#Justified fanfiction

[toxicanonymity]

steady as she goes.

3.5k, Clement Mansell x f!reader | spotify playlist CHARACTER BACKGROUND: He does a lot of crimes but car theft is the only thing referenced. He loves Jack White 🎶. He's sexy and has swagger. Hot clips with audio 🥵 🥵 SUMMARY: He takes you out on his idea of a date. WARNINGS: I8+, unsafe p in v (car), creampie. Praise. Mild hybristophilia (craving that criminal cock). Canon-typical destruction of property. Reader can straddle him. Jack (White) gets cucked (by Clem's vocals). ONE SHOT. A/N: Dedicated to @milla-frenchy: happy 500 followers! 🎉 well-deserved (masterlist). I'm so glad we share an interest in this man. And THANK YOU, gifmakers!! Always inspired by gifs from @boydholbrook-fan, @ilovewhiteroses, and more. Co-written with my partner, "Jordi" 🖤.

A car cruises down your street blasting music, but you don't think it's Clement. It's too early. The sun is just starting to set, and you're fresh out of the shower. It's still an hour before he’s supposed to pick you up. But sure enough, the loud rock music gets close enough to make out the White Stripes. You look out the window, and his classic car is rolling into your driveway with the top down. Shoot. You're not ready. But goddamn, he looks good. Too good to worry much about the time. 

You grab the closest item of clothing - a black slip dress – and throw a silk robe on over it. As you rush down the stairs, the car door opens outside. You wait a minute for him to ring the doorbell, but he doesn't. You stick your head outside and he's reclining with his butt against the passenger door and his arms crossed. You slip on a pair of shoes and go out to the driveway. 

********************************

This man is wild. You can tell already, and you met him just last night.

He came into your bar. You took his order and he said, “Whatever you’re drinkin’.”  You were only drinking coke with grenadine, but to your surprise, he nodded without hesitation. You made the drink and watched him take his first sip. “Man, this shit ain't bad,” he said. He had big energy, and his presence really commanded the room despite how casual and carefree he acted. He put the Raconteurs on the jukebox.

Throughout the night, you felt his eyes on you and had a few tense moments. His hand grazed your hip as you passed each other. When you came to give him a refill, he introduced himself before going to play pool. At one point, when he was leaning forward to line up his shot, you noticed a gun sticking out of the back of his pants. You discreetly warned him that the manager would kick him out if she saw it. 

“Keepin’ me outta trouble. That sure is nice of ya, sugar.”

You smile shyly. “Just hide it,” you tell him 

“Why don’tcha come on out and watch me put it away?.” 

His charm was irresistible. 

You quickly found yourself out in the parking lot, pressed up against his car with his nose dragging up your neck.  “Mmm,” he hummed into your skin. “Not every day a lady sees my gun.” You felt something against your hip, looked down, and were startled to see him holding the gun. “It's okay baby,” he reassured you, then opened the passenger door to the car. “Wanna touch it?” 

“That's okay,” you shook your head, still flustered. “It looks nice though.”

“Yeah? How ‘bout I let ya shoot it tomorrow?” he asked as he leaned over to open the glovebox.

“Really?” You asked, heart fluttering. 

He acted like he was mentally debating it, then laid his weight into you against the car again. He rested his hands loosely on your sides. “Really,” he murmured, then leaned in for a slow kiss -- no tongue, but it felt pornographic nonetheless. “Pick you up at eight.” 

Instead of going back inside, he got in his car and peeled off, blasting the White Stripes.

********************************

You take in the view of Clement leaning against his car in your driveway. He's wearing a dark, button-up shirt and a chain. His shapely arms stretch the material. 

“You're really early,” you smile, almost breaking into a laugh. “Wanna come in while I finish getting ready?” 

“I dunno about that,” he drops his hands to his sides, then stands upright and slowly steps forward. He looks you up and down and his voice becomes sultry as he gets closer. “Look ready to me.” 

You assure him it'll only take fifteen minutes. 

“I dunno if I can wait that long,” he murmurs as he comes within arm’s reach. He runs his hands down your sides, his expansive palms gliding over the silky robe. 

You suppress a giggle. “You can wait fifteen minutes.”  

“Course I can,” he murmurs, getting right up against you. He brings his mouth to your ear and lowers his pitch.  “But I ain't gonna.” He grabs your ass. “Mmm.” 

Your cheeks heat up. Has he noticed you're not wearing panties? “Look perfect,” he insists. He goes to open the passenger door. All the thoughts are gone from your brain.

You get in the car, no bra, no panties, no jacket. And somehow you feel completely comfortable. 

-

Clement rests a broad, veiny hand on your thigh as he drives. His touch is light, and he occasionally takes his hand away to make a turn. When he passes the shooting range and keeps going, you ask, “I thought we were gonna shoot.” 

“Oh we are, darlin'. You're gonna be my gorgeous gunslinger.” He smiles and turns up the music.

He drives to the outskirts of the city, pulls into an industrial area, and parks behind a big abandoned building. There's one flood light and it’s buzzing, casting a flickering white light on the gravel. 

Clement parks and turns off the car, then gets out. He pulls a six pack out of the back seat. You get out and join him at the back fender.

He opens a bottle of PBR beer and takes a swig, then offers you your own bottle from the six pack. 

“I'm good,” you decline.

“You sure?” He asks, holding the new bottle up. It's a Mexican Coke.

“Oh, wow,” your face lights up.

He opens the bottle with a wink and mentions, “didn't have cherry.” 

Your heart flutters and your ears get hot as you accept the drink.   

You sit on the back of his car talking and enjoying your drinks for a while. You shiver and he asks, “you alright?”

“Well, I'm not really dressed,” you laugh. 

“Lucky for you, this car came with a jacket.” He hops off the trunk of the car and reaches behind the driver’s seat. When he returns a few moments later, he’s wearing a vintage brown leather jacket and holding a jacket for you. 

“Looks about right, whatcha think?”  

“Yeah.” You carefully step down off the car. 

"Hold on,” he says and drapes the jacket over one arm. Then he steps in closer and nudges his fingers under your robe, hitting your bare shoulders and giving you goosebumps. He nudges the robe off, and it falls down to your elbows. You take it off. His eyes glue to your chest. You rub your arms. He holds out the jacket for you and you let him put it on. 

He looks you up and down and gives a low whistle. “Perfect,” he nods. Then he steps closer and slips his hands inside your jacket, sliding them along your silk dress, then resting warmly on your lower back. He pulls you into him for a hug. Your erect nipples are poking him through the fabric. He lets out a low growl and pulls you in tighter. A warm, mostly soft bulge presses into you and makes you throb. He noses your hair and inhales as he grabs a handful of ass. 

“Ready?” He asks in a low growl, and you've forgotten what he's referring to. 

“Hm?” You respond. 

“Ready to shoot?”

“Uh, yeah.” It doesn't seem like the safest environment, but there's something sexy about it, too. Your gut tells you he's dangerous, but you like it because he makes you feel safe at the same time. Like you’re not the one in danger. 

“One second.” He grabs something from under the driver’s seat and puts it in his pocket. It looks vaguely flask shaped but taller. It barely fits. Lastly, he gets his gun out of the glovebox and puts it in the back of his pants. 

—

Clement lights a cigarette, then you walk with him toward the floodlight. He puts his arm around you and offers you the cigarette, but you decline.

“Mmm good girl,” he murmurs with the cigarette still in his mouth. “I can tell ya ain't *too* good though.” 

“Hey. I turned down beer and cigarettes. How do you know I'm not good?”

“Just got that vibe, baby.” He squeezes your arm. “And I sure am glad.” 

There are multiple wide garage doors along the side of the building. You arrive at a door that's lifted up two or three feet.  He holds it at the bottom and slides it up another foot or so. You still have to crouch down, and you hold your dress and the jacket against your bare thighs as you do it. It's spooky inside. Way too dark, and the space is derelict. 

Once Clement's inside the building with you, he pulls a string hanging from the above. Then he drops his cigarette and the sparks bounce over a dirty concrete floor before he stops it out. Several bulbs buzz awake along the high ceiling, evenly spaced but far apart. The furthest one is against a half painted brick wall. There are crates stacked up along some of the walls and a few in the middle of the space. As you get closer, the light clearly illuminates a host of bullet holes in the back wall. There are also casings on the floor. On the wall to your right, some of the windows are busted out. 

He takes his jacket off and lays it on a crate against the wall. He removes his gun from his pants and puts his leg arm around you as he shows it to you. It’s a silver gun with two swallows engraved on the handle. The birds have their wings spread and are facing each other. 

“It was my daddy’s,” he says. “Only thing Mama saved for me.”

His face hardens and he turns and aims toward the back wall, triceps bulging under his shirt. He pulls the trigger. The gunshot is loud, but not as terrible as it could be. Debris bounces off the wall.

He hands you the gun, and. you accept it apprehensively.

“Are you sure this is okay? Here?” You have to wonder about people hearing the gunshots, and plus how you're destroying the wall.

“Don't you worry, darlin’. Place won't be around much longer anyway.” 

“Okay.”

“Ever shot a gun?”

“Yeah but I'm rusty.” 

“You'll be fine, darlin’. Go ahead.” You aim it hesitantly, half expecting the entire wall to crumble. Clement gets behind you and braces his hands on your arms. “Steady now,” he murmurs. His body is so close to yours, you get butterflies. Then he puts his arms around you. He doesn’t help you aim right away. He noses your temple and inhales your scent. “Mmm,” he hums. You relax your arms, holding the gun with your elbows bent. Then he plans a wet kiss on your neck. “Can’t help myself, sugar.” He kisses and sucks at your neck and you moan. He lightly bites you and you take your right hand off the gun to reach back for his head. You're gushing, and wonder if it's going to run down your legs at this rate.

