[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.
[Tate doesn't mean to feel frustrated by Derek's rebuffing of the idea, just like how he didn't mean to feel annoyed when Peter showed hesitance when they screwed around when it came to putting his hands around his neck. He didn't want to hurt him, didn't want to do too much despite the fact Tate told him it was fine. This is fine. Just like he can get Peter to come around, he can get Derek. It's just a loop he hates to have to jump through.
In what could be perceived as the only punishment for making him do that jump, Tate slowly withdraws his finger from Derek to leave him empty and wanting. It'll make him hornier to fuck him, he rationalizes, teasing the flat of his tongue against Derek's cock before gripping it by the base in a few steady pumps. He doesn't know if he can do it all but he's now more than determined to try.]
You won't hurt me. This is what I want, so... just help me do this.
[Without anything else to say, Tate swirls his tongue around Derek's cock again and then bobs forward. He starts by working the tip again, getting it slick with spit and letting it run down the sides of Derek's dick, swirled together with the taste of precum on his tongue. It's lewd and disorganized, how he hunches his back and starts to get to work, pushing ever forward, perhaps faster than he should. He starts to gag and pulls back, only to breath in sharply and go again.]
[ Fuck, the last thing Derek wants is for Tate to feel-- dissatisfied. Maybe it's the chemosignals, maybe it's just that he knows him now, but there's this acrid feeling of letting Tate down swimming in the air that works its way into Derek's lungs and doesn't let go. He looks down at him, willpower fading. He's scared of what would happen, if he let Tate leave here wanting. Worried who he'd end up with to satisfy Tate's need to be treated like shit. He can't let Tate go, can't put him with someone dangerous. That's the justification he has in his head to allow himself to be a bad alpha.
Tate takes his finger away and Derek's resistance fucking crumbles. His brows pinch, and he feels empty, sighing in frustration. Between that and the attention to his cock, it's - a lot. Too much. Derek's so much more needy than most, more desperate, more eager, more sensitive, when it comes to sex. Easily manipulated. Easy to shape. ]
I really... I really want to. You have no idea how badly I want to.
[ Derek's voice is coming out hard, padded with labored breathing. Tate's pushing forward, ignoring any of Derek's concerns, sloppy and wet and keeping Derek overwhelmed and overloaded. Cautiously, Derek sets his hand on the back of Tate's head, and he doesn't push, not yet. He feels like there's precautions that need to be taken, feels like he needs to tell Tate to say poptart if things get too rough, or something, but -
Precautions only seem to piss Tate off. Derek bites his worries down. Steadily, he adds pressure on the back of Tate's skull when he starts to pull back, not letting him come up for air. He raises his hips, just a little, sliding the tip of his cock to the back of Tate's throat again. He swallows, curls his fingers in Tate's hair tighter than before, and starts slowly, slowly moving him down his length. ]
Fuck. Fuck, just-- commit to this. If-- if you commit, so will I.
[Derek's telling him he'll commit if he does and Tate, whose jaw is aching around Derek's cock, would have something just slightly scathing to say about how one of them is already committed here but doesn't have the means to say it. He just focuses on breathing in through his nose, feeling inch after inch of Derek's cock rock back and forth against his tongue as he tries and tries again to move forward on it.
Tate's stomach tenses when Derek's fingers slip against his scalp, a feeling that's bitter sweet with how good it feels triggering Tate's comforted response before the cinching of Derek's grip reminds Tate why he's doing it. Tate doesn't struggle against the way Derek's guiding him down, not yet, instead he's trying to keep his jaw slack and letting Derek feed more of his length in past his lips with a soft grunt when it starts getting uncomfortable.
God, it isn't even that much before he's made it and yet he keeps stopping just shy of pushing himself to get flush with Derek. He starts to feel the twinge at the back of his throat and pulls back, nails digging half moons into Derek's hip as he clutches to it when he can't move back the way he wants. It sparks a few tears in the inner corners of his eyes but he pushes through, pushes back down despite the twitch in his throat.
Just a little farther. Little more. Then it's - it's done once he does it. He digs his nails into Derek's hip deeper, sliding his hand under his thigh to splay his fingers along it and nudge him into thrusting upward harder, working with Tate to take away the element of apprehension by giving him no choice but to go that extra few inches.]
[ It wasn't meant as a deal so much as it was meant as a promise; that if Tate's trying, then Derek's going to try harder, too. Derek touches Tate's hair with this intimate mix of loving, soothing kindness and firm, guiding aggression, playing with his curls at the same time he tightens his grip to keep him from reeling back to safer ground. ]
Relax your throat. Breathe. Slower. Watch your teeth.
[ Tate's not new to this. Derek knows Tate's not knew to this, but he's seeing it here and now. He's sloppy and close to gagging, spilling thicker, warmer spit down his cock from the back of his throat, so he might not be experienced with stretching his throat as much as Derek's telling him to stretch it now - but he's making enough of a fucking effort for Derek to know he's done this before. That shouldn't make him as hard as it does. That should make him angry. It does make him angry, on some level, but not enough to stop him from moaning like a bitch in heat when Tate starts urging his hips up, right when he's a scant few inches from done.
Derek lays flat, taking his eyes off of Tate. He can't prop himself up on one arm when he has both hands in Tate's hair, and that's what he wants to do now. He arches his back and holds all ten fingers on the sides of Tate's skull, closing his eyes and slowly, slowly, slowly fucking further down Tate's throat, more and more and more. He's whispering to him, voice straining, that's it, that's it, fuck, you're doing so fucking good, quiet words of encouragement and love and praise.
He snaps his hips up at the last inch and forces Tate to gag on his cock, and soon his balls are pressed up against Tate's chin and Tate's nose is buried into his skin. He presses past any resistance Tate gives him and grips him tighter, warningly, almost painfully, if it feels like Tate's going to cough or struggle, and Derek's-- Derek's eyes are rolling into the back of his head as he holds him in place, his mouth is open in a silent moan, and his back is so far off the ground his spine's starting to hurt.
When he moans again, it's-- loud, this hard, echoing half-sob that he doesn't have the willpower to bite back, and his fingers pull Tate's hair without thinking, painful and stinging. He's sweaty and he feels like his legs are cramping from how rigid they are, and he props himself up on one arm again, pulling Tate halfway off his cock with one hard, wrenching tug. ]
[Tate wants to take Derek's words to heart, to really listen and try but this feels even harder than it was to physically train with him in hand to hand fucking combat. He wasn't good at that but - oddly enough, he feels a bit better about this the more he works at it. He might not have the strength to put a bruise on Derek but he can force himself to bruise in order to service him, to hear him moan and writhe with a sense of accomplishment. So he does. He pushes his limits and groans, low and rumbling as he bobs forward and tries not to feel so close to coming from being praised as he is.
If he comes in his pants he'll - well, he'll be pissed off for sure. Luckily distraction comes in the form of a bolt of panic in his chest when he feels Derek's cock forcing its way along his tongue and the thick head of it going far beyond where he was comfortable taking it. He's not stretched or loose, he just feels like he's immediately about to retch soon as he can suck in a breath. Which, of course, won't be soon either.
