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When Art calls him down to the VFW after hours, Tim does exactly what’s expected of him; that is, he sets aside whatever plans he might or might not have had to do his boss a favor. Or, really, if he’s being honest, to do Raylan Givens a favor.
(Tim can hear him in the background of the call, arguing with the man they’ve got on the door. From the sounds of it, they’ve been at it a while, and Raylan’s tone has gotten higher and sharper, the way it does when he gets frustrated.)
He’s so focused on the sound of Raylan’s voice that he almost doesn’t hear Art say, “How soon can you be here?”
Tim snorts under his breath. “I live in Richmond,” he says. “Get fucking comfortable.”
Two hours later, he pulls up in front of the hall. The buzz he’d been cultivating since he got off work is fading, with just enough left to make his mouth and shoulders loose. But he’s not so far gone that he doesn’t notice the tension in Raylan’s jaw when he gets out of the car, or the way every muscle in the man’s body seems like it’s coiled so tightly that he’s going to snap at any moment.
Tim glances between Art and Raylan, but Art seems to be content to ignore whatever’s gotten Raylan worked up, and if that’s the case, Tim isn’t going to be the one to bring it up. He takes himself up to the door and flashes a smile alongside his ID, but when Art and Raylan try to follow him inside, the man there holds up his hand, shaking his head. “Sorry, sir,” he says, and both words come out earnest enough that, any other night, Tim might have asked when his shift was over. “One guest per visitor.”
Art mutters a goddammit under his breath, but when Tim glances back, he waves him off impatiently. “Go,” Art says. “Take Raylan. Do not start any trouble, do you understand me? Either of you.”
Tim salutes lazily, and Raylan mumbles something that probably wouldn’t hold up as acknowledgement in a court of law, but it doesn’t matter. They get themselves ushered inside, and the door shuts behind them.
Tim’s plan had been to fuck off to the bar and let Raylan and Art deal with… whatever it was that they were dealing with. Except now Art’s stuck outside, and Tim hasn’t known Raylan for all that long, but it’s been enough time to gather that the man is a magnet for trouble.
Never mind that, whatever storm is brewing under Raylan’s skin, it’s getting worse by the minute.
Tim glances longingly at the bar and sighs before following Raylan over to one of the tables. There’s already a man sitting there, a sparse dusting of white hair on his head and a self-satisfied tilt to his mouth that Tim dislikes on sight.
“How’d you get in?” Arlo Givens demands.
Raylan has probably said a grand total of three words about his father, but Arlo Givens is a known quantity to the Lexington Marshals Service, just like Bo Crowder and the rest of his ilk. But that just means that Tim isn’t all that impressed with Arlo to begin with. Hearing him speak only solidifies the idea in Tim’s mind that Arlo and his own daddy would have gotten along just fine, had they ever been unfortunate enough to meet.
Raylan does something with his mouth, like he’s physically biting his own tongue to stop from saying what’s on his mind, and then he shifts a little, raising his chin and letting his hand come to rest on his hip, just above his holster. “Deputy Gutterson served in Afghanistan,” Raylan says, and Tim has never much liked the sound of his name in anyone else’s mouth, but Raylan, it seems, is the exception to that particular rule.
Arlo, though—he’s unimpressed. “He a mess hall cook?”
Raylan slides himself into the seat opposite Arlo, but Tim remains standing, hovering just behind Raylan’s left shoulder. He’s no longer thinking about getting a drink at the bar—he’s no longer thinking about anything other than the two men in front of him.
There’s a specific brand of pride in Raylan’s voice when he corrects Arlo, telling him that Tim was a sniper in the Rangers. Better than you ever were, his tone says, and look who I’ve got watching my back now. And Tim’s never been the type to peacock about his skills, but he’s not opposed to Raylan doing it on his behalf. Especially if he’s shoving it in his daddy’s face, using Tim to twist some metaphorical knife just a little deeper into Arlo’s ribs.
(Tim made peace with being used as a weapon a long time ago. Times like these, he might even enjoy it a little.)
“Take a seat,” Arlo says. Tim ignores him. It earns him a disgusted little curl of Arlo’s lip, but then the man’s attention shifts almost immediately back to Raylan. There’s nothing paternal in the way he looks at Raylan, unless Arlo’s of the belief that paternal means with heavy and obvious disappointment. Tim’s familiar with that particular definition, and judging by the way Raylan doesn’t even flinch, Tim’s guessing he is, too.
