[Tate's hitting that sweet spot of limbo where he's just about to start having dream-like thoughts that will erase if he pulls out of them, but he doesn't get to get that far. Derek pulls away and Tate blinks back awake, not sure if Derek's last words had just been said then and now or a few minutes back. His eyes still feel heavy, but he doesn't like the sudden space between them.
He leans back, killing the distance and purposely putting his weight up against Derek.]
[ Fuck. Tate leans into him again, cutting Derek's escape attempt short. He presses back against Derek, all tight and warm and close, and for a second, the friction blue screens Derek a bit and freezes him up. He swallows, getting harder, and he puts one hand on Tate's shoulder, ready to roll him away again.
And he doesn't think Tate understands what he's doing, or why this is a problem, but Derek is - warning, more than anything, when he talks again. Stony and sharp, like he's only going to say this once. ]
[Tate's more awake now, blinking back to focus and turning his head to look at Derek in the dark with a narrowed glance that's lost all the fondness of earlier. Like he's getting barked at for no reason, he takes a defensive stance. He pulls away, back forward and onto his forearm before turning over the other way and staring at Derek blearily in the dark - wishing, perhaps, he'd thought to bring any sort of light. He thinks of his phone after a beat, fishing it out of his pocket and shining the light directly in Derek's face.]
What's your problem? You're acting...
[The light illuminates Derek's chest and down, and Tate's eyes drift. So does the light.]
[ Just... defensive. The light doesn't help matters, because his eyes were adjusting pretty hard to the darkness, and having a fucking sun shone in his face and blinding the living fuck out of him is only making Derek feel worse. He shifts back another few inches and rubs the corner of his eye with his thumb, pulling down the hem of his jacket, then just - fidgeting with his sleeves. ]
Look - I didn't mean to wake you up, just. Go back to sleep?
[Defiant, tired, said with another yawn against his hand as he sets his phone down face down between them - letting only a thin line of light out from the edges. He sits up in the dark, aware Derek can see him and maybe it's the buzz still in his head or the weird feeling he's been getting for a while now, but he doesn't want to ignore this. Doesn't want to read too far into it, either, which is why he's contained and thoughtful before he reaches out in the dark to touch his fingers to Derek's hip.]
It's not something that needs to be dealt with, it's just-- Jesus Christ.
[ Tate sits up and Derek is feeling more and more cornered, even though this isn't a fucking big deal and doesn't have to fucking be one. He just wanted to shift away and sleep in peace, not get into whatever weird territory they've stumbled into. His neck feels hot and his face feels hotter, and he's still half-hard, stretching down the length of his thigh through the side of his boxers, trapped beneath the denim of his jeans. He's grateful they're back in the dark.
He doesn't want to answer Tate's question, because he knows how he gets about rejection. He's seen him fall apart, seen him get angry, and Derek feels like he's hurt him and ruined so many things for him already, that jumping straight into shooting him down is going to lead to another breakdown, or-- or at least a few tears, followed by a few shouts, followed by Tate running back home to Kavinsky to get high. Tonight was supposed to be a good night. Saying no and ruining that feels just as dangerous as saying yes.
So he just - swallows. He shifts, rolling over, putting his back to Tate. Staying close, but not facing him. If they sleep back to back, then - it's - fine. Doable. Nothing has to break. ]
[Tate's voice is tired, especially when he sees him turn away - it makes him sit there, annoyed and mystified by what's happened and what it means if anything. Derek's told him straight faced before that he doesn't want to fuck him and well, he always felt that was somehow true. But he's seen a few of the looks he's gotten, messages mixed up by the things he's said as well. How teenage Derek would've been all over him, or whatever. Tate rubs at his face and hates that Derek's turned away from him now.
He thinks of him and Stiles, in the precarious situation they got themselves into and how - well, they never look back on that aloud. It never happened, so to speak, but it served a purpose. And he wonders if this is another moment like that, where he's supposed to make a move more strategically than he can think to. Have it all line up.]
Fine.
[Annoyed, Tate slumps back down against the thin layer of the sleeping bag and does what Derek tells him to. He lays down, only he faces Derek and spitefully leans close to take over as big spoon with his arm draped over Derek's side from behind. No groping, no grinding, just Tate pressing his face in against the center of his back and curling in against the broadness of it to soak up the warmth.]
[ The mood sours, and that's - fine, because sour is nothing, sour is manageable. Tate pulls himself up against Derek's body and Derek doesn't make a noise, doesn't push him away. His jaw hurts from how tight he's locking it together, and his eyes are tired and glassy as he stares out at the platform ahead of him, but he doesn't move.
Tate's voice is right up against his ear, when he tells Derek to jerk off.
Derek swallows. Tate might not be a werewolf yet, but he has to be able to hear how hard Derek's heart is beating in his chest. A rhythmic baseline brought on by the surge of adrenaline released in his body, making the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. Derek's-- obviously not going to jerk off, but he's obviously not going to be able to sleep, either, not like this. Slowly, carefully, he rolls onto his back. He doesn't make an effort to move Tate away, choosing instead to let his arm stay draped over his stomach when he moves, and he stares pointedly up at the stars, barely there behind a thatch of branches and leaves.
His mouth feels dry. He needs another beer. Fuck, he wishes alcohol worked on him. He's not really thinking when he speaks again, still addressing the sky instead of Tate. ]
Saying things like that's just going to make it worse.
