Re: Quicklog, DC: Clem M/Shane A
[Shane had been people's bad decision before. Their story to tell. But that was back when he was young, younger than Clementine was now, and girls wanted to fucking ride on the back of his bike, so they could wave to their daddies or boyfriends and they could threaten to shoot the son of a bitch driving the thing. But, then he got older, and maybe he was still their mistake, but they had to take him longer than that, yeah? Not just a bike ride. It took him for-fucking-ever to like anyone, most didn't find it worth waiting out. But some did. Marina was worse trouble than he was, but he wasn't stupid, yeah? He knew she used him—or the idea of him or whatever—to fuck with Russ, just like he was sure other women did.
It was whatever. He didn't give too much of a fuck, not unless one of those men came after him, but they rarely did. He looked mean, talked mean, and was mean. That scared most of them off.
But Clementine—well, maybe she thought he was some middle finger to her daddy, but she'd waited it out, yeah? And Shane would've flipped the man off himself, then shot him in the fucking dick, the sick fuck that he was. So he just watched the girl—and she was that, yeah?—leave the room and come back with a fucking tray in her hands.
Like, a real tray.
And he laughed again, because to him, this was all a big fucking joke. Shane sat forward to take the tumbler as Clementine perched next to him like a preening bird, proud of her plumage, perfume on her something bright and young and nothing at all like Marina's fucking chosen shit that was all pomegranate, berry, dark and darker. She leaned in toward him, and Shane didn't fucking savor the Scotch that probably cost more money than anything he'd ever fucking seen. Bottoms up, yeah? With a cigarette, long, and fluted, and fucking weird, but whatever, between his fingers, unlit.
His throat burning good and he fished his lighter out of the pocket of his jeans. The flame caught the end of that cigarette and he inhaled, looking over at Clementine. And they weren't fucking dancing, so he didn't blush or anything like that. He breathed in deep—his throat now like raked coals—and exhaled smoke through his nose, filling the white air between them. The way his eyes were on her, she could probably feel it, yeah? Like soldering iron to skin.
He thought about it. About what she said, about wanting shit without asking for it or whatever. He didn't turn in toward her like she did him. But he did close the distance between them easy, and for the what? third time fucking ever, he kissed Clementine Murphy. Shane wasn't some rich kid either, the kind she was probably used to, and he tasted like ashes and oak and his mouth on hers was grittier than adoration, open and if she was expecting passive, it wasn't that.
When he pulled the fuck away a minute later, he smirked again at her and took another drag on the cigarette.]