#sorry. cowboys give me brain worms.

[strifesolution]

guy who’s really into treebark: what if the boss and his right hand man were kinda fruity

you can read the fic these designs are from here! they haven’t really shown up yet, but certainly will…

[backseatloversz]

i need someone else in my household or friend circle to watch fight club asap. so they will marginally understand my insanity

[duskdragonxiii]

tell us your toy story 4 thoughts dusky

Ok you made this can of worms and now you have to die in it

Toy story 4 was the worst entry in the series by far, which i guess wasn't too difficult bc the first 3 films had already been great- and that is very very rare that all films in a 3 part series are good and not unnecessary. Its a shame TS4 came along and broke the trend. They should have ended it with 3 where it felt it ended, that was the natural end to the story

It is completely contradictory to woody's previous (and complete) character arc. Woody in this film completely reverts back to his previous state of being a shithead who's jealous of other people getting attention. The previous 3 films were about woody getting past his fear of abandonment and accepting that things change and life goes on. IMMEDIATELY the film opens on woody hating the fact Bonnie gave the Sherrifs badge to another toy and left him in the cupboard. Like ok, sure, maybe woody would still be a little jealous of not being played with, but not the way he behaves about it. if they wanted to address these themes again they would have been so much better making Jessie the focus of the movie since her issues with abandonment are so much worse and so much fresher.

Buzz Lightyear, though he had been gradually dumbed down and was never very intelligent- suddenly has no brains whatsoever. He's not much more than a joke now. Haha Buzz doesn't know what thoughts are isn't that funny. Yea he was a joke in TS3 too im not going to pretend he wasn't, but he and woody's friendship was still a key element in there. In TS4 he does..... Nothing.

Don't even get me started on Bo. Bo hasn't been present since TS2 and even in TS1 her role was absolute minimal. Her purpose really served as nothing but a jealousy pivot plot device in the development of Woody and Buzz' friendship. In TS4 they changed her entirely. She's not the same character anymore. We get it, you wanted a badass heroine in there for the Rep but [gestures to Jessie again] you really missed this. This movie could have had SO MUCH POTENTIAL if you had just REMEMBERED JESSIE IS THERE. We did not need Bo Peep and her weird "lets give woody a girlfriend" plot. Something something she helped woody find the next part of his life- except for the fact the ENTIRITY of this story is unnecessary.

The very focus of this whole saga is how best friends should stick together no-matter what. You've got a friend in me. Too bad that's out the window. Woody is fine leaving the gang to go and wander with Bo- contradicting the entire message of the previous films.

I get what they were trying to go for with forky, but given the context of the film compared to its predecessors its just totally lost. It's really overshadowed by what the hell else is going on- to the point i barely rmember what that plot was about. What was the point of Forky. It was a good premise and opened up all the mysteries of what qualifies as a toy and like how they're made and such and that even the simple things are important to a child but. He doesn't seem to serve as much more than a plot device either- because how the fuck are they gonna make a 4th movie in a finished franchise. In the end thats what forky feels like.

They bigged TS4 up for having very heavy themes never before addressed in an animated film for children and stuff in it and for being heartbreaking- but it did not meet those expectations in the slightest. I bawled my eyes out at TS3. My DAD cried at TS3. But TS4 didn't deliver at all. Those heavy themes they talked about? With the introduction of forky I expected it to be something about identity or something. That potential was there. But.... no it was organ donation. I'm not saying that's not a big thing, but overall it had so fucking little impact at all. They are toys. And in the end it would have no impact on woody anyway, because Bonnie would never find out, because HE FUCKING LEAVES THE GROUP. If you wanted to address organ donation SURELY you should have had him give up a part of himself and STILL be welcomed back lovingly among his friends who would support his decision. Surely Bonnie would be sad that her toy suddenly stopped working, but she would love him anyway. But she never knows because Woody becomes "lost". Bonnie is about 3-4 years old right? She absolutely has object permeance and when she discovered her cowboy is missing she will be so sad. She has other toys, but not that one. Do you people not remember TS3.

Tbh i do not even remember this movie that well. I saw it once in cinemas and was so incredibly disappointed I have never watched it again. So my points may be a little off bc ofc this is just my understanding of this film. But it annoys me so much to the point praise for it makes me want to hit people. They could have done so much better. It was an unneccssary sequel. they would have been better using similar story for a completely unrelated (preferably new) franchise instead of capitalising badly on characters who are already whole and loved. Animation is a hell industry under capitalism and TS4 ended up feeling more like a graphics showcase than a heart filled movie. I could probably go on but jesus christ i. sorry

[whirlybirbs]

Great now she has to get HIM off!!!

PRACTICE   &   PERFECTION   ;

summary: miss turner catches arthur in the throes of something more private. a companion piece of this work.pairing: arthur morgan x reader, turner as a placeholder surnamerating: explicit! masturbation, first time handjobs + fingering! wahoo!word count: 3.4k, oopsa/n: hahahaha i am horny for arthur morgan. this is a part of my simpler said aloud series. if you’d like to read more about these two, here’s the masterlist!

He can’t sleep.

He tosses, for the fifth time in ten minutes, and curses himself as he does. It’s the fourth night in a row of this hellish curse — He should be exhausted, but the heavy pull of his eyelids is absent. A fan of his beauty rest, he finds himself irritated with the fact he could be asleep by now, snoring loudly and blissfully unaware of the world.

But, Arthur Morgan can’t sleep. 

He tosses again. His tent is illuminated by a strip of light glimmering through the gap in the canvas — the dying campfire floods his space in oranges and inky blues. It’s late now, and the camp is silent save for the lap of waves on the shore of the lake and the peepers in the tall grass. 

