[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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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.]