[ Given that it's Tate's birthday, Derek isn't going to comment on him tracking snow into the den - though there's still a pointed glance or two that betrays just how mildly annoyed he is. Tate takes the beer and Derek sips his own, pretending, again, that there's any point in drinking alcohol as a werewolf, and he shrugs one shoulder in response to Tate's question. ]
Asleep, knowing her.
[ Probably in the bedroom, still curled up in whatever ray of sun she can find. He's had that cat for a pretty long time now - he's had Stiles' cat for a pretty long time now, too - but he still feels pretty weird about it. He's not a cat person. Not a pet person in general. They're weird little exceptions. ]
... You want anything?
[ Food. Birthday stuff. He's also had Tate for a pretty long time, and he's still not great at birthdays. Socializing in general. ]
[That's what he always says, though. Tate's appetite is as elusive to him as the truth is his tongue, so it doesn't really count for much when he says it. He probably should eat, but he's not about to push for anything. Not when he can fill his belly with booze and get a better buzz that way, too. He takes another drink, licking his lip before giving another absent shrug.]
I don't know how to really celebrate this kind of thing. My mom would always make a dinner, but that was about it. I hated that, it felt more for her sake than anyone else's. I just want to hang out.
[ Thanks to the whole christmas baby thing - you live in a big house with a big family, you get born on a holiday, you're a middle child... Derek was never made to feel unappreciated, or anything, and unlike Tate, he cherishes the things his mom used to do for him, but a little overlooking was hard to avoid. He can't help but relate his birthday to a million things that have nothing to do with him.
Still, it feels a little pathetic to go through every year like this. He shrugs, walking towards the main living area, distant and a little vague. ]
Well - if you can think of anything you want to do - you can technically order me around, o powerful Dom. Otherwise -
[ Derek drops down into the sofa, feet up on the coffee table. He's fine with just hanging out. ]
I'll make use of that after, it's not a party if someone's not getting off - right?
[Tate offers a soft smirk before he covers it with the lip of his beer can, drinking some more by the gulp. His eyes sketch over Derek who always has an easy way of relaxing. He might be hypervigilant, always listening and protecting - but he makes sitting down look effortless, like a dog ready to curl up for a well deserved rest.]
[ Sounds about right. Derek doesn't comment, which makes it seem like he's internally rolling his eyes at Tate boning up, but - he's the one who kickstarted this conversation. He's just saving face. ]
Didn't really do anything. Spent most of my time in New York just... you know.
[ Drifting. Haunting the apartment he shared with his sister like he was a ghost. Life moved on without him while he stagnated, only getting shocked back to life when his uncle started killing people back home. There's not much merit to be found in talking about those years. ]
I probably would've liked to go further into the city, though. Look at the art. See a show. Can't really do that here.
[ Though he imagines there's probably a pretty rowdy BDSM-version of Cats playing somewhere in the Up. He'd totally watch that. ]
There're a lot of art shows here... not exactly what they were back home, but some people are really into shibari.
[He's prowled around, time to time. He tries to picture Derek at 19 and he can't. Maybe it's just because it's hard to think of him as anything but the tall brooding figure before him, born with a full beard and biceps cut of stone. Tate plays his fingers over the sofa's arm rest and more or less just stares at Derek, half in thought, half just - staring. Looking at him with kind familiarity. Ease.]
Maybe I should make some shitty teen mistakes before I'm actually not a teen anymore. Get a lip ring or something.
[ Derek feels that same fondness for Tate, obviously, but it's hard to see it in the way he looks back. He just kinda winces, shaking his head slightly, and - if Tate didn't know him well enough to detect the slight hint of playfulness in his tone right now, he'd probably sound like a pretty big shithead. ]
You don't think you've made enough shitty teen mistakes already?
I haven't knocked any girls up here, you should be proud.
[And that's all he needs to say on that topic, hypocritical as he is. He's pretty much the embodiment of terrible, shitty, teen-minded mistakes. And disasters. But he laughs like it's nothing because to him, it isn't. That's one of the great things about not feeling all that tethered to morality and your own conscience. He rubs at his face, finishing off his beer with a soft little snort.]
