Archive of Our Own

“Watch it, pal!”

Buzz Lightyear stumbled over a patch of molding carpet, courtesy of a sharp elbow to the small of his back, and unceremoniously fell butt-first into the swiveling stool of the nearest slot machine. The individual responsible for shoving him forward walked off, a liquid concoction in one hand and a wad of dirty green paper in the other. There was no apology. There were many cultural ticks among the local populace of this area, known as the Vegas Strip. Apologies were not one of them.

The wad of green paper, Buzz had learned not-so-long ago, was the official currency, something known as cash money. Highly valued among the people of Earth in this century. It came in many colors and variations, unique to each corner of the planet. The locals used it for goods and commodities, both for necessity and leisure. All this, he’d learned during the briefing, before Star Command charged him with the most important temporal scouting mission of his life. In other words, he was sent back in time.

The mission itself was simple: blend in with the locals, do not interfere with events that could displace the fabric of time itself, and report on any anomalies indicative of Emperor Zurg’s doing. It was the only way to stop Zurg from destroying the universe in the past from the future, and therefore present. Incredibly simple.

Buzz had been confident in his ability to intermingle with the humans of this era. To do so, he only spoke when necessary and exchanged his standard issue starsuit for a standard issue “T-shirt,” a pair of floral-print “khakhis”, and a matching set of antique shoes (known then as “crocs”). His head unfortunately felt rather vulnerable without any protective covering, but his standard issue haircut fortunately was not so out of the ordinary in the past. If anything, he came across several individuals in the Vegas Strip with fashion senses that would not look at all out of place in the future, human or otherwise.

He knew nothing of historical note would happen in this area on this day at this hour so there was little chance of him displacing temporal reality. Then in order to complete his mission, he only needed to thwart Zurg’s influence. Buzz was naturally prepared to spring into action at a moment’s notice.

He was, however, not prepared for the local love of “gambling.” That made the “casino” a popular habitat among the humans present, and most of these humans had traveled from far and wide to try their luck at card games, slot machines, and whatever else. Statistically speaking, it was impossible for anyone to win more than lose in such an environment, but humanity’s frontal lobes had likely not advanced enough to grasp that concept at this point. 

And as he observed everyone around him, their eyes glued to blaring screens and their hands constantly pulling and pushing at levers and buttons designed to deplete them of all their money, Buzz astutely said under his breath:

“There seems to be no sign of intelligent life anywhere.”

He would have recorded that into his star log if it wasn’t for the fact that his communicator was attached to his suit, which was, of course, back in his standard issue twenty-first century suitcase, safely hidden away in the room he’d chosen to peruse (room no. 180, directly eighteen levels above the casino he was currently stationed at). 

He scanned the area once more for any signs of Zurg’s handiwork. Finding none, he turned his attention back to the slot machine, which was—rather ironically—displaying a number of rocketships. Buzz imitated the locals around him, working the machine so that it would take his cash and then spit out coins.

Until a voice pleasantly drawled out, “Now, what’s a sharp-lookin’ guy like you doing at a place like this?”

Startled, Buzz glanced up, meeting a pair of brown eyes hooded by the shadow of a leather hat. 

“Are you addressing me?” Buzz said. Then he caught sight of the golden star pinned to the man’s chest. “Sheriff?”

“If you want me to be,” the cowboy answered plainly, eyes casually sliding to the side. He held up a hand and puffed air over his nails. “That’ll cost you extra though.”

This man didn’t look like law enforcement from this era. He was dressed more akin to the style of someone from a century or two further into the past: a faded plaid shirt, a washed out red kerchief, a cowhide vest, dusty “jeans,” and spurred boots. Buzz was, without a doubt, staring at what was known as a cowboy.

Hadn’t his kind died out by now? Was this a sign of an anomaly? Or was this simply another example of Las Vegas fashion?

But the cowboy didn’t seem aware of Buzz’s suspicions. He seemed more amused by Buzz’s words, or perhaps expression, than anything else. He leaned himself against the slot machine, draping a lanky arm over the very top. He was very slim, Buzz observed, though of impressive height, likely a good head taller than Buzz himself. 

“I don’t follow,” Buzz told him flatly, narrowing his eyes.

