scorpioides | ( two )

[Cassandra closes her eyes and giggles as he nuzzles and sighs into her neck. Her fingers trail lightly over the muscles in the arm that's holding her close as she considers his question.]

Just got into town.... a little lonely and just couldn't stay away from you.

[Although it was said jokingly, there really is a hint of truth to it. If you look really hard.]

[She opens one eye, the greyish blue searching for an expression there, though more from curiosity than shock.]

Why did you want that stability so much? [She could understand it, but she doubted it were for that same reason as her.]

[The evening has been as successful as any of these sorts of things usually are; copious amounts of alcohol consumed by all and Durham, having just returned from the northern Italy, is actually grateful he's been given the opportunity to slip away to his room at a decent hour.

He's been asleep properly for the last half an hour, light sleep stage skipped entirely thanks to the number of G&Ts he's had. It's a number conversely proportional to the number of hours sleep he had last night. He's been the wrong side of completely sober and tired for most of the evening and now his body has finally given in. Much as his late night visitor may be rating his stealthy entrance highly, Durham's out cold, a position he seldom finds himself in if only because he's staying in an hotel room tonight.

The faint sensation of an arm around his middle draws him no further from his slumber than into a sluggish sort of doze, consciousness still very much out of his reach for as long as Cambridge wishes to be strangely gentle. Not even the chill in his hand is coaxing the mnemokinetic from his dreams. Tonight, they are bizarre rather than unpleasant, memories of his trip to Italy featuring highly. It had been work rather than pleasure, and not of the Order variety, that had drawn him out to mainland Europe and though he's usually keen to return to green and grassy England, this time he's felt strangely numb.

[Growing weary quickly at Order functions the more years of service he gets under his belt is logical, Durham thinks vaguely as he fumbles around for the silly little keycard he needs to get back into his room. These little gatherings, dressed up quite shamelessly as "business", never seem to get any less dramatic the longer he is the UK Order's serving mnemokinetic. In fact, he wanted to leave half an hour in after the usual culprits started to make a big song and dance in front of their international counterparts and Durham, destined to forever stand out of the limelight, was fed up of watching.

Unbeknownst to him a certain hydropath had pressed the button to the wrong floor and shoved him out accordingly, all without Durham realising he isn't standing in front of the room he really wants - that's the same number on the floor below. The room he's trying to get into belongs to someone else who, through no fault of Durham's, has actually left the door unlocked.

With the slightest hint of satisfaction that he didn't have to keep rooting around in his pockets for the blasted keycard he's apparently lost, he lets himself in and undresses on the way through the room and towards the bed. No keycard means no lights, but that doesn't stop him from aiming for what he wants. He's in desperate need of some sleep and, barely out of his jacket, tie and trousers by the time he reaches it, there's nothing graceful or delicate about the way he lets his body fall onto the mattress.]

[What Eros loves about Ogmios is really quite simple; the Celtic god isn't so repressed that he can't enjoy what the Greek god of love and his kind do day-to-day.

It falls to Eros, his bow and quiver of arrows to keep those adoring eyes between mortals and their kind a thing of the present and future, and not only the past. It's why, when the winged god finds himself without the affection of his beloved brother or minders, the Celt is always part of that special group of deities that form the upper levels of his list of potential partners for the evening. The Judeo-Christian house are still refusing to loosen up and Eros, never overly patient when it comes to his need to express himself in the best way he knows how, has picked an entirely different pantheon to play with, this time.

He is on silent wings when he arrives, feet just as quiet when he lets himself into the god's bedroom, the hint of a growing smile just visible over the dusty darkness that has smothered the walls between the slices of orange from the street lights outside. He sits himself down on the side of the bed and places a gentle palm over the shin he can feel lying still under the covers, squeeze slow but demanding and will bent on getting an invitation before he goes further.]

Don't apologize. [Her voice is half a mutter as she's barely awake, and she shifts closer, leaning into his body heat and closing her eyes again.]

m'going back to sleep.

