[ 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. ]
[Tate doesn't like this because it feels like a bear trap ready to snag him if he treads on it. He drops his gaze for a moment, trying to pull together his answer. All he ever has to do is part his lips or his legs and Kavinsky will make him come, but it often feels like a pack of matches waiting to be struck with him in the same breath. He could've broken his nose in the hotel with how hard Kavinsky knocked him into the wall and he remembers his first time, pained but under aphro, receiving from Kavinsky who seemed overjoyed to have the opportunity.
There's clear confliction in Tate's eyes, when he looks back up to Derek and stares into his like he's searching for something to hold on to. He doesn't have trouble meeting quota and he and Kavinsky very much do - but.]
It's never a sure thing, with him. And... If I'm going to try and live cleaner, I mean. That's also a big part of it. I don't know if I've ever done anything with him sober. So...
[All the better to do it with someone safer, right? Does that work?]
[ Tate deflects. Tate deflects, but he deflects so fucking successfully. Derek looks at him with wide eyes, connecting the dots between everything he says, hanging invisible strings on an evidence board in his head that he doesn't have half as much mastery over as Stiles. The implication that Kavinsky's a live wire, that the things they've done together were-- rough. That Tate does things with Kavinsky because he has to, to meet his quota, rather than because he wants to. I don't know if I've ever done anything with him sober.
Derek assumes the worst. He was always going to assume the worst, regardless of the fleeting, transient guilt he felt a fucking second ago about doing exactly that. He sits up straighter, looking over Tate, and he doesn't know where to put his hands. Tate feels fragile and small again, something to protect, something that needs to be held, and Derek's chest feels like it's going to rip itself apart.
Tate--
Tate needs him. Derek swallows. Looks him in the eye again. He's still so fucking hard. Maybe that's messed up. ]
[Hard question to answer for two reasons. One, the way he and Kavinsky both are is violent and disastrous by nature. They hurt each other and they hurt themselves and that's how they thrive. That's how they bond. But that's not the narrative Tate needs here, not when he wants to win Derek to his side and keep his two worlds from colliding. The other reason is - well, he doesn't want to really admit that the way he lives is toxic. He knows it may not be right, but he doesn't need Derek to remind him of that.
But if anyone looked at the way he did things with Kavinsky, they'd see how fucked up it was. How it is. How he was held down the first time they fucked, how aphros and drugs were the reason they bounced off each other to begin with. Tate was out of his head at the party when he was coerced down onto his knees for the first time - and it won't be the last. He can live with that, he makes it work. Kavinsky, despite the hurt and harm, also gives him the attention he thirsts for. An out for the violence he can't express any other way.
It's evident by Tate's expression that he's struggling to find words. Struggling to admit, maybe because he's afraid of what'll happen. Last thing he needs is Derek crossing paths with Kavinsky, threatening to fuck him up.]
... Define hurt.
[Is it being tackled into a wall, choked or restrained?]
He knew since the hotel. Knew since the party, maybe, that there was someone in Tate's life who would - ruin him. Attempt to, at least. That's what people do - they ruin, they burn, they shatter. They fucking hurt. Derek's still, for a second, staring at Tate with every nerve in his body standing to attention. He feels this sick, rancid bile boiling in in his stomach, his throat, and he sees Kate. He sees the worst of her. ]
Tate...
[ Every assumption he made about Kavinsky, about his contract with Tate, it's all - in his head, making him dizzy. He feels like he needs some fresh air. Feels like he needs to slip back in time to a fucking hour ago, when he and Tate were sitting with their legs over the edge of the platform and just - talking. Fuck, no, even that makes him feel sick, now. Tate's been hurt and Derek didn't know. How could he have known? Ghosts leave no marks.
But he can't confront Kavinsky. He knows he can't confront Kavinsky. He - will, in July, when he has Tate signed with him, hidden away in the den where he'll be safe. He can't do a thing before then. Derek shakes his head, laying back down, right on his back. Not all that hard anymore. ]
Fuck. I - okay. I won't talk to him. Thank you for telling me. This is the shit I need to know.
