homosexuals | [MOVIE STAR AU]

[MOVIE STAR AU]

MODERN CINEMA AU

hollywood is a place where they'll pay you a thousand dollars for a kiss and fifty cents for your soul...

[retirement hasn't been on hawkins fuller's mind even since he hit the big 4-0, but these days he's starting to rethink the way he has eaten, breathed, and lived for cinema since he set foot on a lot in his teens. he'd thought by avoiding outright theater maybe his parents would politely gloss over the questionable desire to get into production design and costuming and crafting real life magic if it had a thin veneer of twenty-four carat golden glamor in hollywood - but it turns out that even the best of intentions can be seen from a mile away by a bigoted father and a sympathetic but unwilling to leave mother on the east coast. he remembers moving to los angeles down on his luck with nothing but a few bucks in his pocket and the drive to make it happen - to never have to rely on an inheritance that wouldn't be his anyway or a life of conformity just for the sake of comfort.

something about his old school sensibilities, impeccable work ethic, the decent head on his shoulders, the willingness to knock door to door in this day and age, and yeah, probably the strong jawline and golden era good looks got his foot in the door on a terrible, second rate studio lot to start. not even enough to cover his obscene rent without overtime - but it was a start. at least, until wesley smith walked in and plucked him out with precision to bring him over to his own struggling, but otherwise lucrative set. hawk was barely even twenty, but one right comment at the right place and time and it'd been history every since. everyone knew leonard smith didn't have the business sensibilities for this industry - too busy winding up in the tabloids for picking up boys on street corners and drinking his nights away in weho looking for the next "big thing".

maybe he should feel guiltier than he does for rising to righthand man and being the unofficial heir to the throne at smith studios - but he's paid his dues. worked his way up from the bottom as a mail boy to everything in between and learned it inside and out with smith's careful eye and guidance. he's a good man, which is a hard thing to find once people realize that twenty-four-carat veneer he'd once dreamed about really is a veneer - one that happens to be coated over a steaming pile of shit. god knows he's seen, manufactured, and even squashed his own share of scandals in the time he's been working in the industry.

but he'd never trade it for anything in the whole goddamn world. this is where he was meant to be - and he hates to sound pretentiously cliche, but it's what he was born to do.

at least, until embry moore came along.

everyone knows embry's sob story: iconic child star with his half-sister morgan, under the careful management of aging soap opera queen vivienne moore. a promising career through his 20s, the kind of handsome bone structure people used to go to fucking war over. more poignancy and a wicked sense of humor that couldn't be stifled in his interviews, a natural sort of broody charm that can't be manufactured. and then came the tidal wave - drugs, duis, one bad hookup pr or otherwise with pretty boys and pretty girls. all that driving a frenzy of focus with the paparazzi, probably making it all worse by putting him under a microscope. then came the bad behavior - tarnishing an otherwise pristine reputation and giving him the dreaded "difficult on set" label. his big break ended up coming out with less a bang than a whimper, and it was all downhill after that.

which should be a shame, and the end of it, because hawkins fuller doesn't work with hot messes unless he's got some serious contingency plans in place.

but it was that last flop of a movie hawk had caught, making it a point to always keep a pulse on any and everything even if it was critically panned, and fuck if he wasn't riveted by every moment embry spent on screen. he really shouldn't be blamed for bad writing and worse directing - a bloated mess of dingy discoloration telling the tragic romance between two starcrossed young men at war.

but hawk knows when he sees something - a diamond in the rough. they're not easy to come by, and despite every bit of protest from smith and just about everyone he pitches his plan to - they all grudgingly know that if nothing else, he'll deliver. they're down a heart throb, about to stall on the beginning of their production date, and unfortunately no one else has met hawk's arbitrary standards by sheer existence alone. so all they can do is trust him, and it's just the headache of everything in between that's going to rest solidly on his unfairly strong shoulders.

to say he hits embry with the book his first day isn't inaccurate: he runs a tight set. no visitors unless cleared through him and security, no drugs, no distractions, show up on time and do a good job so they can all get paid and praised.

it should surprise him that embry actually seems to show up clean and mostly willing to play ball - at least, until today, when it all seems ready to come crashing down. laughlin knocks frantically at his door where he's signing off on a slight budget increase for the next phase of shooting, with a clipped it's urgent mr. fuller as he calls for him to come in.

there's a jumble of words out in a rush from tim, clutching his ipad and a clipboard, hair a floppy mess and cheeks flushed from a clear run. embry - security mixup - trailer - stalker - assault - tmz - comment - on his way - terrible mistake - and then the man himself is standing behind tim, still in costume and looking like he's seen a ghost.]

I've got it from here, Tim. Tell them I'll issue a statement later this afternoon.

[hawk lifts his palm, face neutral and gestures with his fingers for embry to come inside.]

Moore. Get in here and shut the door behind you.

[it's the same tone he's used on exhausted kids who need one more take, and skittish starlets worried their stomach's not flat enough for a day in a bikini. firm, but sympathetic. fair, but commanding.]

Sit down and tell me what happened from the beginning.

Edited 2024-03-12 02:43 (UTC)

[ contrary to what everyone might believe, he's not actually trying to lose this job. he's trying to stay clean (successful so far, because uppers don't count). he's trying to stay relatively sober (successful, because he said relatively). he's doing a stellar job with the asshole director that hawk hired and bites his tongue most days because he likes the script and he likes the story, pushing through a few hiccups were his demons have threatened to eat him alive. and he was, honestly, doing fucking great with not getting into any altercations with anyone at all, paparazzi included, until today.

today, he's standing in hawkins fuller's office with an ugly bruise forming along the crescent of his cheek, his knuckles bloodied, his perfectly coiffed hair ruined from the hour he'd spent in makeup. his face will be a problem for filming. a part of him cares about that, concern niggling at him that this is just more difficult on set grave-dirt to heap upon his coffin, but anger transcends his fear. sort of. he feels sick, like the combination of both is crushing his lungs. ]

You said no visitors. [ he hurls the accusation like a blunt object. ] No distractions.

[ his phone has been buzzing for a week with unwanted messages from unlisted numbers, the same old threats leveled at him that he's heard for years. they want money. they want nudes. they want embry to suck their cock. they want embry to get morgan to suck their cock. and if none of these things happen, they're coming to take what they want by force. embry has been threatened plenty over the course of his career; he knows which ones are real and which ones are just blowing smoke, and this one felt real from the jump.

but security is supposedly tight around here. he mentions it to some of the staff at the gates, who assures him everything's safe, and embry goes back to work even though he doesn't feel safe. he thinks about mentioning it to hawk, but hawk seems more irritated by him than anything else, even though he was the one who hired him in the first place — on a fucking whim, he's heard whispered around, eyes darting whenever he passes. he knows his reputation is shit despite the buzz that used to be attached to his name. he's too distracted to care, trying to work and manage his nerves at the same time, and trying to shake off the ghosts of his past choices.

it doesn't work. he has an hour or two to kill while someone rebuilds part of the set, so he tries to catch up on a sleepless night in his trailer, only to wake up to someone touching him.

his first instinct is to revert back to being a wickedly handsome teenager fumbling in front of a camera, trying desperately not to disappoint vivienne moore with another botched audition, not knowing he'd be asked to get on his knees, to open his mouth, to spread his legs, and he'd break into the inner circle that day but also raise a guillotine over his neck that he never knows when might drop. his second instinct is to swing, which he does, hard.

his trailer is a mess, broken furniture and papers strewn everywhere. he doesn't care how good a job they'll do of fixing it up — he doesn't want to go back. his jaw ticks, aching, as he glares at hawk, petulant on the surface, like he's demanding dried mango instead of dried blueberries on craft services. like tmz isn't about to drop a scathing article on embry attacking a security guard and give the movie shitty press before it can even finish filming.

he wipes a hand down his face and winces, suddenly realizing his nose is bleeding. great. fucking great. he pinches the bridge of his nose and tilts his head up, pacing across the room while only belatedly realizing hawk asked him to sit down. well, fuck him. ]

I don't care what your goddamn people tell you. That guy deserved to get his face broken. [ he shuts his eyes. what if he hadn't woken up? what if it'd been one of his normal days off and he'd drank himself into an hours-long coma? ] He was inside my trailer.

[ he sounds so fucking juvenile, so much like a prissy fucking actor that he actually wants to punch himself. he sits abruptly on the couch, panic filling his chest at the sudden realization that he's about to be fucking fired. he's not even making any sense, and he's bleeding on the clothes he doesn't even own, and he's so. fucking. fired.

he wants to ask hawk to use his phone so he can talk to his manager, which sounds slightly better than i need to talk to my mom, which he doesn't even want to do because vivienne moore is the least comforting person on the planet, and embry can't take much more bullshit today. ]

[security is supposed to be tight around here. it's also supposed to be a safe set, and the fact that today it wasn't? well, that pisses hawk off more than worrying about blood on an expensive costume or fixing embry's hair and makeup, or even stalling on production for the rest of the day. he'd made a promise to someone - spotty history or not - and then his own people had broken it. there's going to be hell to pay, and the person to pay it is not the man in front of him looking terrified to be here, shaken and beat to shit. there are plenty of questions swirling in his mind - who was it, how did they get in, who on his team is responsible for it? how bad did they get embry? he must be getting better at this whole empathy thing, because normally his first questions would be how much this was going to cost in a delay, repairs, and set them back on filming.

it's not that he has a soft spot for embry as he watches him pacing and jittery and bleedy and justifying himself like he's waiting for the axe to swing and hawk to send him packing. it's that hawk knows what he saw in that box office bust - and he knows what he's seen these past few weeks. embry coming in clean, keeping his head down despite the cacophony of speculation both in and outside the gates on smith's lot, and doing his job with little complaint. especially considering he knows their director isn't really the kind of person to call a peach working under. he has respect for that. he has - sympathy, maybe, for watching the life embry's grown up in distantly, even though he suspects he barely knows the tip of that iceberg. but it doesn't take a genius to see that his overbearing mother only has dollar signs in her eyes, and the people around him are probably the kind of vultures to eat their own the second they smell weakness.

rather than command embry to sit again, hawk rises and walks over to the window near his desk, winding it open and before walking over to bar in the corner and tugging out a clean towel and tinkering around to wrap it around some ice. by then embry has tossed himself into the couch looking miserable as all get out, and hawk offers him the makeshift ice pack for his face until he can get a proper medic, sort out calling the police, and deal with all the paperwork. the priority right now is making sure his star doesn't walk off and quit on him. and more importantly: trying to maintain what he'd though was a tenuous thread of trust building between them.]

Put this on your cheek.

[when he does, hawk pulls out a kerchief from his breast pocket - deep maroon to match the subtle pinstriping on his suit. his initials are stitched into the corner in subtle black - hfz.]

And put this up your nose for now. We'll get the medic in here soon.

[he fires off a text to tim to get that to happen sooner rather than later. for now, he needs a goddamn cigarette. he's keenly aware this is a nonsmoking building - but he's mastered the art of disabling the fire alarm, which he does one-handed, before tugging it out of his breast pocket and sitting back down at his desk to light it. something tells him embry won't mind.]

First of all: I did tell you that. And I meant it, but that obviously didn't happen today. So I owe you an apology.

I'm sorry.

[he leans in, gaze level on embry with the kind of sincerity that should leave no question in his mind if he's bluffing.]

Second: did you get a look at the guy? Do you know him? Did security grab him? Any suspicious behavior before this?

[he takes another inhale, sighing before kicking his feet up.]

I want you to take the rest of the day after they look at you. I'll handle the rest of whatever this shitstorm is.

Edited 2024-03-13 03:49 (UTC)

[ it's not the reaction he expects, not by a long shot. there are no snide comments to navigate, no bombs to sidestep. the ice cools his throbbing cheek, and embry has known a lot of finery in his privileged life, but the handkerchief somehow feels too nice to stain with his blood. his expression grows wary as he lifts the cloth to wipe his nose, the fabric fragrant with a woodsy spice, and he doesn't know why the abrupt realization that this is what hawk smells like stuns him.

the questions hurled his way blur together. he's too stuck on the apology, and having the rest of the day off despite being behind schedule, and the bizarre niceness of this whole interaction. but he's never known anything to just be for the sake of kindness in hollywood — he knows there are strings attached to this, that he'll be called to cash in on this favor sooner or later. hawk's name might not be on the production credits, but embry knows that he's the one that runs this set. he runs this entire goddamn lot. ]

I think security got him. [ embry doesn't know, but he's said enough. he can hear vivienne moore in his head: your whole business model is being desirable. this is just part of the job. ] Didn't see his face when I hit him.

[ he's a professional. he might be a goddamn mess, but he knows how to act, and after a moment or two he rises from the couch, calmer than before, because he needs hawk to keep liking him, or at least to keep tolerating him. and nobody likes an actor that they have to worry about and coddle. he approaches the desk, lowering the ice pack. ]

My face is gonna be worse tomorrow. [ the bruise will darken and bloom with time, his cheek reddened and beginning to mottle. the smell of hawk's cigarette mingles with his cologne, a pleasantly burning forest that gives his office a feeling removed from the rest of the harried lot. it's quiet here, with deep wood paneling the walls and expensive rugs spanning the floors. ] We should keep rolling today.

[ even though his nerves are shot to hell and he knows he can't do it without help. he's been clean, really, nothing hard lately, and that streak's about to break the second he gets back to his ransacked trailer. his crumples the handkerchief in one hand, clutching it like a security blanket, running his fingertip along the raised threading of those three letters. hawkins fuller. that part is obvious, and if he were having a better day, or if he knew hawk better, he'd joke about him having his underwear embroidered, too. ]

What's the z for?

