Work Text:
You hadn't been to a renaissance fair. Your friend would speak highly of the quality and the grandness of it all, but you did not expect to be this bored.
And it was probably, definitely because of the alcohol.
The candied apples and show-and-tells were all getting too much for you before you spotted an area selling themed cocktails. Not that you hadn't pregamed, but it would be a helpful addition to your attitude.
Your friend had somehow wandered off, making new friends in whatever trinket shop she was at, once again leaving you to your devices. So, you decided to entertain yourself.
The bar at the very end of the fair glimmered with fairy-lights and mood lighting. Two bartenders stood behind the wooden counter: one seemed calm, quiet, keeping to himself, and the other was the star of the show.
You weren't the only one with the sentiment, you realized, as people spoke in hushed whispers around you talking about "the hot bartender."
You shrugged it off at first; many bartenders are usually hired based on their looks to drive business, it wasn't anything new, But the crowd of people around them, cheering and gaping and hooting, made you second guess yourself.
With each step, the scent of crafted booze, lavender, and bergamot hit your senses like the crashing of a thousand waves. The dim, yellowish orange lights and the fake vines hung up on the wall were adding on to the effect as the songs from the speakers engulfed the crowd gently.
With each step, you could see the bartender better too.
You observed their shoulder-length black hair, side parted, wispy strands tucked gently behind the ears, a black waistcoat, and a dangerously low, unbuttoned undershirt that teased your compromised senses just the right way.
The bartender grabbed one of the very tipsy men near the counter, a gentle smile painting across their lips, a sharp nose slowly tilting up, and a stare so intense you felt it in your bones.
Then the bartender spoke, and all hell broke loose inside you.
"Stay put. You get as little as a drop on me, you'll be licking it off, do you understand?"
The drunk man shone bright red at the thought and surrendered to the bartender's grasp, nodding slowly and tipping his head back.
"Oh, you were taught well. So obedient, mouth open and ready, all for me?" The bartender lowered the metal spout of the liqueur right at the pillowy hill on the man's lower lip.
You felt a pang in your gut. A shot of panic, jealousy, and ... was it arousal?
You watched sincerely, barely realizing that you were staring. While others chanted mostly at the drunk man and his imminent hangover, you studied the one who poured the liquid so gently but with a grip of their slender, yet strong fingers tightening with each ounce. You were enamoured.
You were sure not to miss the glint in their eyes as they looked down on the man who had half his face wet from the liqueur but smiled like he just got laid.
Strands of hair fell into the bartender's face, the jet-black waves adorning your view. You did not realize how fast time moved as they looked straight into your eyes and spoke.
"How about you next? You look awfully thirsty."
A surge of panic circuited through you, and you whipped your head to look back, making sure that you indeed were being addressed, "Me?"
"No, I’m addressing that sword hung on the wall that's been looking at me like it wants to eat me up- of course, you!"
Being publicly reminded of your shamelessness was a new low, even for you, yet your feet carried you to the counter as your mouth went dry.
Up close, somehow, you found them even more beautiful: sharp eyebrows, a charismatic smile, a quick wit and a pair of analytical eyes; you had only ever read about beauty like this.
"Say, what's your name?"
Fuck, what was it? You stayed quiet, thinking as if you had been asked the meaning of life.
"This is my first time ever meeting a nameless person, this will be fun!" the bartender remarked, humor coating their voice, earning a laugh from the crowd. You felt flustered just being near them. That's how quickly they plagued your thoughts with desire.
The bartender leaned over the counter with the slightest smirk, inching closer, making your cheeks heat up, "So, what's your poison?"
"Uh. Tequila." You blurted, not wasting a beat. The bartender's eyebrows shot up and their lips, their soft, rosy lips, arched up in admiration.
"We've got a masochist on our hands. You like a little pain? A little burn down your throat? Do ya?" They questioned, your gut squirming in response.
You didn't know how to answer. So, you went with your instinct.
"Yes."
Fuck.
The bartender broke into laughter, throwing their head back, putting their neck up for display. The pale skin, littered in freckles and glistening in sweat burned into your memory, and you smiled.
"Keep your word, now. Come closer." They invited, and you did so, stare boring into their eyes.
"So sweet looking. But I see the hunger in your eyes. I know you."
The bartender placed a finger under your chin, slowly tipping your head back till they towered over you, a gradual smile blooming in their face. Their touch felt cold, yet red hot, piercing, almost.
"Open your mouth, and don't close your eyes. I want you to look at me, can you do that?"
You leaned against the low counter of the bar, the wooden edge pressing deliciously against your core as you fluttered your eyelashes at them, eyebrows twisting up in helplessness. Your tongue darted out to wet your lips before you opened your mouth in anticipation.
"This might hurt, okay? Tap my arm thrice if its too much." The bartender informed and you nodded eagerly, the need for their attention getting too much to bear.
As the bottle tilted down and the liquor hit your tongue, you closed your eyes, the bitterness hitting the back of your throat unpleasantly.
"Uh-uh. Eyes on me." They reminded, continuing to pour slowly, and your eyelids shot open, not wanting to miss a moment of your heavenly view.
They stood slightly above you, their gaze wise and merciless, watching you happily accept the burning liquid down your throat, a grin tugging the corner of their lips. Their eyes stayed warm, yet the look made you want to submit as if they were a deity.
You felt a stroke of their hand on your head, gently pushing away any strands that blocked their view, and you felt like you had been blessed by God themself.
The burning was slightly too much but you persevered, and before you knew it, their hands had left your skin along with the spout of the bottle.
You gasped for air, swallowing the last of the bitter drink in your mouth and looked up with an automatic smile.
You felt like you just had sex. You were fully clothed, yet you were fucked out of your mind. The bliss that knifed its way through your body had leveled off any adverse effect of the liquid.
Then, their thumb swiped your bottom lip dry, and you felt like you could die happily right there.
The bartender hopped off the bar and celebrated with the crowd, drowning in cheers. And you were left in a post-orgasmic state of euphoria you hadn't felt in a long, damn time.
"What's your name?" You questioned over the commotion of the bar. You needed more.
They looked back, shooting you a wink, "It's Gerard. Don't wear it out."