PSL Post

[thelastvictim]

For blindstrike



Jeannette hated coming in to Hell's Kitchen the way she did. Alongside the bottom-feeders and brutes who inevitably come streaming in to fill a power vacuum. It was dirty, and unseemly and above all else, she strove to avoid getting her hands dirty, literally and figuratively.

So her first actions in the borough were legitimate enterprises. She needed somewhere to operate, and turning her single hotel and casino in Las Vegas and beginning the process of making it a small chain by opening the first of several new locations, buying up several properties on the edge of Hell's Kitchen to build the Hotel Nocturne New York.

Reported crime in the direct vicinity of her shiny new 4-star location dropped significantly. Especially after a well-known local pimp staggered into the ER, bleeding from his ears and in a catatonic state, with multiple broken bones.

The banshee had first met the Kitchen's mysterious Guardian Devil on the docks, after she'd crushed the throat of a particularly horrible man before the Devil had a chance to stop her. She'd laughed, and tossed the body into the river while bleeding from at least two bullet wounds at a much slower rate than she should have been.

Tracking her down hadn't been difficult. Her voice was distinctive, and her heartbeat inhumanly slow and faint, and she smelled of moss, damp earth, tastefully faint, and likely exorbitantly expensive French perfume.

Her private suite, difficult but not impossible to sneak into (especially via the roof) had no expenses spared and was a feast of textures. Silk velvet, the softest of leathers, and the enticing, almost vanilla-like scent of old books. The carpet was plush underfoot and absorbed the sounds of footsteps almost completely.

"I normally turn uninvited guests away, my darling demon," came a voice. "You're lucky I'm feeling patient tonight, and willing to entertain." Her accent, French by way of somewhere in Eastern Europe was strong, wrapping around her words without distorting them.

"What can I do for you?"

Comments

[blindstrike]

Matt Murdock has run into plenty of assholes ever since he started running around in a mask. He’s never run into someone like Jeannette, utterly confident that no one can touch her. She isn’t even trying to be subtle; no cloak and daggers like Fisk, no hired hands and whispered names. It’s almost like they’re leaving calling cards, dropping bait in the water until the right fish makes the mistake of swimming along. Matt has that gut feeling. He still isn’t prepared for his first run-in with Jeannette on the docks, the dead man dangling from her hands – a man who easily outweighed her – and the stench of blood painting its copper trail in the air. There’s all kinds of red flags there. Wounded woman who shouldn’t be able to toss a man like that with one hand, the distinct lack of fear from her heartbeat; the laugh ringing like a bell.

He tracks her across Hell Kitchen. When he comes in through the roof, he’s hit from all sides and all senses at once. All of it screams expensive, expensive, expensive. Italian leathers, books that are probably priceless first editions, a carpet so soft even he would have trouble tracking someone across it. The glass on the windows he passes are thick, tempered, and so perfectly sound proofed that he can’t hear the traffic outside. If someone screamed for help down on the street, he wouldn’t hear it.

He finds the woman standing exactly in the middle of the suite as if she’s waiting for him.

“ ‘Entertain’. Right,” Matt repeats, and he sounds out of place compared to her. Where she has an accent, elegant, articulate, precise, he’s rough in comparison, a little hoarse because he had to work his way in here past the security after the four story climb. His chest is still heaving slightly as he faces toward her voice, his chin tilting up. “How about answers? Why you killed that man seems like a good place to start.”

It isn’t that he’s going to lose sleep over his death. But he’d been planning to interrogate him, follow that lead, and now it’s gone. All he has is this murder with a fine taste in furniture. The perfume’s damn strong, his head starting to swim as he tries to shallow his breathing. He starts toward the woman, aware that he probably comes across as threatening between his outfit and the mask and his armored gloves.

Most normal people would be babbling and spilling their guts before he had to get personal with them. Most normal people weren’t a banshee.

[thelastvictim]

"He did shoot me," the woman replies, far too casually for such a statement. The notes of blood and gunpowder that had trailed after her were almost gone now, her ruined clothing exchanged for a silk dressing gown. Perhaps unsurprisingly for how easily she'd shrugged off the gunshots, she was no longer bleeding.

"And had it took, I wouldn't be the first woman he'd disposed of. Even I'm not sure how many throats he'd slit. The reek of death clung to hi, and there will be no one to weep at his grave. Though it may be host to dancing." She sniffed, as if trying to clear her senses of the memory of the man.

"What about you? That can't be the only reason you tracked me down."

She still wasn't showing any signs of fear. Maybe she had a small personal army waiting in another, equally soundproof room. Or she was insane. Or something more than human. Or all of the above.