Do you now?

[ Ogmios is just being difficult for the sake of it now, because he can and because he really isn't that interested in helping the man out. He takes a few experimental puffs on his cigarette - which has a deep, woody sort of scent, not wildly similar to your day to day smokes - before a faint smile of satisfaction spreads across his face, a light indulgence fresh in his eyes. ]

[ It's a familiar touch, a gentle request for permission that Ogmios recognises. He stirs, a little hazy from sleep, though a smile has already spread across his face; he always has a time for Eros, no matter what time of the night it is. In the darkness, he can make out Eros' shape on the other side of the bed, and there's a luxuriant pause before he speaks, his voice a low rumble, still rough from his slumber. ]

Ever the spontaneous one, aren't you? [ He shifts a little, turning onto his side, his head propped up by the palm of his hand as his eyes adjust to the lack of light. ] Never a warning, no front doors, not even a text message!

[ It's clear, however, from the slow way in which Ogmios lets the words roll off his tongue, that he isn't complaining, not for a moment. ]

Always a nice surprise?

[He lifts his hand only to let Ogmios turn onto his side, palm against the side of his thigh when he lowers it again. There's nothing possessive about it; the Greek god doesn't know how to be when he's always been a poster child for sharing love wherever possible.

His fingertips lightly squeeze at the other deity's leg in affectionate but silent reassurance that he's come here because he wants to spend time with Ogmios, ulterior motives forever absent. With Eros, what you see is what you get.]

I was thinking about you so I thought I'd come see you.

[Eros likes to think he's the kind of lover people enjoy, regardless of the fact he's the Greek god of love. If anyone ever really thought about it, they'd realize he's bad at being a bad lover. He can't get his head around why anybody wouldn't want to please their partners.

There's a fine line between needing and wanting and he feels that distinction more keenly than most, but when it comes to his minders there is no want involved. He needs to show them how much he cares for them, how much he loves them, and as he quietly and gently slides into Fabien's bed, he's careful in trying not to disturb his sleep. He slips a hand over the mortal's waist, palm splaying out flat against his chest as he spoons him, face pressing into the back of his neck. The smile that tugs at the corners of his lips he can't help, the familiar sound of the man's breathing, the smell of his bed and the feel of his skin under his palm are welcomed.]

[Raphael usually places very little emphasis on sleeping and only indulges when he has no other choice. Being an archangel allows him the freedom to need it so rarely that he tends to avoid sleeping at all unless he desperately needs it. It seems logical, only in his tired and sleepy state, that he should make a beeline for Uriel's bed this time. His mind and memories tell him that when he heals Uriel he usually needs to sleep afterwards and, in some strange twist of vulnerability, it's his brother's sleeping but very much whole and well form that comforts him when he needs to drop off.

Losing consciousness is awkward and uncomfortable and Raphael enjoys it very little, but gingerly slipping into the bed beside the other archangel and shifting up close is his safety net. It's hard to admit out loud, especially to other members of their small but close-knit family, but with Uriel he trusts there will be some level of understanding.

Wings visible (he's too tired and weak to hide them) and now unfurled, Raphael can't help the way he practically wraps himself around his brother's bigger frame, small sigh of contentment escaping where he doesn't mean it to. He just needs an hour or two of rest after where he's been before he can carry on as normal.]

[ Any gentleness on Cambridge's part is due more to a drunken lack of control in his movements than anything else. In the warm, dark lee of Durham's back Cambridge stretches expansively as he edges closer; Durham's body is taller and broader than his, what with years of squash and cricket and all those terribly middle class sports that Cambridge has scorned all his life. Cambridge is comparatively leaner - a naturally rakish kind of skinny that is in no doubt aided by his propensity for liquid lunches over real ones. Even the food that Cambridge does bother to eat can only ever be of the highest quality, and in the face of anything less than gourmet then Cambridge would sooner go without. Feeling cold and small beside the other man as he sleeps, Cambridge briefly tightens the arms he drapes over Durham's torso. His fingers, seemingly determined yet not quite connected to Cambridge's brain due to the staggering amounts of scotch consumed that evening, wander and roam restlessly before seeking out the lower hemline of Durham's night shirt and skirting lightly along the warm skin beneath. With his eyes closed in the darkness Cambridge smirks privately to himself; there's something bizarrely enjoyable about sneaking up on Durham in such a way that it almost seems a shame to wake him. The hand he snakes up Durham's shirt slows and his touch lightens to a teasing faintness as he entertains notions of just how much he could possibly get away with before Durham realises exactly what was happening. ]

