errantechoes | (no subject)

Tim pushed Raylan's hands away as soon as the other man would let him, frowning deeply. He could already feel the rough marks Raylan had left behind starting to heal, as well as the ones from the vampires earlier in the week, leaving nothing by tiny white scars. Incidentally, whatever strength and energy he got from Raylan's blood was quickly cutting through the high that the bite had left him with.

That was probably what he was most annoyed about, honestly.

"Fuck you," he muttered, and pushed off the door, past Raylan, to drop himself onto the bed. He didn't care that there was blood drying on his throat, Raylan's and his own. His jeans still felt too tight, but he opted to ignore that for now. "I wasn't gonna bleed out. I am capable of takin' care of myself."

Mostly, he wished Raylan would stop pretending he cared.

"Bullshit," Raylan says, simply. He was starting to see that anything outside of actual marshal work, Tim wasn't capable of much beyond self destruction. Something Raylan should have seen long ago. Maybe he did. Maybe that's why he took such a shine to Tim in the first place. Like minded.

Right now he was trying to ignore something else entirely. He rolled his shoulders and ran a hand over his neck, hiding it by rolling his neck. The sort of way a man might when irritated and trying to rid himself of the tension it caused. But he couldn't shake that strange ghost of a feeling at his throat. Like any time he'd been bitten himself, that way it felt when he was forced to remember it as vividly as possible. And never mind whatever else he was feeling. That was par for the course when dealing with Tim.

"Maybe now that you're head's clear, you can start talkin' about what the hell all that was about." Because Tim pushing him was more important than his giving in.

At least Tim had a decent excuse for his self-destruction. Two tours in Afghanistan, eight years of combat and back-to-back assassinations, were not easy things to deal with once he got back stateside. It left him only feeling comfortable when he felt like he was at war, which the marshals service provided for him quite nicely, most days.

But sometimes there was too big of a stretch of downtime at work, too many days in a row where all they did was desk work, and that made Tim restless. And restlessness led to self destructive behavior. It was a vicious cycle, but so long as he remained functioning and able to do his job, it wasn't really a problem.

He was fine. He was handling it. Which meant he also didn't need to talk about it.

Tim laid back on the bed, shifting uncomfortably. He'd probably call in sick tomorrow. Not something he did often but something he needed to do this time. Let himself sleep for the day.

"We gonna start havin' heart-to-hearts now, Raylan?" Tim asked, and he shifted his gaze to look at the other man, brows arched. "Because I think that requires you to not be a dick."

Tim was far less fine than he thought at handling things. Even Raylan could see that. He was barely keeping it together, just barely. Did that mean Raylan was going to talk about the root of the problem? Of course not. That would mean owning up to his own issues and having, as Tim put it, a heart-to-heart. Which didn't happen unless he saw fit to share something that might save a scared 14 year old kid. But Tim was far from that.

"And it requires you not bein' a smart ass. So it ain't gonna happen in this or any lifetime." He didn't want to sit down. That would put them on the same level, with Tim lying down. It didn't feel right. He needed to be on his feet for this.

"What we're gonna talk about is why you couldn't just let me leave and be done with this whole mess. Which, by the way, now that we've come this far, I ain't leavin'. I'm stayin' here until you start talkin'." That was probably the most direct he'd ever been with Tim, the closest he'd ever sounded to actually caring. Because he was starting to see Tim differently. Not as a former partner, not as a lawman. But as the sorts of people he ran across in Harlan. Not criminals exactly, and not addicts. But people who were well on their way to heading down a very bad road. People that maybe, just maybe, he could get on the right track before they got too far.

Of course Raylan only wanted to talk when it wasn't about him. Tim was the same way. It was easier to deflect or evade or simply not talk. Tim only ever tolerated so many questions before he shut it down or changed the subject, generally unsubtle and unapologetic. And to literally nobody's surprise, this was definitely not something Tim cared to talk about.

He had trouble admitting his vices to himself, let alone other people. Let alone Raylan.

Tim sighed, draping an arm across his eyes. Eventually, he'd work up the effort needed to get up and take a shower, clean himself up a little and feel a little less strung out and wrecked. Crashing after a high was never much different from a particularly bad hangover, and Tim had dealt with a lot of terrible hangovers.

"I hope you plan on stayin' awhile, then," he said, unmoving. "Because I'm not talkin'."

Raylan settled his hands on his hips, head bowed and lips pressed firmly together. He wanted to threaten that he could MAKE Tim talk. It would be easy. But the moment he even considered it, he could feel it. It wasn't like other types of control. Where it took obvious effort and blatant eye contact. In wa way he didn't quite understand, the connection was just there. Inviting him to take it up.

