faderift | open | brain heat meme

Entry tags:

open | brain heat meme

WHO: Anyone
WHAT: Nightmares, slumber parties, etc.
WHEN: Throughout Justinian
WHERE: Kirkwall and surrounding areas
NOTES: Ignore the first prompt if you're bothered by bugs. Also, while this is primarily to help people RP about their nightmares, feel free to use it for any kind of RP you want. (I.e., you have permission to set up a truth or dare game at the slumber party.) Talk about dreams OOC over here

This month, our heroes' sleep is getting more and more troubled. Here are some excuses to write about it.

I. SLUMBER PARTY: Mid-month, an infestation of hardy, prolific Antivan fleas requires everyone to avoid spending prolonged periods of time in their bedrooms while local alchemist Lloyd Meyers eradicates the bugs with his proprietary smoke bombs (and an equally proprietary flea bath for the Gallows' many pets). While the rooms air out for two or three nights post-treatment, bed rolls are available on the floor of the unstaffed dining hall. Sleeping outside in the courtyards is also an option, but a sudden squall of a thunderstorm will drive people inside on the second night.

Footnote: Characters who live in the city are welcome to join this slumber party anyway. Maybe they miss the ferry ashore, maybe they're afraid of tracking fleas into their own homes, maybe they already did track fleas into their homes and Lloyd is treating them too, etc.

II. ROOM SHARE: Does the thought of sleeping in the dining hall with all of your coworkers make you break out in hives? Have you missed the ferry on any other evening of the month? Lowtown has inns, and Riftwatch has a docks-side warehouse with a few side rooms outfitted as bedrooms. But there are only so many rooms available, so you might wind up sharing a room (or a bed) with a friend or whoever is nearby and desperate.

III. CAT NAP: A lack of sleep—whether it be from the nightmares, the workload, routine insomnia, or staying up too late playing Truth or Dare during the Antivan Flea Incident—might make a cat nap on a desk, in a reading nook, or over breakfast particularly appealing. And bad dreams don't need more than a few minutes to get rolling.

IV. CAMP OUT: Investigating reports of enemy scouts in the mountains, traveling along the roads to a neighboring city-state on a diplomatic errand, looking into reports of weird magic on the Wounded Coast, or heading north to provide some assistance to the war effort? All might require pitching a tent and bunking down for the night with your colleague, whether you like them or loathe them.

V. NORMAL NIGHT: If you’re already sharing a room or bed with someone, you don't need this post. But you can still use it for your nightmare threads.

VI. BETTER IDEA: Do whatever you want. Live your dreams.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

The shutters of Loxley's little apartment have been thrown open. A cool breeze steals in from time to time, stirring Derrica's abandoned shawl where it drapes over a chairback, the long end of the coverlet where it has been kicked down to the bottom of the bed. A sliver of moonlight cuts through the window.

Derrica's palm presses soft over Loxley's heart, then slides further, slipping down the muscle of his chest and over his ribs as she turns into him. Bare leg hooking around his knee, her hair streaming across the pillow as she winds herself in closer to cinch tight in against his body.

"Are you awake?" comes as a breath against Loxley's shoulder. Soft enough not to disturb him, if he is asleep. She doesn't need him to wake up, isn't certain whether his erratic movements were even real, or if she'd dreamed them too. Proximity is enough, really.

Edited 2022-07-07 05:01 (UTC)

He's a light sleeper, typically. The kind of instincts you cultivate when living in perpetual impermanence, even after the many months of having this place, its cosy dimensions and many locks, Derrica's not infrequent presence. She winds in close against him, and normally he might shift in kind to welcome her, unconsciously or otherwise.

Loxley does not, at first, not until she whispers to him. He breathes in, sharp, but is still, and then not. Shifting, a hand that had been loosely resting on her side curling towards her back.

"What time is it?" he murmurs.

"Still dark," is not a time, but close enough to one. It is dark and the city is cool and quiet and there is no cause to get out of bed.