“So,” Arlo continues, before the silence from Tim’s lack of a response can drag on too long. “What can I do for you boys?”
“Boyd Crowder,” Raylan says, and Arlo snaps something right back in that high, wavering voice of his, but the words aren’t important. Tim doesn’t pay any attention to them. He’s watching Arlo’s body language—and, out of the corner of his eye, a little less carefully, he’s watching Raylan’s too. The two of them, father and son, they know how to stir each other up, and Tim’s not so much hoping they stay civil as he is bracing himself for the inevitable moment that the conversation devolves.
He misses what Arlo says that pisses Raylan off enough that he rises up out of his chair with a sudden, “Okay, we’re done here.” Tim shifts to follow him, but before he can take more than a step, Raylan doubles back, his teeth pressed together so hard that the muscles in his jaw twitch under his skin.
“You can either sit around waiting to catch a bullet,” Raylan says, and something in his tone seems to hint at the idea that he wouldn’t mind so much if that was the path that Arlo was to choose. “Or…”
“What?”
Raylan, in Tim’s opinion, is showing uncharacteristic restraint, but it’s clear that even in this moment of what could maybe pass as civility, he can’t quite make the words come out. Tim steps in on his behalf. “Or you can accept protection from the Marshals Service,” he says, and he’s not surprised to find that the words are unpleasant in his own mouth as well.
And Arlo just… laughs.
Raylan straightens, his mouth pressed into a thin line, and Tim can see all that careful restraint start to bleed away. He can hear it crumbling in Raylan’s voice when Arlo says something about not needing protection and Raylan is quick to snap out a, “Yeah? What about Helen? You gonna forgive yourself if she gets caught in the crossfire?”
Tim’s not sure, entirely, who Helen is, but he is sure that Raylan’s the one who wouldn’t forgive himself if she died because of Arlo Givens.
Arlo tells them that they’re no longer welcome there—like he has that power, that authority—and Tim almost laughs. Arlo might be able to kick up enough of a fuss to get Raylan kicked out, maybe, but Tim’s a different story altogether.
Raylan turns to leave again, but this time, Arlo grabs him by the arm. Raylan freezes, and Tim can’t see his face, but he can see the way Raylan’s body becomes nothing more than one long line of tension, from his hat to his boots.
“You didn’t honestly think you could turn me,” Arlo sneers, his voice dripping with disdain, and Tim sees the moment that Raylan decides to throw those last dregs of restraint to the wind. He turns, something hard in his eyes.
“I came here as an officer of the law,” he says, his voice low but achingly sharp. “Because sometimes, we have to make deals with lowlifes because we have our sights set on life forms even somehow lower on the ladder of lowlifes than they.”
His eyes glitter when he’s done, blatant satisfaction visible in the slight curl of the corners of his mouth and the rapid rise and fall of his chest. For a moment, he looks like he won, and Tim even feels a little thrill for him.
And then Arlo stands and slaps Raylan across the face.
The crack has barely faded before Tim is there between them, shoving Arlo back with entirely more force than necessary. And when the man stumbles, Tim follows, hitting him across the mouth with a right hook that makes his hand ache, but also drops Arlo straight to the ground.
Distantly, Tim hears Raylan calling out U.S. Marshals, everything’s fine here. He might even say Tim’s name, a little low, a little desperate, the same way Tim’s started to say Raylan’s in the field to try to get him to take a step back from whatever stunt he’s about to pull and think.
Tim, however, has no intention of doing any such thing himself.
He follows Arlo to the ground, settling on his knees over the man’s stomach. One hand fists in the front of Arlo’s shirt, and the other hangs back, waiting relaxed and ready right by the knife that’s hidden in his own boot. “Tell me you didn’t just assault my partner,” he says, his vowels made long by alcohol and anger. “Tell me that’s not what I just saw.”
Arlo’s lip curls up in a bloody snarl. “Get your hands off me, boy,” he snaps, in the tone of a man used to striking enough fear in those around him to get unquestioning obedience. Unfortunately for him, Tim hasn’t been scared of men like Arlo Givens for a long, long time.
The flash of real fear in Arlo’s eyes when Tim presses the sharp edge of his knife against his throat is gratifying, more so than the blood on his teeth or the way Tim can feel his pulse jump raggedly under his hand. He grins crookedly, pressing just hard enough that a bead of blood wells up under the blade. “And if I don’t?” he asks in the most disrespectful drawl he can manage. “You wanna see what happens if you try to pull that same shit with me?”
