kyle garrick x country!reader
tw: fluff that developed into brief smut. idk how that happened tbh. don’t look at me.
Kyle Garrick was many things, but picky was not one of them.
With food? Maybe a bit, but with women? He’d be absolutely mad to stick to a specific type of woman.
He’d been with them all — thin, chubby, short, tall, pale, tanned. Some were flings, some were girlfriends, and some were just mindless flirtations on drunken nights when he’d seek refuge in a shitty bar after months of grueling missions.
Kyle couldn’t exactly say he’d been with a southern girl, though. Not until you.
All wit and charm, pearly smiles and the cutest accent that made his sound like choked gurgles.
He didn’t know how he landed you. He must’ve done a hell of a lot in his past life to even gain the pleasure of calling you his, because the way you looked at him with that sparkle in your eye made him appear like he was God himself gazing down at you from the clouds.
Kyle knew close to nothing about the south. Fuck, he was british, could you blame him? How did a bloke like him end up with a southern belle like you?
Sure, Kyle had worked for the CIA before turning to John Price and vowing his loyalty to him. Even so, it seemed improbable of him to fall for a woman that accentuated her words with a lick of country charm, who wore sturdy boots on her feet that thumped along the pavement every time you walked beside him, hand in hand.
Despite it being near sinful for you two to pair together, it worked to perfection.
You taught him everything there was to know about your side of the road. He didn’t realize there was so much that went into being a pretty, little bird, but he was fully willing to learn so he could take mental notes of every piece of information that made you, you.
On late night drives when the two of you wanted to clear your headspace while also remaining in each other’s presence, you’d show him your collection of songs. He didn’t know any of them, nor had he taken the chance to listen to the arrangements of fiddles and guitars that poured through the speakers.
Somebody named Chris Stapleton was a repetitive appearance, and he didn’t have a clue who that was.
But the smile on your face as you sang along to the lyrics with your eyes on him while his remained on the road was enough to have him bob his head along and mirror your smile, giving your hand an affectionate squeeze from where he held it on the center console.
Bars were certainly different, too. They were more rundown and rugged than the ones he was used to, and it wasn’t a crowd of young people who were there to fuck and party.
No, it was a mixed crowd of all kinds of beings, sharing laughter with friends and enjoying shots of whiskey and a concerning amount of piss beer.
The music wasn’t upbeat and erratic and instead, filled the bar with a lovely atmosphere that made you want to saddle up with your lady and enjoy the blessing of her existence rather than fuel a desire to grind against one another.
The change of pace was something he hadn’t realized he needed. It was comforting, even more so with you under his arm, talking wildly about past experiences at that specific bar with old high school friends.
He thought you were beautiful like this, your words slurring together in your own form of accented youth, specific words slipping off your tongue in a way that gave him the subtle reminder of your roots.
Kyle had yet to know about customs, and when you pulled the cowboy hat you had graciously gifted him (he personally didn’t think it suited him, but he’d never shy away from your presents) and planted it on your head, he gave you a curious raise of his eyebrow.
“Save a horse, ride a cowboy,” you teased, and when his mouth gaped open in confusion, your sweet laughter filtered through his ears. “You’re the cowboy, Kyle.”
It took him an embarrassingly long five seconds before realization dawned on him. You giggled some more, eyes crinkled into dusty, starlit crescents, and he had to swallow down the rest of his drink to hide his lingering sheepishness.
And when he took you back to his your place, seeing as you practically moved in by now, he didn’t hesitate to ravish you in ways that had that southern drawl drip off your tongue like honeyed nectar he couldn’t get enough of.
Even as you clambered on top of him after he’d spent the last twenty minutes tugging pretty, little moans from your soft lips with his tongue between your thighs, where he’d worshiped you like the sky goddess you were, you made sure to keep the gifted cowboy hat perched on your head.
The hat wiggled with instability on every bounce of your hips, threatening to fall off with every thrust Kyle uprooted to meet yours.
Your baby hairs slicked with sweat against your forehead, right where the brim of the hat met, and by god, Kyle thought he was looking at the loveliest bird he’d ever seen.
“My pretty dove,” Kyle cooed breathlessly, fingers dipping into the fat of your hips as he guided every motion back up, then down, until you were slammed against the plains of his pelvis with every push and pull. “Look so beautiful wearin’ my hat, don’t you?”
You moaned his name with broken fervor, and the sound of it sent shivers down his spine.
“Keep talkin’, birdie. Y’know I love your voice, sounds so pretty like that.”
His words opened the floodgates for your mindless babbling, accent heavier than ever as it laced over with need and desperation.
Kyle was in pure heaven when each and every accented word fell from those pretty lips. They pricked his skin with want, fueling the warmth building in the pits of his abdomen.
Your body glistened with a gorgeous sheen as it continued to bounce and wiggle on top of him, chest rising and falling in erratic attempts to gather air as each thrust knocked it out of you.
The hat laid a bit crooked, but stayed true to its temporary owner, branding you as his from where it loyally stayed atop your head.
When you finally gave in to the tight coil in your core and exploded into a mess of warm, fuzzy pleasure, Kyle took in the sight and engraved it under his eyelids as he couldn’t hold back from finishing inside you.
After Kyle had you successfully spent, body floating on a soft cloud of his blankets and pillows, his hat halfway off your head from where your face pressed into the mattress and sleepy snores left your lips, he basked in the sight of you.
Kyle didn’t have a type before. He’d gone through nearly every course of women before you came along, but now, as he brushed away the stray hairs from the softness of your face, he thought maybe he had a thing for country girls.
Only if they were you, though.
i’m a y’allternative girl from the south who lives in fields of cows so the fact i haven’t written this sooner is surprising but lord have mercy, i’m happy i did because kyle is so 🤌🏻 this was meant to be sweet and fluffy but i got ahead of myself and ending up making us fuck him instead but hey who’s complaining? not me
