Fic: Show Me Your Teeth
Title: Show Me Your Teeth
Fandom: Justified
Pairing: Raylan/Boyd
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: 1x12
Word Count: 800
Disclaimer: In no way mine, or anything to do with me, I own nothing.
Summary: Raylan lets Boyd get away with far too much.
AN: Written for the 'bites/bruises' square (wildcard) for kink_bingo
It isn't until Raylan gets in the shower that he notices. When the steady, languid ache in his skin sharpens to pain under the water, pain that's out of place. He shakes hair out of his face and looks down. The spray washes soap out of the way in one slide, leaving the curve of his hip bare. Laid there against the flesh is the stark, bright imprint of teeth, made dark by force. He presses his palm into it, finds the skin too hot.
"Son of a bitch," he grumbles into the water.
He barely remembers the dig of teeth there. Probably wouldn't matter if he did, since telling Boyd what to do and what not to do makes not a blind bit of difference. The motel room's too hot and too close and every argument turns into this. It always, always feels like a fight with Boyd, all the way to the bitter end.
Raylan figures a better man would have said stop before they reached this point. Would have said stop before it started. But a word isn't going to do either of them any damn good now. They're way past that.
There's another sharp stretch of pain on his back, high on his shoulder. He remembers that one, remembers hissing out a breath under it. But he was a little too preoccupied at the time to think about complaining.
This thing between them is something close to madness already, but there's something blatant and possessive about the curving indent under his fingers. Something he thinks he should definitely put a stop to before it becomes a habit.
He throws a towel round his waist and heads for the room on wet feet.
Boyd's still stretched out on the bed like he's found it and decided to own it, Raylan's hat tumbling between his hands. Because Raylan never leaves a gun anywhere near the bed, ever. Never leaves a gun anywhere near Boyd. Old habits, Boyd leaves him in such a goddamn mess of them.
Raylan tugs down the edge of the towel, and the damn thing looks worse now, going dark at the edges.
"What the hell is that, Boyd?" He has trouble keeping the anger out of his tone. Though he's aware that isn't all that's colouring the words.
Boyd looks over the brim he's spinning, and the expression on his face isn't worried at all. It's curious and fascinated.
"I seem to recall your exact words being 'Boyd, don't you dare put your teeth anywhere that will show.' I followed your explicit instructions to the letter."
"I can't wander around carrying the imprint of your teeth," Raylan says through his own.
"I don't think anyone's going to be pointing it out, Raylan. Unless the Marshal service is more fond of strip searches than I gave it credit for."
"And the one on my back?" Raylan says stiffly.
The hat stops twirling. "Turn around and let me see."
Raylan snatches the hat out of his hands and tosses it aside. Though he has to wonder if depriving Boyd's hands of something to do might not be the most sensible idea.
He's close enough to pick up his pants off the end of the bed. He sits down without saying another word and drags them on.
"I'm sure I could find you a bright side you'd appreciate, Raylan." There's a considering silence from Boyd while he thinks of something.
Raylan's still deciding exactly how angry he feels like being, how angry he has a right to feel, when Boyd traces the line of pain on his shoulder blade.
"If they find my charred skeleton somewhere in the wilderness they'll have something to match it to," Boyd decides at last. His thumb presses down over the imprint of his own teeth with a fascination that isn't exactly comforting.
"Well isn't that a cheerful mental image," Raylan says flatly and smacks his arm away.
There's a bright curve of teeth from Boyd and Raylan's almost certain that's what got him into trouble in the first place.
"They could log you into evidence. It'll be all official and above board. I know how much you like that."
"That's not funny."
Boyd makes a face that, for all the world, looks genuinely hurt.
"I'm truly sorry if I've inconvenienced you, Raylan. Or in any way made your life complicated."
Raylan doesn't have the faintest idea whether that's sincere or not. Boyd's picked up more than a handful of edges over the years, and every one of them's sharp enough to cut. He's fairly sure some of them are honest-to-God crazy.
"Boyd, you may be the most complicated person I know." The words come out slow and maybe more truthful than he intends.
Boyd picks up Raylan's hat from where he'd tossed it and effortlessly tips it onto Raylan's head.
