I did have a phase where I wanted to be a porn star. Because I was a fucking fifteen year old boy.
[ But no, that's not the joke. Derek wets his lips, stares at the back of Tate's head, trying to figure out if he's actually going to follow through on this or not. Figures it's not the worst secret he's shared about himself, though, ssssoooooo. ]
Kind of wanted to play basketball professionally?
[ He says, like it's a question. As for what he wants to do now - he doesn't really have an answer. Hibernate, maybe. ]
Damnit, that's not even embarrassing, Derek. I mean, kinda shitty of you 'cause - cheating, much? But if you had a shot that's a pretty normal fucking dream. I probably could've run track better than I did, but I don't think that would've panned out for me either.
[Not just 'cause he died, of course. But because it was just a hobby over a focus. He wasn't wildly great at it despite a few medals and a trophy here or there. He wasn't a superhuman kid who probably kicked ass on the court and would've gotten in shit when doing testing later on.]
You could reignite the porn star thing here, though. Hard Wolf Hale. It could work.
[ He thinks it's stupid, really. A childish dream that doesn't suit him anymore. He's not a team player, despite all his cries for a pack. He doesn't play games. Doesn't have fun. Derek drops his ear against his bicep, getting more comfortable.
Track, though. Track suits Tate. Even now. ]
Doubt anybody watches porn here. Seems kind of pointless, when you can just... go out and fuck whoever you want.
People still watch it. There was a shit ton of it at the hotel.
[He might've watched some of it himself, just to - get in the mood before getting carried away with who he was with. But that's just it, it was a segue into fucking someone else so maybe Derek's right. Then again, there must be some sad sacks here he who can't even get laid so they stick to jerking off or scratching their voyeur kinks some other ways.]
I'm surprised nobody who's come here's made anything, but maybe they have. It's a lot easier to share that shit on modern computers. Back when I was growing up, it was VHS tapes and spotty antenna connections.
Magazines stashed in the woods, for me. But. Didn't really have much of a choice.
[ Because, you know - growing up in a family of people who fucking knew what he was doing no matter how hard he tried to find it didn't give him a lot of avenues for... that. Jesus, okay. Circling away from himself. ]
Anyway. I'm sure at least one person has solicited dick pics on the network. There's gotta be LIERs porn somewhere. We just haven't gone looking for it. [ Or Derek hasn't, at least. ]
[Tate laughs lightly - porn in the woods, fuck. He grins a bit and his breathing has begun to even out, but he still is a bit restless albeit happy. He leans back a little, flush to Derek, and lifts his head to look back over his shoulder at him. He's a lot easier to read like this, blond hair a mess and his eyes openly expressive. He blinks at Derek for a silent moment.]
Yours, I think.
[His breath smells of booze, but he doesn't care. Sorry Derek.]
[ Tate closes the distance between them and Derek... doesn't really know where to put his hands. He's fine with this, even if affectionate intimacy is still kind of difficult for him, because Tate's worked his way up to it over these past few months. He just sorta leaves his arm at his side, for now, though he props himself up more with the other to get a better look at Tate.
He's also had 22 years to get used to being uncomfortably attuned to people's breath, so. That's fine, too. ]
[Deliberately not taking that bait, he smiles in a way that suggests he knows precisely where Derek was digging and what for. He then studies his face, weight still leaned back against Derek so he can stare at him from this close up. He can see every little feature, from the stubble on his jaw to the way the light hits his eyes from the moon filtering down from up above. God, it's quiet up here.]
Can you do me a favor?
[Kavinsky would always get annoyed if he didn't continue with it right away, so he does:]
Can you do that thing to my hair again. Like before?
[ Mermaids, eat shit. Tate asks for a favour and Derek doesn't get annoyed in the brief gap of time before he follows up. He just listens, and he waits, and when Tate tells him what he wants, it only takes a second before he connects the dots and remembers what he means.
