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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.

Chapter Text

The next time Stiles wakes up, it’s because someone is banging on the door. He’s in a strange, intensely-wooden room, flooded by sunlight that is pouring in through the white curtains. There’s not one but two snowboards leaning against the wall.
Stiles swallows, and is reminded of the latter by the delicious bruise in his throat.
“Stiles?” the knocking person on the other side of the door drags the “i”.
“Just a second!” Stiles exclaims, and has to swallows again, because “ow.” He scrambles from his nest of blankets into a – fuck, fuck, what the fuck cold, cold – room. Grabs one of the duvets from the bed, wraps it around himself and rushes over to open the door.
“Hello,” Petra says and just … comes in.
“Er,” Stiles says and closes the door.
“For you,” Petra says and only then does Stiles notice the Styrofoam cup of coffee and what looks like a dinner roll someone’s cut in half and filled with thick slabs of unspread butter and a slice of oddly yellow cheese.
Stiles reaches out the hand not holding up his protective cocoon of blankets, and wraps his fingers around the coffee. But Petra keeps pushing the dinner roll at Stiles until he steps back, and she steps forward, and he steps back, and they end up sitting on Derek’s bed.
Petra sits really close. Like very. She is angled towards Stiles so her knees are almost in his lap.
“Um,” Stiles says, finally accepting the dinner roll and waving it with an absolute lack of certainty.
“Derek sent me to wake you up and give you breakfast,” Petra says pointing at the roll.
“Thanks,” Stiles says.
“It’s a brötchen,” Petra says: “it’s their favorite breakfast food, but it’s really good, we get them delivered each morning from the baker down the street. I made it into a sandwich for you.”
The street? Stiles doesn’t remember a street. He remembers a crazy road winding up the mountain.
He sinks his teeth into the whitest of white breads, which really is surprisingly good.
“Mm,” he says, which he hopes conveys both “I see,” and “thank you for bringing me food, strange person.”
“Where are you from?” Stiles for some reason asks, because Petra’s comment about the brö … the brö … the dinner roll made it seem like she’s not from here. Her overall … europeanness notwithstanding.
“I’m from the Czech Republic,” Petra says.
“Cool,” Stiles says, obnoxiously slurping his coffee, but he really wants some and it’s hot like it’s been brewed in hell, plus he has no idea what the appropriate reaction is for someone being from the Czech Republic.
“Do you have snow clothes?” Petra asks, and kind of pulls at Stiles blankets as if he could be hiding three layers of gear under it.
“I do,” Stiles says, clutching and not letting go, pointing his chin at his suitcase.
“Good, get dressed, it’s warm today, so you’ll be good with just a base layer and snow clothes.” Petra says.
“Um,” Stiles takes another sip of coffee: “where are we going?”
“The mountain, Derek thought you’d like to get some skiing in, so he got you some skis. Said you don’t board.”
Stiles searches her face for criticism that is not there. Perhaps there’s a tiny shrapnel of sympathy that Stiles is so … unenlightened.
“Why did he send you?” Stiles asks, stretches his feet out, bare and white and hairy, crosses them at the ankle.
“He had to help Sanne, take her ducklings.”
Stiles has no idea what that means.
He says: “why?” as if he did.
“Her boyfriend is coming over, she had to go meet him at the airport.”
No one met Stiles at the airport. Not that he’s Derek’s boyfriend. Although … for all intents and purposes, and Petra doesn’t know he isn’t. Or maybe she does. Stiles pulls his feet back under the blankets and huffs.
“Come on,” Petra says: “get dressed, we’re wasting sunlight.”
And the Americanism is so familiar Stiles chokes on it. Derek’s dad says that as a joke. With a thick, fake, southern accent. Did she pick it up from Derek? And so what if she did? So what if she did. So what if she did. Jesus fuck, Stilinski. The fuck, really?
“Aren’t you gonna give me some privacy?” Stiles asks, happy none of his inner fucks got out.
“No,” Petra says, pinning him with the glacier blue of her eyes. And this … Stiles would normally just … he’d go for it. Pretty girl wants do dance? He’s got nothing against that. But.

So Stiles hands her his coffee and drags his duvet over to the suitcase, digs out his base layer, then drags it to the bathroom, choosing to believe it looks like a royal train of a fur coat rather than a ball of clumsy blanket hiding a huffy toddler.

