SAVE A HORSE, RIDE A COWBOY
content: p in v, sub!reader, belt-humping, riding
The fluorescent buzz of the neon sign above the diner door always sounded like a low, vibrating sigh by two in the morning. It was the kind of heavy, isolated stillness that made you feel like you were the only person left in the county, tucked away in a small bubble of warm light and the smell of stale coffee filters. For the past six months, that stillness had a fixed focal point: the corner stool at the very end of the laminated counter, right next to the faded pie case.
That stool belonged to Michael.
He never arrived before midnight, usually slipping through the door just as the dinner rush grease was being scrubbed from the flat top. He didn't drive a beat-up pickup truck like the other ranch hands in the valley; he rode into the gravel lot on a massive, midnight-black stallion named Midnight.
You made a habit of sneaking out the back door during his first ten minutes at the counter, slipping into the cool night air with a crisp Granny Smith apple stolen from the kitchen walk-in. Midnight knew your step by now.
"Hey, handsome," you cooed, your voice a soft, singing whisper as you approached the hitching post. The stallion huffed loudly, steam rolling off his dark coat, his large ears twitching forward. "Did you miss me? Or do you just miss the snacks?" You held out your palm, the horse gently taking the apple, crunching down happily. You stroked the coarse hair of his muzzle, leaning your forehead against his jaw. "You're much better company than your owner, you know that? He barely speaks. You at least say thank you."
Midnight let out a low huff, nudging your shoulder, making you laugh as you gave him a final pat. "Yeah, I know. Don't tell him I said that."
When you went back inside, the real work began. Because the diner was totally empty during those dead hours, Michael became your captive audience. You absolutely talked his ear off, jumping from random gossip to whatever random thought crossed your mind.
"And then Mrs. Gabe tried to send her soup back because she said it was 'too wet.' Can you believe that? Too wet. It's broth, Michael!" You slammed a fresh mug of black coffee onto the counter, leaning your elbows on the laminate right across from him. "Your turn. Tell me a story. Give me a sentence. Give me a syllable."
Michael sat with his hat pulled low, shadowing a pair of dark, incredibly sharp eyes. He took a slow sip of his coffee, a faint, mocking smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "You ever stop to breathe?" he murmured, his slow, yet soft drawl cutting through your energy. "Or do you just absorb oxygen through your skin?"
"I'm giving this place atmosphere, Michael," you replied, sliding a fresh slice of cherry pie toward his plate. "Since you won't give me anything. Come on. Tell me something about yourself. Where'd you learn to ride like that? Where were you before you bought the ridge property?"
"Before the ridge?" He picked up his fork, giving you a dry, wicked look. "I lived in a place where people minded their own business. It was beautiful, You'd hate it."
"Ha, ha," you rolled your eyes. "You're a vault. A stubborn, sarcastic vault. One of these days, I'm gonna break in."
"Good luck, darlin'," he chuckled softly, his voice low and rich. "I change the combination every night."
The shift in your dynamic came to a head on a sweltering Tuesday night. The air was thick and heavy. Michael had been unusually quiet, his fingers tracing the rim of his mug while you stood across from him. You had been gently pushing him for twenty minutes about an old, faded scar running along the back of his knuckles, your tone soft, genuinely curious.
"Please?" you murmured, reaching across the counter to lightly touch the skin next to the mark. "Just tell me where you got it. I promise I'll stop prying for the rest of the week."
For a second, it felt like you were finally going to break through the wall. He looked up, his dark eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that made your breath catch. The teasing, sarcastic smirk was entirely gone. His throat bobbed as he opened his mouth, his voice dropping into a low, gravelly whisper. "I got that scar when I wasâ"
He stopped. The words died in his throat. A sudden look of guarded panic flashed across his features, the shutters slamming back down over his eyes so fast it left you dizzy.
