#polyfacetious

[talentedliarloki]

peter: that’s it, we’re getting you XXXL ice cream tubs from Costco

"What have I done.”

[diffcall]

‘ we’re hip. we’re in the know. ’ Peter B Parker

FAMJAM! // accepting

                  wait, wait, wait – are you implying…

        that they’re OLD?

            clint frowns, a dramatized thing with deep pulling lines, and flaps his pizza in peter’s direction. a pepperoni is lost to the cause. ripperoni.

  “weren’t we always?” an eyebrow joins the look. lucky joins the cause of pizza - pressing up close to peter’s leg until his full, soft head sits upon his thigh. clint watches the activation of Ultimate Please I Want It Give Me Pizza (UPIWIGMP if you’re brave enough to pronounce it) look in real time. truly a frightening thing to witness. lucky’s usually a pretty easy going dog - happy lazy dog smiles with awe-worthy huff panting of content. but shit can get dark quick with this dog. really, it all comes down to the fact that lucky knows peter is weak.

                        clint loves him.

                     “i know things.” he wiggles his head, scrunches his nose; tosses his eyeballs wayward in a whatever look. “i used yeet yesterday.” a pause. “granted i used it unironically and kate laughed at me but i still used it appropriately.” and ok, so - clint tells himself that kate laughed at the presentation and not at him because you kn – you fucking know what? saying i’m gonna yeet myself off this roof and then actually doing it!!! is hilarious. can’t tell him otherwise. comedic. GOLD. 

                                          and he listens to old town road because he enjoys it.

[pleadingoneword]

goodbye — have a sad/awkward goodbye hug from an angel in a trenchcoat

i’ll always take hugs from an angel in a trenchcoat tbh

A lot of Sam’s existence has been cast in the light of headlights and streetlights.

Castiel stands, illuminated by both, looking to all the world a normal man. Sam’s guts twist - he doesn’t like seeing Castiel in the same light as the likes of him, something fallible and breakable and impure. Though sometimes he’s brought low, Castiel is still an angel. 

Something must show on Sam’s face; the anxiety of existence or potential finality, he doesn’t know. But Cas steps out of the light and into the shadow, face immediately less harsh for it, and Sam inhales. 

A lifetime ago, he would have flown without an inkling of remorse. He would have left between breaths, leaving Sam stuttering in the wake of unexpected absence. For a while, they changed, not Castiel - he and Dean grew used to it, learned to expect the sudden departures with little hurt towards their egos. Now, Cas feels compassion in his own way, and it shows in little touches, in a glance, in the way he lingers. 

When he steps forward, shoulders back like he’s ready to beat invisible wings, Sam’s overcome with the absurd urge to lean forward and grab at his coat, ask him to stay. We need you, you gotta see that, lingers on the tip of his tongue. Don’t leave me. 

Castiel has always surprised him. 

His arms raise like he doesn’t know what to do with them, like a puppet whose elbows are held aloft. Sam stiffens, then leans forward, wanting to hold his gaze but too afraid, ashamed, cowed. He watches his ear instead, as he steps into his space, back into the light. 

The hug is soft, and Sam brings his arms around Cas’ middle, pulling him in as close as he dares, chin hooked over his shoulder. Warmth at his back is an illusion, wings cocooning him from the lights and the perils of the world. 

The next breath Sam takes sounds eerily like a sob. 

[kingofdirtandnothing]

polyfacetious asked: “i promise i’ll be good.”

No bad pornos here: (Accepting)

There’s blood everywhere. Splattered up on the walls in an easily identifiable pattern, because Raylan’s only been out of Glynco a couple of months, and even that’s not enough time to forget all the shit they taught him. 

It’s fanned out white against the stucco wall. The shooter was on the floor. Shot upwards. One right through the chin and out the top of his skull, painting the ceiling with bits of brain and bone. 

Raylan adjusts the knocked over chair on the floor, nudging it with the toe of his boot. Bumfucked Arkansas is not where Raylan pictured himself with a star on his hip, but he was riding the rap from taking Inspector Mullin’s daughter to bed. 

Not that it mattered now. What mattered now was making sure that his story lined up with all the evidence. He’s got a goose egg on the back of his head from the scuffle earlier, that’ll help. 

He lowers himself to the floor, digging the heel of his boot in so that it leaves a scuff. Raylan makes a gun with his fingers and shimmies his shoulders against the tile floor until it lines up with the spray. He makes the sound with his mouth. Pew. 

Outside, he can hear the sirens in the distance. West Memphis wasn’t a big town, and there wasn’t much the townies would be doing, especially in the middle of the afternoon. 

