleasure to receive such a distinguished guest so unattached from my normal circles." He smiles a politician's smile, polite and sincere while giving away nothing of substance.
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"I'm not - experienced," Jon says faintly. "I-I don't normally, I won't be... any good at it." Jon's words sound unconvincing even to himself; none of that seems to matter when just the touch of Jean-Claude's mouth through the thick, insensitive scar tissue makes him want to writhe with sensation.
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Jean-Claude lowers his hand and places it on his chest between the deep opening of his shirt, where that perfect cross-shaped scar stands out. His skin is notably cool to the touch, but there is a faint, sluggish pulse beneath it as he'd fed soon before dinner.
He wants it to be clear that this needn't be one-sided. Jean-Claude doesn't mind directing things, but he doesn't insist that that is the arrangement. With them cooperating and slowly indulging the ardeur, it is more of a steady thrum of insistence than a mind-numbing flood of lust.
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The first tug is too gentle to pull the shirt free from Jean-Claude's trousers and Jon mutters about how they'll need scissors for the trousers, tugging again to pull the shirt tails loose. But he does quite have the nerve to stand up and pull the thing off of Jean-Claude
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He certainly has no objection to showing more skin, if it helps Jonathan get more comfortable with the situation. It's more forward than he'd expected for someone who said he was inexperienced, but Jean-Claude takes great satisfaction in willing seduction, which by necessity is patient and full of give as well as take.
Jon's instinct that there might be more of his history revealed on his skin bears fruit: from the front there is just the cross shape for scarring, and on his forearms there are some telling splash burns from holy water, but across fully half his back is a thick stretch of old half-healed scarring, wealed stripes like from a switch or a strip of leather in varying widths layered atop each other. It is difficult to scar a vampire after their death, and if Jon knows anything about it, he will realize these must have been made during Jean-Claude's human lifetime - only holy objects will leave permanent marks otherwise, as the rest of his scars indicate.
Long past feeling ashamed for it, Jean-Claude is nonetheless disinterested in getting into stories about his human life, none of which are suitable for seduction. After his shirt is discarded and he's left with long black hair curling over his pale skin, he raises a hand again to cup Jon's jaw with his palm, meeting his eyes with incredible self-restraint. A way to pause him, and distract.
"Tell me before this goes further if you would like me to have your blood as well, or not, or manipulate your mind, or not. It can be only sex if you wish, mon ami, and it would be my pleasure." There is a sincerity there that makes it hard to doubt. At the same time, Jean-Claude knows that some very much enjoy those particular aspects of sex with a vampire, and he's not about to keep restraining himself if there's no need to.
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Jon feels a flash of guilt, but it is comforting to see that the world has marked even someone as untouchable as Jean-Claude. He's not quite bold enough to reach out and touch one of those marks, or the cool expanse of Jean-Claude's chest, so the distraction and direction is welcome. Jon shivers in pleasure, wanting to rub his cheek all along that welcome chill. His eyes, when they meet Jean-Claude's, are lidded.
"You, um, you can have my blood - a-as much as you want, actually. I'll regenerate." There is a spike of tension at letting that information go; Jon plows ahead. "The uh, mind control—manipulation—we can save." For next time, but Jon seems to realize that that's presumptuous on both their part's, and bites it off there.
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The difference between Jean-Claude and so many other vampires - other monsters - that he knows is that he is satiated by having, not by doing. He doesn't need to play with his food. Normally, Jean-Claude keeps himself scrubbed clean of the more truly predatory aspects of his nature, a showman and a businessman teasing humans with a glimpse of something more. With this tacit permission, he has an internal sense of a wolf leisurely stretching out and yawning, showing all its teeth. Well then. Time to wake up.
It heightens the singing tension of the ardeur.
"As you desire. I will not take much," he promises, with a smile that is its own promise. "You are to be savored like a fine liquer. I have my own food; you are a delicacy. Without the mind tricks, it will hurt... but you will enjoy that, won't you?"
