#cowboy!leon

Oh lawd

He clicked his tongue and crossed his arms, the picture of earned arrogance. An image he had earned in his younger years; A time when his hair wasn’t flecked with locks of salt-and-pepper, and any sweeping motions were taken at a quicker pace. 

“I still got it, Sugar.” He attempts to mask his wounded pride with a sharp jut of his jaw and slow blink. Y/N just chuckled and patted his shoulder carefully. “Sure ya do…” She mused with a roll of her eyes. 

“Heatin’ pad ’s in the back office, on the first aid kit. Go get yerself started, I gotta clean up here, an’ I’ll be back to help in a sec.” Y/N ordered and patted him off. 

Now (mostly) recovered, Leon lazily strolls off behind the bartop and behind the wall separating the main floor from the office and storage space. Using a little silver key with a heart scratched in the bow of the key, he unlocks the office door that reads “Authorized Personnel Only” and shoves it open enough for his aching form to slink in, in order to lick his wounds in private. 

By the time the door opens again, Leon’s flannel is draped over the back of one of the two office chairs, his knuckles are wrapped and he’s sprawled out, thighs open wide. He sandwiches the heading pad between his tense body and the pleather of the chair–his chair. 

Leon opens one, weary blue eye. The light from the hallway makes it hard to adjust, but he knows who it is. With a crooked smirk, he pats his thigh. “C’mere, Sugar.” He croons, voice gravely and sweet. Y/N just stands with her arms crossed and her hip jutted out to the side. With a scoff, she shakes her head and meanders closer, kicking the door shut behind her.  “Y’smell like a bar mat.” The woman complains in a hushed tone. He just flashes her a smile that is pulled crooked on his lips. His teeth are straight as headstones and pure white. Mirth dances in his eyes as he tilts his head up to face her advancing figure. “I smell like fuckin’ victory.” He reaches out, placing his bandaged palms on her hips. Through the gause-dressed hands, through the denim of her jeans, Y/N can feel the heat of his hands-And fuck, if that doesn’t make her pulse spike… 

Y/N lets out a deep sigh, as if she’s disappointed, but Leon knows better–He knows his girl better. “You’re such a damn handful,” she mutters, eyes dragging slowly across the stretch of his thighs, the expanse of his abs, the sharp ‘v’ of his hips. “Startin’ fights you knowin’ it’ll end with you limpin’.”

Leon grins, tilting his head just enough to watch her pace closer. “Didn’t hear you complainin’ when I put that little shit on the floor.”

“You threw your back out again, Leon.”

“And yet—” he drags the word out low and slow, voice rough like sandpaper and honey, “—I still managed to win.” He pats his thigh again, more insistently. “Now, get over here. You said you were gonna help me.”

Y/N sighs and shakes her head, arms still crossed. “Said I would help. Not make it worse. I ain’t ridin’ you, cowboy.” She rebuffed. His lips draw into a pout, like that of a petulant child; But the expression doesn’t last long, shifting to something more shit-eating and pleased as she sinks to her knees between his thighs. Leon groans low in his throat, his hands gripping both sides of her jaw like he’s been aching for this all day—like the pain doesn’t matter anymore.

“Help me forget how fuckin’ old I feel,” he mutters into the air, his voice airy and pleading but still rough and worn. “Make me feel like I used to, Sugar. Please, I am beggin’ ya!” 

The clink of Leon’s belt unfastening echoes in the cramped office like a starting bell. He hisses through his teeth—not from pain this time, but anticipation—watching her every move like a man possessed. Y/N works efficiently, dragging the zipper down and pulling his work jeans to his knees with care. 

“Goddamn, darlin’…” he breathes, his drawl deeper now, sticky with want. Y/N smirks but doesn’t answer. Instead, she palms him through his briefs—testing, teasing. He twitches in her hand, hips bucking just a little, and his head drops back against the chair with a dull thud.

“Still cocky for a man who’s groanin’ like he’s pushin’ eighty,” she teases, voice low and warm. Leon chuckles breathlessly. 

