[ 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.]
[ Tate's turning this around on him. What would I like to do to you. Derek swallows, still running too warm, even with his jacket behind him. He pushes himself up higher on his forearms, bridging more of the distance between himself and what's being done to him.
Derek's always been contradictory - he wants nothing more than to take care of people, to protect them and to satisfy them and to make them happy, but - he's demanding, and he can be selfish, and the needs he has, the needs he wants to be met, he always feels them at eleven. He wants to fuck and take and win, he wants to come and be serviced and stay in control. He wants to be dominant, an apex predator, he wants to be wanted.
Right now, Tate's playing with both of those fires. What would I like to do to you - he's fixated on that. It's going straight to his cock. ]
Fuck.
[ Try as he might to seem as unemotionally, clinically neutral as he can about all of this, his body's betraying him. He gets to full hardness pretty fucking quickly once he's playing with his balls, another thread of precum running down his shaft to meet Tate's tongue as it swipes over the underside of it, and while he might not be able to see him in the dark, it's hard to miss how gifted he's been. He's a two-hand job. Derek's stomach flips when Tate shifts in closer, and - and he knows what's about to happen before it happens, but when Tate seals him in the tight, wet warmth of his mouth, Derek feels like he's been punched in the stomach.
Fuck. Fuck. Derek spreads his legs wider, keeping his eyes open even as they start to sting. Nervously, he slips his fingers back through Tate's hair. He doesn't... do anything, he just holds his hand there. Silent, inactive encouragement. ]
[Tate may have underestimated how slack his jaw needs to be for this, and after the head of Derek's cock slips past his lips he has to relax himself not to lock up around it. His lips drag, tongue flush to the warmth of Derek's shaft as Tate tries to move forward on it - one hand firmly at the base and the other curled beneath that to hold his sack. His fingers fondle it, trying to be good - trying to apply the few things he knows works on other people to Derek, even if he's still clumsy with execution.
Derek, however, is bigger than the - two? two whole dicks Tate's seen, held and sucked. Not just in length but in girth, and it's definitely wrenching his plans to be show how good of a dick sucking slut he is when he's only got the head past his lips and already feels his tongue pinned down. Deep breath in and Tate forces himself to move, slipping one hand onto Derek's thigh to hold on as he bobs forward. He gets notably more enthused when he feels fingers in his hair, reminiscent of what he asked Derek to do mere moments ago.
The tip of Derek's cock starts going far enough back in his throat to make Tate's gag reflex begin to tingle, and he balls his hand into a fist and squeezes on his thumb to gently abate it. His other hand firmly holds Derek's cock, pumping what's left unsucked, in line with how he's bobbing and nursing at the other half. Is it even half? Tate can't tell, his eyes are closed and he's breathing hard through flared nostrils.
Finally, his eyes open, and he tries to look up at Derek - to catch any glimpse of him, through the veil of his hair in his eyes. Looking for more of the reassurance he can feel, and to see whether or not it's okay that he can't exactly deepthroat him the way he wanted to. To make amends, Tate pulls off and then sticks tow of his fingers into his mouth to wet them.]
I can do what I want, right?
[His voice is hoarse after he pulls off his fingers with a wet pop, fingers slick with a heavy coating of spit. Regardless of what Derek says, Tate's back on his cock. All his response affects is whether or not Tate's wet fingers can slip up between Derek's legs to probe at his hole.]
[ It's difficult for Derek to let himself relax. It's always hard for Derek to let himself relax, they just fucking talked about that, but here and now, especially, there's so much on his mind. Seperating himself from worries about Kavinsky, worries about Tate's quota, worries about whether or not he's doing the right thing as an Alpha, worries about everything, feels like an impossible task.
But he's still hard. He's still reacting to every exploratory touch of Tate's tongue, every gentle squeeze of tight, wet pressure, with pure, unfiltered interest. His cock flexes again, dripping precum on Tate's tongue, and his balls pull a little tighter to his body. Tate's clumsy and eager and that's-- honestly part of what's wearing Derek down, making him want more, making all of this feel even better. He won't admit that he likes this - but Tate's trying for him. Being good. Derek fucking loves that feeling.
And then Tate goes further, takes more of him in, and if he's not halfway down, he's at least close. Derek feels a jolt of worry as he watches him take more and more of his cock down his throat, and the part of him that's still thinking clearly wants to tell him to back off in case he hurts himself, or-- can't handle it, or something, but a more selfish side of him, a more primal, wants to see what Tate can do. Wants to see what he's learned, since coming here.
