Logs:This, Again
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| RL Date: 11 July, 2015 |
| Who: Farideh, Drex |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr, High Reaches Hold |
| Type: Log |
| What: On a dark and stormy night, Farideh and Drex rekindle a flame. |
| Where: Pirate Queen II, High Reaches Hold |
| When: Day 25, Month 3, Turn 38 (Interval 10) |
| Weather: Stormy. Cold. |
| Mentions: Itsy/Mentions, Faryn/Mentions |
| OOC Notes: NSFW. Angst. The usual. |
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| It's a dark and stormy night, like at the start of all those overdramatic Harper tales. It's been raining off and on, and in the Hold's docks, the ships rock up and down in response to the churning of the waves. Only those pulling the short straws are left outside; the remainder of the crews gathering below decks or in the relative dryness of nearby taverns. The Pirate Queen II stands taller than her counterparts, at the far end of the dock, looming and ominously dark. The weather by itself should have been enough to dissuade Farideh from journeying from the safe, foggy confines of the Weyr to High Reaches Hold in the dark of night. That she -- after having Roszadyth land some distance away and making the trek from her dragon down to the ships -- stands, staring up at the bulk of the Pirate Queen II as it sways up and down in the dark waters, is testament enough that it didn't. She's bundled in heavy layers, under her riding jacket and a more advantageous hooded coat, though she doesn't appear to be bothered by, or notice for that matter, the sporadic scattering of rain. It's only after a significant amount of time staring at the hull of the ship, that she actually sets foot on the lowest part of the gangplank, and then puts another foot in front of that one. Each step makes her expression that more grave. As she's walking, there's a shadow apparent to her right, suddenly moving. On closer inspection, it's a bit of material being whipped around in the wind. The ship itself seems to react to her presence, audibly creaking and groaning (and totally not because of the shift of the sea beneath)! Surely, at any moment, one-eyed pirates with bad teeth will leap out from behind that mast. But no, it seems deserted. Even for someone unfamiliar with ships the door the Captain's cabin is obvious, marked by a pair of crossed swords etched into the wood. The shadow only makes her pace quicken, from slow, begrudging steps to a hurried stroll, and she only exhales, quite loudly at that, once she's made the deck; that there's no one else around to witness her visit to the ship is likely the cause of relief on her face. Farideh takes a moment to look around, sweeping the corners with wary eyes, and inevitably, her gaze is pulled towards the aptly-decorated captain's door. "Itsy," she mutters, low, under her breath, and turns her face away from the wind. It's only a short stroll to the door, and once there, she hesitates, staring at the closed portal. Something must make up her mind, because she does rap her knuckles against the wood, in the end. As her knuckles touch the wood of the door, there's a sharp noise from high above, like the call of an avian. It'd be rather unusual for avians to be out this late at night, let alone in this weather. There's a long moment of silence afterwards, no movement from above, and just the eerie groaning of the ship's hull. Abruptly, the door flings open -- it's dark inside, so it might be difficult to discern the hand that reaches to grab at whatever it can easily reach -- probably the material of that coat. The knife that's pushed near to her throat is perhaps more easily seen, flashing briefly in the ambient light. That avian sound from up above is disconcerting enough, and Farideh's twisting around to find the source when the door opens and she's grabbed. She only has enough time to suck in a ragged breath through her mouth and then stiffen, when it becomes obvious just what is being held close to her throat; she doesn't even try to defend herself, though, despite all of Quinlys' good training, it's evident she would never be able to hold her own, especially not in this type of situation. Her breath quickens, but she doesn't say a word, perhaps for fear it would encourage bloodletting. There's a tense moment of stillness, and then a ragged breath that exhales sharply and inhales just as much, in order to let out a low whistle, answered from above. The knife is lowered, and quickly disappears, as that hand slides from the coat to her arm, squeezing on the verge of painful. "The fuck ya doing here? At this hour?" the voice, at least, is familiar, even if it's a just-as-familiarly unhappy sounding Drex. Farideh lets out a loud, relieved exhale when the knife is lowered, her eyes closing briefly; when they open