[blindstrike]

Matt knows she was shot. He also remembers she laughed it off – literally.

His jaw works silently, dotted with five o’clock shadow that would hint at maybe a working man underneath the mask. His hands are rough enough, broken and fractured and healed, to clash with his desk job.

“He wasn’t the only one; without him, it’s going to be harder to get to the rest of his friends,” Matt hopes he can hide on how edge he is. You don’t get shot, lift a man like that, and then come back and it’s as if nothing ever happened. By now he’s known that there are certain people out there – people with abilities who could look and smell just like everyone else only they’re different. He doesn’t know what they’re calling them; gifted, inhuman, mutants. It doesn’t matter. What does matter is he might be over his head if he doesn’t keep on his toes. “Maybe I’d like to know who you are and I won’t be leaving until I get answers.”

Usually that gets someone talking. The thing he’s found is that having a reputation can actually help sometimes: saves him having to break the skin on his knuckles against someone asshole’s teeth until he talks.

[thelastvictim]

She inhales, as if tasting the air and rolling it over her tongue. A hunter of killers, perhaps, but not one himself. She can sense death has touched him, but the scent of a killer is distinct to her kind, and it's not one that follows him.

"Who am I?" she repeats, and stifles a laugh. "You are the one in the mask, are you not, mon diable?. I think I am more entitled to that question than you."

The sound of paper crackling, and the scent and taste of hard candy hits the air. "Please stop trying to frighten me. I am a monster, and you knew that before you came here, do not deny that." Her tone turns scolding, but not mocking. "So tell me, why did you come to me, hmm? If I tell you I can give you the names of the men you seek, am I spared your violence? Or will that just leave you hungry?"

Oh, but it has been so long since she's met this kind of man. The last was a preacher, convinced he could redeem her soul. What blasphemies he was capable of after his time with her.

[blindstrike]

She can’t see it with the mask in the way, but the more she talks, the more Matt’s eyebrows jog up in surprise only to knit together, a line forming between them.

“A monster,” he repeats flatly. She might call herself a monster but he suspects she’s a mutant with a theatrical flare. “Do you think you could stop me from getting the names I’m looking for?”

Depends on her abilities. Stick trained him and he filled in the gaps with Dad’s boxing, but he has to admit, he doesn’t think either of them was prepared to face someone who could shrug off bullets and who might have a genetic grab-bag of abilities. If he’s lucky, this one won’t have something like telepathy, like that professor he heard about on the news. Matt’s hand tightens on his baton, annoyed that she seems to be enjoying herself with what smells like some kind of designer candy. He’ll have to give her something to stop smiling about. Most people start talking once he dangles them out an open window several stories up. Matt suddenly lunges at the mutant, a red blur that barrels at her. He reaches for the front of her dress, intending to get a good fistful of the fabric so he can manhandle her to the balcony he passed on the way in.

[thelastvictim]

He does have the size advantage, and outweighs her enough that his momentum is enough to drag her several inches, but her hands quickly find his wrists, locking around them as he pulls at the fabric- thin, delicate stuff that starts to rip before he can drag her anywhere.

Her grip is strong, inhumanly so, but she doesn't squeeze hard enough to break bones- though it's unlikely he won't be sporting bruises.

She could throw him back, or kick him, or even butt her head into his. But it's her voice that delivers the blow. He may not be able to see the way her skin pales, or her eyes darken, but when she speaks again, there's no doubting that something has changed in her.

"Foolish young thing," she chides, and each word carries with it impressions, memories of intense suffering. The scent of blood on old wood, the sound of an axe blade hitting flesh. Laughter- not hers, but that of a crowd.

And for a moment, he is her- but not the way she is now. Bound, head pressed into the rough wood of a chopping block, blood soaking her dress from the wound in her back- the executioner had missed his mark, and he was pantomiming for the crowd. The soul-shaking feeling of humanity slipping away with one's life-blood, knowing death was close, but not close enough. And through it all, the intense humiliation of knowing this was entertainment to those watching.

"Can you hear them? Roused by the scent of blood like so many hounds. Do you doubt me now? You come to me in the guise of a devil, but how do you bear a little taste of damnation? Do you really want to make me scream? Do you think you'd survive?"

[blindstrike]

He half expects something flashy – lightning, maybe, the sizzle of ozone and something possibly burning (read: him) – but he isn’t prepared for the visions hitting him like a truck.

