"where’s my shirt?" + ludson
tone quick. accusatory. rasping against the back of his mouth as he drags a hand across his face and leans forth. luna's mouth is full of bobby pins, hands deftly twisting her sleek blonde hair into the chignon he knows so well. knew? knows. (her white blouse is unbuttoned past the black lace bra, skirt put on half-backwards.) late afternoon sun filters in through the dusty windows of his los angeles loft, sifts over her creamy skin, dapples the tangled sheets around his waist.
"i don't know," and it's perfunctory, clipped, a silent, steely this will never happen again threaded through her words. but she turns around regardless, leans forward and into his mouth, and lets her fingers skitter over his chest before she pulls away with the half-tucked, cat-got-the-cream grin he loves so much. out of the corner of her eye she can see the lamp they've knocked over, his clothes still a hansel-and-gretel path to their -- his -- bed.
(the shirt's tucked into her bag. it smells like him.)