And yeah, of course he will. They're too close for Derek to comfortably stroke through Tate's hair without touching him a little more, so he has to rest his arm on Tate's side, but again, he doesn't feel that weird about it. It's the kind of comfort he's always wanted to give people, it's the kind of comfort he's only ever really found with Stiles, which - is different, obviously, to the Alpha instincts he has with Tate. He brushes back some of Tate's hair behind his ear, then just - threads his fingers through his hair, grazing over his skin. He touches him, kind and gentle, the way Talia did for him when she first saw his eyes turn blue.
He keeps his voice just as gentle. ]
Do you like mermaids because they're connected to the ocean, or... because you think fucking sailors and drowning them sounds like a metal way to spend your afternoon?
[Tate knows all about werewolves - the scent tracking, the heart beat monitoring and the way Derek can peel an emotion off Tate simply by the chemosignals that radiate off him when he feels it. So he doesn't try to hide anything around him, which is good. Because he wouldn't be able to high the sigh of relief, the way his limbs get heavy the second Derek's playing with his hair the way Nora used to, when she first saw him in the basement.
It's sedating and Tate struggles not to fall for it too quickly, eyelids low and heavy and his body shifting to get comfortable. He curls to be the little spoon in the arrangement, feeling safe and tucked away. Still, he laughs, a bit delayed and chased by another soft yawn.]
Both? Sirens are cool too. But yeah, it's... it's metal.
[Fuck. He's tired. Why all of a sudden? The warmth, the care, the heart beat of another person tucked up behind him. Tate's fighting a losing battle and it shows.]
[ Which should be enough? He could list out everything else that makes werewolves great - teeth, eyes, muscles, the ability to walk on land without having to sell your voice to a witch - but Tate's getting too tired, he thinks, and it's gotta be better to just let him sleep. Derek strokes through his hair a little slower, closing his eyes, letting everything just be... warm and safe and familiar.
Too familiar, maybe. Tate presses in tighter against him, silently asking to be held, and Derek swallows, his throat dry. It can't be attraction that does it, because they're pack, and he's happily taken, but - he's a guy, and he's a werewolf, and he's being pressed up against in a way that's pretty fucking familiar to how Stiles presses up against him at night, and maybe it's pavlovian, maybe it's just-- bad luck, but Derek does feel himself getting kinda hard. He tries to ignore it, and he does a pretty good job, he thinks, but he's not breathing when he's half-mast against Tate's ass, just like he's not breathing when he slowly moves away.
He twists his hips and adds some distance, just an inch or so between them, trying to be subtle about it but fucking that up by clearing his throat. He's not touching Tate's hair anymore. He brings his arm away from him, putting it back at his own side. Cautiously, he just - ends this conversation here, his stomach in a bit of a knot. ]
[Tate's hitting that sweet spot of limbo where he's just about to start having dream-like thoughts that will erase if he pulls out of them, but he doesn't get to get that far. Derek pulls away and Tate blinks back awake, not sure if Derek's last words had just been said then and now or a few minutes back. His eyes still feel heavy, but he doesn't like the sudden space between them.
He leans back, killing the distance and purposely putting his weight up against Derek.]
[ Fuck. Tate leans into him again, cutting Derek's escape attempt short. He presses back against Derek, all tight and warm and close, and for a second, the friction blue screens Derek a bit and freezes him up. He swallows, getting harder, and he puts one hand on Tate's shoulder, ready to roll him away again.
And he doesn't think Tate understands what he's doing, or why this is a problem, but Derek is - warning, more than anything, when he talks again. Stony and sharp, like he's only going to say this once. ]
[Tate's more awake now, blinking back to focus and turning his head to look at Derek in the dark with a narrowed glance that's lost all the fondness of earlier. Like he's getting barked at for no reason, he takes a defensive stance. He pulls away, back forward and onto his forearm before turning over the other way and staring at Derek blearily in the dark - wishing, perhaps, he'd thought to bring any sort of light. He thinks of his phone after a beat, fishing it out of his pocket and shining the light directly in Derek's face.]