In becoming aware of it, he became aware of a few other things. The connection hadn't just been established. It was open and roaring. The source of the strange feeling at his throat. The discomfort elsewhere. Did Tim know it was there? Did he know what this could mean?

Rather than say anything, or even think about it directly, Raylan just moved to the chair. He plucked up his hat as he sat down, and settled it on his head. Leaning back, he made it very clear he was willing to wait as long as it took. "You talk," he said finally, "You get what you want."

It was also easier when Raylan just responded to everything with anger. The anger and hostility was something Tim was accustomed to, something he was used to dealing with. It was sure as hell easier to respond to than the reasoning and bargaining Raylan had chosen to do instead. Tim wished he kept being angry instead.

Normally, this was where Tim did whatever he needed to do to make Raylan leave, which wasn't ever difficult. This was messy and complicated and not something either of them wanted to consider the finer parts of, so it was always just simpler for them to part ways. But there was something in him that wanted Raylan to stay here, and stay close.

Something other than the usual highschool-crush like infatuation that had continued to linger ever since Raylan marched his cowboy ass into their office for the first time.

He dropped his arm from his eyes and turned his head to look at Raylan. "You mean what I can get from any other asshole with fangs out there? Lexington's got a shockingly high vampire population. And most of 'em aren't gonna give me shit for it, either."

Never mind everything else he wanted from Raylan. Somehow, that managed to be even messier. Not to mention that suddenly, the idea of letting anybody else other than Raylan feed from him didn't actually sound appealing at all. That was definitely messier.

Raylan rolled his shoulders, settling a little more into the chair. "That ain't what I'm talkin' about."

That was all he said. But there was so much weight to all that he didn't say. In a way, he wanted it to. That is to say, the reason he'd sat down was that if he'd kept standing there by the bed, he would have ended up ON the bed. Well, not exactly the bed as on top of Tim. He blamed that weird connection for making him consider it so strongly. But what other reason could there be for wanting it so bad? He never really wanted it, it just sort of happened that one time and it felt good. That's it. Nevermind how uncomfortably snug his jeans tended to get with Tim around.

He was putting the ball in Tim's court. Talk, and they get to do that thing he could feel Tim wanted to do. Nothing to do with his own urges and feelings. Not a bit. And he certainly wasn't watching Tim from under the brim of his hat. He wasn't letting his gaze linger anywhere it shouldn't. That was for damn sure. Just making sure he was breathing and behaving normally. Nothing more.

This had to be some big fucking joke. Instead of talking, he considered standing up and punching Raylan in his teeth. Instead of doing either of those things, he ended up laughing and turning his face away, staring across the room.

There had been that one time, and Tim mostly tried not to think about it. It had just happened, like a by-product of the feeding, both of them too submerged in some crazy euphoric bliss to think better of it. And in the end, it had been a bad idea. It was the final straw that made Tim give in and agree that they needed to quit what they were doing.

Yet, here they were, drying blood sticky on Tim's throat, thinking he could still feel Raylan's teeth in his skin, and he had to suppress a shiver. He exhaled slowly, jaw clenching and unclenching. He should tell Raylan to fuck off, probably. This was a terrible idea.

"I dunno what you want me to tell you," he said, and he didn't look at Raylan still. His gaze remained glued on the peeling wallpaper across the room. "It's better than drinkin'." Which was to say, it worked better than drinking. "It's better when I can do it with someone I can relax with." Someone like Raylan.

Raylan couldn't argue with that. It irritated him. And it showed. Because he knew all too well what Tim referred to, though it was more that Raylan couldn't drink anymore. He had to find other things to wind down and relax. Bourbon just didn't have the same effect it used to. But he wasn't sure he would agree that it was any better. It was a hell of a lot more dangerous, that's for sure.

There was more to it that he didn't want to think about. Especially that last bit about being able to relax. That held far more meaning than he wanted to even start to consider. But he understood it on a level he couldn't quite describe and doubted it had anything to do with that strange connection.

He just let out a slow breath, lips pressed together, trying very hard to not think about any of this. All the while part of him was reaching out across that connection and whispering "come closer." It wasn't conscious on his part, though he did consider getting up and going over to Tim himself. That just wouldn't do. It would ruin the stubborn vibe he had going on. So he just sat, silently and unintentionally beckoning.

Tim had been back stateside for two years, and the truth was, combat had affected him in ways that still weren't fixed yet. The episodes were bad and frequent for awhile, but those, at least, had gotten under control. There were still plenty of nightmares, and he couldn't stand or sit or sleep with his back to the room without his skin crawling, didn't ever feel safe without his gun within arms reach. He'd known plenty of other veterans who turned to drinking, and even more that turned to drugs. This was similar, and it happened to work very well.