[Uriel is a light sleeper out of habit, mostly from being the London Met's go to for any form of crisis. Riot control, hostage situation, bomb threats, words or actions against dignitaries or officials, he's there. Since the most recent mass crises with Belial, Uriel has--at the advice of his brothers--sought to pull himself more into his secondary form of employment as a corrections officer. He's spent any time outside of his office meeting with his parolees, focusing mostly on his most important soul in the prison release system: his apprentice minder who, even still, remains his woman undercover in the crime rings of London.

His sleeping is, by comparison to Raphael, far more consistent, a pattern of hours pulled from the days here and there. Uriel will never quite understand the restrictions a mortal body places on him, even after this long. Consistent sleeping habits at least gives him a buffer for how hard he is on it, and himself.

Uriel was awoken long before the arms slipped around him, the divot was felt in the bed, or even the footsteps across the floor sounded. The door was all it took, and yet before he opens his eyes, Uriel knows who it is. He had been on his stomach, for sleep is one of the few times when Uriel doesn't bother with hiding his wings, and despite all the feathers, they're hardly comfortable to sleep on. The angel turns onto his side to face Raphael, slipping an arm beneath his brother's neck, to both support him and pull him closer.

Of all his brothers, Uriel is perhaps the most affectionate with Raphael, and unabashedly. He rests his head atop Raphael's and yawns, utterly comfortable with this arrangement.]

[ The extent of Oxford's disinterest and boredom with regards to this function is clearly displayed in the fact that he withdrew himself from the company of others hours ago, calmly and quietly citing continued nausea and headaches from the travel earlier today as his reason for doing so. This was, in part, true; his head was still pounding, occasionally, still smarting from the inevitable torture of air travel. It was all very exaggerated, however, as his painkillers had worked something of a dream and alieviated the worst of the problems early on in the day. All the same, he feared he'd do himself another headache related mishap if he was to stay amongst the distinctly lacking company any longer.

He is, however, expecting to share this bed tonight, albeit with someone else (no points for guessing who), so he stirs with very little surprise at being woken by the movement of another person next to him, though he's somewhat taken aback by the graceless collapse. He was awaiting something entirely more... intimate. Having taken the liberty of stealing a few hours to catch up on sleep, Oxford supposes that he would personally be a little more lively than someone who'd spent the day doing - more or less - what they were actually supposed to be doing.

Raising his brows to himself, he rolls over, gently, a bare arm snaking out to wrap around the figure now sharing the bed- ]

Please, do curb your enthusiasm, my dear boy...

[ -though Durham may be able to tell from the way that Oxford very quickly tenses, that from the shape and feel of this second body, Oxford has potentially determined (or at least suspects), that it is not Cambridge with him. ]

[ For a long moment, Oxford merely stands outside the hotel room door, staring at it wearily. Today, avoiding his duties has been impossible, and though he has tackled the day effectively and with his customary efficiency, he is so fed up with meetings and discussions that just minutes ago, he had taken his terribly fetching Aspinal tie - practically wrenching it off his own neck - and draped it unceremoniously over a potted plant, much to the confusion of a passing hotel maid, who had given Oxford an incredibly mystefied glance over her shoulder as he continued along the corridor, just like nothing had happened. Even stranger still, he was holding a pair of very expensive looking shoes in his hand, clearly not his own, since he was very much in possession of his own.

