sleepy.

[bnnibels-blog]

subunbun:

(  ♡  ) “Don’t you think you’re paying too much attention to that?” Her polished nails tapped lightly at the sheets of paper in front of the other female. With a pout on her lips, she lifts her hand to prop her head against it. “You should give yourself a break. Let loose, you’re always so immersed in your work. Isn’t that a bit unhealthy?” Her eyebrows rose in wonder, her nose slightly scrunching up as she looked at the other.

      parchment ripples. bonnibel leafs over a page, blinks at it once or twice: taps her pen about her chin. tk-tk-tk. “i do not, no.” eyes are the first to go up, then a nose. she’s sporting a quipping smile, one that betrays all inspired indignation possibly detected— she does survey subin over the metallic rims of her spectacles, though. indulgently.

    “you sound like marceline, geez. i’m dandy, thank you.      but... since you clearly want my attention, susu,      here: you’ve got it.” 

[bnnibels-blog]

zavoki:

perhaps, i’m the female version of tarzan and you could be jane but – are you offering dinner? because i wouldn’t decline the offer.

tarzan? is that some sort of cutlery— oh! dinner... mm, i wouldn’t say offering, tutelage is more appropriate. never mind my favor for class distribution, i do think you’re sweet. and, pretty, or something like that... so, yes, dinner. what do you even eat, anyway? 

[bnnibels-blog]

my name is april and you're beautiful so let me make things a little easier for you, call me tonight.

     (* the basal of her thumb pivots, sinks into a nest of creases at her mouth’s corner and spills a shadow down her chin. she considers. ) were you raised in a jungle? diplomatic principles state that you are to discuss further dating plans over an–at least!–impressive dinner. or something like that... approximately. plausibly. 

[bnnibels-blog]

jellyfilledjihyun:

Suddenly feeling like her life depended on carrying this girl, she took in a deep breath. “Don’t worry. Your trusty steed has got you.” a small giggle slipped out of her as she cupped her hands under the other’s legs, making sure she was secure. Jihyun began to walk in the direction that was pointed out, going at a slow pace. “I hope you don’t mind but, I can’t go any faster than this. I’m afraid if I do I may trip and then we’ll both be S.O.L.” She half joked. “Where are we going anyway?”

    askance, bonnibel’s nose notches up--up, up!--all the way to the sky, and she squints into the gloam, toward the speckle-shineshow of flickering stars. her tiara slides into the slot behind her ear, and she hedges, “i’m not so sure,” then posits finally: “wherever you take me, i guess.” two clad arms unfold out over jihyun’s shoulders, they retract and they worry the heels of her palms into the pleats of her bodice uncomfortably. her legs move and she leans until she’s a handspan aloft the shell of jihyun’s ear. “define... what was it you said?” embers of indignation flare to life, an arm goes out in a flourish and her fingers snap together like two lighters: click! she goes at it again--and again...--and is finally quelled by sudden recall’s reprieve. “s.o.l.” she drawls out each letter, wavering. triumphant, too! 

                                    “is that a representative? decrypted etymology?” 

[bnnibels-blog]

     ( * — ●●●ＥＰＩＳＴＬＥ：                   @jellyfilledjihyun ! ) —— ©

“Here, let me carry you.” She squatted before the other, hoping she would get the hint and cling onto her back. “Get on. I’ll make sure you get to your destination safely.”

    oh, her heart soars, broadside homesick earnestly pining; kindling deep——ebbing into the balls of her feet and throbbing. literally. her feet, no, her ankle: it hurts real bad. far too much to fall victim to walking. standing’s easy, but one-step taken to chance at hiking herself up is one-step too many. she contrives nonetheless, the dull, sweltering twinge notwithstanding, and settles into encircling her thighs about her companion’s waist. her hands grope at the blades of her shoulders, seeking desperately steady equilibrium.  