[Tate murmurs like he's talking down to a child, even though he feels - strained to say it against Derek's arm. He shifts back just enough to let Derek roll over when he does, but finds himself staying against him with his arm spitefully still across his midsection despite the way it makes Tate's heart beat a little... strangely for a second. It's just, weird, okay? Not exciting, not arousing, just... different.]
[ He can't. Shouldn't. He sounds more tired, than anything else. It's kind of frustrating - he's surrounded by aphrodisiacs and drugs and leather and whips and chains every fucking day of his life, but it's this that turns awkward. This is why he doesn't have a fucking pack. Or - okay - not specifically because he always ends up with incomprehensibly inappropriate hardons, but. Because things always go wrong.
Tonight was supposed to be easy. Derek sits up, still not forcing Tate away from him, and he reaches for another beer, cracking open his third. He takes a swig, arches his neck back when he swallows, adam's apple bobbing. He wipes his lips on the back of his mouth, then slowly tilts his head towards Tate. ]
[Tate's brows knit together, the words there are other options on his lips but Derek sits up and Tate just lays next to him staring up at him like the tired sack of half-drunk shit he is. Takes a moment of watching Derek drink, seeing only the illuminated outlines of his features, before Tate struggles to right himself and sit up. He's still close, knee to thigh, legs warm and up against one another. Derek's always warm, he's noticed, and that seems in line with the canine feature.]
If it was because I was doing something to make you hot, it's one thing. But this is just - sort of something else, right? This happened to me before, here. Maybe a little different, but we dealt with it and kept on moving.
[ Tate's gotten around so much since coming here. Derek gets it, on one level, and it's not like he gives a shit, but it's such - a change, from the Tate that Derek knew during orientation. Scared and angry and incapable of getting through what he had to. He wonders if the city made him more open because it's... who Tate always wanted to be, or if this place corrupted him more than it should have. Preyed on his insecurity about his orientation until it became - this. ]
No.
[ Or maybe that's a shitty and judgmental thing to think about a seventeen year old dead kid who clearly just wants to be loved and to feel alive. Maybe he's being an asshole. Again. The no just hangs there in the air, seemingly without any real context. Derek lifts his leg a little, his cock flexing against his thigh, lightly appreciative of the friction. He takes a breath, staring back up at nothing. ]
I mean - it's not... anything like that. [ Drugs. Aphrodisiacs. Whatever. ] And I don't need you to... to help me, with my quota, or-- or anything like that. That's not what we are.
[ Derek helps. Derek doesn't get help. Not from Tate. Not if he can help it. Least of all over something like this. ]
[Tate's prompted to say it just to be contrary, not sure how he likes how Derek stares up at anything but him. He wants him to look at him, he wants his attention just like he wants his approval. He reaches to play his fingers over Derek's thigh, palm feeling the warmth through the denim and he doesn't do much more than that. Doesn't push, doesn't slide his hand or squeeze it. He just lets it sit.
Truth be told, Tate hasn't had any problems getting quota on his own. With his fling with Peter, his new contract with Kavinsky and the other events sprinkled in? He meets it, and then some. But if Derek won't let him help him for his sake, he feels justified in turning it around and trying to play it this way, too. But of course, part of him still wants to prove a point wrong. That point being that Derek once rebuffed him. Several times rebuffed him.
He shifts closer, leaning in.]
I've got you and you've got me. We're going to be pack - so trust me?
[ Wait, hold on. This is moving - very fast, and Derek's not sure how they got on this road together. There's a hand on his jeans right beneath the head of his cock, there's a quiet whisper in his ear, there's a promise of trust and pack and being a good Alpha, doing something for his beta that he needs, but -
But he doesn't need this. He can't need this. If Tate needed help with this, Derek would have known about it sooner. Right? Granted, they've only recently begun talking about the things LIES makes them do, but - but he had to have known. Cautiously, Derek puts a voice to the question, heart stuck in his throat. ]
Wait - do you - do you have trouble meeting your quota? I mean.
[ As far as he knows - Peter's the only person he's really hooked up with, other than a few strangers here and there, and Derek gets it, if things are slowing down between them now that there are feelings. He'd... been assuming that Tate's been fucking around with Kavinsky, or that there'd been some bartering system in place between them for drugs, or-- or even that Kavinsky took advantage of Tate when he was drunk or fucked up like at that party, and-- and if that's not the case, then-- what else has he been wrong about? Derek feels guilt squeeze in his chest. Seconds ago, he was assuming that Tate got around in this place, but fuck, what if he was wrong about that, too? Why does he keep assuming the worst about Tate and the people he surrounds himself with?
Derek just - carefully puts a hand on Tate's arm, stopping him from moving his hand any higher. He looks at him, directly in the eye. ]
[Tate doesn't like this because it feels like a bear trap ready to snag him if he treads on it. He drops his gaze for a moment, trying to pull together his answer. All he ever has to do is part his lips or his legs and Kavinsky will make him come, but it often feels like a pack of matches waiting to be struck with him in the same breath. He could've broken his nose in the hotel with how hard Kavinsky knocked him into the wall and he remembers his first time, pained but under aphro, receiving from Kavinsky who seemed overjoyed to have the opportunity.
There's clear confliction in Tate's eyes, when he looks back up to Derek and stares into his like he's searching for something to hold on to. He doesn't have trouble meeting quota and he and Kavinsky very much do - but.]
