[ it's suffocating inside, so obviously the better choice of action is to meet a stranger out in the maze for — what, exactly, he doesn't know. is a stranger even still a stranger if he's had their cock in his mouth? also unknown, though embry is leaning toward no in this situation, because a blowjob is pretty familiar even if it's between a wall. jesus christ, he's the king of questionable fucking decisions, and still he doesn't make a move from his perch beside the minotaur, because he's curious. achingly so. and yeah, he's a little fucked up too, but when is he not? everything he consumes here seems to have bad side effects, and yet he keeps drinking, keeps snorting, keeps putting shit in his mouth. no one's going to tell him no, because no one ever tells embry moore no.
that's the only real thing about this place. not even the stars wheeling across the sky can possibly be real, because a place with no exit is just some kind of nightmare, right? he should mind it a little more than he does, but it's nice to be out of washington. it feels great to be out of the closed doors of the goddamn white house that he dragged ash into. at least these doors feel like his mother's house, with lyonesse in the basement — all things easy and familiar. he knows this game, and he knows how to play it well.
he looks every bit the brooding prince tonight, moonlight catching the haughty glint of his eye, his blazer discarded in the grass, tie hanging loose around his neck, an errant lock of his dark hair curling across his forehead. the bottle of gin is mostly empty, and tragically out of reach so it can be seen from the maze's path, and embry hears the visitor before he sees him, craning around toward the sound of confident footfalls before meeting a pair of eyes shrouded in shadow, blue peeking out. the utter handsomeness of the man strikes him first, because embry thinks primarily with his dick, but something itches beneath his skin at the way the man looks or stands or just breathes, the same visceral tug that curled in his gut when he'd uttered his annoying fucking command through the wall. he shakes it off, because the last thing he needs is a repeat of ash fucking colchester syndrome in this stupid house. ]
[yeah, it's fucking suffocating inside. suffocating with the fear of still being watched and the unbearable pressure of knowing he's gonna hurt tim again with or without lucy smith here to extend an engagement to. if he were a better man he'd be in there trying to make it work, apologizing for his outburst at the party and dragging tim off with the intent of fucking the jealousy away. he'd be taking this as an opportunity to test out the idea of a better life - one where they aren't looking over their shoulder or judged for who they sleep with (love, tim had said and meant even if hawk never said it back - he had to know it was the same, didn't he?) and spend their time wrapped up in. on the surface this place looks like some sort of sordid heaven, a reward unearned for all the hard time he's put in at the senate hearings and in the department of justice and even his goddamn polygraph.
it should be counterintuitive, the way this makes him feel a little safer. it's not about that - it's that being in the open, on the hunt and in control of his own risk-taking feels familiar in a way that's manageable. prowling the maze like he would dupont circle after dark, finding a pretty thing to push onto his knees or follow home and press facedown for a rough fuck to burn off all the tension until he rinses and repeats, doing it all over again. only here he doesn't have the luxury of anonymity or a revolving door of takers, of imposing distance and keeping his distance from any attachment that might get him in trouble or killed.
this one still shouldn't count.
he'd never seen the guy's face, but there's something of a kindred spirit hawk feels like he can sense in him - putting himself in a base environment like that and on his knees no less. taking him down like a fucking champ and getting off on it no less, obeying hawk even if he had no fucking obligation, like there was something desperate clawing its way out and couldn't be resisted. so fine, maybe he's a hypocrite according to tim. but he's a hot-blooded american, and his interest has been piqued, and so here he stands, looking down at a pair of gorgeous blue eyes, plush lips and thick hair he'd like to run his hands through. that's a face men go to war for, not kick out of bed - quite frankly, a fucking jackpot on all accounts. it shows in the way hawk visibly brightens, smirk tugging at the corners as he steps in closer.]
As long as you're alright with a little quid pro quo.
[no need for pleasantries. doesn't matter who they are, and hawk isn't getting on his knees in a true exchange - but he will finish the job he started.]
Promised you the ride of your goddamn life, and I'm here to deliver.
[ he's already made a few assumptions about this man — this isn't their first meeting, no matter how little he's seen of him until this point, and their actual first meeting had been, frankly, revealing as shit. embry had been the one to offer up that he's never patronized a glory hole before. he hadn't gotten any kind of resounding agreement to his comment. hell, the guy seemed pretty damn comfortable getting serviced through a wall, though embry reminds himself to rein in his judgment when he thinks about how thoroughly the situation had turned him on in return. just the memory of it has his cheeks darkening in the moonlight, a flush creeping up past his collar. there's no question as to why the two of them are here, skulking about in the darkness. they both have things to hide.
he turns his face away in an attempt to preserve his dignity, lounging casually against the statue. the lights of the house seem faraway, a dollhouse twinkling in the distance, and he's glad for the isolation because he's ashamed of what he's doing — not because he's with another man (his bisexual crisis lasted about twelve seconds as a boarding school preteen), but because of how this is happening. he can feel that tight, itchy feeling that only spells trouble, that leads to an inevitably ugly end where he's shown the worst parts of himself, bitter and soulless, selfish as hell and lacking anything resembling a conscience.
because otherwise he wouldn't be here. he would be trying to make amends with greer. he would be thinking of ash's career and the best way to preserve it. he wouldn't be salivating at the memory of a stranger's cock shoved into his mouth, and orchestrating ways to get it to happen again. ]
I left my gloves. [ he sounds petulant — like a fucking brat asking the servants about his jizz-soaked underwear. ] Do you have them?