again they're searching the dark for the face that matches the familiar-if-unhappy voice. "You wanted me to see your ship." She tries feebly to pull her arm out of his hand, not giving it much of an effort. "So, I came to see your ship," is at least an honest admission, however quietly she says it. Even if his expression can't be seen, Drex's snort of disbelief is audible enough to convey his reaction. His, "Salty mermaid's minge," is uttered under his breath, and her attempt to pull her arm free fail, as he uses his grip to tug her inside instead, only releasing her afterwards, slamming the door shut against the cold weather outside. The shape of him can be heard-more-than-seen retreating, and moments later he uncovers a glow basket over on the desk. His hair is tangled, like he's just woken up, which explains why he's shirtless, shoeless, and clad only in a pair of pants. The hammock over to one side is a tangled pile of blankets, though his gaze is all for her, trying hard for distant equanimity and failing miserably, to judge by the confused and unsettled expression. "Salty mermaid's--" sounds like the beginning of a disgruntled reprimand, but it's cut off when he pulls her inside the cabin. Farideh stands where he left her, in silence, but once there's light, she's studying him intently across the space that separates them. Eventually, she averts her eyes, choosing to scrutinize the room instead; it's no coincidence that her cheeks are suddenly red. "Is this where you stay?" she asks, her eyes roving over the visible furniture and other ornaments. The desk is probably the biggest bit of furniture in the room, and Drex leans back against it as Farideh's gaze roves. "Aint mine, just here till Itsy comes back, anyway." Curled hides are scattered across what looks like a map table, and there are other storage cabinets, but the entirety of the room would fit into less than half the size of her weyr, even discounting the bath and bedroom. "Someone told me," Farideh starts, once she's taken in as much of the room as she can and her eyes lift to Drex again, "that I--" Her sigh is heavy and emotive, and her face looks at once weary and unhappy. "That when things get hard, I tend to run away." She pauses and gives those words time to sink in, her hands fidgeting at her sides. "I'm not in the habit of admitting when I'm wrong, either." Drex doesn't say anything in response, not immediately, anyway. Instead, he pushes up from the desk, moving around her towards the hammock, and picking a shirt up off the floor, buttoning it halfway up. It might have less to do with her staring at him, and more to do with the cold. Maybe, anyway. "So," he says, when he turns, "They finally stuck you in therapy, huh? About time." The tone of his voice and the grin that follows makes it clear he's teasing her. "Am I part of that? Seven steps to greatness?" The suspense is killing her, or so the earnestness of her gaze might suggest, as her eyes follow him past and to the hammock. "Did Itsy tell you that?" Farideh asks, less amused than anything, her arms crossing defensively over her chest. The sharp shake of his head seems honest enough, lips thinning. Tugging a hand through his hair, Drex shifts his position a little, intending for the shove of bare foot against a pair of discarded shorts further into the shadows to be subtle. Awkward embarrasement perhaps couches itself in a slightly harsher-than-intended response: "You aint here to talk about her. She's there, with you." "No," is admitted, her gaze intent still. "I didn't come to talk about her." But what she did come to talk about has been waylaid, for now. "You don't mind the cold?" Farideh asks, slanting Drex a look from the corners of her eyes, but then she's moving towards the map table, pulling at the knot of her scarf to unravel it. Apparently Drex takes the question as criticism, since, after a pause, he moves past her presence at the map table, to a small brazier hanging from the ceiling in the corner. He fiddles with it a bit, though the heat is subtle rather than overwhelming in response. "The crew's grumbling we didn't winter at Ista like normal. Longer winter it gets the worse it's getting. Gonna be fighting each other in a few weeks, I bet." He almost sounds like he looks forward to it, oddly enough. The map topmost on the table shows sea currents around the west coast, overlaid by storm patterns. The scarf is pulled off and then her over-jacket, which she slings over her arm for now, all the while scrutinizing the map spread out on the table. "I'm sure they'll forget all about how terrible High Reaches is once you're out in the open water again," Farideh says, her eyes lifting from the illustration to touch on Drex. "And you've already committed to wintering at Ista the next turn, right?" Her fingers reach out to graze along