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Stiles doesn’t really worry or freak out when he gets back for the summer, and Derek is not there. He’s a little bummed, sure. They’ve had a thing going for years now. It involves a lot of nudity and orgasms, and Stiles is a great fan of both. Especially with Derek. Have you seen Derek? Also, Stiles likes Derek. He has a feeling that if he’d let himself, he might like Derek a lot, but that is not really on the table with both of them in different schools, so Stiles doesn’t linger. Don’t get Stiles wrong; Derek is not perfect, far from it. He’s kind of a jock, ridiculously into pushing his body to various new athletic heights, kind of sheltered, and a little spoiled by both his parents and all the boys and girls who succumb to his sunny smile. And boy, is that a sunny smile. SPF 45 recommended. But he’s not a bad guy. In all honesty, he’s a sweetheart. Something of a slut, but a sweetheart.
Also, Stiles doesn’t judge. First stone and all that. He is neither jocky, nor sheltered, nor a sweetheart, really, but he’s not perfect either. He’s loud, and pushy and sarcastic. And um … may also kind of get around.

Is not in Beacon Hills, when Stiles gets back. And since Stiles didn’t bother texting or calling before showing up at the Hale house - Derek is usually always back for break before he is, ok - Stiles is now in the clutches of Derek’s entire family. He has to tell five different versions of how college is, and hear at least four versions of how Derek has, apparently, decided to “take some time off now that he is done with school.”

Stiles finds a moment where all the Hales seem to be arguing among themselves, about where Derek is, exactly, or what his plans are; turns his back to them, crosses his eyes, sticks his tongue out and snaps a pic. Types “tx 4 lettin me know u’re not coming back, asshole. it’s haleageddon” over it and Snapchats it to Derek. Whatever.

Derek snaps back a picture of a really thin looking pizza on a backdrop of what looks dangerously like Italy the next day. But no comments on where he is, or if he’s planning to show up for Stiles duty this summer. Asshole.


Stiles knows not to expect Derek, when he goes home for Thanksgiving, because Derek has decided to go become a SKI INSTRUCTOR in the motherfucking Alps. No, really.



By Christmas, the Hale family has changed their story from Derek taking time off, to Derek having “run away from home.” They tell their variations on the theme, as they accost Stiles in various more and less festive settings around Beacon Hills. Laura and Cora seem to be in contact with him as much as Stiles is, which means an occasional, vague “I’m alive, Europe is pretty, but weird” variety of a text or a snap. The rest of the Hales get even less. Derek never really posts anything on Facebook anyway, and he doesn’t have Instagram. Stiles loves Instagram. His is full of aesthetically pleasing coffee stains; pictures of Lydia, whenever he sees her; blurry pictures of various patches of Scott’s skin, whenever he leaves his phone unattended; and some snotty OOTD parodies of fraying denim and ironic t-shirts.
“Dude,” Stiles texts Derek: “your family is handing out “missing” posters by the mall.” And then, after his “meh is better than your fist” old times date with Danny - and how anyone looking like Danny can be a boring lay is still beyond Stiles, but Derek fucking ran away from home, ok?, and a boy has needs - Stiles goes home and slaps together a quick Missing poster of a poodle with fake eyebrows, who “responds to Derek”. Snapchats that to Derek too.
When he wakes up the next morning, he’s rewarded with a shaky 10 second clip of Derek laughing so hard it sounds like he’s gonna crack a rib, cut off by someone with a heavy, honeyed foreign accent calling his name. Stiles sighs and reloads Tinder and Grinder to his phone.


So when Derek calls him … CALLS him, one night in late January, and says: “come over for spring break, Stiles,” Stiles doesn’t even think too long. He semi-graciously accepts the ticket to Munich that Derek offers to buy him. Stiles can’t afford it, but Derek can, even though Stiles is not exactly sure how. Trust fund? Secret job? A lucrative career as a sugarbaby? Fuck knows. The Hales are loaded, but Cora drives a shitty car and Laura works 14 hours a day as a paralegal. He still has to save all his pennies to make sure he has enough for food, non-air travel and miscellaneous, but February flies by in a flurry of deadlines and expectation.


