cacophonish | APOCALYPSE HOW: IC INBOX

He shuts the door behind them, his own smile relaxed, easy, laid back, definitely not nervous, because Jeff's a pro.

(He is nervous, and he's definitely not a pro when he, like, actually likes someone. It always turns him stupid. He hates getting crushes. Everything's simpler when he just doesn't give a shit about whether or not he's going to see the other person again. But he's a pro at pushing aside his nerves, at seeming cool and confident, because in the end, this is all just another performance, and he's good at performing and--)

Jeff very nearly fumbles in catching the Red Bull, but by a small miracle, he manages not to drop it. "Revenge," he repeats, drawing the word out in an amused drawl. "Why would anyone want revenge? I'm a fucking angel." He flashes Tim a grin, then heads to his collection of bottles, none of them full, and none of them empty. It's like he never finishes one before acquiring the next. Jeff's fingers hover over them as he decides what to pick. "And nah, I wasn't doing anything." He waves the Red Bull at one of his guitars. "Just fucking around a little, you know, practicing."

He grabs a bottle of tequila that's got a couple shots left in it, and makes the very short trip back to the couch. He flops down, his legs draped over the other arm, looking up at Tim from his vantage point on the lumpy couch cushion. He holds the tequila up as an offering, like a gentleman.

"You look good, dude." Suuuuuper casual.

That's his cue to hike his brows up, an obvious challenge to that defense. Unless, of course, that was some well-crafted double entendre. In which case, Tim can valiantly confirm it's gone straight over his damn head. He shifts a little, surveying his surroundings, and rests his gaze again on Jeff's current dilemma. He hums. "Convenient," he says about the empty schedule. "You wouldn't have gotten rid of me anyway. Show up uninvited, refuse to leave--" he pops the lid off his drink. "That's basically how I got adopted."

Which is to say, it's sort of a habit.

He quietly moves his backpack to the floor to make room for Jeff, who's all legs. And he's still smiling easily when he shakes his head. "I'm not big on the taste." Because too much sugar has ruined him, Tim mourns. "Believe me, I've tried."

Or are the Teen Titans supposed to be, like, teetotalers? True, he's a little stunted in the... department of healthy social norms, but if he's lacked anything in his life it's adult supervision, not freakin' peer pressure. And. Maybe. He's lacked some casual compliments thrown his way, too. If the sudden rush of red to the bridge of his nose and apples of his cheeks is anything to go by.

He scratches idly at the crook of one elbow. Gotta remember to not get Malcolm's jacket dirty. "Yeah?"

Wait for it--

"You smell nice. Like strawberry poptarts."

Help.

Jeff lifts his brows, and he smirks teasingly. "That mean you're planning on staying the night?" But hey, don't worry, he punctuates the comment with a laugh, just to show that it's, like, no pressure or anything. Just a joke. The last thing he wants is to come across like a pushy creep.

He's just. Easy. He wants to be easy. No expectations. No nerves.

With a relaxed shrug, he takes his own pull of the tequila and sets the bottle on the floor. Now to crack into the Red Bull as a chaser. "I've got other stuff if you want to try anything." He makes a thoughtful face for a moment. "I think someone even left a bottle of Midori here..."

And-- oh. Tim's going red. That's fucking cute. Jeff tries to bite back an amused smile. "Yeah." Confirmation.

Then.

Oh god. Somehow, that's the best compliment Tim could've given him. Now Jeff can't hold back his stupid smile.

"Yeah?" No, wait, say something else. "I was going for that."

No. That doesn't even make any fucking sense. Jeff looks mildly panicked, then says. "No, wait! Good enough to eat!" He closes his eyes and groans. "Aw, man, it was right there..."

Edited 2021-10-31 00:38 (UTC)

This is dumb. He's too easy to rile up and fluster, and Tim's watching his carefully schemed evening go right down the drain. (Except-- not.) He's redredred, and Jeff is giddy and Tim huffs. "Maybe if you feed me," he counters, and it's so weak that he has to give in and laugh, too. Kinda.

But then he's sputtering, a real laugh startled out of him and Jesus Christ this is so

dumb. The homesickness can take a backseat to the question of keeping the red bull in the can, in his hands, as opposed to all over-- Jeff's front? What with how they're awkwardly positioned. One exhausting, shoulder-shaking moment of raw amusement later, Tim figures he can blame the over-warmth of the air on the exertion.

He kicks (lightly!) at Jeff. And thinks he should probably take off his shoes.