[for once, there aren't any strings. if anything, hawk knows he needs to cover his own goddamn ass because a fuck-up this severe could have embry walking at any moment - and well within reason. that's not the way this was supposed to go, and the fact that this happened under his watch? totally fucking unacceptable. but hawk's also not a completely heartless bastard who's going to prioritize getting one shot over someone’s safety - even if their track record is less than stellar around these parts. embry is clearly shaken by the ordeal, maybe moreso than he'd expect from some run of the mill crazed fan or a paparazzo going to extreme lengths for the right shot- and he's got this nagging feeling as he watches his star clam up that there is more to this whole story than he's getting. the question is how to coax him open without prying, to pluck out the pearl of his trust with expertise and a finely honed craft over blunt force.

hawk absently tosses the bottom half of the fire alarm on top of his desk with a clatter, listening to the half answers which aren't good enough by a long shot. that there's a question whether security even got this man doesn't bode well, and he fixes embry with a long, unreadable look over the cigarette dangling in his mouth when his phone vibrates in quick succession with a few updates from tim.

man got away - ran through the set and jumped a side fence. no one saw his face, but he may have used a uniform to get by. i've set up meetings with head of security and everyone near embry's trailer and the gate staff to target the breach.

speaking of embry's trailer - it's a mess. we'll need the day to get it cleaned up.

medic is on the way - eta 10 minutes.

should i tell production to close up for the day, sir?

none of it is good news, really, and he taps out a few affirmatives to interviewing staff, closing up, and waiting on the medic. but he does tell them to hold off on embry's trailer. the question is how to break all of this gently so he doesn't spook, or worse - shut him out even further.]

I'm going to get to the bottom of this. I promise. But I think - and you get a say too, obviously - that we'd better move your trailer.

[before there's any protest, which he's somewhat expecting, hawk holds up a hand and shakes his head.]

I know it's gonna be a pain in the ass moving you out this way. Go ahead and get the complaints out now. You're not being punished, if that's what you're thinking, but I'd rather be close if it's all the same to you.

[it's not entirely negotiable, but the illusion of choice is probably better.]

Production's shut down for the rest of the day on my orders. Maybe tomorrow, if that's what it takes. Until we get a better picture of what happened, I don't want you anywhere near this.

[hawk's gaze drops to the way his fingertips trace over the embroidery of his name, noting how striking that shade of red is against his skin. it should be a goddamn sin that even partway beat to shit with his hair tousled and blood drying at the corner of his nose, embry still looks achingly gorgeous. hawk is a man with eyes, after all, and it's not like embry made a career of being bad to look at. there's a wry smirk as he blows smoke out of his mouth, teeth keeping the cigarette perched between his lips.]

Sit back down and stay awhile. Medic is almost here, and they'll get you cleaned up. If the bruising's in bad shape, we'll rearrange the schedule and shoot the apartment fight instead. Set's already halfway built.

Easy peasy.

[no strings. no hidden favors. hawkins fuller isn't like the other men in hollywood, and he's made a name for himself on that. it's the question that has his brows lifting in surprise, not even realizing embry would have noticed or cared. normally he'd have to have teeth pulled for it, but it seems like a peace offering he can give.]

Zebediah. Go on and laugh.

Edited (the worst typo do not perceive) 2024-03-14 11:23 (UTC)

[ there. there it is. the fucking string, buried among all the niceties and easy promises. his trailer is getting moved closer to hawkins fuller. it's phrased in such a way that it sounds like a favor, like safety, like they're doing everything in their power to put embry at ease and make sure this never, ever happens again, but he knows better. he knows he's not being asked. to be forced to stay within the sights of the most powerful man on the lot is nothing but a power move, and embry is fucking caught. ]

Sure. [ he slips an easy shrug, because he's savvy enough to know this isn't a battle he can win — but there are still ways to skew this to his advantage. ] I'd feel better being close to this side of things. To you. Everyone knows you run the show.

[ it's an easy enough compliment because it's not too much. it's just factual. he makes a show of letting the tension drain from his shoulders, perching on the edge of hawk's desk, since if it's apparently good enough for hawk's expensive leather shoes, it's good enough for his ass. ]

Zebediah? [ his brow ticks up, his mouth quirking briefly into the shape of a boyish grin — cut short with the way he makes a show of wincing a little at the way it pulls at his bruise. ] I don't think I need a medic. This isn't any worse than your high school bully getting over on you in gym class. But — you think you can do me a favor and get me back in my trailer before they start moving everything around? I left my phone in there and I think the screen's busted. There's also a present for my mother in there I've been meaning to mail out, since you're giving me the day. Some jewelry and personal things.

[ like his stash of ketamine. ]

[believe it or not - it is supposed to be a good thing, not a punishment. and even if embry doesn't get a choice, it should sink in that being that close to what he's deemed the actual boss on set? it means something. high respect, for one thing. concern for his safety, especially. and because he's an actor and hawk hasn't learned all his nuances yet, he's deceived by the casual shrug and embry actually agreeing with him instead of pitching a fit or digging his heels in like he imagines a teenager being told not to date the high school bad boy might. if anything, he's finding it hard to see where this whole "difficult on set" label came from in the first place - but he supposes it's possible vivienne moore set him straight, or maybe he's trying to turn himself around, or - as is it can be in many cases (never on his own sets, of course) - it's the reputation smear of some schmuck who wanted a personal fantasy in the form of fucking for a part and didn't get it.

of course he's heard rumors. everyone has. but embry's been clean as a whistle thus far, and hawk is not in the business of judging a book by its cover or taking anything more than with a grain of salt until proven otherwise.

so he trusts embry is alright with this arrangement. that he's telling the truth about his simple request. watches the elegant line of his body bend at the waist to carefully sit himself down on the edge of hawk's desk, a hair's breadth away from his oxfords. bold, sure, but he'll let it slide for now. he makes a mighty fine desk ornament, though he's not about to say as much out loud.]

My parents were fairly disappointed I didn't turn out religious.

[hawk offers a teasing smirk, lips pulled up enigmatically and eyes twinkling with the private self-deprecation of the half-truth, pleased to see it made embry smile. but the wince - that doesn't go unnoticed.]

I'm going to have to insist on the medic. It'll be over before you know it - but I'd rather be safe than sorry. Besides, what kind of show would I be running if I didn't take care of my people?

[which embry is now. hawk sucks in another breath, exhaling towards the ceiling.]

Sure. I'll walk you there right after this.

[there's a pause, knowing he could leave it at that, but - ]

What do you get a gift for a woman like Vivienne Moore?

[said with the tone of someone who would imagine she already has everything - the clothes, the jewels, the best reservations in town.]

[ this is good. he doesn't actually want to know hawk the way the girls on set contort themselves to their best angles every time he passes by — luckily, embry has only good angles — but he wants to know the minute details, the tiny little secrets that make up the myth of the man. the more he uncovers, the better chance he has of stumbling upon something he can use to his benefit. it's only a matter of time before hawk fucks him over just like every other suit in this goddamn industry, and embry wants to be ready. vivienne moore would like to think she instilled such a ruthless sense of self-preservation into her only son, but it hadn't been her, but morgan, to teach him the art of being a coldblooded asshole — although his dear stepsister still does it better, only because she knows what it's like to have it just as bad. ]

There's still time to find religion and make your parents proud. I knew a guy —

[ he stops himself, abruptly appalled that he would bring up ash so casually, a sore spot from his past. it's all easily googleable, his brief but intense dalliance with the nobody actor he'd publicly outed along with himself, though he'd been less concerned about his rampant promiscuity than ash's sudden shove into the spotlight. they'd crumbled after that, because embry wouldn't leave a job that was making him miserable. vivienne moore had buried his grief-induced antics after that, which involved enough drugs and alcohol to kill a horse, and morgan asleep at his bedside at the lake house after he had his stomach pumped.

he tucks his ankle beneath his knee, folding the handkerchief into a messy square and shoving it into his front pocket, blood and all. ]

He kept a Bible by his bed. [ he shrugs, flashing another brief smile. ] It saw everything.

[ fuck. he doesn't need hawk walking him to his trailer like he's a dog on a leash, but to protest would look suspicious. he pretends to think about his mother, his gaze flitting around while he actually wracks his brain for a plan to get his drugs out. ]

Trying to woo my manager now? [ he swings between vivienne moore being his manager or his mother depending on the situation, and right now she's a blend of both — especially if hawk is interested. ] She likes Tiffany plates. And knowing her son has safety and privacy, but not as much as Tiffany plates. I got her a mirror from Paris once and she really liked that. Liked it so much I think it's in storage. It might go nice in your office. I got her a tennis bracelet — I can just go run and grab it. I'll be back before the medic gets here. I mean, it's pretty valuable.

[are there things embry could us to his advantage? probably. his health, for starters - though tracking his hidden doctor's appointments doesn't seem particularly advantageous - neither does ratcheting up his stress levels until his blood pressure rockets and takes him out or worst knocks him unconscious. hawk's hidden it well enough that smith doesn't even know, and frankly his mantra thus far has been what doesn't kill him just makes him stronger. dealing with the bullshit in this industry? has made him incredibly strong. there's no sordid history, no tales of affairs or casting couches or being a tyrant on set. hawk is demanding, sure, but within reason - and always for the good of everyone's livelihood. at the end of the day it is a business, which is unfortunately the priority - only because he's not so naive to believe that something as disney-delivered as making magic on the big screen is going to keep a roof over everyone's head, even if it's part of the passion for it.

but hawk also has a knack for seeing those same cracks in everyone else - for finding their weaknesses sometimes before they know it in themselves. it's part of his job, but that's not why he learned how to do it so long ago - it was for his own protection. now it's for everyone else's. so colour him surprised when embry mentions a guy - wondering if it's the same guy (what was his name again? a one hit wonder - ) that blast him as one of the first bisexuals in hollywood in a time when it wasn't exactly transparent. now he's got his pick of men and women, and plenty of fire where there's smoke from the tabloids - though hawk knows plenty of those stories are planted for good pr anyway. embry's? probably not always.

his brows raise in overdone surprise, shaking his head slightly before stubbing out the remnants of his cigarette in the ash tray that's hidden in an open draw on the other side of his desk.]

Everything? Seems kind of risky, depending on what kind of life he lived. Take Tim for example - my PA? He'd probably be fine - about as straight edge as they come, goes to Church every week, the whole nine yards. Good kid.

[kid he says, like it's not just a mere ten years or so between all their ages.]

Me - I don't think my father would ever be proud, even if I had an exorcism.

[not that he sounds upset by the fact, shrugging and tipping up to read his expression. there's still something he can't put his finger on about this whole interaction, this event - he'd expected a tantrum, a threat of quitting, christ, maybe even a call from his mother (manager) by now. he shakes his head though - both at the idea of a mirror in here and embry going on his own.]

I want to see the damage for myself. And - I don't want you walking in there alone. We've had enough surprises for one day, yeah?

[it really is for his safety, and because maybe hawk doesn't fully trust the cops or anyone else to suss out anything awry before he does. he kicks his feet back down, putting both hands on the arm rest and rising while smoothing out his double-breasted jacket and buttoning it in one smooth motion.]

Come on. We'll make it fast before the medic gets here.

Oh, come on. [ embry flashes his best smile, the winning one that makes him look boyish and sincere. he knows he's a good actor, because people actually believe he's made up of more than dissolute lies. embry cycles through men and women in a meaningless merry-go-round, but ash had cut through to the heart of him, which is why he'd wrecked him so badly. he won't make that mistake again. ] You're handsome and successful. You run this whole lot. What's not to be proud of?

[ he slides off the desk, accidentally knocking a pen to the floor, which he swoops down to recover, making sure hawk gets a view of his ass in his fitted costume. maybe not so accidental, but no one has to know that. ]

Well, there's the minor security breach. That's not your finest moment. [ he can't allow hawk to think he's going too easy on him. he leans over the desk to replace the pen where it won't roll away, then goes to the door, walking with hawk back to his trailer. he tries to look natural, but being escorted across the lot by hawkins fuller after an incident is anything but fucking natural, and everyone they pass knows it.

he lets hawk reach the door first, coming up smoothly behind him, his easy expression replaced by a line of worry between his brows, his wide blue eyes clouded with something distant. his mouth tightens. ]

It's bad. [ he catches a whiff of hawk's cologne, the same scent that clings to the bloody cloth stuffed into his pocket, as he balances on the narrow step. ] I panicked.

[ a tidbit of honesty sprinkled into his act. embry might be the wealthy son of a starlet, but his bad decisions began early at school, where he learned how to fight, and only got better as he got older. he's not great by any means — most boys are bigger and more muscled than him — but what he lacks in heft he makes up for in sheer recklessness.

when hawk opens the door they both survey a goddamn mess — a chair broken, the table overturned, a cascade of papers on the floor. his coffee cup is in pieces, brown liquid staining a script. a stack of books lies scattered. his throat tightens at the state of the bed — the sheets tangled and trailing across the floor, a clear start of where the fight began. he'd left that part out, and doesn't want to talk about it now.

he strides inside, opening the tiny closet and reaching up to the top shelf for a little gift box, which he deposits into hawk's hands. ]

It's got diamonds and pearls. Protect it with your life. [ he smiles again, then turns back to the closet, pulling out a navy sweater and pair of worn jeans that just happened to cost nine-hundred dollars once upon a time. ] Hey, if we're not filming today, I'm gonna get out of these clothes.

[ he's already unbuckling his trousers, letting them hang low on his lean hips, but then halfway through trying to peel himself out of the vest atop his shirt, he realizes they have it pinned to him from the inside. sheepishly, he returns to hawk. ]

Can you help me?

