Pre-party mush
Who: Miniyal and G'thon
Where: Oh, where else by now, people? ;p He does have a nice room.
When: Approx day 22, month 6, turn 2 of the 7th Pass.
What: Really, what man tells a woman she mustn't fuss over her appearance?
Note: I have the party log up until Min left. I am being lazy and not posting it with this. I am sure someone has the full thing and can enjoy the posting of it. ;)
And, as the title says. Mush. Creepy, but that is part of what makes it fun!
9/24/2006
day 22, month 6, turn 2 of the 7th Pass.
There is a dance at the weyr. How. . .horrid. There is absolutely no way Miniyal is going to get out of attending, but she has managed to duck her mother's attentions and crept off. . .here. Which is a refuge of sorts anyway. With her came what she was intending to wear to the soiree she is being forced to attend. With any luck she can duck out early and retreat to somewhere quieter, less populated, with better wine. For now she has banished Gans from his bed chamber to get dressed. From within there is much complaining about color and fit and so on and so forth, but she does emerge, dressed but for the slippers hanging in one hand and the ribbon meant to go around her neck in the other. These she stares at, frustrated at the whole thing, before seeing if she's ran off the room's owner yet.
No, she has not. Gans stands by the bookcase, a small volume - one of the unreliable little tomes of herb remedies less approved by Healer Hall and more promoted by travelling quacks - in his hand. It is spread open, as if he's been reading from it, but his head is up and his gaze ready for her when she emerges - so it might be a little transparent that he has been merely waiting. After a glance over her his regard focuses firmly on her face, his chin raised. "Blue for your eyes," he observes, and his words are sweetened by great fondness and a little muted admiration. "You are stunning. Resist the desire to fuss about it. Can I help you with anything?" So quickly he abandons the little book to the shelf so he can tread toward her, his long hands offered out with palms up.
It is, perhaps, to be expected that his words calm her doubts. At least for the moment. It is not at all her usual dark and muted colors which are so much better at concealing and allowing one to be concealed. "I, umm. Thanks," she mumbles as she forces herself to not immediately fuss with something. Chin tilting upwards she takes a deep breath and smiles, all for him. Although there is no one else there. Even if there were. . .She may go on and on, and indeed in the last few days has, about how her mother is forcing her to do this, but the hard to hide truth is she does this for him. Because he might need her there. So, she holds out the ribbon. "Could you tie this for me? I do horribly at it." A pause and then, shyly even, "You look good." Good not the best descriptor, but the one settled on as she might otherwise gush. How embarrassing.
"I have dressed this way for eons," replies Gans, disposing with both humility and flatteredness in his bemused reply, and takes from her hands the ribbon. "Come here, then," he adds in a murmur, affectionate, perhaps a little sensual, and even as he's asked her to come near enough that he can tie the ribbon he steps closer to her to help close the gap between them. She'll have to turn around; he'll reach around her and gently drape her throat with the strip of fabric, gestures of commonplace intimacy, everyday trust. "I shouldn't have to stay long," he assures her while his hands move; his fingertips trace her neck with silent endearments.
"I've always liked to see people dressed up," she admits softly as she moves so the ribbon can be tied. She sways lightly on her bare feet as she allows herself a moment to lean against him. It is an action Miniyal does more often than not these days, seeking comfort from the touch and from knowing it is available to her. Her breath catches in her throat at the touch on her neck and there might be, perhaps, the softest of sighs afterwards. "We'll stay as long as you like," she promises. "Just don't promise me wine and never deliver." A tease even.
He ties the ribbon slowly, cherishing perhaps the opportunity to stroke her neck; in the end the knot's made well, though, laying flat against her skin with the ends tucked out at pretty little angles. "I am sorry about that," Gans says, droll and low, to her scolding tease about the wine, and now that the ribbon is done he strokes his palms down over her shoulders and upper arms; at the elbow his hands pause, then slide forward to seek her hands and draw her more tightly against him. "I would like to stay long enough to see whomever I must see, then to dance with you," he murmurs at her ear, and steals a moment to press his lips to that ear's upper curve before adding more softly yet, "and come home."
She is content, even more so, to be held so tightly. Closing her eyes she doesn't say a word and just enjoys this moment of peace. The Little Voice is trampled on, locked in a closet somewhere for now. Surely to escape at the party, but for now he is nowhere to be seen. Or more importantly, heard. Miniyal finally lets out a quiet laugh, resigned. "You will make me dance?" she asks. "I am a horribly dancer, Gans. I could break one of your feet. I. . .one dance." How easily she relents. "If it is what it takes to get to come home." Oh, how easily she lets herself be lured by those words. As if she has not been landed long ago. There is little doubt anymore with whom she has cast her lot. To either of them or anyone else.