Then he froze when the cowboy bent down, so close that their heads nearly touched. Before Buzz could properly react, before he even knew how to react, the cowboy had tucked a small paper card into the pocket of his shirt. His long fingers even lingered against the fabric. And when the cowboy stepped back, Buzz felt his head swim, his whole body going stiff. This…

This had to be Zurg’s doing! Yes, this “cowboy” or whatever he was, had to be a spy sent here by the Evil Emperor Zurg! That explained everything!

Why else would he single Buzz out among this crowd? Why else would he try to lower Buzz’s defenses with his coy words? Why else would he be batting his dark lashes like that? Why else would a trained Star Command officer feel so hot and flustered despite a minimum interaction of two minutes and little to no skin contact? 

“Name’s Woody,” the cowboy said with a tip of his hat, lips shaping into a rosy smile, “call that number for a good time, if you catch my drift.”

Buzz pressed a thumb to his pocket, pushing his skin against that flimsy paper card. If it was a challenge Zurg’s henchman was proposing, then he would gladly accept—as he always did and always would.

“With pleasure,” Buzz said, curt. And defensive.

But by then, the man named Woody had sauntered off, leaving Buzz with nothing save a light wave of his hand. The spot where he’d been standing seemed strangely empty afterward.

SHERIFF WOODY

(702) ###-### **Extension: ###

– – ROUNDUP GALS & PALS - -

Wild West Nights You’ll Never Forget! Satisfaction guaranteed.

Buzz returned to his room at 1200 hours, a singular thought on his mind: Woody. If that was even his real name. He’d considered calling the cowboy while he was still in the casino, but after consulting the Star Command manual (by memory), he thought it more prudent to wait a few hours. Let the enemy lower his guard first.

Now glaring, Buzz pulled the cowboy’s business card from his pocket and looked to the phone on the bedside table, a corded landline common to the latter half of the twentieth century. 

Then he slowly—very slowly and carefully—began punching in the cowboy’s numbers on the twentieth-century cord phone by his bed. 

To his dismay, Woody himself did not answer the phone. Instead, a shrewder, deeper voice said via automation, “You’ve reached the office of Doctor Porkchop! Leave a message after the beep, or if you know your party’s extension, key it in now- after the pound sign” (Buzz could have sworn he heard yet another voice quip out in the background, “or get lost!”). 

Buzz did as the voice told.

After a few rings, he heard a chippy “howdy” from the other end. Buzz recognized that tone immediately.

“Sheriff,” Buzz stated.

“And you are?”

“Buzz Lightyear. We met earlier tonight… at the casino of the Strat.”

Woody whistled. “Yup, I remember you. Boy, am I glad you called! That’s a real showy name there, Buzz. You must be a hit with the guys.”

If Woody was truly a minion of Zurg’s, he was an excellent actor. Buzz gave him credit for that. Or maybe he really was some sad, strange little man prancing around in a cowboy’s outfit. There was only one way to find out. For the sake of the mission.

“You promised to show me a good time,” Buzz said, “where? When? And how?”

“Now hold onto your britches, Lightyear. I’ll be there within the hour, just gimme your room number-”

“Room one eight zero, eighteenth floor.”

“And one more thing, I’ll need you to pay half upfront, rest comes later, no refunds. You good with all that?”

“Loud and clear.” 

Buzz hung up and squared his shoulders, mentally prepping himself for a fight. Given Woody’s physique, Buzz could easily take the cowboy down with a few hand chops and force him to confess Zurg’s plans. If Zurg wasn’t involved… Well, Buzz had no choice but to go through with whatever those “wild west nights” entailed anyway.

Years of rigorous Star Command training still failed to prepare Buzz for… this. He truly had no idea what to make of Woody’s services. 

True to his word, the cowboy had arrived before the hour was up. He’d sized up the room first, then sized up Buzz, then demanded his cash (of which Buzz had more than enough, per mission provisions).

And then, before Buzz could interrogate him in any shape, way, or form, he’d pushed Buzz onto the edge of his bed and sat himself on Buzz’s lap. Woody removed his hat, claiming it would get in the way, and set it aside.

