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A Sharpened Tibia To the Heart

Summary:

Recruited into the Behavioral Science Unit at 23, Stiles was kinda a big deal. Until his youth became more hindrance than help. Then he was kinda a big deal at coffee runs. With werewolves barely out of the closet, a serial killer slaughtering opponents of werewolf equality, and traditional police work coming up short, CIA agent Derek Hale is allowed to return from his post in South America to infiltrate his childhood pack and hunt down the killer. But not without a babysitter. Stiles gets his big break when Derek chooses him--his scent--option 31 of 50, to pose as his mate. Only, Stiles has no idea just how much Derek enjoys his scent. Or how quickly pretending becomes reality.

Notes:

This is going to be substantial, folks. Fully plotted and in progress. I was going to publish it as a oneshot. But what can I say? I've got poor impulse control and love comments.

Tell me I'm pretty, damn it! I'd beg, but it's only sexy when Stiles does it. ;)

Chapter 1: Option 31 of 50

Chapter Text

As the crop duster circled the let's-be-generous-and-call-it-a landing strip, Stiles was desperate for three things: his feet, on the ground, immediately; cooler clothing; a nap. Lacking these things was, obviously, in no way his fault. Stiles was a methodical planner. Only, packing for the warmth of California wasn't effective if one found oneself in Brazil. And planning for a fourteen hour flight wasn't effective if that flight was, surprisingly, followed by six additional hours on increasingly-flimsy airplanes into increasingly-dense jungle. So, miserable, exhausted, and overheated, he was. Willing to accept fault for any of it? Stiles was not.

Either way, his last wisp of energy evaporated from his skin as he stepped into the sauna of South American summer. Shoulder bowed beneath the weight of his bag, Stiles shuffled after the pilot and toward the garden shed functioning as an airport. Bugs seemed to materialize in a swarm around his face, apparently recognizing prey too weary to put up a fight. Clever bastards. Stiles didn't spare even a token swat.

He blinked—like a bad ass—when a hulking, curly-haired man left the building and stalked forward to greet him.

“Stilinski?”

Clearing his rusty throat, Stiles attempted to extend his hand, but became unduly confused when the bag halted his movement. His grunt of irritation sounded suspiciously like a whimper, so he hurriedly covered it with, “Doctor Stilinski. Hello.”

The giant ignored his outstretched hand and pulled the bag from Stiles' shoulder instead. “Come.”

His voice was gruff, and his pinched expression unimpressed. Stiles was so happy to lose the bag he almost hugged the precious giant. He didn't, though. Didn't ask questions, either. Just trudged along behind the man.

To stand beside a large four wheeler.

“Come.”

“What do you mean?” Stiles asked, then felt idiotic. “We're riding that?”

Rather than answer, the man strapped Stiles' bag to the grate at its rear, straddled the machine, and extended an arm. “Come.”

Okay, there was some chance his precious giant didn't actually speak English. Either way, they clearly were not discussing the plan, so Stiles squirmed, shimmied, and tumbled his way onto the four wheeler. Not exactly what anyone would call "outdoorsy," it was a new experience—one he could have lived without.

The man reached backward, grabbed both of Stiles' wrists, and dragged them around his chest. He only let go when Stiles obligingly held tight. The machine roared to life and they lurched forward. He started out a respectful distance from the giant's back—as one did—but a few alarming bounces and jars later, his face was plastered between the man's sweaty shoulder blades.

This case was supposed to be a good thing. His big break. A serial killer of his own to profile, identify, and bring to justice. Hell, after being chosen for the assignment, he'd skipped straight to his victorious return in his mind. Because, you see, Stiles was sort of a big deal. Or, he was when he'd received his PhD early and at the top of his class. He was when he'd been recruited to the Behavioral Science Unit. Then he'd walked into the office for the first time, and he wasn't.

It was hazing, he'd tried to assure himself. He'd never done the sports thing, or the frat thing, or the … group thing, so the unimpressed glances, menial paperwork, and coffee runs? All good-natured hazing. Only, it'd been a year and a half, the punchline never came, and he'd been finding it increasingly difficult to open his mouth during meetings. Which was a shame—he thought—because he might be seven years younger than everyone, and thirty years younger than most, but he'd been recruited for a reason. He was a genius. Officially. And, more importantly, he'd done the work. He'd worked hard. Pretty much always.

Stiles dragged his thoughts out of the muck, excusing self-pity as exhaustion. This wasn't the time for navel gazing. He'd been chosen to go undercover and catch a serial killer! And it was a fascinating, important case, too. Werewolves had only come out of the closet six years ago, and things were still tense. Riots, hate crimes, and calls for internment tense. So, when a little town in California hosting a werewolf pack suffered three brutal, ritualistic murders in under two months—each victim a vocal opponent of werewolf equality—people noticed. Neither the local and state police nor the FBI task force—which Stiles had not been chosen for—had caught a break.

To say the higher ups wanted the case solved yesterday would be an understatement. So, naturally, they'd brought in the big gun. Stiles was not the big gun. He'd like to front, but he was a logical guy. Stiles was half placeholder, allowing the FBI to claim responsibility for resolving the situation, and half babysitter. The big gun was Derek Hale. An alpha werewolf, Derek was an estranged member of the Beacon Hills pack and property of the United States government. CIA active, property—same difference.

