After he was cleaned off, Derek put on a t shirt and enjoyed the feeing of it stretched tight against his pecs. He slung a Louis Vuitton backpack over his shoulders. All he had to do was collect his check and he could be done with this homo magazine. Derek headed towards the doorway connecting the studio space to the rest of the offices. He turned the corner into the hallway, only to immediately crash into someone coming from the opposite direction. Papers went flying.

Derek hesitated, then reluctantly crouched down to help the man pick up his papers. As he did, the man spoke to him in a deep voice “You know, you should really watch where you’re going. People are busy around here.”

This was the remark that set Derek off. It was enough that he had done a photo shoot outside his comfort zone, and ran into someone while he was leaving, but now he was being sassed by some worker who couldn’t slow down enough to watch out for passers. Derek had had enough of this magazine. “You know,” he said, “I’m surprised. I thought you fags would be more excited to slam into other guys.”

Derek could sense the shift in mood immediately. All the workers around him who had been buzzing about immediately stopped and looked at th scene. The office had gone dead silent. As Derek looked around at all the men staring at them, the man he had bumped into finished collecting his papers and stood up, allowing Derek to finally look at him properly. Woah, this was a fine looking man. Strappingly tall and ruggedly handsome. He filled out his expensive-looking three-piece suit perfectly. His whole demeanor was one of absolute confidence. Finally, Derek realized what had happened. He hadn’t bumped into some random employee. He had knocked over and subsequently cussed out the boss of the whole place.

*Well*, Derek said to himself, *I fucked up bad this time*.

The boss was surprisingly well-composed for someone who had just been called a slur, Derek thought. As if to prove this point, the boss suddenly started laughing. It was a good, deep laugh. And when he laughed, everyone else in the building laughed along with him. Derek stared at everyone in the office in confusion. Why did they find this so funny? Was it because he’s their boss? And they were all looking at the boss with such admiration. Derek just hoped this meant the issue would blow over and he could leave before embarrassing himself sooner.

But before he could step away, he was spoken to. “I used to get really angry when people said stuff like that to me,” the boss explained in a rich, inviting voice, “now it just makes me sad, because I see all the failed potential hiding behind that language.”

Derek took a little offense to that last statement, but he knew he was in no position to argue right now. It seemed like the laughter was the all-clear the rest of the office needed to know their boss was okay, because the normal hum of voices and keyboards had returned. Now it was just him and the extremely powerful man he had pissed off. Derek broke the silence. “Look, Mr...”

“Christian Le Maítre” the gorgeous boss informed him, “Editor in Chief of HIMBO magazine. But everyone around here just calls me Mr. M.”

“Right. Well, uh, Mr. M, I’m really sorry about-“

“No you’re not.” Christian cut him off without missing a beat. “I’ve seen so many models like you come and go through these halls. You think you’re hot shit, and take pity on all of my boys in this office who had to take desk jobs because their bodies weren’t nice enough to let them get by on looks alone. But you know, we’re hard workers here. And we’re a close knit family.”

Derek objected to being interrupted, but as Christian talked, he felt his defenses melt away with every word. Mr. M was right, Derek realized. I am a narcissistic asshole who holds myself above others. He had never felt like this before. But everything Mr. M said just seemed right. When this gorgeous, confident man spoke, Derek realized he was speaking the truth.

“What’s your name, son?” Mr. M asked him.

“D-Derek, sir. Derek Hale.” Derek was never one stutter, but how else could he feel right now?

“Well Derek, I’m sure our lame little office doesn’t fit your macho man swagger persona, but I think you’d find that working here is pretty great.”

Was that an offer? Derek didn’t know. He had completely forgotten the context of their conversation, and indeed his reason for being in this office in the first place was slowly becoming a distant memory. All Derek knew in this moment was that he HAD to work at HIMBO. In fact, he couldn’t imagine life without working here.

Derek tried to compose a response, but was increasingly timid in the presence of this incredible man. “Well, uh, Mr. M. Perhaps if you have any opening I might be able to, uh-”

Mr. M just laughed again, and this time Derek laughed right along with him.

“Well I’m shocked to hear you change your tune so quickly, but I can’t say I’m surprised. Working here is kind of a dream job, if I do say so myself. But there’s no need to submit your CV and go through the traditional channels. I am actually prepared to offer you a job on the spot.”

Derek felt his ears burning. How lucky was he! To be offered a job at the best company on earth. He would take it immediately!

“Mr. M, it would be an honor to work for you” Derek bowed his head as he said this. Respect was important, especially for the man who was giving him a job no questions asked.