"I have been trod upon by young dragons. I have no doubt my feet are up to a misstep or two." He sways a little with her in his arms, as if there were music already, or just to feel their bodies shift, to feel the warmth of her in his embrace. "One dance," he agrees, as easily placated as she is lured. Again Gans leans his lips a little closer to her ear to speak in a whisper, to breathe words for her alone - not, as it has been noted, as if anyone else were present. "This time." The kiss stolen this time is from her earlobe, and then another from the skin just beneath it, where jaw joins neck. After this he straightens and loosens a little his grip; he does not -quite- let her go. "Shall I put your slippers on for you?" His turn to tease.
"Oh, Gans," is said, affectionate, endeared, beloved. All of these emotions heard in those two little syllables and never put into their own words. They are left to be inferred which is daring enough for Min. "It would take a lot to get me to agree to more than one dance. Something momentous. I doubt I will ever see it in my lifetime, something that would make me agree to more than one." She laughs at his question, a breathless sound as he's so easily left her so with his small kisses and embrace. "Well, if you are offering," she says with a tease back. Perhaps she should do it herself, but the lure of more contact causes her to turn in his loosened embrace so she faces him, eyes alight with so many things. "I would be in your debt for such gentlemanly assistance," she offers, low and promising any number of thanks later, after that one dance.
Gans' hand slips away from her arm as she turns, fingers waiting for the moment where they can easily take from her the slippers she brought out with her. "Well, we can't have you indebted to me," he replies, droll, stepping back with the shoes. For just a moment longer he keeps her fixed in his focus, then adds, "So we shall see to that repayment quickly." Then, a testament to the healer's work: he bends swiftly and easily to one knee, there to prepare on the floor one slipper for her to step into, his pale hands ready to assist her heel in slipping into place.
A laugh escapes, how happy she sounds right now. "I look forward to it. I've never liked to be in debt to anyone." Another laugh, although if one were being honest it would be classified as a giggle, and she releases the slippers and will, when it is ready, slip her foot into the first. "You're going to spoil me," Miniyal warns with a warm smile delivered down upon him. "Of course, if you really wanted to spoil me you'd say I could not even attend this silly thing tonight." Hopeful little smile.
His cool, pale hands stroke her foot, ostensibly to smooth the slipper against her skin and ensure the fit. "Well, you could stay here, I suppose," he informs the curve of her instep as he slips a finger between fabric and skin to stroke there, not quite lightly enough to be tickling; no doubt he is just making sure the shoe is not too tight there. Then he sits back and tips his head to gaze up at her, his smile strengthened by the distance and wry twinkles brightening his eyes. One brow crooks. "But you've already gone to such trouble to get dressed, and I would have no dance partner." He puts out, after that, the second slipper.
"It would not," Miniyal points out all teasing and coy glances now, "Be too much trouble to get undressed." However, she merely extends her other foot and slips it into the slipper. "Not as much fun, I suppose, if you're going to the dance anyway." This is, of course, the same woman as before who would blush at even a lightly suggestive tone. How things change. "Besides, I am sure you will have dance partners without me. But, I did give my word. And there are few things I have these days so must not break what I do."
"Indeed. I would by far prefer to be allowed to assist with the undressing." He can sound so serious, so solemn even, in saying such things; the droll tone is optional and at the moment he discards it. She will have to understand the meaning of his words from not the tone of his voice, but the feel of his hands upon her foot, stroking graceful touches around the joint of the ankle, down the curves of the upper to the place where the slipper meets skin. "I suppose I might have to oblige someone or other. Your mother, possibly." Now there's an idea Miniyal probably had tried not to entertain. To soothe her, Gans employs again that trick of a finger checking the fabric against the instep, barely-not-tickling. Then he rises, the movement slow from age but smooth enough, and half-turns so she has his smiling side in profile - and his arm, presented. "I declare us ready, my dear, and think we'd better go before I change my mind. Will you accompany me?"
With no way left to avoid going, Miniyal resigns herself to the party. He'll forgive her, she hopes, if her arm slips into his and she stands too close a moment. If there is now a hint of worry in her eyes. From the mother comment? Perhaps. Perhaps more so in that they seem to be going /together/. This is not a chance encounter at a public event. This is her, Miniyal, arriving at a dance on the arm of him, G'thon. "Corin is an excellent dancer," she murmurs as she takes a deep breath and makes that first step towards the door. "Better than I am." Chin up, now a 'proper' distance from him even with arms linked, she is prepared to face the crowd. There is no sneaking in at this event.