“Mm-mm,” he shakes his head. “Wanna see ya shoot first.”

You let out a disappointed sigh, and he rests his hands on your hips. He presses his pelvis forward, and a hard shape in his pants gives you a rush of need. He murmurs, “You feel that? Oooh.” His hands on your hips pull you back on his bulge. “You can have it when you're done.” 

You compose yourself and aim the gun again. He slightly adjusts your arms and directs you toward an unblemished patch of paint straight ahead, just above the exposed brick. “Hit that, and we’re done.”

It only takes you one shot.

“Well hot damn!” He celebrates. “Look at you.” You hand the gun back to him. He slinks around you, hugs you from behind again, and murmurs “don't even need my help, do ya,” then kisses your neck again. “Let's go,” he says into your skin, then retrieves his jacket from the crate. As you're walking back toward the garage door, he turns around and starts walking backwards and whistling. You glance back and he's pulled a bottle of lighter fluid out of his pocket. He's trailing the liquid as he walks. 

Your heart jumps to your throat. “What are you doing?”

“Ohh, don't worry, darlin’. It'll burn slow at first. Plenty’a time to get outta here.” He holds the garage door up for you to duck under. He flips the lid of the lighter fluid closed and crams it back in his pocket. 

You back away as he takes out a matchbook. He lights a match and drops it into the lighter fluid. The fire races under the garage door and Clement’s eyes are beaming darkly in the glow of it. After a moment, he says, “Woo! Lets go, baby.” You're speechless, and very turned on. He takes your hand in his and charges toward the car. His stride is so long, you're nearly jogging to keep up.

“Hahaaa,” he laughs to himself as he gets in the car. He revs the engine and turns on the music. He pops a breath mint. He sings along with Blue Orchid, and his voice really isn't half bad. 

“Where are we going?” You ask.

He looks at you fondly for a moment. “Love a woman who's up for adventure.” He puts his hand behind you to reverse.

As he drives by the building, you crane your neck to see. The fire is only a flickering glow through the busted out windows so far.

He turns down the music only slightly. “Stars are out tonight,” he observes. “Know a spot with a great view,” he offers as you exit the property. 

“Ok,” you try to suppress a smile. 

“Yeah!” He yells and peels off on the main road. You look up at the stars with the wind in your hair. Soon, he turns onto another dark road, somewhat winding, uphill.

-

He parks in a dark corner of an abandoned office park. It's littered with empty bottles and faded cans. The chainlink fence has half fallen down, and there are a couple of steel drums. Clement gets out of the car.   With most of this part of town abandoned, the light pollution isn't very close. You're up on a hill now, too. 

He takes the lighter fluid out of his pocket, squirts it in the barrel, and drops the plastic container in with it. Then he lights the matchbook on fire, drops it. And a blaze quickly grows in the barrel.

Then he gets back in the car and moves the seat back. He leans over and pulls you in for a heated kiss. Then he pulls back and murmurs, “Now get over here” as he takes off his jacket. 

—-

Thankfully, the car is roomy and so are the seats. You take off your jacket and put the robe back on. The air is cool and crisp and feels fine. As you climb over to straddle Clement, he greets you with his hands on your thighs. He slides his palms all the way up the backs of your thighs and reaches your bare ass. Then he lifts your little slip dress and says “God *damn*,” at the sight of your bare cunt.  “If I knew this. . .”

“You didn't let me get ready,” you lightly punch his chest with a hint of laughter, cheeks burning. He chuckles.

“Well good. Guess I'm *never* gonna let ya get ready.” Your heart flutters at the implied future. He sticks his left hand between your legs and cups your bare cunt. “Oh, baby.” You hover above his thighs while he leans back and unbuttons his pants, then unzips and pulls them down to expose a massive bulge in his white briefs. Your breath hitches at the sight. 

He grabs your ass and pulls you forward so your crotch meets his cotton-clad bulge, and a shock of desire spreads through your body like fire. He thrusts upward and you moan at the contact of his warm, hard, package. He kisses you and uses his hands on your hips to rub you against him with your mouths connected. He breaks the kiss with a sigh and says, “Fuck, let's go.” He shoves his hand down his briefs and you allow him the space to take out his commanding cock and balls. Your mouth falls open. 

“Not as huge as it looks,” he reassures you. “Gonna love every inch of it.” You nod. It's the girth that has you wide-eyed.

“Oh you're drippin’ on me, sugar.” He lets his thick manhood rest against his lower belly and pulls you in so your clit presses against his warm, smooth shaft and you’re aching to have him inside you. “Let’s feed this hungry pussy already.” 

He holds his cock as you hover over it then begin to slowly lower yourself, getting closer to entry. You pause, and he runs his tip through your dripping folds and helps spread the slick down his shaft. Then he nestles his tip at your entrance and you twitch. 

You begin to sink down on him, with his tip spreading you wide open. “Mmm,” you whine. 

“Yeah, good girl. . . you can take it, baby.” It's every bit as big as it looks. You sink down, feeling taken apart in the best way, and he pulls you down flush. 

Speared on his engorged cock, pleasure races through your chest and thighs, out to every inch of your body. 

“You good?” He asks, chest heaving. 

You rise up then sink back down.

“Attagirl,” he murmurs. “want ya to hear somethin’.” He reaches for the tape deck and changes the cassette. He presses play and it's Ball and Biscuit by the White Stripes. 

“I know this one,” you smile. It's a sexy, languid alt blues song. 

“Just wait for the next one,” he murmurs, looking at you with a raging lust in his eyes. His cock twitches inside you. He pulls your face into his again and lifts his hips, pushing farther into you. You've never felt so full. “Oh baby,” he breaks the kiss. “You feel so good.” His face is so handsome in the flickering fire light. His blue eyes look almost black. The slice of bare flesh in his eyebrow is too sexy. You run your hands through his hair and he groans at the light rake of your fingers against his scalp.

He lifts into you to the beat of the song. You begin to roll your hips in sync with him. 

“Ohhh, yeah,” he breathes. Part of you wants him to lose control and ravish you, but this slow fuck is perfect for the intense stretch of your cunt around his cock.

You kiss and moan as your bodies move together, and the pleasure swells deep inside you, all around his cock. He nudges the silk robe off your shoulders and pulls down the straps of your dress. He groans at the sight of your breasts. He covers one with a hand and one with his mouth and his whole body is moving in time with the music. Your chest feels light. For the rest of the song, your body is wrapped around his, and his hips are slightly lifting you with each thrust.  

The same song starts over, but it's not the same singer. The voice is smoother, deeper than Jack White’s. You pull your head back to listen. Clement studies your face, and it takes you a few seconds to recognize the vocals. It’s him, Clement. 

“Holy shit,” you mutter, and his face comes to life. “Your voice is–God.” It's hard piecing sentences together impaled on him.

“You really like it,” he marvels. 

“Of course I do, it's . . . perfect.” 

His eyes soften with affection and he kisses you deeper, smoothly thrusting. He seems to take up all the space in your body. 

The passion between you intensifies until it might burst. You need all of his body. You break away from a messy kiss to undo one of his shirt buttons, then another, and he unbuttons the rest in a hurry, and leans back against the chair as you spread his shirt. His chain sparkles in the firelight. It's hanging slightly above a chest tattoo that has the same birds as the gun. His tan skin glistens in the flickering glow.

You plant your hands on his hard pecs to ride him. The movement of his hips becomes more pronounced, and soon he's taken over. He thrusts upward sharply but smoothly and starts fucking you from the bottom, grunting and sighing. He pulls you down on him each time he thrusts. You moan, feeling like you're on the brink. 

He pulls you close again and kisses you sloppily while your bodies move as one. “Clem, I'm gonna–”

“Mmm,” he cuts you off. He grunts and moans against your mouth. He's close too. 

“I'm gonna fill ya up, baby. . .You want that?” he pants. 

You nod.

“You want big Clement dribbling’ down your thighs?” 

You nod urgently.  

“That's my girl.” His massive hands move you on his cock, and you whimper as you begin to unravel. You clench around him, and he fucks you through it. Then he grunts as he thrusts upward “nngg—ohhhh, uugggh.” He pulses into you, warmth spreading in your core as you finish choking his cock. 

You collapse into his arms and twitch with aftershocks as he cradles your head. After a minute, you're still impaled on him and he says your name. You pull your head back. 

He looks back and forth between your eyes. A firetruck siren interrupts you. There are more sirens in the distance. Clement shifts his head to look past you, through the windshield, through the broken chain-link fence. His eyes illuminate warmly and he breaks into a small smile. You look behind yourself to see a building on fire in the distance. It's now half engulfed in flames. 

What a view. This man is wild, and you can't get enough of him. 

-------- -------- Thank you so much for reading!! If you want, you can subscribe to notifications on @toxicfics for all my fics. If you want to be on a Boyd Holbrook character tag list lmk but fyi I sometimes write dark. I have a dark fic rn called The Raid with Steve and Javi. Javi captures reader to make her get clean (off drugs) and she's very horny for them. Steve shows up in part 2, then he has his own PWP one shot, Javi isn't home. Series ongoing.

[emily-strange]

I swear my toxic trait is loving characters that have little to no fanfiction 😂😑😭

[anneswritingnook]

FANDOM TRUMPS HATE 2025!!!

FANDOM TRUMPS HATE

Hello Hello, Calling on the Justified Fandom to Get Ready for Fandom Trumps Hate 2025!

