#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 😂😑😭

[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.

[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.” 

[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

[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.

[smurphyse]

Shitkicker Country | Tim Gutterson

Smurph's Masterlist | Series Masterlist

Part 8 of Death From Above

Warnings: arguments, shootings, murder

Summary: Tim and Hilly finally meet Marty and Devon Cox

Hilly didn't say much on the way down to Harlan. After making sure Abby was okay Tim walked her back to her office and came back upstairs and Hilly did nothing but avoid his gaze. 

She glared out the window as they drove, checking her phone every ten minutes or so. It kept ringing, and each time she checked who it was before grumbling and turning off the screen. 

"You wanna get that?" he asked, and she gave him a confused look so he pointed at the phone in her lap. "It ain't gonna stop buzzin' just because you ignore it."

She rolled her eyes and looked out the windshield, crossing her arms over her chest and scooting further down in the seat, "It's not important."

"Must be if they keep calling."

"Mind your business, Gutterson," she snapped. 

Tim blew out a breath and puffed his cheeks. Her face was red as she stewed, and he could feel the rage coming from her in waves. But, Tim always liked to poke the bear, and he liked sparring with Hilly.

"You okay? I mean yesterday you wouldn't shut the hell up and askin' me ques-," he started, but she turned in the seat and slapped the center console.

"What about you?" she spat as they slowed to a stop sign. 

Her eyes glittered with the fight she was ready to have, full of anger and something else that Tim couldn't quite pin down. 

"What about me?" he asked defensively. He slapped the truck into park and glared right back at her. 

"Are you okay? I mean, having a baby with your ex can't exactly be the highlight of your week after sleeping with your coworker," she growled back, leaning in and curling her lip as she glowered. 

"Is that what this is about? I didn't tell you and you're pissed we slept together?"

"I don't give a shit about your personal life." Hilly poked his chest, and it sent the anger boiling in his own belly. Tim hated being poked. "Stop worrying about mine."

"Fine!" he yelled in her face, and even though she looked angry, he could see the excitement in her eyes. 

"Fine!" she yelled back, and fuck, did Tim want to kiss her. 

If this had been any other situation, he would have loved to grab her by the hair and drag her into the back of the cab. He'd fuck her stupid, and she'd thank him, but… he couldn't do that, not with her. 

Her phone rang again, and she looked down at it with a hardly contained snarl. Hilly swiped the screen and held it up to her ear, "Gerry, I swear to god, you call me one more time and I'm coming back to Washington to beat the shit out of you."

"Well, at least then I'd see you!" a man's voice came through the other end. He sounded pissed, a bit hurt, and Tim felt something tighten in his chest. "Margaret, just talk to me, we can work this-."

Margaret? Oh, he wanted to ask about that. Who the hell was Gerry? Why didn't he call her by her name? 

Maybe it was her first name, but she preferred her middle one. But even then, why make a nickname out of a nickname? And why let him call her that?

She hung up and turned off the ringer, then tossed it into the backseat without a second glance. Turning toward Tim, she gave him a look that said, I fucking dare you, ask me about it. 

He could never resist a dare.

“Frank on your chest,” he mused, waving a hand. “Gerry on your phone. My notch on your bedpost. Got a nice little catalog of exes, huh?”

“Fuck you.” 

"You wanna talk about it?" he asked with a cheeky grin, mirroring her words from last night. 

Hilly squinted at him, her cheeks mottled with rage and frustration, "You wanna talk about Abby? How about whatever Art was yelling at you about this morning?"

"No."

"There's your answer, then."

Tim snapped the truck back into drive, and they made the rest of the way down to Harlan in pained silence. He found himself wanting to apologize, but the pissed off grunts that left her each time he glanced her way made him decide against it.

Tim grew up with a strict respect towards women. His mother had instilled it in him from the beginning- always open her door, never say anything untoward, be kind and courteous, Timmy, you never know what a woman's been through. 

He didn't like not talking to Hilly, and he especially didn't like her angry with him. He knew it wasn't really him she was mad at, but probably Gerry and his incessant phone calls.

