( BODYACHE )
FOUR IN THE MORNING, OUR FAVORITE BASTARD HANGS BY A THREAD. that is, myo suran stands bare of undergarments in the lobby of hapjeong’s bigger service apartments, clutching a vape pen between lithe fingers (never to touch her lips, though her fingers twitches with ache, suran knows time and place well; a woman bore as a dirty little secret between sinners in “love”) and a smile aimed to weaken men in the knees.
you know, the one filled to the brim of self-assurance, confidence in spades in nearly every aspect.
which, given the evening’s turn of events, is one well deserved.
(she would ask that you disregard the fact that she stands, naked underneath the floral one piece and still warm between the thighs, waiting for her ride at an ungodly hour of the night. she would ask that you ignore the connotations behind her nightly drop by with her new beau, that the aching warmth between her thighs matters little in the face of being ignored—if only for just a while—when she made the effort to come in the first place.
she would ask that you disregard all of it, because at the end of the day—pettiness driving our favorite bastard into being a dick tease—she’s the one standing with the ghost of her lover’s tongue between her thighs and his new credit card tucked in her wallet while waiting for the ride he called for her.
she’s the one in control. hasn’t she always been? and her confidence is justified, if only for the fact that she has him eating out of her palm.)
now, if only that kim jongin would hurry up.
@hpjongin
