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 brows lift, a slow, suggestive arch that manages to be indecent and entirely affectionate all at once, and he’s already opening his mouth to murmur something about looking forward to such dedicated service when the shift in the bud drags his attention back like a hook beneath the ribs. He sees the way Ronin’s focus veers outward and when his husband mutters that it isn’t the wind, Remi’s gaze flicks instinctively toward the hills just in time to register pale shapes moving with serene audacity through the rain. For a heartbeat he simply blinks at them, because unicorns are one thing, but unicorns now, of all moments, feels like cosmic comic timing.
Remi turns back toward the fence just as the first bud convulses in a way that is unmistakably not botanical, his breath hitching sharply in his chest as the outer casing splits and peels back in damp, delicate folds. "Ronin—" The rest is lost to the sight of petals giving way to slick skin and tiny, furious motion, the bud collapsing entirely to reveal not some flower, but a whole ass baby who draws in his first breath and releases it in a sound that cuts clean through the rain. Remi’s eyes go impossibly wide, seaglass bright with disbelief, and adrenaline floods the Attuned bond in a blinding surge as the second bud begins to shudder in sympathetic urgency.
"RONIN!" he bellows now, dropping fully to his knees. His hands, enormous and scarred but absurdly gentle, slide beneath the first infant with a care that borders on reverence, lifting them free of the remnants of petals and damp soil as they fuss and wail against the cold.
He gathers the newborn against his chest without thinking, curling his body around them to lend warmth where his wing had once done the job, his heart hammering so hard he’s certain the baby will feel it. The second bud splits further with a soft, terrible inevitability, and Remi’s head snaps up again toward the hills, rain plastering his curls to his forehead as panic and wonder tangle in equal measure. "RONIN!" he shouts once more, half-laughing, half-breathless, because one is already here in his arms and the other is seconds behind.
Remi turns back toward the fence just as the first bud convulses in a way that is unmistakably not botanical, his breath hitching sharply in his chest as the outer casing splits and peels back in damp, delicate folds. "Ronin—" The rest is lost to the sight of petals giving way to slick skin and tiny, furious motion, the bud collapsing entirely to reveal not some flower, but a whole ass baby who draws in his first breath and releases it in a sound that cuts clean through the rain. Remi’s eyes go impossibly wide, seaglass bright with disbelief, and adrenaline floods the Attuned bond in a blinding surge as the second bud begins to shudder in sympathetic urgency.
"RONIN!" he bellows now, dropping fully to his knees. His hands, enormous and scarred but absurdly gentle, slide beneath the first infant with a care that borders on reverence, lifting them free of the remnants of petals and damp soil as they fuss and wail against the cold.
He gathers the newborn against his chest without thinking, curling his body around them to lend warmth where his wing had once done the job, his heart hammering so hard he’s certain the baby will feel it. The second bud splits further with a soft, terrible inevitability, and Remi’s head snaps up again toward the hills, rain plastering his curls to his forehead as panic and wonder tangle in equal measure. "RONIN!" he shouts once more, half-laughing, half-breathless, because one is already here in his arms and the other is seconds behind.
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.