What's your problem? You're acting...
[The light illuminates Derek's chest and down, and Tate's eyes drift. So does the light.]
[ Just... defensive. The light doesn't help matters, because his eyes were adjusting pretty hard to the darkness, and having a fucking sun shone in his face and blinding the living fuck out of him is only making Derek feel worse. He shifts back another few inches and rubs the corner of his eye with his thumb, pulling down the hem of his jacket, then just - fidgeting with his sleeves. ]
Look - I didn't mean to wake you up, just. Go back to sleep?
[Defiant, tired, said with another yawn against his hand as he sets his phone down face down between them - letting only a thin line of light out from the edges. He sits up in the dark, aware Derek can see him and maybe it's the buzz still in his head or the weird feeling he's been getting for a while now, but he doesn't want to ignore this. Doesn't want to read too far into it, either, which is why he's contained and thoughtful before he reaches out in the dark to touch his fingers to Derek's hip.]
It's not something that needs to be dealt with, it's just-- Jesus Christ.
[ Tate sits up and Derek is feeling more and more cornered, even though this isn't a fucking big deal and doesn't have to fucking be one. He just wanted to shift away and sleep in peace, not get into whatever weird territory they've stumbled into. His neck feels hot and his face feels hotter, and he's still half-hard, stretching down the length of his thigh through the side of his boxers, trapped beneath the denim of his jeans. He's grateful they're back in the dark.
He doesn't want to answer Tate's question, because he knows how he gets about rejection. He's seen him fall apart, seen him get angry, and Derek feels like he's hurt him and ruined so many things for him already, that jumping straight into shooting him down is going to lead to another breakdown, or-- or at least a few tears, followed by a few shouts, followed by Tate running back home to Kavinsky to get high. Tonight was supposed to be a good night. Saying no and ruining that feels just as dangerous as saying yes.
So he just - swallows. He shifts, rolling over, putting his back to Tate. Staying close, but not facing him. If they sleep back to back, then - it's - fine. Doable. Nothing has to break. ]
[Tate's voice is tired, especially when he sees him turn away - it makes him sit there, annoyed and mystified by what's happened and what it means if anything. Derek's told him straight faced before that he doesn't want to fuck him and well, he always felt that was somehow true. But he's seen a few of the looks he's gotten, messages mixed up by the things he's said as well. How teenage Derek would've been all over him, or whatever. Tate rubs at his face and hates that Derek's turned away from him now.
He thinks of him and Stiles, in the precarious situation they got themselves into and how - well, they never look back on that aloud. It never happened, so to speak, but it served a purpose. And he wonders if this is another moment like that, where he's supposed to make a move more strategically than he can think to. Have it all line up.]
Fine.
[Annoyed, Tate slumps back down against the thin layer of the sleeping bag and does what Derek tells him to. He lays down, only he faces Derek and spitefully leans close to take over as big spoon with his arm draped over Derek's side from behind. No groping, no grinding, just Tate pressing his face in against the center of his back and curling in against the broadness of it to soak up the warmth.]
[ The mood sours, and that's - fine, because sour is nothing, sour is manageable. Tate pulls himself up against Derek's body and Derek doesn't make a noise, doesn't push him away. His jaw hurts from how tight he's locking it together, and his eyes are tired and glassy as he stares out at the platform ahead of him, but he doesn't move.
Tate's voice is right up against his ear, when he tells Derek to jerk off.
Derek swallows. Tate might not be a werewolf yet, but he has to be able to hear how hard Derek's heart is beating in his chest. A rhythmic baseline brought on by the surge of adrenaline released in his body, making the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. Derek's-- obviously not going to jerk off, but he's obviously not going to be able to sleep, either, not like this. Slowly, carefully, he rolls onto his back. He doesn't make an effort to move Tate away, choosing instead to let his arm stay draped over his stomach when he moves, and he stares pointedly up at the stars, barely there behind a thatch of branches and leaves.
