Work Text:
Ivy Inn
Somehow, they’ve managed to shove a baby grand piano in this place, along with some drums, amps, and guitars to create a makeshift stage in this too-small dive bar. You like the Ivy, it’s dark and dank, but Jay the bartender keeps Booker’s stocked for you and leaves you alone while you sip so you keep coming back. Tonight, it’s crowded and people are standing around waiting for the music to start.
You catch Jay’s eye and nod him over.
“What’s with the music tonight?” you ask.
“That’s Z,” he says, looking over at the old black man sitting at the piano bench. You can only see him from the back. “He’s been friends with the owner of this dump for about a hundred years or something. Grew up around here but moved South a long time ago. Said he wanted to play tonight so Jimmy got him set up. He’s supposed to be a blues legend around Louisiana, but I dunno. I don’t really listen to that stuff.”
“Wait,” you say, “Z Thomas? As in Zedarius Thomas?!”
“Maybe?” Jay says. “I honestly don’t really know much about him.”
“Jay, we gotta get you listening to better stuff. I can’t believe you fill your ears with modern country music,” you say, taking a sip of your drink. This night has turned into something special and you’re excited.
“Whatever, the chicks dig it,” Jay winks at you and walks down the bar, stopping to wave at a man shuffling in from the cold. The man is tall, but leaning and as you look down you see a cane in his right hand. You scan back up to see a wrinkled black button up under his wool coat, at least three days worth of stubble along his neck and jaw, and the most piercing blue gaze you’ve ever seen. He weaves his way down the bar, stopping to smirk down at Z. You watch him shake hands with the legend at the piano and lean down to say something in his ear. Maybe he’s part of the band.
But no, he keeps walking, his eyes searching the crowd and the seating situation. There’s an empty stool next to you and he spots it just as you realize you’ve got your work bag sitting in it. It makes it look like you’re saving the seat for someone, which is intentional. You like to sit alone. But the guy has a cane and you can’t let him stand for the whole night so you move your bag to the floor under you and your eyes connect with his. He gives you a slight nod and makes his way over.
“You mind?” He asks. His voice is low and rough.
“Nah, go for it,” you say, watching him hook the cane on the bar top and ease into the seat.
Jay walks over, placing a napkin down and sitting the man’s drink on it. You hadn’t heard him order the bourbon, but you know Jay knows his regulars well. Interesting that you haven’t seen this one before.
Jay looks at you and down at your empty glass. You nod and he reaches to the top shelf to get the bottle and starts to pour into your lowball. His pour is heavy, but you know he charges you plenty, so you don’t feel bad.
“You’ve been hiding the good stuff from me?” The man next to you murmurs to Jay. He smells good, you notice, a subtle scent of sandalwood and vetiver hitting your nose. Worn in cologne at the end of the day, understated and warm.
“Fuck off, House, you’re a cheap ass anyway. Enjoy your Maker’s,” Jay laughs and walks away to talk to another customer.
House must be a last name, you think. You watch him out of the corner of your eye as he smirks and picks up his glass to sip. The band around Z is in place now and starting up so you shift a little in your seat to angle your body toward the show. Your knee brushes against House’s leg.
“Sorry,” you say quietly but you don’t bother moving your knee .
He looks down to where your legs are connected and you follow his gaze. Your skirt has ridden up from the shift and the tops of your stockings are barely showing at the hem. His eyes drift up over you, slowly, snagging at your chest where the pearl button holds the silk together. His eyes flick to yours briefly before they look back down to resume their journey up over your collar bones, your neck and land on your lips.
“Don’t be,” he says.
“You know Z?” You ask.
“I treated his son a long time ago,” House says. He doesn’t elaborate any further. It’s been a minute since you met a man that doesn’t go on and on when asked a question about himself.
“Are you a fan?” He asks you.
“Yeah. Didn’t know he was still doing shows,” you tell him, taking a sip of your drink. Jay has shut off the main lights in the bar, someone set up some lanterns around the band. Z has started the first song and the crowd has quieted down. House has shifted a little further into your space, leaning in to listen to you, your legs are pressed tighter together.
