Work Text:
Derek sat hunched at his desk, a mug of coffee growing cold beside his laptop. The cursor blinked unendingly, mocking him with the lack of words. He sighed, rubbing a hand across his face. Some days, the words flowed effortlessly.
Today wasn't one of those days.
Pushing his chair back, he stretched, feeling the satisfying crack of his spine as he stood. Grabbing his mug, he walked across the open loft to the kitchen. The sound of the microwave echoed across the quiet loft. The only other sounds were the faint hum of the refrigerator and the occasional creak of old pipes. The quiet usually helped him focus, but today it only seemed to amplify his writer's block.
The loud beeping of the microwave let him know it was done. He grabbed his coffee, and stirred it to make sure the whole cup was evenly warmed. Yes, he knew this technically wasn't good for the coffee. He didn't care. Warm coffee was mostly a placebo for him anyway. His body metabolized the caffeine too fast for it to actually affect him.
He crossed back to his desk to try and attempt more writing.
His loft was far from the cold, purely industrial look it had when he first moved in. Most of the walls held mismatched, thrifted bookshelves that were overflowing with books and a variety of knickknacks and clutter that Derek had collected over the years. Stacks of books and notebooks were also scattered on nearly every surface, most of their spines well-won. The heavily cushioned couch in the center of the room had a misshapen crocheted throw hung over the back, a handmade gift from Laura a few Christmases ago.
Even the desk he sat in had almost every surface of it covered. So much so that the small succulent that Cora had gotten him sat precariously close to the edge.
Derek reached over, adjusting its position to a safer spot before resuming the writer's position.
Blink. Blink. Blink.
Still nothing.
Maybe a break would help.
He stood up fast enough that his chair kind of screeched across the floor. He grabbed his dad's old leather jacket that he had draped over the back of his armchair and pulled it on as he headed for the door. The mailman should have come by now, and if nothing else, checking the mail gave him an excuse to move around for a minute outside of his usual four walls.
The air in the hall was cooler, and Derek's steps echoed faintly as he descended. A couple of neighbors passed him on the way, offering polite nods. Derek returned the gestures with a tight lipped smile. Small talk wasn't his thing, and he didn't want to get stuck in a conversation about anyone's cat or weekend plans.
At the row of mailboxes, he slid his key into the lock and opened the little door. Bills, junk mail, and—he paused, fingers brushing against the familiar thick, glossy black envelope—the latest issue Neckz 'n' Throats .
Derek stared at it for a moment.
He bundled the rest of the mail under one arm, tossing the junk straight into the bin beside him, before making his way back upstairs. The black envelope stayed tucked against his chest, guarded carefully, like it might escape if he let it go.
Back in his apartment, he kicked the door shut behind him, setting the rest of the mail in the little basket he kept on the narrow entryway table.
He then dropped the black envelope on the coffee table and pulled off his jacket, tossing it back over the chair where it had started. If Laura or Cora had been there, they would have teased him for wearing it all of five minutes.
Picking the envelope back up, he tore it open with the practiced flick of a claw.
The latest issues of Neckz 'n' Throats slid into his lap.
A breath caught in Derek's throat. On the front cover, once again, was him . Mitch. The golden boy of Neckz 'n' Throats himself.
Derek exhaled slowly. The cover was arresting. Mitch’s sharp jaw caught the light, his dark eyes piercing, the long line of his neck tilted just enough to stir something primal. His fair skin, dotted with dark moles, looked almost luminous against the moody backdrop. Shirtless, he showed off a dusting of hair across his chest and the defined line of abs that disappeared beneath low-slung, fashionably worn jeans.
The headlines scattered across the cover were bold and eye-catching:
- “Top 10 Scents Guaranteed to Drive Alphas Wild”
- “How to Find the Perfect Mate”
- "Fur-Friendly Fashion: Keeping It Chic During the Full Moon"
Derek’s fingers tightened on the glossy edge, heat creeping up his neck.
He wasn’t proud of it, but Mitch had become...a bit of an obsession. Derek had certainly spent more than a few nights with this face burned into his mind. It didn’t help that Mitch seemed almost engineered to drive werewolves crazy, especially Alphas.
It was ironic, Derek thought, that Mitch was human.
Shaking his head, he flipped the magazine open, skimming past the table of contents until he landed on the spread. Pages of Mitch in various poses—lounging in expensive coats, running a hand through his disheveled hair, baring the curve of his neck. Each photo made Derek’s throat tighten.
