"Are you sure?" Stiles asks, for what feels like the thousandth time.

Derek can't help the roll of his eyes, the sigh that falls from his lips. "Yes, Stiles," he says, "I'm sure."

Stiles nods, transfers Derek's wrists from his hand to the scarf he has tied around the headboard, looping the fabric around his wrist as tight as he can. Stiles knows that Derek can get out of it with a flick of his wrist.

"Good?" Stiles asks, hand looped around Derek's wrists above the fabric.

Derek pulls experimentally at the bindings, tests their give and strength so he know how much he can move without breaking the ties. "It's good," he says, words rough and gritty.

Stiles nods again, scoots back until his ass is flush with Derek's hips, the heat of Derek's dick pressed between the cheeks of his ass, cockhead skimming across his hole. He wants to rock back onto it, push his fingers up into himself to prep himself for Derek's dick, sink down onto him and feel Derek splitting him open, but that's not what this is about, not now.

This is about the thing they've been skirting around for what feels like months, the way they've both been pushing the boundaries just a little more in bed, whispered words of "please, please, want you to" and "god, do it, hold me down like this" that make everything burn hotter, brighter. It's something Stiles has always wanted to try but he never thought that Derek - big, intimidating, sexy, ex-alpha Derek, would allow him - small geeky Stiles, to be in control.

It burns Stiles from the inside out, the marks his fingers leave on the smooth, sensitive skin of Derek's wrists (even though he know that they'll be gone as soon as it comes ... stupid werewolf healing), stokes the possessive fire in his belly seeing them there. But what makes it even better and makes his heart beat triple-time in his chest is the way Derek is proud of them, proud of the marks that litter his skin as Stiles presses into him. How much Derek wishes those marks could stay for more than a couple of minutes. The way Derek presses his own fingertips into them, trying to get them to stay longer and that glimmer of heat and arousal flashing in his eyes at the pain-pleasure they create.

The scarf is new, though, a whispered plea in the dark of the night, Derek's lips against the skin of Stiles' chest when he said, "Want you to tie my wrists next time, Stiles, please. Want to give you full control."

The sight of Derek spread out on the bed below him, wrists tied neatly together to the headboard, makes Stiles so hard it hurts, arousal making his head swim. It's so good like this, Derek's hands bound, but he's still free to move, to skim down the sides of Derek's face, his neck, tickling along the line of his collarbone, down his chest to his nipples, Stiles' thumbs brushing over and around them until they're tight and peaked, down the lines of his ribs to the soft flesh of his belly, to the cut of his hips, thumbs pushing hard against thin skin stretched over bone.

Derek is gorgeous like this, skin flushed even darker with arousal, sweat glistening in the light, eyes heavy-lidded as he fights to keep them open, keep them on Stiles' every move. Stiles loves that he can sit back on his haunches between Derek's spread legs, can see every inch of Derek this way, hips jerking up into nothing as he waits, waits for Stiles' next move.

Stiles trails his fingers down the inside of Derek thigh, pushes Derek's leg up and holds it there, other hand skimming down the burning heat of Derek's cock, the seam of his balls, behind to the sensitive skin there, dry pad of his finger circling the hole.

Derek hiccups out a breath, entire body jerking with it, asshole clenching against Stiles' finger. "God, c'mon," he says, circles his hips, the movement futile when Stiles pulls his hand back.

"Shh," Stiles says, soothes, head bent low to press soft kisses against the inside of Derek's thigh. The lube's right beside Derek's hip and Stiles wastes no time grabbing it, says, "Keep your leg up like this for me," before he lets go, flicks open the cap on the lube and squeezes it over his fingers.

"So good," he says, slick fingers sliding over the sensitive rim of Derek's hole, back and forth, back and forth, until Derek starts rocking down against him. Stiles puts his free hand back on Derek's leg, lifts it a little higher until Derek's ass is raised off the bed, tip of his finger sinking into that smooth, tight heat.

"More, more, c'mon," Derek says, begs, scarf pulled tight with the way he's moving.

Stiles keeps at it with the single finger, works it in and out even though Derek is plenty relaxed around it, only moves on to two when the rush of blood in his ears threatens to overtake everything. Derek opens to them easily, hips rocking steadily back and forth, trying to get them in deeper.

"It's good, Stiles, come on," he says, voice deep and low.

Stiles smirks, nips at the skin at the side of Derek's knee, angles his fingers up into that spot that has Derek thrashing against the bed, sheets surely soaked through with the way he's sweating. Stiles keeps sliding his fingers against Derek's prostate, his own dick jerking and throbbing at the sight of Derek's, the puddle of precum on his belly the hottest fucking thing ever.

Stiles finally slides his fingers out, grabs the lube (although it's not like sourwolf would feel the pain anyway) and slicks up, guiding the tip of his dick to Derek's hole. He pushes in slow and steady, tight heat wrapped all around him, balls already pulled up tight. It feels like it takes years before his hips are finally flush against Derek's ass, and he has to pause and take a few steady breaths to keep himself under control.

Slow roll of his hips and Stiles slides out, fingers tight on Derek's leg as he slams back in, again and again until it feels like his breaths are being punched from his lungs, then slow, smooth jerks in and out, Derek's hips angled perfectly to keep Stiles' dick against his prostate.

"Think you can come like this?" Stiles asks, soft and breathy and low.

Derek swallows, adams apple bobbing, tongue darting out to swipe over his lips. "Yeah," he says, "yeah, just keep—god, right there."