[ they were nice gloves, is all, and embry likes nice clothes. the man is standing close enough that he can feel the heat of his body, though embry stubbornly refuses to look over his shoulder, leaning back on one hand as his knuckles tighten against the cool marble. ]
You work in politics, don't you? [ he ventures his guess with an air of casual confidence, grasping for the upper hand. ] You talk like you do. You did on the other side of that wall — which you seemed pretty damn comfortable behind, by the way, which tells me you're a model closeted citizen, aren't you?
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no subject
that's the only real thing about this place. not even the stars wheeling across the sky can possibly be real, because a place with no exit is just some kind of nightmare, right? he should mind it a little more than he does, but it's nice to be out of washington. it feels great to be out of the closed doors of the goddamn white house that he dragged ash into. at least these doors feel like his mother's house, with lyonesse in the basement — all things easy and familiar. he knows this game, and he knows how to play it well.
he looks every bit the brooding prince tonight, moonlight catching the haughty glint of his eye, his blazer discarded in the grass, tie hanging loose around his neck, an errant lock of his dark hair curling across his forehead. the bottle of gin is mostly empty, and tragically out of reach so it can be seen from the maze's path, and embry hears the visitor before he sees him, craning around toward the sound of confident footfalls before meeting a pair of eyes shrouded in shadow, blue peeking out. the utter handsomeness of the man strikes him first, because embry thinks primarily with his dick, but something itches beneath his skin at the way the man looks or stands or just breathes, the same visceral tug that curled in his gut when he'd uttered his annoying fucking command through the wall. he shakes it off, because the last thing he needs is a repeat of ash fucking colchester syndrome in this stupid house. ]
Came to repay the favor?
no subject
it should be counterintuitive, the way this makes him feel a little safer. it's not about that - it's that being in the open, on the hunt and in control of his own risk-taking feels familiar in a way that's manageable. prowling the maze like he would dupont circle after dark, finding a pretty thing to push onto his knees or follow home and press facedown for a rough fuck to burn off all the tension until he rinses and repeats, doing it all over again. only here he doesn't have the luxury of anonymity or a revolving door of takers, of imposing distance and keeping his distance from any attachment that might get him in trouble or killed.
this one still shouldn't count.
he'd never seen the guy's face, but there's something of a kindred spirit hawk feels like he can sense in him - putting himself in a base environment like that and on his knees no less. taking him down like a fucking champ and getting off on it no less, obeying hawk even if he had no fucking obligation, like there was something desperate clawing its way out and couldn't be resisted. so fine, maybe he's a hypocrite according to tim. but he's a hot-blooded american, and his interest has been piqued, and so here he stands, looking down at a pair of gorgeous blue eyes, plush lips and thick hair he'd like to run his hands through. that's a face men go to war for, not kick out of bed - quite frankly, a fucking jackpot on all accounts. it shows in the way hawk visibly brightens, smirk tugging at the corners as he steps in closer.]
As long as you're alright with a little quid pro quo.
[no need for pleasantries. doesn't matter who they are, and hawk isn't getting on his knees in a true exchange - but he will finish the job he started.]
Promised you the ride of your goddamn life, and I'm here to deliver.
no subject
he turns his face away in an attempt to preserve his dignity, lounging casually against the statue. the lights of the house seem faraway, a dollhouse twinkling in the distance, and he's glad for the isolation because he's ashamed of what he's doing — not because he's with another man (his bisexual crisis lasted about twelve seconds as a boarding school preteen), but because of how this is happening. he can feel that tight, itchy feeling that only spells trouble, that leads to an inevitably ugly end where he's shown the worst parts of himself, bitter and soulless, selfish as hell and lacking anything resembling a conscience.
because otherwise he wouldn't be here. he would be trying to make amends with greer. he would be thinking of ash's career and the best way to preserve it. he wouldn't be salivating at the memory of a stranger's cock shoved into his mouth, and orchestrating ways to get it to happen again. ]
I left my gloves. [ he sounds petulant — like a fucking brat asking the servants about his jizz-soaked underwear. ] Do you have them?
[ they were nice gloves, is all, and embry likes nice clothes. the man is standing close enough that he can feel the heat of his body, though embry stubbornly refuses to look over his shoulder, leaning back on one hand as his knuckles tighten against the cool marble. ]
You work in politics, don't you? [ he ventures his guess with an air of casual confidence, grasping for the upper hand. ] You talk like you do. You did on the other side of that wall — which you seemed pretty damn comfortable behind, by the way, which tells me you're a model closeted citizen, aren't you?