Wait For Me

WARNING: Adult situation - contains mature content


Xanadu Weyr - Secluded Woods Cottage

The first impression this tidy cottage gives is one of warmth. The smoothed golden logs that form the walls have been left bare, matching the floor and the half logs that form the stairs to the loft. Plush rugs break up the monotony of the wood, as do several wide windows with cheery lemon yellow curtains.

The main level is divided into two halves by a wide, low couch in rich blue which is nearly buried in pillows of white, yellow and blue in varying patterns. It faces a large hearth with a wide mantle above and a spit within perfect for roasting meats or hanging pots. One matching chair is nestled in the embrace of the bay window, whose window seat provides a bit of storage currently filled with warm blankets and a few cushions that could be used as additional makeshift seating. The other half of the room holds a dining table with four chairs, and the wall is lined with cabinets and a small sink with a pump for indoor water.

The stairs lead up to a spacious loft. The far side boasts an enormous skylight and the bed lies against the wall beneath it, giving the occupant a clear view of the night sky. Should privacy be wanted, a Roman-style shade's pulley is easily reached at the lowest edge of the ceiling. The bed itself is large and sturdy, fashioned of the same knotty pine as the rest of the cottage and its furniture, a sage green coverlet and another wealth of pillows, this time shades of green interspersed with white eyelet. A chest sits at the foot of the bed and a small nightstand and simple wardrobe complete the loft's furnishings.

The fog from days past has finally rolled away, leaving the Weyr crisp and clean with a pleasantly cool breeze taking the edge off the day's developing heat. The dew that was on the grass when Matrin left his loft is mostly burned off now as the morning slips along, but it's still early enough that he hopes to catch Mishkia before she leaves for the crafters cavern. He's dressed almost casually (for him) in fitted denim and a white button down with rolled sleeves and the neck open, and he tosses a bottle of white wine back and forth between his hands as he stands in front of her door. There's a nervous energy about him, and he takes a breath before rapping lightly on the doorframe.

Quiet. That's all that meets that rapping. For the span of time he waits nothing but the sigh of breeze through those willows and a few twitters and chirps of birds flitting though them answers. miah rises with the sun; she could have already left for the crafter's cavern. But no, there off on the other side of the clearing, the side that has more woods and then the meadow beyond, the curtain of willow boughs parts and here comes the Mireling. Barefoot, in sleeveless sundress of moss green, auburn hair loosely tumbled and basket on her arm - she's obviously not dressed to help with classes. She hasn't noticed anyone on her porch because as her hand parted the greenery, she'd looked down at something growing on the ground, bent to inspect it, then stepped through only now lifts her head and stops short. "Oh. I… did it again didn't I?" She's wyrly amused, grey eyes dancing as her lips curl in a little smile of apology. "I'll hurry!"

Some women might have spied Matrin through the window and, noticing his fidgeting, made him wait. It's not the sort of thing Mishkia would do, but he leans toward the nearest window anyway, peering through the gap in the curtains to see if she's hovering with a grin on the other side of the door. But no. He's running a hand through his hair and turning to leave just as she steps out from the veil of willows. The sight of her always brings a smile to his face and today is no exception, though there might be a hint of chagrin dancing along the curve of his lips. He's quiet as she makes her way over, waiting for her to notice him and greeting her with lifted brows and a wide smile when she does. "You're not late," he assures her, reaching a totally unnecessary hand down to help her up the step to the porch. "I'm here to see you, not to chastise you."

Mishkia might have, had she been there and been in a mischievous sort of mood. Unfortunately she's missed that opportunity this time, anyway. You'd think her trotting forward would slow down when she's told she's not late, but he's there and thus… she doesn't. Her smile widens in response to his, eyes bright and pleased to see him. That hand running through his hair though, that brings both a subtle gleam of approval and a dash of concern to her grey eyes. Reaching for that offered hand, fingers curling 'round it and using the assist to hop gracefully up from moss to porch without the aid of stairs. "Here I be! Though… chastising. That could be fun." Coppery brows wriggle, a little dimple beside the corner of her mouth sneaks out as she grins up at him.