He can't breathe, can't move, can barely think - he feels how flush he is, nose brushing Derek's skin and the heat of his balls against his chin telling him he did it. The pain at the back of his throat, the feeling of suffocating fullness adds to it - nails dug into his scalp and pulling at his hair sparking tears to fall from the corners of his eyes, wetness sitting in his lashes. He paws at Derek without meaning to, the stress of it making the heels of his palms push against Derek's hips to try and put space between them.
When Derek finally pulls him halfway off after what feels like an eternity, Tate scrambles to pull himself the rest of the way off - coughing, sputtering and gagging against the back of his hand. Hard to gasp for breath when you're trying not to vomit, but he's got this. Got it. Totally fine. Sounds wrecked, even though he's not even done:]
Did it.
[He looks up at Derek, eyes glossy but wide; he's still breathing in short little shudders, eyes stinging but blinking away the tears before he's reaching out again and gripping Derek's cock and trying to bow back down to suck it. Takes a false start, lips grazing before he looks up at Derek.]
Is it enough - Is.
[Hoarse, he has to swallow hard before continuing:]
[ Derek holds Tate down until he's at his breaking point, then holds him down a few seconds longer. His dick's a fucking mess when Tate finally gets a chance to surface - covered in bubbles and spit that make it shine glossy and wet in the dim, outdoor lighting. Tate takes a hard, ragged breath like he's just been drowning, and Derek won't admit to himself that seeing him this wrecked, this fucked up, makes him... proud. Proud of being the biggest Tate's taken, proud of himself for being able to shape Tate into something tear-stained but happy, proud of knowing he's capable of giving Tate something that he needs. Proud of Tate for doing something he clearly wanted to do. Just - proud.
Tate fucking says he did it, and Derek's cock jumps, his expression just - darkening, like it's the hottest thing he's ever heard. He wants more. Derek sits up, leans down, and wipes some of the drool and the precum from the corner of Tate's lip, connected in a thin, transparent string to the head of his cock, and then - impulsively - he pushes his thumb back into Tate's mouth, letting him lick it clean. ]
Yeah.
[ That's enough. He could come. Derek takes his hand back and leans in close, brushing the hair out of Tate's eyes again so he can see him better, wiping away his tears and prettying up his face. He's fucking close, at this point - achingly hard in Tate's hand, getting right up to the edge - so it wouldn't do much for Tate to get him off. But he'd kill, to feel that again. To feel Tate struggle and try and succeed, all for him.
He looks at Tate, leaning back on his forearms, letting his eyes drift a little further down. Thoughtfully, Derek wets his lips, and then - without any warning, he stands up, snapping his fingers at Tate like he's talking to a dog. His legs are surprisingly shaky, and his breath is too ragged to sounds as commanding as he might want to. ]
[Tate stares at Derek like he's some patron saint, lips parting slightly when his thumb swipes over them. He's still got his hand around Derek's cock but doesn't get back down to sucking on it, blinking at Derek instead - throat sore, the urge to gag still tickling his throat, but the second Derek's thumb presses into his mouth he lurches forward to suck on it, hoping that's what he wanted. Sucks it hard, hollowing out his cheeks as his tongue swipes over it and he pulls back with a wet pop.
Derek's so close that for a moment Tate stupidly thinks he's going to kiss him, hand still curled stiffly around his cock but his head upturned to stare into Derek's eyes. He's wiping away the tears that have collected in his lashes and it's such a tender moment in the midst of all the rest that Tate's stomach flexes and his cock throbs in his jeans, making him shift anxiously. More so when he's instructed to lay down.
He's frozen for a second, like it hasn't quite sunk in, but then he blinks and falls into the mode of obedience that often gets him into trouble. The loyal mode of wanting to please someone he admires, someone he wants in his life for his own selfish reasons so badly that he'd do anything they said to. He shifts, rolling onto his back with an uncomfortable hiss as his shoulders lay against the wood and his hips lift. His hands drop to his jeans, fingers on the button.]
I just need to...
[Loosen them, though he'll stop if he's told to - otherwise he'll just unfasten the closure and let the zipper slide open to a soft gasp of relief. His cock's trapped down the leg of his pants, bulge easier to see now that he's tits up and vulnerable. He understands what it's like now, for dogs offering a show of submission. Derek could gut him right now.]
[ Derek wants to do it. That's part of why he's asking Tate to move. Tate said he wanted to take the lead, and - he's done that, for the most part, but this close to the edge, this close to the end, Derek wants to be in control. He wants to-- to forget all the second guessing in his head, all the reasons why Tate's fragile and glass-like and someone that needs to be handled with care. He wants to listen to his dick instead of his head.
Tate obediently lays down and Derek sets both of his knees beside Tate's ears, holding himself up straight. He angles the crown of his cock down to Tate's lips, and he allows him to taste the very, very tip of it, dragging another line of precum over his tongue. He feeds him more, one inch, then two, and then he leans forward to get on all fours, elbows on either side of Tate's waist.
He opens his zipper, batting Tate's hands away if they're still hovering close by, mumbling something sharp and commanding and said with the most loving, attentive voice he has: put your hands on my cock, start stroking, you're gonna have to earn my cum if you want it. He pulls the zipper open but leaves Tate's jeans where they are, allowing him only the bare minimum of relief, and he feels like he's out of his fucking body. Feels like he's seeing through somebody's eyes, like - like it still hasn't fully sunk in that this is Tate, that it's Tate's cock in front of him straining the fabric of his boxers, that it's Tate's cock flexing for attention, leaving a wet spot at his head.
Derek doesn't get Tate's cock out. Doesn't even pretend like he's going to. He steadily, unwaveringly fucks more of his own into Tate's mouth, and - he doesn't think he can deep throat him again, not after how close he came to throwing up the first time he tried, but.
It's what Tate wants. Derek's bottom line with Tate has always been that he deserves to get what he wants.
Derek slides another thick, fat inch into Tate's mouth, talking him through it in hushed, affectionate whispers. Telling him to stretch his jaw, telling him to be a good boy, telling him that he's doing so, so fucking well. He picks up a bit of a rhythm - he fucks into Tate's mouth until he's very, very lightly hitting the back of his throat, like he's trying to test his gag reflex, and then he pulls back, giving him time to rest. In, out, in, out. Slow. For now.
He strokes Tate's dick through his underwear, featherlight and barely there. Tate looks like he doesn't have much left in him to hold back, and Derek doesn't want to make him come before he's ready.
Derek almost asks if Tate's doing okay. He doesn't. ]
[Tate feels almost as if his knuckles have been slapped when Derek tells him to leave his jeans alone, and he does - hands dropping to his sides like a kid who learned young enough that pressing their luck will risk the wrath of a wooden spoon in a drunken mother's hand. He feels uncomfortable solely in the way that his shoulders ache and the floor boards of the platform are unyielding in that regard. He doesn't know what's coming until Derek's knees settle on either side of his head and he breathes in sharp and sudden, like a pang of claustrophobia's just sat itself in his chest.
But he's obedient - if he wants what he wants, he needs to do what he needs to do to get it. And Derek's the one he needs to please, the one he needs to win over and keep close. His alpha, the guy who wants nothing more than to please and take care of him. He needs to keep him close and if that means parting his lips for the return of his cock to his mouth, so be it. Tate's mouth opens and he swallows before he first lets it slide in, adjusting how he's laying and staying calm with slow, deep breaths as Derek's cock eases in.
