The name appeared when she was twelve. Her period arrived first, red blood in her little-girl panties, and then, with the ache of it in her gut- then came the name. Isaac, pricked out in tiny letters across the inside of her thigh. Isaac, tracing along her femoral artery.
Isaac. She finds a fierce greed growing at the thought of him. As she gets older, the feeling grows, knowledge and possession and the urge to have something completely hers, for once.
Family brings her to Beacon Hills. Fate brings her Isaac on a blood-smeared platter. At first there is Scott, pink cotton-candy in her mouth, but it doesn't last. She's seen the name on his wrist; he isn't for her, although she can't deny the thrill it gives her to play with Lydia's toys. But Isaac, this one, particular Isaac- he has no name. He admits it one night, bundled with the rest of the pack, says his father used it as another excuse to beat him.
His father looked at Isaac and saw a freak. Allison looks and sees a boy she can take, and keep, and have. Empty and waiting. He may not have her name on his body, but she will find a way to write it in his flesh nonetheless.
They start... not small. Normal, maybe. She dips her fingers where she's wet and throbbing, slicks her name down his spine. He makes the sweetest puppy whimpers when she bruises him, but the marks fade as fast as her teeth can leave them.
It doesn't satisfy either of them for long.
Instead she makes him kneel. Twists a wolfsbane rope around his arms and listens to him moan. Her cunt drips when she ties him to the bed and rides his face until he's gasping for air. No hitting, no blindfolds, nothing that might remind him of his father. She's careful, and they negotiate, and they end here, with him bent over her knee as she milks his prostate and he sobs like he doesn't know what to ask for, more or less.
The collar is weighty, and worth the investment. Her boy is beautiful in it. His eyes slip shut when she uses the leash to tug him into place. He wears it as often as he can, but it's still not quite enough. Not for him, not for the curl of ownership in her belly. It's too dangerous for him to wear the collar outside their apartment, when he might have to shift.
She holds his head still at the tattoo parlor and lets her nails prick into his jawline as the artist works. Stark purple blossoms on their green stems chain around his neck when they're finished.
Allison wields the torch herself and then takes her tongue to healing, still-hot flesh.