It's too bad. When did it get cool to be so sad? We're spinnin' backwards, did we all go mad?
Yeah, we're only human but w?'ve got hands and hearts and noses,
So stop and sm?ll the fucking roses
Yeah, we're only human but w?'ve got hands and hearts and noses,
So stop and sm?ll the fucking roses
'Sort of sounds like the exact thing an old person would say." Remi returns, brows raised and lips pursed in a sideways slant. "Aww, 28. Your whole life ahead of you." He adds with a dramatic wince like the wizened 29-year-old he is. "Yeah, what's that about? A good vegetable—fruit?—but it's like a thing now." He shakes his head, mumbling something about plants grown from avocado seeds.
Glancing at Ronin, his eyes taking in the still slightly fat lip and the bruising on his jaw, and represses a chuckle. "Probably for the best. I can't imagine the beauty sleep you'd need to compensate if you got hit again." It's as filthy a lie as what he's just said. Remi isn't turned on by violence or gore, but gods if it doesn't kindle something in his belly to see the red of Ronin's lips offset by the purple flowering up his jawline. Not...that he's noticing.
Turning so that he might lean against the counter—the dog is back on the couch and he hasn't got a dining table, leaving the kitchen, bathroom, or bed available to them—he offers the mechanic an unamused roll of his eyes. "You are very hard on my ego, I will have you know. Didn't know my name, don't like my band, don't know any of the gossip about me." Huffing, he savours a sip of his coffee, wondering what things he might say about himself. "People are very concerned with whether or not my hair is naturally curly or not. That I am estranged from my family. That on days I sing I only speak in Italian, and that I have been communing with spirits beneath the full moon." Shrugging, his expression grows mischievous. "Three of those are true. Can you guess which one isn't?"
Glancing at Ronin, his eyes taking in the still slightly fat lip and the bruising on his jaw, and represses a chuckle. "Probably for the best. I can't imagine the beauty sleep you'd need to compensate if you got hit again." It's as filthy a lie as what he's just said. Remi isn't turned on by violence or gore, but gods if it doesn't kindle something in his belly to see the red of Ronin's lips offset by the purple flowering up his jawline. Not...that he's noticing.
Turning so that he might lean against the counter—the dog is back on the couch and he hasn't got a dining table, leaving the kitchen, bathroom, or bed available to them—he offers the mechanic an unamused roll of his eyes. "You are very hard on my ego, I will have you know. Didn't know my name, don't like my band, don't know any of the gossip about me." Huffing, he savours a sip of his coffee, wondering what things he might say about himself. "People are very concerned with whether or not my hair is naturally curly or not. That I am estranged from my family. That on days I sing I only speak in Italian, and that I have been communing with spirits beneath the full moon." Shrugging, his expression grows mischievous. "Three of those are true. Can you guess which one isn't?"
ThE RoCkStAr
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.
