[ Practicing - that could mean a dozen different things, and Derek's too out of it, too distracted, to know how any single one of them might make him feel. He swallows, getting harder, every impulse in his body telling him to wrap his fist around himself and start stroking - but he doesn't, even as his fingers itch at his sides and want for more. Tate pushes and he pushes and he pushes and Derek does his best not to make a noise, but when that last final inch stretches him open, Derek makes one tiny, single grunt, the last shreds of his resistance breaking. ]

No. No, fuck-- fuck that. I'll let 'em punish me. I'm not gonna get through three hours of this.

[ He loves this feeling. Fucking adores it. Being pushed to his limits, overwhelmed, every sensitive nerve in his body feeling like it's on fire. He can barely remember how to swallow, barely remember how to breathe - his chest is rising and falling like he's close to hyperventilating, his abs are tense and flexing involuntarily, his hands are stretching and shrinking as he grabs and ungrabs the air, the sheets, anything. He draws one knee up an inch or two, as high as he can with the full length of this thing inside him, digging his heel into the mattress and shutting his eyes tight. It's such a sudden, immense change, brought on by the warm, welcoming touch of Tate's hand around his dick - but it's obvious he's been holding back. He's always so fucking overwhelmed like this.

Fuck. He swears, shaking his head fast, one sharp motion. ]

Gotta-- gotta take it easy. Gonna come if you keep saying shit like that. Okay?