[Tate doesn't remember the moments leading up to the count down, or during it - not past the extent that his stomach clenched with anticipation and his hand kept moving. The closer to zero they got, the faster his palm moved and the tighter he curled his hand so that he could fuck up into it with solid lifts of his hips. He went all out, in those last few seconds, murmuring Derek's name in breathy little grunts and gasps. Kept picturing him, what he'd imagine he looked like, maybe seated against a hoisted up car or sitting on a bench at the back of the garage.
When he comes, he arches his whole back with it and takes a long few seconds to really milk out the fullest extent of his load. It hits his thigh and hip, a little bit of his chest and it's all over the back of his hand. Even after he's slowed, leaving himself to lay there panting, he makes a further mess by dropping his hand down over his abdomen and smearing the white across his pale, heaving chest. He was a lot louder when he came, voice crying out in the tree house where nobody else was around to hear. Cobain might be scandalized, if she's even still around.
Derek sends him photos and Tate - Tate doesn't get to looking at them until Derek speaks, stirring his eyes open again. He lifts his phone to look at the alert, breathing hard still before he laughs - just as breathless. It's always after he comes that Tate kind of realizes how... extra things got leading up to it. But he doesn't feel ashamed or embarrassed, not really. He saves the photos, all of them.
Then he wipes the last bit of cum from his hand off on his face, a smear wiped off by his nose to look - lewd, on purpose - for the photo he sends back to Derek. Cum on his face, his chest - he sends two photos of that before one of his spent cock, laying against his equally messy thigh.]
no subject
When he comes, he arches his whole back with it and takes a long few seconds to really milk out the fullest extent of his load. It hits his thigh and hip, a little bit of his chest and it's all over the back of his hand. Even after he's slowed, leaving himself to lay there panting, he makes a further mess by dropping his hand down over his abdomen and smearing the white across his pale, heaving chest. He was a lot louder when he came, voice crying out in the tree house where nobody else was around to hear. Cobain might be scandalized, if she's even still around.
Derek sends him photos and Tate - Tate doesn't get to looking at them until Derek speaks, stirring his eyes open again. He lifts his phone to look at the alert, breathing hard still before he laughs - just as breathless. It's always after he comes that Tate kind of realizes how... extra things got leading up to it. But he doesn't feel ashamed or embarrassed, not really. He saves the photos, all of them.
Then he wipes the last bit of cum from his hand off on his face, a smear wiped off by his nose to look - lewd, on purpose - for the photo he sends back to Derek. Cum on his face, his chest - he sends two photos of that before one of his spent cock, laying against his equally messy thigh.]
Shit. Ah... When are you coming back?