perfectdevil | the city: inbox

[ He can hear her heartbeat so clearly from this distance, and doesn't miss the way it skips at his words. He wonders what part of it gave her such excitement - the thought of him bending metal cuffs until they burst from his wrists, snapping leather restraints, or the idea of something inhuman pinning her down with all its unnatural prowess? ]

If you made me want it bad enough, you could get me to do just about anything. Even behave.

[ Probably. Lestat had almost killed Reno with how worked up he'd gotten, but at least he knows the warning signs now. And at least he didn't kill him. Looking on the bright side. ]

I don't think it would be that hard. I remember how you taste. [ His smile turns more into a smirk then, curling slightly at the corner. ] I remember how you begged for it. I don't think I could forget.

[ Johanna swallows, which is probably audible to Lestat. ]

I think I swore at you, too, didn't I?

[ She tilts her head, momentarily distracted by curiosity. ]

If I cut a finger or something and fed that to you, would it feel like the bite? For either of us?

[ Lestat's shoulders shake in laughter, the memory of her frustrated ire enough to send him back to sensations of that time, and obviously with what he knows now he's wondering just how far they could have pushed each other if Lestat hadn't been so quick and so hungry to get what he wanted out of it. A lesson in that kind of self-restraint wouldn't go amiss if there were such sweet rewards available... ]

Ah, I'm afraid not. [ He's a little surprised by her question, but he can estimate why she might be asking. ] It's all in the connection between the beat of your heart and I; the pull of life into myself. I don't have to bite you, it could be a cut on your arm, a tear at your wrist... but it has to be something that will flow and not drip, something I can draw from you in mouthfuls. A cut to your finger wouldn't produce enough blood to do any more than tease me.

[ Which. Isn't a bad idea. ]

Are you worried about me seeing something else in your mind?

Mm-hmm. That's good to know.

[ The question actually surprises her. She'd been thinking of what kind of leverage she might have over a vampire, what she could offer as an incentive for playing nice. It's really just blood, but she figured there had to be a way to use it without succumbing to that delicious drowning feeling of being bitten. ]

I'm -- I hadn't thought of that.

There's a lot of shit in there I don't care to talk about.

[ He stops lounging and instead leans in to her a little more, as if he's about to tell her a secret. Really, he's just taking the bottle so that he can refill her cup. ]

I'm very strong mentally, stronger than I sometimes realise; I cannot avoid the swoon, but I think I can lessen what I see. Look away, so to speak. During the visions I mentioned, the man I was involved with wasn't touching me, and I found it hard to stay connected to the here and the now. Perhaps with that link, I would be able to stay more aware of my body, rather than lose myself to the swoon and the visions.

[ A little shrug, and he redeposits her bottle on the table for her, looking at her through his lashes. ]

And you, chérie, you're stronger than you seem, too. I think at the very least, you could try to control what opens up during that moment. Show me whatever you'd like, like I've been shown so recently; drown out everything else the connection could give to me. You know what it feels like now, you know how it leaves your brain empty when you succumb to it, but I think you're clever enough to overwhelm me in the same way with the power of your determination. [ A little shrug. Then, cheekily: ] Perhaps you could even show me the practical use of these toys you were talking about.

[ It's a charming little chivalrous gesture. She smiles, nodding her thanks when he puts the bottle down, and cradles the mug to her chest as if it was full of something warm and comforting, instead of cheap bourbon.

Using the link deliberately is certainly compelling. Not simple, depending on what other activities are at hand. She remembers her first encounter with Armand, how she intended to do just that and show him something enjoyable when he bit her. The fact that he saw something sweet with Kit instead of, who knows, her last view of Rachel as she lay dying, or her last fight with Kit, or some violent exorcism, seems like more luck than determination. It's not like she'd been in any condition to focus on anything other than Armand's fingers inside her, in her mouth, and his voice in her ear.

But she was also chasing a particular kind of oblivion with that personal ad, and she got more than she could have dreamed of from both Armand and Lestat. If she weren't literally begging for someone to help her turn her brain off -- if the lead-up was more that gorgeous focus of pulling someone else out of their brain and into their body -- it would be different.