It's never a sure thing, with him. And... If I'm going to try and live cleaner, I mean. That's also a big part of it. I don't know if I've ever done anything with him sober. So...
[All the better to do it with someone safer, right? Does that work?]
[ 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. ]
[Hard question to answer for two reasons. One, the way he and Kavinsky both are is violent and disastrous by nature. They hurt each other and they hurt themselves and that's how they thrive. That's how they bond. But that's not the narrative Tate needs here, not when he wants to win Derek to his side and keep his two worlds from colliding. The other reason is - well, he doesn't want to really admit that the way he lives is toxic. He knows it may not be right, but he doesn't need Derek to remind him of that.
But if anyone looked at the way he did things with Kavinsky, they'd see how fucked up it was. How it is. How he was held down the first time they fucked, how aphros and drugs were the reason they bounced off each other to begin with. Tate was out of his head at the party when he was coerced down onto his knees for the first time - and it won't be the last. He can live with that, he makes it work. Kavinsky, despite the hurt and harm, also gives him the attention he thirsts for. An out for the violence he can't express any other way.
It's evident by Tate's expression that he's struggling to find words. Struggling to admit, maybe because he's afraid of what'll happen. Last thing he needs is Derek crossing paths with Kavinsky, threatening to fuck him up.]
... Define hurt.
[Is it being tackled into a wall, choked or restrained?]
He knew since the hotel. Knew since the party, maybe, that there was someone in Tate's life who would - ruin him. Attempt to, at least. That's what people do - they ruin, they burn, they shatter. They fucking hurt. Derek's still, for a second, staring at Tate with every nerve in his body standing to attention. He feels this sick, rancid bile boiling in in his stomach, his throat, and he sees Kate. He sees the worst of her. ]
Tate...
[ Every assumption he made about Kavinsky, about his contract with Tate, it's all - in his head, making him dizzy. He feels like he needs some fresh air. Feels like he needs to slip back in time to a fucking hour ago, when he and Tate were sitting with their legs over the edge of the platform and just - talking. Fuck, no, even that makes him feel sick, now. Tate's been hurt and Derek didn't know. How could he have known? Ghosts leave no marks.
But he can't confront Kavinsky. He knows he can't confront Kavinsky. He - will, in July, when he has Tate signed with him, hidden away in the den where he'll be safe. He can't do a thing before then. Derek shakes his head, laying back down, right on his back. Not all that hard anymore. ]
Fuck. I - okay. I won't talk to him. Thank you for telling me. This is the shit I need to know.
[ ... but. He turns, again, rolling his skull over the wood. He feels like he's been shocked. Chained to a wall in the Argent's basement and flooded with electricity. Every part of him feels fuzzy and disconnected from itself. Derek wets his lips, stares up at Tate, and - makes the offer he has to make, as his Alpha. As someone supposed to keep him safe. ]
If... if you need... help, with your quota, or... if you're ever - fucked over again, by something like the hotel, or...
[ Or - fuck, who knows what else. Derek shakes his head. Not willing to think about the shit that this city's going to put Tate through. Not on top of everything else. ]
['This is the shit I need to know', Derek says - making Tate wonder if that's for better or for worse. He doesn't think that Derek's angry enough to do anything and could fathom that perhaps he just knows what it'd mean to go after Kavinsky right now - while Tate's his until July. Tate could get folded over easy, blamed for this. That gives Tate a moment of relief, knowing that this could force Derek back. Until July.
He nods his head, acknowledging what's being said and offered. His hand is still on Derek's leg and he shifts his weight forward onto it, like he's grateful for what he's been given. Grateful he's not going to charge into this and blast everything apart, ruining Tate's carefully laid out plans. His life. Strewn between so many people, he can't lose the things that make him happy.]
[ Alpha. His Alpha. Derek looks at Tate long and hard, sitting up straight, posture rigid. His jacket feels a little too hot, and he only feels warmer the more Tate talks. Until you're my dom. He feels dizzy.
He doesn't nod. Doesn't give the go ahead. Not yet. He just - clenches his teeth, feels his heart beat. Still feels like he's recovering from whatever voltage Kate shot through him when she found him. Tate's fingers move closer. Inch by inch. ]
Now?
[ Because... he's not unwilling. He'll never be unwilling, if Tate wants him, not after this. If Tate wants him, then it means he won't want Kavinsky, and if he won't want Kavinsky, it means he won't get hurt. This is just another fucked up rule of the city he has to factor in, another fucking secret he has to bury - self-locking rooms, aphrodisiacs, and now this. Being an Alpha, providing something for his Beta.
Derek looks down, watches Tate's hand climb a little higher. The last, last few granules of his resistance slip from place, and the bulge of his cock thickens behind his jeans, fat and huge and heavy. He swallows, looking at Tate, feeling his mouth dry again. It's not going to help, but he throws back whatever beer is closest, slamming it down once it's been drained empty. His eyes sting a little, but - he feels okay.
Feels like he's doing what he's supposed to. Helping Tate. Ever so fucking gently, he spreads his legs, silently inviting Tate to do whatever it is he wants. ]
[Derek was the one who said no secrets, but Tate can assume this is just - something not meant to be shared, something private and personal. Like how Derek doesn't share things of this nature with Stiles, they don't need to share what they do with anyone. That actually makes Tate a little bit hard to think about, the idea of privacy and something so... intimate that all they need is each other? He's romanticizing it but that's what he does, because Tate can't not go to extremes.