Then he turned to his own article: "Beast Mode: Workouts to Keep Your Inner Wolf in Top Shape"
It wasn't the title (or topic) Derek would have chosen, but it made his editor happy.
For the past few years, Derek had been writing articles for the monthly magazine. Think Cosmo , but catered primarily to werewolves. It covered everything from cutting-edge fashion trends and fitness tips to relationship advice between Alphas,Omegas, and everything in between.
Derek preferred to focus on his novels, but writing for the magazine offered a nice change of pace—and some extra cash for rent and utilities. Despite his family's wealth, dipping into the old Hale insurance payouts still felt like a betrayal, like profiting off their loss. The articles were small, manageable commitments: a feature on the psychology of pack dynamics here, a piece about the benefits of running in the preserve there.
And there were perks. A free copy of the magazine arrived in his mailbox each month, along with the occasional unexpected gift—a designer jacket, a cologne sample, once even a pair of boots too expensive to justify buying on his own. They were cast-offs from promotional campaigns, but Derek didn’t mind. It was a small, practical reward for sharing his words.
While, yes, he had more money than he could ever need after the loss of most of his family, dipping into life insurance payouts felt wrong, like he was profiting off their loss. That's why he kept writing for the magazine. The extra cash wasn't necessary, but it felt earned. Honest.
Of course, getting paid to see pictures of Mitch was always a bonus.
Derek was willing to admit, to himself and no one else, that he was deeply attracted to this man. Model. He had definitely pleasured himself to images of the man on occasion, but that was between himself and his libido.
His best friend, Erica, who had helped him get the job in the first place, was a higher up photographer at the magazine. She's actually tried to convince him to model. "Just once," she'd said. "You've got the face for it, Der."
He refused every time.
He was well aware of his looks, but that wasn't what he wanted to be known for. Words were his shield. His armor. He preferred to be hidden behind them. It kept him safe.
Unlike his looks…
Derek thought of occasionally asking Erica for details about Mitch, but that felt like an invasion of privacy, and was probably a little (a lot) creepy, so he restrained himself from doing so. Though, Derek did find it a touch ironic that he never ran into the guy during the times he went to pick Erica up for lunch or to go meet with the editor, but the building was huge, so maybe it wasn't that ironic after all.
Closing the magazine with a quiet thud, Derek leaned back into the couch, staring at the ceiling.
He really needed to stop dwelling on the guy. Mitch was just a model. Probably directed to pose in a way that would cause him to entice any werewolf that looked at him. The fantasy of him definitely helped sell more copies.
Still, his gaze drifted back to the magazine, the smirk on Mitch's face almost daring him.
"Damn it," Derek muttered.
The cursor on his laptop was still waiting.
Fuck it.
It can keep waiting.
Weaving in and out of the crowd, Derek did his best to not rub shoulders with anyone without making it obvious he was doing it. Avoiding contact was an art—one he'd long since mastered. The last thing he needed was to go back to his loft smelling like strangers and their overbearing perfumes or musky colognes.
The university library loomed ahead, a welcome sanctuary from the chaos outside. Derek pushed through the heavy doors, the warm scent of old books and ink immediately soothing his frayed nerves.
He was so grateful it was only a few blocks and a corner away from his building.
"Good morning, Mr. Hale," chirped Kira, one of the student workers stationed at the front desk. Her cheerful demeanor was like sunlight in a bottle—bright, slightly overwhelming, and impossible to avoid.
"Hello, Kira," Derek responded softly, hiking his messenger bag on his shoulder. "I need to see Dr. Finch."
Kira's smile wavered, and Derek's mood dipped further.
"About that…" she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and shifted uncomfortably. "Dr. Finch is out on maternity leave. She left a note saying that you're in good hands with her assistant!"
Derek scowled. "Assistant?"
"Yep!" Kira's overly bright tone did little to mark her discomfort. "He's great! Super knowledgeable, super prepared—"
"I'll be the judge of that," Derek muttered, cutting her off.
Kira winced but quickly plastered on another smile, "He'll meet you over in Room 12. I'm sure you'll get along just fine!"
Derek grunted something resembling thanks and made his way down the carpeted hall.
Room 12 was quiet, just how Derek liked it. It was perfectly placed: far enough from the main library to be away from the hustle and bustle of exhausted college students, but close enough to the archives that it wasn't troublesome for the curators to help him find exactly what he needed.
Of course, it helped that his family always had donated to this University's Research Library, and Derek made sure to continue said donation every year.
