Disclaimer: I own no part of Teen Wolf or its characters.
Characters/Pairings: Stiles Stilinski, Scott McCall, Danny Mahealani, Jackson Whittemore, Derek Hale, Laura Hale. Developing (and past) Derek/Stiles, one-sided Stiles/Lydia, background Scott/Allison and Jackson/Lydia.
Genre: Alternate Universe (Boy Band). Angst, drama, slash.
Rating: PG-13/T.
Word Count: 1642.
Summary: AU. Wherein Stiles is a member of a boy band, they've just sold out to Lycaon Records, and everything is Scott's fault. Except for when it's Laura Hale's.

NOTE: This fic follows "stubble on my sticky lips" in the Celebrity series, but can stand on its own.

one: oh, we're caught in the eye of the storm

Later on, Stiles will tell everyone—and he means everyone, because they'll have a press conference and everything—that it was all Scott's fault. It was his idea, his decision, his desperate, undying, everlasting love for Allison Argent that got them into this.

Of course, in reality, it's just as much Stiles's fault for not reading the paper Scott handed him at six in the morning, saying, "Hey, uh, could you, y'know, sign this for me? Right here, on the line." He really should've known better, should've figured that Scott wouldn't give up so easily on the idea of switching labels, should've at least skimmed through the paper once and realized it was a freaking legal document and not an autograph for a fan or something.

(To be fair, though, it'd been six in the morning at the time, and Stiles'd been up writing until four. He's not sure he wouldn't have signed it anyway, just to make Scott go away and let him sleep.)

But regardless of whose fault it really is, the fact remains: After two years with Beacon Hills Entertainment, the independent record company they started with, The Beta Byte Boys have just signed with Lycaon Records.

They've totally just sold out.

"I don't get why you're so upset about this," Scott says, confusion written all over his face. "Jackson and Danny are okay with it. Finstock's okay with it. Deaton's okay with it. Harris is—well, okay, he's kinda pissed, but that's Harris. He'd be pissed anyway. But c'mon, I thought you'd be happy!"

"You did not! Or you wouldn't have had to trick me into signing the contract!" Stiles argues, throwing his hands up. Of course, they're sitting in the back row of an SUV, so his fingers end up smashing into the ceiling and he ends up hissing and shaking his hands out. From the seat in front of him, Jackson snickers under his breath. Stiles ignores him. "Why would you ever think I'd be happy about it?!"

Scott shifts uncomfortably and lowers his voice. "Well, y'know. Because of Lydia?"

Which, okay, that's kind of a good point. Lydia Martin, Allison's bandmate and one of the biggest talents over at Lycaon Records. The girl Stiles has been pining after since Argent had their debut.

Also the girl who happens to be pretty obviously in love with Jackson Whittemore, co-leader of The Beta Byte Boys.

Stiles narrows his eyes at his best friend.

"Low blow," he mutters, righteously justified when Scott cringes. "Also, so not the real reason, I can tell. You're like the worst liar ever, dude, and even if you weren't, I've known you forever."

Scott fidgets, but says nothing.

"I'm going to find out sooner or later, McCall," Stiles tells him, trying his very hardest to sound ominous and threatening and intimidating and all-knowing.

It definitely falls flat, though, going by the twitch that develops at the corner of Danny's mouth, and the fact that Scott refuses to say anything for the rest of the ride.

It's not until they pull up in front of Hale Tower (which, Jesus Christ, is freaking massive and there is no way that all of those floors are for Lycaon Records, there is just no way) that it finally clicks for Stiles. How the hell could he not have put it together?

Lycaon Records. Hale Tower. Hale Tower. As in Peter Hale, ex-CEO of Lycaon. And Laura Hale, Grammy-winning producer and current CEO of Lycaon. And Derek Hale, former lead singer of The Pack, the band that only influenced an entire decade of pop music.

Derek freaking Hale, who is for some unknown reason standing outside the building in his trademark leather jacket and black jeans, his hands in his pockets and his mouth turned down in a scowl, waiting—

Waiting for—

"Oh my god," Stiles blurts out. "What—No. Scott, I am going to kill you. With, like, knives and poison and tasers and—and other stuff I'll think of later, oh my god, I can't believe—what the hell. What. The. Hell."

"Uh, yeah," Scott replies, clearing his throat. "Surprise?"

The thing is, Stiles doesn't really expect anything from Derek Hale. He doesn't expect a smile, he doesn't expect a kiss, he doesn't expect an appreciative look, he doesn't even expect recognition, really.

A year ago, he'd just been some anonymous kid in a club. The room had been dark, and he'd only just started to grow out his hair, and he's never been gorgeous, never been unforgettable, never been anywhere near Derek Hale's league. It'd been luck and coincidence that they'd ended up pressed together on the dancefloor, not design. And what are three dances and a seriously filthy kiss in the grand scheme of things, anyway?