Raylan sits down on a felled log next to a kid who couldn’t be a day over seventeen, shoulders hunched up. “You drunk?” He doesn’t even know where the kid got the flask in his hands, but Raylan can smell it coming off of his skin. 

“I was headin’ that direction.” He’s all local, cotton mouthed vowels and the kind of combativeness that comes with years of being told you’ll never amount to anything. Raylan holds a hand out for the flask, and it’s handed over sullenly. He only takes a nip from it before he hands it back. 

“My daddy used to say that if you can’t fight ‘em drunk, don’t fight ‘em at all.” The bluest eyes Raylan has ever seen track up to the house. Where Timothy Gutterson Senior was cooling on the kitchen floor with a new exhaust port in the back of his head. 

“When they come to ask you questions, you tell them that your daddy knocked me down. That he pulled, and I fired.” Now those saucer sized blue eyes were back on him. Raylan’s shrug is all slow, rolling ease. “You got your whole life ahead of you, Tim. And I’ll get a slap on the wrist at most.”

Because Timothy Gutterson Senior was number eight on Arkansas’ most wanted list on account of forging prescriptions and writing hot checks. Raylan thinks maybe being a shitty father should be on that list too, but it’s always been a sore subject for him. 

Tim’s watching him like he’s something special, and all Raylan can think is that thirty years old is too damn young to feel this damn old. And that the setting Arkansas sun was looking like a halo straight from heaven where it sat behind Tim’s blonde head. 

“Listen-” Raylan pats his jacket pocket and finds the burner phone he’s been using since he got here, more amused that people still used flip phones than anything. He types a number in, and saves it. He holds the phone out to Tim on his upturned palm. 

“If you find yourself in trouble, any kind...You can call me. I’ll drop whatever I’m doing and I will come for you.”

Little Rock to West Memphis was just under two hours. In a tight spot, Raylan could do it closer to one. Tim takes the phone from him, hesitant like he thinks it’s gonna bite, and Raylan pats his knee before he stands.

“You take care now, Tim.”

[kingofdirtandnothing]

polyfacetious asked: “harder.”

No bad pornos here: (Accepting)

Tim isn’t talking to him. 

Technically, Tim is talking to the wall behind the vet bar, blonde head bowed and hands pressed flat against brick, red flannel near to falling off of a pale shoulder as he pushes back insistently. 

But even still, Tim isn’t talking to Raylan. He’s talking to the mocha skinned soldier who mans the door of the place, whose sweat is catching the streetlight like diamonds, and who is trying to nuzzle Tim’s neck and tell him easy, baby, we’ll get there. 

It would be cliche to say Raylan sees red. But it would be the truth, also. He catches the soldier by the back of his shirt and yanks, tossing him back onto the concrete. By the time that indignant ‘what the hell’ hits the air, the soldier is staring down the barrel of Raylan’s firearm. 

He hears that quiet shit from Tim too, jeans still around his ankles and pale ass shining like the moon. “You. Get the hell out of here. I won’t ask twice. And you-” This one is aimed at Deputy Gutterson. “You stay right where you are.”

It’s a heady goddamn thrill that Gutterson does as he’s told, holding position against the wall. It’s quiet enough now that the third wheel has gone that Raylan can hear the second shit to leave those lips. But this one comes as breathy punctuation to Raylan yanking his zipper down. 

“You come here. In my shirt no less-” Raylan grabs a fistful of his purloined red shirt, but it doesn’t too much, as loose as it’s sitting on Tim’s slim shoulders. “To let some other man fuck you.” 

Raylan spits down into his free palm, and it doesn’t take more than a few strokes to have himself standing at attention. “Whatever it is I did to piss you off, consider me punished.” He’s pretty sure it has less to do with running Oxy through the area, and more to do with Tim’s crisis of conscience. But Tim is a hard read. He could be completely wrong. 

Not that he’s wrong about this. 

Tim’s hole is slick and soft and Raylan is only gentle in guiding himself in up to the head. After that, he snaps his hips home, feeling pleasure hit him like buckshot. He keeps his hold on flannel, and presses himself flush against Tim’s back, so he can speak right into his ear as he fucks him. 

“I was generous this time. The next time you get the wild hair to fuck somebody in Harlan, I’ll put a bullet in them.” Fingers grip tight against Tim’s hip, making the skin go white beneath the pressure. 

This isn’t a marathon. It’s a sprint. 

“You need that itch scratched, you scratch it in Lexington. Because every goddamn soul in Harlan County is gonna know you belong to me.” Raylan’s breaths are starting to come short and fast, and Tim’s dick is jumping in the precome slick ring of Raylan’s fingers. 

“Or...” He draws the word out, hips snapping hard enough that his knuckles are scraping brick from Tim’s body being jolted. “You come to me. And when you say harder, I’ll be happy to oblige.” 