Edited 2024-03-17 02:29 (UTC)

[it takes a hell of an actor to dupe hawkins fuller. or maybe subconsciously he's no better than any of the other directors out there - wanting to give the benefit of the doubt to pretty baby blues and an all-American star that's fallen from grace. so maybe he likes embry, or at least what he knows of him so far, and that's clouding his judgment. but is it really clouded if he's giving him an opportunity to prove himself rather than shoving him in the neat boxes vivienne moore wants presented to the world or the picture paparazzi have spent years tearing apart. so maybe there's a slight warmth at embry's smile, the good-natured incline of his head whether in mild agreement or self-deprecation to be determined. but it makes him think for once maybe everyone was wrong about this kid after all, and that it might not be a cakewalk, but it's not going to be the nightmare everyone's been holding their breath over.

maybe it's a good thing hawk is utterly distracted by another ping on his phone from tim the exact moment embry decides to bend over, brows knitting together as he tells him to push back from their oh-so friendly, nosy visitor from tmz who's kept the office phone ringing off the hook. when he glances back up embry has set the pen back on his desk, which means he's not a klepto and earns a brusque nod of thanks as he closes the door behind them with a note to his secretary that he'll be back in ten. the lot is quiet with the kind of tension that only comes from a proverbial bomb being dropped and no one wanting to pull its final trigger, so he's spared the greetings and sycophants chiming in as he walks past like a goddamn character from a disney movie on their daily jaunt through town.

it's a longer walk than it should have been to begin with, maybe, and suddenly he's starting to feel a whole lot more responsible as he steps inside and surveys the absolute shitshow in front of him. christ, this is bad. hawk steps aside to let embry in, closing the door behind them from any looky-loos and to preserve some of embry's privacy more than it's already been shredded to pieces today. the signs of struggle, the broken glass - and yeah, the bed that's completely decimated. embry must have been asleep, or laying there at the very least, and it makes his stomach flip with even more guilt at how jarring and utterly invasive that must have felt to wake up to a stranger in or standing over his bed. his jaw flickers, shoulders tense as he kneels down and notes wet bootprints that are clear and concise on the way towards the bed, slid and smeared from the hasty escape back towards the door.

hawk stands back up, hands on his hips for a moment before he reaches up to pinch the bridge of his nose and try to stave off a wave of dizziness that he feels creeping on him from the sudden shift in balance.]

Look - this never should have happened. Someone's head is going on the chopping block, I can promise you that. Are you...did they say anything to you? Did they do anything to you?

[he turns back, eyes steeled with determination to piece this all together even as he gently takes the tiny box that probably costs more than the marketing budget for a single production. embry's fingers are warm, brushing against his for a moment as he cradles it like precious cargo. which it basically is. he cracks the box slightly to look at the contents, brows raising in confirmation that yes, it's diamonds and pearls. not his taste - and frankly, he's wondering if it's vivienne moore's too - but keeps his expression neutral and mildly impressed.

but it sinks in when embry starts undressing immediately that this might have backfired and been a terrible fucking idea. maybe all his good faith was wrong and this has been a trap to get him in close quarters and point fingers - a he said, he said, sort of situation, as it were.]

Hands are a little full now.

[he lifts the box with a sheepish little shrug, keeping his face fixed solely on embry's face and not the cut v of his hips and slim waist. but it seems rude to leave him hanging and wait for someone else, so hawk carefully sets down the box and steps behind him to make quick work of the pins, hands staying exactly there without any other contact. he picks up the box again with a nod, stepping towards the door again.]

I'll wait outside with this. You need your privacy.

Besides this? [ embry gestures to the bruising along his cheekbone, and raises his brow in lieu of responding to the rest of hawk's inquiry, ignoring it the best he can. ] I'm okay.

[ trying to get a read on hawkins fuller is like trying to read his fortune in the goddamn clouds. embry has made his living on deconstructing motivation, emotion, character, but if he put hawk in a script, he'd be fucked. or — he just needs more time. more time watching him, talking to him, observing all his ticks and movements, like the brief flash of unsteadiness he spies that embry chalks up to the grisly state of his trailer, or the way he transforms into all business the second embry asks for help undressing.

he wants to know more, and he tells himself it's not because of any other reason but to stay on top. because hawk can't fuck him if embry fucks him first. ]

Sure. I'll just be a minute.

[ and with the image of hawk's perfectly shaped ass disappearing behind a closed door, his victory is secured. embry leans over, peering through a crack in the blinds to see hawk descending the steps, his fingers swiping across his phone while his other hand carefully cradles the box. the timing couldn't be better.

he dives back into his closet, opening up the vanity drawer affixed to the wall and goes through his collection of watches, opening up boxes until he finds the one that morgan gifted him exactly seven birthdays ago, the one with the broken face that he keeps out of sheer sentiment. stashed beneath the velvety flap is a baggie of ketamine, which he takes a generous snort of before wiping off the vanity, hurriedly changing his clothes, and then stuffing the bag into the pocket of his jeans. the high hits him within minutes, his tension chased away by airy lightness, his muscles relaxing, the tightness in his brows easing.

he leaves his dirtied costume on the rumpled bed, but pauses to retrieve hawk's handkerchief, briefly lifting it to his nose for a deep inhale, blood and all. the metallic scent mingles with hawk's cologne, and he's suddenly annoyed that he'd gotten his way, because in another scenario hawk would have undressed him and something else might have happened.

maybe that's just the ket talking. embry opens the door, grabbing a pair of sunglasses to drop over his eyes as he descends the steps, bouncing up beside hawk and waving his phone. ]

Vivienne wants me checked out by her doctors. [ he shrugs, reaching out to slip the box from hawk's hand to his, though he handles it much less carefully than hawk had been. ] She Facetimed me inside and saw my face. I told her it's not a big deal but she's not happy. I'll see you later, okay? Car's waiting for me.

[hawk knows deflection when he sees it. which could mean nothing, or it could mean everything - like embry not wanting to make a stink and keep his good impression, not wanting to open up because he doesn't trust this lot and doesn't trust hawk - both of which mean something did happen. to what extent, he's not sure. the costume itself seems fine besides the few spatters of blood, most of which he thinks might not even be embry's. once the cops get here he'll personally see to it that it gets bagged up as evidence, even if he's probably broken a rule by letting embry get out of it. or - it could mean nothing at all, that embry is telling the truth, but even hawk isn't stupid enough to think it's that simple.

at least he lets him leave without a fuss, and spares them both the embarrassment of trying anything. would it be embarrassment, though? it's not that unreasonable that someone as attractive as embry who is, by the very definition, a sex symbol in his day and age - would be comfortable enough with his body to drop to his skivvies on a regular basis and think nothing of it. maybe hawk shouldn't flatter himself and assume anything untoward would have happened. and if it did - professionalism aside, would he be that bothered by the idea of it? god knows he has a type, and embry fits it to a t. but this is all business, and hawk never mixes it with pleasure. the medic is waiting in the lobby of his office, and hawk lets tim know they'll just be a few more minutes until they're back.

there's a sudden motion from the corner of his eye that catches his attention - the blinds moving, and before he realizes what it is, hawk steps in closer and glances up through the gap that's fallen askew from where they'd been partly bent in the earlier scuffle. for a minute he's not sure his eyes are seeing this correctly: embry, fully dressed again, holding something small to his nose and inhaling. or blowing his nose, maybe? jesus fucking christ, what is he supposed to make of that?

drugs are the last thing on his mind. frankly, so is the tiffany box as he turns his back and pulls out a pair of aviators himself to keep the beating la sun out of his eyes until the trailer door bangs open and embry practically catapults down the stairs with an odd enthusiasm. this doesn't seem like a man who just got assaulted - if anything he seems downright chipper, banged up, bloodied and all. embry can't see the way hawk's eyes narrow behind his glasses in consideration, nor can they see the way they drop for a minute to the way those jeans hug his thighs so nicely - which is better for them both.

because now he has caught him in a lie. two, if he's good - and hawk is never anything else. there's a flat smile that drags across his lips: the kind reserved for corporate assholes and the bankers that come by shaking their ledgers at smith when pictures don't exceed their production costs to the right percentage.

why is he trying to get out of something this simple?]

Doesn't matter how nice they truss them up inside - those walls are pretty thin. Awfully fast and quiet for a conversation with Mommy dearest, isn't it?

[yes, mom - not vivienne, not his manager. hawk takes a step closer, nudging down his glasses enough to look at embry over the rim of his glasses with something stern - a warning not to fuck with him and protocol right now.]

And speaking of fast, traffic around here is a goddamn nightmare. So unless you called your car telepathically while you were sitting in my office...

[hawk shrugs, not making an outright accusation.]

Give them ten minutes to look you over and patch you up, Embry.

I'm asking nicely - for both our sakes.

[for peace of mind, for safety, for guilt. do it for me, he almost wants to tack on after what he thinks he's seen in there, but instead he pushes up his glasses again and gestures back towards the direction of his office.]

[ hawk's eyes are an ocean right now, sparkling bright in the wash of the late afternoon sun. if everything he was saying wasn't so goddamn irritating, embry would be asking him along for the ride to some overpriced cafe that serves all day mimosas so he can decompress from the day's bullshit. ]

No. [ he ignores the blatant accusation that he's lying about talking to his mother. he is. but vivienne taught him how to lie, and one text or even a single word over the phone would be enough to get her on board with his story. ] No, I'm not seeing your medic, because I don't trust whoever you have waiting in your office, just like I don't trust your security, just like I don't trust anyone on your goddamn lot. I don't want to be poked around at anymore than I already have been today, and I don't want to answer anymore fucking questions.

[ there, it's out. the ketamine thins his filter, but he thinks he has a pretty good leg to stand on here after what he just went through, and he's not going to roll over just because hawk has sparkly ocean eyes and hands that look like they could press bruises into his skin — artfully, of course. ]

You can look me over. [ he pushes his sunglasses into his hair, tilting his bruised cheekbone into the yellow sunlight. ] He hit me right here, with his knuckles. It hurt, and I'm gonna have a black eye tomorrow.

[ the sticky taste of repulsion catches in his throat as he lifts the hem of his sweater, revealing several inches of his lean, muscled abs, his body built with all the elegance of a greek statue. ]

He was touching me here — [ he runs the back of his fingers along his ribs. ] When I woke up. He had all his clothes on, but I didn't.

[ he could say more. how it'd terrified him, how he wanted to quit the movie then and there just so he could tear out of the lot and never look back. he doesn't want that now — he wants this role and this movie more than anything, more than even his goddamn self-respect which was lost exactly today when someone broke into his trailer and now he's standing here high again, but there's an argument to be made that it was lost way before now. maybe he never had any to begin with.

he looks at hawk, trying to gauge his reaction. after a moment — ]

Am I off the movie if I don't see your medic? [ he asks this more calmly, his anger burning away with the waning sunlight. he's just tired now, and belatedly realizing he's stepped over a line without a way to backpedal. a spark of resentment flares up in his gaze before he lowers his glasses down again. ] If it's that or firing me, I'll just close my eyes and do it.

[there's a flip of a switch, in a way - watching embry go from cheery and ready to waltz off the lot like he's an elementary school teacher getting an unexpected snow day to walls up and digging his heels in about this. it seems like a simple enough request - get the black eye checked out, make sure he doesn't have a concussion or worse, and take some time away from the invasive trauma of having his sacred albeit temporary space invaded. but then embry keeps talking, and hawk starts feeling more and more the severity and guilt of what's transpired here today. he's right, and he's got no reason to trust any of them at this point - regardless of how decent an experience hawk has been trying to make this for him. anyone would be fucking scared and violated by waking up to someone in their trailer and getting socked in the face. which is all embry's copped to, up until he spills the rest of it.

jesus. yeah, it's a lot worse than he thought as he whips off and pockets his own sunglasses, folding his arms across his chest to give embry his full attention. not that it didn't sound like an offer dripping in mild sarcasm - but the it's the least he can do, and he needs to know how bad this really got from his earlier hesitations. his eyes take in the cheekbone, visibly mottled skin peeking through the concealer and heavy foundation that's been dabbed on for the shoot. that's already a goddamn travesty - not that anyone deserves to get suckerpunched, but especially not one with immaculate bone structure that looks carved by the hands of god and relies on it for a moneymaker.

but it's the next part hawk swallows hard at, reluctantly letting his gaze dip down to the even more breathtaking view of sculpted abdomen and lithe figure in front of him. it's not like he hasn't seen it in passing - knowing it's not movie magic when embry's on screen in his past films looking quite that enticing. but seeing it up close and in this context makes his gaze shoot back up, filled with genuine concern and doing his best to keep pity out of it, thinking that might irritate him further. there's no other lines he needs to read between or guess at - though frankly, he wonders if embry would have told him had anything worse happened, god forbid.

against his better judgment, hawk reaches to pull the hem of his sweater back down with a nod of understanding.]

You've got every reason not to trust any of us right now. I get that. Nothing's gonna fix the feeling of waking up like that - so I'll spare you another apology.

But you have my word: I'm going to make this right, Embry. I'm going to get to the bottom of it, and I'm going to make sure whoever did this gets their ass tossed where the sun doesn't shine.

I'm going to try and earn your trust, if you'll let me.

[he tips his head down, expression softening mildly as he watches all the fight seemingly deflate out of his lead. yeah, he's got to be exhausted.]

You're not off the movie. I'm not firing my star.

[i need you, almost slips out from his lips - but he can't bring himself to say it somehow, wondering if it would even mean anything. but his voice lowers again, something that's meant to reassure.]

I'm not making you do anything you don't want to do around here. Take the day - get some rest. I'll call you when we're back on track, okay?

[before he can think better of it, he puts a hand on embry's shoulder, squeezing briefly in passing. and then he straightens up, stepping away and back to business as he puts his sunglasses on again with another easy flick of his wrist. and while he's here, might as well - he fishes out another cigarette, cupping a hand to light it before exhaling off to the side.]

Were you lying about the car? You can borrow my driver for the afternoon if you want to get out of here sooner. He's not very talkative, and I'm pretty sure he's a black belt in something.

[it's a light tease, and hawk lifts his brows with an easy shrug. but the offer's sincere.]