Part of him would simply like to leave the shoes outside the door with a note, or perhaps deposit them just inside - he knows that the room is unlocked - and retreat back to his own bed. Oxford knows that Cambridge is rarely the most sympathetic person, and he isn't sure whether he can be bothered to deal with the challenge of his colleague's company tonight. It's always hard to tell whether Cambridge might perhaps choose to be a little softer, or else to be his usual difficult self. Eventually, however, he takes the plunge and steps inside. Oxford thinks he would at least like to see Cambridge's reaction to the fact that he found his lost shoes.

Taking off his own shoes by the door, he pads across the floor silently, leaving Cambridge's by the bed as he rests his knee on the sumptuous mattress, leaning across to feel for Cambridge's body in the darkness. His hand, soft and searching, finds his lower back first, and gently slides upwards, following the contours until he finds the bare skin of Cambridge's shoulders. His fingers press lightly, at first, then a little harder, as Oxford leans over to speak, his voice low, in Cambridge's ear. ]

Wake up. [ A pause, his breath warm and even. ] I have a gift for you, my dear.

[Finally, Durham shifts in vague response to the hand exploring, though mostly as a cursory reaction rather than being acutely aware of who it is and what he's doing. His closed eyes screw up momentarily as he rolls away from the distraction and on to his side, one arm sliding sleepily but smoothly up under the crisply white pillow his face is now pressed into. He's desperately trying to cling on to those last few strands of slumber, determined to not wake up despite being vaguely aware something or someone wants him to.

For his troubles, Cambridge is now faced with Durham's back and, after only a few seconds of irregular breaths in and out while he settles himself again, that slow and steady deep breathing returns.]

Of course.

[ There is something strangely relaxing about Eros' presence; the ease of his character is something that Ogmios can readily appreciate, and a very distinct honesty in everything that he does that calms Ogmios. He can without doubt say that there has never been an occasion where he has felt anything but entirely comfortable and even rather happy in Eros' company. Ogmios is the sort of individual, the sort of god, that hates to admit to any kind of struggle, whether it's weariness with his newspaper (a more than taxing occupation, he has discovered, though incredibly rewarding) or simply feeling a little old and tired, but at least with Eros he feels entirely less self-conscious if it starts to show.

Slowly, Ogmios sits up, leaning forward to shift himself a little closer into Eros' personal space, exhaling quietly, ridding himself of the last remnants of his sleep. ]

How nice to know I'm in your thoughts. [ And, quite honestly: ] You happen to have crossed mine recently, as well.

Because my parents wanted me to have stability. [ He shrugs a little, lightly. His expression remains fairly impassive, calm. ] And I trusted them to know what was best for me, but it wasn't what I was looking for, I just took what came along and hoped for the best.

[ Another little pause, where he wants to shrug again, but restrains himself. He wants to potentially give a theory as to why the divorce happened, but he realises it'd be just that: theory. He still doesn't actually know, considering that his memories of the previous year are still very much in limbo somewhere. ]

[There was a time when Fabien had no more care for his sexual partners as anything more than another in a long line of warm bodies. It was rare, back then, that he even stuck around - or let them stay - long enough to fall asleep. He wouldn't have considered himself heartless or cruel, but in comparison to the man he was now, he'd definitely been loveless. He's learnt the value of intimacy and care since then, learnt that pleasure isn't sacrificed for them, learnt that just sleeping with someone could be just as enjoyable as sex.

It's time with Eros that's given him these things, and if there's anyone presence in his bed that Fabien recognises, it's the god's. It's too familiar to wake him completely, though, and the most he does for a little while is slide his palm up along Eros' arm, settle with his hand warm on top of the god's against his chest. Sleepiness makes his accent thicker than usual when he does finally manage to summon some words, muffled into the pillow.]

Havin' trouble sleepin'?

[He knows it's probably the least likely of the many reasons Eros would climb into his bed, but he still asks, tries to be a good minder and take care of Eros where he can.]

