undergrounds | [OPEN] don't you ever tame your demons, always keep them on a leash

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[OPEN] don't you ever tame your demons, always keep them on a leash

1. POLITICS OR LACK THEREOF
Jean-Claude has been a resident of the city long enough to have become well famliar with the way of things. Or the lack thereof, perhaps. With Millicent's way of things. He has lost count by now how many elections she has rigged in her own favor, by way of fear and intimidation. Anyone who should dare speak up and question her decision on the matter has been silenced, and through much more arcane means than any other faction participating in the Night Council might have done. Her treatment of her own people is crue and brutal and Jean-Claude has done his best to keep his head down lest he awaken her wrath upon himself. He had made such a mistake before, after all, with his own master, his maker back in France, and he had paid very dearly for it indeed.

But as he's passing just outside his club and he's handed a flyer campaigning for the woman, he has to hold his tongue. He lets the --student if he's not mistaken -- continue carrying on passing out flyers to those he recognizes from the community, and instead pauses to regard the paper in his hand. It's a joke. A farce. To endorse yourself in such a way when you refuse to allow any others to stand up against you, upon penealty of death.

He does not care who is watching him. He does not care who sees. Tightening his fists, he balls up the flyer and tosses it into the gutter below. He is well over six hundred years old and he is tired of these games.

2. GUILTY PLEASURES: ELECTION THEME NIGHT
Jean-Claude is a practical businessman, and he understands that most of his clientele knows who and what he is, especially those that are from the supernatural underground. He makes no attempts to try and hide it, after all. Quite the opposite, in fact, Jean-Claude rather enjoys flaunting who and what he is. Making a spectacle. Keeping people guessing -- on their toes.

And because he and his club are well-established in the supernatural community, as well as the fact that he likes making a spectacle, he makes it a point to arrange for theme nights every now and then. Closed to the general public, one may only enter if they prove their connections to the underground. And since a particular theme has presented itself so perfectly this month...

There is a dancer for every candidate. (Including Norrell, but Let's Not Go There.) Each of them has a little bit of time here and there on the stage throughout the night but it's up to the attendees to vote for who they think should get the final show. Each of the stage versions of the candidates camped up in their own stage dancer sort of way. Everyone from "Sylvia" with her tight blouse, short skirt, tweed, and garters -- definitely more of the sexy business approach. To "Dee" with her glasses and her cardigans -- she's definitely got more of the librarian appeal. Then there is of course the handyman Owen, whose outfit practically wrote itself. Millicent, who is quite obvious to all those who have seen the woman in person, with a touch of Jean-Claude's own version of kitschy vampire dress-up for those that don't -- he isn't certain he won't get in trouble for that parody all things considered but at this point he's thrown caution to the wind. All the way down to "Faolan", with his brooding looks, tight jeans, and leather jacket.

"What are your tastes?" Jean-Claude inquires of the crowd, quirking a smile as he MCs between acts and walks around collecting ballots. "Who will be your Guilty Pleasure?"

[ooc: hand in your vote!! ;) or just stop by to talk -- he won't complain either way.]

3. MORNING BREAKS
Jean-Claude has a daylight ring, and thus he does not need to keep the same hours a vampire without one might. As his dancers leave for the night, Jean-Claude himself takes to the street for a walk. To get himself out and about, and to find a good seat to watch the sun rise. There are a few people already out and about, even despite the slight drizzle in the air. He pulls his jacket closer around him as he settles himself down on the bench, letting out a quiet sigh as he feels something of the cold in the air beginning to settle into his bones. He will need to feed soon. But not yet. For now, he will enjoy the view.

He does not glance up at whoever it is that is approaching. He keeps his eyes on the sunrise. It is not a sight he had thought he might ever see again at one point in his life. And so it is a sight he does not think he will ever get tired of seeing.

"It is lovely, is it not?"