What is Fandom Trumps Hate?

FTH is an online fanworks auction, designed to raise money for progressive nonprofit organizations that help and support marginalized people.

What are this year’s Non-Profits?

Full List of Non-Profits HERE

2025 Calendar:

Sign Ups: Jan 20-Feb 2 Browsing: Feb 21-25 Bidding: Feb 25-Mar 1 How does it work?

Each Creator can make up to 3 auction offerings, and it can include ANY kind of fanwork, for example:

Written fanworks (fic, poetry, remixes, etc.)

Fanart, which includes but is not limited to digital art, scanned art, gifsets, manips, moodboards, etc.

Podfics

Fanvids (including fancams)

Fan labour, which includes but is not limited to betaing, brit/japan/america-picking, or offering specialist expertise

When the time comes, bidders will bid on these offering, and when the auction ends, the winner will donate their high bid to one of the non-profits on the creators list. The Creator will then fulfill the offering for their high bidder.

Have more questions?

See the FTH FAQ HERE

[galactic-academia]

Hungry Hearts

Everybody needs a place to rest Everybody wants to have a home Don't make no difference what nobody says Ain't nobody like to be alone Everybody's got a hungry heart Bruce Springsteen - Hungry Heart

Rating: E, minors DNI

Category: F/M

Fandom: Justified

Relationship: Raylan Givens x F!Reader

Tags for this part: Language, fluff, pining, age gap (10 years), making out, tons of self-doubt and miscommunication, idiots in love, fear of abandonment, also tons of overthinking, SMUT, fingering (F!receiving), oral sex (F!receiving), dirty talk, Reader and Raylan are both whipped, Reader has hair (no length description), Reader wear a nightgown and mascara, Tim Gutterson isn’t paid enough for this shit.

Words : 5K

Summary: Whatever’s going on between Raylan and you is working, but it’s not to everyone’s taste. And your life is still at stake. Will you be able to overcome your own demons or will you make a tragedy out of your love story? If only you were the only one making this decision…

Notes : This is a continuation to “Through the Door”; if you haven’t read it, know that Raylan refers to Reader as “Little One” or “Lil’” for there are 10 years between them (but that doesn’t exclude other pet names). Not canon compliant: Raylan left Kentucky later than in the show and his favorite ice cream flavor is now Ben & Jerry’s Cookies & Cream Cheesecake Core. I know nothing about how the Marshal’s Office functions and whatever I read on the Internet didn’t help me so much, it’s pretty inaccurate, let’s happily suspend your disbelief. 

I've been working on this for two years, time for me to share <3

Masterpost | Ask | Guidelines | Timothy Olyphant Masterlist

Through the Door | Part I | Part II | Part III

“Is it still your favorite?”

A few steps ahead of you, his handsome face shielded from the harsh lights of the store by the stetson ever sitting on his head, Raylan turns around and comes back to you.

“What?” Smiling, you hold an ice cream tub to his face. “Ben & Jerry’s Cookies & Cream Cheesecake Core?” He reads, before looking at you, half smiling, half dumbfounded. “You remember that?”

You smirk, not-so-secretly proud of yourself as you put the treat in your tote bag. “I remember a lot of things, Givens.”

“Yeah, so do I, and if I recall correctly, you don’t like Cheesecake Core at all.”

Your heart misses a beat. It happens a lot, lately. Everytime you find yourself doing something so… domestic with Raylan, it sends a giddy feeling fizzling into your stomach, and he always proves to be attentive; ever has been. And those tiny marks of intimacy? Yeah, they make your heart capsize like you’re sixteen again.

“Nope.”

Still in your space, he pointedly looks at your bag. “Why are you puttin’ it in there, then?”, he asks with a wince. The tub has started to sweat in the heat of the afternoon and it’s going to stain your bag. He can hear you fuss about it already. it’s far too late in September to be this hot, and your bag is far too pretty to be used as a grocery bag.

“‘S not for me,” you sing-song. You’re grinning so big and so often that, sometimes, your cheeks hurt.

“Who’s it for, then?” He’s grinning too, looking at you down his nose and tugging you by your waist out of the line of prying eyes and ears.

That cashier, he’s a junkie. It’s written all over his face. This is the last time you go shopping there. He will have to tell the team about it. Too dangerous.

“For my favorite cowboy,” you laugh, ‘I want him to have something nice to nibble on when he gets peckish. Where are we going?”, you finally wonder.

“Right… here.” You stand, entangled with Raylan, in the middle of an empty aisle you don’t need anything from.

“And you wanted to get there specifically because?”

“Because of this security camera - just over there.” He points the dead appliance to you. “It’s out.”

“And?” You ask.

He’s still smiling - more of a smirk than a grin now - both hands crossed and resting on your lower back, applying gentle pressure to keep you near, always nearer.

“And nobody can see us”, Raylan mumbled, “So I can do this without getting my ass kicked by Art.” He isn’t lying. Not entirely. While Raylan has no problem with kissing you whenever, wherever, he doesn’t need to give his chief another reason to regret letting him stay around you. You don’t need to know about the cashier. He looks anxious as shit. Probably craving his fix. Tapping his fingers on the counter and constantly switching between the camera's monitor and the clock sitting above the door. He may be waiting for someone. His dealer? Maybe. Or someone up the ladder, seeing the state he’s putting himself in. Raylan needs to get you out of here as soon as possible. He still takes the time to kiss the living lights out of you in the middle of the grocery store.

And what won’t you let that man do to you? You even chase his lips when he comes up for air. When it comes to Raylan, too much is never enough; and he doesn’t need to be told as much.

“What a shame that would be, that ass is too cute to be kicked by anyone”, you claim with sparkling eyes.

He snorts more than he laughs, but it’s still a win; you will do anything for that blinding smile to never go away. “Is that so? I don’t deprive myself of remindin’ you as much next time you give me shit.”

He says that, acts like you’re mean to him, but between the two of you, things are… peculiar. When it’s just Raylan and you, it’s like you’re fused to each other; all other each other. Like there isn’t anyone else in the world. He eagerly makes out with you, for hours, and you feel him hard as steel underneath you, and there’s nothing you want more than for him to lay you down and take what he so overtly wants. But he won’t. Raylan hasn’t been adventurous with you, at all.

It’s getting disturbing.

You’ve reasoned with yourself that he needs to be ready to fight if - somehow - your cover is busted and someone tries to assault you. And maybe there is a level of fraternization that would get him in real trouble if his chief came to know about it? You have no idea. Sure, you could simply ask him, but… No. That would just be awkward. He must have a good reason obvious enough for him to not need to talk about it. Anyway, you’re almost sure Marshals aren’t supposed to… date? No, you’re not dating, unless grocery shopping together during office hours counts as dating. ‘Fuck’ is not the right word either, since there hasn’t been any fucking of any kind yet, but ‘making out’ just seems ridiculous, when you think about it. And ‘fraternizing’ is sad. Nevertheless, what’s going on between Raylan and yourself shouldn’t happen, but it does; and you’re too afraid to lose it - to lose him again - to say anything about it.

So you don’t say anything while he loads your groceries in the trunk of his car. You don’t say anything when he does happily munch on his Cheesecake Core on your back porch later that evening. And you certainly don’t say anything when, after pretending to watch the movie you choose for about twenty minutes, he hauls you on his lap to devour your mouth.

Things will sort themselves out, won’t they? There’s nothing to overthink, no need to see oddities where there isn’t any. Everything is ok and one thing at a time; and, who knows, maybe Raylan is waiting for you to make a move?

When you finally fall asleep that night, entangled with him in the soft blankets you keep thrown over the back of your couch for nights like this, you’re smiling to yourself with the beginning of a plan in mind. Maybe it’s time to show Raylan Givens that you’re ready to throw at least as much as he does in it. Whatever ‘it’ may be.

You’re, unfortunately, starting to get well acquainted with the Marshals’ Office time table. For three to four days in a row, depending on the workload back at the office, you spend your day with either Tim Gutterson or Raylan, and the night with the other. After a maximum of four nights in a row, Marshal Rachel Brooks comes to take the night shift, so the two others can rest before swifting shift for another couple of days.

You love it when Raylan works the night shift, even if it means you spend all of them on the couch and your back is screaming at you. You know it’s also his favorite time to be on duty for several reasons, including that he doesn’t like Gutterson spending time with you while you’re in your night attire. He never truly told you so, but his prickly attitude towards his coworker and possessive one towards you the few times he arrived at 8 to find you in your gown, having breakfast with Tim, was enough. And unbearably hot. And it gave you an idea.

You don’t live in a movie, so you don’t sleep every night in lingerie, far from it. Therefore, it would be an understatement to say Marshal Gutterson is quite baffled when you enter the kitchen, five minutes before 8 in the morning, wearing a gown that suggests everything it doesn’t show. You immediately go for the pantry, bringing the coffee machine to life on your way.

“Hello Tim, how are you?”

“Hell-o? Uh… Is there something I missed?”

It doesn’t sit right with you to throw Gutterson under the bus like this to get what you want. The bag of pastries you toss into his hands doesn’t help to alleviate the guilt as much as you wish it would.

“Just needed to set the mood.”

The frown between the Marshal’s eyebrows deepens.

“No shit…”

You hear the key turning in the lock and the door opening, then the sound of boots clattering softly on the wooden floor; you know Gutterson hears it too, for he’s straight as a rod with his eyes screwed shut already. 

And here he is, barely awake and pissed off already, Raylan Givens in all his glory.

