Disclaimer: I own no part of Teen Wolf or its characters.
Characters/Pairings: Derek Hale, Stiles Stilinski, Scott McCall, Laura Hale. Derek/Stiles, implied Scott/Allison, past Derek/Kate.
Genre: Alternate Universe (Boy Band). Angst, drama, slash.
Rating: R/Mature.
Word Count: 1582
Warnings: Stiles is heavily implied to be underage. Heavy petting, making out, etc.
Summary: It's a mystery as to how Derek ended up on Jungle's dance floor on a Saturday night, pressed up against a gorgeous boy, body gyrating to the thumping beat of some auto-tune atrocity, hands wandering, heart racing, the taste of alcohol and sweat and skin on his tongue. Except no, it's really not.

To say that Derek isn't much of one for the club scene is an gross understatement. He loathes it. He's just not made for it. He abhors crowds, he doesn't care for grinding up against random strangers, he hates overpaying for shitty drinks, and he absolutely hates it when the god-awful club music gets turned up so loud the bass thuds against his ribcage and swallows up any of the subtle harmonies that might've made it palatable.

Derek's an introverted music snob like that.

So it's a mystery as to how he ended up on Jungle's dance floor on a Saturday night, pressed up against a gorgeous boy, body gyrating to the thumping beat of some auto-tune atrocity, hands wandering, heart racing, the taste of alcohol and sweat and skin on his tongue.

Except no, it's not a mystery. He's here because he wants to be, because he's trying to do something different, something to forget that it's been exactly three years since Kate, since The Pack, since everything fell apart, since he—

"Ah!" The gasp in his ear jolts him out of his head, pulls him back to the club, back to the boy whose neck is a pale arch under his mouth, between his teeth. He lets go immediately, drawing his head back to see the angry red impressions his teeth have left. The skin isn't broken, but he thinks it'll bruise badly.

He glances up at the kid's face, wondering if the biting—the marking—will be a deal-breaker or something, but no. No, it's definitely not, if the blown pupils and the parted lips and the hungry eyes are any indication.

Derek doesn't even have to think. He moves in again, pressing his lips, his tongue, his teeth to the boy's neck, and goes to work. He makes sure he doesn't leave behind a mark that will stay, though. Just the one is enough.

By the time the song changes—the third since this boy, with his mischievous smirk and his bright eyes and his awkward come-ons, dragged Derek into the throng—Derek has the kid panting in his ear, his hands clenched in Derek's hair, his cock hard and straining against the front of his low-riding skintight jeans. He can feel it every time their hips brush.

Christ, he thinks, dizzy with arousal and heat and alcohol, and that's maybe why he breaks away, puts his lips next to the kid's ear and asks, in a voice cracked and low, "Name, your name, what is it?"

The boy opens his mouth to respond—Derek can feel the breathy exhale against his earlobe—but all that comes out is a whimper, a tiny, needy sound that cancels out any desire Derek had for an answer. Instead, he reaches up, curling his hand around the back of the kid's neck and pulling him back, feeling the drag of his stubble against a smooth cheek.

God, he's young. He's so young, can't possibly be old enough to be in this club, and it would bother Derek, what he's doing, but he's too out of it (into it) to care, to stifle the impulse to press his lips against this nameless boy's, to lick into his mouth, to try to devour him as best he can.

So Derek gives in. And it's good. It's so good. It's better than anything—anyone—he's had in the past three years. It's heat and skin and comfort and sweetness, because it's obvious that this kid's never had anyone else, never kissed like this, never had another man's hands run down his spine, over the swell of his ass, and back up his ribs. It's obvious, and it's hot, and for a moment, Derek thinks, I want to take you home and teach you what it's like. I want to wreck you.

The idea of it makes his breath catch in his throat and his cock twitch in his pants. Yes. Yes. It's a terrible idea, but Derek can't find it in himself to care.

He pulls back the barest inch, involuntarily smirking when the boy tries to follow. For a long beat, he just studies the face in front of him, cataloguing the expressive red mouth and the scattered moles and the half-lidded brown eyes. Gorgeous, but in a strange way that Derek can appreciate because Derek likes strange things. He is a strange thing.