“Glad to hear it, sport! Now full disclosure, it’s a clerking position. I know, not the most exciting stuff, but here at HIMBO we believe even the most mundane work can be made magical! Of course, you would have to change a few of your behaviors to *best* fit the position. Your ego, your hot-headedness. Do you think those are things good for a clerk to have?”

“No, sir” Derek said with convocation. “Anything you want me to change, I will change.”

Christian cracked a smile, as if Derek had said something unintentionally funny. “Well I admire your commitment. It’s just, clerks are so straight-laced and serious, and you are such a character, Derek. Mr. Macho Man with a great body. Actually, I do like this body.” Christian looked Derek up and down, “I think that can stay. But as for everything else, well, I can take care of that.”

Christian stopped talking and instead just looked at Derek. The hopeful employee stood there silently, unsure of what to do. Just then, he suddenly felt a draining feeling. It wasn’t his muscles or his IQ or any of that stuff that he felt fading away, it was more like he was losing... his personality? All the pride Derek felt over his hot body and great life was disappearing. All the anger he get towards people not like him, slipping away. But it wasn’t replaced by new emotions, it wasn’t replaced by anything. Derek stopped feeling strong feelings about much of anything. He liked his job, he followed the news, but he had never had any opinions of his own. Never tried to be individual or stand out. Derek was becoming like his new favorite flavor of ice cream: vanilla.

As Derek’s personality slowly morphed him into a contender for the World’s Most Dull Man, his wardrobe changed to follow suit. His designer t shirt loosened out a bit. The sleeves grew down his arms before spouting buttons and cuffs. Buttons also sprouted down the middle, and the shirt gained a collar, becoming a basic button-up shirt. A white plaid pattern spread across the shir. At the same time, Derek felt his skinny jeans go “pah” as all the tightness shrugged out of them, changing them into (gag) regular fit pants. They lightened to gray and changed material to thin cotton, becoming work slacks. His new plaid shirt automatically tucked itself into the pants, and a brown leather belt formed around his waist, with his expensive designer sneakers morphing into brown leather dress shoes to match. The LV backpack he wore fell as one of the straps broke off, before disappearing altogether. The remaining strap lengthened and slung itself over his shoulder, and the bag itself shifted into a basic messenger bag, holding plenty of important documents and paperwork.

For a brief moment, Derek felt confusion and fear. Why were these changes happening to him? Where did his nice stuff go, and what were these boring-ass clothes replacing them? These thoughts only lasted for half a second, before Derek realized how right this was. This was his style, or more accurately his *lack* of style. Derek had never cared about trends, or getting fancy new clothes. As long as they fit him well and looked professional enough for work, that was all that mattered in Derek’s eyes. A Ross Membership Card popped into his wallet to cement this change.

Derek felt something in his pocket, and pulled out a pair of black-rimmed glasses. These were the glasses he needed to see, of course. Derek opened them up and put them on. To follow suit, his hair parted itself to the side and became thick with gel holding his new professional haircut in place.

As promised, Christian had left Derek his body, but had taken basically everything else from him. Where there had once stood an arrogant, trendy mode, there was now a walking turtleneck. Normally in cases like this, Derek would sprout new memories of his new life. But no memories came, because Derek didn’t really *have* a life. He was now a total office drone. From 9-5 he worked faithfully for HIMBO, and after that he went home and solved jigsaw puzzles until it was time for bed... except on the nights where Mr. M invited Derek to his house. Derek truly wanted nothing more from life.

Christian smiled at the new corporate boy that stood before him. “Okay I think you’ve handled the onboarding process well, Dirk. Dirk, isn’t it?”

“Yes sir.” Dirk replied matter of factly. Dirk Kent. Filing clerk for HIMBO magazine.

“Great! But there’s actually one more thing I need from you. I’m still a little raw about that comment of yours earlier, and I would hate for it to taint our working relationship with each other, so allow me to bury this hatchet.”

Christian snapped his fingers, and Dirk felt his impressive manhood shrink, and shrink, and shrink, until he heard a “pop!” sound and knew that it was no more. Poor Dirk was smooth as could be in his private areas. But he didn’t mind: being unable to orgasm helped him focus on his work. And besides, if Mr. M needed help Dirk still had two perfectly serviceable holes on him.

Christian laughed again, eliciting another laugh from Dirk. “Dirk, pal, I don’t think I have ever been happier with one of my new hires. But you know, I do seal my deals with a kiss.”

“Why thank you sir!” Dirk replied with enthusiasm, as he allowed Christian to walk over, turn up his chin, and plant a kiss on his lips. And it was the greatest kiss Dirk had ever felt. Indeed, it was the only kiss he had ever felt, but as far as kisses go it was still pretty spectacular. As Dirk stood there with his lips pressed against those of his incredivle boss, he knew there was nothing more he would want from life.

