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When Derek goes into the theater—still reeling from the fact that Sheriff Stilinski gave him permission to date his underage son and then a hug before going back to his patrol, what the hell—he spots Stiles, beckoning him enthusiastically from the back row.
Oh god, the back row. Derek is in so much fucking trouble.
“Oh good, Dad didn’t kill you,” Stiles whispers when Derek sits next to him (or tries to whisper anyway; his voice still comes out loud enough that a few people turn around to glare).
“It’s the ‘turn off your cell phones’ announcement, relax,” Derek growls at them. Maybe he lets his eyes glow red just a tiny bit, too; he’s stressed out, and pretty sick of feeling so out of his depth today.
(Besides, the proud little smirk that Stiles rewards him with when one of the busybodies yelps in fear and actually runs out of the theater is worth it.)
“That probably wasn’t such a good idea,” Stiles says, but the corner of his mouth is still turned up, so Derek doesn’t take the reprimand seriously. “What did my dad want with you?”
“We can talk about it later,” Derek says, and Stiles goes so still beside him that Derek can actually feel him freaking out.
“Listen, Derek.” Stiles is being quiet, now, but it’s not on purpose; he sounds like he needs to force each word past his throat. “Whatever my dad said. He’s just… saying things.”
“Uh huh.” The opening credits are on the screen, and the lights in the theater have dropped so low that Derek wouldn’t have been able to see the rising blush on Stiles’ cheeks, if he’d been human. “I thought it sounded a little crazy.”
“Right!” Stiles says, nodding down at his popcorn. “Right. Dad just gets these ideas, you know how dads are. Like they know everything.”
“Mmhmm.” Derek is watching Stiles’ profile, the curves of his nose and his neck and his eyelashes, highlighted by quick blue flashes from the screen.
“And those ideas have absolutely no basis in reality. Like, these clothes. These are just my normal clothes.”
“You look nice,” says Derek, before stealing a sip of Stiles’ soda.
“Thanks,” Stiles says, and then, “What?”
“I always liked those jeans on you,” Derek continues, proud of the steadiness of his voice and how it doesn’t at all betray how hard it for him to vocalize that thought.
“WHAT?” Stiles says again, which brings on an entire chorus of shhhhhhhh! from the rows in front of them. “Sorry!”
Derek closes his eyes against the crazy pounding of his heart—seriously, he’s not in high school anymore, what is wrong with him—and drops his arm as casually as he can over the back of Stiles’ chair. He leans in close, murmuring “Just watch the movie” into Stiles’ ear, and Stiles closes his eyes and pulls in a sharp breath. A sudden scream from the movie startles Derek into turning his head, and his jaw brushes accidentally against the edge of Stiles’ ear.
“Holy fuck, stubble,” Stiles breathes, before jamming the heels of his hands into his eyes and groaning quietly. “Oh jeez. Kill me.”
“You’re going to get popcorn butter all over your face,” Derek murmurs, grinning now, because Stiles’ voice, rough and shaky after such a small touch—and his pulse, rushing along and refusing to slow down, and Derek knows it’s not just from embarrassment.
“Yeah, because that’s my biggest problem right now, I—uh…” Derek’s got his hand resting on the back of Stiles’ neck now, his thumb rubbing slowly back and forth over flushed-hot skin. Stiles drops his hands to the armrests, fingers clutching. “Derek.”
“I’ve never been on a movie date before,” Derek whispers, feeling Stiles shudder against his palm.
“M-me neither.” Stiles pushes back into Derek’s hand, and the frightened tension in his muscles seems to bleeding into a different kind of tension altogether. He turns his head to look at Derek, finally, and his eyes are heavy-lidded and dark. Derek swallows hard.
“You saved us seats in the back row,” he points out, and puts a gentle pressure on the back of Stiles’ head—enough to encourage him forward, if he chooses. “Think I’m that easy?”
“Ugh, nothing about you is easy,” Stiles says, annoyed and astoundingly fond. He responds to the push and leans closer, reaching over the armrest to brace a shaking hand on Derek’s thigh. He’s pulling shallow, nervous breaths in through his open mouth, and his lips are shiny with butter and they look so soft, and so Derek really can’t be blamed for surging in and kissing the hell out of him.
By the time Derek remembers that it’s Stiles’ first kiss, probably (and that it should really be sweet and gentle instead of desperate and kind of ferocious), Stiles is already pushing into it with a wild, hungry noise, holding Derek by the hair like he’s afraid he’ll change his mind and go away. The grease from the popcorn is slippery between them, resulting in a frustrating lack of friction, so Derek grabs Stiles’ head with both hands and slows the kiss down so he can carefully and methodically lick every trace of it off of Stiles’ lips.
“Oh my god,” Stiles groans into his mouth. His fingers curl on Derek’s leg, and then move up over Derek’s hip to grab at his shirt under his jacket. “Mm, mm, mm,” he says as Derek chases the butter flavor along his jaw and up to his cheekbone, sounding so shameless and so hot that Derek buries his claws into the back of Stiles’ chair just to give himself an outlet. Everything is Stiles, his voice and his scent and the way his top lip gives between Derek’s teeth, so he doesn’t even notice that the movie’s moved past the loud action scene and that people can actually hear them until—
“Stop that, I will get the manager, I swear to god,” hisses the girl in front of them, and Derek sighs heavily and pulls back.
“What, come on, no.” Stiles tightens his hold on Derek’s hair and tugs ineffectually. “She’s just jealous because her date isn’t stupidly hot and an amazing kisser.”
“Excuse me?” says her date, whirling around, and Derek has to hand him ten bucks before he’ll agree not to get them kicked out.
“You didn’t have to do that,” Stiles says. “We don’t have to stay. We can go do… something else.”
God. “We should stay until the end. Try to finish an actual date, before we do… anything else.”
Stiles snorts. “That’s stupid. Can’t we at least make out some more?”
“Can you be quiet?”
“...no.” Derek laughs, burying the sound in Stiles’ shoulder. “Oh, big deal, all right, I’m new to this. I’m easily impressed.”
“Yeah, well, I was impressed enough to shred the upholstery on your seat,” Derek admits, nuzzling a little before settling into the curve of Stiles’ neck, “so I’m not sure I have a leg to stand on, here.”
“Wow, I probably shouldn’t find your wanton destruction of property this hot, right?" Stiles gets his arm around Derek's shoulders and holds him, leaning his cheek against his hair. “I’m pretty sure that’s an unhealthy reaction.”
“Not as unhealthy as the reaction I’ll be having to buttered popcorn from now on,” Derek says ruefully, and then they both laugh so hard that Derek has to slip the guy in front of them an extra twenty to let them stay.