in these trying times we're not trying

maybe i'm a runaway train, maybe i'm a feather in a hurricane

Remi wishes that was true. That he could simply be safe to be around. Still, he nods his head, stilling as her hands trail from his chest to his cheek. Before he might say more—though what would he say? and what sort of man was he to call a halt that he might convince her of just what and who he was?—he's being pulled down to her. Easily he blankets her, his body larger than hers in every single place they touch.

Kissing her back, his tongue and lips more focused and perhaps even demanding of hers, Remi presses himself against her. It's strange that his is the only pressure between them; Remi is used to feeling Ronin's erection vying for space against his own. Not erect enough to properly proceed, Remi places a hand next to her ribcage and another near her hip as if affixing her to the rug like one might mount a butterfly. Fluttering kisses from her jaw, to her collarbone, the swell of her breast, he lingers near her nipple. "Did the pain of it feel good?" He wonders in a whispery and rough voice, pale eyes flicking up toward her face, before he captures one of the barbells with his tongue.

THE LULLABY

maybe it's a long gray game, but maybe that's a good thing