And he, again, has no frea king clue

"You look nice, too."

He gestures lamely at-- himself. The jacket? Meaning Jeff's floral... thing. That second layer they've both got going on over plain shirts. Huh. Black and white.

Poetic.

His cheeks burn a little less. Tim takes a swig of his drink to save his voice. And he clears his throat. "Bright colors fit you."

Like he knows or cares about fashion. Uhh. Tim. Starts to toe his shoes off. Stops. "Uh. Do you mind? If I... stick around?"

Laughter's infectious, and once Tim starts, Jeff's doing it, too. Only it's more like... a giggle? Which isn't the sound he intends to make, but it's the one that comes out, anyway. He always worries it makes him sound a little, like, uncontrolled. Unhinged. Un-- whatever. Tim's seen him actually seek out delusions before, with the reflections, and he's still here. So that's something, right?

It means he really likes him.

Fuck, he's got that goofy, giddy smile again. Is he getting a teeny tiny bit warm? No, it's the tequila.

"Thanks." Jeff swings his legs over the side and sits up, making room for Tim if he wants to get on the couch proper. "I, um." He reaches out and tugs at the hem of Tim's jacket. "That's a nice jacket. You look smart." A beat. "Like handsome-smart."

Jesus christ. Even if Jeff's cringing on the inside, he plays it off like he just said a very cool thing and this is how normal people flirt, and takes another drink of Red Bull.

"I want you to stick around. And--" He points a finger at Tim, like this makes it all very serious and official. "--I'll feed you and everything."

Dress up as a Bat and mug petty criminals in the dead of night preaching of Justice, then Tim might have words about delusions.

His thoughts, all of them, stutter to a stop as Jeff touches the jacket. It's beyond dumb, it's reckless idiocy: Tim sneaks a moment of nothing and clears his throat a second time--

"Jeez, you're a lightweight."

Nothing like some friendly ribbing to let him breathe again. Tim wonders how friendly it really is when he's well aware the man's got some dependency on-- but it won't matter as much. Today. Tim's here. He can help. Which is a good indication that Tim's sobered up, at least, is back to his baseline sort of disconnected interest.

He slides on down to sit as a normal human person, feels... trapped, and so he crosses his legs underneath himself.

Just two dudes chilling out and-- right. (He does not clear his throat a third time.) "I brought... a laptop," he offers, voice carrying despite the very short distance between them. It's not his fault. He's not, like, good at-- being normal. (That, dear friend, is his anxiety spiking. Jeff would know his tell by now, same as that night at the barbeque: Tim's words just flow out, take on a life of their own.) "And, like I said, some movies. If you want. I don't know what you want to-- you forgot--"

Jurassic Park, The Lost World.

Tim has no idea what to do with his hands.

Tragic.

"And, a few other DVDs. I don't have a hotspot for this thing that I could bring in here and I, uhh. Like. We don't have to? I probably should have called ahead, huh?"

Okay so.

Jeff can pick up on Tim's nerves, the way that anxiety bursts through in a stream of babble. Give him a few decades and a fuckton of therapy, and he'll be pretty good at helping people navigate through these things with gentle patience.

But Jeff doesn't have the benefit of maturity or therapy, so here he is, hanging out on the couch with a boy he likes, watching him start to spiral out, and the only thing he can think to do is act on pure impulse.

So he reaches his free hand up, taps his fingers on Tim's jawline, and gives him a kiss. It's kind of chaste, for Jeff, in that he doesn't slip any tongue, or suck on any lips, or use any teeth, or even linger for very long. Just a kiss, pretty simple.

"Dude. It's fine." He grins. "I'm good for anything."

God. He should not be reading so much into that. Bad. No. But Jeff does smell like poptarts, and Tim inhales the sharp sting of alcohol. And here's the deal, for all of a Family Values Man that Jack Drake had been, Tim had never worried about this. To be fair though, Tim hadn't thought a lot of important things through back then. (what the everloving hell is he doing, thinking about his dad right now?)

It seems disrespectful, the mechanical, physical response. Tim Wayne, Seen Entering Bonnie's for New Beau: Exclusive! End of the Line for Gotham's Drakes?

But this isn't Gotham City.

Tim doesn't care about the noise in his head, save for the light, sweet, bewitching tiny sound their lips make when they separate.

--cool.

Even the weight of every breath in his chest is welcome.

He's-- got an opening. Cool.

He can do this.