The bathroom helps tough. Derek left toothpaste on his toothbrush. He brushes his teeth and stares at himself in the mirror for a bit. Catalogues the vague ring of teeth on his neck and the ball of his shoulder. Reminds himself that he’s Stiles Stilinski, and he doesn’t really care all that much. He laughs loud and with a big mouth, big enough to swallow the world, he’s been told; and blonde, Czech, snowboarding goddesses are not enough to make him stop. Derek fucks a lot of cool, gorgeous people. So what. So does Stiles.
By the time he is done in the bathroom, he kind of, magically, doesn’t give a shit about how Petra acts or what it might mean. So he emerges in the full, form fitting glory of his base layer, the blanket bundled under his arm. Maybe struts a bit. What? He looks fine. He has a slender, strong frame, wide shoulders, long legs, decent calves. Plus he kind of likes how the long johns cup his junk.
Petra inclines her head like a scary, beautiful dog, but doesn’t say anything.
“Why didn’t you take Sanne’s ducklings?” Stiles asks a bit later, zipping up his pants and squatting to search for his buff and gloves.
“She didn’t ask me,” Petra says and takes a sip of Stiles coffee: “and I don’t really like Sanne,” she says. She’s a weird one, Petra. Seems to unflinchingly deliver these socially undesirable truths. Maybe it’s a cultural thing. The other scary and magnificent women Stiles knows never do that. Lydia lies. OK? Like … perpetually. You have to know her really well, to be able to tell the lies from the truths.

“And Derek does?” Stiles asks, even though he would advise himself against it. It must be the general vibe of truthiness Petra exudes. He should really try to stay away from Petra, what kind of a fucked up superpower is that?
“Derek likes everyone,” Petra says fixing Stiles with a look he thinks he should know how to read, but doesn’t. She pushes Stiles coffee back into his fingers as soon as they emerge from the sleeve of his coat, and Stiles salutes her with it. Because, really, what is there to say. Derek does like everyone. Not because he’s such a loving man … although … um … he really is … um … you know, heh. But mostly because everybody fucking likes him. A lot. He is very likable. And it’s really easy to like people back. Much easier than to like them first. It’s kind of like agreeing to the overall gist of a conversation versus sculpting an argument that should be able to stand on its own two feet. Stiles knows. He is much less likable than Derek, but can, on occasion, be charming as fuck. People kind of like him more than it makes sense for them to. It's a self-fulfilling, misanthropy-dissolving circle.

Turns out there is a street. There’s an entire village, one just needs to go around the house, and down a little path, and there it is. A whole bustling village with a hotel, a hotel, another hotel, then a hotel, and a bar, and a hotel, and four ski rentals right next to each other, and a giant, ugly, totally out of place parking garage.
Stiles rents some skis and boots and a helmet from a man with a large, barrel chest, that Petra insists is their friend, and will give him a friendly price. The dude doesn’t ask for any money up front, so Stiles has to take Petra’s word at it, which is exactly as uncomfortable as it sounds.
“Here’s your pass,” Petra says: “do you have a, here, let me,” she yanks Stiles closer by the elbow and sticks the little card in his ski jacket’s sleeve pocket.
“Thanks,” Stiles says.
“Where are we going?” he asks as they trudge through the wet snow. The boots are heavy in his hand, and the skis even heavier on his shoulder. Petra has graciously taken his helmet.
“Middle station,” Petra says: “you can stash your boots there, and that’s where Derek starts and stops with the ducklings.”
Stiles briefly contemplates asking what the ducklings are, but the skis are digging painfully into his neck and he decides it doesn’t really matter. The line up to Middle station is short and it’s only one long-ass gondola ride, no switching.

They emerge into breathtaking blue. A big, wide sky that expands, extends; pulls you up by the invisible threads it has in your bones; the marionette strings you forget about every time you leave, but that are always there, never cut, only loosened.
“Holy fuck,” Stiles whispers, turning in a slow 360, breathing it all in. It’s a glorious, sunny day, only wisps of white beauty marking the sky; snow-covered mountaintops all around. The snow looks incredible for what, in skiing terms, is half way through the day.
“It’s gorgeous,” Stiles sighs.
Petra is standing next to him, eyes so incredibly, devastatingly blue. Blue like the sky, and the glacier ice. Absurdly azure. Out of this world. There’s a small smile on her lips and such love, love, love, love. Love of the snow, love of the mountain. Only love in the set of her mouth.
