slap/shot, meet/cute
Lyonel/Dunk, rated T for teen (also trash) Word count: 1.8k Warnings: slaps, shots Inspired by a recent post on the @nastyakotsk blog
"He says he wants you."
Dunk looks up from where he's unloading glasses from the dishwasher, frowning at his colleague.
"Who wants me? For what?"
Rowan rolls her eyes, turning to point at a man at the bar. It's late on a Saturday night, the place absolutely heaving with bodies, but Dunk has no problem identifying who she's talking about.
He's tall. Not as tall as Dunk, but then who is? He's also fucking hot, with all that black disheveled curly hair, and the easy way that he's lounging against the bar, and the big brown eyes staring at Dunk, intently focused on him, like they're alone, and there's no one in the world but them...
"Oi!" Rowan clicks her fingers in front of Dunk's face, breaking him out of his daydream. "He wants you to give him a slap shot. Stop pissing about!"
Slap shots are a new thing they've just started doing, management spurred on by the recent viral videos circulating on TikTok and Instagram. Not that the tourists that flood Dublin every weekend need an excuse to drink even more alcohol and make idiots of themselves.
"Me?" Dunk swallows heavily, straightening up from the dishwasher, and the man's eyes track his movements as he reaches his full height of 6'10". Is it him, or does his gaze darken as he watches? Dunk needs to talk to the manager about the dodgy lighting in this place.
"Yes, you!" Rowan rolls her eyes again - she ought to be careful, or they'll get stuck that way - and starts pushing Dunk towards the bar, towards the man with the predatory look in his eye.
"He does know I'm...big, right?" Dunk says, panicking slightly. He doesn't mean to be a prick, but he is. Big, that is, tall and wide, and Arlan is always telling him how thick he is, although that's more referring to the organ between his ears than anything else. "He's seen me?"
"I certainly have," the man at the bar purrs, and oh, he's even prettier up close. He's also English, a posho from London from the sound of it, and his accent does something to Dunk, the way that he drawls out each vowel, although that might also be the effect of his tongue slipping out to touch the front of his teeth. This close, Dunk can see the threads of silver shot through his black curls, the glint of a small gold hoop in his ear.
Dunk swallows.
Heavily.
"Like anyone could not see you, you great lummox," Rowan huffs. "Right, I've got people to serve. We're good, right? Yes? Grand."
She steps away to the left and neatly disappears into the mass of bartenders desperately trying to keep on top of the crowds of thirsty patrons, and Dunk is left alone with the man.
"So, er, slap shot was it?" Dunk asks, feeling uncomfortable. He's never actually done one before. The whole point is that men come up and ask for a shot and a slap from one of the petite, pretty girls manning the bar, not a shot and a punch to the jaw from the aurochs they keep around to heave barrels and get the good whisky down from the top shelf.
"Yes, please," the man says. He smiles sweetly, like he's not been undressing Dunk with his eyes for the past few minutes. "Tequila, if you may."
"Tequila? Ah right, sure..." Dunk says, reaching up to rub the back of his neck. He's not rightly sure how to do one of these. Is tequila what people usually have?
"Don't forget the salt and the lime," the customer prompts helpfully. "I want the full service."
Rich men, eh. Always wanting their money's worth.
"Great." Dunk sets up everything on a tray - the shot, the salt and the lime (as requested), the glass of water. "Shall we?"
He's not quite sure where to actually do the...slap shot, considering how many people are crammed into the small space, and looks around helplessly until the older man takes pity on him and grabs his elbow, leading him away. They end up in a quiet spot at the other end of the bar, back by the kitchen hatch where they put the dirty glasses and the dodgy slot machine. It's quiet here, aside from an elderly gentleman hunched over the machine and grimly feeding it £5 notes, sipping from a pint of Guinness.
"So, er..." He takes the salt shaker and holds it out to the man. "Salt?"
"Lyonel," the older man says, inexplicably.
"Lyonel?"
"It's my name," Lyonel smiles at him. He reaches out and puts his hand on Dunk's wrist, where he's holding out the salt. "If you're going to slap a man, you should know his name first."
"Right. Well then, I'm Dunk."
"Ridiculous," Lyonel says, but the smile he gives Dunk softens the sting of his words, turns them into something sweet and somehow affectionate. He lifts an eyebrow as he glances down at the salt shaker, gently squeezing Dunk's wrist. "That's not very good service. Isn't the whole point that you...do the salt for me?"
Is it? Dunk has never seen the girls do it before, but the customer is always right, after all. He lifts his own hand to his mouth and licks the mound of flesh above his thumb with the flat of his tongue, getting it nice and wet, sprinkles it generously with salt, and holds it out to Lyonel.
Their eyes hold for a second, something hot curling in Dunk's stomach, before the older man leans down and licks slowly across his broad hand. He's certainly thorough, finishing with a curl of his tongue around his thumb as he pulls it into his mouth and sucks briefly, coming off with a wet pop.