[ it's bad when hawk drags off his sunglasses, because then embry can see the ocean's depth of his eyes again, and it's the fucking drugs making them look so goddamn appealing, he knows it, but he can't stop staring. he feels raw and needy after what happened, and hawk is, ironically, the only person he maybe halfway trusts around here despite his every protest — only because it would be best to stay on his good side. hawk is the most powerful man here, and power is everything. power is protection.

all of his words seem meaningless, empty promises he's heard before as long as embry remains useful, until i'm not firing my star. that makes something stir deep within the brittle confines of his heart. his fingers tremble where they still clutch the edges of his sweater, and he shoves them into his pockets before hawk notices. ]

I want to go back to filming. [ it's an earnest request, the empty hours of the evening looming before him like a cavernous black hole. he could do anything. he could — and will — burn through the entire baggie in his pocket, and wash it down with some trashy bar's top shelf gin. the sooner hawk calls him, the better. ] The movie's important to me.

[ it's all he has right now. a shot at redemption, at resuscitating his career even if his reputation as a man might be tarnished for good. he can't blow this. ]

It's okay. But thanks. [ the offer sends him back to reality. hawk sending his driver with him would just be a way to keep tabs on him, to report his every move and where he spends his time. embry should just go home, but the thought of facing his empty condo feels like a death sentence. ] Just make sure you call me.

[there's a certain linger of desperation that embry does well at pushing down - but it haunts hawk later that night in bed as he stares at his ceiling with a cigarette between his fingers, replaying the events of the day. the cops have been called, szep has been sicced on whatever meager evidence they have from security footage and firsthand guard accounts, and tmz has been sated with the knowledge that a minor altercation occurred on set from an unwanted visitor - with production set to resume in one day's time. hawk can't help finding himself wondering in between supervising the trailer relocation and spruce up what embry is getting up to in his day off - if he's actually enjoying it when he'd been so insistent on getting a call and getting back to work. did he give his mother the bracelet? probably not with a black eye.

so hawk calls, and the show must go on.

and it does, for the most part, without much more than minor incident like disagreements over set dressing and costume alterations, a few rewrites and rescheduling the shoot order while embry's black eye heals. the pr machine starts back up again - burgeoning with excitement and actually managing to start driving up significant interest in their little project that could. it's going well - maybe even too well, and hawk's not superstitious, but that usually means the calm before a fucking storm, which he curses himself for thinking about the second it enters his brain. but that's the way it works, and inevitably something is sure to elevate his blood pressure and have him locking the office door to quell the erratic beat of his overworked heart.

it comes eventually in the form of a pretty blonde head, one greer galloway waiting prim in his lobby with a signed contract that has vivienne moore's swooping curl of a signature and has signed away the rest of embry's free time around the city of angels and beyond. she's a polite thing, greer - honestly if she wasn't already signed to one of the best agencies in the country and contracted to warner brother's, he'd figure out a way to snag her himself. frankly she's the perfect sort of rehabilitation for embry's struggling image - a good girl, elegant, well-liked, on the rise. and she needs the edge of a bad boy for her upcoming femme fatale role, so it's practically a match made in heaven. hawk knows there's no business like show business - that hollywood is littered with sham marriages and showmances a dime a dozen.

which is why it's surprising that he feels a twist in his gut watching it all unravel, wondering if embry even got a fucking say in the matter. who is he kidding - they'll probably wind up married or at least actually falling into bed given the spark of interest in embry's eyes and the chemistry he sees immediately heat between them, not an ounce of awkward hellos or polite how-do-you-dos right in front of his fucking eyes. it's probably better for him to settle down and have something to focus on the side that isn't drugs and partying and the temptations that come with the cesspool of this industry hidden among bright lights and unfairly attractive faces.

so that should be good, right?

that's what he keeps telling himself as he scrolls past headline after photoshoot after splash page - people, ok!, just jared, us weekly, deuxmoi - an obscene shopping spree on rodeo drive with embry carrying bag after bag from david yurman, chanel, burberry, hermès, prada, miu miu, jimmy choo and a giggling greer, a night at the la opera in full formal splendor, a weekend getaway to the private beaches in malibu, conveniently taken by drone. it's a fucking whirlwind romance for the ages - the modern day bogart and bacall. people are obsessed, and the phone is ringing off the hook for comments and set exclusives. if it's working half as well as it is for embry as it is for greer - then they've got this whole thing in the bag.

it also means a lot less of embry in his office, which may as well be his home away from home over his trailer these days. hawk is not one to let anyone in without an appointment, but it's hard to say no to his boyishly handsome face and it's not like the conversation is bad while he's poring over budgets and paperwork. he's like a stray cat in the way he takes it like confirmation he can come back and keep doing it - which is why it's a noticeable absence the moment it starts petering out in favor of this circus.

there's gold bleeding into rich orange and pink streaming through his open window - like a paintbrush dragged across the sky as he nudges his office door open with a shoulder and hauls in his briefcase and the takeout he'd picked up to go over a few scripts due later in the week. what he's not expecting is to see feet kicked up on his desk, someone already occupying his chair.

he can't help the amusement that seeps into his voice, the twinkle in his eyes sparkling from the dim light of a breathtaking la sunset.]

Don't tell me your driver got lost on the way to Beverly Hills.

[he tosses his keys onto the desk unceremoniously, setting down a bag from chi spacca in the middle and his leather briefcase in one of the chairs opposite that embry should be warming with his extremely nice ass. or really - shouldn't.]

Aren't you supposed to be opening the door to a Ferrari and escorting Greer into Mr. Chow's right about now?

Edited (oop i typo'd) 2024-03-23 01:28 (UTC)

[ the thing about greer is — she's nice. no, she's great. she's beautiful and smart, she's funny in a raunchy way behind closed doors, and she's the perfect partner to run lines with. she plays the game with devastating accuracy, something embry used to know how to do before the game got the best of him. and he feels, maybe, that their showmance has a spark of something real, something that helps ease the sting of his own loneliness, and when he seeks out her lips when no cameras are there to catch the show, she's kind in telling him that she cares for him as a friend, but it's all pretend — and embry smiles and reminds himself that everything in this industry is fake, including his life and everything he's doing. to greer. to hawk. to himself.

like clockwork, his phone starts buzzing again. right at the start of his contract with greer, he'd paid off his stalker and hadn't thought anything more of it, because he'd been too busy high out of his mind to string together a coherent thought. money isn't hard for him. if his movies aren't earning out — which they haven't been — he has a cushy fund from vivienne moore to rely on. but for the past couple of days, he's been getting texts again, this time asking about the lot, and specifically, the lot's golden boy. smith's name might be on the company, but hawkins fuller runs the place — everyone knows that. even the asshole that owns embry's sex tape.

his publicity with greer is going well, so he cancels on her last minute, which is sure to put a bad taste in her mouth, and returns to hawk's office after a long absence. ever since his trailer has been moved across the lot, he's had easy access to the man himself and has learned quite a lot about his habits. like how he prefers scotch. how he has multiple handkerchiefs, not just the one that embry has yet to return. how he never, ever stops working, and that the couch in his office is so comfortable because hawk probably naps there during his endlessly long days. embry has napped there too, because despite being assured again and again of the security of his trailer, sometimes he just can't sleep knowing the door could be shimmied open with just the right amount of force.

speaking of shimmying — he's already tried most of the drawers on hawk's desk, and fuck him for being so goddamn thorough. they're all locked, except for one that has nothing but neat containers of organized snacks, a large amount of which happens to be embry's favorites. he's always half-starved while he's filming, keeping to a strict diet to maintain his lean figure, but he's already polished off a bag of sugar cookies, licking crumbs from his fingers as hawk comes in. the room immediately feels warmer, the fading sun clinging to hawk like a photograph. ]

You know Greer has a boyfriend? [ he has one of hawk's liquor bottles open on the desk, his glass with barely a splash remaining in it. snooping has been fruitless today, so he tries a more honest tack. ] He wants to have a baby with her. Now they can spend the whole night trying. Not really though, since she has a movie to film, but at least they can fuck without interruption.

I'd say make yourself at home, but I'm a little late on that front.

[how long have you been in here, he thinks to himself, followed by were you waiting for me? but neither of them are what he actually asks, instead deciding he can probably piece this together. maybe embry did fall for her, and now he's found out she's got her own secrets too, though he can't imagine the downright angelic face of greer's to be tarnished and cruel in turning anyone down. or maybe it's just the way of hollywood wearing on him the way it sometimes bores down heavy on hawk's shoulders. he might be the lot's golden boy, but it took blood sweat, and even some tears to get here. not all of them were his own, and there's a few things he hasn't been proud of - but hawk likes to think he has a decent moral code and mostly errs on the right side of the way things ought to be. there's a difference between casting couches and negotiating better and undercutting the competition - for instance.

speaking of couches: it hasn't passed his notice that the one over in the corner is looking a lot more used these days - and hawk's been too goddamn busy to be the one leaving extra indents and taking a few minutes to himself, so that just leaves one other person with an open door extended. it was the least he could do after something that traumatizing happened, and it was the whole reason for moving his trailer out this way in the first place. it makes hawk feel a little bit more reassured that embry does - or at least did, until greer came along - consider this something like a safe space. his mind doesn't immediately jump to the contracts he's got stuffed neatly in his desk, or the stacks of top secret scripts and notes and rewrites and finance reports behind lock and key. the snacks though - that had been on purpose. seemed rude not to have some kind of refreshment to offer to his number one guest, and since booze was off the table during working hours...

but it isn't now, and he doesn't find himself particularly cross at embry helping himself to either of the empty items sitting on his desk. hawk steps around to the bar cart, picking up another tumbler and snagging the already open bottle and pouring his own glass before tipping it into embry's and giving him a refill. seems awfully rude not to let him sit pretty and indulge in his chosen spot, so hawk steps back around the antique cherrywood and lets himself spill unceremoniously into one of the other seats with a hum, not used to the view from here.]

Greer's not on my payroll.

[not that he doesn't know things beyond contracts and box office numbers - but that's neither here nor there. he didn't know about the boyfriend, but it's hard not to wonder if it came up during an attempted pass. he pulls the bag of his dinner over, sifting through to grab a for and the container with his new york strip, potatoes, and green beans.]

That's real generous of you. But you know, kids are goddamn expensive. The stuff on screen isn't always what brings in the masses - it's the headlines. Of which you two are generating quite a lot.

[there's nothing judgmental about it in his tone, just observational. he shrugs before reaching for his cutlery and taking a bite of his meal.]

She's a nice girl. Are you disappointed about this turn of events, or to what do I owe the pleasure?

[ embry has always been a little pathetic about homes, in that he makes them around people instead of places. his condo is as impersonal as it can possibly be for having an actual person living in it, and vivienne moore's lake house is just that — vivienne moore's. it's not embry's, even though he'll probably inherit at least part of it alongside morgan. he can find peace there when his mother isn't around, even if he's still woefully attached to her, but when it comes to where he considers truly home — there isn't anywhere. morgan's place, sometimes, when she isn't being a reptilian bitch. there was ash for a while, and an achingly sweet dream of a countryside cabin. now, he's substituted hawk's office for the empty space in his life, returning to it after a brief bout of insanity where he thought greer might've been the place for him instead.

headlines. yeah. embry reads the news about himself despite his best efforts not to, but it's a bad habit once he's reached his fifth glass of gin. ]

Just performing for my two demanding bosses. Mother dearest, and you. [ he doesn't like the sudden look that hawk is giving him, like he's reading him like the pages of a flimsy book — a trashy beach read that he'll discard before he reaches the end. ] Hope the show's kept you entertained.

[ he expected such a contract from his mother, but it'd stung when hawk cosigned it the same day it'd crossed his desk, delivered by greer herself so hawk could have a good look at her. it's just business is what he keeps reminding himself, especially each time he goes rooting through hawk's belongings or lingers overlong just to catch a glimpse of the moment hawk slides the sheaf of papers from his briefcase to get to work. he has a few unreleased script names, but doesn't know if they'll be enough, and keeps dragging his feet on sending anything concrete to his asshole of a stalker.

with his glass refilled, he lowers his feet from hawk's desk and stands, snagging his glass to come around to the familiar couch. it's closer to the armchair hawk currently occupies, and embry drops down onto the soft leather cushions, settling on his stomach and making a show of stretching his spine. ]

Do I need a reason to come see you now? You never asked before. [ he props his forearms on the armrest, leaning over slightly to watch hawk eat. his eyes fall onto the steak, then back up. ] Are you gonna tell Vivienne that I ditched Greer for a night? She doesn't like when I have free time. She doesn't trust my idle hands.

[well, they have something in common. hawk doesn't like the insinuation he's been demanding - that he's cut from the same cloth as a shark like vivienne moore. don't get him wrong - he's got nothing but respect for the woman, but it's lessened by the fact that she's probably a fucking nightmare of a momager, and she'd thrust both her kids into the spotlight at a young age. there's a reason people turn to drugs and booze and fast cars and warming the beds of one after the other - and it isn't usually because of a stable upbringing or real happiness at their lot in life. he'd fucking hated having to sign that contract. vivienne didn't deliver it in person, of course, but her neat swirl of cursive was there as sharp as if the ink had barely dried, and frankly - hawk didn't have a good enough excuse looking at greer and her track record to veto it.

does embry resent him for that?]

I'm not the kind of person to push for showmances. They're a tool like any other, but that's all they should be when they're organized by someone worth their salt for a star who agrees to it.

[there shouldn't be a power imbalance, they shouldn't be shoved unceremoniously on someone that doesn't want to do it - no matter how good it might uplift an image or paint a desired picture. it feels like one step above escorting.]

So if you don't agree, you should tell me these things.