This is the first time he's been in a position quite like this, and he still feels vulnerable - his toes curl when Derek's opening his jeans and he lets a whimpered, soft moan out against his cock but that's where it ends. Derek doesn't touch him, doesn't pull him out, and Tate's cock twitches with the anticipation that's let out with a sad grazing of his fingers along Derek's ribs.
He moans again, tongue pressing flat in his mouth as he tilts his head and realizes with startling certainty there's no avoiding the feed of Derek's cock - no squirming away, no pulling away. He brings his hands up to the sides of Derek's thighs, nails scratching lightly for a grip before he settles on one hand against it and the other sliding flat along Derek's abdomen in a futile attempt to barrier should he really need him to lay off.
Totally misses his chances when Derek's fondling him through his boxers, making Tate's heels skid against the flooring and his breath come out in shallow heaves through his nose. His voice is a low warble, reverberating through his throat when Derek's thrusting inward, slowly easing to the back of it while Tate's knee starts to quiver and his eyes once again water.
Fuck, though, he can do this. He has to. He sucks on Derek's cock until his cheeks hollow, dragging his lips back down his cock when he lifts it away only to eagerly greet it on the next thrust. He hopes, in some small way, Derek'll reward him with some semblance of touch - but he reminds himself he didn't ask for that. He only asked for this, and that much he needs to readjust to.]
[ The last thing Derek wanted was to make Tate feel vulnerable. Part of seceding control to someone else means trusting them to take care of you, and if Tate doesn't trust him to take care of him, everything they've done - the months they've built together, the promise to start a contract come July, everything - that shit's all for nothing.
But he's too far gone to see that Tate might be... reluctant. He only sees nerves, in the hitch of his breath and the way he squirms to be comfortable, and he's sure that will even out once he - adjusts. The little moans, the way he willingly opens up for Derek, the ghosting of his fingertips down his sides and the inviting, perfect twitch of his cock - so much of what's Tate doing reads as a positive sign, and it's making Derek harder. Hornier. Needier.
He arches his back like a cat, closing his eyes and resting on his arms for a few seconds on the wood next to Tate's knees, feeling Tate bring him closer and closer to the edge. Derek needs a second to calm down. To abate the steady build up of his orgasm that's slowly rising in the base of his stomach, making him tense. He wills himself down and focuses on Tate, pressing his lips to the line of Tate's cock silhouetted by his boxers, squeezing the base of him through his clothes and just - massaging, more than jerking him off. He swipes his tongue across his slit and tastes the bead of precum he gets through the fabric, leaving a bridge of it mingling with his tongue as he moves back.
Tate fucking tries. He sucks on his cock like he's trying to drain it dry, lighting all his nerve endings on fire and making his thrusts come more erratic, a little more frantic - deeper than he means to in one, shallower than he means to in another. Derek's breath is fractured and frantic, and he's starting to lose himself in the moment. Forgetting where he is. Unable to think of anything except for the tight vacuum around his dick, sealing him in and getting him wet. He - can't hold back anymore. ]
Hold onto me.
[ The next thrusts come more stable. Deeper. He drags the length of his cock to the back of Tate's throat, to the very back, and - he keeps going. He gets half of him into Tate before he's worried he'll gag, and then he pulls back, giving him a second to breathe. He waits, dutifully, squeezing his hand tighter around Tate's cock and steadily, slowly beginning to jerk him off through his clothes, and when he feels Tate's ready, he fucks him again. Slow. Deep. Pushing hard, but not unkindly, against any resistance he meets.
Constantly, he tells Tate to breathe, he calms him down, he tells him he's doing so fucking good, he tells him he's perfect, that he's everything, that he's his, that he'll take care of him. He doesn't call himself Tate's Alpha, doesn't tell Tate to serve him. He just tells him he's doing good. Tells him he's fucking fantastic, just as he is.
He sucks the head of Tate's cock through his boxers and starts to worry a little less about how Tate's doing, about whether or not Tate can take it. It takes a bit of work, but he pushes and pushes and pushes his cock down the tight, constricting grip of Tate's throat until he's balls deep, right to the base, and-- fuck, the moans that Derek makes. Loud and echoing, while his legs tremble and his breath is hot against Tate's dick, wet from pre and saliva and barely contained. He moans in a way that's so fucking rare for him outside of the full moon, and when he pulls his cock back to give Tate another bit of breath, his cock flexes and pulses on his tongue like he's seconds from blowing his load. ]
One-- one more. One more.
[ He's begging Tate. Asking to go again, asking Tate to deepthroat him again, as he pistons the first few inches of his cock against Tate's tongue like his mouth was just made to be fucked. One more time, and then he'll come. ]
[Tate's groans are strangled around Derek's cock but they ebb and flow out of him whenever Derek's showing him a lick of attention - mouthing his cock through his boxers with a hot breath that makes him arch up toward it while simultaneously continuing to take the slide of cock into his own mouth, head lolled back. Leaving Derek to his own rhythm is an unreliable thing but it's all he's got - so when he's told to hold on, he does, figuring it's a sign of things ramping up.
He's not wrong, per se, but he is grateful that he was given that heads up. His one hand clamps to Derek's thigh, the other curling around his hip to dig his nails into his lower back. He holds on tight, arms slowly curling around Derek's body to anchor him close. He holds on to him, lifted bit by bit when he pulls out and slides off his cock with a lewd, wet noise, to settle back against the platform right in time to receive the next throat-scratching thrust.
Derek might be close but Tate's closer, thanks to the mix of praise-kink and slow building arousal finally peaking with the attention Derek dotes on him through his jeans - his toes are curled and his sneakers sliding against the wood, finding himself inescapably pinned down and that's what's really doing it. Derek's cock's filling his throat, his mouth and his lips are stretched taut around it when his leg starts to shake.
One thrust more and Derek'll come, he says, and Tate's got spit running down his chin when he pulls back. He's prepared for that last thrust, that bury-to-the-hilt again motion that'll reward him but he's not sure he can make it that far. Derek's pressing his cock back into his mouth and Tate's arching his back, nostrils flared for breath he can't take before a rumbling groan in his throat betrays the fact he's just come - soaking through his boxers, seizing up his body and making his nails dig red grooves into Derek's sides - inadvertently pulling him down into his open mouth with a blank, witless gesture.]
[ Tate's coming and Derek's growling again, harsh and reverberating. Incendiary. He misses most of Tate's climax, too focused on himself to see what's coming - Tate blows his load and stains his boxers and the inside of his jeans, and Derek barely gets the last shot of it on his tongue when he rushes back down, sealing the clothed head of Tate's cock between his lips and sucking. He laps up that last, pearly white shot of cum like he's found an oasis in the desert, moaning like the eager slut he is. The eager slut Tate turns him into.
He fucks Tate's throat like he doesn't remember he needs to breathe. It's rough and erratic, and every time he grazes over the edges of his teeth or fucks up his angle and slams into the back of Tate's throat hard enough to wind him, he just growls again, like he's frustrated. He's writhing a little on top of Tate, pinning him down against the floor without giving him any means of escape, and the curled fingernails against his skin, the scratches that actually start to hurt - it just encourages him.
