Tommy Shepherd is living in my mind all the time, consuming all the space in my brain and I can't do anything about it. I love him so, so much, and he's just running through my head all the time. That stupid boy, he means the world to me
We don't have enough content to satisfy my constant need to know everything about him. I would cry tears of joy if he would let me know which flavor of ice cream he hates
jorge having an easy race with no one near him while aleix does more racing than I have noticed him doing all year one of the hottest most beautiful acts of love in history sorry I cannot stop posting about it the commentators cannot stop talking about it. "what a favor he's done for his mate." "aleix is not normally a patient rider." jorge is going to ride him for three hours tonight and sob.
I just got really bad cramps then I sent my friends a bunch of silly memes of projecting cramps onto mcyters. And then they fucking stopped after that 😭 it works guys I swear /silly
Raylan is growing impatient. He still hasn’t gotten what he wants, he hasn’t fulfilled his resolution to bed Tim, and he swears on his mama’s grave that Tim struts around proud about it, smug, gloating the way he eludes Raylan’s grasp, slipping through his fingers at the last moment like he always does. Well that’s just fine with me, Raylan thinks. Two can play at that game.
He decides he will pull back, he will withdraw, he will rein himself in and quit his dogged pursuit of his partner he wants so bad he could spit. He will decline to ride in Tim’s truck with him on prison transports. He will ignore the cup of shitty coffee Tim leaves for him at his desk each morning. He will leave the courthouse five or ten minutes early each day to avoid lingering with him at the door, getting close enough to touch and pull and push; he will have none of the almost-but-not-quite touching. He will stop asking Tim for favors and he will leave him alone, wasting no more of his attention on him. He will he will he will, and he must. Because Raylan firmly believes that Tim will be so pissed off that he no longer has him on a leash, begging, that he will have no choice but to chase after him for a change.
But days pass, weeks, and then a month or two; eventually Raylan has to stop counting the minutes the hours and the days because it is beginning to drive him crazy and he knows his resolve to ignore Tim until he comes crawling on his hands and knees to him is unspooling and becoming as threadbare as a moth-eaten sweater. Tim persists in not caring, and not noticing, and ignoring Raylan right back, and Raylan can hardly stand it anymore.
So now he’s drinking in his motel by himself, stripped down to his jeans and undershirt he hadn’t bothered to wash, draining almost an entire bottle of Buffalo Trace. Neither the cheapest bourbon nor the most expensive; but it is the sweetest. If he’s to drink to what could have been between him and Tim, let it be sweet. He cannot succumb to bitterness over being bested by a man he wants so bad it hurts his teeth. He’s got his glass, and he keeps refilling it. He won’t drink straight from the bottle because he can’t do that shit alone without feeling sorry for himself. So he pours and he pours and perhaps afterward, if he has not completely wrecked himself, he will get off before going to bed to dream of him again.
And so he lifts his glass one more time, to swallow the last couple droplets of bourbon that they should be drinking together, when he hears a knock at his door.
He stops and waits. Another knock, coming louder this time. Raylan scans the wall for the clock and sees it’s just after midnight. His gun belt is on the other side of the room, hanging limply from the closet door. He didn’t even think about keeping it close like he usually does because he has been so unlike himself, so unmoored.
Knock. Knock. Knockknockknock. Insistent and impatient now. Raylan downs the rest of his bourbon and wipes his mouth and sets his glass back down on the table before striding across the room to retrieve his gun. He clicks off the safety and makes his way to the door, stopping to peek through the tiny peephole that is cracked and so foggy he can barely see out of it. But he looks out onto the porch and despite how busted the peephole is, he sees who it is. He recognizes him just by the way he holds himself, hands behind his back, fingers hooked into his belt probably.
Raylan shakes his head. Hell, he chuckles, nonplussed. He cannot fully believe that his plan worked. It took a long damn time, but it worked. He relaxes his shoulders and clicks the safety back on and pushes his gun quickly into the front of his jeans, something he never does because he’d look awful stupid holding his dick he’d just shot off in his hand after getting all riled up and jumpy because the man who’s got him down bad decided to show up to his door a little after midnight, looking for him after ignoring him for so damn long.
Raylan unlocks and opens the door and is about to speak but can’t because Tim’s already doing the talking.
