[ Things get better fast. The second Tate squirms, the second he tastes Derek's pre, the mood is back to where it was. Derek stays stationary for a moment or two, letting Tate grind up against him, and then he's curling each long, slender finger of his back around the both of them, squeezing the soft yet calloused palm of his hand tight around them, welcoming and warm. His fist gets a little wetter, a little louder, the more he strokes, with Tate's precum mixing with his own and making this easier, slicker, faster. Derek - exhales.
He twists his hand in circles around the head of Tate's cock, around the head of his own. I don't like thinking of you with other people. Derek strokes faster. Faster. ]
I do.
[ He drops his body down, slinking forward, all self-assured and vaguely feline. He rests his free arm above Tate's head, warm in the sand, leaning over Tate like he's shielding him from the sight of the sun, and he strokes-- faster. Faster. Demanding, now. Demanding to see Tate squirm. Demanding to make his heart beat even faster. ]
Anytime I'm with someone. I always think of you. I only think of you.
[ Because it's - easier, to think of Tate, the safest constant he has in Duplicity, than it is to think of the stranger beneath him, the friend beneath him who might one day disapepar, or the boyfriend who already left. It's easier to avoid dwelling on his fears and his self-conscious anxieties if he instead thinks of the person who so successfully manipulated Derek into feeling comfortable and safe around him.
But that's not how Derek sees it. He thinks of Tate because of-- something else. Something good. Better. ]
[Tate doesn't say anything to that - he likes hearing it, and feels somewhat surprised. He feels a sick sense of satisfaction, though, a warm thud in his chest because months may have gone by but he's still trying to stick it to a kid who's long gone by showing him that he's wormed his way even closer to Derek than ever before. That Derek's thinking of him instead when he fucks someone - even though there's something about that that could be bad, too. Stiles is still a sensitive subject, maybe he avoids him on purpose. Maybe Tate's just second pick.
He doesn't think about that. Doesn't even begin to - not when Derek's got his hand around their cocks and keeps giving him something tight to fuck up into. He feels the weight of Derek shift forward, feels the sun shaded from his eyes by his body. Tate's panting now, lifting a hand to Derek's side and grazing his nails over it as he works them together. Shit - shit, shit. He's cursing lightly under his breath, eyelids fluttering again and eyes nearly rolling back.]
Keep going - shit. This way you can come on me if you want. Where do you want to?
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
He twists his hand in circles around the head of Tate's cock, around the head of his own. I don't like thinking of you with other people. Derek strokes faster. Faster. ]
I do.
[ He drops his body down, slinking forward, all self-assured and vaguely feline. He rests his free arm above Tate's head, warm in the sand, leaning over Tate like he's shielding him from the sight of the sun, and he strokes-- faster. Faster. Demanding, now. Demanding to see Tate squirm. Demanding to make his heart beat even faster. ]
Anytime I'm with someone. I always think of you. I only think of you.
[ Because it's - easier, to think of Tate, the safest constant he has in Duplicity, than it is to think of the stranger beneath him, the friend beneath him who might one day disapepar, or the boyfriend who already left. It's easier to avoid dwelling on his fears and his self-conscious anxieties if he instead thinks of the person who so successfully manipulated Derek into feeling comfortable and safe around him.
But that's not how Derek sees it. He thinks of Tate because of-- something else. Something good. Better. ]
no subject
He doesn't think about that. Doesn't even begin to - not when Derek's got his hand around their cocks and keeps giving him something tight to fuck up into. He feels the weight of Derek shift forward, feels the sun shaded from his eyes by his body. Tate's panting now, lifting a hand to Derek's side and grazing his nails over it as he works them together. Shit - shit, shit. He's cursing lightly under his breath, eyelids fluttering again and eyes nearly rolling back.]
Keep going - shit. This way you can come on me if you want. Where do you want to?