He set his bag down, pulling out his notebooks and carefully chosen stack of reference materials. Books and loose sheets of notes spread across the table in a precise, methodical pattern that he had perfected over the years of working alongside Dr. Finch.
As he settled in, the scent of cinnamon and stale coffee hit him. Derek stiffened. That wasn't at all like Dr. Finch's scent—hers was more floral, like the subtle perfume of pressed wildflowers. This was…different. Distracting.
The cinnamon especially. It was irritatingly pleasant, and it annoyed him to realize that he wasn't entirely opposed to the smell.
The door swung open with a creak.
"Sorry! Sorry! I'm late—I know, I know!"
Derek turned, his scowl deepening as the so-called assistant stumbled in. He was tall, lean, and entirely too scruffy for Derek's liking. His facial had the look of someone who just got too busy to keep up with shaving over the last week, yet never learned how to shape it to make it look decent. Thick frames perched on his nose, and he wore at least three layers of clothing.
The assistant tripped on the edge of the carpet, jostling a small bust from its precarious perch on the shelf beside him.
"Oh, shi—!" he exclaimed, lunging for it. His reflexes were surprisingly quick, and he caught the bust mid-fall, cradling it like a newborn. "Got it! Crisis averted."
Derek raised an unimpressed brow. "Are you always this…graceful?"
"Only when I'm trying to not make a terrible impression," the man quipped, setting the bust back in place with a sheepish grin. "Yeah, sorry about the whole 'Clark Kent' of all of that. Anyway," he came around the table, hand raised to shake Derek's hand. "Hi, I'm Stiles. Dr. Finch's assistant. You must be Derek Hale."
Derek nodded as he shook Stiles' hand.
"Big fan, by the way. Your article on lunar mythologies in Mythic Monthly ? Chef's kiss. Brilliant stuff."
Stiles mimed a dramatic kiss to his fingertips, and Derek blinked, thrown completely off balance. "Right."
"Right," Stiles echoed, apparently oblivious to Derek's discomfort. "Dr. Finch let me know the topics you were researching for your latest long term project, and I've already pulled a few books you might find useful. I can help you cross-reference anything you need. Oh, and there's this journal article I think you'll love—it's got this fascinating breakdown of the predator-prey symbolism in—"
"Do you always talk this much?" Derek interrupted, his tone sharper than he meant it to be.
Stiles grinned, entirely unbothered. "Only when I'm caffeinated. Or nervous. Or, you know, breathing."
Derek pinched the bridge of his nose. "Fantastic."
Despite his bumbling entrance, Stiles quickly proved to be useful.
Annoyingly so.
As they worked, he rattled off obscure references (that would spark new inspiration almost every time), produced hard-to-find articles with unnerving efficiency, and even corrected one of Derek's notes with a smug little flourish.
"You spelled chiaroscuro wrong," Stiles said, sliding the note back to Derek with a satisfied smirk.
"I'm aware," Derek bit out. "My hand slipped."
"Uh-huh," Stiles replied, utterly unfazed. "You're welcome."
By the end of the session, Derek was begrudgingly impressed. Stiles was competent, quick-witted, and surprisingly easy to work with.
And that cinnamon scent? It lingered, warm and persistent.
Derek hated how much he didn't hate it.
For the next two months, without fail, Derek continued to meet with Stiles in Room 12 every Thursday at 1 pm.
What had started as continuing his routine research for his latest book had turned into something far more significant. He didn't just enjoy the time spent with Stiles, he craved it.
Somehow, the scruffy, talkative human had worked his way under Derek’s skin. Stiles was smart, quick-witted, and ridiculously easy to be around. And though Derek would never admit it out loud, Stiles’ scent—a mix of cinnamon, stale coffee, and something uniquely him—had become comforting in a way Derek couldn’t explain.
It wasn’t just Stiles’ scent, though. There was something about the way he moved, the way he talked, the way he instinctively seemed to understand the space Derek needed to exist as an Alpha werewolf. Most humans made Derek’s wolf bristle, either because they projected too much fear or too much arrogance, but Stiles? He was different. Stiles never felt like a threat. Never felt like prey.
He also liked that, despite being human, Stiles had a way of existing that made Derek’s wolf comfortable. It was subtle—the way Stiles maintained just the right amount of eye contact, or the way he would tilt his head slightly, acknowledging Derek’s space without shrinking away. Derek didn’t understand it, but it worked. Somehow, Stiles knew how to act around wolves, even though Derek had never once smelled wolf on him.