This man was, Buzz noted (objectively), surprisingly attractive now that his whole face was in the light. His nose was pretty to a point. His eyes were as bright as a doe’s. His cheekbones were high, sprinkled with a natural, earthy blush. His hair somehow remained in a perfect dark cowlick despite having spent so long under that old hat. There were hints of a wrinkle or two as well (and when Buzz looked carefully, strands of grey hair cropping up under all that brown), suggesting that he was somewhat over his prime. 

Now that he was too close for comfort, Buzz could smell him too. Leather, hay, aftershave—all scents so rare in the future that Buzz could barely put a name to them.

“Alright, Buzz,” Woody said, an arm around Buzz’s nape and another holding up an outdated tablet, “pick from this here menu and we’ll go from there.” 

Menu? Buzz grabbed the tablet, refusing to make any more skin contact with Woody just yet. As expected, the tablet was heavy and hard to make out, standard fare for technology of the twenty-first century. But the items on the so-called menu made him raise an eyebrow.

• Reach for the sky
• You’re my favorite deputy
• Poison in the water hole
• There’s a snake in my boot
• Pullstring cowboy

Their prices varied. Buzz, in all honesty, had no idea what these words meant. He wanted to ask, but the expectant—even smug—look on Woody’s face made him bite his tongue. He wouldn’t give Woody the satisfaction.

So Buzz swiped his finger down the screen, cleanly checking each and every box. 

“Done,” he said, shoving the tablet back at Woody.

The cowboy nodded with a chuckle, then promptly dropped his jaw when he saw the selections. “Wh- you sure about all this?”

Buzz smirked. “Affirmative.” 

Woody pursed his lips. He sighed, putting the tablet down. “You’re really coming in hot. Now, I don’t know if that makes you crazy or me crazy for doing this- but- “ he made several indignant noises  that Buzz wasn’t sure qualified as human sounds. “-OK, let’s do this from the top.”

Still on Buzz’s lap, Woody removed his boots. Then he swung both legs upwards and closed them around Buzz’s waist, straddling Buzz’s torso with his thighs. Woody shook off his vest and began unbuttoning his shirt.

“I’m the rootin-est tootin-est cowboy in the wild wild west, you know,” Woody said, undoing the last button.

The shirt opened and before Buzz could ask Woody what the next step was, he felt the cowboy grab his wrists and place his hands on-

Bare nipples. 

“Reach for the sky,” Woody told him, pressing down on Buzz’s hands, maneuvering Buzz’s fingers until they were closing around those nipples.

Buzz gaped, unsure if his grip was automatically closing around Woody’s nipples or if Woody was somehow making him do this. A wholly unprofessional sensation was threatening to dominate the area between his legs. Either way, he watched with fascination as the cowboy’s nipples slowly grew pink and erect, swelling so much under the friction of Buzz’s touch that they were starting to resemble the udder of a cow. 

“Feeling thirsty?” Woody teased, some sweat beading on his face. “For a few extra bucks, I’ll let you bite-”

Buzz leaned forward, pressing his mouth to one of those nipples, closing his lips tight around it, teeth pressing against hot skin. He sucked, and sucked, and sucked. Woody squirmed, releasing a series of awkward groans. But he didn’t protest.

The next thing Buzz knew, Woody’s hand was in his hair and he was pushing Buzz’s face against the other nipple.

“Drink up,” Woody gasped, “reach for the sky, reach high as you can!”

Buzz did as he was told, leaving rings of spittle and teeth marks on both sides of the cowboy’s chest. When he came up for air, Woody grabbed his shoulders and pushed him onto his back. Still straddling Buzz’s waist, Woody dipped down and peppered his jaw with kisses.

“You’re my favorite deputy,” he whispered into Buzz’s ear, earning a shudder in return. “You wanna know why, partner?”

He didn’t stop. His lips moved from Buzz’s jaw to his throat, then his collarbone and lips. 

“You’ve got such a strong jawline, Buzz Lightyear,” Woody said, shifting his hands under Buzz’s T-shirt. “Such a good head too. Such baby blue eyes. What a character!”

Buzz clenched his teeth, hard, when Woody’s tongue flicked over the birthmark on his chin. 

“Is this a dimple or a mole?” Woody remarked, “it’s awful cute, you know that? Awful cute.”

“N- no-” Buzz retorted. Space rangers weren’t cute! But Woody wouldn’t let him talk.