      “onward, my trusty steed,” three-to-four fingers crimp into the scoops          behind jihyun’s ears, she tugs them both simultaneously and dissuades:                     “and for the sake of my life and yours, do not drop me.”  

[pxnie-deactivated20151231]

Hyemin was jumpy. Not afraid jumpy, but just jumpy jumpy. There was always something going on with her body. Whether she was biting her nails or clicking her tongue in sync of an unheard of beat—there was just always something. But she wasn’t biting her nails or clacking her tongue this time. This time she was chewing. Yes chewing. The moment she sat down, her hand dived into her purse and dug up a snackful treasure. The long length, reddish, straw liked treat hung from her lips. Inch by inch it became shorter and once she was done with it, it was replaced with another. She was always teased about her slight obsession of the lickerish; coming in defense that it isn’t rubber, but a delightful heathy substance that only “the twizzler people” can make.

Just half way into finishing off the lickerish candy, a snort fell from the woman’s nose. “Stab?” She pulled the end of the red straw out, waving it around at the girl. “I didn’t stab him. I mean if I did…” she chopped off another bite from the snack, “he’ll be dead.” Following those words, came an extremely loud laugh. Her laugh—well one of her many laughs—had a meaning. Some meant that “it’s not that funny, so I’m just going to laugh for your amusement” which mostly sounds like a hahaha and a long ahhh drag afterward. And then there is the “oh my god that’s so funny, but I legit am too tired to use my giggling muscles” which mostly sounds like nuheuhehee. But THIS one. Oh this one had a far off meaning and sound.  It was loud and low pitched-starting off with a muhaha and then brought higher in sound, mixed with an obnoxious gargle of her throat. Quickly she shut her trap. She was more than aware that her laughter seemed to scare many people off, and for the sake of this strangely odd girl, she didn’t want to take that chance.

“Uhm.. so.. anywho…” she tucked away the unfinished sweet and matched her brown eyes with the girl’s. Thoughts of where she came from and how she came to be, filled up her noggin. Hyemin wondered about those things: “things” that are mostly unhuman to think of. Slowly, her single finger reached out to poke at the tip of the younger’s nose. Pushing the end up of her button to form a pig shaped nostril, a grin painted her pink glossed lips. “You’re lost, aren’t you? It’s okay to be lost-that’s totally fine. I was lost too, once, but that was because I lost my GPS and I was in a country that I have never been in,” her words slipped out her mouth so rapidly, “and that’s why I never trust going to the bathroom in a strange place because you never know what you gonna find or what you might see. And I’m telling you, a fat man on a naked beach with a tattoo that says “love me tender” slapped right on the crack of his tushie—Isn’t. A thing. You would EVER. Want to see.”

Her finger slowly moved away, crawling up to her scarf. She unraveled the fuzzy fabric from her neck and then tied it around her little companion. She always wanted a sister—okay no, not really, but she liked to pretend she had one. “So don’t you worry, you would never have to see a fat man’s tushie…unless you go to a naked beach of course, but I doubt you would find one during this season because it’s fall and you know what that means. HALLOWEEN!—Heh, heh, eh.. so uhm, where do you live? I live in Seoul, well Hongdae actually but it’s pretty much the same thing so… but—don’t you know you’re parents are probably shaving their head bald! Look at the time!” she pointed to her digital watch—that didn’t work, “it’s something o’clock and you’re not home! Have some consideration for old people would you.”

She rambled on again about her stories. Tongue twisting in words, shooting them out like a gun aiming out bullets. Her face was full in motion. Eyebrows shot up, and her nose twitched—going off about the time she stole the dentures from her granny’s cabinet to use as a hairclip. As confusing as she sound, it all made sense to Hyemin. That was one thing about her spirit, no matter how wrong she was she just knew she was right—which was still wrong, but also right-in a way-to her-kinda-sorta-eh.

