[ It wasn't meant as a deal so much as it was meant as a promise; that if Tate's trying, then Derek's going to try harder, too. Derek touches Tate's hair with this intimate mix of loving, soothing kindness and firm, guiding aggression, playing with his curls at the same time he tightens his grip to keep him from reeling back to safer ground. ]
Relax your throat. Breathe. Slower. Watch your teeth.
[ Tate's not new to this. Derek knows Tate's not knew to this, but he's seeing it here and now. He's sloppy and close to gagging, spilling thicker, warmer spit down his cock from the back of his throat, so he might not be experienced with stretching his throat as much as Derek's telling him to stretch it now - but he's making enough of a fucking effort for Derek to know he's done this before. That shouldn't make him as hard as it does. That should make him angry. It does make him angry, on some level, but not enough to stop him from moaning like a bitch in heat when Tate starts urging his hips up, right when he's a scant few inches from done.
Derek lays flat, taking his eyes off of Tate. He can't prop himself up on one arm when he has both hands in Tate's hair, and that's what he wants to do now. He arches his back and holds all ten fingers on the sides of Tate's skull, closing his eyes and slowly, slowly, slowly fucking further down Tate's throat, more and more and more. He's whispering to him, voice straining, that's it, that's it, fuck, you're doing so fucking good, quiet words of encouragement and love and praise.
He snaps his hips up at the last inch and forces Tate to gag on his cock, and soon his balls are pressed up against Tate's chin and Tate's nose is buried into his skin. He presses past any resistance Tate gives him and grips him tighter, warningly, almost painfully, if it feels like Tate's going to cough or struggle, and Derek's-- Derek's eyes are rolling into the back of his head as he holds him in place, his mouth is open in a silent moan, and his back is so far off the ground his spine's starting to hurt.
When he moans again, it's-- loud, this hard, echoing half-sob that he doesn't have the willpower to bite back, and his fingers pull Tate's hair without thinking, painful and stinging. He's sweaty and he feels like his legs are cramping from how rigid they are, and he props himself up on one arm again, pulling Tate halfway off his cock with one hard, wrenching tug. ]
no subject
Relax your throat. Breathe. Slower. Watch your teeth.
[ Tate's not new to this. Derek knows Tate's not knew to this, but he's seeing it here and now. He's sloppy and close to gagging, spilling thicker, warmer spit down his cock from the back of his throat, so he might not be experienced with stretching his throat as much as Derek's telling him to stretch it now - but he's making enough of a fucking effort for Derek to know he's done this before. That shouldn't make him as hard as it does. That should make him angry. It does make him angry, on some level, but not enough to stop him from moaning like a bitch in heat when Tate starts urging his hips up, right when he's a scant few inches from done.
Derek lays flat, taking his eyes off of Tate. He can't prop himself up on one arm when he has both hands in Tate's hair, and that's what he wants to do now. He arches his back and holds all ten fingers on the sides of Tate's skull, closing his eyes and slowly, slowly, slowly fucking further down Tate's throat, more and more and more. He's whispering to him, voice straining, that's it, that's it, fuck, you're doing so fucking good, quiet words of encouragement and love and praise.
He snaps his hips up at the last inch and forces Tate to gag on his cock, and soon his balls are pressed up against Tate's chin and Tate's nose is buried into his skin. He presses past any resistance Tate gives him and grips him tighter, warningly, almost painfully, if it feels like Tate's going to cough or struggle, and Derek's-- Derek's eyes are rolling into the back of his head as he holds him in place, his mouth is open in a silent moan, and his back is so far off the ground his spine's starting to hurt.
When he moans again, it's-- loud, this hard, echoing half-sob that he doesn't have the willpower to bite back, and his fingers pull Tate's hair without thinking, painful and stinging. He's sweaty and he feels like his legs are cramping from how rigid they are, and he props himself up on one arm again, pulling Tate halfway off his cock with one hard, wrenching tug. ]
Jesus fucking Christ.