Like a lot of things Derek's been thinking tonight - maybe that's fucked up, too.
He's glassy eyed and out of it while he watches Tate work, and it takes a second for him to realize he's asked him a question once he's pulled off. Everything catches up to him at once, even as his cock flexes in Tate's hand and silently begs for his mouth again, and he realizes that Tate's asking for permission. Reassurance. Fuck, that's almost enough to make Derek come. He takes a breath, holds it in his chest, and trails his eyes down to Tate's slick, wet fingers.
Derek nods. Derek would nod, no matter what Tate asked, but he nods for this because he wants it. He curls his fingers through Tate's hair and smooths his fringe away from his eyes, wanting to see them, wanting the intimacy of eye contact. He's still stroking through his hair, languid and soothing and not half as rough or as demanding as his instincts tell him to be, when Tate dips back down onto his cock. His fingers press against his hole and Derek tenses, and he's tight, because - he might not be a virgin, but he's only ever done this once or twice. He reacts like it's something new, drawing his knees up a few centimeteres and holding his breath. ]
Do you... uh.
[ This isn't an offer for more. He doesn't think it's an offer for more, but - maybe it is. If it's an offer for more, it's - an offer disguised as clarification. ]
[Tate's tongue swirls around Derek's cock with more ease the farther off of it he is, jaw a bit sore already but his lips wet with spit that streaks down his chin as he laps at the head of Derek's dick before sucking it again. His fingers find a similar rhythm of rubbing small circles around the tight ring of Derek's ass, fingering his hole with his middle finger and slowly applying a pressure against it - deliberately slow - to penetrate.
'What do you want to do', Derek asks him and Tate's still hung up on the three words before it. Do you... uh. He's not sure if that's an invite, an offer, a clarification that there's more on the table than he's asking for but Tate's alight with the possibility. He doesn't yet act on it because he's engrossed in what he's started out with but... the idea, it's seeded in his brain and as he looks up at Derek with his lips tight to his cock head, Tate's eyes are wide and thoughtful. He stares, keeping eye contact as his cheeks hollow and a lewd pop follows the next pull of his mouth off his dick.]
This.
[All he says before he's got another mouthful of dick, pushing forward until the bulk of it is against his tongue and in that same sweet moment he applies pressure to his fingertip to press it into Derek through any resulting turns of his hips. He almost bobs too far forward, pulling back when he starts to feel like he's about to retch, but continues - working forward and back with a sloppiness that suits him oddly enough. It's lewd, the noises he makes and the way he pushes himself forward and itches to peel off his shirt and feel the breeze. It's suddenly a lot warmer up here than a moment ago, and unlike Derek he's still cloaked in layers with his cock straining against his jeans.
'Do you... uh.' Fucking bastard, putting the thought in his head.]
[ 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. ]
[Tate likes the way Derek sounds when he's pleased, when he's being pleasured - that low rumbling groan that makes Tate's ears buzz to hear it. He's busy with his mouth full, sucking and swirling his tongue in repetitive tracks against the warmth of his cock before he hears Derek's voice sound strained in the air between them. He looks up, peels back, chin damp and rubbed clean against his shoulder while he looks at Derek and how he's sprawled out.
God, just having one finger in him feels - exciting. The tightness, the friction, the heat of him cinched around him... just makes Tate want to fuck him harder, faster and with something a lot different than the crooked knuckle of his middle finger. He presses in deeper, pulling out slow while he catches a breath and looks at Derek with his other hand still pumping at the base of his cock.]
I... I want to. Will you help me?
[Tate doesn't think - doesn't know that he can but he's still willing to try. And by having Derek help he means something very specific, which he's not sure he'd oblige. So he has to think for a moment more, finger plunging back into Derek and burying past the second knuckle. He exhales hard and then licks at his lip.]
Don't let me stop. Not until I do it, or you come, okay? Can you... Are you okay with that? Forcing me, if I ask you to? To help me along.
[ Derek's not prepared for Tate to press in deeper. He hisses, but he loves it, his eyelids fluttering and his jaw dropping open, and Derek never really thought of himself as-- as a bottom, but the more time he's spent here, the more he's explored, the more he's starting to wonder if that's worth challenging. His legs actually tremble a little, he sees fireworks behind his eyes, and he'll realize, later, when he sees four indented, parallel scratches in the wood, that his claws came out for a second as he scrambled to hold on and tense up.