[kingofdirtandnothing]

polyfacetious asked: “ i am buried here. “

Song of Achilles: (Accepting)

Raylan can hear his heart beating in the quiet. 

It’s like the rest of the holler has gone silent for him, laying in wait just like he is. (Arlo would have waited with a shotgun across his knees. Arlo never learned the art of subtlety. Raylan waits with his holster unbuttoned, and that’s enough.)

The new Marshal ain’t local. They won’t send a local after the mess with Boyd. But he’s on the right side of the Mason-Dixon line, for once. Arkansas, if Raylan had to make a guess.

He don’t, of course. Have to make a guess. He’s seen Deputy Tim Gutterson’s file, by way of a friendly face in the courthouse, and it’s something. Army Rangers. Afghanistan. And a series of quick kills on cases that were heavily on the technically legal side. 

This was punishment. 

There’s something pleasing, about being another man’s punishment. 

The question was...which one of his irons in the fire was Deputy United States Marshal Gutterson here for? The gun running? The whore houses? The fact that Raylan had his foot on the throat of the entire Dixie Mafia organization, suffocating the drug trade?

Or was it something more simple? Like the suspected arson of his daddy’s house, once the miserable old bastard had been buried, and Aunt Helen had left with what Raylan liked to call her “life insurance payout”. 

Only one way to find out. 

“Evenin’, Deputy.” 

He’s quiet. Scary quiet. The silence of the holler, deep on the outskirts of Harlan, and this Marshal had walked out of the darkness of the trees without snapping a twig. 

Rumor around town says Deputy Gutterson put down Grady Cutler from three hundred yards with a shot right through the eye. Given all those confirmed kills in the desert, Raylan is inclined to believe the hearsay. 

“Nice of you to some see me all the way out here in my little slice of paradise. All by my lonesome.” Deputy Gutterson has pretty blue eyes that track in a semi circle around him, stopping on each and every man Raylan has posted out in the trees. 

Well. Sniper or not, he wasn’t going to pull faster than Raylan. “Go on home now, boys. I think the deputy and I can have our little chat in private. Go on. Get.”

Now his boys, they weren’t silent like the deputy. There was a whole array of grumbles and shifting rocks and snapping twigs. Heavy boots would give a man away every time. 

The deputy takes a few steps closer, within arm’s reach of the porch’s bottom step. Raylan keeps his spot on the porch swing, nudging the creaking old wood and chain into motion.

“This cabin belonged to my great grandaddy. He died of the black lung, right back there.” Raylan tips his hand backwards, thumb jabbing towards to thick log slabs of the cabin’s walls. “His son did too.”

And Arlo swore he’d do anything he had to, so he wouldn’t die down under the earth. Raylan...well, he just happened to take his father’s mistakes to heart, and did better. 

“They’re both buried out back.” Not Arlo, though. He was at the Harlan County cemetery, with a shitty little bronze marker. Arlo might have landed most of the hits in their lifelong fistfight, but Raylan got one last good suckerpunch in. 

“I imagine I’ll be buried out there too.” Not today. Maybe not even tomorrow. 

Raylan stands, and he sees how damn still the Marshal is. He could have taken a shot, right there. But he didn’t. 

“Come on in, soldier. I’ll pour you a drink.”

He doesn’t look back as he walks into the cabin. He don’t have to.

[kingofdirtandnothing]

polyfacetious asked: “ He is a weapon. a killer. do not forget it. “

Song of Achilles: (Accepting)

Tim has got to be deep in the bottle, because he’s got the smell of it when he strides right on past Raylan. It’s soaked into his clothes, his hair, seeping out of his pores. Like he’d bleed whiskey if you pricked his finger. 

His shirt is undone, tails hanging open against his jeans. It’s the least put together Raylan has ever seen the man, and it’s like a rubbernecker on the highway, he can’t seem to look away. 

Booze has made Tim’s sharp sense of humor go syrupy, and he walks with a purpose, right up to the soldier standing vigil at the door. Heroes only. Raylan had rolled his eyes at it, the same way he rolled his eyes at the sign on the door when he was six years old and could finally read it, during all those hours he spent sitting in the parking lot. 

But Tim, Tim walks himself right up into the personal space of the man at the door and he says Evenin’ soldier and if Raylan didn’t know any better, he’d peg that drawl as flirtatious. (Or the way Tim’s tongue catches just the middle of his bottom lip. Raylan doesn’t see the soldier looking, because he’s looking himself.)

The bolt of ‘shouldn’t have done this’ strikes him right in the damn chest when they sit down at the table. Shame coats the back of his throat and cracks open his ribs, having to show Art and Tim just what cesspool he crawled out of. 

