Here at the End of All Things | October 2012 | 25,000 words
Stiles could still remember Derek with a slave collar, so much younger: his face contorted with pain when he couldn’t change on the full moon, his hand scrabbling at his neck like he was being choked. His fingers wrapped around the moonstone and metal, pulling and tearing for all he was worth, but still not strong enough to break it. How Derek had collapsed back against the wall in defeat, hands clenched into useless fists.
Stiles shuddered at the memory, not sure that Derek would survive it this time if they collared him. Scratch that — sure Derek wouldn’t want to survive it this time. He’d rather die than live as a slave to the Argents.