Somewhere in the distance, coyotes bay and yip as Dutch snores, like a chainsaw, cutting through the night.

Christ, it’s annoying. 

Arthur kicks at the sheets tangled around his feet.

Draping an arm over his eyes, he tries to block out the light and count the crickets chirping, but his mind keeps wandering to places that leave sleep just out his reach.

It’s anxiety, Hosea had said, commenting on Arthur’s sudden evasion of sleep, keeps you up, just like me.

After another half hour, he strangles an annoyed sigh behind his hand as he rubs his face and grits his jaw. He imagines the circles under his eyes are dark as coal now. He’s sure Micah will make a comment over breakfast — something about Miss Turner keepin’ you up, Morgan?

... That’s a nice thought.

(It’s Pinkertons and Bounty Hunters and the O’Driscolls, really.)

Arthur, then, decides that maybe that very thought could be his saving grace and he sets out to tire himself in the best way possible — hand fisted down his union suit, teeth barred and eyes clamped shut.

He intended for it to be quick — not drawn out nor luxurious in any fashion; after all, the other tents were only feet away. Sound carries and Arthur would rather the others not hear the more explicit parts of his mind playing out in the early morning hours.

... But, you are a lovely thought.

Nails digging into his shoulders as you try to grapple under the mounting heat between your legs, knees shaking as he winds you up like a toy, thumb grazing that sensitive bundle of nerves...

Fingers work at peeling away the top of his union suit, a flash of hot interest peaking in his gut at the mere recall of you whispering his name in moments more heated. You have a way of doing that to him; you get him going quick with the brush of a kiss, utterance of a name, touch of a hand. It’s embarrassing, almost, how tight you have him wrapped around your thumb and how willingly he lets that become his place.

Arthur blinks down at his hips, heavy lashes fluttering as he palms at his arousal. He’s hard already, shamefully so, and he can’t help but chew his lip as he runs a hand along himself over his wool suit. The friction is nice. He thinks about you, keening along his fingers, and the friction gets nicer.

He’s distracted, mind in the field you’d both stood in three days ago. You’re propped up on that wall, snakebite forgotten, as his lips attack love-bites into the delicate flesh of your thigh. He remembers the sounds, the breathy little whimpers and the way you’d pleaded his name — he remembers the slick heat between your legs as he’d happily delved across the lace with nimble fingers. The moment is seared into his brain, and suddenly Arthur wishes he’d had the courage to rip your bloomers off and away and get a taste.

His hips buck a bit at the thought of you, legs spread and ankles hitched around his shoulders as he laps at the delicate folds of flesh there. You’d be warm and sweet and wonderful, he thinks, and his chin would be slick with evidence of your arousal.Arthur shudders a breath, trying to keep it down. He passes another touch across himself and shifts on his cot, lip pulled between his teeth tightly —

Arthur can hardly speak when his tent floods with light and you’re suddenly there, a soft gasp worming itself from your lips.

In the light of the dimmed fire, you glow; but Arthur doesn’t give himself a moment to linger on the sight. He curses in a harsh whisper, hands flying to cover himself and tug at the sheets at the foot of his bed.

What he’s been up to, though, isn’t lost on you.

“Miss Turner —“

“Sorry,” you whisper coyly, not at all unsettled by the thought of Arthur Morgan taking care of himself — quite the opposite, “Am I interrupting?”

(You’d been in the same predicament as him, sleep lost and worry high.)

Arthur’s clutching the sheets over his arousal when you speak, head dropping back to the pillows as he tries to overcome the sudden shame and embarrassment that flies across his face. Arthur knows he’s been caught, there’s no sense in tiptoeing around this, and yet all he can manage to grit out is a sarcastic:

“Not at all, sweetpea, not at all.”

“You’re an outlaw, Arthur,” you whisper, moving towards the cot, “Not a liar.”

He bites his tongue, blue eyes moving to follow you as you drift closer. Your chemise is hanging from your shoulders, hair spilling over your back in sleep kissed knots and you look like an angel, something that should stay far from the dirtier thoughts he’d just been having about you —

“Can’t sleep?” you ask, kneeling beside his cot, eyes roaming him greedily.

Arthur doesn’t trust himself to speak. He nods his head.

“... Could I help?”

It’s like leaping off a bridge — it’s a dive into uncharted waters. You’ve never done something like this, not with him nor anyone, but the thought is hardly there thanks to how much you want it. Arthur seems to notice the hungry look in your eyes and succumbs to it fully, hands moving to push away the sheets in acceptance of your help.

“I, uh, just —“ the sentence burns up in your gaze.

You decide, very quickly, that Arthur Morgan looks rather pretty like this.

His union suit is unbuttoned, splitting him up the middle and exposing the plains of his chest and abdomen. His skin is hot, from the summer night and the burning arousal, and you find yourself quite enamored with the view before you.

Arthur is bright pink. Even in the dark of his tent you can see it. He can’t help it — this is the thing of fantasy, having you admire him so openly, having you reach to touch him in a way so intimate. The rosy blush that has settled neatly across his cheeks and ears steals your breath away.

The evidence of his arousal is outlined in his union suit and his entire body lurches when you reach, one finger tracing the side of him as you smile so sickly sweet that Arthur feels like he’s been punched in the chest.

This is going to be the death of him. 

He can hardly look at you, too taken by sheepishness but hips spurred by the greedy look you give as you rise from the floor. He shifts, arching to follow your touch, and you give a breathless little laugh when you settle back down beside him on his cot.

