RONIN
the supernova
It doesn't matter.
None of it matters, except this.
Call it denial (because that's exactly what it is), but only a few days after the meteorfall and the arrival of the violet shrouded island, Ronin decides that he and Remi and their little boat are going on a trip.
Having followed the shores of Torchline around to a newly christened region, Ronin has a mind to explore the curious marketplace they've come upon, all floating stalls and strange new wares. Later, though.
For now the Northaven has anchored herself in the shallows just beyond the tethered together wrecks, the Longheat sun beating down upon her deck, the skies deep and blue and endless. All is silent, lazy, still; in the distance the sound of merchants and goods clamours in its clumsy way, but none of that matters here.
Here, clothes flutter and dry on the line Ronin has fashioned. Here, the scent of honey and liquor and incense permeates the air. Here, the Northaven's doors and windows are open, and a patchwork blanket has been cast across her deck in a prime position to soak up the sun.
It's here that two demigods might be found, Ronin still glittering with beads of saltwater and flecks of sand from his swim, his body stretched out over Remi's to worship the Lullaby with warm kisses. His lips follow scars and soft flesh alike; an old, white mark on Remi's shoulder made noticeable only by tanned skin leads to the deep lacerations against his lover's throat, and all are treated with the same slow care.
In no rush but equally as keen to explore every inch of the other man's body, Ronin pauses only to lean up and grab his glass of sweetened rum, dropping a kiss against Remi's lips before taking a brief sojourn to slake his thirst.
None of it matters, except this.
Call it denial (because that's exactly what it is), but only a few days after the meteorfall and the arrival of the violet shrouded island, Ronin decides that he and Remi and their little boat are going on a trip.
Having followed the shores of Torchline around to a newly christened region, Ronin has a mind to explore the curious marketplace they've come upon, all floating stalls and strange new wares. Later, though.
For now the Northaven has anchored herself in the shallows just beyond the tethered together wrecks, the Longheat sun beating down upon her deck, the skies deep and blue and endless. All is silent, lazy, still; in the distance the sound of merchants and goods clamours in its clumsy way, but none of that matters here.
Here, clothes flutter and dry on the line Ronin has fashioned. Here, the scent of honey and liquor and incense permeates the air. Here, the Northaven's doors and windows are open, and a patchwork blanket has been cast across her deck in a prime position to soak up the sun.
It's here that two demigods might be found, Ronin still glittering with beads of saltwater and flecks of sand from his swim, his body stretched out over Remi's to worship the Lullaby with warm kisses. His lips follow scars and soft flesh alike; an old, white mark on Remi's shoulder made noticeable only by tanned skin leads to the deep lacerations against his lover's throat, and all are treated with the same slow care.
In no rush but equally as keen to explore every inch of the other man's body, Ronin pauses only to lean up and grab his glass of sweetened rum, dropping a kiss against Remi's lips before taking a brief sojourn to slake his thirst.
i'll get over it
i just gotta be dramatic first
i just gotta be dramatic first
