Hello ! My name is Toby and I created this blog simply to appreciate my favorite green lantern and main f/o : Guy Gardner ! I also created it to reblog GL fan art and things about other Green Lanterns since it didn't really fit the theme for my main blog . . .
My main blog is @angel777guts , there I post and reblog a lot of menhera and nursecore outfits and aesthetics, it involves some gore and medical equipment so tw for that ! You can always go check that blog out if you want to get to know me better or if my interest in this douchebag isn't your thing .
a/n: put together two requests to go back to my boy :]
cw: smut/18+only, doggy style, makeouts, heavy sexual tension, smoking weed together (all parties are into each other), groping, ambiguous genitalia, gn!reader
masterlist ao3 requests
PREVIEW:
You and Guy decide to smoke weed together. It’s probably the second worst decision you’ve ever made.
Guy Gardner/Reader (18+)
It’s not a good decision. But, it’s not necessarily a bad decision either. And as far as smoke session partners go, Guy can hold in a hit with a vitality that you wouldn’t expect.
To the point that you almost feel out of your depth as he blows a rather expertly crafted smoke ring in your face, dissipating into circular ejection before your eyes. But not before you catch a whiff of the familiar stench as it wreathes about you.
“Fuck,” You say, watching him with sleepy-eyed admiration, “You’re gonna get fucked up really bad off of that one.”
Not like you’re one to talk—you’ve smoked enough to let yourself slip into that comfortably saccharine-molasses, jelly-limbed possession of mind. The couch seems to absorb the gooey, gelatinous texture that your body has assumed to.
In fact, you’re in that perfect state of inertia that’s only motivated to move when his hand approaches with the joint still lit. The embers seem to wink in hypnotic sway as you carefully accept his offering; his thumb and forefinger seem to scald against your as they scrape in the exchange of goods.
“Like yer one to talk,” Guy sneers back; his gaze isn’t mean, nor is it judgemental—but he is the pot calling the kettle black.
There’s a glaze to his eyes that isn’t usually present, indicating the same release of inhibition that you're preoccupied. The way that his hand settles back on the span of his thigh carries less intention than it usually does.
But you could not care less about the bearings that he carries himself with. All you can do is rivet your eyes to the way that the soft light you are both bathed in sets such suffused definition on the slope of his hand. On that muscular thigh housed by those starched jeans.
He looks so good out of his uniform (not that you think he looks bad in it). But in this white cotton shirt with a collar that dips low enough you can catch a glimpse of a collarbone, and his belt buckle that catches the light seated right over the junction of his pants legs.
There’s also the span his legs tick out to you draw you in, summoning you to further admire the specific display of masculinity that he brings forth for you.
He’s saying your name—you blink to better take heed of the situation, and drag your gaze in sluggish, ambling pace to find his own. Were you staring at his crotch? The idea inflames you with an onset of subdued adrenaline, mollified by the weed—
Guy has a funny little smile on his face, something playful, something wicked being held back at bay. But he doesn’t slink into it with the alacrity he would sober.
Instead, he leans back, slinging a thick, muscular arm on the back of the couch. Letting you take another evaluative look at the way that his bicep flexes and settles.
“Whatcha lookin’ at, honey?” He asks—coy. Not putting you directly on the spot, but certainly pushing you with more gentility than he usually would into the limelight.
Your mind races with what limited capability it possesses, and you scramble for something to settle upon. Any article of his body that is more improved than admitting you were looking at the bulge restrained by the acreage of his jeans.
The idea comes to mind before you can even truly realize what you’re verbalizing to him, in lackadaisical means. “Can I touch your hair?”
Guy looks bereft of words for a second, bemused—and then he laughs. The chord is one of genuine amusement that you’re not accustomed to hearing from him, something sincere and lighthearted. You think that it suits him well.
“Sure, baby,” He says, unmoving from where he sits: watching you with careful direction. “Come on over and ruffle it up for me, will ya?”
So: if you want the privilege of settling your fingers through the bangs, then you’ll have to move yourself. And the smile, easy yet malicious, that he levies your way, lets you comprehend that he’s aware of this as well. A test of faculties and mobility at once.
