perfectdevil | the city: inbox

[ 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. ]

Vibrator, that's a vibrator. It vibrates.

[ okay uncalled-for condescension jo ]

It must have been when -- I guess I came. God, that's weird, it's like ... I don't know, it's like having a wet dream.

[ She looks down at her wrist, the smooth, unbroken skin, and runs her fingers over the veins absently. ]

Trying to juggle too many things at once, though. Shouldn't be surprised I dropped a ball, I suppose. I was feeling so much ... That was your old lover?

Vibrator. [ He repeats, just to say the word. It does sound pretty good in a French accent. ] I can understand why a mind might not be able to hold two fantasies firm in the throes of an orgasm, it's no wonder you fell to pieces in that way.

[ He looks prideful again at that, visibly puffing up a little. Look, it's very gratifying to bask in the knowledge you got a pretty lady off without even touching her. Sure, his magic vampire bite had a lot to do with it, but it was his bite, so he figures he still deserves some credit.

When he answers her final question, his tone is casual and easy, and very much by design. ]

... But yes, he was. That was a few nights before I died.

[ It's tempting to argue the phrase "fell to pieces," solely because Lestat looks so smug, but given the amount of bourbon on the floor back over there, she can't really say he's wrong. Brat.

Instead, she looks up at him, trying to gauge whether that ease is genuine or not. She knows plenty about downplaying old loves. None of hers are a couple centuries in the past, though. She can't get a read on it -- could go either way. ]

He's very beautiful.

[ She pauses, and then reaches up to brush his curls off his face, cups his cheek in her warm hand. ]

Thank you for it.

[ At the feeling of her warm palm, Lestat does a little double-take visible only in the way he blinks rather rapidly for a few seconds, his body otherwise staying completely still. It's an understandable surprise, this tender moment of softness from her, and it makes his heart feel warm too, as if the heat from her palm travelled straight through his chest. That seasick feeling he'd felt after their last conversation is all but forgotten, replaced instead by a genuine fondness. ]

Of course; I like to surround myself with beautiful things.

[ He turns his head ever so slightly, to kiss the dip of her palm, just above the pulse point of her wrist; just a closed-mouthed and quick little thing, and then he smiles. ]

Thank you for this, and for only teasing me a little.

[ A very understandable surprise. But Jo's tired, and as lonely tonight as she ever is. The closeness that wound through the memory was tempting. The details are fading as minutes pass, but the urge she felt in the moment to hold Lestat and share her body heat the way he remembers his violinist -- that lingers.

And it was just a memory. A fantasy to enjoy, like her visions of teasing Lestat. She's grateful for it and she won't forget it, but--

The little flutter his kiss causes her is something she desperately needs to ignore. So she does. ]

Don't get used to it.

[ She pats him on the cheek. The way she puts her armor back on is almost visible, the cocky smirk returning, the insouciant tip of her chin. ]

Do you want to walk me home? You can quiz me about human sex if you like.

[ It is indeed impressive how she steels herself to the world once again, how easily she slips into that haughty bravado, but oh... if it's designed to make Lestat feel closed off, it does the exact opposite. On the contrary, he feels a strange kind of understanding when he watches her mood shift, away from tenderness and towards flippancy because it's easier and it's safer; the same way that Lestat leans so heavily on being an unfeeling monster should the issue touch a little close to a nerve. Their meeting really was a fateful thing, he thinks, as he feels the challenge of pulling more tender moments from her settle somewhere in his chest. ]

Of course, mademoiselle. Anything you wish.

[ So much for the mess, he figures; he's never cleaned anything up in his life and doesn't see why he should start now. Especially not when the City kind of cleans up itself.

He slips an arm around her shoulders as he pulls her toward the door, and can't resist joking: ]

So, it vibrates?

the city: inbox

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject