I am sincere, even when I lie

[sourdre]

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.

Comments

[end_recording]

Not even Jon's tongue is fully intact: there is a rough patch of scar tissue on both the top and the bottom. But the small cut heals instantly, yielding only that small drop.

"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."

[sourdre]

He takes a smooth step back as Jon stands, maintaining contact with his hand at his neck, as it is less than ten feet to a wide black couch with a tall back set against the wall. Jean-Claude's personal side of the residence under the Circus is not made for public entertaining, and the room is small, the couch comfortable, and the light low.

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.

[end_recording]

Jon is fairly daunted by the scope of possibilities, but he supposes that among those activities would be him telling Jean-Claude to get on with things, and besides that Jon highly doubts his own sexual creativity.

"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.

[sourdre]

Truthfully, this is more charming than any sensual strip-tease he could've done, because Jean-Claude has been inundated by sensual strip-teases and has had very little of sincere, awkward desire. At least, not directed at him. That this dangerous, unknowable man is so unpracticed but still so earnestly willing is too much.

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.

[end_recording]

Jon sits back on his heels as Jean-Claude leans forward, hands dropping into his lap. Jean-Claude's voice is a sharp, precise strike that echoes through him, freezing him in place to watch the tableau Jean-Claude presents. Jon does watch him, eyes heavy but unblinking. A taxonomist's disinterested gaze: what compels his interest is not that Jean-Claude body is a perfection of the human form, but that it is a vessel optimized to hunt a certain prey, and hunt it well. Jean-Claude is hunting him even now.

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.

[sourdre]

Jean-Claude always feels as if it's a sloppier, less efficient, and overall crueler method of finding prey to rely on force. Hunting for him and others of his line employ the most effective snare of all: that their prey desires to be there. Because of this, they won't even attempt to leave -- and often they'll walk themselves right into his palms. Like now.

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.

[end_recording]

Jon's not expecting the reaction from Jean-Claude. Rather than break the illusion, the chill, unyielding length pressing his jaw open feels as though the touch of his mouth had brought a statue to life. The thickness of it traps a noise of surprise thrumming in Jon's throat.

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.

[sourdre]

He'd be far more controlled if they weren't in the grip of the ardeur, but he better than anyone knows that surrendering to it is the best way to ride it out the way he wants. And he does want this. There's something incredibly gratifying about feeling desired by someone who does not desire easily, even if it's not a simple or straightforward desire. Jean-Claude wouldn't expect anything less of Jon.

"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.

[end_recording]

There is certainly nothing subservient about Jon, scowling up at Jean-Claude with his lips wrapped around his cock, knee-jerk irritation at being told what to do - even when it's for his own good. The touch of Jean-Claude's hand so close to his own cock feels obscene and Jon swallows him deeper just because he can, jaw flexing under the touch.

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.

[sourdre]

There's something undeniably appealing about Jon when he's irritated. Maybe it says more about Jean-Claude than it does about Jon, but he is attracted to the honesty of his emotions, the blunt unconcealed edge of it. Jean-Claude deceives naturally, with manner and gesture more than words, and Jon's unapologetic forthrightness neatly punctures the distance he tries to maintain.

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?"

[end_recording]

Jon had been afraid that Jean-Claude would take forever given his experience. He is gratified when instead Jean-Claude climaxes with a reasonable application of effort. He's not even fussed about having to swallow— not that he gets a chance, as Jean-Claude scruffs him like a kitten and then kisses him, rubbing his own semen between their twining tongues.

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."

[sourdre]

His transparent attempt to hide his eagerness amuses Jean-Claude, but he doesn't think that pointing it out will be productive. Instead, he's pleased to see Jon loosening his clothes, and settles him more firmly on his lap to reach up and assist him. He kisses the skin as it's revealed, making no distinction between scar and unblemished flesh, and discards first the tie and then the shirt farther down the couch.

"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.

[end_recording]

The more skin uncovered, the more scars make themselves known. The circular scars are everywhere, dozens of them scattered in no discernible pattern. Two more knife scars on his wrist and upper arm.

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.

[sourdre]

The scars go further than Jean-Claude had expected, and it reminds him inevitably and poignantly of Asher, which abruptly lends this exchange an emotional depth and tenor he had not been looking for. But that association is so strong, there's no shaking it off now, and the momentary lapse in his emotional grip on the ardeur is all it needs: Jean-Claude goes from insistently lustful to voracious. It ripples over to Jon instantly with them in physical contact.

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.

[end_recording]

It is that promise that draws a sharp gasp from Jon, so he has no breath left to moan when Jean-Claude's fangs pierce him. The pain keeps Jon aware of the edges of his body as sensation overflows him in endless waves of satiation, hunger stoking and satisfying hunger. Jon's blood spills hotly, eagerly, endlessly into Jean-Claude mouth as he and the Eye feast on Jon's shaking, overwhelmed body. There is a maddeningly small hint of something strange in Jon's blood, a novel taste for a seasoned gourmand almost like a taunt.

