[ Derek wants to do it. That's part of why he's asking Tate to move. Tate said he wanted to take the lead, and - he's done that, for the most part, but this close to the edge, this close to the end, Derek wants to be in control. He wants to-- to forget all the second guessing in his head, all the reasons why Tate's fragile and glass-like and someone that needs to be handled with care. He wants to listen to his dick instead of his head.
Tate obediently lays down and Derek sets both of his knees beside Tate's ears, holding himself up straight. He angles the crown of his cock down to Tate's lips, and he allows him to taste the very, very tip of it, dragging another line of precum over his tongue. He feeds him more, one inch, then two, and then he leans forward to get on all fours, elbows on either side of Tate's waist.
He opens his zipper, batting Tate's hands away if they're still hovering close by, mumbling something sharp and commanding and said with the most loving, attentive voice he has: put your hands on my cock, start stroking, you're gonna have to earn my cum if you want it. He pulls the zipper open but leaves Tate's jeans where they are, allowing him only the bare minimum of relief, and he feels like he's out of his fucking body. Feels like he's seeing through somebody's eyes, like - like it still hasn't fully sunk in that this is Tate, that it's Tate's cock in front of him straining the fabric of his boxers, that it's Tate's cock flexing for attention, leaving a wet spot at his head.
Derek doesn't get Tate's cock out. Doesn't even pretend like he's going to. He steadily, unwaveringly fucks more of his own into Tate's mouth, and - he doesn't think he can deep throat him again, not after how close he came to throwing up the first time he tried, but.
It's what Tate wants. Derek's bottom line with Tate has always been that he deserves to get what he wants.
Derek slides another thick, fat inch into Tate's mouth, talking him through it in hushed, affectionate whispers. Telling him to stretch his jaw, telling him to be a good boy, telling him that he's doing so, so fucking well. He picks up a bit of a rhythm - he fucks into Tate's mouth until he's very, very lightly hitting the back of his throat, like he's trying to test his gag reflex, and then he pulls back, giving him time to rest. In, out, in, out. Slow. For now.
He strokes Tate's dick through his underwear, featherlight and barely there. Tate looks like he doesn't have much left in him to hold back, and Derek doesn't want to make him come before he's ready.
Derek almost asks if Tate's doing okay. He doesn't. ]
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[ Derek wants to do it. That's part of why he's asking Tate to move. Tate said he wanted to take the lead, and - he's done that, for the most part, but this close to the edge, this close to the end, Derek wants to be in control. He wants to-- to forget all the second guessing in his head, all the reasons why Tate's fragile and glass-like and someone that needs to be handled with care. He wants to listen to his dick instead of his head.
Tate obediently lays down and Derek sets both of his knees beside Tate's ears, holding himself up straight. He angles the crown of his cock down to Tate's lips, and he allows him to taste the very, very tip of it, dragging another line of precum over his tongue. He feeds him more, one inch, then two, and then he leans forward to get on all fours, elbows on either side of Tate's waist.
He opens his zipper, batting Tate's hands away if they're still hovering close by, mumbling something sharp and commanding and said with the most loving, attentive voice he has: put your hands on my cock, start stroking, you're gonna have to earn my cum if you want it. He pulls the zipper open but leaves Tate's jeans where they are, allowing him only the bare minimum of relief, and he feels like he's out of his fucking body. Feels like he's seeing through somebody's eyes, like - like it still hasn't fully sunk in that this is Tate, that it's Tate's cock in front of him straining the fabric of his boxers, that it's Tate's cock flexing for attention, leaving a wet spot at his head.
Derek doesn't get Tate's cock out. Doesn't even pretend like he's going to. He steadily, unwaveringly fucks more of his own into Tate's mouth, and - he doesn't think he can deep throat him again, not after how close he came to throwing up the first time he tried, but.
It's what Tate wants. Derek's bottom line with Tate has always been that he deserves to get what he wants.
Derek slides another thick, fat inch into Tate's mouth, talking him through it in hushed, affectionate whispers. Telling him to stretch his jaw, telling him to be a good boy, telling him that he's doing so, so fucking well. He picks up a bit of a rhythm - he fucks into Tate's mouth until he's very, very lightly hitting the back of his throat, like he's trying to test his gag reflex, and then he pulls back, giving him time to rest. In, out, in, out. Slow. For now.
He strokes Tate's dick through his underwear, featherlight and barely there. Tate looks like he doesn't have much left in him to hold back, and Derek doesn't want to make him come before he's ready.
Derek almost asks if Tate's doing okay. He doesn't. ]