Arlo swallows, his throat bobbing dangerously under Tim’s knife. Tim sees him hesitating, considering, debating whether Tim could be cowed into obedience with a few more harsh words, or if it’s not even worth trying. When he speaks again, he’s clearly decided. “Now, I think we might have gotten off on the wrong foot, son,” Arlo says, a placating quality to his voice that gets under Tim’s skin. Like if Tim could just be reasonable for a moment, he’d come over to Arlo’s way of thinking.
Like hearing son from anyone’s mouth doesn’t make him want to bite something clean through to the bone.
Tim bares his teeth in what could only generously be described as a smile. “Nah,” he says. “I don’t see many scenarios where this little altercation plays out in your favor.”
He’s got no intention of letting Arlo up off the ground any time soon. Men like him, they never learn anything in a permanent sort of fashion, but that doesn’t mean they shouldn’t be taught the lesson. It just means they’ll need it repeated a few more times, and Tim’s willing enough to make sure this is the one that gets through Arlo’s thick skull.
Then Raylan clears his throat. “Tim, come on, now.”
Tim glances up at him, though the hand holding the knife against Arlo’s throat doesn’t falter. “You really want me to stop?” he drawls, and he sees the moment Raylan realizes what he’s asking—the brief widening of his eyes, the way his breath catches in his throat. It’d be nothing to push a little harder on the knife, to sever the artery on the side of Arlo’s neck, right where his pulse is thundering so delicately. Tim’s killed better men for worse reasons; he wouldn’t even lose sleep over adding Arlo fucking Givens to that tally.
See, he might not have gotten to kill his own daddy, but he’ll gladly kill Raylan’s.
For a moment, Raylan looks like he’s actually considering it. His gaze flicks to Arlo, and then back to Tim, his tongue darting out to wet his lips like he might be able to taste Tim’s honesty in the air between them. And for one, heart-stopping, gleeful moment, Tim even thinks he’ll say it.
Then Raylan’s gaze darts around the room, taking in the handful of other service members that have all turned their attention to the three of them. When he looks back at Tim, there’s helplessness in his expression, apology, and that tells Tim all he needs to know about what Raylan really wants, even if what comes out of his mouth is, “Leave him be.”
Tim nods once in acknowledgement, holding Raylan’s gaze, and then he leans down, putting his mouth right next to Arlo’s ear. “You hear that?” he murmurs. He waits for Arlo’s tentative, slow nod. “Good. Because I wouldn’t want you to ever forget—from here on out, the only reason you’re still around to be a waste of space is because Raylan allowed it.” He drops his voice, so it’s just barely above a whisper. “And if I ever have to do this again, Arlo, I can’t promise I’ll ask my boy permission before putting a hole in you.”
He leans back just enough to flash a grin, and that’s when Raylan decides to haul Tim up by the collar of his shirt, evidently done waiting for him to wrap things up himself. “Spoilsport,” Tim murmurs, and something flashes in Raylan’s eyes, something Tim would call heat if he didn’t know any better.
Raylan doesn’t look at him again as he hustles Tim out of the hall, but Tim doesn’t need Raylan’s eyes on him to know that he’s got the man’s attention. Raylan has his fingers fisted in Tim’s shirt and an expression on his face that dares anyone to get in his way, and Tim’s so caught up in taking in the picture Raylan makes that he barely remembers to flip the knife closed and shove it into his pocket, so that when they come back out through the doors, he at least looks like he’s unarmed.
“Oh, hell,” is the first thing out of Art’s mouth when he sees them, followed shortly by, “Didn’t I tell you two not to start any trouble?”
Tim smiles lazily, stumbling a little as Raylan comes to an abrupt stop. “Didn’t start any,” he promises, throwing up three fingers of his right hand. “Just finished it.”
Art sighs. “Did you at least get something useful out of him?”
Raylan releases Tim’s collar—belatedly and a little forcefully, like he hadn’t realized he was still holding on to it. “Arlo ain’t gonna take federal protection if it’s the last thing standing between him and the eternal fires of damnation,” he says. He’s still not looking at Tim, though Tim sees the muscle in his jaw tic when he throws a glance Raylan’s way.
Art sighs again, reaching up to pinch the bridge of his nose. “Fine,” he says, in a resigned sort of way that Tim’s started to hear more and more since Raylan joined their office. When he drops his hand, he’s looking at Raylan. “Can I trust you to get him home all right, or do you need an escort for that, too?”