“Eh. Good morning, Lil’. Marshal, one word?”

Opening one eye to glare at you, Tim growls something suspiciously sounding like “Pastries don’t cut it off”, before following his coworker into the living room.

You only have time enough to gulp down your coffee and rush to your bedroom before you hear the front door slamming shut and Gutterson muttering to himself while he crosses your alley to his car; He’s right, though, pastries don’t cut it off, you’ll have to find something nice to make it up to him.

“Sugar? Where are you?”

“Upstairs!”

Raylan calling for you erases all culpability from your mind.

He enters the room, his hat low on his eyes, softly grumbling: “What the Hell, Woman? Are you tryin’ to send me to an early grave?”

So, so dramatic…

You start rummaging into your dresser to busy yourself, to pretend to have a semblance of naturalness in your behavior; “Me? Why? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

You feel him coming nearer and nearer more than you hear him, and the furnace only a breath away from your bare back just gives you the confirmation you needed.

“Really, sweetheart?” And you don’t let the tender pet name fool you, because the hands on your hips are definitely leaving bruises behind them, you can feel it already. “You, who’re, somehow, always cold at night, don’t understand why I’m surprised to see you almost naked, chilling with Marshal fucking Gutterson?”

Maybe you bit more than you can chew, this time. His breath is tickling your nape, and you’re almost sure the butterfly-light caresses you can feel at the base of your hair are from his nose. You can hear the fire in his tone, but also the morbid playfulness. It makes your skin crawl and your pussy throb.

“To be entirely honest, Marshal, you don’t seem so surprised to me.” You don’t know who’s in charge of your being, but it’s certainly not your brain anymore.

“No?”

“No.”

“That’s right, Little One, I ain’t surprised.” Raylan softly nuzzles his way from the nape of your neck up to your  ear, which he gently starts nipping at, while his large, warm hands are lovingly petting your belly and your vertebrae and what the fuck is happening right now? His voice is reduced to a breath in your ear. “I’m livid.”

You gasp. His hands haven’t been near anywhere you truly want them and he hasn’t said anything even a little bit thrilling, but you’re positively dripping and your lack of panties isn’t helping. Ok, maybe you know what part of your body is in charge, now.

“Let me make it up to you, then.” He lets you turn in his arms and, getting on your tiptoes, you kiss him. But he doesn’t kiss you back. you settle back on your heels, looking at him like a hurt doe, your heart in your throat already.

For a fraction of second, you’re certain you fucked everything up. But then, Raylan lets out a growling breath in the shape of a “Oh, baby…” and he’s on you.

He manhandles you so efficiently that you don’t know what’s happening until you’re bouncing on your own bed, Raylan’s left hand under your head to make sure you don’t get hurt. You flick the hat off his head as your hands come to run in his hair;  you’re already panting when he leaves your lips to trail little half-kisses half-nips down your throat and your exposed chest.

“That’s what you wanted?”, he rumbles against your skin, “That’s why you gave good ol’ Tim an eyeful? Just wanted some attention, uh?”

Instead of answering, you start squirming under your Marshal and push on the back of his head to get his lips back on yours. Raylan humors you by devouring your mouth to the point of making your head spin. You understand the real goal of the plan when it’s too late already, and both your wrists are secure above your head in one of his big, strong hands. And you know he knows that you know, because he breaks that toe-curling kiss, tutting right into your mouth.

“Now, baby, do you really think you deserve to get what you want? You really think turning on the Marshals who must keep an eye on you is a game, don’t ya? Answer me…”

“Ray…” God, it shouldn’t be thrilling like this. You’re almost sure he’s truly a little pissed and that he wants to make a point, to a certain extent. But being at his mercy like this, it’s really scratching an itch you didn’t even know was there.

“Come on, sweetheart, tell me now.”

He’s smirking down at you, all smug and oozing confidence; he could demand anything from you right now, anything, there’s nothing you could deny him, nothing you wouldn’t do to please him. You can feel the fingertips of the hand that’s not holding you down delicately brushing the inside of your tight and a fresh wave of wetness leaking slowly to meet them.

“What was all this about?”, he coaxes, “What is it that you want so bad?”

“You.”

It’s nothing but a whisper and you say it like a fucking prayer, a supplication full of adoration, full of desperation for what you’re so ardently desiring. And Raylan looks like it hits him like a rocket; like, somehow, he wasn’t expecting that answer. Gone is the cocky Marshal so self-satisfied to have you wriggling under his form, only remains Raylan, forever surprised that someone could truly feel something so deep for him.

“Little one”, his voice cracks as he closes his eyes and touches his forehead to yours, “When there is something you want, to tell it to d- fuck… You tell me, alright? Whatever it is, you tell me, ok?”

“Ok.”

And you know he’s going to drown himself in a tidal wave of feelings - both good and bad - if you don’t defuse the situation right now. He needs to digest the implications of what you confessed. Maybe you need it too.

“I want you to kiss me.” He obeys. Two minutes ago, you were the one under his command, now the tables have turned. “And I want you to touch me.”

Raylan’s hand, that has been resting on your thigh, resumes its slow ascent to your core. He’s taking his time and no amount of wriggling around will decide him to hurry. You will get exactly what you want, all in good time. But when the very tip of his fingers connects - at last - with your wet lips, the Marshal’s eyes, which were hooded from desire, round with surprise as he sucks a breath in. This is it.

Once more, Raylan closes his eyes and, through his teeth, like the words are hurting him somehow, he chokes “Baby, tell me you weren’t completely naked under that nightgown all this time…”. You gulp, praying for that ballsy initiative to be a lucky one.

“And what if I were?” Your voice is a little squeaky, far from the bold tone you were aiming for.

“What if you did strut around, pussy bare, in the same room as Gutterson? What if its warmth was so near he could almost feel it?” He’s getting mad again, and a little delirious, but so are you.

As he’s busy glaring you down his perfect nose, you manage to sneak your legs from between Raylan’s one to around his hips and draw them into yours, his fingertips breaching your entrance in the move.

“And what if I wore this just to thrill you? What if I stayed in the same room as Tim just the two seconds it takes to launch the coffee maker? What if I took my panties off just before I got down the stairs, hoping for you to get mad enough to do something about it?”

He’s going to eat you alive. If eyes could kill, you would be dead. Just one more push.

“I’m asking you, Raylan, please, do something about it. Or maybe I’ll ask Marshal Gutterson to lend me a hand. ‘Service’ does figure in the Marshals’ motto, right?”

The snarky quality of your little soliloquy gets interrupted by two delightfully long and thick digits pushing and curling into your pussy. Oh yes, finally… You moan, biting on your lips, the fire that has been steadily burning in your abdomen suddenly flaring.

“You’re such a fuckin’ brat”, Raylan spits through his teeth, “What am I gonna do with ya’ uh?”

His fingers keep fucking into you, hitting a spot that makes the pressure into your belly grow and grow. You had wanted this for so long, it’s like all the waiting is now increasing the pleasure you’re experiencing. And maybe it truly does. 

Somehow, you manage to stutter “You - ah! - you like it that way!”

“I do.”

His pupils are so blown up you almost can’t see the warm, deep brown of his irises anymore; but, upon his confession, his furious gaze melts in pure adoration. It hits you square in the chest, and your heart skips a beat, but before you have any time to dwell on that feeling, Raylan’s lips are back on yours and his thumb has found your clit. Your back arches from the mattress, your hips grinding onto his fingers.

“Yeah, I love it when you have an attitude”.

You had lovers before, and the wisest of them did stick their fingers into your pussy too, to get you ready for what was coming next. Truth be told, there wasn’t a lot to get ready for, but point to them for the will. Raylan, this, wasn’t the first one to finger fuck you, but he might be the first to pull an orgasm out of you that way.

“But what I love the most is when you lose that attitude and melt. Oh, baby, I can feel ya clenchin’ around my fingers…”

“Gonna come!”, you squeak, a little mad at yourself for giving into him that easily.

“Yeah? That’s alright babygirl, drench my fingers. Can’t figure how you’re gonna get tighter that you already are, can’t wait to find out…”

The heat in your lower belly finally erupts and you pulse around Raylan’s digits, still prodding that delightful spot inside you. He makes you ride your bliss til’ the very last spasming aftershock, toeing the line of overstimulation.

“Ray...”, you whimper between two wretched gulps of air. You want to say something, something bratty and sexy, something that will throw you back again in the game you two are always playing. Something that will rile him up some more, that might give you the upper hand, but you lay, trembling, in his arms, only able to mewl his name.

With a chuckle, Raylan pulls his fingers out of you, eliciting some more whining on your part. The bastard is cocky, as always, but damn if he didn’t win the right to be!

“Hold on tight, honey, I ain’t done with you”.

Mustering what seems to be a gigantic effort, you slightly lift your head from the comforter only to see your favorite Marshal sliding off the bed to kneel on the floor, right in front of you; his hand smoothly gliding along from your hips to your knees, keeping your legs from closing.

“W-what are you doing?”, you croak, not believing your own eyes.

“Got thirsty over here, with all that talking. Didn’t even have a cup of coffee, it all went into Gutterson’s vacuum bottle, ain’t it?” His hands start caressing your thighs, from outer to inner, so softly that your skin erupts in goosebumps. “Gonna taste you”, he stops to lay tiny, wet kisses on your inner thigh, “Gonna drink you down”, some to your other leg, “Gonna make you feel so good”.

As he picks your legs up to place them on his shoulders - pulling you toward him on the same move - he looks up at you with those big brown eyes of his and you feel it. Something constricts into your chest, breathtaking. Your heart is pounding, your stomach flustering. It’s there. You can taste it. But then he leans forward to press a feather-light kiss to your clit. Your hips buck instantly as you throw your head back on the mattress.

