#twisters reader insert

***

You hate bars. Always have. They’re too loud and too crowded. Everyone is either unbearably blissed out or drunken themselves into a fury. If they’re not looking to fuck, they’re looking to fight. 

And you?

Well, you’re looking to feel something other than the crushing weight of loneliness on Valentine’s Day. Which—thinking about it now—maybe coming to a dive bar where you’re not actually going to talk to anybody but the bartender isn’t the best cure for loneliness. It’s no better than trying to cover a gaping wound with a Hello Kitty bandaid.

At least the cocktails taste good.

And the bartender’s hot. Straight, no doubt, but easy on the eyes in a way that makes him dangerously good at earning tips. And tip him well you shall because that man is heavy handed with his mixers. You’re only two drinks down and you are feeling it.

“Hey there.”

A man in a maroon, denim button-up slides onto the barstool next to you. With sleeves rolled up to his elbows, worn-out jeans clinging snugly to his thighs, and a white cowboy hat nestled atop his brunet hair, he looks exactly like the kind of guy you’d find nursing a Budweiser at your local rodeo. The longhorn belt buckle at his waist does nothing but solidify that stereotype.

You give the man a small grin. “Hey.”

“Hope you don’t mind me comin’ over. My buddies tapped out early tonight.” He gestures to the doorway as if you can somehow picture these unknown companions departing. “And listen, I’m normally a beer guy but, uh, whatever it is you’re drinking looks mighty good.”

“It’s just a Long Island iced tea,” you explain to the newcomer. “At least, that’s what I ordered. But, I’ll be honest, the bartender might’ve taken some artistic liberties ‘cause there’s definitely an extra kick to this thing.”

He smiles. And, oh God, is it a beautiful smile. It’s the kind of pearly white grin that dentists dream of maintaining in all their patients. Combine the sheer perfection of his actual teeth with that confident gleam in his green eyes and you’ve got yourself a charming prince straight out of every child’s favorite fairytale.

“You may have just sold me on the idea even more. I’m Tyler, by the way,” he says with an outstretched hand.

You introduce yourself, making sure to grip his hand firmly as you shake it. He’s undoubtedly the kind of guy who grew up in the part of America where a weak handshake is a sign of frail masculinity. Last thing you want is to have him see you as a sheep in wolf’s clothing.

“So, what’s your story then?” He asks while he waits for the bartender to make him a drink of his own. “Drinking to forget or drinking to find something new?”

You shrug. “Little bit of both maybe? I don’t know. I’m not really into all the Valentine’s Day bullshit. Maybe it’s just ‘cause I’m one of those jaded guys who’s never actually had a valentine.”

“Nothing wrong with that. Though, I gotta admit, I find it hard to believe a guy like you has never had a valentine.”

You scoff. “Why do you say that?”

“Handsome fellas like you don’t stay single for very long.”

Maybe it’s the alcohol seeping into your system, but time seems to slow in that moment. And thank God it does because you need more than a singular breath to process that statement.

Is he…flirting with you?

No. That can’t be right. A cowboy casanova with a picture-perfect smile doesn’t just plop down at a bar and flirt with another man. At least not when that man is you.

“Bold words coming from you,” you clap back without first considering your words. “You look like you walked off the cover of Southern Living! There’s no way you’re in here ordering a cocktail because you couldn’t score a girlfriend.”

Thankfully, he isn’t offended by your rebuttal. In fact, he laughs as he stirs the drink that’s just been placed in front of him with the straw.

“Well, I’ll tell you what: you’re right about that. But unfortunately for the lovely ladies that have made passes at me recently, I’m not in the market for a girlfriend right now.”

Now, even when you’re completely sober, you are often clueless when it comes to subtext and subtleties. There’s a certain skillset required to pick up on these micro interactions and—unfortunately for you—you were thrown into this world with a partially empty toolbox. Add alcohol to the mix and the few tools that were gifted to you become as useless as a butter knife on a T-bone steak.