She takes a sip of bourbon, licks her lips, and says slowly: ]

Do you want to take a peek right now?

[ She reaches a hand across the table towards him, lets it rest there, palm up. ]

[ Lestat isn't even sure if what he's talking about is entirely possible, but he does know damn well that intention and sheer determination go a long way when it comes to these matters of the mind. That's how a person closes their thoughts off, after all; they simply imagine a door and close it, or they resolutely think of something intricate and expansive, with too much detail to allow any other thoughts to slip through. Lestat has read about it, even if he hasn't experienced too many gifted minds himself-- if only David were here, perhaps he'd have some insight.

When she reaches out her hand like that, Lestat falters just a little. Is this some kind of trick? Is she trying to make him slip up and confess that he was just here for a bite, or to get into her head again like the unforgivable creature he is, even if that's not true?

Ultimately, his curiosity wears out; at least like this, not lost to the bite, she can control what he sees and herself so much better. She can have the control she so desperately wants and loathes to have, she can remain herself until the very moment she no longer wants to. Lestat can give her that, at least.

Of course he wants what she's offering, and so he moves to get closer. But instead of coming around to kneel by her chair or asking her to stand or.. well, anything normal, he unfolds his long legs enough that he can shift to sit directly on top of the low coffee table; his dextrous fingers plucking up the cold bottle of bourbon and resting it between her legs, while he props his foot up on the chair she's sitting in. The way he looms in, hair tumbling off his shoulders as he cranes his neck closer, head toward hers, could be seen as some strange display of power, but the way he moves between them like some kind of jungle cat, limbs elegant and measured, makes it seem more like he's some creature led only by instinct and curiosity about what she has for him.

He takes up her hand and shows her just the slightest flash of his fangs before he presses his mouth to her wrist and kisses her pulse. ]

Of course. I want it all.

[ He really does a good impression of humanity most of the time, and then he moves like that, and the feeling of being inside the lion's den crawls back over her. She's very still as he settles himself, though obviously not as still as he can be. Not quite the stillness of a rabbit in front of a fox -- maybe that of a fox in front of a tiger. Something with teeth that hasn't decided whether to bite or run.

Her pulse is a steady, quick drumming against his lips. Johanna pulls the bottle closer out of the way, and then -- just tries to think loud. She doesn't expect she'll be able to tell when Lestat looks, or what exactly he'll be experiencing, so she keeps her eyes on his face as much as possible while she creates the fantasy in her head.

It blurs from image to image like a pornographic montage, visuals switching perspectives, filled with as much imagined physical detail as she can manage. Lestat between her legs, cool fingers slipping inside her while his tongue laps at her clit. Lestat on his back, Johanna straddling his waist, his arms laid back over his head and golden curls tangled around his face, her hand on his throat, her cunt grinding wet and hot on his stomach, his silvery eyes watching while she takes as much pleasure as she wants from him. Lestat on his hands and knees arching his back while she holds his hips and fucks him hard with a cock strapped to her pelvis, each thrust making him shake, each thrust sending diffuse pressure and pleasure through her belly.

Lestat on his back again, but this time with his legs spread. Johanna fucking him again, but this time holding his jaw in one hand, rubbing a thumb smeared with blood across his lips. She doesn't imagine him begging -- she just imagines him wanting. ]

[ On the contrary to what Johanna expects, when she watches Lestat dip into her mind there comes the ever so slight unfocusing of his eyes - or perhaps it's the opposite, perhaps it's more honing in, looking with deeper and more staggering intensity, into her soul rather than simply into her eyes - as they turn molten, the silvery colour swimming into something darker, more heated.

He keeps his lips to her skin as he watches her thoughts unfold for him like the petals of a blossoming flower; his breath turning deeper and deeper, his mouth falling open, each exhalation hot against her prickling flesh.