Basically, the only way Derek was getting out of South America to protect his childhood pack was on an official mission and with an FBI partner. Like, partner-partner. Lover. Mate. Deep cover, immediate-acceptance-by-the-pack stuff. Which was where Stiles came in.

Derek had picked him specifically. Probably from his entrance file and essays, not to mention the many case files he'd put together since joining the team. And his phenomenal cologne, obviously, because they'd wiped a cloth all over him, bagged it, and sent it off for Derek's approval. Which, frankly, had terrified him. Sending his scent to some Rambo-type alpha running around the jungles of Brazil? Not a soothing thought.

But he'd been chosen, immediately imagined the return of his big-deal status, and never even considered he'd be sent to Brazil to establish their cover. He'd imagined a cozy safe house in California. Not rickety planes and a four wheeler ride through dense forest. He certainly hadn't been exhaustion-stupid and kitten-weak when he'd imagined meeting Derek already-a-big-deal Hale.

He noticed when the engine cut off. Of course he did. Stiles was a smart guy. He simply chose not to move for thirty seconds or so. He was resting. Then, he jerked backward at his guide's abrupt, confusing departure and blinked the awake out of his eyes. Still dazed, he nearly crawled free of the four wheeler. It saved him from sprawling into the dirt when his legs buckled, but left him staring numbly at several laughing faces when he managed to right himself and look around.

It was a camp in the jungle. And not like any summer camp he'd seen on television. More like an episode of M.A.S.H but less permanent. Immediately, he began cataloging the items he should have packed, beginning with a month's supply of bug spray. Flashlights, too. Dusk was approaching quickly, and the encroaching forest was a foreboding shadow steadily creeping closer.

“Come.”

Gulping, Stiles followed the giant toward one of the bigger tents, all the while trying to shake himself back to a respectable state. When he entered the tent only to find it empty, Stiles turned back to his guide with a lump in his throat. As far as he knew, the last person who'd spoken English was two planes ago, and he stood isolated and alone with a mountain of a man and a large cot conspicuously spread before them. Ages too late, he wondered if he'd made a mistake? A grave mistake.

The man dropped Stiles' bag on the bed, declared, “Stilinski,” and left the tent.

Stiles fidgeted for a minute, tried to come up with a plan, and then put on his pajamas, crawled under the covers—checking for spiders, thank you very much—and fell asleep.

***

Stiles woke up in the middle of the night dripping sweat and held immobile by the man curled against his back. He jerked, squeaked, and stuttered, “I, ah....”

“Not used to sharing a bed, huh?”

He started trembling, though he couldn't say why, and felt a drop of sweat slide down his nose.

“Ah....”

“Kept kicking and shoving me out. Self defense.” The stranger grumbled sleepily and tightened his grip. “Made you behave.”

Something twisted in his belly and Stiles heard his breathing quicken. He didn't know if he was speaking to himself or the man behind him when he breathed, “What?”

The man's lips slid against his neck as he said, “Take off your clothes.”

Stiles trembled harder. “Derek?”

“Mmm,” he agreed. “Gonna roast. Take 'em off.”

“I....” He cleared his throat. “I can't.”

With a grumble, Derek released him. Stiles didn't move. He wasn't sure that's what he meant. Wasn't sure of a lot of things, suddenly. When the seconds dragged by and he could only shake, his heartbeat hammering, Derek reached for the hem of his shirt. His knuckles dragged over Stiles' stomach, ribs, and chest as the shirt was pushed ever higher. Stiles wasn't sure it was strictly necessary, but his traitorous body seemed to approve wholeheartedly. When Derek's fingers curled beneath the waist of his pants, Stiles gave a full-body shudder even as he squeaked again and hurriedly pushed them off himself.

“You're funny.” Without another word, Derek hauled Stiles back into the cradle of his body. “Go to sleep.”

Ha! His body was tingling and trembling. His mind was a giant question mark lit up like Derek's body was an electric fence.

“I don't—” Stiles started.

Against the nape of his neck, Derek ordered, his voice deep and dark, “I said, go to sleep.”

Blunt human teeth sank into the curve of his neck and Stiles' mind stuttered and went quiet. Body going limp, his eyelids slid closed and he remembered nothing more.

***

When he woke up again, light illuminated the tent and he was alone. Also, harder than he'd been in years. His body started trembling immediately and Stiles ran a hand over his face. What the hell? What the actual hell?

Had he missed some vital chapter on werewolf abilities? He'd done his research. He always did his research. So, again, what the hell? Why did he feel so off? Like a stranger in his own body? Like it actually belonged to Derek and no one had ever bothered to tell him that?

Nope. Nope. Nope.

He pushed the thoughts away and rolled out of bed. After thirty push ups, his erection waned. After a hundred sit ups, he trusted himself to think again. He pulled on fresh clothes roughly and stalked from the tent like he was running from himself.

Three steps beyond the tent, mid-morning sun hit his face and slowed his steps. He reached for the collar of his button up and undid the second button. Having accomplished nothing at all, he made peace with the inevitable and walked toward the gathering of people at the center of camp, shade provided by a tarp stretched overhead. Derek looked up from his place at the only table and watched his approach.

Wow. Derek's ID picture in no way prepared Stiles for the full-sized, living, breathing specimen of perfection that was Derek Hale. Stiles gave a self-conscious wave and felt his spirits shrivel at Derek's answering squint.