If you had to get something pierced, what would it be.
[ whoops. Anyway - Derek's not going to answer Tate's question, choosing instead to roll his eyes, whatever patience he was holding onto to stop him from acting like a dick over Tate's birthday finally wearing thin. He sets down his beer and stands back up, wandering over to Tate. He holds Tate's bottom lip between his thumb and forefinger, eyebrows up, tugging slightly. ]
[Wasn't too long ago he was staring up at his - well, his therapist - whose fingers he did precisely the same thing to as he does Derek's now: he parts his lips to try and suck on the tip of his digit without a second thought. This city has had its effects on him these last two years, with sex always seeming to be in the forefront of his mind. He stares up at Derek, dark eyes suddenly attentive as his beer falls to the wayside.]
[ Derek is unresponsive, though there's a heavier weight behind his gaze as he watches Tate part his lips for him. He watches in silence, silently dragging the tip of his finger towards Tate's open mouth, pressing a fingertip against his tongue in a silent command to suck a little harder. ]
I don't think you are.
[ But - that's fine, really. They're talking about nothing, doing nothing, being nothing. This is the kind of warm, easy peace he would have loved, when he was turning nineteen - physical intimacy, the comforting presence of someone he trusts. Derek lingers in the quiet for a second longer before speaking up again. ]
[Tate keeps on staring upward, dark eyes more and more intent in the way they focus on Derek's face like he's determined to show him just how focused he really is. A challenge is a challenge, after all. So as Derek presses his finger to the flat of his tongue, Tate sucks harder - sealing his lips around his finger and hollowing out his cheeks just because he can. His tongue laps up around the digit before he leans back a little, pulling off after sufficiently wetting it.]
You're still my Dom. Doesn't matter what the city says.
[Since, well, this is a two way street:]
Tell me what you want me to do for you. I liked it when you would.
[ Tempting. Tate's always tempting - that's always been a problem. A few seconds pass as Derek's eyes fall half-lidded, the soft sensation of pressure around his fingertip running straight to his cock. Tate pulls away, but Derek keeps his hand where it is, still lingering close to Tate's mouth. ]
It's your birthday. I want to do things for you.
[ His hand drifts down, closing the distance as his fingers curl softly around Tate's throat. Derek smooths his thumb down the ridge of Tate's adam's apple, stroking a line against his windpipe. There's not a ton of conviction in his voice, all soft-spoken and deadpan, but he means what he says when he says it. ]
I can take what I want from you any time. Today should be - special.
[The thud of his heart against his chest and the spike of arousal that rolls through Tate when Derek says what he says is likely noticeable to him, and part of that is why it excites Tate just as much. Derek's always aware of things like that. The smallest changes, the littlest details. He keeps staring up at him, swallowing hard before sucking in a slow breath - letting it out in a measured exhale.]
I want...
[It's easier to vocalize things when he's teasing Derek, when he's pushing the envelope to see how far it'll go. This moment feels especially real in that Derek's listening, and Tate has an actual opportunity to start asking for something. Where does he start?]
[ Derek's-- already committed to this. Already let Tate to slip through some of the cracks in his boundaries he's never been good at maintaining. There's a second of hesitation, but - only a second. He's already crossed this line once before, so... ]
Dangerous. I might not ever untie you.
[ He squeezes Tate's throat, just tight enough to be uncomfortable, feeling Tate swallow against his palm. He drops his hand further down until he's hooking his fingers in Tate's collar, and he's tugging on his shirt unnecessarily hard as he pulls him towards his bedroom. The door opens, and then Derek's pushing Tate by the small of his back towards the bed. ]
[Tate lets out a soft groan at the pressure on his throat, his cock throbbing from the slightest little touch. It doesn't take more than that little pull of his shirt collar to have him lurching forward, running his tongue over his lip and tasting the bitterness of alcohol as he gets pulled harder yet. He grimaces if only because his pants are suddenly too constrictive, his hand brushing over the bulge behind the denim before he's heading into the bedroom.