His fingers touch the edge of Derek's cock, trapped under the denim of his jeans and straining there with evident girth. He can't really see it but he feels it, hand moving up still before he makes use of the space growing between Derek's thighs by slipping into it. He doesn't answer the question of whether or not this moment now is the best choice, or needed by Tate, but hopes his actions speak for him. Because Derek needs it and by proxy, so does Tate.
Tate's transported back in time to the orientation, to the night of the party - to any time between or after that when he's looked at Derek and seen not just Derek but the parts that contribute to him. The slope of his shoulders, the chisel of his jaw. The features that Tate's thought about like he's thought about others, with his hand down his pants and a confliction in his head about whether or not it's okay. But now he knows it is.]
Pack privacy.
[He says with the soft start of a smile, hand groping over Derek's cock just long enough to feel it before he shifts gears and goes for the button and zipper. He isn't sure what this means still, if it's doing it for the sake of doing it or because of more - but he doesn't want to lose the chance.]
Let me do this? I want... I want to be the lead, okay? Just relax.
[ Pack privacy sounds - good. Something he needs. Tate might think he's going to extremes, but that romanticized idea of only needing each other, that's what he's always wanted in a pack, that's how he tried to fucking sell it to Tate in the first place. Derek's tense, muscles all taut and tightly knit together, but he's not pulling away from Tate as he advances on him. Just - watching, with dark eyes, unblinking and predatory. Vicious. Hiding the colour of blood behind the false, human screen of hazel. ]
Just us.
[ He's not used to... not taking the lead, but if this is what Tate needs, it's what Derek is obligated to give him. Tate touches his cock and Derek has to bite the inside of his cheek to stop from rolling his hips forward. He pops open his button and starts slowly pulling down his zipper, and Derek feels oddly ashamed of himself, when his dick reacts as strongly as it does. He sucks in air through his teeth and flexes his cock in his jeans, precum sticky and warm against his thigh. It-- kind of hurts, trapped the way it is, too tight in the confines of his clothes to reach full arousal, and he's a little ashamed of how impatient he is for Tate to free it into the night air, too.
He tugs off his jacket, slowly, like he's not sure if he's allowed to get undressed or if that's - wrong, somehow. His sleeves are all bunched up over his shoulders and he doesn't bother pulling them down. Leaning with his hands back against the wood, Derek's breaths are already coming more staggered, more shallow. Already, he feels like he's burning up. ]
Just - don't... don't feel like you have to do this.
["Pack privacy" is gonna get used a lot, Tate thinks, and maybe not just for events like this. It's an easily abuseable way of keeping Derek sworn to secrecy, not that Tate would do so so directly. Tate quietly goes about loosening Derek's jeans, starting to tug them down his hips and he looks up expectantly when he needs Derek to help in arching his back or moving his hips to help facilitate pulling denim down his thighs. All the while he seems calm, dark eyes watchful and thumbs stroking on stretches of skin.
As soon as Tate gets his fingers in the waistband of Derek's boxers, there's no turning back. He pulls them down hard and fast, letting the force of the movement be telling enough for whether or not he feels like doing this. But then, after that, his eyes drop. For the first time he sees Derek's cock and it makes a definite shift of arousal in Tate, who pinches together his lips and swallows hard.]
I want this.
[His voice is quiet, punctuated by the way he reaches out with his hand to lift Derek's cock - marveling at the meaty girth of it in his palm. He shifts forward on his knees, closer to the v of Derek's groin and spends a moment more or less enchanted with his dick. Tate drags his thumb over the stain of precum, swirling it against the head of his cock and every little gesture he does is - slow, but with purpose.
He slickens his hand with the warm sticky precum and starts jerking Derek off in steady pumps.]
Just tell me if I can do something better for you. Tell me what you like.
[ Tate's progressing things here so quickly that Derek feels kind of blindsided by it. He's not-- resistant, but he's hesitant, like he's been thrown into the deep end of a pool he didn't expect to be swimming in. Intimidated though he might be by all this, he's not willing to stop - not when it would mean taking away the safety net he's trying to give Tate. Not when it would mean letting him down as an Alpha.
He's not looking at Tate when he very slowly, very shallowly lifts his hips, allowing him to pull his jeans down and off, and he actually closes his eyes when Tate does the same to his boxers. He opens them again when Tate touches him directly. Tate's hand is cold to the touch, in a way that's-- kind of nice, and Derek's cock twitches with a need for more attention. He's trying to stay still and hold his breath while Tate gets him to relax, but it's not working. He's just getting harder. ]
This isn't... about me.
[ This is about Tate, this is about giving Tate what he likes. Derek holds onto the edge of the platform and turns his legs in a little, then straightens them out, like he doesn't know what to do. His lips are parted and his breath is coming slower, and he's still getting harder, getting bigger, foreskin rolling back from his head with each stroke, each sensitive touch to the tip. Derek breathes in, holds it, and breathes out, and he drags his eyes away from his cock to finally look directly at Tate. ]
But... uh...