Why’re you doing that? Tim asks, his words just a tiny bit slurred; he must have been drinking too, driving and drinking and coming for Raylan, finally. Doin’ what? Raylan replies with a trace of a smile that is dangerous for both of them. You’re being weird, Tim says. His hands are hanging at his sides now, one hand, the hand he uses to pull the trigger on his rifle, twitching. How so? Raylan asks, leaning against the doorframe, taking the rest of Tim in. His wheat colored hair is perfectly coiffed still; his shirt is neat and tucked into his jeans, the sleeves of his jacket hug his biceps nice and tight. He looks good, good as hell, and also so very angry, hot instead of cool for once. His cheeks are red and splotchy, his blue eyes are dark under a furrowed brow. His mouth is a perfect little pout. Raylan’s so distracted by the sight of him he doesn’t hear his answer. So distracted by the thought of making a damn mess of him.
Raylan? Tim says impatiently. Yeah Tim, he says casually. Tim is apoplectic now, saying, Are you listening? Why are you avoiding me? Why are you just being so fucking weird? Why—Raylan sees Tim’s eyes fall to his waist. He stops talking and bites his lower lip, flicks his tongue against it. Why what, Tim? Raylan says, and Tim looks up, slowly, slowly. You’re packin’, Tim replies, changing the subject. You got your gun shoved down your pants like you’re trying to hide something from me, he accuses. Not hidin’ anythin’. Can never hide anythin’ from you, Raylan says. Just didn’t expect someone to come knockin’ at my door at such a late hour. Tim cocks his head, studying him like he doesn’t understand why he doesn’t understand. I’m here because you’re being an asshole, Tim says. Because you gave up on your stupid fucking New Year’s resolution like I knew you would, and I’m here to hold you accountable. Tim steps right up to Raylan, and he brings his hand to his waist. He touches him—well, he touches his gun. He traces it with the tips of his fingers, from its handle all the way down to its barrel, along its long muzzle. He strokes it like it is part of Raylan, because in a way, it is. Raylan cups Tim’s chin and tilts his face up. Why’d you give me such a hard time, Gutterson? You get off on that? On draggin’ me along like a dog wherever you go? he asks, already knowing the answer. Wanted to see how long you’d last, Tim says quietly. Wanted to see if you’d be man enough to take what you wanted, but you fucking disappeared on me. He’s baiting Raylan now, but he won’t rise to bite it and get hooked, reeled in just to be thrown back into the river. So Tim’s fingers remain on Raylan’s gun, stroking it, and Raylan can feel himself getting hard underneath it and it feels uncomfortable and tight and good all at once. But he drops his hand from Tim’s face and closes it over Tim’s wrist, keeping him from going further. Don’t start nothin’ you can’t finish, Raylan warns. Tim smiles, genuinely smiles, it’s neither that ironic twist of his mouth nor a pout. It looks good on him, real good. You have my word, Tim says, and that is enough for Raylan. He lets Raylan pull him into his arms in a tight embrace, a crushing one, pushed back into the doorframe so hard he can hear it crack and feel it splinter.
Eventually they make their way back inside Raylan’s motel room, and Raylan pulls the half-broken door shut, and they’re kicking off their boots and tearing their clothes off each other’s bodies, hard with want. Careful, Raylan says, only remembering his gun when Tim slips his hand down his jeans, pulling it out so he can get it out of his way. He manages to pull away from Tim just long enough to get it to the table across the room. By the time he turns around, Tim is in bed, propped up on the pillows, naked as the day he was born save for his watch and his dog tags, two things Raylan knows he’d never go without—why would fucking be any different? His legs are sprawled out carelessly. He’s got himself in his hand, and his chin tilted upward watching Raylan. This what you want? Tim asks. Yes, Raylan exhales, not realizing he’s been holding his breath all this time. For how long? But Raylan refuses to say. He’ll give Tim everything but that answer. Tim laughs, his voice is rough and low. Raylan finishes undressing, drops himself down on his knees onto the bed between Tim’s legs and grabs them, hooking them around his hips as he pushes up against him, close from above. C’mere, Tim says, and Raylan lowers his head and pushes his forehead against Tim’s, looking into his eyes that are so heavy and oh so gone. Happy New Year, asshole, Tim says, before Raylan kisses him sharply, with teeth and tongue, and pins him down before he can even think about giving him the slip again.
