Prologue"We might as well just get it over with," Derek says, sounding notably unenthusiastic as his hands move to the buckle of his belt. Stiles actually gapes at him for long enough that he gets halfway through pulling the leather through the loops of his pants before the thought occurs to him that he should, maybe, stop Derek?
"No, no, no," he rushes, reaching his hands out and flapping them as though that will make Derek stop undressing. Derek arches an unimpressed eyebrow at him, and he elects to ignore it. "I'm not— No, Derek, you are not popping my cherry in your charred-out Hitchcock house."
"Hitchcock house?" he repeats. His tone is flat, and there's a dangerous glare that flashes in his eyes, but Stiles counts it as a win anyway because it makes his hands still.
"You know, it looks like the house from —" He shakes his head, hoping to clear out the errant thoughts that are distracting him from the very important problem at hand. "Never mind. The point stands. If I have to have sex with you, it's not going to be in the House That Jack the Ripper Built."
"We don't have a lot of choices here, Stiles," he counters, and Stiles's mouth tightens at Derek's palpable frustration. "We're on a bit of a time limit, you know."
"Yeah, I know, you have to ~claim me." He throws in an exaggerated wiggle just to punctuate how ridiculous he finds werewolf culture. It's juvenile, but he feels a thrill of satisfaction shoot through him at the way Derek's jaw clenches. "Can I have, like, a minute to get used to the idea? I didn't exactly roll out of bed this morning expecting Derek Hale to need to fuck me."
Derek is silent, staring him down with his I'm Very Intimidating face, as though that's going to make Stiles drop his pants and bend over. It's irrelevant that Stiles vividly imagined doing just that while jerking off in the shower the other day.
After a long, tense moment, Derek huffs and starts to re-buckle his belt. "Fine. Tonight then."
Yeah. Tonight, Derek takes Stiles's virginity. Whether he likes it or not.