You nod, asserting an affirmation that you don’t entirely feel. “Okay, sure.”
It’s a slow journey to inch along the couch cushions, which are so velvet and streamlined under your fingers, coaxing you to remain in place. To succumb to the furniture, which conforms to the shape of your body. But Guy waits at the end: and you can’t resist the need to feel some part of him.
Your knee knocks against his before you expect it, with more force than you intended: you make a muted noise of surprise expressed against the inside of your mouth.
It’s a low huff of a scoff that he makes, as he puts a hand around your shoulder to steady you. The entirety of that wide swathe of fingers spanning round your skin scorches. He feels good.
“Whoa, easy, huh?” Guy asks you with a cheerful grin, his thumb stroking up the length of your skin. His other hand goes to take the joint from you: somehow, it’s remained intact this entire time you traveled across the vast landscape of the couch.
You sigh at the touch, leaning into it with far more ease than you would have with sobriety.
“I’m not goin’ anywhere,” He grins, letting you see the perfect interval of his teeth. “Just that eager to getcher hands all over me, huh?”
“Maybe,” You say—because you can play the game too—and how his smile grows at that. “Your hair looks like it’s real soft.”
“Hair, huh?” He shoots back, a glint of something in the ken of his gaze. Does he know? But before you can question the capability of your subtlety: he inclines his head for you to have better access.
“Well, go ‘head,” He says, looking up at you through the fan of bangs. His eyes carry some unreadable character of emotion the weed prevents you from deciphering. “I’m right here if you want it.”
Your hand seems to move with glacial quality as you seek out the promised land; he watches the minutiae of your face rather than the journey that your hands take.
You know, because you’re watching him too. And when your fingers settle against the crown of his head, his hair soft to the touch: the noise that punches out of his throat is drawn-out and pleasurable.
An electric current of heat is drawing slick through you, threading through the charter of your vein at the touch: his body radiates warmth. The track of your fingers through his hair inspires thrill of sensation rocketing in slow meter up your arm, through the rest of you.
“Fuck,” He breathes. His words hiss through his teeth in an unexpected degree of relief, “Feels real good like that.”
“I didn’t expect your hair to feel so good,” You admit—this makes him snort through his nose. It’s an endearing note from him that makes you giggle involuntarily.
“I take care'a the moneymakers, baby,” He informs you sleekly. “Think Guy Gardner’s ever caught not picture-ready?”
“No,” You muse, drawing the careful tread of your fingers through the red, “Never.”
You don’t realize that you’ve resided in silence, the implacable tread of his eyes upon you, every nuance of motion that you make as you continue to make careful span around his head. That is, save for the occasional grunt, the corrugated moan that ekes out of him at your ministration.
You speak, intruding on the silence, on the heady atmosphere that is bidding you to rub your legs against each other in slow—and what you hope is subtle—rhythm. “Can I touch something else?”
“Whatcha thinkin’?” He asks, his stare carrying underlying intent.
Later, you realize that this is an incredibly loaded question to ask him, and the fact that he took it on the chin so well should have spoken to more. But in the moment, all you can focus on is getting from point a to b, and shoring up the willpower to ask the question of him.
“I want,” You inform him, “To touch your chest.”
Your hand finally falters through the carding of the strands—unoccupied, you let it perch on the slope of your knee, ignoring the pulse of your heart that has leapt the ascent of your throat. And it sits in the base of your soft palate as you watch him, hoping against hope.
He’s preoccupied with a thought that works that broad jaw, that plateaus those shoulders out. His hand—the one that’s remained around you the entire time—tugs you a little closer, making a you produce a traitorous squeak that breaches containment.
“Sure thing, honey,” He breezes with casual air—far too casual airs. “But you want it, you gotta do somethin’ for me.”
“What’s that?” You ask, the weed taking soporific bearings over your senses, dulling your wiles.
“You wanna get some more’a me,” Guy claps his free hand to the width of his thigh, “You gotta sit on my lap to do it.”