Matrin's hand is warm and his grip is firm as he assists her hop up onto the porch. A little tug makes use of her momentum, guiding her forward and into his space. "Is that so?" It's nearly a purr as he slips his arms around her waist and dips his head to brush a kiss across that dimple. "Eggs on the sand seem to have made all the Weyr's women frisky, or maybe it's the break in the hot weather?" A dark brow arches and he releases her with one arm, leaving the other around the waist as he opens her door and leads her inside. "What were you gathering? Oh, and may I come in?" There's a sparkle of mischief in his own bright eyes as he crosses the threshold at her side.

Mishkia's hand is as cool as the shade beneath the thick trees will allow, fingers still damp with dew and a touch sticky with the sap of what she's been collecting. A one-armed embrace is the best she can offer since the other one is occupied by the basket, the inside which is mounded with dusky purple daisy-like flowerhead, snipped with the scissors she's tucked in there with them. After his lips touch the corner of her mouth, she draws back to give him a large-eyed look that feigns wonderment, given away by the grin lurking just behind the appearance of serious her lips are trying for. "All of them? I'm surprised you made it here this early, then." As they step over the threshold, "Coneflowers, and if you're coming inside to hide from the frisky Weyr-women, I'll let you. It might cost you though. Did you bring that in payment?" The last comment is accompanied by a nod to the bottle he's carrying.

Oh the bottle, right. So the arm around her waist does not include the busy hand. Matrin's writer should know better than to include props because they always get forgotten! Anyway… her pretended awe makes him smirk and he shakes his head, tsking. "Most of them, but I am a gentleman and not the sort to take advantage of friskiness-" he breaks off to eye her with that rogue gleam in his eye as he adds, "usually." The wine gets a little wiggle and he strides over to set it on her dining table. "I brought it thinking we could have a glass, but I guess it's a little early for that, so instead it can be payment for admission, certainly." Though he seems a little unsettled this morning, it can't quell the smile that being with her brings to his lips. "What are coneflowers for?"

They part and Mishkia heads to set the basket over on the hearth near the small bed of coals, what little heat they're giving off thankfully dissipated by the cooler currents eddying in from those wide-open windows. While he's setting that bottle down on the table, she's making use of that sink pump to wash the sticky off her hands, fingers flicking droplets at him playfully just before she grabs a hand towel to dry them off on. Tsking right back at him she pulls out a simple cork remover from a drawer, and offers it to him. "Not really. Goes perfectly with brunch." Long stemmed glasses from the cupboard, two small plates, a bowl of ripe strawberries and a plate of muffins join the bottle on the table. Attuned to reading nuances in her environment, she's noticed the unsettled about him and so when she answers his question, it's with a serious tone and deadpan expression. "Love potion." Glimmer of smirk.

Matrin's busy work doesn't take nearly as long, so he just stands with hands tucked into pockets, watching Mishkia as she moves so deftly about her space. "It's nice to see that you've made this place home," he murmurs, just before a chuckle cuts him off as drops of water splatter across him. He makes a show of wiping his face off, though a few tiny droplets don't really warrant it at all. Her reply on the wine draws one brow up, but he takes the corker anyway and puts it to good use. "Brunch it is then," he agrees, opening the wine and filling both glasses with the pale liquid. He then pulls a chair out for her before dropping lightly into the one beside it, only then tipping a bemused look up at her. "Frisky," he quips. "Who are you trying to get to fall in love with you? Or are you selling the potion which honestly, might be a fantastic idea."