“We could offer a second chamber seat?” someone said.

“Not on the table!”

“A tax cut, then?”

“They're big on controlling a local judge.”

Derek ignored his men to continuing staring at Stiles. “Go put on a tee shirt.”

Five sets of eyes turned to Stiles and his gray button up. Their expressions ranged from frustration to amusement, and he'd never wanted to vanish in a puff of smoke more. Still … shouldn't he....

“Those are pajamas,” he objected weakly. “And, bugs. This will protect me from bugs.”

Derek growled softly.

With a frustrated huff, he turned and stalked back to the tent. The huff, he thought, was very expressive. It said, “You are not the boss of me!” and “You won't always get your way!” and “I'll play along because your men are watching, but you and I are going to talk about this!” It said a lot for a petulant puff of air.

It had to, because Stiles was not some 50's housewife willing to—jesus, fuck, that felt better.

Of course, he had to slink back to the group of bad ass soldiers wearing his threadbare red tee with a picture of Mario and Luigi holding hands, but the breeze cooled the humidity clinging to his skin. He didn't meet anyone's gaze as he returned, but took the chair that had been pulled up next to Derek's. When a plate of food was offered, he took it with a muttered, “Thanks.”

As conversation flowed around him, Derek reached out and ran his fingers through the hair curling at the nape of Stiles' neck. Some foreign feeling bloomed in his chest, and Stiles found his eyes sliding shut before he blinked himself back to sanity. Derek's grip tightened and then disappeared.

For nearly an hour, Derek and his men talked business. It seemed they were in negotiations with a local faction determined to garner more power—through any means necessary. Derek's job was to convince the ringleader that politics was a better avenue than violence. Apparently, they were hammering out the last minute details on a negotiation that had been months in the making. Listening to them talk, Stiles could understand why he'd been brought to Derek rather than the other way around. Stiles' absence from the office meant two things: people would have to do their own paperwork and get their own coffee. He was that important.

Instead of concerning himself with their mission, Stiles focused on his own. Constructing meaning from behavior was his trade, so he observed Derek and learned what he could. For instance, despite clearly having the last word, Derek listened to his men. Let everyone speak. In exchange, when Derek spoke, everyone listened and considered his words carefully. But no one was afraid to argue with him—albeit gently. Derek was also incredibly nonvocal, his men reading his expressions like a shared language. The tic of his eyebrow was a question and the twitch of his lips was praise or dismissal. Each time he raised his chin, the table fell silent. Each time he hummed in consideration, they hurried to elaborate and explore the suggestion. He rarely spoke for an entire hour, then announced their position for the day's negotiations. No one argued.

When Derek sat back in his chair and rolled his shoulders, the meeting was clearly adjourned. Some stood while others turned to each other and spoke. Yet, within minutes, everyone had cleared out and gone their separate ways—knowing their assignments without further instruction.

Derek turned to him, his lips quirking as he observed Stiles' shirt. Rather than comment, he asked, “What did you think?”

“You have a good team.”

Derek nodded. “What else did you think?”

Stiles bit his lip for a moment. With a shrug, he said, “Your men clearly acknowledge your leadership, but you respect their opinions. You utilize your resources well, demonstrating an above average intelligence and enough self-assurance to limit posturing and ego. Your heavy use of nonvocal communication demonstrates enhanced empathy. And the lack of resentment toward assigned tasks indicates a shared sense of community and a fair hand.”

Derek hummed, a little sound like a human purr, and Stiles now knew it contained approval and praise. He gave a soft smile in return.

“That's a kind assessment,” Derek said.

“And I know you can be bossy and growly when people don't obey you without question,” Stiles added.

“You're more comfortable, right?”

“Shush it.”

“You brought it up.”

Derek's gaze seemed to pin him down, suck all the air from his lungs. Stiles averted his eyes, but fidgeted.

“You're naturally submissive,” Derek said. “But stubborn.”

“Am not.”

“Which? Submissive or stubborn?”

Glancing back toward Derek, he shrugged his shoulders and offered, “Either?”

“You're both. And too smart to be get what you need.”

Shit. Stiles didn't want to ask. Wanted to wiggle and dodge his way out of the conversation even as his breath went shallow and his heart quickened. Which, really, was a problem. How was he supposed to convince werewolves he was Derek's partner when he couldn't stop broadcasting his emotions? Yet, for whatever reason, he couldn't force himself to walk away.

“What do you mean?”

“You need dominance, but you're too stubborn to submit to anyone you don't respect. You're too smart and too strong to respect most people, so you never get what you need.”

He wanted to hide. Instead, he said, “I don't need anything.”

Derek smirked. “Stubborn.”

He couldn't sit anymore. Simply could not. So, he surged to his feet. When Derek remained sitting, he fidgeted. Started pacing back and forth in front of him.

“So, okay, you've got negotiations this afternoon. When you get back, maybe we can look at the case files. Have you seen them?”

Derek smirked again, but his expression quickly darkened. “I know there were three murders—”

“Officially,” Stiles interrupted. Immediately, he felt his heart trip into double gear, belatedly aware of his show of disrespect. Then he berated himself for caring and squared his shoulders defiantly.

“I was briefed, but haven't read any of the files yet,” Derek finished, seemingly unconcerned.