4. WILDCARD
If there's something else you'd rather play out with me, just hit me up and we can work something out! c:

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Lancelot is, in truth, largely here to keep a wary eye on proceedings and make sure everyone plays nice. Even set up as a fun gimmick a political theme has the potential to quickly become a problem. He's dressed down, but his eyes are more on the crowd in truth than the 'entertainment. At the first sign of trouble he''s always on his feet to help politely but firmly bounce someone.

There's something faintly uncomfortable about the whole thing, about such openly sexualised iterations of people he knows, but he still can't help but look a little -- even if he feels an even mixture of amused and uneasy about it.

"I suppose," he asks Jean-Claude quietly as he passes, "if I asked why you'd simply counter 'why not?'"

Jean-Claude quirks a wide smile at the other man. "Officer Dulac," he tones, Lancelot's name perhaps never having sounded so French than just now. "What a pleasant surprise it is for you to join us here! And then again, of course it should only make sense that a Guardian keep an eye on his prospective future Council members, does it not?" He grins and gestures towards the stage, where the latest round of 'nominees' are dueling it out.

He steps forward closer to the other man, through with his more boisterous teasing for now, and instead addressing the other man's first question. He can see the look on Lancelot's face, and oh, but he wants to dig into it further. "Do you disapprove, mon ami? Tell me truly that you do not enjoy my election more than the farce that they are putting on out there."

Disapprove? It is not that, exactly. Lancelot wrinkles his nose slightly, lifts his eyes to the 'entertainment' for a second before looking back to Jean-Claude.

"Forgive, it is only that... things are a little stranger when you know people this is based off more personally. It makes it harder to enjoy the show without feeling a little strange about it."

After all, the dancer playing up the role of incumbent president is very attractive but good lord Lancelot doesn't want to begin thinking of Sylvia in that manner.

"Is it?" Jean-Claude asks in response, lifting his eyes to glance up at the line of the performers in turn. "Millicent is my Duchess. She has been the leader of the vampires in the city since I have come here myself. Which means I have been acquainted with her for well over a century now." He turns his deep blue eyes back to Lancelot. "Yet I do not have a problem with her likeness up there on the stage."

He tilts his head at the other man slightly, taking in the look of him and the look on his face, before he quirks another smile at him. A knowing smile. "Perhaps I am more accustomed to such things, however."

"I think you might be," he replies, "at least I should hope you are, running this place."

He quirks a smile, faintly amused, and takes a sip of the drink he's been nursing. It's nothing strong, because Lancelot doesn't really do strong drinks. Especially when he's keeping an eye out for trouble.

"Will you be supporting your representing duchess tonight, then?" he prompts, inclining his head in the direction of the rather camped up dancer. "Is she to your taste?"

Jean-Claude lets out a laugh that might almost be construed as bitter in some regards, despite the constantly coy smile on his face. "No," he says, without looking in the direction of the dancer on the stage. "No, she is not." Not that he has anything against the dancer herself -- one of his regulars on his ladies' night, and one of the more popular ones at that, but still.

His reaction, as Lancelot may be able to guess what with how little control Jean-Claude is keeping over his emotions just now, has almost everything to do with Millicent herself instead. She reminds him too much of Belle Morte, of her iron control over the fear of her people, of her cruelty. But Belle is everything and more -- much more than Millicent could ever be. And Jean-Claude is glad that she is far away and in France, where her touch will not be able to reach him.

He reigns himself in, smoothing out expression slipping the constantly coy mask more firmly into place. "No, my tastes have been known to run more firmly in. Other directions, shall we say." He gives the other man a knowing look. Come now, Lancelot. After all the flirting he has done with you, it should be rather obvious what he's implying. He turns his gaze again towards the dancers, lingering on perhaps one or two. "I may have my eye on some others, however."

Flirting doesn't always have intent behind it, though, especially not if you are Lancelot. His smile flicks up a touch, however, as Jean-Claude looks over at the stage, and he lofts an eyebrow.