“Jesus...”

That makes Raylan laughs, sending scrumptious vibrations up your pussy, making you gush some more.

“No Jesus here, baby, just ol’, plain Raylan”, the fucker doesn’t even bother to lift his head, just makes fun of you while nosing your curls, “And if you want to call me other than by my name, I’m sure you can do better than that...”

Oh that... That bastard, he- he’s licking a stripe up your folds, a long, sultry one, before coming back to your clit to suck on it.

You’re a writhing mess under him and only his two big hands holding your hips forcefully down stop your body from arching completely from the bed. You also had lovers going down on you. Not a lot, and not often, but you never complained, wondering what the Hell they were trying to do as they awkwardly slurp at your heat, maybe thinking a lick of two would have you begging for mercy. Well, you did beg for mercy, but for them to stop their fuckery.

A high, blissful moan escapes your lips as Raylan lazily drag his mouth downward and pushes his tongue inside your hole to fuck you with it. You’re going to come for the second time in a matter of minutes, you’re going to come from being eaten out; both for the first time. Then you feel it, the mattress is slightly rocking back and forth. The mattress is rocking back and forth because Raylan is unconsciously humping it while he has his tongue buried as deep as possible inside of you. It makes you go feral, you grab a hold on Raylan’s head, tugging at his hair which makes his nose bump your clit. You yelp, thighs clamping around his head as he goes for the kill; pointing his tongue to circle your clit a few times before giving it a firm, sharp suck.

You lose it, without any warning. Your hips buck as wildly as they can into Raylan’s grip as you cry out his name, coming all over his mouth. He’s moaning too, lapping madly at you, not letting you go until little zaps of overstimulation make you... Yeah, beg for mercy.

“C-can’t... Ray! Can’t anymore! So good, so, so good...”

He pulls away, at last, chin glistening with your juices, “Alright, baby, alright”, he says gruffly, “Can’t help myself, you’re so sweet, so good to me.”

He crawls back on the mattress as you pull him toward you by his head, crushing your lips together and tasting yourself on his tongue. You stay like this, making out like crazy, fighting him for dominance with the maddening want to return as good as you were given. Hell, the very thought of Raylan squirming and groaning under your ministrations, of him losing himself into you, losing composure, is enough to make you throb. But just as you start to fumble with his belt, a hand tugging on it while the other is cupping his length over the denim, his own hand comes down to stop you.

“Oh babygirl”, he keeps on kissing you, all tongue and teeth, unable to pull away for more than a couple of words at a time, “There’s nothing I would like more- ah!”, he may have stop the hand tugging at his belt, but not the one fondling him, after all; and you were right; there’s nothing more satisfying than Raylan tripping over his words and clinging to his crumbling composure.

The delicious feeling is short-lived, though, as Raylan - shifting his weight from his forearm to his knees - takes a hold of both your wrists in one of his hands before lifting them above your head.

He’s unbearably sexy like this, dishevelled, pupils blown and eyes half-lidded, flushed from arousal and chin fucking dripping with your come. God helps you.

“Baby”, he pants, “There’s nothing I would like more than to keep rolling around in your bed - and don’t get me started on what I know you were going to do or I’ll cream my pants like a goddamn teenager - but I have to take you to court”.

“What?!”, you whine, “What fucking for?”

He huffs, letting you understand you’re not the only one dying of frustration here, “Preliminary hearing”.

Forty-five minutes later, you’re finally seated in Raylan’s Lincoln and on your way to court. You may have been quicker if your favorite Marshal had kept his hands to himself for more than two minutes at a time; the only reprieve you’ve had have been when he went downstairs to pour you both a cup of coffee. Try to focus on something as mundane as putting on some mascara when Raylan Givens is lovingly nipping at your ear, his hands slipping under your blouse...

Even now, as he drives, he still has his right hand sitting firmly on your thigh. And, can you believe it? A few weeks ago, the two of you hadn’t spoken in fifteen years and now you can’t bear to be apart for more than the few seconds it takes for Raylan to swift gears. Staring at his profile, golden in the morning sun, you can’t help but to ask yourself: how did you get so lucky?

“Do I have dirt on my face or somethin’?”, he asks, pulling you out of your reverie, eyes still on the road.

“Uh? Hm, no, just the usual scratchy beard; why?”

“Can feel you staring”, he mumbles almost absent-mindedly, and then, much more preoccupied, “Ya think my beard is scratchy?”

“Well”, you chuckle, “All beards are, ain’t they?”

You can see the troubles as they’re passing on his face, can see them in the quick side glance he gives you as he negotiates his way into the traffic.

“Didn’t hear any complaints when I had my face buried into that glorious pussy, though...”

Presumptuous, obnoxious, delicious asshole.

“Let’s say I didn’t hear you saying that, yeah? Let’s handle only one penance at a time.”

It makes him laugh, and his features lighten up. Raylan always looks so much younger when he laughs, almost carefree. There is no sight you love more.

“Here we are.”

Lexington’s court resembles the county: old, industrial and poorly kept. You’re almost relieved when the edifice leaves your sight as Raylan makes for the underground parking.

“Thank you for driving me”, you say, as you get up from your seat and shut your door, “Are you escorting me to the courtroom?”

“I sure do”, he replied, quickly shutting his own door and hurrying around the car to join you and snake an arm around your waist, “You’re not leaving the Marshal Services’ sight before we’re sure you ain’t in danger anymore. Brooks in currently checkin’ on the courtroom”.

“Checking on? What is she looking for?”

“Microphones, cameras, explosives...”

“Explosives?!” You know you’re in danger. You know that they’re searching for you, that’s how you ended up in Harlan to begin with, but thinking a whole building could blow up and everyone in with it, just because of you...

“It’s part of the securing procedure, doesn’t mean there’ll be any. Hey... Hey!” Raylan slows down, then stops in his tracks.

He kept you so entertained these past weeks that you almost forgot your life was at risk. It was there, in a corner of your head, but you pushed it aside. Now it’s coming back and the anxiety is threatening to drown you.

“Baby”, he called, softly pushing you against a stone pillar, “Hey, baby, look at me”. Raylan takes hold of your cheeks like you’re the most precious treasure in the world and searches for your eyes. You look into the deep, reassuring brown of his irises. He’s here.

“You’re safe with us, ok? You’re safe with me. Rachel is just applying the procedure, just making sure, yeah? They can’t hurt you, not when one of us is with you and certainly not when I’m holding you in my arms, alright? I won’t let anything happen to you.”

You could cry. You’ve never felt safer than in Ray’s arms. And he’s... And now, he... Oh.

“Kiss me.”

It’s desperate, and feral, and probably more than a little horny; it’s a kiss worthy of a soap opera, the ones that leave you a little breathless behind your screen. Truly, it’s a promise.

“I don’t want to go”, you whisper as you finally part.

“I know. I don’t want you to go either, but you have to. Your testimony is the best weapon we have. it’s your duty, as a hero.”

That statement baffles you enough for you to mostly forget your uneasiness; even if just for a moment.

“I thought you were the hero here, Marshal”, you giggle.

Grinning, Raylan bumps his nose against yours and breathes “In this story, baby, I’m merely your side-kick”.

[eternalgoldfish]

raised on little light

Boyd Crowder/Raylan Givens | M | 6.6k

Boyd leaned his forehead against the glass partition, his eyes dancing with something slow and mischievous, the phone held between loose fingers. "In some ways we are old gods, Raylan. You ever think that? Lawmen and outlaws, both above the law, just on different sides." “Is that what you're preaching in there now?” Raylan squinted. “The conman’s bible? May cause some difficulties with your future parole.” “The only difficulty to my parole visits on Wednesdays, and he's neglected to attend my congregation.”

Read on AO3

[parisian-nicole]

Man, I am loving the chemistry between Raylan and Carolyn!! RAYOLYN!!!

[dispatchvampire]

Close Encounters of the Preferred Kind - (MCU/Justified Crossover)

Part 2 in my wholly unintentional Two Snipers series.

Rating: PG-13

Fandom: Justified/The Avengers (MCU) Crossover (kinda)

Pairing: Clint Barton/Tim Gutterson

Word Count: 2066

Warnings: Fluff (kinda sorta, if you squint), canon level violence, aliens, cussing, a lot of cussing.

Summary: Set after the events of 'Bad Mistakes (I've Made A Few)', this is the second meeting of our fateful couple, with aliens invading, families meeting, and, of course, Tim's long-suffering boss, Chief Deputy Marshal Art Mullen. Life gets messy when worlds collide.

Author’s Notes: 100% did not intend to write a follow-up to BM, but these two don't really do things on my timeline or my schedule. Anyway, the idea of this made me laugh, this is what happens when you introduce your Boo to your people, and everybody had issues. Oh, and the mood board was all me, with picture credit going to their varying photographers.

Eastern Kentucky is not where one expects Armageddon to start, but there it is and there they are. 

“What the fuck am I looking at, Art?” the sniper asked his superior officer as he stared unflinchingly down his rifle scope. When he’d gotten the call that all hell had broken loose in Noble’s Holler, Tim figured it was more methed up psychopaths who were unclear on the local mayor’s penchant for pig sticking. Purple creatures falling out of a hole in the sky with more tentacles than a jellyfish was not on his bingo card. 

