#tablemate price

[dinoshimaaa]

This December

You’re studying in a cafe, alone, until the seat in front of you is taken by a handsome stranger. (fluff, uni au)

masterpost - sher's bday

tag: @souglias

-

The local university cafe has long been a popular choice to study in. The prices are reasonable, the drinks are fire, and the atmosphere is condusive. Hence the reason why it gets crowded so quickly, and also why it takes hours before one can find an empty spot in it. Essentially, it becomes a race between all students to see who can run to the cafe after classes the fastest and get a comfortable spot of their own.

Today, you get the wonderful privilege of having a cozy, corner seat of the cafe all to yourself. Professor Dainsleif had wrapped up his lecture rather quickly today, dismissing all students early, while muttering something about “not getting paid enough” before leaving the lecture hall.

It’s still minutes before many other classes will be dismissed and soon the emptiness of the cafe will be replaced with soft chattering and the rustling of students moving around, trying to find every spot they can. You quickly collect the hot latte you ordered and go back to continue your art assignment, making sure to milk the peace in this cafe while you still can.

Sure enough, many other students come into the cafe at the same time and all tables are filled within five minutes. There are still a couple of empty chairs that latecomers can claim (one of which, you realise, is the chair sharing your table) but they would have to share their spot with a stranger. Bad day for introverts.

Half an hour goes by while you diligently work on your assignment, and the chair in front of you remains unoccupied. Students leave the cafe and new customers come in, but no one has touched the empty chair yet. You are secretly relieved that you are peacefully left alone to concentrate on your work.

That is until a ginger-haired guy walks in, a foxy grin on his face. Observant eyes scan the entire cafe, looking for a vacant spot, and they land on your table. At the same moment, due to you being alerted by the cafe door opening, your head is raised and he makes eye contact with you.

He glances at the empty chair at your table before looking back at you, and immediately you know what he wants. You look back down and pray to be mistaken, but alas he approaches your table anyway.

“Is this spot taken?” his grin stays confident. You have no choice but to shake your head.

“Great,” he whispers to himself, rubbing his hands with glee. Plopping his bag on the floor with a loud ‘thunk’, he begins to take his laptop and study materials out, ready to do the same as every other student in this cafe.

It’s no big deal— you can just continue with your work. Conversation isn’t needed, and he seems busy with his own thing anyway. You keep your eyes glued to the sketch you’re almost completed with. And you would’ve been just as productive before, if it weren’t for the glaringly obvious looks from your tablemate to the paper you’re drawing on.

Slowly, you raise your head. “Is something the matter?”

“Your art is… odd.”

You snort, amused and insulted at his comment. Not even an introduction— he went in straight for the kill. “Was that a compliment?”

“I hope it sounded like one,” he grins again, “Your style is quite different. The colours you use are dull, not quite colourful and not quite monochromatic; the angles you choose are really unique too. I guess art majors are just really weird in general.”

“You know what they all say about art majors,” you mumble, noticing his widening smile from your peripheral vision, “Quirky and talentless. People only care about STEM nowadays.”

“STEM comes from art,” the guy rests his head on his right palm, “Without human creation, we will never learn about the different laws of the world. Nor will we ever have the chance to play around with advanced technology.”

You look up to psychoanalyse him, while he looks back at you with a big smile (you genuinely cannot tell if it’s a cunning smile, or a confused smile, or both. You don’t know how that is possible). “You don’t look like someone who would say thoughtful stuff like this,” you say softly, hiding the judgement in your words. “Where’d you copy the quote from? You don’t look like a psychology major.”

“Close,” he laughs, “Sports science. I want to become a sports instructor and teach little kids from all over the world on how to play sports. And the quote was inspired by my sister. She’s crazy about art— she’s only in middle school, but she’s got the talent. I think she’ll learn lots from you.”

You raise an eyebrow, surprised. Taking it as a cue to continue, he goes on, “I think you two would get along pretty well, honestly. Next time we meet, maybe I’ll tell you more about her. Hopefully it won’t be because we have to share a cafe table again, haha.”