Before you could say a word to comfort him, Michael stood up abruptly, his boots barking loudly against the linoleum. He tossed a twenty-dollar bill onto the counter. "I gotta get," he muttered shortly, refusing to look at you. "Goodnight."
"Michael, waitâ" you called out, but the bell above the door chimed sharply, and he was gone. Through the window, you watched him mount Midnight in one fluid, aggressive motion, disappearing into the dark woods. You stood there for a long time, a cold knot of sadness twisting in your stomach. You had pushed too hard.
The next few night were worse.
One o'clock passed. Then one-thirty. By two in the morning, the corner stool remained completely empty. It was the first time in months he hadn't showed up for awhile. You hurt his feelings. You ruined the one good thing about these late shifts.
When closing time arrived, you felt miserable. You turned off the neon sign, locked the heavy glass door, and stepped out into the night. You didn't have a car, or a horse, usually relying on the short, fifteen minute walk down the unlit gravel road to your small apartment. Tonight, your bag felt heavier, your thoughts darker.
You were barely five minutes down the road when the sky split open.
It was a violent, blinding sheet of freezing water that drenched you to the bone within three seconds. The wind whipped your hair across your face, the heavy drops stinging your skin as the gravel beneath your sneakers turned into slick, treacherous mud. You shivered violently, hugging your arms across your chest, tears of frustration mixing with the rain on your cheeks.
Through the deafening roar of the storm, a sudden, heavy rhythm emergedâthe frantic, thudding beat of hooves splashing hard through the muck.
You whirled around, shielding your eyes. Out of the darkness, Michael materialized on Midnight, cutting through the grey curtain of the storm like a ghost. He reigned the stallion in right beside you, the horse huffing loudly. Michael looked down at you from the saddle, his hat dripping water, his dark eyes wide with an immediate, fierce intensity.
"Get up here," he called out, his voice a low, gravelly rasp that barely carried over the thunder, the words conjoining in that thick, slow drawl of his. "Come on, take my hand. Ain't no way you walkin' in this."
Before you could even process the shock, you reached up. His large, calloused hand clamped around yours with an iron grip, his muscles bunching beneath his wet chambray shirt as he effortlessly hoisted you up in front of him. You landed hard against his chest, your back pressed into his solid frame. He wrapped one massive arm securely around your waist, pulling you flush against his heat, while his other hand took the reins. With a sharp click of his tongue, the horse bolted forward, cutting through the dark towards the ridge.
The ride was a blur of freezing rain and intoxicating, overwhelming warmth. Michaelâs chest was a solid wall behind you, his breath hot against the shell of your wet ear. You buried yourself into the crook of his neck, breathing in the scent of rain, horsehair, and the deep, comforting musk of his skin.
When the horse finally slowed, Michael eased the stallion into a wide, dimly lit barn. He slid off the horse first, his boots hitting the dirt floor with a heavy thud, before reaching up to catch you. His hands gripped your waist, lifting you down as if you weighed nothing, holding you steady for a lingering second when your wet shoes slid slightly on the packed earth.
"My place is just up the path," he murmured, his thumb brushing against the damp fabric of your waist before he reluctantly dropped his hands. "Letâs get you inside 'fore you catch death."
He led you through a side door of the barn and up a short, covered walkway into a small, rustic cabin. The moment the heavy oak door clicked shut behind you, the chill of the storm was replaced by the deep, enveloping warmth of a wood stove.
"Stay right here," Michael instructed quietly. He disappeared down a short hallway, returning a moment later with a stack of thick, fluffy grey towels. He stepped close, wrapping one around your shoulders and using another to gently, carefully begin rubbing the moisture from your hair. His touch was incredibly reverent. "You're freezing," he muttered, his eyes dropping to your chattering teeth. "Bathroom's right through there. Showerâs hot. Go on and wash up, wash the mud off. I'll leave some dry clothes by the door for ya."