Not much. Stiles is a realist.

So it shouldn't hurt when Derek's eyes slide right over Stiles and focus on Scott, or when he grunts out, "You're late. Laura's been waiting," before turning on his heel and leading them inside.

But it does.

Laura Hale's office is located on the thirty-fifth floor of Hale Tower, so it's hard to say what the more excruciatingly awkward part of this entire ordeal is: being crammed into an elevator with his bandmates, their manager, Derek Hale, and seven other people; or the worried, apologetic looks Scott keeps shooting him over Danny's shoulder.

Or maybe it's neither. Maybe it's the fact that there's a warm line all down the left side of Stiles's back, and it's there because Derek Hale is pressed against him.

Once, this would've been a highlight of Stiles's life. Once, this would've been welcome, would've fried his brain with the level of awesome, would've made him made him laugh or smile or—

But this is now. And now, it just makes Stiles feel forgettable and awkward and stupid and. Just. Not good. He shifts closer to Danny, throws an arm around Jackson (who scowls, but doesn't shake him off, thank you Jesus), and starts chattering about fancy-ass elevators and being in the big leagues now. The usual Word Vomit Distraction Tactic™.

He absolutely does not breathe a relieved sigh when the elevator doors finally open on the thirty-fifth floor.

Stiles has never met Laura Hale before, but he's seen her on TV. At the Grammys, for instance. Where she won a Grammy. Which is sitting on her desk.

Right in front of Stiles.

And oh. Oh, man, he wants to touch it. Just once. Just a little fondle. A tiny stroke. Because this might be the only opportunity he ever has to—

"Touch it and I castrate you," Laura snaps, and Stiles startles, jerking back in his seat and mentally scrabbling for an excuse, something, anything. Before he can so much as open his mouth, though, she continues, "I mean it, Derek. Next time you lay a finger on that painting, I will drug you, cut off your balls, and feed them to the dogs."

Across the room, Derek stands in front of a massive oil painting done in shades of black and gray and pearly white. At his sister's threat, Derek slowly pulls his hand back and steps away, surprisingly docile.

Laura, in response, bares her teeth in something that only vaguely resembles an abstract approximation of a smile.

It is possibly the single most frightening expression Stiles has ever seen in his life, and he hopes to god she never turns it on him.

Apparently, Scott finds it just as unnerving, because he clears his throat nervously. "So, uh—" he begins, but Laura cuts him off immediately.

"Shut up and listen. I'm a busy woman, and I wouldn't normally meet face-to-face with the new talent—let alone new talent that's mediocre at best—until they've gotten a few hit singles under their collective belt. Even then, I'm not sure I'd care enough to spend more than a few minutes with them. But here I am. Meeting with you four. What does that tell you about your position here?"

"That you like us?" Scott responds tentatively, just as Jackson says, "That we're not actually mediocre," and Danny goes, "That we have potential to be better."

All of which are perfectly valid, perfectly possible reasons, except that Stiles has an overactive, paranoid brain, and he's kind of been putting things together ever since they stopped in front of Hale Tower, and—

And—

"Oh my god," he blurts out, and suddenly everyone's eyes snap to him, and he kind of wants to shut up, only his mouth has other plans. "Oh my fucking god, are you serious? Are you—? Is that why he—? That's crazy, though, right, I'm totally delusional, there's no way—"

"There's no way what, Stiles?" Laura cuts in, and against all odds, she isn't glaring or pissed off or impatient, the way most people are when Stiles starts spazzing out and forgetting how to end sentences. If anything, she seems... amused. Indulgent, maybe. Like she'd expected something from Stiles, and he'd delivered, which is—if it's true, then it's really, seriously flattering.

So Stiles swallows nervously and, ignoring the stare he can feel boring into the back of his head, replies, "There's no way you'd give us to—to your brother to produce."

Because there really is no way. It'd be Derek's first time as a producer, and The Beta Byte Boys are really not as big as they like to pretend they are. Stiles is a realist, he is, and he knows that as boy bands go, they're very much on the mediocre end of the scale. The idea is ridiculous and stupid and definitely not wishful thinking at all.

Except that Laura smiles, actually smiles, her green eyes gleaming mischievously and her red lips twisting as she says, "Got it in one. Give the boy a cigar."

Oh.

Oh. Crap.

Notes: Whoops. This was meant to be up waaay sooner. The second chapter is already up on AO3, and I'm writing the third chapter, so. Yep.

Er, also. Title of the fic comes from "Adored", by The Bravery; title of the chapter comes from "Unbreakable", by Westlife. Shuddup.