[ 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. ]
no subject
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. ]