This time, the pressure is a bit more — your whole palm grazes him and he shudders, dark lashes screwing shut as he swallows and tries to form a coherent string of words.

He gives up when you hook your fingers in the last set of buttons, springing him free.

His cock is big — flushed a pretty pink at the head and thick. It’s a sight that you always imagined would have you uncomfortable and horrified and running for the hills. Seeing a man naked, on any night beside your wedding night? It was always warned against, always battled back with deep settled fear; women like you aren’t meant to be doing things like this in the quiet hours of the night, but it doesn’t scare you, doesn’t disgust you. Instead, it kicks something alive inside of you that’s anything but innocent. It’s far from it.

“Look at you, cowboy.”

Arthur’s eyes roll shut, head dropping back to the sheets as he lets out a weak laugh. Finally he speaks. His voice is horse. “This has got t’ be a dream.”

You pull your lip between your teeth as you smile, fingers finding the bare skin of his hips as he squirms on the cot. His breath hitches as you tug at his union suit, hands moving to scale his side as he exhales long and hard.

“You look like a dream,” you mutter, “I could watch you for a while.”

Arthur gives a weak sound at that. His hands move to pull you down into a needy kiss — one that leaves his cock pressed to his belly and you don’t think twice before you’ve moved to run a tentative touch along it.

Arthur’s eyes jump open and his whole chest heaves.

“Sh-Shit.”

“Good?”

He can’t even respond, just chew his lip and flare his nostrils and nod.

Your nose brushes his as you lean over him, lace of your chemise skimming the exposed skin of his hips and chest; it’s a sensory trap, luring him in at the welcoming softness. You take him gently into your hand and give one hesitant pump.

Arthur nearly gives in then and there.

You have to rush up to silence the groan that flies from his throat. You bite his lip, pulling away with it stuck between your teeth. Arthur’s eyes are rooted to the way you look at him, like he’s some revered man. 

He feels unworthy of it. Unworthy of you.

“Shh,” you whisper, nudging his face with your nose. You move to bite a kiss along his throat, “You want Dutch t’ hear you?”

Arthur gives a pitiful, daring laugh, then -- as if to say, “why not” -- a breathy rumble that shakes his chest and leaves you grinning into the skin along his shoulder. You kiss him again, amused, lips lingering by his cheek as you climb over his leg and situate yourself above him; he follows, chasing you upwards as he props himself up on his elbows. Arthur is slack-jawed, face bright in a rosy glow, eyes half-lidded as you move. 

Under his eyes, you feel small.

“Is this okay?” you whisper, leaning to set a slow pace, lips falling along his cheek.

Arthur pants, nodding desperately at the hot touch. “Y-Yea -- Christ, yer gonna kill me.” 

You snicker, settling against his thigh fully now -- your chemise pools around you and you can’t help but bunch a hand into it, hiking it up over your thigh in a flash of skin; Arthur gravitates towards it, chasing the searing contact, finding under calloused fingers there’s no lace around your hipbones. No cursed bloomers. Just skin. Blue eyes anchor themselves to the expanse of skin up your hip, awe rooted there, as he realizes you’re bare and flush right against his thigh.

“Jesus --”

His head drops back against the sheets and you grin above him, thumb slipping along the head of his cock to find it slick -- Arthur jolts at the sensation, chest heaving in a gasp as you quirk a brow and slip the wetness down his length, earning a low moan, mingling with a desperate laugh. He screws his eyes shut, hands moving to grasp at your thighs like a ship lost at sea.

Eagerly, you lay a hand over his and drag it upwards, under the lace, grinning happily when it settles along your ribs. His hands are warm and rough and big, settling to press you against his thigh -- his voice is hoarse when he speaks.

“Yer th’ prettiest damn thing I ever seen.”

Arousal crawls up your chest, heat flaring in your face. No one has ever touched you like this. Certainly not brushed their thumb over your nipple and moved to haul your chemise off you totally when you say their name.

The outlaw surges up, pulling the nightgown from your frame as his mouth moves to latch itself to the curve of your breast --- his stubble tickles, tongue moving flat against your breast as he bites a little mark there; a reminder of the night, something tangible, something secret. Blue eyes connect with yours and Arthur smiles, happy to at least have thrown you off for a moment. It’s a shift in the power balance, one that sends a hand through his hair eagerly.

You move then, hips squirming against him as you pick up the pace -- it earns a low groan from Arthur. Planting a firm hand on his chest, he settles back against the cot without a fight. You’re in charge; he’s the one who needed help. 

“This is about you, Arthur.”

His eyes can’t help but shut, lashes kissing his cheeks. The idea that this is all about you giving -- the idea of you happily surrendering yourself to him stirs his arousal further. His hands crawls up, calloused fingers brushing the curve of your hip again, this time urging a pace out of you. You chew your lip, lids going heavy, as you move your hips in tandem with your wrist; it’s not easy, but the reaction is worth it.

“Y’ sure y’ never done this before?” he asks, words broken by pants.

“Never,” you lean, biting a delicious little mark along his collarbone, “Though, I think I’d benefit from some extra practice, Mr. Morgan.”

He can’t hide the desperate sound that’s pulled from him at the name.

Arthur is a mess, eyes on you and on the roof of the tent and on your core bucking against his clothed thigh. He’s trying to remember how to breathe, how to think -- it’s hard when you’ve come along and robbed all worldly abilities from him. The sounds in the tent are sinful; breaths mingle in the quiet, names exchanged in eager little prayers that wind both of you higher and higher.

This is not how he anticipated his night going.

“Practice -- fuck,” he squirms, spurring a grin out of you, “ -- makes perfect.”