Out of the corner of his eye, Tim catches the way Raylan’s lips press together into a thin line. Tim opens his mouth to tell Art that he doesn’t need an escort, that he managed to get himself down there just fine and he’ll manage to get himself back home as well, but Raylan’s fingers are already finding his collar again, pushing him none-too-gently towards his car.
The drive is silent.
Whatever buzz Tim had walking into the club is gone, chased away by anger and adrenaline. The lack of it makes the drive feel like it takes forever, though Tim’s internal clock tells him it can’t be more than the two hours it took for him to drive out there. Still, that’s about an hour and forty-five minutes longer than Tim’s ever seen Raylan go without speaking, and he’s not sure if it’s a bad sign or not—he’s still getting a handle on Raylan’s subtler habits and tells.
When they pull up in front of Raylan’s motel, though, Tim finally breaks the silence.
“I’m pretty sure Art told you to take me home.”
Raylan’s fingers curl around the steering wheel in a way that catches Tim’s eye. There’s something more than just annoyance in the way Raylan’s holding himself—it’s something more serious, deeper, and therefore a hell of a lot more dangerous. But before Tim can even begin to try to defuse the situation, whatever it is, Raylan grabs his keys out of the ignition and gets out of the car.
Tim doesn’t have much of a choice except to follow.
Wordlessly, Raylan unlocks one of the motel doors before pushing it open and walking inside. A little more cautiously, Tim follows, making sure the door closes and locks behind him, both the deadbolt and the chain. Before he can even get a good look at the place, though, Raylan’s hand finds his arm, and he’s being unceremoniously dragged forward.
“You got a thing for manhandling people?” Tim asks, and Raylan makes a frustrated little noise in the back of his throat.
“Sit,” he says, pointing at the bed. He still won’t meet Tim’s eyes, and something about his energy almost seems frenetic, like he’s one sidelong glance away from flying off the handle—and not in anger, Tim’s fairly certain. That’s why he raises his hands in a placating gesture and obeys, seating himself on the edge of the bed without a word of complaint.
In any case, it’s not like he has anything better to be doing.
Raylan vanishes into the bathroom, only to reappear moments later with a first aid kit clasped in his hands, and Tim has to bite back a laugh when Raylan crouches down in front of him and takes his hand, gently moving his fingers as he checks for damage. Tim knows how to throw a punch without breaking his own damn fingers, thank you very much, and the blood smeared across his knuckles is Arlo’s. Mostly Arlo’s, anyway. He recalls a flash of pain as his fist connected, so there’s every possibility he split his knuckles open on the man’s teeth.
Nothing to worry about, though. Nothing for Raylan to look so damn concerned about.
“That was stupid,” Raylan says as he looks over Tim’s knuckles. It takes Tim a moment to realize that his hand is shaking, not because of his own residual adrenaline, but because Raylan is shaking, the tremor in his hands bleeding right up into Tim’s arm. “A slap ain’t the worst thing Arlo’s ever given me.”
“I wasn’t around for the other times,” Tim says, and when Raylan jerks his head up, Tim shrugs—though he’s careful not to pull away from Raylan’s touch. “I’m not sorry. And you’re not gonna convince me to be sorry. He deserved it.”
He deserved worse, Tim thinks, though he doesn’t say that part out loud.
Raylan sighs, dropping his gaze. “You’re drunk,” he says, his tone caught somewhere between resignation and disappointment.
“Buzzed,” Tim corrects. “I was buzzed. Drove there under the legal limit, officer. Hand to God.”
“Tim–”
“Two shots and half a fucking beer,” Tim interrupts. “Four hours ago. I’m not drunk, Raylan. Hitting Arlo wasn’t a bad decision I made because my inhibitions were lowered, so you can fuck right off with that line of questioning.”
Raylan eyes him for a moment, and Tim, belatedly, realizes that Raylan’s still holding his hand captive. He’s abandoned his perusal of the abrasions decorating Tim’s knuckles, but he hasn’t let go of his hand.
That fucking pink tongue darts out again, drawing Tim’s gaze to where it wets Raylan’s bottom lip. “Seems like you’ve made a habit of doing that,” Raylan says, so quietly that Tim almost misses it.
“I think I would’ve noticed if I made a habit of punching your daddy in the face.”
Raylan snorts under his breath, shaking his head. “Not Arlo,” he says. “Not just Arlo. You like getting between me and trouble, don’t you?”
