tinstar | Slingin' from the hip, never the heart.

The glass is taken with a faint nod of his head, eyes dancing around the room again before settling back on the sniper, scoffing softly.

"Hey, least my motel room is sand free," he replies good naturedly as he ambles over to sit on the other end of Tim's couch with him. "That's gotta count for somethin'. Barely even have any shootin's too. My room would be the four seasons in Kandahar."

For all that really did for the argument. Raylan wanted to ask if Tim was okay, if there was something weighing on him that drove him to the bottle so hard tonight, but it was openly against their rules to go at something like that so directly. That was generally Art's job.

Talking to Tim when he was this drunk was a lot like navigating a minefield. It was hard to tell which sentence would trigger the thought that would get him talking. One wrong step and Tim would be spilling his guts about something he'd normally keep private.

But that would be his own damn fault, not Raylan's.

"Oh, come on, now." He stretched an arm across the back of the couch, leaving his fingers inches from Raylan's shoulder. "The shootin's the fun part."

It was ironic, the thing he was best at also being the thing to cause so many nightmares.

Talking to Tim when he was sober was also like navigating a minefield sometimes but that was just part of the package that he'd come to accept. Tim held a lotta stories, a lotta weighty personal secrets so when any hint of something came out, it wasn't something to be taken as frivolous.

He doesn't glance at the outstretched fingers but he feels them there, like hot little rods of dangerous possibility.

"Shootin's always the fun part." Especially when they knew they were after someone who really deserved a bullet. It was satisfying to Raylan in a way he did not want to explore too deeply.

"But then it turns into us talkin' about effort verses reward." He grins crookedly. "I think our job is better balanced."

It was probably a mistake, calling Raylan up for a ride. It was probably a bigger mistake, inviting him up for a drink. They were almost certainly just the first two steps to more catastrophic mistakes, if his level of intoxication was anything to go by. And it was only this drunk that he was prone to making such mistakes.

You'd think maybe it'd give him reason to quit drinking. But he had far more reasons not to quit than to quit.

"Easy enough when you're just followin' orders." And Tim liked following orders, having the weight of making decisions off his shoulders. Falling in line, no questions asked. Unless the orders were coming from Raylan.

"Not that you'd know anything about that." He wiggled his fingers at Raylan for emphasis, and this time the tips of them brushed against the other man's shoulder.

"If I did, your day wouldn't be half as interesting," he says cheekily, grin steady and edging that shit eating 'I'm about to have a lotta fun' that was broken out now and then. Tim was a pain in his ass sometimes, but the good he did far far outweighs the sometimes pot shots he took at Raylan. Raylan was sure he deserved it and it was a small price to pay.

He shifts, a pull of his jacket the excuse but when he settles back, Tim's fingers only have to come down a fraction to be on his shoulder. The whiskey made him brave, but whiskey also made him dumb in a way that served most of his needs and even more of his impulses. You'd think he'd learn but he'd fucked around plenty and not found a single thing out.

"'Sides, I get the job done-" Even if it wasn't assigned to him or he'd been told specifically to not. The grin had slips to a careful eyed wondering over the easy slant of his closed lips. "-And that's the important thing. Better to ask forgiveness than permission."

That much was true. Raylan did make things more fun. To Tim, there was a distinct before and after in the marshal's office. Before Raylan got there, and after Raylan got there. Before, the most entertainment Tim could find most days was picking on Nelson. After? Well, it was safe to say that Raylan kept him on his toes.

Besides, Raylan was much better eye candy. Long legs, strong jaw, that charming crooked smirk. Tim got a lot less paperwork done sitting at the desk next to him than he used to.

And now, with the bourbon buzzing through his veins, his gaze flicks over Raylan openly, only half-hiding it behind the rim of his glass as he takes another drink. He definitely doesn't need anymore. The fingers now resting steadily on Raylan's shoulder say as much. Idly, he traces his middle finger along the jacket seam.

"I'm not complainin'. But I don't reckon I've ever seen you actually do the ask forgiveness part."

The touch was like a jolt of electricity through Raylan's veins, the best and worst of himself warring with each other as he gauges Tim. Those lazy half lidded eyes that struck Raylan the same way all blue eyes did, the equally lazy confidence that Tim carried on him like easy armor. They were alike in a lotta ways. Except Tim wore himself more easily than Raylan did, in reality. Yeah, Raylan put on a good show but Gutterson was more.. disciplined.

Must be all that training.

