...and the arbiter called, 'Ten Paces!'
Backdated to Friday.
She wishes to mock me - well, I'll teach her mockery before the entire Club tomorrow night.
=NYC= South Wing - Hellfire Clubhouse
The Friday before another big HFC event always means a flurry of activity, with people coming and going and bouncing off each other. Emma presides over the deliveries, flitting here and there to make sure that the little details that one cannot trust subordinates with are correct. With the last batch of candles delivered and getting placed, she stands at the entrance to the hallway and passes a critical eye over the arrangements.
"Well," Shaw says coming up behind Emma with a silvered smile - the general unsettlement of his mind a clue, perhaps, of his approach, with dampener off. He reaches with some familiarity for Emma's waist with both hands, blinking and yawning a little. "Don't trust my people to get it right?" he murmurs. "Or do you just think it takes a woman's touch - you're right, at that. I haven't the delicacy for it."
Emma's face is a schooled mask, giving no indication she's aware of the placement of his hands nor of the disorder of his thoughts. "You don't have 'people', darling. You may pay their bills, but they answer to me," she says simply, motioning another set of candles to be distributed in a still too dark corner.
Hands slip to link, and Shaw's chuckle echoes mentally before it finds the wind. "Mmm," he says. "Only because I let them, dear - men and women are loyal to he who signs their checks." A moment of silence. "I will not be disappointed?" he asks, thoughts filling in the blanks on subject - he's asking about the party.
Emma turns within the confines of his arms and tips an impassive face up to his. "Then by all means. Manage them," she challenges, offering up a stack of papers.
"What," Shaw bandies back with a smile that slips towards smirk. "Are you suggesting you're unworthy of my trust, dear Queen?"
"Would you rather it be suggested that you are incompetent?" Her brow lifts and lips twitch into a condescending smile even as she increases his awareness of key points of the situation and strokes his baser desires.
"Competence is mostly about judging character," the Black King replies. Palms flatten on Emma's back as Shaw's smile goes from a smirk to something else, fevered dreams laying a route for desire to rise with swift ease. "But," he says, drawing one of his hands up Emma's back to caress her neck, "I've had the measure of you over the years."
"Character, or potential?" she counters, leaning in to brush against him, then sidestepping and pulling away from his arms.
A spike of regret as Emma pulls away, and then Shaw pursues, stepping towards her to reach out again - hand to her cheek. "Both," he replies. "Moulding from one to the other is some special skill of mine." Memories tumble, exhaustion giving them no coherence other than a rattle of scenes from long association.
Skin is soft, lips wide and pink, eyes sapphire chips hidden behind a dusky veil. Impressions weave deeper and sink taloned-claws into his unconscious. "There's nothing moldable left /here/ for you, Sebastian," she whispers in smug rebuff, reaching up to take a hold of his hand and remove it from her cheek, though her thumb brushes secret encouragement against his palm.
"You're not so perfect yet," Shaw says, but he's almost mumbling, turning his hand in Emma's to catch and hold it. "Always more to be done - places to go," even as his mind claws to keep those thoughts under control. A deep breath, and now Shaw's his worst enemy: focusing on the desire Emma is encouraging to keep his hopes and plans under lock and key, squeezing her hand to step closer to her.
"More to be done, but are you the man to do it?" Glimpses of plan and plots intrigue, but do not commit her. Emma, ever aware of other's awareness, looks around, then back at him. She retreats another step, backing up around a corner and almost into the door of a supply closet. "What's the matter, Sebastian?" She steps back into him and runs the back of the fingers holding the paperwork down his cheek in sudden reversal. "You don't seem yourself."
"'m always myself," Shaw replies with a spike of black pride, and a step closes the gap. "Surely, kitten, you know me well enough to know you're always in my thoughts." Free hand to Emma's waist again, slipping to bare skin between sweater's hem and pants' low waist.
Emma inhales and stretches up, exposing more skin to his touch. "As you are in mine, my King," she murmurs, cold satisfaction curling restraint and calculation around her responses. She rocks back, just out of reach, and wets her lower lip with the tip of her tongue. "You should let me help you."
Shaw advances again, hand seeking skin as some small confusion flares at the base of his mind. Closet's threshold is obtained, now, and desire continues its slow boil. "Yes." First hand releases Emma's to seek her neck. "I'll not be the bastard today," he says to Emma. "I'll give you what I denied you earlier - yes," he says, little twirling threads of habitual unstability in his mind like rivulets of delight. "It's yours."
Behind the shield of ignorance, Emma enjoys a moment of dark and cold satisfaction. She pulls herself up to her full height and drapes her voice in the frigid superiority of a monarch used to command. "I don't know what you are talking about, Sebastian. I have work to attend to right now." And then her voice drops, and she pushes warmth and promise through her smile. "Why don't you go on to the lounge, darling. I'll bring you a brandy and cigar in a few minutes."
"I don't see any work here," Shaw replies, and danger looms black and bold in his mind - intent, scribed with his own monarchal certainty and the deja vu feeling of times past where 'no' has not been an answer Shaw is willing to hear. Hands shift, and the Black King steps forward to physically /push/ Emma a little farther back into the supply closet. "Don't tease," he tells her. "Work can wait."
At this point, the party was starting OOCly, so we faded. Emma and Shaw parted ways unamicably but without violence, mental or otherwise.