"Oh? Who is it you have your eye on then?"

He scans the dancers, trying to guess. Everyone has been sexed up a little of course, and there's something awkward about asking which sexed up version of someone he knows Jean-Claude is into, but if he can keep this separate from the real versions in his mind it's not so bad.

"Uh, uh, uh," Jean-Claude tuts at Lancelot, shaking his head and a finger at him. "I will share if you do. How is that?" He quirks a smile at him, tilting his head in turn. "I think it only fair. Everyone has their preferences, after all. We try to be accommodating here at Guilty Pleasures, where and when we can be."

He realizes, of course, that he is asking him to pick a sexed-up version of someone he might potentially know. But to be honest, that is half the fun. (The other half of course is to watch Lancelot squirm at the idea of thinking about any of these people in such a way.)

"Share?" Lancelot lofts an eyebrow at that, takes a sip of his drink as he studies Jean-Claude. "Forgive me, but I really don't have an eye on anyone. Too close to work, and I prefer not to mix that with pleasure if I can help it."

Far too many complications, far too much awkwardness if it all goes wrong. Lancelot would rather keep things simple, as much as he can.

Jean-Claude lets out a little sound that is partially knowing and partially wistful. Of course the good Guardian would give such a response as that. While it is not nearly as entertaining, it is of course predictable.

"Ahhh, dommage," he says, turning to scan his eyes over the dancers, the 'politicians' once more. "There are some pretty faces on the stage tonight. It is a shame you cannot appreciate them." He quirks a smile at the other man in turn. "Perhaps another night?" They have many specials. And the regular days as well, of course.

"Perhaps," Lancelot allows, and flickers a smile. "Although I admit, I do not think this place suits me as well as it might. Not for any lack of talent on in your dancers, only... something in myself. I am poor at being casual with my feelings. Perhaps that is... childish of me, I could not say."

He shrugs fractionally, drops his eyes to drink then turns them up at the dancers again.

"I only end up feeling I am lacking something, rather than enjoying the moment."

Jean-Claude shrugs, shaking his head at the response. It is honest, and he appreciates that. "It is not childish, no. A part of growing up is to come to understand oneself. The fact that you know such things do not speak to your own pleasures suggests that you have given some thought to the matter. That is not childish."

He turns back to the dancers himself. "We are all different people, my dear Lancelot. To be a romantic as you suggest yourself to be, that is not a bad thing." He quirks something of a smile, before turning back to the other man. "And, it means that you are the perfect man to help keep watch over my dancers on such a night, then."

He lets out a little huff of amusement, takes a sip of his drink as he considers his answer.

"That much is true," Lancelot allows finally, "they may be a little distracting, but... they're safe from me. Although, I must admit, it's making me wonder about Sylvia when she was younger..."

Jean-Claude smirks slightly in response to the last comment, tilting his head at the other man in turn. Jean-Claude has been in this city for over a century, and he has witnessed the public part of Sylvia Redbright's history at least.

"I'm sure you can imagine," he says, with a wicked smile. Sylvia has certainly hardened over the years, to be true.

"Actually, I can't at all, which may be for the best."

He lofts an eyebrow at that, glancing up at the dancer for a second then back at Jean-Claude.

"Although it does make me wonder if I have missed out."

Shorts skirts and garters do have an appeal he can't truthfully deny, although of course the dancer also has the perfect figure for such a thing.

Jean-Claude laughs and the sound is low and private, shaking his head slightly in response to the look on Lancelot's face. It's just too good.

"Perhaps you have, mon ami. Perhaps you have," he agrees. "But it is not your fault you were born to the age that you were. And there are plenty of others that you are not missing out in this one," he adds, quirking a smirk at him in turn.

"Others?" Lancelot prompts, and flick an idly amused smile. "There probably are, but... I'm not so sure I'm looking. I've tried, but... work keeps me busy, and part of me wonders if I have too many secrets to keep. I'd need to find someone with the same secrets, I suppose. Otherwise I would feel myself a burden, the divide too wide."

