#hitline

BUT WONHO IS BACK IN MUSIC! My Kpop hubby. Our sweet buff bunny. Protector of Monbebe. Lover of RAMYUN..

IM EMOTIONAL

               vanity corrupts the mind - she represents it, unwavering in her stare towards handheld mirror and the reflection held within. each slowly drawn out blink is scrutinized, determining if her lashes were long enough, thick enough, if the sharp line of liner was even. a half - open bag of products is settled between spread thighs, buried by the paper bag of greasy warm food that she blindly accepts into her space without paying him any mind. it’s always like this. they know each others quirks. 

                  it takes another moment still for her to answer, even after raspy voice has long since faded into obscurity, drowned by the gently thrumming tune that still vibrates the car. when she does, it’s after a snap. mirror shut, locked away with her contentment and a too - wide smile pulling at her cheeks and wrinkling at the corners of golden eyes. 

prompt. | @hitline. 

              there’s two empty bottles, both her own. he never had a taste for wine like she did - too far in to differentiate between essences of pear or touches of cherry in each. too far in to express the difference between a merlot and a zinfandel. maybe another time, when her head isn’t carefully rested in his lap, she would explain the subtle changes that exist when alternating her palette. valerie is unaware of how long he’s been cradling that same beer, if he’s swapped it out with a quick stretch to the cooler they left a few feet away. doesn’t recall him leaning, shifting her around to reach. maybe he never had to. 

                 idly, she ponders the question, only half - registering it while silently searching for another figure in their company. she wonders if he’s here, or if he’s listening. she thinks he would appreciate the question, too. 

                    “ everyone gets scared, chicky. “  a generalization, and maybe it’s because she’s avoiding answering for herself. there’s safety here, in the blood - stained arms of miami’s monster in the closet. death lingers on his shoulders, a spine - crushing burden he must carry for the rest of his days, but he never slouches under it. as his hands bury in golden curls, she wonders how frightful it would be for another. how horrific it would be to be touched by the hands of a man who found gratification in caving in skulls with the heel of worn out sneakers, or split his knuckles on the shards of bone that emerged from flesh. but she feels only safety here, contentment. there’s a sigh. she hasn’t been afraid in a long time, but sometimes it creeps in, crawling up her spine like a parasite that refuses to leave. it reminds her, just as she drags a nail over the curve of his cheekbone.

             sometimes when idle, she develops a little melody to her movement. a gentle sway and bounce with an imaginary tune that might be heard in the softest hum, were someone to be especially perceptive. like now - a subtle swing of hips from side to side, shoulders rising and falling with the motions. distracted, focused, with another chewy candy being popped into her mouth. 

                 a craning of neck, all too curious is the look offered, with what may be defined as a fraction of bafflement hidden behind. an entity that had become regularity. from the corner of her eye to as blatant and bold as the next thing seeking attention. from whispers of hallucination, to the feeling silken feathers and bone - shattering beak under fingertips. as real as any man, warped in a reality of which he does not belong.