He does not stop touching her as she talks. Just smiles and lets his mouth wander along her neck as she answers his question. He smiles into her at her first answer, nipping gently at her throat. “That’s the answer you were meant to give,” he teases, before pressing a gentle kiss against the bitten flesh. It was the answer that he would have given, he knows, if only for the fact that it was the only place he truly feels he has ever lived. The only place that he has stopped long enough to consider a home.
(That was her doing. Her influence.)
But she gives him a fuller answer and he listens—or, at least, he tries. He continues to pay attention to the smooth ivory of her jaw and throat, then the curve of her neck. He murmurs as she talks, and finds himself distracted by the way his glow reflects off the sheen of her, by the way that she looks bathed in moonlight. His shadows rise up around them, arching through the air and he pulls them back with considerable force. Firion is not surprised that his darkness seeks her out too, but he loves her in the light.
“That sounds wonderful,” he whispers, honestly, laughing against the sweep of her belly, “but I have to be honest, Maze, I cannot tell you how much I do not want to hear about your father right now.” He glances back up to her with a wicked gleam in his golden eye, nipping at the side of her again.
“Even if it is my fault because I asked.”
He laughs again, but there is smoke to it, a question in it, as he feels heat pooling beneath his skin, as the shadows draw close again around them and, this time, he does not banish them away.
so as our grief falls flat and hollow upon a billion blooded seas
all our worst ideas are borrowed (you do and don't belong to me)
@Mazikeen