[hawk doesn't look at him when he says it, not wanting to make him feel like he's being treated like a child that can't make his own decisions or like he's fucked up. it's just - a peace offering, he supposes. reassurance that embry is always gonna be his top priority, for better or for worse.

but finally he watches him retreat from the desk, shifting over to the couch and sprawling out like he owns the damn thing, catlike in the way he arches his back. when hawk swallows his next bite, it's not just the steak he feels like he's got to wash down his throat - there's a sudden dryness at how exceedingly enticing that looks. sometimes he wonders if embry is unaware of the effect he has on regular mortals in the world - if he remembers his stunning good looks can leave the less practiced speechless. hawk catches the line of his sight, spearing another bite of steak onto his fork and tipping his head to the side before extending his hand and offering it to embry, wondering if he's still hungry or if he's on some stupid vegan diet until the next shirtless scene gets filmed.]

You don't. But this isn't exactly regular hours.

[nothing in his voice seems bothered or complaining about this fact, however. but he balks a little at the last bit, face scrunching into incredulity as his shoulders twist and he turns to give embry an appraising look.]

Do I look like the kind of man to call Vivienne Moore for a Friday night chat about her son's social life? I'm not a tattle-tale.

Relax - take a load off. You've been a busy man, and I haven't seen any reason to worry about idle hands from you.

[little does he know.]

There's no agreeing when it comes to Vivienne Moore. There's just doing. [ he scoffs, tossing back a lazy swallow before dangling his glass in the empty space between the couch and hawk's chair. ] But if I can have a career as long as hers, then I'm mostly okay with just doing.

[ he knows, intimately, how easy it is to fall out of favor with the masses, to be forgotten for the next pretty face. it's not as easy as just running to hawk and telling him he doesn't want to, but he likes the thought that it could be. that hawk could shield him from all the bad coming his way. sometimes he lies awake and wonders what might happen if he just told hawk what was happening, what was hanging over his head, but then the sun slowly creeps into the sky and he comes to his senses. he'd be let go so fast he wouldn't even have time to process it. no one wants that kind of scandal tainting their movie. it's not just a sex tape, after all.

it's a lot easier to perk up and stretch out for the offering of steak on the tip of hawk's fork. he forgets he's supposed to make everything a seduction, a sound of pure contentment rumbling from his throat as he licks his lips and swallows. ]

You don't have to tell. [ a rueful smile, then he's off the couch to go refill his glass. ] She keeps tabs on me. On everything. She's sort of like you. This is probably the only place on your lot that she can't see. But don't worry, she only cares about your business as long as it benefits me.

[ he returns with a replenished drink, but this time approaches the chair, lingering for a moment before sinking down to his knees on the expensive rug as if it's the most natural thing in the world to sit at hawk's feet. he leans his shoulder into the chair, resting his cheek lightly against hawk's knee. ]

I like hanging out with Greer. Mostly. [ when there aren't cameras in his face, when they aren't performing like dancing monkeys at restaurants and clubs and luxury shops. ] But I like being in here with you more. It's a break from the noise. You're calm. Like nothing ever touches you. Feels like nothing can touch me in here, either.

A long, prosperous career like hers is certainly something to strive for. "Mostly okay" leaves an awful lot of wiggle room.

[he shouldn't even bother opening the door to this, it's not like he should care that much, but part of hawk wouldn't mind knowing what fills up the rest of that space. "mostly okay" isn't a ringing endorsement. sometimes he wonders - for all the scandals, the dog and pony show, the circus of fans and the fair-weather faltering of mass appeal...do actors even enjoy it the longer it goes on? he can't blame the men and women that have ultimately faded from the spotlight into lives of mediocrity, even rarer still to work their way behind the camera instead. embry's got the kind of good looks and charm that could launch a thousand franchises, but is that really how he wants to spend the rest of his life?]

So what gets you all the way to "thrilled"? Gotta be more to life - and showbusiness - than "mostly okay". Not to sound like a philosophical prick, but humor me.

[it's not easy for hawk to watch the way embry's mouth falls open briefly, lips wrapping around the steak like it could be something else. humming pleased around it, poised between catlike and utterly tempting even as he doesn't think he's doing anything part of the usual routine. it'd work on hawk - if it was aimed that way. if embry wasn't his employee, just some nameless pretty face in a bar well outside hollywood where people hated the spotlight and wouldn't have a fucking clue who hawkins fuller is. his gaze tears away and back to his food as he cuts off another piece and gets back to focusing on his meal, not bothering to watch as he helps himself to more scotch. he's not really thinking anything on it - about to assure embry that he's not at all in cahoots with his mother and that this can be his own personal hideout -

when everything goes still, hawk tensing immediately at the implication of embry sitting by his feet, leaning against his knee in a way that makes him want to reach down and feed him some more with his fingers or brush fingers through the effortless waves of thick, shiny chestnut hair. it's the second time some compromising position has manifested itself while he's utterly alone with embry, and it should sound the alarms for him to abruptly get up and extricate himself before this becomes a real problem. is it a set-up? or - is he just really that genuine about appreciating hawk's presence?

christ.

there's no answer right away, but hawk opts to do none of the above, instead keeping very still even as he takes another sip of his drink and bite of his food to act as if nothing at all is amiss. like there's not a flood of warmth that's decidedly not related to the alcohol down his throat when embry says he likes being here more than he does having the perfect girlfriend at his side, real boyfriend aside.]

Yeah?

[it should worry him on some level - to read between the lines and consider maybe there's more to things that can't touch embry besides the realities of fickle fans and tabloids and how much money he can pull in to prove his worth. maybe it's not just about the usual pressures.]

Well, you're welcome in here any time. You make better company than most - and I don't say that lightly.

[there's a few bites of his meal left, but he finds himself no longer hungry and uncertain if he should offer them now. instead - he produces a cigarette from the box tucked in his breast pocket, slipping it between his lips and lighting it with practiced ease.]

But you should know - I do what I can to take care of my people. That means you. I made you promises to get you here, and I intend to keep them.

[keep you, is just on the tip of his tongue, carelessly.]

[ when was the last time he even felt that way? thrilled? when did he last feel that sense of purpose, the fulfillment he craves from digging deep into a job and emerging with a shine of pride? that shitty war movie, maybe, which is a joke because it'd been a box office bomb — but embry had gotten a tiny buzz of critical acclaim for the honesty of his portrayal despite the poor reception. he'd liked his character and felt drawn to the story. the problem was that no one else had watched or cared.

but hawk had. his mother told him that it was that movie in particular that made him approach her about him.

he's quiet, unsure how to answer the question when the truth suddenly feels so depressing. so goddamn pathetic. why does he jump through these hoops? it's all he knows now, and a part of him loves it. a part of him craves the spotlight, the attention, the head rush of baring himself more intimately than stripping naked, and then the agony of waiting to see where the chips fall — if he's good enough, or if he's just another pretty face made up of broken, jagged parts on the inside. maybe he just likes to hurt. if he didn't, he would've left with ash and fallen into a safe, comfortable life with a man who would make sure he'd never hurt again.

guilt flickers in his chest as it pulls uncomfortably tight, his eyes turning up to find hawk's gaze in the low, yellowed lights. i do what i can to take care of my people. that means you. hawk has been nearly always good to him, and embry is lying through his teeth, even if what he feels right now is genuine quiet, peace, safety. he isn't lying when he says he likes being in this room with him.

he shuffles away the brooding look that threatens to overtake his features, instead rising up onto his knees as the warm smell of smoke curls into the air. ]

Can I have one of those?

[ he doesn't wait for an answer. the cigarettes are easy to pluck from hawk's shirt pocket, sliding one out and clamping it between his lips. then he plants his hands on hawk's thighs, stretching up, his dark lashes halfway lowered as he lifts his chin so the tip of his unlit cigarette can touch the burning end of hawk's.

he's frozen there as he waits for the flame to take, his fingers moving just slightly where they rest. through the fabric of hawk's trousers, he can feel his muscled thigh, can imagine the lean, corded look of him if he were to be lucky enough to get his clothes off. smoke curls above their joined cigarettes, and embry takes a slow drag, watching his flare to life as warmth fills his mouth.

he moves back only an inch, smoke escaping his lips as they curve into a half smile. ]

Being loved. [ worshiped, admired, adored. all better words he should have chosen. ] When my name rolls across the credits, I want people to want to know me. To want to love me. That's what gets me thrilled.

[ it's the superficial kind of love, the kind of obsession where you never really know anyone. maybe that's part of the appeal. he knows what real love can do, and he doesn't want to be destroyed again.

his thumb moves casually enough that he can classify it as an honest mistake, a single stroke down the inside of hawk's thigh. ]

That's what I want you to do for me, Mr. Fuller. Make the world love me.

[there's something decidedly tortured about the way embry digests the question - maybe it's just the angle of him sitting at hawk's feet, but something about the slant of his brow, the slight pull at plush lips makes him think that it isn't an easy question for him. he supposes it wasn't really meant to be, because even if hawk came here with an appreciation for the lurid world he now knows hollywood out to be - he's been lucky and smart enough to avoid the things that could crush a weaker man or woman's spirit out the gate. some of them don't even get the chance to be knocked out in a one-two punch, instead slowly suffering the agonizing squeeze of something dirty chipping away their soul one movie, an interview or a facade at a time. no wonder so many of them turn to drugs and sex and die young - a fate he maybe selfishly thinks he's helping embry to avoid by turning a new leaf. he'd caught a glimpse of it in the box office bomb, and it's the whole reason he's sitting here at all.

he should really stop embry when he feels fingers so close to his heart, fishing around for a cigarette before his palms fall warm against his thighs with a possessiveness he wonders if he might be imagining. hawk should stop it, create some distance and nudge him back with the wave of his lighter and open flame to dissuade him from tipping up with his lips curled around one of his smokes that tantalizingly and pressing them tip to tip. instead, he dips his head down, gaze heavy on embry as he sucks hard and watches the tip ignite in a bright orange that could compete with the raze of warmth bleeding through his windows. he puffs out through his nose, sucking it once more until it takes before hawk is pulling back.

it's not exactly a deterrent as one hand lifts to his own cigarette, back connecting with the chair and just about splaying him out more comfortably - an unspoken acceptance of this current arrangement, hedged with a warning in the exhale he blows directly at embry. you're welcome. you can stay, just don't try anything else.]

Thought this sort of thing offended delicate LA sensibilities and all that health mumbo jumbo. Tim would have these confiscated on the spot if he knew. Your trainer might actually put me in a chokehold.

[casual. easy. avoiding the fact that this is a highly inappropriate position for them to both be in right now - moreso hawk.

but he listens to embry, surprised at the first thing that comes out of his mouth. love wasn't on his mental bingo card - assuming it might instead be something along the lines of pleasing his mother or making money, which aren't invalid by any means. but it's impossible to think about anyone not being able to fall for embry after watching him on screen or from afar, wishing they might know someone quite so striking in both appearance and personality. even hawk found himself wanting to get to the center of what makes him tick after one performance and the look in his eyes splashed across tabloids even at his worse - and god, it makes him sound like some fucking desperate fixer when he'd like to pride himself it's anything but.

there's no response right away, hawk sucking in another breath of smoke and exhaling it straight upwards towards the ceiling in contemplation as he feels one of embry's fingers slide closer to the inseam of his trousers, so fucking tempting and yet just the thing to seal his own demise. instead he reaches down to grip at his wrist, lifting it up and away from his leg without judgment or derision. the same hand instead reaches for embry's jaw, featherlight as his own thumb runs across the strong line of it with a soft smile.]

I intend to, but the truth is - you really don't need me to make that happen.

[a pause, hand shifting again to brush through the swathe of unruly curls briefly before settling back in his own lap.]

They're already hungry for that - to know you.

This?

[his brows bounce suggestively.]

Is going to make them desperate to have you. And then I think my job will be about keeping you on a pedestal, away from prying hands and being picked apart by the ones who don't deserve you.

[ something more than just the cigarette ignites — something warm and languid uncurls in his belly, desire like a flame, as heady as the smoke that wafts from the bow of hawk's lips, as pointed as a kiss. it might as well be, for how tangibly he feels it brush his skin. ]

My trainer has me on a strict routine. [ besides, one cigarette's not any worse than what he snorted on the way here. ] She keeps my body right. And tight.

[ there's a private little smile there even as hawk stays diplomatically switzerland about this whole thing, assessing him with an almost neutral glint in his eye. it's like fucking cocaine to embry, like daring him to take it a step further, to push a little more, to see how far hawkins fuller will let him go before he's ordered out of his office for misbehaving. even when hawk takes his wrist away and embry thinks for a moment that the scene is over, his hopes fizzle back to life with the graze of hawk's thumb along his jaw, an electric spark traveling in its wake. ]

That's not true. I do need you. [ embry's lashes flutter at the drag of his hair, leaning into the fleeting touch like a hungry cat. it's over far too quickly, hawk's hand out of reach again, and embry wants to dip into his lap and slide his head beneath his empty fingers again. ] Everything's looking up because of you. Because you gave me a chance in your movie.

[ it's genuine when he says it. even vivienne moore's influence had stretched to its limits at embry's undesirable antics — the drugs, the duis, the trashy clubs and his permanent place in the tabloids. he'd skipped out on his therapist so many times that he doesn't even remember her name. it was a vicious cycle — he drank all day and fucked all night because he blew all his auditions and couldn't land a job. he blew all his auditions and couldn't land a job because he drank all day and fucked all night. go fucking figure.

then hawk found him. embry's expression opens in sudden surprise, something raw and real and decidedly not camera-ready bleeding onto his face. it sounds like hawk would — protect him, which is absurd in this industry, because exploitation is the only way to make the wheels keep turning and the money roll in, but there's some desperately lovestruck part of him that wants to believe that if anyone could do that, hawk could.

maybe he should tell him. for a moment, he wants to. he wants to confess that his phone's burning a hole in his pocket, that he's being backed into a corner, that he's already leaked three of hawk's scripts and he'll find out two days from now that those projects are dead in the water before they can even start. maybe hawk can find his tape and destroy it. but he'd have to tell hawk it exists first.

he smiles, turning around to settle back on the rug, nestling right between hawk's legs. the back of his head pillows against hawk's thigh as he blows smoke rings toward the ceiling, one knee lazily drawn up while he kicks the other out. ]

Are you married, Mr. Fuller? [ his eyes glimmer up at him, the curve of his throat on display as he pulls the cigarette from his lips, stretching to reach the ashtray. ] I think your wife would be a lucky woman.