Finally, finally, he forces Tate to deepthroat him for the third and final time, stretching him open. He looks down his own chest with cum dripping from his lip and sees the bulge of his cock stretching in Tate's throat, and that's enough to make him shoot. He yells fuck like he's in tears, he yells Tate like he's the one who can't breathe. He's a fucking wreck.
He shoots his first jet of cum down Tate's throat as deep as he can get it. He pulls back, blasts the second on his tongue, and then pulls himself entirely from Tate's mouth. He reaches down and jerks himself off as fast as he can - slippery and messy, because his cock's never been this lubed up before - and he blows the rest of his climax on Tate's face, shaking like he's freezing but feeling like he's on fire. He paints Tate's face white, marking him, claiming him, and when he's done - when he's done -
He collapses, rolling off of Tate and laying on his back, arms stretched and cock still pulsing the last few drips of cum he has left in him. He breathes in a rasping, hard breath, and then another, and then it evens out. His ears are pounding and the world is spinning and he's...
[Tate can't say for sure if he's come this hard before - he's never come like this, but in ways that are similar. And in comparison to those, this takes the cake. He's always had a thing for being choked, the surrender of it and the trust it takes to put your life in someone else's hands... it's something Tate considers romantic, to the fullest extent. Intimate beyond measure. And here he is, choking on cock like a champ, and aside from some tears streaming down the sides of his face - he's doing damn well, too.
His orgasm hits him like a truck which is good, because it leaves him momentarily stunned enough not to feel the harsh thrust of Derek's hips that follows it because he's too swept into enjoying the feeling of a hot tongue over the cotton of his boxers, wondering how something so obscure could feel so good. He's clawing at Derek's sides for something to grip, red and white lines criss-crossing his skin from his nails.
One shallow fuck lets Tate gasp in a breath that fills his lungs before Derek's cock is buried in him, cutting his air off and making him violently squirm beneath his hips when it pins him there. His eyes are shut tight, throat flexing when he feels the urge to retch and gag, and seconds drag into what feels like years before Derek's cock twitches and shoots. The sensation of his cock moving is all he feels until Derek pulls out, cum hitting the back of his throat and coating his tongue catching him by surprise. He's coughing on that when more streaks his face, and Tate feels utterly wrecked - he can't even lift a hand to blot it out with Derek still over top of him.
He rolls off and leaves Tate laying there, sputtering and tear-streaked as he turns over onto all fours to choke on a mouthful of cum. He spits it out in a sticky strand, but seems to think twice about the gesture and catches what pools out of his mouth in his upturned hand, as if he'll get chastised for wasting it. He's blinded by a flurry of tears and what is likely a shot of cum that slips down the inner curve of his nose, running down his face as he wheezes.
Tate crumples forward, down onto his forearms with his forehead against one of them and his shoulders tucked in. He's breathing raspy through a few retching gags that are loudly audible, but he manages not to lose his lunch. It just takes a long, long moment before he can lift his head again and look at Derek - one eye shut and the other glassy. He swallows hard before swiping his tongue over his upper lip slowly, as if tentative to move a muscle - as if even that licking moment is somehow inspiring soreness in the wake of all that.]
[ As time passes and the high of Derek's orgasm fades away, his dick steadily softening and laying flat down his thigh, he feels less like he's underwater and more like all the sounds he's hearing are... real. Less faded, less outside of himself. Tate's still retching, coughing enough for Derek to suddenly realize the gravity of what just happened and hastily wonder if he's seriously bruised this poor kid's throat, and he sits up with a start, fast enough to make his head spin with vertigo. He clutches at one of the floorboards for balance and warily watches Tate recover, his heart half-sinking with guilt and half-soaring with primal, masculine pride.
He did that. He wrecked Tate. His Tate. This was a long time coming, and Derek maybe gets that now.
Tate asks him if it was good, and Derek doesn't have it in him to laugh, just - sore all over, and knowing Tate must feel the same. Worse. He sits up, watching the cum drip into Tate's hand and just - pool all over him, and he very softly, very affectionately, starts to clean him up. He reaches around for his own shirt, grabbing it from wherever the fuck it was discarded, and he holds one hand in Tate's hair to keep him steady. ]
I got... carried away. I'm sorry.
[ That's not an answer, but - fuck, Tate felt how hard he came. How forcefully. He knows god damn well that it was good. Derek plays with Tate's hair a little, and when he's all cleaned up, Derek leans in to press the lightest possible kiss against Tate's eyelid. He drops his shirt - gonna have to wash it in the ocean before he goes back home - and sets that hand on Tate's side, just... touching, for the sake of touching.
Tate said he could handle what Derek did to him, but - again - the weight of everything is starting to press down on his shoulders, making him kind of nauseous. He feels like he has to ask this. ]
[He's recovering, bit by bit, but each breath he takes still feels a bit wet at the back of his throat and he clears it once or twice to no avail. But he pushes up onto his knees, almost pulling away from Derek when he starts to clean him up - still in the head space of not wanting to disappoint but there's an ungodly amount of cum on his face. He lets Derek wipe it off. And then quietly, his shoulder shakes with amusement when Derek says he got carried away.]
I'm fine.
[Tate finds his voice to feel a bit surreal to hear, hoarse and hollow, but he's not sure what else he expected. Derek kisses his eyelid and Tate holds still, blinking a few times on contact before looking up at him softly. He then drops his gaze to his hand, swiping his tongue over his palm like a cat cleaning its paw - mopping up that last little smudge of cum he can before swallowing and raising his brows to show that yeah, he's cool. And if that doesn't do it?
Tate pushes up on his knees and leans a bit closer to Derek, invading his space to toe the line and lay his lips to Derek's in a hesitant kiss. He doesn't touch him, save for a hovering of his palm over Derek's chest, and the kiss is chaste and sweet. A claiming of something all his own, because he feels much more assured of himself after he does it.]
[ For a moment, Derek feels like he's back where tonight started. Tate can't talk as well as he could earlier, and the air wasn't heavy with sex and sweat an hour ago, but the shake of amusement and the reassurance that he's okay makes Derek feel... safe, maybe. Not that he didn't feel safe before, but - safer. Like he did when they were just swinging their legs over the side of the platform and sharing a burger together.
Tate laps at his hand and tastes Derek's cum and there's suddenly-- a very real, very strong urge to go a second round. Derek stares in silence, his dick racked with exhaustion and sensitivity but still swelling to a lazy half-hardness, watching Tate with a mixture of awe and visible, painful attraction. I don't want to fuck you, he said, once. You know, like a liar.
Whatever he's thinking gets cut off half-way. The kiss is... unexpected, and not as unwelcome as Derek thought it might be, though it takes a second or two of deliberation before he reciprocates. He sets his hand on Tate's neck and holds him close, tasting himself on his lips and chasing after him a little when he starts to pull back. It's warm and it's doting and when it's over, there's still fondness in Derek's eyes. ]
Good.
[ A part of him still wants to apologize. He's not sure why. Just - this feeling, somewhere in his chest, that maybe Tate deserved better than this. Maybe he's done something wrong, to Tate, even if all of this started because he was trying to help. Maybe they've changed their relationship for the worse, rather than for the better.
