Flashback: Frailties
[July 1998]
When mama brought me to church as a boy, the preachers used to say that Jesus was the only perfect person in the world - but I don't go to church anymore.
There are no perfect people - everyone is frail and everyone is weak. Everyone has a place where they break - a part where they were ill-made.
July, 1998: a scant handful of days since Emma's arrival at the Hellfire Club. Her first night was with Shaw, and he was gone when she awoke - instead, she was disturbed from sticky, sweaty sheets by a young woman in Hellfire clothes whose mind reeked of equal parts suspicion, jealousy and pity.
She was conveyed here - a guest suite, opulent in facade but somehow a little dingy up close - possessed of the character of a well-used hotel room with the impression of so many hands on knobs and fixtures, so many feet on the carpet and too many bodies wrapped night after night in the sheets of the bed, some legacy of continuous occupation even the best cleaning cannot erase. On the first day, someone came to measure Emma, and they, too, reflected some mental suspicion - some haughtiness, some disdain, for one more important songbird to be cooed over and abuse until her voice was gone.
Shaw didn't come on the second night, nor on the third, and as the days rolled by that sense of isolation increased. Clothes (Hellfire clothes and others) were brought, and even when on the fourth evening Emma's erstwhile benefactor returned it was a carnal, mechanical thing. He came again on the fifth evening, and then nothing - no one friendly - again on the sixth and now the seventh day, which pulls on presently towards late afternoon.
Towards late afternoon and another evening of mind-numbing boredom. Emma watches the shadows lengthen and night's approach out of the large, un-shaded window that dominates one of the walls of the room. A smudge of oil and sweat form at the contact of forehead and window as she curls into the narrow, cushioned seat underneath it and looks out across the gardened paths she'd just wandered to escape the dark-wood confines of room and mansion, and disapproving and disdainfully superior looks that only servants of the rich can achieve. A half-eaten sandwich lays on a plate of translucent china on a tray on the table near the door. Perfectly presented, complete with tiny bottles of condiments, it only served to reinforce the chilly and painfully precise cordiality of those who prepared it under their master's orders and whim. Not hers.
No knock - a hand on the door, pushing inward as the still-unfamiliar bombast of Sebastian's personality pushes into the room, filling it as he stands in the doorway - charcoal jacket and slacks, tan polo. There's a sealed wine bottle in one hand, and black eyes sweep the suite immediately before they settle on Emma with the glimmering of a smile. "Why," he says. "You look positively overjoyed to be here."
Emma pulls away from the window and drops her white-socked feet to the floor as he enters, sending stiffness into her spine and alertness into her demeanor. "I am," she says simply, crossing her fingers on her knees. Her hair hangs limply in the oppressive heat, and well-fitting, but still shapeless gray knit pants hang knotted at her waist under a pink, cropped t-shirt. She forces a hesitant smile that speaks more of caged animal than beloved pet and rises.
Sebastian's brows rise. "I see," he remarks, studying her for a moment before he crosses to a tray of upturned glasses. Two are upended, and the Black King reaches for a waiter's and begins to carefully cut the foil away from the bottle of burgundy. "It's better," he remarks cuttingly, "than the asylum."
His thoughts - emotions - reflect a sort of black twirl of amusement at Emma's clear discomfort, and the higher thread of some /expectation/ - of an anticipated payoff - hovers like the giddy joy of a gambler seeing a sign for 'Casino Ahead'.
Emma blinks and swallows, hiding trembling hands behind her back in a clasp as she steps into motion, crossing around the edge of the bed and approaching him. "It is, thank you," she answers, wary still of the glee undercutting his facade of calm.
The screw digs into cork as Sebastian turns to look at Emma with a pleased smile, twisting in deeper and deeper with every snap of wrist. Pleasure rises at Emma's approach, and his expession and thoughts reflect some beckoning quality as he says - a spark of expectation firing cherry red - "We're going out this evening."
Emma closes in, drawn by his empathic urging, and startled by the sudden announcement. "We are?" she breathes, hope and fear twining and alternately hitting each note of her reply, staining them with ignorant innocence. "Where? Will it be safe?"
There is a pop as the cork emerges, and laughter just below the surface at the swell of hope in Emma's voice. Sebastian leans over, and lips brush Emma's forehead brief before he turns back away from her, starting to pour wine in each glass. "Perhaps out is the wrong word," he says - he knew it, set it up deliberately - "rather, people are coming in. There's a poker game downstairs, and you're going to join me."
Emma exhales a disappointed breath, and starts to turn away. "I don't like poker," she says thoughtlessly.
"Well," Sebastian says, "you're not playing." The bottle is set down, and he turns back to offer Emma a glass. There's a flit of poker game images across his mind: men in suits with cigars around a table, each with their designated doxy in some ironic pastiche of ages past. "Drink," he urges, and it's all Shere Khan. "Someone brought you clothes in the last few days?"
Emma looks down at the offered drink at her elbow and reaches for it automatically before looking back up at her patron. She recoils mentally from the images parading across Sebastian's mind, and a grimace slips free. "Yes." She nods at the closet where the assortment of outfits have been hung.
"/Good/," Sebastian says - amused, eyes dancing. His own glass is picked up and he takes a sip, watching Emma carefully. "It's a great honor," he informs her. "Usually, the new girl at the poker game goes to some guest to start the night, you know - made to fawn all over him." A beat. "I thought you'd find that distasteful," he says. "And besides - I'm a decent hand at cards." He straightens from the side table. "I usually don't have to wager my girl."
Emma tenses as the implications sink in, her fingers flattening against the glass in her hand as it tips toward her to receive the heat of her embarrassed glare. "I appreciate that." The glass is then lifted and she downs a mouthful of the bitter liquid before attempting to look at him again. "What should I wear?"
Sebastian focuses on Emma. "I suppose I could, though," he reflects, reaching up with his free hand to touch her hair, to run his fingers down a strand of it possessively. Cruel intention rises. "You've not met Alan Samson - the chemical tycoon - but I understand he does have a fondness for blondes. I'm sure he'd just be salivating if I put you on the table."
Emma's shoulders rise in the beginnings of a defensive hunch, and she pulls away under the pretext of moving to put the glass down.
"You seem wounded," Sebastian murmurs, letting Emma's hair slip silkily out of his fingers as she pulls away. A beat - he looks at her - and then he moves too, closing the gap between them so that he looms well within the bawn of her personal space. A reach again, and now Sebastian takes Emma's neck, fingers gliding with a possessive thrill along fair, soft skin to bury in the roots of her hair. One more sip of wine and he looks at her. "Are you unhappy with this arrangement?" he asks, tone pleasant but intention and intimation glacially chill.
Emma's shoulder rises up between them and she arches away from the touch with a grimace of discomfort. She squeezes her eyes shut and shakes her head, however, biting the inside of her lower lip.
A thrill runs through Sebastian at Emma's obvious discomfort, and he leans closer to her - setting the glass aside so he can reach for her, place a hand on her hip and turn her forcefully to face him. "Hush," he murmurs to her, muscles flexing to draw her near and against him. "Don't be so..." He takes a kiss - claims it with some salivating cupidity before he concludes, "...discomfitted."
Emma pulls her hand up between them, resting the curl of her fist against his chest. There's no trust or tenderness in the gesture though, and the kiss he claims is uncertain and stiff. She looks up at him and waits, cheeks flushed with embarrassment and uncertainty.
Sebastian's hand moves from Emma's waist to her rear and squeezes ungently before he releases her, stepping away and reclaiming his wine glass to watch his plaything's cheeks flush with evident pleasure. He gives it just a moment - just the instant for blush to fade - before he says, "I understand they gave you some Club attire?"
Emma nods, and the heat returns to her cheeks, but rather at the snide comments circulated through the tailor's mind as he took her measurements than any prudish disinclination to wear the costuming of the club.
"Aww," Shaw says meanly. "You're like a innocent, blushing bride - about to put on her wedding dress for the first time." He reflects idly on all the ways Emma Frost is far from innocent. "Come now," he says, gesturing with his wine glass. "Dress for me." There's a beat, low and ugly in sentiment. "Come now," he repeats in bass rumble. "Make a show of it."