the storm patterns. "I've missed you," is abrupt, out of line with her previous words, but not any less poignant. "Aye," Drex says quickly in a tone that equates to duh, "Or we'd have had a second mutiny on our hands already." The first going, pointedly, unmentioned. He's watching her, or more accurately, watching what got her interest on the table, so that the latter comes as a surprise. If she's watching him, she'll catch the slight flinch of reaction, the straightening posture. He's silent for a painfully long moment. "Fari," he says, finally, oddly gently, "We can't keep having the same argument and getting to the same conclusion. Aint no point." Mutiny is not in Farideh's wheelhouse, so beyond a slight, bemused frown, she says nothing on that topic, and continues traipsing her fingers along the delineated paths on the map. "I know," is duly soft and sad, "I've had two months to think about it. Haven't you? Thought about it?" She drags her hands away from the map long enough to prop her hip against the table, her eyes lifting back to Drex. "It's hard already, harder still when you consider the future. Where will we be a turn from now? Or five? And I see--" Her eyes lower and her smile is wry. "Normal people, having normal relationships. Weyrmates. It's not fair, but I--" Her fingers flex on the table and then flatten, as she works through her words. "Would I rather have five hours of your attention or none at all?" "Of course," Drex replies with that self-same duh emphasis. "Of course I miss you, miss us." His expression tightens as she mentions others. "It's not enough just to want things to work because other people are happy and you're jealous of what they have. It doesn't change you, and it doesn't change me." It's the latter words that earns a long, silent stare, unable -- unwilling? -- to attempt a response to that. "That's not what I meant," Farideh says, actually looking hurt at his insinuation. "Do you think I'm that impulsive? I've never--" Her lips compress and she turns back to the map. "I'm sorry I hurt you, before, but I--" Another sigh leaves her lips. "I don't want you to change, and I certainly can't change myself. I don't care if it's one hour, one day, or one month, I'd rather have that than-- this." Her eyes focus on Drex's face, studying, while her expression is rueful. "It's enough. It has to be." "Fari," Drex stops, grimacing. He rocks back on his heels, almost an automatic response to the slight roll of the ship, as much as to stop himself going to her. "Is it, though? I don't want to do, this again." And while he doesn't elaborate on this, his meaning is probably clear enough, given he's looking towards the Hold proper. His gaze finally comes back, to the ship, to her, carefully weighted: "Are you sure?" "I've been miserable," Farideh admits, "not just because of this, but I did realize that the one person I wanted to see, to talk to, about everything else, I couldn't, and why? Because I'm selfish and couldn't deal with the circumstances that weren't to my liking? That seems like a horrible excuse." Her smile stretches wan, her expression openly remorseful. "I'm sorry," is as much affirmation as apology. Drex's, "I'm sorry, too," is less obvious in its intent, given he shifts his shoulders and turns away from her for a moment. It's a second, maybe two or three or forever, before he's turning, moving around the map table to her, to gather her up into one of those all-encompassing bearhugs that has him lifting her off the ground and spinning her around, while he buries his head into her neck. Farideh is patient, this time, watching his back while he's turned, with that same doleful expression. She is genuinely surprised when he comes towards her, and in place of remorse, there's hopefulness just before he lifts her up in a hug. "Drex," she half-laughs, half-breathes, her own arms wrapping around his neck when she can get a chance, between the spins; her jacket, her scarf fall forgotten to the floor. The sailor makes a noise into her neck that might be an aborted growl, or maybe a muffled laugh. It's only when Drex sets her back on her feet that he draws back enough to look at her up close, his hands moving up to curve against the sides of her face. "We still have a problem to deal with," he says, all serious. Farideh is positively besotted, with dreamy eyes that are all for Drex, now, and even when he sets her down, she can't help but let her arms, around his neck, travel down his chest to wrap around his waist. She only sobers somewhat at his cryptic statement, her eyebrows knitting together as her head tips back so she can look up into his face. "What?" Drex takes a deep breath, like he has to brace himself for something seriously... serious. He leans closer, murmurs, "You have far too many layers of clothes on right now." Poised to