Re: Quicklog, DC: Clem M/Shane A
Fresh fucking out. [He smirked, because he always fucking did, and he helped himself to her white sofa, the one covered in some fucking frozen plum colored blanket. He shed his outer layers, down to his shirt. He didn't bother with his boots, though her heels were tipped next to his feet, yeah? He pulled his feet up onto her shining, round coffee table and let his head fall back into that rich kind of fluffiness. You know what I'm talking about. It's like a fucking cloud or whatever, trapped in a threadcount higher than anyone would ever fucking need.
He saw she looked younger, yeah? She said she'd gone and was little again, so it wasn't a surprise, but he did look at her, head tipped back and chin up, where she stood with that glass in her hand and her dress yellow and goddamn bright on her darker skin, like she'd seen sun in this godforsaken place.
Shane laughed—the way men do, not gleeful and open-mouthed, but low at her eyeroll, which hadn't changed a fucking blink. He didn't give a fuck about the music, except that it was slow and it wasn't making his ears bleed. And yeah, you know, maybe the drink softened her anger, but Shane's—and he had it—was let go. He didn't need a drink for that, yeah? He never had. Nah, all he wanted was a fucking cigarette since he couldn't smoke with the baby around.
But he didn't ask for one. He patted the cushion next to him to beckon Clem over.] Don't you rich fucks offer people drinks or something?