She wishes to mock me - well, I'll teach her mockery before the entire Club tomorrow night.
=NYC= South Wing - Hellfire Clubhouse
The Friday before another big HFC event always means a flurry of activity, with people coming and going and bouncing off each other. Emma presides over the deliveries, flitting here and there to make sure that the little details that one cannot trust subordinates with are correct. With the last batch of candles delivered and getting placed, she stands at the entrance to the hallway and passes a critical eye over the arrangements.
"Well," Shaw says coming up behind Emma with a silvered smile - the general unsettlement of his mind a clue, perhaps, of his approach, with dampener off. He reaches with some familiarity for Emma's waist with both hands, blinking and yawning a little. "Don't trust my people to get it right?" he murmurs. "Or do you just think it takes a woman's touch - you're right, at that. I haven't the delicacy for it."
Emma's face is a schooled mask, giving no indication she's aware of the placement of his hands nor of the disorder of his thoughts. "You don't have 'people', darling. You may pay their bills, but they answer to me," she says simply, motioning another set of candles to be distributed in a still too dark corner.
Hands slip to link, and Shaw's chuckle echoes mentally before it finds the wind. "Mmm," he says. "Only because I let them, dear - men and women are loyal to he who signs their checks." A moment of silence. "I will not be disappointed?" he asks, thoughts filling in the blanks on subject - he's asking about the party.
Emma turns within the confines of his arms and tips an impassive face up to his. "Then by all means. Manage them," she challenges, offering up a stack of papers.
"What," Shaw bandies back with a smile that slips towards smirk. "Are you suggesting you're unworthy of my trust, dear Queen?"
"Would you rather it be suggested that you are incompetent?" Her brow lifts and lips twitch into a condescending smile even as she increases his awareness of key points of the situation and strokes his baser desires.
"Competence is mostly about judging character," the Black King replies. Palms flatten on Emma's back as Shaw's smile goes from a smirk to something else, fevered dreams laying a route for desire to rise with swift ease. "But," he says, drawing one of his hands up Emma's back to caress her neck, "I've had the measure of you over the years."
"Character, or potential?" she counters, leaning in to brush against him, then sidestepping and pulling away from his arms.
A spike of regret as Emma pulls away, and then Shaw pursues, stepping towards her to reach out again - hand to her cheek. "Both," he replies. "Moulding from one to the other is some special skill of mine." Memories tumble, exhaustion giving them no coherence other than a rattle of scenes from long association.
Skin is soft, lips wide and pink, eyes sapphire chips hidden behind a dusky veil. Impressions weave deeper and sink taloned-claws into his unconscious. "There's nothing moldable left /here/ for you, Sebastian," she whispers in smug rebuff, reaching up to take a hold of his hand and remove it from her cheek, though her thumb brushes secret encouragement against his palm.
"You're not so perfect yet," Shaw says, but he's almost mumbling, turning his hand in Emma's to catch and hold it. "Always more to be done - places to go," even as his mind claws to keep those thoughts under control. A deep breath, and now Shaw's his worst enemy: focusing on the desire Emma is encouraging to keep his hopes and plans under lock and key, squeezing her hand to step closer to her.
"More to be done, but are you the man to do it?" Glimpses of plan and plots intrigue, but do not commit her. Emma, ever aware of other's awareness, looks around, then back at him. She retreats another step, backing up around a corner and almost into the door of a supply closet. "What's the matter, Sebastian?" She steps back into him and runs the back of the fingers holding the paperwork down his cheek in sudden reversal. "You don't seem yourself."
"'m always myself," Shaw replies with a spike of black pride, and a step closes the gap. "Surely, kitten, you know me well enough to know you're always in my thoughts." Free hand to Emma's waist again, slipping to bare skin between sweater's hem and pants' low waist.
Emma inhales and stretches up, exposing more skin to his touch. "As you are in mine, my King," she murmurs, cold satisfaction curling restraint and calculation around her responses. She rocks back, just out of reach, and wets her lower lip with the tip of her tongue. "You should let me help you."
Shaw advances again, hand seeking skin as some small confusion flares at the base of his mind. Closet's threshold is obtained, now, and desire continues its slow boil. "Yes." First hand releases Emma's to seek her neck. "I'll not be the bastard today," he says to Emma. "I'll give you what I denied you earlier - yes," he says, little twirling threads of habitual unstability in his mind like rivulets of delight. "It's yours."
Behind the shield of ignorance, Emma enjoys a moment of dark and cold satisfaction. She pulls herself up to her full height and drapes her voice in the frigid superiority of a monarch used to command. "I don't know what you are talking about, Sebastian. I have work to attend to right now." And then her voice drops, and she pushes warmth and promise through her smile. "Why don't you go on to the lounge, darling. I'll bring you a brandy and cigar in a few minutes."
"I don't see any work here," Shaw replies, and danger looms black and bold in his mind - intent, scribed with his own monarchal certainty and the deja vu feeling of times past where 'no' has not been an answer Shaw is willing to hear. Hands shift, and the Black King steps forward to physically /push/ Emma a little farther back into the supply closet. "Don't tease," he tells her. "Work can wait."
At this point, the party was starting OOCly, so we faded. Emma and Shaw parted ways unamicably but without violence, mental or otherwise.