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thelastvictimFor 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?"
blindstrikeJeannette 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?"
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Date: 2016-03-13 04:19 pm (UTC)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."
no subject
Date: 2016-03-30 07:26 am (UTC)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.”