"No!" Shoot him. He's rushed and... loud. Tim flinches and somehow now he's kneeling, leaning back, all of him broadcasting that he's gone and shut down that erratic and permissive part of himself. He's careful of not knocking any part of Jeff, (god, he's... sweet) eyeing that unconditional surrender with guilt. And frustration.

Tim throws a hand up to comb through his hair, mouth running all the while. "No, you're fine. You were great. You were really great. I--"

Kind of feel like crying? What the fuck. What the fuck, Drake. It's a lot of emotion. Tim's not good at... emotion. Not when he's half dressed and out of breath and he's been straddling this man and his dick is hard and what the fuck, Drake. "It's me. I'm sorry. I don't think I'm good for... this."