Against your will, conversation flows between the two of you naturally. You converse in hushed whispers, but that does not stop you from excitedly rambling about your current project and him returning insightful and cheeky comments. Amidst the peace and quiet of the cafe, where majority of the customers are studying alone or with a familiar buddy, two strangers talk like they’ve known each other for years.

The guy leaves, eventually. Your heartbeat goes back to normal (you hadn’t realised it spiked during that hours-long conversation with him) and you finally catch your breath after talking for so long and so quickly. Hoping to return to a productive state, you turn back down to your work, only to find a scrawl written at the top of the paper.

9xxx xxxx

childe

text me ;) i’ll send you art memes

Huh. When did that get here?

-

Omake:

You

hi

cafe gingey

omg

no way

YOU SAVED MY NUMBER

You

yeah i might regret it

we talked for so long that my latte went cold btw

cafe gingey

LOL skill issue

You

good talk though

can’t believe your brain is big enough to hold philosophical thoughts

cafe gingey

had to impress you some way sorry babe

“Moooom! Big Bro Ajax is kicking his feet and giggling on his bed while looking at his phone again!” Tonia’s groans can be heard getting further away from his room door, making Childe laugh again. A flush creeps up his neck, both from embarrassment and from talking to you online. He couldn’t believe he actually had the courage to slip his number to a girl he talked to in the cafe for the first time, and was in even more disbelief that she saved his number and chatted him up afterwards.

Whatever, he thinks, raising the phone to his chest. Who cares if his mom and sister tease him for this? As long as you didn’t know that he rambled about your encounter to his sister after dinner, who was confused and tired at his excessant fanboying as he went on and on about how cool you were. You didn’t need to know that.

[pvthfinder]

WIP Wednesday

Tagged by: @streetkid-named-desire Tagging: UH... I'll have to see who's open to sharing their WIPs, but if you are, consider this your call.

I started writing this months ago and it's been sitting in Google docs ever since. It was never really going to be a finished piece, but I wrote it to start getting Sif's 2077 voice (and cyberware) down. Just a little peek into a moment in time when she was picking up jobs, trying to get her foot in the door in Night City. The woman she's working with needs to be fleshed out but I'd like to make her a recurring character.

—

"Do you even have iron?"

Sif gave a mildly insulted look at the question. In this city? But she shrugged, her head bobbing back and forth in a non-committal way. "What do I look like? I've got a li'l .45 that does the job."

"Let's see it", her tablemate said over her coffee. Ringed fingers tapped the foam cup, and Sif forced a huff as she leaned back to reach into her jacket. The hell did it matter what she was packing?

More than she knew, apparently. What she set on the table nearly made the woman spit, but she managed to swallow in time for an exasperated laugh-turned-sigh.

Sif rolled her eyes and leaned further back into her seat. Sure, the old Unity was worn, had some obvious replacement parts, and looked as humble as the price it would fetch on the secondhand market, but it fired. Most of the time.

"Look, I know it ain't much but it's better than nothin'—"

"Oh, honey, this is nothin'." A delicate hand scooped the pistol off the table and turned it, brow rising as she felt its weight. "This is one jam away from a paperweight. Is it even loaded?"

Sif threw her hands up. "Ammo's more expensive here."

"It's Night City. Everything's more expensive," the woman chided, gently setting the pistol down and sliding it back across the table. "I— look."

She was the one to let go of a deep breath this time. "I have an op that I want to make sure goes smoothly, and that means having the right people with the right equipment. It's not personal."

"Didn't take it that way. This..." Sif picked up her gun, wiggling between her fingers before tucking it away in her jacket, "...is just what comes with startin' from the bottom."

She picked up her bottle, ready to leave the conversation there and wave this all off as wasted time. But something kept her from taking that last sip. A question that nagged at her from the back of her head. The same spot where instinct used to sleep like an old hound before she drowned it.

"I didn't peg y' fer someone interested in a charity case, so why do I get the feelin' that it's less about the iron and more about the person aimin' it?"

"Because it always is. I need an unknown face and you need the eds. Supply and demand." The woman stared out the window for a moment, the slightest twinge of a smirk on her lips, before turning back to look at Sif fully. "And you're right. I'm not known for charity, but I do make... investments."