His mouth feels dry. He needs another beer. Fuck, he wishes alcohol worked on him. He's not really thinking when he speaks again, still addressing the sky instead of Tate. ]
Saying things like that's just going to make it worse.
[Tate murmurs like he's talking down to a child, even though he feels - strained to say it against Derek's arm. He shifts back just enough to let Derek roll over when he does, but finds himself staying against him with his arm spitefully still across his midsection despite the way it makes Tate's heart beat a little... strangely for a second. It's just, weird, okay? Not exciting, not arousing, just... different.]
[ He can't. Shouldn't. He sounds more tired, than anything else. It's kind of frustrating - he's surrounded by aphrodisiacs and drugs and leather and whips and chains every fucking day of his life, but it's this that turns awkward. This is why he doesn't have a fucking pack. Or - okay - not specifically because he always ends up with incomprehensibly inappropriate hardons, but. Because things always go wrong.
Tonight was supposed to be easy. Derek sits up, still not forcing Tate away from him, and he reaches for another beer, cracking open his third. He takes a swig, arches his neck back when he swallows, adam's apple bobbing. He wipes his lips on the back of his mouth, then slowly tilts his head towards Tate. ]
[Tate's brows knit together, the words there are other options on his lips but Derek sits up and Tate just lays next to him staring up at him like the tired sack of half-drunk shit he is. Takes a moment of watching Derek drink, seeing only the illuminated outlines of his features, before Tate struggles to right himself and sit up. He's still close, knee to thigh, legs warm and up against one another. Derek's always warm, he's noticed, and that seems in line with the canine feature.]
If it was because I was doing something to make you hot, it's one thing. But this is just - sort of something else, right? This happened to me before, here. Maybe a little different, but we dealt with it and kept on moving.
[ Tate's gotten around so much since coming here. Derek gets it, on one level, and it's not like he gives a shit, but it's such - a change, from the Tate that Derek knew during orientation. Scared and angry and incapable of getting through what he had to. He wonders if the city made him more open because it's... who Tate always wanted to be, or if this place corrupted him more than it should have. Preyed on his insecurity about his orientation until it became - this. ]
No.
[ Or maybe that's a shitty and judgmental thing to think about a seventeen year old dead kid who clearly just wants to be loved and to feel alive. Maybe he's being an asshole. Again. The no just hangs there in the air, seemingly without any real context. Derek lifts his leg a little, his cock flexing against his thigh, lightly appreciative of the friction. He takes a breath, staring back up at nothing. ]
I mean - it's not... anything like that. [ Drugs. Aphrodisiacs. Whatever. ] And I don't need you to... to help me, with my quota, or-- or anything like that. That's not what we are.
[ Derek helps. Derek doesn't get help. Not from Tate. Not if he can help it. Least of all over something like this. ]
[Tate's prompted to say it just to be contrary, not sure how he likes how Derek stares up at anything but him. He wants him to look at him, he wants his attention just like he wants his approval. He reaches to play his fingers over Derek's thigh, palm feeling the warmth through the denim and he doesn't do much more than that. Doesn't push, doesn't slide his hand or squeeze it. He just lets it sit.
Truth be told, Tate hasn't had any problems getting quota on his own. With his fling with Peter, his new contract with Kavinsky and the other events sprinkled in? He meets it, and then some. But if Derek won't let him help him for his sake, he feels justified in turning it around and trying to play it this way, too. But of course, part of him still wants to prove a point wrong. That point being that Derek once rebuffed him. Several times rebuffed him.
He shifts closer, leaning in.]
I've got you and you've got me. We're going to be pack - so trust me?