The sight of her stretched out for him bleeds into her using him for her own gain, and Lestat can feel his limbs seem to tighten as instinct tells him to grab and hold and refuse to let go. His flesh would be so hard beneath her, so hard and so cold, unlike anything she's ever felt against her, would it drive her mad? He wants to dig his glass-like nails into the skin of her bare hipbone and see how the blood rushes to the surface to meet him, but before he can bask in the thought of it his senses are assaulted with the feeling of hot, carnal desire pooling in the pit of his stomach...

He's feeling what she would feel in this situation, that much is clear; the heady ache of pleasure as she fucks her toy into him, but an ache in him too from the lack of stimulation targeted enough to get you there while you enjoy the work nonetheless. That he's a selfish partner should be no surprise, but the way she shows him this without knowing what being full would feel like is akin to torture.

Which is what he thinks before he sees her final scene of course, and he takes in a shuddering breath to behold it, watching each detail come into focus like the brightness of dawn washing over dusty library walls. He's sure he can almost smell it, the blood, smeared between them and used as a tool to drive him crazy, to placate him while she fills him with her cock... He opens his mouth against her wrist and licks a long line over her pulse, then moves up toward her hand and sucks one of her fingers into his mouth. God, it's all Lestat can do to stave off how much his fangs feel like they're burning, how staggeringly fast that scene turned this from a tease to something he'll think about again and again and again. ]

[ Something is certainly happening. It's mesmerizing to watch him react, and some of those details sneak into the fantasies: the speed of his breathing, the look in his eyes.

Then his tongue is on her skin and she gasps, losing her hold on both the imagery, and the defensive cloud she's been trying to keep between her mind and Lestat's since they met in the liquor store. Her thoughts are roiling with lust, remembered sensations of other lovers -- the memory of Lestat saying they died with that thought on their mind and an accompanying lightning flash of alarm -- and a surge of that stomach-dropping feeling you get at the edge of a cliff when you think I could jump, there's a word for it in French-- ]

Do you want to bite me?

[ Her voice is rough, low. She tries to marshal her thoughts back to fantasy, thankfully finds one without too much trouble. Lying with her head in Lestat's lap, holding a vibrator to her clit with one hand while he holds the other to his mouth, ready to feed. In the fantasy she pants and squirms in anticipation. In the coffeeshop she's practically holding her breath, only inhaling to speak. ]

I'll need to hear you beg for it.

Edited 2023-10-31 05:29 (UTC)

[ The way the vision shakes apart when he sucks her finger into his mouth has Lestat's eyes rolling backward briefly - just the slightest flicker, just there and then gone - with the shock of the sensation. Her thoughts come through to him like faint traces of scent, perfume on the wind or blood in water, and he welcomes them all in as he said he would, every last drop, marvelling in the wake of that reckless feeling cropping up yet again. These humans who feel excitement in the face of danger, who see sharp teeth and don't think to run, but to challenge. It's exciting, it's unnerving, it's completely foreign to him and, like with all things Lestat doesn't understand, he desperately wants to see more.

All he can do in response to her question is groan around her fingers in his mouth, make a show of sliding his fangs ever so near to her skin but missing the mark by a mile - he doesn't trust himself enough to tease her with his fine control and press the points against flesh without drawing blood like he might usually, he doesn't know if he'll be able to resist something like that.

And then his mind is taken over by the next vision she produces, the air feeling suddenly hot with panted breaths and sweet pleasure. Lestat can't breathe without inhaling more of it, and like a man drunk he draws back from her fingers only enough to be able to form words, still letting the sodden pads brush over his lips as he does. ]

Let me bite you.

[ Not quite begging, he knows, and he's surprising even himself that he isn't being more argumentative about it -- it's not even like his thirst is all that powerful right now -- but the twisting feeling in his chest and deep within his body makes him reluctant to draw things out to the point where he loses himself like he (almost) did with Reno. If she wants him slobbering like a dog and wild with how bad he yearns for salvation, that might have to be a conversation for a later time. And a different location. ]

Let me drive myself into your flesh and draw out your blood.

