Roleplaying Log: Hellmouse
IC Details

Trish Walker is playing a dangerous game of cat and mouse, but does she know just how dangerous it is? Or that she's the mouse?

Other Characters Referenced: Emma Frost
IC Date: September 29, 2019
IC Location: Hellfire Club, NYC, NY
OOC Notes & Details
Posted On: 30 Sep 2019 16:29
Rating & Warnings: PG-13
Scene Soundtrack: [* ]
NPC & GM Credits: Sebastian Shaw by Ursa.
Associated Plots

It's been over a week since Trish ran into Emma Frost at the Hellfire Club. Ten days, if one wants to be precise about it.

But then, Trish Walker will find a small package in her apartment's mailbox. Inside the package, a small folded tent card with to P.W. on its exterior in a masculine scrawl rests. The interior of said card (made of a weighty parchment-colored cardstock) gives the address for the Hellfire Club's 5th Avenue townhouse… But beyond that, a suite number for one of the more exclusive upstairs rooms. A time. A date. It's signed, SS. There is also a slinky black dress inside and a small sterling silver fussy-mussy inside, with an obscure arrangement of dried coriander and viscaria blooms.

Curious about the package, she brings it up to her apartment before opening it. Trish occasionally gets packages, and she's no less intrigued each time. Before reading the note, she wonders who it could be from. Of course, the card, with the initials at the end, along with the address given in said card gives everything away.

With the dress and everything else, she tilts her head to the side. Not her usual items, that's for sure.

Putting on the slinky dress, and putting together everything else, she slips her phone out of a small purse and calls a car company that takes her to the Hellfire Club, in time to meet at the specified time on the card.

It's when Trish arrives and tries to enter in through the front entrance that she'll find that the normal proceedings change. Tonight, she doesn't get the vague pretense of recognition and ushering inside to mill around at her whim and do as she pleases.

Tonight, she is recognized. "Ah, Miss Walker. We've been expecting you. This way?"

The radio host will find that she is quickly handed off to another man, and led inside the elevator to the upstairs. She's led down a hall with a lush patterned carpet on the 8th floor, and then deposited directly in front of a door bearing the suite number written on that tiny little card… and the door is slightly ajar.

What could this all be about? The invitation, the dress, everything. It's most unusual. Not like her invites of old. Usually they were just that: 'The club is having a party. Please join us.' Now, well, now it's all changed, in a manner of speaking. The journalist side of her has her wanting to investigate every little thing. Then again, there's a little piece of her, a piece that remains the 18 year old bright eyed new member, that is excited by something unknown. It was all so mysterious back then, and she was able to get anything she wanted. It was an amazing time!

But this is not then. She pats her hair lightly, making sure it's still done up and in place. Giving the door a little knock, she pushes it open even further and walks in, looking about.

"Hello?" She calls softly. "Mr. Shaw?"

Once Trish ventures inside the suite, the man who led her upstairs silently retreats down the hall and back downstairs.

"Ah, Miss Walker," comes a familiar rumble from deeper within the suite. "So glad you were available."

The two-room suite itself is fairly modest by Hellfire terms, and this is a room meant for entertaining. There's a long, curving couch under a spacious window view of the street. Sebastian Shaw, wrapped in a comfortable smoking jacket and immediately recognizable for the dark of his long hair and the breath of his bulky form, looks out the window for just a moment longer before looking over his shoulder. In the curve of the couch, there's a low table with a bucket of ice and a bottle of asti. "I apologize for the short notice," Shaw continues, "But I leave for Hong Kong in the morning."

He looks over his shoulder. "And it was brought to my attention that perhaps you might want to talk again."

Glancing around the room one last time, she brings her attention to the voice as it speaks. "I was…more than happy to make myself available, Mr. Shaw." Trish bows her head slightly. "What a quaint suite. Not too big, but not too small. It's just right." She smiles.

Making her way to the couch, she sits without invitation, crossing her legs lightly and placing her purse between herself and the side of the couch. "I was brought to your attention? Hmm." Her voice is soft. "Well, I'm always glad to see you and speak with you. It's a pleasure and an honour to be able to do so." She says as she looks over to him.