Tim blinks, as if Jeff's (god, he's sweet) smile is blinding. He places the can of sugar and caffeine on the floor and, as he straightens, gives an experimental tug at the hem of-- Jeff's... flowery thing. And there's noise in his head, but Tim doesn't care about it so he mirrors that grin, wolfish and boyish and "You did say you were going to impress me."

Grins that are wolfish and boyish are just full of Jeff's favorite things, and what can he do, really, when faced with that? It's a good look on Tim, and Jeff, for all his aspirations of being some cool, aloof, laid back rock star, is weak.

He's weak to people who are sharp and clever, driven, big thinkers with bite. And he likes that... that he can actually feel normal around Tim. Not 'normal' like all his problems just fade away into nothing, but 'normal' like they're both fucking weirdos to begin with, so there's a kind of equilibrium. That's the word, right?

Jeff doesn't have any thoughts beyond the here and now. What's going to happen tomorrow, or the day after, or six weeks, or twelve months from now? Who knows. Who cares. He just knows he likes this, right now, and if Tim expects to be impressed, he'll do his best to deliver.

He's already starting to shrug off that flowery thing, which just so happens to be a very fashionable shirt, except-- wait. Hang on. He throws back another swig of Red Bull and sets the can down. Okay. Now he can get to tossing aside that floral shirt.

"Oh yeah--" He tugs his t-shirt up, messing up his hair as he yanks it over his head. "You know, I can hum all of Bohemian Rhapsody while I'm going down--" He stops himself, making a thoughtful face, before looking at Tim all wide and doe-eyed. (Or, at least, it's a decent parody of innocence.) "Too much?"

Jeff's stripping.

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.

Tim's struggling. Should he help? Does Tim want help? Jeff's gonna help, just reach over and get a few of those buttons undone-- at least, if Tim doesn't swat his hands away or something.

Has it occurred to him yet that he might be dealing with a virgin here? No. It hasn't, not at all. He just thinks it's nerves, regular nerves, not first time nerves. Maybe it's the scars (noticed, of course, because he can't not notice them, and he's curious, not repulsed, but he doesn't want to stare so--) or maybe it's just been a while, maybe he's only hooked up with one or two guys before, or--

Jeff snickers at the excuse. It's cute. Tim's cute. "Oh yeah, 'cause I'm notoriously judgmental," he teases. Really, who's he to throw stones at a Red Bull addiction? He slides an arm around the other boy's waist, then sort of adjusts himself on the couch, reclining back against the arm rest, pulling Tim over to him. Or, like, on him. It's a light tug, kind of like a suggestion rather than an attempt at being pushy. He figures: if Tim's on top, he can feel less caged in, more like he's calling the shots? Maybe it'll relax him.

Sometimes two dudes just need to cuddle a little while they make out on a couch.

"Gonna call Malcolm and stage an intervention," he murmurs, lips brushing against skin. Cheek, jawbone, neck, lips, wherever.

No protest, no batting hands away. Just a small gasp, a hitch of his breath, when skin meets skin. Even if it's just fingertips for now. There's a lot of things Tim should be doing instead of following, pliable to the maneuvering after a twitch of his obliques at the shockingly foreign contact.

He's breathless, he notes, and the chill of the room is strong against his bare back and with Jeff's body under him he's just

embarrassed.

"Sorry--" not for what they're doing (it's strange and new and he has no road map he's just... wanting to get lost) but different is good, because Jeff's lips trail the line of his jaw and Tim groans and moves his knee from where he had knocked it against the poor guy's leg. He doesn't know what to do with his hands, but he shifts and huffs an "Oh my god" he swears isn't loud enough to hear.

Oh my god, he's making out with a dude.

Making out registers as a welcome activity and a preferred one of his, and Tim hovers over the inviting warm of Jeff and pulls back enough to reciprocate-- he dips his head to catch Jeff's lips, he experiments with a gentle suck.

It's absurdly thrilling.

It takes some adjusting, some mutual fumbling as knees knock and hands float around (then land, then float again and land somewhere else), before Jeff feels like they've found some kind of a groove with their bodies.

When was the last time he's been totally sober for a hookup? usually there's all kinds of shit coursing through his system, more than just a single shot of tequila and an energy drink. He's used to things being fuzzy at the edges, to being both in the moment and disconnected at the same time.

But Jeff's here, now, grounded under the warmth of Tim's body, and pinned to reality. It's just the two of them in here. No Ziggy. No voice in his head. No watchful eyes. No delusions creeping at the edges of his senses. Tim's real, and he's solid, for a guy who Jeff's got half a foot on.