They stand a little. Stiles in amazement and wonder; in a shock of surprise. Petra in the quiet reverie of her personal love affair.
“Oh,” Petra suddenly says: “I see them, come on.”
She grabs Stiles boots and starts in a brisk walk towards one of the wide edges of the hilltop.
Stiles balances the skis on his other shoulder and stomps after her.
“Careful, exploding ovaries,” Petra says, coming to a stop near a giant ski rack a couple of dozen feet from the wooden stairs of a restaurant, and a twice as much from a gentle Blue slope.
“What?” Stiles pants.
Petra drops his ski boots and points.
And holy … fuck … just … what. Jesus Christ on a popsicle stick.
Stiles is pretty sure his mouth is open, a cartoon wolf tongue rolling down his chest. His, and half of the other people’s on this slope.
Because Derek, decked out in all red instructor garb, is snowplowing down the little incline leading up to where the piste actually starts, smiling a giant, blinding smile, all dimples and scruff and tanned face, goggles up on his helmet, jacket unzipped to reveal a tantalizing column of a sun kissed neck; laughing instructions over his shoulder. And he is followed by 6 tiny, little ski-babies in bright red and blue Schi Schule vests, some squatting so low on their tiny little skis that their butts are nearly dragging in the snow. They’re all following Derek in a obedient little plows and Petra is right, they are like ducklings, and Stiles doesn’t have ovaries, but something is exploding somewhere in his body. He might be pressing both his hands on his heart.
“Isn’t that the cutes thing?” Petra asks, kind of leaning into him.
“I,” Stiles says: “that’s.”
Petra laughs.
“But they left,” Stiles says like a forlorn puppy.
“Yeah, he has an hour with them, you can maybe do 32 and 26, and then we’re meeting her for lunch.”
“What?” Stiles says.
“32,” Petra says pointing to their right: “it’s a nice long red, good for your first piste, and you take 26 later on, when it forks, and you get to this same gondola that brought us here.” She hands Stiles a map.
Stiles hears her, but his brain isn’t back online, it’s still preoccupied with Derek’s smile, the white of his teeth an his eyes, the suntanned skin, the facial hair, the naked neck in the middle of all of this zippered up snow gear. And the fucking children. Following him.

“If you give me your boots, I’ll stash them,” Petra says.

32 and 26 are, frankly, orgasmic. Snow a soft, gentle swish, with just a few patches of wet sugar; wide, wide slopes, enough room for everyone - the speed nuts, the beginners and Stiles. He’s back up where he started 29 minutes later, mildly peeved at Petra’s insinuation that he’s slow. He contemplates taking 32b, but getting back up would mean switching lifts and he doesn’t want to be late for lunch. So he opts for a repeat of 32 and 26, enjoys knowing what comes after the bend, the luxury of allowing the speed to build where downhill is followed by ascent. The whoosh of the wind and the brilliance of whites and blues wipes everything from his mind. It’s just him and his skis painting the palette in broad white strokes. It’s just him and his freedom. Him at what can, in complete honesty, be called carefree. There’s a bit of a line for the gondola and a longish stop halfway up, where Stiles and 3 girls who giggle in an unplaceable language, swing high up above the treetops waiting for whatever it is that made them stop the lift to get resolved, so he’s back at the wooden stairs, where he left Petra, 7 minutes later than expected. He leaves his skis at one of the racks and loosens his boots. His left foot is cramping a bit, he realizes as he clomps up the stairs.
He sees Derek sitting at one of the prime open-air tables on the sunny side of the deck, hatless and helmetless, wearing sunglasses and a shit eating grin, waving at Stiles.
“I got you this,” he says, as Stiles walks over and sits in an unoccupied chair next to him: “for a full Alpine experience.” Derek is pointing at a highball glass full of a bright orange drink.
“What is it?” he asks, staring at Derek’s lips, desperately wanting to kiss him, but for some reason hesitating. What’s the etiquette on openly gay PDA here? Especially with a ridiculously eye-catching dude decked out, head to toe, in the local ski school gear?
“An Aperol Spritz,” Derek says: “it’s this orange bitter, prosecco and sparkling water. I think it’s originally an Italian cocktail, but for some reason it’s become the must drink drink of ski resorts in the Alps. It kind of goes with the sun.”
Stiles laughs and takes a sip. It’s fresh, with a slowly unraveling aftertaste of bitterness, and it really does go well with the sun.