[ That said, it isn't like he isn't hungry for the feeling, hungry for her. She's shown him enough that his mind is full to the brim with possibilities, with the look of her body as it shivers with satisfaction and the heat in her eyes as she looks at him, with the way her body moves and how expertly she knows how to use it.. His mouth feels wet and sharp, and finally he bares his fangs enough to drag the flat part of them teasingly up the vein in the very center of her wrist. ]

Let me take you to that oblivion again.

[ Johanna actually whimpers at the drag of his fang, a noise she absolutely didn't intend to make and didn't anticipate. The fantasies did more for her than she was expecting. Lestat's mouth and the intensity of his reactions are doing the rest.

The feeling isn't even exactly sexual, though. Sure, that's part of it, just like last time. Her nipples are hard under her shirt, and there's heat between her legs; she wouldn't be surprised if she was starting to get wet. But the offer feels different like this. The only place he's touching her is her hand. They're both fully clothed. She could say no.

She thinks about saying no. Not to tease or punish Lestat, but to deny herself. To see if she can. To hold pleasure and oblivion that she doubts she deserves at arm's length and see if she can put it down without tasting it. ]

Yeah.

Do it for me.

[ She'll be masochistic another day. Self-denial is for monks. ]

[ Perhaps it's this strange new focus on the way humans are intimate with one another, or maybe it's down to the more carnal receptors in his mind delighting in the way she remains so firm with her admittance, or maybe it's even so simple as him wanting to reduce the likelihood that her mind might let something terrible sneak out and that it might drive another wedge between them.... whatever the reason, Lestat is inexplicably inspired to send her a vision of his own making as he opens his mouth wider against her flesh, the cobra with its coils wound tight, the tigers lips curling back, and finally sinks his teeth into her vein.

He wants to see if pleasure will make her slip again, like it had earlier, the briefest crumbling of her walls. He wants to see if there's anything he can do to stop it, both for her sake and his own; he'd like to avoid giving her another reason to be angry at him, and he'd like to test the parameters of his ability at this moment before desperation fully takes hold. And if this doesn't work, well, they still both get to feel the erotic bliss of the bite. It's a win-win for both of them.

The vision is something and nothing at first; just two boys sitting at a window ledge on a cold night, but both warmed through entirely by alcohol and the company of the other. The sound of a violin plays, and even though the man holding it is obviously drunk he still manages to play with expert timing and talent, carving something maudlin yet beautiful from the instrument, his curling brown hair falling over his face and jaw and shoulders as he moves with the music. He's shirtless now, suddenly, his beauty so much easier to appreciate - the speckles of freckles across his shoulders, the hair on his chest, the taught stretch of his stomach... and his beautiful hands. So perfectly proportioned, so wide and inviting, like it would bring indescribable pleasure just to shake them.

And then those hands pushing away the wine bottle the blonde boy holds up, pushing it so much that it topples to the floor and leaks into the floorboards-- then those hands, pushing again, always pushing and pushing, at the blonde' boys clothes and at his jaw and his legs, tipping his head up to suck marks into his throat, spreading his legs wide. Those hands, drunken and clumsy against his cock but tightening so much that it almost makes the blonde boy cry with how good it feels. And then those hands pressing the other boy down, face in the pillows, ass in the air, fucking him so good with two beautiful fingers that he comes before he's filled, against the blankets strewn atop their straw mattress, and then again the moment those fingers retract to allow for the sharp thrust of insistent hips, pressure spearing him again and again, pain and pleasure mingling into something that just feels warm; frantic and quick, yes, over before it had a chance to begin, of course, but warm nonetheless.

Blood flies with less intensity from the wrist, more like a stream than a jet, but he finds it much easier to latch on and suck like this.. and also it's so much easier to maintain eye contact, to watch every twitch of her expression as rapture takes her over, and he closes his eyes as pleasure overtakes his body too, ready for whatever he'll see in the swoon. ]

[ She has time to try and focus on something, this time, like he suggested. Uncertain whether an imagined scene will block out a memory, she tries to keep that fantasy of getting herself off in Lestat's lap at the forefront of her mind -- to overlay the actual feeling of his tongue and lips on her flesh with the false scenario.

