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It was supposed to be a joke when Stiles said the words. He’s sleeping with a werewolf, the collar jokes were bound to come up eventually. Stiles just never thought Derek’s eyes would go blue and for it to get so – Stiles doesn’t know how to describe it, that feeling emanating from Derek beyond intense.

Even worse (or better, his mind supplies, definitely better) is when Derek just licks his lips and asks, ‘and if I made you wear it instead?’ The crash of want through Stiles’ system is unexpected, pumping white hot through his veins until he can almost feel the leather around his neck –

Derek’s pupils dilate as he smells Stiles’ arousal, his fangs dropping and his nails sharpening and scraping along Stiles’ skin as he pushes him back, guides him where he wants him before he spreads Stiles open and takes what he wants –

Stiles comes with Derek’s name torn from his lips and a rough shove of hips inside of him. For a few minutes his mind is blissfully blank, nothing to focus on except the way Derek is growling above him, halfway to transformed and fucking into Stiles like he’s never going to stop.

He thinks that’s the end of it. He was never going to seriously buy Derek a collar to wear and he can’t imagine Derek going to the local Petsmart to buy one for him, either. It’s just a joke. By the time he hears his dad’s patrol car pull into the drive and Derek sneaks out the window, Stiles forgets he even made it.



Except that sometimes after they fuck, Derek curls his fingers around Stiles’ throat and his eyes go blue. He doesn’t crush Stiles’ windpipe, doesn’t even squeeze down, just forms a ring with his fingers and stares at them.

His fingers are usually sticky with come, smearing it all over Stiles’ throat, and he doesn’t clean it up when he fetches a shirt or sheet to wipe them both down. Sometimes, he licks away the mess, so gentle with his tongue. Mostly he just stares.

Stiles has no idea what he’s supposed to do under that kind of scrutiny. He should be scared when he’s got Derek’s claws against his skin, those icy blue eyes staring down at him. He definitely shouldn’t be developing a Pavlovian reaction to it, getting hard as soon as he sees Derek’s eyes change.

It’s stupid and it’s reckless and Stiles doesn’t know why, but he really wonders what it would be like to be collared for Derek. He doesn’t want to do it, because that’s not really his thing, but maybe…




So Stiles gives it more thought than he should, but it’s not his fault. It’s all Derek’s fault, with his stupid sharp teeth and his growly face and his bruising fingers and a huge cock that makes Stiles whimper and beg like he’s living in the sort of cheap porno Stiles pirates from the internet.

Somehow, he manages to make it to the parking lot of a pet shop, staring at the front door and wondering.

He doesn’t have a dog. He doesn’t want a dog. He doesn’t know how he’s supposed to go inside and buy a collar. What does he tell people, ‘hey, I have a werewolf boyfriend who is kind of kinky and he wants me to be his bitch, only he’s too embarrassed to mention it?

Yeah. That’d go over real well.

Stiles would be lucky if his father never heard about it.

He puts his Jeep in reverse and gets the hell out of Dodge before he changes his mind. It was a stupid idea. He doesn’t know what he was thinking other than maybe he should lay off the Adderall before he jerks off because this is too much, even for him.


They’re post-coital, curled up on Stiles’ floor from when they rolled too far towards the edge of the bed and tumbled over, dragging the blanket and a pillow with them. Derek’s fingers are stroking along Stiles’ neck in a gentle caress, propped up on one elbow and looking down at him.

He licks his lips and drops his gaze to Stiles’ throat. He makes a small sound and stops with his petting. ‘If I bought – ‘ he hesitated, licking his lips again, and his voice drops when he continues. ‘ – would you wear it?’

Stiles doesn’t have to ask what it is to know what Derek means. For once in his life, he’s honestly stunned into silence. He doesn’t know what to say. He opens his mouth, but he can’t think of any words.

‘Forget I asked,’ Derek growls, but he doesn’t sound angry. He almost looks embarrassed. He pushes away from Stiles, already reaching for his pants, but he freezes when Stiles grabs his wrist.

‘For you,’ Stiles whispers, looking up into Derek’s eyes in time to see the flash of blue. ‘I would for you.’

Derek growls again, lower, and it goes straight to Stiles’ groin. It’s too soon for him to get it up again, not when they’ve had an entire evening to fool around, but it doesn’t stop him from tugging Derek towards him and letting the werewolf slip between his thighs.

Stiles is expecting it to be rough and fast when Derek finally pushes into him again, but it isn’t. He takes his time, driving Stiles crazy with every slow thrust of his hips, and his fingers brush lightly against Stiles’ pulse point, his gaze fixed on Stiles’ throat.

