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How Stiles Lost His Virginity (In 600 Words or Less)

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This is not how this is supposed to go down. Not at all. There is supposed to be romantic music playing and mood lighting and soft, sweet smelling skin. There is supposed to be strands of strawberry blonde hair for him to bury his face in, and deep green eyes for him to lose himself in. And full, pouty lips to kiss and, and, and...

It is supposed to be with Lydia, alright?

It is supposed to be romantic.

It is supposed to mean something.

It is not supposed to happen after nearly dying, for the fourth time this week, with some sort of black gunk still splattered across his shirt. He isn't supposed to be shoved up against a wall, with an angry werewolf's hand down his pants. That's just... no one dreams about that.

No one thinks about getting their jeans shredded by claws or seeing green eyes flash red or about sharp fangs scrapping against their necks.

Although, from the way Stiles's body is reacting, maybe they should.

But still, hot or not, getting fucked in a dirty alley by someone you hesitate before calling your friend isn't exactly how anyone wants their first time to go.

Except...

Except it's Derek and he's making these keening noises and mouthing at Stiles's collarbone, rutting into Stiles again and again, until Stiles's knees turn to jelly and he's practically seeing stars.

And maybe it's not the most romantic thing ever, but the way he gasps "Stiles" his eyes wide and wild, makes Stiles's heart beat faster, makes his breath come in ragged pants.

"Please," Stiles says, not even knowing what he's asking for, only that he needs something, needs more.

Then Derek is kissing him and it's all desperation and need and absolutely perfect.

Stiles moans, low in his throat, his hands clutching at Derek's hips, pulling him closer, tighter, getting that extra friction he's frantic for, and before he even realizes what's happening, he's coming, back arching off the wall, pressing his body even harder against Derek's.

And, no, Derek isn't soft and sweet and tender. He smells like old leather and motor oil and musk. His body is all hard planes and sharp angles; the stubble on his face is as rough as sandpaper against Stiles's neck.

But being in his arms feels right.

And maybe this isn't your typical teen movie version of romantic, what with the nearly dying and the strange black gunk and the sour stink of garbage the alley is giving off, but the way Derek cups his face, the tender way Derek looks at him before he gently presses a kiss to Stiles's forehead, feels more romantic than anything else in Stiles's short life.

This does mean something. Something more than just a need to know that they are both still alive, that they have both survived to fight another day.

"I've got you," Derek whispers, his lips ghosting across Stiles's skin. He licks a little at the spot where Stiles's neck and shoulder meet, breathes in deep and then says, "I've got you," again.

And, sure. This isn't how Stiles's first time is supposed to go. No where near it, actually. But Stiles wouldn't change it for the world.