[ Tate deflects. Tate deflects, but he deflects so fucking successfully. Derek looks at him with wide eyes, connecting the dots between everything he says, hanging invisible strings on an evidence board in his head that he doesn't have half as much mastery over as Stiles. The implication that Kavinsky's a live wire, that the things they've done together were-- rough. That Tate does things with Kavinsky because he has to, to meet his quota, rather than because he wants to. I don't know if I've ever done anything with him sober.
Derek assumes the worst. He was always going to assume the worst, regardless of the fleeting, transient guilt he felt a fucking second ago about doing exactly that. He sits up straighter, looking over Tate, and he doesn't know where to put his hands. Tate feels fragile and small again, something to protect, something that needs to be held, and Derek's chest feels like it's going to rip itself apart.
Tate--
Tate needs him. Derek swallows. Looks him in the eye again. He's still so fucking hard. Maybe that's messed up. ]
no subject
Derek assumes the worst. He was always going to assume the worst, regardless of the fleeting, transient guilt he felt a fucking second ago about doing exactly that. He sits up straighter, looking over Tate, and he doesn't know where to put his hands. Tate feels fragile and small again, something to protect, something that needs to be held, and Derek's chest feels like it's going to rip itself apart.
Tate--
Tate needs him. Derek swallows. Looks him in the eye again. He's still so fucking hard. Maybe that's messed up. ]
Does he hurt you?