Log in

Previous 10

Dec. 10th, 2010



Mailbox for Tim Riggins

Nov. 11th, 2008

emo boy

(no subject)

It's happened often enough now that Tim knows the signs, the empty ache and loss of hope. It'd been there with Tyra even if he hadn't seen it at first. It'd been there with Coach and Odd and, even more recently, with Hayley. And it's there the moment he wakes up in his hut, alone for the first time in weeks.

He doesn't need to search the hut, but he does anyway. He walks down the beach, down to the place she'd shown him that one afternoon, to her own hut, still bright as ever and entirely devoid of her presence.

And, he knows.

Making his way back from the caves proves difficult, Tim's movements slow and uncoordinated, hands scratched from the cave wall he'd tried using for support. The light in the basement is disorienting, walls and floor dipping and shifting under his feet before he makes it to the stairs and hauls himself up to the main floor.

The room is still spinning when he finds his way to Jason's room -- or, what he hopes is Jason's room -- and drops down immediately onto his friend's unoccupied bed.

And passes out.

Sep. 18th, 2008

tyra kissing sweet

(no subject)

Tim only grins at that, breathing out a laugh against her ear as his hand slides lower, still holding her closer to him. It's nothing he's never heard before and while he certainly won't force anything on her, Tim's always been pretty convincing.

His lips move down the curve of her jaw again, grinning as he finds her mouth, takes it hungrily as the fingers of his other hand curl through her hair.

Teeth find his lower lip, her hand sliding down over his chest in the dark, her fingers running up through the edge of his shirt. His skin was hot, and smooth under her fingers, breath coming in fits and bursts. Her voice was hoarse when she pulled back, her forehead still against his. "Touch me?" She laughed, a breathless sound as she skimmed his jaw with her mouth.

She was going purely on instinct now, letting the champagne take over, knowing she'd done what she had to by setting boundries.

Well, that's pretty vague, but Tim isn't about to ask her to clarify. He huffs another chuckle against the curve of her jaw before pulling back, meeting her eyes briefly as he rests both hands on her hips and starts to lead her off the boardwalk and into the trees.

"Thought you just wanted to make out?" he says, grinning knowingly, still holding her close to him.

Aug. 31st, 2008


(no subject)

Tim grabs a banana from the fruit bowl on the kitchen counter and then reaches up for a glass from the cupboard. He fills it halfway from the faucet, downs the contents and then fills it again before wandering over to the table, dropping down into the nearest chair and resting back.

His muscles thank him almost immediately, legs stretching out as he drags his forearm across his sweaty brow and then sets down his glass to take care of the banana peel.

He hasn't been actively avoiding the Compound since the other night, but he can't say he's been too eager to hang around the place. Confrontation -- at least this kind, the personal, off-the-field kind -- is something he's never handled well. Sure, he's seen them both, looked away too late more than once, felt something sharp and tight clench his gut every time, but it's not like he can go without eating or showering or taking a piss at an actual urinal.

So, when the door of the kitchen swishes open, he's not entirely surprised to see Jason wheeling in.

He looks away, hand tightening on the glass of water as he tips his head back for another long drink, gaze fixated at the ceiling and saying not a word.

Jul. 19th, 2008


(no subject)

[continued from here]

Her voice is just barely a breath against his ear, but Tim thinks it might just be the best thing he's ever her heard, his name like that, his name from her. His eyes roll slightly when her teeth scrape his ear, his knees giving slightly, wanting to feel more of her hand on his bare skin.

And, of course, wanting to get some of his own in.

Mouth still skimming the skin of her shoulder, Tim's hand drifts under the bottom hem of her shirt, touching the soft curve of her waist and skimming along to settle at the small of her back again as his hips rock forward. The fact that they're still on the beach, still out where pretty much anyone could walk by barely registers. Everything has narrowed down to just her, to those sounds she's making and how she feels under his touch.

May. 31st, 2008

cheesy grin

(no subject)

After the outcome of their first date, Tim feels sort of stupid making this one a big deal. So, he doesn't bother raiding through the clothes box for something more presentable, settling on just making sure to wear something clean even if it looks like something Billy would've worn ten years ago. He decides against a packing a picnic, but still manages to gather a small handful of flowers as he makes his way toward Isabel's hut.

His pace slows as he gets closer to her front door, half expecting a large, gruff man with a sword to jump out at him from the bushes, yelling a war cry or something like that.

It seems calm enough, though and he heads up to her door, quietly clearing his throat and then taking a slow, deep breath as he lifts his hand to knock.