Sober you would make better decisions, would shirk into inarticulacy. Sober you would decline and leave the precipice that the two of you have approached and retreat into safer territories.
But you look at the wall of muscle that fills out his white t-shirt so well, make glimpse of that collarbone again—
“Okay,” you say in neutral composition of reply, keeping your face as impartial as you can. His smile only grows from here, his hand working to coax you onto the altar he’s prepared for you.
“That’s what I like to hear,” He smirks down at you. It’s a messy clamber of limbs and a few more laughs at your expense: you feel them roil through you, drum through your body straight down the heat between your legs.
And then you’re seated on him, your legs working around the terrain of his. God, there’s barely any give to him: he’s all fucking muscle.
His hips shift, rolling to better adjust, prompting you to make a stuttering gasp, reach out for whatever purchase you can make. Your fingers sink into his shoulder as you try to ready yourself—he gives you a hoarse laugh for your troubles.
“Easy, honey,” Guy reassures you, “I ain’t gonna let you fall. You’re on the Gardner Express now.”
This thought—paired in tandem with the way that his hands encircle the flesh of your waist—does little to inspire calm within you. In fact, internally, you are a roiling mess of emotions and desire that you’d never expected to have coalesce together in fearful symmetry.
But Guy is underneath you, warm, alive—and watching you. Taking in what you can only assume is a vivid facial journey, prompting a more uncharacteristic reticence from him.
“You good?” He asks in coarse demeanor, and a twinge of emotion—checking for your unmooring—moves you more than you expected it to.
“Yeah—”—You nod, looking at the muscle pressing against the interior of his shirt. “Can I?”
“You gonna come all this way to not cop a feel?” Guy appears offended at the thought—you can’t help but suffer a laugh at this assertion.
You move a little faster this time; if he notices, then he spares you the embarrassment of commenting upon it. But the sink of his skin under yours is minimal at best, the thrum of his heartbeat demarcated in a rapidly increasing pace.
He’s a furnace here, as you smooth your fingers along the fabric, trying to capture the touch of the real deal through the shirt. You let your fingers drape, descend, palm-down on the flesh: and then you squeeze.
The groan he makes is sinful, and your fingers stutter over the real estate of his body, looking up at him—he’s leering up at you.
“Been holdin’ that one in for a while, huh?” Guy’s voice doesn’t carry any of the preamble it usually does: something shines in his eyes as he stares back. You lick your lips with an instinctiveness, a hunger that has steadily grown since you both began smoking.
“Can I touch something else?” You supply, looking at him through the lazy smile that you proffer his way. His smile blooms in slow growth.
“What else you thinkin’?” He asks, something husky taking cadence in his voice.
One of his hands departs your waist, and you miss it terribly until a knuckle drapes up your cheek. It’s a tenderness evoked in the gesture that you lean into without hesitation. You’re rewarded with another dubious laugh at this.
“Can I start with your mouth?” You return in inquiry: and then the smile turns from affectionate to predacious.
“Start?” He echoes the choice of words that you’ve provided for him; the hand that has remained with tactile purchase on you squeezes.
“Well, I mean,” You begin, letting your eyes drift from the most important person in the room, “I was kinda hoping for more.”
You search his face for confirmation and find nothing but open want reflected back in them. The grind of his hips buck up into you; this time, rather than an unexpected chuff expelled—a moan takes shape. The dilation of his pupils as he drinks in the noise is all worth it.
“Fuck,” He echoes like prayer, “Thought I was overthinkin’ it.”
“Overthinking what?” You ask, confusion clouding your mind in sedative, hypnotic means.
All you can focus on is the way that Guy looks at you, his muscle coiling taut under your body as you settle more comfortably against him. The rumble of satisfaction he makes at the posture you assume on him is deep-seated and wanting.
“Don’t worry about it,” He coaxes you forward, “Come here and kiss me.”
Oh, he’s a mean kisser, to be certain: adding in the weed which crescendos the hyper-sensitivity of sensation to a climax, the inertia you have to both combat given the weed—everything is heightened. Everything is drawn into slow yet quickly-clarified definition.