“Except mine.”

Derek shook his head. “I've been busy.”

“What? But … you read mine. They must have sent you a variety of options. You read them.”

Derek smiled then. Not a quirk of his lips, but a full-fledged smile. “I didn't.”

“But, how … I wrote a phenomenal entrance essay.”

“I have no doubt.”

Leaning back, Derek watched him with a grin, apparently very pleased with Stiles' floundering. “What did you do, pick at random?”

“I smelled you.” Derek's expression softened. “You're perfect.”

Frowning, Stiles muttered, “Sorry I didn't pack my cologne.”

“You're pouting.”

“I am not.”

“You are.” Derek snatched his wrist and yanked him closer. He ran his nose along Stiles' forearm and nuzzled into his wrist. “And you don't understand scent.”

“I....”

“Your emotions, your history and thoughts, they're all on your skin. That's what I smell. And you smell like....”

Stiles gulped. “A genius with excellent time-management skills?”

“Mine.”

Stomach clenching, his lips parted on a harsh exhale. “Well, compatibility is essential for any successful partnership, and anything that makes our bond more believable is, um, good. So, we'll discus the victims and the ritualized murders tonight, and that's what we'll, you know, do.”

Derek huffed as his eyebrow arched.

“You're making me super nervous, and I don't know why!” Stiles announced.

“You know why.”

He laughed, but it sounded panicked to his own ears. “You've got weird werewolf mojo?”

“I'm what you need.”

His entire body clenched, then began to tremble. Seriously! What the flying fuck was with the trembling? Jerking his hand away, Stiles exclaimed, “Derek! You can't just say things like that.”

He chuckled. “Why not?”

“Because!”

“Because it turns you on?”

“Jesus!” He buried his head in his hands. “I have lost control of this conversation. You are a menace. I am a professional and an academic, and my body has never dictated my actions. Not that I'm saying—”

“It's okay to need me, Stiles.”

His dick twitched and Stiles caught a whine in his throat. Shaking his head hard, he demanded, “Be good, please.”

Derek leaned forward. “I'll be the best you've ever had.”

After the white spots cleared from his vision, Stiles declared, “I'm going to review the files,” and fled.

***

Hours later, Stiles shook himself and, once again, refocused on the case file. Yet, less than a minute later, his cheeks warmed and his thoughts strayed to Derek. It was all a joke, right? Or pretend? There was no other explanation. Derek was getting into character and Stiles was ruining it. Because he was inexperienced and taking everything too personally.

Right? There was literally no other logical explanation. Men—pretty much generally, but certainly those who looked like Derek—did not hit on him. Which was fine with Stiles. You didn't get a PhD at twenty three by dating. By having any sort of life, actually.

Which was the real problem. He could easily explain away Derek's behavior. Hell, even if he was hitting on Stiles, give it a few days. Once Derek sat through one of his briefings, whatever stray interest he had would evaporate. What was really, super-duper weird was Stiles' reactions.

He wasn't a lonely guy. He liked his own company and had no problem occupying himself. Valentines Day passed every year without Stiles' notice, and he thought people on dating sites needed to get themselves a hobby. So, why were thoughts of Derek making him blush and squirm? Why was his body suddenly hyper sensitive and needy? And what, seriously, was up with the trembling?

If he was at home, he'd be chest deep in research mode. As it was, he could only speculate. And he'd rather not.

When he heard the guys return, Stiles shoved the files away and stood. He was disappointed in himself for getting so little done, but still welcomed the distraction.

As soon as he caught sight of the happy grins and heard the excited chatter, he knew the negotiations went well. Derek, though, was absent. Stiles hovered on the outskirts of the celebration, thinking about retreating to the tent, until a slender, blond man smiled and waved him over.

Despite it being only early evening, a fire was built. Most of the men collapsed to the ground, a bottle being passed around as those who had participated in the negotiations brought the rest up to speed. Someone else carried a chair over and urged Stiles into it. When the bottle was pressed into his hands, everyone went quiet as they watched him.

Weird.

He took a tiny sip, then a larger gulp when they didn't seem satisfied. Shuddering against the harsh burn, he muttered, “thanks,” and passed the bottle. Their laughter seemed friendly, and Stiles was happy to sit and listen after their attention left him.

Not too long after that, he looked up at a silence and saw Derek stalking into the clearing with a large capybara slung over his shoulders. Stiles felt his eyes widen. He knew it was a common meal here, but it kinda looked like a giant, bloody hamster, and was technically a rodent. Luckily, he also knew enough about werewolves to recognize the offering as a ritual of alliance and respect. So, wrinkling his nose and screeching, “people don't eat rats!” would be pretty shitty.

When Derek dropped the dead creature at his feet and met his eyes, Stiles smiled. It wasn't as forced as he'd thought it would be. Something about the display both amused and pleased him. In a few days, this man would be standing between him and a werewolf pack—one potentially containing a serial killer. Derek's willingness to kill for his survival wasn't a meaningless gesture.

“Thank you.” He struggled for something more appropriate to say, but found himself repeating, “Thank you, Derek.”

“You're welcome.”

Stiles expected him to go wash his hands—maybe change his shirt—and order one of the others to deal with the creature. Instead, he sank to the ground at Stiles' feet, pulled a large knife, and began skinning it. Stiles tried leaning around him to better see. He'd taken a bio lab and seen pictures of the human body mutilated in every possible way, but he'd never been hunting. This was a first.

