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Guy Gardner/Stripper!Reader, 3.2K
a/n: godddddddddddddddddddddddddddddd i LOVED this if y’all want a part two you just have to ASK
cw: SMUT, reader is a stripper who does NOT follow the rules of don’t fuck your clients/don’t encourage your clients, bad stripper etiquette, reader is naked + wearing thong/pleasers entire story, grinding, use of honey/baby, reader presents as feminine but can be interpreted as gn (no description of features/genitalia)
masterlist ao3 requests
PREVIEW:
“Guy?” Hal asks. You make sure that nothing is left to the imagination as you turn to see who’s accompanied Hal to your stomping grounds. The first thing you take in are those dogged blue eyes. Then it’s that cocksure smile, that black compression shirt that barely restrains the flex of those impressive arms, that toned stomach. You take ken of that smirk again, that indicates he’s game for anything thrown his way, and he might get into a little mischief while he does it. He looks like he bites. tl;dr: I know you want it, baby. Guy Gardner/Reader
The bass of the music in your club is such a constant thrum in the heated pulse of your body at work. You don’t even realize the deep-rooted effect it has through the sing of your veins until you’ve gone home for the night. At least, not until you’ve collapsed on the cramped, unmade nest of your bed, hunkering down for sleep as the sun creeps over the horizon.
That’s when you feel the absence of it, in the way that your heart has to maintain its own regulation, the adrenaline that so familiarly flows through the span of your body missing. Then, there’s an unmoored kind of longing for it—though it’s a feeling that never lasts too long.
After all, every night, you make your path back to your old haunt dutifully and without fail.
And you just meet the damndest people at your job. While it might be vanity to say that you’re popular, it’s certainly truth to say that you’re never wanting for company.
There’s always people that want to find the image of your body, poised over them or spinning around the length of a pole. Always close enough to take a bite, but don’t touch the goods unless I say so, honey—they all know better if they want the extended pleasure of your presence.
And you have your favorites, of course. Much like the one that seeks you out on this Friday night—you never search for anyone—you have standards, after all. Even if you might not be wearing any clothes, save the skimpiest thong you have and the tallest pleasers to give you an ample view of the situation.
It’s the weekend. Which means big tippers—and you’re on the prowl.
The cool air cycling through the sweaty, cloistered atmosphere of the club is a heady balm as you stride through the sea of bodies. Your eyes settle coolly over the marks desperate to grope sweaty, needy palms on the dancers luring them in. You know the promises they proffer, of all that you can see—at the cost of all you can give.
While there are people who are eyeing you up, eager to undress what little remains over your body, no one catches your notice, captivates your attention. At least, until you hear the name you use in your line of work.
You turn with that practiced, professional smile on your face. It sweetens a little more familiar as you see the handsome face approaching, arms wide for a hug.
Now this is a client that you won’t deny an embrace, though you ignore the envious scowls of other men that are hurting for the chance you afford him. But you don’t care—you pick and choose. And tonight you choose—
“Hi, Hal,” You beam as Hal drinks your body in like a man finding oasis in the desert, “Long time no see.”
“Hi, honey,” He greets, and he keeps a hand around your shoulder, “Miss me much?”
You don’t even have to act much as you slink your hand around the wide plateau of his shoulders—Hal’s gentlemanly enough to make you feel like you’re more than just his favorite dancer. Even though his hand finds the small of your back, it’s always at a polite enough measure that it feels chivalrous.
“Always do.” You return, taking care to inject a little homesickness at his prolonged absence. “Where’d work take you out to this time?”
“Oh, out among the stars.” Hal regales you with his typical response. Those rich brown eyes linger on you with something forlorn at the sight, as though he’s hungered for it. When his eyes drift back up to yours, you can’t help but tick your smile wider at that unbridled want.
“You know how it is.” He says, and his hand knuckles around you, pulling you to the press of his body, so you can feel the column of muscle in his arms, the dense coil of his stomach.
Something awakens in a low simmer under your skin, rich and smooth, though you tuck it away in the pursuit of getting paid. Fucking the customers is something done with discretion—and without your boss catching you. Best not to ruin the great thing you always have with Hal.
“Sure I do.” You know how to go in for the kill. You turn around to fully face him, draping your arms around his shoulders so that you take front-and-center in his line of sight. “You know we love a spaceman out here.”
You pull yourself close, ever-the-convincing illusion of a partner hurting for the loss of their boyfriend—if there’s one thing the job has taught you, it’s to hone your acting skills. And Hal, bless him, falls for it every time.
“So what can I do you for?” you ask, keeping your voice affectionate even past the overpowering music. Even in the dimmed light of the club, as the dappled colors dance over that well-chiseled face, you see how his eyes widen, those pupils dilate, that jaw sets with desire.
But, to your surprise, you feel as he almost shirks under your hold, reluctant to take what is always so rightfully his. It takes supreme restraint for him to tear his eyes away from the sight of you, to something over his shoulder.
“Well, as much as I’d love to have you all to myself this time,” He returns with no small amount of regret, giving you what suits as an apologetic smile, “I brought along a friend.”