Still, that southern gentleman his mother had made him open his mouth to speak anyways as they pulled into Marty Cox's driveway, but she pointed and interrupted him. 

"There," she said, and he saw it too. The slight bouncing of a curtain after someone lets it fall. "Someone's home."

Tim angled the truck on autopilot to give them the best defense in case of shit hitting the fan. He and Hilly hopped out of the cab with hands on holsters and caution in their bones. Something felt off, and for a split second Tim almost wanted to tell her to get back in the truck. 

Hilly's body was coiled and ready for a fight as they ascended the steps of the trailer. She stood a few steps behind him, her dark gaze flicking around to see everything she could. 

"Marty," Tim called as he knocked on the door. "U.S. Marshal Ser-."

Gunfire erupted through the door, and Tim and Hilly quickly twisted to each side as they pulled their guns from their hips. Tim sighed and called out again, "Dammit, Marty! We just wanna talk!"

"Fuck you!" a man's voice came through, then a sharp yelp Tim recognized as female. "Don't you come in here. I got a gun!"

"Yeah, no shit," Hilly muttered, rolling her eyes. Tim cocked his head at her, and she waved to motion that she was going around the back. 

"Put it down and we can forget all about this, man," Tim tried, but then he heard a smack and a cry. The blood boiled in his ears at the sound, and he hoped he waited the appropriate amount of time to kick in the door for Hilly to go through the back one. 

The frame splintered as his boot hit it, caving in the area around the door handle. Tim stormed inside with his gun drawn only to find Devon Cox dead on the floor in a pool of his own blood and Marty holding a gun to his brother's wife's head. Blood trickled from her temple where Marty must have hit her with the gun, and it dripped from the handle of the 9mm glock in his hand. 

His eyes were wild as he tightened his grip on the petrified woman, who had her own clamped shut in terror as he swung her in front of his body. Tim sighed and cocked his head at him, “What did you do, Marty?”

“He was comin’ to git me,” the man babbled crazily. “They both was. They brought you here!”

Tim could tell Marty was on something by the needles and liquor bottles littering the coffee and side tables. He swallowed thickly as he spotted a Ranger tattoo on his forearm and held out his own arm to show him.

“I came to help you, brother. See?” Tim asked, flashing his own tattoo. “You just let her go and put the gun down. I’ll get you right.”

Tim didn’t hear or see Hilly until she swung just into view enough for him to meet her eye. Tim kept his on Marty. “I’ll get you right, brother. Let’s go, okay?”

Marty’s crackhead shaking made no difference to the gun in his hand. He was a Ranger, and though he was corked out of his mind, his finger laid firmly on the trigger. He’d lost too much weight to ever be considered for active duty again, and Tim recalled that in his file he’d been blown up with an IED outside of Kandahar. 

“I… think I did something bad,” he whispered, tears filling his haunted eyes. 

“Give me the gun, Marty,” Tim said again, holding out his hand. He wanted to help this man, because he knew exactly what he was going through. Everything was jarring and terrifying, familiar and starkly new at the same time. Coming home from war was like coming back to a memory that kept changing. 

Marty shook his head, and Tim barely had time to brace himself before his arm whipped out. The gun swayed in the air, a split second of time hanging in slow motion. The flash of the muzzle exploded, and Tim was blasted back as a bullet hit his vest.

He landed heavily on his back on the porch, and another gunshot rang out. It felt like he’d been punched by Bigfoot, and Tim could smell the tang-coppery scent of blood as he coughed like a two pack a day smoker. 

He looked up through bleary eyes. Marty Cox let go of his sister in law and clutched his hand, the gun clattering to the floor. He screamed, and Hilly’s sneaker flashed up to roundhouse kick him in the nose. Though she was tiny, she was all coiled muscle and pure strength, and Marty lifted in the air for a second before slamming back down on his back. 

Hilly was on him in a second, cuffing his broken and bleeding wrists and twisting him onto his belly. She picked up the gun and the woman, helped her out onto the porch. She hyperventilated as Hilly plopped her into a rocking chair and requested a bus through her phone, letting out a screeching wail and sobbing into her knees.