He was about to do something stupid, he could feel it. And yet, he couldn't stop it. He shifts again, taking one last drink of his whiskey before setting it on the coffee table and turning a little as he settles back, closer than he was before.

"Most people find themselves okay with what I've done, once it's all said and done. Only had a few complaints anyway."

Would Tim freak out? Hit him? Shove him away, kick him out and then ignore him at work for the terrible assumption. The more he thought about it, the more the whiskey loudly proclaimed that it didn't matter.

"'Sides, I don't find myself needin' it either way. Helps if I don't regret my actions."

Tim certainly wasn't being very disciplined at the moment. Not when Raylan was sitting right by him on his couch and it was the time of night that bad decisions were made, and the alcohol was making him feel warm and loose and like repercussions weren't real.

What was the worst that could happen? It wasn't like either of them were going to say anything to anyone about it. Maybe they'd have to adjust to looking each other in the eye again under the bright fluorescent lights of the marshal's office, but whatever liquor laden trouble they got up to tonight was between them.

Though Raylan's track record with keeping his illicit affairs a secret wasn't that great. Maybe the fact that Tim was very good at hiding his would balance it out.

He's getting a little ahead of himself, but the way Raylan settles back a little bit closer than before doesn't go unnoticed. Tim knocks back what's left in his glass and sets it aside, his gaze never leaving Raylan. The glint in his eye looks like it offers a challenge.

"Not a single one, huh?"

His fingers slide up Raylan's shoulder, still tracing the seam of his jacket. They continue up until they run out of fabric, and he's grazing the skin of Raylan's neck with his fingertips. It feels like sparks and fire.

The real trouble with Raylan Givens, evidenced time and again, was his brain's inability to work when he was in a certain state. It was why he'd had as much fun as he'd had in his life and it was a flaw he'd made only a scant amount of progress in correcting. The challenge in Tim's eye, everything the the double layers of their conversation held, was something the deep in him couldn't help but answer.

"Not a single one," he reiterates huskily.

A confident hand moves up Tim's jaw and around to his neck, pulling the man into a firm and commanding kind of kiss. A hundred fantasies stirred in his mind about what would happen next, but he was a man that worked on feeling and went with it. To hell with what trouble it might get them in - they could keep their mouths shut.

No one had to know anything outside of a closed door.

Edited 2025-03-17 00:43 (UTC)

Tim's almost smiling by the time their lips meet. It took a bit less goading than he expected, but that was the beauty of alcohol. Was there a small part of him that felt guilty for calling Raylan out so late at night for a favor, inviting him inside, and then plying him with bourbon until the walls came crumbling down?

No, actually, there wasn't. He's thought about this since the first day Raylan strut into the office.

Raylan kisses exactly how Tim imagined -- assured, in control -- and his mouth is pliant beneath his partner's. The hand from the back of the couch slides along the nape of Raylan's neck, fingers intertwining with the soft locks of hair there. His head tips, teeth nipping experimentally at Raylan's lower lip.

A part of him thinks if he moves too fast, he'll spook Raylan off. But the whiskey makes him confident and comfortable, and his free hand find Raylan's thigh, long fingers sliding inward until the find the in-seam.

There was no moving too fast now. Raylan held himself back, as many cards as he could close to his chest because of pride and fear. A small cowardice and a greed for the power he had as he was perceived now kept him well in line, every action considered. But once he got a green light - the way Tim's mouth opened to his, the fingers playing in his hair, the nip of his lip that earned a soft involuntary grunt of approval as he slides closer.

The hand on his thigh only encouraged him, hips lifting a little like he was guiding Tim's fingers to the girth growing in his jeans as his off hand slides along Tim's waist, pulling up the oversized flannel and the tanktop underneath so he could get palm on skin.

No, he was drunk enough that it didn't matter; he was already in over his head, amazed that this was happening, unable to stop or question either of their ability to have any sense around themselves right now.

All it takes is that hand under his shirt sending sparks like a live wire across his skin for him to decide that, no, Raylan isn't going anywhere. He's just as into this as Tim is, and that little arch of his hips proves it. A hundred different fantasies he's had like this, late at night, alone, frustrated. Now it's happening and his imagination couldn't possibly have prepared him for how Raylan's mouth actually tastes.

He's fueled by Raylan's encouragement, but instead of sliding his hand further, he removes it completely. It's only so he can move, swinging a leg over Raylan's lap to straddle it with more practiced ease than a drunk man should have. His jeans are uncomfortably tight, and he can tell when he shifts his weight down that Raylan's just as hard in his own pants.