He was coping, and he didn't really ever expect Raylan to understand that.

At first, he didn't move, even if he could feel an insistent tugging in the pit of his stomach, urging him to be closer to Raylan. For a moment, he resisted, if only because he wanted Raylan to be the one to make the first move. But then he grew unusually impatient, and he stood up with a short huff.

The high from the bite had worn off completely, and he was a little steadier on his feet than before, thanks to Raylan's blood. He moved around the bed to stand in front of Raylan, reaching up to touch the brim of the other man's hat with his fingers. "Satisfied?" he murmured.

Raylan lifted his head, as if surprised Tim were there. He'd heard the man move, of course. Watched him approach, but the why of it escaped him. Not realizing just how sensitive that connection was. A stray urge, a barely acknowledged thought had turned into something far more. Something it shouldn't have.

Thing was, Raylan knew about coping far too well. In ways he never discussed with anyone. Sure, he mentioned it from time to time, and everyone knew what a terrible man Arlo had been. But no one really knew how much that still effected Raylan's day-to-day life. He certainly wasn't about to lay that all bare right here to let Tim know how much he understood. It may not have been a battlefield, but it still gave them common ground.

For now he scrutinized Tim, eyes narrowed. "For what? You admittin'--" He cut off that particular thread of anger and just let let out a sigh. "Do I look like I'm satisfied?" He felt uneasy. Unsettled and not quite right. Like this was all wrong.

Tim didn't know why he was here, standing in front of Raylan, almost like a hopeful puppy dog. He'd fully intended on making Raylan come to him, refusing to make any sort of first move, because it felt a lot like revealing some sort of secret. He was good at waiting, and that was what he'd planned to do. But that urge had tugged insistently, leading him astray. He wasn't going to question it, wasn't going to think too hard. That'd just make thinks messier, somehow. If they could even get messier.

His fingers stayed on the brim of Raylan's hat, tracing the edge of it back and forth slowly. He hated this stupid hat. He hated the fact that Raylan managed to make it look charming instead of ridiculous.

"You asked why and I told you," Tim said, voice quiet. "What more do you want?"

He realized, belatedly, that he didn't want to know the answer. Because Raylan probably wanted him to stop, and Tim didn't think he could do that.

For a moment, Raylan just stared up at Tim. Stern and judgmental. He did want Tim to stop. To just stop putting himself in harms way when there was no reason to do so. Careless and reckless and totally different from the way Raylan did it. At least harms way was a job requirement. But Tim was doing this off the clock.

"What I want..." he said slowly. But he paused. He didn't want to say what more he wanted, because the thing that leapt to the front of his mind was not something he would ever say to another man. Ever. He'd barely ever say it a woman. So in that pause, he rose from the chair, but in a way that was completely unnatural. One moment he was seated, the next he was standing with nothing but a blink between.

He looked Tim in the eye and just said, sounding so exasperated, "...is for you to just shut up." Before he could stop himself, and before Tim could reply, a hand slid behind the other man's neck. And he leaned in to press their lips together.

Raylan moved fast, and Tim hated it when he did that. No matter how many times he'd seen it, it never failed to make him jump, make his heart beat a little faster and make him feel like he had to be on guard. It did nothing for his state of relaxation, and he'd been feeling surprisingly at ease just moments before.

They wanted the same thing, though. And Raylan proved that by kissing him. Unsurprisingly, this easily fell under the category of his favorite way to be shut up. As a matter of fact, Raylan needed to shut him up more often.

It didn't do much for his heart rate. If anything, he felt the way his pulse picked up further, thrumming hard in his throat. His hands came up to curl into the front of Raylan's shirt, making sure he stayed close as he leaned up to kiss the other man harder. That insistent, tugging urge seemed to settle at the same time, and this whole thing felt oddly right to him.

Raylan pushed his hat back, letting it fall to the chair behind him. At last, things were starting to feel a little better, like they were right where they should be. Which was odd, because this seemed like the opposite of that. It SEEMED he should be telling Tim what for and being done with this mess.

Instead, he was urging Tim back toward the bed. His head tilted and his lips opened against Tim's. A slow, deep sort of kiss. The intense kind Raylan seemed to go for every single time. He only let it break when they at last reached the bed. When Tim's knees hit the mattress, he pushed the deputy back. Then he again did that thing Tim disliked so very much. He moved too fast to see. One moment he was leaning over Tim, and the next he had the man's hands pinned to the mattress above his head.