“Tim,” Hilly huffed as she dropped to her knees next to him. She patted his face a few times until his eyes locked onto hers.

Tim grinned weakly, “I can see down your shirt.”

Hilly let out an exhausted laugh and scrubbed her face roughly with her hands. She sat back on her knees and groaned, “Oh, fuckin’ A.”

“Y’ain’t gettin’ rid of me that easy,' Tim chuckled, then grunted in pain. He made a face and tore away the vest, coughing once more as the constricting garment released him. “Oh, that fuckin’ hurt.”

Hilly held out a hand so he could sit up, and he took it easily. She reached under the hem of his shirt collar and pulled it down, wincing audibly, “You’re gonna bruise, hillbilly. Least he didn’t ruin that pretty face.”

She gave his cheek a light slap, and Tim swatted at her. Tim could hear sirens in the distance as he watched her, grinning even though he’d just been shot. She smiled back, swallowing thickly and then glanced away.

“Thanks,” he said quietly, and she nodded to herself. Hilly broke out in a giggle, slapping her hand over her face. “What? What could possibly be funny right now?”

“Oh, nothing,” she began before bursting into laughter once more. “It’s just… I’m glad they didn’t kill the best lay I’ve had in over a year. It’d be a real shame.”

Tim found himself laughing alongside her until the cop cars pulled down the drive. It was the first time he’d laughed like that in years, and despite the likely broken ribs he had, he wanted to laugh like that with Hilly every chance he got. 

Art was pissed. 

After manhandling both Hilly and Tim to inspect for further injuries, he cornered them against a cop car and yelled as they stood in awkward silence. 

“What did I say? ‘No incidents!’” Hilly watched with wide eyes as the vein in his forehead pulsed so hard she half expected it to burst. 

“Technically…” she said slowly, holding out a finger. “You said ‘no international incidents.’ I hardly think that shitkicker country counts as the United Nations.”

Tim huffed a laugh, quickly palming his jaw as Art’s face turned a dangerous shade of plum. He set one hand on his ample hip and pointed at her, “I was told you were one of the best in your office, the most competent. They didn’t tell me you were fucking nuts.”

Hilly shrugged, “Everyone lies on their resumes, chief.”

Art’s point turned to a shaky palm directed at her. He pinched the bridge of his nose and let it fall, sighing, “Did you have to shoot and kick him?”

“I disarmed and incapacitated him. What else was I supposed to do?” 

Art turned to Tim, “And you. Friday you punched an FBI Agent and this week you try to negotiate with a crackhead. What the hell is runnin’ through your peanut brain?”

Tim shrugged next to her, “Not much, chief.”

Hilly turned to Tim in amusement. “You punched an FBI Agent? A man after my own heart.”

“‘S what happens when you poke me in the chest,” he said pointedly, and Hilly’s cheeks heated up as she recalled doing the same thing to him earlier. “Bear comes out.”

Art looked between them in exasperation, shaking his head. “I just want one calm week. Can I please have that?”

Hilly saluted him playfully, but it only made him redder. “We’ll try again next week, sir. This one’s shot to shit.”

Art scoffed and stomped off toward the thick of police cars and the coroner’s van. Tim and Hilly exchanged amused glances as Raylan and Rachel quickly took his place. 

"Well, well," Raylan drawled as he ambled up behind Rachel, his hand stuffed in his pockets. "Don't you two make quite the pair?"

"You really punch an FBI Agent?" Rachel scolded, reaching out and pinching Tim's arm. 

He shrugged and looked down at his hands, all the snark gone. "He's fine. Art smoothed it over."

"I say we celebrate," Raylan decided, smirking at them both. "Let's hit Smokey's for a drink."

"I’m down,” Hilly agreed, chancing a glance at Tim. She elbowed him, “Give me a ride?”

"You're outta luck," he said, shaking his head. "I got a thing to do."

