( two )

[caipirinha]

my character gets into bed with yours, or vice versa;
what happens?
have you crawled under the covers for some friendly
cuddles, or are your intentions not so innocent?
are you planning some form of practical joke, or are
you just plain drunk?
maybe you just have no idea what's going on.

( adapted from the plurk meme! )

Comments

james "durham" baxter | the order

[neutralises]

[sexting]

[ Hotel doors requiring key-cards are never a match for Cambridge, even when he’s as worse for wear as he is tonight. There’s a rustle at Durham’s door and a faint clicking sound before it swings inward on silent hinges and Cambridge is nothing but a silent shadow against the soft amber light in the hallway as he lets himself inside. The smile on his lips is invisible in the darkness as he leans against the door with both hands cradling the handle and silently eases it shut behind him. There’s a moment of pure silence as he holds his breath to carefully listen for any sign of movement from Durham in the bed in the recesses of the shadowed room... But all is well. Thankfully, there’s nothing but slow, steady breathing and the hum of the hotel room air conditioner and Cambridge’s smirk broadens.

Lacking a jacket and generally looking more dishevelled than usual Cambridge was once again reminded that he had lost his shoes somewhere earlier in the evening as he caught sight of his reflection in the dim light falling from the streetlights outside Durham’s window. Luckily, Cambridge has long since resigned himself to the fact that a night isn’t complete until some bastard has done something inexcusable to his shoes (the fact that this bastard is quite often himself is something he’s yet to publicly acknowledge). The shoes can be found in the morning. Barefooted on the plush hotel carpet, Cambridge pads quietly in to the cool depths of Durham’s hotel room and pauses only to deftly loosen his tie and cast it aside on the dresser. He wastes no time: kneeling on the edge of Durham’s bed and ignoring the way the mattress dipping precariously under the sudden shift in weights, he curls aside the edge of the sheets before sliding in beside Durham. The heat radiating off the other man is delightful and Cambridge, smelling of scotch and expensive cigarettes, can’t help but wonder what the other man might be wearing as he extends a (comparatively much colder) hand to boldly thread around Durham’s torso. ]

[neutralises]

[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.

[sexting]

[ 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. ]

[neutralises]

[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.]

[sexting]

[ 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.

[neutralises]

[It's instinct more than a clear thought-process that alerts Durham to the constriction around his chest and urges him to act accordingly. Those now weak tendrils of sleep slip out of his reach and though he's fought hard to stay sleeping, consciousness returns to him alarmingly quickly.

Some people, on hearing about the Order for the first time, proceed to assume that it's all based and set in a James Bondesque sort of world with vodka Martinis and a Walther PPK slid under a pillow just in case. Some of them may go on to play that kind of role but, for Durham, his own role doesn't really follow along in those lines. For half a second, Durham wishes it did if only so he could slip his hand under his pillow and pull a weapon out, the panic and terror that freezes his blood cold in his veins for that millisecond before adrenaline kicks in unmistakable. It's simply Cambridge's very good fortune that he speaks before Durham finds something solid to grab on to behind him, arm already drawn up to do far more damage to one side of the other man's ribcage than he needs to.

His hesitation is framed by the relief that crashes through those same veins to settle his bubbling blood, heart thumping hard against his own ribcage and pulse point in his neck throbbing even at the back of his tongue. The pause, though only a few seconds, is followed up by a struggle, his hand clamping down over the other man's forearm to try and prise it away from his torso, legs trying their utmost to use the mattress as some form of leverage to get out of bed.

When he speaks, finally, his voice sounds loud and angry even to his own ears:]

What do you think you're doing?