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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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"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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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.
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"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.
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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.
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"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."
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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.
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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."
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"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.
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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."
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