Tim swallows, his throat suddenly dry. This is getting dangerously close to things he hasn’t really allowed himself to think about, much less discuss aloud with Raylan in plain terms. “Wouldn’t have to if trouble didn’t find you so damn often,” he mumbles. It’s his turn to look away, to avoid Raylan’s gaze. “Don’t overthink it, all right? I never got to hit my own father back—chalk it up to a little vicarious living through yours.”
Raylan’s thumb drags over his knuckles, far too tenderly for Tim’s tenuous sanity. “In that case,” he murmurs, “I’m glad he was good for something.”
Tim takes a breath that isn’t nearly as steadying as he wants it to be, then clears his throat. “Least you could do, really. I had a bit of a night planned.”
“Oh?”
Tim shrugs, pretending well enough that it’s casual. “I was in the bath with a beer and a vibrator when Art called. Almost told him to fuck off.”
Raylan raises an eyebrow, though there’s no judgment there—just curiosity, maybe, and a little flicker of interest. “Why didn’t you?”
“Would have, if I hadn’t heard you in the background, whining and running your mouth.”
A short breath of laughter falls from Raylan’s lips, and some of the tension gathered in his frame dissipates. “Well, don’t you know how to make a girl feel special.” The easy smile fades quickly, though, replaced with a more serious expression. “Would you really have done it?”
“What, killed him?”
Raylan nods, and Tim grins crookedly. “If you let me?” he says, and he can’t quite keep the soft promise out of his voice. “In a fucking heartbeat, Raylan.”
Distantly, Tim thinks he realizes why Boyd Crowder says Raylan’s name so fucking often. It tastes a certain way on his tongue, decadent in a way that almost feels illicit, like moonshine or a kiss stolen behind the bleachers. When Raylan shudders and looks away, it makes Tim wonder if the man himself tastes anything like his name.
It’s not entirely surprising when Raylan licks his lips and drags his gaze back up to Tim’s face, the emotion from a few moments ago hidden behind a new, desperate kind of heat. And Tim can’t help but react, spreading his thighs almost unconsciously as his dick starts to press uncomfortably against his zipper.
Still, when Raylan leans in, his eyes flicking to the bulge between Tim’s legs, Tim slips his fingers into his hair—not to draw him closer, not yet, but to hold him back.
“Hold on a second,” he begins, though he realizes it’s the wrong way to go about it when Raylan reacts immediately, pulling back like Tim’s words burned him. Tim’s hand drops from his hair, and he misses the feel of it instantly, mourning the loss of something he only had for a moment. “Jesus, I said a second. Relax.”
The muscle in Raylan’s jaw tics. “If you don’t want–”
“Raylan,” Tim says dryly, “I defy you to find a man anywhere north of zero on the Kinsey scale who wouldn’t want you on your knees in front of him. Wanting ain’t the issue.” He pauses for a moment, debating with himself, before he gives in to the urge to reach down and cup Raylan’s cheek. The man’s eyelashes flutter at the touch, like the pleasure of a gentle caress is almost more than he can handle.
And that, in essence, is what has Tim hesitating. That, and the fact that he can still feel Raylan trembling gently under his palm.
Raylan swallows, and Tim can see the way he’s struggling against the desire to lean into Tim’s touch. “What is the issue?” he demands. The fight in him lurks there, just below the surface, the ever-present willingness to turn a conversation into a physical altercation. Tim knows the feeling, because he gets that particular itch under his skin sometimes too.
Tim slides his fingers up, pushing them into Raylan’s hair again. “Not sure blowing me is the best way to show your disapproval of what I did,” he says, voice light. It’s a change in tactic, but it works. Between the touch and the tease, Raylan relaxes, something playful sparking behind his eyes.
“Maybe I just wanted to say thanks,” he retorts, and there. That’s the confession Tim was looking for. Carefully, he curls his fingers into a fist, pulling hard enough on Raylan’s hair to make his mouth fall open in a gasp.
“You usually thank people by getting on your knees for them?”
Raylan’s smile curves at the corners of his mouth. “Can’t say I’ve had all that many complaints up until now.”
Tim hums, trailing his gaze over Raylan’s face. “Oh, I’m sure,” he says. “But that’s not how it works with me.” He tugs sharply on Raylan’s hair, forcing his head to tip back. “You understand me, Raylan? I didn’t knock out your daddy’s teeth because I thought it would get me in your pants. I did it because he needed the reminder that you’re not his anymore.”
Raylan swallows, his throat bobbing. His eyes are dark, and his hands are twitching at his sides, like he’s not sure whether to clutch at Tim or push him away. “Yeah? Whose am I, then?”