Jean-Claude sounds thoughtful but self-assured, a heavier weight of intent behind his voice, something of a giveaway before he leans in without waiting for a reply and kisses him, hand still holding him in place. Boundaries agreed upon, he doesn't make any attempt to withhold his fangs; it's an assertive kiss, demanding, the ardeur pulsing more sharply with lust at his surrender, waves building higher gradually as they give in.
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It had been painful and terrifying, knowing Jared could play with Jon's body like clay, but Jon remembered how he had felt, after. Aching, hot, and empty. Emptier in more than just the sense of the two ribs Jared had taken out. Jean-Claude brought that feeling searing back and promised to give Jon succor in the same breath.
Jon didn't like pain. But he wanted to feel it. He groans softly into the kiss, wanting to savor the process of Jean-Claude's hunt but wanting more. Jon was no less a predator himself but a stranger one, like a Venus flytrap with a taste for tigers.
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It's not quite intentional, but it always happens eventually when deeply kissing a vampire -- Jon's tongue scrapes across one of Jean-Claude's fangs and nicks a drop of blood. Tongues heal quickly, Jean-Claude knows from experience, so this won't last long. Just enough for a very brief taste. Despite himself, he makes a low, involuntary noise, breaking off the kiss and leaning back with an exhale without an accompanying inhale. A strange, unique kind of power, the taste enough to give just a hint of... something more that he cannot place yet. Almost like - attention. It's heady.
"A fine liquer indeed," he murmurs. "I could easily get drunk on you." Something he'll have to be careful about in this first encounter, if he wants to do it again, as Jon had implied.
Sliding his hand down from his jaw to the crux of his neck and shoulder, Jean-Claude lets it rest there passively, saying, "You wished to feel me, did you not? Come with me to the couch, and finish undressing me."
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"That ah, that might be a real concern..." Jon says faintly, echoing Jean-Claude's own thoughts. He moves his own tongue in his mouth, feeling for the cut that is no longer there. Then he swallows, using the table to push himself up. He's uncomfortably aware of how stuffy his own clothes feel, stiff clothe brushing and pressing against his hot, sensitive skin as he moves. "Right then."
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Stepping backwards, he draws Jon along with him almost in a dance until they stop in front of the couch. The delicious crackle of arousal is familiar to him, an old partner Jean-Claude could not divorce if he tried, and he licks his lips as he watches him, still savoring the aftertaste.
"I will restrain myself, but you need not. Anything you wish to do to me, or with me, I will indulge."
This is a bold claim to make, but Jean-Claude knows how this goes -- if he wants to earn some trust, some vulnerability, he must give some of his own. He has more cards to lay down here, so he will go first. And he does not truly think Jon would request anything he wouldn't like. He's a good judge of character, or he wouldn't be so attracted to him in the first place. Plus, he knows by now how inquisitive Jon is, and thinks this might be the right tactic.
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"R-right, you should, ah -" Jon looks at the waistband of Jean-Claude's pants, but the first thing he does here is take off his own sweater and set it to the side. It doesn't reveal any more skin, but Jon does feel more naked in only the thin cotton of his collared shirt. That done, finally reaches for Jean-Claude's fly, and drags the fabric down Jean-Claude's thighs, enough to free his cock.
—Only to remember Jean-Claude is still wearing shoes. Ears hot, Jon kneels down in front of him, hyper conscious of Jean-Claude's aroused organ inches from his face and the way the position presses the seam of his own trousers against his organ. Of course he's not wearing a sensible pair of loafers. Jon hooks his fingers into the soft leather of his high boots and starts to tug it off, grumbling slightly when he has to lift Jean-Claude's heel.
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He keeps in his laugh, because Jean-Claude is nothing if not a consummate actor when he needs to be, but he doesn't hide his open mirth in his eyes. There's nothing embarrassed about him with his pants about his knees, stuck on his boots; he knows he's a sight to take in, and he knows they will be having each other, and right now is the time when they learn each other as lovers. With Jonathan, this seems to come with some absurdity.