He shrugs minutely, sips his drink as his eyes slide away a little.

Jean-Claude inclines his head at the other man. He understands all too well what he means, in truth. He is not exactly looking for a companion himself, after all. But it is fun to flirt, and it is amusing to prod at the other man a little. Though he recognizes he should tread carefully if he does not want to poke too hard.

"You have your reasons," he acquiesces. "And they are noble, at that. But try not to be so noble that you miss the opportunity, should it come to pass. You only have this one life to live." He flicks something of a smile at the other man. "Take it from someone who has seen a great many years. You do not want to work so hard you cannot find time to enjoy yourself." He glances over to the dancers, before turning back to wink at Lancelot. "However you so desire."

"What if I enjoy my work?" Lancelot prompts. "Perhaps not every day -- I admit that, there are days it takes its toll. Yet... I would not change it. I took the job in the hope of making a difference, and I would like to think I do -- however small."

Even if sometimes he doesn't agree with the Night Council, sometimes he doesn't agree with what he's asked to do -- at least he can gentle such things. Can give leeway where others would not.

Jean-Claude shrugs in that insufferably vague way that he does that could mean something or nothing at all. "I am not about to tell you how you should live your life, mon ami," he replies. "I am not you. I do not know you well enough for that. But you are so very mortal. Time passes more quickly than you know, that is all."

He shifts slightly where he stands, crossing his arms slightly as he does. "If you enjoy your work, as you say, then enjoy it. As I shall enjoy mine." He offers Lancelot something of a wicked smile, at that.

Oh, what's that. A paper aeroplane flying right toward Jean-Claude's face? Folded up from another Millicent flyer, no less. It won't be hard to figure out where it came from, as Eames follows soon after. He'd been about to screw the thing up and toss it away until he saw a familiar vampire up the street do the very same thing and, well. Now here he is.

"Can't imagine your Duchess would be too happy about that," he says with a smirk and a gesture to where Jean-Claude's discarded flyer had ended up, "though I suppose it doesn't matter whether she has your support or not."

Jean-Claude is not so preoccupied that he misses the object flying at his face, though it does take him somewhat at surprise. He catches it easily, unfolding it to find it is another of the flyers he had just destroyed, before looking up and across the streets to try and determine where it might have come from.

About the same time as Eames approaches with his smirking and his gesturing towards the crumpled paper on the ground Jean-Claude recognizes him. He smiles in greeting, equal parts guilt and mischief. "What she does not know..." he says, starting the thought and then trailing off, with a shrug. Though he is not fool enough to think that no one saw his little display just then.

Eames laughs at that, and puts his hands in his pockets as he comes to a stop, "suppose I'll just keep it to myself then, shall I?"

Jean-Claude quirks something of a smile in response to that, inclining his head at the fae man as he does. "Are you planning on telling her personally yourself then?" he asks, before shaking his head. "I would be in your debt, if you would not mind keeping this little secret to just the pair of us for now."

Though it's pretty obvious that Jean-Claude cares little for his 'Duchess' and the way she conducts her business (read: tyranny) over the vampires under her jurisdiction.

"I may have been considering it." He wasn't. At all. He doesn't give even the slightest shit about politics inside Islington, but he smirks regardless, pretending to give it serious consideration, "but I suppose I could be persuaded." And he leans a little toward Jean-Claude, something faux-conspiratorial in his tone, "who am I to say no to an Earl?"

Jean-Claude raises a coy eyebrow at the other man, though he quirks a smirk in response as well. "Well," he says, equally low and conspiratorially. "I seem to recall having attended a certain party for your promotion to 'Lord', if I'm not mistaken. Which, if I must say, sounds awfully more important than the simple position of Earl." 'Simple' indeed. Not that the two are even remotely comparable, of course, the two factions as different as they are.

