[ 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.]
[ Tate's back is to Derek while he strips, so... he won't ever know if Derek watched him get changed or not. Either way, he joins him in the sleeping bag and Derek can tell that he's exhausted, but he's also not entirely comfortable with having this much space between them. This wasn't... an easy night, in a lot of ways, and Derek's stomach is in knots thinking about the home Tate's going to go back to after his night in the treehouse, but. That's all the more reason to make him feel comfortable, right? Safe? Loved, the way pack should be?
So - cautiously - Derek moves in closer, draping his arm around Tate's bare stomach, moving closer until his chest is pressed flush to his back. He doesn't need to exert much strength at all to drag Tate up against his body, pulling him in as tight as possible, allowing his body heat to bleed into Tate. He leans forward, his nose against the side of Tate's neck, and when he talks, his lips are soft against his shoulder. ]
[Tate trails off, adjusting again to how he's laying - now that he's flush with Derek, pulled tight so easily. Like a set of magnets, didn't take much effort at all for them to settle together. He's a bit grateful for the sweat pants, they put a little barrier between them that helps him not be able to tell where Derek's cock is really sitting, or how tucked up against him it really is again. He's happy to feel Derek's arms around him and the touch of his nose, and nuzzles back against it like a lazy and affectionate cat seeking comfort.
He likes this. Better than the first time, because he'd been plenty comfortable then - and about to fall asleep easily enough - now he's got the bonus of settling euphoria to make the sleep he's bound to fall into all that much deeper and relaxing. Derek, behind him, also no longer just feels like a friend. They're pack, after all - the intimacy's so much better this way.]
I just - figured... it might be better for you with space. If you're comfortable, I'm comfortable. Just don't get mad if my ass is against you, okay?
I don't want there to be space between us anymore.
[ Not just now, tonight, but - in general? Derek's talked such a big fucking game about being pack, and Tate's only ever fed into that feeling and made him want it more, and here, finally, Derek's beginning to feel like they're there. It doesn't make sense anymore. Tate's willing to be bitten, Tate's willing to sign a contract, Tate's willing to let Derek take care of him whenever he needs it. Space is just - inhibiting what they should have had together weeks ago. That's what Derek's feeling.
Tate makes a joke about his ass and Derek responds by moving his hips, angling his cock to rest heavy and mostly soft between his thighs. He slips his hand down Tate's stomach, up to his chest, and then back down to his hip. Derek leaves a kiss on the back of Tate's neck, his beard scratching over his skin, and he sets dull, flat teeth against his shoulder, lightly biting down. Not enough to hurt. Just enough to keep his attention. He's touching and feeling Tate like he's his, because - now, more than ever - he is. ]
[Tate could ask to clarify what Derek means - if they're talking physical or metaphorical right now but he gets the idea without needing to. It's a bit of both, with how secure it feels to lay in his arms and how Tate grunts, softly, to the feel of teeth against his neck. He reaches back with his hand, lazily touching Derek's cheek and guiding his fingers back to touch his hair. It's surprisingly affectionate - but he just wants to coax out more of that warmth.
With a short yawn, Tate lets his eyes close half-mast before adjusting his weight to lean back against Derek and stay nestled to his chest. He lets his arm slip down to rest again over Derek's, finger idly tracing the valleys of his knuckles as he breathes in deep and truly relaxes.]
[ Derek settles in, shutting his eyes. There's something so fucking fulfilling about being able to physically provide comfort and security to someone he's promised to protect. It's different with Stiles, where the love between them isn't based on power dynamics or well-meaning promises or anything other than raw, uncomplicated feelings - with Tate, it always feels like there's something slightly off, like there's a loose thread just waiting to be pulled, bringing everything undone. Here - tonight - despite all the anxiety and the worries over Tate's safety, their relationship feels stable. Solid.
Derek believes - maybe for the first time - that he can be a good alpha. That he can be a good something. He can be a good-- whatever it is Tate wants him to be. He roams his hands over Tate's body like it's just... comfortable, because it is, and as he's drifting off to sleep, he says one last, tired thing. ]
[Tate murmurs in reply, feeling like it's the right thing to say. It's comforting, being this close and feeling like should anything happen... he's got an angry, naked wolf-man to take care of him? Tate sleeps the deepest when he's in the arms of someone else, feeling like the world's something less scary to exist in, and so his head gets heavy fast and his breathing is quick to even out. He sighs just one before he drifts off, fingers resting over Derek's.]