It’s on the tip of Tim’s tongue to say nobody’s, and he’s distantly aware that it’s probably what he should say, for the sake of the professionalism bleeding out slowly between them. But also, perhaps more importantly, he’s aware that it would be cruel. That Raylan aches for a gentle hand holding his leash more than he wants to be free of the leash itself.
With his other hand, Tim strokes the tip of one finger down the arch of Raylan’s pretty throat, reveling in the little shiver of pleasure that the man can’t quite conceal. “Whose do you want to be?”
“Christ, Tim.” Raylan probably means it to come out like a scoff, but it’s too broken, too desperate, caught somewhere between a curse and a plea. “You gonna make me say it?”
Tim just raises an eyebrow, electing to stay silent.
Raylan’s teeth worry at his bottom lip, and Tim allows it to happen for a moment before his fingers slide out of Raylan’s hair and he uses his thumb to gently free Raylan’s lip from the grip of his teeth. “Who do you want to belong to, Raylan?” he repeats, and if Tim were a weaker man, he might take the way Raylan’s tongue darts out and swipes over his thumb as answer enough.
For a moment, Raylan just looks at him. His gaze is assessing behind the heat and the want, so heavy Tim can feel it like a physical touch, sweeping down over his face, his mouth, where his clavicles poke out above the collar of his tank top. Then Raylan takes a breath, and all of Tim’s focus zeroes in on his words.
“Yours,” Raylan says, quietly, like the word costs him something to say. “I wanna be yours.”
The words bring a flush of color to his cheeks, and, in the privacy of his own mind, Tim thinks it’s a good look on him. He can’t resist the urge to trace the splash of pink with his fingertips, brushing them along Raylan’s cheekbones. “Good,” he says, just as quietly as Raylan. “Because you are mine, whether you like it or not.”
Raylan’s eyes flash, almost silver in the shitty light of the motel room. “Right. I’m yours, but you won’t fuck me.”
“I’ll fuck you, princess,” Tim replies, with a grin that’s just this side of mean. Raylan’s lips part around a silent sound, surprise and arousal blowing his pupils wide. “I’ll let you blow me, too, if that’s what you want. But if you wanna tell me thank you, then you say the words. And if you want me to fuck that pretty mouth of yours–”
“Oh, it’s pretty now?”
“--then,” Tim continues, like Raylan never interrupted him, “I’ll call you mine while you choke on my dick.”
Raylan shudders again, all pleasure and anticipation. “How about a ‘thank you’ that’s a real nice excuse to get all the rest of it?”
Tim sighs, but it sounds put-upon even to his own ears, and when Raylan grins up at him crookedly, he can’t help but return the gesture. “Well,” he drawls. “Since you’re down there already…”
He adjusts his grip on Raylan’s hair and pulls, harder than he did before, making Raylan’s whole body bow back. The man moans like he’s going to come in his pants just from the touch, and Tim wonders distantly if he can, if Raylan could get off solely from being roughed up by someone he knows wants to protect him.
Almost idly, he leans down, dragging his mouth up the arch of Raylan’s neck. He can feel the flutter of Raylan’s pulse, the way he’s breathing unsteadily, straining to hold the position Tim’s bent him into. And the way Raylan shudders again when Tim finally reaches his mouth, even if the kiss he delivers there is barely a brush of their lips—Tim’s going to be thinking about that for a long time.
Raylan huffs a breath of laughter when Tim’s mouth wanders away again, following the cut of his jaw this time. “Not that I’m complaining,” he says, “but I was led to believe you wanted my mouth for something else entirely.”
Tim nips at the hinge of his jaw (it’s reckless of him, because it’s absolutely going to leave a mark that Raylan will have to explain away in the morning). “You that desperate for it?” he asks, his lips brushing against Raylan’s five o’clock shadow with every word. “You can’t just let me look at you for five fucking seconds?”
He tightens his grip in Raylan’s hair again, and, predictably, Raylan moans, cutting off whatever sharp reply he might have had. Ducking his head down, Tim scrapes his teeth over the bulge of Raylan’s Adam’s apple, and, finally, Raylan reaches out to touch him again, steadying himself with his palms on Tim’s knees. “Brat,” Tim adds as he leans back, just to watch the way Raylan’s eyes narrow in consternation. “All right, you win. Impress me.”
He tugs Raylan closer, and almost immediately, Raylan’s hands slide up his thighs to palm him through his pants. Tim hisses through clenched teeth, the arousal he’s been ignoring since the moment Raylan went to his knees making itself known again. He’s hard, aching, and the gentle pressure of Raylan’s hand is doing absolutely nothing to help. But before he can reach down and do the job himself, Raylan pops the buckle on Tim’s belt with a neat little one-handed gesture.