May. 13th, 2008


(no subject)

Tim's seen the playground before. More than once even. Hell, he's even sat on a swing once or twice and wandered up the slide. Stretched out on the floor of the little merry-go-round thing. It's one of the few places on the island that actually reminds him a little of home, of every little playground in every park he'd ever been to back home.

Some of the memories it brings back are more innocent than others, that's for sure.

Today, he's wandering toward it with no real intent, a five-year old issue of Sports Illustrated folded up and tucked into the back pocket of his jeans. Much like every other day, it's nice out, the sky clear and sun warm, the breeze salty and cool. Nothing like Dillon.

There's one thing that seems a little weird, though, and that's the distinct sound of something... melodic. Coming from the playground. It doesn't sound like a stereo of any kind and Tim's brow furrows as he notices a girl perched on one of the swings.


Not just any kind of singing, but... well, Tim's not sure he really knows how to describe it. But, she's cute and he's content to just watch her for a minute. Or two. Or... three.

When she shows no sign of stopping, Tim finally clears his throat and steps closer. "You got a back-up track or somethin'?" he asks her, a slight grin tugging his lips.

Apr. 26th, 2008

groomed and smiling

(no subject)

Tim can't actually remember the last time he's been on a date. There'd been a couple times with Tyra back home, but those had usually only been shit like school dances and football things he'd dragged her along to. The dinner-and-a-movie thing had never been his kind of thing and, luckily, Tyra'd never asked for it much either.

And every other girl, well... that's what parties had been for.

But, Isabel's different. Somehow Tim had known that right from the beginning, from the minute he'd laid (admittedly drunken) eyes on her at the Anti-Ball thing, seen her in that red dress, all legs and soft, perfect skin. Girls like her don't come from Dillon. It's a whole new ballgame.

The clothing box hadn't been entirely cooperative -- probably still ticked off about the whole bonfire thing he and Jaye had done -- but, he'd somehow managed to yank out a white, button-down shirt and a pair of black pants. The bruises on his neck are still apparent as ever, the deep scratches on his shoulders and back still stinging a little. Even with those and the gash on his bottom lip, Tim manages to look more cleaned up than normal.

As for the food, he's made a couple sandwiches, mostly taking a guess at what she might like and he's filled a couple containers with some of the shitty-ass beer. Only because he can't find anything better. After tossing in some fruit and some kind of left-over pastry from the back of the fridge, he figures he has a good mix and he heads out.

There are some flowers along the path on the way to Isabel's hut and he grabs a few of them, making a sort of half-assed bouquet of sorts before he finds himself at what he thinks is her hut. It's the one with more windows, so he figures he has it right.

Feeling a weird flutter of nerves in his gut, Tim takes a slow breath and knocks.
Tags: ,

Apr. 24th, 2008


(no subject)

Tim's well aware of the fact that he looks like hell. He hasn't showered in about two days and his hair, which is usually stringy and unkempt even after just showering, is matted to one side of his head, loose and greasy on the other. The cuts on his lips are still sore, especially the bottom one and his entire face feels like he got into a fist fight with a grizzly bear.

That's actually not too far off from the truth. Except it hadn't been much of a fist fight and the grizzly bear had been disguised as a small, hot chick with big breasts and thick boots.

And razor blades for finger nails.

Wincing, he tries to discreetly make his way through the rec room, his head lowered in an attempt to not be recognized. He's been avoiding the Compound for a reason, the biggest beginning with the letter S and rhyming with 'treat.'

He lets out a breath of relief when he makes it through the rec room undetected and leans in to open the bathroom door with his shoulder, making sure to be quiet. Stealthy or something. Given that it's about one in the morning, it's dark and quiet and Tim's pretty sure he's in the clear when he suddenly has the distinct feeling that someone's watching him.

... Fuck.

Jan. 1st, 2008

... quoi?

(no subject)

Tim's hungover.

It's not quite as bad as the one he'd had a few weeks ago, but still heavy and pounding, making bright lights seem even brighter and noises louder and harsher. Thankfully, most of the Compound is had also been suffering from the same illness, leaving the building mostly quiet until a humane hour.

He'd dragged himself off the couch at one point and grabbed a shower and now he's standing in front of the clothes box in the basement, wet hair hanging in front of his eyes as he digs through the pile of awful fabric. The air is cool against his damp skin, but he manages to not shiver as he finally pulls out a sweatshirt. It's black with silver lettering and he frowns at the writing on it, barely holding back from rolling his eyes.

It's only as he's pulling the sweatshirt on over his head that he realizes he's not alone in the room and he looks over his shoulder.

... Shit.

Previous 10


December 2010



RSS Atom
Powered by LiveJournal.com