Fuck You, Pay Me!

2. Small Talk

Somnambul gets a kaleidoscope  of clientele. From plain faced salarymen who want an escape from their mundane lives and vanilla wives to fat, greasy slobs who are desperate enough to pay for the attention of of just one beautiful dancer.

It's named the most popular club on this side of the coast because Midnight markets to all men and their weird types and fetishes by not just hiring slim, young girls in their prime. They hired boy like Yuga---one of their most popular dancers---who's primp and proper and just as popular with straight men as he is with gay men because he's so fucking pretty.

Then there's Katsuki, who's gorgeous but bratty and will one-hundred percent cut you if you test him. For some reason, men love that. And so they empty their wallets to see him.

Some like to be degraded---love how insignificant Katsuki makes them feel and he can get behind that with no qualms at all but the others---oh yes---they like to try and tame him. They enjoy the challenge of trying to make him submit and they leave disappointed every time.

Tonight, Katsuki doesn't seem to be dealing with either.

The man crooks a finger at him with a sense of come hither, glass poised between his fingers with the intention of bringing it to completion just as soon as he gets what he wants. A few seconds go by and he visibly sighs, patting his lap to reiterate his earlier request.

Though it seems like a lot more of a demand than a suggestion.

The blonde slinks toward him with that trademark, shit-eating grin plastered to his face as he artfully sits his bare cheeks down in the lap of this stranger.

Up close, he sees that the dusky, dim lighting of the room does him a great atrocity. He's all sharp jaw line and muscle, hair groomed to show off that immaculately handsome face in all the right ways. His body is all hard lines and lean muscle, sturdy and warm as Katsuki cuddles up against his side. The bags under his eyes do nothing to take away from the classic sort of handsome that he is.

It pisses Katsuki off---how attractive he is.

Katsuki plucks the glass from the stranger's hand and drinks it down, wrinkling his nose at the harsh burn.

"Fuckin' whiskey? You didn't even get the good shit." He says with a snort, tossing the glass somewhere on the other end of the sofa. The man cocks his head to the side, either incredibly amused or bordering disinterested.

He decides on the former.

Katsuki expects as much. His bratty, entitled and rude demeanor is his selling point, after all.

"While Balvenie is quite an aquired taste, I can assure you it is, to borrow from you, the good shit." The man says, leaning back into the sofa while an arm snakes around Katsuki's slim figure to grip his thigh with callous hands.

His voice is like something out of Katsuki's wettest teenage dreams.

"Yeah? It tastes like spicy dishwater."

"It's 50 year old single malt scotch whiskey. Someone with a simple pallette wouldn't appreciate it."

"Did you just call me uncultured?"

"I'm saying that you don't look like you're old enough to even know what good whiskey is."

Katsuki wants to be offended but he's tipping more towards being impressed. He's never had someone pull his card like that right out of the gate. Besides, the he isn't wrong.

"Fuckin' whatever." He opts for instead of his usual string of insults. He's not sure he wants to run off a potential meal ticket just yet.

"What's your name?"