𝘚𝘰𝘭𝘥𝘪𝘦𝘳 𝘉𝘰𝘺🍭𝘤𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘺

4;

🦅🦅🦅

SoLdIeR BoYy. Ugh, I never wanted to meet this greasy, American cock stain.

I thanked God there was only three more days of Vought work retreat too.

Yes, sometimes it stung to be the perpetually frowning, Tolstoy loving, grim ass bitch in the pack.

But these guys did not have the weight of being a planet buster like I did. FUCK, I was still classified. Only here as a 'potential candidate for V.'

And, as I qued in the line to get some fancy brazilian coffee and fruit, why it was fancy I did not know, something was blotting out the sun, like a fuckin BLIMP, in coming hot, a costume jingling metalically, something metal glinting in the light. THE HELL WAS IT?

Jesus, I scooted to the side, Mister Frederick Vought wondering why I was suddenly initiating contact as he slipped his half moon spectacles up across his cold, fishy eyes. NAZI DICK BAG.

It kinda looked like he was heading straight towards me.

And suddenly coffee, or fancy fruit, or that tasty looking scone display was not on my mind anymore, I wanted to run, like when the candle goes out at night and you feel the need to rush to bed before the child snatching shadow man drags you into the woods, or the secret police realise you've been harbouring extra grain.

And as Fred, probably missing his similarly nazi bitch wife gave a conniving little chuckle,

"Soldier Boy, at your service!"

I spun around, croissant falling, making a thump on the patio. "Fuck it up the ass, what the hell are you supposed to be?" You said in Russian.

I wasn't sure if it was poster boy so I squinted, blinded by...all of that, and he had an expression like I'd seen a dozen times before, the kinda man who's fame announced themselves, who was nourished not my croissants, or scones, or goulash, but by narcissism and the overly excitable squeals of fans.

Yeah, with a Hollywood smile, full of V induced beans, all proud and incredibly unhumble and in full realia, poster (poser) boy started to wonder why I wasn't enthralled by his presence, smile dropping, almost awkward as the other thirty people in the line ahead of me turned to stare, oh Jesus Christ.

I wouldn't let him know I spoke perfect English.

I scratched my ear, turning, looking anywhere but his direction as I decided running away was not the best option, blankly waiting my turn for cold meats.

Poser Boy scoffed, under his breath, unwilling to believe he'd just been ignored and not able to take a hint.

He cleared his throat loudly, bridging the three foot of space between us as he passed his shield to his other arm, voice enormous but admittingly charmingly baritone. "I don't have the faintest idea what you just said but I'll,"