And his mouth, slotting against yours, working to find the rhythm of movement against the terrain of your own, is perfect. His hands that are searching under the barrier of your shirt, working coarse palms up the territory of your back, make you shiver and squirm under his touch.
“Easy,” He pulls away to soothe at the terrain of your lips, opening at the delicious way his hands feel as they skirt over your shoulder blades, “Easy, honey.”
You catch his bottom lip in between your teeth and apply enough pressure to make him groan. To let you drag your tongue against his teeth, swipe against the muscle that takes taste of you. The snarl trapped in the clotting of his throat lets you know that he wants this, that he enjoys the fire you give back.
The hands that are seeking to work you out of your pants, unbuckle his own with audible clink at the same time, only spur you to work faster, to document as much of him under your hands as you can.
He pulls away, drawing you flush against him to the feel the nascent interest growing against you in the seam of his pants. Hot breath steams behind your ear as he rasps his teeth against a sensitive spot that has you grind against him.
“You want this?” He asks, something both rough-hewn and vulnerable taking shape. It’s the last threshold for you to back out of. His mouth worries at the pulse of your neck as he waits for your approval, the suck of his mouth needy and urgent.
Your hands, incapable of doing anything save to communicate the symbolism of a gesture, work down the shelf of his stomach to help free him of his buckle. When he laughs again at how you keep your eyes on the prize—there’s relief borne in it as well.
“I need your help,” You plead—his hands draw over yours in such deliberate shape to drown out your own.
“Yeah, I gotcha,” He swears to you.
His idea of help is rather subjective, but considering how it’s rendered you face-down in the couch, with your ass in the air—with the tapering spread of his cock gliding into you; well, you’re not complaining. Exactly the opposite.
“Guy—”—You whimper, his grasp working into the tender flesh of your waist with such possessive grasp. You press against him, trying to take more of him as he makes torturously slow pump, savoring the feel of your walls clenching around him.
“Yeah?” He asks, taunting and terrible and satisfied, so, so satisfied. He bottoms out in you and you feel the landscape of your mind go perfectly blank, your mouth drawing open to let out broken moan.
“Don’t stop—”—You beg of him, the velvet glide of his cock dragging inside you. Feeling the way that his fingers twitch in tighter clutch at the way you plead, a lovely, indelicate laugh escaping him.
“Sure, baby,” Guy reassures you as he sheathes you to the hilt, a groan slinking through the grit of his teeth, “I got you handled.”
And when he starts to get to work: you think that he knows what he’s talking about.
My best friend: hey can u tell me stuff abt guy? i kinda like his vibe
me: yea i mean i only know im from jli/jla so lemme go to his wiki and oh- um wait really? hold on where...? ok let me go read the comic this is from-
Several solo guy comics later:
me: fuck
istg i didnt mean to-
study credits and refs under the cut
Guy Gardner: Reborn #2, pencils by Joe Staton
in case u cant read my evil handwriting:
Guy Gardner: Reborn #2, pencils by Joe Staton
Superman Unlimited #8, art by Lucas Meyer
stolen sketch from @pizzapartyplayhouse (sorry for the spam i was losing it)
Justice League #1 cover, pencils by Kevin Maguire
a/n: a request for beloved mutual @bruisedbabydeer that I ADORED writing hehe
cw: blowjobs/sexual acts, drinking, flirting, sexual jokes, m!reader
masterlist ao3 requests
PREVIEW:
"Y'ever ridden a horse before, kid?" It's an odd question that takes you aback for a moment, forces you to turn up more fully to him in total bemusement—you almost forget that you've got your load to carry.
"Course I have, Mr. Gardner. Who hasn't 'round these parts?"
"Yeah," He rolls his shoulders, letting you look at the way those starched cotton sleeves frame those impressive biceps, "But have you ridden with me?"