“Can I watch?” he asked quietly.

Derek patted the dirt beside him and Stiles lowered himself to the ground. It had already been gutted, he noticed. The gash across its belly was the only visible wound.

“Did you break its neck?”

Derek hummed his agreement as he took the empty platter one of his men offered. As Stiles watched, he skinned and butchered the animal. After the pelt had been removed, Stiles spent some time examining it. Even lifted it to his nose for a curious sniff. Gamey.

“Does it taste good?”

Derek shrugged. “Won't be replacing bacon anytime soon, but it makes a good stew.”

“Neat.”

Derek grinned at him. The expression seemed … soft. Affectionate. Gulping, Stiles stared at the pelt some more.

Once the capybara was sorted, Derek joined his team in celebration. They'd cleared the last major hurdle and their mission should be wrapped up in a day or two. Stiles watched, finding it surprisingly easy to relax in the group of battle-hardened strangers. He even took another drink when the vodka was pressed into his hands. After dinner, Derek jerked his head toward the tent and they slipped away.

His peace of mind fizzled almost immediately. The spacious tent seemed tiny with the two of them inside, and he couldn't help but glance at the folders still spread over Derek's cot. It wasn't going to be an easy conversation.

“You know everything that happened to you, pretty much every painful thing, is going to be brought up, right?” Without waiting for Derek's reply, Stiles admitted, “I don't want to make you mad.”

“It's fine, Stiles.”

“It's not.”

“It's necessary.”

“Why don't we just, safe words, okay? You think it's stupid, I know. Just, red means stop. Yellow means slow up and be careful?”

Derek snorted. “Something you want to tell me? I could dig up a whip, I think.”

Stiles felt his cheeks blaze. “You're hilarious.”

Derek sat in the only chair and nodded Stiles to the bed. Once they were settled, he said, “Green.”

“So, okay, everything about this case is related to the murder of Laura Hale. Or, seems to be. As you know, she was dosed with wolfsbane, moved to a secondary location, and tortured to the point of near death shortly after werewolves were introduced to society. According to defendant testimony, we know they were trying to determine what a werewolf could recover from. Her nails and teeth were removed. Her legs were amputated above the knees, cauterized after wolfsbane had been pressed into the wounds. When Scott McCall found her, she was drained of blood and on the brink of death—”

“Yellow.”

Stiles nodded quickly, wringing his hands.

“Over the last two months, there appear to be three claimed killings sharing a similar M.O.,” Stiles said, pulling the folders closer to him and fishing out a picture of each victim. “The first claimed victim was an accomplice in Laura's murder. He cut a deal for his testimony, but was killed a month after being released.”

Stiles held up the picture, but Derek looked straight into his eyes and said, “I'm not sorry.”

“I know.” Stiles dropped the picture. “Be glad you were out of town. You'd be my prime suspect.”

Derek preened as if he'd been paid a compliment.

“Anyway, the second was Gerard Argent, the patriarch of a clan of hunters. Also an enemy of your family.” Stiles glanced at the picture beneath his hand and returned it to its folder. “The third was Heather Daniels, a city council member who chaired the local M.A.W—that's Mothers Against Werewolves.”

Derek nodded. “Why did you say three claimed victims?”

“Just a theory, really. The killing blow in each murder was a strike to the heart with the sharpened tibia of the previous victim, right? But they had a tibia for the first victim. And the lab says it was fresh, so, there's a victim who wasn't put on display like the rest.”

Derek asked, “Any local missing persons?”

Stiles beamed at the question. It was exactly the right question. “No. Which is curious. Because whoever's doing this, they're not shy. If anything, they're trying a little too hard, you know?”

After scratching at his stubble, Derek shook his head. “I'm not a profiler.”

“The ritual has too many components. Look.” As he reached for the folders, he warned, “It's pretty nasty.”

He shoved a picture at Derek and, despite the hours he'd spent memorizing it, leaned closer to look again. It was a close up of Heather Daniels' face. Or, what was left of it. Her cheeks were split from the corners of her mouth to her cheekbones, causing her jaw to hang low. There was nothing but a gaping hole where her mouth should have been. Her teeth were missing, and her tongue had been cut out. Blood covered the bottom half of her face, evidence that the tongue had been removed prior to death. But almost worse—and Stiles wouldn't have thought anything could be worse—several of her teeth were embedded into her eyebrows, holding up the flap of her eyelid. The remaining teeth were shoved deep into her eye sockets.

“Fuck,” Derek breathed.

“What you can't see is her missing tongue crammed down her throat. And her finger nails? They're in her ears. Shoved in so deep they perforated her eardrums. Her eyes are still there, too. They weren't removed. The killer slid the teeth into her eyes, while she was still alive, until they were destroyed. Lastly, the killer stabs the tibia into their hearts, and they're meant to be alive when that happens.”

“That's....”

“Not instinct. Not rage or sexual desire. That's ritual overkill. Even if a wolf is doing this, it isn't the wolf killing people. It's too intellectual.”

Derek looked away from the picture and Stiles quickly put it back in the file.

“They all looked like that?”