"What?" That's in response to that lofted brow of his from an airily oblivious Mishkia. "Back home we drank Pa's Liquid Sunshine for breakfast." While ticking off on her fingers, she elaborates, "And lunch. And breaks, at bedtime and for midnight snacks too." Her effervescence deflates just a bit as she notes with a mild sort of chagrin, "But ohhh, Weyrs. They have proper times for drinking wine I guess?" Quicksilver, her mood shifts as she looks down into that quip, a cheeky little grin as she answers, "Maybe one of the Weyr's frisky men? Seriously, it's for making tea with. Helps to heal colds and keeps you healthy." She settles into that chair beside his, turns to face him, heels hooked over the rung of her seat, leans to tweak his finger-raked hair. Her eyes are tender as she focuses on the dark semi-disorder, pats it into place then drops her gaze to look him in the eye in a more serious mien. "So. You weren't here to chastise me. What brought you to my door this morning?"

"Oh yes, we are so proper in the Weyr you know," Matrin remarks dryly, though the comment could easily span both alcohol at breakfast and all the talk of being frisky. He idly swirls the wine in his glass, watching her over the rim as he takes first a sniff, then a sip. "I remember that drink and I'm not sure I would have called it sunshine," he quips with a wry twist of his lips. "But maybe I'm not keeping you liquored up enough if that's the truth." Her comment about frisky men makes him laugh lightly and nudges his chair a bit closer to hers. "You could have one without potion you know." Blue eyes flicker over her face as she plays with his hair, and when her fingers are finished he reaches for them, aiming to lace them with his. "I'm allowed to want to see you, aren't I?" But his eyes are as serious as her expression in spite of a vague smile, and he shrugs his light reply away. "I thought maybe we could talk a little. About your plans. About… our plans?" An upward lilt makes that a clear question and he reaches for his glass again with his free hand.

"More proper than we are at Mire Hold," Mishkia counters with rueful skewing her smile just a wee bit. "There's an unwritten code here, despite what everyone says about Weyrs being loose. It's been a little overwhelming trying to make sense out of it at times." A little whoosh of air from her nose follows on the comments of liquid sunshine. "Should have Gabit bring some out for you next time he visits. And that was a general 'we' not me." But…she doesn't need a love potion? She is mute for the few beats it takes for him to arrange their fingers, but doesn't look displeased to have heard that. Her "Oh really?" is eloquent in the way it's not said. Not a smart, cheeky, 'is that so?' His mention of plans has her eyes lifting to his hair, "Is that what's making you want to tear your hair out?" A smile tugs at her lips gently, doesn't quite reach her eyes but her careful answer to that quasi-question of plans is, "I don't see why not?" She does her best to look encouraging, brows lifted slightly, face open, eyes on his. Let her down easy, yeah?

"Some time… maybe not today, but some time I would love to hear more about your thoughts on that. The unspoken rules, the differences between Mire and here." Matrin looks down at their joined hands, watching his thumb skate up and down the side of her first finger. "I'd take some liquid sunshine, though I have to be careful not to overdo it, and if I remember right it doesn't take much." A smirk tips his lips to a crooked line and he finally lifts his eyes back to hers, though she gets more impossible dark lashes than sparkling blue. "Trying to know what's best, to not screw things up is making me run my fingers through my hair, yes. It's too big a part of what makes me pretty to tear it out." He aims for lighthearted but falls a little flat, swallowing too hard and watching her with eyes that are too earnest and searching. "It's silly to plan too much when I have no idea what next month will hold, I know. But have you thought at all about your plans if I do Impress? I want to make sure you are settled before the Hatching if you want to stay." But that's the easy bit and his own evasion makes him frown a bit.

"Some time," Mishkia echoes, agreeing with him. He might be able to help her understand them better and of course by now she's aware he wants to know what makes Mire Holders tick. As for liquid sunshine, she has a rogue-ish grin. "It doesn't." Her gaze flick from eyes to hair, "No bald wouldn't suit you, I don't think." Dropping it back to him, she meets searching with searching, unsure where this is going. Until he speaks and frowns like that. "Oh. You're… not going to be able to tutor me any more if you impress, are you." This thought seems to have taken her by surprise. "Will the Weyr replace you then? Because, yes, I had planned on staying. My folks are pleased with my progress." She drops her eyes to their hands, his thumb moving there. "If it's… a problem for you I can go to the hall maybe." Clearly, the idea makes her unhappy, but she lifts her chin to look him in the eye, "I don't want to be a burden to you or anything!"