“Oh, I see,” you reply naively, “You’re in your happily single era. Congrats. Enjoy it while it lasts.”

He cocks his brow. “I’ll be honest, I’m having a hard time figuring out whether you’re tryna to tell me you don’t play for my team or if you genuinely don’t know which team I’m playing for.”

Your cheeks immediately flush a deep shade of red as the puzzle pieces click into place. Better late than never.

“Oh. Fuck. I’m sorry,” you apologize. “I didn’t think—I mean, no offense, you’re not exactly the kind of guy I’d expect to be…Y’know.”

“Queer?”

“Well, yeah. But that’s on me for basically stereotyping you! Which is awful, by the way, and I’m very sorry for doing so.”

He shrugs it off. “I get it. Nothing about this get up really gives the impression that I’m looking to get down with other guys.“ 

He takes a long chug of his drink before continuing, “Not to put you on the spot or anything, but are you into men at all? ‘Cause if not, I’ll get out of your hair right now.”

“No!” You exclaim far too quickly. 

He blinks back his surprise.

The embarrassment that you feel in that moment is devastating. Even with the soothing song of alcohol playing in your head to ease your anxieties, you know that you’re not handling this anywhere near as smoothly as you would’ve liked.

You sigh, “Sorry that was much louder than I thought…I’m not saying no to your question. I meant it in the sense of ‘no, please don’t get out of my hair.’ I am definitely into men. Actually, I am very into men.”

Especially men like you, a voice in your head murmurs.

Tyler flashes a crooked smirk. “Good. Let me buy you another drink and we’ll see where wind takes us, shall we?”

***

You spend the next hour or so getting to know one another. The picture you had in your head of him chugging beers at a rodeo wasn’t too far off; as it turns out he actually was a rodeo boy a couple years back. One too many kicks in the head had forced him out of the game and refocused him on his passion for storm chasing. From one rodeo to another, really.

It becomes very clear, very quickly that Tyler is an adrenaline junkie who lives for the thrill. If there’s no risk, how can there be a reward? And while plenty of people would find that kind of lifestyle dangerous, you find it extremely attractive.

“Man, I wish I could’ve seen you ride,” you admit. “Were you good?”

“Decent enough. I wasn’t setting any records but I pulled my weight at shows.”

You look down at his thighs. The way they’re stretching the denim of his jeans as if trying to break free is evidence that he’s got the muscles of a rider.

“And it kept you in shape, that’s for sure,” you muse.

He chuckles. “Sure did. It takes a lot of muscle to avoid being thrown skyward by a thousand pound animal. I was never really a gym rat in college so I didn’t exactly set out to get a six pack but the broncos didn’t give me much of a choice.”

There’s a new picture in your head now: shirtless, tanned Tyler Owens expertly clinging to the back of a bucking horse. The curve of his chiseled arms grows more pronounced with each wild movement of the stubborn animal. His firm pecs flex along with his core muscles as he fights to keep himself glued to the saddle. He’s sweaty and focused and unbearably sexy.

Your tongue darts out to wet your suddenly dry lips. You can tell by the way his eyes dip down to your mouth that he’s seen it too but he opts out of commenting on it.

“You ever go to the rodeo?” He asks.

“Once or twice. I don’t know, it was never really my thing.”

“Well, maybe you should try it again. I’d love to take you,” he says suggestively.

You raise your brow, unable to keep yourself from perking up at the implication. “You asking me out, cowboy?”

“I suppose I am.”

“Then I suppose I’m saying yes.”

The corner of his mouth curves upward into a lopsided smile. Every time he looks at you like that, a lump forms in your throat. It should be illegal, that smile of his. It’s a weapon, a form of well-placed propaganda that can make you believe anything and everything he says. If he tells you to run away with him while he’s got that smirk on his face, you will.

Some little voice inside of you says that it hopes he does.

***

That night, you leave the bar with his number and the promise that he’ll take you to the rodeo that’s coming to town the following weekend. According to him, it’ll be a big event with some of the best bull and bronco riders in the state. 