Stiles lands in the vast, futuristic, parallel universe that is the Munich airport at 1 pm, with what feels like a minimal jet lag, because he miraculously spent most of his flight asleep. Might have been the two weeks before, which he spent cramming and writing and submitting, and in general not sleeping. So he buys a prepaid sim card from a vending machine, and an extra large coffee and a pretzel from a real, live German lady, who smiles at him for his: “Ein Pretzel, bitte.”
Like you wouldn’t?
He rents a VW, because he’s in Germany, but doesn’t have the cash for a BMW. But German engineering, right?

According to Derek, and Google Maps, it should take him around two hours to drive from Munich to somewhere in the Austrian Alps that is apparently, for reals, called Kitzbühl. Its where Derek is hiding. Spending some of his time freeriding in fresh pow with a merry band of maniacs he’s befriended, and the rest of his time teaching people, who think strapping both of their feet to a single board is a good idea, how not to die. Yeah, skis for Stiles. Skateboarding he gets. Snowboarding? Not so much. He prefers to fall on his sides to falling on his face, thank you very much.
He only takes one wrong turn getting out of Munich, so he should make it in into the serpentine roads before darkness. Which, you know, he could do in the dark. But he doesn’t want to. He’s still a little weirded out that someone even gave him a car, and thus, by definition, must have believed that he is an actual, functioning adult. The first hour and a half he is accompanied by a radio host with very insistent broad-voweled articulation, who blissfully spends most of the time playing 90s alt-megahits from Depeche Mode to Nirvana. He then gets about 40 minutes of the latest EDM-y dance music, with one of those shouting radio hosts, which is actually good for keeping the creeping grogginess at bay. Finally, in the serpentines, it is very disturbing, jovial singing in German. Or … er … Austrian? Stiles thinks of leather pants and those beer-girl dresses with the poofy blouse bit around the boobs, and white-knuckles it through the completely blind, absurdly sharp turns, slowly crawling up what must be a very fucking big mountain. But yes, right, the Alps.

Stiles hasn’t really been thinking about what it means that he flies half across the world to spend 4 days with Derek, or whether it means anything that Derek would cough up 700 bucks for him to do that. They’ve known each other for a long time and they’ve been fooling around for years. Things with them are generally uncomplicated. So Stiles doesn’t really know why his palms grow sweaty as he turns into a small, darkening parking lot in front of a wooden, two story house with a cow, of all things, painted on its side. He turns off the ignition and wipes his hands on his thighs. Swallows, then smacks his lips. Coffee. He tastes of stale coffee. He roots around his backpack for a piece of gum, sits there like an idiot, chewing, not going inside. The song on the radio ends and a new, even more disturbing one starts, and Stiles decides to retrieve his cojones and gets out of the car. Backpack over one shoulder, suitcase dragging in what can only be called packed dirt and gravel, he makes his way across the yard to the front door. He can hear muted voices and some music from inside.

“Come in through the front door, go to Zimmer 2 on the second floor,” Derek’s email had said. But Stiles hesitates. There’s no ringer, but it feels weird to barge into a strange wooden house in the middle of Austrian mountains. What if he has the wrong house? What if all houses have pictures of cows on them here? What if he gets shot? Or shackled into a basement by a man in the wrong kind of leather pants?
He raps his knuckles on the doorframe and steps back. Nothing happens. He fiddles with the strap of his backpack. Contemplates just going in. Then contemplates finding his phone and calling Derek. Finally he knocks again, louder and longer this time. The muted voices he was hearing seem to stop and there are footsteps stomping closer. The door opens in a rectangle of glowing, orange light against what is quickly becoming darkness, and Derek is standing there, a dark brown beer bottle hanging from his fingers.