Matrin manages a flash of a grin for bald not suiting him and he offers a weak, "At least I look good in hats." Then it's back to watching her as though shifts in her mouth and eyes might speak as much as her words. There's a rueful headshake for tutoring her if he impresses and he gives her hand a squeeze. "Not for a while, at least not in an official capacity. I guess it's really busy at least at first. But yes, a replacement will certainly be worked out, and I have a Journeyman in mind. Jasella would be able to offer you a different perspective, and teach you about instruments as well which you know I'm not good at." He ends his rambling when she continues, his frown growing until she mentions being a burden, and then he scoots his chair close enough to bury his free hand in her hair. "I don't want you to go. I want you to stay with me, to be here through Weyrlinghood and definitely after it. I just feel like… like it's a lot to ask of you." His thumb traces the line of her jaw and then the curve of her lower lip. "I haven't wanted to push you and now I suddenly wonder if I have taken it too slow. Do you really think having you stay would be a problem for me?"

Mishkia listens to the whole thing, the reassurance about Jasella tutoring her. His declaration about wanting her here with him whether he impresses or not, rather than seeming to lift the shadows clouding her eyes, only intensifies it. Lids lower over the confusion glittering in overbright eyes when his hand tangles in her hair. The fingers laced with his twitch, then curl into his, as she asks lowly, "Why would it be?" Her lashes are damp when they lift, allowing him to see the confusion and pain she's wrestling with, "You said talk about plans and wondered if I'd be set if you impressed so it seems like it would be to me? If that's all you're worried about then I'm assuming it would be."

All the air leaves Matrin in a rush, leaving him deflated, eyes on their hands for a beat. "I said it isn't the only thing I am worried about. But it is one thing I care about very much." He shakes his head, just barely meeting her damp-lashed eyes. "Please, please don't be upset. I am completely making a mess of this whole conversation." He laughs but it is a low, dark, mirthless and self-deprecating thing followed by an exhalation through pursed lips and him standing, then trying to bring her to her feet by their joined hands. "I'm a stupid, idiotic man, Miah, and I have apparently gone about this… all wrong." If she will join him standing, he will slide his arms around her, drawing her close. "I like you very, very much. If I Impress, do you think you might be willing to wait for me? And if so, if it isn't asking too much, I would really like to kiss you again." Now his smile creeps back, faint and sheepish as he tips his head to seek her eyes. "More than once. Frequently even. I just don't want you to be left with regrets if I… take things from you that I can't give back. Does that make any sense at all? I am not worried about me, I am worried about you, because you are brave and fiery and strong but also kind and innocent and very precious."

Mishkia winces when he looks deflated, emotion bringing her carefully-cultivated-out Mire accent back full-force, "Aye, ya did say that. I… misunderstood. Please don't look like that- I'm not- you're not-" she reaches her free hand, aiming to press the tips of her fingers lightly against his lips in attempt to stop that self-chastisement. "You didn't-" The tug brings her easily to her feet and into his arms, hers twining about his neck, her eyes fathomless when they meet his. She listens, until a low laugh escapes her, "Harpers. 're supposed to be good with words," she drawls after a few beats of silence at the end of his commentary. "An' I ain't a harper but even I know there's ways to speak without 'em. Haven't ya heard me all these months?" Hands behind his neck seek to pull his head to her as she rises on tiptoes to press her forehead to his, lashes ticking his. With an almost growl, she says, "You worry too much. Life is a risk, isn't it? As long as you're not planning to break my heart on purpose, there's nothing I'll regret giving you. But yes I'll wait for you."