[halloween is not his bag.

it's not that he doesn't appreciate a good holiday or even an excuse to dress up, but it's the liability he has a hard time swallowing when it comes to the way hollywood has bastardized it. full of way too many tricks, the kind of treats that will come with cuffs slapped on wrists, and headlines that will follow stars around until christmas at the very least. a goddamn headache. and if it's not that, then it's the obnoxious couple's costumes and poor excuse for the equivalent of a college house party complete with mystery jungle juice that leave his temples sore and his patience worn thin when he's a mandatory attendee at smith's annual soirée. that's the only man he'd let bully him into this - and at least here he knows it'll be a classy affair. it's the heidi klum bash, the netflix and vanity fair parties where things start to get hazy and the witching hour strikes.

and that's all before his sworn fucking enemy - some anonymous entity - has been utterly raining hell down on every single one of his projects. smith doesn't seem anywhere nearly as concerned as hawk does when it comes to plugging this mystery leak, but he's made it his sole mission to figure out who this son of a bitch is so he can take him down. hawk has prided himself on keeping things fairly close to the chest and locked down all these years, and the information has been coming from someone in his camp specifically - no ifs ands or buts. it's personal at this point because everyone in his circle is the closest thing he has to confidants and actual friends - which is to say a very small, tight ship. it's making him second guess everyone lately: tim, glasses lopsided as he nearly spills what his eyes must be deceiving him as a glass of a milk all over a white toga. his admin sophie, demure and anything but the sultry rendition of marilyn in diamonds are a girl's best friend. szep, lurking on the outskirts of smith's estate in a zoot suit like this is just another day ending in y. there's only a handful of others, and trying to nail it down on one of them feels impossible.

its probably the reason for his longer nights, spotty spells in his office with the door locked and his heartbeat rabbiting as if trying to break free from his very chest. he's powered through near misses, blackouts where he almost eats shit and winds up facedown on the floor, instead managing to excuse himself to a meeting which is just a pathetic face-to-face in a restroom mirror splashing water on his face and looking at the color drained from his skin. the stress is climbing to a level that his doctor has sternly advised he avoid at all costs, but it's pretty fucking hard to just call a sabbatical in the middle of a multi-million dollar production and dump it on some assistant.

which is quite literally the only thing hawk can thank christ is going well right now, that - and his burgeoning rehabilitation of everything that is embry moore. him and greer have just finalized a breakup that painted them both in the best of lights - two stars cresting towards a peak buckling down to make the most of it and let their drive and dedication consume them, much to the sadness of one another. besides, the whole industry knows numbers do better when the lead is a single, parasocially available and attractive entity to everyone else on the fucking planet. at least he's got a handle on one thing right now.

speaking of which - he can't seem to find embry at this party, which makes him wonder if he's even here. the plan had been for him to start here and hop along to a few others to drum up press, but this is the one time he wouldn't blame the man for taking a night to himself for a change to just lap it up and authentically enjoy something for a change. he deserves it.

hawk is making pleasant, distant small talk and visibly avoiding looking anywhere beside anyone's face while nursing a whiskey, neat in one hand and an unlit cigar in the other. his own costume would look ludicrous next to the bevy of scantily clad men and women if it weren't so on the nose - hugh hefner to a much more tailored t. no hat, a crisp button down and tie, and neatly pressed silk-woven slacks just above monogramed velvet loafers, because he's not déclassé enough to show up in his goddamn underwear.

he's about done with his first drink and debating heading inside somewhere quiet to cut and light the cigar, maybe see if he can hide out in the study for a few more hours before politely making an irish exit when his thoughts wander again - the way they've been doing an awful lot, lately.

is embry just fashionably late? what's a guy with the perfect body and the face of an adonis going to wear when he could be anyone for night?]

[ halloween is his bag, and the moment he'd uncovered hawk's costume plans, his next move had been obvious. playboy bunny.

he's free of his fabricated relationship, which leaves him with mixed feelings, because he finds, suddenly, that he's back to having long stretches of empty time between work. with nothing to fill the dead air, his thoughts gravitate between two things: his worsening problems, and hawk. it's a lot easier to think about hawk, so dark hair and a smoky mouth tend to fill his thoughts as he blitzes his brain in his trailer, jealous of every moment hawk spends on his other projects. other movies. other stars that aren't him.

it's business, after all. embry is a commodity, a product, and no matter how lovely the shapes he contorts himself into to be noticed, hawk won't bite. embry has replayed their quiet evening a hundred times in his head, the feel of hawk's muscles beneath his hands, the smolder of embers between them, the ghost of hawk's thumb across his jaw. somewhere, it'd gone sideways. his hands never made it into hawk's pants. their mouths never got any closer than a cigarette's length. and yet embry has rubbed his dick raw thinking about kneeling at hawk's feet, wishing he could feel his hands in his hair and his nicotine breath ghost across his skin.

so this is his chance. halloween, where he doesn't have to be himself. where he's excused, to an extent, of the painfully good behavior he's been on, if he forgets that he's making hawk's job miserably difficult on the side. he calls greer despite their recent breakup, because embry is nothing if not pathetic and easily attached, and is relieved to find they still work as friends, and yes, she would be delighted to help him with his costume, and that's how he walks into smith's annual soirée to hoots and hollers — his long legs wrapped in fishnets and heels, his trim torso cinched in leather and silk, an impossibly soft poof of a bunny tail attached to his perky ass.

the cocaine in his system only adds to the allure of his look, his eyes bright and his windswept curls rolling across his temples, having escaped the bunny ears nestled atop his head. he's happy to be amiable tonight, happy to be surrounded by people and the buzz of a good time, but he has eyes only for one man, spying the velveteen coat he'd seen days earlier on one of his snooping sessions around the lot. ]

Mr. Fuller!

[ embry bounces up to hawk, a wide smile on his lipstick-stained mouth, smudged out by greer's fingers and then her lips in a giggly kiss for good luck — and then maybe some other mouths on his way here, because every inch of smith's sprawling estate is a party. his memory is already starting to fragment, color high in his cheeks from the shots pushed into his hands by whistling admirers.

he spins around for hawk like a dog, letting him see all angles of his costume and hoping that hawk is thinking of unlacing his corset later in the night. ]

Did you plan on matching with me? [ he snags the cigar from hawk's hand, making a show of clumsiness so their fingers nearly tangle together before he plucks it away, giving it an imaginary puff. ] Where have you been? You've been so busy I've barely seen you lately.

[hawk's path to freedom in the office and quietly smoking this cigar is blocked off by none other than an extremely inebriated lenny, who seems content to make his father's life as difficult as possible in the press and on the lot loafing around instead of doing any actually helpful or useful work. he also seems to have quite the hard on when it comes to hawk's very omnipotent presence and unofficial reputation as the real manager of smith's favor and fortune in hollywood thanks to his management skills. but it's halloween, and fuck it - lenny looks actually happy for a change hanging with some boxy looking guy playing cop to his black and white prisoner jumpsuit, which he supposes is meant to be a dig at his previous arrest for indecent exposure last year that had been yet another one of hawk's extended headaches.

sometimes he wonders what other people might think he looked like if he decided to fuck it all, let himself commit to someone and not give a damn who or what - preferably someone far away from the bullshit of la and the muck in hollywood. but then he'd be the one dragging them down, and isn't that just the irony of all ironies.

better not to get attached. who knows how fucking long he's got on god's green earth at this rate anyway?

famous last words, that or the very same god he adamantly does not believe in is making a point to test that theory in the form of one unbelievable embry moore.

jesus fucking christ. holy shit.

there'd been a small commotion off somewhere that he'd been distantly aware of, the wolf whistles and hooting and hollering that seemed more concentrated than the usual smattering - and hawk absently finds himself thinking it'll be a miracle for whoever is the subject of that much attention to make it through tonight unscathed. or maybe that's the goal. not his circus, not his monkey - he remembers one year when a porn star had managed to snag a plus one, fully nude save for some body paint and been recognized by several of his colleagues - that had been a real shitshow.

but good goddamn, embry puts her to shame and then some from where he's practically twirling himself on display for hawk. impossibly long legs lovingly encased and offering a peek of silky skin underneath the tights, made all the more enticing by the way his calves and legs look in - heels? his waist looks like it could fit between both of hawk's hands with room to spare, the points of his corseted bodysuit precariously resting along his pecs and making hawk's mouth run dry. that doesn't even cover the way his ass looks mouth-wateringly pert between fishnet and taut, silky fabric and that little splash of white fluff. and none of that has anything on the way his pupils look blown wide, bright and enticing even when they aren't framed by smoky eyeliner and a slash of red across plush lips. hawk doesn't think he's ever seen someone look so unfairly fuckable.

sometimes he wonders if he's imagining the notion that embry occasionally seems to be hinting the person he wants to do that to be hawk. that night in his office is never far from his mind, nor is the way embry seems to keep rising to all his heavy expectations and excel with an ease that is going to catapult him into the desire he craves from an expectant audience.

when he remembers to pick his jaw up on the floor, hawk realizes there's suddenly a lot of stares in their direction - whispers too, that seem to have caught on to the fact that their costumes could have easily been planned together. he clears his throat, very much shoving away the thought of unlacing embry's corset and plasters on an expression that he hopes looks simultaneously surprised and suppressing mortification at the way this has put a spotlight on himself. he can smell alcohol on his breath when he pushes in a hair too close before plucking away his cigar, wrapping his lips around it and giving hawk even more material to work with later when he's alone in bed tonight. he lets himself give a low whistle of appreciation - because it's the least he can do for someone clearly seeking some kind of approval tonight.]

Wow. Somebody went all out.

[his voice is painstakingly neutral, collar suddenly hot.]

What a riot, huh? I mean - what were the chances?

[he gestures between them both, the matching, turning as someone taps him on the shoulder and holds up a camera while gesturing between the two of them. hawk lets out an ah of acknowledgment, sliding an arm around embry's waist as politely as possible and not letting himself think about the way it fits firm under his palm, hovering above one of his cocked hips, flashing one of his easy smolders.]

You know how it is - the show must go on, the devil works hard but Hawkins Fuller works harder - etcetera etcetera.

Was about to go and smoke this properly and head home, between you and me. But I imagine your night is just getting started.

[ is that admiration in this eyes? but really — fuck admiration. he wants to pull lust out of hawk. he knows there's a spark of something simmering beneath all his layers of fine clothing and professional composure. hawk doesn't have any dirt to his name after extensive googling, not a single dating scandal or even a dating story, no man or woman or anything outside the lines he's ever been attached to. he can't understand how he's survived in hollywood so long without so much as a smear to his name. a man like him should be married with 2.5 kids and a white picket fence, and yet embry can't even get more than a brush of his fingers in the dark. ]

Home? Oh, no. [ sidled up next to hawk for the camera, it's easy to look over and flash him a smile. the camera catches that too, though it's still far too soon that they're pulling apart and embry feels hawk's absence like moving away from a fire. ] You have to stay. I feel like you've been avoiding me and this isn't helping your case.

[ he says it easily, played off like a joke, but when he meets hawk's eyes there's a flicker of something honest and real, something unsaid that spells out i've missed you. and he has. he's been filming late hours for the past couple of weeks, and hawk seems to always be in meetings or phone calls or in a state of constant tension. embry has tried to drop by his office like usual, once even with a tray of chocolate-covered strawberries to split, but smith has been in his office a lot more lately, probably about the leaked scripts, and then embry feels like shit for being the cause of trouble between them.

better the scripts than hawk's personal business. not that there seems to be any personal business of hawk's to even dig up. ]

Stay. [ there's an imploring glint in his eyes. ] I came here alone, but I don't want to be here alone.

[ lightly, he grasps hawk's hands, keeping them low and easily hidden in the bustle of the crowd, and wishes it could be as simple as pulling him in for a kiss and letting his lips do the talking for him. he's so much better at communicating with his body when the script isn't written for him. ]

Come on. [ he smiles, brave with all the substances swimming through his system, pulling hawk through the stream of party-goers as they venture further into the house where the music is louder and laughter fills the air like a swarm of lights. it's not his fault he has to push his mouth close to hawk's ear just to be heard over the noise. ] That one's done. I'll get you another drink, and then I want to dance with you. Please. Let me distract you for a night.

[ he slips the empty glass away from hawk and winks, dipping into the crowd toward the bar smith has hired for the night, leaning over and gesturing toward one of the party specials being served, something in a skinny glass hawk would never go for. the bartender catches his eye and they both come to the same conclusion at the same time, because he tips a fingernail's amount of powder into each of the glasses, then lets embry huff the residue from his pinky as he discreetly hands over the drinks.

he tumbles back over to hawk with the two glasses, his smile wide. ]

To you. [ he holds his glass up. ] Mr. Fuller. For taking a chance on me. Now it's my turn to give you a night off.