As his arm tightens, she cinches closer. Puts her cheek on his chest, where she can feel the rise and fall of his breath, hear the thud of his heartbeat if she closes her eyes. Here he is, alive and well.

"Were you dreaming?"

An easy question. Of course he is. Everyone has been, whether they care to talk about it or not, her included. Derrica doesn't even necessarily expect him to speak about what might have prompted that sharp breath, the pause before he returned her closeness in kind. They can leave it for the morning, or not at all.

"I was."

An easy answer, and it would be easy to sink into a silence there, maybe allow sleep to take them back, but Loxley forces his eyes properly open as Derrica settles against him, looking up at the wooden cross beams in his ceiling. He turns his hand, glances down at the subtle play of wan green light from his shard reflecting off her skin. Not enough to see by.

He re-settles his hand, muffling it. Realises, and says, "Did I wake you?" and there is a clear 'or' underscoring this question.

"Yes," she answers. "But it's alright. I would have woken anyway."

What is in Derrica's dreams? Nothing pleasant, lately.

No one is having pleasant dreams. Even the nights when she startles awake with only the impression of what was haunting her sleep, it's enough to unsettle and linger throughout the day.

"Your heart is beating very hard."

Her fingers skim along his side, over his chest and back again. Taking stock of the warmth of him, the cut of muscle, all this unbroken skin. She knows, but having the proof under her hands pushes the dream further away.

His hand curls around hers, as if to keep it from finding out what any of his other internal organs are doing, but her head is on his chest so there's really no hiding it. Loxley takes a slow breath in, willing himself to calm. His other hand settles fingers in her hair, high at the back of her neck.

"It's silly," he volunteers, after a beat or two of silence, voice still rough with sleep, and quiet. "But to that point, I wouldn't mind staying awake a little longer."

"It's not silly."

Reassuring, though she knows the feeling very well. That these are only dreams, and they shouldn't drive someone from their bed at ridiculous hours of the morning, or keep them up late into the evening.

Between them, her opposite hand is pinned against her own fast-beating heart.

"How do you want to stay awake?" might as well be Do you want to talk about it?

There are many things they could do to stay awake that require no talking at all. Or no talking about true things. There are options. Derrica is amenable to any of them, and reluctant to pry into what feels like a wound.

There are fun answers to that, and Loxley is aware that Derrica would likely welcome them too. There is a shade of recognition of this moment, like when they'd run from attackers in Antiva, that moment of shared shelter. It'd be nice to give her heart a better reason to race, withdraw from those feelings of dread and fright into new ones.

He doesn't move, though. Maybe if it was just one nightmare, and not so many, so frequently.

"I'll show you mine if you show me yours," he proposes. He's always done a little better with confessional when it's mutual, and better at it with Derrica than most.

There should be an immediate answer. There is an immediate answer, except Derrica is drawn up short by—

Her dreams are rooted in such a terrible thing. Loxley likely knows nothing of it. She is never separate from that piece of her past, but she doesn't want it here, in the warmth of his bed and their entwined bodies.

So there is a moment where she breathes, mouth against his skin, thinking about how she can distill the specifics of her dreams without bludgeoning him with tragedy.

"Okay," is what she settles on. Tips her face up to him, though he is shadowed past sight. "I can go first."

To ease the way, for what cannot be any less fraught for him than it is for her.

In the gloom, night-seeing eyes gleam like dull pennies, but he has them half-shut enough that it's just a sliver of reflected light under the shade of sleepy eyelashes.

"Alright," he says, borderline-playful inasmuch as that can be conveyed when they're speaking quietly, in the warm tangle of their bodies. Open, mainly. Whatever she's got.

On the heels of his agreement, Derrica shifts closer. Moves herself by degrees to drape across his chest, tangle them closer. Trace her fingers over his chest.

It's dark. She cannot see anything of his face but his eyes, though as long as she is stretched over his this way she can feel the rise and fall of his breath, every single movement of his body.

"It's not a new dream," she tells him. "It's..."

A pause, casting the right words to describe Dairsmuid without inviting the memory closer.