He breaks the kiss, pulling in an unsteady breath before ducking his head for the other man's throat. He hovers a second before placing an opened mouthed kiss against the side of Raylan's neck, teeth scraping dangerously against the skin. The idea of leaving a mark behind that he can stare at at work is a very tempting one.

Raylan can't help but groan softly into the kiss as Tim slides onto him, one hand moving to get further up under that fabric as the other curves around Tim's ass. How many times has he fantasized about them this way? It didn't hurt anything that Raylan loved being ridden and Tim's weight felt so good and right on him.

The kiss brakes and Raylan is almost entranced by the sound of Tim's uneven breath. What did he sound like when he moaned, when something felt good to him too? He couldn't wait to find out.

His head tilts a little, enough to give Tim the range Raylan's neck if he wanted it and the brush of teeth earns a sharp inhale, fingers digging into Tim's hip as his own lift slightly. Oh yeah, if it weren't for the excuses they'd have to make at work, Raylan was all for being bitten. Being marked. But that didn't stop the wash of worry that manages to peek through the Whiskey veil.

"Gonna make me a liar at work, you leave something visible above my collar," he says, voice tight and sultry in Tim's ear. Then again, that phrasing suggested that Tim could leave something visible below his collar without reproach. Either way, Raylan sure as hell wasn't going to stop his partner; he'd be made a liar if he had to - this was more than worth it.

Tim grins against Raylan's neck. It would be highly entertaining to listen to Raylan make up excuses and fend off comments about a hickey all day. Might be even better to watch him shift uncomfortably in his chair every time the fabric of his shirt rubs against the mark, though. Hidden, a secret shared just between the two of them.

He likes that better.

"It'd be kinda fun," Tim murmurs, lips brushing against Raylan's throat. His hands move between them, finding the front of Raylan's shirt to undo the buttons. He's drunk, and buttons take a little more coordination than pouring glasses and unlocking doors. His fingers fumble once, but he gets the first few undone, enough that he can lower his head to Raylan's collarbone.

This will do just fine. He places a series of soft, simple kisses along the curve of the other man's clavicle, starting inwards near Raylan's throat and moving out toward his shoulder. His tongue darts out over the dip where the collarbone meets the shoulder, and with no other preamble, he bites down properly to begin sucking and nipping a mark into Raylan's skin.

He can feel the grin enough to imagine it in his head - grins always felt like a victory, Tim had high standards sometimes. (Or, Raylan's jokes were just that bad, which was very possible.) Either way, as soon as Tim was in his shirt, the hand on his ass moves up so Raylan can hastily work the other buttons free and tug his shirt out from his waistband. Tim dealt with his undershirt easily, the fabric moving aside and Raylan didn't hear his own grunt as Tim bites, only lets himself get carried on the wash of arousal.

"Fun until you're the one gettin' the questions."

Fuck that felt good.

He pushes and pulls at Tim's won overshirt, peeling it off and discarding it to the side somewhere so he could come back to try and do the same to the undershirt that was strikingly like his. There were too many layers between them and goddamnit, he wanted to leave some marks himself.

Tim is patient. Part of it natural, engrained in him a long time ago from spending days tucked away on rocky cliff slides, simply watching and waiting. But some of it is definitely because he wants to savor every single second he has Raylan beneath him like this. Just in case it's the only time he ever gets to outside of his own fantasies.

He takes his time, biting and sucking a sizeable mark below Raylan's collarbone. When he leans back, he leaves behind an angry red blotch that promises to bruise. He takes the hem of Raylan's undershirt, pulling it straight up over his head and tossing it aside, and only then does he allow Raylan to pull his shirt off too.

"Then make 'em ask some questions."

Oh, he's definitely properly drunk. A little more sober, and he might not be inviting Raylan to leave his neck littered in marks. At the same time, nobody in the office had the balls to try to pry into Tim's personal life, and the only one stupid enough to try was Nelson.

With no way to get the shirt off if Tim wasn't going to cooperate, Raylan's fingers tangled in them as he breathes a little more heavily. God in the moment he didn't care if Tim changed his mind, if Raylan had to get creative with his answers for the next week and a half.

He wishes he could see Tim's work, but he's sure by tomorrow morning, it'll be as clear as the daylight.