Hilly didn't like the disappointment that settled in her gut, but she flashed him a cheeky grin anyway, "Your loss, Gutterson."

"In that case, I'll be honored to give you a ride," Raylan said, sidling up beside her. He hip checked her and gave her a smirk, so Hilly turned to Rachel. 

"First round is on me if you get me the hell out of here."

Rachel gave Raylan a side eye before reaching out a hand for Hilly to take. Hilly clasped it tightly and let Rachel lead the way through the throng of cherries and blueberries. 

"Word to the wise," Rachel muttered as they walked, "that boy brings nothing but trouble along with him."

"Which one?"

Rachel chucked and shook her head, "Take your pick."

Smurph's Masterlist | Series Masterlist

Notes: Sorry this took me so long! I got totally in my head about this story and I just needed a break.

[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.

[bottlehawk]

shame

[galactic-academia]

Through The Door

Rating: T (for language)

Category: F/M

Fandom: Justified

Relationship: Raylan Givens x F!Reader

Tags: Language, angst, fluff, pining, age gap (10 years), making out, mention of violence, mention of alcohol consumption, mention of suicide (but in a cynical way, no one seriously thinks about taking their own life here)

Words : 4K

Summary: Once upon a time, Raylan Givens was the very center of your universe and you would like to think you were – at least – his favorite Moon. Then he left you behind. Now that you're face to face again, what's going to happen ?

Notes : Not canon compliant: no Winona here and Raylan left Kentucky later than in the show. This is dramatic, 4K of desperate pining 😅 I would like to say I don’t know what possessed me, but that would be a lie... 😶 Anyway, I’m not a native, please, forget my mistakes and I hope you’ll enjoy 🤗💖 Dividers are from  animatedglittergraphics-n-more 

Masterpost | Ask | Guidelines | Timothy Olyphant Masterlist

You look down the garden alley leading to the road as the movers puts furnitures up and piles card boxes in every room. Lexington, Kentucky; out of all the lost, forgotten-to-God, shitty places the U.S. Marshals Service could have hidden you, they chose here. All of this because you chose to not keep your damn big mouth shut - no, Hell - because you couldn’t keep it shut, never could, never would. There wouldn’t ever be any point to, now, and what could be worse than this? Whatever the answer could be, a bullet in your own temple still could solve all your problems if the time ever came, anyway.

A deep voice, far from unfamiliar, calling for your Marshal-turned-babysitter for the day wrenches you from the contemplation of the dead wildflowers. Dear God, the bullet in the head might come sooner than expected, in the end.

«If ain’t Raylan Givens in the flesh, I’ll be damned!»

You know it’s him, you would recognise his stupid, handsome face anytime, anywhere. The incomprehension written all over his face, though? It almost makes you doubt. Sure, he’s far older than the last time you saw him, and he looks like a cowboy in a shitty tv show, but the all-seeing, deep, big brown eyes? The cocky smirk? That aloof, arrogant stance? Uhuh, you’re positive, that can’t be anyone else but him.

The surprise turned into suspiciousness doesn’t make him less attractive, but the words coming out of his mouth do make you want to slap him.

«Do I know you, Ma’am?»

Ah! He doesn’t recognise you! Alright, then.

«No».

You don’t plan on explaining yourself furthermore and, after a few moments of awkward silence - when he finally understands he will have to pry if he wants anymore informations, he asks, «But ya know me?»

«Yes». Then, you turn on your heels to go back in your rented-house. It’s been a long time but knowing you were right all along, all these years ago? That you were truly insignificant to him, to the point he can’t make you out a few years later? It stings.

When you were a kid, Raylan was your god. Without any big brother to protect you, it had seemed easy to the little sandbox scums to pick on you, until a fifteen - almost sixteen! - years old Raylan, passing by the elementary school on his bike on his way back from high school, had witnessed two little boys holding you while a third lift your skirt. Two of them went back home with soiled shorts and the third - who’s been stupid enough to try and push you to the ground after Raylan had promised them a hard time if they came near you ever again - with a black eye. That day, six-years-old-you had won a friend, a big brother and a protector all at once.