Emma glares sulkily, then steps back and turns around and makes for the closet. She slides the door away and pulls out a garment-bag covered hanger, then lifts up on tiptoe to pull a large shoebox from the top shelf. Both items are carried to the bed and one is dropped on and the other is slid over the edge. Emma looks back at Sebastian before bending over to unzip the bag and pull the black corset and high-cut underthings from it.
She unhooks the corset from the hanger and drapes it across her arm, then turns to face the Black King's dark amusement. Her t-shirt is slowly pulled over her head and tossed aside, and then her bra is removed as well, replaced with the Club-approved foundational garment of choice. There are too many hooks to let her maintain eye-contact, however, and she looks down to see what she is doing.
"Come on," Sebastian encourages. "Put some simmer in it, Emma." He really does chuckle now, a low sound that rolls around the room, clacking into itself like balls in billiards. "What, you think this sort of dry precision is going to make Alan Samson barter for an evening with those beautiful blonde locks?" He's half-serious, the thought of trading Emma for some business concession hovering in his mind.
Emma's fingers grow clumsy in her growing frustration, and his words whipcrack across tender emotions boiling too close to the surface. She collapses onto the edge of the bed with a strangled sob and the lumpy slickness of the comforter slides her to the floor. She leans with one shoulder against the bed, the other curling forward despite the fact that the corset holds her too straight to huddle properly.
Sebastian eyes Emma for a long moment, and then he slowly sets his wineglass down, crossing with careful steps to stand above Emma. For a moment, intention reads clearly in his thoughts: he's about to bend down, about to offer a hand to help to her up, about to fold her in his arms and finish doing the busk up for her.
She's quiet, stilled under an authoritarian mental voice that drips cold disapproval of hysterics and emotions. Emma turns to lean back against the bed, one hand pressing to her side as she inhales and exhales unsteadily. Sebastian's approach draws her eyes upward.
It's several long beats as Sebastian looks at Emma, and then whatever charitable impulse he had withdraws. He straightens and steps back, and his smile turns almost to a sneer. "While I appreciate," he says, indicating the half-undone corset, "your thoughtfulness in providing a head start, it isn't neccessary." Whipcrack words sound 'Finish' in the hollow silence that follows. "Unless," he says with a tilt of his head, "you'd care to delay our descent for a few minutes?" Hand moves to belt suggestively. "I am not hard to convince," he says in bald threat. "And you're already close to being on your knees."
Emma's mouth hardens into a tiny, pinched line and her hand moves from her side to the remaining few clasps which she finishes quietly and without further difficulty. She rolls away from him and to her knees, using the bed to help her stand. Feet regained, she reaches for the rest of the skimpy outfit.
Shaw reaches for his wine glass once again, finishing it - and then he looks for Emma's, cradling it in his fingers. "Good girl," he murmurs to her in a tone of approval - his mental undercurrent summong the impression of a man rewarding a dog. A small smile as he sips from her glass. "Don't forget my sizzle."
As a trainer visualizes what he wants from his pupil, so Emma siphons off Sebastian's mental images and follows their lead, albeit it with untrained grace and proud nonchalance.
It's with creepy fascination that Sebastian watches Emma - watches her fumble her way through undressing and dressing to please the Black King's eye. Throughout, his smile spreads in slow sips of wine, until - as the last thigh-high stocking is rolled over a knee, as the last foot is slipped in heels - the glass is finished and set aside. Sebastian extends his hand. "Beautiful," he complements. "You are the picture of some most delectable sweetmeat."
Emma's frozen frown deepens, but she says nothing and gives him her hand, her fingers cold and stiff despite the July heat forming condensation against the windows.
Sebastian squeezes Emma's hand and then leans close. "Put on a smile," he murmurs, his general delight at tormenting her mixed with some concern for appearances. With that instruction, he starts for the door, taking Emma with him perhaps just a little too quickly for corset and ridiculous heels. "You know why I'm bringing you?" he inquires.
"You're already bored with being a bastard to me in private. You want to be one in public now?" Emma answers spitefully, managing to keep up with him with only one small wobble that throws her against him for support.
The pair is at the door when Emma says this, and Sebastian is already reaching for the handle when he turns to her and slaps her once, stinging, across the cheek. He stares at her for several long moments, breathing anger in exhaling only slightly less of it until he can release her hand. "Go put on some powder," he bites out. "I'll wait."
Emma gasps and holds her free hand against her cheek, face kept to where the force of his blow turned it. One breath, two breaths, three... She turns back and looks at him with eyes shaded to dark sapphire, then pulls away and goes to do his bidding, returning a few minutes later with cheek powdered (though the imprint of his hand still shows through), and her demeanor subdued.
Sebastian's eyes track Emma's rear with lascivious intent, and he waits for her, somewhat patient. Upon her return he takes her hand again, stepping out into the hallway and beginning to walk towards the gameroom. "While," he tells her, "I do enjoy being a bastard to you... you're here because you're smarter than most of these bimbos, and you've got other gifts." His hand starts to squeeze. "You learned something unfortunate about me, Emma Frost," he says as the pressure increases. "Learn something unfortunate about them."
Emma winces and grabs his arm with her free hand and tries to shift his hand from hers. "Yes, Sebastian," she answers, unconsciously digging her fingers into his arm as they approach the doors. She lowers her voice and hisses, "Please..."
Right outside the doors they pause, and - still squeezing - Sebastian leans over to place a kiss on Emma's brow. "This is important," he says to her. "I want you to do well." At last, he releases her hands. "Make me proud," he says, and then he pushes double doors open to step inside.
The room is already filled with people - men in jackets and sometimes ties, each of them with a girl in white or black clinging to them in some riff on the fantasy in lace and leather Emma wears. Eyes turn to the arrivals, and there is a wave of anticipation, respect and fear at the Black King's arrival seconded by sparks of interest and spikes of jealousy as eyes find Emma Frost.
Emma straightens and flushes, the added color smoothing out the lines of Sebastian's hand on her cheek. Jealousy, interest, anger, lust-- emotions seeped into the very foundation of the club assault shields already thinned and wavering. She clenches Sebastain's arm, seeking support, and lifts her chin arrogantly. Faces and names swim together as the King makes his rounds, his newest conquest on his arm.
Names blur together - Thomas Worth, William Haverford, Michael Quigley. Alan Samson looms, unable to take his eyes off Emma's breasts even as he's shaking Sebastian's hand and murmuring some pleasantry. Samson's thoughts are positively invasive and verge on stomach-turning as her companion exhanges witticisms before he turns the conversation to some delicate point about plastics - Sebastian wanting Samson to handle the research costs for a high-tech project and Samson wanting Shaw Industries to pony up the bill. Even that interchange, however, distracts only half of the short, bald man's attention from Emma, a point in sharper focus among the general lusty character of the room. There's another spike of something - jealousy - as the yet-unintroduced blond woman in white given to Samson tonight shoots daggers towards Emma in her eyes.
After one particularly virulent thought, Emma turns the full force of her attention on the other woman, and lifts a brow. She blanches and blinks in surprise, and offers no resistance when Emma steps smoothly into the stream of the men's conversation and excuses the Black king and herself from him most prettily. Almost before they turn away, Emma is explaining herself in a low undertone. "He can't afford it, Sebastian. He's on the verge of bankruptcy."
Sebastian turns his head to eye Emma thoughtfully, and his lips part in a slight inhalation. "My, my," he says to her. "You have done /very/ well." Lips curve, and he moves his hand to give Emma a patronizing pat on the ass that's mirrored by some genuine appreciation. "Dawdle on his knee during the game?" he asks. "I'd like to find out if--"
"Sebastian Shaw," comes a shrill voice - a woman in black, who has tempered what would be a corset similar to Emma's with a skirt and cape. She is alone, and is perhaps ten years too old for what she wears. One finger is pointed at Emma with an undisguised note of envy. "Some new whore to keep on your arm? Darling," she says to Sebastian. "You really must introduce us."
Emma looks up in anticipation of his command, but the voice of the Black Queen harpoons their attention.
"Paris Seville," Shaw says with a note far distant from pleasure - one made even less pleasant in his thoughts. "My new 'whore'," he says, "is Emma Frost - Winston Frost's little girl from Boston." A thin smile. "She's young and pretty - such a nice change." It's clear his focus is on delivering barbs to Paris, and it's only after a moment that he turns back to Emma. "Emma, this is Paris Seville, who has the unfortunate honor of being my counterpart, Queen of the Hellfire Club."
