[ The air changes, and on one hand, Derek feels horrible for sucking the good mood from Tate's lungs, but - honestly, when else could they have talked about this, really? Derek wasn't going to fucking text Tate at 2AM and ask invasive questions about his personal life, and he wasn't going to corner him when he was upset about something else to be like, hey, while you're sad, let's talk about your fucking suicide. Leading into this from something light and casual and airy was the only option he had. ]
Sorry. That's - pretty fucking rough.
[ Still feels guilty, though. Derek listens to Tate, nodding low, and-- fuck, there's something really, really fucking impactful about the way Tate breathes in his scent to calm him down. Derek feels taller. Bigger. He stops walking, even though they're supposed to be going into town, because-- because watching Tate find something calming and familiar and safe in Derek's fucking scent makes him want to stay in the woods, listening to the distant sounds of the beach. He wants to stay near Tate.
Derek puts a hand on Tate's chest. Stops him from walking, too. He leaves it there, fingertips right over Tate's sternum. ]
It's just...
[ He looks at Tate's nose, hidden away in his jacket. He's-- always wanted to protect Tate, always wanted to be good for him, always wanted him, but never, never, has the instinct been this strong. He breathed in his fucking scent? He found comfort in him. Raw, primal comfort. Derek moves his hand up Tate's chest, gripping his collar, just - holding it, for the sake of holding it. He moves his hand higher up, touching Tate's throat, leaving his palm against his skin. He feels like he needs - just - heavy, platonic, physical contact, the same kind of contact he would have with one of his real betas. He wants to squeeze his shoulder, touch his arm, offer all that silent, physical, reassuring comfort that he's so instinctively drawn to sharing with his pack. He just - leaves his hand on Tate's throat. Wolfishly protective. ]
It's just - now's the time, right? You wanted to know when you could talk to people about your life. If there's anything you're scared of talking to me about - now feels like the time to do it.
no subject
Sorry. That's - pretty fucking rough.
[ Still feels guilty, though. Derek listens to Tate, nodding low, and-- fuck, there's something really, really fucking impactful about the way Tate breathes in his scent to calm him down. Derek feels taller. Bigger. He stops walking, even though they're supposed to be going into town, because-- because watching Tate find something calming and familiar and safe in Derek's fucking scent makes him want to stay in the woods, listening to the distant sounds of the beach. He wants to stay near Tate.
Derek puts a hand on Tate's chest. Stops him from walking, too. He leaves it there, fingertips right over Tate's sternum. ]
It's just...
[ He looks at Tate's nose, hidden away in his jacket. He's-- always wanted to protect Tate, always wanted to be good for him, always wanted him, but never, never, has the instinct been this strong. He breathed in his fucking scent? He found comfort in him. Raw, primal comfort. Derek moves his hand up Tate's chest, gripping his collar, just - holding it, for the sake of holding it. He moves his hand higher up, touching Tate's throat, leaving his palm against his skin. He feels like he needs - just - heavy, platonic, physical contact, the same kind of contact he would have with one of his real betas. He wants to squeeze his shoulder, touch his arm, offer all that silent, physical, reassuring comfort that he's so instinctively drawn to sharing with his pack. He just - leaves his hand on Tate's throat. Wolfishly protective. ]
It's just - now's the time, right? You wanted to know when you could talk to people about your life. If there's anything you're scared of talking to me about - now feels like the time to do it.