Your thumb brushes the head of his cock again, sending the outlaw gasping after the remark. He tightens his hold on your hips, dragging himself up and smothering your grin with a kiss that’s bruising. He bucks you forward, dragging you along his thigh, and the friction is wonderful. Your hand falters, slipping up along the ridge of the swollen head and Arthur’s breath hitches -- enough that you chase the exact reaction through the same ministration.

It’s the right one.

His hands are shaking when he winds them around your back, mouth digging harsh bites into the column of your throat as you whimper -- you pry at his jaw, face gripped in a tight hold; you heave a gasp, eyes darting to his swollen lips. Arthur happily lets you assert the gesture of dominance, mostly because you brush the underside of his cock with fingers slick with pre-come in that exact moment and his eyes roll right into the back of his head. 

“Shit --” he gasps, hands moving to grab at your backside as he falls back to the cot, a bit too locked in the pleasure to do much else, “Sweetpea, please --”

“Like that?” you ask quietly, mimicking the motion.

His hips lift, arms tensing as he nods; his lip is pulled between his teeth. “Y-Yeah.”

“Arthur Morgan,” you nearly purr, falling along his hips and pressing your chest to his as you concentrate your hold on his arousal, “I think I’m awfully lucky -- a man like you, lettin’ me touch 'im like this...”

You kiss his cheek and his heart flutters. 

He moves to root his fingers in your hair. 

You give him another slick pump. Another curse.

It’s the look that does him in, though; one look, a smile, illuminated by the dying fire outside his tent -- you’re a dream, chest pressed against his and hair spilled along your shoulders -- he comes hard; it’s like a tsunami, washing over him so hard that he’s floating and his world is dark and his hearing is gone. He’s dead, dying, gone, in heaven. Arthur Morgan has died in your arms.

He’s laughing, then, eyes still screwed shut as you grin above him.

“Miss Turner,” he pulls his eyes open, “I -- This...”

He’s come along your wrist. The first thing he sees is you dropping a finger to your tongue with a coy look. 

He’s dead. This is heaven.

Now, he doesn’t want to sleep. 

But, you’re happily pulling yourself from him, snagging his handkerchief from the wardrobe at the end of his bed and moving to clean him up with a gentle hand. Your fingers nimbly button his union suit back up, mouth chasing the skin of his chest -- and he just watches, touch fond. 

“Think you can sleep now?” you ask as you chuck the handkerchief over your shoulder. You sit up, settling on the side of the cot. You scoop up your chemise, “Did I tire you out?”

Arthur stops you. His eyes are narrowed.

“Where you think yer goin’?”

You blink. Oh. 

He moves, then, pulling you down beside you and winding his arms around you desperately -- as if you’d run off. You can’t help but laugh, sheepishness settling across your cheeks as you chew your lip. You’re naked, pressed against him and a bit cold, but the ache between your legs is the biggest problem.

“Honestly,” you mumble sweetly, “I was going to take care of myself, but --”

Arthur pulls an eye open.

His smirk is dangerous.

“Were y’?”

He winds you into a kiss, then, your head turned to engage over your shoulder, when his hand slips between your legs. You can’t help but lift your leg, hiking it over his hip and opening yourself up to the searing touch.

“I could take care a’ this” Arthur mutters, greedy mouth kissing your shoulder as you gasp, “Like y’ did fer me --”

You’re soaked. His fingers slip along the velvet folds easily. You breathe his name.

“Won’t take much,” he chirps, “Look a’ you.”

God, you wish you could shut him up. That, however, had happened earlier -- and now you’re at Arthur mercy; you grip at his hips, fingers winding tightly in his union suit as he seemingly curls around you and presses sloppy kisses to the back of your neck as he works a pace along your clit; it’s dangerous and wonderful and you say his name like plead, begging for something you don’t even know.

Then, a crooked finger slips inside you and you jolt.

That’s it. 

His thumb moves, coaxing another cry of his name before a second finger stretches you nicely -- the feeling is foreign but it’s good, you feel better than you have when you’ve been the one doing it, certainly. His fingers are thicker, rougher, warmer. 

“That alrigh’?”

“Don’t you dare stop.”

Your legs are shaking.

Arthur grins. 

“Yer close,” he rumbles lowly, “C’mon, practice makes perfect.”

Just like your smile did him in, it’s those words that do you in -- you come along his fingers hard, hands wound in his union suit and gripping the edge of his cot as he smothers your sounds with a bruising kiss; it strangles your rational thinking skills and you’re stuck in a honeyed glow as the come down follows. 

Before you even realize it, Arthur is tugging the sheets up over you and pulling you close to his chest. You melt into the touch, smile permanent on your face as you bury yourself in the hold.

His beard scratches your forehead as he kisses you there.

“I wasn’t kiddin’ when I said yer gonna be th’ death a’ me,” he says slowly.

You laugh sleepily. “Weren’t you the one who said dyin’ happy comes much later?”

A low laugh. “Yeah, well, that was before y’ got me off --”

“Go t’ sleep, Arthur,” you chirp, pinching his side, “Sooner morning comes, the sooner I’ll make you, again.”

And on that note, Arthur Morgan goes right to sleep.

[wickerjulias]

if you're still taking prompts maybe one where when solo realises that he's in love with illya, starts being really nervous and clumsy around him? and illya has no idea what's going on and why napoleon is suddenly a stuttering, nervous mess when they're together

Thank you so much for this prompt!! Here is the fic finally. I’m sorry it took me so long to write it :( I hope you like it

It all starts in Cairo. The only person to blame is Illya, really. Illya with his shy smile and his little gestures and his whole existence.