“He doesn’t, this is a one-off,” House says. He turns toward you on his barstool, forcing your legs apart so his knees slot in between your thighs. He puts one arm on the bar top next to you, his fingers brushing your arm where it rests along the edge. His other hand grabs on to the back of your bar stool, trapping you as he leans forward into your space.
“So,” he murmurs leaning close to your ear. You feel his breath in your hair and he’s so close the stubble on his face brushes your cheek. You smell the cologne and the bourbon on his breath as he continues, “Good taste in music, excellent choice of bourbon. You’re not a hooker, are you?” He leans back slightly to look at you, and you can tell he’s hoping for a reaction.
You smile at him and lean forward, running your hand up his left thigh which seems to be his good leg. You watch his eyes widen as you get close to his face and say, “You’re pretty audacious for a cripple.” You stay in place, moving your hand up to toy with the last button on the bottom of his shirt.
He chuckles in your ear and you feel him move his hand from the bar top down to your knee. His fingers are rough, catching against the silky material of your stockings and his hand starts to move, shifting to your inner thigh, above the laced elastic, making contact with your bare skin under your skirt. You widen your legs slightly as you turn your face into his neck, breathing hot onto his skin and you feel his fingers trace light patterns on your flesh, his pinky extended and barely brushing against your panties.
“Do you do this often?” He asks, his fingers now fully tracing your lips over your panties.
You trace a line up his neck with your tongue, his stubble prickly against your mouth, his skin deliciously salty. “Do you care?” You ask him once you get to his ear before sucking his lobe into your mouth.
He groans as you start to nip. “Can’t say that I do,” he says and you feel his fingers make their way under the satin. His middle finger traces from your entrance up to your clit slowly and then he presses three fingers against it, adding a sweet pressure as he starts to circle.
You gasp and lean your head back to look at him. He’s staring intensely into your eyes as he continues to work his hand against your pussy. You’ve never done anything like this before and can’t believe how turned on you are. He continues to stare and the hand that was on the back of your stool drifts down to your ass, squeezing and then pulling you forward to the edge of your seat. You glance around, you’re sure everyone is watching what he’s doing to you. No one is even looking your way.
“Uh uh,” he says, “eyes on me.” You shift your gaze back to him and as soon as you make eye contact he shoves two fingers deep in your pussy, his thumb coming to rest on your clit. You feel a moan coming up from your chest and he swoops in to capture it before it escapes your lips, his mouth moving against yours slowly. His lips are warm and dry, his fingers are thick and curling up to brush against the walls of your cunt and you feel the orgasm starting deep in your belly. He licks into your mouth as he continues to pump his fingers in and out while his thumb swirls around your clit. You can’t believe how good this is, that you’re on the verge of cumming in a crowded dive bar after a few minutes of being fingered by a stranger.
“You going to cum for me?” He mumbles against your lips before shoving his tongue back into your mouth. You moan against his mouth and start to thrust your hips into his hand. You run your hands around the back of his neck, trying to pull him in even closer, scratching your fingers through the hair at his nape.
“Tell me,” he says roughly, thrusting his fingers even deeper into you. His head dips and he sucks at the skin on your neck, right below your ear. You can feel yourself dripping into his hand, you can smell yourself, and you swear you can hear the wet, suction sounds of his fingers pumping in and out of your cunt.
“I’m gonna come,” you whine into his ear, your eyes are squeezed shut and you feel like you’re floating.
“Good girl,” he rumbles against your skin before sinking his teeth into your neck and you feel your thighs tremble as the orgasm slams through you. You’re gasping and shaking and cumming so fucking hard, his fingers slow down to let you ride it out as his mouth makes its way back yours. The kiss, if you can call it that, is soft. It’s more that his mouth is caressing yours, back and forth slowly as you start to come down. He carefully pulls his hand away and rests his elbow on the bar top.
You lean back, shimmying back into your seat a little but staying close to him. His fingers are glistening as you watch him bring his hand up and swipe his middle and ring finger over your lips. You stick the tip of your tongue out to taste yourself on him and he smiles at you before moving his hand from your mouth to his. You watch him suck those fingers into his mouth, his eyes closing, and you can see him swirling his tongue around them to clean your cum off. He takes his time, his eyes slowly opening as he removes his fingers.
He stares at you with those blue eyes as he brings his glass up to take a sip of his Makers.
“I’m Greg,” he says.