( 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

[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?