[ It takes Derek-- a while, to remember where he is. To come down from the ridiculous fucking animalistic high of his orgasm and stop his body from trembling. Tate whispers I can't right against his ear and Derek panics, in that way where his body reacts before his head does; he feels a jolt of worry before he realizes that voice belongs to Tate and reasons out what he means. That he's exhausted, that he's wrecked. The same as Derek.
The lack of sleep he's had tonight fucking gets to him. Derek steadily, steadily withdraws himself from Tate's ass, feeling a little alone when he loses the warm heat of him. His chest aches like he's been breathing too hard for his lungs to keep up with. He doesn't disentangle himself from Tate, even though he should - he just drops his arm around his side, heavy and dead. ]
Fuck.
[ It comes out more like fhck, because Derek's dropped his head down, his lip pulled back by the bicep he's using as a pillow and slurring because of it. Derek swallows, looking at Tate with a smile that's more dopey and drained than anything else. Derek looks almost blissful. That was... that was really, really fucking good. He feels fucked out. Drained. Happy. ]
[Tate still feels himself twitching, stomach flexing tight as the feeling gently ebbs away. He's emptier without Derek's fingers, feeling the slickness on his chest but not managing the effort to reach for that tragically filthy t-shirt of Derek's to clean up. He just lays there, just as heavy and carved of stone, breathing hard before pressing his forehead closer to Derek. He rests it against him, eyes closed, deciding just to lay there and worry later.
If he were more with it, he'd chide Derek for waking him up only to use him and flop back asleep. But Tate's tired too, more so now than ever, and he makes a still-hoarse sounding noise of acknowledgment that's almost a fond agreement. He's gonna pass out too, he thinks. But for a few moments of silence, Tate just lets his eyelids feel heavy and knows that he's safe? This feeling, he can trust it.]
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The lack of sleep he's had tonight fucking gets to him. Derek steadily, steadily withdraws himself from Tate's ass, feeling a little alone when he loses the warm heat of him. His chest aches like he's been breathing too hard for his lungs to keep up with. He doesn't disentangle himself from Tate, even though he should - he just drops his arm around his side, heavy and dead. ]
Fuck.
[ It comes out more like fhck, because Derek's dropped his head down, his lip pulled back by the bicep he's using as a pillow and slurring because of it. Derek swallows, looking at Tate with a smile that's more dopey and drained than anything else. Derek looks almost blissful. That was... that was really, really fucking good. He feels fucked out. Drained. Happy. ]
Gonna... m'gonna pass out. I think.
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If he were more with it, he'd chide Derek for waking him up only to use him and flop back asleep. But Tate's tired too, more so now than ever, and he makes a still-hoarse sounding noise of acknowledgment that's almost a fond agreement. He's gonna pass out too, he thinks. But for a few moments of silence, Tate just lets his eyelids feel heavy and knows that he's safe? This feeling, he can trust it.]