There's something about the way that he carries that statement to you, some implicative insinuation that makes you think that he's not entirely referring to horse-riding.
tl;dr: your cowboy courts you. Guy Gardner/Reader
You work the land same as everyone else does, over rolling fields and hills that require the toil of your body. It's a hard living, but it's an honest one, with scarcely any variation to the routine. Wake up in the early hours, work until the marrow from your bones ekes exhaustion, slump to bed with a belly full of fruits of labor from the land.
But sometimes, you get lucky, and Guy rolls up on his steed to shake up your day a little bit. He's always turning up on that horse with a poor attitude and an inclination to nip at your hands if you get too close.
His legs are spread wide with a bounce to his hips as he approaches over the peak of the hill that leads to the ample fields of your estate. Your homestead, if you can make a living out of it. And so far, you're the only one who's tried.
You appreciate the visits. Guy's always eager to start conversation with you, much as he is today, with a stalk of wheat champed between his teeth in that broad smile that grows ever-wider as he finds you under the roiling sun.
When he says your name, there's something in the delivery of it, jaunty and smug, that makes your heart pitch faster. It makes you want to adjust your wide-brimmed hat so that it covers your face a little more, to hide the slack-jawed shyness that stifles the words from your lungs.
But you want to talk with him—so you'll try your best, even as he tugs on the reins one-handed and tips his hat to you in a manner that seems to make your mouth run so very dry.
"Afternoon," he drawls, and you have to dart your gaze down to the chaps that frame those wide, thick thighs—perhaps that's not as helpful as you thought it was.
You dart back up to that eager face that's seeking out the shape of your eyes, admire the freckles dusted over that strong nose, those beaming cheeks. "How's the farm, kid?"
"Good enough, Mr. Gardner," You say, hitching the bag of grain that holds your harvest for the day. As if to further emphasize, the wind ghosts through the field that bends and sighs with the breeze whispering through.
You nod in the direction of the wheat that he's sampled between his lips. "Looks like you've been able to find out yourself."
"Guess I have," He sends back easily enough, but it looks like he's got something else on his mind—that dangerous slant to his eyes informs you of enough. "Y'ever ridden a horse before, kid?"
It's an odd question that takes you aback for a moment, forces you to turn up more fully to him in total bemusement—you almost forget that you've got your load to carry.
"Course I have, Mr. Gardner. Who hasn't 'round these parts?"
"Yeah," He rolls his shoulders, letting you look at the way those starched cotton sleeves frame those impressive biceps, "But have you ridden with me?"
There's something about the way that he carries that statement to you, some implicative insinuation that makes you think that he's not entirely referring to horse-riding. It makes your blood rush in your ears, your temperature seem to spike irregardless of the sun threatening to cook you both. You feel your mouth fall agape even more and this makes his smile look even more malicious at your expense.
"No, I guess not," you respond slowly. "I get the feelin' you're not a careful driver, though."
"Yeah? Who toldja that?" He asks roughly, though it's clear from the cavalier way that he lounges on his saddle, from the jaunty look to his eyes—from the way that you've seen in past memory how he'll take the most reckless bronco to break.
You know he enjoys life on the wild side. There's a pearl of sweat that's going down his jawline, trailing down the thick column of his neck, and it's hard to tear your eyes away from it. But you manage.
"I got eyes, Mr. Gardner," You reply—he chuckles at your honesty. When he leans down to better regard you, his shirt falls loose, letting you take a look at the muscle of his pecs, the fine layer of hair over them—you look. It makes something awaken to life within you.
"Promise," He says, and this makes you find those blue eyes that are searching for yours, "I'll be real careful when you hop on."
You both share a long moment looking at each other—it's like you can scarcely sense the ground beneath you, the weight on your back that you'll have to lumber about until the sun dips below the horizon. All that matters is the handsome cowboy that seems to be alluding to more than he's actually saying.
You swallow. "I'll have to let you know, Mr. Gardner."
He twirls that stalk of wheat with a slick move of his tongue. You have to wonder what else he can do with that pink that's poking through the pearly whites.
"You'll have to let me know, kid." When he straightens back up, there's a pang of forlorn longing that shoots through you as you think about the idea of holding onto that solid torso for dear life. But you got work to do—and it seems Iike Mr. Gardner's daily constitutional requires him to go back the other way.