Aw, but why settle for one, when you can insult two? Emma bristles at his side even as she smiles with the arrogant contempt of the young for the old and offers the picture perfect society nod. "Madame."
Paris leans close to Emma, reaching out to grab one of her cheeks and pinch. "Oh," she says, shooting venom in Sebastian's direction. "She's so /cute/. Are you adopting her as your very own little girl?" Emma, really, is nothing at all to Paris - this is one more little, losing battle in her fight with Sebastian Shaw.
Emma grabs the other woman's wrist and pulls her hand away from her cheek. "Your hands are so cold, Madam," she says in sudden, sharp irritation. "Circulation problems? There are exercises to help with frigidity."
"See?" Sebastian interjects. "She could give you some tips, Paris." He smiles. "For all your age and experience, I daresay in the last week Emma here has shown me quite a few tricks you never learned." Paris looks poleaxed for a moment. "I have a poker game, my Queen - are you planning on playing?"
Paris yanks her hand away from Emma's with ill-concealed anger that has a hard time deciding who to settle on--Sebastian or his new bedwarmer. "Of course not. I wouldn't dream of interrupting your game, my King. You do so need to spend your time with men, after all." A snide glance aside at Emma, which Emma returns with false sweetness.
Shaw reaches out to pat Paris on the cheek and then turns away from her, glancing sharply at Emma. "Come," he commands to her, his mind swirling with a little pique. As soon as he's far enough to pretend earshot, "That woman is a spiteful old biddy." It's intended, from Sebastian's internal pleasure, to carry.
Emma's hesitation lasts a fraction of a second, and then she's following in the Black King's wake and keeping her mouth shut, though she does glance back over her shoulder to see his Queen's silent simmer.
"I look forward to the day I can replace her," Sebastian says to Emma, squeezing her hand again in some frustration. There may be sore fingers in the morning. "Frightful toad of a woman - I swear," he says, "the world would be better if your sex died they day they turned thirty."
Emma rolls her eyes, careful to keep her face turned away as she does so. "Your sex reaches their prime while still in their teens. Maybe we should put expiration dates on everyone."
Sebastian tilts his head to eye Emma with glittering challenge. "Are you calling me expired?" he wonders, mercurially amused at Emma's witticism.
Emma turns her head back to him and lifts her brows in feigned innocence. "You're the exception to the rule, of course." The game tonight only lasts a few hours. THere is afterwards to keep in mind.
The Black King reaches up to rub a thumb across Emma's cheek - the same place Paris pinched, that Sebastian slapped earlier. He smiles. "Good girl," he says, and then he reaches the table. "All right," he says, pulling a chair as other players take their seats. A dealer - a Hellfire Club professional - dons his green shade and takes his place. "Ante up, gentlemen." The girls, too, are joining their patrons, standing behind them in an earnest effort to distract the players from their hands. Others in the gameroom here for society rather than the game linger around the edges or cluster by the billiards tables elsewhere in the room.
Emma follows the examples of her counterparts, except where they lean and rub and make displays of themselves, she stands still and poised behind Sebastian's chair. Her hands grip the back of his chair and she notes his cards before skimming (lumbering) around the minds of the other players. Sebastian holds the high cards first go 'round, and Emma presses her hand flat against his back in an attempt to communicate hold.
It's a casual wager from Shaw, keeping hold of his cards as he banters playfully with the other players. Some of it is pointed - particularly at Samson, careful jabs to suggest knowledge of his financial straights without tipping a hand to anyone else at the table.
Cards are dealt - the hand continues, and Sebastian eyes his cards for a considering moment. As he does, he keeps up a patter: "Quig," he says. "I saw your wife last week - looking pretty," he says. His mind glitters with black amusement. "Woman like that, you've got to keep on her."
As a couple of the other players draw cards that strengthen thier hands significantly, Emma scratches Shaw's back and leans over in an approximation of the other girl's movements and reaches for his glass. "Fold. There's a straight out there and it's too early to go for blood," Emma murmurs, pulling the glass back and turning to fill it.
Cards are laid face down and pushed across the table as Sebastian smiles, and the game continues - hand after hand, Shaw winning when he chooses due to his companion's unique aid. At one point - after staying out a hand to use the facilities - he returns, hitching his pants and then pausing to run a hand over Emma's behind. He leans close to her. "Talk to Samson," he whispers. "Find me something - anything - I can use, a detail of his insolvency."
"Do I have to talk to him to get that?" Emma whispers back in pained tones.
Sebastian squeezes. "I'm sure he'd be happier if you did," he murmurs with unsaid amusement - some dark, specific enjoyment at tormenting Emma. "A few minutes," he bids her. "It will do you good." Squeeze becomes a light, spanking slap as his mind echoes the sentiment: it will, he thinks, do her good. At that, he retakes his seat, waiting to be dealt in.
Emma is propelled forward a half-step and stops to gather herself for the task ahead before pasting on a brittle smile and ambling around to her mark's side. She crouches down next to him, ignoring the weight of his companions ire, and falls quickly into conversation with him.
The game continues: patter, banter, Sebastian taking cards and playing. He loses a little more, now, without Emma's aid, but he is not a bad poker player. Low pursuits come well to him, and right now Alan Samson isn't paying any attention to the game at all - his cards are on the table more often than not, and one or both hands are groping or fondling Emma at any time. Still, his mind's an open book, available to autopsy with all its innards laid out in careful rows by lust's distraction.
Emma drowns under the focus and aggressiveness of his advances, noted even by his nearby colleagues who alternate between appreciate the old buzzards good fortune and being vaguely uneasy concerning it. Not out of any regard for Emma, but rather for Shaw's predatory nature. What precipitates Samson's sudden risal from the table is unclear, but he stands, steps away from his seat, and suddenly walks out of the door, leaving a very good hand and Emma rubbing her temples and backing away from the table herself. Later on, one of the gardeners will report to Sebastian that he walked himself through the hedges and down to the East River for an impromptu swim.
Sebastian looks up, beckoning to Emma for a quiet return as his eyes move to track Samson's retreat. Curiousity peaks loudly in his thoughts, watching the man's departure.
Conversation resumes around the table, each man making an effort to avert their eyes from the potential domestic disturbance brewing. Emma approaches as bidden, pale-faced, bright eyed, and jaw clenched.
Shaw tilts his head up. "Is everything all right with Alan?" he asks in an innocent, solicitous tone. A glance down at his cards. "I fold," he informs the table, doing just that as he reaches out to take Emma's waist.
"I don't think he was feeling well. He must have gone to get some air," she grits out, her waist unyeilding in his arm and her eyes screwed shut. She's trembling.
Sebastian's fingers stroke Emma's waist for just a moment, nodding. "Well," he says lightly. "That's that, then." A thin smile, and then he turns back to the game, bidding and betting for perhaps another hour until at least he rises from the table, nodding to a man to see to his chips. "Gentlemen," he says. "I may behind, but..." A sidelong glance at Emma. "It's time for me to enjoy my winnings. I hope you'll allow me to bid you all a good night."
As the hour had whiled on, Emma had grown noticeably more tense and pale, leaning for support on the back of Sebastian's chair until he rises. Smirks and grins greet his announcement on one side, and on Emma's, glassy-eyed near stupor.
It's a moment of hesitation - Sebastian was about to offer Emma an arm, perhaps take her hand, but after a look at her there is some brief welling of concern for her that leads him to wrap an arm around bare shoulders. Tugging her bodily close so that he can support her, he makes his way out of the room and into the hall, walking carefully not towards her room but to the stairs leading up towards his suite.
Emma is guided, /herded/, out of the room, and to those watching the scene, there is little thought of Sebastian's gesture and his companion's demeanor. After all, a Club girl knows her business. The doors swing shut behind htem, and each step lessons some of the pressure on Emma's still young and and undisciplined shields, and by the time they reach the stairs, she is able to take the banister and pull herself slowly up each step.
"You are," Shaw observes bassly, "unwell." He largely disengages, taking a few steps away and above to watch her labor up the stairs.
Emma stops her ascent and stands, head bowed, below him. The fingers gripping the banister are white and tensed, and her other hand flies up to rest against the flat lines of her corset-encased stomach. "My... head," she whispers, then falls into a series of deliberate breaths.