Over the next several days, the two of you consistently exchange messages. You learn more about one another: where you grew up, your favorite restaurants, your relationships with family and friends. 

There is also, of course, loads of flirting going on in between the cordial information exchange. One morning, you send him pictures of the formal suit and tie that you’ve donned for the work meeting that afternoon. He responds with a tasteful shot of him wiping his face with the bottom of his shirt just so you can have a peek at his bare torso.

Yup, he’s just as ripped as you thought he’d be.

You: Put those away, you slut!  Tyler: That’s nothing. I’d send you a dick pic right now, if you wanted. Tyler: Probably not a good way to start the work day though.

Your heart skips a beat at the suggestion. Jesus Christ. You’ve had the feeling that he isn’t the kind of guy to shy away from showing you his junk, but having him actually drop the suggestion doesn’t take away from the surprise of knowing he wants to show you.

And boy, do you want to see it.

You: How about when I get home tonight? Tyler: Sure thing, handsome. You: Promise? Tyler: Promise ;)

The entire meeting—and the rest of the time spent working in the office—all you can think about is how badly you want to go home. Normally, you’re a top-tier employee who wants nothing more than to excel at your job. Cranking out e-mails, answering calls, and reorganizing files is hardly a complicated list of things to do on a day such as this. But, as it turns out, having the prospect of seeing Tyler Owens’s dick when you clock out is enough to turn you into a jaded man going through the motions.

As soon as you get back to your apartment, you kick off your shoes, undo your tie and plop down on the couch to text him. Never in your life have you been so excited to actually receive a dick pic.

You: Finally home. Offer still on the table? Tyler: For you, anytime.

The picture is delivered almost immediately. The second it loads, your mouth drops. 

He’s huge. Despite not even being hard in the photo, the cock hanging out from his unbuttoned jeans looks thick and heavy in his hand. And yes, it’s uncut. The little bit of tip sticking out from the foreskin is deliciously pink.

You want to suck on it so badly.

You: Holy fuck! Tyler: Like what you see, big boy? You: God yeah… My mouth is practically watering. You: I can’t wait to see you this weekend. Tyler: Agreed. I’ve been thinking about you so much, it ticks me off. Tyler: I should’ve kissed you before we left. You: You can kiss me as much as you want when we meet up. You: And maybe we can do a little more than kiss… Tyler: Don’t tempt me with a good time.

***

It comes as no surprise to either of you on Saturday that your interest in actually watching the rodeo events pales in comparison to your desire to get your hands on one another. You’re thankful he’s brought you, of course, and you do your best to enjoy the entertainment in front of you while you can. But, as your watching man after man get tossed around like a packaged salad, all you can think about is the fact that such wild riding has given the man beside you the finest body you’ve ever been sent nudes of.

“Your hand’s wandering a little high there, champ,” Tyler says in the middle of another bucking bronco round.

You pry your eyes from the arena ahead and look down to see your hand has mindlessly strayed from his knee up to his inner thigh. It’s not north enough to brush his crotch—thank god—but it’s definitely tiptoeing along “inappropriate public behavior” territory.

You laugh nervously. “Sorry.”

You start to slide your hand away, but he guides it right back to where it had been resting. There’s a cocky grin on his face as he does so.

“No, no, I ain’t tellin’ you to move it.” He leans in to murmur, “I just want you to be mindful ‘cause I’m starting to get a little excited thinking about that hand wrapped around my dick.”

It’s impossible to keep the color from rushing to your cheeks. The image of your fingers curled around his thick, uncut cock sends sparks southbound in your own body. And the sound of his voice whispering things like that… Yeah, you want him to run his mouth more.

“Well, maybe we should run to the bathroom so you can relieve yourself,” you suggest with a raised brow.

The crowd suddenly erupts into a chorus of cheers that you assume is in response to a rider hitting their record. But rather than look back at the arena, you take advantage of the distraction and press your palm to Tyler’s crotch. A little squeeze gets him to bite his lip.