You nodded, offering him a small, grateful smile. Inside the small bathroom, you stripped out of your soaked, clinging clothes, stepping into the steaming spray of the shower.
When you stepped out, drying yourself off, you found a neat pile of clothes sitting on the wicker basket outside the door, just as he promised. It was a massive, faded grey cotton t-shirt that smelled heavily of his cedarwood cologne, along with a pair of old, faded plaid boxers. You slid them on; the shirt hung past your thighs, the sleeves falling over your elbows, and the boxers rode low on your hips, the waistband loose but staying up just enough.
You padded back out into the main room on bare feet. Michael had already changed into a dry pair of dark jeans and a soft, henley shirt. He was standing by the stove, pouring hot water into two ceramic mugs. When he heard your footsteps, he turned, and his breath visibly hitched in his throat. His eyes darkened, tracing the way his massive shirt draped over your frame, exposing the long line of your legs.
"They're a little big," you murmured softly, pulling at the hem of the shirt, your cheeks flushing a delicate pink.
"Comfiest clothes I could find. Looks perfect on ya," he replied, his voice dropping an octave, thick and heavy. He walked over, handing you a mug. "Chamomile. Figure itâd help settle the nerves."
You took it, the warmth of the ceramic seeping into your palms. "Thank you, Michael. For... everything. You really saved me out there. Especially after... after how I pushed you the other night. I honestly thought you hated me."
Michael stopped, setting his own mug down with a soft click. He looked at you, the snark and sarcasm completely drained from his expression, leaving only a profound, heavy sincerity. "Hate you? Baby, I could never hate you. I didn't come cause I was mad at myself. I got scared. I ain't used to anyone carin' enough to look at my scars, let alone someone as sweet as you. I spent the whole night wishin' I hadn't run out on ya. When the storm started, all I could think about was you walkin' down that dark road alone. I couldn't let you stay out there."
"Michael..." you said softly, setting your mug down on the table and turning fully toward him. You reached out, your smaller, soft hand covering his large, calloused knuckles. "I don't want to force you to tell me anything. I just... I like you. A lot. Even if you are a grumpy vault."
A genuine, beautiful smile broke across his face, melting the last of his reservations. "Yeah?" he whispered, his thumb starting a slow, agonizingly sweet circle over the back of your hand.
The distance that had kept you apart for months vanished in an instant. Michael shifted, his large arms reaching out to wrap around your waist, pulling you effortlessly onto his lap as he sat back on the edge of the sofa. You straddled his thighs, the thin fabric of his old boxers providing barely any barrier against his heat. Your hands flew to his chest, fingers anchoring into the soft cotton of his henley as he leaned in, his gaze dropping to your lips. "Can I?" he murmured, his breath hot against your skin.
You didn't answer with words; instead, you leaned forward, closing the small gap between you.
When his lips met yours, it was a deep, consuming pressure, his mouth soft but possessive as he drank you in. You let out a soft, shuddering sigh into the kiss, your heart hammering wildly against his chest. Lost in the heat of his mouth, you began to move, subtly and experimentally shifting your hips, grinding down against his heavy leather belt. It was a tiny, tentative movementâso subtle that Michael almost missed it.
But then, the cold, hard metal of his thick belt buckle pressed right through the thin plaid cotton, hitting your sensitive clit perfectly.
A sharp, breathy pant caught in your throat, slipping out against his lips. Your hips twitched involuntarily at the friction.
Michael froze for a fraction of a second, his dark eyes snapping open mid-kiss. A low, territorial growl rumbled deep in his chest as he realized what you were doing. His hands immediately flew down to your hips, his large, calloused palms wrapping firmly around the meat of your butt.
"You like that, baby?" he rasped against your mouth, his voice dripping with sudden, heavy dominance.
Before you could even gasp, his grip tightened into an iron hold, and he dragged you back and forth across his lap. He didn't let you do it subtly anymore; he controlled the movement entirely, pulling your pelvis hard against his heavy denim and the ridge of his belt buckle with a rough, unyielding force. The intense friction against your center sent an absolute shockwave of pleasure straight to your cunt.