There's a ripple of some admixture - amusement and concern - in Sebastian's mind as he looks down at Emma. "It's not the most creative excuse," he informs her. "But..." Eyes narrow, a concession is granted. "It's perhaps true." A beat, and then a sliver of cruel teasing: "Can I get you some Tylenol?"
Emma looks up, and the gesture is a mistake. Her eyes flutter close and both hands grasp the banister to keep her from falling backwards under a wave of vertigo. She sways in place, and her hip hits the railing. "Yes, please," she finally says, almost keeping the whimper out of her voice.
Amusement recedes as concern advances, and Shaw takes a step down the stairs, reaching out for Emma. That worry shows in his voice: "What's wrong?" he asks her, gripping a bare shoulder to pull her towards him.
Emma winces at the contact and pulls her shoulder away from it, swaying and using the momentum to propel herself up the last few steps.
"Emma..." Sebastian's voice pitches lower, and now impatience vies. "/What's/ /wrong?/" He takes a step towards her and he reaches again, this time taking hold of her with little patience for pulling away.
Emma says, "I'm a fucking /telepath/, Sebastian," she hisses lowly, offering no resistance to his reach, though the contact appears uncomfortable. She even leans into him, forehead falling to his chest. "What did you /think/ would happen when you dressed me up in this costume and parade me around the disgusting /dogs/ you call members?" ""
Sebastian's eyes close and he pulls her close, wrapping arms around her to support her. He bends lips to her hair, pressing some sort of exasperated kiss. "You stupid little girl," he informs her, his mind frustrated, incredulous and little worried. "Don't you think that's something that might be /relevant/ to tell me?"
"I didn't know. I didn't think... It wasn't so bad until..." she bites off her comment, hesitant to lay the blame on the volatile King. "Please. I think I'm going to be ill..."
"Not over me, you're not," Shaw says, still cradling Emma. "You just need to get a grip," he tells her. "Take a few deep breaths, center yourself... Pull it together." It's clear he doesn't really understand: he's exerting dominance, trying to radiate all the power and control he can, and it is stifling.
Emma's weight sinks and she claps a hand over her mouth, and for a brief moment, it seems like it might be enough. Just for a moment, though, and then her body's reaction to the abuse of powers overwhelms even Sebastian's control.
It's a sudden explosion of disgust across Sebastian's mind, mirrored by the internal cringe of sticky wetness echoing through the corridors of thought. He tries to back away from her, exclaiming, "Emma!"
Unsupported, she hits her knees and falls sideways to roll to one hip. She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand and looks up to glare at him through a sheen of tears.
Slowly, Sebastian looks down at the ruined front of his shirt and suit and then fixes eyes on Emma, just shaking his head with an attitude of profound disappointment. "Oh," he says to her. "Emma..." A hand is extended with this sense of sadness - regret that Emma Frost did not live up to his standards.
Emma ignores the hand and holds his gaze defiantly, though shame that runs deeper than this moment's embarrassment stiffens her spine and her resolve. She climbs slowly to her feet and bites the inside of her lip.
"Let's clean you up," Sebastian says firmly, reaching for Emma's hand - no, her wrist. He walks the rest of the way to his quarters slowly and in silence, and once the door has been opened and the office crossed he releases her wrist and then turns to her, beginning to strip off his jacket with a wrinkled nose. "Your powers did this?" he asks flatly.
Emma is drug along and inside, and once released, she slides along the wall to drop into a chair. "Migraine," she answers dully.
Coat hits the floor, and Sebastian starts on his belt. He pauses only to gesture, "Out. We're getting you in the shower." It's pursed lips, though, as he looks at Emma. "Are you on anything for it?" he asks.
A short, bark of a laugh escapes her, and instead of standing, she leans over the chairs arm to fold her own on a table and puts her head down on them. "What /wasn't/ I on for them?" she mutters.
"But nothing now," Sebastian says with a little sigh, shaking his head. "I see." His shoes are kicked off, and pants puddle on the floor. In briefs and an undershirt, her starts to pad into the bathroom. "Shoes, Emma," he says to her. "And the rest. You stink." There is the sound of rooting around and the rattle of pills.
Without lifting her head, she slides her shoes off. "They gave me so many drugs, I could barely remember who I /was/ some days, much less use my powers." She slides back into the chair proper and focuses on the garments in an attempt to comply, but the corset's hooks swim together. She moves to the stockings instead.
The tap runs, and then Sebastian emerges with a closed hand and a glass of water, having shed his undershirt somewhere along the way. He watches her for a moment and then he approaches, bidding softly, "Stand up." Water and pills are offered with an almost gentle mental note.
Emma takes the pills and washes them back with a sip from a water glass that trembles so badly, it's a wonder she manages to get any at all. She grimaces at the taste of bile still in her mouth, and hands the glass back and takes his hand to pull herself up against.
Sebastian draws Emma slowly and unsteadily to her feet and looks at her for a moment, a sad smile on his face. Internally, he's fighting against the smell of bile - but it's a game effort and a successful one as he reaches out with both hands to the busk of his newest creature's corset. Muscles flex and ripple along his arms as the first hook and eye is undone and then the second, the third and on down the line with silent deliberation.
Emma hangs on to his arms as his hands work, her eyes closed and head lowered and no recognition when hands reach skin. Sit, stand, walk, stop... she obeys, moving and hearing through a brightly colored fog that the drugs only manage to dull a shade or two by the time the ablutions are completed to Sebastian's satisfaciton.
Water beats down, and Sebastian pauses, reaching for and holding Emma face to face against him. It's just silence for a moment - the shower's spray and heat, muscled strength - and the Black King's thoughts, glassy as a still midnight pond. Finally, a ripple, his arms slipping to link around Emma's waist. He looks down at her and asks, "Alan Samson?"
"Samson's been shuffling money from one project to another. One of his clients got suspicious of certain charges and has called for an audit," Emma murmurs sleepily, leaning heavily against him and abandoned for the moment to the feel of strong arms, warm water, and narcotics. A cheek muscle twitches against his chest, tickled by the mat of thick, course hair.
One of Sebastian's hands leaves Emma's waist, and it traces the smooth skin of her back up to wet hair, where it rests lightly to hold her head against his chest. Some genuine warmth spreads from him to her: pleasure, approval, pride. "You did well," he tells her. "I'm proud of you." A light kiss on the top of her head. "He left quickly," he murmurs with amusement. "Hands a little too friendly?"
"He skipped the 'friendly' stage," she growls, grinding her teeth and starting to tense again. She moves her head to look up at him, blinking water-clung lashes before admitting, "He should be cooled down by now."
A low chuckle deep in the chest. "Does he know it was you?" Sebastian inquires. There's a brief movement of hand from waist to ass - a tweak, with an undertone of teasing humor in his thoughts - and then a return. "People should always be friendly," he informs her. "It serves him right if he wasn't."
Emma shakes her head, ghosting her eyes closed and exhaling slowly. "Doubtful. He had a little too much to drink and wandered a little too far." She tips her hips forward at the grab and lifts up on tiptoe before settling back down and burrowing closer.
Sebastian's arms squeeze Emma again - tightly - and then he releases her with a little reluctance to turn and shut off the shower. The door is opened - glass, swinging out over tile - and Sebastian steps out of the shower to take a towel. Someone has already come through to take away vomit-stained clothes in the interim.
Emma hangs onto the doorframe and reaches to pull one for herself off the towel warmer. She shakes it out one handed, then holds it up to her and watches him with subdued apprehension.
A modicum of drying is done before Sebastian tosses the towel to the floor, and then he looks up at Emma with a note of resignation. He crosses to her, puts an arm around her, and begins to guide her carefully out of the bathroom. "You can sleep here tonight," he informs her. The irony is not lost on him, and he allows himself a smile. "How is your head? Still hurting, or are the drugs doing their part?"
Emma says, "Better. I think. It's just my head now," she answers hazily, twining the towel around her as he escorts her from bathroom to bedroom. She steps away from his support and slides to the edge of the bed, glancing up at him with lid-heavy eyes. The irony is not lost on her either.""
"Good," Sebastian says quietly, walking slowly around to the other side of the bed - his side - with lazy pleasure coiling in his mind. It's a small look at Emma as he begins to peel back to the covers. "Why don't you go take another two, then," he says with even concern that peels back inside his thoughts to bald intent. "Then," he instructs, "you can come to bed."
