== (wants) wrote in repose, @ 2016-10-08 19:13:00 |
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Entry tags: | *log, cris martin, sam martin |
Capital club: Sam A & Cris M
Who: Sam Alexander & Cris Martin
What: ("chaste") dancing
Where: a club in the Capital
When: after this
Warnings/Rating: it's Sam & Cris, even the starter is inapprop
Meet me there The sunset-strip drive to the Capital Cris managed quick. He kept the window down, wind tearing through the car, uprooting any sounds coming outta the speakers and ripping 'em away, but he'd hadta hurry, huh? He'd been getting outta the shower when he got Sam's text, towel around his waist and water dripping down the backa his neck, so he didn't have no time to let his hair dry or nothing. Instead, he patted on stinging after-shave and a cologne he hadn't worn in years, ran a comb and some product through his hair, and hopped in the car. The window being down? It was his waya working on the wet hair thing, huh?—And it was successful. The night was a late-summer warm, cooling sun on skin and drenching the world in orange and purple and red. Cris actually had the chance to admire it as he went. It'd been a long fucking time since he had the space to do that, he realized, as he smiled at the gloaming, blot-and-cascadea clouds. He actually laughed. Alone, in the car, like some lunatic. Maybe he was going a lil loco, but it didn't matter, 'cause Etain—Meredith—was gone. He was fucking free, and he was soaring on that. Maybe that was stupid and he'd fall off the cliffa it in the hours to come, but he didn't fucking care. Even waiting in the weekend traffic heading into the city center couldn't kill it for him. The buildings crowded around the exit ramp like big, black birds over carrion, and Cris smiled up at their shadows like they were the lighta God on his face. He pushed his sunglasses back from his eyes as his phone started in on the exact directions, and he drummed his fingers on the steering wheel in some song long wind-snatched and gone. His mind couldn't hold onto the words, but that didn't matter. It wasn't just the Etain/Meredith thing though either, huh? Nah, 'cause he hadn't dressed up on her account. It wasn't her he was looking forward to seeing (or not). It was Sam. And with the sitter settled in with Joey (and told not to leave her, not for nobody, even family 'less specifically noted), Cris thought about the gringa—his fiancée. Humming along the veins of a city at sundown, he imagined what she mighta found to wear and dance (chaste). He also played with the idea-a her in the hotel shower, soap suds on her skin, and her rinsing herself off under spigot, rinsing herselfa grease with a shower head that trailed over her like he wanted his fingers too. He even got as far as hot water running bold through coarse gold above her cunt, down back and ass and shoulders and tits and thighs and belly, over the split-swella lips. He woulda taken it further, but his phone was telling him he'd arrived before he could, and then he hadta circle back around to find parking. By the time Cris got into the club, past the bouncer and alla that, his hair had dried. He smiled up at the disco ball as it reflected the bloody redda the space, like an setting sun bullied through a pinhead. The music thudded through him good and heady, and he took a deep breath before looking around. He'd done pretty good dressing for the place. Crisp white shirt, tight over shoulders and chest, a lil unbuttoned and with sleeves rolled up, and simple dress pants that were well-tailored, the guy was feeling pretty prouda himself. He decided he'd start his search for Sam at the bar—onea the bars—, and once he got to the one on the left sidea the room, he ordered himself a rum, as the dark notesa myrrh and bergamot and musk settled on his dark skin. |