Where: Oh, where else by now, people? ;p He does have a nice room.
When: Approx day 22, month 6, turn 2 of the 7th Pass.
What: Really, what man tells a woman she mustn't fuss over her appearance?
Note: I have the party log up until Min left. I am being lazy and not posting it with this. I am sure someone has the full thing and can enjoy the posting of it. ;)
And, as the title says. Mush. Creepy, but that is part of what makes it fun!
9/24/2006
day 22, month 6, turn 2 of the 7th Pass.
There is a dance at the weyr. How. . .horrid. There is absolutely no way Miniyal is going to get out of attending, but she has managed to duck her mother's attentions and crept off. . .here. Which is a refuge of sorts anyway. With her came what she was intending to wear to the soiree she is being forced to attend. With any luck she can duck out early and retreat to somewhere quieter, less populated, with better wine. For now she has banished Gans from his bed chamber to get dressed. From within there is much complaining about color and fit and so on and so forth, but she does emerge, dressed but for the slippers hanging in one hand and the ribbon meant to go around her neck in the other. These she stares at, frustrated at the whole thing, before seeing if she's ran off the room's owner yet.
No, she has not. Gans stands by the bookcase, a small volume - one of the unreliable little tomes of herb remedies less approved by Healer Hall and more promoted by travelling quacks - in his hand. It is spread open, as if he's been reading from it, but his head is up and his gaze ready for her when she emerges - so it might be a little transparent that he has been merely waiting. After a glance over her his regard focuses firmly on her face, his chin raised. "Blue for your eyes," he observes, and his words are sweetened by great fondness and a little muted admiration. "You are stunning. Resist the desire to fuss about it. Can I help you with anything?" So quickly he abandons the little book to the shelf so he can tread toward her, his long hands offered out with palms up.
It is, perhaps, to be expected that his words calm her doubts. At least for the moment. It is not at all her usual dark and muted colors which are so much better at concealing and allowing one to be concealed. "I, umm. Thanks," she mumbles as she forces herself to not immediately fuss with something. Chin tilting upwards she takes a deep breath and smiles, all for him. Although there is no one else there. Even if there were. . .She may go on and on, and indeed in the last few days has, about how her mother is forcing her to do this, but the hard to hide truth is she does this for him. Because he might need her there. So, she holds out the ribbon. "Could you tie this for me? I do horribly at it." A pause and then, shyly even, "You look good." Good not the best descriptor, but the one settled on as she might otherwise gush. How embarrassing.
"I have dressed this way for eons," replies Gans, disposing with both humility and flatteredness in his bemused reply, and takes from her hands the ribbon. "Come here, then," he adds in a murmur, affectionate, perhaps a little sensual, and even as he's asked her to come near enough that he can tie the ribbon he steps closer to her to help close the gap between them. She'll have to turn around; he'll reach around her and gently drape her throat with the strip of fabric, gestures of commonplace intimacy, everyday trust. "I shouldn't have to stay long," he assures her while his hands move; his fingertips trace her neck with silent endearments.
"I've always liked to see people dressed up," she admits softly as she moves so the ribbon can be tied. She sways lightly on her bare feet as she allows herself a moment to lean against him. It is an action Miniyal does more often than not these days, seeking comfort from the touch and from knowing it is available to her. Her breath catches in her throat at the touch on her neck and there might be, perhaps, the softest of sighs afterwards. "We'll stay as long as you like," she promises. "Just don't promise me wine and never deliver." A tease even.
He ties the ribbon slowly, cherishing perhaps the opportunity to stroke her neck; in the end the knot's made well, though, laying flat against her skin with the ends tucked out at pretty little angles. "I am sorry about that," Gans says, droll and low, to her scolding tease about the wine, and now that the ribbon is done he strokes his palms down over her shoulders and upper arms; at the elbow his hands pause, then slide forward to seek her hands and draw her more tightly against him. "I would like to stay long enough to see whomever I must see, then to dance with you," he murmurs at her ear, and steals a moment to press his lips to that ear's upper curve before adding more softly yet, "and come home."
She is content, even more so, to be held so tightly. Closing her eyes she doesn't say a word and just enjoys this moment of peace. The Little Voice is trampled on, locked in a closet somewhere for now. Surely to escape at the party, but for now he is nowhere to be seen. Or more importantly, heard. Miniyal finally lets out a quiet laugh, resigned. "You will make me dance?" she asks. "I am a horribly dancer, Gans. I could break one of your feet. I. . .one dance." How easily she relents. "If it is what it takes to get to come home." Oh, how easily she lets herself be lured by those words. As if she has not been landed long ago. There is little doubt anymore with whom she has cast her lot. To either of them or anyone else.