[ Wait, hold on. This is moving - very fast, and Derek's not sure how they got on this road together. There's a hand on his jeans right beneath the head of his cock, there's a quiet whisper in his ear, there's a promise of trust and pack and being a good Alpha, doing something for his beta that he needs, but -
But he doesn't need this. He can't need this. If Tate needed help with this, Derek would have known about it sooner. Right? Granted, they've only recently begun talking about the things LIES makes them do, but - but he had to have known. Cautiously, Derek puts a voice to the question, heart stuck in his throat. ]
Wait - do you - do you have trouble meeting your quota? I mean.
[ As far as he knows - Peter's the only person he's really hooked up with, other than a few strangers here and there, and Derek gets it, if things are slowing down between them now that there are feelings. He'd... been assuming that Tate's been fucking around with Kavinsky, or that there'd been some bartering system in place between them for drugs, or-- or even that Kavinsky took advantage of Tate when he was drunk or fucked up like at that party, and-- and if that's not the case, then-- what else has he been wrong about? Derek feels guilt squeeze in his chest. Seconds ago, he was assuming that Tate got around in this place, but fuck, what if he was wrong about that, too? Why does he keep assuming the worst about Tate and the people he surrounds himself with?
Derek just - carefully puts a hand on Tate's arm, stopping him from moving his hand any higher. He looks at him, directly in the eye. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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[ But no, that's not the joke. Derek wets his lips, stares at the back of Tate's head, trying to figure out if he's actually going to follow through on this or not. Figures it's not the worst secret he's shared about himself, though, ssssoooooo. ]
Kind of wanted to play basketball professionally?
[ He says, like it's a question. As for what he wants to do now - he doesn't really have an answer. Hibernate, maybe. ]
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[Not just 'cause he died, of course. But because it was just a hobby over a focus. He wasn't wildly great at it despite a few medals and a trophy here or there. He wasn't a superhuman kid who probably kicked ass on the court and would've gotten in shit when doing testing later on.]
You could reignite the porn star thing here, though. Hard Wolf Hale. It could work.
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[ He thinks it's stupid, really. A childish dream that doesn't suit him anymore. He's not a team player, despite all his cries for a pack. He doesn't play games. Doesn't have fun. Derek drops his ear against his bicep, getting more comfortable.
Track, though. Track suits Tate. Even now. ]
Doubt anybody watches porn here. Seems kind of pointless, when you can just... go out and fuck whoever you want.
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[He might've watched some of it himself, just to - get in the mood before getting carried away with who he was with. But that's just it, it was a segue into fucking someone else so maybe Derek's right. Then again, there must be some sad sacks here he who can't even get laid so they stick to jerking off or scratching their voyeur kinks some other ways.]
I'm surprised nobody who's come here's made anything, but maybe they have. It's a lot easier to share that shit on modern computers. Back when I was growing up, it was VHS tapes and spotty antenna connections.
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[ Because, you know - growing up in a family of people who fucking knew what he was doing no matter how hard he tried to find it didn't give him a lot of avenues for... that. Jesus, okay. Circling away from himself. ]
Anyway. I'm sure at least one person has solicited dick pics on the network. There's gotta be LIERs porn somewhere. We just haven't gone looking for it. [ Or Derek hasn't, at least. ]
Who's turn is it?
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Yours, I think.
[His breath smells of booze, but he doesn't care. Sorry Derek.]
Shoot.
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He's also had 22 years to get used to being uncomfortably attuned to people's breath, so. That's fine, too. ]
Shit, uh. Favorite mythological creature?
[ he's fishing for werewolf. ]
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[Deliberately not taking that bait, he smiles in a way that suggests he knows precisely where Derek was digging and what for. He then studies his face, weight still leaned back against Derek so he can stare at him from this close up. He can see every little feature, from the stubble on his jaw to the way the light hits his eyes from the moon filtering down from up above. God, it's quiet up here.]
Can you do me a favor?
[Kavinsky would always get annoyed if he didn't continue with it right away, so he does:]
Can you do that thing to my hair again. Like before?
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[ Mermaids, eat shit. Tate asks for a favour and Derek doesn't get annoyed in the brief gap of time before he follows up. He just listens, and he waits, and when Tate tells him what he wants, it only takes a second before he connects the dots and remembers what he means.