[yeah, it's admiration. there's lust too, if embry or frankly anyone were to know the signs to look for. the way his glance lingers just shy of a little too long, his hand squeezes ever so slightly around his waist, his heartbeat quickens and his pupils widen without any chemical enhancements every time he brushes against him or looks in his direction. frankly, he'd be worried anyone who didn't have a little lust over embry right now was without a pulse given how goddamn delectable he looks, but that's the part that worries him more. he'd promised keeping him out of grubby hands that didn't deserve him, initially meaning the masses - but the truth is? this room is full of men and women who are a hell of a lot worse and equally shouldn't even be allowed to breathe the same air as him.

fuck, even his thoughts sound possessive and unhinged as all get out. he's never been this protective over one of his own stars - but maybe that's because most of them, for all their messes, seem to have some form of a solid support system. embry seems like he's left strung out to perform or dry, what with his distant sister and mother and no word on his father or stepfather. maybe it's the sentimental part of him that he tries so fucking hard to bury, but hawk knows what he saw when he watched that war-time movie. it's the same drive that has been stretched out beneath his feet, that is so easily stealing the spotlight here at a halloween party - and it sounds like the cliché of just another exec duped by a pretty face, but embry is special. there's a connection he's never felt with anyone else, and he'd like to think if nothing else he's a goddamn good judge of character.

or maybe not, if the way things are going lately around the studio. but that's not what he wants to think about now - not when even embry seems to have noticed and is probably feeling something akin to neglect. it makes hawk's lips twist into a mild frown as he gauges the sincerity in embry's sparkling eyes, brighter than any flickering flame on the candelabras littered around the house for decor. it's not a joke when there's so much truth to it, and honestly it really only hits him now that he can't quite recall the last time he saw embry curled up on his couch for a cat nap or dropping in between takes. the terrible thought crosses his mind that someone knows about this clandestine feeling he has for his star - but that would be absurd. there's nothing concrete.

which is why it doesn't hurt to offer embry the softest, most sincere smile that's usually only reserved for his mother.]

Alright, alright. [hawk puts his hands up in mock surrender.] I'm all yours.

Wouldn't be fair to abandon you here anyway - the crowd's not as stuffy as you might think.

[as if anyone in hollywood would be anything less. hawk lets embry glom onto him and lead the way, ignoring the eyes that follow and must be assessing if their matching costumes were intentional or not. he's too busy trying to still the heavy thrum of his heart, fluttering like a fucking hummingbird every time embry inches closer into his space and angles in to speak that close to his earlobes. there's an incredulous laugh, a soft shake of his head.]

A drink for us, sure. The dancing though - I'll think about it.

[it's the politest way he can offer a half-hearted decline, because no matter who was asking, hawkins fuller doesn't really do dancing. it doesn't even occur to him to watch embry get their drinks, not that he can really see it through the crowd at this point, because it's smith's party and theoretically his bartenders, and embry is for all intents and purposes, his star. no one has ever tried to fuck with hawk until this asshole leaking scripts, causing chaos at their front gates, and spilling industry secrets. they've got nothing on him directly, but they can still wreak havoc elsewhere.

embry makes sure he doesn't have time to sulk and let his thoughts go sour though, not one of the high-backed velvet chairs open up and hawk slumps into to wait and wonder what the hell he's getting himself into. he'd really like that cigar right about now, still hanging loosely between two fingers as his other hand wraps around a drink he would normally not be caught dead gripping. well - when in rome.]

To you, Mr. Moore. For making my job almost too easy. And - to a night without expectations. For either of us. Cheers.

[down the hatch - it's simultaneously bitter and sweet all at once, definitely not the solid aftertaste of a fine whiskey or a scotch. his manners won't let him pull a face, even if he drains the glass and immediately sets it aside so he won't have to think about sipping from it again.]

[ he finds hawk sprawled in a chair, looking like a king — a very tired king, he notices upon a silent closer inspection. hawk looks good on any given day at any given moment, but when embry perches on the armrest of the seat, he can see the shadows beneath hawk's normally steely gaze, and when he places a tentative hand on his shoulder, his muscles are knotted with tension. ]

Hey. [ he hadn't expected him to throw back his drink so fast, watching him carefully for signs of spontaneous insobriety — as well as he can, anyway, when embry hasn't been sober for hours. ] Let me just — you've gotta loosen up.

[ he swallows a mouthful of his own drink and sets the glass beside hawk's empty one, balancing a little more firmly on the armrest, though one leg presses against hawk's so he can maintain his equilibrium. the high back of the chair stops him from just standing behind him to do this, but he doesn't mind being able to watch hawk's face as he firmly kneads his shoulders, massaging his tense muscles. ]

I heard some rumors around the lot. [ his thumb presses down into a particular stubborn knot, gliding in a firm stoke upward along hawk's throat. ] I don't know — they sound stupid. But I thought — maybe you got busy and lost interest in me. Or maybe you found someone else. Another... another actor, I mean. Another movie you liked better.

[ he flashes a smile, sheepish, slowly loosening hawk's tie to gain better access, sliding his fingers beneath his collar to caress his shoulders with a firm hand. he can smell his cologne more strongly now, the heat of his fingers warming the scent. ]

Are you sleeping okay, Mr. Fuller? When I can't sleep, sometimes I — [ jack off thinking about you — ] I just run lines until I can't see straight anymore, and that usually does it. You look like you haven't been sleeping much.

Edited 2024-04-19 02:37 (UTC)

[for once in his life, hawk is oblivious to whatever the fuck he's just tipped back. he's at a party with smith's bartenders, in his house with a mostly tight guest list - and embry's the one who brought him the drink. why would he think anything untoward? besides, the idea of someone wasting time trying to drug him is laughable - everyone knows he's bulletproof. so if he feels a little hotter under the collar than usual? he'll chalk it up to the crowds, the exhaustion, and yeah - the tight body perching pretty on the edge of the chair. it gives him the unfair task of dragging his eyes away from those long legs that are stretched out casually - as if they wouldn't drive any man to thoughts of the obscene. they look impossibly longer and more enticing wrapped in fishnets, and hawk wonders what it feels like when one presses against his own leg.]

I'm fine.

[it's the default to everything: his mother's pestering when she gets onto the subject of his condition over the phone, smith when he's cavalier in suggesting hawk take some time off instead of driving himself insane over this mole, tim when he offers to take a stack of paperwork off his desk because it's starting to look cluttered. of course he's fucking exhausted. of course he should be in the office right now, poring over files and security footage and trying to solve this and put a guaranteed end to maybe half his stress. instead he lets his eyes flutter shut for a few moments, not objecting to the way embry is overly familiar in his touch because it feels too damn good, and boundaries have been something dodgy between them ever since he started napping on his couch. actually - fuck - it feels really good. there's a surprised hum, slipping into a groan of appreciation that he hopes won't be heard over the din of chatter and clinking glasses.]

Shit. You've got another career prospect lined up - that's nice. Real nice. [his better sense kicks in, eyes fluttering open as he clears his throat and sits up a little straighter.] Nice of you to worry about me, I mean, but I'm fine.

[strange, the way his limbs suddenly feeling loose and pliant from a mixture of kneading fingertips and the open collar. oddly he feels...some sort of combination of calm and sluggish settling in. maybe he really is more tired, and embry's apt observation that he's barely sleeping is dead on. except he's much more concerned with curve of his brow, the earnest way he admits to something that sounds close to jealousy or nervousness at being potentially replaced. it seems like a goddamn crime to let embry continue under that assumption, and one of hawk's arms slides around his waist without even thinking as he drags him slightly closer on the armrest so he can lean up and look him dead in the eye.]

That's all they are. Rumours, you got that?

[any of the common sense he has seems to have receded somewhere else - on the outskirts of his brain as he doesn't even look around to see who's watching, what they must think of him having a scantily clad movie star practically in his lap. but hawk's eyes go half-lidded, lips pulling in a lazy smirk.]

Don't tell anyone - but you're my favorite. Top secret, though, so take it to your grave.

[before he can stop himself, somehow encouraged by the continued rub of nimble fingers, hawk lets one of his velvet monogrammed loafers kick under the sharp stiletto of one of embry's heels, lifting it upward to stretch out both their legs together so he can look at it from a better angle. the slash of red he can see underneath patent letter makes his blood run hot, suddenly curious how those might look tipped up if embry ended up on his knees - jesus fucking christ. stop it, hawk. fuck's sake.]

If I didn't know any better I'd say you'll be the one needing magic hands at the end of the night. These look - killer.

[ okay, so — maybe he should have asked what was in the drink. but embry doesn't care, because suddenly the veil thins between them and he feels like he has an actual chance here, like hawk is looking at him for the first time, and that feels too good to give up. he laps up the attention like a starving stray, his toothpaste commercial smile widening at hawk's firm reassurance. ]

Your favorite? You mean it? [ it's a balm to all of his other rejections that have worn him down and left doubt festering beneath his skin. he mimes locking his lips and throwing away the key, then laughs as he throws a glance backwards at their tangled feet, hawk's loafers and his ridiculous louboutins together like a badly scripted man and wife. ] You could take me wherever you go later, so you'll have the chance to look after my feet. You could take me with you for the rest of your life.

[ his voice softens at the end, and that's — fuck, that's way too much, his eyes lowering and his heartbeat skipping as he tries to rein his emotions back to a manageable trot. his hands slip down hawk's chest, adjusting his tie, and then he reaches for his drink and downs the rest. ]

Don't think I forgot about our dance. Come on.

[ he smiles again, slipping out of his lap and pulling hawk to his feet. the world tilts a little in that pleasant way it does when his brain is firing in haphazard directions, when the lights are glitzy and bright, when he's hyper-aware of every touch and sensation beneath his fingertips and against his skin. smith's big house is a box of light and this room is the center, right where hawk is, his hands warm where their fingers curl together, embry steadying him with practiced ease as he walks him backwards into the sea of happily dancing bodies.

he doesn't give hawk a chance to protest, because embry wants this too badly, their connection sizzling like a fiery gift thrown into his lap. no one pays them any attention, or maybe it's that embry doesn't give a shit about anyone else in the room but hawk, throwing his arms over his shoulders, his high cheekbones flushed with warmth and his stained mouth curving with laughter. their bodies press together, embry's hips swaying to the tacky halloween music swirling through the air. ]

I'm glad you came. [ it's even louder here, and this time his mouth brushes hawk's cheek on the way to his ear, leaving a lipstick stain. he thumbs at it softly, stroking the crescent of his cheek. ] There's no one else I want to dance with.

[doesn't that just light up the room. there is a real moment where it feels like no one else is even remotely in the vicinity - just him and embry halfway into his lap, flashing him a brilliant smile made all the brighter by the red around lips that are already unfairly tempting. a moment where hawk forgets about every bit of responsibility or keeping his head on straight, instead leaning in even further and tipping his head back. he's close enough to smell sweat and liquor and whatever perfumed scent embry must have dabbed on the bare neck that is begging to be covered in kisses and teeth marks.

god, it's been awhile. maybe he just - needs to get laid. far far away from la and hollywood and maybe even outside of california altogether. he can take a long weekend and get smith off his back, let the new security cameras he's installed do their work...but that means letting embry think he's running, or he's somehow developed a new favorite. and well, that just won't stand.]

Have I ever lied to you? I'm not about to start now.

[he must be hearing things. the rest of his life? his mouth opens for a minute, partly in disbelief and the other half too quick before he's had time to facilitate a response. if hawk weren't halfway to more inebriated than he's been in maybe a decade, he wouldn't second guess it. but he covers with another flex of his fingers, a fond squeeze around embry's waist before he reaches up to tweak the faux bunny ear that's bent downward.]

Just like I could hardly be a gentleman and leave you to tend to anything tonight. I'll get you back home in one piece. A little sore, maybe, but I promise.

[before he can protest, embry has him up on his feet, hand-in-hand and suddenly in the middle of a very loud, very crowded dance floor. the moment hits him like a fucking mac truck: heart suddenly rabbiting so hard in his chest it would have him immediately rushing to his office. but the funny offset of it now is that it feels more dreamlike than anything - embry surrounded by bright lights like some ethereal creature in the midst of mediocrity, his thoughts and processing time slowing to a crawl. his head feels like he's been stuck underwater, all the noise a muffled garble except for the crystal clear voice in his ear. everything else barely registers against his person - the jostling, the shoulders shoving and the heat of bodies packed into an admittedly large but not large enough space for this crowd - except embry's lips against his ear, the fingers along the contour of his face.]

Glad I didn't leave.

[christ, is he slurring his words? what was in that drink? it's hard to care when he time seems to zero in on the sway of embry's hips, the long and lean stretch of his figure thrown to wild abandon and even the prowess he seems to manage in those ridiculous heels. hawk's far more subtle, cigar tucked into his breast-pocket for safekeeping as he lets his shoulders do most of the moving under the soft press of embry. it only seems natural for his own hands to gravitate back towards his waist, somehow. there's a lurch where he half stumbles forward, off-balance even as his heartbeat thunders in his ears and his own lips nearly brush the shell of embry's ear too in turn.]

Pretty sure everyone wants to dance with you, though.

[ he hasn't been this happy in such a long time. his career has been a dead weight shackled to his ankles, making every step feel like a hundred, leaving him frustrated and exhausted with himself — disgusted with himself, if he's telling the truth, of how far he'd fallen and how with every passing day his star seemed to get dimmer. no amount of morgan's cruelly sensible advice or vivienne's harsh love could get him out of the circle of destruction he'd found himself in, not until hawk saw him and said that one, i want that one.

and now he's here, in a starring role, dancing with smith's golden boy who seems only to have eyes for him. it can't possibly be real. every whisper hawk breathes into his ear skates shivers down his spine. his mouth feels dry from everything he's taken tonight, but he thinks that can be solved by kissing hawk, although — he can't. he can't. they're not there yet, even though he wants desperately to be. he wants desperately to just be his, to be his star and his muse forever, to act in every part he finds for him, to make hawk bigger than all the other producers out there, because he's better than all of them. smarter. harder-working. more handsome by a long shot. he makes embry forget all the troubles knocking at his flimsy door.

hawk presses into him, seemingly by drunken accident, but embry smiles and strokes his fingers against the short hairs at the nape of his neck to steady him. or maybe just because he's wanted to do that all night. ]

Only a little sore? [ his voice lowers to a playfully silky purr, words meant only for hawk to hear. ] Do your worst, Mr. Fuller.