“Now who’s getting impatient?” Raylan asks, and Tim wants to find out how that sweet little curl of self-satisfaction tastes on Raylan’s tongue. But Raylan doesn’t give him the opportunity to lean in and drag him into another kiss—instead, Raylan’s other hand sneaks up and pulls Tim’s zipper down, easing some of the strangling pressure.
“Is that what you’re angling for?” he drawls, and Raylan throws him another grin, crooked and cocky.
“Why?” Raylan asks, and then the fucker leans in to trail his lips up the bulge Tim is making in his underwear. “You close to snapping?”
“Brat,” Tim says again, with a little more vehemence this time. Raylan chuckles, and Tim can feel it right there against his dick. He grits his teeth, but before he can figure out how to tell Raylan to hurry the fuck up without saying exactly that, Raylan’s deft fingers tug his underwear down just far enough to free his cock.
Tim has to bite back the groan that wants to escape when Raylan takes him into his mouth, wrapping his lips around the head of Tim’s cock. Almost immediately, he flicks his tongue over the slit, moaning when Tim’s cock jerks in his mouth with a pulse of precome, his eyelashes fluttering shut as Tim’s fingers tighten in his hair.
Tim remembers what he promised (I’ll call you mine while you choke on my dick)—but now, with Raylan’s mouth on him, with his pleasure plain on his face, he thinks he’ll be lucky to last long enough to even make Raylan’s jaw ache. “Fuck,” he breathes. “And here I thought I was gonna have to talk you through your first time sucking dick.”
Raylan leans back, sucking just hard enough that he pulls off with a pop. When he grins, all Tim can see is the sheen of spit on his lips, the way his pupils are blown wide. “Not my first time,” he says, licking his lips in a deliberate way that makes Tim’s cock twitch. “You gonna fuck my mouth?”
He goes easy when Tim tugs him back down, his eyes sparkling as he takes Tim back into his mouth. “You talk too fucking much,” Tim grumbles, and Raylan laughs around his dick. The sensation sends a shiver up his spine, making his hips jerk forward entirely of their own accord. Raylan gags a little, but before Tim can pull back, his hands curl around Tim’s hips and drag him closer, shoving him further into the clutch of Raylan’s throat.
Tim groans, unable to hold the sound back this time. “Fuck, Raylan,” he breathes. Then, because he promised: “Would have made you mine a while ago if I knew you were this good.”
Raylan whines, his fingers pressing so hard into Tim’s hips that Tim’s almost certain he’s going to have bruises in the morning. He grins, huffing breathless laughter. “Go on,” he says. “Touch yourself for me, but don’t you dare fucking come.”
Raylan pulls back to gasp, panting as he fumbles with his own jeans. Tim sees him pull his cock out and wrap his fingers around it, and then he leans in to take Tim into his mouth again. Tim can feel the way Raylan shudders the first time he strokes himself, the whimper that crawls up out of his throat muffled by Tim’s dick.
“There you go,” Tim murmurs, arousal and need pitching his voice low and rough. “There’s my good boy.”
Raylan’s gaze flicks up to him, wide-eyed and watery and desperate, and when he slides down, pressing Tim into the hot clutch of his throat—that’s what tips Tim over the edge. He comes with a grunt, his fingers tightening in Raylan’s hair to the point of what has to be pain, but Raylan just swallows around him, bobbing his head in slow, even strokes as Tim pulses in his mouth. When he finally drags himself back, his lips are spit-slick and red, and Tim wants to sink his teeth into them, wants to see if the sting of it would make Raylan that much more desperate to come.
Instead, he shifts, nudging the hand Raylan has wrapped around his own dick away with his foot. “Enough of that,” he says, and Raylan—reluctantly—lets his hand fall away. His fingers clench and unclench at his sides, like the ache to touch is so great he’s having a tough time controlling it, and Tim grins as he tucks himself back into his pants. “You close?”
“Tim, a stiff breeze would be enough to get me off right now,” Raylan says with a bit of a strangled laugh.
Tim makes a disappointed noise in the back of his throat. “Shame,” he drawls, reaching down to wrap his fingers around Raylan’s cock. Contrary to his warning, Raylan doesn’t come at the touch, though he does stiffen and spill a little precome over Tim’s knuckles. “And here I was thinking I’d get to have some fun with you.”