"Be seein' you," He gives as means of goodbye, and when he tips he hat to you again, you do likewise. But you certainly wish you could do more, as he turns his horse easily and guides the two of them back over the sloping hill.
It's all you can do to watch him leave without chasing after him down that dusty road.
Mr. Gardner finds his way back down to your spit of land a week later, in the throes of the sunset as the horizon makes her way into dusky night. You've already put your harvest for the day in the barn, ready to be threshed into bales the next day, and eased your suspenders to droop around your waist.
Your only responsibility now is to give yourself a few well-earned minutes of rest, which you do so by sitting on the chair at your wrap-around porch. In repose, you prop your legs up on the wooden railing, looking at the picturesque view of your lands that require ever-constant attention.
With the sun's glow settling down low on the horizon, the land seems to gleam golden in this final glimpse of the light—and so does the red thatch of hair that's easing down the road down to your lonely home, red locks swaying with each trotting step of his horse.
You hold up a hand in greeting, working open the cap to your flask with the other. It's a waste of syllables to say anything in salutation from this distance, so you wait until the dust is kicked near enough by the porch to say something.
"Long day, Mr. Gardner." You say. To your surprise, you see that Guy seems intent to prolong the visit a little longer by easing one of those legs off his horse. When he hops down to the ground, there's a great whirl of dust that rolls up, settling back down into the ground with slow leisure.
Much in the same way that he strolls up, tucking his thumbs into those denim jeans that put the ample real estate of his legs into wicked relief for you.
"Long night too, if you know where to look." He comments back slyly, and it's clear that he's got trouble in mind as he says that. There's something mischievous to his eyes as he watches you. You think you need a drink before you respond, so you take a deep swallow of that burning whiskey from your flask.
"Where, then?" you ask as he rocks up to the entryway, leaning one of those great arms on the wooden columns to your porch. The muscle coils and flexes, framed tautly by the pull of his sleeve, and you look at it with some type of wonder you're certain registers on your face. You're too tired to resist it.
"Maybe you oughta let me take you into town to show you." He returns back in a wily manner that makes you only feel wary. His teeth are gleaming in the slow darkness that is descending over the two of you. Though you won't articulate it, he looks certainly beautiful with the backdrop of the horizon smattered with purpling hues and pinkening smears through the sky.
He's trouble, you know it. But you like his visits. And you like him, more than you should. You smile, and this only makes more of those teeth of his go on marked display.
"I'm okay—"—You lie, and hold up the flask, which shines dully for his admiration—"—Nightcap is good enough for me."
He makes a noise that indicates he's displeased by your semi-rejection, and he jerks his jaw in the direction of your drink. "Wanna share?"
Anyone else and you might be a tad ruffled at the imposition of lending themselves to your supply. But it's Mr. Gardner—you'd offer up a lot more than alcohol if he offered.
You hold the open mouth to him without hesitation. "Only with you, Mr. Gardner."
"Guy." He declares, as he places his hand around the width—his fingers scrape against yours, his eyes determinedly schooled upon you. You blink up at him, feeling the mollifying aftereffects of the whiskey already tinging at the edges of your senses. But his eyes ring sterling clear through it, the touch of his fingers on yours in perfect clarity.
"Guy?" you ask, already knowing what a privilege he's sharing with you—you don't know a single person in town that has the pleasure of knowing him on a first-name basis. You feel quite lucky.
"Wantcha to remember me by my first name." He says, and knocks the flask back to take a deep swallow. You watch the bob of his Adam's apple and think of running your tongue over it. You're mighty thirsty.
"You like me or something, Guy?" You ask, because you're only feeling brave enough to ask it with some drink in you. He lowers the flask slow and rewards you with another one of those smiles that makes your heart stop, then pound in your ribcage like lightning and thunder.
"Maybe I do." He returns back, and the look that he gives you is evaluative, searching for something that you'll confess, eventually.
But not tonight. For now, you'll savor the pleasure of his company, knowing that when you take the flask back, you'll have the impression of his lips upon yours.
