it’s events such as these -- formal events where his primary task is to look pretty and make people fall in love with him -- where jagger excels. yes, his drug peddling is lucrative and easy but that tends to be kept in the undercurrent. it’s hard to show off when he has to be secretive. now, as sans’ date for some proper schmoozing of another syndicate, showing off is essentially his objective and he takes that job very very seriously.
jagger even smells expensive, dripping in an armani cologne where a single spray probably costs more than a minimum wage worker makes in an hour. his suit is custom made (does he own any that aren’t?), elegantly embroidered dragons weaving and curling their way around his long legs on the silken trousers. besides their dazzling red, green, and purple designs, he’s in all black, at least as far as his clothing is concerned. his nails are blood red courtesy of baby’s christian louboutin polish and it adds just another element to his look that puts him way out of everyone’s league.
everyone except maybe sans. for all their endless irritation towards one another, it’s no secret that they have a mutual appreciation for the extravagant. they’re on the same level, the same plane, but jagger would sooner die than point that out. he’ll always, always act the superior in everything except for age. his fingers undo just one more of his blouse’s buttons under his tailored suit coat as their car pulls up in front of the venue, for maximum sex appeal of course. “do i look positively fuckable?” he asks, flickering a glance back at sans with a smirk. it’s clear in his eyes that he’s excited, his whole body practically vibrating with energy as their driver comes around to open the door. // @ambitchixus