Let's not get lost in the dark blue
But darling if we do, just find me and I'll find you
But darling if we do, just find me and I'll find you
Remi’s grin turns downright fiendish as Isla discards innuendo like a sunhat in the wind, and he feigns a scandalized gasp—hindered by the fact he’s still holding up a whole-ass boat. "No, no," he says, shaking his head with mock gravity, curls flinging a few droplets of seawater around them. "You misunderstood me entirely. I was simply saying that your skills have improved over the years. Which is the natural progression of things, isn’t it?" The twinkle in his eye could light a room. 'One would think, anyway.'
Then, more casually—too casually—he adds, "And hey. So long as it’s not LeafChange, you’re welcome to test that theory if you ever feel the need to verify your assumption." There’s mischief there, but also something not entirely unserious; the kind of open honesty that’s rare and razor-edged all at once, made safer only by the decades between them. Leafchange or no, the number of people Remi would willingly invite into his bed these days is nearly 0. Isla might perhaps be the only one.
Isla’s retaliation comes swiftly in the form of sealant, and Remi squawks—actually squawks—as his wings flap with the indignant flutter of a very affronted pigeon. "I am being abused," he announces to the empty beach like a martyr, even as his tentacles resolutely do nothing to stop her. "The things I endure for friendship," he huffs, blowing a breath over the oil in a token effort at drying it. Once the new board is secure and Isla makes her triumphant declaration, Remi gently lowers the Northaven back into the water with care that borders on reverence. The hull settles with a low, satisfying creak, and the Bastion finally releases a breath he hadn’t realised he was holding.
Immediately, he sinks to his knees in the surf and plunges his arms beneath the waves, scrubbing half-heartedly at the oil streaked across his chest. "Well," he mutters, glancing over at her with a sidelong smirk, "that went exactly as planned."
Then, more casually—too casually—he adds, "And hey. So long as it’s not LeafChange, you’re welcome to test that theory if you ever feel the need to verify your assumption." There’s mischief there, but also something not entirely unserious; the kind of open honesty that’s rare and razor-edged all at once, made safer only by the decades between them. Leafchange or no, the number of people Remi would willingly invite into his bed these days is nearly 0. Isla might perhaps be the only one.
Isla’s retaliation comes swiftly in the form of sealant, and Remi squawks—actually squawks—as his wings flap with the indignant flutter of a very affronted pigeon. "I am being abused," he announces to the empty beach like a martyr, even as his tentacles resolutely do nothing to stop her. "The things I endure for friendship," he huffs, blowing a breath over the oil in a token effort at drying it. Once the new board is secure and Isla makes her triumphant declaration, Remi gently lowers the Northaven back into the water with care that borders on reverence. The hull settles with a low, satisfying creak, and the Bastion finally releases a breath he hadn’t realised he was holding.
Immediately, he sinks to his knees in the surf and plunges his arms beneath the waves, scrubbing half-heartedly at the oil streaked across his chest. "Well," he mutters, glancing over at her with a sidelong smirk, "that went exactly as planned."
the bastion
Speaks with a thick Italian accent.
Force and magic can be used against Remi without permission.
Force and magic can be used against Remi without permission.