listen, Farideh's wryness shows in the quirking of lips, the smoothing of her brow. "I see you haven't learned any platitudes out here," she quips in return, but releasing his waist, thereafter, she tugs on one arm of her riding jacket, trying to slip it off. "How have you survived this whole time?" she asks, so innocently. There might be shifty-eyed moment of distraction at her question for a beat, but Drex is soon reaching down to help her strip off her jacket. "With great difficulty," the sailor replies. "Especially, with," he makes a frustrated noise in between trying to seek out her lips with his own, answering, and trying to work on unbuttoning the shirt underneath. So, it doesn't take long until he's focusing on just the two things. Or one thing, mainly. Time to christen Itsy's desk! It's a heated moment, and that shifty-eyed gesture is lost on Farideh, who is too keen to start where they left off. Her lips are eager to find his, to press with ardency and urgency; it's been two months too long, they might as well say. There's no words, nothing but her fingers tugging at his pants, trying to hasten the inevitable, and then her focus shifts and her hands are pushing through his hair, curling at the back of his neck as she presses her body flush up against his. The focus is definitely more urgent than cautious, and a few things might get shoved or knocked off the desk in the process as Drex -- once he's satisfied with the state of her undress -- sits her on there, seeking to satisfy both of their needs in the same urgent moment. Took soon, when the moment has passed, little things -- like some item pressed uncomfortably into Farideh's butt-cheek, or the hardness of the desk -- might become more apparent, though Drex is more interested in trailing kisses against her skin, grinning to himself. The contentedness with which Farideh lies on the desk, afterwards, of rosy cheeks and languid movements, is only disrupted by her seeking one of the offending objects she's laid on and tossing it off the desk without a care. "What?" she asks, once her attention has been fully returned to Drex, regarding his grinning, with a speculative stare. Drex doesn't try to answer her immediately, perhaps waiting moments longer until he can get his breath back, or maybe distracted by, well, her. "Nothin'," he finally lies, clearly lying, and grinning about that, too. After a few more moments, he admits, "Just wondering what it'd be like in the hammock. Harder, I think." But he's clearly thinking about it, and it's obvious why: "Do you have to go back yet?" Speculative turns to suspicious, but Farideh waits out the rest of what he has to say, ending up hiding a laugh behind her hand. "I'm sure they'll disapprove, but as long as I make it back to drills in the morning--" She bites her lower lip and turns her head, glancing towards the hammock; she's obviously giving it some thought too, though perhaps not in the same manner as him given she doesn't have a grin plastered on her face. With a sudden grin, "Perfect. Long enough for a nap," in the hammock, clearly, since Drex is moving, sliding off the desk, reaching out a hand to help her up, too. If she doesn't object (and probably even if she does!), he's reaching to pick her up with the intent of carrying her all the way over to the hammock. It's layered in furs and blankets, a snug enough nest, though it'll certainly require some negotiation to get fully comfortable with another person. "Just a nap?" Farideh sits up begrudgingly, taking the offered hand and slipping off the desk; her feet aren't on the floor for too long before she's being picked up and carried -- not with protests! -- to their hammock-love-nest. She's not letting opportunities pass her by either, and, with one arm securely wrapped around his neck, pressing a series of gentle kisses to his throat. "To start with," Drex concedes, not-so-grudgingly, grinning at her as they settle in. One arm ends up under her waist to wrap her close, the other hand exploring against her skin beneath the warmth of the blankets, eyes closed. "Missed you," he murmurs, sleepily, and it won't be long before he falls asleep. |
Comments
Faryn (02:09, 12 July 2015 (MDT)) said...
You guys need a ship name. I need to be able to buy t-shirts. Team Faridrex? Drerideh? Dromedary? I don't do ship names. Thank you for kissing and stuff and being cute. Again.
Squishy (02:44, 12 July 2015 (MDT)) said...
Well, props where props are due, they took longer to make up than usual this time.
I admit loving to see this side of Farideh, not that she's ever brimming over with confidence but in this moment, she seems less like a weyrwoman to be trying to figure out who she is supposed to be, and more like someone who knows at least a little bit of what they want.
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