“Oh?” You ask, letting your smile turn from cute to playful. Any recommendation from Hal is good in your book, but you do have to make parting seem like such sweet sorrow. “Is he good-looking like you?”
You take care to rub the collar of his button-down mournfully between your forefinger and thumb to make it really stick. As he palms his wide hand over yours, it’s clear that he appreciates the gesture. His eyes track over your shoulder again, at a more protracted angle—whoever his friend is must be approaching as Hal seals the deal.
“Sure. Big spender too.” Hal grins roguishly, and his fingers splay around your back, guiding you to see your client for the night—you take care to affix your most winning grin.
“Guy?” Hal asks. You make sure that nothing is left to the imagination as you turn to see who’s accompanied Hal to your stomping grounds.
The first thing you take in are those dogged blue eyes. Then it’s that cocksure smile, that black compression shirt that barely restrains the flex of those impressive arms, that toned stomach. You take ken of that smirk again, that indicates he’s game for anything thrown his way, and he might get into a little mischief while he does it.
He looks like he bites.
Oh, you think that you might just fall in love, or give him the next closest thing, as Hal releases you to slink over the distance to your new man. Guy already has ticked one of his broad arms out for you to walk into—he’s practically burning to the touch, the heat of his body roiling off, onto you.
It’s never wise to catch feelings at work. But something, as you smile up at him and he grins rakishly down at you, something feels perfect about the way that he wraps around you. The rough callouses of his fingers rasp up your naked back and you catch a glimpse of those teeth, confirming what you already suspected. You want to feel them sink into your skin.
You don’t have to affect anything in the suffused quality of your voice, as it cuts through the thrum of the all-encompassing bassline.
“You look like you’re just my type, Guy.” You assert up to him. You slide your hand up that tight shirt to get a feel for the goods and receive a mouthwatering handful for your troubles. He nudges into your grasp and you don’t retreat, eager for more.
“Betcha say that to all the men that walk in.” He returns, and there’s something coarse and masculine in his voice as he makes means of introduction. Hal Jordan could be on another planet for all you care, as you give your full attention to the man giving you his devoted time.
And you like the challenge that he’s levying your way. You’ll have to take care to convince him of the virtue of your ways.
“Bet I’ll make you believe me by the time you leave.” You promise, because you’ve yet to disappoint any customer that comes sauntering over. Guy isn’t going to walk away dissatisfied—you know that for certain.
“Like to see you try, baby.” He says, and you know you’re both going to get along just fine.
You direct Guy to the room you usually take clients who want a private audience—he was game for the suggestion, all-too-eager to get you alone.
You make sure to slide the bouncer outside the entrance extra for his troubles, ignoring the implicative look that gets aimed your way as you part the velvet curtain for Guy to go in first. After all, he is the guest of honor, so you let him go through, but you make sure to keep his hand held in yours.
The room is cozy, simple enough. It’s a circular room with wall-to-wall paneled mirrors to afford a view to the customers, plush seats that line the circumference of the room, a pole erected in the center for you to dance round. You make sure to guide him to sit, so that as he sinks into the seat, he goes level with your chest—he makes it clear from the look in his eyes he’s appreciative of the sight.
“You want me to talk, Guy,” you ask as you finally release his hand—and it appears he’s reluctant to do so, “Or you just want me to dance?”
Some men are here for the fantasy, some are here for the closest thing they can get companionship—you always make sure that the customer gets what they want. He spreads his legs wide so that you can take him in. His hand delves in one of his pockets and for a brief moment, you wonder if he’ll want to get first-hand experience on the goods.
But then he resurfaces with a wad of bills, thumb over the billfold, and you find your eyes instinctually widening. Not that you haven’t seen a stack before, but this one is thick. Seems like your new friend Guy is full of surprises—you thank your lucky stars that Hal came wandering your way tonight.
“Just as long as I get to feel ya up,” He asserts cockily, and there’s an arch of his brow as he watches your reaction, to see what you'll acquiesce to with the prominence of his…offer. “I just want a good fuckin’ show.”
You know how to play your hand just right. You step forward to occupy the space between his legs that move wider to accommodate you, letting him take in every inch of your body that you offer to him. But you push your hand over his, that wields the wad of cash—there’s an instance of bewilderment as he looks up to you.
“Put that away for now, then.” You smile with the promise of more, gently urging his hand to return it back to the depths of his pocket. It’s a ploy executed well—as he acquiesces, you take the advantage of the movement to slide one of your legs over his lap, slow and steady, for his viewing pleasure.
His eyes draw to it immediately, a punched-out groan escaping him as he raises a hand, to slide it up the length of your thigh—you lean into the clench of those rough fingers, this man’s hand, that guides you onto him.
“You came to the right place, Guy.” you declare, keeping your eyes trained on him as he pockets his money, and move your other leg to ease yourself fully upon him. He doesn’t move his eyes from you, the low lighting casting the lust on his face into sharp relief. He seems to already know the real estate of your body well, because he guides you to straddle his lap with ease, without looking.