You became a moaning mess instantly, your head rolling back as loud, helpless whimpers broke from your lips. The cold metal hit your clit with every heavy drag of his hands, making your muscles clench up out of pure desperation. You gripped his shoulders for dear life, your body turning completely pliable under his touch.
"Look at ya," Michael murmured, his slow drawl thick with dark satisfaction as he kept dragging your hips in that heavy, punishing rhythm. "Talked my ear off for months, and now you can barely catch your breath. Move those sweet little hips for me. Feel how hard I am under ya."
"Michaelâah! Please," you sobbed out, your face burying into his neck as he gave one more firm, heavy slide that had you throwing your hips against him instinctively.
He pulled back just an inch, his dark eyes burning with an unmistakable, quiet authority. The gentle regular from the diner was gone, replaced by a man who knew exactly how to command a room.
"You're so sweet, darlin', but you talk so much," he murmured, his breath ragged. "Let's see how well you listen."
His hands slid up from your ass to your waist, his fingers digging in gently but firmly as he guided you down off his lap, pressing on your shoulders until your knees met the soft rug at his feet.
You looked up at him from the floor, your breath catching, a wave of submissive heat pooling deep in your stomach. He sat on the edge of the sofa, his long legs spread wide, looking down at you like a king on a throne.
"Right there," he commanded softly, his voice thick with that slow drawl. "Look at me."
You tilted your head up, your eyes wide and locked onto his.
"Unbuckle my belt," he murmured, his hands resting heavily on his own knees. "Nice n' slow, Mama. Let's see those hands work for me."
Your fingers trembled as you reached out, grasping the heavy, worn leather of his belt. The metallic clink of the buckle felt incredibly loud in the quiet cabin. You pulled the leather strap through, your knuckles brushing against the hard denim of his jeans, making him let out a low, ragged breath.
"Good girl," he praised, the dark approval in his voice making a shiver run down your spine. "Now the button. Open 'em up for me."
You worked through the heavy metal buttons of his fly one by one, your heart hammering against your ribs. With every button you undone, his breath grew heavier, until the denim parted, revealing the thick cock, already stretching and dampening his dark cotton briefs to the limit.
Michael reached down, his large hand cupping the back of your head, his long fingers tangling into your hair. He didn't pull hard, but the pressure was firm, grounding you right where he wanted you. "Pull 'em down," he whispered, his thumb brushing the edge of your jaw.
You hooked your fingers into the waistband of his jeans and briefs, tugging them down past his muscular thighs. He freed himself, his cock springing loose, thick, heavy, and fully aroused, beads of moisture glistening at the tip in the dim light. The sheer size of him made you swallow hard, your lips parting in awe.
"Beautiful, ain't it?" Michael murmured, a hint of his old snark returning to his voice, though it was heavy with desire. "Taste me."
He guided your head forward with a gentle, firm pressure of his hand. You leaned in, tilting your head, and let your tongue lick slowly from the base of his thick shaft all the way to the tip. Michael gasped, his hips giving a sudden, involuntary twitch, his fingers tightening in your hair.
"God... yeah, just like that," he rasped, guiding you to take him into your mouth. You slid your lips over the wet head of him, sucking softly, the heat of your mouth enveloping him. Michael groaned loudly, his eyes closed tightly as he began to slowly, rhythmically guide your head back and forth, teaching you exactly how deep he wanted you to take him. He didn't force you, his movements careful but completely dominant, ensuring every slide of his length against your tongue was perfect.
After a few excruciatingly sweet minutes of your mouth working on him, Michael let out a ragged hiss, his hands gripping your underarms and lifting you straight up off your knees.
"That's enough," he muttered, his voice entirely gravel. "You're drivin' me crazy."