Not a day passed without Raylan stopping by the playground to check on you since then, until the day your turn came to go to high school, hand in hand with Raylan - or dangling off his arm - with him carrying both your bag and his more often than not. Boys of all ages - including the densest of them - came to understand that messing with you meant messing with Raylan Givens and therefore black eyes, broken arms, lost teeth and aching groins. Even tough he went to college while you stayed in high school, no bullying of any kind would stay unpunished. You did your best to return the favour: breaking windows, puncturing bike tires, stealing and then hiding school bags (for the homework to never be found again) and even, in one memorable occasion, pushing in Harlan’s lake all the little thugs you knew were bothering Raylan. And when his father beat the shit out of him, you would always manage to pass some treats off to him, sometimes with the help of Miss Helen.

There was no Raylan without you, and no you without Raylan. All the girls threw themselves at him, and they hadn’t anything to fear of you - unless your «adopted» big brother had something to complain about them, of course - until you reached something like fifteen. Until your first seventeen years old boyfriend freaking cheated on you and you ran crying into Raylan’s always-welcoming arms. Maybe nothing would have changed - he would have comforted you, let you bundled into one of his sweat by his bed while he beat the inanity of the culprit, then take you out for some ice cream or something like that - if, as the freshly twenty-five young man he was, he hadn’t been hangover as all hell, and maybe even a little drunk still, and did the only sensible thing he could think of at that very moment to make you shut up: grab the back of your head and plant a kiss square on your lips.

It was nothing, just a little peck. The kind you gave the great-aunt who had come from the other side of the country to see you on the day of your First Communion. A desperate, non-violent measure to quiet the noise you made and that kept him from thinking. But, on your side of the story, it has been a revelation.

«Are you fuckin’ serious?»

Raylan was dumbstruck already and Gutterson’s reaction just made it worse. He has been sent to Hell for no apparent reason, right? So why was he the bad guy here?

Turning to his fellow deputy, he chose to answer the question by another question: «What the fuck just happened?»

«You tell me!» Tim was truly offended, crossed arms, exasperated tone and all, «It took me two fucking hours to get her out of her office! Two true hours, not just saying! You point your nose here and bam! She locked herself in this godforsaken office once again! What did you do this time?!»

«Me?! I just... Hell! I just ‘pointed my nose here’ as you put it and I got yelled at on every side!» The Marshal was beginning to lose his temper; he could be blamed for a lot of things, but being dishonest wasn’t one of them. He truly had no idea about why the new U.S. Marshall Services’ protegee was mad at him, he was burning to learn the answer, though. «Who’s this gal, anyway?»

«For fuck sake, Givens!», Marshall Gutterson rolled his eyes before putting his hand to his forehead, even more tired than angry, «Did you even read the fucking record? Or just the memo requiring you here?»

Raylan did his best to look indignant but Tim spoke again before he had any chance to find a good defence, «Don’t bother, I know you didn’t or you would at least know the fucking name of our witness».

«Alright, I didn’t , ok? Art told me to get my goddamn ass here, I did as I was told», the ‘for once’ was only implied, but the force of this implication only helped Gutterson to resigned himself to his usual sassy-self and just sigh your name to his colleague.

The following absolute lack of any smartass remark on Raylan’s side immediately told the deputy something was wrong, and if it hadn’t, the fact that he looked like he had seen a ghost would have.

«You do know her, then?»

«Shit, yeah...»

«And you did something to her?»

«Mate...», Raylan still looked aghast and, somehow, a little amazed, «If she took a fucking gun and shot me right this instant, I would go to the trial and advocate that I fully deserved it.»

Eyes round and mouth a little open, Marshal Gutterson watched his colleague shook himself out of his trance - going from stunned to determined - and ran to the door you were hiding behind, regretting to not have bring any popcorn.

Once again, Raylan Givens could - and should - be blamed for a lot of things, but one never gets bored with him!

The truth - sad as it may be - is that you never loved anyone but Raylan. You tried before, with your shitty first boyfriend, and you tried... After. When you were sure you would never see him again. But it never worked. They weren’t him.