The thought nagged at Derek more often than he cared to admit.
Today, though, Derek’s thoughts weren’t on what Stiles might be—they were on how much he liked him . And as much as Derek hated to admit it, he’d been hoping for weeks that Stiles might like him too. The way Stiles leaned into his space when they worked, the way his voice softened when he said Derek’s name—it wasn’t nothing. Derek was sure of that.
Or at least, he wanted to be.
It was during one of these quiet moments—Derek reaching across the table for his notebook while Stiles scribbled furiously in the margins of a book—that disaster struck. Derek’s elbow caught the edge of a precarious stack of books, sending one tumbling to the floor with a loud thud.
Derek froze.
The book wasn’t the problem. The glossy magazine that fell with it, however, was.
Neckz 'n' Throats.
Not just any issue, either.
The latest one. The holiday edition. And smack on the cover was Mitch, lounging by a crackling fireplace in a red sweater that clung in all the right places, looking both festive and...
Derek’s stomach dropped.
Stiles leaned down, his eyes catching on the magazine. His hand hovered over it for a beat too long before he picked it up, his gaze flickering from the glossy image to Derek.
“Well,” Stiles said, a smirk tugging at his lips as he straightened. “Didn’t take you for the type, Hale.”
Derek blinked, scrambling to come up with an explanation. “It’s for research,” he said quickly.
“Research?” Stiles echoed, raising an eyebrow.
“Yes,” Derek said, his voice gruff as he reached out to snatch the magazine from Stiles’ hand. “It’s a werewolf thing.”
Stiles barked out a laugh, but something about his expression changed. The humor softened into something almost hesitant. He shifted his weight, shoving his hands into the pockets of his hoodie.
“Derek,” he said, his voice quieter now, a hint of nervousness creeping in. “There’s, uh... there’s something I should tell you.”
Derek frowned, his chest tightening. “What is it?”
Stiles hesitated, his fingers fidgeting with the hem of his hoodie. “Look, I—”
The door creaked open.
“Stilinski!”
Both men turned to see a striking redhead standing in the doorway. Dr. Lydia Martin swept into the room, her heels clicking against the floor as she fixed Stiles with an impatient glare.
“There you are,” she said, ignoring the tension in the room. “Deucalion's waiting for us downstairs. Don’t keep him waiting.”
Stiles let out a frustrated sigh, his shoulders sagging. “Yeah, yeah. Be right there.”
Lydia’s gaze flicked to Derek, her expression sharp and assessing. “You must be Derek,” she said.
Derek nodded stiffly.
Lydia offered a calculating smile before turning back to Stiles. “Don’t dawdle,” she said before sweeping out of the room, leaving the door slightly ajar.
Derek glanced at his phone and winced. He was supposed to meet Laura for dinner in ten minutes. “I have to go,” he said, hurriedly packing his things.
“Wait, Derek—” Stiles started, but Derek was already halfway to the door.
“See you next week?” Derek asked, pausing briefly.
“Yeah,” Stiles said, his smile forced and strained.
Derek nodded and left, the faint scent of cinnamon lingering in the air as he walked away. Behind him, Stiles let out a groan, dragging a hand down his face.
“Perfect,” Stiles muttered to himself. “Just perfect.”
Derek strode into the Neckz 'n' Throats building, his shoulders squared and his expression neutral, like it always was when he came here. The large building was a bit too shiny for his taste, but he’d grown used to it over the years. The glossy floors, the immaculate glass walls, the constant buzz of energy that filled the air—all of it was a far cry from his usual reclusive lifestyle.
He had a few things to handle today: a meeting with his editor, a form to sign in finance, and lunch with Erica. Simple enough.
Or at least, that’s what he thought.
Derek passed by a few familiar faces as he made his way through the building's labyrinth of hallways. However, when he hit the corridor leading to the photo studios, something stopped him in his tracks.
A scent.
Familiar. Intoxicating.
His head whipped to the side, nostrils flaring as he inhaled deeply. His eyes flashed red as his wolf stirred, instantly alert. The smell was distinctly human, threaded with an unmistakable blend of sweet, spicy, and just the faintest hint of bitterness.
He knew that scent.
Derek’s stomach churned as recognition hit him like a freight train.
Stiles.
Before he could stop himself, Derek turned the corner, following the scent into one of the studios.
And there he was.
But this wasn’t just Stiles, the snarky librarian who shot him lingering looks from across the library table. No, this was Mitch—the model Derek had spent far too many nights fantasizing about.