Matrin presses a kiss to those silencing fingers, and when she come so easily into his arms he tightens his grip, one hand splayed across her back and the other low on her waist. "Even Harpers can lose their words when it comes to women. If I didn't care so much it would be easier." That hint of chagrin lingers and when she speaks about talking without words he just shakes his head. "I thought I was, I guess I was listening to the wrong things." He is quick to lean his forehead against hers, and her growl brings a quiet chuckle to his lips. "I'm not planning any such thing." Fingertips trace her spine and he takes another breath, this time a steadying inhalation as he says, "I just want to take care of you. And Gabit's kind of scary." There, he even manages a wink before closing the small space between them to capture her lips. The kiss is a far cry from the gentle and almost chaste first one. He pours his relief and the remnants of his worry, his care and his passion and his hunger into it, lips swiftly parting as it deepens.

That admission, that if he didn't care it would be easier does much to chase the haunted look from Mishkia's wide eyes. "Ya mighta been listening to me trying to figure out just what this scary new feeling that grabbed my guts and turned my brains upside down and my heart inside out." Yes, thank you Mire Hold Eloquence! That one - that made her look like big prey eyes and a bird about to take flight. Huskily she admits, "I've never felt this way before about anyone. Gabit-" she gets no further than that before his lips lower to hers. With a low moan her eyes slide closed, hands move up until her fingers are buried in the dark hair at the back of his neck, returning that kiss with growing fire to meet his, her toes curling into the floorboards as it deepens.

Matrin will have to mull over her actually quite eloquent (and accurate) description later. For now he is busy trying to devour her from the mouth down, and whatever hesitancy he might have retained has been banished by the quiet moan that escaped her. She has nothing to compare it to, but he has kissed more than his share of girls and whatever rust he has accumulated in the last turn of taking it slow doesn't seem to have impacted his talents much. He could probably be a bit more gentle and the insistence of his mouth and tongue may catch her off guard, but her fire only stokes his and his forbearance has reached its end. After long-stretched minutes he finally breaks away, just far enough to lean his forehead against hers and to struggle to catch his breath, his glittering eyes so close to hers. "Don't be scared," he whispers, his fingers sliding down her jaw to her throat and then further still, tracing her collarbone with tender reverence. "I swear I won't be upset if you need me to slow down." And he's not pushing her, though those wandering fingers do slip just beneath the edge of her neckline, trickling along the border before finding a safer place at her shoulder.

With that seeking tongue, while surprised might be part of it, whatever careful reserve Mishkia might have had goes FOOOF! Flamed and burnt to a crisp to fall around her bare feet in a snowfall of invisible ashes. He's pretty much going to have to be the one to hold her up because her knees have gone useless-weak, not that she's even thinking about that. Her response is to part soft lips and allow him to explore while she slowly melts further into the dizzy oblivion he's taken her to, fingers curling into his hair. When they part, she draws a shuddering breath, her slow-to-lift lashes with too-large eyes meeting his, a stunned amazement hazing hers. "I'm not," she whispers about being scared while under his fingertips, her too-fast heartbeats might seem to be shouting that she's a liar. But her next comment, breathlessly uttered while those fingers hover at her neckline ought to leave no doubt, "How often did you say you wanted to kiss me?" Something else simmers behind the wonder in her eyes.

Luckily, while one hand is busy traipsing over what bit of skin her modest attire offers, the other is firmly wrapped around her and Matrin has no problem keeping her on her feet. The way she melts only seems to encourage him, and since he's not expecting her to respond in kind, the parting of her lips is all the permission he seeks. Those enormous grey eyes make a slow and sultry smile curl across his lips, and he turns his hand to brush the back of it across her pulse where it flutters in her throat. "I'll take your racing heart as a good sign then?" One dark brow arches but his smile grows. "Mmm, I think I said frequently. Does that work for you, m'lady?" He'll take that hitch of breath and the heat in her eyes for a yes and so she gets her second kiss in as many minutes. This time he seems determined to coax her into returning his ardor less passively, pulling her tight against the line of his body but teasing instead of plundering her mouth.