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.

[sourdre]

It's a good thing Jean-Claude enjoys the tease, has never been one that needs his thirst sated as soon as it's slaked, and he takes that hint of something more as a promise for another time. It's intoxicating enough as it is, and Jean-Claude himself finds another climax. Impossible not to, with the power rushing across his skin and the feel of a willing victim trembling on top of him, his pleasure and pain drawn out at his hands.

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.

[end_recording]

It takes some time for the riot of sensation in Jon to calm enough to let him feel the outward sensations of his skin, hot and sweat-stuck wherever it presses against Jean'Claude's. The light touch of Jean-Claude's breath against his damp neck is blissfully cool, and the sharpness of feeling combined with the spice of his own blood rouses him mostly back to himself.

"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.

[sourdre]

If he had not just had him and if this were not an opening salvo in what Jean-Claude hopes to be a much longer exchange, realizing he is missing two ribs and that he is affected purely by running a hand over the softened space where they used to be would have set Jean-Claude back on him once again with desire. But this is not the right time to get that story, he knows (I'll give you a statement on the day you give one to me, and he takes that as a promise), with them both shuddering with the after-effects of the ardeur and such intensity.

Jean-Claude nips at his lower lip with his fangs one last time, out of playfulness and as a distraction. He lowers his hands away from that intriguing evidence, and slides them under Jon even as he stands, picking him up in an effortless bridal carry. Normally he doesn't display the excessive strength given to vampires so obviously. Here, now, the rush of power is still heady, corresponding gratitude and appreciation welling up. This could have been a debacle, Anita causing yet another problem for him to clean up, and instead it is a delight. Jon is much more than he'd expected.

"We are both a mess. I hope you will allow me the indulgence of bathing you." Cool silk lines his voice as he walks to a hidden panel in the wall and opens it with a brief press. Jean-Claude doesn't exhibit an ounce of hesitation or shame at walking around with both of them perfectly naked. These are his private quarters, and beyond the hidden panel is his bedroom, a lavish area with dim lighting, scattered with personal effects: worn books, a chess set, a basic laptop, a luxurious dressing-robe thrown over the end of an unmade bed where he'd awoken Jason earlier.

Jean-Claude ignores it all to stride toward the door leading to his en-suite bathroom. He will agree to let Jon put himself back together alone if he requests (Anita has trained him well), but he sorely wants to do it for him. As much sex as he's had, aftercare with someone he's fond of is rare and special.

[end_recording]

Even being in Jean-Claude's inner sanctum does not give Jon energy enough to lift his head to look around. Jon could dredge up some embarrassment under all the stated exhaustion, but in truth being handled as though he weighed no more than a matchstick when his body feels so heavy and clumsy sends an giddy thrill through him. He has never felt so light; he's almost afraid to keep talking lest he say something to ruin the effect.

"O-only because I'd drown if you put me in a bath right now," he chuckles weakly, buoyed by Jean-Claude's voice. It's really a somewhat daunting prospect but the part of Jon that wants to sustain this feelings is, for once, stronger than the part of him with all the reasons to shut Jean-Claude out.

[sourdre]

Hedonist that he is, Jean-Claude's personal bathroom is exactly as over-the-top as one might expect: he has an inset soaking tub large enough to fit four people, and he sets Jon carefully on the edge it, coming to kneel beside him. He reaches over to turn on the taps - old-fashioned, one each for hot and cold - and his skin is warmer than before, flush with blood and a slow pulse, where he presses against him as he leans over, hair falling forward in a tousled curtain.

Jean-Claude chuckles softly in response, settling back onto his heels as he waits for the tub to fill. One hand rests on Jon's knee, the other comes up to swipe the smear of blood off his own mouth before it can fully dry. He licks the blood from his thumb almost idly, not willing to waste any. It is like having the last bite of a decadent dessert: almost too much, but he is unwilling to leave it behind.

"That would be a poor way to repay you. You are continually a surprise, Jonathan," he admits, the honesty meriting his name rather than an epithet. "I did not imagine this would be the end of our evening when I invited you here." Lest he think this was all some plan - Jean-Claude cannot plan everything, more's the pity.

[end_recording]

Jon has the urge to cover himself but given how absurd that would be in the circumstances, settles instead on clasping his hand together in his lap. Jean-Claude is, usefully, very distracting. Jon finds himself cataloging all the little ways Jean-Claude differs when he is well-fed. Compulsively, he reaches out to sweep the curtain of Jean-Claude's hair away from it brushes against his sticky, sweaty thigh. It's tantalizingly sleek and cool, and Jon twitches his hand away from the temptation to slide his fingers through the soft weight of it.