And yeah, of course he will. They're too close for Derek to comfortably stroke through Tate's hair without touching him a little more, so he has to rest his arm on Tate's side, but again, he doesn't feel that weird about it. It's the kind of comfort he's always wanted to give people, it's the kind of comfort he's only ever really found with Stiles, which - is different, obviously, to the Alpha instincts he has with Tate. He brushes back some of Tate's hair behind his ear, then just - threads his fingers through his hair, grazing over his skin. He touches him, kind and gentle, the way Talia did for him when she first saw his eyes turn blue.
He keeps his voice just as gentle. ]
Do you like mermaids because they're connected to the ocean, or... because you think fucking sailors and drowning them sounds like a metal way to spend your afternoon?
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It's sedating and Tate struggles not to fall for it too quickly, eyelids low and heavy and his body shifting to get comfortable. He curls to be the little spoon in the arrangement, feeling safe and tucked away. Still, he laughs, a bit delayed and chased by another soft yawn.]
Both? Sirens are cool too. But yeah, it's... it's metal.
[Fuck. He's tired. Why all of a sudden? The warmth, the care, the heart beat of another person tucked up behind him. Tate's fighting a losing battle and it shows.]
Gimme one reason werewolves are cooler.
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[ Which should be enough? He could list out everything else that makes werewolves great - teeth, eyes, muscles, the ability to walk on land without having to sell your voice to a witch - but Tate's getting too tired, he thinks, and it's gotta be better to just let him sleep. Derek strokes through his hair a little slower, closing his eyes, letting everything just be... warm and safe and familiar.
Too familiar, maybe. Tate presses in tighter against him, silently asking to be held, and Derek swallows, his throat dry. It can't be attraction that does it, because they're pack, and he's happily taken, but - he's a guy, and he's a werewolf, and he's being pressed up against in a way that's pretty fucking familiar to how Stiles presses up against him at night, and maybe it's pavlovian, maybe it's just-- bad luck, but Derek does feel himself getting kinda hard. He tries to ignore it, and he does a pretty good job, he thinks, but he's not breathing when he's half-mast against Tate's ass, just like he's not breathing when he slowly moves away.
He twists his hips and adds some distance, just an inch or so between them, trying to be subtle about it but fucking that up by clearing his throat. He's not touching Tate's hair anymore. He brings his arm away from him, putting it back at his own side. Cautiously, he just - ends this conversation here, his stomach in a bit of a knot. ]
Go to sleep.
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He leans back, killing the distance and purposely putting his weight up against Derek.]
Don't go anywhere.
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And he doesn't think Tate understands what he's doing, or why this is a problem, but Derek is - warning, more than anything, when he talks again. Stony and sharp, like he's only going to say this once. ]
Tate.
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[Tate's more awake now, blinking back to focus and turning his head to look at Derek in the dark with a narrowed glance that's lost all the fondness of earlier. Like he's getting barked at for no reason, he takes a defensive stance. He pulls away, back forward and onto his forearm before turning over the other way and staring at Derek blearily in the dark - wishing, perhaps, he'd thought to bring any sort of light. He thinks of his phone after a beat, fishing it out of his pocket and shining the light directly in Derek's face.]
What's your problem? You're acting...
[The light illuminates Derek's chest and down, and Tate's eyes drift. So does the light.]
You're getting mad over that?
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[ Just... defensive. The light doesn't help matters, because his eyes were adjusting pretty hard to the darkness, and having a fucking sun shone in his face and blinding the living fuck out of him is only making Derek feel worse. He shifts back another few inches and rubs the corner of his eye with his thumb, pulling down the hem of his jacket, then just - fidgeting with his sleeves. ]
Look - I didn't mean to wake you up, just. Go back to sleep?
