Hoechlined asked: ZIP ME DEREK DRESSING STILES CAUSE HE’S BROKEN HIS ARMS OR IDK????
“Dude, no,” Stiles says irritably and slaps Derek’s hand away. “Stop it.”
“I’ve managed to dress myself just fine for the last twenty years, I’m pretty sure I can handle it.”
Derek raises his eyebrows. “A lot of people might argue that point,” he says dryly, looking pointedly at the pile of plaid shirts strewn about the room. “Lydia more so than anyone else.”
“Screw you,” Stiles replies, but without heat. “This is so not the time to complain about my fashion choices. You like my fashion choices. My terrific fashion choices are part of what helped me win you over, along with my fluent sarcasm, genius brain and nubile body.”
“The only way in which your fashion choices helped you was that I felt it was my moral obligation to get them off your body and destroy them forever lest you give anyone eye cancer,” Derek deadpans. “I will never understand what possessed you to wear orange and pink in combination.” He shudders a little, and Stiles grins.
“I still maintain that that shirt rocked. Also, you are a liar. You just prefer me without any clothes all the time.”
“True,” Derek admits easily, because if he got his way, Stiles would be running around the house naked all the time. Not that Stiles is in any position to judge, because he wouldn’t mind Derek being constantly naked either. The ass is glorious. Well, everything about Derek is glorious, and sometimes he still can’t believe that he’s actually tapping that. “But right now, I have to get you into clothes or we’ll be late.”
Stiles glowers at him and yanks at the pair of jeans in Derek’s hands. “I’m not two years old, Derek. I’m an adult-“
“-Another point that remains up for debate.”
“- and I’m gonna dress myself, Jesus,” Stiles huffs.
“You’ve got a broken arm,” Derek points out, poking at the cast just to be irritating.
“Thank you Derek, I hadn’t noticed,” Stiles retorts, rolling his eyes. “And it’s exactly that: a broken arm. I’m not a fucking invalid, I don’t need you to pamper me.”
“Okay.” Derek drops the jeans on his bed, crosses his arms before his chest and leans back against the wall, watching Stiles with amusement glinting in his eyes, like he’s just waiting for Stiles to make a fool of himself and can’t wait to laugh at him. Well, he’s gonna be disappointed in a minute, because Stiles will prove him wrong. Stiles totally got this.
After all, how hard can it be to dress with one hand?
As it turns out, it’s pretty fucking hard. Five minutes later, Stiles is alternately glaring at where his jeans are pooling around his feet – which, hey, at least he got his feet into socks, first, that’s an accomplishment – and at his boyfriend whose shoulders are shaking with silent laughter. He’s not doing a very good job at concealing his ‘I told you so’ vibes, but at least he’s trying, Stiles will give him that.
“I hate you,” Stiles proclaims, and doesn’t specify whether he’s talking to Derek or his trousers. To be honest, it’s a little bit of both.
It should not be so fucking complicated to stick your legs through the right pant leg even if you can’t move your right arm at all and can only hope to hold the jeans awkwardly in mid-air with the fingertips of your left hand. He’s almost fallen flat onto his nose a couple of times already, and the only thing that saved him from the painful impact was that he regained enough balance to flop back onto the bed. Sitting on the edge makes things a little easier, because at least he doesn’t have to worry about the hardwood floor, but it’s still frustrating.
Derek releases another throaty chuckle that usually makes Stiles want to kiss him stupid but now does little to appease his aggravation, so he is Not Amused when Derek crouches down in front of him and tugs and the trousers. “Dude, I said I can do it.”
Derek’s eyebrows do that complicated little dance that means he thinks Stiles is being immature – which is probably accurate, but he doesn’t care – and he sighs deeply. “Stiles.” Derek’s hands cover his, curl around his fingers and gently pry them away from the heavy fabric. His voice is quiet and serious and fond, and it would make Stiles go all gooey inside if he wasn’t so angry at himself. Stiles loves it when Derek isn’t afraid to be gentle, isn’t afraid to show he cares. “You broke your arm in three different places, above and under the elbow,” Derek reminds him, “fighting off two omegas all on your own at the same time while I was out for the count before hoisting me up and dragging me to your jeep and driving me to Deaton, all of that with your arm broken in three places.”
“I remember,” Stiles replies. “I was there.”
“Good.” Derek brushes his lips over his knuckles and wow, that’s just not playing fair. “Then you will agree with me when I say that you don’t need to prove your worth my insisting on doing something stupid like trying to get dressed on your own when all it will do is force you to move your arm too much and make the damage worse.”
“Good,” Derek says again and leans up a little to press a soft kiss against Stiles’s belly, and then another, and another, and that’s it, Stiles is a goner, all the tension and fight draining out of him. “You earned the right to be pampered. So shut up and let me take care of you.”
“Ugh,” Stiles says and twists the fingers of his left hand in Derek’s hair, blunt fingernails softly massaging Derek’s scalp, and Derek smiles against his skin. “I hate it when you make sense.”
The smile grows into a grin, and Derek kisses stomach once more before sitting back on his heels and pulling at the jeans until Stiles is not longer standing on them and they reach above his knees. “Okay, stand up.”
“You’re just getting off on ordering me around,” Stiles complains, but obediently follows the instructions, and Derek is closing the button and pulling up the zipper in no time. Stiles sighs. “I really wish we’d be doing this the other way around.”
Derek raises his eyebrows and grabs the blue button-down shirt that he laid out for Stiles before. One of his own, because they’re a little bigger and will allow Stiles to stick his arm through the sleeve with the cast making the seams pop. “You want to dress me?”
“No,” Stiles says, the duh heavily implied. “I meant I prefer you undoing all my clothes.” Not that he would mind dressing Derek. At all.
Derek grins and kisses him, quick and soft and warm. “Of course you do.” He wrestles Stiles’ arm into the sleeve as carefully as possible, and then proceeds to work on the buttons. “We can do that later.”
“You’d better,” Stiles says and darts forwards do slot their mouths together.
In the end, they are ten minutes late, because Derek has to re-button Stiles’ shirt twice to make sure they’re not done up wrong, because he cannot, in fact, concentrate very well on that when Stiles is distracting him with his mouth.
It’s totally worth it.