Tim was content to let himself be urged back, to wrap his arms around Raylan's neck and kiss deep and slow. It wasn't rough and violent and bruising like it was last time, but it also wasn't any less intense. Different, but not a bad sort of different. He was almost glad that this time, his mind wasn't clouded with euphoria from the bite, that it was less about Raylan's need for blood and more about...

Well, something else entirely. Something else that neither of them were willing to talk about, but were apparently at least a little bit willing to act on. Tim liked it best that way, honestly.

His back hit the bed, and less than a second later, Raylan had him pinned down, and Tim inhaled sharply, heart leaping unsteadily in his chest. He tugged faintly at the hold on his wrists, just experimentally, and Raylan's grip was tight.

"That's not how most people choose to shut me up," he murmured, arching his hips a little, seeking Raylan's body and a little bit of friction.

That was what he liked to hear. That little hitch in the man's breath, the little stutter of his heart. It called to something in Raylan that had little to do with hunger, but in ways felt very similar. It was certainly just as difficult to ignore. He did, however, need to remember that he couldn't bite Tim again. The man needed his blood for more important things at the moment.

"Maybe they outta do it more often," was all he said before kissing Tim again. And again it wasn't the bruising sort of force, but it was just as intense, just as demanding. But in a vastly different way.

Rather than try for anything else, he just gave in. He could have played at the fact that he was only giving Tim what HE wanted. Making good on his word. But damn if he didn't want it, too. He pressed down hard against the man, chest to chest, hips to hips. There was nothing passive, or simply "making good" with the way he moved his hips against Tim's.

It was entirely possible he shouldn't be doing that required so much physical activity with as much blood as he'd lost over the last week. Raylan's blood might have have jump started the healing process, but it did not magically replenish his blood supply in such a short span of time. He felt just a little bit light headed as he kissed Raylan back, but reasoned that it could be from any number of things right now.

Raylan pressed against him and Tim groaned low in his throat in response. He hiked a leg up against Raylan's hip, rocking up hard against the other man. His patience always wore thin fast in situations like this, and he was ready to get his hands between them, start shedding clothes and getting even closer.

Obviously, that wasn't really an option with his hands pinned to the bed. Raylan was setting the pace and, really, Tim didn't have any choice but to go with it. Not with that supernatural strength. All he could do was press himself upwards and bite Raylan's lower lip insistently.

While Raylan wasn't one to draw things out, he was rather content to keep at the pace he'd set. Because moving things along meant an eventual end and the possibility of actually considering what was happening. But staying the course failed to be an option with the way Tim squirmed beneath him. Those sounds didn't help matters, either.

Raylan let go of Tim's wrists and grabbed him by the hips. With a growl low in his throat, he shifted Tim's position. Pulling his hips up higher so both of the man's legs were over Raylan's thighs. His hands then turned to the task of unbuttoning Tim's jeans, but not before dragging over the front of that frustrating denim.

All the while not breaking that kiss. Better that than allowing space to talk. Because talking meant thinking, and he was really rather opposed to that notion at the moment.

As soon as Raylan lets go of his wrists, Tim's bringing a hand up to the other's hair, fingers tangling into it. There's a part of him that wants to feel Raylan's fangs against his lips like before, threatening to break the delicate skin. But it's a bad idea, and he knows it's a bad idea, and he's not too keen on doing anything to disrupt this momentum.

The idea that Raylan's only making good on the promise he made — the idea that he's not really into this, that he's only following through with what he'd said he'd do — doesn't even cross his mind. Because between the way Raylan kisses him and rocks his hips, there's not a doubt in his mind that the other man wants this too.

Of course, that means Tim can't pretend he's straight anymore, and really, neither can Raylan. But that ship sailed a long time ago anyway.

His legs hook around Raylan's waist and his hands leave the other man's hair in order to get to his shirt, his fingers only a little bit unsteady from some combination of lust and blood loss. Still, they start undoing the buttons easily enough. Last time was nothing more than a quickie, something Tim hadn't bothered with since high school. He fully intends on making this more than that.

They most certainly could continue pretending. Denial was a powerful thing. Just like Raylan continued pretending he could ever be part of the marshal's service. Or that there was nothing between him and Tim, and these incidents were just the result of keeping him fed so he wouldn't need to feed on hookers. Nevermind that there was no actual feeding going on. Denial was a powerful thing.

As Tim got to the lower buttons, Raylan started to frantically pull off his own shirt. The remaining buttons popped free in his haste, barely breaking the kiss in the process. It left him in just his white undershirt.