[bnnibels-blog]

    bonnibel rolls a haversack into her elbow's hinge. its weight is a comfort despite it being sparse, its smell—because it does have one, yes, all oak and linen and nostalgia—a balm. the harsh rummaging isn't enough to garner bonnibel's attention but the munching sure is. there's no crunch, and at first she thinks what her guide is consuming isn't candy per se, but its red and overall sticky-looking texture is discerned later and she understands that her assumptions are false. but, here’s the good news: she doesn't shriek in terror! doesn't sputter and stutter and recoil, because against her own will she has faced the concept that humans, well, they eat candy. the credence is impermanent but she does recognize that it's not the same anymore anyway: it's not alive. the candy doesn't speak to them, doesn't move or blink. this human though, she bares a bold kinship to marceline. she’s swift and threadbare thin, ardent and tigerish in a way that strikes authentic horror through the hammering hearts of red-faced boys. and, lemme tell you, it’s funny.

    but when she chews, it's slapdash rapid, it's careless and loud, so very loud, bonnibel's reminded of finn. the difference is first-sight gender classification. oh, and instead of two vacant holes where two molars are supposed to be, she's got a mouthful of pearly whites. she also doesn't have a discoloration enameling the exterior of her left eyelid. she radiates warmth like one of those little space heaters, though, ones peppermint always said were more apt to burn the house down than make it hospitable. the fingertip that winches the ball of her nose skyward, bonnibel cogitates, smells of strawberry and lemons depending on the angle, all of which bonnibel explores by limply hailing to the left. this eases the pressure but her perpetrator is persistent. her query though——it's... fretting. her skin's a queer kind of cornflower blue in the slideshow previews of malfunctioning streetlights, the bus rocks its way into motion, and she mulls over just how... apparent her vagrancy actually is.

    “lost is an understatement.” she confirms nevertheless, and her defender’s youthful laughter ventures the entirety of her bones like vibrations. she tries on a smile and it barely fits, but she conforms. it conforms. it’s sharp and it’s wide, cracks open one side of her mouth more so than the other. it’s crooked and rewarding. “you didn't have to put that image in my head, you donkface...” the human anatomy, it's nothing she's ever exercised any successful enterprises on. she doesn't know much. marceline was never a human, no matter how much she looked like one sometimes, and finn, well, finn's just... finn. he'd make things awkward, and due to prior circumstances under the war's regard and human's extinction, she never really had any other options: barring those that she refused to authorize. she can only imagine naked humans. oh, she shudders like the ripples under the waves, her tongue a sick-violet dart tip peeking at the corner of her mouth.

    “that is the thing,” bonnibel begins. she sinks defeated into her leatherbound seat, bristling. the look of her face is either the epitome of compunction or the definition of disinterest. she's pondering——no, she's debating, formulating and calculating consequences that follow with divulging in this girl. she is confused but she is not stupid: she knows she's homeless. and she hates it. she lurches back in. like, really in. and it’s partially by choice but essentially because hey, look, there’s a scarf around her neck. a mass of picton blue loops about bonni’s shoulders, notched taut. she takes the tassel at one end and brushes it beneath her own nose. it’s warm. strawberry, lemon, and... sugar. 

                                                    “i don't have anywhere to go.” 

    her arms, they fold and one floats up like a torch, her index finger chases a stipple of dirt across her cheekbone, its aloof intention exiles its many companions. there’s so much sludge on her face that its dapples can be easily mistaken as freckles in specific defined lighting. but they'll never get fair illumination on this bus: it's as good as slow candleflame, fleeting lights are like knives on the circumference of her neck, mingling beneath her chin. “and, my parents, they're...” oh, no, no,  no, she backpedals and blood surges, rapid and hot. faster. harder. she feels it, feels her human heart pounding and it’s.... anxiety.

    “they're not from here. they're bald anyway, it's fine. tell me your name.” nailed it.