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[Defiant, tired, said with another yawn against his hand as he sets his phone down face down between them - letting only a thin line of light out from the edges. He sits up in the dark, aware Derek can see him and maybe it's the buzz still in his head or the weird feeling he's been getting for a while now, but he doesn't want to ignore this. Doesn't want to read too far into it, either, which is why he's contained and thoughtful before he reaches out in the dark to touch his fingers to Derek's hip.]
Deal with it so we can sleep. Is it my fault?
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[ Tate sits up and Derek is feeling more and more cornered, even though this isn't a fucking big deal and doesn't have to fucking be one. He just wanted to shift away and sleep in peace, not get into whatever weird territory they've stumbled into. His neck feels hot and his face feels hotter, and he's still half-hard, stretching down the length of his thigh through the side of his boxers, trapped beneath the denim of his jeans. He's grateful they're back in the dark.
He doesn't want to answer Tate's question, because he knows how he gets about rejection. He's seen him fall apart, seen him get angry, and Derek feels like he's hurt him and ruined so many things for him already, that jumping straight into shooting him down is going to lead to another breakdown, or-- or at least a few tears, followed by a few shouts, followed by Tate running back home to Kavinsky to get high. Tonight was supposed to be a good night. Saying no and ruining that feels just as dangerous as saying yes.
So he just - swallows. He shifts, rolling over, putting his back to Tate. Staying close, but not facing him. If they sleep back to back, then - it's - fine. Doable. Nothing has to break. ]
C'mon. Lay down.
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[Tate's voice is tired, especially when he sees him turn away - it makes him sit there, annoyed and mystified by what's happened and what it means if anything. Derek's told him straight faced before that he doesn't want to fuck him and well, he always felt that was somehow true. But he's seen a few of the looks he's gotten, messages mixed up by the things he's said as well. How teenage Derek would've been all over him, or whatever. Tate rubs at his face and hates that Derek's turned away from him now.
He thinks of him and Stiles, in the precarious situation they got themselves into and how - well, they never look back on that aloud. It never happened, so to speak, but it served a purpose. And he wonders if this is another moment like that, where he's supposed to make a move more strategically than he can think to. Have it all line up.]
Fine.
[Annoyed, Tate slumps back down against the thin layer of the sleeping bag and does what Derek tells him to. He lays down, only he faces Derek and spitefully leans close to take over as big spoon with his arm draped over Derek's side from behind. No groping, no grinding, just Tate pressing his face in against the center of his back and curling in against the broadness of it to soak up the warmth.]
Just saying if you wanna jerk off, you can.
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Tate's voice is right up against his ear, when he tells Derek to jerk off.
Derek swallows. Tate might not be a werewolf yet, but he has to be able to hear how hard Derek's heart is beating in his chest. A rhythmic baseline brought on by the surge of adrenaline released in his body, making the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. Derek's-- obviously not going to jerk off, but he's obviously not going to be able to sleep, either, not like this. Slowly, carefully, he rolls onto his back. He doesn't make an effort to move Tate away, choosing instead to let his arm stay draped over his stomach when he moves, and he stares pointedly up at the stars, barely there behind a thatch of branches and leaves.
His mouth feels dry. He needs another beer. Fuck, he wishes alcohol worked on him. He's not really thinking when he speaks again, still addressing the sky instead of Tate. ]
Saying things like that's just going to make it worse.
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[Tate murmurs like he's talking down to a child, even though he feels - strained to say it against Derek's arm. He shifts back just enough to let Derek roll over when he does, but finds himself staying against him with his arm spitefully still across his midsection despite the way it makes Tate's heart beat a little... strangely for a second. It's just, weird, okay? Not exciting, not arousing, just... different.]
Would you rather lay here with it?
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[ He can't. Shouldn't. He sounds more tired, than anything else. It's kind of frustrating - he's surrounded by aphrodisiacs and drugs and leather and whips and chains every fucking day of his life, but it's this that turns awkward. This is why he doesn't have a fucking pack. Or - okay - not specifically because he always ends up with incomprehensibly inappropriate hardons, but. Because things always go wrong.