[ he keeps his fingers gently at hawk's nape, gliding along his skin and brushing at his pulse which he finds erratically fast, out of the norm for hawk's usual steely demeanor. could it be that embry's finally having a real, honest, longstanding effect on him? they reach the edges of the room, where embry stops at the banquet table to help himself to the spread of elegantly spooky finger foods all doused in red dribbles of sweet sauces to emulate the look of blood. he pops a cherry in his mouth and works his jaw for a moment, then sticks out his tongue to offer hawk the stem wrapped in a bow. ]

You're the only one I want to dance with. [ hawk looks hot around the collar, a sheen of sweat glistening at his temples, so embry offers him one of the little flutes of sparkling water nearby. ] Drink this. Do you want to go sit down?

[ he's already pulling him towards the next room, pushing him into the closest empty seat, a comfortably plush, armless chair. embry looks around for another to drag close, but they're all annoyingly taken — then he does a double take when he realizes how many people are making out in this room, straddling the other guests and grinding straight into their laps. his cock reacts instantly, blood rushing to his groin while his face heats up, lightheaded from the visceral changes his body insists on putting him through. ]

Hey. [ maybe hawk won't notice a thing about their surroundings. gently, he tips his fingers to hawk's jaw, lifting his chin. ] Think I need another drink. You want one?

Edited (pls ignore my typos) 2024-04-27 18:22 (UTC)

[that's the funny thing - hawk hasn't been this happy or even hopeful in a long time either. sure, there's been fleeting moments that have bolstered him like promising numbers for the studio and earning smith's admiration. but everything has felt fleeting - as fickle as the public's attention span and just another reminder that he's got to keep working harder, faster in case his heart gives out and he never gets to do the one thing that will cement him as a fixture in hollywood in his own right. someone who made it better. having embry at his side feels like finding a diamond in the rough, overlooked in his own right until hawk plucked him up, gave him a good polish and reminded him that it doesn't matter what happened in the past - all that matters is that he keep shining and he'll earn that adoration and get back up on that pedestal.

but embry feels like something one-of-a-kind, somehow an oxymoron for the way he can play sultry bad boy in the papers and come into his office with a wounded innocence that begs for protection. the worst part about it is he's got hawk wrapped around his finger and doesn't even know it - because hawk would put himself on the line to make sure embry gets to be the star he deserves. to see him on top of the world, to chase away whatever darkness eats at him from the inside out and draws him into the recklessness he's fallen into before. but he hasn't done any of that lately, which has to count for something. has to mean he's finally coming around into his own, that there's a contentment here he's willing to keep chasing. hawk has never been one to fall for a simple pretty face - because honestly, there's plenty of those in the city of angeles that are a dime dozen. but somehow, in the slow stupor that's working over him as he watches embry cup at his shoulders and murmur into his ear in a way that makes a shudder run down his spine in a liquid ripple of want - he realizes he's gone and done it anyway.

there's little he can do to deter much of anything right now, nodding along in an agreeable state to whatever embry wants, because embry should get anything he asks for when he's standing there looking like sin in heels. so hawk lets himself be tugged towards the food, idly picking up a ladyfinger that's meant to resemble and actual finger before embry sticks out his tongue in a way that sends his pulse skyrocketing. fuck. he reaches for it before he can think any better, stupidly getting a brief feel of warm wetness on his fingertips.]

Oh, very impressive Mr. Moore.

[it comes out in lazy drag, complete with a half-lidded smirk as he takes the water gratefully and sucks it down with the same enthusiasm he'd taken the shot. his heart feels like it might beat out of his chest and take its place among the table of crude and creepy snacks, free for embry to pick and pry at his leisure since it already rests in his delicate hands. yeah he needs to fucking sit down and try to get his shit together - this isn't like him at all. he should get out of here, maybe go to smith's office or one of the unoccupied rooms upstairs to try and smoke the cigar and get out of doge.

that doesn't mean he has to leave embry to do it. but he's already being lead away somewhere, a little quieter, a little darker, less bodies colliding and making him sweat. he sinks down into the chair, head lolling back and eyes slipping closed for a minute in brief relief until embry makes him meet his gaze again, fingers light and practically electric against his jaw. have his lips always looked so goddamn kissable?]

Forget about the drinks for a second. C'mere. Sit down.

[there's only once place to do that without armrests, even if his brain hasn't fully processed the repercussions of that with a tap to one thigh.]

[ does he really mean — embry's heart leaps somewhere in his throat, threatening to choke him, but hawk's definitely looking at him with expectation in his liquid eyes, and embry feels his pupils dilate, feels every brush of tight leather and lace rubbing against his heated skin, and — fuck, he just wants hawk to touch him so badly. he'd kill for it, like he's starving, like he's never, ever been touched before. it has to be the drugs making him crazy right now, but he has the feeling that it's mostly just his desire for hawk driving him up the wall, reaching a point that can't be ignored for much longer. he's so goddamn horny. ]

Mr. Fuller —

[ it comes out in a whispered rush, teetering against his good sense. he should walk away. his cock has grown half-hard, and there's no way to hide it in his skimpy clothes and especially not if he actually sits down, but there's something commanding in the way hawk says it, in the way he looks at him, and embry suddenly eases forward, placing a hand on hawk's shoulder to balance himself. hawk looks devastatingly sexy, loose-limbed and just on the right side of disheveled. embry sinks down into his lap, little stitches of breath escaping his parted lips.

he looks closely at hawk's eyes, reaching up slowly to brush a gentle hand through tiny bits of his hair, to trace the dark outline of his brows. he tries not to move his hips at all, to avoid friction between his cock and hawk's thigh even if it's painful to be still. in his peripheral he can see other pairs of people gyrating against each other, mouths and hands and hips moving, snatches of sighs and soft groans filtering in the lulls of music. embry has been heedless with sex for a long time, so to refrain now feels like the most difficult thing in the world, like being edged against his will. he feels terribly exposed, like one wrong move will shake out all his secrets — the ones from his past and the ones he's presently keeping from hawk, a culmination of all the things that make him intensely undesirable. ]

Mr. Fuller. [ he's close now, close enough to catch hawk's vetiver scent, close enough that he barely has to speak above a whisper. he's never been inside hawk's home, but he's exhausted all his snooping options in his office, now that the cameras are there. ] Will you take me back home with you?

[when's the last time hawk wanted something? not something - someone - this goddamn bad? it's not just the simple kind of want that can be forgotten and tucked away under the name of professionalism either - it's the kind that aches deep enough that sometimes hawk thinks he might be having another one of his episodes the way it squeezes in his chest and makes his limbs tremble in restraint. it's wrong to think of embry like that, like he's the perfect imitation of all the other sleazy directors and executives who think hollywood is just their playground of easy pickings. but sometimes he's not so sure embry sees it that way - not when he seems to find every spare moment to put himself in hawk's presence. ever since he'd stopped seeing greer the naps in his office and late nights to steal bits and pieces of hawk's dinner when he used to spend that time alone working himself to the bone has experienced a significant uptick.

sometimes the tension is unbearable, just like the way light of the waning la skyline looks across the curve of embry's immaculate profile or the tumble of his curls begs to be touched.

like right now - the way he settles into hawk's lap with a careful easy, hand warm against his shoulder and weight somehow perfect against his thigh. if hawk weren't so fucking drunk he might notice the way embry's pupils are blown too wide, how all of this should feel wrong. he might be more cognizant of what's going on around him instead of letting it all fade to a dull roar and a blur of motion that begins and ends with embry as the only constant, grounding him with his delectable figure in reaching distance. hawk slides an arm around the back of him, fingers lightly resting against his waist to steady him so he doesn't fall back. and then, stupidly, he lets his other hand skim against his knee, brushing against the tease of skin under fishnet as he lets his thumb hook against the back of one absently.

mr. fuller, he says, so sweetly it's almost too much to bear. there's something palpable in his gaze, and up this close hawk can feel the wash of his soft exhales like it's the only air he's meant to breathe in turn. everything feels like it's moving in slow motion and too fast all at once, and he can't believe he's this drunk after downing that glass. what the hell is going on? is what the last shred of decency and self-preservation in his brain tries to nudge him with.

what is he supposed to say to embry's inquiry anyway? he wants to say yes with ever fiber of his being. and right now, he's having a hard time denying himself under such pleasurable circumstances. embry could ask him to empty his wallet, his bank account - to get on bended knee and declare his devotion right now, and hawk doesn't think he'd have the wherewithal to say no.]

We might give these fine folks the wrong idea, you know?

[as if any of them are fine, and as if hawk has even lifted his head away from the sultry creature in his lap to notice any of them.]

I don't want to say no to you.

[he shakes his head as if trying to clear it, but the cat's already outta the bag. hawk's head slumps forward, nudging against embry's chest with a heavy exhale while he can barely keep it upright for a moment. the silk fabric is soft against his cheek, even more frustrating temptation.]

A nightcap and a smoke. C'n get you a car after.

[ his heart races as hawk nestles against his chest, his hands cradling his strong jaw as if he's holding something precious. hawk's pulse jumps and flutters beneath his fingers while embry soothes his hands through his hair, tracing his brows, his cheekbones, and finally, the bow of his lips, tilting his face up towards his. hawk is so painfully handsome in the way of old hollywood glamour, like he should be on black and white movie posters instead of the name left off of each one. embry's thumb touches the corner of his eye, stroking the lines that betray his years in the industry while the hot flame of jealousy licks at him, that there might have been a dozen others before him to catch hawk's gaze, dozens and dozens of stars that have already felt his mouth or his body or his cock. ]

A nightcap and a smoke.

[ embry smiles, agreeable to that part, not so much to getting kicked out after, but there's room to negotiate once he's there. all he feels right now are the lines of hawk's body, hawk's thumb hooked in his fishnets, and he wishes he'd just tear a hole in them, that he'd start unlacing his corset right here and now, and there's no fucking way hawk doesn't feel how hard embry is, his breath tightly measured as his forehead comes to rest against hawk's. ]

I've been thinking about this. [ their noses brush as embry squirms in his lap, closer and closer and closer. ] You. I think about you all the time. I think about —

[ he swallows, his breath damp and hot against hawk's cheek as he nuzzles against him, his mouth gravitating toward hawk's lips. he thinks his heart might tumble right out of his chest with how badly he aches for him.

he finishes in a whisper — ] Kissing you. If you'd want me to. If you'd like it.

[ he pauses for a fraction of a moment, waiting for hawk to shove him away, for him to tell him to stop, that he's read all of this wrong, but — it doesn't come fast enough, so embry crushes their mouths together in a desperate, hurried motion, pressing hawk into the back of the chair with the force of his desire. he tastes better than liquor, better than any pill he's popped, tonguing into hawk's mouth like he's the only person in the room. ]

[the moment he feels the heaviness underneath leather and silk is what drives his eyes to flutter open in realization - maybe not quite shock, because this thing between them has been utterly fucking electric for months now - but understanding that embry is hard, and even if he's gotten to a point where he's practically deliberately obtuse, embry seems to want this. badly. as badly as him? well, they'll have to figure that out.

except - no. no, this is the point where he should carefully lift embry off his lap and settle him down on gazelle-long legs, politely extricating himself and telling him its been fun, but he's got a headache and a whole stack of paperwork to get to tomorrow morning. he'll catch him in his office, during working hours, not perched pretty like the bunny to his high with big blue eyes and practically begging hawk to take the thing he's been steadfast in ignoring this long. this whole thing has been a walking red flag, a siren blaring at him to turn back now before he crosses the line he can't come back from. but that's because he'd expected embry to be like everyone else walking through his door: wanting something from him and measuring up how to best get it, looking past the man that is hawkins fuller and instead just needing the prestige. it's ironic then that embry wants the one thing he doesn't fucking need hawk's help with, and now? now he just wants hawk.

it's all wrong. for someone so wrapped up in the intricacies of a hollywood lot, hawk never tires of the way his daydreams easily fall into what could easily be playing off a silver screen. he'd pictured bending down one day, tipping embry's chin up from where he was splayed at his knees and chatting about things that wouldn't matter months from now - the movie shoots for the day, his best angles (as if the answer isn't all of them), asking hawk why he liked one steakhouse over another, prying for his seeming preferences in the personal. one day hawk thought about shutting him up with his lips, hoisting him up onto his desk and letting the tension bubble over until they were both sweaty and panting and definitely needed to replace a few copies of paperwork on top of solid oak.

it's not supposed to be with embry half naked in his lap, hawk feeling strung out beyond belief, surrounded by colleagues and opportunists who would sell them short in a heartbeat.

but it is, and who is he to deny this exquisite creature? if you'd want me to, if you'd like it - christ, who fucking wouldn't, he almost says - moments before he meets embry in the middle and leans in at the same time embry does. it makes the impact of their kiss one of hunger, hawk nipping at his lips before slipping his tongue along embry's like he might lick the taste of whatever the hell that was they'd drank out of his mouth. the hand at his waist lowers, gripping the meat of his ass and upper thigh to pull him in closer and shift the way he's seated closer to something truly face to face. it's a miracle he doesn't fucking dry hump him right here - particularly with the way embry too will now get the reciprocation of something hard burgeoning beneath his slacks. his fingers flex against the supple flesh, refusing to pull away from something less gentlemanly than his waist while his other hand shifts up to cup at the back of his neck and deepen it.

the lipstick is the last thing on his mind. so is the bevy of photographers waiting outside the estate. but he pulls back anyway after what feels like mere seconds, groaning in dissatisfaction at his own dazed sensibility.]

You got it?

[because yeah, that should answer all of embry's questions. he's been thinking about it too. he wants it. he likes it.]

Shouldn't -

[we shouldn't do this at all, is what he should say.]

Not here.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

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