[ Derek - hesitates, again, like saying what he might like, or what he might want, would be ultimately selfish. It takes him a second, and he ultimately just... asks for more in the most roundabout way he can. ]
[What does he like? Tate eyes Derek with his hand around his cock like he's given pause by the question, acknowledging that there will be what feels like a constant back and forth tug of war with regards to how they want to do something for one another over serving themselves. Tate's got needs he wants to meet, sure, but the way he lays down his loyalty to people is by doing whatever's necessary to secure it. So this isn't about him, to him, but he can see why Derek needs it to be.
Tate's hand moves slickly up and down Derek's cock, feeling it harden in his grip and wishing he could see better in the dark. Nothing's less sexy than shining a light on someone's dick so - he uses a tactile way of appreciating, swiveling his hand side to side as he pulls from the base of his cock to the tip and plunges back down. He shifts closer still, thighs touching Derek's as he shifts around on his knees - deciding how best to do this while sliding his fingers under Derek's balls, massaging them leisurely.]
What do I like in general, or what would I like to do to you?
[There's an amusement in his voice - like he knows he's circumventing the answer, but that's part of the fun. He slows the way he's pumping Derek's cock, trying to focus in the dark - using both hands to get a better estimate of how big his cock has to be. What little blue light he's got to his advantage doesn't give Tate enough to go off of so - shit, he'll be winging this.]
I like making people happy, hearing them moan. So.
[Tate shifts his knees back and in a rather fluid motion, slips to lay between Derek's legs and get comfortable there. Pumps his cock again, base to tip, before tentatively swiping his tongue up along the underside of it - growing bolder with the second lick, lips touching to the tip before parting to take it into the warmth of his mouth. He's not going to be answering many more questions, Derek, just so you're aware.]
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He leans back, killing the distance and purposely putting his weight up against Derek.]
Don't go anywhere.
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And he doesn't think Tate understands what he's doing, or why this is a problem, but Derek is - warning, more than anything, when he talks again. Stony and sharp, like he's only going to say this once. ]
Tate.
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[Tate's more awake now, blinking back to focus and turning his head to look at Derek in the dark with a narrowed glance that's lost all the fondness of earlier. Like he's getting barked at for no reason, he takes a defensive stance. He pulls away, back forward and onto his forearm before turning over the other way and staring at Derek blearily in the dark - wishing, perhaps, he'd thought to bring any sort of light. He thinks of his phone after a beat, fishing it out of his pocket and shining the light directly in Derek's face.]
What's your problem? You're acting...
[The light illuminates Derek's chest and down, and Tate's eyes drift. So does the light.]
You're getting mad over that?
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[ Just... defensive. The light doesn't help matters, because his eyes were adjusting pretty hard to the darkness, and having a fucking sun shone in his face and blinding the living fuck out of him is only making Derek feel worse. He shifts back another few inches and rubs the corner of his eye with his thumb, pulling down the hem of his jacket, then just - fidgeting with his sleeves. ]
Look - I didn't mean to wake you up, just. Go back to sleep?
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[Defiant, tired, said with another yawn against his hand as he sets his phone down face down between them - letting only a thin line of light out from the edges. He sits up in the dark, aware Derek can see him and maybe it's the buzz still in his head or the weird feeling he's been getting for a while now, but he doesn't want to ignore this. Doesn't want to read too far into it, either, which is why he's contained and thoughtful before he reaches out in the dark to touch his fingers to Derek's hip.]
Deal with it so we can sleep. Is it my fault?
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[ Tate sits up and Derek is feeling more and more cornered, even though this isn't a fucking big deal and doesn't have to fucking be one. He just wanted to shift away and sleep in peace, not get into whatever weird territory they've stumbled into. His neck feels hot and his face feels hotter, and he's still half-hard, stretching down the length of his thigh through the side of his boxers, trapped beneath the denim of his jeans. He's grateful they're back in the dark.
He doesn't want to answer Tate's question, because he knows how he gets about rejection. He's seen him fall apart, seen him get angry, and Derek feels like he's hurt him and ruined so many things for him already, that jumping straight into shooting him down is going to lead to another breakdown, or-- or at least a few tears, followed by a few shouts, followed by Tate running back home to Kavinsky to get high. Tonight was supposed to be a good night. Saying no and ruining that feels just as dangerous as saying yes.
So he just - swallows. He shifts, rolling over, putting his back to Tate. Staying close, but not facing him. If they sleep back to back, then - it's - fine. Doable. Nothing has to break. ]
C'mon. Lay down.
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[Tate's voice is tired, especially when he sees him turn away - it makes him sit there, annoyed and mystified by what's happened and what it means if anything. Derek's told him straight faced before that he doesn't want to fuck him and well, he always felt that was somehow true. But he's seen a few of the looks he's gotten, messages mixed up by the things he's said as well. How teenage Derek would've been all over him, or whatever. Tate rubs at his face and hates that Derek's turned away from him now.
He thinks of him and Stiles, in the precarious situation they got themselves into and how - well, they never look back on that aloud. It never happened, so to speak, but it served a purpose. And he wonders if this is another moment like that, where he's supposed to make a move more strategically than he can think to. Have it all line up.]
Fine.
[Annoyed, Tate slumps back down against the thin layer of the sleeping bag and does what Derek tells him to. He lays down, only he faces Derek and spitefully leans close to take over as big spoon with his arm draped over Derek's side from behind. No groping, no grinding, just Tate pressing his face in against the center of his back and curling in against the broadness of it to soak up the warmth.]