But at this point, what's done is done. Derek's hand slides down Tate's neck, and... he gets a little harder, as he sets his palm over Tate's throat. He just... leaves his hand there, for a second, thinking something, and then slowly and uncertainly takes his hand away. He stands up, putting some distance between them, and he starts searching out the rest of his clothes. ]
You're, uh. Probably gonna have to wear the sweats again.
[Tate's lips part ever so slightly when Derek holds his neck, feeling expectant of something that doesn't come. He'd lean against his palm if he had a few seconds more to react, but Derek pulls away and Tate sits back on his calves and touches his fingertips to his adam's apple gingerly, feeling sore and hoarse - wondering how long it'll last before it fades on him. He's still thinking of the kiss, wondering if he did right by it, but when Derek's up and looking for his clothes all it takes is a glance at his dick to think he did.
Christ.
He looks down at himself, raising his brows at the mess in his jeans before giving an absently agreeing shrug. Takes an attempt to get up on his feet, feeling more exposed than ever when he starts peeling off his sneakers and jeans. Boxers are definitely toast, but are the jeans that bad? He holds them up to Derek, raising his brows.]
[ Derek doesn't look back at Tate. He just says, kind of confidently, kind of like he's bragging - ]
I made you come pretty fucking hard, bro.
[ - which is kind of fucking terrible, because bro just slips out of him without his notice. That fifteen year old jock dude who wanted to become a professional basketball player is rearing his ugly head, and it's honestly the worst thing. The worst possible thing.
Derek grabs the sweats and throws them over to Tate, walking naked across the platform and very narrowly managing to avoid slipping in a particularly nasty puddle of cold, cold cum. Derek decides halfway through picking up his clothes that he's not gonna get dressed again. No point. He kicks his jeans and his boxers and his ruined shirt into a little pile for the morning and then just - saunters on back.
After a pause, Derek wriggles down into the sleeping bag, patting the fabric and silently telling Tate that he's willing to share now. There's... nothing to say that Tate's going to be okay with Derek sleeping up against him, naked as the day he was born, but it feels like there's been a shift in how they are around each other, now. Tate talked so fucking heavily about how they were pack, about how he should trust him, and - well, Derek trusts him. Derek trusts him with everything. He wants to share everything with Tate, from here on out. That's how pack should be. ]
[Tate's brows pinch together as he regards Derek, seeing that jockism for what it is, and shaking his head ever so lightly in dismay. Truth be told he kind of likes it, even if it makes him wanna roll his eyes at the cringe factor - he thinks he'd hate the cocky teenager Derek used to be. He'd suck his dick still, probably, but at what cost? He watches Derek move by and realizes clothes aren't coming back into the equation when Derek settles down with the sleeping bag.
It takes Tate a moment but he drops his jeans next to Derek's, peeling off his sticky boxers and using them to wipe dry before picking up the sweats. He doesn't have the confidence (in the comfort of laying on lumber - not the situation,) to stay naked, so he slips them up his hips. He peels off his shirt as if to compensate, leaving the one piece of clothing that's relatively clean as far away from the rest as he can. And then he goes to kneel down, feeling like his bones are lead as he collapses next to Derek.]
Gonna tell me a bedtime story?
[He asks, looking back over his shoulder as he resumes his little spoon position - with a gap between them, just so they don't fall into a vicious cycle they can't escape. He lays his head down on his arm and closes his eyes for a beat, smelling the freshly laid out wood and - well, the scent of fresh laid wood too.]
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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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In what could be perceived as the only punishment for making him do that jump, Tate slowly withdraws his finger from Derek to leave him empty and wanting. It'll make him hornier to fuck him, he rationalizes, teasing the flat of his tongue against Derek's cock before gripping it by the base in a few steady pumps. He doesn't know if he can do it all but he's now more than determined to try.]
You won't hurt me. This is what I want, so... just help me do this.
[Without anything else to say, Tate swirls his tongue around Derek's cock again and then bobs forward. He starts by working the tip again, getting it slick with spit and letting it run down the sides of Derek's dick, swirled together with the taste of precum on his tongue. It's lewd and disorganized, how he hunches his back and starts to get to work, pushing ever forward, perhaps faster than he should. He starts to gag and pulls back, only to breath in sharply and go again.]
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Tate takes his finger away and Derek's resistance fucking crumbles. His brows pinch, and he feels empty, sighing in frustration. Between that and the attention to his cock, it's - a lot. Too much. Derek's so much more needy than most, more desperate, more eager, more sensitive, when it comes to sex. Easily manipulated. Easy to shape. ]
I really... I really want to. You have no idea how badly I want to.
[ Derek's voice is coming out hard, padded with labored breathing. Tate's pushing forward, ignoring any of Derek's concerns, sloppy and wet and keeping Derek overwhelmed and overloaded. Cautiously, Derek sets his hand on the back of Tate's head, and he doesn't push, not yet. He feels like there's precautions that need to be taken, feels like he needs to tell Tate to say poptart if things get too rough, or something, but -
Precautions only seem to piss Tate off. Derek bites his worries down. Steadily, he adds pressure on the back of Tate's skull when he starts to pull back, not letting him come up for air. He raises his hips, just a little, sliding the tip of his cock to the back of Tate's throat again. He swallows, curls his fingers in Tate's hair tighter than before, and starts slowly, slowly moving him down his length. ]
Fuck. Fuck, just-- commit to this. If-- if you commit, so will I.
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Tate's stomach tenses when Derek's fingers slip against his scalp, a feeling that's bitter sweet with how good it feels triggering Tate's comforted response before the cinching of Derek's grip reminds Tate why he's doing it. Tate doesn't struggle against the way Derek's guiding him down, not yet, instead he's trying to keep his jaw slack and letting Derek feed more of his length in past his lips with a soft grunt when it starts getting uncomfortable.
God, it isn't even that much before he's made it and yet he keeps stopping just shy of pushing himself to get flush with Derek. He starts to feel the twinge at the back of his throat and pulls back, nails digging half moons into Derek's hip as he clutches to it when he can't move back the way he wants. It sparks a few tears in the inner corners of his eyes but he pushes through, pushes back down despite the twitch in his throat.
Just a little farther. Little more. Then it's - it's done once he does it. He digs his nails into Derek's hip deeper, sliding his hand under his thigh to splay his fingers along it and nudge him into thrusting upward harder, working with Tate to take away the element of apprehension by giving him no choice but to go that extra few inches.]
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Relax your throat. Breathe. Slower. Watch your teeth.
[ Tate's not new to this. Derek knows Tate's not knew to this, but he's seeing it here and now. He's sloppy and close to gagging, spilling thicker, warmer spit down his cock from the back of his throat, so he might not be experienced with stretching his throat as much as Derek's telling him to stretch it now - but he's making enough of a fucking effort for Derek to know he's done this before. That shouldn't make him as hard as it does. That should make him angry. It does make him angry, on some level, but not enough to stop him from moaning like a bitch in heat when Tate starts urging his hips up, right when he's a scant few inches from done.