Sif sat up a little straighter. "You know I can't pay."

"Well aware. So I'll make a deal with you instead." Her painted fingers clasped at the paper coffee cup, glint of silver rings out of place against the kitschy, hazard yellow Capitan Caliente logo. "You'll get to take a peek at my arsenal. Anything under a market value of three K is yours—within reason, of course. In return, you'll owe me a little favor."

Sif listened with an even expression, but her tone was wary. "Hopefully a three K favor."

An honest laugh. The first Sif had heard from her, even if it was barely a breath. "It'll be proportionate, don't worry."

"Let's say I agree. Then I've got a question for you," Sif fired back. Her would-be employer gestured for her to ask away. "Why me? Why some untested newcomer? There's other drivers, so I can only assume y' saw somethin' about me 'piques yer interest. And if I'da guess… it's my service record and the chrome that came with it."

The woman paused for a blink, then a smile broke on her face. "That's a bit conspiratorial, but… not wholly untrue either. I mean, I told you I need an unknown, and we both know you're not untested. You've got the record to back that up, but the 'ware is a bonus. What's installed?"

"Optics with variable magnification up to twenty times and compatible targeting soft, nanocarbon subdermal armor over my squishy bits, limb stabilization… those are the big ones." Sif listed them easily. "Not recent market stuff, but military grade. Still works. All tuned to long-range, high caliber work."

"You're a sniper." The woman sounded mildly surprised.

"Was," Sif corrected. "Stuff served me better as a scout fer my old clan than it did in the war. But before you start drafting up contracts, I don't do wetwork and I fall asleep on watch duty. I'm a driver, not a marksman."

"I'll keep it in mind," the woman mused in a tone that belied a reassessment. "But seriously, ditch the Unity."

"Oh my god," Sif grumbled into her bottle.

[vivaimpex]

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[ayafhan]

Hourworld portland oregon

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Invite friends, colleagues or community members to view this video with you and host a conversation.

#Hourworld portland oregon how to

For more information about what how to receive hOurworld Cooperative’s free software to establish a Time Bank or to learn more about what is happening with Time Banks/Hour Exchanges in communities and cities in the US and around the world, visit.What social architecture is part of your community? Please share your experiences with those social structures. Linda mentions social architecture including Transition Towns, Time Banks or Service Exchanges, Farmers’ Markets, and Grange Halls are anywhere where people are reinvesting in social currency or community capital.What skills, talents, special interests, education, training, hobbies and resources would you share? Would you do as the Hour Exchange Portland does and make each hour equal no matter what the contributing skill or talent is.? If not, how would you “price” the skills, talents, knowledge, etc? Brainstorm any and all ideas about how each person in the group could contribute to the Hour Exchange. To begin and just for fun, do a Group Mock Exchange with your tablemates. If there is not a Time Bank or Hour Exchange in your community, consider and explore the possibility of forming one.In 2012 Stages Cycling launched its first. She has been a non-profit administrator, community organizer and social architect working in communities in New Hampshire and Maine for over 30 years. Stages Cycling is headquartered in Portland, Oregon, with manufacturing and R&D based in Boulder, Colorado. Linda Hogan is founding member of hOurworld Cooperative and previously served as board member and Director of Hour Exchange Portland and as a consultant for TimeBanksUSA. Social currency and community capital replace dollars in this bank. 1 in Portland, OR 3. Zoom Videos: Toward A New & Just Economy.

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[lavenderbexlatte]

day 16 - hate sex

nct 1.9k words gender neutral reader insert Reader x Kim Doyoung NSFW

🖤 warnings: college au bc it’s my favorite, unabashed rudeness, arguing literally nonstop, mistaken identity, enemies to still enemies but they have sex, some mild d/s dynamics, one brutal handjob 🖤

kinktober masterlist

connect with me! / masterlist

You had not meant for it to be him. Of all of them, of all twenty-odd of them, not him. Anyone else.

You'd wanted one specific one, the best one. You just didn't know his name at the time.