"Let me help you," he offers, the laugh contained in his voice. His power so close to the surface, there's an even more seductive quality to it than normal -- not mind tricks, as he'd said, but very close on the line, a bright and edged sensation with his humor like teeth against skin.
Jean-Claude stretches down and loosens the laces his boots with nimble fingers, somehow making the motion seductive, like he's teasing at something with the laces. If his partner isn't providing the sensual strip-tease, he certainly can. It also puts his mouth rather closer to Jon's ear, which he uses to his advantage.
"You are so charming, my little stray. We do not have the luxury of time today," he says softly, leaning back into his seat again to let Jon remove his boots, "but on another occasion, perhaps, you can look your fill." And Jean-Claude would, obviously, stage that whole scene carefully for great effect.
Even now, as he leans back, just about perfectly naked and perfectly comfortable with it, there is a statuesque sculpted quality to him, a vampire's closeness to death and surreal beauty combined with limbs draped at alluring angles. With the ardeur helping, his erection is obvious, full and insistent, and reddened from the blood he'd had earlier. A tell for his impatience, and his level of control.
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Jean-Claude's words brush against him, and heat blooms in Jon and consumes any air he could have had to reply. Jon tries not to think of what the Eye thinks of him—Jon tries not to think about whether the Entities can even have thoughts—but he does think about what soil the Eye found in him, that it has flourished. And he thinks about how naked his hunger is to Jean-Claude, who seems to know it better than Jon himself.
Jon's hands are shaking when he reaches for Jean-Claude's boot again. Consciously, despite the awkward angle, he uses his scarred hand to brace so he can feel the unnatural sleekness of Jean-Claude's calf as his unmarred palm slides down it with the leather of his pants. He repeats the gesture on the second side, and folds the pants, and sets them and the boots to the side in a neat line.
Jon sits back again slightly, thighs shifting in restless discomfort as he looks over Jean-Claude's naked body. Then, remembering Jean-Claude's warning about time, he starts froward, bracing a hand on Jean-Claude's thigh so he can lean in and press the tip of Jean-Claude's cock into his mouth.
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As much as he's had living beings put their mouths on him before, Jean-Claude has never gotten used to the heat and intensity of it; his hips jerk upward into his mouth briefly in surprised hunger. He lets out a breath, suddenly breaking the illusion of a deathly statue, and he watches Jon with lidded eyes, unwilling to miss a moment. He is far from taking this for granted. He wouldn't have expected Jonathan to be this assertive, but now that he's seeing it, it makes sense somehow -- and it suggests to him that the rest of the time, he is only hiding his nature behind the veneer of a ruffled academic. Jean-Claude is eager to coax more of this out of him.
"You have been hiding this, haven't you?" he asks in a deeper, lower voice, a hand raising to scrape through Jon's hair and end on an affectionate caress. "Not the desire, I would know if you were hiding that, but this forwardness. What an unexpected delight." For now, he tries to keep himself still until he has a sense of how comfortable Jon is with the position, though he doesn't manage it entirely, his hand a little controlling, his cock sometimes pushing forward to try to find a rhythm.
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He can feel Jean-Claude's skin growing warmer in his mouth and he presses deeper, seeking more that that unnatural coolness. Pressed flat against the cock in his mouth, Jean-Clock can feel the slightly rougher patch on Jon's tongue rubbing against him as Jon takes more of him down. He has to shift forward and brace his forearms on Jean-Claude'a thighs, pressing the cheap cotton of his shirt into his smooth skin.
Jon had been mocked and rejected so many times for being too relentless, too nosy, too demanding. To have Jean-Claude praise the part of Jon that most often alienated those around him burned in him to verge of pain until it became hunger: A hunger he eager to fulfill and unashamed of. Another noise spills out of back of Jon's throat, caressing the tip of Jean-Claude's cock as he shifts with restless need, caught between the weight of his hand and the length stretching his jaw trying to fill him even more.
