a/n: a request I hope y’all like because I certainly did hehe
cw: massaging, sexualization of Guy, thirsty reader, gn!reader (no description of features/clothing)
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PREVIEW:
You owe Guy a favor that he intends to collect, and you find yourself in over your head. But maybe you like that.
Guy Gardner/Reader
"You're not going to make this weird, are you?" You ask warily as you look at the muscular plane of his back. You're quite certain that he must be arching for your viewing pleasure, but you can't tell. With Guy, anything is possible.
"Me?" He asks, mock-insulted, from where he's lying on the cushion of his arms, which are also bare and exposed for you to look at. You're trying not to look at them, but you know that you'll have to touch them all the same. You're trying not to think of what it'll feel like to run your fingers over the firm muscle, the flex of his shoulder, the bulge of that bicep.
You think that it must be solid—it must have no give whatsoever. You know you're going to have put your back into it to undo the tension of the knots that you're certain are there—because when does Guy Gardner ever consider self-care?
"I'm not the one who's gonna make it weird," He chuckles, and it's a deep, husky noise, "Unless you just can't contain yourself when you get your hands all over me."
"That's exactly what I mean," You return crossly, approaching the crossroads that you find yourself at. He has to be pushing something up—you don't know if you've ever seen lats with such glistening definition, traps that are coiled with raw power.
Granted, you've never seen him half-naked like this either. But the idea that Guy was hiding all ofthis under that dopey vest—and the fact that from what you see of his legs stretching out from under the towel to conceal his dignity—the boots, to match. You think that you're in for a wild ride.
"Promise I won't ruin it if you don't," He says, and there's something sing-song in his taunt. He's yet to even open his eyes—he's relaxed, his cheek pressed into the full of his arm. Just waiting for you to get to work.
"How could I ruin it?" You ask him as you approach the small stand set up next to the bed he's luxuriating on, waiting to be spoiled. "I'm the one who's giving you a massage—"
You pump a slow dollop of the massage oil into your cupped palm. You're disgruntled enough that you don't catch the way his eye cracks open, settling up and down the length of your body before it closes once more, and you rub your hands together with a quiet squelch of the ointment.
"Ah, yeah," he sighs lewdly, "Can't wait to feel that all over me."
"Remind me why I'm doing this again?" You ask dryly, as you near his side and eye the slope of his back testily. He shifts, letting you admire the way that the muscle rolls, actually rolls, and you're so glad that he can't see you swallow thickly.
"'Cause I covered for your ass when we were out in Boravia," Guy responds sleekly. It's almost as though he's been prepared for you to reconsider many of the life choices that led to this, and is eager to keep you here, "And cause you ain't the type to leave me hangin'."
"Yeah, I guess not," You respond, and slide your flat palms down the broad landscape of his shoulders—he groans, and you have to resist the huffed gasp that you want to make.
You don't think that the noise was deliberate—you've heard Guy do deliberate for comedic affect—this one seemed drastically different. This one seemed like he was enjoying himself.
You realize that you may have trailed off abruptly mid-sentence, but you don't care. Your heart is in your throat right now as you ease your hands down that sculpted muscle of his shoulders, as you work the flat edge of your knuckles into him.
In response, he makes a soft, breezy sigh of relief. It's another noise that's foreign to you, that sounds almost… blissful. The room was already warm—you had to tick the heat up to make sure that it was nice and cozy—but now it feels like it's sweltering.
"You like the pressure?" you ask, trying to keep your voice light. But you're worried that it's pitched too high. He makes another groan of approval that goes straight to the junction of your legs, makes your mouth go dry.
"Yeah," He gloats, "'S perfect."
"Good," You say, and this time you think that you've perfected the tone to something that sounds normal—but you can't be certain. You're trying to remember how to will sensation back into the tips of your fingers as they glide down the sinew of his back, down the ridges of muscle and subtly-scarred skin. "You've got a lot of tension in your muscles."
"'Cause I'm so high-strung," He responds back sarcastically, "Cleanin' up everyone's messes."
"Hmm," You hum under your breath as you work your hands lower down his back, pirouetting the fan of your fingers down the incline, "Could've sworn it was the other way around."
"Yeah, you'd like that, wouldn't ya?" He asks crassly, but there's no real edge to it—he's wholly satisfied under the ministrations of your palms, actually leaninginto the touch. "They don't make jus' anyone a green lantern, do they?"
"Guess not," You say, "Or else I bet I would've got a ring."
He chuckles, and it's a boozy, relaxed noise without the presence of alcohol—you're making quick work of him. Something satisfied sings through the sour exertion of your back, to know that you're making the tautness stringing tight through his body soothe. All with the touch of your hands.
"You'd look nice in the GL fit," He asserts lazily, "Bet it'd emphasize all the right curves."
"Yeah?" You ask, because his voice is drifting somewhere on the edges of a doze, "Should've done the same for your costume."
"Oh?" He asks. You're so absorbed by the task of working the heel of your palm into a knot in his lower back, feeling the nuance of his muscle under your fingers—you don't pick up the layered note in his voice.
"Whatcha mean?"
"You got the turtleneck and the vest and everything," You respond easily, "No one would know all this was hiding under that."
"Yeah?" He asks, and it's as you finally push through the slope of muscle that you realize what you've said, something sinking low and mortifying in the pit of your stomach—he shifts, turning out of your grasp. You feel your mouth fall agape as you try to scramble for something to say but settle only on "well, ah, I—"
He's turned on one side, leaning on an elbow—you can see the toned, dense muscles of his stomach slick with oil dripping down the curve of his abs, the plane of his chest—something in you wants to lick it off.
But the voice of reason calls for you to look away from the towel that just barely clings to his hips, now that his posture has been disrupted, just hangs to cover the goods that you're oh-so-curious to see what lie underneath.
You tear your eyes away to look at his face, and he's smug—all teeth, his eyes wicked, his grin dangerous. You see a bead of sweat slide down his neck, down his collarbone, and something internal crumbles.
"You wanted to get a closer look at the goods, honey," He tells you with a sleek smile, "You coulda just asked—we didn't have to go through alla this."
He gestures to the room, with its perfumed atmosphere, itrs tropical temperature—and him, just barely covered for your convenience. But it seems like the towel that his hand is palming over is most inconvenient.
"Um—"—You begin, and he maintains that cocky look—he knows he's got you right where he wants you. Hell, right where you want you. "I—"
"So you gonna finish the job?" He asks, the final nail in the coffin. "Or we gonna stare at each other all day?"
You've got a favor to owe, after all. And you always pay your debts. You twist your hands together, interlacing the fingers that are still slick with the oil, deep in thought. It's a slow, elapsed moment before you look up to that expectant smirk.
"Only if I get to finish rubbing you down," You inform him. "I wouldn't want to leave you half-finished, after all."
His responding smile is all you need to know, that triumphant chuckle as he gets his way. And how you're going to give it to him.
"Baby," he says as you walk towards him, "I been waitin' to hear you say that for a while now."
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