The abrupt understanding of the nature of your feelings towards the one you qualified as a big brother didn’t really change your relationship. Raylan did beat the shit out of the fucker who has attended to your honor and came back to shower you in attention as he always did, and if you had been clingier, or needier he didn’t say anything about it. But less than a month later, he had disappeared. Without an explanation, without a word, without saying goodbye. Miss Helen said he was alright, that he had to leave for his own good. You couldn’t disagree with that. But surely he would come back to take you with him, right? Or at least write, so you would know when he would come back. Or phone.

He couldn’t just have left and let you there like that.

Your turn came to leave Lexington three years later. Three years too late. You came back only when you couldn’t avoid it and hoping - each and every time - that you would run into him and... Throttle him? Throw yourself in his arms? But Raylan never came back and, one day, you stopped coming back altogether too.

You had boyfriends out of Lexington, sure. They weren’t all that bad, but still, never as brave, or as kind and certainly not as piggy headed as the asshole that left you behind. They didn’t know how to make you laugh like him, how to comfort you like only him could. How to make you feel safe. They couldn’t even break your heart as perfectly as Raylan did.

You heard quiet scratches on the door against which you had slumped followed by his voice, low and muted by the wood, but so soft it made your heart ache, «Lil?»

Ah. He remembers, now.

«Lil... I’m so sorry...»

Lil. No one has called you that fore more than fifteen years. He has ever been the only one to call you that, ‘little one’ or ‘lil’. It became a habit, a nickname. Something just between the two of you.

«I figured you would want to... talk? I have some explanations to give, yeah?»

You’re sure he looks even more awkward than he sounds; apologizing has never been Raylan’s forte. You weren’t often mad at him, but when you were, a few words, playful kisses all over your face or a battle of tickles would settle everything. Nothing was important enough to endanger what you had.

«Are we gonna have this conversation through the fuckin’ door? Out of the two of us, I’m supposed to be the grumpy one, remember? Lil’?»

You can resist. He can’t kiss or tickle you right now, only talk. You have survived without him for the last fifteen years, ignoring him won’t be a big deal.

«You gonna make me beg, don’t ya? Hell, you wouldn’t believe how many assholes would pay a pretty penny to hear me beg you to open this fucking door, you know? I don’t beg. I don’t. But for you, I will.»

Hell, you forgot how the fucker can sweet-talk anyone into anything. You don’t say «no», to Raylan Givens, it’s physically impossible - to you, at least. You want to smash your own head on the wall, but you’re smiling.

«Baby», oh no, not that, «Baby, please, open the door». His voice is nearer now, like he dropped to his knees on the other side of the door. And his voice’s gone a little rough, you would think him on the verge of tears, if you didn’t know better. «If you want to hurt me, I’ll let you, I deserve it. I will let you yell at me. You can insult me. Or even just ignore me, but I need you to open this door, please. Let me see you. Let me know you’re ok. Baby, please.»

You always loved when Raylan called you «baby». It was a rare treat meant to either placate you or emphasize a praise. You’re drowning in it, now. A loud, choked sob startles you into the present moment, you didn’t even notice you had started crying.

«Ok», his voice is so soft now, you’re surprised you still can hear it trough the wooden panel, «I’ve said everything I could while on this side of the door. Now I’m gonna wait for you to go outta there and then we can speak some more. I’m not goin’ anywhere, take your time.»

Hugging your chest, you lean your head against the door. You should be proud of yourself: for the first time in your life, you were able to resist to Raylan Givens. Thanks to a door that blocked out everything except his voice, but still a victory. Maybe you could taste a parcel of it if the gaping hole that took place in your chest fifteen years ago wasn’t aching like day one once again.

The truth - the real one, this time - is that you never loved anyone but Raylan, because you never stopped to love him. Ever.

You stayed a few hours holed up in your hiding place before nature started calling. By two in the morning, it wasn’t a call anymore but a summoning. That was what got you out of your office; had you locked yourself up in your en-suite bedroom, the problem would never have occurred.