There are a lot of guys in their frat, and you know some of them. Taeyong, the sweetheart who sits behind you in Western Classics, reliably with a big pet store shopping bag full of something cute and unnecessary for his aquarium of fish. Yangyang, a freshman just out of pledging who works at the student cafe and always pours you a large even if you order a medium.

You don't know the pretty, pretty one who was sitting outside the frat house when you walked by the other day, the one with the shaggy black hair that nearly touches his shoulders, with the sculpted face and the piercings and the cropped t-shirt, sunning himself on the porch like a cat.

He's gorgeous, and you want him. You think you'll die if you can't have him.

Your first mistake, you think, was asking one of the other pledges you know if he could help you. Hendery is sweet, but he's new both to the school and to the frat, and when he'd suggested coming to a frat party so he could try and hook you up with your frat brother of choice, you'd agreed with some trepidation.

Attending a frat party is a small price to pay, you'd thought, if Hendery could get you access to that beautiful man with a belly button ring.

Hendery had met you in the foyer, brought you into the house. He left you against the wall in the open-plan living space with a view into the kitchen, as he approached a knot of his frat brothers (including That One) and spoke for a moment. All of the boys had looked over at you. And then Hendery returned, telling you to go have fun until he texted.

Perfect wingman.

When you got the text, nearly an hour later, you were sweaty, tipsy, and dusted in glitter from a sorority girl who'd insisted you dance with her. Head to the second bedroom on the second floor, the text read.

You followed the instructions dutifully, heart in your throat, and as you stood in the scrubbed-clean but cluttered room, you saw all the evidence you needed: that cropped t-shirt your mystery man was wearing the other day, hanging over the back of a garish red and black gaming chair.

The door opened. Someone slipped in.

Your second mistake was not stalking the guy online and getting his name. You'd only had a description for Hendery: height, build, hair color and style, general facial features. You'd assumed that even in a frat of a few dozen, it would be easy to tell. And hell, Hendery even talked to the guy, right in front of you.

Apparently, your luck does not run much farther than that.

And now here you are, in despair, staring at the guy Hendery set up with you. Your Sociology tablemate, your Speech & Debate partner from last semester, one of the most egotistical and insufferable people you've ever met.

Not the guy from the other day. Kim Doyoung.

"I thought Hendery was kidding," Doyoung says, wary, as he closes the door behind him.

You can't help the full-body reaction you have: pure bone-deep annoyance. "What are you doing here?"

"You asked me to be here."

"I absolutely did not."

His expression falters, not embarrassment but exasperation. "Yes, you did."

"I did not."

"You literally did, Hendery told me to come here and-"

"Not you!" you insist, looking skyward as if to ask why you're being punished like this.

"Then-"

"You think I would be asking for you when - when-" you falter, realizing you still don't know the guy's name.

Doyoung crosses his arms. "When?"

You grab the t-shirt, waving it at Doyoung. "Whose top is this?"

"Yuta," Doyoung says. "Me and Yuta share this room."

"Belly piercing? Super hot?"

"Yuta," he confirms.

"I wanted Yuta!" you explode. "Not...you."

"That's fucking rude," he says.

You shoot him a withering look. "I don't know why you even came. It's me."

"I was curious," he snipes back. "You were always such a holier-than-thou little pain in the ass in Debate, I wanted to see what changed. Obviously nothing."

"You wanna talk pain in the ass? You got me a C on the final project in Soc because you devil's advocated my partner to tears!" you jab.

Doyoung scoffs. "You're still mad that I'm smarter than you?"

"You're delusional."

"I'm delusional? You're trying to fuck my roommate, you're the delusional one!"

You pause. "Excuse me?"

"You and Yuta?" he smirks. "Come on."

"Let's see what kind of pussy you're pulling, then, jackass. Any dates, lately?"

"I've been busy-"

"I bet you ran up here like a kid on Christmas, thinking someone finally wanted to put up with your face and your personality for two and half minutes of mediocre sex."

"I'm not the one having pledges hunt down hookups for me," Doyoung snarls. "Don't trust that anyone would follow through if they had to actually talk to you first?"

That one hurts, a little, but you just look back at him evenly. "As much as I'd love to keep this going, if I'm not getting laid tonight, I'm going home."