When mama brought me to church as a boy, the preachers used to say that Jesus was the only perfect person in the world - but I don't go to church anymore.
There are no perfect people - everyone is frail and everyone is weak. Everyone has a place where they break - a part where they were ill-made.
July, 1998: a scant handful of days since Emma's arrival at the Hellfire Club. Her first night was with Shaw, and he was gone when she awoke - instead, she was disturbed from sticky, sweaty sheets by a young woman in Hellfire clothes whose mind reeked of equal parts suspicion, jealousy and pity.
She was conveyed here - a guest suite, opulent in facade but somehow a little dingy up close - possessed of the character of a well-used hotel room with the impression of so many hands on knobs and fixtures, so many feet on the carpet and too many bodies wrapped night after night in the sheets of the bed, some legacy of continuous occupation even the best cleaning cannot erase. On the first day, someone came to measure Emma, and they, too, reflected some mental suspicion - some haughtiness, some disdain, for one more important songbird to be cooed over and abuse until her voice was gone.
Shaw didn't come on the second night, nor on the third, and as the days rolled by that sense of isolation increased. Clothes (Hellfire clothes and others) were brought, and even when on the fourth evening Emma's erstwhile benefactor returned it was a carnal, mechanical thing. He came again on the fifth evening, and then nothing - no one friendly - again on the sixth and now the seventh day, which pulls on presently towards late afternoon.
Towards late afternoon and another evening of mind-numbing boredom. Emma watches the shadows lengthen and night's approach out of the large, un-shaded window that dominates one of the walls of the room. A smudge of oil and sweat form at the contact of forehead and window as she curls into the narrow, cushioned seat underneath it and looks out across the gardened paths she'd just wandered to escape the dark-wood confines of room and mansion, and disapproving and disdainfully superior looks that only servants of the rich can achieve. A half-eaten sandwich lays on a plate of translucent china on a tray on the table near the door. Perfectly presented, complete with tiny bottles of condiments, it only served to reinforce the chilly and painfully precise cordiality of those who prepared it under their master's orders and whim. Not hers.
No knock - a hand on the door, pushing inward as the still-unfamiliar bombast of Sebastian's personality pushes into the room, filling it as he stands in the doorway - charcoal jacket and slacks, tan polo. There's a sealed wine bottle in one hand, and black eyes sweep the suite immediately before they settle on Emma with the glimmering of a smile. "Why," he says. "You look positively overjoyed to be here."
Emma pulls away from the window and drops her white-socked feet to the floor as he enters, sending stiffness into her spine and alertness into her demeanor. "I am," she says simply, crossing her fingers on her knees. Her hair hangs limply in the oppressive heat, and well-fitting, but still shapeless gray knit pants hang knotted at her waist under a pink, cropped t-shirt. She forces a hesitant smile that speaks more of caged animal than beloved pet and rises.
Sebastian's brows rise. "I see," he remarks, studying her for a moment before he crosses to a tray of upturned glasses. Two are upended, and the Black King reaches for a waiter's and begins to carefully cut the foil away from the bottle of burgundy. "It's better," he remarks cuttingly, "than the asylum."
His thoughts - emotions - reflect a sort of black twirl of amusement at Emma's clear discomfort, and the higher thread of some /expectation/ - of an anticipated payoff - hovers like the giddy joy of a gambler seeing a sign for 'Casino Ahead'.
Emma blinks and swallows, hiding trembling hands behind her back in a clasp as she steps into motion, crossing around the edge of the bed and approaching him. "It is, thank you," she answers, wary still of the glee undercutting his facade of calm.
The screw digs into cork as Sebastian turns to look at Emma with a pleased smile, twisting in deeper and deeper with every snap of wrist. Pleasure rises at Emma's approach, and his expession and thoughts reflect some beckoning quality as he says - a spark of expectation firing cherry red - "We're going out this evening."
Emma closes in, drawn by his empathic urging, and startled by the sudden announcement. "We are?" she breathes, hope and fear twining and alternately hitting each note of her reply, staining them with ignorant innocence. "Where? Will it be safe?"
There is a pop as the cork emerges, and laughter just below the surface at the swell of hope in Emma's voice. Sebastian leans over, and lips brush Emma's forehead brief before he turns back away from her, starting to pour wine in each glass. "Perhaps out is the wrong word," he says - he knew it, set it up deliberately - "rather, people are coming in. There's a poker game downstairs, and you're going to join me."
Emma exhales a disappointed breath, and starts to turn away. "I don't like poker," she says thoughtlessly.
"Well," Sebastian says, "you're not playing." The bottle is set down, and he turns back to offer Emma a glass. There's a flit of poker game images across his mind: men in suits with cigars around a table, each with their designated doxy in some ironic pastiche of ages past. "Drink," he urges, and it's all Shere Khan. "Someone brought you clothes in the last few days?"
Emma looks down at the offered drink at her elbow and reaches for it automatically before looking back up at her patron. She recoils mentally from the images parading across Sebastian's mind, and a grimace slips free. "Yes." She nods at the closet where the assortment of outfits have been hung.
"/Good/," Sebastian says - amused, eyes dancing. His own glass is picked up and he takes a sip, watching Emma carefully. "It's a great honor," he informs her. "Usually, the new girl at the poker game goes to some guest to start the night, you know - made to fawn all over him." A beat. "I thought you'd find that distasteful," he says. "And besides - I'm a decent hand at cards." He straightens from the side table. "I usually don't have to wager my girl."
Emma tenses as the implications sink in, her fingers flattening against the glass in her hand as it tips toward her to receive the heat of her embarrassed glare. "I appreciate that." The glass is then lifted and she downs a mouthful of the bitter liquid before attempting to look at him again. "What should I wear?"
Sebastian focuses on Emma. "I suppose I could, though," he reflects, reaching up with his free hand to touch her hair, to run his fingers down a strand of it possessively. Cruel intention rises. "You've not met Alan Samson - the chemical tycoon - but I understand he does have a fondness for blondes. I'm sure he'd just be salivating if I put you on the table."
Emma's shoulders rise in the beginnings of a defensive hunch, and she pulls away under the pretext of moving to put the glass down.
"You seem wounded," Sebastian murmurs, letting Emma's hair slip silkily out of his fingers as she pulls away. A beat - he looks at her - and then he moves too, closing the gap between them so that he looms well within the bawn of her personal space. A reach again, and now Sebastian takes Emma's neck, fingers gliding with a possessive thrill along fair, soft skin to bury in the roots of her hair. One more sip of wine and he looks at her. "Are you unhappy with this arrangement?" he asks, tone pleasant but intention and intimation glacially chill.
Emma's shoulder rises up between them and she arches away from the touch with a grimace of discomfort. She squeezes her eyes shut and shakes her head, however, biting the inside of her lower lip.
A thrill runs through Sebastian at Emma's obvious discomfort, and he leans closer to her - setting the glass aside so he can reach for her, place a hand on her hip and turn her forcefully to face him. "Hush," he murmurs to her, muscles flexing to draw her near and against him. "Don't be so..." He takes a kiss - claims it with some salivating cupidity before he concludes, "...discomfitted."
Emma pulls her hand up between them, resting the curl of her fist against his chest. There's no trust or tenderness in the gesture though, and the kiss he claims is uncertain and stiff. She looks up at him and waits, cheeks flushed with embarrassment and uncertainty.
Sebastian's hand moves from Emma's waist to her rear and squeezes ungently before he releases her, stepping away and reclaiming his wine glass to watch his plaything's cheeks flush with evident pleasure. He gives it just a moment - just the instant for blush to fade - before he says, "I understand they gave you some Club attire?"
Emma nods, and the heat returns to her cheeks, but rather at the snide comments circulated through the tailor's mind as he took her measurements than any prudish disinclination to wear the costuming of the club.
"Aww," Shaw says meanly. "You're like a innocent, blushing bride - about to put on her wedding dress for the first time." He reflects idly on all the ways Emma Frost is far from innocent. "Come now," he says, gesturing with his wine glass. "Dress for me." There's a beat, low and ugly in sentiment. "Come now," he repeats in bass rumble. "Make a show of it."
