Tim's imagination is wild, and he indulges in it often for his own sanity, but it couldn't even begin to compare to the real thing. The way Raylan's mouth leaves a trail of heat and sparks down his body, the tantalizing scratch of facial hair against his skin, the pistol-calloused fingers that slip past his jeans and wrap around his fully erect cock.

There's no way he's stopping Raylan now. Consequences mean nothing when the other man's weight is so pleasant over him, and the liquor buzzing through his brain erases every 'what if' that tries to crop up anyway.

"Fuck," he breathes, his own hands stilling and stopping as he's momentarily overcome by the pleasure Raylan's wringing from his body. His hips arch off the couch, encouraging those slow strokes to become something more. One hand stays in Raylan's hair, tightening to give a single experimental tug. The other drops between them, and while he's not quite as coordinated about it, he gets his fingers into Raylan's jeans and around his length.

It reminds him of fooling around as a teenager in a way he doesn't entirely mind.