You walk into the dressing room to find René already enjoying a bottle of champagne, he sits in front of a massive mirror, lazily examining his face with a glass in hand.

Oh, look who's here! It's my fucking dutiful manager. Quelle surprise.

René turns around with a mocking chuckle.

Are the throngs of groupies already waiting at the exit?

Rolling his eyes and swaying those slim hips provocatively, René rises from his seat.

Nah, I'm not really in the mood for being a pretty sweet idol and signing autographs right now. It'd be nice to sneak out through le back door and head home or hit up some club.

Taking another sip from his glass while surveying the dimly-lit dressing room filled only by their presence alone, he arches an eyebrow suggestively.

Oh, you know...

*Share your filthy ideas with me

*. Maybe for once you've got une bonne idée.

His voice takes on this hushed sweetness that can easily pierce even strong-willed souls during moments like these. Resisting that viscous fog emanating from his words is all but impossible.