"You still could."

Doyoung slaps a hand over his mouth as soon as the words leave it, and you can feel your face go slack in surprise.

"Excuse me?" you ask, again.

"I just mean-"

"Are you...into me?"

"No," he says, too quickly.

"You are," you say, dawning revelation and the slightest horror.

"I'm not. Why would I be?" he dismisses, but his face is animated with the utmost outrage, his tone too much.

You've been on the debate team with him for a few semesters now, and if there's one thing you've learned from that experience, it's his tells. He's lying. He's an awful liar.

"Oh, you're into me," you tease, "You were excited because it's me."

"Funny. Last time I checked, I fucking hated you."

"I hate you, too," you say, sweet as pie.

Suddenly, like he's been pushed, Doyoung sits down on the nearest of the two beds in this cramped little room, and crosses his legs pointedly. He could just be acting like a priss, but you suspect it's something else...

And as you watch, he has to ever so carefully adjust himself, playing it off like he's just pulling at the fabric of his jeans. And failing.

"You're getting off on this," you say dumbly. "You like that I hate you."

"That would be twisted," he replies, but it's a little strained.

You grin. "It would."

Well, this changes everything. You're not into him, objectively. He sucks. But if he's so determined to act like he's not attracted to you...now it's a game. And you win at games.

"I can just go home," you say, cavalier. "Hendery fucked up my chances for tonight, so I can just go home and-"

"Go, then. See if I care."

"I think you'll care."

"I don't care about you," he dismisses.

You take a step closer to him, and he leans back. "No. You hate me."

Despite himself, Doyoung relaxes as you walk nearer still, uncrossing his legs so that his struggle is apparent, plain as day.

"You hate me. Can't stand me. That's why you're hard right now," you say.

He adjusts himself again, probably realizing that any attempt at denying it is futile, now. He probably knows that you have all the fuel you need to make fun of him for the rest of his life.

Or maybe he's enjoying this, in the same creeping, uncertain way that you are.

"I thought you were going," he says.

You shrug. "I could stay, if you ask me to."

"Why would I?"

"I just think you would. Unless you're too scared."

You wander toward the door, fully intending to go if he doesn't say anything. You have no skin in the game, here; any embarrassment you might've felt at having your intentions misunderstood is completely overshadowed by Doyoung sitting there rock-hard in his skinny jeans.

Your hand is on the doorknob when he finally breaks.

"Don't go."

Rather than opening the door, you lock it.

"You have to tell me to stop, if you're actually not into it," you say.

He nods, just barely, eyes wide.

"If you really hate me," you add.

At that, the hard glint returns to his gaze, and you know that you've got him. That you're not just steamrollering him into anything.

"I do," Doyoung assures you.

"Would you hate it if I take off that horribly tacky shirt?" you ask.

He tugs at the collar of his navy button-up gently. "Fuck you, I like this."

"I don't."

He lets you unbutton the shirt and discard it, and he doesn't resist when you press him back onto the bed, his feet still firmly on the ground but his back meeting the mattress. You're undoing his belt, his jeans, when he fidgets under you.

"Aren't you gonna..." he gestures at your clothes, still firmly in place.

"Nah," you say. "You hate me so much, I would hate to make you look at-"

"Please?" His voice cracks over the syllables, and you marvel, since you haven't even done anything yet.

"No."

He's freed from his jeans and briefs in no time, and you waste no time setting a good pace on his desperately hard length, stroking him and simply leaning over his prone form. He jolts at the first contact, and then he melts.

"You hate me, so this should be all I give you," you muse. "Just let you use me to get off like this. Should be all you want, right?"

"If I - fuck - if I say I don't hate you, will you give me, shit, anything else? More?" Doyoung asks, through gritted teeth.

"This isn't good?"

"It is, but-"

"It'd be a shame to make you lie, like that," you say.

He's leaking precum, and you catch it as you circle the head to make the slide that much easier, slick rather than the hard friction of skin on skin, and he groans. His voice, despite all your disdain, is easy on the ears, and you twist your wrist to see if you can get that sound again. He doesn't disappoint, cracking through an octave.

