whiskey, smoke and aces high

It's too bad. When did it get cool to be so sad? We're spinnin' backwards, did we all go mad?
Yeah, we're only human but w?'ve got hands and hearts and noses,
So stop and sm?ll the fucking roses

With flushed cheeks and an eager shine to his stare, Remi nods. Uncurling the hand from Ronin's hair he lowers it to the man's shoulder and pushes. It's gentle enough that the soldier could easily shrug it off, but the musician very much assumes he won't. Following his hand that he might find himself once again astride the mechanic, Remi can feel one of his hands ball slightly into a fist as he has to temper his own desires and patterns. This for him—with a man—is not new, and it will take some conscious focus on Remi's part to make sure he keeps that in mind.

Shuffling himself toward the edge of the bed, his own erection bulging unhappily against his jeans, Remi reaches down to remove Ronin's shoes with a roll of his eyes. "Americans," He mutters, and though neither of them are, such is the custom here in the States to not have indoor vs. outdoor shoes. That done, he slowly raises his eyes as his fingers come to the mechanic's half-undone pants. High off of something he'd hastily bought and slipped under his tongue the last time, it's with something like apprehension and a strange brand of nervousness that he tugs down the rest of what Ronin is wearing.

Remi's smile is slow and crooked despite his blush, as he softly places his hands on Ronin's thighs (the only parting gift this man needed was a voucher to a tanning salon), and lowers himself between his legs. Reaching out to grasp the base of the mechanic's cock with one hand, the musician raises an inquiring brow wondering if this would be the moment where the Irishman realized that no, he didn't actually want a man between his legs.

ThE RoCkStAr