Without thinking, he deviated from Tim's lips, hot breath moving down over his jaw. Only after he settled in the crook of the man's neck did he remember himself. He could feel that rapid pulse, a tempting invitation. The thought flit through his head that he could do it right here, he could turn Tim. It would protect him. No one could hurt him, then. His fangs pressed against skin before he stopped himself. No. he couldn't do that. He let out a sound that fell somewhere between growl and moan as he closed his lips around that skin, sucking hard at it instead of biting down.

He started to push Tim's shirt up, fingers sliding up over bare skin. But he stopped short, distracted by the man's pulse. He knew if he was that distracted, he should stop completely. But he lied to himself, as he always did. His self control could hold out no matter what. They'd be fine.

Raylan's teeth press against his throat. Not just teeth-- fangs. And Tim knows better the way Raylan knows better. Tim's throat is littered in bite marks, both partially healed and far too fresh. He's already lost too much blood. Even the prolonged kissing has made him dizzy and light-headed. So, really, the last thing he needs is to be fed on again. And they're both well aware of that.

Still. It's like giving a needle to a heroin addict. Like gifting an alcoholic with liquor. It doesn't matter whether or not it's good for him, he wants it anyway. He wants to feel Raylan's teeth sink into his skin, and he finds himself whimpering, hardly even aware of it. His fingers curl around the back of Raylan's neck, not as a deterrent, but as an encouragement. He wants it. He wants it maybe more than he's ever wanted it before. Because it's Raylan. Because they're tangled up on the bed of a shitty motel room and Tim has never felt so God damn alive.

But Raylan's fangs never find his skin. Instead, Raylan chooses to leave a mark of a different kind, and that's good too. Very good. Tim moans out loud, tipping his head back to give the other man more room. His stomach dips beneath Raylan's touch, and he tugs at Raylan's thin white undershirt impatiently, wanting nothing more than to get it off.

Well, almost nothing more. He rocks his hips up hard, groaning low in his throat at the friction against his cock. His jeans are too tight and they're both far too dressed. Tim's needy and desperate. Not for the bite, but for Raylan. Just for Raylan.

Every movement, ever sound, was like a screaming demand of "Do it!" And each and every time, he said "No." He kept his teeth off Tim's skin. Mere millimeters away, it wouldn't even take any effort. And one bite was all he'd need to end this once and for all. It was in Tim's best interest. To protect him. He might lose his job, but then Boyd couldn't get to him. Then his habit wouldn't get him killed. He'd be alive at least in some sense of the word, and that's what mattered, didn't it? Nevermind that Tim would hate him for doing it without giving him a chance...

Before he realized it, his teeth were resting against skin again. The rabid argument, the constant struggle inside his head had slipped some how. He'd missed a beat and the other side of himself gained the upper hand. Like a fist in his hair trying to force his head down. The worst part was how badly he wanted to do it. He wanted it more than he wanted that throbbing friction between them, more than he wanted to shred their respective jeans to get more contact. Every fiber of his being was on fire with pure want.

All it took was a single heartbeat. One pulse beneath his waiting tongue, and he could feel the dam breaking. On pure instinct, he knew if he felt one more beat, he was done for. Before he could feel it, he tore himself back. To Tim, it would all happen in an instant. The faintest touch of those fangs and suddenly Raylan hit the wall at his back so hard a cheap framed picture crashed to the floor. His chest heaved as he attempted to get his bearings.

"We can't," he hissed, pointing an accusatory finger at the deputy. It was all he could muster, because even with the small distance between them, he could still hear that tempting pulse. And that was the only part of the aching need that he wanted to even consider at that moment, despite how obvious the rest was.

Just like that, Raylan's gone, and for one odd, light-headed moment, Tim thinks maybe he'd been dreaming this whole time. That would be an interesting turn from the nightmares that usually plague him. But his dreams after being fed on area always a little strange, never set in Afghanistan's dry deserts, but frequently set in the acres of woods behind his childhood home, or the grassy land behind the baseball fields in high school. Dreams that remind him of simpler times.

Not dreams that involve he and Raylan in a hotel room.

Tim sits up, and the deep breath he draws in helps to clear his head and steady him a bit. The room doesn't spin, at least, even if he still feels a bit light headed. Raylan's across the room, breathing heavily, and Tim knows what happened. He can only guess the amount of self-control that goes into a situation like this from Raylan's end. He can only guess how difficult it must be to resist the urge to bite. Probably, it's more difficult than it is for Tim to keep from begging to be bitten. But that's definitely hard to imagine.

It's hard, he's sure, but right now, he's mostly just annoyed.

"I know." He moves to the edge of the bed, sitting on it with his feet on the floor. He'd stand, just to put them on more even ground, but he honestly doesn't know how well that would work out for him with the side-effects of the blood loss. "We won't. Come back over here."

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