"You're not gonna cum until you can thank me for giving you this much, even though you've been so rude to me," you tell him.

The amiable way he'd spoken in his hasty lust is gone, as he snaps, "Thank you? For what?"

"For being so nice, even though you hate me."

"You hate me, too."

"I do," you nod solemnly, "Imagine what you could be getting if I didn't."

Doyoung twitches in your grasp, and you have to hold down his narrow hips with your other hand, leaning on him more heavily to keep him in place.

"Might even let you fuck me, if you were nicer. Pity," you say.

"Shit - close, I'm-"

You let up, right on cue, slowing down your pace to something excruciating, and Doyoung's eyes that had been clamped shut against the onslaught fly open again.

"What-"

"You didn't thank me."

"I'm not fucking going to-"

"Then you don't cum."

Confident that he's backed down from his high, you start building him up again. He whines, honest-to-God whines out loud, in a higher pitch than you'd imagine he could reach. There's only so much edging that an egotistical brat like him can take before he cracks. He'll thank you before long.

"Shit," he moans.

"Any time, now."

"Fuckin' hate you."

[cloverfics]

birthday wishes ; keigo takami

warnings reader’s birthday, club setting, implied drinking, slight swearing, and flirty!hawks

genre modern au, suggestive ( ig )

word count 1.5k

inspiration my ✨ imagination ✨

synopsis with it being your birthday, you’re aware of the gifts you’ll get. but the last thing you expect is for a generous, handsome man to make your night

You blew out your candles as your friends hit the last notes to your happy birthday song. They cheered, a few taking pictures while the others had their flash right in your face for video memory.

“Our girl’s finally 21! How’s it feel, ___?” Your friend closest to you, Jasmine, nudged your shoulder.

You hummed. Taking the candles out of your cake. “I don’t feel any different. Just can say I drink at the legal age, I guess.” You sneered, garnering a slap on the shoulder from Jasmine.

Spending your 21st at a high priced club was certainly not your idea. You would’ve settled for shots and cake at your apartment but your friends shot down that idea before you could even finish. Settling for your local ( and go to ) bar was something you also would’ve been down to do. But, of course, they insisted you all needed to be at the best in your city for your birthday.

You appreciated it. Especially since they all collectively covered the table. But the lights and music were starting to get to you. You had done your fair share of dancing, fair share of drinking, fair share of talking. Now, you just wanted to go home and sleep off that drinking portion of the night.

“Don’t tell me you getting tired,” On the opposite side of the table, your other friend deadpanned. Having the rest follow with a chorus of complaints and whines.

You held your hands up in defense. “My head is spinning and I want to be in my warm bed. Is that too much to ask for?”

Another friend countered. “Yes when I spent my whole paycheck to cover part of the table, hoe.” You snorted at her response.

“Fine. I just need something to get me back into...” You were saying as you brought your glass of water to your lips. But as your gaze drifted acrossing the seating area, your eyes locked with a pair of hazel ones. Hazel eyes that belonged to a very handsome man. And for some reason that handsome man was staring at you.

If your glass had been any closer you’re sure you would’ve choked. But you just placed it down and quickly averted your view to your friend group.

“Are you alright?” Jasmine cocked an eyebrow at your sudden flustered appearance.

“Hot guy at 3 o’clock.” Your whispered through teeth. Jasmine eyes circled into saucers as she tried her best to be discreet.

“Oh blondie. He’s hot. He’s been watching you like a hawk ever since we got our table though.” She admitted nonchalantly before taking a sip from your drink.

Your jaw fell ajar. “And you didn’t care to tell me!” You whisper-shouted.

“I’m just suprised you haven’t noticed.” Jasmine laughed. You shook your head. Your curiousity took over you and you let your eyes flicker back to his table. Your chest fell in relief seeing as he was making conversation with a waiter.

But your anxiety levels rose again when said waiter was beelining for your table right after talking to hazel. The waiter had caught your whole table’s attention.

“Is something wrong?” One of your friends immediately inquired.

“Ah! No, Mister Keigo would like to know if he could take over the bill of this party.” You physically paused, along with your friends.