It's been a long season, which means that the harder one's worked, the more one needs to celebrate at the harvest festival. There's dancing, there's drink, there's enough food to leave someone prone on the floor, enough gossip exchanged through the crowd like wildfire, enough merriment to sate a hedonist. But all you can do, being one of the main breadwinners to this party, is admire from the sidelines.
It's a party that's partially in your honor, but you don't have the energy to enjoy it, save in the manner of giving the other townsfolk gentle smiles when they clap your shoulders in congratulations for the rest that you've earned.
It's almost a joke, in a way—there's always something to do at the farm. But you appreciate their thoughtless felicitations—even if all they do is encourage you to mosey on home early, the cheers and music dying away on the wind as you walk the opposite direction, alone.
But you're not alone for long. You find that someone is eager to hike up alongside you, calling your name from the only voice that you want to hear. You turn to see Guy, sans steed for the night, in his Sunday finest—you look at the denim jeans, the bolo tie, the beaver fur Stetson—he looks a gorgeous picture. You saw him chugging a few brews, but it seems that his gaze is clear, his gait steady as he meanders up to meet you.
"Hi, Guy," You greet aimlessly—you're surprised he saw you leaving. Something in you is excited that he did, that he wanted to chase after the sanctity of your company. In the distance, you can see your home already closing in, the grove of trees that herald the beginning of your land coming into close view.
"Fancy runin' into you here," He states, as though he hadn't followed you back the long way.
"Sure is," You say, "Have a good time at the party?"
"Ain't so good if there's no good company to hang with," He says back, and there's something that makes you feel hopeful, something that makes your smile return at the fact that he considers you good company. Though you suppose through the actions of late, he's been all but demonstrating what he thinks of your company.
"Sure is," You reply. "You goin' my way?"
"Thinkin' I might spend a spell," He drawls back, "If you got the time."
"For you," You say, and you feel yourself drawing nearer to him on the dirt road, "I think I got a lot."
"Yeah?" He asks. It's as though there's no one around for miles, the way that his hand drifts up, paws at your jawline, directing you bid look up at him. "How much we talkin'?"
Maybe it's the drink—but you haven't had a drop. Maybe it's the excitement—even though you haven't had a single dance. Maybe it's just that the only thing you've ever wanted is this cowpoke in your arms, right now.
"All the time in the world, Guy." you confess, and when he smiles, you know you'd spend an eternity out in your fields, for the gift of seeing that smile once more.
"That's what I like to hear." He says, and when he crushes his lips against yours, it's all you can do but let him, the tidal wave of feelings, of sensations wash over you. His mouth works against yours, seeking your bottom lip between his teeth. You gasp and he makes a low growl in his throat, works his thumb under your suspenders as he tugs you close.
"Guy—"—You break away to make a plea, but all this does is make his other hand join in keeping you pressed to him. You push your mouth against him one final time before breaking away, though this makes his mouth work into the crook of your neck, already insistent to suck in a deep bruise.
"Guy—"—You breathe, and you can feel your resolve crumbling, you can feel something insistent to let him have his way. But you have other plans, as you make a quick cursory glance to the line of trees. "Come with me."
"I plan to," He growls into your skin, which makes you flush hot. Especially at the way his hands are already rucking under your shirt, seeking the heat of your back, your abdomen, making you grow hard—but you need to see your way through.
"No—"—You plead, and start nudging him towards the trees. He's very reluctant to do so. "Come follow me."
You watch as his eyes trace the arc of direction you intend to trail, the curve of his knowing smile as he watches you, reads your intention. But you don't feel satisfied until you've brought him deep into the brush, where those hands can freely roam, are already working around you from behind to unbutton your shirt.
But you don't stop until you push him up against the trunk of a tree, don't feel your smile grow satisfied until you sink down to your knees in the grass, working to undo the button to his jeans. And then you can really say that you've seen a side to your cowboy that you're certain no one has before.
You love the way his eyes tick wide and pleased, his mouth full but expressionless as you stare up at him, pressing a kiss against the seam of his jeans where you're trying to work the zipper slowly down.