Derek lays flat, taking his eyes off of Tate. He can't prop himself up on one arm when he has both hands in Tate's hair, and that's what he wants to do now. He arches his back and holds all ten fingers on the sides of Tate's skull, closing his eyes and slowly, slowly, slowly fucking further down Tate's throat, more and more and more. He's whispering to him, voice straining, that's it, that's it, fuck, you're doing so fucking good, quiet words of encouragement and love and praise.
He snaps his hips up at the last inch and forces Tate to gag on his cock, and soon his balls are pressed up against Tate's chin and Tate's nose is buried into his skin. He presses past any resistance Tate gives him and grips him tighter, warningly, almost painfully, if it feels like Tate's going to cough or struggle, and Derek's-- Derek's eyes are rolling into the back of his head as he holds him in place, his mouth is open in a silent moan, and his back is so far off the ground his spine's starting to hurt.
When he moans again, it's-- loud, this hard, echoing half-sob that he doesn't have the willpower to bite back, and his fingers pull Tate's hair without thinking, painful and stinging. He's sweaty and he feels like his legs are cramping from how rigid they are, and he props himself up on one arm again, pulling Tate halfway off his cock with one hard, wrenching tug. ]
Jesus fucking Christ.
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If he comes in his pants he'll - well, he'll be pissed off for sure. Luckily distraction comes in the form of a bolt of panic in his chest when he feels Derek's cock forcing its way along his tongue and the thick head of it going far beyond where he was comfortable taking it. He's not stretched or loose, he just feels like he's immediately about to retch soon as he can suck in a breath. Which, of course, won't be soon either.
He can't breathe, can't move, can barely think - he feels how flush he is, nose brushing Derek's skin and the heat of his balls against his chin telling him he did it. The pain at the back of his throat, the feeling of suffocating fullness adds to it - nails dug into his scalp and pulling at his hair sparking tears to fall from the corners of his eyes, wetness sitting in his lashes. He paws at Derek without meaning to, the stress of it making the heels of his palms push against Derek's hips to try and put space between them.
When Derek finally pulls him halfway off after what feels like an eternity, Tate scrambles to pull himself the rest of the way off - coughing, sputtering and gagging against the back of his hand. Hard to gasp for breath when you're trying not to vomit, but he's got this. Got it. Totally fine. Sounds wrecked, even though he's not even done:]
Did it.
[He looks up at Derek, eyes glossy but wide; he's still breathing in short little shudders, eyes stinging but blinking away the tears before he's reaching out again and gripping Derek's cock and trying to bow back down to suck it. Takes a false start, lips grazing before he looks up at Derek.]
Is it enough - Is.
[Hoarse, he has to swallow hard before continuing:]
Is it enough to make you come like that?
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Tate fucking says he did it, and Derek's cock jumps, his expression just - darkening, like it's the hottest thing he's ever heard. He wants more. Derek sits up, leans down, and wipes some of the drool and the precum from the corner of Tate's lip, connected in a thin, transparent string to the head of his cock, and then - impulsively - he pushes his thumb back into Tate's mouth, letting him lick it clean. ]
Yeah.
[ That's enough. He could come. Derek takes his hand back and leans in close, brushing the hair out of Tate's eyes again so he can see him better, wiping away his tears and prettying up his face. He's fucking close, at this point - achingly hard in Tate's hand, getting right up to the edge - so it wouldn't do much for Tate to get him off. But he'd kill, to feel that again. To feel Tate struggle and try and succeed, all for him.
He looks at Tate, leaning back on his forearms, letting his eyes drift a little further down. Thoughtfully, Derek wets his lips, and then - without any warning, he stands up, snapping his fingers at Tate like he's talking to a dog. His legs are surprisingly shaky, and his breath is too ragged to sounds as commanding as he might want to. ]
Lay down. On your back.
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Derek's so close that for a moment Tate stupidly thinks he's going to kiss him, hand still curled stiffly around his cock but his head upturned to stare into Derek's eyes. He's wiping away the tears that have collected in his lashes and it's such a tender moment in the midst of all the rest that Tate's stomach flexes and his cock throbs in his jeans, making him shift anxiously. More so when he's instructed to lay down.
He's frozen for a second, like it hasn't quite sunk in, but then he blinks and falls into the mode of obedience that often gets him into trouble. The loyal mode of wanting to please someone he admires, someone he wants in his life for his own selfish reasons so badly that he'd do anything they said to. He shifts, rolling onto his back with an uncomfortable hiss as his shoulders lay against the wood and his hips lift. His hands drop to his jeans, fingers on the button.]
I just need to...
[Loosen them, though he'll stop if he's told to - otherwise he'll just unfasten the closure and let the zipper slide open to a soft gasp of relief. His cock's trapped down the leg of his pants, bulge easier to see now that he's tits up and vulnerable. He understands what it's like now, for dogs offering a show of submission. Derek could gut him right now.]
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[ Derek wants to do it. That's part of why he's asking Tate to move. Tate said he wanted to take the lead, and - he's done that, for the most part, but this close to the edge, this close to the end, Derek wants to be in control. He wants to-- to forget all the second guessing in his head, all the reasons why Tate's fragile and glass-like and someone that needs to be handled with care. He wants to listen to his dick instead of his head.
Tate obediently lays down and Derek sets both of his knees beside Tate's ears, holding himself up straight. He angles the crown of his cock down to Tate's lips, and he allows him to taste the very, very tip of it, dragging another line of precum over his tongue. He feeds him more, one inch, then two, and then he leans forward to get on all fours, elbows on either side of Tate's waist.
He opens his zipper, batting Tate's hands away if they're still hovering close by, mumbling something sharp and commanding and said with the most loving, attentive voice he has: put your hands on my cock, start stroking, you're gonna have to earn my cum if you want it. He pulls the zipper open but leaves Tate's jeans where they are, allowing him only the bare minimum of relief, and he feels like he's out of his fucking body. Feels like he's seeing through somebody's eyes, like - like it still hasn't fully sunk in that this is Tate, that it's Tate's cock in front of him straining the fabric of his boxers, that it's Tate's cock flexing for attention, leaving a wet spot at his head.
Derek doesn't get Tate's cock out. Doesn't even pretend like he's going to. He steadily, unwaveringly fucks more of his own into Tate's mouth, and - he doesn't think he can deep throat him again, not after how close he came to throwing up the first time he tried, but.
It's what Tate wants. Derek's bottom line with Tate has always been that he deserves to get what he wants.
Derek slides another thick, fat inch into Tate's mouth, talking him through it in hushed, affectionate whispers. Telling him to stretch his jaw, telling him to be a good boy, telling him that he's doing so, so fucking well. He picks up a bit of a rhythm - he fucks into Tate's mouth until he's very, very lightly hitting the back of his throat, like he's trying to test his gag reflex, and then he pulls back, giving him time to rest. In, out, in, out. Slow. For now.
He strokes Tate's dick through his underwear, featherlight and barely there. Tate looks like he doesn't have much left in him to hold back, and Derek doesn't want to make him come before he's ready.
