[ The last thing Derek wanted was to make Tate feel vulnerable. Part of seceding control to someone else means trusting them to take care of you, and if Tate doesn't trust him to take care of him, everything they've done - the months they've built together, the promise to start a contract come July, everything - that shit's all for nothing.
But he's too far gone to see that Tate might be... reluctant. He only sees nerves, in the hitch of his breath and the way he squirms to be comfortable, and he's sure that will even out once he - adjusts. The little moans, the way he willingly opens up for Derek, the ghosting of his fingertips down his sides and the inviting, perfect twitch of his cock - so much of what's Tate doing reads as a positive sign, and it's making Derek harder. Hornier. Needier.
He arches his back like a cat, closing his eyes and resting on his arms for a few seconds on the wood next to Tate's knees, feeling Tate bring him closer and closer to the edge. Derek needs a second to calm down. To abate the steady build up of his orgasm that's slowly rising in the base of his stomach, making him tense. He wills himself down and focuses on Tate, pressing his lips to the line of Tate's cock silhouetted by his boxers, squeezing the base of him through his clothes and just - massaging, more than jerking him off. He swipes his tongue across his slit and tastes the bead of precum he gets through the fabric, leaving a bridge of it mingling with his tongue as he moves back.
Tate fucking tries. He sucks on his cock like he's trying to drain it dry, lighting all his nerve endings on fire and making his thrusts come more erratic, a little more frantic - deeper than he means to in one, shallower than he means to in another. Derek's breath is fractured and frantic, and he's starting to lose himself in the moment. Forgetting where he is. Unable to think of anything except for the tight vacuum around his dick, sealing him in and getting him wet. He - can't hold back anymore. ]
Hold onto me.
[ The next thrusts come more stable. Deeper. He drags the length of his cock to the back of Tate's throat, to the very back, and - he keeps going. He gets half of him into Tate before he's worried he'll gag, and then he pulls back, giving him a second to breathe. He waits, dutifully, squeezing his hand tighter around Tate's cock and steadily, slowly beginning to jerk him off through his clothes, and when he feels Tate's ready, he fucks him again. Slow. Deep. Pushing hard, but not unkindly, against any resistance he meets.
Constantly, he tells Tate to breathe, he calms him down, he tells him he's doing so fucking good, he tells him he's perfect, that he's everything, that he's his, that he'll take care of him. He doesn't call himself Tate's Alpha, doesn't tell Tate to serve him. He just tells him he's doing good. Tells him he's fucking fantastic, just as he is.
He sucks the head of Tate's cock through his boxers and starts to worry a little less about how Tate's doing, about whether or not Tate can take it. It takes a bit of work, but he pushes and pushes and pushes his cock down the tight, constricting grip of Tate's throat until he's balls deep, right to the base, and-- fuck, the moans that Derek makes. Loud and echoing, while his legs tremble and his breath is hot against Tate's dick, wet from pre and saliva and barely contained. He moans in a way that's so fucking rare for him outside of the full moon, and when he pulls his cock back to give Tate another bit of breath, his cock flexes and pulses on his tongue like he's seconds from blowing his load. ]
One-- one more. One more.
[ He's begging Tate. Asking to go again, asking Tate to deepthroat him again, as he pistons the first few inches of his cock against Tate's tongue like his mouth was just made to be fucked. One more time, and then he'll come. ]
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But he's too far gone to see that Tate might be... reluctant. He only sees nerves, in the hitch of his breath and the way he squirms to be comfortable, and he's sure that will even out once he - adjusts. The little moans, the way he willingly opens up for Derek, the ghosting of his fingertips down his sides and the inviting, perfect twitch of his cock - so much of what's Tate doing reads as a positive sign, and it's making Derek harder. Hornier. Needier.
He arches his back like a cat, closing his eyes and resting on his arms for a few seconds on the wood next to Tate's knees, feeling Tate bring him closer and closer to the edge. Derek needs a second to calm down. To abate the steady build up of his orgasm that's slowly rising in the base of his stomach, making him tense. He wills himself down and focuses on Tate, pressing his lips to the line of Tate's cock silhouetted by his boxers, squeezing the base of him through his clothes and just - massaging, more than jerking him off. He swipes his tongue across his slit and tastes the bead of precum he gets through the fabric, leaving a bridge of it mingling with his tongue as he moves back.
Tate fucking tries. He sucks on his cock like he's trying to drain it dry, lighting all his nerve endings on fire and making his thrusts come more erratic, a little more frantic - deeper than he means to in one, shallower than he means to in another. Derek's breath is fractured and frantic, and he's starting to lose himself in the moment. Forgetting where he is. Unable to think of anything except for the tight vacuum around his dick, sealing him in and getting him wet. He - can't hold back anymore. ]
Hold onto me.
[ The next thrusts come more stable. Deeper. He drags the length of his cock to the back of Tate's throat, to the very back, and - he keeps going. He gets half of him into Tate before he's worried he'll gag, and then he pulls back, giving him a second to breathe. He waits, dutifully, squeezing his hand tighter around Tate's cock and steadily, slowly beginning to jerk him off through his clothes, and when he feels Tate's ready, he fucks him again. Slow. Deep. Pushing hard, but not unkindly, against any resistance he meets.
Constantly, he tells Tate to breathe, he calms him down, he tells him he's doing so fucking good, he tells him he's perfect, that he's everything, that he's his, that he'll take care of him. He doesn't call himself Tate's Alpha, doesn't tell Tate to serve him. He just tells him he's doing good. Tells him he's fucking fantastic, just as he is.
He sucks the head of Tate's cock through his boxers and starts to worry a little less about how Tate's doing, about whether or not Tate can take it. It takes a bit of work, but he pushes and pushes and pushes his cock down the tight, constricting grip of Tate's throat until he's balls deep, right to the base, and-- fuck, the moans that Derek makes. Loud and echoing, while his legs tremble and his breath is hot against Tate's dick, wet from pre and saliva and barely contained. He moans in a way that's so fucking rare for him outside of the full moon, and when he pulls his cock back to give Tate another bit of breath, his cock flexes and pulses on his tongue like he's seconds from blowing his load. ]
One-- one more. One more.
[ He's begging Tate. Asking to go again, asking Tate to deepthroat him again, as he pistons the first few inches of his cock against Tate's tongue like his mouth was just made to be fucked. One more time, and then he'll come. ]