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xp_logsAt a Hellfire Club party, Doug shares the embarrassing story of his sister coming out to him. What he doesn't realize is that there's an eavesdropper listening in...
Doug sipped at a flute of champagne, watching the mingling crowd at a Hellfire Club gathering, standing at Emma's side. He shook his head wryly, clearly remembering something. "What was the most embarrassing moment you ever experienced?" he asked Emma in an apparent non sequitur.
"Oh, Doug." Emma's reproof was gentle. "I don't do embarrassing moments. That would involve a sense of shame and everyone knows I'm shameless." The grin she flashed her Knight was thoroughly wicked.
Doug chuckled wryly. He supposed he should have expected that kind of response, in thinking about it. He tipped his glass in acknowledgment of Emma's reply. "I get the impression that you were born without shame," he observed, trying to imagine Emma as a young girl ever being ashamed of anything.
"Maybe I was born with it," responded Emma, and her voice was suddenly as cold as her name. "It got beaten out of me long before I was old enough to remember. Some variation of beaten anyway."
Doug winced, not quite sure how to react to the serious turn of the conversation, and the implications about Emma's past. He decided to shift gears back to the slightly embarrassing story he had initially planned on telling. "So, on the plane ride back to Denver, I was chatting with Katie about if she's dating anyone since she came to college. Was thinking about maybe even fixing her up. Of course, turns out she'd rather date my ex-girlfriend." Doug shared the awkward feeling of the memory with Emma, and chuckled wryly.
Emma let go of some old feelings, letting the wash of Doug's embarrassment take away the sting his words had inadvertently raised. "I thought you could read body language," she murmured, smiling. "How on earth did you manage to make a mistake on that one? Let me guess; you're a traditionalist. Little sisters have to be straight, don't they? And marry the boy next door? And can I read something about a picket fence?" She pressed her hand to her brow dramatically, a mocking tribute to a million bad representations of psychics on late night movies.
"More like brothers prefer to think of their sisters as asexual, really. I doubt Katie really likes to think of my sex life any more than I do of hers," Doug mused. "So I wasn't paying any attention to her body language at all." He waved a hand. "I know, I know, I assumed, and if Mark were not busy with the things he's doing, I'd be getting a lecture on heteronormativity and institutionalized sexism right now." He pursed his lips in a teasing pout. "I'd think you'd know me better than boy next door and a picket fence, given how deep you've been in my brain, my Queen."
"Oh my dearest Knight, the bits of your brain I've been in the most don't have anything to do with feelings about your siblings." Her grin was wicked again. For a moment her psychic fingers danced in those parts of Doug's brain that she knew well, a teasing caress of pleasure centres and dopamine receptors. "But Mark would be right. How terribly bourgeois of you, Doug. I expect better." She fluttered a last touch in his mind in a particularly sensitive area and then withdrew.
Doug's hips twitched involuntarily, and he swallowed heavily, the only outward signs of the games Emma was playing. "Yes, my Queen," he murmured with a bow.
Porter just wanted to vomit. All these rich people and their games and the barriers they threw out just so they could feel exclusive and look down on anyone who wasn't born with a silver spoon - no, an entire silver bloody soup ladle halfway down their throats.
He'd skirted around the edges of the party, watching, and memorizing a few select locations. He wanted to be able to return here at will, and he'd yet to find the type of secluded little sports he preferred. No coat closets, no forgotten storage rooms, every damn room in this place was either well-lit or in use, and so far all he had was a pantry that had servers and assistant-chefs in and out of it every few minutes.
He never could break himself of the habit of listening in on other people's conversations. It didn't help that he'd never tried to break the habit, not really. It was just too useful, find out where someone worked, or lived or that they kept a spare key on a magnet under the bumper and you had a ticket to half their life and all their money.
Porter leaned against a wall, and took a pack of cigars from his jacket pocket. At least here, no one ever scolded him for smoking. It had to be the good stuff, the hand-rolled kind that cost him more than he liked to think about and didn't have the ease of a cheap cigarette pack. Cigars meant money, and a ritual of cutting and lighting and savoring and he'd never been good at savoring. But he could 'hide' in the smoke, no one would bother him if he was indulging, half the bastards here were indulging in something. He could smoke, and be invisible and listen to the White Knight talk all about his baby sister and wouldn't that just be interesting to the Black King, maybe that would finally get the man's interest.