Less passively?! Was he planning to leave anytime soon? Because with that coaxing… well. Mishkia may be a novice, but she can be taught! He's encouraging her with that teasing there… and so after a few feints she pounces, soft growl in the back of her throat to nip at his lips, following that up with a few to his jawline. Okay so she's more playfully clumsy than really good at it but she's working on it. Tight embrace, fine with her, though if her arms tighten around his neck any more this could get ugly. She's totally breathless, but who needs to breathe? It's a dance she's never tried before and thus, she's following his lead here so if he takes that as less fire than passion, welp. Not much she can do about that. Give her time?

Maybe Matrin showed up in the morning for a reason? Goodness knows the soft creeping darkness of twilight may have been more romantic, but at this point they have nowhere to be. Her sudden switch from doe-eyed prey to growling, nipping predator has him chuckling, but it's a desire-roughened sound deep in his throat, and he easily tips his head to give her better access to whatever she might care to put her mouth on. Fire, passion, clumsy or inexpert, Matrin seems more than satisfied with her efforts - really his goal was just to get her to be proactive and that she has done in spades. The tight grip eases up just enough to give her more space for breathing, and his other hand tips her head back so he can drop a line of kisses down the side of her neck, across her shoulder and back up to her mouth. A quiet moan drifts from his lips to hers and he breaks away with a dark glitter in his eyes. "You're so beautiful." It's husky with the heat that sends color into his cheeks, and he steps back enough to let his fingers traipse back across that neckline, then skip down to trace the side of her ribcage.

This is what teasing will do for him, apparently. Mishkia follows the line of his jaw to his ear. While she could, shown some examples of how to give that some serious attention, do better, sadly the poor thing is neglected with merely a nuzzle on the way to some nibbling on his eyebrows. Those kisses on her neck, though, have her arching back with a gasp. Eyes open to meet his glitter with a dark tumult in hers, her own color heightened that has nothing to do with feeling self conscious. He steps back, and despite the fingers still tracing her ribs it's a low-voiced, "Don't." Said as she follows him, because a step away is too far right now.

Her mouth on his eyebrows has Matrin chuckling again, but the arch of her back kills the laughter dead in this throat. Her single negative word has a similar effect, causing him to snatch his hand away for the beat it takes him to realize she's chastising him for the space, not for the audacity of his touch. His teeth graze his lower lip as his gaze searches hers, then he closes the distance between them and uses his weight to urge her backwards, toward the couch. "Sit with me," he nearly purrs, pausing slow steps to tuck his face back into her neck where a kiss becomes a taste, becomes a gentle grazing of teeth. "You taste as good as you look," is the murmur borne on hot breath against her skin. "As good as you feel," comes on the heels of another guiding step, and one hand reaches out to navigate their somewhat awkward path around to the right side of the couch.

His chuckling has a strange effect on Mishkia. She baffled and … gripped with the desire to undo his superior amusement, if that's what it is. She isn't really thinking clearly or even trying to at this point, oh no. She's beyond that. She stalks after him, reaching for that snatched back hand to reclaim it, meeting his searching with an intensity he's not seen and she'd be amazed herself to see if it were shown to her in a mirror. Almost frustrated; she doesn't know where to go from here, but he's brought her to this! He's there again, where she wants him and those teeth on her neck undo the last of her prey-anything. Her arms slip around his waist, tug to untuck the shirt so she can slip her hands under and slide up the skin of his back. No, sorry, she hears him but her brain wouldn't be able to answer coherently, so he gets a groan instead. The back of her knees meet that couch and she's going down.