“Everyone but Gerard. Adrenaline is administered to keep the victims conscious. Argent's heart gave out before the second leg could be severed. They went through with the ritual, but there was less blood.”

Derek pursed his lips. Looking, honestly, a little sorry to hear that. Given Gerard's daughter, Kate, had been the prime suspect in the fire that killed Derek's family, Stiles could empathize. Didn't mean he approved. He needed Derek firmly on his side, not subconsciously supporting the enemy.

“So, what are we looking for?”

“One sick puppy. Or, not puppy. It looks like a werewolf claw is used to sever the cheeks and remove the tibia of the victims, but there's no scent. Only the overwhelming smell of peppermint. It appears pro-werewolf, but I'm not ruling anyone out yet.”

Derek nodded. “So we investigate once we get to Beacon Hills. What's our next move here?”

Stiles couldn't help but appreciate the question. Just like Derek's treatment of his men, Stiles was being given a chance to utilize his strengths.

“I'll keep working on the profile. But we need to establish our cover.” He swallowed heavily. “Get to know each other. Become comfortable with casual touch. Convince people that we're, ah, lovers.”

“Mates,” Derek corrected.

“Mates?”

Why did his voice sound like that? Since when did he squeak?

“I'd bring home a mate, not a lover.”

“Right. Convince people we're … that.”

Derek smirked and steepled his fingers together. Stiles shifted, suddenly feeling like prey. As Derek studied him, he gathered the folders and set them on the floor. He straightened the pile twice just to occupy his hands.

“Have you ever dated a werewolf?”

“Ah, nope. I did my research—”

“Have you ever fucked a werewolf?”

He blinked heavily. “No.”

“Why not?”

“Ah, you know, I've been busy. Skipped a lot of grades. I was a senior in high school at fifteen. A sixteen year old college student, and three years later I had two BA's. Three years after that, I had my PhD. Then I was trying to get some respect in the BSU, and … werewolves aren't that common. You know?”

Face lowered, heartbeat pounding, he waited for the dreaded question, but it never came.

“It wasn't a conscious choice?”

“No … no. I don't have anything against werewolves. I like it. Not a weird amount or anything. I'm not some—”

“Don't have a knotted dildo at home?”

Stiles sputtered. “No!”

“But you do have a dildo?”

Stiles plastered a hand to his face. He wanted to tell Derek it was none of his business, but on his list of discussion topics he'd added a bullet point for “sexuality.” So, yeah.

“Yes,” he grumbled.

“I'm predominantly a top, but I wouldn't be opposed to you fucking me on occasion.”

His hand was still covering his mouth. His eyes were wide as saucers. It would be better if he wasn't imagining it, but he was. Voice hushed, he gestured to the camp and whispered, “How many werewolves are out there?”

“A few.” Derek grinned. “They won't listen.”

“Are you sure?”

“Reasonably sure.”

Not super comforting, but what was he supposed to do about it? Stiles shifted, suddenly feeling pinned in and claustrophobic.

“So,” Derek held him beneath a searing gaze, “what do you like?”

Stiles knew he meant sexually. Of course, he knew. He was a smart guy. He still wanted to whisper, “pizza and barbecue chips.” If only the conversation felt as hypothetical as it should. But it didn't. If only the questions weren't edging closer to Stiles having to admit he wasn't experienced enough to have preferences. But they were. If only he wasn't fucking trembling again.

“I, ah, the normal stuff? Not that I wouldn't, haven't, tried other stuff, if it makes,” he grimaced, “when it made my many, many partners happy. I like everything. I mean, not the gross stuff.”

“You're a virgin.”

It wasn't a question, so Stiles pretended he hadn't heard it. “What do you like?”

Derek hummed. “I like that you're a virgin.”

“But I'm not!” Stiles fidgeted. “We have sex all the time, remember?”

Derek licked his lips. “We will.”

A whimper slipped past his lips and he whined, “Derek.”

“Easy,” he soothed. “I like … bringing pleasure. Assume I make you tremble and beg. Assume I make you come with my fingers in your ass and fuck you until you're hard and shaking again. Assume I lodge my knot against your prostate and rock until you cry out and collapse against me. Then assume I gather you in my arms and bite into your neck, the puncture marks joining the hickeys I've marked you with. And, the next day, as we brush close over breakfast, as we go about our lives, my fingers will slide over those marks. A reminder and a promise. Assume I tease you hard a dozen times a day and leave you pliant and shaking every night.”

Stiles crossed his legs, the entire world suddenly brighter. When he could swallow past the lump in his throat, he whispered, “Was that necessary?”

Derek smirked. “You asked.”

He took several deep—rather loud—breaths, and looked toward the obscured sky for strength.

“You're baring your neck for me,” Derek said, voice sounding wrecked.

“I'm not!”

“You are.”

Stiles lowered his chin, his breath shuddering. Breaking, he demanded, “Why the fuck am I trembling?”

“You'll never pass as my mate like this. You know that, right?”

He peaked at Derek and dared to ask, “Why not?”

“You smell hungry and desperate.”

“I am not desperate!”

“You wouldn't be for long. Not if I was seeing to you.”

What the shit was happening? “I don't need seeing to.”

Derek spread his thighs and leaned back in the chair. Where Stiles was all but curled into a ball trying to hide his needy body, the bulge in Derek's pants was displayed proudly. Dragging his eyes away was a demonstration of Stiles' force of will, his teeth clenched with the effort.