“Who?” The waiter answered your friend’s question with a point of his pen to where hazel or better yet, Mister Keigo, was seated in mid coversation with one of his tablemates.

You gulped. “He insisted?”

“Yes ma’am.”

Before you could refuse the offer, Jasmine cut in. “Tell him thank you!” Your eyes widened but none of your other friends seemed to argue.

“But—” her hand slapped over your mouth.

“Thank you.” She iterated.

The waiter nodded and made his way back towards Mister Keigo’s table. Your table sat in shock, similar looks on their faces.

“A hot guy paying for your table bill? He wants you.” Your friend opposite from you proclaimed. This time you actually choked. Your hand smacked Jasmine’s hand away from you.

“He does not!”

“He so does.” They all mused.

You scoffed, a slight pout on your face. “I feel bad.”

“Here you go,” Jasmine rolled her eyes. “Just accept the sweet offer, ___.”

“I am, but I feel like I need to thank him.” You glanced over to his table to where he was obviously signing something from the waiter. Most likely your bill.

Jasmine smacked her hand on your shoulder. “Then do that. While you’re at it see if he’ll take you home, I bet he wants some birthday cake if you catch my drift...”

Your friends laughed as you glared at Jasmine. “I will only be saying thank you then taking my leave.” You peeled her hand from your shoulder, shuffling from your seat at the booth.

“Don’t act like you don’t want him!” She called while you were already a couple feet from the table.

You didn’t, right? You tried to convince yourself that. You weren’t the type to do hook ups or sleep with strangers. But with every step you took closer to the V.I.P section, the pit in your stomach dug deeper. You knew his eyes were following you. It sent chills down your spine. But you continued to stride to the velvet rope and buffed security guy who held said rope.

“And you are?” He asked.

You stammered, opening your mouth while no words came from it. Your hope of thanking him started to slip but then a voice cut in.

“She’s with me, Vince.” You both simultaneously looked over to who it came from. And lo and behold, Mister Keigo in all his glory saving your ass from being booted from his section.

“You sure, Mister Keigo?” He strode over, clad in a sleek black suit, his sharp honey eyes fixated on your figure. You looked away, you barely knew him and he already had an effect on you.

“Now why would I ever lie, Vince?” His voice fit him so well. His tone that toed into teasing territory nearly made you shudder.

“Alright, lady.” You pursed your lips as the velvet rope was opened for you. Taking the opportunity to step past it and land in front of Mister Keigo.

Your eyes still fought for whether you should try to hold eye contact with him or just stare at the floor.

“Looking for me?” He asked. You squeezed your eyes shut, starting to heat up in embarrassment when you simply nodded.

His laughter is what had your eyes flicker up to meet his for the third time tonight. He basically towered you, he was intimidating. But something about him also made it clear that he was chill.

Maybe it was the way he spoke. Or just how you got a slither of the way he carries himself.

“Well?” He lifted an eyebrow, a smirk etched on his face.

“I-I just wanted to thank you for paying the bill, Mister-”

“Ah,” he interrupted you. “Call me Keigo, I don’t mind.”

“Really?” You thought back to what the waiter and security guard referred to him as.

He nodded, his blonde locks shifting a bit. “Completely fine with me.”

“Oh, okay. Well, I just wanted to thank you. There was no need, I appreciate it.” You finally got what you wanted to say out. Internally sighing in relief and victory.

Keigo smiled. “No problem. Just consider it a birthday gift from me, yea?”

“Ye-yea, of course.” You nodded. You didn’t know what to say. Here you were, talking to one of the prettiest guys you’ve ever seen, who had pay for your bill like it was nothing.

“No problem...” Keigo titled his head as he trailed off.

“Oh! It’s ___, call me ___.”

“___.” He hummed. “What a pretty name. It fits you perfectly, in my opinion.” The way he lifted his eyebrow nearly made your knees buckle underneath you.

“Ah, thank you. But are you sure there’s no way I can repay you?” It was out of your control how your tone automatically borderlined on lustful. His presence made you feel hot. And his mesmerizing gaze didn’t help.

Keigo smiled devilishly, leaning forward a bit, a few inches from your face. “Is there anything you had in mind, Miss ___?”