Napoleon is feeling quite melodramatic these days.

They are on a stakeout mission, watching their target while he is up and about, trying to make his way through the bustling crowd of the Khan el-Khalili.

“Do you think he knows we’re following him?” Napoleon asks suddenly, because he feels his attention slipping.

By the way Illya startles, long limbs tensing up, jaw clenching, he knows his partner is in a similar situation. Today marks the hottest day in a very sunny week and he curses Waverly for sending them to Egypt.

Lighten up, agent. It’s an easy mission and both of you will be able to visit the sights afterwards.

Of course this was enough to persuade Napoleon into packing his things, grabbing Illya and flying to Cairo. While their mission is a fairly easy one - observing a rising warlord, which is as close to vacation as they can get - the heat makes everything worse. He curses himself for falling for Waverly’s trap and vows to never let himself get bribed with antique sites again.

“You’re not listening, are you?” Illya wants to know, annoyance creeping into his voice.

“No, I wasn’t, I’m terrible sorry, darling,” he replies, smiling at him. As expected, his partner gets flustered, gaping like a fish freshly out of the water before he regains his composure.

“I used to be Peril,” he grumbles, turning his face away.

Napoleon continues to smile, happy the new way of getting under his partner’s skin is working. You could just tell him, like every normal person would, Gaby’s voice rings in his ear. And where’s the fun in that? he had replied.

“He is talking to Salma,” Illya says, trying to stifle a yawn and covering his mouth with the back of his hand.

It’s a small gesture, the way Illya clenches his eyes shut, hair disheveled, almost boyish, but it warms Napoleon to the core and he feels himself starting to blush. To his luck, he can blame the heat on this rather inconvenient reaction.

Trying to distract Illya from him, he starts to complain about the temperature but keeps an eye on Salma, their local contact. He certainly doesn’t notice how the simple linen shirt Illya is wearing stretches across his chest as he shifts weight from one foot to the other, and he most certainly doesn’t choke on his own spit.

His partner seems downright amused by his antics. It is a sight to behold, not because it’s rare these days, but because he seems to almost shine in the late afternoon sun.

“We have what we want,” he says, flicking invisible dust from Napoleon’s shoulder, before his restless fingers flatten a few creases on their way down to his arms.

“We do?” Napoleon asks, willing his voice to sound normal and his eyebrows wandering upwards.

For a moment, Illya’s hand twitches, but he curls it into a loose fist and lets go of him completely.  There are miles between them again.

“Yes,” he murmurs, “didn’t you pay attention? He told Salma the location. Same blue envelope. Same paper burned where they stand.”

“Which means he’s involved with THRUSH,” Napoleon concludes.

“A little bit slow today, are we?” Illya jokes, mischief lighting up his features.

“Who taught you to be this cocky, Kuryakin?” wants to know as they start walking.

As expected, Illya is there, right back into his personal space, a hand on his back. It’s not a motion to guide him into a certain direction, but rather a reassurance, because crowds make him nervous.

“A certain someone with terrible fashion taste,” Illya quips.

“I beg your pardon?!” Napoleon sputters, voice breaking for no apparent reason.

“Luckily for this certain someone, everything he wears appears to be tailored just for him.” Illya applies more pressure for a fleeting moment, leaving Napoleon to wonder why, until he spots the small market stand with the lovely old man behind it who had kept them from doing any work yesterday.

“Peril, we’re finished for today.”

“And I don’t want to hear anything more about you being the perfect son in law.” Surprisingly, Napoleon feels himself growing bold. “Well, I am a very good catch.”

Illya grumbles something under his breath that sounds like: “Yes, you are.”

They pass the stand and Napoleon is able to gesture at Illya, excusing his partner’s behaviour. The merchant - Tazim - waves it off, a mirthful smile on his face.

With sudden clarity, Napoleon remembers him saying: “I could introduce the two of you, but I think your man wouldn’t approve of it.”

Now he gets that what he had waved off as a playful jab at Illya’s possessive side the day before means something else entirely. His unhelpful brain had provided him the German translation of a word, quickly worming its way into his memory. Only the word - Mann in German, goz in Egyptian - can’t be translated to “man”, it means husband.

The sound he hears is definitely a mouse dying a slow and terrible death nearby, not leaving his mouth. Illya must’ve heard it as well, but he only shoots him a curious glance and walks a little bit faster.

Napoleon snuffles and tries not to look at his partner, navigating them both through the crowd. The other man’s jaw is set, his eyes determined, all tense and skimming the bazaar for possible enemies.

“Since we’re off for the evening,” Napoleon says, once they are in a small side alley, away from prying eyes and amused merchants, “Tameya? What do you think?”

Illya looks at him and his breath hitches while his heart beats a frantic rhythm in his chest. Napoleon doesn’t know what has gotten into him.

“I know just the place,” he croaks.

If Illya thinks his voice giving in is strange, he doesn’t mention it, just nods and touches the back of Napoleon’s hand to signal he’s ready to walk again. “Lead the way, Cowboy.”

They make it to the small restaurant in no time, even though Napoleon kept tripping over his own feet.

“I think we should get you something to drink,” Illya had said after the third time, worry prominent in his features.

“Yes, that’s it,” Napoleon had replied, wincing at his poor choice of words.

“Uh-huh.”

Now that they’re seated at a small table, both with their backs against the wall and able to overlook the whole restaurant, he feels himself relax. Right until Salma squeezes in beside them, because now he has to press up against Illya.

His partner makes everything worse by putting an arm around him, pulling him in. “Do you have enough space?” Illya wants to know, which sounds more like a German sentence than an English one.

