His body trembles just trying to keep himself upright, clawing at the wall until his hands ball up into tight fists. With how his head is spinning, desperate to fulfill that itch, that need, which courses through his veins like a poison, he's honestly surprised he could form coherent sentences at all.

"Please," he rasps loudly, apparently abandoning all pride at this point. Another low, but pleased moan at the way Tim laps around his own fingers to slick them up. Occasionally he feels the swipe of the tongue against the tight ring of muscle and thinks he can literally feel his mind spinning. His words come out in drunken mumbles as he does his damned best to encourage Tim as well. "I— I can't think straight, fuck...please, you have to—"

Ducking his head, he trails a hand down his front. He starts to stroke himself slowly, but he can't tell if that's making it feel better or worse.

"Just fucking take me, Tim."