Your breath got caught in your throat. You could practically hear your friends squealing from the other side of the room.

“It would be up to you to pick wouldn’t it?” You tried to best to match his energy. But he was so smooth. Keigo laughed, it was deeper this time while there was this particular glint in his eyes.

“Is that so?” Having no rebuttle, you nodded again. Silently letting him win.

Keigo stood upstraight again. “Here,” he took a napkin from a nearby table. Quickly asking to borrow a pen from a passing waiter.

“We can discuss it over the phone, if that’s fine with you?”

Your eyes followed as he wrote his digits down, his name in nice print right above it. “Yea. That’s fine.” You answered like you were in some trance.

“Great. I’ll be looking forward to it.” He handed you the napkin. You took that as your signal to head back to your section.

“I’ll make sure not to lose this then...” You smiled, walking away slowly but surely. With another one of his entrancing smirks, you turned around. Releasing a deep sigh before reaching Vince. But before you could exit through that velvet rope.

Keigo’s voice hit your ears again.

“Oh! And happy birthday.”

[assumingminds19]

You said on your swear word ask tag that you're 'living your best upper middle bogan life'. Wtf is a bogan?

Omfg, I read this ask and went into a time warp where I actually forgot that the whole world doesn’t know what a bogan is.Righto international people, we’re in for a wild ride here. First off, let’s just establish upfront that every Australian has a little bit of bogan in them, and if they say they don’t, they’re bloody lying. A bogan (BOH-GAN) is a certain individual who has a particular talent for being a little trashy. I mean they can be the thong (flip flops for you numpties) year-round wearing types, the one’s unironically driving commodores or falcons with spoilers and holes in their mufflers or in fact, and this is the best type, individuals who understand that the meaning of the word ‘mate’ can either induce a fight or a round of free stubbies at the local depending on the tone in which it’s said. 

At the very least a bogan is the type of person who thinks that four trips a year to Bali a year makes them locals because they’re on a first-name basis with the tattoo bloke on that corner down the alley to the right past the Ray-Ban knockoff’s next to their 5-star resort. 

Part of the quintessential bogan (let’s just say Australian experience) is sitting around an outdoor glass table at 3 am in the morning, absolutely pissed, and having a cry or an in-depth conversation with your tablemates about life while getting eaten alive by mozzies cause the Aerogaurd’s worn off. Every Australian knows this table, and I quite literally mean the table because everyone’s parents seemed to have one at some point.If you’re lucky, one of these convos will be at your cousin’s eighteenth, and your sorta written off uncle will spout out a sentence of the best advice you’ve ever gotten in your life. 

Now, just because you’re a bogan doesn’t mean that you don’t have money. Chances are that the FIFO worker in your family probably earns three times as much as your Dad the dentist (and quite frankly they were the smart cookie by going to TAFE in the first place when the tradies are making the only good money these days). Being bogan also means that you’ve run over your own foot as a child with the Coles trolley you insisted on wheeling the aisles for mum, but she didn’t say a word until you tearfully rammed her ankles at which time she proceeded to tell you in the best terms what type of disrespectful you were. 

Every proper bogan has taken the piss out of a backpacker in the pub by talking about the perils of drop bears and triple fanged snakes, and somehow we all have intimate knowledge on how to properly complain about fuel prices at the servo.And you never really lose it, the bogan thing. You still know deep, deep down that Myers is just a cashed-up Kmart and that a Maccas run with your mates the first time you got your licence beats any overpriced hipster restaurant in the city no matter how much money you’ve got in your account, or whether you’ve got an M.D after your name or a Cert 3 in Hairdressing. Bogans are all sorts and come from all walks of Australian life. They are the best of us and the worst of us. The kindest and the dodgiest all at once. We are them, and they are us. And there’s nothing wrong with that.

[penig]

Junior calls, but only Rhett feels like going out with him.  He knows this is a disappointment to Mary, but it can’t be helped. Valentine doesn’t want to queer her pitch with Junior if she means to make one.

He doesn’t understand why Mary’s got little kids tagging along, but then Junior’s not much more than a big kid himself. They sure seem to have a good time.