"A tower, like the Gallows. And I see everyone, all our friends, dead there. All of them just..."

Gone. Beyond her ability to save. She puts her cheek back against Loxley's chest, sighing. It's an old dream, but it's coming to her nearly every night. That's wearing on her.

He makes the little adjustments necessary to make her ability to drape easier, arms in a relaxed loop around her. Oblivious to all the internal adjustments being made, her taking stock of her dream, parcelling out its details with care.

So Loxley asks questions, once this initial picture is painted, and her words are given a moment to settle. "The tower you came from?" he asks, gently, into the shadows over her head.

"Yes."

Had Loxley been listening, that day she'd parceled out bits and pieces of that history over the crystal? Does he know about her tower, where she'd come from?

"Or sometimes the battlefield in Orlais."

A different kind of fraught setting to reckon with, and one that's more rarely seen in her dreams. But it gives a little space to Dairsmuid; it doesn't have to be the only thing they focus on.

"I'm afraid of it becoming a prophecy, instead of a silly dream."

"Now now," Loxley says, "you set a precedent. On these things not being silly."

A small shrugging motion beneath her. "Which isn't to say your fears will come true, but it's true that you fear it. And not for absolutely no reason, you know."

"That's the worst part," she says, fingers skating along his collarbone. Drifting up to cup his cheek. "It feels...sometimes it feels so real, I can't stand it."

And then she wakes up.

A problem nearly solved, as long as they do their work very well during the day so what haunts her at night becomes less and less of a possibility until it vanishes altogether. She puts a soft little kiss, just over his heart.

"But then you saved me from watching it play out."

A hero.

Loxley skims his hand over her hair, pushing loose waves of it back from her face, behind her ear. Smiles, a twinge, for that little kiss, for the implication that he did anything useful. Pleased, in spite of himself, and he curls in enough to nudge a kiss against her temple before laying flat again.

"I'm sorry your mind does that to you," he says. Easy sympathy, but genuine, spoken at a husky whisper. "It seems hardly fair, as though anyone would forget the sorts of danger that's out there."

He curls a lock of her hair around a finger, tugs very lightly, playfully. "Happy, of course, to be of assistance. We should do this more often."

It's unpleasant but Derrica can't quite feel sorry for the constant, prickling awareness of how uncertain their future is, of what it will cost if it is poorly decided. It is a help. It guides her, lest she forget exactly what is needed from her, why she took over Project Haven, why she argues with the Ambassador.

It would be easier to flee from it. But that helps no one but her.

And Loxley, warm and smiling beneath her, is such a clear reminder of everything she would be forsaking.

"Not too often, or I'll run out of ways to repay you for your heroism."

Ha, ha.

"Do you want to hear about the dreams where I forget I can swim, or do you think it's your turn now?"

"Yes, yes," says someone aware of the deal they struck, only a little reluctant to cash in.

For stupid reasons only, Loxley reflects, watching the ceiling and summoning back the vivid memory of where he'd been roused from. A deep breath in, held there, let out as he starts. "There's this place we went, back home, like an underground temple. I don't really recall it being that bad, but in the dream—"

A hand spreads, relaxes. "I'm cut off from everyone. I've a torch with me, but I don't know which way to go. I can sort of hear them, sometimes yelling for me, other times just speaking amongst themselves, but I can never catch up. And then the torch goes out. I can see alright in the dark, but it feels a little like it's over. Like I'm part of this place, even before I've—I don't know, starved to death and collapsed.

"There are bodies, too. Old ones, bones and rags. And I always think, here lies some stupud adventurer who was going to make a name for himself. And then usually skeleton bats or something start chasing me," is a quick addition, "but that's where you rescued me."

It feels far more foolish than tangible worries for the future, more selfish than seeing friends and family lying dead, but he's not terribly afraid of Derrica's judgment.

Edited 2022-07-17 05:51 (UTC)

There simply isn't enough of her to stretch over him the way she wants to in this moment. But the suggestion is there in the way Derrica shifts, reaches hands up touch his cheek, slide fingers into his hair as she resettles her weight over him.