That gets a soft chuckle out of Eames and he shrugs a nonchalant shoulder. Court politics as they are, being a Lord means little else than impressing mortals and settling petty squabbles, but that's not something he intends to disclose.

"It sounds nicer at any rate," he says with a wink instead, "but one should still be kind to lesser royals, no?"

Jean-Claude lets out something of a snort in response to that, but he offers something of a little bow that would have been a much more familiar gesture a few centuries ago. "I am humbled that you should think of me and my position," he offers, in a manner suggesting that perhaps he really is grateful that the other man should say such a thing, or perhaps he is taking the piss in turn. Jean-Claude had lived in a vampire court in France for long enough to learn how to lie out of his ass and to be pretty good at it as well.

Eames assumes he's taking the piss, but he's amused regardless. He's never taken this kind of thing all too seriously, it's a little refreshing to deal with someone else who also doesn't seem to care all that much about it.

"Of course. What kind of a man would I be--" he says with a tilt of his head and a casual lilt, "if I was so dismissive of my lessers?"

Jean-Claude quirks something of an eyebrow at the question and the phrasing of it. His lessers. He wonders what sort of a comparison there is, between the courts of the fae and the hierarchy of the vampires. Both of them immortal in their own way, and both of them equally as self-important.

"What kind of man would you be indeed," Jean-Claude responds. "Though I would hesitate to go about describing any fellow Earls or Countesses as lessers, if I were you. Not all of them are quite as understanding as myself."

Well the feeling amongst the fae courts is that the vampires are objectively a waste of space, but Eames would suspect that outside opinion is similar for the two of them. Which is wrong, but what better can you expect from mortals?

"Not as fragile as your comrades?" Eames's mouth quirks in a small smirk, "isn't that a relief."

Yes, the vampires are of the opinion that the fae are a very tasty, if someone dangerous food. All beings are food, when you are at the metaphorical top of the food chain. So the feeling is rather mutual. Not that Jean-Claude himself is so shallow. Not about these things at least.

Jean-Claude inclines his head in something of a bow. "I should think myself quite refreshing, all things considered. Compared to my peers, that is. If you have had the pleasure of dealing with any of the lot of them, then perhaps you might know what I mean."

Keeping early hours wasn't so much a choice as it was routine. He could hardly sleep past five, and the sun rose later in London than on the east coast American states. It was a colder sunrise, wetter, more bracing and tepid. There was a quiet that came with it that he greatly enjoyed, swathed to the teeth in black coat, scarf, boots, walking cane, which helped to diffuse the noise of mass transit and the nip of moisture in the air.

"'The sun is new each day', said Heraclitus." Replied, seamlessly, going to take a seat across the same bench, without looking at who had spoken either, but lifting eyes to squint behind glasses. "Each sunrise is a birth. Unique and beautiful."

Jean-Claude turns to the man who has joined him on the bench, taking in the look of him, such a person who would quote such a thing, before glancing back to the sun itself. He fingers his sunlight ring -- it is moments like these, as the sun first breaks across the horizon, that most catch his breath. Lead him to question whether it will work this time or whether for some reason its magic will give in and leave him there to burn. He is at its mercy, and it is terrifying, and it is wondrous.

"Did he, now?" Jean-Claude replies, tipping his head slightly towards his new conversational partner. Taking stock of him and certainly noting the walking cane. Much less a common accessory than it once had been.

"He said many things, before he came to be lost in Socrates' shadow. But that is the difference between night and day. In the dark, everything is indistinct."

Leaning back against the bench, he relaxed a moment (as long as he was capable of relaxing) before glancing over.

"It's rare to see someone in the metropolis up early enough to see it, but with leisure enough to sit and view it."

Jean-Claude offers something of a shrug at that. "It is a rare breed of citizen who finishes work in the small hours of the morning and who has the whole day ahead of them to spend as they like before they must attend to their duties once more, but it would seem I am one of them."