Stiles would complain, but it’s easy enough to just close his eyes and let Derek have this, to lose himself in the feeling of being stretched open and fucked slowly, losing track of everything except for the bump and slide of Derek inside of him, the way he’s trembling above Stiles, and how he never wants it to end.


The first few days after Derek asked about the collar and Stiles said ‘yes’, Stiles is tense. He doesn’t know what he’s expecting – for Derek to just whip out a collar and then bend Stiles over and fuck him seven ways to Sunday, maybe, but it doesn’t happen.

They barely have time to see each other between school and lacrosse and father/son time between Stiles and his dad and Derek’s anti-socialness and werewolf stuff though. Altogether, it’s kind of a pointlessly stressful week.

Not that Stiles regrets his decision any. And he won’t, assuming Derek doesn’t get him something pink or with flowers or otherwise stupid and girly. Stiles can handle being the bottom, the female or whatthefuckever the technical terms are when you’re taking it up the ass from a werewolf, but pink is just a step too far.

His ego would never be able to recover from that.

He wants to talk to Derek about this, to ask what’s going on, to say he misses him. Somehow though, whenever Stiles starts to type any of those things out his thought line derails and an hour later he’s sexting a werewolf.

Which would be cool if he wasn’t in Chemistry, but hey, whatever. If Derek wants to talk about licking him open before fucking him raw, Stiles isn’t going to object.


And then one day, Stiles comes home late after a night studying with Danny, and there’s Derek, just sitting on Stiles’ bed running a strip of leather through his fingers slowly. He looks up when Stiles walks in, his eyes flashing blue, and Stiles freezes.

‘Hey,’ Stiles says, closing his door softly behind him. He drops his bag off by his desk before he pulls his chair out, turning it so he can slump down in it but still face Derek.

Derek just watches him for a moment, his eyes their usual hazel. He keeps toying with the leather in his hands, tugging it taut before holding it up for Stiles to see, to take in the silver clasp and black leather. ‘Are you sure?’

Stiles can’t tear his gaze away from the collar. He touches his fingers to his throat without thinking about it, tries to wonder what it would feel like to have that leather wrapped around his neck.

He’d be Derek’s if he put it on. No one else’s, just Derek’s. For eternity, if he wants to pretend, and if he’s going to wear a collar, pretending he has eternity to be Derek’s isn’t that hard. He wants it. He wants Derek.

Licking his lips, Stiles finally looks up to meet Derek’s gaze. ‘I’m sure.’


Derek’s eyes turn blue and they don’t change back.


Stiles is naked, kneeling between the spread of Derek’s thighs and looking up at him with wide eyes. Derek’s already hard, his cock a tantalizing red line that Stiles wants to put his mouth all over it, but he stops himself when Derek growls.

Derek’s nails are sharp against his skin, somewhere between normal length and werewolf, like he’s trying to reign himself in but he can’t quite do it. He tips Stiles’ chin back with the lightest of touches before touching his fingers to Stiles’ throat.

The leather fits perfectly when Derek loops it together and latches it, snug against Stiles’ skin. There’s just enough room for him to breath while he’s wearing it, and it feels impossibly thick and heavy where it encircles him.

Stiles loves everything about it.

Derek does too, if the low growl rumbling from his chest and the twitch of his cock is anything to go by. It’s even more tempting than before, but Stiles doesn’t dare reach for it now that he’s got proof of Derek’s ownership around his neck.

Derek’s nails scrape against the back of Stiles’ neck, teasing along the line of his collar, and then he’s guiding Stiles forward. ‘Suck,’ he growls, and Stiles doesn’t need to be told twice. He opens his mouth wide and takes Derek as deep as he can, skipping the foreplay entirely.

They’ve both been too hard for this for too long for it to have been worth it, anyways.


It seems strange, that the first time Stiles thought about having Derek’s cock in his mouth, he thought he was going to choke. Now, he gets off on the thought, and his mouth is watering even before he swallows Derek down. He can take Derek to the back of his throat with relative ease, swallow around him until he’s starving for air, but he only pulls off for a quick breath before he’s sucking him down again.

Stiles doesn’t take his time, he doesn’t play fair. He knows he’s sloppy, can feel the spit and precome dripping past his lips and spilling down his chin, but he doesn’t care. He just rubs his tongue along the vein on the underside of Derek’s cock, curling around it as best he can before he’s swallowing him down deep.