Matt hears Jeanette from far away, her voice muffled as if she’s underwater, as if he has the senses of a normal person trying to listen to someone with walls in the way. His hand pulls into a fist as if he’s trying to jerk it away from her grip. It’s more of an unconscious gesture, his entire body going rigid as his eyes flutter behind the mask, rolling up as he struggles to keep conscious from the sensory overload. Tasting blood flooding his mouth, the agony of an axe that was supposed to go all the way through but doesn’t, the hot tears as the crowd laughs and jeers and –

He finds himself on his knees in front of Jeanette in a bastard imitation of a bow, his arms still held up over his head, his wrists numbing from the strength of her grip. Matt’s breaths come in harsh gasps as he registers in stages where he is. Floor, not the execution platform. His tongue aches from where he bit it but he isn’t choking on blood anymore. A cough rips through him as he works moisture into a mouth that’s gone dry, nausea flip-flopping in his stomach. Right now he can’t tell if he’s going to be sick.

What he does know is he made a serious mistake sneaking into this particular building. If she hits him with another round of that, Matt can only hope he’ll actually pass out the second time.

“What was that?” Matt’s voice comes out in a pant, his head bowed. The only thing keeping him up is Jeanette’s iron grip.

[thelastvictim]

"You look good on your knees," she noted before answering. There is a certain hunger in that statement.

She keeps hold of his hands, though the grip loosens, not quite bruising-tight. Still not particularly comfortable, but more strain on his arms and shoulders, should he fail to get his knees onto the floor.

"That," Jeannette tells him. "Were some of the final moments of my mortal life. Just a taste of it. You probably wouldn't have survived if I'd raised my voice enough." She lets go of one of his hands, and gently brushed her fingers along what jawline he has exposed.

"It was also me proving a point. You can't intimidate me, and any beatings you'd offer would do little- to my flesh, or my spirit."

She let go of his other hand. "I am impressed you're still conscious. I'm not impressed often. For that, I'll give you those names, and more- and three days to remove them in the manner you'd prefer, before I take any actions of my own. If you're a good boy, I may even have more rewards for you. I do know some terrible people, all chomping at the bit for a piece of this city. I've no desire for them to begin making demands of me to protect my businesses." She says all this as if it's a perfectly fair, innocent offer.

Well. Maybe not entirely innocent.

[blindstrike]

Even with the aftershocks, Matt still has it in him to feel that familiar sense of anger threatening to boil over. On his knees, she says. The arrogance of it would’ve bowled him over if her visions or whatever you wanted to call it didn’t already do that for her. He’s still struggling to catch his breath, giving the mutant all the time in the world to keep talking. She wants to toy with him. That’s what it boils down to. She’s bored, she has a life span that he didn’t think was possible if those flashes were anything to go by, and now he gets to entertain her.

“Remove them in any manner I’d prefer, you say,” he repeats after her. His chin lifts, too late to jerk away from her touch, and it’s more like he’s gasping into the floor because when she loosens her hold, his thighs can’t keep him upright. Matt manages to catch himself with his hands before he smashes his face pitching forward. First he gets himself on his elbows before he leans his weight back, sitting against his heels. “What’s that suppose to mean? Try to jump you so you can hit me with that thing again?”

She has to know his methods. Normally that would get people talking but now he has cold hard proof she isn’t most people. Hell, he isn’t even sure if she can even count as “people”. Matt struggles to force himself to his feet, his knees wobbling before he manages to lock them so he doesn’t tip over. Jumping her now doesn’t look like it’s possible. His head swims, pressure clamping down on his temples as he focuses on keeping upright.

It's with dread bubbling over that he starts to wonder what she means by "actions of her own".

[thelastvictim]

She takes a breath, though one does have to wonder if her breathing is just for show. It's remained incredibly even.

She picks him up- surprisingly gentle, and sets him down in a chair- the source of some of that leather smell, buttery soft against the skin, and plush under that. She opens a bottle and pours out two drinks into glasses over waiting ice-water. It smells strongly of alcohol and herbal notes, and an almost syrupy-sweet hit of licorice- or, more accurately, aniseed.

"I'm very sorry, I really should give you a moment after what I shared with you. I know I crave a strong drink when certain memories creep back." She brings her own glass to her lips, as if to prove it isn't poison. It isn't, save for a staggering alcohol content, hence the ice water.

"I wasn't offering you myself. I'm no criminal mastermind- what you saw at the docks was self defense. The man meant to kill me, I fought back. But you mentioned his friends. He was part of a prostitution ring that has attempted to use my hotel for it's... higher-paying clients. I will not allow that in my establishment. Especially not after the state my staff found the poor girl in afterwards. I've kept her, and several of the others, under my protection for several days. I will give you the information on these men, and the madam who runs them."