Emma glares sulkily, then steps back and turns around and makes for the closet. She slides the door away and pulls out a garment-bag covered hanger, then lifts up on tiptoe to pull a large shoebox from the top shelf. Both items are carried to the bed and one is dropped on and the other is slid over the edge. Emma looks back at Sebastian before bending over to unzip the bag and pull the black corset and high-cut underthings from it.
She unhooks the corset from the hanger and drapes it across her arm, then turns to face the Black King's dark amusement. Her t-shirt is slowly pulled over her head and tossed aside, and then her bra is removed as well, replaced with the Club-approved foundational garment of choice. There are too many hooks to let her maintain eye-contact, however, and she looks down to see what she is doing.
"Come on," Sebastian encourages. "Put some simmer in it, Emma." He really does chuckle now, a low sound that rolls around the room, clacking into itself like balls in billiards. "What, you think this sort of dry precision is going to make Alan Samson barter for an evening with those beautiful blonde locks?" He's half-serious, the thought of trading Emma for some business concession hovering in his mind.
Emma's fingers grow clumsy in her growing frustration, and his words whipcrack across tender emotions boiling too close to the surface. She collapses onto the edge of the bed with a strangled sob and the lumpy slickness of the comforter slides her to the floor. She leans with one shoulder against the bed, the other curling forward despite the fact that the corset holds her too straight to huddle properly.
Sebastian eyes Emma for a long moment, and then he slowly sets his wineglass down, crossing with careful steps to stand above Emma. For a moment, intention reads clearly in his thoughts: he's about to bend down, about to offer a hand to help to her up, about to fold her in his arms and finish doing the busk up for her.
She's quiet, stilled under an authoritarian mental voice that drips cold disapproval of hysterics and emotions. Emma turns to lean back against the bed, one hand pressing to her side as she inhales and exhales unsteadily. Sebastian's approach draws her eyes upward.
It's several long beats as Sebastian looks at Emma, and then whatever charitable impulse he had withdraws. He straightens and steps back, and his smile turns almost to a sneer. "While I appreciate," he says, indicating the half-undone corset, "your thoughtfulness in providing a head start, it isn't neccessary." Whipcrack words sound 'Finish' in the hollow silence that follows. "Unless," he says with a tilt of his head, "you'd care to delay our descent for a few minutes?" Hand moves to belt suggestively. "I am not hard to convince," he says in bald threat. "And you're already close to being on your knees."
Emma's mouth hardens into a tiny, pinched line and her hand moves from her side to the remaining few clasps which she finishes quietly and without further difficulty. She rolls away from him and to her knees, using the bed to help her stand. Feet regained, she reaches for the rest of the skimpy outfit.
Shaw reaches for his wine glass once again, finishing it - and then he looks for Emma's, cradling it in his fingers. "Good girl," he murmurs to her in a tone of approval - his mental undercurrent summong the impression of a man rewarding a dog. A small smile as he sips from her glass. "Don't forget my sizzle."
As a trainer visualizes what he wants from his pupil, so Emma siphons off Sebastian's mental images and follows their lead, albeit it with untrained grace and proud nonchalance.
It's with creepy fascination that Sebastian watches Emma - watches her fumble her way through undressing and dressing to please the Black King's eye. Throughout, his smile spreads in slow sips of wine, until - as the last thigh-high stocking is rolled over a knee, as the last foot is slipped in heels - the glass is finished and set aside. Sebastian extends his hand. "Beautiful," he complements. "You are the picture of some most delectable sweetmeat."
Emma's frozen frown deepens, but she says nothing and gives him her hand, her fingers cold and stiff despite the July heat forming condensation against the windows.
Sebastian squeezes Emma's hand and then leans close. "Put on a smile," he murmurs, his general delight at tormenting her mixed with some concern for appearances. With that instruction, he starts for the door, taking Emma with him perhaps just a little too quickly for corset and ridiculous heels. "You know why I'm bringing you?" he inquires.
"You're already bored with being a bastard to me in private. You want to be one in public now?" Emma answers spitefully, managing to keep up with him with only one small wobble that throws her against him for support.
The pair is at the door when Emma says this, and Sebastian is already reaching for the handle when he turns to her and slaps her once, stinging, across the cheek. He stares at her for several long moments, breathing anger in exhaling only slightly less of it until he can release her hand. "Go put on some powder," he bites out. "I'll wait."
Emma gasps and holds her free hand against her cheek, face kept to where the force of his blow turned it. One breath, two breaths, three... She turns back and looks at him with eyes shaded to dark sapphire, then pulls away and goes to do his bidding, returning a few minutes later with cheek powdered (though the imprint of his hand still shows through), and her demeanor subdued.
Sebastian's eyes track Emma's rear with lascivious intent, and he waits for her, somewhat patient. Upon her return he takes her hand again, stepping out into the hallway and beginning to walk towards the gameroom. "While," he tells her, "I do enjoy being a bastard to you... you're here because you're smarter than most of these bimbos, and you've got other gifts." His hand starts to squeeze. "You learned something unfortunate about me, Emma Frost," he says as the pressure increases. "Learn something unfortunate about them."
Emma winces and grabs his arm with her free hand and tries to shift his hand from hers. "Yes, Sebastian," she answers, unconsciously digging her fingers into his arm as they approach the doors. She lowers her voice and hisses, "Please..."
Right outside the doors they pause, and - still squeezing - Sebastian leans over to place a kiss on Emma's brow. "This is important," he says to her. "I want you to do well." At last, he releases her hands. "Make me proud," he says, and then he pushes double doors open to step inside.
The room is already filled with people - men in jackets and sometimes ties, each of them with a girl in white or black clinging to them in some riff on the fantasy in lace and leather Emma wears. Eyes turn to the arrivals, and there is a wave of anticipation, respect and fear at the Black King's arrival seconded by sparks of interest and spikes of jealousy as eyes find Emma Frost.
Emma straightens and flushes, the added color smoothing out the lines of Sebastian's hand on her cheek. Jealousy, interest, anger, lust-- emotions seeped into the very foundation of the club assault shields already thinned and wavering. She clenches Sebastain's arm, seeking support, and lifts her chin arrogantly. Faces and names swim together as the King makes his rounds, his newest conquest on his arm.
Names blur together - Thomas Worth, William Haverford, Michael Quigley. Alan Samson looms, unable to take his eyes off Emma's breasts even as he's shaking Sebastian's hand and murmuring some pleasantry. Samson's thoughts are positively invasive and verge on stomach-turning as her companion exhanges witticisms before he turns the conversation to some delicate point about plastics - Sebastian wanting Samson to handle the research costs for a high-tech project and Samson wanting Shaw Industries to pony up the bill. Even that interchange, however, distracts only half of the short, bald man's attention from Emma, a point in sharper focus among the general lusty character of the room. There's another spike of something - jealousy - as the yet-unintroduced blond woman in white given to Samson tonight shoots daggers towards Emma in her eyes.
After one particularly virulent thought, Emma turns the full force of her attention on the other woman, and lifts a brow. She blanches and blinks in surprise, and offers no resistance when Emma steps smoothly into the stream of the men's conversation and excuses the Black king and herself from him most prettily. Almost before they turn away, Emma is explaining herself in a low undertone. "He can't afford it, Sebastian. He's on the verge of bankruptcy."
Sebastian turns his head to eye Emma thoughtfully, and his lips part in a slight inhalation. "My, my," he says to her. "You have done /very/ well." Lips curve, and he moves his hand to give Emma a patronizing pat on the ass that's mirrored by some genuine appreciation. "Dawdle on his knee during the game?" he asks. "I'd like to find out if--"
"Sebastian Shaw," comes a shrill voice - a woman in black, who has tempered what would be a corset similar to Emma's with a skirt and cape. She is alone, and is perhaps ten years too old for what she wears. One finger is pointed at Emma with an undisguised note of envy. "Some new whore to keep on your arm? Darling," she says to Sebastian. "You really must introduce us."
Emma looks up in anticipation of his command, but the voice of the Black Queen harpoons their attention.
"Paris Seville," Shaw says with a note far distant from pleasure - one made even less pleasant in his thoughts. "My new 'whore'," he says, "is Emma Frost - Winston Frost's little girl from Boston." A thin smile. "She's young and pretty - such a nice change." It's clear his focus is on delivering barbs to Paris, and it's only after a moment that he turns back to Emma. "Emma, this is Paris Seville, who has the unfortunate honor of being my counterpart, Queen of the Hellfire Club."