Then make 'em ask some questions. Raylan stare for half a heartbeat, hair a little wild from the pulling off of his shirt, pressing in the image in front of him into his head and wondering if he'd tripped and fallen into a old Penthouse Magazine. But there was no cajoling needed - Raylan moved forward at speed, hands wrapping around Tim as his body came up to meet him, hot mouth landing on a patch of skin mid-neck. He bites, nipping before sucking against Tim's skin, arms turning them so he can drop Tim into the couch.

"Gonna leave more than one," he murmurs, his work paused only long enough to breath out the words, one hand moving between them to start undoing Tim's belt and then his own if he can manage it.

God, is Raylan a fucking sight right now. Shirtless, hair mussed, that mark looking beautiful against sun-kissed skin. Tim only has a few seconds to commit it to memory, and he does-- the rise and fall of Raylan's chest, every single out of place hair, the curve of the mouth he'd just kissed.

Then that perfect mouth is on his neck, a symphony of skillful teeth and teasing tongue, and Tim's breath stutters in his throat. Once he's been tipped onto the couch his head tilts, giving Raylan as much access as he needs to accomplish what he wants. One hand moves to the back of Raylan's head, fingers tangling into his hair like he's dreamed of doing many times before. He can feel his belt being tugged loose, and his legs spread a little wider around Raylan in response.

"Never were one to half-ass somethin'."

And speaking of that, his free hand trails down the other man's spine, over his ass to roam and squeeze through his jeans.

Tim tastes like sweat, salt, whiskey, and himself, the best mix that Raylan's mind had barely been able to imagine, and Raylan finds it its own kind of intoxicating. That or he's been thinking about doing something like this to Tim for long enough that actually getting to feel and taste the younger man is an overwhelming rush that's going to carry Raylan away.

Belt and button's open, Raylan slides a hand under Tim's waistband and moves it around his hip as he breaks off from Tim's neck. The short hairs of his goatee scrap along Tim's skin as Raylan moves down his neck and collarbone, lips coming to settle on Tim's chest so he can bite and suck again. His hand comes back again, long fingers brushing across the low of Tim's hips, fingers searching for the length that he felt pressed against him so he can curl them around it and stroke softly.

If Tim wanted to stop him, he could, but nothing in Raylan thought that he would. They'd danced around this for too long, come so dangerously close to something like this a few times before, stopped by sobriety and concern, that Raylan was sure Tim wanted this as much as he did.

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.

That 'Fuck' would fuel Raylan for days - it sounded perfect coming so breathily from Tim, the normal reservation the man kept around him feeling properly sluffed off now that Raylan had his hands on him. Now that they'd both accepted that this was going to happen and abandoned the rest of their sense. That panted word and the way Tim lifts up into him is the sole thing he focuses on, enough so that he doesn't hear the hum of approval sound from the back of his throat as Tim pulls on his hair.

Yeah, he liked that.

His hand strokes Tim more firmly, the silent answer to the ask those hips were lifting towards, and another hitched moan slipping from him as Tim's fingers wrap around him. His own hips did the same thing, just as eager to let Tim touch and feel him as he was to touch and feel Tim. His lips break off from Tim's chest - another mark, and murmurs.

"We gotta get these jeans off," he says, not indicating which pair he was talking about. But it was both, honestly. Begrudgingly, Raylan sinks back down, groaning out with a breath as Tim's hand is forced to leave his length even as he is forced to do the same so that he can tug down Tim's jeans. He didn't bring them down all the way, just enough to fully free Tim's dick. Just enough so that he could sink down and swirl his tongue around Tim's tip before sinking him into his throat.

The office would lose it's mind if they knew that Raylan Givens sucked dick. But his lovers knew that Raylan liked oral sex. He liked knowing he could undo a person with just the skill of his mouth before he undoes them with other things.

Edited 2025-03-19 14:07 (UTC)

Jesus Christ. Raylan sounds downright sinful moaning like that, and if Tim were less drunk, he'd be able to focus more on biting back his own noises so he could hear Raylan's better. But as it is, their moans linger together, and it might be the single hottest sound Tim has ever heard.

His skin aches sweetly where Raylan's teeth were. Not only will he be fending off nosy questions at work, but he knows he's also going to be making a concentrated effort to not get a boner every time the fabric of his clothes rubs against those beautiful marks Raylan has left behind.

At bare minimum it's going to keep things interesting for a few days.

Tim makes a soft disappointed noise in the back of his throat when Raylan leans back, and he can't even tell if it's more from the loss of sensation between his legs or the fact that his hands are now empty, however brief that may be. His hips lift to better assist getting his jeans tugged down, and he barely has time to settle again before that persuasive mouth is on his cock. And apparently, it's good for more than just talking himself out of trouble.

