there's something almost careless in the way her steps spring along the path towards the order, but she feels no fear - she knows she is safe. after so long away, she all but bursts through door after door, until she finds him alone in his quarters. a smile pulls over her lips and her feet dance to his side, and she comes to collapse in his lap. hands gently grasp his shirt as she leans forward, nose brushing against his, before she presses her lips upon his own. "miss me?"
A home does not have to be a cozy, straw-thatched cottage in the woodlands. A home can be the ghostly shadows of stone pillars slanting in the moonlight and the dusty corridors of a far-off temple in the hinterlands.
A home does not have to conduct an aria of amicability or the chattering of companionship. A home can be the sole, silent symphony of silhouettes and their solemn stares as they slither along the ceiling.
A home does not have to be the enthusiastic calls of children tugging at one’s leg and warm embraces like flame burning away at the hearth. A home can be a curt nod at its iron gates, and a “Good to have you back, sir,” as the only softness to cushion one’s weary feet.
But Zed’s home can conjure up surprises of its own, too. Sometimes a home can be the softness of silk fingers along his chest, the rustling of robes alighting in his lap, and the charming comfort of a fox’s tails swirling around his torso.
“Miss me?” comes her coy question.
Zed reaches out with his weary, callused hands, hands all too used to stone and shadow and the strict mien of duty, to reach for that piece of home that never fails to gladden his heart and lift his spirits. His hands cup Ahri’s cheeks, and he leans in to return the kiss - deep, eager, hungry to enjoy it in full.
“How could I not?”