“Thanks,” he says, bumping Derek’s shoulder with his.
Derek just smiles.
“Where’s Petra?” Stiles ask, noticing an extra helmet and a pair of gloves on the table.
“She’s getting food, I asked her to get us some too,” Derek says, and something small slithers in Stiles gut. Just a flutter really. But it makes him open his big fat mouth and say: “So, Petra,” in a stupid, stupid, shitty, questioning tone.
Both of Derek’s eyebrows shoot up. The smile is still there, still bright and white and sincere, and for Stiles, but the eyebrows go up, and Stiles has to shake himself out of whatever the fuck that was, pronto. He claims momentary insanity. Because really Stilinksi? Really? You’re that guy now? With Derek nonetheless? They’ve been doing this for years, and never once has either of them done this. So Stiles has to think on his feet … iceberg strait ahead! Iceberg straight ahead! He pulls the breaks and readjusts course.
“She totally refused to get out of the room to let me get changed this morning!” is what he can come up with.
Derek laughs. “You’re shy now?” he asks, still laughing: “I thought you’d be used to everyone hitting on you, you’ve had years of practice.”
“She wasn’t hitting on me,” Stiles protests.
“She wasn’t?” Derek seems confused.
“Nuh-uh,” Stiles says.
“Were you hitting on her?” Derek asks, looking kind of serious, but kind of smiley still, and Stiles doesn’t know how to read it.
“Uh .. no?” he offers.
“Huh,” Derek makes a show of scratching his head, then rests his chin in his palm and looks at Stiles like Stiles is a fascinating bug or a presenting with an interesting new rash.
“Why not?” Derek asks.
“What do you mean, asshole,” Stiles says: “I don’t hit on everyone.”
Derek just looks at him, a long, probing, ‘I know you Stilinski’ gaze.
“Fine,” Stiles says: “like you’re one to judge Mr. Shared Carrot.”
Derek laughs again, open mouthed, head thrown back, laughter rising up towards the big, blue ski.
“Why am I doing the heavy lifting and the feeding again?” Petra demands, setting a loaded tray on the table.
“Oh my god,” Stiles say: “what the hell is that?”
Because in front of him are three large bowls with clear, golden broth. But in each bowl of broth there is a fist sized, grayish … uh … ball.
“It’s Speckknödel soup,” Petra says just as Derek says: “it’s a meatball, Stiles.”
But Derek’s voice is a bit too placating, and his answer a bit too quick, so Stiles pokes at one of the giant balls with a suspicious spoontip.
“A meatball,” he repeats.
“It’s a Speckknödel, it’s their favorite. And Leberknödel, but I thought you wouldn’t want that, because you Americans seem kind of weird about liver,” Petra sits down across from Stiles, pulls one of the bowls closer and starts skillfully dismantling her Spe… her ball.
“Liver,” Stiles says. It does look like a liver, Stiles supposes. He’s never seen a liver, he didn’t think they’re quite so proportionately round.
“This one is not liver,” Derek says and also pulls a bowl closer.
“What is it then?” Stiles asks, and resumes poking. Because it doesn’t look like no meatball he’s ever seen.
“Bacon and bread,” Derek says, with a little sigh.
“Dude,” Stiles exclaims: “bacon!” and shanks the ball with the sharper edge of the spoon.
Petra rolls her eyes.
Derek shakes his head and nudges the Aperol Spritz closer to Stiles.
“You wanna get me drunk?” Stiles leers through a mouthful of the bacon ball soup, which is totally nice tasting, even if an appalling idea, why would you make one giant bacon dumpling, really, Austrians, why?
“You gonna get drunk off of one watered down cocktail?” Derek leers back.
“Point,” Stiles concedes.
“I was planning on getting you drunk later in the evening,” Petra offers between spoonfuls.
“That’s, uh … good of you to confess,” Stiles says.
“I’m a very honest person,” Petra says. And Derek’s laughter pops and bubbles around them again.

Stiles is fully prepared for Derek to have to desert him and go fulfill his instructorly duties after lunch, but instead, Derek changes his red coat for a black pullover one, and emerges cradling a board.
“Aren’t you gonna be bored, boarding with me?” Stiles asks. Because he’s an OK skier, but he is absolutely not ready to go off piste.
“Nah,” Derek says and looks him in the eyes for far too long. Long enough for their swirl of colors to suck Stiles in, and something start fluttering in his gut again.