[ The pathetic act almost works for a moment, because Michael is privately (or so he thinks - his brothers, at the very least, must certainly know it by now) incredibly soft and easily taken by helplessness, naturally inclined to protect those who need it, but he quickly remembers that this is Brian. With one sharp, swift movement, Michael sits up, not quite glaring at his minder, though the intensity and frown are too much for a simple stare. ]

Well done. [ 8| ] You're very observant, Brian.

[ NOW GET OUT is the silent implication. ]

I did?

[The smile that tugs at the corners of the Greek god's lips is mostly hidden, though if Ogmios is listening close enough he should be able to hear it. As the Celtic god sits closer, Eros finds himself incapable of keeping his hands under control, a habit he's never been encouraged to curb. He's naturally curious, tactile and affectionate - why would anybody tell him to stop when he does what he does so well?

His free hand, the one not already making little secret of enjoying the feel of a firm, warm leg beneath his fingertips, slides up the side of the other god's neck, thumb drags up and over the tendon leading to just under his ear. He knows no better way of saying hello to someone he loves quite as much as he loves Ogmios.]

What were you thinking about?

Mmm, no. I just wanted to hold you.

[If there's one thing Eros can never be accused of it's mincing his words when it comes to his feelings and desires. Unlike so many of his fellow deities and mortals he very rarely finds himself wanting to be anything less than honest when it comes to matters of the heart. The question earns the minder a warm, loving kiss against the side of his neck, Eros' lips determined to sooth his lover back to sleep again if he's still tired.]

Sleep, Fabien. Rest. I'm here now.

[ Ogmios leans into the touch below his ear with a low hum of appreciation, the skin of his thigh tingling beneath Eros' touch, even though hand and leg are separated by a layer of fabric. He is momentarily distracted, like a pleased cat, before he opens his eyes once again to look over the other god's face in the dark, vision finally adjusting better to the light (or lack of it). He smiles, in a habitually broad manner, as if privy to a secret no one else knows, even though his thoughts are rarely kept secret for very long. ]

About your ever wandering hands. About your effortless, soothing company, [ he pauses just for a moment, turning and shifting his head to press a light kiss to Eros' wrist ] and how I haven't had the chance to enjoy that company for a while. [ There's nothing even faintly accusatory in his tone; it's just a statement of fact, that they hadn't seen each other in a while. ] Hence the pleasant surprise.

[ In response to Durham’s shift in position Cambridge holds his breath with his eyes half-shut in the darkness – as if either of those things would make his presence there any less obvious. Yes, he knew it was the reasoning of a drunkard... but still he waited, arm raised ever so slightly to allow Durham to shift freely beneath it, and it wasn’t until Durham’s breathing gradually evened out again that he reopened his eyes.

It was easier to see in the darkness now and, finding himself staring now at the back of Durham’s neck, Cambridge sat up on one elbow to crane his head and inspect Durham’s sleeping face in a drunken squint. There was a fleeting suspicion that perhaps Durham was actually awake and just ignoring him in some great pretence – playing dead, as it were – but Cambridge only entertained that idea for a moment. Grimacing and shaking his head (Durham wouldn’t pretend, not when he could take the moral high ground and stave-off Cambridge by acting all offended and appalled at Cambridge’s newest invasion of his privacy instead) he reassessed his plan. Delightful as the idea of waking the other man up with Cambridge’s lips around Durham’s cock, he was quite aware that if Durham really was this asleep Cambridge would probably end up with a black eye for his troubles.

So instead he coils closer around Durham, settling down from his leaning position to furl his arm around Durham’s torso again and curl around him tightly – constricting enough and with enough pressure to hopefully wake him, but not allow him to jerk away too far – and buries his smirking face in the nape of Durham’s neck as he remarks: ]

Ugh, James, you are the worst host.

( two )

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hideous. that's what this'll be.

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no but I was THIS CLOSE to throwing a certain Greek god at you instead >]

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isaac 'cambridge' moore [ oc : the order ]

oh god this is going to be so cute

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GOOD.

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