REMI
It never gets old, feeling Ronin this way. The shape of him in the dark.
Ronin might grin like a pirate and slurp coffee like a heathen, but there’s nothing crude in the way he worships. Nothing careless in the path his mouth takes down Remi’s body, lips catching against bone and bruise with all the solemnity of a vow. Beneath the blankets, Remi can only catch flickers—shadowed shifts in the fabric, the press of a shoulder here, the slow draw of a hand down his ribs there—but the man moving through those sheets is his in a way that time, war, gods, and children have only ever deepened.
It hits Remi like it always does, soft and sudden as a sucker punch to the ribs, just how much he loves this man. Not just the easy symmetry of Ronin’s face—though he knows every plane and edge of it like scripture—nor even the scars that have claimed swaths of his golden skin, drawn in by blades and monsters and all the times they didn’t think they’d make it through but somehow did. It's everything in him. His laugh. His warmth. His stupidly gentle hands ghosting over places they had once gripped hard enough to leave marks.
Remi’s fingers curl in the blankets again, his back arching as warmth pools between his hips, the breath in his lungs going slow and thick. "You—" he tries, but his voice curls, low and trembling. What he wants to say is you ruin me or I love you or maybe just don’t stop, but all that comes out is a sound that doesn’t need words.
Ronin smells like coffee and bedsheets and stormlight, and when he reappears, his hair is a mess of darkness that Remi wants to tangle his fingers into. And his body, gods—broad and golden and scarred like a story etched in flesh—moves like he was made to cover Remi, to press him down and split him open in the same breath. "Getting warmer," he breathes with a shudder of laughter, seaglass eyes half-lidded and molten now with heat.
Ronin might grin like a pirate and slurp coffee like a heathen, but there’s nothing crude in the way he worships. Nothing careless in the path his mouth takes down Remi’s body, lips catching against bone and bruise with all the solemnity of a vow. Beneath the blankets, Remi can only catch flickers—shadowed shifts in the fabric, the press of a shoulder here, the slow draw of a hand down his ribs there—but the man moving through those sheets is his in a way that time, war, gods, and children have only ever deepened.
It hits Remi like it always does, soft and sudden as a sucker punch to the ribs, just how much he loves this man. Not just the easy symmetry of Ronin’s face—though he knows every plane and edge of it like scripture—nor even the scars that have claimed swaths of his golden skin, drawn in by blades and monsters and all the times they didn’t think they’d make it through but somehow did. It's everything in him. His laugh. His warmth. His stupidly gentle hands ghosting over places they had once gripped hard enough to leave marks.
Remi’s fingers curl in the blankets again, his back arching as warmth pools between his hips, the breath in his lungs going slow and thick. "You—" he tries, but his voice curls, low and trembling. What he wants to say is you ruin me or I love you or maybe just don’t stop, but all that comes out is a sound that doesn’t need words.
Ronin smells like coffee and bedsheets and stormlight, and when he reappears, his hair is a mess of darkness that Remi wants to tangle his fingers into. And his body, gods—broad and golden and scarred like a story etched in flesh—moves like he was made to cover Remi, to press him down and split him open in the same breath. "Getting warmer," he breathes with a shudder of laughter, seaglass eyes half-lidded and molten now with heat.
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.
