[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.]
no subject
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.