He's seen shirtless guys- come on, he's not exactly a sheltered soul. He's seen naked women too-- big deal. Locker rooms, med bays, abhorrently bad timing, it all happens in a vigilante's everyday life. Not that it happens every day but. Anyway. Shut up. Shit. Shit.
He's staring.
Jeff is talking, and Tim swallows the lump in his throat. The guy's carefree and fluid and his brown-blond hair just... looks really good, all screwed up like it now is. It fits him. Tim needs to remember to breathe out and go entirely into manual drive, but he's
determined, don't let anyone tell you otherwise.
Too much?
"No, just--" he's trained to work under pressure. And god, if this isn't pressure. Not that Jeff's pushing-- Tim shrugs off Malcolm's jacket to give warm hands something to do, to shed some weight that's on his shoulders, to feel-- cooler, a little. At the idea of pushing. He needs to
shut up.
"Give me a sec--"
It's his... first time. Undressing.
Well.
Wrangling the shirt off, and he's regretting the buttons and forgetting the neat and the mangled scars on his skin, slices or slashes or splashes of burns.
And he can't undress smoothly, apparently, white noise in his ears and his head and he looks pitifully up at
and then he looks away, cheeks splotched red, and he huffs because his insides are burning and he's fighting goosebumps and "I've had way too many energy drinks today; don't judge." And there. They're... even.
cw for brief mention of injuries
Tim's staring.
He's seen shirtless guys- come on, he's not exactly a sheltered soul. He's seen naked women too-- big deal. Locker rooms, med bays, abhorrently bad timing, it all happens in a vigilante's everyday life. Not that it happens every day but. Anyway. Shut up. Shit. Shit.
He's staring.
Jeff is talking, and Tim swallows the lump in his throat. The guy's carefree and fluid and his brown-blond hair just... looks really good, all screwed up like it now is. It fits him. Tim needs to remember to breathe out and go entirely into manual drive, but he's
determined, don't let anyone tell you otherwise.
Too much?
"No, just--" he's trained to work under pressure. And god, if this isn't pressure. Not that Jeff's pushing-- Tim shrugs off Malcolm's jacket to give warm hands something to do, to shed some weight that's on his shoulders, to feel-- cooler, a little. At the idea of pushing. He needs to
shut up.
"Give me a sec--"
It's his... first time. Undressing.
Well.
Wrangling the shirt off, and he's regretting the buttons and forgetting the neat and the mangled scars on his skin, slices or slashes or splashes of burns.
And he can't undress smoothly, apparently, white noise in his ears and his head and he looks pitifully up at
and then he looks away, cheeks splotched red, and he huffs because his insides are burning and he's fighting goosebumps and "I've had way too many energy drinks today; don't judge." And there. They're... even.