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It’s nearing the end of summer; the faintest hint of autumn is in the air, and Ghost is excited to plan his outfit for the annual Renaissance Faire coming to town. He doesn’t get the chance to indulge in his nerdy interests as often as he’d like, but this was one of the times he didn’t want to miss. He loves dressing up in period-specific costumes and even puts his own spin on it.
Of course, the spooky bastard would opt for darker, brooding colors with goth motifs. He chooses a black linen sleeveless tunic that shows off his impressively tatted and muscular arms. The fabric drapes deliciously against his strong, honed body. One shoulder sports a pauldron with a harness that accentuates his thick, broad chest. He’s especially pleased to finally have a chance to use the beautifully embossed, belted leather arm guards with silver skull accents and rivets he bought from a leatherworker a few years ago. A wide black leather belt cinches his waist, adorned with an ornamental buckle and a sword to hang at his hip.
Ghost—Simon—is a reserved man; he prefers to keep some anonymity about himself; that’s why he favors a cowl and face covering to obscure his unruly dirty-blond curls and uncharacteristically handsome face littered with scars. He’s a beast of a man, standing nearly 195cm and 20 stone.
Sure, he stands out in a crowd, but he has his ways of going unnoticed if he chooses to be.
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The weekend of the faire has arrived. Simon stands at the gates of the fairgrounds, taking in the sights, sounds, and smells of the festival with enraptured delight. There’s so much to do and so little time to hit every single attraction he’d like. He starts walking down the dirt path, eyes darting to each artisan’s stand. They hawk their wares and tempt each passerby with their creative advertising tactics.
He slows to a stop when one particular stall catches his attention, The Bawdy Albannach—a bar with seemingly odd decorations hanging over the counter: faux shackles. A line has formed already, and behind the counter is a handsome man with faintly tanned skin and a stupid-looking haircut. A strip of lush, dark brown hair sticks up every which way, and the sides of his head are shorn closer to the skin. He wears a cream-colored flowy tunic, the collar unlaced and hanging wide open, exposing the expanse of his densely hairy chest. Ghost finds himself gawping a bit as his eyes continue to roam. He’s thankful for his face covering in this moment, but it does little to hide the pinkening of his cheeks and the bridge of his nose. He steps a little closer, drawn to the sight and hoping to overhear what he’s peddling.
The man smiles wickedly while murmuring something to the woman standing before him, preparing her drink. Apparently, he was giving her a choice to be clasped in irons or have her hands held behind her back. As she giddily lifts her hands to be shackled, his big hands encircle her dainty ones. He locks the cuffs around her wrists, drawing out a fierce blush and giggle from the woman.
“Awright, ye wee bonnie thing—Ah wan’ ye tae be good fer me an’ look me in th’ eyes while ye wrap yer sweet lips around th’ tip o’ this-” the Scot purrs, cupping her chin and tilting her head up, bringing the tankard of ale to her lips. “Yer doin’ so good fer me, lass. Tha’s it, swallow it all...”
The woman squirms and struggles slightly, trying to chug the ale but sloshing a bit down the sides of her face.
“Och, makin’ a right mess of yersel’, aye? Positively gantin’ fer it.” Tipping the tankard back, he flashes a sinful grin, wiping the corners of her mouth with his thumb.
Her face is a deep crimson at the praise and double meaning of it all. Her hands fly up to cover her cheeks as soon as the shackles are off—she and her friends tittering and smiling back at him before tottering off.
Ghost found himself stepping up next. The Scot was turned away from him—he took a moment to let his gaze wander again—along his broad back and at the way his tunic sleeves were pushed up over his muscled forearms. The man had a charm and magnetism that Simon wasn’t used to, no wonder people were lining up just to see him. Simon didn’t even have to say a word before the barkeep turns to face him finally, seeing his eyes making an appraising trail from head to toe, crinkling devilishly.
“Yer a braw one, aye? Look at ye…” The barkeep bites his lip, getting the next drink ready. “Ye ready to show me wha’ tha’ mouth can do, big guy?” He leans closer over the bar, eyeing Simon’s face covering. “Though tha’ face mask might get in th’ way.”
Simon almost forgot his face was obscured—it was second nature for him. He didn’t usually show his face to strangers, but something inside him felt comfortable around this man, and he was only slightly hesitant. He nodded and reached up to slowly pull the face covering under his chin, his cheeks still flushed marginally from before.
“Tha’s a good lad, braw as can be. Ah ken ye would be. D'ye wanna be locked up fer me, doll? Or d'ye wanna just stand there lookin’ pretty while ye take everythin’ ah give ye?” The barkeep gives the shackles a playful shake and smirks down at Ghost, awaiting his reply.
“Lock m’ up,” Ghost rumbles, a smirk curling a scarred lip over a sharp, pointed canine. He lifts his arms to ready himself for the shackles. His muscles ripple and flex before the other man, exposing his underarms and showing off just how much of his body is covered in lighter blond hair. The line of his powerful form, the plush of his chest jutting forward, the sight of the thicket of hair trailing from his armpits makes even the cocky Scot pause in his tracks a moment, breath hitching almost imperceptibly.
“Fuuuck—pure dead brilliant…” the Scot murmurs to himself, his icy sapphire eyes flicking to Ghost’s warm amber ones. He takes his wrists in hand and shackles him—much like the woman from before. Cupping a warm hand under Simon’s chin, the man swipes the rough pad of his thumb across the scar bisecting his lip.
“Open tha’ sweet mouth up fer me, pet. Lemme git a look at ye. Eyes on me, a leannan.” Coaxing Simon’s lips to part as he brings the tankard to his mouth, tipping it slowly to let him chug it down.
The eye contact between them is heated and heavy from the start, the blush starting to spread further down Simon’s neck as the barkeep cradles him. He takes deep pulls of the ale, his throat bobbing with each swallow. Some of the ale trickles down the sides of his mouth, sluicing down his throat. The Scot breaks his eye contact to stare, the movement mesmerizing him.
“Tha’s it, ye sloppy thing, swallow it doon fer me. Ye can take it, can’t ye? Like ye were made fer it.” He tilts the tankard back, pulls it away, and pauses, seeming visibly affected by the state of Ghost—a hunger in his eyes that he didn’t quite see when flirting with the woman.
Simon’s tongue darts past the corner of his lips to lap at the excess beer across his mouth, still holding his gaze—a challenge, almost.
“Whot’s your name?” Ghost inquires, still shackled above his head. He’d like to know who this handsome stranger was—hopes to see him again outside of the faire, perhaps.
“M’name’s John, or Soap,” he flashes a cat-like grin, leaning over the counter closer to Ghost, close enough to feel the heat of him and his breath fan against his over-warmed cheeks. Time seems unimportant to them both when they’re sharing this moment, “—but ye can call me anytime, m’ eudail.”
“As much as I’d like to be tied up for you all day, Johnny, I think the peasants grow restless…” Ghost’s voice drops and thrums in response, cocking his head in the direction of the impatient customers, “—but I’ll take you up on that offer. I’m Ghost, but you can call me Simon.”