There are fingers drawing small circles on his ribs, senseless patterns. He wonders why Illya feels the need to touch him constantly, especially when they are in company.

“Sure, sure.” Salma nods and slides a small envelope over. “The location. He wants to meet up there and trade weapons for money. We just need to record the transaction and the two of you can step in.”

“You want UNCLE to step in?” Illya asks.

“INTERPOL, our cover, Peril,” Napoleon corrects, not being able to look into his eyes - not, when Illya’s hand has stopped it’s travel downwards, now resting on his hip.

“Exactly.” Salma smiles and stands again. “But you could consider pretending to be in a relationship for your next cover, since you two do play a very believable couple. Could’ve fooled me.” She winks at both of them, then she is off.

Napoleon makes a small sound, a mixture between a desperate laugh and an exasperated sigh. The first half of the sentence he wants to direct at Illya dies in his mouth when the other man doesn’t let go of him, but starts caressing him again. “Get along well with Gaby.”

“I do not understand.” Illya turns his head.

They are close, too close and if it weren’t for their waiter to arrive, Napoleon would’ve done something very embarrassing. Instead, he orders their food and drinks, voice shaky and offkey, with the attempt of an easy smile on his face.

If anything, it seems to put off their waiter as well as Illya, both of them exchanging a quick glance. His partner’s face hardens for the fracture of a second before he leans back a bit, still not letting go of him. Surprised, Napoleon huffs and assures their waiter everything is as it should be.

The man nods and runs his left hand over his slicked back hair. “Lama mahtagany, ana tahta amrak,” he tells them, offering his service.

With a small nod, Napoleon voices his gratitude. “Shukran.”

Illya waits until the waiter is out of their sight before he opens the envelope, leaving Napoleon with a strange and empty feeling when he lets go of him. Despite his urge to whine about the loss of contact, he’s distracted by Illya’s groan.

“What’s wrong?”

“She left enough money to pay for our food.”

“You can’t be serious!”

“Afraid, I am.” Illya pinches him in the side lightly, using Napoleon’s momentary surprise to his advantage, slinging an arm around his torso again.

His own hand shakes a little when he brings it up to his partner’s back and splays his fingers it at the base of his spine. Rather unhelpfully, he imagines Illya’s breath hitching.

The worst thing about it is he can imagine them having lazy sex like this - simple touches, wrapped around each other, not caught in the usual post mission frenzy and enjoying the intimacy. He can imagine Illya coming undone under his hands, all flushed and nervous energy, the opposite of his usual calm exterior. He can imagine it so well, it appears to be almost real. But it isn’t and it never will be.

Nevertheless, he snuggles closer to Illya, chucks him under the chin lightly when he whispers a witty remark and settles for his partner’s warmth. Illya’s hand never stops it’s travel up and down his side, and for the moment, he lets himself be happy.

And here we are :D A huge shout out to my lovely beta @transmichaelscofield. Thank you so much for your help!!

[imagines-never-die]

Drunk Headcanons- Gentlemen

“Alcohol does not change you, it just makes you lose control of your inhibitions. What those people did--it was inside them.” -Dan Howlter

Genji

Pre-cyborg? Definitely the sexual predator drunk. Can’t keep his hands off anyone, cat-calls, making offensive comments, and much more likely to make a move on you and wake up with you the next morning with no memory how he got there.

Liked all kinds of wild, new cocktails (Sakura martinis, Niagara Grapes, even Grasshoppers)

Even though he drank a lot back then, this pretty boy could never build up a proper tolerance. Two and a half cocktails in and he’s singing ebarassingly at the kareoke bar

Now, well, I’m not sure he can process alcohol in his new body

I mean, it hasn’t been explicitely said if he can eat and drink or not anymore, but I’m assuming not

This has actually been really bugging me, in one of his voice lines, he says “Ramen! *sigh* It’s just not the same anymore.”

Which raises the question if it’s just that he can’t eat or if things taste differently or don’t taste at all for him

Which then makes me wonder if he has a mouth, which I think he does uuugh, I’m so confused

And in the newest lines with him and Angela exchanging chocolates? Angela would know whether or not he can eat, so she either knows he can eat the chocolates or is just giving them to him as a kind gesture to show that even though he’s a cyborg, he still deserves the same courtesies given to regular humans

BUT for now, I’m going to assume he can’t drink anymore

Although he still has a brain, so that means his brain can still be intoxicated, so saying that he was somehow intoxicated through some other means...

He would be very unaccustomed to the feeling, after all, it’s been so long since he’s been tipsy or drunk

Gets very quiet and ponderous, examining himself curiously for any reasons why he feels buzzed (think Legolas after the drinking contest in Lord of the Rings)

McCree

As he says in the game, he prefers alcohol with more of a bite to it

So I’d say he prefers tequila, whisky, gin

Back in his Deadlock days, when he turned 16, the members probably gave him a little “initiation” involving a bottle of tequila, a lemon, Kosher salt, and a worm (look it up)

Drinking is a common part of Jesse’s life, and he almost always sipping on a glass of whisky in the evenings

Gets wasted at least once every two weeks

Not the most healthy lifestyle

But he’s pretty good at hiding that he’s drunk

Sure, he gets louder, sillier, maybe a little grope-y with his s/o, but when it comes to drunk tests, as long as there’s no breathalizers, he can walk a straight line like it’s nothing

Years of experience

He has a pretty high tolerance, he is a cowboy after all, and he can drink most anyone under the table

But after about 10 shots of tequila, he’s gonna get drunk

Reaper

Back in his Overwatch days, probably went out drinking with Jack quite a bit

These two would usually have some cold beers, but on special nights, martinis or margaritas

I’d even headcanon that he used to make the martinis and margaritas for the two of them

Can probably still shake up a potent drink even now

Used to have drinking contests every now and then with Torbjorn, Jack, and Reinhardt. He had a friendly contest with Jack, but always resented Rein for winning 70% of the time

He came close to beating him once, but...