Matrin blinks into the face of her newfound intensity, dark brows lifting just before his eyelids grow heavy and languid. The feel of her hands pulling his shirt up, of her skin against his, makes him growl low in his throat and he breathes an oath that has nothing to do with irritation and everything to do with hanging on to the last shreds of his control. Then her knees are buckling, and he drops one of his to the couch, giving him leverage to help her down into cushioning welcome of the pillows. For a moment he can only look at her - auburn hair spread out in a fiery halo around her face, the way the material of her dress falls against her body, and the breath he manages is shaky at best. His lips part to speak but he seems to think better of it, reaching instead for the arch of her foot and the narrow line of her ankle. He watches his hand as it inches up toward her calf, encouraging her leg into a bend as his fingers follow the line up to her knee.

With that growl, Mishkia's arms tighten, but the oath - that penetrates the haze in her head for a moment, but she can't quite interpret it so her hands pause in that slide up his back while she tips her head back to search his expression for the meaning of that. "What-" is muttered thickly just as the back of her knees hit the back of that couch. Trying to catch her breath - which is a little ragged as she lies there - doesn't allow for more words for the moment. Watching his lips part, her eyes glitter with something close to defiance behind the smoky heat in them. It's not hard to see that if he's going to warn her about holder values, she's not going to heed it. Her eyes follow the line of his to where fingers touch her ankle and she watches his hand move with a fascinated gaze, her leg bending readily. Her low-voiced "'Trin-" is half plea, half command, her new name for him falling easily from her lips while her arms open to him.

The only reply Matrin can manage for her 'what' is a hasty shake of his head. After a moment of watching the glitter in her eyes he adds, "I want you." Both an explanation for his growl and reassurance that he's not aiming to warn her off or talk about being cautious, not now. He blinks, dragging his eyes up from her knee to her face when that abbreviated form of his name escapes her, not to mention the tone. "Yes?" It's almost teasing, though too smokily rough to quite hit the notes he's aiming for. Wandering hands slide her skirt upward, bunching it above her knees before gently parting them and sinking down into her arms. His hold the majority of his weight so he is a blanket of warmth without too much pressure as he smiles down into her eyes and then dips his head for a slower, deep kiss.

With that teasing 'yes', smoky or no, it's Mishkia's turn to utter an oath and though she uses one of the best Mire Holder one, she totally lacks the rough-tumble accent the men use when saying it. She's more sputtering spitfire and half-articulated frustration, "If I had a flea-bit, two headed, three toed… (more sputtering) skew-horned goat…!" She… can't remember how it goes and really doesn't care at the moment because those hands there brushing her skin as her skirt moves up her thighs tangles her tongue and muddles her mind. She doesn't really want to curse him anyway. He's there and her arms slip back around him, meeting his smile with an intensity to grey eyes and she lifts her head to meet his kiss halfway, lips parting before his touch her mouth, only to melt back to those pillows, losing herself completely in it.

Matrin's eyes widen and he can't help but chuckle at her spluttering, inarticulate frustration. "Shhhh," he breathes, stroking her hair as he breaks the kiss just enough to look down into her eyes. But he doesn't really mind that she's all worked up, not by a long shot. It is a brief thing, a bare hesitation, and then he gives in to her insistence and the press of her lips. Leaning back, trying in vain to catch the breath that has so thoroughly deserted him. His hips roll against hers but he's shaking his head, brain and body fighting each other. "I want to give you candles and flowers, Miah. I want to lay you out in the moonlight and watch the shadow of the leaves dapple your skin. I want you to savor this moment and then that one." He's flushed and his heart is racing against her chest, but his eyes are earnest as he runs his fingers through her hair. "Tonight. Can you wait until tonight?"

Mire hold has nothing slightly romantic. There's just life in all it's joys and simplicity, the raw edge of fighting to survive, the warm laughter and comfort of family, the vibrant cycle of life and death, the unexpected that takes people away before goodbyes can be made and the certainty of love despite the tangle of emotions that run the gamut from burning anger to cool acceptance all rolled into one mysterious package. And thus the question bringing everything to a skidding halt has Mishkia blinking stupidly up at Matrin. She manages to croak, "W-what?" He's going to leave her like this? How can he? He's asking her at the height of passion if she can wait? All these questions flicker in her wide-eyed regard for him, probably easily read, but all she can think to say is, "What if tonight never comes?" Disbelief is replaced with confusion mingled with pain.