***

The two of you end up crammed in a stall in the bathroom farthest away from all the action. It’s not very clean, of course, but it doesn’t smell completely like shit and there’s country music blasting in from the entry door to stifle any noises that might draw attention to what you both are up to.

Tyler’s sitting on the toilet, pants around his ankles and eyes sparkling with excitement as you kneel in front of him. You waste no time with teasing him about the situation, opting instead to pull back his foreskin and suck on the tip like it’s a delicious, pink popsicle. He exhales contently, spreading his knees apart to give you more access. 

As you suck on the head and slowly stroke his cock with one hand, your tongue occasionally prods playfully at the delicate little hole at the tip. Every time you do, his cock twitches eagerly and his eyes flutter. Clearly, he enjoys that.

After a few more exploratory swipes of the tongue, you start to bob your head. With each movement, you take more and more of his length into your mouth until your nose is being tickled by his happy trail and you’ve got drool leaking from the corner of your lips. He truly is a mouthful. One wrong move and you’ll choke on that swollen head at the back of your throat.

You blow him like you mean it. And really, you do. You want to make him cum. It’s something you’ve fantasized about ever since he sent you that dick pic a few days ago. So, you suck on him hard and fast, hand fondling his balls to coax him closer to the edge. His pleasant sighs and hums are gradually mutating into ragged breaths and helpless groans. There’s even a hand on the top of your head now that’s fighting the urge to shove your face into his groin. Instinct is clearly telling him to fuck your mouth but he’s a gentleman who favors watching you work your magic.

“Oh fuck…I’m close,” he gasps after another swipe of your tongue across his tip, “I’m really fucking close.”

You respond to his warning with a deep hum and up your game again. Hollowing your cheeks, you deep throat him a few more times. It doesn’t take much for him to reach his limit. When you feel the first spurt of cum hit your throat, you ease up to suckle on his tip while your hand strokes him through his orgasm. You swallow every last drop as if his cum will magically quench your thirst.

When you finish sucking him clean, you pull off his cock with a soft pop. You seal the deal with a playful kiss to the tip before letting your hands rub his thick muscular thighs.

“Thanks for the snack,” you joke with a cocky grin, “Much better than concession stand nachos.”

“Hey now, there’s no need to rag on the nachos.”

“Okay, the chips themselves aren’t a problem. It’s that nasty liquid cheese they put on ‘em. Tastes like…I don’t even know.”

“Like American ingenuity,” he says sarcastically.

“Right. Well, I prefer your all-American jizz.”

He laughs. The smile on his face is so big and bright, it’s almost blinding. You can’t wait to snap a picture of that beautiful face so you can look at it every single time you need a pick-me-up.

“Lemme kiss you.”

You’re surprised by the innocence of his words. There’s so much adoration behind it, like he doesn’t feel like he’s earned the ability to share a kiss with you whenever he pleases. Ironic, considering the fact that you just let him nut in your mouth moments before.

Rising to your feet, you lean down to kiss him. There’s no doubt that he can taste himself on your lips and tongue but he doesn’t seem at all bothered. With his hands cupped over the sides of your neck, he kisses you slowly, gently. The reverence behind the movement of his mouth is something akin to a man of faith whispering prayer at the foot of his idol. And when he pulls back to gaze at you, you feel like you might melt under the warmth of his smile.

“Look, I don’t wanna ruin whatever we got goin’ on right now,” you say with a sheepish smile, “But I feel like we should move this someplace where your balls aren’t hanging over a public toilet.”

He looks down at his exposed genitals which are, like you pointed out, one forward lean away from dipping into recycled water. “You've got a point.”

Once he’s got his pants back on and the two of you manage to sneak out of the stall without being noticed together, you grab him by the hand and let him lead you back to his truck. Part of you is tempted to suggest you both hop in the back so you can ride him right then and there. But the part that’s actually incredibly sane and hyperaware of the fact that two men fucking at a public rodeo would not be received well wins out. So instead, the two of you climb into your respective seats while he turns the engine on.

“Whataya thinking?” He asks once the AC is blowing.