Aw, but why settle for one, when you can insult two? Emma bristles at his side even as she smiles with the arrogant contempt of the young for the old and offers the picture perfect society nod. "Madame."
Paris leans close to Emma, reaching out to grab one of her cheeks and pinch. "Oh," she says, shooting venom in Sebastian's direction. "She's so /cute/. Are you adopting her as your very own little girl?" Emma, really, is nothing at all to Paris - this is one more little, losing battle in her fight with Sebastian Shaw.
Emma grabs the other woman's wrist and pulls her hand away from her cheek. "Your hands are so cold, Madam," she says in sudden, sharp irritation. "Circulation problems? There are exercises to help with frigidity."
"See?" Sebastian interjects. "She could give you some tips, Paris." He smiles. "For all your age and experience, I daresay in the last week Emma here has shown me quite a few tricks you never learned." Paris looks poleaxed for a moment. "I have a poker game, my Queen - are you planning on playing?"
Paris yanks her hand away from Emma's with ill-concealed anger that has a hard time deciding who to settle on--Sebastian or his new bedwarmer. "Of course not. I wouldn't dream of interrupting your game, my King. You do so need to spend your time with men, after all." A snide glance aside at Emma, which Emma returns with false sweetness.
Shaw reaches out to pat Paris on the cheek and then turns away from her, glancing sharply at Emma. "Come," he commands to her, his mind swirling with a little pique. As soon as he's far enough to pretend earshot, "That woman is a spiteful old biddy." It's intended, from Sebastian's internal pleasure, to carry.
Emma's hesitation lasts a fraction of a second, and then she's following in the Black King's wake and keeping her mouth shut, though she does glance back over her shoulder to see his Queen's silent simmer.
"I look forward to the day I can replace her," Sebastian says to Emma, squeezing her hand again in some frustration. There may be sore fingers in the morning. "Frightful toad of a woman - I swear," he says, "the world would be better if your sex died they day they turned thirty."
Emma rolls her eyes, careful to keep her face turned away as she does so. "Your sex reaches their prime while still in their teens. Maybe we should put expiration dates on everyone."
Sebastian tilts his head to eye Emma with glittering challenge. "Are you calling me expired?" he wonders, mercurially amused at Emma's witticism.
Emma turns her head back to him and lifts her brows in feigned innocence. "You're the exception to the rule, of course." The game tonight only lasts a few hours. THere is afterwards to keep in mind.
The Black King reaches up to rub a thumb across Emma's cheek - the same place Paris pinched, that Sebastian slapped earlier. He smiles. "Good girl," he says, and then he reaches the table. "All right," he says, pulling a chair as other players take their seats. A dealer - a Hellfire Club professional - dons his green shade and takes his place. "Ante up, gentlemen." The girls, too, are joining their patrons, standing behind them in an earnest effort to distract the players from their hands. Others in the gameroom here for society rather than the game linger around the edges or cluster by the billiards tables elsewhere in the room.
Emma follows the examples of her counterparts, except where they lean and rub and make displays of themselves, she stands still and poised behind Sebastian's chair. Her hands grip the back of his chair and she notes his cards before skimming (lumbering) around the minds of the other players. Sebastian holds the high cards first go 'round, and Emma presses her hand flat against his back in an attempt to communicate hold.
It's a casual wager from Shaw, keeping hold of his cards as he banters playfully with the other players. Some of it is pointed - particularly at Samson, careful jabs to suggest knowledge of his financial straights without tipping a hand to anyone else at the table.
Cards are dealt - the hand continues, and Sebastian eyes his cards for a considering moment. As he does, he keeps up a patter: "Quig," he says. "I saw your wife last week - looking pretty," he says. His mind glitters with black amusement. "Woman like that, you've got to keep on her."
As a couple of the other players draw cards that strengthen thier hands significantly, Emma scratches Shaw's back and leans over in an approximation of the other girl's movements and reaches for his glass. "Fold. There's a straight out there and it's too early to go for blood," Emma murmurs, pulling the glass back and turning to fill it.
Cards are laid face down and pushed across the table as Sebastian smiles, and the game continues - hand after hand, Shaw winning when he chooses due to his companion's unique aid. At one point - after staying out a hand to use the facilities - he returns, hitching his pants and then pausing to run a hand over Emma's behind. He leans close to her. "Talk to Samson," he whispers. "Find me something - anything - I can use, a detail of his insolvency."
"Do I have to talk to him to get that?" Emma whispers back in pained tones.
Sebastian squeezes. "I'm sure he'd be happier if you did," he murmurs with unsaid amusement - some dark, specific enjoyment at tormenting Emma. "A few minutes," he bids her. "It will do you good." Squeeze becomes a light, spanking slap as his mind echoes the sentiment: it will, he thinks, do her good. At that, he retakes his seat, waiting to be dealt in.
Emma is propelled forward a half-step and stops to gather herself for the task ahead before pasting on a brittle smile and ambling around to her mark's side. She crouches down next to him, ignoring the weight of his companions ire, and falls quickly into conversation with him.
The game continues: patter, banter, Sebastian taking cards and playing. He loses a little more, now, without Emma's aid, but he is not a bad poker player. Low pursuits come well to him, and right now Alan Samson isn't paying any attention to the game at all - his cards are on the table more often than not, and one or both hands are groping or fondling Emma at any time. Still, his mind's an open book, available to autopsy with all its innards laid out in careful rows by lust's distraction.
Emma drowns under the focus and aggressiveness of his advances, noted even by his nearby colleagues who alternate between appreciate the old buzzards good fortune and being vaguely uneasy concerning it. Not out of any regard for Emma, but rather for Shaw's predatory nature. What precipitates Samson's sudden risal from the table is unclear, but he stands, steps away from his seat, and suddenly walks out of the door, leaving a very good hand and Emma rubbing her temples and backing away from the table herself. Later on, one of the gardeners will report to Sebastian that he walked himself through the hedges and down to the East River for an impromptu swim.
Sebastian looks up, beckoning to Emma for a quiet return as his eyes move to track Samson's retreat. Curiousity peaks loudly in his thoughts, watching the man's departure.
Conversation resumes around the table, each man making an effort to avert their eyes from the potential domestic disturbance brewing. Emma approaches as bidden, pale-faced, bright eyed, and jaw clenched.
Shaw tilts his head up. "Is everything all right with Alan?" he asks in an innocent, solicitous tone. A glance down at his cards. "I fold," he informs the table, doing just that as he reaches out to take Emma's waist.
"I don't think he was feeling well. He must have gone to get some air," she grits out, her waist unyeilding in his arm and her eyes screwed shut. She's trembling.
Sebastian's fingers stroke Emma's waist for just a moment, nodding. "Well," he says lightly. "That's that, then." A thin smile, and then he turns back to the game, bidding and betting for perhaps another hour until at least he rises from the table, nodding to a man to see to his chips. "Gentlemen," he says. "I may behind, but..." A sidelong glance at Emma. "It's time for me to enjoy my winnings. I hope you'll allow me to bid you all a good night."
As the hour had whiled on, Emma had grown noticeably more tense and pale, leaning for support on the back of Sebastian's chair until he rises. Smirks and grins greet his announcement on one side, and on Emma's, glassy-eyed near stupor.
It's a moment of hesitation - Sebastian was about to offer Emma an arm, perhaps take her hand, but after a look at her there is some brief welling of concern for her that leads him to wrap an arm around bare shoulders. Tugging her bodily close so that he can support her, he makes his way out of the room and into the hall, walking carefully not towards her room but to the stairs leading up towards his suite.
Emma is guided, /herded/, out of the room, and to those watching the scene, there is little thought of Sebastian's gesture and his companion's demeanor. After all, a Club girl knows her business. The doors swing shut behind htem, and each step lessons some of the pressure on Emma's still young and and undisciplined shields, and by the time they reach the stairs, she is able to take the banister and pull herself slowly up each step.
"You are," Shaw observes bassly, "unwell." He largely disengages, taking a few steps away and above to watch her labor up the stairs.
Emma stops her ascent and stands, head bowed, below him. The fingers gripping the banister are white and tensed, and her other hand flies up to rest against the flat lines of her corset-encased stomach. "My... head," she whispers, then falls into a series of deliberate breaths.