“I got no idea,” the older man answered, never once looking up from his binoculars, “but my suggestion is nothing but headshots.” He paused as he loaded his own rifle and stretched out on a bluff overlooking the mayhem next to Tim. To look at the Chief Deputy in his tie and button down shirt, he didn’t seem the type to get down on the ground and dirty, but most folks underestimated him to their peril. The man taught at Glynco and was a badass well before Tim got proficient with a slingshot, much less a rifle.  “Assuming that those are actually their heads.”

“Copy that.” There was nothing quite as satisfying as brass ejecting from the port and watching his target become iridescent green mist. 

Alien invasions were not generally the purview of the United States Marshals Service,  but occasionally, needs must. 

The giant millipedes had massive tentacles and leathery purple skin which was impervious to conventional small arms fire; the only thing that seemed to fell the murderous, marauding bastards was a shot through he presumed was the eye, a target approximate the size of a navel orange, or through the mouth, an open maw about the size of a peach. Luckily, the produce section had never been an issue for Tim. 

He’d been shooting and reloading for the better part of an hour after the damn portal opened up, doing his best to defend Ellstin Limehouse’s normally quiet enclave as best he could. It was the least he could do, even if he didn’t exactly trust the guy. Their interpersonal issues had nothing to do with the welfare of the innocents being set upon by these nightmare fuel monstrosities. 

Correction: “By comparison, my nightmares are a breeze.”

When the first creature fell without his intervention, Tim was startled enough to jerk back from the ledge and take his eyes off the scope, just in time to see the honest-to-God Captain America shield go flying past the end of his rifle, taking out a creature coming up on his flank that he’d missed before bouncing back to its owner with disturbing accuracy. 

“I am entirely too old for this shit,” Art grumbled as he rolled away from the edge to reload his rifle with all the annoyance and irritation of a deluge of Friday afternoon paperwork. 

“I will be goddamned,” Tim murmured reverently as his brain processed what was happening. Creatures began falling left, right, and center as a roaring overhead signaled the arrival of Iron Man while the roaring on the ground was the giant green menace known as the Hulk ripping through these things like they were made of tissue paper. But that wasn’t what held his interest. 

There, big as life and dressed in form-fitting purple and black kevlar, was the luscious not-so-little secret he’d been keeping since his detail in DC. What should have been a routine job a couple months ago turned into a three-night-stand for the duration of the operation, and then some flirty texts back and forth and more than the occasional round of phone sex in the time intervening. None of that could have prepared him for seeing Clint in action up close and personal. 

The armless black suit emphasized every unreasonably pretty inch of the man, from his ridiculous arms that wielded a bow as ably as he hefted his own rifle, shot after unerring shot bounding and leaping nimbly from cover to cover, down to the perfect cupcake ass that fit in his hands just so. Goddamn the man was so pretty he could be considered a potentially lethal distraction. 

“You gonna watch or are you gonna shoot?” Raylan demanded from his right as he stretched out on the ground with a rifle to join the party. The cowboy had been late to the party since he and Rachel had been left to man the office in Lexington, but once gunplay became the order of the day, Tim knew it was only a matter of time before the man in the infamous tan hat showed up. That he was able to convince Rachel, their normally by-the-book and most level-headed colleague, to come out on an alien invasion spoke to the man’s ability to charm the devil himself out of his seat in Hell. 

“Fuck you,” Tim snarled, but without any heat behind it as he took up his position again and began firing once more at the few remaining creatures on the ground below them. 

From start to finish was just under three hours of sustained fire, and when Tim finally rose to his feet to survey the area, the story was told in the sea of expended brass cartridges and rivers of green blood running through the streets of the valley below. Black trucks were rolling in from both sides of the holler with SHIELD logos on them, signaling the cleanup crew. 

“You know what time it is now, right?” Raylan asked with a devilish grin as he doffed his hat to shrug out of his ballistic vest. He’d stripped down to a form-fitting white t-shirt and looked more like he’d been called in from a day off than from a day at the office. 

“What’s that?” Art demanded as the guys helped him to his feet, brushing an annoyed hand over the wrinkles and streaks of dirt that his wife Leslie would likely fuss over later. After she yelled at him about going out on an alien invasion not two months out of a stint at the heart hospital. 

With a shiteating grin and the pop of a peppermint Altoid in his mouth, Raylan nodded toward the collection of superheroes at the edge of the fray, watching the cleanup proceedings begin and talking amongst themselves. “The interagency debrief, of course!” He was off before anyone had a chance to contradict him, leaving Tim, Rachel, and Art to chase after the cocksure cowboy. 

“Can’t get him to even look at paperwork any other time,” Rachel grumbled as they slowly approached the other group. 

“This ain’t paperwork,” Tim replied, though his eyes were on one thing and one thing only. 

Like they had a mind of their own, his feet carried him right up until he was close enough to tap Clint on the shoulder. “How do, stranger.”

The pure joy on the man’s face when he turned around did funny, fizzy things to his insides that he was loath to examine, and were dangerously close to giddy. The man smelled like sweat and looked like heaven, and fuck if all he wanted to do was run his hands over those arms that had held him up against a wall more than once. As it was, he was standing closer than was strictly necessary and well beyond the bounds of ‘just friends reuniting’. The desire to wrap his arms around the man was damn difficult to quell. 

“I wondered if I’d get to see you,” the archer replied with a shy smile and flushed cheeks. “I mean, I’d hoped,” he rambled on, “but then—” he gestured at the carnage behind him. 

For a moment, it was like the world had winnowed down to just the two of them. “I get it. I’m glad you’re here now, though.” 

“Me too.”

And then the moment was broken by the diminutive redhead standing next to them elbowing Clint in the ribs. “Who’s your friend, Barton?” She was equally clad in black, the kevlar skating over and highlighting every single curve and hollow, highlighting both the beauty and the danger that she embodied. 

Rolling his eyes, Clint took half a step back to face her more fully. “Nat, this is Tim Gutterson of the Marshals.” 

Her green eyes lit up as her lips curved into a mischievous smirk. “The hottie you told me about from a couple months ago in DC?” 

The blond’s eyes widened comically as his face shifted from flushed to pale to tomato red with alarming speed. “Real subtle, Nat.” 

If his face felt hot before, now it felt like the skin was melting off of him. The idea of Clint talking about him, to Black Widow of all people, combined with the adrenaline dump of the situation only added to the feeling of surreal dissociation. Feeling a bit cheeky, he grinned slyly as he looked Clint up and down. “Talking about me, Clint? My heart’s a-flutter with curiosity.” 

“Deputy Gutterson, you gonna introduce your friends?” Art’s voice was a bucket of cold water down his back as he suddenly remembered both his location and his audience. 

From Raylan’s grin, he knew he would never EVER live this down, no matter how many terrible situations the cowboy’s penchant for prohibited pussy landed them in, and Rachel? Well, she was the office master interrogator for a reason and he knew damn sure that he would be spilling everything he knew to her before they made it to the Lexington city limits. 

“Chief Deputy Art Mullen, this is Clint Barton of the Avengers and …” he trailed off, uncertain how to introduce the Black Frickin’ Widow. 

She stepped up and shook Art’s hand like a practiced politician. “Natasha Romanov. Lovely to meet you.” 

The older man smiled and, while Tim couldn’t swear to it, appeared to blush like a schoolboy. “Likewise.” 

Not to be outdone, Raylan smoothly inserted himself between them with his hand out and his 1000 megawatt gunslinger charm turned to ‘thermonuclear’. “Raylan Givens, Miss Romanov. Longtime admirer of your work.” 

She giggled. The assassin actually fucking giggled and her nose wrinkled. “You can call me Natasha.” 

Art watched this scene, the four of them talking amongst themselves, with apocalyptic levels of horror dawning on his face. The sheer amount of paperwork Raylan and Tim, hell Raylan by himself most days, generate was enough to fell a small forest. These folks together were an environmental crime waiting to happen. The potential bodycount of a Raylan and Romanoff team-up was nothing short of an imminent violation of the Geneva Convention. “Oh absolutely fucking not.” 

All four heads turned in his direction, Raylan’s mouth already open and ready to rock, but he was having none of the bullshit. 

“You,” Art pointed to the cowboy, “get in the car.” 

“Bu—”

“Nope,” he held up the finger of doom, the finger of ‘unpaid time off if he kept on,’ it 3was one they were all exceptionally familiar with. “Car. Now.” Turning to Tim, he softened a bit. “Say your goodbyes, we have paperwork.” 

Rather than argue, Tim merely nodded, cringing when he turned to face Clint. “Dad says I gotta go.” 

Clint’s smirk was nothing short of wicked and it was suddenly a billion degrees around Tim. “I’ll be around tonight if you wanna meet up.” 

“I’d like that just fine.” Anything else he wanted to say was cut off at a sound he rarely heard outside of the comforts of her mother’s house. A sound that stripped away the years and the edge to reveal a girl much more carefree. Deputy Marshal Rachel ‘I make suspects cry for funsies’ Brooks was standing off to the side and making googoo eyes at none other than the Brooklyn Boys. Captain Frickin America and the Winter Goddamn Soldier were flirting with his best friend and putting their numbers in her phone. 

“See what you did?” Art demanded from behind him as he leaned against the closed passenger door of the sedan that sealed Raylan inside.

“Me?” Tim demanded in affront. “How is this my fault?”

Art’s face was a mask of vaguely amused sarcasm. “You’re a bad influence.”

“Well, now that’s just hurtful. Besides,” he threw his rifle bag in the trunk before slinking into the back seat on the driver’s side and meeting his friend’s eyes in the rearview mirror, “I thought that was Raylan.” 

