Who: Abaddon and Fetish Where: Chula Vista, Manhattan What: Drinks and conversation When: Wednesday evening Warnings: Language, BDSM-talk, ???, TBD
It had become Abaddon’s favorite upscale cocktail bar close to home, having held a special place in his black little heart ever since it was the first place he bowed to his Prince. Once more one of the semi-private booths had been chosen, and once more, the fallen angel had shown up early.
A crisp near-black suit highlighted the lines of his shoulders and chest, though the coat had been left open, along with the top two buttons of the satin shirt below to reveal the pale hollow of his throat and the shape of his collarbones. This was a relaxed meeting, and he intended on looking the part, even if those white-blond strands of his hair still sat immaculately groomed to his head and manicured fingers tapped lightly against the table with perfect precision.
He watched the door with sharp eyes, a faint twitch of a smirk on his face. There was something incredibly ironic about all of this this, and it amused him greatly to consider it.