[There's a pause where the vampire tests the air in a long, steady inhale, measuring the scent. It's there, exactly as he remembers it, of course: gingered brandy, sweet with a spicy-hot bite. Slather it in grave dirt, taut leather, and the perfumed velvet crush of rose petals, and we have ourselves a Vicious, or at least a familiar approximation to the man Javert-the-Gadjo knows well.
Intimately well. In a physical sense, at least, though the mind has done a bang-up job fabricating an even more fruitful mental connection, a lengthier one, in this alternative life.
Javert hoists the chain and palms the keys. He pivots slowly on his heel and takes in the changes in his regular bedfellow, his judgment reserved until he gets a good, hard look. He breathes in the sultry scent, eyes dropping from the gold bangles and the opened button-down to the, ah, constricting pants.
And a smile blooms, predatory and sharp, and very, very wicked. All of his teeth, as well as his gums, gleam as he prowls an approach.
From the front, Vicious might be surprised to see that this Javert is... different, yet not. He is a Javert who is equally resolute, equally foreboding, equally dark and a touch melancholy, but there is a confidence and mischief in him that isn't fully realized in his 'realer' self. This is a Javert who'd come to accept his wretchedness at a young age, rather than late into adulthood; a Javert who spent a lifetime building his way up the streets as a common gamin picking pockets, then a letter courier and lookout for the older gang boys, then a cutthroat, then a gang leader, and so on and so forth. He has the decorations to prove it, too, from the hoops in his ears to the branded skin at the back of his shoulder. Hints of more artful 'medals' peek through the deep collar of his robe; there are his starburst death-scars and the slits in his throat, yes, those are the same, but the pack of wolves stamped into his chest is new.
He really is mostly bare-arsed under there.
He blithely plucks the bouquet from Vicious's hand, twirling the stems between his fingers. The palmed keys rustle with his intent teasing. A low chuckle seeps through his teeth.]
Precisely what I was looking for with our standing appointment. You listen carefully to my vexed asks, I'll grant you that. [A beat, regarding Vicious through half-lidded eyes. He hums an approval.] This look suits you.
[Javert drops the bouquet in an empty decanter for now. He returns to Vicious just as quick, his thumb stroking a line down the line of his pressed maroon collar.]
I'll have the Mademoiselle arrange them at my office. Hold my drink, will you, and help yourself to a taste. I have got the door.
I'm glad you think so. Though, it's looking like I might be a touch overdressed. Would've re-thought the pants if I'd known what my other self was up to with you.
[Forgive him, he is staring. Appreciatively, of course, and doing very little to hide it. And why would he? He'd be just as brazen about it if he were "his own" Javert, of course.
This one is quite the sight to behold, embellished in a way he wouldn't necessarily consider suitable for an officer, especially from what he understood about that time period. The single tattoo on his Javert was easy to conceal for professionalism's sake, but this one doesn't seem to care so much about optics serving respectability over his own expression, which this version of Vicious seems to agree with wholeheartedly what with his own inks and accoutrements on display. The roman numeral thirteen adorns his breast over his heart, and a black bird's wing and the red tail of a eastern dragon extend along his rib cage, disappearing beneath his shirt.]
This is a good look for you.
[Mostly naked? Or all the jewelry and tattoos? Who knows, he's not really looking at his body anymore, instead focusing on that familiar face wearing an unfamiliar, distinctly cat-like expression. Normally this would indicate the bi-monthly psychological effects of the fog, or some kind of demonic or shade possession but... no, he's sure this is just how this Javert operates. It just looks too natural to be anything else.
All this appraisal has left him trapped in his own head for much longer than he intended, and it probably seems like he's just been staring at Javert's mouth for... a very long time. So long that it seems that he didn't quite parse the elder vampire's request.
Which is a shame, because he really is quite thirsty at the moment.]
[Oh, he won't make for the glass? Then after the awkward pause, Javert will lift a brow and takes Vicious's hand for himself. He presses a teasing kiss to the knuckles (with a little scrape of fang for good measure), tucks the glass-stem into his palm and wraps his fingers around it like he is made of putty.]
Your 'other' self is you, and I am sure of it. I've seen enough this week to judge the differences small, whatever-it-is the peninsula has done. Though you were not a dead one when I last left you. A shadow, rather. A stunning one, mind you, [he hums throatily, his thumb brushing against the well-faded marks in Vicious's neck. It's a joke that'll likely go over Vicious's head. Stunning, as in electric, able to ensnare the body and shock the muscle to stillness.] But I could get accustomed to this body just as well, I think.
[He lingers for a few beats more than necessary, and draws away abruptly, his Dyster key brandished in his palm. He turns the key in the nearest door and whips open the portal, stepping aside for Vicious to enter first.