Raylan shudders, his hips lurching forward once before he gets himself under control. “Tim,” he breathes, in a tone that makes his name sound a lot like please. And he whines when Tim takes his hand away, the sound so pathetically needy that Tim almost, almost finishes him off then and there.
Instead, he nudges Raylan’s hip. “On the bed,” he says, and Raylan all but scrambles up, laying himself out on the mattress. His cock arches up towards his stomach, where his shirt has ridden up, exposing those ridiculous washboard abs that Tim has tried and failed not to think about.
And Tim wasn’t lying—he does wish he could take his time with Raylan. But one look at the man tells Tim that he’s in no mood for slow. It would be cruel to drag it out, and Tim can be mean when he wants to be, but this ain’t the time for it.
Now, he wraps his fingers back around Raylan’s cock and strokes him from root to tip. Raylan’s fingers fist in the sheets, his head flopping back against the pillows. “Shit,” he breathes as Tim flicks his thumb against that sensitive spot, right under the head of Raylan’s cock. “Tim, fuck, I’m gonna–”
“Ain’t no one stopping you,” Tim murmurs. “Go on. Come for me.”
He twists his wrist sharply, and Raylan comes with a choked-off sound, spilling in white spurts all over his own abs. Tim strokes him through it as Raylan shudders through the aftershocks, until his body goes lax against the bed and the sounds coming out of his mouth take on an edge of oversensitivity.
And Tim—Tim should really take this opportunity to leave. Raylan is spent and sated, probably the least confrontational in this moment as he’s ever going to get. But he makes the mistake of looking up at Raylan’s face and seeing how good the aftermath of pleasure looks on him, and Raylan, with his lips parted in invitation, isn’t something Tim can refuse.
He wipes his hand on the sheets, earning a mildly disgruntled sound from Raylan, but it quickly turns into a pleased little moan when Tim leans up and kisses him. Raylan’s lips are a little swollen, and when Tim’s tongue darts out to lick at the seam of them, he can taste himself, lingering there in Raylan’s mouth.
Almost tentatively, Raylan’s hand slides into his hair, tilting his head just a little, allowing them both to sink deeper into the kiss. This time, it’s Tim who moans, and Raylan happily swallows down the sound.
When Raylan’s other arm comes up, curling around Tim’s waist with the intent to tug him down, Tim makes himself break the kiss, though he can’t quite pull all the way away yet. “I don’t do sleepovers,” he murmurs against Raylan’s mouth. He doesn’t, as a rule, but for the first time in a long time, it’s very, very tempting. The thought of waking up next to Raylan and the two of them lazily getting each other off is… appealing, to say the least. He swallows, forcing a smile. “Bad enough to wake myself up screaming. Don’t feel like inflicting that particular misery on you, too.”
He expects Raylan to argue. He’s not sure he’s ever seen Raylan get told no and accept it without voicing his disagreement, so he’s prepared, the handful of horror stories he’s collected from the few times he thought sleeping next to someone else was a good idea right there on the tip of his tongue.
But Raylan doesn’t argue. His smile goes a little crooked, and there’s disappointment in his expression, but it’s soft. Understanding. “All right,” he says—easy, like Tim’s little confession didn’t change anything important. Almost idly, his thumb comes up, brushing over his own bottom lip, and that little motion is enough to almost distract Tim from his next words. “Any complaints if I bring you coffee in the morning?”
Affection wrapped in relief, bright and unfamiliar, twists in Tim’s chest so hard that it hurts. “Ain’t it your turn to bring in coffee and donuts, anyway?”
Raylan grins. “Guess you can’t complain, then,” he says. He kisses Tim again, something slow and so sweet it’s liable to make Tim’s teeth ache. When he pulls away, his hand comes up, knuckles brushing along Tim’s jaw. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Don’t threaten me with a good time.” Tim grins, and then ducks his head to brush another kiss over Raylan’s mouth, an indulgence he knows he’ll spend the majority of the next day overthinking. “Now go the fuck to sleep.”
Raylan’s laugh follows him all the way outside.
As he’s standing in the cold, waiting for his Uber to show up, his phone dings in his pocket. When he pulls up Raylan’s message, it’s like the man himself is right there, leaning down to murmur the words right into his ear.
–Any chance you’d let me join you and
the beer and the vibrator in the bath
next time?
“Christ,” Tim mutters under his breath—and then, because it’s Raylan, he sends a message back.
Bring the beer, and you’ve
got yourself a deal.–