[letthewhumpbegin]

State of My Head - a Justified fanfiction

Title: State of My Head Fandom: Justified Genre: hurt/comfort, angst Characters: Raylan Givens, Tim Gutterson, Art Mullen

Summary: Raylan had taken only two strides, before the gunshot resonated through the house. The bullet hit him with the force of a sledgehammer.

A case does not go according to plan... 

Word count: 9696 (so far) No. of chapters: 5 (so far) Warnings: contains descriptions and mentions of blood, gunshot wound, panic attack, passing out, hospital, medical procedures and PTSD. Original post date: 3 February 2021 Completed: no (looking to finish this sometime soon, though, but suffering a bit of a writer's block on how to finish it.)

POSTED ON: AO3: click here FF.net: click here

Any and all feedback on my writing is highly appreciated 😇🥰. You can find my full writing masterlist here.

[brw]

My least favourite type of internet person is the person who claims fanfic is over thousands of years old or whatever. I understand we like to joke but fanfiction is fundamentally tied to fandom culture and is a very specific way of engaging with media. Religious texts based off other religious texts is not fanfiction and it is worrying the only way you can justify your interest is by comparing the two. I promise you you don't have to reinvent the wheel to write fanfic you can just do that but we don't have to say "Shakespeare wrote fanfiction about Richard III", there was not a Richard III fandom in 1592, that was called the divine right of kings.

[ultravioletbrit]

“light” - Jegulus microfic - @into-the-jeggyverse - 792 words

“family gathering” - 25 Days of Jegumas - Day 23 - @noblehouseofgay

Regulus is pacing in their bedroom when James walks in.

“Reg?” James tries to get his attention, but Regulus is too far in his own head to respond. James walks towards Regulus and stands at the end of where he’s pacing. “Regulus?” He tries again when Regulus is in front of him. James reaches out but doesn’t touch him. But Regulus quickly wraps his hands around James’ forearms and looks him directly in the eyes.

“Dark green or light green?” Regulus asks, desperately.

James looks equally concerned and confused. “What?”

Regulus walks over to their bed where there are two jumpers, a dark green and a light green.

“Which one do I wear, James?” He asks, and he sounds frantic. “The dark green is too nice; it’ll make me look like I’m trying too hard. But I wore the light green one last week when I hung out with Barty. And that’s all it is. A jumper you throw on to hang out with friends when you don’t care what you look like.” Regulus rants and starts pacing again. “And I have nothing in between. Which means I should probably go shopping, but that doesn’t help me—”

“Regulus?” James cuts him off softly. Regulus turns to him with an exasperated sigh. “This isn’t about the jumpers, is it?” James asks gently.  

Regulus stares at James for a moment then slumps his shoulders with another defeated sigh. “I’m so nervous, Jamie.” His voice sounds small even to him.

James instantly wraps Regulus in his arms, “Love. You don’t have to go. Not if it makes you this anxious. I don’t want—”

Regulus is shaking his head against James’ chest before he cuts him off “I want to go.” His voice is muffled but firm. “I want to go so badly. It’s just that…” He trails off and shakes his head.

James leads them over to sit on the edge of the bed. He takes Regulus’ hands in his and rubs soothing circles. He doesn’t say anything, he just waits and lets Regulus gather his thoughts. After a long moment Regulus takes a deep breath.

“I’ve never been to a family gathering before.” He starts and James furrows his eyebrows. “We had family events, and it was always a production, a performance.” Regulus explains. “I was expected to be silent and invisible. Tonight, I’m going to have to talk and socialize and I don’t know how to do that. Especially with people I don’t know. And especially with important people. And I want to meet your family so badly but they’re so important to you and I’m not going to know what to say or how to act and I want them to like me, but I don’t want—”

“Baby.” James cuts off Regulus’ spiral and cups his cheeks. “I love you so much.” He tells him with a soft smile. “And I hate that it’s making you anxious and nervous. But it means so much to me that you’re excited to meet my family.”

“James! I’m not excited. I’m terrified!” Regulus cuts in.

“I think you might be terrified because you’re excited.” James says and Regulus narrows his eyes skeptically. James looks at him thoughtfully for a moment. “Okay. It’s okay. You don’t have to go if you don’t want to. I promise—”

“I want to go, James!” Regulus cuts him off again. “I want to meet your family. I want to talk to your Abuela about her poetry, because the poems you showed me are beautiful. And you said one of your cousins is going to Cambridge to study Astronomy and I’d love to talk to him. And Effie is so excited to introduce me to her sisters. I want to go, James. I’m just… nervous and terrified and anxious and—”

“Regulus.” James cuts in with a giant smile. “You’re going to be fine, love” He tells him. “And I’m going to be there the whole time. And mom and dad will be there. And we can always step away if you need a minute to yourself… I know you’re nervous, Reg. But I promise, it’ll be okay.” His smile gets impossibly wider. “And they’re going to love you.”

Regulus sighs and turns to lean against James’ side, and he starts nervously fidgeting with his fingers. He thinks about everything he just said and everything James just said and everything he’s feeling. He’s quiet for a few minutes then he takes a deep breath.

“I’m still nervous.” He whispers.

“I know.” James says simply.

“Okay.” Regulus sighs and nods his head. “Jamie?” Regulus says after a moment. James hums in response. “Dark green or light green?” Regulus asks and James huff a tiny laugh then hums again.

“Why don’t you wear the navy one mom got you?” He suggests.

Regulus sits up straight and looks directly at James. “Well, why didn’t you say that before? This whole thing could have been avoided!” 

[anneswritingnook]

FANDOM TRUMPS HATE CREATOR SIGN-UPS ARE OPEN!!!

Hello Hello, Calling on the Justified Fandom to Sign-Up as Creators for Fandom Trumps Hate 2024!

In 2022 and 2023 there was only one offering each year in the Justified Fandom, let’s make 2024 the year Justified shines in FTH!

What is Fandom Trumps Hate?

FTH is an online fanworks auction, designed to raise money for progressive nonprofit organizations that help and support marginalized people.

What are this year’s Non-Profits?

Full List of Non-Profits HERE

Creator Sign-Ups are Open!

Starting today, until the 19th of February, sign-ups are open. Fill out the SIGN-UP FORM today!

Each Creator can make up to 3 auction offerings, and it can include ANY kind of fanwork, for example:

Written fanworks (fic, poetry, remixes, etc.)

Fanart, which includes but is not limited to digital art, scanned art, gifsets, manips, moodboards, etc.

Podfics

Fanvids (including fancams)

Fan labour, which includes but is not limited to betaing, brit/japan/america-picking, or offering specialist expertise

Have more questions?

See the FTH FAQ HERE

[galactic-academia]

Dancing in the dark

Rating: G

Category: F/M

Fandom: Justified

Relationship: Raylan Givens x F!Reader

Tags: language, angst, pining, very, very lightly implied age gap (Raylan was a newbie long before the reader became a Marshal), pining, Tim and Rachel are the best, Raylan is kind of an asshole, oblivious Raylan.

Words count: 2,5K

Summary: Raylan hurt your feelings (in a stupid, stupid way). No happy ending.

Notes: There, enjoy this piece of fanfiction I totally didn't write out of spite and to cope with my own feelings 🙃 I'm not a native, please forgive my mistakes. Title from Bruce Springsteen "Dancing in the dark", obviously.

Masterpost | Ask | Guidelines | Timothy Olyphant Masterlist

"Hi there!"

You smile and feel stupid as Rachel greets you before sitting at her desk. You're so obvious it hurts.

"You ok?"

She seems genuinely worried about you. Rachel's tough, but, deep down, she's a sweetheart.

"Yup, just fine", you try another smile, one you know won't reach your eyes and make you look even more awkward, it's that even possible, "What about you?"

"She's lying", yes, deep down, Rachel is a sweetheart, but, on the surface, she is pretty insufferabe, just like all the other Marshals; maybe that's a sine qua non condition to get enrolled in the Services, "Gutterson, why is she lying?"

Wearifully tearing his eyes away from his computer screen, Tim sights and mutters "Just let it go, Brooks, alright?", before going back to what he's reading.

Tim was there, yesterday, he witnessed the whole debacle and he didn't even laugh. You love him for it.

Rachel is taking a big inspiration before - no doubt about this - pushing to know what happened in her absence when he enters the bullpen.

"Hi."

He's barely audible. For a man of his stature and a nasty little shit like him, it never stops surprising you.

Rachel looks at you as you don't smile. You don't even answer.

As she's turning to Raylan, ready to chew his head off without preamble, Tim steps in, without looking away from his screen this time, "Don't".

Rachel stays quiet, this is no fun if neither Tim, nor you are ready to harrass Raylan about whatever he did to piss you off. And if you don't want to laugh it off, it must be pretty bad.

It's not. It's so stupid it's embarrassing. And you're not pissed off. You're sad.

You're definitely not Marshal's material. Too kind. Too sweet. Too soft. But you do the job and you do it well. You're a little ray of sunshine, always smiling, babbling, putting on silly voices and making faces to make your coworkers laugh. It works. You know Chief Mullen would like it better if you were more serious, but you can't help it. With all the shit you have to put with everyday, if you don't blow off some steam from time to time, you're going to get crazy. And you know "serious" and "fun" are no opposite. You're the spoonful of sugar. You try to. And most of your coworkers likes you for it.

And then, there is Raylan, who doesn't give a shit. Except for the outlaws he tracks, Raylan doesn't give a shit about anything.