Derek almost asks if Tate's doing okay. He doesn't. ]
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But he's obedient - if he wants what he wants, he needs to do what he needs to do to get it. And Derek's the one he needs to please, the one he needs to win over and keep close. His alpha, the guy who wants nothing more than to please and take care of him. He needs to keep him close and if that means parting his lips for the return of his cock to his mouth, so be it. Tate's mouth opens and he swallows before he first lets it slide in, adjusting how he's laying and staying calm with slow, deep breaths as Derek's cock eases in.
This is the first time he's been in a position quite like this, and he still feels vulnerable - his toes curl when Derek's opening his jeans and he lets a whimpered, soft moan out against his cock but that's where it ends. Derek doesn't touch him, doesn't pull him out, and Tate's cock twitches with the anticipation that's let out with a sad grazing of his fingers along Derek's ribs.
He moans again, tongue pressing flat in his mouth as he tilts his head and realizes with startling certainty there's no avoiding the feed of Derek's cock - no squirming away, no pulling away. He brings his hands up to the sides of Derek's thighs, nails scratching lightly for a grip before he settles on one hand against it and the other sliding flat along Derek's abdomen in a futile attempt to barrier should he really need him to lay off.
Totally misses his chances when Derek's fondling him through his boxers, making Tate's heels skid against the flooring and his breath come out in shallow heaves through his nose. His voice is a low warble, reverberating through his throat when Derek's thrusting inward, slowly easing to the back of it while Tate's knee starts to quiver and his eyes once again water.
Fuck, though, he can do this. He has to. He sucks on Derek's cock until his cheeks hollow, dragging his lips back down his cock when he lifts it away only to eagerly greet it on the next thrust. He hopes, in some small way, Derek'll reward him with some semblance of touch - but he reminds himself he didn't ask for that. He only asked for this, and that much he needs to readjust to.]
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But he's too far gone to see that Tate might be... reluctant. He only sees nerves, in the hitch of his breath and the way he squirms to be comfortable, and he's sure that will even out once he - adjusts. The little moans, the way he willingly opens up for Derek, the ghosting of his fingertips down his sides and the inviting, perfect twitch of his cock - so much of what's Tate doing reads as a positive sign, and it's making Derek harder. Hornier. Needier.
He arches his back like a cat, closing his eyes and resting on his arms for a few seconds on the wood next to Tate's knees, feeling Tate bring him closer and closer to the edge. Derek needs a second to calm down. To abate the steady build up of his orgasm that's slowly rising in the base of his stomach, making him tense. He wills himself down and focuses on Tate, pressing his lips to the line of Tate's cock silhouetted by his boxers, squeezing the base of him through his clothes and just - massaging, more than jerking him off. He swipes his tongue across his slit and tastes the bead of precum he gets through the fabric, leaving a bridge of it mingling with his tongue as he moves back.
Tate fucking tries. He sucks on his cock like he's trying to drain it dry, lighting all his nerve endings on fire and making his thrusts come more erratic, a little more frantic - deeper than he means to in one, shallower than he means to in another. Derek's breath is fractured and frantic, and he's starting to lose himself in the moment. Forgetting where he is. Unable to think of anything except for the tight vacuum around his dick, sealing him in and getting him wet. He - can't hold back anymore. ]
Hold onto me.
[ The next thrusts come more stable. Deeper. He drags the length of his cock to the back of Tate's throat, to the very back, and - he keeps going. He gets half of him into Tate before he's worried he'll gag, and then he pulls back, giving him a second to breathe. He waits, dutifully, squeezing his hand tighter around Tate's cock and steadily, slowly beginning to jerk him off through his clothes, and when he feels Tate's ready, he fucks him again. Slow. Deep. Pushing hard, but not unkindly, against any resistance he meets.
Constantly, he tells Tate to breathe, he calms him down, he tells him he's doing so fucking good, he tells him he's perfect, that he's everything, that he's his, that he'll take care of him. He doesn't call himself Tate's Alpha, doesn't tell Tate to serve him. He just tells him he's doing good. Tells him he's fucking fantastic, just as he is.
He sucks the head of Tate's cock through his boxers and starts to worry a little less about how Tate's doing, about whether or not Tate can take it. It takes a bit of work, but he pushes and pushes and pushes his cock down the tight, constricting grip of Tate's throat until he's balls deep, right to the base, and-- fuck, the moans that Derek makes. Loud and echoing, while his legs tremble and his breath is hot against Tate's dick, wet from pre and saliva and barely contained. He moans in a way that's so fucking rare for him outside of the full moon, and when he pulls his cock back to give Tate another bit of breath, his cock flexes and pulses on his tongue like he's seconds from blowing his load. ]
One-- one more. One more.
[ He's begging Tate. Asking to go again, asking Tate to deepthroat him again, as he pistons the first few inches of his cock against Tate's tongue like his mouth was just made to be fucked. One more time, and then he'll come. ]
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He's not wrong, per se, but he is grateful that he was given that heads up. His one hand clamps to Derek's thigh, the other curling around his hip to dig his nails into his lower back. He holds on tight, arms slowly curling around Derek's body to anchor him close. He holds on to him, lifted bit by bit when he pulls out and slides off his cock with a lewd, wet noise, to settle back against the platform right in time to receive the next throat-scratching thrust.
Derek might be close but Tate's closer, thanks to the mix of praise-kink and slow building arousal finally peaking with the attention Derek dotes on him through his jeans - his toes are curled and his sneakers sliding against the wood, finding himself inescapably pinned down and that's what's really doing it. Derek's cock's filling his throat, his mouth and his lips are stretched taut around it when his leg starts to shake.
One thrust more and Derek'll come, he says, and Tate's got spit running down his chin when he pulls back. He's prepared for that last thrust, that bury-to-the-hilt again motion that'll reward him but he's not sure he can make it that far. Derek's pressing his cock back into his mouth and Tate's arching his back, nostrils flared for breath he can't take before a rumbling groan in his throat betrays the fact he's just come - soaking through his boxers, seizing up his body and making his nails dig red grooves into Derek's sides - inadvertently pulling him down into his open mouth with a blank, witless gesture.]
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He fucks Tate's throat like he doesn't remember he needs to breathe. It's rough and erratic, and every time he grazes over the edges of his teeth or fucks up his angle and slams into the back of Tate's throat hard enough to wind him, he just growls again, like he's frustrated. He's writhing a little on top of Tate, pinning him down against the floor without giving him any means of escape, and the curled fingernails against his skin, the scratches that actually start to hurt - it just encourages him.
Finally, finally, he forces Tate to deepthroat him for the third and final time, stretching him open. He looks down his own chest with cum dripping from his lip and sees the bulge of his cock stretching in Tate's throat, and that's enough to make him shoot. He yells fuck like he's in tears, he yells Tate like he's the one who can't breathe. He's a fucking wreck.
He shoots his first jet of cum down Tate's throat as deep as he can get it. He pulls back, blasts the second on his tongue, and then pulls himself entirely from Tate's mouth. He reaches down and jerks himself off as fast as he can - slippery and messy, because his cock's never been this lubed up before - and he blows the rest of his climax on Tate's face, shaking like he's freezing but feeling like he's on fire. He paints Tate's face white, marking him, claiming him, and when he's done - when he's done -
He collapses, rolling off of Tate and laying on his back, arms stretched and cock still pulsing the last few drips of cum he has left in him. He breathes in a rasping, hard breath, and then another, and then it evens out. His ears are pounding and the world is spinning and he's...
