His heart skips again-- it's that fucking grin, and the sunlight coming through the window, catching and highlighting the lighter streaks in his hair, and the way his body cages Tim's and Tim still feels wholly comfortable. He's not drunk now, he can't keep pretending like it's just the sex.

And even knowing he's fully fucked, he kisses back hungrily, exploring as much of that mouth with his tongue as he can before Raylan's pulling away. The second he suggests they do this again -- and he is going to suggest it before the morning's over -- he'll be leading himself into an inescapable trench, always stifling growing feelings with each hook-up. A unique kind of self-destruction.

He settles into the bed, spreading his legs a little further to give Raylan better access. His hands slide up the other man's forearms and over his shoulders, coming to rest in the hair at the nape of his neck. His breath catches in his throat when Raylan's length starts to press past the tight ring of muscle, lips parting, head sinking back against the pillows. It feels just as incredible as it did last night. Better, actually, now that his senses aren't dulled from alcohol.