Difficult not to be much else. [He is, perhaps, ten years Nyx's junior--that would make Nyx, what, not quite yet thirty? Really. A grown man ought know better. Perhaps Nyx has never seen all of the boys together, the way they can be crude as only teenagers truly can. Which is not, however, the same as being immune to overt flirtation.

He parts his lips, as if to say something, but does not. Well. If this is going to turn into some kind of lesson about letting himself go, to be slightly more instinctual and reckless as only a Galahdian can be, why not start now? The blade flips in his hand, and Ignis presses the butt of the dagger under Nyx's chin to lift it, and subsequently, his gaze.]

A diplomat, that is. The pretty, too, but that's a matter you'll have to take up with my genetics.