[ Derek watches Tate settle, his eyes dropping to the notebook, and then to Tate's hand. His eyes widen, and there's something-- viscerally, alarmingly hypnotic about seeing the triskele on Tate's skin, and his stomach boils with the urge to just-- bite him. Here, now. Force him to be pack. Make that triskele count.

Tate makes it fade and Derek snaps out of it, which-- isn't hard, and probably isn't noticeable, given that the feeling only lasted for a second, but jesus. Tate's his pack. Derek still just wants him so badly. He's hungry. ]

I mean... that's...

[ God. Hold on. Derek rubs his forehead. ]

Even just the ritual of getting a tattoo done is going to mean something. Make it more real. Having it permanently etched into your skin means you won't have to think about changing yourself. It'll just - always be there. Right?