Stiles—Mitch—was standing under the harsh studio lights, his body shifting effortlessly into pose after pose. Erica, ever the professional, was directing him, her voice sharp and confident.
“Turn your shoulders slightly,” she instructed, camera in hand. “More to the left. Tilt your chin... yes, like that. Perfect!”
Click
The camera snapped, and Derek felt a jolt shoot through his chest.
His eyes widened as his brain short-circuited.
Mitch was Stiles.
The realization struck like lightning. Those amber eyes, the way his smirk curved at the corners—it was all unmistakable. But now, with the faint mole pattern spread across his cheeks and neck in full view, Derek could see what had been hidden at the library.
There, Stiles always wore collared shirts that obscured the moles on his neck. His slightly overgrown, scruffy beard had concealed the ones on his cheeks. This wasn’t just Mitch, the polished model Derek had spent too many nights fantasizing about, or Stiles, the disheveled, animated librarian who made him feel grounded.
This was both of them at once, and the combination was jarring.
The sharp, clean-shaven jawline of Mitch. The confident pose and effortless charisma. But also Stiles—the unshakable snark in his smirk and the subtle quirk of his brow that Derek had come to know so well.
It was too much and not enough all at once.
The Stiles who had shown him obscure folklore books, who smelled like coffee and cinnamon, whose laugh had a way of easing the constant weight on Derek’s shoulders was the sexy human model that captivated werewolves across the world.
Holy shit.
Derek stood frozen in the doorway, heart hammering. Erica’s voice became a faint hum in the background as she gave more instructions. It was all white noise to him.
Then Stiles glanced up.
Their eyes met.
The air between them thickened, tension crackling like static electricity. Derek’s breath rushed out of him.
For a split second, Stiles’ mask of cool confidence slipped. There was a flicker of surprise, maybe even panic, before he slid back into his Mitch persona, flashing Derek a practiced, easygoing smile.
“Derek,” Stiles said, his voice smooth, though his shoulders were just a little too stiff to be truly relaxed. “Fancy seeing you here.”
Derek opened his mouth, but nothing came out. His brain was still buffering.
“Didn’t think you’d ever come to one of my shoots,” Stiles continued, stepping off the platform with a casual grace that Derek didn’t quite believe.
“I... didn’t know you were Mitch,” Derek finally managed to say, his voice tight.
Stiles smirked, a glimmer of amusement in his eyes. “Surprise?”
Erica turned then, spotting Derek for the first time. She grinned wickedly, her camera lowering. “Oh, this is too good.”
She clapped Stiles on the shoulder. “You’re done for now. I’ll upload these and make sure everything’s good.” Then, with a pointed look at Derek, she added, “Take a break. You two probably have a lot to talk about.”
Derek’s mouth went dry as Stiles turned to him, now just a few steps away.
“So,” Derek said awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Mitch, huh?”
Stiles snorted, the tension in his posture easing slightly. “Didn’t think you were a fan.”
“I didn’t know,” Derek admitted. “You could’ve told me.”
Stiles let out a self deprecating laugh. "I actually had planned on it yesterday. It was actually the perfect segue what with my everything ," he said with vague hand motions, "being all in our faces, but then Lydia interrupted."
Derek nodded, his lips twitching upward despite himself. "That's fair."
The conversation shifted, Derek asking how Stiles got into modeling. Stiles explained how it had started as a way to pay for tuition and housing during undergrad. Now, as he worked toward his doctorate in Folklore and Mythology, he balanced his full-time job as an assistant curator with modeling for extra cash.
“Life’s expensive,” Stiles said with a shrug. “And werewolves apparently like me. Who knew?”
"That leaves one more question," Derek said. "Mitch? How the hell did you come up with the name Mitch?"
"My actual first name is Mieczysław. So many people would butcher it into something similar to 'Mitch' anyway." Stiles said, with a self deprecating laugh. "Since I wanted to be known academically as either 'Stiles Stilinski', 'Mieczysław Stilinski, 'M. Stilinski', or something similar, I figured 'Mitch' would work as a stage name for my modeling career. Considering how much said modeling career shot off, I'm glad that I did that."
Erica returned briefly to claim she couldn’t make lunch, throwing Derek a not-so-subtle look before disappearing again.
Derek hesitated, then finally asked, “Do you want to grab lunch with me instead?”
Stiles grinned, and for the first time since they've been in the studio together, it was entirely unguarded. “I thought you’d never ask.”