There's a ripple of some admixture - amusement and concern - in Sebastian's mind as he looks down at Emma. "It's not the most creative excuse," he informs her. "But..." Eyes narrow, a concession is granted. "It's perhaps true." A beat, and then a sliver of cruel teasing: "Can I get you some Tylenol?"
Emma looks up, and the gesture is a mistake. Her eyes flutter close and both hands grasp the banister to keep her from falling backwards under a wave of vertigo. She sways in place, and her hip hits the railing. "Yes, please," she finally says, almost keeping the whimper out of her voice.
Amusement recedes as concern advances, and Shaw takes a step down the stairs, reaching out for Emma. That worry shows in his voice: "What's wrong?" he asks her, gripping a bare shoulder to pull her towards him.
Emma winces at the contact and pulls her shoulder away from it, swaying and using the momentum to propel herself up the last few steps.
"Emma..." Sebastian's voice pitches lower, and now impatience vies. "/What's/ /wrong?/" He takes a step towards her and he reaches again, this time taking hold of her with little patience for pulling away.
Emma says, "I'm a fucking /telepath/, Sebastian," she hisses lowly, offering no resistance to his reach, though the contact appears uncomfortable. She even leans into him, forehead falling to his chest. "What did you /think/ would happen when you dressed me up in this costume and parade me around the disgusting /dogs/ you call members?" ""
Sebastian's eyes close and he pulls her close, wrapping arms around her to support her. He bends lips to her hair, pressing some sort of exasperated kiss. "You stupid little girl," he informs her, his mind frustrated, incredulous and little worried. "Don't you think that's something that might be /relevant/ to tell me?"
"I didn't know. I didn't think... It wasn't so bad until..." she bites off her comment, hesitant to lay the blame on the volatile King. "Please. I think I'm going to be ill..."
"Not over me, you're not," Shaw says, still cradling Emma. "You just need to get a grip," he tells her. "Take a few deep breaths, center yourself... Pull it together." It's clear he doesn't really understand: he's exerting dominance, trying to radiate all the power and control he can, and it is stifling.
Emma's weight sinks and she claps a hand over her mouth, and for a brief moment, it seems like it might be enough. Just for a moment, though, and then her body's reaction to the abuse of powers overwhelms even Sebastian's control.
It's a sudden explosion of disgust across Sebastian's mind, mirrored by the internal cringe of sticky wetness echoing through the corridors of thought. He tries to back away from her, exclaiming, "Emma!"
Unsupported, she hits her knees and falls sideways to roll to one hip. She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand and looks up to glare at him through a sheen of tears.
Slowly, Sebastian looks down at the ruined front of his shirt and suit and then fixes eyes on Emma, just shaking his head with an attitude of profound disappointment. "Oh," he says to her. "Emma..." A hand is extended with this sense of sadness - regret that Emma Frost did not live up to his standards.
Emma ignores the hand and holds his gaze defiantly, though shame that runs deeper than this moment's embarrassment stiffens her spine and her resolve. She climbs slowly to her feet and bites the inside of her lip.
"Let's clean you up," Sebastian says firmly, reaching for Emma's hand - no, her wrist. He walks the rest of the way to his quarters slowly and in silence, and once the door has been opened and the office crossed he releases her wrist and then turns to her, beginning to strip off his jacket with a wrinkled nose. "Your powers did this?" he asks flatly.
Emma is drug along and inside, and once released, she slides along the wall to drop into a chair. "Migraine," she answers dully.
Coat hits the floor, and Sebastian starts on his belt. He pauses only to gesture, "Out. We're getting you in the shower." It's pursed lips, though, as he looks at Emma. "Are you on anything for it?" he asks.
A short, bark of a laugh escapes her, and instead of standing, she leans over the chairs arm to fold her own on a table and puts her head down on them. "What /wasn't/ I on for them?" she mutters.
"But nothing now," Sebastian says with a little sigh, shaking his head. "I see." His shoes are kicked off, and pants puddle on the floor. In briefs and an undershirt, her starts to pad into the bathroom. "Shoes, Emma," he says to her. "And the rest. You stink." There is the sound of rooting around and the rattle of pills.
Without lifting her head, she slides her shoes off. "They gave me so many drugs, I could barely remember who I /was/ some days, much less use my powers." She slides back into the chair proper and focuses on the garments in an attempt to comply, but the corset's hooks swim together. She moves to the stockings instead.
The tap runs, and then Sebastian emerges with a closed hand and a glass of water, having shed his undershirt somewhere along the way. He watches her for a moment and then he approaches, bidding softly, "Stand up." Water and pills are offered with an almost gentle mental note.
Emma takes the pills and washes them back with a sip from a water glass that trembles so badly, it's a wonder she manages to get any at all. She grimaces at the taste of bile still in her mouth, and hands the glass back and takes his hand to pull herself up against.
Sebastian draws Emma slowly and unsteadily to her feet and looks at her for a moment, a sad smile on his face. Internally, he's fighting against the smell of bile - but it's a game effort and a successful one as he reaches out with both hands to the busk of his newest creature's corset. Muscles flex and ripple along his arms as the first hook and eye is undone and then the second, the third and on down the line with silent deliberation.
Emma hangs on to his arms as his hands work, her eyes closed and head lowered and no recognition when hands reach skin. Sit, stand, walk, stop... she obeys, moving and hearing through a brightly colored fog that the drugs only manage to dull a shade or two by the time the ablutions are completed to Sebastian's satisfaciton.
Water beats down, and Sebastian pauses, reaching for and holding Emma face to face against him. It's just silence for a moment - the shower's spray and heat, muscled strength - and the Black King's thoughts, glassy as a still midnight pond. Finally, a ripple, his arms slipping to link around Emma's waist. He looks down at her and asks, "Alan Samson?"
"Samson's been shuffling money from one project to another. One of his clients got suspicious of certain charges and has called for an audit," Emma murmurs sleepily, leaning heavily against him and abandoned for the moment to the feel of strong arms, warm water, and narcotics. A cheek muscle twitches against his chest, tickled by the mat of thick, course hair.
One of Sebastian's hands leaves Emma's waist, and it traces the smooth skin of her back up to wet hair, where it rests lightly to hold her head against his chest. Some genuine warmth spreads from him to her: pleasure, approval, pride. "You did well," he tells her. "I'm proud of you." A light kiss on the top of her head. "He left quickly," he murmurs with amusement. "Hands a little too friendly?"
"He skipped the 'friendly' stage," she growls, grinding her teeth and starting to tense again. She moves her head to look up at him, blinking water-clung lashes before admitting, "He should be cooled down by now."
A low chuckle deep in the chest. "Does he know it was you?" Sebastian inquires. There's a brief movement of hand from waist to ass - a tweak, with an undertone of teasing humor in his thoughts - and then a return. "People should always be friendly," he informs her. "It serves him right if he wasn't."
Emma shakes her head, ghosting her eyes closed and exhaling slowly. "Doubtful. He had a little too much to drink and wandered a little too far." She tips her hips forward at the grab and lifts up on tiptoe before settling back down and burrowing closer.
Sebastian's arms squeeze Emma again - tightly - and then he releases her with a little reluctance to turn and shut off the shower. The door is opened - glass, swinging out over tile - and Sebastian steps out of the shower to take a towel. Someone has already come through to take away vomit-stained clothes in the interim.
Emma hangs onto the doorframe and reaches to pull one for herself off the towel warmer. She shakes it out one handed, then holds it up to her and watches him with subdued apprehension.
A modicum of drying is done before Sebastian tosses the towel to the floor, and then he looks up at Emma with a note of resignation. He crosses to her, puts an arm around her, and begins to guide her carefully out of the bathroom. "You can sleep here tonight," he informs her. The irony is not lost on him, and he allows himself a smile. "How is your head? Still hurting, or are the drugs doing their part?"
Emma says, "Better. I think. It's just my head now," she answers hazily, twining the towel around her as he escorts her from bathroom to bedroom. She steps away from his support and slides to the edge of the bed, glancing up at him with lid-heavy eyes. The irony is not lost on her either.""
"Good," Sebastian says quietly, walking slowly around to the other side of the bed - his side - with lazy pleasure coiling in his mind. It's a small look at Emma as he begins to peel back to the covers. "Why don't you go take another two, then," he says with even concern that peels back inside his thoughts to bald intent. "Then," he instructs, "you can come to bed."