RONIN
the darkstar
light is easy to love.
Ronin's drunken legs have come through for him. Or at least, they've managed to navigate themselves to a point where he can straddle Angry Soup's chest, his fist drawing back to sock him around the face again. The knuckles of his right hand are bloodied, there's a nasty graze along his cheekbone and his ribs are bruised to fuck, probably, but (and this is the most important bit) there's no blood on his white t-shirt yet. Motor oil certainly, but no blood.
Someone calls something and Ronin doesn't have a chance to ask who the fuck Peter is before there's a hand seizing around his jacket that he's trying hard to shrug off as he's hauled backwards. "Do you fucking mi-- oh." He's just about directed a fiery blue glare over his shoulder when he recognises (mostly) some very pretty green eyes with dilated pupils, and his struggles fade back.
"Hey," he says vaguely. "Yeah. Good to... yeah, a'right." His accent is thicker like this (drunk? fighting? who fucking knows?) but it's understandable at least, and he stumbles back from Angry Soup who is still laying, dazed and bleeding on the ground. "Lead the way."
Someone calls something and Ronin doesn't have a chance to ask who the fuck Peter is before there's a hand seizing around his jacket that he's trying hard to shrug off as he's hauled backwards. "Do you fucking mi-- oh." He's just about directed a fiery blue glare over his shoulder when he recognises (mostly) some very pretty green eyes with dilated pupils, and his struggles fade back.
"Hey," he says vaguely. "Yeah. Good to... yeah, a'right." His accent is thicker like this (drunk? fighting? who fucking knows?) but it's understandable at least, and he stumbles back from Angry Soup who is still laying, dazed and bleeding on the ground. "Lead the way."
show me your darkness.