Stiles does, fingers digging bruises into the skin of Derek's thigh, hips slamming repeatedly against Derek's ass, orgasm creeping up his spine. He fights it as hard as he can, keeps fucking into Derek with rough, steady thrusts, breathing rough and ragged. "C'mon, c'mon," he says, "wanna see you lose it for me."

Derek throws his head back, smooth line of his throat bared, wrists tugging and tugging at the scarf (just enough so it doesn't tear), entire body locked tight as he comes, spatters of white against his belly, chest, a shot high enough it pools in the hollow between his collarbones.

Stiles tries to keep moving through it, but Derek is locked around him, ass clenching almost painfully tight, ripping the orgasm right out of him, hot, steady pulses into Derek's ass until he's shaking, can barely hold himself up.

He rubs his thumb over the ridge of Derek's hipbone as he pulls out, hiss escaping at the way Derek flutters around him, too much stimulation when he's so sensitive. He can't help but marvel at how thoroughly fucked out Derek hole looks, rim shiny and swollen, come leaking out. God, but he wishes he had more energy, wants to slide his fingers through the slick mess, push it back up into Derek or rub it into the skin of his ass.

Stiles sighs, thoroughly sated, watches the rise and fall of Derek's chest while he unknots the scarf, fingers rubbing over the already fading red marks on Derek's wrists. "You good?" he asks, flops down onto the bed, pulling Derek close.

"Very," Derek replies, soft sleepy smile on his lips.

"Good," Stiles says softly, brings Derek's wrists to his lips, soft kisses against the skin. He massages Derek's hands, arms, shoulders, back, tracing over Derek's tattoo, hands moving delicately over skin until Derek's eyes flutter shut, breath evening out. Too tired to move, he uses the edge of the blanket to wipe the cooling come from his cock, Derek's stomach and chest, curling as close into Derek as he can get when he's finished.

Surrounded by the heat and scent of Derek, it doesn't take long before Stiles eyes to drift shut, sleep coming almost immediately.

The bruises around Derek's wrists aren't anywhere to be seen, but knowing that they were there, that they were his marks, burns hot and low in Stiles' stomach, a fiery burst of possession that swims through his veins.

Derek seems more aware of what they did last night, fingers sneaking under the cuffs of his black (it's always black) shirt, tracing the lines of where there should be marks when he thinks no one's looking. It makes Stiles smile, the way Derek doesn't mind handing over control to him, how much Derek wishes there were marks so he could show everyone who he belonged to.

It strikes a chord somewhere deep inside him when he realizes Derek fingers the marks when a situation gets too tense, too chaotic, frantic and overwhelming, like he needs to touch them to ground him. It has Stiles reaching out before he can even think about doing it, fingers circling Derek's wrist, loose enough that Derek can break free if he wants, but he doesn't, twists his wrist around and around until Stiles gets the hint and tightens his grip, feels the fingers of his bones digging into the bones of Derek's wrist.

Derek's entire body relaxes, puppet with its strings cut, loose-limbed and pliant. It's scary, heady, the feel of sour wolf's trust and dependence, all held in his hands.

It's clear how much Derek needs it, though, that sense of grounding, the way his schedule has been jam-packed what with the alpha-pack trying to gain power, Jenifer and her whole sacrifice to a sacred tree to get power thing, training Scott with his new found Alpha status, learning to be beta instead of alpha, dealing with whether or not to trust the twins, and his Uncle Peter who we all know is planning SOMETHING, lists of endless activities that never seem to end, leave Derek a ball of unrestrained energy, words too loud, actions too big, fidgeting like he doesn't quite know what to do with himself.

There's no time to take any kind of break, the moments of downtime they have filled with talking with the Argents about the security of Beacon Hills and how prepared we are for what's next on the agenda ... we haven't had witches yet. The way they're split up doesn't help anything, either, Stiles is always with Scott as a handy sidekick, almost never in the same place as Derek unless over at the loft for a pack meeting, and then it's too risky with everyone in the apartment, stupid werewolf hearing and all.

Stiles' ready to pay them all off, Scott, the pack, any supernatural thing that wants to attack them this week, tell them to all fuck off, something, anything, this need clawing under his skin to help release all that pent-up energy.

Relief finally comes at the end of the week, nothing new coming to attack, Scott's with Kira the new girl (he really as a thing for the girl next door, new girl's), Allison with Isaac, Lydia with Aiden (anyone's better than Jackson), Danny with Ethan and Stiles' dad out of town on a case for the week.

Stiles almost can't breathe when he and Derek finally get to the loft, door locked shut behind them. Stiles is bouncing around, mouth going a mile a minute as he chatters on about Derek doesn't even know, fingers tugging and twisting at the strings of his hoodie.

He goes straight to their bedroom, leaves the door open behind him, shuffle of Derek's feet against the floorboards as he follows. He toes off his shoes, shucks off the plaid button-down, sits at the end of the bed with his hands in his lap.

"Derek, come here," Stiles says, calm, even sound of his voice shocking him, almost certain it should sound as shaky as he feels.

"I'll break you Stiles" Derek says, with a loopy grin on his face that's never there long enough.

"Fine. Then you sit on the bed and I'll sit in your lap." Stiles say, getting up waiting for Derek.

Derek comes obediently, silent, waiting, muscles tense for the half a second then he relaxes. Stiles pushes Derek back and they lie on the bed for what seems like forever. This is what Stiles loves ... him and his sourwolf no words. No Scott telling him how big a mistake this is, no Dad threatening to shoot Derek every time he sees him, no twins, no prying Lydia and Allison with her crossbows and Isaac with his puppy look , just him and Derek together and peaceful. Stiles knows that everything will be alright.

Thanks for reading ... review if you want :)