𝘚𝘰𝘭𝘥𝘪𝘦𝘳 𝘉𝘰𝘺🍭𝘤𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘺

5;

🦅 🦅🦅

Luna didn't come home last night.

But she'd left my dress hanging over our shared room door.

WITH A RIP IN IT; stained with cigarette ash and red, red wine. Probably body fluids too.

I brushed my teeth in ill veiled horror, glancing over to the fabric with worrying frequency.

And I really thought about finding Luna, who was probably still wrapped up in a pair of wonderfully, sorry, woefully strong arms and give her a piece of my mind. Truman!

Wrapped in a pale pink shift with a blanket over my shoulders, it was barely five am when I set out in the great yonder, which meant while everyone one was hungover on a Sunday morning I crept out to enjoy some peaceful serenity, taking a space on he bench under a lush peach tree.

Knew he wouldn't think about me.

I opened page five hundred and forty of Might: A History of Modern Warfare, coffee on Pushkin.

I had three weeks left until they took me to Nevada, called me by my alphanumerical designation, wound me up and let me go boom, watch with wonder and horror and laughter and silence as everything within a chilling radius was annihilated.

They'd fly over with their observer planes, collecting samples, the one terrified case worker asking me indecent questions while the men behind the glass listened.

Fuck, why couldn't I have gained a prehensile clit, like Bubble Girl or Big Bertha or whatever she was called, or oh, be like the broad with petals for eyelashes. Suddenly it was obvious why I'd been put here, so Old Fred and his minions could pretend they were nice before they got mean.

"What've you got your nose in?"

I thought I'd been drugged.

Fresh as a daisy, out of his costume, hair damp as if he'd just got out of the shower, Poser Boy sat next to me like he'd been paid to, pinching the book from my hands with out qualms.

I looked for Luna, she was nowhere to be found, my hands still in the air.

"Like tanks, huh?" He knocked me gently with his shoulder, winking. "Guns? Things that blow up? YOU LIKE TANKS?"

I nodded, sucking my lips not to laugh.

"Then you'd love me."

I didn't get up and run now, nervous, actually nervous, adjusting the stupid blanket over my shoulders. In a pristine, white shirt three buttons undone, Italian loafers on his feet, pants sharply tailored, fuck, I didn't even brush my hair.

With palms up in surrender, he put the book back on my lap, leaning back on the bench, arm slipping around my back, if he wasn't this handsome it'd be harassment. "This playin' hard to get shit is right up my alley," he swept the hair from his eyes, "I'll figure it out, just you wait and see,"