It's a little strange, being so present and aware of everything, but it's not a bad strange. It's more... novel. He likes it. Likes being aware of the sounds of Tim's breathing, and his own, and all the little gasps, the words they're both breathing out. Or. Words, in Tim's case, and laughter, in Jeff's. Light, airy, and fucking delighted in those moments his lips aren't otherwise occupied.

"Fuck," he huffs with a giddy laugh, chasing that last kiss with a gentle scrape of teeth on Tim's bottom lip. "I've had such a stupid crush on you for a while, dude."

Like, whoa, bombshell. Jeff just revealed the best kept secret in the world. But. Whatever. Less talking, more exploring.

Oh god. So. He likes the biting. Tim holds in the whine, tells himself to stuff it because it's not ever the guy who's, like, vocal in these sorts of things. He swallows and swears his every hair is standing on end and he shudders for what he thinks is absolutely no valid reason at all. They're just... fitting really well, together. Physically. There's hardly any space left between them and Tim can feel Jeff's chest against his own, and he knows he's panting. It's embarrassing.

He's-- all worked up, already.

It's just a lot, okay? It's a lot of moving parts and keeping track of who is doing what is proving to be too much for his head. Case in point, Tim hadn't known his hand had been palming at Jeff's side-- just at the ribs where-- he thinks it might have been the tattoo that had drawn his attention there but.

"What?"

Jeff is all mirth and merriment and his soft laughs are something Tim wants to be surrounded by.

It takes him a moment to remember how to process basic language. Tim can feel the blush creep- the red heat settles at his collarbone. "Really?"

--talk about wanting.

Malcolm had said something about vulnerability, about it being something to look forward to.

Tim doesn't ask what he wants to know: Why me. He isn't ready for that.

He rocks his hips. And thinks-- maybe that's the first time he's-- with someone, y'know? God, his every hair is standing on end, he's hot and chilled and kissing Jeff again, a high little noise--

"I--I'm-- flattered." And winded beyond belief and "What does, um-- you said something about Queen?"

Edited 2021-11-06 04:27 (UTC)

"Yeah, really," he laughs. Okay, so maybe he wasn't as painfully, embarrassingly obvious as he'd thought he was. That's a good thing, right? Or maybe it's just-- a thing. Not good, not bad, nothing worth rewinding and revising his memories of those little moments where he'd thought he was coming across like a dorky kid dancing around his first crush.

And-- yes, okay, yeah, keep doing that. As soon as Tim rocks his hips like that, all the little insecurities fly right out of Jeff's head. He lets a groan escape, rolling his hips appreciatively, sliding a hand down to Tim's hip, tracing his fingers just past the waist of the other boy's jeans.

"Mm, Queen?" A beat, then he remembers, stifling a giggle in the crook of Tim's neck. "Oh! I was, um, just being dumb, you know, about, uh... hummers? I don't know if those things reaaaally matter, I mean, a blowjob's a blowjob, right?" He slips his fingers along towards the front, tracing Tim's hip bone. "We could try it out, if you want."

Look.

Blowjobs are one of Jeff's favorite things. So he's only too enthusiastic about offering.

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--"

"Ah-- ow--" Oof, Tim's crushing-- ow, okay, they're hitting the breaks. Jeff's hands shoot up once he realizes he misstepped-- misgrabbed? He either said something wrong, or did something wrong, but either way, he doesn't want to keep on doing whatever it is that's got Tim recoiling like Jeff just burned him.

"Sorry, sorry!" He's got his hands up in surrender. "I didn't mean-- sorry-- was I being pushy?"

"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."

Jeff sits up. Well, he doesn't sit up entirely, with Tim on him, but, he props himself up on his elbows and looks at him with something like confusion, crossed with concern, and a little wince of guilt to top it off, because it's hard not to feel some responsibility for this.

He must've been too pushy. What if Tim's a virgin? What if he's not ready? Fuck, what if he didn't even know if he liked guys, and he decided to give it a try, and it turns out he's totally straight and Jeff's just-- No. Stop. Don't make this about yourself. That's bound to make everything worse.

It already doesn't help that he's still hard and Tim's on him and fuck there's a lot of emotions going on and he's not sure he's capable, functional, or even smart enough to help him breathe and come down and step away from the emotional precipice he's about to stumble over.