The sleeping bag is starting to feel cramped and they hadn't accounted for bugs - they're lucky enough to have been left alone by mosquitoes, and contrary to popular belief, Derek doesn't have any fleas to worry about, but there are cicadas and crickets that sound unbearably loud to Derek, even if they're dead silent to the rest of the world. They wake him up in an hour or two, and Derek's disoriented and a little unaware of where he is, but Tate's still curled against his chest and breathing peacefully, and it's enough to keep him stable until the world pieces itself together.
He sighs, rubbing his ear against the arm he's using as a pillow, willing his hearing to dull itself down. Everything fades, and Derek relaxes, closing his eyes.
But he can't get back to sleep. Not when he's this hard.
Derek tries. A good ten, maybe fifteen minutes pass, and Derek tries so hard to pass out again, but sleep refuses to take him; Tate's sweats have dipped down his hips, and Derek's cock is laying thick against his ass, pressed up between his bare back and his own stomach. Every shift Tate makes in his sleep rolls Derek's foreskin back or spreads precum down his spine, and Derek - tries to be good. He tries.
Carefully, quietly, after a long, guilty moment of consideration, Derek reaches his arm back from around Tate, sets it over his hip and just - pauses. He knows Tate's asleep, but... ]
[That's all Derek gets in response - a sleepy murmur from a still rather out of it kid, who's curled up on his side and breathing in deep. He's being fished out of REM and sits warily in the upper echelons of drowsy meets sleepy - eyelids fluttering but his whole attention not stirring yet. He only feels the warmth of being close to someone, the heat from the sleeping bag radiating around them and keeping a faint sheen of sweat over his temples. It was good to take his shirt off and it'd feel better to kick his sweats off, feeling only a tangle of fabric around his thighs that he puts his hand to as if to nudge away. Only he doesn't, because his hand snags in the fabric and stays there, and his head lolls down against the wood.
He doesn't notice the weight of Derek's cock against his back, doesn't know the extent to which he's suffering his hard on. He just was having a nice dream that's already been forgotten, pushed out of his head the second the world started coming back into focus. With the crink in his neck and the hard floor beneath them. He doesn't want to wake up, going back to sleep's so easy.
[ Fresh flareups of guilt light up in Derek pretty fucking often, when he's with Tate. He gets another one here - Tate sounds sleepy and peaceful and Derek wants nothing more than to soothe him back to bed, feeling like a piece of shit for disturbing him. He leaves his lips on the bridge of Tate's shoulder, lightly sucking, just enough to turn his skin pink, the feeling a gentle, barely there hum. A silent, affectionate apology for waking him up, and - maybe, on some level, an unspoken question, that Tate might be too tired to make sense of. A gauge of interest, to see if he'd be... okay, with them going again, even though Derek knows that they shouldn't.
Cautiously, though, Derek inches Tate's sweats down a little more, moving his waistband to just above his knees. Barely, barely moving, he brings his hand back to the base of his cock, angling it down, dragging it down Tate's ass and - as he shifts an inch or two further into the sleeping bag - setting it behind his thigh. Derek swallows, kissing Tate's back, reaching his hand back up to settle on Tate's stomach. Every touch, every movement, it's all barely there, so as not to disturb Tate too deeply out of sleep, and when he talks, the length of his dick urging against the back of Tate's leg, he's barely speaking at a whisper. ]
[Tate thinks for a blissful second that he's going to be able to just keep his eyes shut and fall back asleep. Derek's not rustling around and his voice is low and warm, rumbling over his shoulder beneath the soft suckle of his lips. Tate's lulled by that, breathing in a shuddering, slow breath before exhaling it in another sigh. He feels Derek drag down his sweats and doesn't care, doesn't do more than nuzzle in against his own arm until he's sensing Derek ask more questions.
His eyelids flutter again, dark eyes wearily opening only to shut tight once more. His face screws up in a tired manner and it's still dark out - the middle of the night, easy enough to distinguish - and he doesn't know what Derek wants and frankly doesn't care. He nods, murmuring a soft 'yeah' before flexing his leg a bit and pushing back against Derek. He's losing his grasp on sleep but for a few blissful seconds more, he can lose his focus on reality and close his eyes.]
[ Derek's supposed to be better than this. Above all this mindless, animal lust the city beats through his veins, above the... the primal parts of him that lack the civility he's supposed to have. Thinking with his dick has only ever gotten him into trouble, and - that's not what this is supposed to even be. This arrangement was just supposed to help Tate meet his quota, and-- no matter how he tries to argue it, no matter what justification he tries to make to himself, he's waking him up in the middle of the night because he wants to be taken care of again. He wants more of Tate, before daybreak takes him away. Back to somebody else. Kavinsky. Peter. The memory of Violet. Whoever.
Someone who isn't him.
