[ Which should be enough? He could list out everything else that makes werewolves great - teeth, eyes, muscles, the ability to walk on land without having to sell your voice to a witch - but Tate's getting too tired, he thinks, and it's gotta be better to just let him sleep. Derek strokes through his hair a little slower, closing his eyes, letting everything just be... warm and safe and familiar.
Too familiar, maybe. Tate presses in tighter against him, silently asking to be held, and Derek swallows, his throat dry. It can't be attraction that does it, because they're pack, and he's happily taken, but - he's a guy, and he's a werewolf, and he's being pressed up against in a way that's pretty fucking familiar to how Stiles presses up against him at night, and maybe it's pavlovian, maybe it's just-- bad luck, but Derek does feel himself getting kinda hard. He tries to ignore it, and he does a pretty good job, he thinks, but he's not breathing when he's half-mast against Tate's ass, just like he's not breathing when he slowly moves away.
He twists his hips and adds some distance, just an inch or so between them, trying to be subtle about it but fucking that up by clearing his throat. He's not touching Tate's hair anymore. He brings his arm away from him, putting it back at his own side. Cautiously, he just - ends this conversation here, his stomach in a bit of a knot. ]
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[ Which should be enough? He could list out everything else that makes werewolves great - teeth, eyes, muscles, the ability to walk on land without having to sell your voice to a witch - but Tate's getting too tired, he thinks, and it's gotta be better to just let him sleep. Derek strokes through his hair a little slower, closing his eyes, letting everything just be... warm and safe and familiar.
Too familiar, maybe. Tate presses in tighter against him, silently asking to be held, and Derek swallows, his throat dry. It can't be attraction that does it, because they're pack, and he's happily taken, but - he's a guy, and he's a werewolf, and he's being pressed up against in a way that's pretty fucking familiar to how Stiles presses up against him at night, and maybe it's pavlovian, maybe it's just-- bad luck, but Derek does feel himself getting kinda hard. He tries to ignore it, and he does a pretty good job, he thinks, but he's not breathing when he's half-mast against Tate's ass, just like he's not breathing when he slowly moves away.
He twists his hips and adds some distance, just an inch or so between them, trying to be subtle about it but fucking that up by clearing his throat. He's not touching Tate's hair anymore. He brings his arm away from him, putting it back at his own side. Cautiously, he just - ends this conversation here, his stomach in a bit of a knot. ]
Go to sleep.