Re: Motel 77: Cris & Sam
There was something comforting about touch, about even the low murmur of voices, indistinct, the background buzz of a TV, or words in chest, tangled up with heartbeat. It prolly was something innate, something leftover from the womb, like babies falling asleep with their little heads on your shoulder, just 'cause you rocked and sang words that had no meaning to them. It was lulling. And even as adults, it carried over. Sam touched him, he touched her, and it was slow, without gunpowder stacked and cordoned at the end, touch for touch's sake—it was new for them, but Cris listed into it, warming, and even more when she whined against his lips. They were both bad at putting out that bitta cinders, slag hot to the touch grating below belly, even now—but it was okay to let it orange there, to let it push them together like coals, heating each other with proximity, black falling to gray.
Her fingers tacked back from spit-stick lips, and Cris led them, still glistening, low. It was warmer, hot even, and his cock was there, between hard and soft, roused by the rude slip of skin on skin, roused by closeness, and he wasn't gonna do anything with it, but he didn't mind if she touched him. But, white stuttered to a stop and she looked up. His breath fluttered without him wanting it to, but he bit it back, tongue a flat lathe against the backa enamel.
"Fuck her." It was a little violent from the guy who didn't swear all that much, but he meant it, eyebrows in a brief tumult together. He tried not to move his hips. "Whatever she said, it ain't true, 'cause I still do want you, mami.—That woman was on that bed with me, writhin' for it. You get that? She's sayin' stuff to you, 'cause she's jealous, so fuck her." There was a telegrapha disgust clear on Cris' face when he talked about the bed, but it passed, fondness flooding back into black when pink lips pressed petal'd kisses to his fingertips. He leaned forward to push his nose against hers in a nuzzle, forehead too, and so he could tell her: "Yeah. Trust me then, huh? I can tell." He allowed a lil bitta space to come back in. "I'm fucked up. I go from sayin' you wanna fuck Neil, to tellin' you stuff you asked for time for, huh? If you're fucked up, so am I. I don't mind tellin' you it's not all fuckin' or tellin' you I do want you, so if you needta ask, you can ask."
Sam sat back un poco. She chewed on her lip, and he looked at her.
"Yeah, I'd bring you the dog and I'd keep my mouth shut, if it's what you want. Just hear me out, huh?—I dunno that it's a good idea, you not feelin' good. You want, you can put up in my garage. It's warm enough in the summer." He pressed his lips together, 'cause now it was his turn to edit. Still sprawled back, his hand still trawling her spine, tear-wet, he let black eyes fall to blonde. "I know it's not your place, and I know Marvel's a mess right now, but—" He knew she wouldn't like it. "Would you really hate it, if I ran 'em offa your place? You can blame it on me." He thought, trying to find other options she might go for. "Or we could get you a... ¿como se llaman?—trailer or somethin'. Somethin' that's not a tent."