“Fuck, you’re gorgeous,” He urges you as you sink down to fully seat yourself on those thick, firm thighs—his hands drape down to palm the curve of your ass, eager to keep you there. But you’re a dancer—you pinion your legs around the coarse denim of his pants to move slowly up. You rely on the strength of your core to move, to keep his eyes mesmerized on you.
“So are you.” you say, and lean in so that you’re close enough to kiss. You feel the ghost of his breath on your lips, catch a whiff of the cologne he’s worn for the occasion, and smile at the way that he instinctually leans in.
“Good thing I love entertaining a good lookin’ man.”
Even though you pride yourself on your skills both physical and thespian—you’re being more genuine than you usually are. But as you sink down onto his lap, you catch the dubious slant of his eyes as he regards you, the doubtful corner of his mouth that turns up.
“Even with my friend that walked in with me?” He asks gruffly, and you know the score; you’ve seen it a million times with other pairs that have walked in. There’s always a person like Hal that the dancers gravitate to, to ply money out of, and the ones like Guy, who are the diamond in the rough. Good thing you’re a person of discerning quality.
You know how to handle this situation. So, you affect a genuine groan of pleasure low in your voice as you grind on his lap, slow, prolonged, to get the point across.
There’s a noise of satisfaction that he makes, as his hips roll into you with smooth ease. The way he feels under you, the way that his hands grip the curve of your waist is sinful and perfect. And you take care to keep your eyes trained on Guy as he watches you, watching him.
“Oh, Hal’s a pretty boy.” You reply casually, with the right affectation of respect for his friend—but enough disparagement to let you know what you think of it. You push your arms down around his neck as you press into his hips, coming close enough again to push your mouth against his. But not quite.
It’s so clear in his eyes, from the way that he slants against you, he wants you bad—more than just for a dance, more than just for a fuck. You’ve got him right where you want you. Hell, you’ve got you right where you want you.
“I see ‘em come and go all the time in this club.” you continue, taking your proximity to brush your chest up against him—his hands shamelessly pull you towards him. You don’t resist the moan that arises as the scratch of his shirt chafes against your bare skin, your nipples, which are already perking up at the contact.
There’s a growl in his throat as he finds the crook of your neck and shoulder, breathes in the scent of your perfume as you move your hips down against him, gyrating to the rhythm of the background music.
“You—”—You pull away so that you can put some distance, and he stares back up at you, starved—“—You’re a man.”
You grin with your teeth, to let him know the veracity of your words. “Just my type.”
“Maybe I don’t believe you,” He returns, even though it’s so obvious from the way that his voice is wanton, the way that he stares up at you a degree worshipfully, it’s clear that he does. But he wants that push, the extra mile that you as a devoted employee are willing to go. And you don’t need much tonight, in his arms, to provide.
“Maybe you should,” You grin, “Because I don’t let every man put his hands on the goods.”
“Just the ones with the stack?” He asks, and his fingers clench again—there’s some extra force put into it, but you want the hurt that comes with that sensual agony of his grip. You rock into him and he makes another sigh of need.
“Just the ones that I want to get their number later,” you return coyly, “So I don’t lose you when you head out.”
He flashes you a look, that suspicious smirk making its presence known again. But he doesn’t let go of you. “Now I know a line when I hear it.”
“No line.” You giggle, and the sound of your laughter makes him groan again. You’d like to draw more of those out of him as you press down again, and are rewarded for your efforts with something awakening below you.
“Bad taste.” He gives you a smile like he wants you to prove him wrong. Far be it from you to not try.
“Maybe—”—you slide back so you can find your footing—if he was reluctant to let you go before, he’s downright unwilling now—“—I just know a good time when I see it.”
You make your way to the pole, the cool touch under your palm grounding you back in the moment. He’s got eyes for nothing else but you, and his stare makes something awaken hot and needy in your core.
“Now how about I give you a show?” You ask.
The second half of the show, it turns out, is in the backseat of his truck—you would have been surprised if he had anything else—during your break. He sinks his cock into you and you clench your trembling thighs around him, digging your nails into his shoulders as he sucks a bruise into your skin. You think you might be falling in love.
But you articulate this as a protracted wail under him, your voice breaking, “Oh, fuck, I’m gonna come—”
”Go ‘head and come, baby,” His voice is rugged in his encouragement, his wide arms possessive, proprietary as he fucks you with abandon, sailing in and out of you. When he hits the back of your walls in as many times as you can count, you feel yourself reaching the edge yet again, curling into him.
“Oh my God, oh my God—”—Is all that you can babble as you ride through your third orgasm, legs shaking and holding on for dear life. All the while, he continues to fuck into you, keeping that relentless pace that has you thinking that you might be going for a fourth sometime soon. It’s impossibly, dangerously good—you know you’re in too deep. But you don’t care.
Speech is a difficult faculty to reinherit, the comedown burning and pleasurable, but you manage it out as he snaps those perfect hips into you.
“You—you come back into town often?” You moan against another thrust that has you seeing stars. He presses a kiss against the column of your neck, groaning against your body with the indication he’s going to come undone soon.
“For you, baby?” He grits through his teeth as he continues to fuck you. “Think I will.”
You think you’re happy with that arrangement.
Dividers provided by @cafekitsune