“You’re the coolest guy in the world. What sheriff wouldn’t want a deputy like you?” Woody was groping him, his hands roaming over the muscles of Buzz’s chest, shoulders, abdomen.

“You’re built so well, like one of those superheroes in the pictures,” Woody said, making Buzz even dizzier than he already was. “Oh my stars, you’re really something else, Buzz, you’re really something else.”

He wanted to say something, anything, back to Woody, to drag the subject to Zurg and the mission. But all that came out was a sharp, mortifying moan. He didn’t even have the strength to stop Woody when the cowboy unclipped the button holding his khakis together and pulled at his shorts enough to reveal his cock.

Woody started rubbing afterward, expertly molding his palms around Buzz’s cock like he was working a pistol. 

“What are you doing now?” Buzz managed to wheeze out, horrified at the sight of white cum spreading from the tip of his cock.

“For sanitary reasons,” Woody huffed, “we’re skipping to ‘snake in my boot’ first. Buzz Lightyear junior is the snake and the boot is-”

Woody released Buzz’s waist and slid himself down, until his legs were crouched on the ground. His head though, was now between Buzz’s thighs. 

“-My mouth.”

That said, Woody took Buzz’s snake inside his mouth, shoving as much of it (and its girth was impressive, as Buzz had once been told during a standard physical) as he could into his throat. It felt- well, when Buzz was a boy, he once commandeered a space shuttle and recklessly drove it through alpha quadrant five, hitting his head on the ceiling and nearly ramming into a nearby comet. It felt kind of like that, but better, as loathe as he was to admit it.

And against himself, Buzz let everything go. His cock had reached its boiling point and the rest of him was heating up so badly that he couldn’t hold anything back. In other words, he released.

Woody gulped all of the cum down. When he lifted his face, white semen was dribbling down his chin. Buzz locked eyes with him, watching in slack-jawed horror as Woody casually dabbed his cum away with the edge of his sleeve.

“Gonna need you to-” Woody panted out, “-gonna need you to cooperate for this next one, partner.”

There was a mirror behind his head, fixed onto the wall behind the crooked plasma television. Buzz watched his own reflection, transfixed by how messy he looked. He hadn’t been so unkempt since his cadet days. Rumpled collar, flushed cheeks, open fly. It would have been embarrassing if he had more time to dwell on it. But he didn’t. Because Woody, who might as well have been Zurg’s strongest soldier, was already pulling the rest of Buzz’s shorts, and the underwear beneath, down to the ankles.

“Poison in the water hole,” Woody mouthed, unclapsing his belt buckle.

The cowboy unzipped his jeans, and before Buzz knew it, Woody’s boxers were on the floor. Woody pulled out a vial of see-through liquid from inside his discarded pockets and slathered its contents all over his palms, which he then rubbed over the entirety of Buzz’s cock.

“Sheriff, what are you doing to— !?”

Then those lengthy bare legs were again locked around Buzz’s stomach (“I’ll be, your abs are so firm,” Woody cooed, “hard as rocks”), but this time, Woody sat his bare buttocks directly over Buzz’s cock, squeezing his opening over the shaft.

“Water hole,” Buzz said, astonished, “your hole is the water hole.”

“And junior’s the poison,” Woody said right back, glancing down at him with fluttering lashes.

He grabbed on tight to both sides of Buzz’s head, ruffling as much as hair as he could while he moved, dragging that oil over Buzz’s temples and scalp. 

“Now sit back, buckaroo, I’m about to ride you like the wind.”

Woody made true on his promise. He rocked back and forth over Buzz’s cock, treating it like the saddle of an untamed horse. He was rough and he was hot and he was loud. The harder Woody clenched, the harder Buzz went, and the harder Buzz went, the louder Woody yelled. 

They went at it for so long that Buzz lost count, and when Woody finally managed to make Buzz release yet again, the full force of his cum metaphorically exploded inside the cowboy’s “water hole.” 

Glimpsing stars, Buzz sprawled back, his brain matter so thoroughly melted that it had reached the far corners of the delta nebulae. His hair was matted with sweat and lubricant, and his cock was covered in everything else. Next to him, Woody was heaving, drinking in each breath like it would be his last. His face was as pink as a sunset. 

“Don’t tell me,” Buzz rasped, “you’re tired, sheriff. You owe me one last act of-” He didn’t know what else to say, “-service: pullstring cowboy.”