He has a pretty good alcohol tolerance even today, it’s just that he doesn’t drink much anymore (not sure if he even can in his ghostly form)

But even if he can drink as Reaper, he probably avoids drinking simply because it interferes with his work

Doesn’t want to look unprofessional

But before the fall of Overwatch, when he and Morrison were butting heads, he probably drank quite a bit to calm his nerves

And some nights he’d just drink, and drink, and drink...

A mix of the angry, emotional, and tired drunk

Starts off really pissed, maybe throwing things, complaining about how much he hates Overwatch

Then gets really emo and mopes. Back then it’d be about how he lost his friendship with Jack. Now it’d be about living as a literal ghost

Then just collapses and falls asleep

Soldier: 76

Back in his Overwatch days, probably went out drinking with Gabriel quite a bit 

These two would usually have some cold beers, but on special nights, martinis or margaritas

Used to have drinking contests every now and then with Torbjorn, Gabe, and Reinhardt

Almost always the first one out. Though, he has a decent tolerancy

Was probably still professional with his alcohol before the fall of Overwatch

He was the Strike Commander, after all

Only drank off-duty

Now, he’s a little less of gentleman and will drink beer and whisky whenever he feels like it

He’s a grizzly, war-worn old man, you think he cares?

He’s an angry and emotional drunk

He won’t start fights, but if someone says even remotely offensive about him or his friends, he’ll be up in their face!

But towards the end of the night, he’ll get really sad and will start to monologue about the “good ‘ol days”

Hanzo

Prefers sake or any smooth, sophisticated drink. Nothing with a “bite” to it like McCree likes

Has always been very responsible with his alcohol. He had an image to uphold after all, and that sense of duty has never left him

Slowly sips his sake, taking into account how much he’s had and when to stop

But he’s such a kill-joy when he drinks with friends or significant others

Always reminding them when they’ve gone over their limit, being dubious of whether or not they can handle certain drinks, and sometimes cutting them off entirely!

Very much like Symm when it comes to drinking. He’ll drink, but he doesn’t believe alcohol should be drank for the sake of getting drunk. It should be savored for its taste and history. Only drinks it to unwind

But he can still get drunk. Once he’s hit a nice buzz, his responsibility will begin to waver, and he’ll lose track of how much he’s had

Probably the emotional drunk, mumbling about how the Shimada empire was to be his, how horrible he was to kill Genji, blah blah blah...

Junkrat

Ooooh boy...Oh dear....

There is NOTHING this boy won’t drink (but it has to be confirmed alcohol. He will not drink turpentine or boot-shine just to get drunk)

But this boy won’t even shy away from moonshine!

For him, alcohol was MADE to get you drunk! Jamie doesn’t drink unless he is seriously aiming to get wasted!

But he’s not a total alcoholic. He never drinks when he’s on a heist because he knows it’ll affect his work

Only drinks when he knows he doesn’t have anywhere to be in the next 12 hours (this does not exclude day drinking)

Usually just drinks plain old amber fluid (Aussie slang for beer) since it’s the cheapest

Always makes sure his friends have something to drink along with him. Coldies for everyone!

But who said he was paying? Who said he didn’t steel the coldies?

Not sure what Jamison’s tolerancy is since he chugs his drinks too fast to keep track of. He wants to get on that high fast!

A loud, silly drunk who laugh maniacally and catches the bar on fire!

Torbjorn

Despite his size, he can drink a lot.

In his drinking contests with Rein, Gabe, and Jack, he’d win occasionally

A very loud drunk who will do drunken jigs on the table

Reinhardt

Good luck getting this man drunk. He’s drank some bars clean before

He’s seven feet tall, after all

Loves a good drinking contest since he knows he’ll usually win

But just like battle, he lives for that rush of competition as he swigs down another glass of beer, staring his opponent dead in the eyes

Prefers German beers with the occasional schnapps

IF somehow you got him drunk, I’m sorry

He’s loud and VERY unaware of his size and spatial relation

He’ll teeter around, knock things over, collapse into tables (breaking them), and knock people flat on their faces when he pats them on the back

And if he passes out, you’ll have to call a tow truck to haul him out of there

Roadhog

Doesn’t like to brag, but he has a tolerancy level to rival Reinhardt’s

Can often be caught day drinking on the couch with a coldie, even when he has somewhere to be that day (he can handle a few beers before then)

But usually doesn’t drink in front of people except Junkrat, since it requires him to lift up his mask or take it off entirely

If he were to brag about his drinking capabilities, then someone would try to get him to prove it, and he doesn’t want to take off his mask in public...

But then there’s Junkrat, bragging for him, “You wouldn’t believe how much my friend Roadie here can drink!”

“Mrrghh...” he grumble, “Shut. Up.”

The biggest, hungriest, sleepiest drunk. It’s hard to get him drunk, though

But once he is, he’ll suddenly start making drunk food decisions and ordering hugs amounts of food at once!

Then he’ll scarf it all down, let out a monstrous burp, and pass out...

You should have seen how much he ordered during Chinese New Year! Where do you think that highlight reel came from?

Lucio

He likes a good drink as much as the average guy, but he’s always sure to be careful

An all-around wholesome guy who looks out for his friends too when they drink. Reminds them when it’s time to take a break, have a snack, or maybe stop all together

His favorite drinks are Jell-O shots and he loves drinking if it involves a drinking game

When he gets drunk, though, he’ll pull out his tunes and start playing them really loud!