It's still not a room he thinks he has a lot of governance over, but bit by bit it feels like he's claiming it the way he wants to. It's taken so long to get there - but Tate, in this moment, is so genuinely happy. He's excited, horny - and stumbling toward the bed while lifting his arms to pull off his shirt overhead. He drops it to the floor and then crawls forward on his knees toward the center of it, looking back over his shoulder at Derek to await his next instruction as well as gauge his interest in his positioning.]
[ It's kind of alarming, to Derek, that as he leaves Tate on the bed and rummages through his wardrobe for rope, he realizes that he doesn't remember when he bought so much rope in the first place. He has some vague memories of the initially innocuous reasoning behind purchasing it all - this was supposed to be for training, this was supposed to be for his pack - but he's been here for years, now. He would never have supplies like this so easily on hand at home.
Derek watches Tate strip, mildly amused. He doesn't tell him to stop - quite the opposite, in fact, as once Tate's pulled his shirt off over his head, Derek's arching an eyebrow and gesturing at the rest of his clothes with a quick, brief nod. He wants Tate to get bare on his own, and as he wraps the long thread of rope around his hands, stretching it tight in his grip, he drifts towards the side of the bed to watch, silently. ]
[Tate strips - and then he strips, kicking off every scrap of clothing on him before lounging for a moment on his side. Derek's watching him with that alluring sense of dominance that Tate knows this city can't pull away from him. He strokes his cock for a moment before he decides to follow the next instruction, rolling onto his back with his cock rigid and his blond hair falling to rest in a crown around his head against the dark sheets. He settles back into the bed, then pushes himself a little closer toward the headboard by digging his heels into the mattress.]
Like this?
[He stretches out, squirming to put his arms out toward the corners of the bed before wriggling his fingers. There's something in his eyes that's playful despite his supposed bend to submission, but that's not new. Neither is the heated flush of color up his chest and across the bridge of his nose.]
[ Derek surveys Tate less like someone he's about to fuck into a writhing, screaming mess and more like an obligation he has to give a once-over to for the sake of some boring, clerical duty. It's all performative, obviously - the lazy sweep of his eyes, the way he stares at Tate like he's bored of seeing him for the millionth time, none of it's real. Just another subtle, silent show of dominance, a slow-paced ignition for the rest of their evening.
He doesn't give Tate any nods or words of approval, but clearly he's happy with how Tate's laying, because he unwraps the first length of rope from his hand and corners in on Tate's wrist. He secures Tate's first hand to the headboard and it's tight, but in a way that says a little too much about Derek's experience with this; Tate's first hand is completely locked in place with no chance of wriggling free, but the pinch of the rope against his skin is more pleasurable than uncomfortable or painful. When Derek makes the trip around the bed to the other side, he's slow and ambling, unravelling another stretch of rope for Tate's second hand.
He secures him in place again, then ties Tate's ankles to the end of the bed, too, just to really lock him in place. He's spread-eagle and helpless, and only when he's sure that Tate's completely stuck does Derek start pulling off his own shirt over his head. ]
... Really tempted to just leave you here and go watch TV.
[Doesn't matter how many times they've fucked, how many times they've touched - how many dirty, filthy thoughts Tate's had about Derek just to blow a load in the shower - every time they're together, it feels vibrant. Nothing ever wears away and Tate thinks that's in part to how he feels connected, how Derek's always putting an underlying tone of care in their relationship to make him feel secure. Tate always craved stability just like he craved unconditional love.
He watches Derek tie his first wrist without much of a response, still caught in a half-smile of cocky attitude. But when he feels how tight it cinches and how little give he has, his smile fades. Not away entirely, not to be replaced with distress, but much rather he feels ever so much more turned on by it. Captivated by the helplessness that's then instilled in him by the other three of his limbs being bound down. He squirms just to test how it feels and it's pretty impossible to do anything but stay where he is. His eyes convey a beat of allured alarm at that, flicking up to Derek with the façade of bratitude lowering down. Only to surge again with a breathy laugh.]
It is the start of the weekend. You could have me here as long as you want me.