Already, the sound of pen-scratching on paper. "Which I believe was that information you meant to beat out of me when you came here, non?"

"I shared a part of my death with you, mon diable. You have experienced the most terrifying, dehumanizing thing done to me. And your mind is intact. Not many can say that."

"I do have to ask. The memories you felt. The woman on that platform, before the crowd. The one you were for that moment. Did she deserve that death?"

[blindstrike]

[Could you timeskip us to Matt getting overwhelmed with his first attempt/smutty?]

Getting picked up like he weighs no more than a child drives the point home. He gets parked into a chair, gently as if he hadn’t broken in and tried to intimidate her, and he’s still adjusting to that even as the smell of tea – cocktail? He can’t place it exactly – fills the air. He sits there, slumping over as he struggles to find the energy to sit up straighter like that makes any difference considering the circumstances, the mutant making herself comfortable. She chats away like they’re old friends catching up, playing the perfect host. Matt gets one armrest gripped as he pushes himself up, a grimace crossing a face that’s gone several shades paler under the mask after his run-in with Jeanette.

“No,” Matt says. He could have done without those memories; even if he’s now sitting in a chair that borders between comfort and aesthetics, his head swims, the floor seems to bob under the thick soles of his boots. His fingers tighten on the armrest as the phantom memory of the crowd laughing. “But you got in my head and I’d have no way of knowing if all of it was true, you know.”

It felt real, terrifyingly real. The glass remains untouched, not just because he’s unsure about its but also because he doesn’t think he could stomach anything right now.

As for the rest of what she said, he intends to check up on her intel if he can get out of here in one piece. The fact he can’t read her through her heart sets him back, makes her much harder to predict. Most people he hunts down like this, they wouldn’t have treated him like a guest – at best they would’ve called the cops. At worst; well, he guesses he wouldn’t be showing up to the office ever again.

“What would happen if I tried to leave, right now?” Something tells him it won’t be that easy.

[thelastvictim]

[Sure, I was going to drop you a PM to see if you wanted that, actually, and feel free to drop me one if you have specific requests or ideas.]

She lets him try. Takes from her own glass while she watches him stumble, sets it down, then returns him to the chair. Her face stays close to his, enough he can probably taste the traces of sugar from the candy, laced with the boozey licorice and herbs of the absinthe still on her lips.

"I don't think I should let you be leaving right now, mon diable. It would be irresponsible of me." She touches the tip of her finger to one of the horns on his mask. "And you've piqued my interest. There are many stories of mysterious strangers charming their way into a household, only to be revealed to be the Devil in disguise. Usually after seducing a chaste young lady." She laughs a little.

"I think we have a lovely reversal of that, non?" she leans over him. "Or is there something wicked about you?" she asks, obviously rhetorical.

"I think, perhaps, there is. Something more than the usual wickedness of all men," she puts a hand on his thigh and squeezes, to get the point of what she means across.

"I'd like to see the man who chooses the devil as a disguise. But I will not take off your mask." She leans in further, lips to his. "Stay, and I swear not to take another life in this city, I will swear to that."

[blindstrike]

Irresponsible. That's what she calls herself. Matt could think of some other words - arrogant, inhuman - and none of them make it to his lips as he tries and fails to walk out. He doesn't even have the energy to jerk his head away as Jeanette comes in close enough to almost kiss, her lips brushing against his in a way that sends a shudder up his spine. He can't tell if it's some kind of animal instinct at...whatever she is or he's just remembering what it felt like when she showed him some snapshots of her life.

He settles back against the chair, his head lolling slightly as he resists the urge to flinch away, show Jeanette how she's unnerved him. Thank God the mask's in the way.

"I'm not something out of one of your fairy tales," Matt makes a solid effort not to slur, each word clipped with barely controlled anger. "You don't know me."

Her hand against his thigh speaks volumes. The touch isn't chaste, it's assuming intimacy as if there’s ownership involved. There’s a slight squeeze he can’t ignore, nor hide the way his jaw stiffens. She says she won’t kill anyone. Right now he has no idea if she’ll stand by that or it’s for show, more of her type’s way of acting like they’re honorable, above it all. Matt’s mouth parts as her lips tease against his in the bastard imitation of a kiss, trying to ignore the vague, wordless feeling of his breath being stolen away. She’s a mutant and maybe he can’t explain her. It doesn’t mean she can keep him holed up by telling him something she thinks he’d want to hear.

“No,” Matt breathes the word out low, harsh, wondering if he’s about to make a big mistake. “You don’t get to keep me hostage here no matter how you dress it up.”