"I have been trod upon by young dragons. I have no doubt my feet are up to a misstep or two." He sways a little with her in his arms, as if there were music already, or just to feel their bodies shift, to feel the warmth of her in his embrace. "One dance," he agrees, as easily placated as she is lured. Again Gans leans his lips a little closer to her ear to speak in a whisper, to breathe words for her alone - not, as it has been noted, as if anyone else were present. "This time." The kiss stolen this time is from her earlobe, and then another from the skin just beneath it, where jaw joins neck. After this he straightens and loosens a little his grip; he does not -quite- let her go. "Shall I put your slippers on for you?" His turn to tease.
"Oh, Gans," is said, affectionate, endeared, beloved. All of these emotions heard in those two little syllables and never put into their own words. They are left to be inferred which is daring enough for Min. "It would take a lot to get me to agree to more than one dance. Something momentous. I doubt I will ever see it in my lifetime, something that would make me agree to more than one." She laughs at his question, a breathless sound as he's so easily left her so with his small kisses and embrace. "Well, if you are offering," she says with a tease back. Perhaps she should do it herself, but the lure of more contact causes her to turn in his loosened embrace so she faces him, eyes alight with so many things. "I would be in your debt for such gentlemanly assistance," she offers, low and promising any number of thanks later, after that one dance.
Gans' hand slips away from her arm as she turns, fingers waiting for the moment where they can easily take from her the slippers she brought out with her. "Well, we can't have you indebted to me," he replies, droll, stepping back with the shoes. For just a moment longer he keeps her fixed in his focus, then adds, "So we shall see to that repayment quickly." Then, a testament to the healer's work: he bends swiftly and easily to one knee, there to prepare on the floor one slipper for her to step into, his pale hands ready to assist her heel in slipping into place.
A laugh escapes, how happy she sounds right now. "I look forward to it. I've never liked to be in debt to anyone." Another laugh, although if one were being honest it would be classified as a giggle, and she releases the slippers and will, when it is ready, slip her foot into the first. "You're going to spoil me," Miniyal warns with a warm smile delivered down upon him. "Of course, if you really wanted to spoil me you'd say I could not even attend this silly thing tonight." Hopeful little smile.
His cool, pale hands stroke her foot, ostensibly to smooth the slipper against her skin and ensure the fit. "Well, you could stay here, I suppose," he informs the curve of her instep as he slips a finger between fabric and skin to stroke there, not quite lightly enough to be tickling; no doubt he is just making sure the shoe is not too tight there. Then he sits back and tips his head to gaze up at her, his smile strengthened by the distance and wry twinkles brightening his eyes. One brow crooks. "But you've already gone to such trouble to get dressed, and I would have no dance partner." He puts out, after that, the second slipper.
"It would not," Miniyal points out all teasing and coy glances now, "Be too much trouble to get undressed." However, she merely extends her other foot and slips it into the slipper. "Not as much fun, I suppose, if you're going to the dance anyway." This is, of course, the same woman as before who would blush at even a lightly suggestive tone. How things change. "Besides, I am sure you will have dance partners without me. But, I did give my word. And there are few things I have these days so must not break what I do."
"Indeed. I would by far prefer to be allowed to assist with the undressing." He can sound so serious, so solemn even, in saying such things; the droll tone is optional and at the moment he discards it. She will have to understand the meaning of his words from not the tone of his voice, but the feel of his hands upon her foot, stroking graceful touches around the joint of the ankle, down the curves of the upper to the place where the slipper meets skin. "I suppose I might have to oblige someone or other. Your mother, possibly." Now there's an idea Miniyal probably had tried not to entertain. To soothe her, Gans employs again that trick of a finger checking the fabric against the instep, barely-not-tickling. Then he rises, the movement slow from age but smooth enough, and half-turns so she has his smiling side in profile - and his arm, presented. "I declare us ready, my dear, and think we'd better go before I change my mind. Will you accompany me?"
With no way left to avoid going, Miniyal resigns herself to the party. He'll forgive her, she hopes, if her arm slips into his and she stands too close a moment. If there is now a hint of worry in her eyes. From the mother comment? Perhaps. Perhaps more so in that they seem to be going /together/. This is not a chance encounter at a public event. This is her, Miniyal, arriving at a dance on the arm of him, G'thon. "Corin is an excellent dancer," she murmurs as she takes a deep breath and makes that first step towards the door. "Better than I am." Chin up, now a 'proper' distance from him even with arms linked, she is prepared to face the crowd. There is no sneaking in at this event.