And of course, Arlo tries his bullshit on Tim, with a condescending laugh, and Raylan has never appreciated that sharp eyed stare more than his does right now. (There’s relief in there, maybe. That Tim doesn’t buy into his daddy’s dog and pony show.)

Not that he spends long thinking about it. Because Arlo is Arlo and nobody can light Raylan’s fuse faster. He’s got his hands clenched into fists underneath the table, nails biting into the meat of his palm. And even that isn’t enough for him to keep his seat. 

Raylan knows better. He knows through decades of yellow sky weather that the second Arlo grabs hold of his arm that it’s all downhill from here. He knows he should shrug it off and walk away, that nothing gets to Arlo more than no reaction at all. 

But there’s still a kid inside of him, a kid who spent too many years cowering beneath an arbitrary iron fist, and he don’t want to back down. So Raylan runs his mouth, and he uses lowlife when all he wants to say is worthless asshole and it ends exactly the way Raylan expects it to. 

His cheek burns, the sound louder than the actual pain, but it still does the same thing it’s always done. It breaks up pieces inside of Raylan, until he’s the one weathering a tornado behind his ribs. 

The thing is though...he sees it. Or hears it, more accurately, because looking away from Arlo is a weakness he will not allow himself. The squeak of wood against tile. Art’s placating voice. And in his peripheral vision...one Deputy Tim Gutterson, willing to come to blows for him. 

It’s hours, and miles, and several fingers of whiskey in a cheap plastic hotel cup later before he realizes why it got to him so damn much, seeing Tim come up out of his chair. 

All his life, Raylan has been carrying bruises. Busted lips. Black eyes. Teachers stopped asking, not wanting to know the answer. Pastors looked the other way. Other kids knew and whispered. 

Nobody dared cross Arlo. Everybody knew, and nobody did a damn thing. 

Tim was the first person in Raylan’s life willing to stand between him and Arlo’s blows. And there was no way on God’s Green Earth that Raylan was going to face that thought sober. 

So he drinks himself down into the darkness. 

The thing was...Raylan was never much of a dreamer. 

In the metaphorical sense, he was never a man of ambition. He never wanted to be the best. Not in law enforcement, not playing ball. Every choice he made, it was tempered by one desire and one desire alone. 

To piss off his daddy. 

But in the physical sense, Raylan has always been a heavy sleeper. Dreams were at most, snatches of lights and colors and individual moments, like sand between his fingers the moment he woke. 

And this night’s dreams are no different, street lamp circle in gold like a halo, buffalo plaid and soft cotton white. The taste of whiskey on his tongue, tempered by the salt of skin. 

And a single, solitary sound. 

Evening, soldier. 

[kingofdirtandnothing]

polyfacetious asked: “ will you help me put the rest of my armor on ? “

Song of Achilles: (not accepting)

He listens to Gary give his speech on the porch in front of his hotel room, because the man deserves an ear after having the balls to walk up on him while he’s armed. 

And it’s bullshit, of course. Heavily practiced bullshit filled with mirror honed swagger. Gary talks about selling houses and ice cubes to eskimos and Raylan never takes his hand off of the doorknob. 

“She left you for me once, Raylan.” That’s parting shot, and Raylan has to admit it’s a pretty good one. Or at least it would be, if the mouthy blonde Gary expected to be on the other side of the door was the one actually there. 

But when Raylan steps into the poorly light hotel room, it’s not Winona who’s spotted with old sixty watt bulbs turned golden in the night’s growing darkness. 

It’s Tim. Shoes off an ankles crossed, eyes closed like he’s been sleeping. And maybe he was. But he’s been alert since the second Raylan turned the knob, though he lets him play at stretching and blinking awake all the same. 

You see the thing is, you cheat with somebody, and eventually it gets in your head. If they did it with you, they’ll do it to you. And Raylan, well, he’s been a little distracted here lately. And unwilling to open his door to Art or anybody else. 

But it’s not because he’s taking his ex-wife to bed. It’s because he’s taking his partner to bed. 

His hat takes up its spot on the table under the window, boots toed off and left beneath. Raylan sits on the edge of the bed and tries to figure out how the hell he’s supposed to operate under Tim’s gravity. Because some days, it feels strong enough to crush him whole underneath. 

“Winona and I talked about having kids.” He nudges Tim’s soft, dark shirt out of the way to lay callused fingers against a taut belly. “She told me that I wasn’t right for that. Too much anger in me.” Too much of his daddy. She wasn’t wrong, of course. But that doesn’t stop the ache that creeps up on him sometimes. 

“I always hated when she was right.” He breathes the word out, finally looking up into those Kentucky sky blue eyes. 

Winona, you may not have thought he was listening, but Raylan heard. 

I can’t handle the silence. 

So now he’s talking.