errantechoes | (no subject)

(no subject)

Who: Tim and Raylan
What: Vampire AU, Raylan isn't following orders as usual. Continued from here.
Warnings: Vampire stuff, who knows

Raylan knew that going up to Lexington to meet with Tim and get his weekly fix along with giving his report was the best option open to them. But knowing that wasn't enough. There had to be some option that didn't involve him getting so damn intimate with a friend and ex-coworker. He'd called Tim a few hours before, but just got his voicemail. Saying he couldn't get away for their weekly meeting, but he'd find a way to get the report to him. It was total bullshit.

He went to the the very place he'd discussed with Tim. Sitting in one of the trailers at Audrey's, with who he was assured was their cleanest girl. He'd talked her down from having sex with him, offering to pay her double just for her wrist. This seemed to confuse the poor addled girl. He was part of Boyd's crew, that meant he got it all and at half price.

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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."

He knew he should leave. Just as quickly as he'd removed himself from the bed, he could be out the door. But what would that solve? It would leave Tim to find someone else to dig him any early grave, or someone with far more corrupt morals than Boyd could get his claws into Tim and turn him. For Tim's sake he couldn't stay, and for Tim's sake he couldn't leave. Damn it. Why did he have to give a damn about the deputy?

Slowly, Raylan composed himself. He removed his weight from the wall as he breathing calmed. He took his time straightening his shirt, but there was only so much he could do with the fabric before it became obvious he was stalling.

"You know damn well that I can't do that, either," he growled, not looking at Tim. "Lest we end up right back in the same spot."

Tim wasn't his responsibility. Tim was a grown man capable of making his own damn choices. At least, that's what Raylan kept trying to tell himself as he continued to stand there, like his presence alone could keep the other from making terrible choices.

They keep ending back up in this spot, a room apart, Raylan glowering and Tim frustrated. He could tell Raylan to leave, or simply leave himself. He could be smart and go home and have a drink before bed. Or he could be stupid and find someone to fuck him right. In the back of his car or in a filthy bathroom, he doesn't care at this point. With as hard as his cock is, he thinks he might need it more than the bite.

But he doesn't want to go home, and he doesn't want to sleep with someone else. This is the particular path of self-destruction he wants to continue down: him, Raylan, a ratty hotel room, and the resent that was bound to follow. This is going to fuck everything up, but Jesus Christ, does he want it.

He might change his mind tomorrow, but right now, he's ready to watch his world burn.

"Fine," he says softly, and pushes himself to his feet. He stays upright and steady, the room barely wobbling at all. Either Raylan's blood is doing its job and helping him heal, or Tim's simply grown accustomed to whatever lingering dizziness there is. He crosses the room, closing the distance between them. If Raylan won't come to him, he'll simply go to Raylan.

He doesn't stop until there's only inches between them, and when he reaches out, it's to work loose the button on Raylan's jeans. "I promise I'll behave," he says, even offering the smallest of smiles.

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