Just saying if you wanna jerk off, you can.
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Tate's voice is right up against his ear, when he tells Derek to jerk off.
Derek swallows. Tate might not be a werewolf yet, but he has to be able to hear how hard Derek's heart is beating in his chest. A rhythmic baseline brought on by the surge of adrenaline released in his body, making the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. Derek's-- obviously not going to jerk off, but he's obviously not going to be able to sleep, either, not like this. Slowly, carefully, he rolls onto his back. He doesn't make an effort to move Tate away, choosing instead to let his arm stay draped over his stomach when he moves, and he stares pointedly up at the stars, barely there behind a thatch of branches and leaves.
His mouth feels dry. He needs another beer. Fuck, he wishes alcohol worked on him. He's not really thinking when he speaks again, still addressing the sky instead of Tate. ]
Saying things like that's just going to make it worse.
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[Tate murmurs like he's talking down to a child, even though he feels - strained to say it against Derek's arm. He shifts back just enough to let Derek roll over when he does, but finds himself staying against him with his arm spitefully still across his midsection despite the way it makes Tate's heart beat a little... strangely for a second. It's just, weird, okay? Not exciting, not arousing, just... different.]
Would you rather lay here with it?
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[ He can't. Shouldn't. He sounds more tired, than anything else. It's kind of frustrating - he's surrounded by aphrodisiacs and drugs and leather and whips and chains every fucking day of his life, but it's this that turns awkward. This is why he doesn't have a fucking pack. Or - okay - not specifically because he always ends up with incomprehensibly inappropriate hardons, but. Because things always go wrong.
Tonight was supposed to be easy. Derek sits up, still not forcing Tate away from him, and he reaches for another beer, cracking open his third. He takes a swig, arches his neck back when he swallows, adam's apple bobbing. He wipes his lips on the back of his mouth, then slowly tilts his head towards Tate. ]
How is this not weird to you?
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[Tate's brows knit together, the words there are other options on his lips but Derek sits up and Tate just lays next to him staring up at him like the tired sack of half-drunk shit he is. Takes a moment of watching Derek drink, seeing only the illuminated outlines of his features, before Tate struggles to right himself and sit up. He's still close, knee to thigh, legs warm and up against one another. Derek's always warm, he's noticed, and that seems in line with the canine feature.]
If it was because I was doing something to make you hot, it's one thing. But this is just - sort of something else, right? This happened to me before, here. Maybe a little different, but we dealt with it and kept on moving.
[Details do not need to be shared.]
If you let me help you, it even counts as quota.
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No.
[ Or maybe that's a shitty and judgmental thing to think about a seventeen year old dead kid who clearly just wants to be loved and to feel alive. Maybe he's being an asshole. Again. The no just hangs there in the air, seemingly without any real context. Derek lifts his leg a little, his cock flexing against his thigh, lightly appreciative of the friction. He takes a breath, staring back up at nothing. ]
I mean - it's not... anything like that. [ Drugs. Aphrodisiacs. Whatever. ] And I don't need you to... to help me, with my quota, or-- or anything like that. That's not what we are.
[ Derek helps. Derek doesn't get help. Not from Tate. Not if he can help it. Least of all over something like this. ]
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[Tate's prompted to say it just to be contrary, not sure how he likes how Derek stares up at anything but him. He wants him to look at him, he wants his attention just like he wants his approval. He reaches to play his fingers over Derek's thigh, palm feeling the warmth through the denim and he doesn't do much more than that. Doesn't push, doesn't slide his hand or squeeze it. He just lets it sit.
Truth be told, Tate hasn't had any problems getting quota on his own. With his fling with Peter, his new contract with Kavinsky and the other events sprinkled in? He meets it, and then some. But if Derek won't let him help him for his sake, he feels justified in turning it around and trying to play it this way, too. But of course, part of him still wants to prove a point wrong. That point being that Derek once rebuffed him. Several times rebuffed him.
He shifts closer, leaning in.]
I've got you and you've got me. We're going to be pack - so trust me?
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[ Wait, hold on. This is moving - very fast, and Derek's not sure how they got on this road together. There's a hand on his jeans right beneath the head of his cock, there's a quiet whisper in his ear, there's a promise of trust and pack and being a good Alpha, doing something for his beta that he needs, but -
But he doesn't need this. He can't need this. If Tate needed help with this, Derek would have known about it sooner. Right? Granted, they've only recently begun talking about the things LIES makes them do, but - but he had to have known. Cautiously, Derek puts a voice to the question, heart stuck in his throat. ]
Wait - do you - do you have trouble meeting your quota? I mean.
[ As far as he knows - Peter's the only person he's really hooked up with, other than a few strangers here and there, and Derek gets it, if things are slowing down between them now that there are feelings. He'd... been assuming that Tate's been fucking around with Kavinsky, or that there'd been some bartering system in place between them for drugs, or-- or even that Kavinsky took advantage of Tate when he was drunk or fucked up like at that party, and-- and if that's not the case, then-- what else has he been wrong about? Derek feels guilt squeeze in his chest. Seconds ago, he was assuming that Tate got around in this place, but fuck, what if he was wrong about that, too? Why does he keep assuming the worst about Tate and the people he surrounds himself with?
Derek just - carefully puts a hand on Tate's arm, stopping him from moving his hand any higher. He looks at him, directly in the eye. ]
Do you and Kavinsky not...?
