dry spell | solo
LOCATION: a loft, downtown la
TAGGING: sam evans and sunny santos (npc)
DATE & TIME: 7/16, late afternoon
NOTES: a thunderstorm breaks the heat and samâs dry spell. for the SELFIES task, featuring the word THUNDER. slighly nsfw.  WC: 944
In hindsight, it probably wasnât the best idea. On the Sam scale of bad ideas this might have landed somewhere between the time he got his legs waxed and the time he decided driving from Fort Worth to Austin on 30 minutes of sleep and five cups of coffee seemed like a âfun thing to doâ.
So, ridiculous. Possibly a little questionable, but nothing to warrant an intervention.
Calling someone up nearly a month after getting their number wasn't entirely sleazy. At least thatâs how heâd silently justified dialing a number heâd insisted on deleting but never actually did and maybe he was glad to because theyâd met at Nerds and Java again. She was wearing yellow again and an even  brighter smile that certainly lived up to her name.
Sunny.
With the big, dark curls and wide, dark eyes. And it was easy to write off the previous awkwardness at being recognized as a slight overreaction. Besides, Sunny hadnât really known it was him when sheâd initially sat down, and while he didnât know much about the young woman outside of those âgetting to know youâ basics, she didnât strike him as deceptive.
It wasnât being hypocritical. At least itâs what he said to himself when Sunny invited him to her apartment to check out an art piece sheâd recently purchased at a show, and he accepted the offer.Â
There was, at least, some hesitation. Some silent deliberation with himself and the feeling that lingered, the one about sleeping with fans, or anyone whoâd seen his work in some capacity. He reasoned that since Sunny was upfront, admitting sheâd only seen a few videos but undoubtedly was attracted to him and his vibe, that it would be--if anything--a slight bending of the unspoken rule.
At least thatâs what he told himself. The resounding rumble of thunder thatâd greeted them once theyâd stepped outside of the coffee shop seemed to support his reasoning. Dark clouds formed, quickly overtaking the bright blue he was so used to seeing as the city geared up for what looked to be one hell of a rainstorm, and by the time the first drops started to fall, a decision had been made.
Because as he climbed the steps to her surprisingly spacious downtown loft, heâd already knew what would happen.
And maybe, he definitely wanted it.
That want, that felt instinctual. Felt like what heâd been missing those last few weeks with the monotony of the day to day tugging at him. If felt less like the job, but not quite like sex with someone new. Someone who hadnât seen him naked. After all, she only knew Samson, or had some vague idea of him. But this would be different. New, but not new. Something to prove, but not entirely a fantasy to fulfill.Â
And perhaps it was all what he needed to convince his brain to shut down, to shift into base desire and satisfy the need that seemingly intensified on their wet walk to her loft. Clothes dripping from the downpour, it only served as motivation to strip down, the lack of nerves seemingly gone as both used the silent explanation of shedding soaked clothes to get naked.
The rush returned, cresting hard as hands gripped and tugged and stroked dipped between warm thighs to rub exactly where she wanted. Her skin held a faint trace of fresh rain, blended with the sheen of sweat as she moved against his diligent fingers, pressed between his frame and a small table that creaked with each slow roll of her hips.
Perhaps he could blame that on the rain too, the shift of their kisses from hesitant to a heated kind of boldness, a mess of tongues and moans and there was no intention of making it anywhere but where theyâd landed, on the hardwood floor behind her couch, pausing long enough to roll on a condom before sinking into her with a renewed sense of energy.
Itâd been too long, since he felt a purpose in fucking besides what needed to be done for the cameras.
And he tamped down on the initial instinct of wanting to show off. It felt unnecessary, considering the little she knew about him, as Samson or otherwise. Â So he channeled his energy elsewhere, setting in the moment, the feel of it all, of her, Â hands ghosting over soft copper-colored skin, gripping softer thighs and kissing full lips in a way that made her coo and writhe beneath him, meeting driving strokes with fluid thrusts of her own.
And maybe it was selfish, fucking himself out of a slump with a stranger he did actually vibe with but he soothed that thought with another, that it was wanted. Â And it didnât need to be anything more than it was. The lack of expectation, in needing to be Samson, or Sam. Just the body, hard-muscled and determined hands, meeting hers, soft curves and eager fingers lost in his hair, gripping hard and her cries rang out and he thrust over and over.
They climaxed just like that, moving hard against the hardwood, his face buried in her neck, burn in his thighs and a pain in both knees from the unforgiving surface of the floors but fuck, it was worth it. The come down was quiet, their breaths in sync and their chests heaving when their eyes found each other, olive meeting chestnut and the twin looks of âwhat the hellâ, the haze of pleasure in both had them laughing, the sound carrying above the sound of thunder and rain that still fell, bringing some much needed relief to the sweltering city.