[ ... but. He turns, again, rolling his skull over the wood. He feels like he's been shocked. Chained to a wall in the Argent's basement and flooded with electricity. Every part of him feels fuzzy and disconnected from itself. Derek wets his lips, stares up at Tate, and - makes the offer he has to make, as his Alpha. As someone supposed to keep him safe. ]
If... if you need... help, with your quota, or... if you're ever - fucked over again, by something like the hotel, or...
[ Or - fuck, who knows what else. Derek shakes his head. Not willing to think about the shit that this city's going to put Tate through. Not on top of everything else. ]
['This is the shit I need to know', Derek says - making Tate wonder if that's for better or for worse. He doesn't think that Derek's angry enough to do anything and could fathom that perhaps he just knows what it'd mean to go after Kavinsky right now - while Tate's his until July. Tate could get folded over easy, blamed for this. That gives Tate a moment of relief, knowing that this could force Derek back. Until July.
He nods his head, acknowledging what's being said and offered. His hand is still on Derek's leg and he shifts his weight forward onto it, like he's grateful for what he's been given. Grateful he's not going to charge into this and blast everything apart, ruining Tate's carefully laid out plans. His life. Strewn between so many people, he can't lose the things that make him happy.]
[ Alpha. His Alpha. Derek looks at Tate long and hard, sitting up straight, posture rigid. His jacket feels a little too hot, and he only feels warmer the more Tate talks. Until you're my dom. He feels dizzy.
He doesn't nod. Doesn't give the go ahead. Not yet. He just - clenches his teeth, feels his heart beat. Still feels like he's recovering from whatever voltage Kate shot through him when she found him. Tate's fingers move closer. Inch by inch. ]
Now?
[ Because... he's not unwilling. He'll never be unwilling, if Tate wants him, not after this. If Tate wants him, then it means he won't want Kavinsky, and if he won't want Kavinsky, it means he won't get hurt. This is just another fucked up rule of the city he has to factor in, another fucking secret he has to bury - self-locking rooms, aphrodisiacs, and now this. Being an Alpha, providing something for his Beta.
Derek looks down, watches Tate's hand climb a little higher. The last, last few granules of his resistance slip from place, and the bulge of his cock thickens behind his jeans, fat and huge and heavy. He swallows, looking at Tate, feeling his mouth dry again. It's not going to help, but he throws back whatever beer is closest, slamming it down once it's been drained empty. His eyes sting a little, but - he feels okay.
Feels like he's doing what he's supposed to. Helping Tate. Ever so fucking gently, he spreads his legs, silently inviting Tate to do whatever it is he wants. ]
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no subject
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?
no subject
[ 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.
no subject
[ 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.
no subject
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?
no subject
[ 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?
no subject
[ 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.
no subject
[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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[Tate doesn't like this because it feels like a bear trap ready to snag him if he treads on it. He drops his gaze for a moment, trying to pull together his answer. All he ever has to do is part his lips or his legs and Kavinsky will make him come, but it often feels like a pack of matches waiting to be struck with him in the same breath. He could've broken his nose in the hotel with how hard Kavinsky knocked him into the wall and he remembers his first time, pained but under aphro, receiving from Kavinsky who seemed overjoyed to have the opportunity.
There's clear confliction in Tate's eyes, when he looks back up to Derek and stares into his like he's searching for something to hold on to. He doesn't have trouble meeting quota and he and Kavinsky very much do - but.]
It's never a sure thing, with him. And... If I'm going to try and live cleaner, I mean. That's also a big part of it. I don't know if I've ever done anything with him sober. So...
[All the better to do it with someone safer, right? Does that work?]
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Derek assumes the worst. He was always going to assume the worst, regardless of the fleeting, transient guilt he felt a fucking second ago about doing exactly that. He sits up straighter, looking over Tate, and he doesn't know where to put his hands. Tate feels fragile and small again, something to protect, something that needs to be held, and Derek's chest feels like it's going to rip itself apart.
Tate--
Tate needs him. Derek swallows. Looks him in the eye again. He's still so fucking hard. Maybe that's messed up. ]
Does he hurt you?