You cracked the door open as silently as you could; you were sure Raylan was still somewhere in the house, as he told you he would, but maybe you could run to the bathroom without him noticing. And you will have to face him one way or another, you couldn’t stay hidden forever anyway. But a few extra hours to put yourself together before it wouldn’t be unwelcome. With this beginning of a plan, you were ready to give it a try, but certainly not prepared for what you saw once the door truly open.

Raylan hadn’t left, neither the house, nor the hallway for he was fast asleep on the floor, back and head resting against the wall right next to the door. In a way, you shouldn’t even be surprised, it’s not unlike Raylan to be dramatic like that. But the Hell if your heart doesn’t miss a beat and then try to escape through your throat. And now that you’re looking at him, you can’t stop. The bastard has always been handsome, with this carved jaw and those hair - God, those hair - and those deep, sparkling eyes thankfully shut for now, but jeez... With the beard? The salt and pepper? He’s not a boy anymore, he’s a man now, a true one. He’s never been more attractive. And asleep? Soft and vulnerable like this, with his stupid hat resting next to him? God help you, it’s a fucking miracle that you’re still set on bypassing him altogether.

You take a few tentative steps in the hallway, careful to not bump into him, to be as quiet as possible. But it’s a lost cause.

«Little one?» His voice is rough with sleep, hushed, like you will vanished if he speaks louder. The grip he has on your calf is slack, you could easily shake him off and run away. You don’t. «I should quit calling you that, you’re all grown up now. Look at you.»

If you turn around, it’s over. If you look him in the eyes, there won’t be any going back.

«Are you going to kick me while I’m down here? You can, you know; as I said, I won’t try and stop you. But before you beat me to pulp, you should let me apologize. Not sure I still will be able to when you’ll be done with me.» He’s so calm, yet so sure you’re going to trounce him. He knows he deserves it. He’s resigned. He’s wrong.

«’M not gonna hit you.»

«Would you look at that? She does have a tongue, after all!»

Maybe you will - hit him - maybe it’s the only way to make him understand, this fucker. Before you can realise, you’re on the floor, straddling his never-ending legs, a hand up ready to strike him square in the face and the other holding him by the collar of his shirt. He’s wincing, waiting for the blow to fall, not even trying to avoid it, like he promised. But you can’t.

Stomach plummeting, sick by your own weakness, you start crying, hiding your face in your palms. He abandoned you without a glance back, didn’t even recognize you, he’s making fun out of you after charming you out of your safe place, and you can’t even slap him. Maybe you deserved all of this, maybe you did this all to yourself.

As you’re spiralling down, you feel two strong arms enveloping you, shielding you from the world as they’ve done countless times before, and you can also feel your body - this traitor - immediately relax in their hold, like it never forgot you’ve never been safer than between them.

«Shit, baby... I’m sorry, I didn’t mean... It wasn’t meant to be nasty, I wanted... It was stupid, I’m a damn fool, but I think I’m not telling you anything new here.»

The more he talks and the more you’re sobbing, hunched on his lap.

«Shh, don’t cry little one, I’m here, you’re safe, everything is alright, ok? I wanted to make you laugh and I brilliantly  failed, that’s all. I’m so glad you finally went out of there! C’mon...»

You almost can’t breath, mainly because Raylan is hugging you to his chest - tight - but also because you can’t stop relief to flood you. He’s there, and it’s enough to make you feel better, even if it doesn’t make any sense.

«Will you look at me? So I can see those beautiful eyes of yours? Mmh? Can you even breath in there? It doesn’t look like. Hey, sweetie, I need you to take your hands out of your face, don’t want you to stifle.»

You can feel his hands lightly resting on both your wrists, at first, before they become heavier and heavier and manage to gently free your face. You open your eyes and, through your tears, everything you can see is him.

«Here she is, my pretty baby! Hello there.»