Eventually he’ll dig up some irritating meme music and start blaring that, laughing hysterically to it

He’s been booted from a few clubs early in his career for playing annoying music. Now he knows when it’s time to be responsible.

Zenyatta

Zenny can’t drink, but I’m sure there’s a way to screw with an omnics circuits and recreate a drunken feeling for them

And he’d be such a silly drunk! He is only 20 after all--sassy little college student...

The next morning he’d be so apologetic for anything he did. He’d say that he just wasn’t himself.

[rasekstories]

Raster’s Hooker

Thayd was a staging ground of warm brown light and rusted metal, nestled under the grey-blue sky and far off stars that twinkled and hid behind smoky clouds, and strung along each narrow street was a parade of hagglers, hustlers, cowboys and women in see-through tanks.  Dice and bones and cards being cut and flipped, the smell of cheap whiskey and oil seemed to grow from the ground itself, and every new boot unleashed a wave of it over everyone who walked through the narrows with an open nose.

A thick red overhang stuck out from the side of the street, wedged between neon legs in flickering heels and busted letters that once read “Girls, Girls, Girls!”.  Something taken from the Ruin.  Some relic from their traveling days no doubt, and now the deep deep red, Cassian red, served as a welcome mat for tired boys with a few extra gold burning holes in their pockets.

Raster fingered a pair of tape-mended glasses on the beside table.  A corner crack in the lens had grown substantially since landfall, and every night he spent here meant one less chance at having them repaired.  He was thin but not too thin, tall but not too tall, with  slumped shoulders and a sharp nose. Salty, mud colored skin and rusty hair slicked back with nothing but its own grease.

“You're awake?”  He set the glasses down with a 'clack' and turned his head to the girl in the window. She was small for a human, tall for an Aurin.  He figured that was part of her appeal.  She smiled thinly at him, tapping her finger against the sill.  It was over.  Time to pay up.

“I am now, yeah.”  Ras turned back to his glasses.  He could see her out of the corner of his eye, crossing her arms across her breasts.  See-through shirts.  Dark nipples on green skin.

“Well you owe me.”  She was frank but not unkind, just impatient.  It was her job and he was eating up her precious time, and her tail flicked back and forth like a metronome, one-two-one-two, the little golden ring with silver inlays on the end of her tail catching lamp light.  “Eighty silver.”

Glasses perched on the top of his head. Grimy tank top pulled over his head and chest.  He'd lost his belt somewhere in the room or in the hall a few hours ago, too eager to keep track of everything.  Space was lonely.  He was lonely.  It wasn't even a great belt.

“Eighty silver.”  He repeated, looking around the room for his lost clothes.  “Eiiighty silver-- you know you're too pretty to be working in a place like this.”

She rolled her eyes.  No doubt she heard the same thing from dozens of men every week, women too, always followed with the same promises.  I could get you out of here.  I've got a ship by the docks.  I've got a little extra money saved away. I could, you could, we could.  Liars and thieves and bums, every one of them.

Raster was no exception.  He ran a hand across his mouth and chin, scratching at new stubble, scanning the room for his belt.  The belt with his wallet on it.  Wasn't even a good belt.  There was less than a gold left from his last paying job, and Thayd was expensive.  Everyone there needed everything all at once, and with the outposts as unstable as they ever were, people flocked to the city for the safety of a few massive robots and extra big guns.  A night at the bar and he'd be digging through cans in the narrows just to stay fed.

“Didn't I already give you some?”

“Don't bullshit me.”  Her face turned to a scowl and she stepped forward, the hair on her tail bristling.  “I let you off easy because you said those nice things to me, remember?”  

He did not.  Pummelgranite was the devil in a cup, and it wormed its way to his brain and to his tongue until he spoke like an angel heading down to the depths of hell.  Or in this case, into screwing a pretty young thing out of her clothes without a down payment.

“I remember, yeah.  Sorry.  Just teasing, see?”  He shot her his most charming smile, admittedly not as handsome as she remembered.  He had bags under his eyes and still stank of booze and cigarettes, but when he reached under the bed and pulled out his belt-- no, his wallet, and counted out silver on the sheets, her eyes lit up like little sapphires and she smiled.

“Just teasing.”  Ras smiled and climbed to his feet, slipping the belt around his waist as the girl fell about her money.  He was all but forgotten at that point. Lacing his boots, running his hands through his hair, sniffing his shirt.  It was disgusting, of course, but he let it slide.  Not that he had much choice.

She was at the door already, the pockets of her shorts fat with wages.  She slipped on a pair of gaudy pink heeled shoes and shot him a disapproving look.  He could already see welts blooming on her thighs.  Cheeky smile from him, scowl from her.

“Clean up and find your own way out. If you stay long enough to meet the next guy in here, you're gonna get it from  Lloyd.”

The bouncer, a Granok with a mellow temper, usually met customers at the door with a nod.  But if he caught you were you weren't supposed to be, your ass was out in the worst way possible.  Usually the window.

“I'm hurt, babe.”  He grinned at her this time, toothy and without its charm.  “Not even a kiss goodbye?”

The Aurin made a sound of utter disgust and contempt, whacking her tail against the wall before stepping out into the hall, flipping him off, and slamming the door behind her.

Raster shook his head, digging in his wallet for a cigarette and a match.  It didn't matter how far they flew, where they landed, where they built their cities, who they fought or what they won.  To Ras, it all came down to the same old problem:

Girls, girls girls.