Lowering his hands to his splayed thighs, Derek said, “You need.”

“Derek....” His body felt plaint and boneless, as if his rightful place was collapsed between Derek's thighs. As if he'd come with a whimper if Derek reached out and touched him. “This isn't right.”

“It's perfect,” he purred.

“It's not natural.”

Derek's palms slid from his thighs to his knees, then back, fingernails dragging. “It is. It's instinctual.”

He shook his head. Hard. “No. Please, you know what I mean. I feel like a different person.”

Cocking his head to the side, gaze devouring, Derek said, “I told you once already, sweetheart. Are you ready to hear me this time?”

Stiles shook his head but said, “Please.”

“You're mine, Stiles.” He smiled then, leaning forward. “As soon as I smelled you, I knew. You're mine. My mate.”

A rush of white noise answered his words. “What? Don't pretend right now.”

“You,” Derek reached forward and yanked his thighs apart, “are” he went to his knees before Stiles, “mine.” With a hungry growl, h buried his face against Stiles' thigh.

Shuddering, Stiles surged to his feet. Derek's arms lifted to circle his waist, his cheek pressing against Stiles' stomach. Stiles trembled and ached, his hips canting forward even as his head fell back to expose the line of his throat. Harsh breaths escaped his parted lips.

“Can I?” Derek asked.

“Wait. No.” He whined. “Wait.”

He was trembling so hard. Aching so hard. He wanted to be on his back. Wanted Derek's weight pressing him down. Wanted to be naked and buried in Derek's mouth. Wanted it so much he felt crazy and out of control.

“Let me take care of you,” Derek begged.

“Please. I can't.” Stiles shook his head, again and again, whimpers and whines accompanying every movement. “Please.”

Derek surged to his feet and pressed Stiles backward. “Lie down.”

Even as he moaned at finding his back pressed into the cot, even as he writhed and bared his neck, he whispered, “Please.”

Derek's body lowered atop his, the heavy weight pinning him. His thick, strong thigh pressed between Stiles' thighs. Stiles cried out, appeased and denied, and as desperate as Derek had named him. His hips surged upward as his clutching fingers caught at Derek's shoulders, his nails digging in and dragging. Long, jagged teeth pressed at his throat and Stiles whined, his head pressed to the side in clear invitation. The slide and pierce of fangs. Exquisite pain. A harsh moan tore from his mouth. His body went pliant, boneless. He shattered. As lips sucked and tongue laved, Stiles convulsed and came, a heady cry piercing the air.

As his brain slowly came back online, he whispered, “Oh my god.” Covering his face with one shaking hand, he repeated, “Oh my god! That was so loud! And you're still … oh my god. Touch yourself, please. I'm sorry. Oh my god.”

Derek purred against his neck. “No.”

“But you're, you should. I didn't mean....”

“This close to you, smelling like you do, I'd knot. I have other plans for my first knot.”

Right. Because werewolves only knotted for their mates. And he was Derek's mate. Only, now that he wasn't let's-call-it distracted, the revelation was making his head spin. Being mated was a huge deal. Like, life changing. And what sense did it make for Derek to be mated to him? None. It made no amount of sense.

“So, if this is a joke and your werewolf friends are outside yucking it up—”

Derek growled, deep and dangerous, and laved his tongue across Stiles' bleeding neck.

“No, I'm just saying, now would be a great time to yell 'got ya' and I'd consider the whole thing a draw. No hard feelings.”

“Stiles, this is not a joke.”

He nodded until his head started to shake. “I hear your serious voice, Derek, I do. I'm just finding this really hard to believe.”

Derek thrust against his hip. “You'd believe my knot in your virgin ass.”

His body arched and stretched as a shudder slid through him. How was it possible to be aroused and terrified at the same time? All he knew was, even as his mind buzzed in circles of denial, his fingers clutched at Derek's back. The weight atop him was verging on uncomfortable, he wanted to run away, but he really wanted to stay just like this. Forever—or some equally illogical expression of sentimentality.

“I'm kinda scared,” Stiles admitted.

He expected Derek to laugh and attribute the words to the idea of them having sex, but he surprised Stiles by saying, “I'm scared, too.”

“Really?”

“I didn't mean to … I just claimed you as my mate and you thought it was a prank. Stiles, I'm terrified.” He shifted down the bed and rested his head on Stiles' chest, perhaps as happy to avoid eye contact as Stiles was. “Do you realize how much power you have over me?”

“Derek, you just made me spontaneously orgasm.”

He chuckled. “I'll do anything that makes you feel good, every day, for as long as you let me. But you, I was just living my life, thinking I was as happy as I had any right to be, and I smelled you. Option 31 of 50 for a partner I didn't want. That was you. Five seconds later, you owned me.”

“No one could ever own you. Derek, you're,” he tried to summon the words to explain how impressive he found the man, but finished, “kinda a big deal.”

“You're a big deal to me.”

Warmth blossomed. “You're surprisingly sweet.”

“To you,” Derek said.

“To me,” Stiles agreed. A grin pulled on his lips and he felt all warm and fuzzy, and fuck. “Okay, not that this isn't weird and wonderful, but I'm covered in jizz. Let me up.”

“Want me to lick you clean?”

Even he heard the stutter of his heart. “Nope.”