As she continues to look around, to make herself at home, Trish will find that the borrowed space of this suite is a carefully considered one. There's the wine, of course, although the decanters of spirits sit not too far away on the side of the room at a buffet under a mirror. But there's also the matter of the decor which has a decidedly vintage flair. The curved couch the blonde occupies is a soft velvet rarely seen in hotels, and the round table before her boasts a delicate walnut inlay of a compass design. A cabinet hides away technology, most likely. An antique desk, the phone, a stack of parchment hued paper, and pens.

"Miss Frost mentioned something in passing about a conversation you'd had." His heavy footsteps carry him towards the couch, and one of his large hands settles upon the scrollwork along its top edge behind the delicate curve of a feminine shoulder and the strap of the dress it wears. "The dress looks splendid on you."

"Ah, of course." Trish murmurs, nodding. "Yes. What a lovely woman, that Miss Frost. I ever so enjoy her company." She says with the flash of a smile. It seems genuine. Of course, she's playing a whole different game here. Emma Frost and Sebastian Shaw require, at least in her mind, vastly different tactics for gathering information from. "We'd gotten on the topic of yachts and I asked regarding yourself. I was informed, of course, that you did indeed have one, made in her own company's shipyards." There's a pause. "Although, she mentioned you made some changes to yours? Might a curious minded person such as myself inquire as to what changes were made? If it's no imposition, of course."
She glances down at the dress and then back up at Shaw. "Thank you. For the compliment and the dress. You obviously have good taste." She gives him the tiniest of smiles. "Of course, it also shows that you know what you like. There's something to be said about a man who knows what he wants and goes for it."

Sebastian chuckles, and then moves to round the couch so that he can get to the glasses and decanters the spirits. "Fortune favors the brave, Miss Walker," he replies as he unstops and sniffs at a couple of the bottles before finding the scotch he was seeking out and pouring two measures.

"It's not to say that the vessel was lacking when I took possession of it… but yes. Some things, you just need to put your own hands on. Make it your own." Coming back to the couch, he settles upon it next to her and hands her a portion of the scotch that she didn't ask for. "I'm surprised that you took an interest in it. Given your profession, I would think that running away for days at a time wouldn't be particularly conducive to success."

"I have heard as such, regarding fortune and the brave." Trish acknowledges, accepting the drink from Sebastian. "Cheers." She says, raising the glass ever so slightly. "Perhaps I am hoping that fortune shall favour myself, as well, in my endeavors." As such as they are for her.

"Perhaps when you return from Hong Kong, you might invite me onto your yacht and give me a tour? Let me see some of the changes that were made?" She takes a small sip of her drink, letting her enquiry sit in the air. She smiles coyly at the questions about her work. "Well, I can certainly see why you might be surprised. Most of the time my show is live. However, there are circumstances where we are prepared to play a pretaped show. If it happens unexpectedly, say I'm in an accident, we're able to play old shows. Reruns." She explains, taking another sip. "However, we have other contingencies should we know in advance that I will not be available. For example, should I desire a vacation, or need to travel for some reason, we can prerecord shows for the time I'm away, or even bring in a special host to take over while I'm gone." She takes a sip of her drink. "No doubt you've heard on some radio shows, and on some television shows, when the main host is away, they'll have a replacement who says something along the lines of, 'Hi, this is Jane Smith on Trish Talk. I will be your host while Trish Walker is on holiday.' Or something to that affect."


Sipping down a measure of the scotch a beat after the clink of glass, Shaw considers the younger woman beside him with a clearly unspoken series of thoughts as his arm stretches out along the couch's back, behind her. And then, without permission, his hand reaches out for a strand of her hair to - unless she moves to stop him - consider it with the same sort of appraisal that he might grant other things of fine quality. "I'm certain that the additions would bore you, Miss Walker."

It's one of those moments when each decision made is important. Each could decide what will happen in the future. It's for that reason, for the time being, Trish makes no motion to stop him playing with her hair. She merely tilts her head slightly and continues to gaze at him.

Lightly swirling the scotch in her glass, she raises an eyebrow slightly. "How can you be so certain? But," she takes one more sip of the scotch, "ah, perhaps your right. Maybe it's just the yacht in general I'm interested in. Being alone, on the water…"

She stares down at her drink for a moment. Glancing up, she asks, "Mr. Shaw, I hope I'm not being an imposition if I ask, but," she hesitates, lightly biting her lower lip. "Well, the Club has been so good to me over the years. And I was wondering…" She lets out a little giggle and softly shakes her head. "Nevermind. I'm probably just being silly." She says softly.