Exhausted. ]
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His orgasm hits him like a truck which is good, because it leaves him momentarily stunned enough not to feel the harsh thrust of Derek's hips that follows it because he's too swept into enjoying the feeling of a hot tongue over the cotton of his boxers, wondering how something so obscure could feel so good. He's clawing at Derek's sides for something to grip, red and white lines criss-crossing his skin from his nails.
One shallow fuck lets Tate gasp in a breath that fills his lungs before Derek's cock is buried in him, cutting his air off and making him violently squirm beneath his hips when it pins him there. His eyes are shut tight, throat flexing when he feels the urge to retch and gag, and seconds drag into what feels like years before Derek's cock twitches and shoots. The sensation of his cock moving is all he feels until Derek pulls out, cum hitting the back of his throat and coating his tongue catching him by surprise. He's coughing on that when more streaks his face, and Tate feels utterly wrecked - he can't even lift a hand to blot it out with Derek still over top of him.
He rolls off and leaves Tate laying there, sputtering and tear-streaked as he turns over onto all fours to choke on a mouthful of cum. He spits it out in a sticky strand, but seems to think twice about the gesture and catches what pools out of his mouth in his upturned hand, as if he'll get chastised for wasting it. He's blinded by a flurry of tears and what is likely a shot of cum that slips down the inner curve of his nose, running down his face as he wheezes.
Tate crumples forward, down onto his forearms with his forehead against one of them and his shoulders tucked in. He's breathing raspy through a few retching gags that are loudly audible, but he manages not to lose his lunch. It just takes a long, long moment before he can lift his head again and look at Derek - one eye shut and the other glassy. He swallows hard before swiping his tongue over his upper lip slowly, as if tentative to move a muscle - as if even that licking moment is somehow inspiring soreness in the wake of all that.]
Good?
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He did that. He wrecked Tate. His Tate. This was a long time coming, and Derek maybe gets that now.
Tate asks him if it was good, and Derek doesn't have it in him to laugh, just - sore all over, and knowing Tate must feel the same. Worse. He sits up, watching the cum drip into Tate's hand and just - pool all over him, and he very softly, very affectionately, starts to clean him up. He reaches around for his own shirt, grabbing it from wherever the fuck it was discarded, and he holds one hand in Tate's hair to keep him steady. ]
I got... carried away. I'm sorry.
[ That's not an answer, but - fuck, Tate felt how hard he came. How forcefully. He knows god damn well that it was good. Derek plays with Tate's hair a little, and when he's all cleaned up, Derek leans in to press the lightest possible kiss against Tate's eyelid. He drops his shirt - gonna have to wash it in the ocean before he goes back home - and sets that hand on Tate's side, just... touching, for the sake of touching.
Tate said he could handle what Derek did to him, but - again - the weight of everything is starting to press down on his shoulders, making him kind of nauseous. He feels like he has to ask this. ]
Are you okay?
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I'm fine.
[Tate finds his voice to feel a bit surreal to hear, hoarse and hollow, but he's not sure what else he expected. Derek kisses his eyelid and Tate holds still, blinking a few times on contact before looking up at him softly. He then drops his gaze to his hand, swiping his tongue over his palm like a cat cleaning its paw - mopping up that last little smudge of cum he can before swallowing and raising his brows to show that yeah, he's cool. And if that doesn't do it?
Tate pushes up on his knees and leans a bit closer to Derek, invading his space to toe the line and lay his lips to Derek's in a hesitant kiss. He doesn't touch him, save for a hovering of his palm over Derek's chest, and the kiss is chaste and sweet. A claiming of something all his own, because he feels much more assured of himself after he does it.]
I liked it.
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Tate laps at his hand and tastes Derek's cum and there's suddenly-- a very real, very strong urge to go a second round. Derek stares in silence, his dick racked with exhaustion and sensitivity but still swelling to a lazy half-hardness, watching Tate with a mixture of awe and visible, painful attraction. I don't want to fuck you, he said, once. You know, like a liar.
Whatever he's thinking gets cut off half-way. The kiss is... unexpected, and not as unwelcome as Derek thought it might be, though it takes a second or two of deliberation before he reciprocates. He sets his hand on Tate's neck and holds him close, tasting himself on his lips and chasing after him a little when he starts to pull back. It's warm and it's doting and when it's over, there's still fondness in Derek's eyes. ]
Good.
[ A part of him still wants to apologize. He's not sure why. Just - this feeling, somewhere in his chest, that maybe Tate deserved better than this. Maybe he's done something wrong, to Tate, even if all of this started because he was trying to help. Maybe they've changed their relationship for the worse, rather than for the better.
But at this point, what's done is done. Derek's hand slides down Tate's neck, and... he gets a little harder, as he sets his palm over Tate's throat. He just... leaves his hand there, for a second, thinking something, and then slowly and uncertainly takes his hand away. He stands up, putting some distance between them, and he starts searching out the rest of his clothes. ]
You're, uh. Probably gonna have to wear the sweats again.
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Christ.
He looks down at himself, raising his brows at the mess in his jeans before giving an absently agreeing shrug. Takes an attempt to get up on his feet, feeling more exposed than ever when he starts peeling off his sneakers and jeans. Boxers are definitely toast, but are the jeans that bad? He holds them up to Derek, raising his brows.]
They really that bad? What do your wolf eyes see?
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I made you come pretty fucking hard, bro.
[ - which is kind of fucking terrible, because bro just slips out of him without his notice. That fifteen year old jock dude who wanted to become a professional basketball player is rearing his ugly head, and it's honestly the worst thing. The worst possible thing.
Derek grabs the sweats and throws them over to Tate, walking naked across the platform and very narrowly managing to avoid slipping in a particularly nasty puddle of cold, cold cum. Derek decides halfway through picking up his clothes that he's not gonna get dressed again. No point. He kicks his jeans and his boxers and his ruined shirt into a little pile for the morning and then just - saunters on back.
After a pause, Derek wriggles down into the sleeping bag, patting the fabric and silently telling Tate that he's willing to share now. There's... nothing to say that Tate's going to be okay with Derek sleeping up against him, naked as the day he was born, but it feels like there's been a shift in how they are around each other, now. Tate talked so fucking heavily about how they were pack, about how he should trust him, and - well, Derek trusts him. Derek trusts him with everything. He wants to share everything with Tate, from here on out. That's how pack should be. ]
C'mon. It's late.
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It takes Tate a moment but he drops his jeans next to Derek's, peeling off his sticky boxers and using them to wipe dry before picking up the sweats. He doesn't have the confidence (in the comfort of laying on lumber - not the situation,) to stay naked, so he slips them up his hips. He peels off his shirt as if to compensate, leaving the one piece of clothing that's relatively clean as far away from the rest as he can. And then he goes to kneel down, feeling like his bones are lead as he collapses next to Derek.]
Gonna tell me a bedtime story?
[He asks, looking back over his shoulder as he resumes his little spoon position - with a gap between them, just so they don't fall into a vicious cycle they can't escape. He lays his head down on his arm and closes his eyes for a beat, smelling the freshly laid out wood and - well, the scent of fresh laid wood too.]
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