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"Ah, I see that you have been." He can tell there's some reaction, that his observation hit the mark, by Jon's sudden restless eagerness. With a fuller warmth, he says, "Used to being too much, are you? Too much but not knowing what to do." What a sad state of affairs. Well, if Jonathan wishes to suck him off, Jean-Claude will teach him how to do it.
His hand lingers down to his opened jaw, compelled by the visual it makes, his eyes glistening and his lips pulled wide around his girth. "Move back, a little," he coaxes, "and hold the length of me up at the base, so you may feed yourself as much or as little as you wish, and use your mouth and your tongue. It is not depth that will get me off, mon cher, it is this image of you, on your knees before me, starting to trust I do not need you to be delicate."
Someone less immersed in sex than Jean-Claude might mistake this as a position that casts Jean-Claude as indisputably dominant, or as someone being served. He can already tell that is absolutely not what is going on.
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But after a moment he does follow the instructions, pulling off long enough to say, "I do know how to give a blowjob." Before taking the wet, glistening tip of Lean-Claude back into his warm mouth. Jon's thumb strokes along the underside, slick with his own spit, while he bobs shallowly on the length, tongue curling and lapping against the contours as though trying to map it.
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Which goes well with getting a blowjob, he'd have to say. He doesn't gainsay Jon rebelliously taking him deeper or talking back, doesn't appear to mind at all, merely leans back into the couch and deeper into the ardeur. It's unusual these days for Jean-Claude to find someone he isn't expected to exert some measure of control over, both because of his station and because, however much he enjoys it, he won't hand it to just anyone who asks anymore. He doesn't know if he could put words to why he feels so comfortable doing so here, but he doesn't think he needs to, either.
Jean-Claude lets him do as he wishes and very much reaps the benefit, shuddering through a climax not too long after, readily abandoning any pretense at stamina for the sake of male ego. Barely after he's done is he reaching down to easily and literally pull Jon up into his lap in a display of vampiric strength, without really waiting for agreement or allowing refusal.
There's still semen on his lips when he forcefully kisses him, half-hard prick pushing into his thigh. The ardeur could keep him going for hours yet if Jean-Claude let it spiral that way. But-- "You promised me blood, and I have not yet gotten to touch you," he whispers against his mouth, hands tightly holding him at the hips with the same immovable strength. "You are so generous, but let me thank you, hm?"
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Jon groans lightly in indignant arousal. It had been easy enough to ignore his own need when he was focusing on Jean-Claude. He had never cared for pleasure for its own sake which, combined with the inherent absurd sloppiness of the act, had left him largely indifferent to sex. But the kiss brought Jon back to the insistent physicality of it. His own cock still swollen in the confines of his trousers, sweat-damp cotton clinging to his sensitive skin when he shifts. Jean-Claude's hands on his bare skin would be a relief.
He shudders lightly as Jean-Claude's voice ghosts over his lips, shifting in Jean-Claude's immovable grip and dragging friction against his half-hard cock. Swallowing, Jon reaches up to loosen his tie and the top button of his shirt. Dotted along his throat are a couple more of those pale, round scars and there is a jagged knife scar at the base of his throat. He can't grouse much about the double-sided nature of Jean-Claude's gratitude: they both know what being fed from will do to Jon, and it fills him with a fluttery anticipation, anxious and eager to lose himself to it.
"V-very well," he rasps softly. He tries to clear his throat to sound a bit firmer. "As I said—you can have your fill."
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"One day, you will tell me of some of these," he says with an almost insufferable confidence, nipping lightly with his blunter teeth at the jagged scar at his throat. Purely as a tease.
Jean-Claude moves next to undoing his pants, belt buckle if there is one, pausing only to suck at his own fingers for a moment so that when he applies his hand to Jon's erection emerging from his clothes it isn't unpleasantly dry. There's an exploratory, testing quality to his ministrations, along his length and then farther back, assessing for reactions with each one of his enhanced senses.
He intends to bite him only when he has a steady mix of pleasure. Jean-Claude appreciates not having to be in control, but he is a master vampire, and his instincts clamor loudly for him to assert himself over his victims. No matter how willing it is for them to be victimized. While he feeds, he plays them the way he likes.