Then her eyes go unfocused and wide with the pleasure of the bite. Her mouth falls open as she gasps and then exhales another whimper. She can feel those strong, dexterous hands, roaming her body, pressing into her and making her come almost by accident. The straw rustling under her belly as they fuck, the memory of the violin strings, wine and sweat in her nose, aches, shudders, warmth. How can Lestat remember this and have been going without it for centuries? She wants to pull him to her and share the heat she holds, press themselves together until he's warm again.

Does her self-control slip with the swoon, or was the fantasy just too close to reality? Who knows. But the snippet of Johanna's life that presents itself to Lestat is a recent one: she's panting in a bed, her back against a strong chest. One of her knees is spread by her partner's thigh, and as three fingers heavy with rings fuck her a voice murmurs in her ear Touch yourself for me, pretty one. She does, and she feels a mouth on her neck (on her wrist) (on her neck) and curls (auburn golden brown) tickle her skin as she comes (as she bleeds) (as she bleeds).

Her thighs squeeze together and the bottle of bourbon between her legs tips, threatening to spill. She doesn't notice. ]

[ The memory of Nicki, like all memories that hurt, is one he keeps close to his chest... but recalling the art of human sex brings back the last time Lestat can remember it, and the fact that it just so happens to be one of the last times he can remember being happy with him means that he's less worried about sharing it with her in this way. It almost feels good, actually, to bring his image to light when it's been locked in the bank of his mind for nearly two hundred years.

The swoon lingers in those feelings for a long while, the feeling of being fucked to completion, of someone's hands pressing down hard on pale shoulders, fucking in and sliiiiding out only to start up the rhythm again, only harder. He's breathless with it, his body drinking down both the feeling and his first mouthful of blood. And then the sight of her mind explodes in his vision like a gunshot. Sitting in someone's lap, pale hands cold against warm skin, inside, the tinkling of rings, the wet sound of pleasure spreading between thighs, everything hot, hot, hot, tight, the rush of blood under her skin and from it, filling his mouth, filling him--

He pulls back with a gasp, dribbling a great smear of blood down over his lip to splatter on the table between his legs before he blindly swallows what's left in his mouth. His fingers feel rigid where they hold her wrist, and even as the aftershocks of pleasure race through him and leave his mind feeling worn and shot through, he can't deny that the face he'd seen and the curls accompanying it could only belong to one creature in this City.

Eventually, he opens eyes he doesn't remember closing, and looks at her. ]

That was- [ He licks his mouth, blood stained tongue against blood stained lips, making the whole situation rather worse than better. ] -certainly different from the last time.

[ Johanna looks at him, dazed but awake, blinking fuzzily at the sight of blood smeared across Lestat's mouth and dripping down to her arm. ]

Oh ... that seems, ah--

[ She starts to sit forward, planning to do something about the bleeding, and knocks the bourbon out of her lap. The bottle clatters down, spilling liquor across the floor. ]

--Shit!

[ Lestat blinks at the sound of the bottle smashing, at her cursing and. Well, between seeing Armand that way, seeing Nicki again, the revelations about his own sexuality and the possibilities she'd posed to him, this whole thing definitely isn't finishing up how he expected it to. He watches the bourbon spread across the floor with mute interest, almost feline, and then it cracks.

He laughs, loud and uproarious, so much that he goes backwards and sprawls between the chair and the table, a long line of limbs still buzzing with blood-drunk pleasure, and now utter and complete amusement at a situation so ridiculous that all he can do is laugh. ]

[ Vaguely cross: ] Hey! You're sitting in my booze.

[ She doesn't feel as drained and exhausted as last time, but that not-exactly-post-coital langour takes a minute to recede. Watching Lestat cackle is like being drunk while your friends are on ecstasy: clearly there's a joke that you're not in on, and it's not clear if they're being stupid or actually having more fun than you. ]

What happened? I saw -- what'd you see?