Woody blinked. Flabbergasted. “You’re kidding.”

“I never ‘kid.’”

Woody propped himself up by the elbows, watching Buzz with a mixture of disbelief and begrudging respect. Perhaps thinking it best not to argue, he crawled onto his knees and rose, high enough for Buzz to get a full view of his body.

“Pullstring cowboy’s the name of a doll,” Woody said, “you know, the old kind from the 50s’. Got a little pullstring at the back, you just gotta pull and it talks.”

His lips were still wet, Buzz noticed. Wet and full. 

“So if I’m your pullstring cowboy,” Woody continued, “then that makes me your doll. I say what you want and do what you want… within reason, of course, so no funny business.”

Buzz sat up, slowly and, judging from how he appeared in the mirror, hungrily.

“Do you work for Zurg?” he demanded, deciding that it was now or never to find out—he’d risked far enough already.

“Who the heck is Zurg?”

“Did he send you to seduce me?”

Woody furrowed his brow. “I- what- huh? Is this some kinda roleplay? Because if we’re doing playtime, you’ve gotta give me more clues to work off of-”

His flustered words turned into a shocked yelp when Buzz pulled him down by a thin wrist. Then Buzz was atop him, pinning him down by the hands and crushing him into the mattress.

“I’m not going to repeat myself, sheriff,” Buzz said coolly, or as coolly as he could given the strain inside his throat, “do you or do you not work for Emperor Zurg?”

Woody winced, Buzz’s grip of iron holding him in place. “Are you hoping I work for Zurg?”

“Don’t play coy.”

The cowboy sighed. “Fine. No, I don’t work for Zurg.”

Buzz didn’t like his tone. “We’ll see about that.”

He ripped the kerchief from Woody’s neck, just in case there was anything hidden beneath. He saw nothing but a slender throat. Then he began patting the cowboy down, Woody doing nothing to protest. In fact, the cowboy readily complied, allowing Buzz to touch anywhere and everywhere, even when Buzz pulled him up by the shoulder and yanked his open button-up off. 

Woody was clean, it seemed, no sign of Zurg’s trademark anywhere on his person.

But the sight of his bare upper half gave Buzz pause, and not because of the teeth marks on his chest. It was because of a jagged scar cutting through his shoulder. By the looks of it, the skin had been sliced open and stitched up at least twice. There was an even longer, thicker scar running down the cord of his spine, too clean and deliberate to be anything except manmade. 

Buzz’s hands lingered longer than they should have. The scars were old. Zurg would never have had the chance to grab hold of Woody so far into the past. 

“How did you obtain these injuries?” Buzz asked, softer than intended.

Woody scoffed. “Oh, these old things? Not really worth talking about.” Then under his breath, “some folks ask for a discount when they see them, but we’ve got a no-refunds policy-”

Against better judgement, Buzz kissed the arc of Woody’s back, right on the scar’s thickest bump. The cowboy went completely stiff, the hairs on his nape suddenly standing on end. He stared directly at Buzz.

Buzz stared back.

Both of them opened their mouths, and then promptly shut them at the same time.

Buzz stripped down to nothing, his clothes completely soaked in sweat and other obscene substances. He would either dispose of them or send them to the “laundromat.” Woody had left exactly forty-seven minutes ago. He’d showered, dressed himself, and collected his pay. Buzz had overpaid him by five green dollars. Woody, to Buzz’s surprise, had given the cash back, refusing to take more than he was owed. That was curious; Buzz had been under the impression that the locals would do anything for cash, fairly or unfairly.

“Pleasure,” was the last thing Woody said to him. Then he’d stepped out the door, whistling his way down the hall until he disappeared from Buzz’s life.

Buzz supposed that was the end of that. The cowboy had no connection to Zurg, and therefore his mission, after all. Buzz had no reason to remain in contact with him anymore. In that case, he should have been mortified that he’d gone through all those activities with the cowboy. But Buzz only felt strangely bereft instead.

“Maybe the stress of the mission is getting to my head,” he mumbled to himself.

Then he saw a glimpse of red under the bed. Woody’s kerchief, forgotten, left behind.

Buzz picked it up, taking a quick whiff of leather, hay, aftershave. It seemed that he had a reason to call the cowboy again after all.