fancy that

you trace my lines, stirring my soul

Pursing his lips together as if rethinking entirely his method of crushing Varus now—why not just one finger?—Remi flinches dramatically as he's struck. "Dribbling?" He wonders, crinkling his nose. "Is that what straight men want?" Frowning and sitting a touch straighter (and had he a collar just now, he might have straightened it for good measure), Remi shakes his head decisively. "Well, I guess I can only be appreciative that you aren't the one dressing me." He says, narrowing his eyes affectionately at her over his shoulder.

"Blood and sweat and shit and lying to the dying? Gods, how could I possibly relate." He mumbles, before growing silent and bashful as Isla continues on without so much as a misstep. "Not the choice of words I would have used." Remi mutters with a nod, feeling as though his ears were suddenly on fire. Clearing his throat and shifting uncomfortably (and also maybe a bit strategically), the alchemist raises his eyebrows and gives Isla a genuinely perplexed shrug. "Well, I did try the once." He reminds her, of his misadventure with Maeve. "And there were women back in Northaven, but...other than you.." Hazarding a glance her way only for it to fall inadvertently to her lips, Remi sips in a self-chastizing breath and looks away. '..it's just you.'

THE ALCHEMIST