[ so, no coffee. no stimulants to get him through this moment. he knows hawk always carries cigarettes, but it would be uncouth to start smoking in the west wing. pouring himself a glass of scotch from the bottle sitting by the philodendron seems a little too much like telling on himself, so he stays put, watching hawk treat him like a skittish mare about to bolt. it's a little too on the nose. ]
It's not? [ it comes out as a derisive scoff, clearly disbelieving. ] I knew what could happen when I made the video. I did it anyway.
[ it's almost believable. embry would make a tape; he's the type of guy that has no limits, irreverent and dissolute and born into enough wealth that for the majority of his life, normal problems didn't exist for him. but wealth hadn't protected him from falling in love. it hadn't shielded his heart from ash. no amount of money or privilege has been able to patch whatever inherently broken thing exists within him that makes it impossible for him to love and be loved in a normal way. so he would make that video and he would fuck anyone with a pulse, but the problem is that he would rather swallow glass for the rest of his life than tarnish ash's chances at reelection with a monumental fuck-up like this.
and hawk knows that. because hawk knows him. the realization that he's been flaying his heart and fooling ash for years but might not be able to convince hawk of a lie for two minutes hits him like a rush of cold water.
being stripped naked, leashed by the cock, and led around the room like a dog would be less humiliating than meeting hawk's eyes in this moment. his pulse quickens the second he does, shame and fear and a sick sense of nausea prickling down his rigid spine. he tries to channel morgan's reptilian sense of efficiency, her form of ruthless bloodletting when it comes to delivering the truth. his phone buzzes next to his hand, which it's been doing nonstop so it's become background noise, but he happens to look down and see a text from his stepsister herself, his chest locking up at the unexpected sincerity. embry, are you okay? ]
I didn't tell you because — [ his eyes feel too warm, his cheeks flaming with sudden heat. hold it together. ] Because we weren't — [ his blunt nails dig into the lip of the table, his knuckles white. every word feels intensely far away, like he's grasping at clouds. he blinks and something wet spills down his cheek, his eyes wide and glassy as he chokes out — ] I didn't know. Hawk — I don't remember. I don't remember anything from that night.
no subject
It's not? [ it comes out as a derisive scoff, clearly disbelieving. ] I knew what could happen when I made the video. I did it anyway.
[ it's almost believable. embry would make a tape; he's the type of guy that has no limits, irreverent and dissolute and born into enough wealth that for the majority of his life, normal problems didn't exist for him. but wealth hadn't protected him from falling in love. it hadn't shielded his heart from ash. no amount of money or privilege has been able to patch whatever inherently broken thing exists within him that makes it impossible for him to love and be loved in a normal way. so he would make that video and he would fuck anyone with a pulse, but the problem is that he would rather swallow glass for the rest of his life than tarnish ash's chances at reelection with a monumental fuck-up like this.
and hawk knows that. because hawk knows him. the realization that he's been flaying his heart and fooling ash for years but might not be able to convince hawk of a lie for two minutes hits him like a rush of cold water.
being stripped naked, leashed by the cock, and led around the room like a dog would be less humiliating than meeting hawk's eyes in this moment. his pulse quickens the second he does, shame and fear and a sick sense of nausea prickling down his rigid spine. he tries to channel morgan's reptilian sense of efficiency, her form of ruthless bloodletting when it comes to delivering the truth. his phone buzzes next to his hand, which it's been doing nonstop so it's become background noise, but he happens to look down and see a text from his stepsister herself, his chest locking up at the unexpected sincerity. embry, are you okay? ]
I didn't tell you because — [ his eyes feel too warm, his cheeks flaming with sudden heat. hold it together. ] Because we weren't — [ his blunt nails dig into the lip of the table, his knuckles white. every word feels intensely far away, like he's grasping at clouds. he blinks and something wet spills down his cheek, his eyes wide and glassy as he chokes out — ] I didn't know. Hawk — I don't remember. I don't remember anything from that night.