Re: In-person: Cris/Sam
[She can't forget about Meredith, not for a fucking second, yeah? Sam's not good at hate. She's not even good at hating Ian or Micah, but she wants to break Meredith's face like a fucking watermelon slammed on the ground. It's not a good feeling. It's not a feeling she's used to. Closest she's ever come is Iris in that hallway at Aria, and she still thinks that sucked some of her humanity or something. Like it killed some part of her or something, and she's just not good at hating. That kinda dark, it doesn't rest easy in her belly, but she feels it then, yeah? With each fucking throw of fists. Meredith. Meredith. MEREDITH.
He says to breathe, and she drags in breath deep. It makes her a little dizzy, yeah? That suck of air, and her head's still heavy like when she woke up in that motel. But he talks, and she listens. Snap, ok, yeah, snap. She listens, and she tries to do what he says. He moves behind her, and she even manages it a few times. A few good snaps of arm, fist sharp against the bag. It's satisfying, yeah, but not satisfying enough. And maybe it's wildness or youth or just uncontrolled feeling, but she goes back to fucking flailing at the bag. She's only hitting with fists now because the gloves kinda make her. Mostly, she's all arms, wild and uncontrolled and fucking thoughtless.
She does that until the feel of his hands on her hips become more weighty than the desire to just slam into the fucking bag, and she flails slower then, seconds between hits landing, and she leans back against him some. Not a lot of weight, yeah? Because she remembers his knee. BARELY, but she remembers just as she's about to put all her weight against him, and she draws up short and just presses back sweaty and messy to his chest.]
You're- [Gasp of breath, words damp.] supposed to be sitting.