He laid back against the sofa cushions, his long frame immediately pulling you on top. He reached up, his hands bunching the fabric of the loose plaid boxers, pushing them to the side, too lazy to go completely bare in the warm light. He paused, his eyes sweeping over your body with an expression that felt almost religious.
He hovered you over his lap, your knees resting on either side of his hips. You looked down into his dark eyes, finding nothing but absolute devotion and a raging fire.
"Take it, darlin'," he murmured, his hands gripping your waist to steady you. "Nice n' slow. Tell me if it's too much."
You lowered yourself down slowly, your eyes fluttering shut as the thick head of him stretched you open. You let out a long, trembling cry as he lifted his hip just a bit, sliding deeper into your tight, slick heat, filling you completely until your pelvis clicked against his. The sheer fullness of him was overwhelming, a beautiful, stretching ache that made your head roll back. Michael let out a ragged hiss, his fingers digging into your hips as he held himself perfectly still, letting you adjust to his size.
"You feel so good... so tight," he groaned, his hips giving a tentative, upward twitch that buried him impossibly deeper inside you.
You opened your eyes, looking down at him, and began to move. You lifted your hips and sank back down, establishing a slow, rolling rhythm. The friction was unbearable, the wet, sliding sounds of your bodies meeting filling the quiet room, competing with the steady roar of the rain outside. Michaelâs hands moved from your hips to your waist, helping you guide the pace, his thumbs stroking your lower abdomen as you rode him.
"Ah, Michael... right there," you cried out, your pace quickening as the coil of pleasure in your belly began to tighten rapidly.
"Yeah? You like that?" he rasped, his eyes locked onto yours. He shifted his grip, lifting you slightly so he could alter the angle, his thrusts becoming harder, deeper, meeting your downward movements with an unyielding, powerful force. Every time he drove up into you, his cock hit your sweet spot, sending waves of electrical heat straight to your curling toes.
You threw your head back, your hands gripping his forearms for balance as your chest heaved. The oversized grey shirt rolled up over your ribs, exposing your bouncing breasts to his hungry gaze. Michael reached up, his large hands capturing your soft flesh, squeezing and kneading them, his thumbs flicking over your pebbled nipples until you were sobbing his name.
"Michael, please, I'm gonnaâ"
"Go on, mama. Cum for me," he encouraged, his voice dropping into a dirty, commanding growl as his thrusts became frantic and heavy. He was panting, sweat glistening on his forehead, his jaw clenched tightly as he drove himself into you with a desperate, wild rhythm. "Let me feel it. Give it all to me."
The tension broke. Your cunt clamped down around his thick cock in a violent, pulsating spasm as your orgasm crashed over you. You cried out his name, your body trembling violently as you collapsed against his chest, your face burying into his neck.
Hearing your cries and feeling the tight, rhythmic squeezing of your walls pushed Michael completely over the edge. He let out a loud, guttural roar, his hands locking your hips down flush against his pelvis as he gave three final, incredibly deep thrusts. He shook beneath you, his body stiffening as he pumped his thick, hot seed deep inside your womb, filling you to the brim with his warmth.
The silence that followed was filled only with the sound of your mingled, ragged breathing and the steady, comforting patter of the storm on the roof.
Michael didn't move for a long time, keeping you securely pinned against his chest, his large arms wrapped around your waist as if he were terrified you would disappear if he let go. His heart was hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs. Gently, he began to rub soothing circles into your lower back, his lips pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your damp temple.
"I think," you whispered breathlessly, your voice muffled against his shoulder, "you better start talking to me at the diner now."
Michael let out a low, deeply content rumble of a laugh, his arms tightening around you just a little bit more. "Baby, from now on, I ain't ever gonna shut up."
thank you guys for 400 followers <3 to celebrate, I was thinking of doing another event, asking you guys for more requests, or even doing more for other stories Iâve written. Itâs all up to you guys so please lmk what youâd like! ^_^