"You sure about this?" He asks, and his voice is pitched low but full of want, full of need that you can feel is barely restrained by the fabric. You let out a sweet chuckle that makes him groan and buck his hips into your palm that's working around the bulge.
"Sure I'm sure," you work down the hem of the pants, the stretch of his boxers, "You can get me later—back in my bed."
His laugh is dark, and full of intent—he means to deliver with interest when he gets you there. "Like the sound of that. Go on, then."
This is permission enough—you pull his pants down and admire the length of his cock as it juts free. It's definitely sizable; you can't resist the allure of running your hand up and down the shaft—he rolls his hips into your touch, letting you admire the bead of precum that's already forming at the head.
And you don't resist sticking out your tongue to lick it off, casting your eyes up to look at the unrestrained pleasure that crosses his face as you do so, the bolt of arousal that already shocks through you at the effect you have on him.
"Fuck—"—He grits through his teeth. "You're gorgeous."
"Just like you," You say, but that's all that you say before you take him onto your tongue, slow and steady. He doesn't restrain the groan that rolls free off of his tongue as you do your best to take it into the wet heat of you mouth—he's huge and you know that you won't be able to take much of him like this.
You'll have to make up what you can with your hand, as you continue to swallow his cock that seems to taper wider as you get to the base.
Not that he minds—you watch as he angles his head back against the bark of the tree, feel the scrape of his hand as he seeks out the top of your head. He's not guiding you; it's proprietary.
But it reminds you that you need to set a pace, so you slowly, excruciatingly pull back, working your hand up as you run your tongue up the underside of his cock.
He makes a punched-out noise of relief as you do so, a soft oath escaping him as you work your way back down, making way to set a rhythm. He's so big that you can't help but let drool dribble down your chin, the obscene noises of your mouth around his cock filling the air, his groans in tandem making a lewd symphony in the nighttime hour.
If you weren't so intent to make him come right here, part of you would be tempted to help yourself a little bit of the way. But you feel like you've kept your cowboy waiting enough—you've kept yourself waiting long enough to do this act of service.
You quicken the pace, working your head back and forth down him, making sure to keep your tongue flat as you rasp it against his cock, your hand pumping around the base—his hips roll into you, a steady stream of curses flowing out of him.
"You're fuckin' perfect," He declares in a throaty moan, and this makes you determined to swallow as much of him as you can—you don't stop until you can feel him hit the back of your throat and this makes him whimper.
You know you can never let him go now. He'll always be your cowboy, from now on—this thought spurs you to keep the pace going as he continues to buck into your mouth, continues to let those moans out that are only for your enjoyment, as he becomes undone.
You can tell that he's approaching the edge because his words are becoming unbound, stuttering at certain syllables, the litany of "yes, yes, yes" as he pushes his cock deeper and deeper into your mouth needier still. You keep going, happy to satisfy him, the need to satiate him a drug you know you'll never get enough of.
When he stiffens and goes still, you keep going, even as you taste him in your mouth, you keep that pace going as his hands curl into your hair and keep that slice of heaven there for him, and him alone. You don't stop until you feel the tight pressure of his fingers slacken and then relax, rubbing slow, comforting circles into your scalp.
You look up, swallowing it down. In the darkness of the shadows, you see one final privilege afforded you—the flushed, heady afterglow that settles about him, that you know you'll come to appreciate more and more in the coming days.
You press one final kiss against his cock which is softening post-orgasm—he shivers, his fingers draping down from your crown of your head to trace under your chin.
"You wanna go to my place now?" You ask, punch-drunk in the throes of a job well done. There's something animal and raw on his face as he begins to kneel down, pushing you into the grass.
"Fuck that," He growls. "I'm payin' you back right here, right now."
Your back presses into the soft downy blades of the ground, the stars twinkling above you as your man descends between your legs. You think that this is something, as you tangle your hands into his hair and his teeth work at the button of your jeans, that you'll never get tired of.
Dividers provided by the amazing @strangergraphics