"Hey-- no, it's--" He puts a hand on Tim's thigh, though it's not any attempt at rekindling the hot and heavy making out, just. He's trying to be comforting and it's the easiest spot to rest his hand. "You're fine. You're good, um... We-- we don't have to do anything you're not feeling, you know? We can just hang out and watch movies or talk or... not talk, whatever you want. It's okay."

It's that... feedback loop. White noise enveloping coherence and wearing it down until it's just that old and knowing voice trying to get Tim to admit what he knows: he's disappointed. Not that he is disappointed. He has disappointed. His eyes widen at the realization, imagined or otherwise, and he can't pinpoint a moment where he's felt so alive before. He's not sure if it's all that great. --stop. "Sorry. I."

He forces himself to swallow, he doesn't know what to do.

Jeff... is really trying, isn't he? And Tim laughs, a forced and tiny and not at all convincing laugh but it was necessary all the same. His breath hitches-- what, why is his breath hitching?

He's not sure if he ever imagined his first time being with Steph.

He takes initiative, starts to move to untangle himself, untangle them, get them away from anything compromising or implicating or dangerous. His fingers brush against the knuckles of Jeff's hand, his heart leaps at the small connection, and he needs to come clean and "I don't know..." he pauses, searches for his perfect excuse and can't find it. "I don't... know what happened." But he does, and he's disappointed, and there's white noise and mortification where common sense should be. "I've. Never. Uh. Thanks. For stopping."

Above it all, it's there: relief.

There's a hitch in Tim's breath, and fuck, Jeff wants to help. He wants to, but he's all caught up in the paralysis of how and if and all the other questions. Is it wanted, needed, possible? What if he makes Tim feel worse? Jeff is... well, he's Jeff, so the possibility of fucking up and making everything worse is pretty high.

He sits up, scoots back until he's against the arm of the couch, legs pulled in criss-cross applesauce.

Tim's trying to explain something that, who knows, maybe it can't be explained. These things happen. There's always the chance that everything can get... messy and weird and awkward, and that's normal, even if it stems from some well that Jeff can't possibly know or get.

"Yeah," he nods, a little too emphatically, like he really wants to prove that it's all good. "Of course, uh. I-- yeah, I'd never... never wanna do something that wasn't-- um. Wanted."

Wow, he's so fucking articulate. Jeff wrings his hands together, glancing down at his finger, at-- himself, really, and feeling that odd wave of self consciousness that tends to come with these things. He's only got his shirt off, and he feels impossibly exposed.

"Um." He swallows, then looks back up at Tim and offers a wry smile. "I... The first time I had sex, it was with this girl, we were kinda dating, I guess, and... I was at her house, and we thought we had a couple hours til her dad came home. So we were going at it, I mean, I'd, like, just found my, uh, my rhythm, you know, and-- Then he started banging on the door, fucking yelling and shit. And he was a cop, so I totally thought he was gonna shoot me. Anyway, I had to get out through the window, and my pants were falling down, and there were dogs barking and I had to jump a fence and..."

Look, there's a point to this, and that point is: to buy Tim some time to kind of... find his bearing again. And maybe to help him feel less like a freak, too.

"And, uh, it really stuck with me. I mean it messed me up for a while. Like for the next six months, any time I tried to hook up with a girl, I'd just hear his voice in my head and totally freak out." A beat. "You don't have to tell me anything, you know. I just... Um." He shrugs. "Icebreaker."

It's all so easy with Jeff. Tim wars with himself. He's got no right to downplay the fact that the awkward atmosphere isn't stifling but there's the genuine reaching out that's coaxing a (mildly... reasonable?, hysterical? nervous?) snort-turned-giggle. And his shoulders shake, because it's a little more long-lived than it should be. But who the hell says what Jeff's just said aloud? Tim scrubs his hands over his face. His heart's hammering, he feels like a prey animal.

Jeff's huddled in the opposite corner and Tim simultaneously feels the grounding of his palm coming back wet (gross-- he won't think about it, he won't think about it, he won't) and the... flutter of adoration.

Two prey animals.

He's comfortable.

All things considered.

God, it's so weird. He's so weird. He laughs, a little looser, a little more self-conscious. He... has no idea what to do with his legs. He tucks in his feet.

"That story... is a right of passage. I was, I think, fourteen?" He can't remember. His voice reveals as much. Tim drums his fingers over his thighs just eager for the outlet of that roll of anxiety. "My first girlfriend. She had invited me over and I was used to doing whatever, so I didn't think anything of it. She was all dressed up."