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[Tate doesn't like this because it feels like a bear trap ready to snag him if he treads on it. He drops his gaze for a moment, trying to pull together his answer. All he ever has to do is part his lips or his legs and Kavinsky will make him come, but it often feels like a pack of matches waiting to be struck with him in the same breath. He could've broken his nose in the hotel with how hard Kavinsky knocked him into the wall and he remembers his first time, pained but under aphro, receiving from Kavinsky who seemed overjoyed to have the opportunity.
There's clear confliction in Tate's eyes, when he looks back up to Derek and stares into his like he's searching for something to hold on to. He doesn't have trouble meeting quota and he and Kavinsky very much do - but.]
It's never a sure thing, with him. And... If I'm going to try and live cleaner, I mean. That's also a big part of it. I don't know if I've ever done anything with him sober. So...
[All the better to do it with someone safer, right? Does that work?]
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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?
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But if anyone looked at the way he did things with Kavinsky, they'd see how fucked up it was. How it is. How he was held down the first time they fucked, how aphros and drugs were the reason they bounced off each other to begin with. Tate was out of his head at the party when he was coerced down onto his knees for the first time - and it won't be the last. He can live with that, he makes it work. Kavinsky, despite the hurt and harm, also gives him the attention he thirsts for. An out for the violence he can't express any other way.
It's evident by Tate's expression that he's struggling to find words. Struggling to admit, maybe because he's afraid of what'll happen. Last thing he needs is Derek crossing paths with Kavinsky, threatening to fuck him up.]
... Define hurt.
[Is it being tackled into a wall, choked or restrained?]
I - Derek, it's...
[Complicated.]
Nothing I can't handle.
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He knew since the hotel. Knew since the party, maybe, that there was someone in Tate's life who would - ruin him. Attempt to, at least. That's what people do - they ruin, they burn, they shatter. They fucking hurt. Derek's still, for a second, staring at Tate with every nerve in his body standing to attention. He feels this sick, rancid bile boiling in in his stomach, his throat, and he sees Kate. He sees the worst of her. ]
Tate...
[ Every assumption he made about Kavinsky, about his contract with Tate, it's all - in his head, making him dizzy. He feels like he needs some fresh air. Feels like he needs to slip back in time to a fucking hour ago, when he and Tate were sitting with their legs over the edge of the platform and just - talking. Fuck, no, even that makes him feel sick, now. Tate's been hurt and Derek didn't know. How could he have known? Ghosts leave no marks.
But he can't confront Kavinsky. He knows he can't confront Kavinsky. He - will, in July, when he has Tate signed with him, hidden away in the den where he'll be safe. He can't do a thing before then. Derek shakes his head, laying back down, right on his back. Not all that hard anymore. ]
Fuck. I - okay. I won't talk to him. Thank you for telling me. This is the shit I need to know.
[ ... but. He turns, again, rolling his skull over the wood. He feels like he's been shocked. Chained to a wall in the Argent's basement and flooded with electricity. Every part of him feels fuzzy and disconnected from itself. Derek wets his lips, stares up at Tate, and - makes the offer he has to make, as his Alpha. As someone supposed to keep him safe. ]
If... if you need... help, with your quota, or... if you're ever - fucked over again, by something like the hotel, or...
[ Or - fuck, who knows what else. Derek shakes his head. Not willing to think about the shit that this city's going to put Tate through. Not on top of everything else. ]
Just - it's - I can do that. If you need me.
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He nods his head, acknowledging what's being said and offered. His hand is still on Derek's leg and he shifts his weight forward onto it, like he's grateful for what he's been given. Grateful he's not going to charge into this and blast everything apart, ruining Tate's carefully laid out plans. His life. Strewn between so many people, he can't lose the things that make him happy.]
You're my alpha, and that's... all I need.
[Solidarity.]
At least until you're my dom. And then I'm whatever you need, too.
[His hand slides upward, ever so gently. Ever so light.]
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He doesn't nod. Doesn't give the go ahead. Not yet. He just - clenches his teeth, feels his heart beat. Still feels like he's recovering from whatever voltage Kate shot through him when she found him. Tate's fingers move closer. Inch by inch. ]
Now?
[ Because... he's not unwilling. He'll never be unwilling, if Tate wants him, not after this. If Tate wants him, then it means he won't want Kavinsky, and if he won't want Kavinsky, it means he won't get hurt. This is just another fucked up rule of the city he has to factor in, another fucking secret he has to bury - self-locking rooms, aphrodisiacs, and now this. Being an Alpha, providing something for his Beta.
Derek looks down, watches Tate's hand climb a little higher. The last, last few granules of his resistance slip from place, and the bulge of his cock thickens behind his jeans, fat and huge and heavy. He swallows, looking at Tate, feeling his mouth dry again. It's not going to help, but he throws back whatever beer is closest, slamming it down once it's been drained empty. His eyes sting a little, but - he feels okay.
Feels like he's doing what he's supposed to. Helping Tate. Ever so fucking gently, he spreads his legs, silently inviting Tate to do whatever it is he wants. ]
Nobody can know about this.
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[Derek was the one who said no secrets, but Tate can assume this is just - something not meant to be shared, something private and personal. Like how Derek doesn't share things of this nature with Stiles, they don't need to share what they do with anyone. That actually makes Tate a little bit hard to think about, the idea of privacy and something so... intimate that all they need is each other? He's romanticizing it but that's what he does, because Tate can't not go to extremes.