Through the door he'll spot Javert's quarters, plush with deep reds, blacks, and mahoganies, and quite neatly vampiric. Morbid art pieces of monsters in the night line the walls. There is a proper bed, at least, grand enough for two. Not a coffin in sight.
And a leather flogger propped against the armchair, right beside the cuffs and the gags.]
Well? After you. And leave the pants where they are, for as long as you can bear it. I quite like the look of them on you.
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transilience
From:
no subject
Intimately well. In a physical sense, at least, though the mind has done a bang-up job fabricating an even more fruitful mental connection, a lengthier one, in this alternative life.
Javert hoists the chain and palms the keys. He pivots slowly on his heel and takes in the changes in his regular bedfellow, his judgment reserved until he gets a good, hard look. He breathes in the sultry scent, eyes dropping from the gold bangles and the opened button-down to the, ah, constricting pants.
And a smile blooms, predatory and sharp, and very, very wicked. All of his teeth, as well as his gums, gleam as he prowls an approach.
From the front, Vicious might be surprised to see that this Javert is... different, yet not. He is a Javert who is equally resolute, equally foreboding, equally dark and a touch melancholy, but there is a confidence and mischief in him that isn't fully realized in his 'realer' self. This is a Javert who'd come to accept his wretchedness at a young age, rather than late into adulthood; a Javert who spent a lifetime building his way up the streets as a common gamin picking pockets, then a letter courier and lookout for the older gang boys, then a cutthroat, then a gang leader, and so on and so forth. He has the decorations to prove it, too, from the hoops in his ears to the branded skin at the back of his shoulder. Hints of more artful 'medals' peek through the deep collar of his robe; there are his starburst death-scars and the slits in his throat, yes, those are the same, but the pack of wolves stamped into his chest is new.
He really is mostly bare-arsed under there.
He blithely plucks the bouquet from Vicious's hand, twirling the stems between his fingers. The palmed keys rustle with his intent teasing. A low chuckle seeps through his teeth.]
Precisely what I was looking for with our standing appointment. You listen carefully to my vexed asks, I'll grant you that. [A beat, regarding Vicious through half-lidded eyes. He hums an approval.] This look suits you.
[Javert drops the bouquet in an empty decanter for now. He returns to Vicious just as quick, his thumb stroking a line down the line of his pressed maroon collar.]
I'll have the Mademoiselle arrange them at my office. Hold my drink, will you, and help yourself to a taste. I have got the door.
From:
no subject
[Forgive him, he is staring. Appreciatively, of course, and doing very little to hide it. And why would he? He'd be just as brazen about it if he were "his own" Javert, of course.
This one is quite the sight to behold, embellished in a way he wouldn't necessarily consider suitable for an officer, especially from what he understood about that time period. The single tattoo on his Javert was easy to conceal for professionalism's sake, but this one doesn't seem to care so much about optics serving respectability over his own expression, which this version of Vicious seems to agree with wholeheartedly what with his own inks and accoutrements on display. The roman numeral thirteen adorns his breast over his heart, and a black bird's wing and the red tail of a eastern dragon extend along his rib cage, disappearing beneath his shirt.]
This is a good look for you.
[Mostly naked? Or all the jewelry and tattoos? Who knows, he's not really looking at his body anymore, instead focusing on that familiar face wearing an unfamiliar, distinctly cat-like expression. Normally this would indicate the bi-monthly psychological effects of the fog, or some kind of demonic or shade possession but... no, he's sure this is just how this Javert operates. It just looks too natural to be anything else.
All this appraisal has left him trapped in his own head for much longer than he intended, and it probably seems like he's just been staring at Javert's mouth for... a very long time. So long that it seems that he didn't quite parse the elder vampire's request.
Which is a shame, because he really is quite thirsty at the moment.]
From:
CW: Suggestive
Your 'other' self is you, and I am sure of it. I've seen enough this week to judge the differences small, whatever-it-is the peninsula has done. Though you were not a dead one when I last left you. A shadow, rather. A stunning one, mind you, [he hums throatily, his thumb brushing against the well-faded marks in Vicious's neck. It's a joke that'll likely go over Vicious's head. Stunning, as in electric, able to ensnare the body and shock the muscle to stillness.] But I could get accustomed to this body just as well, I think.
[He lingers for a few beats more than necessary, and draws away abruptly, his Dyster key brandished in his palm. He turns the key in the nearest door and whips open the portal, stepping aside for Vicious to enter first.
Through the door he'll spot Javert's quarters, plush with deep reds, blacks, and mahoganies, and quite neatly vampiric. Morbid art pieces of monsters in the night line the walls. There is a proper bed, at least, grand enough for two. Not a coffin in sight.
And a leather flogger propped against the armchair, right beside the cuffs and the gags.]
Well? After you. And leave the pants where they are, for as long as you can bear it. I quite like the look of them on you.