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Jon is tense and awkward with being disrobed but considering he just gave Jean-Claude a blowjob, he feels more settled about it. He can't wrap his mind around why Jean-Claude desires him, but a part of him is at least beginning to believe that might actually be true. He shudders and twitches under Jean-Claude's mouth and hands, breath coming in ragged exhales. Each touch only emphasizes how much control Jean-Claude is exercising, how much more he could do to Jon.
"I'll give you a statement on the day you give one to me." He mutters. There's an attempt to sound surly, but Jon's voice is too breathy.
His hips jerk when his erection is touched, his legs automatically spreading to allow more access. It is all so novel for Jon it hardly matters what tricks Jean-Claude tries; everything has him twitching in reaction, the tip of his erection spilling glistening drops. One hand grips the back of the couch by Jean-Claude's head while the while the other digs into his thigh for balance. Trembling with tension, he uses the leverage to press into Jean-Claude's hand, looking for a stable source of friction less overwhelming than Jean-Claude's seeking touches.
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He groans aloud. No more time, it seems. "That day is closer than you think," he assures him, voice tight, one last flirtation, and closes his hand around Jon without any more delay, pumping him firmly but not too fast, not yet.
At the same time, Jean-Claude sets his teeth to the crux of his neck, and bites him. Feeding during sex is a luxurious process, the leisurely swallow of slow mouthfuls, a small wound seeping blood continuously as Jean-Claude re-sets his teeth into the wound in increments to ensure he keeps bleeding.
It does hurt without the mind manipulation, a piercing contrast to the power rushing and building, like the atmospheric pressure in the room is rising precipitously as Jean-Claude wrings orgasm from him, fast and messy with total control over his body's responses. Both the sex and the blood at once, feeding both ways, is incredibly potent for Jean-Claude. It strips away every pretense he's been making to being a tamed, public vampire -- not just visually or emotionally, in his demeanor, but in the literal sense of his power, normally well-hidden and demure, blooming into the room. A sourdre de sang is capable of feeding through and controlling a whole line of vampires, a whole city, a wellspring rather than a leech, and the distinction is abruptly obvious.
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At some point his grip shifts from the couch to Jean-Claude's shoulder, slipping in his own sweat on Jean-Claude's marble skin as he tries to find another anchor. He barely feels his physical orgasm—orgasms. With each one the relief turns swiftly to ache for more and more and Jon writhes in his grip, unconsciously daring Jean-Claude to satisfy himself truly and completely until his limbs fall slack. Jon's voice is continuous and inarticulate, strangled cries and half-words; he can't even get through Jean-Claude's full name.
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Although it's no small matter to resist temptation, Jean-Claude would not be a master if it was beyond him. He takes a little more than he intends, but not too much; and once they have reached a crescendo together, the ardeur is satisfied, and Jean-Claude can guide them back. Vampires don't breathe, but they forget at times, and he releases a few shuddering exhales as he withdraws his fangs and his fingers and clutches Jon to him. Far less elegant and untouchable than before, his hair mussed and getting everywhere, fangs obvious, a smear of blood across his mouth. His skin has deepened to a ruddier flush, and the faint feeling of a pulse and heartbeat.
Jean-Claude kisses him, feeding him a taste of his own blood as the energy and adrenaline start to subside. He strokes his hands up and down his sides, his back, an outpouring of affection that comes painfully sincere.
"Let me take care of you, s'il vous plaît," he murmurs against his lips. A request more than a question.
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"I don't think I can walk regardless," Jon acquiesces with a faintly put-upon mutter. He's still trembling now with exhaustion, and the press of Jean-Claude's hands feel like the only thing keeping him upright. Jean-Claude will discover with his thorough and solicitous touching, another anomaly of Jon's body: two soft gapes where ribs should be spaced asymmetrically down his sides. Jon twitches slightly when Jean-Claude's hands stroke over those absences.
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