Re: In-person: Sam & Cris
[It is different, this reunion. And even though she was just here, it is a reunion, huh? Unfolding in the dark, under pressurea time, but they come together hard, like planets colliding after orbit—and they always do. He shouldn'tna asked her to come, but, even if Cris is strong, even if he ain't Neil, he does need Sam—and seeing her, touching her, tasting her—it's all different from the phone. There's no room for distance. There's no room for nothing, but the twoa them. Maybe it's suffocating, but the guy don't see that and he breathes just fine.—Sam's tongue is sandpaper on his chin. Dark fingers pushed under hoodie and up the girl's spine, nails dragging on moon-white skin, and his palms climbing there crush her to him harder.
It's only the words that distract him from remembering she's not wearing anything under denim—and then it's her teeth, and like the sea under whipping wind, the force is met. He actually sits up, arms pinning Sam to him and gravity taking her to his lap, to his waist, but he wraps around her as best he can and he rocks, halfa it lust seeking friction, and halfa it an attempt at soothing, brainless as it is.—He only sits back when she talks 'bout santos, and Cris pulls his gold medallion from 'round his neck. He always wears it and it's hot from his skin.—Caridid spins between them. He nudges Sam's hood back just enough to be able to slip the chain over her head.] Here. [Dampness clings to his lashes too, clumping black, but he kisses Sam in a sear again, blister and spit, alcohol-rawness in his throat, onea his hands finding her fingers between them and squeezing.]