“If you say so,” Stiles says, trying to use the sing-songy toddler voice to break the moment into something more manageable.
The go down the long, languid 32b, and then up two different lifts and then Derek lures him onto a black with promise of un-trodden snow and no people. And he’s right, the snow is about twice as good as on the lower ends of 32b, because they’re higher up, the temperatures are lower, and there have been far fewer people scraping it off the mountainside all day. Stiles feel like he’s gonna shake out of his skin with adrenaline and joy and the vast open space. But Derek just laughs and watches him, and finally, finally pulls his goggle up and kisses him under all of that sky, in the slight pink haze of the descending sun.
“Thank you for inviting me,” Stiles says, licking Derek off his lips, squinting against the brilliance of the snow.
“Thanks for coming,” Derek says, and it’s that other smile, Stiles thinks, the special one, one of many, yes, and Derek smiles all the time, yes, but this one is the smaller, softer one. This one Stiles feels is reserved for special occasions. Or maybe for Stiles. In which case maybe Stiles is special. A little bit.
Derek manages to convince the barrel chested man, whose name, apparently, is Heinz, to stash Stiles skis and boots over night, but then they have to walk over to the little supermarket, and get four bottles of Riesling, a giant chunk of that same oddly yellow cheese, some grapes, and at Stiles’ insistence, two family packs of chips, so it quite abruptly gets dark just as they’re back at the house with the cow on it. Stiles is a little sad, because he didn’t get a good look coming in, and he didn’t get a good look this morning, because he was in the process of being confused and whisked away by Petra, and now it’s too dark again. He really wants a picture.
There is noise when Derek opens the door.
Noise and people.
Petra is laughing like a hyena in the kitchen at something her male doppelganger has said. He has long, beach bleached blonde hair, golden freckles and eyes almost the same eerie blue that Petra’s are. There’s another dude, for some reason in just boxer briefs and an apron, pulling out a tray of cinnamon buns from the oven. He has chocolate brown eyes and hair, strong legs and arms, and a riddle of ugly scars on one of his shoulders, spreading to cross his clavicle and sneak up his neck. Stiles tries not to stare, but he’s too naked for that.
Another guy in the corner, nursing a beer. Red hair, gray eyes, gives Derek a wink and a silent toast as they come in. Stiles gets a purposefully languid once over. Two more people thunder down the stairs, as Stiles and Derek are adding their offerings to the cornucopia of booze and snacks on the kitchen table. A girl with long, thick, black braids, and a guy who kind of looks like Scott, if Scott had chin length curly hair. The volume of hair in this household is truly magnificent. No wonder Derek leans towards shaggy here.
“Whose the honey?” the Scott-look-alike asks pointing at Stiles, and there’s a chorus of whistles and wolf noises. None of it is unfriendly though, and Derek looks somewhat flustered, so Stiles focuses on the cuteness of that instead of indignation over having been labeled a honey. Although he is. A total honey. A babe, really. Fuck you, Curly.
“Don’t be an asshole,” Derek says, but wraps an arm around Stiles’ shoulder and raises his voice: “everyone, this is Stiles, Stiles these are the rejects I live with, Jonas,” he points at freckles, “Dave,” the scars: “Thomas,” the winking ginger: “Lizzie,” the Pocahontas braids and: “Miles,” the not-Scott.
“You know Petra,” Derek adds.
Someone makes a weird sex noise.
“Everyone knows Petra,” someone else says, and then someone throws a beer can and someone else throws a handful of grapes.
Stiles kind of blinks and … yeah, mostly blinks. Looks around for a drink. Looks up at the ceiling, because that’s where he thinks the safety of Derek’s room is.
“Do you want a drink or do you wanna go change?” Derek asks.
“Ugh,” Stiles says intelligently.
“Let’s go change then,” Derek laughs, pouring college portions of one of the Rieslings’ he’s cracked open into two sturdy glasses, grabbing them with.
“We’ll be right back,” he yells over commotion in the kitchen.
There’s more sex noises, someone promises to come join them if they’re not back in 15.
“Sorry,” Derek says after he’s closed the door behind them and fumbled on the light.
“Dude,” Stiles agrees and takes a large gulp of his wine. Which is like, wow … really nice. A cool, sharp mouthful, undernotes dry as chalk, the whole experience vaguely reminiscent of the wetness of very early mornings of very hot days in very green places.
“I know,” Derek agrees, takes a sip of his own wine and places the glass on the bedside table.