[bnnibels-blog]

pxnie:

Her neck was covered with a wool baby blue scarf, rubbing against her skin with its furry like fabric.  Chuncheon’s weather was much different from Seoul’s. Just as the mid-night, Seoul would be a humid dry air—one that makes your nose itchy and skin dry. But here in Chuncheon it was the very opposite. Your nose ran, eyes water, and you start to shake as if you’ll be made into an ice sickle before one can blink.  

Taking the end tail of the scarf, Hyemin wrapped it around her mouth. Her bus was just in sigh—feet picking up off the pavement of the sidewalk as she neared. Fiddling with her purse, she took out her bus fare pass; without this baby, she wouldn’t leave the house. Getting close to the shutter like doors of the bus she just managed to eavesdrop on the conversation of the two. The tip of her lip pressed between her upper and bottom lip, brows arching up with widen eyes. The small girl standing in the entrance on the bus, face was shadowed with disappointment. As if all her hopes were torn away from her and beaten into the ground.

A raddle filled her throat, looking down at her fare pass. She flipped it to the back and then the front again, smiling up to the girl. Hyemin reached her hand out and grabbed the handle of the door to pull her onto the steps that were retracted. Pushing herself pass the puppy-eyed female, she gave her a wink of her eye and then whipped her head toward the bus driver. “Excuse me, Mr. Bus man…” his name tag was hiding way from his uniform, which looked like it never seen the existence of soap and water, “Would you charge it for two?”

The card held out in front his face, close enough that his hooked nose touched the plastic of it. With a quick snatch and mumbles from his thin wrinkled lips, he swiped the card.

“Thank you!” Her voice was perky and light; resembling the sound of a chew toy being stepped upon. The pass was once returned in her possession, being shoved to the bottom of her purse along with the other gadgets and gismos. After so, the doors shut behind them, causing the cottencandy haired woman to jump with a scream. “Oh… just the doors…” she patted her chest, shaking her head up to the ceiling of the bus. “Ah, shall we sit?”

Hyemin’s bright and commanding personality didn’t wait for an answer. She swiftly linked her arm with the younger, guiding—much like dragging—her along to the mid of the bus. She was wild and a bit crazy. Just crazy enough to force off two school boys from their seat and claimed them as her own. The window seat was her favorite seat. If you asked her to give it up to anyone, including her old helpless grandmother, the answer would be always “no”.

“Aren’t you going to sit down?”

    primitively, bonnibel thinks she’s as good as kidnapped. the backside of her ankle knocks the articulated bus’ shortcoming steps, she almost slips but manages to reimburse her failure with a surprisingly successful backpedal by the use of the opposing calve. but with this comes consequences, she bumps into her perpetrator and grabs at her shoulder like it’s a mandatory demand. 

    her mouth’s a twist of rigid wire—twitching, aquiver—and her vaguely unfocused eyes alternate between the human, yeah, she’s human, bonnibel reflects, and that old junktrumpet that looks at her like she’s just purloined his sacred patrimony loom. she harbors no reluctance at rivaling his murky glower, and even downright grins when a plastic, rectangle-y thing jabs at his nose.

    in the interim, she hasn’t yet processed the authentic rationale behind their present circumstances, but when she’s joggled to the bus’ midsection she realizes that her aspirations have been attained by doing absolutely nothing but giving salty looks. her servant—i mean, her savior—is only regarded to have hair similar to hers when she loops her arm about bonni’s.

    bonnibel stares. really, really, really intently observes her defender. her hair’s pink, she considers, like, mega pink. and it’s not pale pink like bonnibel’s was, no, it’s so ribald and so pretty that nostalgia kindles hot-cold in bonnibel’s chest. she misses having proprietorship of pink hair, misses being made of fungus that thrives from confectionery consumption, not flesh and all the junk she doesn’t know of. knowing is what she misses most.