And he doesn't even feel bad about saying it. Did anybody know this story? But he's blushing, because of course he is. Jeff's gotten used to blue eyes peering at him from a red face, Tim figures. "But we were kids, and she didn't want to-- you know, it was more like she felt that she had to. We ended up just chilling out in the living room until her uncle came back from manning the shop. He kept screaming that he was going kill me. Got his gun and everything."

And fuck it, Tim thinks that's funny. He's still looking the part of an apologetic dope, but his voice is. Fine.

"I was breaking a new personal best in getting outta there. So I get back home and my dad's heard I was messing around in ways I shouldn't have been. He was pissed." But it's not like Tim to say the word: he mouths it, though, makes it pretty obvious he just doesn't give the curse any volume. He scrubs at his face a second time.

Fuck.

He has hang-ups about sex.

This isn't how valuable introspection is supposed to happen. He's smiling, wry. "I think that was the first time I was in enough hot water to have to scope out military schools."

Icebreaker?

Edited 2021-11-18 21:38 (UTC)

Jeff feels like a prey animal pretty much all the time, so maybe there's something in the way Tim's holding himself that's recognizable. There's a lot they don't know about each other, but this is familiar, at least.

(And, now, there's a concept: getting to know someone before he sleeps with them.)

Tim's laughing, and that gets Jeff to laugh, too. It's a fucking ridiculous story, isn't it? But hey, it's more common ground. A rite of passage, like Tim says. Jeff props his elbow on his knee and rests his cheek on his palm, an amused-- and ridiculous and smitten-- smile half-obscured by his hand.

And he laughs again, muffled into his own palm, when Tim doesn't even say the word. He really is sweet. Fucking cute...

"Shit... Really?" Jeff drops his hand now, picks at a little tear in his jeans with a lingering smile. "Parents are so weird, man. When my mom found out, she like, sat me down for a really long talk about consent and, uh..." He cringes a little. "Mutual... pleasure? Orgasms. Stuff like that. It was so embarrassing, I wanted to die." A beat, then: "And what's with these dudes and their guns!"

"They're overcompensating," Tim mutters, and he hears it before he even truly realizes he's said it aloud. Brainless little prod at uh, toxic masculinity?, or something, because in reality he'd been wondering if he shouldn't be shuffling to put on his shirt if they're talking about parents. He feels naked.

Which is funny because he's very much no longer... excited. In that way.

He thinks, Kon would be so disappointed to learn he's thrown away his one good hormone on doing Nothing.

He thinks, mildly alarmed and unbearably bashful at the sight of Jeff's amused smile, what the hell is wrong with him. God, it's a long story. Tim laughs, but it's to clear out the lingering nerves. He sucks in and lets out a deep breath theatrically enough to clue Jeff in to the fact that he's alright. Then he balls his fists and steels himself and admits, "I really wanted to--"

Uh. His brain doesn't work that way, Tim remembers, and his confession blanks. He wilts, and makes up for it by leaning forward a little, into Jeff's space once again. Apologetic, once again. Appeasing, because he doesn't know what to do. "I'm sorry. I'm embarrassed."

It does make Jeff feel a little flutter of... relief? Maybe happiness? that Tim had wanted to. Whatever happened, at least there was a point when they'd both wanted... that: the elephant that's still lingering in the room, awkwardly outstaying its welcome. He smiles a little, adjusts the way he's sitting, pulling his legs up to bump his knees to his chest.

"Dude." He reaches a foot out to lightly-- gently!-- kick Tim, now that he's moved closer. "You don't have to feel embarrassed around me. I'm, like, the most embarrassing fucking person. Maybe that's why I always rush things like, um, like this." There's a wry edge to his smile, because god it's scary (and: embarrassing) being like... vulnerable. Even as he dresses it up in irreverence, like it's all a big joke, he's still skirting on the edge of actual vulnerability here. "So I can screw and run before the other person realizes what a big fucking mess I am."

He exhales. It's kind of a laugh. Then, softly, without any jokey irreverence to hide behind: "Anyway. I'm sorry I pushed so fast."

And now Jeff holds up a finger and waggles it in Tim's face. "New rule: no one's allowed to say 'sorry' anymore tonight."

Edited (NITPICKING AGAIN ok i'm done) 2021-11-30 02:28 (UTC)

APOCALYPSE HOW: IC INBOX

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cw for brief mention of injuries

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idk cw for general... depressive thoughts, brief SI, brief history of sexual assault

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