As they parted, Derek looked hopefully up at his boss “Where should I start with my work, sir?” He lived to work.

His name was Stiles Stilinski, the only son of the highly esteemed Sheriff John Stilinski and a rather promising young knight himself, already proving himself a devoted, capable warrior. At only nineteen years of age, he was one of the youngest knights in service to the Hale family and one of the best they had ever witnessed.

His skill with a blade was on par with those who had spent the entirety of their lives perfecting the ancient art, the young knight taking after his father in that respect. He was also revered for his sharp mind and keen eye for strategy, not merely a dumb brute like so many other knights that Derek had encountered in his own life.

Barely five months prior, Stiles had been appointed to his new position of castle guard and Derek had been captivated ever since. Which was why when Stiles crossed the courtyard to retrieve a misfired arrow that had embedded itself in the earth, Derek had unthinkingly asked the grossly inappropriate question that caused the knight to pause.

Stiles ran a hand through his messy hair, brushing a few stray locks off of his sweat-beaded forehead, and glanced down at his own chest that was indeed bare. His leanly muscled body was sheened with sweat, his skin the most gorgeous porcelain Derek had ever seen, dotted with dark moles similar to the ones on Stiles’ cheeks.

In the center of his chest, there was a dark patch of hair and lower down on his torso was a line of hair leading down from his navel to the laces of his breeches, Derek having to force himself not to let his eyes wander. He reminded himself that he was a prince and as such was expected to behave in a manner befitting of a royal of the esteemed Hale family.

“Well, I apologize if I have offended your delicate sensibilities with my scandalous state of undress, your highness,” Stiles announced with a curtsy that was nothing if not mocking, lowering his chin as he crossed his ankles and bobbed theatrically. Straightening with a flourish, he continued on, “But I am afraid it is somewhat necessary. Despite its obvious benefits, my armor is not very comfortable and it is rather warm out today.”

Derek immediately felt his cheeks flush with heat, cursing himself for being so stupid as to insult one of those who risked their own lives to protect those of the Hale family. His sisters burst into laughter, not bothering to cover their mouths with their hands as they delighted in their brother’s embarrassment, their outburst drawing a few concerned looks from the other knights across the courtyard.

He did not bother even glaring at his traitorous sisters, too preoccupied with racking his brain for some way to apologize to the knight who was tugging the arrow out of the ground, frowning down at the projectile. This time when Stiles straightened, it was Derek who spoke, nervously blurting, “I apologize for any offense my thoughtless words may have wrought. I have merely noticed that nearly every time I make your acquaintance, you are not fully dressed.”

And it was true. Derek had only seen him fully dressed once in all the times they had seen one another.

The first time they had met, Stiles had been clad in only his braies. He and three other nights, Derek’s personal guards Boyd, Erica, and Isaac, had stormed into Derek’s chambers in the wee hours of the morning, their swords drawn.

There had been reports of an intruder in the castle earlier that day, all of the guards still wary even after the lone intruder was apprehended. When a crash had sounded from Derek’s chambers, the guards who had been stationed outside the doors to his chambers had rushed in, Stiles hot on their heels.

It had proved to be nothing more than one of the cats that freely roamed the castle knocking a bowl of fruit off of Derek’s desk, scattering grapes across the stone floor. Once they were certain that Derek was in no danger, they had lowered their swords and returned to their posts, Stiles mumbling under his breath about going back to sleep.

Once the other knights had left, Derek had pulled Boyd aside in order to ask the name of the unfamiliar, undressed knight who had followed them into his chambers. With a small smirk, Boyd had explained that the knight’s name was Stiles Stilinski, laughing aloud when Derek wrinkled his nose at the name ‘Stiles’.

From that night on, Derek had been intrigued by the fiery eyed knight with the constellations of moles.

Similar to the first time they had made each other’s acquaintance, the next several times Derek encountered Stiles, the knight was in no way, shape, or form fully dressed. And every time, without fail, Derek found himself flushed bright red with embarrassment, unable to tear his eyes away from Stiles, no matter how unbecoming it was.

He had caught Stiles bathing in the natural hot springs just outside the castle walls when he had gone for a dip himself. He had nearly fainted when Stiles had stood up in the steaming water and Derek had glimpsed what the trail of hair on Stiles’ lower abdomen led to.

Derek did not see Stiles for two weeks after he scurried back to the castle and barricaded himself in his chambers, too embarrassed to look anyone in the eye. Of course, when he did see Stiles again he was without a tunic, the knight explaining that while assisting one of the chefs in the kitchen his tunic was stained by some spilled wine.