Every now and then he pulls off to tongue the slit, the spot just under the head that makes Derek whine in the back of his throat, mouthing wet kisses to the head and shaft, but it never lasts long. Stiles likes it better when he’s sucking it, when he can feel his jaw ache from having Derek’s cock gliding along his tongue.

Derek usually likes that better, too. It’s easier to get him off that way, when Stiles’ throat is fluttering around the head of his cock. Derek comes hard like that, fingers pressing bruises into Stiles’ shoulder, his nails a hairsbreadth from piercing skin but somehow never quite managing it. Derek comes like a freight train, hard pulse after pulse down the back of Stiles’ throat, and Stiles just swallows it like a fucking champ, like he was made to do this.


Stiles has gotten a lot better about giving head since that first time. A lot. It doesn’t hurt that Derek is always willing to let him practice so graciously, more than willing to push Stiles back and show him how it’s done from time to time.


There are times when Derek can’t be bothered to take his time, when his Wolf is too demanding and Stiles wants too much to give a fuck about consequences, where Derek usually ends up pressing a finger or two inside of Stiles and slicking him up as quickly as possible.

Others, Derek will spread Stiles out on his bed and kiss his way up Stiles thighs, rubbing his cheek against sensitive skin before he finally leans in and starts to lick Stiles where he wants him. Derek’s tongue was made for licking, and yeah rimming seems pretty gross on principle, but Derek’s tongue – it has powers. And Stiles falls apart after the first few licks, always begging for more and forgetting all his qualms.

This isn’t either of those times though. Now, Derek has Stiles on the bed, ass in the air and shoulders against the mattress, wrists between his thighs as he jerks himself off slowly and stretches himself open while Derek watches. The growls are distracting, almost as distracting as Derek’s hands spreading Stiles open further, his restless energy filling the room.

‘Another,’ Derek growls, even though Stiles already has three fingers in his ass. He’s trying to figure out if it’s even possible for him to get a fourth inside of himself, to ignore the uncomfortable way the lube is dribbling out of him and down to his balls. He growls again, and Stiles tries.

It’s weird, but not bad, but his wrist is seriously fucking killing him. He’s had Derek four fingers deep in him before, know it means Derek plans on just fucking using him if he’s bother to prep him that much, but he thinks Derek’s fingers might be bigger than his. It’s not something they’ve ever sat down and measured. Derek just seems like his fingers would be bigger or thicker or something.

‘Stiles,’ Derek whines, his voice breaking and his need becoming even more obvious than the fact his cock is already hard again between his legs. He presses one of his fingers against Stiles’ rim, nudging until his finger is sliding inside of Stiles as well as Stiles’ own and it’s too much, fuck it’s too much all at once, but Stiles just bites his tongue and rocks back for more.

‘I’m ready,’ Stiles groans, hiding his face in the covers of his bed. ‘Fuck, I’m ready, Derek, just take me already – ‘

‘You’re ready when I say you’re ready,’ Derek growls, but he’s pulling his finger out of Stiles and tugging Stiles’ wrist free until Stiles is aching from the emptiness. He growls again when Stiles makes a sound in protest, and it shouldn’t turn Stiles on, but it does, oh how it turns him on, and maybe Stiles is ruined for life because of it, but he doesn’t care.

Derek doesn’t warn Stiles before he lines his cock up and pushes into him, not bothering with a condom or giving Stiles time to adjust, just pushing himself deeper and deeper until Stiles prays no one calls the cops because the sounds he’s making are inhuman and he doesn’t want anyone to shoot Derek until he’s been fucked raw.


Derek is relentless as he fucks into Stiles, holding Stiles hips firmly in place as he slams forward, harder and harder with every snap of his hips. It hurts, oh how it hurts, but it’s the good kind of hurt, the kind of hurt Stiles wants to roll around in for weeks and months and years, and he’s begging for more, always for more.

And Derek gives it. He digs his fingers into Stiles’ hips, his nails biting and so close to breaking the skin but never quite managing it. He’s growling and groaning with every thrust, the sound cutting Stiles straight to the core, sitting heavy in his stomach and making his cock throb even worse than before. Derek is using him, completely, and Stiles loves it.

It’s impossible to tell how long they’ve been at this, so easy to lose themselves in the rough push and pull of their coming together. The only thing that Stiles knows for sure is that he’s aching to his bones and that if he doesn’t come soon he’s going to die, but he doesn’t dare do it until Derek says it’s okay.

There’s probably something wrong with Stiles for loving being Derek’s so much, completely and thoroughly owned, but he can’t quite manage the brain process to figure out quite where the problem lies. He just knows that it’s good, so good, and that he never wants it to end.