Tate takes his mouth off his cock and Derek knew he was going to, because he asked him a fucking question, but he still makes this noise that's caught between a whimper and a threatening, knee-jerk growl, like he's angry at him for stopping. He digs his canine into his bottom lip until it feels like it's going to break blood, and he drifts away from touching Tate and looking at Tate to just grip the floor with both hands again, watching his hand glide up and down his cock.
Will you help me. Derek's nodding before Tate finishes the question, then rapidly shaking his head when he gets a hold of himself. He can't. He can't force Tate to do anything. The thought of it's killing him, and he strains even harder in Tate's hand, pressing his ass against his finger for more once it's taken away from him, but-- but he can't. ]
I don't--
[ He stops moving, like he's suddenly catching himself getting eager, getting horny. He tenses up, tight and vice-like around Tate's finger when Tate finally gives it back, gasping a little at how sudden it is, but-- but still wanting more. One finger isn't enough. ]
I don't-- I don't think so. I don't want to hurt you.
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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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Derek's always been contradictory - he wants nothing more than to take care of people, to protect them and to satisfy them and to make them happy, but - he's demanding, and he can be selfish, and the needs he has, the needs he wants to be met, he always feels them at eleven. He wants to fuck and take and win, he wants to come and be serviced and stay in control. He wants to be dominant, an apex predator, he wants to be wanted.
Right now, Tate's playing with both of those fires. What would I like to do to you - he's fixated on that. It's going straight to his cock. ]
Fuck.
[ Try as he might to seem as unemotionally, clinically neutral as he can about all of this, his body's betraying him. He gets to full hardness pretty fucking quickly once he's playing with his balls, another thread of precum running down his shaft to meet Tate's tongue as it swipes over the underside of it, and while he might not be able to see him in the dark, it's hard to miss how gifted he's been. He's a two-hand job. Derek's stomach flips when Tate shifts in closer, and - and he knows what's about to happen before it happens, but when Tate seals him in the tight, wet warmth of his mouth, Derek feels like he's been punched in the stomach.
Fuck. Fuck. Derek spreads his legs wider, keeping his eyes open even as they start to sting. Nervously, he slips his fingers back through Tate's hair. He doesn't... do anything, he just holds his hand there. Silent, inactive encouragement. ]
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Derek, however, is bigger than the - two? two whole dicks Tate's seen, held and sucked. Not just in length but in girth, and it's definitely wrenching his plans to be show how good of a dick sucking slut he is when he's only got the head past his lips and already feels his tongue pinned down. Deep breath in and Tate forces himself to move, slipping one hand onto Derek's thigh to hold on as he bobs forward. He gets notably more enthused when he feels fingers in his hair, reminiscent of what he asked Derek to do mere moments ago.
The tip of Derek's cock starts going far enough back in his throat to make Tate's gag reflex begin to tingle, and he balls his hand into a fist and squeezes on his thumb to gently abate it. His other hand firmly holds Derek's cock, pumping what's left unsucked, in line with how he's bobbing and nursing at the other half. Is it even half? Tate can't tell, his eyes are closed and he's breathing hard through flared nostrils.
Finally, his eyes open, and he tries to look up at Derek - to catch any glimpse of him, through the veil of his hair in his eyes. Looking for more of the reassurance he can feel, and to see whether or not it's okay that he can't exactly deepthroat him the way he wanted to. To make amends, Tate pulls off and then sticks tow of his fingers into his mouth to wet them.]
I can do what I want, right?
[His voice is hoarse after he pulls off his fingers with a wet pop, fingers slick with a heavy coating of spit. Regardless of what Derek says, Tate's back on his cock. All his response affects is whether or not Tate's wet fingers can slip up between Derek's legs to probe at his hole.]
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But he's still hard. He's still reacting to every exploratory touch of Tate's tongue, every gentle squeeze of tight, wet pressure, with pure, unfiltered interest. His cock flexes again, dripping precum on Tate's tongue, and his balls pull a little tighter to his body. Tate's clumsy and eager and that's-- honestly part of what's wearing Derek down, making him want more, making all of this feel even better. He won't admit that he likes this - but Tate's trying for him. Being good. Derek fucking loves that feeling.
