REMI
Thoughtfully, Remi raises a brow, a slow and boyishly wicked smirk blooming across his face. "Mmm," he hums, nodding as if Ronin’s just handed him the best idea he’s had all season. "Maybe it is my turn to be the problem." There’s a delighted glint in his eyes, utterly unrepentant about the implications.
When Ronin shifts, even just slightly, Remi grumbles loud enough to be heard over the rustling blankets, all theatrical indignation as if terribly put out by losing even a sliver of his pillow-warmer. Never mind that he’d also very much like a sip of coffee.
The affection in his sigh is unmistakable as the kisses trail across his cheek, but it’s the sight of the mugs—close, waiting—that finally stirs him. With a muffled stretch and a small contortion of limbs, one of his tentacles slips from beneath the tangled covers and snakes out to claim his mug, plucking it off the bedside table with all the casual elegance of someone who refuses to be cold or upright.
Blowing softly across the surface, Remi glances sidelong up at Ronin, brow arched. "It’s crossed my mind," he says quietly, "to see if there’s a way to stop being a demigod." The confession is light but genuine, as if he’s said it aloud before but never really meant it as more than a passing thought. "But with the way Deimos always seems to be involved in everything anyway, I’m not even sure it would matter."
He takes a careful sip, then scowls faintly when it’s still too hot, and exhales slowly. His seaglass gaze lifts to Ronin again, luminous and tired, but fond. "I suppose all we can really hope for is a few more seasons without some colonizing alien force falling from the sky." He raises the mug slightly, as if toasting that fragile wish.
When Ronin shifts, even just slightly, Remi grumbles loud enough to be heard over the rustling blankets, all theatrical indignation as if terribly put out by losing even a sliver of his pillow-warmer. Never mind that he’d also very much like a sip of coffee.
The affection in his sigh is unmistakable as the kisses trail across his cheek, but it’s the sight of the mugs—close, waiting—that finally stirs him. With a muffled stretch and a small contortion of limbs, one of his tentacles slips from beneath the tangled covers and snakes out to claim his mug, plucking it off the bedside table with all the casual elegance of someone who refuses to be cold or upright.
Blowing softly across the surface, Remi glances sidelong up at Ronin, brow arched. "It’s crossed my mind," he says quietly, "to see if there’s a way to stop being a demigod." The confession is light but genuine, as if he’s said it aloud before but never really meant it as more than a passing thought. "But with the way Deimos always seems to be involved in everything anyway, I’m not even sure it would matter."
He takes a careful sip, then scowls faintly when it’s still too hot, and exhales slowly. His seaglass gaze lifts to Ronin again, luminous and tired, but fond. "I suppose all we can really hope for is a few more seasons without some colonizing alien force falling from the sky." He raises the mug slightly, as if toasting that fragile wish.
Who are you? They ask. Death?
Sometimes... I say. But not today
Sometimes... I say. But not today
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.