[He feeds into the fantasy, breathing deep with a hitch in his chest. His fingers curl and uncurl and he seems restless, uncomfortable but deeply entrenched in what they're doing and the fantasy of being put to use by Derek. Being used by Derek.]
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Asleep, knowing her.
[ Probably in the bedroom, still curled up in whatever ray of sun she can find. He's had that cat for a pretty long time now - he's had Stiles' cat for a pretty long time now, too - but he still feels pretty weird about it. He's not a cat person. Not a pet person in general. They're weird little exceptions. ]
... You want anything?
[ Food. Birthday stuff. He's also had Tate for a pretty long time, and he's still not great at birthdays. Socializing in general. ]
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[That's what he always says, though. Tate's appetite is as elusive to him as the truth is his tongue, so it doesn't really count for much when he says it. He probably should eat, but he's not about to push for anything. Not when he can fill his belly with booze and get a better buzz that way, too. He takes another drink, licking his lip before giving another absent shrug.]
I don't know how to really celebrate this kind of thing. My mom would always make a dinner, but that was about it. I hated that, it felt more for her sake than anyone else's. I just want to hang out.
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[ Thanks to the whole christmas baby thing - you live in a big house with a big family, you get born on a holiday, you're a middle child... Derek was never made to feel unappreciated, or anything, and unlike Tate, he cherishes the things his mom used to do for him, but a little overlooking was hard to avoid. He can't help but relate his birthday to a million things that have nothing to do with him.
Still, it feels a little pathetic to go through every year like this. He shrugs, walking towards the main living area, distant and a little vague. ]
Well - if you can think of anything you want to do - you can technically order me around, o powerful Dom. Otherwise -
[ Derek drops down into the sofa, feet up on the coffee table. He's fine with just hanging out. ]
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[Tate offers a soft smirk before he covers it with the lip of his beer can, drinking some more by the gulp. His eyes sketch over Derek who always has an easy way of relaxing. He might be hypervigilant, always listening and protecting - but he makes sitting down look effortless, like a dog ready to curl up for a well deserved rest.]
What'd you do when you turned 19?
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Didn't really do anything. Spent most of my time in New York just... you know.
[ Drifting. Haunting the apartment he shared with his sister like he was a ghost. Life moved on without him while he stagnated, only getting shocked back to life when his uncle started killing people back home. There's not much merit to be found in talking about those years. ]
I probably would've liked to go further into the city, though. Look at the art. See a show. Can't really do that here.
[ Though he imagines there's probably a pretty rowdy BDSM-version of Cats playing somewhere in the Up. He'd totally watch that. ]
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[He's prowled around, time to time. He tries to picture Derek at 19 and he can't. Maybe it's just because it's hard to think of him as anything but the tall brooding figure before him, born with a full beard and biceps cut of stone. Tate plays his fingers over the sofa's arm rest and more or less just stares at Derek, half in thought, half just - staring. Looking at him with kind familiarity. Ease.]
Maybe I should make some shitty teen mistakes before I'm actually not a teen anymore. Get a lip ring or something.
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You don't think you've made enough shitty teen mistakes already?
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[And that's all he needs to say on that topic, hypocritical as he is. He's pretty much the embodiment of terrible, shitty, teen-minded mistakes. And disasters. But he laughs like it's nothing because to him, it isn't. That's one of the great things about not feeling all that tethered to morality and your own conscience. He rubs at his face, finishing off his beer with a soft little snort.]
If you had to get something pierced, what would it be.
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[ whoops. Anyway - Derek's not going to answer Tate's question, choosing instead to roll his eyes, whatever patience he was holding onto to stop him from acting like a dick over Tate's birthday finally wearing thin. He sets down his beer and stands back up, wandering over to Tate. He holds Tate's bottom lip between his thumb and forefinger, eyebrows up, tugging slightly. ]
Focus on this instead of me.
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I'm focused.
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I don't think you are.
[ But - that's fine, really. They're talking about nothing, doing nothing, being nothing. This is the kind of warm, easy peace he would have loved, when he was turning nineteen - physical intimacy, the comforting presence of someone he trusts. Derek lingers in the quiet for a second longer before speaking up again. ]
I miss being your Dom.