Over the course of the following months, the pattern continued, Derek never witnessing Stiles even attempt to actually wear anything to cover his torso. That is, until the banquet.

In order to celebrate Derek’s twenty sixth birthday, their mother had thrown an extravagant banquet, inviting all of the nobles of their kingdom. And while Derek would have preferred spending his birthday lounging in his bed chambers with a book and a glass of sweet strawberry wine, he indulged his mother and attended the banquet.

Amongst the various lords and ladies and dukes and duchesses of the court clad in their lavish suits and ridiculously frilly dresses with their shining diamond rings and emerald necklaces, there was one person stood out, enthralling Derek. It was Stiles, of course.

He had been wearing his armor, standing guard by the large banquet table where Derek’s mother and uncle were laughing together, his face stony as he scanned the room. When his eyes had landed on Derek, he had offered a gentle smile of acknowledgement as he dipped his head in a respectful bob.

Derek had been so bewitched by Stiles’ brilliant smile that he bumped into someone, spilling his goblet of wine all over the silk of his cloak. The spilled wine was the least of his worries as the man he had collided with pulled a dagger out of his pocket and tried to stab Derek.

Terrified, Derek had let out a loud cry as he scrambled around for a weapon, tossing his half empty goblet at the assassin’s head as he slipped on the puddle of wine on the floor and tumbled to the ground. Fortunately, with the room full of royal guards, the assassin was captured a few moments later, Stiles standing by Derek’s side as he wrestled the dagger away from the other man.

That had been a week ago and Derek had not seen Stiles since, kicking himself for greeting the knight with a judgemental accusation rather than a sincere expression of gratitude. As much as he adored his books and bestiaries, he, himself, was awful with words.

“If you two will excuse us, Cora and I are going to take a stroll,” Laura announced, drawing both Derek and Stiles’ attention as she stood up from her seat on the chaise lounge, Cora following suit. With a knowing smirk directed at Derek, she teasingly added on, “You know how fond Cora is of the curly haired guard of yours, dear brother.”

Cora let out a theatrical gasp and smacked Laura in the arm as they began walking across the courtyard field, Cora’s pinks tinged a noticeable pink, Laura’s words holding more than a grain of truth. Laura’s ever faithful pack of pugs that had been slumbering in the shade around her chaise lounge trotted after her, save for one who meandered over to Stiles, sniffing the toe of his boot.

Beaming down at the snorting dog, Stiles bent over to scratch behind its floppy ears, letting out a hiss of pain as he winced noticeably. He straightened quickly, pressing a hand to the bandage on his side that Derek had not noticed before, too distracted by Stiles’ sweat slick muscles.

Instantly concerned, Derek closed his book and set it aside, raising his brows in alarm. His eyes darting between Stiles’ hand and his face, Derek wondered aloud, “Are you alright? Are you injured?”

“Just a scratch,” Stiles assured him with a bright smile, rubbing his thumb over the white bandage on his side. Shrugging casually, he elaborated, “From the banquet.”

It was Derek’s turn to gasp. A cloud of guilt hung over him, his mind replaying the memory of that night: the menacing glint of the would-be assassin’s dagger, the sudden appearance of Stiles standing over him, the ensuing scuffle between Stiles and the dagger wielding assassin.

He tried desperately to formulate some sort of apology but all that left his mouth was a pathetic whine. Swallowing heavily, Derek made another attempt, this time managing to choke out, “I… I am so sorry. You were injured…protecting me…”

“My lord, there is no reason to apologize,” Stiles claimed, stepping around the pug, who was now chasing after a bright yellow butterfly, to take a seat beside Derek on the chaise lounge. Reaching over to pluck a flower petal off of Derek’s shoulder, Stiles continued, asserting, “The greatest tragedy would be if you were injured, your highness. Or worse.”

Derek nodded, looking down at his hands that lay idle in his lap. He did not know what he had been thinking, or rather hoping, well aware that Stiles’ protection of and devotion to him was simply because he was employed to provide both. There were no deeper motives.

And yet a moment later, he heard Stiles’ voice state, “Although, there is one way you could ease my ailings.”

He immediately turned to Stiles, blindly agreeing, “Anything. Name your price and I shall pay it.”

“A kiss,” Stiles said simply, a wide grin on his lips. “They are suitable for both expressing gratitude and easing ailments. I assume one as diplomatic as yourself would be quite amenable to killing two birds with one stone, so to speak.”

His face hotter than the sun, Derek could only nod, not bothering to fully process Stiles’ words enough to object. And when Stiles leaned forward and pressed their lips together, Derek knew he would no longer need to read books about stalwart heroes as he has found one of his own.