Work Text:
Wiggle, wiggle, wiggle
Derek smiles at him, he’s panting, they have escaped capture, and Derek’s leaning over and panting and he looks up and sideways at Stiles and gives him a real smile. With dimples. And shirtless Derek, leaning forward and panting and then the dimples, come on. Who wouldn’t respond to that? The tree he’s leaning on sort of moves sideways. Stiles has to sort of trip over his own feet to stay upright. But he smiles back because it’s too perfect. Or too much like special Stiles-brand porn. Or both, because one doesn’t negate the other, right?
It may be that Stiles has a thing for dimples. Because, yeah, there are Danny’s dimples, which are like super-deep and sort of perpendicular, and are amazing smile intensifiers. They make other people’s smiles sort of look lame and unfinished, cause they’re not all underlined and italised with dimples. Except for Allison’s smiles obviously, which sort of use dimples as a full-stop. They come at the end of her smile and make it clear that, yep, here it is, here is a smile to sell to Disney.
Ok, maybe the whole dimples reverie went on for a bit long, there.
‘Your jeep, Stiles? Where is it?” Derek sounds pissed. Like he may have already asked a few times.
And yeah, if he’s given a few moments he can remember that.
“This way,” says Stiles, pointing randomly. He shakes his head to clear it. “Yeah, actually this way.”
*****
So it’s odd that there isn’t a lot on the internet about dimple fetishes. Well, not on faces anyway. He’s tried to talk to Scott about it, but he hadn’t really got it.
“Wierd facial hang-ups, Stiles? Like what? Like really long and curly eyelashes? Yeah, I guess so. But it’s, I mean, it’s not that big a deal, right?”
“No, I mean, just one thing that just gets you . . .like, like a smile.”
“Yeah. Who doesn’t like smiles? Yeah, but for me, it’s this one special person’s smile. You’ve seen Allison’s smile right? Incredible.”
So, no, it hadn’t been a great talk with Scott. But Stiles is an adaptable thinker. He can accept that he may be sort of dimplesexual. And it was sort of a good way to get around any freak-outs about bi-sexual or interspecies sexual or whatever. He was Stiles, and he was dimplesexual. Stiles: the first dimplesexual ever.
So, he’s at home again. Skipping a shower, ‘cause he’ll only have to do it again in the morning, right? And getting into bed, and having this great visual of Derek panting and then smiling and his dimples bracketing his smile. Which just makes his smile, by the way, feel WAY more personal than it’s meant to be.
Styles would love lick Derek's dimples and have some meaningful time maybe just sitting on Derek’s lap getting acquainted with his dimples. Lap-sitting. Lap-dances. He’s not very co-ordinated, but he’d love to try that.
He’s already worked out which songs he wants. Which may be going a bit far in non-existent relationship. It’s on his i-pod playlist as ‘wuffcrawl’, which isn’t too subtle, but whatever. Better than ‘dancing on wolves’.
****
Derek stares at Stile’s bedroom, waiting for him to shower, to stop smelling so sweaty and aroused. He wants to go in there and ask about the creature that chased them. What had Stiles seen? What did it remind him of? Just because they got jumped after crossing a bridge didn’t necessarily mean trolls, did it? Even if they had looked a bit rock like and been unable to run faster than Stiles. He’s asked Scott to scout around with him, tomorrow, in daylight.
Stile’s isn’t getting ready for a shower. If you’re sitting on the roof near the window, so you can see these things. He’s sort of leaning back on his bed and playing with his i-pod. Something loud comes on. Something about working out and sexiness. Then Stiles twists and reaches into his bedside drawer. He pulls back with lube in his hand. Wriggling.
He’s wriggling on the bed in time to a song that’s going, ‘wriggle, wriggle, wriggle, yeah’ and its driving Derek insane. He’s singing into the lube tube. Hmm . . .strawberry smell . . . and wriggling. Derek can feel his own body firming up ready to give him something to wriggle on.
He picks up some twigs from the gutter and throws them at the window.
****
Stiles looks all flushed and pink and there’s a strong strawberry smell. No music. Derek avoids looking at him directly and goes straight to the computer.
“Trolls, right?” he says and waits for Stiles to answer.
“Privacy, right?” says Stiles. He’s wiping his hands up and down his jeans.
“Stiles”, says Derek, “I’m sorry, OK? Nothing happened.”
“Yeah, because you couldn’t have gone away for half-an-hour, hell, for ten minutes.”
“Yeah, yeah, OK, I didn’t think of that. Or maybe I thought it would be worse or something.”
“OK. Fine. Trolls. Fine. Not exactly what I’d been thinking about.”
Derek grimaces.
“Yeah,” says Stiles absently as he bends over to type, “Not that either.”
Derek goes very still. “Stiles, he says carefully, “what were you thinking about?”
“Oh my God,” Stiles yells waving his hands around like he’s trying to wash the whole conversation out of the air, “you don’t ask things like that! You know better than that! It’s like Human Behaviour 101 – don’t ask about things like that. Actually, that’s not a bad idea, or you could borrow a book like ‘Behaviour: for Dummies’ from the library, or. . .”
But Derek is looking at him really intently and he’s starting to smile, and his dimples are forming and Stiles just moans, “Jesus, Derek”, and turns away. But Derek’s got him by the hand now, and he’s tugging him back. And, of course, Stiles turns back to him, because demented hope is what he does.
Derek asks again, but softly, and with his face very close, “What were you thinking about, Stiles?”
And Stiles says, softly, “Dimples”.
And Derek’s dimples come back as he asks even more softly, “these ones?”
And Stiles is nodding and staring and then licking into the closest dimple, and trembling with fear, or adrenaline or whatever and Derek’s stroking his hands down Stile’s back, and up under his shirt and tracing his skin and his shaking muscles. It is, bar none, the most exciting thing that’s happened. Ever. There are secret troops out there with less excitement in their lives.
Stiles looks at Derek and reaches up to turn his face, so he can lick the other dimple, and Derek lets him. He lets him lick, and then Derek moves.
He grabs Stiles by the arse and throws him on the bed.
And then waits a beat before pouncing on him.
But in a fun way, like he’s enjoying this, and like Stiles is now his favourite pounce toy. And his dimples are showing as he grins down at Stiles and leans in and whispers, “wriggle, wriggle, wriggle” as suggestively as possible, so Stiles can crack up, and start kissing him wildly and throw his legs around him and hump into him, while Derek kisses him back and gets all possessive and suggestive with his tongue.