ˏˋ꒰💐꒱ - ̥۪͙۪˚┊❛ 𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐃 ❜┊˚ ̥۪͙۪◌
╰┈➤ ❝(v.) To attract and move deeply: rouse to ecstatic admiration.]
━━━in which a woman born in the 14th century, a time of pain and suffering, made her a woman of strength. With a passion for singing...
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𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐄𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓: Murder worked better than mascara (1927)
━━━━ ◦ ❖ ◦━━━━
TW: Mentions of murder, killings, gore, death, and rape
GENESIS' red lips release an annoyed huff as she places the rim of the glass filled with old forester whiskey on her lips, the liquid gliding smoothly on her tongue with a hint of its bittersweet taste that she had gotten used to.
She was outfitted in a gorgeous gold sequined flapper with fringe that made her dark skin glow in the dim red light of the bar and a matching feather headband that wrapped around her forehead, her face was done up in true flapper style, and luscious black hair was wavy and pinned back, a long diamond necklace wrapped around her neck.
Genesis placed the glass on the table as her red lipstick stained the rim of the glass. She drummed her fingers against the bar. The sound of the singer hitting high notes is muted in the background as she focuses her hearing on the man at the other side of the bar talking about the bets he made and won, with two women glued to his lap that are wearing enough colourette in their faces to cover a damn bare white wall.
Kingsley James is married to an ill wife, a father of two, a not-so-loving husband, and most of all, a businessman who just suid a black family for stepping inside his shop—the whole family was put to jail, and last time she heard it they were not treated well in prison.
To Genesis. She could just compel this entire bar and kill Kingsley in an instant. Still, when they are consequences of being dealt with—meaning the victims she is trying to avenge get caught up in her schemes, she has to calculate her moves, take on a responsibility and deal it with things in a mortal way, specifically in the legal side of the law.
"Planning bloody murder?" A voice with a thick southern drawl snapped her out of her listening as a man in a crisp black Brook Brothers jazz suit, his wrist occupied by a black and silver Rolex, and short black hair combed neatly towards the back as he removed his black fedora, placing it on his lap. Genesis' sense of smell was invaded with fresh, woody, and slightly oriental fragrance.
He sat beside her, a black leather suitcase at the bottom of his feet that wore oxford's classic black and white wingtip shoes locked in between.
Elliot Cresswell gives her a grin as he orders a drink of his own, a bourbon.
"You bet." Genesis replies with an accent of her own, french, and she never did want it to fade. She wanted something that would make her remember her humanity and her life in northern France that would ground her on earth between what is right and good.