He gives Derek the go ahead and Derek makes the tiniest crack of a sound from the back of his throat, his breath catching. He swallows and closes his eyes tight, letting Tate press up against him with only the smallest, shallow rut of his hips to meet him. He kisses along the bumps of Tate's spine as he moves his hand back down between them, adjusting himself in the warmth to carefully, carefully press his dick between the tight squeeze of Tate's thighs.
Swallowing, he pushes forward, resting his forehead against Tate's back, his entire body heating up and almost vibrating with excitement. He's trying so, so hard to be quiet, or - to at least not move as much as he could, if he allowed himself to take everything he wanted. He keeps his thrusts slow and barely there, covering Tate's leg with his arm to hold his thighs together with as small of an amount of force as he can manage, and he barely gets the first inch of his cock between the warm hold of his body every time he presses in. In, out. In, out. So, so fucking slow, like Tate will break if he uses him too hard.
He's less quiet, as he exhales hot and shaky down Tate's shoulderblade. ]
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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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[ Tate's back is to Derek while he strips, so... he won't ever know if Derek watched him get changed or not. Either way, he joins him in the sleeping bag and Derek can tell that he's exhausted, but he's also not entirely comfortable with having this much space between them. This wasn't... an easy night, in a lot of ways, and Derek's stomach is in knots thinking about the home Tate's going to go back to after his night in the treehouse, but. That's all the more reason to make him feel comfortable, right? Safe? Loved, the way pack should be?
So - cautiously - Derek moves in closer, draping his arm around Tate's bare stomach, moving closer until his chest is pressed flush to his back. He doesn't need to exert much strength at all to drag Tate up against his body, pulling him in as tight as possible, allowing his body heat to bleed into Tate. He leans forward, his nose against the side of Tate's neck, and when he talks, his lips are soft against his shoulder. ]
Is this okay?
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[Tate trails off, adjusting again to how he's laying - now that he's flush with Derek, pulled tight so easily. Like a set of magnets, didn't take much effort at all for them to settle together. He's a bit grateful for the sweat pants, they put a little barrier between them that helps him not be able to tell where Derek's cock is really sitting, or how tucked up against him it really is again. He's happy to feel Derek's arms around him and the touch of his nose, and nuzzles back against it like a lazy and affectionate cat seeking comfort.
He likes this. Better than the first time, because he'd been plenty comfortable then - and about to fall asleep easily enough - now he's got the bonus of settling euphoria to make the sleep he's bound to fall into all that much deeper and relaxing. Derek, behind him, also no longer just feels like a friend. They're pack, after all - the intimacy's so much better this way.]
I just - figured... it might be better for you with space. If you're comfortable, I'm comfortable. Just don't get mad if my ass is against you, okay?
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[ Not just now, tonight, but - in general? Derek's talked such a big fucking game about being pack, and Tate's only ever fed into that feeling and made him want it more, and here, finally, Derek's beginning to feel like they're there. It doesn't make sense anymore. Tate's willing to be bitten, Tate's willing to sign a contract, Tate's willing to let Derek take care of him whenever he needs it. Space is just - inhibiting what they should have had together weeks ago. That's what Derek's feeling.
Tate makes a joke about his ass and Derek responds by moving his hips, angling his cock to rest heavy and mostly soft between his thighs. He slips his hand down Tate's stomach, up to his chest, and then back down to his hip. Derek leaves a kiss on the back of Tate's neck, his beard scratching over his skin, and he sets dull, flat teeth against his shoulder, lightly biting down. Not enough to hurt. Just enough to keep his attention. He's touching and feeling Tate like he's his, because - now, more than ever - he is. ]
I want... this.
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With a short yawn, Tate lets his eyes close half-mast before adjusting his weight to lean back against Derek and stay nestled to his chest. He lets his arm slip down to rest again over Derek's, finger idly tracing the valleys of his knuckles as he breathes in deep and truly relaxes.]
I want this too. I feel so... free right now.
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[ Derek settles in, shutting his eyes. There's something so fucking fulfilling about being able to physically provide comfort and security to someone he's promised to protect. It's different with Stiles, where the love between them isn't based on power dynamics or well-meaning promises or anything other than raw, uncomplicated feelings - with Tate, it always feels like there's something slightly off, like there's a loose thread just waiting to be pulled, bringing everything undone. Here - tonight - despite all the anxiety and the worries over Tate's safety, their relationship feels stable. Solid.
Derek believes - maybe for the first time - that he can be a good alpha. That he can be a good something. He can be a good-- whatever it is Tate wants him to be. He roams his hands over Tate's body like it's just... comfortable, because it is, and as he's drifting off to sleep, he says one last, tired thing. ]
This was... good. We're good like this.
