[ Tate sounds frantic and needy and Derek feels the exact same fucking way. The begging, the breathing - Derek has to bite his lip to stop himself from moaning as loud as he wants to, but it still slips out of him in fractured, muted noises, wanting and wanton and hopeless. He flexes his muscles and stands straighter against the wall, shutting his eyes, and he presses his phone closer to his ear while he strokes, starting to sweat.
They haven't been doing this for long at all, but Derek - really, really can't hold back. ]
Okay. Count of-- of five, okay? I'm gonna...
[ He can't think clearly. Can't say the words. He's panting like he's ran a marathon, he's rattling the tin of paint behind him with his elbow. He strokes faster and faster still, choking out numbers as he goes, his voice laden with lust and hard to hear through each shuddering breath - five, four, three. He swallows, presses his heel into the concrete. Two. His breath hitches again. One.
Derek's climax hits him like a fucking truck. He pushes back into the shelves and blows, choking out strangled noises, barely managing to keep from being heard. He shoots his load on the ground in front of him, vision going white, and he's almost sobbing with how fucking good it feels. He thinks of Tate, curled up in bed, stretched open for him and ready. He thinks of cumming on his chest, his face, marking him, claiming him, doing everything he wants to him. His chest hurts from how tight his lungs burn, and his legs shake from the power of his orgasm.
He comes down with blurry vision in a few minutes, sweaty and laughing a little, and - jesus. Without hanging up, he takes a quick set of photos - one of himself, hair dishevelled and face flushed red, one of his load, painting the concrete in forceful white streaks. One of his cock, slowly going limp, cum still dripping from his head. He sends each photo off to Tate, pressing his phone back to his ear. ]
no subject
They haven't been doing this for long at all, but Derek - really, really can't hold back. ]
Okay. Count of-- of five, okay? I'm gonna...
[ He can't think clearly. Can't say the words. He's panting like he's ran a marathon, he's rattling the tin of paint behind him with his elbow. He strokes faster and faster still, choking out numbers as he goes, his voice laden with lust and hard to hear through each shuddering breath - five, four, three. He swallows, presses his heel into the concrete. Two. His breath hitches again. One.
Derek's climax hits him like a fucking truck. He pushes back into the shelves and blows, choking out strangled noises, barely managing to keep from being heard. He shoots his load on the ground in front of him, vision going white, and he's almost sobbing with how fucking good it feels. He thinks of Tate, curled up in bed, stretched open for him and ready. He thinks of cumming on his chest, his face, marking him, claiming him, doing everything he wants to him. His chest hurts from how tight his lungs burn, and his legs shake from the power of his orgasm.
He comes down with blurry vision in a few minutes, sweaty and laughing a little, and - jesus. Without hanging up, he takes a quick set of photos - one of himself, hair dishevelled and face flushed red, one of his load, painting the concrete in forceful white streaks. One of his cock, slowly going limp, cum still dripping from his head. He sends each photo off to Tate, pressing his phone back to his ear. ]
That was, uh.
[ ... ]
Unexpected.