His smile is blinding, lighting his features up like the sun would the world. This is why Raylan Givens ever had and ever will have you wrapped around his finger, because you would do anything to be on the receiving side of his smile. It’s his best asset, more persuasive than any weapon. It makes him look soft. It kills you. He’s back, he’s holding you, he’s cooing sweet nonsense in your ear interspersed by kisses all over your face. This is everything you had ever wanted, everything. You could die now and claim to have lived your dreams. Later, you will hate yourself for this, gone is the tough, independent woman you ever claimed to be. You’re trembling in his arms and, without thinking at all, you kiss him. It’s barely a press of lips, at first, a brush; a ghost of a kiss. You feel more than you hear Raylan’s surprised gasp before he initiates another kiss, a little firmer this time - a caress on your mouth, delicate like the wings of a butterfly, but it sets you on fire. You part your lips, letting out a silent whimper, and he comes back for more with a little, electrifying lick that finds your tongue and sends shocks trough your entire body. He groans, and everything speeds up from there. You tangle your fingers in his hair as he hold your waist and pushes you against him with one hand and hold the back of your head with another. There’s nowhere to go, nowhere to escape the all consuming, nasty kisses Raylan feeds you. Even when you’re forced to come up from air, he doesn’t let you go, his forehead pressed against yours.

«I am sorry,» he whispers, «I am sorry for letting you behind. I am sorry for making you sad. But I need you to know that, if I had a second chance, I would do it again.»

Your heart has stopped. You’re sure it has. You try to jerk away from Raylan, what you will do, you have no idea, but you can’t stay there, tangled with him on the floor, not when he’s ready to abandon you again. But his hold is strong and he’s not done with you.

«You need to understand...», his eyes are so gloomy and he sounds so distressed, you would think he’s the one who’s been left behind without a second glance, «I should have said something, I should have phoned, but, in the end, it was better for you, you... You deserve so much better than me.»

It snaps. Your sorrow, the endless despair you let yourself drown for so long, your fear, your distress, your regrets, the disappointed hopes, the anger directed at him - and at yourself - all these things you felt for the last fifteen years, they gather in ball in your sternum, just above your stomach, and turn into rage. You don’t slap him, no, but he’s still holding tight onto you, so instead of jerking away, you violently jerk towards him, the back of his head hits the wall.

«Aw!»

To his credit, he doesn’t try to push you away; but you’re too mad to pay attention to it.

«You cut the bullshit right there, Givens! You left this hell hole because your fucking father would have ended up killing you, you had to leave, you had no choice. But don’t tell me you left me behind for my own sake. Who are you to decide what I deserve or not? Who do you think you are to take that decision for me? If you didn’t want anything to do with my anymore, just say so. If you don’t want me right now, just say so. You’re many things, Raylan Givens, but you’ve never been a coward, so don’t start now!»

For a few heartbeats, the only thing to disturb the heavy, thick silence is your laborious breathing. Raylan is stunned, looking at you like a fish out of water. Then he’s on you, kissing the living daylights out of you.

«’M sorry, I’m sorry», he mumbles in-between kisses, «’M fucking moron, gonna make it up to you, do want you, fuck, I do, I’m so sorry...»

You’re still mad at him, you’re exhausted, your stomach is empty, you need to go to the loo now, your head is spinning and your knees are starting to ache by dint of supporting your weight off the floor, but you’re kissing Raylan back fervently. There will be time for more explanations - and probably more arguing - tomorrow. Right now, you don’t need anything more, not even to breath. Just Raylan.

The next morning, when the Marshal Gutterson comes to your house to take his shift over, he can’t hide his surprise at finding you on the couch, tucked under Raylan’s arm, asleep and smiling. When he left the evening before, his fellow deputy was begging through a door, after all...

«Ok,» he breaths, trying to be heard without waking you up, «how did you do that?»

«’M not gonna lie», Raylan answers with a grin, looking tired as all hell, but more at peace than ever, «I’m a lucky bastard and I don’t think I d-»

«If you say you don’t deserve it,» you mutter from your resting place in the crook of his neck, «I’ll change my mind and truly hit you, this time, Givens!»

THE END(?)

Thanks for reading ❤️

[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.