RONIN
the darkstar
light is easy to love.
"I'd go more for a joke about what you can do with your fingers," Ronin objects where he's taken the other man's place at the window sill. Especially based on their last interaction, but if Bandcamp wants to tote his tonguing ability too, they can test that out. No objections here. He settles at the sill, trying and failing to hide his smile (he sees the way his host cringes at himself, and honestly, it's the sort of boyish self awareness that he finds thoroughly attractive), falling silent to listen.
And honestly? He wants to find some smart ass comment to say about the music, because that's who Ronin is these days and finding a way to quip through it is easier than being genuine, but fuck if he can find the words. It's good. More than good. Slow and sweet and heartfelt in a way that he's damn sure would make those girls looking for the after-party wet. Except those girls aren't here right now. Ronin is, though.
He's left the window sill towards the end of the song, when he figures that an interruption will be taken as a compliment rather than a judgement, ghosting up behind the man at the piano to let warm fingers glide along his biceps and shoulders. His lips trail along a jaw that, unlike his own, does not have bruises brewing beneath the skin. Is this how he'd imagined his evening going? Nope.
...Is it how he hoped it might go?
He's not telling.
And honestly? He wants to find some smart ass comment to say about the music, because that's who Ronin is these days and finding a way to quip through it is easier than being genuine, but fuck if he can find the words. It's good. More than good. Slow and sweet and heartfelt in a way that he's damn sure would make those girls looking for the after-party wet. Except those girls aren't here right now. Ronin is, though.
He's left the window sill towards the end of the song, when he figures that an interruption will be taken as a compliment rather than a judgement, ghosting up behind the man at the piano to let warm fingers glide along his biceps and shoulders. His lips trail along a jaw that, unlike his own, does not have bruises brewing beneath the skin. Is this how he'd imagined his evening going? Nope.
...Is it how he hoped it might go?
He's not telling.
show me your darkness.