And fuck Stiles. Fuck Stiles side-ways and up and down. Because Derek looks both like every ski-bunny’s wet dream cliché and so, so good.
“Stiles,” he says and smiles one of his wide, radiantly white smiles.
His hair is longer, mussed and kind of flattened to his skull with what might be melted snow or sweat or both. He’s scruffy too, not a full beard but definitely more than a five o’clock shadow. He’s wearing a thin, tight thermal undershirt that hugs his torso and his arms like a … like a … Stiles blinks. It just hugs, and clings. And reminds Stiles that not only does Derek have perfectly rounded deltoids, triceps and biceps, he also has a ridiculously narrow waist and abs that Stiles can see through the fucking base layer, ok? What’s worse, Derek’s wearing bright red boarding pants, unzipped on the bottom, suspenders hanging down, the waist wide and loose around his hips.
“omgi’vemissedyou,” Stiles says and kind of falls across the threshold.
Derek laughs and gathers him into a big, warm hug.
“It’s great to see you,” he breathes into Stiles’ ear and it shivers down Stiles’ spine so he hugs Derek in tighter, grabs at the warm, damp material stretching across Derek’s back.
“You’re the one who ran away from home,” Stiles says.
Underneath his hands, Derek shakes with laughter.
“Hi Stiles,” someone says enunciating the “I” in a distinctly non-American way, breaking the two of them apart.
“Oh,” Derek says, grabbing Stiles’ hand in one of his, and Stiles’ suitcase in the other: “this is Petra, I’ll introduce you to the others later, c’mon let’s get you settled in.”
Stiles waves awkwardly at Petra, who is leaning against the door jamb of what looks like a kitchen and living room area, wearing similar red pants to Derek’s, and a similar undershirt that shows off her pretty, round boobs. She has a careless cascade of beach blonde hair, tips of which are wet like Derek’s; oddly pale, but friendly blue eyes; and the tip of her nose is peeling from the sun. She’s gorgeous, her smile is cheery, and she’s Dereks’ perfect, female, ski resort equivalent.

Derek drags Stiles up the stairs and through a door Stiles doesn't even notice before he hears it snick closed. Stiles watches his suitcase hit the ground with a thunk, and Derek pulls him closer by the back of his neck.
“Hi,” he says, smiling.
“Hi,” Stiles says back. Because clichés? They’re for embracing.
Derek leans in and rubs his lips back and forth over Stiles’ until Stiles needs to lick him. The kiss is slow and kind of soft, and Stiles can feel Derek smiling into his mouth the whole time.
“Whatcha smiling at, ski bum?”
Derek laughs into the skin of his neck.
“Park rat,” he says.
“Not a skier,” Derek elaborates, smearing little kisses across Siles’ jaw.
“That’s right,” Stiles says, peeling himself off Derek with difficulty, taking a tiny step back and keeping Derek at arms reach: “Mr. snowboarding instructor, god, do you even know what you look like?”
Derek raises his eyebrow but keeps smiling.
“This,” Stiles says, combing his fingers through the wet strands of Derek’s hair, “and this,” he runs his palm over Derek’s scruff and down his neck, “and this,” the thermal feels oddly warm underneath his fingertips, like soft fuzz covering Derek’s tight torso. Like he’s a toy, or a fruit.
“But more than anything,” Stiles says, dipping his hand in the loose waistband of Derek’s board pants: “it’s this.”
Derek laughs again. It’s bright and clean, and fills the room like wind chimes fill a summer evening on the porch. God. Did he always laugh like this?
“Yeah?” Derek says, flexing, bucking into Stiles’ hand.
“Yeah,” Stiles assures, before his brain caches up to the fact that there’s more of the warm fuzzy feeling of a thermal layer where he’s cupping Derek’s growing hard on. Because of course he’s wearing a base layer that includes long johns. Stiles is going to have a heart attack.
“Well,” Derek says, thumbing open the snap on his pants, pushing them down his hips, and yep there they are, obscene and tight against the bulge of his cock, the thickness of his thighs: “I do have a mirror.”
Because he’s a cocky shit.
Stiles swallows. Traces his thumbnail around the outline of Derek’s cock through the thermal, watches Derek buck for contact.
“And the admiration of hordes of ski bunnies,” Stiles points out, pulling his hand back up and grasping the hem of Derek’s undershirt. Derek slowly raises his arms to help.
“And that,” he agrees, when his face emerges from the folds of black fabric.
Stiles smiles. Compulsively, mindlessly, reverently runs his hands up and down Derek’s chest and abs.
The kaleidoscope of colors in Derek’s eyes is drawing him in … in … in.
“Shower?” Derek asks.
“Not sure I wanna shower with you, maybe I should let you wash the bunny off in peace,” Stiles teases.
Derek unbuttons Stiles jeans and pushes his hand down his pants without bothering to unzip. His fingers are hot and firm.
“Well, there’s only one carrot and they all gotta share it,” Derek says, shrugging and nodding, and somehow managing to keep a straight face.
Stiles groans: “omg, I can’t believe you ever get any with those lines.”
“Right?!” Derek agrees, his smile smaller now. Something honest and warm carving crescents into his cheeks. He steps out of his board pants and walks across the room.
“Not sure I even want your slutty carrot,” Stiles lies, slipping his own shirt off his shoulders and pulling the t-shirt over his head: “might have teeth marks on it.”
“Werewolf,” Derek offers, looking back over his shoulder: “they heal.”
“It’s a good thing you’re so pretty, dude,” Stiles says, following Derek to the bathroom, colliding into him. Skin on skin on skin on skin on skin on skin. “Cause you’re gross.”
Derek laughs again and it fills Stiles skull to the brim.