He turns his head to the other man, offering him something of a smirk as well. "Then again, it would seem it is not as rare as you would lead me to believe. For here you are yourself."

"Does sleep not factor in?" A slight raise of brows at that.

In his own case-- "I'm an early riser." And very late to bed, but no matter there. Old habits don't change. "I like the two quiet periods of the day. First light, and deepest dark. There's an otherworldly quality to both, where you can understand why some men would believe in God, or Gods."

Jean-Claude offers the other man a small smile at the question of sleep, but does not address the question. If he has realized who, or what more accurately, he is talking to, then he need not anyway. Besides, he enjoys keeping a little mystery whenever possible.

"You certainly have a way with words," he says, inclining his head to the other man. "Though I cannot deny that they are my favorite times as well. It is the quiet, as you say. A time for silence and secrets."

Kenzi doesn't really care about the quiet mockery of the candidates - she can't even look at the Norrell dancer - but there is one dancer who Kenzi is almost completely sure is going to result in this place getting shut down.

As she sidles up to Jean-Claude in between his little greeting spiels, Kenzi nodded her head towards the Millicent dancer - who was currently doing some kind of acrobatic pole thing that made her stomach hurt just looking at it.

"Aaaare we gonna get in trouble for this?"

Because if so Kenzi was going to bail.

Jean-Claude offers her his usual one-shouldered shrug, turning to glance at the dancer in question, surveying her work for a few moments before turning back to Kenzi herself.

"It is possible that there may be repercussions," he answers. "But the only one who will answer to such a decision will be myself. I will guarantee you that much, at least." He had been the one to choose to make such a display, after all. Chose to 'belittle' Millicent by putting her on the same level as the rest of them. Let her get angry at him for that. If she chooses to dabble in their politics, it is only fair for him to have included her in this.

Kenzi's mouth twists in odd mix of admiration and worry. How must it feel to be so old that you just don't care about repercussions anymore? It's kind of badass but at the same time...kind of sad.

"Welp," Kenzi punctuated her 'p' with a friendly smack on Jean-Claude's upper arm. "If she didn't like you before, she's def not gonna be a fan after this."

With all the guests taking pictures with their phones, Kenzi was pretty sure that Miss. Thing would see this in five seconds.

"So if you die, can I have your stuff?"

Oh, Jean-Claude is almost positive that she will see this. The question is, how will she react. Will she care? Only time will tell.

He throws her something of a look in response to the last question. "I have no intention of losing my life over something so petty. And Millicent should not go so far as that, considering my age and authority." Though that will not spare him from punishment, of course.

He turns to her directly, a wicked smile on his face. "Enough of that. We will come to the repercussions when they hit us. Do not tell me you do not have a favorite amongst the dancers here?"

Kenzi looks from Jean-Claude to the dancers with consideration for a moment before she shrugs one delicate shoulder. "Faolan is pretty accurate."

The Sylvia and Norrell were just nightmare inducing. But plenty of folks seemed to like them for various reasons - either finding them incredibly hilarious or enjoying the fact that they can act out some of their fucked up fantasies.

God, people were weird.

"Everyone else kinda makes me think of my mom though so," Kenzi shudders dramatically as a finisher for her thought.

Jean-Claude lets out a laugh at her pronouncement. "Fair enough," he allows, with another chuckle and shake of his head.

"You know him then?" he asks, nodding to the surly dancer portraying Faolan, who has perhaps a bit more in the way of definition of musculature. And is taller. A great deal taller than the real deal (poor Faolan). "I did not think that you were, as you might say, 'all that in' to politics."

Kenzi looks back at the dancer for a moment before snorting lightly. He'd done his research. At Jean-Claude's commentary her brow dips and she looks up at him with confusion.

"What'd you mean?"

But apparently Kenzi had not when she hired Faolan for the brief moment in time.

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[OPEN] don't you ever tame your demons, always keep them on a leash

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