And then Tate goes further, takes more of him in, and if he's not halfway down, he's at least close. Derek feels a jolt of worry as he watches him take more and more of his cock down his throat, and the part of him that's still thinking clearly wants to tell him to back off in case he hurts himself, or-- can't handle it, or something, but a more selfish side of him, a more primal, wants to see what Tate can do. Wants to see what he's learned, since coming here.
Like a lot of things Derek's been thinking tonight - maybe that's fucked up, too.
He's glassy eyed and out of it while he watches Tate work, and it takes a second for him to realize he's asked him a question once he's pulled off. Everything catches up to him at once, even as his cock flexes in Tate's hand and silently begs for his mouth again, and he realizes that Tate's asking for permission. Reassurance. Fuck, that's almost enough to make Derek come. He takes a breath, holds it in his chest, and trails his eyes down to Tate's slick, wet fingers.
Derek nods. Derek would nod, no matter what Tate asked, but he nods for this because he wants it. He curls his fingers through Tate's hair and smooths his fringe away from his eyes, wanting to see them, wanting the intimacy of eye contact. He's still stroking through his hair, languid and soothing and not half as rough or as demanding as his instincts tell him to be, when Tate dips back down onto his cock. His fingers press against his hole and Derek tenses, and he's tight, because - he might not be a virgin, but he's only ever done this once or twice. He reacts like it's something new, drawing his knees up a few centimeteres and holding his breath. ]
Do you... uh.
[ This isn't an offer for more. He doesn't think it's an offer for more, but - maybe it is. If it's an offer for more, it's - an offer disguised as clarification. ]
... What do you want to do?
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'What do you want to do', Derek asks him and Tate's still hung up on the three words before it. Do you... uh. He's not sure if that's an invite, an offer, a clarification that there's more on the table than he's asking for but Tate's alight with the possibility. He doesn't yet act on it because he's engrossed in what he's started out with but... the idea, it's seeded in his brain and as he looks up at Derek with his lips tight to his cock head, Tate's eyes are wide and thoughtful. He stares, keeping eye contact as his cheeks hollow and a lewd pop follows the next pull of his mouth off his dick.]
This.
[All he says before he's got another mouthful of dick, pushing forward until the bulk of it is against his tongue and in that same sweet moment he applies pressure to his fingertip to press it into Derek through any resulting turns of his hips. He almost bobs too far forward, pulling back when he starts to feel like he's about to retch, but continues - working forward and back with a sloppiness that suits him oddly enough. It's lewd, the noises he makes and the way he pushes himself forward and itches to peel off his shirt and feel the breeze. It's suddenly a lot warmer up here than a moment ago, and unlike Derek he's still cloaked in layers with his cock straining against his jeans.
'Do you... uh.' Fucking bastard, putting the thought in his head.]
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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?
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God, just having one finger in him feels - exciting. The tightness, the friction, the heat of him cinched around him... just makes Tate want to fuck him harder, faster and with something a lot different than the crooked knuckle of his middle finger. He presses in deeper, pulling out slow while he catches a breath and looks at Derek with his other hand still pumping at the base of his cock.]
I... I want to. Will you help me?
[Tate doesn't think - doesn't know that he can but he's still willing to try. And by having Derek help he means something very specific, which he's not sure he'd oblige. So he has to think for a moment more, finger plunging back into Derek and burying past the second knuckle. He exhales hard and then licks at his lip.]
Don't let me stop. Not until I do it, or you come, okay? Can you... Are you okay with that? Forcing me, if I ask you to? To help me along.
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Tate takes his mouth off his cock and Derek knew he was going to, because he asked him a fucking question, but he still makes this noise that's caught between a whimper and a threatening, knee-jerk growl, like he's angry at him for stopping. He digs his canine into his bottom lip until it feels like it's going to break blood, and he drifts away from touching Tate and looking at Tate to just grip the floor with both hands again, watching his hand glide up and down his cock.
Will you help me. Derek's nodding before Tate finishes the question, then rapidly shaking his head when he gets a hold of himself. He can't. He can't force Tate to do anything. The thought of it's killing him, and he strains even harder in Tate's hand, pressing his ass against his finger for more once it's taken away from him, but-- but he can't. ]
I don't--
[ He stops moving, like he's suddenly catching himself getting eager, getting horny. He tenses up, tight and vice-like around Tate's finger when Tate finally gives it back, gasping a little at how sudden it is, but-- but still wanting more. One finger isn't enough. ]
I don't-- I don't think so. I don't want to hurt you.
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