"Salty as the sea," Lyonel says, winking at Dunk. "Did you know that I have a yacht? A rather large one, if I do say so myself."
Dunk is grateful for the dim lighting in this corner of the bar, knowing that his cheeks must be flaming red. Rowan had never mentioned this.
"Shot?" Lyonel prods, helpfully.
"Yeah, okay," Dunk says, voice hoarse. "I'll just...get that...then. Sir."
He grabs the shot of tequila from the tray, fumbling it so that some of the amber alcohol spills over the edge, getting his fingers wet on the glass. Is he meant to hand it over to Lyonel? Feed it to him like a baby bird? His mind has gone totally blank.
In the end, he meekly holds it out at Lyonel's face level, and the man takes pity on him, stepping close and wrapping his lips around the rim of the glass. It's awkward, Dunk trying to tip the glass up, and in the end Lyonel reaches up to take it off him, neatly downing the shot as his other hand strokes along Dunk's side. He hisses, bearing his teeth as the alcohol burns his mouth.
Wait, when did his hand get on Dunk's waist?
"Well done," Lyonel praises him, rubbing Dunk's waist comfortingly. Dunk should pull away, but he can't quite make himself move, and the other man's touch feels too good to give it up willingly. "Now - the lime, isn't it?"
Dunk nods. Trying to get a grip on himself, not embarrass himself any further, he fumbles the lime wedge into Lyonel's hand rather than lift it to his mouth himself.
Lyonel makes a little noise before he briefly sucks on the lime and tosses it onto the tray. If he didn't know better, Dunk would say that it sounded like a noise of disappointment.
"And now..." Lyonel says, voice trailing off meaningfully.
"And now..." Dunk repeats, staring at Lyonel blankly. "Oh! Yeah, of course."
He steps back and lifts his hand, then lowers it again. "Are you sure? I can get one of the girls..."
"I want you, remember?" Lyonel says, lifting his chin defiantly. His eyes are dark as he meets Dunk's gaze, so intent that Dunk feels pinned in place, like he's the one who's about to get hit. "Give me your best shot."
"If you're sure..." Dunk says, unsure. "I don't want to hurt you."
Lyonel smiles slyly. "Ah, but I wish you would."
Dunk shakes his head. The man makes no sense at all, but he's not got enough blood left in his brain to figure it out. Reminded of where his blood currently is, he shifts his weight on his feet to try and relieve the pressure on his jeans.
"Right, okay, well..."
He grits his teeth, reaches up and swiftly slaps Lyonel across the face. It's a good clean slap, if harder than he meant it, and the sound of his palm hitting the man's cheek rings around the small space.
The old man at the slot machine stops briefly, the beeps and electronic ringing of the machine falling silent for a moment, before he resumes his game.
Dunk nervously turns his attention back to the customer.
Lyonel's face is turned off to the side, snapped round by the force of the slap. Dunk's never been any good at controlling his strength, and he immediately feels guilty, worried that he's properly hurt him.
"I'm sorry," he starts. "Oh god, sir, I didn't mean-"
He falls quiet, the words dying in his throat as Lyonel turns back to face him. He looks absolutely wild, breath coming in little pants, hair falling down over his forehead in messy curls that Dunk wants to push back, to comb off his face with his fingertips. His cheek is bright red above his beard...from Dunk's palm, he realises with horror.
He wants to apologise, but instead he just gapes at the man, his mouth hanging open uselessly.
"I- Sir- Your face- " he finally manages to stutter out.
Ah, yeah, great, that'll do it. Dunk the Lunk, always so good with words.
The tension draws out, Dunk wondering if he should brace for a return blow, calculating whether the elderly man at the slot machine would be a good ally in a fight, when Lyonel suddenly grins, his entire face lighting up, sticking his long tongue out over his chin.
"Good man," he says appreciatively. He reaches up to feel his cheek, working his jaw. "Gods, the strength of you."
Dunk finds himself grinning in response, relief flooding through him. He feels like he's just downed his own shot, adrenaline and arousal rushing through his veins, his own breath coming out in one long exhale where he'd previously been holding it.
Except -
The glass of water, he suddenly remembers. Wasn't he meant to throw it in his face, before the shot? Or is it after? He can't remember, and, panicking, he hastily grabs it from the tray behind him and dashes it straight into Lyonel's face.
The older man closes his eyes, wide smile freezing as he finds himself suddenly sopping wet. When he opens one eye, staring up at Dunk, he looks nothing so much like a drowned cat, those gorgeous silver and black curls now soggy and dripping wet, his smart shirt ruined.
"I don't think I did that right," Dunk says miserably, the glass still in his hand. "Did I, Lyonel?"
The older man grins again, and the effect is just as hot, if slightly wetter this time.
"My dear man," he drawls, reaching out and grabbing Dunk's bicep. He holds on to Dunk as he uses his other hand to wipe the water off his face, then shakes his head like a dog. "We are going to have so much fun together, you and I."