But, if it doesn’t end soon, he’s going to fucking explode.


When Derek comes, he’s nearly howling. He’s still moving inside of Stiles, his come thick and sloppy, spilling out of Stiles while his thrusts go wild. He doesn’t stop until he’s done, draping himself over Stiles’ back and nosing at his collar, growling lazily. He barely curls his fingers around Stiles’ cock, whispering ‘come for me’ roughly, before Stiles is coming too, falling apart at Derek’s hands and clenching tight enough around him that Derek whimpers.


Derek fucks Stiles again, facing him this time. His thrusts aren’t as erratic and hectic as before, but they’re hard enough to punch the air from Stiles’ lungs. They’re both a mess of sweat and come and Stiles might be better off just burning his sheets than washing them to get rid of the smell, but all that can wait for later.

For now, all Stiles wants is Derek, Derek inside of him, his skin sweaty under Stiles’ fingers as he tries to hold on, low growls and soft kisses to Stiles’ throat, Derek’s tongue quick as he licks away the sweat and noses the collar. ‘Mine,’ he moans, nipping at Stiles’ jaw. ‘Mine, mine, mine.’

‘Yours,’ Stiles agrees, rolling his hips as best he can to meet Derek’s thrusts. ‘All yours.’

He’s exhausted, spent, but he doesn’t care. He just wants this, right now, forever. He doesn’t want to worry about tomorrow or the day after, he just wants to be tangled together with Derek and completely at his mercy.

He wants to be Derek’s forever.


Stiles can’t feel his toes.

It’s the only real conscious thought he has, other than the fact he’s cold and wet, and he feels oddly alone without Derek pressed into his side.

There’s water pouring over him and he’s pressed back against the tile wall, and he thinks, vaguely, that Derek is rubbing a hand towel along the inside of his thigh but he’s not quite coherent enough to figure out why.


‘You took it off,’ Stiles realizes later, when he’s wrapped up in a towel and watching Derek change the sheets on his bed. He touches his fingers to his throat, searching for the thick band of leather, even though he knows it’s not there.

Derek pauses in tucking in a corner to look at Stiles, his expression unreadable. ‘You were having trouble breathing. It seemed prudent.’

Stiles doesn’t remember that part, but then again he doesn’t really remember much after his second orgasm. He’s not entirely sure how he’s mostly in a sitting position right now considering how badly he aches all over, but he thinks Derek would catch him if he started to fall.


Licking his lips, Stiles wraps his towel tighter around himself. ‘So, are we keeping it for next time, then?’

‘No,’ Derek says, and Stiles can feel his heart crashing into the pit of his stomach. Derek must know, because he shoots Stiles a look and he almost looks reassuring. ‘Not next time. Again. But not next time. Probably.’

‘You don’t like it when I’m your – ah – bitch?’ Stiles asks, his cheeks coloring slightly. He shouldn’t like saying those words as much as he does, but he can’t help it. He’s sixteen. Sex is exciting. Sex with Derek is the best thing in the universe.

‘I like it when you’re my Stiles,’ Derek murmurs, looking out towards the window and frowning. The words are impossibly stupid and cliché, but they make Stiles heart pound in his chest in a good way. ‘Your dad will be home, soon.’

‘I can make my own bed,’ Stiles offers.

Derek looks at the sheet in his hand, to wear the rest of the bed is half done up. He lays it down and turns to Stiles. He crosses the room slowly, almost hesitantly, until he’s close enough to tip Stiles’ chin up and press their lips together in a soft kiss.

‘Go,’ Stiles says softly. ‘I’ll talk to you later.’

Derek stays long enough to nuzzle against Stiles’ cheek lightly, his stubble burning, before he’s pressing a quick kiss to Stiles’ forehead and slipping away through the window into the dark of night.

Stiles watches him go and doesn’t say a damn thing. He waits until he hears his father’s car in the drive before he stands up and moves to finish making his bed, settling for keeping his towel wrapped around his waist as he does it.

He plans on collapsing naked into the sheets anyways. Clothes feel too oppressive right now. Even though his neck feels oddly naked.


Stiles can’t find the collar when he searches for it, and he shouldn’t be surprised that Derek took it with him, but he kind of is.

It’s his, he thinks unfairly, he should be allowed to keep it.

If it makes the werewolf happy to hold onto it, to maybe rub his face and jerk off to it or whatever it is Derek does in his free time, then Stiles won’t hold it against him. After all, the collar is no good without Stiles to wear it, and it’s only a matter of time before Derek shows up again, dangling it between his fingers with a lazy grin.

Stiles can’t wait.