→ I'm now becoming my own self-fulfilled prophecy.

[thedominatrix]

Who: Irene Adler, Benevenuta Crispo
What: Irene being extremely forward.
Where: Bernát Residence.
When: Call it a Sukkardi, not long after monster rain.
Warnings: see characters involved.

Today, Irene's playing at demure. This means absolutely nothing except a lot of white lace and a respectable hemline which only makes her crimson smile seem ten times dirtier, all her primness and prettiness serving as nothing more than a foil for the entirely obvious truth. Dressed up like a doll, she looks even sharper and hungrier than ever.

She has a bottle of very fine white wine in the hand not occupied with her clutch, which she bites down on (teeth on the gleaming knuckleduster handle) for a moment and holds in her mouth, leaving a smudge of lipstick, to press the doorbell. She quickly reclaims the bag and stands up a litle straighter, feet together, society smile barely keeping in check her bright-eyed, sharp excitement. Ladylike. Vicious.

And when the door opens, she speaks immediately, launching straight into airy, intentionally overdone theatricality without so much as a hello-

"My cleaner kicked me out, something about needing absolute silence and peace in which to work her magic and see if she can't finally get those bloodstains out of my white carpet. So, I thought I'd see how my necklace was getting on."

She holds up the bottle, raises her eyebrows.

"And look! I brought a present."

--because Irene does like to spoil people, and that serpent pendant was payment.

(It's probably a worrying example of Irene's sense of humour that she finds everything about this particular scene and her current act to be absolutely hilarious).

Comments

[asklepios]

Benevenuta, appearing ever so slightly bemused by the sudden addition of Irene Adler to her otherwise mercifully quiet evening in, is slightly less precisely put together in sheer cardigan and organdy bloomers, which are not, despite their half-assed (if you'll forgive the pun) attempt in that direction, actually pants. The front door of her apartment opens straight into her living room, and behind her on the glass coffee table there is evidence of a solitary evening in; one wine-glass, a selection of books, and...some sort of dessert?

(She's gone blonde since they last met, but perhaps Irene has already seen that on the network; it's very conscious, the way she's softened herself since the end of the crisis, gone back and reinforced that first impression she'd given of herself to this city, sheathing the sharper, darker parts and making them harder to hold onto, like smoke. Some people are harder to fool than others.)

“Come in,” she sighs, half a laugh. “I'll get another spoon.”