Dark eyes watch Trish very carefully, every breath she takes, although they seem to only be watching Shaw's own thick fingers as they twist the lock of flaxen hair around themselves. Twist, and release. Twist, and release. It's not a bad play that Trish opts for, in the scheme of things, to go for his ego. Heaven and hell both know that he's got a large enough one that it may not require constant feeding, but it will rarely turn it down. Even if it's pretense. Even if it's suspicious.

Even if it's highly suspicious.

Alone on the water, she teases. And the corner of his mouth tugs upwards and another low chuckle escapes his throat.

She's been wondering, she tells him, and that's a dangerous pasttime around here. "What have you been wondering, my dear?"

"It's nothing, really. Except…" Trish lowers her face slightly, and gazes up at Sebastian with wide eyes. "It's just, I know that with any group, any society or club, there uh, well, must be a committee or," she thinks for a moment, "a board of directors?" She furrows her brow as she says this. "I've um, well, never given it much thought."
She takes a deep breath in before continuing. "It's just, if I wanted to thank someone for everything the Hellfire Club has given me over the years, who would that be?" She asks cautiously. "Is there a board of directors?"

She closes her eyes and sighs. "I'm sorry. We were having such a nice evening and I had to go take it off track by asking about a board of some sort." She places her face in her palm and shakes her head. "I hope you can forgive me."

The fingers around Trish's hair continue on. Twist and release. Twist… and release.
She asks her question, and his fingers slow each time they are wound up the meticulously kept lock of blonde. He holds his silence as she stammers through, although a bushy eyebrow lifts a slim degree. She shakes her head, and he lets her hair escape his grasp. "You don't thank anyone, Miss Walker. We are members of the Hellfire Club, and this is what we are owed."


It's a word that can change fortunes, that 'but.'

He turns back to lean more heavily against the back of the couch as he brings his other arm up to trace the curve of their seat, his jacket slipping open to accommodate the pose. The sip he takes now is slow and contemplative as he chooses his words carefully.
"You never know who is watching. It never goes amiss to demonstrate loyalty. After all, we are who we are, and none of us are in any sort of hurry to watch our little pleasures evaporate, are we?"

"Yes…of course." Trish emits a quiet, breathy laugh as she nods. "I guess I just needed to be reminded. Of course this is what we're owed. We wouldn't be here if we weren't." She takes a long sip of her drink, finishing with a little sigh of contentment. "Thank you for understanding and being patient of the silly notions flowing through my mind."

Taking in his words carefully, she waits until she is sure he is spoken what he intends to say before she speaks up once more. "Of course. Loyalty is important. I perish the thought of disloyalty. The Hellfire Club has never once turned its back on me, and I would not turn my own on it. Besides, I'm certainly in no hurry to be rid of any pleasure."

While Trish goes jumping through her hoops, Shaw closes his eyes and tilts his head to stretch his neck. The sound of several vertebrae cracking into place can be heard, and he sets down his cup. Once she's done, he casts a sidelong glance at her and considers her anew.

For a moment, it might seem as though he suspects something. But then he smirks smugly again and instead moves to seize Trish by her hips. To draw her up onto his lap and settle her upon it if she'll go. Again, he's not really asking for permission. "Once I get back from Hong Kong, clear your calendar for a few days if you're serious about the yacht."

The pros and cons of being an actress and a radio talkshow host. You know how to talk, but sometimes it's difficult to know when not to talk. Sometimes saying nothing can speak volumes, but just as equally, speaking actual volumes can be just as enlightening. Trish smiles innocently at Sebastian, gazing over at him with curious wonder.

Again, she provides no resistance to Sebastian as he this time physically moves her onto his lap. She drapes one arm around his neck, resting it upon his shoulders. A small grin forms upon her face. "Just tell me when and I'll be there."

It's satisfactory for now, the exchange, and Shaw really has no more desire to continue the conversation. With it done, though, he really only has one thing left to do. His strong hand comes up to take hold of the back of Trish's head and roughly drag it down to himself, to claim her scotch-coated lips and be done with her incessant prying. It amuses him, perhaps, in some small degree. But only when it is in small doses. Fortunately, this is a dilemma that is easy enough to solve by his reckoning.

It is all easily solved.

For now, why let other passing amusements wait until he gets back from Hong Kong?

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