Armored codpiece robbed a guy of many a sensation. Who knew, right? And Tim has all the bandwidth left to mourn and regret his choice of fitted jeans, a sting of self-awareness sabotaging further attempts to grind against the body beneath his. He feels years younger, lighter, and every gasping laugh of Jeff's is pulling him further into the waters and away from the island of restraint. It's a shock of adrenaline, too much and too little stimulation against his

y'know. He's aroused.

He's breathing against the temple of Jeff's head, god he's sweet, and Tim's planting uncoordinated open-mouthed kisses and embarrassing whimpers against the man and he's feeling the guy's chest and he's blinking stupidly at the lumpy, old fabric of this sofa and saying, "The... like the Jeeps?"

Hummer.

No.

Blowjob.

Wait.

"Wait!"

Or stop. Or-- sorry. That's Tim putting too much of his weight on his hands on Jeff's chest, sorry, but he needs that space and he's all but bolting upright, hands grasping desperately at Jeff's. On his waistband. He's sorry. "Wait, Jeff, wait--"