“Ain’t the years, Sugar… It's the mileage.” She rolls her eyes at the remark, but her hands don’t stop. She’s quick to tug his underwear down just far enough to free his searing, leaky-with-precum, cock. He’s already half-hard, the rosy flush creeping up his shaft like its been waiting for her touch all night.

She leans in, lips brushing the swollen, red head of his cock. “You sure you don’t want the heatin’ pad instead?” Leon groans, low and pleading. “Christ, woman, if you don’t put that mouth on me, I will die right here in this goddamn chair.” “Well then,” she murmurs, tongue tracing along the underside of his cock, “guess I better do my civic duty.”

The first stroke of her tongue has him swearing like a sailor. One bandaged hand flies to the back of her head, the other gripping the arm of the chair like it’s all that’s tethering him to the earth. 

Y/N takes her time, slow and steady, dragging her mouth over him like she’s mapping out every ridge, every vein, every twitch he gives her. Leon’s hips flex involuntarily, a choked sound escaping his throat. “Fuck—Sugar…!”

She hums around him, sending vibrations up his spine. He’s panting now, his body taut with tension, hips lifting with every stroke of her mouth, his voice wrecked and desperate.

Breathy, wanton gasps and shuddering, broken cries leave his lips as he stares down at her with half lidded eyes–eyes that were once a beautiful cerulean, now black with lust-blown pupils. Leon sinks his teeth into his bottom lip and thrashes.

Leon lets out a shaky breath. “You’re killin’ me, darlin’. I’m a patient man, but…” “You ain’t been patient since you threw the first punch tonight,” Y/N shoots back with a smirk, but her voice has dropped, smoky and thick with arousal. Her hands curl around his thighs for leverage, thumbs stroking the creases where his hips meet muscle. “Now hush.”

He does.

She leans in, mouth soft and wet as she runs her tongue along the underside of him—slow, savoring the way his thighs tense under her hands, the way his breath stutters out like a prayer. He tastes like salt and skin and musk, the barest bite of whiskey still lingering in his pores.

His head falls back against the chair again, the tension in his back forgotten as every nerve in him centers on her mouth, her hands, her tongue. His hips roll with shallow need, and he mutters, “Goddamn, you’re good at that,” like it’s a confession.

“What, y’ain’t gonna last much longer?” She snickers and lets his heavy, engorged cock settle against her open lips as she drags her tongue up and down his shaft. He glances down at her, eyebrows pinched and pink lips parted. Y/N chuckles as he shakes his head wordlessly. With a renewed fervor, she closes her lips around his throbbing erection. Her cheeks hollow, tongue curls and caresses, and lips constrict as she bobs her head. 

It’s so much—too much, even; the wet heat of her lips, the glide of her tongue, the burn behind his eyes as his spine tries to curl up with the need to cum. Leon’s fists clench in her hair as he pants raggedly, words starting to slur and crumble while the world spins.

“Shit, Sugar, I’m not gonna—” He doesn’t get to finish. Y/N moans around him, and the vibration wrecks him. He cums with a strangled sound, hips jerking despite himself, thrusting the head of his cock down her throat. Her nose is crammed into his pelvis, unintentionally pushing her to inhale the scent of him; Salt, musk, whisky–and something ultimately Leon.

Y/N pulls off his softening cock and touches the pads of her fingertips to her lips as she swallows the remnants of his hot, sticky seed. A giggle leaves her when she’s determined it safe. “You’re not as good as you once were,” she teases, referencing the Toby Keith song playing through the walls of the bar, hall, and office. 

“But I’m as good once,” Leon pants, “as I ever was.” He closes his eyes and runs a trembling hand over her hair, posture boneless in the plush seat.

Outside, the bar’s quieter. The world shrinks down to the heat between them, the cozy atmosphere of the office, and the scent of sweat and leather and musk. “Told you I still got it, darlin’.” Y/N just hums noncommittally and settles against his chest, kissing his cheek and nuzzling her cheek against his collarbone.

After a few beats of silence, he opens one blue eye once more. As he does so, his cock kicks up. “... Sure y’won’t ride me?” He asks coyly. Y/N gives him a look of disbelief and barks out a laugh as she shakes her head. “Ya can’t be serious! Leon, you are not winnin’ that fight!”

