you're my guiding light, when there's no guiding light left inside
"Sorry, sorry," Ronin says, trying not to even think about sock puppets (which is easier said than done once that idea takes hold, don't you know) as he dutifully feeds his ailing husband his soup. And mangled joy does seem to hit the mark, as it happens, because as he trades soup for cider, the Huntsman remains none the wiser. And why should he suspect anything? His husband would never, right?
(False.)
"Well," he murmurs, lowering the mug of cider once Remi has been able to drink his fill, "we have already danced together in this kitchen before, so that's easy enough. Safe to say the only thing I've been thinking about is the intimate task since you mentioned it. And I think I have a few ideas."
Said ideas might have been murmured against the side of Remi's neck between kisses, were it not for the companion-interruption-extravaganza. Because obviously Sugar is in - whenever there is an opportunity for shitfuckery, she needs no reasoning - and without warning she comes bursting into the kitchen, wings spread and beating hard at the same time as she huffs a breath of bitingly cold air at the couple.
(False.)
"Well," he murmurs, lowering the mug of cider once Remi has been able to drink his fill, "we have already danced together in this kitchen before, so that's easy enough. Safe to say the only thing I've been thinking about is the intimate task since you mentioned it. And I think I have a few ideas."
Said ideas might have been murmured against the side of Remi's neck between kisses, were it not for the companion-interruption-extravaganza. Because obviously Sugar is in - whenever there is an opportunity for shitfuckery, she needs no reasoning - and without warning she comes bursting into the kitchen, wings spread and beating hard at the same time as she huffs a breath of bitingly cold air at the couple.
RONIN
