C'est le ton qui fait la musique.
WHO: Francis and Ion
WHEN: December 21st, around 3 AM
WHERE: Francis' condo at Vichy Plaza
WHAT: Revenge for sullying a sister...figure.
RATING:...well.
One peculiarity that Ion had taken note of during his short stay was that Liberty's social circle seemed very reliant on internet blogging with strangers as a way to keep up with local gossip. He normally would find this very awkward, but today the odd circumstance proved its usefulness. It was amazing what one could discover occurring behind closed doors when another person didn't know how to censor themselves.
"Знаете ли вы кого-то именем Фрэнсис?"
"Старый друг. Почему?"
"Мне нужен его адрес. Сейчас."
Which is how he found himself standing inside of a very upscale condominium, he himself located just outside a door that seemed to exude sex and exoticness with what lay behind it. He scoffed to himself in the dimmed hallway and flicked the end of his braid over his shoulder. He knocked on the door and then crouched down with his back braced against a wall as he waited. He was no fool; he knew exactly which angles to use to showcase himself and with what he had been able to gather, Bonnefoy was a narcissistic casanova of a man who liked the delusion of being above everyone else. So Ion would give him the momentary illusion of being in control to make him comfortable.
Shuffling and low grumbling was heard within. Ion pushed back the urge to smirk smugly and instead gazed patiently at the door, gray eyes opened wide in an (feigned) innocent expression.
The door at last slid open without protest, revealing an artfully rumpled blonde man.
Bonnefoy.
Ion blinked once or twice, tilting his head to the side in an innocuous manner that revealed an inviting stretch of bared neck.
"Alo...you are Mr. Bonnefoy...? I was told come here if I have..."
An anxious-seeming lipbite, stormy eyes quickly flicking away to gaze at the ground before rising slowly to fix on Bonnefoy like one of Nabokov's nymphets.
"...trouble sleeping."
WHEN: December 21st, around 3 AM
WHERE: Francis' condo at Vichy Plaza
WHAT: Revenge for sullying a sister...figure.
RATING:...well.
One peculiarity that Ion had taken note of during his short stay was that Liberty's social circle seemed very reliant on internet blogging with strangers as a way to keep up with local gossip. He normally would find this very awkward, but today the odd circumstance proved its usefulness. It was amazing what one could discover occurring behind closed doors when another person didn't know how to censor themselves.
"Знаете ли вы кого-то именем Фрэнсис?"
"Старый друг. Почему?"
"Мне нужен его адрес. Сейчас."
Which is how he found himself standing inside of a very upscale condominium, he himself located just outside a door that seemed to exude sex and exoticness with what lay behind it. He scoffed to himself in the dimmed hallway and flicked the end of his braid over his shoulder. He knocked on the door and then crouched down with his back braced against a wall as he waited. He was no fool; he knew exactly which angles to use to showcase himself and with what he had been able to gather, Bonnefoy was a narcissistic casanova of a man who liked the delusion of being above everyone else. So Ion would give him the momentary illusion of being in control to make him comfortable.
Shuffling and low grumbling was heard within. Ion pushed back the urge to smirk smugly and instead gazed patiently at the door, gray eyes opened wide in an (feigned) innocent expression.
The door at last slid open without protest, revealing an artfully rumpled blonde man.
Bonnefoy.
Ion blinked once or twice, tilting his head to the side in an innocuous manner that revealed an inviting stretch of bared neck.
"Alo...you are Mr. Bonnefoy...? I was told come here if I have..."
An anxious-seeming lipbite, stormy eyes quickly flicking away to gaze at the ground before rising slowly to fix on Bonnefoy like one of Nabokov's nymphets.
"...trouble sleeping."