Tim's back arches reflexively off the couch, murmuring a wordless encouragement. Both hands drop, one coming to rest on Raylan's shoulder and the other sliding back into his hair, where he thinks he might keep it for as long as he can, somewhat obsessed with the feeling of the soft strands between his fingers.

The hand in his hair, on his shoulder, the soft encouragement of it all was divine. Tim tasted and sounded better than Raylan had imagined and he was almost jealous he didn't get to see that arch of his more clearly. But as it was, Raylan's vision was limited to looking up Tim's chest, watching that face of his as Raylan starts to bob and suck. No blushing, shy, first timer here - Raylan tests burying Tim in the back of his throat, swallowing once around it before relenting to the needs of his lungs.

While his mouth worked, so did his hands, pushing and shoving at his own jeans until they and the cowboy boots he worn in were clattering on the floor. If he were any more sober, he might feel weird about laying facedown naked on Tim's couch, but he was more consumed with moving a hand up Tim's hip to hold onto him. It's mate helped keep Tim's cock upright for the attention Raylan was giving it. While he was sure he could get Tim off like this alone, Raylan had always been something of a greedy man in these situations.

He wanted everything he could get, in case this was a one night stand. In case Tim comes to his senses in the daylight and decides that this was all a mistake.

Raylan gasps a good breath as he pops Tim out of his mouth, and goes back to stripping off the jeans so they were both naked. He wanted him more than he probably should but this had felt so impossible twenty minutes ago.

Edited 2025-03-20 11:59 (UTC)

Tim hadn't gone out tonight planning on getting too drunk to drive, nor did he invite Raylan up with the intention of getting him naked, but he's certainly glad he did. Because now his fantasies are being shattered in the best way possible, exceeding and breaking every expectation he might have had. Even as it's happening, it almost doesn't feel real.

"Jesus Christ, Raylan."

Raylan's mouth working his cock is too incredible to be anything but real. He doesn't even bother to try and keep the traces of surprise out of his pleasured tone, because nobody could've guessed that Raylan is this good at sucking dick. And he can't help but to watch through a half-lidded gaze, those lips looking delightfully obscene wrapped around his girth, his fingers still curling into that soft hair.

Tim groans low in his throat when Raylan's mouth pops off his dick, propping himself up on one elbow as Raylan gets rid of his jeans. Tim does the same, finally properly freeing himself from the confines of the denim, kicking military boots off to the floor. The second they're both properly naked, Tim's using the hand in Raylan's hair to drag him up and in so he can feel their bodies flush together. He catches Raylan's swollen lips in an open-mouthed kiss, his moan muffled when he tastes whiskey and Raylan and himself on the other man's tongue.

The exclamation earns Tim a low hum of appreciation from Raylan, mouth busy as it was at the time - yes god, Raylan is proud of his other non-gunslinging skills, proud that he could draw such a compliment from his partner. It somehow felt like proof that he was good at more than being a pain in the ass asshole. Good at more than being an unstoppable force, good at putting that tunnel vision he sometimes got to better use.

Raylan got a brief scan of how amazing Tim looked, naked and wanting underneath him, before he was easily pulled down, a soft groan echoing Tim's wildly hot moan into his mouth as his tongue twists with snipers, body shuddering slightly as their cocks rub together, trapped between the space of their bellies. One hand slips up under one of Tim's shoulders, resting on his elbow to support some of his weight, while the other smooths up Tim's bare leg and hip and side, relishing in the open and unbroken swath of skin. Bare skin on bare skin was one of the most sinfully delightful feelings. It felt too good, too right to be between Tim's legs, and Raylan kisses him until his lungs are burning from the lack of proper air.

Breaking the kiss with another little sound, Raylan wastes no time in drifting his lips along Tim's jaw and neck to the untouched side. Make them ask some questions. Goddamn - that statement was going to haunt him in the best way.

"I've wanted to do this with you for months. Wanted to know what you sound like, taste like." He nips at Tim's neck, hand moving from Tim's waist to between them to gather their cocks together in his fist and start stroking lazily. "I want to feel what it's like inside of you."

It would be embarrassing later, that he admitted that out loud, but chances had to be taken. He wouldn't be upset if Tim said that this was as far as they went though - he knew too well some of the hang-ups that could be stuck onto the act and hornier than he was at 17 or not, he would never push for something more than what his partner was comfortable with. This was about trust as much as it was about desire, and only one of those things could be irrevocably broken with thoughtless actions.

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