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But if anyone looked at the way he did things with Kavinsky, they'd see how fucked up it was. How it is. How he was held down the first time they fucked, how aphros and drugs were the reason they bounced off each other to begin with. Tate was out of his head at the party when he was coerced down onto his knees for the first time - and it won't be the last. He can live with that, he makes it work. Kavinsky, despite the hurt and harm, also gives him the attention he thirsts for. An out for the violence he can't express any other way.
It's evident by Tate's expression that he's struggling to find words. Struggling to admit, maybe because he's afraid of what'll happen. Last thing he needs is Derek crossing paths with Kavinsky, threatening to fuck him up.]
... Define hurt.
[Is it being tackled into a wall, choked or restrained?]
I - Derek, it's...
[Complicated.]
Nothing I can't handle.
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He knew since the hotel. Knew since the party, maybe, that there was someone in Tate's life who would - ruin him. Attempt to, at least. That's what people do - they ruin, they burn, they shatter. They fucking hurt. Derek's still, for a second, staring at Tate with every nerve in his body standing to attention. He feels this sick, rancid bile boiling in in his stomach, his throat, and he sees Kate. He sees the worst of her. ]
Tate...
[ Every assumption he made about Kavinsky, about his contract with Tate, it's all - in his head, making him dizzy. He feels like he needs some fresh air. Feels like he needs to slip back in time to a fucking hour ago, when he and Tate were sitting with their legs over the edge of the platform and just - talking. Fuck, no, even that makes him feel sick, now. Tate's been hurt and Derek didn't know. How could he have known? Ghosts leave no marks.
But he can't confront Kavinsky. He knows he can't confront Kavinsky. He - will, in July, when he has Tate signed with him, hidden away in the den where he'll be safe. He can't do a thing before then. Derek shakes his head, laying back down, right on his back. Not all that hard anymore. ]
Fuck. I - okay. I won't talk to him. Thank you for telling me. This is the shit I need to know.
[ ... but. He turns, again, rolling his skull over the wood. He feels like he's been shocked. Chained to a wall in the Argent's basement and flooded with electricity. Every part of him feels fuzzy and disconnected from itself. Derek wets his lips, stares up at Tate, and - makes the offer he has to make, as his Alpha. As someone supposed to keep him safe. ]
If... if you need... help, with your quota, or... if you're ever - fucked over again, by something like the hotel, or...
[ Or - fuck, who knows what else. Derek shakes his head. Not willing to think about the shit that this city's going to put Tate through. Not on top of everything else. ]
Just - it's - I can do that. If you need me.
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He nods his head, acknowledging what's being said and offered. His hand is still on Derek's leg and he shifts his weight forward onto it, like he's grateful for what he's been given. Grateful he's not going to charge into this and blast everything apart, ruining Tate's carefully laid out plans. His life. Strewn between so many people, he can't lose the things that make him happy.]
You're my alpha, and that's... all I need.
[Solidarity.]
At least until you're my dom. And then I'm whatever you need, too.
[His hand slides upward, ever so gently. Ever so light.]
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He doesn't nod. Doesn't give the go ahead. Not yet. He just - clenches his teeth, feels his heart beat. Still feels like he's recovering from whatever voltage Kate shot through him when she found him. Tate's fingers move closer. Inch by inch. ]
Now?
[ Because... he's not unwilling. He'll never be unwilling, if Tate wants him, not after this. If Tate wants him, then it means he won't want Kavinsky, and if he won't want Kavinsky, it means he won't get hurt. This is just another fucked up rule of the city he has to factor in, another fucking secret he has to bury - self-locking rooms, aphrodisiacs, and now this. Being an Alpha, providing something for his Beta.
Derek looks down, watches Tate's hand climb a little higher. The last, last few granules of his resistance slip from place, and the bulge of his cock thickens behind his jeans, fat and huge and heavy. He swallows, looking at Tate, feeling his mouth dry again. It's not going to help, but he throws back whatever beer is closest, slamming it down once it's been drained empty. His eyes sting a little, but - he feels okay.
Feels like he's doing what he's supposed to. Helping Tate. Ever so fucking gently, he spreads his legs, silently inviting Tate to do whatever it is he wants. ]
Nobody can know about this.
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