rillalicious: (Tim with beer)
[personal profile] rillalicious
* Thank you guys for the chocolate userheads! YUM! Those are so cute.

* On our way out the door to do a bit of traveling (I'll be scarce online this weekend). But first I wanted to post something I wrote for the Summer in Harlan comment fic meme the other day.

Fandom: Justified
Character: Tim Gutterson
Word Count: ~450
Rating: R
Summary: For the prompt: Tim & his rifle (not necessarily euphemism, per se)
A/N: Very slight crossover with Numb3rs (come on, how could you not think it?). Spoilers through S2.


Tim's guns get him laid. This is not a mystery. It's something he's known ever since he picked up the title of sniper. It's not something he's proud of, or something he likes to flaunt. He doesn't want to bring home a girl who's there because the thought of him handling his gun makes her hot. Or worse, a girl who thinks fucking him will get her a chance to handle it.

But give him a few shots too many, maybe a half dozen beers, and he'll talk about it. He'll roll around on his barstool, lean back against the bar, and start spilling about Afghanistan, about long range sights, about that conceited prick Edgerton who trained him in the combat zone. All of his stories are true, and they all get the job done, but he doesn't like to use them. Thing is, he doesn't have to like it in order for it to be effective. (He's learned that bit of advice applies to other things in equal measure: Art's rules, for example.)

The blonde on his lap right now came home with him because he was talking about his rifle. Because Tim's nights off seem to be scarcer and scarcer since Raylan Givens showed up, and he's made it to the point where he doesn't give a damn if she's getting off on the thought of Tim-the-sure-shot taking out an insurgent in the desert, or whatever fantasy she's worked up in her head. Some deep feral need is quickly trumping the desire to bolster his own ego.

"Tell me about the last man you killed. Did you shoot him through the head, just like in the movies?"

Goddamn. Tim opens his eyes. He takes her by the hips and pushes her off him with as much chivalry as a half-hard guy who hasn't got laid in two months can muster, and mumbles something about having drunk more than he thought. Because it's not going to happen like this, not with the vivid picture of Doyle Bennett's fucking face in the back of his mind as she rides him. Once again, Raylan's issues wheedle their way into everything. That shit still makin' you hard? No, sir. No, it is not.

In the end, it's just Tim and his rifle, the smooth, heavy weight of metal in the palm of his hand, the easy ride of it as he hoists it out, caresses it like that blonde woman. He cleans it with all the care and consideration of a lover, puts it away with a faint air of regret; all of it over too soon. Then he heads to the shower, turns the spray on cold, and steps in almost before he's finished stripping. Because as it turns out, that woman from the bar? Isn't the only one who gets off on the idea of handling Tim's gun.


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Rilla

January 2012

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