Derek bit playfully at his chest. “Are you always gonna be this mean to me?”

Always … always. When Derek moved to his knees, their faces a breath apart, Stiles realized they had never kissed. Derek's lips parted, seemingly feeling Stiles' attention. Biting his own lip, Stiles grinned and teased, “Maybe.”

“But maybe not?”

Stiles lurched upward and kissed the stubbled skin of Derek's chin. “Maybe not.”

Before standing, Derek kissed the tip of Stiles' nose and said, “I'll take it.”

***

After spending the rest of the evening engaged in a dice game with a few of Derek's team, they returned to the tent. Together. Alone. Stiles was nervous again, a hundred thoughts flitting through his mind. Throughout the game, Derek had taken every opportunity—and inventing a few, Stiles suspected—to touch him. It had felt safe, then. Innocent. Standing between Derek and their bed, nothing felt innocent.

Then Derek pulled off his tee shirt. Stiles closed his gaping mouth with a snap.

“Oh, come on. What the fuck is that?”

Derek rubbed a hand down his chest as if expecting to find a spider. Finding nothing, he asked, “What?”

“You.” Stiles gestured to the smooth skin stretching over the grooves of his abs. “That. That's not fair.”

Smirking, Derek murmured, “I'm glad you approve.”

“Approve? My self-esteem just took a nosedive.”

“I like the way you look.” He stepped closer and ran his hands under Stiles' shirt and up the planes of his stomach. “A lot.”

Stiles raised his arms, allowing Derek to strip the shirt off him. He sniffed unhappily when his pale, mole-flecked skin came into view. Derek looked so masculine, and he … didn't.

Leaning forward, Derek licked at the mark he'd left. “Soon enough, you'll trust you're wanted like you trust the sun to rise. Now, Stiles, take off your pants and get in my bed.”

Stiles obeyed, his ridiculous body trembling. Moments later, Derek cut off the torch and crawled in behind him. He didn't pause or ask permission, simply curled around Stiles' body like it was his right.

“Tell me about you,” Derek said.

“If you'd just read my file,” he muttered. “I worked really hard on that essay.”

Derek's lips pressed into the nape of his neck. “I want to hear it from you.”

“My mom died when I was young. Cancer.” Funny how that was always the beginning of his story. He wondered, if he got old enough, if that would change. The idea made him sad. Derek's whine spurred him on. “I grew up in Beacon Hills, too. You probably didn't know that.”

Derek stiffened against him. “No. I didn't.”

“Yeah. We moved away when I was thirteen, to get me into a better school. Dad's back there, now. The local Sheriff. He'll probably show you his guns when he realizes … he's always bitched about being denied his god-given right to threaten my nonexistent boyfriends. I guess you qualify now.”

Derek huffed. “I do. And I'll play along.”

“Thanks.” Stiles laughed. “I really love him.”

“Okay,” Derek said, sounding like he was agreeing to something Stiles hadn't vocalized. It was scary, but kinda nice, too.

“Other than that, I'm a nerd. I remember everything I read, and signed some agreement at an early age to forsake friends and fun in exchange for a constant reaffirmation of my brilliance.” He stretched against Derek and admitted, “But no one trusts someone my age to know shit about human nature or life, so I'm trying to prove myself at the Bureau.”

Derek said nothing. Probably because the future was a pregnant elephant hovering over their heads. Stiles sighed, but hurriedly pushed on. “I read your file. I know about Kate and the fire. Laura, obviously. I realize some lines on paper couldn't possibly, just, you can talk to me about it. I know enough not to ask, is all I'm saying. You don't have to say anything, but you can. Christ, not like I make my living as a psychologist or anything.”

“I keep thinking, if I do enough good, if I save enough lives, I'll stop blaming myself for their deaths. But it doesn't work that way.”

“Derek, it wasn't—”

Arms tightening, Derek said, “I know. Intellectually, I know. But it doesn't work that way, either.”

Stiles squirmed back into his embrace. “Things just got serious.”

“You started it.”

“Well, then, let me make an inappropriate topic change.” He took a deep, steadying breath. “If you were outside scent range, would your, um, your knot still be a factor?”

Derek snorted. “Probably not.”

“Then you should masturbate in the forest.”

“Stiles.” He groaned.

“No, come on. I'm going to feel horrible, imagining you dying of blue balls. But I don't, I'm confused. And this is new. And, let's be real, I am a virgin. Are you sex on legs? Yeah, totally. But, I need a minute, and if I imagine you suffering, waiting for me to give it up … just, if you want to do something for me, don't make me think about that. Okay?”

Stiles found himself baring his neck as Derek rubbed a hand over his stomach. When had he started doing that? Like, all the time?

“All right,” Derek said. “Imagine me coming with your name on my lips instead.”

He rolled his eyes. “Thanks.”

“Now, if you want to do something for me—”

“Ought oh.”

“You'll let me worry about my blue balls and take whatever you want from me. Understand that what I really need isn't to get off. If I wrap my hand around your cock, that's where I want my hand. If you let me taste your cock, if you curl against me sated and trusting, I'm happy. Okay?”

His eyes slid closed at the words, at the promise of pleasure. Imagining someone wanting him like that, someone needing him, made Stiles feel more than he wanted to.

“This is going to change everything, isn't it?”

“If we're lucky.”