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[Tate murmurs in reply, feeling like it's the right thing to say. It's comforting, being this close and feeling like should anything happen... he's got an angry, naked wolf-man to take care of him? Tate sleeps the deepest when he's in the arms of someone else, feeling like the world's something less scary to exist in, and so his head gets heavy fast and his breathing is quick to even out. He sighs just one before he drifts off, fingers resting over Derek's.]
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The sleeping bag is starting to feel cramped and they hadn't accounted for bugs - they're lucky enough to have been left alone by mosquitoes, and contrary to popular belief, Derek doesn't have any fleas to worry about, but there are cicadas and crickets that sound unbearably loud to Derek, even if they're dead silent to the rest of the world. They wake him up in an hour or two, and Derek's disoriented and a little unaware of where he is, but Tate's still curled against his chest and breathing peacefully, and it's enough to keep him stable until the world pieces itself together.
He sighs, rubbing his ear against the arm he's using as a pillow, willing his hearing to dull itself down. Everything fades, and Derek relaxes, closing his eyes.
But he can't get back to sleep. Not when he's this hard.
Derek tries. A good ten, maybe fifteen minutes pass, and Derek tries so hard to pass out again, but sleep refuses to take him; Tate's sweats have dipped down his hips, and Derek's cock is laying thick against his ass, pressed up between his bare back and his own stomach. Every shift Tate makes in his sleep rolls Derek's foreskin back or spreads precum down his spine, and Derek - tries to be good. He tries.
Carefully, quietly, after a long, guilty moment of consideration, Derek reaches his arm back from around Tate, sets it over his hip and just - pauses. He knows Tate's asleep, but... ]
... Are you awake?
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[That's all Derek gets in response - a sleepy murmur from a still rather out of it kid, who's curled up on his side and breathing in deep. He's being fished out of REM and sits warily in the upper echelons of drowsy meets sleepy - eyelids fluttering but his whole attention not stirring yet. He only feels the warmth of being close to someone, the heat from the sleeping bag radiating around them and keeping a faint sheen of sweat over his temples. It was good to take his shirt off and it'd feel better to kick his sweats off, feeling only a tangle of fabric around his thighs that he puts his hand to as if to nudge away. Only he doesn't, because his hand snags in the fabric and stays there, and his head lolls down against the wood.
He doesn't notice the weight of Derek's cock against his back, doesn't know the extent to which he's suffering his hard on. He just was having a nice dream that's already been forgotten, pushed out of his head the second the world started coming back into focus. With the crink in his neck and the hard floor beneath them. He doesn't want to wake up, going back to sleep's so easy.
But fuck. Is Derek talking? The hell?]
What?
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Cautiously, though, Derek inches Tate's sweats down a little more, moving his waistband to just above his knees. Barely, barely moving, he brings his hand back to the base of his cock, angling it down, dragging it down Tate's ass and - as he shifts an inch or two further into the sleeping bag - setting it behind his thigh. Derek swallows, kissing Tate's back, reaching his hand back up to settle on Tate's stomach. Every touch, every movement, it's all barely there, so as not to disturb Tate too deeply out of sleep, and when he talks, the length of his dick urging against the back of Tate's leg, he's barely speaking at a whisper. ]
Can... can I...?
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His eyelids flutter again, dark eyes wearily opening only to shut tight once more. His face screws up in a tired manner and it's still dark out - the middle of the night, easy enough to distinguish - and he doesn't know what Derek wants and frankly doesn't care. He nods, murmuring a soft 'yeah' before flexing his leg a bit and pushing back against Derek. He's losing his grasp on sleep but for a few blissful seconds more, he can lose his focus on reality and close his eyes.]
Sure.
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Someone who isn't him.
He gives Derek the go ahead and Derek makes the tiniest crack of a sound from the back of his throat, his breath catching. He swallows and closes his eyes tight, letting Tate press up against him with only the smallest, shallow rut of his hips to meet him. He kisses along the bumps of Tate's spine as he moves his hand back down between them, adjusting himself in the warmth to carefully, carefully press his dick between the tight squeeze of Tate's thighs.
Swallowing, he pushes forward, resting his forehead against Tate's back, his entire body heating up and almost vibrating with excitement. He's trying so, so hard to be quiet, or - to at least not move as much as he could, if he allowed himself to take everything he wanted. He keeps his thrusts slow and barely there, covering Tate's leg with his arm to hold his thighs together with as small of an amount of force as he can manage, and he barely gets the first inch of his cock between the warm hold of his body every time he presses in. In, out. In, out. So, so fucking slow, like Tate will break if he uses him too hard.
He's less quiet, as he exhales hot and shaky down Tate's shoulderblade. ]
Fffffuck.
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