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You're still my Dom. Doesn't matter what the city says.
[Since, well, this is a two way street:]
Tell me what you want me to do for you. I liked it when you would.
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It's your birthday. I want to do things for you.
[ His hand drifts down, closing the distance as his fingers curl softly around Tate's throat. Derek smooths his thumb down the ridge of Tate's adam's apple, stroking a line against his windpipe. There's not a ton of conviction in his voice, all soft-spoken and deadpan, but he means what he says when he says it. ]
I can take what I want from you any time. Today should be - special.
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I want...
[It's easier to vocalize things when he's teasing Derek, when he's pushing the envelope to see how far it'll go. This moment feels especially real in that Derek's listening, and Tate has an actual opportunity to start asking for something. Where does he start?]
I want you to tie me to the bed. Our bed.
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Dangerous. I might not ever untie you.
[ He squeezes Tate's throat, just tight enough to be uncomfortable, feeling Tate swallow against his palm. He drops his hand further down until he's hooking his fingers in Tate's collar, and he's tugging on his shirt unnecessarily hard as he pulls him towards his bedroom. The door opens, and then Derek's pushing Tate by the small of his back towards the bed. ]
Lay down.
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It's still not a room he thinks he has a lot of governance over, but bit by bit it feels like he's claiming it the way he wants to. It's taken so long to get there - but Tate, in this moment, is so genuinely happy. He's excited, horny - and stumbling toward the bed while lifting his arms to pull off his shirt overhead. He drops it to the floor and then crawls forward on his knees toward the center of it, looking back over his shoulder at Derek to await his next instruction as well as gauge his interest in his positioning.]
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Derek watches Tate strip, mildly amused. He doesn't tell him to stop - quite the opposite, in fact, as once Tate's pulled his shirt off over his head, Derek's arching an eyebrow and gesturing at the rest of his clothes with a quick, brief nod. He wants Tate to get bare on his own, and as he wraps the long thread of rope around his hands, stretching it tight in his grip, he drifts towards the side of the bed to watch, silently. ]
On your back when you're done.
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Like this?
[He stretches out, squirming to put his arms out toward the corners of the bed before wriggling his fingers. There's something in his eyes that's playful despite his supposed bend to submission, but that's not new. Neither is the heated flush of color up his chest and across the bridge of his nose.]
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He doesn't give Tate any nods or words of approval, but clearly he's happy with how Tate's laying, because he unwraps the first length of rope from his hand and corners in on Tate's wrist. He secures Tate's first hand to the headboard and it's tight, but in a way that says a little too much about Derek's experience with this; Tate's first hand is completely locked in place with no chance of wriggling free, but the pinch of the rope against his skin is more pleasurable than uncomfortable or painful. When Derek makes the trip around the bed to the other side, he's slow and ambling, unravelling another stretch of rope for Tate's second hand.
He secures him in place again, then ties Tate's ankles to the end of the bed, too, just to really lock him in place. He's spread-eagle and helpless, and only when he's sure that Tate's completely stuck does Derek start pulling off his own shirt over his head. ]
... Really tempted to just leave you here and go watch TV.
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He watches Derek tie his first wrist without much of a response, still caught in a half-smile of cocky attitude. But when he feels how tight it cinches and how little give he has, his smile fades. Not away entirely, not to be replaced with distress, but much rather he feels ever so much more turned on by it. Captivated by the helplessness that's then instilled in him by the other three of his limbs being bound down. He squirms just to test how it feels and it's pretty impossible to do anything but stay where he is. His eyes convey a beat of allured alarm at that, flicking up to Derek with the façade of bratitude lowering down. Only to surge again with a breathy laugh.]
It is the start of the weekend. You could have me here as long as you want me.
[He feeds into the fantasy, breathing deep with a hitch in his chest. His fingers curl and uncurl and he seems restless, uncomfortable but deeply entrenched in what they're doing and the fantasy of being put to use by Derek. Being used by Derek.]