Tonight was supposed to be easy. Derek sits up, still not forcing Tate away from him, and he reaches for another beer, cracking open his third. He takes a swig, arches his neck back when he swallows, adam's apple bobbing. He wipes his lips on the back of his mouth, then slowly tilts his head towards Tate. ]
How is this not weird to you?
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[Tate's brows knit together, the words there are other options on his lips but Derek sits up and Tate just lays next to him staring up at him like the tired sack of half-drunk shit he is. Takes a moment of watching Derek drink, seeing only the illuminated outlines of his features, before Tate struggles to right himself and sit up. He's still close, knee to thigh, legs warm and up against one another. Derek's always warm, he's noticed, and that seems in line with the canine feature.]
If it was because I was doing something to make you hot, it's one thing. But this is just - sort of something else, right? This happened to me before, here. Maybe a little different, but we dealt with it and kept on moving.
[Details do not need to be shared.]
If you let me help you, it even counts as quota.
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No.
[ Or maybe that's a shitty and judgmental thing to think about a seventeen year old dead kid who clearly just wants to be loved and to feel alive. Maybe he's being an asshole. Again. The no just hangs there in the air, seemingly without any real context. Derek lifts his leg a little, his cock flexing against his thigh, lightly appreciative of the friction. He takes a breath, staring back up at nothing. ]
I mean - it's not... anything like that. [ Drugs. Aphrodisiacs. Whatever. ] And I don't need you to... to help me, with my quota, or-- or anything like that. That's not what we are.
[ Derek helps. Derek doesn't get help. Not from Tate. Not if he can help it. Least of all over something like this. ]
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[Tate's prompted to say it just to be contrary, not sure how he likes how Derek stares up at anything but him. He wants him to look at him, he wants his attention just like he wants his approval. He reaches to play his fingers over Derek's thigh, palm feeling the warmth through the denim and he doesn't do much more than that. Doesn't push, doesn't slide his hand or squeeze it. He just lets it sit.
Truth be told, Tate hasn't had any problems getting quota on his own. With his fling with Peter, his new contract with Kavinsky and the other events sprinkled in? He meets it, and then some. But if Derek won't let him help him for his sake, he feels justified in turning it around and trying to play it this way, too. But of course, part of him still wants to prove a point wrong. That point being that Derek once rebuffed him. Several times rebuffed him.
He shifts closer, leaning in.]
I've got you and you've got me. We're going to be pack - so trust me?
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[ Wait, hold on. This is moving - very fast, and Derek's not sure how they got on this road together. There's a hand on his jeans right beneath the head of his cock, there's a quiet whisper in his ear, there's a promise of trust and pack and being a good Alpha, doing something for his beta that he needs, but -
But he doesn't need this. He can't need this. If Tate needed help with this, Derek would have known about it sooner. Right? Granted, they've only recently begun talking about the things LIES makes them do, but - but he had to have known. Cautiously, Derek puts a voice to the question, heart stuck in his throat. ]
Wait - do you - do you have trouble meeting your quota? I mean.
[ As far as he knows - Peter's the only person he's really hooked up with, other than a few strangers here and there, and Derek gets it, if things are slowing down between them now that there are feelings. He'd... been assuming that Tate's been fucking around with Kavinsky, or that there'd been some bartering system in place between them for drugs, or-- or even that Kavinsky took advantage of Tate when he was drunk or fucked up like at that party, and-- and if that's not the case, then-- what else has he been wrong about? Derek feels guilt squeeze in his chest. Seconds ago, he was assuming that Tate got around in this place, but fuck, what if he was wrong about that, too? Why does he keep assuming the worst about Tate and the people he surrounds himself with?
Derek just - carefully puts a hand on Tate's arm, stopping him from moving his hand any higher. He looks at him, directly in the eye. ]
Do you and Kavinsky not...?
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