    she takes wide and calculated steps forthright in their stride. when two boys abandon their post and hotfoot straight to the back of the bus, bonnibel feels in control again. not to mention, the amount of red pimples on that kid’s face reminded her of peppermint butler--how red he was, how rain would chase away his stripes and he’d paint them back until they developed again. in a way, she does miss ‘bossing people around’. 

    their wrists skirmish and the grip around the stranger’s appendage is one that’s barely-there, but her free hand is hiked up and steady, unwavering on her shoulder. that is, until her idol descends in height and directs herself toward the window of the bus: pale illumination from the streetlights through the rafters washes them both filmy, burning orange. bonnibel looks human in the chroma.

    her throat works. her tongue swishes around in her mouth and she can feel her saliva thicken, the muscle pushing against the backsides of her teeth individually——as of right now, subsequent to the previous episode, she’s afraid of speech. her knees buckle first and she grinds the heels of her palms into the leather seat, then turns real slow-like into position. her knees press together and she unknowingly inches toward the stranger.

    because she’s warm. and this is how bonnibel knows that she is human, humans are generally warm. well, unless they’re dead, she discovered, even though it was already a theory. warm and earthly, bonnibel maintains a fraction of unkempt distance between them but their shoulders and elbows rasp when they move. yeah, so, warm. warm like marceline’s becoming. warm like she’s becoming.

   pale-pink fingers pap delicately about the seat, near-thigh region, and when her head rolls to the left, the gesture exposes the protrusion of two broad clavicles beneath the veil of her dress straps and bomber. sludge that’s smeared across bonnibel’s cheek stains what it’s aiming toward. “why did you stab that man’s honker with that license-looking-thing?”

[bnnibels-blog]

 ( * — ●●●ＥＰＩＳＴＬＥ：                                   pxnie ! )

    “please,” bonnibel implores, “please, oh please, let me access this bus. i am lost, so very lost—and i think... i think i’ve got an idea as to where my friend is, and, it’s not that far away, and—” the crisp in the wind reddens the stub of her nose and the ingress she’s talking into eliminates distance between its two doors, skkrrr, but she plows her hand between its progression and interrupts the process. “i don’t have money but i have glasses and i have a...” her hand goes a-searching down the expanse of her jacket, silk on unsymmetrical sinews of flesh, and she prods her little fingertips into each and every department she finds in and outside of the bomber. “...a candy bar i bargained at the gas station a few miles back. please tell me this will suffice. i have nothing more to offer.” 

     “listen, kid,”   bonnibel’s stomach simmers. royalty.        “--if you want on: pay. you don’t get off the hook like that. no money? no access.”

    he skips and garbles his words like he’s got a monumental speech impediment, and it makes her question if she wants on this stupid bus anyway. they house the swimming presence of silence until it boils over and bonnibel hikes a leg up into the air, calcitrates the ledge that ascends to the bus’ interior for good measure and grunts harshly—he bellows and she notices his frantic motions to the steering wheel, but restless outcries by the maintenance of individuals behind her suggests he waits until bonnibel’s finished with her animosity. she doesn’t feel embarrassed, no, she feels she is a victim defenseless at the hand of injustice and-- well, yeah, it’s stupid.

    it’s stupid, but she wants to cry. but, crying... crying is even different. her tears, they’re salty, they’re hot and more importantly, they’re doable. crying was never that of a concern for bonnibel when she was her idea of normal, no. she was never bestowed with that ability, and she misses it. because this——this feeling thing, it just isn’t at her favorable competence. her shoulders slant, one goes up and one goes down, and she turns--head first, body last--aims herself in the opposing direction and breathes. if he’s smart he’ll know that’s her way of saying that she couldn’t give a muskrat’s butt if he hit the gas or not, that cesspool of yuck serves of no use to her anyway. 

    not without money.         money, money, money.      what does ‘money’ even mean here?      there’s no imps, no mutations, no rich-wannabe-wizards, where do you earn it?     there’s nothing. nothing bonnibel wants, at least. except admission.