His fingers touch the edge of Derek's cock, trapped under the denim of his jeans and straining there with evident girth. He can't really see it but he feels it, hand moving up still before he makes use of the space growing between Derek's thighs by slipping into it. He doesn't answer the question of whether or not this moment now is the best choice, or needed by Tate, but hopes his actions speak for him. Because Derek needs it and by proxy, so does Tate.
Tate's transported back in time to the orientation, to the night of the party - to any time between or after that when he's looked at Derek and seen not just Derek but the parts that contribute to him. The slope of his shoulders, the chisel of his jaw. The features that Tate's thought about like he's thought about others, with his hand down his pants and a confliction in his head about whether or not it's okay. But now he knows it is.]
Pack privacy.
[He says with the soft start of a smile, hand groping over Derek's cock just long enough to feel it before he shifts gears and goes for the button and zipper. He isn't sure what this means still, if it's doing it for the sake of doing it or because of more - but he doesn't want to lose the chance.]
Let me do this? I want... I want to be the lead, okay? Just relax.
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Just us.
[ He's not used to... not taking the lead, but if this is what Tate needs, it's what Derek is obligated to give him. Tate touches his cock and Derek has to bite the inside of his cheek to stop from rolling his hips forward. He pops open his button and starts slowly pulling down his zipper, and Derek feels oddly ashamed of himself, when his dick reacts as strongly as it does. He sucks in air through his teeth and flexes his cock in his jeans, precum sticky and warm against his thigh. It-- kind of hurts, trapped the way it is, too tight in the confines of his clothes to reach full arousal, and he's a little ashamed of how impatient he is for Tate to free it into the night air, too.
He tugs off his jacket, slowly, like he's not sure if he's allowed to get undressed or if that's - wrong, somehow. His sleeves are all bunched up over his shoulders and he doesn't bother pulling them down. Leaning with his hands back against the wood, Derek's breaths are already coming more staggered, more shallow. Already, he feels like he's burning up. ]
Just - don't... don't feel like you have to do this.
[ Maybe a little too late to make that protest. ]
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As soon as Tate gets his fingers in the waistband of Derek's boxers, there's no turning back. He pulls them down hard and fast, letting the force of the movement be telling enough for whether or not he feels like doing this. But then, after that, his eyes drop. For the first time he sees Derek's cock and it makes a definite shift of arousal in Tate, who pinches together his lips and swallows hard.]
I want this.
[His voice is quiet, punctuated by the way he reaches out with his hand to lift Derek's cock - marveling at the meaty girth of it in his palm. He shifts forward on his knees, closer to the v of Derek's groin and spends a moment more or less enchanted with his dick. Tate drags his thumb over the stain of precum, swirling it against the head of his cock and every little gesture he does is - slow, but with purpose.
He slickens his hand with the warm sticky precum and starts jerking Derek off in steady pumps.]
Just tell me if I can do something better for you. Tell me what you like.
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He's not looking at Tate when he very slowly, very shallowly lifts his hips, allowing him to pull his jeans down and off, and he actually closes his eyes when Tate does the same to his boxers. He opens them again when Tate touches him directly. Tate's hand is cold to the touch, in a way that's-- kind of nice, and Derek's cock twitches with a need for more attention. He's trying to stay still and hold his breath while Tate gets him to relax, but it's not working. He's just getting harder. ]
This isn't... about me.
[ This is about Tate, this is about giving Tate what he likes. Derek holds onto the edge of the platform and turns his legs in a little, then straightens them out, like he doesn't know what to do. His lips are parted and his breath is coming slower, and he's still getting harder, getting bigger, foreskin rolling back from his head with each stroke, each sensitive touch to the tip. Derek breathes in, holds it, and breathes out, and he drags his eyes away from his cock to finally look directly at Tate. ]
But... uh...
[ Derek - hesitates, again, like saying what he might like, or what he might want, would be ultimately selfish. It takes him a second, and he ultimately just... asks for more in the most roundabout way he can. ]
What do you like?
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Tate's hand moves slickly up and down Derek's cock, feeling it harden in his grip and wishing he could see better in the dark. Nothing's less sexy than shining a light on someone's dick so - he uses a tactile way of appreciating, swiveling his hand side to side as he pulls from the base of his cock to the tip and plunges back down. He shifts closer still, thighs touching Derek's as he shifts around on his knees - deciding how best to do this while sliding his fingers under Derek's balls, massaging them leisurely.]
What do I like in general, or what would I like to do to you?
[There's an amusement in his voice - like he knows he's circumventing the answer, but that's part of the fun. He slows the way he's pumping Derek's cock, trying to focus in the dark - using both hands to get a better estimate of how big his cock has to be. What little blue light he's got to his advantage doesn't give Tate enough to go off of so - shit, he'll be winging this.]
I like making people happy, hearing them moan. So.
[Tate shifts his knees back and in a rather fluid motion, slips to lay between Derek's legs and get comfortable there. Pumps his cock again, base to tip, before tentatively swiping his tongue up along the underside of it - growing bolder with the second lick, lips touching to the tip before parting to take it into the warmth of his mouth. He's not going to be answering many more questions, Derek, just so you're aware.]
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