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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.
no subject
Jean-Claude steps into the bath, the water barely high enough to crest his hipbones as he settles himself back against the wall of the tub. It will fill as they talk. He holds out a slender, pale hand to invite Jon in to join him.
"Come then, I will give you a further taste of what you would be tied to, non?"
If Jon thinks he can normally deal with his visitors himself, that is a good sign. Jean-Claude, the quintessential survivor, is always poised to brace himself for some huge threat he must manage and press himself into a tight knot to endure. More than that, it means that with keeping Jonathan, the benefits should outweigh the risks in terms of those others who rely on him for their lives. Not something Jean-Claude takes lightly. But as he'd said, that is an issue, overall, for later.
no subject
"I don't think I've taken a proper bath since I was a child," he murmurs thoughtlessly. Muscle by muscle the tension bleeds out of him, leaving him flush with Jean-Claude's chest. The sheer wealth of skin contact makes Jon tense again, but only briefly. It's very... noticeable, how much more substantive Jean-Claude's body is opposed to Jon's. Of course, it's Jean-Claude's overwhelming nature that fascinates Jon.
"I didn't think I'd ever be seduced through my stomach," he huffs.
no subject
"A failure of imagination, perhaps," he teases. "Or a failure of those around you? You have been subject to so much neglect, mon égaré. A man cannot be satisfied with words alone."
He presses a chaste kiss to his head to punctuate the words.
no subject
Often he has felt ridiculous keeping his hair so long, and justified it as a practical way to conceal his scars. But in truth he can no longer imagine himself without the dark mass of it shadowing his features. He had gone two years without looking into a mirror as succumbed to the Eye; it was only after his completion as an avatar that mirrors stopped making him apprehensive and started to catch his eye once more. By then it was comforting to look as changed on the outside as he was internally.
Right now it seems likewise fitting that everything is so overwhelming, that Jon should experience such a rush of new sensations just as he makes the first real decision of his life—The first decision he has made not driven by fear. So close to him, Jean-Claude's voice sinks into him just like the heat of the water, making fear impossible even as embarrassment and uncertainty burn within him. It is so easy for Jean-Claude to make Jon sound worthy, and Jon's instincts tell him to look for motive. He reminds himself it's far too late for that. Jean-Claude had used the Eye's own proclivities to steal Jon from it's nest.
"W, well. I can be satisfied quite a lot by words," he jokes voice rusty and his face red.