Now the ashes of tomorrow sing your sad song
There are a lot of things Remi might be called cruel for, but dragging his fighty, rut-wired husband down into a former void pit with a bottle of wine and a picnic blanket probably shouldn’t be one of them.
And yet.
"Don’t give me that look," he says, tossing a grin over his shoulder as they descend the jagged lip of the fissure, careful not to brush the walls—because even Remi, even now, knows better than to pick a fight with glowing mushrooms and air that smells like someone’s kept a wet rug full of meat in the sun. "You were the one brooding on the roof like a thundercloud in a stag costume. I’m just giving you something better to do."
The violet glow slicks across the curve of his grin as he jumps lightly from one uneven ledge to the next, sure-footed and too pleased with himself for someone actively stepping over a mummified ribcage.
He’s got a blanket slung over one shoulder and a bottle of wine tucked safely under the opposite arm, and his curls bounce as he turns to peer back at Ronin. "Come on. Don’t pretend this isn’t exactly your kind of romantic. Forbidden terrain. Rotting things. And your overly generous husband who packed snacks."
He stops near a flatish bit of stone surrounded by softly glowing ferns that definitely want to kill them, and sets the blanket down with a proud ta-da. Then he straightens, planting a hand on his hip and eyeing Ronin with that glint in his sea-glass eyes—the one that says you’re mine, but only because he wants to be.
"I figured, now that the Family’s fucked off for the moment, there’s no better way to celebrate than claiming this place as ours. What do you say?"
And yet.
"Don’t give me that look," he says, tossing a grin over his shoulder as they descend the jagged lip of the fissure, careful not to brush the walls—because even Remi, even now, knows better than to pick a fight with glowing mushrooms and air that smells like someone’s kept a wet rug full of meat in the sun. "You were the one brooding on the roof like a thundercloud in a stag costume. I’m just giving you something better to do."
The violet glow slicks across the curve of his grin as he jumps lightly from one uneven ledge to the next, sure-footed and too pleased with himself for someone actively stepping over a mummified ribcage.
He’s got a blanket slung over one shoulder and a bottle of wine tucked safely under the opposite arm, and his curls bounce as he turns to peer back at Ronin. "Come on. Don’t pretend this isn’t exactly your kind of romantic. Forbidden terrain. Rotting things. And your overly generous husband who packed snacks."
He stops near a flatish bit of stone surrounded by softly glowing ferns that definitely want to kill them, and sets the blanket down with a proud ta-da. Then he straightens, planting a hand on his hip and eyeing Ronin with that glint in his sea-glass eyes—the one that says you’re mine, but only because he wants to be.
"I figured, now that the Family’s fucked off for the moment, there’s no better way to celebrate than claiming this place as ours. What do you say?"
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.