"I'm going to take that as a compliment," Boyd says firmly.
Fandom: Justified
Pairing: Raylan/Boyd
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: 1x12
Word Count: 800
Disclaimer: In no way mine, or anything to do with me, I own nothing.
Summary: Raylan lets Boyd get away with far too much.
AN: Written for the 'bites/bruises' square (wildcard) for kink_bingo
It isn't until Raylan gets in the shower that he notices. When the steady, languid ache in his skin sharpens to pain under the water, pain that's out of place. He shakes hair out of his face and looks down. The spray washes soap out of the way in one slide, leaving the curve of his hip bare. Laid there against the flesh is the stark, bright imprint of teeth, made dark by force. He presses his palm into it, finds the skin too hot.
"Son of a bitch," he grumbles into the water.
He barely remembers the dig of teeth there. Probably wouldn't matter if he did, since telling Boyd what to do and what not to do makes not a blind bit of difference. The motel room's too hot and too close and every argument turns into this. It always, always feels like a fight with Boyd, all the way to the bitter end.
Raylan figures a better man would have said stop before they reached this point. Would have said stop before it started. But a word isn't going to do either of them any damn good now. They're way past that.
There's another sharp stretch of pain on his back, high on his shoulder. He remembers that one, remembers hissing out a breath under it. But he was a little too preoccupied at the time to think about complaining.
This thing between them is something close to madness already, but there's something blatant and possessive about the curving indent under his fingers. Something he thinks he should definitely put a stop to before it becomes a habit.
He throws a towel round his waist and heads for the room on wet feet.
Boyd's still stretched out on the bed like he's found it and decided to own it, Raylan's hat tumbling between his hands. Because Raylan never leaves a gun anywhere near the bed, ever. Never leaves a gun anywhere near Boyd. Old habits, Boyd leaves him in such a goddamn mess of them.
Raylan tugs down the edge of the towel, and the damn thing looks worse now, going dark at the edges.
"What the hell is that, Boyd?" He has trouble keeping the anger out of his tone. Though he's aware that isn't all that's colouring the words.
Boyd looks over the brim he's spinning, and the expression on his face isn't worried at all. It's curious and fascinated.
"I seem to recall your exact words being 'Boyd, don't you dare put your teeth anywhere that will show.' I followed your explicit instructions to the letter."
"I can't wander around carrying the imprint of your teeth," Raylan says through his own.
"I don't think anyone's going to be pointing it out, Raylan. Unless the Marshal service is more fond of strip searches than I gave it credit for."
"And the one on my back?" Raylan says stiffly.
The hat stops twirling. "Turn around and let me see."
Raylan snatches the hat out of his hands and tosses it aside. Though he has to wonder if depriving Boyd's hands of something to do might not be the most sensible idea.
He's close enough to pick up his pants off the end of the bed. He sits down without saying another word and drags them on.
"I'm sure I could find you a bright side you'd appreciate, Raylan." There's a considering silence from Boyd while he thinks of something.
Raylan's still deciding exactly how angry he feels like being, how angry he has a right to feel, when Boyd traces the line of pain on his shoulder blade.
"If they find my charred skeleton somewhere in the wilderness they'll have something to match it to," Boyd decides at last. His thumb presses down over the imprint of his own teeth with a fascination that isn't exactly comforting.
"Well isn't that a cheerful mental image," Raylan says flatly and smacks his arm away.
There's a bright curve of teeth from Boyd and Raylan's almost certain that's what got him into trouble in the first place.
"They could log you into evidence. It'll be all official and above board. I know how much you like that."
"That's not funny."
Boyd makes a face that, for all the world, looks genuinely hurt.
"I'm truly sorry if I've inconvenienced you, Raylan. Or in any way made your life complicated."
Raylan doesn't have the faintest idea whether that's sincere or not. Boyd's picked up more than a handful of edges over the years, and every one of them's sharp enough to cut. He's fairly sure some of them are honest-to-God crazy.
"Boyd, you may be the most complicated person I know." The words come out slow and maybe more truthful than he intends.
Boyd picks up Raylan's hat from where he'd tossed it and effortlessly tips it onto Raylan's head.
"I'm going to take that as a compliment," Boyd says firmly.