He's done it again, opened his mouth and shoved his foot firmly in. Maybe Matrin is used to a different sort of girl, or maybe he has spent too many turns reading the love stories spun by his craft. Her reaction is clearly not what he expected, and his hands are quick to slide down her body, as if he could stroke the confusion and pain out of her eyes by way of her skin. "Don't… don't look that way, love." He shakes his head both to deny the pain he has apparently caused and maybe a bit to clear it. "I just want to do right by you, for once in my life." His teeth snag his bottom lip and he buries his nose in the crook of her neck. "If this is what is right for you, this is what I want to do." But it seems like he might have totally ruined the moment with his inane striving for impossible perfection. He tries to make it up to her, to skate over the awkward interlude with his hands and his mouth, shedding the last bits of clothing between them. And then if she'll forgive his struggles now that she and his body have conspired to overrule his wayward mind, he will be slow and tender and gentle with her, but he won't stop again.

"I did something wrong? Was I supposed to light a candle?" Mishkia's confusion deepens at Matrin's words and she casts a look over his shoulder at her cupboards where they are stacked before returning to skim their twined bodies then lift to him. This… yes, not usually the way holders are supposed to go about things but she could probably cite a few aunts who tumbled in the hayloft before being married off. "All these… rules and customs, I am so ignorant." His talk of candles obviously still baffles her but his comment about doing things right for once is what gives her pause, arms cradling his head to her shoulder while he speaks, running her fingers through his hair slowly, thoughtfully. She's still after that declaration, the silence stretches until she says quietly, "This is right. You're perfect. But what about you? What's right for you?" She's not going to press him, but if he's staying she'll give - and take however he decides.

Matrin shakes his head, nuzzling at her shoulder as he murmurs, "You did nothing wrong. You're perfect. I was supposed to light a candle." But by the end there's at least a lifting of his mood and he is quick to lift his head and press a kiss to her brow. "You don't have to be anything but mine. Many women prefer romance and though I usually don't bother I wanted to give it to you… if it was important to you." He pauses to smooth her hair and then twine a bit around his hand. "You," he breathes to her last question, fisting more of her hair until a light tug can tip her chin back, giving him better access to kiss the vulnerable column of her throat. "I love you just exactly the way you are, and this is perfect. You are perfect." They got here in a very round about way, but yes, he is staying, and hopefully the fact that he will soon be breathless will keep him from saying anything else that will get in the way.

"Ohhh," Mishkia gives Matrin a funny quirky little smile for having denied him the pleasure of the candle-lighting ceremony (whatever that is). "Yours. I like the sound of that," she admits with a sudden shy demeanor that has nothing to do with them being barely clothed. "I have no idea what romance is but you may show me sometime if you like," she manages between that kiss and his fingers in her hair. Hers, meanwhile are tickling the hair at the nape of his neck and although she's working on breathing while he's kissing her neck, his answer to what's right takes it completely away, her fingers going completely still. "You…love…me?" No, he doesn't have to keep talking -in fact, she'd rather he put words to action. Though she does manage to whisper her love for him in the next little while, slow and gentle works quite as well as passionate - both serve to undo her ability to think or speak coherently.

He might not have meant to put it in quite those words, and the quick, startled upward glance when she asks that hesitant question will give him away. But then Matrin's lips slip into a slow and almost shy smile, and rather than answer with words he does what she would rather. It might be news to him too but apparently he agrees with the statement he so unthinkingly made, and he murmurs it with more conviction another time or two as the moments slip past. Soon enough they lay tangled in each other's arms, and he strokes her hair and kisses her cheek. A late brunch of the wine and food they abandoned is just the next step in a day cleared of classes for her, and it's not until the afternoon that he finally has to slip away to attend to his duties. Rest assured though, he'll be back to bring her to dinner and if she'll have him he won't leave her side until morning.

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