When you arrived in Harlan's Office, you first thought he was especially reserved with you because you were the newbie, and because your sweet dispositions maybe unsettled him a little. And maybe you were right, for he never was mean to you, quite the contrary. But you never managed to befriend him either. You were so impressed, so... enamored with whatever he did and said that you never could breach his shell, while you were very good friend with Tim and Rachel, and even something like a daughter to Chief Mullen.

This lack of proximity, of intimacy, it was eating you alive. All the acts of service you trip over yourself to offer him went unseen. All the little attentions you try to give him went either disregarded or kindly rejected. But you would have put yourself on fire to keep him warm. God...

Until one day, out of the blue, he did something sweet. something totally irrelevant. As the newbie, you were tasked with labelling the sealed proofs. It was no mystery, even an perfect moron could have done it, but it was tedious. You discovered that Raylan had had to do that job long before you and jumped on the occasion to have little conversations about it. Mostly about how a pain in the ass it was to wait for the machine to painfully engrave what you had typed out.

"Sweetie" he had said, "You shoulda' seen the fuckin' device I had to work with. Believe me or not, but the machine I used was even more tedious than yours."

Delighted, you had jumped on the occasion and asked more details about it, which he had willingly unveiled. As tiny and fragile as it was, it still was a bond. And when, at the end of the week, you had found the machine he used to engrave with just next to "yours", butterflies had bursted into your stomach. He had thought about you. He had thought about you, searched for the machine, moved it to put it next to the one you use and just... Waited for you to discover it. And it has absolutely no meaning, it held zero interest, but you rushed to his desk to thank him all the same. Since this day, you had convinced yourself Raylan somewhat liked you, in his own way. Why would he have showed you his old machine, otherwise?

But you were wrong. Raylan just... Doesn't care.

You manage to keep your eyes down for most of the morning, quietly typing away at your computer. Contrary to all of your coworkers, you have no problem with reports; so you agreed to review all of the ones Chief Mullen threws your way before someone hits the "send" button. You can do that all day, all week if you have to. The best strategy to avoid having to interact with Raylan is simple: just wait for him to leave in search of some action. Once he cleared the office, you can go about your own business in peace. But as Chief Mullen opens the glass door of his office to bark something to another Marshal in the bullpen, you instincively raise your head to see what the ruckus is about and you meet Raylan's gaze. He truly has the most entrancing eyes you ever saw. Before knowing him, you used to roll your eyes when you read about a character fussing other how deep and beautiful someone's eyes were, until you met Raylan and his gaze pinned you down. Until you found yourself staring into his eyes and smiling while he did the same. Until you found that, just when he's about to start some stupid shit, his eyes sort of gleams. You can't explain it, but you always know when he's up to no good before everyone.

Upon meeting his gaze, you force yourself to stay put. No smile. No tears. Then you go back to your screen. A few seconds later, you look again to see if he seems upset, but he's unfazed; annoyed with whatever he's working on, if anything. You can pout to your heart content, Raylan won't - ever - ask you what your problem is. He doesn't care.

You don't know Raylan very well; you really barely know him, to say the truth, but still enough to know he won't stay seated at his desk all morning. The man couldn't stay put, even if he wanted to. You don't have to wait for too long before his phone starts ringing and he's out the door in a heartbeat. Keeping your gaze focused on what you're working on is a true trial - no catching his eyes as he passes you by, no big smile, no little joke which always, always manages to make him laugh - but you pull it off. It seems deeply stupid, but avoiding his gaze as much as you can is very important. He could wink at you, and, by now - even if he can prove to be a true dumbass - you're almost sure he caught throwing you a wink probably is the easiest way to make you melt. Just like a goddamn schoolgirl, it makes you blush and fucking giggle, and smile to the void for the rest of the day... Hell, it's been so long since the last wink you got, you can't even remember when it was.

"So", Rachel starts once more when she's sure Raylan is out of the building and won't come back in the middle of the conversation, "What the fuck happened here?"

For the nth time that morning, Gutterson sighs, "Our coworker, here, is discovering how much Givens can be an asshole without meaning to; that's it."

"Well, that's old news, ain't it?"

"Not for her"

Brooks turns towards you, determined to set it clear; "So, what did he do, this time?"

But you definitely don't want to talk about it. This is so childish, so pathetic... You can feel the ball sitting in your sternum growing heavier each time you try to turn it into words. So Tim - hoping to get on with his goddamn report before the end of the day or before his sanity runs out, whatever comes first - takes the matter in his own hands.

"Remember the cinnamon rolls she baked that week-end?"

"Uhuh, they were delicious."

You smile to Rachel, happy that your little treats brang some joy into your office.

"Yeah, well, Raylan declines to even taste them."

Gutterson says it matter of factly. Almost sternly, like some tough truth everybody needs to take on. But Brook's loud reaction brings you some validation, "What?!"

"She went to him with the fluffiest pastry she had and, without even looking at them, he said 'no thanks' and went back to his business."

Tears come instantly to your eyes. Yes. Your crush declined to taste the treats you brang to the office and it made you sad to the point of crying; of still crying about it a whole day after the incident. Pathetic.

Eyes so round it would be comical if you didn't feel like shit, Rachel, with the hope to find some believable excuse to Givens' behavior - not to absolve him (God above, certainly not), but to soothe you - cautiously asks: "Did you tell him this was for your birthday?"

"Yes..." But he probably didn't even listen.

Rachel is fed up, now; her arms crossed on her chest and blowing air trough her nose.

"Goddamn it, girl... Why did you have to choose this moron, uh?"

"Didn't choose him."

"No, you were lightstrucked, right?", she scoffs; opening her arms wide and looking to the sky, "You saw him and you knew. I know he looks so good he could be a chippendale, but seriously-"

Rachel cuts herself in the middle of her rambling when she beholds you sob a laugh. She's right, Raylan is so, so pretty. It's not what lured you in, though. Nope. But that quiet confidence, that experience, all that knowledge coupled to that charming, disarming nonchalance... The bad temper and will for what's right are fucking sexy too. And, yes, those soulful eyes paired to that lightening smile are a true sight to behold, saying otherwise would be a lie. The imagery of the chippendale is hilarious, though; you're sure women would pay a pretty penny to look at Raylan disrobing himself, but you wouldn't. You want him to want it. You don't want a night, or a few of them, you want it all. And you know he can't give you what you want. Meh. Doesn't sound so hilarious, in the end.

You smile to Rachel, tired and wry. "Nonsense, all of it. I feel like I'm fifteen again and I hate every seconds of it, could we go back to work?"

She seems to get the memo, but not Tim.

"You should keep on givin' him the cold shoulder", he says, his brows furrowed.

"What?", you try to play it down, "Aw, please, we're not in the kindergarten anymore-"

"Come on", he insists, "You didn't even greet him back! Stop tripping over yourself to try and please him, let him mind his own business. Run away from him, and he will chase after you."

Now, you're laughing in disblief; "How in Hell can you think such a stupid plan could work?!"

"Not so stupid", of course, Rachel is going to side with Tim on this one, "If you stop being your... sugar-sweet self to him, he could scratch his stupid head and ask himself why".

You don't believe it, not even for an instant, but what other option do you have? You can do that, or you can just let it go.

You definitely should let it go.

"You know... You should keep on trying." You look at Rachel like she sprouts a second head. You would never have bet on such a piece of advice coming out of her mouth. "If you feel like it", she adds as a second thought.

"You never can tell", Tim sums up as he goes back to his own report.

You could ask to be relocated in another office, you could ignore that coworker you could easily work with without having to talk to more than once every other week, or you could simply grow up and stop all that shit altogether. But you don't want to. You want your stomach to flip when Raylans enters the room, the warmth and the butterflies, the mad blush and the feeling of your heart racing in your chest. So you decide to follow your friends' advice: no more sugar for Raylan Givens.

Ah!

A few hours later, you're tasked to tell him that someone up the ladder forgot to tell him he will have to transfer a dangerous inmate all by himself. You do it sternly, but not enough to hide your indignation about the situation from him, it seems, since it makes him laugh and just tells you everything will be alright. And you smile.

And when he almost rams into you, as he's rushing without looking where he steps and you're daydreaming and not paying attention to your surroundings, he stops a hair away from you, surprised to find you there. And you smile.

And when you have to discuss the problems in the file about the coming transfer of the dangerous inmate, he cracks jokes to you, and he laughs, throwing that 20 000 watts smile right into your face and goddamn it... How could you not laugh with him? In what parallel universe are you supposed to restist him? Is there a version on you, in the realm of infinite possibilities, who can even do that?

No.

Because, deep down, you know. You know he's not happy, that there's something broken in him, something that made him build up walls to never be breached ever again. Because you feel that loneliness and the disappointment that comes when everything he does to fill his empty heart backfires. Because you feel he's not ready for it, or only not ready to embrace it, but also that he knows he can't go on like this forever.

You know you should just give up on him; or, at the very least, listen to your coworkers, but you can't. You know you need to be there for when he'll be tired of dancing in the dark.

The end.

[onegianthotmess]

I wanna write Kate x Reader fanfic because she’s literally the prettiest MC I’ve ever laid eyes on and I will fight William to the death for her love-

JUST LOOK AT HER!!!

MY GAY ASS CAN’T NOT SIMP FOR SUCH A BEAUTY/CUTIE PATOOTIE!!!

*gay screeching*

[bambiraptorx]

[parisian-nicole]

1940s Rayolyn

Raylan and Carolyn in the 1940s. May these inspire some amazing fanfics!

*I made this for entertainment purposes only*

[dispatchvampire]

In honor of Pride, I bring you fic!

This is my Avengers/Justified crossover involving Tim Gutterson & Clint Barton.

Two Snipers, both alike in dignity, or something like that.