[ Getting fingered under semi-duress on cold, hard, wooden slats is real fucking different to being fingered in the bed you spend nearly all of your nights in. This feels-- new, again, and Derek's tense, not yielding easily against Tate's pressure. He has one eye closed and scrunched tight like he's almost in pain, and his nails are scraping against the ground enough to hurt, but he's giving every sign that he wants this. He's sliding his hips forward, parting his legs a little more, and when Tate finally works him open, he doesn't pull away.
He moans. It's the first moan he's done since Tate started, and it's this tiny, fragile thing that he tries to bite back the second he hears it slip through his teeth, but he moans, low and deep and masculine. He tightens his jaw after that, makes the dimples in his cheeks bend in beneath his beard. And then Tate says this.
Fuck, he moans again. It's this raw, primal sound that mixes with a growl, and Derek covers his mouth with his hand, digging his thumbnail into his cheek like he's trying to force himself to be quiet. He drops his hand again, curls it into a fist, and buries his knuckles into the wood. Tate buries his finger in a little deeper, and Derek does his best to keep his back flush to the ground, but between that and the feeling of Tate's tongue grinding down his head, he needs-- more. He wants more. Shallowly, so fucking shallowly, he rises his hips up, trying to push more of his tight ass against Tate's finger, trying to get more of him down his throat. A centimeter, maybe more. He's trying so hard to stay passive.
But he reaches his hand back out, back to Tate's hair. He wants to grab a fistful of it, wants to hold him in place. Wants to force his cock down his throat and make him gag. He won't - he's ashamed of himself for having the impulse - but he wants to. ]
Can...
[ Fuck, fuck, fuck. The noises Tate's making. Derek feels a shiver run down his spine. ]
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He moans. It's the first moan he's done since Tate started, and it's this tiny, fragile thing that he tries to bite back the second he hears it slip through his teeth, but he moans, low and deep and masculine. He tightens his jaw after that, makes the dimples in his cheeks bend in beneath his beard. And then Tate says this.
Fuck, he moans again. It's this raw, primal sound that mixes with a growl, and Derek covers his mouth with his hand, digging his thumbnail into his cheek like he's trying to force himself to be quiet. He drops his hand again, curls it into a fist, and buries his knuckles into the wood. Tate buries his finger in a little deeper, and Derek does his best to keep his back flush to the ground, but between that and the feeling of Tate's tongue grinding down his head, he needs-- more. He wants more. Shallowly, so fucking shallowly, he rises his hips up, trying to push more of his tight ass against Tate's finger, trying to get more of him down his throat. A centimeter, maybe more. He's trying so hard to stay passive.
But he reaches his hand back out, back to Tate's hair. He wants to grab a fistful of it, wants to hold him in place. Wants to force his cock down his throat and make him gag. He won't - he's ashamed of himself for having the impulse - but he wants to. ]
Can...
[ Fuck, fuck, fuck. The noises Tate's making. Derek feels a shiver run down his spine. ]
Can you take... all of it?