"I hate bats," she murmurs, softly. It's the least loaded starting point, plucking at a single point rather than dig into the bigger, heart of the dream. The point that Derrica knows is more terrifying than the bats might ever be.

When she stretches just that little bit farther, just high enough to catch his mouth, it's to murmur, "I can't imagine anyone leaving you that way."

If they were sitting across the table from each other and having this conversation, Loxley would respond to the nerve that she locates by going, 'haha, well,' and changing the subject.

Instead, the warm naked weight of her on him is arresting, as is the way these words are murmured at his mouth. Stirs him, inevitably, there is no world where Derrica could not, but he can feel too the odd churn of a feeling or two, unbidden, as he lifts his head to press a kiss more firmly against her mouth, hands spread across her back.

"Maybe," he says, at this low murmur of conversation. "But you'd be surprised at how thoroughly disappointing people can be, if you think so."

Then, a little lighter, if no less quietly, sort of a hush secret; "I can't stand most flying things. Birds indoors, insects, all of that. Don't tell anyone."

Edited 2022-07-17 07:22 (UTC)

There is something to that. Something painful. Who had made him feel so disposable? Who could have tossed him aside?

Her fingers smooth the hair back from his forehead, give way to the drag of nails along his scalp. There is a little pinch of disbelief at her brow, for the statement rather than the secret.

"I won't," is very solemn, though it gives way, loosens as she tells him, "And I'll promise you this too. No flying things, no caves. No leaving you behind."

It helps, sometimes, to hear things said aloud. Derrica has been learning that in her time spent here, whether it's simply to acknowledge a danger or to hear something sworn off as an improbability. Here is her offering, because she has nothing else.

A small wedge, to lever against the dip in his voice when he'd described his dream to her.

It helps to hear. It's also hard to hear, like his instinct is to close ranks against the way her words spark a feeling somewhere low in his chest. To guard against the intrusion of someone's care, their perception, their ability to know a person perhaps better than you can yourself. But there's really nothing for it, with her so close and so gentle.

"Alright," he says back, feeling like that's sort of a silly response, but anything stronger feels like too much. Like this exchange is a delicate one.

When he ushers her into a kiss, he has it linger, holding her solid to him, a hand in her hair. And as he kisses, he thinks, ah, she survived something, and it feels like it clicks more into place than just that alone.

There is not enough light to see by, so whatever his expression does in reaction to her is impossible to read. What she has is the way he inhales under her, the sweep of his hands and the way he answers her, hitching and soft.

Derrica might have said more. She remembers Loxley's face, looking up at her, when she'd murmured compliments to him. All true things, but like this, he seems to brace against it. There's a tension in his body that doesn't quite come together, dissipates by the time he speaks.

She is easily drawn up into that kiss. Hands at his shoulders first, then returning to his hair. Fingers brushing the base of his horns. Derrica can't stretch any further, cover Loxley anymore than she already has, so the impulse is contained to the dig of her toes at his thighs, a soft exhale against his mouth when they break.

"I promise," she says again, murmured but sincere.

"I believe you," could almost be teasing, from the way he smiles in a half-kiss nudged against her mouth.

But then he says, again, "I believe you," and pauses over it. He can see her well enough in the dark, takes advantage of that to study her face, her eyes, hand sweeping her hair back and then settling high on her neck. "More than most. More than anyone, maybe."

More than anyone?

The hesitation isn't necessarily for the sentiment itself, but because surely Loxley has others. He should have others, who would do whatever it took to keep him close, who would never leave him behind. Loxley should have dozens of people he could trust for that.

She puts a soft, slow kiss to his mouth again, hand lowering to cup his cheek. Thumb rubbing lightly at the bristle of beard and smooth rise of his cheekbone when she draws back. Uncertain of what to say, because Thank you feels misplaced, so the light kisses she trades him will make the point for her.

open | brain heat meme

loxley.

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bow on this y/n/m