He opens his mouth to say, We should get out of here, when the kid blinks, looks away. Derek frowns, nearly asks what's wrong, when he hears it.

"Stiles? Stiles! Stiles, where—oh, hey, there you... are..." The crowd to their left shifts, parting for a teenager with dark hair and wide eyes, who reaches out for the boy in Derek's grip. Stiles.

Stiles.

Derek can see the exact moment when the other kid recognizes him; knows it in the rounded eyes and the quick, darting glance between them. Knows it because he must look the same way, wide-eyed and twitchy.

Because the newcomer is Scott McCall.

Derek's not a hermit, no matter what Laura says. He's been out of the music scene for three years, sure, but music is his life, and always has been. He knows who's who. He keeps up with the charts. He knows exactly who the fucking Beta Byte Boys are, even if he doesn't pay much attention to what their faces look like. He knows Scott McCall, though—who doesn't, after that tabloid debacle with Allison Argent?

But he's never paid much attention to the rest of the group. He's never even cared to know their names. Not until now, not until Stiles, who is a fucking pop star with a #3 single on the charts. Who is in a band that has admitted to drawing significant inspiration from The Pack. Who made out with Derek Hale on the floor of a gay club and couldn't possibly have not recognized him.

Who, Jesus fucking Christ probably set it up from the moment he saw Derek at the bar. Who used him, who probably had it all recorded, who—

God, he's so stupid. He's always so stupid.

Stiles and Scott are arguing off to the left, heads close together so they can hear each other over the music. Derek catches something about Jackson and Danny's ex and are you fucking kidding me, he actually punched him?!, but he honestly couldn't give less of a fuck right now.

He slips away, disappears into the crowd and out of the club.

Derek waits.

He waits for days, expects Laura to call him in the middle of the night, screeching about irresponsible brothers and minors and gay clubs and Goddammit, Derek, just because you're not an active celebrity anymore doesn't mean you're not news!

Only it doesn't come. Nothing does. There's nothing in the tabloids, in the gossip magazines, online, or on the television.

There's nothing.

Derek doesn't know what to think.

The next year goes by relatively quietly. He hides away in Laura's office, helping her when he can and ignoring her hints that maybe he should do something with his life because she already has a freaking team of assistants, administrative and personal, and she doesn't need another one. Especially not when he does such a shitty job of it.

Eight months after the night in Jungle, she snaps.

"I can't stand your face anymore, Derek," she snaps. "Seriously, I see you at home, I don't want to see you at work. No, shut up! I don't want to hear it. I want you to learn what producing a group involves, okay? Just—something to do. If you like it, and I think you will, I'll give you someone. If you don't, fine, but you're finding something else. This has gone on way too long."

It has. He knows it has, but he can't—sometimes, he can't bring himself to move. But she's right. Laura is always right.

She's right about producing, too. It interests him in a way only singing used to. So he spends weeks watching, studying, before he goes to his sister and tells her he's made up his mind.

Laura smiles and folds her hands in front of her.

"Good," she says. "Just in time, too. I think I've got something good here. They'll be a lot of work, though, just warning you. They're from a small label and it shows, but they've got some serious potential. Think you can handle it?"

Derek rolls his eyes. "Of course. Who are they?"

Laura smirks, but there's genuine relief and affection in her eyes. "Mmm. Have you ever heard of a group called The Beta Byte Boys?" she asks.

Derek's stomach flips, then drops sickeningly.

Of course. Of course it's them, it's him, it's. It's Derek's life.

But Laura is staring him down, her green eyes sharp and worried, like she thinks maybe she's pressed into another of those deep, bone-aching bruises he carries beneath his skin, and Derek is sick of leaning on his sister, of worrying her, of disappointing her.

So he straightens his back, steels himself, and replies, "Yeah. I think I have. Tell me about them."

Laura's grin (and that's what it is, even though he knows she intended to smirk) is well worth the anxiety bubbling in his gut.

Derek listens to her talk about their newest project, about the work Derek'll have to put into this, and doesn't flinch once when she mentions Stiles.

But he remembers.

Notes: This is the beginning of a series. The sequel, "oh baby, we were born to be adored", is from Stiles's point of view, and will be published soon. Thanks for reading!