“I won that fight out there!” The dirty blond protests.

“I know you did-”

“Then let me win this one too!”

Spring break aways was a bitch in Newt, Texas. A sweet little town surrounded by ranches and farms, segmented by too many dirt roads to count. … A sweet little town terrorized by college kids for a week plus–damn universities and their  ‘alternate schedules’. It was stuff like that, that caused the cocky, hormone laden little shits with a chip on their shoulder and something to prove to crawl out into the pubs, bars, and saloons that peppered the main street of Newt. One in particular is the Snakebite Saloon. It stands between the bookstore and the post office, across the street from the general store, is ran by Y/N L/N, and is where we find ourselves…

In the amber light of Snakebite, Y/N looks up with a half lidded, lips pursed, unamused gaze. Past the bar, to the right of the swinging wooden doors, a round, wooden table was knocked down, glass and booze littered the scuffed, stained oak as a group of 3 men clammored around, pulling each other around in a drunken brawl. 75% of the other patrons are ignoring the tussle while the other 25% are watching with wide eyes and an alcohol fueled haze in their expressions. A brunette in a red flannel, white tanktop and her hair in a pony tail lets out a cheer. “Kick his ass, Leon!!” She slurs before laying her head back down on the bar with a flurry of giggles leaving her lips. Y/N yanks the towel off her shoulder and gently smacks the drunken brunette. “Quit that, Claire. Don’t encourage him.” The bartender chides, but there’s no anger in her tone, only resignation. 

“Y’gonna let it go a bit longer or want me to step in?” Another brunette asks, leaning against the bar with her arms crossed. This one wears a blue tube top, her hair in a bob cut, and charcoal work jeans. Y/N shakes her head and lets out a sigh. “.... Nah, I got it.” She mutters and vaults the counter and strides to the edge of the ‘danger zone’, letting the fight play out for a beat longer. One of the university students have retreated while the polo of the other’s collar is in Leon’s fist–white knuckled and angry. The blond-brunet, older cowboy chambers his fist back. 

And he swings.

“This aint–!” 

“The city!” Another punch.

“You pull a knife out here–!” Blood coats his knuckles. “You better be ready to bleed, boy!”

Crack. 

The sound isn’t the younger man’s jaw, or another piece of the bar’s furniture, or even the billiard balls clacking together. No, it’s the sound of– 

“Shit! Fuckin’! Dammit!” Leon barks out and drops the kid onto the wood floor in favor of pressing a hand to his hips. He staggers back, away from the student, who is dragged, unceremoniously, from the fray by his accomplice. A string of southern twinged cusses fly from the older man’s lips.

Leon’s worn leather boots click as he stumbles to steady himself. The weathered blue jeans are stained and sticky with Jack Daniels-courtesy of his glass-and some cheap tequila-graciously poured by the younger men who initiated the faceoff. His blue, lined button up was torn open, revealing his heaving chest and the whisper of muscles that once permeated his sculpted body. His stetson has been lost somewhere in the scrap. He isn’t too worried about it. ‘Y/N’ll find it when she closes.’ He reasons. 

As he doubles over to soothe the sharp pain, a pair of hazelnut Ariat boots round the floor, stepping into his view. He doesn’t even need to look up or listen to know who it is. “Did’ya throw yer back out again? Or was it your hip this time?” Y/N’s voice breaks over the sound of the usual patrons movements to reset the placement of the bar they call home. Leon glances up with a narrowed icy eye and huffs. 

“Neither, actually. Thanks for steppin’ in.” He bites out sarcastically. A stifled groan left him as he forced himself to stand straight. 

He clicked his tongue and crossed his arms, the picture of earned arrogance. An image he had earned in his younger years; A time when his hair wasn’t flecked with locks of salt-and-pepper, and any sweeping motions were taken at a quicker pace. 

“I still got it, Sugar!” He attempts to mask his wounded pride with a sharp jut of his jaw and slow blink. Y/N just chuckled and shook her head as she patted his shoulder carefully. “Heatin’ pad ’s in the back office, on the first aid kit.”

~~~