“You want a quick shower?” he adds.
Stiles nods, takes another large gulp of his wine. Walks over and wraps the hand he has the glass in around Derek’s neck, licks a wine cool tongue across Derek’s mouth. Derek makes a noise and pulls him in by the hips. Opens for a kiss, hands finding skin between folds of fabric, hot fingertips digging into Stiles flesh. They kiss forever, Derek doesn’t let go, doesn’t come up for air, just eats at Stiles until both of them are panting and fully hard.
“Will they really come up here?” Stiles exhales, gasps for breath in the sticky sliver of air they share.
“Yes,” Derek says.
“Gotta be quick then,” Stiles yanks the snaps on Derek’s snow pants.
“I want slow later,” Derek points out, but unzips Stiles, cups him through the underlayer and the boxers, then lets go. Stiles sticks his own hand into the open V of Derek’s pants, down the elastic waistband, closes his fingers around Derek’s cock and doesn’t even care there isn’t a hand on his.
“I need to put this somewhere,” he says waving his wineglass around.
“Just drink it,” Derek says, lazily bucking into Stiles’ grip.
So Stiles takes two large gulps, chokes, coughs, and Derek walks them two steps so he can place the empty glass on a window sill, never once letting go of his thick, hot handful.
“Good,” Derek says and brings his palm up: “lick.”
Stiles let’s spit pool in his mouth and drags a filthy, dripping tongue from the center of Derek’s palm to halfway up his middle finger.
“Fuck,” Derek swears: “fuck.”
He pushes all of Stiles pants down with his dry hand, and wraps Stiles’ boner in a slick fist.
“Fuck,” Stiles agrees.
Stiles squeezes and loosens his fingers as he jerks Derek, lapping up the little, breathy moans as they spill over Derek’s lips. He’s always just a second too late, lets them bounce a moment in the cool air of the room, should there be any curious ears nearby. He’s never claimed to not be selfish, or a little petty.
Derek presses his forehead against Stiles and their sweat is mixing, and it should be gross, and probably is a little, maybe, but mostly it’s just mind-alteringly hot, because it’s like they’re melting each other, mixing together.
“Fuck, gonna, I wanna,” Derek groans and smacks Stiles’ hand away. He now has his own dick in one, and Stiles’ in the other hand: “baby, fuck, I wanna, I’m gonna come on you, OK? Gonna come all over your pretty dick, mark you up, yeah? Don’t come, ok baby, don’t come, let me …” And Derek does that sometimes, he flicks into this particular kind of rushed, pleading, babying dirty talk that is, probably, totally demeaning, because Stiles is a grown ass man, thanks a lot, but mostly it just makes his eyes roll all the way back in his skull. Because yes, yes, take everything, you can have everything, don’t come? Ok. You’ll come on me? Ok. Eat me, drink me.
Derek is mostly cradling Stiles’ cock now, forefinger and thumb the only pressure applied, squeezing Stiles at the root, keeping him from coming. His other hand is furiously stripping his own cock, his open mouth a wet ring of breath, tongue and teeth set against Stiles neck. The teeth clamp down when he comes, and he pushes into Stiles with all his weight so they almost topple over. Stiles feels the hot, slick cum splash on his over sensitized cock and quickly start to cool. It’s a complete sensory overload. His desperate need to come crests, and keeps, and finds no release; his brain floods with so many chemicals that amp him up up up into the stratosphere. He feels like he’s having an out of body experience, floating somewhere above his own body, tethered to it by Derek’s cum and fingers. He kind of sees Derek come back to himself. Kind of hears a broken noise he makes. Kind of sees Derek petting his face with cum sticky fingers then thudding to his knees like a collapsing house.
“Baby, fuck, fuck, so hot, you’re the hottest thing I’ve ever had, so good for me,” Derek is rubbing his own cum over Stiles dick and just as it starts to stick and pull there’s a mouth on Stiles; a wet, scalding-hot mouth; the pressure of the finger ring is gone from around the base of his cock, and Stiles comes from his very core. He comes from the marrow in his bones and the blood in his veins, from his hair and toes. He comes and collapses, folding in two over Derek, who’s still nursing on his slowly softening dick.
“You’re so gross,” Stiles says when he gets back into his body. It sounds like a love confession. Derek’s walked them into the shower, turned on the water and is stripping Stiles out of whatever sweaty clothes he’s still halfway wearing.
“Right?!” Derek happily agrees.