"I, I believe you," Jon says, voice subdued. It's quite an admission given how fanatically Jon has clung to suspicion in the past. But the revelation he had during dinner, that nothing Jean-Claude was likely to do do him would be worse than the institute, gave him ground enough to hope. He offers the other man a strained smile. "I, um, I'm very glad it did. However."

[sourdre]

There's almost a flush to his cheeks now. He smiles in reply, an uncontrived expression entirely without artifice, and with the slight warmth of being recently fed, it makes it abruptly obvious that Jean-Claude was young and human once. It's only a short glimpse before Jean-Claude takes up Jon's hand and presses a chaste kiss to the back of it, a fond, courtly mannerism that is more solicitous than it might be from someone of this century.

In most of his life, Jean-Claude is deliberately untouchable, and he both wants and needs it to be that way, to maintain his position and his independence. But when he's able, when he's in private, it makes having his bedmates reach out to him all the sweeter, and he wants to show that it's welcome. Each bit of trust here feels earned, on both sides.

"Merci," he says genuinely. "I feel the same. I meant to thank you for your demonstration of loyalty, but instead I have yet more to be grateful for. If I gave you a, what is your charming word, a statement now while we bathed, would that enhance or detract from this lovely mood? I will not rescind my offer if you wish to wait until tomorrow."

It is remarkable when his personal interests line up with what is politically wise, and Jean-Claude has every intention of cultivating this relationship with the utmost care. And he knows that being withholding is not the way to do that. He can already sense that being his master is not what Jon desires, so leaving their exchange unequal is not the right tenor. If he were a vampire, offering some of his blood in return would be a natural gesture here, and it's in that spirit that Jean-Claude offers. That being said, he still doesn't understand his new paramour enough to totally anticipate what effect it will have on him, so he simply asks when it would be most welcome.

[end_recording]

"I, I should be thanking you as well." Jon's thinking of Jean-Claude's offer, of course, but he is too scattered to think to explain himself. He feels dazed and fluttery, his paranoia turned inside out: it breaks through his pleasant sense of well-being only sporadically, quickly subsumed.

The moment Jean-Claude offers a statement Jon wants it. He's paralyzed for a moment struggling with if he should have it. There was danger in gorging himself; Becoming complacent would allow the Eye to gain an even greater hold on him.

But he was fascinated by the idea of being touched while, well. Feeding. It certainly seemed to enhance Jean-Claude's meals.

"J-just, um, a short one," Jon says. "If that's alright? I do tend to get a bit, er... out of it."

[sourdre]

He's not expecting the easy thanks, and it makes him more gracious, some of Jean-Claude's instinctive and natural seduction giving way again to a coarser appreciation.

"Bon, un digestif," he agrees easily, already casting his mind through his catalog of horrifying incidents and putting aside the more personal ones. Serving a rich dessert would not be in the spirit of the request, and it aligns with his automatic preference to keep such things to himself. And he can well imagine, can see already, that this is quite an experience for Jonathan, and perhaps he has never fed in this context at all. How unfortunate that seems to Jean-Claude, who vastly prefers careful, intimate feeding with close partners.

The water is warm enough now that he pulls the tab to close the drain, and he rises to set towels out with one last caress to Jon's hand, uncaring of his nudity.

He doesn't want to ruin the mood, but Jean-Claude's thoughts are always dancing back and forth between his plots, and he has so many things he wants to ask Jon in this more forthcoming atmosphere between them. He selects a comment he thinks will walk this line.

Pleasantly, he comments, "As it happens, one of the rules of being under my protection is that I will ensure you have consensual subjects to feed from, even if that means myself. And I will ensure you do so... safely. You may have noticed this rule already." This is paired with punishment if he feeds without consent or in a way that draws them negative public attention, and Jean-Claude hardly makes an offer of himself to just anyone, but that is not a hardship in this case.

[end_recording]

Jon's become conscious enough of his nudity that his shoulders curl in on himself slightly, but Jean-Claude's ease seeps in to him as subtly as the bath steam. All of Jon's insecurities are, well, human insecurities, and even as he grips the edge of the bathtub to keep from trying to cover himself, he feels ridiculous that the impulse was so strong. At some point Jon would have to tell Jean-Claude about the strange scars and missing bones, but he need not fear his ridicule. Jean-Claude might even find it charmingly novel.

It was heady, too, to think that as dangerous as Jon was Jean-Claude could simply handle him. Jean-Claude had shown he could handle him, amply, with his collection of supernatural oddities. Jean-Claude could lie, but he could not deceive on the scale of his entire life, and many under his rule seemed content.

"I, I have, um... lost control. Before. But only when I've been hungry." His eyes flick to Jean-Claude, compulsively looking for judgement. "A-and I may receive—Visitors. Unwelcome visitors."