Doug sipped at a flute of champagne, watching the mingling crowd at a Hellfire Club gathering, standing at Emma's side. He shook his head wryly, clearly remembering something. "What was the most embarrassing moment you ever experienced?" he asked Emma in an apparent non sequitur.
"Oh, Doug." Emma's reproof was gentle. "I don't do embarrassing moments. That would involve a sense of shame and everyone knows I'm shameless." The grin she flashed her Knight was thoroughly wicked.
Doug chuckled wryly. He supposed he should have expected that kind of response, in thinking about it. He tipped his glass in acknowledgment of Emma's reply. "I get the impression that you were born without shame," he observed, trying to imagine Emma as a young girl ever being ashamed of anything.
"Maybe I was born with it," responded Emma, and her voice was suddenly as cold as her name. "It got beaten out of me long before I was old enough to remember. Some variation of beaten anyway."
Doug winced, not quite sure how to react to the serious turn of the conversation, and the implications about Emma's past. He decided to shift gears back to the slightly embarrassing story he had initially planned on telling. "So, on the plane ride back to Denver, I was chatting with Katie about if she's dating anyone since she came to college. Was thinking about maybe even fixing her up. Of course, turns out she'd rather date my ex-girlfriend." Doug shared the awkward feeling of the memory with Emma, and chuckled wryly.
Emma let go of some old feelings, letting the wash of Doug's embarrassment take away the sting his words had inadvertently raised. "I thought you could read body language," she murmured, smiling. "How on earth did you manage to make a mistake on that one? Let me guess; you're a traditionalist. Little sisters have to be straight, don't they? And marry the boy next door? And can I read something about a picket fence?" She pressed her hand to her brow dramatically, a mocking tribute to a million bad representations of psychics on late night movies.
"More like brothers prefer to think of their sisters as asexual, really. I doubt Katie really likes to think of my sex life any more than I do of hers," Doug mused. "So I wasn't paying any attention to her body language at all." He waved a hand. "I know, I know, I assumed, and if Mark were not busy with the things he's doing, I'd be getting a lecture on heteronormativity and institutionalized sexism right now." He pursed his lips in a teasing pout. "I'd think you'd know me better than boy next door and a picket fence, given how deep you've been in my brain, my Queen."
"Oh my dearest Knight, the bits of your brain I've been in the most don't have anything to do with feelings about your siblings." Her grin was wicked again. For a moment her psychic fingers danced in those parts of Doug's brain that she knew well, a teasing caress of pleasure centres and dopamine receptors. "But Mark would be right. How terribly bourgeois of you, Doug. I expect better." She fluttered a last touch in his mind in a particularly sensitive area and then withdrew.
Doug's hips twitched involuntarily, and he swallowed heavily, the only outward signs of the games Emma was playing. "Yes, my Queen," he murmured with a bow.
Porter just wanted to vomit. All these rich people and their games and the barriers they threw out just so they could feel exclusive and look down on anyone who wasn't born with a silver spoon - no, an entire silver bloody soup ladle halfway down their throats.
He'd skirted around the edges of the party, watching, and memorizing a few select locations. He wanted to be able to return here at will, and he'd yet to find the type of secluded little sports he preferred. No coat closets, no forgotten storage rooms, every damn room in this place was either well-lit or in use, and so far all he had was a pantry that had servers and assistant-chefs in and out of it every few minutes.
He never could break himself of the habit of listening in on other people's conversations. It didn't help that he'd never tried to break the habit, not really. It was just too useful, find out where someone worked, or lived or that they kept a spare key on a magnet under the bumper and you had a ticket to half their life and all their money.
Porter leaned against a wall, and took a pack of cigars from his jacket pocket. At least here, no one ever scolded him for smoking. It had to be the good stuff, the hand-rolled kind that cost him more than he liked to think about and didn't have the ease of a cheap cigarette pack. Cigars meant money, and a ritual of cutting and lighting and savoring and he'd never been good at savoring. But he could 'hide' in the smoke, no one would bother him if he was indulging, half the bastards here were indulging in something. He could smoke, and be invisible and listen to the White Knight talk all about his baby sister and wouldn't that just be interesting to the Black King, maybe that would finally get the man's interest.
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