[ He only continues, putting both his hands over his face as he shakes with it, the slender lines of his body arching in a way that's almost elegant despite the fact that he's so full of mirth he might be sick. The final injustice in vampire prowess over humans: they can't even be ugly when they're snorting with laughter and getting covered in booze.

It's not clear if he ignored her comment or simply was too breathless to reply, but soon enough it starts to slow as he moves to sit up a little. He's still giggling, like a child struggling to calm down after hearing a naughty word, a hand lingering at his mouth and small pink-tinted tears at the corners of his eyes. ]

Ah-- Ah, what did you say? What did I... [ He laughs again, because God, this really is all so surreal. He'd wonder if he was dreaming if he still had them. ] I saw-- God, was that Armand?

What? Er, probably?

[ Her wrist is still bleeding, and from the vein, which is at best going to cause a mess and at worst seems like a medical problem. She hauls herself to her feet, pressing her other hand over the bite, and picks her way through the mess on the floor to go looking for napkins or towels behind the counter. ]

Care to share the joke with the rest of the class?

Of course it was.

[ He rolls his eyes because... well, she'd put up a public post that had been like catnip to him so it makes sense that Armand had seen it and jumped at the chance too, but... in the context of how they met - Armand under the influence of a cult where they refused themselves even nice clothes - to see him so plainly and so skillfully having sex with a human is a little strange. But then this whole damn thing is strange. Hence his bemused laughter. ]

It's no joke in particular, I've just had a very funny series of days, that's all.

[ He watches her go, eventually getting up to peer at what she's doing until he realises what her intention is, and at that point he takes up her wrists in his strong - strangely much warmer now - hands. He pulls the one holding the wound away, then visibly slices his tongue open on one of his fangs before he licks over the wound at her wrist in a slow, almost lascivious pass.

He even goes so far as to suck and lick at the trails running down her arm, and then at her other palm to clean up every drop, like a dog with it's dinner. His tongue has apparently healed already, as evidenced by the way he finishes up his attention to her by trailing the very point of it lightly over her fingertips before pulling away and releasing her. ]

I don't like to see it wasted.

[ He says, as if that makes what he just did even slightly normal. ]

[ --Okay, well, she thought she was done being horny but nope, apparently not! The feeling of the wound knitting back together is subtle, hard to track when his tongue is trailing over the soft skin of her inner arm, then her palm. ]

Jesus Christ. [ She takes a deep breath. ] I don't think you even know how good you'd be at oral. Jesus.

[ He can see heat in her face when he looks at her, and it makes him grin in a manner he doesn't even try to disguise as anything other than incredibly prideful. ]

You have a dirty mind, madame. I was trying to help you.

[ He doesn't look like he minds at all, though, and runs the tip of his tongue almost teasingly over one fang, hip leaning on the bar. ]

You don't think the teeth would be a little off-putting?

[ Does she even need to dignify that with a response? ]

You have a dirty mouth.

So -- did any of that work? [ Horny or not, tired from the aftereffects of the bite or not, she wants to know. ] Sending you the fantasies, focusing on something else ... You saw something with me and Armand? That's not what I was trying to focus on.

[ Lestat actually giggles at that, so absolutely tickled by the idea and bristling so much with the compliment that he's almost giddy.

At her next question, he shrugs a bit. ]

I saw all the things you wanted me to see. When I bit you, I saw what you were thinking about - you using that machine-- [ He says machine like he's not sure what else to call it, the vocabulary failing him, and he does this absolutely irrelevant kind of circling wafting hand gesture at the area between his legs as if that will help her along. ] --and thinking about me. Then I felt you slip into what I showed you in return...

[ The memory of Nicki, of what Lestat's last company in bed as a mortal had been like, a deliriously happy time for him; he remembers feeling her heart-rate pick up as she saw herself in Lestat's position, felt herself being pushed down by his large, broad, beautiful hands. ]

I think perhaps it was a little too much. I could tell the exact moment when your control slipped, but it's interesting that I saw something positive this time.

[ Well, positive for her. He's not sure how he feels about seeing Armand like that just yet. ]

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