The Feast of Vengeance

The cabin was silent, save for the soft crackling of the dying fire in the hearth.

Damon lay sprawled across the bed, his chest rising and falling in the steady rhythm of sleep. Moonlight filtered through the cracked window, casting long, jagged shadows across the wooden floor.

Stiles stood in the doorway, his silhouette framed by the pale glow of the night. His fists clenched and unclenched at his sides, his mind a storm of rage and resolve. Klaus had taken too much from him-too much from all of them. Tonight, that debt would be paid in blood.

Stiles glanced back at Damon, his expression softening for just a moment.

Damon looked almost peaceful in sleep, his sharp features relaxed, his dark hair tousled against the pillow.

Stiles felt a pang of something he couldn't quite name-protectiveness, maybe, or something deeper. But he pushed it aside. There was no room for hesitation now. He had a mission and nothing —not even Damon-could stop him.

With a final, lingering look, Stiles slipped out into the night, the cabin door creaking softly behind him.

The forest was alive with the sounds of rustling leaves and distant howls, the air thick with the scent of pine and damp earth. Stiles moved like a shadow, his steps silent, his senses heightened.

Every nerve in his body was on edge, every instinct screaming that Klaus was close. He could feel it-the pull of vengeance, the magnetic draw of his enemy's presence.

It didn't take long to find him. Klaus was standing in a clearing, his back to Stiles, his posture relaxed as if he hadn't a care in the world.

The moonlight glinted off his golden hair, and his voice carried through the night, low and mocking. "I was wondering how long it would take you to find me, Stiles. I must say, I'm impressed. You're more resourceful than I gave you credit for."

Stiles stepped into the clearing, his eyes blazing with fury. "I told you I was coming for you," he growled, his voice low and dangerous. "Did you think l'd forgotten what you did? Did you think I'd just let it go?"

Klaus turned slowly, a smirk playing on his lips. His eyes gleamed with amusement, as if the entire situation were nothing more than a game. "Oh, Stiles," he said, his tone dripping with mockery. "You're so predictable. Always the hero, always the martyr. But tell me-do you really think you can take me on? You're just a boy playing at being a monster."

Stiles didn't respond with words. Instead, he lunged, his movements swift and precise. Klaus met him head-on, their bodies colliding with a force that sent shockwaves through the clearing.

The fight was brutal, a whirlwind of fists, claws, and snarls. Stiles fought with a ferocity that surprised even himself, his rage fueling every blow. Klaus was strong-stronger than anyone Stiles had ever faced-but Stiles had something Klaus didn't: desperation. He had nothing left to lose.

The battle raged on, the forest echoing with the sounds of their struggle. Stiles could feel the sting of Klaus' claws raking across his skin, the warmth of his own blood trickling down his arms. But he didn't stop.

He couldn't. Every punch, every kick, every snarl was a release—a catharsis for all the pain Klaus had caused. And then, finally, Stiles saw his opening. With a roar, he tackled Klaus to the ground, pinning him with a strength he didn't know he possessed.

Klaus struggled beneath him, his smirk faltering for the first time. "You think this changes anything?" he spat, his voice laced with venom. "You think killing me will make you feel better? You're just as much a monster as I am."

Stiles leaned in close, his breath hot against Klaus' face. "Maybe I am," he whispered, his voice trembling with barely contained fury. "But at least I'm not you."

And then, with a viciousness that surprised even himself, Stiles began to torture Klaus.

He took his time, savoring every scream, every cry of pain. He wanted Klaus to feel every ounce of the suffering he had inflicted on others. He wanted him to know what it was like to be powerless, to be at the mercy of someone who had no mercy to give.

Klaus' screams echoed through the forest, a symphony of agony that Stiles conducted with ruthless precision.

When Klaus was on the brink of death, his body broken and bloodied, Stiles leaned in close once more. His teeth bared, his eyes glowing with a feral light. "I'm going to enjoy this," he whispered, before sinking his teeth into Klaus' flesh. The taste of blood filled his mouth, metallic and rich, and Stiles reveled in it. He tore into Klaus with a savagery that was almost primal, his hunger for vengeance insatiable. By the time he was done, there was nothing left of Klaus but a mangled, lifeless husk.

Stiles stood, his chest heaving, his body covered in blood and gore. He felt no remorse, no guilt. Only satisfaction. Klaus was gone, and the world was better for it.

He turned and made his way back to the cabin, his steps heavy but purposeful.

When he stepped inside, Damon was awake, his eyes wide with shock as he took in the sight of Stiles. "What the hell happened to you?" Damon asked, his voice a mixture of concern and disbelief.

Stiles didn't answer. Instead, he crossed the room in three quick strides, grabbed Damon by the front of his shirt, and kissed him deeply. The taste of Klaus' blood passed between them, a dark and twisted reminder of what Stiles had done.

Damon moaned into the kiss, his hands tangling in Stiles' hair, his body responding to the raw, primal energy radiating from him.

When they finally broke apart, Stiles' eyes were dark with lust and something else— something dangerous. "I killed Klaus," he said, his voice rough and low. "I tortured him, and then I ate him alive."

Damon shuddered, his own hunger rising to meet Stiles. "God, I love you so much," he growled, before pulling Stiles back into another searing kiss.

Their clothes were torn away in a frenzy of hands and teeth, their bodies crashing together with a desperate urgency. Stiles pushed Damon onto the bed, his hands roaming over every inch of Damon's skin, leaving streaks of blood in their wake.

Damon didn't care. He was too consumed by his need for Stiles, by the intoxicating mix of danger and desire that Stiles embodied.

They moved together, their bodies slick with sweat and blood, their moans and growls filling the cabin.

Stiles took Damon roughly, claiming him with the same ferocity he had claimed Klaus' life. It was wild, untamed, and utterly consuming. 

When they finally collapsed, spent and sated, Stiles pulled Damon close, his fingers tracing the dried blood on Damon's skin.

"You're mine," Stiles whispered, his voice low and possessive. "And I'll kill anyone who tries to take you from me."

Damon shivered, his heart racing. He had never been more turned on in his life. Stiles was dangerous, unpredictable, and utterly captivating. And Damon knew, without a doubt, that he would follow him anywhere— even into the darkness.