#neueroses

there’s something about nam hong. yeah. something. be less cryptic, will you? but, no further elaboration needed. isn’t it something you can tell by the looks of him? especially now. gijoon’s eyes cut over to the male sitting to his left, sweeping over the bare of his thigh pass the fitted cloth stretched over his hips and finally settling on the curve of his cupid’s bow, painted a soft plum. 

jeez.

now, he’s feeling both a little lucky and damned.

"thank god i called in sick today,” but he’s not. obviously. he’s here, after all. albeit, with the accompaniment of a few other rich s.o.b.s (therefore ensuring some sort of profit for madame lim in exchange for a night of freedom). “i would hate to be caught on the wrong side of tonight’s theme.” not that it in any way or form stopped gijoon from showing up in the first place, even if it is to point the resident mr. robot out of the crowd and demand his attention. (rightfully, this time. nam hong is unable to ignore him even if he wanted to.)

and who would’ve expected then, that the sight of him in a dress is even more hilarious close up?

“whose is this, by the way?” gijoon questions idly, hand moving to pinch the hemline between his fingers, tugging playfully. “it’s not on loan is it?” certainly doesn’t feel cheap. “can’t imagine the madame would go out specifically to buy expensive stuff like this just for one night.” 

gijoon maintains his demeanor, halved between impish glee and genuine curiosity in the way his palm rests flat on hong’s thigh, sliding up briefly just to pull away—distracted once more—picking at the ends of the wig he paired with the outfit. 

“yah,” he laughs around his disbelief, leaning in further for a closer inspection. “why did you match such a cheap wig to a dress like this? what’s the sense in that?” 

not that it looks bad, though.

@neueroses

YOUNGHOON

Doin’ time, overtime. It’s only natural when you let the seconds slip through your fingers as generously as you do. Easy when the thick of it is spending hours in the small comfort of grease, leather, and the mechanical hum of the engine.

You shut the hood with a grunt. The actual fix hadn’t been as easy, but what’s a challenge if you don’t sweat a little for it.

“Always better to catch it early.” Cancers and motor gunk alike (take a hint here, Uncle). Your eyes crinkle up, a tease of a grin on the side, as if in anticipation for the follow-up. With Raemi the thrill, however mundane, is to be expected.

RAEMI

“Better late than never,” comes your easy retort, words whipping faster than you realize but isn’t it always like this, running everything at full throttle. Damage control has never been your strong suit and likely never will be, but that’s what everyone else is for.

You lean forward with your hands behind your hips, pushing again the small of your back. Hum as you inspect the shine of your car, how the light catches it much the same way it latches onto the patch of sweat behind his wet bangs. “Put you through the wringer today, huh?” Quite literally. He’s a second away from dripping onto your latex.

Can’t have that—so you push his hair back gingerly with one hand, your other grabbing for his forearm as you ever intentionally and with a flash of a smirk press his sleeve against exposed forehead. You puppeteer him into a few light dabs. “I’ll give her some downtime.” By proxy, “Which now leaves you free. Grab a drink?”

                                                              SOLON, YEAR who am i kidding i don’t remember. 

doesn’t matter. time is relative. the year matters a lick when you can jump lightyears and reach the next planet in two clicks. but solon. solon is a steaming pile. hot, compact. houses that are haphazardly put together. poor design. doesn’t matter. the attraction of solon doesn’t lie in its buildings, rather what’s beneath its grainy terrain. a black market for all and everything the human (and alien) brain(s) can think of.

kael, in particular, only had eyes set on one thing. and it’s easy. it’s simple. not hard to pick out. two legs. two arms. one head. orange hair. an abundance of goods that rung up as stolen! in the system.

rookie mistake. but one can’t expect the little princess of whatever planet (he can’t remember. again. too many planets, not enough braincells.) to be versed in staying hidden. (a godsend, if he’s honest). this is like what, the fifth time he’s caught up to her already?

does it matter? if you keep letting her loose? shut up.

but, god, solon is dusty. kael sniffs. an entire colony and no one knows how to use a damn vacuum. his nose itches, at the mercy of desert winds from his perch on the rooftops. possibly the best spot in the house to monitor all exits to the small cafe that acts as a cover to the underground market entrance. 

it’s a waiting game, end of. but only because it’s too much of a damn hassle to go inside. with all this heat? and dust? and the group of sssths he’s seen walk in earlier? hard pass. no thanks. he’ll wait.

and by the good graces of god, she surfaces. fleetingly. a figure cloaked in black that zips out through the back and into the winding paths. but he knows all too well—build, knapsack, wisps of orange ends—what his prey looks like; and doesn’t hesitate to chase, skipping from rooftop to rooftop with practiced ease.

easy. fucking easy. but so fucking annoying. (again, dust, heat. his stomach grumbling for would be rations already spent away on his ship.) 

but finally—a forked path. 

her hesitance rings clear, halted in her tracks much akin to a mouse in a maze. making him what? the cat? yeah. his lips curl into a sneer, kicking a loose tile to her feet with careful precision.

“yo, princess.” isn’t it funny? to be greeting her in the same breath as one would an old friend. only an old friend wouldn’t be spinning a pair of cuffs like a keyring. “lost?” kael grins wolfishly, canines peeking out. 

“need some help?”