Derek turns on the water and the bathroom starts slowly filling with steam.
“Water pressure’s shit,” he says, hooking his fingers into the band of Stiles’ open jeans and boxers.
“Okay.” Stiles drags his lips up Derek’s neck, then down, licks the salty skin, drives his teeth in just a little. Derek sighs a small, soft noise that hits Stiles right in the gut, tilts his head for more.
“And the warm water will run,” Derek says, as Stiles pulls him into the stall.
“Let’s bang on the bed then,” Stile says, grabbing a bottle of shampoo off the rack.
“Okay,” Derek says. Smiling again. Smiling a little boy smile that Stiles knows will get him everything in the world, because it’s never fake, and who would ever keep something from a smile like that?

“Wanna top?” Derek says, as Stiles is sluicing shampoo out of his hair. He squirts clear liquid into his palm. It’s colorless, odorless, and probably made of sustainably harvested hedgehog tears or something. He’s rubbing his hands together, working up lather, then slides one down his abs; rubs a loose fist over his half chub until Stiles’ mouth waters. His other hand skates across his hip to reach behind.
“No,” Stiles says, catching that wrist. He pulls Derek’s arm around himself, pushes his ass into Derek’s broad, soapy palm: “want you to fuck me.”
Derek groans and rubs his fingertips into Stiles.

It’s kind of cold in Derek’s room after the shower, so they end up fucking under the covers, face to face, with Stiles holding his own feet up, while Derek leans his weight on his hands and rolls his hips. He fucks Stiles in perfect, measured snaps and equally perfect, languid rolls that drive his cock into Stiles until Stiles sobs and screams and sees stars.
“Walls are really thin,” Derek says later, voice smug, as he lies on top of him, still buried deep, their bellies slowly gluing together.
“Okay,” Stile says, and passes out into a post-orgasm, post-trans-Atlantic flight coma.


