A/N: So, this was actually prompted by one of my followers on tumblr and it took me a while to get to it, but once I did, it caught like wildfire in my brain. :P Anyways, Stiles is a demon, head of a gang of Supernaturals and nobody quite knows his methods yet. Derek, having just lost his family, decides to join up.
I have ideas as to where this might go, am definitely willing to take suggestions. :P So, tell me what you think! Inspired in part by Florence and the Machine's Heartlines.
You know exactly what he is, and you don't care.
His organization- it's for the desperate man, the one who has nothing left to care for, who can give it- give him their entire being. You wouldn't call yourself desperate, but you're without a cause, and if you can ever hope to be whole again, that's something you need. The life of an Omega isn't one you'd ever choose, and you're certain that it's not one you would survive. Joining Peter's pack was never an option, most others saw you as cursed after the decimation of your family- wouldn't take you for all the power in the world, and so you're here, waiting for either the death that comes with rejection, or acceptance and a new purpose.
It had been easier than you thought, getting in touch with the right people, making your intentions known. Now you're standing in a dingy bar after closing, all manner of boys sitting on stools and in booths around you, waiting for The Apostate to come. If you were more reckless, you might laugh at the setup- so cliché as it is, but you know better, have heard of his calculating ruthlessness. Your gaze sweeps across the room, feeling like a caged animal as you look at them, wondering if you might not make the cut.
A large part of his reputation surrounds his unorthodox methods, the disturbingly twisted nature of this whole organization, his relationship with his followers; all of them runaways and outcasts, lost boys he can take under his wing and mold to his vision. The alphas- they don't like it to say the least. One of his kind, recruiting young Were, turning them from their breed, making them instruments of his will. Rumor has it, he lays with them all, intoxicates them so thoroughly they never want to leave. You had scoffed at it in the beginning, thinking it was hardly a way to run his outfit, but looking at them all now, it doesn't seem so farfetched. You can feel the reverence they each hold for him, can smell the loyalty, the need to protect.
He really is as smart as they say, and when the room quiets, a dense silence falling over the bar, he enters, and is so much more. The second you hear his footfalls on the hardwood, you snap to attention, pulse suddenly thundering in your ears and bulging out your neck. You catch sight of him—and it's like the world tilts on its axis. Your legs tremble, your lungs collapse, your eyes strain to stay open though they feel as though they're going to burst from their sockets. He is… overwhelming. There is something distinctly other that reaches outside his vessel, that makes the air waver and the silence thin. The world feels like it might just snap if he so wished, and when his eyes turn to you, amber glowing inhuman, you fall to your knees.
A small, seductive, caustic smile spreads across his lips and he slowly starts to make his way towards you, harem parting as he passes though they lean into his presence, caught up in his gravity. His shoes clack coldly with each step, an emaciated elegy. You shiver, bare your throat, feel adrenaline course through your system… and you like it. You nearly whimper with the need for him to finally arrive, to take you in and determine you worthwhile. In this moment, you think you've never wanted anything so badly in your whole life, eyes raking over the trim outline of his body, the boyish features clashing so harshly with the eerie expression on his face.
He's wearing plain black slacks and a white button-up with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, but somehow he makes it look so sinful. Ink, blacker than anything you've seen, cuts across the pale skin of his right forearm, the wicked branches of a dying tree spread across his palm, racing down to follow his veins and disappear up into the stark fabric. It seems to shift, pulse, breathe in the corner of your eye, stilling instantly when you gaze directly at the image. It holds your attention for the duration of his walk, keeping you unaware until fingers scrape at the underside of your jaw and force your eyes away.
"So, this is the infamous Derek Hale…" He tilts your head this way and that, pushes your lips away with his thumb to feel along your teeth and gums, massaging the canines and making inscrutable sounds. "The stories don't do you justice. When you hear cursed, you can't help but call to mind images of haggard, haunted wisps of a man. But you—" He trails off, clucking his tongue and letting go of your jaw to pace a circle around you, occasionally stopping to poke and prod. "Never was much of one for doing what I was told…" He pulls to a stop in front of you and crouches down, running a hand through your hair. "You are a curious thing. What were you wanting from the likes of me?"
It takes a while for you to comprehend the question, to recognize that he was waiting for an answer. He doesn't appear to be put off by it, maybe even accustomed to it, patiently resting on his haunches, attention solely on you. You have to breathe deeply, pull an answer from inside you up to your tongue. "I want to serve you, be your right hand."
His eyebrows arch in surprise and he pauses for a second before barking a laugh, swooping into your space, lips twisted wryly, eyes half-lidded. "That's very forward of you Hale. Don't you know what I use my right hand for?" He practically purrs as his hand trails down from your hair, over your jaw, across your throat, down, down, down, until he cups between your legs. "That's a dirty job- and not one I take lightly." He presses his forehead to your temple and blatantly starts to grope, rocking into you, breath quickening. "What makes you think you're- heh- equipped."
"Let me prove myself—let me show you." You're desperate that he hears you out, heart clenching with the thought of not being enough. You can't live the way you were before, can't possibly try and pretend things are okay. You need this- need him.
He pulls back, licking your lips on his way, and hums satisfactorily. "I like the sound of that…" You can see a thousand and one ideas flitting through his mind, conceived trials and tortures evaluated at the speed of thought. "So much to do, so little time…" You can see the second his mind is made up, see the revelation bloom across his face as he grins, pupils thrumming, quaking before the black bursts out, swallowing up the rest of the eye. "There's a little lizard who's been quite resistant to my thralls up to now, something about already having a master to serve. You're gonna help me fix that."