When he wakes up, its dark, and quiet, and the dried cum on his belly is pulling at some hairs. He picks at it a little, tries to summon back the sleep, but no, he’s completely awake in that absurd, middle of the night way, that comes from hopping a boatload of time zones. So he sighs and creeps out of the bed, uses his phone to light the way to the bathroom. Cleans his stomach. Brushes his teeth. Drinks a glass of water. He knows there’s only one way to go back to sleep, and that’s to have a snack, but he doesn’t have any snacks. Derek might have some snacks, but he doesn’t want to go rooting around and risk waking Derek from his tender werewolf slumber. It’s weird he’s not up already. But he’s not. Stiles can’t help but squat down in front of Derek’s side of the bed. He’s sleeping on his stomach, cuddling his pillow, lashes a pitch black smudge, lips slightly parted. He really is both devastatingly beautiful and stinking cute. And yes, yes, the gene pool he’s been molded from is rich in both, but it still seems to Stiles that universe was experimenting with Derek. Because honestly. Who looks like that? Who smiles like that? Who laughs like that? Can’t be right.


When Stiles wakes up again the room is streaked with pale, almost gray light of a very early morning. It's leeching everything in the room of its color. He is incredibly sleepy and very confused as to why he’s awake, until he feels Derek grinding into his side.
“Dude,” Stiles complains, mouth thick, eyes refusing to open.
“This is my favorite way to wake up,” Derek says, jabbing his dick into the soft space between Stiles’ butt cheek and the bed.
“Why are we even up, this can’t be normal, what time is it?” Stiles continues to complain, as Derek’s hand rubs over his stomach, down Stiles’ own slowly waking cock.
“Five,” Derek says, like it's a perfectly reasonable answer, like five is when people wake up. His fingers are playing with Stiles, though, in a way that is making it hard to focus, rubbing down, pulling at his sack.
“What? Why? Dude, why, why would you do this to me?” Stiles manages.
“First tracks,” Derek says, getting an elbow under him, pushing up enough so that Stiles can see his ridiculous smile without even turning his head or really opening his eyes all the way.
“You’re blinding me with the happy, here,” Stiles grouses, but it’s growing harder and harder to be annoyed when smiled at like that. Also just harder and harder.
Derek, the asshole, slides his hand over to his own cock and thumps Stiles’ hip with it.
“I have 10 minutes before I have to leave, can I have a treat?” he says.
Stiles groans. “The lines, dude, I can’t, who the hell teaches you those?”
“Mostly Petra,” Derek says, maneuvers himself until he’s crouching over Stiles, straddling his hips. He smacks his dick into his stomach.
“Bad influence,” Stiles mutters.
“So true,” Derek agrees, shifting his weight, knee-walking up the lengths of Stiles’ body, holding his hard, thick cock in a relaxed grip. He stops when his knees are in Stiles armpits.
“I swear to god,” Stiles says, mesmerized by the pink, vulnerable looking head of Derek’s beautiful cock but aware of what Derek’s face is indicating he’ll do: “if you.” He doesn’t get to finish, because that’s exactly what Derek does. Pulls his cock back and lets it smack into Stiles chin.
“Asshole,” Stile laughs. “What are you? Five?”
“I didn’t even know dicks did that at five, pervert” Derek says, and Stiles sees the corners of his eyes crinkle with laughter.
“C’mon,” Derek says: “pretty please? I missed your mouth so much. No one has a mouth like you, baby, can I have a pre carve blowie?”
And it’s right there, in his face. Derek is slowly fucking into his own fist and if Stiles stuck his tongue out, he could lick up the tiny drop of precum from the head.
“Only if you promise to stop talking like a girl from a weird spring break gone wild porno,” Stiles says, flicking his tongue out. The taste of Derek explodes over his tongue, waking him up completely. He’s missed this so much, he doesn’t know how they even managed to get out of the shower yesterday without him sinking to his knees, gulping Derek down. Because he’s kind of obsessed with blowing Derek. It might be a problem.
“Fuck,” Derek says, places one hand on the headboard, leans in, pushes himself deeper into the wet cavern of Stiles’ mouth.